Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One

a lead role in a cage

-

If he flicked his tongue, just so, against the left side of his molars, where the second and third sat together, it sounded a bit like the ticking of a clock. 

The Grandfather clock, to the right of the door to his father’s study.

He could do it for nearly an hour, until his tongue was raw and the pain flooded his throat and crept up into his ears.

His blood felt thin in his mouth.

He hadn’t figured how much he would miss sounds. All of them, really. The breath of another. A porcelain tea cup nestling into its saucer. Bees humming in the garden.

Even the infernal ticking of a clock.

-

1998

Draco Lucius Malfoy, first (and last) of his name, was sat before the Wizengamot on September the 1^st, for his trial and sentencing in regard to his efforts, his lack of effort, his collusion… his nefarious intent - in the war against decency. 

Against common sense. 

Against the good.

He had picked the wrong side, though the word picked alluded to having a choice, and if he knew anything at all it was that he didn’t.

A path was chosen for him by those who loved him. He was shoved down it, regardless of anything else, at all.

Well, alright. 

Alright! 

Who was he kidding with that line of thought? He would have wandered down the lane of the Dark Lord even if Lucius and Narcissa, his beloved parents, hadn’t pointed him toward it, led him down it and kicked at his heels to go faster. 

That was the thing about a belief system. 

Once planted it grew like the roots of a great oak. Digging in deeper and deeper to hold itself upright; to exist. It pushed anything that might impede its trajectory to the side. It destroyed anything weaker or diverting in its path, and it held tight. Through feast, through famine, it carried on.

Uprooting such a thing, by definition, tore everything else apart. The surrounding terrain would thereby be wholly disturbed. And then what? Where once there was a tree, something substantial- something real, now was nothing but a dangerous, gaping hole. With bits and pieces of what once was, broken and strewn about the chaos.

Honestly, fuck that.

No. 

It was easier to just stay where you were planted… even if the conditions would eventually kill you.

He wasn’t sure he had the constitution to disturb the roots, as it were. He was a coward. He was afraid all of the time, and such fear did not galvanize him as it did others. 

It solely ate away. 

There, sitting on a wooden bench that by now had held the quivering backsides of many a traitor to the realm, Draco waited for the Wizengamot to usher him in to begin his trial. His hair was combed (as best it could be, using his numb fingers to rake through the dull, tangled strands) and his posture impeccable. He intended to think of nothing at all- he did particularly well when he Occluded himself to near-catatonia… but the nerves within him would not allow a reprieve, today. 

Anxiety forced him to examine the idea of consequences, not only in the abstract but here, in practice. Naturally such a thing had never occurred to him. Consequences weren’t for the well-bred. The law only existed for those beneath it.

The Malfoys? In Azkaban?

Perish the thought.

In fact- he could think of just two consequences that had ever been delivered to him; core memories that materialized any time he was feeling particularly smug. The first, a slap to the face for… well. He couldn’t quite remember that part, the why. Just the sting of it, and the surprise. 

The wild look in Granger’s eye.

And secondly, with clarity he desperately wished he could blur, he could recall the unpleasant occasion in which he was (ruthlessly!) transfigured into a ferret.

Beyond such incidents, it was a known fact that Draco moved through life doing whatever he pleased, and generally when he misbehaved, everyone looked the other way. Thus he pressed on. 

Every bird through the cabinet, every slur, every spell, every attempted murder, every nerve perpetually inflamed under the Mark- none of it, in his mind, could possibly have added up to Azkaban. 

In his worst nightmare, he’d never entertained the thought- which was actually saying something as he dreamed of dying quite a bit. Every day, in fact. But dying was the only punishment he’d imagined, and the Dark Lord was the only executioner he’d ever feared. Until now.

Such thoughts were the musings of a stupid boy, weren’t they?

When Lucius received a 20 year sentence, Draco’s world tipped off its axis.

They were being made an example of, the Malfoys. 

And Draco was next. 

“I deserve all that is coming to me,” he told himself, the thought on loop, spinning and picking up speed until it was all he could do to repeat it, ad nauseam. He hated the guilt. He wasn’t sure what to do with it,  and the fact that he felt it at all made him wonder what the fuck he was doing in the first place.

Because he did feel guilty. For poisoning people like a buffoon in an attempt to take down Dumbledore. For letting them in the castle. Greyback. Hogwarts was supposed to be a sanctuary and Draco violated such a belief more than once. 

It was the guilt, in part, that fully removed the wool covering his eyes. Why would he feel remorse for doing something if it was actually right? His involuntary contrition was telling, and finally, he could no longer ignore the incessancy of nascent virtue.

I deserve all that is coming to me.

The Wizengamot chambers were full, every member of the court in attendance and arranged in little rows up the sides of a maudlin amphitheater. He faced them, handcuffs attached to the arms of the chair in which he sat. Why a sticking charm wouldn’t do, he was unsure. They must enjoy the barbarousness of manacles, finding a sweet sort of irony in physically restraining a wizard with the means of a lowly Muggle.

They wore maroon robes, every last one of them, with stupid little caps atop their heads. They took him in, a hundred eyes trained on him at once, unrelenting. Judging. 

He hated it.

He hated them.

Who were they to appraise him? He’d surely fair better being assessed by those from families who understood his plight- not the motley crew Shacklebolt had hastily assembled under the guise of burgeoning equality.

When his family’s solicitor called for who might want to speak on his behalf, out came two of the people Draco never, ever wanted to see again.

Harry fucking Potter and everyone’s favorite Mudblood, Hermione Granger.

Obviously, this too, he hated.

How dare they pander to the crowd, mumbling rehearsed drivel in his defense? How pathetic did they think he was, that he required The Boy Who Needed-To-Mind-His-Fucking-Business and the Girl with No Common Decency to cosign on whether or not he deserved to rot in Azkaban?

Months later he would think back to the trial as he sat in his cell, his state of decay notwithstanding their pathetic (and fruitless) little intervention. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but there was something close to reverence sprouting within him as he listened to them speak. As he watched Granger grit her teeth at the idiot witch who inferred that Draco didn’t recognize her when she was dragged into his Manor.

The stupid woman supposed that he wasn’t trying to cover for them… that he simply mistook Granger; that hair, those eyes- as someone else. Like he wouldn’t know her, apart from anyone else on earth.

Granger, of course, didn’t believe it was a coincidence. Rather conceited she was… come to think of it.

No, in fact, she thought it was an action he took on behalf of the good.

“Mr. Malfoy refused to confirm our identities, thereby allowing us time to escape the Manor,” she told them, chin held high with her bushy hair clipped back. His eyes flicked up every 30 words or so, in an effort to not accidentally catch her eye, but still see her all the same.  “Had he not done so, we might be living in a very different reality today.”

It was in that moment, when those words, in that order, left her lips- that he felt something akin to hope. He didn’t even realize it until all subsequent optimism evaporated around him.

Hope was a dangerous thing.

Hope hurt him more than anything else ever managed. 

He’d heard stories of Azkaban all his life, mostly bits gleaned (unencumbered by context) as he pressed his ear against the door of his father’s study. Theodore Nott, his childhood friend, had plenty of second hand knowledge from his own father, but Nott Sr. was of sturdy stock- come to find out. 

When Lucius Malfoy returned from his months-long imprisonment, due to the fracas at the Department of Mysteries, he was not the same. He returned to his physical form with proper food and a modicum of rest, but Draco felt having the Dark Lord as a house guest and being refused his own wand stifled him, post-Azkaban. 

The father Draco knew went into the Department of Mysteries and never came out. 

Which was, perhaps, Draco’s biggest concern. Losing part of himself, much like his father did. He vowed (to himself, hardly anyone else cared) that he would not allow the same thing to happen to him- he would protect his mind and care for his body. He would emerge, eventually, and see to his responsibilities. 

Such blithe naïveté was brief, in the end. As he stepped foot inside Azkaban’s walls, he felt the thread that connected him to who he once was, pull taut, and snap. He walked forth into the damp, moldy halls, a boy unburdened by ever returning to what once was, or who he might have been. 

Everything would change.

His cell was three meters across, two deep, with wet stone walls, and a thin, lumpy mattress hardly as wide as him, on the floor. 

A chamber pot. 

No windows. 

No torch, or candle.

The door scraped shut, the pitch of the metal struggling against the stone floor forcing the hairs to rise up on his neck- but then it stopped. A sliver of light peeked through the hinges and he was alone.

Silence fell.

And time ticked on.

Food appeared twice a day, food being a generous term for what was offered. A gruel, of some sort, in the morning, the only pleasant bit being that sometimes, it was almost warm. 

A pottage appeared in the evening, consisting of meat of unknown origin, broth that was actually just water and vegetables that disintegrated as soon as they were spooned across his tongue. 

Every three days, he received an orange. 

His mother visited the day after he’d eaten the 20th orange. Since sentencing, he hadn’t an opportunity to see his own reflection, but he didn’t think much could change in just two months. He was unsure if she was happy to see him, her own face gave nothing away. Narcissa was a precise and excellent Occlumens, a trait he was happy to share.

The guard led him to a different cell to meet her, one that had a large, barred window, open to the surrounding sea. It took him a moment to adjust to the light, though he welcomed the salty breeze even if it came with a chill. He sat shackled across from her, taking her in as she watched carefully. She did not ask how he was, instead telling him about her visit with Lucius, and the Ministry ransacking the Manor. They took artifacts, they took books… she made it to seem they looted the entire thing. “And then, as a final insult, they forbade me from making any changes to the estate until after my house arrest concludes. I have to live in it, still feeling his… essence… radiating from the walls.”

“How dreadful,” Draco said dryly as he looked down to his shackles, and back to her.

“Truly,” she agreed.

Draco was so relieved she looked well, so happy to see her at all, that he didn’t track anything as amiss until the day of his 21^st orange, when he had another visitor.

The Malfoy’s solicitor, a round man with a shiny head, and bulbous, reddened nose, peppered Draco with questions in regard to the conditions he was being forced to endure. 

What was the point, really? There was nothing to be done. He hadn’t even apprised Narcissa of the worst of it; of the darkness, the silence. 

The solicitor took copious notes of the nothing Draco said.

The day before his 30th orange, the solicitor visited again- a formality, really. He let Draco know he had exhausted the appeals allowed by the Wizengamot and regrettably, Draco would have to live out his sentence until there might be a time at which he could be reassessed for good behavior. 

Draco took this in, this non-news that was already what he had known to be true, and bit down on his tongue until he tasted iron. It was the solicitor’s presence that allowed him to briefly believe there was another way, and now, Draco resented the man for it. He knew better than to sacrifice the management of expectations for something as trivial as an earnest wish. 

He swallowed the blood. “Where is my mother?” 

“The Wizengamot’s refusal to hear your case was quite a blow to her, Sir,” the solicitor said, his voice steady as his eyes darted around Draco’s form. “She is convalescing under the care of your elves. She sends her best.” 

Draco didn’t feel much like eating oranges 31-43; he let them pile up and rot in the corner of his cell. 

Just after orange 44, Narcissa visited again. 

This time, it was Draco who wished to cordon off his mind in order to stave off any emotion that might populate his face… but Occluding was difficult with the magic suppression potions they fed him. He wasn’t able to shove anything away, doomed to feel even when he wished he couldn’t. 

He was led to a table where a woman sat. He swore the guard had said his mother was awaiting him, but the slumping silhouette of the person he neared could not be her. Narcissa was an elegant, attractive, perpetually well-groomed woman.

As she lifted her head to catch his gaze, he set his jaw to keep from sneering. She was thinner than he’d ever seen, the pale skin beneath her eyes tinged with purple. Her blonde hair was unwashed and her robe was marred by deep wrinkles, like she’d slept in it and was unwilling to part with the well-seasoned garment for her errand. 

“Have you been eating?” Draco asked, his voice even, not bothering to exchange pleasantries before digging in. 

“Of course I have. I should think triple the amount you’re fed,” she snapped, her nose flaring slightly as she looked him over. 

Narcissa Malfoy was no longer the picture of nonchalance. Worry pulled her eyebrows in, creating creases he’d never noticed before. Her lips were chapped and cracked, fissures of deep burgundy lining her mouth. Her skin was waxy, her nails torn short with cuticles she’d picked until they bled.

The sight of her made him want to cry, but he knew it to be a mistake. Obviously the sight of him was so horrifying that she’d fully given up. 

An emotional display would only make things worse, he was sure of it.

So he sat, and waited for her to explain. 

“Darling, I tried very hard to get them to see what this is doing to you, I’m terrified such malnourishment and isolation will impact you indefinitely, you’re still just a boy.”

“I’m 18-“

“-you are a BOY!” She shouted, the decibel making him flinch. “You are just a child, Draco, and they have you here-“

“Mother,” he said calmly, trying to pat her hand, but the chains kept him from reaching her. He hissed as they bit into him, as if they’d suddenly grown sentient and assumed he was trying to make an escape. 

It was a little funny, when he thought about it. He was old enough to be tasked with murder, so why was imprisonment in relation to such an act so abhorrent to her? Why now was he worthy of protection? Quite curious.

He sided with caution, however, and did not utter such musings. Not now, anyway.

“They’re killing you!” She cried, looking around wildly as if to lure an Auror to them, to save them. Conveniently, the one posted by the door ambled their way. 

“Mrs. Malfoy, you are allowed visitation only so long as both you and the imprisoned are contained in your emotions and actions. This is your warning. Another outburst and you will be banned from visiting either Mr. Malfoy.”

If looks were truly lethal, the Auror would have dropped dead from Narcissa’s stare. She kept her eyes on him as he backed away and returned to his post, which seemed to require leaning against the doorjamb. 

“Mother,” Draco said softly, closing one eye slightly as he inclined his head toward her. Every time he found himself in this room, he felt like an ice pick was attempting to drive through his eyebrow. He couldn’t adjust to the light quick enough and it led to the sensation that his skull was slowly being cleaved in two. “Everything is alright. I will be fine. This is just temporary. I promise you, I’m okay.”

“You must take care of yourself, darling. Here,” she whispered as she slid an unsealed envelope across the table to him in a less-than-secretive move.

Behind her, the Auror shook his head.

“It’s from your father. Just some advice as far as keeping your mind and body strong-“

“Salazar can you imagine a worse man to take such advice from?” Draco stifled a laugh. Such callousness wounded her, from the look of it, but she covered it up almost instantly. “His stint after 5th year nearly did us all in.”

Narcissa chewed at the edge of her bottom lip, nodding as she stared past him. “We’ll just do the best we can, then,” she said absently.

He tried to catch her but she’d already Occluded herself away. She straightened, clasping her hands together in her lap as he held the letter loosely between his fingers.

“Right,” he nodded. 

Even when he was with someone, he was still alone. 

Narcissa attempted to visit after the 50^th orange, but her timing was poor- thus Draco turned her away. 

He was in a mood.

He tripped the day before as he was pacing his cell, he’d meandered slightly off course, which was quite easy to do as he shuffled back and forth in veritable darkness. The freezing temperatures created whorls of frost on the inside of the walls that could only be seen along the crack of light that shone through the door hinges. He thought it might be February? But counting citrus fruit was a fallible system, so he could be wrong.

The low ambient temperature of the room had him tucking his arms across his chest, inside his shirt in a rudimentary attempt to maintain a level of livable warmth. As his toe caught the edge of his mattress, his arms were pinned into the straight-jacket of his own design, and he was unable to brace himself from bashing his face against the unforgiving stone floor. 

He could feel the swelling. He couldn’t breathe through his nose. His eye socket was tender, his lip split through by his own teeth- all of which he somehow retained. A shred of grace he didn’t deserve from an entity he didn’t believe in.

After the initial shock and pain of the fall dissipated, he rolled to his back- then swiftly to his side as he began to choke. 

Tears mingled with the blood, the spit. His sinuses ached, his face on fire as he wept- legs curled to his chest, on the freezing cold floor.

He refused to see Narcissa for three weeks (seven oranges), whilst he healed.

The day before the 57^th orange, he avoided his mother’s gaze as they shackled him to the table, but he’d already noticed her increased frailty as they led him in.

Narcissa Malfoy, a woman of perfect posture, beautiful skin and well-tailored robes, was hunched and sallow before him… worse than she’d been… when was it? A month ago?

Fucking oranges.

She gasped as the Auror moved, allowing her to see his face clearly for the first time. “Darling what happened? Your nose- the bruises!”

He ignored her. “Mother you’ve lied to me, you’ve obviously lied,” he spat, leaning toward her as far as he could. “You haven’t been eating, you don’t even look like you’ve slept! I can’t believe Mippy would allow this-”

“Mippy has gone to stay with another family, dear.” Narcissa shook her head, looking him in the eye.

“What?”

“We have been having some lapses in communication of late and I felt it would be better for her to-“

“Mother, you banished Mippy from the Manor?” Draco’s voice was strained. How could she? Mippy was Narcissa’s personal elf, she cared for her… “It’s the only home she’s ever had, she was born there, she looked after you and-“

“I don’t need her!” Narcissa rasped. “I have everything under control, thank you, and instead of peering at me through your magnifying glass how about we turn the attention to you, my disfigured son.”

“I had a spill in my quarters…” he looked at the table. “Nothing Mippy can’t fix when I return home. What did father say?”

Narcissa made a huffing sound. “I haven’t visited him in weeks, how should I know,” she shook her head, her gaze affixed to his hands on the table. 

They sat in a heavy silence, for a bit, neither willing to break the tension with a sound.

Draco eventually rolled his neck slowly in a stretch, the movement sending waves of discomfort through his shoulders. He was always in pain, now. Always cold. He went without sun, without sound, and it was consuming his will to go on.

All he had were memories, he lived in them constantly. But they couldn’t dull the agony of being so isolated.

He tried to push it all away, but he couldn’t. He hadn’t any coping mechanisms, no substance to abuse or magic to wield. He had to soak in his own anguish, disappear into it.

It was more than physical suffering. It was loneliness, and fear, and an unnerving (yet prevailing) feeling that he’d never really recover. It was doom, he supposed.

He knew the existential dread lived on his face- without Occluding he was shit at hiding his feelings… he was too used to scowling and sneering. He was well-practiced at looks of revulsion, derision and the like.

In a handful of minutes he would have to leave his mother, again, and be forced back into that cell, and it was too much to bear. He couldn’t do this anymore… not least of all because the sight of him was harming her. 

His vulnerability and weakness in his current state was hurting her.

He could not allow it to continue.

The ridges at the tops of his shoulder blades looked sharp under his grey tunic. He straightened, blinking as his eyes lazily trained themselves on Narcissa, who was watching him carefully. 

She never looked away.

“I’ve told them, they’re killing you in here. You’re wasting away and you’re barely a quarter through your sentence,” she said.

“But I’ve been oh so well-behaved, Mother. I’m sure they’ll release me soon,” he put on a voice. Something showy and warm. “What harm could I do?”

“You did no harm in the first place!”

Draco sighed, wearing a smile that didn’t belong to him. “Lying to ourselves has never done well for the Malfoys, now has it?”

“They can’t keep you in here like this,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “They’re killing you, my only son- and they won’t reconsider no matter how many times I demand it. I’ve gone to the Minister a dozen times, more!”

“The only thing you need to do,” Draco said firmly, his tone startling her into silence. He sounded a bit like Lucius, to his own ear. “Is take care of yourself, and the Manor. I will sort everything out when I am released, whenever that may be. Everything will be alright. You’re a Black for Salazar’s sake, Mother. Act like it.”

She took a breath, glaring at him. “You’d speak to your mother this way?”

“My mother is the strongest person I know,” Draco said, eying her as he rapped twice on the table top, signaling for the guard. “Come back when you find her, please.”

She was silent as the guard led him away, which was what he thought was needed. He had to distract her from his reality. He needed her to pull herself up and maintain. The whole family couldn’t fold just because most of them were in prison. 

Narcissa was always the strong one. 

She needed a reminder. 

-

It wasn’t much later that he realized he should have said, “I love you.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

you can never go home again, Oatman… but I guess you can shop there

-

2001

The crack of side-along Apparition reverberated in Draco’s ears as he felt himself constricted, then released. His feet pounded against the pebbled pathway that wound in front of the Manor’s gates. Auror McCourt, the stout, balding guard in charge of Draco’s release transfer from Azkaban, let go of him quickly and stepped to the side as they landed- as if being near Draco might cause him harm. 

The sudden lack of a bracing body made Draco stumble as he grasped (fruitlessly) at an equilibrium.

Once steady, he squinted in the pale morning light. The soft autumn breeze rolling down the hills at the back of the Manor was almost painful. He felt it glance across his bare shins. 

The robes he wore when he surrendered to the Wizengamot three years before were now hanging 10 centimeters above the tops of his old shoes, shoes that pinched, a half size too small.

As he’d gotten dressed prior to leaving, the fit of his former clothing was a surprise. Draco didn’t assume the sustenance granted to him during his imprisonment would be enough to promote growth. He hardly thought it would keep him alive. He’d figured that three years of being forced to consume something a reasonably intelligent dog would refuse, would forever stunt him at the size of a malnourished 18-year-old.

But here he was, 21… a bit taller. And still malnourished.

He was also, Lord Malfoy.

How droll.

“Nice place you have here,” McCourt grimaced as his eyes darted around the grounds, catching on the fourteen decapitated heads that functioned as macabre finials atop the wrought iron fence.

“Charming, aren’t they,” Draco sighed. McCourt seemed especially put out by their existence, so Draco clarified further. “Relics from an old… roommate. I’m sure my mother tried to remove them, but…” he trailed off, looking over the rest of the grounds.

Save for the heads, the grounds were in fine shape. The hedges leading to the door were pruned into plush, undulating curves. The sun peaked out from behind the main structure, backlighting it with morning rays. A rogue peacock ambled around in circles, his plume bouncing behind him as he walked.

This was home.

“Right then, well, best to get on with it,” McCourt gestured for him to lead them through the locked gates. 

Draco felt the thrum of the Manor’s ancestral magic seep into him as he passed through- generations of blood fortifications and enchantments that keyed this land, this place, to him and no one else. After years of magic suppressant potions, he nearly doubled over, sick. 

He stuttered on the walk, clamping down his jaw- his teeth aching under the force as he took a sharp breath through his nose. After a moment, he stood and continued on, McCourt at his side before taking the lead toward the Manor.

“As you already know,” McCourt started again, running his hand across the sheen of his hairless head as Draco followed him through the hedge rows, “we’re well-acquainted with the Manor by now. Lady Malfoy surrendered to the Ministry all illegal artifacts prior to her…”

Draco looked the man in the eye, finally tearing his gaze from the familiar facade looming in the distance. “Prior to her death,” he finished for him.

“Right,” McCourt said, kicking a pebble as they went. He cleared his throat. “You are not to leave this property without my explicit permission, or the permission of someone above my station in the Auror department. In general terms, you are barred from travel unless the occasion warrants it. Summons to the Ministry. Grievous injury repair at St. Mungo’s… realistically that’s about it. Your house arrest will end in fifteen months, on December 31^st, 2002.”

Another sentence, another prison. At least this one he called home.

“Will you be checking my mail, as well? How about my urine? My thoughts?” Draco asked, his voice still low from infrequent use, like he’d just woken up after a particularly paralyzing night of rest, lines from his pillowcase creased upon his cheeks.

But there were no pillows in Azkaban.

No rest.

“Well since you asked, if you had taken the offer of early parole… yes, I would be going through your mail. Among other things. But since you decided you liked what prison had to offer, unfortunately I’ll have to use my imagination as far as your correspondences go,” McCourt shook his head. “And for the record, detailing your urine output would be a dream compared to what I imagine your thoughts are like. Happily, I will be monitoring neither.”

Draco followed McCourt up the front steps, slowing as the idea of entering the Manor felt unsavory, all of a sudden. Stepping over the threshold would be the action that restarted his life, replete with all his current deficits. 

He was no longer in the sanctuary that prison offered. A place with no decisions, and nothing to prove that anything was real at all. Suspended in time and space.

If he walked through those doors, he was accepting all that has happened and going forward, anew. 

Which seemed a terrible idea, didn’t it?

A new life sounded dreadful.

He was almost certain he didn’t want it, at all.

“As per the conditions of your release, you are subject to random checks of your wand, your person, and your domicile for the next three years… should you make it through with no further infractions, you will be released as a citizen in good standing. If you violate any laws or guidances from now until that time, you will be remanded to Azkaban, without trial, for an indefinite amount of time.”

“Lovely.”

“Right,” Auror McCourt exhaled, looking at Draco once more. “See you soon, Lord.” He turned to trot down the steps, moving quickly down the walk as Draco stood, motionless in front of the door.

This was it.

It was part wish fulfillment, and part nightmare. He had long since given up on ever seeing his home again. But he’d also never imagined returning to it like this. 

Alone.

He took one breath, pressed his hand against the door, and stepped inside.

Three house elves immediately cracked into view, pop-pop-pop, their looks of unabashed delight fading like the light of a blown out candle as they stood in the foyer, taking in what had just stepped before them.

Mippy, the Manor’s head elf, lost consciousness as soon as his eyes met hers. The sight of him, bedraggled heir to the House of Malfoy, the House of Black, left her crumpled in a heap on the marble. Bopsy, his personal elf, stood on in awe. 

Ezekiel, the groundskeeper, bared his teeth in a look of surprise, laced with revulsion.

“Thank you for keeping up with the hedges, Ezekiel,” Draco said, standing as tall as he could manage. The little elf, in a black Stetson, nodded… though seemed unwilling to speak.

Draco didn’t care for the looks they gave him. He knew pity when he saw it.

It took just a brief glance to the left, where a mirror the size of a carriage stood against the foyer wall, to make Draco understand why they looked at him the way they did. 

He stepped nearer, the sight jarring him enough to make him stumble. He shot a hand out for something with which to brace himself and Bopsy was there in an instant, the top of her head pressed under his palm. She steadied him as he took in (the horror of) his own reflection.

He hadn’t seen himself in more than three years. Not a photo, not a glimpse in a window, or a ripple in a pool of water.

It was obvious that he likely looked different, he had assumed as much. He could feel his hip bones protruding from his prison-issued trousers as he paced his cell, up and down and back again. He could feel his collarbones jutting out sharply across the top of his chest, and nearly every rib as ran a hand down his torso. He knew too well the ripples of his sternum, the severe angles of his knees, his ankles.

His old robes hung from his shoulders, like a garment on a hook. He pat Bopsy on the head twice as he crept in closer, poring over his reflection in hopes that he’d find something familiar.

“What’ve you done with my boy, Master Draco?” Bopsy asked, turning to look to where Mippy lay unconscious, a lump covered in silver satin robes edged with pale pink Pygmy Puff fur. Bopsy’s stare landed again on him, tears collecting in the corners of her wide eyes as her gaze searched his face, her hands clasped tightly together. “What has been done with my boy?”

His hair was long, longer than even his father’s was last time he saw him. It hung, stringy and limp against his shoulders, a shock of white spilling forward upon the black of his robes. His perfectly pointed nose was slightly crooked, notched on the bridge, an affront to his former symmetry.

But it was his pallor, paired with his gaunt features, that was most jarring. His eyes were sunken, a deep grey sheen stretched across the sockets, courtesy of his restless nights. His cheek bones sat sharp, high on his face, creating angles that were at odds with the image of himself he held in his mind. A thin white scar bisected his top lip on the right side, and his jawline was buried beneath the world’s most heinous, pathetic beard.

He looked down at Bopsy, who was now weeping into her hands, her little shoulders shaking.

He wasn’t sure what sort of answer would bring her comfort, or if anything resembling the truth should be uttered at all?

The boy was dead.

Draco wasn’t sure what he was, now.

-

Draco stopped fantasizing about his release in the spring of 1999, rather abruptly, but it wasn’t much of a wonder as to why.

After a rough go transitioning to life in Azkaban, Draco had initially decided to spend his mental energies preparing for his eventual return to society. That very day, in fact, he was designing a new Quidditch pitch in his mind. The current pitch at the Manor only caught morning sun. He wasn’t a morning person, really, so he figured it best to reorient the pitch to allow for a sunny afternoon scrimmage.

He was imagining the perfect place for the hoops, when someone opened his cell door.

Auror Rowell, one of the main guards, was a reedy fellow with a prodigious mustache and greying, wavy hair trimmed close to the sides. He was inoffensive, not kind or unkind. He just was.

Draco would remember the man, standing there, backlit against the torch light from the hall, for the rest of his life…

The Aurors in charge of the prisoners administered magical-suppression potion diligently, forcing Draco to take it every day since his arrival, and this day, May the 1^st, was no exception.

How then, when Auror Rowell informed Draco of Narcissa Malfoy’s death, did the room’s temperature rise to 35 degrees? How did a mist so fine and deeply blue it was nearly black, pour from Draco, snuffing out the hall lights? How did a roar rise up, so loud it drowned out the sound of the sea- according to the other prisoners questioned in the aftermath.

The mist, the sound, they masked everything else- the entire prison was under their spell, until the cracks of both Rowell and Draco’s skulls echoed across opposite cell walls.

An incident of accidental magic was what the Wizengamot determined, as they tacked on another year to his sentence. No more, because they didn’t believe he was in control of himself when it happened — but they had to do something.

A man was dead, after all.

Draco’s new solicitor (his old one died, though, not at Draco’s hand), a Mr. Rader of Ludgershall, later told him that several members of the Wizengamot supposed he actually beat the Auror to death and then covered it up by injuring himself… but such theories were not supported in reality. Due to the severity of Draco’s injury and the near identical marks upon both men- it was assumed that Draco’s suppressed magic found an emotional conduit and then, decided it best to… simply put- explode.

When Mr. Rader showed up again, in person, nearly a month later, Draco knew why.

“My father’s dead, then?”

“Did they already tell you?” Mr. Rader asked, shuffling some parchment from hand to hand. The solicitor always seemed nervous around Draco. He couldn’t pin down why, exactly. It wasn’t like he’d ever followed through with killing anyone- on purpose.

Then again, being unable to control homicidal tendencies did warrant a smidgen of weariness. 

Oh alright, he’d allow the man his nerves.

“I received word this morning, and due to the intricacies of your estate, I was allowed a moment of your time,” Mr. Rader continued, his chin wobbling.

“No, no one’s said a thing.”

“How did you know, then?”

Draco folded his hands in his lap, leaning against the cell wall from his spot on the floor, spinning an invisible signet ring in the place it used to sit. “He was always the weaker of the two. Without her, I didn’t imagine he’d last long.”

“Right,” Mr. Rader nodded. Wobble, wobble.

“I do give him credit, though. I’ve thus far found it rather difficult to exact any lasting damage upon my person… except the once.” Draco’s grey eyes found Mr. Rader’s blue. “How did he do it?”

Mr. Rader stumbled over his words as he tried to frame the death in a vague way that left a bit too much to the imagination. Unwilling to give suicide tips, as it were. 

Draco found such reticence obnoxious.

But, at any rate, there it was. Draco was Lord Malfoy.

The last scion.

The end of the Pureblood families: Malfoy and Black.

He’d make sure of it.

- 

For three weeks, post-release, Draco did not leave his chambers.

The drapes were pulled, and Bopsy set a charm around his room that left him in complete silence. He needed to acclimate, slowly, to the luxuries pseudo-freedom allowed.

The food.

Food was difficult.

Upon arrival, Bopsy had prepared all his old favorites. At first he did his best to indulge her… she’d been so long without anyone to cook for in the Manor save for the other elves, but the food was too much. He tried to keep the vomiting a secret, but she knew. 

She had spies.

The portraits.

He had none in his room, he asked for them to be removed years ago when he’d discovered wanking and didn’t need his young parents and five year old self to oversee such activities… but there was one of his grandmother Hildebrand in the hall, tacked upon the wall shared with his toilet. 

The old bitch never could keep her mouth shut.

Thus it was broth. Then porridge, for days. Then… porridge with butter. 

Bopsy added a soft boiled egg to the side, several days on.

Fresh fruit, another.

Weeks in he was eating toast, but still hadn’t the stomach for sweets or anything rich.

He requested that the Manor not be decorated for the Christmas holidays… he didn’t think he could bear it, quite yet. 

But on Christmas Day, Bopsy added in a mince pie. 

Draco managed to eat three. They were quite small, but progress was progress.

Having gone so long with his magic suppressed, he became accustomed to the weakness of a body and mind without. He assumed it was along the lines as to how Muggles felt, and as such it was no wonder they were so… whatever they were. He wasn’t really sure, anymore.

But he knew he felt that way, too.

Magic was might.

It had to be. He felt hollow when he was stripped of it, like he was lacking an intrinsic part of himself. He was sure that even if he’d never known it, he’d feel its absence. What a miserable existence! He almost felt sorry for them, however- he had strong opinions about ignorance. After much reflection, he felt it was the way to go. Knowing too much really fucked things up, in his experience.

Post-suppression, it was 11 days before Draco reached an equilibrium that would allow him to go more than an hour without having to lie down due to magically-induced vertigo. Beyond that, it was weeks before he could cast in any semblance of what he once did. 

The last time he’d used magic, he was 18 years old. His mother and father were still alive. The noseless knob had been vanquished. Things were looking up; but then, they very much weren’t.

And here he was.

Azkaban took many a thing from Draco.

Shreds of his sanity, certainly. 

His ability to regulate his own mood, to harness his feelings when stimuli was present… 

Now, instead of being able to take a calming breath and move on- he had to find a dark, silent space to decompress. Luckily the Manor had many a closet.

Azkaban took his parents. He was a man without any family he knew, and very few he knew of, but ignored nonetheless.

He’d lost his desire to interact within the world. He’d already been so long without it, and he would have assumed that some sort of desperation would have ignited within him to get back to his old life.

But there was no spark left with which to stoke a flame.

He interacted with three living beings, daily. Conveniently enough they all happened to be house elves, under his employ. Mippy, without the Lady of the house to care for, had taken to following him (three paces behind) wherever he went- sometimes weeping but often just with passive-aggressive comments muttered in his wake. 

Bopsy was desperately attempting to “mold Master Draco” into his rightful form- which was simply fatter, if he had to guess, what with the amount of butter and streaky bacon she piled onto his plate. Not to mention the sweets, which were, in a word: vast. 

Then there was Ezekiel, whose permeating stoicism was easy and pleasurable to endure as they walked the property, every day, rain or shine both in the morning when Draco awoke and again just as the sun decided to set.

He couldn’t hide away forever, though. Try as he might.

It was just after the New Year, about three months since he’d arrived back home, when Draco could no longer keep them at bay. They’d come to the Manor every day, demanding entry.

At some point he had to relent, and thus… on January 12^th, 2002- he did.

“Finally! We’re not just going to let you rot here, Draco! You’ve spent the last three years doing a bang up job of it-”

“-I was imprisoned, Pansy,” Draco said, sauntering down the front walk, a hand in his trouser pocket. Snow was cleared from the path, but clung to the hedge on either side, frosting the lawn as far as the eye could see.

“Trust,” Pansy looked him up and down, past the wrought iron. She stepped forward the moment he granted them entry through the gates, rightly not looking up too far (the impaled heads were still very much on display… he’d been having a devil of a time hiding them). 

Her hair was glossy black, pulled back tight at the nape of her neck. A deep green cloak hung around her narrow shoulders. 

She looked rather good. 

It stirred something within him… he had to force himself to look away before their long-awaited reunion devolved to him simply leering at the poor girl.

Pansy Parkinson, his ex-girlfriend (he wasn’t sure he’d really call her that, exactly- but they’d fucked a time or two…) was the only person in the world tenacious enough to keep reaching out to Draco no matter how many times her hand was bitten directly as a result.

He hadn’t seen a woman, let alone this woman, in years. So it was reasonable to conclude that he needed some time to adjust.

He just hoped she wouldn’t touch him. That none of them would.

He couldn’t bear it.

She watched him carefully, her nose (was her nose… different?) wrinkled in displeasure. He could feel her eyes on him as they were halfway to the Manor’s door. She’d likely say he was still too skinny… too pale. A bit limp in the mind. “Many have been released, and none emerged so pathetic as this.”

“Hear, hear,” Theodore Nott sidled up alongside as they neared the front steps. He’d grown, too, still a bit shorter than Draco but a good bit wider, his round face still dimpled brightly, his brown hair longer than he’d kept it in school. It curled out around his ears, giving him an easy attractiveness that he likely wielded somewhat nefariously to bints and blokes in equal measure.

Theo was Draco’s childhood best friend… though they were estranged through most of Hogwarts due to the fact that Theo was never terribly keen on He Who Should Not Be Followed, and thus, stayed far from Draco the Dipshit Death Eater™. Such actions saved him from Azkaban… but due to a variety of things beyond his own control, Theo was still fairly fucked as far as temperament went. 

The reasons, were threefold:

One, the nasty cunt he called Father

Two, the fact that he’d never had anyone to call Mother

And three, his bleeding fucking heart when it came to Draco

Blaise Zabini appeared at his other side, the only one of the three to reach out a hand and touch Draco’s person, holding Draco’s hand between his own and giving it a shake. 

Alright, it wasn’t so bad, the feel of another.

Maybe he’d get used to it again.

As direct descendant of the Black Widow of Bolgheri (his mother), Blaise believed in only one thing, really… that he was better than everyone else. Such staunch beliefs soured him on following the Dark Lord (obviously: why would he follow someone inferior?), and saved him from a life of utmost tragedy. He struggled with intimacy, trust, and humility… but those paled in comparison to the struggles of many of his contemporaries and thus, his superiority remained intact.

He also happened to be the only one of the four who was gainfully employed, which (and Draco found this altogether surprising) gave him a sense of accomplishment that little else did.

Wearing Ministry issued robes, his black hair was shorn closely to his scalp, the deep brown of his own hand contrasting healthily against the milquetoast of Draco’s own. “Good to see you, Malfoy.”

“Zabini,” Draco nodded, squeezing his hand.

“We’ve a lot to catch you up on!” Pansy said, taking the steps gracefully and walking across the Manor’s threshold as if no time had passed at all.

No sooner had the door closed behind them, did Theo wander off the hall and return with a glass of whisky in each hand. He grimaced, lines forming between his furrowed brow as he surveyed the drawing room. “This can’t be where Narcissa was receiving guests, do you think?”

“What makes you say that?” Draco drawled, taking the extra drink from Theo, holding it loosely at his side. He hadn’t a drop of alcohol, yet. 

But no time like the present he figured, as he took a sip.

He felt awkward, standing there, with people. And not for the reasons one might assume, as now his skin had started to look like actual skin, rather than sausage casing, and his hand stopped shaking anytime he spoke aloud. He was making progress. But by the look on Pansy’s face, still staring at him, he had a long way to go.

“Well, the bloody pockmarks on the floor, for one. Nearly went ass over tea kettle as I came in, caught in a divot,” he raised a leg, examining the toe of his burgundy, ostrich wingbacks.

Ostentatious.

“I’ll bill you,” Theo mused, setting his foot back on the ground silently. “You still have money, do you not?”

“Haven’t the faintest,” Draco said, ambling out of the room and down the hall. That was enough, for today.

It went on like this for a while.

-

By February, five months after his release, there was only one thing Draco did with any sense of urgency, one thing he could even pretend was part of a new routine.

Reading the Daily Prophet.

Specifically, a certain column. One that was printed on the front page, below the fold, in every Thursday issue.

He took the Thursday Prophet in the sunroom, where Bopsy laid out a little spread for him, a Wiltshire-spin on a petit déjeuner. 

A macchiato, whole milk. 

A black tea, two sugars, no milk. 

A glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice (grapefruit would also do, in a pinch). 

Three slices of ham, three slices of Comté, collated and fanned-out beside a large pat of butter and dollop of strawberry jam. 

Half a baguette. 

And finally, a pain au chocolat or a croissant. 

Once she had set out raisin bread, and Draco said aloud, before he could stop himself, “What the fuck?”

The offending wrinkled fruit had since been banished from the grounds.

He first saw the column on a brief perusal of the paper, just days after his release. He couldn’t read it, his eyes had somehow grown weary during his years of abject darkness, and the letters on the page were difficult to decipher. Mippy found him reading glasses, somewhere in the depths of Lucius’s or Abraxas’s long forgotten possessions and such deficits were remedied, for now. 

After a sip of tea, a bite of croissant, and a sip of coffee- then, and only then, would he shake open the Prophet, affix his glasses, and dive in.

He would typically read the column twice, once for content and again for clarity. Once he finished his snack, he’d head to the library to research as was required, and then he returned to the sunroom, books in hand, where he’d tuck into a cappuccino (whole milk, of course) and one more croissant.

Once the croissant was finished (he couldn’t stand the idea of crumb-laden correspondence) he took out his stationary, Accio’d his best quill, and started in on a brutally critical diatribe against the column, its merits (in the event it had any), its fallacies (it was often rife with them) and then interweave several pointed attacks questioning the writer’s intelligence, grooming or general being in its entirety.

Every letter started the same.

“Dear Ms. Granger-”

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

mistakes were made

-

11 months later

“Pull!” 

Draco was thrown off balance by the Muggle gun’s kickback as he pulled the trigger. The butt was pressed firmly into his shoulder, but the slip of his silk robe allowed it to slide out of position too easily. Regardless, he was successful. His ears rang as bits of brown clay showered down along the Manor’s southeastern facing terrace.

“It’s much better with a Fwooper,” Theo said seriously from his position on a tufted chaise. He lounged, one leg crossed over the other, in silk striped pyjamas covered by one of Narcissa’s full-length Puffskein coats, a festive winter Pimm’s in his hand. “Have some imagination, Muggles! Clay pigeons?”

“Right you are, Theo… terribly pedestrian, the whole lot of them,” Draco said, a cigar clenched in his teeth, a fur trapper hat atop his blonde head. It was, in fact, sheared from a rabbit that was allegedly a distant relative of the rabbit brood that Babbity (of Cackling Stump fame) lived amongst whilst in her Animagus form. 

He loaded the next round, nodding to the sky as he placed the stock beneath his robe, on his bare skin. Better traction. “Pull!”

The gun recoiled again, his shoulder well-bruised by now, they’d been at it all morning. Theo had charmed 360 clay Fwoopers… they usually shot until one of their arms gave out, and Theo had folded an hour ago. 

They’d tried different birds, at first. Clay Phoenixes felt… wrong somehow. Plus, the mess. The Phoenix was rather girthier than either man had realized. 

In fairness they’d never actually seen one, in real life. Nor had they seen the Muggle’s clay pigeons, but they weren’t stupid. It was obviously clay, shaped like a bird. Thus the name.

Several times in recent past they shot charmed clay versions of falcons, robins and hummingbirds (quite difficult to hit such a small target — bad for morale all around), and even once, peacocks… mostly to teach the fuckers roaming the grounds a lesson in decorum. 

They had become a bit ornery since Narcissa passed on. No one bothered to dote upon their feathered arses in her absence and thus they grew irascible, and Draco felt it was time for a reckoning.

This reckoning just happened to fall one day after the big bird shat on his favorite lounge chair; the green damask one with the silvery tassels, part of the set on his private balcony. The damn birds refused to fly, save for vandalism-via-excrement… it would seem.

The bitchy little bastards were lucky Bopsy refused to cook peacock stew.

“A miss!” Theo cried, sloshing his drink as Draco stumbled around for his own, taking his cigar from his mouth and holding it between his fingers as he attempted to concentrate. 

He swore, he’d put the drink down, just there… 

He whipped around to see the dwindling pile of Fwoopers behind them, all flapping around mindlessly, turning circles on the stone patio- but still, he could not locate his Pimm’s.

His Ashwinder-skin house shoe slipped on the silk tie of his robe, which set off a chain reaction of idiocy. Slipping on the tie pulled open his robe, revealing his naked form- save for a pair of (tiny) black pants. He dropped the rifle with a “Whoops!” and a laugh on his way to the ground, his fur hat tumbling off as his cigar went flying into the lawn. He tried to stand, using the gun as a cane of sorts, but slipped once again.

They drank every time either of them missed the bird, and neither of them were very good shots. Draco was better, actually, as the drinks went on.

In the months since Draco’s release, he’d done his best to get himself back to a reasonable physical form. He had little choice in the matter as he was for better or worse under the watchful, sometimes violent eye of Bopsy, who even to this day took offense to his state upon returning home. His height seemed to have tapped out just under 6’4”, and he’d gained more than three stone since he arrived back at the Manor.

He’d filled out, while still trending toward lean, and his complexion could no longer be referred to as sickly, or, according to Theo: “disgustingly pale… almost blue, even. Are you sure you’re human? Not a merperson granted legs for an afternoon walkabout?”

In February, he cut his hair to his scalp, the sight of it long both nostalgic, for the comparison to his father, and sickening for the memory of his imprisonment.

It was now a bit toward shaggy and he had a habit of running his hands through it when he felt nervous.

Which was to say, any time, day or night, when he hadn’t imbibed enough. A formerly delusional young man, he was now insecure to a pathological degree. It would almost be funny if it weren’t happening to him. Thank Salazar he was under house arrest, he’d never make it outside the Manor walls. He didn’t know what he’d do in a few weeks when his world opened up and…

The end of that sentence was, as of yet, unclear. 

Draco looked up through his blonde fringe to see Theo laughing so hard he was rendered silent, tears forming in his eyes at the sight of Draco lolling about the pavers in search of his drink. “Oh, Theo!” Draco said brightly, finally able to stand as he waved the rifle above their heads. He stooped to grab his hat, shoving it back on his head. “It’s snowing!”

“A Christmas miracle,” Theo sighed, taking another sip of his Pimm’s.

“Christmas!” Draco’s mouth dropped open. What the fuck? “Is it, really?”

 Theo screwed up his face, looking at Draco with distaste. “Darling, Christmas was days ago. It’s nearly the New Year. Perhaps we should ease up on the Pimm’s?”

“Yes, yes, you’re right. Of course.” Draco nodded, eyes scanning the ground for his missing beverage. “And what shall we do to usher in the year two thousand and…”

“And…?” Theo flourished his hand.

Three years in prison… “Four?”

“No, Draco.”

One year house arrest… “Two…”

“Try again.”

Draco exhaled. Three years past September of 1998, plus 15 months house arrest, put them squarely at the end of 2002, which meant they were on the precipice of… “2003.”

“Ding, ding, ding,” Theo tipped his cup all the way back, holding a finger across the top to keep the steeping accoutrements from slopping across his face.

“What is time, really…” Draco mused, tension pulling at his jaw as he clamped down. He didn’t have weeks left… he had hours.

Fuck.

He fell onto the chaise set next to Theo’s, the recline giving way and lying him flat on his back in one fell swoop, the rifle clattering noisily to the ground. His robe was still untied, goosebumps so prominent they ached as they popped up along his naked torso, his bare thighs. He watched the snowflakes, coming down harder now, some clinging together as they tumbled through the grey sky. Several landed on his eyelashes, dissolving into nothing more than errant tears as he blinked them away. A particularly large clump landed on his stiff right nipple, coaxing from him a hiss and a shiver, his teeth begging to chatter as it melted against his chest. 

Theo dug through the glass mug they used for their Pimm’s, plucking a desiccated orange slice from the undrinkable left over bits of citrus rind, cinnamon stick and star anise. He held it in front of his mouth, drawing it in to suck the remains from the pith.

“Draco, why are you nude?!” A voice called from the Manor’s door. “It’s freezing!”

Draco sat himself up on his elbows as Theo glared in the direction from which the voice came. “Oh, it’s just Pansy- HE’S GOT ON HIS KNICKERS, PANS!”

Pansy’s heels clacked in a steady rhythm against the stone terrace, the cadence slowing as it grew louder, until it stopped altogether. Draco couldn’t move his head haphazardly at the moment… he’d had quite a bit to drink. He was better staring straight ahead- lest he lose his balance (and his breakfast).

Which…

Had he eaten breakfast? 

Or had he too just relied on the Pimm’s stewed fruit garnishes?

Oh, dear.

“Draco,” Pansy said, her voice low. “Put on a fucking jacket, just looking at you is making me uncomfortable.”

Draco let his head fall back, adjusting his hat so he could crack open an eye to take a look at her as she stood over him. Her hair was down, falling just beyond her shoulders, and she’d cut herself fringe the week before. She ruffled it, realizing he was watching her as she sat next to his knees. “I can’t help that you lust after me, Pansy. I told you I’d give you a go, for old time’s sake, but you’re still trying to convince us you’re otherwise involved…”

“Salazar, Draco-”

“Unless you’ve changed your tune!” Draco sat all the way up, the sudden movement making his stomach lurch. “What’ve you got on under that parka, Parkinson? Show me yours, I’ve already shown you mine.” He pulled at her coat.

She slapped him, hard, on the chest.

“That’ll leave a mark,” Theo laughed. “What’s up, Pans? What’s happening? Why are you interrupting our New Year’s Eve Eve clay Fwooper tournament? I think I’ve lost.”

“You have,” Draco assured him.

“Did we have any money on it?”

“You owe me… let me see my tally,” Draco pretended to fish something out of a non-existent pocket, “three billion galleons.”

“I should like to work off my tab,” Theo said gravely, “yet I’ve no skills.”

“Drat,” Draco pouted. 

Pansy exhaled loudly, interrupting the back and forth. She did not seem to be enjoying herself, which was rude, because they didn’t even invite her over to be a wet blanket in the first place.

She came of her own accord.

“I’ve something I’d like to discuss with the two of you, and I thought arriving at 10 in the morning would allow me to have such a chat, unaided by…” she leaned across Draco’s legs to sniff at the dregs of Theo’s cup, “-a Pimm’s punch?”

“With extra brandy,” Theo winked. “Regardless, we are perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation, darling, we are hearty Pureblood stock!”

“Sacredly eight!” Draco agreed, except… no. He sighed. That wasn’t right. “Our generations, of wizards and witches, have been drinking heavily for a millennia!”

“And then marrying each other,” Theo clapped Draco on the chest atop the red Pansy print. “So that means we’re doubly capable. I’m sure that’s how it works.”

Draco pulled at the sides of his robe, finally deciding to cover up. They were going to leave welts if they kept at it… and the scars were bad enough. 

Fucking Potter, the magnificent marplot. If his face wasn’t already aggressively disfigured, Draco had half a mind to return the favor.

He frowned, looking from Pansy to Theo. Why was he thinking about Potter?

Had someone mentioned him?

Theo interrupted his meandering thoughts. “What are we good at, other than drinking profusely whilst going about our lives?”

“Genocide, perhaps,” Draco offered.

Theo tutted. “I would venture to say that we keep failing at that exact task.”

“Righto, ill-fit for genocide at this point,” Draco agreed as a brilliant thought accosted him and he reached under his chair, finally finding his drink. He held it aloft. “But quite primed for Pimm’s!”

“Huzzah!” Theo held up his own cup, tipping it back only to push out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. “I forgot I’d already finished. I hate it when that happens. Where is Bopsy?”

“She said she will not serve either of you more, until you have something to eat,” Pansy griped. “I don’t blame her.”

“This wintery Pimm’s is filled with fruit,” Theo argued. “A balanced breakfast if I’ve ever seen one. We’ve had it every day this week, haven’t we Draco?”

Looking back to the Manor, Draco saw Bopsy shaking her head at him from behind the window.

“She thinks us a nuisance,” he clicked his tongue, ignoring Theo’s question. 

“Us?” Theo asked incredulously. “But we’re such a delight! You with your white hair and that cutting sneer, and me with the personality and abject cuteness… a pair such as us… quite scant, I’d think.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Draco nodded, straightening his hat. Should the ear flaps be tied up, or left down?

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, could you two stop wanking each other for one minute so I could say what I came here to say?” Pansy huffed, standing from the chaise and smoothing her coat. 

“Who said anything about wanking… this is Pimm’s, Pansy,” Theo admonished. “Now if we’d started with Champagne, you might have found us in a different state.”

She shook her head, as if the act of even being near them was making her ill.

Rude.

“Just once, a very close call,” Draco mused, but she was already walking away.

“I will see you both in the drawing room,” she called over her shoulder.

“She’s in a mood,” Theo said, rising slowly with a hand out for Draco. “I wonder if her “boyfriend” kicked her off the broom?”

“I can hear you, you absolute twat,” Pansy snapped, holding the door open for them as they followed her in. They walked in silence through the sunroom, the adjacent dining, around the kitchen, down the hall, up the stairs, down the hall again, to the left and finally to the drawing room. The rose drawing room… not the one downstairs with the missing chandelier and the remnants.

Draco didn’t go in there, anymore.

They settled upon opposing cream-colored chesterfields, and within moments there was a tea of their choice warming their hands. Pansy smiled softly at Draco before clearing her throat. “So. Tomorrow’s the big day, yes?”

Draco wasn’t fully tracking, instead looking into the distance, trying to forget what tomorrow might be. 

He’d always liked this room, with sheer bone colored curtains tied back to reveal a row of floor to ceiling windows overlooking the rose garden. Ecru damask wallpaper and dark oak wainscoting with matching ceiling coffers made it look regal. Soft, yet strong. 

The rose drawing room was his mother’s. It was attached to her personal study and her private chambers. An ivory grand piano sat in the corner, though none of them knew how to play.

He always thought it strange.

“House arrest’s over,” Theo elbowed him. “Yes, still on schedule, Pansy, why… what’ve you planned? A party? In his honor?”

Opening his mouth to warn such an occasion sounded like the literal worst thing he could think of- Pansy beat him to the punch.

“No. Not quite.”

“Are you asking me on a proper date?” Draco wondered. 

“Not even close.”

“Pity,” he sighed, sipping his tea and forcing himself back into the moment rather than off somewhere in the past. The tea was near scalding… just how he liked it. “Come out with it, then, Pansy. What’s got you all a titter?”

“Okay,” she took a breath, her hands shaking slightly as she set her tea cup in its saucer, and onto the table sat between them. She perched herself on the very edge of the sofa, a picture of nerves. “I’ve been dating someone, as you both know.”

“Sure,” Theo said, side-eying Draco in a most obvious way.

“It’s become… well. I very much care for him. We are… we’re in love. And I think as such I should come clean about him-”

“Come clean?” Draco grinned. “What is he, a centaur?”

“Bet you wish he was hung like one…” Theo laughed into his tea.

“Is this Floo open? I’ve asked him to stop by,” Pansy glanced back at the fireplace, then her watch, clasping her hands nervously in her lap as she turned to look at Draco.

“It can be,” he Accio’d his wand, setting the Floo open to all who utter its address. Within seconds, as if the man was waiting in the Network, the flames roared green and a long-limbed body came stepping clumsily across the grates. Pansy jumped up to greet him, at his side even before he was completely in the room, kissing his -likely soot covered- cheek.

Draco’s eyes went wide as Theo choked, sputtering tea every which way. 

“Malfoy,” the man said, then looked to Theo, “Nott.”

“Absolutely… no. It’s a no from me, Pansy,” Theo’s voice hitched up, “you cannot be serious, here.”

Draco was stunned into silence… very briefly. Then words found him once again. “The mother fucking Weasel King, Pansy? Are you mad?!”

“Told you they’d have something to say,” Ron Weasley said, in all his big, ginger glory (which was none- no glory!). He had an arm around Pansy’s shoulders, holding in a grin as he kissed the top of her head.

“What the fuck is he smiling about?” Theo said, seemingly to himself. “Pansy. Explain yourself.”

“She doesn’t have to explain shit to you, mate,” Weasley held her tighter. “We’re all adults, here. She can do whatever she’d like.”

“And you’re saying that you are the whatever she would like to do?” Theo questioned.

“Of course I didn’t say that,” Weasley laughed. He was bizarrely even-tempered for a situation such as this. 

Draco felt it quite odd. 

Pansy led the Weasel King to the sofa and pulled him to sit next to her as he continued. “I’m not fourteen bloody years old, Nott, I don’t need to speak in riddles about the girl I fancy.”

Pansy blushed at the word, whilst Draco had to fight the urge to vomit. 

How was an oaf like Weaselbee was so collected, here in the den of his enemy? Enemy was perhaps overstating their relationship. They were no longer children on opposing sides of a war… they were young adults. Who had nothing in common- except, it would seem, one woman. 

What the fuck!

“Pansy, what is this,” Draco said, bracing himself against the back of the sofa. As if struck by a curse, he realized the reason for Weasley’s hardly hidden amusement.

The man had walked into a rather posh looking room, on a serious occasion, and his sight was then assaulted by perhaps the two least serious men in the realm.

Draco was in a silken robe, he chest on display with a fur cap on his head and shimmering, scaled house shoes. Theo was still in his striped pyjamas, with Narcissa’s best Puffskein fur to bundle him. 

Of course Weasley was sitting there, on the sofa of the enemy, unbothered. They looked like drunken cunts.

Draco wanted to wipe the look from his face, and then, perhaps- launch him from the roof. A clay weasel tournament…

“Is this your final revenge against your parents? Courting the worst Weasley? Surely they’d rather you…” Draco shrugged as he looked to Theo and back to Pansy. “I don’t know. Kill yourself?”

Weasley’s pink-tinged face drained of color, his smile gone as he locked his jaw. Pansy held tightly to his shoulder with one hand, his thigh with the other, which made Draco laugh. Like he’d try something, in this the den of his enemy!

In fact, Draco welcomed it. He leaned forward, keeping his gaze steady as he tacked on a smile.

“Why the fuck would you say that, Malfoy?” Weasley exhaled, putting his hand atop Pansy’s.

“He’s joking, Ron,” Pansy said, shaking her head at Draco as she loosened the grip she held on his shoulder and smoothed the hair at the nape of his neck. 

The intimacy of it made Draco’s skin crawl. 

Or, perhaps he was feeling shame for saying something like that about Pansy. To Pansy. Shame, he’d learned, also had the tendency to make him want to claw out of his own body… though typically shame also made him double down on being a fucking bitch.

“What kind of unfunny shit are you on about then, Malfoy? She’s supposed to be one of your best friends, and you tell her… what?” Weasley asked, disgust filling out his face. “What did you mean by that?”

“If you have to explain the joke, Weasley, it loses most of its appeal…” Draco said dryly. “I should think you were well aware of such nuance. Aren’t you, in fact, employed by a joke shop?”

“Yes, I believe he is…” Theo nodded. “Started there after he dropped out of the Ministry…”

Weasley turned to Pansy, his face softening as he looked her over.

How glib.

His voice was low, though not so much that Draco had to strain to hear. “Are you sure about this? I will follow your lead, but I’ve got to be honest, Pans- I want to beat them. To death. With my hands.”

“Easy, Weasel King,” Draco laughed. “No need for violence.”

“Fuck you, ferret,” Weasley whipped around to glare at him.

“Boo,” Theo rolled his eyes. “Hiss.”

Draco swallowed, a cruel smile still affixed to his face. 

“It’s fine,” Pansy said quietly, turning Weasley’s chin back toward her.

His shoulders relaxed, just the slightest bit. “Say what you’d like about my friends but they didn’t infer suicide was a better option…”

Draco clicked his tongue. “It wasn’t an inference, I literally posed the question-”

“No,” Pansy cut Draco off, “but Granger did ask if I had you under Imperius, so…”

“She what?” Draco set his tea roughly on the table, sloshing it across the lacquered top. “Why? Because she thought you were dying to have ginger dick over here and wouldn’t take no for an answer? Or is it just because you’re an inherently evil Slytherin?”

They all stared at him, surprised by his outburst. 

Draco felt it was the least shocking part of the day, really.

He started to stand. “Where is the frizzy, knock-kneed Mudblood… I’d like to have a chat-”

And then, everything went black.

Draco came back to consciousness, sprawled across the very sofa he’d been sitting in… right before Ron fucking Weasley dove across the coffee table and laid him out, fist to nose. In his ancestral home! He shot up, looking around angrily as he stood, throwing back (sheer) curtains as he cased the room. “Where is he? Fucking coward, hitting a man out of nowhere, in his own home-”

“You deserved what you got,” Pansy said quietly, now beside Theo on the sofa opposite where Draco awoke. He stomped back toward them, waiting for her to go on.

When she didn’t, Draco grew uncomfortable. Something was going on- something was happening… and he didn’t care for it, not least of all because he was a bit too in the sauce to pick up any subtle cues from which he might otherwise gain enlightenment. 

“Out with it, then, Parkinson.” He sat, leaning his elbows onto his knees, his legs spread. He felt his nose, groaning. “He broke my fucking nose, didn’t he.”

“He did, but Bopsy put it to rights,” Theo said. “Actually, it’s not that crooked anymore, so if anything… he made you more symmetrical with such an impassioned whack.”

“Terrific,” Draco hung his head.

“I can see your pants,” Pansy said, averting her eyes.

“Yes, well, I’m trying to relax- trying, being the operative word, in my own bloody home, when you popped by unannounced and ushered in a man to assault me. Forgive me for not being dressed to receive such adoring guests!”

Theo, seemingly amused by Draco’s candor, nodded.

“I wanted to bring Ron by, because it is important for me to have my friends aware of big things in my life-”

“Weasley is a big thing, then?” Draco asked skeptically.

“Well, remember, there was rumor of a centaur-like situation, wasn’t there?” Theo piped up. “Do tell, Pansy… when Weasley puts it down, what are we working with.” He held out his hands, slowly pulling them apart as his eyes got wider.

“I hate you,” she sighed, biting the inside of her cheek as she looked up to the ceiling to gather herself before continuing. Her voice caught as she spoke. “You both embarrassed me, today.”

She said it so earnestly that Draco winced, and Theo dropped his hands, looking sheepish.

“I had hoped that my oldest friends, my only friends, would be happy that I have someone I want to share my life with-”

“Hold on,” Draco held up a hand, his heart starting to patter at a quicker clip. “Fucking around is one thing, and I suppose I can allow it-”

“-Not yours to allow-”

“But sharing your life,” he continued. “Pansy, please. Be realistic, here.”

She trained her hazel eyes on him, setting her jaw. “I want your word, both of you, that you will be adults about this whole thing. I will not condemn you to be saints in private, but in front of me, and in front of Ron, I must ask- no. I demand-”

“She demands!” Draco laughed.

“I do,” she nodded. “I demand that you repay the respect and care I’ve always shown you both. Respect I’ve given freely, without having to be asked. I would like you to do me the same kindness, and treat me and my relationship without contempt.”

Draco looked to his own lap, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Well, fuck, Pansy.”

“When you say it like that we look like ripe arseholes, Pans,” Theo sighed.

“You absolutely are,” she spat.

They sat in silence for a few beats, before Draco ventured back into the conversation at hand.

“So. You like him, then?” Draco asked, trying (and failing) to keep from grimacing. 

Pansy smiled at him, a wicked tinge to her eyes. “I love him.”

“Alright, well,” Draco looked to Theo for a bail out. “Superb, that.”

Draco didn’t get it. He didn’t see one single thing to like about the Weasel King. Freckled face. Ginger hair. Gangly limbs, a graceless gait. Poor. Likely quite stupid…

What did she see? What did she get out of this… situation? He refused to call it a relationship.

Granted, he knew there was some canoodling betwixt the various Hogwarts alumni whilst he was in prison. Theo had caught him up. The war ended and people were civil, especially when they started getting picked off. Being terrorized sometimes brought people together, Draco supposed. Stranger things had occurred, probably.

But this.

This was a bit too far.

“Yes. Happy for you…” Theo clapped his hands together. “This calls for a toast!”

Draco begrudgingly called for Bopsy to bring out the crystal coupes and whatever Champagne Lucius had left in good supply in the cellar. After whinging at her for a moment, promising her he’d eat some food, she did just that.

“Champagne!” Theo whooped. “Perhaps the wanking shall commence after all?”

Draco shook his head, laughing as he (carelessly) poured generous glasses for the three of them. Theo knew just how to ease Draco’s worried mind.

Alcohol.

And bawdy humor. 

Draco handed the glasses off with a smile as the Champagne flowed over the lip and down the stem, wetting his fingers. 

“To Pansy and Ron’s courtship,” Draco tried his best to sound sincere as he held his glass between them.

“To sensual centaur sex,” Theo raised his.

Pansy rolled her eyes as she lifted her glass. “To our wedding, tomorrow, at which I hope both of you will be in attendance…”

“What the fuck?” Theo dropped his arm, spilling the vintage Salon blanc de blancs all over the Persian rug.

“You’re getting married?” Draco searched her face for a sign that she was joking, but it could not be found. He felt like he’d been hit again, this time right in the stomach.

“We are, tomorrow at the Burrow-“

“Morgana’s fucking mound, Pansy, you can’t be serious?” Draco cried, throwing his Champagne back in one gulp. He tracked her dainty grip on the coupe, still filled to the brim, and though his vision was trending toward double, he zeroed in.

“Parkinson, are you pregnant?”

Her composure fractured as she set the coupe down, crossing her arms in front of her chest as she sat. “Half of this is your fault, you know!”

Draco filled his coupe again, draining it as he counted with his fingers. “Excuse me, but if half of this is my fault, young…”

“Agememnon?” Theo offered.

“No, I mean-” Pansy tried to reel them back in.

“Sure, young Agememnon-“ Draco nodded.

“I should think you’d call him Aggy, or something a bit precious, he’s your darling progeny after all…”

“I literally feel I could cry,” Pansy said, her voice small.

“Quite right, Theo…” Draco nodded, eying the Champagne once more. Pansy couldn’t be fucking serious with this. Pregnant? With a Weasel?! Fucking yuck. “Riddle me this, Miss Pansy… if half of this is my fault then young Aggy would be at least, 6 years old? 7? You’d think I would’ve noticed the handsome bugger by now, prison or not.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Pansy stared cooly at him. 

“He is handsome, isn’t he?” Draco gasped, the Pimm’s and the Champagne serving as a buffer between him and having to take anything seriously. “Is that why you’ve kept him from his Papa?”

“He’s hideous? Oh dear…” Theo clucked. “Or perhaps… a squib?”

Draco rose from the sofa to grab at the Champagne. “Bite your tongue, Theodore!”

“Are you two finished?” Pansy asked, and buffer or not, Draco could hear the resignation in her tone.

Draco looked to Theo, raising his eyebrows as he sat back down. “Go ahead, darling Pansy. We shall listen and pretend we never found out about our ugly little squib known as Agamemnon.”

“You two go on like this, and I do understand,” Pansy moved a ring on her middle finger, round and round. “You feed off each other, the lost boys.”

Frowning, Draco looked to Theo, who was listening intently… which in and of itself gave the situation a bit more gravitas. 

“We were not given the best foundation…” Pansy sighed. “Theo, you had, well, your father.”

“A dreadful man,” Theo agreed.

“My own parents have disowned me, due to differing opinions on what is right and what is evil,” she continued, “and you-”

Draco winked at her. 

Much too much Champagne.

“You went off to prison after being tasked with murder to save your family… and then came home to that very family gone. Believe me, the irony of it all is not lost on me.”

Draco’s face fell. He took a long pull off the bottle, nearly emptying it.

Pansy watched him as she continued. “I get it, I do. But while you two have decided to embrace the fucking chaos, and deaden yourselves with drink, I’ve decided to go the other way. I want something… safe.” 

“How thrilling,” Theo looked at her warily.

“It’s the most succinct way I can describe it. When I’m with him, I feel safe. And… happy,” they groaned, “I know, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt it before. He’s someone I can hold on to, and lean on, and care for. I am cared for. I want a life beyond this, and Ron knows. He knows how fleeting this all is.” 

“Dead brother and girlfriend’ll do that to you, I bet…” Theo reached for the Champagne and dumped hardly a mouthful into his glass, grimacing as he realized Draco had much more than his fair share.

“Dead girlfriend?” Draco lazily pointed to Pansy, his enunciation near a slur, his intonation quite messy. “Are we communing through the veil?”

“Not Pansy, you ninny,” Theo explained, grabbing Pansy’s coupe. “The twin!”

“His brother?”

“No… the girl ones,” Theo exhaled. “The Patils?”

“Parvati,” Pansy interjected.

“Yes, the Gryffindor one. He was dating her before the…” Theo’s eyes widened as he rolled his hand in the air. “You know.”

“Oh,” Draco said flatly, coming up to speed. “Right. The wolves.”

“Regardless, Ron and I started our relationship as two people who were trying to escape their pain, and… I don’t know,” she tucked her hair behind her ears. “Somehow we figured out that we fit.”

Draco opened his mouth to say… well, he wasn’t sure. Come to find out his sparkling wit actually dimmed considerably with the addition of a sparkling beverage. Ludicrous.

“And I will not stand by and let two Pureblood losers-”

“Who?” Draco asked.

“Us?” Theo said at the same time.

Draco showily scanned the room from his place on the sofa. “Or are Crabbe and Goyle lurking about?”

“Crabbe’s dead,” Theo whispered, provoking a sharp, sudden laugh from Draco.

“Right, right,” Draco pushed the heels of his hands to his eyes in an attempt to stop the tears of laughter from falling. The action hurt his newly righted nose. “I always forget that one.”

“Can you please be serious for a moment.”

“I can’t, Pans,” Draco breathed as he tipped right over into a fit of giggles. Everything was funny, whilst nothing was funny, and somehow it all became hilarious. “The Champagne!”

“Not the Champagne!” Theo cried.

Pansy waited, her hands stilled in her lap, until their theatrics dissipated. As soon as they calmed themselves, she stood without a word and went to the Floo. She slowed, gathering a handful of powder with her back to them, letting some of it fall through her fingers back into the dish.

She hesitated, taken by the flickering flames in the hearth.

“The wedding is tomorrow, at three. I have waited for your house arrest to conclude, Draco, because I want you to be with me,” she said, turning to look at them. “Wear black. And if you can’t arrive sober and civil, don’t bother… I’d rather just have Blaise in my corner than to corral two spoiled, pathetic drunken sods when it is supposed to be a day of joy and celebration.”

Draco started to speak, but she held up her hand, her fingers in a fist around the powder.

“I will warn you. If you cannot show up for me, I will never show up for you, again.” She threw the powder into the fireplace, shouting THE BURROW! as she disappeared into the emerald flames.

“A bet tetchy, today, wasn’t she…” Theo hiccuped. “Though, I could slow down on the drink, methinks.”

Draco lifted his legs onto the sofa and turned, tucking his arms behind his head as he looked up to the ceiling. “Ronald Weasley…” he said slowly, testing the words in his mouth. “Did you truly not know?”

“I’d no idea,” Theo promised, “though this makes a bit of sense. We’ve been canoodling with the Gryffindors far more of late… I figured it was due to Potter and Blaise’s working relationship… but now it sort of tracks why Pans was always keen to meet up at the pub. Or pop by the joke shop in Diagon… I knew she didn’t really need any Ton Tongue Toffees.”

Nodding, Draco tried to close his eyes, but his own body was so convinced it was in the midst of a cyclone that it nearly tricked his brain into believing it. He planted a foot on the floor, bracing himself with his hands in an attempt to fool his body into realizing its own stillness. “Bopsy!”

Cracking into the room, Bopsy handed him a large goblet of shimmering aquamarine liquid, and without being prompted, handed another to Theo. They drank quickly, giving the goblets back.

Draco knew the drink well… a double potion of his own design, for sobering and curing hangovers in tandem, with a nice minty flavor, a cooling effect for extra soothing, and a dash of Pepper-Up to rouse a more alert pallor. 

He had another one, it tasted faintly of lavender and was a gorgeous midnight blue. Instead of Pepper-Up it was laced with sleeping draught, and understandably he generally leaned upon it for evening usage.

He’d created quite a few potions, to combat his new normal.

Then sometimes, when vim and vigor were already in full force, he closed his eyes and grabbed from the potion cabinet at random. Worst case scenario, he’d stay up all night reading when he was meant to rest. Best case, he’d lose consciousness for days on end.

The potions were made of necessity, as Draco’s drinking had escalated since his release. He had come up with any number of ways to willfully ignore the buckling tentpoles of his existence, but drinking with Theo was his favorite. 

The life of a lush had its drawbacks, though. Thus the impetus for brewing such a potion in the first place- he needed to mitigate damages.

A person much smarter than he might say, “Just stop drinking, then.”

He would if he could- if he could figure out another way to separate himself from all the things he was trying to bury, trying to forget, he would do it. But alcohol served as a way to be fun, instead of steps away from offing himself. It helped him be physically affectionate without tumbling into a full blown panic.

If he could find another way, he would.

Well. He might.

It didn’t serve him to dwell on the things that were beyond his control, like his dead parents, or the deficits he accrued through three years of solitary confinement and sensory deprivation. 

Or the state of the Wizarding world- which wasn’t great if he was to believe the Prophet and any anecdotal nonsense Theo rattled off from time to time.

If he thought of any of those particular things, or dozens of others, he became paralyzed. It was all too much, and the years stretched in front of him (permitted he didn’t get eaten by a Hippogriff), the days taking on an endless quality. 

How long did he really have to go on, feeling like this? What was the expiration? He had so much time, and, ungrateful wretch that he was, he wanted none of it. He was undeserving of such longevity. What the fuck would he even do with it?

His many thoughts of doubt, of panic, were like a weed overtaking a garden, choking out the existing flora, usurping their nutrients, blotting out their sun, and thriving though no one wanted them there in the first place.

But there they were.

“This actually works out rather well,” Draco said.

Theo, mirroring him from across the coffee table, eased open an eye to catch his gaze. “What? Your potion? It always does. You should sell it, I don’t know why you don’t…”

“No… the Weasley of it all. One less thing for me to worry about.”

“You? Worry?” Theo laughed. “Sounds so unlike you, Draco.”

“Blaise has the job, which he is a little too happy with if anyone were to ask my opinion,” Draco ticked his fingers like he was checking off a list… “Pansy, now with husband and a big, fat, ginger baby…”

“Tying up loose ends, are we?”

Draco shrugged, sitting up. “What about you, Theo?”

“What about me…”

“What’s your loose end?”

Theo sat up, crossing one leg over the other. With a slight shake of his head, he looked to Draco. “You.”

Draco spent much of his time whilst under house arrest, reading. Nearly all of it, in fact. Reading, and walking around the grounds. He read so much that he had a special deal with several bookshops, including Flourish and Blotts and The Papyrus. Any new book that came in was sent straight to the Manor, at full list price, of course.

Flourish and Blotts kept him abreast of the newest releases, both fiction and non… but the deal with The Papyrus was trickier.

Post-Battle of Hogwarts, many Pureblood families found their libraries and vaults ransacked by the Ministry under the guise of ‘prohibiting illegal activities and sentiment’… which essentially served to encourage the Pure to be discreet with their proclivities and possessions.

They were rather good at it, by now.

A year before Draco was released, Aloysius Burke, great nephew of Borgin and Burke’s Caractacus Burke, started an underground bookshop beneath the floorboards, in the cellar. It functioned as a place where Purebloods could buy and trade books, folios, what have you, with others who lived under the same scrutiny. In true Pure tradition, one must be well-vetted to know of it, let alone visit. Theo tipped Draco off to its existence, having made a few trades when it first opened. He’d said, “I suddenly had the desire to learn of horcruxes, Draco, can you believe it? And Potter was very tight-lipped about the whole affair… you know what they say, those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. Like we can afford another soul-severing maniac to run wild! Not on my watch! Even if Potter is keen to rest on his laurels just to play hero again.” 

Draco eventually corresponded with Aloysius and struck a deal. Though The Papyrus started as a one-man shop, he had recently hired a young girl who was soon-to-be graduated from Hogwarts, and she was instrumental in helping with what Draco required of him. The girl was quite skilled in duplication spells, and thus every book that came through The Papyrus’ doors was copied and sent to Draco, no questions asked. For a price, of course.

Some of the subject matter was, even to Draco’s well-trained scruples, insane.

But what did he care?

Books were one of the only things Draco was actively accruing, while the rest of the Manor’s gems were slowly being sifted through, sorted, and sold. What use did he have for them?

Blaise, who owned an antiques and artifacts shop in Horizont Alley called, Olde Times, was an enormous help with such a task- he was gifted in spinning tales of grandeur about utter shit to capture the best price, and he profited handsomely from such liberties taken on Draco’s behalf. Draco gave him 50% of the sale, minimum. Well above industry average.

Over time, Blaise’s shop became more of a hobby, as he took a curse breaking position within the Auror department.

Blaise helped with cleaning out Potter’s home shortly after Draco went to Azkaban, and had some luck with a nasty portrait affixed to the wall. It was of a relative of Draco’s, Blaise had told him… but Draco’s attention glazed a bit anytime the conversation turned to Potter. Or gainful employment.

However even he had heard that Walburga Black was a fucking battle axe.

Some time later, a potion-magnate called Veraly Bobbins went missing, and when the Ministry began sifting through her home for clues as to where she’d gone and who took her, Weasley (the one who had the scuffle with Greyback) remembered how well Blaise had handled difficult, cursed artifacts, and requested an assist. Blaise was such a help the Head Auror created a new position just for him, aiding the department with cursed curiosities and the like.

Potter and Blaise were quite close, now. 

Blaise was even the godfather to Potter’s eldest son, Albus.

An awful fucking name if Draco had ever heard one.

“Could you at least point me in the direction of what you’re hoping to find, here,” Theo whinged as they stood in the confines of the study of the late Lucius Malfoy. 

Draco wasn’t actually sure what he was hoping to find. He just knew it needed to be something of note. Something significant. Something… that when presented, would make the recipient forget that her best friend was a complete wanker.

Perusing this particular study wasn’t something Draco did often. The man who had been sipping on whiskey and smoking a pipe whilst he corresponded… stepped away never to return.

There were times, though, when Draco had so much to drink, that it wasn’t hard to pretend Lucius had just popped to the library for another book. Draco would sit, and wait, and live in the life he would never have for a few moments until the illusion wore thin.

The desk was charmed with a stasis spell to render anything that might spoil, either by rotting or melting or burning, in a perpetual state. The pipe Lucius was smoking the day he went to sit before the Wizengamot was still lit, its trail of smoke frozen in foggy tendrils above. The whiskey he was drinking still had a large ice cube, the condensation outside the glass ignorant of gravity or evaporation.

His chair, covered in buttery, brown leather, was pushed back, waiting for Lucius to return. 

A testament to the man’s hubris; he never dreamed he’d be unable to finish his whiskey.

Draco walked to the window, overlooking the back gardens. “I don’t know… but Pansy seemed quite put out by our handling of the whole ‘I’m marrying the ugliest ginger git tomorrow’ news. I need something good enough to smooth things over, and what better than some knickknack my father hoarded like a covetous gryphon.”

“In that case, I should think several thousand galleons would do the trick.”

Craning his neck just in time to see Theo sniff the pre-poured whiskey, Draco frowned. “Of course I’ll give them money. This is in addition to-”

“Right, right,” Theo ran his finger along the desk.

“How long was he with the Patil twin, before Greyback got her?” Draco asked. 

Now sober, Theo was less cavalier with such discussions. He carried a soreness within him about that particular time that Draco was reluctant to prod. 

“I’m not sure on the timeline… from what I’ve gleaned, not too long. Six months?” Theo wiggled his fingers through the spelled pipe’s smoke. “He must’ve been fairly torn up about it though… went full dark. I remember Blaise telling me about it, when it happened, how he dropped out of the Auror program with just a few months to go.”

Draco nodded, feeling a pang of pity or perhaps understanding. He swallowed it, unwilling to feel anything for a man such as the Weasel King. “Well, lucky for us, I guess. He would have been an absolute shit Auror.”

Theo forced a laugh.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said. “I know you don’t like talking about it.”

Shrugging, Theo pulled on the doors of a wardrobe-sized cabinet, to no avail. “It is what it is.”

After 50 minutes of fruitless searching, they’d found dozens of items of interest, several of which Theo had an opinion on:

- A journal detailing various instances of Lucius’ grievances (“He was very upset with your neighbor to the east, a Mrs. Phinn?”)

- Several pots of disappearing ink (“I wonder what sort of naughty missives he wrote to Narcissa right under your nose…”)

- A folio about dragon rearing - all in Latin (“I fear your relatives may have tried to mate with dragons… is that why you’re called Draco, then?”)

- A set of Etruscan knives (“There’s something about these that gives me the greatest of unease…”)

- Several illegal petrified dragon’s eggs (Holding up the folio, “Don’t get any ideas, Draco.”)

- A mirror that could track the owner of the blood from which it was imbued (“Now this could come in handy, should we be the type to get kidnapped… however I fear we lead a rather quiet life these days, don’t we? How unpleasant.”)

But nothing felt good enough. 

“How the fuck is all this in here,” Theo finally asked, coming upon an illegal dark artifact for the eleventh time. “Did they not sweep the Manor after they sent you lot to prison?”

“Oh, I’m sure they did,” Draco said, his voice muffled as he crouched beneath the oversized desk, feeling around for the hidden panel he knew to be there. “This room is unplottable, along with a potions room behind the cellar. You have to be escorted in by Lord Malfoy.”

“Of course,” Theo laughed. 

“Or, you could just be Mippy. She could always get in here… it’s also where Father kept his best sweets so I couldn’t get at them.”

“What kind of sweets?”

“Chocolates, mostly, with a pistachio cream.”

“Huh,” Theo mused. 

“Not a fan of pistachio, are you Theodore?” Draco said, his voice straining as another spell failed to get into the desk and he resorted to brute strength. 

“I don’t dislike it… I just don’t know that I would coerce a house elf to sneak into a well-guarded room to steal some for me, you know?”

“Ah!” Draco said as he finally wedged the panel open, half by force, and half by an incantation he remembered hearing as a child. He reached his hand in without a thought and yanked it right back out with a curse. “FUCK you, you stupid fucking man with your STUPID FUCKING HIDDEN COMPARTMENTS!”

Theo bent down to assess Draco’s plight, hissing through his teeth as he looked over his pustule-laden left hand. “At least it’s not your wand hand…”

“I should have known the bastard would have countermeasures…” Draco grumbled, unable to flex his fingers for fear of bursting open one of the sores, something he assumed would be painful. Every inch of his hand was covered with blisters that ranged from pea to galleon size, and as he tried to come out from under the desk one began weeping, the drips pooling below him, eating through the ebony wood parquet flooring. “What the fuck-”

But he couldn’t finish his sentence, as the noxious fumes that rose from the dissolving wood overtook him, rendering him unconscious.

He woke an indeterminant amount of time later, with the big, glassy eyes of Bopsy inches from his own. He startled, his arms jumping at his sides, his legs scrambling as if to retreat.

“Twice,” Bopsy said, her voice sweet, her look anything but. 

“I’m sorry?” Draco looked around, realizing he was in his own bed.

“Twice in one day, Bopsy has found Master unconscious,” she said. “TWICE.”

Draco shuddered at her volume… though it was not unheard of for Bopsy to yell at him.

She had put herself in charge of his well-being, an increasingly difficult task as at the best of times Draco served as nothing more than a distracted foil to her efforts, whilst other times he was openly hostile and devious.

“Where’s Theo?”

“Mr. Theodore was sent home, he has overstayed his welcome. Months he’s been here- making poor decisions with Master. Ms. Pansy was right, Master needs help.”

Draco tried to sit up, but was stopped by Bopsy’s glare. “Bopsy, I-”

“And Master Draco knows better than to go rooting around in Master Lucius’s personal things! Master Lucius was drawn to things that hurt young Master Draco!” She gripped his left wrist in her hand, her fingers encircling it only halfway. His hand was pink and shiny… as if several layers of skin had been scrubbed off. “You are WELCOME.”

She threw his hand back at him, the action catching him off guard as he slapped himself roughly across his abdomen.

He started again. “Bopsy, I-”

But she was gone. 

He shut his eyes tight, doing his best to keep his hands from clenching at his sides. He made his way into his closet, where he sat on the floor, sinking into the darkness.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four

it’s all washing over me, I’m angry again

-

It took two calming draughts and one dreamless sleep potion for Draco to get any semblance of rest. A headache appeared sometime in the afternoon and the need to have a drink bowled him over around dinner. The want of a libation (and the refusal to have one) gave way to a barrage of dark, worrying thoughts he couldn’t shake.

He’d spent so long in Azkaban unable to Occlude, he was now out of practice. Numbing, compartmentalizing and carrying on were wholly aided by alcohol, these days.

At one time he was able to separate anything he was thinking from what he was doing, he was unimpeded by the meanderings of his own addled-brain. Worry was stowed; anxiety, memories, fears- all put neatly in boxes on shelves in a room created specifically for the innumerable excess.

He could walk away, lock the door… and sometimes if he tried very hard, he could forget to remember they existed at all.

Now, every, single, thing in his mind ran amok.

He needed to get back on that, he needed to reign it all in with a thorough regimen of Occluding. Maybe even touch up his Legilemency skills? It had to be a better coping strategy than drinking, didn’t it?

Too bad both his teachers were dead.

Well. Too bad one of them was dead. The other one deserved her fate. 

The next morning, now sans alcohol for nearly a day, Draco woke up in a cold sweat.

Around noon, when he witnessed his grandfather Abraxas leaving his en suite (dressed solely in a towel), Draco decided a tipple was required to get his mind back on track. 

The terrycloth-wrapped man in question was long dead, these weren’t even his quarters! What a terrible trick for his mind to play.

Thus, gin. 

“Pansy clearly stated we were not to arrive drunk,” Theo said as he waltzed (literally) into Draco’s room. The uncapped, half gone bottle of Nolet’s Reserve sat atop Draco’s chest of drawers- Theo eyed it as he spun an imaginary partner deftly around the room. He wore black slacks, a black button up and a black robe, just as Pansy had demanded. His chestnut curls fell nicely, fuller on top and trimmed shorter at the sides. 

“I’m surprised the elves let you in.” Draco leaned back against the dresser, in his slacks and shirt, fiddling with his sleeves. Bopsy had tailored this particular ensemble earlier in the afternoon, black on black. He was lacking in clothing that fit- he’d have to see to procuring more at a later time… should ‘going out in public’ become a thing he frequented.

Presently, such an act sounded hideous.

“No one can keep me from you, darling, but let’s get a move on,” Theo said, busying himself by rifling through Draco’s armoire.

Perhaps it was luck that he ended up receiving such a lengthy house arrest. Had he been dumped back into the world straight from Azkaban, the papers would have gone wild as they detailed how disfigured he’d become over time.

More than a year out, he was lean and tall. He’d gotten back into Quidditch, which helped hone muscles he’d never had before, but appeared now that he was post-pubescent, eating well and exercising thoroughly. He was meticulous about it, though not so much to look fit, rather to quiet the demented thoughts and counteract the booze. 

Then, there was his hair. It had a quality that was hard to put to words… but Draco supplied them anyway: it was perfection. Thick, platinum blonde, with good body and amiable to styling no matter the length. He wasn’t being boastful, or smug, merely truthful. He could hardly help it; excepting for the fact that he spent 29 minutes getting it just so.

His jaw was sharp and decently wide, with lips his mother had once thanked Merlin for, “it’s a blessing you took after the Blacks, dearest, instead of inheriting the thin lips of your father’s line…” 

His eyebrows were well-defined and his eyelashes long, both darker than his striking hair, framing his grey eyes. When he looked in the mirror he wasn’t exactly sure who he saw, but whoever the man was, he was largely unrecognizable from the one who left Azkaban, or the boy who went in.

Draco felt it necessary to look perfect for this event. It was the first time anyone laid eyes upon him since his trial, and he was so nervous he couldn’t eat.

He could hardly drink…

But he carried on with it, anyway.

As he attempted (for the third time) to fasten an emerald cufflink he’d nicked from his father’s wardrobe, the damn thing slipped from his shaking fingers.

Theo snatched it from the air before it clattered against the ground. “I always liked this pair,” he said, moving forward to affix them himself, putting a hand on Draco’s own to still the trembling. He nodded to the Nolet’s. “Perhaps one more, before we go.”

Draco made no move for the gin, gripping the bureau’s top instead. “Auror McCourt was here earlier to release me from my house arrest.”

Cufflinks fastened, Theo sat on the upholstered bench at the end of Draco’s bed. “We knew it was coming.”

“We did,” he finally reached for the gin, taking a pull straight from the bottle. “How many people do you think will be at this thing?”

“Pansy’s wedding, you mean?” Theo asked, continuing at Draco’s look of annoyance. “Weaselbee has dozens of siblings, so I reckon quite a few, and that’s just family.”

Unease stirred his stomach.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he said quietly, another sip down.

“You can, and you will,” Theo stood. “First, we’ll get a flask, so you don’t sweat through your robe or vibrate yourself off the dance floor-”

“I will not be dancing.”

“Oh, really? And ruin all my fun? You’re so cruel to me, Draco…” He teased, procuring a flask from nowhere as he set to tipping in the gin. “I’ll be with you the whole time. We can leave as soon as it’s appropriate, which I should think is anytime after ‘I do’.”

Draco nodded, but his field of vision was narrowing. 

Even now, more than a year later, his bedroom was perpetually dark. He kept the curtains drawn and the fabrics, all different shades of viridian and slate, seemed deeper in the muted light. The sconces and candelabra were never more than half lit, and he kept the french doors to his study closed, as it was often flooded with natural light.

His periphery started to close in as breaths became harder to come by. A creeping sensation crawled along his scalp, pulling at the roots of his hair as it melted down his neck, setting in a permeating chill down his spine whilst the rest of him began to overheat. He felt his cheeks go warm, then his ears, then his hands.

How dare she spring this on him, out of nowhere. Guilting him with that line, “I waited for you…” Why did he need to be there?

What would he add to the occasion?

Not a single person in attendance would think to themselves, “…It shall be a grand affair and even more so, if Draco Malfoy appears…”

His chest hurt as his thoughts raced, his fingers growing heavy and tight. His signet ring bit down into his skin. He couldn’t do this.

He was going to pass out.

He felt himself being pulled to the bench by his bed, a glass of glacial water appearing in his right hand. “Drink it,” Theo instructed, his voice taking on a distant quality as Draco’s world continued to condense into the size of a snitch.

It was moments, he wasn’t sure how many, before he could convince his brain to do as Theo demanded. Finally, he took a sip. He forced his mind to follow the icy sensation down the column of his throat as it spread across his chest and into his core. He counted his breaths as he made a fist with his left hand, digging his fingernails into the sensitive, new skin and focusing on the pain he created. 

This sort of thing wasn’t new, really. He’d been having moments of heart-stopping panic since 5^th year, when Lucius when to Azkaban the first time.

He knew, on a cerebral level, that he wasn’t going to die. But there was always a small part of him which thought he might…

He didn’t want to go to this wedding. 

He didn’t want Pansy to marry fucking Weasley, he didn’t want to be forced into a room (or a shack? The Burrow, really?) with people he hated… who hated him.

Weasley’s brother’s face was disfigured because of him. 

His sister was possessed by the Dark Lord, because of Draco’s father. 

They’d lost a brother at the hands of men who wore the same Mark as him.

Potter hated him. 

Granger, the obnoxious, try-hard bitch, hated him… then there were all the letters, which… while they’d evolved in tone, she didn’t seem amiable to any sort of olive branch unless perhaps it was placed by a bloody bird who was nesting in her fucking hair. 

She hadn’t responded to a single one. 

He could only imagine the vitriol she’d spew at the sight of him. He wasn’t ready for it, he couldn’t possibly withstand her attacking him in front of a crowd of her people. 

Everyone there was her people. And now Pansy was going to the other side as well, while he was still the stupid fucking boy with his hand held out on the Hogwarts Express.

Of all the people Pansy had probably fucked by now, Weasley was the one who stuck? Why wasn’t he with Granger?

His thoughts formed a deluge, drowning him in insecurity and trepidation.

He exhaled shakily, holding the water tightly in his hand, the feel of the frigid glass growing more unbearable by the second. His heart beat in his throat, in his thumbs. His head and chest existed in a vice which served solely to squeeze more, and more.

He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t prepared to face these people, to face anyone. He wasn’t who they knew, that boy was gone… but left in his place were the worst parts of who he’d been, strung together with apathy, whiskey and gin. 

He was still a coward. 

He was still judgmental, and cruel. 

He was still afraid.

“I can’t do this,” he wasn’t sure if he’d said it aloud, but a glance at Theo confirmed he had.

He looked like he might agree, like he was close to giving in and letting Draco stay home, here, forever. 

He was the only person who truly knew Draco anymore, and he could see he was on the edge. Theo would save him. “You can,” he said. “You will.” 

Oh, what the fuck did he know, anyway?

He wanted to vomit, but he couldn’t stand. He couldn’t connect his brain to his body, he was separate from himself and moving further apart even as he struggled to slow the severing.

Breathe.

He had to breathe.

He dumped the water on himself, swearing as it poured down his back. Whatever he thought the water was going to solve, it seemed to do the opposite. He began to hyperventilate, breathing so fast and so shallow his narrowed vision started to spark along the edges, the impending blackness suffocating and blinding at once.

“Merlin,” Theo grumbled, kneeling as he set a drying charm, then a warming charm about him. “Draco. Draco. Tell me something you can see.”

He hadn’t realized his eyes were closed. He forced them open, and saw his own sock-clad feet. After a moment - “Feet.”

“Ugh, okay. Something you can smell, and if you say feet-”

Another moment. “Your gods-awful cologne,” Draco scrunched his nose as the warming charm relaxed his tense posture.

“This is that good Muggle one, the Yves St Laurent, you prick,” Theo huffed. “What’s something you can taste?”

“Gin.”

“Something you can hear?”

He sighed, his pulse no longer the metronome to which he paced himself. His vision was slowly coming back. “Your voice.”

“Something you can touch,” Theo stood and made his way to the coat hanger in the corner, where his black robe hung. 

Draco felt the facets of the emerald set in his cufflink under his thumb. He twirled his signet ring around his finger, no longer tight.

He breathed in, and out.

Theo busied himself around the room as he sat, his tangible consciousness returning to his body. The tingling and tightening finally ceased. 

After a good many minutes, he spoke. “Why are you so good to me, Theodore?”

Theo, now leaning against the wall, pushed himself off and shook out the robe, holding it out for him. “Could’ve just as easily been me, I suppose. Senior was itching for me to take the Mark.”

Draco sighed.

He felt so tired. He wanted to sleep… but didn’t think it likely he’d be allowed, what with this obligatory bloody wedding. He cocked his head to the side, looking up at his friend from the bench. Theo, despite what he tried to present, was a very good man. “You wouldn’t have done it.”

He shook the robe again, helping Draco into it as he stood. “I don’t know if that’s true. Find the right motivation, you can make someone do anything. Unfortunately for Father, his continued existence never gave me much pause. You never know, though. I might’ve taken the Mark had Tom promised to rid me of the man.”

“You don’t say?”

“Could’ve been,” he supposed. “Alright. Flask? Check. Gifts?”

Draco Accio’d a small rectangular box from across the room, holding it up. “I stumbled upon something when I was chasing down Abraxas, earlier.”

Theo looked as if he had a question, but remained quiet as he pulled at the green ribbon, opening the top to reveal-

“A big spoon?” Theo raised an eyebrow.

“A big, magic spoon.”

“I figured as much,” he picked it up, brandishing it in the air. “What does it do?”

“It seasons and brings things to the proper temperature and cook. There was a point when the Malfoys of the past were banned from having House Elves… some incident in Versailles.” Draco tucked the spoon back into the box and re-fastened the ribbon. “They were unable to own Elves for a generation or so, and rather than learn to cook, they spelled flatware. You can’t make food out of thin air with magic, but you can make it better, if I’m to believe the lore of this particular ladle.”

Theo seemed skeptical.

“You know how rubbish Pansy is, she always had Elves,” he continued. “And now that she’s a former heiress, dumped by her own family, you think her and the ginger pauper are going to be able to afford help?”

“I would imagine you’re right about that,” Theo nodded. “Should we sponsor them, do you think?”

“Meanwhile,” he went on, “You must remember the Weasel in school. He shoveled food in as if he was sure every meal was to be his last. A turkey leg in either hand, every day another excuse to gorge his freckled, fucking face…”

Theo stared at him. “How thoughtful, Draco.”

“You sound surprised.”

“It’s because I am…”

“I also owled my goblin at Gringott’s. Gildark has been instructed to set aside some galleons for transfer into their joint account as soon as it’s opened. For the child. Or knowing his particular genetics, children,” he frowned. Pansy… with a gaggle ginger babies. 

It was almost funny.

Draco pondered the Weasley tree, which at this point was akin to a forest. He couldn’t imagine a life with so many people in it- it was insane, another Malfoy? Several?

How odd.

Chances were, if he’d ever had siblings, at least one of them would still be around. A brother or two would have diffused, maybe even alleviated some of the pressure under which he’d been molded. 

They would have allowed him some relief, he imagined.

Or perhaps, there would simply be more Malfoys with Marks on their arm, buried out back. 

And he’d still be alone.

A terrific waste of time, such thoughts.

“Look at you,” Theo beamed, “being so mature.”

He looked in the mirror once more, running a hand through his hair. He put a dab of cologne on his wrists, his neck, his chest. “Yes, well, there’s no need for everyone in the fucking family to be poor.”

-

They popped straight into the Burrow’s back field, where a cream colored canvas tent was charmed to stand against the frosty landscape. It had snowed considerably over the past day, the surrounding hills and tree-line all blanketed in the same sparkling white. Faeries dotted the pasture and beyond in pale, warm, twinkling lights. 

And were those… corn fields?

For fuck’s sake.

Draco couldn’t say the words, Pansy, pasture, and wedding aloud without vicious derision seeping into every syllable.

He followed Theo toward the “house”, which was literally leaning, parts of it propped up by stilts which looked vaguely reminiscent of the Baba Yaga. 

Such a correlation did not thrill him. Bopsy used to tell him stories about the Bulgarian witch and they frightened him so thoroughly that when his father threatened transferring him to Durmstrang, he didn’t sleep well for a week.

Now the nightmares of Durmstrang were far off, but he was not confident this evening would end in anything other than his own death, having been crushed beneath a poorly buttressed parlor.

The moment they entered the “dwelling” they were pushed up a set of the most haphazard stairs Draco had ever seen, and this coming from a young man who went to school where the stairs changed their direction at random!

“She’s waiting for you up there,” said the ginger who corralled them, a large man with scars peppering his hands and face. “Thanks for coming. Good to see ya.”

Was it?

Was it good?

Draco didn’t bother responding, looking back over his shoulder at the man, who was already chatting with another arrival as they made their way up.

The scars the man wore were not of wolf origin… they were something else entirely, which meant there was another rough and tumble Weasley. How many were there?

Irresponsible breeding.

Also, the house smelled. 

It was hard to pin down at first. A bit of lemon, a whiff of freshly baked bread. The smoldering hearth. Fresh pine and linseed oil- recognizable only due to it being the main component of his favorite broom polish.

He breathed through his mouth, not wanting any fondness to creep up and accost him here, in the den of his enemy.

They bypassed a door at the first landing, where they heard the muffled tones of the man of the hour beyond it. 

“He’s so loud,” Theo whispered, continuing on.

“So is Pansy,” Draco said. “I pity their future neighbors. I fear the decibel of their spawn.”

“About time!” Blaise stuck his head out of a door on the second landing, the switchback steps somehow looking less sturdy on this floor.

“Looking well, Zabini,” he said, trying to stave off the swarming thoughts of imminent death-by-rickety-stairs.

Blaise smiled down at them as they ascended to the landing. “Good to see you out and about Malfoy… it’s been a while.” He grabbed at Draco’s robe, pulling him in for a hug before leaning back to look him in the face, a warm palm on Draco’s cheek. “You look well, doing alright?”

Draco only managed to raise his eyebrows, a bit.

“Yeah, I could have guessed that,” he said, grabbing his arm and leading them into the small bedroom behind him. It was all bare walls with a single bed, neatly made, to the side. They had hardly enough room to move, the space too cramped for several well-sized adults.

“Did the child who slept here die of boredom? Could there be a Lost Weasley?” Draco remarked as he shut the door behind him, his eyes immediately finding Pansy.

She stood before a vanity’s mirror, next to a fixed window overlooking the gardens beyond. Salazar. Every expense was spared for the decor in this place. No one had a sickle for draperies? He swallowed his judgement and focused on the woman of the hour. “Pansy, you look impossibly lovely.”

He moved forward to kiss her cheek, nearly jumping out of his skin as a ginger woman rose from a rather rude sounding rocking chair to their left.

“And welcome to my childhood bedroom, Malfoy,” said the Weasel She, Ginevra, from Pansy’s side. She crossed her freckled arms over a sage green floor length dress, a noticeable bump pulling the unforgiving fabric taut around her midsection. 

“Hello… you,” Draco bit out, shoving his hands in his pockets and retreating as far away from her as he could manage, which was just a step before his head hit the pitched ceiling.

Fuck this fucking place. It was closing in on him.

Baba Yaga.

“Ginny,” she said flatly. 

“I knew that, of course,” he said quickly. He did. It was just that Weasel She (and Baba Yaga) were on the tip of his tongue. 

“Right,” she said, nodding. “Nice to see you, Nott.”

“A pleasure as always, Ginevra…” Theo said absently, having found various cosmetic accoutrements strewn about the vanity. He held up a stick of something garishly red, with orange-yellow undertones. “I’m not sure this is your shade, Pansy.”

Blaise slapped his hand, forcing the stick to drop.

He was right, though. Pansy needed something blue-leaning.

“Stuff it,” she said, hugging him from the side, then turning to Draco. She really did look lovely. Her black hair was tied back in a low bun, with a few pieces to either side of her fringe, framing her face. The dress was long-sleeved, lace. A veil fell upon her shoulders and down to the floor, the delicate weave nearly the look of liquid.

She held Draco’s face, staring up into his eyes. Her own were glassy, the hazel especially green in this light. “Thank you so much for being here.”

“Of course,” he said quietly, forgetting briefly that there were any number of places he’d sooner be, and almost nowhere he wanted to be less… all because in this moment, Pansy seemed genuinely happy to see him.

This room, this tiny room, held the only people who were ever happy to see him. Excluding the Weasel She, of course, who was not (and was never) delighted to be in his presence. 

He felt sad and grateful and afraid all at the same time.

“I even managed to get a gift with such short notice,” he said, trying for a bragging tone to pull him from his own intrusive thoughts. Auburn hair flipping over a shoulder in his periphery pulled his focus further. 

“Well, we all wanted the wedding months ago, but someone couldn’t leave his residence…” the Weasel She said, going for a laugh but instead striking a chord she didn’t intend. Her face fell as the temperature of the room cooled a degree. 

“Right,” Draco’s eyes flitted to Theo, who stared at him through the vanity’s reflection. “And how time does fly when love abounds… feels like just yesterday Pansy brought Weaselbee round and he hit me in the face.”

Draco felt absently at his nose. He was lucky Bopsy was there to reset it and remove the bruising from his eyes. The guest list would’ve been chuffed to see Draco Malfoy’s face mottled due to the wrath of one of their own, but the only gift he brought these people was a spoon. He was unwilling to do them any other kindnesses, today.

“How time flies, indeed,” Theo said, indiscriminately spritzing a perfume about. He coughed exaggeratedly. “Awful.”

“That one’s mine…” the Weasel She said. “It’s not to everyone’s taste, I suppose.”

Draco’s mouth felt like it had been force fed a cup of sand, the sensation surprisingly unrelated to being enveloped by a powdery, floral-scented, musk cloud against his will. “It’s no M7,” he said under his breath. He tried to evade Pansy’s look- which was no doubt spilling over with pity.

Everyone else had known of them, for some time.

Everyone else was moving on and doing things with their life, but he was stuck. 

In the Manor.

In Azkaban.

In the bloody Room of Requirement, praying for the sound of ruffling feathers beyond the cabinet door.

He was never going to get out.

“The loo- I didn’t see one, is it around here?” He asked, sticking a finger in the collar of his shirt, yanking at it for a spot of relief. 

Not again…

“Just downstairs. And I know… the only girl in the whole lot and no bathroom near her room? I should have had them turned in for child cruelty,” Ginny said, evoking a chuckle from Blaise. 

Pansy watched him, looking as if she was sure he was going to crumble into oblivion, while Theo made his way to follow.

Draco shook his head. He didn’t need an escort to the bloody toilet. 

He didn’t need anyone’s saccharin, misplaced, pity.

He fled the room and took the steps two at a time, nearly to the door when he heard voices floating from the room beside it, some clearer (which was to say more shrill) than others.

“I just… I want you to know that we are here for you should you want to-“

“Cut my losses and leave Pansy at the altar?” Another voice asked, easy to label as the Weasel King. Draco set his jaw, stepping closer. 

If anyone was going to leave anyone it would be Pansy fleeing this fucking dump. He’d help. He was brilliant at Transfiguration. The stilts would turn to chicken legs and carry them all away, never to be seen again. 

The Weasel continued. “Are you fucking mental? Hermione!”

“I just-“ 

“It’s a little out of line to say such things to him… right now,” another voice said. 

Potter. 

He’d know that little bitch’s nasal-forward intonation anywhere. 

“We are his best friends, and-“

“Excuse me, but, Pansy is my best friend. And then… probably George, I guess,” the Weasel King said angrily, though a bit unconvincing.

“Ayo!” Another voice… George, Draco assumed. “A win is a win, no matter how flimsy the delivery.”

“She didn’t mean anything by it,” Potter explained. 

“It’s Pansy Parkinson, Ronald. I know when you got together, it was partially due to the horror of losing Par-“

“Hermione,” Weasley said firmly. “If you can’t be here as my friend, in support, then you can fucking go. I don’t need this today.”

The Weasel King, with a spine? Was this a new development?

“Ron!” She gasped. “I just want you to be sure you’ve thought this all through!”

“Damnit, Hermione!” Weasley shouted, tamping down his voice to continue. “Please… I need you on my side, or I need you to leave.”

“Hermione…” George started, his voice softer than his brother’s. 

“I’m sorry, Ron, I…” Granger began, but her voice grew quiet. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I apologize-”

“How about we…” the doorknob started to turn. Draco, realizing at once that he was about to be outed as an eavesdropper of idiots, raced into the toilet. He pulled the door closed as quietly as he could manage as Potter continued, his voice getting louder. “Let’s grab water for everyone, Hermione.”

Draco scrambled into the shower as the bathroom door opened. The heathens didn’t even fucking knock!

He pulled the curtain and set a Silencio upon himself as the bathroom door shut again, now with two new occupants. 

Why was he hiding? 

Why didn’t he just say, “occupied”? 

Why hadn’t he locked it…

What a muppet.

“You have to hold your fucking tongue, Hermione!” Potter scolded before setting another Silencio.

Granger scoffed, her voice venomous. “Ah, well, you were doing it well enough for the both of us, oh Chosen One, thanks for interjecting back there-“

“Come on now-“

“No! You left me in there as if I’m the only one feeling this way, you just sat mute, placating him, letting me take the fucking fall,” Granger bit out, the words sounding like they came through gritted teeth. For some reason Draco wanted very much to see the look on her face, the tension in her neck, but he didn’t dare pull back the curtain for a reunion. 

Though… this was exactly as he remembered her. 

Angry. Condescending.

Screechy.

It was comforting, in a way.

Granger continued, her words strung together as if they were one, with hardly any space for breathing but plenty for dramatic intonation. “You’re afraid of him- afraid of upsetting him! Ever since Parvati was killed you’ve handled him like a little bird made of glass! You hide yourself from him, you sanitize your life and your feelings around him, it’s like you see FRAGILE stamped on his forehead!”

Potter snapped right back, to the great surprise of no one. He was ever a sassy bitch. “I am doing the best I can, Hermione, and I can’t believe you of all people are causing such a fuss about all this-”

“Me of all people? What is that supposed to mean?” She asked, her voice high. “She’s the idiot girl who tried to hand you over to Voldemort!”

Draco’s stomach twisted.

“Or have you forgotten her breaking from the crowd in the Great Hall, screaming for someone to grab you?”

“I certainly haven’t forgotten, Hermione, but it’s beside the point. We were children, in a war…”

“Oh please, it was only five years ago, it’s not like we’re about to start receiving the bloody state pension! Unless she had her brain removed and swapped out for a better one, she’s the same damn girl.”

Draco was unsure what a pension was.

He also did not care for the idea of swapping brains. Terrifying. What if you ended up with a bad one?

Though… likely there was some merit to living life as a simpleton. He’d have to ask Pansy how Weasley liked it.

“She apologized.”

“And that’s all it takes?” Granger cleared her throat, putting on a most-obnoxious voice. “‘Oh, I’m sorry for being a stupid, cowardly bint-‘”

“Hermione…”

“‘-I didn’t mean to align myself with the murderous and depraved, I’m just exceedingly dim, bred to be a bloody broodmare for the similarly pure, I’d have preferred to marry my brother but-‘“

“Hermione!” 

Draco peered carefully around the edge of the curtain as Potter slammed his hand onto the sink’s surround, his wedding ring clacking angrily atop the tile. Draco startled at the sound, settling back into the clawfoot tub.

“She apologized. What else is she supposed to do?” Potter asked, his tone weary. “And what do you want me to do? Find a new Lord Voldemort and attempt to give her to him? What exactly will balance the scales, here? I have forgiven her. She is marrying our best friend… she is the mother of his child!”

“Oh, oh! I’m glad you’ve mentioned that… I’ve two things, then. One, I’d like to point out that he went out of his way to detail that neither you, nor I, are his best friends-”

“You know that’s a complicated bit, he didn’t really mean it… we’ve all been through so much, and he-”

Granger didn’t seem to be listening as she spoke right over the top of him. “And two- who’s to say it’s not, I don’t know… Nott’s? Or even Malfoy’s?”

Oh, please. Draco nearly choked upon his need to make a sound of dissent. 

In all likelihood there were any number of partial-Notts tottering about, Theo was known to bed a woman when the opportunity presented itself, and it did, more often than anyone might like to know. He used sex like Draco used gin.

It passed the time.

However- it was insulting to suggest someone carrying a baby of the noble House of Malfoy would try to pass the sucker off as a fucking Weasley. It was completely backward! Draco’s eyes narrowed at the only thing in his line of sight, a yellow squishy duck sitting atop the tile.

“Hermione,” Potter exhaled.

She didn’t respond, but must’ve made some pathetic hand motion or look. Draco couldn’t angle himself properly to see her, but he could imagine her skinny-ankle, long-neck situation had only compounded as she aged, making her look just as feral as ever.

Though there was once, or twice, when he-

“I know,” Potter said gently at the sound of a sniffle, and Draco was grateful for the interruption regardless of the git who allowed for it. 

Was Granger crying? He made an exaggerated look of disgust, for the benefit of no one.

Other than the duck.

“You know I was relieved, at first,” she said, her voice thick. Sounds of running water filled the tiny room following the squeak of the tap. “When he said they were together, he was suddenly so happy. And I thought… thank God. Thank God, it’s not just me here, the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dam. Someone else has appeared, to help pull him from this… hole.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t much help, but with Gin…”

“Harry, you have to know I am not saying that. I know you were dealing with a lot,” she sighed. Her voice was kinder, now. “I know Ginny has been through the ringer. I just was… I was relieved, is what I was.”

“Yeah.”

“And then I felt so guilty for the relief, like admitting it meant I was labeling him a burden, or something? I don’t know,” she sighed. “It made me feel like a terrible friend. I was unable to carry him properly in his time of need, and then she came along.”

“Right,” Potter said.

“I truly didn’t imagine they’d connect for more than a minute, I didn’t think it would ultimately matter, I thought she’d distract him from his misery and then he’d get bored of her and somehow, maybe we’d all get back to normal. That things might shake out alright,” she made a sound like she was pushing air through her lips. “But now, this. We’re here. At their wedding. And Ron’s doing a bang up job of holding us at arm’s length.”

Potter’s swallow was audible. “Do you still… have… feelings, for him?”

Draco held his breath to hear the answer.  

“Godric, no. Absolutely not!” Granger laughed, then stayed quiet for a beat. “I swear it. Not at all.”

“Fine, yeah,” Potter said, his words weighed down by doubt. “What’s all this, then… if it’s not that?”

Granger laughed again, though it was fraught with a menacing tone. “All this? Oh. I don’t know. Just me trying to grapple with this nightmare from which we can’t seem to awake. Friendships falling apart-”

Draco wondered how delighted Granger would be to know the friend she thought was pulling away from her, knocked someone out defending her honor, just the day before. “…Terror attacks. Shacklebolt is becoming increasingly, I don’t know, he’s just,” Granger couldn’t seem to come up with words. “With everything going on… Am I crazy to think that-” 

“What?”

Granger stalled.  “I don’t know what it is. I just think, with everything going on, I’m afraid he’ll pick her over us.”

“Ron?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, she’s going to be his wife, his family.”

“Yes, I do understand the concept and institution of marriage,” Granger snapped. “I mean… don’t you think, don’t you worry at all that he will… join her?”

Draco had no idea what she was on about. Of course Weasley should choose his wife, the mother of his child, over these two arrogant imbeciles. Draco figured he possessed at least one brain cell. 

Though, if he didn’t, it would explain a lot.

“Oh,” Potter sighed. “No. I don’t think he would, I know he wouldn’t. Give him some credit, Hermione. And furthermore… I think her days of fascist dictator worship are over.”

Oh.

“Are they?”

“Yes. I talked with her about it a few months ago. She came round after they started getting serious… wanted to apologize,” he said, “and Ginny’s gone out with her a time or two.”

“I don’t love the idea of that,” Granger said, and Draco could perfectly picture the supercilious pinch to her face. He’d seen it a hundred times.

“She’s not so bad,” Potter said. “Give it time.”

“It’s not like I have any other choice,” she lamented.

He laughed. “Have I done it, then? Have I talked you off the ledge?”

“Yes,” she said after a beat. “Thank you, Harry.”

“Brilliant. Wipe up your tears and let’s get out of here before someone sees us and assumes we’re taking part in a torrid affair.”

Granger made a gagging noise. “I hope they have better imaginations than that,” she said. “Unrelated, but, what cologne are you wearing? It’s new? You smell fantastic.”

Draco didn’t hear the answer as he sniffed at his wrist. Upon hearing the door click, he pulled back the sea foam green curtain and stepped out of the peach-colored enamel tub. 

He straightened his robe, checking himself in the mirror as he walked out. 

Fate (an entity he believed had forsaken him long ago) had finally granted him favor. Prior to dumping him upon a room full of people who have long held him in contempt, it allowed him a smidgeon of reprieve. 

Granger’s worries mirrored his own.

Weasley’s friends were just as shocked, just as unmoored by this pairing as him. He’d always heard misery loved company and was looking forward to a hands-on exploration of such a well-worn concept.

-

The ceremony slipped by as the sun sank toward the horizon. To the Burrow-dwellers credit, the tent remained erect the entire time, though Draco kept his eye on one corner in particular which seemed especially wonky.

He had very little interaction with anyone beyond Theo and Blaise, keeping to himself whenever possible, which was of course a calculated effort. People walked out, a man talked, Pansy and Weasley held hands- staring into each other’s eyes…

It was a wedding.

He watched Pansy say her “I do” and was twice clipped by Theo’s elbow to remind him to fix his face. If he had to guess, he likely looked as if something in his vicinity had gone rancid, and he was downwind.

Classic Draco.

He snuck out of the tent eight times, post-ceremony, walking betwixt the snowy corn stalks in an attempt to regulate himself, letting his mind wander toward the trivial.

Did they not harvest it? The corn?

Was it… decoration?

He had many a question but refused to ask (or speak to) anyone who might be qualified to provide an answer. He stayed on the fringes, stepping over the line to ‘social’ as infrequently as he could manage.

The merriment was palpable… a hundred people milled about the tent, some dancing, some sitting at tables and picking at the cake, others chatting and laughing and carrying on. Young and old. Poor and poorer (he assumed). It truly seemed like every single person, save for him, was having a lovely time.

He didn’t have a chance to speak to the happy couple, but felt it was probably for the best. He wasn’t angry with Pansy, what right did he have, really?

Did he appreciate being kept in the dark not only to the truth of whom she was courting but how seriously it had become? Certainly not.

Did it hurt his feelings?

Who was to say, really…

Okay, perhaps he outright avoided any chance to speak with them, going so far as to shoving an old man in front of him when he saw Pansy coming, and disappearing beneath a tent flap when Weasley got too near.

It was best to keep his feelings to himself, for the time being. Granger had the monopoly on being the unsupportive friend, and Draco would light his hair on fire before being lumped in as her contemporary in such an unrefined regard. 

Speaking of Granger, she stood for the bride and groom, a (not entirely unbelievable) smile on her face through the ceremony, holding an enormous bouquet of white and green blooms. He did a double-take as she walked down the aisle, even as he’d been expecting to see her- having heard the dulcet tones of her discontent just twenty minutes before. Still, witnessing her in the flesh after so many months of reading her words and letting them distill and distract in his own mind was… different.

Draco sat opposite from where she was standing, thus it would have been obvious of him, were he to scrutinize her at any level. 

So he didn’t. 

Regardless of his desire to do so.

He felt eyes on him all night, at one point convinced it was her but then realizing any number of people at the wedding might go all agog as he entered the room; the only Death Eater as far as the eye could see.

His flask ran dry as he took another stroll (avoiding people) amongst the stalks. He tucked it back into his robe and headed to the tent with purpose. Finally! It was time to leave.

He’d stayed long enough. He’d showed his face, he didn’t think he’d offended anyone by existing, and nothing came to blows.

Pansy should think of sending him a gift.

He went on a search for Theo, who, for being such a big personality excelled at disappearing into a crowd. He found an elderly witch babbling about her goblin-wrought tiara (big fucking deal) and side-stepped the scarred ginger man from earlier as he held court in front of a gaggle of youths… going on about dragons of all things.

Draco paused a moment, keen to know more, but when the ginger caught his eye he pretended to hear someone calling his name and sped off.

Convinced Theo was nowhere in the tent, and unconvinced he would remain in receipt of the peculiar amount of grace and anonymity that had been afforded to him much longer, Draco made his way toward the leaning tower of Weasley. 

As he neared the structure, his eyes finally fell upon the man in question, standing just outside the “house” in a snow covered garden.

“I think I’ve done my duty as a friend and had my fill of gaiety for the next fifty fucking years-” Draco whinged, stopping as Theo turned around to reveal… he was not alone. 

He was chatting with - smiling at - none other than the reigning Queen of Gryffindor… Hermione Granger. They stood amongst snow laden piles of what Draco assumed to be turnips and swedes, or something else dirt-covered that painted a picture of famine.

“Hello, Malfoy,” Granger jutted out her chin in his direction, someone’s robe (Theo’s?) slung over her bare, narrow shoulders. She had a glass of (what was likely not real) Champagne in her hand, dressed in a strapless sage dress, her typically disastrous hair laid quite smoothly, pinned at the nape of her neck.

She looked… nice, up close. Prior to watching her walk down the aisle, he hadn’t seen her in years, beyond the tiny picture The Prophet printed beside her byline. In it, her hair took up more than half of the frame and her sneer (yes, sneer) was so haughty Draco sometimes took to scribbling nasty little bits upon it. 

Typically, a mustache.

In real life, it (the mustache) was missing, of course. Her skin was entirely unblemished. Her dress was well cut, likely Pansy’s doing… many of the Women-of-the-Weasel seemed to be wearing the same sort of thing, all curiously in Pansy’s taste.

On Granger it looked… fine. If he didn’t know her.

But he did. 

“Granger,” he nodded, his voice clipped. “Ready to go, Theo?”

“Oh, but I was just having a fantastic time chatting up Granger, here. Did you know she’s been writing a column in the Prophet for… what was it,” he looked to her and back to Draco, “two years, almost? What are they… personal essays? Or, don’t tell me. Are you possibly the sport’s reporter? I’m desperate for an in with the Falcons.”

“Oh, no, I do what you’d call opinion pieces, for the most part,” she explained, catching Theo’s eye and looking to the ground. 

“Have you read any of them, Draco?” He asked in earnest. Draco didn’t advertise his interest in certain columns and their derivative correspondence, so Theo was none-the-wiser to his Thursday ritual. “He loves the paper, don’t you? Tell Granger how you love the paper. Reads it almost every day, I believe!”

Draco looked to her. She was being shy about the whole ordeal; which was not one of the tenets of her personality, so far as he could recall. 

“I can’t imagine it’s something he’s read with any regularity, or at all,” she laughed, her eyes flicking to him but staying, mostly, on Theo. 

She had the smallest, sincere smile upon her face. 

What game was she playing, here?

Draco didn’t appreciate the fuckery.

“Honestly, I am quite sure no one I know reads it, and I sometimes wonder if anyone does, at all,” she mused. “But they keep me on the payroll, so, they’re aware it’s there, at least on some level. And, besides, it’s not my real job… I have the Ministry for that. Just a way to blow off steam, I suppose.”

“You don’t say,” Theo grinned, looking her up and down. He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, nodding to himself. “I’ll have to give it a go.”

Oh, Salazar. 

He knew that look.

“Do let me know what you think, I love getting an owl or two with the thoughts of another.” It could have been the cold, night air, chapping her cheeks… or perhaps, yes. She was blushing. She touched Theo’s elbow, smiling. “I can’t remember the last time I received one, so it would be a welcome surprise.”

Draco laughed loudly, garnering curious looks from the two of them.

She was fucking with him.

Fantastic.

“So, Granger,” he stepped forward, bolstered by the gin and prodded into action, “since you’re so adept at throwing your opinions around, what are your true thoughts of this match?”

“Match?” She asked stupidly.

“Pansy and the Weasel,” he explained as she frowned. He held up a hand, holding back another laugh. “Oh, sorry. Of Pansy and of Ron, I think that’s what you typically call him.”

“Yes, well, it is his name,” she said, unable to hide the look upon her face.

He was irritating her with his questions; she didn’t seem to want to talk to him, at all.

A fine start.

“Ah, but mine’s much more fitting,” he sighed, holding her eye. He touched the fingertips of both hands together a few times. “What do you, she whose opinion is so important she gets paid for it, what do you think of their relationship?”

“They seem to truly revere each other,” she said carefully after an extended pause. No hint of deception, the fucking liar. “I’m happy for them.”

“Are you?” Draco raised an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”

Theo watched the conversation volley back and forth, wine in hand.

“Of course I am,” she smiled, but the joy disappeared from her face far too quickly for it to have been genuine. She glanced down at the ground, then the tent, then took a sip of the “Champagne” languishing away in her hand. As she looked back to Draco, she shrunk, realizing he had yet to look away.

“You’re not still sore about… I don’t know. Pansy trying to hand Potter to the Dark Lord on a silver platter?” He supposed, buffing his nails on the front of his robe and inspecting them before catching her gaze again. “Just an example.”

“It was of course an unsavory thing to do. But many people made mistakes,” she said diplomatically, sizing him up as her face morphed slowly from passingly pleasant to disgusted in disguise. “I’m sure she’s a different person, now.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” he shrugged, stepping nearer as he rubbed his jaw with one hand. He towered over her, though she stood her ground. “It does all seem rather sudden, though, doesn’t it? I mean… do we even know if it’s the Weasel King’s child? I’ll admit, he does come from rather prolific stock, so there’s a chance, but… who knows. It could be Theo’s?”

Theo, mid-sip of what was likely a shit Claret, choked. It was a good thing he was wearing black, as the blood red wine dribbled from his chin.

“Could it?” Granger asked.

“Or mine, perhaps?” He grinned cruelly. 

“Hmmm,” she nodded, flinching as something flashed in their periphery. Perhaps a faerie exploded under the duress of lighting such a shabby scene? “Best to let the people actually in the relationship sort it for themselves, don’t you think?”

“You’re so right, Granger. It is none of our business. Imagine how awful we’d be if Theo and I were up in the bride’s room, as she got ready, telling her it was her last chance to make a break for it,” he clicked his tongue in disapproval. “How uncouth. What sort of ‘friend’ would do that?”

“This is beginning to get specific,” Theo said quietly.

She started to voice her rebuttal, but Draco held up a hand, stepping closer, his shoe crunching on untrodden snow. 

Alas, the poor parsnips.

Granger was unraveling before his very eyes, and it was honestly the best he’d felt all night.

“Admit it, Granger. You’re as unhappy with this pairing as we are,” he stepped closer still, the gap between them less than an arm’s length. “You think Pansy is a… oh, how would someone like you put it? ‘A stupid, cowardly bint’?”

She took a half step back, setting her jaw to look at him warily, finally understanding the game.

“You hate her. You hate all of us, still unable to mature and move on… You loathe them as a couple, admit it,” he goaded, the last two words sounding like a command.

“I don’t know Malfoy, I don’t think I hate anything as much as you seem to hate everything. Skulking around here like you’re being forced at wandpoint. Like you’re doing someone a favor by deigning to be in our presence.” Her eyes narrowed, her nostrils flaring slightly. “Were you eavesdropping on us? Trying to gather intel?”

“Intel?” He laughed, looking to Theo. “Intel! How quaint. How terribly important you still believe yourself to be-”

She made an ick sound with her throat. “You are as vile as you ever were… shocking that several years in prison didn’t set you to rights-”

“-What I don’t understand, is why you’re trying to save him? From Pansy? He seems to actually like her. You, however, he seems to tolerate at best.”

“How dare you speak to me of such things,” she glowered, the switch finally flipped. “You couldn’t possibly imagine how deeply I care for the people in my life, what lengths I would go to, to ensure their happiness, including keeping them from anyone like you. You’ve never had any respect for the things of which you do not understand… you cowardly, sniveling, whinging little rat.”

“Anyone like me?” He reared back.

“You mispronounced ferret, dear,” Theo said, taking a swig of his wine, this time without aspirating it.

“Are you completely mad? Wait, wait,” he stifled a laugh, “let’s back up. What the fuck would I need intel for? For the new regime I’ve strung together under house arrest? For all the plans I’ve made to supersede the government, to gain control for nefarious intent… the designs of which I made whilst I was holed up for three years in a cell with no light or sound? To what end?”

“How am I to know the unfortunate and fruitless thoughts to which your mind holds dear, Malfoy?” She sighed, rolling her eyes.

“You act as if we are so different-”

She laughed, loudly. “I know we are different!”

“Finally, she admits it!” He beamed triumphantly at Theo, slapping his shoulder roughly as her cheeks flushed in anger. “But truly, Granger. Let’s be realistic. What do I need this intel for?”

“You are the one sneaking around, listening to private conversations. To what end? Oh, well, I’m not sure. Perhaps I’m just remembering the time you poisoned several people in your incompetent attempt to murder Dumbledore? Or the time you invited a werewolf into a castle of children-” he winced “-or maybe I was recalling, with clarity, how you watched the torture and imprisonment of innocent people in your home. As you stood there, much like this. Silent, wide-eyed and ineffectual.”

“Someone’s living in the past,” he said to Theo, who gave him a look. Right. That did sound a bit rich coming from him. “Takes one to know one, I suppose.”

“None of it matters, Malfoy, you are who you have always been. You never rose to the occasion, regardless of your capacity for doing so,” she shook her head condescendingly. “And now you stand just out of bounds, here, glaring unhappily at everyone and every thing you see.”

“You must admit that some of this absurdity truly can’t be ignored, Granger,” he flung his arm behind them, squinting into the distance. “What is the bloody corn for!?”

 “Tell me, are you ignorant to your current circumstance? Are you blind to this pathetic thing you’ve become? I’ve been speaking to you only moments and it’s so easy to see, yet you seem unaware?”

“Do tell,” he breathed. “I’d love to hear from you, of all people, how pathetic I am.”

She laughed, shaking off the robe from her shoulders and handing it to Theo. “You can’t seem to grasp how far you’ve fallen. You’d be content to be Lord of the Cockroaches, Malfoy, so long as you could convince yourself that you were better than someone.”

He looked her up and down. “Better than you, at least,” he put his hands together, as if to pray, “it’s all I ask-”

“Fuck you, Malfoy-”

“Okay, alright, I think we’ve had-” Theo squeezed between them, throwing his robe over his shoulder and pushing Draco back toward the hovel. “I think we’ve had enough reunions for today.”

She turned on her heel and began walking toward the tent, but Draco shouted at her back. “You know what I gleaned from that conversation I overheard, Granger?”

She stopped, arms loose at her side as she turned to face him, her forgotten drink soaking the snow below. “I bet you can’t wait to tell me.”

“You are as judgmental, unforgiving and unbearable as me, a man you think lower than dirt,” he snarled. “We hate in others what we see in ourselves, dear.”

She shook her head.

“A piece of advice- if I may?” He angled himself around, breaking from Theo’s grasp and turning to go after her.

Granger turned again to walk away and he stopped. 

“You might want to stop driving off your friends… seems like your connection is already hanging by a thread,” he laughed heartily as the blood pounded in his ears, yelling after her. “I’m surprised you even got invited to the wedding!”

She whipped her head back at him to shout. “I would sooner take advice about personal relationships from FILCH than you, Malfoy!”

His eyes gleamed as he, for a brief moment, thought she might make a run at him- and slap him right across the face.

Before he could entice her further, Theo turned him around and began dragging him to the Apparition point as he blathered on, likening Granger’s shrieking to an adolescent Mandrake’s cry and hoping aloud he’d soon, “blissfully be rendered unconscious by her noxious tone!”

A brief, yet deeply unsettling, feeling of pressure landed them both back at the Manor only moments later. 

“What the fuck was that?” Theo asked, running his hand through his hair, breathing heavily as he watched Draco pace the foyer.

“You know how Granger gets,” he said, drawing in a breath as he tapped each finger to the pad of his thumb in quick succession, over and over. “And I don’t know what she was on about. Filch had a great relationship with that fucking cat.”

“Mrs. Norris?”

“Yes. Yes! The two best friends there ever were!” Draco clapped his hands together, adrenaline pouring into him. “My second wind has arrived, Theodore. More gin!”

-

Come morning, Draco felt quite alright. 

Well, actually, he felt better than he had in years. The only thing he could attribute it to, regrettably, was his verbal sparring with Granger. He sincerely doubted his buoyed mental state was the result of rubbing celebratory elbows with the bottom rung of Magical people, or witnessing a dear friend willingly march into lawful monogamy. 

So it had to be their stand-off.

If Granger had just written back to any one of his letters, he could have felt this exhilarated long ago! Unfortunately she seemed to be playing the long game.

She wasn’t the type to be thrilled with (unsolicited) constructive criticism, which was the reason he’d always figured for her lacking correspondence. He also had to concede that though she said differently to Theo, she likely received an aggressive amount of hate mail. His (consistent) responses were a drop in the bucket.

But now, it was obvious. She saved her contempt for in-person squabbles. To each their own, he supposed. He’d allow it.

It was a little exciting, really.

Upon reflection (replaying their interactions eight times, over and over as he ate his breakfast) there was something in particular she’d said, to Potter, not to him, that gave him pause. 

She’d said they were fearful of Weasley’s mental state, thus they presented softer versions of themselves to him, and protected him from places and things which might agitate him further.

They babied him.

As Draco watched Theo sleeping on the settee in the corner of his room, still in his dress robes, he realized perhaps he had more in common with Ron Weasley than anyone could figure.

If he wasn’t suicidal before, he certainly was now.

He needed to make some changes. Post haste. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Five

marked from the get-out

-

MALFOY HEIR RESURFACES POST-HOUSE ARREST

Lord Draco Malfoy paints the town green… with envy - details on page 7

RITA SKEETER | 06 - January - 2003

There’s a saying - you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone; and sweethearts… truer words were never uttered. Draco L. Malfoy, 22, made a public appearance this week for the first time since September of 1998, at which time he was sentenced to two years in Azkaban prison (see photo); but after an incident that left much of Wizarding Britain with more questions than answers, his release was postponed. 

To catch everyone up: an unidentified source at the time told The Prophet, “Well, he’s much more powerful than anyone had assumed, see. All prisoners take magic suppression potions, but they were no match for Malfoy. Killed a man, without even leaving his cell. Without a wand anywhere near.”

The Prophet reported in 1999 that Auror Rafe Rowell was declared- “killed in action”, and Auror Rowell’s most recent station had been at Azkaban. It didn’t take ten Outstandings on the N.E.W.T.s to put it all together.

“He was upset about his mother,” our source told us. “His magic exploded the whole cell. Nearly killed himself, too. The entire prison felt the blast.”

After leaving Azkaban, Malfoy was under house arrest for 15 months. He was finally released on December 31^st, just one week ago, at which time he was seen socializing with the Golden guests at the wedding of Ron Weasley (friend of the Chosen One) and Pansy Parkinson, Malfoy’s contemporary from Hogwarts. 

It is largely assumed by those in the know that after the death of Lucius Malfoy, all Malfoy titles, properties, accounts and duties fell to young Draco- many of the assets enveloped in a trust until he was released in good standing. The family was stripped of their Wizengamot seat after the war, and were parted with a significant amount of galleons per reparations due to their (allegedly nefarious) influence. 

But you can’t keep a good-looking man down.

The new Lord Malfoy has wasted no time, embracing his freedom as soon as he was able. Sources close to The Prophet state Malfoy was seen on January 2^nd, in Diagon Alley, at the brand new shop catering toward the gentleman-Wizarding elite, Seven Seven Seven. Though the shop has a waitlist more than four months long, purely for a fitting- Lord Malfoy spent more than two hours inside, purchasing an entire wardrobe during that time. 

Why must the Lord purchase all new robes? So glad you asked…

While it was a mere boy imprisoned all those years ago, a man has now emerged.

It is not an exaggeration to say heads were turning, mouths slack, as Lord Malfoy strutted down Diagon Alley for the first time this millennium. He wore a black wool coat over slacks and a black jumper, Hebridean Black oxfords and sunglasses.

Our eyewitnesses say, though it was overcast, there was a glare off the wet cobblestones from the recent rain… thus the sunglasses were likely functional as well as a fashion statement. Sunglasses sales, especially those mirroring Muggle fashions of the time, have quadrupled compared to this time last year, since he was spotted.

“They must work them out in that Azkaban, he’s Azkabuilt-” one witch said as Malfoy passed by on his way to Horizont Alley. Salacious salivations aside, it is unlikely Draco Malfoy had much of an exercise regime during his sentence, as according to personnel files within prison record, Malfoy was not awarded time outside his cell following the incident with Auror Rowell.

Instead, it is likely that during his 15 months of house arrest, he fit in some calisthenics in between drinking binges.

Lou Arbuckle, General Manager of the Jabberknoll in Hogsmeade, tells us that Draco Malfoy has ordered -at minimum- two cases of liquor per week, straight to the Manor, since last spring. “He’s got great taste, that one. Always top shelf, some stuff we don’t even keep on the floor, it’s so expensive. A rum made with sugarcane infused with Unicorn sweat comes to mind… taste like candy floss. 350 galleons a bottle, and he goes through one every fortnight!”

Seven Seven Seven and the Jabberknoll aren’t the only businesses Lord Malfoy has kept afloat over the past year. Flourish and Blotts estimates Draco Malfoy receives nearly 100 books every week from the retailer, in a deal that owner Delano Micks says, “pays for three of our employee’s salary”. Micks explains that after buying a copy of every book Flourish and Blotts carried, Malfoy agreed to take receipt of any book the retailer brought in, indefinitely. “Which is to say we bring things in just for Lord Malfoy, obviously. Anything he wants, bless him.”

Quality Quidditch Supplies was invited out to the Manor in mid-2002 to install a Quidditch pitch and outfit Malfoy with enough brooms, kits and accessories to dress three teams.

“He’s rather partial to pistachio,” says Sheldon Porter, the new owner of Florean Fortescue’s, where a Malfoy elf picks up ten pints of assorted ice cream every single week. “He doesn’t care for the rum raisin. Sent it back, in fact, with a note which said, ‘Respectfully, fuck no.’- Which we did not take offense to! Frankly, so long as he keeps up his purchasing, he can say anything that pleases him. On that note, next month we’re rolling out our newest flavor- Draco’s Desire. Prophet readers get 5% off a pint!”

Though it is noble of the Lord to uplift the local economy, it isn’t surprising. Regardless of one’s beliefs, it is categorically true that the Malfoys have always been in the forefront of promoting the health and wealth of Wizarding-kind.

Lord Malfoy is back on the scene, and things might be looking up just yet.

(Pictured here, with an unidentified male companion)

-

“Unidentified male companion? Is she daft?” Theo spat at Draco, throwing The Prophet on top of the tea service sat between them as he readjusted his sunglasses. His likeness, on the newsprint page, walked beside Draco in the picture procured by The Prophet- clear as day. And yet, they still deemed him: “unidentified”.

It was a little funny.

Bopsy let out an audible growl from the doorway of the sunroom, where Draco and Theo sat at a table for two, abutting the windows. Light poured in through the walls and ceiling, shining from the sky, bouncing off the blanket of snow frosted across the grounds, practically blinding them. 

Draco thought maybe they’d get a bit of a tan.

“He didn’t mean to offend, Bops,” Draco whisked away the now soggy paper, swiping a knife full of butter for the crumpet in his hand. “Cheer up, Theo. ‘Unidentified male companion’ of the Lord Malfoy? Still a well-regarded position, it would seem. They paint quite a picture.”

He dumped the ink-laden tea into a nearby plant, causing it to shrivel on the spot, as he summoned a bottle filled with tawny liquid from the bar in his study. 

“Mmm, yes, and on that note- what shall we do today, milord…” Theo glared, eying his cup as Draco filled it to the brim.

“Any, and every, thing we want,” he said melodically, clinking his cup against Theo’s. “Until we want, no more.”

“And what then?”

Draco shrugged, though the answer felt obvious: when there was no more, there would be no more.

The thought soothed him.

So did the whiskey.

“Fuckery abounds, Theodore,” he smiled, sipping at his “tea”.

- 

Hermione

What most people lacked, and really the only thing that separated the haves from the have nots, Hermione felt, was a well-constructed, meticulous routine.

It sounded simple, perhaps even broad (a little boring, she’d allow)- but all the successful people she’d ever known, or read about, or heard of- had a routine.

They woke at a certain time, they took care of their body, their mind and their space. They set aside time for learning, for reflection. 

They made a concerted effort.

They stuck to a time table.

Without a routine, everything had the habit of going pear-shaped.

And thus, Hermione Granger, 23-year-old “gifted” witch, had a well-honed and tightly packed routine. For example, she spent her first three (and a half) hours of wakefulness exactly the same. To ensure consistency from one day to the next, whilst also maximizing efficiency, she had it written (in perfect penmanship- there was no excuse for sloppiness, even if she was the only one who’d ever read the thing…) and posted on her bathroom mirror.

It read as follows:

5:00am- Rise for the day

Recheck the wards

5:05am- Drink one glass of tepid water - with a squeeze of lemon (for aiding digestion)

Stretching

Refresh Crookshanks’ water and food.

5:10am- Exercise (the DVDs from the jumble sale in Kent are fine)

Mindful breathing

5:55am- Shower

6:10am- Breakfast; freshly-squeezed citrus juice (orange, or grapefruit), black coffee, steel cut oats with stewed apple or raisins, and two pieces of toast with either almond butter or avocado.

6:30am - Get dressed

Charm hair

Skin routine

Make-up (mascara and lippy AT LEAST, Hermione!)

7:00am- Silent sustained reading (topic must be something unrelated to work)

7:30am- Content perusal of The Daily Prophet, the Quibbler and The Times

(Circle back in evening for topics that might require more thought)

8:30am- Recheck the wards, again

Monday through Friday she worked for no less than eight and half hours, then proceeded directly into her evening routine, the general exception being Wednesdays, in which she spent the late afternoon at the Prophet turning in, then editing, then turning in again, her column.

On Thursdays, she took dinner in Diagon Alley with Ron and George at the shop.

On Fridays, she went to Grimmauld Place for “family” dinner, which consisted of her and the Potters, and sometimes Andromeda and Teddy. Ron hadn’t shown up in quite some time.

Saturdays found her volunteering at St. Mungo’s, and Sundays were spent doing laundry, grocery shopping, and cleaning her flat.

Tuesdays were for dates, in the event that she had one. As of late she refused to bring anyone home regardless of frequency or familiarity; something that started as a reasonable precaution but had grown into a full-fledged panic response. 

The idea that anyone step foot in her space was now so unappealing, the thought of it made her sick. Likely she needed to see to that, but when would she have time?

If there were nighttime activities, on one of her dates, The Leaky Cauldron was good enough- or the Citadines Apart-Hotel in Coventry Garden, should she dally with a Muggle. Usually, lately, it was a Muggle. Not any one in particular, just the type in general. It felt safer that way, which was a feeling for months, now, she couldn’t shake. It was silly, really. 

She had no reason to be so wound up, so on edge.

But she was, and she couldn’t seem to drop it. The tighter she held to everything, the more things became unbearable- and the more they had the tendency to fall apart.

Thus, tighter, she held. She restricted more, she leaned heavily on her routine, honing it… she had complete control of her day- which put her at ease. Slightly.

It was the rest of the world she couldn’t seem to manage.

This wasn’t to say she was cowering as the fight went on, deciding to let go altogether.- absolutely not. 

She never actually had the opportunity to cower, or retreat. She thought the Battle of Hogwarts would set the stage for meaningful and much needed change in their world. But, it didn’t seem to take.

She still didn’t understand exactly how she was wrong- only that she was. 

She hated that. 

Post war, her anxiety and trauma bubbled beneath the surface for months. She clung to Harry and Ron, she buried herself in work and classes at Cambridge. Had things leveled out, had anything gone right, perhaps she would have been able to relax at some point. Maybe she could have found some happiness, or contentment.

As it were, now, those things seemed far off at best.

They did everything they could think to do, but in the end it didn’t seem to be enough.

Many of the Death Eater trials had concluded by early 1999, but even then Shacklebolt had trouble quelling the public’s panic as random acts of violence continued to occur. 

The heart of the opposition, Voldemort, had been destroyed, but shrapnel of the unrest scattered in his wake. Little resistances, some grander than others, embedded themselves back in society. 

When Lucius Malfoy was found dead in his Azkaban cell, not even a year into his 20 year sentence, things got a bit hairier. Details were few but there seemed to be an agreement amongst those in power that the conditions in Azkaban were criminally negligent, even for those who were criminally convicted. 

Hermione didn’t believe this for a second, but unfortunately, no one believed her.

Hoards of sentences were reduced or lifted for time served. Men like Augustus Rookwood, Victor Crabbe, Elias Travers, Antonin Dolohov and dozens more were released from Azkaban and put into Auror-monitored custody, some of them just months after being sentenced in the first place. It was a horrific course-correction and obviously unwise… but such fears fell on deaf ears.

The recently released could remain in their homes but had probationary conditions on magic usage and correspondences, while also expected to pay considerable fines for their role in the war. Every single Death Eater or Voldemort sympathizer who was offered early parole took it- except one. 

Draco Malfoy refused to accept his conditional release, having already received an extended sentence and additional house arrest for his role in the murder of Auror Rafe Rowell. It was just another “incident”, right around the time of Lucius’s death, that lacked clarity or detail. 

The Wizengamot had all but returned to a “good ol’ boys” club, and Minister Shacklebolt’s appointment and efficacy were constantly called into question by both sides. He let it happen, somehow, and Hermione was left entirely confused.

The politics of it all were worrisome, certainly. If too many Pure were allowed power, it would foster conditions for discriminatory and dangerous practices to become common place, again. 

However, the moment Hermione considered the point of no return, was not Lucius Malfoy’s death and the knee-jerk releases thereafter. It was what happened on December 11th, 2000. 

Now dubbed the Yule Massacre, the night started as a perfectly lovely Christmas parade down Diagon Alley. As the sky darkened and the red and green lanterns began to light, Fenrir Greyback and eleven members of the Hosey Hill pack descended upon the crowd, murdering 27 people and injuring many others. 

Muggle explosives were set off at either end of the parade route, funneling everyone toward the center. anti-Apparition barriers had been set, and most of the businesses were closed, their doors locked for the parade. There was nowhere for people to go, panic churned the crowd, and the pack picked them off, one by one. 

It was a small community, Wizarding Britain, and such a catastrophic act touched nearly everyone within it. 

Parvati Patil, Ron’s girlfriend, was killed. 

Hermione’s Mind Healer, Healer Bunch, lost his life as well. 

Two children under 12, one baby, three witches well into their second century, and more than a dozen others were all murdered that night. 

Hermione suffered injuries as well; a broken clavicle, and a sprained ankle due to being trampled in the fray. Harry and Ron were off at the Ministry, gearing up for their final exams before becoming junior Aurors, but there was nothing they could have done. 

Ginny, who had been standing with Hermione, Parvati and her twin, Padma, outside Ollivander’s, was kicked and shoved backward into the wand shop, the front window slicing through her. She was seven months pregnant with a boy- James Harry Potter. Even after significant Healer intervention, the baby did not survive.

Hermione knew of some of the other victims, though she didn’t know them well. The mother of Cho Chang. Daphne and Astoria Greengrass. One of their neighbors at Grimmauld Place.

The deaths were as random as they were horrific, and still, now two years on, Hermione was dealing with the aftermath. 

It felt insignificant in the light of everything else, but she hadn’t realized the fragility of her own happiness and how intrinsically it was threaded within Harry and Ron’s.

The loss of Harry and Ginny’s baby was a blow to the entire extended family, but Harry took it especially hard. After giving up his life for the world, he was finally allotted this piece of normalcy. A home, a wife, a child… parents who had the privilege of becoming grandparents. 

Unconditional love.

“I know what they’re saying, what everyone is thinking,” Harry had told her, months later as they stood in James’ room. It had already been painted, the crib long since built. “We can have another baby… Ginny is able to have another baby. And that’s good.”

She nodded, plucking a piece of lint from the white and red blanket she’d started knitting the day Harry told her and Ron they were expecting. She pulled it to her chest, breathing in before refolding it carefully and draping it back over the side of the crib.

“But what about James?” Harry turned his back to Hermione, one hand gripping the back of his neck and the other pulling at his hair. “He was real to us. He is supposed to be here, now.”

“I know,” she had said, closing her eyes before tears had a chance to well up and spill down her cheeks. “He is as real as you and me, even though he’s not with us. And at any rate, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. We are all just doing the best we can, and on days we cannot-“ 

Harry’s back had rounded, his hands covering his face with his head bowed as he wept in the corner, near a bookshelf packed with colorful spines, and atop it, a stuffed lion. 

She wanted to make it better, but she couldn’t.

How bizarre to be able to feel such hate through sadness.

While Harry was sad, Ron was angry.

He was so furious he couldn’t function, and instead, retreated from his life and everyone in it. 

He left the Ministry, dropping out of the Auror program with just a few months to go. After leaving him alone for weeks, Hermione couldn’t help herself any longer and forced her way into his life, convincing him to move in with her. She just wanted to keep an eye on him, be there for him.

They got an apartment together in Hogsmeade, which in hindsight wasn’t the best idea she’d ever had.

Such proximity and emotional days and nights left them in a confusing limbo of sorts neither of them wanted, really, but still served as a spot of comfort. For a time.

Immediately after the war they were together, but decided (at Hermione’s suggestion and to Ron’s relief) their relationship was better without the romantic element. Still, when sad and lonely in attached rooms, they wandered into each other’s bed with frequency. 

The physicality of it all left both of them wanting; Ron for a relationship and Hermione for a relationship… with someone other than Ron.

She was sure he actually agreed, he was just being lazy about it. It was easier to slip under her duvet than make an effort somewhere else. 

They had boundaries- they were not dating. 

But Ron became mean when she went out with someone else, and she resented him for willfully misunderstanding their situation and trying to make it into something it wasn’t.

She loved him. 

But it wasn’t enough. 

So they had to call it, again.

In the months following the Massacre, the partners in Healer Bunch’s practice held grief counseling for those effected, reaching out periodically to those who had been clients of Healer Bunch, inviting them back to try out a new Healer.

In July of 2001, one such solicitation finally piqued Hermione’s interest, and she went- dragging along Ron. By then, their cohabitation experiment had completely failed (it did not last long) and Ron had moved into the apartment above Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, in Fred’s old room. George welcomed Ron into the business and into his home, eager to have a brother close again. 

Harry offered Hermione a room at Grimmauld Place, but she declined. She needed to do something on her own.

After several weeks of attending the bereavement group, Hermione found she really didn’t care for it. They sat around a circle, each week, hashing out the same bloody things, devastating things, ad nauseam. The repetition of it all pulled her empathy from her and stomped on it, leaving it for dead.

But something about the group resonated with Ron. She went with him until she was convinced he no longer needed a chaperone…which somehow, some way, led him straight to Pansy Parkinson.

Pansy had become friends with Parvati after Hogwarts, and thus saw Ron socially somewhat regularly. 

If there were 100 different ways her life could unfold, if there were alternate universes in which slightly different Hermiones existed due to this, or that… not even one of them would contain Ron and Pansy, together. She was sure of it.

This universe was broken.

She knew Harry felt similarly about the relationship, perhaps even more opposed than her- but Harry and Ron were no longer the friends who told each other when something was a bad idea. 

They were friends who said, “So, uh, yeah. How’ve you been?”

It killed her.

The stress of existing in a world that was somehow getting worse, with friends who were drifting apart for reasons she couldn’t fix, was understandably taxing on Hermione’s nervous system and general outlook. 

It forced her to find (and hold tightly to) her own joy; which typically was just the optimistic definition she gave to anything that could be considered a distraction.

Keeping herself busy allowed for very little wallowing, and in the event that wallowing did accidentally occur, she was adept at forcing herself out of it to attend to any of the number of acute problems plaguing her, big or small.

Like fixing the leaking sink in her flat without calling for help.

Or writing a letter to the Editor of The Daily Prophet the month following the Hosey Hill attack, and creating such a ruckus with her sentiment that the very Editor she lambasted for his bias in journalism offered her a weekly guest column. Front page, below the fold. 

Or, and this was a big one, figuring out what she did to her parents memory (obliterated it, removed herself entirely, terrible-terrible-terrible) and how to fix it. Some might call her pursuit of knowledge in this particular instance obsessive, and she would likely agree. Should she reach a dead end with her memory work research, she had a few other diverting activities she leaned upon. 

If our favorite pastimes were the ones we did with the most frequency/least internal cajoling… Hermione’s would be: 

- Watching reality TV in horrifically lengthy spurts of time

- Staring into the refrigerator with the hope that something might just appear that she actually wanted to eat

- Rearranging the seven pieces of furniture she owned because she was drifting in every way possible and “perhaps Feng Shui would help?”

Also never far from her mind, the on-going long game: luring Harry and Ron to the same place in the hope that they’d suddenly realize that yes, in fact, they were best friends and oh how they regretted their months of coolness toward each other. 

If she needed socialization that didn’t irritate her nerves (the aforementioned duping and corralling of Harry and Ron), she sought out the Muggles from her cohort in 18^th Century Literature at Cambridge. It was the last class she took before she dropped her enrollment to focus on more practical things, like not dying in a Magical terror attack. 

Every other month or so, she made her way to the Quayside for a pint (or rather, cheap tequila), and forgot for at least a twenty minute interval that everything was such shit.

If her Muggle friends were busy, she sometimes went out for a drink or bite to eat with her editor’s secretary, or if she was truly desperate, one of her fellow Ministry minions, in particular a man called Will.

And, though her parents didn’t know her in relation to them, they did know her as a friendly girl who came to stay with her Granny every Christmas at the house next door to them in Perth. Inevitably, Granny would be sick for the holiday, thus Wendell and Monica Wilkins took pity on her and extended an invitation to their Christmas day activities, year after year. 

She always liked a schedule, the busier the better, but in recent times her tendency to plan became more of a desperation than an abiding principle. 

It was getting harder to navigate, this life. She looked to the future and didn’t see a clear path forward, and it scared her more than she would ever admit.

But- and it definitely bore repeating; she didn’t have time to wallow, she refused to schedule for it.

-

As it was the last Wednesday of February, it was Hermione’s afternoon to cut out early from the Ministry and head to the Prophet. She was required to hear, in person, the feedback her editor (a wee man in his late 90s called Herb Jacoby) deigned important enough to share. Which, of course, nearly always turned into a lesson in: punctuation, grammar, content, civic duty, as well as narrative flow.

She wrote a weekly column about her opinion of current events. 

There was no “narrative flow”.

“Well, there really should be,” Mr. Jacoby leaned across his desk, pushing himself up on the arm of his chair to hand her a copy of her bloodied column. “Else you might bore people.”

She glanced at the well-corrected sheets in her hand. It was hard to make out any words at all when they were overlaid with suggestions… overzealous with a red quill, was Mr. Jacoby.

“It is not literary fiction, Mr. Jacoby, it is my heartfelt opinion in regard to the unsettling behavior of the Hungarian Ministry and the recent laws they’ve passed to strip non-Pureblood witches and wizards of their basic rights. We’ve all seen this play before, I’m afraid…”

“Yes, well, subject-matter aside,” he wrinkled his nose, “it reads rather dry. Let’s punch it up a touch prior to publication, yes?”

She swallowed, pinching a copy of The Prophet on his desk, today’s edition, and pulling it toward her. “I think you have plenty of punchy headlines, here, Mr. Jacoby. Perhaps mine can serve as a rather moral take… thus balancing such frivolity?”

“Frivolity!” He sputtered. “How do you figure?”

She held up the issue. “Above the fold, let’s see, we have a hardly serious take on the remodel of the Gringott’s lobby, likening the marble work to that of ‘a Roman bath’, replete with a question as to whether or not the Goblins should start wearing togas.”

Jacoby stared at her, his bushy black and grey eyebrows pulled together. “I quite liked that one.”

“You have coverage of a Quidditch match from which you cannot glean the score, due to the writer’s choice to keep the result close to the vest-”

“Editorial oversight.”

She flipped the folded paper over, grimacing as she glanced upon the picture that took up more than half the bottom of the page. “Then, we have, for the literal 19^th time this month, aggressive coverage about Draco Malfoy’s dalliances. Another editorial oversight?”

“Of course not,” he wheezed. “When he’s featured, I sell 30% more. I think these daft people must be framing the pictures! The boy is a twit, but he can sell a paper.”

“No argument there,” she grumbled just low enough she didn’t think his hair-filled ears could parcel it out. 

“You’re welcome, for that, by the way…”

“For what?”

He took the paper back, looking it over. “For killing the story. I thought Skeeter was going to turn me into a toad for banning the picture and any commentary therein.”

“What picture,” Hermione ripped the paper back from his hands and flipped through it. “What commentary?”

“Oh, it was months ago, now. Just after the New Year, I believe-” 

“Sir, your 3:30 is here,” came a voice from the door, interrupting his explanation.

Hermione turned around, smiling at Mr. Jacoby’s secretary.

“Hello, Hermione!”

“Long time no see,” she said to the woman in the doorway, turning back to Mr. Jacoby, her face now serious. “What picture are you referring to- it featured me?”

“Yes,” Mr. Jacoby nodded. “You, you and the Malfoy boy.”

“What?” Hermione snapped, her head whipping around as she heard a gasp behind her.

“Yes, yes indeed,” he sighed, pulling her focus yet again. “Had an angle and everything… you looked rather chummy in the photo- which is what ultimately gave me pause. Though you might not think it, Ms. Granger, I have read everything you’ve ever written. And to think that you would fraternize with the very man for whom we had to expand the bloody incoming letter receptacle, because he was clogging it up with his frequent complaints about your column… well. Not likely! I told Skeeter to brush up on a thing we call research.”

“What?” Hermione said again, turning to the only other person in the room for clarity.

A person… who looked like she might know what was going on. “Hermione, I’ve actually, um… it turns out I need a moment of your time.”

Mr. Jacoby nodded, waving in his 3:30, the sports reporter who didn’t believe in scores, as they left.

“Gemma, what is he talking about?” Hermione demanded.

Gemma Sloan-Cates, the secretary of Mr. Jacoby- but realistically, the glue of the entire operation, walked with purpose out of the editor’s suite and down an unnecessarily dark hallway. The walls were covered in wood paneling, the carpet burnt orange. Straight from the 70’s, when Mr. Jacoby took over as a slightly-less old man.

Gemma was several years older than Hermione, also Muggle-born. She was quick, and she was thoughtful, and sometimes Hermione wished they were real friends rather than work acquaintances who popped out for a pint every now and again.

“Oh, bugger, Hermione, I’m sorry,” Gemma smoothed the part of her blonde hair, the sounds of her steps muffled by the carpet’s high pile as she picked up speed, racing down the hall. 

Meanwhile, shag carpet in an office setting was plainly an abuse of authority and furnishing budgets, Hermione thought, as she hurried to keep up. 

“Honestly, oh…” Gemma hissed through her teeth, glancing at her. “I don’t know what I thought. Well. That’s not true. What I thought was that perhaps he was a normal person who would… I don’t know. Develop a new hobby rather than harassing you via owl post?”

“Who?” She asked as they turned a corner. Gemma swished her wand to pop open a panel of the wall that turned itself into a door. “Are we still talking about Malfoy?”

They stepped into an enormous room, at least three stories high. Hundreds of wooden cubbies stretched up the length of one side, a spelled ladder traveling slowly across the expanse as a thin woman in a blue mail clerk robes stuffed letters inside their corresponding boxes. 

The western wall held owl perches, and windows that opened and closed as the birds flew in and out. Rolling bins, ranging from the size of a waste basket to the size of a small automobile, drove around the floor. Most were stacked to the brim with paper and ink, heading toward a press at the back that was currently printing the Thursday advertorial inserts, by the look of them. 

“Yes. Draco Malfoy,” Gemma sighed. 

She didn’t know what to think, she wasn’t able to track the conversation. Malfoy had been sending her letters?

She followed Gemma to the wall of cubbies, immediately zero-ing in on one labeled with her name. “So he’s sent me a nasty note? Seems about right, we got into a row at Ron’s wedding, and my flat is unplottable. Where else would he send it?”

“Not quite that, actually…” Gemma tapped on the cubby with her wand twice, grabbing a small box that materialized within it. 

Opening her mouth to inquire about the box, Hermione stepped out of the way as Gemma set it on the floor, pulled her further back, and muttered an Engorgio.

It wasn’t a box. It was a small version of the rolling bins that were carrying paper to and from the press. It shuddered and grew until it was the size of a Muggle washing machine.

This time, Hermione gasped. Stacks and stacks and stacks of letters, all with the same ivory envelope, green wax and cursive script on the front. All addressed to her, care of The Prophet. There were packages of varying size, wrapped in the same ivory, tied with twine. 

“I’ve had an auto-receive spell on them, they should be ordered as they were delivered, and then numbered accordingly… the higher the number, the more recent.” Gemma explained as she plucked a bundle from the top, handing it to Hermione with a pitiful look on her face. 

“This one’s open,” she said absently, trying to take in just what sat before her.

Hundreds of letters… from Draco Malfoy?

To her?

“Yes, that’s my fault. I apologize,” Gemma nodded, smoothing her dusty pink skirt, then adjusting the hem of her matching jacket. She fidgeted, a bit, when she was nervous. “You see, when your column first began, we were receiving an… inordinate amount of threatening letters. Some even filled with noxious substances, I’m sure you know the drill.”

“Regrettably, yes,” she nodded, holding the bundle at arm’s length. She thought back to a very particular envelope filled with bubotuber pus she’d received 4^th year. Also involving her and The Prophet, come to think of it…

“He doesn’t seem to be of the poisoning or maiming variety, rather he’ll just annoy you to death,” Gemma assured her with a forced laugh. “Anyway, I screen every initial correspondence to you, just to be sure you won’t get hurt.”

Hermione frowned.

“I have special gloves and a mask I wear for the task,” Gemma assured her quickly, smiling. “Thank you for your concern, though. But, uh, yes. He was quite nasty in that first letter… and I began filing them away separately so instead of receiving them every week, I’d get them to you monthly, or something. Originally I was keeping them at my desk, but then I started filing them here. I figured he’d lose interest, I’d hand over a few letters, and then we’d be done with it.”

“And what happened with that plan?” Hermione tried to count the letters within the bundles.

“Well, he’s a persistent little shit, isn’t he,” she said, distaste dripping from her frown. “He has, without fail, sent between one and five letters, weekly, since… I don’t know. Fall of 2001? He started sending additional packages within the last year or so. I haven’t opened anything since that first one, and really, I’d forgotten all about them until Rita wanted to run a story about you two. She got a picture of you, at Ron Weasley and Pansy Parkinson’s wedding.”

“Were we shouting at each other? That is truly the only interaction I can recall,” Hermione said. “Or did Rita catch him spying on me in the bathroom?”

“What?” Her mouth went slack.

“It’s nothing.”

“Upon seeing the photo of you two, I thought I’d nip over here and grab the… handful of letters, I was still a naive woman then, about the world, mostly, and of course the incredible power of mutual hatred…”

“I feel as if you’re losing the plot, here, Gemma.”

“Right. Well, I figured I’d give them to you, explain why I had them and how I’d forgotten. And knowing you’re a reasonable person- no harm no foul,” Gemma exhaled, shaking her head. “But when I saw this insane display, I… well. To be truthful, I seriously considered arson.”

Hermione couldn’t take her eyes off the pile. “We certainly have enough kindling here to start a significant blaze.”

Unable to tamp down her curiosity any longer, she pulled the first letter from the bundle, scanning the missive as color leached from her complexion.

October 11^th, 2001

Dear Ms. Granger -

Imagine my utter surprise upon release from prison to see an old classmate taking up prime, below the fold space- actually, perhaps prime is too flattering a word… but at least you’re not relegated to the back near the personal ads.

Incidentally my initial read through of your “column” gathers you lead a rather lonely life… might I suggest taking out one of the aforementioned personal ads? I can even help you come up with a catchy title that will really grab the right suitor, right at the gills: BUSHY-HAIRED INTOLERABLE TWIT SEEKS HUMAN-ESQUE MATE.

At any rate, back to the reason for this correspondence. 

I have just one question:

Are you fucking mental?

Wizard and Merpeople relations are not something to “take a whack at” (your words, not mine) in a vanity column that was handed to you because you lured two boys into the loo, wanked them in front of a troll (I wasn’t privy to the details but over the years I’ve gleaned a startling mental picture- thank you for that) and then went hunting for the Dark Lord’s knickknacks during a wilderness adventure some years later. 

There are nuances to Wizarding life you still, for the life of you, can’t grasp- aren’t there? Perhaps your next column should speak to the lacking education the Wizarding world offers for people such as yourself- people too arrogant-whilst-ignorant to listen to anyone who might know better- which, fortuitously, is everyone who grew up in a magical household.

Did you even read the Treatise of Biscay, dated 1434? I imagine you aren’t fluent in medieval French but there are resources for people who are lacking in general studies, I’m sure. If you had read it, I would hope you would commit to memory that when it was signed by the French and Spanish governments it was a historic moment of Wizarding and Muggle relations, as it directly affected Muggle trade routes as well as the health and safety of Magical beings. Our Wizarding ancestors (which is to say my Wizarding ancestors) brokered a brilliant piece of law for the time in which it was implemented and for you to cast it aside in such a flippant manner tells me all I need to know.

You are a ridiculous, thoughtless person, unrelenting in your self-directed (and often unwarranted) righteousness; after all is said and done.

How disappointing… on so many levels. To have eyes. To read this. To know you at all.

Please do better.

Sincerely,

Draco L. Malfoy

PS - I’m sure your parents are proud their steadfast rearing of a close-minded, short-sighted Muggle still reigns victorious when it comes to how you allow your thoughts to sift clumsily from brain to quill. Thank Merlin you haven’t any real power, else we’d be doomed.

An interloper, through and through. 

Hermione blinked, her jaw sore from clenching so tightly as she made her way through his bloody missive. Who the fuck did Malfoy think he was? The gall the man had for writing her hate mail in the midst of his court-ordered house arrest for being a sodding terrorist!

She shoved the letter back into the envelope, tearing it. She put it back into the bundle, and placed it carefully into the box, staring at it for a beat before clearing her throat. 

She cast a tense Reducto, finally turning to Gemma. “What sort of arson did you have in mind?”

Chapter Text

Chapter Six

nothing more than a party trick

-

Hermione

Ron’s birthday party crept up in between one hundred other things Hermione would rather do, but she reminded herself it would be good to be surrounded by her friends (plus Pansy). Once the baby was born, it was likely Ron would be rather scant. 

She needed to reframe the whole thing.

It was a great opportunity for her, Harry and Ron to spend time together. It was a chance for her to show she was really okay with the union of Weasley and Parkinson; she’d acted rudely at the wedding. 

She needed to make up for it.

So when Ron told her Pansy was throwing a bit of a do at their new house, Hermione knew she would be there with bells on. 

She would be the supportive, kind, inclusive friend that was required.

She could do it.

They’d bought a (frankly, lovely) home in a Wizarding commune west of Hampshire, and this was their first time having friends and family over. 

Hermione had of course already seen it. She toured it herself just one day after Ron mentioned they were thinking of putting in an offer. 

She knew Ron would take her, if she asked, but really, she felt a little inappropriate demanding a newlywed to show his ex-girlfriend around his new marital home. 

So she did it herself.

She didn’t tell them she’d walked through the house, because then she’d have to admit she harassed their estate agent for three days (in secret) until the poor man agreed to show her (also in secret).

And it wasn’t that she thought Ron couldn’t possibly choose and purchase a house without her input! Of course he could. It was just… if there was something amiss, and she didn’t even bother to look in the first place, what kind of friend was she, then? 

It was a question that didn’t need an answer, because she was a good friend.

She was sure of it.

What was the point of being a person with intense scruples and a propensity to be meticulous (and unrelenting, or so she’d read) if she couldn’t use such inclinations to make sure her friend wasn’t investing his savings into a decrepit shack.

As it turned out, they’d picked a wonderful home. Four bedrooms, sturdy red brick with large windows and wooden beams on the vaulted ceilings. It was airy and cozy all at once, with unadorned limestone washed walls and terracotta tiles throughout. 

There was a decent sized enclosed garden out back and patio space… big enough for children to ramble and roam but small enough to keep an eye on them without gnome spies. Past the garden was a field abutting a small forest, perfect for exploration and make believe.

It was somehow a little too refined for Ron, whilst also being a bit country (she assumed) for Pansy- and thus, it was perfect.

Post wedding and honeymoon, Ron owled Hermione to set up a chat. She was grateful, as she hadn’t been able to talk to him since the disastrous moments leading up to his nuptials. She’d written down all the ways in which her behavior was disappointing, and how she would have been just as upset as he, had the tables been turned.

But it was all for not.

When she walked into Florean Fortescue’s, Ron was nowhere in sight.

In his stead, was Pansy.

Hermione stopped, dead, staring at the raven-haired woman sitting at the table. The only person in the shop, so she couldn’t sneak back out and pretend she was ill!

Pansy had her hands folded in front of her, and on the table sat two dishes of ice cream.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come if I asked you,” Pansy explained, gesturing for her to take a seat as she stood rooted three steps in the door.

Twenty different things tumbled into her thoughts all at once as she forced herself to take a step, then two, and soon sat down stiffly in the chair across Pansy.

Had she heard what she’d said to Ron at the wedding? Had Ron told her? Had Malfoy? Did she lure Hermione here to tell her Ron would no longer be a part of her life? To stay away from him?

She felt sick.

She couldn’t lose anyone else.

“Ron said to order you this,” Pansy said, pushing forward a dish filled with a scoop of rum raisin ice cream.

She stared at the bowl.

“Is this not what you prefer?” Pansy asked, craning her neck around to get the attention of the server in red and white pinstripes behind the register.

“I actually do enjoy it,” Hermione said. “I know it seems a bit… mature. But-”

“When he told me to get the rum and raisin, I thought to myself… ew,” Pansy admitted. “But then, I got here early, and I sat here with it, waiting for you. And I’ll be honest. I tried a bite.”

“Oh,” Hermione glanced at the perfectly round scoop, not a notch missing.

“It called to me,” Pansy sighed. “Ate the whole thing. Had to order you another scoop, and then got myself vanilla as to not be as tempted by the booziness. The server said it had very little alcohol, but best not to risk it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re fine.”

Pansy eyed her bowl. “It’s quite decadent.”

“Very rich,” she nodded, unsure of where to steer the conversation.

“Indeed.”

“Right.”

She took a bite, under Pansy’s watchful eye. She felt confident that had the dessert been tampered with, she’d be able to do a counter spell quickly enough.

Thinking of such treachery left the ice cream too long on the roof of her mouth, her skull screaming at her as it ached with brain freeze. She did her best to remain composed, but it verged on excruciating for about four seconds.

“Are you alright?” Pansy asked. “I haven’t poisoned it.”

She nearly choked, waving her off. “Of course you haven’t. Brain freeze.”

Pansy nodded, stirring the melty bits collecting in the bottom of her bowl.

“Pansy,” she ventured. “Why’ve you asked me here?”

“Right, well,” she pushed her bowl to the side, clasping her hands together. “I am doing my best to embody the spirit of a mature, rational woman, lately. I know in the grand scheme we’re quite young… but I’m married. I’m to have a baby this summer. I think it’s time I start behaving in a way that will put me on better footing tomorrow, rather than assuming tomorrow may never come.”

Hermione didn’t know what to make of such an admission.

“I think it would be very easy for me to disappear into my past and all I’ve done and loll around like my friends tend to do… but I can’t. I have people counting on me. I have a family, now.”

“Okay…”

“And I suppose this is me, reaching out to you, clearing the air so we can move forward. Because you are an important person to Ron, and I think it best we do all we can to hold onto such relationships. We never know what might happen.”

Her voice was strong and unwavering, but Hermione thought there was a streak of tenderness marbling through it as she pulled the ice cream back and dug in.

“I’m so glad you agreed to come here, I can’t have the coffee I want, nor any of the liquor… but ice cream is allowed,” Pansy said, closing an eye for a moment as she worked on a rather large bite. “Over committed, there.”

Hermione could only nod. Words would not materialize, so she continued to eat.

They had several spoonfuls in silence before Pansy started anew.

“I know you don’t really like me,” she sighed. “And I get that, and for the most part the feeling was entirely mutual.”

“Was, but is no longer?” She couldn’t help smiling. “I appreciate your candor.”

“What’s the point in lying? We were both there, in school.” Pansy took another large bite, holding up a finger as she half-chewed, half rolled it around her mouth as it melted. “I need to take smaller bites, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Hermione, in what she felt was a show of the utmost maturity, did not knock off the low-hanging fruit with such a statement.

She then felt a bit gross for thinking such a thing.

Pansy had reached out. She was the mature one. She was the one growing up and moving on and deciding to be a better person.

What was Hermione doing?

“And I think I’ll save you the sob story of growing up with parents who had certain views, a certain outlook,” Pansy continued. “Tale as old as time, that one, and quite unoriginal in these parts.”

“Indeed,” She nodded, looking down at her bowl, stabbing at the raisin bits amongst the cream.

“I don’t think it would do much for either of us, for me to apologize for how I was in school, but in the event that you would like, or need an apology, I shall say this: I am sorry for being a complete twat to you, and to your friends, at any chance I got.”

“Thank you.” She set down her spoon, then picked it back up. She was nervous and unsure of what to do with her hands. “I wasn’t blameless, I know… I think I thought myself a bit of a victim at the time, but I was unkind to you as well. I’m sorry.”

“I would have been heinous regardless of your disposition, so don’t trouble yourself with that,” Pansy assured her. Her shiny black bob was half up in a tiny twist atop her head, the rest of it came down, hitting her part way down her long, elegant neck. Her fringe was pushed to either side.

She had the most striking hazel eyes. Gold around the iris, fading to green, to brown around the edge. Creamy skin, not a freckle to be seen. Hermione wondered what their baby would look like; how strong could ginger genes be?

“I want to be different, now.” Pansy looked out the window to the dozens of people wandering slowly up and down the alley, faces turned to the ground and arms holding their cloaks closed. “I think I am different, honestly, but others may disagree. I am endeavoring to be different, at least. Realizing the truth of the dark and bitter parts of me and why they made me feel like being a bitch would somehow remedy them. Defense mechanisms, insecurities… fears. I don’t have to tell you.”

“No, go on, I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Hermione lifted her eyebrows in amusement.

“You’re a bit witty, Granger.”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far.” She made herself to look up, and catch Pansy’s eye. “I can’t help but feel it’s very brave, and very mature of you to do this, Pansy. I wouldn’t have done it myself.”

“I can be a bit bull-headed once I get my mind set on something,” she allowed. “I don’t know. I’m starting to realize that if we don’t get things out there, and move through them, we’ll be filled with regret at the end of the day. And what’s the point in that? We’ve been through enough. We’ve lost so much.”

“I agree. And I know you were friends with Parvati, and with the Greengrass sisters. I can’t imagine how difficult it’s been for you.”

Scraping at the dregs of her ice cream, Pansy nodded. “I think I vacillate. Sometimes it still doesn’t feel quite real- like, I saw Padma the other day and my first thought was, ‘Oh, I wonder if Parvati is here, too?’. It was a second, maybe even less, that I was in this state of forgetting what happened to her. Then other days there is this sadness that sits somewhere within me, and I could do nothing to forget it. I’m reminded constantly, and it makes bad things worse and good things… almost unbearable.”

Hermione’s nose prickled at that. She knew exactly how that felt. Everything was tainted, now. To feel good was to feel guilt, and to feel bad was just… awful. “I think I can understand that.”

“I want you to know, I fully realize the situation Ron and I have entered into. I’m aware of how it looks, how it feels. How I seem to have somehow… benefitted, from my friend’s death,” she moved to refute this, but Pansy shook her head and went on. “I know had the massacre not happened, I wouldn’t be sitting here. Married and pregnant. Trying to convince you to allow me to care about him.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say.

“There is part of my personality- the loud part, on most days lately, that wants to say… you know what? Fuck you. Fuck everyone, fuck anyone who isn’t in our relationship, who isn’t exactly us, and fuck them for making judgements about us at all.” She rubbed the side of her nose, sniffing a touch. “I want to say those things to you. But I also want you to understand, and to accept it. And maybe I might just be a protective, pushy person at my base, and I want you to accept that, too.”

Frowning, Hermione nodded. “I can relate to such tendencies.”

“I know you can,” Pansy said. “You have Harry and Ron. I have Draco and Theo… Blaise, too, but… he is fairly unproblematic at this point in time. We lead strangely parallel lives, socially speaking.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” Hermione said, thought she wasn’t quite sure she’d lump Harry and Ron in with Malfoy and Theo Nott. Other than the fact that she was moderately sure they all had penises, their differences in personality and lifestyle were stark. “It’s easier to focus on how we are different, than accept how we are the same.”

“Absolutely.”

The crux of the matter was that Pansy’s care, attention and affection pulled Ron not only back from the metaphorical ledge he was standing on (Hermione was fairly certain it was purely metaphorical…), but also thrust him into a life that he not only seemed to like, but one for which he was well-suited. 

It was the most peculiar thing, watching the two of them. Pansy didn’t tire of his jokes, or take offense to the times in which he was less than respectable, or obnoxious. She rolled with it, kept up with it somehow. 

At the same time, Ron seemed completely enamored by her sharp tongue and cutting glares. He loved her, it was plain to see, and it was definitely something about her in particular. Hermione had similar tendencies; a brashness that needed getting used to, staunch opinions on nearly everything- but Ron was never so taken with her. It was those parts of her, that with him, was always a mismatch.

“The thing is, Pansy,” she started, clenching her spoon tightly as she tried to figure out just what she was trying to say. “I owe you a great deal of thanks, and I’m not sure why I’ve been so obstinate in letting you know-”

“It’s because you don’t like me.”

“Well-”

“It’s alright. Perhaps it bears repeating but I can’t say I’ve ever been your biggest fan,” Pansy laughed. “But, through Ron, I think I have a respect for you that puts things into perspective.”

“Right.” Hermione did not require the affections, or even tolerance, of others… for the most part. Though as she’d gotten older, she’d realized how nice such things actually were. “Well, in any case, I owe you a debt of some sort, for reaching out to Ron and pulling him from-”

Pansy shook her head. “No. He helped me just as much, more, than I helped him. We were just in the right place, at the right time. We are fortunate to have found each other, even if the circumstances were less than ideal.”

Hermione wanted to tell her how conflicting all this felt. How she really believed she should have been the one to help Ron re-enter his own life, and the fact that she couldn’t, that she didn’t, ate at her. She was at once furious and grateful Pansy was successful where she was not.

But such were feelings Hermione couldn’t put to words, out loud. Ones she kept shoving away, telling herself that at some point she’d get to them. Some day.

Pansy stood, clearing both of their bowls. “Anyway. I think that’s enough bonding for today, don’t you? I’ll give you some time to process. Have a good day, Hermione.”

“Yes, you as well, Pansy.”

And with that, Pansy fucking Weasley walked out of the ice cream shop, her long, grey wool coat trailing behind her as she crossed the street and disappeared.

Hermione stared at the table for a while. 

How strange everything had become.

Making her way up their cobblestone walk, now, nearly two months later, Hermione was still just as flummoxed as she’d been on that rainy, January day.

But here it was Saturday. The first of March.

Ron’s birthday.

And things were moving right along.

She had seen the newly minted Weasleys on three separate occasions since the ice cream detente, and the mutual affection with Pansy increased every time.

She startled as the rounded wooden door opened, her fist up, poised to knock. “Hermione’s here!” Ron bellowed behind him, pulling her into the house and away from the crisp spring air with his arm around her shoulders. “Trying out that fashionably late thing, are we?”

“I’m ten minutes past 2pm?” She looked up at him. His hair was shorter than he usually wore it, his white button-up neatly pressed and tucked into charcoal trousers. This was not an outfit Ron Weasley could divine. How exhausting for Pansy to have to dress the entire house. “I can’t believe I’m not the first to arrive?”

“The Slytherins are exceptionally punctual,” he whispered. “I don’t like it.”

“The Slytherins!” She pushed him down a hall off the entry, where she knew there to be a utility room from her walk through. “Which Slytherins are here, at your party, Ron? And why?”

He ran his hand through his auburn hair, holding up several fingers with the other. “Let’s see. Well. There’s Pansy.” He laughed.

“Have you been drinking?” She wrinkled her nose.

“Of course,” he said, his freckled cheeks rosy. “It’s my birthday! Anyway. Pansy. Blaise. Theo… Malfoy.”

Her stomach dropped.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” She stamped her foot on the ground.

Ron looked to the floor and back up to her face. “Are you a toddler, Hermione? What the fuck was that?” He said with another laugh, the sound grating on her (perpetually) frayed nerves. 

“Why is he here?!”

“I told Pansy she could invite her friends. The more the merrier!” Ron leaned against a sink, looking past her. “He brought me a bottle of Scotch. Not really a Scotch man, myself, as you know, but I didn’t hate it. Also, did I tell you what he got us for the wedding?”

“A spoon,” she said flatly, popping her head out the hall and scanning for eavesdroppers.

“A magical spoon… boy, if we had that thing when we were on the Horcrux hunt, I’m not sure I would’ve been so quick to leave!”

Hermione’s head whipped back to stare at him. “That’s a terrible thing to say, Ronald.”

“I’ll blame the Scotch, then,” he sighed, his eyes becoming wistful, “but truly, I fucking love that spoon.”

“Is Harry here?”

Ron stared at the clothes hung beyond them, a blush tinging the tops of his cheeks. He was absolutely pissed. “What?”

“Harry. Is he here?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“You did invite him, didn’t you?” Her stomach became even more unsettled. This was not the happy little Golden Trio gathering she’d so hoped.

He looked down at her, a strange look upon his face. “Yeah.”

“What’s that look for?”

“Just felt like a stupid question, I don’t know. Of course I did.” He pushed past her, reentering the hall as he called back. “He’s married to my sister, it would be weird if I didn’t. Come on. Party’s going.”

Rage rained upon her, its rivulets picking up speed as they skated down her skin, burning tracks she was sure would be visible. 

He’s married to my sister?! That was the only reason Harry warranted an invite?

Was nothing sacred?

Were friendships just the thing you wasted your time with until you found your partner?

How close was she to being cast aside?

Before she could voice her fury, they’d made it to the living room, just off the kitchen and dining nook. Ron went straight to Pansy, coming up behind her. 

Hermione watched as his hand slipped across her torso, his fingers splayed across her (slightly swollen) belly as he pulled her into a hug, nuzzling his face into her neck. She was speaking with Fleur, arranging a tray of cut vegetables, whilst Blaise had knives chopping cheese and cured meats across from her. She reached a hand behind her, threading her fingers into his hair. They stood that way for a moment, Pansy still talking to Fleur, Ron breathing her in.

The room looked different, now, filled with furniture. Overstuffed off-white sofas and matching chairs sat in the living room, the enormous rock-laden hearth reaching to the ceiling.

Beyond, they’d set an oak dining table, with eight chairs- excessive by anyone’s count but funnily not enough to comfortably hold the Weasleys.

Candles littered every surface, casting the room in a warm glow as the sky outside grew more grey by the minute.

There wasn’t much art, nor decor, but such was understandable. They’d moved in just last week, and anyway, it didn’t matter much. The house was handsome on its own. It didn’t need a lot of excess.

Glancing over the kitchen, Hermione’s eyes caught on Ron and Pansy, again. She couldn’t decipher what it was she was feeling. She stood there, staring at the two of them canoodling, like she was watching a bloody film. She stepped forward, further into the room to say hello to the Weasleys and hangers-on, but her attention kept getting pulled back to Pansy and Ron.

It was so unlike she’d ever been with him. Unlike she’d ever been with anyone. Hermione wasn’t a fan of PDA. This, in their home, was probably different. But in general she felt it inconsiderate to those around, and imagined if she were to take part in it, the judgements levied upon her would be brutal. Where others could slide by, Hermione Granger could not. That much had been clear for a very long time. 

And anyway, she felt uncomfortable at the idea of physical touch, which was more a new development. In school, she thought she was rather affectionate, physically speaking.  Now when she thought of it, she recoiled. Another facet of being perpetually on edge. 

She felt like an unwilling voyeur, standing there… but again, she was the one staring. The intimacy of it all curled something in her gut.

Was this envy?

How unoriginal. 

Hermione huffed, bypassing those who were seated and chatting in the living room (Arthur, George and Lee Jordan). She set her gift upon a side table and made her way to the door, where fresh air and the patio sat beyond.

She walked to the pavement’s edge, looking out over the anemic post-winter grass as she took a deep breath. Something stirred to her right, and as she laid eyes upon the offending thing, she groaned.

Draco Malfoy: arse in a chair, with his feet propped up on a table where a fire roared, contained to the middle.

He smiled at her, tipping his head in the most aggravating, bitch-faced way she could imagine- a cigar in his mouth.

What sort of idiot 22-year-old smoked cigars?

Fucking wanker.

She muttered an Engorgio variant for flames in particular, lazily pointing her wand at him and quadrupling the size of the fire. Malfoy pushed off and away from the table, his chair teetering on two legs to give the flame a cautious breadth.

“Temper, temper.” He wiggled the cigar at her. 

Her hardly restrained rancor that had been doubling every other moment since she walked in the door, launched her forward. She stood above him as he balanced in his chair.

“I’ll have you know I absolutely read the Treatise of Biscay, cover to cover. To suggest otherwise is to not know me at all!” The cigar smoke swirled in her face as he puffed through her tirade, his eyes practically sparkling. She fanned it away aggressively, her handing flying closer to his nose than was strictly necessary. “Aren’t I the same girl who beat you at every test we ever took? If I am not thorough, I’m not anything!”

“Granger-”

The smoke was making her tear up, and she was not going to allow him even a moment in which he thought he had that effect on her. She plucked the cigar from his mouth and threw it in the fire behind her, his eyes widening in surprise.

“I found three different translations and read them all meticulously in the event that I missed a single line of nuance which might shift my understanding in any way!” She stood over him, blinking wildly and spitting mad. Literally, she accidentally spat on him with the ’t’ of shift. He glowered, wiping it away from where it fell on his cashmere-covered chest as if it might eat through the horrifically expensive fabric and render him deformed or dead.

If only!

“What are you-”

“I stand by my critique and I should like to mention the meaningful change that occurred directly because of my column, you imbecilic prick-”

“Granger, take a fucking breath,” Draco held up his hand, shaking his dwindling whiskey at her. “Have a drink, I beg of you. Your signature screeching has reached a pitch I fear only canine-leaning individuals can hear. See there? The mangled face ginger man has heard your desperate bleating and is concerned a woodland creature is in peril somewhere amongst this beautiful garden scene before us...”

She followed Malfoy’s gaze, through the glass doors, where it landed squarely on Bill Weasley. Bill leaned against the railing that led upstairs, chatting with Arthur on the sofa. He mouthed, “Are you okay?” as he glanced from her to Draco.

She nodded, ignoring Malfoy’s jeers. “You are unbelievably foul, Malfoy.”

“Sure I am,” he sighed. “Anyway. What are you prattling on about? I can’t for the life of me understand why you’re here, talking to me about Biscay? Are you going on holiday? Do you really have the time, Granger? Shouldn’t you be setting traps for Potter and Weasley to fall into so they can kiss and make-up?”

She thought she might blackout. 

Could rage do such a thing?

It was as if he held the switchboard to her emotions and was slamming a closed fist against every single button. Ire roiled anew. 

This inbred loser thought he knew what was going on with her and her friends? As if he could understand human emotions at all? As if he understood what a relationship spanning years, required?

He was over his head, with this.

“I should think no one would notice if you dug a large hole, just there-” he pointed out into the garden, “honestly it might improve the look of things. Picture it, you lure them both out there, tell the Weasel you’ve got some sweets and tell Potter… I don’t know. You’ve found another Horcrux? That Voldemort himself has returned as an earthworm?”

“Shut up.”

“Anyway, you get them to run out here, nick their wands, and there you go. They’ll fuck or fight or something, but whatever it will be, I’m sure you’ll love it.” He took a sip. “I’m sure you’ll watch, with bated breath-”

She leaned closer to him, her nose an inch from his as she gripped the arms of his chair and forced all the feet back onto the ground. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, you insolent arse.”

He stared at her cooly. “Do I?”

“I’m talking about your nasty little note in response to my column.” She straightened, folding her arms in front of her as to stave off the chill. It wasn’t working.

“Mmmm,” he nodded. “Which one moves you so?”

“The first one! About the Merpeople!”

He ticked up an eyebrow, taking a showy sip. “Sorry. Doesn’t ring any bells.”

“How can it not ring any- I’ll ring your neck!” She ripped the drink from his hand and threw out into the grass. 

Part of her knew this tantrum was… inadvisable. 

But something about the drunk twat really set her off. Who did he think he was, passing judgements on her? What could a worthless, insignificant, unlikeable man possibly have to say about her?

He bumped into her as he lunged after it, but it was no use, it was already watering the lawn amongst the glass shards. She held her wand aloft, repairing the glass as it flew back to her hand.

She grabbed at him and slapped the refurbished tumbler roughly into his palm. “Perhaps if you weren’t trying to pickle your brain in grain liquor-”

“Granger that was 80-year-old Scotch from the Highlands,” he bit out, yanking his hand from her grip. He looked down at it, sneering as if she’d made a mess of him. “Referring to it as grain liquor would be akin to describing you as a female human. It is technically correct, but it somehow leaves out many a detail whilst also being grossly misleading.”

“You are so incredibly stup-”

“Which part do you take umbrage with? Female? Human? Please, oh brilliant one, show me my error…”

“I take umbrage with you in your entirety, but that’s nothing new,” she seethed. “What sort of piteous life do you lead that harassing me via post is an activity you go out of your way to take part in, here at the age of 22? Grow up, Peter Pan!”

“Who is Peter Pan?”

She ignored him. “Didn’t your father die? Haven’t you duties? I never assumed the Malfoys were ones to be gainfully employed but I at least imagined there was something you actually did. Don’t tell me- you’re just some worthless ponce haunting the lives of others while you skirt around having one your own?”

His eyes narrowed, but she kept on with a laugh. 

“Don’t you find it a little pathetic that out of all the things you, a rich young man who is newly freed, could do, you’ve decided to spend hours upon hours reading, then disseminating, then responding, to me? I’m like your very own English course at Uni!”

Malfoy shifted on his feet, staring her down, when something dawned on her.

“Are you obsessed with me, Malfoy?”

“Oh!” He scoffed, which turned into a generous, pointed laugh. “I take umbrage with that characterization. Heresy!”

“Heresy?” Theo repeated from behind her as he ambled over, two drinks in hand. “I leave for five minutes and suddenly the fun starts.”

“Excuse me, Theo,” Hermione said, her look shriveling any jubilation he carried in less than a second. “I would like to continue having a private word with this thing you call a friend.”

Theo backed away, holding two martinis in the air and taking a sip from each. “You got it, your Highness.”

Hermione didn’t wait for him to disappear entirely before turning back to the Ferret. “Malfoy, I must know, have you reached such dismal lows that I am the center of your universe? How sad for you. And honestly, it’s a bit surprising…”

Theo huffed an incredulous laugh as the patio door shut behind him and left them alone once again.

“If someone like you was the center of my universe, I’d kill myself, Granger,” Malfoy said matter-of-factly.

“If only.”

“And since I am very much in the flesh-” he reached out to pinch her cheek, slapping it lightly as if she were a precocious little girl who’d said too much, “-I think it’s safe to assume you are, as always, far from my mind.”

He pushed past her to go inside after she shoved away his lingering hand.

“Hundreds of letters, dozens of packages, then you add in the act of actually reading my column for more than a year…” He stopped at the door, turning back to her with a hand in his pocket, the other holding the empty glass at his side. 

He watched her, waiting for her final blow. 

“Entire days of your life have been consumed by me, Malfoy. By Hermione Granger, the Muggle-born thorn in your side for ten years, now,” she shook her head. “So again, I ask you, are you obsessed with me? I cannot think of another reason…”

“Your enormous hair gives the illusion that your head, too, is oversized… but such a supposition must be crafted by a trick of the light,” he grimaced, reaching out like he was going to ruffle her hair. She ducked and swatted at him. “You’d have to be brainless to believe such a thing.”

“What is it, then? What’s your excuse? Is it part of your parole?”

He looked her over. “I never thought I’d see the day… The Golden Girl, an honest to gods rival to my own feelings of self-importance. Who do you think you are, Granger?”

She was sure he was deflecting, scrambling (though stoically) to distract her from the real reasons why he’d penned a reply to her writing weekly for more than a year.

But the truth of it was, she really didn’t know why he’d take the time?

It made no sense. The only thing less likely than him being obsessed with her, was that he was truly a despicable, rotten person. Perhaps she was brainless, because she couldn’t believe he was, regardless of what he said or did.

Why?

Why did part of her always give Draco Malfoy the benefit of doubt? He’d never done anything to deserve it. Why was she so unwilling to believe that even though he was smart, and even though he had moments of cowardice that worked in her favor, that he was still a sad, contemptible man?

He obviously did not want nor warrant her grace.

“You are more self-involved than anyone deigns to give you credit.” He rocked back on his heels, his gaze trailing slowly up. She suddenly felt uncomfortable and exposed. 

She hated that he was technically handsome. It was obvious enough that she felt alright admitting it. He wore a long black cloak, black trousers and a grey sweater. How obnoxious that if one had enough money, regardless of their posture or face or attitude, they could look posh. 

She looked down at her own skirt. Primark. Five quid. 

And, in this moment where she was feeling slightly vulnerable under attack, she had a feeling it looked it.

“How do you do it, Granger? How do you convince the masses you are a woman of the people, when really, you’re a megalomaniac disguised as the savior? Do you think we can’t see through the ugly jumper, and the skirt made from a discarded bolt of the cheapest fucking fabric known to man? Don’t get too close to the fire, dear, you might melt. You’d be better off wearing a paper bag. Speaking of which, get another for your head. I don’t know what you’re trying for here, other than proving to us all that you are allergic to every comb in existence.”

“You must attack a woman’s looks because… why?” She stepped forward, ignoring the fact that even though she was perfectly secure with how she looked, his words stung. Just the tiniest bit. Hardly enough to even notice, but it was difficult not to flinch when someone was calling you ugly and unkempt. “You’re concerned your argument has no merit?”

“I’m unsure of the argument I’m in, frankly,” he laughed, trailing off and the sound of it made her feel silly. “You accosted me, at this, the birthday of your supposed best friend… but as far as I can tell, you’ve yet to wish him a measly Bonne Anniversaire… did you even bring a gift? Are you a heathen?”

“Of course I brought him a gift,” she spat.

“You ignore your only friend in the whole bloody world and march your skinny arse out here, to what? Wind me up about something so insignificant I can’t even recall having an opinion to disagree with in the first place?”

“You’ve been sending me hate mail, Malfoy!”

He sighed, shaking his head at her.

It was worrisome, how badly she wanted to hit him.

“Instead of looking at me, here, perhaps you’d benefit from turning that scrupulous eye inward.” He stepped toward her, and she automatically stepped back. “Think about the fact that you consider constructive criticism an affront to morality in general. The mere act of me disagreeing with you, you label it as hate… which is so incorrect it’s a bit conceited, don’t you think? People are allowed to believe differently. Don’t take it so personally. You act as if it’s your existence I oppose, rather than your insipid, unoriginal, uninformed opinions.”

He’d said so many offensive things in quick succession she didn’t know which to tackle first. So she went with the one easiest for which to mount a defense. “Out of everything you’ve called me in the past, you could at least concede it is absolutely insane to refer to me, of all people, as anything bordering uninformed!”

“It is what I am most sure of!” He held her gaze, looking at her so cruelly, that when he shook his head it dripped with enough pity to drown her. As if she was a foolish girl arguing out of her depth.

“You’ve centered yourself in this… when the act of you doing so completely outshines the argument. It’s not about you,” he shook his head again. “It’s about the Merpeople. Get a grip.”

He went inside, leaving her standing on an empty patio, her back to the fire. 

How, why, did his argument- his nonsensical, meandering, goading argument… eat at her? What was it that touched a nerve?

It would take her a bit to wade through it all, weighing each accusation and how, exactly, it smarted. She hated herself for being bothered at all, she was so much better at letting his ugliness glance off her when she was in school. Back then, it was easier to ignore. She had a purpose, she had goals.

Now… well.

She looked inside, her gaze skittering over the crowd. Bill was now in the kitchen with Fleur and Pansy while Molly was sitting with little Victoire, and Ron was wandering from group to group with snacks for the taking. 

George still sat with Arthur and Lee on the sofa, and Draco stood in the corner of the room with Theo and Blaise. He glanced her way, holding in a laugh as he looked back to his friends.

She felt her cheeks grow hot. They were talking about her.

They had come into her life and pushed her out. Also, to his point, had she even wished Ron a Happy Birthday? Or had she been bombarded by Malfoy’s presence the moment she walked in?

She was literally on the outside looking in, Harry was nowhere to be found, and the Slytherins were accepting canapés from Ron as she stood alone, in the cold. 

What was this?

She couldn’t shake the dread coming over her. It wasn’t just this, it wasn’t just Malfoy.

Everything was awful. Her social life was dwindling, her job was becoming more frustrating by the day as her boss (the damn Minister) buckled beneath the weight of holding public office, while the public was constantly breaking into random acts of violence. She tried to keep busy and tried to think positively, but it wore on her, and she was getting tired of picking herself up just so someone else could push her down.

She was having a particularly hard time fortifying herself to go inside, to a place where she wasn’t wanted. She knew, in actuality, she was- by most the people inside. She was just being a defeatist of the grandest design at present. 

She wanted to celebrate with Ron. 

She said it to herself over, and over again as she slid open the patio door, but it was no use. The moment she stepped in, the warmth of the room pressed down upon her, and she was sure he’d have a better time if she wasn’t here at all.

She smiled at Arthur and pat his shoulder a few times as she passed by. “Good to see you, dear,” he said, turning back to his conversation with George and Lee.

Ron was back in the kitchen, loading his tray with pigs-in-a-blanket. “Hey. Still got to give you a tour, don’t let me forget. What do you think so far?”

“It’s absolutely lovely, Ron, you’ll have a gorgeous life, here.” 

He stopped what he was doing, looking at her before smiling. “Thank you, Hermione.”

“I’m actually, I’m not feeling so well,” she buttoned her coat as she spoke, “I’m so sorry but I think I’m going to sneak out. I’ve left your present by the cake, just there. Happy Birthday.”

He took a step back. “What kind of sick are you?”

Ugh, he was a fucking moron. She had half a mind to tell him dragon pox and cough all over the food. “Just, women troubles.”

His eyes widened as he nodded, knowingly.

“Happy Birthday,” she said again as she gave him a side hug. She slipped from the kitchen and headed for the hall as stealthily as she could manage. She heard Ron talking to Pansy behind her, then the click of high heeled shoes against the tile tapping quickly as she caught up.

“Are you alright, Hermione?” Pansy asked, her voice low. “I’m sorry, I’m a terrible hostess, I haven’t said a word to you!”

“I’m fine, it’s not a problem, I’m just… not feeling well,” she assured her, giving her a half-arsed hug.

“Draco said something to upset you, hasn’t he?” She asked. “I’m sorry. I saw you two out there, and I could tell by his face that he was being a complete bitch… oh, he’s such a fucking prat-”

“It’s really alright, Pansy,” Hermione set her hand upon the doorknob, twisting as she spoke. The candles from the sconces in the hall glowed warmly, reflecting off the door’s glass. “Honestly, I’m just not feeling well.”

Pansy did not believe her, that much was easy to see. But she nodded anyway, holding open the door and waving her off. “I’ll owl tomorrow and see how you’re feeling.”

“I’m sure I’ll be just fine, thank you so much for having me over,” she smiled, trying her best to hide the pit of dread she was circling. She noticed the welcome mat beneath her feet. Brand new. 

It really was a lovely home.

As she made it to the gate, Harry, Albus and Ginny cracked into view. “Hermione!” Harry breathed a sigh of relief. “Just getting here?”

“Just leaving, actually,” she said, kissing Ginny on the cheek, and hugging Albus and Harry in tandem.

“Just leaving?” Harry jostled baby Albus to free his arm with the watch. “It’s not even a quarter to 3!”

“Harry, I need to get this inside, it’s making a strange sound…” Ginny said, holding a box wrapped in blue polka dots at arm’s length to accommodate her growing bump. She called over her shoulder. “Hello, and goodbye, Hermione!”

“Go on, I’ll be right in,” Harry said, turning back. “How can you be just leaving?”

“I’m not feeling well,” she said with gritted teeth. 

“Well who’s in there? If you’re not around I’m not so sure I want to go in…”

“Then don’t!” She shouted, startling the baby in Harry’s arms, which she felt a bit bad for but… children were resilient. Adult women, seemingly, were not. “Sorry, I just, I’m not feeling good. And I’m afraid it’s putting me in a nasty mood. I need to leave before I get into a row with anyone else.”

“Who’ve you got into a row with?” Harry’s eyes went wide. “I thought you and Pansy had a chat-”

“Not Pansy. No one!” She pushed past him, feeling like she might cry. “Go in there. It’s your best friend’s birthday. You don’t need me as a bloody buffer!”

She Disillusioned herself and Disapparated before he could respond, across the street from her flat, in an alley where she’d never seen another soul. The Disillusionment was just a precaution, but she took it seriously.

She walked, nearly invisibly, out of the alley and hurried across Lambeth Road. She briefly thought of stopping at the Portuguese bakery that sat beneath her flat. The idea of eating her weight in custard tarts wasn’t altogether unappealing, but she decided against it as she noticed a man trailing her. 

She passed the patisserie, and slipped in a door to the ground floor stairwell. Holding her wand in her hand, inside the pocket of her coat, she set a Silencio on her steps and ran up to the first floor.

Under perfect circumstances, in which her mind was unencumbered by the idiocy of others and her fingers weren’t stiff with cold, it took her four and a half minutes to undo the wards to get into her flat. She’d cut the time down from seven minutes, when she first added in the extra safeguards and auxiliary spells, through repetition and muscle memory.

She glanced behind her, fairly certain the man following her had been just a man, out walking. One whom she just happened to step in front of whilst he was going along his own path.

Still, every sound that creaked in the hall startled her. The building was old and the sounds from the bakery flowed through the floors constantly, layering on another coat of anxiety. 

Finally through her wards, she stepped into her flat. 

London was terrifically expensive, and she couldn’t afford much more than a place the size of her childhood bedroom. There were two apartments atop Lisboa, the patisserie, each a very small, one bedroom.

The thing she liked about the flat, other than its proximity to baked goods and the neighborhood in general, was the high ceilings. Her bedroom was hardly big enough for a full sized bed. Her bathroom had just a toilet, sink and shower. The kitchen was a stove, fridge and sink with a set of cabinets. But with the ceilings, the enormous picture windows, the beautiful hardwood floors… it all felt kind of grand.

Her job didn’t have her flush with galleons, though she did have some money from her Order of Merlin. She was frugal and hoped it would sit untouched for a long time, and perhaps grow with the measly compounded interest regimen offered to her by Gringotts. She felt good, having it there, just in case.

She refused to dip into it, at all. Even if it meant stretching a tin of beans across lunch and dinner.

Her luck in real estate, in scoring this flat, was purely political. The whole floor belonged to one of Minister Shacklebolt’s eldest friends, a woman called Ms. Ruiz who was typically living in one of her other homes in Italy or Spain. When Hermione mentioned she was moving, again, after her and Ron parted, the Minister said he knew just the place. 

She had only seen Ms. Ruiz once, next door, but had been able to glimpse inside her flat as she whipped her cloak behind her and shoved the door shut. From where Hermione stood, it seemed that Ms. Ruiz was handy with the illegal extension charms.

She vowed to look into some, herself.

Before removing her coat, she turned to her door, whipping her wand furiously as the air vibrated, as her arm ached, as she muttered enchantment, after enchantment. 

The entire flat thrummed, the sound popping her ears, before it went silent.

And she was alone.

Safe, and alone.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

roly-poly little bat-faced girl

-

April brought several things, some unwelcome and some which just figured. 

There were innumerable Draco Malfoy features in Witch Weekly, The Daily Prophet and Pureblood Parade (the latter being nothing more than loose pamphlets fluttering about busy sidewalks, but Draco did happen to be mentioned more often than not). 

England had more than its fair share of rain. 

Draco developed a new Tuesday afternoon regimen; six hours, every week of Occlusion, Legilimency, and various other feats of mind-maneuvering. 

He was then required to design a new Wednesday regimen, which amounted to not waking until 2pm due to the aforementioned maneuvering. 

Also, it was Blaise Zabini’s 23^rd birthday. 

His one wish, according to Theo, was to have a party. Draco trusted Theo with his life, but at the same time, didn’t trust the man as far as he could throw him… which was further every day (thank you very much) as he’d also added a new afternoon routine, which was daily calisthenics, weight lifting and general fitness. 

Oh, and he was trying to drink more water. Not less whiskey… just, more water.

He had a keen desire to keep busy, presently.

A packed schedule kept many a thing at bay.

And while Blaise’s “one, true wish” of having a “big, drunken, clothing optional” party did not seem rooted in truth, Draco was of course, set to attend. 

He opted to arrive fully dressed (“You always ruin everyone’s fun!” -Theo), and sat amongst Theo, Pansy and her ginger, the Potters, various Ministry workers, and a handful of people Draco didn’t recognize nor cared to think more on, as they waited for the birthday boy to arrive.

Having not read the invitation - the bloody thing was gilded and flew away like a butterfly before Draco could grab his glasses - Draco was shell-shocked when everyone on the ground floor of the Jabberknoll yelled, “SURPRISE!” at Blaise the moment he stepped in the door. 

Blaise, too, looked thoroughly dazed, likely because of the green and silver confetti pelting him from every conceivable angle as he strolled across the room.

However, the surprise (regardless of how innocuous it was meant to be) startled Draco to the point that he went directly to the toilet, locked the door and stood in the dark for 11 minutes before returning to the party, rattled-yet-present. As he looked around the room, he knew he wouldn’t last long.

The Jabberknoll, a somewhat trendy bar that happened to have a decent food menu, opened for business about six months after Draco went to Azkaban. It was three stories tall, the top two were open lofts, with a circular set of shelves in the center that stretched to the ceiling, holding any liquor known to man, in the round. As Draco was a particularly well-liked customer of the Jabberknoll, he retained certain privileges on the property. The one he took advantage of with the greatest frequency was his granted access to the balcony that hung from the third story, overlooking the rest of Hogsmeade but magically hidden from view of passersby. 

He came by weekly, at least, and sat by himself. He sipped on Scotch, he read his book(s), and he watched as the world below, one he used to belong to, lived on- unable to see him.

This way, it was almost like he was a part of things.

Nearly four months had gone by since his house arrest ended and he wasn’t any better in a crowd. He could navigate a sidewalk, he could pop into a shop for a bite to eat- he could do whatever he pleased… so long as he was no more than crowd adjacent. Once he was actually amongst the huddled masses, the panic set in.

He thought this an interesting thing his body and mind decided to agree upon: developing a fear for something he wasn’t tortured with. The dark? Confined spaces? Sure. He would be understanding of such reticence. But people?

Like he needed to be more of a pariah.

Shortly after clapping Blaise on the back and buying a round (he figured he was to buy all the rounds), Draco made his way to the third floor, and out to the balcony.

It was becoming clear that somehow house arrest had been more palatable than freedom. Perhaps it was the unknown? He had looked forward to one day stepping off the Manor property, he dreamed of what he’d see and do.

Now, he did very little. He couldn’t fathom doing more.

What was the point?

How could things (his entire life being stuffed within such a word) be so incredibly unfulfilling? 

How could he be so desperately bored?

He finished his drink, setting it down on a very particular table, just to the side of the railing. It refilled, and he finished it again. And again.

Unsure of how long he’d been on the balcony, but aware time had passed (the sun was just atop the horizon, now), Draco’s head whipped around as a door opened, and someone stepped tentatively out.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Granger breathed, turning immediately to return inside as soon as she took a look around the space and saw him there.

But the door had disappeared, leaving her stranded.

With him.

She pulled out her wand, tapping and flicking without sense. Her curls frizzed out along her hairline, her grey cardigan pulled tightly around her as she attempted to abandon the balcony and its sole inhabitant.

“How did you get out here?” He asked.

“What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t.” He stood straight from the railing and walked toward her. He hadn’t the energy for a row with Granger, today. And to think, it was one of the only things that brought him joy.

What was wrong with him?

“I just thought I was the only one allowed out here,” he leaned against the side of the building beyond her.

“And why would that be? You’re so bloody special they’ve erected an entire balcony to keep you entertained?”

“Something like that.”

She made a sound of disgust, eventually giving up on the hidden door.

If she’d just ask him, he’d tell her how to get out. But she was Granger. She could be on fire and still convince everyone around she needn’t benefit from an Aguamenti.

He actually felt bad about their last interaction. Sort of.

She accosted him and he bit right back, which wasn’t necessarily the part he had regrets about. If someone was going to have a go at him, he’d defend himself to the best o his ability- it was a personal trait impossible to curb. But something he’d said must’ve hit the mark, as she left the party just after. He’d thrown so much at her, he couldn’t be sure what stuck.

Granger, of course, deserved to be knocked down a few pegs. Perhaps, even, a tumble from the metaphorical ladder would do her some good. 

But when he watched her shake Weasley and Pansy off as she fled the party, he knew it was his doing. And surprise, surprise… it did not feel good. What the fuck?

“Hoping I’ll jump?” He asked, watching from the wall as she walked to the ledge and peered over.

“Never had I a truer wish.”

“I would…” he sighed. Salazar, he was a mopey little bitch. “But who’s to say it’s any better?”

“Why are you talking to me, have I made any indication that I desire to have a conversation with you?” She asked, prattling right on instead of pausing for a response. “And who the hell are you, the Prince of Denmark?”

“Who’s that?”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Granger shouted to the people below, unaware they couldn’t hear or see her. Or perhaps uncaring of such a detail. “Appearing now, on the balcony, for one night only… the whiniest arsehole of the middle ages!”

“Granger, have you been drinking?” Draco asked, thereby making himself a very black pot sizing up a kettle of a similar shade.

She seemed more aggressive than usual, which was saying something. He was surprised at how much she still hated him. It had been years. He’d gone to prison.

And then there were the letters, which she’d obviously seen, what with the Merpeople tirade last month at the Weasel King’s little party.

“It’s Romeo and Juliet, though, with the balcony…” she said to herself, turning around to lean her back against the top of the railing. The main drag of Hogsmeade served as her (ignorant) backdrop as she clapped exaggeratedly, a hand slapping sloppily against her forearm to accommodate the gin and tonic clutched in the other. Her cheeks were flushed, her cardigan hanging open to reveal a (rather small) charcoal dress. “Anyway. Hamlet!”

He took a sip of his Scotch, keeping an eye on her as he brought it to his lips.

“Your self-loathing and misery mean nothing to me, Malfoy. You are, as ever, the world’s most tragically, pathetic coward,” she spat, flexing her fingers, watching them wiggle as she held them out to him. He was several feet from her, unwilling to push himself off the wall, while she seemed to require the stability of the wrought iron at her back. “This very hand longs for the righteous sting it felt as I whipped it across your pointy, sneering face, so long ago.”

He blinked. “Didn’t know you were into such things, Granger. Pain, pleasure. A fine line.”

“You are pathetic.”

He hummed, nodding as he gave the Scotch in his glass a rough turn, the ice clinking against the sides. “You’re always so generous in your opinions of me.”

“My opinion of you long ago waned into nothingness. You were a fucking fool, which perhaps meant something at some point but now, you’ve just carried on into this.”

“This?”

“Yes. You,” she waved her hand from his feet to his face. “You’ve become this thing. Where once I felt sorry for you because you had potential and a poor circumstance… now I see what you’ve done with yourself and what I feel is so beyond pity that it’s near hate, I think. What a terrific waste of space you’ve become. A waste of galleons. A waste of a soul.”

He hadn’t a quick retort. He had nothing to say to that, nothing to levy against her- because he was too aware of how close to the truth she’d come.

It was all a waste. 

He felt it so deeply.

“And you don’t even seem to be enjoying yourself!” She laughed heartily, holding her drink against her pink cheek. “Which, honestly… that’s s amazing.”

“You don’t say?” He quirked up an eyebrow as he stepped toward her. Stepped right into her space. He wanted to make her squirm, he didn’t want to be the only one forced into an uncomfortable position, here.

She studied him, a haze of rage coming across her face.

“Yes, you hateful prick,” she seethed, pushing off the rail and taking a step forward, closing the gap. “I find it humorous that you- you who harassed and threatened and loathed me for daring to exist in your periphery… are unhappy in your meandering, endless existence. Serves you right, you bigoted idiot. I hope you never find peace. May your life only grow in its uselessness, may your family’s dubious legacy finally end with you.”

He could toast to that, at least.

He tapped his drink against hers and took a sip and she recoiled at the gesture, holding the drink to her chest. 

“Written on your gravestone will be, ‘He was superfluous to anything and anyone; now he is no more dead than when he was alive’,” she continued, her words crisp despite the drink. He felt a flush crawl upon his cheeks, shame filling his stomach- which of course, set the stage for anger to charge in and take care of it all. He never sat with embarrassment or regret long. Rage was easier to manipulate, and it was quite a cover for all the other emotions he was unwilling to feel. 

He would rather be perpetually angry at the entire world than vulnerable to the words or actions of another.

“The only mourners will be the Goblins who pace your vaults,” she said. “The perfect end to an entirely lamentable life.” 

He stood taller, looking down at her.

She smacked her glass into his, returning his toast with double the malice, causing liquor to slosh onto his hand as she held her drink in his face. “To an ironically worthless life. Too bad your money can’t buy you any sense. Or purpose. Or meaning.”

She look a long drink, licking the wetness from her top lip as her hand fell clumsily to her side, still clutching the glass, a lime wedge falling to the ground with a soft thunk.

“You’re particularly riled, repetitive and redundant, today, Granger.” He tore his eyes from hers to the street beyond.

“When have you ever seen me in your presence when I’m not riled?”

“Touché,” he said. “It’s interesting, though. This isn’t the first time you’ve mentioned the fact that I’ve not lived up to my potential… and I can’t help but wonder if you’ve been waiting for such a thing? And to that… I ask why?”

“I couldn’t care less what levels of life you do, or do not, ascend to. You are nothing to me,” she said. “I am merely an observant person who especially loathes waste. It’s all I see when I look at you. What an enormous waste. You disgust me.”

He clenched his fist so tightly he could feel his nails pushing sharply into the heel of his hand. 

He needed to calm down. 

She was trying to get a rise out of him, just like he’d done to her. But he didn’t like being on this end of things. It wasn’t nearly as fun.

“Go ahead, let it all out,” he said darkly. “The Golden girl… ”

He didn’t miss the narrowing of her eyes at the word. “It didn’t work, did it? I knew it wouldn’t.”

“What?”

“After all is said and done, you’re still him. You’re still the Malfoy I slapped in the face.” She shook her head. “I thought Azkaban would either kill you or turn you into Lord Voldemort, the second coming… but you’re obviously not that. You veer too far toward bitter and pathetic to start a cult of any reasonable worry.” 

She huffed a bitchy little laugh, taking a sip of her drink, her wand held tightly in her hand. He didn’t know when she’d grabbed it, but it was interesting that she also foresaw this conversation ending poorly.

He stepped forward, his body pressing her against the railing. She leaned back, knocking her own drink from her hand as she attempted to grab at it, her hips pinned by his own. The glass broke as it hit the sidewalk three stories below, the wet shards glinting in the setting sun. 

“Before I allow you to continue another tirade, of which you are so fond, let me make one thing perfectly clear,” he said, his voice low, his mouth a hair’s breadth from touching the shell of her ear. He could smell the liquor of his own breath, mixing with the scent of vanilla and ripe peach wafting from her.

“I got what was coming to me, Granger.” His voice was a gravel-laden whisper. He noticed the tension in her jaw as she grit her teeth. Her heartbeat fluttered so wildly against the thin skin of her neck he thought he could feel the air pulsing around it. “I have paid the price for my ignorance… for the misguided words I spoke when I was a child. I’ve paid for my cruelty toward you- my cruelty toward anyone I thought was lesser or worthless… I’ve paid for it all. Even things I have a hard time renouncing… I paid for them, too.”

“I doubt that-” she started, but he cut her off.

“You will never understand.” He watched as goosebumps spread down her neck, onto her chest. He thought suddenly, and very mechanically, of their position. He didn’t know the last time someone was pressed against him, their bodies aligned. He couldn’t remember feeling someone’s warmth transfer to him from anything other than a quick side hug, or a kiss on the cheek. “I would not wish upon you what has been done to me. I have been thoroughly punished, in ways you can’t imagine. In ways that would fill you with shame for ever wishing me a whisper of this particular harm.”

He leaned back, slightly. All that could be heard was their tandem breathing, their eyes locked. 

“This, is reform. I have seen the light,” he said harshly, leaning closer again. “I’ve lost more than you could ever dream of having, Mudbl-”

His breath escaped him as she thrust her wand into his chest, the sound of cracking wood sending a chill through his limbs. With her other hand, she clobbered him across the face, splitting his lip with a ring on her middle finger, his molars cutting into the inside of his cheek.

He held up his hands, laughing mockingly at her show of force as he backed away. He touched his fingers to his bottom lip, near the corner, where he felt the tear in his flesh. They came away covered in a slip of crimson. He felt the iron-rich, salty liquid pool before he spit it to the side, spraying blood along the patio and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You’re just a fucking loser, aren’t you?” She said quietly, her voice less sure than he thought it ought to be, as she looked at her hand, at him, and the splatter to their side. “That’s all you are.”

“Mmm.” He licked at the wound, lazily flicking out his tongue without looking away from her wide eyes. “I’ve taken up enough of your time, tonight.”

She held her wand against her chest with both hands, a hairline fracture splitting the vines. She’d have to take it into Ollivander’s to mend it. 

If they would.

“Evening, Granger,” he said, spelling away the blood with his wand before wisps of grey smoke spun around him and he silently winked out of view.

He landed in the drawing room, the one he refused to use.

The one where she’d been.

Where it all happened.

Fury he never allowed himself to lean into, came over him as he walked the room.

Something within him snapped.

He ripped portraits from the walls. He tore down curtains. The plaster, where the poles were anchored, held tight for a moment before crumbling, the poles clattering against the floor. He shoved every piece of furniture into the center, directly over where the chandelier had fallen. 

Blaise sold it for parts long ago. Draco let him keep every last sickle. All that was left were the marks on the floor where it crashed down.

He could feel something clawing at his chest, begging to get out. He had to expel it, somehow, but he didn’t know that he could. It wasn’t real, there was nothing there. Just feelings of decay, rotting the edges of his soul, seeping into him.

How did he get it out?

How could anyone live with so much rage, bubbling inside them, threatening to boil over?

Draco continued to pile up portraits, busts, and tapestries, he threw on candelabras and pulled a piano into the center. Why, oh why, did they have so many bloody pianos?

Soon, the room was bare, save for a giant pile of everything it had ever worn, sitting together in front of him.

He grabbed a portrait from the pile, of a Malfoy unknown, and slammed it down atop an antique humidor. He slammed it again, and again, and again until pieces of wood flew in every direction, until the canvas was shredded.

He made quick work of every chair, hitting and smashing and cracking them in two by pounding his feet into them, snapping their legs, hitting them against the floor, throwing them across the expanse.

He pummeled the settee, until his fists punched through the upholstery, impeded by the frame beneath. He hit it as if dominating it, as if annihilating this stupid fucking piece of furniture would finally end his plight and free him of whatever tethered him to this. 

He swung his arms at it frantically, until the skin split, until his knuckles cracked.

He threw things and kicked and punched- but it would never be enough.

None of it fought back.

He screamed, hurling another chair into the pile. He summoned all the glasses from the kitchen, for wine and champagne and whiskey alike, and one by one, whipped them into the pile, forcing himself to keep from flinching as they exploded against the detritus, stepping closer so the ricocheting shrapnel might choose him as the target.

He summoned salt from the kitchens, whiskey from his study. He brought the bottle to his lips, hardly able to grip it, as he walked a circle around the haphazard heap of heirlooms and settees, pouring the salt on the floor as a barrier. 

“Incendio,” he coaxed out, his throat raw. He took a step back as he watched the flames devour every last bit. Within 15 minutes, everything was charred. 

By minute 46, it was a pile of ash, still smoldering on the floor.

He stood rooted beside it, breathing in the smoke.

-

“I know not what we are doing here, but I am excited at the prospect of shaking up our routine…” Theo said as he stepped out of the Floo behind Draco. 

They dusted themselves off in the Ministry’s atrium, Theo adjusting his navy tie that matched his suspenders (he was going for “jaunty”) while Draco rummaged in the pocket of his grey trousers.

He was not going for jaunty… but his (white) sleeves were rolled to the elbows, due to a spell of warm spring weather, and his trousers were of course well-tailored. The Mark’s remnants were on full display, but he didn’t imagine there was a person he could come across who wouldn’t know exactly who he was.

The reasons for Draco’s sudden interest in bringing a bit of fuckery to the Ministry were not exactly crystalline in his own mind, but it didn’t take a genius to figure it had everything to do with Granger and the fourteen ways in which she called him useless.

He hadn’t told Theo of their encounter on the Jabberknoll balcony.

He wasn’t sure why.

“It’s unclear to me, as well…” he lied, taking a swig of the flask he’d fished out of his pocket, holding it out to Theo, who declined with the wave of a hand. “I just feel the need to do something, and meddling in Ministry affairs comes as natural to me as…”

“Your blonde hair?”

Draco glared at him, walking toward the lifts. “I’ve told you 100 times, Theodore, I do not spell my hair blonder.”

“So you’ve sworn,” he said unconvinced, entering the lift behind him, “where are we going?” 

Letters whizzed into the lift over their heads before Draco could close the gate, where they fluttered above obnoxiously. He feared one might nick his hair, which he’d finally gotten just so.

His hair was becoming a preoccupation that was somewhat welcome (it took time away from dwelling upon the other thing that often plagued him: death) but a little problematic, too. He was photographed nearly every time he left the Manor. He’d seen himself splashed around periodicals hundreds of times since his release, all in a most flattering light (literally and figuratively)… but still. It was hard to keep up. 

Perhaps he would be better served to delve into the reason why he felt so beholden to the idea of being photographed and famous (which was a step above infamous, wasn’t it?), but who had the time? Witch Weekly had reached out just days ago, inquiring about his interest in being the star of an 11-page spread detailing his fashion choices.

He couldn’t believe it.

From 5^th year on, the Malfoy name was more a burden than anything else. Draco and his family were despised by nearly everyone.

Now, they complimented his style. They talked about his hair as if it was a sentient being unto itself. They wanted to know what he was doing and who he was doing it with; there was even chatter about when he’d take a wife.

It was alarming.

A little addicting, too.

“I figured we’d loiter around the Wizengamot, maybe speak to the Minister about retaking our seats,” Draco adjusted the collar of his shirt as they grabbed onto the leather straps dangling from the ceiling, the lift car careening backward, sending one of the missives straight into Draco’s hair. He knew it.

“I like it,” Theo said, widening his stance for balance and uncaring of the aerial assault upon Draco.

“This gods damned, what is this, fucking thing,” Draco swatted at the flying letter as it  actively dive-bombed him. He made contact, the force crumpling it and sending it straight to the floor. Stooping to grab it, he read the front. 

H. Granger, urgent.

“Urgent, in big red letters,” Theo hummed, looking at the note in Draco’s hand. “Must be most important.”

“Must be,” he agreed, as he set it aflame. An orange ribbon of fire crawled along the letter’s edges, dissolving into flakes of grey ash that fluttered slowly to the ground. He got rid of the evidence with a flick of his wand. “Perhaps we’ll take Blaise to lunch?”

“Perfection,” Theo eyed him, a smile barely turning up the side of his mouth as the lift slammed to a stop.

They found themselves in another atrium, this time of the Wizengamot chambers and the entrance to the DMLE. 

While the main atrium was all black marble and gold, this one was shades of taupe, ivory and bronze. Though underground, it had a domed glass ceiling that peered upon blue, cloudless skies. A fountain in the center bubbled, the edge of it wide enough to have a seat. On one side, the hall to the DMLE, and opposite was the Wizengamot. A dozen or so witches and wizards milled about, some in a hurry and some seemingly hit with the Sloth Step Hex.

“Draco Malfoy,” a voice called from their left. 

Ice spread from the center of Draco’s back, out to his fingertips, as Augustus Rookwood, ex-Unspeakable and lap dog to the Dark Lord, strode toward them. 

Holding forth an outstretched hand. 

“How wonderful it is to see you, finally up and around.”

“Right,” Draco said, frozen to the spot. Theo stepped in front of him, shaking Rookwood’s hand animatedly.

“Rooky, ol’ boy, seems like just yesterday you were over, having a brandy in the parlor, plotting the overthrow of the Ministry with father.”

Rookwood smiled, his eyes alight with what Draco assumed to be something nefarious. “Theo. I imagine you’ll soon see some things never change.”

“I sincerely hope you’re referring to a coup, rather than a resurrection,” Theo smiled. 

Rookwood’s hair had gone completely to shades of grey, which warred with the youthful glint in his golden brown eyes, rimmed with a deep aquamarine. He was well dressed, with a nicely shaped mustache and goatee. He had an air of confidence and charm, even when he was a lackey.

It was more pronounced, now.

A dangerous combination for upwardly mobile men like himself.

Draco felt people were too trusting of those who happened to be handsome. He should know.

“How are you, Rookwood?” Draco asked, hoping it wasn’t noticeable he wouldn’t leave Theo’s side, nor shake his hand.

“If I was any better, I’d be you,” Rookwood laughed, the levity not reaching his eyes.“I’ve actually been hoping to speak with you both, so it’s serendipitous you should arrive here, just now.”

With a well-documented history of servitude and an assumption of what kind of government secrets he must’ve dealt with during his time as an Unspeakable… Rookwood was a chameleon. He was also one of the many Azkaban residents who took advantage of an early parole post-Lucius’s death.

He didn’t deserve it. None of them did.

But the tides were changing whether Draco was comfortable with it, or not.

Being an avid reader of the Prophet (not just Granger’s column…), Draco had followed the ebbs and flows of the parties in power for more than a year, now. Shacklebolt was rapidly becoming more of a scourge than anything else. The Purebloods in the Wizengamot viewed him as too weak, whilst the other side viewed him as a Pureblood apologist. 

He couldn’t win, and certain people with influence exploited that to their advantage.

A handful of knee-jerk initiatives passed in the months following the Dark Lord’s fall, all pandering to Muggleborns and Half-bloods, were overturned in the most recent session, last month. It was a blow to anyone hoping for more equity in their government.

The initiatives ranged from free classes for Muggleborns and their families upon Hogwarts enrollment (the classes weren’t abolished, now they carried a $400 galleon price tag, which was outrageous), to anti-discrimination laws.

One of the newly repealed laws had stated that anyone who could produce magic was able to patronize stores in Wizarding Britain- they could not be refused service or offered pricing that differed depending on pedigree. 

This was particularly important, post war. After many of the businesses were run out of the country or into the ground, those with money (three guesses as to whom) scooped them all up. With the initiative in place, they were forced to serve anyone who walked in their doors.

Now… well.

There were rumors, of course. Even Draco had heard them and he’d been out of the house only months.

But it was not unlikely that a Muggleborn might find their drinks with a flagrant mark-up at certain establishments. They might find their wand with a weak core. The book they need might be out of stock, or their new broom may be fashioned with a tail that leaned left- that shuddered at altitude.

Little inconveniences that reaffirmed their (low standing) place in the world, really. Insignificant things that were easy enough to write-off as paranoia. 

But Draco knew a bit about such manipulations- and all this was going on before the law banning such activities was repealed.

The more a person felt unsettled, the more erratic they became. And when someone was living life perpetually on edge, they only needed a bit of a push…

He was sure that’s what was happening. Small things to exert dominance whilst the administration in power was still firmly standing on the other side of things, a blind eye to the world at large.

At first it confused Draco. After all that? After Potter gave his fucking life for the cause - he found the man most odious but even he could admit it was a selfless, brave, stupid move - Shacklebolt was unable to build a regime that could withstand the resistance for longer than a year?

And it was Draco to blame, again.

If he hadn’t fallen apart, his mother wouldn’t have played fast and loose with sleeping potions, his father wouldn’t have killed himself with an Auror’s stolen wand, the Azkaban sentences wouldn’t have been overturned…

“Draco?” Theo’s voice interrupted what was sure to be a line of thought that would require him seeking out some cupboard to have an episode.

Or perhaps the bottom of the fountain.

“Sorry,” he blinked, looking from Theo to Rookwood. “What was that?”

“I was hoping to have a chat with the two of you,” Rookwood said, leaning in a little too close, his breath hitting Draco in a way that made him want to wipe his ear with his shoulder. “Things are changing. We shall bide our time no more…”

Draco looked to Theo. What the fuck did that mean?

“Indeed,” Theo said, and Draco watched his throat contract with a heavy swallow.

“Come to the open session today,” Rookwood took a step back. “See the Wizengamot in action.”

“We were actually hoping for a conversation with the Minister,” Theo said, “looking into getting our seats back. Our birthright.”

Rookwood nodded. “Yes, well. I hope that conversation goes well for you… but in the event it doesn’t, I imagine your patience on the matter is only required for a short time.”

“Terrific,” Theo said, “we shall await your owl, Rookwood?”

Rookwood winked as he took off in the other direction. “It won’t be long.”

“Terrific,” Theo repeated under his breath, pushing Draco along until they were out of the atrium. “I think we are being drafted into the newest genocide plot, milord.”

Draco wanted to laugh at the ‘milord’ but he was too stricken with dread to do anything of the sort. “It was only a matter of time, I suppose.”

“Cut off the head, three grow back in its place…” Theo grumbled, taking a right and yanking Draco along. They went down four different halls, making turns without Draco tracking where they were going.

Before he knew it, there was the bench he sat upon, awaiting his trial nearly five years prior.

“What are we doing here?” Draco asked, not taking his eye from it. 

“He said there was an open session today. I want to get a good seat, see what we’re in for,” Theo explained, continuing past the bench and down the hall until he came to a set of double doors that lead to the auditorium.

Just four people were present, the bottom rows reserved for members of the Wizengamot, the upper tier open for citizens.

They started up the stairs, stopping three rows from the top. Theo walked to the center of the middle section of rows, plopping himself down and stretching his arms across the chair backs on either side. Draco sat beside him, taking it all in.

“What I can’t figure out,” Theo said, his voice low, “is how they’re going to oust him? That’s what Rookwood was clumsily tip-toeing around, right?”

“Right,” he agreed. “He seems to think in this new regime, we’ll get our seats back…”

“Curious,” Theo nodded his head, and then after a moment, “I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I,” he said, pulling a hand down his face. “I’ve no interest in putting on a fucking mask and pledging my soul to some Half-blood twit with an extermination kink. Again.” 

Theo laughed at this, as witches and wizards began filing in, some in their casual Wizengamot robes, charcoal grey with no mortarboards. 

“How have they let it get this far?” Theo wondered aloud.

“Hard to maintain the upper-hand when the other side keeps devolving into random acts of violence,” Draco supposed. “Then that very side spins it as incompetency… fringe groups running amok and without order. Make it seem like those in charge are just idling whilst the world burns… then you swoop in and ‘rescue’ the world from terrorists on your payroll.”

“Honestly a bit tragic if it works,” Theo said. “Society is just a fancy word for ‘a gathering of dunces’, evidently.”

As the seats filled around them, Draco noticed Granger charge in from a side door opposite where everyone else was arriving. He didn’t hear her, he wasn’t even looking that way. It was like he felt it.

She sat in an end seat in the first row that was relegated to non-members. 

She took out a notebook, and a Muggle pen, scribbling something down. What was it, her diary? What could she possibly be writing, it hadn’t even started?

Perhaps she was working on her next column.

He sat back in his seat, resting his legs up and over the still empty seat in front of him. The rows were a bit tight.

He wondered what the column would be about…

After fighting with her again, and this time being the one who was driven off- he felt… well. Restless, wasn’t the word. 

Maybe it was.

Whatever they were doing, this dance, it was unfinished.

Potter and a few others in Auror robes walked in, making their way to where Granger sat, Blaise amongst them. They seemed to know exactly where they were going, and the idea of that made him feel envious somehow. 

He watched as Blaise sat behind Granger, grabbing her by the shoulders in a friendly gesture… one he was sure she’d rebuff.

But she didn’t. She didn’t recoil. She turned in her seat, looking up at Blaise with a genuine smile on her face as they exchanged words. She laughed with him, unguarded.

Draco didn’t like it.

“Oy!” Theo yelled, sticking his middle finger and thumb in his mouth, whistling in a loud, low tone. “Zabini!”

Every single person in the bloody room turned to look at Theo, and by default, Draco. Including Granger, whose formerly happy face melted from her skull, leaving a deadened frown in its wake.

Draco stared at her, refusing to look away. If he looked away… it was like she won.

Even as he could see Blaise in his periphery, making his way toward them, he stared at her.

Someone eventually (about 10 seconds on, though it felt like four days) required her attention, and she broke eye contact.

He smiled to himself, victorious. He reached for his flask, and thought better of it. He could do without for a moment.

“What are you two doing here?” Blaise asked, grinning as he sat on the other side of Theo.

“Well,” Theo started, “we came to take you to lunch, actually, but were harangued by Rookwood in the hall, who then encouraged us to attend this open session. And here we be.”

“Ah,” Blaise said, his tone resigned. “Yeah, sort of why we came down as well. Granger told Potter that they were putting a few things to vote later in the week and this was created as a public forum to feel out sentiment. Likely more rights, dissolved before our very eyes.”

“Yeah?” Draco leaned over Theo, the rows now quite full, the sound of dozens of conversations blanketing the upper tiers in a low hum. He had to remove his legs from the seats before him, his legs forced wide to fit.

“From what Potter said, Granger seemed nervous about the opposition to some of the things on the docket,” Blaise continued, his voice hushed. “Then there are a few things Rookwood’s been bringing to the Minister, and he keeps getting shown the door. We’re all waiting for him to break the damn thing down.”

“How is Rookwood so intrenched here,” Draco asked, “I’ve been trying to figure it for months. He was one of the worst ones, and they’re letting him near policy?”

“It’s fucking wild,” Blaise said. “He’s got so many on his side, I don’t know how he did it. He comes at people with this… ‘I know all the secrets… I’m not a politician, I was just a government worker entrusted-‘”

“He was a fucking spy-” Draco leaned further forward, his voice a strained whisper. “For the Dark Lord! One of his best men!”

“I know,” Blaise shook his head. “It’s fucking mental.”

Draco felt uneasy, for… any number of reasons.

He was reticent to get involved with any political party, no matter type, creed or purpose. It was any wonder why, with how well it worked out last time.

He wanted to be left alone, though still free to cause mischief where he desired (the Wizengamot, and anywhere Granger happened to be) and starring in magazine spreads detailing his obliques and whether or not he was dating an heiress from Luxembourg.

(He wasn’t… yet.)

He closed his eyes, leaning back into his seat. This didn’t concern him. None of this had anything to do with him, and furthermore- there were plenty of qualified people who were likely chomping at the bit to insert themselves into the bowels of political warfare. 

He was not one of them. 

He was Occluding much like he once did (too often, too thoroughly) and as more and more filed into the court’s chambers, he began to shove every grim thought radiating through him into its respective compartment. He packed them into boxes, wedging them onto shelves where they belonged. Then, he locked them away. 

He took a breath and was almost done when the idea of something else tore its jagged edges into his desperate attempt at deescalation.

A simple thought, but unmooring all the same.

It wasn’t so long ago, was it, that he was a boy who wished he’d chosen differently.

A boy who wished to stand up and run in the other direction but instead was forced to watch a snake make a meal of a Professor from his school on the very spot where he’d had Christmas dinner.

A boy who watched torture, who committed torture… who couldn’t deal with his own actions and choices so he pushed them away instead of ripping free from them in defiance. 

If he wasn’t so sure that his fate was sealed, that his deeds were done and he was now living in the brief aftermath before he’d shuffle along to his ultimate end- he might have entertained this particular line of thought longer. 

The one that said, NOW.

Instead he opened his eyes, breathed deeply through his nose… and any such inklings were effectively gone.

For the present.

It was another 15 minutes before Shacklebolt made his way through the same side door from which Granger came, flanked by several people, including the Head Auror, a man named Andrea Piccini, Kelvin Blinko, who oversaw the Unspeakable department, and a young man Draco didn’t actually know but had seen flashes of in the paper.

“Who is that?” He asked, nodding at the man.

“Will,” Theo sighed. 

“Will,” he grimaced. “Who the fuck is Will?”

“Willem Bakker,” Blaise explained. “The Senior Undersecretary.”

“That’s Willem Bakker?” Draco said, more to himself than anyone else. The man couldn’t have been more than 30. He’d seen his name in the papers many a time, but never a picture.

How the fuck was a man barely older than them, the Senior Undersecretary? Such a title held power and influence. Should the Minister be incapacitated, the Senior Undersecretary was tasked to control the ministry until a new election or appointment. It was an integral position between the Wizengamot and the Minister’s office, as well as every other Department head’s access to the Minister.

The Junior Undersecretary worked under the Senior, helping bring bills to the Wizengamot and attending to much of the behind-the-scenes exchanges, as well as handling the Minister’s connection to the public.

Next to the Head of the DMLE and the Chief Warlock, the Senior Undersecretary had a significant amount of power within the Ministry’s structure. 

“He came over from Amsterdam after the Yule Massacre,” Blaise explained. “He was on track to be Minister there, they do things a little differently than us, but, he arrived with a lot of experience dealing with terrorism.”

Willem Bakker was not so blonde as Draco, though seemed just as tall- which Draco did not like, on sight. The man spoke to Piccini for a moment, giving him a tense nod before he went to sit with Granger, the (somewhat) newly appointed Junior Undersecretary.

The Prophet announced it last fall. 

Prior to taking the role, Granger worked in the Magical Creatures department, then in the DMLE with the Auror department, though Draco was unclear as to her duties. That particular section of her unauthorized biography (one of the many books sent over from Flourish and Blotts) was lacking appropriate detail. He assumed - and was sure he was right - that it amounted to essentially babysitting Potter.

Noticing a hush washing over the crowd, Draco’s focus was attuned to the door, where Augustus Rookwood, Elias Travers, and various other men- including the Chief Warlock, Sebastian Selwyn, strolled in. If Rookwood was planning anything, Selwyn was quite the get. 

Selwyn’s older brother, Samuel, was a significant supporter of the Dark Lord, and one of his Death Eaters who died at the Battle of Hogwarts.

Sebastian stayed away from the whole thing, never made his alliances known- though he was a well respected member of the Sacred-28. He was appointed Chief Warlock after the Battle and had helped Shacklebolt push through various legislation to curb Pureblood power. He was well-liked and trusted.

If he had turned, it was not good.

Rookwood, Travers, Selwyn and the men they arrived with sat in the front, directly in the eye line of the podium, where Draco assumed Shacklebolt was to stand and appeal to the masses.

“The tension,” Theo mused, making himself comfortable in his seat, “I’ve a feeling we should’ve brought snacks.”

Draco finally pulled out his flask, handing it over.

Theo groaned. “Oh, fine. If you insist.”

Shacklebolt took the podium, gripping the edges and looking up the stadium-seating, his deep brown eyes glancing right past Draco as he took in the room. 

“Thank you all for your attendance today. I have a few remarks before I turn things over to Senior Undersecretary Bakker, who will detail the bills that will go to the Wizengamot later this week. To remind you all, we are here for you. We’d like to know your thoughts, your concerns, we welcome them.”

The murmuring that had gone silent reappeared at a dull roar, rising up around them.

“The Ministry works for the people. We are here to make our society safe, to allow for and encourage prosperity, and to ensure equal opportunities for all Magical people, as well as equitable treatment toward Magical creatures within our realm,” Shacklebolt said, taking a beat. “We cannot do these things, we cannot function for the people, if the people are not part of the work. We cannot promote equality if our citizens do not want it for themselves. We cannot maintain safety if small factions remain hellbent on chaos and destruction. We must come together, before it is too late.”

“If I may,” Rookwood stood, turning to address the crowd. “Minister- you say all these things we cannot do-”

“Mr. Rookwood,” Shacklebolt sighed. “I did not cede the floor, and it is not yet time for commentary.”

“This is a public forum, is it not?” Rookwood asked, turning again to look into the crowd, a look of exaggerated confusion upon his face.

Get the man a place on stage, he was the most dramatic fucker Draco had ever seen.

“It is.”

“I should think that since you are the Minister, you work for the people, well, shouldn’t you want to hear what they have to say?”

The crowd mumbled its agreement.

“I do, which is why I requested a public forum today. However the commentary we desire has to do with two bills going to vote, and neither of those bills have been announced as of yet.”

“So I am to understand you want our opinions… but only in regard to a bill supporting funneling funds from public safety to obscure insect protection, and another which requires registration of citizens in an effort to quell prejudice?”

Shacklebolt stared at him.

“It just feels like a waste of all our talents and time to dwell upon such asinine quandaries when Magical people are dying, are losing their livelihoods, are suffering… right under your watchful eye.”

The murmurs rose again, more toward frenetic, now.

Shacklebolt was losing the crowd. He looked tired, he seemed… “What’s wrong with him?” Draco asked.

“We’re not sure,” Blaise said. “Granger was saying it’s like he’s given up. Over the past two months, he’s taken 11 sick days, and Will has had to act in his absence. It’s madness.”

“It’s pathetic,” Draco said, watching the man in the pulpit. After all this? After all he’s done, all he helped… Shacklebolt was just lying down?

As he turned to look up the seats of the Wizengamot, Rookwood held out his hands as if to say, “Well?” He stirred the crowd, pleased with himself for hijacking the forum.

He caught Draco’s gaze and held it. Draco wasn’t sure what to do- he didn’t know what this meant. What any of it meant, but he was sure if he looked away, Rookwood won. A show of dominance. With a small nod, Rookwood moved on.

Draco let out the breath he’d been holding, turning to say something to Theo- but someone else’s eyes were on him.

Granger stared at him with hate she seemed unbothered to conceal. It was more than loathing… it was disgust. A dash of fury.

And betrayal, perhaps? 

If so, she was ridiculous. He didn’t even do anything, and they weren’t contemporaries, anyway. They did not align, thus there was no treachery to be found.

At any rate, he had to look away, her eyes were burning into him and didn’t seem like they’d stop.

It wasn’t until he got home, later that night, that he realized...

Granger won.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight

a victim of things I did to maintain

-

Hermione

It wasn’t like she went around trying to mint new enemies; it came to her rather naturally what with her sometimes unwavering opinions, her unwillingness to cow to others’ opinions either for or against said unwavering opinions… and a general air of exasperation which clung to her, interwoven with every breath.

But Draco Malfoy had this coming.

The evil fucking prick had to be trying to get under her skin at this point.

She didn’t even know what she’d done (other than bothered to exist at all) to put herself in his sights- but she’d had enough.

She almost regretted ever testifying for him, a fat lot of good it did, anyway. He was still sent to Azkaban, and then released back unto society like a biological weapon.

It hadn’t been fair, sending him to the same place every other Death Eater was remanded. He was a child. He was trying to protect his family, he was trying to live his life in the way they taught him.

That’s why she’d testified, and she couldn’t really bring herself to regret such a decision, no matter how poorly it turned out.

Still, she watched him, silently urging him to do better.

But he didn’t. He hadn’t.

And he was no longer someone who deserved her sympathy, or empathy, nor did he merit her time (or her thoughts) at all.

Every time he popped up in her periphery, his mere presence pulled from her a ribbon of maliciousness that was so well-woven it had the tensile strength of an Acromantula’s web. Then, he’d open his mouth, and she had to talk herself down from assaulting the man.

He was so… vile.

The funny thing was, she was prepared to apologize to him and bury the hatchet. The first time she saw him, she was caught off guard at Ron’s wedding, and because she was personally offended by the things he was saying (having had several glasses of sparkling wine) - she sunk to his level.

Then, she read the letter he sent. She hadn’t read the rest but was confident in their malignant message, judging by their next fight at Ron’s party. She walked away from it feeling so low she wanted to hide from him forever. She didn’t want to put herself in a position to be verbally assaulted again, she had enough going on without his input and disdain.

Then at Blaise’s birthday, again, she’d had a bit to drink (perhaps she should look into drinking less…), and had just run interference between Ron and Harry. Of course she was taking their estrangement too hard, of course she was inserting herself too much, too frequently. Hermione had never learned the art of letting go, when something started to go south she held on tighter. 

She wasn’t going to let them throw away their friendship and she wasn’t willing to give up what the three of them had. She didn’t care what that made her, or how she looked.

But, it was not going well, and eventually her white-knuckled grip would fail. They both felt abandoned by the other, though they couldn’t seem to put it to words, so she had to do it for them. Where Harry was too afraid of making Ron sad about the life he gave up and thus shut down, Ron felt too guilty for giving up said life and refused to parade about actually enjoying the life he chose.

It was a mess.

She was at her limit.

So when she had to play a game of telephone between the two of them at the bar, she slammed both their beers down (causing them to foam up and out of their bottles, onto the polished wood, eliciting a most unnecessary look of derision from the bar maiden), then shouted, “FINE! I give up!” and literally ran away.

Pansy bumped into her outside the loo, mid-escape, and told her of a private place upstairs. She failed to mention a certain someone happened to frequent it as well.

So, when Hermione stepped onto the third floor patio, of course Malfoy was already bogarting the balcony. Of course.

She was quite nasty to him, she could admit it. She said some truly cruel things, and though she couldn’t say she didn’t mean them, realistically she had no right to voice them. Especially to him, it didn’t matter how terrible he’d been in the recent and not so recent past. She shouldn’t have gone that far.

Thus she felt it best to apologize. Sure, he’d said things just as barbarous, but she held herself to a higher standard than the Malfoys. She was raised to be better.

It was this spirit, this charitable, gracious spirit, that filled her (and ballooned her head to twice its normal size…), and she was sure the next time she saw him, she’d be able to rise above. That she would be equal parts mature and magnanimous and he would have no choice but to join her on the higher road, or go away forever. She’d bet on the latter.

Such (misplaced, ridiculous) hopefulness dragged her along, like a puppet on its strings, until the very moment she saw Malfoy’s stupid, pointed face… locking eyes with Rookwood. 

Rookwood, the very man who was intent on overthrowing the government and making over the Ministry in his flawed, bigoted image.

Rookwood, who had swindled much of the Wizengamot, as well as untold numbers of genuine people, into believing that he was a decent choice to lead them. He, a war criminal, a murderer, a spy for Voldemort, was gaining momentum as a candidate for Minister of Magic! She couldn’t believe it. He grabbed hold of all his deficits (of which, there were many) and spun them into assets- he used his time as a valet of Voldemort to illustrate that he “knew how evil thought”(!).

Of course he knew how evil thought, he need only to LISTEN TO HIS OWN THOUGHTS.

He was completely transparent. The fact that anyone did not see him for what he truly was worried her for their sanity, their intelligence, and the world she shared with them. They were fools.

She had already made the concession that Malfoy wasn’t a good person, but she had hoped he’d at least be a bad person who kept to himself and didn’t meddle in the business of those in power.

But there he was, his long legs minutes before disrespectfully and casually hanging over the seat in front of him… as if he couldn’t bloody well fit in the rows of the Ministry’s auditorium. He was awfully tall but Theo Nott was just a couple inches shorter and seemed to fit just fine. 

There he was, communicating via mind, she’d bet, with Augustus Rookwood.

Seeing their connection with her own eyes was not actually the act that forced her to swallow her apology, forcing down the bile rising in her throat. 

It was just one of them. 

She couldn’t prove Malfoy was involved with everything that pained her, but she had a hunch he was an active participant in at least half of it.

There was the memo from the Head Auror, Andrea Piccini, which never made it to her. She believed Andrea when he said he sent it, that he’d demarcated it urgent. 

And of course, her steadfast trust in him was absolutely not because he was acutely attractive, and competent, and had the loveliest accent from growing up just outside Florence… Okay. Her crush on him was admittedly pathetic. 

She had a tendency to go gooey-eyed and giggly as he ordered people around. It was terribly embarrassing and unprofessional. He was in his late 30s, well put together, and she didn’t think for a second that he saw her as anything beyond a baby sister of sorts who was always embroiled in some sort of chaotic incident he had to rescue her from. 

It was mortifying.

But even more so, it was humiliating for her to be chastised by him for not alerting the Minister to the various bulleted points in his urgent memo that she never received. The Ministry mail was not an infallible system, but she found it curious the very day a memo went missing, she later saw Draco Malfoy lounging in the court like he was sunning himself in the bloody Riviera.

The day after the lost memo, Hermione had the prickling, chilling sensation she was being followed. 

Sometimes she worried herself into the feeling, generally anytime she was alone and walking out in Wizarding London, and then very infrequently when she was in Muggle London. This particular day, she was on her way to meet Jules and Freddie (friends from Uni) for a pint, when she felt it. It had never happened so far from the city (she was in Cambridge-proper, for said pint), and when the feeling came over her, she ducked into a shop three doors down from the pub. 

She bought two t-shirts she did not need and could not afford, and luckily Jules happened to pass by and then served as an escort to the pub- else she would’ve bought more as she waited out the feeling.

She didn’t think it was Malfoy. It had been happening since before he was released from Azkaban, this feeling of being followed. Obstacles in her path, like blown up bits of sidewalk and falling road signs. Her flat had been broken into. Her block had more than its fair share of blackouts. Once, she was nearly knocked out by an owl’s cage that had come loose from the pile outside Eeylops.

Ron supposed she’d seen a Grim, at some point, and she told him to shove it- because that was ridiculous. 

It did all seem rather unlucky, though, if she were to believe in such a thing.

But it probably wasn’t Malfoy.

The next week, she saw him again at the Ministry, taking a meeting with Rookwood and his merry band of evil doers. Taking a meeting irritated her afresh. 

What business did they have? They weren’t even employed! 

As she passed him outside the cafeteria he had the gall to sneer at her, shouldering the others out of her path as if touching her might render them dead.

She wished it would!

She found out later that the meeting they were taking was with Shacklebolt, and within it they convinced him to shelve her newest project- one which was intended to alleviate some of the financial burden they caused when they stripped away any rights guaranteeing education for Muggle parents and fair treatment for Muggle-borns. 

Will, the one who broke the news to her, was unfortunately on the receiving end of what she could only describe as an adult-sized tantrum. 

Shacklebolt’s inability to stand up to Selwyn, the Wizengamot… and Rookwood, was unbelievably disappointing. At first she assumed they had something on him and he’d fallen victim to a torrid blackmail scheme. 

Now she wasn’t so sure. He just seemed tired.

She felt it too, sometimes leeching from her bones. 

A weariness she couldn’t shake. 

Malfoy and Theo had been in attendance to every open session for more than a month. Theo had taken to traipsing across the aisles and planting himself behind her, leaning into the space just above her shoulder to say hello.

He was a bit too charming. Very cute, jovial and funny, but with a calculating gaze and an acerbic, quick wit that could run over just about anyone. He flirted with her shamelessly, and while she was confident if she gave him the slightest opening he’d be happy to give her a go, his actual attentions were always several seats down to her right.

Smack dab on Will.

She noticed him tracking Will at the latest session, then again, everyone was at that particular moment. Shacklebolt had just accidentally ceded the floor to Rookwood after being peppered incessantly about various points of a new plan to curb retaliation against Muggle-borns who reported instances of segregation or discrimination, and Will jumped from his chair and was across the floor in four strides.

“If I might, Minister, prior to Mr. Rookwood’s opening statements, I have a few points of clarification, many of which might be of interest to all parties.”

Shacklebolt, of course, took the bail out. Rookwood sat back down with contempt written across his face.

Then, Will proceeded to essentially filibuster for the next 14 hours, refusing to leave the floor until Rookwood gave up and went home. 

Until that happened, he spoke of the discrimination at hand and of unification and protections. 

He touched upon Shacklebolt’s record, the approval scores put out by the various papers, and the moves this administration had made thus far in the spirit of improving the life of all Magical people who exist within its reach.

He went on a tangent about the Statute of Secrecy and the International Confederation of Wizards as well as the UK’s involvement with politics at a global-level. 

He spent hours detailing the pathos behind the attacks which had plagued their society, and how much of the unrest could be attributed to a single thing- and likely, he’d talked about much more.

Hermione was sure she was listening to Will’s diatribe in its entirety, but thinking back on it, there were gaps in her memory. She may have nodded off several times, but she’d set a sticking spell to keep her posture erect in her chair so she didn’t cause a scene by slumping sleepily to the floor. 

14 hours, though. It was aggressive.

She glanced back several times to find Malfoy and Nott’s attention rapt at the man on the floor, who was pacing as he continued to speak in his impassioned way to the crowd.

Malfoy was listening intently, every time she checked. Likely taking notes for his old friend, Rookwood.

She didn’t know why it bothered her so much, he was doing what he’d always done. Siding with the wrong people due to ease or fear or duty… or laziness (she was sure this time, laziness was part of it). He was obviously smart. She also had to admit he had friends who cared about him deeply, friends whom she actually liked for the most part, which led her to believe that he wasn’t completely abhorrent behind closed doors. 

Yet he was perfectly fine, stepping back and letting the current of rot and regression carry him along. 

He was weak. 

And it irked her far more than it should, certainly much more than she’d admit. 

When she showed up to the Prophet the next week, she halted the moment she saw the back of his blonde head nodding along as he perched (PERCHED!) himself atop the corner of Gemma’s desk. 

She’d heard Gemma’s laughter as she came down the hall, but when she was accosted by Malfoy’s wide back as she cleared the corner- thereby forced to infer he was the reason for the sounds of amusement, she nearly threw her purse at them.

“What the hell,” she said, under her breath, but evidently loud enough they heard her over their overt, senseless chumminess.

“Ugh,” Malfoy made a noise, his shoulders drooping, his head dipped low. “Oh, Gemma, you must know Granger? She does that little column-“

“Of course she knows me-“

“- I think last week it was about…” he stood, walking over and leaning against one of Gemma’s shelves, letting a finger run down a book with a dark green spine. “Well, I can’t actually recall but I’m sure it was terribly relevant, memorable and thoroughly researched.”

Hermione nearly denied it, so used to being his opposition, but caught herself before Gemma interrupted. And though he said very nice words, his tone made it all sound facetious.

“Of course I know her, Draco, and let’s not pretend you aren’t thoroughly aware of her column,” Gemma laughed. Laughed! At this git? She then beamed at him, he grinned at her, and Hermione was sure disgust was imprinted indelibly upon her own face. “She is very dear to me, in fact.”

“Truly?” Malfoy put his hand to his heart. “I can’t see why, you seem so well put-together and interesting.”

“Stop…” Gemma laughed again, playfully.

Dead to her. Gemma was dead to her.

“Granger, do you mind?” Malfoy said, gesturing to Gemma. “We are conversing. You are… loitering, if I had to guess? Having some sort of medical event? What are you doing?”

The scroll in Hermione’s hand crumpled as she made a fist around it.

“Draco!” Gemma scolded, though yet again, it didn’t really sound the way such words should. Gemma was clearly enamored by him. “He’s running late with Rita, Hermione, if you want to sit for a bit. Could I get you some tea?”

Hermione walked wordlessly toward the chairs across Gemma’s desk, nodding. As she sat, taking a breath (then three more), she felt able to speak without shouting. “Thank you, Gem.”

“Draco, would you care for some tea? I know you declined earlier-“

“I’m quite alright, Gemma, don’t trouble yourself. I shall wait patiently until the Editor has a moment.”

Gemma nodded and started at the tea service in the corner. 

Hermione watched him out of the corner of her eye, whilst he looked at his nails, and straightened his collar, and readjusted his tie. As he spun a ring on his finger, she spoke. “Why are you meeting with Mr. Jacoby?”

He turned to her, showily looking her over, and then went back to buffing his nails. “It’s a free country, Granger.” 

“Not if you and your friends have any say!” Hermione shook her mangled scroll at him. Pathetic.

“What could you possibly mean by that?”

“What’s your deal with Rookwood? You help him gain traction in ousting Minister Shacklebolt and he installs you as… what? You aren’t qualified for anything, but I imagine such trivial matters are beneath the Pure.”

Malfoy smiled at her, but it made her uncomfortable. 

“Shall we have another row, then, Granger? You’d like to go again?” He shook his head, rolling his sleeves with a resigned chuckle. 

The scarred remnants of his Dark Mark caught her eye as his forearm flexed. She looked away. 

“I’d think you of all people know an ineffectual leader when you see one, or in your case… work beneath him,” he drawled.

He wasn’t necessarily wrong about Shacklebolt, but the devil you know was almost always better than the devil you don’t. At least that’s how she felt about this current set of devils. And while she hated that she agreed with Malfoy, it was bound to happen at some point, statistically. She’d literally die before letting him know, though. 

“You are so far off base it’s almost comical-“

“Is it?” He straightened.

“It is, indeed. But for argument’s sake, you think Rookwood would be a better option?”

Gemma handed over her tea and Hermione thanked her, still waiting on Malfoy’s response. 

His eyes flicked to her lap, watching as she brought the cup to her lips. She refused to look away, catching his gaze as she took a sip. 

“We shall see, I suppose,” Malfoy said, swallowing as he ran his hand through his hair and she saw… something. 

It was only a flicker.

She could likely convince herself she didn’t see it, at all; but as she watched him, it was as if he slipped. He became someone else, not for more than a second. Someone cautious and worried. Someone she did not recognize as any shade of Draco Malfoy.

She glanced at Gemma, behind him, who was looking between the two, her eyebrow raised and a smile tugging at the corners of her (freshly glossed) lips.

Hermione opened her mouth to jump on the uncertainty she heard in Malfoy’s voice, when Mr. Jacoby’s office door swung open, revealing Rita Skeeter. Rita, per usual, was decked in a particular buggish hue of green, paired with pops of iridescent purple.

She wasn’t even trying to hide her beetle leanings, anymore.

Rita took stock of the reception area, whipping back around to Mr. Jacoby. “And you made me kill that story! Said the angle was all wrong, said the narrative had no inkling of truth! I can feel it in the air!”

“What?” Malfoy asked, looking to Hermione for clarity.

Mr. Jacoby shuffled into his door frame. “Buzz off, Skeeter,” he said, his face rumpled. “Granger. Now.” He snapped his finger at her, pointing at the floor beside him, like he was calling over a dog.

She would have said something, but the look on Malfoy’s face distracted her.

His nose flared, jaw tight with eyes narrowed at Mr. Jacoby.

She stood and followed the old man in as he turned on his heel and moseyed back to his desk.

She heard Rita question Malfoy as she shut the door, his look of scorn imprinted in her brain.

What was his deal?

Hermione didn’t bat an eye as Mr. Jacoby mowed through her column, his quill shaking with energy and frailty as he tore it apart. He handed it back to her, fifteen minutes later, a quizzical look about him as she took it without argument and made to leave. 

Usually, she pushed back, a bit.

Or a lot. 

“Are you quite alright, Ms. Granger?” He asked as she was nearly to the door. 

“Just girding myself for what awaits,” she said, closing her eyes before opening the door to find… Gemma. 

No Malfoy.

She shut Mr. Jacoby’s door behind her, cutting him off mid-sentence as she looked around. “Where is he?”

“Draco?” At her look of utter contempt, Gemma continued. “He went off to grab us a snack… I told him Mr. Jacoby usually had a bit of time padded in to his schedule around 4:45, though I’ve never seen you in and out in less than 20 minutes.”

“I’m a bit preoccupied,” she admitted. “What was he doing here?”

“Didn’t say.”

“Suddenly you’re keeping the man’s secrets?” She accused, a hand on her hip of its own accord. “What the hell was that, Gemma? Giggling like a school girl? Batting your eyelashes at the man? Putting on lippy! You are a lesbian!”

Gemma nodded, gravely.

“Have some decency!” Hermione huffed. 

“I know,” she sighed. “You didn’t warn me how charming the man was-“

“He isn’t!” Hermione cried. “He’s the literal worst person, Gemma. I can’t believe you would deign to be kind to the man…”

“Hermione-“

“Offering him bloody tea like he’s some sort of, some sort of reasonable guest!”

“Hermione, I am just doing my job,” Gemma countered. “I am a receptionist. I receive guests. I offer them things.”

“You are so much more than that and you know it!” She shook the red-marked scroll at her, now. It was evidently her prop of indignation, today. “I don’t care that he’s fit, and he speaks well-“

“Quite interesting too, actually-“

“How can he possibly be interesting, Gemma? Have you been with women so long that your bar for men is at the floor?” She asked, to which Gemma gave her a thoughtful look. “He has been in prison or under house arrest since he was a child! His favorite hobby is sending me hateful notes!”

“I’m not quite sure…” Gemma hemmed, then sighed. “You’re right. Of course you’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

“There’s just something about him,” she continued, procuring an eye roll from Hermione. “I’m serious. There’s something he’s hellbent on hiding. Something I’m sure, perhaps from the right perspective, is quite lovely. I could sense it. You know when you meet someone and you just feel that connection?”

Hermione shook her head. “I cannot wait for the day in the near or far future when I can say, WRONG!” She yelled the last bit, making Gemma flinch. “I feel a little betrayed, Gemma. By your inability to be less-than-cordial to a dreadful man. You know the things he’s said to me! You read the letter!”

Gemma opened her mouth to combat such an accusation, to clear her name… but she stopped. “You’re right. I can understand why you’d feel this way, why you dislike him so, and I’m sorry for my lack of solidarity if it hurt you.”

Hermione blinked. Sometimes she forgot Gemma was older and reasonably well-adjusted. It made her feel like a whinging pre-teen. “Thank you.”

“But haven’t you ever met someone and you just feel it? Like you’re meant to know them?” She asked, drumming her fingers along the top of her desk absently.

“I don’t know that feeling, no. And I certainly do not feel it for Draco fucking Malfoy.” Hermione muttered. “When is he coming back? I don’t want to be here.”

“Any minute I’d imagine.”

“Fine,” she sighed, calling over her shoulder as she left, “I’ll owl you my edits.”

“You’re not going to do them here? At my desk? Grumbling the whole time about Mr. Jacoby?” Gemma pat the part of her desk where she usually sat. Always, actually. She’d never once owled her edits back.

“Maybe Malfoy will sit with you and pass the time,” she said, disappearing down the hall before the bitterness and immaturity left her, leaving her with nothing more than shame for being so rude to Gemma, a person who never deserved such treatment. 

First, he moved in on her friends. 

Then, he infiltrated the ministry. 

Now, the Prophet? The letters were one thing, but swindling Gemma into thinking he was anything close to a reasonable person was the work of an absolute sociopath.

The next day at the Ministry, Hermione made her way through her floor’s atrium and was again accosted by the man in question. The man who had planted himself into her periphery and thus into her thoughts.

She was disappointed on behalf of her own brain for being unable to block him out.

Something prickled at the back of her neck, running down her spine as the group came into focus. Unease filled her and something dark and foreboding crept into her chest, like her body was trying to warn her as she scanned the group of men. 

Theo, Malfoy, Travers, two she didn’t recognize, and Antonin Dolohov- a man who, every time she saw him- which wasn’t all that often, yet still more than enough, looked at her as if she owed him something.

She couldn’t imagine what, other than her death; if he was of the tallying sort. Just looking at him made the scar on her ribcage tingle.

The Death Eater loser.

Malfoy stood in front of one of the fountains with them, smiling at a joke or an aside she was too far to hear. He held a Prophet in his hand, the issue of the day, her column showing by the way it was folded in his hand. He was wearing well-tailored charcoal slacks (not that she noticed) and a light grey short sleeve sweater situation that was quite professional looking, but seemed thin enough to be breathable in the muggy May they were experiencing.

She forced herself to look away, to attend to what she’d come to the atrium for, which was…

But it really was a well-fitting shirt, the hem of the sleeve bisected the swell of his bic- 

Something sharp smacked her at the temple, interrupting a line of thought which was most inappropriate AND egregious. What was wrong with her? She rolled her eyes at herself and grabbed at the projectile that was still trying to burrow itself in her hair, finally fishing it out.

A neatly folded, urgent memo addressed to her. 

It vibrated as she slid her finger beneath the corner and popped it open.

Her heart rate ticked up as she scanned the note, any other thought cleared away as she rushed to the lift.

DRACO

While watching Granger fight with a memo plunging in and out of her hair in the middle of the atrium was nothing short of amusing, the look on her face and the way she ran to the lift did not thrill Draco as much as one might assume.

He, along with Theo and what looked to be four others, all received the same peculiar invitation to the Ministry earlier this morning. They were to arrive at half ten. 

More shall be revealed at that time, the note said.

It was now easily 11am, and they were none-the-wiser. “I think I’m just going to take off,” Draco pulled Theo to the side, whispering in his ear. “I don’t like what’s happening. Something’s going on.”

Theo nodded, looking over the group. It was a motley crew.

Antinon Dolohov stood beside him, one of the Dark Lord’s most feared and unrelenting servants, and one of Draco’s least favorite people. Perhaps he’d understand the man better if he did more than grunt and scowl, but as it were, Draco would rather spend time around an unruly bull-nosed dog than him. Plus the imbecile couldn’t keep himself out of prison. He’d been locked away for months at a time, multiple times a year, since his first release- for things like petty theft and blackmail (he wasn’t even allowed a wand, after so many arrests). Draco couldn’t for the life of him glean what Dolohov brought to the table.

Harris Selwyn- second-cousin of the Chief Warlock, stood across from him. He was an absolute devotee of nepotism and all it could possibly grant someone like him. Which was to say someone so stupid Draco was convinced there was troll lineage in the “unblemished” Selwyn line. 

Then there was Muhazzim Shafiq and Elias Travers, both Sacred 28 idiots who, by the grace of an obtuse Wizengamot and Draco’s father’s suicide, were both allowed early parole. Altogether, they were generally more menacing than skilled and even so, the amount of terror they could possibly produce was questionable. 

He didn’t like being lumped in with them. He was smarter. He was more skilled. Then when one thought about the general belief system these men pledged fealty to…

What was Draco doing here? Why was he being lured to the Ministry with these arseholes as his contemporaries? Why was he still going along with this? What did they have in common other than run-of-the-mill weakness? Was he just like them, when push came to shove?

That’s what everyone thought, at least. That he’d follow in his father’s footsteps and spend his life upending societal progress in the name of some authoritarian psychopath.

But Draco would not.

He was unclear, as of yet, as to what he would do, but figured there seemed to be time for such soul-searching. 

And, honestly, he’d always thought he’d be dead by now. But here he was.

“The Minister would like to see you,” a small voice said from their periphery. 

Draco turned, angling his head down to see a diminutive woman with bushy hair, not unlike Granger, but at the same time wholly unlike Granger if more than a second was spent looking at her. This woman was unremarkable, but similar in stature.

“What does he want?” Draco asked, knowing without a doubt that the secretive missive he’d received earlier was not from the Minister but from Rookwood. Had Shacklebolt intercepted it?

“I am not privy to such things,” the woman said, turning on her heel and walking away.

“I guess we are to follow…” Travers shrugged, trailing her and adjusting his far-too-starched robes.

Trailing behind, Theo mimicked Travers’ walk, which had the slightest limp and tilt to the right, and Draco followed, trying not to laugh.

Granger was not at her desk when they found their way to the Minister’s wing, nor was Will, the Senior Undersecretary. Will had an office across the Minister, and Granger had what could only be described as an unintended concave section of the hall, where she wedged her desk.

The woman who’d procured them from the atrium, who had finally introduced herself as Irene Boffleberry, opened the Minister’s door without knocking, and held it wide for the four men to walk through. 

Sitting with his feet up on the desk, hands clasped behind his head, was Augustus Rookwood.

“We did it, gentlemen,” he smiled, a cork loudly popping from the bottle of Champagne in his hand.

Theo’s eyes found Draco’s.

What the fuck?

-

An hour later, Draco had heard all he could stand and more than he could reasonably comprehend. Still, he was unclear as to what it all meant.

Were the Death Eaters in charge, now? Was he one of them?

He looked at his Mark. It hadn’t changed, which was likely a good sign?

His leg shook, up and down, as he allowed his mind to roll through Rookwood’s story, again.

Earlier in the morning, Rookwood, with the help of Chief Warlock Selwyn, pulled the Wizengamot into an emergency session. 

He maintained, under oath, that Minister Shacklebolt’s ineffectual leadership and erratic behavior had allowed iniquitous alliances to be formed right under the nose of the courts, and well within the DMLE’s purview. He cited their inaction as proof of Shacklebolt’s failure to steer the law enforcement toward proper arrests and convictions, and his impotence when it came to upholding the law was detrimental to future prosperity.

To wit, Rookwood then rolled in the DMLE’s number one fugitive, Fenrir Greyback.

Well.

Pieces of him. 

According to Rookwood.

Upon ridding their world of the current Undesirable #1, Rookwood was heralded as a savior of sorts. Chief Warlock Selwyn led a vote to impeach Minister Shacklebolt on the spot, and conveniently enough, in a show of “gratitude”, instated Rookwood as the interim Minister until the general elections next spring. 

All of this was according to Rookwood. Draco thought it more likely Rookwood brought bloodied pieces of a random mammal into the court whilst telling his formerly close-personal-friend, Greyback, to lay low. 

Then, once he’d usurped the Ministry by coercing and convincing behind the scenes, he’d take the heat off the murderous-werewolf-with-an-out-of-order-pituitary-gland, and reign supreme.

They were now, smack dab in the midst of such a reign.

It was insane and anyone who believed him was either harboring nefarious intent or an honest-to-gods muppet. 

To his great surprise (not), the Wizengamot went for it. Idiot or evil, there was no other choice. The whole lot of them were corrupt, they always had been. Doing anything about it would require an ethical cleansing of sorts that would essentially wipe out the whole damn court and three-quarters of the Sacred 28. 

Rookwood’s first act as Minister was to reinstate any Wizengamot seat that was forcefully removed from a family due to their Wartime behavior. He also returned all reparations to their rightful vaults- which was lunacy. 

Draco assumed such a thing would bankrupt the Ministry, what entity had that amount of galleons on hand?

“Well, it would have,” Rookwood explained, “but I eliminated several departments to put the books to rights. Trimming the budget is simple when the end goal is for our people to thrive. The Ministry has a fair bit of Real Estate holdings, as well, all of which would easily sell should the right person know of their availability.”

Draco took this to mean he was likely to be in possession of various Ministry owned buildings, land and developments- very soon.

Ugh.

He also didn’t have to think hard as to what sort of departments and programs the new Minister cut in the moments between being sworn in, and sitting in the Minister’s chair.

Anything benefitting the “less-than”; anything that diverted funds to non-humans, anything that thought broadly about what might make a magical society more successful, more prosperous… more secure. 

“It is our time, but I see your reticence,” Rookwood said, and Draco looked up from his lap to see the man staring at him. “Tell me, Lord Malfoy, what might ease your concerns?”

He swallowed his words and shoved his many, racing thoughts to the side. Also of note- there were several other people sitting beside him, why was he the fucking focus of everyone? 

“What you see is not concern, merely guarded interest,” Draco said. “You feel you will be successful as Minister? That you’ll see a re-election?”

“I’m sure of it,” Rookwood pulled a cigar from nowhere, offering it to Draco.

He declined.

“If you’re sure…” Draco said warily. 

What he wasn’t sure of, was why he was playing along, at all.

What was the point? Was he so tragically bored he’d cosign the second coming of the very thing that had condemned him in the first place? Was the damage he incurred inexorable?

Could anything make up for the things he did and the things he failed to do?

That was a question he’d asked many a time, and the answer was always no.

It was done.

And it was thoughts like this which had him thinking he’d stayed too long at the party.

What was he waiting for, then?

His scalp started to feel like the tentacles of a squid were slipping across it, and his chest felt heavy.

Then, as if jostled from a fitful night of sleep, Draco was being shuffled down the hall by Theo, and by the looks of it, they were nearing the Auror department.

“Where are we going?” 

“To find Blaise. You put yourself into an Occluded fucking state-of-numb back there in front of Rookwood and I’m not sure he bought the ‘oh he’s just fucking chuffed to have his ancestral seat back, Sir! He can’t contain his joy and thus he retreats inward… a thing he learned in Azkaban! Do you do it, too, Minister?’ For fuck’s sake, Draco, you were practically comatose. Drooling in your chair.”

“This is going to end poorly for us,” Draco said flatly, now in charge of his own faculties and following without bodily coercion. And he seriously doubted he’d drooled.

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Theo bit out, turning the corner and stopping short. 

Blaise, along with Potter and Granger, stood in a corner at the end of the hall, just outside the DMLE doors. Various others milled about, all chattering wildly.

“What are you two doing here, is word already out?” Blaise asked, breaking from the Gryffindors and joining Theo and Draco down the hall.

“Rookwood called us in,” Theo started, then trailed off. Draco looked to see his eyes set on Granger, past Blaise’s shoulder. 

Potter was talking to her in a low voice, a hand on her upper arm. Her bag was at her feet, spilled open with a cascade of books spread across the floor.

“Is she okay?” Theo asked, more a whisper.

Blaise looked behind and shook his head. “You’ve heard then?”

“Rookwood summoned us,” Theo nodded. “He’s refunding all the reparations, he gave us our seats back-”

“House arrest to House of Lords in six months or less, then?” Granger said darkly, walking up to them with her arms crossed over her chest. Potter joined her but kept mum. “Must be some sort of record?”

Draco looked to the floor, his hands in his pockets.

He should never have mucked around the Ministry. He shouldn’t have gotten involved, even in the capacity he did.

His heartbeat started to accelerate.

He should have stayed home. 

“Nothing to say?” Granger stepped closer. “Aren’t you happy now?”

“Granger, we’re just as surprised as you-” Theo started, cut off by Granger’s forced laugh.

“You must be joking!” She lifted her chin to admonish him. “That was a joke, right?”

“Hermione-” Potter cut in.

“No, please explain, Nott, what you could possibly mean. Are you having a laugh? My capacity for humor must’ve evaporated, much like my rights are about to,” she spat. “Please explain what you mean when you say something so stupid as ‘we’re just as surprised’- because that is a load of bollocks. I’m not surprised. Much like your guy, Rookwood, I could smell the blood in the water. This was a coup. It didn’t happen accidentally. The seeds of unrest have been sewn for months.”

“What rights?” Draco asked, speaking for the first time in what felt like a while.

“Excuse me?” She reared back.

“What rights are going to evaporate?”

“I see the stupidity knows no bounds,” she said to Potter, waving her hand between Draco and Theo. Blaise, to his credit, took a step toward Draco. “I’ll assume you’re already well aware of the insidious bits of prejudice currently happening. How my drink was three sickles more than Theo’s, at Blaise’s party. How when I took my wand to Ollivander’s for it to be mended, they said it would best be destroyed as they could not possibly repair it. Funnily enough, Cosme Acajor in Paris had no such difficulties.”

She took a step at him, and Blaise had his arm out to hold her back, his hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Muggleborns are already being pressed upon by discrimination, and you have the gall to ask me what else will happen to me? I don’t know, Malfoy? Maybe they’ll take my wand completely. Maybe they’ll fire me from my job, actually, scratch that- I’m positive they’ll do that. Maybe they’ll ban me from buying Wizarding property. Revoke my Apparition license…”

“You’re the Golden Girl,” Draco said. “I’m sure you’ll be above the fray.”

Her eyes widened, a look of revulsion pulling at the corners of her mouth.

“You cannot be this stupid! I don’t believe it!” She shook her head. “Even if you were right, even if I’m ‘fine’ because I’m too famous of a person for them to abuse in the light of day… even if that were true, which it is not. But if it were, I am of the opinion that I will never be safe if the people who are just like me are not. Don’t you understand?”

He did, but self-preservation was always a bigger draw for him, personally. And he wasn’t going to start agreeing with Granger now.

“I think you’ll be fine, Granger.”

She shouldered past him, still shaking her head. “Yeah, well, what the fuck do you know?”

A memo coasted quickly through the hall, hitting Potter right in the middle of an eyeglass. “Merlin!”

He grabbed at it, scanning the message. “Piccini wants the entire department back in the bull pen,” he muttered, nodding to Blaise as he headed through the DMLE doors.

“What, no goodbye?” Draco called after him, as Blaise clapped him on the shoulder and followed.

Draco looked to Theo after the hall had emptied, all back to their jobs, and took two steps until his back hit the wall. He slid down, running his hands through his hair and holding tightly at the nape of his neck, his head between his knees.

“You okay?” Theo asked, sitting beside him.

“What the fuck is going on?” He asked. “There’s not even one guy to avoid, now. There are dozens of mini-Voldemorts, all in a power-grabbing frenzy.”

“I’m not sure,” Theo swallowed. “I know we came back to the Ministry, but I didn’t… I didn’t think it would be like this. I thought we were just fucking around? Still, even until this morning, a big part of me was sure nothing would come of it. That people couldn’t be this stupid.”

Draco lifted his head, studying the wall across from them. Portraits of Ministers past, many asleep or missing from their frames. 

“I don’t want to be involved,” he said. “I can’t do this again. I can’t be on the wrong side and I can’t-”

“I know.”

“I can’t go back there.” His eyes found the portrait of Rufus Scrimgeour, across and over two. He was awake, scanning the hall. Draco looked away as soon as the painting’s eyes trained upon him. “I don’t want the seat. I don’t want to be here at all, I should’ve just stayed home. I should’ve already…”

He trailed off.

It was happening again. The little voice he piled boxes of memories up against, the one he tried to wall-in and suffocate and forget. 

This was the choice he’d always wanted.

This was a chance to be… better? To atone?

“I don’t know what to do,” he said, finally.

Theo felt around his pockets, patting his own chest. “The one time we don’t have a fucking flask,” he griped.

Draco needed to lay low, he needed to get back to the Manor and never leave. He could ward himself in and it would be like house arrest, again. He liked house arrest, sort of. 

At least at home he couldn’t get into trouble.

“Five months of freedom is probably enough, we can go back to hanging around the house-” he supposed aloud, when cruel laughter filtered into his ears from the other end of the hall.

“Godric, you’re even more pathetic than I thought, and that’s saying something,” Granger stared down at him, passing them by. She bent in half, grabbing the overflowing bag she’d left behind. As she held it, she tapped it with her wand twice, shrunk it, and placed it in her robe pocket.

“I thought you were just a foul git, and spineless, sure. A given. But you’re worse than that. A blonde ostrich with his head in the sand. And you, Nott? Just along for the ride, are you?” She slowed as she passed them again, stopping off to the side. “Should your testicles drop anytime soon, I’m sure either side would be unhappy to have you both.”

Draco said nothing as he sent a hair-burning hex at her. She deflected it, as he knew she would. He hit her again, and this time she dodged it. It flew past her, a jet of blue light, and hit Scrimgeour.

“I hated your father, too,” the portrait Scrimgeour growled, his lion-like mane going up in painted flames.

“Good one, would have been a vast improvement,” Theo stared icily at Granger as she walked away. She winked at him, and something in Draco recoiled.

Theo’s flirtatious tone and keen awareness of her seemed to have shriveled after being verbally assaulted. It was interesting, but definitely not of note, that this pleased Draco.

“See you never, boys,” she said, holding up her middle finger as she turned the corner.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine

it doesn’t suit him

-

“Are you sure he’s in the wrong, though, child?”

“Of course he is in the wrong, we’ve gone over this a dozen times!” Draco sneered at the portrait of his grandmother Hildebrand from where he was sitting in the Manor hall. He had one knee bent, an arm draped over it… in his hand, a snifter of brandy. A place and stance he took up often, these days. He kept to his wing, sometimes wandering into his mother’s. 

Then there were the kitchens. 

He also frequented the outdoors. 

Mostly, he was bored, and though it was a big house, in general it did not thrill him.

“He’s completely mental. He’s cutting programs, firing people, giving money back to me.”

“Again,” Hildebrand sniffed, “is he in the wrong? It was our money to begin with…”

She was the most selfish, uninspiring turpentined canvas in the Manor, he was sure of it- and the only reason he sought out her companionship was due to her location. Just outside his chambers. He had to really want to whinge to travel further, and was honestly uncertain the other portraits would indulge him so.

“You’re impossible, I don’t know why I talk to you at all,” he said, twisting his wrist and watching the amber liquid coat the inside of the glass, round and round.

“If I’m such a nuisance, put me away! I’d rather be draped upon than have to watch my own flesh and blood mope around like a nitwit with nargles.” She sighed very dramatically, looking off into the distance.

They were quiet for some time.

“Didn’t you ever feel bad for being such a snobbish, blood purist?” He wondered aloud.

“No, never,” she said simply. “I’ve never felt one ounce of remorse for doing what felt so natural to me.”

“You honestly think you’re better than a Muggleborn? Better at magic? And furthermore that such qualities, unchecked and unproved, mean you deserve more?”

“Why do you insist on calling them such a pandering term, boy?” Draco groaned as another portrait took aim at him. Septimus Malfoy, a man who dallied in many a Ministry coup, and who was just about the worst person Draco had ever had a conversation with- the Dark Lord included. “In my day, we didn’t fuss about with such things. And anyway, Mudblood has such a nice ring to it.”

“Pure is pure. It needs no explanation,” Hildebrand huffed.

Draco took another sip. “You lot would rather me marry a cousin than be seen with someone outside the Sacred 28.”

“When did we start discussing marriage? To whom?” Septimus glared at him. “You have no cousins, boy.”

“Of course I don’t, we’re so bloody inbred we’re practically infertile-”

“You can wet your willy in whatever you’d like,” Septimus interrupted, “I’ve found a sheep does nicely in a pinch.”

Draco gaped at him.

“But save the pearly shower for someone who deserves it,” Septimus advised, and Hildebrand nodded in agreement. “Are there any Blacks, left?”

“I hate everything you just said,” Draco shook his head, his tone resigned. “Every single word.”

Septimus shrugged.

“I don’t know why I bother talking to either of you,” Draco stood, dusting off his trousers and finishing his brandy. He looked at the snifter, newly purchased after he’d destroyed all the others. The crystal glinted faintly in the weak light coming down the hall. With a flourish, the glass was gone.

“I think you lead a sad life,” Hildebrand supposed. “Why else?”

Draco shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away.

At first, he knew exactly what he was going to do. After being berated by Granger, he had no other choice.

He was going to stand up!

He was going to say, “No!”

But then, he awoke from whatever righteous fever dream had overtaken him and once again decided to do what was asked of him, or at least what was expected. For the time being.

He hadn’t a lot of practice doing anything else.

Rookwood was obviously up to no good- Draco wasn’t daft or naive enough to think otherwise. There were a number of inconsistencies, however, between the man presented to the public and the man who sat with his feet up on his desk; going on and on about a Muggle sport called golf… that it intrigued him enough to stick around.

He was now in a position of “wanting to see what might happen, next”- a terrible, yet understandable, place to be. He was a curious person! And, if it bore repeating, he could not figure out Rookwood’s angle. 

So, he allowed himself to be ingratiated with the man. Rookwood was rather keen on Draco, and for the life of him, other than his money, he wasn’t clear as to why. Another layer of fascination.

Yes. Until he parceled together Rookwood’s endgame, and his own involvement in said plot, he decided to let things go along organically and keep up with the status quo.

It certainly was not because he was a coward!

He was sure of it!

Since his ascension to the Minister’s seat, Rookwood had made a number of in-character, and out-of-character moves. Draco was tracking them all, listing them in a thin leather notebook he kept in his pocket. Incidentally the notebook also held his list of grievances (he got the idea from his father), those on his ‘mortal enemies’ list, as well as funny little phrases he heard whilst out and about… because, why not?

When Draco looked over his notes, he was sure of just one thing: Rookwood seemed to be making decisions at random, often they were contradictory and almost always they were detrimental to the good of society, even those to whom Rookwood pandered.

It was as if he was using one of those Muggle balls to make his decisions… Magic Number Balls? Something like that. Granger mentioned one months ago in her column, so he’d had Mippy secure a prototype from Muggle London. 

On a particularly dull afternoon, he asked it if he should kill himself.

Ask again later.

Such an answer felt typical, as Granger was at her core a very unhelpful woman, wherever Draco was concerned. 

Regardless, the in-character moves were things like:

• Returning the Wizengamot seats

• Refunding the reparations

• Shuttering the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts division - according to his Excellency, Wizards obviously should be allowed to use whatever they want, however they see fit, thus the theory of ‘misuse’, was moot

• Adding Muggleborns to the list of ‘creatures’ serviced by the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures department - actually, Granger’s column in reference to this decision was so angry, so vicious, Draco owled in his shortest response yet, which simply read: “No notes.” It was a bit fun when her hatred wasn’t tuned in completely to him

The decision to lump Muggleborns in with Creature Depot was largely panned, even among those who seemed to support him. Rookwood stated he’d “look into any complaints of merit” and “reassess at a later date”. He may have well just said he’d reach a decision on June 31^st, either way, it would never come. Draco was sure everyone knew this.

Then again, he seemed to constantly over-estimate the public’s IQ and ability to reason- a shock to his system as he already considered most people quite stupid.

It had only been twenty days, and Rookwood had run amok with power, which shed light on the fact (previously unbeknownst to Draco) that the office of the Minister was granted much more influence than was wise. He thought there were protections in place against a tyrant swooping in and pissing all over everything, but no. Rookwood’s influence was vast and unchecked. 

Where was the outrage?

Did anyone know or care?

Sometimes it felt like it was just Granger. And him, quietly.

Speaking of which… one of the stranger things Rookwood decided was to keep both Will Bakker and Granger in their positions, as Senior Undersecretary to the Minister and Junior Undersecretary to the Minister, respectively.

Then, he invited a dozen foreign Ministers from across Europe to the British Ministry for a summit later in the year, which seemed neighborly and transparent… two things most autocrats avoided.

He held public forums every Friday, in the open square in Hogsmeade, where anyone could ask questions, and commentary was encouraged. Rookwood insisted he appreciated feedback from “those (he) lorded over”  but judging by the way he looked as if he was being tortured whilst receiving such commentary, Draco felt the statement was an exaggeration. The forum reeked of Bakker, a man who upon further inspection, desired nothing more than to be crushed by the attention of others. 

Draco couldn’t relate.

In an effort to be abreast of the changes as they were struck down, Draco frequented the Ministry as was required, often alongside Theo. Rookwood asked them in for a meeting every Monday, the Wizengamot met on Wednesdays, Thursdays and had an open session every other Friday. 

“It’s good we at least know what’s going on,” Theo had said. They took turns telling each other such things. Hollow, echoed reassurances which positioned them as supposedly in the right, this time. 

Neither of them dared bring up what they might do with such inside information, or how it didn’t matter much what was going on if no one was going to be spurred to action…

Draco was sure Theo had visions of his ostrich-self plaguing him, in much the way he did… but they’d both choke on literal sand before they joined to commiserate about how Granger’s eloquent observations had so shaken their beleaguered constitutions.

Her parting words, general looks of disdain and the fact that he hadn’t spoken to her in the weeks since, of course, made Draco feel nothing.

It was obvious she was around. Rookwood complained about her existence at regular intervals. Draco saw her at the Wizengamot’s open sessions, still taking notes, her face refusing to betray her stoicism and reveal her fury. And even though he couldn’t see her contempt, he knew it was there. If he was angry, she was angry.

Toward the end of May, Granger’s column took a particularly scathing position against the administration she was employed by, which peeved Rookwood, just a bit.

“I can’t possibly allow one of my employees to speak in such a way, in public,” he said, his nose buried in the paper. “She likened me to a seal, banging clams against a rock. What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know what it meant, but I know how it made me feel,” Elias Travers shook his head. “She needs to go.”

“I don’t know,” Draco leaned forward, moving a placard on the Minister’s desk a fraction to the left, then moving it back again. “I think it might put you in a position to be viewed as tolerant and wise-”

“He’s neither!” Travers said, not catching his mistake.

Rookwood stared at him, waiting. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” he said finally, turning back to Draco. “How do you figure, Malfoy?”

“She is clearly in your opposition on many facets, and yet she remains part of your cabinet. I think to a person who aligns themselves with her values, this might look like a bit of… I don’t know. Reaching across the aisle.”

“Bi-partisan?” Rookwood made a face. “I hate it. Tell the girl she needs to shut up or I’ll shut her up.”

“I’ll relay the message, Sir,” Dolohov offered, not looking up as he picked at his nails with a pocket knife.

Disgusting.

Theo shook his head ever so slightly, urging Draco to speak. 

“I’ll do it,” Draco offered. “Dolohov, instead of volunteering for errands, why don’t you focus on paying for things. I heard a rumor you’ve been filching sweets from the barrels at Honeydukes again. They’ll put you back in Azkaban for that, I’d think. Do you need money? Is that it?”

He lifted himself out of his seat to reach into his pocket, throwing a few coins at Dolohov. “Here, go wild.”

He didn’t need to look up to know that one, Dolohov was glaring at him murderously, and two, he snatched up the change like a bloody niffler.

“I’m partial to the butterscotch discs,” Rookwood said absently, looking out the spelled window onto the Old Course in Scotland. “Do it, Malfoy. Now. I don’t want her to lather up anymore lunatics for the next fucking Hogsmeade forum. There are enough killjoys already without her getting people into a tizzy about something as silly as whether or not their tax rate will go up as Half-bloods.”

“Right,” Draco swallowed.

Granger happened to be at her desk when he slipped out of Rookwood’s office, with Theo serving as a distraction to get the rest of the men out the door and down the hall before she opened her big mouth and drew their attentions.

They said ugly things about her, and after you’d heard them once it was just uninspired and repugnant… and for one reason or another he didn’t care to hear more.

“Granger,” he started, accidentally speaking over her as she said-

“Are you waiting for me to greet you, you intolerable twat?” She asked, after nearly 40 seconds of him standing there like some sort of muppet. 

She waited.

He waited.

“What?” she said, as he said-

“Granger-”

“Oh, out with it. What? What could you possibly want from me? Did you draw the short straw and stumble into the arduous task of telling me I’m fired?” She set an Engorgio upon her bag and started packing up, her voice aiming for steady. “Honestly it’s shocking that I lasted two days, let alone a month.”

“No,” he tore her bag from her (shaking) hands and set it on the desk, ignoring her icy glare. “But if you keep writing such drivel in the bloody Prophet, I might be tasked with just that!”

“Oh, really,” she said cooly. “You’re his little errand boy? Scampering around, warning people of his wrath?”

“I wouldn’t call it scampering-” he started, but she was already grabbing at her bag. 

“I have lunch, Malfoy. Tell your Master while I am currently employed by the Ministry, I am not owned by it,” she said, her voice catching again. She cleared it before pressing on. “I cannot be compelled to wax poetically upon it, casting it in a favorable light, if such light refuses to shine on half the citizens it works for.”

She was practically down the hall before he could even think of replying.

He absolutely did not look for her the following Monday, or Tuesday. 

Or Wednesday.

And there was no way he was about to report her missing (it should be noted that he asked literally no one where she was), and he certainly didn’t sigh with relief when he opened the Prophet on Thursday to see her column, but there it was.

And sigh he did.

He’d only had enough time to read through it once, prior to the Wizengamot session he was expected to attend that morning.

No longer were Draco and Theo allowed to sit in their preferred spots, near the back and in the middle. They were relegated to the court’s established seating, somewhere within the first five rows of the auditorium. When in the actual court, their seats were assigned, and not together. But for a casual session such as many a Thursday, they were able to be a bit choosy.

Thus, Draco chose at random. 

Toward the west end.

One row ahead and two seats to the left of Granger.

She was seated by the time Draco and Theo walked through the doors. Draco settled himself and turned back toward her to say something, confident it would come to him as he opened his mouth. His non-topic was irrelevant, however, when Will Bakker busted in the side door and hurried to her side, sitting with a clumsy thud.

“Oh, ho, ho,” Theo said to himself, turning to say something too, but stopped.

“Hermione!” Will breathed, holding the day’s Prophet in his hand and with it, lightly smacking her on the top of the head. Draco waited for her to curse him, but she broke out into a most dishonorable grin. She beamed at him as he continued. “You vicious, ingenious minx.”

Minx?

They hugged, holding each other at arm’s length for a beat, as Draco felt Theo lean into him.

“You’d think this would thrill me, having a passing attraction to them both… but I’m not so sure,” Theo whispered, the two of them fully turned in their seats and watching Granger and Will exchange pleasantries, so engrossed in each other they were none-the-wiser to the obvious eavesdropping.

“You’re back!” she released him. “And you read it?”

“Of course I read it,” Will laughed. “I try to read everything you write.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” Will said. “You’re practically the only part of the paper worth reading at all.”

Ugh. Draco frowned. 

What a fucking line.

What did anyone know about this Will, fellow, anyway? He was entrusted with public health and safety… but what were his qualifications besides being a handsome, vaguely blonde man who was sort of tall?

It was unseemly. 

“Hermione, do you think… could you give me some lessons about Muggle history?” Will asked. “Such information is lacking in the Dutch formative education for Magical folk.”

“Yes…” Granger shrugged. “Sure. Anytime.”

“My mother was a Muggle,” Will offered. “I wonder if her father was in the war?” 

“Likely, he probably was.” Hermione leaned toward him. “Forgive me, Will, but I thought that was not… I thought the Netherlands was fairly strict about Magical and non-Magical couplings. That they were outlawed?”

“They are,” Will nodded, looking down. “My very existence is against the law.”

“Wow.”

“No, no… I’m sort of kidding you,” he smiled, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “I was born in Canterbury, actually. Moved to the Netherlands when I was quite young. There I am technically a Weestovenaar, they have different terms for those who are born to Dreuzels and those who are born to magic-wielding Dreuzels, which are then called Gedeeltovenaar. Weestovenaars are not allowed, which is funny if only for the fact that… we exist.”

Hermione nodded, though Draco had no idea how she could track such a conversation unless she spoke Dutch. Did Granger speak Dutch?

“I missed you,” she said. 

The words slammed against him and he turned back around. He couldn’t watch this anymore, whatever it was.

He could still hear it, though.

It was really their fault for speaking at such a boisterous volume.

“The feeling is mutual, dear Junior Undersecretary. And what did his Holiness get up to whilst he had me in fucking Dubai?”

“The usual, I assume, though he’s essentially kept me from performing even a fraction of what is supposed to be my bloody job.”

“Yeah,” Will sighed. “I didn’t see this coming, I have to say.”

“Really?” Hermione asked, her tone underlining how unlikely she felt his statement to be.

“Well, no. I should rephrase. I did not see Rookwood usurping the office in our future. Kingsley had been floundering for months.”

“Years.”

“Well,” he paused, “yeah. There’s that.”

“You thought it would be you?”

He cleared his throat. “Past precedent alluded to such a thing, certainly. At least until the election.”

“I’m not sure if it makes it better or worse, but, you would have been good.”

“It makes it both, I think,” he said. “Until then, we keep calm and carry on, yes?”

“You’ve lost the plot, I fear.” Granger laughed as Draco looked down at the paper grasped in his hand, running his finger over her byline.

______

Keep Calm and Carry On?

a matter of opinion - by Hermione J. Granger, OoM 1C

My grandfather, Harrison Granger, was a soldier and part of the Seventh Armoured Division, generally referred to as the “Desert Rats”, in the beginning of World War II. He spent much of his time stationed in Egypt, where British troops defended the Suez Canal against the Axis powers.

The Canal, a well-established trade route as well as the link to many of the UK’s holdings elsewhere, was paramount to the ways of English daily life at the time.

The Desert Rats successfully defended the Canal, and went on to Tunisia, then Italy, and finally back home where they prepared for Operation Overlord. After their success, they went to Germany.

To drastically over-simplify things, during this time, much of the non-Magical world was divided into either the Allied powers, or the Axis powers. The UK, in case you are not aware, was part of the Allied troops. A notable faction of the Axis powers, was Germany. Germany was, rather quickly, taken over by a fringe group. From the edges of society they wove themselves within the tapestry of the country, and annihilated those who they said did not belong. The Axis powers, on a larger scale, were attempting to - and succeeding in - taking over Western Europe. By death, by destruction. 

By turning regular people away from their neighbor, either by violence or willful and criminal ignorance paired with inaction.

Obviously I wasn’t around for this section of our shared history, though I am unsure of how much it was shared. While the world was at war, where were the Wizards? How many of you, those who don’t have Muggle parents or grandparents, consider yourselves abreast of the Muggle military actions at all?

It’s something I’ve wondered about, of late. I thought the same, staring up at the side of a worn canvas tent, out in the Forest of Dean in the fall of 1997. Did the Muggles know what was happening to us? 

Could they have helped?

In the late 1930s, three different posters were designed by the Crown to pass along information and uphold standards during a time so trying on a nation as war. One said, FREEDOM IS IN PERIL - DEFEND IT WITH ALL YOUR MIGHT, while another said, YOUR COURAGE, YOUR CHEERFULNESS, YOUR RESOLUTION WILL BRING US VICTORY.

The final poster was put into production in the event of an air-raid or bombing- a mass casualty situation. It was to affirm to the public that keeping a stiff upper lip was the best way to proceed. It read, rather simply, and in a wholly British way: KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON.

The poster never released widely, the sentiment was put on hold, because sometimes it does not do to hold steady and wait out that which pains you.

Sometimes, one must stand up and fight.

Luckily, for us, all of this is purely historical record. It happened to people long ago, in places far from here.

And furthermore, it happened to Muggles.

______

Typically, before any regularly held meeting with the Wizengamot, the Minister met with his staff to go over what would be discussed or put forth as far as legislation. Draco and Theo were summoned to Rookwood’s office on Friday morning, prior to their duty with the Wizengamot at 11am.

As they approached the double doors of the office of the Minister, Draco spied a woman with curls piled on top of her head, away from her desk and standing just outside the door. The tendrils shook as she spoke animatedly to the Minister’s assistant, Ms. Boffleberry.

Draco had always thought Ms. Boffleberry had a passing resemblance to Granger, but when they stood side by side, he disagreed with his former self. 

Height-wise, sure. 

And their hair, while both brown and voluminous, Granger’s had bits of gold and bronze through out, and Ms. Boffleberry’s was rather dull. Where Granger’s was curled and coiled, Ms. Boffleberry’s was just… big. He’d never realized the distinction, before now.

“Irene, part of my job is to attend these meetings and to be barred from them is-”

“Irene…” Draco stepped up to the women, who were arguing in hushed tones and effectively blocking the doors. “Do you mind if you move your scintillating conversation toward your desk? We are actually expected in this meeting, not gate crashing the damn thing.”

He focused on Granger, who looked…

Defeated.

Her eyes trailed down him, landing near the floor as she exhaled. Her grip on her pen (always a Muggle pen, never a quill) loosened as she let it dangle from her limp hand.

She turned, wordlessly, and started on down the hall. 

What the Helga Hufflepuff was that?

“Granger-” Draco said, before he could stop himself.

She ignored him, continuing past her desk.

He looked to Theo, who took the look on Draco’s face as a cue to act.

“OI! GRANGER!” Theo yelled as she continued. The volume of it made her (as well as everyone else in the hall) flinch. When she turned to look at him, mouth open, he thumbed at Draco.

“What then, Malfoy?” Even her voice had a conquered quality to it, but at least she wasn’t the one standing like a dolt with his mouth agape.

He didn’t actually know what he was going to say. All he could think was that he did not like seeing her in this state. Granger didn’t fold. He found the idea of it happening at all, vexing.

Granger was incessant. Her inability to just let go was the center tentpole upon which the bulk of her personality was draped. 

Some would say she was tenacious, instead. 

Perhaps that sounded kinder. But having tenacity still allowed for someone to succumb after giving it a solid effort.

Being incessant was to never surrender.

“I need you in the meeting,” he said, the words surprising everyone, including him. “I’ve got an idea that’s exactly the kind of thing you hate, thus I need you there. For oppositional research. I want to be thorough.”

“What idea?” Theo whispered, keeping an eye on Granger, who was still as a statue down the hall.

Irene was back at her desk, which irked Draco if only because her desk was centered in the middle of an office which was seemingly created just for her. 

Whilst Granger, a tenured employee of a higher-held position, was deposed of in the hall.

Draco set his jaw and answered quietly. “Haven’t the faintest.”

“I think the writing is on the wall, Malfoy,” Granger said.

“That damn chamber, again?” Theo asked, laughing at his own joke.

“Just get in the office. As you said, it’s part of your job. Will you be doing your job today, or have you abandoned your post as Junior Undersecretary for greener pastures? Perhaps you’d rather have Irene’s position? In such a case, I’d like a macchiato.”

“Pardon me?” Irene asked, looking stupidly up from her ill-got desk, not understanding when to see herself out of a bloody conversation.

He smiled at her impolitely and waved his hand, slamming her door.

“I’m obviously not wanted.” Granger hadn’t budged an inch, still halfway down the hall.

“When have you let that stop you?” Draco shrugged. “You came to Hogwarts, didn’t you?”

“Fuck you, Malfoy.”

He knew that would get her.

He bounced his eyebrows at Theo as she took a step. He pushed open Rookwood’s door, letting Theo go in front of him. “Minister, I have Undersecretary Granger out here, and your assistant is being most unhelpful. I don’t know what kind of Ministry you’re running, when the Junior Undersecretary is not privy to what happens behind the scenes.”

Rookwood, cigar in hand and two feet upon his desk, stared at Draco. He looked to the others in the room, three men hardly worth glancing upon, then rolled his eyes. “I don’t bloody well care, have her come in then if it’s so fucking important to you,” he waved Draco off, continuing his conversation with Chief Warlock Selwyn. “I’ve no idea what he’s on about, no.”

Draco leaned back into the hall, nodding for Granger to go in. “They’re ready for you. Come, Granger, else I’ll handily convince them the Manor really does need absolute access to the Unicorn breeding program and a non-compete contract for the entire UK.”

She seemed to think for a moment more, then scurried toward him. “Your Unicorn sweat liquor getting too pricey, is it?” She managed to scowl at him, even in her defeated state. “I thought they returned the reparations. Are you somehow destitute, now? A pity. We used to have government programs to alleviate such burdens… but…”

“Yes, yes, something like that,” he grumbled, though it was mostly for show. All he knew was that they were obviously living in some strange alternate universe and if Granger threw in the towel, things were well and truly fucked.

Rookwood, Selwyn, the other Selwyn and Travers all sat around, speaking of something most unimportant.

Granger took a seat by the door, which Draco thought odd. There was always a chair next to the door, come to think of it. Was it her chair? 

A chair removed from the fray, to keep Granger at a distance and more importantly, in her place.

Theo dragged his seat from the desk, over to Granger, impishly plunking down. 

He leaned into her and spoke in a low voice. “Already taking notes, are we? But it hasn’t yet started, Granger. Are you jotting down what you think of the company? Be sure to include my dimples. And the way my trousers accentuate my-”

“Nott, shut up,” she shouldered him out of the way, fighting a smile.

Draco watched them, glaring. Then, upon realizing what look was carved upon his face, he turned to stare straight ahead.

Just what was Theo doing?

He glanced back again, and Theo was smiling at her in a most unguarded way.

What the fuck?

“Now that everyone’s here… even those who were not intended,” Rookwood said pointedly. “We should get started.”

Did Theo fancy Granger? How?! Draco thought he already got this out his system, he saw the genesis of his distaste when Granger reamed them in the Ministry hall about being prats. Theo did not take well to criticism, and Draco assumed whatever interest he carried fell by the wayside- right then and there.

So why was it rearing its ugly head, once again? And to that point, if he couldn’t handle the woman saying one mean thing, they’d last less than an hour.

It was her modus operandi. She could not help it. He couldn’t imagine a world in which Granger might be sweet.

His eyebrows pulled together of their own accord. Upon noticing, Theo nudged Granger and straightened up, whispering to her loud enough that Draco could hear. “Mummy looks rather cross, I best behave.”

“Nott? What the fuck are you doing sitting over there. If you’d like to be a part of things, come forward.” Rookwood tapped his cigar, sprinkling ash that never seemed to land. “Else see yourself out.”

“Sorry, Sir, of course,” Theo said, dragging the chair loudly back to its place beside Draco.

“We’ve a bit to discuss about the IS Act, as it’s heading to the Wizengamot next week-”

“Sir,” Granger interrupted, “I think it wise to fully flesh out the repercussions of putting forth such invasive legislation, and perhaps ultimately put this one on hold until such a time as it could-”

“Pardon,” Rookwood held up his hand, and Granger fell quiet. Draco imagined she was cursing him via eye contact alone, but didn’t want to turn around to look. Again. “Regardless of Lord Malfoy’s charity and ignorance in letting you in here, you do not have an opinion I am interested in obtaining. I should think you’re well aware of that by now, but in the case you are not, or are too feeble-minded to have gleaned such a thing, let me make it clear. I do not want to hear your thoughts, I don’t care for your perspective. I would like you to show restraint whilst in my company. Much of what we are to discuss is far above your meager pay grade, anyway.”

Draco’s hand made itself into a fist he held so tightly he began shaking. Theo put his hand over it, his eyes trained forward.

“As I was saying, the IS Act,” Rookwood continued.

“Sir, even naming the bill the ‘Impure Surveillance Act’ will raise the hackles on many, let alone the intent behind it-”

“Are you deaf, Ms. Granger?”

“No, I am not,” she said carefully.

“Are you stupid?”

“No, sir.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure… if it’s not one, it’s the other. Just before your outburst, I’d said I hadn’t the need, want… desire, to hear your opinion. And yet you saw it fit to offer it anyway.”

“My job is to-”

“Is it?” Rookwood asked. “As Junior Undersecretary, a position you just recently ascended to and I so graciously allowed you to keep… your job is to do as I require. I have been of the understanding that I am the Minister to whom you are the Junior Undersecretary…”

Draco longed to turn around, but he wouldn’t. The other men ogled her, barely hiding grins either due to her dress or her being dressed down in their presence, and he didn’t want to be in their company.

“You’re here because for some reason, Lord Malfoy considers you imperative to this discussion,” Rookwood eyed Draco, “though I am unsure of what his ultimate purpose could possibly be. Just shut up, stay in your seat by the door, and you’ll keep your job. I’m glad you had the sense to back off the torch-wielding in your column, though this last one was rife with Muggle allusions I imagine no one understood in the first place.”

Granger let a laugh, quick and sharp, escape her.

“Something funny?” Rookwood asked. “Do you have something to say?”

“I thought I wasn’t to be heard,” she said, a sharp click punctuating her sentence.

Draco chanced a glance backward. Granger was far too pale, her hand shaking, her pen snapped in half.

She was Junior Undersecretary in name, only. 

She had no power. 

Rookwood kept her on because he knew he could silence her… and then he could benefit from her reputation at the same time he continued doing whatever the fuck he wanted.

“Finally, it learns,” Rookwood leaned back in his chair. “Now gentleman, what say you-”

“I happen to agree with her,” Draco said, his brain hardly believing his mouth, his ears. What the fuck.

Rookwood’s nostrils flared, as he slowly moved his attention to Draco. 

“You keep on Bakker and Granger, you maintain you are a man of the people, and then you roll out a plan to spy on certain sections of the public? It makes little sense, Sir.”

“They are the exact people who are behind many of the attacks-”

“You have no proof!” Granger said, the sound of her voice cutting off as Rookwood pointed his wand at her.

He didn’t even look at her as he stowed his wand. “You were warned, if you cannot control your animalistic impulses then I will control them for you.”

It was as if he silenced the entire room, such was the shock.

She stood, vibrating in rage as she flicked her wand his way, before wrenching open the door and leaving. 

He pushed back from his desk as a single flame skimmed elegantly across the top, looping and crossing back until it winked out.

I QUIT was burned into the mahogany, the embers left from the flame glowing long after the door shut behind her.

Rookwood just smiled.

“Where are you going?” Theo asked, trailing behind as Draco weaved with purpose through the halls.

Granger wasn’t at her desk, her alcove had already been cleared by the time they could take leave of the Minister. He continued down the hall and peered into the Auror bull pen, but she wasn’t there, either.

“Are you possibly looking for Granger?” Theo asked, still four steps behind. 

He stopped, pulling a hand down the side of his face. “I didn’t like that, in there.”

“Nor did I,” Theo sidled up next to him as they both leaned against the wall. 

“Why didn’t I like it?” He asked. “It’s Granger. I’ve wished her mute hundreds of times.”

Theo tried to respond, but Draco went on.

“It was something about the way he did it. Belittled her. Silenced her. Who the fuck does that?”

Theo nodded, staring at a patch of carpet in front of them. “You always did have a… an interest in her.”

“Granger?”

“Yes,” Theo said, continuing on at his incredulous look. “Hey. I’m just telling you what I’ve seen over the past… 10 or so years. The line between love and hate wears thin in spots. Like it or not, it’s an obsession.”

“I’ve never been obsessed with Granger,” Draco said, batting away the truth of his epistolary hobby or his compulsive thoughts of her over the past fortnight. Theo didn’t even know about those!

“No?”

“She may have been… an awakening, of sorts,” he allowed, grimacing at his own word choice.

“That’s so much worse,” Theo laughed. “An ‘awakening’, Draco? What the fuck does that mean?”

“You had to have had it, too. We were spoon-fed all this Pureblood supremacist shit our entire lives. We’re better, we’re the standard, we’re inherently more powerful, more important. We deserve this, we demand that…”

“Well,” Theo started. “Yes. We were all told such things.”

“What are you doing, there?” He asked, pointing at Theo’s mouth, curved into a sad little grin. “What was that emphasis for?”

“We were told a lot of things. But some of us did not believe them,” Theo raised his eyebrows and Draco felt a little like he’d been slapped with a realization he should have figured out 15 years ago. 

“Right.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad! Or stupid!” Theo reached out, grabbing his arm. “You had parents you trusted… which makes it a bit more reasonable that you listened to them and believed, absolutely, in what they said.”

“Right,” He repeated, whacking the back of his head against the wall. “Of course.”

“I looked at my own father and thought, pretty early on, there was no way an entire society was built in his image. He could not be the upper echelon, you know? He was awful. Thus I was dubious of the entire movement. From age 6, on, I should think.”

“I should’ve realized sooner.”

Theo nudged his shoulder with his own. “If I’d had your life, I’m sure I’d be much worse than you. I’m not as driven by guilt and shame, the two things that constantly give you pause.”

“Maybe you would’ve been smarter about it all.”

“Love can make you do crazy things.”

“I don’t love Granger!”

Theo tried to stifle a laugh. “I wasn’t talking about her, but good to know where your head’s at.”

“What the fuck are you on about, then?”

“You loved your parents. They loved you. That’s how you got into this whole mess.” He pushed off from the wall, standing before Draco with his hands in his pockets. “The first person to ever show me love, was you. At least that I can remember.”

Draco looked away, down the hall as an ache rimmed his eyes. “Yes, well, it’s too bad you left me to fend for myself with the despots, then. So much for all the love I bestowed upon you. Would’ve been better off befriending a carrot.”

“Sure,” Theo shook his head, clearing his throat. “Anyway. Gazing upon Granger’s frizzy head on the train was the brick that began your path toward enlightenment, then?”

“I’m sure I didn’t put it that way-”

“I believe the word ‘awakening’ was used.” Theo kicked the toe of Draco’s wingbacks.

He couldn’t very well deny it, now. “In walked this girl, this Muggle, who possessed magic in such a way that you could see it shining in her eyes, her face was alight with it. And she’d only read about it in books.”

“So you decided the best course of action was to destroy her,” Theo reasoned.

“Naturally.”

“Didn’t work.”

“No,” Draco looked down the hall again. “But have you noticed, the only time that light comes back is when she’s furious?”

Theo cocked his head to the side, shrugging.

“Can’t say that I have, been focusing more on her arse, of late,” he admitted. “Does that bother you, milord?”

“Why the fuck would it bother me?”

“Why the fuck are we looking for her, then?” Theo flicked him on the forehead.

“Shut up.” He shoved him and continued back down the hall-

Running smack dab, into Granger.

“Ah, lovely,” Theo jogged to catch up. “Miss Granger, imagine running into you, here!”

“I’m just grabbing something from my desk-”

“You’ve already cleared it,” Draco said. 

Granger pushed pass them both. “I forgot something.”

Draco followed, his legs acting of their own accord daas he spoke at her back. It seemed he was in control of nothing- not his body, nor his brain. Something else had taken over and was using him as a puppet- yes… that had to be the reason for his sudden penchant for outbursts, and the like.

He hoped it wasn’t the Dark Lord body-hopping, again.

“I didn’t take you for the type to give up so easily, Granger.”

She whipped around, eyes flicking from his head to his toes and back again, seeing nothing to ease her scowl. “Easily?”

“I said what I said.” Draco rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, chancing her a glance. Yes. Still angry.

Something stirred in his gut, warming him.

“My, my, my… I’ve just heard someone call my name. Rather desperately. I must be off,” Theo backed down the hall, waving as he went. His voice quieted as he turned the corner. “Hello? Who goes there?”

“I wholeheartedly believed I could affect more change on the inside, but as you may have recognized from the incident just 20 minutes ago, I am being forced to abandon my job. Employed or not, he won’t let me do what I was hired to do.” Draco wanted to launch a rebuttal, but he had been there, and he had seen. She was not wrong. “This was just the last on a long list of purposeful slights designed to back me into a corner. Now, Rookwood can say he did his best to lead a bi-partisan cabinet, when really behind the scenes he belittled and alienated and abused.”

“I saw-”

“Par for the course!” She raged on. “And maybe I would have stuck it out, had Monday I not arrived to work to discover I no longer retained the proper clearance to access the floor. They sent me home!”

“Oh, well-” Her arms were moving around so animatedly, her bag fell from her shoulder onto the ground. He grabbed it, and held it, as she continued.

“Which, I will admit. It was convenient, as Ginny had the baby Sunday evening, so I got to spend some time with Lily, when I would have been otherwise at work… but she’s a tiny baby. She wouldn’t have noticed if I was several hours later! And Ginny was passed out anyway! Ron and Harry barely said two words to each other… you’d think they’d be ecstatic to have children within months of each other, that it might reaffirm their bond, but oh no, of course not. They’re practically strangers, at this point.”

“Right-” Draco thought Granger was taking a breath and he might get more than a word in, but he was wrong. She didn’t seem to need to breathe at all, her bodily processes replenished with anger instead of oxygen.

“Then on Tuesday, I was not wearing the regulation robes, which were, you guessed it, handed out the day before,” she grit her teeth so tightly he was sure she’d cause herself enamel-related damage. 

Luckily, her parents were healers for teeth, so he figured she’d be in a good spot. He didn’t even know there were teeth Healers until he’d read about it in ‘Golden Girl: Unguarded and Unauthorized’. 

“On Wednesday, the Minister and his staff, of which I thought I was a part of - visited the Swiss Ministry to gain some insight as to how things are working there. Incidentally, I don’t know if you realize that Switzerland is one of the countries in the Federation that bars Muggleborns from holding office? From teaching?” 

“No, I am not up to date with the restrictions of-”

“Then on Thursday, I was sent an urgent memo to come in. I rushed to get here, and was then sent straight to the Wizengamot chambers to oversee the cleaning. At 6am. Literally, brooms spelled to sweep the floor. After that, and only after that, was I allowed to take my assigned seat for the session. And it’s not just me! Rookwood has Will running himself ragged all across the British Isles and abroad in some sort of attempt at distraction! We’re being hobbled and he gets to look like this benevolent man who is doing his damndest to be a man of the people.”

“Part of the ruse of his platform, I suppose-”

“Then today, after every single door in this entire building was slammed in my face, several times quite literally, YOU were the one who stuck your foot in and allowed me entry.” She shook her head, staring him in the eyes. She glanced down at her bag, taking it from him. “Why did you do that?”

Why was everyone asking him things he didn’t have the bloody answers for?

“There weren’t unicorns,” she said.

“Oh there are,” he said. “They certainly… exist.”

“Not in your purview.”

“No, not currently, but one never knows. Perhaps I could get rid of the peacocks.” Draco thought on this. “Yes… Actually that’s not a bad idea, they’re completely dreadful. Pretty without a purpose.”

Granger looked like she wanted to say something to that, but didn’t. 

She watched him, her expression guarded before she spoke again. “Well, even so, I don’t expect you to be here to be my handler, to speak up on my behalf so I am allowed to have a voice.”

“So… you’re giving up.”

She stood straighter. “I am not. I’m just… I’m going to have to come at it from a different angle.” 

Granger turned and kept on toward her desk, rummaging through it and pulling out a shimmering, folded piece of fabric. 

“Though,” she said, looking back at him. “I can’t imagine why you care?”

“I don’t,” he said, but then…

Granger had disappeared.

Winked completely out of view.

He turned in a circle, squinting to try and suss out the Disillusionment.

“Sure you don’t,” her voice said, and something - an invisible hand, perhaps? - smacked him upside the head. “Fuck off, Malfoy.”

He would go on record that he heard a smile in her words.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten

believe them

-

Draco couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone to a Tribuo.

Or if he’d ever gone to one… come to think of it.

He had to come up with three gifts for the soon-to-arrive Baby Weasley (he cringed as he wrote the card with that name), and one for the soon-to-be parents. 

He’d needed his mother’s portrait, the one of her painted third year that sat outside her study, to describe the minutiae and direct him to what would be considered proper. He chose this particular painting for advisement because she was the one nearest in age to the one he’d lost. They hadn’t sat for portraits once the Dark Lord had his scaled thumb upon them, so this Narcissa was who he remembered with the most clarity. There was another, just off his father’s study, that was painted prior to their wedding. He generally avoided her.

Teenage Narcissa was a stone cold bitch and rather than deign to be helpful, she ragged on him like a contemptible older sister. She was decent at fashion advice, however.

The idea of a Tribuo was to bestow upon the child, and the family, gifts with historical Wizarding significance and meaningful artifacts (not too meaningful, the elder Narcissa warned) that would set the new baby on a path toward abundance, prosperity and enlightenment. It was a Pureblood tradition, and when it came down to it, just another way to trade in things that only ancient families had in the first place. 

One of the gifts, he figured the abundance one, was of course to be a gift of money, though doing so was sometimes considered gauche. But he had already set up a trust for the baby Weasel, so he just dumped in more gold, and that was that. 

Narcissa said it was too much, but what the fuck was he going to do with it all? He’d transfer more on every birthday and any other occasion he was around for, as was per custom.

The other two gifts were more difficult to interpret, and finding suitable items was made harder due to the actions he had taken weeks before.

After thinking on it, for quite some time (for several hours after several whiskeys), he had decided the Black heirlooms were no longer his to bother with, anymore. 

There were other Blacks.

His Aunt Andromeda took some cajoling to come by the Manor, but Bopsy was an excellent promoter. She could persuade anyone to do anything. Look at Draco! Still alive!

At first glance, Andromeda looked more like Aunt Bella than his mother, but still, there was enough resemblance that it was painful to linger on any of her features for long. 

“You should know,” she said as she stood in the foyer, a small boy with turquoise hair glommed onto her leg, “no matter how our relationship really was, I had always hoped we would reconnect, your mother and I.”

“I’m sure she felt the same,” he said, his nose burning as he shoved anything that might resemble a feeling, elsewhere. They stood awkwardly, silently, before he realized that as host, it was his job to move them and the conversation along.

Theo or Pansy usually did it for him.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why my elf demanded you here,” he started as he led them through the house, into his mother’s drawing room. Andromeda gasped as she stepped in. “What? Are you alright? Did Bopsy threaten you with bodily harm?”

It wouldn’t be the first time…

“No,” Andromeda shook her head, ruffling the boy’s hair before pulling him close. “This looks just like our grandmother’s parlor. Cissy was always keen to nostalgia.”

Draco didn’t know what to do with that, so he motioned for them to sit. “I see.”

After they’d gotten their tea, and a juice for the boy, and plenty of sweets, and a packet of crayons and a magical scroll to draw upon (it turned drawings into moving pictures)… Draco took a deep breath.

“I have been doing some cleaning. Some rearranging. As you might imagine when one family resides in the same home for 1000 years, you tend to accumulate a number of things and frankly at this point it’s ludicrous. Then you factor in all my mother’s possessions from the Black family, and…”

Andromeda watched him, her deep set eyes narrowing.

“All this to say, I would like for the Black heirlooms to be passed along to you. And then,” he gestured to… he wanted to say… Ed? “I assume he has nothing coming to him from his own father’s side?”

“No,” she shook her head. “This is generous of you, I suppose, but we live modestly. I would love to take a look, and see if there’s anything I could take off your hands that we can manage, but I’m afraid I just don’t…”

“Right, right,” he nodded. “The whole business of being disinherited, yes. A nasty one, that.”

“A nasty one,” she repeated, letting out a small laugh.

And it sounded just like his mother.

“I’d already considered that, however. The lack of space, so I should have been clearer, part of the Black inheritance is real estate. You needn’t make room, I’m giving you room. Rooms. Plural. Dozens. I’ve even thrown in several roofs. A fireplace, or eight.”

Andromeda ignored his attempt at levity. “I’m not going to remove Harry from Grimmauld Place, if that’s what you’re referring to, Sirius was fully within his rights to leave it to him-”

“I am not evicting Potter,” Draco said cooly. “Even if I wanted to, which of course I do, Grimmauld Place was never my mother’s.”

“It’s the only Black property I was aware of,” she started.

“Quite right. But Mother bought several places over the years herself, and kept them in her name. I’m not even sure how she did it, I suspect bribery.” He smiled at the thought.

Fuck, he missed her.

“She had a small castle just outside La Roche-Sur-Yon, and another in Catalonia… though, I should warn you, the Spanish property is more a country estate than anything one would refer to as regal. It also comes with more horses than strictly necessary. They’re cared for quite well, you won’t have to worry. Ezekiel’s family is originally from the Iberian peninsula.”

Andromeda pat the boy absently on the head as he scribbled away on the scroll. 

“Who is Ezekiel?” She asked.

“Oh. One of my elves. His brother, Nebuchadnezzar, is in charge of the stallions at the Spanish property. Bopsy’s second cousin is the head elf in France. We try to keep it all in the family.”

“Draco, I can’t take your homes.”

“They are not my homes,” he shoved a folio toward her. “They are yours. At any rate, the Black heirlooms I mentioned earlier are peppered through-out, the truly strange ones tucked away in the cellar of the castle. Along with some wine, of course.”

“Draco-”

“Before you refuse, taking receipt of these properties would be doing me a large favor. I am just one person, and I already live in excess. Look at this place.”

She nodded.

“And… I have no family.”

“You will, some day.”

He shook his head. “I do not believe that is so. However, should I, the Malfoy holdings will be more than enough for them and the next 20 generations.” He looked down at his lap. “You were shoved out of the family you were born into, and then lost much of the one you made on your own, and I know a house or two and your mother’s bloody pearls don’t fix this sort of thing. But I’m not sure what’s happening, here. Here in our world. Our country.”

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes.

“I should think you’d lead a safer, better life outside the UK.” He looked to the boy. “He might do better elsewhere, at the very least.”

“I can’t accept this. I made my peace with my family long ago-”

“Then sell it all,” he offered. “Or I can sell it for you, I have a friend who specializes in such a thing. But I’m sorry to say Aunt, what’s done is done. It’s all yours.”

He tapped on the folio.

“When would you like to tour the castle?” He leaned back, saucer in one hand, tea in the other, and took a sip as Andromeda slowly opened the folder and thumbed through the deeds. 

After three more, “I can’t possibly accept all this”, Andromeda allowed Draco to take both her and the boy (Teddy, evidently) to see the properties.

They left the UK a week later, under one condition. 

“I’d like you to come by for a dinner,” Andromeda said in a way Draco knew quite well. It wasn’t a suggestion, or a question. He would be coming by for dinner. “Once a week?”

“How about once a month,” he countered.

“Once a fortnight, then. Every other Saturday?”

Draco figured there would be some sort of concession in this vein. That Andromeda would feel compelled to mother her sister’s orphan.

He just hadn’t been prepared to be amiable to the idea.

“I suppose that will be fine,” he said, agreeing to arrive at 7pm in two days time.

Without any Black heirlooms to trifle with, Draco had considerably diminished his pool from which to pull appropriate Tribuo mementos. If galleons were for abundance, couldn’t prosperity be the same? Could it be that simple?

As it turned out, no. It could not. Narcissa insisted each gift needed to be unique, whilst teenage Narcissa just continued to be rude.

“Perhaps you could trouble yourself with using your brain. Or haven’t you one?” She sneered at him in a cornflower blue dress, standing next to a Palomino pony, stroking its velvety nose.

“You’re my mother, why would you assume your own son was brainless?”

“A son who let me die, according to the rumors of the canvas, so forgive me if I don’t trust your intelligence or compassion.” The horse whinnied. 

See? Bitch. Both of them.

“Darling, it needs to be something to spur prosperity surrounding the beholder. Something that leads them to discover their own promise,” the other Narcissa told him. She sat in a deep emerald settee, the rose garden at her back, her hair pinned carefully atop her head. “Who is this for, again?”

“Pansy’s baby.”

“Oh, Pansy,” the older woman smiled, before her eyes went wide, “is this to mean- are you? Am I to be a grandmother, Draco?”

He rolled his eyes. “She’s married a Weasley.”

“A Weasley!” Narcissa gasped. “Oh dear. What must her parents think?”

“Nothing, I assume. They’ve disowned her.”

Narcissa grimaced. “They always were ugly, weren’t they?”

“Inside and out,” Draco sighed. “I think Pansy did something with her nose, speaking of that. Anyway. Prosperity.”

In the end, he chose a little puzzle box that would only open when the receiver (the Park-Weasel) had enough intelligence to decipher it… which for the spawn of a Weasley might mean the child would never figure it out- a risk Draco was willing to take. Should it be smarter than the average ginger, it would open the box to find a dose of Felix Felicis.

There were several doses inside, and the box would restructure itself to increase the difficulty of solving it, and once the final dose was dispersed, the whole thing would turn to ash.

Draco thought about keeping it, who didn’t want to be lucky?

But he didn’t need luck, because he didn’t do anything.

It was wasted on him.

And really, what was more prosperous than a spell of luck?

Enlightenment was a harder get, but he had something he felt fit the bill, though it was unconventional.

For the gift bestowed upon the new parents, he chose a set of ruby amulets that were connected such that they could Apparate the wearer(s) to and fro. He knew, had he a child, he would make use of it often, as safety was paramount and the amulets allowed for unfettered access. 

It was really the best gift he could think of, and he hoped they’d find use for it.

The necklaces would have been nice to know about when he was fucking around with that cabinet, but Narcissa assured him they wouldn’t have worked. “They’re only for blood relations, dear. Which is to say you must keep them for your own family.”

Which settled that. Off to the Weasleys.

It was a nice enough house, the one Pansy and the Weasel settled upon. Better than the Leaning Tower of Ginga out in the sticks, at any rate. When Pansy first mentioned it, she’d been reining in her own excitement. “It’s a bit out of our price range, but if they’ll take what we offer, I think we can swing it,” she’d told him over tea one day.

The original owners of house ended up taking the offer, but such providence might have been aided by a certain someone telling the estate agent he’d pay any difference in the asking price versus the Weasley’s offer, plus 2%. Then he demanded the deal be a secret, and should either Pansy or Ron find out, he’d kill him.

Not kill him, kill him. It was a turn of phrase!

Not to be taken literally.

Though Draco had a feeling the estate agent took it quite literally.

“I’ve been threatened over this property more than any other in my 74 year career,” the agent sighed as he shook Draco’s hand.

Oh, well.

With the gifts tucked neatly into extendable pockets, Draco walked slowly through the neighborhood, coming upon the house after a lengthy stroll. It was drizzly, for May, but not unwelcome. It was nice wandering about a strange road with houses he’d never seen, in a place he’d hardly been. Peaceful, even. 

He turned up their cobblestone walk and knocked on the door, fishing the gifts out as he heard steps on the other side.

“Welcome, Malfoy,” the Weasel King said, taking the proffered gifts as he led Draco through the entry hall. “I’ve got to say…”

Draco held his breath, slowing to a stop just before the hall spilled out into the kitchen and living spaces. He was going to be kicked out. Or something equally embarrassing and, frankly, warranted. Last time he’d been invited into their home, he ran off Granger within 15 minutes.

It was only right he was asked to leave so she could attend the Tribuo in peace.

“I love that bloody spoon,” Weasley clapped him on the shoulder. “As you likely know… Pans isn’t the best in the kitchen, nor am I, if I’m being honest.”

“I’m aware.”

“And I, well. Some would say I live to eat…”

“You don’t say,” Draco was sure there was something currently tucked into the Weasel’s cheek. Freshly masticated and waiting for the conversation to end before he’d swallow it.

Honestly what the fuck did Pansy see in this man?!

“Absolutely brilliant. Yours is the only thank you note I owled personally, believe it or not.”

“Shock after shock, Weasley,” Draco said. 

“Can’t wait to see what you have in store for today! You’re like a gift-giving savant!” Weasley shook the gifts roughly, like the ogre he was wont to be, and ambled off- leaving Draco to stand lamely in the hallway, having just been complimented in a most genuine way.

It caught him off guard.

He took a moment before walking the last few steps down the hall, entering the main space where activity was flitting all around. A gaggle of gingers were already bustling about, spelling streamers and lanterns and plating snacks. Draco noticed his spoon on the counter.

“Oh good,” Theo appeared at his side. “Blaise is engrossed in a conversation with Granger, Potter didn’t even show up… I can’t speak French. What am I to do? They had me frosting a cake.”

“Ingrates,” Draco muttered.

George, the twinless man, was arranging the gifts. Bill, the wolf one, was helping his Veela wife with the cake Theo had “frosted”… by re-frosting it. Draco couldn’t help but cower in the man’s presence, so encumbered by the weight of his own guilt. Last time he saw him, at the Weasel’s birthday, he escaped to the patio as to not force the man to share the same air as the person who allowed Greyback within his reach.

Draco hoped it helped that he wore the scar well. It made for a very intimidating look.

The mother and father Weasleys were fawning over Pansy, who… seemed perpetually uncomfortable. He couldn’t imagine putting himself through such a thing. Having his middle quintuple in size? Swollen ankles, sausage-like fingers? Constantly being on the verge of either tears or vomit?

Terrible.

He wouldn’t last 10 minutes.

She sat in the corner, next to an empty chair (Draco assumed it was the Weasel King’s, who was still busy answering the door and handing presents to George), as her in-laws got her cool drinks, and snacks. The mother Weasley put Pansy’s (comically overstuffed) feet up on a stool, and charmed a frond from the nearby palm to fan her. 

It was quite a fuss, and Draco wasn’t the only one judging it.

He overheard the Veela say, “Quand je suis arrivé dans cette famille, tout ce qu'ils m'ont donné, c'était du fil à retordre... les hypocrites roux.” A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, and her silvery hair swished as she made eye contact with him, shaking her head. He hadn’t anyone to practice his French with, now that his parents were gone, but he understood it to be something to the effect of: “When I came to this family all they gave me was a hard time… the ginger hypocrites.”

Over the past few months, he had come to a decision as to how he felt about Pansy marrying the Weasel King. Though he didn’t understand it, and though he thought she could do much better… he decided he was happy for her. She seemed to actually like her life, even as various parts of her body grew uncontrollably and her skin fought to contain it all… even with the knowledge that she would soon birth a potato-shaped ginger baby…

She was happy.

This was good for her.

And how could he begrudge her that (anymore)?

Blaise was sat next to Granger on the sofa facing Pansy, while the Weasel She haphazardly hung the streamers- a task that likely could have been done prior to the guests arriving, but he kept mum about their lacking propriety.

What his face did, or rather how it looked (condescending, disgusted, abhorred), was out of his control, really.

There were others around, but Draco didn’t care to note them, their appearance or their actions. Weasels from top to bottom, and then also those who descend to meet the weasels and either exist or procreate. What more could one say?

He did notice that missing from the fray was the dragon tale Weasley, who, incidentally, he would have absolutely cared to notice.

What did he do, this ginger dragon man?

Draco still refused to ask.

Barstools were sat behind the sofa, and he headed to them after saying hello to Pansy and assuring her he was happy to be there, honest, he was.

Just chuffed, he said, and she scoffed, turning her attentions to a glass of lemonade floating by.

The room was sparse as far as decor, but, he knew they were going to make this home their own, and would add things to it as time and galleons allowed. Something about that moved Draco, it was equal happiness for them (Pansy, mostly) and a touch of jealousy.

They had a home. He had a Manor. 

It would never be his, it belonged to the Malfoys, whoever they tended to be.

“Well, it’s getting ridiculous, is all I’m saying. So I am choosing to be indifferent to the whole thing, and perhaps it’s for the best I’m no longer involved,” Granger said bitterly to Blaise, who glanced behind and tapped Draco on the knees as he sat.

Since he forced her into the meeting with Rookwood and she set off into the sunset in a blaze of fury, he hadn’t seen nor heard from Granger.

Not that he would.

They didn’t correspond… try as he might.

“I suppose you’re right,” Blaise nodded. “For instance, if I have to read one more article about Draco Malfoy’s date-”

Of which there were none. 

The romances frequently pinned to him were purely speculation.

There was no one. 

There never would be. 

“Or Draco Malfoy’s eyes-” Blaise rolled his own as he noticed Draco’s smug look. 

His eyes were a striking color… there was no reason to deny it, so, it was understandable so many felt compelled to pay homage in writing; he could hardly blame them.

Though, last they mentioned them, the “article” in question was placed beside an advertisement for a new potion to color irises a shade of iridescent chrome.

He did not assume this was a coincidence. 

And he’d yet to see a cent from such egregious marketing tactics exploiting his likeness. Furthermore, it was unlikely a potion could mimic what the gods so rightly bestowed upon him. Not everyone could pull off such coolness in their gaze.

He was special.

His mother had always told him so…

“Or his sodding thighs-”

He swallowed a laugh and did his best to not look any sort of way about such a thing.

Really, the Quidditch pitch was just past the garden! Who would he be if he didn’t take full advantage? And how they even knew about his thighs, he was unsure. He had never been pictured without trousers.

To his knowledge.

“What are we talking about?” Theo sat, leaning forward as he handed Draco a drink. “Draco’s thighs? Sturdy, aren’t they?”

Theo grabbed one of the ‘sturdy’ bits, squeezing, which pitched Draco forward into Granger’s hair. Before he could extricate himself, he practically inhaled it, shoving Theo hard as he regained his balance.

“Boys…” Pansy said, her eyes narrowing at them from her maternal throne.

Draco waved her off, as Granger swatted him away.

“We were discussing the Prophet,” Blaise said.

“Well, they’ve always been lacking in integrity and acuity,” Draco said, sipping what he thought to be a whiskey sour. Theo did not take orders. “They’ve got Granger on the payroll, for Salazar’s sake. Terribly low standards.”

Granger turned, slowly, to address him- smoothing her hair, her nose flared as if the very look of him disgusted her.

“Then things are looking up indeed, Malfoy,” she sipped at a glass of pale pink wine.

“What?”

A smile warmed her face but was disconnected from her eyes. “Have no fear, your Thursday mornings will no longer be consumed by the musings of Hermione Granger,” she said.

“Ugh,” he exhaled, unable to miss the look Blaise gave Theo. “Have they moved you to Sundays? To the prime? Well, congratulations are in order, Granger, but I’m not sure you’re up to the task. You must’ve realized that, on some level. It does not do to lie to ourselves. The big leagues, brava…”

“Draco,” Blaise warned.

“No, in fact, I’ve been relieved of my duties entirely,” Granger’s voice was flat, cut short as she took a larger swig. 

“What?”

“Last week I had two jobs,” she hummed, a little tipsy, “and now… I have none.”

She laughed, but he did not think it a funny thing to joke about.

“What do you mean?” His tone was clipped, his voice loud. She wasn’t making any sense.

She couldn’t be serious.

“Oh, dear,” Theo said under his breath, taking a drink.

Blaise looked as if he wanted to extricate himself from the conversation, but doing so would jostle Granger and she was looking more forlorn by the second.

“My last article was Thursday. They let me know last night,” she explained, turning her back to Draco once again, then addressing him over her shoulder. “That’s that, I guess.”

He nearly laughed, so funny was the thought that she believed this conversation over.

“Did they say why?” He demanded, leaning over the back of the sofa and into her space.

“No…” She shrunk from him, an elbow on the sofa’s arm to hold herself up. “And again, I don’t see why you’d care, Malfoy? Now you don’t have to send a hateful note every week, you absolute arse. I’m still mad about that, by the way. I haven’t forgotten.”

“They cut your column?”

Granger pushed back, her eyes wide.

“What are you now? Pretending to be an idiot?” Granger asked, her sudden change in posture forcing him to retreat, lest they… well. Their faces were quite close. Draco swallowed, but Granger was unruffled, he could smell the wine on her breath. 

“I don’t know how much clearer I could be,” she said. “I’m done.”

The Weasel King interrupted Draco’s response, which was fine, because he didn’t have one. 

Dread filled his every pore as he straightened, still gripping the back of the sofa with one hand. 

Granger’s column was one of the only things he looked forward to, at all. It tethered him to life when he was at best, adrift and unlikely to return to any semblance of what he once was. 

Whether he hated her point of view or shared it, her words pulled feeling from him when he could feel nothing at all.

He had grown attached to it, to his routine therein, to the way the regimen soothed him. Reading, research, response.

His finger tips started to go numb and panic flooded the nerves peppered across his scalp, tightening it, until it stung.

It was obvious Granger poured herself into the message behind every one of her columns. She gave it her time, her experiences, her feelings, even her past. She layered it with a vast knowledge of a ridiculous amount of subjects, filling it with insight and provocation. He was sure anyone who read it regularly could not help but be slowly changed into a more approachable, thoughtful person. 

It wasn’t something he ever intended, but it was obvious that even someone like him, someone rather hopeless on all fronts, was susceptible to such gentle reformation. 

Granger, while being one hundred other disreputable things (annoying, exasperating, terrifically un-fun) was also plainly good, and further more, she made sense. There was no other way to spin it.

His throat felt like he had his own hands around it, slowly tightening until he was sure he couldn’t swallow, couldn’t be pressed upon to breathe.

He said his goodbyes, or maybe he just said something about the loo, and stumbled into the perfumed spring afternoon, uncaring of any confusion left in his wake.

Hermione

Malfoy’s bizarre and sudden departure from the Tribuo did not really rate, for Hermione. Likely something had set him off, or perhaps he had some sort of date (he seemed to have any number of women, according to Rita Skeeter), whatever it was, she looked back and he was gone.

She didn’t really care, though. 

She had bigger things to worry about than Draco Malfoy and his social calendar.

She was jobless, and at a party for a baby who wasn’t even born yet, guzzling whatever wine that was currently being poured.

Things were looking grim.

As the party continued on, she had another glass of blush wine and shared a plate of hors d’oeuvres with Blaise, who was honestly a gem. Theo settled himself on her other side, with a plate stacked with cake and three tall glasses pinched by his fingers, filled with crystal clear liquid and lime slices. 

“Caipirinhas, darlings,” he said, handing one to her, and gesturing the other at Blaise.

“Should I be getting drunk at a Tribuo?” She asked.

Theo laughed, smiling at her most wickedly. “That’s the most Muggleborn thing I’ve ever heard come out of that mouth,” he pressed a finger upon her lips. “Of course you should.”

“Watch it,” Blaise warned, taking a drink from Theo as he knocked his hand away from her. “And yes Granger, drinking is a big part of our culture.”

After a while, Theo was funny and flirty, Blaise was terribly interesting, and Hermione had a hard time figuring out why she didn’t hang out with them all the time.

“I guess that just leaves Malfoy’s,” Ron said, taking three small packages and one envelope from George.

Oh, right.

Malfoy.

The scourge of decency and good times. Why did such delightful people bring someone like him around?

Hermione trilled her lips, thinking about him in an absent, liquor-laden way. 

How when he lurched forward like a buffoon as Theo pinched his thigh, how he landed at the nape of her neck. How she felt him inhale.

How odd.

The Tribuo in general, for her, was a foreign event. It was a deep-seated Pureblood tradition, but one Hermione hadn’t been privy to- Ginny didn’t want one, Fleur didn’t hold the same traditions, and Hermione didn’t know any other person with child.

Most of the presents were little trinkets, or excursions for the future, all seemingly random things. In theory it was supposed to be items passed incestuously (ahem, ancestrally) from Pure to Pure. A way of sharing their shared history.

Puke.

She felt the grimace of her judgement upon her face and tried to fix it before anyone else noticed. Likely she should stop drinking so she could control her own expressions, but then again…

She got a nice camera for Pansy and Ron, which was actually a prototype for a new Wizarding camera she could never actually afford, but it was sent as a sample to the Minister. 

Businesses were constantly sending the Minister (regardless of who he was) gifts, new products and special edition bric-a-brac. The camera arrived on her desk just as she was packing to leave after quitting, along with a pint of a new flavor of Florean Fortescue’s ice cream (Rookies and Cream) and a set of quills.

She took all three.

Her severance packages, as it were.

The ice cream was delicious, which annoyed her.

For the baby, she bought a pram- fresh air and new scenery were entirely important to a growing babe, she figured. But it was bloody expensive and thus she had to be mindful of coin when figuring out the other two. Especially since when she bought it weeks ago, she’d been gainfully employed two times over.

To strike a balance with all the money she didn’t have, she decided on a book for the other present. Hogwarts, A History - which she really felt was sort of perfect, because by the time the baby was old enough to go, a different volume would be in print and thus this one might have details that either changed over time or were no longer relevant… a veritable treasure hunt!

Then for the third gift, another book. Flourish and Blott’s was having a two-for-one sale, so she snagged, Beginning Runes for Babies. 

Education was, after all, very important.

Malfoy’s first gift was money, which was shocking to absolutely no one at all.

“Oh, fuck,” Ron said as he read the card, looking out into the small crowd.

“Ronald Bilius!” Molly admonished, leaning over his shoulder to take a look, her eyes going wide. “Oh, Merlin.”

“Yes, yes, he’s quite rich,” Pansy nodded as Ron showed her the card. She began opening the next, which was the gift for her and Ron. “Oh, well these are lovely, are they for-”

She looked up, scanning the room.

“Bugger, I forgot he left,” she said, sighing. “Pregnancy brain.”

Ron pulled a necklace from the box, then another, both small rubies on gold chains.

“What does the card say?” George asked.

“Oh, I know what those are,” Blaise said on an exhale, then bristled a bit as everyone turned to him. “Put one on, and Bill, you take the other.”

Ron did as he said, then stood to hand the other necklace to Bill.

Once they were fastened, Blaise continued. “Run outside, Ron. Past the fence.”

Ron’s left eyebrow ticked up, but he did as Blaise suggested, walking to the patio fence, hopping over it and jogging across the grass until he was 100 or so meters away.

“Grip the stone with two fingers,” Blaise instructed, his tone a bit off and Hermione couldn’t pin down as to why. He nodded at Bill, answering a question that hadn’t been asked. “Iungere.”

“You’re fucking kidding,” Bill said in amazement (garnering another first-and-middle-name exclamation from Molly), as he pulled down his chin to try to look at the necklace. He pinched the ruby stone, whispered Iungere, and disappeared.

Molly gasped, and Arthur squinted at Bill, outside, standing next to Ron. “There he is!”

“So it… Apparates someone?” Hermione asked, not fully understanding Bill’s amazement as they came back inside, this time with actual Apparition.

“It can Apparate someone anywhere, no matter the enchantment. If Bill was in Gringott’s vaults, and Ron pressed his, he’d land beside him. If he was in Hogwarts. If he was in Azkaban… anywhere in the world. No matter the distance, no matter the age or skill of the wearer, nothing can keep one necklace from its mate, no enchantment known to man. The only stipulation is the wearers must be blood related, so it can’t be used for spouses-”

“So one is for one of us, and the other is for the baby,” Pansy nodded. “We could be with her instantaneously, if something was wrong. Or she could come to us.”

“Her? She!” Molly screamed.

“It’s just a hunch, Mum,” Ron clapped her on the back as he returned to his spot next to Pansy. “These must be pricey, then?”

“No, they are irreplaceable and priceless, Ron,” Bill took his off and handed it over carefully. “I wouldn’t go around saying you have these. I would also set a spell to make them undetectable when you’re wearing them.”

“Wow,” Hermione said aloud. And loudly. “Why would Malfoy give something like that away?”

“Well,” Pansy shrugged, as if she were trying to put forth an air of nonchalance that the room wasn’t equipped for at the moment. “He’s actually very generous, once you know him…”

Theo snorted beside Hermione, getting up and heading into the kitchen. Blaise’s gaze was liable to bore a hole into the tile floor where he stared. 

Pansy looked between the both of them, closing her eyes a second before starting in on the other gift. “To Violet,” Pansy glanced up, “he’s sure it is to be a girl-”

“Seems everyone is…” Molly grumbled.

“Violet - ‘Luck is not chance, it’s toil. Fortune’s expensive smile is earned.’” Pansy held up an intricately carved box. “What is this? The rest of the note just says, ‘A muggle wrote that, but it seems fitting. Ask Granger to clarify’?”

“What?” Ginny looked to Hermione.

“What does that mean, Hermione?” Arthur asked.

“It’s, well. It’s part of a poem… by a Muggle poet, Emily Dickinson,” she said, coming across flustered. “Funnily enough I mentioned an anthology of hers a few months back in my column…”

Everyone stared at her.

“Anyway, uh, I think it means the truly lucky are the people who work hard…” she set down her drink on the coffee table in front of her. “What is the box, then?”

Everyone turned to Blaise, who was sitting quietly and making eye contact with no one. He sighed, relenting. “It’s a Japanese puzzle box, we found it when we were going through the Manor for…” Blaise cleared his throat. “You can’t open it unless you solve the puzzle, and when you do, you’ll find a vial of Felix Felicis.”

The group erupted in excited chatter. 

Liquid luck!

Obviously Hermione had seen Felix Felicis, back in sixth year. She’d even tried making it, to no avail.

Now, however, it was not only difficult (nearly impossible, she’d say) to make, it was a controlled substance, and as of three years ago, one component of it was banned. Ashwinders had gone nearly extinct, their eggs were on the endangered creatures list and thus the use of them for potion-making was strictly prohibited.

“Malfoy figured there’s ten in there,” Blaise explained, pausing as Theo noisily slammed ice into a glass in the kitchen.“The puzzle will reset every time, getting harder and harder, so I imagine he assumed as she got older she’d have a few opportunities.”

Ron stared at the box.

“I appreciate it, I really do,” he said, grabbing the box from Pansy and turning it over in his hands, “but doesn’t he want to keep this stuff for his own kid someday?”

“Let’s open the last one, Ron,” Pansy said, handing the small box over. Hermione had been interested to hear the answer to Ron’s question, but the Slytherins were all busy: Theo, making a ruckus in the kitchen, Blaise staring coldly at nothing, and Pansy, with the distraction.

Why would Malfoy give away this sort of stuff? Priceless Malfoy possessions? Even for the purpose of the Tribuo his choices seemed over the top.

It didn’t make sense, which just added to the long (and getting longer) list of things about Malfoy that were contradictory in nature.

Ron pulled at the ribbon (green) and a key dropped into his lap. “A key?”

“To the Manor library,” Pansy said, rubbing Ron’s shoulder. “With this in your pocket you can Floo in from just about anywhere. Draco insists it’s the most vast collection outside of Hogwarts.”

“Probably eclipsed it by now,” Blaise said, craning his neck to address Theo. “I’ll take one of whatever you’re doing in there.”

Theo made a grunt of acquiescence, aggressively jostling a cocktail shaker over his left shoulder.

Ron’s eyes went to Hermione, only a hint of a grimace on his face. “This seems like your sort of gift.”

She couldn’t help it, and smiled back.

It really did, didn’t it?

In the end Ron and Pansy received gobs of thoughtful, magically-leaning gifts for themselves and for the baby, Molly continued to passive aggressively insinuate that everyone was conspiring against her in keeping the baby’s sex a poorly held secret, Harry never showed, and Theo and Blaise righted their attitudes after two more drinks and spoke of Malfoy no more. 

Hermione side-alonged with Bill to the alley near her flat after Pansy forced her out, unwilling to let her clean, and after Bill declared he’d seen what she’d consumed and she couldn’t Apparate alone.

She didn’t disagree, and thus did not fight the kindness.

Really, she had half a mind to show up at Grimmauld Place and slap Harry upside the head.

What was he doing! 

According to Ginny, he was home with Lily and Albus… they “didn’t want to bring the kids” because “this was about Ron and Pansy” and “all their babysitters were in attendance”.

The last part was understandable, Hermione supposed, but it was becoming clear neither of them were going to make any effort when it came to each other.

She had to want it badly enough for all three of them, which was disappointing yet typical.

Bill walked her across the road and to her stairwell’s door, where she pointed to the top, to her flat. He refused to leave until she was in the door, which was silly because she had Harry’s cloak and thus could wrestle with her wards unbeknownst to anyone. 

But Bill knew why she took such precautions, and as such, stood, waiting. Her excessive imbibing had her undoing her wards for 11 minutes, which was a concern. She chastised herself as she re-started the spellwork, again. She couldn’t allow herself to drink so much if it was going to bar entry to her own home! Stupid. When the door finally popped open, he kissed her cheek and disappeared, thankfully without any admonishing comments about her current state.

Since last summer, when she returned home to find her flat’s wards and door compromised, anxiety about being out and alone followed her. The need to be a cautious, vigilant young woman was really cemented in her mind. 

Everything turned out fine, as she oft reminded herself. She’d been at Harry’s for dinner and come back to find her mangled front door, fully in view. It couldn’t have been a Muggle; she had a spell that hid the entire entry- her first defense. Someone had broken through that ward either magically or physically, and then hacked through the door with some sort of ax-like implement.

It was unsettling.

Harry brought Andrea Piccini to clear the flat and reset the wards. Since then, she’d been on high alert, though admittedly nothing had really happened since, other than the feelings of generalized apprehension and a few close-calls and minor accidents.

Not five minutes after she’d gotten in, reset the wards, changed her clothes, looked around in vain for Crookshanks and finally settled on the sofa, did an owl tap at her window, a parcel strung up with twine clutched in its talons.

She let the owl in to drop the box, offering it a bit of water before it soared away.

The box was addressed to her, in Gemma’s bubbly handwriting; in it was a folio of every column Hermione had written, a note from Mr. Jacoby that she had no interest in reading, and the miniaturized rolling cart she knew to be filled with Malfoy’s letters of choler.

She set down (hurled) the entire box at her fireplace, landing it with a thunk on the hearth, the contents tipping over into the grate.

She thought seriously of fixing herself a little fire, but then, she decided figuring out her evening’s sustenance was probably a better use of time and energy.

The letters would keep.

Dinner consisted of a hash of sorts with whatever veg was about to turn, a bit of left over rice, a plum that was nearly too ripe, seven walnuts (all that was left in the bag) and a hard boiled egg.

All washed down with a glass of cheap Pinot Grigio she’d picked up last week at Tesco.

And a chocolate bar; which did not go with the Pinot Grigio, at all.

The feast was consumed unceremoniously as she stood over her sink skimming a book: an un-authorized biography of herself she’d found in the bargain bin at Flourish and Blott’s. She was offended she’d been discounted in the first place, then doubly so when the book turned out to be rife with errors.

There was no integrity in journalism, anymore.

After tidying the kitchen, and washing the pan, the dish, the fork- she re-filled her wine glass (her only wine glass) and booted up her computer. She’d originally purchased it because her flat was plumbed for electricity, and she’d needed it for Cambridge.

Now, she kept it because it was the only way she kept in touch with her old classmates. 

But [email protected] had no new messages save for a mass solicitation for happy hour at Wetherspoons.

After washing her face, changing into pyjamas and flipping on the telly, she fell asleep on the sofa, twenty minutes into a reality singing competition she TiVo-ed, her last glass of Pinot Grigio untouched.

She spent the next day organizing her entire flat, which only took two and half hours, so she spent the rest of the day walking around Hyde Park. For her evening entertainment, she took herself to a children’s movie about a clownfish. For one reason or another, she cried twice as she shoved popcorn in her mouth and drank her Coca-Cola.

She spent the next day in Hogsmeade, then Diagon Alley, in an effort to apprise herself of available jobs. She had already reached out to six departments within the Ministry, receiving owls of regret a little too quickly for anyone to have actually given her any thought.

She figured if worse came to worst, she could work at a bookshop, dipping into her savings if need be.

If it came to that. 

Such a realization, that she was blackballed from the Ministry and basically kicked off the career path she was (fairly) set on, was so grim, she stopped at the Tesco for two more bottles of Pinot Grigio and didn’t leave her sofa until she was nearly done with them.

Her eyes snapped open at the sound of a beak tapping against her window, sunlight pouring into her flat. She sat up, glaring at the clock. Her vision was a bit blurred. Perhaps seasonal allergies?

Perhaps the Pinot Griege.

7am?

She rolled her eyes at herself, the act inviting a feeling akin to being stabbed through the eye sockets. 

She’d slept through her alarm… that she forgot to set… because she’d fallen asleep (a gracious title for what she’d actually done- lost consciousness with a half glass of wine in her hand) on the sofa, again.

Missing any part of her routine did not thrill her, but she was unable to dwell as the owl pecked harder at the glass. 

Come to the Prophet, now. - GSC

Now, was underlined, and retraced.

Hermione raced to get showered, her hair dry, her clothes on. She ate a banana as she spelled her hair, and nearly fell over as she hastily put on her shoes. She was out the door twenty-three minutes later, and walking up to Gemma’s desk four minutes after that.

Only, Gemma was not there. 

A young man sat at her desk, furiously scribbling on a pad of paper. 

The shag carpet was gone, replaced by a darkly stained hardwood, the walls a rich, warm white. There were plants, and paintings. 

The pea-green vinyl sofa that had nearly waxed the back of her thighs on several occasions was replaced with a lush looking settee done up in a navy velvet.

“Good God,” Hermione breathed, her eyes widening to take it all in. It was gorgeous, and subdued. Quite classic… thus quite unlike Mr. Jacoby.

“Can I help you, madam?” said the man at Gemma’s desk, looking up as he stood, his hands clasped in front of him.

“At ease, Mr. Walter,” Gemma said from Mr. Jacoby’s office, opening the door to beckon Hermione. “We’ll take some tea.”

Mr. Walter nodded, and whisked himself away.

“What is going on, here?” Hermione asked, struck silent as she followed Gemma into Mr. Jacoby’s office… which, much like the reception area, no longer looked like it belonged to an octogenarian with middling mid-century taste. “Gemma, what’s happened?”

“It’s been a strange few days, Hermione. Well, actually, it started Sunday, around dinner,” she said, leading her by the hand to a camel colored wingback in the corner, sitting in its match beside her. She smiled when Mr. Walter set their tea service on a small table. “Do you like what I’ve done with the place?”

She looked around more critically. Gone were the portraits of editors past, replaced with paintings featuring various renditions of flowers. The deep walnut herringbone floor continued into the space, obstructed by a Turkish rug of reds, blues and greens. Where Mr. Jacoby had a large, white fiberglass tulip table with eight chairs that looked like they belonged on a space station; Gemma had one of oak, surrounded by squashy cream boucle chairs. The curtains, previously irresponsibly orange, were now sheer yellow.

A bit Hufflepuff of her, really.

“It’s lovely…” Hermione started to feel ill. “Gemma, did Mr. Jacoby pass away?”

Gemma nearly spat out her tea. “No!”

“Oh, good,” she breathed.

“He has been fired, though,” Gemma said, then thinking a moment, clarified. “Well, sort of.”

“How? I thought he… wasn’t he the Publisher, as well? He owns the paper!”

“Not anymore!” Gemma set her tea down and clapped her hands together. “First thing’s first. I would like to formally ask that you return to writing your column, and to sweeten the deal, I’ve been authorized to give you a pay rise. The entire staff got one, not just you, in case that makes you feel any sort of way.”

Hermione held her tea in front of her mouth, pausing. “I thought the Ministry was putting screws to the paper, that’s what Mr. Jacoby said, he said it was out of his hands…”

“Well, the new Publisher doesn’t care much for what the Ministry says, it would seem. And the new Editor demands you take up your column once again.”

She stared at her.

“I am the new Editor, if that wasn’t already clear,” Gemma smiled. She took a breath and pushed it out, beaming.

She blinked. “That is amazing. I can’t believe it… I’m, I don’t know what to say…”

“Say you’ll keep your column, and say you’ll listen to me whinge at length about the workload… and you’ll not hide any of your opinions if you feel I’m moving the paper in the wrong direction,” Gemma said, taking a breath. “Promise me all that.”

“Of course,” she set down her tea and hugged her, leaning off her chair to squeeze her tightly. “Of course! I promise. I’m so happy for you! How did this come about, I don’t even- how?”

“Well, Mr. Jacoby owled me Sunday, around dinner, saying he had urgent business and needed me straight away. By the time I got here, he’d sold the Prophet to the new Publisher, and was having his House Elf clear the office!”

“And he gave you his job?”

“No… he had no say, anymore. Said he was going to Bermuda? ‘Far away from this fuckery’, I think were his exact words. And then he just, up and Disapparated!” Gemma stood, walking toward the windows, the reflection showing her blissful face staring out over the street.

“Goodness,” Hermione said, her mind racing. “So… you just… named yourself Editor?”

“No, but that would have been a bit funny, now wouldn’t it? No. I was standing here, mouth gaping open, and in he walked…” Gemma’s expression went from pure elation to… reluctance. “Hermione.”

She felt herself go pale, blood pooling in her fingertips and roiling her stomach.

“No.”

It couldn’t possibly-

“He bought the whole damn thing, and when he strolled in here, looking incredibly dapper I must say- are you sure we are to hate him? Anyway, he asked me to sit-”

“No,” she said, firmer this time. “Gemma I can’t, now, I can’t-”

“You already promised!”

“You tricked me!”

Gemma hurried back to her chair, a hand on Hermione’s knee as she sat, speaking quickly. “He and I had a chat, we had some tea, and he asked me loads of questions. For two hours, we talked about the paper, the world… and then he said he needed to leave,” Gemma bit her bottom lip. “As he was going he said that in his experience, the person in charge of the person in charge was really the boss, and the Editor job was mine, on one condition.”

“What was the condition? That you give Rookwood free rein to tell the citizens of Wizarding Britain the sky is falling because of the Muggleborns in their midst?!”

“Of course not.”

“What then?”

“It was that your column return, weekly,” Gemma said. “Above the fold.”

“No.”

“Hermione, I must remind you… you promised, and a promise between friends-”

“You’ve done a deal with the Devil, Gemma, and you’ve roped me in as collateral!”

“Draco Malfoy is not the Devil.”

“Practically speaking, I think he might be,” she said, her voice smaller than she’d like. “I need to go.”

She stood, smoothing her slacks. She had nowhere to go. She didn’t have a job. She had a column, again, it seemed. If she wanted it.

She wasn’t sure she did.

Half an hour later she was back at home, standing in the middle of her flat, her hands on her hips- glaring at the bin of letters from Malfoy. She looked away, worried she might set them on fire.

Stacks of them.

Hundreds.

Packages, too.

She could set them on fire, actually. He certainly deserved it. She could throw them away… but she knew she wasn’t going to, she lacked the self-control to stay away from something that pertained directly to her.

So she started to read.

The first few began in much the same spirit as the only other one she’d read, with belittling and venomous statements levied upon her en masse. Questioning her intelligence, her comprehension, her capacity to understand anything, at all.

October 18^th, 2001

Dear Ms. Granger -

I had half a mind to send a Howler, today. I can’t help but think you require the public shaming that occurs when a red envelope bursts in your midst and you’re dressed down for THE AUDACITY you must have to say such things about the Goblins-

It then went on for three pages about the Goblins, their rebellions, and the current state of affairs. To his credit he was factual and precise, whilst also being a hideous knobhead. And how shocking a rich prick like himself would be all for giving the Goblins a wide berth.

October 25^th, 2001

Dear Ms. Granger -

Are you insane? If we were to allow Muggleborn families such access to the Wizarding world, the Statute would be moot. Are you suggesting we repeal it, completely? You can’t be so stupid. 

Should we announce ourselves to the pitchfork carrying masses as they beat us to death, our Bombardas rendered moot as they mow us down with their auto-carriages?

Please tell me you’ll be first in line to lead us to our violent deaths… in which case, perhaps I shall follow…

He carried on about the Statute of Secrecy and its importance to both the Muggle world and the Magical.

Hermione loathed it, but, she didn’t exactly disagree with some of his concerns. His reasons were clouded by his hate, however. Hers was rooted in critical thinking.

Per usual.

But then… she noticed as the weeks went on, the hostility waned and curiosity took hold- she’d never in her life thought she’d see the day Malfoy sought her out for anything other than to abuse. She assumed every letter would read like the first: offensive, cruel and unnecessary.

But she was wrong.

January 25th, 2002

Dear Ms. Granger -

After reading your column on the value we (Wizarding kind) might find in the art of Muggles, I admit I was reticent to agree with you or even explore your point.

I obtained copies of the books you mentioned, and looked into some of the art.

I’ll come right out with it- I think this Da Vinci person was a wizard, Granger, and I’d like you to indulge me as I gather my reasoning as to why. And before you crumple this up, know that I am not trying to poke holes in all the examples you’d mentioned by claiming the great Muggle art was in fact, all done by Wizards. 

There is absolutely no way this Frank L. Baum was writing of real Wizards, but the stories of Oz were charming nonetheless.

Circling back to Leonardo-

By mid-2002, Malfoy was sending (mostly) thoughtful dialogue in response to any question or idea she posed that week, and in addition, often sent follow-up letters after he’d pondered matters further. 

He researched her points. 

He looked into the things she mentioned that he wasn’t familiar with (anything Muggle, essentially) and did his best to understand them.

He sent her things- mostly books she might be intrigued by that either aligned with or challenged her points, though typically in a scholarly and inoffensive way.

In one package was a Muggle fountain pen, one he alleged belonged to his great, great grandmother and was enchanted to never run out of ink- this, after she complained of the mess of quills and how Muggle pens were absolutely a better choice. 

He did admit he assumed his Grandmother stole the pen, as the Malfoys then and now were not really ones to go out of their way to endear themselves to Muggles. “Stealing their inventions seems apropos, however,” he’d written.

She had mentioned a cake her mother made, one that took an unreasonable amount of time by hand, but could be done by magic in less than a quarter of the time.

She was trying to express the idea that someone taking time to do something added to its value, and when everything was so easily had (as if by magic) it did reorient the amount of sentimentality she held with regard to effort. If something was easy, did it no longer mean as much?

He responded by sending her a piece of cake he must’ve had his House Elf make, asking her to rate it. Which completely missed the point, but was something, she supposed. 

“Bopsy is a bit heavy handed with the butter and I think it comes through in her pastries…” he wrote. “I fear my drastic weight loss whilst in Azkaban has scarred her permanently and I am now doomed to be slowly force-fed to my own death through the systematic, coerced ingestion of rich (but certainly tasty) foods.”

She tried the cake. She guessed it was under some stasis charm; it looked fresh.

The first taste? Wonderful. Godric.

She feared it was poisoned only for a moment, but moved past such a thought and devoured the whole thing, until crumbles of almond sponge and a smear of chocolate glaze were all that remained. The buttercream was perfectly composed, and Hermione had half a mind to pen a rebuttal to the allegations against Bopsy, who was not irresponsible with ingredients as Malfoy had inferred but instead obviously an authority when it came to confections.

But wasn’t it strange?

Malfoy had read everything she’d written, since his release. 

She mulled this over for some time, until the taste of cake was long since a memory.

He thought about what she’d said after he’d read it. He made an effort to understand what he did not. His points, since early 2002, were largely aligned with hers.

She felt he had to have realized early on she was never going to respond, and at some point had taken to treating the letters as some sort of diary to work through his own prejudices, thoughts and feelings.

But then, why the gifts?

By 3am, after reading well over 100 letters and opening 17 packages, Hermione fell into bed without doing her evening routine.

And then she woke, at 10:40am, have missed her morning one, as well. 

Luckily, she only had one place to be, and since she was planning on showing up without notice, it didn’t really matter the time.

She was going to get some answers.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven

I have even heard on good authority that I was dead

-

Hermione showered and dressed, going through the motions sans practical thought, as her many (many) thoughts were occupied elsewhere. She pulled on a pair of jeans and after sticking her head out the window to peer into the sky and feel the June air on her face, decided a t-shirt was good enough.

She Disapparated from the alley across her flat, landing on a greenway in Wiltshire. The midday sun stood brightly over Malfoy Manor, the behemoth of a residence not far in the distance. She squinted in its general direction, cursing at herself for leaving her sunglasses at home.

She walked down the road and turned down the lane, wondering why there was a road or lane at all? The Malfoys had been in the Manor since the dawn of time. She assumed all the land, as far as the eye could see, was theirs.

“Oh my,” she said aloud as she neared the fence line. Something was stuck atop the finials. From a distance she thought, well, she wasn’t sure, but it looked like… “Ah, yes, those are heads.”

The perfectly preserved heads harpooned atop the fence flanking the gate made this whole thing seem like a very bad idea.

It would be better if she sent him an owl.

She hadn’t been to the Manor since they’d been captured by Snatchers and assumed she’d never be back. There was a certain amount of torture involved she was determined to forget, but ridding herself of the desire to pursue knowledge (especially when it concerned her) was an impossible task.

So here she was, and she was not going to leave until she understood what the fuck Malfoy’s deal was.

“Are you going to announce yourself, Mudblood?” A stern voice rang out from the gate, the iron coming alive to form a large, ill-tempered mouth which seemed to do nothing more than sneer.

“It seems you already know who I am,” Hermione scowled. A curl blew across her cheek as a breeze smelling of linden trees whispered down the surrounding hills. She looked down herself, realizing no one had likely shown up to the Manor in a white t-shirt and flip flops. 

Ever.

“Or can you just sense my lesser breeding?”

“I know everyone who passes through me,” the gate snapped. “And yes. I can.”

“Just when I was starting to feel we shared a something special that blustery Easter,” she stood on her tip toes to see over the gate’s top lip. “I’ve come to see Malfoy, let me in.”

“Lord Malfoy does not care to have visitors of your kind.”

“Could you please tell him…” she thought for a moment. “Actually now that I think of it I am unsure how you communicate with him. At any rate, I would like to speak with him.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Oh!” The gate bent itself into a grin, then flattened. “No.”

Hermione blasted it with a stunning spell, which the gate found scandalizing, if she could say so.

“Are you daft? Why would a stunning spell work on a piece of metal?” 

“You seem to be a bit more than mere metal, don’t you?” She glared as she set another spell upon it, one which might inflict a smidgeon of damage.

The gate went silent, slowly dissipating into nothingness.

She nodded, straightening herself before bounding up the front walk, her stupid shoes slapping carelessly against her feet.

She was twelve steps past the beginning of the hedgerow when she heard him.

“Granger, you just set a Bombarda at my gate!” Malfoy’s voice sounded less angry and more incredulous. “It’s rude enough to just drop in on someone who is hardly even an acquaintance, then when you factor in property damage…”

She’d been eyeing the peacocks (they seemed a touch mischievous) and slowed to a stop as he spoke. He was halfway between her and the Manor steps and closing in, strolling with one hand in his pocket.

He was dressed casually, too, which felt strange to see. She reminded herself that she was showing up uninvited to his home at noon on the first Thursday in June. 

It was perfectly reasonable that he wasn’t in a suit. 

“It’s as if you were just dropped into the wild as a babe and had to figure things out,” he continued, eying her slowly, “then somehow got every thing wrong.”

No, of course he didn’t need to be wearing a suit. Look at her! She was indistinguishable from a co-ed grabbing a drink between study sessions.

She’d just never seen him in loungewear. 

Grey slacks that looked more like joggers and a moderately fitted (somewhat tight) grey t-shirt. House shoes.

Glasses.

“You’re wearing glasses,” she accused.

“Well spotted, Mad Eye,” he drawled. He had a book in his non-pocketed hand, splayed open with his fingers to save his spot. He held it up to her when she didn’t respond, still closing the gap. “I was reading.”

“What are you wearing?” She blurted out.

“I apologize, Granger, is my attire not appropriate for the meeting we did not have scheduled? And what about that Bombarda? Shall I bill the Granger estate for any damage? Though how much could I possibly repair with seven sickles and a well-worn set of steak knives…”

“Your gate needs better manners, does it spew slurs at everyone who visits?”

“Just a certain type of visitor.”

“What’s with the heads?” She was all over the place, intrusive thoughts masking the very real feeling of regret she’d come at all.

“Gives the Manor a certain je ne sais quoi, doesn’t it?” He continued at her glare. “Granger, why are you here delivering an inquisition and threatening my property line with violence?”

“I need to speak with you.”

He stared, looking down at her over the top of his tortoiseshell frames. “And what is it you’d call this, then? A dance?”

“Can we go somewhere?”

He started to gesture to the Manor’s doors behind him, but she cut him off.

“I’d appreciate staying outdoors,” she said. “It’s a lovely day, a shame to waste it.”

She didn’t know why she was being so pleasant to him, if you could call it that. They’d hardly had an interaction in months that didn’t end in shouting, vague threats of physical harm and one of them storming off. But his little display in Rookwood’s office, followed by the letters, had her confused.

“It is a lovely day,” he said slowly, taking off his glasses and hanging them by the collar of his shirt. “Fine.”

He led her around the right side of the Manor. It took eight minutes to walk, and they did so in silence. What did he need with all this? He was just one man!

They eventually made their way to a patio amongst the garden, the pavers laid in an intricate pattern on the ground, with meticulously trained grass serving as the grout, a set of four black chairs and a matching table atop.

Malfoy held out a chair for her. She frowned, and took another.

“Bop-”

Before he finished, an elf in a pink and white dress and a party hat popped into their midst. “Hello, hello Miss…”

“Granger. Hermione,” she held out her hand, the elf taking it as she curtsied. 

“Miss Granger! I, am Bopsy,” she curtsied again, this time with a bit of a bow and a flourish of her hand. “What can I be getting you, Miss? Cake?”

“Bopsy,” Malfoy shook his head. “Have you had lunch, Granger?”

“I’ve, well,” she hadn’t eaten anything, actually.

“Do you feel much like a sandwich?” Malfoy asked, summoning a pair of sunglasses and sliding them on. Another pair appeared in his hand, and he set them in front of her.

She didn’t want his sunglasses.

And she didn’t want his sandwiches, except, unfortunately, also- she did. If Bopsy was making them, if they were anything like that cake…

He continued, ignoring her crisis of conscience. “Bopsy, could we get a bit of a tea going? Plenty of sandwiches. Cucumber? Egg?”

“Smoked salmon…” Bopsy supposed.

“Need you even ask,” he said, his voice almost sweet as he spoke with the elf. It was alarming. “And maybe the curry chicken?”

Bopsy nodded, popping away.

“Oh, shit,” Malfoy snapped his finger. “Bopsy!”

She popped back in.

“Am I in a pimento mood, do you think?”

She looked him up and down. “I should say so.”

“Perfection,” he nodded. “And the pickled one, too? With the beets? And the carrots?”

“I’ll do them all!” She smiled so preciously at him, her eyes flitting to the side to look at Hermione as she quickly adjusted her hat and cracked away.

“She’s quite… spirited,” she said, finally relenting and putting on the sunglasses as the glare from his sodding hair was blinding her. “Thank you for these. For the sandwiches, the tea. And for allowing the intrusion.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, leaning back in his chair with his arms clasped behind his head. She didn’t move, but her eyes trailed down him, lingering on a section of abdominals that peeked out between the waist band of his pants, which sat just above his joggers, and the hem of his shirt.

“I’m not really dressed for tea, but you’ll have to forgive me… I’ve been imposed upon by a woman who will wear my glasses and eat my food but hates me viciously nonetheless.”

She grit her teeth. “Am I allowed to counter that, or would you consider it insubordination, Boss?”

“Ah,” he nodded, straightening up. “Right, then.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Now, Granger, you know you’ll have to be more specific. I do any number of things, any given day. How am I to know to what you’re referring-”

“I swear,” she took a deep breath, glad the tea hadn’t yet arrived as she’d be tempted to bath him with the scalding brew. How did he wind her up so quickly and efficiently? He looked pleased with himself. Like he was having fun. “Godric, I swear, it’s not just that you’re terrible, you’re so exasperating-”

“Mmm, yes, and those in glass manors shan’t throw the first stone…” He said, his voice lilting.

“I get it, you think I’m a maddening, hysterical, obnoxious, try-hard with an inflated ego and non-existent decorum,” she said.

He seemed to be moved to speak, perhaps to counter it, but instead ticked his head to the side. “I do, yes.”

“You think those things of me?”

“All that and more,” he agreed. “The word pestiferous comes to mind. I’ve not hid it, as you know.”

“Right,” she said. “Then why did you buy the Prophet and keep my column?”

“Just because I think you’re the worst doesn’t mean your voice shouldn’t be heard,” he shrugged. “The paper went up for sale, I decided to give it a go. It’s nothing to do with you, Granger, I can assure you. And I was supposed to be a silent entity, so, so much for this Sloan-Cates and her discretion. A worrying trait in journalism I’d think.”

“Why would she keep your secret, she thinks you’re vile.”

“Me?” He wrinkled his nose. “Why?”

“Because you are!” She shouted, and she was sure Malfoy was actively trying not to smile. She couldn’t quite see his eyes, as his glasses were rather dark- but he definitely seemed amused as her temper ratcheted up.

“I don’t think she does,” he said. “I’m terrific at reading people. For instance. Right now… you are perturbed.”

“What ever gave you that idea!?” She barked, sure there was a vein in her forehead swelling as her blood pressure elevated. 

She quieted as Bopsy filled the table with trays (upon trays) of sandwiches and canapés and crudités and a dozen petit fours. The elf then set a tea cup in front of her, pouring in the water, her gaze locked on Hermione the entire time. 

She fussed over Malfoy a moment more before clicking her little heels together and clasping her hands. “The perfect happy b-”

“Brunch, would you say, Bopsy? It’s after noon. A tea if I ever saw such a thing, and a brilliant one. Thank you,” he smiled at her, with just enough teeth to pull her focus and slow any higher thought processes.

“And I’m sure Granger would thank you as well, had she any manners…” he mused, shaking out a napkin.

Bopsy swung her attentions at Hermione, waiting.

“Oh!” Her hand shot out, touching Bopsy on the arm. “It’s a most gorgeous spread Bopsy, thank you so much. And, I would be remiss to not mention that Malfoy sent me a slice of cake you made-”

Bopsy’s eyes widened. “The Opera cake! Master insisted he wasn’t to use magic, it took him hours. He split that ganache the first and second time, Miss Hermione. Bopsy told him, Master, this is no good, and he was made to do it again. And again. Thrice in total.” She held up three digits.

“Ah, yes, well, it was divine.” She picked up a sandwich, unsure of what to do with her hands. She certainly wasn’t going to thank Malfoy.

Because evidently Malfoy, the rich wanker, made the cake?

The idea of him baking was strange enough, but it also meant he hadn’t missed the point after all.

She set down the sandwich, staring at the plate for a spell. What on earth was happening, here?

“Bopsy, I don’t know if you’ve realized, but Miss Granger was in the middle of yelling at me. I think she’d like to get back to it, if you don’t mind. Otherwise she might explode and ruin the gorgeous tea you’ve done up.”

Bopsy shook her head. “Bopsy will be going, but there will be no yelling. Not today, not on-”

“Thank you, Bopsy,” Malfoy said firmly. 

Hermione swore she saw the elf roll her eyes as she Disapparated on the spot.

Malfoy rested his hands atop his torso, slouching lazily in his seat. Hermione always noticed good posture, hers wasn’t the best, but somehow even slumped down, he looked elegant.

Even in house clothes.

“Can I be honest with you?” She asked.

He bit back a smirk. “When have you ever lied to spare my feelings, Granger?”

She took a bite of the sandwich. The curry chicken.

A delight.

She grabbed one of the egg ones. And a cucumber.

“Yes, well. Firstly I should say I am not completely in the camp of thinking you have feelings. And anyway…”

They chewed in silence. 

“When will the honesty start then? After your eleventh sandwich?”

She sped up her chewing, swallowing a large bit of cucumber and cream cheese before answering. “They’re very good, and I skipped breakfast, if you must know.”

“Why?”

“I was up late.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Yes!” She set down the sandwich, a feat of willpower most grand, and flicked her fingers absently. “I was up late, reading your bloody letters.”

“Oh,” he nodded. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why? They were addressed to me!”

“No, I meant, why were you…” he trailed off, as if something dawned on him. With a small shake of his head, he sighed and continued. “Finally deigned to read them, did you?”

“Please!” she said, shrill even to her own ears. “First of all, they were kept from me, for my own continued mental health-”

“How’s that going…” His eyebrow raised above his sunglasses, a look suggesting the answer was “not well”.

“If I had received them, you bet your arse I would have said something of equal nastiness and just as much acrimony, right back!”

“Yes, well, I had figured as much, but then… nothing. Not a whisper.”

“I repeat,” she said slowly. “I was not alerted to their existence until just before Ron’s birthday party.”

Malfoy nodded.

“Just what do you mean by all this, then?” She could hardly keep her hands from flailing around.

“All this then?”

“Malfoy!”

“Granger…” 

She definitely saw it this time. She was not imagining it. He was grinning! “Just what do you think you are doing?”

“In life, or-”

She stood, bumping the table with her thighs and knocking the chair back as her knees locked into position. “Fine, thanks for the sandwiches,” she took a gulp of tea, setting it down roughly. “Oh, and my reason for interrupting the nothing it is you do all day long, was to tell you in person that I will not be taking you up on your demand. My column is done. Goodbye.”

“Granger…”

She refused to turn, she solely wanted to stomp away. She would’ve Disapparated but she couldn’t, she tried. Likely only the Malfoys and elves employed by the Manor were able to come in and out as they pleased.

At least she assumed Bopsy was a free elf, though her assumptions had led her to invite herself to this disastrous, impromptu tea in the first place- so what did she know?

What did she know?

At this point it was clear that Malfoy was a generally reasonable person- which, admitting such a thing… it was less shocking to receive her Hogwarts letter.

Everyone she considered part of her life was supportive of her and nodded along as she talked, placating her causes and passions with or without gusto. Who was she kidding? It was typically the latter. 

She knew they loved her, but they did not always engage with what she said or did. And that was fine. She was okay with it. She knew she was an intense person, and such enthusiasm wore on the people closest to her from time to time. She had learned to be fine with the fact that no one liked arguing, or supposing or theorizing to the nth degree, like she did.

Enter, Malfoy.

Malfoy had spent more time listening to her by way of her column than anyone else in her life. This was the part she really couldn’t wrap her head around.

Did Harry read it? Sometimes.

Did Ron read it? Yeah, right.

The only person who read her column regularly was Mr. Jacoby!

But that was not what Malfoy did. 

Malfoy studied, and thought critically and… 

Cared?

Was that insane to assume?

She had to remove herself from the equation entirely because, what did it have to do with her, really? It’s not like her words changed him. She didn’t think she held that kind of power, no matter how righteous she felt her position on any given day.

If he generally believed how she did, as evidenced by his correspondence, how did that reconcile with all he’d done? And all he’d continued to do?

She never wanted Azkaban for him- she thought it was unfair to sentence a child to such things when he was never given a chance at something else, something better. That’s why she spoke at his trial. Even though she’d quite recently wished he’d go back there and leave her alone…

“Granger,” his voice was quieter, now, as she was nearly to the side of the Manor.

She couldn’t follow a single thread in her mind, her thoughts were staccato and she jumped from point to point unable to make sense of it all.

Where did he get off, being rational about the reform she spoke of in regard to Lycanthrope’s rights? She had to admit, her position was lofty. “Pie in the sky”, he’d said. And then, he went on to describe a complementary plan- one which would likely make nearly the same difference but actually had a chance at seeing the Wizengamot floor.

And instead of speaking such ideas aloud, he wrote them to her in secret, and shuffled along in the wake of Rookwood’s robes as he glared at her nastily.

She felt at her forehead. The vein was back.

He made her furious. He had all the ability, all the intelligence, every resource and connection- and he did nothing. 

He was a coward!

“Granger,” he said firmly, Apparating right in front of her, so close that she smacked into him and bounced off.

“A coward!” She yelled. And pointed. And poked him in the center of his chest.

He nodded. “While I don’t disagree, how did we get there?”

“Malfoy,” she took a steadying breath, trying to tamp down her emotions into something more even, more subdued.

Less.

If she wanted to be heard by people like him, she had to be less.

She’d at least figured that out, by now. 

“What are you doing?” He asked. “This breathing. The deep, ‘Malfoy’? It’s weird. I don’t like it.”

“I am trying to calm myself down, because when I get agitated, people like to use it as a reason to not listen. To discount what I’ve said or thought as hysterical and untrustworthy… or just, unimportant.”

He nodded and hung his head. “Right.”

“May I proceed?” She asked, not waiting for a response. “I think I am not out of line in saying that you have always been opposite me, or so I thought, in your beliefs.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Have I?” He asked as he started to walk back to the table in the sun.

Her hand twitched with the desire to smack him. If he was going to play stupid, she’d enlighten him to his transgressions.

“Yes.” She followed him, talking at his back. “You were the first person to call me a slur, to my face. You wished me dead. You floated the idea of me being sexually assaulted-”

He turned and the spark of mirth that had been emboldening him thus far was plainly snuffed out. He held his jaw tightly, staring toward the ground with his eyes obscured by black lenses.

“Then, well. You were intent on spreading your hatred of me, of people like me. You held yourself above it. You let him mark you,” she pointed to his arm, glancing at it as she shook her head. He slowed a bit, walking at her side. “You agreed to kill Dumbledore. And you didn’t, in the end, but…”

He shot her a look. “But what?”

“I don’t know how much it mattered, you had decided who you were, at that point. You’d been half in, half out, but then you just followed. You let them speak for you, you went along with it. You could have been worse, but-”

“But I could’ve been better.”

She nodded. That was always it. He could have definitely been worse, but his brand of semi-evil left a lot to be desired, anyway.

They walked, side by side, in silence. The strangest part was that this nearness to him didn’t feel all that strange. She’d become used to seeing him over the last six months, and after reading his letters the version of him she thought she knew was suddenly cast in the doubt of hope.

Why did she hope, where Draco Malfoy was concerned?

What good had it ever done her, least of all with him?

“Why are you so calm about me coming here?” She asked as she sat back down. “Inviting myself to your home?”

“It’s right in line with your character,” he said. He took her tepid tea and tossed it over his shoulder, pouring her another. “I am not trying to make you into something else. You don’t need to hold yourself back, I can handle it. I know who and what you are. Stomping over here. Flying off the handle. Sticking your nose into something you don’t know… or understand-”

“You think I can’t begin to understand you, Malfoy? You’re as hard to figure out as noughts and crosses.”

“Am I?”

Who was he to be so bold when she had scalding tea in front of her?

“Spoiled little boy, loved his Mummy and Daddy… went along with everything they taught him because why would they lie to their precious son? And obviously, they were the smartest people in the world so what they said had to be true. When things went to shit, the only thing that mattered to you was saving your platinum arse and that of your parents… and doing so sent you to prison,” she took a breath, thinking a moment. “Which is, well, it’s not funny. It’s absolutely not funny, and I mean that. But it’s a bit…”

“Ironic?”

“No. I feel this is categorized as more of a tragic and unlikely coincidence. True irony involves much more- it’s actually a hotly debated subject amongst scholars, I wanted to take a course about it at Cambridge, and,” she stopped, walking back her tangential thinking. “Never mind that, then. I just meant to say, you went to all this trouble to keep your family intact, and then they died-”

“Because of what I did to save them,” Malfoy took a sip of tea. “Yes. My just deserts, Granger. I’m well aware. Looks like you understand everything, after all.”

She stared at her empty plate. “You didn’t petition for early release.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why? If there’s anything I don’t understand, it’s that.”

He grabbed at a sandwich, one of the beet variety. She hadn’t tried that one yet, her hand hovering over it a moment before she helped herself. “Just didn’t seem to be the right move at the time.” What looked to be whiskey, in a cut crystal decanter, flew deftly to his outstretched hand from somewhere in the Manor. He tipped some into his tea cup, and upon his offer to top up hers, she shook her head.

She watched him, his long fingers twisting around the decanter’s beveled stopper as he corked it, then moved to drink from his cup. He held it with three fingers around the rim, tipping it back as he pressed the porcelain to his lips. 

She chewed absently on the beet sandwich whilst picking up a petit four, the white chocolate shell melting beneath the grip of her thumb and pointer as she continued to stare. “Correct me if I’m wrong-”

“Fear not, I shall.” 

She did her best not to roll her yes. “I’m starting to get the inkling that you…”

She looked him over again, studying his posture (perfect) and his hair (tousled, but in a way she was sure he intended) and his general look. He’d grown into a man with a sharp jaw and large hands and a muscular, well-proportioned frame. 

He was technically handsome. She’d been clobbered by the actuality of it every time they’d interacted since Ron’s wedding. Symmetry, elegant bone structure and spectacular hygiene generally coalesced into something akin to beauty, it wasn’t like she was attracted to him, but rather could suss out such obvious allure regardless of her personal feelings.

And it wasn’t one of those ugly duckling situations (Neville! Hermione could hardly look at the man!), either, as Malfoy had always been good-looking and well-kept. 

Though some would call him gorgeous, now.

She didn’t disagree- but. BUT! Such a fact did nothing to make up for the fact that he was also, terrible. 

A prejudiced, evil little twit. And no matter how cute he may have looked in his Slytherin Quidditch kit, or how well-tailored his dress robes were for the Yule Ball, or how handsome he happened to look sitting across from her drinking whiskey out of a tea cup, he was awful to her. 

He was so cruel.

And it made him hideous.

It was those damn letters that had her seeing things that weren’t really there, she was sure of it.

 “Out with it, Granger, contrary to the leisurely tea you’ve forced upon me, I haven’t got all day. I have halls to loom in. Ministry workers to frighten. I’ve a garden I’ve strolled through just the once, today.”

“Yes I’m sure your schedule is chockfull of coercion and the intimidation of government officials, I mustn’t keep you from your inherited duties for long,” she said, sucking the chocolate from her finger before she thought better of it.

Her mother would be disgusted with such unrefined behavior.

Her eyes flicked to his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

Utilizing her napkin, then running it through her fingers, she continued, keeping her eyes firmly planted anywhere but his throat. “After reading the letters, and thinking back on some incongruous moments over the past few months… I’m leaning toward the idea that you might not be the person you were intended to be.”

“What exactly are you asking me?”

“You absolutely know what I am asking you.”

“I absolutely do not,” he sneered. There. That was perfectly normal. “Are you again accusing me of igniting a coup whilst I was in prison-”

“Oh, you know that I am not,” she spat, “but speaking of coups, how’s your mate Rookwood, you hypocritical arsehole!”

“He’s just fine,” he enunciated carefully, leaning in. “He’s Minister. What more could he want!”

“You know what I am asking you, Malfoy!”

“I do not. I swear it. You’re as easy to figure as one of those colorful Muggle puzzle cubes!”

She frowned. What?

“Yeah,” he nodded.

She couldn’t be bothered with whatever riddle he was weaving. “Are you a blood supremacist, or not? Do you believe that in the hierarchy of Magical beings, that you’re on top?”

He folded his arms across his chest, kicking a leg out toward her as he leaned back in his chair.

“I think that magic is might.” He reached out and took a long sip from his cup. “I do. I’m sorry. But I really do. I think that Magical people are different than Muggles. We possess something they cannot.”

She twisted her napkin, listening and bursting with the desire to interrupt every other sentence.  

“I’ve lived stripped of my magic. It changed me, and I can’t even begin to explain to you how acutely without I felt, when it was gone. I was lacking. Magic is an extra bit of the universe we get to experience. There is power to it, and a connection to nature, to the earth. I felt incomplete when it was taken from me, and I imagine such a feeling is so well-known with the Muggles they hardly realize it’s there. But we know what can be, that a human can be more. I am very partial to our kind, Granger.”

“Our kind.”

“Yes. You and I. The Magical people.”

“I am Muggleborn.”

He looked at her as if she’d hit her head. “You don’t say?”

“Malfoy.”

“What? Are you telling me you’re not a Magical person? You are just about the most Magical person I’ve ever-” he stopped himself, pouring more whiskey. “I think we are better, in a way. But to that end I am not sure being able to levitate a table with the flick of a wrist is reason enough to lord over those who must instead just be reasonably strong to do the same, do you follow?”

“Yes?”

“It really harkens back to that column you went on about effort. It takes so little for me to do so much, whereas for someone like a Muggle, it would be work, work, work all the time. When do they have time for leisure? That cake took an entire day. How do they get anything done at all?” He sighed. “Anyway, Granger, while I admit I haven’t spent a lot of time with them, due to not wanting to spend time with them, the Muggles don’t seem to be unfamiliar with ingenuity. Look at bridges! Bridges are difficult to build, did you know? And they’ve made dozens of them, at least.”

“Structural engineering? That’s where their strengths lay?”

“It’s a good place to be skilled, you have to agree. Did you know they’re building something, they call it a sky scraper, have you heard of such a thing?” She nodded. “Right, well. It’s in Taiwan. It’s nearly as tall as three and half Quidditch pitches stacked end to end. What right do these people have being up so high, without a broom?”

She stared at him.

“Some might call it insanity but I say differently, usually.” He nodded. He seemed to be a little drunk, now. “Ingenuity, plain and simple.”

“How do you know about construction sites in Taiwan?” She asked.

“And then there’s their electricity,” he ignored her. “Quite captivating. It can power all sorts of things, almost taking the place of magic, which I don’t have to tell you as you’re the one who grew up that way. Which brings me to another realization you’ve so graciously slapped upon me.”

“Do tell,” Hermione plucked a carrot stick from the pile of carefully cut veg, chewing slowly as Malfoy went on. She’d never seen the man so chatty.

It was unnerving.

“I’ve started to think we, the wizards, we might be a little lazy? Look at all they’ve done. I sit here in a house that’s practically a relic of the Victorian era, while they’re living in the sky.” He looked back on the Manor, tilting his head as he took it in. “We trade in it, Granger. The artifacts. That’s the true wealth in our society; a bunch of old shit. We pride ourselves on living the exact same lives as our ancestors, while the Muggles continue to grow and evolve. It’s very interesting and I have you to thank for pondering it at all.”

She stared at him, more. She couldn’t trust her ears were hearing properly. Or rather that her brain was doing right by the incoming information.

“Did you know her? Or, know of her. She’s long dead.”

“Who?”

He pointed to the Manor. “The Muggle Queen? Victoria? I think one of my grandfathers dallied with a Queen, though I don’t believe it was her. Hmm. Anyway. We have Magical people. We have people without magic. All people nonetheless. You must already know this Granger, where exactly is your hang up?”

She was having a hard time ignoring the mirth oozing from his every movement, pulling at the corners of his mouth as he fought against it, trying to hid a grin. His words were quick and light.

Like he was having fun.

“But what of Pureblood, Half-blood? You so kindly introduced me to the term Mudblood...” She sipped her tea. “What of the hierarchy, isn’t that what this is all about?”

“I think those in power will use any excuse to keep themselves there, and the rhetoric will be forced to fit and to serve such a purpose.”

“So you are telling me you believe a Pureblood such as yourself is not inherently more Magical than a Half-blood? Than me?”

“I think that unfair, as both you and I have always been far north of the curve.”

“Indulge me, then.”

He sighed, skipping the tea cup, now drinking straight from the bottle. Yes, he was drunk. “Not in my experience, though I would say my worldview has been somewhat limited. Quite sheltered… in the name of the aforementioned purity, no doubt.”

Hermione couldn’t believe it. Malfoy was now aligning with her not only on paper, but in the flesh. In what world?

“When?”

Draco was staring off behind her, lost in thought. “What?”

“When did you start to think this way? You were obviously raised differently than this, and I want to know when you started thinking like a reasonable person.”

“Why does it matter? What does it change?”

“I just,” she trailed off. The problem was, she wasn’t sure. 

Why did she care, other than her incessant need to always be right?

It didn’t change anything. Especially when he still carried on like he always had.

It almost made it worse.

“I just want to know.”

He set the butt of the whiskey bottle against his thigh, scraping at the label with his thumbnail. “I don’t know. Likely, it’s when I met you.”

He refused to look her way. “You’re joking,” she said.

“I don’t joke,” he said flatly. “You are Magical, Granger. It’s impossible to deny. And lest I wander down the path of believing you usurped your abilities from some unsuspecting witch when you were a child, which- such an idiot would have it coming if they could have their very Magical essence wrestled from them from some thumb-sucking Muggle youth… I have to assume magic is magic. No matter where it comes from and whom it resides within. You and I are the same, in that way. It’s just a part of us. And no matter what I once believed, even if it was what my parents and peers believed, what they espoused constantly, it is hard to deny the irrefutable fact of you.”

The only thing Hermione could put her finger on was her strong urge to stand up and run away. 

“Then why are you still so hateful?” She asked, the words spilling from her mouth before something like her own shame could stop them.

“I,” he shook his head. “I don’t know.” 

The tone of his voice, something vulnerable and honest, prodded her to flee once more. So, this time, she grabbed another petit four and shoved it in her mouth before doing just that. “I’ve just remembered I have…” she chewed quickly and swallowed. “There’s a place I am supposed to be, right now. I need to go to there, to that place.”

“Alright,” he nodded, as she tucked in her chair. 

She didn’t hear him get up, and she was worried if she walked any faster away from him that she’d literally be running. 

Up the bloody hill, huffing and puffing, she cleared the side of the Manor where her trajectory was impeded by a wily peacock- the front walk just beyond his blue-feathered arse.

“No!” She shouted at him, scaring the poor thing into cowering near a bulbous hedge. 

Nearing the terribly aggressive heads shunted onto filigreed posts, she stuttered to a stop.

“Hermione?”

“Ron?” She looked around, but yes, it was not a figment of her addled imagination. It was Ronald Bilius Weasley, standing before her. At Draco Malfoy’s sprawling Manor. “What are you doing here?”

“An errand for my dear wife, who evidently believes owling a birthday present to the birthday bearer is in poor taste, but is too round in the ankles to reasonably deliver it herself.” He held up a gorgeously wrapped present, with black ribbon and paper covered in deep purple flowers, and Hermione’s head swam anew. “I’m trying to lure her here later for the party, though. Malfoy made it sound pretty nice.”

“What day is today?” She asked.

“Thursday,” he said, continuing at her glare. “June 5^th.” 

She had descended upon the man on his birthday.

Ron wrinkled his nose, looking around. “Are you coming, too?”

Draco

It was the most peculiar thing.

Granger came over, uninvited, and had herself a little tea. 

She yelled, she lamented, she questioned nearly everything, and then up and left.

Something spooked her, and she just… ran away? Which, fine. She was an erratic person, at her core, he’d always thought so. More surprising, she was obviously trying (and failing) to be well-mannered, which did not suit her in the slightest; he vowed to tell her so at his earliest convenience.

He got back to reading his book, which she’d interrupted by existing in his vicinity. 

Then not four minutes after she fled, there she was again; cresting the back hill, hair frizzed out around her face, a gift that screamed Pansy Parkinson tucked under her arm.

“What are you doing?” Draco asked, not looking up. “Is the place you had to go to, closed?”

“It’s your birthday.”

He raised his head, and pulled his glasses down a touch to look up at her. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I apologize Granger, I was under the assumption you possessed either a passing understanding of the way we move through time, or were the type of person to own a bloody calendar. Forgive me. I shall never assume your intelligence or preparedness, again.”

She set the present down roughly. “It’s not from me.”

“I’m aware.”

“How did you know?”

“This was wrapped with an elegant, practiced hand.” He blinked, setting his book down on the table. He was never going to make it through this chapter. “You seem the type of person to not know how to properly grip scissors. I bet you grab both sides and just hack away at things.”

“I do not!”

“Pansies,” Draco pointed at the wrapping paper. “For Pansy.”

“Oh.”

“Why do you have it?”

“I saw Ron as I was trying to leave,” she explained. “I told him I’d give it to you so he could go back home to Pansy.”

Draco watched her for a beat, then two. Then returned to his book. He’d hardly read a sentence, when she spoke again.

“Happy Birthday,” she said, still standing awkwardly near him. “23, yeah?”

He exhaled with as much annoyance as he could muster, which was a lot. “Granger, what are you doing?”

She threw up her hands, dropping into the chair she’d vacated only minutes before. “I feel badly that I came over here and interrupted your birthday.”

“So you decided to return to the scene of the crime, and continue such a misplaced interlude?”

She groaned.

“See, what I think, is… you are feeling for some reason or another that you should be nice to me. Either because I am now your boss, which, honestly I figured you had more integrity than that-”

“It’s not that!”

“Then what is it? You feel bad for me? You’ve finally realized I am but a poor, misunderstood, sensitive man?”

“You are hardly even one of those things.”

He frowned, wondering which one he only partially embodied.

“Why did you buy the Prophet, Malfoy?”

“It was a good investment. People get rich in publishing.”

“You’re already rich.”

“Right, right. Well… in that case, I desired to be less rich.” He sighed. “Don’t worry, I’ve already made the money back. Some off-shore investments are performing particularly well at the moment. Have you heard of petroleum?”

“Why did you buy it?”

He closed his book, letting his head roll back before answering. “I fancy myself a journalist and this was the only way to be sure to see my name in print without the ‘notorious’ subtext-”

“Why did you buy it?”

She was not going to let this go. He rubbed at his jaw, shaking his head. “I lost a bet with Theo?”

“Why did you buy it?”

“Because I love reading your bloody column!” He shouted, throwing his book down onto the table and knocking over a pile of carefully stacked celery. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but I didn’t assume you’d write it solely for me, even if I offered to pay!”

She nodded. “I read the letters.”

“And?” He looked around. “I believe we’ve already covered this, or is time on some sort of horrifying loop and we are to relive this delightful afternoon again and again?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Please,” he said. “Am I duller than noughts and crosses or am I the cube? I can’t be both.”

It took him three days to get that bloody cube to be the same color on each side. And then it didn’t even open to reveal a fun potion. Muggles were a lot of things but he was beginning to think they were at least partially masochistic.

“How do I reconcile the man who writes the letters, the man who is interesting, who is interested, who is kind and supportive… how is he you?” She asked, and he didn’t think her to be mean when she said it, just genuinely curious. “How is he the same man who has for years, consistently attacked me; in public and private, calling me ugly and terrible and unwanted? Even so recently as a couple months ago.”

Draco swallowed. Things had become complicated vis-a-vis Granger and he’d been dutifully shoving such complications away for some time.

Did he hate her? No. 

Had he ever held her in contempt? Most certainly. 

Did he continue to be hateful toward her even after such feelings of contempt were no longer relevant? Yes. Some would even say he doubled down with his nastiness.

Perhaps he was the cube. Confusing, tedious and in the end, overrated.

Or, he might just be a sociopath.

“I think it’s just my personality, Granger.”

“Your personality is being a complete and utter twat?”

He answered before he thought further. “You met my parents, you tell me.”

Mouth open to reply, she shut it, considering this. 

And she started to laugh.

Then he joined in.

A good minute later, he took off his sunglasses and set them carefully onto the table before anxiously pulling a hand through his hair. “Okay, I think, before we go further… there’s something-” he faltered as she wiped a tear (of laughter) from her eye. 

She smiled at him. He wasn’t sure she’d ever looked at him that way… and it felt weird.

He knew he wanted to apologize. It was long overdue.

He needed to say sorry for everything he’d ever said, or done, or designed to cause her pain- to make her second-guess who she was or what she was worth. 

He wanted to lay out his moments of cowardice and acknowledge them, he wanted her to see that he saw them, too. He knew who he was.

“What?” She asked, the laughter still shining on her face.

Dread ballooned in his gut as he looked at her, the sun casting gold about her hair. If possible she had more freckles now than she arrived with- and noticing such a thing made him queasy. 

There was nothing he could say to make everything okay. He couldn’t take back every insult, he couldn’t apologize in a way that would ever make a difference, or make sense. He continued to say terrible things to her when the night before he’d written her letters of practical adulation. It really was demented. He should see a Mind Healer, post haste.

“I-”

He had to do better. He had to put forth some sort of effort to balance the scales of all he’d done, but he didn’t know where to start. 

He was awful, at times. Especially to her.

That was somehow the bothersome part. He didn’t care that he’d treated others with the same disdain. He didn’t care that everyone else in their periphery thought he was a Pureblood prick, not least of all because they were largely right in thinking so.

He wasn’t a good man.

He wasn’t sure how to be, or if he could ever become one. But asking her for absolution without putting in any work was cretinous.

Though, he was not so willfully ignorant as to not realize there was something about her in particular, that enlivened him when little else did. 

Which is why he bought the fucking paper, of course.

He didn’t want to lose that part of her- even if he didn’t deserve to have it in the first place.

“I think I’d like to be friends,” he said, then quickly: “I think I’ve wanted to for a very long time.”

“Oh.” Granger nodded, looking around as she took a breath. She straightened the untouched sandwich in front of her, and then set her hands in her lap. “I think… no, thank you.”

His stomach flipped.

No?

“I don’t imagine we’d get on all that well. Considering the whiplash I’ve experienced knowing you as an adult these past few months, then reading those letters…”

Of course she wouldn’t want to be his friend. What was he thinking? Was he an idiot?

“You seem surprised.” She said evenly, her head bent to the side. “You seem surprised when you’ve made a concerted effort to be horrible to me our entire time acquainted; which I find a bit surprising.”

“Yes, well, when you say it like that, it does seem to be a strange request.”

“You’ve been awful to me since we were children, Malfoy,” she continued, her voice edging on annoyed. As if she couldn’t believe he didn’t understand why she wouldn’t want to be best mates. Why would a woman like her debase herself with a man like him? 

He got it.

He understood.

He shouldn’t have said anything.

Still, she blathered on. “I have more self-respect than to befriend someone who has for years, been a vocal opponent of every single thing about my person, including but not limited to: my looks, my voice, my personality, my aptitude, my heritage, my general demeanor…”

“Have you practiced this? You’re listing it off as if you’d memorized it long ago and no longer feel the need to speak with inflection or interest,” he glared, rubbing his temples. “And since you mentioned it, the pitch of your voice is giving me a headache.”

“See? You can’t help yourself.”

“You weren’t exactly blameless Granger, a reasonable person can only tolerate an insufferable swot so long before he is rendered insane.”

“I find it ridiculous you would consider yourself a reasonable person, at all, but beside that, this explains a lot if you’re admitting you went insane long ago!”

He exhaled, holding up his hands. “I completely agree with your previous reticence, I would like to rescind my offer.”

“You no longer wish to be friends?”

“Correct. A momentary lapse.”

“Now wait just one minute,” Granger wagged a finger at him and it was all he could do to not whack it away. “Sure, I think you’re a bit deranged to think we could be friends-”

“So you’ve said.”

“But I…” she trailed off, either losing her focus or her nerve, and considering she was as sharp as the sting of the Whomping Willow, Draco assumed it was a brief spell of cowardice.

Godric Gryffindor would be so ashamed.

As would Salazar Slytherin… come to think of it. How unappealing.

Slytherins didn’t beg for friends, they collected useful people for a rainy day.

“Well.” She nodded, standing and dusting non-existent crumbs from her (incredibly snug) denim. “I suppose that’s all, then.”

“I’d say we should do this again, however…”

“We aren’t friends,” she agreed. “Quite right.”

“Goodbye, Granger.” Draco took a sip of his whiskey, popping his sunglasses back on.

“Yes, goodbye,” she said, meandering away like she wasn’t sure she wanted to leave. Before too long, she slowed and turned back around to find him staring at her. She raised her voice to cover the distance. “Though we aren’t friends… you’ll continue to send your thoughts, in regard to the column?”

“Would you like me to?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter to me, either way.”

“Which is why you’re asking about it, right now, of course.”

“Purely curiosity!” Her fists clenched at her sides. She looked a little funny, so small and mighty in the distance.

“Why don’t you just wait and find out, then?”

“I like to know when I’m going to be confronted by someone’s self-important opinion disguised as ‘feedback’ so I can steel myself against it,” she shouted, putting her hand to her brow like the bill of a hat. “But fine. Have it your way.”

“Shocking, Hermione Granger wants control of a situation,” he said snippily. “You’ll get what you get, so don’t get upset!”

“What in the nursery school absurdity-”

Her response was interrupted by the loudest sound Draco had ever heard. He startled so that he tipped out of his chair, catching himself before he fell completely over. Granger froze from where she was in a state of dither upon the grass.

“Well, well, well…” Theo said, bounding down the lawn with a can in his hand, the top of it a small red gramophone. “Just what the fuck do we have here?”

Theo came behind Granger, grabbing her by the shoulders and kissing her sloppily on the cheek. With an arm around her, he marched her back to Draco. She still seemed dazed by the assault on her eardrums as she wiped her cheek with her hand.

“Granger! Are you here for the party?”

“No…” she wriggled out of his grip. “No, I was just, Malfoy and I were having a discussion, and we lost track of time. I don’t want to impose.”

“Again,” Draco said.

“What?”

“You don’t want to impose again. You are still in the midst of the imposing from earlier, which, if we let decorum be our guide… means you are required to continue such an imposition until the imposed upon asks you to leave.”

“I’ve heard that, yes,” Theo agreed. “Madame Clothilde taught us as such.”

“Who is Madame Clothilde?” Granger asked.

Draco groaned.

“Draco’s governess. A real peach of a woman.”

“She was a sadist,” Draco said brusquely. 

Theo transfigured a fork from the table into a ruler, and whacked Draco across the knuckles. “Decorum! DECORUM, GENTLEMEN!” He shouted as he ran away.

Draco leapt from his chair, summoning his broom mid-stride. He hopped on as it sailed through the air, launching from it as he caught up with Theo and tackled him to the ground.

Then, he beat him (half-heartedly) with said broom.

Theo kicked and punched and rolled about, bits of the broom’s tail sailing through the air and landing on the grass all around them. “I fold! I fold!” He laughed.

“I actually do have to be going,” Granger called from the patio.

Draco released Theo and stood with his hands on his head, panting. He spun and gave her a nod. “Goodbye forever, non-friend.”

“Right…” she walked (briskly) away again.

Theo pushed himself up on his elbows, breathing heavily from his spot on the grass. “Was it something I said?”

Draco decided he wouldn’t watch her walk away. He had other things to attend to, today. Dwelling on someone not wanting to be his friend (who was going to rebuff him next, Weasley?) was a task for tomorrow’s Draco.

Granger didn’t want to be his friend.

He didn’t need a friend. He already had three. Four, if one were to count Pansy as a multiple, currently.

He didn’t need to feel any sort of way about this. 

Plus, there was the obvious bit: he didn’t deserve to be her friend, anyway.

“Certainly not,” Draco held out a hand to help Theo up. “Bopsy!”

The little elf popped onto the grass. “Yes, birthday Master?”

“We’ll need some sobering potions at the ready, Bops. It’s going to be a long night. And the pool… it’s set at 29 degrees?”

She nodded and with a blink, was gone.

“A pool?” Theo stood. “What pool? Are we going somewhere? Please let it be Nice…” 

“No, no… a birthday present to myself,” Draco grabbed at his shoulder. “Follow me, Theodore. A pool party awaits!”

He took off toward the rose garden, hanging a left and continuing on as Theo walked beside.

“I’m actually quite excited,” Theo threw his arm around Draco. “Blaise?”

“En route.”

“Pansy and the Weasel?”

“Well, she declined at first. But then, I told her that in a pool she’d feel weightless.”

“Ah, right,” Theo nodded. “The ankles were round and abundant, at last I saw.”

“Has to be bloody painful,” Draco winced. Once he’d taken a bludger to the ankle and the swelling was substantial. He could feel the puffy flesh surrounding the joint wobble with every step. It was revolting. “Anyway, I sent Mippy over there to see if she could be of any help as they get ready for the baby.”

“What did she say?”

“They’ve yet to return her, this was Monday.”

Theo laughed. 

“I hope they show,” Draco said, not meaning to say it aloud. 

“Me too,” Theo ruffled his hair as they cleared a newly planted patch of trees. “Oh, Merlin.”

Draco smiled as Theo went sprinting toward it, an oasis in the middle of the grounds. Trees, most not of British origin, surrounded it. They were far too tropical to fare well, here, but that’s what magic was for; keeping palm trees in stasis so sad little rich boys could forget all that plagued them as they splashed about.

Two pools sat side by side, one small and quite like a hot springs, the other large and cool, perfect for lap swimming, diving, jumping, what have you.

It really was a good way to distract himself. Exercise seemed to help, and his summer afternoons were typically devoid of activity due to the heat.

He’d swam several times a day since he had it installed last week by Pevinsky’s Perfect Pools.

“Mate, this is a fucking oasis!” Theo scaled a rock formation in one corner, flying down a hidden slide and launching himself into the water, still in his clothes. 

Draco turned at a crack behind him, where Mippy stood hand in hand with the Weasel and Pansy. 

“Certainly, drop right in,” he drawled, unable to hide his smile as he kissed Pansy’s cheek and gave the Weasel a nod.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t going to walk the whole bloody park you call a garden to get here,” Pansy griped. “And Mippy was so kind as to remind us she could Apparate right in.”

“Oh, Malfoy, this is nice,” the Weasel said. He let Mippy’s hand go and walked to the patio’s edge, bending to feel out the temperature of the water. Draco did not think (very hard) about pushing him in. Weasley doubled back and grabbed his swarthy wife’s hand, leading her along the patio surround. “Let’s get you set in the shallow end, Pans. I think you’ll like it. A nice float will do you well. It’ll do us all well.”

Draco bit down on the insides of his cheeks to keep a stoic face. He was not on the Weasel’s side, and laughing at his jokes was a betrayal, so he glared along with Pansy at her dearly beloved. 

Theo had transfigured his outfit into a chartreuse budgie smuggler and matching bathing cap, and was doing the backstroke peacefully from end to end. 

“Happy birthday, darling,” Pansy said as she was led around him, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “Do you think Bopsy would bring me some of her lemonade?”

“Mippy will handle it!” The little elf clapped her hands together and cracked away. Mippy longed for a baby at the Manor. Bopsy, too.

Ezekiel supposed he could do with another foal, if he must.

“Woo!” Blaise yelled as he made it through the trees, two bottles of Champagne in hand. “23! 23! 23!”

He hugged Draco, rounding up glasses and an ice bucket before joining Pansy and Theo in the pool.

Draco looked around, mostly happy. Even as the Weasel king slathered on sunblock potion in his midst.

It actually hadn’t been a bad day, all things considered, and now his friends (plus Weasley) were here.

No, it was not a bad day.

He repeated it, over and over again, his body for some reason convinced something was wrong. His chest was tight, his thoughts hard to follow.

She didn’t want to be his friend.

It was fine.

It still wasn’t a bad day.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve

lifeless and of little value

-

Draco was now a certified, legitimate business man. 

A position he put upon himself, using the money afforded to him by likely illegitimate gains… but. You couldn’t choose your family.

He now owned The Daily Prophet, and as such, no longer felt it wise to be nestled inside Rookwood’s massive pockets.

How would it look for the press, an unbiased institution (ha, ha, ha), to be cozying up to the government? He knew the Daily Prophet had a history of being bought and paid for; but now that he was the one doing the buying, the paying- he was going to steer things in a different direction.

Probably.

He had to keep up his Wizengamot duties, it would be stupid to shun a seat of influence. He went to the mandatory court sessions but recused himself from anything behind closed doors.

He knew this could be viewed as the coward’s way out. Instead of telling Rookwood what he really thought, and standing up for himself (and thereby, countless others), he backed away slowly and slipped out the door. 

Like he couldn’t trust himself to resist the man, to shun the cause, and instead hid from it in plain sight.

If Rookwood noticed his absence, it wasn’t mentioned. 

He received no summons. He garnered no looks.

It was a little too easy, actually.

-

It didn’t seem many noticed the lack of Granger at every Wizengamot session with the Minister, though Draco certainly did. Theo, too, but this may have been because he had mentioned it a time or two.

“Are we still pretending you’re not a pre-occupied by her?” Theo asked, after he mentioned her. Again.

 Draco gave him a look that was supposed to make him feel entirely stupid for even entertaining such a thought, but all it did was make him smile.

The only other person who fully felt the loss of Granger, he thought, was Will Bakker. 

“Where is the Minister?” Theo leaned into him, his murmur hardly above the lull of the chattering crowd. 

It was near the end of June and they had been waiting for the gavel to crack, opening the session, for 14 minutes. They sat in the front, now that there were fewer distractions within the auditorium.

Draco also liked to set himself in full view of the Minister, watching him carefully as he spoke, keeping his face impassive and unmoved.

It was passive aggressive, sure, as he otherwise went out of his way to avoid the man and instead encouraged Theo to lurk alone with the evil-doers in his absence. He felt guilty for it, but that wasn’t new. 

The less he was around the man, the less he felt likely to compromise.

And on that, Theo had always been stronger.

Today, Draco had any number of other places to be (not entirely true) and was in a hurry to get to them. Anywhere but here.

He was hungry, actually. 

Perhaps he’d get a snack?

Only nothing really sounded good, which he loathed. What a gift it would be to always know what you wanted. 

“He’s now fifteen minutes late,” Theo continued.

“You’re his guy, you tell me,” he grinned as Theo made an audible sound of disgust. 

Perhaps a pasty?

Bopsy made a terrific Cornish pasty…

“It’s far less fun, now, and you know it.”

“I know it, you tell me so, incessantly.” Draco sighed. “It’s not my fault I’m terribly busy with the paper. It was dire straights before I walked in…”

“What can I buy that allows me to be busy?”

He bobbed his head back and forth, considering. “Ezekiel says horses are a lot of work.”

Theo elbowed him roughly. “I can afford more than a horse, you twit.”

“Oh,” Draco straightened, nodding toward the door, “here’s your guy-“

“Mmm,” Theo ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “Hello, Mr. Bakker.”

Will rushed to the center of the floor, his arms full of scrolls, a leather satchel overflowing and hanging at his hip. 

His hair was hastily pushed back, parts of it falling in his face as he bent to relieve himself of his literal burdens. Scrolls rolled across the floor as his bag slouched, slowly falling over and dumping its contents; more scrolls and what looked to be a paper lunch bag. 

“Hello, all,” Will said, still gathering things about the ground. “I’m sorry to be late, I wasn’t aware I was to be speaking today until I received an owl from the Minister-“

“Where is the Minister?” Someone asked.

“Fuck if I know,” Will grumbled to himself, only audible to Theo and Draco, before clearing his throat. “The Minister does not always alert me to his comings and goings, but his assistant informed me he would be unreachable for the time being.”

“Fantastic! I’m chuffed he’s taking some time to-” Theo started, loud enough that he drew the attention of the lower half of the auditorium. He turned, continuing. “Actually, no, I’m sure he’s off doing important, Ministerial things, and certainly not at a Muggle spa, getting a treatment called…”

“Microdermabrasion,” Draco coughed. 

“Microdermalbasion! Needles straight in the face- did you know? Those Muggles are barbaric, aren’t they? But they do have nice skin...” Theo sighed. “There’s no way he’s doing that. And he’s absolutely not paying for it with our tax dollars, right, Will?”

For three weeks they had been sewing petty seeds of unrest, much like Rookwood did with Shacklebolt, when in front of the greater assembly in his absence. 

They were starting slow, alluding to his vanity as the reason for any number of things.

So far, it was backfiring in a most spectacular way. They’d soon have to change course… today was a last ditch effort. 

The other witches and wizards thought the man so attractive, they wanted to follow in his footsteps. Theo wasn’t so sure, but Draco was convinced of it, due to the run on silk robes at 777 last week, just after they had supposed aloud during the assembly that Rookwood refused lesser fabrics. “He knows the power of a garment, I swear to you, he’d never wear a robe that didn’t drape so beautifully, as only silk can,” Draco had scoffed in a fake argument with Theo, after Rookwood had left.

Many tacky ears and tasteless eyes tracked their conversation; subsequently there wasn’t a robe made of a silk linen blend to be found in the entirety of Diagon.

Today they were putting out into the universe that Rookwood was a fan of Muggle hygiene- if next week everyone showed up with red, swollen faces, they’d know. 

And Theo would owe him 100 galleons. 

Theo still believed too greatly in people’s general sense, and their propensity to rise to outrage. Draco had long since been unburdened of such idealistic illusions.

It was Gemma who told him about the face needle thing in the first place, and it was a real thing! He thought it insane… but was also a touch interested, thus he booked them a weekend at the Tschuggen Grand Hotel in the Alps. He was 23, now, and he preferred to stay looking that way for at least a decade or two.

“I’ve no idea what you’re referring to, Mr. Nott,” Will sighed, seeing the misdirection for what it really was, thus unwilling to take up arms against it.

“Bakker, get on with it,” Chief Warlock Selwyn said from behind them, eating something, Draco assumed Thai food. He could smell tamarind… shrimp… as the man chewed so obnoxiously Draco had half a mind to silence him. “Obtain and maintain control of the floor or we will recess.”

Perhaps pad Thai, rather than a pasty, then?

Will nodded, taking a beat.

For what it was worth, Will was a consummate professional. Draco couldn’t believe his current state was his best-case scenario, but he trudged along, trying to temper his superior’s madness and brazen idiocy. 

Instead of re-hiring Granger’s position, Rookwood allowed (forced) Will to take on all her duties in addition to his own. He’d looked unwell for weeks, like he wasn’t sleeping or eating properly. Likely no time for it, as he was the only sensible person running the government, and the entire time he was fighting against a monster of many, many heads. 

“But on that note, I have spent the last 36 hours in contact with various governments and their statute enforcement departments due to the Minister’s encouragement and allowance of the remaining Giants taking up residence in the UK post-Voldemort, to return to their ancestral homes across the Italian, German and Swiss Alps-“

“As he was right to do so!” Someone said loudly.

“As you may know,” Will continued unbothered, “the Giants cannot perform lesser magic and are unable to Apparate, thus they left on foot due to the Minister’s decision to not extend the use of Portkey travel to their hoard.”

“What’s this got to do with anything?” A voice called from three rows behind. 

Draco turned to see Victor Crabbe sat forward in his seat. He nodded up to him, and Victor returned the gesture.

He’d had a drink or two with Victor at the Jabberknoll in recent times, and met up with Goyle shortly after his house arrest ended. Some things, Gregory Goyle for example, never changed.

He seemed eager to pick up where they’d left off, but Draco was no longer that boy. Seeing Goyle reminded him, and the dynamic without Vince was odd. It always felt like it was Crabbe and Goyle, and then Draco. 

Victor, himself, was another story. He was not the man he once knew; Azkaban had changed him and Draco had yet to figure if it was for the worse or better… but such figuring would take more time than he was willing to spend with the man. 

He remembered both of Vince’s parents as dumb, soft, and easily manipulated.

Much like their son.

The Victor of the present, however, commanded a modicum of respect. He had a thriving potion supply business. He looked like he took care of himself, rather than hid beneath misshapen robes and even more misshapen facial hair. His eyes and complexion were clear, no longer bloodshot and ruddy. When he spoke at the Wizengamot hearings, and at the open sessions, he typically made sense.

Like now, for instance. What did giants have to do with anything?

“Just informing the court and any who care about the incident, and the amount of manpower and galleons it takes to correct such oversights. Maintaining the Statute is our single largest expenditure.” Will grabbed a scroll from the pile beside him, pulling it taut as he scanned through the words, the ink of the precise script bleeding lightly through the back. “In 2002, 64% of our tax dollars went to maintaining the Statute. Funds of such a scale could be used for education, for tax burden reduction, for infrastructure-“

“What are you saying, Bakker?” Victor asked with a laugh. “Repeal the Statute and we’re flush with coin?”

The room erupted. Will tried to reel in the focus, he shouted above the ruckus in an attempt to walk it back, but it was gone. Nothing could be heard over the 57 conversations layering over each other.

Theo leaned onto Draco, pulling that awful, loud gramophone can from his trousers. He pulled the trigger, and several of the elderly among them fell from their chairs as it honked so loudly he thought his ears were bleeding.

“Potverdriedubbeltjes,” Will clutched at his chest, breathing deep.

Draco glowered as he pat his ears, checking for blood.

“Thank you, Mr. Nott,” Will said, though he didn’t seem sure he meant it.

“Of nothing!” Theo waved his hand, putting the offending thing back in his pocket. Draco thought he remembered him referring to it as a fog horn, but the hills to the west of the Manor were covered in mist and the horn did nothing to dissipate it, thus the Muggles must have another use.

“The reason I bring it up, is merely to be transparent as to where your money is going. Later this year, likely the Minister will move to increase taxes-“

“We increased just last year!” A witch shouted from just to the right of them.

“I am aware,” Will said dryly, “and yet I speak the truth.”

“It’s the wealthy who need to pay more their fair share!” She continued. “Make the Malfoys pay!”

“Ma’am,” Will interrupted. “If you are unaware, our taxation is based on taxable property, income and assets. I assure you, Mr. Malfoy carries a larger tax burden than everyone here combined. And unlike some economies through-out the world, he is unable to shirk the responsibilities that come with being obscenely, and unnecessarily, wealthy.

The witch grumbled something unintelligible and Draco looked down his nose at her. 

He had no idea what he paid in taxes. 

He could not care less. 

He tended to agree… it was obscene, and unnecessary.

He was doing his best to make it not so, but for fuck’s sake. It was so easy for him to turn a profit!

It felt criminal, actually.

“The fact is,” Will continued, “we are depleting the coffers at a quicker clip than we had budgeted, due to a number of factors but not least of all the current administration’s-“

“It seems Mr. Bakker has allowed the draw of the podium to pull from him exaggerations and pointed words of distraction,” a rich laugh boomed from the side of the auditorium. “I thank you all for coming, and thank you, Mr. Bakker, for keeping them entertained until I arrived.”

Rookwood, flanked by the unimportant Selwyn and Travers, stood at the edge of the floor, staring Will down.

“Cede,” he demanded, walking with purpose to where Will stood, kicking scrolls as he went. 

“Selwyn, you’re allowing such inanity to waylay the court?” Rookwood asked, glaring at the Chief Warlock, who’d said not a peep to quiet Will. “Too busy with your chow mein?”

“It’s pad thai,” Chief Warlock Selwyn corrected. Draco nodded. He knew it.

Perhaps a nice larb? He mulled it over…

“And to be transparent,” he continued, crunching on a mung bean sprout, “I was interested to see where he was going.” 

“You do love bearing witness to a nitwit going rogue, don’t you… it must bring a sense of nostalgia from Shacklebolt’s reign,” Rookwood grumbled, stepping in front of Will- who in a matter of moments had the color wick from his complexion, leaving him ashen. Rookwood stepped to him, forcing him aside. Though twenty years older, Rookwood was a fit man. Will had him at height, but was slender in comparison. 

Rookwood could take him, probably, as far as feats of strength go. Magically? Well, Rookwood would likely have the advantage there, as well. Will seemed sort of average.

Yes. That was it. Will: plain and average.

He really couldn’t figure why Theo fancied the man.

“You give someone a chance and they squander it, don’t they,” Rookwood sent the remaining scrolls skittering off to the side, bouncing off the shins of the Wizengamot members to his left. “Bakker, this is your warning. Pull this sort of shit again, and you’ll be shoved back in your clogs and spend the rest of your days charming windmills.”

“Sir,” Will nodded, walking to the side of the floor and standing at attention, his hands clasped at his back. He set his jaw and stared coldly ahead, in the direction of Rookwood but really staring past him, his eyes trained on nothing at all.

“Since my staff decided to expand upon untruths in my absence, I’d like to focus our attentions-” Rookwood’s sentence was cut short, as Blaise threw open the side door, his finding them in an instant.

“It’s Pansy,” he said loudly, snapping his fingers.

Draco frowned. The baby wasn’t due for another three weeks? He didn’t even have the gift with him, he’d have to pop home to retrieve it, and grab Weasley a bottle of scotch.

The cigars…

He was ill-prepared for an early arrival. If this was how Violet was going to behave, he wasn’t so sure they’d get on.

“Mr. Zabini, do you think it prudent to interrupt the Minister of Magic in the middle-”

Blaise held up his hand as Rookwood bristled at the lack of respect, Draco and Theo already on their feet. “It’s an emergency, sir, I do apologize. I can expound upon it at a later time. ”

Draco ignored Rookwood’s mutterings, shutting the court’s door behind him.

“Emergency,” Theo nodded, “a nice cover. An early baby, then? I was fully hoping for mid-July, we already have a June birthday, as you well know.”

“No,” Blaise swallowed. “Ginny sent a Patronus to Potter, he went straight in, didn’t even hear the whole message before he took off. I guess Ginny was with her doing some fucking nonsense in the baby’s room, but something is wrong.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked, the hairs on his arms standing on end. “Wrong with Pansy? With the baby?”

They followed Blaise swiftly through the halls, making their way to the Floos.

“Both,” Blaise said, “I don’t know, I don’t have a lot of details, I decided to come get you two instead of going straight to St. Mungo’s, but I’m not sure-”

“Thank you,” Theo squeezed Blaise’s forearm as they shouldered through the various witches and wizards bustling through the Floo Corridor.

-

They ran to the lifts once they arrived in St. Mungo’s and were swiftly sent back to Reception, after being barred from entering any of the lift cars without having gone through the security check point. 

Forced to present identification, have their wands and persons checked, they were then led to a line, eleven people long, where they had to wait to state who they were seeing, and then be either allowed up or sent away. It was outrageous.

“This is outrageous!” Draco said aloud, his frantic thoughts bursting at the seams.

“Anti-terrorism measure,” Blaise explained.

“I shall become a terrorist with this outr-”

“Get a fucking thesaurus, would you?” Theo nudged him, catching his eye as they neared the end of the line. “It’s going to be okay. She’s fine.”

Draco wasn’t so sure. 

He was also unsure if The Weasel King would actually put him on the list of allowed visitors. The lobby was adjacent to the main waiting room, where witches and wizards of various states of health sat in wait. His favorite barman from the Jabberknoll sat across from a witch who’d been impaled by a broom, and the ever present Dolohov leaned in a corner. 

He had wondered why he wasn’t with Rookwood.

He was evidently ill.

He looked it.

Though he spent the entire time fretting, a few minutes later, they were granted entry to the lifts and unto Pansy.

On the fourth floor, halfway down the hall was an alcove, with fifteen chairs lining the walls and a row of back-to-back benches in the middle, the entire thing overflowing with well-worn gingers.

“What’s happened, how is she?” Draco blurted out, his eyes scanning the group for someone who might answer him. He figured it would be Granger, but there were no curls amongst the red sea.

They didn’t seem to notice the intrusion, save for one.

“Ginny,” Blaise hugged the Weasel She, a paper cup of tea in her hand. “What’s going on?”

“Godric,” she said on an exhale, her eyes glassy. She had a sleeping baby wrapped to her chest in a toffee colored sling, swaying slowly as she talked to them, patting the lump gently. “Lily, Albus and I were over at the house helping her put together the room, and she started having trouble breathing. Then she started panicking, and I knew she’d been having such an awful time with the pregnancy, the swelling, especially… but she started saying things that weren’t making sense. I didn’t want to chance it, with pregnancy, you never know… everything is so fragile…”

Potter ambled up, a toddler clinging to his side, continuing for his wife who seemed to be overcome with emotion. The look of her made Draco feel much, much worse, somehow. “I had a chance to speak with the Healer before everyone else got here, they seemed to think they could stabilize her, but in the event they couldn’t, they’d induce labor.” He set a hand on the Weasel She’s shoulder, squeezing, speaking directly to her. “Everything is going to be fine, Gin. The baby will be fine, Pansy will be fine.”

She nodded, tears welling up as she looked to the ceiling, still swaying and patting the baby.

“Then, we wait,” Theo said, running a hand through his hair. “We wait.”

More than a half an hour later, they were still waiting.

The Weasley parents were busying themselves with Albus, as Potter had been called in for an explosion, or something of the like. He thought he felt the floor shudder as they bought a round of tea for the group, but Theo maintained he felt nothing. 

Ginevra walked up and down the halls, either for her own nerves or to lull the babe in arms into a jostled sleep. George sat with Bill, Draco gleaned from various spells of eavesdropping the Veela was with the children in France for the week.

There was an unidentified ginger sat next to them, who arrived with the dragon Ginger shortly after them.

Yet, still no Granger, which was starting to pull on Draco’s frantically Occluding mind.

He couldn’t fathom something happening to Pansy.

While he didn’t know the baby, he didn’t feel her absence would do anything for Pansy’s continued health either, thus, something happening to her was unfathomable as well.

“You didn’t have to escort me, I’ve got my marching orders, Sir,” Draco heard a familiar voice bite out, her frizzy-haired shadow upon the tile growing smaller as she neared the alcove.

Granger, accompanied by the Head Auror, Andrea Piccini, stepped into view, stopping just to the left of them, where they sat toward the edge of the alcove, as far as possible from the greater Weasley horde.

“I will see you at 9am Granger, and if you fail to comply, I will put a war-”

“I get it! I know!” She huffed, gesturing to those in the alcove. “Thank you, Auror Piccini.”

“Oh, Hermione!” the Weasel She ran to her, awakening the baby she’d tried so hard to render unconscious.

Granger looked around, taking note of everyone present as she hugged Potter’s bride gently, saying something about squishing the baby as she stepped back. “Where’s Harry?”

She was agitated and shaky, eyes darting in every direction.

“He was called in, some sort of explosion-”

“You don’t have any other bloody Aurors?” Granger spat at Auror Piccini retreating figure. “You had to call him in?”

“No, I don’t,” the man sighed, “and I must urge you to not misconstrue my kindness as weakness, or forgetfulness. Tomorrow.”

She wilted a bit, as if being chastised by this man was an unwelcome occurrence. “I understand,” she said, her voice still too angry to seem contrite. 

Piccini shook his head, turned again and walked away. 

Draco clocked his Italian leather loafers as he disappeared down the hall. Stylish, for an Auror. Likely the Italian upbringing.

“What on earth is going on?” Hermione asked, smoothing her exceedingly wild hair absently, hands trembling.

“I was over at Pansy and Ron’s,” the Weasel She explained again, moving the babe in arm to her other arm, as her other child, evidently bored of Nana and Papa (Grandmother and Grandfather were perfectly acceptable titles, he didn’t understand why people had to be so precious about the whole thing), was toddling through her legs, weaving round and round.

He was terribly unbalanced, this Albus. Perhaps they should get him checked whilst they were here…

“And she was getting agitated, and wasn’t making sense, then she started to get faint… and I brought her here,” the Weasel She’s voice got louder and louder as the baby started to wail. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

He wasn’t sure who she was apologizing to, but at any rate he did not accept.

A shrieking babe did not temper his mounting anxiety.

“It’s fine, Ginny, but where is-” Granger seemed to stop herself, and went down another avenue. “What happened once you got here? I assume Ron’s with her?”

She looked around the room as she stooped to pick up the little messy haired terror, holding him at her hip as she caught his eye. “Malfoy, what are you doing here?”

His jaw nearly unhinged.

“Oh, fuck, of course, Pansy, of course you’re here,” she bit out before he could respond, then mouthed, Sorry!, to the Weasel She, covering the boy’s ears as she pressed his head to her chest. “Albus, you didn’t hear that silly little word did you?”

“I’ve said worse, regrettably,” Ginevra admitted. “This afternoon, even.”

“Is Pansy alright?” She turned to Draco, and when he wasn’t able to cobble together an answer, looked past him to Theo.

“We haven’t much information, Potter was the best informed and he had to go-”

“That’s likely my fault.” Granger hiked the child up. “He was here, though, Harry?”

“Of course he was,” Ginevra said. “He was the first one here, got here before Ron!”

“Good, good,” Granger sat next to Draco and rearranged the child on her lap. She turned to him, speaking low. “Pansy is very bull-headed. She will not allow anything to distract her from her future, illnesses and hospitalizations included.”

“What?”

“Pansy. She will not let something so trivial as early labor to derail her. She will be fine. She’s almost ruinously headstrong.”

He wasn’t used to such a thing as Granger willingly sitting next to him and reassuring him… was this what she was doing?

“Yes, I do believe I’ve met the woman,” he said.

“She probably arranged all this in advance,” Theo mused, pulling at a dangling thread encircling the bottom button of his shirt. “Loves the attention.”

“You’re an idiot,” Ginevra said, shushing her child and wandering away.

“What?” Theo asked, most aghast. “Again, we know the woman quite well!”

Albus wriggled himself away from Granger, beelining to Blaise, who was coming down the austere, brightly lit hall with an armful of crisps packets. 

She smoothed the thighs of her trousers, the linen creased every which way, some of it singed at the hem.

“Did you light yourself on fire prior to arrival?” He leaned forward, reaching for the loose fabric around her ankles.

She bat his hand away. “I’m fine, I’m perfectly capable of-” She shot up, lurching forward as the Weasel King appeared in the hall, covered head to toe in Healer’s garb. “Ron!”

He didn’t look well, Weasley. And that was saying something, as Draco didn’t consider him a particularly attractive or well-groomed person at any point in time. 

Much of this was to do with years of well worn disdain, but still.

“She’s uh, they’re having trouble,” he clicked his jaw, nodding at nothing. “Her blood pressure is really high, and it’s messing with her kidneys, and her liver. So they’re gonna take the baby out, today.”

“Oh my,” Draco heard behind him. The Mother Weasley. “Is the baby okay?”

Ginevra grabbed the hand of Albus and led him noisily down the hall, helped by Blaise. 

“How is Pansy?” Draco asked, standing, his size effectively blocking the Mother Weasley. “Is she okay, she knows what’s going on? She know’s everything is going to be fine? And you’re telling her that, that everything is going to be fine?”

Weasley looked to him. “They put her in a magically-induced coma, for the procedure.”

Draco felt Theo come up behind him as his limbs went leaden. 

“She was reassuring me, right up until,” he walked off, hands on his head, pulling off the cap that held back his ginger locks.

Granger followed him as the rest of the family nervously chattered, wondering about Pansy, the baby. How long she’d be unconscious, what exactly happened to her kidneys… et cetera, et cetera.

Draco could not engage with such things, so he followed Granger after Weasley.

“Ron, she will be fine. This is the best Magical hospital in Europe-” Granger assured him, looking murderously at Draco as he joined them and made a face of dissent. He didn’t care for her opinions- the fact of it was, the best healing in Europe was in France. And if the numpties at St. Mungo’s fucked up even a hair on Pansy’s well-coiffed head, he would have her in Amiens before anyone could blink. 

“She will be fine, the baby will be fine. You’ll see,” she finished, sounding sure. 

“I know, I know,” Weasley nodded, his voice wavering as he went on, pacing. “It has to be. I can’t do this, I can’t be expected to do this… not with her, not this time.” 

“We’re all here for you,” she gave him a hug, awkwardly folding into his side only to release him as he continued to walk. “You’ve got all of us out here, and we can’t wait to see Pansy and the baby.”

Draco liked that Granger put Pansy, first, in that statement.

“Is Harry still-”

“He had to go, but-”

“Oh,” Weasley nodded, shaking out his arms. “Yeah, of course.”

“No, he was called in-”

“I get it. It’s fine.”

“You obviously don’t,” Draco winced as her voice went shrill, reaching out for him, “because you seem hurt, or upset and I promise-”

Weasley shook her off, and Draco silenced the hallway. There was no need for everyone to hear her overreact, or whatever it was she was doing.

Draco felt like a voyeur. Why did he follow them, again?

“My wife and child are in the hospital, so my feelings are all over the fucking place right now, yeah?”

“Ron, he was here, he was, because he cares about you-”

“I don’t want to get into this, I’ve got to get back in there, they said I had five minutes-”

“Ron!” She pulled at him, her voice high in desperation. “Don’t do this, he was here-”

“I don’t fucking care, Hermione, I have to go!”

“Ron!”

Weasley shrugged her off again as Draco stepped in between them, blocking her path and allowing Weasley to escape.

“Malfoy, get out of the way - Ron! -” She tried to lunge after him, but Draco held her by both arms, walking her backward.

“Granger, get a fucking grip,” he said, his jaw clenched and voice low as he forced her down the hall and away from he group. “Stop this, right now.”

She reared back, and he was sure for the twentieth time, she was going to hit him, but he kept stepping toward her, guiding her unwillingly down the hall.

“I have to talk to him, he needs to know Harry was here,” she tried going around him again, and when he thwarted her, she reached for her wand and came up empty handed. The action of it crumpled her face. “Fuck!”

“You can yell at me. Pretend I’m him. I’ll take a fucking Polyjuice, I’ll debase myself by slipping into the Weasel King’s skin for a bit,” he shuddered. “But he doesn’t need you yelling at him now, no matter how well-intentioned you mean it. He can’t see reason, he’s fucking terrified. He’s already lost his girlfriend, and now he made another girl his wife, she’s carrying his child, and he thinks he can feel it happening all over again. I know you saw it on his face.”

She took a step back, breathing heavy. 

“Have a go at me. Or Theo.” He thought more of this… yeah. Theo. She could yell at him and really quell any subsequent ogling. “Anyone but Weasley. Not right now.”

“I wasn’t going to have a go at him, I just wanted him to know Harry was here, and,” she covered her eyes with her hand, the other on her hip. “It’s my fault he’s not. I was just trying to make it right.”

“Well, there is a time and place for that and this is neither,” he said, looking her over. She was still shaky, trying to take stabilizing breaths. “Sometimes I’m not even sure you realize how you’re acting. Like a wild animal. You lunged at the man.”

“You’re right,” she nodded, still shielding her eyes but he saw the tears roll down her face. She turned from him, wiping them away. “You’re right.”

“I’m going to save that for the Pensieve,” he said, watching her as she leaned against the hall wall and slid down. “Incidentally, how is this your fault?”

She exhaled, trilling her lips as she shook her head. When she didn’t speak, instead staring straight forward, he joined her on the floor.

“Just my stupid luck, of late,” she pulled her knees to her chest, a hand trailing down to again finger the charred pieces at the hem of her trousers. “I got the Patronus from Ginny, and I came right here, but the lift went rogue. It didn’t matter the floor I chose, it took me somewhere else, and then the gates wouldn’t open. I got… agitated.”

Several things clicked in Draco’s mind.

“You Bombarda-ed the lift,” he said, leaning forward to catch her eye. The shudder he felt. Potter being called in for an explosion. The Head Auror leading her in…

The fact that she was here without a wand.

“Do you know any other bloody spells? For years all you lot could do was disarm someone, and now you’re just blowing things up indiscriminately?”

“Imagine if I’d been in a medical emergency! And the lift decided to detain me… until what, I died? Due to lack of timely care? I’m glad it happened to me, a perfectly healthy witch-”

“Physically, sure,” he added.

“The hospital is lucky I don’t have a solicitor on retainer!”

“Though I am sure they do.” He looked at her as if she were stupid. “You don’t think you’ll be sued for damages?”

“Likely I will!” She threw up her hands. “But what could I have done differently?”

“Dozens of things, I should think…”

“I shouldn’t have had to reach out for help, I was able to fix it-”

“By blowing up a small section of the hospital.”

“Exactly! Small! You said it yourself!” The veins in her neck and forehead pulsated, straining with her every word as she got angrier, her finger poking him roughly on the chest. “What was I to do, then? What should I have done, oh wise sage Malfoy, who evidently has all the bloody answers.”

“You could have sent me a Patronus.”

She looked as if he’d slapped her and then ran naked down the hallway, such was the absolute shock emblazoned upon her face. “You?”

“Yes, Granger, when someone says the word ‘me’ they are typically using it as a personal pronoun and thus you can infer they mean ‘of themselves’.” He crossed his legs at the ankles. “You could have sent me a Patronus, and I would have come and blown up the lift for you. At least I can afford the repair bill.”

“Fine, next time I need to destroy something expensive I’ll loop you in.”

“Even though we are not friends?”

She rolled her eyes. 

“I would never let my friends take the fall for me,” she said.

He nodded. “Naturally.”

“So this is sort of perfect,” she allowed. “Though wouldn’t any sort of law breaking require you to return to Azkaban?”

“Right,” he said. “So a win, win, for you, then.”

She hummed, then sighed. 

They sat in silence, the cold of the floor tile numbing his arse in a less than desirable way.

“Thank you for stepping in,” she said, her voice quiet. “I shouldn’t have jumped on him like that, it was just… the lift. And the worry. And just… everything. Everything is weighing on me right now, and I can’t seem to catch a break.”

“Yes, what of this stupid luck, you mentioned?”

She either didn’t hear him, or didn’t care to respond to that particular question. “And I just wish I had my friends to rally around me… I suppose. Which, I realize, is a horrifically selfish to even think, let alone say aloud. Which is why I feel comfortable saying it to you, as you have never had footing on the moral high ground-“ he tried to argue but really, she had him there. “-his wife is in the hospital- in literal medical danger, and I was shouting at him in the hall? What is wrong with me?”

Such an easily answered quandary moved Draco to speak, again, but she held up her hand.

“It was rhetorical, don’t get excited. I know innumerable things are wrong with me. Believe it or not, sometimes, in my darkest hours, even I have a smidgeon of self-awareness.”

He could only stifle a laugh as she mowed over him and refused to let him speak once more.

“No, no, truly, I do,” she said. “I swear it.”

She was a little funny, in a neurotic, exhausting sort of way. 

Theo had been known to say the same of Draco.

Interesting. 

“Your assurances fall upon deaf ears… I’ve known you a while and never once witnessed anything close to self-awareness on your part. You are blissfully ignorant.” He shook his head. “Part of your charm, I have to assume.”

“My charm?” She leaned forward, turning to look him over. “Malfoy, is it truly you in there or are you a Polyjuiced rendition of the wanker I’ve come to know and hardly tolerate. You’re being a bit helpful… almost sweet. Could you perhaps instead be Neville?”

He shoved her away from him. Gently.

“I actually should be thanking you, you pulled me from a considerable amount of Occluding and compartmentalizing back there.” He spun a ring on his finger, around and around. “She’s very important to me.”

“She’s going to be fine.” She said it with such conviction he’d be a fool to counter.

“I think I agree, at least if I let rationality take control… which, often, I do not,” he said, running their conversation back. She was smiling at him, it was hardly there but it was almost noticeable, at least to him. She never looked at him that way. “Granger.”

“Yes?”

Something wasn’t adding up.

“They just… let you go, after you set off a Bombarda?”

She nodded.

Of course they fucking did.

“Golden Girl perk?”

“A little of this, a little of that…” she mused, glancing at him before continuing. “Part of it, yes. Andrea knows me, knows where to find me… likely knows I’m not a flight risk. I’m not sure. The more troubling part is the other reason for it, that they’re so short-staffed. If I’d thought even one moment longer, I would have figured Harry would be the only Auror around, since Rookwood laid off half the squad.”

“Right.”

“Harry said they’re being run into the ground, they don’t have enough manpower to focus on larger cases,” her hands went into her hair, pulling at her bun. “It’s such a mess. And I would have rather had Harry be here, than me. I wasn’t thinking.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

She laughed. “Honestly I would have gotten away with it completely, but the debris clocked a couple people-”

“You injured people?”

“Just two,” she assured him, as if that made it all better. “I don’t even know who they are, they were waiting outside the lift where it had jammed up.”

“You blew up a hospital lift, you… noticed the bodies left in your wake, and then you… you turned yourself in?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but stopped, closing it. “Not exactly.”

“‘I would have gotten away’,” Draco repeated, unable to hide the awestruck look upon his face. “Did you flee the scene of the crime?”

“I was in a hurry to get here!” She hugged her knees again, rocking as she defended herself. “And who knows, maybe I sustained a head injury or something in the blast-“

He immediately bent to look her in the eyes, whispering Lumos as he held his wand out.

She pushed his hand from her, bristling at his attention. “What are you doing?”

“Seeing if you have a concussion, hold still, lest you want to fall asleep only never to awaken. How then will you force Weasley and Potter together?” He lowered his wand at her urging. “Your death, which they will blame each other for, will set the course for their permanent estrangement. How will you cope in the after life if you can’t take a peek at them during their, what I assume to be fortnightly, sleepovers?”

Such a thought distracted her long enough Draco was able to grab her around the jaw, the span of his hand reaching ear to ear, forcing her to consent to an eye test. Her pupils contracted as his wand neared again, flecks of deep green and gold growing bolder amongst the brown as the black shrunk away. Freckles, more than she had on his birthday, brushed across the bridge of her nose, scattering onto her cheeks. 

“I seriously doubt they’ve had a sleepover in quite some time,” she said, her speech impeded by his grip.

“At least not one they invited you to.”

A ringlet fell from her haphazard bun as she tried to frown- he brushed it to the side, extending his ring and middle fingers from where they were clutched around his wand to tuck it back behind her ear. 

“Round, reactive, even,” he muttered to himself, pulling her face side to side and looking her over carefully. 

“Why do you know concussion protocol?” She asked as he loosened his hold. 

He moved to her ankles, grabbing at the crispy linen, checking over her skin for any sign of burns. He ran a thumb a few inches up her smooth shin, following suit with the other leg. “I recently had a pool installed and there have been some… incidents.”

“Head injuries?”

“Among other things,” he answered blithely. Her skin looked fine. He plucked her arm from around her legs, looking over her hands, turning them, tracing the lines creased into her palms. 

Likely she had no hand injuries, though it was natural to shield oneself with arms, hands… so he thought it best to be thorough. Of course.

“Bopsy refuses to lift a finger when it comes to drunken injuries that afflict either Theo or myself… thus I’ve been studying.”

“A Healer in training?” She wondered aloud.

He shrugged it off. “Bone setting and concussions. Accidental drowning-“

“Malfoy!” She gasped. He nearly dropped her hand, where he had been lingering in an unnecessary examination. “You have to be careful, drowning is, well… it’s very dangerous.”

He set her hand atop her knee, leaning back against the wall as he flipped his wand between his fingers. 

Never, not even once, had he been shielded by Granger’s famous worry. She worried for Potter. She worried for Weasley. 

She did not care for him, and thus, no worry. 

He smirked at her before turning his attention to his wand work. “Is it? I’d no idea.”

She groaned at his sarcasm. “Godric…”

“Theo!” He turned, shouting down the hall, but Theo was talking with the dragon Weasley - damnit! - and waved him off. “Well. Theo should know of the dangers of drowning, too. I’ll be sure to inform him once he’s wiped the drool away. For Salazar’s sake, look at him.”

She did, leaning across his lap to get a better look. His nostrils flared as the smell of her hair accosted him- stone fruit and a little bit of char. Luckily, she had enough of it that losing some via fire-in-lift didn’t seem to change its general bounciness. 

“He’s shameless, isn’t he?” She said, grinning while she settled back against the wall.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” He said as he watched the man, telling some story or some joke, his eyes alight. “His constant flirting with anyone with a pulse? Actually a pulse isn’t even required… ask the Grey Lady.”

“Might have done.” She raised an eyebrow. “He hits on ghosts, too?”

“Only the fit ones, he maintains,” he said. “Theodore is an insatiable, yet generally well-meaning, cad. It’s really the universe’s fault for making him so charming.”

She mulled this over. “He’s just, a relationship man, then? Always partnering up?”

“No, Granger,” he looked at her in disbelief. What part of Theo screamed monogamy? “He likes to fuck.”

Her eyes went wide as she leaned forward again, watching him closer. “Does he?”

Draco glared at her, but she didn’t notice. “Why, shall I let him know you’re his for the taking?”

She was silent for a beat too long, observing Theo the man whore trying to wheel Weasley’s older brother with rapt attention. When she leaned back to the wall, her arm settled against Draco’s. “I will admit, I have noticed him, it’s hard not to, he’s so-”

“Aggressive? Inappropriate?”

“Likeable,” she supplied. “And attractive, it can’t be denied.”

She could try harder, he thought.

His face must’ve belied his attempt at nonchalance, because she tutted, nudging him with her elbow. “But yes, also aggressive and inappropriate. Does he date women, or just say lewd things about our bums?”

“The only real relationship he’s had, or, near it, I suppose, was with a woman. So fear not, you’re still in play, should it be something you desire.”

“Who was he dating?”

“Daphne Greengrass,” Draco said, then thinking better of laying Theo’s traumas bare without him around to cosign or correct, he tried for a change in subject. Or, at least a pivot. “Do you date?”

The Daphne of it all had stunned her, as she blinked out into the hall.

Theo did not talk about Daphne. He only referred to the Massacre in drunken and joking terms, only if it had to do with other people. He and Daphne, from what Pansy had filled in, were volatile. Always in a fight, but reluctant to part. It was short lived, less than a year, and Draco missed it all. 

And Theo never wanted to talk about it.

“I do,” she said, finally. “Mostly Muggles, actually.”

“Really?” Draco found such a development endlessly interesting. He’d no sooner date a Muggle than a mermaid… though, he supposed Granger was a Muggle. Until she wasn’t.

She wrinkled her nose, nodding. “Just easier that way. At least lately.”

“Why?”

“They have no idea who I am. I’m just a girl, and if they think I’m interesting or pretty or… present… that’s all that matters,” she said. “If I date in our world, there’s a lot of expectations and some weirdness.”

“Because you’re a celebrity.”

She took a breath. “Well, yes. Not to be obnoxious-”

“No, of course, how could you, Hermione Granger, be construed as such?”

“But,” she eyed him, “I am very well-known. And unlike you, it’s more of a fetishized fascination than an upwardly-mobile scheme.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You have women throwing themselves at you so they can be a Pureblood heiress,” to this he nodded, as it was quite true, “and for me, it’s more men who… I don’t know. Whatever they want from me, they don’t seem to find. But they very much like the chase.”

“How many are chasing you, any given day, would you say?” There wasn’t an answer that wouldn’t anger him- who were these people? What, exactly, did they want from her?

She laughed. “I don’t know. Lately I’ve been avoiding my usual haunts, hunkering down on my own, but maybe I should get back out there. Though, now that I’m a jobless, hopeless woman, I might be less appealing.”

“I doubt that,” he said off-handedly, his eyebrows knitting together as he heard himself say it and also, what the fuck did that mean? 

Granger didn’t breathe for a moment, and he was thisclose to bashing his skull against the white wainscoting at their back to render himself unconscious.

I doubt that.

He looked toward Theo for a bail out, but the bastard was gone. Probably off somewhere riding a damn dragon.

Draco wanted to ride a dragon. 

And not in the way Theo likely did. In the real way. 

He’d never been all that close to one. There was one his family called Casse Raisin; she lived near one of his distant relative’s homes in Épernay, but the beast was unfriendly and unwilling to take him on as a passenger. In fact, the closest he ever got to her was when she knocked him clean off his broom with her wing while he was playing Quidditch over the family vineyard.

“What about you?” Granger’s voice pulled him from his laments.

“What?”

“Do you date? According to Rita Skeeter-”

“As you well know,” he interjected, “Skeeter has the journalistic prowess of a beetle.”

“So you’re saying she is willfully libelous when week after week, she details the different women flinging themselves over your head-encrusted gate?”

“Well. Fling they might, but what does it matter?” 

“Not looking for a wife?”

“No.”

“No?” She asked, skepticism in full force.

“Are you unfamiliar with the phrase? Or simply the sentiment attached?”

“Isn’t that the Pureblood’s destiny?” She pulled up her legs, hugging them. “To find another equally homogenous being, and procreate?”

“It is.”

Her nose crinkled. “Are you not a Pureblood?”

“I am.”

“And then, that is to say, that you must…”

“What? Be in want of a wife?” He ran his hand through his hair, noticing her eye following it. “Who are you, Jane Austen?”

“Malfoy,” Granger breathed, resting her head against her knee for a second. “First off, I’m never going to get used to you just throwing out Muggle references. Secondly, yes. I feel your whole life has led to this point, to you being rich and Pure, and thus, you must spread such purity unto the next generation. I’m nearly certain it’s required of your kind.”

“Be that as it may-” he turned his head, hearing a commotion to their right. 

The Weasel King had busted through the hall door, his hands in the air. “It’s a girl!”

Granger quickly got to her feet and ran to him, pushing off of Draco’s leg to help herself up. He followed slowly behind, doing his best to infer that Ron’s buoyant mood had to mean-

“She’s just fine,” the Weasel King clapped Draco’s shoulder, nodding to him and then to Theo, who had been further in the alcove with the Weasel’s family. “Pansy is just fine, they’ve already got her all patched up, and she’s with the baby now. She’d like to see you. And Zabini!”

Blaise squeezed through the ginger crowd, joining them by the door.

“Alright, the Slytherins in first, they’re in 14B,” Weasley said, holding the door open. He grabbed Granger roughly, pulling her in for a hug and a kiss atop the head. “Can you believe it? Four kilograms! A real whopper.”

“Well you’re not exactly diminutive yourself, Ron,” Granger reasoned, her eyes lined with tears. “I’m so happy they’re well. I’m so happy.”

Weasley nodded, letting out a sigh.

Draco pulled a bottle of the Scotch Weasley liked from his pocket, and a packet of cigars, both of which he had Bopsy bring while they were waiting, and pressed them to his chest as he walked through the door. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, thank you, but Pans is the real star, as you know,” he beamed. 

Draco pat him twice on the arm as he passed by. It felt as physically affectionate as he could ever possibly become with a Weasley. Nearing toward too much, really.

“Get in there, I’ll hold these people off. They’ve seen a baby before,” Weasley shooed away his parents, and various siblings, all of whom groaned and complained. “Yeah, yeah, you all just saw one last month, or have you already forgotten young Lily?”

Theo and Blaise were already down the hall, disappearing into a room with Draco a few steps behind. 

Holding his hands clasped together, Theo cheered (in a whisper-y sort of way) over both shoulders as Pansy and the baby came into view.

“Poppy Lillibet Weasley,” she told them as Blaise gently took the little bundle from her and cradled it in his arms. Theo, instead, fawned over Pansy- which was to say he sat at the edge of her bed and gave her a pat on the blanket where her leg was likely to be.

“Amazing,” Blaise said. “Hello, little one.”

Draco kept to the corner, watching, the shadows chased away by hundreds of brightly shining orbs upon the ceiling, casting them all in a sterile light. 

From the moment Blaise fetched them from the Wizengamot, Draco had been fighting against tumbling, spiraling, sprinting-straight-into despair. Granger had been a well-placed reprieve from the darkness swirling in his mind. She knocked it right out, but here it was again, tearing through him as he looked at Pansy.

Childbirth wasn’t without risk, even for magical people. He didn’t recall exactly, but his mother had alluded to the fact that pregnancy and birth were not easy for her, either. It was so difficult, in fact, that Draco was an only child.

He always veered right into the worst case scenario. He was not rational, at all, no matter what he tried to sell Granger. 

He was terrified. 

For Pansy, but… also for himself.

He did not want to lose anyone else.

He could not lose her, of all people.

She was the closest thing to unconditional love that he’d ever felt. She had never wavered. She had never expected from him something she could not, or would not, do herself.

His vision began to tunnel, there in the corner.

“It’s not catching, Draco,” Pansy smiled at him, patting a spot on her cot for him to join her. “You can come here.” 

He swallowed. She looked like she’d been through some sort of world-ending event. He’d glanced at her once since walking in, avoiding the sight in the minutes since.

She was terribly pale, with burst blood vessels in the whites of her eyes and several cords tethered to her. She was shaking, her teeth chattering as she spoke. 

“I feel the Weasel King has let us in too early, Pans,” Draco said, still loitering near the wall. “Are you sure you’re well?”

“A broad statement, that.” Her eyes went to Blaise, who was showing this Poppy character the view from the window. The squashy thing didn’t even have its eyes open. “I feel as if I’ve been thrown off the Astronomy tower, only to land impaled upon a blunt instrument. Still, I am quite well.”

“You look just fine, Pans,” Blaise lied, offering the baby to Theo and receiving a very clear “no” head shake.

“Too fragile. I’ll wait a few years,” Theo said. “Speaking of fragility, Pansy, how’s your cunt with all this?”

Pansy slapped him with the back of her hand, the wires and cords impeding the force she seemed to intend. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Theo made a face. “I really would, actually, and I think that’s problematic, but the heart wants what the heart wants.”

She laughed.

“It’s the same as it ever was,” Theo looked back to Draco at this, “since they had to go through my stomach.” She mimed hacking into something, sawing her hand across her belly. 

Draco was going to lose whatever was rumbling around his own stomach. 

She glanced his way. “Really, Draco. I am fine.”

“I could use more convincing,” he said, taking a step toward her, then another, finally sitting gingerly on the edge of her bed. Through the stomach. He didn’t have the constitution for such things. “What are these tubes, Pansy? You look like a potions experiment gone awry.”

“It’s actually a Muggle thing. For hydration. And a potion drip,” she grabbed at a hand mirror on her bedside table, taking a look at herself. 

Of course it was a Muggle thing. Of course one had to be practically disemboweled to have a child. It all seemed perfectly normal!

Pansy blinked a few times at her reflection. “The eyes are getting better, if you’ll believe it. They were blood red at first. I think Ron thought I’d come back a demon.”

“Yes, well you’ve married a bellend,” Draco took her hand, doing his best not to get tangled. “I could’ve told you he’d go screaming ‘Succubus!’ the moment things got a bit hairy.”

“I’m fine, Draco,” she said again, ignoring his attempts to distract by shitting on the Weasel King. “Blaise, quit hogging the baby, Draco needs her.”

“I do not,” Draco held up his hands.

“You can’t be unhappy or afraid holding her, Draco, I swear it. I think she’s got something special about her. The moment they put her in my arms, everything was better. Like the clouds parted…”

“I think she’s right, Draco,” Blaise walked over to him, nodding for him to stand. “I feel, somehow, at peace, but I think by your peaked look you might need her more than me.”

“I am not peaked,” Draco assured them, standing even so.

He’d never held a baby.

Or a child.

Never even touched one, save for when he was one, and people of that age were his peers. He’d seen his cousin, Teddy, a few times now… but was always at least a meter or so away.

His heartbeat pulsed in his ears when Blaise handed her over, the two of them in an awkward stance as Draco held his arms aloft, elbows bent, to receive her.

She made no indication that she realized she was being sent about the room like a human pass the parcel. Her blanket, wrapping her like an Egyptian relic, had the tiniest flowers embroidered upon it. Mostly white with bits of purple and green. 

She was a tiny, little thing. Warm. 

She sighed, he thought. It was definitely more than a regular breath.

Zabini was probably just shit at holding babies, and she was finally comfortable, so she relaxed. 

She looked positively content. 

He peeled back the part covering her head, smiling before he could stop himself. 

“I know. I really thought I’d win that one,” Pansy said, tucking a weft of inky black strands behind her ear. It was like she didn’t even try.

Poppy’s hair was bright, copper-red.

“You can always try again,” he mused, staring into the baby’s perfect little face. “She just does this, then? Sleeps like a sweet little thing?”

He glanced up at Pansy to find her smiling at him. “Well, I’ve only known her an hour, but so far, yes.”

She was kind of lovely, this Poppy.

“That’s not so bad, then,” he inhaled with a thought, hugging the baby a little tighter. “You’re going to allow Mippy to stay with you for a bit, aren’t you? She’d be devastated to leave.”

“I’d like to take that one, love,” the Weasel King barked from the door, Granger at his side. “We would love Mippy to stay for as long as she would like, and as long as you are willing to allow her. She might even keep my mother at bay, which, works on a lot of levels.”

Granger stifled a laugh.

“Mippy does dote on me an awful lot…” Pansy said. “And here, after going through all this, I’m not sure I’d like that to end anytime soon…”

“Certainly not,” Draco agreed. “She’ll be chuffed.”

Draco steered himself away from the new additions to the room, lest they disturb Poppy’s slumber. He swayed, ever so slightly, like he’d seen the Weasel She do with Lily.

“Hello, Pansy,” Granger inched forward. “I’m so happy, I just… I’m so happy you are okay and that Poppy is here.”

“Thank you, Hermione,” Pansy said. “I’d say you should hold her if you’d like, but…”

Draco was only half-listening. Poppy was making a face, and it pulled much of his attention. 

It seemed a happy face, at least.

Babies were strange, weren’t they… practically inhuman? All they could really do, was feel. Not a lot of thought, just riding on instinct, and whether they are in bliss versus discomfort.

It might be nice, not to think. For someone to anticipate one’s needs as they arise. Make sure nothing could cause pain, or anguish. To perpetuate the contentment for as long as possible.

How lucky for Poppy.

And how absolutely frightening to be a parent, trying valiantly, but unable to keep the bubble from bursting in perpetuity.

What heart breaking effort, to keep the world’s worst at bay, to know it wasn’t forever.

The world, its horrors, its triumphs, always won.

But then there was the resilience. Yes, Poppy seemed of sturdy character, Draco could tell this already. She’d be poised to take on whatever life threw at her, however sharp. Her bubble would puncture but she’d be armed, her parents would see to it.

He would see to it, for however long…

“Draco?”

“Hmm?” He lifted his head, having lost himself in thought. In the Poppy of it all.

They stared at him.

“What were you humming to her? It sounds familiar,” Theo asked.

“Was I?”

“See, she’s magic,” Blaise said. 

“Well of course she is, you think they’d produce a-” Draco pulled her to his chest, covering her ears, like he’d seen Granger do, “-squib? Please.”

Blaise laughed.

“Oh, Granger,” Draco said softly, moving a bit as Poppy stirred. “Should you like to hold her, you’ll have to wait.”

“Okay,” Granger nodded, a strange look upon her face. “You look quite taken with her, I wouldn’t want to get in the middle of it.”

“Wise, so wise,” Draco nodded, walking slowly across the room. He felt loads better than he had ten minutes ago. He whispered to the baby as the others chatted amongst themselves. “Poppy, you’ll come to know that Granger, whilst sometimes grating, generally has a good grasp on things. The one you’ll have to look out for is that Potter. Don’t be fooled by your cousins, who will likely hold him in great esteem-”

“Draco!” Pansy held out her arms. “Quit filling my baby’s head with gossip and pettiness.”

“Pansy, she must begin to learn our culture,” he chided, “with both our parents gone, if I don’t, who will?” 

Theo looked up, folding his arms in front of himself. “What the fuck am I, then?”

“Don’t speak such vulgarities in front of the baby,” Draco spat, drawing a laugh from Theo as he handed Poppy back to her mother. He smiled, for some reason in the moment he couldn’t help himself.

“Quite right, and on that note, I think it’s time we take our leave,” Theo stood, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “We must allow Miss Pansy to be inundated by her in-laws, no?”

Draco’s eyes flitted to Granger, who was watching at him, her head to the side. 

“I’m sure your mother was thoroughly annoyed to hear she’s a she,” Pansy said to the Weasel King as she stroked the baby’s cheek with one finger. “I wish I could have seen it.”

“She is a bit of a conspiracy theorist, thinks we’ve all hidden it from her. Godric, she can be a menace when she gets her mind on something,” Weasley said, nodding to Granger. “Still thinks this one was with Krum and Harry all at the same time.”

The room’s focus turned to Granger, whose cheeks went slightly pink. 

“Little did she know, I was messing around with Cedric, too,” she countered dryly. 

Theo let out a hiss. “Oi, a little too soon, I think. The man’s dead, Granger.”

“Very poor taste,” Draco nodded.

“Are you kidding me?” Granger’s hand flung out, pointing at Theo. “You were just telling me how he’s out fornicating with ghosts!”

Pansy was unamused, Blaise was laughing, his fist to his mouth, and the Weasel King was watching the conversation volley back and forth, mouth gaping.

“Point of order…” Draco held up a hand. “I did not say fornicating. And it wasn’t plural.”

“Ah, yes. Helena…” Theo stared wistfully into the corner. “Haven’t thought about her in quite the while.”

Granger held up her hands, as if in victory.

“Alright, alright, we shall leave you to your family, new and old,” Draco said, pushing Theo into Granger and out the door. “Give Mippy my regards.”

“Speaking of your family, Weasley, what’s Charlie’s deal?” Theo wiggled his eyebrows as Draco continued pushing him into the hall.

-

Though it was a Thursday in June, just after lunch, Pinchwickey’s was nearly full. The corner pub in Diagon Alley typically pulled in a younger crowd, one who preferred to sit in a place that was somewhat clean, with well-appointed upholstered booths, honeyed wooden tables and fewer crones shaking bony fingers their way (something hard to miss in The Leaky Cauldron). 

The walls were covered in pictures and Prophet headlines and the cask list glittered in black script on a scroll stretched from ceiling to floor. Outside, nearly covering the brick facade, were pots of flowers dripping with petals of pink, purple and white, variegated vines crawling skyward, and rows of window boxes stuffed with bright blooms. 

They were sat at a table near the front window, a conspicuous place Draco generally did not care to be. Just in front of them, taking over the window box, was a smattering of white and yellow narcissus.

She popped up every now and then, his mother. If he was paying attention.

The booth wrapped around a round table. Draco was at the edge, next to Theo, then Blaise, then Potter (who had come straight over after the lift fiasco), then Granger- across from him on the other side, looking a bit brighter the moment Potter set her wand in front of her with a look. 

Minutes went by without a single employee looking their way, and when one finally deigned to appear in their midst, he already had a drink in his hand. He plopped it in front of Granger.

“Did you already order?” Draco asked.

“It’s from a gentleman at the bar,” the server said, nodding behind him.

“Looks lovely,” Theo said, the look on his face making him a liar. “While we have you here, could we get a round of… oh, I don’t know. I’m in a martini mood, anyone else?”

Blaise and Potter opted for beers, whilst Theo and Draco stuck with (gin) martinis. Granger pointed lamely to her own gifted drink, saying something about not letting it go to waste.

Potter smirked at her. “Point to Hermione. I think that puts us eleven to four, in recent times.”

“We get sent a lot of drinks,” Granger began to explain, likely due to the sneer on Draco’s face as he looked from her, to the drink, to the shiny man nodding lewdly at her from the bar.

“However, Hermione’s are usually from gentlemen, and feel a bit heavy handed. Should someone see me out and buy me a drink, and Hermione happens to be alongside, they almost always pay her the same kindness.”

“Or me,” Blaise said. “I love it when you get me free drinks.”

“A definite perk,” Potter agreed.

“The Chosen One, the Golden Girl,” Theo mused. “Poor Weasley.”

Potter let that slip right on by. “But if they’re buying for Hermione, they’re… buying for Hermione. Her efforts toward righting our society don’t seem to rate.”

Granger nodded at the drink-pusher, waving and holding her drink aloft. “Thank you,” she mouthed, taking a sip and trying to suppress a cough.

“Godric,” she turned to Harry, setting her forehead upon his shoulder as she continued hacking away.

“Is it poisoned?” Draco asked sharply, pulling the drink from her hand and toward him. It was pale yellow, with flecks of gold, shimmering and pulsing within the glass. 

“No,” she cleared her throat. “Just strong.”

“Not to say that hasn’t happened,” Potter patted her on the back. “It only took a round of Amortentia-laced concoctions to necessitate certain conditions. Or, just the one. We will only accept drinks which come straight from those tending bar, and not ones handed off by the public.”

“A good rule of thumb,” Theo said. 

“I can’t imagine the type to lace a drink,” Blaise said, looking at Draco wickedly.

Granger swallowed, her gaze falling down to the table while Potter set his jaw.

“You try to poison an old man one time, and instead take down a ginger who likely deserved it on some level, and they never let you live it down,” Draco said, plucking his martini from the air as the server floated the tray toward them.

Potter seemed halfway between angry and amused, Granger just plain bewildered, her eyes widening as she looked up from her in-depth cataloging of the table top’s wood grain.

No matter the ease with which he could be self-deprecating, the truth of it was, the memory of doing such a thing, of doing a lot of things, gnawed at Draco. It never let up.

It was devastating. He’d never recover or make up for it; he could only dwell until some point, when there would be nothing left.

But that day was not today.

“What is it, then?” Draco asked, still eying Granger’s drink. 

“An abomination that too many come up with,” she groaned. “Butterbeer layered with cinnamon faerie whiskey.”

Faerie whiskey, typically imbued with sparkling minerals, gems and precious metals, was so strong it could be lit on fire.

And it felt that way, going down.

“It is… golden. I supposed that’s what they’re after?” Theo squinted at it, taking a sip of his martini. “How prosaic.”

“They call it the Golden Swirl,” Potter laughed.

Granger pasted on a smile, reaching across the table for it, while staring longingly at the perfectly, partly cloudy martini sitting next to her glass, Draco’s fingers resting along the stem. “I don’t want to seem rude, so I’ll power through… why they never think to ask what I like, or even what I typically drink…”

Draco swallowed, pushing his martini forward and grabbing the glass Granger was holding in contempt. He lifted the Swirl to his lips, pushing the straw to the side with his finger as he took a long pull.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said.

It burned. 

Oh, it burned so grotesquely. 

He’d never be able to tolerate cinnamon, again.

“Granger,” he tried to focus, the drink’s octane rating begging him to shudder, his eyes to tear. “This is awful. How do you drink these?”

She ran a finger along the top of the martini glass, taking a sip before she answered.

“Slowly and with a lot of pent up aggression,” she said, screwing her face up as she looked at the drink in front of her. “This is pure alcohol, Malfoy!”

“There’s a thimble of olive juice, too,” he took another drink of the Swirl, blowing out a stabilizing breath after swallowing.

“It is somehow still better than that thing,” she said, putting the olive between her teeth and slowly pulling it from the toothpick and letting it drop onto her tongue.

He looked away.

“Okay, let me try,” Theo snatched the drink from Draco, making a face before he took much too large of a sip. “Oh, fuck.”

He coughed, knocking back his entire martini to wash it down, gnawing on the olive stick as his eyes darted around the table.

“I think I should sue that man,” he stood as much as he could, trying to get the attention of their server. “Another, yes, thank you!”

Draco drained the offending beverage, nodding at Theo who stood again, and held up two fingers. 

“Blaise, you should have tried it,” Theo said, coughing again.

“Oh, I have.” Blaise raised his beer glass to Theo. “A hazing ritual, if you will. Poor Granger gets at least one a month.”

She groaned again.

“Granger, can I order you something else?” Draco asked. “I can take the martini back if you’re not partial to it.”

She stirred the remaining olive slowly, shaking her head. “Thank you, but it’s growing on me, actually.”

From the corner of his eye, he caught a most obnoxious look from Blaise, who glanced to Theo, and back again.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen

you might get what you’re after

-

It didn’t take long for Draco to build himself (read: have others, who were qualified and came highly recommended, build for him) a little (massive) office just down the hall from Gemma’s editor’s suite. They’d settled into a routine, the two of them, which was one of his favorite things to do. He liked to know where he was to be, what he would be faced with, what was expected of him… and he liked it to be scheduled and standardized.

This did not make him a boring person.

Structure was sexy.

Gemma, having been an executive assistant for a number of years, was well-equipped to help him (have Mr. Walter help him, rather) in such an endeavor.

Draco sat with her every Monday to go over the week, and then most mornings after the paper had gone out to reassess and recommit to their particular style of the news- which was to say, how to consistently say what they wanted… without threats of censure from the powers that be.

A tricky task, most days.

The timing of such meetings meant Bopsy made Draco’s petit déjeuner for two and sent it along to the office. Gemma seemed delighted to have his company, even though Granger had tried to convince him she hated him.

She didn’t seem to hate him. 

She seemed to like him quite a lot, actually. For what it was worth. 

Not that Granger would listen to anyone who might expound upon his virtues… even if things she initially found unappealing had the tendency to grow on her.

What did that mean?

What did she mean?

Was she solely speaking of the martini?

Granger, herself, was infrequently in office- though her energy was ever-present and everlasting. 

Gemma brought her up constantly. 

He had offered to build her an office, too, (and it didn’t even have to be near his!) though she declined. 

It felt as if she was trying to avoid him, if he could make such a deduction. After the hospital and Pinchwickey’s, an entire afternoon in which they largely got along, he hadn’t seen much of her. The whole of July, she seemed to be everywhere he’d been yet nowhere he was. 

Now that it was August, he’d seen her just a handful of times. If he took his breakfast meeting with Gemma, then Granger seemed to be scarce on Wednesdays… but if he didn’t, she hung around all day, ignorant to him just down the hall. 

What did it matter, though? They were not friends.

If he were to grow on her…

Oh, sod it all.

It was this sort of depressing, wretchedness plaguing him, when Rookwood, flanked by Selwyn (the court’s mouth), the other Selwyn (a mouth full of bullshit), Dolohov, Travers and Theo, allowed themselves into his office one August afternoon.

“I can see why you wouldn’t want to bum around the Ministry anymore when you have a set-up like this, Malfoy,” Rookwood mused, sitting himself in a chair without being asked to do so.

It was a nice office, but such a statement was gratuitous. Of fucking course it was nice, he was Draco Malfoy, not some idiot Ministry fop with hideous taste and hardly two sickles to rub together.

The floors were marble, the walls done in Venetian plaster, a creamy look which allowed the African blackwood desk to really pop. He had a sofa, two chairs and a marble coffee table atop a silk rug in one corner, a large workspace table with eight chairs in the other. He had a bar (hello), an enormous window and double height ceilings that gave the whole room a palatial feel. He had an attached toilet and shower, as well. Just in case.

Again, hello?

“Is this Italian marble?” Rookwood tapped his foot on the floor.

“It is,” Draco leaned back in his seat, a buttery leather wingback on casters, “I own three quarries.”

“Do you!” Rookwood pitched forward, running his fingers across the tile. “Fabulous.”

“It’ll do,” he said, eying Theo… who looked far too amused.

Draco’s parting from the Ministry was only feasible if Theo stayed well within Rookwood’s clutches, they’d decided such long ago.

The separation did not quell their togetherness, much as they might allow people to assume. Theo joined Draco and Gemma for breakfast on Tuesdays. He dined with him at the Manor thrice every week, and in the open sessions they still sat together, beyond the podium.

Which was why it was so surprising that with ample opportunities to warn of such an ambush, Theo had remained mum. 

Sitting there, hiding a grin, as Rookwood pretended to know even the basics about quarrying marble.

“While of course I’m pleased to see you all, in the effort of getting on with our busy days… what can I do for you?”

Mr. Walter wandered in with tea for seven, setting it on a large blackwood buffet near the windows. The buffet and the desk were a matching set belonging to Armand Malfoy and Draco was loathe to part them, as he was the first Malfoy in Britain. Great (many times over) Grandfather Armand’s portrait never horrified Draco like Septimus or haunted him like Abraxas. He was stoic. He never spoke at all, actually, just sat in his portrait with his dear “friend” William the Conqueror. It’s a wonder the Malfoy line survived such a friendship, really.

Mr. Walter busied himself setting out a spread, with sandwiches and sweets in addition to scones, butter and jams.

“Oh, Mr. Walter, yes,” Draco held up a hand. “We’ll take that one over here.”

He floated a tray to Draco, who held out the tiny, honey laden philo-dough triangles for the taking.

Theo reached out first, grabbing two. “I love these bloody things.”

“What is it?” Dolohov muttered.

“Baklava,” Draco said, staring at Dolohov like he was stupid (he was), “one of my elves is quite the apiarist. I bought him another hive just last week.”

Everyone took part, save for Rookwood, who shook his head. “Allergic to walnuts.”

“You’re in luck,” Draco smiled, “we use pistachios.”

“All tree nuts give me a hard time, I fear,” Rookwood said. “And the potions to counteract such nastiness, taste of troll taint, so I’m not the best at keeping up with the preventative side of things. Anyway. As to why we’re here.”

How he knew what a troll’s taint tasted of, Draco didn’t want to know, though Theo seemed very interested to hear more. 

“Yes,” he set the tray down, leaning back in his chair. “What can I do for you, Sir?”

“As I’m sure you’re aware, when you made this ill-thought purchase, I was quite supportive of your designs.”

“Were you? I don’t recall you saying a single thing?”

“Exactly,” Rookwood nodded. “I left you to your own devices, knowing you would do what was right, by me.”

“And what’s that?”

Rookwood glowered at him. “I should think the exact opposite of what you’re currently doing.”

He then went on to explain just how The Daily Prophet was undermining the government, and how Draco was going to be held personally responsible.

“You started by moving that golden twit to the front page-”

“She was always on the front page,” Draco countered, resenting the word twit greatly.

“You put her above the fold, in an effort to do what, exactly? Make the government look incompetent?”

Draco refused to even look near Theo, with such low-hanging fruit dangling betwixt them.

“All she does is talk about Muggles and ways in which my initiatives are failing. She has no other thing to speak of?” Rookwood cracked his knuckles, his voice rising with every sentence. “Another terrorist attack would surely shut her up, but of course there are none, because I am good at my job and the citizens of our great section of this country no longer need to fear for their lives!”

“Yes, you’ve had an unblemished four months or so, haven’t you,” Draco nodded. “Beyond Granger, what else pains you, Sir?”

“I want you to end her,” Rookwood said, looking to Dolohov and grimacing. “Her column! Her column. I want you to end her column, just as I’d told that old fool Jacoby before you swooped in and bought the whole damn thing. Did he really not explain to you how I’d come to him? How I made him see how dangerous her narratives could become?”

“He said not a word,” Draco held up two fingers, “I swear it. The man was nearly senile, perhaps he’d forgotten your conversation completely?”

Rookwood seemed to think of this, and nodded. “She must be stopped.”

“You’re really so concerned by a 23 year old girl, Sir?”

“She is a menace, Lord Malfoy,” Rookwood’s nostrils flared. He only called him Lord, when he was trying to make a point. And usually the point was that he was in charge, and Draco was not. Lordship not withstanding. “It would be wise to realize this, and take action.”

He nodded, his hands steepled in front of his mouth. “And if I don’t?”

One of the Selwyn’s took in a sharp breath.

“If I were in your position… in life, I would think having the Minister owe you a personal favor might be worth something.”

“It might,” he said, feeling Theo’s eyes on him. They’d discussed this exact scenario just last week: what would Draco do when Rookwood came knocking, demanding Granger’s head? It came just after the printing of her most recent column: a particularly colorful appraisal of Rookwood’s time in office and all he’s been unable to do.

“But I do believe, Minister, that I’m already doing you a personal favor by keeping her on my payroll, and I am quite surprised you can’t see it,” Draco said carefully. “Father always talked of how you were the only one with any sense.

“More sense than he, that’s for certain. Invoking the memory of Lucius now, are we? Trust me boy, I could tell you things of your father that would have you curled up, crying into your baklava.”

Draco refused to let his unease show, forcing himself still.

“Sir, what I am trying to say is that Ministers’ past have often used their influence criminally, to sway the paper and subsequently public opinion-”

“Ugh,” Theo lamented, lobbing a soft one at Draco. “Name one time.”

“Fudge, so scared for the fall out of the Dark Lord’s return, lied to the people via the paper and slandered a young school boy.”

“Are you referring to Harry Potter?” Selwyn (the Chief Warlock one, not the useless one) asked.

“The very same, you’ve heard of him? Fantastic,” Draco nodded, turning to Dolohov and speaking in a slow, over-enunciated fashion. “Harry Potter, he vanquished, no sorry. He killed-” he mimed stabbing “-the Dark Lord.”

Dolohov’s brow had a ridge all the way across, giving him the appearance of an ancient man who was confused at the appearance of fire.

“Alright, anyway,” he continued, “by the time Fudge had to come clean via the Prophet, the damage was done. No one trusted him a lick.”

“Is this a game, to you?” Travers asked, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

“You’ll have to forgive some of our number, Draco,” Theo interrupted, “half this room was in Azkaban, at the time… they might not recall how it truly was.”

Draco’s pulse quickened further, he’d be dead by dinner. “Quite right, Mr. Nott, thank you-”

“Are you two doing this back and forth for my benefit?” Rookwood said brusquely, plainly unamused. “You sound as wooden as this gorgeous bureau. If I cared for the theatre I wouldn’t have ended the money going toward the arts program at Hogwarts.”

Draco sighed, and Theo said something that sounded like “Drat.”

“Sir,” Draco said, pushing the words from his mouth before his nerves choked them out, “I’m doing you a favor, and I am sorry to say you’re being stupid if you’re insisting you can’t see it for what it is.”

Rookwood’s jaw clicked. 

“By keeping Granger in the paper, I’m giving many people a point of view they can absorb and that they feel good about. By allowing such an opinion to remain, you look more like a ruler who trusts in his own mission and power. Only a megalomaniac demands dissenters to be quieted or be sent to their deaths. The time for that is long past. It is a new millennium, by hook or by crook no longer. If you’re in this for the long haul, you need me to carefully curate your opposition and give you a platform on which you can come out on top.”

Rookwood shook his head. “You’re fucking her, then? Is that what this is?”

“Mudblood whore-” Dolohov started, but was rendered immediately unconscious by Draco’s wand, from its place concealed in his pocket.

It was less terrific reflexes and more… he had been waiting patiently for such an opportunity to curse the man.

“Oh, Salazar,” Draco searched the room wildly, unable to find the source of Dolohov’s fainting spell. “Does he do this often? Is that why he’s stealing sweets? Low blood sugar?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Rookwood grunted, hardly leaning out of chair to peer upon the unkempt man lolling about the ground. “Seems just as believable as this yarn you’re spinning, Malfoy.”

“Fine then.” He shrugged, still right where he wanted to be. “It is your incumbency, Sir. Do with it what you will, it will be over soon, anyway.”

He was sure he was providing the group with the presentation of a calm, collected, confident version of himself. He guarded his thoughts well.

They didn’t know he would tip over into full panic at any moment.

He was a 23 year old, orphaned parolee, who talked a big game with the help of his family’s money and name, but who lacked any sort of assurance that what he was doing wouldn’t end him up dead. 

Though if death was all that could be threatened… he’d seen worse.

What did any of it matter though - the fact of it was, if he held his hand out, it would shake. 

He hated how gutless he’d become. Maybe he’d always been such, but the sycophants around him painted a different picture, allowing him to feel righteous when in reality he should have longed to linger in perfidy.

“Don’t think I haven’t heard a threat from a Malfoy before,” Rookwood watched him, then stood, buttoning his jacket as he looked down at him. “Honestly, it was about time to hear one from the lips of the babe…”

Was Draco the babe in this scenario?

“You can keep her until the polling begins for the election.”

“I think it wise,” he stood with his hand out.

It did not shake.

Rookwood took it, glancing to his right. “Nott, get Dolohov to whatever tent downtown he calls home.”

“And if I can’t find it, I think he’d love the feel of the Thames,” Theo said, levitating the lump and leaving without a look back, though their cover as conspirators had already been blown. 

The Selwyns both nodded as they followed Rookwood out, Travers trailing closely behind, his eye steady on Draco as he left.

The door clicked, and he fell into his seat.

He was sweating. He was finally shaking. He was… afraid of those men? Really? Those men? 

What did that say about him?

He hated the fear. It controlled him, it possessed him. 

He didn’t know how to be rid of it.

-

He found Granger hours later at a Muggle pub, shortly after he wrestled the information of her whereabouts from a strangely guarded Gemma. 

“Doesn’t Granger typically pop in to go over column edits with you, right about now?” He asked, so very casually, as he leaned against Gemma’s doorjamb.

“Typically,” was her answer.

“Ah,” Draco stared down into his tea.

He stood in the doorway for another 40 seconds, watching Gemma go over the Arts and Leisure section with a magnifying glass, bent over her desk.

“Where is she, then?”

Gemma set down the glass and straightened. “What’s it to you?”

“Come again?”

“Why? What will you do with the information of Hermione’s time table and current location?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why does it matter?”

They stared each other down, until Gemma’s glare bent into a smile. “I just don’t know, Draco. She owled me this morning, said she’s a bit behind and will be by late this afternoon to go over things. I told her maybe a change of scenery was needed… made mention of a Muggle pub I used to visit with my parents whenever we’d come into the city to get to Diagon Alley.”

“Sure…”

“I forget sometimes how close it is. See, it was easier for my parents to have a full stomach before venturing into Wizarding London - though they’d partake in a gin as well, which also had an anti-anxiety effect... if you stuck to just the one, that is!  They take great comfort in pub fare, my parents. Perhaps when they visit next month we can all go?” She tapped her finger against the desk a couple times. “Anyway. Very easy to get there, even for someone who perhaps has never gone into Muggle London…”

“Well when she comes in, I’d like a word-”

“You just pop out of The Leaky, then head right up Great Newport Street… and there it is on the corner. The Porcupine.”

“When she comes in,” he finished firmly.

“Right. I should think that will be in a few hours. She’ll come here directly from The Porcupine, or so she led me to believe.”

He ambled away, tea still clutched in his hand.

-

What did one wear to Muggle London?

He decided he’d wear a suit, no jacket. 

With his sleeves rolled, it was 30 bloody degrees but there was such a thing as common decency.

He had never been beyond The Leaky. He’d never ventured into Muggle territory at all, though he knew most families weren’t as strict as his.

The Malfoy’s owned homes solely in Wizarding hamlets and towns. If they needed something from the Muggle world they sent an elf. Draco continued on in this tradition.

Theo, Blaise and Pansy had been many a time, mostly when Draco was in Azkaban. They liked the food, the drinks. Pansy was quite taken by the fashion. Theo talked about a big wheel. 

But Draco had never gone. 

Until today.

He took the right Gemma suggested, and started down the sidewalk. 

Every step he took in Diagon, or Horizont, or Hogsmeade, was watched. There were eyes on him all the time, flash bulbs popping noisily in his periphery. 

He wasn’t being conceited; it was a fact that everyone knew him. The Magical population of Britain wasn’t that large, and he was perhaps the wealthiest, most notorious person who existed in any room, at any given time. He was used to such a thing.

He was a Malfoy. It came with the territory.

Here in the Muggle London, however, he seemed to be unknown. A man of no consequence. 

A nobody.

Out of the fifty people he saw (why were there SO many?) he got only one glance in the 100 or so meters he traversed to the corner, where The Porcupine sat. This singular glance was from a woman, likely about his age, who looked him up and down and smiled.  

Draco knew that look very well.

He nodded at her, continuing on. 

He found Granger sitting at a table outside, her hair in a thick braid down her back. The first thing his eyes narrowed upon were her bare thighs, one bouncing up and down, her pen tapping against a notebook at the same tempo. She had on, what had to be the most insignificantly sized denim skirt, barely covering her arse let alone her legs. An expanse of her tanned lower back was showing as well, where her (equally tiny) light blue top, with straps the width of pieces of linguine, rode up as she leaned forward.

The pub’s facade was painted in glossy black, with gold lettering indicating that yes, indeed it was a pub, that had seating upstairs, that it served various pies… Ferns hung over the sign, and ivy crawled up the brick of the second story.

And there Granger sat, half-starkers, nursing an ale with her sunglasses dangling- the temple clenched between her teeth.

He stood near her, casting a shadow upon her table. He could tell the moment she realized someone was there, her back stiffening as she swung her head around, her pen immediately revealing itself to actually be her wand.

“Malfoy?” She breathed, her chest falling as she seemed to determine him different than the threat she assumed.

A bit jumpy, was Muggle Granger.

“Does that actually write?” He asked, gesturing to the wand as it transfigured back into a pen. 

Wand transfigurations were tricky. He hadn’t figured it out yet, but the only time he tried in earnest he was attempting to smoke the damn thing.

Theo’s idea. 

Ill-advised, per usual. 

“What are you doing here? How did you-” she stopped mid-sentence. “Gemma.”

“Indeed,” he said, pulling out the other chair. “Do you mind? Of course not, thank you so much.”

“You’re in Muggle London,” she said, shoving on her glasses. “Why?”

“I appreciate the faint smell of urine and the sporadic melody of haphazard horns invading my peace,” he grimaced, looking around.

There were so many people. Even more on this particular corner than outside The Leaky Cauldron.

And the vehicles!

Fast. Loud. Slow. Louder. All colors.

He wasn’t going to think about it. He wouldn’t dwell. He was adjacent the crowd, not in it.

She stared at him, mouth slightly agape.

“I’m here to speak with you, of course. Why else?”

“What do you want?”

He exhaled in a most annoyed way. “Granger I know you said we aren’t to be friends but could you at least act with some sort of respectability? You’re wearing an outfit smaller than Bopsy typically frequents and it’s-”

“What? What does my outfit have to do with anything? It’s quite warm outside, as if you haven’t noticed.” She reached out and put a palm to his chest. 

He held his breath.

“Yes, just as I assumed. You’re sweating through your oxford,” she said, rubbing her fingers together. She flicked her “pen” at him, and suddenly, he was blissfully cool. “Though you’re at a Muggle pub, it doesn’t mean you have to do without such conveniences.”

He placed a palm to her, a careless choice that saw his thumb resting at the base of her throat, his fingers curling over the top of her shoulder onto her back. 

Tit for tat? What the fuck was he doing?

Her skin burned beneath his touch. “Why don’t you use one, then?”

“I like it hot.”

After a beat, he removed his hand, surprised she didn’t shrug him off. 

“Why are you here, tracking me down at a pub on this blistering afternoon?”

“Right,” he said, snapping himself out of whatever haze came over him when he felt Granger, skin-to-skin. “I had a visit from Rookwood and his band of merry morons-”

“Do you include Theo in this?”

“He was there, but no I do not consider him even close to a moron.”

Granger seemed unconvinced. “He just acts like one, then? We are the company we keep, Malfoy.”

“Rich of you to say, what with your friends,” Draco leveled her with a glare. Which she returned, ten-fold. “Theo does not believe in Rookwood’s platform, he’s just there-”

“I’m uninterested in this, this position you both so tirelessly take up. If you’re not against him, you’re with him. It’s not hard to figure. You are many things, but stupid has never been one of them.”

“It is absolutely more complicated-”

“It’s not,” she said flatly, going back to her notebook. “That’s your cowardice showing.”

He couldn’t believe this. He finally stood up to the man (in a roundabout way) and this was the thanks he got? Was he the only one who cared about her column?

If she couldn’t be bothered, he wasn’t sure why he’d stuck his neck out in the first place!

“I came here today to tell you that when Rookwood came to my office, to force me to end your column, I said no,” Draco lashed out. “I told him no.”

“Okay?”

“I thought you should be aware.”

“Alright,” she said. “Thanks for telling me, then.”

She aggressively crossed out a word, scribbling away without another glance to him.

“Are you serious?” He asked.

“What?”

“That’s all?”

She stared at him, waiting for more.

“Granger, I took a side!”

“When?”

“Just an hour ago! When Rookwood came in and said you were a twit with dangerous narratives-” she laughed, while his voice was at an unflattering pitch, “-and I said…”

“Let me guess. You said… you were keeping me on for his benefit, or something equally misleading.”

“Yes!”

She dropped her “pen”, and began clapping. Slowly.

Loudly.

“Bully for you, Malfoy.” She dropped her hands, staring him down.

“I can’t believe how ungrateful you’re being!”

A thoughtless server chose to step to the table at that very moment, halting her rebuttal. “Can I get you something, sir?”

“I’m quite fine, thank you, but do you have anything that could possibly bring clarity and perspective to someone who is sorely lacking? Do you have something like that?”

The server blinked. “I think we have a packet of ginseng tea somewhere?”

“That will have to do, thank you,” he said dismissively, urging the server onward.

“I don’t want a tea, it’s the hottest day I think I’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing-”

“You’ll take the tea,” he growled. “And you’ll drink it. Because you’re obviously barking mad if you consider my act of defiance as anything other than what it was!”

“Which was what? You want me to what? Tell you I’m proud of you? Say you’re a good man?”

He swallowed.

“What?” She leaned back, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Would you like a prize for doing the bare minimum? And for spinning it, regardless?”

He opened his mouth to argue, then shut it. 

Yes. He did want such praise, it would seem.

He wanted her to notice and realize he’d taken a step.

But he hadn’t, had he? He just manipulated the moment at hand so he could get what he wanted while not ruffling many feathers. 

Your cowardice is showing.

She exhaled through her nose, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head as she leaned forward. “It doesn’t happen overnight, does it. I’m sorry.”

“What?” He made a face- why was her voice like that?

Soft. 

Sweet.

Unheard of.

“You are obviously trying, here. You have just taken a step in a direction with which you are unfamiliar. You’ve turned against the current.” She said mechanically, before softening once again. “I could be more gracious toward you as you tip toe into the light…”

“Don’t do me any favors,” he sneered. “You know, not all of us were raised by teeth healers who were evidently of the utmost moral fibre. Some of us had to go about attempting murder and rotting in prison before the idea of righteousness really coalesced into something we could get our hands on.”

She nodded. “Yes, you’re right.”

He continued, not registering what she’d said. “And some of us have had to bear the weight of our own choices and will never truly…”

She bent her head to the side as he trailed off. “It is not black and white. We aren’t composed of all good, or all bad. It was rude of me to belittle your attempt, I do apologize. Great oaks from little acorns grow, and all that.”

“Am I to assume I’m the acorn, in this instance?” First the babe, now an acorn… why was everyone so infantilizing toward him today?

“There are worse things to be,” she said.

The ginseng tea was sat between them, steam hardly rising from the top.

“This tea, for instance,” she lamented, giving it a push.

“So we aren’t friends,” he said, seemingly out of nowhere. 

“Stuck on that, are you?”

“You don’t want a friend like me?”

She seemed to think on this, for a moment. “No?”

“May I ask why?”

“Well, sure, yes. Let’s unpack this. What is it, exactly, that you bring to the table?”

He very much intended to respond to such a simple question but in the moment (she always put him on the spot!) could not think of a single thing to boast about. He had money? He was handsome, if you didn’t know him?

He was of the Sacred 28?

What good was any of it?

What had he done that was worth anything?

He hid. He deflected. 

And he waited to die. 

“Oh, Malfoy,” she held in a laugh, searching his face as he sat there like a fish out of water, mouth gaping over and over to no avail. “Okay. Please. Don’t make me feel bad for you, alright? I find pity so unattractive.”

What was wrong with him? He suddenly wanted nothing more than to Disapparate away, far from here, his tail between his legs. 

The sound of the street got louder, but instead of a steady hum dwelling somewhere in the background its every utterance startled him, keeping him on edge. The horns, the sound of the cars, the people talking, yelling. The door of The Porcupine swinging open and shut, open and shut. The scrape of forks and knives upon cheap china.

His own breathing.

The cooling charm’s efficacy seemed to be dwindling as sweat formed at his hairline.

His collar was too tight so he unbuttoned it. Granger’s eyes flicked to his chest and he saw the pang of realization hit her. His scars.

Her stupid fucking friend maimed him and nothing had been right, since!

“I have a meeting, actually,” he started to stand, not stopping until he felt a hand clasp tightly around his wrist, halting his trajectory. 

“Hold on, here,” she stood with him, handing her the remnants of her beer. “Drink this.”

He did.

It was lukewarm, nearly flat, and he wanted to spit it back out. 

She fished some colorful pieces of paper from her pocket and tossed them onto the small metal table, still gripping him firmly. She snatched up her notebook and showily shrunk it to shove into the (very small) back pocket of her skirt.

She pulled him across the road, not speaking again for a bit.

“Come on now, breathe in, breathe out.”

“What are you doing?” He asked as they came to a stop on a corner, waiting for the cars to cease, so they could make their way to the other side. Her hold on him had slipped from his wrist, down to his hand, her fingers threaded within his own, still gripping tightly.

They walked for a while before she answered, looking up at him. “You think I don’t know what the beginnings of a panic attack look like?” She huffed, and squeezed his hand.

“I’m fine,” he tried to extricate his hand from hers, finally doing so. “I have that appointment-”

“You said it was a meeting,” she squinted into the sun behind him, one hand on her hip and the other pulling her glasses back down. “Come on, Malfoy. Let me help.”

“Why?” He asked. “We aren’t friends. I have nothing to offer you in that way, you’ve made it perfectly clear-”

“Regardless of that, and how you seem to be obsessing about it,” she mused, “it doesn’t mean I can’t show you kindness. At least until you’re feeling like yourself while you’re out here in a strange place.”

“I don’t require your sympathy or assistance,” he said, turning and walking back toward The Porcupine, back to The Leaky Cauldron. 

They seemed to be on a street that solely contained bookstores. No wonder Granger was intent to loiter.

She called after him, her floppy little sandals making a ruckus as she ran to catch up. “Malfoy, come on!”

He kept going, previously unaware of how much ground they’d covered as she’d dragged him up, what had to be, the busiest bloody road in all of England. He had to step around a dawdling Muggle dipshit every three paces. 

What was he doing here? Why had he come? What did he think she’d do, the moment he regaled her with his lousy attempt at rectifying every wrong he’d done?

He was pathetic.

“Malfoy!”

He could see the green bookshop on the corner, just ahead, across from the pub. A left, and then just a bit more-

“Oi!” A deep voice sounded behind him, pulling his focus. He turned to see a man about their age, wearing a cobalt polo and khaki shorts. His hair was slicked back, much like Draco’s hair-du-jour, first year. “If your mans won’t give you the time of day, I’m here for you, darling.”

“I’m quite alright,” Granger said, stopping as the man stepped to her. He reached around and fingered her braid as she shrunk away from him. “Pardon me!”

Draco grabbed the man by the shoulder, he didn’t even realize he’d doubled back, and pulled him away from her. “Fuck off,” he stared him down, pushing his shoulder as he held a hand out and she took it without pause.

“Yeah, okay, mate,” the man held up his hands.

They continued on.

“As I was saying,” he bit out, now dragging her along, “I have a meeting.”

“Sure,” she said, jogging to match his stride. 

“How often do you get propositioned, Granger,” the way he asked it came out more like a threat. He wouldn’t look at her. “First the drink at Pinchwickey’s, then this tosser on the street.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Every day, probably? If I go out?”

He stopped and she continued forward, her arm jerking her back as her hand was still held by his. 

He let go, flexing his hand at the freedom.

“Every day?” He barked.

She nodded.

“No.”

She looked at him weirdly. “I know this will come as a shock to you, but not everyone finds me grotesque, you blonde arsehole.”

“Oh please,” he rolled his eyes. “Of course they don’t, how could they?”

“Well, alright, I…” she stammered. “I don’t understand your reaction right now, then.”

“Nor do I,” he said, so quietly she couldn’t hear, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked around. They were steps from The Leaky Cauldron, the majority of the people coming and going in front of them in cloaks completely inappropriate for the weather. “My meeting, I’ve got to go.”

“Still on that, are you?” She nodded. “I may as well head into The Prophet, anyway. Any chance your “meeting” is there?”

He refused to smile. “Sure.”

“Then you can walk me, and scare off any other would be suitors,” she charged forward. “At any rate it would be in poor taste to arrive at drinks tonight with a date I found on the street.”

“Drinks? With who?” He asked. “You have a date, Granger?”

“Please, allow the incredulity of your tone to be more aggressive, especially just after you tried to convince me you don’t find the mere thought of me most odious,” she turned back, waiting for him. “It’s someone who reached out and wants to discuss my column, so, I’m not sure it can be qualified as such. Probably not a date. A chat, really. Over drinks.”

“Where?”

“Why does it matter?”

FUCK IF HE KNEW?!

He ground his teeth, nodding. “Who is this person?”

She stopped, pausing with her hand on the door of The Leaky Cauldron. “You’re being a little weird Malfoy. Is this always how you act post panic? On edge? A bit frothy around the mouth?”

He wiped the corners of his lips with his thumb and forefinger.

Proving her point, she looked at him smugly. “A man in control of his faculties would have already known he wasn’t drooling, I should think…”

He swatted her hand from the door and opened it, ushering her in with a hand at the small of her back, his middle finger grazing along the skin between her shirt and skirt. “Actually I’m feeling much better now that you’re back to being an obnoxious twit. Like all is right in the world. Your kindness was a harbinger of the end. Thought I was dying.”

She hummed, nodding as they made their way through the bottom floor pub. It was as dark and dingy as ever. 

Disgusting, honestly. 

Draco was glad in the years since he went to Azkaban that at least someone with a grasp on hospitality moved into the neighborhood. 

“And you’re back to your incorrigible bastard self, the world keeps tumbling on.” She stopped, looking to him once again. “I didn’t mean literal bastard.”

“Yes that’s alright. I continue to give you the benefit of doubt and assumed you meant prick and not sad, parent-less, man,” he pressed gently at the small of her back, again, to guide her through the brick as she tapped away, but where he expected to feel a swath of skin was lightweight fabric instead. “When did you change?”

She was wearing loose linen slacks and a matching top, all light blue, all far less jarring amongst the Magical folk. No skin, save for her elbows, down. 

He frowned. 

“Oh yes, like the fashions of Y2K uni students wouldn’t cause a stir amongst the robe wearing elders…” She griped. “I transfigure it as I walk through the pub. I don’t want to scandalize anyone. You could hardly handle it, Malfoy.”

“It was just surprising, that’s all,” he explained. “The last time I saw so much skin it was Weasley blinding me with his pale backside as he dove in the pool.”

“For your birthday?”

“I wish it was just then,” he sighed. “I swear he comes over every other day. With and without Pansy and the baby, something I specifically prohibited, but what can you do.”

He felt her stare but ignored it, continuing on.

They walked past Florean Fortescues, their steps unhurried. Flash bulbs. Murmurs. Doubled due to his company. People whispered, and split as they strolled the sidewalk.

“You really handled their relationship better than I did,” she admitted.

He thought he might choke. “Are you having a laugh?”

“What?” She asked. “You did!”

“Granger,” he stopped to look at her. “No, I did not. When Pansy finally told me they were together, which was the day before the wedding, mind you… I was drunk and kind of… devastated. I told them Pansy’s family would rather her kill herself than marry him.”

She bit her lip, taking a step. 

“I asked if perhaps she was Imperiusing him,” she confessed as they crossed the street in tandem.

“I know, because when I reacted to hearing that, I called you a name… and Weasley knocked me out.” 

“He did not.”

“Yes, I have been assaulted by you and all your friends, now, if you’re keeping score.”

He opened the door to the Prophet, waiting for her to go in.

“By the time the wedding came around, which again, was one bloody day later, I was shoved in a tent full of people that hate me, my first day out in public.”

“I suppose that wouldn’t be my choice of activities,” she nodded as they walked through the lobby to the lifts.

“Then,” he shook his head, “I picked a fight with you, when really I was actually pleased as fucking punch to find out that someone else was dubious of the whole thing. And I’d written you so many times, I figured you’d have something to say-”

“Oh.”

“But rather than level with you, I attacked you.” He closed the lift gate, leaning back against the mirrored side wall, closing his eyes. “I did not, by any definition of the phrase, handle it well.”

“I attacked you plenty, in the months that followed.”

“I may have deserved some of it.”

She shook her head. “You deserved literally all of it.”

“Ah, yes, well, let us not pretend your particular brand of insufferable doesn’t suck the oxygen from every room you find yourself in.”

She gestured around the lift as it slowed. “Regrettably, such a gift has yet to render you dead.”

He did not smile, though he wanted to, very much.

“I wonder where we’d be if I’d known of the letters?” She asked as they walked toward Gemma’s office and waiting area, pausing as Draco continued down the hall. “If I’d written back.”

He turned, walking backwards. “I guess we’ll never know.”

The look on her face as he walked away pleased him.

It was a picture of exactly how he felt.

Confused.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen

if it is right that He should do so

-

Sending three owls was likely over-stepping. 

Draco knew this, he really did.

But he had reasons. So many reasons.

Many of which he couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

Granger, 

Sorry to interrupt, should you be getting ready for your… event… tonight. Did you call it a date? I can’t seem to recall with clarity.

Even so, should you be in the throes of whatever it is you do to get ready to present yourself, pay this note no mind.

I’ve a question in regard to the most recent Wizengamot session and any connections you might make within your column.

I’d also like to speak about upping your workload, if you are amiable. Gemma and I feel we need a consistent political piece in every issue, and your name came up more than once. 

We’d love to discuss at your earliest convenience.

Draco L. Malfoy

He didn’t even expect a response, really. 

Though, that was of course a lie. 

Why would he send it unless he wanted, hoped for or expected a response?

Also, depending on the response, he’d have to immediately tell Gemma they were looking for a political correspondent and that Granger was obviously the best choice.

To say he was pleased when Archimedes (his eagle owl of over two decades) swooped into his study’s open window 26 minutes later with a response, would be an understatement.

Malfoy -

What is the question, then? In regard to another column, I’ll have to think on it. 

HJG

“Fuck,” he set the note down, pacing. 

What was the question?

He didn’t have a fucking question, he just wanted an open line of communication.

“Theo, dear,” Draco sat at his desk, pulling out another slip of stationary.

“Yes, pumpkin,” Theo answered from the chaise across him, flipping through a book about Greek architecture and sipping on a Cognac.

“What was it, exactly, that we were concerned about at Rookwood’s Wizengamot session yesterday?”

“Other than all of it?” Theo looked up. “The budget proposal was utter insanity, but I imagine it was the tip toeing around no longer offering Hogwarts letters to those who cannot prove Magical parentage.”

“Oh, Salazar,” Draco nodded, dipping his quill. “Right, right. Absolutely, that was it.”

Granger,

Both Theo and I agree that Rookwood is near announcing a plan to invigorate the citizens, but by doing so it will negatively impact certain resources and systems, namely the tracking elements with Muggleborn invitations.

Do you have time to discuss?

Now, perhaps?

We can speak on the additional column as well.

Draco L. Malfoy

Of course he knew she wouldn’t be able to speak on it now, but really, she should be incensed. Revoking invitations to Hogwarts for Muggleborns? And this wasn’t to say that they couldn’t attend, they’d just have to figure out they were Magical, and stumble upon the school and enroll themselves.

“If they’re truly so Magical, it shouldn’t be much of a task,” Rookwood had said.

Such a move would lower their population as well as create problems for the children who did not learn to utilize outlets for their undeniable power- thus creating a dangerous environment not only for themselves but for the Muggle world.

It was untenable and unwise. 

Malfoy,

I’m about to head out for drinks, but will owl you tomorrow.

Have a good evening,

HJG

“Bugger.”

Archimedes admonished him with a nearly imperceptible tick of his feathered head. Largely, he hated performing his job duties, he was more partial to swooping around the grounds hunting small vermin- thus he liked Draco to know how put upon he felt after every correspondence.

He was also a staunch blood-purist, as much as an owl could possibly be…

“Don’t be rude, you’re excused,” Draco waved a dismissing hand at the bird, turning to Theo- who had lost interest in Corinthian columns and taken to staring upon Draco instead.

“Milord,” he drawled. “Just what is it you’re doing?”

“I am simply making sure Granger keeps abreast of the situations in the Wizengamot, since she is essentially banned from the court. If she’d abuse her press pass, perhaps…”

“Abreast,” Theo interrupted. “How altruistic of you.”

“I have my moments.”

“You’re pathetic.”

“I beg your pardon,” Draco sunk into the chair next to him, summoning a Cognac for himself. “This is quite nice.”

“Your obsession with Granger. It’s unattractive,” he said, pouring himself more, “and of course it is, life is too short for middling Cognac.”

“Unattractive, he says.” Draco held the bowl of the snifter in his palm, gently warming the honey-colored drink. 

“Ah!” Theo sat up. “You don’t deny it!”

“I would like to qualify it, instead. It is not an obsession… I have no interest in her-”

“Other than her mind, body and soul…” Theo griped.

“As I was saying,” he said firmly, “I have no interest in her. I merely think she sometimes makes some sense, and this is something she should definitely know-”

“Right, of course, how magnanimous of you.”

Draco drained his Cognac.

“And it tracks, I suppose, that you don’t actually have an interest in her. Of course not! Why would you?”

He waited for Theo to go on, tipping more Cognac into both their glasses. 

“Because you’ve closed up shop, haven’t you?” Theo sneered, a tone Draco didn’t often hear from him. “Haven’t been with anyone since Pansy… giving away your possessions, your gold, to each and every tosser you happen to come across.”

Draco drained his drink, again, hardly feeling a burn anymore. 

“And I’m expected to just sit here and watch,” Theo said bitterly. 

“What’s set you off today, then, Nott?” He asked, the Cognac deadening his ability to be annoyed. He was amused, instead.

Theo fell back onto the lounge, turning his back to him. “Must’ve been the pre-pool nosh, it’s disagreeing with me. You know what they say.”

“I don’t, you’ll have to enlighten me.”

“They say that you’re a fucking wanker and I’ve grown tired of you and your sad bastard existence,” he grumbled, waving a hand at him but refusing to turn. 

Draco nodded, staring into the bottom of his empty glass.

Later, after he left (still in a mood) Draco decided to head to the cellar and sort some more possessions for easier gifting, even though such a thing offended Theo’s delicate sensibilities.

He also dabbled in the whiskey in the cellar, as he was wont to do.

Fucking Theo. The whiny fucking fucker. What did it even matter? If anything, he was doing him a favor! Eventually all of this shit would be his problem, anyway. 

He was unappreciative, that’s what he was.

And rude.

Draco spent hours going through the jewelry that wasn’t in the Gringott’s vaults, then settled nicely into torching various artwork- who needed 17 watercolor panels of gnomes? He wanted to know which gauche, gaudy grandparent of his had such a predilection?

He’d burn their portrait next!

He was watching the (somewhat contained) flames with wide eyes when Bopsy cracked in loudly next to him.

The fumes and smoke from whatever toxic material was used to paint such canvases gave him a nice buzz atop the whiskey.

He didn’t even jump, though she startled him so.

“Ah, Bopsy, fantastic timing,” he slurred. “Did I call for you? No matter, no matter at all. I seem to have run out of whiskey, and no more is coming when I do this.” He wiggled his fingers.

He stared so hard at his own hand, his eye twitched.

“I fear I’m broken,” he lamented.

“Master, Miss Hermione Granger was at the gate,” Bopsy said quickly. “She’s not looking so well, sir.”

“Really…” he breathed. “That’s interesting. That’s very interesting, Bopsy. Hermione Granger, here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here in my Manor?”

Bopsy blinked, nodding.

“That’s very interesting.”

“Sir?”

His face fell. “Did she blow up the bloody gate, again?”

“No, sir, Bopsy let her in, she’s not right…” Bopsy snapped her fingers in the air, staring at him. “Sir?”

“Very well, very well,” he looked around, nodding. “I suppose I’m done here, anyway. I guess there is no more whiskey to be had? How I let us get to this level I just don’t know…”

“Bopsy will take you, sir,” the little elf grabbed his hand, Disapparating them in a most squelchy way.

His stomach flipped as they landed in the foyer, and he took a steadying breath as he watched the Grangers weave in front of him.

Why there were so many of them, was the question he was determined to answer.

“Grangers, what are you doing?” He covered one eye, and several of the Grangers went away.

They were dressed in a pale pink dress. He blinked, convincing himself to only see one of them, standing there in the dim firelight, the sconce’s flickering flames casting confusing shadows all around the foyer. 

The dress the Granger was wearing was so tight on the top, tits right fucking there. 

Why did she do this to him? He cleared his throat, had he said that aloud? 

The Granger didn’t respond.

Her dress flowed out past her knees- at least her bloody thighs weren’t on display this time. How much was he supposed to endure, really? The dress’s pointless little straps were covered by curls, her chest slowly rising and falling as she swayed.

“Granger,” he said, probably aloud, stepping forward.

She had something shimmery and bronze on her eyelids, and gloss on her lips.

It WAS a date.

Treachery!

“What, Granger? Obviously there’s somewhere else you should be,” he snapped, stepping closer. “Are you here to tease me? Because honestly I should think such a thing was above someone like you. Someone who isn’t shackled by an Incarcerous powered through lust.”

Her eyes weren’t really on him. She stared past him, glassy and stuporous.

“Not that I know someone like that,” he assured her. “Who would I even be talking about, Granger? You’re insane to think so. I don’t know why you go on the way you do. I lust after no one, I never have. Never will…”

He rubbed at his eyes with one hand. He’d disappeared the wrong Grangers, somehow, this one was a fake.

“Granger,” he leaned into her face, something like worry sharpening him as he got a closer look. Trickles of adrenaline and cortisol dissipated the cognac-whiskey-turpentine medley he’d been mainlining since dinner. “Granger?”

She fell into him, unconscious. He had her around the waist with one arm, the other supporting the back of her neck.

Oh, fuck.

“Bopsy!” He shouted, though the elf hadn’t left his side. His head spun as he hoisted her up, putting an ear to her mouth, trying to hear a breath. “I need one of my potions, I can’t fucking think straight-”

“Master doesn’t have any more! Master hasn’t brewed them in weeks!” she cried, making a whining sound. “What has happened to Miss?”

Draco felt sick. He was too drunk to use his fucking wand, he likely couldn’t help her even if he was sober, this wasn’t Theo bonking his fucking head on a diving board! Why didn’t they have fucking Healing electives at school!

He didn’t know anything!

Advanced arithmancy was of no help!

THE TEA LEAVES DIDN’T PREPARE HIM FOR THIS!

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-”

“Bopsy will get Ezekiel,” she said.

“What the bloody fuck will he do?” 

“Ezekiel mends the horses!”

“She’s not a horse, though!” He bellowed. “Bopsy, get us to St. Mungo’s!”

He pulled Granger’s legs up, cradling her against his chest. 

Bopsy nodded, encircling her arms around his legs and whisking them away.

After getting Granger in a room and refusing to leave said room, Draco demanded a sobering potion. He ended up bribing an orderly with 20 galleons to nick one from the potion room, as the Healers seemed unwilling to help the drunken, belligerent man who rather violently refused to be corralled elsewhere.

Clear headed, but head pounding, he sat in silence as two Healers stood across Granger’s bed, discussing her care.

One finally turned to him, his bushy mustache quite like a fuzzy caterpillar crawling cross his lip. “And you say… she arrived at your home like this?”

“Yes. Didn’t say a word, couldn’t focus, then passed out,” Draco said, repeating it for the fourth time since they’d arrived. 

“And do you know where she’d been?”

“She had a date, of some sort. She was meeting someone. I don’t know where, or who.”

“Well whoever it was, looks like he poisoned her.” The Healer said flatly. “Bezoars are always a good thing to have on hand, no matter who you are, especially for those who can afford such an expense…”

Draco nodded, gritting his teeth, the tension making his head hurt worse- he could hardly see, such was the torturous thrum stabbing him through the eye sockets and ricocheting across his scalp and down his neck. His teeth ached, his ears throbbed.

But he deserved the pain.

This would never happen again.

“She’ll come ‘round, soon. She’ll be a bit all over the place at first, but that will wear off in an hour or two. Let us know and we’ll send in someone from the DMLE a little later to investigate, whoever did this needs to be dealt with,” the other Healer said, an elderly woman with sharp blue eyes and grey hair shorn close to her scalp. “It was good of you to bring her in.”

He should have brought her in straight away- he should have known something was off, that something wasn’t right. 

He shouldn’t have been so unprepared.

Left alone, Draco sat rigidly, watching the rise and fall of her chest- refusing to look away.

Time passed, but he remained vigilant. 

By the time she awoke, he was in a near-manic state. He shot up as she blinked, taking in her surroundings. 

“Oh, God,” she whispered, trying to sit up.

“Don’t,” he said, pushing her shoulder down gently until she was lying down once again. “How do you feel?”

She squinted up at him. “My head hurts,” she squeezed her temples between her thumb and middle finger. 

“Do you know what happened?”

She was quiet for a moment, nodding. “I went for a drink with,” she looked up at him. “I went for a drink with a man named Ben.”

“Ben,” he repeated, his blood heating.

“At the Jabberknoll, I don’t go there much anymore but that’s where he wanted to meet,” she nodded. “I took a drink and I didn’t feel right, almost immediately.”

“What did you do then?” He stood over her, two fingers resting on her shoulder.

“I…” she swallowed. “I Apparated to the Manor.”

He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure what he assumed, perhaps that she’d gone to Potter’s, to Weasley’s, to the DMLE- to Gemma’s. That by the time she landed at the Manor, she was nearly dead but had exhausted every option.

But she didn’t.

“I don’t even…” she looked around, “did I have my purse?”

“I don’t believe so.”

Panic fell down upon her, easy to read on her face and hear in her voice.

“Can you send a Patronus to Harry? And to Ron?” Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Malfoy, I shouldn’t have, I should have come straight here, I don’t know-”

“Everything is fine, you’re okay and everything is fine.” His voice sounded nothing like he felt as he handed her his wand. If hers was on her when she arrived, it was tucked away by the Healers along with her flimsy little dress and shoes. “Send whatever message you’d like, and I’ll head over to the Jabberknoll and get your things.”

She took hold of the wand; nodding, swishing and flicking, sending two silvery otters on their way. 

“Thank you,” she handed the wand back, and he pocketed it, forcing himself to move slowly, to speak softly.

“It’s not a problem at all, everything is going to be alright. I promise you. Everything will be okay.”

He summoned Bopsy, his voice in the same calm, even tone. She popped into the room quieter than usual, likely not knowing what she might find.

Her ears perked up as she looked at Granger, who’d been unconscious last time she saw her. 

“Bopsy, will you stay here with Miss Granger until her friends arrive?”

“Of course!” Bopsy clasped her hands together, stepping forward. “How is Miss?”

He let his fingers trail down Granger’s arm as he stepped away. “I’ll be back shortly, try to rest,” he said, smiling at her.

Granger looked grateful, but still quite scared.

He hated to leave her, but he burned with the desire to do something.

It was 12am by the time he got to the Jabberknoll, disturbing the tables on the first floor as he burst through the double doors, knocking the right one off its top hinge, the force dragging the other hinge from the casing and dropping the door with a crash to the floor.

The man at the till looked up, his wand at the ready. 

Joel, Draco was pretty sure. The night manager. 

“Add them to my tab,” Draco said, gesturing to the mangled doors and the table they knocked over.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Joel held his head to the side as he looked at the wreckage, lowering his wand. “We’ve just closed up… what can I do for you?”

Scanning the space, Draco saw only Joel and two servers on the upper floors, overseeing brooms and levitating furniture.

He disarmed them, including Joel, then stunned and bound the servers, gently placing them near the front door.

“Who else is here?” Draco asked Joel, who was wide-eyed and mum. “For fuck’s sake, Joel, I tip well. Just fucking tell me.”

Joel began to cry, of all things.

There was no way only three people were on shift, and Draco needed them all if he was going to figure out what the fuck happened. 

He thought for a second, various imagined scenarios rolling quickly through his mind, Joel’s sniffling serving as the orchestra.

The fact of it was: he had likely already done enough to be sent back to Azkaban. This was assault, stunning without cause, holding people captive… it was all in violation of his probation if he got caught.

So… he needed to be quick.

“Imperio,” he set his wand at Joel. “Gather every employee who was here when Hermione Granger visited earlier. Call them in if they’ve left. Stun them and place them over there.”

Joel sniffed again, nodding.

“And don’t hurt them, be fucking gentle,” Draco said as an afterthought.

Within about 10 minutes, Draco had the two servers he’d already retrieved, three cooks, a bus boy and Draco’s favorite bartender, Patrick, all sitting under Incarcerous, by the doors- which he’d propped back over the doorway.

In the spirit of urgency, Draco strolled to Joel, first, and pressed his wand to his temple. “Legilimens.”

It took him only a minute to coax the memories to the forefront of Joel’s mind, to retrace the past few hours and get to the point where Granger sat at a corner table on the second floor. Joel had made note of her as she walked in, he greeted her, and smiled as she politely asked if someone named Ben might already be here?

Joel sent her upstairs, his glance going to her chest thrice, then followed her, eyes on her arse the entire time.

Draco dug the wand in harder, but Joel made no sound.

He dropped Joel after gleaning that he had no subsequent interaction with her, as he then went on his break. 

Draco summoned one of the servers to him, a young woman with short black hair, who he saw in Joel’s periphery on the second floor. 

She had a chat with Granger when she sat down. She liked her. She liked when Granger was placed in her section and thought about how she rarely came in, anymore.

She eyed Ben, as he came to sit with Granger.

Medium height, light brown hair, unremarkable in almost every way. 

The server thought so, too. 

Ben was not familiar to Draco. 

There was nothing telling about his face, or voice. Granger ordered a Harkins gin and tonic, and he a whiskey soda, and the server sent the order to the bar. She happened to deliver the drinks, as well, floating them to the table as she enquired as to whether or not they’d be dining in, as well?

Granger declined politely, as did Ben, and they toasted each other… taking a sip. Ben smiled at Granger, and when Granger made to smile back, her face paled… she took three deep breaths and seconds later, she winked out of view.

Ben turned to the server, who decided at this moment that she did not care for Ben. “Quickest I’ve ever been ditched,” he said, looking uncomfortable.

“Right,” the server said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

The server kept watch of him until he paid, and left… not bothering to take Granger’s things.

Draco summoned them from where the server had stowed them beneath the bar counter in the lost and found. Pinned to them was a note: “Hermione Granger, left 8/14”. 

Nothing suspicious other than the fact that Granger took a sip and bailed.

He looked through the busboy’s mind, next, who cleared the drinks with magic, disposing of Granger’s hardly consumed cocktail without a thought.

Business as usual.

Draco went next to Patrick, saving him for last for no other reason than he did not want Patrick to be culpable. He liked him, as much as someone could like an amiable fellow who sold them whiskeys whenever asked. He watched him as the ticket for Granger’s table populated in the glittering scrawl of the black-haired server.

Patrick summoned the gin and poured, then poured tonic. A wedge of lime perched on the lip of the glass.

He poured whiskey from the well, then poured soda.

Draco released Patrick as he mulled it all over.

The gin must’ve already been tampered with; Patrick didn’t add anything novel. With Granger asking for it by name; perhaps it was her usual? If someone knew that…

Draco walked over to the well where Patrick had been, a different gin sitting next to the whiskey he’d used for Ben. The gin he’d used for her drink was likely already back on the shelf.

He tried summoning it, pulling from Patrick’s memory- a dark brown bottle with a cream label, with gold and black block lettering stamped upon it. HARKINS, emblazoned clearly on the front.

But the gin didn’t come, nothing did.

He exhaled loudly.

“Joel!” He shouted. “Give me permissions to summon liquor.”

Joel nodded at the demand, but when he tried, still, nothing would come.

He tried again, he tried to summon anything, but Joel was obviously not able to give him permissions. Likely only the owner was.

He set an Imperio upon Patrick to summon it as well, but the gin would not come. Was there a time sensitivity? When the bar wasn’t open, liquor was locked up?

Not a bad idea, actually, as far as business went.

But terribly frustrating for his attempted vigilante justice, of which he was in the midst.

He told the two Imperiused men to sit and wait as he looked up, figuring for what to do.

“Fuck it.” He shoved his wand in his pocket, grabbing at the tower to make his way up. 

There were hundreds, thousands, maybe, of bottles of liquor displayed on the round shelves stretching three floors up to the ceiling. Luckily, it seemed they were arranged by type. Not so luckily, gin was near the top.

His thoughts spun away from him as he climbed. 

Someone went out of their way to poison Granger… to kill her.

He got angrier every time his foot found purchase on the crowded shelf, kicking bottles every which way to gain better footing, the sound of them against the concrete floor ratcheting up his anxiety one by one.

He still couldn’t see the bottle he witnessed in the memories, but was nearly to the gin shelf. He tried to move bottles out of the way to get a good look at them, but they were packed so tightly he couldn’t make any headway. 

Extending his arms, he swept dozens of bottles at a time off the shelf, giving them a brief glance before tipping them over the edge. The cacophony of shattering glass slowly melted into a buzzing background noise, the smell of liquor so strong it was making him faint.

Finally, he saw the Harkins. He had to pull himself onto the shelf and crawl forward on his stomach, grabbing it carefully and tucking it under his arm. 

He pushed himself off the shelf and swung from its edge, looking down to survey the damage he’d done stories below him.

The place looked like it had been looted.

Hundreds of broken bottles.

A reek of liquor.

One door hanging off the hinge, the other completely ripped off and sitting atop a mangled four-top- except…

He’d propped the door back? Hadn’t he?

His eyes drifted over to the six stunned people on the floor, then the two others under Imperius, sitting quietly… next to Harry fucking Potter, wand drawn, in full Auror robes.

“Malfoy, what the fuck have you done?”

HARRY

It wasn’t really Harry’s night.

In fact, it had been a rather rough four months, on top of a pretty bleak couple years, and all this tumbling by after the whole dying for the betterment of the world thing he’d been tirelessly groomed for.

He vanquished Voldemort.

And for what?

Things were not as rosy as he had once assumed they’d be.

Of course, he’d do it again. But the 17-year-old version of him that walked steadily into the Forbidden Forest would be horrified by his one step forward, two steps back trajectory that followed.

His days, now, were filled with ten times the paperwork and half the arrests they should; generally due to the lack of funding from the Ministry under Rookwood’s rule. 

When he’d first passed the Auror exam and made it through training, the department had 15 Aurors, which was still considered running lean in a post-Voldemort society. It became even sparser so, in the aftermath of the Yule Massacre. 

Now, there were five of them, including the Head Auror, Andrea Piccini, whom Harry regarded as his friend and mentor.

The very same man who had just sent him a Patronus, asking if he required back-up.

Prior to the cuts, Harry would never have answered a call alone… of late he was lucky if he saw another Auror over the course of his week. The job he’d assumed would be a partnership was turning into a solo venture in long days, longer nights, and the stifling feeling that he would never be able to crawl out from under the pile of shit constantly toppling him.

“I repeat, what the fuck have you done, what the fuck are you doing?” Harry shouted, glancing at the dead eyes of two of the men sitting on the floor. Where the rest were in some sort of stunned Incarcerous, the two sitting unbound made no moves. They had no agenda… likely at least until they were apprised of it. 

Harry sighed.

He was going to have to take Malfoy back to Azkaban.

“Malfoy, you fucking didn’t.”

Harry levitated him from his place on the tower, letting him drop the last three feet from the air.

“She was poisoned, Potter,” he hissed, having landed wrong on his ankle, stumbling forward and catching himself with his hand… upon a floor covered with shattered, boozy glass. He righted himself, blood dripping from his hand as he started toward him, a bottle of liquor pinned under his arm.

“I know that, you fucking twat. What are you doing here, vandalizing an establishment, assaulting employees of said establishment, and Imperio-ing people?!” Harry pulled at the roots of his hair. The paperwork of this, alone. Fucking Malfoy. “You’re on probation, you daft cunt.”

“I know, I know,” he set the bottle down before clasping his hands behind his neck, boxing in his ears, smearing blood everywhere. “I know.”

There was a time in the not so distant past that sending Draco fucking Malfoy back to Azkaban would have thrilled Harry. 

The way he saw it, Malfoy had been sentenced to Azkaban, rightly or wrongly, and when he got out he decided to hurry back to the very path that had brought him there in the first place. 

He was a cowardly, pathetic boy who grew into a man of even lesser quality and value.

But things change. 

Even the Draco Malfoys of the world were not impervious to evolution.

Which shocked the shit out of Harry.

Harry was on nights, currently, and thus Hermione’s desperate otter caught him in the midst of filing evidentiary support for three different Wizengamot trials. 

A thief, a violent nudist, and a notorious loiterer.

These were the types of threats to the realm The Chosen One was relegated to bringing to justice.  Since Rookwood ascended to the Minister’s seat, they were forced to make significant cuts, which meant newer Aurors were laid off. Just last week, Blaise’s position was downgraded to ‘as needed’.

The Auror department was told that Rookwood murdered and retained the carcass of Fenrir Greyback, which was the most significant capture or elimination in years. Shacklebolt had spent a considerable amount of public monies and government time on fighting terror- so much so that general peace-keeping (derailing the aggressive naked men set on oppressing/horrifying the public, for instance) was not considered a crucial expenditure of time and money. 

Terror attacks waned, for the most part, yet people still stated (across many a political poll) that their lives were worse.

Rookwood capitalized on this instability. He claimed to take down a notorious villain who loomed over the public’s shoulder… and then utilized his power to turn the Auror department into highly trained men and women giving out tickets for improper broom storage.

When he saw Hermione’s otter, his first instinct was to bat it away. He was a bit miffed at her, truth be told, after her over-the-top display at Poppy’s birth. The one that forced him to miss the entire thing because he was the only Auror in the area, and thus tasked with cleaning up after her. 

And Piccini let her go!

So, yes. It irked him. And he was sure that if Hermione was in her right mind (she wasn’t, for many a reason, he felt) she would be just as perturbed.

In the best of times, it wouldn’t have mattered much. He wouldn’t have minded that Piccini gave Hermione a chance to come back to the DMLE to give her statement and receive her penalty (30 hours of community service, which likely she did anyway), he wouldn’t have minded cleaning up after a friend.

But it wasn’t the best of times.

He wanted to be there for Ron. Having your first child was a big deal, and Harry never envisioned missing it, even in their current state.

Hermione was always going on and on about them reconnecting- and it would happen. Harry was sure of it. The three of them were bound by something few could understand. They just needed some time.

Because, really, how could they not reconnect?

Harry would never forget, nor cease being grateful, for the two people who made it so he was - for the first time in his entire life - not alone. He couldn’t have done what he needed to do without them. The world would be different, it would be worse.

Which wasn’t saying much as it was currently complete and utter shit, but still.

The sort of funny thing was, Hermione’s aggressive pleas and plots to get him and Ron together were likely part of the reason she flipped out in the lift, anyway. She allowed herself to become so bothered by the actions and feelings of others that she internalized them and when she couldn’t work them out - because they are people, not problems - she fucking imploded.

Or exploded.

A lift car.

So when her otter appeared, Harry very much didn’t want to pick up whatever it was she was putting down.

“Hi Harry… I’m sorry I’ve lost track of your schedule, I’m not sure if you’re working tonight. Something’s gone a bit awry, I seem to have gotten myself poisoned. I’m alright. At St. Mungo’s. But you’re one of my emergency contacts so I figured I’d let you know.”

He was there in 40 seconds.

As much as sacrificing yourself for the world once weighed on him, being Harry Potter did allow for some privileges he was reluctant to give up.

One, he was generally allowed to do as he pleased. People trusted him (save for the people that absolutely did not trust him…). He got reservations at restaurants. He got the best seat at a Quidditch match.

He got money. He already had enough, the Potters were not destitute, nor was Sirius Black. However, to date, four other Wizarding families had gifted a significant amount of their estates to Harry “The Chosen One” Potter.

In this particular instance, however, the perk of being Harry Potter was being able to arrive at St. Mungo’s and be personally escorted to the room of his choice in seconds. No questions, no barriers, no fuss.

Being an on-duty Auror likely helped as well.

“Hermione!” Harry nearly shouted as he walked in the room, to find her sitting up in the bed with a watery expression, an unfamiliar house elf at her side. “What is this? What’s happened?”

She began to cry in the midst of his questions, prompting him to sit at her side and hold her around the shoulders. She wasn’t much of a crier. Every now and then, sure, but it was always the culmination of many things, rather than just the one. Like she held it in until she could no longer.

As she was settling herself, Ron walked through the door, Poppy strapped to his chest in a purple sling. “Hermione, what-”

Upon seeing him, she started crying again, harder. Like she didn’t consider they’d show up, at all. Ron looked to Harry for explanation, but all he could do was shrug.

“Hullo, Bopsy,” Ron pat the elf on her shoulder as he made his way to the other side of the bed. He sighed as Hermione rubbed a hand down the baby’s back. “I didn’t mean to bring her, I was settling her after Pans fed her, got the Patronus and fucking bolted.”

Harry nodded, though he knew Ron was talking to Hermione. 

It was always too cordial between the three of them, now. They’d gone down different paths and let the weight of their trauma wedge them apart.

Well, Ron and Harry had. Hermione did her best to hold them together.

“How’s it going?” Harry asked Ron, gesturing to Poppy with his chin.

Still, Hermione didn’t seem to be capable of anything but tears.

“Harder than I expected,” Ron said, “as I’m sure you well know.”

Harry nodded again. 

“Pretty good though,” Ron bent forward to kiss the baby’s head. “All things considered, pretty good.”

“I’m glad.”

Ron rubbed the back of his head. “Thanks, by the way. I didn’t catch you, but I heard you were at the hospital when Pansy went it,” he took a breath. “Meant a lot.”

“Of course,” Harry said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.”

Hermione cried harder, making Harry wince. He didn’t mean to call her out.

But the truth was the truth.

“Miss…” Bopsy leaned forward, squeezing her on the shoulder. “Would you like Bopsy to get you something to eat? Bopsy has some sweets, some treats? A nice tea, Miss?”

With her head on Harry’s shoulder and her hand clasped tightly around Ron’s, she nodded. “Thank you, Bopsy.”

The elf cracked out of the room, and Harry got to wondering about elf magic’s limits. Were there any? “Sort of beside the point but who is this Bopsy?”

“Malfoy’s elf,” Ron answered.

“Malfoy’s elf?!” Harry repeated. “Why is Malfoy’s elf, here?”

Hermione blew a breath from her mouth. “Because Malfoy is who brought me here.”

“After he poisoned you?” Harry’s voice was strained as a thousand thoughts peppered him at once.

“No,” Hermione said, her voice sharp… which was a welcome sound. Sad, weeping Hermione was not Harry’s favorite. Sad, weeping anyone, really.

The damage Myrtle incurred as far as his limits of whinging, lived on.

“I was out at the Jabberknoll, meeting a man named Ben for a drink. And as soon as I took a sip, I knew something was wrong and I panicked and just…”

“Sought out Malfoy?” Harry finished, his tone still laced with incredulity. 

As she tried to reason why she did such a thing, or tried her best to figure how to explain it, Ron piped up.

“He’s actually not that bad,” he said. “Though, I will be the first to admit, that spoon has really swayed me and I’m not sure I can be impartial any longer.”

“What spoon?” Harry asked.

“It was a wedding gift. Perfectly seasons everything, brings it to the right temperature.” Ron sighed wistfully. “Fucking magic, honestly.”

Harry leaned back to look Hermione in the face.

“What sort of fancy cutlery did he give you then, to endear him to you to the point that you seek him out when you’re in trouble?” Harry didn’t understand. It all made very little sense. “Why didn’t you come to me?”

“I didn’t know if you were at work, and wasn’t sure if I could Apparate twice in the event that I chose wrong, first.”

That made a little sense, he supposed. Though she still would have found herself at the DMLE. Someone would have helped her.

“Why not to my house?” Ron asked.

She shrugged, the movement loosening Harry’s arm around her. “You’re a new father, I don’t know. I didn’t really want to go to either of your houses, I don’t want to interrupt your life with, with whatever is going on with me…”

She hunched as she trailed off, looking to her lap. 

It was things like this that kept Harry only slightly-miffed at Hermione, rather than full blown furious.

She was obviously having a hard time, and at least before, she had her job to give her reason and focus…

Both he and Ron had partners in life, now. And children. The two of which tethered them to, at the very least, a bit of purpose and conviction.

Hermione was in a different spot, and Harry hated that her position estranged her from them, even the slightest bit.

But it seemed it did.

They were leading different lives;  not one better than the other, just dissimilar. Having children was an enormous adjustment. He didn’t get to do whatever he wanted; he had to do what was best for his family.

Lacking autonomy changed things, and he was sure Ron was finding that, too.

He didn’t know how it all got so messed up, but the little voice inside him that liked to make itself known now and then, took this very moment to remind him: when his life took a fucking nose dive, Hermione was right there.

She held to Ron, as well, as Ron and Harry drifted from each other, wading in their own shit.

She was there for them both, the whole time.

An enormous swell of affection for her came over him (he’d become very emotional, post-children, it was fucking mental) as he thought about it. He pulled her toward him, kissing her on the top of the head. “I’m glad you went somewhere and got help, and I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Yeah, that’s what’s important,” Ron agreed. “But we’re always here for you.”

Hermione nodded, looking down at the blanket covering her bottom half. “Thank you.”

“So you took a drink, realized something was wrong, and went to Malfoy Manor.” Harry pulled out a notebook and set his quill to the dictate function. Bopsy the elf popped back in, a tray of tea and sandwiches and all sorts of things expanded across Hermione’s bed like a buffet. No wonder she had Ron in her pocket.

“Do not mind if I do,” Ron hummed, gathering himself a plate. “Thank you Bopsy.”

The little elf nodded, fixing up a cup for Hermione and Harry in tandem as Ron started in on the spread, dropping crumbs onto Poppy’s sleepy head. “Here you go, Mr. Harry Potter.” She beamed at him.

“Thank you, Bopsy.”

“Mr. Harry Potter…” Bopsy ventured, handing Hermione a small plate with two sandwiches and some fruit. “Dobby was my good friend.”

“Oh,” Harry swallowed, the memory still sending pangs through him, even now.

“He was a good elf,” Bopsy smiled. “Master Lucius could not see it. He could not see many things. Thank you for helping Dobby.”

“Right,” Harry nodded. “He was a good friend.”

Bopsy reached out and pat Hermione on the knee, who was crying again.

“Sorry, Bopsy, we all really loved Dobby,” Hermione wiped away her tears. “He was lovely. We wouldn’t be here without him.”

“A very good friend,” Ron smiled at her. “Uh, Mr. Harry Potter, would you mind passing a pasty, just there.”

Harry nearly laughed as he passed the indicated pasty. He took a steadying breath, clearing his throat. “So when you arrived at Malfoy Manor, what happened?”

Hermione looked at him, thinking. “I’m not… I’m not actually sure. Bopsy got me from the gate and then… I think I passed out?”

“Bopsy knows,” Bopsy said, still standing beside the bed. “Bopsy did retrieve Miss Hermione Granger from the gate, and brought her into the foyer. Miss Hermione was left while Bopsy went to retrieve Master Draco, who was drunk in the cellar.”

“Ah,” Harry nodded.

“Master Draco loves to be drunk in the cellar. Or the patio. Or Mistress Narcissa’s parlor…”

“Very well.” Harry tried not to shake his head. The worthless fucking tosser…

“Master Draco came to see Miss Hermione, and tried to speak with her… but Miss was not talking back. Then, Miss fell into Master’s arms, and Master started yelling for Bopsy to get the potions.”

“What potions?”

“The sobering potions,” Bopsy shook her head. “But they were all gone.”

“He does like to drink,” Ron verified.

“Master was very upset, and since Miss is not a horse, Master asked Bopsy to Apparate Miss Hermione and Master to St. Mungo’s…” Bopsy nodded. “So here we are to be.”

“Okay…” Harry said, watching as the quill took down Bopsy’s account. “And where is Malfoy, now?”

“Master Draco went to find Miss Hermione’s purse.” Bopsy said, matter-of-factly.

“And he’s been gone at least… 20 minutes, now?”

“At least,” Bopsy nodded. “Master told Bopsy to wait until Miss Hermione’s friends arrived.”

“Yes,” Hermione smiled at Bopsy. “And I so appreciate it. If you would like, you can go back to the Manor, now. I’m okay.”

“Will do,” Bopsy nodded. “Gentlemens, Miss.”

And she cracked away again.

“Really into this beet, one,” Ron said, mouth full, absently patting Poppy on the head as she continued to sleep, strung upon his chest.

“Isn’t it good,” Hermione agreed.

“Okay, let’s back up, then,” Harry was still trying to glean why Hermione would go to Malfoy’s for safety or comfort, of all places. What, was Azkaban full? “You are friends with Malfoy?”

“No,” Hermione shook her head. “Well… I’m not sure.”

“I’ve fucking lost the plot then,” Harry bit out, “because there hasn’t been a time since the New Year when I’ve seen you two with each other when you weren’t shouting.”

“It’s more of a recent development,” she explained. “And I wouldn’t call us friends. But when I was in danger, I thought of him. I have to believe that is very telling of how I feel… you know. In regard to him.”

“Which is to say?” Harry leaned forward to catch her eye.

She thought. “We might be friends.”

“How?” Harry asked, truly bewildered. “How is that bloody possible, Hermione? He’s Malfoy! He is, at his core, a cowardly twat.”

Ron nodded, eying another pasty.

“I don’t disagree,” she picked at a blackberry, squishing it between her fingers. “I really don’t know, Harry. I don’t think there’s anything I can say to convince you. Even sitting here, now, I am largely unconvinced. I think there’s more to him than the evil little bitch, though. I just don’t know what.”

“For me, it’s Pansy that’s sort of shown me another side,” Ron added. “She’s brilliant, and she rates him pretty high, for some reason or another. So I have to believe he’s at least tolerable.”

“But you’ve never seen anything to make you actually believe he’s not worthless,” Harry said. “You’re just going along with what your wife says.”

Ron looked to the side, shaking his head. “I don’t think you fully understand the spoon.”

Harry laughed and Ron looked shocked to hear it, before looking down to his plate and smiling.

Hermione’s eyes went back and forth between them, a satisfied look blooming upon her face.

Maybe she poisoned herself, just to get them in the same room…

Harry shoved the thought back from which it came. How terrible. Absolutely not.

And if she had, (she didn’t, of course she didn’t! But if she had…) she definitely wouldn’t have sought out Malfoy.

“Why did this Ben want to meet with you, Hermione? Was it a date? What is Ben’s last name?” Harry got back to business, his quill scribbling away.

“Henderson. He wrote me after one of my columns, the one about censoring in the media, and was very complimentary of it, and of my writing style. He suggested we meet, and the whole thing seemed genuine, I guess…” She sighed. “I don’t know what to say. I do date around a bit… and there was nothing that really seemed out of the ordinary about it. People meet to discuss ideologies all the time. And I do get mail about my column infrequently, not counting Malfoy.”

“What do you mean, not counting Malfoy?” Harry asked.

“He sends me loads of letters about my column.”

“What?”

“Has since he got out of Azkaban. Hundreds.”

Harry looked to Ron, who shook his head. “And you’ve never mentioned this to us?”

“Well, Gemma kept them from me until a few months ago, because he was such a nasty git in the first one, she assumed he was an insane hasbeen who liked to levy harassment via owl post.”

“And she was, incorrect, in this assumption?” Harry asked.

“Partially,” she said. “After he bought the Prophet I decided to read them all, and it greatly confused things.”

“How so…”

“Well, he wasn’t always nasty. Actually became tolerable, and then… even amiable, I’d say.” She leaned back on her pillows. “The man in those letters and I align on many topics. He is thoughtful and so smart-”

Ron’s eyes widened, catching Harry’s.

“And very hard to dislike, let alone loathe.”

“To clarify, this is Draco Malfoy we are speaking of?” Harry asked dumbly. What sort of potion did they have her on? “You haven’t been interacting with some sort of amiable, likely brain-addled, Malfoy ghost who’s taken up a quill?”

“No, I am fairly certain it is Draco Malfoy,” she said, almost thoughtfully. The potions. “And to your previous point, I think it was likely the man from the letters who popped into my mind as I realized I was poisoned. And I knew that that man, would help. I trust that man.”

“Well, alright then,” Ron shrugged. “Hey, if you’re going to be friends, let me know. He almost never wants to swim with me when I visit.”

“You visit?” Harry honestly couldn’t believe it. Ron? And Malfoy?

“Just a few times a week. Usually Pans and Pops are with me, but I have been known to go it alone. Good for the traps,” he pat his own shoulder. “And necessary in this sweltering heat. Come by with Blaise, he’s there often enough.”

Harry stared at him. 

“I’m sure you’ve realized it by now,” Ron said, “with Blaise, I mean. They’re not all that different from us.”

“I feel Harry is wearing the shock I generally feel, anytime such sentiment accosts me…” Hermione supposed.

“Even a slimy little ferret-y git like Malfoy. Though I will allow that I have no idea this business with Rookwood. Pans and I talk about it more than we should.”

“I don’t even know what to say,” Harry finally got out.

“Things change,” Ron shrugged. “Gotta roll with it.”

It was his shrug, and the ease with which Ron, of all people, allowed Malfoy, of all people, to occupy a space in his mind… space that wasn’t in the “actually evil, pathetic, cowardly bitch” quadrant, that made Harry pause before setting an Incarcerous upon the blonde fucker, sending him straight to the North Sea. 

Where, incidentally, the Dementors had recently returned; Rookwood sent a memo around just yesterday.

“What the fuck have you done, Malfoy,” Harry surveyed the damage, ignoring the absolute strangeness of the man’s disheveled look before him. Blonde hair undone. Shirt untucked, a purple hue beneath his eyes. A mangled hand, and blood smears on the side of his neck.

“I’ll buy it, Lou mentioned a few weeks ago the owner was looking to retire-”

“Regardless of that, am I wrong in thinking you set an Imperius upon Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, there?”

“Who are the Tweedles Dee and Dum-”

“Those two!” Harry shouted, pointing at the glassy eyed men amongst the stunned group.

Malfoy was going back to Azkaban for this. There was no other possibility, regardless of Hermione and Ron’s changing opinions of him and even if he did seem to do it as some sort of bizarre revenge in honor of Hermione. There was a lot to unpack, actually, and Harry was very hacked off by the fact that he got roped into it at all.

The facts, however, were very easy to see.

Malfoy used an unforgivable curse. He held people captive. He destroyed thousands of galleons of property. 

Even if he had a clean record, likely he’d see the inside of a cell for this. There was no way around it.

Draco Malfoy was fucking cooked.

Unless… maybe, you were Harry Potter.

“I’d like to speak with my solicitor,” Malfoy straightened up.

“Oh, I bet you would,” Harry shook his head and took a breath. “Call your elf.”

“My elf?”

“Just fucking do it, Malfoy.”

Bopsy arrived amongst the wreckage in seconds, looking around before her big eyes swung up to Malfoy. “Oh, Master, you didn’t.”

“Have Bopsy take you home. Make good on your purchase, as is. I want it in the fucking paper, tomorrow. Have Rita make up some idiotic headline, Draco Malfoy and the Death Eaterie…” Harry rattled off as Malfoy stared at him, absolutely gobsmacked. “I’ll take care of them.”

Malfoy stared at him, his jaw going slack. “Why are you doing this?”

Harry stomped toward him, glass crunching, until he was right in his face. They’d be nose to nose if the git hadn’t gotten so bloody tall. 

“You are going to owe me. You’re going to owe me really big, Malfoy. And I will collect… and believe me when I say you will regret ever putting yourself in this position, with me.” Harry clicked his tongue. “You owe me.”

“Why are you doing this,” he repeated.

“I don’t fucking know,” Harry said under his breath. “Get out of here. I’ve got a lot of shit to clean up-”

“Bopsy can help!” The elf snapped her fingers, lifting the broken bottle bits all at once as they morphed back into their previous form, sitting in piles of empties along the counter. Liquor that made puddles on the floor evaporated into the air. “Bopsy cannot help with them, though.”

She grabbed Malfoy’s hand, who was still staring at Harry like a complete fucking chump, and cracked away.

Harry levitated the doors closed, locking them the best he could as he prepared to clean the scene.

Malfoy was one lucky son of a bitch. 

Lucky that Ron and Hermione, for some reason or another, didn’t view him as a waste of space. Lucky that Harry already had some favors in mind… and lucky that historically, when the powers that be removed Harry’s ability to do what was necessary- he found a way around such oppression.

He nodded to himself, starting in on the memory modifications of the Jabberknoll staff.

He shot off a Patronus to Piccini, letting him know the disturbance at the Jabberknoll was all good. A misunderstanding amongst the new owner and the former staff.

Then, all there was to do, was to do it.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen

resisting the desire

-

Sleep evaded Draco as he waited for Potter to rethink the shoddy deal he’d devised and come to his senses. He’d then surely descend upon the Manor and all-too-gladly escort Draco back to Azkaban as the veil of altruism disintegrated around them both. 

He’d do it, Draco was sure, as soon as he remembered with whom he’d just conspired.

Even better, evidently the Dementors were guarding the prison once more, a welcome addition to the place that already haunted him. The cherry on top.

Perhaps this time he’d perish upon intake and save everyone the trouble?

As the sun edged over the horizon, Draco’s restlessness could no longer be contained to his chambers.

He spent two hours walking the property, sans Ezekiel. He wanted to be alone to better drink in every detail. The way the sun’s early rays stretched across the grounds, how it lit up the verandas off the back and bathed the cool-toned limestone in gold. He relished the dewy grass, the sound of the horses running down the hill, the birds swooping and chattering above him. He tried to memorize the smell of the late summer air.

There was a last time for everything.

It was fortunate to know he was in the midst of it, not everyone was given such a kindness.

Yes. It was a kindness, in a way.

The thought poured over him like warm honey. It had a weight about it. 

Sticky.

It enrobed him completely.

And then, he could no longer breathe.

He settled himself in an old wardrobe in one of the guest suites toward the back of the property, past the pool and a 20 minute walk east of the stables. He didn’t spend much time, here, it was ancient and had been largely unused for at least the last century.

Forgotten.

Maybe they’d never find him?

He silenced the small space and spelled away light. When it still wasn’t dark enough to soothe him, let alone deaden him, he reached into his pocket where he’d stuffed more than a dozen packets of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. He tore one open and poured it onto the floor around him; settling into the pall of absolute black.

Finally robbed of sight and sound, Draco began to accept his fate.

This all ended quicker than he’d anticipated.

Perhaps it was good that he finally felt sorry for it.

-

It may have been hours in there, he wasn’t sure. Light pierced through at some point, startling him. It was just a pin prick at first, then a jagged slash, then, the whole side fell away.

He hadn’t realized his eyes were open, but he reflexively clamped them shut as the wardrobe flooded with light.

A rush of sound knocked him sideways and he came tumbling out, onto the stone floor, empty packets littering the ground around him, kicking up tired wisps of saturated blackness.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Theo breathed heavily, standing over him with his wand clutched tightly in his hand, his hair wild and face red. Draco could hardly see him, his eyes were watering at the sudden brightness. But he knew that voice. “I’ve been looking for you for FOUR HOURS!”

“What time is it?”

Theo didn’t answer, still staring at Draco on the floor but unwilling to help him up.

“I didn’t even know this sodding place existed.” Theo took a step away as he looked around the room, the decor straight from the (18)90’s. There was a washing basin and pitcher, on a wooden table in the corner with ivy painted upon them. “Where are we?”

“Guest house,” Draco said, his voice low. His legs were asleep from his prolonged crouching and he didn’t relish how he looked now, on the floor in the fetal position, Theo towering above him. “We never really use it.”

“Obviously,” Theo reached out a hand to poke at the deep green curtains flanking a crown glass window. Dust fluttered to the floor in chunks the size of sickles. “I nearly had to deploy a niffler and convince it to sniff out the shiny-haired, expensive, priss who languishes here.”

“Almost?” Draco tried to flex an ankle, but no luck. He rolled onto his back, letting his head hit the stone floor with a thud. “How then were you so fortuitous to stumble upon me?” 

“Bopsy tails you,” Theo said. “Per my request.”

“And it took her four hours to tell you?”

“She was also, curiously, missing,” Theo bit out. “What do you have her out doing, cleaning up a murder scene?”

He blinked. “She’s a free elf. She has her own life, how am I to know what she gets up to whilst I’m otherwise involved.”

“Sure.” Theo finally held out a hand, watching Draco warily with red-rimmed eyes.

He took it, his legs still heavy and numb, their lack of circulation gracelessly pitching him forward as he attempted to stand.

“Easy there,” Theo held him around the waist. “What the fuck, Draco?”

“Hmm?” He leaned on him, forcing himself onto his tiptoes to coax the blood to flow. 

“What are you doing? I haven’t stumbled upon you arsing about in your sensory deprivation chamber in quite some time. The closet on your floor a touch too spacious, is it?”

“Something like that,” he watched his feet as he finally stood of his own accord.

“What happened?”

“What do you mean?” He didn’t know why he bothered being cagey. Theo would find out, probably soon, just what he’d done.

“I read about it in the paper this morning,” Theo said, and Draco’s entire midsection went still, his stomach nothing more than a stone  unable to fight gravity.

“Right,” he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands, his vision still blurry.

“Didn’t take you for a restauranteur, but there it was…” Theo shook his head. “Why on earth would you buy the bloody Jabberknoll, out of the clear blue?” 

The same thing that had turned leaden inside his gut as Theo mentioned the Prophet fluttered despite everything else.

He had sent the owner an obnoxiously padded offer as soon as he got home, sending Rita an owl before he’d even received a reply. Gemma would’ve squeezed it in… he supposed it was news, permitted the owner agreed. 

Draco knew he would.

No one would say no to that.

“Diversification,” he said, as Theo mimicked him with an eye roll.

“Yes, I fucking know. That was your ‘reason’ for buying the Prophet, too,” Theo leaned against a brass bedpost, straightening suddenly as it creaked in protest. 

“Yes, well.”

Theo walked the length of the room, turning on his heel and walking back. And forth. “So just what did the Jabberknoll do to offend Ms. Granger so?”

“What?”

He stopped, looking to Draco expectantly, hazel eyes sharp and unamused.

“Mother Morgana, could you stop pretending like you’re smarter or stealthier than me and just be honest?” He continued his stare, raising his eyebrows. “They cut Granger’s column, you buy the Prophet and put her right back there. Then when Rookwood came knocking, you nearly told him no, and I’d never thought I’d see the day. Gave me a half chub, right then and there.”

Draco huffed through his nose, looking away.

“So what, pray tell, happened to Granger at the Jabberknoll?”

He tried to ignore him (impossible) as he looked out the window. The grounds looked so unfamiliar they were as well as foreign, from this angle. Like he’d never known Wiltshire at all, though it was all he actually knew. 

A willow tree sat between two of the guest’s quarters, dwarfing the outbuildings over time, its shoelace branches dragging languidly across the grass in the breeze. “You act as if this is a pattern of mine.”

He imagined one of its branches coming alive and walloping him across the face, knocking his head clean off. 

Just what would the Dementors do with him, then, hmm?

Bopsy winked into view before Theo could respond, and, luckily before Draco could follow such a train of thought much further.

“Master, Mr. Harry Potter is here to see you,” she said sweetly, giving him a conspiratorial smile.

His stomach turned, again.

Draco closed his eyes, nodding. “I’m so sorry, Theo.”

Any part of Theo that might have been frustrated with him evaporated as he turned and took in the look on his face.

“Draco… what did you do?”

“I made a choice.” He rolled his shoulders back, posturing himself for what was coming. At least Potter had the decency to refrain from dragging the entire DMLE through. “But I am sorry, if that’s worth anything to you.”

“Draco, what did you do?” Theo’s voice was pleading as he stood there in front of him, forcing Draco to look him in the face.

“I love you,” he said, cupping the back of Theo’s head and kissing him on the cheek, holding him tightly for a moment. “Thank you for being here with me, all this time.”

He hurt Theo by merely existing.

“Draco,” Theo pushed him away, “if you don’t tell me right now-”

He hated that.

And he hated that Theo let him.

Bopsy took their hands in hers, Theo was at first reluctant, and Apparated them into the main house.

They landed in the rose drawing room, where Harry Potter, still in his Auror robes- just as Draco had last seen him, stood at the window overlooking the garden. 

Theo started in on him the moment they materialized. “Potter what is going on-”

“Leave,” Potter said to him, turning slowly. “I need to speak with Malfoy.”

Theo looked ready to jump him, his hand already in a fist as Draco laid his upon his shoulder. “It’s fine. He can stay.”

“He absolutely cannot.” The doors behind Potter flew open. “Nott, out.”

“He says I can stay, I stay,” he sat himself on the settee, a petulant child looking between his fighting parents. “I’ll take a few biscuits, Bopsy. Might be here for a while.”

“Right away,” she nodded and disappeared.

Potter glared at Draco, but at this point he had nothing much to lose.

“He’s my best friend.” Draco spun the signet ring on his finger round and round. “He should get to know.”

The room was so tensely quiet, the sound of a flower petal falling to the floor would have registered. Potter was unable to hide the disgust in his face as Draco took a seat next to Theo, patting him on the thigh twice before he leaned into the cushions. 

It was always there, that look of revulsion. 

From the very beginning. 

“Fine,” Potter said, his jaw loosening as he blinked away his true feelings. He did not sit. “Someone seems to have broken into your property, sometime in the early morning.”

Draco held his breath.

“Much of the liquor was either destroyed or stolen. You’ve got a broken front door and a bit of a mess. Unfortunately the expense of cleaning up falls on you, as I am told by Mr. Tartt that your offer was as-is.”

“Right,” Draco said quietly, searching Potter’s face for anything he could use. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his neck.

What the fuck was he doing?

Bopsy placed a plate of biscuits and tea on the coffee table and disappeared again.

 “I recommend you file a report.” Potter glanced down at the spread, but was not moved to partake. “You may do so by coming to the DMLE. You will file it with me, as I was the Auror on-call at the time of the incident.”

“Does the DMLE typically do house calls?” Theo asked nastily.

Potter gave him a look, prompting Theo to shove a biscuit in his mouth and stop talking.

Amazing. 

Draco had never seen him fold so quickly.

“Please file your report within the next 12 hours.”

“Okay,” he said, sitting awkwardly in his own home, having Potter save him from himself.

He couldn’t accurately describe how he hated the feeling.

Incidentally, did the Dementors also do house calls? He desired a kiss.

“Okay,” Potter repeated. He nodded once, then turned toward the fireplace, threw in powder he grabbed from the mantle, and was gone.

Draco stared after him for a beat. Then two.

“You going to tell me what that was about?” Theo asked, another biscuit poised in front of his mouth. “You had me really worried, for a minute, but it turns out you’ve just lost some liquor?”

Draco didn’t keep much from Theo. He tried to hide from him the actual depths of his own despair, but other than that, he was as honest with him as he was with himself. 

All that to say, it depended on the day.

There was a reason Potter didn’t lay into him, just then. He was implicated, too, should anything come of this. He manipulated a crime scene. He covered for a convicted felon whilst also letting said felon free. He tampered with the minds of hostages. Potter couldn’t out himwithout revealing his own efforts in the law-breaking.

So now his fate was in the hands of Saint Potter, a savior who never willingly attended to Draco, of all people. Potter hated him, but was unfortunately (technically) a good man. Even if he’d take his time deciding whether or not he’d set an Aguamenti upon him should he go up in flames.

“Hello?” Theo snapped his fingers in front of his nose.

“Granger came to the Manor, last night,” he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees as he stared at an intricate filigree woven into the rug beneath their feet. “I was drunk, she’d been poisoned, and I took her to St. Mungo’s.”

“What the fuck?” Theo set down his half-eaten biscuit, a hand on Draco’s back. “Is she alright?”

“I assume so.”

“You assume so?”

“I left the hospital, once she was on the mend, and I went to the Jabberknoll-”

Theo looked to be at a loss. “For a quick fucking bite? Why?”

“It’s where she thought she got poisoned.”

“So you went there, and you… bought the place? And then it got broken into?”

This was it. He could tell Theo the truth, or he could step around it… like Potter.

“I trashed it,” he exhaled, making his choice. “I assumed Potter saw me, somehow. That I was going back to Azkaban.”

“Oh, fuck…” Theo ran his hands through his hair. “Lucked out there, then.”

He buried the impulse to explain more, knowing the best misdirections had just enough detail and never too much.

“Wait, so… you trashed the place and you then,” Theo worked it over. “You trashed it, then you bought it?”

“I bought it… because they were doing shitty things. Granger said they charge Muggleborns a higher price.”

“You feel so strongly about price gouging?

“Sure,” he straightened. “That, and the fact that doing so much property damage would throw me back in fucking Azkaban…”

This seemed to resonate with Theo.

“Pragmatically speaking it will save you thousands on liquor,” he supposed after a moment. “After you pay for all the liquor you destroyed, that is.”

“I was drunk when she got here.”

“Color me shocked,” he said drily, picking up his biscuit again.

“I was so drunk I couldn’t use my fucking wand,” Draco leaned back into the settee, bouncing his knee as he folded his arms over his chest. “I didn’t know how to help her.”

“But you got her to St. Mungo’s-”

“Bopsy got us to St. Mungo’s. I couldn’t Apparate. I didn’t have a bezoar… I didn’t even think of it.”

“But it all turned out alright,” Theo put a hand on his knee to cease the nervous bouncing. “She got help. You got her help.”

It wasn’t good enough. Whatever he was doing, it was not good enough- he felt it so strongly sometimes he thought he might burst.

“I think I’m doing all this wrong,” he said aloud, maybe for the first time. He stood, pulling at his hair before clasping his hands behind his neck as the worries he’d been shrugging off pelted him like dive-bombing curses, coming from every angle. “I shouldn’t have been so fucking drunk I couldn’t help someone who needed it. I should have figured out a better way of spending my time, by now, instead of faffing around for days on end, bender after bender, dragging you down with me.”

Theo seemed unequipped to confront such introspection. “Draco-”

“What, I’m going to spend years like this? Spend all my family’s money? Run it all into the ground because I’m sad?” He kicked a footstool to the side of the window. Stupid fucking thing with its fringe and squashy little top. Who even used it? Why did they have it? “Either I should have ended it, right when I could, or I should have fucking tried!”

“Tried at what?”

“At anything!” He shouted, backlit by the afternoon sun pouring across Narcissa’s garden. “At anything, Theo! What the fuck have I done?”

Theo watched him, his face growing more pensive by the second.

“I’m literally asking you,” he said, his hands up. “What have I done?”

“You stood up to Rookwood?”

Draco laughed. “I should have told Rookwood he could go fuck himself the first day he came up to us in the atrium at the Ministry.”

“Sure,” Theo nodded, watching as Draco began pacing, walking back and forth in front of the window, hands moving aggressively as he ranted.

“I should have used whatever money I wanted to lose that day, and fucking buried him.”

“Hindsight…”

“I should have stood up again, and again, and I didn’t! Because why? Because that fucking loser of a wizard scares me? What am I afraid of?” Draco was shouting again, his voice breaking from the strain. “I HAVE NOTHING!”

Theo swallowed, looking Draco over slowly.

“I have nothing,” he said again, tears welling up despite his refusal to blink and let them fall. He finally had to look to the ceiling, letting them roll down and wiping them away before they hit his hairline. “I have nothing to lose. I act like I don’t even want to be around, at all? So why am I still so fucking afraid?”

The silence between them stretched beyond a breath, a thought.

“You have things,” Theo spat at him, standing, the settee between them. “You have all the things. You have friends, you have people who love you, who care for you, who only want you to be okay!”

Draco shook his head, spurring Theo on.

“You have a future, you entitled, fucking cunt. You could have everything, anything you want- you’re just too stubborn and miserable to see it.”

“I should have-”

“And,” Theo interrupted, rounding the settee to shove his forefinger, hard, into Draco’s chest. “If you’d quit contemplating your own fucking death-“ shove “-if you’d quit off-loading all your possessions and smelting your fucking galleons-“ shove “-maybe you’d have the time and energy to turn all these should haves-“ shove “-into more things.”

Palm against Draco’s chest, Theo pushed him backwards. He caught the fucking foot stool wrong and tumbled over it, onto the ground.

“Master Draco,” Bopsy gasped from the doorway.

“I’m fine, Bopsy,” he glared at Theo from the floor, kicking the foot stool at him as he got up.

“Miss Granger is here to see you.”

“Of fucking course she is, it’s a bloody Gryffindor parade, isn’t it?” Theo threw up his hands and returned to the settee, breathing heavily. “Who next? McGonagall? Godric himself?”

“I’m not up for visitors, Bopsy.” Draco returned to pacing, trying to calm himself.

Theo angrily fixed himself a tea, his spoon scraping indecently against the side of the cup every other turn. “She probably wants to thank you for not letting her-” He cut himself off, setting his cup down.

“What?” Draco snarled from the window, eying that fucking footstool again.

He thought about transfiguring it into a Theo doll and stomping its idiot head right in front of him.

“Why did she come here? Why didn’t she seek out the aid of her Auror best friend? Or go straight to the hospital?”

“I don’t know,” he had tried not to dwell on that particular detail, which meant it was really all he’d thought about, other than the Dementors. 

He looked to Bopsy, still standing at the room’s entry. “She can owl me, Bopsy. I’m not feeling well.”

Bopsy seemed unmoved by this.

“I’m serious,” he said, though even to his own ear it sounded more like a question.

Theo took a sip of tea, looking back and forth between employer and elf.