Chapter Text
Chapter 1 - The Healer
Despite it being a gorgeous summer day for lazing about, this is not the time, the place, the company he’d prefer for such an activity (as it seems they’re very loud), nor the manner of dress he’d typically wear for lounging. The pants are a touch too stiff for a good layabout, really.
Also, and most importantly, something is wrong - he feels awful. Thus far the only conclusion he’s drawn about that is he’s either gone arse over head, or was attacked by a manticore.
Regardless, he is alarmingly indisposed.
In an attempt to push himself into a more dignified position, he puts the bulk of his weight onto his elbows and pushes until he can see the faces of the very noisy individuals barreling towards him on both broom and foot.
The thought of this diverse group seeing him this rankled well… rankles him.
Manticore attack might have been better.
To save whatever dignity he has left (which isn’t much) he shifts to get himself upright.
The movement is ill chosen.
Searing, white-hot pain shoots from his ankle to his groin, a strike of lightning through his nerves, and forces him flat against the grass again. What should have been a comfort, lying prone in soft grass, was actually quite painful - a stabbing sensation pulses between his shoulder blades.
The voices get louder, if such a thing were possible, as they approach, and he hears himself groan as he delicately pushes back onto his elbows again (despite the feeling of being skewered) to see a circle of faces staring down at him.
He clamps his jaw shut, unwilling to let any other noises of agony escape him.
“He’s back!” Theo grins down at him then blows an exaggerated exhale of relief, “Thought we might have lost you for a tick.”
Ginevra shouts, “Morgana’s minge, Malfoy!”
Her volume makes him wince, his eyes shutting tightly at the onslaught of sound. She must have noticed, her volume much less assaulting when she asks, “What the fuck was that about? Are you okay?”
He gives a firm nod in response, the earth tilting below him. Or was he tilting?
Who could say? He hadn’t opened his eyes yet, so he couldn’t know.
“Oi, that’s definitely broken, mate. Your head alright?”
Draco peels an eye open to see Weasley pointing at his foot, which is not facing any direction one might consider normal.
Potter pulls at his hair, his glasses both askew and dirty. A look of guilt etched into the furrow of his brows, “You shouldn’t have done that, fuck, I wasn’t going to fall.”
Draco wants to say something like, “Yeah right,” or “Didn’t look that way to me,” but the ground below him won’t stop moving, and he might vomit if he speaks.
Harry shifts to Blaise, “Help me levitate him to the floo?”
Blaise grimaces, his eyes shifting from Draco's improperly placed foot to Harry, “Yeah, I think that’s best. Unless one of you wants to try to heal that?”
Despite their good intentions, Draco does not want to be on the receiving end of a healing spell from any one of these gits.
“Mungo’s. Now.” was all he managed to bite out before being lifted from the grass by Potter and Blaise's wands.
*** *** ***
The dizzying ordeal of being sent through the floo, being triaged by scowling medi-witches, drugged, and then whatever followed after that, has resulted in this: a very pleasant, fuzzy sensation wrapping around his body and mind like a well loved blanket.
He is loose-limbed, gut radiating warmth - reminiscent of having a finger too much firewhiskey on an empty stomach, after a troubling day.
Riding this wave of bliss, he takes a deep breath in, followed by a long exhale; a low noise rumbles from his throat in pleasure as he sinks further into the mattress beneath him.
Light, feminine laughter enters his ears, followed by, “Welcome back, Malfoy.”
The voice startles him, and he jolts upright. His brain sloshes against his skull.
At the foot of his(?) (no, this ) bed, the last witch he’d expected to see is looking down at him.
Far too many faces have looked down at him today, for his liking.
Now her face looking down at him in the literal sense (and very likely, the moral sense too) may just be the straw that breaks the bicorn’s back.
Granger.
How much embarrassment can one person experience before they combust?
He’d have to find out.
It’s probably documented somewhere in a “Pumpkin Soup for the Pre-teen Soul (Accidental Magic and Beyond - The Tough Stuff!)” book.
Fortunately for him, he is 32 and should be well beyond any accidental inflamari. Probably.
The witch is wearing green healer's robes, an amused expression tinged with a smile usually reserved for someone they pity.
Gods damnit, Hermione Granger is his HEALER.
This terribly inconvenient realization zips through his foggy mind, as does the very concerning awareness of his lack-of-trousers. Which only exacerbates another issue - Hermione sodding Granger is quite cute in healer's robes, and more... Just more than he remembered.
More tanned, freckled, and fetching than the last time he'd seen her.
When was that?
It was winter, definitely. Hence her lack-of-tan, then.
At the House Elves Restitution Gala.
Right.
He recalls that Granger had given a speech at that event, which he only caught a snippet of. (Add 'missing Golden Girl's speech' to the long list of Draco Malfoy offenses against this witch.)
Some speech it was too - When he'd finally made it back into the dining hall, he was stunned by the number of wands, held overhead by every witch and wizard in attendance, as the elf-attendees of honor sobbed.
Gods, I hate Americans.
Right before she stood to give her speech, Draco's employed and paid house elves frantically called for him to the kitchens where an intoxicated, very unhappy wizard from the U.S had taken up screaming at them in order to take home a piece of art he did not place a winning bid on.
It was an enchanted piece, titled "Mooncalves Under the Solstice Moon”, which depicted a scene of mooncalves dancing amongst whirls of windblown snow beneath the moon.
Certainly a lovely piece, but not lovely enough to warrant his behavior.
It was the worst possible place, and time, for a wizard to harassing an elf - at a Gala aimed to repay elves for years of servitude, surrounded by supporters of house elves' rights, with Hermione Granger Golden Girl™ (Britain’s Loudest House Elves Advocate) DRCMC Deputy Director speaking at that very moment.
It was (as muggles would say) sacrilege.
After Draco (happily) forced the man out at wand point, and re-entered the hall, Hermione's eyes snagged on his, he nodded politely.
He remembered she frowned at him as he took his seat as she shuffled away from the podium.
It was the last interaction they’d had since his return to the country.
Does she think I missed it on purpose?
Fumbling for words under her observation, he opens and closes his mouth before he speaks, his voice rough from disuse, a strangled, "Granger?" all he could manage.
Brilliant.
A grin flashes across her face for just the briefest of moments before she averts her eyes from his face to her wand, her voice soft as she speaks, “Yes, yes, it’s me. Diagnostic looks good so far. I’m happy to see that your head is in working order. Though I’m not entirely sure it worked so well before your fall.”
This bint.
He scoffs at the insult, and a sound of frustration comes from her throat as she reviews the diagnostic charm glowing around his chest; a consistent pulse of blue surrounding violet tinted runes which she manipulates with a steady hand.
Hermione's lower lip moves, sucked in and squeezed between her teeth, her brows furrow, then relax again - the expression worries him.
Am I dying?
Her brow twitched, but she said nothing as she continued her work.
In an effort to glean any information from her face, he narrows his gaze onto her eyes.
The effect of the charm reflecting in her deep brown irises captures his attention. His head angles forward, just to get a better look.
Cocoa and amethyst.
Those eyes widen, and her mouth goes flat after she says, "Stop fidgeting." in a commanding sort of way.
Rude.
How in the world is this woman his healer?
How’d he even get himself into such a mess?
Fucking Potter.
“Oh, so it’s Harry’s fault you fell from your broom?”
Had he said that outloud? Shit.
In desperate need to correct her, because it most certainly was Potter's fault, he stammers, “Granger, I was,”
She interrupts before he can properly explain how Potter was the one who had almost fallen while attempting a starfish-and-hold maneuver directly above despite the fact that Draco was already going to catch the snitch. It had grazed his fingertips when Potter's grip faltered, creating an, "Oh-Shit-Help-Harry-Or-Win" situation. He released his reach, pulled up on his broom, and the next thing he knew, he was on the ground.
She held her left hand up in a Stop Blathering You Moron position, "You’ve been given a very effective pain potion. One that has a slightly humorous side effect on the broca’s area of the brain. It disables patients from keeping their thoughts to themselves for a short while.”
Heat singes the tips of his ears, he knows they're turning red.
What all had he thought about and said - outloud? Fuck.
“Don’t worry, though. You’ll just need to keep your thoughts above board for another,” she casts a tempus before looking back to him, “hour or two at most. Depending on how much you’re able to eat, of course.”
A small tray of fruit, toast, and eggs is summoned to his lap by her wand.
Draco hums in appreciation, “Bringing me breakfast in bed, Granger?”
A singular, sharp laugh flies out from her, “No, for you Malfoy, I'd say it's Nosh for Numpties."
Scowling as he spoons a bit of egg onto his toast, she clears her throat and shifts into a professional demeanor, “So, how are you feeling overall? Any dizziness, numbness, or pain?”
He watches a pen and parchment zoom from a small shelf near the closed door, she catches them both. With curiosity in her eyes, she awaits his response, pen poised over the parchment, ready to document his response.
Desperate to get out of this room, and escape her gaze, he murmurs, "I'm fine."
The pen scratches against the parchment, her eyes downward as she explains “Well, your tibia’s been reset, back muscles restitched, and surrounding injuries healed. You should be free to leave this afternoon so long as you manage a meal and a bowel movement. After that, the potion master will get you a few vials to take home with you for any remaining pain as you heal."
Draco choked on his toast at the words bowel movement, her eyes lifted back onto him as he coughed around the words, “Sounds great.”
Taking the fork to stab into a few plump green grapes in an attempt to reign in his embarrassment, he eyes her as she writes.
Pens at Mungo’s? Huh.
She looks back up at him with a real smile, not the pitying one from earlier, the grapes he chews burst coating his tongue in juice.
He notices Granger’s gaze fall to his throat when he swallows, likely tracking he wasn't going to choke to death in her care.
It was deflating being observed as this inept, idiotic wizard, lying in a sick bed because he clearly can’t manage flying a broom properly, or handle eating uncut fruit.
Before taking in a piece of cantaloupe into his mouth, he finally asks, “What are you even doing here Granger? Aren't you a Ministry Department Head?”
Her response is swotty to the extreme, “Deputy director, actually, for the DRCMC.”
“So what are you doing here at my bedside in healer’s robes?”
This time, her answer’s breezy, and said with a shrug, “I do this on a part time, as needed basis. They were short on healers yesterday, so I was called in.”
His eyebrows rise at this, “Come off it. You’re healing part time and still at the DRCMC? That’s insane, even for you.”
Sharply turning on her heel to scowl at him, “Right, it's so insane that I'm multi-talented. You’re just jealous that I have tangible skillset, and you don't.”
His eyes narrow onto hers, “Jealous? That's laughable, Granger. I prefer my one job, thank you. It’s rewarding enough, and affords me enough leisure time to injure myself.”
Granger opens her mouth to respond, but he interrupts, “You should try it sometime. The leisure, not the injury. The latter I wholly do not recommend, otherwise you might get landed with an absolute terror of a healer.”
“A terror?!” her volume was bordering shrieky.
The back and forth makes him bold. He nods, a small smirk tugging his cheek upward, “Truly."
She rolls her eyes and dramatically grabs for the paperwork and pen again, flourishing it with wild movements, speaking as she writes - “Patient is argumentative. The patient appears to have limited mental acuity after the incident. Healer recommends additional time in hospital for observation.”
The smugness shrivels, withers and dies, “Granger, please.”
She continues writing despite his begging, “Patient pleading. Healer believes the patient may be potion seeking. Additional testing should be performed."
Unwilling to accept a longer stay, under ‘observation’, or whatever testing she was going to order, he pulls back the scratchy sheet and throws his feet over the side of the bed.
If he gets far enough away from the ward, he might be able to run past the apparition wards, and get home - Lack-of-pants be damned.
Before his socked feet touch the floor, he’s thrown back by a wordless spell from her wand, he falls back into the mattress.
Granger has a sickly, saccharine smile on her face, “Oh no, Mr. Malfoy. You shouldn’t move so much. I haven’t cleared you yet.”
Twisting to get upright unsuccessfully, he finds that his wrists and back are stuck firmly to the bed.
It’s indecent, really - and slightly arousing.
The whole restraint, healer - patient thing can’t be missed.
"You're a pig!" she says with an laugh and a stunned expression, then a lower, more mumble than anything else, "Unbelievable."
Losing the battle both mentally, and now physically, in more ways than one, he argues, “This is wildly unprofessional. Honestly, your bedside manner is deplorable.”
The sadistic witch waves her wand again, releasing him from the invisible prison she cast upon him. The parchment floats in front of his face, revealing she really had written what she'd threatened, "Apologize and this all goes away."
His lip curls in frustration, “Apologize for what exactly? Being injured then tossed around by my healer for asking a simple question?”
She hums in thought and taps her wand against her chin before responding, “No, for general prattish-ness, and poor treatment of an honorable healthcare worker.”
A sigh so heavy, it could have fallen through the floor from the sheer weight of it leaves his lungs.
He settles his face into a serious one, eyes locked on hers, “I’m sorry for being a prat,” a moment of silence, then, “But I’m not sorry for asking about your employment. Really, Granger, how can you be deputized in the Ministry, and be an on-call healer? That has to be against at least one of the two contracts.”
The few sentences she added earlier citing his ‘limited mental acuity’ and 'potential for potion abuse' on the parchment disappears. Her hands fly to her hips, “Well I'm sorry we can’t all be Mr. Suave, parading around poncey parties in perfect little suits for a career, Malfoy. Some of us like to do more than strut around for a living.”
His mouth falls open in surprise, “Was that three compliments? Is it even appropriate to say something like that? Healer / patient relationship, and all that. Though you seem to be smashing through every single conduct code and employment agreement there may be on record.”
He mocks writing on an invisible parchment, “Healer inappropriate with patients under duress. Comments to patient thinly veiled sexual harassment. Patient’s solicitor needed. Internal investigation to be launched.”
Her mouth is set in a firm line, and he looks at her hair, hoping to see it crackle like it had when she’d verbally pummel whoever was deserving in their 8th year common room.
She grumbles as she pinches the bridge of her nose, “Ugh, why are you this way?”
“Childhood trauma. What’s your excuse?”
A loud laugh leaves her, “Same, can you believe it?”
Draco lifts a hand to cover his mouth in mock surprise, “You? No, never.”
Granger’s eyes gleam at him before she turns her head towards her feet, lips remaining upturned, “We certainly are a pair, aren't we? A proper mess. Maybe next time you’re injured, you’ll have a more professional healer”
“Ah, but this is way more fun,” he tuts.
She rolls her eyes at him, for what might be the millionth time in all the years they’ve known one another, “No, it’s not.”
He rolls his eyes in return (turnabout is fair play and all that rot), “Agree to disagree.”
“As usual.” she snorts.
It makes him laugh - all of it. The argument, the banter, the oddity of it all.
After a measure of silence, she sighs, “Well, that’s that then. Another medi-witch will be around later to discharge you. I'm done for the day."
An unusual sense of disappointment mingles with relief at this. He nods, “Thanks Granger. Really.”
Turning to leave, she offers him a wink from over her shoulder, "Feel better, Malfoy."
After the door to his room is firmly closed, he lets his thoughts go free, unburdened by listening ears hearing his every thought.
Is Granger fit, funny, and was that whole thing... flirty? Or am I just medicated beyond reason?
He rubs his eyes so hard he sees stars.
Medicated, probably.
Shifting his thoughts to something, anything, else he worries about his upcoming weekend plans with Mother.
More talk of who’s marrying who, and how the eligible witch market is shrinking every day.
He sucks his tongue against his teeth at that.
Work. Work is safe, easy even.
Draco mentally tallies the figure they should work to achieve for their next endeavor: An upgrade for the Janus Thickey ward as proposed by Neville with Pansy’s encouragement at last month’s card game. He hadn’t expected a full proposal, all they had to do was ask, and they’d have obliged an event.
Granger will surely want to attend that one
While thinking of arguing with Granger in his perfect little suits, he shuts his eyes with a smile.
Notes:
Please, please, please go checkout my new friends' work.
Each of them are actively writing (or have written) incredible things.
Their voices, and stores are wildly unique, and I think you'd like them all, and honestly - Chapters 16 and on might not exist without their encouragement and comradery. I've been so lucky to yap with them! So, READ THEIR WORK! XOXOCalliope_dreaming
Runninupthathill
PoemInTheDark
Fictioninbloom
Chapter 2: The Shop Keep
Summary:
Daphne plans a birthday party.
Draco runs into Granger (again.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 2 - The Shop Keep
A party is only as good as it is planned. At least that’s what Daphne Greengrass was taught and holds as an absolute truth as she finalizes: The List.
Her son, Jack Cygnus Thomas, only turns 5 once, and she refuses to let the milestone pass by without it making the social pages in the Prophet.
She envisions a perfect union of magic and muggle to properly honor her and her husband’s lineage - the Prophet would hail her for achieving such an event - and if she gets this right, she’s sure to get an editorial spread for her next event.
Thus, the list:
Must Have:
- An outdoor party, Greengrass Estate
- Cooling charmed tents with delicate scalloped edges.
- Formally attired wait staff serving adult and children beverages
- Long mahogany tables set on the veranda for early dinner
- Cream table runners, and children’s themed tablescape
- Enchanted muggle balloons to hover Jack’s cake until serving.
- Mini quidditch pitch for the kids on their toy brooms
- Card tables topped with assorted games for guests
Could Have:
- Three piece band to play famous muggle music
- Muggle movie tent
- Face painter
Won’t Have:
- Magi-zoologist performance featuring Nifflers. (Won’t have)
- Pool party
- Juggling act - ????
Feeling satisfied with The List, she sets to work on the invitations - thick, cream colored cardstock with playful (yet tasteful) drawings of a garland made of paper crowns lining the edges.
Each invitation is stuffed into a pre-addressed envelope with a wave of her wand for their family’s owl to deliver in the morning.
Included in the invitation was a small note, an ideal pilfered from a muggle magazine that Dean's mum gave her.
It read: Instead of a card, we have one small request. Please bring a book that you like the best. We hope you will write a special line or two, so each time we read it, we will think of you.
*** *** ***
The doorbell chimes as Draco pulls open the heavy wooden door to Flourish and Blotts. He hasn’t been here since 8th year, as he prefers to shop in muggle London (for both for the anonymity it affords him with and the vast selection.)
Nostalgia runs over him, thick as syrup, when he brushes a knuckle on the bookspines of new releases on the top shelf, nearest the doorway. Bizarre that the books he once had to press onto his tip toes, stretching his arm high overhead to reach were now at his shoulder.
Winding his way through the stacks and colorful displays, he stops at the shortest shelves - the wood tops covered in charmed stuffies - a fuzzy giraffe butts it's nose against his hand, as he grips the ledge and squats low to read the book spines. He struggles a bit to make out the words in the lighting meant to be cozy, but was really too dim - he pulls the readers from his breast pocket and leans in to evaluate his options.
After sorting through a few, he tugs both The Golden Broomstick and Plumpy the Puffskein’s Party from the shelf and flips through the pages.
It's all drivel, really, but do 5 year olds care?
He liked Babbity Rabbity best when he was young, but they definitely already had that one - every wizarding family did.
He ignores the sound of footsteps near him, not interested in being on the receiving end of disdainful looks, or (even worse) simpering small talk this afternoon. He keeps his eyes fixed to the large bubbly font on the shiny pages when he hears, “Malfoy?”
He knows that voice, and stands quickly, as if caught doing something he shouldn't be, which results in his head smacking against a ceramic pot full of vines, hanging from an overhead rafter by a bit of macrame.
“Fuck,” he grumbles, rubbing the top of his head where it smarted, mussing his hair terribly. In an attempt to fix it, he shoves his hair back from his eyes where it'd fallen; with tresses no longer in the way, he now saw Granger staring up at him, with wide blinking eyes, her lips parted as if surprised to see him here.
The witch isn't wearing trousers.
Or a skirt.
His vision is drawn, immediately, to the expanse of skin - his eyes traveling her long, tan legs up to a frayed edge of dark denim.
After wetting his lips, he realizes that he's staring.
He coughs into his fist and looks around him, hoping no one noticed his leering. He offers her a greeting of, "Granger."
Again, another lock of hair falls back into his face, the length mocking him, making him fuss in front of the woman - he brushes it back again, keeping his treasonous eyes locked onto her face.
Oddly, she didn't say anything, she only asked, “You wear glasses?” in a near whisper.
He laughs, embarrassed, and reaches for his neck - averting his gaze to the shelves to her left.
“Yeah, readers only though. For now. Merlin help me.”
She let out an odd, tight laugh.
He bristles, being laughed at by her. He was certain he was losing points in whatever ranking she had each time they crossed paths as of late - so far he's proven he can't fly a broom properly, incapable of eating without observation, and now, cannot read without aid. He wonders what the fuck he's on about, it doesn't matter if she thinks lowly of him - that's nothing new.
She clears her throat, “What are you doing here?”
The question is ridiculous.
Spreading his arms out wide, a visual-cue to indicate their surroundings, he lifts a brow, “I’m at a book store. Looking at books. To buy one.” Deciding to goad her, he puts on his most serious look of concern,“Are you quite well? Or have you hit your head recently? It seems you're suffering limited mental acuity. What year is it Granger? Who’s the Minister of Magic?”
Hermione rolls her eyes, “Oh bugger off, I was just trying to make polite conversation. You're probably unfamiliar with it, though.”
Tutting at her with a shake of his head, “Ohhh, testy are we? You know, I've read that irritability is a sign of brain injury. Perhaps I should get you to Mungo’s. I know a healer there who might be able to sort you out. Though they do have a bit of a harassment case going on right now.”
Her hip juts outward, “Oh? Do they now? It's not surprising, a rich sod suing someone over a minor disagreement.”
Rocking back onto his heels, “Yes, the victim is very well-off. Suave even I’ve heard, and their solicitor is top-notch. The case will probably be closed before the weekend’s over.”
She lifts her face, stifling a smile that crinkles her nose, “Hmm, well-off, sure - whingey, most definitely. He was probably an incredibly difficult patient, who required a firm hand.”
A breathy snort escaped his nose, “You’re right about that. A firm hand he received,” his voice drops as if worried about eavesdroppers, “But the healer is clearly unstable. There are much better tools for conflict resolution.”
“Like what?”
With a forward bend, edging his nose closer to hers, he presses his hand against his mouth in mock whisper, “Clear communication and professional boundaries.”
She laughs as he straightens pulling away from her, a smile on his own lips when she says “Alright, fine. I'm sorry for detaining you, alright? I wasn't really prepared to field both your injury, and your inquiry about my work.”
He waves her off, “It's fine, it was fun," she scoffs a little but he presses on, "Regarding your employment, it's whatever works your wand, Granger. I also wasn't prepared for you - a prestigious ministry official at my bedside."
They find a verbal sparring truce, and she shifts on her feet.
Deciding to end their shared (slightly uncomfortable) silence, he shows her the two books he’s selected, one in each hand, “Which of these is better for a 5 year old?”
She cocks her head from side to side, as if considering the options seriously, “Who’s kid?”
“Daph’s - they asked for books instead of cards.”
She puts a hand on her forehead, “Oh god, yes. Oh I forgot all about Jack’s birthday!" she shakes her head quickly, "Don’t get either of those. Get a muggle one. Maybe Ferdinand, or Where the Wild Things Are. Dean would love that. There’s a good place in London,”
Draco interrupts, “Foyles?”
Her face lights up in a smile, “Yeah, Foyles! Sorry, I didn’t think you’d know muggle London that well. Especially with you being gone so long, and...well.”
Again, his face mirrors hers. He needs to get a handle on that, but he’s having some difficulty.
“Actually," he schools his face, and clears his throat, "It’s easier to shop in muggle London than here. Come on, witch, we’ve talked about this before, right? Magical superiority bullshit was crucio’d out of me ages ago.”
Draco has ruined this conversation, he realizes as her smile falls, her eyes go wide as she stumbles over her words coming out rapidly, “Oh, Merlin, I know. I know that. I’m sorry, shit - I’m so sorry, that’s not entirely what I meant.”
Attempting to fix whatever was happening, he speaks over her apology, “No, no - I just want you to know that I like muggle London. Love it actually. I don’t.. I don't want you to think I wouldn’t because of... you know.”
That awkward silence he thought he almost successfully mitigated had returned in full force. Thinking quickly, he turns the conversation back on her, “So... What are you doing here, then?”
With a look that clearly meant, Are You Daft?, she points at her shirt, which he hadn’t paid any mind to. (Legs, verbal chess, and all that.)
She’s wearing a fitted olive green cotton shirt that reads Flourish and Blotts on her chest.
His eyes linger a little longer than necessary, appreciating the way the words stretched over her chest, before his brain catches up, “You’re kidding me," he blinks a few times, "You work here?”
This earns him a serious scowl, “Yes, I work here, Malfoy.”
He cannot believe what he’s hearing - he moves both books to his right hand - His eyebrows are high above his readers when he raises his left hand and pull up a finger and counts, "St Mungo's," his index finger, "Deputy Director," his middle finger, then, "Flourish and Blott's" his ring finger.
She nods, slowly and exaggeratedly as he's counting them off, if he’s the one who's absurd.
The hand he had just used to count this insane person’s number of jobs, now runs through his hair again. He really ought to find something better to do with his hands - perhaps he’d pick up smoking again.
“Three jobs? Have you found a way to geminio charm yourself? Are there four Grangers running about? That is terrifying to imagine.”
She taps her foot and crosses her arms, “If you must know, I’m co-owner.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets, “I didn’t know Flourish and Blott’s sold.”
“The previous owner’s health and age was making it hard for them to run. They put it for sale at the end of the war, and I invested. High hopes of living in a bookstore at the time,” she laughed then shook her head and frowned, “I asked that they keep partial ownership. 20 year old Hermione didn’t really know much about shop ownership, and had galleons to spend.”
He hangs his head down to look at her and blinks. That was something. He thought she went right into the DRCMC after the war, but really he hadn't kept up with much of anything after he moved away.
She tightens her arms to squeeze her middle, keeping her eyes to her feet, “And, I do run the till some weekends, since I’d like to be here anyway,” she sniffs.
A mixture of awe and concern swirl somewhere between his stomach and sternum, “Granger… How… When do you rest?”
Lifting her face to meet his eyes she gives a soft laugh, “At night. Comfortably, with Crookshanks and Inkblot in a massive bed with too many blankets.”
He raises his head towards the wood paneled ceiling and blows out a breath of exasperation, willing away the mental image of Granger in a too-big bed, wearing too-small shorts, all alone.
When he lowers his face back down, her eyes are on his throat. He swallows.
Her eyes shoot back up to his.
Interesting.
He smirks, “A mad woman, for sure.”
She opens her mouth to say something, but the door’s bell chimes, and a man’s voice calls out, “Hermione? You here?”
They didn't move, their eyes stayed locked on one another, even when she calls out, “Yeah! I'm just back here!”
The voice, getting closer says, “Can you help me find… er… Magical Moo Moos and Other Patterns for Plus Size Witches? My mum needs more summer wear and she refuses to go to Gladrags.”
That broke whatever spell they’d found themselves in.
Hermione covers her grin with a hand and Draco bites back a laugh.
Realizing he’s definitely overstayed, he dips his head in farewell, and she gives him a small wave goodbye.
As he heads towards the door, he approaches a shorter, thin fellow clutching a list, and offers a low, “Pardon” as he passes.
Just a little gangly git, nothing to worry about there.
Worry about what?
He’s not sure what he’s on about anymore, but he hopes that he might be on about something.
Chapter 3: Cards
Summary:
Pansy & Neville have the gang over for poker.
Draco inquires about Granger.
Chapter Text
Chapter 3 - Cards
Neville Longbottom mixes a heavy pour of bourbon, bottle of ginger ale, splash of elderflower liqueur, and a bit of fresh chopped ginger from the garden in their largest crystal pitcher. Placing a small sprig of mint into each glass on the bar cart, he thinks (for the umpteenth time) that his wife has excellent taste, and he’d be a hapless slouch without her elegant touch.
If it were up to him, he’d have ordered takeaway, left out a few bottles for their guests, and asked them to bring their own, too. This was much nicer. He sighs, his Gran was definitely right whenever she’d remind him that, “She’s rather too good for you, boy.”
His wife’s heels click against the hardwood as she makes her way towards him down the long hallway. She’s putting an earring in as she enters the kitchen to observe her husband’s handiwork, “Looks great, love, but I think you should set the apps out too. We’ve got to keep this lot from getting too pissed before we take all of their gold.”
He turns around to rest his lower back against the countertop and folds his arms over his chest with a lopsided grin, “You look gorgeous, Pans.”
She smiles at the compliment and takes a few steps forward to reach him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she looks up into his eyes, “And you’re dashing as ever, Longbottom.”
Pulling him down for a kiss, she takes her time and runs a hand into his hair. When she feels him put a hand on her waist, she lightly pushes him back and says, “Now get back to work before our guests arrive and rummage through our cabinets looking for crisps and cups for whatever cheap swill the Potters show up with.”
He laughs at his wife's sharp tongue, “Yes Ma’am.”
*** *** ***
After grabbing a bottle of wine from the Manor’s cellar, Draco walks out of the floo into Pansy and Neville’s home at 7 PM on the dot. He vanishes the soot from his jacket and heads towards the kitchen, hearing raised voices.
It’s a bit early for the lions to be shouting already, he thinks as he pulls his right arm out to check his watch.
Rounding the corner before entering the kitchen, he pauses to observe his oldest friends, Blaise and Theo, give Neville a lesson on good bourbon, and why you don’t mix it with ginger ale.
Pansy shoves her hand into Theo’s face to silence his rambling, and speaks over Blaise’s sneering, “Just drink it! There’s more on the cart if you want it straight up!”
He feels immense fondness for these snakes as he realizes that they are always the only ones on time (or early), and brings Pansy her requisite hostess gift.
After living out of the country for so long, these card nights were a welcome change to the surface level friendships he maintained in France.
His brief, infrequent visits back home for a birthday part, a wedding weren’t as satisfying as it was to be here with them - knocking elbows and taking the piss at Pansy’s, whenever possible.
He’d only been home for a few months, but they’d gone by so quickly - the return was much easier than he anticipated. The group of snakes and lions welcomed him back, and folded him right into the mix of their lives.
He was grateful.
If he could go back back in time to tell the 16 year old version of himself this, the younger (and so much dumber) young man would have keeled over on the spot (without even having to be cursed by the Dark Lord.)
Thank Salazar he lived, and thank Merlin the Order won the war. Aging was a gift that too many people he’d known didn’t get to experience, and growing older surrounded by friends was a gift he'd never take for granted.
Neville, Blaise, and Theo roughly jostle him in welcome before he places a chaste kiss to Pansy’s cheek and hands her the bordeaux he’s brought.
After examining the label, and throwing him an approving smile, she places it between a small vase of white flowers, and a cabernet sporting a silver bow tied to the bottle’s neck.
The display of fine wine and flowers remind him of how the four of them all endured etiquette and comportment lessons together as children, and how some of it was good, but mostly terrible.
His sentimental ruminations interrupted as the floo roars to life, then heavy footfall, the shout of Weaslette cutting through the chatter in the kitchen, "Oi! Pans! Nev!"
Pansy and Neville shout in unison, “In the kitchen!”
Half a moment later, Harry and Ginny gave him a few pats before moving on to Neville; Draco remains pushed into a kitchen counter, crowded by Ron while Blaise and Theo heckle George.
“How’s the leg healing?” Ron asks, reaching around Draco to grab for a pretzel from the bowl behind him. Draco shifts, clearing the space for Ron to continue grabbing more, as he knew he would.
He pats his leg and responds, “Everything’s set to rights. Had a right nasty healer though. A deranged witch with curly hair." Ron's eyes grow wide, Draco jokes, "Oh, so you know her?”
Ron's voice turns disbelieving, “Oh shit, 'Mione was your healer?" he snorts, grabbing another handful, he chews through his words, "Woulda paid to see that."
“She was.. Which is odd seeing as she works three jobs?" Draco shakes his head, the memory of Hermione Granger's wink being shaken away with it, "I have several questions for you and Potter. First being- what the fuck?”
“Yeah. I know, she's a real nutter, but," Ron shifts his attention to his brother, who was now pulling something small from his pocket, "Shit, we'll talk later, yeah?" Ron briskly moves towards George, ripping whatever it was from his hand, and vanishing it away before Draco has the chance to get any more information about the witch with hair that had somehow tangled itself around his mind.
He needs to get a grip.
He follows his friends into the dining room, pulling his wand to transfigure the table into a standard poker table, a small silver case full of chips and cards landing in the center under Neville's spellwork, the group settling into their usual spots.
With everyone sat, waiting for their cards, Pansy rounded on George, “You better not have brought any more of those straws, you degenerate. I will never forgive you for last time.”
Potter and Weasley chime in immediately, “Me neither.”
George grabs her shoulder and looks serious, “You never heard of, saw, or used one of those straws, you hear me?”
All eyes on George now, he meets everyone’s face individually as he says, slowly, “I do not carry, sell, distribute or manufacture silly-truth-straws. Got it?”
Everyone nods slowly.
George claps his hands together then reaches into his pocket, “Good! Now, what I do have is,” Everyone groaned loudly interrupting whatever shit George was going to give them.
Ready to start, Draco cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “Oi! Potter, it’s your deal!”
Ginny elbows him playfully in the ribs, sharp enough to bruise, “Quit bossing my husband about, ferret.”
"Oh but Ginevra, it’s one of the few joys in my life.” Draco pouts while he rubs circles into the now tender spot at his side, "You're quite mean, you know?"
“Yeah yeah, whatever you say cry baby." she throws Draco a cheeky wink before shifting her chin forward, "OI! HARRY, YOU LAZYASS, GET THOSE CARDS SHUFFLED!"
Draco's shoulders tense and he winces at the volume so close to his ear. She squints her eyes at him to further bruise him, his ego this time, "Bossing Harry Potter around is my job, and I'm going to win all that ancestral Malfoy gold tonight."
*** *** ***
Ginevra did, in fact, win a nice pot of ancestral Mafloy, Nott, Zabini, Longbottom, and her own siblings’ gold tonight.
She stacks and unstacks her pile of chips gleefully as everyone throws their cards into the center of the table dejectedly. The group decidedly moving on to drinking, nursing their collective losses to the red headed witch who was still beaming.
Draco looks around the table as he took a long drink of the bourbon concoction. Ginevra, Pansy, George and Blaise are in a heated debate. Theo is animatedly talking at (not to) Harry and Neville about something so unsuitable that Potter’s tugged his hair into sharp peaks. Neville is shaking his head in disbelief, cheeks red.
Draco sat in silence just taking in the conversation happening around him, when Ron settles back into the chair next to him with a fresh pitcher. After refilling his and Draco’s glasses they clink them together.
Ron asks, loudly to compensate for the volume in the room, “So, Malfoy. How was Hermione the Healer?”
The room quiets a bit. Curious eyes from around the table land on him.
Draco straightens in his seat, “I wanted to ask you guys about that.” His eyes move from Ron, to Harry, to Ginny. “Why in Salazar’s name does Granger have so many jobs?”
Ginny slaps the table with a flat hand and raises it to point at her husband, “See?! Even he noticed!” She shifts towards Draco, “Where’d you see her last?”
“Well, first it was at St. Mungo’s, but she’s still at the Ministry. Then I ran into her at Flourish and Blotts. I thought she was there shopping, but she's the co-owner. What the fuck?”
Harry takes off his glasses and uses his shirt to clean the lenses, “Yeah, ‘Mione’s taken to filling up her schedule a bit more every year. Honestly, you shouldn’t be surprised wherever you run into her next.”
Draco sets his elbows onto the table, and rests his chin onto his hand, “Potter, shouldn’t you be wrangling her into some sort of forced vacation or sabbatical? That much work… it’s unnatural.”
Harry sighs and looks to George for support, George shrugs.
Ginevra eyes him cautiously, “Malfoy, in the nicest way possible, why do you care?”
Because it’s nuts?
Because she should be here, at this table, not at Mungo’s or whatever the fuck else she gets up to?
He shrugs, “Seems unusual, is all.”
She smiles a little, “Cute.”
Draco sets his drink down, firmly, “What?”
Her eyes narrow at his, “Your faux nonchalance.”
His eyes narrow back at her, “I’m just saying that it’s,”
She cuts him off with a sigh, “I know. And your concern is sweet,”
He scoffs.
She barrels on, “But you haven’t been around for a long time. There is no forcing her to take vacation. There is no forcing her to do anything. Trust me, we've tried.”
Draco speaks without thinking, “I’m not serious when I say you should force her, Merlin. I’m just saying,” Ginevra opens her mouth, he raises his volume to stay the course without further interruption, “I’m just saying that it should be cause for concern, right? If Pansy suddenly woke up and decided to get herself two or three jobs and wasn’t around for cards, we’d definitely be worried. No offense Pans.”
She smiles, “None taken. I’m very content with the one business.”
Draco lifts his drink and points it at Pansy, “ Exactly my point. Granger’s not content, clearly.”
Ginny taps her fingers on the table, a frown settling on her face, “We’ve talked to her about it. Many times. Many, many times.”
Potter tugs at his hair again, “Really. She just tells us that it’s good for her keep busy, that she’s ‘perfectly well, thank you very much’ and won’t hear any of it.”
His hands fidget against his glass, “I feel like I’ve been around you more than she has since coming back. That’s not ‘perfectly well ’ behavior,” he muses.
Ron snorts, and everyone looks at him, “Sorry, It’s really funny though innit? Malfoy worried about Mione's contentment. ”
Draco feels that familiar pang of guilt and he rubs his eyes, “You’re right, it’s none of my business.”
Ron claps him on the shoulder, “No, just crazy how the times change, y’know? It’s nice you care. We all care, and miss her here. She's tough though, and she might hex you for it, but you’re free to give it a go. I doubt she’ll listen to you though.”
He nods and swallows, staring down at the green velvet of the table, “I don’t doubt that for a second.”
The table was quiet when Ginny speaks again, “She told me she was going to quit one of them. She said that last month though, and I had a hunch she didn’t. She’s so godsdamned stubborn.”
Potter knocks the table in agreement, “Stubborn and smart. Lethally so.”
Draco lifts his eyes from the table and finds Theo’s eyes on his. He’s frowning. Draco realizes he’s ruined the mood.
Blaise clears his throat, “Well if anyone can do it, Granger can. Cheers to the Golden Girl, for fixing up our dear friend Draco, and keeping everyone on their toes.”
Bless him for that. Theo’s eyes shift from Draco’s to Blaise, a smile back on his face.
Glasses clink together, and Ron reaches for a cheese toastie from the center of the table.
He shoves it into his mouth, speaking as he chews (clearly oblivious to the subtle request to end the subject they were previously discussing. Gryffindors - you'd need to be subtle as a bombarda for them to catch on, apparently.) “You guys know that she actually demanded Harry’s Wizengamot seat? Yeah, it was last year because he missed those two meetings about… What was it about again, Harry?”
Harry groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, “Not this again - I swear, it was just to revise dates that bowtruckles can be harvested to better align with lice outbreaks or something. It was my second day of the semester. I didn’t have the time to get to the Ministry and back before class. She lit me up for days about it.”
Theo barks a laugh at that, “Gods, I love it when she reprimands you. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it.”
Harry shook his head in despair, “Truly,” his voice goes high as he imitates Granger, “ No Wizengamot meeting is unimportant Harry! If you won’t see your civic duties through, you should pass your seat onto someone else. I’ll take it! I’ll show those old knobs what’s what! I swear sometimes I think she’s got her hands on a time-turner again.”
Draco inhales his drink and he coughs, punching himself in the chest, “Again? She had a time turner?”
Ron scratches at his neck and gives Harry a look.
Harry shrugs, “Yeah - third year. She was taking double classes. Dumbledore and McGonagal approved it and everything. She used it for… well… other important stuff that year too.” Ron and Harry slam the rest of their drinks.
Draco bangs a fist onto the table, everyone’s eyes land on him, “I knew it! I fucking knew something was going on third year with her. I swore she’d be ahead of me one moment, then gone the next. It drove me mad.” He reaches for his drink again, asking (stupidly) before taking a drink, "Is that why she punched me? She was losing it with classes?"
The room erupts into laughter. He knows it was incorrect the moment it left his mouth, his drink sloshes as Ron pushes into his shoulder, "Yeah, that's why, you git."
Once the laughs die down enough for someone to be heard again, everyone’s eyes land on his, when Ginny opens her mouth, “You’re very curious about Hermione tonight, Malfoy. Why don’t you ask her about this?”
Draco shrugs again, “Maybe I will.”
Ginevra sighs heavily, “I wish you would.”
*** *** ***
After the cheese toasties disappeared (into the void known as Ronald Billius Weasley) and the pitchers emptied, the Weasleys, Potters, and Blaise left for the night.
Draco, Pansy, Neville and Theo remain at the table, waving a wand to send dishes to the sink, and the chips to collect back to their case while keeping the conversation flowing.
Theo mentions he’s sick of the Nott estate, and wants to downsize.
Draco commiserates and says he’s sick of apparating between the Manor, and his rental flat in London that’s too small. He’s ready for a proper house, and the rental flat was temporary anyway.
He sees Pansy and Neville share a smile when Pansy says, “We know a great agent. They helped us snap this place up. Would you guys want to set a meeting?”
Theo shakes his head, “I need to clear some more shit out of the estate first, then I’ll see what I’m working with.”
Draco looks to Pansy when he says, “That’d be excellent, Pans. Give me their card, I’ll reach out.”
Pansy shakes her head, as Neville turns around his shoulders shaking in laughter, “No, no - I’ll owl you a meeting time and place. You’ll love them, they do great work.”
Half drunk, and not caring about the how, when, or where he meets an estate agent, he just says his thanks and goodbyes. His bed is calling him, and so is the vial of sober-up in his nightstand.
Chapter 4: The Estate Agent
Summary:
Draco meets with an estate agent over coffee
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 4 - The Estate Agent
The coins clink against the glass as he dropped the change into the tip jar. The cafe is packed this morning with muggles on their way to work, and he’s found a section of wall to lean against near the pick-up counter as he waits. Surveying the faces around him, he idly wonders just where all these people were going off to.
Maybe one of them works with Granger.
He imagines her using a time turner, fiddling with the small gold device, then disappearing from her Ministry office to rush into some terribly understaffed muggle orphanage.
He chuckled internally at the thought before chastising himself for even thinking about the witch.
What did it matter to him if she helped orphans, sold ice cream at Fortescue’s one day a week, or delivered take away a few times a month? (After saving lives at Mungo’s, running the oldest bookshop in Diagon, and furthering creature rights in wizarding Britain.)
It didn’t, really.
He’d need to tamp down this curiosity he’d been harboring since seeing her at the bookstore.
Whatever she got up was decidedly not his business. Unless…
Unless he just so happened to run into her again. If that were to happen, he’d ask:
Why are you working so much?
Why aren’t you content with just being a savior of the wizarding world?
Do you know that I didn’t mean to miss your speech last winter?
Haven’t you done enough?
Do you still have a time turner?
When was your last vacation? Have you ever been to Saint Tropez?
Will you be at cards night next month?
Can you wear those shorts I saw you in again, if you do?
“Two cappuccinos for Drake!”
Thank Merlin.
The call for his drinks interrupts the mental Granger interrogation and brings him back to the here and now. Which was (unfortunately) a reality in which he didn’t ponder about long tan legs that would run circles around him in both aptitude and fortitude.
He belonged to this reality where he’d soon have his own home - one unburdened by Malfoy or Black family magic steeped in puritanical blood magic, or sacrificial deaths.
Something entirely his own.
He wonders where Granger lives.
When he grabs the two drinks, he’s met with a, “Have a great day, Drake!”
He hated the name Drake.
Bile rose in his esophagus a millennia ago when Astoria had called him that (in front of his Mother!) while batting her lashes at him over the same dinner table that he'd witnessed Charity Burbage be eaten at the year before.
The Greengrasses were, at that time, seeking to secure a marriage contract for their youngest to the Malfoy heir after the war. Draco, however, had been seeking to secure some semblance of sanity and independence from scrutiny, not a wife.
He moved to France a month later, successfully avoiding playing at Lord and Lady of the Manor with the younger Greengrass sister.
Drake was now only used by others toward him when he was in muggle London - the name Draco put him on the end of odd looks and one too many questions.
The first time he’d given his true name here, a young man writing it on his to-go cup looked up and asked, “Draco? Interesting name. Were your parents in a cult or something?”
After a brief moment, Draco decided to answer truthfully. He said “Indeed, they were.” then pretended he was late for a meeting - opting to not get a coffee at all.
He lowers the sunglasses back onto his nose with his right hand, and carries both cups in his left. Noticing the foam escaping from the lid of one of the two drinks, he sucks it up and hastily exits the busy foyer to claim a street side table.
That one’s mine then, he thinks as he places the cup he hadn’t claimed with his mouth to the opposite end of the table, which is a tad too short for his height.
He knocks his knee against it.
Gods damn these tiny metal tables, and their cheap flimsy legs.
He stretches his legs out, crosses them at the ankle and checks his watch. Either he’s missed the agent, or they’re late. He looks around before pulling the briefcase from his pocket, tossing it under the table, and enlarging it out of any pedestrian’s view. As he’s unfastening the clasps to fish out a paperback, he hears the sharp click of heels on pavement. He turns his head furtively to admire the sound’s owner.
His mouth gapes for half a second before he slams it shut again.
This must be a joke.
Walking determinedly towards him, is a mane of chestnut curls billowing behind a manilla folder obscuring her face. She’s wearing a smart two piece pencil skirt set in black, with a crisp white top tucked cleanly into it. He’s rather appreciative of how form fitting it all is. His gaze drops to the tanned legs he’s recently become fond of and he sucks his tongue against his teeth when he notices the delicate beige strap wrapped around each of her ankles.
None of my business.
She halts her steps near the cafe, and drops the file folder down, revealing furrowed brows as she glances around the surrounding buildings. When she turns to face the cafe’s door, the movement blesses him with a new vantage point, one he hadn't yet admired fully. Granger's ass is fantastic - he almost doesn't stand to call her name so he could see it for just a little bit long, but he's a gentleman so he shifts forward to stand. Once on his feet, the movement must have caught her because she turns to face him.
It's comical watching how her eyes widen, and her mouth opens - it's almost the same face he's certain to have made when he saw her too. She stammers, "Malfoy?”
He raises a brow in question, “Estate Agent Granger?”
*** *** ***
After she takes the seat across from him, he watches her twist and pull her hair over one shoulder, toying with the ends while eyeing their surroundings. Draco’s thankful for sunglasses as he can’t seem to keep his eyes from following the chain of her gold necklace that’s caught on her clavicle and dips into the hint of cleavage her shirt covers.
Hermione straightens her shoulders, “So, you’re looking to buy a house?”
He clears his throat for no other reason than to make sure his voice worked, “I am.”
She takes a long drink of the cappuccino and licks her lips clean of the bit of foam they collected, “Thanks for this by the way.” After setting the cup back down, she taps her fingers against it, an odd expression on her face, "You’re probably wondering,”
She’s out of her mind.
Draco laughs, “Oh I most certainly am wondering.” He holds out four fingers, her eyes watching him tick a finger at each recollection, “DRCMC, Mungo’s, Flourish and Blotts, and now! A bloody Estate Agent.”
She spun the cup in front of her, her eyes still fixed on his left hand. He speaks to get her attention again, “Granger,” her eyes dart back to his face, “Why,” he pauses, “I know it’s not my business, but how in the fuck are you working four jobs?”
Pulling her hands from the cup, she folds them together, resting on the table; Her mouth turns up into a small smirk, “I’m very well rounded, Malfoy.”
He lifts the sunglasses to rest on his head and gives her a pointed look, “Well rounded is not the term I’d use for someone who picks up professions like stray cats.”
Her smirk falls into a frown, with a flat palm slapped onto the folder, she shoves the folder towards him, “Enough about me. This is your meeting, afterall. Let’s talk houses.”
She’s so… aggravating(?)
Draco pulls the folder towards him, and flips through the pages she’s brought. He pulls three out after dog-earing them, "These three look great." He slides the papers back to her, slowly - unmistakably more considerate than the way she'd shoved them at him.
Hermione's lips flattened as her reviewed his selection. When her gaze pulls back up, onto his, her expression has shifted into something soft, “These are lovely.”
"I know. I have exceptional taste.”
Running a thumb over her lips again after another drink, his attention is held by her mouth, despite the insult it tosses at him, “You are such a prat.”
He rolls his eyes, and she continues, “Honestly? I was a bit worried you were going to incendio the whole lot when I showed them to you.”
Draco furrows his brows at this, the displeasure on his face must have been evident, as her next words come out quickly.
“It's just that this isn't what I would've picked if I’d known you were the client today.” She sets the drink down and mutters something that sounds like:Going to curse Pansy.
He knows what she’s going to say before he even asks, but he asks anyway, “And why is that?”
She looks away from him, and tilts her head towards the sky.
Draco thinks that she’s likely crafting some response about how he’s a rich pureblood ponce who wants to live in a manor like his mummy and daddy or some such.
She sighs, “I was thinking of you through a very outdated lens. Even though Pansy outlined ‘the client’ was looking for something small, when I saw it was you…” she looks back to him while shaking her head, “It was wrong, though. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize to me, Granger,” he says, “But I do love hearing you admit that you’re wrong, and appreciate the sentiment.”
A huff leaves her, “I never once claimed to be infallible, and it's true. I am sorry.”
The frustration that mounted inside of him dissipates at the earnest expression she held.
He knows she's sorry, he knows she's human - a witch, fallible as much as any other person yet - he also knows deep in his bones this woman is not often wrong.
None of this is what he wants to say, though.
What he really wants, what he's desperate to hear, is to know how she sees him as he is today - not the sorry sloshed sod she'd endured in 8th year; a young confused man who either babbled incoherent confessions of sorrow or hardly spoke at all.
There was almost no inbetween then, for him, and this - this unusual meeting over an all-too-small table is the most conversation they’ve had since then; and that had been… a very long time ago.
“So, this new lens of yours,” he draws a small circle on the table with his finger, “How does it appraise me now?”
She blinks at him a few times before narrowing her eyes and leaning forward, “It finds you in want of compliments.”
He puts on a false pout, and she rolls her eyes despite the smile which indented a small dimple in her right cheek, “You’ll have to find them elsewhere. I’m all out at the moment.”
Placing his hand over his heart in dramatic, “Heartbreaking, Granger. Compliments from anyone else are hardly meaningful. I don’t know another soul on Earth with 4 jobs and an Order of Merlin First Class.”
“You’ll have to earn them, then.” she chides, before taking another drink and averting her eyes away from the hand he held to his chest.
A frisson of something ran through him, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She’s faffing about with her hair again, and he realizes that it might be up to him to keep the conversation going. He’s got questions afterall, and she might answer them. He isn’t sure how to start, or if he even should.
He decides to keep it light, and on topic. Definitely not good to ask about the time turner. Or the other jobs, the shorts, or if she’s ever coming to cards.
“How did you come to do this?” He asks as he pulls the folder back towards him, pretending to read through the other options.
He is the definition of unconcerned.
Casual, even.
The curls she had pulled to her shoulder fell in a cascade to her back as she straightened in her seat again, “My parents didn’t want to move back to the UK, after… after everything.”
He stops pretending to read, and looks over the folder at her. He nods in understanding, but feels a roll of judgement in his gut. Who leaves their traumatized (yet prolific and powerful) daughter alone, so far away, after so much horror?
He wouldn’t ask.
None of my business.
She continues, flicking her eyes from his to her hands in front of her, “So, between selling their home, and purchasing my own, I found the agents I had to work with a bit,” She taps her long unpainted nail on the table, “overzealous. They took so much more of my time than necessary.”
“Not a fan of salesmen, Granger?”
She blows out a gust of air, “No. Not at all, it seems. So, after a lot of disappointment, I figured I could do it myself, and I did. Now I only dabble at it when a friend needs a hand. The money’s a nice perk, but being part of my friends’ lives as they move into a new phase of their life and into a new home is rewarding.”
She’s barmy. Or brilliant. Or both.
He shakes his head (at her mostly, and at himself, considering his incessant need to evaluate her lucidity was taking up far too much of his mental space), “Absolutely ridiculous, Granger. I think I see it now though. You can do it better, so you do. Thus leaving you the best and brightest witch of her age, and leaving everyone else in the dust.”
She rolls her eyes, “I hate that.”
“You hate being better than everyone else?”
“No, that title. It’s abhorrent.”
“Says the witch working 4 professions, simultaneously, showing everyone that she is, in fact, better and brighter than them. What’s abhorrent is the fact that you work 4 jobs.”
With a severe look of scrutiny, she asks, “Why all this interest in my employment, Malfoy?”
He shrugs and answers honestly, “Because you’re interesting.”
Her mouth fell open as she blinked at him. When she closed it, her cheeks were stained red. Has he ever had this effect on her before? It was a shame he couldn't photograph her at this moment.
The cold cappuccino in his hand serves as a proper distraction - he wants to cast a warming charm on it, but the witch in front of him would probably kick him under the table for doing so in such a public muggle location.
With those heels.
His mind wanders a bit, but her voice pulls him back to where they’re presently seated.
“Malfoy?”
“Hmm?” He really must stop mentally wandering off like this.
“Why aren’t you taking over the manor?”
He frowns at her, “Would you?”
Leaning her chin onto her hand, elbow resting on the table, she answers, "No."
"Exactly."
He sips at the tepid drink and sets it back down.
Her eyes are on his hands again when he reins the conversation back from depths they had been approaching,
“Each of those homes have a fireplace. Are they all connected to the floo system? I might have missed that detail in the paperwork.”
She pulls her elbows from the table, and thumbs through the three pages, “The ones in Norwich and Cambridge are already connected. Those two belonged to wizarding families before hitting the market, so they’re not as modern as the one near Suffolk. That one will already be plumbed with electricity, but not floo. It’ll need to be set up and registered.”
He rubs at his stubbled chin in thought, “I’ve been very drawn to the idea of no existing magic on the property. I won’t have to contend with any old wards when setting up my own,” he palms the back of his neck, “I’m looking for something of my own.”
Her hands shoot forward as she responds, a grin wide on her face, the dimple he'd just noticed deepening, “Yes! I get it completely. Gods, I wish I’d have done the same. The old bat who lived at mine before me set some very tricky, messy wards. Took a bit, but I was able to dismantle and recast my own.” She leans forward, his eyes pulled to her chest the barely-there cleavage now definitely-there.
He swallows and forces his eyes back up on her own gleaming ones. As she leans, she put a hand up to her lips to mock-whisper, “Mine are a touch nastier, though.” She leans back, winks(!) and sports a self satisfied smirk.
Want flared through him.
Merlin, when did Granger get so…
He shifted in his seat and cocked an eyebrow, “I don’t doubt that at all… Perhaps I should use your place as a fake address. Send all the hate mail and baddies to be maimed by your terrifying wards while I set up mine.”
Hermione frowns at this, “You’re still dealing with that, really?”
Letting the disbelief be heard in his voice, he answers, “Come on Granger. Death Eater apologists and Ministry sycophants still love to hate the Malfoys, equally. To them, we either failed the Dark Lord, or adjusted too well after the war for their liking.”
Her frown deepened, he continued, “So yes. I’m still dealing with that from time to time. It’s no matter, though. You’re clearly still dealing with it, if you need such nasty wards.” He leaned forward and winked back at her as he said 'nasty'.
An appraising look makes her face serious, as if she’s not sure if she’s going to share something with him.
He leans forward and places his chin on his hand. She has his full attention when she says, “Well… I have built a small curse into my wards for any parcels that may contain certain phrases or individual words.”
Surprise forces him to shift backwards, his spine uncomfortable against the uncomfortable metal chair, “Like, a revelio for words that repels the mail? What does it do?”
She laughs a bright, brilliant laugh, “Something like that. Essentially, the curse activates only if the inbound mail contains any key words I’ve set, and it redirects the owl back to the sender. Once its contents touch the hand that penned the letter, it, erm, catches on fire. The mail, and the hand.”
“Vicious witch,” blows quietly from his mouth, shaking his head.
“I could show you that one, if you want.”
“I’d very much like that. Whenever I actually buy a house.”
“Right. How’s this weekend then? Sunday?”
"It’s a date.” He coughs, “I mean, yeah that works. Just owl me the time and which house we’re meeting at first.”
Granger wishes him well, and trots off to wherever she goes.
Probably to clock into her shift at an outreach facility for overhunted occamy or something.
Realizing he’s been staring at his empty cup, he stands to leave. Making his way towards the alley apparition point he wonders just what else Granger will be getting up to between today and their next meeting, and if she’ll be at Jack’s party.
Notes:
Hi! If you're still with me, thank you for reading. <3
Yesterday, before AO3 needed maintenenance yesterday (GOD BLESS AO3 DEVS AND THEIR WORK BTW) my hits were at 69
tee-hee
Chapter 5: Birthday Party
Summary:
Draco attends a 5 year old's birthday party
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 5 - The Birthday Party
“ALBUS GET OUT HERE! JAMES, YOU HAD BETTER FIND YOUR SHOES. LILY, PLEASE PUT ON YOUR SHOES!”
What is it with her oldest and youngest and their shoes? She wouldn’t be able to count how many times she’s had to summon a single shoe, having no idea where it was flying in from. She laughs to herself. I have officially met Molly levels of volume.
Ginny doesn’t usually have to shout, but the excitement about a party with cake, quidditch and movies has sent a wave of wildness through her children that was typically reserved for George when he stops over with a new gadget for the shop.
She looks at her husband who's own shoes were on, but held up by the recliner he was lounging on, “Can you wrangle your spawn?”
“Right!” Harry shoots up, and moves quickly to scoop up Lily from the ground, and points a finger at James, “Where are your shoes at?”
James looks to his Dad with wide eyes, then down to his feet, his voice quiet, “They’re all muddy outside, I think.”
He rubs the top of his son’s head, messing the dark hair more than it already had been, “Ahh, okay - I’ll clean ‘em quick before we leave. Can you go get Albus from his bedroom?”
James beams at the redirection, “Sure!”
Ginny watches Harry plop Lily onto the couch and squats down to shove her little feet into the pink light-up trainers. A rushing wave of adoration for Harry courses through her at the sight, and she remembers when Harry had insisted that all the kids get a pair. Harry shared that he never got to have anything like it, and desperately wanted them when he was in primary school. All of the things he never got to have, their children got in spades - light up trainers, bins of toys and stuffies, praise, affection, hugs, and sweets.
Hearing feet on stairs, she looks up to see Albus and James stomping down the steps. Albus clutches a messily wrapped gift tightly against his chest, her middle son had been adamant that he be the one to wrap what he picked out for Jack.
“Albus!" another bout of affection making her smile grow, "You did great love!”
Once his feet hit the landing after a leap from the third step, he shouts, “Thanks mum!”
She looks to James, “Did your Dad get your shoes?”
Harry calls from the sitting room, “No! They’re in the yard, Gin!”
When they all finally gather in front of the fireplace, Harry and Ginny take a moment to take a mental inventory of themselves and their children: All three children? Accounted for. Shoes? On. Gifts? Wrapped. Patience? Level.
Harry tosses in the floo powder and shouts, “Greengrass Estate Receiving Hall!”
*** *** ***
Draco hadn’t a clue what someone wears to a children’s party that would fit Daphne’s vision.
Pansy said he should wear something ‘casual but not too casual’ (whatever that meant.)
Theo said he was wearing the coolest muggle button up shirt he could find and blue jeans. In typical Theo fashion, Draco expected something bold that Dean would love, and Daphne would wrinkle her nose at.
Blaise said he would wear whatever his house elf, Begonia, had picked for him that morning.
Draco settles on simple muggle attire - a black cotton t-shirt, black denims, and trainers.
As he walks to the floo, he summons the stack of wrapped gifts. He'd taken Granger’s advice and bought Where the Wild Things Are and Ferdinand. Though, he also bought a toy broom, and a pair of child sized dragonhide quidditch gloves. It was his firm belief that a kid should be spoiled on their birthday, and books are not an indulgence, they are a necessity.
Once he steps through the floo at the Greengrass Estate his ears are assaulted by the sound of children’s shouts, screams and laughs. The only thing louder is Ginny, using her most severe mother voice, “OI YOU BUNCH GET OUTSIDE! NO RUNNING IN THE HOUSE!”
He spots the Potters, Theo and Blaise herding a group of raucous children toward the door that leads to the gardens. He steps quickly to catch up to them, Theo turning to stop walking to greet Draco, he waves the Potters off.
“Draco! What do you think?” he lazily waves his hand over his shirt. It’s a collared shirt with approximately 60% of its buttons done up. It appears to be printed with a vague impression of a tropical beach - bright red hibiscus flowers, palm trees growing from a bright green island placed randomly where his ribs are, a parrot on the chest, and ocean waves near the bottom.
It’s classically Theo somehow despite it being muggle and mysterious in origin.
Draco cocks his head, “It’s definitely something, Theo.”
Theo laughs, claps a hand to his shoulder and clamps down to jostle him, “Right? It’s great. I want one for every season.”
Blaise approaches on his other side, loops his arm loosely around his neck and leans in to whisper, “Watch out for Daph, she’s forcing everyone to get their face painted. I don’t understand it, but Pansy’s quite put out about it.”
“Face paint?” Draco asks, confused.
Theo grins widely. “Face paint!”
The three men step out onto the veranda, and cannot believe what’s been done to the Greengrass Estate’s garden. It’s been entirely transformed. The expanse of greenery that symbolizes wealth and power within the sacred 28 is now full of screaming children, and muggle balloons.
Blaise blinks a few times as if his eyed needed to adjust to the amount of color in the yard, then turned his face towards them again and said one word, "Drinks."
Draco follows behind him, skirting around kids and waitstaff offering juice or hors devours. Blaise finds a tuxedoed man carrying a tray of champagne flutes, and pulls a few to pass around.
“This is insane,” Blaise murmurs while watching the hovering cake at the end of a row of tables. The cake held aloft by hundreds of balloons.
“Are we really at the Greengrass estate?” Theo asks, marveling at the tables full of candy, stuffed animals, and flowers. He shakes his head, “Why couldn’t I have a birthday party like this?”
“Because your birthday is in the winter,” Draco responds dryly, “And because this,” he points vaguely at everything happening, “would have killed Lord Nott instantly.”
“Wouldn’t that have been nice?” Theo sighs, “It would’ve saved us a load of trouble.”
Blaise pushes Theo along towards the stairs leading down to the grass with one hand, the other firmly around his drink, “C’mon mate, we’ll make your birthday party dreams come true next year.”
The music coming from the gazebo is loud as they approach, a band playing muggle rock music surrounded by swaying bodies. Draco spots his Mother softly moving next to the Greengrass grandparents. He isn't sure what the song is, but it looks like Dean’s mum is moving her head in time with Molly and Arthur, who are holding one another tightly. He wonders, sometimes, if he'd fallen into a dream there hadn't been war, or blood purity, or hate when he witnessed things like this.
As they near the roses, Theo exclaims, “There’s the face painter! Oh let’s get in line!” Draco doesn’t have a chance to decline before his friend walks off without a second glance.
With only he and Blaise left standing holding their gifts Draco asks, “Have you seen Daph?”
Blaise squints into the distance, nods, then tugs on his arm to head towards a gaggle of children and adults gathered at the back of the property.
As they get closer, he can see it’s a miniature quidditch pitch. The kids are taking turns on toy brooms playing a near proper game. He spots the Potters, the Weasleys, Daphne and Dean, coaching their children. Little Lily seems to be waiting her turn along with a few others.
They approach Daphne, and she greets them warmly. Draco pulls Daph into a one armed hug, “Daph, this is great, love.”
She pulls away and drags Blaise down into a crushing hug while keeping her eyes on Draco’s, “Thank you! It turned out so much better than I imagined. The kids are having a blast, and everything’s going so smoothly.”
Dean reaches to shake Draco’s hand, “It’s great right? But she wouldn't let me have the jugglers. Said it was ‘too much.’” He shakes his head with a smile as he pulls his wife into his side, pride obvious in his face.
Draco looks at Daphne, “Maybe she had a good reason?”
Daphne rolls her eyes, and Draco shakes the gifts he’s been handling, “Can I give this to Jack now so he can share it with Lily? I know it’s early, but…” he shrugs.
Dean eyes the shape of the gift and nods quickly, “That’s perfect! We were short a few.”
Daphne grabs the other gifts from Draco and Blaise - they levitate to a table near one of the tents at the edge of the garden. Dean calls for Jack who’s listening intently to Ginny as she gives tips for diving.
Dean barks, “It’s too early for that Gin! Give ‘im a year or two! Jack, come over here, we need you for something important.”
Jack zooms over on a toy broom sporting a paper crown. Daphne scoops him from the broom, and rests him on her hip, “Say hi to Draco and Blaise, doll.”
Jack shyly looks up at the two wizards, “Hi Mr. Blaise and Mr. Draco.”
He smiles down at the boy, “Hi Mr. Jack. I have a gift for you, but you have to share it with Lily today.”
Jack looks confused until Draco hands him the gift.
“I’ll share!” he yells, ripping the paper and jostling to be let down.
Daphne releases him to run off with both brooms in hand towards Lily. She sighs happily, then turns to them. “Care for a real drink?”
*** *** ***
Seated around a small table, Pansy, Theo, Blaise, Harry, George and Ron are playing cards, while Draco tries to keep up with the game. He’s had a bit to drink, and the pace of the game has slowed to a crawl as they bicker between turns.
The sun set long ago, the band’s packed up, and the table’s offerings of candies have been picked apart by greedy hands.
A bit bleary eyed, Draco snorts a laugh at Ron.
Ron gives him a sour look, “It was supposed to be a panda.”
The table laughs. Ron has a smear of crusty white paint over his forehead and eyes, with three large black circles in the center of his forehead.
Pansy, who has a butterfly on one of her cheeks, squints her eyes and cocks her head to the side, “If you close your eyes a little, you can see it. Kinda”
“Thanks Pans,” Ron says, “and fuck you Malfoy.”
Draco lazily throws a middle finger to him, before looking at Harry. His face now a dark orange, striped in black, except for the white paint around his mouth.
“Potter, what’s going on with the movie thing? Dean said you picked it.”
Before Harry can respond, Theo shoots up. “I forgot about that! Come on!” His smile crinkles the red painted wings and black dots around his eyes. He wobbles once before turning on his heel, “Righto!”
George stands to follow Theo, after slamming the rest of his drink and setting it on the table. The white and black stripes on his face smear at his mouth as he wipes the drink from his lips, “You lot coming?”
Blaise lays his head down, the rainbow on his forehead stamping the white table cloth. He waves them on, “Go on without me, I need a few.”
The group moves to the tent to find the other Greengrasses (Jack, Daphne, Astoria, Cyrus, and Lucretia) seated together closely.
Astoria turns her head and offers him a small smile. He quickly moves his gaze off of her to Neville, Ginny and her children piled onto pillows.
He’d successfully managed avoiding Astoria’s simpering all evening. He’d keep doing so for as long as he could. Neville turns his head to nod at Draco, a snake descends from his temple and wraps around his cheek.
A snake for the snake slayer, fitting, Draco thinks.
Draco settles down behind Ginny, while Theo, Harry, and Ron throw themselves to the ground noisily. George belly flops into a pile of pillows closest to the projected imagery on the white sheet. Pansy delicately steps behind Draco, grabbing his shoulders to keep from tripping on a pillow as she makes her way towards Neville.
Just when everyone is settled, Albus shushes the room as the scene of the movie shows a very bearded man wrapped in leaves, running around a big house.
Draco snorts a laugh, and Ginny slaps his arm as she leans back to whisper, “How’d the estate agent meeting go? Neville said he set you up with a great agent.”
He gives her a sardonic look, “You lot are worse than a bunch of old gossiping hags, you know that?”
Ginny scowls, “Just spill it.”
He twists the signet ring on his finger, “It went very well. We’ll look at a few places tomorrow, if you must know.”
“ Very well, huh?” she waggles her brows, the tiara painted on her forehead waggling as well.
Albus shushes the room again.
In an effort to escape a citation from the middle Potter child, Draco nods his head towards the tent flap. Ginny nods in understanding before pulling herself up to follow him out.
The night air is refreshing after the stillness of the tent. Draco reaches into his pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes and hands one to Ginny. She lights them both with a snap.
On the first exhale, Draco comments “Your Albus is a stickler, I can’t believe he’s half Weasley and Potter.”
She shakes her head ruefully, “I know. Maybe he was mixed up with another baby at Mungo’s. He reminds me of an 11 year old Hermione sometimes.” She takes another drag, and exhales, “Gods, I miss cigarettes.”
“Where is she by the way?” Draco flicks his cigarette, “Potter said she was coming, but the Weasel shrugged when I asked.”
Ginny quirks a brow, “Asking after Hermione again, are we?”
Draco lifts a brow in return, “Should I not?”
She makes a humming noise before answering, “It’s sweet.”
Draco lifts the cigarette back to his mouth before he can scoff at her, and she gives him the update, “I got a patronus from her a little bit ago. Said something about getting called into Mungo’s because of a multi-person splinching incident and tangled limbs.”
Draco grimaces as she nods slowly, “Gross.”
After vanishing their smokes, Ginny casts a quick scourgify on them both. She pockets her wand again, and gives him a serious look, “You’re spending quite a bit of time with her lately.”
He scratches at his neck, “Well spotted.”
“In a solely professional and platonic manner?” she asks.
Draco stiffens before turning his eyes back to hers, “Why do you ask?”
Ginny does a quick spin and shuffles a bit away from him, slowly making her way backwards towards the tent, “She just might have mentioned something about a certain someone looking quite fit.” Her eyes narrow, “and seeming a little flirty.”
He rocks back onto his heels, feeling smug about the ‘fit’ comment. He shoves his hands into his pockets, “She said that?”
“Uh-huh,” she nods, “and when I politely told her that she might be right, she scolded me saying that this certain someone would never do such a thing with her. She mentioned this total wanker thinking she’s a terror, with bad bushy hair.”
Draco frowns.
Ginny smirks, “That’s what I thought too.”
He steps towards her as she continues moving backwards slowly, he has so many questions, but can’t seem to verbalize them. Ginevra speaks again, loudly, while twisting back around to face the tent, her back to him, “But I didn’t say anything. Got it?”
Her face peers over her shoulder, making sure he got the message. He nods dumbly in return.
Once her face turns back to the tent, he shakes his head in an attempt to jostle this information into a secure place, so he can’t forget it.
He walks back into the tent, slightly stunned and mostly pleased.
*** *** ***
Once he arrives back to his too-small and too-empty flat, feeling a touch too-drunk he heads to the bathroom. He’d long forgotten about the horns and scales painted on his face. He speaks lowly to his reflection, “Maybe Pans was right about the dragon being a bit unimaginative.”
After a shower and a swig of sober-up, Draco stopped by his office to pen a message to Granger.
He wants to tell her that he doesn’t mind her being a terror, or her hair. He doesn’t mind it at all.
Truthfully, he’d very much like to run his hand through the bits that fall from her shoulders. He’d like to loop it around his hand, and pull - just ever so lightly. Perhaps she’d let him sink his nose into it, against her neck.
He blinks rapidly, he may need another swig of sober-up before writing a single word to her.
He summons Mippy and requests that she package a hot meal. Once delivered, he places a warming charm on it, and finally pulls out the parchment.
After re-reading the missive (no less than 5 times) he attaches the meal and the note to his eagle owl’s leg. As he opens the window, he says, “Don’t wait for her to reply.”
Sleep doesn’t find him easily. He twists and turns in his sheets imagining her receiving the parcel. In the first version, she sighs dreamily and happily eats the dinner wearing her healer’s robes before taking herself to bed. In the second version, she rolls her eyes, and bins the whole parcel while muttering something about him being a horrid prat. The last thought he has before drifting off is what Granger would have had painted on her face. He's certain it'd have been black cat whiskers on her cheeks, and a pink triangle on her nose.
Letter to Hermione Granger from Draco Malfoy the night before touring potential homes:
Granger,
Your presence was missed at the Greengrass’ this afternoon, by everyone.
It was truly a perfect mix of muggle and magic.
I’m confident you’d have loved it. (Please ask Ginevra about the Weasel’s face paint, when you see her next.)
Please know that I took your advice on muggle literature seriously, and gave Jack a copy of Ferdinand and Where the Wild Things Are. Though, the best gift I brought was a toy broom.
This may shock you, but brooms are always more fun than books.
Another thing or two you may need to be told is:
- I certainly do not think your hair is bushy
- You work too much.
I hope you eat well and rest deeply, so we have a productive day tomorrow.
Selfishly
DLM
Notes:
Some silly rambling - Everyone got their face painted.
If you were wondering, at all, whatsoever, what our friends had painted - here it is:
- Ron - (supposedly) Panda
- Pansy - Butterfly
- Theo - Ladybug
- George - Zebra
- Harry - Tiger
- Ginny - a Crown
- Blaise - a Rainbow
- Neville - a Snake
- Draco - a Dragon (duh)Also, I imagine the band to be playing tunes from the 60s
My headcanon is that if you went to Hogwarts, you could not escapte the Stones, the Beatles, or the Animals.
Probably.
That's my opinion -> https://www.youtube.com/shorts/HkE83Zu8z58
Chapter 6: Home
Summary:
Draco tours a few homes with Hermione.
Chapter Text
Chapter 6 - Home
Staring into the cup of black tea, Hermione’s nerves feel exposed. She has two hours until she has to meet him at the first house, and her stomach flips every time she thinks about it. Another groan leaves her lips as she drops her head onto the kitchen table. Her eyes fixed on the space between her knees and the table’s ledge, she watches Crookshanks weave between her feet. Inkblot paws at the belt of her robe that dangles near the floor.
With a heavy sigh, she asks, “What is he on about?”
Crookshanks yowls. Inkblot is silent.
“You think so?”
Inkblot mews. Crookshanks butts his head into her leg.
“It’s very,” she chews the inside of her cheek, “I don’t know.”
Crookshanks sits. Inkblot claws into her calf.
The sharp stab of pain sends her head off of the table and she shoo’s the little black devil away. He runs a circle and jumps to the counter, pawing at the flower vase.
It’s a threat and she knows it.
After casting another warming charm on her tea, she stands and walks to their food dishes.
“Fine.” she says. Crookshanks’ tail flicks at her legs as she dumps a pile of kibble into each bowl, tops them off with a splash of water and splits a tin of tuna between the two.
“Here,” she says as she unceremoniously sets the two bowls down near their water dish. They dig in, without even a mew of thanks.
After stomping up the stairs to shower, she lathers the soap into her washcloth. Her mind circles back to the letter and dinner Malfoy sent her last night. The meal was exceptional, and extremely thoughtful. The note was… she stumbles on the right adjective.
Charming? Playful? Unexpected?
The entire thing felt far more meaningful than what was outwardly stated. It made her…
Giddy? Suspicious? Swoon?
Her stomach tightens and she scolds herself.
Pathetic Hermione, he just said your hair wasn’t bushy. It wasn’t even a compliment.
She just knows Ginny told him about that. She feels hot with embarrassment again, “Ginny whyyyyy” she whines as she rinses the soap from her back.
How is it possible that she’s stuck as this man’s estate agent? Does he even actually need one? He could buy anything he wanted without her guidance. Maybe she should cancel. Maybe he’d cancel.
She exhales a breath. He wouldn’t cancel, and neither would she.
Draco sodding Malfoy will not have her all… worked up.
It didn’t matter that he called her interesting last time they saw one another.
She is interesting. It’s not crazy for someone to notice that.
This would be simple. He’d buy a home, and she’d stop seeing him all the time.
She’d get back to work, and he’d go back to his galas.
They’d maintain a cordial acquaintance-ship at functions.
His steady grey eyes would look at someone else.
He’d take his perfectly tousled hair, jaw line, and thick neck, somewhere else.
He’d put those big hands on something else.
He’d put on those reading glasses in a muggle shop she wasn’t working at.
Ugh, His gods damned reading glasses.
Her stomach flips again.
“You have to stop, Hermione,” she mutters as she rinses the conditioner from her hair.
She hopes it behaves today. She hopes everyone, everything, everywhere behaves today.
Examining herself in the mirror, she does a quick turn. She’s wrestled half of her hair into a gold clip at the back of her head. Her outfit is simple (classic), her hair is… fine, and her documents well sorted.
This would be okay.
She takes a deep settling breath, focuses hard on their first meeting location, and apparates on the spot.
*** *** ***
Walking up the long drive, he approaches the large white house in Norfolk. It has a single tree growing in front of it, and a circular gravel path. As he approaches the home, he can see the attached conservatory, a single detached out building, and a small stable.
Maybe this is too much.
He grew up in opulence and doesn’t wish to recreate anything close to his childhood home. It was one reason why he’d picked a simple, small flat when he came back.
The horse stable in the yard casts a long shadow into the yard, it makes him feel uneasy.
Why did I pick this one again?
As he nears the porch, he can see Hermione leaning against the railing, she’s wringing her hands, eyes unfocused but her attention snaps and hands move to her sides once she notices his approach. When he lands on the middle step of the porch, she greets him with a smile and a warm, “Hey.”
Again with the mirroring of her expression, but he can't help it, a smile on his own face as he says, “Hey yourself. Did you get your delivery last night?”
“I did. It was very thoughtful. Thank you.”
She’s level to him like this, with her on the top of the porch, him on the middle step. She’s close enough that if he'd just reach out a little, he could tug on the curl that fell at her shoulder.
It's a bad idea, so he doesn't - instead the hands are removed from the situation entirely - he shoves them deep into his pockets, and leans on the opposite rail, "Anytime, Granger."
Something is happening between them, it's not the same as their last meeting. Proximity breeds familiarity, certainly, but this doesn't feel like familiarity - it feels like his stomach could flip inside out if they got any closer.
He wonders if she feels it too, because she's peculiarly quiet, and keeps shifting her gaze from his face to their feet on the steps while fiddling with her necklace.
"So," he offers the word as an axe, handing it to her so she might cut through the whatever this was.
Hermione accepts, and he's grateful for it, "Yes, right" her eyes move back to his, "Are you ready to take a look?"
With a decisive nod towards the door behind her, he answers playfully in an effort to lighten whatever the, “Lead the way, Captain.”
This makes her lips quirk up, and she gives him a tight nod before turning away from him to open the door.
Following closely behind, her perfume finding his nose - a rich, warm, spiced vanilla smell. It suits her.
The room they enter is cavernous, their footfall onto the wood floors echo. There’s a large brick fireplace, the ceiling is high and rustic - wood beams and white paint. They walk through the home - the hallways, the kitchen, down the stairs, up the stairs, to the bedrooms, bathrooms, and closets.
Hermione's going through the motions, pointing things out about each room - So many rooms.
He makes sounds in agreement and nods mechanically when he should, but he’s not truly paying any attention. Their last stop is the conservatory at the back of the home, it’s the only worthwhile room in the home he’s seen.
She turns to face him, beaming as she clasps her hands together, “So?” but the smile falls as she takes in whatever expression he had on his face, "No?"
Draco looks around again for good measure, to be a good sport, to really see the potential, trying to imagine himself here; an elderly version of himself, wandering around a too-big house, filling the rooms with unused furniture.
The thought unsettles him.
Could I be any more depressing?
There’s three too many bedrooms, at least one too many bathrooms, and not enough of himself to fill it with. The conservatory is lovely, but mostly because it’s the only one he’s felt warm in, and partly because she looks so good in it.
He runs a hand through his hair and looks down hoping she doesn't see the gloom he felt reflected in his face, “I’m sorry. I just.. It’s too much. I think I’d like something a little… less.”
When he looks back up to her, she’s taken a few steps forward. She’s close enough that she can speak very quietly without him having to strain to hear her. Her tone is soft, and smooth, “That’s okay, Draco. We can go to the next one.”
A small thrill shot through him at the use of his given name by her. He presses his tongue into his cheek, “Thank you,” he lowers his voice, savoring it as he says, “Hermione.”
Maybe he's imagining it, but he swears he heard her suck in a breath before saying, "No problem.”
It’s quiet.
The atmosphere between them shifted again, but he has no axe to offer her this time. He lets his eyes drag from her eyes, to those parted lips that he now knew kept a dimple hidden unless revealed by a real smile, perhaps he should just take another step closer. He swallows, and right when his foot begins to move forwad, she takes a step back.
In an instant, his mind clears of the haze of want that almost had him act foolishly.
Hermione clears her throat, and offers him a polite smile (sans dimple) and extends her arm out to him, "Side along to the next one then?"
Without hesitation, he reaches out and grasps her lightly, his thumb moving to rub a small circle on the inside of her wrist, "Please."
*** *** ***
Draco’s feet slam to the ground and Hermione’s shoulder knocks into him as she rights herself to keep from stumbling. He moves the hand that was holding her wrist to her shoulder and squeezes gently, “Steady on, Granger.”
She looks up at him with a slight scowl, “You can do the next one, then. I’d like to see you avoid trees and gates based on coordinates and photos alone.”
“No. I think I rather like being your passenger today. I’ll take the lead when we go somewhere you aren’t working.”
She huffs.
He laughs.
This is fun.
Draco squeezes her shoulder once more, then slides it to rest on the top of her back to push her ahead of him. Her back is warm against his palm, her hair soft as it brushes against the back of his hand.
They walk toward the house and she twists her head to look up at him. She gives him a look of suspicion, “And where would you be taking me?”
He thinks he’d like to ask her to be his date to the Janus Thickey Gala, but he’d like to go on a proper date.
He’d like to see Granger with a few drinks in her, laughing easily.
He’d like to stir her up into an argument somewhere she isn’t working.
He would like to know if the freckles across her nose extend to her shoulders, or down her spine.
He wants to know about her work, and that fucking time turner.
A moment passes before he decides on his response.
“To the Janus Thickey Ward Improvement Gala” he says, not looking at her, eyes on the large wooden gate they are walking towards.
She stops in her tracks, he keeps walking ahead to the gate and pulls it open.
Draco stands in front of it, keeping it open with his body, as he waits for her to join him, but she seems to have grown roots where she’d stopped. Offering her an out, he speaks again, “Of course, if you already have a date..”
Hermione Granger’s mouth hangs open. He stunned her again. A feat he didn’t realize he was hoping for.
“You want to go to the Gala with me? ”
She may be smart, but she certainly was slow on the uptake.
He nods, his eyes unmoving from hers, “Yes. That's why I'm asking. Do you want to go with me though? That’s the question.”
With quick steps, she moves towards him, stopping directly in front of him - her intelligent brown eyes searching for something as they rove his face.
He isn’t sure what she's looking for, so he works at conveying hope for her acceptance, and indifference at her refusal at the same time - an incredibly difficult thing to do.
After a moment she finally answers, “I think,” she chews her lip, “I think I’d very much like that.”
Turning his face towards the trees above them he exhales deeply, and turns his face down to look at her again, “You had me worried there.”
She slaps her hand lightly against his arm and laughs, “I’m sorry.”
He pulls her hand from his arm, and holds it for a moment, then drops it, “Don’t be. Now let’s find a proper home for me, witch.”
*** *** ***
Windows. Windows everywhere.
Four in the entryway, six in the sitting room with the fireplace, four more in the ceiling of the kitchen, another above the sink, along with a french door to the patio and garden.
There’s even a slanted window on the ceiling wall of the bathroom, above the clawfoot tub. He counted a dozen more between the three bedrooms, and the dividing hallway.
There is no darkness here.
The sunlight pours in and catches the flecks of caramel, chocolate, coffee and honey in Hermione’s eyes as she reads updates from a sheet about each room they enter.
She points at the included appliances, and mentions when the electrical, plumbing and roofing was updated. Her voice drifts into his ears, sweet and swotty. He does much of the same he did in the last house, humming agreements and nodding along, but intuitively knows that this place - this lovely, little period house is good.
Every room feels charmed despite no magic being here; akin to late September with an early Fall wind - something like a heavy jumper in the morning only to rip it off later in the afternoon sun.
The muggle family that lived here before even painted every room in shades of autumnal glory.
He didn’t think much would need changing, at all.
They exit through the french doors to the brick patio and investigate the small detached building in the back. After walking back to the patio, Hermione opens her arms wide and says, “Well?”
He watches the curls that have escaped her clip move in the breeze. The papers rustling in her hand force his brain back to attention.
He had his mind made up so early into their viewing that he feels a little guilty when he says, “This is it. I’ll take it.”
She grins up at him and asks with disbelief, “Really? You don’t want to go to the next one first?”
He searches the horizon for a moment and shakes his head and returns his eyes to her, “Really. I don’t need to see anything else. Offer them more than asking price, something reasonable but too good to pass up. I’d like to have it before anyone else has a chance to out maneuver me.”
There’s a long pause where they just look at one another before Hermione responds, “Right then. The sellers seem motivated, they’ll probably want to exchange contracts as soon as possible.”
Taking a few steps towards her, he nods once and responds, “I’m ready if they are.”
He watches her shift on her feet, and he pulls her hand to his lips. He presses a kiss to the top of her hand before stepping back, “Thanks for your help today, Hermione. I’d like to see you soon. Before the Gala, please.”
She nods, “Okay, Draco. I’ll owl you.”
He smiles, “Please do.”
Her fidgeting with the papers in her hands is the last thing he sees before apparating away.
*** *** ***
When he arrives at Nott Estate, he finds Blaise, Theo and Pansy lounging in the receiving room as if they were awaiting his arrival. He keeps his face neutral as he takes in the scene.
Theo shoots up and says, “He got it! You got it, right?”
Blaise sits up and whacks a hand at Theo’s arm, “Let him tell us first, you dolt.”
Pansy, unmoving from her position on the chaise raises a brow and says, “Spill.”
Draco breaks into a grin, summons a bottle of whiskey and a tumbler from the bar cart, “I found a house.”
Blaise stands, and walks to grip Draco in a hug, as Theo whoops and snags a glass for himself. Pansy sits up and holds her teacup out for Theo to pour a drink into. Theo raises his glass in the air and says, “Cheers to homecomings!”
After pouring his drink, he offers a smug smile, “And I snagged a date for the Gala.”
Theo whoops before throwing himself back onto the chair near Pansy, “Who’s the unlucky witch?”
Pansy throws Theo a look, and Blaise steps near Draco, “Don’t listen to him, mate. But tell us, who is it?”
Draco walks to the fireplace before turning to face his friends, “It’s Granger.”
Theo barks a laugh, “Really?”
Pansy’s face is pleased, “How surprising.”
Eyeing Pansy, Draco continues, “Yes, it seems fate has pushed us together.”
Pansy smiles, “How fortuitous for you both.”
Blaise raises a cup in the air, “Alright - a proper toast now. To Draco, may you find joy and happiness in your new home.” he pauses for dramatic effect, “and in Granger.”
Draco shoves Blaise away, as Theo laughs, raising his own cup. “Here here!”
Throwing himself onto the chair Blaise abandoned for (what Draco would not accept as) a proper toast, he scowls, “Low brow, even for you lot.”
Pansy’s laughs, “And you moved all the way back home because you missed us.”
He replies dryly, “No, I missed that curry place on Maddox.”
His friends mutter words like sure, and uh-huh, or sounds like rubbish.
They all take a drink and Draco thinks that he hates his friends, with all of the love in his heart.
Chapter 7: The Archivist
Summary:
Theo is on vacation.
Draco needs authetication paperwork.
Hermione & Draco go to dinner.
Notes:
Hi friends - if you're actually reading this: Thank you!
This chapter may be my favorite so far.
It is a bit long, but I couldn't bring myself to split it.
I hope you like it.
xoxo
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 7 - The Archivist
Closing his lips around the finger pushing a slice of kiwi into his mouth, Theo closes his eyes and sucks. He was having a very sexy, very fun time here, and the sustenance was overdue, honestly. The auburn haired wizard’s mouth parts open as Theo releases it with a loud wet pop.
“Kiwi was a good choice,” he admits, thinking that he's never had a better kiwi before while reaching a hand towards the large blue bowl between them. He hovers his hand between a cube of watermelon and an orange slice, deciding languidly which to return the favor with. He’s partial to watermelon, but he thinks that his guest might be more of an orange type of fellow.
Just when Theo thinks that this beach rendezvous will soon be getting to the more exciting bits again, a massive shimmering bat patronus appears, speaking in an annoyingly authoritative and posh voice.
The unwelcome interruption to his dinar d'enamorats makes him groan.
“Theo, we need to speak immediately. I need the authentication paperwork for that tableau. Get here quickly,”
A moment of silence passed as the bat continued to shimmer.
“Please.”
The patronus blinks out of existence.
Theo places a hand on the muscular chest in front of him and pushes softly, “Un moment, amor.”
Leaving the privacy of his room, flip flops slapping the heels of his feet, he walks determinedly to the concierge desk and hits the charmed bell more harshly than he intended. A small hoopoe bird zips from the bell, into the air, and flies down the hall behind the desk.
When the bird returns back to the bell, the ring reverberates, while a single feather falls to the floor from the commotion. He hopes he hadn’t woken the poor thing - Theo knows how dreadful it is to be interrupted when relaxing.
He also hopes that the small, elderly witch he met a few mornings ago is working again, and not the tall, perpetually frowning wizard who had checked him in.
Luis, he thinks with a scowl.
He’d not had any fun at all when trying to make chit chat with him when they checked in, and he had to endure two more unfortunate exchanges with him. The first being when Theo needed spare sheets, and the second, when he requested a restaurant recommendation that would dazzle his date.
Luis had said nothing when shoving a bundle of sheets into his arms, and pointed to a brochure when he’d asked for the recommendation.
How that man worked in hospitality Theo would never know. It was a mystery, much like muggle banking, or the beginning of time.
A moment passes when he hears soft clicks on tile.
His hope soars as he doesn’t think that Luis had recently gotten into tap dancing, or wearing kitten heels. Though, Theo is convinced that either, or perhaps both, would vastly improve the man’s general attitude.
Theo’s elated as he watches the short, sun-bronzed, white-haired witch approach the desk, greeting him with a polite smile, “Hello, Mr. Nott. It is lovely to see you again. What brings you to my desk this afternoon?”
“Ana! Lovely to see you too. I’m in desperate need of a favor from my favorite witch on the island. May I use your floo for just a tick? It’s a personal call, and I’d rather not use the public one in the foyer. El meu soci comercial pot ser força emocional.”
With a shake of her head, she indulges him in a soft laugh, “Sona dramàtic!”
“He most definitely is.”
She waves him on, and asks him to follow her behind the counter.
Once tucked into the small office, he throws a colloportus and muffliato at the door, anticipating a very irritable, potentially shouty Draco Malfoy on the other end of the floo. He settles onto the floor, throws a pinch floo powder into the fireplace, and sticks his head in.
*** *** ***
The rug in Draco’s living room would soon have a path worn into it from the pacing he’s done over the last few days.
Despite the overall up-and-up direction his personal life had recently taken (new home contract finalized, messages exchanged frequently with Granger, and the delivery of his new monogrammed muggle ink pens) some things were still difficult in his professional life.
Specifically, the items he and Theo procured for silent auction at the upcoming Janus Thickey Improvement Gala.
Frankly, it was a deluge of utter bullshit.
The master horticulturist they had lined up for the gardenscaping offering, Reginald Lee Fernificus III, had apparently fled the continent after being charged with illegal foraging in the Białowieża forest. (His foraging encroached on protected centaur land, incited a centaur stand off with a few local wizarding foragers, and one very unlucky muggle who required obliviation, and a new hobby.)
Granger had written him a strongly worded letter about “needing to do better vetting of those he did business with”, and said it created a terrible mess at the DRCMC.
Splendid Draco thought dryly when he got that letter - it was the third he received from her that day.
The first was a short message asking if the gala would be considered black-tie or cocktail formal for attire. It was written on personal stationery, with delicate floral patterns along the edges. The paper was matte, with a medium weight but still felt a little chintzy, in his opinion.
Perhaps he would take her to restock at his preferred shop.
He replied that either dress style would suffice, so long as she was on his arm - he would be suave enough for the both of them. Draco imagined she rolled her eyes. He liked imagining it.
The second was a congratulatory letter with keys to his new home in an envelope. The letterhead read HJG Estate Agent. The HJG was heavily embossed in gold. Draco ran his finger over it more than once before pocketing the keys.
He penned a short thank you in response, with a request to visit him there in the very near future. His reply was closed with a cheeky, “PS - Come work my wards soon, Hermione.”
In his mind, she might have blushed a little. He liked imagining that the most.
The third and final letter that day was on (sub)standard Ministry procured stationery. Cheap, creamy white, and thin. It would absorb every bit of ink, or oil on a person’s hand. The letterhead of, “Hermione Granger - Deputy Director” was heavily spaced above a smaller “The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.” The print was faded, and slightly spotty; It seemed that the ink well runneth low at the Ministry.
He drummed his fingers against his desk while thinking of a sufficient response.
A “sorry for mucking up your day” response seemed a little too little.
Something long winded, providing a detailed explanation seemed much too much.
He sent flowers - white daffodils and blue hyacinths. The message would be obvious.
The naughty horticulturist that had forced him to send an “I beg your forgiveness” arrangement to Granger, also left him an auction item short. After much stewing, and rug pacing, he did what he probably should have done in the first place - ask Neville to step in.
Neville Longbottom, heir to the Longbottom line despite his permanently dirt-caked cuticles, agreed without hesitation. Though, he also gave Draco a very lengthy talk in which he edified him on the importance of knowing the environmental factors when foraging or propagating and how irresponsible some horticulturists within the magical community were in their practices.
He also said that if it were up to him, “That Fernificus fellow would be sent back to the forest to be dealt with by the centaurs.”
Draco thought that was mad .
So much rubbish about snakes, but those lions are truly bloodthirsty.
Unfortunately, the flood of fuckery didn’t stop there.
The Celestina Warbeck dress up for auction arrived at the Manor threadbare and moth-eaten.
At first, he hoped that how he received it was just how it was supposed to be, until he received word back from the celebrity’s agent that Celestina had recently suffered a white witch moth infestation in her home, and was eager to rid herself of the mangled pieces.
The agent suggested they either take the loss, or repair it. They didn’t care which - they would not rescind the letter of authenticity if they decided to attempt a repair.
Draco had to pay a heavy fee at Gladrags to get it fixed in time.
The latest problem he needed to solve prior to the event, was one that should be simple: Getting the authenticity paperwork from Theo for the Merlin era tableau depicting a dragon hunt.
Theo was supposed to have dropped it off to him days ago.
He had not.
The floo bursts to life and a bright eyed, curly haired wizard's face appears in the flames.
“Draco, darling!”
Halting his pacing, he turns to the fireplace, “Theo, where are you? I need you to bring the paperwork for the tableau.”
His friend stares at him with a sheepish grin.
Draco raises a brow, “Where are you right now?”
“Now, don’t be cross. It’s been a dreadful week with all those wardrobe malfunctions and plant man problems, so I’ve taken a little breather. I’m in Ibiza for the rest of the week.”
Oh, he was cross.
His tone was venomous.
“You didn’t have to lift a finger. I recall you saying, ‘bin the dress Draco’ and ‘just ask Nev.’ All I required of you was the tableau and the accompanying paperwork.”
“And I gave it to you. Well, half of it anyway. Cheer up, chap - it'll get done. I always rabbit the hat.”
“What?”
“You know, muggle magic.”
“Theo…”
“Yes, dear?”
“Just… Where is the document? I’ll pick it up myself. Is it in your office?”
He hears Theo mutter something.
“What?”
Theo’s face falls a bit, “I said you’ll have to run to Manchester if you want it before I get back. I swear I’ll make it up to you, whatever you want. I owe you one.”
Draco counters immediately, “Three.”
“Three what?”
“Three favors,” he sneers.
Theo’s eyes light up with relief, “Three? Why didn’t you say so sooner? No problem at all, lovie. Just reach out to Manchester, they’ll help you out in a jiff. They should have it ready, I asked for it weeks ago. Ta!”
The floo call ends abruptly.
The rug thinned infinitesimally under Draco’s feet as he lapped it again.
*** *** ***
With a deep exhale, Draco quashes his frustration upon his arrival to the Chetham's Library in Manchester. The tableau is delicately wrapped in cotton, he presses it into his chest protectively as he winds through the crowd of tourists milling about the entryway.
He was able to get through to the Magical Archive Department via floo shortly after talking with Theo, and managed a same-day appointment with the Senior Archivist by charming the receptionist and, most importantly, offering a significant recurring donation. Draco had yet to meet a problem (other than the Dark Lord) that money could not solve.
Beneath the curved ceiling, he walks the narrow aisle between dark oak shelves, stopping once at the distinct feel of a muggle-repeling charm, the spell buzzes around a single bookshelf and shimmers ever so subtly. A glance over his shoulder proves he’s alone in this section of the stacks; as conspicuously as possible, he pulls the hawthorne wand from his pocket and taps thrice on their copy of The Arch-Conjuror of England.
An icy wind tears through his body from the shelf, then eases, warmth finding him again as he rematerializes somewhere else entirely.
The wood is the same as the muggle facing portion of the library, but the lighting is different - flames dance in the wall sconces, and hanging lamps, making the shadows around him flicker.
A soft, “Ahem.” comes from behind him.
Twisting at the sound, he makes eye contact with the receptionist sitting behind a parchment covered desk. Her graying red hair pulled away from her face, highlighting the thick cat-eyed glasses perched on her nose, pearls dripping from the hinges wrapping around the back of her neck. She taps at her desk impatiently, “Do you have an appointment Mr…?”
“Yes, I have an appointment for 3 PM. The name is Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. I’m here to speak with the Senior Archivist.”
She scans the parchment in front of her slowly, dragging a coral painted fingernail down the list of names and times. The thick black frames of her glasses glint in the firelight when she pulls her face back up to his, “Yes, I see you here, Mr. Malfoy. Come now, follow me.”
The heavy chair she’s seated on scrapes against the wood as she stands. Draco cringes at the blatant disrespect to the wood beneath their feet, and he wonders why there isn’t a cushioning charm on the chair’s legs, or at minimum, a rug.
Following the waddling witch through a short hallway, stopping at an intricately carved door set in a pointed archway. Draco watches as the witch pulls a short wand from the pocket of her frock, her wand following a portion of the etched vines of ivy. His ear drums tighten at the creak of hinges as the door opens.
Stepping aside, the witch gestures for him to enter, “Please take a seat. He’ll be with you in just a moment.”
He turns around to ask her a question about their other departments (specifically, the maintenance department, as he’d like to have a word), but the screech of hinges happens again, and the door closes before he has the opportunity.
Resolving himself to sort out the lack-of protective rugs and hinge-grease later, he walks the length of the room, after setting the tableau onto the desk, which presumably, the Senior Archivist sat, had the man been here.
Draco pauses every few steps to read one of the many tome titles that line the walls, housed within more of the same dark shelves seen in the library. After two turns about the room, he settles into one of the two green leather chairs, tapping his fingers against the arm as he waits.
And waits.
Thirty or so taps later, door hinges cry out again, really something must be done about this. Draco swivels in his seat and observes the oldest man he has ever seen before, in his life, walk through the open doors. Royal blue robes trail behind the man, his beard twisted into a braid down to his navel, tied off with a sapphire encrusted silver band.
As any well-mannered person does, Draco stands in greeting and out of respect, but the wizard makes no move to acknowledge him. A waft of sage meets his nose as the man passes by, without even the offer of a nod. Draco sits back down at the same time the Senior Archivist takes his own seat in the wingback chair at the head of the desk.
The silence is excruciating as Draco waits for the man to speak, and he wonders if the man can even see him through the cloudy eyes that hadn’t yet even moved in his direction.
Rather than waving a hand in front of this geezer's face, or maybe calling for medical assistance, he decides to begin the conversation, “Excuse me. I’m Draco Malfoy. Your 3 pm appointment, to review this tableau,” he delicately pushes it further towards the man, “and get a copy of the authenticity paperwork for an upcoming auction.”
No response. Nothing. Not even a blink.
Draco wonders if the man’s fallen asleep with his eyes open. Or has died.
Both are equally concerning, and inconvenient.
“Sir, are you.. Are you okay?”
The man blinks. If you can even call it that. His left eye blinks significantly sooner than his right, as he leans forward to pull the tableau towards him. Long, thin fingers unwrap the cloth covering, his voice like a croak from a dried-up frog, “Ah yes. The Golden Dragon Hunt. Late Antiquity era.”
Definitely not dead, thank Merlin.
Draco nods, “Yes, that’s correct, sir. You should have a request on record, ready for pickup, validating its authenticity.”
The man’s left eye blinks, “I believe that’s been done already,” the right eye follows.
What?
The frustration he’s kept tamped down begins to bubble in his throat, bleeding over into his tone, “Pardon?”
The man stands from his desk, turns away, and begins his absurdly slow trudge back towards the door. Draco stands to follow, speaking rapidly, “You misunderstand me. I’m only here to pickup the document, which you already have. My colleague was supposed to pick it up weeks ago, but he’s a proper-”
Draco ceases his babbling when the wizard turns around and lifts a single finger, as if telling him to wait.
Another terrible shriek of the door’s hinges agitate him further, the man exiting the room, leaving Draco alone, aghast, and annoyed beyond measure.
What the fuck is going on here ?
He wishes for a cigarette as he paces the length of the room for a third, then a fourth, and finally a fifth time.
He throws himself back into the plump green leather chair again while waiting for the wizard to return with his paperwork. (Or rather, for the receptionist to ask him to leave, tears in her eyes, sharing the news that the old sod had just keeled over and died, and that they did not, in fact, have any paperwork pertaining to the tableau at all.)
After approximately 50 taps on the desk, two neck cracks, and a shoulder stretch, he hears those bloody hinges open again.
Restless to get the out of here, he turns his head quickly (almost snapping his neck in his haste) and sees Hermione fucking Granger walking towards him, her face pointing downward at the paperwork in her hands, a quill stuck in her hair.
His cheek might just crack open at the grin that grew on his face at the sight of this witch.
She’s talking as she walks, eyes still trained on the papers, “I’m so sorry about the wait! Mr. Amblington, the Senior Archivist, needed a quick hand with this. I grabbed it as soon as I could, it’s all complete though. The paperwork is notarized, and magically sealed to keep from…” the speech dying in her throat when she finally looks up, and realizes just who it is she’s speaking to.
He might revisit this exact moment in a pensieve later. It’s too much.
“Draco?” she chokes out, her cheeks darkening.
“Archivist Granger?”
“Something like that.” she folds her arms over her middle, as if abashed.
The absurdity of it bends him over in a full belly laugh, it’s uncontainable.
She’s absurd.
The momentarily shy look she had morphs into a glower while he wipes tears of laughter from his eyes.
Indignantly, and impatiently, she taps a foot on the ground, “Well? Care to share the joke?”
His hand shoots outward, holding it aloft, fingers splayed wide as he barks, “Five! That’s five jobs! You beautiful, batty witch!”
She blinks at the hand he holds up, he lowers it.
Hermione shifts where she stands, then begins fussing at the paperwork, eyes focused, brows furrowed, as if they needed her full attention and filing at this very moment.
Covering his eyes to hide the amusement in them, he asks, “Are you serious? You can’t be. No one has this much time.”
Barely a second passes before he stands, uncovering his eyes, “Time! Yes! Do you have that time turner? Are you using it to work five jobs?”
She squeaks, “What!?”
His head starts shaking in disbelief, he’s still grinning, “The time turner from third year! Potter told me about it.”
Hermione stares, “Harry told you about that?”
“Barely.”
Relief is evident in her voice as she nods, “Oh good, okay.”
Draco throws his arms outwards, his exasperation on full display, “Granger, are you actually using an illegal time turner to work ?”
Her steps are quick, he’s caught unaware as she shoves him back into the chair, pushing the paperwork into his chest.
She’s leaning over him, her face close to his as she whispers furiously, “Can you stop screaming about a time turner? We can’t talk about that here, you absolute prat.”
The warmth of her body positioned over his chest thrills him, he grasps her elbow tilting his face up to hers, “You’re an aggressive witch, you know that?”
There’s a moment where he thinks she might just dip her head a fraction and let their lips meet, but instead, the moment passes and she scowls. She takes two steps back, yanking her elbow from his grip.
Draco’s head hits the back of the chair that he’s now half sprawled out of, watching as she fluffs her hair, shifting the quill back into place, and adjusts her necklace - a clear attempt at gathering the composure she’d lost a moment ago.
His tongue presses into his cheek at the sight of her skirt, still wrinkled and pulled just a touch too high up her thighs, the strip of skin evidence of their… whatever that was.
After a shaky inhale, she says steadily, “You have your paperwork, Mr. Malfoy.”
She says his name primly.
He hates it, he thinks.
Or he loves it.
He lowers his tone, letting it become gravel, aiming to ruin the propriety she was putting on; hoping to destabilize her, the way she destabilized him. “Thank you, Ms. Granger.”
Perhaps this is what he’d revisit in the pensieve later, the bite into her lip, the sharpness of her gaze narrowing in on him.
Fighting the urge to stand up, pull her down onto his lap, and ask her to say his name in that prissy tone again, he refocuses his attention to his watch.
“May I take you to an early dinner?”
Hermione’s brushing her skirt when she asks, “And you’d like to do that now?”
“Yes,” he straightens in the chair, making his way to stand, “I’m terribly put out that I didn’t know about this fifth job of yours.”
As if evaluating whether he was worth her time, she runs her eyes over him before agreeing, “Give me fifteen and meet me in the lobby.”
*** *** ***
Draco is holding onto Hermione’s waist firmly when they land in muggle London. She leans into the touch, and he bends down, taking in the warm scent of her hair as he speaks into her ear, “I think you’ll love this place.”
It seems his voice causes her to lean into him further. He’s grateful for the contact.
Entering the Fated Plate, Draco pulls her hand into his, and speaks quietly with the hostess requesting his preferred seating. He tugs Hermione further into the restaurant trailing behind the hostess.
The restaurant is something, and he watches her from over his shoulder as they move through the space towards their table. Above them is a dark ceiling, painted with gold stars and intricate line work along the edges; she’s admiring the detail, while he admires the way she looks in the soft lighting.
Once seated, he orders a decent bottle of pinot noir. There were better years at the Manor, but it would do.
A basket of bread, cheese, berries, honeyed nuts, and brined vegetables are delivered to their table by a young waiter shortly after the wine is poured.
She reaches for a piece of crusty bread as he puts on his readers to eye the menu.
“Does this count as our date?”
Looking over the top of the menu to answer, he lifts a brow, “It can.”
She stares at him, while pulling at the bread, tearing it into little pieces on her plate. “Okay.”
Eyeing her bread massacre, he lays the menu down, “Hermione.”
Her eyes bounce from his eyes, to his nose, to his lips, to the menu, then back up, she responds in a low honeyed tone, “Yes, Draco?”
A wave of want rolls through him, he shifts in his seat, “Please tell me about the archive role.”
She hums a moment, then leans forward pressing her chest into the table, “What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” he flips the menu over - pretending to think about what he wants, very much ignoring the way the charm of her necklace disappears between -
He always gets the Frutti di Mare here, best he sticks with that.
“Okay,” she pops a piece of bread into her mouth, chewing slowly before speaking again, “Where do I start.”
Draco gives up the pretense of looking at the menu and eyes her, “Surely, the beginning?”
A look that clearly meant ‘you’re such a prat’ is broken by the smile that tugs on her lips as she speaks, “So, I’m not properly an archivist.”
He quirks a brow at this, and she continues, “But, I did train for the official archivist title, and could have it if I wanted it,” she shakes her head at the prospect, “But it’s not for me. Now, I act in more of a supporting role to the Senior Archivist,” she pauses, “On a limited basis.”
That last tid-bit amuses him to no end.
“Limited basis because you have,” he holds up four fingers, “a few other professions.”
She rolls her eyes, “Yes, and because, well… Originally, before the Ministry, my goal was to be the senior archivist, but life happened, and I didn’t want to stay there forever. I mean, Gods… you’ve seen the Senior Archivist, right?”
Between a dry laugh, he shares, “Yes! I thought he was dead for a moment.”
She nods enthusiastically, chewing on a small piece of cheese then takes a long drink of wine before she starts speaking again.
With her hands punctuating every point, she goes on, “Right! One day, I was working deep in the stacks. I don’t think I’d seen the sun properly in probably two or three days. I was knee deep in requests, pepper-up potion, and the strongest black tea I could choke down. I was so focused, then he walked in,” she bangs her fist into the table rattling the wine glasses, “He did the slow blink thing and I realized that this man has been doing this job for at least fifty years. Then I thought, this is what happens when they actually let you live in the library. Which was definitely a dream of mine at the time, but the reality of it… is not pretty.”
Her pointer finger had jabbed the table on each ‘this’, her nose crinkled in faux disgust.
Draco is enthralled.
The waiter returns, asking if they’re ready to place their orders, and he feels a tug of annoyance at the interruption. Keeping it brief, he orders for them both, and hands the menus off.
At Hermione’s furrowed brows, he realizes that may have been a faux-pas.
“Granger, I’m sorry. That was poor form. Did you want something different?”
“No,” she pauses, “No one’s ever ordered for me before. What you requested sounds lovely, though. Thank you.”
Pride and disbelief at being the first man to order her a meal makes his lips twitch, but rather than smirk and boast, or dig for detail about what unworthy blokes she’s dated before him, he says, “It is. Really. If you don’t like it, we can switch.”
Draco does not want to switch meals, and hasn’t a clue why his mouth just offered.
Hermione’s looking at him from behind her glass of wine, it feels like she’s calculating something, so he waits for her to speak, his own hand swirling the wine in the glass he kept on the table.
“I know you want to ask about… the thing from third year, but I want you to know that no, I don’t still have it.” she says, breaking the silence.
He stops his wine-swirling, flummoxed by this admission.
“Then I’m utterly bollocksed at how you do everything you manage to do, without it.”
As if she doubts his intelligence, she lifts a brow, “It’s called time management.”
With a roll of his eyes, he reaches for his wine and takes a drink. “Insane.”
Sarcasm and a smile paint her response, “Yes, alarm clocks and calendars, Draco. Utter madness.”
He blows out a breath, “If you don’t have a time tur,” he clears his throat, “If you don’t have it now, will you tell me about when you did? ”
She moves her eyes to the ceiling for a moment before answering, they fall back to him as she negotiates, “Only if you tell me about you first. We’ve been talking about me for ages. You left to get away, I get that. But, what brought you back? I figure your work would be far more interesting outside of London, new faces and all that.”
His mind whirs, uncertain where to even begin.
Everyone always thinks his time away was all parties, and fucking drunk, lonely socialites out of their tight chignons between events.
Okay, sometimes it was like that in his early 20s, but for the most part it was not.
Anytime he gets a touch too close to honesty about this, it’d result in the person staring at him frowning, then clapping him on the shoulder to say something like, “Everyone gets a little down sometimes!” or “Well it’s good to be home, innit?” Typically it was one or a combination of the two of those, or some other bullshit nothing statement.
Draco’s life on Earth, thus far (in short) was like this:
In his childhood, he was obsessive over things that hadn’t mattered, at all.
Money he hadn’t earned.
A name he’d been born with.
Sports he wanted to be best at without trying.
Blood he hadn’t shed.
Later, he’d been frightened by the shift in his home, his Father’s voice growing sharper, his mother’s growing smaller. He projected this fear onto others, an effort to grip some semblance of normality. If he was better than everyone else, as he was taught, then he’d be fine, regardless of what happened to anyone else.
As a teen, he’d been sick - in his mind, in his body, with himself. He’d also been angry, so incredibly angry, with those who were in his home, and even more so with those who couldn’t actually do a damned thing to help him, or his parents.
In early adulthood he’d been drunk and tearful - Blathering apologies and spewing his shame onto anyone who’d been close enough after a few glasses of whatever he could get his hands on in 8th year.
The witch in front of him privy to many of those sessions.
Mortifying.
After graduation, he was sober, sorrowful, but stable - He was being pestered to marry. He remembers feeling very wound up, and confined at the same time. His insides were too much for his skin, he was fit to burst.
At 20, he was downright jovial (drunk again) but this time without any betrothal contracts for review with his Mother in the cold Manor.
He was in France.
Alone.
In his own flat.
He spent years flouncing about - Dodging requests to assist with rebuilding the family name from his Mother. Dodging her floo calls. Dodging his friends. Dodging anything that wasn’t whatever he wanted, when he wanted.
He’d survived the war, outright and in his mind.
He was owed something.
The time between 26 and 31 was work.
He’d started seeing a squib / muggle therapist as he’d been off kilter, for years.
With their help, he began hosting galas alongside his mother to rebuild their relationship, his sanity, and his friendships. The work was vital to finding his footing again.
After a few years bouncing between the countries for events, his therapist encouraged him to,”face the music”
What a stupid idiom. Music wasn’t meant to be faced, like an opponent. It was meant to be enjoyed, and shared. You were meant to find meaning in it, like all good art. So, he did - digging deeply to find meaning in what he did - philanthropy came naturally, it was as easy to him as it was rewarding.
He spins the ring on his finger, “It’s not as simple as that, really.”
She cocks a brow, encouraging him to continue.
“As you witnessed, in my less than stellar moments in 8th year, the guilt and grief was… consuming.”
With a small frown, she nods in understanding, “I remember it well. You were definitely not alone,” she pulls the hair from her back to her shoulder and twists it nervously, “I don’t think I’d ever yelled more in my life than that year.”
Draco laughs at this, a memory from what felt like a millenia ago flashing through his mind, “No, I think Finnigan called you Howling Hermione a few times.”
She looks down at her fingers that twist around a curl, “Clever alliteration.”
Draco snorts into his wine glass, “Especially for him.”
“Hey!” she scowls, unhappy with the jibe.
Lifting his hands in a truce, despite the well-deserved insult, “Fine. Finnigan is the pinnacle of intelligence. Happy?”
“We’ve gone off topic,” she grumbles, her hand leaving her hair, and finding her drink again.
Before he’s forced to subject this incredibly occupied witch to his the drab chronicles of doing-fuck-all-for-years, the waiter returns with their food.
A perfectly lemon-zested plate of scallops, shrimp, and oysters abed thin freshly made noodles for him.
The short rib stuffed agnolotti for her, amongst greens, and roasted tomatoes in a marrow-based sauce for her.
Those were, in his opinion, the two best dishes on the menu. He hoped that she liked her dish, and wouldn’t want his .
Why had he offered that again?
He watches her dig a fork into the stuffed pasta and take a bite. She hums happily, “This is so good.”
He’s relieved.
After setting the napkin into his lap, as he’s twisting his pasta onto the fork against his spoon, she asks, “So, why’d you leave?”
Draco takes the bite he’d been preparing, then takes a long drink of water.
A white wine would have been a better choice for this meal, but he’d had a hankering for red, and no interest in sharing a sob-story with this brilliant witch.
He dabs at his mouth with another napkin, “I was not,” he stumbles for the right words, “at my best, when I moved.”
Hermione nods at his words while eating her pasta.
“My Mother was eager to go back to normal after everything. Ready for her son to be Lord of the Manor, marry, make babies, the whole thing. I felt-”
“Buried,” Hermione interrupts.
“Exactly.”
She forks another shell, her attention on her plate, “I felt the same way, but I decided to throw myself into work.”
“I can see that.” he watches her chew, wondering if she was resolved to work her worries away for the rest of her life.
Her gaze shifts back up to him, “At least you came back up for air.”
Draco shakes his head, he isn’t sure that’s an accurate assessment, but it’s kind. He twirls his fork into the pasta again, “It wasn’t easy.”
“So, after years of… what? You came back.” She asks.
Draco refuses to embellish, or self-flatter, especially to her, so he answers truthfully
“Honestly? I was doing nothing of any real value for years. Helped a few private investors find pieces they wanted, took some off the top for myself. I did that for a long time. It was,” he chews his cheek, “unsatisfying. Once I got through that lovely period, I started working again, but with my Mother in charity. I found I rather liked it, doing something to help others that I already knew how to do. Something I was good at.”
That dimple appears for him then, she lightens the mood he’d made heavy, “You Mafoys do throw one hell of a poncey party.”
“A poncey party for a cause, Granger.” he tuts, “After a year or two of way too much floo-travel, or portkey expenses, my therapist encouraged me to move back. I was ready.”
Hermione’s eyebrows rise, “Therapist? Not a mind healer?”
He shrugs, “Well they’re a squib, trained in muggle methods. And really, muggle therapy is better. They’ve got years more study ahead of us.”
After another long drink of wine she sighs happily, pushing the plate away from her, “If I could tell 12-year-old me that Draco Malfoy thinks muggle therapy is better, I think she’d have an aneurysm."
He sets his elbow on the table and palms his cheek, “If I could tell 12-year-old Hermione Granger anything, I’d say I’m sorry, and that she’s brilliant.”
The table was silent after that, until she said, “She knows.”
An unsteady breath left him, searching for mental balance and finding it again - “Good. I’ve been desperate to do that properly without crying drunk in a common room.”
She barks a laugh, “But that is one of my favorite memories.”
His hands bury into his hair, “Gods.”
Their dinners are taken away to be packaged when they’re asked about dessert. Hermione eyes him before saying she’d like an affogato. They order two.
Once they’re alone at the table again, Draco asks, “Was that enough intel for you? Can you please grace me with the story of Hermione Granger’s third year mischief?”
“Ugh, okay - fine.”
He’s grinning, “Great.”
They match one another’s position - leaning to rest an elbow on the table, a hand pressed into a cheek, holding them upright as she tells her tale.
“I was given the time turner by McGonagall. For class use, only. I was taking double classes.”
“That’s what Potter said. You know, I thought I saw you everywhere that year. Had me questioning my sanity.”
She snorts a laugh, “I really wasn’t as sneaky as I thought I was. Honestly, who entrusts such an object to a 14 year old?”
“They clearly thought you could handle it,” he shrugs.
Her brows furrow, her attention going elsewhere mentally, “I always thought that McGonagall and Dumbledore knew more, or had some foresight or something, and knew I’d need it.”
This. This is what he’s after.
“Why’d you need it?”
“For double classes,” she smirks.
It’s an infuriating smirk. He’d like to kiss it off of her face.
He’s on the edge of his seat, figuratively of course, these seats are very comfortable, “And?”
Right when she opens her mouth, the waiter arrives with their dessert. He scowls at the man, before fixing his face. It’s not that bloke’s fault the witch in front of him is dangling bits of information for him. Baiting him into begging.
He digs a spoon into the ice cream, “Granger.”
She pulls the spoon from her mouth, “Malfoy.”
He groans, “You’re killing me.”
She chuckles, “Thought it was the hippogriff in third that was killing you.”
He drops the spoon into his dessert, it clinks more loudly than he meant it to, “I required significant healing after that, you know.”
“That’s what we used the time turner for,” she presses her lips together, and twists them back and forth, “partly.”
“Partly?”
A sigh left her then, as if bored with the story, “Harry and I used the time turner to rescue Buckbeak from being murdered,” she gives him a glare, “then, rescue Sirius Black from Hogwarts to escape going back to Azkaban.”
Nearly speechless, all he can say is - “Sirius Black?”
“Yep,” she pops the P, “Harry’s godfather.”
Gods.
“How?”
He isn't even sure what he’s asking.
She nods, as if understanding his confusion, “It’s a very long story, really. Best you ask Harry about the Marauders stuff.”
He watches her eat her dessert happily. As if she hadn’t just told him the most absurd thing he’d ever heard.
Marauders Stuff. Like it’s a whole thing. His ice cream and espresso melt into a brown mush, and he pushes it away, as she finishes hers completely.
She looks at him curiously, “Did I scare you off?”
He shakes his head, both to answer in the negative, and to clear his mind, “No. Just surprised.”
She shrugs, “You asked.”
By the time the bill arrives, the conversational lull they’d found themselves in had evaporated. He’d shared how Neville was stepping in for the horticulturist that caused her so much grief with the centaurs, and she’d told him about the witch he’d met at the Archives. Apparently, she’d been there since the 20s when she was in her 40s. He didn’t think she looked a day over 80.
Exiting the restaurant, Draco rests his hand on her lower back. He slides it to her hip when they walk through the door and he squeezes.
Hermione spins around to face him, “Thank you so much for a lovely dinner, and company. It was such a treat,” she looks to her feet before looking back up to him, “and… you’re welcome for the paperwork.” She has a playful smile on her face when she finishes the statement.
He would like to say thank you properly though.
He lowers his face so he can really look at her, to really look into those big brown eyes, and he realizes that they’re really a multitude of colors. All things warm, sweet, and comforting.
He feels pulled into them, “Thank you for joining me for dinner. Thank you for helping me find a home, for suggesting the best birthday gifts for Jack, and for your help at the Archives. You’re an impractically busy witch, so thank you for spending your time with me, most of all.”
They stay like that, for a moment. Silently looking at one another until he finds the the courage (or idiocy?) to finally just -
“May I kiss you goodnight, Hermione?”
Her breath ghosts his neck, “Yes.”
That wanting he’s been feeling and fighting so often around her snakes its way through him, his hands acting of their own volition - one connecting with the length of her neck, the other finding silk-soft curls.
She pushes as he pulls, and their lips finally touch. They do not pull away from one another though, the kiss (singular) now kissing, finding an easy rythym.
Feeling the warmth of her tongue against his lower lip, then his finding hers - explaratory at first, until it's not because it's good, and she tastes of espresso and cream, and it's fuck - more than he'd ever expected, or deserved.
A soft sound of pleasure from her throat, into his palm that's pressed against it, heat and want sparking the blood in his veins to redirect, to move - and it's the most natural thing in the world to be walking forward, moving her backward until she's pressed between the brick and his body.
Hermione's fingers skate up from his shoulder, fingernails grazing his neck, and he shivers despite being aflame; when she grips into his hair, he whines, or he groans - he isn't even sure what it is, but his thigh is between her legs now and she moans.
The decadence of her against him, and him against her, finding all the particular places that feel good when pressed together.
The honk of a car horn forces Draco to remember himself and their current level of indecency.
He pulls his away then with a grin just for her, as he holds her flushed face between his hands - it's as absurd as it is amazing, sharing this with her.
Hermione's hands drag from his hair to his chest, his eyes close as they move, and he opens them again when he feels them over his own.
They share one last kiss, the singular kind, before walking together to the apparition point.
It aches, letting her leave, but he must - “Goodnight Granger,” he whispers into her hair.
“Goodnight Malfoy.”
He forces himself to take two steps backwards, away from the witch he’d rather be kissing than leaving, “I’ll see you soon?”
“Please.”
After a moment, she gives him a small wave and disapparates.
He stands there much longer than he should have, finding it hard to focus long enough on his destination to leave without splinching.
Notes:
Translations for anyone interested from the catalan language Theo speaks and is spoken to in while in Ibiza.
- dinar d'enamorats - lover's lunch
- un moment, amor - a minute, love.
- El meu soci comercial pot ser força emocional - My business partner can be quite emotional.
- Sona dramàtic! - sounds dramatic.Also, the Chetham Library is gorgeous
Chapter 8: Dress Shopping - Or: Pansy Parkinson - An Interlude
Summary:
Pansy takes Granger to pick a dress for the Gala with Daphne and Ginny.
The ladies go for drinks afterwards.
Pansy POV.
Chapter Text
Chapter 8 - Dress Shopping - Or: Pansy Parkinson - An Interlude
There was very little that Pansy Parkinson couldn’t do. She was self-assured, and self-made.
The inheritance she got from her father after his death was a nearly empty family vault, and public derision. The support she got from her mother, when Pansy started her own business, was scornful at worst, indifferent at best.
It was only after her company, Acouture, was publicized that she felt the stirrings of success. The small boutique offered modern takes on wizarding wear, personalized fashion design, and private consultations. The consultations were definitely the most gratifying part of her work. Seeing confidence bloom in a client’s eyes as they were fitted with well-tailored pieces, and taught how best to select cuts for their shape, was a thrill.
There was also very much that Pansy Parkinson wouldn’t do.
Like, wearing plaid that wasn’t a wool-skirt, sharing a dairy-based drink with anyone, purchasing anything that was distressed, or currently: allow her two fussiest friends to flounder about one another.
Her ears could only handle so much of their idiocy before she intervened.
She’d suffered listening to Draco pepper her guests to death with questions about Granger during cards. His interest was so clearly peaked, it was maddening to watch him shrug and playact indifference.
Perhaps he’d ask her those questions over a little arranged coffee-date, even if under the guise of meeting an estate agent.
Pansy, as usual, was right.
Despite the wicked scolding from Hermione for the setup and the accusation of meddling, she could have considered herself the cat who got the cream as she watched Granger nervously twist the ends of her hair while saying, “Malfoy was annoyingly flirty.”
The payoff for her “meddling” was quick - she was delighted by Draco proudly sharing he’d “snagged a date” with Granger for the Gala.
The developments only got better as time went on. An ounce of effort producing a tonne of reward.
A few days ago, while Ginny and Pansy were watching their husbands work out a gnome-problem in the Potter’s shed, Granger tumbled from the floo, flushed and nearly stumbling, to dish about, “properly snogging Malfoy."
Ginny and Pansy shared a knowing look as Hermione grumbled about Draco being so, “irritatingly charming” and, “concerningly good at kissing.”
She could only laugh into her drink as Hermione paced about the house. She decided to put her out of her misery to ask when Granger would come into the shop to get fitted for a proper shag-me-sideways dress. Granger paused her pacing and turned to her to ask, “Saturday?”
*** *** ***
“Absolutely not.”
This is probably the 10th time she’s found herself in this exact situation: Stationed outside of Granger’s dressing room with Daph and Gin flanking her sides.
Pansy considers clothing as armor, and wears her own chainmail of silk skirts and vicuna wool jackets. She steels herself from critics in cashmere, wields a sharp tongue held behind Louboutin painted red lips, and her wand hand is well manicured, regardless of whatever magic she’s casting.
Drafting Hermione to this philosophy has taken years of slowly replacing inexpensive, utilitarian, big-box retail rubbish with quality pieces. She’s battle hardened in the war that is attiring the golden girl, and today is just another skirmish in the ongoing combat between them.
Pansy lowers her face to the floor and lifts her hands to cover her eyes, “I can’t look at it any longer. Get back in the dressing room, Granger.”
Keeping her eyes covered, she hears a foot stomp, a skirt rustle, and a door slam, immediately followed by the shrill “Fine!” shouted behind the white dressing room door.
Victory.
Ginny’s laugh echoes through the near empty shop, as Daphne mutters something about traumatic shopping experiences. Throwing them a look which means shut the fuck up , she quickly gathers the small selection of dresses more appropriate, of better quality, and all in all better suited for a short statured, neat hourglass shaped, warm autumn witch with rich chestnut locks.
Knocking twice, softly, the door cracks and she sees a pair of brown eyes glaring daggers at her. A hand shoots out and quickly yanks the hangers from her hand.
Honestly, I should get an Order of Merlin Third Class for this.
Walking back to her seat, she shouts over her shoulder, “You’re welcome!”
*** *** ***
The white dressing room door bursts open and a frazzled Hermione steps out, clutching at the strapless rose gold sequined gown, unzipped, holding it 5 centimeters above where it should fall on her chest, “Pansy!”
Her eyes roll so hard, they may just roll right out of her head and end up at the Leaky if she doesn’t catch them. With three quick steps, she stops just behind the idiot witch, and waves her wand. The dress falls naturally at her chest and zips with ease. Standing behind her, eyeing Hermione in the mirror she says, “I swear to Salazar, how anyone calls you the brightest witch of whatever is a mystery to me sometimes.”
Hermione scoffs, but it’s no matter. Pansy gathers Hermione’s hair into a loose fist and holds it up, envisioning a classic twist and bright jewelry. It’s not right. With a heavy sigh, “No - try on the last one. This isn’t it.”
Granger twists with a growl, “What’s wrong with this one? The last one was fine, really! I liked the red.”
Tutting, “The next one is it. I know it. Go on.” she makes a shoo motion with her hand, banishing her back to the changing room.
She turns around to see Ginny resting her cheek on her hand, Daphne’s head resting on her shoulder, both nearly asleep.
After some fussing with her hair in the mirror, the door cracks open. Hermione pops her head out of the dressing room, “This one’s a little more risque.”
Ginny stands, sending Daphne’s head sideways.
Ginny beckons Hermione on, “Come on Herms, let’s see it.”
Daphne’s rubbing out the fog from her eyes and sputters, “Did you pick?”
The door opens and Hermione walks out gingerly, pulling the skirt up to keep from tripping. The moment she stands in front of the mirror, Ginny lets out a long, loud wolf whistle, and Daphne coos.
Spinning slowly in the mirror, Hermione frowns as she peers down and moves her hand over the fabric and leaves it at her chest, “It’s not too much? Or.. too little?”
Pansy steps up and bats her hands out of the way, “Stand properly, you bint.” Once standing tall, she continues, “It’s not too much, or too little anything. It’s perfect.”
The dress is a deep green, with intricate gold beaded vines and leaves. Her tanned shoulders delicately hugged by the thin strap sleeves. Hermione turns to examine the back in the mirror, it plunges to a point and rests just below the small of her back. The skirt is more slinky than voluminous with a slit to mid thigh.
Hermione twists her lips to the side as she examines, “Hmm.. it is beautiful. A good sticking charm for the back, and a featherlight for the beads. Gold heels maybe?”
A genuine smile forms on Pansy’s lips, her friend finally seeing her vision, “Absolutely.”
*** *** ***
The pub is a touch too warm, and a bit too loud - Karaoke night winding to a close as the man who's been stationed for 3 songs in a row continues to croon into the microphone. She watches Hermione and Ginny dig through the basket of chips on the table in an attempt to soak up the G&Ts, as Daphne idly spins the glass in front of her.
Bored and ready to stir the cauldron a bit, Pansy asks, “Are you going to see him again before the Gala?”
“Isn’t there literally anything else to talk about?”
Daphne frowns at Hermione’s eyeroll, “We can’t talk kids and work all the time, and it’s not like you’re kissing blokes and going on dates often.”
Pawing for her drink again Hermione goes noticeably silent, and Ginny intervenes with a playful elbow into the curly-haired witch. “Come on Herms, one snog and dinner is nothing.”
Hermione chews her ice, considering her next words, “Well, he wants me to help ward the new house.”
Ginny looks confused, “Like, as a work thing?”
Fiddling the straw in her drink, Hermione answers, “No, more in the sense that we’d ward it together, like on a date, I think.”
Pansy lifts a knowing brow, “Pretty personal stuff, Granger.”
Daphne, the pleasant creature she is, nods in agreement, “That shows a lot of trust.”
Ginny just snorts, “Or just swotty foreplay.”
“Must you be so vulgar about my,” Hermione pauses to fish the lime out of her glass with one eye closed in concentration “dating life?”
With a small hiccup, Daphne leans back into the seat, her eyes heavy from drink or lack of sleep, “I think it’s great.”
Hermione sighs, “I do too. Honestly, I was surprised he even bought that muggle house. Warding with a partner really is kind of intimate. Is it too much?”
Ginny throws a hand up for the bartender for one more round before they settle their bill and rests her head atop her folded hands on the table, “I think you’re overthinking it.”
When the last round of drinks arrives, Hermione takes a long drink and laughs, “It’s all so incredibly troubling.”
“Troubling?” Pansy’s confused by this statement.
Hermione set her drink down heavily, “Yes, troubling! He keeps showing up when I’m working, and completely derails my day. Here I am worried about a date, when I need to finalize the dragon bill.”
Pansy catches Daphne staring at her as Hermione begins discussing one of her too-many-to-keep-count-of jobs to Ginny.
Ginny’s eyes are glazed from drink, or from the work related speech Hermione was on about.
Pansy lifts a brow in question to Daphne who clearly has something to say. Daph shrugs and says with eyes closed, “I’ll bet you’ll be courting in no time.”
This silences Hermione’s rambling and she squeaks, “Courting?”
“Mmhm,” Daphne cracks an eye open and smiles, “I think you’re well matched.”
The ice in Granger’s drink is melting from the firm grip she has on the glass, “Isn’t that a little old fashioned?” and spins the cup in front of her, “And it’s only been one date. That’s ridiculous.”
Pansy looks at Granger, her cheeks are flushed in either alcohol or embarrassment, probably both if she were to wager. Pansy pulls Granger’s drink from her and takes a sip of it, “I agree. Daphne just loves a happily ever after love story.”
Ginny laughs, “Like she even has time for courtship, she works fifteen jobs.”
Hermione’s eyebrows are furrowed when she pulls her drink back from Pansy, “It is not fifteen jobs.”
Daphne waves a hand lazily over the table, “Whatever, I just think it’s nice to see my friends getting on so well.”
“Getting on well and courting are two very different things,” Hermione grumbles.
Pansy asks her friends to open their wallets so they can vacate as the man who’d commanded the small stage for so long begins the longest muggle song she’d ever heard in her life. As she stands at the bar settling their bill, she watches her friends stand on wobbling legs and she laughs to herself thinking that Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger, of all people, could possibly be wed before the next solstice sun.
She’d like to outfit the entire party. It’d be the most publicized marriage since the Potter-Weasley wedding.
Chapter 9: The (Reluctant) Magical Menagerie Staff Member
Summary:
Blaise and Theo visit Draco's new home.
Draco receives a housewarming gift from Theo.
Draco runs into Granger, at another one of her (sort of) jobs.
Chapter Text
Chapter 9 - The (Reluctant) Magical Menagerie Staff Member
Dusting the soot from his jacket, Blaise steps from the floo into the amber colored room. The walls are bare, boxes strewn along the floor, and dust floats slowly throughout, illuminated by the beams of light filtering in from the windows. The room is different from what he had expected to walk into. He wonders briefly about the electrical ceiling fixtures, perhaps his friend had bought this muggle home in an attempt to impress a certain muggle born witch.
As he walks further into the house, he notices that his friend hasn’t finished unpacking anything. At all. The kitchen counters are full of boxes, and he’s surprised by the number of muggle appliances. Knowing the fireplace was only recently connected to the floo system, it appears that it might be the only magical system in place so far; he hadn’t even felt the buzz of Draco’s familiar wards when he entered. The entirety of the situation baffles him a bit. The unpacking could have been done with a simple wand wave, or house elf the moment he received the key from Granger.
Through the hall past the kitchen, he passes an open window overlooking a brick patio and halts when he sees the blonde wizard outside. He sees Draco standing, his back turned towards the house with a plume of smoke hanging over his head. He shouts through the window to grab his attention, “Oi! Not going to meet your guest properly? What kind of gent are you?”
Draco’s head twists towards the window and he shouts back, “The same as you! A real shit one! Come out here, Blaise!”
He passes through the french double door and Draco greets him with a heavy hand on his shoulder. He grins when Blaise hands him a vintage bottle of wine from the French vineyard, “Congrats again, Mate.”
Draco eyes the bottle, then his friend, wondering if it’s too early to start drinking, “Crack it open now?”
With a flick of his wrist, the cork flies from the bottle and Draco summons glasses through the open window. As he pours he asks, “So, what do you think?”
Surveying the land in front of him, Blaise responds cautiously, weighing his words, “It’s… charming. And very muggle.”
“Charming?” Draco’s voice full of derision, “For Salazar’s sake, just call me a peasant and get it out of your system. Go on.”
Drawing an arrow from the quiver of insults in his mind, he pulls the string of barbs, and releases, aiming to graze Draco’s ego, not kill.
“I think Hagrid’s hut might have been bigger? One might even call this place cozy . I’ve half a mind to call you a bumpkin. Where are your wards? Why haven’t you summoned an elf to unpack yet? Living in squalor, Draco! It’s absolute bedlam in there. Your mother would faint if she saw that mess. Also, that shed back there isn’t even fit for a nest of doxies. Is this a cry for help?”
Draco’s eyes are closed as he laughs.
Wanting to know if he can be done, Blaise asks, ”Was that good enough?”
Draco shoves into his shoulder, “Yes, well done, mate.”
They clink their glasses together and take a drink standing side by side in silence, staring out into the fields behind his friend’s new home.
Draco passes him a pack of cigarettes, he accepts, and lights his with a snap. On his exhale, he wonders, “Really though, you like it?”
“I love it. It feels right, good, untouched by everything. Anything I do here will be my own.”
Draco’s response is far more candid than he expected, he looks sidelong at one of his oldest friends taking in his expression. It’s pride, but the kind that’s deserved, not demanded. “I can understand that.”
“I knew you would. After some ball busting, but, I knew you would.”
“Does Granger like it?”
With an odd sort of half nod, half shrug his friend answers quietly, “I hope so.”
Interesting, he thinks, “Has she been here yet, since the sale?”
Draco scratches at his jaw, “No. Not yet at least. We’ve sent a few owls about it. She’s supposed to come by to help me ward. Apparently she’s got a very morally questionable ward layer to add.”
“Morally questionable?” he snickers, “Are you waiting for her to set them up?”
“Maybe,” Draco gives him a cheeky smirk, “Don’t worry, I’ve got the basics lining the property for now.”
Blaise hums in response, then decides to change the subject - he’s anxious to know why his friend is living out of boxes. “What’s going on with the unpacking? Do you want to borrow some elves? I thought Mippy would be here to stock your pantry, and clean the moment you signed the contracts.”
Draco vanishes his cigarette, and turns to face him with a wicked expression as he heads back towards the door, “Oh, Theo’s going to be doing the unpacking. He owes me a few favors for being such a selfish twat.”
Blaise is utterly unconvinced that Theo will actually complete the task, “Should I call Begonia to help him?”
Draco barks a laugh as he opens the doors to enter, “Please do, I’m sick to death of looking at those boxes. I’ve been saving it all for Theo, and he’ll need direction. Begonia’s a right taskmaster.”
Remembering the proper tongue lashing he received this morning from the little elf regarding the lack of creativity of bringing a bottle of wine for Draco, Blaise dips his head in agreement, “Really, if she weren’t so small she’d be terrifying.”
They move to the kitchen, surveying the mess when the floo roars to life, followed by a sing-song voice, “Draco darling! How sweet your little abode is!”
Theo steps into the kitchen, holding a squirming puppy. “I’ve gotten you a house warming gift!”
Blaise turns to Draco, seeing his eyes widen as he stammers, “Theo. Wh- What the fuck?”
Theo’s grin falls, “Oh come on Drakey-poo, look how sweet she is.” He lifts the tri-colored beagle pup to Draco’s eyes, and speaks in baby-voice, “She’s so teeny-tiny, soft, and small! She's perfect! Yes she is!”
Draco pulls a face as Theo continues, “I think you should name her something regal like Queenie, or Princess or some such.”
The beagle twists and makes small noises. Theo pulls the dog back to press kisses into the dark fuzzy head, petting along the dog’s back until his fingers lift its white tipped tail to wave it at Draco and Blaise.
Draco’s face twists in horror, the small dog now being pressed into his arms. He’s only ever witnessed his friend this awkwardly stiff during the Malfoy family’s hearings before 8th year. Draco looks as if his arms are made of lead, the man yielding to the puppy lounging along his arm. The dog nestles its face into the crook of his elbow,and her eyes close to nap as Draco stares at his new pet.
A laugh bursts from his lips at this arrangement, the dog's eyes cracking open to see where the noise had come from. “Well Draco, looks like you’ve got your hands full now.”
Theo glances at the boxes on the floor, lifts his wand to levitate them, and walks towards the hallway calling over his shoulder, “It’ll give you something to do as I unpack your shit! You’ll need a ball, a leash, or a bed or something. Maybe even a little crown? I don’t know.”
*** *** ***
Left alone in his living room as Blaise and Theo make a racket in the kitchen, he peers down at the softly snoring creature nestled between his forearm and chest.
She’s just a cute little thing.
For the briefest moment, he considered taking her to an animal healer and telling them that some horrible, irresponsible git left the pup near his home. He’d beg them to take her off of his hands. Though, the longer the heat from her small body seeped into his arms, he found himself unwilling to set her down. Maybe he truly was going mad. Perhaps Granger had poisoned him with some sort of kissing spell that addled his mind slowly - something that seeps into his bloodstream making him easy going.
She’d probably love that, actually.
Coming to terms with the fact he is now stuck with this mutt he thinks that, maybe, it won’t be so bad. He imagines this new life, with this dog by his side.
Coming home from a long afternoon out and being greeted with a wagging tail. A walk through London, his head nodding at other dog owners, as if in a secret club.
Summers spent tossing a ball from his new patio into the field.
Hermione sweetly talking to the creature under his kitchen table, sneaking bits of food from her plate.
So mundane, and so sweet. He blinks a few times to will the imaginings away.
How terribly saccharine. A sap, I am not.
The dog yawns and blinks her dark brown eyes at him. She whines. He gently puts a hand around and under her chest, and supports her bottom, lifting up so her face is close to his.
“I don’t think you’re a Queenie, or a Princess.”
She squirms, trying to press her face into his, clearly hoping to nip at his nose. It makes him smile, “Feisty thing.”
He sets her down, wondering what she’ll do in her new home. He crosses his arms over his chest and cranes his neck downwards to watch her sniff about clumsily. The movements are practically silly, and he feels his eyes soften a bit.
Then she pees, near his foot, on the floor.
He groans, “Lovely.”
After vanishing the mess, and scourgifying the floor, he realizes that this may be more difficult than he envisioned a moment ago, and that this entire situation is a very bizarre Theo Nott way to say: Fuck You Very Much Draco. Clearly, the favors owed by Theo, had consequences if cashed in. That twisted fuck.
Scooping the pup up into his arms, he shouts towards the kitchen, “I’m off! That shit better be unpacked by the time I get back!”
Stepping towards the floo, he decides to start with the Magical Animal Menagerie in Diagon, hoping for some charmed anti-pet-loo-in-the-house thing, then maybe a trip to muggle London to procure some dog behavior books. Feeling wholly out of his depth, half out of his mind, dog in one hand and floo powder in the other, he tosses the floo powder into the fireplace and says, “Diagon Alley.”
*** *** ***
He trudges through an alley and up the hill, and stands in front of the Magical Menagerie, watching giant toads sunbathe behind a wooden fence while owls, ospreys, and eagles swoop and land along the roof-line. The puppy looks out to the toads and squirms to get at them. Draco’s hold doesn’t budge, “You’ll not be meeting them today, little miss.”
Fucking hell what is that.
His nose is immediately assaulted by smells when he enters the building. Of what, he isn’t sure, but it’s varied and incredibly unpleasant - earthy and sour. The beagle’s nose tips upward and he watches her nostrils flare in and out. His own nose scrunches in distaste, “You’re enjoying that?” She wriggles a bit in his hand and he presses his lips to her head and mutters “You’ll be getting nowhere near that stench.”
As he turns to avoid the shriek of a captive diricawl with a bandaged leg, he spots a massive orange cat fuzzball lazing on some sort of carpeted pedestal for beasts. A small black cat is curled up beside it. He recognizes him, and edges nearer, “Crookshanks? What are you doing here?”
Draco reaches his free hand slowly towards the half cat-kneazle, and slowly strokes his back - it’s more knobbly than he remembers. He lifts his head lazily and opens a single large yellow eye, piercing Draco with his stare, face squashed and crinkled as ever. His single open eye squints a bit, as if to say: Doing as I please.
The dog, eager to smell Crookshanks, pushes her paws against his arm, “Steady on girl. You have to be nice to Crookshanks. He’s a good old chap, right Crooks?”
Crookshanks only lowers his head back down in response, closing his eyes again as Draco scratches under his ear, which twitches when Draco asks, “Has your mother lost you? Do I need to call for your mistress, or get you home? I imagine she’d be very worried about you.”
The black cat stretches a bit, their nails lengthening before disappearing back into the dark fur. “Oh, is this your new friend? What’s his name - Inkpot or something?” The black cat shifts to its back, nestled against Crookshanks, exposing the fine gray hair on its stomach.
What in the fuck am I doing?
He realizes he’s been speaking to no one but these three beasts for much longer than he should have. Thirty minutes after having a pet, he's become deranged. He’s halfway to Hagrid, should he start growing a beard now? Soon he’ll be purchasing clothes for the dog, and calling himself some nonsense like a pet parent. He shudders.
How grim.
Draco swivels his head around in hopes of finding a human (or bi-ped at least) to help him find dog sustenance or guidance on how to keep her from ruining the floors of his new home. Finding none, he blows out a breath, and returns his focus to the cats. He places his palm on Crookshanks’ head to bid him farewell for now, as he needs to seek help elsewhere, when a sweet, familiar voice says, “Draco?”
Hermione appeared, in a thick canvas apron, holding a bag of owl treats. She smiles brightly at him, “You’re friendly with Crooks?”
The dog held between the crook of his elbow and side twists to keep her face close to the cats. She whines.
Draco blinks several times, wondering if he’s just willed her into existence.
What is this lovely witch doing in this filthy building?
Why are her familiars lounging about here?
He wants to say something witty about him and Crookshanks maintaining a pen-pal only relationship or some such, but his brain is unable to reconcile her being here.
She’s smiling still, and something like warmth radiates through his sternum at the sight. She’s lovely like this, hair pulled back, face lit by a smile directed entirely at him, and him alone.
He watches her head move, as if she’s waiting for him to say something.
She asked him a question.
Right.
He gathers his wits, “Crookshanks and I are very old friends. Ask him yourself if you don’t believe me.”
She raises a questioning brow, but he has his own, “Granger, what are you doing here with my old friend?”
Hermione begins to fidget with the bag of owl treats.
“Please do not say that you work here.”
He knows she’s going to say something ridiculous just by the way her lips are turned down, rather than hurling something clever back at him. It’s also glaringly obvious by this awful apron she’s wearing, which is unfortunately covering some of his favorite focal points.
I don’t really work here per-se” she starts, her eyes finally leaving the bag in her hands and moving up to him, “But kind of?” Her expression’s turned sheepish.
“What does that even mean?” The question comes out jostled, due to the puppy’s squirming attempt to be let down from his grasp.
“It’s kind of a silly story.” She bends forward, placing her hands on her knees to investigate, her head tilting to the right, “When did you get a puppy?”
Setting the pup down, she runs back to the cat’s high-rise, lifting onto her back legs so she might reach them, tail wagging furiously. A black paw swats down at her, but she’s not deterred.
This game of “What brings you here?” is not how he’d imagined seeing her again after their dinner, and he very much wants to kiss her again. Hermione straightens back up as he approaches, a smile growing wider on her face with each step he takes.
His hands find her - with a hand behind her neck, and the other at her waist he pulls her into him, her own arms wrapping around him, her cheek resting on his chest.
“I feel as though we have quite a bit of ground to cover here, Hermione.” He says it into the crown of her head, which shakes with her responding laugh.
Something like warmth expands in his sternum when she drags her chin against his chest to look up at him. Her eyes are brilliant, and he wants so much to always be looked at like this, by her. “Yes,” her chin presses into him as she speaks, “It seems we do.”
It feels like loss when she pulls away from their embrace. “Follow me, both of you.”
Draco bends to pick up his small canine, taking her away from the onslaught of the cat’s paw and deeper into the menagerie.
They follow Hermione’s swinging ponytail through a maze of bins, bags, sacks, ropes, saddles, and things he has no clue what the intended use could possibly be until she pushes a beat-up green set of swinging doors. He slides into the room closely behind her, keeping the door from slamming into his backside.
The room they’ve entered is lit by a single window, dust motes swirling in the air their entry disturbed, the walls lined with wooden shelves full of empty brass cages, glass terrariums, heavy canvas bags, and wooden bins.
She plops into the seat behind a paperstrewn desk, and she gestures at the only other chair in the room - a rickety wooden chair, small and covered in chipped paint. He takes a long look at it, certain it’ll splinter his ass, ruin his trousers, or explode into kindling under his weight. His lip curls, “I’ll stand.”
“Where do you want to start?” Her elbows are on the desk, a hand curved under her chin, she answers her own question with amusement in her eyes, “Let’s start with what you're doing here. With a dog.”
Draco sets the dog onto her desk. “Theo owes me a few favors, and she,” the dog walks towards Hermione who reaches out and scoops her up as he continues, “was what he’d brought with him, as a housewarming gift, when I cashed it in that favor.”
The puppy noses into her ear and she lets out a chorus of laughter.
It’s a beautiful sound. Probably in the top 10 of best sounds.
After a moment, Hermione pulls the puppy away and sets her back on the desk, her eyes are soft watching the puppy walk back to the edge of the desk, seeking Draco again. “Did you want a dog?”
“No.” He reaches for the pup who’d begun to whine, and holds her tightly to his chest, her body lounging across his forearm again, he’s growing quite fond of the little beast and how content she is like this.
Hermione’s eyes are on his arms, “What’s her name?”
“Not sure yet.”
“She seems loyal to you, sweet little thing,” Hermione coos in a sing-song voice at the dog before her eyes move back up from his arms, “Maybe we ought to call her Penelope.”
He loves it, both the name, and her use of the word: We.
“Penelope?” he asks, raising the pup’s eyes closer to his own. Her tail wags and she moves to nip at his face. “That’s it. She’s Penelope.”
“And what did you and Penelope come in for today?”
Draco shifts, moving Penelope so he cradles her again, “I’ve never had a dog before,” he admits, “I’m a bit out of my depth. I’ve had horses, peacocks, a few favorite birds in the aviary, but those were all magically taken care of. This is… definitely different.”
Hermione’s shaking her head at him as she mutters, “Peacocks, horses, and an aviary.”
Draco rolls his eyes, it wasn’t like he’d ever had a say in pets.
“Malfoy family birds and Black family horses. Not mine. Mother loves to ride, and Father really enjoyed feeding his birds. He was very sore anytime Voldemort’s snake ate any.”
Hermione visibly shudders, “That’s horrible.”
“Yeah,” He must fix this conversation and quickly, “So help me out here. I need everything. Food, leash, and,” he needs to ask, “Are there any charmed, well, charms to keep her from doing you know what in the house?”
Hermione chuckles at this “No, you’ll have to do it the muggle way. House training.”
“Ah,” he nods, “Like comportment classes, with less curtseying.”
That dimple he’d become familiar with returns as she laughs at his stupid joke. His own lips are tugged up, and they maintain a comfortable silence until he asks quietly, “Hermione.”
“Hmm?”
“What are you doing here, in an apron, on a Saturday?”
She covers her face with her hands, “You’re going to make fun of me.”
Petting the dog, he hums, “Maybe, but I’ll promise I’ll try not to.”
She spreads a few of her fingers so he can see one of her big brown eyes, “You promise?”
He flashes a palm up from where he held the dog towards her, “I said I promise I’ll try, not that I won’t.”
She releases the mask she’d made from her hands, “Okay.” She takes a deep breath and looks at him, “A few months ago, I came in looking to get another cat. I thought Crooks needed a friend with how busy I’ve been.”
Draco lifts a brow at that but says, “Okay…” instead of saying, ‘You should work less.’ Like he wanted to.
“I found this adorable little black fuzz ball here and when I got to the counter to ask about him, Mr. Rinder needed to leave, and asked if I could watch the store as a favor.”
“No.” This witch is ridiculous. “And he never came back?”
“Of course he came back!”
“But you’re still here?”
“Well, he said I’d done such a good job while he was gone that I could have Inkblot for free for my trouble. But,”
Here it comes, he thinks as she explains herself, “But sometimes when he’s in a bind he reaches out to me, and Gods, I can’t say no! He’s so elderly, Draco. He loves this place, and these animals so much. How could I decline when he asks?”
She’s out of her golden god damned mind.
“Granger, you just say no.”
She shakes her head, and opens her mouth like she’s going to argue the point, but she’s got to see that this is crazy. “Hermione, this is mad. I’m beginning to think I may need to worry about your lucidity because you quite literally are picking up jobs like stray cats.”
She’s chewing her lip now, “Well, I did get Inkblot out of it, for free, so…”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, “It wasn’t free. You provided labor. Inkblot was payment.”
“He needed the help!”
Draco bites back a remark about her being a saviour for all things, even unattended bags of oats and owl treats, instead he offers reason. “He should hire someone. Full time.”
She says nothing in response to this, because he’s right and she knows it.
Crookshanks and Inkblot prowl into the room as if they know their Mistress is in need of backup; Penelope whines to be let down. He lets her down and hopes to Merlin that she doesn't make a mess in this… He looks around the room. Can it even be called an office?
Crooks winds around his legs, and eyes the dog suspiciously, as Inkblot paws at the dog’s tail.
Hermione stands to see the interaction, her arms bracketing the desk as she leans forward. “You know, I don’t remember Crooks spending that much time with you in school to be this friendly.”
“Granger, you had your nose so far into books for the NEWTs that I doubt you would have noticed if he had transfigured himself into an erumpent in the middle of the common room that year.”
She gives him a look, “I can’t believe you remember anything at all from that year, Mr. Firewhiskey For My Feelings.”
“Fair,” he agrees, “But I do remember, unlike you,” he bends to pet the old cat, “Crookshanks and I shared that window seat all year.”
She looks up at the ceiling, as if trying to summon the memory by force.
He interrupts her thought, “We also hung out in the dungeons a lot, way before 8th.”
“No way,” she gasps at him, then looks down at her cat, “Really?”
“Really. He gave Theo a dead mouse as a gift in 4th or 5th. Good mouser, and smoking buddy.”
“Smoking buddy?”
“Well, he didn’t smoke,” she gave him another look but it was fleeting, her eyes went soft as he said, “But he liked to stand by me whenever I snuck one. Especially during 5th and 6th.”
With affection in her voice, she spoke while looking at Crookshanks, “Strange how he seems to find the Black family when they need help.”
“What?”
She twists her ponytail over her shoulder and pulls on it, “He really liked Sirius Black, and he’s especially partial to little Teddy Lupin.”
“He ‘really liked’ Sirius Black?”
Mangling her ponytail, she nods.
“I really need to stop being surprised by the things you tell me.”
She changes the subject, “How often was he in the dungeons?”
“Often enough. I always let him back up though. I think I was scared you’d hex me if you thought I was attempting to steal your familiar. And during 6th year,” he whistles, “if it weren’t for him and Theo I’d probably have avada’d myself.”
She frowns, and releases her hair from her pulling. He watches the curls bounce.
“That’s,” she searches for her words, “I’m happy he found you then, and that you’re still here.”
“Me too.” He means that, more than he might have ever before.
“I seriously can’t believe he’s known you that long.. He’s getting old.” she gives him a small, undimpled, remarkably sad smile.
He looks down at Crooks, who's lazily batting at Inkblot and Penelope. Draco looks back up to Hermione, “Don’t call him old. He’s a very wise, distinguished gent.”
“Are you trying to butter him up, or me?”
“Both, really.”
Her eyes fall on him - warm and sweet like honeyed tea. A smile on her lips when she says, “You’re something else, Draco Malfoy.”
It comes to him naturally, without thinking.
“Just for you, Hermione Granger.”
They’re gazing at one another again. The only noise in the room belongs to their pets, the sound of a paw patter from Penelope and Inkbot, a whistled nostril from Crookshanks.
It’s nice, looking at her, like this.
Even better is her looking back at him.
He wishes they were closer.
“Granger.”
“Yeah?”
“When can you leave?”
She blinks a few times, “Oh, uh..”
He watches her cast a tempus, and clear it quickly, “He should be back in about an hour - had some sort of adoption emergency in Germany. Something about a German Shepherd. I wasn’t sure if he meant the dog, or a literal shepherd, with sheep.”
Draco has to close his eyes for a second to take that in. The lives people live. The life he wants to live hinging on her answer to his, “Do you have plans afterwards?
“Why?”
“I’d like to take you out.”
“Don’t you have to check on Theo, and watch your dog? Or check the dog, and watch Theo?”
A small laugh escapes him, “Probably should, yeah. Can you come to mine? I’ll get you dinner, and you can show me everything I’m doing wrong with the dog, and my wards. We can work those, if you feel up to it. Whatever you want.”
She chews her bottom lip and nods, “Yeah, okay.”
The wanting and the warmth bloom inside of him. “Perfect. Come by whenever you’re ready.”
After gathering Penelope, and paying for her assortment of bowls, treats, a lead, a dog bed (ridiculous), and an assortment of dog food, she walks him to the door- the wares shrunken into a bag. She smiles up at him, and he leans down to press his lips to the spot he’s wanted to nose when he first saw her here, just below her ear.
He smells that warm, spiced sweet scent that is entirely her. Keeping his lips close to her neck after pressing a long kiss into it, he lets his lips brush against her as he says, “I look forward to seeing you later, Hermione.”
He feels the goosebumps erupt as he pulls away, keeping his eyes on hers.
“I’ll see you soon, Draco.”
He walks away feeling light in his steps, a little heavier in his pants than he ought to, and hopes that his friends are gone when he gets back home.
Chapter 10: Company
Summary:
Draco has people over. Specifically, Granger.
Narcissa pops in.
Notes:
***Warning - Smut Incoming***
Chapter Text
Chapter 10 - Company
The woven willow basket was close to bursting. She had to cast a featherlight charm on it, and shrink what she could without losing the simple and pleasant aesthetic she was working to achieve.
It was an impeccably curated assortment - vintage elven wine from the cellar, four hand-cut crystal glasses wrapped delicately in newly monogrammed linen napkins, the softest acromantula silk sheet-set on the market, a heavy quilted comforter, an assortment of flowers from the garden in a thin ceramic vase that had belonged to her Grandfather, and a framed photo of them together.
The only missing items were yet to be brought from the kitchens - Mippy now finishing an assortment of her son’s favorites - lemon tarts, double chocolate biscuits, and jammy dodgers (glazed in a simple vanilla frosting.) She always thought the boy would grow out of his sweet tooth, but he hadn’t.
Her hand drifts to the framed photo, watching the movement repeat itself. Her husband smiles widely as he looks down at their son, his hand grips their son’s shoulder and jostles him lightly. Her son laughs and then straightens for the photographer, wrangling his face to appear serious, but his smirk betrays him. Her own visage turns to her husband and they share a look that always meant, “there you are.” Her photo self gives him a wink and turns back to the camera, with a smile.
The nostalgia curdles into nausea as she watches the photo cycle through the movements for a fourth time.
Lucius was full then - his mind sharp, shoulders strong, and face devilishly handsome. Her own hair was still rich and dark, cheeks round and rosy. She did not yet have a hint of the worry in her brow, or the lines around her mouth; the frown she wore in the years following this photo etched upon her face forever now. This version of son is so small, sweet, and only occasionally surly. He hadn’t yet been burdened with things he should have never had to shoulder.
She misses this - the power, and the pride she felt.
But mostly, she just misses her husband, despite it all. He was a deeply imperfect man, as she was (is) a flawed woman at the end of the day. However horrible the wars were, she was given the opportunity to live, to grow, and change. Her husband was not.
She always felt as though he would have overcome his bigotry and found a stronghold in this new world had he not died. The Malfoy’s were anything but stagnant. Self preservation above all.
With a slight tremble in her hand, she sets the frame back into the basket. Once the photo was nestled behind the glasses, out of sight, she mentally shakes herself - Enough.
She straightens her spine, her skirt, and her necklace before walking to the conservatory to take her afternoon tea. Andromeda was to arrive soon.
She was so looking forward to seeing her, and sharing the news about Draco’s new home, the final details about the Gala (and coordinating dress robes.) She couldn’t wait to hear of Teddy, his coursework, and growthspurt. Narcissa also wanted to whinge a bit, and Andromeda always indulged her in it.
Today’s topic to whine about was her son - his lackluster love-life (again.)
Really, when will she ever hold a grandchild?
At this rate, she’ll be 90 before she sees another baby with bright hair and grey eyes.
She frowns at this thought as she summons the tea service to the table.
Her primary complaint today, however, would not be about his lack-of-courtship, but about how he had purchased a home, and hadn’t yet invited her for tea, or a tour. With her head held high, she is resolved to rectify his oversight this evening. He had mentioned to her in passing that his home was recently connected to the floo, which she found to be an impersonal way to lazily extend an invitation to his new home.
She understood he was busy with the Gala happening, but his reticence for company was concerning. Lord Malfoy could not be a hermit, nor would she allow him to muck about like a young bachelor without prospects.
With motherly affection and concern grating at her nerves, she reached out to Mrs. Longbottom nee Parkinson and heard that he was having company over that evening. Narcissa felt it was her duty to pop in.
So, she had put together his housewarming gift to deliver by hand after her afternoon tea, light dinner, and a refreshing robes change - with or without a proper summons.
*** *** ***
The first thing that he hears after the whoosh of the floo subsides is the clamor of his friends' voices, followed by a tearing noise, then a crash.
What in the ever loving fuck is going on in here?
Draco tosses the bag from the Menagerie to the floor, pulls his wand from his pocket, tightens his hold on Penelope, and heads towards the sounds coming from the room he’s decided will be his office.
“I told you, it was mine in the first place!” Theo’s wand is held above his head, directed at Blaise whose head is brushing against the ceiling, hovering several feet from the floor. The arm that’s clutching a magazine tightly is exposed, the jacket torn.
Blaise lifts an arm to keep his head from bobbing against the ceiling again, “You gave it to me in 7th!”
Feeling poorly for his friend, Draco flicks the wand in his hand, sending Blaise down to the ground. Both heads turn to him with surprise on their faces, which is ridiculous, this is his house. “What’s happened?”
Blaise and Theo begin talking at the same time, voices rising louder, the words: mine first, don’t even like tits, sentimental, fuck’s sake, and you’re barking, are the only words that he can make out.
Penelope shifts in his arms, the raised voices clearly not good for the girl.
He’s had enough. His hand raises to stop the cacophony of noise assaulting him and his pup’s ears, “Stop.”
They quiet at the command. Blaise crosses his arms over his chest, the magazine rolled up under his elbow, as Theo taps his wand against his leg, fuming.
Draco yanks the magazine from his arm and inspects it - a faded muggle magazine, featuring a nude blonde with the words “Fill Her Up!” on it. Draco’s brows raise, “Are you fighting over ancient wank material?” He eyes the box on the ground behind Blaise, “From my things?”
Both of his friends roll their eyes simultaneously.
Ridiculous.
Draco points at Theo with the magazine, “Explain.”
“As I was kind enough to unpack all of your things, you’re welcome by the way. I happened upon that box, which I remember from your old trunk. Being the sentimental man that I am, I might have… rifled through it a little,”
Draco opens his mouth to berate Theo but he continues, “I didn’t go through it, really a quick run just to see if anything might have had some nostalgia for me, you know. And there it was! I was the one that bought it. It’s mine.”
He feels slightly uncomfortable that his friends know that he’s kept it, and also amused that they too, in fact, want to keep it.
Blaise barks his disagreement out, “He doesn’t even LIKE witches!”
“That’s tosh. I like witches, muggles, and wizards.” Theo’s checking his nails now, then quirks a brow at Blaise, “I don’t discriminate.”
Through gritted teeth, Blaise argues further, “I didn’t call you a bigot, Theo - I’m just saying you prefer wizards, so you should let me have it.”
Draco flips through the magazine as his friends continue to bicker - the argument shifting from open-mindedness, defining sexuality as a spectrum, then devolving into a terse exchange of insults.
Tuning out the racket of bullshit, he fondly remembers this magazine each time he flips a page, and wonders how many times it’s been scourgified and snuck back into one of their trunks.
The blonde on the front was one of his favorites, he remembers being scandalized by the magazine at first. The level of muggle nudity between articles about fashion, and news blew his tiny pureblood mind at the time.
It was one of the many facets of muggle-ness that led to the earth-shattering realization that he was an absolute prat, wrong about most things, then later on, a greater reflection on the idiocy of pureblood ideology as a whole.
That, and the crucios, the war, the suffering, the deaths, the stench of dirty Death Eaters, and the overall not good situation of the Dark Lord in his home.
Terrible stuff, truly.
His friends stop their chattering as he looks up from the magazine, “I think we’ve outgrown this, yeah?” he asks (rhetorically.) The bickering starts again, and he decides to end the argument entirely.
He wandlessly casts an incendio, and the whole thing lights up. The magazine’s pages floating burnt to the ground as his friends watch, horror stricken.
They start shouting at him again, words like: what the fuck, insufferable prat, and total bullshit. He watches them carry on, until they’re done and he nods, “Right then.”
After letting Penelope out for her constitutional, he stands in the sitting room and realizes he hasn’t many things. He needs more furniture, art, and tables. The flat in London was much smaller than here, and his home in France came furnished. A necessity at the time.
Penelope dawdles, nose to the ground. He hopes she finds it comfortable here.
He hopes he knows what he’s doing - With his dog, his house, his Granger.
His Granger?
He runs a hand through his hair and a thrill of excitement and anxiety runs through him at the thought of her arrival. He palms his cheek to rub at his chin, then heads towards the kitchen and front room to evaluate what needs to be done.
On that list is: Kick Theo and Blaise the fuck out, and Make Drinks for Granger.
A short list, but a good list.
To his pleasant surprise, they did rather well, actually.
The kitchen counters are empty, boxes vanished, the front room’s bookshelf full, the coffee table set with a book, and the couches enlarged. A bar cart now sits fully stocked at the corner of the room, which he thinks is a gift from them both. The house also smells lightly of lemon, and he knows without a doubt that Begonia has magically scrubbed his home.
Satisfied with what’s been done, he claps his hands and says, “Thank you for your help with the house today, but if you’ll kindly piss off now, that’d be great.”
Blaise barks a laugh, “Kicking us out? I thought we’d break in the new house!.”
Theo nods his head, “We should celebrate. We floo’d Pans while you were out, and she spread the word. Everyone’s going to be here soon for drinks. Pans said Nev would grab takeaway, too.”
The place his stomach should be twisted into a knot, “No.”
“No?” asks Blaise. Theo’s eyebrows are furrowed.
“Yes, No. I have company coming over, which I’d like to be alone with.”
He watches, stricken, as his friends' heads face the ceiling and laugh. Loudly, he can see Theo’s molars, and the roof of Blaise’s mouth.
Penelope is drawn to the noise and bounds into the room, her tail wagging.
Theo wipes at his eyes, and leans down to pat at her head, “See? Even she wants to have a party, Draco! Don’t be cross, it’ll be a proper party with your guest in attendance. She’ll have more fun with a group than with you, certainly.”
His scowl can’t be stopped at this point, and it’s embarrassing how close he comes to stomping his foot. Something about being around his oldest friends brings out the inner-12 year old in him. “It’s my house! You can’t just have a,” he waves his hand around, “a party without my okaying it.”
Blaise is still laughing, but much more subdued now, “Poor Draco, can’t have fun at his own party.”
The floo roars to life and Penelope emits what might be a bark (or a yelp) as she runs towards the noise.
More voices float in from the front room, “We come bearing gifts!”
Theo and Blaise leave him in the room to greet his guests. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, his evening not going to plan, whatsoever.
*** *** ***
His front room is full, and his patio is loud.
He wished for quiet with the only person he had actually invited over for this evening.
It was not going to happen.
Pans and Nev share a container of noodles on the small couch, George and Ron can be heard through the kitchen window arguing with Theo and Blaise from the patio, all while Ginevra and Potter play wizard’s chess at the coffee table.
Potter gives his wife a roguish grin as it seems they’ve wagered some sort of sex-bet on the game, he heard Ginevra say, “Oh you’re going to pay up tonight, Potter,” at least twice.
Draco scowls, that’s something they ought to do outside of his home, really.
He snuck away for a moment to owl Granger a warning that her arrival will be met with people.
Most of which are mainly her friends, but so be it. She owled back that she was excited that he was having a housewarming party and that she was invited. She also said she had to floo home first before coming by.
She signed it with two X’s.
X’s he’d like in real life, not on parchment.
Tonight. Sod it all.
He paces back to the kitchen to refill the ice bucket for the bar cart when he hears the floo go off again. The shouts of, “Hermione!” crash through his ears, he feels heat at the back of his neck and his stomach does something.
He cracks his neck before sauntering into the front room to greet her - she’s grinning and hugging her friends. As she bends to hug a seated Ginevra, he sees the back of her thighs. She straightens to pull at Potter’s shoulder, and her dress falls back over them.
He clears his throat, and sees Pansy quirk a brow at him, and Ginevra’s giving him a sly smile. Ginevra’s eyes flash with that quintessential Weasley glint of mischief towards him as she embraces Hermione. When she pulls back, Ginevra’s expression deflates at Hermione, “Oh bollocks Herms, I hate to do this, but we’ve got to get back.”
Hermione’s face fell, “Already?”
“Yeah. Wish we could stay longer, but Mum’s got an early morning tomorrow so she can’t keep the kids. Right Harry?”
Potter looks confused, as his wife’s eyes narrow at him, “Er, yeah. Right, got to be off.”
Granger pouts, “But I just got here!”
Ginny stands and tosses a look over her shoulder to Pansy, then back to Granger, “Oh put your lips back straight, I’ll see you before the Gala tomorrow night, and we’ll be by with the kids later this week, too.”
Pansy pulls at her husband’s hand to stand, “We’re off too, had a long day and need my beauty rest.”
Neville looks around the room, then scratches at his neck, “Sorry ‘Mione, it’s good to see you though. We’ll see you at the Gala too.”
Granger twists to look at Draco. He feels the smile tugging at his face, at her look of Seriously?
She grumbles goodbyes between more hugs, “Right, see you guys then.” She crosses her arms while watching the couples disappear through the floo.
Draco admires the cream and blue paisley dress against her tan skin as he approaches. When close enough, his hand moves without any command from his brain, and he tugs lightly at the hem, his voice a murmur, “That’s a very pretty dress, Granger.”
He forces his eyes up from the hem, to the gold necklace dipping between her breasts, to her parted lips, over her freckled nose, to the eyes that are fixed on his.
“Thanks,” she says softly, “It’s new.”
He hums in appreciation absentmindedly, fingers still playing with the skirt.
The french doors bang open, and drunken laughter from his other friends fills the house. His hand falls away from the dress, and the laughs turn to exclamations of greeting.
Ron shouts, “Mione!” and George matches his volume, “There she is!”
She twists away from Draco to smile brightly at her friends, “Hey!” She’s pressed into a Weasley sandwich.
He feels the frown overtaking his lips.
Ron and George release her, and Ron looks around the room in confusion, “Where’d everyone go?”
Hermione pulls some hair over her shoulder, “They all had to leave it seems,” she looks to her feet, then back up again to George, “Something about picking the kids up and a long day.”
George gives Draco and Hermione a look, “Riiiight.”
Blaise chimes in, “Oh yeah, we actually have to get going soon too, Theo and I have to get a few things from his place for the Gala tomorrow night. Care to lend us a hand?”
Theo rushes in to agree, “Come on Weasley men, we’ll get more food and drinks, just need a to get a few things sorted.”
Ron’s confusion brightens into willingness, “If you get more take-away, I’m in.”
He could kiss his friends right about now in thanks for the intervention.
They say their goodbyes and they watch the four wizards step through the floo. Hermione and Draco stand side by side staring into the hearth, Penelope pawing at her bed in the corner.
“Honestly, I’m relieved,” he admits, “I didn’t actually invite anyone else over here tonight, only you.”
She looks up at him, a smirk playing on her lips, “What an honor.”
“The honor’s all mine.” He runs a hand down her bare arm, and wraps it around her wrist, he gives it a light squeeze, fighting the instinct to pull it to his lips.
“So,” she says unsteadily, “Ready to work on these severely lacking wards?”
He’d rather not. He’d rather pull her to the couch.
Instead, he pulls her towards the back door. “Help me set up those nasty ones, Granger.”
As he looks over his shoulder at her, watching this impressive witch allowing herself to be pulled by him, she winks, “Only the meanest, nastiest, most dastardly will do.”
Draco has to turn away, shifting his face towards to door, otherwise she’d see the awe in his eyes (like a sodding schoolgirl.) Amazed that she’s here, with him, doing this.
She was always smart, mean, brave, and all things charitable, but it hadn’t ever been just for him.
As a child, he wanted to hex her - for being smart, mean, brave and all things charitable. She was a lot of what he was not, while having the wrong parents, dirty blood, and stupid friends.
During the war, he wanted to keep her intelligent eyes off of him entirely.
Shrugging off her and her friends' gaze away from him - he was consumed by shame and stress.
At the trials following the war, he wanted to die - not a single thought about her, her friends, or anyone else. He wanted to be swallowed by the earth and left to rot.
During his forced return to Hogwarts for 8th year, he found himself orbiting her and everyone else he’d wronged. He was just there, and she was just another blurry face he hiccuped and stuttered at when he was full of whiskey and regret.
As year-end approached, they all had formed quiet friendships, sharing polite head nods as they passed one another in halls, short discussions over chess or NEWT studies. Draco was just a passive observer from his window seat. He’d slowly pet her cat as her nose lived between pages of a book. Those were the times that he could hardly speak at all, opting to simply listen to the buzz of the more well-adjusted folks around him.
Into adulthood, once he was human again, they’d share an infrequent and polite hello, goodbye, or joke while in a circle of friends at Pansy and Neville’s wedding, a gala he’d host, or events they all had to attend (to ensure a promising future for wizarding London or whatever bollocks the Minister was angling for during a re-election year.) They might had shared a drink once or twice in a large group whilst he visited from France, but she was often pulled away by others, an acquaintance that flitted in and out of his periphery.
Now, outside of his home, they waved their wands in tandem, reciting spells, watching the shimmer of wards wrap around his property. During which, it dawned on him that before the last few months or so, he hadn’t ever really looked at her properly.
This newness in which he saw her now felt like meeting her for the first time, in earnest.
Without the blindfold of bigotry, or shame clawing up his esophagus.
Pausing his wand work, he turns to watch - her dress skirt blowing around her thighs, her hair loose and wild, wand work precise with brows furrowed.
She was several paces away from him, as she slashed her wand one last time and turned to face him, beaming a smile. His mind snagged, and he thought one word: beautiful.
It was a shame - how she’d been just right there for so long, and he hadn’t noticed.
Her full attention on him was like lying on warm and solid ground beneath the afternoon sun.
He wanted to possess it. He wanted to snatch it out of greedy hands and safeguard it.
She spread herself too thin, and those she gave her time to, were too glad to accept it.
He’d like to concentrate her essence, a low boil in a cauldron, so he could bottle it and keep it in his hands for longer than she could currently afford him.
Her time was valuable, but he had the vaults to bid effectively for it. He decided he would.
Draco let her watch as he lay the final wards, blood dripping to the earth with her by his side.
She told him how blood magic was her favorite to study after she got over her prejudice of light and dark magic. He told her about the ley-lines at the Malfoy and Black properties.
She knew about them already (of course the swot did) and told him about her own enchantments. She told him about how she plans to be the first Granger with blood protections.
He marveled at her, and she healed the cut on his palm.
Their hands were clasped together as they walked back into his home.
*** *** ***
Draco poured himself a whiskey over ice, and fixed her a lime heavy G&T as she looked at the photos on the mantel over the fireplace. He sat heavily on the couch, watching as she spun to face him, the fire illuminating the hair that wouldn’t meet the rest of her curls. He pats the cushion near his as an invitation with his right hand while extending the drink out to her with his left, “Come relax, witch.”
She toys with her necklace as she steps towards him. Pulling the glass from his hands, their fingers brush, and the touch reminds him how alone they are in his house. She takes a long drink staring down at him before sitting. The dress she wears hitches further up her thighs as she toes her sandals off slowly and pulls her legs up and under herself.
Her knees are so close, and he spreads himself out. His right arm rests along the back of the couch, his hand settling into her hair. His fingers twist into her curls and she closes her eyes and lets out a sigh.
He watches her face relax, and her lips parted as he works his fingers. It’s lovely, but she’s tired. There’s faint circles below her eyes.
“You’ve overdone it.”
She nods a little, “Ministry and Menagerie today was tough. Warding puts me out a little, but it was fun.” Her lips smile softly and she relaxes further into the couch.
He’s happy she kept her eyes closed so she can’t see his eyes roll, “When do you take a vacation?”
She replies slowly, “Whenever I decide to take one.”
Draco moves his fingers from her hair to her neck to push and pull softly at the muscles there, “How much convincing do you need?”
Her nose crinkles and she laughs, “Not much to be honest.”
“What about just working one job, Hermione? Surely, it’s not the pay you need.”
She cracks an eye open, “I like to keep busy.”
He moves his thumb and forefinger from her neck to the soft flesh where her shoulders begin, and her eyes close again.
“Keep doing that,” she whispers. He digs a little deeper into her, and he watches her lips part again. He hears a sharp intake of air and she furrows her brows, “Please.”
A hot wave of need runs through him at the sight of her pleasure, his cock responsive to the plea.
He leans over to pluck the drink from her hands, her grip loose, the liquid nearing the rim about to spill over.
She opens her eyes at the loss, “Oh,” she goes to apologise as he sets the drink on the table.
He shifts his back against the couch arm and pulls her back to him so he can continue his ministrations. Once between his legs, he brushes her hair over her shoulder and pushes his thumbs into the soft skin of her back as his fingers work the muscles near her ribs.
She sighs heavily as he speaks slowly into her ear, “Why do you overwork yourself so, Granger?”
A soft noise leaves her as she leans into him. She responds breathily and words slow, “It’s better than the alternative, for me.”
He shifts to rubbing the palm of his hands into her lower back, working upwards, “Better how?”
She arches when he hits a tender spot and her shoulders rest at his chest, her neck at his chin, “What’s the alternative?”
“Work quiets my mind. The alternative is,” a long exhale leaves her as he circles that tender spot again, “hating the singular thing I’ve decided to focus on.”
He brushes his chin against her neck before responding, “You don’t need work to quiet the mind, Granger.”
A small laugh leaves her, “No?”
He presses firm kisses in a line up her neck to her jaw and she squirms against him, he pulls his lips away to answer simply, “No.”
She needs this, he thinks. He’d like to quiet her mind with his hands and his tongue. His arms loop around her and pull him to his chest tightly, “I think you just need a little proper care.”
She twists to face him, and his eyes drop to her lips. Her hand finds his face and she pulls him in, their lips finally meeting again.
She breaks the kiss to move herself onto his lap. He helps pull her onto him, his feet planted to the floor, her legs spread with him between her thighs. As she settles down onto him, his instinct to roll his hips forward is met with her own driving down onto him.
Their open mouths breathe into one another as their bodies meet and their pleasure now shared. Draco’s hands run up the top of her thighs, under her dress to find her center. She gasps into his mouth as he thumbs at her underthings.
“Can I?” he rasps.
“Please,” a whisper into his neck.
His left hand explores below the gusset to find her warm, and wet, as his right hand pulls at the top of her dress. His fingers find a new home within her, he’d like to live there. He thumbs at her clit, and she presses further into him. He’s painfully hard, and desperately wishes to replace his fingers with his cock. Her skin tastes of salt, and smells of sugar as he tongues the top of her breasts.
The want and the need build between them as she moans the most lovely staccato into his temple at each thrust of his hand.
“Gorgeous,” he murmurs as she grips his shoulder.
Her moans turn to begging as he slows his pace, “Please,”
He circles with his thumb again as he pulls at her dress exposing her full chest to him. She’s lovely, with dark nipples and creamy skin and light blue veins. His tongue laves at each breast. He pulls away from her and their eyes meet, “Please what?”
Her eyes are heavy lidded, “Please,” she repeats as she fucks herself on the fingers he’s slowed.
He can’t take his eyes off of hers, “Anything you want, Granger.”
He picks his speed back up and a melody of, “I, I, I’m,” meets his ears, it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.
He feels the pull of her and again he wishes he was in her, or tasting her, as she comes on his hand. His cock pulses in need, but the color in her cheeks and the sweat on her brow is enough for now. They’d do this again, certainly. Hopefully soon.
Though, one mustn't presume.
It’s rude.
She pulls away from him their eyes stay fixed on one another. Whatever spell that had over taken them had ceased, and the air around them lighter. She smiled widely at him and he mirrored her smile, and they laughed.
She was still smiling as she stood to pull the top of her dress back up and he smoothed her skirt back down.
“Wow,” she said a bit breathlessly.
Draco nodded, “Wow indeed.”
His mind was reduced to mush, and he’d need to do something about the ache in his pants. He stood and pulled himself upward into the waistband of his pants.
She fiddled with her necklace, “I’m,” she mumbled and looked back up at him, “er, sorry. Do you want to?” she vaguely pointed at his crotch.
Oh, he wants.
He wants so very much.
But that wouldn’t be very sporting at this point, and this vague circle motion she’s directed at his crotch is not really what he had in mind.
Draco shakes his head with a laugh, “Granger, it’s fine.”
She’s straightening her hair when suddenly, the fireplace’s soft orange light shifts to bright green. Hermione stiffens and straightens immediately, they both twist to see his mother standing before them.
Narcissa drops the basket to the floor and clasps her hands in front of her, “I see I am rather late to the housewarming party, despite the early hour.”
Chapter 11: Narcissa's Directive
Summary:
Narcissa visits Draco & Hermione in his new home.
Chapter Text
Chapter 11 - Narcissa's Directive
Draco’s heart, which had (quite literally - just moments ago) been thrumming with desire, plummets to his stomach and lands with a cold splash. He chews his cheek before stepping forward to greet her stiffly, “Hello Mother,” he brushes a kiss to her cheek, “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Narcissa lifts a brow pointed brow at her son, “Mrs. Longbottom said you were having company for a house-warming soiree,” she looks at the mostly-empty room, “Though it seems most of your guests have already left. I apologize for the late intrusion.”
His eyes are close to rolling, but he nods towards the only other guest he has, “No matter. Do you remember Hermione Granger? And this,” he points to Penelope who is loudly sniffing at her dress robes, “is my new pet, Penelope, or Penny.”
With a perfectly manicured hand, Narcissa bends to pat the dog’s head, promptly waves her away, then straightens to greet Hermione.
Hermione walks quickly to Narcissa and grasps her hands, “Narcissa, it is so lovely to see you.” Granger’s tone is rich and friendly - her lips pulled into an easy smile.
Draco watches his mother beam (!!!) at Granger in return, “Ms. Granger! It’s been too long. Had I known you’d have been here, I would have brought you Mippy’s chai mix.”
Draco feels his brows furrow. What does Granger know of Mippy’s chai?
The witches unclasp their hands and his mother pats (!!!) Hermione’s arm before turning to frown at him, “Am I too late for a proper tour? I’ve brought you a house warming gift, and would love a cuppa.” She pulls her wand from an inner pocket and waves it to levitate the basket, she turns towards the hall, “I assume the kitchen is this way?”
His mind started solidifying again from its prior mushy state.
He’s deeply confused by the warmth his Mother and Granger seem to share, despite the frostiness she directs towards him. He sputters, stupidly as he watches his Mother walk away from the sitting room, “Er, straight that way, on the right.”
Hermione follows Narcissa without a glance back at him, and he hears his Mother’s voice call sharply from the kitchen, “Where have your guests gone off to?”
He opens his mouth to respond, but hears Granger speak him with a laugh in her voice, “They left early so I could steal a moment of your son’s time.”
As he enters the kitchen, he sees the two most terrifying witches he knows rifling through his cupboards. His Mother turns a sharp eye to him, then to Hermione, “I highly doubt that, dear. I imagine it’s Draco stealing your time.”
Hermione’s eyes find him, “I’m not sure that’s true, with the Gala tomorrow and everything,” she pulls out a small tin of tea and rattles it towards his Mother in question. His Mother eyes it and nods in agreement with the selection.
This entire situation is, in a word: bizarre.
He understood that they’ve had some rapport while he was away, but their greeting was much more familiar than he could have ever imagined; the shared ease and domesticity in his kitchen unnerves him.
As his Mother fills a kettle at the tap, she looks over her shoulder, eyeing him, then Granger, “I hear you’re still at the DRCMC, Mungo’s and taking cases with,”
Hermione interrupts her, “Yes, a full plate.”
He can’t stop the scoff that escapes him.
His Mother is setting the kettle onto the stove top, as Hermione twists the gas handle, they both turn their heads to glare at him.
He swallows at the sight, but the incredulity he feels is more pressing, “A full plate Granger? It’s a six -course meal. A buffet of employment.”
His Mother’s bright blue irises penetrate his skull.
“Draco,” his Mother’s voice burns hotter than the water rolling in the kettle, “You should be more considerate to your,” her eyes narrow, “ guest.”
Granger shifts on her feet as she looks at him, visibly uncomfortable by the tone in which his mother reprimands him while praising her, “She is certainly being generous with you. She’s a formidable witch, you know, able to cast hexes wandless and wordlessly. I’ve had the honor of,”
Hermione’s brows rise suddenly and she interrupts, “How about that gift basket?” She steps towards the kitchen table, and animatedly bends to eye the basket, “Are those jammy dodgers?”
He swears his Mother’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, a flash of it, before her face settles into a more relaxed way, endearment he might even call it. “Yes - Jammy dodgers, chocolate biscuits, and lemon tarts.”
What is happening right now?
Draco eyes Granger who has begun rifling (loudly, almost performatively) through the gift basket to pull a jammy dodger from its wrapping.
His eyes moved to his Mother's, speaking over the rustling and pawing of treats, “Sorry, what were you saying?”
Granger shoves a jammy dodger into her mouth and is chewing it quite furiously as his Mother’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. The only sounds in the kitchen now is the gas burner and the aggressive hand clapping Hermione is now doing, as she clears her palms of the biscuit remnants.
His mother’s face tonight fluctuates again, she replies airily averting her attention to the kettle, which hasn’t whistled yet, “Ms. Granger was quite a help to me while you were away,” she adjusts the kettle, busying her hands, “just for a few small things here and there.”
He cocks his head to scrutinize Hermione, “Interesting, Ms. Granger hadn’t mentioned it before.”
The witch he’d just had in his lap, and on his hand is nervous for some reason. She pulls at the ends of her hair, and straightens her necklace (which did not require any straightening. It was perfectly fine after she…)
He’s distracted by Hermione’s fidgeting.
Narcissa tuts, “Nothing to worry your head about, son. Go see what I’ve brought you.” his Mother waves towards the basket while pulling cups from another cupboard.
Sidling up next to Hermione, who hadn’t moved from her spot near the basket, he pulls out the rest of the sweets. He smiles at the double chocolate biscuits.
Thank the Gods for Mippy, he muses as he shoves a few into his mouth.
When he pulls out the bedding, Hermione runs a hand over the silk, “Narcissa, these sheets are extraordinary.”
Her response is playful, “Yes, I swear you’ve told me that before.”
Granger laughs and he frowns. Was that an inside joke?
Draco racks his memory for anything that might indicate that Granger and his Mother had anything more than a semi-polite rapport at best. Not a single thing came to mind to explain this situation in his kitchen.
After unwrapping the delicate glasses from the silver monogrammed napkins, he pulled the photo from the basket. Hermione leans in close to his chest to see the photo loop as well. He presses his nose into the crown of head, placing a kiss ont it, while his mother fusses over the tea service.
The tea kettle finally shrieks and shortly after, his Mother approaches them both, placing her hand on his back, “I thought you’d like to have that one. There’s not many of us from before,” her voice drifts off, unable to finish the sentence.
He swallows away the hint of a lump that was forming as he stares at the happy family in the photo, “Thank you.”
This entire day has been a whiplash of emotion - anxiety, desire, dread, and now nostalgia.
Gods, he hopes the tea that was steeping right now had ginger in it to settle what’s happening in his stomach. If not, there is a high likelihood that a few half digested biscuits, or words he wasn’t sure he could speak aloud would crawl up his throat.
*** *** ***
Draco sips his tea slowly continuing to take stock of the way his Mother and Hermione speak easily - his mother’s shoulders, typically taut, held high with a straight back, are loose and languid; Hermione smiles aren’t tight or seem forced at all.
His brain feels slow in their presence, and he fumes a little. There is a story here, and it’s one that Hermione, the woman he just made cum on his couch (his mind preens a little more than fumes) was keeping from him.
Hadn’t he the right to know?
This was his home that they’re chatting in.
It’s his mother that apparently, isn’t permitted to utter whatever these secrets (?) are.
That’s his Granger that he -
His Granger?
Again with this?
He has no claim on this witch. They have not discussed that.
They should, though.
Exclusivity would be necessary for him, certainly.
Would it be for her?
Wrangling his words, he sets the tea down firmly and waves his hand between them. The witches pause their conversation and look at him as if they just remembered he was still there.
Has he ever been so thoroughly dismissed before?
“Since when are you two so… friendly? ”
Hermione looks down at her tea, then to Narcissa. They seem to share a silent conversation through eye contact alone, before his Mother responds, “I’ve had the pleasure of Ms. Granger’s company for quite some time now. She’s done some research in our library for her parents, and helped me with,”
Draco shakes his head in bewilderment, as he now becomes the interruptor, “Your parents? Were at the manor?”
Granger grimaces, “No. After the war, I needed some rare texts to help with memory retrieval.”
He scratches at his jaw, “You needed to retrieve your parents' memories?”
She nods and sighs, “I modified their memories in 7th. They forgot they had a daughter, and moved to Australia under new identities.”
Draco’s mouth was certainly open, and he slams it shut.
“After, I found that the modification spell I’d casted required quite a bit more than I’d originally planned on,” she pulls the length of her hair onto one shoulder and twirls the ends, “The Manor has a very extensive selection on memory charms and mind magic.”
He looks to his Mother, seeing her hand patting the top of Granger’s, “Hermione reached out to inquire about a few volumes she heard we had in our collection. She and I spent quite a bit of time together, then.”
Hermione smiles softly at his Mother, “I am still so grateful for that, Narcissa.”
His mother squeezes her hand before landing it back on her cup, “It was nothing.”
His throat is tight, his voice rougher than he intends, “Hermione… Why didn’t..”
Hermione responds quickly, “It’s ancient history, really,” she then flashes him a small smirk, “And we haven’t really had the chance to talk about it.”
This ancient history of hers might cause him an ulcer. A terrible mix of feelings bubbles and bursts in his gut - shame and surprise mostly. Her finger is drawing circles on the table, and he scrubs a hand down his face, “Right.”
She moves her eyes back to his, “Don’t do that.”
Draco frowns more deeply, “Don’t do what?”
Her eyes are steady on his when she says, “Don’t internalize any of that.”
She lifts the cup to her lips but sets it back down, to drive home her point, “It really is ancient history, and it was my burden, never yours, or your mother’s,” her eyes shift to the photo in the basket on the table, “And I won’t listen to an apology from either of you about what happened back then, ever again. I think we’ve all paid enough penance.”
The clink of a cup on the saucer draws his attention to his Mother, “You’re a class act, Ms. Granger.”
Hermione lets out a small laugh, “Takes one to know one.”
The soft click of his Mother’s heels land behind him, her hand on his shoulder squeezes, “It is getting late for me though, darlings. Draco, will you please show me the rest of your home? Hermione, would you mind refreshing the tea? I’d like one more cup before returning home. A ginger blend this time, I think.”
Thank Merlin.
Hermione nods quickly, and Draco rises, taking his Mother’s hand in his arm. As they leave the kitchen, he gives her a private look that means: What the fuck Mother?!
Her nonplussed look back at him meant: In a moment, Son.
*** *** ***
Penelope’s feet patter behind them as they walk slowly together. After circling the house, they stand facing one another in the doorway of his bedroom. His Mother speaks quietly, “Draco, what are you doing with Ms. Granger?”
“We’re kind of seeing one another.”
Narcissa clasps her hands and lifts a brow, “Kind of?”
He scratches his neck, feeling quite like a flobberworm being harvested for potion use, “Yes, kind of. We’ve not really discussed it yet, or anything.”
“Is it serious?” Narcissa asks after a heavy sigh, unimpressed with his answer.
He’s also unimpressed.
He thinks that maybe, he’d like it to be serious.
If Hermione would like that.
He doesn’t know what Granger thinks though - she hadn’t said.
Had he?
Does he know much about anything, when it comes to her at this point?
His Mother seems to know her better than him, and he isn’t sure how he feels about that right now.
He really could use that tea.
The silence to her question causes his mother to purse her lips, “Draco.”
He lifts his gaze from where he’d been staring at a speck of something on the carpet to meet his mother’s worried eyes, “I very much respect that witch.”
He isn’t sure where she’s going with this, so he just nods, “As do I.”
She continues, “I treasure the relationship she and I have built.”
This is not what he expected, he narrows his eyes and he hisses at her, “What are you getting at?”
Her voice remains quiet, but it’s cold, “I’d prefer you not muck that up with a fleeting dalliance, or whatever it is you’re up to.”
His eyebrows shoot upwards. The hair may have blown right off of his forehead. They might even be plastered to the ceiling.
“A fleeting dalliance?” he seethes, keeping his voice low, away from Granger’s ears just a few rooms away.
She fiddles with her wedding band, “It is unsettling how little you seem to know about her. You looked as if you were hit with a confundus over tea, and I worry about how close you seemed when I arrived.”
His lips twist to retort about how they’re both adults, and her opinions on propriety were ridiculous, but she wouldn’t hear it. Her voice cuts through before he can argue.
“Do this properly, or leave it be. It’s your choice, but it’s also your duty.”
He’d fork over all the money in his vault to never hear the word duty again.
Her voice softens, “You have done all you’ve wanted for years, and I asked for nothing. I ask for this, now. Court her, or keep it platonic, please.”
His eyebrows have fallen from the ceiling, slapped flatly back to his forehead, and now slide to his nose.
Very flighty, they are tonight.
His heartbeat has also gone through the same assault - Up and down all night.
He may not live to see tomorrow.
His mother sniffs, “I’d prefer the former.”
He needs a smoke, and a brisk walk. His hand pulls through his hair roughly and he stares towards the kitchen, wondering what Granger is thinking right now.
Dating was one thing, but courting?
His Mother moves her hands to straighten the collar of his shirt with a sad smile, “She’s done quite a bit of work around the Manor while you were away. I’ve found her to be rather charming when you can get a moment of her time. And wildly talented. Powerful.”
His stomach is tight. He knows he shouldn’t have stayed away for so long.
The years away now come with a price, paid back only with the guilt of imagining his mother alone in the manor, and now (apparently) courting Hermione Granger.
The recognition that his mother was not the woman who raised him any longer was sharp.
She is not just his mother - she is a society witch, the head of their house, a widow, a woman with a grown son, who hasn’t given her the gift of a grandchild.
When did she become so wistful and wise?
The lines around her mouth and on her forehead are deeper than he remembers.
“Mother, if you needed anything, you could have called for me, I would have come.”
Her eyes shift to her hands as she pulls them back to her, “You needed your time away, I needed to let you be away. It was fine. It is fine.”
He frowns, “I’m sorry.”
“None of that” she pats his cheek, “I’ve loved you from the moment you were foreseen, and I will long after I’m gone. What’s done is done.”
He nods through the guilt, and looks back at the kitchen when his mother’s hand wraps around his wrist, pulling his attention back to her.
“If you haven’t the interest in marriage, then keep it friendly. I truly believe she’s got the potential to change so much. Especially when she decides to wrap up her DRCMC and Gringotts work, and settles in for something more. The Malfoy line and vaults should back her on whatever it is - If, or when, she does.”
He sees his Mother’s point, but it’s wrong, “She’s not a tool, or an asset to invest in. She’s a witch.”
She rolls her eyes, “You misunderstand me. I’m just telling you, that you should be considerate for her future, and yours. Think with your brain, and your heart Draco. Not with your wand.”
The tips of his ears feel hot at her words and the tone in which she said ‘wand’, “Do not treat me like some hormonal teenager. It’s revolting.”
Her lips are pressed into a flat line, “Then stop faffing about like one and settle down.”
“You’ll be the first to get a wedding invitation.”
His mother huffs, he shifts his weight, leaning into the doorframe, “What do you mean about her ‘Gringott's work’?”
Narcissa steps away from him, “Well, it seems she doesn’t want to talk about that tonight, for some reason,” she smiles, “You’ll have to let her tell you about that. Maybe it’s something you can discuss when you decide whatever it is you plan to do”
His mother gives him a sharp look before turning away from him to head back to the kitchen, “Do it right, or let it be, love.”
Draco remains leaning against the doorway, as his mind wanders -
Would Hermione want that?
What did he actually know about the witch?
He knew he felt deep attraction, curiosity, and awe for her.
He also knew he had a lot of concerns about her ability to settle down herself. Hadn’t she mentioned, being scared of ‘hating the singular thing she decided to focus on’?
The witch had 6 jobs! Would she need 6 husbands?
As he walks towards the kitchen on stiff legs, he generates a mental list of the bits he knew for certain about Hermione J Granger, and current unknowns:
- Known: Incredibly fit, gorgeous, and sounds heavenly when he touches her.
Important note - seems to very much like it when he touches her.
Unknown: What other noises does she make? - Known: War heroine, Golden Girl, and truly the Brightest Witch of Her Age.
Side note: does he really need to list that?
Unknown: Whatever other insanity she got up to before and during the war. - Known: Soft hair, wild, and looks best down.
Unknown: Will she let him pull it into a fist? - Known: Smells like a clove infused pastry.
Unknown: How? What perfume? Is it just her? Her shampoo? He’s never been to her home, or seen her shower to catalog. - Known: Has a cottage.
Unknown: Where does Granger live? - Known: Works no less than six jobs. Current list: DRCMC, Mungo’s, F&B, Archives, Estate Agent, Menagerie,
Unknown: Does she also work at Gringotts (?) - Known: Talented with a wand, and swotty to the extreme.
Unknown: How frightened should he be with her wandless or wordless magic? - Known: Restored her parent’s memories; Parents alive, living in Australia.
Unknown: Relationship with them now?
- Known: Had a time turner once, and still has the same cat-kneazle who seems to like his bloodline.
Important note - very responsible pet parent*
*He cringes, at his use of the word pet parent, really, what has he become?
Unknown: Does she plan on getting a third cat? Does she have any other forbidden artifacts? Again, he’d need to catalog the home. - Known: Fond of jammy dodgers, and affagato.
Unknown: Does she bake? Is that why she smells like that? He really must get into her home and see the kitchen. - Known: Her closest friends visit her more than she visits them.
Unknown: How she makes time for him sans time-turner. - Known: Friends with his mother.
Unknown: Did something for his Mother? See above regarding: Gringott’s (???) - Known: Freckles touch her shoulders, and dust along her collarbones. Added note - gorgeous.
Unknown: Where else?
Re-entering the kitchen, he sees his Mother and Hermione standing side by side sipping tea, gazing out of the large window, and discussing his acreage of all things. The fact that these women are currently talking so casually about his house is absurd.
Granger hadn’t a sodding clue what his Mother just demanded of him. If she did, he was sure she wouldn’t be standing there making breezy conversation with her.
Should he tell her? How would she react?
He definitely didn’t want her friendship.
All recent thoughts about this witch were in curiosity and attraction.
Not intention.
He had accepted the snippets of time she graced him, and he was eager for more of it.
If he were to seriously pursue this witch, he’d need to do so, wholeheartedly. She likely would accept no less. She was Hermione Granger, after all.
And as Pansy would say: they’re no longer Spring Snidgets.
*** *** ***
They finish their tea, and play a small game of ball with Penelope on the patio.
The three of them laugh when she flops to the grass, tuckered out from the game. After his Mother bids them farewell, and he’s alone with Hermione again, he reaches out to grasp onto her hand.
He was opening his mouth to tell her how he wanted to know more about her.
He wanted to ask what she thought of him and ask if she wanted more.
More of him, this, them, whatever, just more.
If so, he’d give it.
He thinks he could court her, if she’d have him.
He hopes she does.
Being Hermione Granger’s partner would be something, wouldn’t it?
Before a single word can leave his mouth, a shimmering silver stallion leapt into the front room.
An unknown woman’s voice rushes from the beast, hurriedly saying, “Healer Granger, you're needed immediately. Fifteen unintentional potion overdoses just arrived, and three splinched. All hands needed.”
Her eyes rolled at the stallion and she muttered, “Fucking potion parties.”
Fucking potion parties, indeed.
“Hermione,”
She looked up to him, and he had to clear his throat, “Tomorrow? I’d like to pick you up. At six.”
A wide smile forms on her face, and she nodded quickly - his own mouth mirrored hers unbidden.
She stepped onto her toes and landed a kiss on his cheek, “Six is perfect. I’ll floo you with my address later.”
He watches her step into the fireplace and dissolve into green flames
Standing motionless, staring at the hearth, his smile softens.
He felt warmth where her lips had kissed his cheek.
Chapter 12: The Plan
Summary:
Gala day (Part 1 - The Morning)
Ron is summoned to Grimmauld.
Draco discusses Courtship with the Potter/Weasleys.
Notes:
I've worked on this short chapter for an embarrasingly long period of time.
My brain did not want to work on this, it seems.
So, I've decided to crank it out and post it. It was doing me no service sitting in the Google Doc while I was working on the other chapters (which should come more quickly.)
It's a short one, and the next one will be THE GALA (finally.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 12 - The Plan
“Bloody fuckin’ hell,” Ron complains with a tongue more like sandpaper than muscle.
There is an unyielding tap-tap-tap at his window, and the shriek of the owl sends a pain through his ears, settling between his eyes. Peeling himself from the comfort of his bed, he groans loudly - a Nott and Zabini induced hangover complicates his ability to move quickly.
He fumbles at the window, and the displeased owl bites his hand as he pulls the parchment from its leg. He sucks in a breath, “Oi!”
The owl threatens another nip and sends a sharp screech upon its departure.
“What was that for?!” he shouts as it flies further out into the horizon.
Shaking his head, he rips the envelope open wondering who would possibly be sending an owl this early. He couldn’t place the owl’s owner, it was a large eagle owl, and not one he’d had at his window before. Worry creeps behind the thumping of his headache as he wonders briefly if he’s being summoned for an emergency all-hands DMLE meeting.
A heavy groan leaves him as he reads the missive.
A meeting, it is. An emergency, it better be.
After a proper cuppa (stronger than his great aunt Tessie’s breath) and a shower he floos to Grimmauld. Still a bit hungover, he winces at the noise of Lily’s screaming from the kitchen. Harry stumbles from the stairs and relief comes over his face as he recognizes the visitor, “Thought you were Malfoy already.”
His eyebrows furrow, “Yeah, what in the,” before he can ask what in the name of Godric is the purpose for their meeting, Ginny’s voice calls from the kitchen over her daughter’s meltdown.
“Harry!”
He watches his best friend move quickly down the rest of the steps to meet her in the kitchen, he motions his head for him to follow.
The scene in the kitchen is a right mess - oatmeal plastered to the cupboards and Ginny’s ponytail damp. A laugh leaves him immediately before his sister’s eyes land on him in fury, “Shut it.”
Harry asks softly, “Lily, what have you done?”
Ginny stands, “That’s your daughter today, Potter.”
Ron gives her a questioning look and she shakes her head, “She wants ice cream. For breakfast.”
Turning to see Harry, his face sheepish, “I think she could have,”
Gin’s body turns so fast, Harry flinches and sputters, “Just a little?”
Normally, his sister’s eyes that narrow would be enough to send a shiver of terror down his spine, but Lily's trembling lower lip is threatening a wail that might break every window in the house. He quickly reaches for the youngest and says, “How about a compromise? One spoonful of ice cream for two spoonfuls of porridge, yeah? Don’t worry, Uncle Ron will help.”
With both parents of his favorite niece glaring at him now he changes the subject as he maneuvers to the cold-stasis charmed cabinet rummaging out the ice cream, “What’s this Malfoy letter about?”
“I don’t know, but it’s bound to be good,” Gin says while vanishing the dried oats stuck to the walls.
“Isn’t 7:45 too early to send an owl?” Ron grumbles while feeding the toddler, “It’s a prat move.”
“We haven’t slept in after 7 in quite some time, between Albus and that little hellion,” Gin eyes her daughter now napping on the couch, “So, a little post with the paper for an adult conversation with someone that isn’t my husband wasn’t the worst request,” she shrugs.
Harry’s eyebrows flew up, “You never want to talk in the morning.”
Ginny eyes Harry in disbelief, “ You don’t. My brain works perfectly fine in the morning.”
Morning people Ron and Harry were not, Gin was forced into early rising after years of quidditch training and now hungry kiddos.
Harry tugs at his hair, “Well.”
Ginny pats his hand, “You can’t be good at everything, love.”
Once the children were fed, kitchen cleaned, tea brewed, and toast plated for the adults, the trio sit at the kitchen table waiting for the guest who demanded their company.
The floo roars again, and Draco steps into the kitchen nodding at them, ““Thanks for making yourselves available.”
“Malfoy, is everything, erm, alright?” Harry asks, eyebrows furrowed in concern.
Malfoy’s jaw is tight, “Everything is fine. Great even.”
Disbelief washes over him, “Mate, you look like you’re about to tell us your bollocks have been cursed, it’s contagious, and there’s no cure.”
Ginny snorts, “He’s not wrong.”
Draco rolls his eyes, Ginny eyes him sharply, “Something’s got your knickers in a knot.”
Malfoy relaxes into his seat then responds crisply, “I prefer trunks.”
Ron doesn’t want to know what anyone’s pants preference is under this roof, and says exactly that. Malfoy laughs and points to the toast on the table, “May I?”
Ginny nods and summons another cup, “Sure, tea?”
Malfoy nods while chewing the toast.
Harry pulls the teacup to his lips then sets it back down, “Really Malfoy, what’s going on?”
After dusting his hands off, Malfoy pulls a box from his pocket, opens it and sets it on the table.
Curious, Ron reaches for the box, but Ginny’s faster. Ron scowls and looks back to Malfoy but doesn’t quite understand the words coming from his mouth.
“I’d like to start courting Granger.”
*** *** ***
He’d expected some sort of commotion, groans or some such. However, all he’d been met with was a narrow eyed smirk from Ginevra, Potter’s brows touching his hairline, and Ron’s mouth opening and closing in quick succession.
“You alright?” Ron’s confusion breaks the silence.
Draco breathes a laugh from his nose and nods once. His eyes shift to the movement of Ginny’s hands pulling the bracelet out. She put the bangle on and twisted her wrist to admire it, “You’re serious then?”
He straightens in his seat, “Gravely.”
“Malfoy,” Harry’s voice is graveley, he clears it and drags a hand through his hair, “When did this come about?”
“And why couldn’t we have discussed this after, I don’t know, 2 PM?” Ron adds, annoyed.
Draco glares at Ron, “Interrupted your beauty rest, did I?”
“It’s too early for this.” Ron complains.
“Shut up, Ronald,” Ginevra butts in, she quirks a brow at Draco, “Explain quickly, I need every detail. Explicit detail.”
Harry groaned.
Ron sputters, “Is she pregnant or something?”
“For the love of Merlin, Ron! Let the man talk.”
Ginevra for Minister, Draco thinks.
Disgruntled, Draco replies sharply, “No, she’s not pregnant.”
Ron exhales in relief, “Thank Godric.”
His brow furrows, “I’d never have a child out of wedlock.”
Ginny snorts, “Sure, like that’s the only reason.”
Draco’s certain his eyes could have singed the hair from her head. She glares back.
It’s inappropriate that she knows about his (perfectly reasonable, currently lacking, but soon to be thrilling, he’s sure of it) sex life with Granger.
Ginevra for Minister’s loo-cleaner, he stews.
Everyone jumps as Harry unexpectedly slaps a hand down on the table, “Can we get back to the topic at hand?”
The red heads shift in their seats as Draco breathes out, “Thank you Potter.”
Harry nods once, “Go on then.”
“I’ve been seeing Hermione for a few weeks now,” his eyes fall to the table, “and my Mother came over yesterday and erm, requested, no demanded, that I either keep it platonic,”
Ginny lets out a laugh before whispering, “Sorry, continue.”
“Or I court her properly,” Draco’s voice is low, “She’s,” his voice trails off a little, “Hermione is exceptional.”
Harry is eyeing the bracelet on Ginny’s wrist when he asks, “Are you asking for our approval?”
“No, not at all.”
Ron crashes his hand into his eyes, “Then why are we even here talking about this? At,” he moves his hand away from his face to look at the clock over the stove, “Eight fifteen in the bloody morning!”
Harry eyes Ron and Ginny explains, “As annoying as he’s being, he’s got a point. If you aren’t asking for our opinion or approval, or whatever bollocks they’re on about, why are you here?”
Draco looks at each of them before speaking, “I want your support on my courting gifts.”
Ginny fingers the golden bangle, “It is a beautiful bracelet.”
“The baubles are all beautiful, but they're not the true gift,” Draco clears his throat before pressing on, “Her workload isn’t sane.”
He feels everyone's eyes snap to him, “I think it’s time for Hermione to have real work-life balance.”
“She’s going to hex you to muggle hell,” Ron murmurs.
Harry’s eyes meet his wife's, then he looks to Draco, “What’s the plan?”
“For starters, I’ll probably need you to talk her down from avada’ing me.”
Ron nods, “Sounds about right.”
“And, at some point, I think I’ll need you to throw some weight around on the Wizengamot,” Draco eyes Harry, “Use some of that Chosen One charm on the more difficult geezers.”
Harry takes in a deep breath and exhales, “I’d do that for her anyway.”
Draco smiles, “Of course,” he knocks twice on the table before reaching for his own cup.
“How do you plan to actually do it though?” Ron ask while chewing his toast, “She’s not exactly,” he swallows, chokes, and bangs on his chest once before grabbing the tea.
Everyone at the table is grimacing.
After a stifled belch, covered by his fist, he continues, “Sorry ‘bout that, what I was trying to say is that she’s not exactly just going to quit coz you ask, Malfoy.”
His top lip is still curled in disgust before he realizes he has to answer.
“I’m not going to ask.”
Harry’s head makes a thump when it hits the table and his voice is muffled, “She’s definitely going to hex you.”
“We’ll see.” Draco says with more confidence than he feels.
The table is silent, so he focuses back on the cup in front of him.
He savors the black tea then extends an open palm towards Ginevra, silently asking for the jewelry back.
Ginny pulls the bracelet towards her protectively, “This is all very romantic, Malfoy.”
“That’s quite literally the point,” he drawls.
She’s coveting the bracelet, then bats her eyes at Harry, “You know, I’d like to be courted.”
“What?” Harry asks.
She sighs and speaks dreamily, “Romance, gifts, a promise of unlimited wealth, childcare, and unemployment really does sound lovely.”
Harry puts his elbows onto the table, places his chin into his hand, and smiles while she continues, “You know Malfoy, our marriage isn’t that serious if Hermione turns you down.”
Harry barks a laugh, “Either are the kids. Please, Gods, take them. You can drop them back off on the weekends.”
Draco runs a finger around the rim of the tea cup, “I also wanted to know about her parents.”
The energy of the room shifts immediately. Ron straightens in his chair. Harry’s eyebrows pull together. Ginny’s mocking smile falls into a straight line. Draco delves further, “I know about the memory modification,” his finger knocks the cup a little, the porcelain chinks and his tea sloshes, “But, does she still talk with them? Are they still close?”
Ginny pulls the jewelry from her wrist, and puts it back in the box, “She doesn’t see them as often as she’d like, but they do still talk. She usually visits them on Christmas.”
Draco nods, “Good, okay.”
He takes another drink of the tea, now growing cold, “Does she work at Gringotts?”
Ginny pushes the box towards Draco and looks at Ron as he answers, “That’s a question for Bill.”
He feels a sudden pang of jealousy, “Bill?”
He was not going to ask whoever Bill is about his witch.
Ron gives him a funny look, “Yeah mate, our brother?”
Embarrassment rolls a little inside him, he hopes no one caught the edge in his voice when he’d asked, “Oh, right.”
Ginny gives him a knowing look and smiles, “Our happily married brother. The one with kids, plural. Married to Fleur? Do you remember her?” she offers.
Relief washes over him, he looks down at his hands, “The Beauxbaton champion. Of course.”
Draco clears his throat, “Does she bake?”
Ron’s confused, “Fleur?”
“Yes,” Draco says with sarcasm thick on his tongue.
Ron seems to be thinking deeply, “I think so, Bill’s mentioned she’s made a few,”
Draco rolls his eyes and interrupts, “I was being sarcastic, you git. I meant Granger. Does Hermione bake?”
The kitchen is full of laughs now, Ron’s is the loudest.
“What’s so funny?” Draco asks.
“She burns everything,” Ron says wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes, “You know we had a go at it when we were kids, yeah?”
Draco grumbles, “Everyone knows that.”
Ron exhales trying to steady himself, small laughs leaving his lips, “It was a mess. Both us, and her bloody kitchen experiments. Foul smells, smoke, the whole thing.”
Draco’s tongue is pressing against his cheek, trying to remember her and the Weasel together. He doesn’t like it. He knows they didn’t like it either, “How long did that go on for?”
Ginny laughs, “I think it was five minutes before they moved in together, and one week before they broke up.”
Ron’s head has tilted back and his eyes far away with a lopsided smile, “We were awful together.”
Harry nods, “I almost wished I’d have died during the battle instead of hear you two bicker another minute.”
“Hey!” Ginevra shouts.
Harry shrugs, “Like you wanted to hear any more of it?”
Ginevra sighs heavily before looking to Draco, “Was that a deal breaker?”
Draco shakes his head, pulls the box back and puts it in his pocket. He quirks a brow, “So, you’re all on board?”
“If ‘Mione’s in, we’re in. If she’s not,” Harry blows out a breath, “Then it’s your funeral.”
Ron laughs but Ginevra looks at him seriously. It's a look of sincerity and it makes him nervous. She says it with conviction, “If anyone deserves to be spoiled rotten by a prat like you,” she smiles, “It’s definitely Hermione.”
Chapter 13: The Gala
Summary:
Draco manages to get through the afternoon before the event.
Draco goes to Granger's, and they go to the Gala.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 13 - Wretchedly, Miserably Yours (or: The Gala)
The ink on the letter was barely dry when he’d sent the missive to the Menagerie.
He was emboldened after leaving Grimmauld, confidence blooming in his chest at the challenge and the potential reward. Every minute that she spent away from a bird shit covered shop, a dusty library, an understaffed bookstore, a sterile emergency ward, or a cramped ministry office was another minute she’d spend with him.
The promise of more time for him to properly whisk the witch off of her feet, into his arms, a marriage, and (ideally) into something professionally and mentally gratifying.
The plot might be considered selfish, but that was fine - he was a selfish man; he wasn’t afraid to admit that.
A parchment on his desk contained a list of her jobs, and scribbled notes on how best to achieve a well-rested Hermione Granger. At the top of the list was this: The Menagerie. It was, by and far, the simplest to begin with.
The letter was short. Draco offered a one-time payment to cover 6 months of a new hire’s salary if the old-man would:
- Stop requesting Granger’s help with the shop indefinitely..
- Hire someone full time.
- Pen Granger a letter thanking her for the time she graciously bestowed the shop
- Most importantly - Not mention this request, the funding, or otherwise in the letter to her.
Before 1 PM, his eagle owl returned with an enthusiastic acceptance letter stating they’d already penned Ms. Granger.
He wondered how she’d reacted to the letter.
*** *** ***
The afternoon dragged on - The Manor hardly needed any last minute charms, the auction items were set and well warded, the food prepared, the band’s equipment floo’d in. The elves banished him from the kitchens, Theo told him to sod-off when he attempted to adjust the warding, and his Mother finally sent him away for the remainder of the day.
He’d tried speaking with her as she glided around the garden, charming buds into blooms, and clipping wilted leaves. She’d waved him off, like a gnat, and seemed entirely non-plussed that he was banking his entire future on a bracelet that currently sat on his nightstand. She was more concerned with her flowers, and stated that his, “Nervous hovering was unbefitting a Malfoy,” and, “ruining the atmosphere.” With finality in her voice, she suggested he go fly a broom, or take a bath, but asked that he do so, “anywhere but here.”
Without the distraction of work before the event, all he could do was pace, run Penelope, smoke, and think. He checked his watch repeatedly, willing the small hand to near the 6 mark.
Penelope was a welcome diversion - she seemed to know he was keyed-up, and was incessant with her ask to toss the ball. Between throws, he ruminated. It could go either very well, or very badly tonight. Hermione could accept the bauble heartedly, or passionately. She could hex him bald, vanish the bracelet, and put him on his ass. There were a myriad of ways it might go, and he imagined every single one in excruciating detail.
He chucked the ball until his shoulder ached and Penelope slept peacefully in the grass.
Finally it was time to wash and dress - the anxiety he felt bubbling all day now roaring as he got ready.
What in the fuck is he doing?
Despite his Mother’s firm stance that he, “ Do it right, or leave it be.” it would be done wrong if this was all entirely off base. She acted as though Granger’s acceptance was to be expected, as certain as rain fell in fall.
Did she know something he didn’t? Probably.
He questioned whether he knew much of anything anymore, especially when it came to the women he’d been bound to by birth, or by (a potentially futile attempt at) marriage.
What he did know, however, was that it was finally time to apparate to her as he pulls the box from his nightstand and pockets it with (perfectly dry and steady) fingers.
*** *** ***
Gravel crunches beneath his feet as he approaches the quaint brick cottage. Tendrils of clematis climb over the covered porch, and drip off of the awning. Standing at her doorway, he pats his breast pocket, brushes his hands against his pants, then knocks against the blue door.
It swings open almost as quickly as his fist strikes against it. Though, the witch he’d assumed would be on the other side of it, is not there. The space in front of him is empty. He bends forward, head and shoulders breaching the doorway.
A slightly breathless voice calls down from the top of the stairs to his right, “Come in! I’ll be down in a minute!”
As his foot touches the tiled entry way, a loud clatter comes from above. He turns to make way up the stairs, “Everything alright up there?”
“Everything’s fine! There’s coffee in the kitchen. Sorry, I’m running behind!”
The nerves he can hear in her voice, calm his own. He laughs lightly, and runs his hand along the wall separating the stairs from her sitting room.
“Take your time!” he shouts back.
A proper shit-eating grin takes him over. The witch is running late. After all that talk about calendars, and alarms. Draco can’t help but preen a bit with the knowledge that she’s up there, probably casting a few cushioning charms on her heels, and zipping herself into a dress that he gets to see her in first.
He shakes his head and takes in his surroundings.
This is Hermione Granger’s house.
It’s very small. Cozy.
The walls are the shade of deep caramel - frames of wood, goldleaf and bronze take up most of the wall behind him displaying photos both magical and muggle.
He leans in to watch the magical photos loop.
In a small wooden frame, a very young Potter pushes the Weasel’s head into Granger’s hair - Harry laughs while the other two blush and smile at the camera. This must be 4th year, Granger’s teeth are perfect in the photo, and Ron’s a giant compared to his friends. Draco remembers being jealous of Ron’s height that year. He hadn’t had his own growth spurt until the following year.
Framed by goldleaf - Pansy and Neville spin at their wedding in the background as Hermione, Ginny, and Angelina take a shot - the witches being wolf-whistled at by Potter, George and Theo. Draco searches the photo, he was there that night, and doesn’t recall much. There’s some movement in the background as well - the Parkinson’s leaning into one another, Daphne and Astoria wiping their eyes standing shoulder to shoulder. To the far right, he spots his hair - they’re faint but they are there - Draco and Blaise, slouching with drinks in hand at the bar.
There are many, many, framed photos of Crookshanks and Inkblot. Maybe too many to count. Most are of Crooks, though, and all magical. His eyes drift over the ones of Crookshanks sleeping, pawing at string, squinting at what he assumes is the flash of the camera, lounging between a stack of books, nestled into a big shaggy black dog.
Draco blows out a breath, she’s definitely a pet parent. It doesn’t bother him as much as it should.
Spotting a muggle photo, he sees a child sized Hermione between two adults. They are definitely her parents. The man’s hair is coarse, and curly - the woman has her smile and eyes. Draco pulls his readers out to see their surroundings, deeply curious about her life before Hogwarts. It’s blurry, but he can only make out a bookshelf, and plants.
There are a few accolades, her Order of Merlin, certificates, and framed tickets to events between the photos.
She’s the sentimental type, he realizes.
Moving his eyes to the front room, he sees that it’s all perfectly her. It’s lived in, and inviting. The proof of wear is evident in everything. The tiled fireplace is lined with mis-matched bookshelves, the shelves bowing slightly bearing the weight of so many tomes. There’s probably an extension charm or six on them.
The rugs leading to the kitchen, where he follows the scent of coffee to, are all a tad frayed at the edges - likely clawed by the two cats currently lounging on the small circular table.
“Hello, old friend,” he says as he pats the familiar orange beast. Crookshanks trills a sound of contentment at the attention.
The kitchen was muggle in nature, the coffee smell coming from the small black appliance on her wooden counters. He rummages through a cabinet pulling out a mug that says Everything tastes better with cat hair in it. He grimaces and looks in the cup, checking for hair - it’s clean. He shrugs, pours a cup, settles into a chair at her kitchen table, and waits.
Draco attempts to pet Crookshanks and Inkblot but they duck his hand, and flit their tails in irritation. It’s not him they wish to see, clearly. The cats’ perk their ears up at the sound of feet rushing around overhead. At least he’s not the only bloke waiting on the witch this evening.
*** *** ***
After fifteen finger drums on the table, two scratches from Inkblot, one cup of coffee, and a mouth freshening charm, he finally hears heels clacking down the stairs.
She twists around the bend of the staircase, coming to a sharp stop when their eyes meet. Draco stands unbidden taking in the smiling witch in the hallway.
She’s fussing with the ends of her hair, her eyes wide, “Wow, Draco. You look positively dashing in that suit.”
She stops touching her hair and clasps her hands in front of her tightly, “Which is normal… for you of course. I mean, you always look great, you know that. Not that you’re, erm, terribly arrogant anymore, like you used to be, but confident. Yes, you’re confident. I like that. Not that your looks are the only thing I like about you..”
He squeezes his fingers around the mug in his hand, certain he might drop it as he listens to her ramble. The praise she prattled suddenly came to a stop, her hands lifted to cover her face, “Oh my God, I am babbling. Please say something.”
Her hands lower, but he hasn’t stopped staring, and is finding it very difficult to convey what he sees with a remark.
The witch before him is all amber eyes, chestnut curls, copper tanned and cocoa flecked, her body garbed in olive green, and golden beads. Her presence is late September - goldenrod, aster, and ivy; Windblown leaves, petrichor, and rolling thunder.
Hermione Granger, bewitcher of body, ensnarer of soul. He is mortal, weak, bent at the waist beseeching her blessing - a man made of ephemeral flesh begging in prayer for harvest.
It’s maddening, how one witch has sequestered so much of his mind, in so little time, and she’s waiting for him (him!) to speak. Her smile begins to falter as his heart pounds, the offering in his pocket woefully inadequate.
He licks his lips, words falling catastrophically short, “Hermione, you’re -”
Setting the mug down with too much force, he strides quickly to the woman in the hall and pulls her to him tightly, pressing his nose into the crown of her head, his lips set in a smile, “You’re heavenly Hermione.. So much so, I may have found religion in your kitchen.”
Arms wrap around his neck, pull his lips away from her hair, and towards her mouth. Eyes staring into eyes, nose brushing against nose, “Such hyperbole from a handsome devil.” she says with a slight laugh.
She’s a charitable deity, he thinks, before pressing his lips into hers.
They separate long enough for him to pull her soft hand into his, spinning her to admire the gown and the curves. He stops her when her back is facing him, and he pulls her into him - the open back of her dress, skin pressed against the fabric covering his chest.
Her bare shoulders beg to be kissed, her back to be tasted, her neck to be nosed - there’s no stopping the temptation - his lips explore unbidden, before stopping to speak truth into her ear.
“You are,” a kiss on her shoulder blade. “The most,” his nose slides against the neck, her pulse thrumming. “Remarkable witch,” open mouthed kiss, tongue on warm skin. “And you’re all mine tonight.” whispered against curls.
Hands find hips, back arching, freckled skin sliding against his shirt. She inhales a sharp breath, “Is that so?” as her bum rubs against him.
He rocks slowly against her, body begging for more contact as he breathes, “Yes” into her neck, teeth grazing against the sweet and the spice of her perfume.
Her left arm reaches out, wrapping around his neck - her fingers in his hair holding him close, as her right hand lands on his, pulling it to slide over her ribs to her breast. “Draco” she says on an exhale.
It’s bliss, and it’s torture - a body deserving of devotion under his palms. He’d bestow it on his knees, in her bed, with his fingers, and his mouth.
It’s unwise, though, the timing and all. He did have plans, didn’t he?
His fingers brush against the beads of her dress, as he (sadly, distressingly, and most unfortunately) slides his hand from the swell of her breast down to her hip again.
“As much as this,” he presses lips into her shoulder one last time, “is more than I could ever wish for. I need to speak with you. Face to face, ideally.”
She exhales roughly, a slight harrumph, and removes her arm from his neck and turns to face him. She’s flushed, “Sorry, it’s just… You’re driving me mad.”
He laughs, “I’d argue that it’s you driving me mad.”
Summoning every cell that contains an iota of bravery (or absolute bafoonery) in his body, he takes two steps back, pulls the box from his suit pocket and opens it. He watches her mouth part and brows furrow - she takes a step closer to the jewelry as she begins to ask, “Are you…”
She stills completely when he grasps her left hand and delicately pulls it through the bangle, then pressing a long kiss at her pulse point before lowering it, grasping her hand in his.
“Hermione Granger,” he says softly.
She makes a noise in her throat, but says nothing.
“I’m undeserving of such, and I understand you may find this incredibly unexpected, but I’d be the most idiotic wizard to walk the earth if I didn’t try… I’d like to court you. Properly.”
Their clasped hands are a little clammy pressed together like this. He swallows and hopes it’s her that’s sweaty, not him. Though, maybe that’s not a good sign if he’s causing his witch to perspire.
He’s spiraling and hoping she says something.
Her unencumbered (likely perfectly dry) right hand moves to her necklace. She’s pulling at the delicate chain, wrapping and unwrapping it around a finger before replying, “You are not undeserving Draco.”
She’s definitely just said words, but they were neither an affirmative or a negative. She sucks in a breath, “You’re… You’re serious?”
His eyes drop to their entwined hands (which are, most grievously, growing more damp with each passing second.) Despite this, he smiles and answers sincerely, “Yes. It’s quite concerning how wretchedly fond of you I am, and how very much I’d like more of this. Of you.”
The fingers that were fiddling at the necklace stopped moving, and she raised a single brow, “Wretchedly?”
He’s bollocksing it up. Badly. And yet, decides to double down. “Yes, wretchedly. I’m a pitiable beast, and you’re magnificent.”
She hums in consideration, “You’re really not selling yourself here.”
If only he could release her hand, wipe it on his trousers, suck down four cigarettes, and yank a bit on his collar which has suddenly started to shrink, he could say something witty, and charming.
Instead, he pleads, “Granger, I need a yes, or a no. Put me out of my misery, here.”
“Misery!” she laughs, then shakes her head, “This is not the proposal I imagined as a girl.”
Draco frowns, “It’s not a proposal.” He stretches the palm that hers was pressed to so their fingers stay connected, but palms (blessedly) get some air. He watches her fingers tighten on his, “It’s a request for courtship simply stating that you and I are exclusive, and there’s intention of a proposal, in the future, potentially. It sets that precedent.”
When he looks back up, he finds she’s covered her mouth, silently laughing, eyes full of mirth. She uncovers her mouth, the grin on her face remaining, “And this potential proposal… would be better than this, right? You’d be less wretched, and less miserable then?”
He feels a bead of sweat drop from his neck. He may need to change before the gala.
Her eyes are bouncing between his, surveying him, and the red that is likely splotching his cheeks.
He clears his throat feigning confidence again, “Oh, without a doubt. You’d be captivated, swept off of your feet, heart aflutter, the whole thing. I’d do it perfectly. The only words you’d be able to describe me with would be reverent, or enchanting. I’d definitely not fuck it up as much as I’m doing right now.”
She sighs, “Draco.”
His heart sinks, and he removes his fingers from hers.
He knows.
It makes sense.
“It’s understandab-”
She reaches for his jacket and pulls him to her, interrupting him, “Of course I accept.”
Perhaps she cast a curse on him, while declining his offer. He’s probably comatose on the floor, drooling on the cat-hair covered rug and dreaming this entire scenario.
He blinks.
“Really?”
She laughs and presses her lips to his jaw, peppering kisses to his ear, “Yes. Really.”
He wraps his arms around her and relief floods his veins, “Thank Merlin.”
Several minutes pass blissfully as hands roam, tongues touch between panted praises, and bodies become increasingly more needful for relief before he finally musters a single functioning brain cell and breaks away from her.
“I am loath to say this, but we must be going.”
She huffs, “Yes, yes, I know…but I am rather put out about it, just so you know.”
After fixing their hair, their outfits, and double checking one another for any obvious signs of significant snogging they stand together at the fireplace. They step into the flames with fingers woven together, each hand pressing silent promises into one another's palms.
*** *** ***
The moment they arrived, not fashionably but noticeably, late - they were accosted.
First by Theo who was pretending to be greeting Draco and Hermione with loose hugs and kisses to their cheeks but was urgently asking if Draco could, “See about Ser Wingleton.”
Hermione begged off a moment later to find them a drink while Theo rambled on, “It’s so blatantly obvious that he wants to bid on the dress, but his wife is throwing him death glares. Did he shag Celestina in the 40s or something? Lucky bloke, but he’s shoo’d me away three times and if I have to look up and see that old git’s nosehair one more time as he poo-poo’s our table, I’m going to light the man’s nostrils on fire.”
Half a glass of champagne later, Theo eyed the bracelet on Hermione’s wrist and raised his brows but said nothing. He shot a questioning look at Draco, and he dipped his chin in acknowledgment.
“Riiiight,” Theo said, “Well I’ll be going. If you don’t sink a bid from Wingle-twat tonight, I’ll be very cross with you Drakeypoo.”
As Theo left, and they (almost) had a moment to make the rounds, they were bombarded again by the Potters. Draco poured the rest of the champagne into his mouth and raised a hand summoning another 2 glasses before Ginevra lifted Hermione’s wrist and squealed.
“Shhhh!” Granger covered her friend’s mouth with a hand, “How do you even know about that?”
Ginevra tried talking through the hand covering her mouth, but Harry interrupted, “Your suitor stopped by this morning to make sure we’d keep him safe if you decided to avada him.”
Harry’s brows were up, a hand in his pocket, the other at the back of his neck. Ginevra’s brows had furrowed, and Hermione suddenly pulled her hand away from Ginny’s mouth, “Ouch! You didn’t have to bite, Jesus.”
Ginevra waggled her eyebrows, “I only bite when necessary. And this,” she points at Hermione’s wrist, “is bite worthy.”
“Ginevra, please don’t bite my intended.” Draco said between sips, “It’s unbecoming.”
Hermione fidgeted, “Let’s not use the word intended, shall we?”
Ginevra laughed, “Oh, let him say it Herms. What else can he call you? Girlfriend is a little…”
The witches both shared a look of disgust, before Granger responded with, “Right. It’s a bit…”
“Immature.” Hermione said.
“Juvenile.” Draco supplied.
Draco frowned, “What do you want to call it?”
Harry seemed confused, “Isn’t it just, fiance?”
“No.” Hermione and Draco said at the same time. They stumbled over one another verbally, words like “It’s too soon for that,” and “Not yet. Don’t you know anything about courting, Potter?” came tumbling from their mouths.
They should have talked more before heading to the Gala, instead of snogging. But the snogging was…
Ginevra laughed until she was breathless and grabbed her husband, pulling him to her side, “Ahh, definitely marriage material these two once they sort out what words they’re using. Come on husband,” she said with narrowed eyes at Hermione, “Let’s go see what desserts they’ve got.”
Hermione was well into her second glass of champagne when they made eye contact. She looked slightly red cheeked before looking down.
“I didn’t know that they’d know.” Hermione said to his shoes.
“I didn’t know that they’d not know that it’d be impolite to pester us about it immediately.” Draco said to her shoulder.
He pulled a hand through his hair, and pulled Granger’s shoulder so they faced one another, “Is that okay? That I told them?”
Her eyes were soft on his, “Oh, of course it’s fine. I just wasn’t prepared. Does anyone else know?”
Draco ran a finger over the strap of her dress, “My mother will know when she sees it. Ron will know too.”
“Wow.” Hermione breathed before laughing, “Was I the last to know?”
“No, Pansy will be the last to know.” Draco blurted.
Hermione rolled her eyes, “Doubtful.”
Draco blew out a breath, and grabbed her arm, “We’ll sort it later. You’re not the last to know, but we’ve got rounds to make. Let me show you off.”
Hermione grumbled an agreement, and summoned another two glasses to them before making their way into the crowd.
After hob-knobbing with Ser Wingle-twat, erm, Wingleton and securing his bid on the dress, he managed to get two older witches to begin a silent bidding war for the landscape offering.
Hermione was accusing him of being manipulative while he countered that he was only manipulative for the betterment of society, when they were cornered by Narcissa while gathering a fourth flute of champagne.
“Ms. Granger,” his Mother said in a sweet tone before air kissing both of her cheeks, “You look absolutely stunning.”
Draco watched Granger and his Mother share courtesies.
“Mother, thank you for your help on this. I apologize we were late,” he said during their embrace.
His Mother waved a hand, “Oh, it’s nothing, Draco.”
His Mother’s eyes dropped suddenly to Hermione’s wrist then back to him, “It seems the tardiness was well worth it,” her eyes bright, “Especially since you’re accompanying such a stunning witch.”
Hermione laughed, “I clean up well, that's all.”
Narcissa hummed, “No, you’re all the making of a proper Lady, Hermione. Now!” she clapped before taking Hermione’s elbow, pulling her towards the bidding tables, “You must meet Lady Gurtsberry. She’s dying to talk to you about..”
Their voices became muffled as he watched them make way towards, who Draco assumed, was Lady Gurtsberry. He took a long drink before deciding to meet with Theo to see where they were at with the bids, and who they needed to put some polite and innocuous (not manipulative) pressure on to raise the bids.
*** *** ***
After hours of chin-wagging, it was declared a success.
They raised 575,000 galleons for the Janus Thickey Ward upgrade.
They also raised 10 sets of eyebrows at sight of the bracelet, and 6 flutes of champagne to their lips during the event.
By the time they were stepping into the floo, arriving back in Granger’s sitting room, they were full, tipsy, and more than a little handsy than what some might consider appropriate.
He didn’t care at all about what was appropriate. He didn’t care about the Gala, even.
He was completely enraptured by the witch currently kicking her heels across the room and pulling him by the lapels to crash their mouths together.
She was pulling his suit jacket from his shoulders and saying between kisses, “I have been waiting for this all night.”
He was pulling at the straps of her dress and sighing agreements against her lips.
Suddenly, she broke their kissing and stepped back to unzip her dress. It slipped from her body and the beads made a lovely noise as they clinked to the ground.
He stood frozen as she turned away and made towards the stairs, giving him a serious look over her shoulder, before disappearing behind the wall covering her stairwell.
Draco swallowed, palmed himself over the pants once roughly, before following behind her.
This was happening.
Notes:
If you're still reading this ridiculous fluff piece, thank you.
I've got the next 5ish chapters plotted - I think we might be done in 6!
Though, I tend to get really wordy.. and this chapter ends earlier than I thought it would.
My brain though, wants the next chapter to begin with our girl Granger's POV, a good shag, and then on to more plot. (I initially wanted to end this chapter post-coitus but I think this will be way more fun. For me, and probably, hopefully, maybe, for you too.)Anyways,
XOXO
Happy Friday.
Chapter 14: Overdue
Summary:
Draco & Hermione go back her hers after the Gala.
Hermione POV to start
Notes:
Warning - Some Mild Smut Incoming
(finally)
Chapter Text
Chapter 14 - Overdue
She needed him. It wasn't the champagne or the bracelet. It wasn't anything as fickle as want, or desire pulsing under her skin. It hadn't been in some time, truly.
It was a steady thrum of need.
Steady like his gaze, strong like his hands and hard chest, as wicked as his tongue behind that clever mouth.
He was firm and stable - in body and mind. It reduced her to pliancy - a vine that would climb and twist, a flower bloomed, pestle sticky with nectar.
Her body was demanding his, from the moment she woke that morning. It remained that way throughout the day - as she drank her tea, fed the cats, read the letter from the Menagerie, trying and failing to notate the Dragon Rights bill. It ebbed into fantasy as she washed her hair, lotioned her legs and stepped into the dress.
His arrival was a necessary dose of reality.
She worried at her lips and dropped her heels, hands fumbling with nerves, shrilly answering that ‘she was fine’ as his voice called from below. She pressed her fingers into her sternum before descending the stairs on unsteady legs.
It was a mercy, his request to court, sparing her from asking the god awful question she'd been avoiding. The thought of asking Draco Malfoy, "So, what are we?" was utterly ridiculous.
But, he wanted her. Exclusively. As she wanted him.
The nerves she was (hopefully) hiding were reflected back as he stumbled through.
It settled her. He settled her.
It was a comfort to know she wasn't the only one (wretchedly and miserably) in want of more.
But that comforting feeling shifted easily (and exceedingly quickly) back into that bloody needing again as the lips he used to fumble the request became urgent on her.
He had more control than she did, and she felt adrift when he reminded her they had to leave.
Him!
Reminding her!
The prat.
The stupidly attractive, earnest, quick-witted pillock.
She was (in need of a less crass term at the moment) totally fucked.
Making small talk with the other guests as the evening went on was a struggle. Her mind and eyes would wander, and despite Lady Gurtsberry’s perfectly astute take on… whatever it was…Hermione found herself observing his back. He must have felt it - he would turn and his eyes would find hers, then drop slowly, before dragging back to her face. The look was, inarguably, palpable. It was as tangible as a touch. He'd press his tongue into his cheek before turning away.
Later, his warm hand slid from the nape of her neck to the small of her back when chatting with their friends. His fingers dipped just below where the dress fell above her bum. Her stomach flipped.
Floo’ing back to hers had become a pressing matter.
*** *** ***
Once upstairs, their bodies fusing together - pinned between his clothed form and the door, “Granger,” the baritone at her ear ran like hot wax down her spine, pooling low. He wraps around her, his voice, his fist in her hair, his mouth on her breast, "Can I?"
Heat from his tongue slid her navel, her thigh pulled onto his shoulder, soft against hard, a heated breath on her skin, "Need to taste you, love."
Grey eyes, heavy lidded, and unmoving, waiting for her to -
“Mmhmm” she agrees, of course she agrees, it's just that words are - difficult - at the moment, and oh, difficult they will remain.
She squirms, she arches, he grips at her hip; holding her up, grounding here here, on earth.
Deep moans of devotion from his tongue between her thighs, she sucks in a breath, "Dra-aah," his name an unfinished supplication.
With a smooth, unhuried movement, he slides one of those hands from her hip, grazing her knee, and it slides into his trousers, he's gripping his length as he sucks, as he licks, and she covets what he holds, her lips hunger for his.
Aching for him, all of him, she pulls away from his shoulder and stands on shaking legs; the sight of this man on his knees, hair askew, eyes seeking, his desire unmistakable.
“Was that too mu-” he asks, but she leans down to take what she wants.
“Bed."
“Impatient witch," his arms under her ass, haulding her up.
She squeaks, and he laughs.
Tossed into the bed, landing with a bounce - he disrobes, his body a masterpiece, an homage to perserverence.
“Merlin,” he breathes into her inhale, “you feel…” he grips himself harder as he slids up, and presses.
“You feel so good.” She says for him. To him.
She wants to consume him, she wants to take her fill - it's torture, and it's bliss - this waiting.
But she's resourceful, and she angles low, drawing her where she needs him; he catches, a "Fuck," as he pulls up again.
“Careful, Granger.” he warns, gruff, and thick - she keens, she pleads, doesn't he want, what she gives?
He presses a hand into her stomach, his magic on her skin prickles, and warms - they share a breath of relief when they finally, finally, finally become singular - connected at every point; taking and giving.
It was divine.
*** *** ***
After, they sat against the headboard. Sated, tired, and sweaty. He blew out a heavy breath and she nestled into his chest.
“That was…” he started.
“Overdue.” she finished.
They laughed.
His hand toyed with the bracelet. It was all she kept on.
She quirked a brow at him, “Having second thoughts now that you've shagged me from your system?”
He looked at her then, incredulous, “That may be the most idiotic thing you've ever said.”
She searched his face for any sign of untruth, “Hmm.. you might be right.“
He scoffed, “I know I'm right. I'm keeping you,” he pulled her tight, “For good.“
She watched his thumb rub against the bracelet, his breath moving what she knew to be a proper mess at the crown of her head, “I love your confidence.”
He nosed the tangled mess, “Mmm, and I love your hair.”
She laughed through her nose, “You won't love it when it clogs your drain.”
“Nothing a little wand work or a muggle plumber can't handle,” he settled further into the pillow and inhaled her hair deeply, “Clog the drains, burn the biscuits, hog the sheets. So long as you're there, it wouldn't matter.” he tugged the sheet to tuck under his leg.
“I don't know,” she yawned, “you seem rather invested in good biscuits.”
He nodded, “It's true,” he kissed her head and rubbed her arm that was wrapped against his chest, “You smell like a spiced vanilla biscuit…Even though you can't bake them.”
She pulled away to look at him again, “How is it that you know that?”
He laughed, “Guess.”
“I'm going to kill them.” she muttered.
“After the wedding, love.” He yawned.
Her stomach flipped.
A moment passed and his breathing deepened.
“Draco?”
“Hmm?”
“We should… talk more. Before you say things like that.” she fidgeted against him.
He tightened his hold on her before relaxing into the pillow again.
“In the morning.” He mumbled.
She nodded, mind quieted for the moment, before drifting to sleep - wrapped around the promising wizard.
*** *** ***
Draco woke early to the sound of an owl at Hermione's window. She was curled tightly into his side, hair covering her face, a light snore came from her and from the foot of the bed. He lifted his head, static clung to his hair as he saw Crooks between his feet and Inkblot stretched between he and Hermione. He wished for Penelope at that moment, and felt guilty that she’d been home alone so long. He’d need to floo home to let her out.
Granger was peaceful, so he rose as quietly as he could, pulling his boxers on before heading to the window. The wards buzzed and shifted as he pulled open the window pane to see three owls.
Quite the popular witch this morning, he thought.
The brush of her wards made him shiver. She was a deadly smart witch, strong and beautiful. Perfect really. Last night was…
Draco shook his head with a smile and pulled the mail from the snowy owl's leg, offering a treat from a bowl nearby before the owl silently flew off.
The news delivery owl merely hooted once and took off after receiving a knut.
The last owl was very familiar to Draco and he frowned. Why was Theo penning him so early?
Darling,
Was feeling a little lonely, so I picked up Penelope last night. She's with her Uncle for the day. I've found her a lovely collar and we will be picking it up this afternoon. Pansy said the color would be perfect on her. Come by later to pick her up.
PS. Tell the future Mrs. Granger-Malfoy that I said Hiya.
PSS. If you bugger that up, you'll never see Penelope again.
Kisses,
TN
Draco crumpled the letter up before eyeing the letter from the Potters to Granger. He would bet every galleon in the heir’s vault that it was Ginevra asking for an indecent amount of information about Hermione's evening.
He set the letter on the small desk near her window and opened the prophet to see a photo loop of his hand running down the length of Hermione's open back dress. The headline was incredibly cliche. He grit his teeth in annoyance as he read.
Draco Malfoy Returns For Love!
He skimmed the article, Skeeter painting a picture that the “heartbreaker Hermione Granger” has lured the “reclusive ex death eater play boy" back to London with her “feminine wiles.” She claimed he “settled down in a more muggle area” after being “convinced by his latest conquest, Hermione.”
The article also quoted an ex companion of his that he “never really cared about the witches he gets on with” and that Hermione “should watch her heart.“ Skeeter closed the piece saying that the two ex-enemies might be the only ones able to break one another's hearts and that she'd be “reporting diligently for her devoted readers.”
He tossed the paper onto the bed when Hermione groggily asked, “What's happened?”
He was seething.
“Rita fucking Skeeter happened.”
She snorted and eyed the paper as if it were nothing, and sunk back into the pillows, “She's an idiot.”
“I'm going to ruin her,” he said, pulling on his pants and yanking his arms into the shirt on the floor, “She’ll eat the words she's printed. Treating you like a… like a..” he fumbled with the buttons of his shirt before growling in frustration.
“Draco,” Hermione said lightly, “Come back to bed. Or get me coffee, then come back to bed.”
He shook his head, fury rising in his stomach. That was his… his… intended… she'd scorned publicly for every moron to read about. He'd see his solicitor and demand a retraction. He'd do so now.
“Malfoy.”
He unbuttoned and rebuttoned. He didn't miss a single eyelet that time. Small victories.
“Draco!”
He turned then, the witch in bed naked save for the sheet covering her waist to shin. He swallowed. She was heavenly.
“Sorry,” he grunted, “What did you say?”
She sighed, “I said that Skeeter will be handled. She must've forgotten that I am not to be trifled with, so please, let it go… and I asked for you to get us breakfast and come back to bed,” her fingers tapped the sheet, “Please.”
“I'll handle Skeeter and breakfast.”
She scowled, “But I”
Draco apparated before she could finish her sentence.
*** *** ***
Draco returned an hour later to a Hermione Granger with hair wilder than he'd ever seen before in small shorts and a giant threadbare shirt with the words, “Granger Dental” on the back.
She was pouring something from a tin into two bowls, flanked by orange and black at her feet.
He set everything he procured down onto her countertop and watched her ass as she bent low to put the bowls down for her cats.
When she turned she looked tired and leaned against her kitchen cabinet eyeing him, ‘Please tell me there's coffee in that tote. I'm all out.”
He pushed a triple shot cappuccino towards her, “I wouldn't dare return without it.”
She grabbed the cup greedily and asked, “What did you do about Skeeter?”
He wasn’t looking at her when he responded, pulling sandwiches from the tote on the counter, “Nothing for you to worry about, but there will be a retraction and a statement in the evening edition.”
She responded immediately, irritation in her voice, “You didn’t have to -”
He set the sandwiches at the table and pulled a chair, beckoning her to sit, “I did, and I don’t want you to think about it any more.” he said firmly.
They sat at the table, with breakfast and coffee. It was rather domestic, he thought. It was nice.
Her eyebrows rose as she unwrapped her sandwich, “Did you get these from the Breadline?”
He paused between bites, “I did.”
She frowns, “I used to stop there every morning when I first started at the Ministry.”
He takes a bite and nods, chewing slowly. He opened the lid of his coffee, it was a touch too hot. “Do you not like it?”
She shakes her head, “No, it’s fine, just makes me a little nostalgic.”
“For?” he asks.
Merlin, getting this witch to talk sometimes was like pulling teeth.
Maybe that’s why she wore that Granger Dental shirt.
Like a cryptic warning, or something.
She speaks again after chewing the bite she’d ripped from the sandwich, “It’s a little complicated, but in short?”
He nods, and notes that Granger often manhandles bread whenever they talked about anything meaningful. He’d have to start buying it in bulk, perhaps.
She sighs, “Nostalgic for youth, I guess. Er, the optimism, really. Back when I’d harbored all of these…” she waves her hand, “pie-in-the-sky fantasies about how we were going to change the Ministry after the war.”
“Ahh…The old thievery of bureaucracy," he exhales, “Stealing passion from the people since written language.”
She laughs, “Exactly. A tale as old as recorded time.”
He lets that comment sit for a moment before, carefully, starting his inquisition.
He looks at her, her fingers tearing bites from the sandwich, not eating it with two hands, but in chunks.
“Why do you stay, then? At the Ministry I mean. Especially in that Department.”
She rubs her fingers together to unburden her hands from crumbs, “Well… I’m waiting for someone to show an inkling of talent and passion for the department, and I want to finish what I’m working on before I leave.”
He hums, “I feel like there’s more to it than that.”
Hermione grabs for her coffee, “There is. I feel responsible to stick around,” she takes a sip before speaking again, “I’m the only one with any sort of profile or publicity that’s ever headed the Department, so I have a bit more leverage than anyone else would. I’d be doing the Department and all creatures a disservice if I left.”
He scoffs, “Not that you’re not incredible, but you could do more for that department on the Wizengamot.”
She sighs, “Well, I can’t get a seat, until one is available. And even then, the line of puritanical pureblood pricks in line is just,” she silences herself, “Sorry.”
He barks a laugh, “Do not apologize to me. I get it, and agree.”
She starts finger brushing her hair, and pulls half of it up, jabbing her wand into it to keep it in place.
An idea blooms in his mind, “You could take the seat and act as a Representative.”
She shakes her head, “I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’d be all consuming.”
He eyes her carefully, and lifts a brow, “That’s an interesting thing to say.”
Her eyes narrow, “What?”
“Acting, effectively and efficiently, on the Wizengamot would be all consuming,” he states, using air quotes for all consuming, “But,” he starts ticking off his fingers, “Mungo’s, Flourish, House sales, Archives, and the Menagerie all at the same time isn’t? ”
She bites her lip, “The Menagerie fired me.”
He feigns surprise, “That filthy pet store fired Hermione Granger?”
She blows out a breath, “I guess they finally hired some help full time, which is good!” she pulls at the bread again, “I will miss the shop though.”
He shakes his head at her, “You can still go as a patron. It’s not as if they barred you from entering the premises.”
She shrugs, “You’re right. It doesn’t really matter. Hopefully they can make sense of that office. I couldn’t. I swear the man would purposely un-file things I’d filed when it was slow.”
He chuckled at that, “I had no idea that place would even have paperwork.”
She shook her head, “You’d be amazed by how many documents the man has on the toads alone.”
They’d gotten off topic.
“Okay, but you didn’t completely answer me earlier. Mungo’s, the bookstore, home sales, and archives then… You’re saying isn’t all consuming, but the Wizengamot would? ”
She nods, “Yes! Well, yes and no. I’d love to be on the Wizengamot, I’ve threatened to take Harry’s seat plenty of times.”
“But you haven’t.”
“That was just a threat to him, really. I wasn’t actually going to take his seat. It’d have to go through a vote and there’s no way they’d let Harry Potter leave his seat to me.”
“I see.” is all he says, gears turning in his head before asking, “But you said the other jobs aren’t all consuming.”
“It’s spread out.” she says between drinks, she had to tip the cup almost all the way up to get the last drops.
He should have gotten her two.
Or he’d need to monitor her caffeine intake.
“Hermione, How in salazar’s name do you spread it all out? Mungo’s alone… is very demanding.”
She starts unfolding the rim of the paper cup, “It is, but it’s necessary and important.”
He trains his eyes on her “Is that why you started there?”
Hermione shrugs, “Kind of? At first it was because I wanted to feel useful again, after some time in the Ministry. I was feeling very… stuck. So I muscled through the healer’s mastery, and thought maybe I’d switch, and be a healer full-time. But it’s heavy you know? Being there day in and day out. I’m not sure if i’d stay sane. I think I’ve seen enough death. For one lifetime at least, for me.” She covers her face with her hands, “Oh I know that sounds so selfish, but”
He pulls at her wrist, “That isn’t selfish.”
Her hands drop into his, “Tell that to my conscience.”
He squeezes the hands in his, “I’m telling you that, right now… You, Hermione Granger, are not selfish.” He pulls his hands away and taps on his chin, “Except when it comes to books.. Really, Flourish and Blott’s and the archives? Granger, it’s like you’re sucking up every magically written word in the UK.”
She rolls her eyes, “Har, har, har. So funny.” She straightens in her chair, “Flourish and Blott’s was impulsive. I had money to burn, and they needed the help. I am not being greedy, I pay for my books just like any other customer.”
He raises his hands in surrender, “Okay, I’ll drop Flourish from the interrogation.”
She squints at him, “You know, this does rather feel like an interrogation. Do I get to go next?”
He nods, “You can ask me whatever you want, whenever you want.”
Her hands move under the table.
He could guess she was fidgeting them, or pulling at the bracelet.
She lifts her chin, “Why do you want to court me?”
The answer is easy, and comes naturally, “Because nothing else would do, when it comes to you.”
Her mouth parts, and she closes it quickly.
His eyes hadn’t left hers, “Was that answer acceptable?”
She blinks before smiling, “That answer was perfectly sufficient.”
Chapter 15: The Deputy Director of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures
Summary:
Theo finds some artifacts for an upcoming auction event, with Luna's help.
Draco goes to Harrod's, to the Ministry, and for a walk with Hermione.
Notes:
Trigger Warning - Blood / Canon Typical Blood Magic
PS - I cannot believe it took me SO long to update this.
Thank you for sticking with it, if you're still reading - or read at all.
I got swept into life, and three other google docs for fic ideas, which, have become absolute brain worms - I hope to share those with you all too - if you're interested.Regarding this ridiculous piece of fluff - I AM FINISHING THIS SUCKER in (ideally) 5 MORE CHAPTERS.
That's the goal, I'm fairly confident that 2 more chapters will be posted in the next week-ish.Happy Fluff Fic Update Friday
xoxo
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 15 - The Deputy Director of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures
Wand between his teeth, sweat soaking the back of his (newly acquired and now favorite mustard yellow paisley) shirt, Theo finally revealed the single cursed flagstone beneath the rug in the Nott Estate’s defunct parlor.
The parlor, 3 generations ago, would have been used to entertain the more genteel visitors while others paraded and peacocked around the reception room. The parlor, currently, was only hosting dust mites, cobwebs, and dark magic somewhere between the stone floors, ornate built-ins and paint peeled ceiling.
Theo worked on finding the right flagstone for hours. Detection spells rebounded, and each iteration of dark magic sensing spells illuminated the entire floor. The single stone hiding something (probably incredibly terrible) was only revealed when he decided to spill his own blood on every single stone tile in the room.
Unfortunately, it was a big room. Thus, he spent far too much time acquiring blood replenishing potions. His first stop at Pinebogg’s Potions was unsuccessful, the young witch at the counter would not sell him more than 2 vials. Thankfully, the hag who was covering for the owner at Vile Vials & Vines by Vidalia sold him 8, and threw in a honeysuckle tincture (why, he hadn’t the foggiest, but accepted none the less.)
Once appropriately equipped, he cut into his palm deeply, and let thick drops fall onto each stone. He’d had to tip back a few vials, getting light headed after each row, and having to re-cast the cutting spell a few times. It wasn’t until he was more than half way through the room, that one stone glowed once his blood fell onto it. Theo frowned at the stone while seated on his heels - the cold from the stone floor seeping into his knees.
His blood should have been the key to opening whatever it was hiding, but all it did was glow - revealing nothing.
With a groan, he shifted, settling his hands flat onto the ground, and lowered his face to the stone. He began muttering passphrases that his Father had used to conceal the other unsavory spaces in the Estate.
This is how Luna Lovegood found him, ass up in the air, face to the floor, on all fours.
“Theodore,” she said breathily after walking the significant distance from his much warmer, much safer and habitable side of the Estate to the parlor, “Am I interrupting?”
The willowy witch was an infrequent visitor as of late. Her drop ins used to be monthly, but reduced to quarterly, and now were totally unpredictable. He and Luna weren’t really a thing but they weren’t not a thing, either. It was something loose, and easy between them - when they were together, they were together. When she departed back to wherever she was working, they were apart. Nothing more, nothing less - ambiguously romantic, but far weightier than something platonic.
Theo always thought that if either of them weren’t so… themselves… and comfortable with their arrangement, they’d likely be married with a mess of beasts, human and non-human. But they were themselves, and neither too pressed for marriage, or commitment.. Her presence was always a balm, regardless of whatever time had passed.
“Luna love,” Theo sat back on his heels, “It might not be a good time.”
Her slippered feet made a soft schick-shick-shick noise against the stone floor as she padded over to him slowly, her blue eyes fixed on the stone in front of him. Once next to him, she lowered to sit on the floor, and leaned her body into his. She hummed aloud before saying, “I think it’s had enough familial blood.”
He stared at the side of her face, her eyes still on the stone when she continued speaking, more to herself than to him, “Yes. It’s definitely had enough of your blood.”
Luna turned to look back at him, “Do you have any blood replenishing potion?”
His brows furrowed, “Why?”
Her smile was soft, and she pressed a hand into his cheek, “It’s always so heavy on this side of the house. So unlike you,” she removed her hand from his face and pressed her hand onto the glowing stone, “and this demands blood, just not your own.”
He frowned, “If it wants sacrificial blood,” his voice trailed off as he thought hard about any potential work-around.
She answered his thought quickly, sincerely, “You can have mine.”
A mix of shame and anger came over him. Hadn’t they all bled enough for their parents? His eyes shut tightly and he groaned in protest, “No. You absolutely cannot.”
There was a movement at his side, and she said, “It’ll be fine.”
His eyes opened and saw blood falling from her hands, splattering to the ground. She’d cast a deep cutting spell into the palms of her hands, and she cupped them together, making a grotesque bowl of viscous red, fat drops falling between the cracks of her fingers.
She flipped her hands onto the stone and eyed him again, “You better move quickly.”
Theo scrambled up and summoned the remaining vials from the table in the hallway.
*** *** ***
Thank the Gods for blood replenishing potions, and for Luna Lovegood.
Theo spent the next two hours carefully tipping potion into Luna’s mouth as she paled, and bled into the stone. Once the floor stopped sucking each drop into the stone, Luna fell onto her back, sighing heavily, eyes closing, “It should be ready now.”
He nodded dumbly as he cleaned and healed her hand. He brushed his fingers against her plaid cheek, before gathering her up into his arms, to carry to bed. He pulled her face into the crook of his neck and told her, “You’re something spectacular, you know that?”
She mumbled sleepily, “I’m just myself. Much like you.”
They said nothing else as he carried her back to his side of the Estate, and set her gently into his bed. He was watching her curl into the pillows and pondering about the parlor when she spoke again, “You’re so close to it, Theo.”
He bent forward and brushed a kiss against her cheek, “Close to what?”
“Being free of this place, of course.” Her eyes were closed when she said it, and she twisted her head further into the pillow, “Goodnight Theo. I hope you’re here when I wake.”
He took a step backwards, edging towards the door, finding it difficult not to simply tuck in next to her, and drift off to sleep himself, “Sweet dreams, Luna.”
Before shutting the door behind him, he paused to take a look at the blonde in his bed. She was bizarre, and beautiful; something best to be admired. Unkept, and unfettered. Unlike his other trysts, she was a constant.
While Luna slept, Theo tore down the stairs, through the long dark halls, and arrived back to the stone. It wasn’t glowing anymore, but revealed a single rune - othala.
Of course.
Of course his home, his father, would demand more before unveiling it’s secrets.
Theo pricked his finger, dropping one last drop of Nott Heir blood onto it.
The floor shivered and shimmered before the stone cracked in half and parted completely - The opening much larger than the stone itself, Theo launched himself backwards, lest he be sucked into the void now opening in his home.
Once the dust settled, he peered into the opening, a set of stone stairs descending into darkness.
Theo stood tall, swallowed, cracked his neck and blew out a breath.
“Here goes nothing,” he said, steadying himself, while holding his lumos-lit wand in front of him.
*** *** ***
It’d been well over a month since the Janus Thickey Gala, and Draco felt as though he were dosed with felix felices - there was nothing he couldn’t achieve. He was successfully courting, shagging, and spoiling the most incredible, and overworked witch. He had properly trained Penelope, who now nosed a bell he had hanging from a door whenever she needed to go out, and most amusingly, he had Rita Skeeter on the fucking gallows (figuratively speaking… unfortunately)
This feeling of rightness coursed through him as he floo’d into the wizarding entrance of Harrod’s. He was greeted immediately by his family’s own personal wizarding shop assistant, “Lord Malfoy!”
Draco glanced at the man’s carved gold nametag, “Biddlecomb,” he extended a hand in greeting, “Thank you for meeting me.”
They settled into a corner of the office, tea service and scones floated to the table before they sat on the plush chairs.
“It’s not every day that we see a Malfoy,” he poured the tea, and offered milk and sugar, Draco nodded for milk, shook his head at the sugar (Granger had him convinced he’d lose a molar soon.)
“Your Mother still comes frequently though, she was just here, I personally helped her select a hand-tooled abraxan leather bag.”
Biddlecomb was clearly very proud of this sale, and prattled on about the exquisite hardware and detailed each charmed pocket, it’s uses, and similar spells.
Draco couldn't care less about the bags his mother bought, “Sounds lovely,” he drawled before taking a long sip of his tea. He eyed the sugar before looking back at his shopping companion, who was dropping in a second spoonful into his own cup.
“What brings you in today?” Biddlecomb asked while levitating a few scones before Draco.
He snagged the one covered in a glaze, speckled with blueberries and raspberries, and placed it on his plate.
“I’m in need of something like this,” he pulled a folded parchment, and handed it to the outstretched hand in front of him.
Biddlecomb’s matching grey eyebrows and mustache twitched as he eyed the image
“We can definitely charm and embroider something already available to match,” he looked up cautiously, “If that’s okay with you. We’d have to get this custom made if not.”
Draco had eaten half of the scone while the man considered the page, and he took a long drink of tea before replying, “Charming it is fine, how quickly do you think you could have it done?”
The older man’s eyes dropped to the floor then back up, and his fingers twitched as if doing difficult arithmancy in his head. Draco’s eyes dragged from the sugar bowl back onto Biddlecomb’s as he responded confidently, “It will be sent to you between 12 and 2 PM tomorrow, Lord Malfoy.”
*** *** ***
After sending an owl with lunch to his witch, he felt the draw of his wards, and floo’d back home immediately. He found Theo standing in his living room, staring down at Penelope who hadn’t moved from her dog bed. She was chewing something. Food was her highest priority, far higher than her keeper’s arrival.
The women in his life had many priorities.
Draco was usually second (or third) on their list.
He was fine with that. (Mostly.)
“Theo?” he coughed, exhaling a plume of filth from the travel.
He’d need to get his chimney cleaned, or something. He wasn’t sure how, but his floo was far dustier than he was used to (or comfortable with.) A tuft of fur and dust stuck to his pant leg, he swiped it away before looking back up to his friend.
“Finally!” Theo was suddenly at his side, dusting soot from his shoulder, “Where’s her collar?”
Theo’s thumb was toward the beagle who was currently consuming a bone, at a concerningly rapid pace.
Draco continued to watch his dog mangle some sort of treat, “Where’d she get that?”
“Oh, it’s just a little treat,” Theo waved the question away, “Where’s her collar, Draco?”
Draco’s lips pulled down in disgust as he watched his dog gag, cough up a large chunk of the treat, lick it, then began chewing it again.
He sighed, “She likes it off when she’s relaxing,” he eyed Theo carefully, “What’s going on with you? Why are you here?”
“I’ve gotten into another vault,” Theo pulled his hands through his hair before his face went hard.
His lip curled in distaste, eyes bright, “Some of the things in there are so bloody cursed, I’m going to have to get a cursebreaker.”
Draco blanched, “Not the usual faire, then?”
Theo shook his head in disgust, “There’s a few pieces of jewelry in there so soiled with dark magic that I’m convinced my flesh will melt away if I even brush a finger against them.”
A shudder ran through Draco. The late Lord Nott was an awful man, and an even darker Wizard. A sadist, really.
Theo’s face looked pained, “I want every single fucking thing out of there, auctioned off, and whatever money we get out of it to go towards something so muggle-loving that he shudders in his grave.”
Draco understood, “Absolutely. Consider it done.”
Theo’s shoulders relaxed, “Are we still on target for a Christmas event?”
“Everything is settled, except the cause, and whatever you’re wanting to auction off. I wanted to,” he itched his neck, “Ask Granger to pick the charity.”
A snort left Theo’s nostrils, “That’s brilliant.”
Theo clapped him on the shoulder, a smidge too hard, interrupting his train of thought, “The Nott heirlooms funding a charity hand picked by England’s favorite Muggleborn?” His face finally softened, “It’s perfect. Consider it an early engagement present from me, to her, yeah?”
Draco shook his head, “I don’t think that’s,”
Theo turned away and headed towards the floo, “I’ll get with Gringott’s for the cursebreaker, just let me know what Granger picks. Ta, love!” Theo disappeared into green flames, leaving him alone with a dog that smelled faintly of peanut butter.
The remainder of his afternoon was spent at his desk. He’d need to execute this draft flawlessly in order to both get what he wants, and somehow, do so without invoking the wrath of Hermione Granger. It was a balance he was working hard to navigate.
The first owl was simple - it was a request that Granger free up 2 hours of her afternoon on Friday, so he may have lunch with her at the Ministry. She responded with a curt, “Busy - Half an hour?.” After two more owls, it was settled - they’d have 1.5 hours for lunch, and a stroll on Friday between 11:45 AM and 1:15 PM on Friday. He smirked to himself at the win. A negotiation wasn’t what he’d expected, but it thrilled him. Next time he’d risk his starting offer as 3 hours and sex on her desk and see where it went.
The next owl required him to don his Lord Malfoy facade, one he didn’t love wearing, but suited him well when it was needed. He pulled his poshest parchment, ink, and quill from the ancient desk in his office and scratched his forehead before launching into a righteous browbeating of the head Archivist at the Chetnam Library.
It was… An aristocratic (prattish) literary pummeling.
He’d written to, “Express his concerns as a heavy donator and philanthropist”
He’d catalogued every inefficient and unseemly thing he experienced with the Lead Archivist and requested a formal response regarding the Library’s, “Plans to improve the role and their patron’s experience.” as their, “Current Head Archivist was unable to keep a timely appointment. Draco was, “Disheartened to find his urgent requisition was handed off to another associate.”
He did not state that the other associate was his intended, nor did he say that he found her incredibly effective and snoggable, though maybe he should have to ensure she’d not be offered the role.
She’d turn it down if they asked her to take over, right?
Right?
He closed the letter with a warning that heavily implied they ought to consider replacing the man with someone else (i.e, someone born in the last century) and, most importantly, that if he didn’t hear back before the following afternoon, he’d “Consider moving his sizable and reliable donation to another institution.”
To no one’s surprise, whatsoever, Draco received two owls the next day.
The first was the response from the Library. It contained a multitude of words that he scanned through quickly - but, in short it was this:
We fixed it, please keep donating.
The second was a small owl holding an even smaller parcel from Harrod’s.
Penelope barked at both.
*** *** ***
The absolute journey of making it from Hermione Granger’s office door, to her desk was truly that: a journey. It was more like exploring a rainforest (if the trees were filing cabinets, the vines levitating paperwork color coded, and venomous beasts that may kill you missives hurdling at you from other departments.)
He had to take a deep breath by the time he found her at her desk, frowning at a parchment, pen in hand - the cap being chewed into something unrecognizable. These small jabs for muggle inclusion in the ancient wizarding buildings she worked in was heartwarming. Pens at Mungo’s and the Ministry, those shorts at Flourish & Blott’s.
“Deputy Director Granger,” he stated
She looked startled then her face relaxed into an easy smile, “Draco!” she laughed, “Is it 11:45 already?” The pen cap was still between her teeth, his eyes traced how she spoke around it, and he smiled. Suddenly her eyes widened a fraction before pulling it out and tossing it into the bin near her desk.
He was amused by this discovery.
“Pen caps cannot taste better than a sugar quill.” he teased.
She ran a finger where the pen cap had been, “Sugar quills are terrible for your -”
He groaned, “Teeth, yes I know.”
She laughed, “I was going to say they’re terrible for your focus… the sugar-crash.”
“That’s because you don’t eat properly.” he plopped the tote he’d brought onto her desk.
She sat back against her chair and folded her arms against her chest, “I eat properly, thank you very much.”
“Bran bars are not eating properly, Granger.” He said, pulling out a container from the tote.
She huffed.
He fixed her with a look as he set the dish in front of her, “Roasted tomato, spinach, orzo, and feta salad,” he pulled another out, “Herb encrusted chicken,” then lastly a glass bottle, “Mint and lemon water.”
She pulled her arms away from her chest and pulled the lid for the container of chicken, “And what’d you get?”
Draco reached into the tote and pulled out a white bag with grease on the bottom, “Fish and chips.”
She choked, “That is so unfair.”
He shook his head and pointed to himself, “I got what I wanted,” he pointed at her, “You got what you needed.”
She sighed, “Ugh, you’re right. I’d fall asleep after eating that,” she looked at the bag of fried food wistfully, before tearing open the small container of dressing, “But this salad looks incredible.”
She mixed the dressing into her salad, but paused as she watched him open his bag, “Let me have a chip.”
The single chip she’d requested, ultimately, was more than half of his meal. Her salad sat half eaten, when she exhaled, “That was delicious. Thank you.”
He scourgified her desk, then sat back, eyeing his witch carefully.
“Tell me about the bill keeping you so tied up this week. You were pretty vague about it when we last talked.”
She took a long drink of her water, nodding while she swallowed, “I hate talking about the things I propose before I get a date to present it.”
“Superstitious?” he asked seriously.
“God, no. I just don’t want to get ahead of myself - if it doesn’t get accepted to even be presented, then I look like a fool.”
Draco rolled his eyes.
She shook her head, “Don’t give me that. You’ve never seen me muck one up like I did when I first started.”
“I’d wager your definition of mucking something up is most of the Wizengamot’s definition of a successful and productive day.”
Her answering laugh made him grin, “That’s what I thought.”
She rested her chin against her fist, the bracelet fell further onto her arm, “It’s an expansion to the Dragon’s Protection Act.”
His brows rose, “What are you adding?”
“Nothing crazy!” she defended, voice high.
He snorted a laugh, she clearly wasn’t used to inquiries like his, “Hermione.”
She rubbed her eyes, “Sorry,” her eyes met his, “Believe it or not, the original hasn’t been updated since 1911.”
He angled his face down, and gave her the most dead-eyed, flat-lipped look he could muster, “Shocking.”
The hand cradling her face fell against her desk with a bang, “It’s maddening!” she stood suddenly and started circling her desk - Draco’s head twisted to the left to watch her, “It’s impossible for the few reserves to care for so many dragons! Between the poaching, and the underpaid staff,”
His head swiveled the right as she breezed past him, speaking loudly - her hands up and down as she spoke more aggressively, “The current law doesn’t even outline what ethically sourced even means when it comes to Dragon materials, leaving this horrible gray area, and reserves stuck fending for themselves against poachers in most instances.”
He stood, getting slightly dizzy, moving his head around to catch a glimpse of her back and hair, “Isn’t that something the DMLE should handle?”
She scoffed and paused behind her desk, throwing her hands up, “You’d think that wouldn’t you?”
“I think most people assume that’s the case,” he responded.
She set her hands against her desk, leaning forward, her eyes sharp and furious, “Exactly. Poachers are most often dealt with by those on the reserves first. They apprehend them, they confiscate the goods stolen, and they make the report. They are spending their own time and energy to capture these… these despicable monsters.”
Draco was stunned.
She was enraged, “They are doing our Aurors jobs for them and getting nothing back from the Ministry other than tossing them a few galleons each year.”
Her fury made him a little nervous (and surprisingly, slightly aroused.) Hermione’s eyes were looking at him, but not seeing him before he asked, “What’s your proposal?”
She straightened and relaxed her shoulders, “I sound raving mad, I know, but I promise my proposal is really rather conservative,” she sat back down.
She pulled a few pages of parchment from her desk drawer, and slid it to him. He read through them as she spoke, “The proposal includes our government defining the term ethically sourced, which will allow the reserves to sell their own material with far less competition. Any dragon-sourced ingredients or material will need to be labeled as such. Any distribution of unlabeled ingredients will be investigated - their distributors, and manufacturers shut down or fined. Generating even more revenue for the Ministry, this Department and the Reserves..”
Draco drummed his fingers against the chair across from her, “Don’t they already sell their own goods?”
Hermione answered quickly, clearly well researched and ready to present her bill, “Yes, but the market is full of poached material, and because reserves need to compensate for their overhead, they’re unfortunately, more expensive than what the poachers sell.”
Her work was thorough, but he wondered, “Wouldn’t this impact availability for potioneers and healers, though?”
She shook her head, “No, unless we suddenly find a 13th use for Dragon’s Blood, the market will not be impacted.”
“It does create an extensive black market opportunity, though Granger.” Draco warned.
“There will always be an underground market, we all know that. But this creates another hurdle for poachers, generates revenue for the reserves, and gets some proper framework in place for revisions, and updates for other unprotected creatures.”
She was right.
This was a strong step in the right direction for reserves, and the dragon’s they care for.
She settled back into her chair heavily, “You look like you’ve been hit with a stunner.”
“A short, angry, beautiful stunner who has,” he checked his watch, “40 more minutes to walk with me.” He turned towards her door, and watched as she grumbled something inaudible under her breath before heading out for a short walk about.
*** *** ***
They settled together on a bench at St. James park and watched as muggles circled the path alongside Ministry employees who were all seemingly “getting their steps in.”
Hermione seemed lost in thought, her head tilted back enjoying the sun. While she was distracted, Draco pulled the small box from his pocket and discretely enlarged it, placing it on her lap along with an envelope.
“What’s this?” she side-eyed him with mock-suspicion.
He flicked her hand, “Open it and find out.”
She yelped, elbowed him once in the ribs, and pulled the letter towards her.
“Wait,” he said, “Open the box first.”
He wanted to see her smile at his gift before she potentially (highly likely) sent him away. Her brow was furrowed in confusion before she nodded slowly, “Okay…” she said slowly - her fingers pulling at the paper covering the box.
She set the lid on his lap, and hummed when she pulled the rich green hair ribbon from the box.
“This is the softest thing I’ve ever felt,” she said, pulling it through her fingers once, twice, before burying her face into it.
Draco’s left hand found it’s way into her hair, and he tugged lightly, “Look at it properly, witch.”
Her head shot up and she loosed her grip from the scarf, letting it’s length tumble before she held it up with both hands. Her voice was quiet as she read the embroidery, “Je reve de torde mes doigts dans tes cheveux.” she narrowed her eyes on it.
He was grinning, “Do you know what it says?”
She didn’t answer, instead she started rummaging through the bag next to her and pulled a pen and paper out, writing hastily. She turned her back to him on the bench, as if protecting a test from his cheating eyes.
He laughed, “What are you doing?” He placed his chin on her shoulder, trying to see what she was fumbling with out of his viewpoint. Her hair was an excellent blindfold though.
He heard her whisper a charm and after a moment she turned to him quickly. Her eyes were wide with a smile, “You do, do you?”
He nodded, “Since the moment you met me at the cafe.”
She settled her back into the bench and rested her head on his shoulder, his left hand found it’s way back into the riotous curls. She didn’t say anything for a long time, they just sat there, peacefully, before she seemed to remember the other half of his gift. She straightened immediately and pulled the envelope from where it sat, momentarily forgotten, beneath the paper wrapping from her hairscarf.
“Draco,” her voice was low, concerned. She ripped the envelope open and pulled the letter out, reading it quickly. She roughly set it on her lap, and stared out into the park. She blinked rapidly.
Draco ran hot, and cold simultaneously. He shifted on the bench, realizing how hard the metal beneath him was. Couldn’t they put cushions on these things?
“You did this?” her index finger brushed a corner of the letter - the response from the library he’d received the day before, detailing their correction, and request for his continued funding.
He took a deep breath, “I did nothing but offer them an honest commentary on my experience.”
Her voice was low, quiet, “Without even asking me? Consulting me at all?”
Her eyes still hadn’t left the park. He put his hand to her chin and pulled her face towards his.
He swallowed, and answered truthfully, his eyes steady on hers, “I did.”
Draco hoped that his eyes and short answer conveyed everything he meant - You deserve rest, you deserve peace, you deserve more, let me give it to you, let me have you, let me keep you.
She wrapped her fingers around his wrist and squeezed before slowly pulling his hand away from her chin. Her fingers and his entwined, and laid heavy on her lap. She stared down at their connected hands, and he wondered if this was it.
He’d overstepped.
She would need space.
She was ending this.
Draco opened his mouth to apologize, knowing this was a risk, and he knew (he knew!) she could hex him and leave him. Before he could speak, she pulled her hand from his, twisted away from him, and reached for her bag.
She quickly faced him again, a letter in her hand.
“I got this yesterday.” She set the missive into his lap.
It was a job offer, as (unsurprisingly) the Lead Archivist for the Chetnam Library.
Draco frowned, readying himself for the onslaught of, “You’re no good, you’ve gone behind my back, you’ve made decisions for me, how dare you,” and so on.
The grease from his ill-advised lunch swirled in his stomach.
He would not vomit when being dumped.
He couldn’t.
She stood suddenly, and stood in front of him - her shoulders pulled back, and face pulled forward. Hermione Granger was the definition of confidence and composure, when she shocked him.
“I turned it down and,” her eyes dropped and lifted again - her voice shaky, “and.. I understand, I think. Thank you, for,” she laughed a small, watery, laugh, “For forcing me to slow down.”
Relief.
Sweet relief, and victory flooded his veins, his blood sang: She accepts, she accepts, she accepts.
The sun was just behind her, illuminating her from behind. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her, “Thank you for letting me,” he cleared his throat, “and thank you for not hexing me.”
She reached for him then, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, and rested on his shoulder - she leant forward ever so slightly so their eyes were level, “Why?” she asked, then another question fell from her lips, a whisper, “Are you so certain?”
“I am,” he said quickly, his voice thick - answering only half of her question.
She took in a sharp inhale, he then answered the first part of her question, with one of his own, “Have you thought more at all about taking a seat on the Wizengamot?”
She chewed her lip, and nodded, “Somewhat.”
That was all she said.
“Right,” he stood, now angling his face down, “When’s the date for your presentation?”
“September 17th.”
He pulled the ribbon up from where she left it on the bench, and looped it around her neck, tying it slowly, carefully, “Just in time for you to celebrate a win and your birthday.”
She groaned, “If it gets passed.”
He pulled the ribbon up to rest at the crown of her head, “It’ll pass,” he was adjusting the ribbon further when he asked, “and when it does,” she scoffed, but he continued, speaking over her objections, “When it passes, do you feel as though you’d consider leaving the DRCMC?”
She sighed as his fingers moved through her hair, “Perhaps, only if it passes would I consider it. That is my oldest open item…” her voice trailed off as suddenly her hair began to shift. The ribbon pulled back and tied half of her hair up, the hair left down softened into defined ringlets - a few stubborn fly-aways laid flat.
She gasped, “What kind of charm is that?” Her hand ran through the length of hair now resting on her shoulder.
He smiled, “It’s charmed to style the wearer’s hair however they hope for.”
“How?” she asked
He interrupted her with a tug on a curl, “You can’t be smart, beautiful, intelligent, a do-gooder, an estate agent, a healer, a businesswoman, and know every single hair enchantment,” he blew out a breath, “You have to save something for the rest of us.”
Her laugh was rich, and he pulled her into his side, gathering her bag and strewn paper from the bench, while walking her back towards the Ministry’s phone booth entrance.
“One last thing,” he murmured before closing the phone booth door, “I need you to pick a charity for the next event.”
Her brow furrowed, “Me?”
He nodded, “Theo said, and I quote,” he lowered his voice, “Something so muggle-loving it makes my father shift in his grave,” his voice returned to his normal (pleasing octave), “We want you to hand pick it.”
“Wow,” she rested a hand against her chest, “Give me a few days?”
“Of course,” he pressed a firm kiss against her cheek before whispering into her ear, “Your lunch ended twenty minutes ago, by the way.”
Her eyes widened and she pushed him away, “You selfish troll!”
She laughed before slamming the door closed, picking up the old phone receiver and punching the buttons, all the while scowling at him through the glass.
He’d gladly be scowled at for making her late, so long as he got to take up more of her time.
As much of it as she’d give.
Notes:
Here's what's embroidered into that courting gift hair scarf!
Je reve de torde mes doigts dans tes cheveux - I dream of twisting my fingers in your hair.
*Please know I'm using Google Translate, so if it's a terrible translation, I'm sorry.Also, for anyone who cares - here is who Penelope is modeled after, my own sweet dummy:
Chapter 16: Rough on Things
Summary:
Time passes as Granger readies for the Wizengamot hearing for her Addendum to the Dragon's Protection Act.
Notes:
After far too much overthinking, we're back on track.
Four more chapters.
Happy Sunday - here's a pinch of smut, and some sickeningly sweet sappy stuff for you, as a treat.
XOXO
Chapter Text
Chapter 16 - Rough on Things
The morning after she submitted the addendum to the Dragon’s Protection Act for the Wizengamot’s review to proceed with a hearing, she found herself stalled. She had free time. The parchment on her desk was empty for the first time in months, she hadn’t been called into Mungo’s, was no longer needed to hand-hold an old man in the Archives, nor had to babysit the Menagerie’s coffers.
Because of him.
It was completely and unnervingly unprecedented. Between the bouts of joy the wizard bestowed, her mind would repeat words like: impetuous, and unsustainable. These words would later be replaced with words like yes, oh-gods, and his favorite: please, by his hands atop exquisite sheets on his luxuriously soft bed.
Whenever her brain would zap back to something closer to functional, much later, on top of her own lumpy quilt (lovingly handmade by her Mother during a very trying craft-craze in the Granger household circa 1995) she’d groan into her pillow in exasperation.
It was going well. Too well.
Without anything to attend to, she’d begun to spiral.
Would they live together? He was far too tall for hers. She was far too comfortable in hers, for his. Would they share a Gringott’s vault? She didn’t care for the descent to the ancient family vaults, and preferred her easily accessible one on Level 10. She looks at the empty-take out container on her night stand and grimaces. She’s certainly no Sara Lee.
Her mind was spinning - Jesus and Merlin on a merry-go-round. She was frustrated. It was far too unbalanced.
She wants to have at him for the Archives stunt, but she’d be a hypocrite if she said she didn’t appreciate the consideration and action he put into her well-being.
She offered him no gifts, no grand gestures, nothing - really other than the company, great shags, and some laughs she wasn’t sure what she brought him. Perhaps that was the core of her concern - It wasn’t equitable.
Staring at her empty desk with a sense of foreboding, she decided to pack up her dusty, brick-esque laptop into a small satchel, and disapparated with a crack to an alley behind the muggle cafe closest to her cottage (which had excellent espresso, piss-poor customer service, and decent wi-fi.)
After ensuring her laptop’s screen was well hidden away from nosey onlookers, she gathered the courage to search terms like, “Relationship moving too fast,” and “Should I get married?”
Every search turned up a load of nothing - Generic responses on message boards about people’s (very problematic) love lives, and the word ‘lovebombing’ which, in her opinion, seemed to be on par with pureblood courting traditions - and the scarier bits were, thankfully, not what she was experiencing.
She worried about the state of feminism for a bit too long after reading a forum about women working while handling all of the house-duties despite having a husband, before sighing heavily, slamming the laptop shut and deciding that this required a meeting of the minds (i.e, Emergency G&T with G&P)
*** *** ***
Draco excitedly visited Granger’s cottage several times over the next three weeks, and he always left her an open invitation to his. She’d arrive at his house at odd hours either stressed after a shift at Mungo's, or at a reasonable 7 PM after a day spent in the bowels of the Ministry, or the book shoppe.
At the sound of his floo flaring to life, he’d scramble from his office or his bed with Penelope on his heels. He’d pause, leaning against the door frame to watch her (quite aggressively) throw her things to his couch with a growl. (Truly, she was a proper beast after work) She’d crumble to the floor, flop onto her back, as Penelope would press her face into Hermione’s, tail wagging rapidly.
Draco would take a few short strides into the room and stand above them, watching with what he knew must be a dopey smile before he’d fall to the floor beside her. Once settled, shoulders pressing into one another, he’d turn his head towards her, to find her eyes already on him.
“Long day?” he’d ask.
Her default response of, “The longest.” would be covered by his mouth on hers.
Between kisses, she’d tell him every last thought she’d had. He never knew what to expect - sometimes she’d pull away from him to thunk her head against his rug in frustration about the lack of outreach or programs for potion addicts. Other times she’d snort a laugh into the crook of his neck while recalling a book request from an unusual customer, or most recently, a Freudian slip she over-heard in the ministry hall. He had to ask a lot of follow up questions about exactly what a Freudian slip was, and found himself more horrified by her answer than the actual offense.
As she pivoted their conversation to him, a dull subject in his opinion, once in a great while she asked something that he’d have to craft an answer to. This wasn’t often, by any means - Draco was truthful about almost everything.
While settling in for a late dinner, she’d asked “How are things going with the setup for the Christmas Gala?”
He had answered in truth, “Much easier this time, we have everything appraised except for a few things from Theo’s own collection, and a small limb we acquired for wandmaking from the Fortingall Yew tree in Perthshire.”
One exceptional Saturday night, as he fixed his hair in the mirror over the bathroom sink, she asked from the shower, loudly speaking over the sound of water, “Did Theo like the idea for a Muggle-Born Headstart Program?”
He pulled open the shower curtain, watching her rinse conditioner from her hair, water running down her body and she startled as his voice, now exceptionally close, answered, “He loved it even more than the Headmaster did. It’s going to change lives.”
On a Tuesday, while readying for bed earlier than normal, as she had to prepare for an inter-department meeting the next morning, she wondered (with her freezing cold toes pressing into his ankles), “Did you like that Murakami book I left for you? A lot of people like it, you know.”
He yelped, “Your feet are like icicles, Granger! Merlin and his Mother! Why aren’t you wearing socks?!”
He didn’t mean to avoid that question, but her feet should be considered their own anomalous weather pattern. She outright refused to wear socks in bed, no matter how many pairs he offered (he had purchased a pair in every possible material, to no avail.) How she raised the temperature in bed so unreasonably, while maintaining such frigid extremities should be investigated by a healer. She also refused when he’d asked her to make an appointment, or have a colleague check the next time she was called into Mungo’s.
There was a Thursday in recent history, where she returned to his house from Pansy’s (proper pissed) where she slurred, “Dunno how you,” a hiccup, “Why you wanna be betrothed to me. Pansy says,” another hiccup, “That you’d be offended if I bought you courting gifts.” She grumbled something then followed it up with, “It’s kind of sexist, I think, really.” (She’d said ‘betrothed’ in a way that would earn her several raised eyebrows in polite company.)
He summoned her a plate of crispy chips, wrapped her in a blanket, and sent her to bed with the only answer he could give her, “Because you’re exceptional, and I’m the luckiest bloke, you drunk daft bint.” She harrumphed into his pillow, and started snoring shortly after - chips untouched.
The questions he outright lied to, were like these:
When he walked in on her plucking hair from her upper lip, her cheeks darkened before turning back to the mirror, her voice took on a scathing tone and she asked, “As if I haven’t caught you charming your nose hair away, Draco. I just didn’t stop and stare, like you are now. Have you any regard for me?”
He snorted, “None whatsoever.”
Last week, on a Wednesday, she arrived at an absurd 3 AM, causing Penelope to howl, running out of his room, down the hall as he chased after her. Hermione looked exhausted and had recently been crying - clearly a terrible night at Mungo’s for his witch. She asked, “Did I wake you? I’m so sorry. I thought you might be up again like you were the other night. I can leave, I don’t want to be a bother.”
He cleared his throat and lied, “I was awake,” before offering her tea and reminding her that she’s never a bother. The last bit of that was true, at least.
The two questions he dreaded were the open ended ones.
“What did you get up to today?” she asked, eyes bright, cheeks well colored from their game of chase with the dog.
He looked to his feet before he answered, “Nothing noteworthy today, love. How about you?”
That was the same day he, Narcissa, Potter, and Percy had met at Grimmauld and took count of which Wizengamot members would likely vote Nay on her Addendum to the Dragon Protection Act. Potter was owed favors, and Narcissa had what she called, “interesting information,” that might, “help a few make the right decision.” Percy, despite his disinterest in what he said was ‘disreputable behavior’ knew this would help his brother directly, and wanted it to pass. He said he’d do what he could, within his purview.
A few days ago she’d asked him, while digging her fork into his pad-thai, “How’s your Mother doing?”
He sighed, batting her fork away with his own, and answered, “She’s doing very well, enjoying the last blooms of her garden. She’d love it if we visited together.”
Hermione hummed about them stopping by the Manor together, but in reality, his Mother had accosted him over a floo call that afternoon about how he, “Hadn’t properly proposed yet,” and that she, “Was never getting a grandchild.”
*** *** ***
On the Sunday before the Wizengamot hearing of her Addendum, he was greeted after stepping from the floo by Inkblot zooming past his feet in an attempt to hide from Penelope, who squirmed heavily in his arms. He dropped her softly to the floor and mosied slowly into the kitchen. The sound of cabinet doors slamming shut, a drawer being pulled open roughly, and the sound of silverware clinking together halted as he looped his arms around her waist.
She sank back into his chest as he pressed his nose into the crown of her head.
Usually they’d share a snog, and a greeting, but today it dawned on him that the small woman was a brute force.
“I can’t believe your home is still standing sometimes,” he muttered into her hair, “You’re quite rough on things, you know?”
She scoffed, “I am not.” and twisted to face him, her brows furrowed.
“Maybe not on everything, you could be a little rougher on me,” he waggled his brows before she smacked him in the chest, “Yes, like that.” he laughed, while flinching away from her.
Hermione’s lip tugged up, mischief in her eyes, “You want to be roughed up, do you?”
He swallowed, and before he could even respond, she shoved him, and began yanking the jacket off of his shoulders, her small hands gripping his shirt and pulling. He heard a button ping against her kitchen window.
An unexpected Mmph left his throat as her fingers dug into his hair pulling him roughly down to her, her lips landing harshly against his.
She’d never been so forceful with him before - blood rushed from whatever extremities no longer needed it to his pants. He was grinning into the kiss, their teeth clacked together, and she laughed before sighing into his mouth, her tongue meeting his.
Unbridled joy and want spun together in tandem somewhere deep in his chest.
“Hermione,” he breathed, hands on her hips, pulling her into himself.
Their hands chased one another, mouths against skin, pushing and pulling, until he had her - hands under her ass, her legs wrapped around his waist, her back pressed into her tallest kitchen cabinet. Dishes rattled behind the doors as he rutted against her, her breathy moans in his ear louder than the clatter of cups and bowls.
The joy and want that danced in his chest burned hot into need as a hand roamed down his chest, landing at his belt, and pulled.
Hermione created a space, wriggling down, and back onto her knees. Steady hands continuing their work - pulling his belt open, unbuttoning, and unzipping his trousers.
Draco’s forehead thudded against the wood of the cabinet as he watched her pull him, heavy and hard, out of his trousers and into her mouth. Hermione moaned around him, sending sparks up his spine.
“I love the sounds you make,” he praised, fisting her hair, “So good, I could - oh fuck,” he was getting close, words becoming more difficult as she took him more deeply.
Without warning, she pulled away, he met cold air and he looked down, bewildered and agonized by the loss of her mouth.
“I was about to,” he was so close to coming and she smiled a small, vindictive little smile.
“You’re an evil, wicked thing,” he laughed in surprise.
He considered yanking her up and repaying her but she moved faster than he thought.
A thrum of magic sank into his shoulders from her hands, as she walked him backwards until a chair was pressing into the back of his knees.
“Sit.” she commanded.
He sat - half dressed, wholly hard, diminished in acumen.
Hermione bent low, shucking her jeans down her legs. He wanted to pull her onto him, but when he attempted to reach, he found that his hands were stuck at his sides.
“Granger.”
“Malfoy,” she teased, “Hands to yourself, please.”
He groaned and hung his head low, chin hitting his sternum, eyes fixed on the witch who was now pulling her shirt off.
Frustration with the inability to grip her warred with the excitement he felt about her taking all of the control. He pressed his tongue into his cheek, as he eyed her lithe form.
The tan on her legs lightened further up her thighs, thin shiny lines streaked her hips, a landmark for where his hands were meant to be.
She slid her thigh up to notch a knee between his thigh and arm, while taking a fist-full of his hair, wrenching it back. His chin faced the ceiling, throat exposed, skin pulled so tight that it was almost painful as his Adam's apple bobbed.
Leaning into him, every point of her warm skin touching his chest igniting his need further. She pressed her lips to his ear, her voice husky, “That wasn’t very nice, Draco.”
Being scolded by this willful, naked witch was more than he could bear.
Finally, their lips met, as she lowered onto him, and released his hands from the sticking charm.
He pulled her up, and down, her eyes closed in pleasure.
“Look at me.”
She took in a deep breath, and opened her eyes.
The moment their eyes met, something sharper than pleasure struck him then. He was overwhelmed with it, the feeling so strong he thought light may have burst from his chest.
“My beautiful witch,” he needed her to know, but his mind was utterly gone - he was nothing but momentum seeking bliss, “I love y,” she silenced him then, her mouth finding his.
As they continued to move together, her face nestled into him, she began whining his favorite song against his neck.
He loved how she hummed sweetly against him, before careening over the precipice of pleasure. He loved how she felt around him, how she smelled, how she spoke, how she moved, what she thought, what she did.
“Come for me.”
A low broken keen, then a sweet moaning request, “Come with me. Please Draco.”
Nose to nose, mouths sharing a breath, they came together.
Boneless, brainless, and sweaty they caught their breath against one another. She sighed, and hummed a happy soft sound of satisfaction before she teased, “You do like it rough, then.”
He huffed a laugh, “I’m pretty sure you do too.”
She laughed too, pulling away from him. She ran a hand from his shoulder up to his cheek, “With you, I’d like most anything, I think.”
“Seems we have that in common.”
*** *** ***
As the hours passed that afternoon, Hermione had gone quiet (verbally), and (loudly) fidgeted. Draco watched from his place on the couch, taking in the last light of the day, as she huddled in her armchair, reading (re-reading) and notating (re-notating) index cards, while bouncing a slippered foot against the floor. Penelope snored, and stretched, next to him - her feet kicking into his leg as Crookshanks licked the top of her now copper head. He wondered if other dogs changed color as they aged, and was about to ask when Hermione sat up and said, “Would you hate me if I asked you to go home tonight?”
He frowned, “No? But why?”
She picked at her thumb, he should have brought her a sandwich so she could mangle the bread instead of her own flesh, “I’m feeling very distracted.” her eyes bounced from his to his lips, then back up.
“You find me distracting?” he asked, feeling quite smug all of a sudden. The disappointment in being asked to leave by his witch fading quickly.
“Very much so.” She smiled softly at him.
He narrowed his eyes on her, and shut the book he was reading, “What do you need?”
She sighed heavily, “I don’t know, I’m always like this before,” her voice trailed off, before she cleared her throat and sat up,“I just need to be ready for whatever they’ll throw at me tomorrow.”
He nodded, slowly, “You’ve written, and rewritten that proposal how many times?”
“Nine times,” she breathed.
“Your talking points are memorised, you’ve recited it to me, without a single stutter, at least five times.”
She nodded, eyes avoiding him.
“Come here, Hermione.” He threw a pillow onto the floor between his feet.
She rolled her eyes, but he wasn’t going to have her argue, “Now, please.”
She clambered out of her armchair, and shuffled over to him, sitting down roughly onto the pillow, her head rested against one of his knees.
Draco pulled her hair onto her back, and brushed his fingers through, massaging her scalp, and working his way down to her neck, “You’ve nothing to worry about.”
Hermione sighed as he worked a small knot where her neck met her shoulder, “You’re prepared. You’ve anticipated all that you can, short of divining it from the stars,” she snorted a laugh, and he squeezed the knot more roughly, she yelped. He rubbed it more softly, “You’re ready. You will win. You have done all that you can.”
She nodded, her cheek rubbing against his knee, “I have.”
“Say it, Hermione.” he worked shoulders, rubbing firm circles into triceps.
She groaned, and said it with sarcasm, “I’ve done everything I can.”
He tutted, “That wasn’t very believable.”
She cleared her throat, and tried again, “I’m ready.”
He worked his way up again towards her shoulders, before sliding his thumbs to work her back, “You’re well prepared.”
“I’m well prepared,” she mimicked.
“You’ve done all you can, and then some.” He recited.
She yawned, “I’ve done all that I can. Tomorrow will go well.”
Chapter 17: Perseverance & Victory
Summary:
The Wizengamot hold the review of the Addendum to the Dragon's Protection Act
Ron POV to start.
Chapter Text
Chapter 17 - Perseverance & Victory
His eyes cracked open, a long thin strand of drool that trailed from his lip to his pillow snapped at the middle when he reared upwards from his bed.
“Shit,” Ron mumbled around a haze of exhaustion - the sun at just the right angle that it peeked over his neighbors roof, and hit him right in the eyes. He squinted - the sun should not be this high right now. Eyes growing wide in dawning horror, a panicked rush of, “Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit” as he threw his legs over the side of the bed, and scrambled towards the pile of an armchair.
The alarm clock his Dad had charmed to vibrate, shout, and hit him on the forehead did not go off this morning. He glared at it on the nightstand, wondering if it was broken, or if he bungled the spell the night before.
Reaching through the mostly-clean pile of clothes, his hand grasped what he’d been searching for. He gave the threadbare tartan boxers a quick sniff. He shrugged at the lack-of-ball-sweat-smell, before pulling them on. The armoire was empty save for a single collared button up shirt. The thin wire hanger clattered to the floor as he ripped it out, one arm busy with casting a freshening charm on his mouth, the other pulling half of the shirt on.
He needed pants. They were definitely… somewhere. He finished buttoning the shirt while searching the room with a frown.
“Accio dress pants!”
Thick fabric slapped against his nose, and a button struck his groin - the impact forced a grunt from him, the summoning charm a touch stronger than he’d intended. As he stepped a foot into the leg, he multi-tasked, “Accio plaid socks” he mumbled. Five individual socks, none matching, flew towards him - two from the pile of laundry, three from under his bed.
Once finally dressed in pants he’d scourgified twice, and in socks he hoped no one paid any mind to, he flew down the stairs of his home, leaping to the floor from the fourth step. The floo in his sitting room flared to life as he tossed powder into it and said, “Ministry of Mag-” he groaned, then took a large step back, “Shit!”
Running back towards the stairs, he shouted, “Accio dress shoes!”
A single brown wingtip shoe banged down the steps.
His eyes shifted nervously as he craned his neck left and right, waiting for the appearance of the other. He tried again, “Accio LEFT brown dress shoe!”
He waited.
“Fucking hell,” he moaned in defeat as nothing appeared. He pivoted, and barked a sharp, “Accio work boots!”
He heard it before he saw it, and twisted quickly to grab at the muddy black boot soaring towards him. He tossed it to the floor, and pressed a foot into it. As he bent forward to roughly tie the laces, a force struck him in the back - hard.
“OOOF!” The breath in his lungs was expelled by the sudden impact.
Bent forward, one hand on his knee, another pressed against his sternum, he sucked in a lungful of air. He needed a few slow breaths before he could stand, and turn to grab for the boot he’d summoned that now lay behind him. He rubbed the now sore patch on his back and snorted a laugh when he peered down and saw a brown boot on the floor in front of him, next to the black boot currently on his right foot, “You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me.”
Fifteen agonizing minutes later, Ron stepped into the Ministry’s lobby (in matching brown wingtip dress shoes.) He ran to the bay of lifts, and shouted, “Sorry! Sorry alright!?” as he forced his way through the small crowd of witches and wizards who had queued up to get on. Stuffed in the back of the lift, he gripped the leather handle overhead as the lift hurdled to-and-fro.
Sweat dripped down his back and settled in his ass-crack. If this weren’t bad enough - he also had to pee. He shifted uncomfortably, willing the lift to land on the lowest level so he could get to a bathroom. Unfortunately for Ron, the lift stopped four times to let people on and off who all seemed to be in no rush at all, whatsoever.
He sighed heavily watching the witches and wizards around him make idle chit-chat, and bob their heads in greeting. A wizard to his right flicked open a paper. He was flummoxed at how someone could possibly read on a lift without spewing, when the movement on the front page caught his eye. The headline said, “Golden Girl Presenting Groundbreaking Legislation Today!” a photo of a very harried Hermione briskly walking towards the Ministry’s lifts, Malfoy at her side with an arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders - shielding her from the frenzied flash of cameras. Beneath the photo had a flashing bit of text that read, “Skirt, blouse and heels styled by Accouture - Schedule and appointment today!”
Ron’s bladder screamed, and he wondered just how late he actually was.
“S’cuse me,” he asked the wiry grey haired, wide-statured witch in navy robes to his right. She smelled a bit like the mildew on his shower curtain, the scent growing in intensity as she angled her body towards him. A newt she kept perched on her shoulders skittered to nest under her collar as her cloudy eyes blinked up at him. He croaked, “Do you have the time?”
She replied with a smile, in a language Ron didn’t understand.
“Thanks.” his voice cracked.
After a long piss in the Ministry's dingiest bathroom, he stood before the heavy wood door - a large golden plaque embedded at chest-level below a window read, “WIZENGAMOT COURT ROOM 1”
He wiped wet hands onto his pants, and pulled on the door handle.
It didn’t move.
The window was charmed to be opaque as the room was in session, but he pressed his face against it anyway. He could see faint shadows moving around. With a tight fist, he knocked against the door as politely as he could manage (to the tune of: shave and a haircut, two knuts)
When another two minutes ticked by without the door opening, he rested his forehead against the cool glass pane, and mentally willed someone, anyone, to sneak him in. Legillimency would have been an incredibly handy thing to know right now, he thought, imagining calling a brother, Ginny, or Merlin himself to open the door, cast a disillusionment charm on him, and whisk him into a seat without anyone noticing.
The door creaked open, suddenly and without warning. He yelped, as a hand gripped his shirt and roughly tugged him into the room. Theo’s face was amused as he whispered, “Follow me mate.”
Theo turned away from him and walked quickly and quietly back to his seat. Ron was frozen in place, realizing that every head was turned in his direction - every spectator, every noble purple-robed Wizengamot member, and worst of all: Hermione Jean Granger.
He gulped.
The tips of his ears flared hot. He nodded his head at the terrifying witch at the center of the room, her hands gripping the lectern in front of her. She frowned at him, before turning her head back towards the front. Ron swore he saw the hair that fell to her back crackle a little after she turned away from him.
He swallowed his fear of a fiery Hermione and made his way to the open seat between Theo on the left, Pansy and Neville on the right. Pansy’s eyes flicked over him before he sat, taking in his overall state. She wrinkled her nose when she saw his socks - she was clearly not impressed. Neville gave him a stiff pat on the arm as he passed, and Ron gave them both his best apologetic smile in return before looking towards the lectern, Hermione standing tall between two large flat rectangular objects, resting on tripods.
He leaned into Pansy’s ear, “What’d I miss Parks?”
An impatient breath left her nose, she put a hand to his ear and gave him a very brief summary - “Hermione’s been at it for forty-five minutes, this should be her closing statement but the McClaggen and Flint seat members are absolute cunts.”
He nodded as Pansy pulled away.
*** *** ***
“As I was saying,” her voice beckoned the attention back to her after the Weasel’s late arrival interrupted. His frustration with the ginger git ebbed as his focus shifted back onto his witch, her voice firm, chin forward -
“The addendum is vital, and long overdue. As I’ve stated previously, Mr. McClaggen, not only does it generate revenue for the reserves, it reduces their reliance on the Ministry.” Her hand tapped the figure she’d drawn on (what he very recently learned was) a whiteboard, to her left.
“Again,” the impatience couldn’t be missed, “The anticipated revenue from ethically sourced scales, and blood alone that would go directly to the Reserves is 15,714 galleons a year.”
Twatty Cormac Mclaggen’s even twattier great uncle, William, shifted in his seat, his face growing increasingly flat the longer Hermione rebuffed his inane, “comments and concerns.”
Pride buzzed around the flora of fondness that grew and bloomed in Draco’s chest as she stood there, all determination, grit, and looking proper fit. His eyes drifted to her ass, but shifted away at Rosalind Flint’s haughty tone.
“What’s the end-goal, Ms. Granger? I worry that your proposal for legislative change is more political agenda rooted in your hysteria over non-humans than necessary change. I’ll remind you, that the Weres-To-Work bill you managed to get approved last year has made little difference - a sparse 2% uptick in hiring werewolves in Diagon reported since its implementation.”
Hermione’s rage was palpable, her face hard, jaw working. He wished he could cast a stinging hex at the hag on Granger’s behalf. He watched as Hermione collected herself with a deep breath, before speaking again.
“If you recall, Mrs. Flint, I detailed, extensively, that there would be an anticipated 2-3 year period where the hirings would be minimal. By next year, that figure will increase by another 2%, and then more every subsequent year.”
Yeah, fuck you Flint, Draco thinks.
As Hermione continues, he realizes that this is her quidditch. He’s a fan in the stands - mentally he’s wearing a jersey in Gryffindor red with GRANGER emblazoned on the back.
The thought makes him snort a quiet laugh. Blaise shot him a questioning look from his right, and Draco can only respond with a small shake of his head before returning his focus to the witch he lov-....
Was incredibly enamored with, he corrected.
She didn’t want to hear it yet.
When would Flint shut up? His Mother looked thoroughly annoyed by the woman, her lips in a tight line next to Potter in their purple robes.
“Additionally, that piece of legislation is entirely separate. It has nothing to do with what is before you today. I’d like to remind you, and your noble counterparts, that it is your duty to do what’s best for the magical community at large, on what I’m proposing, rather than argue, ineffectively, about any prior legislation I’ve presented,” she paused, “and passed.”
A sudden urge to throw flowers to her feet from where he sat came over him. Granger was the matador evading, and tiring out the bull. Which isn’t a bad reference really, he mused, Mrs. Flint is quite… bull-esque. Perhaps he’d read Ferdinand too many times before gifting it to Jack.
Rosalind Flint scoffed, “Impertinent and emotional as ever, Ms. Granger.”
The Chief Warlock interjected, his voice sharp, “That’s enough, Chairholder Flint. Any further commentary on Deputy Director Granger’s disposition from you will be subjected to review. Do you understand?”
A smile tugged at his lips as a satisfied smirk showed on Hermione’s. She clasped her hands in front of her while Rosalind nodded nervously, eyes dropping to the small pile of parchment under her quivering second chin.
“Do you have anything further, Deputy Director Granger?” the Chief Warlock asked as the crowd tittered.
Hermione shook her head, “That’s all Chief Warlock. Thank you all for your time.”
Her response was met by a single firm strike of the gavel, “Wizengamot Members to the Chambers. We will reconvene with the result in one hour.”
*** *** ***
After navigating through the bodies that circled her, he finally was able to get to his witch - he sunk his nose into her deliciously soft and fragrant hair, “You were phenomenal up there. Fuck McClaggen and double fuck Flint.”
A light laugh puffed against his neck, “Thanks. I did love hearing the Chief scold her. It was better than a hex.”
He hummed an agreement, and checked his watch, “Are you good here?”
In 30 minutes the entire Department of Magical Transportation would be buggering off to lunch, and he needed to pick-up the portkey he’d applied for last week, and was told would be ready today.
“Yeah,” her brows furrowed, “Where are you off to?”
He’d like to have said, ‘Where are we off to, you mean?’ or ‘You’ll see soon enough’
“Just a small errand upstairs. I’ll be back before the vote’s announced.” he said instead.
“Okay,” she said with narrowed eyes, brows pulled together in suspicion, “But you-” He lowered his face to hers and pressed a firm kiss to the crease between her brows, which silenced whatever she’d been about to say.
He just knew it was going to be something like, “You’d better not be doing something nice for me,” or some other codswallop.
His eyes drifted from the small smile that grew on her face to the movement behind her. Ron and George heading their way. For the first time in his life, he was grateful for the Weasley sandwich she was suddenly being pressed into. He slipped away just as he heard her voice grow shrill, “Ronald! I cannot believe you!”
*** *** ***
Thankfully, the lifts were mostly empty, because there was a substantial queue at the main desk of the DMT. It was most unfortunate that Draco offered a polite nod, and eye-contact with the middle aged wizard in front of him.
Due to this brief acknowledgment, he’d spent the next several minutes (18 to be exact) being spoken at, rather than to, about the man’s upcoming trip. Draco nodded and hummed at appropriate intervals, he furrowed and raised his brows at the right moments, and only checked his watch twice.
It was a feat worthy of an Order of Merlin 2nd class, honestly. Keeping his face straight, and not sighing in annoyance, or baulking disgust when the man overshared about how his, “second wife’s bunion procedure,” had, “kept them from going on holiday.”
Being a captive audience to a chatty person was a highly unusual occurrence for him. Perhaps it’s the Granger effect, he muses, now he’ll experience more frequent bouts of confusion, sex in kitchens, and (most unfortunately) appearing approachable. How distressing.
He sidled up to the desk that was (finally) free of the wizard who’d disclosed far too much information, both medically and generally, to find the young wizard who was man-ing the desk with their cheek pressed into his hand, eyes on a magazine. The fellow sighed heavily, and asked, “Name?” in a bored tone without lifting his eyes from the page.
“Draco Malfoy,” he breathed, trying and failing to hide his impatience, checking his watch for a third time.
As he pulled his eyes from the face of his watch, and back towards the wizard working, he noted that the young wizard’s eyes had gone wide, his mouth gaped.
Draco sighed internally, dreading this exchange.
He hoped whatever fear or recognition he’d seen in the bloke’s eyes forced him to move quickly, as he was short on time and even shorter on patience.
The young man nodded quickly, “Right, right,” he stuttered, “Uh,” he cleared his throat, and straightened in an unsuccessful attempt to appear less like a total muppet, his voice lowered into a deeper cadence, feigning confidence, “Destination?”
Draco’s eyes flickered up from the magazine the bloke was previously reading, “Byron Bay, Australia,” he said, before reaching to pull the magazine forward, picking it up to read. Apparently he’d missed the last Magpies game - they absolutely slaughtered the Wanderers. He frowned. Theo likely lost a hefty sum in a bet on that one.
The wizard seemed adrift, Draco flipped to the next page, “Need anything else?”
“Er, uh no,” the wizard muttered, “I’ll be right back.”
Draco was grateful when he finally shuffled away, disappearing behind towering shelves housing various objects, some mundane (candelabras, spatulas, baskets, and such), some unusual (he saw an entire row of toupees.)
Draco paused his reading to check his watch again, and let out a long sigh. How anything got done in this building was beyond him. Even further beyond him, was how his witch found the patience, or wherewithal to fight the uphill battle that is getting a single thing accomplished despite it all. He couldn’t wait for her to leave the DRCMC, and whip the entire institution into shape.
Finally the muppet returned, clattering a long white stick with a half circle of bristles on the end of it, and slid a parchment forward. He began his spiel, “Portkey, erm, paid in full. Charmed to depart, and return upon activation,” he coughed and his cheeks reddened, “After two activations, it will return to the Department of Magical Transportation for, er, review and re-filing.” He took a deep breath, and uttered the next bit quickly, voice tight, “Any tampering found upon the Ministry's receipt of the portkey's return will be investigated.”
Unsurprised, Draco nodded once, “Of course,” he picked up the object, and held it aloft, his lips tight as he considered it. He was uncertain of its origin, function, and unhappy with its size.
“Haven’t you got anything,” he waved it a bit, “less conspicuous?”
He swore he could hear a gulp before the muppet-man responded, voice higher now, “Right now, no. But,” he offered, ““If you come back tomorrow, when the Portkey Charm Team is in, you could request it be transferred to a spool of thread or something.”
Draco shook his head, “No, no - it’s fine. I’ll make due.” he waved the information away with the white plastic wand, the firm bristles snagged against the counter making a sound he did not much like. With a dip of his head and a muttered, “Thank you.” he signed the parchment, bid his farewell, and marched back towards the lifts, with only 8 minutes to spare.
*** *** ***
He enlarged the pocket of his jacket in an unsuccessful attempt to get the damned thing out of his hands - it was unsuccessful, the bristles left a lump below his jacket, ruining the crisp lines that accentuated his physique. It wouldn’t do. He opted to tuck it between his arm, and torso.
The voices echoed from the Court Room’s open door, growing louder as he approached. His eyes found Hermione immediately - she was in a serious conversation with Ginevra and Mrs. Weasley, nodding as Ginevra punched a fist into her open palm, obviously giving either McClaggen, or Flint an imaginary beating on Hermione’s behalf. Unwilling to interrupt, he squeezed Hermione’s arm once, indicating he’d returned, before settling back into his seat next to Blaise.
“What’ve you got there?” Blaise’s face was curious, and he reached over to flick at the bristles.
“Portkey,” Draco kept his voice low, “A little surprise for Hermione.”
Blaise pushed into his arm, “Oh yeah? Where to?”
“Gold Coast. It’ll be spring there - Should be lovely.”
Blaise sucked his tongue against his teeth, “Proposing?”
Draco snorted, “What are you, my Mother?”
“Oh sod off, Mate.” Blaise shook his head with a wide smile.
Before Draco could call Blaise a wanker in return, as he deserved, a wizard in navy robes, with a serious expression entered from the door, he held a thin wand to his throat and spoke, voice booming over the chatter of the room “Please return to your seats.”
Draco watched as Mrs. Weasley squeezed Hermione’s shoulders tightly in a final embrace before moving away to her own seat next to her husband. Mr. Weasley looked at his wife as if she’d hung the moon. It was incredible to Draco how the Weasley’s parents managed to share such affection for one another despite enduring two wars, almost 3 times as many children, and the loss of another. Turning the thought over in his mind like a stone, he felt that he would never be capable of experiencing all of that without becoming brittle; he’d break completely if he’d been in their position.
The room settled, and tension grew - the creak of leather from the seats could be heard as those in the spectator rows shifted anxiously.
His face left the crowd, and moved towards the witch in the center of the room (and his mind.) Hermione’s face turned ever so slightly, and looked his way. He sent her a wink - You’ve done it, you’ve won he thought. A small, sweet smile drew her lips upwards as her eyes roved over his face. His lips mirrored hers, unbidden, it wasn’t until she shook her head and turned to face forward that he realized he was grinning, a stupid, besotted, smile that he couldn’t help anytime she was near. He cleared his throat, and glanced at his hands, resting on his knees.
When he looked back up, he witnessed a transformation - Hermione Granger, who’d just been near blushing, was now the unwavering steward of the unprotected again. A beautiful thing - forged in flame, formed into sharpness, then hardening into the woman before him. She was justice personified, he could imagine her there - brilliant brown eyes covered by cloth, one arm raised, sword in hand - the other grasping a golden scale, the weight of the world to be measured, then leveled.
How could someone be both fragile and ferocious?
Precious, but rigorous?
Deserving so much, yet demanding so little?
His train of thought was interrupted by the wizard in navy robes, “All rise for the Wizengamot!” his voice called.
Draco was a moment slower to stand than everyone else, the unwieldy portkey brushing against his pants. He scowled at the feel of it. He truly hated this thing.
The Wizengamot entered in a line, silent, and resolute - they sat at their seats. Draco saw Hermione’s eyes roving his mother’s face, searching for any indication that she’d failed. His Mother only bowed her head, acknowledging Hermione’s ask, without giving anything away.
Finally, the Chief Warlock entered, and took his place in the center of the Wizengamot members on the raised platform and spoke, “Let it be entered into the official docket that on September 17th, 2012 the Addendum to the Dragon’s Protection Act, as entered by the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures Deputy Director Hermione Granger, was reviewed by the Noble Wizengamot. Upon final count of the votes, it has,” he paused and gave Hermione a wide smile, “Passed.”
The crowd erupted into applause, cheers, whistles, and (most concerningly) a loud series of bangs and glittering confetti. Draco looked to George who was holding up two canisters, his face nearly unrecognizable due to the thick layer of glitter on it.
Draco clambered over the seats in front of him, to pick up his witch, and celebrate her victory properly. After an incredibly public, potentially indecent snog, she looked down at the portkey trapped between his arm and ribs. Her eyes flew up, confused, and searching as she asked, “Draco… Why the hell are you carrying a toilet scrub brush?”
Draco reared away from her, and dropped the portkey to the floor, “A what?”
Hermione’s mouth was open in laughter, eyes crinkled shut, and he found, in that moment, that maybe he didn’t much care what the portkey was if it brought her this much joy.
She glanced to the floor where it lay, and bent low to scoop it up - she eyed it with curiosity, “Do you need this, or?”
He snatched it back from her, tucking it back again between the arm and vest of his second best jacket, which would definitely require his first best cleaning charm and muttered, “Fucking DMT muppet.”
Hermione laughed again, uninhibited and bright, before being pulled away into (yet another) human sandwich.
*** *** ***
Much later, after approximately two hugs from each Weasley, one from each snake, and six bottles of champagne split between the group that’d commandeered the court room (despite several warnings) they’d returned to Granger’s cottage.
Hermione was exhausted, she smiled up at him after they stepped through the floo and looped her arms around his waist, “What a day,” she muttered, face pressed firmly against him - the heat of her words working their way through the fiber of his shirt.
“You were magnificent,” he kissed the top of her head, inhaling the familiar warm scent of her, “more than magnificent - incandescent, terrifying, and,” his lips moved down towards her ear, “incredibly sexy.”
His lips must have tickled the hair near her ear, a laugh bubbled up from her throat and she sighed, “So singularly minded, you are.”
“Mmmhm,” he hummed, kissing from her ear, to her throat, focusing on that soft stretch of skin that she always rolled a touch of perfume oil onto at the start of her day. It melted into something richer when combined with her, and it made him want to run his nose and tongue from her lips to her toes.
Her breath against his ear came in sharp, making his skin prickle, blood rushing, he became heavy with want.
Top three favorite sounds, he thought idly, moving his hand into her hair and against her scalp, then fisting the soft strands between his fingers.
He pulled her head back softly by the curls caught in his hand, exposing more of her throat, giving him better access to lavish heavily, and opened mouthed into, “Singularly minded is right,” he chuckled, ”I think only of you.”
Hermione pulled one of her arms from where it was wrapped around his middle, and pressed her palm into his chest. She dragged it upwards until it met the back of his neck, holding his lips against her neck, “Draco,” her voice, more breath than not.
He slowly pulled away from her neck, her hand fell to his shoulder. He held her face between his hands, willing the words she wasn’t ready to hear yesterday (albeit, not at the best time) to tunnel from his pupils into hers - a direct path into her mind - the shortest and most powerful sentence he’d ever dare utter to her.
She blinked up at him slowly, her eyes warm and unflinching.
He’d never felt so content in both body and mind, than he did when held by her gaze.
In slow movements, they undressed one another.
Their fingers worked deliberately and delicately over buttons and buckles, familiar hands brushed against undeserved scars and stretches of freckles, wordless lips met over and over again - their tongues had become a dialect long lost to time, forgotten to all, except them - belonging only to one another.
*** *** ***
The next morning, he woke to Penelope licking his foot and Crookshanks snoring near his rear. He inhaled a deep breath through his nose, and licked his lips. He pffft’d away the ringlets that were stuck to his lips, and invaded his mouth.
He blinked and rose, Hermione grumbled something like gerrofmyhair and found more of the sentient mass of curls under his elbow.
“Sorry,” he yawned.
“Mmmph” she replied.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Please.” her answer muffled into the pillow.
Inkblot was already awake, dodging and weaving between his feet, forcing him to pay far too much attention to each step down her narrow staircase, despite the fog of sleep still permeating his brain.
Inkblot beat him to the kitchen, and leaped to the countertop. Draco had to squint before he released the aguamenti from his wand to ensure he was dispensing it into the black and shiny coffee pot, rather than the black and shiny cat.
Coffee brewed, cat in hand - Draco summoned the small box from his suit jacket left on the sitting room floor and the (gods damned) toilet scrub brush portkey. He levitated two cups of coffee (one mug read: Crazy Cat Lady, the other: Books for Breakfast) along with the portkey, and the box. Inkblot squirmed against his chest, “You’ll not be sending me down the stairs to my death before I take care of your mistress, mate.” he scolded.
He returned to the room, and halted at the site before him - stuck in the doorway.
Hermione’s ass in her softest, smallest shorts was facing the door, morning sun slanting into the room, a rectangle of gold fell on her curls and her shoulders, another on her hips, a third on an ankle and foot. He watched as her ribs slowly expanded and shrunk beneath the soft cotton ribbed top she wore only because when he saw her put on a jumper the night before he’d said, “You’re a furnace at night, Granger.”
She harrumphed, and stomped back to the nightstand, ripped off the jumper, and shrugged on the top. “Happy?” she’d said, testily.
Her nipples were visible through the sheer fabric, he was a salacious smug bastard, when he’d said, “More than you know.”
Crookshanks’ face popped up from the chestnut mane, judging him. Draco felt chastised, so he entered the room properly, and sat near her legs.
“Hermione,” he sent a coffee cup to the nightstand on her side, Inkblot on the bed, the portkey and box balanced on his knee.
She groaned, and blinked hard, before sitting up - her back against the headboard.
“I honestly didn’t have enough champagne to feel this tired,” she said hoarsely, while reaching for the coffee. She took a deep inhale of it before taking a sip, “Thanks for this.”
He nodded, and sipped his own coffee, enjoying the stillness of the morning. They sat on the blue and white quilt he’d grown fond of, his back against her knee, until they’d had enough caffeine in the veins to think, and enough warmth on their throats to speak.
“I have something for you,” he held out the toilet scrub brush to her first. She didn’t take it from him.
She pursed her lips, “Draco, are you trying to say something about the cleanliness of my loo?”
He barked a laugh, “Gods no, I mean, you were right about the hair and the cloggi -”
“Hey!” she slapped his shoulder, and was rearing back to strike him again.
“Hermione!” he lifted his cup upwards, it sloshed when she’d struck, “You merciless witch, no - it’s a portkey.”
She paused, and fell back against the headboard, “Why?”
“What do you mean why?” He brought his coffee back down to his lips, and took another drink, setting the portkey onto her lap.
She picked it up by the handle, and chewed her lip while looking at it before saying, “To where?”
He pulled a leg up, and rested his chin against it, watching her. The other leg dangling to the floor, he forced himself to keep from bouncing it up and down as he spoke, “To Byron Bay Australia, I thought,” his leg bounced, “I thought I’d take you on vacation and if you wanted to, we could,”
Her eyes were still on the portkey, rather than him, and he wondered what she was thinking, “We could have dinner with your parents?”
After what felt like an eternity, she lifted her eyes to his, they were shiny and she sniffled, “Really?”
His leg stopped bouncing, he reached for her. As he pulled her closer, she made a disgruntled noise - a splatter of coffee hit her leg. She growled, and squirmed away from him to set the mug down roughly.
Once safe from coffee-burns, he settled her onto his lap. Her back on his chest, he fiddled with the gold bracelet on her wrist, “Really. I want to meet your family,” he continued to thumb at the bangle, “Need to, actually.”
She rested the back of her head into the crook of his shoulder, his jaw resting at her temple.
“When?” she asked, her fingers lightly grazing his moving ones.
“Pick two weeks to take off, and we’ll go.”
Her voice went to the tone that one could call shrill, but he certainly wouldn’t, “Two weeks!? Absolutely not. Two days.”
“You’re out of your mind. Why can’t you take two weeks off, Granger?”
She jumped from his lap, and paced a small circle in front of him shaking her head, “I’ve got to work,” she shot him a scowl before offering, “A long weekend?”
He shook his head, “Ten days.”
She crossed her arms, and stared at him, her unsocked foot tapping against the rug, “One week.”
“Deal.” he said, triumphant.
She walked to the nightstand, drinking her coffee. He tugged at her shirt, drawing her focus back to him.
“This is for you, too,” he murmured, the small box in his hand an offering to the goddess of slaps, sharp-wit, fairness, and freckles.
Hermione opened the box with delicate fingers, and pulled the thin gold chain upwards, a gleaming dragon scale swung back and forth before she lowered it into her palm. She ran a finger over it.
He put his hand under hers, “Turn it around, look at the back, love.”
She gently pressed the scale between her thumb and finger, and read the inscription on the back.
It read: Perseverance & Victory.
Her lip was pressed between her teeth as her eyes roved over the scale, tears pooling, but unshed in her eyes.
“Do you like it?”
She looked up at him, a line of tears fell from her eyes, to her chin - a single tear dropped to her shirt.
His hand lifted to her face, the pad of his thumb rubbing the line of moisture into her cheek. She batted him away, a small smile on her lips despite the tears.
A light watery laugh left her, and she spoke again - her words mingling between a bubble of joy, and surprise, “I love,” she sniffled, and rolled her eyes.
She reached for him then, and pressed a light kiss to his lips, before pulling back enough that their eyes met, “Of course I love it.”
Chapter 18: On Holiday or: Meeting the Grangers
Summary:
Draco takes Hermione's schedule into his own hands.
Draco & Hermione go to Australia.
Minerva POV to start.
Thank you @RunninUpThatHill and @Calliope_dreaming for all things loo related.
XO
Chapter Text
Chapter 18 - On Holiday or: Meeting the Grangers
Minerva McGonagall’s lips pursed tightly at the sight of an eagle owl perched at her office window. The action was an automatic response, the roll of parchment affixed to the stately bird’s leg often required immediate action (as well as a snifter of something dark later that evening paired with a single long pull of a pipe full of mugwort.)
This letter, though, was different. Her eyes softened, and her lips drew upwards as she read the letter a second time.
She stacked the parchments that have taken up most of her desk as of late - budgetary projections, revised time-lines for muggle outreach, detailed program expectations, and a
charmed sheet that quickly tabulated muggle currency. The young Mr. Malfoy’s frequent (incessant) owls requesting (demanding) such details and meetings for the Muggle Born Headstart Program was thorough (exhausting).
With enough of the rich red wood of her desk visible again, she sat and pulled a small roll of parchment from a drawer, readying to respond to the lovesick lad.
Albus’ portrait chuckled above her, “Minerva, is that a fond smile I see for the Malfoy boy?”
Her lips pursed again, “Reading over my shoulder, Albus?”
“I find there is little else to do since you’ve gotten rid of that captivating Taffy Maker portrait. I do terribly miss watching him work.”
She summoned her nearly forgotten mug of licorice tea from where she’d left it on the windowsill, “I could bring him back up, but he must promise to stop grunting so loudly as he works the candy. It’s incredibly distracting.”
“Oh, do ask if he will, Minerva - I’m sure he’d agree. What do you think of his return, Severus?”
After a measure of silence, Severus’ portrait sighed as if pained from where he sat on a deep green leather armchair, “Very little.”
It was the most Severus had spoken all week since he’d voiced some all-too-familiar (distasteful and incredibly insulting) opinions on her latest venture - a true Common Room for all students to use across from the Library. He’d ended their exchange in a tone dripping with sarcasm in his terribly bored low drawl, “How benevolent of you.”
She almost banished the portrait to the dungeons.
“You’d be interested to know that the boy is taking Ms. Granger on holiday, and that he's courting her, Severus,” her voice turned sharp, “How’s that for inter-house unity?”
She eyed his portrait as it stood from his leather chair and walked towards the dark door depicted in the back of the painting. He turned his head back towards her before opening it to exit the conversation, “Despite what you may think, Minerva, I am not interested in alumni’s love-lives, nor should you be.” He ducked his chin, “Goodnight Headmasters.” the painted door shut loudly behind him.
“What an incredibly,” Minerva began heatedly.
“Complicated individual.” Dumbledore’s portrait offered sleepily, his portrait sinking back into a slumber despite needing no rest at all.
Minerva exhaled deeply, the albatross quill jerking as she put together a short list of recent Hogwarts graduates that she’d personally recommend for work at Flourish and Blott’s.
The sound of a door slamming had her eyes moving upwards back to Severus’ portrait where he’d returned from wherever it was he got off to.
Minerva lifted her brow in question at the portrait, Severus took in Dumbledore’s sleeping form before speaking directly to her, very quietly, “I thought you’d like to know that the Taffy Maker is currently singing a ballad about his sizable pull and the sweetmeat’s mouthfeel.” His lips were pulled down in disgust, before turning to take his seat in the green armchair, eyes down on a book, “Something I thought you’d want to consider, Minerva.”
She included well wishes for their upcoming vacation and congratulations on the courtship in her response to Mr. Malfoy, while muttering under her breath about tiresome portraits and their constant interruptions.
*** *** ***
Draco was stirring a pot on the stove. He’d added too much pasta to the soup he’d made. It was slowly turning into mostly pasta rather than soup. He wished to summon Mippy at first, but was trying to find the strength within himself to successfully make the “Simple Minestrone” recipe he clipped from a magazine at Granger's.
He heard his floo roar to life, and hoped it wasn’t Theo again. He had enough after the triple back to back floo calls arguing whether Theo’s pet-sitting of Penelope while he and Hermione were gone was considered one of the 2 remaining favors owed to Draco.
Theo insisted it did, and that he only owed one last favor once the pet-sitting would be completed.
Draco countered that Theo shouldered at least some of the responsibility for Penelope since he bought her in the first place.
Draco eventually gave up, agreed, and was anticipating an odd bit of Theo-branded retribution in the near future.
Though his initial hope that the visitor wasn’t Theo evaporated the moment he heard her (very angry) voice call out from his front room, “Draco Lucius Malfoy!”
He turned and pointed his wooden spoon outward as if it were his wand, an instinctual move, but wholly ineffective.
Hermione Granger was standing in his kitchen, arms folded tightly at her chest, eyes like fire, hair sparking, clutching a folded parchment under her elbow tightly.
Terrifying, this witch, truly.
Lowering the spoon, he asked, “What’s happened?”
“You!” She threw her hands into the air, and continued, “Explain yourself!”
He watched her carefully, and she raised the parchment outward. He could see the large looping M’s he was now exceedingly familiar with at the bottom of the page. He pressed a tongue against his cheek, and narrowed his eyes - calculating.
The attention emboldened her, she took a step forward, crossed her arms again, and tapped her foot impatiently, “Well?”
He folded his arms, mirroring her, and decided to re-direct her question - hoping she would put two and two together, despite her temporary level of density, “Have you aligned your schedule for vacation yet?”
“Don’t you dare change the subject.” she scolded, her chin raised.
He had to force himself from rolling his eyes, but maybe he did just a little bit, on accident, because she made a small scowly noise that he thinks might be #9 on his Favorite Sounds Granger Makes list.
“I’m not. It’s on theme,” He pointed the spoon at her, then turned away to adjust the knob on the stove, giving up on the minestrone entirely which was now boiling into a congealed mass. His readers fogged.
Draco tilted his head forward to peer over the obscured frames, “You’re deflecting the larger issue at hand.”
“No I am not deflecting, the issue is about you being a meddlesome,”
“Thoughtful,” he countered, flourishing the wooden spoon.
“Prat who’s been corresponding with-”
“Setting things up,” he interrupted
“McGonagall behind my back!”
Her hands had fallen to her sides at some point during this (ridiculous) exchange, her shoulders rising and falling quickly.
“Hermione,” he pulled the glasses off, keeping them clutched as he braced the back of his hand against his hip, the other scrubbing at his face. After a long sigh, he stepped closer to her, “Did you actually have someone lined up to work weekends at the store?”
She rolled her eyes, “That’s not the point.”
His brows rose high, she was so stubborn it was madness, “It is.”
“Is not!”
He laughed then, and her own lips pulled up slightly, “Well it’s not!”
Draco reached for her arm then and pulled her to a seat at the kitchen table, before pulling out his own, sitting across from her. He rested his elbow onto the light wood, his cheek pressing into his fist, “You’re unhappy that I contacted McGonagall about the weekend work.” he stated.
Hermione’s eyes were fixed onto the parchment’s edge which she was rolling and unrolling, “Yes, but,” her fingers tore little lines into the page when she looked back up.
Hermione groaned when their eyes met.
Draco wondered if she groaned because maybe she saw that unsaid-something in him. An unsaid something that took the heat out of her fight. He’d need to either fix his face, or actually say it, soon.
“I know why you did it, just like I know why you contacted the archives.”
He nodded slowly, “I want more of,”
She interrupted, but fixed her eyes back onto the parchment, “I do overwork myself, and I do really enjoy having more time with you, and for well, life in general but,” she paused, then gave him a withering look, “You still should have talked to me about it first. It’s like the Archives letter, but worse, because you should have known I’d be upset this time.”
He dropped his hand from his cheek onto the table, and extended it forward. With an open palm, he waggled his fingers, beckoning for contact.
Her small hand fell into his, and he squeezed, “I am sorry, but you do deserve ease. With what time did you have to handle that? You didn’t, and wouldn’t. You deserve help, and to be taken care of. My reaching out to someone for little assistance on the weekends is hardly any effort at all. I could be having you followed by a full staff, you know. Honestly, I wish I could..” he trailed off, thinking that just maybe if he hired her a full-time personal assistant, she’d be able to do a month abroad, on holiday.
She rolled her eyes, “You’re a terrible prat.”
“I’m a selfish prat.” he corrected her, for the third time tonight.
“Hermione,” he said, calling her attention back to him. She sighed then, and met his gaze. She looked tired as he continued, “I’m sorry, but this time away together, meeting your parents, the whole thing is,” he swallowed, “It’s very important to me. I’m making it a priority”
He ended that statement with a pointed look.
Hermione watched as his thumb traced the back of her hand, “I know.”
“Are we alright?”
She chewed her cheek before nodding, “Yeah, I just,” her eyes met his again, “I’m sorry that it felt like I wasn’t making it a priority. It’s important to me too. I-” she waffled for a moment, “I really care about this.. About you.”
He pulled her hand to his lips, “Good” he breathed, pressing a kiss into her palm.
“But,” she pulled her hand away, her eyes narrow, lips pulled into a small mischievous smile, “You are going to keep me informed of your schemes.”
“Only if you keep me involved with your schedule.” His eyes narrowed back on hers.
“Deal.” she said quickly, followed slowly with a “But,”
Draco’s lips pressed together as Hermione continued, ”But promise me you’ll tell me before meddling again.”
He nodded, “I promise to not interfere with any jobs I know of, without your approval."
She drew back from him, hands pulled under the table, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He sat forward, raising a brow, “Where else do you work, Hermione?”
The chair scraped as she scooted it backwards, making her exit, “That’s hardly the point.”
*** *** ***
“Crookshanks gets the senior specific diet,” she said pointing to a bag of kibble, nearly indistinguishable from the other on the counter, “and Inkblot shouldn’t eat it so you’ll have to keep an eye on him.”
Draco walked away from the kitchen as Harry and Ginevra were being thoroughly lectured on how to feed her cats properly (as if they hadn’t managed feeding 3 children for however long they’d been doing that.)
He’d interrupted the seminar, opting to grab their luggage from upstairs, and took his time to double-check his appearance before heading back downstairs.
Hermione was still at it.
“One tin of tuna should be split between them, don’t let them bully you for more, and make sure you top it off with a little water. Cats, and cat-kneazles too, are prone to kidney problems if they aren’t properly hydrated. Oh! And - if Inkblot walks away after eating but hasn’t finished every bit, make sure to pick it up. Crooks will go after it, and then he’ll be too fat to get on the bed by the time I get ho-”
“Hermioneeeee,” Ginevra whined, “We have the list, the numbers for the muggle emergency vet, the floo information for the other vet, and can see the notes you’ve left,” the red head’s eyes flew around the room, cupboards sporting small bright pink and yellow squares covered in Hermione's handwriting, “The cats will be fine.”
Harry’s eyes had glazed over at some point between the explanation of Crooks needing a sunny spot “So please do be sure to leave the blinds open a little bit,” or the request that they, “Double check the sticking charms at least once because Inkblot will knock everything down otherwise.”
He seemed to come back to the sound of his wife’s voice.
“She’s right ‘Mione,” Potter looked at his watch, “Weren’t you supposed to leave 15 minutes ago?”
“Yes,” his voice a little sharper than he’d intended from the doorway, “Thanks Potter, Ginevra,” he nodded once and flicked his eyes to his witch who was bent low, saying goodbye to her familiars.
Her pet-parent nerves softened him, “Hermione,” he called, voice light, “You’re hovering, love.”
She stood, and embraced Harry, then Ginny, “Thank you guys so much!”
Draco checked his watch, for probably, the twelfth time since the Potters’ arrival.
Ginevra’s eyes closed shut as she was squeezed, “Oh you beautiful bint,” she sighed heavily, and then her eyes landed on Draco from beyond Hermione’s hair, “But it’s time you let this prat take you away. His watch is going to break from overuse if he looks at it like that again.”
“It’s a Patek Phillipe,” he stepped forward to grasp Hermione’s elbow, lightly tugging her away from her kitchen, and towards the front room where their bags were sitting.
“Whatever that means.” Ginevra’s voice trilled from behind him.
He called out to them one last time before activating the portkey, “It means it will not break. Your ignorance on this is just more evidence that your husband hasn’t gotten you one yet. It’s past time you courted your wife, Potter!”
“Hey!” Harry’s voice called out over Ginny’s laughter as their bodies condensed, and stretched through the ether as they held on tightly to their luggage, as the toilet scrub brush transported them to Australia.
*** *** ***
“Draco?” her voice came in faintly over the ringing in his ears. The portkey travel this far was rougher than he’d expected.
“Mmm?” his eyes were still shut, he felt her hand tucked under his arm slip away.
“I’m going to be sick.”
Hermione vomited somewhere to his right, as he took deep, measured breaths.
It was not the romantic arrival he’d envisioned.
After they’d righted themselves, vanished Hermione’s sick, and levitated their bags to the largest room while pressing cool water bottles against their foreheads, they sat on the pristine white couch on the balcony. The ocean waves crashed as they stared up at the night sky.
“Think we’ll make it to sunrise?” Hermione’s voice was muffled as she pressed her face into his chest.
“I will,” he tugged at one of her curls, “but I think you’re fading. It’s only 9 in London, love - you’ve got to get up, or you’ll sleep all day.”
She yawned and spoke through the hand she covered her mouth with, “Coffee then.” She hauled herself upwards and stretched.
He closed his eyes and listened to the roll of waves and the clatter of his witch in the kitchen through the open door wall.
He felt her hand in his hair and smelled the coffee, “You fell asleep.”
“Just resting my eyes.”
“Sure,” she chided softly, “Here.”
He hummed happily after taking a long sip. She put sugar in it for him, and a fat splash of cream, exactly how he’d make it for himself - even if she’d say something like, “Really Draco, they’re going to rot out of your face one day - magic or not.”
Her head rested on his shoulder as they drank their coffee, watching the sun rise over the Gold Coast under a thick blanket - marking a new day for both of them.
*** *** ***
Conversations before Bed - Night Two
Draco’s fingers trailed a circle on her knee, his cheek resting heavily against the other. She was everywhere - her hair wild around her, her chest rising and falling as she caught her breath, her essence still on his tongue, a faint sheen where he’d wiped his mouth against her thigh.
“You’re beautiful like this, you know.” He wished she could be this relaxed, this sated, this breathless every single night. For completely unselfish reasons (of course.)
She sat up, and pressed her foot into his shoulder, shoving him away, “Oh my god, stop staring!”
He laughed, and wrapped a hand around her ankle, halting her attack, “I’d rather not.”
Hermione scrambled upward, then forward - launching at him, her arms wrapping around his neck, her chest pressed into his. The force of it sending his back flat into the mess of sheets at the end of the bed, “You’re such a wonderful git,” she sighed into his neck, “I love it.”
He almost told her then, but he pfft’d her hair from his mouth and said, “I adore your hair, even if it’s plotting my demise.” instead.
Conversations before Bed - Night Four
“I told you that you needed sunscreen even if it’s chilly.” Her eyes were peering over her book, watching him get undressed.
He got under the blanket, and nuzzled himself beneath her arm, his head on her breast, arms wound around her. “I was very distracted when you said that.”
“Your attention span is dismal. How do you ever get anything done?”
“With rapt focus, actually. Especially without there being a witch in my office wearing a, whatsit, sweater dress.”
She flicked his sunburned nose, “It’s just a dress, Draco. You’ve seen plenty of them.”
“Yours fits differently. It’s very small to be considered a sweater anything.” he grumbled into her shoulder.
She laughed, and his head rose and fell with the movement, as her hand worked through his hair.
He’d almost said it again before falling asleep to the sound of her heartbeat.
Conversations before Bed - Night Six
“They’re not angry anymore, really, but still a touch, erm” She was reading through the room-service menu again, “Oh they do have a lot on this menu, don’t they?”
“We can split the chips, can you order ice cream too?” he asked from the bathroom.
“Right, good call.” She picked up the phone to ring the kitchens, and ordered. He sat at the edge of the bed after she hung up.
“What are they a touch of? You’ve been distracted by potatoes.” he tugged her toe.
“They’re still a bit skittish around magic. So just don’t go waving your wand around, and it’ll be fine.”
“You’re the only one I wave my wand for, Hermione.”
She rolled her eyes, “You know what I mean, don’t be a pig.”
“Just calming my nerves with a bit of levity.”
“You’re nervous to meet them, really?”
He blew out a breath, and shook his head in disbelief, “How could I not?”
“Because you’re,” she waved her hand up and down at him as if that were an explanation, “you.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’ll inflate your already massive ego, I can’t say it.”
He moved to crawl up the bed, her legs between his as he hovered over her, looking down, “Yeah? You think I’m what?” he kissed her cheek, then her jaw, “Devastatingly handsome?” he kissed lower, “Charming?”
“Yes, and it’s terribly unfair.” she said, voice growing soft as he kissed the words he wanted to say into her skin.
*** *** ***
Draco's history of visiting witches' parents was, in short, not great.
The Greengrass parents were after their name, and his… heirs. It felt very much like he was a stallion being sized up for purchase and breeding. He always felt quite sick during their visits.
The Parkinson’s gave him an earful about necessary precautions after seeking an audience with him. Pansy turned red at the word coitus. He and her never spoke of it again.
Yvonne Bouchard’s parents, a pretty witch he dated on and off for two years, were lovely to start, but had made passive-aggressive statements about his father until he’d heard enough. He stood from their table, and spoke his mind candidly about their dinner (dry and bland) and their overall attitude (shit). Afterwards, Yvonne said he’d been rude, and said that her parents were just expressing themselves. They broke up that evening.
As he stood next to Hermione on the doorstep of her parents house, she elbowed him lightly. He stopped staring at the doorknocker in front of him and looked down to her, she offered him a smile, “You’re going to love my Dad’s roast.”
He nodded, “I’m sure I will.”
The door pulled open, and Hermione’s hand disappeared from his as she was pulled into her parents arms, who were saying things like, “We’ve missed you so much darling,” then “You’re looking so well,” and “Tell us everything.”
Finally, her parents stood side by side, Hermione pulled into the house behind them. It was the bloody wall of Granger, keeping enemy forces away from their daughter. He cleared his throat, “Mr. and Mrs. Granger, it’s lovely to finally meet you.”
Hermione’s mother lifted her brow at him as she extended a hand in greeting, “It’s Dr. Granger, actually.”
A bead of sweat formed on his neck as he held her small hand in his, shaking politely, but not kissing it as Granger reminded him three times that it would be too much. “Sorry, yes - Dr. Granger. Of course.”
“Oh he’s terrified, the poor thing,” she laughed then waved him off, “I’m sorry, that was a poor joke. I’m Helen,” she pointed to herself, then her husband, “and that’s Richard.”
“You can call me Dr. Granger, or Richard, just don’t call me Dick.” Richard offered, before extending a hand.
“He wasn’t going to call you Dick, Dad.” Hermione said from behind Richard’s shoulder.
“Don’t call me Dick-Dad, either.”
“Oh my God,” Helen sighed, “Good luck with that.” she said before leaving the doorway, leaving Draco alone with Richard (Not-Dick, Definitely Not Dick-Dad) Granger.
Her father’s handshake was firm, extremely firm, “We’ve heard quite a lot about you.”
“Oh uh” Draco swallowed, “You heard about how I was a terrible little twat then.”
Richard barked a laugh at this and released his hand, nodding, “Sure, that too - but, I meant more recently. Hermione told us you’re quite,” he tapped his chin twice, thinking of the word, “taken with her, and erm - resourceful.”
Helen’s voice called from the sitting room, “Yes we’ve heard all about Draco Malfoy being dashing yet, interfering."
“Mum!” Hermione’s voice was shrill, her Mother laughed, and Richard’s attention left Draco, his head pivoting back around to watch Hermione and Helen (presumably) walk away. He wouldn’t know, he couldn’t see, nor hear as the women’s voices got further away. He stood awkwardly at the door… still watching Richard watch his family.
“Dinner smells great from here.” Draco’s voice snapped Richard’s attention back to him.
“It’s my best recipe” He smiled, “C’mon in then - It smells even better inside.”
There was a small bench to the left of the door, where a pile of shoes sat. He toed his off as well, and his feet sunk into the plush carpet as he walked further into the front room. The walls a shade of soft blue, the carpet a creamy white, the furniture leather.
A series of photos caught his eye on a shelf: A muggle photo of Granger in a swim costume and pink goggles next to Helen on a beach. Another of Richard and Helen cutting cake at their wedding. One of Richard and Hermione sleeping on a couch, books on their laps.
The slices of their life made him feel warm, and faintly uneasy - parts of her he still didn’t know, nor could ever. Moments that existed before Hogwarts, before war. His attention was moved away from the photos by Richard asking, “So, Draco, how are you finding Australia?”
Richard groaned after asking the question, as he pulled a lever on his chair, sending his feet upward. He nodded towards an armchair to his left. Draco took the seat, and took in Dr. Granger’s socks as he answered - they were navy with small red birds all over them. “It’s been great. I wish we had more time here, though.”
Hermione re-entered the room, holding two beers, “For the man who still hasn’t started the gravy, leaving it to his long suffering wife, and visiting daughter,” she handed her father one of the bottles.
“I was getting there.” Richard answered quickly, before looking at Draco, “They don’t let me get away with anything.”
Draco laughed, and Hermione handed him a matching bottle, ““It’s an Aussie beer,” she chirped as he eyed the bottle, “You’ll love it.”
She said it like she knew he’d hate it - she was right.
He drank it anyway.
*** *** ***
Sure, the beer was shit, but the roast dinner was easily one of the best meals he’d ever had.
Draco learned that Helen and Richard retired 4 years ago, and have been travelling as often as they could - the island (New Caledonia) their next trip, and Richard was eager to see some endemic bird species. Draco’s (almost nonstop) eating finally slowed as Richard explained the Kagu bird. He wished heartily at that moment that he could show Richard his quill collection, the man would love it.
“Has Hermione taken you to any of the DRCMC’s reserves?” Draco asked after pushing his plate away.
Hermione threw him a look, “Draco.” she whispered, “They wouldn’t want-”
“Hermione dear! Do you have a magical bird reserve?!” Richard’s eyes were wide, ‘Say it’s safe and all, we could go? Is that against the statue of secrets?”
“Statute of secrecy, Richard.” Helen corrected.
He waved her off, “Tosh it is, how they can keep that a secret is beyond me but whatever. Draco, is it something we can go to?”
Draco nodded, bemused by Hermione’s mouth opening and closing, “You’d go?” she asked, nearly breathless, “I thought you’d be-”
Helen gave her daughter a look that mirrored the one he’d received only a moment ago from Hermione.
“You presumed we’d be too nervous, but we’re doing so much better, and we’ve hated that you’ve been so delicate about it, so we’re bucking up. Chin up and all that. Especially if we might be seeing magical grandbabies one day.”
Draco choked on the beer from embarrassment rather than its musky flavor, and Hermione slapped him firm on the back. He was still sputtering and catching his breath as Hermione warned, “Mum, That isn’t really-”
Richard’s beer bottle hit the table a little roughly and interrupted Hermione. His voice was abrupt, but soft, “We are not afraid of our daughter or her abilities,” he gave Draco a quick glance, “Nor yours, I suppose.”
Draco wasn’t sure if he should be insulted by that or not.
“Now,” Richard stood with a smile and patted his stomach, “Use that fancy magic to clean up. I can’t do much else but make coffee without bursting.”
Helen and Richard watched as Draco and Hermione worked in tandem, vanishing the mess on plates, levitating dishes sending to self-scrub in the sink. Helen scoffed, “I should have asked permission for you to clean during the summers.”
“They wouldn’t let me anyway.” Hermione grumbled as she vanished a few gravy stains left by where her Father’s plate sat.
Richard shook his head, “I’m making coffee.”
“Extra boozy and sweet for me, dear.” Helen said breezily, before heading towards the sitting room.
Hermione’s wand hand fell, and her eyebrows furrowed, “Who are you and what have you done with my Mother?”
“She retired!” Helen called as she sat on the couch, and pulled a blanket to her lap, “Can you light the fire too? Your father always says the logs are damp, but I know they’re not.”
Draco chortled and sent a flame to the fireplace from the hawthorne in his hand. Hermione looked at him as if he’d replaced her parents himself.
He shrugged, “They seem very comfortable with my wand waving.”
She muttered something about unfairness and not knowing what the bloody hell was going on under her breath as she marched into the sitting room, to join her Mum on the couch.
*** *** ***
Hermione was wiping tears from her eyes from laughter explaining that, “Yes, Dad. They still use quills.” when Draco offered to show Richard his quill collection.
Draco grumbled that he also had a very fine, bespoke muggle pen set, but no one seemed to care. Helen kept breaking into a fit of giggles every time she revisited things like, “Can you imagine? The crossword, with a cup of coffee and a pot of ink?" Then later, “Trying to sign a card when you’re running late?” and finally, she burst into a full blown cackle at the prospect of, “Pocket protectors full of feathers.”
He wished he hadn’t mentioned his quill collection at all.
Hermione’s breath leveled when she said, “Not all wizards use quills only, though. Draco writes to me all the time with pens.” Hermione’s elbow nudged him.
She was trying to pull him back into the fold of the conversation, he knew, but he was still a bit embarrassed. He managed a polite nod, and murmured that he loved his new fountain pens for writing Hermione.
“Speaking of letters,” Helen sat up, and set her drink to the coffee table, her face finding him around Hermione sitting between them, “Draco you must see these.”
Hermione gasped, “You wouldn’t.”
Draco sat forward, and watched as Helen dashed off quickly towards the back of the house. His eyes snapped to Richard as he said, voice thick with amusement, “Our girl here had a lot to say about one very pointy young man.”
Draco looked at Hermione who’d untucked herself from his side, “Pointy?”
She covered her eyes, “You were rather pointy, then.”
He frowned, “And I’m not pointy now?”
Helen returned holding a small box, Hermione and Helen responded in unison, “No.”
Richard snorted into his coffee, “Wow.”
The box was set on a table near the recliner, and Helen lowered herself to the carpet on her knees near her husband, and rummaged through the box. Hermione placed her head on his shoulder, and said quietly, “Just know that I was very young, and very mad.”
He was on pins and needles waiting, excitement and curiosity running through him, “I bet.”
“Okay,” Helen cleared her throat, and pulled her readers further down her nose, “This one’s my favorite.”
Richard peered over to the folded lined paper his wife was holding and smiled fondly, “Oh, yes. This one’s good.”
Helen smiled at Draco before reciting the letter, “Mum and Dad, Hi. Before you read this, please know that I’m really, truly very sorry.” Helen lowered the page and eyed Draco again, “She wasn’t sorry, just so you know.”
Draco sat up, leaning forward to set his drink down, ready for more mini-Hermione-hate-mail. He was grinning like a besotted idiot, he knew, as he looked at Hermione, her cheeks were red.
He tugged at a curl, “She shouldn’t have been sorry.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, “I’m sorry now.”
Helen kept a fond smile directed towards her daughter before her eyes dropped back to the thin paper in her hands, “I’ve finally done it. I punched that pointy, slimy, white-haired pureblooded bigot.”
Draco’s amusement mingled with guilt, “It was the first and only time I was punched by a girl, you know. Broke my nose, too.”
Richard was beaming with pride at his daughter, “That’s my girl.”
“Mum, I know that we talked about this many times,” Helen’s eyes found Draco’s again, “I did ask her to talk to you but it seems you were too-”
Draco nodded, “Brainless.”
Hermione’s hand wound into his and squeezed once.
“Indeed.” Helen sighed, then returned to the reading, “But he well and truly deserved that and more. Ron and Harry pulled me away before I could kick him. Which leaves me to my request-”
Helen smiled as she read aloud, “If I get expelled, please let me transfer me to Beauxbaton, or Ilvermorny. I’ve maintained exemplary test scores, and I’m sure my Head of House will still write me a letter of recommendation for the transfer if I ask. Even if there’s an expulsion on my record. Expulsion! It’s so unfair.”
Helen sets the letter down on her lap, her eyes bounced between Draco and Hermione and stuck at their connected hands, “Quite the history you have.”
Draco snorted, “Quite. She was better than me at almost everything, and I couldn’t handle the disconnect.” He pointed to himself with the hand entwined with Hermione’s, hand barely leaving the couch, “Pureblood elitist,” he pointed to Hermione, “Muggleborn multi-talent.”
Hermione snorted lightly through her nose, and flicked his shoulder with her free hand.
“It’s called cognitive dissonance.” She yawned at the end of her sentence and nestled her head on his shoulder again.
“Are there more?” Draco asked, curious about the past through Hermione’s eyes.
“So many more,” Richard said, a sad smile on his face, “Honestly I can’t believe you’re still standing with how much venom she spat about you when she’d written home.”
He reached for the box, and plucked a few letters up, shuffling through them, “Ah, here’s a good one.”
Richard's voice went high as he imitated his daughter’s voice, “Hi Mum and Dad, I miss you both so much. How are you both doing? Has the practice kept busy? Nobody brushes their teeth here except muggle-borns, and nobody at all flosses as often as they should.” Richard smiled at his daughter, eyes leaving the paper as if he had this part memorized, “That Malfoy prat has probably never even once brushed his teeth, flossed, or seen a dentist. I bet his breath stinks to high heaven,” He laughed, and set the page down, “There’s more but I must know, is that true?”
Draco frowned, “My breath does not stink to high heaven.”
Hermione groaned, when Richard snorted, “I’d hope not.” He shook his head, “No, the dental care. Do you not brush your teeth at all?”
Draco shook his head, “Not really, no. My parents used mouth cleaning charms.” His gaze slid to Hermione and he narrowed his eyes at the top of her head still perched on his shoulder, “You really thought I would stink?”
Hermione shrugged, the rise and fall of her shoulder against his arm, “Your attitude did, so why wouldn’t your breath.”
Draco sighed heavily, his eyes moving back to Richard who asked with a grimace, “The charm. It gets rid of everything?”
“Everything that needs getting rid of,” Draco nodded.
“Do it on me, then.” Richard said, opening his mouth wide.
“Rich.” Helen’s said warily as Hermione’s, “Dad.” was said at the same time; The Granger women seemingly not keen on the spellwork being done on his mouth.
“Granger,” Draco said, trying to ease his witch, but all three looked to him expectantly waiting for him to speak. He cleared his throat, “It’s a simple charm.” Draco said, trying to reassure Helen still seated on the floor, “I could do it.” he offered.
“Or I can do it, if you want.” Hermione interjected.
Helen leaned forward, a hand reaching for her daughter’s knee and squeezing, “Let the boys go play dentist. You stay. I want to hear all about that one.” Her eyes flicked to Draco then back to Hermione and she winked.
Draco’s nerves frazzled for a moment at the prospect of being discussed.
Richard clapped his hands suddenly against the tops of his legs, then stood, voice gruff, “Yep, we’re being banished. C’mon, follow me.”
Draco followed behind Richard, and turned back only once to watch Helen take his place on the couch. The two collapsed backward. Helen said something quietly that he couldn’t hear, and Hermione shook her head rapidly, with a smile.
A door opened ahead of him, Richard’s head angled outwards from a door, “Are you coming?”
Draco leaned against the doorframe of an incredibly small loo - a toilet, a sink, a mirror, and a towel bar was all it had, the space mostly occupied by Richard’s frame. The toilet was barely visible beyond Richard’s knee, despite being pressed into the sink’s cabinet base.
Richard was now facing the mirror, his reflection eyeing Draco in the doorway, “Well?”
Draco lifted a brow back at Richard’s reflection, “I can cast it from here.”
“Nope. I want to see it all. Budge in, mate.” Richard scooted, somehow, even closer to the sink, creating a narrow space between his bum, and the wall behind him.
Why had he offered this again?
Draco steeled himself, the small space he needed to squeeze into would have been tight for a child. He had to suck in a breath, making himself marginally thinner, as he deftly shuffled in sideways behind Richard. Draco opted to push himself upwards on his toes to ensure nothing of his brushed against anything of Richard’s.
Once in the loo, his hip was digging into the sharp corner of the sink’s countertop. His body angled awkwardly between the toilet and the sink; his shoulder brushing against Richard’s. He noticed several brown, curly strands of hair stuck to the side of the sink’s basin which made him wonder how the Granger’s had any hair at all left on their heads. The family seemingly leaves it anywhere, and everywhere except connected to their scalp.
Draco wasn’t sure he’d ever stood so close to anyone he wasn’t snogging in his entire life before this moment.
He could see nearly every pore that dotted Richard’s nose, the lines of the grease smudged half-fingerprint on the man’s glasses, and the particular shade of grey that threaded through the richer brown strands (still connected to) the man’s head.
“Ready?” Richard asked, his face so close that Draco could catch the scent of the coffee he’d drunk a moment ago as it blew against his hair, disturbing the strands that fell over his forehead.
Draco could only nod, for fear of his own breath in the man’s face. Richard leaned towards the mirror and opened his mouth wide, exposing every silver capped molar in his mouth.
This was absurd.
“Dentes luere.” Draco muttered, his wand moved in small circles near Richard’s jaw as he focused on each tooth, gums, and the spaces between.
Richard’s eyes went wide as the charm did what it was supposed to.
Afterwards, he ran a finger over his teeth, then pulled his cheek out to better study his mouth in the mirror.
Draco averted his eyes back to the sink, saw the hair, then moved his eyes again, this time to the tap that dripped a few fat droplets.
After a moment, Richard shook his head, “That’s incredible.”
Richard turned to face Draco, there was no longer coffee on his breath, “Thanks for that.”
“No problem.”
He was becoming more uncomfortable in the cramped space now that they’d completed their task, but Richard made no move to exit the bathroom at all.
Instead, Richard’s eyes in the reflection of the mirror remained steady on Draco, “I’d wager it takes a bit of courage to come to another man's house, with his only daughter, to share a meal, and clean his teeth.”
Draco couldn’t help but laugh at this, his eyes dropped to the sink again, “Hermione’s the courageous one, I’m just following her lead.”
Richard nodded, “It’s serious, then - You two, together?”
“Actually,” Draco swallowed, he leaned back slightly trying his best to create some space between them, “Erm, I wasn’t planning on having this conversation here,” Draco gestured vaguely to the toilet, “But I wanted to seek your approval. I want to propose soon. We’re uh,” he wondered if the man would understand, “I’m courting your daughter, Dr. Granger.”
“Ugh,” Richard’s nose crinkled, “Courting?”
Draco stiffened and felt the ceiling get lower, “Well,” he sighed, “I haven’t been as formal as my Mother would like. But yes - courting.”
Richard’s reflected eyes left Draco, and he looked at himself and shook his head, “Everything’s a sodding fairytale with you lot.” he muttered.
A real laugh left him at this, “Trust me, it’s not that fantastical.”
Richard removed his glasses, “This proposal,” he cleaned the lenses as he spoke on the hem of his shirt, his elbow hitting Draco’s rib, “is happening when?”
Draco coughed, “Planning for after the New Year.”
“Huh,” Richard sighed then put his glasses back on. He eyed Draco carefully over the lenses, “You don’t need my blessing, Draco. Hermione’s a-” his brow furrowed a moment before he pointed at Draco as he found his words, “A very resolute woman.”
“That she is,” Draco acknowledged.
“You love her, truly then.” Richard’s eyes were unmoving from his own.
Perhaps the room was actually shrinking. He leaned further back, his ass pressing into the top of the toilet, the heavy ceramic scraped slightly and he startled, pulling himself together.
Had Richard asked that, or stated it?
He wasn’t sure, but he answered anyway, truthfully and nearly breathlessly, “I do.”
Richard blew out a breath, and he smiled, “Good, good. And she loves you?”
His collar was shrinking at the same rate of the loo’s walls.
One of Richard’s eyebrow hairs was a few centimeters longer than the others, “I,” he stuttered, “I hope -.”
The clap of Dr. Granger’s hand firmly against his shoulder forced him down, fully seated now on the toilet. Richard looked down at him before leaving the bathroom, “Might want to sort that first, yeah?”
Draco nodded dumbly, swallowing hard.
Richard exited the bathroom leaving Draco seated on the toilet seat. He ran a hand through his hair and blew out a breath, “Definitely need to sort that first.”
The front room was quiet when he returned; Dr. Granger was pulling his wife up into a hug, and Hermione was stretching her arms above her head still seated on the couch talking to her Father, “You get used to the charm eventually, but I still think it’s just nicer to brush.”
Richard shrugged, “I don’t know. I think magic is better than a deep periodontal cleaning.”
“What’s that?” Draco asked.
Hermione shook her head with a slight grimace, “I’m not sure you want to know.”
*** *** ***
Draco was still more nerves than man when they apparated back into their hotel room. Hermione bent forward, hands on her knees, breathing deeply.
He put his hand flat onto her back, rubbing up, circling, and then back down, “Are you going to be sick?”
She took in a deep breath, “No.” she exhaled, “I will not be doing that again.”
A laugh left him at the statement, the witch in front of him currently forcing her body into submission, “Water then” he offered.
“Mmm cold water, hot shower,” she sighed, slowly rising back up and heading towards the bathroom.
The mirror above the sink was fogged over by the time he followed after her. Draco stood at the faucet, listening to the routine movements of his witch.
Her process was always the same; the rhythm comforted him as he washed up.
The sigh as she shampoo’d, then a heavy cascade of water would splash as she rinsed.
She generally hummed as she conditioned the ends of her hair, then brushed her teeth as the conditioner set, followed by another heavy downpour of water as it fell to the shower floor when she rinsed again. After, she’d wash every inch of herself, methodically, with a washcloth, sometimes stretching completely while she scrubbed her toes with another sigh.
Hermione Granger was almost always multi-tasking, even in the shower - stretching while scrubbing, brushing while conditioning, thinking while rinsing.
Except when he joined her. Though, that wasn’t often - only two times at her place, a few times at his, and only once here.
Apparently, she really didn’t like taking a turn to rinse under the shower-head, nor did she like to adjust the water temperature to accommodate his preferences. It was a lesson that Hermione could be selfish, sometimes.
His musing was interrupted by her voice, “Can you get me a towel?”
His answer was, “Of course.” and as he opened the cabinet to grab one, he thought that “Of course” would always be his answer, for her.
Hermione’s arm appeared from beyond the shower’s frosted glass door, beckoning for her towel. He let it brush her fingertips and she reached further, a growl of frustration leaving her, “Ugh, Draco Please-”
He pulled her wrist lightly, and she stepped from the door, he wrapped her in the towel, taking in her bright eyes, hair flattened under the weight of water. He pressed the towel into her, and cast a wordless warming charm as she wrapped it around herself.
Her lips pulled into a smile as the warmth of his magic spread through her. She was looking down, as she tucked the towel properly around herself.
“Hermione,” he said, his voice far wobblier than he’d intended.
Brown eyes flicked up to meet his own, the smile still faint on her face.
“I love you.”
Her mouth fell open, before quickly being drawn into a wide smile, the corners of her eyes crinkled, her hands found his face and she pulled him down to her, “Finally.” she said faintly, her voice steadied as more words left her lips, brushing against his, “I love you too.”
The shock, awe, and extremely brief thought about how he’d had two incredibly significant moments in a loo that evening left his mind entirely as she kissed him deeply.
Chapter 19: The Cursebreaker
Summary:
Draco & Hermione discuss their future.
Draco goes to Theo's for a surprise.
Bill POV to start.
Notes:
HI! If you're reading this THANK YOU.
Big note - I have heavily edited chapters 1 through 11 over the last few weeks - nothing plot centered, just correcting things that I wasn't happy with (and all smut that I'd written in prior chapters. Merlin's manky minge, writing smut challenges me.)
Anyways - We're so close to the end! One more chapter!
Thank you for reading, feel free to leave me comments - they're fuel my peabrain to keep writing, and I've LOVED writing and reading with so many amazing people through this fic.
Cheers
xoxo
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 19 - The Cursebreaker
“Requisition number 3,429.” Meribeth’s vocal-fry after far too many years of pipe tobacco was exceptionally tired sounding this morning. Her rasp deepened, “Nott Manor, Cursed Jewelry."
The cup that he was pulling towards his lips paused, coffee sloshing close to spilling, “Nott Manor? I thought that was done ages ago.”
Meribeth’s sigh was long, “It was, but the young Nott’s found another of his Father’s vaults, and of course, he’s on a tight timeline. He’s requested priority service.”
Her tongue was sharp, the T’s clipped, the words ‘priority service’ said with a sneer. The woman was often annoyed, but Bill noted that she was particularly peeved by this job.
Bill hummed in thought, and took a deep drink of coffee - he grimaced at the taste, “This is gods-damned awful.”
His condition had made him a bit prickly about what made a good cuppa. It was something he hadn’t expected, but Fleur loved. Another thing they shared in common, they were, “Snobs togezer now” she’d say with fondness. Bill frowned as he vanished the coffee away, the notes of burnt swill lingering and mixing with Meribeth’s cloying powdery sugar-sprinkle eau-de-toillette.
“I agree. Nott is a complete pain in the ass. An entitled little shi-”
Bill snorted a laugh, Meribeth’s attitude this morning was a real treat, “I meant the coffee.”
Meribeth Churlin’s neck wobbled as she shook her head, “That’s because you’re drinking that crap from the canteen.”
Bill flashed a hopeful look at his Department Secretary, the crass crone who’d seen it all, been there, done that, and liked it even less - “Are you offering to run to Zinger’s?”
Her lips were pressed into a flat line, highlighting the deep vertical lines around her mouth, red lipstick flowing into them, “No.”
He crossed his arms, and settled back into the worn leather chair. Bill feigned disappointment, as if he weren’t expecting that answer (he had, she was not the charitable sort.) “What a shame.”
She sighed again, the breath that left her was somehow even heavier than her last - his name more like a croak than a word from her frowning mouth, “William.”
“Right.” Bill sat forward, straightened and set his hands onto his desk, knowing he’d already hit Meribeth’s limit for any foolishness (her word, not his - he found the repartee endearing.)
“Nott’s demanded it be done before mid-November.”
Bill’s fingers tapped against his desk. It could be done, perhaps, if not a terribly tricky curse. He asked, “Item codes?”
She rolled the parchment handle with her right hand, the papery-skin almost the same color as the roll she read from, “14.79 through 15.04. Unknown effects, dark magic palpable, slight haze around the piece detectable without magical aid, unable to handle safely, unwilling to transport, currently stowed under blood wards of the less savory variety.”
“Mmmhm,” He reviewed his calendar, each day color coded, but so full that some of the charm was turning a muddy brown where appointments overlapped.
"He’s sent several owls, and has personally visited my desk asking for an update on scheduling twice.” She coughed into her fist, and said “Uppity ponce.” as she cleared her throat.
Bill’s brows rose at the insult, “Meribeth!” he admonished amusedly, still eyeing his calendar, not finding a single available space. It didn’t look good for the lad’s timeline.
He clicked his tongue against his teeth a few times, “Perhaps we push the screeching lantern and the finger-eating vase back a few days?”
Bill didn’t want to reschedule those, he was rather keen on seeing the vase, but he’d make an accommodation - Theodore Nott was more an acquaintance than anything, but his brother’s friends liked him well enough.
“No can do, boy. Those are already behind schedule by a week. The screeching in Tinworth is causing earbleeds, and the sheer number of missing fingers in Ilkley is making muggle news. Aurors have been confunding nurses and reattaching digits like mad.”
“Maybe I’ll go to Ilkley today.” Bill mused, before asking, “And Swampscott’s still?”
“On maternity leave until January.” Meribeth nodded.
“Shit.” Bill exhaled, “Maybe we could see if Herm-”
Meribeth stood quickly and began rolling up the parchment, “Sounds good.”
Bill was surprised by the rapid movement of the witch who didn’t often move with such urgency, “Off so soon?”
“Need a smoke to celebrate getting this scheduled and off my desk,” she rolled the parchment up and stuck it between her elbow and rib. The lack-of-bitterness in her voice was the Meribeth equivalent of someone jumping with joy.
“Cheers, then!” Bill shouted after her, the woman already through his doorway.
*** *** ***
Scribe & Sigil, his favorite desk supply store, was mostly devoid of shoppers when he arrives, the familiar face of the dark-haired shopkeep turns towards him.
“Good morning,” Draco greets the man, “Brilliant day today, isn’t it?”
It truly was a brilliant day - the vanilla latte in his hand from the cafe was perfectly made, creamy and sweet; the grey cloud cover moved quickly overhead pushed by the crisp breeze, perfumed by the neighboring bakery. The smell of cinnamon and clove hung heavily as he took in the charming pumpkin decorations lining the cobbled street; all of this only made better by knowing that his witch, somewhere in the ministry, was currently wearing a pair of ruined black lace knickers under a pencil skirt.
The shopkeep, Reginald, cocks his head, “Yes, I suppose it is, Mr. Malfoy,” the man’s brows pull together, “You alright?”
Without any thought, Draco snaps the fingers of his left hand, and points, “I most certainly am, thanks.”
“That’s,” Reginald’s brows rose high, his lips turning up into a smile, “That’s great to hear, sir.”
Had he just snapped and pointed? He had.
Draco knocks the offending hand’s knuckle against the countertop as an unspoken farewell for now, before heading off towards the new Flow-N-Fill ink seasonal display - the stout glass inkpots glint from the overhead lanterns, full of shining browns, rust reds, and glittering golds.
He hums in appreciation and trails a finger running over the black labels making the glass clink together as he moves down the aisle and towards the dark floor to ceiling shelves, full of the finest parchment on the continent.
The better quality, weightier, more richly textured parchment rolls are kept on the tallest shelf; he pulls down an armfull of rolls, and a few individual sheaths, running his palms over each one, rolling the edges between his finger and thumb.
She’d need something sturdy.
Hermione Granger is many things - whipsmart, quick with her words, quicker with a wand, and bloody gorgeous but being delicate on doors, pens, parchment and cabinets she is not.
Draco found he’s only impressed with two rolls, one stationery set, and three sheaths. He wrinkled his nose at the others, finding them overpriced and underwhelming (as many things were, in his opinion.)
After re-shelving the offensive bits, he realizes that the previously quiet shop is now abuzz; the chatter of shoppers behind him roaming the aisle of charmable inks, and a man crouched on the floor to his left, muttering to himself in a low, gruff voice.
Has he been muttering to himself like that?
How long has he been standing here, smiling with a blank expression at the parchment in his hands?
Pulling his wrist upwards, he checks his watch. He has spent nearly 30 minutes dazed, imagining the letterhead of “Hermione J Granger-Malfoy - Wizengamot Chair, House Malfoy” in raw umber ink with gold-leaf accent against the warm taupe parchment in his hand.
He blinks hard, the fuzz from his brain ebbing as he becomes self-aware again.
Love, it seems, has made him a dullard.
He evaluates what he’s gathered, thinking he’s done rather well despite the dullness of his mind. With three taps of the rolls in his hand, and a brief glance down at the very shiny bald spot on the man’s head who was still speaking to himself on the floor, he sighs with elation. Draco makes his way to the checkout line - feeling rather pleased with his selection, the plans that he has that night with Granger, and (most seriously) his own rather thick head of hair.
*** *** ***
He watches Hermione as she holds the wide, shallow box he’d presented her with after their dinner. With an elbow on his kitchen table, she runs her finger along the length of the gold ribbon that’s wrapped around chocolate brown paper. Draco tries to school his impatience as she plucks at the giftbow with her thumb and forefinger, making no move to actually unwrap it.
She squints at him from across the table, a haughty smirk on her lips, “What’s this about, Draco?”
“Hmm,” he draws out the sound and taps on his chin for added effect, “If only there were a way to find out.” His palm slides against the table, reaching for her gift. “Perhaps I should just…” he muses aloud, as he tries to snag the ribbon that crossed on the bottom of the box in an effort to pull it away from her.
It’s as an empty threat that he knew would move her into action.
He was right about the threat. As he often is, when it comes to her; As well being completely right about Penelope’s preferred walking route (regardless of what Theo says), how many galleons someone over the age of 142 is willing to spend on something they’d only look upon 5 more times before their demise, what the proper morning tea is (english breakfast), and how much time between waking up and cunningulous is acceptable to Hermione; which is the same as his first point, but it makes him feel superior to think of this, so he does.)
The box is wrenched away from his reach, she hugs it to her chest, twisting her body away from the table, away from his thieving hand. “Excuse you! I’m going to open it!”
A moment passes, and she still clutches the gift, he tilts his head, “This year or?”
She answers by pulling on the ribbon’s end, loosening the bow entirely. Hermione throws the length of gold at him with significant effort, but it falls limply to the table, much closer to her than him.
His eyes drop to the poorly chosen projectile, then back up to her. He lifts a brow in question, he means it like, ‘Really Granger?’
She purses her lips and avoids his gaze, which he knows she means as,‘Shut up, Malfoy.’
So he does - he says nothing as she opens her gift, her fingers following the seam of the paper where he’d put a light sticking charm holding it shut. She lays the creamy brown paper onto the table and flattens it under her hands.
If he were to reach in an attempt to toss it away, or vanish it, she would say something like, “Oh but it’s lovely paper, we should reuse it for Christmas” and he’d say something like, “Very conscientious of you.”
Later he’d watch her squirrel it away in the plastic tub she kept in the hall closet of her cottage, labeled: X-MAS. He’d call her a, ‘curly headed niffler’ and then she’d say something like, ‘We need to reuse, reduce, recycle.’ He would not mention the number of takeout styrofoam boxes she binned, or her (weekly) forgetfulness (refusal) to procure a reusable coffee filter. He’d simply agree, because it made her happy to do these things, and it made him happy to see her satisfied.
Draco’s attention is pulled from Hermione’s hands, pulling the lid from the box, to the hallway. Inkblot zooms by, a blur of black fur, legs, and green eyes - Penny’s tail straight in the air as she follows, hot on the chase. There’s a yowl, a yip, and a clatter of nails on wood, but then Hermione’s voice calls him back to her as she asks, “Draco, is this what I think it-?”
She doesn’t finish her question.
The box is in her lap, the first of three documents visible from where he leans forward. Her fingers rise and fall against the shape of the embossed lettering in umber and gold against the taupe sheath. She chews her lip, brows in a furrow over the words, “Hermione J. Granger - Wizengamot Chair Representative, Most Dignified House Malfoy”
“Look at the other documents, love.”
Hermione sits the letterhead template onto the table gently with both hands.
She scans his face, the same way she had the first time he asked her out properly. Her clever brown eyes seeking something, he still isn’t sure what, but again, just like the first time, hopes that she finds it. Instead of reaching for her face, to soothe away the shallow line that was growing between her brows with his thumb, he glances down at the rest of the gift in her lap, gesturing for her to read the rest.
When she blinks, and moves her attention back to her lap, he feels his shoulders relax - it’s difficult not knowing what she was thinking. She taps a finger on the ivory page, a declaration in rich black ink, “Notice to Vacate Position - Deputy Director - Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures”
She reads through the concise language quickly, her attention snagging on the blank bits - three simple lines for her to enter dates, and a signature.
Slowly though, a smile forms on her face - growing from faint to fervent, crinkling her eyes, shiny and stuck on him. They stay that way, vision wholly on one another, before she lets out a laugh, “Oh Draco,” her voice thick with affection, and acceptance, “You’re a wonderfully presumptuous, productive prat.”
A single loud laugh leaves him at her assessment, he shakes his head with mirth, “I’d like you to include ‘perfectly proficient’ and ‘passionate’ to that statement.”
“Perhaps,” she teases, “I could be persuaded.” She pulls a brow up and bites her lip, the familiar flirtation warming him, a thrum of want filling the space between them.
Draco shifts in his seat, “Yeah?”
His regard is pulled entirely away from the gift, and lands on the lip she holds between her teeth, biting into the smirk she was no doubt holding back.
“Mmmhm,” her attention moves from his eyes, dropping to his mouth, his hands, then back up, “But,” Hermione’s face turns away, lowering back to her lap, “It seems I have some very serious reading to do.”
“Right,” Draco clears his throat, “Shouldn't put off your reading.”
She smiles at that, but says nothing else, as she keeps her gaze downward, her eyes flicking left to right as she reads the last document. He wants, very much, to watch her read for the rest of his life.
Draco runs his tongue against his right incisor, watching the movement of her lips as she silently mouths the words of the contract in her lap.
“Upon the betrothal of Draco Lucius Malfoy and Hermione Jean Granger, Hermione Jean Granger will assume the role of Wizengamot Seat Holder of the Distinguished House of Malfoy in full capacity; forfeiting the title of Representative, becoming a full Member of House Malfoy.
Hermione Jean Granger will hold no positions within the Ministry of Magic outside of the accepted role on the Wizengamot, nor shall she accept payment as an employee, contractor, or representative by any other organization funded by the Ministry, to avoid any conflicts of interest in her Wizengamot Seat role.”
Her eyes flick up at him only once as she reads, she licks her lips, and continues her read through. The paper rustles, his nerves rustle along with them as he reflects on the two solicitor meetings he’d requested before getting this document. Then he ruminates on the very harried floo call earlier this afternoon in which he (honestly) sputtered and asked the family solicitor, “Is this mad? What if she says no to the offer? You’ve included a clause that we can still marry if she doesn’t want the seat, right?”
To which his solicitor’s head fell back, as if exasperated. He said, “Mr. Malfoy, again, her signature on the contract is not required for betrothal,” and then, “Perhaps I ought to loop in Mrs. Malfoy, to ease your erm.. anxieties?"
Draco shook his head, thanked the sod for his time, and ended the floo call abruptly.
He was a grown man. He had better things to do with his time before Hermione’s arrival that evening than discuss this with his Mother like: pacing the length of his office, triple-checking that the Christmas Gala task list was nearly completed, and pressing his nose into Penelope’s velvet ear while muttering his worries against the roll of neck-fat that bubbled over her collar.
“Draco?” her voice cuts through his thoughts. She’s staring at him with a worried expression, catching his downward spiral.
He loosened the hand that at some point, stopped rubbing against his trousers, and had moved to his hair, tangled into the strands near his left ear (both of which were now heating under her observation.)
He moves it back to the tabletop, meeting his right hand, lacing his fingers together - keeping them still, despite the itch to reach into his pocket and pilfer a smoke. He was trying to quit again.
“What do you think?” he asks, working to keep the concern out of his voice.
Hermione blows out a breath through rounded cheeks. Her voice cautious when she turns forward in her seat to face him, “It’s a lot.”
The contract now sits on the table between them, an island made of paper.
This new land had erupted from the depths of his feelings for her; hot, and liquid, then cooled into something solid and thriving in a temperate sea. He was already on the beach, stupidly stranded in love, ready to shelter any storm, any hardship, here with her. Draco Malfoy was waiting, watching the metaphorical waves, waiting for her to appear - aphrodite on a shell.
He leans forward against the edge of the table, finding the wood physically stabilizing. He reaches for his wand to his left, “It’s too much. We can just burn it.”
“No!” a shout with widened eyes, she pulls the paperwork to her chest, “I don’t want to burn it.”
Draco’s heart races, quill then, he thinks, he should summon a quill. “You’ll sign it?”
A surprised laugh comes from her, “Well, not right this instant,” Hermione squints at him, cocking her head just slightly, “Oh, you absolute idiot.”
She stands on the final syllable of the affectionate insult, the chair scrapes against the tiled floor, her slippered feet shuffling as she makes her way to him.
Her approach moves him into action, pressing hard into his heels to shove his chair backwards, wanting to stand, to reach her in the middle, to hold her and say:
“Sign it whenever you want.” or “I’m an idiot.” or most stupidly, “Will you marry me?”
But she didn’t say no, she hadn’t said yes, he didn’t have a ring, and he hadn’t a sodding clue where his voice was right now.
Hermione falls into his lap before he could rise, winding her cashmere-covered arms around his shoulders, pressing the (unsurprisingly cold) tip of her nose into his neck.
“It’s good, we’re good,” the heat of her words spoken into the hollow of his throat, as she continues, “I just didn’t expect something so formal, so soon.”
She sniffs a watery laugh, “But I should have. I can’t sign it now, that’d be mad, right? I’m not that kind of - I need to think.” a pause as she inhales, then, “You really want this? With me!” another sniffle, “I mean, of course you did. Do. You do, obviously, you’re courting me for Christ’s sake. It’s always been heading this direction, and I’m happy, Draco. Gods, you make me so happy.”
He feels a wet flutter of her lashes when he finally finds his words, “Hermione, I want this, all of it. You. As my wife. In my home, at my side, with my name.” he swallows, “Whenever you’re ready. And If the Wizengamot isn’t what you want, I’ll incendio the contract right now, I don’t care, I’m sorr-”
“Don’t apologize,” she interrupts, and kisses where his throat bobbed. “I want it,” she moves her lips to his jaw, another kiss. “I want you. I love you,” a longer kiss, pressed firmly into the sensitive spot near his ear, as if to etch her words, her lips, and herself into him. His skin prickles when she drags her mouth away.
Finally she whispers a truth he didn't know he’s been starving for, “I’m not running away. I’m here,” her body shifting to straddle him.
His own arms had wound around her the moment she settled fully onto him, he squeezes more tightly as he admits, “I don’t think I’d let you, even if you tried.”
A soft laugh meets his ear, she pulls away ever so slightly, just enough that her eyes, bright with amusement rather than tears, bounce between his. “Really?” She asks more teasing than serious, the words that follow come from upturned lips and she pinches his shoulder, hard enough to sting a little, “You’d definitely have to catch me first.”
His hands lower from her back to her waist, his thumbs moving under her jumper, digging lightly into her soft skin. She was already caught. “You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
She tsk’d at him, her haughty tone paired with the press of her into him making his thoughts tick slowly, “Doubtful,” she shifts against him, strategically, deliberately, a move meant to make him forget what he wants to say, “I’m very quick with a sticking charm, and light on my feet.”
“You are categorically not light on your feet, Granger.” he reminds her, pulling her hips forward on him, then sliding her back along his length.
“It’s,” her voice catches “just an expression.” Her hands shift, sliding from his shoulders to his chest, pushing herself away from him, “I’m very fast.”
“With a wand, sure,” he grins, chasing her mouth, leaning forward - his voice gruff against her ear, “but not these.” He runs his hands over her thighs, giving them a rough squeeze.
”They’ve outpaced you before,” she chides - she’s so mouthy, and he loves it.
“Only once,” he groans as she rolls her hips, “But I was vulnerable. You weaken my wits.”
She smiles into their kiss, then breaks it to say against his lips, “And you want to be out-witted forever.”
“I do.”
*** *** ***
Penelope’s whining at the floo again. The high pitched melody of melancholy only soothed when distracted with breakfast, or her ball.
Draco bends low to pick her up. Her fur’s getting more coarse, he thinks, as he cradles her to his chest. Honestly, he understands her whine entirely. He would whine at the floo too, if it were appropriate, but Granger would find that offputting, surely.
“Me too, sweet girl,” he murmurs gently into her copper toned head, then after, “You stink a bit.” An exhale, an inhale, “I love it.”
Penelope, as usual, only answers with the shallow snoring sounds she makes when comfortable.
“They’ll be back soon, I promise.” he utters the reassuring words both for her, and for himself.
Hermione and her cats left last night - she’d sent them through the floo under each arm, and returned for the documents, and to wish him goodnight. She was heading back to the fireplace as he followed her from the kitchen, negotiating that she stay, unsuccessfully.
She turned on her heel to face him, and said, “I just need some alone time with that contract, for perspective.”
He leaned into the brick of his fireplace and reasoned, quite logically, that he’d give her whatever she wanted, he’d bugger off for the night, he’d even sleep on the couch.
Her response to that was with a smile and a slow shake of her head, tone light, “So dramatic.”
Her eyes dropped to the copper bucket of floo powder, her hand reached to snag some as the next words came out breezily, “I need to prep for a job I have on the books for tomorrow, too.”
His hand darted out, and tugged her hand away from the powder, pulling her attention back to him so he could ask what she meant by, ‘a job’.
Hermione waved him off, “Oh, just a little wand work for the Ministry. Nothing to fuss about.”
Her flighty response gave him pause, but he knew better than to pry.
Draco wagered it had something to do with the mysterious Gringott's role that both she, and his Mother refused to divulge. He’d really need to force that conversation, but this witch could also be talking about something else entirely. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she said she had a side gig impersonating the muggle Pope, at this point.
When he asked her if she promised to tell him what it was tomorrow night, she said, “I promise, but it’ll require a bottle of wine.”
After one more attempt to keep her there for the night, she huffed, “Please, please, please stop looking at me like that. You’re worse than her.” She pointed at Penelope then, who was lying on the couch, watching them with slanted eyebrows, her dark eyes round and full of despair.
Draco released her hand, covered his eyes with both of his own, and asked if that helped.
She simply laughed, “No,” before she pulled on his shirt collar, dragging him down so she could land a short, solid kiss on his lips. She pulled away while his eyes were still closed, and said, “Love you,” before leaving through the floo.
Draco glanced at the clock over the mantle - that was 14 hours ago.
He frowns against Penelope’s ear.
He groans, his back stretching as he sets Penelope back down. She wags her tail, eyes wide like saucers, expectant. It was clear that both he and Penelope needed a distraction to pass the rest of the afternoon - because he is, quite obviously, losing his mind.
He pulls the Hawthorne from his back pocket. With a snap of his wrist, Penelope’s harness and leash fly into his hand from the back door - they need to take a walk, find some wine, and sort dinner before his witch comes home.
*** *** ***
“No, godsdammit, please don’t,” It was in her mouth. Whatever that seemingly slimy, mysterious something is that she’d been sniffing at. Draco gags, watching the unknown… substance?.. drip as Penelope chewed.
Their walk had devolved.
Drastically.
Everything was fine on the way to the shop to procure wine, and two (gorgeously marbled) steaks. The walk back, however, has turned into a debacle - food becoming Penelope’s number one priority, though Draco’s definition of food was much different from hers.
She’s no longer minding her manners. She continues pulling on the leash, choking herself to get more of that… stuff, with a strength incomprehensible for such a small, non-magical creature.
Draco holds firm, “I’m not arguing with you about this again. You can’t have more of…” his words stall, “That.”
Penelope, though, does not care for his reasoning, and ignores him completely.
“Penny,” he’s bartering now, “Pen,” tone firmer, beckoning for her attention. Her eyes shift to him briefly, “Wanna-treat?”
Penelope’s head turns around and she bounds back to his side, tail wagging, nose quickly finding the Pumpkin Pup Lump he offers. With her attention back on him, they walk on, their home within his eyesight, but only for the briefest of moments, because once he could see the roofline of his house, a blindingly bright patronus stops them in their tracks.
Theo’s voice shouted excitedly from his dhole patronus, which is difficult to hear over Penelope’s defensive barking.
“Draco, doll - you must get here now. You’re never going to believe it. Come! Quickly, please!”
“Well,” Draco says, mostly to himself, partly to the dog whose back hair is still raised from the intrusion, “That’s concerning, isn’t it?”
Penelope pulls at her leash again in response. Draco closes his eyes, searching for patience within himself.
It takes another 10 minutes to get to his front door from the end of the street.
The fridge snicks shut after he tosses the steaks into it, the wine’s left in its bag on the countertop, as Penny noses her way under a blanket - entirely unremorseful for her earlier actions, nor caring about the interruption to Draco’s day.
Penelope lets out a sigh from under her blanket, as if she were put out by him. She wasn’t the one who’d been accosted.
“Spoiled,” Draco exhales, standing before the floo, ““Nott Estate - East Parlor”
With resignation, he steps into the heatless green flames, wondering how he’s wound up with such companions.
“Finally!”
He hears his friend’s voice before he can see him. His eyes are squinting in avoidance of the cloud of dust that lands on his jacket. He pats it off with a sneer, then reaches to dust his pants, too, in an attempt to rid himself of the detritus from Theo’s crumbling floo.
“You really need to sell this crypt,” he says, fixing his still squinting eyes onto Theo’s rolling ones, “It’s falling the fuck apart, mate. Filthy.”
“I didn’t ask you over to be chastised, you twat.” Theo snaps his fingers twice in rapid succession, beckoning him to move quickly, like a dog, while walking briskly towards the heavy doors leading to the main hallway, “Come along.”
“Don’t snap your fingers at me,” irritation grates his nerves - he didn’t even snap at Penny like that, it’s incredibly impolite.
“Then don’t snap your snippy tone at me!” Theo argues, twisting on his heel to face him again.
Draco tugs his jacket, and moves forward to follow. Theo only pauses long enough to make sure he was following.
The hair on Draco’s neck rises as he realizes they were not turning left to head towards Theo’s side of the manor. As they continue, Draco grows concerned about how deeply into the unpleasant portion of the estate they were going - his steps slow.
Theo’s pace doesn’t slow, he calls over his shoulder, “Hop too, lovey!”
Begrudgingly, he moves forward, picking up his stride, “Theo,” he barks, “Are you putting me on? I don’t have time for much, I have plans later with-”
“Hermione, yes I know.” Theo says impatiently, waving a hand as if to brush Draco’s words away.
At the next turn, Draco swears the hallway narrows - the walls, wood paneled, stained in black, press in on him, the muscles in his shoulders tightening. Theo’s shadow ahead of him stretches and shrinks unnaturally, the already dim lighting from the wall sconces flicker inconsistently.
Another turn, a feeling like static against his skin, similar to standing in an open field with dark skies overhead, seconds before lightning cracks the sky and strikes you dead.
“How much farther?” he asks, but his voice was odd - distorted. Theo never asked him to venture this deeply into the Estate before.
“Not far,” Theo’s response is muffled, as if his ears are full of cotton, “Just ignore the.” he waves out a hand, “vaguely offputting, claustrophobic, sinister feeling, and you’ll be fine. The cursebreaker’s here and it’s making everything cranky.”
Draco keeps his eyes on Theo’s legs, “And you’re taking me to what? Interrupt their work?”
“No, just - “ Theo’s tone is tetchy, “You just have to see it, to believe it.”
“Believe what?”
“Just trust me.”
Draco does not distrust Theo, he just thinks that their ideas of safety, common sense, and rationality are very different. He thinks these things, but does not speak it, because the sensation of being watched is making his jaw tense and the sound distortion makes him nauseous.
He keeps his eyes on Theo’s legs ahead of him, the less he observes in this hallway, the better. Theo stops abruptly, his right arm shooting outward, halting them both at the edge of the tattered rug’s edge, the tassels that still remained were flattened, stained by brown droplets.
He sidles beside his friend, careful to keep the tips of his shoes exactly where Theo’s are. Before them is a set of double doors, closed, behind a faint shimmer of cornflower blue - a stealthy ward, its buzz of magic more agreeable than the oppressive magic that permeates the walls around them.
Draco’s fingers reach towards the ward, it’s not repelling - it’s cushioning. His fingers brush against the genial magic, it feels… kind, he thinks. Theo faces him, his clear green eyes crinkling in the corners from a mischievous grin, “Ready?”
“For?”
Theo doesn’t respond, he just steps past the warding, and pulls Draco along.
Warmth washes over him as he passes through, but it’s fleeting - the space on the other side of the magic is cool, but the noise - Gods, the noise is overwhelming. Whatever’s happening behind this door has been muffled by the ward at his back, he has an irrational desire to lean into it.
“WHAT’S GOING ON IN THERE?” he asks over the cacophony.
Theo shouts into his ear, “OPEN THE DOOR AND FIND OUT!”
Draco shakes his head, he has no desire to go in there. it sounds like a herd of erumpents were loose behind the closed door. Despite his protest, two hands clamp down onto his shoulders, “THEO! YOU’RE OUT OF-” the door bursts open, “YOUR FUC-” he’s shoved forward as he’s still shouting, “-KING MIND!”
The force of Theo’s shove makes him stumble forward, the movement keeping him upright, keeping his face from falling flat into the stone tile below him. Draco’s breath catches in his throat, he flinches from another loud BANG.
A shimmering, indigo tinted veil of magic forms a dome in the center of the room. It pulses as if it’s breathing - another BANG, the magic flares outwards. The dome towers to the ceiling, expands its circumference so quickly it nearly touches his shoes. He takes a jerky step backwards, away from the magic; the dome contracts again with a crackle.
Despite the intensity and the thundering, the spellwork feels familiar. He tries his best to study the shapes that move under the pulsing ward; the magic warping everything beneath it.
In a bizarre moment of clarity (or stupidity), Draco pushes his magic, working to keep his intention of curiosity and consideration intact in its reach.
It swirls silver and dissipates like paint in water as it meets the indigo veil - the connection makes him shiver, the intention which returns winds up his spine, it conveys in feeling, not words, not language - shield, protect, shelter, preserve -
But it’s too faithful, too devoted, it’s tinged with something else.
It’s unmistakably her magic. He squints and leans in.
It’s undoubtedly her hair, her face, her shoulders that ripple, confusing his vision.
Draco blinks rapidly, his mouth dry - he’s held it open for too long.
Because what he’s witnessing is unreasonable.
Because this undulating curtain of sorcery is being cast from Hermione’s hand.
“She’s a cursebreaker. A godsdamned cursebreaker.”
The warding flickers, then falls away with a fizzle.
He watches, stunned, as Hermione wipes a sheen of sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. When she leans back on her hands from her seat on the floor, she finally notices he’s there. They lock eyes, and there’s a long measure of silence, before he finds his words, “You call this a little wandwork?”
She’s sheepish, but she grins, “It’s the last one.”
His expression must say he’s confused, so she explains, “It’s my last Gringott’s job. Ever. I’m done. I’m signing it, Draco.”
His head spins as she speaks, he can hardly keep up.
“I want it. I want you,your name, the seat, the title. All of it.”
He could float away from the lightness in his chest, but he’d rather stay here, anchored to this filthy flagstone, so he can be here with her.
So he can kiss her, and hold her - this willful, wild witch.
His (soon to be) fiance. His one day wife.
His love.
So he does.
Notes:
For anyone interested, here's a Dhole - the critter I picked for Theo's patronus.
Pages Navigation
BadBoysAreBest on Chapter 1 Thu 21 Aug 2025 08:31AM UTC
Comment Actions
groundbrains on Chapter 1 Thu 21 Aug 2025 02:16PM UTC
Comment Actions
PoemInTheDark on Chapter 1 Wed 17 Dec 2025 08:08PM UTC
Comment Actions
DrPansyParkinson on Chapter 2 Tue 01 Jul 2025 04:36PM UTC
Comment Actions
groundbrains on Chapter 2 Tue 01 Jul 2025 05:49PM UTC
Comment Actions
Goodnight_Girl on Chapter 2 Fri 08 Aug 2025 03:40PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hermanz787 on Chapter 2 Tue 07 Oct 2025 08:57PM UTC
Comment Actions
groundbrains on Chapter 2 Tue 14 Oct 2025 05:54PM UTC
Last Edited Tue 14 Oct 2025 05:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
PoemInTheDark on Chapter 2 Wed 17 Dec 2025 08:45PM UTC
Comment Actions
HugBunter on Chapter 3 Tue 01 Jul 2025 11:30PM UTC
Comment Actions
groundbrains on Chapter 3 Fri 04 Jul 2025 11:35AM UTC
Comment Actions
PoemInTheDark on Chapter 3 Wed 17 Dec 2025 09:14PM UTC
Comment Actions
HugBunter on Chapter 4 Fri 04 Jul 2025 01:27PM UTC
Comment Actions
groundbrains on Chapter 4 Tue 08 Jul 2025 01:56PM UTC
Comment Actions
PoemInTheDark on Chapter 4 Wed 17 Dec 2025 10:03PM UTC
Comment Actions
HugBunter on Chapter 5 Tue 08 Jul 2025 12:11AM UTC
Comment Actions
groundbrains on Chapter 5 Tue 08 Jul 2025 01:56PM UTC
Comment Actions
PoemInTheDark on Chapter 5 Wed 17 Dec 2025 10:20PM UTC
Comment Actions
PoemInTheDark on Chapter 6 Wed 17 Dec 2025 10:47PM UTC
Comment Actions
HugBunter on Chapter 7 Fri 11 Jul 2025 12:20AM UTC
Comment Actions
groundbrains on Chapter 7 Fri 11 Jul 2025 11:20AM UTC
Comment Actions
OopsIreadallnight on Chapter 7 Sat 12 Jul 2025 09:07PM UTC
Comment Actions
groundbrains on Chapter 7 Thu 17 Jul 2025 06:49PM UTC
Comment Actions
babyjoker419 on Chapter 7 Sat 19 Jul 2025 10:57PM UTC
Comment Actions
groundbrains on Chapter 7 Sun 20 Jul 2025 11:53AM UTC
Comment Actions
babyjoker419 on Chapter 7 Mon 21 Jul 2025 03:50PM UTC
Comment Actions
entenzer5 on Chapter 7 Sun 19 Oct 2025 09:09AM UTC
Comment Actions
groundbrains on Chapter 7 Sun 19 Oct 2025 09:30AM UTC
Comment Actions
HugBunter on Chapter 9 Fri 18 Jul 2025 08:35PM UTC
Comment Actions
groundbrains on Chapter 9 Fri 18 Jul 2025 11:36PM UTC
Comment Actions
OopsIreadallnight on Chapter 10 Sat 19 Jul 2025 10:05PM UTC
Comment Actions
groundbrains on Chapter 10 Sun 20 Jul 2025 11:50AM UTC
Comment Actions
Hermanz787 on Chapter 10 Tue 14 Oct 2025 01:59PM UTC
Last Edited Tue 14 Oct 2025 02:06PM UTC
Comment Actions
groundbrains on Chapter 10 Tue 14 Oct 2025 05:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation