Draco sat near the aperture of the owlery, knees curled up against his chest, the cold wind sending a chill through him as he sat way too close to the edge. A stumble, a slip, and he would be hurtling towards the ground—
He shook his head, out of his thoughts. Draco had his good days, and his bad days, but today had been a good day, all things considered. He had not heard from Granger, but then, he had not expected to. Draco was certain that after the previous night's events—namely Draco Malfoy, Death Eater extraordinaire Flooing into the home of Harry Potter himself, arm wrapped around one Hermione Granger—that he would not.
Potter had probably chastised her, talked some sense into her. And if not Potter, then the She-Weasel. They were friends, right? Either way, Draco was certain that one of them would have made Hermione see reason—Draco should not be trusted, and she should not be around him.
Sitting at the edge of the owlery had become Draco's new nightly ritual. It was nice to be outside, the chill of the wind slicing through him, reminding him that he was, in fact, alive. And here, he was really and truly alone, as he knew he should be.
Draco sighed, resting his head on his knees and closing his eyes. There would be no letter tonight, just as there had been none the past several nights. He should've known better than to trust his father to do one thing—just one thing—for him. Not even for him, though, no—for his mother.
Narcissa remained the same: wholly convinced that it was 1994. Voldemort had not returned yet, but it was a certainty. Every time she brought up his return—brightly, happily—Draco's vision tunneled, and his heart began to beat out of his chest.
It wasn't anything new—he had been here before, of course. Voldemort's return had been much discussed at the dinner table, but there was a happiness there, a tittering of anticipation, the feeling of just a bit longer and everything will be as it should.
Draco knew the truth now, though. He shuddered against his knees. Voldemort was destruction personified—if he could had even been considered a person—not the savior his parents always painted him to be. As if on cue, Draco's Mark began to itch, and Draco looked out over the grounds of Malfoy Manor; quiet and dark and very, very empty.
Voldemort had destroyed everything. Had destroyed him.
It had been over an hour, and with a sigh, Draco pulled himself to standing, hand firm on the wall behind him. He didn't particularly want to fall from the owlery—not tonight, at least. Standing, he brushed the nonexistent dust from his trousers and made his way from the owlery and back towards the Manor, wanting to check on his mother. This fugue had gone on longer than most of the others, and that concerned him greatly.
With no word from Hermione, Draco was feeling a bit useless, a bit restless.
Hermione.
He bristled at her name, the one he had never directly called her, with the way she so delicately called him Draco. Like they were friends.
It was late, but suddenly he wanted to see her—well, not so suddenly, if he really thought about it.
It was too late, he reminded himself. Time wise, and also considering the fact that he had just left the owlery. Also, he had been expressly prohibited from visiting the Potter residence.
Also, he was shit and she wouldn't want to see him anyways.
Grimacing, Draco found a bottle of firewhiskey and poured himself a few fingers. He took a few sips to steady himself, and then, with glass in hand, he made his way to the parlor, in case his mother was there.
She was; sitting in her usual chair, facing the fireplace on the far side of the room, her back to him.
"Mother?" he said quietly, moving into the parlor to face her.
She turned slightly to face him. "Lucius, my darling," she said excitedly.
Draco froze and despair flooded through him. "Mother, it's me."
"Of course, I'd know you anywhere, Lucius." Her smile widened as Draco came closer to her.
She thought he was his father. She thought he was Lucius Malfoy and the dread, the confusion, the loathing that shot through him was palpable. Placing his glass on a nearby table, Draco fell to his knees in front of his mother and took her hand in his own. "Mother, it's Draco," he said cautiously.
Something in her eyes changed as realization dawned on her. "Draco, yes," she said slowly, her eyes flashing away from him and back into the fire; the illusion—the delusion, rather—shattered. "You look so like your father."
Draco gritted his teeth, resenting the comparison despite the more pressing issue that had arisen. "Mother—" he began.
She placed a hand gently over his own, stopping him. "I'm merely tired, my darling. I think I'll head up to bed—it is a bit late," she said, with a thoughtful nod to herself.
Draco didn't know what to do, so with his mouth agape, he let his mother go as he still knelt on the floor in front of the slowly dying fire.
Exhaling, Draco rose shakily back to his feet as his mind whirled. One thought pushed its way to the forefront, and it was so simple and so obvious: Hermione Granger. He needed to owl her immediately, she would know what to do, would know how to fix it—
Despite having just made his way across the grounds from the owlery, he found himself once more in the empty grounds of Malfoy Manor, back towards the owlery with the singular thought that he had to reach out to Granger immediately.
His heart was pounding out of his chest as he made his way to the top of the owlery for the second time in less than hour, fraught with panic, worry, and anticipation.
Hastily, Draco penned a note to Granger and attached it to the leg of his faithful Noctua. "Take this to Granger, she's at 12 Grimmauld Place." He hoped that was still the case, for more than one reason.
Noctua hooed and took off into the night, and Draco dropped back down to the place he had just been sitting in no more than an hour ago. He was exhausted now, but still his fingers trembled with anxiety. Noctua could certainly find him with Granger's response, but Draco had no desire to trudge back across the Manor grounds once more, and especially so soon. In truth, the cool air was helping him get a handle on his nerves. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, leaning it against the wall.
He didn't have to wait long, which he had anticipated; Granger was nothing if not prompt.
Thanking the owl, Draco absently fed him a treat and he unfolded the missive.
I'll be in my office at 8, come by whenever you can. -H
Draco wanted to write back, tell her that tomorrow was not soon enough, that he had to see her now. He resisted the idea, knowing it was deeply rooted in his own selfishness, as opposed to concern about his mother's condition.
Somewhat satisfied, Draco made his way across the grounds for hopefully the last time that evening and into the kitchen, where he instantly found his bottle of firewhiskey from earlier. Foregoing the forgotten glass in the parlor, Draco gulped from the bottle, wanting to feel the numbness that alcohol sometimes gave him, because he needed to numb himself right now, consequences be damned.
If that meant passing out on the kitchen floor, so be it.
So Draco drank.
It was a quarter past noon when Draco was finally able to drag himself to Elixir. Between his raging hangover and the splitting headache and roiling nausea that accompanied it, Draco had had a bit of a rough morning.
He apparated directly in front of the little shop, feeling unsteady on his feet and not trusting that he wouldn't crush any more of her furniture. The tinkle of the bell announced his entry, and he was met with an unusual sight: Hermione Granger sitting on the purple couch in the middle of her shop, legs crossed beneath her, a large tome in her lap. Her pretty pink tongue escaped her lips from a moment, wetting them, as she leaned forward, scribbling something furiously without tearing her eyes from the book. "I'll be with you in a moment," she called absently, her eyes still never leaving the text.
Despite his rough morning, Draco couldn't help but grin. Quietly, he made his way into the shop, where he dropped himself down in one of the wingbacks that sat opposite of the couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table between the two. "Last I checked, you had an office."
That got her attention. Her eyes snapped from her book and to where he now lounged. She gulped, placing the book face down on the coffee table. "I've got half a mind to be cross with you, you know," she said, her eyebrows raised.
Draco grinned at her. "Why's that, Granger?"
She scowled at him. "You owl me after midnight, which means I know it was urgent—your owl gave me quite a fright, as did you—"
It was subtle, but Draco caught it. He had scared her. Which meant she cared.
"But then, you come trudging in at almost noon!" she exclaimed, shaking her head. "What is the matter with you, Draco Malfoy?"
"Almost everything," he quipped casually.
Granger stared at him for a moment, seemingly studying him. "You look like shit," she said, coming to her conclusion. "Merlin, did you even sleep last night?"
Draco sighed and looked away. "I got a few hours," he murmured. He supposed sleeping and losing consciousness were not quite the same thing, but ultimately the same purpose was achieved.
"Do you need a Pepper-up?" she asked sincerely.
Draco winced, feeling very much that yes, he needed a Pepper-up, but he remembered the last time he had taken one of Granger's potions vividly, and not at all fondly.
She caught the reaction and smiled. "It won't hurt, promise," she teased.
"If you insist, Granger."
Granger smiled again and stood up. "Stay here."
Draco watched as she walked across the small space of the shop, to a shelf in the far-right corner. She stopped in front of it, and tilted her head, seemingly in thought, before she grabbed two vials and with a little shake of her head—decision made—she made her way back to him.
She sat on the coffee table directly in front of him, handily pushing his feet from the table. "Feet, off," she ordered, handing him the two vials. "Here."
Draco sat forward and unstopped the vials before dutifully taking the potions. He expected a splitting headache and foul taste, like last time. Instead, he was greeted with a delightful peach-pear flavor. Immediately, he felt brightened, more awake. "Well now, Granger, that Mastery may have paid off after all."
Granger rolled her eyes at him. "You're foolish."
He didn't miss her little grin; the one that meant she was amused with him, rather than frustrated. He also didn't miss the absent tugging of an errant curl or her tongue running itself across her lip. Nor did he miss the fact that she had moved from the couch and now sat directly in front of him, leaning slightly forward. Draco grinned, and took a chance: "You think I'm cute."
She rolled her eyes once more and huffed, but he saw a bit of blush growing on her already pink cheeks. Immediately, she changed the subject: "So, your mother?"
His suspicions mostly confirmed, Draco nodded. "It was a bit jarring, if I'm being honest."
Granger nodded. "Has this ever happened before?" she asked, clasping her hands in front of herself, on her knees.
Draco shook his head. "Never. I do look a lot like my father, especially when he was younger, but this—"
"But you were Lucius," she interrupted.
"Yes."
"I'm sorry," Granger murmured, her eyes downcast as she fiddled with her hands.
"Why?" Draco asked, confused. What did this little witch have to be sorry for?
Her eyes met his again as she pulled at her lip with her teeth. "Well, I imagine it hurt, being compared to him."
"Why do you say that?" he asked suspiciously, eyes narrowing.
"You don't like your father," she said simply with a shrug, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"How do you know that?"
"You've not mentioned him once in the entire time we've known each other—" she paused, thoughtfully—"Post-Hogwarts, anyway."
She could read him so well.
Draco sighed. He could lie, the way he did with others. When asked how his father was, he would reply with enthusiasm, and quick little tale—always a lie—as if he saw his father every weekend and not once a year—and only then, if he had to. Or, he could tell her the truth. It was the same with the potion; he could lie, or he could trust Hermione Granger and allow her to see a piece of him that he rarely shared with anyone; a piece he wasn't quite sure existed wholly anymore.
And, as he had begun to do more and more with the curly-haired witch sitting in front of him on a worn piece of furniture, leaning into him ever so subtly, he chose to tell her the truth: "You're right. I don't like my father. I actually hate him quite a fair bit."
Hermione flinched, just a bit. "You shouldn't say things like that; that's your father," she said softly.
"Be that as it may, Granger, I find it hard to love the person who sold me to Voldemort."
Her eyes flickered to his covered left arm, realization dawning. "I always knew you didn't take it willingly, for what's it worth."
"Haven't we had this conversation before?" he asked, his nerves fraying.
"No, not quite. Last time we talked about this you said you made the wrong choice. Now you're telling me you were forced into it. Not the same conversation at all, Draco," she replied thoughtfully.
Merlin, was she brilliant. She remembered every word he used, caught onto every nuance, and wasn't afraid to call him on it. Draco hummed at her noncommittedly, supposing that she was, indeed, correct.
"That's why I'm sorry," Granger said, as if she sensed that Draco didn't want to talk about his father anymore. She was correct.
More apologies, more uncomfortableness.
Granger leaned back slightly where she was perched on the coffee table, creating more distance between them.
Draco found he wanted less distance. Much less distance. He pushed the thought away—he was here for his mother. "Any ideas on my mother?"
She chewed her lip once more, her eyes on the floor. "I've found some information on a Muggle disorder, and some medications used to treat it. I'm trying to make a potion replicating the chemistry of one of those medications—"
"I can tell you're skirting around the conclusion you've already come to in that massive brain of yours, Granger. Your face is like an open book," Draco interrupted hotly.
Granger met his eye then. "Have you thought about St. Mungo's?" she asked quietly, pulling away from him even more.
Even irritated, he wanted to grab her hands and pull her back to him, pull her closer. At her words, a deep sadness settled upon him. Astoria had asked him the same question, and he had exploded at even the suggestion. But now that Granger was asking him, he wondered if maybe he should seriously consider it. After all, if the brightest witch of the age couldn't help his mother, then who could? If Hermione thought there was no hope, then there really, truly, was no hope—
"Draco," Granger's soft voice brought him back. "You're doing it again."
"What?" he asked hoarsely.
"Disappearing." She reached for him then, taking his hand in her own, and he flinched at the contact. She pulled away immediately, clearly thinking he was offended that she was even touching him, and then she was apologizing—
Draco ignored her and pulled her hand back before she could fully pull away from him. Was this the first time he had touched her? It had to be—he would have remembered having Hermione Granger's small palm in his. Her skin, warm and soft against his.
No, they shook hands once. This was different.
She looked startled, but then she was leaning towards him again. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I'm trying, I am—"
"I know," he said, squeezing her hand gently, afraid she would bolt like a frightened animal. "So you're saying that there's nothing?"
She shook her head. "No. No! I just—if it's getting worse, maybe she should be somewhere where she can receive full-time care," Granger said quickly.
Draco nodded thoughtfully, turning her palm in his own, stroking the tips of her fingers. "Maybe…" he trailed off.
"I thought you'd be mad," she said quietly.
"Astoria suggested it once. That was the time I yelled at her," he began with a sad chuckle. "And yes, I was mad. But if you—the Hermione Granger—are telling me that, then maybe I should consider it. I have a feeling that you're not often wrong."
"I'm usually not," she said sadly.
"Thanks for trying anyways, Granger."
Her palm still in his own, Granger stretched out her fingers and twined hers through his own. Draco's gaze dropped down, staring at where she held his hand, slightly concerned that he was hallucinating this. "I'm not quitting."
"You never struck me as a quitter, Granger."
Draco was in awe. This witch sitting in front of him; the one he bullied, tormented, the one he had made cry, was sitting here, holding his hand and telling him that she wasn't going to give up. She was going to fight. And Draco had a feeling it wasn't for his mother. No, she was doing it for him. Affection swelled in his chest and he knew without a doubt now—had he ever really doubted it?—that yes, he did in fact, like Hermione Granger. He squeezed her fingers, amazed that she deigned to touch him at all.
Something had shifted between them. At the same time, their eyes flashed and met one another, and he didn't quite understand the glint in her eye—it was one he had never seen before.
"Draco, I—"
There was a tinkling of a bell, announcing someone's arrival. Hastily, Hermione pulled her hand away from his and in an instant, she was on her feet, curls whipping around as she stood to face the door. "Ron?" she gasped.
Draco's heart stuttered in his chest, and with a light groan, he slumped back in the wingback. They had been getting somewhere, finally. Of course it was the Weasel, come to ruin it all.
"Hey, 'Mione," came Weasley's voice, full of nerves.
Hermione's demeanor changed instantly. With Draco, she had been soft and caring, but with Weasley, she was harsh and unflinching. "Why are you here, Ronald? I'm at work." Her voice was cold.
Weasley came into sight, and Draco saw as his eyes traveled from 'Mione to him. "Oh," said Weasley, his eyes narrowing at Draco, "him."
Hermione let out a sigh. "Yes, him. Draco is my client. I asked to see him today, and you are interrupting us."
"I wanted to talk to you," Weasley said, his eyes moving to Hermione's face, pleading.
"Ronald, I am at work."
"Come on, we can go to lunch?" he said, grabbing her hand with his own—the same hand Draco had just been holding. "There's no one here."
Hermione pulled away. "No, Ronald. I have a client sitting right there."
Ron huffed. "Forget about him." He went to grab her again.
"No."
"'Mione—"
"She said no, Weasel." Draco hadn't meant for it to slip out, but the way Weasley kept grabbing at her, ignoring her wishes, ordering her around, had found him quickly infuriated.
Hermione turned to look at him, a small smile gracing her features.
"Shut up, Malfoy."
Draco lounged back in his chair, once more propping his feet up on the coffee table—making himself right at home—before he smirked at Weasley and replied with a bored, "No."
Fake, all of it. A mask, an act; perfected over many years. A costume he could easily slip into. Inside he was seething, but that wasn't an effective weapon if the enemy could see it. Coolness, detachment—now that was a weapon; one he could wield with absolute precision.
Judging by the redness creeping up Weasley's face, Draco had hit his mark.
His eyes flicked to Hermione, who was watching him curiously.
"'Mione—"
"I'm staying with Draco," Hermione said firmly.
"Draco? Draco!?" Weasley shouted.
Hermione flinched and stepped back from him. "Stop it, Ronald," she ordered, her voice quavering slightly.
Draco kept his act in place as he rose slowly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his trousers and sauntering over to Weasley with a smirk, standing directly in front of Hermione. "Lady said she wanted to stay with me, Weasel." He winked.
Smug, cold, unbothered. That's what Weasley saw—what Draco wanted him to see. Underneath the surface, rage bubbled, as did the urge that he had to physically put himself in between Weasley and Hermione. He was yelling at her, and Draco didn't like that.
Weasley was beet red now. The wink may have been overkill, now that Draco thought about it.
"Ronald," Hermione begged from behind him, "please. Can you not do this? Please."
Weasley glared at him for a long minute before fixing his gaze on Hermione. "Fine. I'll owl you later, 'Mione."
One glance back at Hermione, a long glare directed at Draco, and Weasley was gone, the little bell signaling his departure.
Allowing his mask to fall fully, Draco turned to face Hermione, who was gazing up with shining eyes. "What was that?" she asked quietly, her eyes fixed on him.
Draco shrugged. "He sucks."
She shook her head. "No, it was like—like I was watching a different person."
Draco shrugged. "I wanted to piss him off."
"Why?" she shot back immediately.
"He was being horrible to you."
"And you care why?" Granger challenged.
Draco gulped. Lie or truth? The choice was easy, and he made it in an instant. He took her hand, threading his fingers with hers the way she had and squeezed. "Because I care, okay?" he said softly.
Her smile grew as she stared at him. "That whole act was because you like me?"
"Yes," he admitted. Suddenly, he was unafraid. Her hand in his, her fingers tangled with his own—it was easy, and he found he wanted to be honest with her in a way he had never been honest with anyone. He had all but admitted it to Astoria, to himself—and even as he continued to fight it, he found ihe could no longer run from his feelings. This time, he found he wanted to tell her—he wanted her to know—and he didn't want to run.
She squeezed his hand. "You're very cute when you get riled up and protective."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Granger," he said coolly.
"Right," she replied with a roll of her eyes, but as she did so, she directed their joined hands towards her back, disentangling their fingers and pressing his into the small of her back. Her hand now free, she placed it on his chest.
His heart was beating so fast he was certain she could feel it.
"Thank you," she murmured, still looking up at him.
"For what?" He stared down at her. Her chocolate eyes, her pink lips, a twinge of blush on her cheeks. Closer now, and he could a soft smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose, spreading out across her cheeks. Adorable.
"Telling him off."
Draco nodded dumbly, still staring at her. "He was telling you what to do, yelling at you—I didn't like it."
"You're a good man, Draco Malfoy."
"I'm really not."
Hermione gently grabbed his other wrist and pulled it around her waist, where it met his other wrist. Gently, testing the limits, he overlapped his wrists and pulled her slightly closer. She didn't fight him by any means. Instead, she looped her arms around his neck, responding in kind.
The mood had shifted earlier, but now it was soaring, careening towards an unknown edge, and he—they—were about to fly right off of it.
Draco wanted to fly.
He dropped his face just a bit and found her lips with his own. It was a quick kiss; soft and gentle, and then he was pulling away to look at her.
Her eyes were closed, and she was slightly flushed. "Draco," she murmured.
"Yes?" he asked with a smirk.
"Is this just an alpha male thing?" she asked quietly, her eyes flitting downwards.
"No," he said immediately, forcefully. "No, Granger."
"You hate Ron, of course you want to piss him off—"
He kissed her again, harder this time. "It's not about Weasley, Granger," he said as he pulled her closer.
"You sure?" she whispered.
Another trill of bells, and she was pulling away from him again, even more startled than before. "Hello!" she shouted. "Welcome!"
Draco groaned as their hands were pulled away from each other's bodies as she jumped back. He wanted to kiss her again, really kiss her—
"'Mione?"
Oh, for Merlin's sake.
"Oh, hello, Harry!"
The Chosen One appeared in his line of his sight, over Hermione's shoulder, looking quite confused. "Are you okay?"
"Quite all right, Harry! What is it?" she replied brightly.
Calm down, Granger, you're acting weird.
Potter's eyes slid to him and Draco felt himself involuntarily smirk.
"Right," Potter said uneasily. "Look, I'm having lunch with Ron down the street, and—"
"I don't quite care, Harry," Hermione said easily, crossing her arms over her chest haughtily.
"I know, I know. I'm sure he was a right arse, but you know how he is—"
"I know exactly how he is, Harry."
"Just give him—"
"A chance? I certainly think not."
"'Mione—"
"Gods, can't you leave her alone?" Once again, he hadn't meant it to slip out.
Potter turned slightly to look at him. "This doesn't concern you, Malfoy," Potter replied coldly.
"Maybe not, but the woman is trying to work—By the way, Granger, I'm not paying for any of this time that these two imbeciles have taken up—and you keep interrupting. It's a good thing Granger is the best, otherwise I would certainly take my services elsewhere. This place is wholly unprofessional," Draco sneered.
Potter seemed taken aback by this, swallowing and taking a few steps back. "I'll talk to you when you get home," he said firmly before leaving.
Hermione turned back to him, throwing her arms around his neck immediately. "You lovely man," she murmured against his neck.
"If the She-Weasel comes in next, I'm hexing her," Draco warned.
"Her name is Ginny."
"Weaslette," he corrected.
"Ginny."
"Little Weasel."
"Ferret."
Another kiss, this one less gentle, more intense. He loved the feeling of her lips, warm and soft against his own, the slight taste of earl grey and peppermint lingering on them. He rested his forehead against hers. "Take it back," he murmured.
"Never," Hermione sniffed.
"Fine," he said, pulling away from her, removing his arms from her waist and taking several steps back.
She frowned, then chuckled, before stepping towards him and wrapping her arms around his neck once more. "I take it back," she whispered against his jaw, and he shivered.
Another tinkling of a bell, and Draco sighed as Hermione pulled away from again. If it was the She-Weasel, he would make good on his threat and hex the witch. Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, it was an actual customer and Hermione gave him an apologetic look as she pulled away from him to assist her customer.
He was frustrated, because he wanted to kiss her again. But he watched her, in her element, asking questions and listening with rapid nods of her head, her curls straying over her shoulders. She was smiling, enraptured, as she had a discussion with her customer. She cared. She cared about everyone.
She cared about him.
When she finished, she came back to him where he lounged on the couch. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.
Suddenly things felt awkward. Draco couldn't stand that, so he reached out and took her hand. "Don't be, Granger."
Hermione relaxed instantly at his touch, stroking his palm softly.
"I need to go home and check on my mother, though."
"Oh."
"Granger—"
She smiled at him sadly. "I understand."
"Hey," he said, pulling her closer, sensing her insecurity. "I'd very much like to do this again—soon—but I really do need to check on my mother."
Hermione nodded thoughtfully. "Owl me? tonight?"
Draco smirked. "The second I get home."