Chapter 1: French Braid
Chapter Text
“Can I say something?
I’m naked as a Jaybird, babe
And I know that, but this won’t wait.
I like your really tight French braid.
…
Your sturdy bones
Pretty and gold inlaid
I grip and hold
Just like your tight French braid.”
- French Braid by Penny & Sparrow
~2 August, 2006~
No matter how many years out of school she was, Hermione Granger was always nervous to be called to McGonagall’s office. Her heart pounded an unsteady beat as she made her way through the empty first-floor corridors toward the familiar office where she had been firmly (but never unkindly) reprimanded on too many occasions to count. It was ridiculous! She was eight years out of school, for Merlin’s sake. She had an advanced potions degree from Ilvermorny, owned a flat in Hogsmeade, and was a bloody war hero to boot! She shook her head to clear it and smoothed down the front of her skirt as she walked toward her fated appointment.
Minerva McGonagall was an understated woman, which Hermione liked very much. As she approached the Headmistress’s office, knocking on the half-open door to announce her presence, she noted that this is the kind of office space she had envisioned for herself. Not too spacious and with tasteful furnishings and a cheery fire roaring day and night in the winter months. Hogwarts was a massive, sprawling property with enough space to make an agoraphobe wince, but the founders had used the space well. Every room was well-placed and thoroughly furnished so as not to have too much wide open space. She had taken it for granted during her schooling years here but had missed it greatly while at Ilvermorny. The mountain-top castle in Massachusetts was freezing cold nearly year-round, and it was Hermione’s profound belief that it was due to too much open area. Wide open space everywhere invited in the chill, she believed. The cold seeped in through the walls and invited itself to stay, tucking itself into any available corner. And as she looked into McGonagall’s cozy office, a pang of nostalgia and a happy feeling she couldn’t quite name settled onto her chest.
The stately woman at the desk before her looked up from the papers she had been studying, eyes brightening with pleasure as she took in Hermione.
“Ah, welcome in, Miss Granger! Please have a seat, dear. I was just looking over some paperwork before our meeting this afternoon. Tea?”
“Yes, please. Thank you, Professor,” she replied with a grateful smile. A cup of tea would be perfect. She didn’t care about actually drinking it, of course, but it would be a perfect conversation buffer. A place to put her hands when she didn’t know what else to do with them. A good reason to pause to take a sip if she needed to collect her thoughts during their meeting. And she already felt like she needed to collect her thoughts.
A house elf materialized momentarily and presented her with the envied cup. She eyed the cream and sugar, unsure if the additional sweetness and fat would upset her already nervous stomach. She decided against it, wrapping her hands around the steaming cup and taking a sip. She kept her face straight as the blandness of the tea washed over her tongue. Some people preferred their tea without any condiments, but Hermione never had. Her sweet tooth knew no bounds and had her regretting the omission of the cream and sugar. But it was too late now. She took another sip and smiled as she set it back down on its saucer.
“Have you had a chance to read through my curriculum vitae, Professor?” Hermione asked, breaking the silence. McGonagall looked up from her own cup (no cream and two spoonfuls of sugar) and crooked her mouth in an almost-smile.
“Miss Granger, never one to mince words or encourage small talk. You know, we got quite a lot of applicants for this position. This is a prestigious school, one of only a few of its caliber. There are hundreds of witches and wizards vying for this very same job.”
She felt her stomach sink at the words. Of course. But then why had McGonagall written her to request this meeting? When Horace Slughorn had announced his second retirement at the end of last year’s term, Hermione had applied to be Potions Master immediately. It was nearly ten weeks ago now, and she had said nothing to any of her old professors, wanting to be chosen from the pile out of merit and not due to her connections. She had nearly gone so far as to use a false name but had ultimately decided against it. She couldn’t exactly change her whole appearance and identity. She was still Hermione Granger, Harry Potter’s Golden Girl and hero of the Battle of Hogwarts. But she had decided she wouldn’t pull any strings or use any old connections to get the job. She wanted to be chosen for her qualifications, not her celebrity. So when an owl had delivered her an invitation two days ago from the Headmistress of Hogwarts herself asking her to meet today, she had been certain it was to interview her for the position.
“Yes, of course, Professor. I understand completely. To what do I owe the pleasure of this afternoon tea, then?” She pasted on a tight smile, trying to make herself look and sound as sincere and calm as possible while her insides raged. She took a sip of tea.
The Headmistress huffed a laugh into her tea, taking a sip and looking at her over the rim of the cup.
“You misunderstand me, Miss Granger,” she said finally. “As soon as I saw your name in the pile of candidates, I knew I had to look no further. I barely even skimmed your resume, my dear. I knew that if Hermione Granger thought herself qualified enough to teach Potions here at Hogwarts, then that’s who I wanted at this school.”
The juxtaposition of emotions made Hermione’s belly flip-flop, which only affirmed her earlier decision to skip the milk and sugar.
“Wh-what?” she choked out, a mixture of surprise, pleasure, and annoyance clogging her throat. They hadn’t even read her resume? She had labored over that for days. She had stayed up for forty-eight straight hours writing and re-writing her mission statement and cover letter, obsessing over every word choice and sentence structure. She had downed countless Pepperup Potions until she was wide awake and buzzing. She’d had both Ginny and Harry proofread her entire curriculum vitae (nearly at wand point, but they did it). To not even read her resume felt criminal. But they wanted her! They were offering her the position!
“Don’t I have to interview? With you and the other professors?”
McGonagall chuckled at her obvious shock and loss of decorum at the news.
“I already discussed the matter at our most recent faculty meeting last Friday. The vote was nearly unanimous. We want you here, Miss Granger.”
She couldn’t help the giddy laughter that escaped her throat. This was it. Her dream job was just… hers.
“Thank you, Professor! Thank you very much. I’m so excited to teach here, to shape the lives of the next generation. I have so many ideas to freshen up the curriculum!”
“Yes, yes, I imagine you do. We can discuss that all later. For now, we need to go over the terms of your employment. You will, of course, be provided with room and board as well as an office space, and I’m sure you are well acquainted with mealtimes in the Great Hall. You’ll be paid 12,000 galleons per year, split up equally over the twelve months of the year and deposited every two weeks into your account at Gringots. You will be instructing our Potions class Monday through Friday on schedule, first years through seventh years…”
Hermione nodded along as the Professor went on. Discreetly, she pinched her thigh just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. She thought she’d have to fight a lot harder for the job. The fact that she practically just waltzed in here and was offered the position on the spot was difficult to believe. Her mind drifted to all the improvements she had planned for the curriculum, methods to make the class more accessible for students with learning disabilities and ways to help boost Muggle-born first- and second-years. She remembered how terrifying Potions had been those first few months of her Hogwarts education. She hadn’t even known magic existed before she’d gotten her letter in the mail, much less what Flobberworm Mucus was. She had been overwhelmed, nearly incapacitated with the overload of new information. It’s why she had spent so much time with her nose in books. She had been terrified to fall behind. She could help change that for incoming Muggle-borns just like her. Vaguely, she realized that McGonagall was saying her name.
“Miss Granger, what do you think?”
Terror bottomed out her stomach as she realized she had been daydreaming as she had been asked a direct question and was now expected to answer. She hated not knowing how to answer or what to say. Slowly, she took a sip of her bland tea and smiled at the Headmistress.
“I think it sounds just fine.”
McGonagall looked nearly relieved, and Hermione wondered what she had just agreed to.
~8 August 2006~
As it turned out, she didn’t find out what it was for nearly a week. She had put the issue out of her mind easily enough as she busied herself with moving her belongings from her flat in Hogsmeade to her new accommodations in the castle. When she had first seen her office and adjoining rooms, she had nearly cried. It was perfect, exactly what she had wanted. The quaint office was already equipped with a stately oakwood desk and comfortable chairs, an unlit fireplace begging to be utilized in the corner. The walls and shelves were bare, and she had jumped with giddiness at the prospect of decorating and arranging her books exactly as she liked. An inconspicuous door behind her desk chair led to a modest bedroom with adjoining washroom. It was tasteful and simple and, most importantly, cozy.
It had taken only a day to find a tenant to rent out her flat after posting an ad in the papers and meticulously leafing through the applications until she found the right person. The flat had belonged to her and Ginny both. They had lived there while Hermione took an eighth year after the war and Ginny finished her seventh. They had both signed a lease-to-own agreement with the crotchety old landlord who said he wanted to be rid of the upkeep on the place, and after two years of paying up, they had both owned an equal share of the property. Ginny had gifted Hermione back her half when she had gotten married to Harry shortly after the new Millennium. She’d rented it out to a young married couple while she’d been away at Ilvermorny and had moved right back in last year when she’d returned.
It had taken less than 48 hours to pack up her entire life in a trunk with an Extension Charm and have it delivered to her rooms on the first floor of the castle. Hermione didn’t know if she was proud at that fact or a little troubled that she hadn’t put down very firm roots.
Truly, the most difficult aspect had been moving Crookshanks. The poor beast hated change and had already been through so much in the last years with her international moves. She had been anxious that this move would be the straw that broke the poor cat’s back. Sure enough, he had dashed under her four poster bed as soon as she had brought him into her quarters and had not been seen since. The only indication that he’d still been alive was his food dish. Twice a day Hermione filled it with kibble and, sure enough, it was empty within a few hours.
Now, nearly a week later, she stood nervously in front of the doors to the Great Hall taking calming breaths. She had barely had time to feed Crookshanks this past week, much less dress herself presentably and make her way to the Great Hall for meals. She had eaten takeaway from a shop in Hogsmeade at dinner times and filled her belly with tea (cream and three sugars) the rest of the day.
She took one more deep breath and made her way inside. It was still the summer holiday, so the hall was void of its usual hustle and bustle. The Great Hall was the only truly wide open space in the castle, but it was usually so teeming with students and faculty that she was still comfortable there. Today it sat quiet and nearly empty as she made her way down the middle aisle toward the High Table. A tinge of anxiety fluttered in her belly.
It was almost unbelievable that she was a professor now. Her body so wanted to veer off to sit at her usual spot at Gryffindor table out of sheer muscle memory. Just being in this space, where she had dined and laughed and argued with her friends for so many years left her feeling breathless and off-kilter. So many happy memories in this castle. So many awful ones. There were ghosts in this hall, ghosts that only she could see. In her mind’s eye she saw Fred and George laughing and teasing Ginny while they ate their breakfast. Lavender Brown made mooney eyes at Ron over supper. Colin Creevey introduced himself to Harry, begging for a picture.
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, re-centering herself. This is why she hated wide open areas. She had no control over what decided to take up space there.
She quickened her pace and lifted her eyes to the High Table where she would now be dining with the staff who stayed on over the summer. There weren’t many, maybe a dozen or so. They chatted quietly so as not to cause an echo throughout the great empty room. She locked eyes with McGonagall and smiled widely as she approached and was turning to study the rest of the faces at the table when her steps faltered. Gray eyes. A shock of white-blond hair. A cool expression.
No, it couldn’t be.
Oh, but it was.
Draco. Fucking. Malfoy.
Their eyes met, and lightning zinged down her spine, weakening her legs and making a home in her belly. In that split second of locked gazes, more memories flashed. An icy Quidditch pitch in the middle of winter. A shock of blond hair falling over a stern brow as a boy concentrated on his assignment for Arithmancy. Long fingers reaching for a quill in class.
A shadow fell over her table as she poured over her textbook, the dimmer light making it difficult to read. She squinted down at the page, waiting for the shadow to pass as the person moved farther along in the library. The shadow lingered, and her nerves tingled with awareness. She gritted her teeth and looked up.
Gray eyes danced along the parchment she’d been scribbling on, reading over her work. She huffed and covered her papers with her arms, pulling them into her chest to hide them from his perusal. “What could you possibly want today, Malfoy?”
A small, devilish smile that made the space between them feel too small danced across his lips. “Oh, nothing, Granger. I was just passing by when I happened to notice you misspelled something in your Charms essay.”
She gasped and spread her papers back out on her study table, looking frantically over her writing. She’d misspelled something? How? She’d been so careful! She was still rereading her essay in a panic when his laughter caused her to look back up. His head was tilted back, eyes rolling like he’d just heard the world’s stupidest joke.
“Bloody hell, Granger. For the supposed ‘brightest witch of our age’ you really are a stupid, gullible bint.”
She gasped, cheeks flaming. His laughter followed her out of the library.
She slammed the door closed on the memory before it could replay further. The door rattled in its frame as she locked it and threw the key into a dark, forgotten corner of her mind.
What was he even doing here? The last she’d heard of him, he was being sentenced to Azkaban, along with his father. Hermione had dutifully avoided keeping tabs on him after that. For… reasons. Good reasons. Clearly that had been a mistake, though, as she found herself shocked and staring directly into his blank gaze.
She stumbled but quickly righted herself, skipping over those cold gray eyes and grinning warmly at the man sitting next to him, a face she was genuinely delighted to see.
“Neville! I’m so happy to see you!” she cried as she hurried up to his seat. Laughing, he stood up and swept her up into a massive hug.
“Hermione! It’s been ages! How are you?” He still held her close even after setting her back on her feet, wide smile grinning down at her. “I was so excited to hear that you applied for Potions Master. I backed you in the vote, of course.”
She laughed, slipping out of his arms and sitting in the empty chair next to his.
“Well, I heard the vote was unanimous, so I don’t think that comes to me as a shock, Neville.”
He had his mouth open to answer when a cool voice interrupted from his other side.
“Nearly.”
Her gaze sharpened on the culprit responsible for the interruption. He looked almost bored, leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed. He wasn’t even looking at her or Neville, just gazing down blankly at his empty place setting, like he was willing the food to appear already. She let herself take him in for longer than she should have. He looked different than the last time she’d seen him. Different but the same. He had the same nearly-white hair color, but it was styled differently now, keeping up with modern trends. He was the same height, but he’d filled out quite a lot in the last eight years. He was no longer a gangly teen only just on the other side of puberty. He was a man. An attractive man, at that.
Hermione filed that last thought away for perusal at a later date.
Slowly, his gaze met hers, and he quirked a brow like he knew exactly what thought she’d just filed away. Her cheeks flushed with heat, and she forgot why she was even looking at him in the first place.
“Hello, Malfoy,” she said in a clipped, overly polite tone. Her first words to him in over eight years. His name had sounded more like a curse coming out of her mouth. “What was that you said?”
“I said nearly. The vote was nearly unanimous.”
Her gaze narrowed nearly to slits as she glared him down.
“Oh?”
“Yes, Granger. Contrary to everyone else here, I think the position should have gone to someone a little more mature. Qualified. Experienced. You’ve never taught courses in a formal setting, and you’ve been relying on your fame to get you the odd jobs you’ve been working for the past year.”
She reared back at the insult, fists clenching at her skirt. Draco’s eyes caught for a half second on the whites of her knuckles clutching at her hem before flitting back to her fuming gaze with a small, insincere smile. She felt her heart racing as the rage boiled her blood.
Calming breath. One. Two. Three.
“Malfoy,” she began with much more placidity than she felt, “I don’t know if you recall, but we are the same age. In fact, if memory serves, you are younger than me. I took an eighth year here at Hogwarts after the war to complete my education after which I achieved a four-year advanced degree in Potions from Ilvermorny, during which time I taught at the school to help pay for my tuition. I taught Potions, Herbology, and even Defense Against the Dark Arts for a term to a variety of different age and experience levels. As for the odd jobs, as you put it, that I’ve been working this past year. I’ve been working at—“
“An apothecary, I know, Granger. I read your CV. You don’t need to bark it in my face. But working at an apothecary and teaching a few first- and second-years in America doesn’t make you fit to be Potions Master at Hogwarts.”
“Oh really, Malfoy. And what makes you so qualified to be here? What are you teaching, anyway? Nobody warned me that there was a snake slithering about the castle again.”
She watched her words land, his sky gray eyes turning to storm clouds.
“I’m teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, Granger. And I know McGonagall told you I was here, seeing as I’ll be your faculty mentor during your first year.”
Hermione’s blood turned to ice. What? Faculty mentor? Professor McGonagall had definitely not—
Oh no.
Oh shit.
It clicked into place. This was it. The thing. The thing she’d blindly agreed to in the Headmistress’s office during that meeting a week ago while she had been daydreaming about her new position. Draco fucking Malfoy was going to mentor her? She would rather eat glass.
His eyes searched hers for something as she scrambled to think of a way get out of this.
“I don’t need a mentor, Malfoy. I’m sure I won’t get lost on my way to class, seeing as I attended here as a student for nearly eight years.”
“The mentorship program isn’t to show you the layout of the castle, Granger. It’s to help transition you into being a full time professor. Hogwarts was having trouble with retaining new hires after the war, so we decided to implement a mentorship program to make sure new professors are adjusting well and not getting overwhelmed.”
Hermione was speechless. What did he mean “we”? He talked like he had been a part of the decision-making, part of a team.
Draco leaned across Neville to pluck a grape off of one of the platters near her place setting from the meal that had finally arrived while he was talking. He popped it into his mouth and chewed. She remained speechless as she watching the muscles in his neck shift as he swallowed. Was that a bead of sweat rolling down her back?
“Although,” he continued, “if you’re really that concerned about finding your way through the castle, I suppose I could show you around. I’m sure there’s a few broom cupboards and dark corners you’ve yet to explore.”
Her eye was twitching. She was sure of it. She felt the twinge in her left outer canthus as heat flooded her face, now for an entirely new reason. Was he… flirting?
She didn’t bother responding to him, turning immediately back to Neville, whom she had nearly forgotten existed until this very moment.
“Neville, can’t you be my mentor instead?”
Neville’s kind face twisted into an apologetic grimace as he opened his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted again by the same smooth voice as before. Would Neville ever get to speak?
“Sadly, that’s impossible. Longbottom has only just finished his own mentorship last month. He’s still too new to be considered to be a mentor to anyone. You have to have been on staff for at least five years.”
“And how long have you been teaching here, Malfoy? It can’t have been that lo—“
“Seven years.”
“But how—“
“I’ve been hard at work these last eight years, Granger.”
He had such a nasty habit of interrupting.
That same small, sadistic smile unfurled over his lips as he watched her turn to the rest of the faculty at the table. Conveniently, everyone else was either lost in animated conversation with other members of the table or dutifully avoiding eye contact. Even McGonagall was ignoring the scene unfolding here. Body tilted away it in a manner that showed she was so obviously still listening but was unwilling to interfere. Coward.
Draco’s lips parted in a near genuine grin as he watched her realize that she had no more pieces left to play. He had checkmated her. She was stuck with him for a whole year.
Eye twitch.
Calming breath.
One. Two. Three.
Hermione piled her plate high with what looked to be roasted duck and rosemary potatoes and stuffed her mouth with food. She ate quickly and ignored everyone for the remainder of her meal.
~12 August 2006~
Hermione spent the next few days ignoring him with all her strength. She kept part of the time to her room and office, finishing up the last of her organizing and decorating. The rest of her time was spent in the Potions classroom, going through used textbooks and brewing supplies. She threw out any expired ingredients and organized and labeled the rest, paired up all the mortars with a matching pestle (she had three more mortars than she had pestles, which she tried not to think too hard about in a class full of weird, horny adolescents), and calibrated all the brass scales, setting them at different stations around the room. She scrubbed the cauldrons until they were properly clean and charmed them to look like new. She mopped the floors next (seriously, had Slughorn ever cleaned in here?), and by the time she finished days of scrubbed and cleaning, her back was sore.
Ron and Harry likely would have scoffed at her and told her just to use magic for the easier way to do all these things, and it was true, it would have made a lot of things easier. But there was something about doing it the old-fashioned way. The Muggle way. She loved the feeling of using her arms and core to scrub something clean. To watch something dirty become clean by her hands, her progress clearly marked by her work. It was almost cathartic in a way. And it reminded her of her parents in a way that made her chest feel a little too tight. Doing things like this — cleaning, washing dishes, sewing buttons onto clothes — made her feel nostalgic, remembering when she had learned these things from the man and woman who had raised her. She missed them dearly. All the scrubbing and tedious minutiae helped a little.
She was scrubbing at a particularly nasty stain on the baseboards of the classroom when she heard a throat clear from the doorway. She paused her work immediately. Frozen.
No. Please, Merlin, no.
She would never ask the universe for anything, anything else ever again if the person standing at the door was not who she feared it was.
Calming breath. One. Two. Three.
She looked up.
He was grinning down at her from a few paces away. His smile looked genuine, and she could guess why.
Hunched over on her hands and knees, face red and sweaty, hair frizzy and flying, she stared up at him and felt like a cornered animal. The kind of desperate, cornered animal that would rather gnaw off a limb than be caught by the predator who’d trapped them. She would bet twenty galleons that she looked very similar now to how Crookshanks had looked when she’d had to give him a course of ciprofloxacin the last time he’d had a UTI. It had, to the dismay of both Hermione and her beloved cat, been a pill. And, no, it hadn’t been the kind of pill you swallow. Looking up at Draco Malfoy from where she hunched over a scrub brush on the hard floor of the Potions classroom at Hogwarts, Hermione Granger knew she looked exactly like a trapped cat trying to escape a butt pill.
He grinned wider.
She stood, straightening. Her clothes were in disarray. She had shucked her outermost robes at some point during the process. Cleaning this way always made her so overheated, she couldn’t bear to wear all her robes. Her skirt had ridden up at some point as well, and she pulled it down hastily as soon as she noticed, smoothing down the front of it. She paused when she saw she’d ripped her stockings on the right knee. Excellent.
When her gaze again met his, he had tamed his grin back down to his signature Malfoy smirk. She didn’t have the time or the patience to deal with this today.
“What could you possibly want, Malfoy?”
“My, my. Such a harsh greeting for your poor faculty mentor. I would have thought you’d be happier to see me.”
“Why on earth would you think that?”
“Because we’ve only got about two weeks before classes start, and you haven’t even begun looking at the curriculum.”
She paused at this. Because dammit he was right. Hermione tended to do this, get so fixated on one big task and forget about the other stuff. She was incredibly organized normally, but when a project caught her attention, she focused on it alone for what was probably an inappropriate amount of time. She’d gotten fixated on the cleaning and organizing and had completely shirked the curriculum preparations.
His smirk didn’t change, but his eyes sparkled with amusement as he watched her come to the same conclusion. He stepped forward into the room further, edging toward where she stood, scrub brush still in hand. He approached her slowly. Gently. Exactly like she’d inched toward Crookshanks with his -ahem- pill. Strangely, it worked so well that he stood directly in front of her in moments without giving her the urge to bolt. Gently, he pried the scrub brush from her hands and placed it on a nearby desk.
“That’s better now,” he muttered softly. He was so close to her that the smell of him permeated her personal space. “Why don’t we stop the cleaning for now and focus on preparing the curriculum and syllabus?”
Eye twitch.
Calming breath. One. Two. Three.
That was a mistake. A terrible mistake. Her calming breaths had pulled his scent right into her nostrils. He smelled clean and crisp, like new parchment and spearmint toothpaste. There was something deeper under it all as well. Something spicy that she didn’t have a name for.
She took a sharp step back.
“I suppose I can’t avoid you forever, Malfoy. I might as well get this over with.”
Even to her own ears, she sounded breathless.
A quirk at the edge of his mouth.
“That’s the spirit, Granger. Now grab your robes and meet me in my office in ten minutes.”
With a flourish of his robes that Severus Snape himself would envy, Draco Malfoy was gone.
~12 August 2006, about 13 minutes later~
Hermione stomped into Draco’s office, three minutes late and knowing it. He looked up from the papers on his desk as her heavy footfalls drew his eye to the open office door.
“You’re three minutes late.”
“I know.”
“You’re not known for being late, Granger.”
“Unforseen circumstances delayed me by several minutes. I apologize,” she admitted through gritted teeth.
The aforementioned “circumstances” were Hermione frantically dashing to the nearest full-length mirror to transfigure her ripped stockings and attempting to tame her hair into something resembling a normal hairstyle, braiding the curls back into a tight plait. She’d realized as she stood in front of said mirror how dirty and pathetic she had truly looked as she’d hunched like a ghoul on the Potions classroom floor. She’d full-body cringed.
After a pause where he seemed to be taking in her slightly less disheveled appearance, he filled the silence by clearing his throat.
“Right. Well, take a seat, Granger. I don’t have all day.”
Something in her instincts told her he did, in fact, have all day. Something in the back of her mind just knew that he’d blocked off his whole day to torment her. Or “help” her. However one decided to look at it. She just knew he had wanted to delight in her discomfort for as long as he possibly could and had made sure he had the entire day.
With a sigh, she sat in one of the chairs sitting across from his desk. She crossed her legs and folded her arms expectantly, waiting. Something was off with Malfoy. His gaze had caught on her hair and seemed to be fixated there. She noted his eyes moving back and forth slowly between her plait and her mended stockings where here legs were crossed in her chair before him. They almost seemed to be drifting over her against his own volition, like smoke drifting from a bonfire. After another uncomfortable pause, she raised an eyebrow and gesticulated toward the papers on his desk.
“Well? I assumed my mentor would have some sort of rubric for me to follow?”
His eyes finally locked onto her face, a tight smile on his lips.
“Yes, well, I do know how much you love a good rubric, Granger.”
Had he— had he meant to make the word “rubric” sound so inappropriate?
“Fantastic,” she choked. “Hand it over then.”
“Ah, sadly, there is no standardized plan for this program. Each new hire is unique with a different course load and different needs. I typically try to get a feel for someone’s teaching style, strengths, and weaknesses before making any sort of action plan.”
She scoffed.
“Action plan? I don’t need an action plan, Malfoy. I’m only here because Professor McGonagall insisted upon it.” And she had. Hermione had walked calmly in her office a few days ago and nearly begged the Headmistress to mentor her instead. She’d been reminded that she had, in fact, agreed to this arrangement upon her hiring. She’d been too embarrassed to explain that she hadn’t been paying attention when she’d agreed. “I’m perfectly capable of conducting my own classes. Like I said, I’ve taught before at Ilvermorny. So if you don’t mind, I’ll happily take your rubric or your syllabus or whatever it is you’re wanting to give me and be on my merry way.”
She stood abruptly from her chair, the legs of it scraping back against the wood floor of Malfoy’s office. Hermione extended her hand and raised her eyebrows in a challenge. Are you going to give me something helpful and let me leave, Malfoy? When he did nothing but stare at her braid again in uncomfortable silence, she huffed and turned to leave. Before she reached the door, another thing occurred to her, and she couldn’t help it. She had to ask.
“And another thing, Malfoy. Why are you my mentor? How could you possibly have worked here for seven years? If I have to have a peer mentor, fine. But why you? Shouldn’t McGonagall or Flitwick be guiding me? You know, ‘someone a bit more experienced’ as you so eloquently put it.”
This earned her a scowl.
“I meet the requirements of the program, Granger. I’ve been teaching here since before the new Millennium.”
She was going to say it. She was going to bring it up. She couldn’t not ask it.
“Malfoy, why didn’t you go to Azkaban?”
The words hung in the air between them, clumsy and curious. She shouldn’t have asked it. Things were even more awkward than before.
Pink flushed high on his cheekbones, and he looked away before answering.
“I did go to Azkaban.”
Quiet. The room was so, so quiet.
A tall blond boy stepping off the train to Hogwarts in his sixth year. He was a little too thin, his skin gaunt and pale. He had deep purple circles beneath his eyes, like he hadn’t slept all summer. She remembered having the impression that he was being eaten alive from the inside.
A scream echoing through the corridor outside the boys’ lavatory. Snape’s deep monotone muttering a counter-curse. Harry sobbing into her shoulder, gasping to breathe. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to do it.”
A gray gaze follows her path through the Great Hall after the final battle. They lock eyes. He looks resigned, like his fate is written in stone. He’ll be sent to prison for this. He still looks better now, knowing this, than he did last year. Relieved almost.
She shut the memories away, back in her mental vault. Turned the locking mechanism on the door. Combination unknown.
“For ten months two weeks and two days, I rotted away in a cell in Azkaban Prison.” When his eyes met hers again, they were colder than before. Warm bonfire smoke had solidified and sharpened into a shining steel blade. “I was sentenced to eighteen months and was released early on good behavior. Shortly afterward, I began a probationary period here at Hogwarts as an Assistant Professor and was brought on full-time after two years. Does that answer all your burning questions, Granger? Or would you like to ask about my father next?”
It was Hermione’s turn to blush now. She shouldn’t have asked. She should’ve just stalked him in the papers like a normal person.
The thing was, though, she respected him for answering her so candidly. It was obviously something he didn’t like to talk about, given his chilly countenance, and he could’ve easily deflected the question with a question of his own. Or made up a lie. Or poked and prodded at her nerves to distract her from the subject. But he hadn’t. He’d answered her truthfully.
In her life, she’d had to tell so many lies and half-truths and keep so many secrets. Merlin, the secrets. During the war and the years leading up to it, she’d understood why. Her mind had been a vault of her own making, stuffed full of information that could get the people she loved hurt or killed. She’d been terrified of being captured by the Death Eaters more than anything. Terrified that Voldemort would find a way to pry her vault open and plunder the precious treasure inside. She’d feared it more than death. More than the Cruciatis. Hermione had begun learning Occulmency before she had ever attempted a counter curse.
But the world was different now. She was different now. She valued openness and honesty above almost anything else, and Draco’s bald candor had won some points with her just now.
With a small sigh, she sat back down in her chair and scooted it back up toward Draco’s desk from where she’d shoved it backward earlier in her haste to make a dramatic exit. She crossed her legs but kept the rest of her posture open.
“Not really. I don’t much care for your father. I always thought he was such a cunt.”
After a moment of shocked silence, that was the first time Hermione had ever heard Draco Malfoy truly laugh.
An hour later, Hermione had to admit to herself that Malfoy may actually be good at this. Something in her soul died a little to admit that he might, in fact, even be better at this than she was. (This would never be shared out loud, of course.) As he went through his own curriculum, drawing similarities to her own and pointing out examples and exercises that may be useful to her, she realized that he’d put so much work into this. She had expected him to have picked apart course materials from the various former DADA instructors that had come before him and patched something together that was barely adequate. He hadn’t done that at all. He’d entirely rewritten the curriculum. Brilliantly. And not only had he rewritten the curriculum brilliantly, he’d taken great care to make it accessible.
He was already implementing similar tactics that she had planned to use in her own course work to aid young Muggle-borns early in their schooling as they were still figuring out the wizarding world. Things like comprehensive lists of common age-appropriate charms and spells for first- and second-years. Slowing and buffering the course work to guide the students more gradually into the deep-end of his class rather than shoving them in all at once. She still had nightmares sometimes about the Boggart from her third year or the first time she’d seen the Cruciatis Curse in her fourth. While it had been necessary to learn those defenses quickly at the time and in that political climate, times were different now. The wizarding world was (mostly) at peace. Children didn’t need to be traumatized to learn the important aspects of their education. Draco Malfoy seemed to understand that better than anyone.
And as he outlined how he accommodated for students with dyslexia by casting charms on the textbooks to make them a more legible font, Hermione realized something truly terrible.
She might actually like this man.
Chapter 2: Belladonna
Notes:
Hello again!
I've decided to go ahead and drop chapter number 2! I'm currently on vacation, and I have very little to do during the day other than write/edit and walk around my current area.
This one goes out to the 11 people who read chapter 1. I love you, random strangers.
Very mild content warnings: chronic illness, anxiety.
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Chapter Text
“I was in soil on hands and knees, covered in foxglove.
I see ‘em bow down when you sing, I heard the wind run.
I saw your sundress start to cling, color me turned on.
I remember hoping you were everything.
You were like lightning.
You were the turn of the century.
You were the reason, in hindsight,
That I woke up.”
- Alabama Haint by Penny & Sparrow
~28 June 1996~
With shaky hands, Hermione lined up her potions for the day on the edge of her washroom counter. Madame Pomfrey had been sending someone every morning since they’d apparated in a haze to Grimmauld Place after the battle at the Department of Mysteries. Each morning, someone from their group — Ron, Neville, Luna, Ginny — met with one of Pomfrey’s assistants at an undisclosed location, returning with a basket full of a dozen or so potions. Every morning, Ginny came bounding in with them, a too-bright smile on her face, asking if Hermione was ready to feel even better that day than the day before. Harry was still grieving from losing Sirius, and Ron was doing his best to help. Luna and the others were occupied with planning their next steps after the battle. Which left Ginny.
Hermione loved Ginny Weasley like a sister, truly. But in her current state, she wondered when she would finally snap at the poor girl and scare her off for good.
Recovering from Antonin Dolohov’s curse hurt. She was in pain all the time. Her lungs rattled with the curse, and her heart felt sluggish, like it was pumping brackish water through her veins instead of blood. She was still too weak to do much more than sleep and eat and use the washroom, which made her absolutely crazy. She had always been the kind of person who needed to be on her feet doing something or helping someone or reading something. Most of the time, she was still too weak and drowsy to keep her eyes open to read anything. But she couldn’t sleep, either.
She existed in a purgatory state, never fully awake and never fully asleep. Her mind was trapped in a body that sometimes felt impossible to move.
She wanted to scream.
That morning, though, she had managed to make a shaky lap around the perimeter of her room while Ginny was there and take herself to the washroom all on her own.
She steadied her fingers as she looked over the plethora of potions she was to take today. There were eleven total — seven to take this morning and four to take at night before bed. An unsteady finger traced the labels on the front of the first few. Blood-replenishing Potion. Anti-dizziness Draught. Draught of Peace. Lung-clearing Potion. Mandrake Restorative Draught. She stopped reading. One by one, she notched them to her lips, knocked them back, and swallowed. She set the remaining four nighttime potions on a shelf in the washroom in a less precarious position and slowly made her way back to bed.
The door to her bedroom creaked softly as her mother walked in, a steaming mug of tea in hand. Her blinds were drawn and all the lights were off to help calm the pounding headache that accompanied her fever. The light that seeped in from the hallway stung. She closed her eyes tightly and turned over so she was facing away from the door.
“How are you feeling, darling? Any better after a nap?” Jean Granger set the mug of hot tea on her bedside table and sat down on the edge of her bed. A cool hand smoothed the sticky bangs off her forehead, and she sighed in relief at the feeling.
“No, mum,” she croaked. “I’m not feeling any better, and I couldn’t sleep. Can you give me something to help me sleep? Please.”
A kiss on the crown of her head. “Of course, sweet girl. We won’t open any of our Christmas presents without you. I promise.”
A knock on her door had her dragging her eyes back open. She hadn’t even realized she’d closed them. Her mind had been drifting in a liminal space. She’d thought she’d just been with her mother. She’d thought it was Christmas morning. She shook off the sadness she felt at the memory and sat up slowly in bed. When she realized she didn’t have the strength to make it to the door to open it, she called out.
“Come in!”
She expected to see Ginny’s freckled face pop through, nose crinkled in a sunny smile meant to cheer her disposition. Instead she was met with the face of one Kingsley Shacklebolt. He stepped quietly into the room and closed the door behind him. His dark brow was furrowed with worry as he approached her bedside.
“How are you doing, Miss Granger? Miss Weasley tells me you’ve been more ambulatory today.”
Kingsley Shacklebolt was no healer, that was certain. However, he was the best she had at Grimmauld place. He knew rudimentary diagnostic and healing charms, like any good Auror, and had been discreetly communicating with Madame Pomfrey at Hogwarts to ensure that she received the potions he thought would help her best.
“I’m doing better today, thank you. Have you heard back from Tonks yet? Ginny said you sent her out a few days ago on reconnaissance.”
She was met with a tight smile from Kingsley.
“No word just yet. But I didn’t come up here to catch you up on the Order’s status, Miss Granger. I have someone here to see you.”
She felt genuine surprise. Grimmauld Place was one of the Order’s best kept secrets. There weren’t many people currently outside of its walls that knew of its existence. To invite an outsider in came as a shock.
“Oh?”
“Yes. I was hoping you’d consent to having him look you over. He’s a good healer and a dear friend. He works at St. Mungo’s.”
Numbly, she nodded. She hadn’t been expecting anything better than the numerous potions from Pomfrey. They helped a bit but not nearly enough. She still felt as though her chest was being eaten away from the inside slowly.
The middle-aged man that stepped into the room a few moments later had a charming countenance and kindness in his eyes. He introduced himself to Hermione as one Augustus Pye, a healer at St. Mungo’s. She recognized him as the healer who’d helped treat Arthur Weasley after he was attacked by Nagini six months or so ago. She remembered how studied he’d been on Muggle medical techniques, and she felt herself relax at the thought. Not that Muggle healing techniques would help her much at the moment, but she felt more comfortable knowing he respected Muggle research and medicine.
She smiled drowsily at him, and they made pleasant conversation as he cast a diagnostic over her. When the results came back, she saw a writhing purple mass taking up most of her chest cavity. It looked like an angry storm cloud promising acidic rain from the horizon. She didn’t have to be a healer to know it wasn’t good.
Augustus got less and less chatty as he cast different, more specialized diagnostics on her. One specifically for the cardiothoracic region. One for dark curses and spells. One for lung function. With each new diagnostic, his eyes lost their kindness and slipped straight into pity. His lips pursed. He wouldn’t look her in the eye.
He was about to flick his wrist to cast yet another diagnostic charm when Hermione caught his arm. She knew he was just buying time, avoiding telling her whatever bad news he didn’t want to tell her. She just wanted to know.
“Just tell me. I know that you’ve known what this is since the first diagnostic. Just say it. Am I dying?” Her words were quiet but strong. She didn’t blame him, whatever he had to say. She just wanted to know what it was so she could face it.
“That’s just the thing, Miss Granger. I don’t know what it is. I have no idea what you’ve been cursed with. It seems to be held temporarily at bay by all the potions you’ve been consuming and by your own magic, but it’s not going away. And even if it wanes or improves, I can tell you with almost complete certainty that it will never completely resolve. The only thing I’ve ever seen that resembles your diagnostic…”
His voice tapered off and didn’t continue. She gripped his wrist tighter.
“Just tell me!” she growled. She couldn’t handle it anymore, the not-knowing. “Just tell me so I can get on with it! I need to know!”
“Cancer!” he shouted. Then, much more quietly, “It looks just like when I cast a diagnostic on a stage 4 cancer patient.”
Cancer. Her blood chilled. Her grandmother had had cancer. She’d died when Hermione was just a girl, leaving her mother heartbroken as her only remaining parent died. She remembered vaguely how her grandmother had looked as the sickness ate away at her. Made her bones brittle. Caused her immeasurable pain.
No, she did not want cancer.
“Wh-what does that mean?” she choked out, numb.
“I don’t know exactly,” he said, more quiet than before. “Maybe if I knew the incantation, the curse. Do you remember the words he used as he cast against you?”
Her numb heart froze over completely.
No. She didn’t know the spoken incantation he had used. The silencing jinx she’d cast against him just before he’d retaliated had made sure of that.
She realized she was still gripping Pye’s wrist, her knuckles white. She released him with a small gasp. He continued on telling her that she could likely keep the issue at bay indefinitely, so long as she kept up with the proper potions, indicating that he was going to prescribe her a shorter and more specialized list to take daily.
Her chest felt suddenly too tight. There wasn’t enough room in it for her lungs to expand. The curse was taking up any available space, turning her own body against her. She couldn’t breathe.
She collapsed onto her side in the bed before she realized she’d been falling back. Augustus gripped her shoulder gently and shook her to make sure she was still conscious.
“Miss Granger, are you alright?” And then more frantically when she didn’t answer, just kept gasping for air like a fish out of water, “Hermione?”
Tears were leaking from her eyes onto the pillow beneath her head. There was nothing in her brain at all. Nothing in her lungs. Nothing in her heart. Besides cancer cancer cancer cancer.
Remotely, she heard Augustus Pye speaking to her.
“Miss Granger, I believe you are experiencing a panic attack. This is a normal response to getting such a serious diagnosis. It helps to run through some breathing exercises as this is happening, to realize that your body can breathe. Your lungs are still working. You just have to get your mind to realize it.”
She looked up into his eyes as he walked her through it. In and out. Count with me.
Calming breath. One. Two. Three.
~22 August 2006~
The hair at the nape of Hermione’s neck clung to it as she labored over the cauldron. The brew she was concocting today was a revised form of Wiggenweld Potion combined with Mandrake Restorative Draught with an Everlasting Elixir base to make its effects longer lasting. The resulting concoction, a mixture of her own making, was a powerful and long-lasting curse-countering potion. It had been the first thing on her agenda after her first year into her advanced degree to research the symptoms of her illness and figure out how to cut down on the quantity and frequency of her potions. She’d labored over textbooks, filled notebook after notebook with notes and pilot tests. By the time she had finished her degree three years later, she had the best possible solution.
She called it Anti-Arsehole Potion.
She realized the name could mislead one to believe that it relieved the consumer of his or her own arsehole, but seeing as she was the only person in the world who knew about it or needed to take it, she didn’t much care to change the name. It had started off as a play on Dolohov’s name. When she’d first begun researching how to create such a brew, she’d called it the Anti-Antonin Potion. The tongue twister had always made her smile a little, and she’d taken pleasure in imagining creating a potion that would kill anyone named Antonin. (Apologies to Antonin Dvorak, the Czech exchange student Hermione had snogged on an impulse in a bar one fateful evening while at Ilvermorny.) But when it had all been said and done, when she had finally figured out how to accomplish her goals, she hadn’t wanted to name it after him. She hadn’t thought he deserved the memorial in her life.
Hence, Anti-Arsehole Potion.
She brewed the potion once every other month in large batches and bottled it once it had cooled. She only had to take one potion once per week now. It was a relief compared to the half a dozen she’d been taking daily for almost a decade prior.
Hermione wiped the sweat off her brow as she finished up the last few steps of the brew, stirring in the stewed mandrake counterclockwise and finishing with two Moondew Drops. She levitated the cauldron off from over the fire and set it down gently on the stone floor of the Potions classroom to wait for it to cool.
She dearly wished she had her own personal space to brew, but she’d been too shy to ask McGonagall about it when she’d first started on, and now it felt too late to bring it up. One thing she did miss about Ilvermorny was her private sanctorum. All senior Potions students had their own private space to brew and experiment. During her final year there, she’d spent more time in her sanctorum than in her own room, often sleeping there while a potion brewed overnight. Alas, she had no such space now, so the Potions classroom would have to do.
She had just finished cleaning up her area, washing glass phials and reorganizing her ingredients, when she felt the air in the room shift behind her. Her shoulders tightened with anxious energy.
“You must have a silencing charm on your fancy dragon leather shoes, Malfoy, because I didn’t even hear you come in this time,” she called out to him, not bothering to turn from where she was straightening her phials of salamander blood.
A deep chuckle.
“Well if you didn’t hear me come in, Granger, then how did you know I was here at all?”
“I sensed evil and smelled whiffs of brimstone on the air. I figured it had to either be a demonic presence or a Malfoy and took a lucky guess.”
Another chuckle. Her insides turned.
Hermione had been dutifully avoiding Draco Malfoy for ten days. For ten days she had sat as far away from him at mealtimes as possible (made difficult by Neville who almost always chose to sit next to Malfoy for some reason and often called her over to chat with him over supper), changed direction or ducked away from him in the corridors if she’d seen him coming her direction, and mostly kept to her bedroom, office, and classroom. She couldn’t bear to look at him.
The realization had set in about an hour into their last meeting.
The way he talked about his curriculum and course work - like he was passionate about educating the students on a level playing field, like he wanted to improve the lives of the children - had forced a crack the armor she held over her heart, chipped away at a bit of the ice. Just a bit. He was just obviously so different from his parents and had been working hard to make sure magical children from all backgrounds were made to feel welcome and equal. She couldn’t take it. Her heart had begun to unfurl.
She’d realized then and there, sitting in his office talking about work, that she liked this new and improved version of Draco Malfoy. She’d never considered him anything other than a handsome nuisance at best and a deadly foe at worst back before the Battle of Hogwarts. She had barely looked at him twice, except to assess his fighting style or favorite hexes in case she ever had to go head-to-head with him. (The occasional ogle as he soared about on the Quidditch pitch or twisted his rings in class did not count.)
But now?
Now, he was no longer the petulant child who had hurled slurs at her and made fun of her teeth. He was no longer the ragged, angry adolescent who had aided and abetted the murder of Albus Dumbledore. He was a handsome, educated man who put his whole effort into teaching his students. And Hermione couldn’t handle it.
She had to squash this little feeling before it began to bloom, taking root in her chest alongside Dolohov’s curse. It was ridiculous to think that only two interactions with someone could erase a lifetime of bullying, insults, lies, and abuse. He’d been brutal in school, had brought her to tears on multiple occasions in her first few years at Hogwarts. He looked down upon her just because of who her parents were. Making a few changes to a course curriculum didn’t change that. Even if it was impressive and brilliant and would help the students greatly. The fact of the matter was - Draco Malfoy was still her bully, even if he wasn’t everyone’s bully anymore.
Hermione schooled her features into what she hoped was cool indifference and turned to face Draco Malfoy standing just inside the doorway to her classroom. He looked dashing. An iron door closed around that last thought.
“Oh, drat. It appears I’ve guessed wrong. It was, in fact, a demonic presence I sensed.”
His eyes sparkled as he took in her sweaty, disheveled state. Why was he always walking in on her when she was sweaty and disheveled? Why couldn’t he walk in right as she was testing out a beautification elixir? Or come in right as she was sweeping the hair back elegantly from her face, looking up from where she was writing something profound on a sheet of parchment?
His gaze was like staring into twin diamonds — brilliant, colorless, beautiful. She had to look away. She busied herself again with straightening her brew ingredients as he stepped further into the room.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to do better at your insults, Granger. I’ve had much worse. In fact, I remember once being called a ‘foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach’ by a classmate years ago. It hurt my feelings. Deeply. I’m still not over it.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure you absolutely deserved it.”
“Oh, I definitely did. And the slap that immediately followed.”
Hermione felt her cheeks flush crimson. She had to get him to leave. Now.
“What do you want, Malfoy? Am I to be sentenced to receiving a pointless, unbearable visit from you every ten days or so?”
“Oh no, Granger. I’m much more persistent than that. I’m a curse that only gets stronger with time. Pretty soon you’ll be finding me at your threshold weekly, then daily, then hourly. I’ll be joined to you at the hip before you can decide what counter to use.”
His voice was light. He meant it as a self-deprecating joke. But her stomach hollowed out at his words.
A curse that only gets stronger.
She thought of the curse lying dormant but deadly in her chest. Ready to strike her down if she ever got comfortable, if she ever let down her guard, if she ever stopped fighting it.
Yes, maybe he was.
Calming breath. One. Two. Three.
She turned to smile woodenly at him.
“What can I do for you, Draco?” she asked again. Serious this time.
Twin diamonds turned to spyglass, zeroing in on the details of her face, investigating why the tone of the conversation had shifted. He cleared his throat and tore his gaze down to fiddle with the hem of his outer robes. He looked nervous for the first time.
“Erm, Longbottom asked me to do him a favor this afternoon. Apparently there’s a wooded area just north of Glasgow where foxglove and belladonna grow in abundance. He needs to replenish his stores for his Herbology class but is otherwise detained and couldn’t go himself. I wondered if you’d like to tag along since…”
He trailed off and gestured at the room in which they stood.
“Since I’m the Potions Master? And I use foxglove and belladonna often?”
“Yes! Yes, exactly.” He looked relieved that she’d understood.
She eyed him, a little incredulous, and took him in fully now. He looked nice today, nicer than usual. His robes looked almost new and were tailored to his fit body perfectly. It seemed like he’d done something a little different with his hair, and — wait. Did she smell a hint of cologne? Or was it his aftershave?
Point being, he didn’t look like someone who had planned to hike through the forest searching for poisonous plants today. He looked like he had just come back from a photo shoot for The Daily Prophet. Merlin, maybe he had. Rita Skeeter liked to keep tabs on him periodically, Hermione knew. She knew because she had spent the last eight years reading only the issues that didn’t include pieces written about him.
He fidgeted nervously as the silence stretched between them, edging toward the cauldron full of brew that sat cooling mere paces away. He glanced curiously into it. “Say, what are you brewing in here anyway, Granger?”
Her heart sank so quickly that she had the briefest vision of it falling straight down through her arsehole and breaking through the earth’s crust. Where’s an Anti-Arsehole Potion when you need one?
His long fingers plucked one of the glass phials she had sterilized, labeled, and set out neatly on her workspace. He examined the writing on her handwritten label.
“Anti….arsehole?”
Oh, Merlin no.
She lunged forward and snatched the phial from his hands, setting it back neatly into its place in the row on her bench top space.
“Oh, yes, Malfoy. There’s an abundance of arseholes in the world. I thought we could do with a few less.”
He chuckled, amused once again, and peered back into the cauldron beside them.
“Is this a special brew of your own? What’s in it?”
“Oh, nothing! Nothing. Just a little cure-all I like to whip up from time to time. Helps get rid of pesky problems that won’t go away,” she said, giving him a pointed look.
He grinned back at her.
“Are you coming with me or not, Granger?”
No. She was going to say no. She couldn’t go! Not when she was beginning to like the man. She could not, would not, refused to befriend this man. Not when there was so much history hanging in the gaping canyon of space between them.
No. She was definitely going to turn him down.
“Alright sure, Malfoy. Why not?”
Fuck.
~22 August 2006, about two hours later~
Hermione had been correct in assessing that Draco Malfoy was ill-prepared to tromp o’er hill and vale searching for poisonous foliage all afternoon on this particularly balmy August day. His new, attractive robes were now covered in stickers and burs, and at some point over the last few hours, he’d gotten a leaf in his hair. He looked even better this way somehow, all hot and bothered and off his game. She realized as she glanced over at him periodically throughout, that this must be how she had looked the last few times he’d cornered her in the Potions classroom. Sweaty, pink-faced, and utterly ruined. An image flashed through her mind of Draco Malfoy sweaty and utterly ruined for a completely different reason, and she shook her head to rid herself of the intrusive thought.
She’d left her own outer layer of robes back at Hogwarts, donning only a light sundress and a comfortable pair of boots. She’d known they would have to walk a bit from the apparition point to the clearing on the map, so she’d planned accordingly. There was a slight breeze that cooled her skin as they walked, ruffling her skirts and her hair every now and again. She would have felt self-conscious over how much of her skin was showing if it hadn’t been so damned hot out.
A heavy silence hung between them as Draco concentrated all his effort on picking his way through the brush. So as they made their way to the area that Neville had clearly marked for them on the map, Hermione decided to take pity on him and make conversation to pass the time.
“So, Malfoy, what’s it been like to teach at Hogwarts?”
Excellent job, Hermione! Open-ended and broad. He could choose to answer any number of ways and elaborate further if he wished.
“It’s been fine.”
Drat.
A few beats of silence later, she pushed him again. “So what made you decide to teach straight after — erm. Straight after your release?” She thought it best to avoid bringing up Azkaban directly for now. Edging around the subject was fine, but direct contact? Absolutely not.
He sighed like he was throwing away on a particularly riveting game of wizard’s chess. “I supposed you could say I didn’t have much of a choice at first.”
“What do you mean?”
Another harrowing sigh. A palm dragged down his face. To wipe away the small beads of sweat collecting on his forehead? Or to avoid answering the question? Either way was unacceptable. She wanted to see the sweat slide down his temple toward his sharp jawline. She wanted to watch it drip off the stubble on his jaw as he answered all the questions she’d been keeping bottled up since she saw him those weeks ago in the Great Hall.
Drops of sweat and jawlines were categorized and tucked away on the bottom shelf of an impenetrable vault.
“I mean that the Wizengamot didn’t give me a choice. They ruled that, although I could get out early on probation, I had to pay back the council in war reparations. And I couldn’t use any of the family funds to do it. They said I had to ‘earn an honest wage’. All my accounts, my trust, they were all frozen indefinitely. Until I could pay it back. I was penniless with no plan, so I begged McGonagall for a job.”
She was speechless. She’d had no idea. He’d only been 19 when he’d been released from prison. A 19-year-old with no father, no home, no money. Expected to pay back a debt he’d been forced to accrue. Hermione licked her lips and asked it.
“How much?”
A hollow laugh came before his reply.
“80,000 galleons.”
She choked. 80,000 galleons. That was astronomical. Impossible. To owe such a debt, it would take nearly a decade to pay it off. Even if one lived modestly, spending only what was absolutely necessary and working day in and day out, paying back every penny made. On a Hogwarts professor’s salary, it would take about…
Seven years.
She swallowed. “And how much do you still owe?”
“A bit,” was the only reply she received.
~~
Thankfully, it didn’t take them too much longer after that to find the clearing Neville had marked on the map. Hermione had known they were in the right spot even before Draco had confirmed it. The familiar finger-like stalks with purple bell-shaped flowers that so distinctly signified the digitalis plant family thickly littered the clearing. Around the periphery sat a number of belladonna bushes, heavy with the darkly colored berries. Neville had been right. This spot was perfect.
Wordlessly, Hermione lifted the strap of her crossbody satchel over her head and set it on the ground, kneeling beside it to harvest the foxglove. She had a special storage bag inside her satchel, enchanted with a freshness charm to ensure the plants she gathered didn’t wilt before she could take them back home. Carefully, she uprooted the deceptively beautiful plants, separating the flowers from the stems to be stored and used differently, concentrating on the task to conveniently avoid her companion.
She could feel the weight of eyes on her every few minutes. She refused to look up. It almost took more effort for her to keep her eyes downcast than it took to do her actual work. She wanted desperately to look at him. She wanted to see that leaf in his hair, the smudge of dirt on his cheek. She’d never before seen him look so distinctly out of place, and she wanted to take time to take it in. To store this memory away for later examination. She wanted to remember exactly what he looked like in this moment, in this clearing with this afternoon light shining on his profile.
She looked up.
His back was turned to her now. He had his head down, kneeling in the dirt picking belladonna berries and placing them in a labeled bag. She watched the way his long fingers plucked each berry carefully from the bush, amassing a collection in his palm as he went. His fingertips were stained purple from the juice, and he had a bit of dirt under his fingernails.
For some reason, seeing Draco Malfoy with dirt under his fingernails made her smile a little. I was likely the juxtaposition that the image struck. The stark difference, the line in the sand between Draco the Death Eater and Draco today. The Draco Malfoy she’d known in school was meticulous and clean even to a fault. Never a hair out of place, never a vulnerability to be spotted. He never would’ve taken on a task that would’ve made him this dirty. And even if he had, he never would’ve let her see him this way, completely out of his element and a little unhinged. It softened her further. She couldn’t help it.
She watched as his head slowly rose from where he’d been concentrating on his task, his shoulders tightening in awareness. He turned to face her, an eyebrow raised. Hot embarrassment at being caught flooded her cheeks, and she abruptly averted her gaze, picking her collection bags back up. She turned away from him and tried to look as busy as possible.
“Granger,” a cool voice called to her from behind. “Do you mind coming over here a minute? I could use some help, I think.”
Fuck fuck fuck.
“Um, okay sure. Just a second!” she called back. She took a few seconds to finish stuffing her bags with foxglove, using the moment to collect herself. She didn’t want to still be flustered when she faced him again. When she felt calm again, she stood and crossed the clearing toward him. And why on earth was Malfoy asking her for help?
“Draco Malfoy is lowering himself enough to ask a Muggle-born for help? I’m shocked,” she said as she approached.
He smiled a little at her obvious attempt at a joke, but it was stiff and didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked back down toward the belladonna bush he’d been collecting from, gesturing toward it. “Well I was just unsure if I should pick the flowers as well.” His pointer finger stroked a gentle line over one of the delicate petals of a purple-blue flower.
She swallowed.
“Oh, erm. Yes of course. The berries are certainly more useful. They’re called for in many different types of potions and tonics, although they’re extremely toxic and shouldn’t be consumed in their unprocessed state. But the flowers can also be very valuable. The petals and stamens can be crushed and steeped to make a tea that settles a roiling stomach. I’ve also seen some apothecaries sell the brew as cosmetic eyedrops to enhance the appearance. Of course naturally, belladonna dilates the eyes. But charms can be added to change pupil shape, even eye color. It’s a little silly, if you ask me, but who am I to judge?”
She realized she’d been rambling but had been unable to stop the word vomit from pouring forth. Draco looked back up at her then. For some reason, his face was more open than she’d ever seen it. His eyes searched her face for…something. Something she didn’t quite understand.
“So I should keep the flowers as well, then?”
Were they still talking about belladonna? There was something in the quality of his tone that made her think there was an underlining conversation they were having, only the meaning was escaping her.
“Well, yes definitely. I’m sure Neville could use them for his class, and I can think of a few tonics I could make.”
Draco nodded and plucked a blossom from the bush, twirling it between his thumb and pointer finger. He looked at it for a moment before looking back up at her and holding it out. Hermione stared at the proffered flower, uncomprehending. When she didn’t take it from him, he stood to his full height, towering over her.
Slowly, he lifted the bloom into the air between them, placing it gently into her palm.
“There,” he said softly. “For your tonics.”
What. The. Fuck?
An hour later, Hermione stormed into the Herbology classroom, doing a wild half-walk half-run until she could fling the bags of herbs unceremoniously onto his desk. It freed her hands so she could gesticulate wildly while she talked. “Neville, what the fuck!”
He startled from where he’d been lounging, leaned back in his chair with his feet up on his desk. His face paled when he took in her panicked state.
“What is it, Hermione? What’s happened? Are you hurt? Where’s Draco?” His voice reached a fevered pitch on the last note, making it sound like Neville was choking on Malfoy’s name. Rather than respond with so many words, Hermione gestured wildly at the flower she had placed carefully on his desk next to her bags of herbs. Neville’s brow furrowed in obvious confusion.
“What? I don’t understand, Hermione. What’s going on?”
Hermione opened her mouth to reply when something occurred to her. She narrowed her eyes on her friend, still seated before her. He’d been lounging around when she’d walked in, and she realized he’d been reading something. She glanced at the book he’d flung down on his desk when she’d initially startled him. It was a Muggle novel, one she recognized. Her ire grew.
“Neville, why are you reading Eat, Pray, Love?”
He blushed crimson.
“Well, it’s a- it’s actually an excellent book, Hermione. It’s about friendship and love and self-discovery.”
She planted both palms on his desk and leaned over him. She smiled tightly.
“See, it’s just that I thought you were busy this afternoon. So busy, in fact, that Draco Malfoy had to go collect your herbs for you. And for some reason, Draco Malfoy just had to take me with him."
The blood drained from his face as he realized the implication. He opened his mouth to respond, but Hermione didn’t let him. “And now that I think about it, did you refer to Malfoy earlier as just ‘Draco’? See, I’m less concerned about what’s going on with me and much more concerned about what’s going on with you.”
Silence.
A beat.
More silence.
Hermione decided then that she was going to poke and prod one last time. She’d already softened toward Malfoy these last weeks, going so far as to consider him likeable. She needed to push Neville now to get the answers she sought. She trusted him with her life.
“Neville,” she continued. “Are you friends with Malfoy? I know you sit next to him most days at mealtimes, but I just thought it was an issue of convenience, not wanting to move your chair or something. But are you actually friends with the man who bullied you all through school? The man who trapped you in a Leg-Locker curse first year? Stole your Remembrall and called you names? The man who became a Death Eater and conspired to kill Dumbledore?”
She needed this, needed to know if Neville Longbottom, slayer of Nagini and the man who fought beside her in the war, was Draco Malfoy’s true friend. Indeed, she got her answer even before he’d responded. His face turned defensive, a little angry.
“Merlin’s beard, Hermione. That was over a decade ago. He was a little prat back then, sure, but he was also a child. A child raised by a Death Eater to be a Death Eater. Can you imagine what that must’ve been like? To grow up already knowing that you’d have to inevitably sell yourself to the most evil being who’s ever lived? To already have a bleak future predestined for you with no say in the matter?”
Her blood froze, Dolohov’s curse sitting heavily in her rib cage. She certainly could. Neville went on.
“Yes, he’s my friend, Hermione. I didn’t think it was some big secret since we talk every day. He’s been my friend since I started teaching here last year. He was my peer mentor when I first got hired on, and he- well, he helped me through a difficult time in my life. He’s a good man, Hermione. The world has moved on from the war. We’ve grieved and put our pasts where they belong- behind us. Draco suffered after the Battle of Hogwarts just as much as any of us, but he’s moved on from it. So should you.”
Hermione straightened, taking her hands off Neville’s desk to cross her arms over her stomach instead. She’d gotten the answer she’d been looking for, and it made her feel… well, not quite sick. Not quite happy. Her stomach turned.
She plucked the belladonna blossom from where she’d placed it on Neville’s desk and twirled it between her fingers just as Draco had mere hours before. It was the whole reason she’d come storming in here in the first place. She’d wanted to ream Neville for sending Draco out with her. She’d wanted to ream herself for getting so worked up over one bloody flower. But now, knowing what Neville thought of Malfoy, it felt safer in a way. Safer to let herself like this man. Safer to let him be a potential friend.
“He…” Her voice trailed off. She swallowed. Tried again. “He plucked this flower and gave it to me. Draco Malfoy gave me a flower. A belladonna blossom.”
Neville stared at the flower in shock where she held it eye-level to him. He looked from it to her face and back several times before guffawing in sheer delight. He dissolved into what Hermione could only describe as giggles, using Eat, Pray, Love to cover his face while he worked through his amusement. She scoffed.
“Well, I’m glad you’re so tickled by this development, Neville. I’ve no idea what to make of it!”
Wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, Neville lowered the book and looked back up at her. His face was bright and warm and open. The face of one of her best and oldest friends.
“I’m sorry. I’ve just never seen this aspect of Draco, and it’s killing me. I just can’t imagine what was going through his head during this interaction. He must’ve been- Oh this is priceless.”
“What do you mean?” Another fit of giggles. “Neville!” she said impatiently. “What do you mean?”
When she realized his laughter was the only reply she would receive, she turned on a heel and stalked out of the room. She spent the rest of the day preserving the plants she’d picked that afternoon, deliberating whether or not she could be friends with Draco Malfoy and live through it.
Chapter 3: Photograph
Notes:
Hi, friends! I'm back!
Special shoutout to my subscribers. You're BOTH very near and dear to my heart.
Once again, I thank my dearest friend K. She's helped me so much in the early stages of developing this plotline. I can't wait to see how it unfolds! This shit practically writes itself.
No content warnings this chapter.
Let me know what you think! Constructive criticism is always welcome. :)
-Cass
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Johnny took a photo
On his old Suzuki.
Wasn’t wearing clothes, though.
Still he gave it to me.
Hang it in the front room
Let it bring you laughter.
People gonna talk soon.
They don’t really matter.”
-Mattering Ram, Penny & Sparrow
~23 December 2005~
The Leaky Cauldron was loud, cramped, and teeming with people as Draco Malfoy made his way through the throng toward the back where his friend had said he’d be tonight. It was blistering cold outside, but now that he was indoors and crowded by so many warm bodies, he felt like he would crawl out of his skin if he couldn’t shed a layer of clothing soon. He’d always hated crowds anyway, hated being touched by strangers and feeling like he was drowning in a sea of arms and knees and excuse-me-sorry-I’ll-just-squeeze-right-past-you’s. It was enough to make him want to tear his skin off without the added heat.
There were just so many people here, being so close to Christmas. So many were out and about doing last-minute holiday shopping and celebrating with friends. It was never this cramped in here during the summer holiday, when all the students were away and people preferred gathering around bodies of water to cool off from the heat rather than pack themselves into a crowded pub.
As he worked his way forward, he pushed between what was definitely a young couple in love waiting to order drinks, splitting them apart. He glanced back guiltily, about to apologize when the man’s face lit up with a slow recognition, mouth agape. Draco turned abruptly away from the couple, head down and continued to dart through the crowd before the man could say anything to him.
His trial, incarceration, and subsequent release had been all over the papers all those years ago, had been covered heavily in The Daily Prophet and nearly all of the other smaller papers. The publicity had made the Malfoy family infamous (or more so than before), and some people were still up in arms over the fact that the Wizengamot had released a Marked and sworn Death Eater from Azkaban after such a short sentence. Ten and a half months hadn’t felt short to Draco at the time, but he supposed it was compared to his father’s own sentence. Those were the people who’d shouted angry obscenities as he walked by or graffitied the Manor with things like “Traitor” or “Death Eater.” They weren’t terribly creative, that lot.
Others were more understanding, sympathizing with his defense in the trial. That he’d been so young. That he hadn’t felt like he’d had a choice at the time. That he hated Voldemort probably more than anyone. He’d gotten a few kind letters in the mail when he was first released. Some of them genuinely supportive, others truly disturbing. There was a concerningly large faction of young women (and a handful of men) who wanted to know him on a more “personal” level simply because he had been a Death Eater, simply because he’d killed before. He hated those letters the most.
Whether it was positive or negative, Draco hated being recognized in public. Which was, at times, made difficult by his very distinct, very noticeable head of white-blond hair. He tended to keep his head down in public places, avoid crowds, and wear a hat. Occasionally he even dabbled with a bit of Polyjuice Potion, just to make absolutely sure.
“Malfoy, over here!”
His head shot up, eyes darting around the room to find the one who’d just called out to him. After a moment, his eyes landed on Neville Longbottom, one arm raised to make him easier to spot. He was sitting on a stool at the bar and had two glasses of Firewhiskey in front of him, an open stool to his left. He was grinning widely at Draco, cheeks flushed from his first few sips of alcohol.
He made his way over, stripping off his coat and hanging it on a hook under the bar before sitting down. “Evening, Longbottom. You’re here early.”
“My Christmas shopping didn’t take me as long as I thought this afternoon, so I decided to come a little early to make sure we got a good spot!” he said over the din of the noisy pub.
“Well, I’m glad you could make it! Happy Christmas, Longbottom.”
He raised his glass of whiskey to clink against Neville’s and tipped the glass against his lips, taking a mouthful and swallowing. It burned going down, and he knew from experience that it burned twice as bad coming back up. This would be his only glass of Firewhiskey for tonight, he decided.
He’d invited Neville out a few days ago at the end of the fall term. They’d grown to be decent friends over the last six months since the Herbology position had been filled by Longbottom, and Draco found that he actually liked spending time with him. Their weekly meetings, which had begun as chilly, stilted glare-off sessions, had soon morphed into stony politeness and then eventually into something friendly. Something comfortable. As it turned out, Gryffindors and Slytherins had more in common than he’d originally thought.
This evening was in part to celebrate Neville’s successful first term as a professor and to distract Draco from the looming holiday by passing the time with a new friend. Christmas had been his favorite holiday growing up. He’d loved the festive decor with which his mother had bedecked the Manor. He’d loved the Malfoy family traditions that his parents had insisted upon - a competitive game of Exploding Snap on Christmas Eve, a round of eggnog (secret family recipe, of course) served with the Christmas Day feast, monogrammed stockings stuffed to the brim hanging above the blazing fireplace in the drawing room.
It was all gone now. Ruined. Had been for years.
That first holiday season after he’d been released from Azkaban, Narcissa Malfoy had moved heaven and earth to try to get Draco back at the Manor for Christmas. He’d ignored every owl, every howler, every attempt to call upon him at his brand new job at Hogwarts. He couldn’t go back to Malfoy Manor. Not after everything that had happened there. Not when all his memories of his ancestral home had been tainted, spoiled. Not when so much blood still stained every surface of that house in his mind - the drawing room especially. He couldn’t stand to set foot in that room, much less smile through stilted conversation with his mother and pretend to be happy as he opened gifts he didn’t want, didn’t deserve. In that room.
Nowadays, he did what he could to distract himself from the holiday season. He went on trips, visited friends (the few that he had), checked out new books from the library, etc. Neville was an excellent distraction, as he was generally a talkative and jovial person with a seemingly unending repertoire of stories to tell. He also wanted to get to know the man a bit better, to nurture this new friendship. Two birds, one stone and all that. It had been difficult for him to make friends since the war. People tolerated him well enough. He believed some even respected him for his dedication to his work. But it was hard to find people he could trust who would take the time to get to know him, to give him another chance. For some reason, Neville had warmed up to Draco considerably in the last few months and was quickly becoming someone that he considered a true friend.
Longbottom, indeed, launched right away into a story about an encounter he’d had with a stranger while out doing his shopping, and Draco’s mind was quickly captivated by it. They talked (mostly Neville) and laughed (mostly Draco) and joked (a mixture of both) until their empty whiskey glasses were replaced with butterbeers and then those were drained as well. By the time the pair had finished their third round, the hour was approaching midnight, and Draco was sufficiently buzzed.
“It’s getting late. I think we ought to head back to the school. Want to walk to the apparition point together?” He looked to Neville for confirmation before grabbing his coat and making his way out the door. It was much easier now, as the Cauldron had emptied out considerably. Neville laughed as Draco tripped over an uneven bit of wood flooring near the door.
“Are you sure you can apparate? Does the poor little rich boy need to be carried? I wouldn’t want you to scuff up your imported dragon leather shoes.”
Draco snorted, pushing open the door and sighing as the cold night air rushed over his heated skin. He turned toward the path out of Muggle London and made his way over the cobblestone streets back toward the apparition point. Neville quickly caught up and ambled comfortably next to him.
“Oh, please, Longbottom. Don’t pretend that you’re not also from the Sacred Twenty-Eight. In fact, if you look back far enough, my mother’s family married into yours. We’re damn near cousins.”
Neville scoffed. “Oh for Merlin’s sake. It’s been generations! You and I are no more related than me and Pansy Parkinson.”
“Heavens. Count your lucky stars. Pansy is a nightmare. She’s still a close friend of mine, but I’d be lying if I said I’d be happy to see her at holidays and family reunions.” He grimaced as he looked over at his companion, driving the point home. Neville laughed at his dramatic expression.
“So you still keep in touch with her then? Pansy?” he asked, looking a little uncomfortable for the first time all night.
Draco shrugged. “I suppose. There’s the occasional party at Astoria’s house, and sometimes she’s lurking about when I go to visit Nott or Zabini. Other than that, not much.”
“You’re pretty close with Nott and Zabini, then?”
He nodded and answered in the affirmative. He definitely thought this was an odd line of questioning, seeing as Longbottom had never asked or cared before about who he spent his time with. It was so different from their normal back and forth, the baseline they’d painstakingly established together over the last six months. A dark and ugly suspicion seeded itself in Draco’s gut, but he pushed it back. Ignored it.
“Yeah, I see Theo and Blaise quite a bit. We get drinks every now and again, and I usually spend holidays with them and their families. I alternate who I spend Christmas with every year so they don’t think I’m choosing favorites. Blaise gets so jealous, sometimes I feel like a child being passed around between families after a divorce or something. It’s mad.”
He chuckled to himself, thinking of last Christmas at Theo’s. Theodore Nott Sr. was in Azkaban right alongside Lucius Malfoy, so it had only been Draco and Theo. After a quiet morning spent drinking tea and eating breakfast in front of the fire, the Floo had burned brightly and whooshed with an incoming visitor. Blaise had stumbled out of the fireplace, already half wasted at ten in the morning on Christmas Day. Apparently, the Zabini family liked to have spiked eggnog with their holiday brunch, and Blaise had consumed enough to sedate a small elephant. He’d been so afraid of missing out on some lasting core memory they might make together, that he’d decided to crash their Christmas morning. He and Theo had spent the rest of the day just trying to sober him up, that tosser.
Neville looked back over at him and studied his face in the near-darkness of the alley they were passing through to get out of Muggle London. “Well, I’m glad you’ve got some solid friends, Malfoy. It’s always good to hear.” He cleared his throat and look back ahead toward their upcoming path. “And, erm, any romantic inclinations? I heard that Astoria Greengrass wrote you every day during your sentence.”
Draco scowled, his mood souring. He didn’t want to think about his time in Azkaban. He didn’t want to talk about the letters he’d refused to read from Astoria and Pansy and Theo and Blaise. His mother. He didn’t want to be reminded of those unending months spent tucked away in a dark part of his mind. It had been the only way he could protect himself from the reality of his situation. To fold himself away in the deepest recesses of his mind and ignore anything - letters, visitors, jailers, beatings - that he couldn’t fit into the world in his mind. It was a small world, tiny even. Only big enough for himself, really. Himself and occasionally one other person. He didn’t want to go back there. He couldn’t.
That dark suspicion burrowed itself deeper in his gut. It bloomed.
“No. No ‘romantic inclinations.’ None at all.”
Neville glanced over nervously at his profile again as they cleared the alley and headed down another side street. “Really? Not even the occasional tryst?” His voice was light, intending to be friendly and jesting, but he was obviously anxious.
Draco stopped walking, the smile dropping from his mouth. The blooming suspicion in his gut expanded fully, unfurling into a cold acceptance. It took only a moment for him to categorize his disappointment, let it wash over him, then set it aside.
His father was behind this line of questioning, he just knew it. Or his mother. Most likely both. He had cut off contact years ago after he was released, and they had been creatively finding new ways to keep tabs on him ever since. They’d paid off countless others - coworkers, associates, women in bars. They’d even tried to get McGonagall on their payroll at one point. Thankfully, they’d been unsuccessful. Clearly, they’d gotten to Longbottom. Why else would he be nervously tripping over his words to ask about his personal life?
It took Neville a few moments to realize his companion was no longer walking next to him. He turned back with a questioning look. “What are you-“
His voice was a little colder this time when he interrupted Neville. “Why are you asking? Why do you want to know?”
His friend froze, cheeks growing pink. “Well, I just thought-“
“No, Longbottom. You’ve never asked before about what I do or who I see in my spare time. To top it off, you’re about as wound up as a top ready to spin. You look nervous.” His voice was low and steady as he slowly stepped toward the other man. The rap of his shoes against the cobblestones rang out through the alley with every step he took. He was slow, deliberate. Taking his time. Neville’s flushed face turned paler the closer he got. “So how long has it been then?”
Shocked silence. Wide eyes. “What do you mean, Malfoy?”
He took an impatient breath, cracking his neck. He looked back at Neville. “How long has my father been paying you to spy on me?”
The true surprise that crossed Neville’s freckled face gave Draco pause, gave him hope. Unless Longbottom was a master of deception (which was doubtful), he had no idea what he was being accused of. “Y-your father? I’ve never spoken to your father. Malfoy, what are you talking about?”
He narrowed his eyes, unwilling to concede yet. He had to be utterly sure that Neville was being truthful. Draco stepped back a pace and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a vial of clear, odorless liquid. He’d started keeping a vial of Veritaserum on hand at all times a few years ago after someone else he’d considered a friend at the time had turned out to be on his father’s payroll. He’d had a much harder time trusting after that.
“Professor Slughorn, would you mind if I used your Cauldron from time to time to brew a few things?”
The old man looked up at him from where he’d been grading assignments at his desk. “Well hello there, Draco, one of my best and brightest! I suppose that would be alright, as long as you gave me enough advanced notice. What is it you’re needing to brew, my boy?”
He gave his former professor a small but sincere smile. “I was hoping to brew a batch of Veritaserum.” Slughorn’s brows shot upward to his thinning hairline. Draco held up his hands to placate the man. “I’ll admit, it’s a bit strange that I would have need for it. But I have a good reason, Professor. I promise.”
Slughorn took a long moment to study Draco’s face, his expression, his eyes. Whatever the old professor found there had him nodding his head slowly. “Alright, then, Mr. Malfoy. Alright, but I’m going to insist that I spend some time with you in front of the cauldron first to ensure you’re not…well, rusty.”
A chuckle. “Of course, Professor. Thank you.”
His eyes narrowed back in on Neville’s face, holding the clear vial aloft between them and shaking it gently to disturb the contents. “If you’re really telling the truth, Longbottom, if you really have nothing to hide, then you won’t mind taking a drop of this on your tongue.”
The other man’s face twisted in rage, his palms coming up to shove Draco back and away roughly. He barely moved a step. “Fuck you, Malfoy! I’m sorry that you have such deep-rooted issues that you can’t trust people without the aid of magic, but that is not my problem. I refuse to play your little game. I thought we were friends!”
“Then why, Neville? Why are you asking me about my personal life?”
Neville’s angry face flushed pink again. He turned away from Draco with a scoff, dragging a hand over his mouth. He seemed to be deliberating how to answer.
He decided to push forward, spinning the other man back toward him with a firm hand on the shoulder. “Why are you suddenly so interested in these private things about me? And the way you went about asking!” He laughed, incredulous. “It’s just laughably suspicious!”
Neville took a deep breath, closing his eyes and calming himself. When he looked back at Draco, he seemed centered, resolute. “I’m gay.”
He scoffed. “What?”
“Yes, Malfoy. I’m gay. I prefer the company of men. I always have. I’d thought I’d heard a rumor about you and Zabini back at school, and I thought maybe you could understand where I’m coming from. I thought that maybe I could trust you to be my friend and commiserate. I guess I was wrong because friends don’t force other friends to drink Veritaserum.”
Guilt and shame flooded Draco’s gut, washing away the coldness that had been there just moments before. His fist tightened over the vial of serum still in his palm, and he took a step forward. “Longbottom, I-“
Neville shook his head and moved to brush past him roughly. Draco caught him by the arm to stop him from rushing away. He needed to say this, needed to apologize. He’d been so wrong. So paranoid that everyone around him was out to get him that he hadn’t considered that Neville might actually have some other, less malignant motive.
“Neville. I’m so sorry. Truly. I- Well, I’ve been burned in the past. Someone I-” He cleared his throat. Merlin, why was this so difficult to talk about out loud? “Someone I cared about and had considered a friend, as it turned out, was not really a friend. They’d just been getting close to me to report back to my father.”
Hands raised in supplication. A guilt-ridden face. “I’m sorry, Draco. He didn’t give me much of a choice.”
“There is always a choice!”
He grabbed the corners of the memory, folding it up neatly and tucking it away on a distant shelf.
Neville’s face softened a fraction, but he jerked his arm out of Draco’s grip. He didn’t make a move to leave again, though. “Merlin, you really do have daddy issues, don’t you, Malfoy?” This made him laugh. It was weak and thready, but it was still a laugh.
“Yes, I suppose I do.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair, looking away toward the end of the alleyway. It was easier to talk about hard things when he didn’t have to look at the other man’s face. “I’m sorry I accused you. I’m sorry I wanted you to drink the Veritaserum. It was wrong of me. I truly do want to be your friend. Up until a few moments ago, I also thought you felt the same. And now I feel like a right git, having fucked it all up. Is there anything I can do to fix this?”
He looked back at Neville now and was relieved to find a soft, small smile on his face this time. The other man sighed, rolling his eyes to the heavens before gripping him by the shoulders and pulling him into a brief but sincere embrace. He stood frozen in shock as Neville patted him on the back and released him, giving him a face-splitting grin and throwing an arm around his neck.
“God! You’re such a mess, Malfoy. Trust issues and daddy issues? Phew! We’ve got a long way to go, haven’t we?”
The warm relief that flooded his entire system almost had him staggering backward, but the other man’s firm grasp on his shoulders steadied him. They walked together toward the end of the alley, finally making their way back toward the apparition point once more. He chuckled as Neville’s arm slid down to give him one more friendly pat before releasing him.
“So you heard a rumor about me and Zabini then?” he asked, almost dreading the answer. Neville guffawed.
“Oh yeah! In sixth year! It was all over the school. Everyone thought you and Blaise were an item. I had my doubts, since you never seemed too chummy in my opinion, but I figured maybe you were different in private.”
Draco laughed, slightly hysterical, and put his hands over his face. He groaned with the embarrassment of it all. He’d suspected there was a rumor about Blaise and him shortly after the start of their sixth year. It had been entirely Blaise Zabini’s fault. His idiocy had caused a bit of a scandal.
“Merlin, I’m going to kill Blaise!” Draco grumbled. “He’s the reason the rumor started in the first place!”
Neville turned a skeptical brow toward him as they turned down another side street and finally on the main road. They were nearly there. “I think that’s a story I’d very much like to hear.”
By the time Draco had finished telling it, they were back at Hogwarts, laughing together again like they’d always been friends.
~8 August 2006~
“Well I think that went rather well!” Neville’s voice called out to him as he stalked down the corridor and away from the Great Hall. The hurried tap of his friend’s shoes on the floor slowed as he caught up with him and kept stride. “Well, I’ll amend that. I think that went about as well as it could have.”
They’d just left from dinner and were heading back toward the wing where faculty and staff were housed. Draco’s heart was still pumping faster than usual, adrenaline buzzing in his veins. And it was all from seeing her. Talking to her. Being in the same room as her.
He’d known she was here, had known the day she moved in. He could almost feel her presence in the castle again. It was like the walls of the school had come fully alive again after being senescent for so long. It was a tingle down his spine, an awareness in his shoulders. The world around him looked a little brighter, a little sharper. He hadn’t even needed to see her walking these halls to know she was here.
He had, admittedly, been irked when she hadn’t shown up for any meals on that first day. He’d been inflamed when she’d still been absent on the second. By the time she’d finally shown up in the Great Hall nearly a week after she’d moved in, he’d been incensed. Frazzled. His nerves were bare and misfiring.
But then she was there, walking through the double doors of the Great Hall. Walking straight toward where he sat.
It was like the world had righted itself as soon as he’d seen her there, walking toward him down the aisle. Like he hadn’t known how to belong in that place without her there as his counterweight in the universe. He hadn’t realized how big the castle had loomed in his periphery for seven long years until she was there, filling up the space.
She looked different now, changed since he’d seen her eight years ago in that very room. Her hair was longer now and somehow a bit more tamed. The weight of the longer curls now held them down in soft ringlets around her face and down her back. Her face had lost any remaining roundness of youth, and her body was softer-looking and fuller than he’d remembered.
But her eyes. When that sparkling brown gaze had locked with his, he’d known her spirit was exactly the same. The years and maturity that separated the girl he remembered from the woman before him had only served to strengthen her resolve and fuel the fire in her soul. That one look had rocked through him, causing a full-body chain reaction. His spine had straightened, his fists had clenched, his heart raced. And as soon as those eyes had darted away from him, fixing upon the man seated next to him, he hadn’t known anything other than the singular need to get her to look at him again.
Look at me. See me. Don’t look at him, look at me.
He’d barely been cognizant of what he’d been saying to her. He hadn’t really cared. All he knew was that her eyes had to be fixed on him. Or else.
“Tell me, class. What are the uses of a Wiggenweld Potion?” Professor Snape’s low monotone rang out in the second-year potions classroom as he slowly paced the front of the room.
A small hand toward the front of the class shot up, fingers straining toward the ceiling. Her fingernails had been bitten down to the quick. He felt his mouth twist in disgust. She should find a more sightly way to pass her time.
“Yes, Miss Granger?” Snape asked, sounding unsurprised and a little bit bored.
“Wiggenweld Potion is a simple but powerful healing potion. It can heal most minor injuries.” Snape was nodding, about to move on with the lecture, but she wasn’t finished. “It’s also one of the only known antidotes for the Sleeping Draught.”
The professor sighed. “Yes, yes, thank you, Miss Granger. Can anyone add anything to that nearly comprehensive explanation?”
He heard her quiet but sharp inhalation. “Nearly comprehensive?” she mumbled under her breath. He felt a slow grin spreading over his mouth. Before he could reconsider, his hand was in the air.
“Yes, Mr. Malfoy?”
“It’s also an antidote to the Draught of Living Death." He turned to smirk at the back of her head. "I can’t believe you forgot that one, Granger.”
An outraged gasp. A flurry of robes and wild hair as she whirled. Endless brown eyes were fixed upon him. A giddy, bubbling feeling unfurled in his lower belly. Like last New Year’s Eve when Mother had allowed him a sip of her champagne. It was warm and pleasant and addicting. He wanted more.
He sent her a wicked sneer before returning his attentions back to his notes, doodling lazily in the margins. It took him a while to realize he was doodling her eyes, and she was staring up at him from the depths of the page.
Neville was still next to him, stepping hurriedly to keep up with his own stalking strides. He knew he had a sour expression without even needing to look at his reflection. She seemed to have that affect on him. His friend laughed and took his expression as the only reply necessary.
“Yeah, like I said, Malfoy. It went about as well as I had expected. Why did you have to make it sound like you voted against her in the new faculty poll? I could tell she was particularly riled up about that.”
He just grumbled and turned the corner, not having the words to reply. He supposed he had represented the situation rather erroneously. The only vote that hadn’t been in her favor hadn’t been his own. It belonged to a person whose opinion no longer mattered to him. She was a mature, educated, accomplished, famously brilliant witch who was perfectly qualified to be Hogwarts’ new Potions Master. Of course he’d voted in her favor.
He hadn’t made it sound that way, though. He had most definitely heavily implied that he had voted for another candidate. He’d just wanted to see those eyes aflame again and fixed on him. He’d wanted her attention. Any way he could have it. He hadn’t lied, per se, but he had certainly stretched the truth.
“She just- She waltzed in there like she owned the place. Like it had been a foregone conclusion that she would be hired. That the entirety of the staff should bow down at her feet and kiss her golden arse.”
Neville scoffed, incredulous. “Whoa there, Draco. Is that a dash of jealousy I see brewing beneath that cool, collected exterior?” He pressed a finger to Draco’s flushed left cheek, earning a slap on the wrist. “I don’t remember seeing you this hot and bothered when we were discussing the logistics of hiring her on months ago. Something’s got you all riled up.”
“I don’t know,” he growled. “I guess seeing her here is different. How she is. It’s different.”
Neville sighed like he was an exasperated parent trying to teach a toddler not to bite other kids. “Exactly! She’s different. Things are different now than when you last saw her. You’re both adults, for one. I think maybe you just spent so much time fighting against her in your formative years that you’re having a hard time laying down arms now. Just let go, Draco.”
He stopped in his tracks and turned to his friend, scowling. “I don’t need you to psychoanalyze me, Longbottom. If I’d wanted that, I could have gone home to see Narcissa over the summer holiday.”
The other man just smiled, used to his prickly demeanor. “All I’m saying is that maybe you could stand to be a little nicer to her. Make a bit of an effort maybe. That doesn’t sound too hard, now does it?”
He scoffed and continued stalking down the hall toward his rooms, intent on escaping the conversation and leaving his friend in the dust. Neville called after him.
“Don’t worry about it, Malfoy! I’ll help you! This is what friends are for!”
~24 August 2006~
He was sitting in one of the wingback chairs in front of the fireplace in his office, rereading his favorite advanced DADA textbook by Galatea Merrythought when she breezed into his office through the half-open door. She brought an air of controlled chaos with her everywhere she went. There was chaos nestled in the bouncy curls around her shoulders, chaos in the hurried gate she used to walk anywhere, even if she wasn’t running late. It set his teeth on edge.
He’d been hoping to avoid her for at least a few more days after the disastrous events of their plant-gathering expedition. When Neville had approached him two days ago to encourage him to take Hermione out to gather poisonous plants, he’d thought it had sounded like a good idea, a good opportunity to spend some productive, non-malignant time with Granger. Neville had told him to dress nicely and be unconditionally polite, even going so far as to smooth his hair back for him with his own hair product. What Neville had failed to mention was how long he’d have to hike from the apparition point in Muggle Glasgow to the area in the woods where the plants were found. By the time they’d gotten there, he’d been dirty and flustered and utterly furious with his friend.
She didn’t wait for him to put down his book or address her before she began speaking. “Malfoy, I’ve had an idea. I think I know what you’re going to say already, but I think it’s a really, really good idea. So before you immediately shoot me down, just don’t.”
He sighed, snapping his book shut and setting it on the side table to his left. “I have a feeling you’ll go through with it either way, Granger, so just get on with it. What is this great idea?”
“I think we should do a joint class session together for fifth years.” His brows lifted in surprise, and he turned to her, giving his full attention. She went on. “It would be entirely voluntary for the students. Extracurricular. But I think it would help them exponentially as they prepare for their O.W.L.s.”
“Oh? How so?”
She gave him a grin that made him feel a little breathless before continuing. She knew she had his interest now. She’d essentially already won. “I want to do a field trip to the Dark Forest.”
He snorted and picked his book back up. There was nothing short of threat of death that could get him to step foot back in the Forbidden Forest. He noted she’d used the term “Dark Forest” instead of “Forbidden.” Likely on purpose to make the words sound less insane.
“Just hear me out!” she pressed, coming to stand directly in front of where he was still comfortably seated. She pushed his book back down into his lap with a singular pointer finger, and he let her. He swallowed as she leaned in closer, vying for his attention. “I think it could be mutually beneficial for both our classes. Think of all the magical creatures that live out in the Dark Forest, all those creepy crawlies and howling beasts. There are centaurs, werewolves, thestrals, giants-”
“Blood-sucking bugbears. Yes, Granger, I understand. Get to the point, please.”
She huffed, scowling. “My point is that your students could get practical, real-world experience in a safe and controlled environment. They could interact with and learn how to defend themselves from dangerous creatures in a non-sterile, non-classroom environment. And even if we don’t run into any creatures out there, it’s an excellent opportunity for dueling practice! There’s only so much you can learn in a class setting before you hit terminal velocity. A real duel with a true enemy wouldn’t be in a clear, unobstructed space like the DADA classroom. It’s grittier and less defined. Obstacles and surrounding structures would make for a complex and more realistic battlefield.”
Her eyes were bright with passion and excitement as she finished, and they shone with something else as well, something darker and more desperate. He realized what she wanted in that moment. She wanted the students to be well and truly prepared to defend themselves against dark forces. She wanted them to be taught practically and not just in a classroom setting because it was the kind of preparation she had never been given. She’d been foisted out into a world of battles and poisons and curses before she’d even reached adulthood. She didn’t want her students to be so ill-prepared.
A resolute girl stood with her friends in the Room of Requirement, wand pointed savagely at him. Her hand was steady and her stance solid as she cast a Stunning Spell in his direction. He pushed his companion out of the spell’s path, and it cracked against the wall behind them.
“You little bitch! How dare a filthy Mudblood try to strike a Pureblood down!” Crabbe cried as he righted himself and raised his wand in retaliation. “Avada kedavra!”
Draco’s chest twisted with panic as Crabbe’s wand glowed green and the curse began to fly. He was aiming directly for her. His counter, his foil. He couldn’t let anyone else lay her low, he realized, though he couldn’t say why. Without thinking, his hand shot out to grab his companion’s wand arm, misfiring the curse and causing it to hit the spot just above her head.
Crabbe turned to him, furious and red-faced. “What the fuck, Malfoy!”
“You can’t cast a killing curse against Potter, you dolt!” he growled. “The Dark Lord has insisted that he be the one to kill him!”
But Crabbe was incensed, beyond reasoning. “I wasn’t aiming for Potter, I was aiming for the little Mudblood bitch!”
And when the boy he’d once considered a friend cast Fiendfyre moments later, he found himself frantically searching the room in a dazed, panicked haze to make sure she had gotten out.
Stunning Spells and Fiendfyre and panic were stacked neatly in his mind. He folded them together turn by turn, tucking them away between the pages of a book.
He sighed deeply. “And what exactly would you get out of our joining, Granger?” Her eyebrows rose, and her hands lifted to fiddle with the end of a lock of hair.
“What do you mean?”
He rolled his eyes and stood, brushing past her to file his book in its place on his office bookshelves. His fingers brushed along the spines of the books until he reached the gap where it belonged, holding it open wider to slide his book home. He turned back to Granger. Her neck and chest were flushed an alluring pink when he glanced at her.
“You’ve been telling me exactly how my class, Defense Against the Dark Arts, will benefit from this joint field trip into the Forbidden Forest, but you have yet to outline what a potions class could learn from such an excursion.”
“Oh! Oh, yes.” She cleared her throat and slipped out a sheet of parchment from the binder he hadn’t noticed she’d carried in with her and handed it to him. He looked it over and scoffed. It was a list.
“Porcupine quills, Griffin claw, Sneezewort, Moly…? What is this?” He looked back up at her, eyebrow quirked.
“It’s a list of essential potions ingredients.”
“Yes, Granger I can see that it’s a list of potions ingredients. Why did you hand it to me, and what does it have to do with my class?”
She sighed, exasperated. He got the distinct impression that she thought the explanation was entirely obvious and her having to spell it out for him was a drain on her energy. He didn’t exactly mind being a drain on her energy.
“These are all fifth-year potions ingredients that can be easily found in the Dark Forest. I want to propose a team versus team scavenger hunt duel! We split the students into two teams and give them a set perimeter of the area within which they are required to stay with a home base for each team on opposite sides of the perimeter. Each team has to search for and collect as many ingredients as possible from the list while also defending their base against the other team! Students will be encouraged to duel for ingredients or prevent members of the other team from taking gathered ingredients back to their team’s home base. If they’re sneaky enough, they can even steal! Each ingredient will be assigned a point value based on its rarity and difficulty to attain, and the team with the most points at the end of the day wins! This is all within reason, of course. There will be clearly outlined rules enforced by the both of us. We’ll be the team captains obviously. It’ll make it easier to enforce the rules and make sure nobody gets hurt. Student safety is tantamount to learning, after all.”
He stared at her for a moment, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Hermione Granger, the girl who wouldn’t be caught dead on a Quidditch pitch and preferred schoolwork to nearly any other activity wanted to play a game? With him? It was a brilliant, practical, educational game but a game nonetheless. After a beat of silence, he opened his mouth to reply but she stopped him.
“I know what you’re going to say. You’re skeptical. You have a million questions. You want to know what the rules and parameters of the game will be. I can answer all your questions in time. I just need you to say yes today so that I can propose this to McGonagall in our scheduled meeting tomorrow morning.”
She was breathless, clutching to the binder in her hand as her eyes bore into his soul. Pleading. He never stood a chance. He raised his hands in supplication. “Okay, Granger. Alright. I agree.” She jumped in place excitedly, pumping a fist in victory. “You can tell McGonagall I’m on board with the project. It sounds like a lot of fun, actually.”
“Yes! You won’t regret this, Malfoy. It’s going to be such a good addition to the extracurricular options for our fifth years! Now it’s going to require a lot of work and planning ahead, and we’ll likely need to get a few other referees on board to monitor the students as well, but-”
“Oh, I’m not so concerned about all that, Granger. I’m sure you’ve thought all of that through already. What I want to know is what the winning team gets at the end of the day.”
He grinned wickedly at her, crossing his arms and leaning back against his bookshelf to wait for her response. She matched his expression with a mischievous look of her own. Her attention zeroed in on the bookshelf behind him. She stepped toward him, reaching for a book above his shoulder. He looked at the title and realized it was his first edition copy of Hogwarts: A History by Bathilda Bagshot. He laughed.
“You can’t be serious, Granger. You want to rob me of my favorite first edition?”
She held the book aloft, like it was a trophy she’d already won.
“Oh yes, Malfoy! If I win, I get your first edition copy of Hogwarts: A History.”
“And what if I win?”
She snorted, stepping away behind the wingback chairs with the book in her hands. “You won’t.”
“So confident now, are we?” He took a step forward, circling around the chairs to approach her. “Just answer the question, Granger. What. If. I. Win?” He stepped closer with each word, emphasizing each one with the click of his shoe against the wood floor of his office.
Her cheeks flushed prettily, and she averted her eyes, turning her back toward him and opening the book she still held. “You can have whatever you want, I suppose. Within reason, of course.”
“Oh, of course. I would never deign to ask Hermione Granger for something beyond reason. I think I’d like an unspecified favor. From you. To be cashed in upon whatever time and day I choose. I’d say that about reaches the same value to me as that pristine book in your hands.”
He stopped a respectable distance away from where she was still turned away from him, expecting her to refuse the deal immediately. He anticipated he’d have to haggle quite a bit to get her to agree. When no immediate reply came, he furrowed his brow and cleared his throat. “Granger? What do you say?”
Her back was straight and stiff, shoulders held high against her ears. He stepped closer to put a hand on one tense shoulder, genuine concern flooding his system. “Hermione, what’s wrong?”
He was just about to begin shaking her in a panic when he caught a glimpse over her shoulder. His stomach bottomed out with a completely new and unprecedented dread. Because nestled in the pages of his beautiful first edition book was a photograph of a very nude, very provocative Blaise Zabini. He was grinning into the camera making a lewd gesture with one hand and scarcely covering up his genitalia with the other.
He screamed internally and swore to any god that was listening that he would kill this man. He would kill him.
He snatched the book from her hands, snapping it closed to hide the incriminating photo. She gasped, the action seemingly snapping her out of her petrified state. “I’m so sorry!” she cried as she scrambled toward the door. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have intruded on your personal items. I never should have looked through your things. I’m so, so sorry.”
She was nearly out the door, their earlier conversation forgotten entirely.
“Granger, wait! No, I’m not- This isn’t-” He simply didn’t have the words to describe what this was or what it wasn’t. He didn’t know how to encompass years of inside jokes and somewhat homoerotic pranks that his best friend had always loved to pull.
A tired, stricken boy opened a gift from his friend on his sixteenth birthday. It was the first time in weeks he’d been allowed to leave the Manor since he’d moved home for the summer. Death Eaters had taken up residence in his home, sullying the halls and driving him to spend most of his time in his room. If he was ever caught out of his room… Well, Dolohov and Yaxley had been the most creative at finding ways to torment him in their spare time.
His two best friends sat with him at a table, one of them egging him on to open his gift. He pried open the wrapping paper carefully, setting it aside unblemished and intact. His friends groaned at his meticulousness, chastising him for being slow. He couldn’t stop, though. Wouldn’t stop. The moment he stopped being careful and planned and meticulous, it would all fall apart. They’d all see right through him.
When the box was bare, he pulled open the lid to have a peak inside. A true smile began to curl on his lips as he saw what was inside. It was a book, a signed copy of his favorite work of fiction - The Many Misadventures of Barnaby MacMillen. He looked to his friend and expressed his thanks.
“That isn’t even the best part! Go on and open up the book.”
Piqued curiosity had him lifting the book up and out of the box and flipping through the first few pages. A photograph fluttered out, falling face-up on the table before him. It was a moving photograph of his friend rubbing the uncorked rim of his own father’s favorite whiskey over a very private and unsanitary area of his body, corking it back up like it hadn’t just been sullied.
“I did that to every bottle of whiskey I could find in Malfoy Manor, including the one in your father’s study. So the next time he goes to pour himself a finger of whiskey, he’ll get a little extra flavoring without knowing it!”
It was the first time he’d laughed in weeks.
But before he could articulate any of this, before he could even begin to put it into words, she was slipping out the door and into the hallway. He dashed out after her, making to follow but thinking better of it.
He was going to murder Blaise Zabini. Slowly.
Notes:
Thanks for reading this far! If you're still here, I'm eternally grateful. I'm also so grateful for any and all feedback I can get. Especially now, in the early stages of the writing process. I have a general plotline in mind, but please let me know what you think of the story so far!
With love,
Cass
Chapter 4: Beware of Cat
Notes:
Hi, friends! I'm back again. Still on vacation and writing up a storm.
Thanks again to my two whole subscribers and, of course, my dearest K. Darling, I have a feeling your encouragement and unending belief in me will be what finishes this fic. In like four to six business months.
This chapter is dedicated to everyone in the entire world except for the kid who called me fat in third grade for eating a Reese's Fastbreak at recess. Fuck you, Elijah. I hope you choke on your joyless existence.
Content warnings are at the end of the chapter! I will be doing that from now on just to avoid any possible spoilers for freaks like me who don't have any triggers.
As always, please comment and give kudos if you like the story! Even if you don't, I'll take any and all constructive criticism.
Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“My heart’s like a fireplace in the summer.
It’s useless and only here for show.
I don’t know what it is I’m after,
I just hope I find it when I go.”
-Thunder, Penny & Sparrow
~24 August 2006~
Draco waffled in the doorway to his office for about ten seconds before the impulse to follow after her finally won out. He absolutely had to clear this up with her right fucking now or else he’d never be able to face her when he actually needed to see her again next week for their weekly peer mentor meetings. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to face her right now, even, but the impulse to follow her was strong enough that he knew he had to try. Even if he could only talk to her in stilted, jumbled sentences like the arse he was.
“Granger, wait!” he called after her as he made a mad dash for her down the corridor. She had already turned a corner, though, and he only just caught the flutter of her robes as she disappeared, presumably toward her own office and living quarters. All professors were housed in the same wing of the school, unless they had a private residence elsewhere, so Granger was already back in her own rooms by the time he caught up with her. The door to her office was wide open, and she was turned away from him to stare out the window behind her desk. Her shoulders were shaking, and his heart sank as he realized she was crying. He’d shocked her- No, Blaise had shocked her so thoroughly that she was openly weeping in front of her office window. He felt like the worlds biggest arse.
“Granger, I’m so sorry. I can explain-”
The crackling sound of her explosive laughter cut him off from his thought. She was…laughing? Her shaking shoulders hadn’t been her crying at all but holding back laughter. His relief was immediate and profound. He should’ve known it would’ve taken more than a naked photo of Blaise Zabini to bring Hermione Granger to tears. She turned to him, the back of her fist pressed to her mouth to try to stem her mirth.
“No, Draco, I’m the one who needs to apologize.” She said, sounding sincere despite her giggles. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. I think it just shocked me is all. Truly, what you decide to keep in your private study is your own business, and I shouldn’t have intruded. I’m sorry.”
He sighed, cracking an amused snort of his own. “Well, that’s just the thing. I had no knowledge of that photograph until you found it a few moments ago. Blaise put it in there himself.”
Another fit of giggles burst from her throat, the sound washing over him and twisting his gut in a pleasant way he’d rarely experienced. He like the sound of her laugh. “Excuse me. What? Your friend likes to stick nude photographs of himself in random books in your study? Does he do this frequently?”
Draco sighed, dragging a palm down his face. How could he explain this without sounding like a complete nutter?
“Unfortunately, yes.” More laughter from Hermione. Another smile from Draco. “It started off years ago, when we were still in school. The summer before our sixth year, Blaise got me a signed copy of my favorite book for my birthday, but he’d also included a disgusting photo of him defiling my father’s favorite bottle of whiskey between the first few pages. I think he only did it because he knew it would make me laugh. He’s always somehow known how to make me laugh, no matter what.” He chuckled softly to himself now, thinking back to his first few months out of prison. He’d been in such a dark headspace, and Blaise had been one of the only things keeping him from sinking back down into that safe and solitary place in his mind. “I still don’t know how he did it. My father has magical wards blocking off his study, but Blaise claims he rubbed his balls on every single bottle in the Manor. I think he was full of shit, but…”
His voice trailed off as he looked back over at Hermione. She was no longer laughing, just smiling encouragingly and waiting for him to continue. Her cheeks were flushed from her earlier hysterics and likely from a bit of embarrassment. She looked like how he’d always envisioned her - happy and healthy and glowing. Not like the last time he’d seen her. She’d been too thin, her eyes hollow. His chest felt tight.
“Anyway,” he continued. “It became a yearly tradition after that. He’s never missed a single birthday since.” He barked a laugh. “Hell, even when I was in prison, he tried to send a photo in the post! It got confiscated and censored, of course. By the time it got to me, they’d blurred out the entire picture except for his face.”
She chuckled softly, finally bringing the hand down from her mouth to cross her arms. She was still smiling up at him, looking bright and amused and open. “I think I do remember hearing a rumor about you and Zabini being together back in school, but I had never paid it much mind. I assume the photograph had something to do with that?”
Draco groaned, throwing his head back to look at the ceiling. “Yes,” he sighed. “The photo had certainly made me laugh, but after the shock factor wore off, I didn’t really want to keep a nude photo of my best friend lying around. I tried to destroy it, but he’d charmed it with something to make it nearly indestructible! So I insisted he take it back. Truly, it was my mistake for thinking that would be the end of things.”
“Oh, I think I can see where this is going,” she chuckled, her hand coming up again to rest against a flushed cheek.
“Oh, yes. He hid the photos everywhere for me to find. He’d made copies somehow and had hid them in every one of my textbooks, under my pillow, under my mattress, in the pockets of all my robes, the list goes on. So anyway, one day, Astoria Greengrass was leaning over to say something to me in class right when one such photograph happened to fall out from where it had been tucked between the pages of my textbook. She was duly shocked, as you can probably empathize with right about now. And she went around telling everyone in the Slytherin common room that night.” He snorted, remembering the look on Astoria’s face when she’d first found the photograph. “By the next day, the whole of Slytherin and apparently a good portion of the other houses thought Blaise and I were romantically involved.”
“Oh, Merlin! Draco, why didn’t you stop her? Why didn’t you tell everyone what had really happened?” she asked, delighted. A tingle zinged down his spine at the use of his name. She’d said it so casually, too. Like they might be friends.
“At the time, it felt like it was beyond my control. I had a feeling if I protested too much, it would just confirm everyone’s suspicions anyway.” She laughed and agreed with him. He looked back down at his hands where he’d been fiddling with his rings while they talked. His grin faded. “And anyway, I wasn’t too concerned with any school drama that year. I didn’t much care what people thought anymore by the time the rumor started.”
Hermione nodded soberly. “It had all started to feel so childish by then.”
He watched the green emerald of his class ring disappear behind his thumb and then reappear as he spun it slowly.
A girl lay prone on his drawing room floor, screaming. There were tears streaming down her cheeks. Blood streaming down her forearm. Eight letters carved like a brand.
He blinked, and the memory disappeared, shut away between the pages of a book.
“Yes,” he replied quietly. “It did.” He cleared his throat and looked back up. “So I suppose, long story short, Blaise and I are not an item. He’s just my idiot best friend who likes to hide naked photos of himself for me to find as a prank. I’m not interested in him that way or any other men, for that matter.”
She smiled back at him. It was small but sincere, like she knew what memories had been haunting the back of his mind. Like she heard them too. She was letting him bring them back to something more lighthearted.
“So how did this particular photograph get into your mint condition first edition collectible of Hogwarts: A History?”
He rolled his eyes, exasperated and annoyed with Blaise again. It was so much harder to be angry at him when he wasn’t even here. “Yes, well he was here a few months ago with Theo to get drinks with me on my birthday. His gift to me this year was a truly horrendous oil painting he’d commissioned from a local artist in Hogsmeade. I guess it was supposed to be a likeness of the three of us? Blaise, Theo, and me? But the artist’s style clearly leaned more toward the abstract because it turned out looking more like one of those Muggle Picasso paintings.” This made her chuckle again. “Imagine my shock when there was no nude photograph of him anywhere in the gift box! Not tucked in the wrapping paper, not hidden in the back of the painting, nothing. I had thought my curse must be over. Clearly, I was wrong. He must’ve sneaked into my office when I wasn’t looking and hidden it.”
She dissolved into another fit of giggles, and it made a bright and bubbly feeling unfurl in his chest. She was just about to respond when a flash of orange darted out from the cracked door to Hermione’s living quarters. She gasped loudly when she saw it, eyes wide as it made a beeline straight for Draco’s legs. The sound startled him, causing him to whirl around and try to lunge out of the path of the hulking mass of orange fur.
“No, no! Don’t move! This is the first time I’ve seen him out from under my bed since I moved! I don’t want to startle him!”
Draco froze in place at her behest, watching in rapt curiosity as the biggest house cat he’d ever seen trotted right up to him and began sniffing one shoe, then the other. It had long, striped orange fur and a tail that was alarmingly fluffy, making him think of a feather duster, like the kind Muggles use to dust off their shelves and things. The furry creature had a snubbed nose, pointed ears, and wide brown eyes, briefly giving him the impression of a goblin. When the beast had finished sniffing his shoes and hem, it stared up at him with intelligent, unblinking eyes.
“Granger-”
“Don’t. Move,” she whisper-screamed at the back of his head. “He’s deciding.”
“Deciding what?”
Draco’s question went unanswered as the furry beast stared directly into his soul, all-knowing and all-seeing. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being violated somehow, like the little creature was reading his every thought and seeing every unwanted memory from his past. After a long moment of tense silence, the cat seemed to make up its mind and began rubbing his little face against one of Draco’s legs. He heard another gasp from behind him, softer this time.
“Merlin’s beard, he actually likes you, Malfoy.”
A paw reached up to scratch a claw down his pant leg, snagging on a thread on its way down. “What would he be doing if he didn’t like me?”
“Hissing. Biting. A lot more yowling. Oh my god, Draco, he hates everyone. He tolerates Harry and Ginny, I suppose, but Ron couldn’t even come near without at least getting scratched.”
A sense of pride flashed in his chest at having bested that weasel at something, even if it was something so small. He reached down to gently pluck the creature’s claw out from where it was caught on his trousers and gave him a small pat on the head to test the waters. The beast purred.
“He seems nice enough. What a dapper little bloke! I like him. What’s his name?” He looked back at Hermione from where he was still bent over, petting the cat. She had an odd expression on her face, a little unreadable. Happy? Surprised maybe? A genuine smile danced at the corners of her mouth, catching his eye.
“Crookshanks. His name is Crookshanks.”
~10 January 2000~
“Oi! You need to control this bloody beast, ‘Mione, or I’ll make him into mittens! Or a fine winter hat!”
Her boyfriend’s voice rang out from their living room, reaching her easily where she was dabbing a small amount of makeup under her eyes and trying to make herself look even remotely presentable. She’d been crying almost nonstop since she’d heard the news three days ago, and it showed. She sighed tiredly into the mirror, sniffling.
“Just leave him alone, Ron!” she called back. “He only attacks you when you try to mess with him!”
She didn’t have the time or the energy to deal with the unending antics that came with living in close quarters with a very opinionated cat and the boyfriend he had decided to despise. It had only been about two weeks since Ginny had moved out and Ron had moved in, swapping one Weasley for another. Her cat, who was typically so aloof that Ginny had barely noticed him, had apparently waged war upon her boyfriend of nearly two years. Ron, however, had done nothing to appease the poor cat, who was likely just reeling from so much change. He’d been nothing short of antagonistic since Crookshanks had vomited a hairball onto his pillow his first night in the apartment. She just couldn’t deal with the conflict at that moment. She was barely holding it together as it was. And she had to keep herself together today.
She was going to a funeral.
When she came out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later looking somewhat presentable, Ron was in the entryway, grumbling something about a “bloody orange menace” and charming his clothes to remove all the wispy fur that was clinging to him. He looked up when she approached and looked over her appearance with a thin smile. “You look nice,” was all he said.
It didn’t sound like a compliment.
~1 September 2006~
“Hermione!!” her friend squealed, running through her open office door to embrace her. “I’ve missed you so much! It’s been ages. Are you excited about your first official day tomorrow?”
Ginny Potter (formerly Weasley) had been a shy, quiet girl in her youth, often relying on her older brothers to buffer the space between her and anyone else. In her adulthood, however, Ginny had bloomed into a charismatic, sunny woman who rarely shied away from a crowd. She was boisterous and proud of it, likely used to the hustle and bustle of growing up with so many noisy, belligerent brothers.
The friendship that had developed between her and Hermione in their adolescence had been a beautiful and treasured relationship, a kinship of strong spirits and similar circumstances. They’d become especially close after the end of the Second Wizarding War when they had moved in together to save money on a flat in Hogsmeade. The proximity and shared course work had only served to strengthen the bond between them, sealing their friendship in granite forever.
Hermione had been unbelievably happy as well as comparatively sad when Ginny had announced that she’d decided to move in with Harry directly after their engagement on Christmas of ‘99. At the time, she’d been distracted by the whirlwind of her best friend moving out and Ronald moving in that she hadn’t had much time to be truly upset by it until much later. As the years passed and lives moved in separate directions, the two women had stayed close friends, but they would never be quite like they were during that year of cohabitation. It was sometimes bittersweet now, seeing Ginny and feeling the gulf that stretched between them. It had never been there before things had soured between her and Ron. A great deal of love still lived in that chasm between them. Love, but also a wide, yawning, insurmountable amount of space.
An angry redhead with long, silky hair stood in an empty living room, arms crossed and nose scrunched in fury. “I don’t understand why you won’t just talk to him! I know he can be an idiot sometimes, but Christ, Hermione! He’s your best friend, your boyfriend!”
Her own hands worked furiously to shove clothes and toiletries and last-minute items haphazardly into her open bags. “You’re my best friend, Ginny. And he’s not my boyfriend. Not anymore.”
“Why not? Why won’t you talk to him? Why won’t you talk to me?”
“I just- I just can’t, okay? Please, Ginny. I can’t.”
She pulled back from their tight embrace to study the other woman’s lovely, freckled face. She was happy and smiling, the corners of her eyes crinkling with her joy. The high points of her face were, indeed, more freckled than she’d previously remembered, her skin tan and glowing from all the time she spent outdoors on the Quidditch Pitch. She’d signed a contract six years ago with the Holyhead Harpies, quickly becoming one of their star players. With the time she had to spend at practices and away games and devoting most of her remaining time to her husband, Hermione hadn’t seen her friend in nearly a year. Their last meeting had been shortly after she’d returned from her time studying in America. Her heart ached a little.
Ginny’s sunny expression dimmed a bit, like she knew exactly how Hermione felt in that moment. Like she maybe felt the same. Her friend pressed their foreheads together briefly before letting her go, just like they’d always used to do before one of Ginny’s big games. She wasn’t sure how there wasn’t a resounding crack in the room as her chest fractured. Turning away to blink back the dampness in her eyes, Hermione picked up the tea service she’d had prepared and set it down on the low table in front of the fireplace in her office. Two stuffed leather chairs sat on either side before it, and the girls sat down to face one another.
They’d been keeping up with each other somewhat frequently in the post over the last few months, and when Ginny had heard about Hermione’s new position at Hogwarts, she’d been over the moon for her. She’d insisted on coming to see her at the earliest possible time. It had taken weeks for them to set up a date for Ginny to come.
“Yes, I’m ecstatic,” Hermione finally answered. “It almost doesn’t feel real. I can’t believe they just hired me like that. McGonagall barely even interviewed me.”
Ginny laughed, leaning forward to prepare her tea just the way she liked it (one sugar and a heavy pour of cream). “I can! I wouldn’t be so shocked, Hermione. You’re well-known, well-liked, and well-educated. The only thing surprising to me is that they thought you needed a mentor.”
She snorted, sipping on her own cuppa (three sugars and a splash of cream). “Yeah, that was a bit of an upset. I understand the program better now, though, and I think it could be genuinely helpful. It’s helped me already, in fact. Getting me focused for the upcoming term, giving me ideas for updates to the course curriculum. So on and so forth.”
The redhead raised her eyebrows and leaned forward to set her cup on its saucer. “You’re telling me that Draco Malfoy has been helpful to you? The ‘Amazing Bouncing Ferret’ of Slytherin? Are you serious?”
She gave her friend a tight smile and took another sip. “He’s very different now, I think. I didn’t really keep up with what he’d been doing this last decade, but I think- I think prison really changed him. He’s not the same person we knew.”
Ginny scoffed. “People like that don’t just change overnight. This is the same person who called you slurs and told everyone not to talk to Ron and me because we were impoverished blood-traitors. That is a generational prejudice. It’s written into his DNA.”
Hermione didn’t anticipate the flood of protectiveness that took up residence in her chest just then. She had the sudden urge to stand and shout at the woman before her, like a child protecting its favorite toy. Because it was true, prejudices like that didn’t just die overnight. They died slowly over time and with work. And she’d been suspecting for several weeks now that Draco Malfoy had put in that time and work. Maybe ten and a half months worth. Maybe even seven years worth.
Calming breath. One. Two. Three.
“Regardless,” she said, changing the subject. “I’m well and prepared, and it’s looking up to be a great term! The students have been coming in droves all day, and it’s made me so nostalgic. Do you remember your first year? You were so nervous you’d be sorted into Hufflepuff or something.”
Ginny laughed, hazel eyes dancing with the memory. “Oh Merlin yes! I wanted to be with you and Harry and Ron so badly. I was just terrified I’d be the only Weasley in history not sorted into Gryffindor.”
The two women laughed and reminisced and caught up for the next hour, and as they talked, a light and happy feeling filled her chest. She’d missed her best friend dearly, and she hadn’t realized quite how much until she was here, sitting in front of her and telling her a hilarious story about how a fan of hers had asked Harry to hold her purse while she posed for a picture with them. Ginny was giggling so hard she wasn’t sure how tea hadn’t sprayed out of her nose already.
“He just stood there, shocked into absolute silence. I’ve never seen him look so offended, Hermione. I think he’d thought she’d been about to ask to take a photo with him. It was hysterical!”
She barked a laugh, tea cup held halfway to her lips. She hadn’t been able to take a sip the last fifteen minutes, she’d been laughing so hard. “Oh heavens, did he hold her purse?”
“Of course! He just took it silently, didn’t utter a word. Held it out like he was a gift shop mannequin. I almost couldn’t take the photo because I was laughing so hard at his reaction. The poor woman looked so confused.”
“Oh, poor Harry,” Hermione commiserated through her giggles. “A similar thing happened to Ron and me years ago, right after the war was over and we couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized. A little girl came bounding up to us with her mother in tow, asking for an autograph. When Ron tried to take the notebook and pen from her, she threw a fit and said ‘No, I wasn’t talking to you. I want Hermy Granger’s autograph!’”
“Ha!” Ginny barked. “I bet his face was priceless. He always thought himself such a big celebrity. Even now, he’s always going on about how he can’t go anywhere without being stopped by the adoring masses.” The redhead rolled her eyes. “He says its the only reason the shop is still doing so well. His fans all come to see him.”
Hermione scoffed into her tea, finally raising the cup to take another swallow. She shouldn’t have brought up the subject of Ron. She hadn’t meant to, it had just come out. Talking about him at all was difficult. Talking about him with Ginny was…impossible. She was his sister, after all, and blood ran thicker than water.
Tears streamed down flushed, freckled cheekbones. Hazel eyes were pleading with her to understand. “He’s my brother, Hermione. I love him. I don’t know what’s happened between you two, but I refuse to be caught in the middle of it. I don’t want to have to choose between you, but it feels like you’re forcing me.”
“You’d choose him, wouldn’t you?”
A chest-rattling sob followed by a heavy silence. She didn’t have to answer. Hermione already knew.
Ginny’s eyes searched hers as the silence hung between them. After a beat, she broke it. “Have you talked to him at all recently?”
Hermione had known the question would come, but that hadn’t made it easier to handle. Memories from a dark, insidious corner of her vault tried to bubble to the surface. Tried to break free of their chains and pour out into the echo chamber of her mind. She slammed the door shut, turning the locking mechanism with a heavy crank.
“No,” she said evenly. “No, I haven’t.”
After Ginny had left a while later, she cleaned up the tea service and spent some time tidying up her desk. She stacked the papers strewn about and categorized them into piles, filing them away in folders labeled for each class year she’d soon be teaching. A page of notes for fourth-year potions fluttered onto the floor and out of her grasp. She bent down to pick it up and felt a twinge in her chest as she did so. She cringed and straightened, holding a hand over her sternum. Her heartbeat thud steadily beneath her palm.
Living with Dolohov’s curse in her chest was like living with an invisible iron corset chained over her ribs. It kept her lungs from expanding properly most times, the sensation always sitting heavily in the background of her mind. If she thought about it too hard, her breaths started coming in quick, shallow gasps. The fact that she could never get a full breath was slowly suffocating her.
The symptoms were typically relieved by her Anti-Arsehole potion or a Lung-Clearing potion. She’d taken an extra dose the other week when Malfoy had invited her out to gather foxglove. It was the only way she’d been able to hike for so long without getting too winded. Typically, by the end of the week when it was nearing time to take her weekly dose, her chest was tight and her shoulders heavy.
It was still far better now than it had been before her time at Ilvermorny when she’d had to take half a dozen potions every single day, and she’d felt like she had a raging case of pneumonia all the time. She’d canceled countless plans, flaked on parties, lost friends. And she could never explain it properly. To be frank, she hadn’t really wanted to. Not many people knew about the curse sitting on her lungs, slowly choking her, and she preferred it that way. Even the people who did know had a limit to what they’d tolerate. It didn’t help that her problem was invisible. No one could truly see how complicated her life had become since that fateful day in the Department of Mysteries. Even the people closest to her had grown tired of waiting for her to either get better or start acting like her old self again. She hadn’t known how to tell them that she would never be her old self again.
Except for Ginny. Her best friend had been the one person to truly understand her, even if she couldn’t empathize. She’d been the one person who never got tired of her snail-like pace and hermit-like tendencies. She’d been perfectly content with cozy nights spent in their flat watching movies on their Muggle television or walking to the excellent Romanian restaurant a block away. She’d gone to bat for Hermione over and over again with Ron and Harry and so many other people. Truly, she’d been her platonic soulmate, someone she could trust to have her back no matter what. Right up until the moment she wasn’t.
The twinge in her chest now had less to do with the curse and more to do with the memories she didn’t have the energy to stem back. She sighed, picking back up with her task as she mentally ran through her Occlumency exercises. Identify the memory. Wrap it up tightly and carefully, like you’re wrapping up a precious gift. Find your vault, center yourself in it. Place the gift-wrapped box on a high shelf where it won’t be noticed.
A throat clearing at her door had her startling back, her hand once again raised to her chest. She looked up to her entryway and saw a sheepish-looking Neville standing by the door jamb. He was dressed casually in khaki trousers and a light jumper, his formal robes nowhere to be seen. A tall figure lurked in the corridor behind him, arms crossed and looking amused.
“Hiya! Sorry to startle you, Hermione. A few of us were headed out to grab a drink at the Three Broomsticks. Did you want to join up?”
She leveled a quick glare at Malfoy, which only made his smirk grow, before flashing Neville a sunny smile. “That’s alright, Neville. No harm done. I’m not sure I’m feeling quite up to going out tonight, unfortunately. Feeling a little under the weather.” She finished with a pointed rub over her chest where her hand still rested. Neville’s eyes caught on the motion, and she knew he’d understood her meaning. He was one of the few people who had always known about her ailment. He’d been there when she’d been cursed, after all.
A dark voice called from the hallway behind Neville. “Oh, come on, Granger. When was the last time you let a little chest cold stop you? I once saw you spend ten straight hours in the school library one weekend in fourth year, and you were sick as a snake. Coughing and hacking bogies everywhere. It would’ve been a little impressive if it hadn’t been so disgusting.”
She blinked, recalling the exact weekend he’d been referring to. Indeed, she’d caught some sort of Muggle respiratory illness from her parents when she’d been home for Christmas, but she’d been so worried about missing class and falling behind on her work that she’d pushed through. She’d been sick for nearly a week. Her cough had lasted a month. She couldn’t believe he’d noticed her in the library for ten hours.
She scowled. “I believe the expression is ‘sick as a dog’, Malfoy. And I’d like to know what you were doing stalking me in the library on a Saturday.”
He kept an even expression, but she noted with delight that the tips of his ears turned pink. “Oh, just the same as you. Intent on earning top marks in class and putting in the time to do it.”
“Well,” Neville chimed in after a moment, “I think we should be on our way then. Hermione has graciously declined our offer, so we should get going, Draco.” He turned to leave, but Draco didn’t budge. He blocked Neville’s path, preventing him from moving into the corridor. Gray eyes locked on hers.
“Come on then, Granger,” he said softly. The words were a command, but it came out like a question, like a plea. Hermione sighed and grabbed her purse.
The walk to the pub hadn’t been as bad as she’d feared. Neville stayed in the middle, slightly ahead of them. He chatted happily about anything and everything, commenting on the Feast preparations and speculating about the subsequent sorting the next day. Hermione nodded and commented where appropriate, every now and again allowing her eyes to stray to the tall, broad figure just beyond Neville’s shoulder.
He was watching her, she was sure of it. She never was able to catch him actually looking her way, but she knew he was assessing her from the corner of his eye. At one point, he’d even noticed that her pace was slowing down on their way into Hogsmeade. Wordlessly, he’d tugged on Neville’s elbow, slowing his gait and keeping a pace that was much more comfortable for her. She hadn’t known how to feel about it in the moment.
Now, sitting on a stool at the bar in the busy pub with the two men and sipping on a foamy Butterbeer, she knew. She was grateful. Grateful and a little touched. No one had seen her quite so well since Ginny.
“I thought you said there were going to be more teachers here from Hogwarts,” she observed loudly over the din of the crowd. Neville raised his brows in askance, and Draco smirked into his glass of Firewhiskey.
“What?” Neville asked, taking a nervous sip of his Mulled Mead.
She gestured to the tables full of freshly-minted sixth-years, families, and strangers. “I thought you said a group of us were headed to the Three Broomsticks for a drink? The only faculty I see here are us three.”
“Yeah,” he nodded, looking around at the full pub. She got the distinct impression that he was avoiding eye contact. “Yeah, I definitely thought more people would show.”
“Sure,” Malfoy snorted. “Did you remember to invite them?”
Neville didn’t bother to reply, just took a long breath in through his nose and threw back his entire glass of mead. Hermione looked on with raised brows, slightly impressed as he downed the rest of the glass in one breath. When it was empty, he set the glass back down on the counter with a flourish, glancing down at his watch as he wiped his mouth.
“Well wow! Would you look at the time! I just remembered I promised my Granny I’d make a Floo call tonight before bed to tell her all about move-in day. I’d better head back now if I want to be there on time!”
“But, Neville, we just-”
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” he was already standing up and pushing in his stool, dropping a few galleons on the bar to cover his drink. “Feel free to stay back as long as you like! I’ll see you both tomorrow night at the Feast!”
Hermione watched in bewilderment as Neville Longbottom practically skipped toward the exit, looking back to send them a theatrical wink before slipping out the door and into the dim evening light. Draco said nothing, just watched him leave with an amused glint in his eyes, like he was privy to an inside joke that she wasn’t yet fully comprehending. She turned back toward her only remaining companion.
“What on earth-?”
“I’ve found it’s best not to question Neville’s comings and goings,” he said, punctuating the statement with another sip of his drink. She watched the muscles in his neck work as he swallowed and averted her gaze down to the bar top, trying to focus on the swirling grain of the wood. Without Neville as a buffer between them, she felt adrift and a little wild under the full force of Draco Malfoy’s attention. She sipped her beer.
“So,” he said, breaking the silence. “We should meet tomorrow or the next day, just to debrief after your first day with the students. I typically like to have weekly meetings with whoever I’m mentoring just to keep up regularly. What time works best for you week-to-week?”
She’d nearly forgotten that she’d have to start meeting with Malfoy more regularly now that the students were back. Their occasional and sporadic meetings over the last few weeks had mostly been brief and somewhat non-specific, although still very business-like. “Oh, erm- Maybe Mondays? In the late afternoon?”
He nodded his agreement, stating that he’d put it in his calendar for the foreseeable future. She was about to ask if they should meet in his office or hers when the person sitting on her other side stumbled, crashing sloppily into her back. She let out a yelp as she worked to right herself on the barstool and flick the liquid off her hands from where her Butterbeer had sloshed over a bit in the shuffle. She turned to share her grievances with the drunkard, but he was already moving away from her, mumbling an apology over his shoulder.
She scoffed, turning back to Draco. “Can you believe that guy? He could barely muster an apology. I mean, I know it was an accident, but still. What a tosser.” She rolled her eyes and moved to take a sip of her still mostly-full drink but froze when a firm hand gripped her wrist.
“Don’t drink that,” he hissed, his voice low and even. She startled, looking up squarely at his face for the first time since Neville had left. His eyes were cold, flinty. Twin blades forged in fire and solidified in ice. She stopped breathing.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Bumping into you wasn’t an accident. That was a calculated move. He slipped something into your drink when you were distracted.”
She placed the drink in her hand back on the counter quickly and clumsily, like it had bitten her. “What? Oh, Merlin, no. What should we do?” She looked back to her companion, but he wasn’t looking at her anymore. He had his eyes fixed on the door, watching with singular attention as her would-be attacker slipped out the exit where Neville had been just ten minutes before. “Draco, what should we do? Should we report this to the bartender?”
“Go catch up with Neville,” he replied, still not looking at her. He dropped the wrist he’d still been holding and stood from his stool at the bar. “He shouldn’t be too far ahead of us. I’ll take care of things here and see you later.”
She stared up at him in shock. This man was not the man she’d just been having drinks with. That man had been small smiles and inside jokes and quiet warmth. This man was unsmiling, cold, focused. “But, Draco, I really think we need to make a report-”
“I’ll take care of things here,” he repeated slowly, like she was daft. “Go catch up with Neville now. Okay?”
He stalked away from the bar before she could argue, leaving her little choice but to obey.
Notes:
Content warnings: very brief and mild mentions of potential verbal abuse or emotional manipulation, brief mention of school age bullying, discussion of lost/changed female friendship (That shit HURTS, bitches, am I right? Like honestly, fuck them boys, losing a best friend is like losing a fucking limb), discussion of chronic illness, attempted drugging of a main character with the intent to harm
With Love,
Cass
Chapter 5: The Library of the Mind
Notes:
Hi again!
Thanks again for being here and supporting me in the early days of my first fanfiction. I adore you all, and I'm so grateful that even just a few people are reading this. Special thanks to my subscribers and, of COURSE, my dearest friend K.
This chapter is dedicated to all the people out there who are also in their late twenties and find themselves obsessed with The Summer I Turned Pretty. I thought that, as a grown and married woman, anyone my age who thought watching a teenager trying to decide which brother she was going to fuck for the rest of her life was a total weirdo. Turns out, that faction also includes me. This Venn diagram is a circle.
Content warnings at the end of the chapter notes. ENJOY!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Round like a circle in a spiral like a wheel within a wheel,
Never ending or beginning on an ever-spinning reel.
Like a snowball down a mountain or a carnival balloon.
Like a carousel that’s turning, running rings around the moon.
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes on its face,
And the world is like an apple spinning silently in space.
Like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind.
Like a tunnel that you follow to a tunnel of its own
Down a hollow to a cavern where the sun has never shone.
Like a door that keeps revolving in a half-forgotten dream.
Like the ripples from a pebble someone tosses in a stream.
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes on its face,
And the world is like an apple spinning silently in space.
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind.”
-The Windmills of Your Mind, Mel Torme
~1 September 2006~
Draco Malfoy barely registered the few people in his path as he stalked toward the exit of the Three Broomsticks, pushing anyone in his way firmly to the side. The night outside the pub was cool but not uncomfortably so, the last vestiges of summer still warming the evening air. He caught a flash of movement to his left, a glimpse of a figure disappearing down a side street. This was a tactic he’d seen before- slip something into a girl’s drink at the bar then wait in an alleyway next to the pub to intercept her trying to walk home. This man wanted to drug Hermione. Wait for her to get up and stumble home. Drag her into the dark.
He felt a cool calm fall over him like a blanket as he fell into that comfortable, solitary place in his mind. It was a library with no door, all four walls were covered in shelves, stacked and stuffed with books. All his rage, all his writhing fury, was pushed back. Neatly folded. Tucked into the space between two large tomes.
He rounded the corner into the alley, stalking slowly toward the shadowed silhouette leaned up against one stone wall. The figure was lighting up an enchanted cigarillo, and the swirling smoke made dancing figures in the air, wafting toward him slowly. The man looked up. He was young, maybe a few years older than himself in his mid-thirties, with cropped brown hair and dark, empty eyes. Distantly, the man’s face reminded him of portraits he’d seen of Tom Riddle in his youth. He scowled and puffed a mouthful of smoke in Draco’s direction.
“What’s wrong, mate? You need a light or something?” he asked, shifting slightly away from where the taller man loomed over him. Draco said nothing, had nothing he could say. All his words were folded between the pages of books. The man eyed him, perturbed by his silence. “Alright, fucker, keep on moving. You’re freaking me out.”
Another beat of silence passed. Draco took a breath, discreetly pulling a vial of colorless, tasteless liquid from his pocket. Then he moved.
In one swift motion, he pinned the other man to the wall by the neck, shoved the entire vial between his teeth, and uppercut his lower jaw before the man had time to properly register the attack. The glass shattered between his teeth, spilling the entire vial of Veritaserum down his throat and slicing into his tongue and gums and lips. Blood poured out of his mouth, along with a string of slurred curses, as he swung wildly at Draco, landing a punch to the jaw. Draco was pushed back by the force of the attack, and the man slipped past him to make a mad dash toward the end of the alleyway.
Quickly, he flicked his right wrist, freeing the hawthorn wood wand he kept secured with a holster in his sleeve at all times. “Locomotor Mortis!” he called as he made a quick slashing motion with the wand, a swirling red light pouring from the tip. It hit the other man squarely between the shoulders, and he dropped instantly, his legs magically bound by the curse.
As Draco approached him, he watched with a remote satisfaction as the man scratched and scrambled with his fingernails on the cobblestones, trying to crawl away. He reached out for a wand -presumably his that had fallen in his haste to run- but Draco kicked it harmlessly out of the way. When he turned to see him looming above over his shoulder, the man began to scream for help, but a quick Muffliato from him remedied that quite nicely. He crouched down, grabbing a shoulder and flipping the man roughly onto his back. His dark eyes were wide, pupils blown with fear. He let a slow, empty smile unfurl over his lips and held his wand up to the man’s bloody chin. Saliva and mucous and blood all mixed together, coating lower half of the other man’s face. He let his smile grow.
“What were you doing in this alley?” he asked in a cool, even tone. “Remember, answer honestly. I know a lot more curses than just the Leg-Locker. That vial of Veritaserum you just swallowed should help.”
“I was smoking,” the man gasped, his hands raised to his ears in supplication. His words were slurred and difficult to understand from the broken glass still lodged in his tongue. A tear streaked out of his right eye. Draco tutted.
“I want the whole truth, you filthy piece of shit.” He dug the tip of his wand deeper into the man’s throat, and it shifted as his Adam’s apple bobbed with a strangled gulp.
“I was- I was waiting here to-” The man’s voice choked off as he fought against the Veritaserum. “I was going to snatch someone- a girl.”
Draco paused, the words striking a chord in the back of his mind. He hadn’t realized it at first, but he recognized this man. He was a few years older and had put on a bit of weight, no longer a gangly young adult. His hair was different, and his eyes were sharper now, emptier even. He’d been one of Fenrir Grayback’s Snatchers. His smile widened even more, all gleaming white teeth now. Perfect.
“I know you,” he said. “You were one of Grayback’s boys back in the day. I didn’t see it at first, but I do now. You helped him snatch up Muggle-borns and Half-bloods, didn’t you?” He gripped the man’s collar, pulling his head up off the ground to dig the tip of his wand harder into the flesh just below his jaw. “Then you must know who I am, don’t you?”
The man’s eyes widened, the whites of his eyes flashing in the dim light of the alley. He watched as his dark eyes took in his face and clothes. His hair. “M-Malfoy,” was all he could choke out through the glass in his mouth.
“That’s right,” he said through his shining grin. “And you know what happens when you cross a Malfoy, don’t you?”
Tears were streaming in steady rivulets from the side of his eyes now. He was shaking his head, his hands trembling where he still held them up by his head. “No. No, please! You’ll never have to see me again. I won’t come around here ever again. Just please let me go. Please-!”
Draco didn’t give him the chance to finish.
~3 August 1997~
The formal dining room of Malfoy Manor was packed, teeming with Death Eaters and Pure-blood supporters, the rich benefactors of their cause. The raucous group of men -and several women- were laughing and drinking and eating their fill at his table. There were so many bodies, so many people here in support of Voldemort and his Death Eaters that the grand room had been enlarged with an Expansion charm. Draco watched as his family’s house elves frantically darted between the guests, trying their best to satisfy every request and getting hexed and zapped when they couldn’t. His stomach twisted. The tattoo on his arm burned.
Draco sat near the head of the table, watching quietly as the commotion unfolded before him. Even his father was laughing and talking more than usual. They all had something to celebrate, after all. Just two days ago, Voldemort had officially gained control of the Ministry of Magic. There were only two other people at the table aside from him who were quiet and still - Narcissa Black Malfoy and Antonin Dolohov.
Dolohov was seated nearer to the middle of the table across from him and three chairs down. Draco watched as he picked at his food slowly and drank deeply from his wine glass. He had certainly looked better, but ten straight hours of the Cruciatis curse would take a toll on anyone. It had certainly taken a toll from him to dole it out. Minute by minute. Hour after hour.
When Dolohov and Rowle had stumbled back from their mission to apprehend Harry Potter and his companions, utterly defeated and Obliviated, Voldemort had been furious. The pair had been thrown into the manor’s cellar while the Dark Lord savagely searched their minds, attempting to recover their missing memories. From what he’d observed, the mental interrogation had hurt nearly as much as the Cruciatis. When Voldemort had found nothing of consequence, he’d ordered Draco to torture them both until one of them died or he himself collapsed.
“Crucio them both, Draco,” Voldemort had hissed in his ear. “You need the practice, little pup. Practice practice practice until they cry tears of blood. Practice until they’re dead. Practice until you can stand no longer.”
After the first half hour, he’d been sweating and gritting his teeth so hard he’d thought they might shatter. After two hours, he’d been shaking with a full-body tremor that had him locking his knees to keep himself standing. After three hours, his body had been completely numb. It had taken over ten hours for him to finally collapse in exhaustion, the toll of the curse making it too much to dole out any longer. Narcissa had found him there, unconscious on the cold cellar floor, had helped him to his room with the aid of Mippy and had bid him not to come out again until the celebration feast. He hadn’t had any desire to argue.
Now, Dolohov sat slouched in his chair, letting the back of it prop him up. He looked pale and clammy. Rowle hadn’t bothered to show at all. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as his aunt Bellatrix slunk behind the sickly man on her way to her seat, stopping behind his chair to drape herself over Dolohov’s shoulders. She whispered something slowly in the man’s ear that had him straightening, had his twisted face flushing. He looked up to find Draco watching him and sneered.
“What are you looking at, little whelp?” he snarled across the table at him. “Keep your eyes to yourself or I’ll gouge them out myself.”
The people sitting around them at the table glanced over between him and Dolohov, interested in the apparent conflict that was stirring. Draco ignored them, keeping his eyes locked on the other man. Lucius Malfoy stiffened next to him.
“Careful there, Half-blood. One might think you’re threatening one of the Dark Lord’s chosen,” his father said, taking a sip from his wine goblet and placing a hand on the back of Draco’s chair.
Dolohov snorted and leaned over the table toward them. “You’ve just proved my point, Lucius. Little prat can’t even come to his own defense. He needs his daddy to do it for him!”
He felt himself smile, forced himself to take a sip from his goblet before answering. His hands shook ever so slightly as he reached for his cup. “I can defend myself, Dolohov. I was able to get a hit in on that traitor Potter and his cronies when I was just a school boy, something you couldn’t even do as a grown man.”
The man’s ugly face twisted further in rage as the insult sank in. Heat bloomed over Dolohov’s neck and ears, causing a blotchy juxtaposition with his pale cheeks. “Oh, I laid Potter’s filthy little friend low in the Department of Mysteries last year,” he snarled across the table. “I’ve been killing self-righteous wizards like them since before you were born, whelp.”
He chuckled. “The idiot weasel doesn’t count. He’s completely inept in a fight, practically a weanling. I once saw him curse himself with a Slug-Eating charm,” he answered, amused. A smattering of laughter littered the dining room from the people sitting between him and Dolohov.
“No, not the stupid Weasley boy. His little Mudblood slag!”
Draco froze. The fingers that had been fiddling with the silverware at his place setting paused their movement. Dolohov noted the change in demeanor, a wicked smile splitting his ugly face in half. His father shifted beside him, watching the exchange. Careful. He had to be so, so careful.
“You mean the Granger girl?” he asked, keeping his voice steady and his tone even. “What on earth was a Half-blood cunt like you able to cast against a witch like her?” Even to his own ears, it sounded a bit like he’d just complimented her. He had to reign this in.
Dolohov’s eyes narrowed, his toothy grin falling a tick. “I hit her with a special, one-of-a-kind spell, you little arsehole. You’ve not even wet your cock yet, much less invented a curse on par with mine. Melts the lungs, it does.” The man laughed, leaning back against his chair to cross an ankle over a knee. It was meant to look casual and effortless, but Draco saw it for what it was - Dolohov couldn’t hold himself up in his chair much longer. He was growing weary. “It would’ve killed her, too, if the stupid bitch hadn’t jinxed me with a silencer just before.”
Draco had known, of course, that Hermione Granger hadn’t been killed at the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. He’d known she hadn’t drowned slowly in her own blood as her lungs melted away inside her chest. Still, hearing the confirmation that Dolohov hadn’t been able to fully cast the curse shot a spike of relief through his chest so profound he wanted to sag back against his chair as well. He resisted the urge, sitting up straighter and realigning his crooked utensils like this conversation was boring him.
“Oh, please,” he snorted. “If your curse had been so powerful as you claim, she should’ve died regardless. It sounds to me like you’re overestimating your own skill in casting.”
Dolohov snarled, sitting up taller again to match Draco’s posture. He ripped his wand free from where it had been strapped to his forearm and pointed it directly at Draco. Lucius Malfoy, who’d been silently observing for the last several minutes, now stood and pulled out his own wand, pointing it back at Draco’s would-be attacker.
“You will not threaten my son in my own home, Antonin,” his father hissed angrily. “Put down your wand before I make you.”
Dolohov grinned, and Draco had the distinct impression that half the purpose had been to get a rise out of the stoic Lucius Malfoy. He’d known exactly how to do it, too. The sinister man’s dark eyes locked on a spot beyond Draco’s shoulder, a point behind him further into the dining room.
“Pulmo Fluorico Acidicum!” With a savage slash of his arm, a rioting purple curse flew from the end of his wand, passing just above his right shoulder and hit its mark behind him. Draco turned just in time to see his house elf, Poppy, dropping like a stone onto the floor. The serving tray she’d been carrying clattered to the ground, spilling goblets of red wine onto the floor. She writhed, clutching at her chest as blood sprayed from her mouth and mixed with the dark red Cabernet soaking into the plush carpet.
As Draco Malfoy stoically watched Dolohov’s curse painfully kill the house elf who’d helped raise him, he found himself thinking that ten hours of the Cruciatis Curse hadn’t been enough. He could stand to do another twenty.
~1 September 2006~
The atrium of the Ministry of Magic was nearly entirely empty, as he’d expected it would be at this hour of the day. His footsteps echoed in the enormous room as he stepped out of the Floo, his bounty in tow. He’d cast a levitation charm and a silencing charm on the former Snatcher and had bound his wrists together magically as well. The man writhed in the air, trying to find purchase on something - anything - to aid his escape. The Silencio charm had the excellent effect of removing the man’s ability to speak while still allowing him to move his mouth. As he flopped in the air beside him, arms and legs bound and mouth moving wildly, Draco thought the man looked very much like a fish on dry land. A cold satisfaction made a home in his belly.
He stalked away from the Floo network and toward the lifts, passing the Fountain of Magical Brethren on his way. He paused, head cocked with interest, as the idea to dunk the Snatcher’s head under the water and watch while he struggled to breathe crossed his mind. Then he’d really look like a fish out of water. “No,” he sighed quietly to himself. “I’ve come all this way already.”
The man’s head jerked to look over where Draco’s gaze had landed, eyes widening as he apparently deduced the meaning of his quiet contemplation. He started struggling even harder against his magical constraints, blood trickling steadily down his cheeks and chin as his lips moved wildly in an effort to speak. He laughed in delight, moving past the fountain and toward the elevators. “Oh, relax. I had just decided not to do it,” he said darkly. “I would never attack an incapacitated, unarmed, unsuspecting, disadvantaged person. A courtesy you had not been planning on giving my companion at the Three Broomsticks.”
He passed the unmanned security stand and stepped into the lift, levitating the bound man in after him, and pressed the button for Level Two, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The box rattled and shook as the lift moved down, then sideways, then down again. When the gate opened up to Level Two, he stepped out into a long hall with doors spaced evenly on either side. He walked casually toward the end of the hall like he was taking a leisurely stroll through the park, not like he’d assaulted and kidnapped a man in a dark alley just a half an hour previous.
He reached the end of the hallway and followed a branching corridor to the right, seeing a sign for “Aurors’ Headquarters”. He pushed open the wooden double doors with a flourish and waltzed into the bullpen area of the Aurors’ office. There was always at least a handful of Aurors on staff, even in the evenings, though they must not always get much activity so late in the day. Indeed, the half-dozen tossers on the night shift crew startled to attention as he stalked through the doors to the office.
“What are you-”
“Good evening, witches and wizards!” he greeted cheerily. His head tilted to his left where a familiar figure was standing behind a desk, frozen in place with shock. Harry Potter had apparently been in the process of readying to leave for the day, evidenced by his half donned coat, empty desk, and stuffed briefcase. “Potter, I have an urgent matter for which I require your assistance.”
Potter’s eyes widened as he took in his haggard appearance and the bloody, writhing man levitating in the air above his shoulder. Draco gave him a small smile. “Malfoy, what in Merlin’s name happened?”
A tired-looking young man stood before a council of judges. His hair stood up on end at odd angles, giving the impression that he’d just been struck by a zapping jinx.
“Mr. Potter, have you come to speak as a witness in favor of the accused?” a nasal voice called to him, echoing throughout the chamber.
“Yes,” he answered. “I have valuable insight into Draco Malfoy’s personal role in the second wizarding war. I believe I’m one of the only witnesses who can truly attest to his actions and inactions, what I believe his character to truly be.”
“Young man, we’ve already taken your comprehensive statement, along with several of your memories for Wizengamot review. We don’t need a character witness for the accused.”
“With respect, Madam Chair, my statement doesn’t include my personal opinions on what happened. I’d like to state them now.”
Draco looked back at Harry evenly, deciding not to give attention to his wriggling, floating captive. “Can we speak in private, Potter? Now?”
Potter’s sober face blanched a little as he nodded. He turned to the man sitting at the desk next to his - presumably his partner - and indicated he’d catch up with him later. He waved Draco forward and led them into a small conference room just off the bullpen area. He shut the door behind him when his captive was fully through the doorway and cast a Muffliato charm. He turned to Harry.
“I caught this cunt at the Three Broomsticks trying to snatch someone,” he began, not bothering to mince words or start with pleasantries. “He slipped something into a woman’s drink and went to wait in the alley outside for her to pass by on her way home. I followed him out and apprehended him.”
Harry’s brows shot upward toward his hairline, forehead wrinkling in surprise. He looked to the floating man beside Draco and furrowed his brow. “Did you interrogate him, Malfoy? How can you be sure that’s what he was doing? He might’ve just been slipping out to have a smoke. And why is he all bloody? His mouth looks like it’s full of glass!”
“Yes, he tripped and fell directly into a full vial of Veritaserum. The whole thing shattered in his mouth. Such a pity.” Harry crossed his arms, looking entirely unconvinced. “I just happened to ask him a few questions while he was under the influence of the serum, and he confessed.”
“Malfoy,” Harry scoffed. “You can’t just snatch people off the street-”
“Oh yes I can,” he snarled, taking an angry step toward Potter. “This man was targeting Granger. He was going to drug her and assault her, and I wasn’t about to let that happen. And to top it off, he was a Snatcher back in the day, one of Grayback’s purist little thugs. Tell me, Potter, didn’t the DMLE release a statement years ago saying all the Snatchers had been apprehended or ‘neutralized’? If your office had done its fucking job, this never would have happened in the first place!”
Harry stared at him, utterly stunned. “He was- he was trying to hurt Hermione?”
“Yes,” he seethed. “Now either apprehend this man or ‘neutralize’ him before I decide I can’t stand to be in the same room as two absolute buffoons.”
Potter sighed, rubbing a knuckle over a tired eye. “Okay. Okay, yeah. You’re right. I’ll take care of this Malfoy, alright?”
Draco nodded, only slightly appeased. “One of you lot should interrogate him now, while the Veritaserum is still in his system. He was dosed with a nearly full vial, so it’ll still be potent for another few hours yet.”
The Auror scoffed. “I shouldn’t be surprised a Malfoy is telling me how to do my job, but somehow I’m still a little outraged.”
He snorted. “Well do your job correctly, and I won’t have to tell you how to do it,” he replied and turned to open the door to leave. “And if I find out that this man is walking freely through the streets again?” He looked back over his shoulder to where Harry was still standing in the middle of the room. “I’ll finish the fucking job myself.”
She was waiting for him in his office when he came in. She was curled up on one of the wingback chairs in front of his fireplace, the flames in the hearth burning low and slow. She had changed her clothes from what she’d been wearing at the pub, now sporting an oversized jumper and a pair of soft, form-fitting trousers. Her wild hair fell haphazardly around her shoulders, and she slowly twisted one curl around a pointer finger. She’d been reading a book balanced on one knee but looked up sharply as he entered.
He paused in the doorway, making momentary eye contact before sighing and moving toward the entry to his living quarters. He didn’t want to talk about this. Not yet. Not right now. It was still too new and big and heavy in his mind. He’d only just allowed himself out of his little mental library, and his anger was still roiling and fresh.
“What happened?” she asked, putting her book aside before standing from her chair. “Did you report him? Is he still out there?” When he remained silent, she huffed and rounded the chairs before stalking toward him. “If he’s still out there we should find him before he hurts someone else. What happened, Malfoy?”
He pushed open the door to his bedroom and slipped inside, hoping to close the door behind him before she could get there. He hoped maybe she’d take a closed door as the glaringly obvious hint it was and leave. No such luck would be his that night. She burst into the room after him, catching up quickly. A small, warm hand wrapped around his wrist and tugged, prompting him to spin around to face her. Her face was open and worried, her eyes bright and sparkling in the dim light.
“Will you just talk to me, Draco? Please?”
A curly-haired woman walked briskly through the double doors to the entrance courtyard in front of the Great Hall, rushing out into the freezing night air. Her cheeks were blotchy and stained with her grief, and she frantically wiped away each fresh tear as she worked to get her arms into her coat one by one. A ginger-haired man followed behind her with unhurried steps. Neither one noticed him where he stood next to a pillar, still as a statue.
“C’mon, ‘Mione. Would you just talk to me? Please?”
“I don’t want to talk right now, Ron. I just need some fresh air, okay?” she sobbed. “I really need to be alone for a moment, so could you just go back inside?”
The man sighed and looked to the heavens like this was some great burden. He scrubbed a palm over his face. “Okay, fine. Yeah. But we’re going to talk about this when we get home. And don’t catch a cold out here. I can’t afford to be sick this week if you pass it to me.” Her shoulders shook harder as he walked away and back into the Great Hall.
His throat worked as he pushed the memory back down. He filed it away in a labeled folder and placed it in a special box on a high shelf in his little library. He took a deep breath and centered himself back in that quiet, calm place in his mind where the panic and rage couldn’t reach him.
“I caught him. I took him back to the DMLE, and Potter is booking him now.” He kept his tone blank and factual, like he was reading from a textbook. Her eyes widened in surprise.
“You what?” she gasped.
“I followed that man into the alley where he was waiting for you to walk by. I approached him, caught him off-guard, and apprehended him. I then took him to the Aurors’ Headquarters and handed him off to Potter personally.” He spoke quietly and evenly, not a speck of emotion visible. He knew with utter certainty that he had to get through this exchange without showing her anything. If he did - if he slipped even a little - the whole roiling, writhing mess would come spewing out. “Are you satisfied with my answer, Granger? Will you leave?”
Her cheeks flamed, and she crossed her arms over her chest, angry now. “No, I’m not, actually,” she huffed. “What were you thinking following a dangerous man into a dark alleyway at night? You could’ve been seriously hurt!” she cried, searching him over now for any injuries. Her eyes landed on the purple bruise blooming on his jaw where the assailant had landed his one good blow. She gasped and gripped his face, turning his head and bringing it down toward her line of vision to get a better look. “You did get hurt!”
The skin of his jaw tingled where she gripped it, and heat bloomed in his belly, sharp and fast. He’d never been this close to her before. At least, not like this. Not in such a non-malicious way. He could make out little flecks of burnished gold in her eyes, could see a cluster of faint freckles dusted across her nose and cheeks. He could smell her honeycomb shampoo and feel the warmth of her breath fan over his cheek bone where she still studied his bruise.
A shelf in his little library cracked. A book fell forward, clattering onto the ground, its pages fluttering wide open.
His body warmed, and his heart sped up. Being this close to her was even better than he’d imagined. All the intricacies and fine details of her face brought her more fully into focus for him. From afar, she was beautiful and brilliant and striking, a powerful presence in a big world. Zoomed in so close, she was the world. She had been for a long time; it was just easier to see it now.
The cracked shelf gave way, falling to the ground and spilling books and volumes and notes all over the ground. The fractured wall now revealed a narrow passageway leading back into a small, cozy room. There were two chairs seated before a crackling fireplace.
Hermione had seemed to notice the shift in the air between them because she was now no longer looking at the bruise on his jaw. Her gaze was passing back and forth between his eyes and his mouth, studying his face. He let his lips part slightly, taking in the oxygen he needed to keep his wits about him. Her eyes tracked the movement, pupils blown.
He was drawing in a breath, about to break the silence crackling between them, when she blinked and let go of his jaw, stepping away. Her cheeks flushed prettily as she put a good bit of distance between them, crossing her arms back over her chest.
“You should use Essence of Dittany for the bruising,” was all she said before she turned and hurried out the door, back toward her living quarters. He watched her leave, heart still pounding erratically in his throat, skin itching with the need to follow after her.
He didn’t.
~5 June 1998~
The door behind him slammed shut with a clang, the noise echoing through his small cell and into the corridor beyond. The prison was such a quiet, desolate place that any noise or stimulus at all felt huge and loud and painful. He’d been on one of the lower levels for weeks, awaiting sentencing in a holding cell, but the Wizengamot had just ruled on his sentence two days ago. This room was to be his permanent holding for the next eighteen months.
He stared at the four cold stone walls in the dim cell. There was no window or crack in the ceiling to let in any sunshine or natural light, no way for him to tell the time of day. His only source of light was a flickering bulb set back into the ceiling and covered with a tiny cage of iron bars - presumably to prevent him from unscrewing it and using the broken glass for his own nefarious purposes.
There was a small cot on the far wall with a thin pillow and threadbare blanket resting atop it, and a toilet took up one corner. No sink. Nowhere to wash his hands or his face or quench the aching thirst in the back of his throat. He swallowed thickly and crossed the room to sit on his cot.
He sat staring endlessly at the gray wall opposite him, watching a drop of condensation fall slowly down the roughly hewn stone. When it had fallen to the ground, he focused on the flickering light bulb, counting how many times it flickered in and out per minute. His fingers picked at the threadbare blanket, pulling a small thread loose and spinning it between his fingers as he counted. His eyes ached, and his mind revolted. This was to be his existence for the next eighteen months? This was all his life was to be, this joyless existence?
His chest heaved with panicked breaths as his reality truly set in. He hadn’t been too upset the last four weeks while he waited for his trial. He’d had something to focus on, something to look ahead to. He’d spent his days thinking of what to say during questioning or wondering who would be on the jury. But now, sitting in his permanent cell, his home for the next year and a half, the pointlessness of his foreseeable future yawned open before him.
His chest was tight, and sweat poured over his temples. He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands, trying to think of something - anything - to keep his looming panic at bay. He thought of his mother, her gentle hands and warm smile while she brushed the hair back from his forehead. He thought of his father, his face stern as he told him to get his wits about him.
Lucius gripped him by the shoulder, scarcely preventing him from keeling over sideways. They stood in the Malfoy Manor cellar, two pale and howling men writhing on the floor before them. Draco felt the sweat slide from his hairline, down his temple, off his jaw. He panted, looking up at his father.
“I can’t keep this up for much longer,” he said, his voice weak.
“It’s only been two hours, Draco,” the older man hissed. “Bellatrix can interrogate and cast the Cruciatis for eight or more. You have to last at least half that long, or the Dark Lord will be displeased.”
A lifeless, hopeless feeling filled his chest as he stared at the two men before him. He hated them profoundly, especially Dolohov. Finding the desire to hurt them hadn’t been a problem. It was maintaining the curse for so long. He could feel it draining the life out of him, the joy from his soul.
“I don’t think I can,” he panted.
Lucius gripped him harder, turning him to face his father. “You can, Draco. You must. Use your Occlumency. Imagine that there is a room in your mind. It is safe and protected, kept apart from this moment. Put away the part of yourself that is weak and tired. Only let the strongest, angriest, foulest parts of you stay at the surface. Let those parts of you shoulder the burden that the softer part of you cannot.”
He looked into his father’s eyes, taking that moment to mentally conjure the first thing he could think of - a small corner of the Hogwarts library. He tucked himself away in there, only letting a shadow of himself break beyond the walls of the library and rise to the surface.
He took a breath and turned away from his father, calmer and entirely collected.
He raised his wand.
“Crucio.”
He thought of it, the simplicity of that mental library. He’d fashioned it out of his favorite nook of the library in his old school. He’d grown up spending afternoons and weekends traipsing through the shelves, always finding a new book to catch his interest. He’d gather up a heavy stack of books and abscond with them to a small sitting area in the far eastern corner of the room. He’d sit for hours in there, reading and sipping tea and drawing pictures of the scenes in his head. Oftentimes it was the only way he could get away from all the complexity and noise of his father’s world. His visits had become less and less frequent as he grew older and had stopped completely in his sixth year.
He conjured that nook now, fashioning four walls of mahogany shelves with swirling, intricate patterns. Shelf by shelf, the walls filled with books from all genres, a wide variety of tomes to peruse. Mentally, he stepped forward and dragged a pointer finger down the spine of one such book. The Many Misadventures of Barnaby MacMillen by Alexander Deveroux. His favorite. He smiled and went to pluck it from the shelf but paused when he felt a shift in the air next to him, a ripple in the fabric of his conjured space.
He turned.
And there she was, standing beside him. She had a finger to her mouth, tapping gently against her lips as she studied the shelves. Her brown curls were unbound and lay wildly over her shoulders and down her back. She was wearing her school uniform, her Gryffindor red and yellow bringing out the copper tones in her hair. She turned to look up at him, finger still tap tap tapping against her plush mouth. There were ink stains on her fingertips.
“What do you think I should read next?” she asked.
He startled, staring at her utterly confused. Her voice - it sounded so real. Everything about her felt and looked so real. He opened his mouth to reply but quickly closed it again, finding he didn’t have the words to respond. She smirked.
“What’s wrong, Draco? What’s got your tongue all tied up?” she teased, reaching up a hand to chuck him playfully on the chin. “You didn’t really think you’d be able to use mental magic to conjure up a private place in the Hogwarts library without my being there, did you? I’m just as tied up in your memories of this library as the books are. Think of all the times you saw me here, sitting in your favorite chair and copying down my notes for class. Think of all the hours you spent in this room, trying so hard not to look at me. It’s a package deal, I’m afraid.”
He just stared down at her, mouth agape and utterly stunned as she beamed brightly back at him. After a moment, her expression broke, lips parting as a thought occurred to her.
“Oh! And happy eighteenth birthday, Draco,” she said. “I guess it’ll just be you and me this year.”
Notes:
Content warnings: blood/fighting/mild assault, foul language, vague description of torture, cruelty toward house elves, discussion of anxiety/panic, imprisonment of a main character in a flashback
With love,
Cass
Chapter 6: Your Friend, D.M.
Notes:
Hi, friends! I'm back!
I'm no longer on vacation (obviously), so my updates will clearly not be daily or every other day anymore. Updates will hopefully be weekly, most likely on the weekends. I try to write as much as I can throughout the week, but it's not always consistent since I'm a grad student.
Trigger warnings are IMPORTANT for this chapter. Please please please click down to the end chapter notes for this week's content warnings. Especially if you're a woman who has ever lost a pregnancy. This chapter was quite difficult to write at times.
This week's chapter is dedicated to literally everyone in the fucking world except for world famous artist Anish Kapoor. You should have to sign a waiver that you are not, in fact, Anish Kapoor in order to read this chapter of my obscure, unknown Dramione fanfiction.
And to my dearest K. You're the best.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"I wouldn't be seen walking through any door
Some place you're not welcome to.
You stare at the faces smiling from somewhere warm
From someplace the sunlight won't come through.
I would burn the world to bring some heat to you."
-Hymn to Virgil, Hozier
~7 September 2006~
Hermione’s heart raced in tandem with her hurried steps as she half-walked, half-ran to the DADA classroom. She’d already burst into his office just minutes before and, finding it empty, had quickly turned on a heel and rushed toward the only other location she could think to search. Her chest felt tight with the exertion as she rushed through the corridors and up two flights of stairs to Classroom 3C. Her gut roiled with a slurry of mixed emotions. When she finally reached the heavy oak door just off the Serpentine Corridor, she was relieved to find it already swung wide open. She rushed inside, not bothering to announce her presence to the man bent over the desk at the front of the room.
“They’re all absolute prats!” she cried, her voice echoing off the high ceilings of the room. Draco startled at her sudden entry and subsequent declaration, dropping the binder he’d been studying back onto his desk with a loud thunk. He stared up at her, open-mouthed as she stalked toward his desk and slammed her palms down onto the wood. She leaned into him, eyes wild with anger and a little dismay. “I feel like such a cunt saying this, but I think I might actually hate them.”
Draco sat back in his chair, the wood and leather creaking with the movement. His blond eyebrows were high on his forehead. “Do you want to explain what you’re talking about, or would you like for me to just start throwing out guesses?”
“The children,” she hissed, leaning in closer so as not to be overheard by the nonexistent populace in the area. “I don’t remember being so utterly insufferable when I was fifteen!”
Indeed, the fifth-years had been her most difficult challenge all week, although none of the classes had been a walk in the park. She’d begun the term with high hopes and a positive attitude, but it had quickly been extinguished. She’d introduced herself to her classes as their new Potions Master and had received sneers in return. She’d begun discussing the new syllabus and had gotten asked if she was old enough to teach the class. She’d simply asked the group in the back row to stop chatting amongst themselves and pay attention and had gotten insults on her attire. The worst part, though, was the boredom. The majority of the students who weren’t talking over her lectures or goofing off in class simply just didn’t care, and it showed. It was absolutely the most infuriating thing she’d ever experienced. By the end of the week, she’d been ready to scream.
Draco snorted at her obvious struggle, and she watched as the corner of his mouth cut into his cheek in the signature Malfoy smirk. “It’s not as easy as you thought, then? Huh, Granger?”
Her cheeks flamed, and she felt that little twitch in her eye make an appearance. Draco’s eyes zeroed in on it, and his smirk wobbled into a genuine smile.
“It’s not that the teaching itself is hard, Malfoy,” she said through gritted teeth. “It’s that I’ve not been given actual children to teach.”
His brows rose even higher. “Oh? Is that so?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed, straightening from the desk to put her face in her hands and groan into them. “They’ve obviously been replaced by ghouls or gremlins. There’s no way that these are real children born from actual human beings. This is clearly my penance for pissing off some deity in a past life.” Draco laughed, a full and throaty sound. She peaked out from behind her hands and scowled at him. “Don’t mock me, Malfoy, this is serious! An investigation should commence immediately to see who’s replaced the children.”
He stemmed his laughter but gave her a delighted half-grin instead. He reached up his arms to interlock his fingers behind his head, still leaning back in the desk chair. A thin sliver of his abdomen peaked out from where his shirt rode up just slightly. Hermione had to make a concerted effort not to look at it, but it was like a beacon from a lighthouse and she was a passenger ship lost at sea. She glanced down. Regretted it.
“I told you when you were first hired on, didn’t I? Teaching here isn’t for the faint of heart, especially in your position.”
She scoffed. “Of course you would use this as a opportunity to say ‘I told you so’. And what is that supposed to mean? Someone in my position?”
He held up a single finger. “First of all, I will literally always take an opportunity to tell anyone ‘I told you so’. It’s not just you specifically, so don’t get your kickers in a twist. And I quite literally did tell you so, Granger, so I’d say I’m owed this.” He held up a second finger. “Second of all, yes, this position is going to be hard on someone like you specifically. You’re a very pretty, very young woman who is having to fill the shoes of a very old, very well-established male predecessor. This was never going to be easy.”
She tried her best to skip completely over the fact that he’d just called her pretty. She’d have to examine that at another time. “I knew I’d have to prove myself to some of the other professors, but I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d have to fight so hard with the students. I never had such an issue with my classes at Ilvermorny.”
“America is different, Granger. Everything is so young and fresh and innovative over there. They don’t have the old blood and deep-seated prejudices that we have here. Plus America is huge, and we’re here stuck on this tiny little island together with nothing to do but gossip and complain.”
She sighed, rubbing her brow. “They’re not even clever with it, the students. They just insult my clothing and tell me to bugger off.”
He barked a laugh. “They insulted your robes?”
“Need I remind you again that this isn’t funny, Malfoy? I can't believe I came to you for help!”
“It’s a little bit funny,” he chuckled. “But that’s not even the worst part for you, is it?” He looked up at her, eyes bright and knowing like he could read her very thoughts. “You don’t really care much for what you wear or what people think of it, much less a gaggle of children and teenagers. You hate that the kids just don’t care to learn about Potions.”
“Oh gods, yes!” she agreed, running her fingers through the hair at her temples. She felt a little relieved that he had identified and recognized her true enemy: apathy. “They just sit there and stare blankly into the distance, like I’m not even there, really. It’s so infuriating! Why even come to class?”
Draco chuckled again, and a small seed of- something warmed in her belly at the noise. Warmed in her chest, too. “I know what you mean. I had similar issues at the beginning, too. When I first started on, I was an assistant professor, only filling in here and there. I mostly helped Slughorn, since he was a right old geezer even nearly a decade ago, and sometimes simply couldn’t be bothered to grade his papers or teach his classes.”
“You taught Potions?”
“Oh, yes. Mostly, anyway. I do think there’s something to be said about the difference in course materials. For some reason, the students tend to hate Potions the most.” He grinned at her outraged expression, raising a hand to stem her oncoming rebuttal. “Of course,” he said to cut her off, “I’ve never felt that way. I’ve always loved Potions myself. But I think students get caught up in the complexities and minutiae of the practice.” He shrugged and went on. “There’s plenty of bored, apathetic students in my DADA class, too though, Granger. It’s just an occupational hazard.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, crossing her arms over her chest. Silver-gray eyes flickered down to the movement, then back up to her face where they stayed locked on her gaze. His smile faltered a tick. “How do you deal with it?” she ground out through her teeth.
He paused a moment to swallow and take a breath. “Tell you what. Why don’t you come to my fifth-year class period next week? It’ll be our first practical, non-didactic session of the year, and the students can get pretty rowdy. Just come observe. You might learn a thing or two.”
She gritted her teeth harder. When she’d stormed in here to complain to him about her issues, she hadn’t really known what she’d been expecting. She’d thought maybe he’d give her a pat on the back and tell her to buck up. Maybe he’d pour her a stiff drink and let her continue venting until she was hoarse. Even him laughing in her face and sending her away hadn’t been out of the realm of possibility.
But this? This felt different somehow. Gentler. More personal. Like he wanted to truly guide her through this. An image flashed into her mind from a sappy Muggle film she’d always loved of a male romantic love interest coming up behind the female lead at a billiards table and teaching her how to shoot the cue by wrapping his arms around her and leaning into her body. This felt a bit similar somehow, she just couldn’t put her finger on it. It made her seethe.
“I don’t need you to show me how to teach. I already know how to teach, and I’m damn good at it. I just needed to storm in here and vent about it, and you’re doing that thing that men do and fucking it up!”
“’That thing that men do’? What thing? I’m not doing anything!” he said, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense.
“Oh yes you are, Malfoy. You’re doing that alpha male thing where you try to swoop in and fix everything. If I’d wanted you to fix my problems, I would have asked. But I didn’t, did I?”
He quirked an eyebrow and leaned forward in his chair. “Did you not, just mere minutes ago, ask me how I deal with difficult students?”
She sputtered, her cheeks flushing. Well, shit. “I thought you might give me some advice or something, not give me a step-by-step demonstration. I don’t need a demonstration, Malfoy.” She well and truly felt like a spoiled child now, stomping and sputtering because she didn’t feel like she needed to eat her vegetables. She knew she was being silly, she just couldn’t help it. She couldn’t back down, couldn’t admit he was right, couldn’t accept his help. She wasn’t even sure why she’d come.
He sighed and blinked slowly at her, squinting like he was trying to make out the shape of her. He ran a hand over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose momentarily before looking back up. His gaze was even, open, unguarded as he met her eyes. The silver clasp of a jewelry box unlatching. The shining gray edge of a cloud as it shifts to give space for the sun. She saw the change immediately.
“Granger, I’m having a hard time parsing out how best to help you transition into this new role. As your mentor, this is my job, and I feel like I’m failing at it right now. Would you mind just helping me by doing the only thing I can currently think of and attending one of my classes?”
Her breath caught in her throat, the hackles she’d had raised since she stormed in here immediately smoothing back down. She knew what he was doing, of course. Knew he was only rephrasing his request to make an appeal to her proud nature. She knew he was pandering a bit. Still. It pleased her, softened her, weakened her defenses.
“Alright, fine,” she huffed. “Just don’t expect me to call you ‘Professor’ in class.”
His eyes felt sharper suddenly as his gaze stayed locked, almost religiously, with hers. It cut into her like a razor blade, like a scythe bearing down on the condemned. His pupils expanded slightly, giving him a wolfish look, and she watched his throat bob as he swallowed. He took a shallow breath.
“I would never ask Hermione Granger to do something she didn’t want to do,” was his only reply.
~13 February 2001~
Hermione squinted into her bathroom mirror, leaning in so close she was almost nose-to-nose with her own reflection. The eyeliner pencil shook slightly in her hands as she attempted something resembling a smoky eye look. She’d seen an article in one of the trashy Muggle magazines she picked up from time to time - “How To Create the Perfect Smoky Eye in Three Easy Steps!” She’d been utterly convinced by the instructions and the photographs that she could do this easily herself with whatever bits and bobs of makeup she already had on hand - things Ginny had left behind in the move or let her borrow and never taken back. She had, of course, been utterly wrong. She leaned back and lowered the eye pencil, scowling at herself in the mirror. She looked like she had two black eyes. She had to wash this off immediately.
A soft knock on the door came while she was still scrubbing, face dripping and frothy from her face wash. “Hey, ‘Mione,” Ron called from the other side of the door. “We need to leave soon or we’ll be late for our reservation, okay? Will you be ready on time?”
Ron had made a reservation at a nice restaurant in Muggle London, something upscale and fancy to celebrate Valentine’s Day. He hadn’t been able to take the actual day off, as business at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes apparently booms on one such holiday, and George couldn’t spare him at the register. So they’d settled on the night before Valentine’s. Friday the 13th - how romantic.
She squeaked softly in distress as she took stock of her face in the mirror. Black smudges still dripped down her cheeks, reminding her a bit of a sad clown. Or at least what she thought a sad clown might look like. She groaned, feeling a twinge of panic in her lower belly, and went back to scrubbing at her eye makeup. Why had she done this? Why had she even tried? Ron liked her without makeup, anyway. Finally, she was able to scrub her face clean and settled on just dabbing a small amount of cream concealer under her now-irritated eyes and swiping on three strokes of mascara on either eye. Her usual style.
Another knock on the door. “Hermione, c’mon. We’ve got to go now. Come out please.”
“Just a second!” she called. “I’ve just got to use the loo, and then I’ll be ready!”
She heard him grumble something from the other side of the door and rolled her eyes as she lifted her dress, pulled down her knickers, and sat down on the toilet. She’d just bought a nice, new pair of knickers just for this date and-
She froze. Irritation flooded her system as she took stock of the mess in her underwear. She hadn’t realized her period had come on so swiftly and so strong. Usually, her body gave her the telltale signs of an oncoming cycle a few days beforehand, but her periods had always been so sporadic and unpredictable that this was not outside of the realm of possibility. Sometimes she went a month or two with no period at all; sometimes she bled for three weeks straight. It was impossible to tell.
She sighed and pressed her hands against her forehead, lamenting at the ruination of her brand new, pink lacy knickers. She kicked them off and tossed them into a corner of the bathroom. And, of course, now that she was aware that she was on her cycle, her stomach began to cramp in steady, aching waves. She doubled over, panting a little as the crest of one such wave hit its peak and then subsided. That was the other fun thing about having unpredictable periods. Unpredictable symptoms. Sometimes she was doubled over in cramps, sometimes she barely felt a twinge of pain at all. She hated the not knowing, the constant guessing.
She rested her head against the bathroom sink, the cool white porcelain soothing her sweaty forehead. She’d never had cramps quite this intense, she had to admit. But she’d simply have to buck up and try to enjoy her evening as much as possible.
Another knock on the door, louder this time. “Hermione!”
“Just a minute!”
She sighed, gathering a fistful of loo roll and sliding it between her legs, trying to swipe up as much blood as possible. Something thick and heavy slid out of her and fell into the toilet with a plop. She stiffened. She’d never had a blood clot so big before. She looked down.
She froze again.
Ice. An ancient, howling frost coated her veins and she stared and stared and stared into the toilet bowl. It howled in her ears like icy wind on a desert tundra. Distantly, she heard a fist banging against a bathroom door. Someone was saying something, jiggling the handle on the door. She couldn’t hear it over the layers and layers of ice.
I’m having a miscarriage. The thought fluttered through her sluggish brain. Carved a hole in her skull. Made a home in it. I’ve already had one. I’ve had a miscarriage.
A single, small tear pushed its way out of her lacrimal duct, carving a path down her expressionless cheek.
The howling stopped, and her world came back into focus with a deafening whoosh. The door was rattling on its hinges now, the man just beyond howling even more loudly than the icy wind had just seconds ago. She gasped.
“Go away, Ron! Please!” she called. “Just give me a minute!”
He wouldn’t stop, though. He was incensed, still banging on the door and telling her they were going to miss their reservation. That the night would be ruined if she didn’t come out of the bathroom right now. Something crumpled in her chest at the thought of coming out of this bathroom, at dealing with this moment. She didn’t want to. Couldn’t. Not when that word was still echoing in her ears.
Miscarriage. Miscarriage. Miscarriage. There had been a baby in her body unbeknown to her and now there wasn’t anymore.
“I don’t- I don’t want to go anymore, okay? Please just give me a moment!” she called back as the panic hammered like a war drum in her chest. How was she going to tell him? How could she face him?
“What do you mean you don’t want to go? We’ve had these plans for ages! I told my mum and Ginny I was taking you out to fancy place for dinner tonight, so that’s what I’m going to do, Hermione. So just fix your hair or your makeup or whatever and let’s get on with it! You’re being a stubborn bint!”
Her hands shook as she held them to her damp cheeks, trying to tamp down the rising panic in her chest. She couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t take in a full lungful of air. Her ribs just felt so tight, so pinched. Her head felt light as a feather, and she started seeing spots. Quickly, to reduce the possibility of passing out, she dragged herself down off the toilet and onto the floor, propping her feet up on the wall while cushioning her head with their fluffy bath mat. The spots began to dissipate, and she started to feel more grounded. She stayed there, satisfied to let the pounding on the door match the pounding of her crumpled, bleeding heart.
A life. A life had been inside of her. A life now extinguished. Evacuated. Executed. By her body.
By the time she emerged from the bathroom forty-five minutes later red-eyed and wearing the rumpled pajamas from the bottom of her hamper, her boyfriend was so furious that he didn’t speak to her for the rest of the night. She didn’t much mind. She really had nothing to say.
~12 September 2006~
Hermione tried her best not to pick apart the reasons why she had decided to look a little extra put-together on the day of her scheduled visit to sit in on Malfoy’s class. She tried to ignore the extra half-hour she’d given herself to get ready that morning, winding her curls into a thick braid over her shoulder and dusting on a little extra makeup than usual. She denied entirely the tiny spritz of honeycomb and jasmine perfume that Ginny had forced her to buy at a holiday sale at a shop in Hogsmeade. No, there was no reason at all that she was looking a little extra nice today. None.
It was the last period of the day, a period that she’d conveniently had off that day, so the students were more rowdy than usual, eager to finish their daily studies and have the rest of the afternoon and evening to themselves. She wove through the throngs of bodies, making her way down the familiar corridor and into the tall, yawning space that made up the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. It was, by far, the most spacious classroom in the castle with its high ceilings and wide open area in the back for dueling practice. She always felt a little chill in here from too much open air, not to mention the various bad memories she still harbored from her chaotic and greatly varied Defense Against the Dark Arts education.
Draco was already in the classroom, standing at the tall chalkboard at the front writing something in large blocky letters. She cleared her throat as she approached to announce her arrival, and he glanced quickly over his shoulder before finishing his writing and turning fully around to face her. He smiled and swiped his chalky hands on his trousers, leaving streaks of yellow on the sides of his thighs. Hermione noted this as one other thing that separated current Draco from past Draco. The insufferable prat she’d known back in school never would’ve been caught dead with chalk marks on his trousers. It made her heart squeeze a little for a reason she couldn’t place.
“Granger,” he greeted. “I was half expecting you not to show.”
“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “I wasn’t about to give you the satisfaction.”
He grinned wider. He had such a nice smile - straight white teeth and crinkles around his eyes. She’d never noticed the way his eyes crinkled before. “It’s so odd, isn’t it? Being in class together again?”
“Oh, most definitely! Although we never would’ve been this close together without an act of violence being committed,” she said, gesturing between them - at the small amount of distance that separated them. “I think the only time we were ever standing this close was when I had a fist raised ready to hit you in the face.”
He snorted, eyes rolling as he said, “Come on, Granger. We both know I only let you hit me because I didn’t want to be seen punching a girl.”
Hermione laughed and gave his shoulder a small, playful shove. “No, you were terrified of me, Malfoy! I bet you still couldn’t take me.”
He scoffed, and he looked dangerously close to rolling his eyes again. But his gaze caught on the doorway behind her where students were filing in steadily now, taking seats here and there at the desks throughout the room. She glanced back at them, noting the green and red colors flashing against their neutral school uniform - Slytherin and Gryffindor. Excellent.
“Go ahead and take a seat at the back of the room. I’m going to just give a quick lecture and then move into the demonstrations. The students usually get pretty rowdy when it gets time to practice.”
She nodded and moved away toward a single desk in the back. It was in a bit of a corner, away from the main cluster of desks and barely noticeable. She sat down in the chair and plopped her shoulder bag on the floor, pulling out a quill and parchment just in case she needed to take notes. Old habits died hard, and she was in a classroom after all. She sat back to wait, watching Draco as he moved about the room greeting the students and chatting briefly before moving on. All the while, he had one arm crossed over his chest with the other resting atop it to grasp his shoulder. The very same shoulder, she realized, that she’d lightly shoved just minutes ago during their conversation. She watched through her lashes as he slowly, absently ran a thumb over the fabric of his jumper, right over the spot she’d touched.
After a few minutes, the class had filled up, and Draco began speaking. “Alright, class. Can anyone tell me anything about this charm I’ve written on the board?”
Hermione’s ears perked up. An academic question from a professor? She hated to miss an opportunity to answer a question correctly. She looked up at the chalkboard, noticing for the first time what he’d been writing there when she’d walked up behind him.
“Expecto Patronum”
Her eyes widened a bit. The Patronus was a difficult charm, very difficult. This was far beyond even N.E.W.T. level and was certainly not a required learning in the O.W.L.s. She puzzled for a moment while the class remained completely silent in the wake of Malfoy’s question.
“Anyone?” he asked, pacing the room slowly with his hands casually in his pockets. “Anyone at all? Just tell me anything you know about this charm.”
A hand raised slowly at the front of the classroom. It belonged to a petite blond girl in Slytherin green. She looked a lot like Luna Lovegood. Draco called on her.
“Yes, Miss Waterstone?”
“I could be wrong, but this is a Patronus charm, right?” she asked, clearly terrified of being wrong. Draco nodded and motioned for her to continue. “It’s a powerful spell for fighting against evil spirits, particularly Dementors.”
“Yes, very good!” he praised. Hermione watched as the girl’s pale cheeks flushed with the affirmation. “And does anyone know the two different types of Patronus charms?” When no one answered, he locked eyes with her from across the room and gestured at her wordlessly. A smattering of eyes turned to glance back at where she sat. An equal measure of nerves and delight spiked in her belly. She loved being called on, especially when she knew the answer.
“Corporeal and incorporeal,” she said. “Incorporeal Patronus charms are easier to conjure and require a bit less skill. They appear as a white-blue mist extending from the end of the wand and aid in fending off evil spirits. A corporeal Patronus is much more difficult, requiring sometimes years of practice and focus. Some wizards are never able to conjure them at all. They manifest as an animal, usually one which the caster has the greatest affinity for.”
He nodded and looked away from her back to the rest of the class. “That’s exactly right, Professor Granger.” Hermione tried to stem the wave of school girl glee she felt at the praise. It was so utterly ridiculous, but once a teacher’s pet, always a teacher’s pet. “Casting a Patronus charm is notoriously difficult, one of the most difficult charms you can learn, in fact. However, it is invaluable when defending against dark forces, especially Dementors.”
He spent the next several minutes discussing the history and other merits of the charm before moving to the back of the classroom where there was far more space to cast. Chairs squeaked against the wooden floor as the students moved to follow him back.
“Now to cast a Patronus charm, you have to latch onto a very happy memory,” he explained, raising his hawthorn wand. “Not just any happy memory, either. It has to be the happiest one you can think of. Bring it to the forefront of your mind and hold onto it so it can’t slip away.” He closed his eyes to concentrate as they all watched on. His brow furrowed but something else in his face relaxed as he conjured up whatever happy memory he had. “Bathe yourself in those happy feelings. Let the joy of it wash over you. Then-” He raised his wand higher, flicking his wrist. “Expecto Patronum!”
Hermione watched in rapt fascination as the familiar white-blue light flared from the tip of his wand. The last she’d known on the matter, Malfoy was unable to conjure a Patronus. Such was obviously not the case now as a figure appeared in the air above the class room, hemming and preening above their heads in a beautiful and grand display. She watched as it took shape, forming a curving, elegant neck and expanding a glorious display of feathers. She tilted her head, squinting as she made out the form.
Draco’s Patronus. It was a…peacock?
She had to mask the giggle that wanted to escape, determined not to call attention to herself or embarrass him. Truly, it was impressive to be able to conjure a Patronus at all. The fact that it was a peacock though? It had her reeling. She supposed if she considered it, it made a kind of sense. Rumor had it that Malfoy Manor had a menagerie of the birds, even boasting a rare albino variety. He must’ve grown up watching them pace and flutter about in his very own backyard. Indeed, as he paced about in the middle of the small crowd of students, the charm still flowing from the end of his wand, his very movements matched the proud strut of the peacock in the air.
Witches and wizards with peacock patronuses were known to be self-absorbed and prideful, egotistical and eccentric. Characters who loved to parade around and show off for the cameras and spent an upsetting amount of time in front of the mirror. She couldn’t necessarily picture Draco that way, although he did always keep up a good appearance. He never went anywhere looking rumpled or sloppy, always dressed impeccably with nary a hair out of place. He did also love to show off a bit when the situation called for it. Like right now, for example, as he wove the ethereal Patronus in the air, much to the awe of his students.
She eyed his expressions carefully as he watched his Patronus soar through the air, preening its bright white plumage - joy. Utter joy on his face and no small measure of pride. The expression was so gleeful and boyish and raw. She found she couldn’t look away.
He let the peacock dance away, dissipating into a mist against the classroom ceiling. The students tittered as he turned to them, raising his brows and making a motion for them to try it for themselves. “Go on now! Don’t be shy,” he called, waving his arms at the crowd of adolescents. “Try it out! If anyone can actually cast a Patronus today, I’ll not only be shocked, I’ll be impressed. And it is very, very hard to impress me!”
She smiled as he made his way over to where she lingered at the back of the group, and the students began breaking into small groups and cliques to test out the lesson for themselves. He sidled up next to her and crossed his arms to watch the class as they began a few feeble attempts. The girls laughed and joked and giggled as they took turns cheering each other on and failing to produce a successful charm. The boys goaded one another, taunting and jeering playfully as they took their turns as well.
“Why in Merlin’s name are you teaching them the Patronus charm?” she asked, turning to look at his profile. He had a small smile spread over his mouth as his gaze stayed ahead, watching the students work. “This is advanced, Malfoy. Even beyond the N.E.W.T. level. What’s the purpose?”
He took a breath before answering. “Because I believe that the possible benefits outweigh any risks that might arise. I believe that these students are old enough now to be facing real evil in the world, real hardship, and I want them to be as prepared as possible. The worst that happens to them today is that they can’t cast the charm. No big deal, a lot of witches and wizards can’t cast one. But what happens to them if they face something truly deadly and serious, and they don’t have all the possible tools at their disposal? What if they get hurt, and this one spell could’ve made the difference for them?” He turned to her then, gray eyes shining with an emotion she knew all too well. She felt it every day, had been for the last decade. It was like looking into a silver looking glass. “I think about that every day when I come to class and teach these kids. That I’m the only thing standing between them and true evil.”
She nodded and looked away, knowing exactly what he meant. She’d felt that way when she’d helped found Dumbledore’s Army. She’d felt that way when she’d gone on the run with Ron and Harry after sixth year. And she’d definitely felt that way at the Battle of Hogwarts, knowing that she was one of three people in the entire world who knew definitively how to kill Voldemort. That she was standing between everyone she loved and a fathomless evil.
“When did you cast your first corporeal Patronus?” she asked, unable to give more thought to his previous statement. It made her chest feel too tight and her smile feel a little too wobbly. Better to change the subject.
“Last year, actually,” he said. “I used to have an Auror come in to demonstrate for this lesson. Usually Potter. He always did love showing off that bloody stag of his.”
She turned back toward him, surprised. “Harry? Harry came in to teach this class?”
“Oh, sure. The last several years.”
She scoffed, unable to process the new information. “You- you speak to Harry?”
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Yes, of course, I speak to Potter. We’re on decent terms. He testified at my trial, after all.”
She gasped softly. “He what? Does Ginny know?”
But Draco never got the opportunity to answer, as a gaggle of frustrated students called him over to help them. She watched him go over, demonstrating again for the group and drawing the eyes of the other students who were also still stumped. A much smaller, but equally beautiful, peacock danced above their heads, much to the delight of the teenage girls in the room. Some of the boys huffed and rolled their eyes.
“How are we supposed to even do this? We’ve been trying for ages, and it’s not working. You’ve given us a bloody impossible task!” one such boy called from the right side of the room. He was tall, maybe just a few inches shorter than Draco with curly black hair, dark eyes, and a sour expression. He stood, arms crossed, at the front of a gaggle of a few other Slytherin boys. He was obviously the leader of the group, the other boys deferring to his opinion and behavior. His demeanor reminded her distinctly of Draco at that age - arrogant and angry. He was one of her problematic students in class, Maximus Tripe. Being from one of the oldest Pure-Blood families on the roster, she wasn’t surprised he didn’t particularly care for her.
Draco glanced over his shoulder at the student, still walking another group through the incantation. He whipped his head over to where she still stood watching on the outskirts and pointed his wand hand between her and the boys. “Granger, can you lend a quick hand? I’m still getting these students over here sorted. Could you just show them the ropes again?”
She paused, a bit surprised he was asking her to step in, but quickly nodded and approached the group, pulling out her wand as she walked. Tripe’s frown deepened as she drew nearer, scowling down at her from his superior height. “No, thanks, Professor Granger,” he spat. “I won’t be needing any help from you.”
She violently fought the urge to roll her eyes at him and instead settled on pursing her lips at him in a disappointed expression that Minerva McGonagall would be envious of. “Come on, Tripe! You’ll have to start taking lessons from a woman other than your mother at some point in your life. May as well start now.”
The four boys standing behind Maximus snickered and laughed, jostling him by the shoulder and taunting him a bit. His scowl deepened, his cheeks growing ruddy with anger. “You have no right to be teaching at this school, and it’s not because you’re a woman,” he said through gritted teeth. “It’s that you’re a filthy Mudblood!”
Hermione froze, shock and fury rushing through her system in equal measure. It had been such a long time - such a long time since anyone had dared to call her by that name. She’d almost forgotten what it sounded like when it was being hurled in her face. She was truly stunned speechless, unable to fathom what she should do or say. She couldn’t turn to her first instinct, violence, she realized. It was deeply frowned upon for Professors to strike students. What a shame, that.
Other students gasped and tittered, whispering amongst themselves as they watched the confrontation unfold, and a look of smug satisfaction slowly unfurled over Tripe’s face. A bolt of humiliation seeped in through the initial shock and rage. Suddenly, she was twelve again. Thirteen. Seventeen. People were whispering it as she walked by. Howling it as they cursed her. Carving it into her skin. She suddenly couldn’t get a full breath.
She was moving away, about to either rush from the room or reach a better dueling distance to strike this motherfucker down (she hadn’t quite decided yet), when a darkness settled over the room. She turned just in time to see the proud, ethereal peacock in the air fan its plumage in a wide arc across the ceiling and flex its talons in her direction before dissipating entirely in a puff of mist.
“What did you just say?” he asked in a slow, dangerous voice. The chatter in the room subsided, the students catching on to the sudden tension. Everyone paused, unwilling to call attention to themselves.
Draco’s back was still turned toward her, but there was a tension in the line of his spine, a stiffness in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. The students he’d been teaching just moments before were no longer looking up at him and giggling. They were stepping away, glancing between Draco and the other students, their faces a little pale. The room was utterly silent. No one moved. No one said a word.
When he finally turned, he had an odd expression on his face. Stony and angry and cold. But angry wasn’t quite correct. It was more raw than that, more primal. It was deep behind his silver eyes, endless pools of something sharp and heated that she couldn’t name. His gaze wasn’t even directed at her, but she still felt a small shiver go down her spine.
She glanced back at Maximus, who now had the good sense to look a little nervous and unsure. The boy crossed his arms, staring Draco down and trying to look confused. “What? Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”
Draco stepped toward the boy who, to his credit, stood his ground. He didn’t look convinced. He didn’t look amused. “I knew your family were classist, arrogant little cunts, but I never expected you to actually say such a thing out loud,” he said, still slowly approaching. “And you said it so casually. Right in front of me, knowing I could hear you. Did you think I’d think it was funny? Did you think I’d encourage you? Because I’m a Pure-Blood? Because I was a Death Eater when I was your age?”
The boy’s cheeks were pale now, the color having drained from him sometime during Draco’s monologue. He looked a little sweaty, like he might throw up. “I- no I didn’t- I didn’t-“
Draco’s eyes shone as he stepped into Tripe’s space, his voice lowering so only those closest could hear. “Do you know what being a Death Eater taught me, Maximus? Two things. Firstly, how to torture and kill with efficiency." He raised his hawthorn wand, tapping it casually against his opposite palm. Tripe's eyes followed the movement. "And secondly, that blood means absolutely nothing. That in the end, we all bleed the same color. Even Muggles. And you know what happened to the last group of Pure-Blooded dark wizards who thought and said the kind of filth you just spewed at Professor Granger? Do you know what happened to them?”
Hermione almost felt a little bit bad for the boy as he shook his head violently, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. She watched Draco’s eyes track the movement of the droplet as it streaked down the boy’s jaw. A small smile bloomed on his lips.
“They’re all dead now. Dead or nearly there, rotting away in Azkaban. Like my father. Like my aunt. Like your uncle, dear Maximus,” he answered, patting the boy on the shoulder in a way that seemed less than friendly. “I will make no space here in my classroom for bigotry. I will leave no room for hatred. You will give all your classmates and professors equal respect. Do I make myself clear, Tripe?”
Maximus nodded, the dark curls on his head bobbing with the motion. Draco nodded at him, satisfied, and stepped away. He turned back to the rest of the class, smiling brightly like nothing had happened and clapping his hands once. “Now! Let’s all get back to work! Come on then! Chop chop! Hop to it!”
She felt a little breathless, head spinning from what she’d just witnessed. No one had ever defended her quite like that before. Of course, Ginny and Harry and her other friends had come to her defense in the past (ironically, it was usually against Malfoy), but it had never been quite so…comprehensive. The way he’d just talked to Maximus, the way he’d put him in his place. It felt definite. Final. Like he’d closed the last page on a book he hoped never to open again. She stood dumbfounded and little shell-shocked on the periphery of the classroom until the period had ended and the students had filed out one by one.
She approached Draco where he hovered above his desk, gathering papers and notes into his bag. His shoulders tightened again slightly as her footsteps drew near. He didn’t turn to look at her. In fact, he hadn’t looked at her at all since the incident with Tripe.
“Draco, I-“ she began, not really knowing what to say. What could she say that would truly encompass the well of gratitude she felt for his intervention? “Well, I just want to thank you for-”
“Let’s just not do this, Granger. You don’t have to be thankful. Quite frankly, I did the bare fucking minimum back there, okay?” he said quietly, hurriedly stuffing the last of his belongings into his shoulder bag. “I’ll see you on Monday for our weekly meeting, yeah?”
He didn’t wait for her to reply before rushing past her and out of the classroom, still refusing to look her in the eye. And as she stood there, baffled by his reaction, she thought again of his beautiful white peacock Patronus. Proud and egotistical and eccentric, yes. But also unendingly loyal. Violently territorial. Fiercely protective.
And it truly wasn’t until two days later as she was teaching her perfectly-behaved fifth-years how to craft a Sleeping Draught that it occurred to her. The real reason Malfoy had wanted her to attend his class. He hadn’t wanted to teach her how to deal with the students. He had wanted to teach the students to respect her. The reason he’d asked her to help and step in during class. He’d wanted to show the students that he valued her opinion and expertise. She choked a little on the thought, pausing for a moment to take a sip from the water goblet on her desk before continuing her lessons.
He was being protective. Of her.
So then when she found a small box of her favorite chocolates with an attached note on her desk a week later on her birthday, she knew it with absolute certainty. Draco Malfoy was her friend. A really, really good friend.
Granger,
Happy Birthday. I know you like these. I remember you
prattling on and on about them to Longbottom at dinner
the other week. Eat them. Or don’t. I can’t be bothered
either way.
Your friend,
D.M.
Notes:
Content warning: detailed description of the loss of an unknown pregnancy by the main character!!! If you would rather not read it in detail, just skip the middle part (the flashback). The beginning part and the end are mostly trigger-free. All you need to know is that Hermione lost a pregnancy early on that she didn't know she had, and she keeps the knowledge from Ron who was being a general asshole at the time of the occurrence.
Something that I think is crucial to say as well is that Hermione's thoughts and feelings directly after realizing she is miscarrying are knee-jerk reactions. Guilt, shame, etc. They are not at all reflective about what a miscarriage actually is. Unintended pregnancy loss is never - and I repeat - NEVER anyone's fault. There are thousands of reasons why a womb may reject a pregnancy, and they are varied and unpredictable. Someone could be doing everything right and still miscarry. Hermione's thoughts and feelings during her miscarriage, her experience in general, are directly reflective of my own encounter with pregnancy loss years ago. The experience has stayed with me all this time. What I felt then while it was happening is not at all reflective of how I feel about it now as an older, wiser woman. It's also not reflective of reality. But trauma and grief is hardly ever logical.
I love you all. Stay safe. Take care of yourselves. Love yourself.
Love always,
Cass
Chapter 7: Finery
Notes:
Hi, friends!
Here we are, back again! I'm so excited to be posting another chapter of this fic. It truly is a passion project! I think about these characters literally every day. How they would feel in different scenarios, how they might react under certain circumstances. I have the general plot of this story mapped out, but there's still so much I don't know about how exactly we'll get there! I can't wait to see how it all unfolds.
Today's chapter is dedicated to everyone who gave me love and encouragement on my other fic, Feral! This work is definitely not like that one, but I was so uplifted by all the praise. It's truly helped sustain me. And has also distracted me, I'll admit. I'm currently putting off studying for an exam to write this!
No important content warnings today. Just enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“It’s what I know, you’re clothed in only sunlight and your flesh.
So I bring the breeze in, then you’ll need to close up all the rest.
Your shoulders shown and makeup thickened ‘til there’s nothing left.
I still see you, still see you.
…
Hush your blush and cover-up, there’s worry on your face.
Cultures captive, blessed men believe in awful things.
You’re dancing ‘til your feet both bleed.
I wanna hear you sing.
I still see you. I still see you.”
-Finery, Penny & Sparrow
~2 August, 2006~
Draco picked idly at his food, mind entirely lost in the ever moving cycle of his own thoughts. The Great Hall buzzed softly with the chatter of the few faculty and staff who stayed in the castle year round. He found himself missing the droning roar of a full house, the comforting wash of hundreds of voices drowning his thoughts in their thunder. As it stood, only a dozen or so people chatted amiably at the Head Table with a small number of house elves and support staff puttering about their work.
Neville was prattling on to his left while they ate, remarking happily on his day and commenting on the health of his fanged geraniums. He was having a hard time following the one-sided conversation, as his roiling thoughts kept pulling him under their influence. His ears perked up slightly as he eavesdropped on the conversations happening around him.
“I heard the Headmistress offered her the job today,” came the quiet voice of Bathsheda Babbling. “I hope she accepts. She was a fine student while she was here.”
“Oh, yes. I loved having her. She got excellent marks in my class.” The rich, melodic voice that responded could only be Septima Vector, the Arithmancy professor.
He felt his mouth quirk up at the edges as he pondered back on his time in Arithmancy. The witch in question had indeed ruled the classroom, attacking questions others were too timid or too dense to answer. He’d watched her march to the chalkboard at the front of the classroom on more than one occasion to scribble out the answer to a problem or sketch a complex number chart. He’d only taken the infamously difficult class to appease his father, so he hadn’t had any friends to sit with. He’d always lingered at the back of the room, hunkering behind his textbooks. Watching.
Even back then, she’d been something fearsome to behold. His stomach clenched at the prospect of seeing her again. Here. At Hogwarts. Where he worked.
He’d been steadily cycling through anxious dread and a timid, hopeful elation. Maybe if she was around him consistently, they’d come to know each other. Maybe he could truly get to know her, the real her. Maybe she would come to want to know him in return. His stomach sank as he considered the alternative - that she may never wish to know him. That she likely never wished to even speak to him. The notion that they could ever be amiable acquaintances was a foolhardy one at best. Much less that they could be friends. He tamped down a grimace as he remembered how fervently he’d argued with McGonagall to be her peer mentor after she was hired on. He hadn’t been thinking clearly. This was a terrible, terrible idea.
His eyes darted to the double doors to the Great Hall as a newcomer entered, shoes tapping rhythmically against the stone floor. Some of his anxiety eased as he realized it was simply Professor Flitwick coming in late. Something else grew tighter in his chest in contrast.
Where was she? Would she sweep into the room dramatically like he had on his first day? No, certainly not. She wasn’t a dramatic person. She’d probably come strolling through those doors any second now, wearing some ridiculous Muggle garb and prattling on about how excited she was to get to know everyone as colleagues. What would she think when she saw him? Did she even know he taught here? Did she know what he’d done to ensure she was hired? Another knot wound tightly in his gut. The prospect made him feel bare, exposed. She could never know.
A man sat behind a stately desk, glasses perched low on the tip of his nose as he eyed Draco over the rims. "You can't be serious, boy," he huffed. "She's much too young and much too female for the position."
He felt his gut tighten at the rebuttal. The man's tone was practically accusatory. Accusing Granger of what? Being a woman under the age of forty? He clenched his fist at his side but kept his jaw relaxed. "I'm entirely serious, I assure you. She's perfect for the position."
The old man scoffed, waving him away like a pesky fly hovering over his honey pot. "No, no. Certainly not. Come back to me when you have someone worth nominating."
A sharp tapping on his plate from the left caught his attention, and his eyes swiveled back to investigate. Longbottom was frowning at him, his fork poised in the air like a wand with which he was readying to cast.
“Hello? Have I finally gained your attention?” his friend asked, a soft edge of snark very clearly apparent in his tone. “Merlin, Draco. Were you daydreaming again?”
He blinked and cast his eyes back down to his plate, still mostly full. He moved to start picking at his food again. “My apologies. I was lost in thought.”
Neville snorted, leaning in closer to rest his elbow on the table in front of him and balancing his chin atop his fist. “Clearly. You look anxious again. You worried about Hermione’s recent hiring?”
Draco glanced sharply over to the other man, eyes narrowing. “Why would I be worried about that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’ll have to start interacting regularly with someone who fervently despises you?”
“Nearly everyone despises me.”
Neville tilted his head, making a face and nodding sightly. “Well, you might be correct in that, I suppose. But you tormented Hermione in school practically every day. Gods you said some horrible things to her back in the day,” he mused.
Draco grimaced. “Yes, yes. Don’t remind me.”
“A lot of them were plainly cruel, but some of them were quite clever. Let me think.” Neville tapped his chin in thought as he sought to recall, eyes cast to the ceiling. He perked up, snapping his fingers as he remembered. “Ah! There was that time you told her she had a face like chewed treacle toffee after she’d fallen asleep reading in the sun in third year. Oh, and let’s not forget the letter you sent her in fourth telling her she should be boiled alive in frog spawn. Who even thinks of something like that? And, of course, all the times you’ve called her-”
His hand shot out, gripping Neville’s arm in a silent plea to end the onslaught. He groaned and buried his face in his free hand. “I know, I know. It’s horrible. I’m horrible. I was so awful to her for so many years. I can’t face her. She’ll never forgive me.”
Longbottom shrugged. “Well you’ll never know if she’ll forgive you if you don’t face her. You’ll have to at some point. Maybe not right away, though. Give yourself some time. You’re a bit prickly to start off with, as I so unfortunately found out.”
Draco laughed weakly and let go of his friend’s arm to run a distressed hand through his hair, tugging on the roots with fervor. “I do, in fact, have to face her right away. I signed up to be her peer mentor for her first year.”
“What?” His friend frowned, taken aback. “But you’ve just finished your year with me a few months ago. It wasn’t your turn to mentor again, was it?”
“No,” he sighed. “No, it wasn’t. I- I asked McGonagall. I practically forced her hand.” The admission was a slightly embarrassing one. The way he’d stalked into the Headmistress’s office the evening after the faculty vote to offer Granger the position had been, perhaps, two steps short of madness. He’d marched in, slammed the door behind himself, and demanded he be Granger’s peer mentor upon her hiring. Or else.
Neville’s brow furrowed, confused. “Why in Merlin’s beard would you do that? What did you say to her?”
He groaned again, placing his hands back over his hot face. He might as well come clean to Longbottom. He was one of his closest friends in the world and was also, currently, his only true friend at Hogwarts. Strange how life worked out sometimes. He mumbled his confession into his hands, purposely jumbling the words so Neville would have a hard time understanding.
“What did you say? Speak up, man.”
He mumbled it again, this time louder. And with feeling.
“Draco! I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Speak up!”
“I said I threated to quit,” he hissed through his teeth, leaning in closer to Neville so as not to be overheard. “And keep your voice down.” He glanced around, making sure no one around them was eavesdropping. He was the only one allowed to eavesdrop in here. Hypocrite or not, he didn’t care.
Longbottom’s eyes widened, the whites visible at the edges. “You did what?”
“You heard me. I said I threatened to quit.”
His friend’s mouth hung open for a beat too long, and Draco considered the merits of stuffing a pasty in there. Anything to get the man to close his jaw. He would start drawing attention soon if he didn’t collect himself. After another beat, Neville blinked and did indeed compose himself.
“Let me get this straight,” he started, calmly. “After you learned that McGonagall was going to officially offer Hermione the Potions Master position at Hogwarts, you went to her office and threatened to quit if she didn’t make you Hermione’s peer mentor?”
Draco sighed. The man didn’t know the half of it. He’d also painstakingly cornered each voting member of the committee one by one and casually inquired upon their inclination when voting. Those who presented any sort of opposition to Hermione’s hiring found themselves voting in agreement at the next meeting, by whatever means necessary. All save one. But the nearly unanimous vote had been enough to drown out the petulant opposition of one unimportant man. He couldn’t admit this to Neville, though. He’d think Draco a conniving lunatic. Their friendship was sound, yes, but still very new.
“That about sums it up.”
“Okay,” Neville said, still a little overly calm. “Sure. That makes sense. Might I ask why?”
Draco paused, casting his eyes back down to his plate. He slid his fork through his mountain of mashed potatoes, watching as the gravy flowed down through the newly formed divots in the starchy mash. He wasn’t sure how to answer this. How could he possibly explain this to Neville? That Hermione Granger was at once the one person he couldn’t bear to face and the one person he couldn’t bear to never see again. That she had been such an object of his fixation when he was young, such a pivotal part of his formative years. That her words, her hurt had haunted him day and night for years. That it had been her face, her voice, her shadow in his head that had kept him from falling into madness day after day in prison. How could he possibly explain?
In the end, he didn’t have to. Something on his face must have said enough because he heard a small gasp, followed by an exasperated puff of air falling from his friend’s lips. “You can’t be serious.”
He looked back up at Neville. The man’s heavy brows were practically in his hairline, a deep wrinkle forming between them. He stared at Draco in shock. “Are you- You’re not…in love with her? Are you?”
He closed his eyes, letting his head fall forward. To his relief, some of his longer hair fell forward over his forehead, obscuring his view of Neville. This was humiliating. He’d never said these words out loud, had never even thought them. He’d never wanted to breathe life into whatever it was he felt for the witch in question. Why give power to something so doomed? Why allow himself to nurture a feeling that would only end in heartbreak? Or, at the very best, unrequited affection.
“Because the only thing I can think of right now is that you either hate her and are planning her demise and humiliation somehow or that you’re in love with her. The first option fits pretty well with your old persona from school, but I just can’t imagine you doing something like that now. So it has to be the second one. You’re in love with Hermione Granger?”
“Keep your voice down!” he hissed, lunging forward to slap a hand over Neville’s mouth. “Are you trying to announce it for the whole world to hear?”
His friend tried to reply but was met with the firm resistance of his cupped hand atop his lips. He wriggled and snorted through his nose, attempting feebly to escape Malfoy’s grip. Suddenly, a slimy warmth met his palm, and Draco reared back in disgust as he realized that Longbottom was licking his hand. He huffed in outrage, dragging his palm violently over the napkin in his lap to dry it off. “Merlin’s beard you’re childish and disgusting!”
Neville shrugged, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, and went on, quieter now. “You’re telling me that you’re in love with one of my oldest friends, and you just expect me not to react to it? I don’t understand, Draco. When? How? Why?”
He shook his head, eyes drifting across the room toward the student dining area and landing on the particular stretch of Gryffindor tables where she’d sat every day for years. He could almost see her seated there, textbooks spread wide as she jotted down last-minute notes before class, sniping at Potter and Weaselbee as they almost spilled pumpkin juice on the parchment. The edges of his mouth lifted. It was sometimes difficult to pinpoint exactly when he’d first started watching her there, but he had a pretty good guess.
~25 December 1994~
“Gods, did you see Susan Bones tonight, Draco? Her shoes were absolutely ghastly. Almost worse than the Weaslette, but not by much. Oh, and the dresses on these poor girls! Honestly, all the Puffs needed a good hair and makeup tutorial. I’ve never seen so many unblended jawlines in all my life!”
Draco yawned, nodding along as Pansy chattered on about whatever it was Pansy liked to chatter on about. She was a sharp, witty thing and was one of the only people in this place he could stand to be around for more than a minute or two. It had been a given that he’d ask her to the Yule Ball, as she was the only girl in his year he could stomach for a whole evening. Usually she was very keen on insulting the other girls in their year, and he was usually a much better listener, as he often laughed at her well-placed jabs. But it was nearly midnight, and he was tired.
His feet hurt from dancing, and his throat was dry. He hadn’t had a single sip of punch all night; he’d seen the Weasel twins lurking about the refreshments table and had steered clear from it for the remainder of the evening just in case. They might be Gryffindors, but they had a Slytherin knack for sabotage, one for which he did not care to be on the receiving end.
He lagged a little, his footsteps falling out of sync with Pansy’s as she continued on, chattering happily to the air without noticing that her companion had fallen behind. He’d spotted the first floor washrooms, and his throat ached as he considered the drinking fountains within. Pansy’s voice cut off ahead as she realized he was no longer beside her. She turned back sharply in surprise, a question on her face.
“You go on ahead, Pans,” he said. “I’ll catch up with you later. I need to use the loo.”
She huffed, raising a thin brow. “You’re not going to walk me back to the Slytherin common room like a gentleman?”
He rolled his eyes, already turning away from her. “We both know that you’re perfectly capable of protecting yourself on the short walk back. I pity the witch or wizard who attempts to assault Pansy Parkinson.”
She sniffed delicately at the compliment and turned back to start her walk again, this time alone. “Fine,” she called back. “But if I Avada someone on my way back, I’ll tell everyone it was you!”
He snorted to himself as he pushed the washroom doors open. She would do it, too. And everyone would probably believe her. He swallowed thickly as he strode for the drinking fountain just inside the washroom door. The spout sprung to life magically as soon as he pressed his hand to the bowl, and he lowered his head to drink deeply. Such an undignified way to quench his thirst. He’d never be caught dead bending over a water fountain in the light of day. But at the moment, the fountain was here, and he was terribly thirsty.
He sighed when he was done, a pressing need finally met, and hurried to exit and make his way back to the dungeons. He swung the door open and froze in momentary shock at the sight before him. Hermione Granger was huddled in an alcove across from the washrooms, curled in on herself as she sobbed in great rasping heaves. He paused in the threshold, entirely caught off guard, until the bathroom door came swinging back to its baseline, effectively smacking him between the shoulder blades and on the back of his head. He cried out in surprise and stumbled out into the corridor.
Granger startled at the noise, looking up and noticing him for the first time. Her amber eyes shone brightly with unshed tears, and her dark lashes clumped together with the moisture. Dark streaks of makeup ran in rivulets down her cheeks, and the hairdo she’d come to the ball with was half askew, her wild curls pulling free of their pins to halo her face. The satin dress that Pansy had begrudgingly admired at the beginning of the night was rumpled now, the hem spotted with dirt and one cap sleeve falling over her shoulder. She looked raw. Broken. He’d never seen anyone like her before, he realized.
Everyone he knew, everyone he’d ever interacted with had all been putting on a show. His friends postured and preened for his amusement. His parents kept a cold front to preserve propriety. His enemies met him with guarded vehemence. He’d never seen anyone truly undone like this. Everyone he’d ever known had been merely acting for his benefit. He’d just never realized it until he saw her there - an enemy in a ruined satin dress. A girl with nothing more to hold back. A picture of raw emotion. Beautiful.
She sniffled and wiped her face, smearing the dark tracks of makeup across her cheeks. When she looked back up at him, angry and defiant, some of that rawness had been hidden away. But it was too late now. He’d seen it.
“Go away, Malfoy,” she spat. “I simply do not have the energy for you right now.”
He sneered, rocking back on his heels and slipping his hands casually into his pockets. “I’m not surprised you haven’t got any energy, seeing as you’ve been hounded all night by that brute Krum. It was almost painful watching him paw stupidly at your waist the whole evening with those meaty gloves he calls hands,” he mused. “I can only imagine what Potter and the Weasel had to say about that.”
She snarled at him, reaching next to her to snatch up one of her heeled shoes and hurl it hard at his head. “Oh, for Christ's sake, go be awful somewhere else! For once in your life just leave me alone!”
He ducked the projectile shoe easily enough but was struck dumb instead by her gaze. The unmitigated rage in those eyes. The unfiltered passion. They glittered with it. Her body was practically vibrating with unspent fury, her chest heaving from her violent act. He had seen something like this before, he realized. Last year. When she’d wound up her right arm and struck him across the left side of his face before he could register she’d even approached. The way she’d looked then mirrored the way she looked now. Only now, there was something softer and more vulnerable at her edges - a deep and lonely sadness, he realized.
“My, my. That’s some arm you have,” he tutted as he approached her alcove slowly. “You would make a decent beater, Granger.”
She sniffled again and gave him a wary look as he approached, sinking back into the stone slightly. He wanted to growl in frustration. He wanted to tell her not to shrink back, not to back down. Fight with me. Challenge me.
“You know,” he went on, “I heard Weasley say you just love going to Quidditch games together. Which I thought was quite the hilarious joke, seeing as you skip most of the Gryffindor games and read through the ones you don’t. Someone’s either not paying attention or happily living on the intersection between naive hope and delusion.”
“Mind your own business, Malfoy,” she hissed. Like a true Slytherin. It made him smile. “Leave it to you to make a ruined night even worse!”
“I’m just saying that maybe you should find better, more attentive friends,” he said, holding his hands in the air to broker peace.
She scoffed, wiping her eyes again with the back of her hand. He grimaced as he watched, almost unable to look away from the smears she clumsily left behind. “And what would you know of having good friends, then? You lie in a nest of snakes and scorpions.”
He shrugged, slipping a hand into his inner dress robe pocket and pulling out his clean, neatly folded handkerchief. He took one more step toward her but stopped at a comfortable distance away and reached his arm out to offer her the white square of soft fabric. “What are snakes and scorpions to a dragon?”
She stared at the handkerchief still gripped in his hand, dangling in the air between them like a white flag of concession. She glanced back up at his face, and he made sure to keep it cool and evenly blank. Her brow furrowed as she looked back at his handkerchief. Several beats passed. She still didn’t take it from him.
“Merlin’s beard, Granger, just take the handkerchief. You look a complete mess, and you need to wipe your face properly.”
She scowled up at him and snatched it from his grasp. “Oh, you’re such a nasty ponce!” she snarled. “You’re not getting this back now! I hope this was your favorite kerchief of all time because you’ll never see it again!”
He sneered down at her, sliding his hands casually back into his pockets. “Well, I wouldn’t want it back after you’d touched it anyway! You’ve gotten your filthy Mudblood germs all over it already!”
She growled, rising to her feet and snatching up her other shoe as she did so. She already had it raised above her shoulder before he noticed what she was doing. He whooped in surprise as she launched the shoe directly at his forehead and had only just enough time to duck before it was upon him. The heel clattered violently against the stone wall behind him, falling harmlessly to the floor. He stared at it, mouth open and brows raised.
“You could’ve killed me, you stupid bint!”
She scoffed. “Oh, please, don’t be such a drama queen, Malfoy. The heel would’ve barely maimed you.”
“I could’ve lost an eye!”
Granger shrugged, uncaring as she gathered up her skirts and began padding barefoot down the stone corridor, back in the direction of the Gryffindor common room. “I suppose just be glad all you lost tonight was a handkerchief!”
He huffed, incredulous, as he watched her pick her way down the hall. Her feet must be freezing on the cold stones, chilled by the winter frost. “You’ve forgotten your shoes! Your troll feet are going to get dirty!” he called back, preparing to gather them up and hurl them right back at her head.
“Oh, don’t worry, Malfoy! I’ll just wipe off my dirty troll feet before I get in bed! I think I’ll use my lovely new handkerchief!”
He gasped in outrage. “That is fairy silk, you uncultured hag!”
Her only response was a cackling laugh that echoed back toward him as she turned a corner and disappeared. The sound bounced through his ears, reverberating through his skull as he stared at the space she had just vacated. The hallway seemed so much bigger now that she was gone, so much colder somehow.
He shook his head and made his way back toward the dungeons, toward his room, his mind spinning the entire way. Because he couldn’t shake that feeling that something had changed somehow. That he had changed. In that brief exchange of words, a feeling had shifted in his chest. Because, he realized, during that entire interaction, she hadn’t felt like an enemy anymore. She certainly hadn’t felt like a friend, either. She hadn’t even felt like a neutral acquaintance. No, she’d felt like an equal.
And that disturbed him.
~31 October 2006~
Draco twitched nervously in front of his bathroom mirror, adjusting and readjusting his robes and beard for the hundredth time. When Blaise had stormed into his office the week prior, excitedly waving about a very clearly handmade flier for a Halloween party at his house, he’d been excited. Blaise had a way of making him feel at ease at social functions, and it was always easier to relax and let loose when he was in a familiar setting. Typically, his anxiety had him flanking the room at social gatherings, lingering at the edges of conversations, observing only and never partaking. He often felt the weight of many pairs of eyes on him, the anxiety of the people around him washing against his nerves. Nobody particularly liked having him around, save a select few. Chief among them was Blaise Zabini.
He’d parade Draco and Theo through a crowded room, strong drink in one hand and the other kept free to gesticulate wildly as he socialized. He had a way of inserting himself into the center of any party, regardless of who was throwing it, and instantly putting people at ease. After all, Blaise wasn’t the youngest Death Eater in history. Blaise hadn’t really been involved in the war at all. How could anyone blame him for the sins of his house? He hadn’t taken the Mark, hadn’t supported the most evil dark wizard in history, hadn’t raised his wand against the “good guys”.
Of course, people loved to forget the part where Draco had lowered his wand and refused to take part in an active cold-blooded killing, but who could blame them? In war times, people could band together toward a common goal or against a common enemy. In times of peace, the enemy became a little less clear, the lines a little more blurry. Oftentimes, people not at war collectively decided who was to blame next, regardless of facts. Regardless of time served or beatings taken or blood letted or debts paid. Just to feel like they all had something in common again.
So no, Draco did not typically care for parties and social events. But Blaise Zabini did, and he was marvelous at it. His humor and smiles and easy way with words put the people around him in a good mood, regardless of who they were or what side they’d taken years ago. He had a supernatural way of getting on with any living soul in his vicinity, often in a way that left Draco baffled and scratching his head. So when Blaise had swept into his office last week with a hand-drawn flier for said Halloween party, he’d been more than little excited at the prospect of having some fun without feeling like ninety percent of the people at the party wanted to Avada him in the back.
Halloween Party!!
Spooky Scary Skeletons!!
Monster Mash at Midnight!!
Be there or be a little bitch!!
BYOB, BYOF, BYOA
He’d squinted at the handwritten text, slightly obscured by the drawings of ghosts and skeletons scribbled in the periphery. “Spooky scary? Monster Mash? Blaise, I feel like you’ve just written a bunch of key words and emphasized them with exclamation points. I have no idea what I’m actually supposed to expect out of this party,” he’d said, glancing back up at Blaise who was loitering near his book case. He’d narrowed his eyes at his friend’s back, watching to make sure he hadn’t hidden another horribly timed nude. “And what does this mean? BYOB, BYOF, BYOA?”
Blaise had turned back to him, grinning widely. “It’s a Halloween party, Dray. What else is there to describe? You’re to expect a Halloween party,” he’d practically crooned. “And how have you not heard of BYOB? It means ‘bring your own booze’, of course.”
He’d quirked an eyebrow. “Okay, so what is BYOF and BYOA?”
“Bring your own food and bring your own arse.”
“Are you expecting guests to bring someone else’s arse?”
“Well, no, of course not! Don’t be silly. No one would dare bring someone else’s arse after reading that they have to bring their own. Hence, the flier. Do keep up, please.”
Draco had snorted, squinting harder to read a small script sloppily scrawled in fine print just below the large blocky letters of the main part of the flier. “And what is this, Blaise? You’ve written something in fine print. ‘The House of Zabini will not and cannot be held liable for injuries of any kind incurred on House Zabini property (including but not limited to: cutting, maiming, stinging, poisoning, over-intoxication, lacerations, biting, rope burns, electrical burns, chemical burns, regular old-fashioned firey burns-’? What is this?”
He’d looked back up at his friend then, forehead wrinkled in question. Blaise had had his hand in the air, fingers counting off the list of possible injuries as he’d listed them out loud. “Go on,” he’d said, fingers still hanging in the air, “you were just getting to the best bits.”
“Do you really expect anyone decent to show up to a party where they might be subject to seventeen different types of burn injuries?”
Blaise had only grinned more widely, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief as he’d leaned over Draco’s desk. “Well, I’ve already taken the liberty of inviting your little work friends, and they’ve both already agreed to come.”
“You- you what? Who? Who is ‘they’??”
“Longbottom and Granger, of course! I’ve been hearing through the Armenian cucumber vine that you three are thick as thieves! Imagine my hurt when I realized you had failed to tell me you’d gotten so chummy in the lion’s den.”
He’d groaned and pulled at the roots of his hair in abject horror. Of course this would happen to him. Of course his best friend would pull some jealous girlfriend bullshit like this and invite his new friends to what he was certain would be a wild and debauched Slytherin party. The anxiety had washed back over him in waves.
“Blaise, you didn’t.”
“Oh, yes I did!” he’d practically cackled with glee. “I can’t wait for them to see you really let loose after your fourth glass of Firewhiskey! Four drink Draco is my favorite person in the world.”
He’d groaned, collapsing back into his chair, unwilling to acknowledge. “Blaise, you didn’t!”
“Well, ta ta now, Draco! I’ll see you next week. And don’t forget, it’s a costume party!” was the only reply he’d gotten from Blaise.
And now, as he stood shifting nervously in front of his mirror, he was rethinking everything. Granger had seemed excited to come, he supposed, but he was baffled by her immediate acceptance of the invitation. Wasn’t she still wary around Slytherins? Why would she possibly agree to go to a costume party full of them? Moreover, didn’t she have something better to do on the night of Halloween? Some other party or event? Longbottom’s interest in the party had surprised him nearly as much. Gods, he was just so nervous to have them there - two little lions lost in a writhing sea of venomous snakes. He couldn’t bear the thought.
His friendship with Longbottom had been flourishing over the last year or two, a begrudging acceptance blooming into a true companionship. He knew Neville would be fine at the party, wouldn’t judge him too harshly for what Blaise or Theo did or said about him. But Granger? The reluctant friendship (if it could even be called that) that he’d dragged her into with the peer mentorship was tenuous at best. Some days she would laugh and joke around with him and talk to him like she truly was his friend. Like she- like she liked him. And then other days, she’d be more withdrawn and sour, hardly giving him a second glance at mealtimes. Although, she’d been steadily more consistent with her moods as of late, ignoring him less flat out and instead giving him a gentle warning to back off when she wasn’t in the mood to spar. Likely, the sweets he’d given her for her birthday last month had helped.
He would be a madman to jeopardize the fragile truce they’d seemed to come to over the last few months, but here he was, getting dressed for a party at Blaise’s house. And Blaise Zabini wasn’t just a small paring knife threatening to knick the fabric of the fragile weave of his relationship with Granger. No, he was a fucking battle axe. A scythe. An executioner’s blade made ready at the neck of this tenuous truce. He knew Blaise would never hurt her, of course. His friend wasn’t a monster. But he’d most definitely torment her in other ways - tease her about their school days, pester her about her past relationships, get her rip roaring drunk.
Salazar, this was going to be terrible. Either that, or it was going to be loads of fun. He couldn’t decide which.
Draco adjusted his costume for the final time and turned to leave his rooms. He’d dressed up like the main character from his favorite book, Barnaby MacMillen wizard extraordinaire. In the book, he was a wizard traveling through the Muggle world, casting spells and charming locals as he went. He was touted as a miracle worker by simple-minded Muggles who didn’t know of the existence of magic and had amassed quite the following until a faction of his former followers had captured and killed him. Up until that point, though, he’d been quite the leader, which Draco had to admit he admired, even if he was only leading around a following of Muggles. It didn’t hurt, either, that Barnaby MacMillen was famously handsome with flowing brown hair and a short, manicured beard. He did think he looked rather dashing with the facial hair, regardless of the fact that it was just part of a costume. He mused that he should, perhaps, grow a beard of his own.
He stroked the false facial hair, stepping out into the corridor to find Longbottom and Granger. They’d all agreed to go to the party together; it only made sense. He startled, nearly tripping over a wriggling mass of orange fur as it darted between his legs and back into his bedroom. He called out in surprise and outrage, debating whether or not he had time to shoo the mangy creature back out into the hall. He checked his timepiece and decided against. He huffed but paused to leave a window cracked so the beast could at least slip outside when it was finished perusing the contents of his bedroom.
Draco ground his teeth in frustration, already imagining all the ways the creature could ruin his bedroom - scratching up his furniture, pushing picture frames and knickknacks onto the floor, chewing on his basil plant. He paused, considering his pet goldfish whose bowl was currently resting on a shelf in his living room. He sighed, leaving the fish’s destiny up to fate and made his way to the staff only exit where he and his friends (and yes he had decided to use that term) had agreed to meet.
Granger was already standing there, arms crossed and foot tapping against the stone floor. He took a moment to study her costume while she still hadn’t noticed him coming. She had donned flowing black robes with an intricate lace and pearl collar, thick-rimmed glasses, and gaudy pearl earrings. Her wild hair had been slicked down and tamed back into a modest coif at her nape, leaving the long lines of her elegant neck exposed. He swallowed and bade his eyes to move on. He puzzled at what she was holding. In her right hand, swinging leisurely between her relaxed fingers, sat what could only be described as a hammer. It was a wooden monstrosity, double ended and wicked looking. He’d seen something similar in the hands of the Wizengamot chair during his trial, but he’d never seen it up close and personal like this.
He pondered that she must be dressed as some sort of legal council - Wizengamot member, solicitor, etc. He couldn’t place it per se, but she looked marvelous. He caught himself staring again at the shifting lines of her neck as she turned her head toward his approaching footsteps. Merlin he felt hot. Was it hot in here?
She smiled as she caught sight of him but furrowed her brow in the next breath, looking him up and down. He felt his chest squeeze and his body heat even more under her scrutiny. “Evening, Malfoy,” came her pleasant greeting. “Are you-? Are you dressed as Jesus Christ?”
Draco paused as he entered a comfortable talking distance, glancing down at his costume. He wasn’t sure who Jesus Christ was, but the fact that his costume hadn’t been immediately recognizable to Granger rankled a bit. The witch loved to read! How had she never heard of his favorite book?
“I haven’t the foggiest idea who you mean, Granger,” he replied, looking down his nose a bit at her, annoyed. “I’m clearly Barnaby MacMillen? From The Many Misadventures of Barnaby MacMillen?” He gestured at his robes and fake hair, expecting her furrowed brow to relax in realization and for her to apologize for this grave misunderstanding. Instead, her furrowed brow deepened.
“Who?”
“What do you mean ‘who’? Barnaby MacMillen? My favorite character from my favorite book? Really, Granger, I thought you loved to read.”
She huffed at his comment, crossing her arms once more and facing him fully. “I’ve never heard of the bloke. No, you look just like a white-washed Jesus to me.”
“Who in Merlin’s name is Jesus? And why has he been washed white?”
She threw her head back and laughed, a rich and throaty noise that made his stomach flutter with delight. He hadn’t meant to make her laugh, but he loved the result all the same.
“You know! Jesus Christ? Of Nazareth? The mortal incarnation of the Christian Triune Godhead? The Lord and Savior of the entire Christian faith? Millions of people worship him, Malfoy!” When he continued to stare back at her blankly, she pressed on. “The Son of-”
“You can stop listing off facts about this fictitious man, Granger. I still haven’t the foggiest.” She scoffed in response, rolling her eyes. It was true; he had no clue what she was prattling on about. But the more she talked, the better this Jesus Christ sounded. The mortal incarnation of a god? Lord and savior and worshiped by millions? He supposed that did sound rather fitting for his Halloween costume. He could accept this misunderstanding, he decided.
Granger looked as though she was about to reply when hurried footsteps behind them sounded against the walls of the corridor. Longbottom came bounding around a corner, sweaty and red-faced, apparently having just run the whole way here from his rooms. “I’m sorry, guys! I know I’m a little late, but I’m here! One of my neck frills wouldn’t stay.”
Draco blinked as he took in Neville’s costume. He was…well, he was rather green. He’d clearly donned some sort of tight-fitting green jumpsuit and had somehow attached (whether by magic or other means) an entire garden’s worth of large plastic leaves to himself head to toe, a fluffy arrangement of cabbage-like leaves forming a ring around his neck. Then, on his head sat a round, pink helmet-type apparatus with teeth attached to frame his face. All in all, he looked like a lumpy bush of cabbage leaves adorned by a bulbous, fanged wad of chewing gum. The look was somehow hilarious and menacing all at once, and he found himself struck slightly speechless. He glanced over to discover that Granger had had much the same reaction.
Neville blinked back at them both, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment. Draco composed himself first, clearing his throat and forcing his face not to react. “Wow, Longbottom. I can honestly say I’ve never seen a costume quite like yours.” Neville grinned happily at what he took to be a compliment, one cheek dimpling with his delight. “Could you just remind me what it is you’re - erm - meant to be?”
Longbottom gestured down at his getup, brows raised in incredulity. “Isn’t it obvious?” Draco blinked. Neville sighed. “I’m a fanged geranium, of course!” Draco and Hermione bobbed their heads in unison as they feigned recognition. “Nice MacMillen costume, Draco! The beard looks shockingly good on you. And what have you dressed up as, Hermione? You look like my nan in her prime.”
He could feel her bristle beside him, the outrage that his costume had been recognized but hers hadn’t. Delight howled through him, swift and strong. He couldn’t help the undignified snort that rocketed from his nose. She elbowed him in the ribs - hard.
“I’m Ruth Bader Ginsburg!” she declared, holding up that wicked hammer he’d been eying as he’d approached. “The famous female Supreme Court Judge?”
Now it was Neville’s turn to join Draco in a blank, uncomprehending stare as they both tried to process her words. Neville spoke up first. “Erm…who?”
She huffed, outraged. “Ruth Bader Ginsburg? The Muggle with a trailblazing legal career in advocating for women’s rights in America? You know, ‘I dissent!’ Ringing any bells?”
Draco nodded his head, understanding now, and mumbled, “Oh, so just a Muggle, then.” Unfortunately, it came at the exact same time that Longbottom sighed and said, “Oh, so just an American.” Granger bristled further, fists bunching at her sides and white-knuckling the handle of that hammer. Her eyes blazed angrily at them both, passing judgment back and forth between the two men in equal measure. He chuckled nervously.
“Shall we get to the party?” he asked, desperate to change the subject. Neville nodded his relieved agreement, pulling out his wand from somewhere in the forest of leaves that made up his costume. Granger grumbled something unintelligible under her breath, rolling her eyes as she pushed past him out into the brisk October night air.
Draco sighed. He was nervous, indeed.
Notes:
Small content warnings: threat of physical violence, use of a slur against Hermione, Blaise Zabini is a cheeky motherfucker ONCE AGAIN
I hope you liked today's chapter! Let me know in the comments. Please, feel free to leave constructive criticism, as this story is still in the early stages of its development!
Much love,
Cass
Chapter 8: Everything Stays
Notes:
Hi, everyone!
For those of you who actually follow this fic, thank you so much!! You are who I write for, and I am eternally grateful for you all. I am very sorry that I haven't updated this one in almost a month! My life has been a bit topsy turvy these last few weeks (I am a PhD student), so I haven't had much time for doing this thing that I love. I also had a lot of trouble writing this chapter for some reason?? This is like the third draft I've written. I had to start over so many times. Anyway, thank you all for hanging in there with me, and I hope to be more consistent going forward!
This chapter is dedicated to my fellow lovers of Steven Universe. I see you guys. I love you. This one's for you. And of course, my dearest K, who said this was her favorite chapter yet. I love you to the moon and back!
As always, if you have any triggers, double check my content warnings at the end of the chapter. If not, please enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Everything stays right where you left it.
Everything stays, but it still changes
Ever so slightly, daily and nightly
In little ways, when everything stays.”
-Everything Stays, Rebecca Sugar & Olivia Olson
~31 October 2006~
Hermione’s head buzzed as she stepped into Blaise Zabini’s sprawling manor house, blood humming with nerves and excitement. When Zabini had waltzed into her office a week ago, brandishing a hand-drawn flier for his house party and demanding she attend ‘lest there be consequences’, Hermione had been inclined to accept his invitation. Halloween had always been her absolute favorite holiday growing up and well into her adulthood, but she hadn’t had a group of friends to celebrate with since…well, since Ron. She didn’t know Blaise very well, but she knew he was a close friend of Draco’s. She’d seen the crinkle at the corner of Malfoy’s eyes as he’d affectionately recounted his history with the man, and she’d known instinctively that Draco trusted him. If Malfoy trusted him, she decided she would trust him too.
She was, at that moment, deciding whether or not she’d been mistaken when she’d decided to bestow that trust as she walked into the smoky haze of his house party. The manor house was large by most people’s standards - although she imagined that Lucius Malfoy would turn an imperious nose up at the size of the property, as it only compared to a fraction of the Malfoy estate in Wiltshire - and every spare centimeter of space was packed with guests. Upbeat music boomed from overhead, piped into each room magically from somewhere else in the house. The heat from the wall-to-wall bodies paired with the heavy haze of cigarette smoke was immediately stifling, eliciting a bead of sweat down the curve of her spine beneath her costume.
She glanced around nervously, trying to identify any friendly faces in the crowd. She’d known she would likely know no one here, and she’d been fine with that. Hermione was confident enough in her friendship with Neville to hang around him all night if that were the case, and besides that, Draco was a fantastic conversationalist. She’d been discovering over the last few weeks that he could be surprisingly engaging when he wanted to be. He was witty and charming, possessing a certain knack for story-telling that had always eluded her. Just last week she’d sat in rapt attention during their peer mentor check-in as he told her about the history of Quidditch, one of the only subjects in the universe that had never failed to bore her to tears. She was confident that she could interact with only the two men she’d arrived with and still be perfectly happy.
So, she wasn’t all that nervous to be in a room full of people she didn’t know. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The reason she hated going to parties nowadays was that she hated being recognized, hated being approached and fawned over and questioned like a contestant on the world’s most unfortunate gameshow. That had never been an issue when she was still hanging out with Harry, Ron, Ginny, and the others, but that was obviously not an option anymore. The loneliness had been yawning awake inside of her these last few years, this innate desire to see and be seen by people. To commune. To just stop being alone.
So a Slytherin party had seemed the perfect solution to this problem - socialize with strangers with which she had just enough in common that she might be able to make a friend or two before they realized who she was. Her ‘perfect solution’ was now backfiring as she surveyed the room, an embarrassed flush crawling up from under her collar.
It was, for the most part, a normal party. People milled about, chatting and dancing and drinking to their hearts’ content while the music blared overhead. Some party goers even danced, she noticed, as they passed a room that seemed to be universally considered the party’s dance floor. It was as her eyes looked further and her gaze tracked movement on the edges of the room that heat began to flush her pink. In shadows and dark corners and half-forgotten alcoves she saw grinding bodies, lapping tongues, glazed eyes, white powder. No one else but her seemed to notice or be bothered by it. Indeed, she dared a glance over at Draco, and he simply seemed focused on making their way through the crowd. Not a raised brow or a pink cheek to be seen.
They made their way back to the kitchen where people had deposited the booze they’d brought onto a huge marble-top island in the middle of the room. Draco quickly added their contributions and set to work making them all drinks. Merciful Merlin, she needed one. She felt like she might combust.
Soon, though, she got lost in the humdrum of the party, the comforting fullness of the packed house soothing her anxieties. There were no empty spaces here, no room left for her worries. No cracks where the chill could seep in. She even found a few people she’d been polite friends with school, to her great surprise. As it turned out, Blaise Zabini was a nondiscriminatory social butterfly, making friends with anyone and everyone who was willing and worthy regardless of their blood status or House.
Draco was hovering. She could feel him in her periphery wherever she stepped, whoever she bumped into, she could feel his stormy eyes on the back of her head. Between her shoulder blades. Tracking her expressions. For the first half hour after they’d arrived at the party, the feeling had unsettled her. She was unused to anyone paying such close attention to her unless they had an ulterior motive, least of all Draco Malfoy. But as the night went on, as she got used to the prickle at the nape of her neck that signaled his attention on her, she relaxed into it.
He interfered before people could bump into her, moving bodily to block the paths of multiple drunk party goers before they could collide. He got her that drink when they’d first arrived, mixing up something from the potluck of alcohol and mixers in the kitchen that she’d found deliciously sweet and pleasantly intoxicating, and he’d refilled it when she’d run out. He seemed to be attuned to the fact that she preferred to have a drink in her hand to hold onto, something to do when she wasn’t sure what to say, taking a sip whenever conversation lulled. By the time they’d been at the party a few hours, Hermione’s shoulders were fully relaxed and her cheeks were only slightly flushed from the alcohol, a pleasant buzz drifting through her from the drinks Malfoy had made.
Neville seemed to be in the same boat, floating lazily down the same comfortably tipsy river as Hermione - cheeks pink, eyes bright. The only difference was that, while drinking turned swotty Hermione into a slightly more loose and decidedly more taciturn version of herself, alcohol turned the normally talkative Neville Longbottom into a never ending chatter machine never before seen or studied by wizard-kind. Anyone he ran into, whether he recognized them from school or not, got an immediate introduction and a five minute elevator pitch on the merits of plant propagation and environmental conservation. If that hadn’t been enough to drive half the demographic of party goers away, his insane costume would have. The leaves rustled comically as he gesticulated wildly during conversation, and the fanged bubblegum pink helmet he wore only served to muffle his ears slightly from the sound of his own voice, causing him to speak almost uncomfortably loudly against the drum of music and conversation in the background.
In another life, at another party, this may have made Hermione uncomfortable, may have made her feel embarrassed and exposed. But the steady prickle on the back of her neck soothed her, relaxed her. Someone she trusted was paying attention. Someone would make sure everything was okay.
“Well, well, well! My guests of honor!” a bright voice called from over her left shoulder. Hermione turned to meet the dark eyes of the party host himself. Blaise swaggered through the crowd, confidence practically oozing through his umber skin. His eyes were alight from the effects of the drink in his hand and likely a few previous. “I was wondering when you were going to show! I was worried you’d miss the midnight monster mash!”
“We’ve been here for nearly two hours,” Draco grumbled from beside her. “You make it sound like you were waiting doggedly by the door, unwilling to start the festivities until we arrived.”
Blaise laughed and scooped Malfoy into a back-thumping hug, the kind that men do to signify that they love each other but in a totally not homosexual way. Draco smiled, returning the embrace before leaning back and taking stock of Blaise’s costume. At first, Hermione wouldn’t have even thought that Blaise was wearing a costume, save for the black shock of a wig sitting slightly off-kilter on the top of his head. He was dressed in his old school robes except…was he wearing Gryffindor colors?
“What are you supposed to be anyway, Zabini?” Draco asked.
Blaise gasped, feigned hurt scrunching his features. “You mean you don’t recognize me? I suppose it’s not as easy when I’m out of context,” he said, his head swiveling back toward the way he came, neck craning as he searched the crowd. “Where did my posse go? Oi!”
Hermione’s brow furrowed in momentary confusion before relaxing into horror as Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson materialized from the crowd, completing Blaise’s costume with their mere presence. They were both in the same uniform as Blaise, dark school robes accented with Gryffindor colors. The curly ginger wig on Theo. The giant mop of untamable curls on Pansy. They were-
“Oh my god,” she heard herself squeak.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Blaise declared, wrapping each arm around Theo and Pansy’s necks. “We’re the bloody Golden Trio!”
She hadn’t known Blaise, Theo, and Pansy all that well back in their Hogwarts days (for obvious reasons). She’d seen them with Draco, of course, had observed their gaggle of friends, along with Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe, snickering to themselves in the dining room. On more than one occasion, she’d crossed to the opposite side of the corridor or made a quick turn down another hallway to avoid the Slytherin crowd when she was traversing the halls unaccompanied by Harry and Ron.
Blaise had seemed nice enough on the very scarce occasions she’d interacted with him directly (read: one week ago in her office and right fucking now), but Theo had always been much more aloof. He felt more like a tortured poet type, content to be silent and watchful from the periphery. Indeed, he was allowing his body to be jostled back and forth by Blaise’s motions as he rocked between his feet while he talked.
Pansy, on the other hand? Pansy Parkinson was the type of woman who smiled sweetly from across the table as she slipped laxatives into your pumpkin juice. She was the kind of person who would set fire to your house simply for wearing the same dress as her to an important social function and would keep the ashes as a fucking keepsake. Hermione was terrified of her. Well, terrified might be too strong a word, but she was having a hard time coming up with something fitting, too distracted by the fact that these near strangers had chosen and coordinated their Halloween costumes to be…well, her.
Hermione felt her cheeks flush instantly scarlet, the blood rushing in her ears. It wasn’t that she minded being emulated per se, she just hated the caricature it made her out to be. She’d never considered for any significant length of time how she’d looked before, had never fussed over her hair or spent ample time on her makeup. She knew a bit from Ginny, but beyond special occasions and holidays, she didn’t bother with it. Seeing Pansy Parkinson - perfect, model-caliber beautiful, makeup artist in the making Pansy fucking Parkinson - wearing a costume to emulate her was like looking into a fun house mirror. She could see herself there on the edges of the frame, but the middle was all wrong. Pansy was a hotter, sexier, more glamorous version of herself, and it only served to highlight how much Hermione wasn’t those things.
Draco scoffed from beside her, but Neville was clapping his hands together in appreciation, leafy garb rustling with the motion. “Wow, you guys did such a good job!” he exclaimed, leaning forward to study the wig on Theo’s head and his painted-on freckles. “You really look like you could be a Weasley!”
Theo took in Neville’s flushed face and ridiculous costume with an unhurried, nearly lazy gaze. His green eyes snagged on the contraption on Neville’s head, a small but very real smile unzipping the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I’m the long lost third triplet,” he supplied. “Just call me Teddy Weasley.”
Neville barked a laugh that seemed a little too over-the-top for such a mild joke, turning to elbow Hermione in the ribs and give her an eyebrow waggle like ‘can you believe this guy?’ Draco stepped up next to her, gesturing between the two of them. “Nott, this is my friend Neville Longbottom. Longbottom, this is Theodore Nott. Don’t let this tosser tell you too many crazy stories about me. About half the words out of his mouth are lies.” Theo smirked but didn’t correct him as Draco went on, turning to the other members of the group. “Granger, you’ve met Blaise, I presume, and this is Pansy Parkinson. Pans, this is-”
“I know who she is,” Pansy purred, interrupting. “Obviously.”
Draco scoffed again, raising his drink to his lips for a sip as he stared Pansy down. “You look ridiculous, by the way. I liked your costume last year much better.”
Hermione felt her grip tighten around the drink in her hand, unsure whether or not to be offended by his comment. Did he mean that Pansy looked ridiculous because she looked like Hermione? Or because she looked nothing like her? Either option made her want to curl up into a ball and die on the spot.
Pansy rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. I know how much you love-”
Draco suddenly sputtered into his drink, coughing violently. The tips of his ears turned pink as he worked to clear his throat, liquid spewing from his lips to drip down his bearded chin. She thought he looked a little panicky, and alarm raced through her as she realized he may be choking. “Malfoy, are you alright? Do you need me to get you some water or something?”
He held up a hand, cheeks red now under the false facial hair of his costume, and leveled a withering glare at Pansy. She gave him a guileless smile and turned to Hermione, attention fixed fully away from Draco now. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised that you’ve ditched your old idiot friends to play in the vipers’ nest,” she said, her pouty pink lips curving upward on a smirk. “In my experience, it’s so much more fun when you don’t have to pretend you’re not hissing and full of venom.”
Hermione found herself nodding, although she wasn’t fully aware of what it was she was agreeing to. She spared another glance at Draco, finding him still struggling to get control of his recent coughing fit. “Oh, I just didn’t have any other plans tonight, and I really needed an excuse to use this bad boy,” she joked weakly, holding up the judge’s gavel she was still toting around.
Pansy quirked a brow at it before her gaze fell to the rest of her outfit, taking in her hair style and accessories and robes. Hermione got the distinct impression of being a bug under a magnifying glass, mere seconds away from being combusted by the concentrated rays of the sun. This woman’s undivided attention was almost more than she could take, she realized, as the urge to crawl out of her skin fully set in.
“Let me guess,” Pansy drawled. “Ruth Bader Ginsburg?”
Hermione’s mouth dropped open in shock, and she took a moment to blink through her surprise. Pure-blooded Slytherin Pansy Parkinson knew about Ruth Bader Ginsburg? She couldn’t wrap her head around it. Beside her, Draco’s panicked, choked hacking turned into coughs of outrage as he gestured at her costume and made a face that portrayed something along the lines of ‘how the fuck did you know that?’ She suspected it was due to the fact that Pansy had known something Draco hadn’t, and he wasn’t a fan of being the odd man out.
“I- Yes, how did you-?”
“Oh, please,” the other woman interrupted, brushing off an invisible piece of lint from her costume robes. “I make it a point to be informed about all important women, not just the magical ones.” When Hermione continued to gape, stunned at her words, Pansy went on. “Was Cleopatra magical? Was Countess Erszebet Bathori? What about Aileen Wuornos? Even Queen Bey is a Muggle. Who runs the world? Girls. Women don’t need a wand to rule empires and lure men to their deaths. We already have everything we need, Granger. The magic is just a plus.”
Hermione’s head was still reeling, trying to wrap itself around the knowledge that Pansy had idolized three female killers and fucking Beyonce in the same breath, when the other woman looped her arm through Hermione’s elbow and led her back toward the kitchen, away from Draco and the others.
“Come on,” she said as they wound their way through the crowd. “Let’s top off our drinks and gossip about these foolish men.”
Pansy, to her credit, was excellent company. Once Hermione got over her initial shock and nerves at being around someone she’d long ago deemed untouchable, she realized she quite liked the woman. It was strange to talk to someone dressed in her likeness, to be sure, but the effect soon wore off, and she got lost in their endless conversation. As it turned out, Pansy was the go-to gal for the inside scoop on all the gossip. She knew everyone’s dirty secrets and had good enough instincts to dig up what she couldn’t already suss out. It was what made her so good at her job as a reporter for The Daily Prophet.
As the night wore on, Pansy regaled her with endless tidbits of juicy gossip, most of which were outdated and so long passed that they were irrelevant, which was why Pansy didn’t feel too bad spilling it. Hermione hung on her every word, having never stayed caught up with the rumor mill in the first place. Even the outdated gossip from Pansy was exciting and fresh to her. It was delightful.
The other woman also seemed interested in Hermione, asking her questions about her new position at Hogwarts, her interests, etc. As she shared more and more of herself with Pansy, as she slowly unwound the preconceived notions she’d had about the Slytherin girl, she realized why she’d always been so afraid of her. Hermione had never seen Pansy as a real person before. She’d always seen Pansy Parkinson the same way she saw the bald face of a mountain peak or the depths of the Mariana Trench - beautiful, terrible, only safe from a distance. But now as she drew nearer to that mountaintop and craned to reveal the true form of the woman before her, she saw it. The humanity. The loneliness. The plight of a singular woman in a group of men, yearning for female companionship. She thought maybe under Pansy’s perfect makeup and biting remarks and Hermione’s tangled curls and button-up blouses, the two women were indeed kindred spirits.
The hour drew closer and closer to midnight, and Hermione was dying to know what Blaise’s ‘Monster Mash at Midnight’ would entail. When she said as much to Pansy, the Slytherin rolled her eyes so hard Hermione wasn’t sure how she didn’t sever her ocular nerve.
“Oh, please,” said Pansy. “It’s the same shit every year. Blaise passes out loads of illicit drugs and prescription pills and then starts an orgy in his bedroom upstairs. He calls it his ‘Monster Mash’ in reference to his giant monster cock.”
Hermione nearly reared back, the shock of hearing those words hitting her so profoundly. She’d never heard the words ‘giant monster cock’ strung together in casual conversation before, certainly never from someone she didn’t know very well. She bade the heat not to bloom on her cheeks, but she knew without looking that it didn’t work. The edges of Pansy’s mouth quirked up at the sight of her blush. It was an expression she’d seen Draco make many times, and Hermione briefly wondered if ‘evil smirking’ had been a part of the Slytherin class curriculum.
“I- I’m sorry, what?” she squeaked, earning an unladylike snort from Pansy.
“You heard me, Granger. I said that Blaise’s ‘Monster Mash’ is an orgy,” she repeated. “All are welcome to participate, if they like, but’s certainly not a requirement. A lot of people just stay and watch.”
It should be noted that Hermione Granger was herself not a prudish woman. It was true that she did often dress overly modestly and held about her an air of propriety that was not all that dissimilar to Minerva McGonagall. She prided herself on keeping a tidy but not glamorous appearance and generally avoided cursing or discussing anything overtly sexual with anyone, including past romantic partners. This was simply because she felt more comfortable this way, especially in the world of academia where women had to do ten times the work as men to be taken only half as seriously. And she believed that people did generally take her seriously, especially now that she was a war hero. She also believed that people thought her to be a swotty prude with a stick up her arse. As such, she had never heard anything so lude in her entire life, not even at The Burrow where men outnumbered women three to one, most of which were randy boys.
Her mind went blank, as clean and dry and motionless as her favorite brand of parchment. For a split second, there was simply nothing in her head, not a thought between her ears or a singular axon firing behind her forehead. Then, a thought. A dawning question that grew bigger and louder and impossible to contain. A thought that had her blurting out, “Has Draco ever participated?”
The question was out and hanging in the air between her and Pansy before she could even consider the implications. She stared at the other woman with wide-eyed horror as a delighted, knowing smile bloomed on Pansy’s lips. The woman’s eyes practically gleamed with glee as a beat passed. Two. Three.
As the moment stretched on into eternity, Hermione thought she might die there on the spot. Or maybe she already had died, and this was Hell, her perpetual punishment for displeasing some wrathful god. Oh pantheon above, who had she so angered? She considered Pansy, the way this perfectly beautiful, endlessly insatiable woman was savoring this small eternity between them. She did, indeed, look like a goddess incarnate. Aphrodite, maybe, in all her wicked beauty.
“Why do you ask, Granger?” she inquired, each word slipping slowly past her lips - a stretching of her punishment, a slow and languorous and savory pursuit. Not Aphrodite, then. A cruel huntress - Artemis.
“I just- I just wondered-”
“You just wanted to know if Draco had ever been tangled up in one of Blaise’s infamous orgies. If he’d ever had the aforementioned monster cock. Or maybe if he has a monster cock of his own?”
The noise that left Hermione’s throat was less of an actual noise and more of a gurgle. The heat in her cheeks intensified, her heart pounding a wicked beat in her chest while blood rushed to her ears. Her mind, the one that had been uncharacteristically blank just seconds before, was now filled with the picture Pansy had painted for her - Draco tangled up in a bed filled with writhing bodies. Those strong and careful hands caressing soft flesh, the same hands that she had witnessed carving ink into parchment or comfortably holding his wand. His plush lips as they parted to reveal a wet and hungry tongue. His raspy moans as he gave and took and felt.
Hermione suddenly couldn’t breathe. Her inhales were too shallow, the curse in her chest taking up far too much space. She thought she might either pass out or combust into flames if she didn’t just get some fresh air into her lungs.
“Excuse me,” she said on a shaky exhale, and pushed her way through the crowd toward the door to the back garden. She burst out onto Blaise’s back patio, startling the few quiet revelers lounging in chairs around a small fire, and fled further onto a stone path that led back into a dark garden, lit only by the dim rays of the waning moon. She found a stone bench next to an empty flower bed and plopped down onto it, taking a moment to rest her elbows on her knees and just breathe.
It should be noted, once again, that Hermione was not, in fact, a prude. She knew that things like sex and drugs and other pleasurable pastimes were enjoyed by many people in many circles. She even knew that several of her friends had partaken in such things at one time or another. The issue was simply Draco.
Draco, whom she had slowly been getting used to over the last few months, who was so different now than what she ever could have dreamed back in the day. Draco, who was now someone she considered a friend, someone with which she liked spending time and verbally sparring. Draco, who was a colleague whose opinion mattered to her.
She had never before considered the idea that Draco Malfoy was a sexual being, that he had a body with needs and hidden desires. An unknowable facet of him that she had never seen. Would never see. That she realized in that moment, she hungrily, desperately wanted to see. The problem was that now Hermione had seen it in her mind’s eye and felt that naked want yawning open within her, she couldn’t unsee it. But she had to. She had to try to push this back, to un-ring this bell.
Because she had absolutely no idea how she could ever face the man now knowing that he’d probably been fucked in the arse.
Draco sighed as he closed the patio door behind himself and followed Hermione’s retreating form into the dark. He’d just been catching up with a Slytherin who had graduated one year later than he and his friends when he’d glanced over to check on her and Pansy. He’d been double checking her whereabouts all night, ensuring that no one too incendiary approached her to ruin her evening. He knew she’d be mostly fine with Pansy, and the two girls had indeed seemed to hit it off. It was a bit of a mindfuck to see them chatting together, what with Pansy dressed like Granger and all. A cheap imitation by his account.
However, when he’d looked up from his conversation with his friend, he’d just caught a flash of her pale and distraught face as she slipped through the crowd and out into the chilly fall night. He’d marched up to Pansy, demanding what she’d done or said to earn that kind of reaction from Granger, but the girl had only smirked and refused to answer. He’d decided not to waste this moment on Parkinson and opted to follow her out into the garden instead to try to mitigate any possible damage.
It was late, nearly midnight, and in the chill of the hour, he could see his breath. He wondered if she was cold out here, if her costume robes were enough to keep her warm. He scanned the back garden for her and spotted her silhouette bathed in the moonlight. She was hunched over on a stone bench, and his chest clenched as he realized she was shivering. He was going to murder Pansy for whatever it was she’d said.
He approached quietly but cleared his throat as he drew near. The sound startled her, sending her jumping out of the seat a few centimeters before plopping back down. It was so silly and cartoonish, it almost made him smile. Almost. He was still too worried that she was terribly upset and would never speak to him again for bringing her to this disgusting party with his disgusting friends.
Her eyes were wide as she met his gaze, and her grip on her hammer was tight. She was nervous. She almost looked like a wild animal. Best to approach calmly and carefully.
“May I approach the bench?” he asked, keeping his tone light and even.
She snorted, a small, delighted sound that relieved a small amount of the tension in his gut. “Oh, so you know enough about the Muggle justice system to make a joke but not enough to know about Judge Ginsburg?”
Draco furrowed his brow in confusion, uncomprehending. He hated feeling like he didn’t understand the flow of a conversation, but he’d hated the look on her face as she’d fled the party even more. She was at least smiling softly now. Best to agree. “Well, of course,” he replied with utter confidence. “I couldn’t let you have the satisfaction, now could I?”
She smiled softly again, but the expression fell as her eyes flickered to the manor house behind him, lit brightly against the dark sky. It was difficult to tell in the dim light, but he thought maybe she was…blushing?
“Shouldn’t you be at the house?”
He glanced behind him at the party still in full swing, visible through the bright windows. “Whatever for?”
She seemed to twitch just then, an involuntary spasm of her body. He was absolutely sure she was blushing now, dim light or no. She was practically glowing with it. How odd.
“To- to participate?”
He frowned. He loathed this feeling, this confusion. He always prided himself on his quick wit, his easy understanding and mastery of new topics. Twice now she’d thoroughly confounded him, and Draco didn’t like that one bit.
“To participate in what? What are you on about, Granger?”
She sputtered, seeming not to have the words for a moment. “In the main event of the party? The- the midnight…thing?”
It dawned on him then, the misunderstanding. The reason she’d been having such a hard time articulating, this usually well-spoken woman made into someone who sputters. He couldn’t help but bark a laugh, which seemed to confuse and slightly enrage her.
“Oh, you mean the orgy? Merlin, no.” He shook his head, another chuckle making its way past his lips. Seven hells, he couldn’t even imagine. “No, despite the rumors that have abounded regarding my sexual proclivities in the past, I’m honestly rather conservative in that department.”
This earned a flicker of surprise across her features, the left corner of her mouth turning up just so. Gods above, she’d honestly believed he was going to participate? He had no doubt in his mind that Pansy had something to do with this. He cringed inwardly and promised himself he would have words with Parkinson later.
“So can I sit down or not, Granger?” he asked after a stretch of silence between them. She seemed to be contemplating…something.
“Oh, yes of course,” she said hastily, seeming to realize she’d been staring at him in utter silence for an uncomfortable amount of time. She scooted over on the stone bench to make room for him, and he couldn’t shake the feeling as he sat down that he’d passed a test of some kind.
“Did Pansy say something about me? Because I swear-”
“No,” she insisted, “no, actually I’m realizing at this very moment that she never said anything specifically about you. I think I just jumped to conclusions myself.” She laughed nervously, her hands twisting together in her lap while her fingers fiddled with the handle of her strange wooden hammer.
“Ah yes,” he sighed. “That’s her signature, I’m afraid.” He said it with no small degree of fondness. As one of his oldest friends, Pansy had a special place in his life and in his heart. She was wicked and cunning in all the best ways, and he’d usually quite enjoyed her company. They’d even tried their hand at dating a time or two way back in the day, but they’d decided together that they were much better off as friends.
“You’re quite close, you and Pansy,” Hermione said, rather than asked. It wasn’t a question because she already knew the answer.
“She and Blaise and Theo are my family.”
She nodded, seeming to mull it over. “I understand that. That’s how I felt about Ron, Harry, and Ginny. I suppose I still feel that way,” she said quietly.
He turned toward her more fully, resting his elbow on his knee as he leaned into her a bit. “You don’t sound so confident, Granger. Something happen to break apart the Golden Trio?”
She puffed a breath of air through her lips, the heat of her lungs visible in the cold night air. “That story’s no great secret. Ron and I didn’t part on the best of terms. Everything else sort of fell apart after that.”
Draco paused, letting her words hang between them for a moment. He wanted to lean into them, to feel their weight. He considered for a moment how he would’ve felt if he’d truly pursued things with Pansy, and things had ever ended poorly between them. How Blaise and Theo might react. How he might feel if he lost his little family.
It probably felt a lot like the sinking, quiet certainty of watching his father be taken away in chains by the Aurors. It probably felt a lot like the chilly tears on his mother’s cheeks as he received his own sentencing.
“What about your parents? Your family in the Muggle world?” he asked. He knew, of course, that she was Muggle born, that her parents were ordinary folks living removed from the world that their daughter sought to conquer. “Do you talk to them much?”
She stiffened beside him at the question, her face turning stony and her gaze locking on a spot far in the distance. He’d misstepped somehow. Immediately, his gut swooped with anxious energy, and he wished he could backtrack, Obliviate her, something. The absurd urge to plunder Malfoy Manor for the Time Turner he knew to be in his family’s possession hit him so strongly that he almost stood up.
“No,” she said quietly. “I Obliviated them just before the war began. I haven’t spoken to them in years.”
The thought he’d just entertained to Obliviate her mere seconds ago aged so, so poorly in light of this news, and hot shame washed through him, tinging his cheeks pink. He felt like such an arse. For wanting to erase her memories, for asking this question in the first place. For being a part of the reason she’d needed to do something so drastic to keep her parents safe. Because of course he understood why she’d done this, why she’d felt the need to wipe her parents’ memories clean of their gifted daughter. They never would have been safe during the war, not even in the Muggle world. Because of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Because of his father. Because of him.
“I’m sorry. I had no idea. I’m so sorry for prying.”
She sighed, the tension in her spine softening a bit. “I know,” she said quietly, and it sounded to him like she was being truthful. Like she did indeed understand that he was sorry. “I made my peace with it long ago.”
He nodded, leaning back again to consider the moon in the night sky above them, a shining and beautiful thing. It reminded him of his mother’s hair, those silvery tresses that seemed to shimmer in the light. As much as he tended to avoid his mother nowadays, he couldn’t imagine his life if he lost her in this way. He couldn’t imagine the emptiness that would open up in his soul if he could never speak to her or visit with her or share a meal and cup of tea on her birthday. Moreover, if he could see her and speak to her and know her but her memory had been wiped clean of him. If he could love her at a distance or up close, but it would make no difference at all. Because she’d be utterly unknowable to him, and he’d be utterly unknown. Still, he decided he’d rather still have this hypothetical version of her, rather than lose her altogether.
“Would you ever want to get to know them again? Build a relationship with them from the beginning, even if it wasn’t quite what you had before?”
Hermione turned her gaze to look at him, her eyes softening as she met his gaze. Whatever she saw on his face seemed to put her at ease.
Instead of answering him directly, she asked, “How many of their memories do you think were tied up in me? How many hours' worth? Hundreds? Thousands? I was their only child, the center of their world for so many years. Memory spells are tricky things, and I didn’t have the time or the expertise to be exact. I think…” She paused to take a breath, to shore up her will to say what she wanted to say. “I don’t think I just erased myself from their memories that night. I think I probably succeeded in erasing a good deal of them, too.”
“But you don’t know for sure?” Draco had no idea why he was pressing the issue, had no idea why he wanted to explore this topic so fully. It was obviously something she hated discussing, something she likely never spoke about. He just knew that she was talking to him about this thing that was so large and raw and real for her. He just knew that he wanted her to keep sharing herself with him. He wanted more of her, whatever pieces or scraps she was willing to offer. So he pressed. “Maybe they’re not so different as you think.”
She inhaled deeply, her eyes turning back to look at a spot in the distance. He hated that he’d lost her full attention. He itched to say something more to get her gaze back on him. He tamped it down, stayed silent. A moment passed, then two. Three. Five. Ten. She’d been quiet so long he thought maybe she would decide simply not to answer. When she finally did speak, it almost startled him.
“I had this stuffy when I was little. It was a black and white spotted dog with floppy ears and little pink paws, and its fur was so soft that all I wanted to do was rub my cheek on it. My dad had gotten it for me for my birthday, I think, and I carried it everywhere with me after that. I remember I found some string or twine or something in my parents’ junk drawer and tied a makeshift leash around its neck and dragged it everywhere with me, pretending so big like I was walking a real dog.”
She paused to huff a small laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners with the memory. Draco had to admit that he was a little lost by the sudden change of subject, but he got the sense that this was meaningful somehow, that this would lead somewhere important. He just stayed quiet, waiting until she went on.
“I named it Spot. I was a real creative back in the day, you know.” He let himself chuckle at this. “And I carried it - or dragged it - with me wherever I went for months. Almost a year, actually. Until that next summer. My mum was out in the back garden tending to her plants, and I went out there with her, toting Spot with me, of course. We played and pretended and dug in the dirt for hours until it was time to go inside for supper. I went inside and washed my hands, and I ate dinner with my family that night. And I didn’t realize I had left Spot back in the garden for a long time. Weeks. I had taken him everywhere with me for months. He’d been the most important thing in my small life, save for my parents, I suppose. I couldn’t go to sleep without him. Until one day, I took him outside, turned around, and he just...ceased to exist to me.”
Her eyes were shining a bit now, but she still wouldn’t look at him. He found he could look nowhere but her. The sorrowful lines of her profile were stark in the moonlight, the grief so raw and evident that he couldn’t look away. She looked in that moment exactly how he’d felt so many years ago.
“When I finally realized that I’d left him out there weeks later, I was so upset. I came running home from my friend’s house, screaming and crying about Spot, and I raced out into the garden to find him. He hadn’t moved at all. He was right where I’d left him, lying face down in the grass behind my mum’s garden plot. He’d been exposed to the elements. The sun and the rain had changed him. His back had been bleached by the sun, and his beautiful, soft fur that I’d loved to rub my cheek against was matted and dirty. Mum tried to rescue the situation, tried to wash him and fix him as best she could.” Her voice cracked ever so slightly on the words as she said them, her voice wavering a bit. She took a breath to calm herself. “But it was too late. He’d been ruined by the world, and I didn’t want him anymore. I wanted the version of him that he was before I’d left him out in the garden.”
His chest felt tight as he watched her fight back her emotions, watched her grapple with the story as a clear allegory for her own life. He fought the urge to rub his sternum against the ache that she’d elicited there. She turned to him now, her beautiful shining eyes set upon him again at last.
“Do you understand why I don’t want to see my parents again?”
He swallowed thickly, his throat bobbing with the motion. He paused before answering. “Because you’re worried that they’ve changed too much. That they won’t ever be the same despite how much you love them or how much time you put into building a relationship with them again.”
Her mouth thinned a bit, her lips pressing together as those tears in her shining eyes finally spilled over. She blinked and shook her head ever so slightly.
“No,” she whispered, her voice just a quiet croak in the chilly night air between them. “No, it’s because I’ve changed too much. I’ve been ruined by the world, Draco. I won’t ever be the same, and nothing that they do or say will ever fix me.”
Some part of his heart cracked open at her words, and in the same breath, some hidden cavity in his chest began to fill. Because he could understand this so, so well. He knew exactly what she meant, could feel just how much this hurt. He knew the dull, fathomless ache of realizing that you wanted something you couldn’t have, something that maybe didn’t even exist. The endless agony of knowing that you were undeserving of something that you constantly yearned for.
He knew what it was like to be decimated, stripped and debased down to his very marrow. He knew what it was like to be utterly changed by something out of your control. He’d carried it time and again, carried it even still. Every moment of verbal, physical, emotional, psychological abuse. Every lashing doled, every lashing received. He’d been etched away, whittled down until he was nothing but blood and bone and grit. The laughing boy he’d once been had died the moment his father had let Voldemort desecrate the halls of his ancestral home. The shining memories of his youth seemed like they’d happened to someone else entirely. Like his life had only begun fully formed in the darkness, and he’d been clawing his way out ever since.
The world had ruined Draco Malfoy, and Draco Malfoy had, in turn, ruined the world.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, I think I understand.”
Notes:
Content warnings: mention of drugs/illegal substances, mention of explicit sex acts, very brief description of an orgy, foul language (pretty par for the course), and generally sad and depressing vibes (missing your family, etc)
As always, I encourage you to leave comments and kudos at your convenience! I always need constructive criticism or encouragement. Your feedback and kind words are part of the reason I write.
Much love,
Cass
Chapter 9: Dream A Little Dream
Notes:
Hi, friends! I know. It's been a while. Oops. I do apologize. I always have the best intentions about updating this fic every other week, but that is sadly not always my reality. Both my beta and I have had very big things going on in life that simply had to take the priority. And, sadly, I am a grad student who is actually expected to...well...study.
This chapter is dedicated to my dearest K who told me she wanted more prison Draco. So. Here we are.
As always, CW's are in the end notes and PLEASE check them out if you have triggers. This is a heavy chapter. Okay? 'Kay. Smooches.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
~21 December 1998~
He’d never been so cold before, he realized. Draco had, of course, been cold in his life. He’d felt the nip of the snow-laced Yuletide air on his cheeks. He had warmed his aching fingers during those long winter Quidditch matches, where the guttering wind and occasional sleet had chilled him down to his marrow. Sometimes it would take him days just to get warm again after one such match. But then, he’d always had a house elf to stoke his hearth for him. He’d always had a steaming mug of hot chocolate to sip on as he slowly began to thaw. He had always known there would come an end to the cold, could always look forward to some sort of relief.
Draco Malfoy had never been so cold before because he’d never before known the bone-numbing hoarfrost of the unending, the hopeless.
His days these last months had been an onward stretch of a freezing gray monotony, the likes of which he had never before understood. So when keys rattled on the other side of his cell door and a group of three men appeared in the threshold, there was a mix of relief in his chest. Relief and a cold, knowing fear. He knew why they’d come. It wasn’t the first time.
The three men that pushed their way inside his small cell were familiar enough. He distantly noted each of their faces, realizing he knew them each from school. They each had lost someone in the war, had suffered and grieved as a direct result of his or his father’s actions. There was a rotation of them that liked to slip a bribe to the guards and take turns beating him. It was, in some ways, better than the unending, gray cold. At least his body felt warm after a beating when his face swelled to twice its size and blood gushed from his nostrils. At least he didn’t have to look at those painfully bare walls, his eyelids too puffy to admit any light. At least someone was seeing him, touching him, acknowledging his existence.
And that was so, so much better than being alone. Because sometimes he worried that he had disappeared altogether, had fallen through the cracks in the earth and evaporated from the force of his descent. At least this way he could be sure he was still alive.
He looked up at the men from where he sat on the small cot where he slept. His eyes lost focus in the dim lighting of the room, only able to see their silhouettes against the shine of the hallway beyond. They loomed above him, faces distorted in his blurry vision to make them look like twisted, leering monsters. The monsters he’d always feared when he was a boy, feared they were awaiting him in the shadows beneath his bed or the dark corners of his bedroom where the light would not shine. His ears muffled the sounds of their jeering voices, their laughter. He knew they were saying something hateful, something designed to wound. Over the last few months, he’d heard it all. Felt it all. He’d become an expert at allowing this numbing shield to fall over him.
Farther and farther he burrowed down into himself. So far down that the monsters couldn’t hurt him. So far down that nothing and no one could touch him.
He felt that first blow, strong and swift across his left cheekbone. His head whipped to the side as the crack of bone reverberated through the room, and his body fell with it. He fell down down down, farther still than he had before. Deep into the blackness. Deep into the well within his mind. Down he tumbled, farther and farther until his cheek no longer ached. Until his skin was warm again. Until he couldn’t hear or see or feel. Down he fell. Until finally, he hit the bottom.
Slowly, he sat up, his head aching slightly. Something tight in his chest eased as he looked around and found the familiar, comforting walls of his little library. Bookshelf after bookshelf stuffed to the brim with thick tomes of all kinds. He’d expanded a bit since he’d first established the room, had added a bit more space for a roaring fireplace and a few comfortable reading chairs to sit before it. Two chairs. As he arose from where he’d crash-landed inside, he turned to look at those chairs now. Turned to see what he knew he would find.
She was sitting in her favorite of the two, the one on the left and nearest the fiction section. Her legs were tucked up beneath her, toes wiggling within her thick stockings as her eyes scanned the page, reading something that tickled her fancy. Her wild hair shone in the light of the hearth, creating the effect of a halo atop her head. He remembered thinking her hair was untidy and unkempt when he was a boy, remembered thinking it was disgusting. Now he couldn’t help but notice the different tones that shone through those tresses - bronze and gold and hazelnut. Like the crackling leaves just at the far end of autumn. Thick lashes blinked once, twice, before coming up to lock eyes with him. The smile that bloomed on her pink mouth was the stuff of dreams. Worthy of poetry.
“Well, that didn’t take long,” she said, snapping her book shut to set it on the end table and rise from her chair. “I thought you’d be gone quite a while longer than that.”
A smile. An unspoken question.
He tried to muster a smile back but failed miserably, his lips caving in for all his effort. “Yes, well, I don’t think they’re going to be allowing me to bathe this week. They seem to have other plans for me.”
Her brow furrowed in concern as she rounded the chairs to stop before him, a small hand coming up to rest against his left cheek. He tried not to wince at that phantom pain, a pain she could neither cause nor exacerbate, but a pain that his mind knew all the same.
“They’re hurting you,” she said. Not a question.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. She already understood because she was here in his library and was thus privy to all. The emotion that sparked in those liquid amber eyes was a mixture of angry, unknowable things. It was still so strange to him, how real she was. At first, he’d thought she was just a figment of his imagination, a strange but powerful crossroads between his magic and his mental instability. But the more time he spent with her, the more he doubted that. She was always so warm and witty and wholly different from him. How could he have possibly made her up?
Ever so slightly, Hermione leaned in toward him and gave a delicate sniff in his direction. Her nose wrinkled sweetly at the bridge, her brows coming together in a mocking expression, and she said, “It’s a shame about that bath, though, Malfoy. You positively reek. It’s so bad that I might have to stand over in the far corner today just to be able to breath properly.”
Draco didn’t have to fake the smile that slowly unzipped at the corners of his mouth. A soft chuckle followed, and something seemed to ease in her eyes as he relaxed into the space between them. “Apologies, Granger. If I’d known my being beaten would be such an inconvenience for you, I would have rescheduled it.”
It was a sad thing to watch that beautiful face fall. He found himself wondering for the thousandth time how he had ever thought her ugly. That sloping nose, that angled chin, the delicate bow of her upper lip. She was such a stunning creature, such a wonderful thing to behold. And he watched as that beautiful face that he so admired dimmed slightly at his words. She recovered quickly enough, a cheerful expression brightening her features.
“Well,” she said, pivoting to pace to the wall behind him. “We shall just have to distract you, then. Won’t we?”
His brows raised, and he turned to angle his body to see what she was doing. A warmth sparkled in her eyes as she reached a gentle hand toward a phonograph set on a table against the wall, a table he’d never noticed before. Odd, that she’d seemingly created something in his own mind that he had no part in. He puzzled only for a moment before another phantom pain finally made its way down to him, dealing him a swift blow to the gut. He almost doubled over with it, nearly threw up the contents of his stomach as the waves of pain rocketed through him.
But then he could hear a soft melody of beautiful music drifting through the library, and suddenly her hands were on his shoulders, causing him to straighten. He could only look down at this woman in wonder as she smoothed one hand over his shoulder and the other down his arm to grasp his hand, taking up a traditional partner dance pose. Her eyes were still warm with that mixture of unnamed things, but the curve of her mouth was sad as she asked, “Dance with me?”
Still dazed from the blow to his middle, he coughed and nodded, his many years of etiquette training serving him well as he began to dance and sway her in time with the music. It was a slow, crooning melody sung by a woman with a rich and timeless voice. The lyrics were hopeful and wistful in equal measure, a comfort and a sadness all at once. They spoke of separated lovers, of a longing, aching love that could outlast the stars. An acknowledgment of the distance between them and a promise that they would be together again soon.
Say nighty night and kiss me.
He spun Hermione, her footsteps coming into perfect step with his as he led her through the music.
Just hold me tight and tell me you miss me.
Her head came to rest on the juncture between his arm and his collarbone, her height just shy of being able to rest it atop his shoulder. Her cheek was warm.
When I’m alone and blue as can be,
Slowly, her head came up to lock eyes with him, her lids heavy as she looked at him from beneath her lashes.
Dream a little dream of me.
Using his shoulder to steady herself, she rose up onto her toes, head angling, mouth parted.
“What are you doing?” he rasped. He didn’t know whether he was asking about what she was about to do or her dancing with him now or her even being here in his library at all. He didn’t know what he could bear to hear. What would destroy him the most to know.
He didn’t pull away from her, but he didn’t lean in closer either. He wasn’t sure he would have the strength to lean away, the force of her gravity as strong as it was. A collapsing star pulling in everything, even the light of the cosmos. Even still, he couldn’t find it in himself to close the distance between them either. It felt wrong in a way he couldn’t explain.
She seemed to indeed understand his turmoil because she made the decision for him, blinking slowly as she leaned back and ceded a centimeter of space between them. “I find myself unable to leave and unwilling to stay away.”
Draco opened his mouth to press further, to dig deeper into that ache between them, when a violent cough wracked his body as a wave of pain washed over him. He did double over now, his hands on his knees as pain blossomed in his belly and blood seeped from between his lips. Down his chin. From his nose.
Stars fading, but I linger on, dear, still craving your kiss.
He heard her panicked voice calling his name, felt her small hands grappling against his shoulders as he swayed. Books rattled on their shelves. The crystal chandelier that lit the small space shivered.
I’m longing to linger ‘til dawn, dear, just sayin’ this.
Agony detonated through him as his body, still so far above him, took blow after blow. He realized distantly that this was the worst they’d ever beaten him. Never before had they been able to enter his library so thoroughly.
Sweet dreams ‘til sunbeams find you.
“Draco? Draco!” she cried frantically, her small frame attempting to support him as fell to hands and knees on the plush rug that decorated the small chamber. Shaking hands grasped his face, trying to get him to look into her eyes. “Draco, stay with me. Please don’t leave me. I’ll always be here, right here, okay? Just don’t leave me.”
Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you.
Blood poured from his nose, twin rivulets of crimson staining the carpet red. Red like the accents of her Gryffindor tie. Red like the sunset blazing over the Astronomy Tower. Red like the blood of that house elf Dolohov had murdered right in front of him. Red like the bitter wine the Dark Lord had liked to drink.
But in your dreams, whatever they be-
Such a funny thing, to dream. Just an illusion your mind creates to help it heal, a movie reel of all the best and worst things in your psyche. When he was a boy he’d dreamed of treacle tarts and adventures, princesses and dragons. As he’d grown older, those dreams had grown dark and full of monsters. His dreams, he thought, had always been his mind’s way of allowing him to release the horrors he’d faced during his waking hours.
He hadn’t dreamed in so, so long.
“Draco, would you please just look at me? Please, just look at me! I’m right here. Just look at me, Draco, please!”
Dream a little dream of me.
And that’s what did it. That’s how he knew she wasn’t really there. The real Hermione Granger would never call him by his first name. It was only ever ‘Malfoy’, would only ever be. Moreover, Hermione Granger didn’t beg like this, never had. This woman, this library, wasn’t real. None of it. He’d made it up inside his head. It wasn’t real, wasn’t real, wasn’t real. It was the shattering of that illusion, the realization of this falsehood that finally had him collapsing face-first onto the floor, a strangled sob trapped in his throat. She clutched at his shoulders, shaking him hard enough to rattle as she begged him to tell her what was wrong.
“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t,” he cried. Over and over again, he cried, never able to fully finish the sentence. Never able to articulate what he meant.
I can’t take it. I can’t do this. I can’t handle knowing you’re not real. I can’t live in my own reality one second longer. I can’t spend one more moment shivering on the floor of that cell, aching for an end that is still so far off. I’ve only been here six months. I still have twice that to go. I can’t understand how I’m already this broken after such a short time. I can’t possibly finish this. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
And with that mantra ringing in his head, Draco Malfoy cracked down the middle and broke cleanly in two.
~21 April 1999~
Draco squinted painfully into the afternoon sun as he stepped away from the apparition point and stumbled onto Hogwarts grounds. The sights and the sounds were overwhelming, disorienting. He couldn’t get a grasp on where he was or what he’d meant to do by coming here. He just knew he couldn’t go home.
When the ruling had come a week ago that he would be released early from Azkaban due to ‘good behavior’, Draco had been skeptical. Likely, it was more that the prison was overcrowded, and they had deemed him less of a threat than most. Early release due to good behavior and a fine of eighty thousand galleons. A simple sum…if he’d had any access to his family’s funds. As it stood now, the debt would prevent him from ever really making any sort of income. He’d have to work himself ragged to pay it off, and he didn’t even know where to begin. He’d never had a job before.
His mother had attended his parole hearing and had cried with joy when they announced the ruling. Her eyes had followed him as he had been ushered back out the door by the guards, calling out after him that she would see him soon. He hadn’t bothered to reply, hadn’t even bothered to look at her.
Then, this morning when she’d shown up at the prison to take him back to Malfoy Manor with her, he’d taken one look at her and known he couldn’t go. Narcissa Malfoy, normally such a prim and stoic woman, had had tears shining in her eyes. She’d been looking at him with such love, such adoration. Worse, she’d been looking at him with hope. Hope, he knew, for a future. Hope for a family, and perhaps for companionship. His mother looked at him, and she saw the little boy she had dressed and kissed and sent off to school with a promise to see him for the holidays. His mother looked at him and saw someone she could cling to and love. She had heard that he’d be released and had cried with the joy of knowing she would soon bring her child back home.
What his mother didn’t know was that her son would never come home. Her son didn’t exist anymore. He had died somewhere beyond those walls long, long ago. Maybe even before that.
Draco had taken one look at his mother as she stood stark against the drab backdrop of the prison, dressed in her usual finery and grasping her hands below her chin as her eyes filled with happy tears, and he had known that could never go to Malfoy Manor with her, at least not until he was better. Not until the tattered edges of his soul had begun to heal. He couldn’t go home knowing that he would disappoint her over and over and over again. He couldn’t watch as the light left her eyes when she realized that the boy she’d known was gone, replaced instead by a hollowed-out specter filled with ash.
He’d stumbled past her into the blinding light of midday, brandished his wand, and apparated to the first place he could think, the first thing that had even crossed his mind. A winding staircase. A stack of books tucked away into a cozy corner. Those carved bookcases. The only place he’d found comfort during his imprisonment.
The Hogwarts library.
The wards around the school didn’t allow apparition directly inside, of course. There were strong spells and hexes against it. His intention had gotten him as close as it could - the courtyard outside of the Great Hall. He stumbled back, the light shining in from above too intense for his pale eyes, so used to the darkness of the prison. The prison where there had been no windows and no light, no warmth. Now, he was on fire, burning with it. He couldn’t stand it.
He could sense a few people watching him curiously as he staggered backward into the shadows of the roofed columns that surrounded the courtyard, blinking furiously to try to acclimate his vision to the flood of new stimulus. Students whizzed by on their way to class, largely ignoring him beyond a glance or two. He supposed he still looked enough like a student that he wouldn’t cause too much suspicion. The only thing he’d had to wear out of Azkaban was the outfit he’d worn going into the Battle of Hogwarts. It was close enough to the school uniform that most didn’t bat an eye, mostly just curious at his strange behavior.
Draco ran a hand through his hair, trying to tamp down his rising panic. He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus. He had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. He couldn’t go home to his mother just to ruin her life all over again. For much the same reason, he had to stay away from his friends, too. He couldn’t stomach their sadness. The inevitable pity.
What was he even doing here? Why had he come?
Lovely, hearty laughter caught his attention, his eyes swinging toward the center of the courtyard to follow the noise. His eyes were adjusting to the brightness now, and he could make out a pair of students crossing the grass to sit against one of the large oak trees that cast shade upon the clearing. Two girls, he realized. One with silky red hair and pale, freckled skin. The other-
Draco’s heart leapt in his chest.
A tangle of unruly autumn curls. Smooth stretches of golden skin, dotted with a constellation of freckles and moles. Amber eyes framed by long, dark lashes. She looked just like she had in his dreams. In his little library. It had been her laughter that had caught his attention, a summoning bell that had called him home. Indeed, she was still smiling at her companion, another laugh at the ready in response to whatever it was that had been said.
She was…happy. She was perfect. She was exactly as he’d remembered her. Better, even, without the burden of the war upon her shoulders. She did look lighter than she ever had before, a certain sparkle alight in those beautiful eyes. The feeling that cracked open in his chest was insurmountable. Indescribable. Like being destroyed and remade in the same moment. Like every cell in his body might fly away into the universe just to be set alight by the stars.
Draco watched as she swung her book bag off her shoulders and plopped it down in the grass at the base of the tree, folding herself to sit down next to it and pull out a book. He couldn’t quite make out the title, but it didn’t look like a textbook. Was she reading for pleasure now? She’d always just read and studied books for class before. The thought gave him such a rush of feeling that he had to stagger back to allow the wall behind him to support his weight. All at once, he wanted to call out to her and cry. He wanted to scream her name and hold her in his arms and spin her around. He wanted to thank her for all the times she had held him together. All those beatings she had witnessed. All those moments she had distracted him, pulled him down into that calm place in his mind and told him it would be okay. She’d told him she’d always be with him.
And now here she was. Alive and free and beautifully, wonderfully real. She was real and existed beyond the confines of his brain now. He almost couldn’t believe it. It felt too good to be true.
He’d been stepping forward, had been reaching out a hand to - he didn’t know. Wave? Call out her name? He’d been about to get her attention when he noticed the whispers. The intensifying interest in his presence. He’d been recognized, he realized. Someone had recognized him, and now there were hushed exclamations. Muffled cries.
“Oh, my gods, is that Draco Malfoy? I thought he was in prison!”
“Isn’t he the one who killed Professor Dumbledore?”
“That’s the student who let the Death Eaters into the school!”
“Isn’t he a Death Eater himself? The youngest one to ever take the Mark.”
All around him, the murmurs rose to a deafening crescendo. There was a small crowd gathered near him now, just looking at him. Whispering. Other students passing by were drawn in by those gathered, eyes searching to see the spectacle. His stomach sank, and a cold sweat gathered on his brow, in his palms. His eyes darted over the crowd, his chest heaving as horror washed over him. His gaze rose to the courtyard behind them, to those two girls finding shade under an oak tree. To the rays of sun that kissed her cheeks from between the swaying leaves.
And that’s when it hit him. That she was truly, honestly real. That this girl, this woman in the courtyard was flesh and blood, rooted in the universe by the fact of her existence. This woman, Hermione Granger, was real. And the Hermione he knew was not. The version of her that had existed in that library with him, the version of her that had held him and wiped his tears and- and loved him. She didn’t exist. She never had.
He wasn’t sure how he stayed upright as his chest caved inward and pulled him down in with it.
His horror deepened as he saw her head come up, her eyes squinting in curiosity as the crowd gathered before him began to catch her attention. That gaze was turning, scanning the courtyard for the source of the disturbance. Those eyes shone so brightly in the sun as she began to turn toward him.
He didn’t give her the opportunity to catch a glimpse of him before he again apparated, folding himself into the mist between the edges of the world and hoping that it swallowed him whole.
As it turned out, the world did indeed swallow him whole. But even the world didn’t seem to want or need him because it spat him back out on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. His magic, rusty and unused as it was, couldn’t seem to get him very far. He’d just known he needed to get away, and it had allowed him to clumsily whisp away to a safe space nearby. He wasn’t sure how safe the Forbidden Forest was, but it was surely better than the horror that had been about to unfold in the courtyard in front of the Great Hall.
Draco shook his head, as if to clear it. It was still so disorienting, so mind-boggling. His Hermione. That Hermione. The library. The world. He hadn’t fully realized his grasp of reality had been wearing so thin after so many months spent down at the bottom of that well within, tucked safely between the pages of his books. Those two realities parted and converged, two versions of her, two versions of him.
He closed his eyes to gaze into that well deep within him, to attempt to reorient himself, and found a pool of midnight, so still and smooth that he could see his own reflection on its surface. An apparition stared back at him. He reached out a hand, the apparition in the mirroring pool reaching out just the same. Their fingers closed the distance, then began to merge.
The image shattered.
All at once the tidal wave of grief and confusion and disbelief crested within him. The heartbreaking disorientation of navigating his new singular reality. The crushing understanding that he was broken beyond repair. The prison had been designed to shatter him. He’d never really stood a chance. Draco stumbled forward, catching his weight against the trunk of a great tree as he sucked a deep breath in, and, for the first time in a long time, he began to cry.
He cried for the mother he’d left in tears on the steps of the prison. He cried for the little boy whose hair she’d combed and cheeks she’d kissed, who had looked up to his father with stars in his eyes. The little boy who had loved and trusted and hoped, who would now never do those things again. He cried for the woman he loved or, rather, thought he did. The woman who was not real, who existed only in the darkest corner of his head. He cried for the letters he’d torn to shreds from friends he couldn’t bear to see. He cried for the father he’d so adored who now sat wasting away in the same hell he’d only just escaped. But mostly, he cried for the gaping wound within him, the pit of despair that he did not begin to know how to heal. He cried to fill it. To pour himself out, to unmake himself down to his very bones, to fill that pit until it was sloshing over with something. Anything. Even if all it contained was his sorrow.
Draco dropped to his knees, his hands coming up to cover his face as those great sobs wracked his body. His thin shoulders collapsed inward to hide the gaping hole in his chest. He couldn’t let the world see it, couldn’t allow it to touch that decaying maw. He knew if he ever set it free, it would devour the world just to fill that emptiness. He could consume the world just to soften the grief.
It was that thought, that world-destroying thought that planted the seed. That maybe he was bad - too evil. Too venomous. Too broken. That if he allowed himself to live outside of the library in his mind, outside of the four walls of the cell he’d gotten so used to, he might leave a gash in the fabric of the universe. He had killed already; what if he killed again? What if he hurt someone again? What if the damage he’d already caused was too much? Maybe he was too much. Maybe he was not enough, wasn’t worth the energy and resources it would take to heal this aching gash, this heart split clean in two.
Maybe the world would be a better place without Draco Malfoy.
It was there, somewhere in the Forbidden Forest, with the moisture of the earth seeping into the knees of his trousers and the wind rustling his dirty hair, that the idea took root and began to fester.
“Ya don’t want to be doin’ that.”
The voice came from behind him, startling him so thoroughly that he dropped what he’d been holding and whirled around, heart pounding. He hadn’t heard anyone approach, hadn’t known anyone was even out here. The sun had just begun to dip below the trees, the dimming light of the day the only reassurance he had needed to be confident no one would be coming out here. Not many people dared to traipse the Forbidden Forest after dark. Apparently, he’d been mistaken.
Rubeus Hagrid looked exactly as Draco remembered - dirty clothes, frizzy hair, ruddy cheeks, haggard appearance. Kind eyes. He’d never realized before that Hagrid had kindness in his eyes. It was that kindness, so near to pity, that had him bristling now, rearing back to strike.
“And what would you know, you miserable half-wit? Who are you to tell me what to do?” Draco spat, that familiar, icy venom dripping from his words. “What are you even doing here?”
That venom didn’t seem to land, though. Hagrid just looked steadily back him, that kindness unwavering as he took in Draco’s appearance. As the giant’s eyes flickered behind him to the rope he’d been fastening to a strong tree, to the noose at one end. Fear and shame burned through him. Thorough humiliation at being caught in such a vulnerable state, such a private moment. Draco felt as though he’d been stripped naked and tossed into a crowd of onlookers. He’d never known such utter weakness in front of another person. And, like a viper caught in a snare, he struck.
“Go away, you idiot bastard brute,” he hissed between clenched teeth, his hand gripping his wand to bring it up to hex the man. “Get away from me, or I’ll make you wish you were never born. I’ll carve up your stupid, ugly face before I gut you like a pig. You’ll be so disgustingly unrecognizable that all your little friends and family will scream in horror at your body. They will weep because they won’t know if they’re burying you or the rotting carcass of one of your beloved creatures.”
Still, the disheveled, hulking man just looked back at Draco, his expression unchanging. Those large, dinner plate sized hands rose to his shoulders, palms out. A show of vulnerability, a white flag of sorts. Draco’s eyes narrowed as Hagrid took a calm step toward him, the fallen leaves of last autumn crunching beneath his heavy boots.
“I didn’t mean to startle ya,” the giant said, still stepping slowly forward. “I was out and about lookin’ fer a little creature o’ mine. Must’ve wandered off while I wasn’t lookin’.”
“Are you daft?” he snarled as Hagrid drew nearer. “I said to leave me alone!”
This echoing roar, this battle cry, finally gave the giant pause, stopping just a few meters from where Draco stood, still holding his wand aloft. He didn’t back away, though, didn’t recede a step. Just looked on at him with that steady, gentle kindness.
“I’m not gonna leave ya,” Hagrid said. “I think you’ve been left enough already, don’t you?”
The words reverberated through his shredded heart. That steady claim, those gentle eyes. The statement rang true, he realized. It was true in the way that he knew the taste of pumpkin juice and the tune to his favorite song. They weren’t always on his tongue or in his ears, but he knew them when he sensed them. He knew them right away. It was the stunning truth of those words that had his shoulders relaxing, his defenses thawing.
Slowly, Draco’s wand fell down to his side, then dropped into the mix of leaves and pine at his feet. The numb resolve that had been holding him together the last few hours cracked down the middle, and for the second time that day, Draco dropped to his knees and began to cry. Because someone was here. This man that he’d hated and mocked. This man that he’d tried to ruin just a few short years ago. This gentle giant who had never held it against him. Hagrid was here, and he was refusing to leave. Someone was here to bear witness, someone made of flesh and bone, someone who didn’t live exclusively in his head.
Hagrid rushed in as soon as Draco began to cry, wrapping a warm arm around the boy’s shoulders as he fully allowed himself to feel that great fracture that had split his mind and his heart in two. He allowed himself to drop back down into that little library, to run a hand along those many spines and dig his fingers into the cracks between the stones of the hearth. He didn’t let himself think about that warm presence flickering in the corner, didn’t let himself consider the somber acceptance limning her mouth.
Brick by brick, breath by breath, Draco sealed that library shut until his mind was as hollow and as quiet as a tomb.
“There, there, Malfoy,” Hagrid reassured, accenting each word with a gentle pat on the shoulders. “Don’t ya mind me now. Just get it all out.”
Through his hiccupping sobs, Draco gasped, “I have nothing.”
It was a simple enough statement, yet it encompassed everything. He had no home he could return to, no family he could face, no money to live from, and no way to earn a living. He owed the court a fine that he could not begin to pay, and he owed the world a debt that he could not begin to name. The debt of priceless, stolen things. The debt for the evil he’d helped to bring upon the world. The debt of the intangible.
“Well, now, don’t you be worryin’ about that. We’ll get ya sorted right quick,” said the giant as he made to pull Draco to his feet. “We’ll just go pay the Headmistress a visit. She’ll get this all sorted, you’ll see.”
Draco didn’t have the energy or the capacity to be at all resistant as Hagrid led him firmly from the forest and back toward the castle. He scrubbed at his face, hoping to banish the evidence of his tears. He knew it was likely a lost cause, but he still had enough awareness to know he didn’t want to look so weak in front of someone like Minerva McGonagall.
He realized much later that he needn’t have worried, that it was those tear-stained cheeks that had helped to sway McGonagall in her decision to allow him to stay at the school. But it was the wrecked look in his eyes, the chill of death that still lingered behind him like a stray dog, that led her to decide to keep him hidden from the world until he was ready to be seen. He was to take the rest of that term and the summer to rest and recover, and he would begin as a teaching assistant in the fall. He would be closely watched, or ‘mentored’ as she had put it, by Professor Slughorn to make sure he understood his new role. A fair enough setup, he could admit.
Later that night, as he bedded down in the temporary rooms he’d been assigned far away from any students or staff, Draco fell to sleep before his head could even hit the pillow. And as he slept, his mind relaxed, and he was able to dream for the first time in such a long, long time.
He dreamed of her.
Notes:
Content warnings: imprisonment, beating/physical harm of the main character, mental illness (depression), thoughts of suicide, **suicide attempt (interrupted before beginning)
If you're still here, THANK YOU. I love you all so dearly. Anyone who gives this fic the time of day is truly amazing. I know I have so much I want to say with this one, and I'm so excited for where I will take it. Thanks for strapping in for the ride!
With love,
Cass
Chapter 10: Can you just walk me home?
Notes:
Hi, friends!
Thank you all for tuning in! As always, I'm eternally grateful to my subscribers and, of course, any of you who are here for the first time! I'm so stoked that anyone at all is reading this, and I welcome any and all feedback!
I'm hoping to post another chapter by the end of this week, as I am currently at home on Thanksgiving break. I do, however, need to write two works for a fest I signed up for, so who can say if I'll actually meet this goal. I'm going to try my best, though!
This chapter is truly dedicated to all of you who have been following this story along as it goes. I think I would've gotten discouraged without the support I've gotten from a handful of you. Enjoy a lighter chapter full of funny fluff!
There's not much by way of sensitive content this chapter, but, as always, content warnings are at the end of the chapter. Please read if applicable!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Can you just walk me home?
I don’t wanna be alone.
What if my old friends are on the road?
What if their eyes are closed?
What if their hands are cold?
Is their pain going on and on?
Do you mind if we just walk ‘til dawn?”
-Marius, Penny & Sparrow
~18 November 2006~
Draco’s office was so familiar to Hermione after months of weekly meetings, she didn’t even consider knocking anymore before bursting in. She knew his schedule now, had memorized it weeks ago to know when to catch him working in his office, and thus almost always knew his whereabouts in the castle. As it turned out, Draco Malfoy was a creature of meticulous habit. He ate his meals at the exact same time each day (give or take fifteen minutes), kept regular office hours, took the same routes to and from his classes, and even went to bed at the same time every day.
She had discovered that last tidbit after an unfortunate incident a few weeks ago wherein Hermione came looking to ask some question or other and found Draco silhouetted in the doorway of his living quarters wearing nothing but pajama bottoms and a spot of spearmint toothpaste on the corner of his mouth. She’d stood dumbfounded in his office for much longer than she’d care to admit just…watching. She’d been mesmerized by the sharp cut of his waist against the soft cotton pants he wore, the slow expansion of his ribcage as he took a breath, the flex of his bicep has he moved his toothbrush across his teeth, the long, jagged scar that bisected his torso. That was what had truly given her pause. The stark cut of it against his otherwise smooth, pale skin. It looked like a flash of lightning across his taut frame, like the universe had attempted to smite him down and had very nearly succeeded.
She’d been staring, wide-eyed and open-mouthed at his form through the doorway when he’d finally looked up to find her there. He’d frozen in place, a deer caught in headlights. A high-born, Pure-Blood wizard caught using a Muggle item. Most wizards didn’t brush their teeth the Muggle way, didn’t need to. Cleaning charms were much faster and more efficient anyway, so why bother? The only other magical folk she’d seen using such an item were all either Muggle-born or Half-Bloods. She almost couldn’t believe her eyes.
He’d blinked at her, frozen with his toothbrush hanging obscenely from his lips and a small bit of foam leaking from the corner of his mouth. She’d blinked back, astonished, flummoxed, off-kilter, and bolted out the door before he could say something to her. They’d made a silent, mutual agreement never to mention the incident again.
And so, Hermione noted 10:30 p.m. as Draco Malfoy’s strict wind-down before bedtime.
Now, at 4:15 p.m., she knew he would be in his office grading papers between his last class of the day and his evening meal time. She didn’t bother with the courtesy of knocking before lumbering in, arms full up with papers of her own to grade. She noted with a mix of annoyance and a familiar sort of satisfaction that Draco, in turn, didn’t bother to look up from his work as she came, so used to her presence he was. As fate would have it, Hermione also loved to live her life by a relatively strict schedule. It just so happened that her strict schedule involved commandeering a corner of Malfoy’s office once a week or so to cozy up while they graded papers in a comfortable, mutual silence.
She’d begun doing so a few days after the Halloween party at Blaise’s. As time went on, she simply found herself drawn to Malfoy’s presence, found herself seeking out the comfort and familiarity that his company provided. It was always how she’d been with her friends. When she felt comfortable with someone, she liked to be in their company regularly even if she didn’t want to directly interact. She made a point not to smother or inconvenience anyone, folding herself into the other person’s schedule tidily. The nights when she and Ginny had simply sat in silence in their shared living room doing homework had been some of her favorites. She did the same with Neville every now and again, simply coming to sit in his office or living space while they both did mundane things. It helped her feel safe, she thought. Helped her feel like she had a buffer or sounding board right there at the ready if her thoughts started getting too big.
Draco simply gave a resigned sigh as she plopped down into her favorite armchair in his office and made herself comfortable among his things. “What is it today, Granger? Exams? Lab reports? Papers?”
She hummed, considering, while she got herself situated in her chair and dragged a side table over to use as a makeshift desk. Such was her routine. “Fifth year papers on the history and usage of a Pepperup Potion,” she replied, pulling a quill and inkwell from her shoulder bag and bringing the tip up to tap against her lips as she began to read. “I suppose I also need to start grading some of the first-years’ exams as well. They’re always so anxious to see their marks. I’m always worried one or more of them will have a stroke if they can’t see their scores immediately.”
Hermione was rewarded with a low snort from across the room. She didn’t need to look up to know he was now studying the side of her face from where he sat at his mahogany desk. She could feel the warmth of his gaze as it traveled down her profile, hugging the curves of her cheekbones and the slope of her nose. The tingling weight of his attention was ruthlessly distracting, her awareness constantly drawn back toward his presence. Like he was the center of gravity in the room, and he was pulling in all the light, all the oxygen. The one drawback of trying to get work done in his company.
Draco had this strange, quiet way of studying her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Sometimes it was a quick glance, a momentary assessment of her whereabouts. Other times she swore she could feel his gaze boring into her, head tilted like he was trying to make out the shape of her but couldn’t quite accomplish it. She always allowed it, let him look his fill and study her as long as he liked without the interruption of her noticing. She never minded, figuring he was likely just trying to understand her better after years of being adversaries. However, there’d been a moment a few weeks ago when she feared she’d upset him.
She’d been curled up in his office, much like she was now, and had begun humming absently while she worked, as she often did. She hadn’t chosen the song, it had just come to her. Her mother’s favorite tune, an old song Hermione had heard hundreds, if not thousands, of times growing up. Her mother would play it softly in the kitchen while she cooked or baked, and oftentimes her father would sweep in to coax her into a slow, swaying dance for a line or two. It was her mother’s favorite song, had been their first dance at their wedding he’d always tell Hermione, whispering from the side of his mouth like they were sharing some great secret. She would smile and laugh when he inevitably swept her up in the dance as well, her chest full to bursting. It was a happy song for her, a joyous thing full of love. Full of belonging.
So she’d begun humming it, absent minded, as she scratched and scribbled corrections into her student’s papers. The change of energy in the room had been stark and immediate. She’d felt Draco’s gaze shift sharply up to her from where he’d been working at his desk, a consuming, burning thing that had her heart stuttering to a stop. She’d looked back up at him slowly, the space between them thick despite the distance. She’d quickly studied the lines of his face, drinking him in before he could look away. Pale cheeks, tight jaw, the corners of his mouth bracketed with tension. Something swirled in his eyes, something she couldn’t fully understand but felt like a mixture of confusion and desire and…maybe a little pain. She’d been baffled by it, confounded.
But then he’d blinked, and his face had shuttered. The lines of his mouth had relaxed, his eyes softening and falling back down to his desk to begin his work again. He hadn’t been able to hide the strange, sallow sheen to his pale skin, though. Hermione had seen it, had known it for what it was. What she just couldn’t figure out was why.
Regardless, she’d made a mental note to never again hum the tune to Dream a Little Dream of Me.
The memory still held sway in her mind, though. Now, where she sat in that same chair, she had to make a concerted effort not to hum the familiar tune. Soon, though, she got lost in the process of grading, mind caught up in the drivel. The room and the man both faded away as she scanned through paper after paper. After a bit, she came across one essay in particular that had her laughing and snorting loudly enough to draw Draco’s attention.
“Draco, listen to this,” she giggled, waiting for his wordless approval to go on. After another moment to breathe through her mirth and collect herself, she began to read an excerpt from one student’s essay. “‘Pepperup Potion was invented by a potioneer in the 12th century named Hilda Pepper. She was tired of her husband’s inability to satisfy her carnal desires and thus invented a potion to help him keep up with her in bed. Hence, the name Pepperup.’ I mean, this is ridiculous!” she said through her giggles. “I can’t believe someone actually wrote this and then turned it in as their assignment. This has got to be a joke!”
She looked back over to her companion at his desk, excited to hear his reaction. Moments like this were precisely why she liked to complete mundane tasks in the company of friends. If she’d been alone for this discovery, she would have enjoyed it much less.
A delighted smile curled up against the corners of his mouth and made a home there, his face softening with the movement. A small, undignified, very un-Malfoy-like snort. “Sometimes I think the students just want to fuck with us. Like they think we don’t actually read the papers they turn in and are just testing us.”
“Exactly!” she laughed. “I had a student just the other day draw a picture of a cat on his exam instead of answering a short answer question.”
His pale brows rose a bit on his forehead, his expression turning more intrigued. “Was it any good at least?”
“Yes, actually, it was a rather cute cat. It looked a little like Crooks, actually.”
The new smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes was knowing. “So you gave him partial credit?”
“Well, yes, of course I gave him partial credit. It was a cat. That looked like my cat. That’s worth at least a half point out of five. I’ve been known to at least give a few little points here and there for fun drawings.”
He hummed, turning back to the work on his desk and mumbled absently, “If only you’d been my Potions professor. My doodles might have earned me the highest marks in class.”
She tilted her head, turning toward him fully now so she was sat sideways and cross-legged in her armchair. Her fist came up to rest beneath her chin, propping her head up against her knee. “Don’t tell me the austere Malfoy heir liked to doodle in the margins of his Potions assignments!” she gasped with fake outrage.
She felt, rather than saw, his exasperation and amusement. He was still looking down at his work instead of meeting her eyes. “You know very well that I did, Granger. Don’t pretend.”
True confusion wrinkled her brow as she studied him. Was he serious? She had no clue what he was referring to. “What are you talking about? How would I know you used to doodle in Potions?”
His eyes flickered up to meet hers for just a moment, his exasperation thickening. Clearly, he thought she was being intentionally obtuse. Like she was drawing this out just for the thrill of making him uncomfortable. The corners of his mouth tightened again, and his quill paused on the page he’d been scratching on, hovering while he seemed to make up his mind. After a moment, he spoke again.
“Because you found one of my assignments?” he said slowly, almost like he was asking a question. “Second year?”
Hermione blinked, wracking her brain for this information that Draco seemed to think she was privy to. Her mind was blank, unknowing, an echo chamber of wind. But then… Wait. Second year. Yes. Yes, she remembered.
A small, curly-haired girl lagged at the back of the classroom, watching the other students file their way through the door. Dark circles stained the skin below her eyes, her shoulders heavy, her fingernails bitten to the quick. She’d been fighting with Harry and Ron again. Her only friends weren’t speaking to her. The loneliness was a weight she struggled to carry.
She was at the very back of the crowd of students and so was the only one to notice when a stack of parchment fluttered away from another student’s book bag and settled on the floor like a fallen leaf in autumn. She bent down to gather up the papers, stacking them back up neatly before glancing at the name at the top margin, hardly noticing the rest of the page. Her blood shivered and then froze completely as she noted the owner.
“Give me that back! Get your filthy hands off my things before you stain the parchment!” Stormy, gray eyes. Straight, white teeth bared in a snarl. Cheeks flushed with anger.
The pages were snatched roughly from her grip before she could form a coherent thought, her empty hands left floating uselessly in the air. She blinked, shocked by the force of his fury. She didn’t think her actions had warranted such a vehement reaction. She opened her mouth, perhaps to snap back with a ruthless reply of her own. Perhaps to apologize to appease his wrath. She hadn’t decided which.
But before she could even begin to articulate one sentiment or the other, he was stuffing the papers unceremoniously into his book bag and whirling away. She watched, dumbfounded, while his silvery head of hair disappeared into the dim hallway beyond.
“Oh, Godric, are you referring to the time I tried to hand you back a paper that had fallen out of your bag, and you practically bit my head off for it?” Hermione asked, incredulous.
She watched a light flush stain his cheekbones under her scrutiny. Still, he would not look up from his work. He placed his quill back to the parchment and again began to write. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it,” he conceded.
“‘One way of putting it’? I was just trying to do something nice, and you treated me like I’d just tried to Avada your beloved grandma or something.”
He snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. My grandmother would kill you before you could raise your wand.”
“You’re entirely missing the point!” Hermione groaned.
“Which is?”
“If my memory serves, you dropped one of your old Potions essays as you were leaving class, I picked it up to hand back to you, and you verbally masticated me as a result. Is this ringing a bell? Or am I missing something?”
Draco blinked, tilting his head to meet her eyes at last. “Did you-” he started. Paused. Seemed to think it through more thoroughly. “So I suppose you didn’t actually look at what I had drawn?”
She frowned at him, her eyes squinting in suspicion. “Well, no. I was a little busy being verbally assaulted by the twelve-year-old version of Saruman the White.”
His pale brow furrowed at her reference, uncomprehending. “Who?”
Hermione shook her head, her hand comping up to physically put a stop to his line of questioning. “You were a crusty, crotchety little villain with white hair. But nevermind about that. It’s unimportant. So wait. What did you draw? Why did you think I’d seen it?”
The flush on his high cheekbones deepened, spreading across the proud bridge of his nose and tinting the tips of his ears. He scowled against it. “I’m more interested in talking about how crusty and crotchety I was.”
“Draco! Stop deflecting please.”
He huffed. “I’m not deflecting. I’m truly interested in how you, a twenty-six year old woman, could possibly refer to a child as ‘crusty’.”
The noise she emitted was as close to a growl as she was capable. “Draco!”
His scowl faded into something softer, something that had Hermione’s belly swooping and blood singing. The guarded hardness in his eyes liquefied into a heavy-lidded warmth that instantly had her body humming with awareness.
“I like that,” he said softly. “When did you start calling me that?”
The tone of his voice. The shift of his mood. The heaviness of the space between them. It left her a bit more breathless than she’d like to admit. When had she started calling him by his first name instead of his last? She swallowed thickly.
“I- I always call my friends by their given name.”
He hummed his agreement, his eyes drifting down toward her mouth, and Hermione had the absurd feeling that he was going to ask her to say it again. She knew it in her bones, knew it with such certainty that she was already preparing herself, her mouth already forming the letters.
But the request never came. He simply took a slow breath in, his expression shifting back to something more casual before his eyes returned to his work. The scratching of his quill against parchment was the only thing to fill the room for the rest of the afternoon.
~21 November 2006~
The weather was chilly, almost painfully so. The frosty air bit and burned her lungs, causing her chest to feel tight and heavy. Well, at least more so than usual. Her pace was noticeably slower than usual as Hermione, Draco, and Neville picked their way back to the castle from Hogsmeade. She was having to spend much more energy on focusing her breathing, making sure her lungs fully expanded despite the constricting cold, and she had very little capacity for keeping up any conversation with her companions as they walked.
Neither Draco or Neville seemed to mind much, chatting happily between themselves about the latest stats in Quidditch, which teams they supported, and why the other man was dead wrong. They never seemed to run out of things to talk - or, more often, argue - about, and Hermione found herself content to listen to them squabble, her eyes bouncing back and forth between them as they conversed.
“I’m telling you, the Fitchburg Finches are doing well this year. They’re going to take the Cup!” Draco insisted. “Just look at their stats the last five seasons. They’ve been steadily on the rise and gaining. They made it to the finals last year, and they’re going to take it all this year.”
Neville scoffed, almost offended. “Those American pricks? No way! I might have agreed with you last year before they traded away their only good beater! Now, the Falcons-”
And so the conversation went on and on, round and round, as they disagreed vehemently but with no small measure of affection between them. She could tell they both loved it - the challenge, the back and forth, the friendly squabbling. It was fun for them. And it was fun for her to watch, too. When Ron and Harry bickered about sports, she had found herself quickly excluded and isolated from the conversation, often excusing herself to one made-up reason or another. But Draco and Neville both had a knack for drawing her in, insisting she mediate disagreements or break a tie between them. More than that, she could tell that they truly wanted her opinion, even if it wasn’t a very informed one.
“Granger,” Draco called, turning to her. “Who do you think will win the World Cup this year?”
She tilted her head, pretending to consider seriously. Truthfully, the only team she knew was the Holyhead Harpies, simply because Ginny was a member. She’d never watched a match with any seriousness or even all the way through. She’d tried, had gone out on multiple occasions to support her best friend. But she’d always found Quidditch difficult to follow. Not because it was particularly complicated but because the players just moved so fast, and they all looked so small when they were that far away. Her mind had always likened the visual to a swarm of buzzing bees puttering about a hive. Ginny had never minded her disinterest, though. Showing up and loving her was the only thing she had ever asked of Hermione.
Until, of course, Ginny had asked her not to leave her brother. Even after knowing everything that had happened between them.
“Hmm… Let me think about this,” she hedged, taking a moment to stroke her chin as if she were deep in thought, just to draw it out a bit more. She could practically feel Draco’s amusement flowing off him in waves. “I’m going to have to go with the Welsh Warblers.”
Neville turned to her, forehead crinkled in a mixture of confusion and pity. “Hermione,” he said slowly, like he was about to break devastating news. “That’s not a real team. Draco may have fabricated Quidditch facts as his idea of a personal joke, but he’s clearly not been truthful with you.”
Hermione scrunched her forehead, allowing her eyes to widen in feigned surprise and dramatic betrayal. She turned to Draco. “Draco, is this true? Have you been lying to me?”
He said nothing, just allowed a slow, knowing smile to spread across his mouth. He instead took the opportunity of the moment to study her as they walked, noting her slowing pace and subtly matching his steps to hers so she didn’t have to work so hard to keep up.
Neville scoffed. “Oh, this is so typical of him. Back in school, I once heard him convincing a third year that he’d go cross-eyed if he wanked too often.”
Hermione threw her head back and laughed, a rich belly laugh that left her body warm and buzzing. “Oh that poor boy!”
Draco’s shoulders shook with laughter, the corners of his eyes crinkling even as he pressed his mouth into a grimace. “I just wanted him to stop wanking so much! Salazar, he was not subtle about it, either. It was getting to be a problem.”
Hermione grimaced in return. Perhaps the lie was a necessary evil. “What else have you been lying to us about then, hm?”
He shrugged and shot her a good-natured smile. Gods, it truly was such a lovely smile. It changed his face, softened the harsh lines of his nose and mouth and jaw. Made it into something less like hewn marble and more like lovingly carved ashwood. “Oh, nothing much. I supposed now is as good a time as any to tell you that my middle name isn’t Lucius. It’s actually Crookshanks.”
She gasped, grabbing his elbow to loop her arm through his. “I knew it! That’s why you and Crooks have always had such a strong, beautiful bond!”
He stiffened for just a moment as soon as her arm settled in the crook of his elbow. She supposed she should have thought it through better. She had never considered physical touch to be strange or undesirable amongst her friends. She had often hugged and held and squeezed Ron and Harry without giving it much thought. It had simply been an instinct, to thread her arm through Draco’s. She hadn’t considered the fact that she could count on one hand the number of times they had touched in the history of ever, despite their warmth toward one another in recent months. Her stomach swooped only for a moment before she felt him relax into the touch, stride shifting to accommodate her nearness.
They approached the edge of the village, shops and storefronts giving way to the open and empty road leading back to the castle. Curiously, Neville began to branch off from the proper path, veering instead toward the fork leading toward the greenhouse. He held up an arm in a half-wave, giving them a sheepish grin.
“I’m gonna head back this way! I’ve actually got plans in a bit. Meeting a friend at the greenhouse!” he called over his shoulder, already moving far enough away to need to shout a bit.
Hermione looked at his retreating form, incredulous. “But it’s nearly midnight! Who could possibly need herbs at this hour?”
Neville didn’t deign to reply, only gave one last wave before moving out of ear shot. Well, that was strange. It certainly didn’t escape her notice that this was the second time Neville had conveniently had last-minute plans to run off to that left her and Draco alone together. Suddenly, the arm that was still looped through his felt much, much warmer.
She briefly considered regaining some space between them but realized she didn’t actually want to do that. She liked this. She liked him. She liked the warmth of his body and the spicy scent that tickled her nose every time his coat rustled with his movements. She liked the way he always let her set the pace so she didn’t have to feel awkward asking people to slow down. She liked the way he joked with her, his dry, sometimes covert sense of humor. She liked the comfort and ease between them, the way he made her feel like she could tell him absolutely anything, and he wouldn’t judge. He’d just give her that familiar small smile and motion for her to continue. She liked that he was so different from his former self, and, in a lot of ways, she also liked that he was still the same. He was all the best parts of himself, the parts that were ambitious and sharp and witty (and, yes, maybe a little bit poncey and proud), with none of the hatred and vitriol.
In recent weeks, Hermione had often found herself holding her breath at his words, just waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop. Waiting, maybe, for him to be the person she had thought he was for years. But it just…never came.
“Once again, I reiterate that one should never question the comings and goings of Neville Longbottom. A bit unpredictable, that one,” Draco drawled as they kept on.
“I swear, sometimes it feels like he exists on his own wavelength. Or like his mind speaks a completely different language than his mouth does.”
“I’m pretty sure Neville only knows English and dead languages,” he said, chuckling fondly. “The language of the plants is Latin, after all.”
“Well, he’s still got one over on me,” she admitted a bit peakishly. “I only know English.”
“Well, well, well, the insufferable swot isn’t a polyglot? Salazar, I’m shocked!” he teased.
Hermione scrunched her nose, pinching his side and using her grip on his arm to ensure he couldn’t get away. He yelped, more in surprise than true pain. “Oh, please! Like you can speak three languages, Malfoy!”
He glanced over at her, eyebrow raised. “Well, no, I don’t know three languages.”
“Ha! See? You are so quick to-”
“I know five.”
Hermione blinked. Her pace slowed to a stop, and she turned to look up up at Draco, bewildered and incredulous. “What?”
“I speak five languages,” he repeated, that small, smug smile lifting the edges of his lips. Oh, he was relishing this to be sure.
“No. No, there’s just no way.”
“I assure you. There is, indeed, a way. Apparently, money can buy happiness. Because my expensive education gave me the ability to speak five languages, and I’ve never felt happier than I do right now rubbing it in your face.”
She gasped in outrage. “You are, quite possibly, the worst person I’ve ever met!” she declared.
That small, smug grin only grew to show the gleam of his straight, white teeth in the moonlight. He wrapped his arm more tightly around hers where it was still seated snugly against his warm side and pulled her back into a walk. “I’m glad to hear that its ‘quite possibly’ and not ‘most definitely’.”
Hermione harrumphed but allowed him to lead her back down the path toward the castle, all her energy focused on relaxing her face and jaw. She knew she had a tendency to make a face much too similar to a pout when she was incensed like this. Ron had often nailed her for it, flicking the tip of her nose every time to remind her not to. She could indeed feel Draco’s eyes on her face now, and she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
Oh, what a bother it was to be a mature, functional adult.
“Five languages, eh? How did your arrogant little head not float right off your body from the sheer superiority?”
He hummed, punctuating it with a soft chuckle. His body buzzed pleasantly against her arm with it. “I suppose it very nearly did. I still remember passing my oral exams just before coming to Hogwarts and feeling so fucking smug about it. I practically cornered Cho Chang my first week, trying to converse with her in Mandarin.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed. “But…Cho doesn’t speak Chinese.”
“Oh, believe me. I am painfully aware.”
She cackled, her hand snaking up his arm to squeeze his bicep. Perhaps to comfort him? Perhaps to signal to him not to be embarrassed for something that happened so long ago? Unclear. His muscles were surprisingly toned, she noted. For an academic, he seemed to be fit.
“Oh, poor baby Draco!” she giggled.
“Poor Cho!” he choked.
She bumped her hip against his, an affectionate gesture meant to soothe. “Ah, the arrogance of an eleven-year-old Malfoy,” she sighed. “Gods, you must have been such a terror. At least your parents are cut of the same cloth and could whip you well into shape.”
“Trust me, I wasn’t much better at home,” he supplied, his voice trailing off into a bit of a pained grimace. “I definitely spent a good portion of my formative years thinking my mother was an imbecile because she could only speak English and wasn’t a Malfoy by blood. I was awful to her at times. I’m sure she feared the tyrant I would grow up to be.”
There was true regret in his voice. Regret and a twinge of pain. Longing. The desire to go back and make it right. She studied his profile for a moment, a cut of granite against the backdrop of the night sky. He didn’t look like a tyrant at all. No, he looked more like a benevolent king.
“So what changed?” she asked quietly. Because something had surely changed. The reverence with which he spoke of his mother now was in opposition to the spoiled brat of a boy in the story he’d just told.
His face was a study in emotions, a shifting spectrum of feeling. “She found a way to reach me. I suppose, transcending beyond English or Mandarin or Spanish or French or German. Some of the most important things she’s ever said to me haven’t been in words at all.”
“And what was it that she said?” A gentle question followed by a moment of silence, a tangible collection of thoughts.
“An open door,” he said finally. She waited for him to go on, to explain further. After a moment, he said, “I had always been afraid of the dark when I was little, but my father disapproved of my mother coddling me at all. He wanted me to be tough and independent. I eventually grew out of it well before my time at Hogwarts, but-”
His voice cracked a bit. Hermione’s arm tightened over his without thinking. He cleared his throat and continued.
“But then I started having nightmares when I was around sixteen, and they were especially bad when I was staying at the Manor.” He didn’t have to say why. She already knew. “I would wake up in a terror in the dark, not knowing where I was or what was happening. And almost on instinct, I would get up out of bed and go knock on my mother’s door. I’d always make up some excuse why I needed to talk to her at that hour. I never wanted to tell her the truth. But I think she always knew anyway because she started making sure the torches stayed lit in the hallway between our bedrooms. And she started leaving her door ajar so that I wouldn’t have to knock anymore. So that I could just come in and talk to her whenever I needed to. And after a while, I came to realize that really she was telling me that she was always going to be there for me. That no matter what, she was going to be my safe harbor. That her door was literally always open.”
She let his words hang between them, allowed herself to feel their weight in the air around her. The love of a mother. The plight of a son. She remembered how sick Draco had looked around that time, how she remembered thinking he was being eaten alive from something inside him. Maybe Narcissa saw it, too. Maybe she was doing everything she could to keep the monsters at bay.
Still, maybe she could’ve done more. Should’ve done more. Mothers are meant to protect their children. She should have taken her child away from it all, should have protected him better. But when Hermione looked back up at Draco, those thoughts melted away, burned out of existence by the devastation on his face, the love and grief she found there. He loved her. He missed her.
“Is she still? Your safe harbor, I mean. Is the door still open?” A quiet ask. A simple, impossible question. Hermione had guessed that it had been quite a while since Draco had seen his mother, but she had never before dared to broach the subject.
“I think the door is still open and will always be,” he said, taking a deep, strengthening breath. “But I hurt her quite a lot when I first got out of Azkaban. I isolated myself from her, refused to see her. I think she’s had a hard time forgiving me for that. When I see her now, it’s- It’s just different.”
Hermione didn’t reply, just allowed the feeling to wash over her. It was a feeling that she, of course, knew very well. Her own relationship with her parents was devastatingly complex, intricately sad. A Pandora’s box she would likely never deign to open. She knew what it was like to feel too damaged to be around others, knew in her heart that he had isolated for that very reason. She had done much the same when she went to America. He knew that she knew. And maybe that was the reason he was being so forthcoming, so painfully honest.
They continued on in a comfortable, if not a bit heavy, silence until they reached the castle entrance. For some reason, Hermione slowed to a stop again before the low steps leading up to the entrance foyer. The thought of stepping inside that grand, cavernous castle made her chest ache. Somehow, being out here under the light of the moon, enveloped in the warmth that Draco’s body provided was much cozier, much safer.
He glanced down at her, waiting for her to continue on, and when she didn’t, he said, “Do you want to take the long way ‘round?”
Hermione started a bit, the silence between them having been broken abruptly. “Oh, erm, yes. Yes, I think I’d like to take the long way.”
Draco nodded, not needing any sort of the explanation as he gently turned them toward the path leading around the side of the castle and toward the back where they could get to the entrance closest to their rooms. His arm gave hers a subtle squeeze, so subtle, in fact, that she was almost sure it had been an involuntary muscle twitch. Still, it comforted her. She knew he didn’t mind walking the long way, cold as it was.
They made idle chatter together as they walked - small, silly things that held little weight against their earlier conversations. It was a boon, she thought. A boon to have someone to discuss such heavy things and then be able to feel so wholly comfortable. To be able to pour her heart out or vice versa and then crack a joke about the phallic shape of the treacle tarts at dinner last night. To be able to walk with someone who instinctively understood her need for a slower pace, even if he didn’t fully understand why. After a bit, she realized her lungs didn’t even hurt. She wasn’t out of breath. She could walk and converse comfortably with him because he was giving her the time and space she needed to go her own pace. The realization released something warm in her chest that seeped down her arms, her legs, into her lower belly.
Godric, he smelled so nice. Had he always smelled so nice? She remembered catching his scent that first time he had come looking for her in her classroom all those weeks ago. Months now. Hermione realized that, maybe, that was the first time she’d actually been close enough to him to notice something like that. And she realized, too, that she maybe wanted to be even closer.
She considered this, considered turning her body to pull him into a full embrace. Considered burying her nose in the lapel of his jacket, his chest, the nape of his neck. Gods, she could live and die and be remade again just along the column of that long neck. She considered what he would do if she tried to kiss him. Would he push her away? Would he pull her closer? Would he scoff in disgust? Or would he moan into her mouth the way she wanted him to?
Hermione blinked several times, giving her head a subtle shake as they neared the rear entrance to the castle. What was she thinking? How could she be considering jumping Draco Malfoy?
He glanced over at her again now, reading her face as they approached the castle once more. “Are you quite alright? You sort of trailed off there in the middle of a thought.”
Heat bloomed on her cheeks and the tips of her ears as she realized she had, indeed, trailed off a bit in the middle of a sentence to consider the merits of climbing his body like a tree. “Oh, yes. I-” She paused. “I think I just realized that I still don’t want to go in just yet.” And she realized that now, it was for a very different reason. She wouldn’t mind going back inside now. The unbidden ghosts that had called to her at the main entrance had less sway over her here. No, now it was that she simply could not- would not- didn’t want to let go of Draco.
He nodded like he had anticipated this and once again steered them away from the castle and down an adjoining path, this time down toward the greenhouse. She didn’t even have to ask him to walk with her; he seemed to just know what she wanted. “Let’s take another lap, then.”
So they did.
They walked and chatted, speaking amiably about their friends and their loved ones and their recent histories. He wanted to know about her time in America, and she wanted to know about his time as a teacher. And nothing was off-limits, nothing was uncomfortable or strange between them. They simply existed perfectly well side-by-side, wanting for nothing from one another but still gaining exactly what they needed.
As they made their second lap around the greenhouse, Hermione realized she saw two dark figures silhouetted against the dim lights inside the building. Her first thought was that two men were burgling the greenhouse, pilfering the plants for rare and valuables. But then she gasped when she realized that no. No. Neville had said he was meeting someone at the greenhouse. And the two figures she could see against that shadowed glass were certainly not stealing anything. They were- Oh, Gods.
Draco seemed to realize it in the same moment she did, his body stiffening slightly as he took in the vague but somehow obscenely specific forms through the window. He blinked, his cheeks flushing slightly as he veered them off and away from the greenhouse and down back toward the Black Lake.
“What do you say for a stroll around the lake instead?” he choked.
She practically cackled at his utter embarrassment, the clear flush of pink skin across his nose and up the sides of his neck. She remembered him saying he was rather conservative in that department, but she hadn’t realized he was quite so prudish.
“What’s the matter, Malfoy? Has a cat got your tongue?” she teased.
He huffed, rolling his eyes as he grumbled, “You are by far the most insufferable witch I’ve ever met.”
“You love it,” she preened as she squeezed tighter against his side to stave off the chilly wind rolling over the Black Lake. He said nothing in return, but his response was as clear to her as if he had said the words aloud.
He didn’t let go of her arm.
Notes:
Content warnings: mention of light bullying (sort of?), mention of strained parental relationship, VERY vague mention of a sexual act
If you're still here reading this, THANK YOU! I love you all. I do this for the love of it, but it's encouraging to know that there are people out there who are enjoying this.
If you want to stay posted on me and my works while also getting occasional funny content related to fanfiction, please follow me on socials! I'll drop links to my Instagram and Reddit! Also, if any of you here loved my other shorter fic, Feral, I have an epilogue in the works, and I'm hoping to post it sometime before the holidays! So stay tuned for that AND some exciting news concerning Feral will be announced with the epilogue as well! Woohoo!
Much love,
Cass
Chapter 11: Upon the Stair
Notes:
Hi, friends!!
Back so soon! Shoutout to my handful of readers, I'm so grateful for you all!! Please enjoy this mixture of angst and funnies. I apologize to those of you who thought this would be a rom-com... Mostly because I TOLD you it would be a rom-com. And it sort of is!! But I just feel like these characters are so much more complex than the original storyline I had in mind. They deserve to be fully fleshed out.
Content warnings in the end notes! This is another pretty angsty, dark chapter! Please be aware, especially if you have triggers!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there again today.
I wish, I wish he’d go away…”
-Antigonish, Hughes Mearns
~5 June 1999~
The pain was grounding, gratifying even. Draco had never been interested in harming himself before, and the truth of the matter was that he wasn’t really interested in harming himself now. No, what he sought was reckoning. Absolution. Penance. Some way to balance the great shift he’d caused in the world. Some way to feel like he was still getting what he deserved.
He watched the tip of his wand press further into the scorched skin of his arm, felt the magic rise up within him as he whispered the enchantment again. The burst of searing pain followed by the rush of purpose. The knowledge that this was the right thing to do. He looked on as the burn marks spread, covering most of his left forearm by now. All but that cursed, infernal tattoo, still perfect and new like the day he’d gotten it. Neither magic nor common means could mar that Mark he so detested. No matter what he did, he couldn’t seem to get it to go away.
And he had tried so many things to get it to go away.
The skin around the Mark was now gnarled and twisted, covered in wounds new and old, while the tattoo itself stayed perfectly intact. All of his work had only succeeded in calling more attention to it, setting the pristine tattoo starkly against the destroyed skin around it. He would have to start using a Disillusionment.
He sighed and stood from where he’d been perched on the edge of his bed, snatching up a potion to speed the healing and downing it in one swallow. He set his wand on the desk opposite his bed and scribbled a note for himself in the notebook McGonagall had given him upon his request, crossing out “Incendio” from a long list on the previous page. He still had such a long way to go.
The door to his bedroom creaked open to his left with little preamble and certainly no permission for anyone to enter. He stiffened, hiding his left arm in the loose folds of his robes as he turned to face whoever was intruding. His room was set high in an abandoned tower of the castle, so it wasn’t like anyone could simply wander in. There was intent required.
“Knock knock, motherfucker. I’m coming in.”
Draco blinked in an attempt to process what he was seeing. Blaise Zabini was now standing in his doorway, silhouetted by the dim light of the hallway behind him. He hadn’t seen Zabini since his mother had pulled him out of school halfway through seventh year. He had gone home for Christmas, and his family had simply not allowed him to return. Probably for the best, anyway. His friend had written him, of course - once a week for the rest of the school year, stating in his letters that he had nothing better to do anyway. Then the Battle.
Then Azkaban.
Blaise had tried to write, had sent letter after letter in the post. Draco had even opened a few of them at the beginning. But then it had all started to feel so hopeless, the color had drained away from his world until it was nothing but gray. Gray stone walls. Gray prison robes. Gray skin on pallid inmates. Empty, gray eyes looking back at him in the mirror. He’d stopped opening any of the letters he got. What would be the point?
He hadn’t gotten word from anyone since coming to Hogwarts. His release from prison had been heavily publicized, but his presence at the school was strictly need-to-know. The only people who knew he was truly here were Hagrid and the Headmistress. He might as well have been another ghost floating through the castle. So it was indeed a surprise when his friend from years ago stepped through his threshold.
And Blaise looked…angry. Furious, even.
“Two years,” Zabini hissed. “Two years. Hundreds of letters. I’ve sent you hundreds of letters, Malfoy, and you don’t have the decency to write a three-word missive to tell me where you are? To tell me you’re safe?”
Draco reared back, a little taken by the man’s vehemence. His head was swimming with the sudden nearness of someone he had so beloved, someone he thought he would never see again. He was dizzy from the pain boiling through his left arm, and suddenly his belly ached. When was the last time he’d eaten anything?
“I didn’t think-”
“No, that’s right. You didn’t think,” Blaise went on, not letting him finish. “I had to hear about your release in the papers, Draco. The papers! And you know what? That’s fine. I could’ve understood that. The chaos of the sudden ruling, it would’ve been a lot. I get that.” Blaise was stalking into the room now, moving toward Draco with a furious energy he had never seen on him before. Blaise was always the carefree jester, great for a joke but not so much a serious conversation. “So I visit the Manor. I talk to your mum, and you know what she tells me?” Blaise was nose-to-nose with him now, his angry, dark gaze boring into Draco. His friend paused, almost like he truly wanted an answer.
Draco stayed silent.
“She tells me that you. Aren’t. There,” he said, enunciating each word like it was a knife through his chest instead. “She tells me you never came home with her, refused to come home with her. She had no idea where you were, Draco. She had no idea if you were dead or alive, and she said the state you were in when you got out was so horrible. So horrible, she thought you might have-”
Blaise’s words choked off, cut from existence by the tightening of his throat. He couldn’t say them, couldn’t utter the words. Draco watched with mute horror as his friend’s dark eyes filled with tears, the moisture limning his lower lids before spilling over one by one onto his cheeks. This wasn’t real. Zabini didn’t cry.
This wasn’t real. Had he made this up in his head, too?
“She thought you might have taken your own life, Draco! She was so distraught, she hired a private investigator to find you!” Blaise was shouting now, his earlier difficulty gone. The tears still fell, though. Okay, still not real, then. “And what good that lot did, since I found you first. And do you know how I found you? Do you know how I knew my best friend was holed up in a tower in our old school alone?”
Draco just blinked at him, waiting. It didn’t matter what he said. This conversation wasn’t really happening anyway. His best friend wasn’t standing in his bedroom, screaming at him over his lack of forthcoming communication. Maybe he wasn’t even here either. Which was strange because Draco felt like he was here. The pain in his arm told him he was here, at least. But maybe not. Maybe he would float away at any moment, tossed unmoored into the wind.
Could someone be simultaneously here and not here?
Blaise ripped a sheet of paper from the pocket of his robes and thrust it at Draco’s chest, thumping him right over the breastbone where his heart was still steadily beating beneath. Draco stumbled back, grabbing up the crumpled paper before it could flutter to the floor. He gently smoothed the wrinkled edges, his fingers numb and clumsy. How long had his fingers been numb?
“I had to hear about it from that stupid oaf who maimed you third year! I had to hear about it from someone who barely knows you!” his friend seethed through clenched teeth. His tears were falling more steadily now, his chest hitching with the effort to keep his composure.
Draco blinked and let his eyes fall on the parchment in his hands, his gaze lazily scanning the page. It was, indeed, from Hagrid. The poor penmanship and frequent misspellings were evidence enough. The letter was short, more of a note. More of a plea. To Blaise. To help him. To be here.
Draco’s own vision swam as he looked down on that note, as he held the page and ran his fingers over the soft, crinkled texture. Like it had been balled up and reopened over and over and over. A dark spot appeared against those inked words, a drop of moisture against the dry parchment. He reached up to touch his cheek. It was wet.
Blaise’s eyes widened as his gaze fixed on something near his chest. Draco looked down and realized the sleeve of his robes had fallen down when he’d reached up to seek the evidence of his tears. That sick, gnarled skin fell exposed to the open air. To Blaise’s discerning gaze.
His friend snatched up his wrist, gripping so hard he felt the bones creak as Blaise pulled his arm further into the light to see it better. Draco looked away. He knew what he would see - the twisting scars. The burn marks new and old. The dark veins that snaked out from around the Mark. He couldn’t bear to see the look on his friend’s face when he saw. Couldn’t bear to absorb the emotions of someone else when that well within him was already so full, was sloshing at the edges and practically overflowing.
How could he be simultaneously so full and so empty? It didn’t make sense. A paradox. Like a man who was and wasn’t there.
In the end, he didn’t have to see Blaise’s face to know. He could feel it. It was coming off from his body in waves. The grief. The anger. The pain. So, so much pain. He’d just wanted to feel it, feel that pain somewhere in his body. He’d just wanted the score to be settled, the board to be even. He’d just wanted to stop feeling like he didn’t deserve to breathe.
“I wasn’t trying to actually hurt myself,” he lied, his voice sounding thready even to his own ears. “I just wanted to try to get rid of the Mark. I’m documenting my experiments.”
Blaise didn’t say anything, just took a heaving breath and pulled him into a shaking, squeezing hug. Draco stiffened against the contact, almost wanting to pull away. He and Blaise had hugged before, of course. But now? The touch was so foreign to him it almost hurt. Like digging a blade into an old wound that had long ago scarred over.
“Stop. Just…stop,” Blaise sobbed into his shoulder. “Gods fucking dammit.”
And it was the desolation in his friend’s voice, the absolute devastation that had him relaxing into the embrace. That had his arms coming up to snake around the other man’s shoulders, had his fingers digging into the fabric of his robes. He let the feeling sink into his bones. Being held. Being touched. Being seen. Maybe Blaise was really here after all. Maybe so was he.
The realization had fresh, hot tears flowing down his cheeks and soaking into the fabric on Blaise’s shoulder. It had him saying the first real thing he’d said in weeks. Months. Maybe ever.
“I just don’t know what to do with it all,” Draco croaked, his throat suddenly so, so dry. When had he last had a glass of water? This morning maybe? “I don’t know where to put it.”
Blaise pulled away, not bothering to wipe the tears from his face. Those dark eyes searched his intently. Perhaps searching for an explanation. Perhaps ensuring he was still there. “Do with what?”
Draco reached up a hand to grasp at the shirt covering his chest, his fingers twisting beneath the fabric to dig into the skin below. He felt his heart beating steadily in his chest, still thumping away despite the mortal wound he cradled in his rib cage like a cherished relic. He didn’t know how to answer, really. Didn’t know what words could encompass it. So he just said, “All of this. All of me.”
Blaise seemed to understand, though, because he pulled Draco back into that crushing embrace and said, “I’ll take it. Give it to me. I’ll hold it for you.”
He found his head moving, found himself nodding against Blaise’s shoulder in agreement. Found himself staring blankly into the still-open doorway, the empty space beyond. The spiral staircase that led down from his tower. Similar to another spiral staircase he knew. Another person who was there but not.
“Tell me something real, Blaise.” For he could not spend one more second not knowing. He didn’t know specifically what he needed to hear, just knew that he needed to hear it. The next words out of his friend’s mouth were the last ones he ever expected. Maybe he’d never heard them at all.
“I love you,” Blaise sobbed, his arms tightening, like he was trying to keep Draco from falling apart in front of him. Like he was trying to drag him out of that great pit from within, the one Draco had carved himself every time he had fallen down down down. Those words fell into that hollow space within, a dark echo chamber.
I love you.
I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you
They hollowed out in his ears, stretching thin like a string pulled too tight. They wrapped around his heart and held taut. An anchor. A noose. A savior. A doomed man. A drop in the ocean. A howl into the wind.
It was enough.
~16 December 2006~
“I’m telling you, it’s disgusting!” Blaise howled, collapsing back into his chair to gaze up at the ceiling and presumably plead to any gods who would listen. “I’ve never seen Theo like this. He’s not usually so...well...disgusting!”
Draco snorted, eyes staying on his work as he continued grading essays. He could still see Blaise in his periphery, slouching dramatically into that poor chair and flinging an arm up over his eyes. “If it’s so disgusting, then don’t watch,” he drawled absently.
“Ugh, I can’t. They’re everywhere. Anytime I want to hang out with Theo, his little boyfriend is there. And they’re still in that puppy love stage, so they’re all over each other and it’s just…” Blaise’s voice trailed off as he searched his mind for the right word.
“Disgusting?” Draco supplied.
“Yes!”
Draco hummed, scratching a note into the margin of his student’s DADA essay. The kid’s information about animagi was entirely inaccurate. He thought of Granger’s own student’s essay from the other week and smiled at the memory of her exasperated face. That little furrow she got between her brows when she was dumbfounded. Or angry. Or thinking. Really, that little divot was a permanent resident on her forehead, and Draco found himself absurdly distracted at the thought.
“Well, it sounds like you might be a touch jealous, Blaise,” he murmured into his work, his mind still swirling through images of her. She was just so lovely. Like a crisp autumn day. Even her hair, with its notes of burnished bronze and deep honey, reminded him of the fall. His favorite time of year was when the autumn leaves turned the color of those multitudinous tresses.
Blaise scoffed, outraged. “I am not jealous,” he seethed, like the notion was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “I am simply unwilling to lose the contents of my stomach every time I want to see my friend.” Draco glanced up just in time to catch the scowl twisting his friend’s face, the drama he threw into it making Draco chuckle. “No, if I were jealous, you would know it.”
Draco lifted a pale brow. “Oh?”
“Yes. There would be a lot more arson involved.”
He gave the other man an incredulous look, a puff of air giving way to another soft laugh. “Don’t you go setting any fires now, Blaise.”
The dark-skinned man squinted back at him, brandishing his wand from his pocket and letting loose a shower of sparks that peppered the air around them. Draco huffed in outrage as a stray ember singed the sleeve of his work robes. “My mummy didn’t name me ‘Blaze’ for nothing.”
A pounding of footsteps came in the corridor outside followed by a hurried female figure dashing through his half-open door, her arms full up with books and scrolls and loose parchment. She didn’t bother knocking or asking permission to enter, which meant it could only be one person.
“Draco, I’ve been doing a lot of research for this extracurricular for the students, and-” She stopped dead in her tracks as she noticed Blaise lounging in front of his desk like it was his office and not Draco’s. “Oh, hello, Zabini,” she said, cheeks flushing prettily. She glanced down at her appearance momentarily, her eyes then darting around the room before landing back on them. “I apologize. Was I interrupting something? Usually you’re just grading papers right now.”
He felt Blaise stiffen infinitesimally before relaxing back into his usual carefree demeanor. It was a tick that most people probably wouldn’t have noticed, but he knew his friend too well to miss a single thing. “Well, if it isn’t swotty Granger back from the courtroom. Say, where’s that gavel you had the last time I saw you? I was dearly hoping you’d whack Dray upside the head with it, but now I have another target for you.”
Hermione Granger paused for a moment before a small, amused smile curled the edges of her lips. “I’ve got it back in my room if you need it. It isn’t too late to put a hit out on Draco.”
“No, no. I’m going to need you to render that Longbottom fellow unconscious. Then maybe Theo will extricate his tongue from his mouth long enough to have drinks with me. Although now that I think about it, maybe that wouldn’t even be enough to stop him.”
“Alright,” Draco interrupted, throwing Blaise a stern look. “That’s enough discussion of doling out head trauma. To me or to Neville.” He turned to Hermione. “He’s just upset that the attention isn’t all on him anymore.”
“Rightly so! I’m the most deserving of all the attention.”
“That you are, Blaise,” he conceded, his eyes still roaming over the disheveled woman standing in the middle of his office. “You’re early for your normal weekly commandeering of my office. My chair wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow afternoon.”
She blinked at him, seeming to remember why she’d come in in the first place. “Oh, right,” she said, setting her messy armful on the edge of his immaculately neat desk, neat no longer. Oh well. “I know we’ve talked about it a bit in passing, but we’re nearing the end of the term, and I want to get planning in full swing for that extracurricular we’re both putting on for the fifth years? The, erm-” She seemed to grapple for the words. “The battle royale, I suppose I’ll call it.”
“Well, that’s my cue,” Blaise muttered as he rose from his chair, sighing dramatically as he stood like it pained him. Draco rolled his eyes. “Anything academic just sounds like ‘blah blah blah’ in my ears. Boring.”
He pushed past Hermione, heading toward the door and slipping the outermost layers of his robes back on to keep warm in the chill winter air. “Ta ta!” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll see you for Christmas, Dray.”
Draco called a farewell after him before fixing his attention fully back on Hermione. “Sorry, he’s honestly usually much nicer and less… well… less. I think Theo’s new relationship has him in a tiff.”
“No, gods, he’s honestly so justified. I tried to get drinks with Theo, Neville, and Luna a week or two ago, and it was a complete nightmare. I ended up chatting with Luna the whole night and trying desperately to pretend that Neville and Theo weren’t practically shagging at the same table. It was diabolical. They need to be stopped.”
He laughed, genuinely laughed, at the thought. Theo never had cared for what people thought, and Longbottom was likely so caught up in the moment that he hadn’t much cared either. A dangerous combination in a public place. “I think it’s nice,” he admitted. “I’m happy for them.”
She made a face. He laughed harder.
“When did you become such a romantic?” Hermione grumbled. Her nose was still slightly scrunched with disgust from recalling Neville and Theo’s public display, and she had a smudge of ink on her chin. It threw the freckles on the lower half of her face in stark relief, reminding him of the constellations that splattered against the night sky. The very same one he’d been named after.
When had he become such a romantic? The answer was easy, of course. He considered for a moment telling her the truth. Telling her how he had felt long ago, what he had set aside and folded away for eight years. What was now awakening again in his chest like a dragon cracking open a great eye after years of hibernation. She’d been acting differently toward him of late, after all. She’d been seeking out his company regularly, had seemed to like spending time with him. She seemed…comfortable somehow. These last few months when he’d gone to steal a look at her in a busy moment, to drink her in in a crowded room, he often found her gaze already upon him. Watching. It felt like she was seeing him.
But then he let reality rush back in, allowed his world to realign with the truth of things. The likelihood that she might actually want him was so, so low. Low enough that he couldn’t risk it, couldn’t risk this beautiful, comfortable ease between them. He would rather take her in sip by sip and slowly die of thirst than try to slake it and lose it all.
No, someone like her didn’t belong with someone like him. She deserved someone who wasn’t a war criminal. Someone who had never hurled insults at her. Someone she could look at and be proud of.
So instead, he said, “I don’t know. Maybe I’ve gotten soft in my old age.”
She tilted her head, squinting at him as if she were trying to make out the shape of him. “You know, I do think I saw a gray hair on your temple the other day.”
He scowled, subtly smoothing back the hair on his temples and promising himself he would double check in the mirror later. He knew she was just baiting him, but his paranoia wouldn’t allow him to resist. “I know you’re not serious, but that was still a wicked thing to say.”
She laughed and came around his desk to perch on the edge of it right next to where his left arm rested atop it. His eyes were immediately drawn to the long, smooth lines of her legs as they dangled in the air beneath where she now sat. Her skirt, normally a modest length, had ridden up dangerously, leaving half of her thighs exposed. She widened her legs slightly before crossing them, and he felt his head go fuzzy. When she reached out a warm, delicate hand to pry the quill from his, he thought he might combust. Indeed, a bead of sweat trickled its way down the back of his neck.
Oh, Merlin.
Something felt…different about her. Only just. Like she’s been teetering on the edge of something for a long time and had only just decided on which side to fall. She felt more confident somehow, too. He swallowed thickly and looked up at her, making a concerted effort to let nothing show on his face. How horrifying it would be. How embarrassing if she knew just how much he wanted her. Had always wanted her.
“Say, this is rather nice,” she mused. “I think I like looking down on you like this. I should do it more often.”
The thought of her looking down on him, perched in his lap, her eyes heavy-lidded and needy. The thought of her grinding down upon him as he thrust upward-
Oh, Salazar. No no no.
He grappled with his thoughts, clawed at each one in an attempt to get them under control. Even so, he could feel his body already reacting to the ideas his imagination had wrought. It was ridiculous. It was like he was a preteen again and just discovering how wanking worked. He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, ensuring his lower body would stay hidden by his desk from her view.
“Your fantasies are getting out of hand, Granger,” he rasped. “You’d have to gain another eight inches at least to be taller than me.”
The smile that edged her mouth now was razor sharp. Truly, he’d never seen her look quite so predatory. It set his pulse ratcheting higher and the heat crawling up his collar. She dragged her eyes down over him in a manner that could only be described as flirtatious. “Eight inches you say?” she drawled, leaning forward ever so slightly.
What was happening? Was this real? Had he fallen into an alternate universe where shy, nerdy Hermione Granger was an insatiable flirt and was moreover interested in him? It was all so unlike her that he momentarily considered the option that someone might have polyjuiced to look like her. Or maybe she’d accidentally ingested a brain-altering parasite that was now in control of her thoughts and actions. Or perhaps she was some sort of adult changeling. Surely the idea that she’d been snatched away and replaced by the fae was more likely than Hermione Jean Granger blatantly flirting with not an ounce of hesitation.
Or maybe he was entirely misunderstanding the situation. Maybe he was misinterpreting everything she’d said. Yes, that was a reasonable explanation. Best to change the subject.
“So! The project?” he asked, his voice coming out as more of a squeak then he would’ve liked. Talk about preteen regression.
Her face brightened, shifting from keen interest to excited delight. “Oh, yes!” she agreed, hopping off his desk and moving back to shuffle through some of the papers she’d come in with. Merciful Merlin. “I’ve been doing lots of research on the Dark Forest-”
“Forbidden,” he interjected.
“What?”
“The Forbidden Forest, Granger. So named because it is, in fact, forbidden.”
She rolled her eyes and went back to the papers at hand. “Oh, pish posh. If it were truly forbidden, Dumbledore wouldn’t have had us tromping around there at night as fucking first years.”
He opened his mouth to reply. Then closed it. She, as always, had a point.
“Anyway,” she went on, unbothered by the interruption. “So I’ve been researching the various flora they could possibly scavenge as well as any little creatures that might be valuable for potions as well, and I think I’ve got a points system set up, but I wanted your input.”
They chattered on back and forth for a time, negotiating the terms of the game as they saw fit. They surprisingly agreed on most things, dissenting only on the value of certain forageable items and then again on the rules of dueling between students.
“Stinging jinxes should be allowed!” she argued, a little more impassioned than he’d thought possible. “They’re fifth years. They shouldn’t just be relying on expelliarmus anymore.”
Draco huffed, incredulous. “I don’t think the students should be allowed to hurt each other, Granger. That seems rather irresponsible.”
She rolled her eyes and said, “Oh, please. The kids on the Quidditch teams experience far worse from the game items, much less the other players. And I’m not saying they have to use them or that they should be malicious about it. But I think it should be allowed at least. Nothing worse than a little wheal on your opponent, or you’re disqualified.”
He sighed, already relenting. “Fine, but if one of the students pokes an eye out, I’m forcing you to call the parents to explain.”
She nodded in agreement. “That only seems fair, I suppose. Alright, now that’s all settled, I wanted to show you the three dimensional model I made of the game course.”
He felt his brows raise in surprise. But of course she would go above and beyond what any normal witch would do. Of course she would craft a model of the playing field to better visualize it. His true confusion didn’t come until she started gathering up her armful of books and papers and making like she was about to leave.
“Where are you going?”
She glanced back at him to call over a shoulder, “Well, I can’t just bring the model with me. It’s much to big to carry. I’ve been working in the library all day, so it’s still sitting up there on one of the study tables.”
He stood from his chair and moved to follow her, snagging his wand from where he’d set it aside on his desk to grade papers and sliding it into an inner pocket in his robes. “You actually, very literally could carry it here. With magic. You could use a levitation spell or shrink it down so it fits in your pocket. Truly, your options outnumber your issues. In fact, why aren’t you just levitating all those books instead of carrying them around? Or you could at least-”
“Oh, stop being such a know-it-all, Malfoy,” she grumbled irritably. “It’s incredibly annoying. Not everyone wants to use magic for every little mundane thing. You might as well just levitate yourself everywhere instead of walking or use a charm to teleport food to your stomach instead of actually swallowing it. It’s a slippery slope.”
It didn’t escape his notice that she’d called him ‘Malfoy’ this time. She must be cross indeed. A slow, satisfied smile unfurled over his mouth as he realized that she hadn’t even considered it. The thought to shrink it down or levitate it hadn’t even crossed her brilliant mind, and she was irritated that she hadn’t thought of it before he had.
“Alright, Granger. Off to the library we go, then. On two legs. Walking like peasants,” he teased.
But quickly that smug satisfaction melted away into anxiety as he realized he was going to the library. With Hermione Granger. He’d be in the Hogwarts library. With her. He steadied the fluttering in his stomach, controlled his breaths so as to keep calm. It would be fine. It was a large library, after all. No need to panic. No reason to think he would have to face such a twisted part of his mind and see her there in it. Where she’d always been.
But soon, they passed through the doors to the library and began to move through the familiar stacks and deeper to that back corner where he knew that spiral staircase would be. He knew where it would lead. He knew what he would see. She had favored this space as much as he had, after all. It was why she’d so easily inhabited it.
A terrible numbness fell over his body as the staircase came into view. As he watched her start to climb it. As he stepped upon it behind her. It was the kind of numbness that swept away all the rest, the kind of cold that consumed. It landed like a stone in his gut, weighing down his extremities until he felt like he was carved from granite instead of made of flesh and blood and bone.
That summer after seventh year when Voldemort’s presence had been thick in the Manor, and he’d been desperate for any kind of escape, Draco had sometimes stolen away to the Muggle world. A sin he knew would go unforgiven if discovered. But he’d taken the risk. He’d stumbled through London, looking for anything to divert his mind. And he’d found a small bookshop on the corner of two bustling streets. Somehow, it still seemed calm and quiet and inviting, especially in comparison to the overwhelming crowds outside.
He’d found a comfortable corner and had read book after book, often buying one or two to hide beneath a floorboard in his bedroom. Some of his favorite reads had been tellings of old Greek mythology. The idea of gods and goddesses, almighty beings that could smite you down with just a flick of the wrist. It had fascinated him, called to him. Is that what Muggles felt like in the face of magic? To be powerless against those who would wield an impossible might?
He’d read all the popular stories and even some that weren’t. And now, standing near the top of that spiral staircase looking on as the woman before him inhabited the space that had saved and doomed him both, watching on as his limbs grew heavier by the second, he thought of Sisyphus. A king doomed to an impossible task. A man cursed to roll a boulder uphill for all eternity, unable to reach the top before his strength failed him. Before the rock went tumbling back down down down. His body felt cold, his mind whirling with the effort to keep himself grounded. To keep himself here and not there. He was here, not there. He was here. He was here. He was here.
She turned back to him, eyes bright as she gestured to something sitting on a table up there. He wasn’t sure what he looked like in that moment, stiff and frozen near the top of the staircase but unable to make it all the way to the top, but he watched her face as it scrunched in confusion. As her head tilted, and she said something directly to him.
But he couldn’t hear it. His ears were full of cotton, and his bones were made of lead. Her image flickered back and forth between the Hermione now and the version of her he’d known here. Talked with here. Held here. Loved here.
Salazar, she was so beautiful. How had he ever thought her plain? How had he ever looked upon her face, her body, her curves and not shaken with desire? Both visions of her, both images were equally lovely. Equally terrible.
She was moving toward him now, her hand reaching out to grasp a shoulder. To shake him maybe? To draw him into an embrace? That would feel so nice, he imagined. Her body would be warm and soft and small. Not like the hulking mass of stone he was currently trying to keep propped up.
She never reached him, though. Her fingers were just shy of grazing his robes when he tipped back and let the stone fall.
Notes:
Content warnings: major depression, self-harm (depiction, not terribly graphic), rehashing of major trauma, heavily implied unrequited love, Blaise Zabini being awesome and also a little shit because I love him, and he contains multitudes
Thank you SO MUCH for reading!! I love you all! Specific shoutout to Charliebnim for being my DAY ONE BITCH. Ilysm.
I will link my socials for anyone who wants to follow me! I'm most active on Instagram, and I love to yap if anyone wants to chat! Instagram is here! And Reddit is here!
Much love,
Cass
Chapter 12: I Found
Notes:
Hello, my lovelies!
We're back with another chapter woot woot!! I'm sooooo excited for this one because things are starting to pick up, and this is where I start to get excited for just how DELICIOUS this story will be going forward. We had to build up to it, okay? I'm not good at slow burn, so I present to you: medium burn.
This chapter goes out to any of my fellow STEM lords and ladies. Hopefully at least a handful of you are here reading this with me, and as I dutifully ignore a hard deadline for my PhD program to write this, my heart lies with you.
Content warnings in the end notes as always! Nothing too bad this week, though. Much less angst!
Here are my socials if you don't want to scroll to the bottom: Instagram and Reddit
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be,
Right in front of me.
Talk some sense to me.”
-I Found, Amber Run
~16 December 2006~
Hermione cried out as Draco fell backward down the stairs from which they’d just come. She lunged to grab for him, to try to slow his fall in any way she could, but she was too slow. His body tumbled down the stairs, rolling limply until he came to a crashing stop at the bottom. She heard herself calling his name, heard herself gasp as she saw the blood leaking from a gash in his brow, felt a small, hot tear draw a burning track down her cheek. She stumbled down after him, scrambling to reach him where he lay in a crumpled heap.
“Draco? Draco!” she called, falling to her knees and shaking his shoulders in an attempt to rouse him. His eyelids fluttered for a second, and a low groan sounded from the back of his throat. She pulled his head into her lap and fished out a handkerchief from her cloak to press against the bleeding gash on his head. It was dripping steadily now, red soaking into the fabric of her skirt. “Draco, please wake up. I’m begging you.”
But then she remembered she was a witch with powerful fucking magic and cursed herself for forgetting it in her panic. The pure plainness of her unmagical upbringing, unmagical parents, unmagical bloodline had never bothered her before. It had never truly affected her in any way that mattered. But it did her a disservice that day, her brain hitting a factory reset in her white, hot despair and forgetting the very existence of the one thing that could help the most.
She whispered a curse and whipped her wand out of the inner pocket of her robes, pointing it at his brow. “Vulnera Sanentur,” she murmured, ensuring her pronunciation was as crisp and perfect as it had been in Snape’s mouth the day she’d first heard the healing spell. Rapidly, the gash disappeared, the blood flowing back upward to find its home in his veins once more. She waited a moment after the wound was fully healed before shaking him again. Still he did not rouse.
She let out a frustrated groan and cast a corporeal patronus to find both Neville and Madame Pomfrey, urging them to come quickly. The two bright lights shot off from the tip of her wand, illuminating the stacks of books as they flew away to find their targets. She turned back to reassess Draco only for her heart to stutter in relief as she found his eyelids slowly cracking open, his gaze lifting to fix upon her. His gray eyes widened when he saw her, his tight pupils expanding into the iris and darkening his gaze. He blinked slowly, his throat working as he studied her face.
“Oh, Merlin, you’re awake!” she choked, her throat thick with emotion. “Thank god, I had no idea-”
The words died in her throat as he reached up a steady hand and brushed the backs of his knuckles down her cheek, tracing the hot line of her earlier tears. And his eyes. Oh, Merlin those eyes. Still locked on hers, pupils still blown with some emotion she couldn’t begin to name. He looked up at her reverently, like she was a goddess and he her acolyte. Like she was the beginning and the end of the world as he knew it. She had never been gazed upon in such a way before, had never known the warmth of such a look. It cracked something vital in her chest wide open.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, that steady hand tracing down the planes of her face to draw soft circles against the skin of her neck. Hermione felt her blood heat, a steady flush flooding her cheeks and her chest and her stomach. It was the utter rawness, the complete and total truth that had her own hand snaking up to cup his cheek and swipe her thumb over his stubbled jawline. His lashes fluttered at the contact, his cheek pressing into her touch. “You’re both so, so beautiful,” he whispered as he let his eyelids fall closed again, heavy, as his hand slipped from her face.
She froze, all the warmth within her bleeding away as she realized that he’d hit his head far harder than she thought if he was seeing double. He must still be disoriented, confused from the mighty fall he’d just taken. She mentally lashed herself for practically coming on to a man with a traumatic head injury and shook herself to clear the brain fog, looking up just in time to see Neville barreling through the nearly empty library toward them, Madame Pomfrey hot on his heels.
Her shoulders fell in relief, her hand coming up to swipe the hair back from his sticky forehead. “It’s okay, Draco. You’re going to be okay. I’m here.”
He didn’t respond in so many words, simply mumbled something groggily at her and threaded his fingers absently through her robes, gripping her closer to him. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been trying to tell her something important.
The next few hours were controlled chaos. Neville had helped her and Pomfrey half drag Draco to the hospital wing, still disoriented as he was, and after downing a few potions and receiving a healing charm, Draco was awake and coherent enough to be somewhat combative. His cheeks had flushed crimson when he’d fully come to and realized what had happened, claiming he hadn’t eaten enough today and had simply fainted from good, old-fashioned low blood sugar. Hermione got the distinct impression he was mortified by the whole ordeal, taking rather poorly to Neville’s frantic concern and Pomfrey’s poking and prodding.
The tenderness she’d seen in his eyes just an hour or two earlier had frosted over, his gaze tracking their movements with an icy sort of detachment she hadn’t seen on him in ages. Hermione couldn’t explain it, but he seemed to be falling inward somehow. The spark that she typically saw alight in his eyes was notably absent, his mouth a thin line and his face drawn.
Madame Pomfrey tried to insist he stay the night in the hospital wing, but Draco simply shook his head and rose from the bed where she’d been treating him. The healer called after him as he stalked toward the door, saying something about head wounds being tricky and not allowing himself to sleep for more than a few hours at a time for the first night. Hermione gave both the healer and Neville a tight smile and assured them she would ensure he was alright before rushing after him into the corridor.
“Draco!” she called out, picking up her pace to catch him as he walked stiffly and decidedly away from her. “Draco, wait up!”
He either didn’t hear her (and she was trying to cut him some slack due to the head trauma) or deigned to ignore her as he continued his brisk pace. She huffed and sped after him, her robes fluttering around her with the effort of her legs to catch up to him. She had closed maybe half the distance between them before her chest tightened up, and her lungs spasmed with the effort. She groaned inwardly with the aggravation, the limitations of her body, the frustration of always feeling left behind. She stuttered to a stop in the corridor, pausing to catch her breath, the air squeezing through tight lungs. A cough rattled her chest, and she grabbed her kerchief from her robes to muffle the sound but paused halfway to her lips when she realized it was still damp with Draco’s blood. Her chest squeezed a little tighter.
She looked back up, expecting to find herself alone in an empty corridor and was instead surprised to find that Draco had stopped walking. He was still facing away, his back straight as an arrow and shoulders stiff with tension, but he was no longer moving away from her. She released a relieved sigh and closed the distance between them, now at a much slower pace. When she finally reached him, she rounded his body to look into his rigid face. It was still as stony as before, his mouth a grim line.
“Draco,” she began after catching her breath once again. “What in Merlin’s name happened back there in the library? I don’t buy for one moment that you fainted from low blood sugar. I’ve seen how much food you can put away in one sitting, and I would have a hard time believing that you simply ‘forgot’ to eat today.”
His eyes seemed to drift across her face before landing on a spot over her shoulder somewhere in the distance. Like he couldn’t bear to look at her. He cleared his throat before answering in a polite, somewhat detached tone, “Can we just forget this ever happened? This whole day has just been… I just would prefer not to discuss it right now. I know it’s strange, and it was probably rather alarming to see me fall like that, but I just can’t talk about it right now.”
Hermione paused to consider his request for only a moment before barreling ahead.
“But I saw the look on your face before it happened, before you passed out. You were fine before the library, and then all of a sudden you weren’t. I know something must have happened, and I’m just so terrified that it was me.” And there it was, the truth of it. She simply couldn’t let it go. She had to know. “All I can think is that I must have done something to hurt you, and I know it’s crazy and maybe a little self-absorbed. But I think the not-knowing is what’s killing me right now, and I just-”
“No, Granger,” he said softly. His eyes had made their way back to her face, and his expression had thawed a bit. No longer a storm in the dead of winter but perhaps a crisp December afternoon. “You did nothing wrong, alright? Now, I would like to go back to my rooms, please.”
She blinked up at him as he circumnavigated her body and again began walking back toward the faculty wing. She huffed and followed after him, grateful that he was once again walking slowly enough for her to comfortably keep pace beside him. She supposed she hadn’t realized quite how much he’d been accommodating her until she’d seen how quickly his long legs could truly eat up the distance. If he’d been going his pace from earlier, she would have had to run to keep up.
“Well, that’s fine, I suppose, but I’m going to walk back with you and make sure you follow Madame Pomfrey’s instructions tonight,” she declared as they rounded the corner.
She felt, as well as heard, a great sigh from beside her at this. “That’s entirely unnecessary as much as it is intrusive. I don’t need you puttering about my apartments like a worried nursemaid.”
Hermione cut him a hard glance. “I don’t believe I was asking, Draco. I was simply informing you.”
She was rewarded with a huff of air, a small laugh. A glance in her peripherals revealed a soft smile curling the edge of his mouth, smoothing the harsh lines of his face. The contrast was immense - the hard stoicism of before versus the reluctant softness now. The Malfoy she’d known before, the Draco she knew now.
“Leave it to Hermione Granger to push a man down the stairs and then brutalize his pride in the same afternoon,” he mumbled good naturedly.
She gave a mock gasp and looped her arm through his, just as she had that night weeks ago. That night that she’d realized that maybe what she wanted for herself was within her reach. That maybe what she wanted might look differently than she’d always imagined but felt like home all the same. He eased into the touch, the last vestiges of that stony distance melting away beneath her fingertips.
“Don’t you be telling people I pushed you down the stairs. No one would believe you, anyway,” she chided, squeezing his arm closer to her side as they neared the familiar wing of the castle.
“Oh, people would believe it, alright. There’s not a single doubt in my mind.”
She let out a huff, incredulous. “They would not-”
“Oh, yes, Granger. Yes, they would. Are you kidding me? The witch who captured and held Rita Skeeter in an indestructible jar to blackmail her? The witch who impersonated the notorious Bellatrix LeStrange, infiltrated the highest security vault in the country, and escaped on dragonback?” he looked down at her now, brows raised high on that imperious forehead. “I think the only thing people might find far-fetched about your pushing me down the stairs is how long it took you to do it.”
She blinked, a little taken aback by his intimate knowledge of her comings and goings during and before the war. She hadn’t known that he’d been aware of all that. Laid out at her feet as such made her sound a bit like a lunatic. The only thing that kept her insecurity from creeping in was the admiration that shone so clearly in his tone. “How did you know all of that?”
He didn’t bother to answer, simply pulled out his wand as they approached the door to his office and subsequent living quarters and whispered a specialized charm to open the door. Hermione herself still preferred a lock and key for her own door, unconcerned that anyone would deign to break into her rooms. What could they steal anyway - her favorite quill? Her hairbrush? Her books?
Well, perhaps on second thought, she should ward her rooms more carefully as Draco did.
He slipped his arm free of hers and allowed her to walk in ahead of him as he cast an enchantment to fill his rooms with a handful of floating lights, illuminating the area with a pleasant glow. It was much less harsh than flicking on the overhead lights, and Hermione suspected he was careful of the light hurting his eyes. Pomfrey had said as much before he’d stormed out of the hospital wing.
Hermione slipped through his office and moved to open the door to his apartments before pausing to realize that she’d never actually been inside his living space before. There had, of course, been the event from several weeks ago which she’d been referring to in her head as the Toothpaste Incident, but even then, she’d been stood in the doorway. She was about to enter his most private space, to see where he slept and bathed and undressed and (probably) wanked. The last idea had heat flooding her cheeks and warmth pooling in her belly. She shook her head to dislodge the thought and pressed on, flinging the door wide and stepping through into Draco’s space.
The first thing that hit her was the scent of him, so strong here due to its inhabitant. It enveloped her like a warm blanket, slipping over her skin and wrapping her up in it. That same scent that had called to her the first day she’d met with him in his office months ago. Parchment, old and fresh. Something warm and spicy like clove. It smelled new and familiar all at once, something she had only just begun to have a name for but felt like home all the same.
A modest living area sat to her right, complete with a small sectional and an overstuffed chair. It reminded her of the chair her father used to sit in to watch the telly or read the evening paper. Bookcases lined the walls and flanked every piece of furniture, the shelves stuffed to the brim with tomes large and small. She noted with fondness that he appeared to use the shorter bookshelves as end tables for his couch instead of sacrificing the space to truly have one. Her eyes snagged on a small fishbowl resting on one such bookcase, one singular goldfish swimming lazily through the water. She approached, bending down to peer at the creature.
“Draco, I didn’t know you had a pet,” she noted as she watched the fish bump into the glass edge of the bowl before turning around to swim the opposite direction.
“Ah, yes. I’ve had him for a little while now. The insufferable orange fluff you claim to be a cat likes to sneak in here to terrorize the poor thing,” he said as he stepped into her periphery to peer into the bowl beside her.
“I can’t explain it, but I feel like he’s looking straight at me,” she mused. Indeed, the fish was eying her with a speculative gaze, seeming to peer right back at her. “What’s his name?”
“Oh, erm…” Draco’s voice trailed off before clearing his throat and mumbling, “his name is Horse.”
Hermione straightened to give him a scrunched expression. “You have a goldfish named Horse?”
He shrugged and moved to assist her out of her heavy outer layer of robes, shuffling her back toward the kitchen on the opposite end of the space. “It made sense, as he is a sea creature, and sea horses exist and all that.”
“But, Draco, he’s a freshwater fish, and sea horses-”
“Can I offer you a cup of tea?” he interrupted, hanging her robes on a hook by the door and already pulling out a kettle and filling it from the tap. She huffed but dropped the subject of his clear deficiency in the realm of naming pets.
“I should be making you tea, as you are the invalid in this situation,” she groused, moving to attempt to wrest the kettle from his fingers. As the much larger and much stronger of the two, Draco had no problem fending her off and setting the kettle on the hob to boil. She made a mad lunge for one of his cabinets next, hoping to pull out two mugs before he could manage it. However, as her knowledge of his kitchen cabinetry was extremely limited, she instead found herself staring at the neat stacks of his plates and bowls. Hermione bristled at the smug look on his face as he unhurriedly opened the correct cabinet and pulled out two mismatched mugs along with two black tea bags. “Well aren’t you just a smarmy little-”
Her words were cut off as her eyes shifted to the open door behind Draco and instantly locked on his bedroom. Because there, lounging on Draco’s king-sized bed like a tiny king in his giant castle was Crookshanks. Her Crookshanks. The very same that she’d been worried sick about the last few days because she’d hardly seen hide or hair of. She stared slack-jawed as those slitted brown eyes met lazily with hers before sliding closed again and sighing in utter contentment as he snuggled in closer to the fluffy duvet.
“I don’t believe this!” she exclaimed, rushing into the bedroom to loom above her cat like the disapproving mother she was. “Crookshanks Arsenius Granger, how dare you!”
Draco turned to watch her antics, a wide and true smile - the first of the night - blooming on his lips. He hid it quickly with a falsified kind of disgruntled irritation, managing somehow to look put-upon and affectionate at the same time. “Oh, yes, I meant to file a complain a few days ago. I can’t seem to get the mangy beast off my bed. Every time I try to shoo him away, I come away mortally wounded!” He held up the back of his hands for her examination, which were indeed covered in shallow scratches.
He didn’t look particularly upset about Crooks being around, though. Hermione had the thought that maybe he was a little proud of how taken her cat seemed to be with him, that maybe he felt in some way chosen by the creature. And perhaps he was.
Chosen, that is. By more than just her cat.
Hermione reached down to affectionately scratch behind Crooks’s ears, eliciting a contented purr from deep within him. Draco came up beside her to pat his belly with a gentle shyness that said he was still figuring out how exactly a cat was to be pet. His motions faltered after a moment, his hand coming up to grasp her wrist instead and pull it up to his eye level to study.
She was startled for a moment before realizing that her handkerchief, still red and bloody from pressing it against Draco’s gash earlier, had been sticking out from her sleeve where she’d stashed it in her haste to catch up in the corridor. He pulled it from her sleeve, a dash of alarm coloring his features as he studied the bloodied fabric.
“This isn’t your blood, is it?” he asked, a sharp edge to his tone.
She shook her head, and she swore she could see relief wash over his face before returning to a more neutral expression. “No, it’s yours. I tried to mop up the evidence of my crimes after so callously pushing you down the stairs,” she teased, if only to get that soft smile to bloom again.
He scoffed and turned away back toward the kitchen with her handkerchief still grasped tightly in his fist and began to run cold water over the sizable stain on the crumpled silk. “Well, in that case, perhaps offering to wash away the evidence isn’t in my best interest. However, as your host I feel it necessary to help remove any of my bodily fluids from your belongings.”
“Do you find bodily fluids to be a common part of your duties as a host, Draco?” she teased, eyebrows high and cheeks dimpled with a sly grin. “My, my. Maybe I should stop by more often.”
She watched his face, expecting him to roll his eyes and snap something clever back. But his eyes were fixed on the handkerchief in his hands, now wet and dripping pink into the porcelain sink below. He looked transfixed. Fascinated, even. She tracked the movement of his fingers as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger over one smooth corner of the fine fabric. What on earth had him acting so odd?
“Fairy silk,” he murmured, seemingly to himself.
“Yes, well, most of my handkerchiefs are,” she supplied before the thought struck her, before realizing exactly what she’d just handed to him moments before.
It was his handkerchief. The one he’d given to her the night of the Yule ball nearly twelve years ago now. The one he’d heavily implied she needed to wipe her face with lest she go around scaring the castle ghosts on her way back to Gryffindor commons. The one she’d washed and folded and kept in the back of her nightstand for years before finally deciding that it was the nicest kerchief she owned, so she might as well just use it, and-
And he was holding it, staring at it. Touching it softly like he was staring at something beloved he’d lost long ago and had resigned himself to never see again. His brow softened, his jaw relaxing as his thumb carefully traced his own initials sewn into the bottom right corner.
Hermione cleared her throat, shifting her weight uncomfortably from foot to foot before grasping for a topic to discuss. When she made a half-hearted inquiry into the state of the Falmouth Falcons at this point in the season, Draco blinked up at her as if clearing his mind from a haze. He gave her a soft, slow smile and allowed her to change the subject.
The rest of the evening seemed to float by around her, a pleasant drum of comfortable conversation and mutual teasing. It was one of the things she enjoyed most about being around Draco. Conversation with him just…flowed. She didn’t have to think too hard what she might say or how it might come across. He simply understood her, sometimes even before she’d completed a full thought out loud.
They chatted for hours on his sectional, sipping hot tea (a splash of cream and a spoonful of honey for Draco) and going on about nothing with the occasional interruption for Hermione to cast a diagnostic on his head to make sure his condition wasn’t worsening. And as the clock ticked on past midnight and then toward the wee hours of the morning, Hermione found herself curling naturally into Draco’s warm side, her lids heavy with sleep and her arm looping through his as it was wont to do.
And just before she drifted off, she had the thought once again that perhaps she’d found something pure and special and perfect in this man. Perhaps she’d found what she’d always been looking for in a place where it was never supposed to be.
If only she could have the courage to reach out and take it.
~18 December 2006~
“Pansy, I’m telling you that I’m trying,” Hermione groaned over her cocktail as she brought it to her lips for a sip. “I was downright flirtatious with him the other day, and he seemed like he didn’t even notice! Just changed the subject like we were making small talk over tea.”
Pansy hummed, resting her elbow on the table to prop up her chin with a fist. “I’m afraid you might have to be a bit more obvious than even that, love.”
The two women were sat across from each other at a Muggle bar at Hermione’s insistence. They’d been meeting up once a week or so ever since striking up an unusual kinship at the Halloween party and had been slowly nurturing a budding friendship. As it turned out, the two had more in common than Hermione had initially assumed. Apparently feminine rage and a mutual respect could get two women pretty far in a relationship with one another.
Over the course of their growing acquaintance, Hermione had been coaxed - or, rather, dragged kicking and screaming - into barrage of conversations about Draco Malfoy. Pansy was ruthless, relentless. She could smell a story there and was desperate to squeeze every last detail from Hermione’s lips even if was the last thing she’d do. And Hermione had, with some embarrassment and a whole lot of reluctance, told her everything about her recent thoughts regarding Draco.
How he’d been initially belligerent, claiming he’d tried to stop her hiring, but had softened quickly when they started spending time together for work. How he’d paid attention to the things she said, often recalling her own words with greater clarity than even she herself. How she’d noticed over time the heat curling between them. The tension. The stolen glances.
How she’d plucked up the courage to flirt with him outright just days ago and had been somewhat disappointed with his seeming lack of interest. If it hadn’t been for the redness shining at the tips of his ears, she would’ve thought him entirely unaffected by the sight of her bare thighs perched upon his desk. But the flush had given her the confidence to press further, only to be shut down just moments later with a brisk change of subject.
“How could I possibly be more obvious than the eight inches comment?” Hermione insisted, holding a cool hand to a flushed cheek. She was still unused to having a friend with which she could discuss such embarrassing and intimate details. As close as she and Ginny had been, they’d never broached the subject of their romantic inclinations or flirtatious exploits, likely because Ginny preferred not to hear about her own brother in that manner. But Pansy was shameless, collecting gory details from Hermione like a crow gathered shiny rocks in its nest - with a jealous fervor that sometimes disturbed her.
“I think you might need to simply grab him by the cock,” Pansy said, matter of fact. Like she was discussing the weather or last week’s news, not bothering to note the sputtering cough Hermione let out as she nearly choked on her cocktail. “Draco’s always been a bit thick in the head when it comes to women.”
“How do you mean?” Hermione asked, once she’d recovered from nearly choking to death on grenadine and vodka.
The knowledge didn’t escape her that Pansy had dated Draco once, even if it were a decade in the past. She’d thought it might make conversation about her interest in him stilted or awkward, but Pansy couldn’t have cared less about the history there. Indeed, it made her much better in the advice department when it came to matters of Draco Malfoy.
“When he and I first got together, I had to practically whack him upside the head with my interest in him. At first, he’d thought I was just taking the piss, and it took him a long time to realize that I actually liked him that way. That I wanted something more from him than just friendship.” Pansy shrugged, taking another sip of her Moscato before going on. “Now, mind you that was ages ago, and he’s had years to work through insecurities or develop new ones. But I bet you he just doesn’t want to misread your intentions. Until he’s completely and utterly sure that you’re interested in him romantically, he’s not going to make a move.”
Hermione chewed on her lower lip, considering this. It made sense. She got the feeling that Draco had always been a careful planner, considering each venture leagues in advance, and perhaps the war had made him even more so. But more prevalent in her mind was the twisting, terrifying consideration that perhaps he just wasn’t interested in her. That maybe she would be muddying a beautiful friendship if she attempted to pursue something and got rebuffed.
“How can I be sure that he- that he’s interested? What if I’m-”
“Oh, don’t even start with me, Granger,” Pansy interrupted with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “That man is practically obsessed with you. Has been for years.”
Hermione paused, taken aback. “I- Wait, really?”
Pansy leaned forward, her blood red lips curling in what some might consider a smile, others might consider a sadistic grin. “He’d be on hands and knees barking like a dog if you asked him to. I guarantee it.”
A crawling heat stained Hermione’s cheeks at the imagery. “Oh, now you’re just being dramatic,” she countered.
Pansy narrowed her eyes, seeming to consider her next words carefully. She made up her mind rather quickly, though, because the words came after only a brief pause. Her tone was slightly resigned, like she hadn’t quite wanted to share the next bit but was unwilling to move forward without doing so. “Do you know why Draco and I broke up after only dating a few months?”
Hermione’s brows rose, and she found herself leaning forward into the other woman without really considering why, sensing something important looming on the horizon. “No, you never said,” she replied.
The other woman sighed, closing her eyes a moment before opening them again to look her dead in the eye. “Because as much as I knew he cared for me, I could tell he was in love with someone else. And I am entirely uninterested in sharing a man with anyone, whether he would admit to it or not.”
A pregnant pause thickened the air between them while Hermione put it all together. “And you think- I’m sorry. You think he’s been in love with me this whole time?”
She almost laughed. The notion was ludicrous. The idea that he’d been secretly pining for her for the last decade was ridiculous enough. Paired with the fact that they’d been enemies on the opposite side of a deadly war steeped in blood and class prejudice just added insult to injury. Pansy had to be mistaken.
“I suppose you don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to,” the dark-haired woman drawled, swirling her wine lazily in its glass before taking another sip. “But it’s the truth. I swear it.”
Sometimes when Hermione found herself doubting what to believe, she felt assured in the fact that the veracity of a statement had a certain ring to it. The vast majority of the time, when she heard the truth, she just knew it. She knew it like she knew the freckles on her cheeks - even when she couldn’t perceive her reflection, she still knew the shape of them. Still knew how the lines could be traced between them.
What Pansy had said rattled in her bones, rang out like a bell in the core of her being. Pansy was saying what she knew to be the truth. And, oh, what a delicious thought it was. If Draco truly did have feelings for her, if this evolving, writhing heat within her was not only felt but reciprocated by him-
Well. That meant she couldn’t fail. That she was safe with him. That he would welcome whatever advances she made. Her confidence skyrocketed, her resolve thickening. She leaned further across the table so as not to be heard by nearby patrons.
“So what do you suggest I do to make my interest in him crystal clear?” she found herself asking.
That feral gleam in Pansy’s eyes sparkled just a bit brighter as she leaned in and told Hermione exactly what she should do.
Notes:
Content warnings: minor physical injury of a main character, mention of chronic illness of a main character, vague sexual references (VERY vague), Crookshanks being a little shit (not really a CW, just a warning to all my fellow cat lovers out there)
AHHHHH if you're still here, THANK YOU!! I'm so grateful to the handful of you who are following this story with me! Truly, Honest Wage is my heart. I think about these characters every single day of my life. Their story here is so important to me, so I thank each and every one of you who have read, left kudos, and commented! :)
Starting at the next chapter, we will begin including smut! So, if that's something you're uninterested in reading, I will include chapter summaries at the end, along with places where you can stop and start reading to avoid any smut. Now, if you are a horny bimbo like me and are super EXCITED for the smut, ummmm let's be best friends. But I do want to acknowledge that not everyone has the mental capacity or interest in consuming smut, and I want to make my work as accessible as possible.
Follow me on my socials for updates and funny AO3/FF related content!!
As always, I send you each my love.
-Cass
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