It was late, and Draco had been poring over the documents for hours, but between the firewhiskey, his inadequate training in the family business, and his complete disinterest, the numbers were swimming before him.
Math had never been a strong suit for Draco; numbers often flipped and switched in his head, requiring him to add using his fingers or manually on a piece of parchment. It was something Draco was deeply ashamed of—he had watched his father work for hours, able to calculate the most difficult of sums soundlessly inside his own mind—meanwhile, Draco himself took hours of parchment math and double-checking, but still, the numbers made no sense.
Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He was not qualified to do this; he was not capable. Another long gulp of firewhiskey, and he was feeling even more useless, as the numbers began to flutter across the parchment even more.
Frustration turned to anger, and Draco could no longer sit still, confined in the elaborate leather seat of his father. Draco rose and began to pace, unable to still his nerves or his frustration.
There was something he was missing. A document perhaps? A whole slew of investments? A Gringotts statement that had gotten lost?
There had to be something.
At that moment, there was a light rapping at the large picture window of his father's former office. Immediately, Draco recognized Hermione's owl, Juniper. Draco realized it was past midnight and he hadn't sent her a single owl that day, nor had he seen her since that night at the pub.
Instantly, he felt guilty.
Opening the window, Draco allowed the tawny owl inside. Juniper settled immediately on the desk, expectant. Of course, the little thing had been instructed to wait for him.
"I'm sorry, girl. I've been busy," he muttered to the owl, even though it wasn't the owl he needed to apologize to. He untied the piece of parchment from the owl's leg and opened it, expecting a chastisement, or nagging, or accusations—sentiments he was used to from his only-ever girlfriend: Pansy Parkinson. Instead, the message was simple and thoughtful: Haven't stopped thinking about you. Hope you're all right. -H.
He wanted to write back that no, he was not all right. That he was drunk, and incapable, and useless.
But he could already hear her response: You are capable, and useful, and yes, a bit drunk.
So instead, he wrote: I'm sorry. I've been a bit overwhelmed. Are you any good at math? -D
Once again, he was asking for her help, and he knew she would give it.
Juniper flew through the open picture window, and Draco decided to keep it open despite the cool winter air. Coolness always felt good; it always settled him, especially when his nerves were high.
Not even half-an-hour later, Juniper was back with another note: It's okay, Draco. I am very good a math. Do you need help? Tomorrow will be a slow day, I can close down for an hour for lunch? -H
With a sigh, hating himself for having to ask for help again, Draco wrote another letter: Yes, I need help. 1 sounds great. I'll have Jinxy make us something. Goodnight, Hermione.
P.s. I have missed you—don't think I haven't.
He knew he had drunk too much the night before, but it didn't fully dawn on him until he showed up at Elixir feeling clammy and slightly off-kilter. In one hand, he held a bag of sandwiches and crisps that Jinxy had prepared; in the other, every financial document of his father's he could find.
In his state, he opted for coming through the door, rather than just appearing. He pushed at the door and walked inside. Granger was at the far corner of the room, with a little basket tucked into her elbow. There was a small tinkling of bottles touching each other, as if she was restocking the shelves.
At the bell, she turned and smiled. "Give me five minutes; I just need to put these bottles on the shelves."
Draco merely nodded, despite the fact that she had already turned away from him. He settled himself on the couch and opened the bag, pulling out the sandwiches and bags of crisps. Then he tossed the sodding folder in the middle of the coffee table, where he stared at it intensely.
He didn't even realize she was next to him on the couch until she was kissing him on the cheek. Startled, he turned to face her.
Her eyes narrowed in concern immediately. "Draco—?"
"I—" he began, before looking away.
"Tell me," she urged, placing her hand on top of his where it rested on the couch.
He took a deep breath, anxiety threatening to overwhelm him, then nodded to the folder on the coffee table. "Right there is every financial document regarding the family business for the past decade. I've been over it a dozen times."
Hermione gulped. "Your father's?" she asked quietly.
"Mine now."
"I—I don't know—" Hermione began, immediately pulling away from him.
"Hermione, I know—"
"You really don't—"
"He's in Azkaban. You're not helping him. You're helping me," he said softly.
She tilted her face, and finally met his eyes. "What's wrong?"
"The numbers don't add up. And I'm not good at math, Hermione. Honestly, I'm horrible at it. But I get the same number every time, but it doesn't make any sense—and I don't know, maybe I'm crazy. Maybe I keep misplacing a digit—it's happened before."
Hermione frowned at him. "You're bad at math?" she asked seriously.
"Numbers get jumbled in my brain," he replied quietly.
"I'm helping you, yeah?" she confirmed, reaching for a sandwich.
"Only me."
Draco was too anxious to eat, and Hermione was eating the sandwich that had been intended for him anyways. She ate slowly, thoughtfully, as she flipped through the documents. At one point, she summoned a piece of parchment, where she jotted down several figures, one, then another, each beneath the other, until she finally drew a line beneath the neat column of numbers.
"400,000 Galleons. Give or take," Hermione finally said, looking at him with wide eyes.
Draco closed his eyes and tipped his head to the back of the couch. "So I was correct."
"The math doesn't make sense, Draco."
"I know," he affirmed.
"This is everything?"
"Everything I could find."
"There could be more—"
"There's not. That's just my father for you," Draco said coldly.
"He was embezzling," Hermione stated matter-of-factly.
"I don't know what that means. But sure, Granger." He was tired, and frustrated, and sad.
Hermione seemed to sense it immediately, as she moved closer towards him, wrapping her arms around his abdomen. "You're going to be all right," she murmured against his chest.
"He was doing something illegal, wasn't he?"
"Yes, I think so," Hermione replied quietly.
Weasley's words from the other day rang in his ears.
I can make your life very difficult, Malfoy.
Did the Aurors know? How much did they know?
"Hermione?" he whispered.
"Hmm?" she murmured in response.
"Do you know if Aurors are investigating the Malfoy accounts?"
Immediately, her face was level was his, her arms thrown over his shoulders. "What?"
Weasley's threats were on the tip of his tongue, but he choked them back. He was being paranoid. Their relationship was too new. There was simply an error in accounting. He didn't want to upset her.
Ultimately, he just didn't want to upset her.
"Never mind, Hermione. I'm sure it's all right."
Draco wasn't sure how it worked in the Muggle world, but in the wizarding world, the sins of the father passed directly to the son.
Lucius' mistakes were now Draco's mistakes. But they always had been, hadn't they?
She looked at him for a long moment. "Whatever he's done—that's not—that's not on you—"
Draco smiled falsely. "You're right, I'm sorry for worrying you."
She didn't quite believe him, and he knew it. "If something—tell me?"
"I will, Hermione," he promised. Then, surprising himself: "I have to go see my father."
Hermione barely reacted. "You should."
Draco opened his mouth and found himself unable to speak "I—" His heart was beating too fast, and he was still clammy from earlier, and his fingers were shaking—and then he felt her, her fingers wrapping around his shaking ones. Instantly, he was calmer. His heartbeat slowed slightly. He didn't even think before he spoke again, "Will you come with me?"
Hermione stilled. "I don't think that's wise."
"Not to see him," Draco corrected. "The trip—the trip—it's hard. For me, it's hard."
"I don't—"
"It's fine, it was stupid of me to ask," he interrupted.
"I'll come with you."
"What?"
"You said the trip is hard for you. Of course I'm coming with you."
"But—"
"I'm coming with you. So that's settled," she insisted.
"There is a lot you don't know about me, Hermione," Draco warned.
She smiled. "It can't be any worse than what I do know."
Naturally, Hermione was an early-riser, and she summoned him via owl at 6:30 in the morning to inform Draco that the first ferry was at 8 a.m. As if Draco didn't know.
At 7 a.m., Draco found himself once more waiting to conquer the unpredictable waters of the North Sea.
He heard the tell-tale signs of someone walking on the wooden dock. "You're early." It was Hermione, of course.
"I'm always early. If I think about it too much, I won't come here."
She sat down next to him, her legs crossed over themselves. "I spent last night researching," she began.
"I am surprised, Hermione," he said sarcastically.
"Crime, specifically," Hermione said quietly.
"What of it?"
"In the event—of such a thing—you're responsible?"
"Yes."
"Draco," she murmured.
"Lucius did what he did, Hermione. I can't do anything about it."
"You didn't do anything."
"I'm his son."
Hermione scoffed. "So what?"
"They are—will be—if. It's the Malfoy seat—me. Lucius was the seat. But now it's me and it's—it is what it is."
Hermione sighed deeply and leaned her head against his shoulder. "Are you all right?" she asked softly.
Draco couldn't stop the upward curve of his lips, despite the situation. "I've been better," he answered honestly. Draco turned to face her fully, capturing her lips with his own. "Thank you for being here. Why are you so early?"
She dropped her head back onto his shoulder, wrapping her arms comfortingly around his forearm where it was planted on the surface of the dock. "I thought it would be peaceful; thought I'd be able to think."
"When are you not thinking?" Draco scoffed.
Hermione chuckled against his shoulder. "You're not wrong."
"What did you come here to think about?" he inquired.
She sighed. "Everything. Your mother, now your father. You. I didn't realize I'd spend so much time worrying about the Malfoy family."
Draco felt his stomach bubble with nerves. "I'm sorry for that."
Hermione's head instantly shot up. "No! Don't be. I just—never pictured myself sitting next to you, waiting for the ferry to Azkaban."
"Have you ever been there before?" he asked.
"No."
"It doesn't feel right, the island. It's like it's corrupted." Unintentionally, he shuddered, and he felt her grip his arm tighter.
"Is that why you hate it so much?"
"No, that's not why—" he began, before he trailed off.
Hermione didn't say anything for a long moment. "You feel like you're going back, don't you?" she asked quietly.
Draco chuckled darkly. "The last time I visited, I almost assaulted the captain of the ferry because I was convinced he was going to take me."
He didn't know why he was speaking—why he was telling her. He was convinced he would never tell anyone, doomed to suffer the panic, and the paranoia in silence. But again, he wanted to tell her. He wanted her to hear—to know. Because she was kind, and good, and he knew she would care.
Her eyes met his, and she offered him a soft smile. "We're just going for a visit. No one's going to take you back to Azkaban."
Draco returned her smile. "I suspect they'd have to take you down first before you let that happen."
Hermione blinked slowly before replying, "Yes, that's true."
Realizing the implications of her words, Draco could do nothing but kiss her again. Thankful for her presence, her support, just her.
They sat in silence then, simply waiting for the ferry to make its first appearance of the day. It was a stark difference to the last time he waited here, months ago, still-drunk and alone, with the cold air whipping at his face. It was still cold, but the wind was calmer, gentler. Not a storm in sight, he thought. And he was certainly warmer and calmer, steadied by the witch at his side, who sat with her head resting atop his shoulder as she stared out at the vast expanse of the North Sea.
Eventually, the ferry appeared upon the horizon and Draco instantly tensed back up. Hermione must have felt it, because she took his hand and pulled him, "It's almost here, Draco."
He could already feel himself begin to tremble slightly as the ferry made its way to the dock, anxiety roiling even as he remembered the last trip.
Hermione squeezed his hand and pulled him forward.
At the end of the dock, the captain's boots were just tapping down against the wooden panels as he and Hermione reached the end of the dock. The captain barely looked surprised to see him. "Oi, you again lad?"
Draco merely nodded dumbly, his hand clasping at Hermione's. From the pocket of his robe, he pulled their fare—double the usual—and pressed it into the ferryman's hand.
Boarding the ferry was slightly precarious, he suddenly remembered, as Hermione dragged him forward. Planting his feet on the dock, he pulled back on her hand. "Wait," he rasped.
Hermione turned back, confused. "What is it? Are you all right?"
Draco nodded at her. "Let me go up first. The steps—they're steep, and slippery, and I don't want you to fall."
There was a moment of pause of Hermione's face, and she briefly furrowed her brow before she agreed. "All right."
Focused on the task at hand, Draco quickly boarded the ferry the way he normally did: Jumping over the steps completely. He was tall and long-limbed, and he had never trusted the structure of the ferry steps—they always appeared rotted, with a coating of ice across the tops.
Now on board, Draco gripped the metal railing on the side of the ferry, and carefully placed a foot on the top step, testing it. Finding it solid, Draco beckoned to Hermione until he was able to bend down and grab her hand. "Okay," he said, nodding.
Hermione carefully began to ascend the stairs, her eyes locked on the toes of her boots. One step, and there was a light cracking noise as a board snapped, and Draco wrapped his arm around her waist, as she quickly hopped up the next step. Cheeks flushed, she climbed the final step and stood next to him. "Thank you," she murmured. "Without you I would have certainly fallen to my death." Hermione smirked.
Behind them, the ferryman hauled himself up the steps, avoiding all but one of the steps. "He doesn't trust them either, and he commandeers this fine ship," Draco pointed out with a smirk of his own.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Whatever you say, Draco. Come on, let's go to the bow."
Their hands clasped once more, he followed her as she rushed to the front of the ferry. Once they reached their destination, she quickly grasped the metal railing and peered downwards, to the waves of the sea. "It's lovely, isn't it," she sighed.
"I suppose," he replied quietly.
Immediately she turned to him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Relax, Hermione. I know what you meant."
"I've only seen waves a handful of times," she explained, though it was unnecessary. "At Brighton Beach, with my parents. I've always loved the water, but I never get to see it enough."
"The North Sea is hardly the beach, Hermione," Draco chuckled.
"I know, I just—the smell. I love it. You think I'm crazy," Hermione said suddenly.
Draco pressed a kiss to her temple. "I think you're adorable."
She laughed then, a wonderful, musical sound. "I'm waxing poetic about waves while you're about to your see imprisoned father about illegal business dealings. Gods, I'm sorry."
The anxiety came back then, in full-force. "I'd rather you talk about the waves, Hermione."
"I'm glad you call me 'Hermione,' now,' she said instead.
"I was quite attached to 'Granger,' I'll have you know."
"I don't like it when you call me 'Granger,'" Hermione replied quietly.
Draco stilled next to her. "Then I won't. I'm sorry."
"What are you going to say to him?"
"Waves, Hermione; the waves—"
"Be serious, Draco."
He sighed. "I'm not sure. I'm just going to ask him about it, I guess."
"Will he tell you the truth?" she asked quietly.
"I don't know."
Hermione nodded against his shoulder, and they fell silent once more. Neither spoke again until Azkaban appeared, looming over them even in the distance. He was trembling again, and he knew it. "All right?" she asked.
Draco nodded vigorously—too vigorously. Hermione seemed to sense this, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, in an attempt at comfort.
It helped minutely.
The closer they got, the more he began to shake, and the faster his heart pounded in his chest. Draco knew Hermione could hear it—it was right beneath her ear. "It's all right," she soothed. "Breathe."
He listened, forcing some air deep down in his lungs, holding it in, before exhaling loudly. "I'm all right," he murmured.
"You are," Hermione affirmed.
The ferryman found them like this later, only ten minutes away from docking on the island.
Hermione thanked the man warmly, her arms not budging from around his waist. "We're visiting. They aren't taking you."
"I know."
Their feet were on the ground, somehow. The cold filled him instantly. He was paralyzed on the spot. The dark magic slid into his bones, his veins, his soul.
The urge to lay down, let death take him—it hadn't gone away. He just wanted to lie down—
Except Hermione was pulling him away, her eyes wide. "Draco."
They were inside suddenly. The flashing, dim lights similar to St. Mungo's. Everything was disjointed and slow. The lights flashed in his vision. Hermione's hand was firmly clasped in his. "Number?" came a voice.
"131234," Hermione answered without pause.
"Lucius Malfoy?"
"Yes."
"I'll be back."
Hermione tugged his arm then. "You're gone. Come back."
His eyes flicked to her then. "I need to be gone right now. I'll come back later."
She nodded, and he tried to build his walls. Once more, the bricks fells. He knew they would, but he didn't want her to know that. He wanted her to think that he was calm and collected—despite the opposite.
Eventually, a guard called, "Malfoy!"
Draco kissed Hermione quickly before he rose and made his way to the guard.
The hall was dark, lit only by candelabras mounted on the walls. Dank, and dark, and Draco desperately wished Hermione was next to him right now. The walk, the lights, the smell—
He couldn't be here again—
Why was he here again—
He was shaking—
Where was Hermione?
He was in an uncomfortable metal chair, and he could see the magical barrier and he hoped this was all a bad dream.
Lucius slid into the seat across from him with a smirk. "Draco, son. To what do I owe this pleasure?" He clasped his hands together and leaned forward, happily.
Draco forced himself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. He was fine. "I've been looking over the accounts, Father."
"Oh?" his father asked, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. Lucius smiled slightly. "What have you found, Draco?"
"What were you doing, Father? 400,000 Galleons?" Draco hissed.
Lucius' eyes searched Draco's face for a moment. He wetted his lips before he spoke once more, very lowly, "The Dark Lord—" he began, before rethinking. "War is not cheap, Draco."
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "You fucking idiot. If anyone finds out, I'll be in right here with you. And then Mother will be alone."
"I thought—"
"You thought WHAT!?" Draco shouted, suddenly full of rage.
"The Mudblood—"
"—Don't fucking call her that!"
"—a potion?"
"There's nothing, Lucius. Nothing. And every day it's worse. Every single day. And it hurts me, too. Did you know that? Do you care? I've tried. I've tried to take care of her, but I can't—"
"Draco, that is your mother," Lucius interrupted gruffly.
"Yes! My mother. I can't take care of her—"
"You can, and you will!"
"She thinks I'm you!" Draco shouted. "Isn't that fun?! She thinks I'm you!"
"You look like me—"
"Shut up, Lucius."
"How dare you—"
"I'm admitting her to St. Mungo's. Where she can be cared for, and so I can finally have a life. Oh, wait. Now I have these accounts to deal with. Thank you, Father. For everything. Really," Draco spat.
He rose and bit his lip. In a spontaneous action, he slipped the M signet ring from his right ring finger and slammed it down on the table. "I don't want this anymore."
"Draco, wait—"
But Draco didn't look back.
The same guard escorted him back down the hall in silence, until they found Hermione sitting in a hard-looking metal a chair in the waiting room of Azkaban.
Hearing his footfalls on the cheap linoleum floors, Hermione tore her eyes from her book, and seeing him, rose quickly, tucking the book under her arm. "That was quick," she said seriously. "What happened?"
"Well, he told the truth. That was surprising," Draco replied, taking her hand, needing her reassurance.
"Bad?" she asked, squeezing his fingers.
"I'll figure it out," Draco replied forcefully.
"I know you will," Hermione affirmed.
Draco sighed deeply, before turning to look back down the hall, where his father probably still sat, his only company the Malfoy signet ring that had once brought Draco such great pride—but now when he thought about it, it only brought feelings of shame.
With a tilt of his head towards the door, Draco made the sudden decision that he was never coming back here—he would never be visiting that man again. A sudden feeling of peace washed over him, and he turned to look at Hermione, who was watching him cautiously, her brows furrowed. Draco flashed a smile at her. "Come on. Let's go."