Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

October

Harry stood in front of her fireplace. He took his time sweeping soot from his arms, focusing intensely on the small puffs of dust billowing up from his sleeves instead of making eye contact with her.

“Harry?”

He moved to his glasses next, fogging the lenses with his breath and wiping them with a corner of his shirt over and over again.

“Harry?”

He shook his head and pursed his lips, eyes still on the ground, fingers working steadfastly to remove invisible dirt from his glasses. She took a few steps closer, gently pried them from his hand, and scourgifyed them.

“Here,” she said, extending the glasses back towards him. He made no move to accept them, so she set them down on the coffee table instead.

“I did it,” he said.

“Why don’t you sit?”

His head was tilted up towards the ceiling, left hand compulsively rubbing the stubble on his top lip. She took his elbow and led him towards the couch.

“I did it,” he repeated, sinking into the cushions.

“Was it … bad?”

He closed his eyes and nodded, left hand now a fist pressing against his lips.

“I told her I had seen them. I lied. I lied, Hermione. But I did it. And you were … you were right. You were fucking right. It worked. She didn’t deny it.”

“I’m sorry, Harry. Harry, I’m so, so sorry.”

He shook his head slowly and fixed his gaze on the pair of glasses sitting on the table.

“Four months. That’s how long this has been going on. Four months.” He finished the sentence in a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“I knew all that travelling would be a strain on us, but this? For her to … and with him? With the twerpy little team equipment manager?”

“Harry …” She ran her palm in circles between his shoulder blades.

“This is … so … fucked … up.” His hands formed a triangle on his face, thumbs digging into his cheeks, fingertips whitening as he pressed them into the center of his forehead.

“It’ll be okay,” she said, using the most convincing voice she could muster. But her words trembled and her breath hitched, and before she knew it, both of them had dissolved into tears and snot, two pairs of shoulders shaking in unison, two pairs of hands clasped together.

December

“Screw the Weasleys,” Harry said. He was making good progress on his plan to get completely sloshed. “Screw them and their roast potatoes and their Christmas jumpers and their bunk beds.”

“And Celestina Warbeck,” Hermione added. She had been wary of Harry’s plan at the beginning of the evening, but had since come to see its wisdom.

“Yeah, her too. Screw—no … fuck Celestina Warbeck.” Harry clinked shot glasses with Hermione and threw back his drink.

“And their hair,” she said, slamming the empty glass on the table.

“And their fucking hair. Yeah. Good one.” He refilled their glasses.

“I didn’t want my kids to have that hair anyway.” She held her firewhiskey to the light, rotating the glass between her thumb and forefingers.

“Me either,” Harry said quickly. He then added, more softly: “But maybe. Because that was my mum’s hair color too. You know?” He joined her in the careful appraisal, squinting his left eye, then his right.

“I know.”

“What are we looking at?”

“It’s like that color. When you hold it up to the light like this.”

He lowered the glass and emptied the liquid into a potted plant. She mimicked him, but then began rummaging in her bag for a wand.

“That’s no good for the plant, Harry, I’ll see if I can …”

“Don’t bother. She gave that plant to me. Neville gave it to her for her birthday, but she didn’t think she’d be able to take care of it, so she gave it to me. Fuck this plant.” He gave the pot a half-hearted kick.

“The poor plant,” Hermione said. “It’s an innocent Sty Bender. Bise Ander. Bye Sander. Dammit. What else have you got to drink?”

“Orchid wine, I think.”

“What color is it?”

“Lavender.”

He clamped a hand over his mouth as soon as he said it, fixing her with a grief-stricken look. But instead of bursting into tears, she began to laugh. Without fully understanding why, he joined in.

“Can’t … have … that … then,” she wheezed, bracing herself against his kitchen table.

“No, I s’pose not,” he said.

“Real thoughtful, Harry,” she said, giving him a playful punch on the shoulder. “Oh, that made my stomach hurt. I haven’t laughed that hard in ages.”

“You started it. As if I would have paid the least bit of attention to the color of firewhiskey if you hadn’t mentioned that. Honestly. We both know that I am not nearly that observant. And your stomach pain might have something to do with the fact that said bottle of firewhiskey is nearly half empty.”

“Half full.”

They gave each other quizzical looks, then burst into laughter again. This fit was more intense, sending them both to the floor in hysterical heaps. After a few long moments, they lay there together red-faced, eyes streaming, laughs subsiding into occasional snorts.

Harry rose to his knees, half-gliding, half-crawling to the liquor cabinet. He surveyed its contents thoughtfully before uttering a triumphant “Aha!” and brandishing a bottle. “Shamrock Brandy! Any objection to green?”

“Maybe we should switch to coffee,” she said, still splayed on the floor. “The ceiling looks awfully unstable.”

“How about a compromise?” Harry offered, pulling Hermione to her feet and helping her steady herself. “I’ll pour this into coffee mugs.”

“Harry …”

“Come on, Hermione. It’s Christmas.” He thrust a mug at her.

She took a whiff of the drink. “Ugh. This smells like fermented grass clippings.”

“Cheers.” He raised the mug and tilted it back. She gave him a bleary grin and followed suit.

January

“New year, new you. That’s what Witch Weekly says, anyway. Let’s start in here.”

“Since when did you …” Harry began.

“And before you can ask me since when I’ve been reading Witch Weekly, I’ll inform you that it was in the waiting room at Saint Mungo’s, where I was waiting yesterday to see Luna.”

“How is she?”

“Much better. I’m sure she’d appreciate a visit from you, you know,” she said, using a hover charm to lift a pile of dirty clothes from the corner of the room.

“I know. I just … I don’t want to run into … anyone.”

“Harry …”

“Don’t. Not yet.”

“Fine. But you know,” she said, scourgifying the clothes in midair, “I was more likely to run into … someone … than you were. Your … someone … is off playing Quidditch in some far-off locale. My … someone … works two floors down from us.”

“So you’ve already run into your someone before. And,” he noted, digging through a pile of papers manually, “you’ve had two more months to deal with this than I have.”

“Yes. And it’s loads less awkward now. Especially that one day when I saw him with a hickey the size of a tangerine on his throat. You can cover those with make-up, you know. Or use disillusionment charms. Not that I’d expect him to know how.” She muttered something else under her breath. “Where should I put these clothes?”

“Um, over there,” Harry said, gesturing towards the same corner where she had found them.

She rolled her eyes and left them folded neatly atop a dresser instead. “Where are your other pairs of shoes?”

“What?” He had spread the pile across the floor; photographs, letters, and magazine clippings fanned out in front of him.

“Shoes,” she repeated. “I’m trying to organize your shoes, but I can only find two pairs.”

“Why would I need more than two pairs of shoes?” he asked, still immersed in his task.

“How very silly of me to inquire.” She cleaned the shoes and moved on to the rest of his closet. “Let me get this straight,” she called out to him. “You only have two pairs of shoes, but you have two, four, six, seven sets of Quidditch robes?”

“Toss them,” Harry called back to her.

“What?” She emerged from the closet.

“Toss them,” he said again, louder this time. “The robes. Toss them.”

“That’s what I thought you said. I am not going to throw out your Quidditch robes just because … is something burning?” She poked her head into the living room, where Harry was standing over a small bonfire. “Harry!”

He held up his hand to keep her back, controlling the size and spread of the flames with his wand. When the last of the papers was engulfed, he sent a jet of water over the embers and then scourgifyed the remains.

“I thought only girls did that,” Hermione observed.

“Me too.”

“Do you feel better?”

“Some.”

“Good.” She walked back into his closet. “We are not tossing your Quidditch robes,” she called.

“I don’t want them. Quidditch destroyed my relationship,” he called back.

“No, Ginny destroyed your relationship. Plenty of Quidditch stars remain faithful to their significant others.”

“Name one.”

“Harry,” Hermione said, standing in the living room once more, “I can barely name any Quidditch stars period.”

“Exactly.”

“I did not just prove your point. Anyway, you’re going to want to play again one day.”

“Then I’ll buy new ones. Can’t you donate those somewhere? Or auction them off or something? Use the proceeds for charity?”

Hermione heaved a grievous sigh. “You’re the canny one, aren’t you Potter? You know I’d never say no to that.”

“That’s me. Canny Potter.”

“Was that a joke?”

“I’m not sure. Was it funny?”

“Not particularly.”

“Alright then. Look, do whatever you want with them. I’m going to get a bit of air. There’s a … could you …” He looked up towards the ceiling and ran his hand through his hair, mussing and smoothing in familiar patterns. “Could you please take care of the second drawer in that dresser over there? There’s a disillusionment charm on it. Easy to take down.”

“Of course.”
“Thanks.” He exhaled, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and walked out the back door.

Hermione watched him for a moment from his bedroom window. He stood with his back towards the house, looking out over the small garden. She thought of going to him, seeing if he wanted to talk about anything, but then reasoned that he probably wanted some time to himself. So she turned back to the task he had left her: the second drawer.

“Please, please, please,” she whispered, pulling it open. “Please do not be sex toys. Or her underwear. Or naked pictures.” The drawer seemed to be full of gym socks, but they were folded far too neatly to be anything but the disillusionment charm he had warned her about. She closed her eyes and broke the charm. “Or home movies.” She opened one eye. “Or anything like … oh, Harry.” The drawer was now empty except for one small, black box.

Curiosity drove her to peek inside; the ring was simple, but elegant. One princess-cut diamond glittered in the center, flanked by baguette-shaped garnets. She snapped the box shut, placed it into her bag, and joined Harry on the back porch.

He was now sitting on the railing of the deck, feet dangling a few inches from the ground. He hadn’t bothered with a warming charm, so she cast one over them both as she sat next to him.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“I looked at it. I’m sorry. It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah.”

“When did you get it?”

“A year ago. Just waiting for the right time.”

“Oh.”

It had snowed last week. Piles of grayish-brown snow clung resolutely to the edges of the garden. The bare branches squeaked against each other as wind rippled through them. She shivered despite the warming charm.

“What do you want me to do with it?”

“Whatever. Just … I just don’t want to see it again. Alright?”

“Alright.”

She inched closer to him and draped an arm around his shoulder. “It won’t hurt forever. I promise you.”

He said nothing in reply, but let his head rest against hers.

February

“I am not getting sloshed tonight.”

“But it’s …”

“I don’t care if it’s Valentine’s Day. It’s also a Tuesday. I am not going to work hung over tomorrow, Harry.”

“They make potions for that, you know.” He was sitting on the edge of her desk and hurling balls of parchment into her rubbish bin.

“They don’t work right on me. They get the stomach fine, but they do nothing for my head. I’ve got to be here at seven-thirty tomorrow morning. And stop wasting parchment like that.”

“Fine, fine,” he said. He floated the parchment balls back to her desk and used his wand to smooth them out again in midair. “It’s just as well. I wasn’t exactly relishing the thought of downing Shamrock Brandy again anyway.”

“Ugh.”

“Alright then. So what do you have in mind, then?”

“Let’s go to the Leaky Cauldron and try to get laid.”

“Hermione …” The pieces of parchment abruptly ceased their de-wrinkling and fluttered back to the desk.

“Ok, Ok. We don’t have to make getting laid our express goal, but we could at least …”

“I’m not ready.”

“Harry, it’s been almost four months.”

“I know. I’m just … maybe next weekend. Ok?”

“Ok. “ She straightened a stack of files and lined her quills in a neat row. “What say we go and see Luna and then head over to my place? We can eat ice cream and I can rig up the television again. I’ll find some mindless action movie with lots of explosions and zero romance.”

A grin spread across his face. “Sounds great.”

He gathered the half-smoothed pieces of parchment into a pile and handed it to her. “Erm, sorry about these. Couldn’t get them quite …” he said, but then broke off as a knock came on her doorframe. She watched his expression darken before shifting her eyes toward the sound.

“Hey … Hermione, I have an owl from … oh … Ha … Harry,” Ron stammered, face immediately draining of color. “Hi. Hi Hermione. Harry. I …”

“Ron,” Hermione said, standing and crossing the room. “You have an owl for me?”

“Not for you … just … from Kingsley … he … erm … wants me to find a countercharm to this one hex and … I … you know, I’ll just come back later. Erm. Sorry.” He ducked back out of the office and hurried away.

“Well that wasn’t awkward at all,” Hermione muttered.

“He has the gall to ask you to help him with shit like that, Hermione?” Harry spat, eyes flashing. “He has the fucking gall to …” His arms made huge sweeping gestures in the air.

“Yes, Harry. It’s okay. Really. We talked about things …”

“You bloody talked about things,” he said, voice nearing a shout, “and that makes it perfectly acceptable for him to ask you to …”

“Look … I know you don’t understand right now, and maybe you never will, but it’s okay. It wasn’t for a while, but it is now.”

“Then why did he slink out of here like a …”

“Because of you and his sister,” she said matter-of-factly. “You know, let’s just cut out of work early. Let’s go see Luna. Alright?”

Harry gave another angry glance at the door. She put a hand on his sleeve. He looked down at it, then up at her. “Did you … did you, Hermione Granger, just suggest that we leave work early?”

“Your face is the color of a tomato,” she replied.

He gave her a small, reluctant smile. “Alright. Let’s go.”

--------------------------------------------

When they got to St. Mungo’s, Luna was asleep. The healer on duty informed them that her sleeping draught would wear off in twenty minutes, so they decided to wait.

“It’s good that she’s sleeping,” Hermione said. “Last week she’d been up for almost fifty hours straight.”

“When do they think she’ll be able to go home?”

“No one wants to give a firm estimate. April is the earliest I’ve heard, but it’s all speculation at this point.”

“What about Xenophilius?”

“He’s about the same.”

“They should have had that area blocked off or something. God.”

“Well, it’s inaccessible now. The Ministry put all sorts of wards up around it. No one is going to stumble across that field of venomous viriglia in search of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack ever again,” she said, sitting on a long bench and leafing through the pile of magazines.

“Poor Luna.” Harry did a full survey of the room before sitting next to her.

“She’s not here, Harry.”

“You don’t know that.”

“The Harpies are playing in Germany.”

“She can Apparate here fairly easily.”

“Harry …”

“She and Luna are friends.”

“You and Luna are friends too. So sit here and wait for your friend to wake up so you can visit with her.”

Harry folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall, exhaling mightily. Every time a new person entered the waiting room, his body went rigid, only relaxing when he determined that it wasn’t Ginny. Hermione buried her nose in the latest issue of Witch Weekly, determined to ignore Harry’s nervous energy.

“You want to take a quiz to determine which flavor of Every Flavor Bean you are?” she asked, offering the magazine to him. “I’m apparently a rice pudding.”

“Huh,” Harry replied.

“I realize that it’s not the most exciting flavor, but at least it’s not earwax or … what are you looking at?” She followed his gaze across the room, where Draco Malfoy had just sat on a bench in the far corner.

“Wonder what he’s doing here,” Harry said.

“He was here three days ago too. And the week before. His mother is in here for something.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“No idea.”

As Harry took the magazine from Hermione, she snuck a look at Draco. He was wearing what looked like the same clothes he had been wearing three days ago, but then again, to be fair, he could just have a closet full of black slacks, black jumpers, and black coats. He sat with his head tilted back against the wall, hands folded in his lap. If he noticed her staring at him, he gave no indication.

“It says I’m a welsh rarebit,” Harry announced, handing the magazine back to Hermione.

Before Hermione could offer any words of opinion on this result, the Healer approached them. “Mr. Potter? Ms. Granger? Ms. Lovegood can see visitors now.”

"Come on, Pudding," Harry said.

"What did you just call me?"

"Pudding. As in 'Rice Pudding.' You know? The quiz?"

"Right, right. Of course. Well then, I'm right behind you, Rarebit."

"Ugh. Let's stop this immediately."

"Agreed."

Harry smiled at her and ruffled his hair. As they followed the Healer back towards the patient rooms, Hermione looked over at Draco once more. If he notices, she said to herself, I will exchange polite nods with him. This plan proved unnecessary; he never even glanced at them.

Chapter Text

Harry sat with his feet on her coffee table, chocolate-smeared bowl and spoon sitting to their left. Various buildings and vehicles took turns bursting into balls of smoke and flame on the television screen, causing snorts of laughter to erupt from both of them.

“Now how did that car get set on fire?” she asked.

“That other car smashed into it. Remember?”

“Was the other car’s boot filled with nitroglycerine and gunpowder?”

“Possibly.”

“And how did the ambulance end up in the river?”

“I actually don’t recall. Ooh, things aren’t looking good for the driver,” Harry observed, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Oh come on. A shark? A shark? Even I know there are no sharks in rivers.”

“No, it’s a mutant. Remember? The lab accident?”

“Lab accident?”

“Yeah. You know. The lab blew up. Chemicals went everywhere.”

“Ah. Of course. That lab accident. This movie is amazing. Brilliant choice, Hermione.”

“I thought you might enjoy this one.”

As the credits rolled, Harry cleaned their bowls and utensils and sent them back into the cupboards.

“Thanks,” Hermione said. She yawned, stretched, and tapped the television with her wand, fading the screen to black. “Well, that’s about all the excitement I think I can handle for one night.”

“That? That is all the excitement you can handle? I’m pretty sure you handled far more exciting things when we were, oh, say, pursuing Horcruxes.”

“And at what point during that pursuit were you not wishing you were sitting on a couch in your pajamas?”

“Good point. Speaking of which, those are particularly horrible.”

“These?” she asked, taking stock of her current outfit. “These are the most comfortable garments known to all humankind.”

“Comfortable or not, you are still wearing blue fleece pants covered in kittens and a sweatshirt that says ‘SUCCOTASH’ on it. Where did you even get those?”

“The bottoms came from my grandmother. I think she might have made them herself, but one never knows with her. The top came from my father. I haven’t the faintest clue where he got it from or what it means. I just know that it is voluminous and fluffy and if I could wear it every day, everywhere, I most assuredly would.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Societal expectations.”

“Whatever.”

She swatted at him with a couch pillow. He swatted back, but she caught it and stuck her tongue at him, prompting him to whomp her in the face with the other couch pillow.

“Oof!”

“Attack of the Whomping Pillow!”

“Very mature.”

“You started it!”

“Yes. And. I. Will. Also … FINISH IT,” she said, taking both pillows in her hands and sandwiching his head between them.

He pushed her off of him, grabbing her wrists in his hands and pinning her down against the cushions. He attempted to hold both wrists in one hand while he grabbed a pillow with the other, but this plan failed. She squirmed from his grasp and reclaimed a pillow, this time using it to bat away his attempts at whomping her in the face again. After a bit of clever evasive maneuvering on her part, she managed to use a free hand to seize her wand, which she leveled at his face, eyes twinkling.

“Unfair!” he cried, arms aloft in surrender.

“Unfair? I’m a witch. You’re a wizard. How is this unfair?”

“Good point. Truce?”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“On my Gryffindor honor.”

“Oh fine.” She lowered the wand. “You big baby.”

Harry laughed and collapsed on the now pillowless couch. “Baby? I’ve seen what you can do with that thing.”

She plopped down next to him. “Be afraid, Potter. Be very afraid.”

“I am.” He grinned and looked over at her. His hair was even more unruly than usual, his face flushed bright pink from their battle. He righted his glasses on the bridge of his nose and gently covered her hand with his. “Er, I just want to say, because, I haven’t yet, and I should have done … thanks, Hermione. For this. For tonight. For the last few months. You’ve been … just about the best friend I could have asked for.”

“Harry,” she said, squeezing his hand in return, “you don’t need to thank me. That’s what mates do for each other, right?”

“Right. But really. I mean it. I just … I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“You would have been fine.”

She expected him to draw his hand away at that point, but he didn’t, instead brushing the side of her wrist with his thumb.

“I don’t know that I would have been,” he continued. “But that’s not the point. The point is just … I haven’t laughed like this, or had fun like this in a long time. So, thank you.”

“You would have done the same for me.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so.”

He kept his hand on hers. Her mouth suddenly felt very dry.

“Why,” he began, voice sounding a bit tight, “do you think …” He cleared his throat. “That is … why do you think it is that we never … got together. You know?”

“Harry …”

“I’m sorry. I … shouldn’t ...”

“No, it’s … uhm …”

“I just …”

“I mean …”

“It’s just … we’ve been such close friends for so long. And we’ve been through so much. And … I mean … you’re really pretty, Hermione. Anyone can see that. I’ve always thought so. I just …” His grip on her hand tightened. His palm began to sweat. “Why do you think we never … gave it a shot?”

“Well …” she began, palm also beginning to sweat, “I suppose we always had a lot of other things on our minds. Exams. Weasleys. Voldemort.”

“None of that is on my mind right now.”

“Harry …”

“Hermione, you’re my best friend.”

“And you’re mine, Harry. And that’s why we’ve never given it a shot.”

“What if we should be together, and we never take this step?” He was staring at her very strangely right now.

“Well … what if it ruins everything?”

“Haven't I already ruined it by saying all of this?”

“No. We haven’t crossed Saliva Bridge.”

“Saliva Bridge?” His face lost some of its strange intensity in repeating her words, mouth curling at the corners.

“Yes. You know. Once you’ve crossed Saliva Bridge, the friendship looks different from the other end. You can’t go back.”

“Is that … a Muggle expression I somehow missed out on?”

“Uhm, no. I made it up.” When I was with Ron, she added silently. No need to bring him into this, though.

“Right.” He turned towards her more fully, this time taking her other hand as well, curling his fingers into her fists. “Hermione? Don’t you think things can also look better? Across … erm … Saliva Bridge?”

“I don’t know.” The room suddenly felt very warm and close. The person sitting next to her no longer resembled her best friend, but a slightly disheveled, very handsome young man with a peculiar look in his eyes.

“Haven't you wondered about it?”

“Of course I have. How could I not? You’re …”

But before she could finish her sentence, his lips were on hers. And they were nothing like she had imagined when she was younger, or, she had to admit, rather more recently. They were soft and gentle and slightly chapped, and they tasted like chocolate ice cream. His fingers remained firmly wrapped around hers, tightening their grip as he inhaled. When she made a small sound in the back of her throat, he released her hands, bringing them to her face instead. His tongue skimmed against her lower lip, and then darted briefly against hers before ducking away again.

As the kiss ended, he pressed his forehead against hers, then drew back slowly. The stubble from his cheek scraped across her nose. She let out a breath that she felt like she’d been holding for hours.

He laughed nervously and mussed the back of his hair.

“Your glasses are all fogged up,” she observed.

“Yeah … uh … they do that.”

“Right.” She looked down at the kittens chasing yarn across her pajama bottoms.

“Well …”

“So …”

“Hermione … I’m …” He cleared his throat again. “God. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have …”

But before he could finish his sentence, she pulled him back towards her, grasping his forearms tightly, drawing his lips back to hers. She wasn’t entirely sure what was driving her at this point. Curiosity certainly had something to do with it. She’d known Harry for fourteen years, many of which had been during their hormone-fueled adolescence. Of course she’d imagined kissing him—and, if she were being completely honest, a bit more than that. She’d also listened to Ginny’s extremely meticulous reports of snogging sessions with Harry, and while she had often protested, covering her ears and shouting ‘too much information, Ginny!’ when things got too racy, she’d always been rather captivated by the details. So how could she just end their encounter tonight with that quick brush of his lips against hers? They had already crossed Saliva Bridge. Might as well enjoy some of the sights on this side, no?

And it was more than just curiosity. Yes, she had wondered about it as a teenager, but she had also thought about it over the past few weeks. They had, after all, been spending every weekend and several weeknights together; it was only natural that their feelings would change a bit with all this proximity, wasn’t it?

When he removed his lips from hers, seemingly intent on moving down her jaw and towards her neck, she pulled back. Kissing was one thing. Having him find that spot on her collarbone was another.

“It’s … uhm … nice. Kissing you.” He removed his glasses, cleared the lenses with the hem of his shirt, and replaced them.

“It’s nice kissing you as well, Harry.” She smiled at him, giggled a bit, and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “That was a little strange.”

“Yes,” he said. His smile matched hers. “But nice.”

“Yes. But nice.”

“I guess … I should go. Work tomorrow and all.”

“Right. Well. Uhm. Thanks for stopping by. Always good to see you.”

They laughed at the formality of those words, and at the new, absurd awkwardness between them. The tension followed them to her door, where they stood a foot apart, blushing like idiots.

“Well. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” She leaned closer and kissed him quickly on the cheek.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Hermione.”

“It’s technically,” she said, craning her neck to see the clock in the kitchen, “February fifteenth. But same to you, Harry.”

“Do you want to get some dinner?”

He spoke these words from the threshold of her office. His hands were braced on the doorframe, his feet planted firmly in the hallway. His body leaned forward so that his head was the only part of him fully inside of the room.

“Dinner?” she asked, looking up from the pile of parchment that was constantly threatening to completely engulf her desk.

“Yeah. Not, like, let’s have dinner together dinner, but, like, let’s eat some food. Together. Food for dinner. Because it’s dinnertime. And we often eat together. At dinnertime. You know?”

“Ah. Yes. Is it? Dinnertime?”

“It’s almost seven.”

“Right. Well … I … erm …”

“Hermione,” he began, finally stepping into her office. “It’s not, like, a date, or anything. I just …”

“Yes, I kind of gathered that. From the ‘food for dinner’ bit.”

“Right. Unless you, erm, want it to be a …”

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

His posture was so rigid, the muscles of his face so tense that she couldn’t help but giggle. “Let’s just eat food,” she said. “For dinner.”

Relief seemed to wash over his entire body. “Great. Meet you in the lobby.”

The Three Broomsticks was oddly crowded for a Wednesday night, especially the Wednesday after Valentine’s Day. One would assume, Hermione mused, that most people had gotten their restaurant fix the night before.

“Well,” Harry noted, “Maybe the other couples here are also lifelong best mates who crossed Saliva Bridge last night and are now trying to figure things out.”

Hermione laughed and blew on her soup to cool it. “Poor things,” she said. “How awkward for them.”

“I know.” Harry began to tuck into his roast chicken. He chewed thoughtfully and surveyed the other patrons. “Everything must seem so different for them now that it’s the early evening instead of very late at night.”

“And they must all be wondering, ‘Did we really do that?’”

“Look at that one bloke over there.” Harry nodded towards a balding gentleman in a blue sportscoat. He was sitting across from a nervous-looking woman who kept halfheartedly poking at her jacket potato. “He’s probably thinking ‘Do I have to stop wiping my mouth with my sleeve now?’ “

“And she’s probably thinking, ‘Did he always wipe his mouth with his sleeve like that?’ ”

“But that guy over there,” he began, this time nodding to a fellow in his late fifties who laughed heartily as the woman adjacent to him told a story that required frantic hand gesture. “That one’s thinking ‘Can life get any better? Who would have thought that the girl who helped me with my homework for all those years is also the girl I’m meant to spend my life with?’ “

“And she’s thinking, ‘It’s a good thing he had me to help him with his homework all those years ago, otherwise who knows where he’d be sitting right now. I certainly hope he’s not currently wondering about with whom he should be spending his life, because that’s really quite a loaded question, and something one ought not to wonder so soon after a cataclysmic break-up.’” She punctuated this observation by glaring at him as she took a long sip of water.

He put his fork down. “Hermione, do you think we made a huge mistake?”

Hermione dabbed at the corners of her lips, unsure of how to begin answering this. “I don’t think we can know that now. We need hindsight.”

Harry looked at her for a moment. “I don’t know what I want anymore, Hermione.” He began to play with the edge of his napkin.

“What you want?” she asked.

“Yes. Not from you, I mean. Or … us. I just … I wish I had the Mirror of Erised in front of me right now, because I’m completely baffled as to what I’m supposed to do. There’s no Horcruxes, no war, no Voldemort, no …”

“… Ginny?” she finished.

“Yes. You know? I just feel like I’m running in place. I don’t know what to do anymore. With my life.”

“Harry, you’re twenty-four. It’s a little early to be having a mid-life crisis.” She stabbed a carrot from his plate and popped it into her mouth. He pushed the dish closer to her, leaning back in his chair to signal that he was abandoning his dinner.

“If I die at forty-eight, this will count as that,” he said morosely.

“Stop being so melodramatic. You’re going to live to a ripe old age and look back on this and …”

“I will not look back on this and laugh.” The look he gave her was positively poisonous.

“I was going to say ‘look back on this and realize it was merely the beginning of a different chapter of your life.’ You sure you don’t want any more of your carrots? They’re quite good.”

“All yours,” he said, waving his hand and making a small noise of disgust. “What am I doing, Hermione?” He looked as if he were moments away from thunking his head on the table.

“Aside from missing out on some really lovely carrots?”

“I feel like I’m talking to Ron,” he muttered.

“Ouch.”

“Can’t we be serious?”

“Harry,” she said, pushing his carrot-less plate back over to his side of the table, “I’m sorry I seem to be taking this lightly. I’m not. Honestly. It’s just … I don’t know what to say to you that isn’t a cliché. You know: chin up, it’ll get better, always darkest before the dawn, what will be will be …”

“Right.”

“Harry, I love you.” She grinned slightly as his ears turned scarlet. “I do. You are the bravest, noblest, finest man I’ve ever met. It’s an honor and a pleasure to be your friend. I know you’re feeling lost right now, and that’s understandable, but you have to know that this is only temporary. You’ll figure it out.”

“Or …” he began, running his finger around the rim of his glass and hazarding a look up towards her, “maybe we will?”

The right words escaped her. What did he want to hear? What should he hear? What did she want to say? What should she say? She didn’t honestly know the answer to a single one of those questions. The only safe reply wasn’t much of a reply at all. But she smiled when she said it, and she meant the smile.

“Maybe.”

March

She was really only interested in what he was reading. That was it. It was completely natural for her to be curious about this, both because she was Hermione Granger and because he’d been reading the same damn book every day for the past month. It wasn’t even a particularly long book, by the looks of it; 200 pages, tops. Was that the only book he liked? Was he not actually interested in reading it, but simply carrying it around as a prop, something to make him blend in with every other person sitting in a hospital waiting room? But if this were the case, why wouldn’t he mix it up once in a while? Bring something with a red cover instead of a black one? Then again, she reasoned, the black one did match his outfit.

At no point did she consider going over to him and asking him what he was reading. The idea of talking to him seemed downright ludicrous. Why would she voluntarily engage in a conversation with Draco Malfoy? But she did want to know what he was reading.

She couldn’t help it.

One evening, when she had been feeling especially nervy, she had sat close enough to make out one word in the title: “Heart.”

“Heart”? What the hell could he be reading with the word “Heart” in the title? An instruction manual for how to rip them out of other people’s chests? A guidebook for how to live if you had been born without one?

Learning only one word—especially a word this perplexing—had only made Hermione more curious. One time she pretended to need to tie her shoe perilously close to him to see if that would grant her a better view. Another time, she purposely caught herself in a conversation with a Healer only a few meters away from him, and then kept glancing out of the corner of her eye to see if she could make out any additional words. Neither attempt had yielded any results, other than making her feel like a bit of an idiot. If he noticed this behavior, however, he kept it to himself. He never gave the slightest indication that he even knew she was in the same room.

This was quite a feat at the present moment, as she had been bold enough to position herself a mere four seats away from him.

If this were a movie, Hermione thought to herself, this would be solved very easily. All she would have to do was begin rummaging through her purse as she was entering or leaving the waiting room. Because she would not be paying attention to her surroundings, she would then bump into him as he was, of course, also leaving or entering the waiting room. Then the book would tumble from his hand just as the contents of her purse would spill upon the floor. She would mutter an apology as she scooped up her belongings and he would crouch down to retrieve the book, but before he could get his hands on it, she would get a good long look at the title: SOMETHING SOMETHING HEART SOMETHING.

Alas, this was not a movie. She’d simply have to rely on her own ingenuity. There had to be a spell that would help. Maybe something to grant temporary, selective X-ray vision? She slid to the edge of her seat and narrowed her eyes. Yes. If she could figure out a way to be able to see through Draco’s arm, but not through the book itself …

“What are you staring at?”

She jumped a little. She had not, after all, counted on him even noticing that she was staring, let alone going so far as to speak to her.

“I … uhm … nothing. Nothing.” She cleared her throat and settled back against the wall, eyes dropping to her shoes.

“Are you trying to tell me that you have been staring at nothing in my lap for the last two bloody weeks?”

She brought her eyes back up to his and pursed her lips. “Yes. That is what I am telling you.”

He made a noise that was halfway between a snarl and a bitter laugh, then grumbled something under his breath.

“If you must know, Malfoy,” she sniffed, “I was merely curious about what you were reading.”

He grunted in non-reply, then tapped the book with his wand. The cover now clearly read None of your Fucking Business.

“Exceedingly mature,” she said. She was about to add something a bit sharper, perhaps marveling at the fact that he had spelled all of the words correctly, but an incoming Healer interrupted her.

“Mr. Malfoy? You can go in now.”

He stood, tucked the book under his arm, and left without looking at Hermione.

 ---------------------

“Who cares what Malfoy was reading?” Harry asked. His feet were propped up on her coffee table, nose buried in a Quidditch magazine.

“No one. Really. I mean, you’re right, who cares what he was reading? I was just … why do you think he was hiding it from me? And when did you start reading about The Sport that Must Not be Named again?”

“Dunno why he’d hide it. Because he’s a prick. Whatever. And you don’t have to call it that anymore.”

“Fantastic. That was getting irritating.”

“I know. Reading this is fine as long as I skip over any articles about You Know Who Else.”

“But we still have to use that name?”

“For now.”

“If you insist.” Hermione turned back to her pile of notes. “You know,” she said, “when I invited you over to do some work with me, I had assumed you’d also be doing work.”

“I didn’t actually have any to do,” Harry replied, quickly flipping through several offending pages. “I just wanted to hang out with you.”

She smiled at him. “That’s sweet, Harry.”

“It is?” He gave her such an earnestly perplexed look that she had to laugh.

“Of course it is.” She ruffled his hair playfully. He grinned, shrugged, and returned to his magazine.

It was sweet. Harry was sweet. He couldn’t help it. He exuded inadvertent charm. He held doors for her, he shared his dessert, and he never failed to tell her that she looked nice when she had put extra effort into doing so, which, she admitted, wasn’t particularly often. Putting on make-up or wrestling with her hair to hang out with Harry yielded discomforting results. The first time she had shown up at his house in a dress, he had told her she looked nice, then spent the better part of the next half-hour avoiding eye contact and talking about the weather. It was a relief to both of them when she returned to jeans and jumpers.

They had never bothered having “the conversation,” as Hermione termed it in her head: the discussion that would give them a neat label and clear expectations. Was she Harry’s girlfriend? Did he think that she thought that he was her boyfriend? Were they friends with benefits? Did those benefits have limits? None of this ever came up. Instead, they just … were. She didn’t know if he was consciously avoiding having “the conversation” for the same reasons she did: because she didn’t want to upset the balance, because she liked everything exactly as it was, and because, if she were being honest, she didn’t know exactly what she wanted them to be. So instead, they were. Harry and Hermione, best friends who occasionally allowed play-fights to turn into brief snogging sessions.

These aforementioned snogging sessions weren’t nearly as strange as they had been when they began, but they still didn’t quite feel natural. This slight awkwardness was another facet of “the conversation” that neither one of them seemed eager to have.

“You want anything?” Harry said. He had set the magazine down on the table and begun to rummage through her cupboards.

“Could you heat that tea back up?”

“Sure.”

A warm cup of tea hovered in from the kitchen and set itself down on the table. “Thanks,” she called.

“Yup. Hey, I’m going to see Luna after work tomorrow, you want to come?”

“Sorry, Harry, I’ve got a late meeting with the Wizengamot records librarian. I’m going to see her at lunch, though.”

“Alright.” He returned to the living room munching on an apple. “Give Malfoy my best.”

“Will do,” she snorted. “Wait, you think he’ll be there at lunchtime too?”

“He always is when I go then.” His chewing slowed and then stopped; he held the apple in front of his face and began to scowl at it. “This apple tastes funny.”

“Is he reading that book?”

“What? I don’t know. What’s with this apple, Hermione?”

“Hmm? Oh, sorry, that’s actually a potato. I was practicing some transfiguration spells this morning. I guess I mucked up on the interior.”

Harry swallowed his mouthful with what looked like instant regret, then tossed the rest of the appletato into the rubbish bin. “You, Hermione Granger, mucked up on a transfiguration spell?”

“Well,” she began, returning to her quill and parchment with a renewed interest, “it was sort of an experimental spell. I guess I don’t have the kinks worked out quite yet.”

“Experimental how?”

Oh for the love of Merlin. Why was Harry suddenly so interested in this? If this had been homework from McGonagall, he would have looked for any excuse not to be interested.

“Experimental in the sense that it was an experiment.”

“For what? For work?”

“Not exactly.”

“Are the other apples safe?”

“Yes,” she said, trying not to sound too relieved at the fact that he seemed to be dropping it. “Well, not the green one. It might be a little spicy.”

“So an experiment for what?” Harry asked. He had selected a benign-looking Golden Delicious.

“I just … I wanted to see if I could charm one of my books to look exactly like Draco’s so that I could switch them somehow, but the interior is proving rather difficult. The fact that I don’t know exactly what the book is about is making it nearly impossible to transfigure the pages. I was trying to simulate this by transfiguring random produce into apples. But I hid them in paper bags so I wasn’t entirely sure what I was working with. It could be a potato, a jalapeño, a banana, broccoli, a pineapple, a parsnip, cauliflower …”

“I get the idea,” Harry interrupted. “Hermione, what is it with you and this book?”

“Repeat that sentence to yourself, Harry.”

“Look, I know you like books, but don’t you think this is a little bizarre?”

She drew in a breath, preparing to launch into a spirited defense, but soon realized she had very little to say that might justify her position. It was a little bizarre. Perhaps more than a little. “Maybe,” she admitted. “I don’t know. I’m just curious. That’s all. But you’re right. It’s silly. I’ll drop it.”

“Incidentally, this apple was quite tasty. Faint hint of peach, I think.” He sniffed the core and furrowed his brow. “You know, if you could find a way to get lima beans to taste like treacle fudge, you might be on to something.”

“I’ll put it on the agenda,” she said with a grin.

 --------------------------

Hermione hadn’t realized exactly how intense her curiosity about the book had become until she realized that she was actively looking for Draco Malfoy at the hospital the next day and, more frighteningly, that she was sort of disappointed that he wasn’t there.

This wouldn’t do. If he would just bloody tell her what the name of the bloody book was, she could forget all about this ridiculous infatuation—wrong word, Hermione! —ridiculous curiosity, and get on with her life.

“How are you feeling today, Luna?”

“Much better, thank you. That shade of periwinkle is very nice on you.”

Hermione looked down at her red cardigan and khaki pants. “Erm. Thanks.”

“Reminds me of the North Pole,” she said with a dreamy sigh. “Lovely place this time of the year.”

“I’ve never been.”

“You should go some day. Fizzlesnazzes as far as the eye can see. “

“Sounds wonderful,” she said, fluffing up Luna’s pillow. “You know, I actually think I remember reading about Fizzlesnazzes when …”

“Oh, I doubt it. You can’t print their name. Disappears from the page every time you try.’’

Hermione began to ask a follow-up question, but noted just how very tired Luna looked at that moment. “Have you been sleeping? Harry tells me that …”

Luna’s eyes grew noticeably brighter at the mention of his name. “Is he coming later? I did want to continue our conversation about waffles.”

“I think he said … uhh … waffles?”

“Yes.” She settled her head back and closed her eyes, voice fading to a murmur. “He made such an interesting point about them last time we talked.”

“I’ll let you get some rest. Harry will come by later and you can pick up right where you left off.”

Luna’s mouth settled into a drowsy smile as Hermione pulled the covers up around her friend and left the room.

Since Luna had fallen asleep so soon after she had gotten there, Hermione decided to stop by the gift shop to get her some flowers. On her way, she got a tiny bit turned around, and accidentally ventured down a corridor of patient rooms instead of walking straight to the lift. As she turned around to get her bearings, she just happened to see inside the small square window in the room to her right.

There was really no reason for her to stop in her tracks and stare for a full thirty seconds. It was none of her business who was in that room, or what was wrong with her, or who was visiting her, or what this visitor was doing at the moment she just happened to glance in. It was really quite rude of her to crane her neck backwards even as her feet carried her forwards, and ruder still for her to stop dead in her tracks, cast a hasty disillusionment charm, and return to the window once more, hoping that she remained fairly invisible for just a few seconds more.

Because there it was: the book, open in his hands, title still obscured by his slender white fingers. Her eyes moved from its spine to his mouth as she tried to read the words it formed, lips parting and closing around silent syllables. She glanced over at Narcissa, who lay motionless, almost serene, face paler than the sheets.

Filled with a sudden rush of guilt for spying on them, Hermione stepped away from the window, removed the charm, and walked briskly to the lift.

“Sorry I’m a bit late, Ms. Irvine.” Hermione said. She unrolled a length of parchment and readied a quill.

The records librarian waved off her apology and took a healthy sip of coffee from what looked like a two-liter jug. “No problem, Hermione. I know they keep you bu-sy downnnn a-there.” She tended to make the last two or three words of her final sentence into a little song. It straddled the fine line between quirky and magnificently irritating.

“That they do,” Hermione agreed. She did not, however, mention that her lateness had nothing to do with Ministry work and everything to do with the fact that she had been combing through the Daily Prophet archives in a fruitless attempt to learn exactly what had happened to Narcissa Malfoy.

“I’ve pulled the records you requested. Feel free to make copies of them, but as you know, the originals must remaaaaaaaaain heeeeere!” Ms. Irvine trilled.

Hermione thanked the woman and briefly wondered how long one would have to spend amidst dusty rolls of parchment and piles of moth-eaten records before one did indeed go completely insane.

There weren’t nearly as many documents as she had originally anticipated, and she was finished well before she had thought she would be. As she stuffed the copies into her bag, she decided to head home to take more notes.

Instead of following through with this plan, however, she ended up standing in the sparsely populated lobby of St. Mungo’s … so that she could wait for Harry, of course. Visiting hours were nearly over, and he—Harry—would be on his way out any moment now.

She sat in a purple armchair by the front doors and pretended to read a scroll of parchment, eyes constantly darting over its top edge.

He—not Harry—stepped out of the lift and walked towards her and the doors. She was too late in looking back to her work; he saw her watching him.

I should say hello. I should smile a bit. I should nod politely. Instead, she just ducked behind her notes again. She fully expected him to ignore her in a similar fashion.

He did not.

The next time she let her eyes move from the parchment, they trailed from his silver belt buckle up the front of his black jumper, over the point of his chin and the slope of his nose, until they locked on to his, which were boring a hole into her face.

“What were you doing outside of my mother’s room this afternoon?” he demanded.

“I …” Her mouth was dry as hay. Had he seen her staring? Had her disillusionment charm failed?

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I wasn’t going to lie to you, Malfoy.” Actually, she had indeed planned on doing just that. “I just got a bit turned around on my way to the gift shop. I didn’t mean to …”

“I fucking knew it was you.”

“It was an accident. I wasn’t …”

“Just leave me alone, Granger. It’s really not too much to ask, is it?”

“Too much to ask? Of me? Can there be such a thing as too much to ask when it comes to you, Draco Malfoy, the same boy who …”

“I’m not the same boy, Granger. And I’m not asking you to do anything besides keep your fucking nose out of my fucking business.”

She fully expected him to stomp away after making this pronouncement, but he stood there. Was he waiting for a promise? An apology? Maybe she should give him both. After all, she had actually intruded on a very private family matter. But another question came faster than either of those things. “What’s wrong with her? With your mother?”

“How is what you are doing right now anything even remotely akin to minding your own fucking business?”

Before she could even formulate a response, he had already turned his back to her, and was marching angrily out of the building.

“What was thatall about?”

She whirled to find Harry standing inches away from her. “Oh, Harry! When did you get here?”

“Just now. What was all that with Malfoy?”

“Oh … nothing. Just Malfoy being Malfoy.”

“Huh. What were you saying to each other?”

“Nothing really. Just trading insults. You know. How was Luna? Did you get to finish your conversation about waffles?”

Harry gave her a puzzled look, followed by a sheepish grin. “Can’t believe she told you about that. But yes, we did.”

“Care to share?”

“I’ll tell you about the waffles when you tell me what was going on with Malfoy.”

Hermione chewed thoughtfully her lower lip, lifted her eyes towards the ceiling in contemplation, and tapped a heel against the floor. “You win. Dinner?”

He extended an elbow towards her. “You’re on.”

Chapter Text

April

“Harry, you have got to stop getting so freaked out when Ron walks in here. Or walks out. Or walks by you. This has to end. He didn’t do anything to you.”

Harry slumped down lower in his chair. She turned from the doorway, crossed her arms, and tried to assume a tone of voice that wasn’t overly didactic.

“And stop slouching down like you hope the chair will swallow you whole. It won’t.” So much for attempts at a more pleasant tone. She loved Harry, but she really wished he’d just let her do some work in peace once in a while.

“Hermione …” Harry whined, sounding quite a bit like the eleven-year-old boy she had met years ago.

“Harry, you used to be best mates! This is getting ridiculous! If I can get past what …”

“But how can you? How did you? I don’t understand …”

“Look, Harry … this isn’t really the time or place for this conversation, but here we are, so let’s just have it, okay? Yes, Ron cheated on me. We all know that. But …” She paused to blow a stray lock of hair out of her face. “But I kind of understand why.”

“What are you talking about? There’s no justifiable reason for …”

“He asked me to marry him, Harry. Three times. And I said no. Three times. I should have just cut him loose, but I couldn’t. He was frustrated. I wasn’t treating him fairly … leading him on, giving him false hope when I knew it was never really going to work out. So I understand why he did what he did. Maybe it wasn’t the most morally sound solution, but it wasn’t … entirely his fault. And we’ve hashed it out, Ron and I. We apologized to each other and wished each other well and now, you know what? We’re really okay. Not perfect, but okay. And I want you two to be okay too.”

Harry’s mouth was completely agape. “He … asked you to marry him?”

“Yes.”

“Three times?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t he tell me that?”

“I don’t know. Ask him. If you ever decide to talk to him again.”

“And you said no?”

“Three times.”

“Why the hell would …”

“Because I didn’t want to marry him, Harry.”

He stared at her as if her answer had been the most ludicrous non sequitur he had ever heard. “I … I can’t be in here right now,” he said, then turned and left without meeting her eyes.

Hermione thought about going after him, but reminded herself of where she was—at work—and delved into the pile of parchment cascading over her desk.

----------------------

He hadn’t answered any of her owls, so she was thinking of just Apparating into his living room and telling him to stop being so … whatever it was he was actually being … but she decided to give him some space instead. He’d come to her once he was ready to sort things out. Maybe he just needed the weekend to make sense of things.

But why, she asked herself as she stuffed her feet into shoes, am I automatically going to St. Mungo’s now that I have a free Friday night?

To see Luna, of course.

Really? To see Luna? Visiting hours end in twenty minutes, you know.

She knew.

You’re not going to visit Luna.

Well that’s silly. Of course I’m going to visit Lu… oh fine. I’m not. I’m going because there’s something I have to tell … him.

And an owl won’t suffice?

Of course not.

Hermione briefly considered lurking in the waiting room with her jacket half-zipped, purse half-slung over her shoulder so that she might make it look as if she just happened to be gathering her things and leaving at the same time as he was, but then discarded this idea as overly contrived. Best to just do what she had set out to do.

The lift doors opened. Draco exited, staring straight ahead as he walked. She was certain that he hadn’t even noticed her standing there, which was really rather odd, considering the fact that the area was sparsely populated. She took a few steps to her left, ensuring that he would either walk directly into her or have to significantly alter his course. Either decision would require him to acknowledge her presence. Instead of choosing either of those options, however, he merely stopped in his tracks and glared at her.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m …”

“And don’t even pretend that it has anything to do with visiting Lovegood. Visiting hours are over and you don’t look like you’re on your way out. “

“Well, if you must know, I’m …”

“What do you want from me, Granger?”

“From you? Why do you …”

“You are stalking me, Granger.”

“I am not stalking you, Malfoy. I’m just …” She perched her fists on her hips and jutted out her chin, refusing to wither under the intensity of his gaze.

“What?” he hissed. “You’re what? What are you doing?”

“Look, I’m just …” she began. Her tongue felt several sizes too large for her mouth. “I’m …”

He made a growling sound and turned from her. Before she actually realized what she was doing, she reached for his arm. “Malfoy.”

Draco froze in his tracks and looked down at her hand, pinkish-pale against the black of his sleeve. She withdrew her hand just as a sneer of epic proportions began to curl his lip.

“Are you touching me, Granger?” His voice was filled with neither outrage nor disgust; instead, he sounded genuinely amused by this occurrence. This fact irritated her so much that she decided to tighten her grip on his arm.

“Yes, I am in fact touching you, Malfoy. Or, at the very least, I am touching your clothing. Does that bother you?”

“Immensely,” he replied.

“How unfortunate for you. Then this” she said, moving her hand from his sleeve to the exposed flesh of his wrist, “must make your skin crawl.”

His eyes widened, then narrowed. His nostrils followed suit. “Remove your hand, Granger.”

She closed her fingers around his wrist.

“Can’t stand the touch of a mudblood, Malfoy?”

“Fuck off.” He wrested his hand from her grip.

“Fine.” Her fingers were tingling. She fought an inexplicable urge to press them against her cheek. He turned to leave again, prompting her to blurt out: “I wanted to tell you that I was sorry, alright?”

“Sorry?” The way he could make his eyes smirk at her was maddening.

“Yes. For being nosy. I hereby promise to leave you utterly alone.”

He offered a short, harsh laugh. “I don’t need your help with that, Granger.”

She wasn’t sure how to respond. An alien part of her wanted to close her fingers around his wrist again.

“Are we done here?”

She meant to say “yes” or “completely” or “whatever, Malfoy.” There was no real explanation as to why she instead replied with “Would you like to get coffee with me?”

He gave her an inscrutable look, smoothed the front of his blazer, and said: “Of course not.”

His shoes made hollow clicking noises that echoed throughout the lobby as he walked away from her.

---------------------------

Harry extended a single pink carnation to her. She sucked in the side of her cheek and tried to look stern. The fact that he couldn’t make eye contact with her was immeasurably adorable.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” he informed his shoes. “I shouldn’t have stormed out of your office like that. Or ignored all of your owls. I just …” He ruffled his hair as she took the flower. “I just … it was a lot to process, I think.”

“It’s okay.” She summoned a bud vase and used Aguamenti to fill it, then hovered it over to the mantle.

“It was just weird to hear that. And at first I thought it was because neither of you told me.”

“Well… ” she began.

“But that’s fine, Hermione. Really.” He finally looked at her. “It was your private business. And I realized that it wasn’t what bothered me. Can we sit?”

“Of course.”

They took their usual places on her couch. He was hunched forward, elbows perched on his thighs. “It’s Ginny, Hermione. It’s the fact that I thought we were going to get married, the same way Ron must’ve thought about you. It … it really made me feel strange, realizing that.”

“Harry …”

“I know it’s weird for you to hear this. But I still think about her. I just want to be honest.”

“It’s alright, Harry.”

“I just want to be honest,” he repeated.

“I appreciate that.”

“But I think about you too, Hermione. A lot.”

“Thanks for saying that, Harry. And for being honest.” She lifted his chin towards her. His eyes met hers and they exchanged smiles. “I like us, Harry. Whatever we are. I like that you can tell me stuff like that. Even if it’s a little awkward. So keep being honest with me. Okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

She gave him a small peck on the forehead and leaned back against the cushions. “Is it … hard for you to see me with Ron?”

“You mean, do I get, like … jealous?”

“Something like that.”

“No. Not at all.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Should I be?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I mean, not like you have a reason to be jealous of me and Ron per se, just, like, would you get jealous of me and someone else? If you saw me with someone else?”

“Oh. Right. I … yeah, I guess I would. If you were, like, snogging him or something. I suppose I’d be jealous. Would you be jealous of me and someone else?”

“Probably. I’ve never thought about it, really.”

“Never?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.”

“Huh,” she agreed. She almost began to tell him about her interaction with Draco on Friday night, but for some reason, thought better of it. “You want to take a walk? It’s quite beautiful out today.”

“But your couch is so comfortable,” he said, stretching out his arms and leaning his head against the wall.

Hermione laughed, stood and extended her hands to Harry. He took them in his and let her pull him off the couch. “Come on,” she said. He heaved a sigh in mock protest and let himself be led out of her flat.

------------------------

“They said I’ll be out of here next week,” Luna said. “And my father as well.”

“That’s wonderful, Luna. Really wonderful.” Hermione smiled at her friend.

“Brilliant,” Harry agreed. “And you look fantastic. Erm, you know. Much healthier.”

“Thanks, Harry.” She sighed and settled back against the pillows. “I certainly hope I’m going to be out of here in time to go to the St. Mungo’s Black Ball. After all they’ve done for me and my father here, I would hate to miss it. You’re both going, aren’t you?”

Hermione summoned her datebook and began to flip through it furiously. “When is that again?”

“I’m fairly certain it’s on a Thursday. Or a Friday. One of the days that has an ‘R’ in it. Possibly Saturday. It would be lovely to see you there, Harry. Both of you. And all of the rest.”

“We’ll be there, Luna,” Harry said, squeezing her hand. “Whenever it is. You can count on us.”

“I don’t have it written in here, but I’ll certainly do my best to clear my …” Hermione paused, catching an impatient look from Harry. “Of course I’ll be there,” she said, nodding emphatically. “Of course.”

Luna offered a ghostly smile and closed her eyes. “Wonderful,” she murmured.

Hermione looked down at her watch. “Well, I’ve got to get back to the office. Late meeting and all. And you look tired, Luna, so maybe Harry and I should …”

“I’m going to stay a while,” Harry said. His hand was still curled around Luna’s. “Nothing pressing for me at work right now. Might as well.”

“Right. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then. Goodnight, Luna. I can’t wait to visit you at your house instead of this room!”

“That makes all of us,” Luna whispered.

It did not count as stalking if she accidentally—purely accidentally—crossed paths with him when leaving Luna’s room. They were, after all, both headed in the same direction. So there was no legitimate reason for him to accuse her of anything besides having a similar schedule to his own. She attempted to inform him of this fact, but he was having none of it. They stared at the doors of the lift. He is probably also considering taking the stairs, Hermione reasoned. Fine. Let him do that if he wants to. I’m certainly not going to be cowed by him.

“I thought I told you to leave me the fuck alone, Granger.”

“Look, Malfoy, as soon as Luna gets out of here, I can fully assure you that this will never occur again. Luna is almost fully recovered, so it won’t be long.”

“Bully for her,” he muttered.

Hermione felt a sudden pang of grief; how could she have been so inconsiderate? Luna might be getting out of here, but his mother was still … well … suffering from whatever it was she was suffering from.

“How is she? Your mum?” she asked.

“No change.”

Those two syllables startled her slightly. She hadn’t expected anything besides a “None of your fucking business, Granger.” That response—and the resigned sadness of his voice—was profoundly disquieting.

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged and continued to stare at the lift doors. A muscle worked his jaw and he shifted weight from one foot to another. Suddenly, he drew a deep breath and said: “Why did you ask me to coffee last week?”

The bell on the lift chimed and the doors opened. They both stepped in and fell silent, surrounded by strangers. When the lift stopped in the lower lobby, the others filed out in front of them. The two of them fell into step behind the rest of the lift passengers.

“Well?”

“Well what?” She knew, of course, what he had meant.

“I’m not going to repeat the question.”

She stopped walking, half because she wanted a moment to think, half because she wanted to see if he would stop too. He did.

“Because I wanted to know if you wanted to have coffee with me, moron.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Yes it is.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and then folded his arms across his chest. “I suppose this is all very funny to you and your cronies.”

“I’m not laughing at you, Draco.” She was gripping the strap of her purse so tightly that her fingers were white.

“Fine then,” he said, eyes cold and unreadable. “Let’s get coffee.”

She furrowed her brow at him, narrowed her eyes, and said in a voice much more antagonistic than she had intended: “Fine.”

-----------------------------

They said nothing on the way out of the hospital. They said nothing as they walked to the coffee shop around the corner. They said nothing as they found a table. And, aside from actually placing their orders, they said nothing as they sat at the table. Hermione initially found this lack of verbiage reassuring; it demonstrated that she and Malfoy had absolutely nothing to talk about. After a few moments, however, she began to get uncomfortable. She was determined to let him be the one to initiate conversation, but he seemed perfectly content to spend the entire outing without uttering a single syllable.

As the coffee arrived, however, she discovered that she was wholly incapable of enduring another second of silence.

“Did we come here so that we could not talk?” she asked.

“I am simply waiting for you to barrage me with intrusive questions, Granger.”

“I promised to mind my own business, Malfoy. I wasn’t going to ask you any intrusive questions.”

“I find that incredibly unlikely.”

She watched as he put one, two, three lumps of sugar into his coffee, followed by approximately half a pint of milk.

“I thought we were going for coffee,” she said. She tilted her own cup of black liquid towards him. He neither glanced at it nor responded to her snark. Undaunted, she added: “If that’s what you were planning on ingesting, we could have gone to Honeyduke’s.”

“I had no idea,” he said after taking a sip, “that you possessed such a sophisticated palate, Granger. Please, continue to educate me on the finer points of drinking coffee. My boorish tastes are so déclassé. I’m utterly humbled by your …”

“Your sarcasm wounds me to the bone.”

“I’m sure.”

“How is your sugary swill?”

“Exactly as I like it.”

“I couldn’t be happier for you.”

Having seemingly exhausted their vitriolic debate over coffee, they once again lapsed into silence. Hermione took turns staring over his left shoulder, then his right, and then back to her own drink. He seemed captivated by his fingernails.

“So,” she finally said, daring to look him dead in the eyes.

“So?” He looked back, holding her gaze in a way that made her both uncomfortable and slightly … confused.

“Yes. So.”

“Is that your attempt at making conversation?”

“It’s better than your attempt, which is not an attempt at all.”

“Why do I have to make an attempt at conversation?”

“Why did you even ask me to have coffee if you had no intention of talking?”

“I didn’t ask you to coffee. You asked me.”

“Last week. Today, however, you asked me.”

“I did not ask you. I simply said ‘let’s get coffee,’ and you agreed. That was not asking you.”

“ So we’re mincing words now, are we? You are such an … uggh … fine. You didn’t ask me. But you must admit that you were the one who initiated it.”

“I must?” His eyebrows looked as if they were trying to retreat into his hairline.

“You know what? I don’t need this.” She crumpled up her napkin and stuffed it into her mostly empty cup.

Just as she began to scrape the chair back from the table, Draco said: “The more interesting question is why you asked me last week.”

“That’s not more interesting.” She plunged the used stirrer in with the napkin and stood. “That’s obvious. I felt a momentary twinge of compassion for you and thought you might like to have coffee with someone. Can you believe I was such an imbecile? Nevermind, don’t answer that.”

Draco opened another packet of sugar and dumped it into his mug.

Hermione made a noise of disgust. She pushed her chair back in towards the table and sent the trash into the bin. “Thanks for not inviting me to coffee, Malfoy,” she said. “I had a positively lovely evening.”

-------------------
“So you won’t mind, then?”

Harry was at his most endearing when he was at his most earnest. It was hard to top this one: here he was, hair a rumpled mess, shirt one size too large, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans. He was leaning against the chair across from her desk, seemingly afraid to sit in it lest he need to make a quick getaway.

“Of course I won’t mind. I think it’s wonderful that you’re taking Luna as a date to the St. Mungo’s Black Ball. I remember how happy she was to have you escort her to Slughorn’s party way back when. And she’s been through so much … she deserves to arrive on the arm of the most dashing man there.”

“Dashing?”

“Sure. Why not?” She smiled at him and reached for a quill, hoping he’d take the hint and vacate her office. Why did he always insist on discussing these matters at the office when she saw him after work nearly every night anyway?

Harry breathed a quick sigh of relief. “Thanks, Hermione.”

“Of course. Were you actually worried I’d say no?”

“Not really. I don’t know. Maybe. I guess I just figured I should ask.”

“Well, I appreciate it. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a ton of …”

“Who are you going to go with? You want me to see if Neville is free?”

“I’m sure he’s going with Hannah, Harry. They’ve been dating for months now.”

“Right, right. What about Seamus? I think he’s …”

“Harry, it’s fine. I don’t need a date. All of our friends will be there and it’ll be fun just to hang out with everyone.”

“That brings me to another point.” At this, Harry sat in the chair, face looking purposeful.

Merlin.

“Harry? Is there any chance this could wait until six? Or seven? I’m pretty swamped here.”

He surveyed the piles of parchment on her desk, seeming to finally remember that they were indeed at work. “Yeah, of course,” he said, rising from his seat. “See you at your place?”

“Definitely. Later, Harry.”

Just as Hermione was beginning to refocus her attention, Ron rapped his knuckles on the side of her door.

“Hermione? Sorry to be a bother …”

“I’m going to get to your question about powdered amarynth ASAP, Ron, I’ve just got …”

“It’s not that. Can I come in?”

She made a noise that was half-growl, half-sigh and tossed her quill onto the stack. “Yes, yes. Come in. But if you spend more than three minutes in here, I’m going to hex your toes off.”

“Erm. Right. Look. I know this is weird, but … well …”

“Two minutes and forty seconds, Ron. Are you not fond of your toes?”

“I’m going to the St. Mungo’s Ball. With Lavender.”

“Alright. I figured as much. Is that it?”

“Well, no … you see, erm … well …”

“Two minutes and fifteen seconds.”

“Are you and Harry, like, a thing?”

“A thing?”

“Yeah. Are you … together?”

“Together?” She felt silly parroting his words, but despite the fact that she’d gone over this conversation several dozen times in her mind, she’d never actually lighted upon a stellar response.

“Are you going to the Black Ball together?”

Well that was a relief. The honest answer was the easy answer! “No we are not. Harry is taking Luna and I am going by myself.”

Ron looked visibly relaxed. “Thank God. Ginny would have flipped.”

“Ginny is going to be there?”

Ron looked at his watch, then at his toes, then back at his watch.

“Your toes are safe. Just answer my question.”

“Yeah. She’s going.”

“With that twerpy equipment manager?”

“Who? Oh, Kelvin? No, she hasn’t seen him in a while. She and Dean are going as friends. But look, I know she misses Harry. And he hasn’t responded to a single one of her owls.”

Hermione squared her shoulders. “Harry doesn’t have to answer to …”

“I know, Hermione. But she feels guilty. And she misses him. And it’s been eating at her for months now. This is going to be the first time she’s seen him in a long time, and I know it would mean a lot to her if you could maybe get him to talk to her or something. Which obviously wouldn’t work if you were going together.”

Hermione tried to keep her expression neutral as she digested Ron’s request. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

“Brilliant. Thanks, Hermione. You’re a gem. I guess I’ll let you get back to your work. Before you change your mind about my toes.”

“Very wise, Ron.” She did her best to return his smile and used her wand to close her door after him.

It took her quite some time to give the rolls of parchment in front of her anything resembling her full attention.

Harry was transfixed by the images on the television screen. He’d brought over another outlandish action movie, suggesting that while they probably should continue the conversation they’d begun in her office, there was no harm in watching a few dozen helicopters explode first.

This suited Hermione just fine. After all, she still had no idea what to do with the information Ron had given her. On the one hand: 1) It would probably actually be better for Harry if he and Ginny finally hashed things out. 2) Ginny still considered her enough of a friend to convince Harry to talk to her. Surely that meant something? On the other hand: 1) A charity ball for St. Mungo’s was probably not the best venue for said hashing out. 2) Harry was her boyf… her … friend? Her partner on the other side of Saliva Bridge? Harry was something to her, and shouldn’t she feel a bit bristly at the idea of shoving him together with his ex-girlfriend, especially an ex-girlfriend who still bore a torch for him, and for whom he himself also harbored some sort of unresolved feelings? She should. She really should. Did she?

She looked over at him. Fireballs on the screen reflected in his glasses.

He laughed and clapped his hands. “When did the helicopter get fitted with heat-seeking missiles?” he asked. A tiny piece of popcorn issued forth from his lips as he made his incredulous pronouncement.

“Uhm, I think at the army base,” she said. She marked the spot on the carpet where the popcorn landed.

“Oh, right.”

She did feel a bit bristly. Of course she did. Why wouldn’t she? She leaned against his shoulder. He patted her leg, then burst out laughing. “Holy crap. That line was gold.”

“What line?”

“ ‘Looks like we’re going to have to burn some bridges … to the ground!’ That’s not even clever! Who wrote that? A seven-year-old? ”

“Yeah, I bet.”

She closed her eyes and drew up images of Harry and Ginny kissing, monitoring herself for twinges of jealousy. There was sadness at the way Ginny had hurt him, but jealousy? Nothing. She allowed her imagination to drift to snogging Harry, this time monitoring herself for twinges of … anything, really. To her intense dismay, however, the only time anything in her twinged was when Harry was inexplicably replaced with Draco Malfoy.

Where the hell had that come from?

“Oh, that’s going to hurt in the morning,” Harry proclaimed. A man on the screen—Hermione had lost track of exactly who he was—was currently engulfed in flames.

“I’m sure.”

Draco Malfoy. Daydream Hermione had been kissing Daydream Draco. Oh for the love of …

“What? How is he fine?” The man, flames extinguished, was now running down an alley.

“I think he fell in the river when his helicopter exploded.”

And Daydream Draco had singlehandedly caused more twinges of … something … than Real Life Harry ever had. What did this mean?

“He looks awfully dry for having just landed in a river. And how did he swim back to shore so quickly?”

“Dunno.”

It meant nothing. No, it had to mean something. But what?

“And where did that motorcycle come from?” Harry asked, voice brimming with glee. “And how did he just happen to have the keys?”

“I know, right?”

It meant that she and Harry weren’t right. That was it. That had to be it. Because if the thought of kissing the world’s least appealing male made her feel twinges, and kissing Harry didn’t, then they simply must not be right for each other. That’s all it was. Her brain was testing her by inserting the world’s least appealing male into her kissing daydreams because that’s exactly what it was trying to show her. That was it. Of course. Why, she would probably feel twinges if she imagined kissing anyone new or different … like … the Healer who specialized in antidotes to Dark potions that she occasionally chatted with on the lift. That’s it. Why, she’d just imagine herself snogging him and the same twinges would certainly arise.

“And of course he can catch up to a Ferrari while driving a bloody motorcycle. Especially when the Ferrari sped off the instant his helicopter exploded.”

“Some motorcycles can be quite fast, actually. Maybe Arthur Weasley had a crack at it.”

Daydream Hermione and the Daydream Healer had gotten significantly past snogging; this resulted in a bit of blushing, but nothing even resembling a twinge.

“And his gun still works … even though he was on fire and in a river.”

“This was quite a find, Harry. Hard to top this one.”

Merlin.

“Guess that’ll teach you not to play with your food,” the action hero quipped.

“What! What!?!” Harry shouted. “What did that even mean? Did that make any sense to you whatsoever?”

“I don’t think so.”

It made no sense at all.

As the credits rolled, Harry brought the empty popcorn bowl into the kitchen. Hermione shut off the television and got herself a glass of water.

“Didn’t those screenwriters have editors? You know, people paid to check for things like continuity and logic?”

“Obviously they don’t have very good ones, if they have them at all.”

Harry sent the clean popcorn bowl back into the cabinet and joined Hermione at the kitchen table.

“Hermione, we can cut to the chase here. I know what’s on your mind.”

Her heart pounded unnaturally in her chest. “You do?”

“Yes. That conversation we need to have. Look, it’s not a big deal. I just … Look, Luna told me that Ginny had been to see her.”

Ginny! Of course. “Oh?” She did her best not to sound audibly relieved.

“Yeah. She’s been there a lot, actually. She was just very conscientious about avoiding me. Anyway, Luna said that Ginny would be at the Black Ball, and that she wanted to talk to me, if I’d be okay with that.”

“Oh.” So Ginny had asked Ron to ask her to ask Harry and asked Luna to ask Harry? She certainly knew how to cover her bases.

“Yeah. So … I just wanted to know if that would bother you.”

“Well,” she began. “I guess that depends on you. If you want to talk to her, Harry, then you should.”

“But will it be weird for you? If we talk?”

“Maybe a little. But it might be important for you to sort out your feelings and whatnot. So I think that if you want to do it, then you should.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. But look. I want you to talk to Ron too. It’s not right that the two of you aren’t friends. Okay?”

“One thing at a time, alright?”

“Alright.”

“And really, thanks for understanding, Hermione. You’re the best.” He gave her upper arm an affectionate squeeze. She seized his hand with hers and pulled him closer. His face was centimeters from hers.

Twinge, dammit! Twinge!

She ran her fingers lightly through his hair, then traced the line of his jaw with her thumb.

Nothing.

She pressed her lips lightly against his, feeling the rush of his breath against her nose.

Utterly nothing.

He smiled at her, then gave her other arm a slightly more affectionate squeeze. “I’d better get going,” he said. “See you at work tomorrow.”

Most assuredly nothing whatsoever. Dammit.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

Chapter Text

It was rather crowded in Luna’s room. Cho, Harry, Neville, and Hannah were all there to help her pack up her things and escort her back home. Hermione had volunteered to hang back and help Ron bring Xenophilus back to the Lovegood house instead of adding to the horde in Luna’s room.

She looked at her watch impatiently. Where was Ron anyway? She was sure he had said he’d be there at six. Well … this was a waiting room. She might as well wait.

Halfway through the latest issue of Witch Weekly, she realized that someone was standing right next to her chair.

“I thought you were going to be here fifteen minutes ago,” she said, sending the magazine back to the rack.

“I don’t recall giving you a timetable of my evening’s plans, Granger.”

Her stomach went cold, her mouth went dry, and her heart began to frisk around in her chest like an overly excited Yorkshire terrier. For what? For Malfoy?

“Waiting for me, were you?” he asked. There was a strange little glimmer in his eyes.

Yes. For Malfoy. Merlin.

“I thought you were someone else,” she managed to say.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“I’m sure.”

The way he was standing blocked out the light, creating a strange aura around him. She stood too, eager both to disrupt this disquieting light effect and to give herself equal footing with him.

“Why are you still here?” he asked. “I thought your friend was getting discharged.”

“She is. I’m helping Ron get Xenophilus home.”

“And the Weasel is late?”

“Your powers of deduction are truly astounding.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?”

“Same thing I am always doing here, Granger.”

“I meant standing in front of me, not standing in the waiting room.”

“Are you not standing in the waiting room? Thus, standing in front of you is also standing in the waiting room.”

“Whatever." She rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest, then tried to adopt a slightly softer demeanor. “So … how is she?”

He made a small sound of disgust. “Why do you always try to make it sound like you care when you ask me that?”

“Because I …”

“And don’t tell me that it’s because you do indeed care, because I know for a fact you don’t give a damn about me or my mother.”

“Why do you think I ask then, Malfoy?”

“Because you can never mind your own fucking business. Because you can’t wait to tell your little Gryffindor buddies that Narcissa Malfoy is dead.”

Hermione gasped softly and touched his sleeve. “Draco …”

He shook her hand from his arm. “She’s not dead, Granger. I was merely making a point.”

“A point? You were suggesting that your mother was dead to make a point? How very unlike the Draco Malfoy I knew all those years ago. Don’t you have a rock to crawl under or something?” She began to crane her neck around in search of Ron. Where was he anyway?

After a quick survey of the waiting room, she darted her eyes back to Draco, only to discover that he was staring at her with a strange intensity. Hermione assumed that he was thinking of a particularly scathing retort, and was just about to open her mouth to beat him to it when he said: “Do you want to see her?”

“You just … wait … what did you just ask me?”

“Do you want to see her? My mother?”

“You mean … in her room?”

“Yes, Granger. I assume that seeing her will allay your burning curiosity so that you can leave me the hell alone for once.”

“Only if you want me to, Draco.”

“What I want rarely matters,” he muttered. With that, he turned from her and began walking towards the corridor. Hermione took this as an invitation and followed.

This is ridiculous. I should be waiting for Ron. Why am I even doing this? Am I honestly this much of a busybody?

But it wasn’t curiosity, or nosiness, or anything like that. Two months ago, she might have been able to explain this behavior with her inquisitive nature. Now, all she had was the unfathomable fact that she sort of … cared.

He held the door open. She nodded in thanks and stood at the foot of the bed.

Narcissa looked nothing like the woman Hermione had seen striding imperially down Diagon Alley, trailed by a line of house-elves overburdened with bags and boxes. She looked nothing like the woman Hermione had seen clutching her son in the Great Hall after the final battle. She simply looked like a frail, white body covered by a thin hospital blanket.

Draco walked to the window and opened the blinds. “Still some light left. I know you and your sunsets.”

It took Hermione a second to realize that he wasn’t addressing her. She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out.

“I’ve brought someone else to visit you. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Erm … Hello, Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione said, voice far less steady than she had hoped. “Can she … hear us?”

“Probably not. But no one knows for sure.”

“I see.” She was unsure of where to look or what to do with her hands.

“Her jewelry box was cursed,” he said simply.

“Oh.”

“That’s it? ‘Oh’? You don’t want to know what kind of curse it was? Who cursed her? Nothing like that?” He kept his back towards her as he adjusted his mother’s pillows.

“It’s none of my business,” Hermione said softly. She did want to know what kind of a curse it was and who had cursed her; she couldn’t help it. But she also knew better than to ask. Draco straightened a picture, turning it closer to Narcissa’s face. In the photograph, a tow-headed toddler crawled determinedly after an oversized toy snitch while a young Narcissa clapped and laughed. Hermione took a few tentative steps towards him. “Draco, I’m so very sorry for both of you. I mean it.”

He mumbled something in reply, but she didn’t know what, and it seemed inappropriate to ask him to repeat himself. Draco sat in the lone chair, leaving Hermione standing awkwardly on the other side of the bed. Not knowing what else to do, she cast a rejuvenation spell on the drooping flowers on Narcissa’s nightstand. Draco watched her do this, but said nothing.

“They think it was my father.”

“They do?” A stupid question, but she had no idea what else to say. She couldn’t read the tone of his voice. Was he outraged? Did he agree? Did he expect her to agree?

“Yes. Not many other people had access to her jewelry box.”

“Oh.”

“He’s gone, you know. Left just before she got sick.”

“Where did he go?”

“No fucking clue.”

“He didn’t …”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“The Healers think that if they could get the wand that cast the spell on the box, they could figure out how to reverse it.”

“Corrigan’s Law.” They had learned about that in fifth-year Charms. She had actually written four feet of parchment about the very subject as extra credit.

“Right.”

“What about the Dorsey Principle?” An entire foot of her parchment had been devoted to this subtopic.

“He’s not dead. Yet.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“I’d know.”

She left it at that.

“Besides,” he added, “the Dorsey Principle only states that the death of one who hexes a personal artifact for malicious purposes will enable easier spell reversal provided that the caster feels significant remorse upon his or her demise.”

She paused and thought. “What about the Millstone Exception?”

“Only applies to unintentional curses.”

“But what if this was unin…”

“It wasn’t. At any rate, they tried the remedy for that already. No effect.”

“Oh.”

She glanced down at Narcissa, white hair streaming across the pillow, chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm. She looked as if she might wake up at any moment.

Hermione walked over to Draco, who had retrieved a book—the book—from an inner pocket of his jacket. She mustered every ounce of willpower to keep herself from attempting to determine any information about the title or its contents. She didn’t think he was testing her, but if he were, she was not going to fail. She kept her gaze resolutely fixed on his face instead of the book.

“I have to go, Draco. But … thank you for inviting me in here.”

He locked eyes with her and tilted his head sideways; she thought he might be attempting to determine her sincerity. He furrowed his brow slightly and nodded at her, lips pressed together in a thin line, then looked back down at his book. She took another step towards him, then one more, until she was standing at his side. Without thinking about why she would ever do such a thing, she reached out her hand and gently stroked his hair. He stiffened at first, seemingly just as startled at her action as she was. After a few seconds, however, his back sank against the chair once again, and he allowed the side of his shoulder to lean against her body. She had no idea how long she stood there, running her fingers over hair softer than she had ever imagined it would be, feeling his shoulder press into her ribcage, until he pulled away and whispered, “Go, Granger.”

She moved her hand from his head to his shoulder, squeezed it briefly, and murmured a goodbye. On her way back to the waiting room, she brought the sleeve of her shirt to her nose, marveling at how well it kept the scent of Draco’s shampoo.

May

Luna was obviously having the time of her life. Her dress was bizarre, but stunning: a silvery-white sheath dotted with twinkling blue stars. Of course Luna would wear something like that, even though this was a Black Ball. Although, now that Hermione thought about it, there were certainly plenty of people here wearing colorful dresses. Most of the men were in black robes, of course, but there were quite a few women in red, blue, green, pink, and even white gowns. Naturally, Hermione had assumed that because one was supposed to wear black, she should wear black, and had thus selected a black dress with a sweetheart top and flouncy skirt. She probably would have worn this dress no matter what, but she still felt sort of silly for not knowing that it was actually the St. Mungo’s Black-Optional Ball.

Luna and Harry spun in a half-graceful waltz across the floor, pausing as individuals approached to tell her how lovely she looked or praise her speedy recovery. Hermione smiled at them and wondered if she ought to feel jealous. She didn’t, partially because Luna looked so very happy, and partially because she was far too busy searching through the crowd of faces in the ballroom. There was no reason for him to be here, obviously; to the best of her knowledge, there wasn’t a single other former Death Eater in this crowd. It was ridiculous to assume that just because she saw him at the hospital all the time, he’d have any reason to participate in any sort of charity for the hospital by way of purchasing a ticket to the Ball. Imagine! A Malfoy donating something to charity, especially a charity that helped all sorts of people, not just purebloods. It was utterly preposterous for her to be looking for him, and yet, here she was, darting her eyes over the crowd, even occasionally standing on her tiptoes.

“I haven’t seen her yet, either” Harry said, suddenly appearing at her side. He gave Luna a little wave as she made her way to a crowd of former Ravenclaws.

“What’s that?” Hermione asked. The music wasn’t particularly loud, but she pointed to her ears and shrugged a little anyway.

“Ginny. I haven’t seen her yet,” Harry repeated.

“Oh, right. No, me either.”

“You look nice,” Harry said.

“Thank you, Harry.” She smiled at him. “But you’ve said that already.”

“Well, it’s true. Your … uh … the strap …” He gestured towards the bra strap that had begun to inch down her right shoulder.

“Damn this thing,” she said, pulling it back into place. For some reason, her bra was not cooperating this evening. She seemed to be fixing it every five minutes, despite the sticking charm she had placed on the strap. Maybe she had made an error in the casting? Was it a quarter-twist followed by a double-tap, or vice versa?

“You don’t have a copy of Simple Sartorial Spells handy, do you?”

Harry looked up his sleeves and shook his head sadly. “Gosh, it must be in my other set of dress robes.”

“Git.” She swatted at him.

He smiled at her and looked back into the crowd.

“Why don’t you just forget about it for now?” Hermione said. “I’m sure she’ll find you if you want to be found.”

“Why are you suddenly talking like the Sphinx?”

“That wasn’t really a riddle, Harry, it was more of a …”

“Speaking of riddles, what is he doing here?”

She knew before she even followed his gaze. “Who?” she asked. How did he get here without her noticing?

“Malfoy.” He nodded his head towards the front of the room. Draco, clad in elegant black dress robes, was leaning against the far wall, drinking a glass of wine and looking bored. Hermione attempted to make a noise signaling both irritation and indifference. Unfortunately it just sounded as if she were choking on something. Harry thumped her on the back a few times and handed her a glass of water. “Alright?” he asked.

“Fine, thanks.” She sipped from the glass and smiled at him.

“H-Harry?”

They both jumped a bit at the voice; having been so focused on Malfoy, neither of them had noticed the arrival of the person who now stood behind Harry.

“Hello, Hermione.”

“Hello.” She nodded in Ginny’s direction, but her eyes were focused on Harry, who seemed to be holding himself together marvelously well.

“Can we talk, Harry? Please?”

He looked at Hermione, who attempted to communicate “do what you’ve got to do, Harry, but for goodness’ sake, do not make it look like you are asking my permission, because let’s not make this more complicated than it already is” with a momentous flicker of her eyes.

“Alright,” Harry said. He led Ginny out of the room, leaving Hermione alone with her glass of water.

She sipped at the water, trying to decide whether she should join the large group of her friends that currently included Ron and Lavender. On the one hand, it would probably be a bit awkward to watch Rovender in action, especially now that Lavender had convinced people to begin calling them that—but on the other, it was certainly no more awkward than standing her by herself, nursing a glass of water.

Or, she reasoned, you could just go talk to Draco.

Well that just seemed silly. And yet here she was, walking over towards him. Merlin. She was asking for it tonight, wasn’t she?

He seemed neither surprised nor delighted at her approach. He did, however, down the rest of his wine in one gulp.

“Granger,” he greeted.

“Malfoy.”

His eyes skimmed over her briefly, then returned to his empty glass. It felt like there were tiny people ice-skating in her stomach.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” she said. They both took wine from the tray that hovered past them.

“I don’t plan on staying long. Just wanted to show my face.”

“Wouldn’t want to disappoint your hordes of admirers.”

“Of course not.”

“You probably don’t even answer your fan mail,” she said, clucking her tongue.

“I send out eight-by-tens instead. That’s all they really want, anyway.”

“Such small prints?”

“The owls found the poster-sized ones too awkward to carry.”

“I see.” She contemplated asking him if he owned clothes in any other color, then thought about just telling him that he looked nice. After weighing the relative merits of each, she decided to go with: “Really, Malfoy, what are you doing here? It just doesn’t seem like your scene.”

“They asked me to be here, Granger.” He took a long sip of wine.

“They?”

“The hospital board.”

“Of course.” She said, continuing their game. “They’re finally naming a wing after you?”

“Not after me, no.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Draco said nothing, but gestured towards the satin banner that floated across the far wall.

“Saint Mungo’s Black Ball,” Hermione read. “What does that have to …” Her voice trailed off as she put the pieces together. The title had nothing to do with a dress code and everything to do with his mother’s maiden name.

“Got it just now, did you?”

“I thought the Black name was a blight on the Malfoy family tree,” she said, rolling her eyes for emphasis.

“Things change.” He finished his wine.

“Yes, I suppose they do.” She followed suit.

They watched the swirling mass of dancers in silence for a few moments. Luna was attempting to lead a confused, but determined-looking Dean in some sort of complicated backwards-boxstep. Ron and Lavender were swaying together slowly even though the band was currently playing an upbeat number. Neville and Hannah were twirling each other around in circles, red-faced and laughing.

“Why not just donate all the money yourself?” Hermione finally asked. The music had gotten a bit louder; he had to crane his head down a bit to hear her. She could smell his shampoo again.

“People like these sorts of things,” he said with a shrug.

“I see.” She didn’t really. She didn’t actually understand very much of anything right now. Her head was swimming and she couldn’t even blame the wine; it had only been one glass, and that glass hadn’t even been particularly full. She wondered if Malfoy would ask her to dance.

“You here with Potter?” he asked.

“No.”

“Weasel?”

“No.”

“Who, then?”

The music died down a bit, making it easier for them to hear each other. As he moved his head away from her, she considered attempting a wandless charm to increase the volume again.

“Why are you so curious?”

“Funny for you to ask me that, considering how ardently you stalked me.”

“I was not stalking you, Malfoy.”

“Whatever.” He set his empty glass on a windowsill, then turned towards her and sighed dismissively. “I’ll have them send you an eight-by-ten.”

She set her glass next to his and perched her hands on her hips. “Well, I demand a poster. Use two owls if need be.”

His face aligned itself into what just might have been a smile. “Shall I send the usual pose, then?”

“Arms folded, with a menacing scowl?”

“That is the one the ladies like best.”

“I’ll take two.”

“Clothed or unclothed?”

She held his gaze, determined not to show that she was even slightly unnerved by his question. “Your choice.”

“One of each, then.”

“Lovely.” She nodded curtly.

He nodded back at her, eyes trailing down to her right. A fierce blush began to creep into her face as she realized that her bra strap was inching down her arm. Before she could move to fix it, his hand was on her elbow. With two fingers, he slid the strap up her arm and tucked it under the sleeve of her dress.

She opened her mouth to thank him, or apologize, or make some sort of stupid joke, but realized that she was currently incapable of forming words. His fingers seemed to have left twin trails of soft, insistent heat on her skin. She swallowed and lifted her eyes to his, only to find that he was staring at her lips.

Oh no. This would not do. Because he was Draco Malfoy and she was Hermione Granger and she sort of had a thing going with Harry Potter.

“So, the posters,” she said, voice sounding too thick and too unsteady to be her own. “When can I expect them?”

He blinked and his body stiffened, giving him the look of someone who has been caught doing something inappropriate in public. His posture relaxed again quickly, but he didn’t seem nearly as eager as she to engage in witty banter once again.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Maybe Monday. Depends on the owls.”

“Right.”

“I’m leaving now, Granger,” he said. “I’ve put in my time.” Without waiting for so much as a word from her, he Disapparated with a pop.

Hermione took a deep breath, willing the confusion and lightheadedness and the … other feelings … to leave her body with the exhaled air.

No such luck.

From across the room, she saw Ginny walk briskly towards Dean, whisper something in his ear, and leave, tears streaming down her face. Dean called after her, then followed, albeit looking as if it were the last thing in the world he wanted to do. Deciding that Harry must still be somewhere outside, Hermione left the building, suddenly glad for the fresh, cool air against her flushed skin.

She found him sitting on a wide concrete ledge that surrounded the patio, looking out over a small koi pond. Without waiting for an invitation, she hopped up next to him.

She studied his face. He had obviously been upset, but he seemed to have collected himself.

“So,” she began. “How did it go?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest.”

“Oh.” She stared down into the pond. A group of fat orange fish swam close to the surface.

“Did you know some koi can live up to 200 years?”

“And what a robust life indeed,” Harry said.

Hermione laughed and nudged his shoulder with hers. “Don’t be so judgmental.”

“I’m not. I’m actually somewhat jealous of these fish right now. How uncomplicated their lives must be. Swim, eat, swim, eat, swim, eat. Sounds bloody fantastic.”

“Was it that bad?”

He sighed and folded his hands between his knees. “Not really. I don’t know. She was sorry, of course, and wanted me to hear her say it. She wanted to know why I hadn’t written back. Then she wanted to know why I hadn’t even read her letters. Then she sort of just started crying and apologizing again. It was weird, you know? Because I didn’t … I didn’t even really care. I thought I would, but I didn’t.”

“You didn’t care that she was sorry?”

“Not really. I mean, I guess it was good to hear. Like, I’m glad she was sorry, because she should be, you know? But … it didn’t change anything. Not the way I feel, or the way I felt, or any of that.”

“What’s done is done, you mean?”

“Something like that.” He ruffled his hair absently. “Then she wanted to know if I saw any future with her.”

“You mean, like, with her?”

“Yeah. Like … if we could ever get back together.”

“Oh.”

“I said no.”

“I guess that’s why she seemed so upset when I saw her inside.”

“Yeah.” Harry picked up a leaf that had fallen on the ledge. He twirled the stem between his fingers, then began to shred its edges.

“And no part of you wanted her back? Not even a nostalgic part?”

“Not really, Hermione.”

“Because of her or because of … us?”

“Because of me, I think.”

“Good.”

“I mean … you know, maybe if this conversation had happened four months ago, I would have thought about it or something, but now, it’s like … that idea hasn’t crossed my mind in forever. So it was just … strange to even think of that. Me and her.”

“Sometimes your heart feels things before your mind gives it permission to,” Hermione said. The moon peeked out from behind a cloud; its silvery reflection glistened like a coin in the pond.

“I guess that’s true,” Harry said. “Is that … how it was for you when … you know, on Valentine’s Day? Did your … erm … heart feel something … for me … that your mind didn’t?”

Hermione felt her chest tighten. She wiped her palms on her bare thighs. Where was this conversation going? “I don’t know, Harry. What are you asking me?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Harry,” she said, wresting the tortured leaf from his hands. “Let’s just be honest with each other, alright?” The leaf fell into the pond, where a few curious koi rose to inspect it.

“Alright.” He also began to wipe his palms on his thighs. “You first.”

“Me first? Why do I have to go first?”

“Because I just went through enough emotional turmoil to last me a few months,” he said.

“Oh fine. Look, Harry.” She meant to turn his face towards hers, but then realized how much easier this would be if she didn’t have to actually look at him. “I just … don’t think that … we’re right for each other. In that way. You know?”

He exhaled so fiercely that she was afraid he was going to vault himself off of the ledge.

“I’m … really sorry, Harry,” she said, reaching for his arm.

“No, Hermione. I’m … actually I’m kind of relieved to hear that. More than kind of. Very, in fact.” He covered her hand with his and squeezed it gently.

“You are?”

“I’ve been trying to think of a way to say the exact same thing to you.”

She gave him a playful shove. “And yet you made me go first, letting me think that I was going to break your heart, you little coward?”

He nodded resolutely and said: “Yes, that’s it exactly.”

For some reason, this struck both of them as utterly hilarious. They laughed until tears began to gather at the corners of their eyes. She let go of his hand and swiped at her lids. “Well this officially counts as the least heart-wrenching break-up that I’ve ever had. How about you?”

“Same. By far. I don’t think I’ve ever caused anyone to shed tears of joy when I’ve dumped them before.”

“You did not dump me, Harry Potter. By virtue of you being a coward, I now get to proclaim that I dumped you.”

“Proclaim to whom, exactly? No one else knew about this.”

“Fair point. But I know it. And you know it. And that’s all that matters.” She grinned at her friend and mussed his hair. “Come on, Luna’s probably looking for you. And you still owe me a dance in there.”

He grinned back at her. “Deal.”

Chapter Text

On Monday, an owl woke her up before her alarm did.

It wasn’t Hedwig II, or Errol, or Pigwidgeon. She had never seen this particular owl before in her life: grand, golden, constantly preening itself—it had to belong to Malfoy. The owl dropped a package on her desk and puffed out its chest. Hermione dug an owl nut out of the jar and held it towards him. The owl looked at her as if she were offering it a used tissue.

“Used to beef wellington, are you?”

The owl hooted in disdain and flew off.

The package was too small to be a poster. This was quite a relief. She hadn’t actually been expecting to receive anything from him, of course, but the idea of having to unroll a poster-sized autographed photo that just might be naked was too much for her to handle. No matter where her imagination had taken her last night before she went to bed, she was certainly not ready to see something like that at seven-o’clock on a Monday morning.

Probably.

At any rate. It wasn’t a photograph at all. It was a book.

Correction. It was the book.

The Hair-Hearted Wizard. A note was stuck in between the pages:

Granger: We were all out of posters. Hope this will suffice. For some inane reason, it’s my mother’s favorite. I personally think it’s utter tripe.

-DM

Hermione turned the book over in her hands. It looked too new to be the one Draco brought with him to the hospital every day. He must’ve bought her a copy. But why? And what was this book?

It would be very wrong of her to call in sick and spend the day reading this book. Especially considering the fact that, by the looks of it, she could probably finish it in two hours. Maybe she could just show up a bit late. Who would even notice?

Hermione put on a pot of tea and curled up on the couch with the book.

------------
“Utter tripe” was perhaps too harsh. The Hair-Hearted Wizard did not feature the most lyrical prose she’d ever encountered, but it was well-written and fairly engaging. It basically retold Beadle the Bard’s “The Warlock and the Hairy Heart,” but added a much happier ending. In the original story, the nameless Warlock uses the Dark Arts to prevent himself from ever feeling love, believing it a source of weakness. When he overhears his servants mocking him for never having married, he decides to invite a beautiful young witch to his castle to convince her to wed him. He attempts to seduce her with love poetry, but she insists on seeing his heart before agreeing to marry him. The Warlock then leads her down into the bowels of his castle, where he shows her his heart, withered and hairy from its separation from his body. To her delight, he puts the heart back into his chest, unbeknownst to both of them that Dark magic had fully corrupted the heart. Overcome by the heart’s Dark nature, the man is compelled to rip the witch’s beating heart out of her body and insert it into his chest. He then cuts his hairy heart out with a dagger, thus killing himself. The story ends with both characters dead on the floor: she heartless and he with two dead hearts in his hand.

In this version, however, when the beautiful witch (Felice) first sees the withered heart of the Dark wizard (Malcordo), she is moved to tears. Her pity for Malcordo seems to visibly heal the heart, and she vows not to leave his side until the heart is fully healthy once again. They spend the next few months in the castle together; little by little, he begins to open up to her, sharing his hopes, fears, joys, and sorrows with her. The next time they go and check on the heart, it looks like a perfect human heart. She promises to marry him if he can put it back into his chest. He gives it a valiant effort, but is unable to; there is still some Dark magic lurking in its depths. Malcordo is so frustrated that he bursts into tears, confessing his love for Felice. As soon as he utters the words, the heart begins to beat triumphantly and he is able to successfully put it back into his chest. The pair share their first kiss, and are married the very next day.

On some level, Draco was right: it was tripe—the unrepentantly melodramatic tripe all good escapist romance novels were made of. But Hermione also thought she understood why this was Narcissa Malfoy’s favorite book. It was easy to make assumptions about Narcissa and Lucius, but really, who could deny the allure of pensive, broody, emotionally damaged Malcordo—a wizard living in self-imposed isolation who needs only the love of beautiful, kind Felice to make him whole again?

---------------------
Hermione had been wrong about one thing: someone did indeed notice that she was late to work. Fortunately for her, it was Harry, and not her boss.

“Hermione Granger,” he chided, calmly sipping coffee as she hurried into her office. “Did I beat you to work today?”

“Stuff it, Harry,” she said. She tucked a quill behind her ear and began sorting through the pile of inter-office memos on her desk

“I was going to ask you to lunch, but I assume …”

“Got to work through lunch today,” she said.

“I figured. Dinner then? Me and Luna and maybe some others are going to grab a bite at the Three Broomsticks.”

“I don’t know. I will probably still be busy … but I might meet you there. No promises.”

“Alright, alright.” Harry held his hands up in surrender. “But Thursday is still movie night, right?”

“Absolutely. In fact, I have the crown jewel of Nicholas Cage’s action film oeuvre.”

“I’m not sure I fully understood what you were trying to convey there, but if things are getting blown up while someone shouts ludicrous things and we eat junk food, I’m there.” Harry gave her doorframe a few affectionate taps before leaving her to her papers.

Or so she thought.

“Hermione?” he asked, ducking his head in once again.

“Mmm?” Maybe if she didn’t actually look up, he would let her get some work done.

“Is it okay if we also invite Ron?”

Hermione felt her face break into a massive smile. “That would be fantastic.”

-------------
Despite her late start, she actually had most of her work finished by six. It had helped that she had put a pretty decent dent into it on Sunday afternoon, and that she had worked all through lunch, and, of course, that she had somewhere she needed to be by six-fifteen.

Was it strange that she knew his routine so well? That she knew he always took a brief dinner break at six-fifteen, then returned to the hospital at six-forty-five, until visiting hours were over at nine? Of course it wasn’t strange, she reasoned … she’d been sitting in the same hospital waiting room with him for months now. He probably knew her routine just as well, assuming that he was just as attentive and just as interested in her as she was in him. Which was silly to assume, of course, because if it was ridiculous for her to be interested in him, then it was doubly ridiculous for him to be interested in her.

Then again, it was also ridiculous for him to send her that book, for her to read it instead of going to work, and for her to be standing in the hospital lobby when she had no real reason to be there.

But that’s where she was. And at six-seventeen, the lift doors opened, and that’s where he was too.

His eyes were on his feet when he exited the lift, and he seemed resolved to keep them there until he also exited the building. That fact essentially dismantled her sweeping mini-fantasy, where their gazes locked from across the room and a look of joy swelled over his features as he strode towards her. In actuality, he walked right past her, forcing her to hurry after him and tap him on the shoulder.

When he spun to face her, the look on his face was not so much unmitigated delight as open hostility. He had actually turned so quickly that her wrist was in his hand, and he was now bending it back towards her elbow in a rather painful fashion.

“Ow! Malfoy!’

Upon recognizing her, the hostility on his face was replaced by something far milder. Slight annoyance, perhaps? Mixed with a tinge of regret? He released his grip.

“Why the hell were you sneaking up on me like that, Granger?”

“That hurt,” she rubbed at her wrist and glared at him.

“I wouldn’t have done that if I had known it was you.”

“Was that an apology?”

“If you want it to be one.”

“I do.”

“Then it was.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

They glared at one another for a moment before he heaved a sigh and said: “I thought your friend left last week,” he said.

“She did.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“I wanted to thank you for the book.”

“You could’ve sent an owl.” He began to examine his fingernails.

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She shrugged. “Are you on your way to dinner?”

“What if I am?”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

He ceased to examine his fingernails and gave her a look that was half incredulous and half amused. “You’re sure about that?”

“Yes.” Her jaw was set.

“Alright then.” With a curt nod, he walked towards the exit.

She blinked at him a few times, and then followed him out of the building.

Draco did not wait to be seated when they got to the restaurant; he simply made his way to a table in the most dimly-lit corner of the establishment and sat down. A glass of wine and a full place setting were already sitting on the table.

“Someone’s already sitting here, Draco,” Hermione observed.

“Yes. And you are intruding,” he replied.

“Oh.” Without waiting for any further invitation, she took a chair from a nearby table and sat across from him.

A trim, heavily-pomaded waiter appeared seconds after their arrival. “The usual, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Yes.”

“Does the lady require a menu?” he asked, turning towards Hermione.

“I will also have the usual,” she replied.

“Very good.” The waiter smiled officiously and trotted off.

“How often do you come here?” she asked.

“Every night.”

The candlelight darkened the circles beneath his eyes and gave his hair a silvery sheen, making him appear years older than he actually was. Hermione fought a sudden urge to reach for his hand across the table.

“I read the book.”

“I figured you would. Utter tripe, wasn’t it?”

“Why did you send it to me?”

He began to rearrange the silverware in order of length. “Isn’t it obvious, Granger?”

“If it were, I wouldn’t have to ask, Malfoy.” She added her salad fork to his collection.

“You would if you were especially dense.” Her salad fork was assimilated.

“I am not.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Humor me,” she said. Her spoon joined his panoply of utensils.

“I wanted you to leave me alone. As I have been requesting for many months now.”

“Your plan has backfired.” She scooted the butter-knife across the table.

“So it seems.”

Draco incorporated her butter-knife into his display.

“ ‘Utter tripe’ is too harsh,” she said. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Draco snorted and re-sorted the silverware back to its original configuration, sliding her utensils across the table to her. The waiter returned with identical plates of fish, rice, and vegetables. He refilled both of their wine glasses and ducked away with a brief “Bon appetit.”

“So this is the usual,” Hermione observed, inspecting her plate of food. “Looks very healthy.”

“Is that a complaint?”

“Not at all.” She tasted a bite of the mystery fish. “It’s quite delicious. So what makes you think the book is so bad?”

Draco took a sip of wine, cleared his throat, and recited: “Felice looked on Malcordo’s withered, hair-covered heart. There, encased in a crystal box, it looked nothing like the living red mass that beat in her own breast. No, this heart was monstrous, shriveled and derelict, wizened by Dark magic and neglect. Felice looked from the heart to Malcordo, a man bereft of a heart, divorced from his emotions. Did he know the sting of sorrow? The wonder of joy? The transformative power of love? The sneer on his face told her that in no uncertain terms, he did not. Felice’s own heart was moved to such profound pity for this broken man and his horrific heart that she began to weep.”

“Wow, you certainly have a lot of that committed to memor …” Hermione began to say. Draco, however, seemed to be picking up steam. He lifted his fork in the air in a grand sweeping motion.

“And the heart—the twisted, beastly heart—seemed to twitch ever so slightly, as if Felice’s tears had cast some sort of curative spell. ‘That is enough, Felice,’ Malcordo said, stentorian voice echoing off the dank dungeon walls.’” Draco here raised his forkless hand to his throat, voice lilting up a few octaves. “‘No, Malcordo,’ Felice replied. ‘It is not enough. But it is a start. It is a start for us, and for you, and for your ruined heart.’ “

With a flourish, Draco tossed the fork back down to the plate, then thought better of it, as it was still required for eating. Hermione applauded politely.

“Utter tripe,” he repeated.

“How many times have you read it that you can just rattle it off like that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve lost count. I can pick it up from anywhere, you know. Want to know what Felice is wearing on the night Malcordo finally confesses his love?”

“A maroon dress with a wide black velvet sash, black velvet shoes, and a black velvet hair bow,” Hermione recounted.

“Tsk tsk, you forgot the black lace gloves, which she removes so that she can stroke his square, stubble-ridged chin.”

“Ah, how could I forget?”

“Utter. Tripe.”

“So why does your mother love it so much?”

“I don’t know. She has much better taste in almost everything else.” He took one last bite of rice and pushed the plate away. “My father hated that book. If he saw a copy, he burned it on the spot. My mother kept a secret stash of them in her closet.”

“Why did he hate it so much?”

“Who knows?”

“Well, maybe he …”

“Yes, please do perform some kind of psychoanalysis on my parents. My father—the hairy-hearted wizard. My mother, naïve young witch who just wanted to love and be loved.”

“I never …”

“It wasn’t like that, Granger,” he said, staring at a spot on the far wall. “It was more complicated than you can imagine.”

She waited until his gaze shifted back to her before she replied. “People always are.”

The waiter reappeared and cleared the table. Draco removed the napkin from his lap and stood.

“What about the bill?” she asked.

“I have a tab.”

“I’d like to pay for …” She reached for her purse, but he dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

“Forget it.”

“Well, I … uhm … thank you for dinner, then.”

“Whatever. Are you going back to the hospital?”

She could tell that he was trying very hard to sound indifferent. It made her feel just a little giddy. “Are you inviting me to walk back with you?” she asked, inclining her chin.

“No,” he huffed. “I was simply inquiring about your immediate future plans.”

“Why?”

“Just looking forward to the time when I can be rid of you,” he said.

“I see. Can you endure another four minutes? I believe that’s how long it takes to walk from here back to the hospital.”

“I suppose I can,” he said. He held the door for her as they exited the restaurant. “And as long as you don’t talk, it might actually be bearable.”

Hermione wasn’t entirely sure, but she thought she heard a hint of a grin in his voice.

She did indeed keep her mouth resolutely shut for the duration of the walk back to the hospital. They fell into step with each other automatically; she was strangely entranced by the sound his shoes made against the pavement. The night was pleasantly warm and breezy, and his scent mingled with the late spring air. She wasn’t quite sure, but she thought it might be the most perfect silence she’d ever spent with anyone.

When they got to the lobby, he turned to her and said, “Well, we’re here.”

“Yes, it would seem that way,” she replied. “I do hope my silence made the journey more tolerable.”

“Exponentially so, yes.”

She bit her lip to keep from smiling at him, merely because he looked so very determined to keep himself from smiling at her. But just as she was about to say, “Goodnight, Draco,” he instead asked her if she’d like to come see his mother again. “Just for a few moments,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand. “I think that it might be good for her to have more people than just me visiting her.”

Narcissa’s room was as quiet as it ever was. In truth, Hermione didn’t really want to be here. She didn’t mind being with Draco—perhaps that was an understatement—but she felt incredibly uncomfortable in this room. Narcissa’s breathing was shallow, but steady; the rise and fall of her chest were her body’s only movements.

“I’m back, Mother. I’ve brought someone again. The same someone.” He carried a second chair over to the bedside, sitting in one and gesturing for Hermione to sit in the other.

“Hello, Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione said softly. She sat and patted Narcissa’s hand awkwardly. “You’re looking very nice this evening. I … uhm …” She shifted in her chair a bit. “Draco let me read that book. The Hair-Hearted Wizard. It’s a really beautiful story.” She glanced at Draco, waiting for a sarcastic snort. None came. “Anyway, sorry if I’m intruding … or anything … I just wanted to say hello. Uhm … this is Hermione Granger, by the way.”

In a movie, Hermione thought, Narcissa would respond to that name … maybe by squeezing Hermione’s hand, maybe by sitting bolt upright, maybe by crying out in an eerie, cracked voice. “Hermione Granger? The mudblood?” Then, Movie Draco would be conflicted, because Movie Hermione’s presence had awoken his Movie Mother, but he would realize that Movie Hermione’s very existence was loathsome to both Movie Draco and Movie Narcissa.

This wasn’t a movie, of course, and Real Life Narcissa did not react at all to Hermione’s words.

“I’ve been spending a bit of time with your son lately,” she continued. “He loves you very much, you know. I’m sure you know. Anyway … I’m so very sorry that this happened to you, and I do hope that you get well soon.” She patted Narcissa’s hand once more, this time somewhat less awkwardly.

“So, Mother,” Draco said. “Shall we pick up where we left off?” He retrieved the book from her bedside. “Maybe Miss Granger here could help? Maybe she could read the parts where Felice is talking?”

It took Hermione a second to realize that Draco was actually talking to her. “Oh, yes, of course,” she said. She scooted her chair a bit nearer to Draco and held one side of the book. With her face so close to his, she saw a small splash of freckles across the bridge of his nose that she had never noticed before.

“What can you possibly hope to achieve here, witch?” Malcordo-Draco asked. His voice had none of the melodramatic bombast he had used to mock the book in the restaurant. “Why do you remain in my castle? I could kill you at any time.”

“I know that,” Felice-Hermione replied. “I’m not here for me, Malcordo. I’m here for you.”

“Then you’re a bigger fool than I’d ever thought possible.” Draco shifted voices, now taking on the persona of the narrator. “And with that, Malcordo Disapparated, leaving Felice to sit alone in the empty parlor, surrounded by dust, flickering candles, and the unbearable rhythm of her own heartbeat.” Draco nodded to Hermione, and she turned the page.

They continued in that way until a Healer tapped on the door, informing them that visiting hours were nearly over. Draco finished the last sentence on the page, closed the book, and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He then stood and gave his mother a quick kiss on the forehead. For the first time since she had started reading the book, Hermione felt hopelessly out of place in this room.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mother,” Draco said.

“Uhm … goodnight, Mrs. Malfoy,” she added.

Hermione held the door for Draco, who then walked with her into the waiting room, boarded a lift with her, and accompanied her to the lobby. Neither of them said a single word until they were out of the hospital.

“I’m sorry, Draco. For you and her,” Hermione said, completely at a loss for any other words. “I can’t even imagine what this is like for you.”

“Things are the way they are,” he said. He stared at a billboard advertisement for detergent as if it were the single most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

“I suppose.” They walked to an intersection, then stood together beneath a lamppost. The yellow sodium light gave his skin an unnatural glow.

“I can come by again, if you’d like,” she said.

“I don’t care.” He looked down at her, then away.

“No?”

“No.”

“Alright then. Goodnight.” She turned from him and retrieved her wand, preparing to Disapparate.

“Granger?” He reached for her arm. She craned her neck back towards him and lowered her wand.

“Yes?”

He let go of her sleeve and let his arm hang in midair. “That was a lie.”

Hermione smiled at him, lifted her wand, and Disapparated.

Chapter Text

June
Hermione looked at the small black box that had been sitting in the back of her dresser drawer for the past five months. She knew what Harry had said. He never wanted to see it again. But did he still mean it? He had probably paid quite a bit for this ring. Wouldn’t he at least like the money back? It wasn’t as if he were hurting for cash these days, but still … it was his property and he should be the one to decide what to do with it.

She scribbled a note and attached it to an owl. Moments later, Hedwig II arrived with a reply.

Hermione,
I remember what I said. I still mean it. Thanks for keeping it safe for me, but I’d really rather just forget that it exists. I think you should sell it. Take off the inscription if you can. I’m sure you can. You’re you. Well, anyway, just sell it. You’ll know what to do with the money, because again: you’re you.
See you tomorrow.
-Harry

An inscription? She had never even noticed. Hermione took the ring from the box.

Sure enough, the inside of the band read: “To G.W. Love always. H.P.”

It wasn’t the most original thing she’d ever read, but it was perfectly sweet. Of course, if she wanted to sell the ring, she’d have to remove it. Despite Harry’s attempts at keeping the split private, it had been impossible to completely hide the fact that international Quidditch star Ginny Weasley and The Boy Who Lived had called it quits. Luckily for Harry and Ginny, news of Weird Sisters’ frontman Myron Wagtail’s troublesome addiction to wormwood soon took the focus off of their break-up. If Witch Weekly somehow found out about the ring, however, the gossip would start up all over again. Hermione pointed her wand at the ring and began to attempt to remove the inscription.

Two very frustrating hours later, Hermione was beginning to consider the benefits of simply tossing the ring into the Atlantic. Instead, she composed herself and sent Harry another letter.

Harry,
What kind of spell did you use to write that inscription? It’s proving to be somewhat more difficult to remove than I had originally anticipated.
-H.G.

Dunno, Harry replied. The jeweler put it on there. It was this guy in France. Jacques something? He had a shop. Heard from Bill that he was good and wouldn’t blab to gossip mags. Can you not ask Bill about this? For obvious reasons. Thanks.

“Well that’s incredibly helpful, Harry,” Hermione said to the parchment. “Some jeweler in France named Jacques. Oh, and he had a shop. I couldn’t bloody make this up if I tried.” Hedwig II seemed rather put off by Hermione’s tone, but accepted the offered owl nut before flying away.

Hermione inspected the box itself for clues. Although there was nothing on its surface, a lesser-known variant of the Revelio yielded up the letters: JJB.

A quick scan of the Wizarding jewelry shop listings narrowed the possibilities down quite a bit. Assuming the “JJB” indicated the name of the jeweler, and assuming that Harry’s memory was reliable, the ring was most likely purchased at Jean-Jacques Bijoutier.

Hermione briefly considered waiting until the weekend to sort this out, but ultimately decided to just go on her lunch hour tomorrow. The shop was more likely to be busy on a weekend and she’d really rather just get this out of the way as soon as possible … for Harry’s sake and for hers.

“Where did you get this?” Jean-Jacques asked. He tapped the ring over and over again with his wand, muttering a variety of spells as he did so.

“From the man who bought it. And no, I didn’t steal it and I haven’t cursed it, so those spells are really unnecessary.” Hermione tried to keep the impatience out of her voice, but she really did have to get back to work.

“Chicken toes,” Jean-Jacques replied.

“Beg pardon?”

Jean-Jacques waved his hand in dismissal. The translation spell he had cast when it became apparent that her French was roughly as good as his English obviously had a few kinks to be worked out.

“How did you get this from the man who bought it?” The ring was hovering in the air between them.

“Look, Harry told me you were good at keeping secrets. Bill Weasley recommended you him. I’m Harry’s friend Hermione … if you want, I can owl Harry right now and …”

The ring clattered to the counter, wobbled, and then steadied itself. “Hermione Granger?”

“Yes. Hermione Granger.”

Recognition dawned on Jean-Jacques’ face. “Of course! I have only seen you in pictures, you understand. You look different here in my shop. Much more … how can I say this … like a person.”

“Like a person?”

“Translation error. Surely.”

“Surely.” Hermione forced a smile. “So about the ring?”

“It is simply lovely to meet you. Simply lovely.” He began to shake her hand enthusiastically. “You know, we here in France didn’t suffer the way the Evil One made you suffer in England, but only fools thought his reign of terror would stop in England. My former partner, Jean-Luc, he said to me that we were safe here. I say, Jean-Luc, you are an ivy-covered turnip if you believe this. What, the English Channel is going to stop him?”

“Of course.” How long had she been here? Twenty minutes, at least. Any hopes of actually getting to eat some lunch on her lunch hour were almost certainly dashed.

“So Jean-Luc said to me …”

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but …”

“Yes, yes. Where are my manners? The inscription.” He put on a pair of glasses and inspected the ring. “Ah. This shouldn’t be a problem at all. I was the one who put it on, after all.” He chuckled to himself and summoned a small pot of red liquid. “You’re sure about this, now?” he asked. “Can’t be undone.”

“I’m quite sure,” Hermione replied.

“Alright then.” A flick of Jean-Jacques’ wand caused the red liquid to bubble, sending curls of pinkish smoke into the air. The jeweler hovered the ring inside of the smoke, rotated it three times, and then plunged it into the pot. After a few seconds, the liquid turned a deep golden color and then spit the ring out in a rather unceremonious fashion. Jean-Jacques picked it up, looked it over, and then handed it back to Hermione, beaming in triumph. “There you are.”

Sure enough, the inscription was utterly gone; the removal spell hadn’t left a single mark upon the ring. If anything, Hermione mused, it looked even nicer than it had when she had brought it in.

“I added a polishing spell,” Jean-Jacques explained.

“Thank you very much.” Hermione reached for her money pouch. “What do I owe you?”

“For Hermione Granger? Nothing at all.”

“I insist that I …”

“No no!” He waved his hands in an almost comical fashion. “I couldn’t. It’s sad enough that Mr. Potter had to do this. Of course, my mouth is, as they say, completely cemented about this matter.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s very kind of you.”

“If you would, though, please remember me for all of your jewelry needs.”

“I certainly will.” She smiled at him, put the ring into her purse, and headed towards the fireplace. Before she reached for a handful of Floo powder, however, a sudden thought popped into her mind.

“Actually,” she said, “I do have a question about something, if you don’t mind.”

“Anything!”

“Do you know anything about jewelry boxes?”

“Jewelry boxes? Indeed I do. I have a fine selection of them in the front of the store if you’d like to see.”

“Uhm, no. Though I’m sure they’re lovely. This is about … an official investigation. I work at Britain’s Ministry of Magic, you see.”

“Oh?” He dug an ornate gold watch from his pocket and looked at it a bit ostentatiously.

“Yes. You see,” Hermione dipped her voice to a whisper. “The Evil One may be dead, but his supporters are still very much alive.”

The pocket-watch made a hasty disappearance. “I knew it,” Jean-Jacques said conspiratorially. “Jean-Luc, he said I was a sponge-lugger to believe that we were still in danger. But I knew it. I said ‘Jean-Luc, just because The Evil One is gone does not mean that we are perfectly safe.’ And do you know what he said to me? He said ‘Look, sponge-lugger, you can go through life worrying about …”

“You are very right to be concerned, Mr. Durand.”

“I knew it.” He began to cast nervous glances out the windows.

“Now I don’t want you worrying that much.” Hermione was beginning to feel guilty for pursuing this line of inquiry. But if he knew anything that would help … it would surely be worth a few small lies.

“The Ministry has things under control. Harry Potter himself is working to keep everything secure. Actually Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and I are all working together.”

“Well that’s quite a relief. The Gold Triangle. Can’t be in better hands, really.” He seemed to visibly relax.

“Your trust is well-founded, sir. Especially when we have the help of citizens like you.”

The jeweler puffed out his chest. “Of course you do. So what can I do? You need a jewelry box, is it?”

“Not exactly. I’m investigating a case … well, I can’t really give you all the details for security purposes, you understand … but it involves a jewelry box that was cursed. Do you know anything about curses specific to jewelry boxes?”

“Any object can be cursed.”

“Yes, but we have reason to believe that a supporter of the Evil One was targeting a jewelry box in particular.”

“Hmm.” Jean-Jacques removed his glasses and began to chew on the end of an arm thoughtfully. He gave one last suspicious glance out the window and then shot a spell at the sign on the door, changing it from ouvert to fermé. “Come with me, Ms. Granger.”

The back room of the shop was small and dark. The shelves were filled with what looked like broken pieces of jewelry, empty potion vials, and scorched bits of parchment. “This is where I do repairs. Most jewelry can be fixed at home with a simple Reparo, of course. But sometimes people lose pieces of things, or aren’t very adept at repair spells, or what have you. And then some people,” the jeweler gave one final apprehensive glance towards the front of the shop and then gestured towards a small filing cabinet in the far corner, “discover that their jewelry has been cursed.” The pause that Jean-Jacques had taken while saying that seemed rather dramatic, so Hermione gave an appropriately grave node in response.

“All cursed items are in that cabinet. I only work on one at a time. Right now I’m trying to remove a particularly nasty hex from a brooch that turned some poor woman’s skin a dreadful shade of puce. Very unflattering. But there have been, of course, far more serious curses in the past. Why, just last year there was this one necklace that caused the most unfortunate case of …”

“And jewelry boxes can also be cursed?” Hermione asked.

Jean-Jacques looked slightly ruffled at having been interrupted, but then seemed to remember that he was taking part in a battle against the Evil One’s followers. “Yes,” he said. “They certainly can. But it’s different.”

“Different how?”

“Jewelry curses are triggered when someone wears the article. Jewelry box curses are triggered when someone opens the box.”

Hermione waited for further explanation, but none seemed forthcoming. “I see,” she said. “Is that … uhm … the only difference?”

“No, but it’s the main difference.”

“Well … thank you very much for your time, Mr. Durand, but I really should be …”

“Of course, jewelry boxes are usually very personal items. Usually there is only one person who opens a jewelry box. So curses placed on jewelry boxes are, more often than not, very personal in nature.”

“Go on.”

“The curses can range from something very simple—a skin-tinting hex, like on the broach, for example—to something much more complicated, with much nastier results. Like the owners’ fingers getting … how you say … muddled? I think it’s muddled. Or their tongues could get split. Or their eyes melted.”

“What about coma?” Hermione blurted out. It was more information than she had intended to divulge, but if this man could help, then it would be worth it.

“Coma? That’s unlikely. Coma is an extremely unpopular curse result. Curses are primarily meant to cause pain or embarrassment. The one in a coma does not suffer. ”

“Her family does,” Hermione said quietly.

“Right you are. So I suppose if one were intending to punish the entire family, coma might be a good choice, so to speak.”

That made no sense at all. Why would Lucius do that to Draco? He was a Death Eater, but he had always seemed to love his wife and son. Surely he couldn’t be that cruel. “Is it possible,” Hermione began, “that the coma is a mistake? What if someone intended a different result, but something went wrong in the casting?”

“That is certainly possible,” Jean-Jacques replied. “Is there a way that I could see the jewelry box in question?”

Hermione mulled that over. The Healers at St. Mungo’s currently had the box. In order for her to get it to Jean-Jacques, she’d have to get Draco’s permission. Getting Draco’s permission would entail letting him know that she had been inquiring about his very private business with a complete stranger. Hermione was fairly certain about how that would go over.

“I would be very discreet,” Jean-Jacques offered. “I understand that this is a point of international security. Discretion is my forte.”

“I believe that, Mr. Durand. This matter is a bit complicated, though.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll have to check with … Harry before I can get it to you.”

“Yes, yes. But listen, Ms. Granger, if I’m being completely honest, I fear that my area of expertise is a bit limited here. I mainly deal in personal curses. Jilted lovers, cheating spouses, ignored suitors … the kind of Dark Magic you are probably dealing with is a bit … beyond my knowledge.”

“I understand,” Hermione said. “But any information you have would be helpful. Even if it seems very mundane in nature.” She produced a quill and the most official-looking Ministry parchment she could conjure.

These props obviously pleased the jeweler. He straightened his back and cleared his throat. “You mentioned a mistake. That is possible. Say, for example a woman learns that her sister is sleeping with her lover. So the woman decides to curse her sister’s box so that when the box is open, the woman’s face breaks out in rather nasty pustules. Simple enough. But suppose the sister knocks the box over instead of opening it. Her hands might get the pustules instead of the face. You see what I am saying?”

Hermione nodded, took notes dutifully, and tried not to sigh in frustration. Why was she wasting her time with this? Hand pustules instead of face pustules? This sounded like a homework problem from second-year charms.

“But say it was something more sinister,” Jean-Jacques continued. Hermione arched an eyebrow to convey interest. “Say it’s a husband who suspects his wife is cheating on him. He might curse his wife’s box so that any time she takes out a piece of jewelry he has given her, it will burn her skin. Depending on how he casts it, the spell would become more powerful depending on how unfaithful she has been. If, for example, she has simply thought about another man, the jewelry might simply feel warm to the touch. If she has slept with another man, she might receive a permanent scar. If she has slept with many different men, she might suffer something even worse. If we go back to your coma example, the husband might have intended death for his cheating wife. The coma would be the consequence just below death.”

“I see,” Hermione murmured, scribbling away furiously. Could Narcissa have been cheating on Lucius? And if so, would he have tried to kill her because of it? “How utterly misogynistic.”

“Women are equally adept at these sorts of things, Ms. Granger. And often more creative. One time a client brought me a pair of sapphire cufflinks that had been hexed so that every time he used his right hand to …”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Durand,” Hermione interjected hastily, “but I really should be getting back to the office. And I’m sure you don’t want to keep your customers waiting. So if you don’t mind, I just have one last question.”

He nodded for her to continue.

“Let’s return to your hypothetical example about the cheating wife. Suppose the wife does indeed go into a coma. What is the best way to reverse the spell?”

“Have the caster himself reverse it, of course.”

“Suppose that this is not an option.”

“Well … killing the caster in front of the victim usually works.”

Hermione cringed at the tableaux that formed in her mind at this suggestion.

“Anything else?”

“One might also have some luck if one knew exactly why the spell was cast. Let’s say that my hypothetical example were correct. If you knew that the woman was indeed cheating on the man, then you could use the Law of Correspondences to brew a potion that might help. You know, find a thorn from a red rose bush that was planted at precisely the moment she first cheated, mix it with life force from the man she cheated with … that sort of thing.”

Hermione looked up from her notes. “Life force?”

“You know …” Jean-Jacques said, reddening a bit. “Life force. Of a man. Seed? You know?”

“Ah, right. Yes. Life force. Of course.” Hermione also blushed and kept her eyes glued to the parchment. “Uhm, anything else you can think of?”

“One might always hope for the Dorsey principle.”

Hermione sighed. She was afraid that he’d say that. “Thank you so very much for your time, Mr. Durand. And for your help with Harry’s ring. You’ve been really invaluable both to Harry and the Ministry.” Hermione shook his hand vigorously.

“Pleased to help, Ms. Granger. Come back any time. And if you can get me that box, I will do my best to help.”

Hermione thanked him again and made her way back to the Ministry. Not only was her lunch hour completely gone, but she was probably going to have to stay late tonight. And for what? Yes, she’d gotten Harry’s ring fixed, but did she learn anything that would possibly help Narcissa? From what Mr. Durand had told her, if Lucius had indeed been the one to curse his wife, they would either have to get Lucius himself to reverse it, kill him in front of his wife, or learn a variety of extremely personal details about Narcissa’s extramarital activities—no easy feat, considering the fact that she probably wasn’t going to regain consciousness anytime soon.

Hermione sighed in frustration and turned to the cavalcade of memos that covered her desk.

On Wednesday, Harry told her that Luna was making dinner for him and anyone else he’d like to invite. Hermione wished Harry luck with the meal, but declined the invitation, claiming an aversion to plimpies. Harry didn’t seem the least bit bothered by this. In fact, he hadn’t even asked her what she was doing instead. This was good, of course. Hermione certainly didn’t want to tell him that she planned on eating dinner with Draco Malfoy and then reading to his comatose mother.

The fact that she decided to change from her frumpy work clothes into a somewhat clingy blouse and skirt had nothing to do with the fact that she was eating dinner with Draco and everything to do with the fact that she had spilled coffee on her jumper earlier in the afternoon. Sure, the scourgify had worked perfectly, but she still smelled like coffee. At least, she imagined that she did. Why would anyone want to smell like old coffee all day when one could instead change into a nice blouse and skirt? A similar series of rationalizations also convinced her to put on a bit of perfume and some mascara.

Draco was, of course, clad entirely in black.

“Don’t you get tired of wearing the same thing every day?” Hermione asked, taking the seat across from him.

“Why should I?”

“Because it’s dull to wear the same thing every day.”

“It’s far duller to waste time deliberating over what to wear.”

“Is that also why you always eat the same thing for dinner?”

“I do not always eat the same thing.” Even though there was no food in front of them, Draco unfolded his napkin and placed it into his lap.

“So if that overly pomaded waiter comes to our table and says ‘the usual, Mr. Malfoy?’ he’s just having a laugh at your expense?”

“No. He’s earning his rather generous tips by not bothering me with a menu. I simply have whatever the chef feels like making me.”

“Don’t you care what you eat?”

“It all tastes the same.”

Hermione didn’t quite know what to say in response to this. Luckily for her, the waiter appeared, preventing what was likely to become a stretch of very awkward silence.

“Will the lady be having the same as Mr. Malfoy?” he asked, pouring them both glasses of wine.

“Yes, please,” Hermione replied.

“Very good.” With a curt nod, the waiter retreated to the kitchen.

“I suppose it makes things more interesting, at the very least,” Hermione mused. “This way you are always surprised by what’s for dinner.”

Draco moved the salt so that it sat to the left of the pepper. “How good are you at Legillimency?” he asked.

“Legillimency? Wouldn’t a menu just be easier, Draco?”

“Not for that.” He rolled his eyes. “Merlin, Granger. Legillimency. Are you any good at it?” He switched the positions of the salt and pepper again, then leaned back a bit.

“I … uhm … no, not very,” she admitted. “Though I only tried it a few times. It wasn’t a requirement for the O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s, so I didn’t really put much effort into it, and the one time I really concentrated and gave it a go, it was rather creepy, even though the person I was doing it to knew that I was doing it, and I was so bad at it that I didn’t get more than a glimpse into …”

“What about Potter?” he interrupted.

“Harry? No, he’s rubbish at it. He could only ever see into Voldemort’s mind, and that was because of all their history and whatnot.”

“Weasley? Longbottom? Lovegood? Any of your dear old chums?”

“The only one I knew of who was any good at it was Professor Snape, and he’s …”

“Yes, I know,” he said with a sigh. The salt returned to its place on the left of the pepper.

Hermione was about to ask him why he was so interested, but the waiter returned with a basket of rolls. By the time he left, she had figured it out.

“Surely someone at St. Mungo’s can find an expert Legillimens,” she said, reaching for a roll.

“One would think so,” Draco muttered.

“No luck, then?”

“Would I seriously be asking you if Weasel were a Legillimens if they had been having any luck?” Draco asked.

“Good point.” She tipped the basked towards of rolls towards him. He dismissed it with a wave.

“I’ve been practicing for months now. I thought it’d be easier for me because I’m so bloody good at Occlumency.”

“They’re not really related,” Hermione said, buttering a roll. “Many people think the mechanisms are similar, but the principles behind them are actually quite …” She caught Draco rolling his eyes at her again, so she stuffed the roll into her mouth.

“It’s probably useless anyway,” Draco said. “A person has to be conscious for Legillimency to work. You can’t use it on a sleeping person. Using it on a person in a coma would likely also be impossible.”

Hermione had, of course, been thinking the same thing, but would never have dared to say it. She watched him continue to switch the salt and pepper until the waiter returned with identical plates of grilled chicken, asparagus, and mashed yams.

They ate in silence until Hermione couldn’t stand it any longer. “Are your dinners always this healthy?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And you never get tired of eating them here? At this restaurant?”

“No.”

“Don’t you ever want something home-cooked?”

“Whether a house-elf cooks it or the chef here cooks it, what’s the difference?”

She put her fork down and straightened her back almost involuntarily. “Why does a house-elf have to do all of your …”

“I don’t like to eat at home, alright?” he said.

Hermione relaxed her posture and picked up the fork again. This was not, she told herself, about house-elves. “Alright.”

Draco took one last bite of yams and then put his fork down. He drew his watch from his pocket and gave it a quick glance.

“I have to go now,” he said.

Hermione patted her lips with the napkin. “Right.”

“She has tests tonight. No reading.” He finished the rest of his wine.

“Oh. Okay then.”

She waited for Draco to say something else, or move to rise from the table, but he did neither. Instead, he drummed his fingertips on the table.

“So, thank you for dinner again,” she said.

He raised one shoulder in a half-shrug.

“I guess I’ll be going then.” Her voice lilted up into a question even though she hadn’t meant it to.

“What are you doing, Granger?”

“Going home?” Was he asking her not to leave? Was he asking her why she hadn’t stood yet? Was he asking her to get up first? She narrowed her eyes in a vain attempt to discern his motives. Draco stood, dusted invisible crumbs from his trousers and then pushed in his chair. She did the same and followed him out of the restaurant. He was walking rather briskly, as if he meant for her to remain a step behind him at all times. When they reached the corner, he turned to her.

“Do you pity me? Is that it?” He was looking at a spot far over her left shoulder.

“Is what it?”

“Don’t lie to me, Granger.”

“I won’t.” She perched her fists on her hips. “But what are you asking me? And where is this coming from?”

“Forget it.”

“Look at me.”

She didn’t expect him to comply, but he did. His eyes were unreadable.

“What are you asking me?”

“I don’t want your pity.”

“I don’t pity you.”

“I told you not to lie to me,” he said through clenched teeth.

“And I asked you what you were really asking me.”

“I meant what I asked you. Do. You. Pity. Me? It is a simple question.”

“Fine.” Hermione sighed and threw her hands in the air a bit over-dramatically. “Look, I feel sorry for you. I do. How could I not?”

“I am not,” he said, voice becoming low and dangerous, “some kind of sad charity case and I do not fucking need you to …”

“Draco, that’s not all I feel, alright? It’s not.”

His mouth snapped shut.

“Maybe it started that way. Or maybe it started because I can’t mind my own business as you are so fond of reminding me.” She really should have stopped there, because she could see his eyes lighten a bit at that, but, as happened more often than not, she found that she just could not leave well enough alone. “And yes, you know what, I can’t help but feel sorry for you, because I wouldn’t wish what you were going through on anyone.”

His eyes darkened again. His mouth became a thin line. “I said that I don’t want your fucking …”

“Oh for the love of … I get it, okay? Your ego simply can’t take the thought of being pitied. And what in the world could be worse than to have Muggle-born Hermione Granger pity the purest of the purebloods, Draco Malfoy, heir to the …”

“For fuck’s sake, Granger. I don’t think about the world that way anymore.”

“What, did someone flip a switch?”

“Yes,” he said, eyes blazing. “That’s exactly what happened. Someone literally flipped a fucking switch and I suddenly realized what a miserable arsehole I’d been all my life. Merlin. For a genius you are so fucking dense.”

“Me? I’m dense? You’re the one who can’t see past your ego to recognize what is actually going on here.”

“Enlighten me,” he said dryly.

She drew in a deep breath. There was, of course, no way she would actually admit what was going on. Not if he couldn’t see it for himself and not if he was going to be such an obstinate jerk. So instead, she simply said: “You and I are friends.”

Draco snorted at this. “I don’t have friends, Granger.” He turned away from her and began to walk back to the hospital.

“Draco …”

“Fuck off,” he called over his shoulder.

“Why are you doing this? I thought we were having a nice time back there.”

He said nothing, but continued to walk away. Hermione took a few steps towards him, but then changed her mind and slunk down onto a nearby bus stop bench. What would be the point of going after him? He would probably just be an obnoxious prat to her and she’d end up apologizing for something that she hadn’t done. Draco obviously had some major issues with communication and trust and interpersonal relationships.

No wonder he didn’t have friends.

But how could that be true? Draco was always popular with the other Slytherins. At Hogwarts, he had never walked anywhere without an entourage. Parkinson, Goyle, Crabbe … they hung on him like leeches. Well, up until sixth year, of course, when Draco had distanced himself from them to carry out Voldemort’s plan. And after that? Ginny and Neville had told Hermione that Draco was still always seen in the company of the other Slytherins, but that he seemed a bit off. Ginny had described him as being “extra twitchy.”

Well, that was understandable. Voldemort was, after all, living at his house. That thought made Hermione’s blood ice over. It was a big house, but still … it must have been utterly horrific to live in that mansion while it was filled with Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Even if Draco was one of them.

Hermione wondered which was worse: to live in a mansion filled with bloodthirsty Dark Wizards or to live in a mansion by yourself.

Surely, though, Draco’s friends must stop by to see him. She had never seen them in the hospital, but that didn’t mean that they never visited. She spent most of the day at the Ministry. Perhaps they came by while she was at work. If that were true, though, why would Draco have told her that it would be good for his mother to have someone besides him visiting her? And why would Draco have just now claimed not to have any friends? It was an odd choice of words for someone who so ardently refused to be pitied.

Hermione sighed and looked up at the sky. Thick clouds had obscured the stars and a mild dampness had begun to gather in the air.

“I don’t think the bus is coming for another half hour,” a voice above her said.

Hermione jumped a bit, instinctively reaching for her wand, but relaxed once she realized whom it was. “I’m not waiting for the bus.”

“So what are you doing?”

“I’m sitting. What are you doing?”

“I’m sitting too,” he said as he sat next to her.

She refused to look at him, but couldn’t stop herself from asking a question. “Why aren’t you with your mum?”

“She’s in for tests all night. They found a Seer who thinks she can help. But she dresses like Trelawney, so I’m sure it’s a crock of shit.”

Despite her best efforts, Hermione couldn’t help but giggle at this. Draco apparently took this as a good sign, because he settled back against the bench as if he had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

“I don’t expect anything to come of it, but I guess it can’t hurt.”

Hermione was about to offer her opinion on the matter, but then she remembered that she was rather angry at him, so she bit her tongue and folded her arms across her chest. They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity.

“It’s not my ego, alright?” he finally said.

“What?”

“The pity thing. It’s not my ego. I mean, fine, that’s part of it, I’m still a Malfoy. But that’s not what it really is.”

“Oh?” She tried to sound bored.

“We can’t be … friends … if you pity me. It won’t work that way.”

Hermione crossed one leg over the other and willed herself to continue not looking at him.

“Because then,” he continued, “it would be like in that book. That wretched, tripey book. And I can’t have that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Remember when Felice convinces Malcordo to tell her about his first pet? The rat?”

“The one who was regrettably named ‘Rattus’?”

“Yes.”

“What of it?”

Draco cleared his throat and recited: “On my seventh birthday, my father killed the rat right in front of my eyes. ‘Now you understand,’ my father said, ‘that you mustn’t let love weaken you.’ Felice gasped in horror. ‘How could he?’ she thought. ‘Oh Malcordo, you poor, poor man. No wonder you did what you’ve done.’ But before she could say a word or even let a single tear spill from her azure eyes, Malcordo began to laugh. It was a laugh of bitterness and resignation. It was a heartless laugh. Felice gathered her skirt and ran from the room.”

“Poor Rattus,” Hermione sighed.

“You see my point, don’t you Granger?”

She thought about being snarky, or making some comment about how hack writers always gave their heroines eyes that were azure, or violet, or the color of the sea on a stormy day, but instead, she said, “Yes, I do.”

“Good then.”

“And now you need to see my point. What you just described … that’s not how I feel, Draco. I’m not Felice and you’re not Malcordo. For one thing, my eyes are the color of a grossly overripe banana. For another, I know you both have a heart and are capable of love, because what else is keeping you at your mother’s bedside? And finally, I’m not the type of girl to get all swoony just because a proven arsehole shows that he has a sensitive side. Because you know what? Underneath that bit of sensitivity, there’s still a proven arsehole. So stop being such a prat about this. Yes, I feel bad for you, but no, pity is not what’s making me spend time with you.”

“Then what is?”

“Ugh!” she exclaimed, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “Why are you so bloody hung up on this?”

“Because I don’t understand it.”

“Well turn it around, then, Draco. Why are youspending time with me? And don’t try to tell me that it’s because I’m stalking you or because you can’t get rid of me or some rubbish like that, because we both know that you are exquisitely good at repelling people when you honestly try.”

He shifted positions on the bench, hunching forward and perching his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t? You honestly don’t?”

“Or I do. But I don’t … understand that either.”

“Understand what?”

“Why I sent you the book. Why I came back to this bench. Why I’m having this conversation. All that.”

“Well?”

“Well what?” He sounded annoyed, but she would not give up. Not now.

“Why are you having this conversation?”

“Why are you?”

“It’s the same bloody reason, you stupid git.” She almost swatted him with her purse for emphasis, but his face looked far too serious for such a comical gesture.

“No it’s not. It can’t be. Because at first it was because I wanted you to leave me alone, and then it was because I didn’t want to be left alone anymore, and that can’t be your reason, because you’re not alone. You never were.”

Hermione’s mouth went dry. He was tired of being lonely? By that logic, anyone could be sitting here on a bench with him. That was hardly the response Hermione had been looking for.

“Well,” she said slowly, “I suppose you’re right, then.” She began to search for her wand in her bag. It was time for her to go home and begin the hopefully short process of forgetting this entire Draco Malfoy situation had ever begun. “We do have completely different reasons. I’m not lonely. Not at all. And I’m sorry that you are. But I suppose that’s pity, so I take it back.” Having located her wand, she stood. “I’ll see you around, then.”

He turned towards her, features impossible to make out in the dim light. “What?”

“Nothing.” She continued to rummage through her bag, more to give herself something to do than to actually locate her wand, which was exactly where it always was. She blinked back small, hot tears, determined not to let him think that for a second his words had upset her.

“Look, I don’t know why what I just said has made you want to leave. But it wasn’t something I said on purpose. That wasn’t my intent.”

“Draco,” she began, heaving a dramatic sigh, “you just told me that the only reason you spend time with me is that you’re lonely. So that’s why I want to leave. Because I find that somewhat off-putting.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” she repeated. She couldn’t decide if she found this monosyllabic reply amusing or exasperating. She sighed, put the purse down, and sat again. He had sounded so utterly, sincerely pathetic just then.

“I’m not bloody good at this, alright?” he muttered.

“Good at what?”

“Any of it. Anything. Everything. I don’t know.” He turned his head and looked back towards the hospital. “Talking to people who talk back, I guess. Whatever. Just go, Granger.”

“If that’s what you want.” She stood again and hoisted her bag on her shoulder.

“It is.”

“Alright then.” She readied her wand. “Have a good …”

“It’s not because I’m lonely, alright?”

“Dammit, Malfoy … you are seriously going to make me splinch myself. Will you just let me leave without saying something momentous right before I Disapparate?”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, apparently ignoring her last words. “I said that I didn’t want to be left alone anymore. By that I meant that I no longer wanted you to leave me alone. For some bloody reason.”

She sat again. Perhaps she could count this as some sort of exercise for her quads?

“So what happened to your Slytherin friends?” It was a non sequitur, but he didn’t seem to care.

Draco drew in a breath and looked back towards the hospital again. “I suppose it was a combination of what happened sixth year and what happened seventh year and what happened after the War was over.”

“I see,” she said, which was a very silly reply, but infinitely better than what she had wanted to say, which was “well, you deserved it, you stupid areshole” which was true, but rather unhelpful or “I’m sorry,” which would have sounded like pity.

“Most of Mother and Father's friends deserted them after the war as well. Except Crabbe’s dad. But he was always giving me these looks, and I couldn't stand being in the house when he was there.”

“You didn’t tell Crabbe to cast fiendfyre. And anyway, he …”

“I don’t want to rehash it, Granger,” he interrupted.

“Alright.”

Thunder began to rumble in the distance. They sat in silence for a few moments.

“I suppose we should get out of here before it rains,” she said.

“You never really answered my question, you know.”

He had turned back towards her. His right knee bumped into her left knee. A sudden gust of wind ruffled through his hair.

“What question?”

“Why are you spending time with me? If it’s not pity or loneliness or just because you can’t mind your own fucking business.”

Hermione made a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Are you being coy, or are you just that obtuse, Malfoy? Either way, it’s positively irritating,”

He said nothing in reply, but tilted his head to the side as if considering the question. Hermione watched as his eyes moved from his hands to her lips. Inside her stomach, a thousand butterflies emerged from tiny, well-hidden cocoons. The air seemed to distill and collect around them.

Merlinshe thought. are we really about to do this? Draco’s face moved slowly, but steadily towards hers. Or was hers moving towards his? The question seemed at once incredibly important and completely irrelevant.

Before she was able to reach a satisfactory answer to this rather pressing question, however, lightning split the sky above them; seconds later, thunder roared and the clouds burst open. The two of them were almost instantaneously drenched.

She watched his face draw back from hers, eyes losing their heavy lids, hand pushing his quickly-dampening hair back from his forehead.

“Should we take this as an ill omen?” he shouted. The rain had abruptly turned into hail, pelting both of them with pebble-sized ice crystals.

“Perhaps we should just take it as a sign that we ought not to be sitting outside anymore,” she shouted back.

He gave her a nod, grabbed her hand, and Disapperated them both.

They were standing in a room with ornate-looking mahogany furniture, including a grossly oversized canopy bed. Hermione pulled her hand from Draco’s grasp.

“Is this … is this your bedroom, Malfory?”

“What gave it away? Was it the bed?” Draco asked, casting a quick-dry spell on his hair and clothes.

“Did you seriously just Disapparate us into your bedroom”

“Yes. And you are dripping all over the floor. I’d rather you not.”

“This is the first place you thought of?” Hermione asked. “Your bedroom?” Did he really think that because she seemed like she was momentarily caught up in some sort of bizarre reverie that she would honestly want to go to his bloody bedroom

Draco heaved a dramatic sigh and aimed the drying spell at Hermione. “Calm yourself down, Granger. Yes, it was literally the first place I thought of. There’s no need to read anything into it. It’s warm. It’s dry. It’s …”

“Your bedroom.”

“Oh, is that where we are? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Malfoy, if you think that I…”

“Come on then, let’s find a less alarming part of the house. Don’t want your knickers in a twist.”

Hermione scowled at him, but he had turned his back to her to lead them out of the room. Honestly … what did he expect her to think? If it had been up to her, she would have taken them somewhere far less suggestive … the coffee shop, perhaps, or the restaurant, or even his stupid kitchen, but this?

Hermione’s train of thought was completely derailed when she noticed where Draco had led them: the library.

The magnitude of the room was so overwhelming that for a moment, Hermione completely forgot that she was standing in Malfoy Manor, the same place that she had been tortured by Draco’s aunt—the same place that Voldemort himself lived for a time. Mouth slightly agape, she picked a shelf at random and began to read the titles.

“Shall I just have Flivver bring you your breakfast in here?” he drawled.

“How do you ever leave this room?” she asked, voice full of awe.

“Usually by walking, although when I’m feeling especially lazy, I just Disapparate.”

“You know what I mean.” She ran her fingers over the spines. “You must have thousands of books here.”

“Eight thousand, four hundred, and fifty one.”

Hermione picked one off the shelf at random. “I, Malfoy Vol. I. What is this?”

“It’s an autobiography written by my great-great-great-great-great … well, I’ve lost count of those, to be honest … let’s just say he was a distant relative of mine … Tarquin Malfoy.”

Hermione flipped through the book. “And this is just Volume I? How many volumes are there?”

Draco scanned the shelves. “Fourteen. The one you’re holding just gets up to the part of his life where he began eating solid foods, I think.”

Hermione looked at Draco to see if he were joking. He wasn’t. “Interesting.”

“It’s dreadfully boring, actually. At any rate, feel free to look around. I thought you’d like it in here.”

Hermione was incredibly tempted to take him up on his offer—there were so many books!, but she couldn’t let what had almost just happened between them go without discussion for one moment longer.

“Draco?”

“Hmm?” He was perusing a shelf on a bookcase a few meters away.

“When we were … you know ... before we came here …”

“Are you still going on about the fucking bedroom, Granger? Can’t you just look at all the pretty books instead?”

"You know what I’m talking about. Not that. Outside.”

“Yes, I recall being outside.”

“Stop being a prat.”

“I think I have another book that you would like, Granger.”

“Draco.” Hermione did her best to keep the shrillness out of her voice. “On the bench. You and I. Before the rain.”

“Nothing happened, Granger.”

She folded her arms over her chest. On the one hand, he was completely correct: nothing actually happened. On the other, however, he was dead wrong. Something most assuredly had. Draco remained impassive, scanning the shelves instead of looking at her.

“Here, look at this one.” He handed her a thick book bound in green leather. “This is also by Tarquin, but it’s a better read.”

“Draco, this isn’t what I want to …” she began, but her words stopped when she read the title. Hogwarts: An Alternate History. “What is this?”

“It’s a commentary on the original. Tarquin was one of the first students at Hogwarts.”

Hermione was very frustratingly torn between wanting to make sense out of what just happened and wanting to spend a few hours poring over this book. Mustering up every dram of willpower in her being, she handed the book back to Draco. “I’m sure it’s nothing but slander and revisionist rubbish, Malfoy. And I’m tired of playing games with you. You know what I’m trying to ask you about and what almost happened and it’s really quite immature and irritating of you to pretend that you don’t. And don’t even move your lips like you’re going to ask me ‘what?’ all innocent-like because you know what you are doing. So you can keep your stupid books and your stupid library and just forget that we ever …”

“I won’t forget, Granger,” he said softly, idly thumbing through the book. “Even if you tell me to. You know, Tarquin has a whole chapter on House-Elves. Would you like to borrow the book?”

Hermione stared at him. Her fists were clenched, her cheeks burning.

“You are a complete and utter ass.”

“I’ve been told as much, yes.”

“I’m done.” She picked her purse up from the armchair and slung it over her shoulder.

“With what?” He was looking up from the book now, but not quite making eye contact with her.

“All of this. It’s not worth my time or energy or emotion or … anything, really. It’s not worth anything. Because it’s nothing. You’ve said as much yourself. Have a nice life, Malfoy.” But just as she was about to Disapparate, she had a different idea.

“No, you know what?” She wasn’t entirely sure which one of them she was asking. “If I just storm out of here, you get to continue operating under your twisted sense of non-reality and thinking it’s all just peachy because no one has really said or done anything. So screw that, Malfoy.”

With that, she took a quick stride towards him and wrested the book from his hands. Before she could decide whether the look on his face was surprise, horror, or desire, she used her other hand to grab a fistful of his shirt, pulling him closer, positioning his face next to hers, pressing her lips against his.

He drew in breath sharply, his body stiffening, almost retreating. But after a few seconds, she felt his lips respond to hers, felt his chest press against hers, felt one of his hands against her cheek—his palm was damp and his fingers seemed to be trembling. He groaned softly, and she felt a knot of sparks burst within her, lighting every nerve and coursing through her blood. The world suddenly became the way he smelled, and tasted, and felt—the way her blood rushed in her ears, making her feel both dizzy and utterly grounded all at once.

When they drew apart, his breath was ragged, his eyes shut tight. She meant to say something witty and sharp, like “Deny that Malfoy,” but before she could even open her mouth, he was pulling her back towards him, gathering the sleeves of her shirt in great handfuls. He wrapped his arms around her, lips roving from her mouth to her chin, from her chin to her neck, from her neck to her collarbone.

A low moan escaped from her throat. She relinquished her grasp on his sleeves, moving her hands to the hem of his shirt instead, and began to inch her hands slowly underneath. He drew in a sharp breath and pressed his body against hers for a fraction of a second before pulling himself away suddenly.

“What?” she asked. His face was flushed, his lips swollen. She was fairly certain that she would have to use disillusionment charms on the marks on her neck and shoulders.

Draco cleared his throat and shuffled his feet awkwardly. “I’m s … I’m … sure you’re rather tired. It’s getting late. You should probably go.”

“Draco …”

“I know. I’m not … I just … look, I’m not pretending this didn’t happen. I just … I don’t know what I should be saying right now. Or doing. Either, really. Both.”

She watched him try to avoid looking at her. She could have pressed him but decided—despite their earlier conversation—to take pity on him. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

His eyes finally met hers and a small smile of what might have been relief played with the corner of his lips. “Yes. Yes. Tomorrow. “ He retrieved the book from the floor and offered it to her.

“I’ll borrow it some other time.”

“Alright.”

“Goodnight, Draco.”

“Goodnight, Granger.”

She looked at him a moment longer than was absolutely necessary before Disapparating back to her flat.
____________________________________________________________

Chapter Text

Hermione was trying very hard to focus on the stupid action movie.

“Do you think six-inch stilettos are standard-issue for all FBI agents in the States? Or just Agent Juggs over there?”

“Her name is Agent Jagg, Hermione,” Ron said, eyes not leaving the screen. “And she can wear whatever she’d like.”

“You’re drooling a bit, Ron,” Hermione replied.

Lavender hit Ron with a pillow, then sighed. “I wish I could run in heels like that.”

“Well,” Harry added, taking a handful of popcorn, “at least the director gives equal time to ensuring that the majority of the men are shirtless for no reason.”

“I’m sure they have their reasons, Harry,” Luna said. “We just can’t understand them. ”

Harry and Luna were holding hands on her couch. Ron and Lavender were sitting next to them, also holding hands. Neither of these things bothered her. Harry and Ron both seemed happy and they were getting along with each other as if nothing had ever happened. With these facts in mind, it was fairly easy for Hermione to dismiss the initial strangeness and just enjoy the company of her friends. Lavender was a little standoffish, but it wasn’t as if they had ever been best mates. It was odd, but not terribly uncomfortable. Furthermore, as far as Hermione knew, no one but she and Harry had any clue about their brief, tepid romance. For all intents and purposes, everything was really just dandy.

Except that it wasn’t. Because she couldn’t stop thinking about Draco. Because instead of focusing intently on the movie, she was wondering what it would be like if Draco were here, making it a triple date instead of the semi-awkward 5-wheeled extravaganza that it currently was.

She imagined him sitting next to her on the couch. She would say something very witty about the villain’s inability to shoot the protagonist despite being five feet away from him. Draco would respond by trying hard not to laugh, but would ultimately give in because it was just that witty. Then his hand would stealthily creep next to hers and he would lace their fingers together. She would lean into him, feeling his breath on her forehead. Ron and Harry would glance at each other with arched eyebrows, but would then shrug, smile, and lean into their girlfriends as well, and then the six of them would exchange smiles and spend the rest of the evening trying to one-up each other on sarcastic quips about the movie. Then Ron and Lavender and Harry and Luna would go home, leaving Draco and Hermione on the couch together.

“I suppose I should go too,” he would say.

“I suppose you should,” she would reply.

But they would be saying this without looking away from one another, and her breath would catch in her throat, and her blood would be ringing in her ears. And his face would draw nearer to hers ...

“Ron did you just double-dip that pretzel? That is disgusting.”

“Come on, Lav. My saliva isn’t exactly a foreign substance to you at this juncture, is it?”

“That’s not the point. Hermione, did you put up with things like this on an everyday basis?”

“Hmm? Oh. Yes. I suppose I must’ve.”

Whom was she kidding? If she did indeed show the incredibly bad judgment required to invite Draco to movie night, the most likely scenario would involve Draco sitting by himself in a folding chair, mouth in a perma-grimace, fingers curled tightly around his wand in the likely event that Harry or Ron attempted to hex off his genitalia. She would be lucky if her flat weren’t reduced to a pile of cinders by the end of the evening.

Everyone burst into laughter at some piece of inane dialogue. Hermione joined in.

"This movie is amazing," Luna said. Hermione wasn't sure exactly how she meant it, but it sounded sincere.

"It's certainly going to be tough to top," Harry replied.

"That's not what I'd say to Agent Juggs," Ron said. "Jagg. Agent Jagg. Ow!"

"You deserved worse," Lavender said.

Hermione rubbed her eyes and attempted a discreet peek at her watch.

“Hermione? Can you help me with something in the kitchen?” Harry asked.

Hermione gave Harry a puzzled look. "What do you need in there? You know where everything is."

"I'm ... erm ... afraid I'll break stuff looking for something."

Hermione heaved an exaggerated sigh, then followed him out of the living room.

Harry was peering into Hermione’s cupboards.

“What do you need? And what are you afraid you will break?"

“What’s the matter?”

“Huh?”

He opened a bottle of firewhiskey and retrieved five shotglasses.

“I don’t want any of that.”

“Me either. It’s my excuse to be in the kitchen. What’s the matter?”

“With me? Nothing.”

“It’s a lot. I know. Me and Luna, Ron and Lavender, all here like this. It’s too much. I’m so sorry. We should’ve …”

“It’s not that, Harry.”

“It’s not?”

“No. I swear.”

He put the firewhiskey and glasses back, exchanging them for ice cream and bowls. “Who wants ice cream?” he shouted.

The reply from the living room was unanimous.

“Coming right up!” Harry called back cheerfully. He turned back to Hermione. “Then what is it?” He handed her a fistful of spoons and charmed her ice cream scoop. “And don’t even try telling me it’s nothing.”

She could see that he was not going to give this one up. The ice cream was getting scooped so slowly that there was genuine danger of it melting before it even hit the bowls.

“Well …,” she said. But how on earth could she even begin to tell him what was going on? “It’s … Okay. I know how this is going to sound …”

He pushed his glasses up on his nose and looked at her expectantly. The ice cream scoop was now hovering motionless in the air.

“I started talking to Draco a while back.”

“Draco Malfoy?”

“No, Harry, Draco Weasley. There are so many of them that he must’ve gotten overlooked. Yes, Draco Malfoy.”

“How about that ice cream?” Ron called.

Hermione waved her wand and set the scoop back in motion. “Be right there. Just fixing Harry’s rubbish scooping spell.”

“Figures.”

“What do you mean ‘talking to Draco’?” Harry asked.

“Just what I said. I saw him in the waiting room at St. Mungo’s all the time and we started having conversations.”

“And when you say ‘conversations,’ you mean …”

“I mean conversations. Talking. Like you and I are doing now.”

“Except I’m me and not Draco Malfoy.”

“Yes, I am aware of this,” Hermione said sourly. “Do you want to hear the rest of this or not?”

“ICE CREAM!” Ron shouted.

Hermione rolled her eyes and sent the bowls into the room. Harry aimed a spell at Hermione’s spice rack. A dramatic crash followed.

“Whoops!” Harry said.

“Everything okay in there?” Luna asked.

“No problem. We’ve got it. Be right in.”

Harry knelt next to the pile of glass, herbs, and powders. Hermione surveyed the mess and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“You couldn’t have just smashed some plates? Do you know how hard it is going to be to sort this all out?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Of course it did. Accio nutmeg.” A cloud of brown dust swirled towards Hermione’s wand. Harry repaired a jar and held it beneath the gathering spice.

“So … conversations?”

“Well … his mum is in a coma. Her jewelry box was cursed. I just got kind of involved in trying to help her out.”

Harry exhaled mightily, interrupting a swarm of turmeric as it made its way back into a bottle. “Well that’s a relief. Not about his mum. I mean, that sounds awful, even for him.”

“So what did you mean?”

“Well, this jewelry box thing is vintage Hermione. Some puzzle to figure out, have to use your brains and books and whatnot. I was afraid it was something else.”

“Something else?”

“Yeah. Now that I think of it, though, it’s so patently ridiculous that I’m not even going to say it out loud. Erm … sorry about this oregano. I think I accidentally fused it with the marjoram.”

“Stick to fixing jars.”

“Right. So you’re just caught up in trying to cure Narcissa?”

“Yeah. It’s been weighing on my mind. You know the way I am when I can’t solve something.”

“I sure do. Remember that time in fourth-year Charms when …”

“You’re missing the best parts!” Ron called. “Specifically, the parts of Agent Jagg that are now extremely visible because her shirt was shredded in a wind tunnel … ow, Lavender that one actually hurt.

Hermione sent the rest of the mess into a cupboard. “Come on, I’ll sort the rest of this out later,” she said.

“Are you sure?” Harry looked sheepish, but relieved.

“Definitely. Right now, I really need to see if the wind tunnel did indeed shred her shirt but somehow left her hair and make-up perfectly intact.”

Harry laughed. Hermione tucked her wand away and started from the kitchen, but Harry tugged at her elbow.

“Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. With Malfoy. And his mum, I mean.”

“I’m not. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“SO MANY THINGS ARE EXPLODING RIGHT NOW, GUYS,” Ron shouted. “YOU ARE MISSING BLOODY EVERYTHING.”

Harry smiled at her and nodded towards the living room. “Shall we?”

------------------------------------
She knew he’d be sitting there, arms folded across his chest, eyes focused on some point on the wall across from him. She knew that he’d be wearing all black, that his shoes would be freshly polished, and that the book would be tucked into an inside pocket. She knew that at half past, the Healer would come into the room and nod at him, and he’d follow her down the corridor.

She did not know what he’d do when he saw her—whether he’d look straight at her or avoid her eyes; whether he’d say something to her or remain silent; whether he’d acknowledge what had passed between them or pretend nothing had changed.

As it turned out, none of these happened. Draco was sitting where she knew he would be, but his eyes were closed, his head tilted back against the wall.

As she approached him, she debated which of two sarcastic quips would work best—should she go with “I see you’re avoiding eye contact with the entire world instead of just me” or “Pretending to be asleep rather than talking to me will only last you so long before it progresses from unlikely to ridiculous”? Both had their merits.

When she had finally reached his side, he opened his eyes; his expression told her that neither quip was even remotely appropriate. At once, Hermione remembered where they were and why they were here. Her witty barbs instantly seemed foolish and petty, and Hermione felt ashamed for thinking them.

“Granger.” His voice was dry and flat. Taking the seat next to him, she noticed that the circles he usually carried beneath his eyes had turned a deeper brown and that his face was covered in stubble.

“What’s happened?”

“Early this morning … late last night ... whichever—there was an unexpected spike in her heart rate and brain activity. The Healers called me in. Said it was a good sign. I was with her for a few hours. Then they sent me out to do follow-up tests. Turns out that her heart rate is actually slowing now. And her breathing. They don’t know why or how to fix it.”

She thought about reaching for his hand, but saw that they were both tucked under the arms folded across his chest. “I’m sorry, Draco.”

He offered an almost imperceptible nod.

“How long have you been here?”

He shrugged. “Depends on what time it is now, I guess.”

She looked at her watch but then realized he didn’t actually care about the time. “Can I get you something? Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“When did you eat last? You should eat something.”

“I’m fine, Granger.”

Hermione took it upon herself to fill a paper cup with water and hand it to him. He looked at it in his hands, but didn’t drink it.

“Do you know,” he began, peering into the cup, “what it was like to be raised to believe that wealth and blood status were power? To believe that if you had those things, you had everything you could ever need or want … to be incapable of perceiving a difference between those two words—need and want? And do you know what it now feels like to see it all for what it was: a grand lie? Do you know what it’s like to finally realize that money and social status and family connections and all that bullshit are good for absolutely nothing?”

He put the cup down on the table next to him. A bit of water sloshed out over the rim.

“I’ll tell you what it’s like, Granger. It’s fucking terrifying.”

Hermione pursed her lips and searched his face. She had no idea what to say to him. Everything she thought of sounded trite or insincere or, worst of all, smacking of pity—the one thing she knew Draco didn’t want from her.

A Healer entered the waiting room and approached Draco and Hermione. “You can see her now, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco stood and faced the Healer. “Any change?”

“I’m afraid not. Heart rate and breathing are still slowing.”

“And no one knows why?”

“We’re still working on it, Mr. Malfoy. For now, the best thing you can do is be with her.”

“Because that’s done everyone a lot of bloody good,” he muttered. “Fucking useless. Everyone, everything, fucking useless.” Draco pushed the doors open and paused to look back towards Hermione.
“Some other time, Granger.”

She nodded silently and watched him go.
---------------------------------------------------------
“Fifteen sugars, just how you like it.” She handed Draco a cup of steaming beige liquid and sat next to him. “Wonder why it’s so crowded in here tonight. Usually it’s pretty empty in here on Saturday evening.”

“Outbreak of a particularly virulent strain of slug pox.” He accepted the cup and sniffed it hesitantly.

“Slug pox. Ugh.”

“Indeed.” Draco sipped the coffee. “Did you really put fifteen sugars in here?”

“Might have been sixteen. I lost count.”

“Hmph.”

“Is that your way of thanking me?”

“Perhaps.”

“You’re welcome. Sorry I couldn’t get here earlier. I got mired in some stuff at the office. Um … how’s your mum?”

“Same.”

“Her heart rate and breathing … are they still slowing down?”

“Yes.”

Hermione sat next to him on the couch and watched him drink his coffee. He looked completely exhausted; she doubted that he’d slept much in the past 48 hours. She thought about informing him of this, but then decided that Draco was probably fully aware of how tired he looked and was. Instead, Hermione took a fortifying breath and blurted: “Draco, I need to borrow your mum’s jewelry box.”
Those had been the words she had settled on after many hours of careful thought. She had imagined several different scenarios in her mind—should she begin by explaining her latest theories about the curse? Should she try casually mentioning that she knew a jeweler in Paris? Should she go with something somewhat more deceptive—perhaps trying to get a Healer in on it before asking Draco? None of these seemed like good ideas; Imagined Scenario Draco got very angry in every attempt. She’d thus decided that a blunt approach was the best option.

Draco took another sip of coffee and gave her a strange look. “What do you want with it?”

“I know a jeweler. He might be able to help.”

“The Healers here have taken it to plenty of jewelers.” He picked a copy of The Daily Prophet up and began to shuffle through the pages.

“Not this one.”

“And what makes you think this one will be any more successful?”

“I don’t know. But it can’t hurt.”

Draco snorted dismissively. “Forget it, Granger.”

“I’d really like to try, Draco. I’ve seen the man’s shop. He seems to have a lot of experience with these sorts of things.”

He put the paper down somewhat aggressively. “These sorts of things? So you’ve asked him already? Been talking to him about my family’s business?”

“No. Nothing like that. I was there on some other matter. Completely unrelated. I swear it. I didn’t tell him anything about you or your mum.”

“What other matter? Are you trying to tell me that your office job with the bloody Ministry has you going to jewelry stores?”

“No. It wasn’t for work. It was for a friend.”

“This sounds like the biggest load of horsesh…”

“For Harry, alright?” she lowered her voice. “He needed an inscription removed from an engagement ring. And I can’t believe I just told you that, so keep your mouth shut about it.”

She waited for him to smile in smug satisfaction or make a snarky comment, but he didn’t. He folded the paper up and tossed it back on the table, then stared at her for what seemed to be an undue amount of time. “So you trust this jeweler, then?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. I’m going with you.”

“That’s … not the best idea,” she said. “The jeweler is … erm … quite a fan of Harry’s.”

At this, Draco opened his mouth as if to say something, but seemed to swallow the words. Finally, he let out a grievous sigh and said: “Why the hell not?”
_________________________________
Hermione was getting impatient. And bored. And hungry. Jean-Jacques had been examining the box and its contents for the better part of the afternoon. And while she was grateful that he had agreed to do this for her—closing his shop early and letting her observe as he worked—as the fifth hour drew to a close, she began ardently wishing that she had brought a snack with her. The jeweler did not talk as he worked. She was hesitant to ask him questions, knowing herself just how frustrating it was to be interrupted whilst trying to concentrate, but her patience had its limits.

“Any luck, Mr. Durand?” she asked.

The jeweler didn’t look up from his work. “Soon, Ms. Granger.”

Hermione began rummaging through her bag. Maybe she had a pack of chocolate frogs hiding in one of the pockets. Just as she was about to attempt to transfigure a piece of chewed gum into something edible, the jeweler called out: “I have found something you should see.”

She approached his workbench and peered at the box and its contents: a pendant with a complicated gold filigree and a ring with a smoky grey gem in its center.

“You see this?” Jean-Jacques held up the pendant.

“Yes?”

“Shoddy craftsmanship. Looks expensive, but actually very clumsy. Like a rhinoceros on a pontoon. Probably overspent on this. But this,” he said, lifting up the ring. “This is beautiful. And you know how I know?”

Hermione willed herself to remain calm. “How?”

“My former partner, Jean-Luc made it.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. I helped him with the inscription. The person who bought it wanted a maximum security inscription, you might say. Only one pair of eyes—the recipient of the ring, of course—was to be able to see it. Very tricky work to make an inscription when you yourself can’t read it.”

Hermione suddenly forgot all about her growling stomach. A maximum security secret inscription? Did the Healers know about this? Did Draco?

“Can you reveal it now, Mr. Durand?”

“I have done. Tricky work, even though I’m the one who put it on here. That’s what was taking me so long. Masterful spellwork, if I do say so myself. Here.” He offered the ring to Hermione. Engraved on the inside were the words: My love always

Fairly innocuous message, Hermione thought. Why would Lucius have gone to the trouble of getting a top-secret engraving on his wife’s ring? A second later, she understood. “Mr. Durand,” Hermione said slowly, “can you tell me who bought this ring?”

“Certainly.”

The jeweler tapped the ring, then tapped the till on his counter. A piece of parchment flew from the till into his hand. He readjusted his glasses and read: “Ignatius Crabbe.”

Ignatius Crabbe? Vincent Crabbe’s father? Narcissa Malfoy had been having an affair with Vincent Crabbe’s father?

“The ring is not cursed, if you were wondering, Ms. Granger. I would never put a curse on an object, no matter how much money I was offered. That is beyond the limits of my sensibilities, you understand.”

“Or course,” Hermione said. In truth, she had momentarily forgotten about the curse; the information she had just learned was taking rather long to process.

“It was indeed the box itself. Nasty spell.”

Hermione summoned a quill and some parchment. “What can you tell me?” she asked.

“It was designed to induce coma. Very unusual, as I said before. Most hexes cause pain or suffering, but this does not.”

Hermione thought of Draco and silently disagreed.

“The box did not come with the curse,” Jean-Jacques continued, “someone intentionally targeted the owner.”

“Can it be reversed?”

“The caster him or herself can reverse it quite easily.”

“Aside from that?”

“It’s more difficult, but I think it’s possible. It will take time, though.”

“How much time?”

“Weeks. Maybe months. At least. Lots of trial and error and testing the river, you see.”

“I don’t know if she has that long, Mr. Durand. She seems to be getting worse.”

“Really?” His eyebrow arched. “I don’t see any degenerative elements to this spell. Curious.”

“But you do think that you can reverse it?”

“I can work on it full time if I close the shop. That will, of course, require compensation, you understand.”

“Money is no object,” Hermione said, perhaps for the first time in her life.

“If this is the case, then I can begin immediately. I will need something that belonged to her that hasn’t come into contact with this box. Clothing, other jewelry, anything.”

Hermione nodded and scribbled down this last bit of information, then stuffed the notes into her bag. “I’ll be back with it as quickly as I can. Thank you so much, Mr. Durand. And,” she added, looking him squarely in the eyes, “I must remind you once more that this is an issue of maximum security for the Ministry.”

“Of course, Miss Granger. My mouth is welded.”

Hermione thanked him one last time and left the shop, head swarming with information. On the one hand, she would return to Draco with news of a possible ray of hope; on the other, she now had the entirely unpleasant burden of telling him that his mother had been having an affair with Crabbe’s father.

Chapter Text

We need to talk. Can I come over?
-HG

Wards up on Manor. Too much hassle to take them down. Meet at restaurant?
-DM

I’d rather talk in private. Come to my flat?
-HG

This was how Draco Malfoy ended up sitting on Hermione Granger’s living room couch.

He’d Apparated so quickly after receiving the owl with her address that she’d barely had time to tidy anything up. She had stuffed her largest stack of books into the already cluttered closet. A pile of laundry in the corner of her bedroom (not that he was going to set foot in her bedroom …) was hastily thrown into a drawer. She had just finished hastily scourgifying her breakfast dishes when he popped into her foyer, eyeing his surroundings somewhat warily.

“Granger,” he greeted.

“Malfoy.” She followed his eyes as they passed over her mismatched throw pillows and decidedly un-posh furniture. “Care to comment on my décor?”

“No.”

“Good. Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Water?”

“No.”

“Draco? When was the last time you slept? You look horrific.”

He shrugged. She sat on her couch and waited for him to join her. He gave it one last appraising look, then sat.

“The jeweler I talked to … he thinks he can reverse it,” she said.

Draco shifted in his seat and brought his fingertips to his forehead. They trembled slightly. She could not tell if the look on his face was one of relief, suspicion, or disbelief.

“But he said it would take time,” she added. “And money.”

He chuckled to himself. “Of course he did. Because as soon as he found out that it was for a Malfoy, he realized he had a goose laying golden eggs sitting right fucking in front of him.”

“He doesn't know it’s for you,” Hermione said quietly. “He thinks it’s for the Ministry.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

Draco looked at her and then folded his hands in his lap. “Granger … look … I realize that you expected more of a reaction out of me. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard ‘I think I can fix her … for a price’? Even from people who don’t necessarily know my family? You just … you don’t understand how difficult it is to teach yourself to stop hoping, and then allow yourself to start again.”

“I trust him, Draco. I don’t think he’s trying to screw us out of money. I think he’s trying to help. And I think that he can.”

He exhaled and leaned his head against the back of the couch. “How much does he need?”

“I don’t know. He’s going to close his shop to work on it full time. I told him we’d cover whatever that costs.”

He sighed almost imperceptibly. “Alright.”

“He also needs something that belonged to your mum that never came into contact with the box.”

Draco reached into a pocket of his robes. He handed her The Book.

“But this is …” she began.

“I don’t want to look at it anymore,” he replied.

“I’ll bring it to him myself first thing tomorrow.”

He nodded at her.

“There’s more,” she said. Hermione took in a deep breath. She wiped her hands on her jeans. How should she say this? “Your mum … er … well … the thing is …”

“Spit it out, Granger.”

“There was this ring in the box. The one with the grey stone?”

“What of it?”

“Do you know where she got it?”

“Mother has more jewelry than the Queen. She has a walk-in closet strictly devoted to brooches.”

“Well, the jeweler recognized it. His partner made it.”

“And?”

“And there was an inscription on it. It said: ‘My Love Always.’”

“Must have been from Father, then. Obviously from a long time ago.”

“It wasn’t.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It was a secret inscription. Durand specializes in them. He put it on there himself. And it wasn’t from your father.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that it was from Ignatius Crabbe.”

“Ignatius Crabbe? Crabbe’s dad?”

“Yes.”

“Are you … are you telling me that my mother was having an affair with Ignatius Crabbe?”

“I’m telling you what I know.”

“Well let me tell you what I know, Granger.” His voice rose. “I know that my mother would never have cheated on my father with Ignatius Crabbe.”

“Draco …”

“No,” he said. “You know what? Just …” Something that approximated a growl emanated from his throat. He grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it across the room. Then he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, took an extraordinarily deep breath, and pressed his fingertips together in front of his lips. They were trembling even more noticeably than before. He lowered his eyes and locked them onto hers.

“Granger,” he said. “Look. I … am not handling this well. I am not handing anything well. I am not angry at you. I am just angry. I should say … I should say that … Fuck it. I’m sorry. For being shitty to you. You’re just trying to help me for some bizarre reason, and I am being shitty to you. Not that it’s not my M.O. or anything. But still.”

For once, Hermione was speechless.

Draco leaned back into the couch again. “Maybe she was cheating on him,” he muttered. “Who the hell knows? Does it even matter?”

“Well,” Hermione began, finding her voice again. “Maybe not. But it might. What if Crabbe’s dad knows something about the jewelry box? After all, the ring was in the box. Maybe we could talk to him. He’s in Azkaban, isn’t he?"

“They sentenced him, but he fled. No one’s seen him. I think they stopped looking after a few months. Probably cutting him some slack because of what happened.”

Suddenly, something clicked in Hermione’s head. “Draco … what if it wasn’t your dad who cursed the box? What if it was Ignatius Crabbe? Out of revenge for his son?”

“That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “My mum had nothing to do with his death. He blamed me.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said. “And he’s punishing you.”

Draco started to say something, but stopped. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and swore under his breath.

“Draco?”

“Granger,” he said slowly, hands still on his eyes. “If you are right—and maybe this is the sleep deprivation talking, but you are making a lot of sense right now—then several people in my employ have wasted an extraordinarily long amount of time looking for the wrong man.” He dropped his hands to his side, then stood up and walked to her window.

“Do you have any filet?” he asked.

“Filet?”

“I’ll take that as a no.” He opened the window and whistled, then fished a scrap of parchment from his jacket pocket and scrawled what looked like a single word on it. Moments later, the large golden owl that had delivered The Hair-Hearted Wizard to Hermione weeks ago appeared at the sill. “Good man, Nero,” Draco greeted. He patted the owl’s head and attached the parchment to its leg.

“Owl nuts on the sill,” Hermione offered.

Draco and the owl both gave her a look. She swore the owl rolled its eyes at her. “I’ll make up for it when you return to the Manor,” Draco said. The owl hooted a mild reproach. “Beef wellington. I promise. But for now, Nero … Romania. Go.” He patted its head once again before it took flight.

“Romania?”

“That’s the last lead I had on my father. It’s where my people are.”

“Your people?”

“The ones in my employ.”

“Right, right. So you just told them to look for Crabbe’s dad instead?”

“No, I asked them to meet me back at the Manor in twenty-four hours. I’ll need to give them pictures and instructions and whatnot. And I want an update on all of the progress they’ve made on Father. Or non-progress. Whatever.” He sunk back into the couch, then turned to her and gave a strange smile that she couldn’t begin to understand. Purple half-moons hung beneath his eyes.

“You … look very tired,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Can I get you something?”

“Something?”

“Like tea. But not with caffeine. Sometimes when I am very stressed about work I drink this tea that makes me a bit more relaxed.”

“I don’t want a sleeping potion, Granger. I need to think.”

“It’s not a sleeping potion. It’s just tea. With herbs. Valerian oil. Lemon balm. Chamomile. Those sorts of things. And sleeping will help you think.”

“Tea with herbs is not going to do anything.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

“Valerian oil tastes like fermented garbage.”

“I’ll put a lot of sugar in it. Like … an insane amount of sugar.”

“Won’t that counteract the supposed relaxing properties of the herbs?”

“Would you like to find out?”

He heaved a monumental sigh and said: “Fine.” Hermione smiled at him and walked into the kitchen. “But it won’t do anything,” he called after her.

“We’ll see.”

In the kitchen, she put her standard blend of chamomile, lemon balm, and valerian oil into two tea balls. Then she added a few pinches of powdered morphealis root to one of them. Just because it was a sleeping potion ingredient, she told herself, did not make this tea a sleeping potion. After all, elderberry juice was an ingredient in the freckle-removing potion Ron had unsuccessfully attempted to brew his fourth year. Did that make every bottle of elderberry soda into a potion? Of course not. It was simply an ingredient in many different things. Like morphealis root. And anyway, it was for his own good. He looked like death. Hermione put six teaspoons full of sugar into one of the mugs, then thought better of it and added two more. She put a few ginger biscuits onto a plate and brought it all into to the living room.

“The one in the yellow mug is yours,” she said. “Don’t confuse it with mine. I don’t need to get cavities from my tea.”

Draco sniffed it suspiciously. “Still smells a bit like fermented garbage,” he said.

“Exactly how much garbage have you personally fermented that you are such an expert on its olfactory qualities?”

“Enough of it to know that that is precisely what this tea smells like.”

“There is extra sugar in the cabinet. And honey. And maple syrup. And marshmallows. And probably also some Chocolate Frogs you could melt down if you got really desperate.”

“If I sprinkled sugar on fermented garbage, it would likely still taste like fermented garbage, only sweeter.”

Hermione took an ostentatiously slurpy sip of her tea. “Mmmm … sweet, sweet fermented garbage.”

Draco sneered at the mug.

“Afraid it will make you too sleepy? Do you want me to put it in a takeaway cup so that you can drink it at home, just in case you pass out immediately?”

“I told you it won’t work on me, Granger. Herbs and whatnot … those things only work when you believe they’ll work. They’re like placebos. When people know they’re getting placebos, they don’t work. That’s what herbs are like for me.”

“Should I start making chicken-clucking noises now or when the tea is ice cold?”

“Oh for the love of … fine, here.” He took two large gulps of the tea. “Satisfied?”

“How was it?”

“Truly awful.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I could run a marathon.”

“Finish what’s in the mug.”

“Why should I?”

She took another sip of hers and made a soft clucking noise.

“Is that seriously supposed to motivate me? Are we suddenly seven years old?”

Another soft cluck, this time accompanied by the faintest of head bobs.

“You are ridiculous,” he said. But he finished the tea.

Hermione set her own mug on the table.

“See, Granger? Nothing.”

“Well, thank you for humoring me.”

“Why are you smiling at me?”

“Because your eyelids look heavy.”

“They are not heavy. That is my way of aristocratically looking down upon the world. I’ve spent years perfecting it.” His voice sounded thicker.

“Well then, I’ll stop smiling at you then.”

He blinked at her slowly. “Don’t do that,” he said.

“No?”

“Never.”

“Why not?”

“You’re the only one who does, Granger.” He brought his hand to her face clumsily.

“I think you’re very sleepy, Draco.” She pressed his hand to her cheek. When she let go, it fell limply into his lap.

“I think you’re very pretty, Granger.” His words sloshed together a bit around their edges.

“I think I should not have made you finish that whole cup of tea.”

“Know what else I think? I think … I think …” he leaned his head back into the sofa cushion and closed his eyes. “I think about how your lips felt on mine. All the time. I think about it. Them. Them lips. Our lips. Their way. All the time.”

“Me too, Draco,” she whispered. But he was already dead asleep. She stood and perched her fists on her hips. What should she do with him? If there weren’t wards up on his house, she could Apparate them both there, then leave him in his bed. But since that option was out, she had no choice but to let him stay here. The couch was comfortable enough for her, but he was really too tall to lay on it horizontally. Her bed seemed like the best option.

“I suppose I was wrong about you not setting foot in my bedroom, Malfoy,” she said.

She knelt by Draco and pulled off his shoes. Her fingers left tiny smudges on the fine sheen of black leather. She took out her wand, used a quick polishing spell on the shoes, and then levitated Draco into her bed.

Hermione stood in her doorway, watching his chest rise and fall slowly. She wondered what it would feel like to lie next to him, head in the crook of his shoulder, feeling his breath graze her skin. A light shiver skimmed her spine. “Goodnight, then,” she said softly. She turned off the light and closed the door behind her.

-------------------------------
It was far too early for Harry to be standing in her fireplace. She hadn’t even been aware that he was capable of waking up before 10 on a Saturday, let alone getting himself dressed and travelling to her flat at 8:21 AM. She, of course, had been up for a few hours already. The couch hadn’t been particularly comfortable and she had wanted to get Narcissa’s book to Durand as soon as possible.

Harry paused in the middle of dusting himself off and gave her a half-grin. “Morning,” he said in a voice that was far too loud.

She glanced nervously toward the bedroom. Which would be worse? To shush him and risk the inevitable questions or to allow him to remain loud and risk waking up Draco? Maybe she could convince him she had a headache?

“What are you doing here this early?” she asked in hushed voice. Maybe he would just unconsciously mimic her volume without realizing it. Was there a way she could cast some sort of silencing charm without him knowing what she was doing?

“Luna wanted to go and pick some sort of berry or something that only comes out at sunrise,” he said, voice still far too loud. “It supposedly tastes like rain clouds and will tell you what kind of cake you are going to have on your next birthday.” He finished removing the soot from his jeans. “Looks like it’s going to be banana, but it was mixed up about the frosting. Couldn’t decide between chocolate and mildew. I’m really hoping for the chocolate. Anyhow, I figured you’d be up so I came by to see if you wanted to … Hermione Granger, whose shoes are those?”

Hermione felt her face redden and cursed herself for leaving Draco’s shoes out in the middle of her living room. Of course, how was she to know that Harry would pick today of all days to pay her a visit this early in the morning?

“Could you please keep your voice down?”

Harry’s eyes widened into cartoonish saucers. He placed a hand over his mouth. “Is there someone here?” At least he finally had the good sense to whisper.

“Yes there’s someone here.”

“A man?”

“Oh for the love of … yes, Harry. A man. Alright? But it’s not what you think. Nothing happened. I mean … you know, can we just discuss this sometime later?” she asked, nodding toward the bedroom door.

Harry gave her a huge grin and tip-toed in an exaggerated fashion back to the fireplace. “It’s OK if something happened, Hermione,” he said. “I’ve got some stuff to tell you anyway.” He gave her one more smile and grabbed a handful of Floo powder.

A few moments later, she heard Draco stirring in the bedroom. It was either incredibly lucky timing or Draco had decided that interacting with Harry was very low on his priority list.

“Is Potter gone?” he called.

“Wouldn’t that be a stupid question if you really thought he were still here, Malfoy?”

Draco peered out at her from the doorframe. His clothes and hair were rumpled. His face had crease marks from her pillow. She tried very unsuccessfully to hide a smile. “Spare toothbrush in the closet behind you if you’d like. Towels too.”

“What did you put into that tea?”

“Herbs.”

“Bullshit.”

“Lots of herbs.”

“Lots of bullshit.”

“You look much better.”

Draco muttered something to himself and rummaged through her closet until he found the toothbrush and towel.

When he had finished showering and de-rumpling his clothes and hair to an acceptable degree, he sat across from her at her kitchen table. She had poured two mugs of tea and set out a bag of sugar next to his.

He tapped his wand against his mug of tea several times.

“It’s just black tea,” she said.

“Right.”

The last tap apparently convinced him. He began to spoon sugar into the tea. “Does Potter always drop by that early?”

“No.”

“When did you two stop sleeping together?”

Hermione almost spat out her mouthful of toast. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“We never slept together.”

“Hmm.”

“What does that mean?”

“‘It’s OK if something happened, Hermione.’ Why else would he say that?”

“We had a … thing. A brief thing. Very brief. And we were not sleeping together. Not that it’s really any of your business.”

“Hmm.”

“Stop being an areshole.”

He shrugged in a thoroughly non-committal manner.

“I should be getting back to the Manor.”

“Alright.”

“I need to go through mother’s things to see if there are any other clues. Something I missed because I wasn’t looking for it.”

“Good thinking.”

“Could have spent all night doing that instead of wasting my time sleeping, you know.”

“You are remarkably more coherent this morning, you know.”

“I am not going to thank you for drugging me, Granger.”

“Herbing you.”

“Right.”

He looked as if he were about to stand, but didn’t.

“Toast?” She nudged the plate towards him.

He took a piece and smeared it liberally with jam.

“What kind of a brief thing?”

“What?”

“With Potter.”

“Why are you so curious?”

“Is this all the jam you have?”

“Yes.”

“How brief?”

“I don’t know. A few weeks. A little more. Does that bother you?”

“I’m seriously questioning your taste in men. First Weasel, then Potter?”

“You should talk. Pansy?”

“What about marmalade?”

“How do you not weigh twice what you do?”

“Excellent metabolism. And I do not keep anything like this at the Manor.”

“Poor will power?”

“When it comes to certain things.”

For some reason, Hermione blushed. He hadn’t even said it in a suggestive way. If he noticed, he said nothing. Hermione decided to change the subject as quickly as possible. “Anyway … how can I help? With the Crabbe matter, that is. I do have some connections at the Ministry. And access to quite a few files. I can see if I can find some recent photos.”

“That would be good.” He nodded and popped the last of the toast into his mouth. Then he drummed his fingers on the table. Then he turned the tea mug so that the handle was pointing away from him. “You can come with me back to the Manor if you’d like. Help me look through Mother’s things. Might help to have another person’s perspective.”

“Alright. Just let me shower and change and whatnot.”

“I like what you’re wearing now.”

Hermione looked down at her outfit. It was a pink tank top and black yoga pants. She had transfigured them into something more appropriate when she had brought the book to Durand, but changed back once she was in her flat again. She now felt intensely self-conscious. The blush that had once been contained to her cheeks now spread down her throat.

“You’re roughly as pink as your shirt, you know.”

“Shut it.”

“I don’t understand why you’ve been helping me, Granger. But I appreciate it. Everything you’ve done.”

“Come again?”

“I thought it would be harder to say, but it’s not. Not with you sitting there blushing like a madwoman with your hair all … like that.”

Hermione reached for her hair. “Like what?”

He gave her a faint smile.

“Like it’s treating gravity as a suggestion instead of a law.”

“Gravity isn’t a technically a law.”

“What would I know about Muggle science?”

“Newtonian physics is so déclassé.”

“Exactly.”

“Alright. Let’s just imagine that we spent the next fifteen minutes trading witty barbs. I’d really like to change clothes and get on with things. I’ll just be a moment,” Hermione said.

“Granger?”

“What?” She turned back towards him in the kitchen, waiting for him to say something. He looked as if he were about to, but instead spent several seconds pursing his lips and picking at the label on her empty jam jar. “If this is about the …” she began

“For the longest time,” he finally said, “I thought that you had some sort of ulterior motive. Like you were just waiting to find something you could use against me or … I don’t know. But I don’t think that anymore. I don’t understand it, but that’s because I know that I don’t deserve it, Granger. Because I am me.”

“Draco …”

“I’m not asking why you’re helping me. I know why. And you know why I’m sitting here in your kitchen and why I don’t actually care what you put into my tea and why I don’t want you to change out of those pants. I don’t understand it, but maybe I’m not going to worry about it anymore.”

“Draco …”

“And you don’t need to explain anything, or try to figure anything out, or any of that.”

“Draco …”

“I mean it.”

“I’m not trying to figure anything out. I’m trying to talk about my pants.”

“Your pants?”

“Yes. These pants. Harry and I never really worked because I didn’t care if he saw me in my rattiest pajamas and he didn’t care if I knew precisely how loud he cold belch when he really, really tried. Most good relationships arrive at that point, but I think I realized that I didn’t want to start one that way. We had no chemistry. None. When I looked at him, I saw my childhood best friend. I didn’t get all fluttery inside. At some point, I discovered that thinking about him naked made me kind of ill.”

“I too feel ill when I am forced to think of Potter naked. But what does that have to do with …”

“And when I look at you, I don’t see the boy I knew when I was a child. But I did for a very long time.”

“Does thinking of me naked make you ill?”

“There is no good way to answer that question, you prat.”

“How about the truth?”

“I suppose I feel as ill as you do when you think of me naked.”

“Very ill indeed, then.”

“Yes.”

“In fact, I’m feeling exceedingly ill right this moment.”

She threw the last piece of toast at him. It bounced off his forehead and fell to the floor.

“I’m going to get changed now, Malfoy. We’ve got work to do.”

Chapter Text

“Did your mother seriously keep every single doodle you made when you were a child? What even is this?”

Draco looked up from the box he was rummaging through. He glanced at the piece of parchment in Hermione’s hand. “It’s a Hungarian Horntail.”

Hermione squinted at the drawing. “Why does it have a head growing in the middle of its back?”

“I’m riding it, Granger.”

“Of course.” Hermione put the drawing back into the folder from whence it came, then tossed the folder back into its box. She pushed the box aside and turned to a stack of bric-a-brac on her left. “Have you already gone through this pile?”

“Yes. It’s all rubbish.”

“What about that one?”

“Also rubbish.”

Hermione turned her attention to a large dresser, glossy brown with ornate carvings on the sides. “I’m going to search through these drawers, then.”

“Suit yourself. Been through them already, though. Just gloves, I think.”

Hermione began sifting through the drawers. As Draco had promised, they were indeed filled with gloves. Most of them were black or hunter green, though there was an occasional charcoal grey for variety. Some were silk, some were fur, some were made out of some kind of iridescent material that Hermione could not identify. “Why on earth would anyone need so many …”

“I’m not answering another question that begins with that phrase, Granger.”

Hermione mumbled the rest of the question to herself and opened the bottom drawer. Still more gloves in a variety of gloomy hues. These, however, looked to be made out of much less costly materials. Hermione was just about to move on to another drawer when a thought struck her.

“Draco, do you recall ever seeing your mother wearing any of these gloves?”

He heaved an immense sigh. “Look, Granger, I realize that the concept of owning more than one absolutely needs to survive is perhaps an …”

“This isn’t about that.” She waved her hands impatiently. “Look at these. They’re nothing like the rest of your mother’s things.”

Draco knelt next to her and examined the gloves in question. He picked one up and sniffed it. “Is that cow leather?” He made a small sound of disgust.

“My point exactly.” Hermione pulled her wand out of her waistband. “This is just like Harry’s drawer of neatly folded gym socks.”

“Come again?”

“It’s a disillusionment charm.” She tapped her wand against the drawer. The pile of gloves began to dissolve. In their place was a book.

Of course, it was not just a book. It was The Book.

Draco stood up, growling in frustration. “Another copy of that fucking book. Can’t believe I even allowed myself to feel a glimmer of hope that it would be anything besides that piece-of-shit book she had to hide from my piece-of-shit father.” He kicked the side of the dresser. “I don’t even know what we’re looking for anymore, Granger. This is ridiculous.”

Hermione reached into the drawer and retrieved the book. It looked exactly like every other copy she had seen, except for one thing: a square of paper peeking out from the top.

“Let’s just wait until my people get back and we’ll …”

“Draco, look.” Hermione handed him what she had found tucked inside the pages.

It was a picture of Narcissa. In the photo, she sits at a vanity, tilting her head up towards the right, admiring the way a pair of dangling green-stoned earrings accentuate her jawline. Lucius stands behind her, one hand on her shoulder, the other softly stroking her cheek. She looks up at him and smiles; he leans down and kisses her head.

Hermione watched Draco as he studied the photo, but quickly began to feel as if she were intruding on something deeply private. Instead, she fixed her eyes back down on the book itself. She intended on waiting for Draco to signal that he was ready to get on with the search, but he remained silent, eyes locked on the photograph. Hermione cleared her throat softly. “Erm, the photo was stuck between chapters fifteen and sixteen.” She had no idea whether or not the photograph’s location in the book was important, but she was getting desperate to break the silence. “Felice turned to Malcordo,” she read aloud, “azure eyes shining like a moonlit pond. ‘Are these … for me?’ she asked. Felice gazed at the earrings Malcordo had pressed into her palm: a delicate cascade of three silver teardrops studded with vibrant emeralds. The jewels sparkled in the soft candlelight. ‘Malcordo … I … do not know what to say. They are beautiful. Thank you.’ Malcordo turned away from her. ‘Silly baubles,’ he said gruffly. He made his way from the room, but paused briefly in the doorway. ‘The color suits you,’ he muttered. Before Felice could reply, he was gone, absorbed back into the castle’s ever-looming shadows.”

Hermione re-read the passage to herself. “Draco, are those earrings your mother is wearing in the photo …”

“They certainly look like them, don’t they?”

“Did … did your father give them to her?”

Draco finally looked up from the picture. “It would seem that way.”

“But …”

“I know.”

Draco drew his wand and tapped on the photo. “Tempore Revelio

A timestamp hovered above the photograph.

“That can’t be right,” Draco said.

Hermione tried the same spell, then three lesser-known variations on the spell. All gave the same results.

“That’s only six days before she fell into the coma.”

Hermione stood next to him and inspected the picture more closely. “He doesn’t look like a man about to curse his wife into a coma and then flee the country.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Draco said, his voice quiet. “And she doesn’t look like someone cheating on her husband with Crabbe’s dad.”

“No. But ... I thought you said their relationship was complicated.”

“It was. They argued a lot. But I always sincerely believed that they loved each other, you know? At least, I did until this whole mess began. Now I don’t know what to believe.” He handed her the photo, then, seeming to think better of it, took it back.

“Well, they certainly look like they love one another in this picture. Unless they are both very, very good actors.”

“They’re not. Trust me. Plus, whom would they be acting for here? It’s not like I was in the room when this photograph was taken.” He quickly shifted his gaze to Hermione. “Granger, do you know a spell that would tell us who …”

Hermione tapped the photo with her wand. “Imagifex Revelio.”

But instead of producing the name of the photographer, the spell projected an image of the vanity in the photograph.

“That’s bizarre,” Hermione said.

“No, it makes perfect sense,” Draco replied. “Mother had the vanity in her dressing room fitted with a camera. Helped her with her makeup or whatever.”

“Draco, was this vanity in the same room as your mother’s jewelry box?”

“Yes.”

Draco and Hermione exchanged looks.

“Scrutor Praefiguratio,” Hermione said. “It’s two taps on the lens itself. Arch your wrist slightly on the second tap. Graphema Corporalis will produce a physical copy.”

Draco nodded. He put the photograph of his parents back in between the pages of the book. Hermione picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

“Where are you going?”

“Look, I’d love to go through all nine hundred thousand photos of your mum’s eyeshadow artistry, but I’ve got to check in at the Ministry. In addition to needing to do my actual job, I’m also going to see if I can dig up anything besides Crabbe’s mugshot. I put in a document request this morning. Maybe something’s turned up by now.”

“Alright. The men I hired to search for my father will be here in a few hours. If you come up with anything, owl me.”

“I will.”

“I’m going to the hospital after I speak with them. Will you join me there after work?”

“Of course.”

Hermione took a step closer to Draco, who was still clutching the book in his right hand. His knuckles were turning white.

“And the jeweler?” he asked.

“I’m going to contact him as well. We’ll compare notes on everything at the hospital later, alright?”

“Yes.”

Hermione took another step towards Draco and placed her hands on his shoulder. “I know a big part of you doesn’t want to have to deal with hope and disappointment anymore, I know this is frustrating and difficult and awful. I’m not going to tell you that I’m sorry or tell you to be strong or any of that. I’m just going to tell you that I’m here for as long as you need me to be here.”

Draco looked down at her, furrowed his brow a bit, and shook his head slightly. He lifted his left hand to her face and stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb. Taking one small step closer to her, he closed the gap between them. His lips pressed against hers, gently, tenderly--and though this kiss did not have the passion or urgency of their first, it still made Hermione’s blood feel electric. As the kiss ended, he rested his forehead against hers. “You make this almost bearable,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione drew him into a tight embrace. She heard the book hit the floor as he wrapped his arms around her. She lost track of how long they stood there, consumed by the rhythm of his chest rising and falling against hers.

After a time, he pulled away gently and kissed the top of her head.

“Go on, Granger. I’ll see you later.“

“Right. Good luck with the vanity and your hired goons.”

He gave her a half smile and disappeared into the recesses of Malfoy Manor.

------------------

Hermione scowled at the sealed scroll. Scowling, of course, did not open the seal. But neither had scissors, knives, or any of the three dozen seal-opening spells she had tried. Of course, it would probably be distressing for the Ministry if she had been able to open it; it was above her security clearance.

But it wasn’t above Harry’s. Not after his very recent promotion within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Harry could do it, but how could she possibly explain to him why she needed this seal opened? She had never been a particularly good liar, but the truth just seemed too ludicrous for her to attempt. Plus, it was a Saturday afternoon. She was fairly certain that she was the only one here and the roll of parchment could not be removed from the building. So not only did she have to convince Harry to open a top-secret document for her; she had to convince him to come to work on a Saturday.

She’d opted for brevity in the note attached to the owl: “At the ministry. Need to speak with you immediately. Please come alone. Very important.”

It was only seconds later, after Harry apparated with his wand drawn and eyes darting about her office frantically that she realized she should have added: “Not in danger!”

“Hermione? What’s going on?”

“Relax, Harry. I’m not in mortal peril. Put your wand down.”

He cast a few more suspicious glances around her office before complying.

“What’s the emergency, then?”

Deciding to cut to the chase, she shut the door behind her and put the scroll down on her desk. “I need you to open this for me, Harry, and I’d rather prefer you not to ask me why.”

Harry gave the scroll a once-over. “Open this? Why?”

“Harry …”

Harry looked more than mildly annoyed. “I know you just asked me not to ask, but now I’m wondering why you’re asking me not to ask. I’m also wondering why this could not wait until Monday instead of pulling me away from a really lovely afternoon with … ”

“Harry …”

“And I’m sure it’s important if you say it is, but this sort of thing ... “ he said, gesturing towards the scroll, “I mean, this isn’t like sneaking Bertie Botts’ out of the jar on Shacklebolt’s desk, Hermione. I just got clearance for this sort of thing last month, and that was only after a really insane ordeal with the …”

“I know, I know,” Hermione said. She sat in the chair across from him and rubbed her temples. Harry took off his glasses and polished them, then returned them to his face.

“Hermione …”

“I know what you’re going to say.” She reached for the scroll.

“No you don’t.” He pulled the scroll back towards him. “What I’m going to say is this: Hermione, I trust you more than anyone else I know. If you are asking me to do this, then it must be for a very, very good reason. I will do it because you are you. And I’m not going to pretend that I don’t want to know why, because of course I do, but I also know that you must have also have a very, very good reason for why you don’t want me to know.”

Hermione’s chin trembled a little. “Thank you, Harry.”

“But listen,” Harry leaned across the desk and covered her hands with his. His voice had softened, losing all trace of irritation. “You should also know that you can trust me. And if you’re in some sort of trouble, or you need help, you have to know that I will help you. No matter what.”

She drew her lower lip in and bit down, completely determined to keep herself together. How could she tell Harry the truth? And what good what it even do? It was not as if he could do anything to help. Plus, telling him would be betraying Draco’s trust. Harry gave her hands a squeeze and, against her better judgement, she brought her eyes up from the desk to meet his. It had not been very long ago that these same eyes had been mere inches from hers, closing slowly in anticipation of an unremarkable, but not entirely unwanted first kiss. She and Harry were obviously not suited as romantic partners, but their brief foray across saliva bridge had not diminished their friendship in the slightest. His eyes searched hers with intensity, concern, and an unmistakable sincerity that could only belong to Harry. Harry. She had lost count of how many times they had made each other laugh until their stomachs hurt, how many nights they had stayed awake asking each other ridiculous questions, how many times he’d let her cry on him while he awkwardly stroked her hair. She had lost count of how many inside jokes they had, how many times they’d recovered from hangovers together, how many things they knew about each other that no one else did. She had even lost count of how many times they had literally saved one another’s lives. She saw all of these things in his eyes, and understood that what she was going to tell him would not change any of that, because he was undoubtedly and unequivocally her very best friend.

She took a deep breath and stood, hastily casting charms to soundproof her office, then set her wand down on the table next to the scroll.

“You have to swear to me that no one else will ever know anything about what I am going to tell you.”

“Of course,” he said softly.

“Alright,” she said. She began drumming her fingers on the table, stopped, then started again. “Well … I don’t know where to start. The beginning is usually where one begins, of course, but I’m not sure all that’s relevant. I guess I should just …”

“Does this have to do with Draco?”

Hermione felt her shoulders stiffen.

“The thing with you trying to cure Narcissa, I mean. You told me about it when we were watching that movie about Agent Juggs.”

“Agent Jagg. And yes,” she said, trying to sound much less relieved than she actually felt. “Yes, Narcissa.”

“But there’s something else, too, isn’t there? Because you knew that I knew about that.”

Hermione held Harry’s gaze for as long as she could before answering, willing herself to come up with something harmless and plausible. Finally, she simply said: “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“So when you say ‘something else,’ are you … Hermione …” His eyes suddenly grew wide. “Were those Draco’s shoes in your flat this morning?”

“It is not what you think.”

“I do not even know what I think at this point.”

“Yes you do,” she shot back. “You think I slept with him. I didn’t.”

“Actually,” he said, voice rising, “I think that it is insane that I might even be thinking about whether or not you slept with Draco Malfoy.”

“Who I do or do not sleep with is none of your business,” she said, voice rising to match his.

“Hermione, this isn’t about you sleeping with someone, this is about you sleeping with Draco Malfoy.”

“For the last time, Harry, I didn’t sleep with Draco Malfoy. Yes he slept at my flat, but I did not have sex with him.”

“So you’ve become … friendly … enough with him to let him take his shoes off in your flat and then sleep there? Did he use the Imperius Curse on you?”

“Of course not. Look, Harry, this is all beside the point because …”

“Because what? Because you need my help to open some scroll to help his mum? Why should I even do that? Hermione, he was a goddamn Death Eater.” He slammed his flat palm on the table. “Have you forgotten what he ...”

“I haven’t forgotten anything, Harry. I won’t ever forget what he did or who he was. But this isn’t about what he did or who he was.”

“So every disgusting name he called you, every disgusting thing he did to help Voldemort, every disgusting …”

“Was bloody disgusting!” she shouted. “I am not disagreeing with you. He was a despicable person who did despicable things and I am not justifying any of it. But neither is he.” She took a deep breath and forcibly steadied her voice. “Harry … something terrible has happened to the one person in the world that he loves. He hasn’t asked for my help and he doesn’t deserve my help, but I am helping him.”

Harry sighed. “Of course you are.”

“It’s no different than when we helped him escape from the Room of Requirement, or when you and Ron stunned that Death Eater to save him.”

“Yes, but Ron punched him after that, he didn’t bloody invite him to take his shoes off in his flat and get into bed.” Harry said. “And anyway, that’s different,” he muttered, almost as an afterthought. “We were saving his life.”

“I’m trying to help him save Narcissa’s life, Harry. It’s not different.”

“Yes it is.”

“No it isn’t,” she said. “You would be helping him too if you were the one who got caught up in this.”

“No I wouldn’t.”

“Yes you would. You know you would. You wouldn’t just let Narcissa die.”

Harry paused for a minute. “Maybe,” he finally admitted. “But I wouldn’t bloody let him …”

“Yes, yes, I know. Take off his shoes and get into your bed.”

“Exactly. And how did he even get near your bed? You couldn’t work all this out somewhere else? St. Mungo’s? A cafe? A library? You like libraries.”

Hermione groaned in exasperation. “Bloody hell! Where I choose to help Draco doesn’t matter! I just need you to ... “ She pounded both fists down on the table. “Ugh! Fine, you know what, let’s just get this over with. Harry … do you remember what it felt like to kiss me?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Answer the damn question!”

“Yes, of course I remember. It wasn’t that long ago.”

“How did it feel?”

“It felt … erm … nice?”

“Yes. Nice. Exactly. And how does it feel to kiss Luna?”

“What?”

Hermione arched her eyebrows at him expectantly. A magenta hue began to creep across his cheeks.

“It feels … well … like … it’s also nice.”

“Harry …”

“Oh, fine. It’s like …” his hands made small circular gestures, as if he were trying to conjure the words from the air. “It’s like … when I’m playing quidditch and I’ve got the snitch in my sights and I make a hairpin turn in mid-air and swoop down to get it, and then I get it and I can feel its wings beating against my hands and I know I’ve got the game won for Gryffindor, but maybe it’s not even Gryffindor anymore, it’s like the Chudley Cannons, and I’ve single-handedly won them the League Cup for the first time in over a century.”

She used this opportunity--his eyes lost in something that was both the memory of kissing Luna and the fantasy of winning for the Cannons--to take his hands in hers and say, very, very quietly: “That is what it is like when I kiss Draco.”

His eyes refocused into the present moment. He cleared his throat softly and looked straight at her. “Are you being completely serious?” he asked, also very, very quietly.

“Yes.”

“You are helping Draco to save his Mum’s life. I get that. But you are also … kissing Draco … because …”

“Because I like kissing him.”

Harry took his hands back, ran them over his face, and then peered out at her from between his fingers. “Please don’t ever say that again.”

“Harry …”

“Hermione …” He exhaled mightily, raised his up at the ceiling, then looked back down at her. “Okay. Alright. I told you I trust you and I do. I told you I would help you and I will. And this morning, in your flat, I told you that I didn’t care what was happening in your bedroom with the mystery man and his shoes, and I will also try to hold true to that. So give me the bloody scroll and let’s get on with it.”

Hermione pried Harry’s hands from his face and wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you, Harry.”

He pressed his cheek against the crown of her head and returned the hug. “So are you going to punch him when you’re through?”

She smiled a bit in spite of herself. “Possibly.”

“I guess I can live with that, then.”

“Good.”

“But for fuck’s sake, Hermione, be careful.”

“I will. I promise.”

“And not, like, with your life, I mean, because you’re a thousand times better with a wand than he’ll ever be, but with your heart. I just can’t believe that he’s a good person all of a sudden, you know?”

“And only bad people can break your heart, is that right?”

He sighed and said: “I suppose you have a point."

Hermione gave him one final squeeze and then retrieved the parchment from the desk. “This is the ministry dossier on Ignatius Crabbe. We think he had something to do with Narcissa’s curse.”

Harry pushed his glasses up on his nose and cleared his throat. “Okay. Right. Well. I can open the seal, but the documents themselves can’t be copied or removed from the Ministry without some other spell that I’d have to look up because I can’t quite remember it.”

“Understood.”

Harry tapped his Ministry badge, then tapped the scroll. “Inabscondito

The seal opened and two rolls of parchment darted out, fluttering wildly about the room as if they were glad to be free of their paper prison. Hermione snatched one as it lighted on Harry’s shoulder. Harry trapped the other one in the far corner of the room.

She unrolled the parchment and read. There were charges against Crabbe for his crimes during the First Wizarding War, documentation of his arrest, formal claim of being under the Imperius Curse after Voldemort’s first defeat, report of his escape from Azkaban in 1997, documentation of his second imprisonment after the Battle of Hogwarts. She grumbled in frustration; there was nothing useful in there at all. Maybe a closer look at the trial transcripts from his second arrest would be helpful? She was just about to ask Harry about this when he said:

“Did you know that Crabbe was a Ministry spy?”

“What?” She rushed over to his side of the room and snatched the parchment from Harry’s hands, letting it unroll until it hit the floor.

“Hey!” he protested.

“I read faster,” she said, dismissing him with a wave.

Draco had thought that Crabbe had fled after being sentenced, but that wasn’t right. According to the dossier, his sentence was commuted when he agreed to spy on two former Death Eaters: Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

Crabbe’s reports suggested that their activities “seemed nefarious,” but his leads were all silly things, like a supposed Dark Potion that turned out to be an exorbitantly expensive single-malt scotch or (even Hermione had to admit this seemed ridiculous) claims made by a House-Elf that Lucius talked in his sleep about playing Wizarding Chess with Voldemort. There were nearly three hundred lines devoted to Crabbe’s suspicions about an ottoman that “looked evil, but had thus far been quiet.”

“All of his allegations are rubbish,” Hermione said. “Cursed treacle sponge? Come on, then.”

“Guess the Ministry kept him on because they weren’t so sure.”

“And I assume he kept spying and making these stupid reports to stay out of prison and have easy access to Draco. And then he tried to up his game by seducing Narcissa.”

“Come again?”

“But that doesn’t explain why she would let herself be … unless … Harry!” she exclaimed. “Can you get me Narcissa and Lucius’ files?”

“Possibly,” he said, “but even I don’t have clearance for everything. Ignatius Crabbe is one thing; the Malfoys might be another.” Harry walked over to the pneumatic tube in the corner of the office. He tapped his badge with his wand and whispered something into the tube. Almost immediately, two thick rolls of parchment were launched into the room. Harry snatched them both from the air and then attempted to break their seals.

The seal on Narcissa’s scroll yielded quickly to Harry’s spell; Lucius’ on the other hand, would not budge, no matter how many different vocal inflections he tried in the incantation. After the sixth failed attempt, the parchment shot out of his hands and stuffed itself back down the tube.

“Bollocks. That one appears to have been above my pay grade.”

“Alright. Let’s just work with what we’ve got, then.” Hermione handed two of the parchment rolls to Harry and kept the rest of them to herself. “Let me know if you see anything in there.”

They sat down to scan the documents. Nothing useful in the first few rolls … just family history and information they already knew about they Malfoys’ ties to Voldemort, but then, just as Hermione was opening up the fifth scroll, Harry exclaimed:

“Did you know that Narcissa was also a Ministry spy?”

“What? Why do you keep getting the good parchments?!?”

Harry handed her the roll without protest. Hermione read it as quickly as she could.

“It says here that Lucius and Narcissa basically avoided Azkaban by abandoning Voldemort at the last possible minute, plus, Narcissa lied to Voldemort about you being dead in the Forbidden Forest, but the Ministry was still fairly suspicious of them both. An investigation of the Manor right after the War turned up a whole bunch of illegal Dark Artifacts. In order to avoid prison for owning them, Narcissa agreed to serve as a Ministry spy.” She looked up at Harry. “Her main target? Ignatius Crabbe.”

“So the Ministry was playing them both off of each other.”

“It looks that way.” Hermione turned back to the parchment. “But according to this, Narcissa was mostly convinced that Crabbe was out to get Draco, as revenge for his own son’s death. All of her reports about him are about things he said about Draco, or questions he asked about Draco. She doesn’t give any information about Dark things he might be doing or how he might still be a Voldemort sympathizer. It’s all statements like ‘I.C. inquired about D’s skills in Occlumency yet again,’ and things like that.”

“Well that explains why she remained in the Ministry’s service as a spy against him, then,” Harry said. “Keep your enemies close and all.”

“Yes,” Hermione replied. “It also explains why she let Crabbe think that she had fallen for him. If she thought that he was after Draco, she would want him to think that she trusted him implicitly.”

“Do you think Lucius knew about all of this?”

Hermione stared wistfully at the pneumatic tube. “I suppose we can’t know for sure,” she said, “but I’d guess that he did.”

“And Draco knew none of it?”

“Not as far as I know,” Hermione replied. She moved on the the next roll of parchment.

“But if Crabbe was targeting Draco, why is she the one in a coma?”

“Because he wanted Draco to suffer,” Hermione said. “Mission accomplished.”

“So where is Crabbe now?”

“No clue.”

Harry summoned Crabbe’s dossier again. “This just says that his current whereabouts are unknown as of December of last year.”

“Right about when Narcissa’s curse was triggered.”

“And Lucius?”

“He left right around the same time. But also before she got sick.”

“Huh.”

“Indeed.”

“Anything in the parchment about Narcissa’s coma?”

Hermione finished reading the last scroll. “Just that she’s no longer active as a spy. Some gratitude for her service to the Ministry,” she muttered.

“Uhm, I think staying out of Azkaban was gratitude enough,” Harry retorted.

“I understand,” Hermione said, choosing to ignore Harry’s last comment, “why Crabbe skipped town after cursing the jewelry box, but why Lucius?”

“Good question, especially if he was in the know about everything.”

“Right. I mean, if he thought Crabbe was going after his son, why would he leave?”

“Well, if Crabbe had fled by that point, maybe he was chasing after him?” Harry suggested.

“But then when got word that Narcissa was in a coma, why wouldn’t he come back?”

“Who’s the main suspect in her cursing?”

“Lucius,” Hermione replied.

“That answers that,” Harry said dryly.

“But he could have explained it all to the Ministry. Surely they would have helped …”

“Reread that last bit about Narcissa again.”

“I mean, there was clearly no love lost between the Malfoys and the Ministry, but …”

“But nothing, Hermione. We’ve both worked here long enough to know how little the Ministry is interested in helping former Death Eaters. And not,” he said pointedly, “without good reason. But at any rate, it’s a moot point as to whether or not they would have helped Lucius. Lucius obviously didn’t think that they would and decided to take matters into his own hands.”

“But you’d think he’d send some sort of message to Draco, no?” Hermione asked.

“Like what? ‘Dear Son: Crabbe’s dad hexed your mum, I’m going after him, don’t forget to feed the Nundu in the basement?’”

“Draco would only want to join him in hunting down Ignatius.”

“Exactly,” Harry said with a nod.

“But now Draco is left with a desperately sick mother and a father whom he thinks is responsible? Isn’t that cruel? How could you do that to your only son?”

“It’s better than letting him chase after a man hell-bent on destroying him. This way, he knows where Draco is--tending Narcissa. Once Lucius gets Crabbe, he can cure Narcissa, clear his name, and all the Malfoys will live happily ever after once again.”

“Except Lucius has been gone for months. And Narcissa is getting worse.”

“I guess Crabbe is proving to be harder to find than Lucius thought.”

“Or maybe Crabbe got to him first,” Hermione said.

“Maybe.”

Harry and Hermione sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Hermione looked at her watch. “I’m going to go meet up with this jeweler I have looking at the box itself. See if he’s found anything.” She spelled the parchment back into rolled-up scrolls. Harry sealed them back up and popped them into the tubes.

“Do you want me to come along?”

“Thanks, Harry, but I think it’s best if you stay out of this for now. If Draco ever finds out just how much I told you …”

“I understand. And,” he added, noting a rather urgent look in her eyes, “I remember that I have been sworn to secrecy about all of this.”

Hermione smiled and put her hands on his shoulders. “Thank you, Harry.”

“But you remember your promise to be careful,” he said, grabbing her forearms and shaking them a bit. “And not just with your heart, but with the rest of you as well, because it sounds like there’s some Dark shit afoot here.”

“I promise.”

Harry kissed her forehead.

“And don’t forget about punching Draco after all this is over. For me.”

“Git,” she said. She pushed him away playfully and Disapparated.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat in the waiting room, tapping her feet impatiently. She thought about going to Narcissa’s room to look for him, but decided against it. There was no sense interrupting his time with Narcissa, and he knew she’d be waiting for him here. But there were so many things they had to discuss--what she and Harry had discovered at the Ministry, her meeting with Durand, the pictures from the vanity, the intel Draco had received from his goons--not to mention Narcissa’s condition. Her foot-tapping turned into leg-jittering, which then turned into an inability to sit still whatsoever. She got up and began pacing instead, keeping a watchful eye on the door that led from the patients’ corridor into the waiting room.

When the door finally opened, she did everything she could to stop herself from actually running over towards him.

His face softened when he saw her; this minute change in his eyes and jaw made her heart leap in her chest.

“Granger,” he said.

“Draco.” She thought about hugging him, or taking his hands in hers, but decided to follow his lead instead. “How is she?”

“Stable. They’ve got her breathing and heart rate under control again. Not perfect, but no longer in decline.”

“That’s good news.”

“Yes and no,” he said. “Yes because it’s obviously good that her heart isn’t slowing down anymore. But it’s not because they’re counteracting the curse. The Healers think that the dip in her vital signs weren’t actually tied to the curse. So they were able to get her heart rate and breathing back by trying something unrelated to the Dark Arts, more general healing spells that they use on people in cardiac distress or whatnot.” He began picking invisible pieces of lint off of the cuff of his shirt.

“Well, that makes sense given what Durand said. He didn’t see any degenerative aspects to the curse. So what do the Healers think caused the problems, then?”

“No one is sure, of course, because it is bloody impossible to find anyone who can give you any sort of actual answers, but their best guess is that she is fighting to bring herself out of the coma, which is causing stress on her body. So after they stabilized her vitals, they gave her some tranquilizing draughts, which sounds fucking ridiculous because she is in a goddamn coma, but they seem to have worked for now.”

“Well, that’s something at least.”

He looked up from his sleeve, apparently satisfied that it was free of invisible lint. “Let’s get the hell out of here, Granger.”

“You should eat,” she said.

“I don’t want to eat. I want to talk.”

“Then let’s do both. We can go back to my flat. I’ll find something edible there and we’ll share information.”

“I am not consuming anything that smells even remotely like fermented garbage.”

“Deal.”
--------
Draco sat at her kitchen table. This was only the second time that he had been there, but his presence already felt oddly familiar. She used a spell to set glasses of water and plates of cheese, apples, grapes, and crackers in front of them. Draco pulled a handful of grapes off of the stem and began lining them up in size order in front of him.

“Have you always done things like that?” she asked.

“I started when I began practicing Occlumency,” he said. “It helps me focus.”

Hermione took a sip of water and then summoned a piece of parchment from her bag. “Right. Well. I have quite a few notes from my meeting with Durand and what I learned at the Ministry. Do you want to go first, or shall I?”

“You don’t have Crabbe’s dossier?”

“There are spells that prevented me from copying it or removing it from the building. But again,” she said, waving her parchment a bit, “I took excellent notes.”

“I see,” he said. He popped the largest grape in his formation into his mouth. “Well, let me go first then, because from the looks of it, you’ve found more than I.”

Hermione summoned a fresh page of parchment and held her quill at the ready.

“You don’t need to take notes on this, Granger. I’m not Binns delivering a lecture on the twenty-seventh Goblin Rebellion.” Hermione sharpened her quill nib. Draco rolled his eyes and continued. “Fine. Well, my hired men haven’t been much help yet. I gave them their new mission and a picture of Ignatius. As for updates on my father: nothing, as usual. They think he might still be in Romania, but there’s also been some rumors that he’s been seen with the headmaster of Koldovstoretz in Omsk. At any rate … they’ve got their new task now, so there’s at least something different for them to waste my money on.”

“And the vanity?” she asked, not looking up from her parchment.

“That was somewhat more productive.” He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and produced an envelope. “You were right. There were approximately 900,000 pictures of my mother applying eyeshadow. But there were also these.”

He pushed the envelope across the table towards her. Inside were four photographs.

In the first photograph, Narcissa sat in front of the vanity, admiring the way a green pendant looked against the black brocade of her dress. Crabbe came up behind her and began to nuzzle her neck. She gave a small sneer of disgust before quickly summoning up the will to smile and nuzzle him back.

In the second, Narcissa and Lucius looked at the green pendant together, then looked at one another, then burst into laughter.

The third photograph showed Crabbe giving her the ring with the smoky grey gem. He pointed to something on the inside of the ring--the secret inscription, no doubt. She looked delighted and planted a kiss on his cheek.

The final photograph was Narcissa and Crabbe again. She was meticulously tweezing her eyebrows, confirming their symmetry in the mirror. To her left, Crabbe looked intently at her jewelry box, running his fingers over its lacquered top. When Narcissa turned towards him, he drew his hand back and grinned like a Cheshire Cat.

“What do you make of them, Granger? I have my theories, but I’d like to hear …”

“Draco, did you know that your mum was a Ministry spy?”

Draco briefly stopped rearranging the fruit and stared at Hermione. “What did you just say?”

Hermione told Draco about everything she had learned at the Ministry that morning--taking extra caution not to mention Harry’s involvement, of course. By the time she had finished, a neat tower of crackers and several extremely precise pinwheels of apple slices had appeared next to his grape line.

“So you are telling me,” he said, pushing his chair back from the table, “that my Mum was indeed having an affair with Ignatius Crabbe, but just so that she could spy on him for the Ministry while also protecting me?”

“Yes.”

“Father must have known,” he said, standing up. “He must have. That’s what they were doing in that picture--laughing at that tacky, cheap pendant Crabbe tried to woo her with.” He sneered at the photograph. “But why didn’t they tell me any of this? How could I not have known about any of it?”

“Because they were trying to protect you, Draco. They knew Crabbe was out to get you; they never could have guessed what he was going to do to Narcissa.”

“That’s where my father is,” he said, drawing his wand from his pocket. “He didn’t flee the country because he cursed my mother, he’s hunting down Crabbe. I’ve got to go and …”

“Go and what, Draco?” Hermione asked. She placed her hand on his elbow and lowered his arm. “You don’t know where either of them are. Look, what we know now is important, but it doesn’t actually change anything until we can find Crabbe or his wand. That’s the other thing I need to tell you. Come, sit back down.”

“I don’t want to sit,” he said. His arms were at his side, but he still had a white-fisted grip on his wand.

“Fine. Then just listen. But don’t Disapparate anywhere until we have some sort of plan. Durand is certain he can reverse the curse if he can get Crabbe’s wand. But he’s also making some sort of potion using that copy of Narcissa’s book. He says that it won’t lift the curse immediately, but it should spool the curse backwards in real time.”

“Meaning?”

“The potion won’t cure her as soon as she drinks it, but she will come out of the coma. The curse will undo itself, but it will take precisely as long as she has been in the coma already.”

“Granger, that’s nearly an entire year.”

“Yes.”

He said nothing, but put the wand back into his jacket pocket. “So we can find Crabbe’s wand, or we can wait another year.”

“Yes.”

Draco stared at spot on Hermione’s kitchen wall, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Hermione watched him apprehensively, but did not dare touch him. Finally, he opened his eyes again and laughed softly.

“What?” she asked.

“That is actually the best news I have heard in a very long time.”

She smiled at him. Remarkably, he smiled back.

“Alright,” he said. “I obviously need to find some additional ‘goons,’ as you are so fond of calling them.” Tomorrow morning I’ll send Nero out with a want ad, so to speak. Obviously the witches and wizards I have on this are incompetent fools. I’ll simply hire as many people as are willing to take money from me and one of them will find that bastard.”

“And I’ll head back to Durand’s shop and see if the potion is done. He said he was close to completing it, but the fire seeds had to cool to room temperature before he could add the other ingredients.”

“Good.”

She glanced back towards the table. The apple pinwheels were beginning to turn brown. “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked. “You didn’t eat the food so much as make it into some sort of artistic display.”

He cast a rejuvenation spell on the apples and scooped a handful of them them into his palm. He offered her a slice, and then began to eat the rest of them.

“You don’t need to roll those in sugar first?” she asked.

“Are you offering?”

“No.”

“Then I suppose I don’t.” He ate another slice.

Hermione flipped through her notes once more, adding lines about things she still needed to research: possible locator spells to help find Crabbe, ideas for ways to get into Lucius’ file at the Ministry, other books to consult for potion recipes should Durand’s fail. After she had reached the bottom of the scroll, she stifled a yawn and looked at the clock. “Merlin. How did it get to be past midnight?”

“I assume it has something to do with the rotation of the earth on its axis.”

“Prat.” She rolled up her parchment.

He smiled at her again and ate the last apple slice. She charmed the dishes into cleaning themselves and sent the crackers back into their box.

“Of course, time is a human construct,” he said, snatching a cracker out of the air before it could get back into the box. “So musing about the lateness of the hour is simply perpetuating the illusion of a linear progression towards some fixed point in the future.”

Hermione blinked at him. “I really am too tired to proceed with this line of conversation right now.”

“I’ve been reading a lot about time and perception lately, Granger. To see if anyone has anything to say about what my mother might be experiencing, or what it will be like for her when she wakes up.”

“And?”

“You’ll never guess,” he said. “It turns out that no one can agree on anything and no one has any actual fucking answers.” His words were bitter, but his voice was almost cheerful. He drained the last of the water in his glass and began to chew on the ice.

Hermione laughed and hovered the grapes back into the refrigerator. A final survey of the kitchen showed that it was clean--or, at least, as clean as it had been before they had gotten here.

“Granger?” Draco asked. He sucked another ice cube into his mouth.

“Yes?”

Draco swallowed his mouthful of ice, then cleared his throat. “Can I stay here tonight?”

“What?” She nearly dropped her wand.

“Here. In your flat. Can I stay here?”

She felt a fierce blush creeping up from her neck, setting fire to her cheeks. Her mouth went dry and her mind went blank. “Uhm. Here?”

“Yes, here. Look, I didn’t mean for it to sound as if I’m being untoward or anything. This isn’t like when I Apparated us into my bedroom. I’m just … this morning … it was nice. To wake up here in your flat instead of by myself in the Manor. But if it’s too much, forget it.”

“It’s not too much,” she said. She realized that she was grinning like a madwoman, but she had no idea how to stop. “I’d like it if you did.”

“Good.”

“Wait a minute, did you just admit that when you Apparated us into your bedroom, you were thinking …”

“Of course I was,” he said around another mouthful of ice. “Your top was nearly see-through because of the rain.”

“Draco!” she threw a balled-up napkin at him.

“What?” he laughed and ducked. “It’s a compliment, Granger.”

“Well unfortunately for me, you were wearing your usual all-black ensemble on that night, so the only thing I could see through was your pathetic attempt to get me into bed.” She used her wand to amass a rather large arsenal of crumpled up napkins and hurled them at his face.

“It was an entirely unconscious act!” He said, batting at the napkins. “Are these used napkins?”

“Some of them!”

“That is disgusting!” he said, but he was still laughing.

“You deserve it.” She hovered one final napkin in front forehead. It spun menacingly for a few seconds before lobbing itself right between his eyes.

“That one had a bit of a taunt to it, didn’t it? Very nice.” He used his own wand to pick up the napkins off the floor, scourgify them, and place them neatly in the drawer.

“You’re not fighting back?”

“I’m above such petty nonsense,” he said. But then with a flick of his wrist, he folded the final napkin into some sort of origami-esque bird of prey and had it dive bomb her hair.

“Wanker!” The napkin bird began to circle her head again; she swatted at it until it fell to the floor.

“Truce?”

She eyed him warily. “I’m not sure.”

“You are right to remain suspicious,” he said, nodding gravely.

“And so,” she said, twirling her wand between her fingers, “are you.”

He laughed again, then sent the napkin on the floor to join its mates in the drawer.

“It’s nice to see you laugh, Draco.”

“It’s nice to laugh, Granger.”

Hermione smiled at him, and felt her heart thrum in her chest. He smiled back at her for a moment, then looked away.

“Well,” she said, tucking her wand into her waistband, “it’s really rather late.” She walked into the living room and began to rummage through the linen closet. “Let me just get an extra blanket for myself on the couch and I’ll be …”

Draco followed her into the living room. “Seeing as how I haven’t been drugged yet tonight, I am perfectly capable of making the choice of where to sleep. You keep your bed. I’ll take the couch.”

“You’re too tall for that couch. You’ll be uncomfortable.”

“You’re right,” he said. “If only one of us could do some sort of magic trick to make the couch more comfortable.” He tapped the couch with his wand, causing it to become a meter longer and substantially more plush. He tilted his head to appraise the couch, and tapped it once more, changing it from a goldish-beige color to a deep hunter green.

“That is hideous.”

“Well, I’ll change it back tomorrow, unless your taste improves dramatically overnight.”

“Are you going to transfigure my sheets and blankets too?”

“Depends on how inferior they are.”

“You can sleep in the bathtub, arsehole.”

“Why would I do that?” he said, settling into the cushions, “when I can now repose on this magnificent couch?”

------

She brought sheets and a blanket to him on her newly-elongated sofa. He had removed his jacket, jumper, and belt and laid them in a neat pile on the ground. He was now wearing a white undershirt and his black trousers. She tried valiantly not to stare at his pale arms or the curve of his spine as he bent to unlace and remove his shoes.

She was about to bid him goodnight when a small tawny owl tapped at her window. “That’s Carat. It’s Durand’s owl.”

Hermione retrieved the note and brought it over to Draco on the couch. “Miss Granger,” she read aloud. “The potion should be finished by tomorrow at noon. You can pick it up then. Please see the itemized bill attached. I will gladly refund the money if the potion does not succeed. It has been an honor working for you. Yours humbly, Jean-Jacques Durand.”

She handed the note and accompanying bill to Draco. He looked it over and said: “He didn’t charge for labor. Just potion ingredients and the time he spent to close his shop.”

“See? Not everyone is just out to get your money.”

“That’s because he thinks he’s getting your money.”

“Such a cynic.”

“I call it like I see it.” He placed the bill atop of his pile of folded clothes on the floor and then leaned back into the couch.

Hermione tried to think of a good reason to remain next to Draco on the couch instead of going to bed, but came up with nothing.

“Well then,” she said. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Goodnight, then.”

She moved to get up, but he reached for her hand.

“Granger?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t need to ...”

“I mean it. For everything you’ve done. For everything you’re doing. It’s ... it’s …” He paused and looked down at their intertwined fingers, as if they contained the words he meant to say. “It’s almost too much for me to even think about. But I do,” he said, lifting his eyes to meet hers once again. “And I want you to know that.”

She was not entirely sure how to reply, so she just gave him a small smile and said: “Alright.”

He held her hand tightly and ran his thumb over her knuckles. Every nerve in her body seemed to have its origin in that hand. She inched closer to him, pressing her thigh against his. He responded in kind, inching closer to her, pressing his shoulder against hers. He raised his free hand to the back of her head, drawing her towards him.

“Granger,” he whispered.

“Yes?” It wasn’t a question so much as a plea.

She could feel his breath against her forehead, then against her nose. When his lips met hers, her pulse hummed in her ears; her stomach no longer felt anchored to her body. When he placed his hand on the small of her back, she broke out in gooseflesh. When his mouth moved from her lips to her collarbone, stars seemed to gather at the corners of the vision, even though her eyes were closed. She pulled at his hair with one hand and reached beneath the hem of his shirt with the other. She returned her lips to his, kissing him deeply and fervently, until she lost sense of anything else in the world that was not Draco--the way he smelled, tasted, and felt as his body converged against hers. She pulled away from his mouth, kissing him along his jawline, moving down the sides of his throat. He groaned softly and wound his hands in her hair. She began to tug his shirt up, desperate to feel his skin against hers, but he steadied her hands with his own, then gently pushed her away, resting his forehead against hers.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No,” he rasped. “Yes. But not with you. With me.”

“What is it?”

They were both still breathing heavily, faces flushed, She brought her hands up from his shirt, and pulled back slightly so that she could look him in the eyes.

“I cannot even begin to explain how badly I want you right now, Granger. Or how difficult it is for me to stop this. But I’m a mess in here,” he said, gesturing towards his head. “And also in here,” he tapped himself on the chest. “And I’m not ready for this right now.”

“Okay, Draco.”

“Okay?”

“Yes.” She cupped his face in her palms, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs. “Yes, Okay. There’s no rush.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” She kissed him again, this time on his temple. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Granger.”

“Goodnight.”

--------------------------------

When Hermione woke up the next morning, Draco was not there. The couch had been restored to its former size and color. It also looked much cleaner and smelled faintly of lemon. The most notable change to its appearance, however, was the large sack of money sitting on it. Hermione read the note next to it.

Granger - Here is Durand’s money. Tell him he you will triple it if the potion works. I’m off to scout new ‘goons.’ Meet me at the hospital when you get the potion? Just come to Mother’s room. Thanks for the hospitality. - DM

Chapter Text

“Mr. Malfoy, if you could just keep your voice down. This is a hospital.”

“I will lower my voice when you give her the fucking potion, Smethwyck.”

“As I’ve already explained, we can’t just go administering completely experimental potions to patients. That potion needs to be studied and tested.”

Draco took a step closer to Smethwyck. Hermione had her hand on her wand, just in case he was about to do something stupid. Draco took a deep breath and leaned forward, gripping the rails of Narcissa’s bed. His eyes bore into the Healer’s and he spoke in a low, dangerous voice. “Listen to me. I will say this quietly. I will say this calmly. But I will only say this once. I have been here every fucking day for almost an entire year. I have given this hospital enough money to build an entire wing and completely renovate the Healers’ lounge.”

“And we are so very pleased that construction on the Black Library for Research in the Healing Arts is nearly complete, and that …”

“Do not fucking patronize me, Smethwyck. You have done fuck-all to help my mother. Everything you have tried has failed. We are giving her this potion.”

“But the risks of an untested potion …”

“I will assume the risk. Do you need me to sign something? I will sign it. Do you need to close your eyes and plug your ears so you don’t see me giving it to her? Be my fucking guest. If I have to discharge her and take her back home to do it, I will.”

Smethwyck and Draco stared at one another. It was as if, Hermione thought, they were waiting to see who would blink first.

It was Smethwyck. “You’ll sign something?”

Draco’s loosened his death-grip on the bed-rails. Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I will sign whatever you bloody want me to sign. Just get it here now.”

“Right then.” Smethwyck Disapparated with a loud “pop.”

“I swear, if it takes him longer than five minutes, I am just going to open the bottle and …”

“Here it is,” said Smethwyck, popping back in. He handed Draco a parchment and a quill. Draco signed it immediately. Hermione thought about telling him to at least pretend to read it, or perhaps asking the Healer for a copy, but quickly realized that Draco was far more interested in getting the potion to Narcissa than worrying about the legal ramifications of signing the document.

Draco’s signature glowed briefly. The parchment then leapt into the air, folded itself into a tiny square, and flew into Smethwyck’s pocket.

“Alright then, Mr. Malfoy. But I must insist on additional monitoring of her vital signs and humoural balance for at least the first fortnight after administering this potion.”

“Fine.”

Smethwyck took the potion from Draco. He held it up to the light and examined it skeptically and, Hermione thought, a bit over-dramatically. Draco began to tap his foot impatiently.

“And you’re sure that must also remain in the room?” Smethwyck nodded towards the cursed jewelry box, which Hermione had opened and placed on the table next to Narcissa’s head, as per Durand’s instructions.

“Yes,” Draco replied. “And it is not to be closed, moved, examined, tested, disturbed, or even touched at any point by any person unless Ms. Granger or I have given permission.”

“As you wish.”

Smethwyck approached Narcissa. He uncorked the potion bottle and opened Narcissa’s mouth. Orange tendrils of the solution--Hermione could not be sure whether they were liquid or vaporous--curled from the vial into her mouth. When the bottle had been fully emptied, the cork shot into the air and wedged itself back into place. Smethwyck closed Narcissa’s mouth.

Everyone stared at Narcissa.

For the first moment, nothing happened at all. But then, almost imperceptibly at first, a thread-like wisp of yellowish-grey mist began to emanate from Narcissa’s right ear. The mist drifted slowly through the air until it reached the jewelry box, where it began to settle itself into the recesses of the box.

“Fascinating,” Smethwyck said. He made a few notes on Narcissa’s chart. “I’m going to go order the tests,” he said. “I’ll send a team up shortly to collect samples.” He nodded at Draco and Hermione, then left the room.

Draco said nothing. He stood as if rooted to the floor, eyes fixed on the filament of mist as it wound itself from Narcissa to the jewelry box. Hermione waited a few minutes, then approached him cautiously.

“Draco?”

He seemed not to hear her. She summoned a chair over to him.

“Why don’t you at least sit down?”

He complied, eyes never leaving Narcissa. She noticed that his chin was quivering just a bit. She considered reaching for his hand, but thought he might appreciate it more if she pretended not to have seen it. She found another chair and sat next to him.

They stared at the mist for what felt like a very long time. Finally, Draco said: “I don’t really know what to do with this,” he said, gesturing towards the wisp. “Because it’s hard not to think that this is something more than a clever-looking parlour trick.“ His voice was strangely thick.

“I don’t think Durand would do that.”

“But the only other alternative to thinking that is to hope that it is going to work.”

“Yes.”

“If she gets better, it won’t be because I just hoped hard enough.”

“No, it will be because we did something to help her. Hope demands action.”

“It also fucks you over nine times out of ten.”

“But if you haven’t any hope,” Hermione said, “what keeps you coming back here? How could you sit with her every day if you didn’t harbor some hope that she’ll get better?”

“I didn’t say that I didn’t have hope, Granger. I just said that hope itself is useless.”

“For her, yes. But not for you. Just because your hopes aren’t fulfilled doesn’t mean that the hope itself wasn’t important. If you didn’t hope, how would you grow, or change, or even breathe?”

Draco shrugged a bit. “I guess that’s why I’ve never truly been able to stop myself from doing it. Because then what’s left?”

“I don’t know that anything is.”

They both watched silently as the mist continued to thread itself through the air. “I think I’d like to be alone with her for a bit, Granger.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll owl you later.” He took Hermione’s hand and pressed it against his cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered against her fingers.

Hermione bent down and kissed the top of his head before leaving.

------

Draco spent most of the next two weeks with Narcissa. The Healers had seen no changes to Narcissa’s vitals or humours, but this did not discourage Draco. Hermione stopped in to visit on her way home from work nearly every night. Sometimes she joined Draco in reading passages from The Hair-Hearted Wizard (he had bought yet another copy), sometimes she prated on about work, and sometimes they just both sat and watched the mist spool tirelessly into the box. When she left the hospital, she either went home, or went back to work, or occasionally grabbed a drink with her friends. Draco hadn’t invited her to dinner or asked to go back to her flat. Hermione figured that he needed some time to process his newfound hope. She couldn’t say she wasn’t disappointed, but she didn’t want to invade his space if space was what he needed. Plus, she did have a lot of work to catch up on.

For Christmas, she went on holiday to France with her parents. She sent Draco a custom-ordered bag of Every-Flavour beans (every flavour was just “sugar”). He sent her a note that said:

“Granger - I assume you intended that to be some sort of gag gift, but if so, the joke is on you, because I found each bean uniquely delicious. I’ve been trying to think of something to get you, but nothing seems right. I believe that I will know it when I find it. - DM”

When Hermione returned from holiday, she found Draco noticeably thinner. She chastised him for not taking care of himself and then forcibly dragged him to the restaurant near the hospital. If he wanted to eat alone, that was fine, but she was going to get him fed one way or another.

They made their way to the table in the corner. There was a place setting, but no wine had been poured. The heavily-pomaded waiter approached Draco eagerly.

“Mr. Malfoy! So good to see you again. We have your table waiting. Your wine will be brought shortly,” he snapped his fingers at another waiter across the room. “And we will set another place right away for the lady, of course.”

“Fine,” Draco said. “And please bring the usual.”

Hermione took this as an invitation to sit, and did.

“Skippy seems happy to see you. When’s the last time you were here?”

“Skippy?”

Hermione shrugged. “He looks like a Skippy.”

Draco cocked his head and surveyed the waiter from a distance. “No he doesn’t.”

“Whatever. So when were you here last?”

“He’s clearly an Ambrose.”

“Stop avoiding the question.”

Draco sighed and examined his cuticles. “I don’t know the exact date.”

“Have you been here since we gave your mum the potion?”

“No.”

“What have you been eating?”

“I’ve had some exquisite Every-Flavor Beans.”

“Draco …”

He began to tick things off on his fingers: “Coffee, apples, almonds, hard-boiled eggs, coffee, carrots, crisps, and coffee.”

Hermione gave him a pointed look.

“I spent so long sitting there and watching nothing happen. Now that something is actually happening--even if it’s just a miniscule thread of smoke floating through the air--it’s just difficult to pull myself away.”

“I get that, but …”

“Do you?” he asked sharply.

Skippy/Ambrose brought them their food: poached salmon, kale salad, and butternut squash.

“Don’t bite my head off, Draco,” Hermione said, putting her napkin on her lap. “Do I need to drug you to get you to eat?”

Draco looked at her with irritation and stuffed an ostentatiously large forkful of squash into his mouth.

“Any word from your goons?”

“No.”

They ate their food in silence.

“Draco?”

“Mmm?”

“When your mum wakes up in a year, she won’t want to find out that you spent two years staring at her instead of living.”

“If.”

“What?”

“If she wakes up.”

“You said before that hoping did nothing for her. Wasting away in her room isn’t doing anything either. For you or for her.”

He gave her a vicious look, but said nothing.

“You can be angry at me, but I’m not wrong. Narcissa may have initially agreed on spying on Ignatius to stay out of prison, but she kept at it--and had an affair with him--to protect you.”

“Pretended to have an affair,” Draco grumbled.

“Yes, and I’m sure all those times she had to sleep with the man she thought was trying to kill her son, she was comforted by the fact that she was only pretending.”

“What is your fucking point, Granger?”

“My point is that Narcissa did everything she possibly could to protect your life, and she paid for it. How is it gratitude to waste the life you could be living?”

Draco lined up his fork next to his knife and spoon.

“I’m not saying,” Hermione continued gently, “that you should abandon her and go on tour with The Weird Sisters. I just think you need some balance. Yes, spend time with her. But take care of yourself, too. Eat. Read. Listen to music. Get some fresh air. Spend time with other people. Don’t make it so that when she wakes up, she thinks that Crabbe got what he was after.”

He cast his gaze to the side, shook his head, and drained the water from his glass.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered.

“Maybe not.” Hermione stood, placed her napkin back on the table, and stood. “Thank you for dinner.”

He remained silent, staring at his empty glass.

“I’d like to see you again, Draco. And again, and again, and again. You know how to find me if you’d like that too.” She squeezed his shoulder, kissed the top of his head, and left the restaurant.

-----------------

It was difficult for Hermione to stay away from the hospital. She had been going there for the better part of the last year; it had become almost as much a part of her own routine as it had been Draco’s. She also desperately wanted to know how if the potion was still working, if Draco’s goons had found anything, and if Draco was indeed taking better care of himself. But she resisted--this was up to Draco.

In the meantime, she took her own advice--she went for walks, read books, and spent time with Harry and Luna and Ron and Lavender. It wasn’t always fun to be the fifth wheel, but they were fun and warm and she enjoyed their company. Ron kept buzzing about trying to set her up with “this bloke I work with named Rayner, who’s always got his nose in a book, but otherwise seems like a good fellow.” Lavender said that she’d always thought Hermione should get together with Dean Thomas. Luna said that there was a certain species of Flobberworm whose mucus glowed when you were in the presence of your soulmate, but they lived so far underground that no one had ever found one. Harry kept silent on the matter entirely, for which Hermione was duly thankful.

In retrospect, she realized that it hadn’t actually taken him very long to contact her--it had felt like months, but it had only been three or four weeks. His owl said:

“I’d like to see you again too.”

She responded:

“Three Broomsticks. Saturday. 9 PM. Wear something not black.”

Chapter Text

Hermione had to admit that she wasn’t fully convinced Draco was going to come until he actually did. The Three Broomsticks was a far cry from the restaurant he had previously frequented. It was noisy, crowded, and there was no Skippy/Ambrose to bring him his “usual.” Granted, he didn’t appear extraordinarily pleased to be there, but he did indeed show up. He looked good--not nearly as thin as he had the last time she had seen him. The dark circles under his eyes had also faded. He was, however, still wearing all black.

Before she could say a single word to him, he pointed to the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt. They were silver. “Not black,” he said.

Her face broke into a broad grin.

“And you’re right; they make me feel like a new man.”

“Shut up,” she said, still grinning.

“So I met you here with a varied wardrobe. Can we leave now?”

“Of course not.” She led him to a table in the center of the room. He swore under his breath, but followed her.

“Aren’t you worried that your Gryffindor mates will see you here with me, Granger?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be somewhere quieter,” he ducked to avoid a tray filled with firewhiskey shots as it zipped across the room, “or less plebeian?”

“No.”

Draco made a small noise of disgust as he examined the tabletop. When the bottles of butterbeer arrived, he insisted on scourgifying the mug before he poured his drink into it.

“Are you afraid someone just brought that mug from the lavatory?”

“I err on the side of cleanliness.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

He took a cautious sip of butterbeer, then seemed to relax as the sweet liquid hit his palate.

“How’s your mum been?”

“Same.”

He took a healthy sip of of his drink.

“And your goons?”

“Half of them are searching for Father, the other half for Crabbe. Omsk was a bit of a wild goose chase, but they all assure me they’ve got solid leads. Probably because they enjoy their paychecks, though.”

Draco finished off his butterbeer and grabbed another from a nearby tray.

“Thirsty?” Hermione asked with a half-smile. She had barely put a dent in hers.

“Haven’t had one of these in a while. I should tell Ambrose to keep them on ice for me.”

“So you’ve been eating at the restaurant, then?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, Granger. I’ve been eating at the restaurant. Last week I even started ordering off the menu. Ambrose almost shat his pants.”

Hermione snorted, then said: “You look good, Draco.”

“I always look good, Granger,” he drawled.

“When you don’t look like you’re about to keel over, you stubborn twit.”

“Whatever.” Draco began peeling the label off his second bottle of butterbeer, assiduously avoiding eye contact. “I had a talk with Mother. I told her I was going to be scaling back the visiting hours a bit. She didn’t seem to mind.”

Hermione took a sip of her drink and tried her hardest not to smile in self-satisfaction. “So what have you been up to with all your newfound free time?”

“St. Mungo’s wants to have some sort of gala for the grand opening of the Black Library for Research in the spring. I’ve been planning it a bit. Trying to keep it tasteful, but elegant. Very difficult when I’m also receiving dozens of unsolicited suggestions on the refreshments and entertainment from those philistines on the hospital board. Can you believe they suggested miniature quiches?”

Hermione gasped dramatically. “No!”

“Yes! And Elderflower wine!”

“A travesty!”

“Exactly … wait a minute …” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”

“A little.”

“Bint.” He drained the second bottle. “Do you think I would regret a third?”

“Your bladder certainly might.”

“Hmm. I’ll chance it.” He nabbed one from a tray. “The gala is in the spring. Would you join me?”

“I’d be delighted.”

“Good.”

“I do have one question, though.” She finished her own butterbeer, but declined a second from the tray as it passed her.

“Just one? I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Why is it the Black Library and not the Malfoy Library?”

Draco began to shred the label he had peeled from the second bottle. “When I agreed to fund it, I was thoroughly convinced that my father was behind my mother’s condition. I wanted nothing to do with him. I was this close,” he said, holding his thumb and index finger about a millimeter apart, “to changing my own last name as well. But the legal hassle was more than I was willing to engage in at that point.”

“Huh,” she said, resting her chin in her hand.

“Do they have anything stronger here? Because you look like you’re about to ask me another question, and the mild buzz and sugar rush from these butterbeers are probably not going to cut it.”

“Of course they do. It’s a pub.”

“That was a rhetorical question. I can indeed see that there are many different types of alcoholic beverages being consumed in this establishment. Ah, this will do.” Draco snatched two shots of firewhiskey from the air as it hovered past his head. He placed one in front of him and gave one to Hermione.

“Good. Because I did actually have another question.”

“Knock me over with a feather.” He downed his shot.

“What happened to make you change the way you thought about blood purity?”

“Not what, Granger. Who.”

“Who, then?”

Draco grabbed Hermione’s shot of firewhiskey. He drank it quickly and said: “Astoria Greengrass.”

“Slow down there, cowboy. Daphne’s little sister?”

“Yes. We dated for a bit. More than a bit. A year or so, I guess. Maybe more. I would certainly regret a third firewhiskey, wouldn’t I?”

“Possibly.”

He declined the shot that bumped into his forehead. It flitted off, looking somehow insulted. “Anyway, the Greengrass family is one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, so everyone on both sides was very pleased with the match.”

“The Sacred Twenty-Eight?”

“You know, the purest of the pure-blood families. Weasley and Longbottom are part of it. Shacklebolt too,” he said. Hermione still looked confused. He shrugged it off. “Her parents were especially pleased, because they tried to get Daphne together with Theodore Nott and that was a disaster.”

“Theodore Nott? The same Theodore Nott from Hogwarts? They tried to set him up with Daphne?”

“Yes. I know it sounds ridiculous. But he’s also from The Sacred Twenty-Eight, so he’s actually a catch in the right circles.”

Hermione snorted.

“Anyway, the Greengrasses threw this very elaborate party at their mansion, ostensibly for Daphne’s 21st birthday, but also as a way to get Nott to notice her. Nott may not be particularly rich or good-looking, but his lineage is spotless and both his parents are dead, which was a bonus for the Greengrasses. No need for the elaborate courtship rituals or the dowry.”

“Excuse me, did you just say ‘the dowry’? Did we suddenly travel back to the Victorian era?”

“You’d be amazed. Or maybe you wouldn’t. Do they serve food here?”

“Their fish and chips are very good.”

No sooner had she uttered these words than a large platter of fish and chips whizzed across the room and plunked itself down in front of them. Draco stuffed a chip into his mouth. “Anyway, Nott, of course, could care less about Daphne because he’s only interested in whatever Dark artifact he’s currently tinkering with. The Greengrasses spend the whole party trying to impress him with their wealth and breeding, and he spends the whole time on the back lawn trying to find some sort of rock or another. He barely even glanced at Daphne, but she’s always had eyes for that tosser Graham Montague, so she didn’t care.” He crunched on a piece of fish. “Is this haddock? Delicious.”

Hermione smiled a bit. She didn’t know whether it was the drinks, the different setting, or the chance to talk about something besides his mother’s health, but chatty Draco was a pleasant alternative to broody Draco.

It was probably the drinks.

He began to douse the chips with vinegar. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“Brilliant.” He sampled a chip, then added some salt before continuing. “So Peleus--that’s Daphne’s father--goes out to the back lawn, thinking that Theo is actually surveying the size of their property, and he’s all ready to start selling him on the majesty of their lawn or whatever, and Theo starts interrogating him about the rocks. Are they native to the lawn, or did they have them imported, what do they look like when the moonlight hits them, things like that. Pelly has no clue, but he’s determined to impress Theodore, so he tells him he can have any rock that strikes his fancy. Theodore stuffs three of the rocks in his pocket and then leaves the party without even saying goodbye. They weren’t even sure he was gone until I told them he had left after pocketing the rocks.”

“You were there?”

“Yes. Astoria and I watched the whole back lawn thing unfold.”

“Is that party where you met her?”

“No. I’d known her since we were little. Our parents were fairly cordial with one another until The Dark L… until things started getting intense.” He ate another piece of fish. “The Greengrasses weren’t Death Eaters; they were just snobs. Would you like any?”

“Sure.” Hermione took a piece. It was indeed very good.

“I hadn’t seen Astoria since our last year at Hogwarts, so when I saw her at that party, I barely recognized her.” He smiled a bit. “She was wearing this ridiculous hat with a veil that she said her mum had made her wear so that she wouldn’t detract from Daphne. Of course, it only drew more attention to her. Well … we got to talking and … long story short, we started seeing one another. Mother and Father were over the moon. Not only was Astoria well-born, but her family was rich and well-connected. Everything went swimmingly at first.”

“So what happened?”

“Her parents and her sister were blood-purists. Astoria was not. She loathed all of it. Thought it was disgusting to treat Muggle-borns or half-bloods any differently than pure-bloods. She read Muggle books, hung out in Muggle coffee shops. It drove her parents insane.”

“But you got on with her? And she with you?”

“Not at first, no. I thought she was a smug brat and she thought I was an arrogant arsehole.” He popped the last chip into his mouth.

“No argument.”

Draco flicked her the ‘V,’ and continued. “At any rate, she saw something in me, I guess. And I wasn’t as fanatical about the blood-purity as I had been when I was younger. Not after everything I’d seen and done, and everything that had been done to me.” He paused and wiped his hands on a napkin. “So she talked, and I listened, and I argued and she explained, and she was patient, and smart, and kind. And my parents absolutely hated her.”

“Because she was a blood-traitor?”

“Mainly. But also because she didn’t care about money, or power, or status. She wanted to get a job, which was almost unheard of to begin with, and she wanted that job to be an internship in the Ministry, with Arthur Weasley.”

Hermione could only imagine the pearl-clutching that must have ensued when the Malfoys had heard that.

“So my parents did everything they could to split us up. They treated her like shit, and they gave me endless grief about dating her. They couldn’t outright forbid me to see her, because I wasn’t a teenager anymore, but they could and did make it exceedingly uncomfortable to be in their presence. It was … a very unpleasant time.” He used aguamenti to fill his empty mug with water. “After we had been dating for a little over a year, Astoria thought she was pregnant. Turned out to be a false alarm, but the mere idea of bringing a child into it made things rather more stressful. She started pressing me to move out of the Manor, to distance myself from my parents, to be more outspoken about renouncing blood-purity. I just … wasn’t ready to do all of that, I guess.”

“So you broke up?”

“Yes. Well, she broke up with me, to be more accurate. I was upset, but I couldn’t blame her.” He took a long drink from his mug. “I spent a long time being pissed off and resentful and blaming everyone else, but it was on me. I should have stood up to my parents. I shouldn’t have let them talk down to her, or about her. And indeed I should have come out as a proud blood-traitor. But I didn’t. Because I’m a coward, and because I’ve always been more interested in their approval than in doing the right thing.” He turned his mug so that the handle faced away from him, then rotated it back in the other direction.

“So she left,” he continued. “Moved to the States. I got a Christmas card from her a few weeks back, actually. She married a Muggle. They have twin daughters. Said she’d heard about my mum and was sorry and wished her well.” He looked up at Hermione. “And that’s that.”

Hermione actually didn’t know how to respond. Everything she wanted to say was either a trite platitude or an intrusive question. (“She sounds like a great person,” “You can learn a lot by losing someone,” “Did you try to convince her to stay?,” “How did your parents react when you split?” And, foremost on her mind: “Are you still in love with her?”) However, Draco obviated her need to reply by tilting his head to their right, directing her attention to a table where Harry, Luna, Ron, Lavender, Neville, and Hannah were all sitting and, some more vehemently than others, staring at them.

“You were right about that third butterbeer,” Draco said. “Be back in a moment.”

He gave the table of Hermione’s friends an awkward half-nod and made his way to the loo in the back of the pub. Hermione approached their table and greeted her friends.

“Hermione,” Ron asked. “Have you gone mental? Because it looks like you were just sitting there having a conversation with him instead of hexing his fucking face off.”

“Actually, I was indeed having a conversation with him.”

“Did you at least poison his drink, then?”

“Yes. But don’t tell him when he comes back. The death is going to be painful and exceptionally messy.”

“I think it’s nice of you to talk with him,” Hannah said. “He probably doesn’t have a lot of friends these days.”

“As if he bloody deserves friends,” Ron muttered. “Ferret-faced arsehole.”

“Everyone deserves friends, Ron,” Luna said.

“Well he doesn’t deserve you as a friend, Hermione” Ron said. He grabbed two drinks from a hovering tray. “Maybe we could get him a pet jarvey instead.”

“Jarveys actually don’t make very good pets,” Luna said. “They cheat at cribbage.”

“Malfoy probably does too. But seriously, Hermione, what are you doing with him? Don’t you think it’s weird, Harry? Why aren’t you jumping in here?”

“What’s that then?” Harry asked. He took a very large sip of his ale.

Draco returned to their table and left money for their food and drinks. He caught eyes with Hermione and offered a brief wave, as if he meant to spare her the indignity of saying goodbye in front of her friends.

“I’ll see you guys later,” Hermione said to her friends.

She walked over to Draco, took his hand, and left without looking back.

---------

“Do you want to get some ice cream?” she asked.

“Of course I do. Are you sure that was wise?”

“Suggesting that we get ice cream? Are you worried about your waistline?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” he said.

“I do. And I’m sure.” She gave his hand a squeeze. He laughed, almost to himself, and squeezed her hand back.

----------------------------------
He kissed her outside of her flat, and his lips still tasted like butter pecan. The kiss was slow and deep and consumed her completely. She wanted desperately to invite him inside, and the way he pressed against her as they kissed made her think he wanted it as well--but he didn’t suggest it, and she didn’t want to push it. So they said goodnight, and kissed again, and again after that.

------------------------------------

She knew Ron would be at her office door on Monday morning. But, she also knew that he didn’t roll into work until at least 9, so by getting there early, she was able to get her most pressing things done before the inquisition.

When the knock came to her doorframe at 8:45, she steeled herself for a fight.

But it was Harry. She melted back into her chair. “Oh thank God. I thought you were Ron.”

“Bit early for Ron. Last time he got here before 9, he fell asleep at his desk. Anyway, sure you’re busy, but Neville wanted me to give you this.” He handed her an envelope. “It’s an invitation to the opening of Neville’s botanical garden exhibit. It’s the capstone of his graduate project. Been travelling all over the world, collecting seeds and samples and whatnot. He’s really excited about it.”

“I can’t wait to see it.”

“You and Luna both. ‘Course, she’s convinced that he’s got a pond full of Moon Frog lily pads on display.”

“I wouldn’t put it past Neville.”

“I think we all learned a long time ago that Neville should never be underestimated,” Harry said. “And speaking of people who perhaps should not be underestimated ...”

She let out an exasperated groan, but resisted the urge to flop dramatically across her desk. “Harry, I thought you …”

“Shush,” he said. He sat in the chair across her. “Do you remember last winter, when I was all broken up about Ginny, and completely freaked out because I didn’t know what I wanted or what I was supposed to do?”

“Yes.”

“Well … Luna makes me realize that I need to appreciate that feeling. She doesn’t get all mired up in what she’s supposed to be doing; she just lives who she is every single day. And I’ve never even tried that. It’s been incredibly freeing.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “And something else. She made me see that just because one thing didn’t work out -- all that it meant was that that door was shut, you know? But every single other door in the entire world was still open. Why would I focus on the one thing that was no longer possible when instead I could explore the infinite things that still were?”

Hermione’s mouth hung half-open. “I have literally never heard you say anything even remotely like that.”

“I know,” he said. He gave her a goofy grin. “So anyway, you obviously know where I stand on Draco, but maybe he’s just one of those infinite things for you.”

“That’s actually rather beautiful, Harry.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it. I’m fresh out of wisdom.”

“Well, good on you for going out on a high note, then.”

“I’d still like you to punch him though. Just once.”

Hermione aligned her face into the most serious expression she could summon. “I will see what I can do,” she said.

-------------------------------
February

“What are you doing, Granger?”

“What does it look like I am doing?” Hermione said. She had already amassed one large mound of snow. The second one was being a bit stubborn about sticking to it; the snow was a little too powdery. “Building a snowman, of course.”

“How are those misshapen lumps supposed to represent the human form?”

“Shut up.” She began working on the head. “Didn’t you do this when you were a kid?”

“Of course not.” He said. “I did this.” With a wave of his wand, snow whirled in the air and gathered itself into a glittering white Draco-sized Hungarian Horntail.

Hermione regarded it for a moment, then went back to her misshapen lumps. “That’s cheating.”

“How is it cheating? I’m a wizard.”

She jammed two sticks into her snowman’s sides, then began looking for some pebbles to use for its face.

“Aren’t your hands cold?” he asked.

“Warming charm.”

“Cheating!”

A snowball landed squarely in the middle of his forehead.

“You will regret that!”

He readied his wand.

“You can’t even make a snowball without a wand?” She landed another one on his shoulder.

“Why would I want to?” He sent a cavalcade of snowballs after her. She laughed and repelled them. “You can’t even deflect a snowball without a wand?”

“You are such a prat,” she said, walking over to him.

“Yes.” He wrapped his arms around her and leaned down for a kiss. She obliged, relishing the feel of his warm lips on her cold skin. He pulled her closer, deepening the kiss and momentarily distracting her from her true objective. Fortunately, she regained her senses enough to follow through; Draco’s high-pitched squeal as she dumped the snowball down the back of his jumper was immensely gratifying.

March

Hermione had only read about magmaphlox in textbooks, and then only about their theoretical existence. That Neville had not only been able to locate one, but uproot it and transplant it to his exhibit was a genuine marvel. The Arctic and Antarctic sections of the Botanical Garden were also highly impressive; there were four different varieties of antipodal ivy.

Draco said it was the special “Missivetoe: A Viable Alternative to Owls?” exhibit that reminded him to give it to her.

“It’s your very late Christmas gift,” he said, handing her a folded square of parchment.

She gave him a quizzical look, then began to open the parchment.

“Not here, Granger! Just wait until you get …”

She ignored him, of course. On the parchment, in jet-black letters that slanted slightly to the right, were these words:

silently if, out of not knowable
night’s utmost nothing, wanders a little guess
(only which is this world) more of my life does
not leap than with the mystery your smile
sings or if (spiraling as luminous
they climb oblivion) voices who are dreams,
less into heaven certainly earth swims
than each my deeper death becomes your kiss
losing through you what seemed myself;i find
selves unimaginably mine;beyond
sorrow’s own joys and hoping’s very fears
yours is the light by which my spirit’s born:
yours is the darkness of my soul’s return
–you are my sun,my moon,and all my stars

(- e.e cummings)

She read the words again and again, her heart coming unmoored in her chest as she did, until it felt as if it were lifting her off of the ground.

“He’s a Muggle poet. Astoria tried to get me to read Muggle poetry, but I never got into it. I tried it again a couple months ago. This one just stuck with me, I guess.”

Hermione finally pried her eyes off of the paper and looked at him. His cheeks had turned scarlet, and he was shifting his weight from one foot to another.

“I know it’s not …” he began, but before he could finish, she pulled him behind a particularly large frond of Erumpent Fern, and made further words irrelevant.

-----------
April

“I can’t believe Potter came to this,” Draco said. “But if nothing else, he’s putting an entirely necessary dent in those gauche miniature quiches. I am incredulous that they went ahead with those.”

Hermione took a sip of champagne. “At least you talked them out of the Elderflower wine,” she said.

Draco shuddered. “An institution devoted to people’s health should really be more cautious about the swill they serve at parties.” Draco sneered at a tray of crab puffs as they hovered past them. “Are they a serious thing? Him and Lovegood?”

“I’d say so. They’ve been together a while.”

“Hmm.”

“I think she’s good for him. Makes him less serious.”

“And does he make her less … eccentric?”

“No. But I don’t think he wants to.”

Harry raised his glass at her from across the room. She returned the gesture. Luna said something to him. Harry downed the rest of his drink. They walked over to Hermione and Draco.

“Malfoy.”

“Potter.”

“Erm. Nice party.”

“Thank you.”

Harry snatched another mini-quiche from the tray. “These are great.”

“I suspected you would like them,” Draco drawled.

“How is your mother, Draco?” Luna asked.

“The same.”

She produced a small jar of bluish liquid from the pocket of her dress robes. “This is gnome saliva. It might help.”

Draco looked at the jar as if it were both radioactive and covered in open sores. Hermione stepped on his left foot in the most unobtrusively violent manner that she could muster. Draco took the jar between his thumb and forefinger. “How very thoughtful,” he finally said. Hermione took the jar from him and put it into her purse.

The orchestra began to play something uptempo. Harry took Luna by the arm. “Love this song. Fancy a dance, Lu?” He pulled her onto the dance floor without waiting for an actual response.

Draco looked down at Hermione before she could suggest anything. “I’m not much of a dancer, Granger.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Would you like to get out of here?”

“You want to leave your own gala early?”

“It’s not really my gala. It’s the hospital’s gala. I just funded it. Anyway, I’ve put in my time.”

“That’s what you said at the last St. Mungo’s gala.”

He took a stray lock of her hair and wound it around his finger. “Did I?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t recall. But I remember this.” He reached beneath the shoulder of her gown and tugged her bra strap down her arm, then hooked his finger around it and slid it back up slowly.

Hermione felt her pulse quicken. “I also remember that.”

He leaned down and whispered in her ear: “So let’s get out of here.” He pulled her close and Disapperated them.

It took her a moment to process where they had ended up.

“My bedroom, Malfoy?”

“What gave it away?” he asked. “Was it the bed?”

“But, Draco …”

“Yes, Granger?”

He began to kiss her cheek, her neck, her shoulder..

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes, Granger.”

June

“I didn’t know what to get you for your birthday,” Hermione said. “I actually briefly considered just renting out Honeyduke’s and letting you loose in there, but I was afraid I’d never see you again.”

“So instead you got me a … what is this exactly?”

They were both staring at her open closet and open dresser drawer.

“It’s empty space.”

“I see. Is this … some sort of disillusionment charm? Is there a cake in here or something?”

“No. It’s your own drawer. And your own half … err … third of my closet. And before you give me the ‘You’re a witch; just use an extendable charm’ argument, just appreciate the symbolic gesture, alright?”

“So ... there’s no cake?”

“Oh, fine,” Hermione said. She tapped the drawer to take down the disillusionment charm, revealing a chocolate cake with vanilla frosting, rainbow sprinkles, and candied cherries.

A monumental grin spread across Draco’s face.

-------------------------
July

“I really don’t see why you are asking me about this now,” he said, eyes firmly fixed on the back of the box of cereal.

“Because I need to know.” She had already abandoned her own breakfast.

“You need to know?” he asked, voice fringed with ice. “I didn’t realize that answers to your prying inquiries about my former relationships were on the same level as food and oxygen. Although perhaps I should have.”

“I have been an open book about everybody I’ve dated. Viktor, Ron, Harry, even those two one-night-stands. But you? You refuse to answer even the simplest …”

“Why does it even fucking matter?”

“It is a simple question, Malfoy. Did. You. Love. Her.?”

“How is that a simple question?”

“By virtue of the answer being a single word. And would you please stop rearranging the cheerios in your bowl? They are all the same goddamn size.”

Draco said nothing, but tossed his spoon down. It clattered halfway across the table, leaving spatters of milk in its wake. They sat in stony silence.

Hermione leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. “Am I to assume you’re done talking for the day?”

“If this is what we’re talking about, yes.”

She watched him stare at the milk on the table. She knew it had to be driving him insane to leave it there.

“Would you please just look at me?”

“No.”

“Stop being such an impertinent arsehole. This is not how relationships work.”

“Just because you’re an expert on basically everything else in the universe does not mean that you also get to define precisely how relationships work.”

“Why can’t you answer me?”

“Why do you have to fucking know?” he asked, voice nearing a shout. “Why does it matter at all?”

“Because it does. It just does.”

“You loved the Weasel, you still love Potter and I don’t say a fucking word about how you spend so much time …”

“I don’t love him like that, I told you …”

“That is not the fucking point.”

“It most assuredly is.”

“No it is not. This isn’t about me being jealous or petty or …”

“Then what are you being?” he asked. “Aside from a gigantic pain in the arse?”

She gripped the edges of the table, willing herself not to cry, not to throw anything at him, and not to just storm out of the kitchen, which is exactly what he wanted her to do. She kept her voice low and quiet. “Currently, what I am being is exceedingly patient with you, because your inability to maintain an emotional connection with me sometimes is enough to make me want to …”

“Want to what? Tell me to fuck off and pack my bags?”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Easy out for you, all the blame falls on me, you don’t have to own up to any of your ...”

“Is that what you’re telling me, Granger? To fuck off? Then just do it. Just fucking say that you want to ...”

“I was going to say it was enough to make me want to scream, Draco. That’s all.”

They stared at each other in silence for almost a full minute. Then, Draco stood up, got a napkin from the drawer, and wiped the milk off the table.

“I don’t know, alright? It’s not a yes or a no answer. I don’t know. I thought I did, but I had nothing real to compare it to. So I just don’t know. Is that good enough for you?”

Hermione took a deep breath and looked at him. His face was flushed, his hands were trembling slightly. His eyes were fixed on the balled-up napkin on the counter. He looked so bloody pathetic she actually began to feel bad for even bringing this up.

“Yes,” she said. “It is.”

He exhaled, leaned against the counter, and tossed the napkin into the trash. “I’m going for a walk, Granger. I’ll see you after you get home from work.”

He tried to walk past her without looking at her or touching her, but she grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards her. She put her arms around him and hugged him as hard as she could, pressing her head against his chest. He remained stiff and unresponsive for a minute, but eventually gave in, softening against her and burying his nose in her hair.

------

August

“Hello, Narcissa,” Hermione said, sitting in the chair across from the hospital bed. “Draco wasn’t feeling well this evening, so he asked me to come by instead. Don’t worry … nothing serious. He doesn’t want you catching it, that’s all.”

Narcissa, of course, made no reply. Hermione sat and watched the ribbon of mist spool itself into the jewelry box for a few moments. Narcissa’s chest rose and fell with even breaths. A Healer came by to check her vitals, then left. Hermione almost asked her to come back to the room. It was strange to be here by herself; she had spent many, many nights here with Draco over the past few months, but she had never been in this room alone with Narcissa; not even for a moment.

“Would you like me to read to you? I’ve got a ton of books if you’re sick of The Hair-Hearted Wizard. God knows that I am.”

Hermione grabbed a book from her bag. “Diminuendo and the Law of Conservation of Matter by Cassiopeia Cavendish. Have you read this one before?” she asked Narcissa. “It’s a little dry at first, but it’s really one of the best analyses of the ways magic works outside of empirical confines of Muggle physics that I’ve ever read. Shall I begin at the beginning or just skip to my favorite chapter?”

No reply. Not that she was expecting one.

Hermione sighed and closed the book. “Look, Narcissa, this is really kind of awkward for me, you know? Because I’ve seen you nearly every day for the past six months, and quite a bit before then, but you are still basically just a stranger to me. And kind of a hostile one, at that. I mean, as hostile as a person in a coma can be. That sounds really silly and also really harsh, and I’m sorry, but this is a bizarre situation, to say the least. I mean, I’ve made my peace with the fact that I’m in a relationship with your son, but I haven’t had a chance to make any sort of peace with you. Because I haven’t had to. And if I’m being completely honest here, and I know how this makes me sound, I’m not really looking forward to having to do that. I want you to get better, of course, but it’s almost like I just want it to happen in an abstract sort of way. Because you know,” she said, tears gathering in her eyes before she even realized it was happening, “I am actually kind of terrified about what will happen when you wake up, because Draco loves you more than I can even understand, and I just know you’re going to pull him away from me. And not just because I’m a Mudblood--and if Astoria wasn’t good enough for you, God knows I’m not--but also because you’re his mum and you’ll basically be coming back to life, and of course he’s going to want to spend all his time with you.” She sniffled and dug for a tissue in her bag. “And of course he should, because you’re his mother, he loves you and you love him, and all I want is for him to be happy, but,” she paused here to blow her nose, “but I love him too, and I can’t believe I’m finally admitting that out loud, but it’s true, it’s true.” She swiped at her eyes with her sleeves. “Goddammit, Hermione, get yourself together.”

If Narcissa had been the least bit affected by her emotional outburst, there was no sign.

“Most of that made me sound like a selfish twit, and I’m sort of sorry, but also sort of not, because it’s a relief to finally say these things out loud. So thank you for listening. And who knows? Maybe one day we can have heart to hearts like this all of the time.” She gave Narcissa’s hand an awkward pat. “If you were conscious, I have no doubt you’d find that terribly funny.”

She watched the mist curl through the air for a few more moments, then stuffed her belongings back into her bag. “Well … I guess I should be off. I’ll see you again soon. Goodnight, Narcissa.”

Of course, she didn’t kiss her on the forehead the way Draco did before leaving every night, but she did fluff the pillow, draw the drapes, and water her plants. It was the least she could do.

-----------------

Hermione was reading a book, head resting on Draco’s lap. He was supposedly also reading a book, but was mostly staring off into space and playing with a lock of her hair.

“Granger?” he said.

“Mmm.”

“Why did you ask me to coffee that day?”

“You looked under-caffeinated,” she said, eyes not leaving the page.

“I’m serious.”

She looked up at Draco. “I can see right up your nose,” she said. “I never noticed how narrow your nostrils were.”

“Granger …”

Hermione sighed and put the book face-down on her chest. “I am still not entirely sure, Draco. I think it was part curiosity, part unconscious attraction, and yes, okay, part pity, but I’d really rather not revisit that discussion. Why are you asking?”

“Sometimes I think about how different things would be if I had said no, or if you hadn’t been so infuriatingly nosy about the book, or if I had just been six percent more of a bastard to you at any point.”

“Eleven percent would have been the tipping point, really.”

“I’m serious.”

“Beginning a line of conversation like this is highly unlike you.”

“I know.” He wound her hair around his finger until his fingertip turned white, then released it. He sat without saying anything else for so long that she was just about to return to her book, but then he said: “I just … I just want you to know that I’m not going to make the same mistake I did before. Like I did with Astoria.”

Hermione sat up and narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you have your mum’s hospital room bugged?”

“What? No. Why? Do you think there’s a security issue?”

She relaxed back against the couch. “No. Nothing like that. Nevermind.”

Suddenly, he seemed to understand. “That night I was sick, you mean?”

Hermione blushed, but did not answer.

“She’s a much better listener now than she ever was,” he said.

“If she actually can hear us, she is going to have a lot to say when she wakes up.”

“I hope she can, though, Granger. Because then she’ll already know how I feel, and that you’re not going anywhere.”

Hermione leaned against him.

“You’re not, are you?” he asked quietly.

“Of course not.”

“It’s going to be difficult.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to have to move back to the Manor for a bit. To take care of her and help her re-adjust and everything. Especially if Father hasn’t turned up by then.”

“I figured as much.”

“I’m also probably going to be a bit fucked-up in the head again. For a little while, at least. Just warning you.”

“I also figured that.”

He put his arms around her and kissed her gently. “I’m glad I stopped before I hit eleven percent.”

“You got close sometimes,” she said, turning back to her book. “You still do.”

“I try.”

She punched him in the arm once. For Harry.

Chapter Text

September

Draco was still asleep in the bedroom when the two owls came to Hermione’s living room window. One of them was just the Prophet, but the other was Nero. Hermione tucked a coin into the Prophet owl’s pouch and retrieved some filet from the refrigerator for Nero.

Nero gave her a suspicious scowl as she untied the letter from its leg. “He’s in the other room, Nero. Remember when he explained to you that I was perfectly capable of collecting his mail? Get over it, fella.” She offered him the filet. He hooted in disdain, but took the filet before flying off.

Hermione put the letter on the table; Draco would likely be up in an hour or so. No need to wake him before then. She took the Prophet into the kitchen and began to make tea.

She stopped in her tracks when she read the headline:

“LUCIUS MALFOY: DEAD”

“Lucius Malfoy, noted Death Eater and longtime fugitive, died in a remote Bulgarian village late last night. Malfoy, who left his comatose wife and only son in England, had been on the run for over a year, likely avoiding prosecution for war crimes.

Details are sparse as of press time, but sources say that Malfoy died in a vicious duel with an unidentified wizard. According to eyewitness accounts, the duel involved multiple castings of fiendfyre. No wands or bodies have been recovered.”

Hermione reread the short article a second, third, fourth time, willing further explanation to appear each time her eyes reached the final period.

There were two pictures accompanying the article: a photograph of Lucius from his Death Eater days and the field where the duel had taken place, tendrils of black smoke still curling up from the scorched grass.

Hermione took the paper and Nero’s message and went into her bedroom.

Draco was sleeping, head not on the pillow but, as was his habit, jammed into the space between his pillow and hers. She kissed his temple and sat next to him on the bed. He stirred slightly. She stroked his hair until one of his eyes finally opened.

“Granger?”

“Hello.”

“What time is it?”

“Early.”

He took one of her hands and kissed it.

“Are you just … watching me sleep? Because that’s more than a little creepy, you know.”

“Nero came with something for you.”

Draco rubbed his eyes and sat up.

“And … there’s something in The Prophet you need to see. I’m so very, very sorry.”

Hermione handed him the the paper and looked at her hands. She could not bear to watch him read it.

After a few moments, he put the paper down and took the parchment. Then, he handed the parchment to her and looked at the paper again.

Hermione read:

Dear Mr. Malfoy:

I was hoping to get this letter to you ahead of the news reports, but that will probably be unlikely. Nastasya has already spoken to someone from The Daily Prophet (for which she received quite a tidy sum, so you might want to factor that in when you calculate our salaries). I wanted to tell you sooner, but I also wanted to make sure I was certain about what happened before I did. This isn’t information you share lightly, of course. On to the point. Nastasya and I located a wizard we believed to be Ignatius Crabbe six days ago. He was hanging out in a village in the Haskovo region of Bulgaria. We followed a tip from a Merperson, actually. You wouldn’t believe how long it took to find a Mermish translator. Anyway, the Merperson led us to Ignatius Crabbe, who was in this village. We watched him for a few days to make sure it was him. We planned to apprehend him during the night, so we hunkered down in a church that afternoon to wait it out. Well, just as dusk was falling, who should show up to that same village but Lucius Malfoy (your father).

So Nastasya and I (disguised to look like locals, of course) approach Lucius and welcome him to the town, ask what he’s doing there, etc. etc., and he says he’s looking for a stranger. Dark hair, strange clothes, basically just describing Crabbe. We ask what he wants with him and he gets very angry, pushes Nastasya out of the way, calls me a ‘useless cur’ and stalks off. Nastasya and I realize we need to regroup, because now we’ve got two powerful wizards to apprehend, and I mention that it’s a good idea to contact you, but she says we can do this ourselves. I agree (reluctantly, I must add), and we change our disguises and tail Lucius.

He asks some other villagers about Crabbe and they point him to the inn where Crabbe was staying. So just before nightfall, Lucius stands in this field behind the inn and calls Crabbe out. We’re thinking that this would be good because we’d be able to round them both up at once. So Crabbe strides out of the inn, wand in his hand, and stands maybe 10 meters from Lucius. The air is positively crackling between them. Nastasya and I try to cast binding charms on both men, but Lucius blocks them. We try several other spells with the same results; even my best stunning hex gets waved off like a gnat. I’m expecting them to start shouting at one another, trash-talking, but nothing. They both just stare silently, wands out, and then Lucius aims Avadra at him, but Crabbe blocks it, and then Crabbe starts casting fiendfyre. Mr. Malfoy, I must be honest with you here, Nastasya and I aborted the mission and retreated to safer ground, because you do not fuck with fiendfyre. Crabbe casts it again and again, like he’s lost all control, and this gigantic flaming Chimera takes them both. Fortunately for the residents of the village, once Crabbe’s wand is destroyed, the flames die out. There was some damage to the inn, but no Muggles were harmed, and we wiped their memory as required by law.

Unfortunately, as I was wiping memories and repairing the inn, Nastasya was talking to the Prophet, because casting fiendfyre sets off all kinds of alarms, and it was only a matter of time before the news and the authorities got there. Do not worry, though, we kept your name out of it.

Again, I’m sorry to have to report all of this to you, and many condolences for your loss. I will understand if the payment for our services is a bit delayed, of course.

Regards,

Solon Kankaredes

Hermione finally looked over at Draco. He had put the paper on the nightstand and was sitting with his head tilted back against the headboard, eyes closed. Hermione covered his hand with hers.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” she said. “Is there anything I can do? Make arrangements or … anything?”

He swallowed hard and said: “You can go to the Manor and the Hospital and anywhere else you think they’ll be looking for me and tell the Prophet and whomever else that they can go fuck themselves because I have no fucking comment whatsoever.”

“Okay.”

“And you can go check in on Mother for the next few nights.” He got up and pulled on a shirt and pants.

“What? Why? Where are you going? Draco, you’re not thinking of going to …”

“Of course I am, Granger. You know I have to see for myself.” He went to the closet, grabbed his valise, and began stuffing things inside. “You think I’m going to trust that imbecile not only that it was indeed my father and Crabbe, but also that they’re both dead and the wands are gone? I’m supposed to just take the words of that cretinous goon as incontrovertible proof?”

“But …”

“You know you’re not changing my mind.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No you’re not,” he said.

“But …”

“Granger,” he said, closing up the valise. “I’m going by myself.”

“Draco …”

He put his hands on her shoulders and locked his eyes onto hers. “I need you here. I need you with her. I need you to be here for me when I get back.”

Hermione put her hands on his face, stroking his cheeks with the pads of her thumb. “Be careful, you stupid arsehole.”

Draco gave her a half-smile, pulled her hands from his face, kissed each of them, and Disapparated.

-------------

Hermione nursed her tea.

“You need a refill yet?” Harry asked.

“No thanks.”

“Want something stronger?”

“No.”

She was parked on Harry’s couch, which had once been a sensible shade of burgundy, but was now aquamarine and hovered a few centimeters in the air. It had made her slightly seasick at first, but wasn’t too bad once you got used to it. So far, she hadn’t noticed any improvement to her crossword puzzle skills, which Luna said the hovering would provide.

“You haven’t heard from him yet?”

“No,” she said, failing miserably at keeping the whine out of her voice. “It’s been nearly a week.”

“I mean, if they were casting fiendfyre, there aren’t going to be any wands or bodies,” he said. “It’s amazing that there’s still a village. There’s nothing for him to even be looking for.”

“It’s his father, Harry. And if he can get Crabbe’s wand, he can save his mum. He’s got to be sure.” She slumped into the cushions. “I just wish he’d hurry up.”

“I know,” Harry said, sitting next to her on the couch. “Do you want to watch a terrible movie? Take your mind off it?”

Hermione exhaled mightily and looked over at Harry. “My heart’s not in it. But thanks.”

“You sure? I’ve got this one where a guy changes into a cyborg with a vendetta, but only when it rains. It’s called Cloudy with a Chance of Pain. It looks amazing.”

“That does sound good.”

“I know. And Luna is great and all, but she’s genuinely, earnestly entertained by these movies … like, to an almost concerning degree … and it’s kind of weird to watch them with her.”

Hermione laughed. “So how is living with Luna going?”

“Every day is an adventure,” he said. “Last week I discovered that she had charmed all of the mirrors so that they were actually windows that looked out onto the front walk. I don’t think our elderly neighbor has quite recovered yet.”

Hermione giggled and shook her head. “Domestic bliss.” She took a sip of tea. “Draco arranges all of the boxes of pasta and cereal and whatnot by size order. And the produce in the refrigerator as well. Even individual stalks of celery.”

Harry blew on his tea to cool it. “Luna doesn’t believe that socks should be confined in drawers.”

“Draco has fifteen identical pairs of black socks and even though they are all indeed identical, he is exceedingly particular about making sure that each sock gets paired with the exact same sock every time.”

“Luna has said that for a pet, she’d like to have ‘a literal watch-dog.’ Still have no idea what that means, but I assure her that I’m on the lookout for one.”

“Draco keeps hiding my photograph of Crookshanks--may he rest in peace--because he is allergic to both cats and kneazles.”

“Luna describes every dream that she has in such painstaking detail that sometimes I fall asleep as she is telling me, which is, I think, kind of ironic.”

“Draco giggles in his sleep, but can never explain what was so funny when he wakes up.”

“Luna sometimes turns the lights off in the bathroom while I’m showering to help me find Phospherillas that might be hiding in my shampoo.”

“Draco scourgifies the tub before and after he showers.”

“Luna told Shacklebolt that spindlemoss spores could cure baldness.”

“No,” Hermione gasped.

“Yes,” Harry said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Hermione offered: “When Draco met my parents, he was so awkward around them that I seriously considered erasing their memories again.”

At this, Harry stood and walked into his bedroom, then came back with a small purple pouch. “Xenophilius is still so sorry for trying to hand me over to the Death Eaters that he made me this.” He handed it to Hermione. “And I sincerely hope this is not what he claims it to be, but I cannot help but think that it is.”

Hermione drew a necklace out of the pouch. It was quite ugly: a thin green thread laced through a series of irregularly-shaped brown and grey rocks. “What are these?”

“His kidney stones.”

“Augh!!!!” Hermione dropped the necklace to the floor and began frantically wiping her hands on the couch.

Harry laughed and put it back in the pouch. “He says it keeps your aura clear.”

“I choose cloudy aura, all day every day.”

“Luna says I don’t have to wear it. Even she is skeptical about that one.”

“10 points to Ravenclaw.”

“Also, for Christmas she made a gingerbread house out of cheese.”

“That ... actually sounds delicious.”

“It was.”

Hermione gave her hands one final swipe on the couch. “Two weeks ago Draco tried to make me a birthday cake without using magic. When I say that he almost burned my flat down, I am not exaggerating for rhetorical effect. The mess he made was genuinely comical. Yesterday I found flour in my hairbrush. How he managed that, I do not know.”

“I would really have liked to witness that process.”

“Me too, but he wanted it to be a surprise. He did it while I was at work. It was … a surprise indeed.”

“Well,” Harry said, pushing his glasses up on his nose, “that sounds remarkably thoughtful of him.”

Hermione sighed. “He really tries sometimes.”

“It’s just a little weird still,” he admitted. “You know?”

“I do. It’s a little weird to me too, when I stop and think about it. Which is why I try not to.”

“I just wish he were someone less … Malfoy. And not,” he said, giving her a pointed look, “just because he’s Malfoy, but because then we could all hang out again. Like, if he were Dean or some random bloke, we could all get drinks or watch Muggle action movies or just laugh at each other. Now, it’s just you and him, and then you and us, but we all know that you and us is you and him and us, but without him.”

“Did you spike your tea?”

“Oh shut up, you know what I mean.”

“I do. And you’re not wrong.”

“But you’re happy with him? Like, genuinely happy?”

“Yes, Harry,” she said. “And also, I did punch him once for you.”

“Well, I guess that’s all I can ask for.”

“And just so you know, I never really pictured you and Luna together, either. But you seem so happy with her, and she with you, and I’m genuinely glad for you both.”

“We are happy. And I never saw me and Luna as a thing, either. But then you and I … sort of got together … and that was ....”

“Inadvisable.”

“Yes. Because we … how should I put this?”

“Had as much chemistry as a crumpled paper sack and a piece of old carpet?”

“Yes.”

“So after Ginny broke your heart, you thought: here’s my very best friend, whom I know I will always be able to trust, whom I already know I love …”

“Who is kind, and smart, and brave, and everything I thought I’d ever wanted in a girlfriend.”

“Who has been with me through just about everything imaginable.”

“We made perfect sense on paper,” Harry said.

“We did.”

“But then … sack and carpet.”

“Yes.”

“And I thought, bloody hell, if this isn’t what I am looking for, then what is?”

“So then Luna …” she began.

“And Draco …” he added with a resigned sigh.

“Who made very little sense on paper ...”

“Hermione, Draco makes the opposite of sense, on paper and off.”

“I know.” She gave a sly smile. “But we are anything but sack and carpet.”

“Too much information!” Harry said, throwing his hands in the air and waving them emphatically.

“Well, I don’t want to hear anything about what kind of freaky stuff Luna likes to do in the bedroom either. I can’t even imagine.”

“No,” Harry said, grinning from ear to ear. “You can’t.”

“Too much information!” she said, picking up a pillow and whomping him with it.

“Careful,” he said, holding his arms up in defense, “this is how sack and carpet got started last time!”

She laughed and whomped him again.

“Truce! Truce!” He held his hands up in defeat. “Because I’m actually starving. Do you want to go get some …”

But before he could finish the sentence, there was a tap at his window.

“I assume that’s his,” Harry said, nodding at the gigantic golden bird on his sill.

“Nero!” She rushed to the window. “Harry, do you have any filet? Or beef wellington?”

“Are you joking?”

Hermione ignored him and pulled the parchment from Nero’s leg.

“Granger -

The goon was an imbecile, but I think he was right. I’ve talked to other people in the village, and they all say the same thing. Two strangers, terrible accident with a huge fire. I even unwiped and then rewiped the memories from three different Muggle witnesses to be sure. Hunted down Nastasya and same story from her too. And there’s no trace of either Crabbe or my father or their wands. So that’s that.

There was a time when I would have started spinning convoluted conspiracy theories in my head about this, but I don’t have the energy for that kind of shit anymore. He’s dead and so is Crabbe and the wands are gone.

Anyway, I’m writing to say that I’m fine, but I have a few other things I want to do while I’m away, so it might be a little while before I’m back.

I’m also writing to tell you that I know how much you love talking about feelings, and I know it must indeed be frustrating for you to be with me, as I am not particularly fond of talking about feelings unless I am drunk, and overall, you’ve shown an admirable amount of restraint in not attempting to force me to prate on about that sort of thing. So in that vein, I am just letting you know right now that I’m not going to want to talk about this when I get back. My father is dead, and my mother is half alive, and I am dealing with that.

(Did you see what I wrote up there, Granger? She’s half alive. Optimistic for me, no?) (Also: I am indeed a little drunk right now, fair warning).

Ok, so look, if you want the truth (don’t you always?), it has been hard to fully accept that I’m not going to see him again. Not him, not his body, not even the clothes he was wearing. I wrote him off when I thought he cursed Mother, but then when we found out about Crabbe, I foolishly let myself hope that things would turn out all sunshine and rainbows, and that was my mistake. Anyway, if you want even more truth, I’m actually handling this fairly well, considering. I’m mostly just pissed that he never tried to contact me, but was just so consumed with rage and revenge and whatever else that he thought finding Crabbe was more important that me and Mother. I’m sure he thought he was protecting us, but some part of him had to know that not saying a fucking word to me was a singularly terrible idea. I suppose I should have learned a long time ago, though, that his will is his way, my feelings be damned. Because he’s always loved the idea of me, but he’s never bothered to discern where that idea ended and where I actually began. Draco is the son and the heir, a way to gain favor and prove loyalty, a treasure to be protected, but not necessarily an individual capable (worthy?) of making any decisions based on his own ideas, emotions, experiences, etc. Where am I even going with this? I don’t know. Bloody hell, I am rambling. I’m sorry, Granger. I shouldn’t have had that third (fourth?) glass of wine.

So I’m not going to see him again, and I’m not going to get the wands, but there is still that curl of mist. In some ways, nothing is different.

Right. So no talking about this when I get back. I’m OK. I am. And I think that one day (but not any day soon), I will probably end up telling you about this trip, and how the field by the inn still smelled like burning hair, and how I put some of the ashes from the ground into a box so that Mother could at least have that, but then how I couldn’t be sure if they were Father’s or his, and how this fact made me so disgusted that I actually vomited, and how the most chicken-shit cowardly part of myself almost wishes Mother wouldn’t wake up so that I never had to tell her any of this, and how I cannot stop blaming myself for all of it. All of it.

If you were here, you’d tell me that blaming myself was stupid and wrong. Even though I would tell you that you didn’t understand, it’s nice to have you in my head like that. It was so much harder when you weren’t. I hope you always will be.

So I just need a little more time out here by myself. But I will be back. Because through you I am losing what seemed myself and I am finding selves unimaginably mine. Because you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars. (that’s not the wine talking; it’s cummings.) (And me.)
- D.M.”

Hermione wasn’t sure when she had started crying, or when Harry had started hugging her, but she was glad that she had gotten this owl when she was with him, and not alone in her own flat.

“Is he … uhm … is he alright?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” she sniffled.

“Is he … not coming back?”

“No, he is. In a bit.”

“Oh. Then what’s wrong?”

“It’s just so hard for him. And there’s nothing I can do. And it’s impossible for me to say things like, ‘he doesn’t deserve this,’ because I know you think that he does, but ...” she sobbed. “But … in a lot of ways he doesn’t, because …”

He pulled her closer. “I don’t want him to suffer, Hermione, and I don’t want you to think you’re not allowed to feel stuff for him.”

“He’s just been through so much, and a lot of it was his fault, but not all of it. And he doesn’t even really know how to process some things, you know? But he’s trying. I know he is. And everyone thinks I’m, like, some sort of mental patient for being with him, or like a saint or something, but I’m neither of those things. I’m just … with him because I want to be. And maybe I’ve been good for him, but he’s been good for me too, because he has made me truly understand that love is a verb and not a noun. And even though he makes it really fucking difficult sometimes, and even though everything is probably going to hell when Narcissa wakes up, I also know that every day with him is worth it, even if I don’t fully understand why.” She reached for a tissue in her bag. “Oh God, I am sorry that I am such a mess right now.”

“It’s okay, Hermione.” Harry stroked her hair.

Hermione blew her nose and took a few deep breaths.

Harry leaned down and picked up something off the floor. He pried Hermione’s hand open and closed her fist around it. “Here. It looks like you could use this.”

Hermione opened her hand. Inside was a small purple pouch. She looked at Harry and the two of them burst into peals of laughter.

Chapter Text

November

The bare branches looked like skeleton fingers against the indigo sky. Hermione pulled her collar up and huddled against Draco.

“What are we looking for?” she asked.

“Shooting star. Supposed to be a meteor shower tonight.”

“Ah.” She took out her wand and held it in above them. “But why would we wait for that, when we can just do this?” She whispered an incantation; sparks shot from her wand and filled the air with a glittering miniature galaxy. Two falling stars streaked across her simulacrum of the sky.

“You think you’re mocking me, but you are really just proving my point.” he said.

“I’m doing neither,” she said. “Or maybe both.”

The stars from her wand winked out, leaving just the inky expanse above them.

“You kind of gave nature a tough act to follow, Granger.”

She laughed softly and looked over at him. Moonlight edged his profile in silver. She watched his eyes search the heavens, watched tiny clouds form as he exhaled. Something in her chest began to reach its way into her throat.

“Draco?”

He turned to her and brought a hand to her face, tracing a line over one of her eyebrows, down her cheek, across her chin. His eyes were almost colorless in the starlight. He drew a breath, and seemed as if he were about to say something, but he stopped and sighed, and kissed her gently instead.

She closed her eyes, pressed her forehead against his, and said: “I love you too, Draco.”

He took her hand in his, then brought it to his lips. Above them, the stars remained stubbornly fixed in place.

December

He was oddly calm, she thought, for what this day was going to bring. She was the one pacing a groove into the carpet.

“You’re making me edgy, Granger.”

“How are you not edgy to begin with, Draco?”

“Because there is nothing I can do at this point. It is either going to work today or it’s not.” He looked down at his watch. “Alright, let’s head over.”

-------

There was no one else in the room but them. Smethwyck had wanted to be there to watch, of course, but Draco had forbidden it. Hermione had also offered several times to give Draco and Narcissa some privacy, but he had refused. He wanted her to be here, and so she was.

Narcissa looked the same as she always did: placid, motionless, pale. The mist continued to drift steadily from her ear into the box.

Draco glanced up at the clock, then back down at his mother. He wiped his palms on the back of his jeans.

Hermione could not decide whether to look at the clock, Narcissa, the mist, the box, or Draco. She finally settled on her own hands, and then, perhaps overthinking things to an egregious degree, decided to stuff them into the pockets of her jumper, because what if the first thing Narcissa saw when she woke up was the fluorescent light glinting off the stone on her ring?

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the mist began to dwindle. What had started as a thin ribbon narrowed into a thread. And then, it vanished entirely. The jewelry box snapped shut. A ghostly yellow glow emanated from the box briefly, then faded.

“Granger,” Draco said, voice barely a whisper.

She moved closer to him. Sweat stood on his forehead. He held out his right hand to Hermione and interlaced their fingers.

Narcissa’s eyes moved beneath her lids.

“Mother?” he took his mother's right hand in his left. “Can you hear me?”

Narcissa drew a deep breath and opened her eyes.

THE END