True to his word—the second time around—Draco dutifully compiled all the research he had amassed over the months and years in one neat bundle to send to Granger. He noticed the copy of Potio Ex Animo that still sat on his nightstand, wholly unforgotten after his drunken night in the library. Flipping to the page he had dog-eared, Draco ran his finger over the Latin text of the potion he had found: The Draught of Inanis. Swallowing, Draco conjured a piece of parchment and quill from his father's nearby office, and scrawled: Draught of Inanis? and tucked the piece of parchment at the bottom of the bundle he was going to send to Granger.
Draco knew she was smart enough to realize that this potion had absolutely nothing to do with developing a potion for his mother or her condition. It could have been included accidentally, he mused—independent research thrown in with the rest—completely innocent. Or, he could ask her about it truly, when she made the connection; Draco hadn't completely decided how to play it quite yet.
Before he could think about it any further, Draco wrapped the bundle with fine silver twine and made his way to the owlery located on the grounds of the manor. Day was slowly darkening into night, and the remaining sunlight was bleeding into the night in the western sky. It was a chilly evening, and Draco was regretting not bringing a cloak. Instead, he remained in his shirt from earlier, left arm still rolled up to his elbow and soaked in blood. Draco had been too lazy to roll it down or vanish the blood. Part of him wanted to see it—the blood at least, as a reminder that he could destroy his Mark.
He could. And he knew he probably would, again. It was Granger's voice in the back of his head, though, telling him that he shouldn't. Somehow, the little swot had gotten to him today.
Pushing away his thoughts of the Mark, and Granger, and the Mark and Granger, Draco trudged up the steps of the owlery. Making his way to the top of the tower, Draco found his faithful eagle owl, Noctua, lazily cleaning the underside of one of his vast wings.
Hearing the creak of footsteps as they landed on the top step of the aged owlery, Noctua snapped his head towards the intrusion, his eyes narrowed, prepared for a threat. Noticing it was his owner, however, Noctua shook his head playfully and cooed at Draco softly.
"Hey there, boy," Draco said softly, scratching the top of Noctua's head with the tips of his nails, just the way he knew the owl liked. "I've got a job for you."
Noctua nipped playfully at Draco's fingertips, asking for a treat—Draco obliged—and then dutifully lifted his leg so Draco could tie the wrapped bundle to Noctua's leg as the owl munched happily on his treat. Once the owl was finished, he pressed his head into Draco's outstretched hand with a soft "hoo."
"I need you to take this to Hermione Granger at Elixir, in Diagon Alley." With one last peck to Draco's fingers, Noctua spread his wings and jumped elegantly into the air, taking flight and gliding effortlessly through the aperture of the tower. Draco watched the owl fly away until he was nothing more than a dot in the night sky. He waited for a few moments, thinking that perhaps Lucius would find a way to get a letter to his mother the very same day as his son had asked him.
Rationally, Draco knew it would take longer than a day for Lucius to find someone willing to smuggle a letter in exchange for a bribe. The Malfoy men were not well-liked or trusted by anyone—in or out of Azkaban. The idea that any guard of Azkaban prison would take Lucius Malfoy at his word, and his word alone, that yes, he would receive the funds in one to two business days, was laughable. But sometimes—not often—Draco hoped.
Hope kept him at the owlery an hour longer than he would have normally stayed. Eventually, Draco gave up what little hope he had and made his way back down the winding steps of the owlery. It had gotten colder since Draco had initially ascended the steps of the owlery, and he walked back to the Manor with a brisk pace, determined to check in on his mother before he grabbed a bottle of firewhiskey and made his way to the library or to his room. He hadn't yet decided whether he wanted to get slightly smashed or completely obliterated.
Much to Draco's surprise, he found his mother sitting in the parlor as he entered the Manor, quietly closing the front door behind him. Quickly, Draco rolled down the sleeve of his shirt and with a flick of his wand cast a scourgify to get rid of the blood. "Mother?" he called, walking towards the parlor.
"In here, darling!" came Narcissa's bright voice from the other room.
Draco leaned in the doorway of brightly lit parlor and watched his mother from afar before announcing his presence. She seemed to be in good spirits that evening, smiling softly as her long blond hair billowed out around her shoulders, illuminated by the fire that she had lit on the far side of the room. "I didn't expect to find you here, Mother."
Narcissa turned to face him, and her smile grew. "I figured it was time to stop my moping about—I've been so silly about your father," she said with a shake of her head. "Come, come, sit, my darling! Let us have a cup of tea. You will never guess who I heard from this afternoon!"
Draco couldn't help the smile that crossed his face at his mother's enthusiasm. She was the happiest he had seen her in months. Obliging, Draco fixed himself a cup of tea from the drink cart that was tucked into the back of the room before sitting next to his mother in the black leather wingback that had been passed down through several generations of Malfoys. "Who did you hear from, Mother?" he asked, taking a sip of his tea.
"Astoria Greengrass! Do you remember her, darling? Daphne's sister?" she asked brightly.
Draco groaned inwardly. So, his mother was going to attempt to set him up with another witch. "I do, Mother, yes."
"Well, she owled me today to ask if I had time for tea sometime this week. Isn't that just lovely?"
"Of course, mother." Draco nodded, even though he really couldn't care less.
"So, since you're both on holiday break from school, I invited her over. I thought the three of us could have a nice little lunch in the solarium tomorrow. Hopefully you don't have any other plans, my darling, she seemed so excited at the prospect."
Draco could feel the smile fall from his face. For a second, he had allowed himself to hope that his mother knew what year it was. Clearly, that wasn't the case. He took another sip of tea, pretending it was firewhiskey in order to steel himself. "Yes, Mother. That does sound lovely."
"Oh, wonderful. Jinxy!" Narcissa called, her attention now drawn away from Draco and instead to the subsequent luncheon she now had to plan for their guest.
Draco sat and stared at the fire before him as his mother and Jinxy discussed the quality of the vegetables, the fruits, and the meats that were currently in the storeroom, whether soup or salad should be served as the appetizer, and of course, the age-old question: chicken or fish? Draco listened for a while before finally, he could no longer take the banality of the conversation.
His mother's attentions fully on lunch and Astoria, Draco quietly slipped out of the parlor and into the kitchen, where he grabbed a bottle of firewhiskey and headed for his room.
Draco decided to get obliterated.
Astoria Greengrass was pretty in the way that all pureblood witches raised with all the niceties of high society were pretty. Her dark hair was pulled back in a low bun at the nape of her neck, perfectly coiffed and without a hair out of place, and her blue eyes sparkled as she met Draco's, blushing prettily when he deigned to look at her. Her countenance was demure, and her facial structure spoke of good breeding.
So yes, Astoria Greengrass was pretty. As Draco sat at the table set for three, next to his mother and across from Astoria, Draco found that he could not have been less interested in her.
"Draco and I were so thrilled to hear from you, my dear," Narcissa said as she elegantly spread a white linen napkin across her lap.
"I was so pleased with your invitation, Mrs. Malfoy. I was not expecting one so soon, if I am being quite honest. But, just the other day, I had the thought: I simply must see the Malfoys soon. It has been much too long." One of Astoria's hands came up from beneath the table and clasped Narcissa's across the table.
"Of course, my dear. The Parkinson's 'Yule Ball was the last time, wasn't it?" Narcissa asked.
Draco could see Astoria falter, her smile tipping downwards for just a fraction of a second before she caught herself. "Something like that," she replied politely, removing her hand from Narcissa's.
Of course, the last time Narcissa had seen Astoria Greengrass had been at the trial of Marlow Greengrass, where he had received five years in Azkaban, only a month before Lucius' own trial.
Astoria turned from Narcissa and to Draco. "And Draco," she said with a bright smile, her cheeks flushing, "it is lovely to see you again." She cast her eyes downward, as if in embarrassment.
"You as well, Astoria. I hope you're doing well. Last I had heard, you had taken up residence on the continent," Draco replied politely.
She nodded. "Yes, I have been living in France for the past few years. Bordeaux, specifically. It is so lovely there, and don't even get me started on the wine!" Astoria said with a tittering laugh.
Draco smiled at her, even though he was already extremely bored. "I'm sure of that. I've always been more partial to firewhiskey, myself."
"Oh, yes, I remember," Astoria said with a giggle. "What was it? My fourth year? The party that Theodore threw in the common room for Halloween. I still remember the impression you did of Celestina Warbeck right before you passed out on the couch."
Draco laughed with Astoria even though he had no memory of that event himself. Apparently, passing out drunk wasn't entirely new for him. At least he was consistent.
Narcissa's smile was plastered on her face, but Draco could see that way her eyes flickered from Astoria and then back to him. "Darling?" she asked tersely, looking to Draco.
Of course, Narcissa thought he was in fourth year, meaning Astoria would still be in third year, and taking in his mother's fake smile, the confusion flashing in her eyes, and he wondered why he ever agreed to this, why he ever thought this was a good idea—"Would you excuse us for a moment, Astoria? My mother is not feeling herself," Draco said, rising from his seat and gently taking his mother's arm.
She took it, staring up at his face in abject confusion.
Astoria looked confused as well as she uttered a quiet, "Of course."
Draco led Narcissa from the solarium, wrapping his arm around her shoulders to comfort her. "It's okay, Mother," he whispered.
"Draco, what in Merlin's name was that girl talking about?" she asked quietly, and Draco could hear the tears starting to bubble below the surface.
"Oh, Mother, she's a confused little dolt, that's all. Nothing to worry about," he lied with a squeeze to her shoulders. "Come, let's get you upstairs and into bed. I'll have Jinxy send up some tea in a bit, but I think you need some rest."
"Your father—?"
"Lyon, Mother. He'll be writing you any day now, I promise."
Narcissa nodded. "You're right, I do need to rest. I'm just a bit confused, that's all," she said with a smile that was much more akin to a grimace.
"I know, I know." Draco kissed his mother's temple as he helped her upstairs and into her bed. "Just rest for now," he said as she laid down on the bed and pulled the large comforter up over her narrow shoulders.
"You're such a good boy, Draco. Such a good son," Narcissa murmured as she settled into her bed.
Draco could feel tears pinprick in the corner of his eyes, and he deftly wiped them away. "Just rest, Mother. I'll take care of our guest."
Narcissa nodded her head from where it was resting on the pillow, her eyes already tightly closed.
Sighing, Draco closed the door behind him and made his way back to the solarium, where Astoria was surely waiting for their return. As he stepped back into the solarium, he immediately began to apologize: "I'm sorry about that, Astoria, my mother—"
"She's not quite there, is she?" Astoria interrupted; her voice different—less polished, less polite.
"I beg your pardon?" he asked coldly, ready to kick the girl out on her arse.
Astoria shook her head. "Sorry, I can be a bit blunt sometimes. Not one of my more charming qualities, apparently." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "My mother gets confused sometimes, too," she added, her tone softer this time. "That's actually why I'm back in England."
"Oh, so your mother thinks it's 1994, too?" he asked, falling back into his seat at the table, tea and lunch now completely forgotten about.
"No, not quite that bad," Astoria replied, her brow wrinkled. "In my mother's world, The Dark Lord never happened." Draco flinched at the title his own lips had been forced to utter thousands of times. "Sorry, another bad habit. I have a lot of them."
Draco sighed, taking a sip of his tea, forgotten and now cold. "Fuck, I wish this was firewhiskey," he muttered.
Astoria grinned before reaching below the table and producing a slim silver flask. "Here," she said, unscrewing the top and pouring a large amount into his teacup, before taking a long swig herself. "Cheers."
"Cheers," Draco murmured back. "Where have you been hiding a flask?"
She grinned at him. "I refuse to wear a dress that doesn't have pockets. I don't care how unladylike it is."
Draco couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him. "Interesting. Are you the same Astoria Greengrass that walked in here an hour ago, or are you a different one?"
Astoria rolled her eyes. "There's Astoria," she drawled, curling her lips over the O, "and then there's Astoria."
"I'm familiar with that song and dance," he replied, taking a long sip of his whiskey-laced tea.
"I'm sure. How long? Your mother, I mean."
Draco shrugged. "She's been like this since the end of the War, on and off. Either she's in bed depressed or she thinks it's a different year."
"That must be hard," Astoria whispered.
"Yes," he agreed simply.
"Daphne takes care of my mother. Things got so bad, she called me back," she began. "Daphne is a typical older sister. Takes care of everything and everyone, pretends like it's all okay—until it really isn't." Astoria took his hand on top of the table. "The bags under your eyes rival hers, Draco."
Draco looked down at the small hand covering his, and then back at the bright blue eyes that were focused on him. "I'm doing the best that I can."
She squeezed his fingers. "Have you ever thought about St. Mungo's?" Immediately, he removed his fingers from her grasp.
"No," he gritted. "Get out."
"Draco, I'm sorry, I just meant—You're not equipped to handle—"
"I said get out."
Astoria nodded, rising. "I didn't mean anything by it, Draco. It's okay to ask for help sometimes." Astoria paused, seeming to think for a moment before speaking again. "I'll be in England for a bit. If you need a friend, don't hesitate to contact me." Astoria squeezed his shoulder, before quietly leaving the solarium.
Draco was seething; so angry he couldn't even see straight. How dare that ignorant little girl even suggest that he just dump his mother off at St. Mungo's—How dare she? Draco quickly drank the rest of his firewhiskey-laced tea in an effort to cool himself, but he slammed the cup down on the table so hard that it shattered. The pieces of the fine china glinted in the natural sunlight of the solarium, much like the glass had in the moonlight just a few days prior, calling to him, teasing him—testing him.
You shouldn't do that.
It was Granger's voice inside his head, and he surprised even himself when he listened. He stood from the table shakily, still dizzy with his anger. Gripping the edge of the table, his knuckles white, Draco inhaled and exhaled several times, attempting to calm himself. He needed to get away from the sharp objects immediately, or he would cave, he knew that. He was just itching to cut at his Mark again. The skin of his left arm tingled with anticipation, and it would be so easy just to—
Pop. "Master Draco, sir!"
Exhale. "Yes, Jinxy?" Inhale. Exhale.
"Sirs is having a letter, sirs!"
Draco forced a smile and faced Jinxy. "Thank you, Jinxy. You can just leave it on the table here."
"Yes, sirs!"
Another pop, and Draco was alone again. He saw the purple E and immediately knew the letter was from Granger. Tearing it open, hoping that maybe she had found something already, he was met with another disappointment:
Mr. Malfoy,
I have reviewed your research and I have a few questions. Would it be possible for you to swing by the shop around 4? Apologies for the short notice—we could make it Monday if that would be better for you.
Sincerely,
Hermione Granger, Master of Brewing and Potion-making. Owner and founder of Elixir
It was 3 o'clock now. A couple more gulps of firewhiskey and he would be ready to go.
As Draco was wont to do, he drank a bit more firewhiskey than he had intended, and he was currently unsteady on his feet. But suddenly it was 3:55 and Draco was supposed to meet Granger in five minutes—
And he really should Floo, apparating like this would be dangerous—
But then there was a twisting, wrenching motion behind his belly button, and he was spinning, spinning, much too fast, and fuck, he was going to splinch himself—
There was a loud crash around him, the wind was knocked out of him, and his face was slamming into the floor with a crack. A gasp, and the sound of glass breaking. Draco sat up quickly—too quickly—his vision swimming at the movement. His jaw ached and he opened his mouth to crack it. A loud crack and the ache subsided. In front of him stood Granger and a customer, who had dropped a potion all over the floor.
Déjà vu.
"I'm sorry, this is an emergency. I'm going to have to ask you to come back tomorrow," Granger said to her customer, grasping the older woman's wrists between her palms. The woman nodded and scurried out of the shop, Hermione following. Once the woman had left, Hermione closed the door behind her forcefully, locking it with a loud click. "You have to stop doing that, Malfoy."
"Sorry," he murmured from his spot on the floor.
"You broke a chair!"
"Oh, is that what I hit?"
"You're supposed to land on your feet, not your stomach. I'd appreciate if you didn't belly flop on any more of my furniture."
"What's a belly flop?"
Suddenly she was standing over him. "You're drunk," she accused.
"Yes."
"Malfoy—"
"You said you had questions."
She sighed. "At least get off the floor."
"I'm quite comfortable here."
"Malfoy—"
"Bugger. You're no fun, Granger," Draco said, rising unsteadily.
Granger grabbed his arm to help pull him up. "Why are you drunk at four in the afternoon, Malfoy?" she asked, her hand still wrapped around his arm.
"Been a bad day." Draco shrugged.
"First, you bleed all over my office, then you scare off my customers and break my furniture. And now, I get to deal with you drunk. Wonderful. Gods, you are so much more trouble than you are worth."
"I know." And he knew, he really, really did.
Granger sighed and put an arm around his waist. "Come on, we'll get you to my office and I'll get you something to sober up."
"Nope. Don't wanna," he argued petulantly.
"Well, that's too bad." Arm around his waist, she led him slowly to her office, where she deposited him into the familiar yellow chair with the floral seat cushion. "Stay here—don't apparate anywhere—I'll be right back."
She was back in a few minutes, a small purple vial held only by her fingertips. "I don't want it," he whispered.
"I won't talk to you about Narcissa while you're drunk."
Draco grabbed the vial from her fingertips and downed the potion. He'd taken his fair share of sober-up potions, but Granger's was by far the most effective. And the most painful. "It hurts how sober I am," he murmured, shuddering.
Granger smirked. "I've heard that a few times. I've adjusted it a bit—you're shocked back into sobriety; it does hurt a bit. Not my finest work, if I'm honest."
Draco grimaced. "You have to tone that down, Granger. That is a rough transition."
"But effective."
"Gods, my mouth tastes so bad."
Granger winced. "Yeah, that's probably the worst side-effect. I'm working on it."
"No, the worst side effect is—fuck, my head hurts. You realize that's the point of a sober-up? To reduce the hangover. This is worse."
"Constructive criticism, okay," Granger said, rolling her eyes.
"Can I at least have some water? Fuck."
Granger chuckled but summoned a glass of water for him. "Here, you big baby."
Gulping down several mouthfuls of water, Draco placed the glass down the desk, where Granger had settled in across from him. "You said you had questions?" he asked again.
She nodded before pulling a long piece of parchment, riddled with notes, from the formidable stack on her desk. "Yes. So immediately, my first thought was a standard memory potion, which I'm certain you've already tried, even though it is noticeably absent from your notes?"
Draco nodded. "First one I tried."
Granger nodded once more before scribbling notes on the margins of her parchment. "How many doses did you administer? And over what time period?"
Draco let out a sigh. "Once weekly, over about six months. There was no change so I—"
"—Increased the concentration of stewed Mandrake?" Granger interrupted.
"Yes."
She began to scribble once more. "Any changes in efficacy with the modification?" she asked, without looking up at him.
"She never once misplaced her wand."
Granger put down her quill and looked up at him sharply. "Be serious here, Malfoy."
Draco shrugged, but relented. "No, not really."
"How about a standard Depression Draught? I didn't see that in the notes either," she asked, once more scribbling furiously.
"Yes, my note-taking was rather lacking immediately following the War. Probation and all that." Granger flashed her eyes at him in warning. Draco sighed. "You already know the answer to that, Granger—of course I did. It was impossible to get her to take a mass-produced one—she refused, and with the taste, I couldn't exactly slip it into her tea. So, after my probation, I brewed a flavorless one. I slipped that to her for about six months, too."
"At the same time as the Memory Potion? Did you make any modifications to it?"
"Yes, at the same time. No, no modifications. The ingredients were too volatile, I was afraid to mess with it too much."
"Why'd you stop giving it to her?" Granger asked, still scribbling.
"It didn't do anything. So, I stopped. It took forever to brew, and it began to become a waste of time, so that—" Draco gesticulated wildly with his hands, in the direction of her notes, "is when the research came in."
Granger nodded thoughtfully, nibbling idly on the feathers of her quill. "Figures," she muttered.
"What figures?" Draco asked coldly, already offended by whatever thought had just entered her head.
She looked up at him for a moment, blinking slowly. Once. Twice. "Figures that you've already done exactly what I would have done."
"Oh," he said dumbly.
"A higher concentration of stewed Mandrake was a really good call, Malfoy. As with the Depression Draught. I wouldn't mess with it myself, but perhaps, I can come up with a different version, with less volatile ingredients that I could tinker with—" she trailed off, chewing once more on her quill.
Plump pink lips, in contrast with the darkness of the feather, a peek of tongue—Draco snapped to attention. Hermione Granger had just told him he had done a good job. He could hardly believe it. In fact, he didn't. She had to be mocking him somehow. "Right," he snorted.
Granger either missed his tone entirely or, heard it and chose to ignore it. She cleared her throat before she began speaking again, "There's a muggle condition called 'dementia'—well, I suspect wizards get it, too, but that's beside the point—and I'm going to do some research on the condition, see what I can find." Her voice had softened, and suddenly she seemed very timid. Her eyes were downcast on her parchment, but she had ceased her furious scribbling.
It took Draco a moment to figure it out: she had mentioned Muggles and was awaiting his subsequent reaction. She thought he was the same. But he wasn't. He was so far away from that rotten little boy who had called her a 'Mudblood' on the grounds of Hogwarts just because he wanted to hurt her, to get a rise out of her. "Sounds like a good idea, Granger. So far, wizarding potions have appeared useless."
Granger blinked again, slower this time, clearly surprised. She swallowed, her eyes darting back and forth, clearly searching for her next words. "Oh," was all she came up with.
"It's not how it used to be, Granger," he offered, the only concession he was willing to make as of yet.
She stared at him for a moment before she nodded. "No, I guess it really isn't," she relented.
"Anything else?" he asked, his head still aching from Granger's brutal sobriety potion—and the fact that he was sober at all.
"One more thing!" she gasped, pulling the parchment high up into the air as she reached the bottom of it. "Most of your research seems very logical, built upon, piece by piece—which I admire, really, that's how I work—start at the bottom, and work your way up, connecting the dots, filling in pieces of the puzzle, if you will, then building upon that foundation—"
"Granger, you're rambling."
Granger gulped. "Yes, I do that," she replied with a chuckle. "My point is the last note didn't make any sense. The Draught of Inanis? It's not something I'm familiar with, but I am certain that it has absolutely nothing to do with memory or memory loss. Unless it's something you have created."
This was the moment. The moment he knew would come, but still he had yet to make a decision. An accident; not related. He could take it back, keep it to himself, try to make it himself. Or the truth; he could ask her, and she would know. She would know how much he just wanted to not feel. "Unrelated. Something I came across; for me."
The truth then. Draco gulped. He wasn't sure how or why the words left his lips, but they were out, and if she didn't know what he was asking her for now, she soon would.
"Oh, something separate? No problem. I'll look into it; as I said, I'm not familiar with it," she said brightly.
"Thanks, Granger," he murmured, the words feeling thick and wrong on his tongue—words he'd never thought he'd say one after the other.
"That's all for now, I suppose," she said with a small smile. "I'll be out of town for the next few days, but I wanted to fill in some of the holes before I left. I think better when I have all the pieces."
Draco nodded, and rose from his chair. "I'll owl you if I have any more information, and vice versa?" he asked tentatively.
"Yes." She smiled again. And then, as if she were nervous, her tongue darted out and across her bottom lip.
Why did he keep looking at her lips?
Draco turned to leave but only made it as far as the doorway before he turned to face her again. "Why can I apparate into your shop? The first time I was pissed off and didn't even think about it—so I did it again. It's very unusual, Granger, that just anyone can pop right into your shop," he said, eyebrows raised.
Standing behind her desk, Granger rolled her eyes. "I have the wards set so that anyone can apparate in during normal business hours. I was going for a homey feel—apparently too homey."
"I'm just saying, if you value your furniture at all—"
"The chair would have been fine if you hadn't been drunk," she interrupted.
White hot shame shot through him, roiling his stomach. He could feel the redness creeping up his neck. For a moment, Draco had forgotten—about the alcohol, the anxiety, the desire to just not feel—but it was now back in full-force. He offered a curt nod, when he really just wanted to say, "I'm sorry." What was left of his pride would not allow that. "All right, I'll see you soon," he said lamely, tucking his hands into the pockets of his trousers.
"Yes," she replied, not meeting his eyes. "I'll see you soon."
Draco stared at her lips for a long moment before he turned and left. They were beautiful, he decided. Kissable, even. At the thought, his anxiety boiled over, and he rushed home. He desperately needed a drink.
And he definitely needed to forget about Hermione Granger's lips.