For all of Draco's worrying, his mother's transfer to St. Mungo's went surprisingly smoothly. Healer Wilson arrived promptly at 8 a.m., dressed casually in denims and a jumper. He greeted Draco with a confident handshake. Narcissa sat stoically in the parlor, having been roused by Draco an hour previously. She sipped tea primly and nibbled delicately at a biscuit. She was calm and demure.
Upon his arrival, Healer Wilson greeted Narcissa with a warm smile. "How are you today, Mrs. Malfoy?" he asked.
Narcissa's eyes flitted to look up at the strange man. "I'm quite certain I don't know you," she replied coolly.
Healer Wilson's smile did not waver. "You don't, Mrs. Malfoy, but I do know your son, Draco. Has he told you anything about why I'm here?" he asked kindly, patiently.
"The peacocks," Narcissa muttered, seemingly to herself.
The Healer was not at all put-off by this, he simply nodded in agreement. "Yes, the peacocks."
Draco watched sadly from a distance as Healer Wilson explained who he was, what he was doing, and where they were going. Narcissa simply nodded and stood, turning to face Draco. "Draco," she called softly. "Darling."
He went to her then. "Yes, Mother?"
"This man says we're going to go away. Is that true?" she asked, resting her hand on his shoulder.
"Yes, Mother. But it's just for a little while, and I'll visit you every chance I get."
Narcissa smiled at him. "Of course you will, darling. You were always the best son."
"Are you ready, Mrs. Malfoy?" Healer Wilson asked.
"I suppose I'm as ready as I'll ever be," she replied with a sigh. "Goodbye, Draco."
"I'll see you soon, Mother," Draco replied, feeling the tears welling in his eyes. He had expected it to be hard—but not this hard. This was torture, plain and simple. This was his mother, confused and alone, being taken from him and her home—the home she had known for over twenty years—never to return.
As Healer Wilson left with his mother through the Floo, Draco was struck with a pang of loneliness. He was here in his ancestral home, completely alone. He had lived a life of solitude for many years now and was not unused to feelings of loneliness, but this was somehow different. Before, he still had his mother, some other person in the Manor, someone to distract himself with. But now? There was nothing. It was just him, Draco, and the elf, alone in this Manor built with the intention of being filled with generations of the Malfoy family.
A Manor house, one hundred rooms, where only one was needed. The deepest twist of irony.
Draco suddenly regretted having scheduled his mother's transfer to St. Mungo's so early in the day—he had done so in the mindset that he just wanted it over with—but now he wished he had scheduled it later. Now he had a whole day spanning before him—completely empty, void of any and all plans.
Hermione was working, and he would be remiss to disturb her, so his immediate thought was out of the question, though he decided that he would drop by Hermione's flat later in the evening.
In the evening. Hours from now.
Draco steeled himself. He was the man of the house now, well and truly, and he had to be strong now. He didn't feel strong, though, he hadn't felt strong since before the Mark, before Voldemort, before everything—
He could be strong, though, couldn't he? He had Hermione now, and she made him feel strong in ways he had never felt before. With her, he felt like he was worth something, like he could be something. And if she were here, she would tell him the very same thing, wouldn't she?"
Yes, he thought to himself, she would. She would tell him that he could do this—whatever it was.
This, he could do.
Nodding to himself—there was no one else now, was there?—and made his way to the lavishly decorated room that he was not sure he'd ever be able to think of as his office, as opposed to his father's. Thoughts of the accounts had not left him since he had discovered the error, but with everything else that was happening, Draco had deemed the thoughts unproductive, and as such, had pushed them from the forefront of his mind with the excuse that there was something more important to tend to.
Now, he was alone, with nothing to attend to, and there could no longer be excuses, Draco realized. This was something real, and important, and potentially damning, and he needed to deal with it.
Draco sat at the desk and flipped open the folder he kept all the documents in. The numbers were familiar now, as his eyes skimmed down the pages, corners now crinkled from their overuse. Draco sighed, knowing it was pointless—the numbers simply did not add up, and he did not know how to fix that.
He had his own personal account, surely there were 400,000 Galleons in there. Draco was unsure; he had never bothered to check, assuming that his abundance of wealth would simply never run out—limitless, endless—because that had been how Lucius spent money. So, too, did Draco, once upon a time.
So, he would have to go to Gringott's then—not ideal by any means, Draco thought, flinching slightly just at the thought of yet another public space he could no longer comfortably avoid. At least the Goblins did not care, a small comfort amongst the far more enumerated discomforts. The people would care, though, certainly.
Yes, he would have to go to Gringott's and confirm his holdings—and then what? Could he transfer that money to these investments? Would it make any difference? Would it be suspicious?
Draco huffed in his frustration. He didn't know, because he didn't understand any of this.
This had always been his destiny, as it had been with every Malfoy heir that came before him. Draco understood that and had come to terms with it at an early age. It was his destiny, after all, and what was the point in fighting destiny? The problem with this, however, was that Draco never learned the ins-and-outs of the finer points of business, between a war and a prison sentence—both his and his father's.
Sure, he had learned bits of the business—how to be charming, how to lure investors, the right things to say to ensure that he received said money—but this? The managing, the day-to-day, the numbers; Lucius had never taught him this—but then again, Lucius had never expected a life sentence in Azkaban.
There was supposed to be time. There was always supposed to be more time.
There was supposed to time for him to have a childhood—a real one, one not marred by war and destruction. There was supposed to be time for him to learn to be a man—not be forced into it. There was supposed to time for him to live, instead of this balancing act of barely making it through the day, exhausted.
Draco sighed. I can do this, he thought, Hermione's voice.
It was his only semblance of a plan, so he followed it, making his way to Gringott's via apparition. He landed as close to the door as possible, hoping he would not be noticed by any of the passersby on the street. He was lucky, and no one turned to look at him, and he made his way into Gringott's.
It was inside where he faced the most trouble. His blond hair gleamed in the bright light of the lamps that lined the teller's booths, and people turned their heads to stare at him in disgust and repulsion. There would be no spit here, he knew, this was a civilized place, but the looks, the thoughts, the sneers. They were enough. He could hear every nasty word, every horrible thought, and he embraced them, taking them in, letting the words break him bit by bit.
Draco kept his head down, the room quiet, as he made his way to a vacant teller: A goblin with a disinterested look on his face as he stared down at him. "Hello," Draco greeted in a voice that sounded much more confident than he felt.
"How can I help you?" The goblin asked perfunctorily.
"I need to check my account," Draco began, then lowered his voice. "Draco Malfoy."
The goblin did not react, but the witch next to him visibly flinched out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head briefly and shot her a small, friendly smile. She looked affronted, and immediately took a step back.
Draco turned away from her and back to the goblin, who was quickly flicking through a thick ledger. "Draco Malfoy," said the goblin, much too loudly for Draco's tastes, "Ah, yes, here it is. You have 250,345 Galleons, 15 Sickles, and 13 Knuts. Will you be requiring a withdrawal today?"
Draco felt his heart sink. Not even close. "No, thank you," Draco responded, stepping away from the teller and making his way hurriedly down the hall of Gringott's, anxious to be out of the bank, where he could apparate home and be spared even more humiliation.
His only plan—and it hadn't even been a very good plan, at that—instantly foiled. He was disappointed, but was he in no way surprised.
Back on the streets of Diagon Alley, Draco was not spared further humiliation, as he gained the attention of a few passersby. "Hey! Death Eater!" called one.
"Oi! It's the Malfoy kid. He got off easy, in my opinion."
"His Da's in Azkaban for life," said another.
"Kid belongs right there with them—adjoining cells, I say."
Draco kept his head down and apparated quickly, unable to handle any more. Instantly, he was transported to his home.
He landed on his feet, and he was met with complete and utter silence.
It was deafening.
Draco resigned himself to a drink.
Draco was thankful when the clock struck 7, the time he deemed it acceptable to show up at Hermione's flat completely unannounced. He had spent most of the day alternating between rage and self-loathing and drinking, and he needed a heavy dose of Hermione's affection and eternal optimism.
He changed quickly, opting for something more comfortable, and apparated to her building, climbing the stairs quickly. Finding himself at her door, he took a deep breath, and knocked lightly. He had to wait for several moments before the door swung open.
"Draco?" she asked, opening the door wider, so that he could fully see her. She was dressed in a pair of leggings and an oversized—what appeared to be a man's—fisherman's jumper.
"Hi," he said quietly. "I know we didn't have plans, but I wanted to see you."
Hermione furrowed her brow for a moment, before her eyes opened wide in realization. "Come in, come in!" she ushered. Once he was inside and the door was shut, her arms were around him, and she was on tip toes, peering into his eyes. "How was it?"
Draco shrugged. "Not what I expected." Hermione was silent, and it was an encouragement, so he continued, "She went, easily. I think she knew, in some way."
"How are you?" she asked softly.
"Better now," he murmured. She offered him a small smile, which he couldn't help but kiss. "The Manor's empty now."
Hermione frowned then. "Just you in that huge house?"
"Just me," Draco confirmed.
"It sounds terribly lonely."
"It is," he agreed.
"Come on," Hermione said, "I just made some spaghetti and meatballs for myself; I can share. Have you eaten?"
Draco shook his head. "Not at all."
She tilted her head up and kissed him briefly, before twining her fingers with his, pulling at him, leading him into the kitchen, where Draco was greeted with the divine smell of meat, and cheese, and sauce. "Sit," she ordered, pointing to the small table that had been placed in the corner of the kitchen. Something new, he realized, since his last visit.
Obediently, Draco sat as Hermione dished up steaming bowls of pasta, which she set in front of him on the table, taking a seat across from him. The smell hit him, and he realized just how hungry he was, and he dug in with fervor, wrapping lengths of pasta around the twines of his fork.
"How is it?" she asked quietly, fiddling with her own food.
"I think this might be the best thing I've ever eaten," Draco replied, after swallowing a particularly delightful bite.
Hermione smiled at him softly, before taking her own bite. "I'm glad you like it."
"Seriously, Hermione. Amazing."
They ate in comfortable silence, having grown accustomed to each other's presences. When they finished, Draco leaned across the counter as he watched Hermione do the dishes the Muggle way, much to his amusement. When she finished, she turned to him and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him soundly. "I'm glad you came by," she whispered against the skin of his neck.
"You are?" he asked.
"Yes. I didn't realize how much I wanted to see you, too," Hermione said, nuzzling against him.
Draco relaxed instantly, feeling the tension of the day drain from his bones, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. "I had a bad day," he admitted to her.
"I heard you were in Diagon Alley," she replied, not lifting her head from where it rested against his collarbone.
"Of course," he murmured back.
"Bad?" she asked.
"Not the worst."
She let out a breathy sigh. "I wish things weren't so hard for you. That people would give you a chance."
Draco laughed at this. "Not everyone is you, Hermione."
Hermione lifted her head then, eyes narrowed. "You still deserve another chance. The war was years ago—you served your time—you did your penance—"
He silenced her with a kiss. "What are you doing tonight?"
She rolled her eyes, quick to catch on to his manipulations. In this instance, she let it go. "I was just going to watch some movies and relax. Is that okay?"
Draco nodded. "More than. I would like to see more of these movies."
Hermione smiled then, once more threading his fingers with hers, tugging him into the living room, where he sat on the couch as she dug through a box, seemingly looking for something in particular. Finding it, she inserted the rectangle into the telewhat and joined him on the couch, leaning into him eagerly.
Draco relaxed against the arm of the couch, leaning back against it, and threw an arm around her shoulders, relishing the way her body felt as it curled into his.
They watched in silence for a few moments before Hermione turned to him, placing a hand on his jaw and turning his head so she could face him more fully. With tentative pressure, she pulled his jaw downwards and her lips were on his, kissing him gently. Pulling away, she opened her eyes slowly. "I'm sorry you had a bad day," she said softly. She kissed him again, just as soft, just as gentle, attempting to comfort him. She kissed the corner of his jaw, then a feather light kiss on the apex of his neck.
He closed his eyes at her ministrations as she gently peppered his face and lips and neck with soft kisses. "I thought you wanted to watch a movie?" he asked.
She smiled at him before kissing the corner of his mouth. "I changed my mind," she murmured. "I'd rather kiss you, make you feel better."
"You've already done that," Draco said softly. "You've already made me feel better."
Hermione pulled away from him slightly, wrapping her arms around his middle, and resting her head against his chest. "I see you fighting all the time, and it makes me so sad."
Draco sighed. "Hermione—"
"You're good, despite what you may believe. And I just wish everyone else could see what I see," she said earnestly.
"What do you see?" he asked her quietly.
"A man in an impossible situation, trying to do the best that he can. A man willing to go to the ends of the Earth for the ones he loves. A man who is loyal to a fault. A man so sweet I can hardly stand it," Hermione replied softly.
Draco laughed. "Me? Sweet? Funny, Hermione."
She looked up at him in earnest. "You are sweet. Annoying? Yes. A prat? Yes. But sweet when you want to be. Sweet with me."
Draco didn't know what to say this, so he remained silent, simply pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
"Will you stay? Tonight?" she asked.
"I don't want to go home," he admitted.
"So stay," she murmured.
"All right," Draco agreed.
They didn't watch the movie, not really. They sat in silence, exchanging the occasional kiss, the occasional affection. Hermione seemed to sense the sadness within him, and whenever it seemed to spring up inside of him, she would turn to him and place a gentle kiss to his lips, or his cheek, or his neck.
Sweet, he thought.
Was it like this for her, with him?
Did he make her feel like she did him?
He hoped so, but he doubted it. As he had told her, he had never felt this way before, and the affection in his heart for Hermione was overwhelming—how could anyone possibly feel this way about him?
The movie ended, and Hermione rose, shutting down the box and gripping his fingers once more. "Sleep?" she asked him softly.
"Sleep," he agreed, rising and following her to her bedroom.
"I just need to brush my teeth," Hermione said, motioning towards the bed. "I'll be back in a minute."
Draco nodded and slid into bed, the right side—his side?—and waited for her to return.
As promised, she was back within moments, extinguishing the lights with a flick of her wand, which she placed on her bedside table before crawling into bed with him. Instantly, she curled into him, placing a hand on his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. "I see you," she murmured into the dark.
"See what?" he asked, stroking her hair.
"You. The real you. The Draco you try to hide." She paused for a moment before continuing, "I remember that day with Ron, at the shop. The pomp. The arrogance. It was like watching a younger version of you. It was so familiar—and I, for a moment I believed it. And then you turned to me, and your eyes were different. And I realized: it's all fake. It's an act. A persona. In an instant you were back; the real you." Her hand rose to cup his cheek. "Was it ever real, Draco? Or was it always an act?"
Draco sighed deeply, exhaling into her curls. "It was real once. It wasn't until 5th year that I realized the implications. That's when it stopped being real."
"And now?" she asked.
"You're right. You see me. You're the only one who does."
"I want them to see, too," she whispered.
He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her closer. "I'm glad you saw me," he murmured against the shell of her ear. "If you're the only one who ever does, I'll be content with it."
Hermione shivered against him. "That's not fair," she murmured back. "You deserve more."
"Do I?' Draco asked.
"Yes," she whispered, "so much more."
"Are you sure?".
"You were raised to hate people like me. And now? You're here, with me. You told me you wanted to be with me; was that a lie?"
"No," he replied instantly.
"You changed," she said. "It's possible. You're allowed to want more, Draco."
"I do want more," he whispered.
"Good," she murmured back, seemingly soothed by his admission. Quieting, she burrowed further into his side as her breathing evened out.
Draco watched her for a bit, still stroking her hair as she slept peacefully beside him. Such a stark contrast to his morning, where his only feeling was one of complete and utter loneliness. Now, however, he was filled with contentment, of utter happiness.
With a small smile, Draco closed his eyes and floated off to sleep next to Hermione.
Draco's week continued similarly—the days long and meandering, as he failed to make any type of headway with his financial situation, alone in his massive Manor, which was beginning to feel more and more like a museum, or perhaps a tomb, as opposed to the home he had grown up in. By the end of the day, he would be frustrated and overcome with hopelessness and he would drag himself to Hermione's flat, where they would cuddle on her couch and she would pepper him with kisses until they were both sleepy, and they would fall into bed, Draco's arms wrapped around her.
Hermione seemed to sense that there was something the matter, but she did not ask. Instead, she distracted him with feather-light kisses and gentle smiles. But Draco knew better. He caught the little frowns and the thoughtful looks she gave him when she thought he wasn't looking. She seemed to want to ask, but was uncertain how. Draco knew his witch, though—her meddling nature, her overwhelming need for knowledge—and he knew she was eager for him to confide her, so she could help.
It was on one such evening, Draco's nerves gnawing at him after a particularly unproductive day, his arm slung around Hermione's shoulders, her hand pressed to his chest and her knees curled beneath her as they sat on the couch, that Draco finally cracked: "I don't know what to do," he said quietly.
She looked up at him with wide eyes. "Tell me," she murmured immediately.
"The money," Draco said simply.
Hermione sighed deeply and took his hand. "You never mentioned it again, I thought—"
"I was trying not to think about it—so much else was happening. I thought it could wait."
"You haven't figured out anything?" she asked quietly.
"The only plan I've come up with was to put my own Galleons into the account, so that they add up. But I don't know if that's suspicious, or if that's even how this works—but turns out that it's a moot point anyways, because I don't have 400,000 Galleons—" Draco rambled.
Hermione placed a hand on his cheek, which stilled him. "Spiraling isn't going to solve anything, Draco," she said calmly. "You should've told me about this sooner, you've been strange all week." She frowned.
Draco sighed and nodded. "I know, I know. Always the pragmatist, you are. I should've told you, I know. I just, I just —"
"What?" Hermione asked softly.
"I don't want you to think that this is all I am—problem after problem," Draco sighed. "Even though that seems to be what I am these days."
Hermione frowned up at him. "No, I don't see it that way at all, Draco. We all have problems."
"All I have are problems," Draco lamented.
"So, we'll solve them," she said back gently.
We. The word struck him, a blow directly to his wildly beating heart. "We?" he asked cautiously.
Hermione smiled at him. "Of course, we. We're in a relationship, that means we're partners—we handle things together."
Draco grinned, and shook his head with a little chuckle. "I've only had one relationship before, and I assure you it was very much not a partnership."
"No, I imagine not," Hermione said thoughtfully, then brightened. "But if you want to be with me, then we're partners."
"I think I like the idea of that very much," Draco replied, kissing the top of her forehead.
Ignoring his affection completely, Hermione rose and began to pace back and forth in front of her coffee table. "So, our most pressing problem right now is the accounts," she mused, "400,000 Galleons short."
We. Our. Despite himself, Draco smiled up at her pacing form.
"How many Galleons do you have in your vault?" she asked.
"Not enough," Draco said sullenly.
Hermione shot him an exasperated look, a warning to cooperate.
"A little over half of what's missing," Draco replied, throwing up his hands.
"Well, that's no good," she said.
"Isn't that what I just told you—?" Draco asked.
"Can you get access to your father's accounts?"
"Not until he's dead," Draco said dully.
"Even though he's in Azkaban?" Hermione said thoughtfully. "I'm sure there's some kind of loophole around that."
"There is," Draco confirmed, "But tell that to the Malfoy wards."
"Oh," she said dejectedly.
"Even if I had the Galleons, don't you think it would be suspicious? Someone would probably notice if I made a deposit that large without any type of paperwork, right? There's no way it wouldn't leave a paper trail, Hermione."
"I'll ask Harry—"
"No," Draco interrupted immediately. "I don't want Potter involved in this. I don't want him to know about this. Our truce is an uneasy one, and I don't think he'd hesitate for a moment to throw my arse back in prison."
"Draco," she began, "it may be the only way, Harry's very high up, he could make sure—"
"No," Draco echoed again.
"You're being stubborn," Hermione accused.
"You're being stubborn."
"Only because you are!"
"It's my arse on the line here, Hermione," Draco reasoned.
Her brow furrowed as she stilled her pacing and stared at him. "While that may be, Draco, I have something to lose here, too. I just got you," she said softly. "And I'd very much like to keep you."
Draco softened. "Come here," he said quietly, reaching for her. She obliged, the tips of her fingertips pressing against his as she came closer. When she was within reach, Draco wrapped his arms around her middle and pulled her into him, his head resting against her abdomen. "You said it, Hermione," he murmured to her, "we'll figure it out. We'll fix it, and you'll keep me."
The tips of Hermione's fingers absently played with the strands of his hair as he held her there. "We will," she murmured to him. "We'll figure it out."
Draco closed his eyes tightly, relishing having her in his arms, the feel of her, the warmth of her. His pessimism gnawed at him—that truthfully, he did not believe there was any way for him to fix this. But in that instant, Draco chose Hermione's beaming optimism. And for a second—just a second—Draco believed that everything would be all right.