It had been two weeks, and Draco had not heard from Hermione Granger. He was not sure when hearing from her had begun to matter, nor was he sure when he began to call her 'Hermione Granger' inside his head.
It was Granger. Always Granger. Hermione Granger.
Draco drank. Three weeks, and Draco felt the familiar sadness creep in, now unmitigated. Draco had once heard her voice in his head, but it was gone now. Not forgotten, no; but he couldn't quite get the lilt of her voice, her tone, the insufferable swottiness—it was all wrong when he heard her now, the result of going too long without seeing her. Broken glass called for him—the aperture of the owlery—he could brew something horrible, truly. He could end it. Stay alive, he reminded himself. His mother needed him.
He drank. After four weeks, Draco apparated to Diagon Alley, directly outside of Elixir. He didn't want to break any more of her furniture. He pushed open the door of the shop, the bell signaling his arrival with a small tinkle.
"—Why, Hermione, why!?"
"Because—"
"Give me one good reason!"
"He—"
"One!"
No one had heard him enter, clearly.
"Narcissa saved Harry! Saved us! Saved me!" Granger cried.
"You would be dead if they had won, you know that."
"Ronald—"
Ronald Weasley, of course. Granger's boyfriend.
"Don't Ronald me. You aren't helping him. The end."
"You don't control me! This is my business, and yes, I am going to help him. Him, and his mother."
"I don't know you anymore, 'Mione," Ron whispered.
This was too much, and Draco had to interrupt. "Hello. Yes, you have a customer."
Granger clapped a hand over her mouth, clearly horrified, while Weasley simply stared, eyes narrowed. "Malfoy," he said, drawing his wand.
Draco was all too familiar with this: the distrust, the knee-jerk reactions. He deserved it. He tucked his wand into his trousers and raised his hands. "I'm here purely for business purposes."
"Sure," Weasley muttered.
"Can we talk later?" Granger asked Weasley; her eyes red-rimmed, like she'd already been crying.
It made Draco angry, and he wasn't really sure why.
Weasley grimaced in Draco's direction before planting a kiss against Granger's temple. "Later," he said, peering into her eyes.
"Later," she agreed.
Weasley met his eyes. "I will kill you," he sneered.
"You don't have what it takes, Weasley."
Weasley chuckled for a moment. "You would know, wouldn't you, Malfoy?" he replied nastily. Draco could say nothing, because yes, he did know. He looked away from the other man, looking instead at Granger.
Weasley left and the little bell over the door tinkled once more. "Granger—" he began.
"Don't."
He did anyways: "Your boyfriend sucks."
"He does not," she argued.
"So why have you been crying?" he asked.
"I've not—I had some stubborn cat hair in my eye."
"Right," he murmured.
Granger rubbed at eyes once more before looking at him fully. "Why are you here, Malfoy?"
Draco opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, realizing he hadn't even bothered coming up an excuse as to why he was here. "I hadn't heard from you in weeks. I was wondering if you'd done any research regarding my mother." It came out colder than he had intended, and he didn't miss Granger's resulting flinch.
"Yes, I have," she said quietly. "I've been tinkering with a few potions that I didn't see in your research, and I've been consulting with some Muggle doctors about treatment for dementia."
"I would like to be updated on all aspects of my mother's care," he said shortly. "With the money I'm paying you—"
"You haven't paid me at all," Granger interrupted.
"A big mistake on your part, Granger. I would've asked for the money right up front. You're lucky I'm an honest man."
Granger snorted, then crossed her arms, looking at him oddly. "Why are you really here?"
Good question. He still wasn't quite sure of the answer. Instead: "Does he always yell at you?"
Her crossed arms tightened across her body, as if she were holding herself and she narrowed her eyes at him. "He wasn't yelling at me; we were having a disagreement. Couples have those, sometimes."
"Sounded like yelling to me," he mused. If he couldn't come up with a reason for why he was here, at least he could argue her into distraction.
Granger smirked at him and unfolded her arms, as if she had come to some conclusion about him. "You wanted to see me," she murmured.
"Certainly not."
Her smile broadened. "You did—you wanted to see me. You show up for no reason—at least none that you can think of. You apparated outside, because you didn't want to piss me off. You think my boyfriend sucks."
He should've known Granger was much too smart for his manipulations. And, he supposed, she was right, in a way. "He does," he answered shortly.
Granger chuckled. "Now, Draco Malfoy, if I didn't know any better, I'd have a mind to think that you have a little bit of a crush on me."
Ah, a crush. Of course, that's what this was. Instead: "You have got to be kidding, Granger. I'm here for my mother."
She smirked at him knowingly. "Certainly," she mocked.
"I didn't want to break any more of your furniture," he said lamely.
"I appreciate that."
"So, he really doesn't like that you're helping me."
"No," she replied soundly.
"I'm assuming that wasn't the first fight."
"No," she said again. "One of many."
"I'm sorry." And he was, he really was. Not just for the fights with Weasley—but everything. The way he treated her in school, the insults, the taunts. How, even now, he could be cruel and make her flinch. For the furniture, for position he had put her in—helping Death Eater scum like him—
"Where did you go?" she asked softly.
"What?"
"Just then, where did you go? You apologized and then got this faraway look in your eyes—you went somewhere. Were you occluding?"
Draco shook his head. "No, I can't occlude anymore."
"Really?" she asked, interest sparking in her voice.
"Really. And I really wish I could," he said quietly.
"Why not?"
"I don't know, Granger," he snapped. "I just can't anymore—not since the War ended."
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, taking a step back from him. "I didn't mean to pry, I just can't—"
"You can't help yourself," he finished. "I know."
"Are you okay?" she whispered, after a moment of silence.
"I'm fine," he clipped.
"Are you? I've been reading about The Draught of Inanis. It's no joke, Malfoy."
"I'm aware."
She took a few steps closer to him. "After the cuts, with your Mark, and now this—I have to wonder."
"I'm fine," he gritted.
"Let me see your Mark," she ordered quietly.
"No."
"Malfoy—"
"I said No!"
Granger jumped back in surprise at his tone. "I—" she began.
"Don't," Draco ordered. "Just don't." He couldn't look at her anymore; she knew, and he was ashamed. And she—well, she was just horrified.
He turned to leave, but Granger grabbed his arm, jerking him back. "No," she said forcefully. He allowed her to pull him to her, entranced by her, her fortitude, and suddenly, his sleeve of his left arm was rolled up, the ugly Mark in plain sight.
He wanted to pull away—hide it—but her soft fingers were gliding across his skin—across the Mark. He shivered."I haven't," he whispered. "I've wanted to, but I haven't."
"Good. I have one, too, you know," she said quietly.
"Not the same."
"It still hurts," she argued as she continued to run her fingertips across his marred skin.
"Do you ever—Do you ever want to cut it off?" he asked.
"No."
"Then it's not the same," Draco replied.
"Malfoy," Granger whispered.
"What?"
"Don't try and cut it off again."
"Why?" he shot back.
"Because it's not all that you are, Draco."
Draco wasn't sure he had ever heard her say his first name before, and it was such a lovely sound falling from her lips. "It's not all you are, you mean. But for me, this is it—"
"It's just a mark."
"It's a symbol of hatred, Granger."
"You don't seem all that hateful."
"Well, you don't know me."
"I'm getting to know you—still, you don't seem hateful."
"I'm just getting to that—it's next on my list."
"You like me."
"Not even a little bit."
"You smiled when I called you 'Draco.'"
Draco pulled away from her. "I did not."
"Yes, Draco, you did—See! You just did it again."
"Is there a point to this conversation?"
Granger shrugged. "I like knowing things. I like knowing I'm right. I want to know that I'm right about you."
"Well, you're not."
"I am."
"Things going well with Weasley, then?"
Granger dropped her smirked immediately and took several steps back. "Yes, fine. Why do you ask?" she replied primly, as if their previous conversation had never happened.
She likes you, too.
Draco pushed the thought away because it was wholly irrelevant. He smirked. "No reason."
"I need potions?" came a timid voice next to them. Draco turned and found a slightly rotund man, shifting from foot to foot nervously.
Draco took several steps back from Granger, even though he was quite certain that the man had witnessed their entire interaction. It had been quite a long time—years, even. But Draco was certain that he and Hermione had just been flirting. Granger, he reminded himself.
"My apologies," she murmured to her customer, before turning back to Draco.
"I know my way out," he said with a nod.
"Malfoy, wait—"
"You have a customer, Granger. I'll talk to you later." Draco turned and apparated away before he could even hear her reply. Finding himself in his bedroom, Draco found the half-empty bottle of firewhiskey on his nightstand and took a long swallow.
Several things had happened today that he needed to process. Firstly, he had wanted to see Hermione. Granger. Secondly, he had gone to Hermione. Granger. And, subsequently, they had flirted. They had flirted, right? Thirdly, she liked him, too. Too? He didn't like her. No, he couldn't. He didn't. Right?
Draco took another swig of his firewhiskey, now not completely sure. He thought about Granger—her thick, curly hazel hair falling down her shoulders and the small of her back. Her intense chocolate eyes, and the way they could bore into his own, able to read right down to his soul. She had known that he had wanted to see her, that he had no other reason to be there. She knew. Her petite form, so much smaller than his own, and the way he towered over her. The way she flinched, the way she stepped back from him—but never, ever, did she seem afraid of him.
So maybe he liked her a little. She was beautiful, that much was obvious. But it was more than that, he knew. Her brilliance, her need for knowledge, was unlike anything he had ever encountered. She had said it before—she liked the puzzle, starting from the bottom and then moving up, piece by piece— Was he just another puzzle to her?
He didn't want to be another puzzle to her.
The thought stilled him, and he took another gulp of the firewhiskey. All right, so he liked her more than a little. "Fuck," he whispered to himself. So, Draco did what he did best: he drank.
"I honestly didn't think I'd hear from you again," Astoria said over tumblers of firewhiskey in the solarium. Narcissa had not been alerted of Astoria's arrival, and all social niceties had been foregone in favor of a simple spread of cheese and crackers and crystal tumblers full of firewhiskey from Astoria's hidden flask.
"I overreacted the last time we met," Draco offered simply.
"Yes," Astoria affirmed without judgement.
"I apologize."
Astoria tipped her tumbler back with a smile and sip of her firewhiskey. "No worries, Draco. I get it. It's tough. It sucks. Everything sucks."
"Yes," he agreed.
"So, what am I doing here?" she asked.
Draco took another sip from his tumbler. "I don't have many friends—"
"You don't have any friends, you mean to say," Astoria interrupted.
Draco nodded. "You are blunt," he murmured.
Astoria shrugged. "I call it the way I see it."
"I have no friends," Draco amended. "I figured I could use one."
Astoria smirked. "Yes, you could. I could use one as well, if I'm being honest."
"You were right to leave. It's hard here," Draco said softly.
"We take ourselves wherever we go, Draco. You'd be no different in France. No different in Argentina," Astoria mused.
"I suppose you're right."
"Who's the witch?" she asked with tilt of her head, smirk still intact.
"What?"
"Oh, come on. I know that face—I invented that face. Who's the witch?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Astoria."
Astoria ran her hand across Draco's cheek. "Oh, Draco. Your eyes are glassy, you're flushed and licking your lips. You're thinking about a witch. Also, you haven't looked at my chest once."
"Astoria—"
"Don't worry, you're not my type anyways," she interrupted, stroking his jaw. "Wrong parts and all."
Draco couldn't help but chuckle. "I've also been drinking."
"Hmm, yes. But my galleons are on a girl."
"You're gay?" he asked.
Astoria stiffened in her seat. "That a problem?"
Draco shrugged. "No, just curious. You are not at all what I expected, Ms. Greengrass." Draco raised his tumbler to clink with hers. "Cheers."
"Cheers," she echoed. "And what did you expect?"
"The Astoria," he began, echoing the way she had drawled her name the last time they had met, "that is the gem of high society."
Astoria drained her tumbler, slamming it down onto the glass table. "I hate that Astoria."
"Society is just the worst, isn't it?" he asked, draining his own tumbler.
"Yes!" Astoria shouted, pulling out her flask to once more fill their tumblers. "So who's the witch?" she asked again.
Draco let out a long sigh. "Doesn't matter."
"Come now, I want to know. In the interest of being mates," she emphasized.
"There's no witch. I may or may not like someone, that's all."
"If you have to clarify, then you like her, Draco," Astoria replied.
"It doesn't matter—she has a boyfriend."
Astoria scoffed. "If she's not married, she's fair game."
Draco grimaced, taking another gulp of firewhiskey. "She's not a piece of meat, Astoria, she's a person."
She grinned. "So, you really like her then."
"I am regretting owling you. Sincerely."
"No, you're just desperately in need of some guy talk. I can do that."
Draco sighed again. "Hermione Granger," he murmured.
"What?" Astoria spat, rocking forward onto her heels, her hands on the tops of her knees. "The Hermione Granger?"
"The one and the same—Look, I shouldn't have said anything—" "
That is amazing, Draco! Have you asked her out?"
"No, of course I haven't. Like I said, she has a boyfriend. And anyways—"
"Don't even try to tell me you don't actually like her," she began, taking a cracker and topping it with some cheese before shoving it into her mouth. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have even mentioned her."
"I'm shit, Astoria."
Astoria stopped chewing briefly, seeming to think, her mouth full of cracker. After a pause, she began to chew again and then had barely swallowed before she was already speaking to Draco. "Oh, that's horseshite. You were a right shit at Hogwarts, but that was years ago—and I always thought it was a persona, if I'm being rather truthful. You're different now."
"How would you know?"
Astoria shrugged. "I used to watch you, at Hogwarts. Before I knew that I liked girls, I was pretty certain we'd end up married."
Draco laughed. "Why would you think that?"
Astoria furrowed her eyebrows at him. "We were betrothed."
Draco stopped laughing. "What?"
Astoria nodded. "We were betrothed, since before I was born. Did you really not know?"
"No idea."
"Yes, well, we were. Until my father disowned me after he caught me with Pansy."
"Parkinson?" he gaped.
"I'm the reason she dumped you," she replied with a smirk.
"You little minx." Draco grinned.
"It really wasn't you—it was her."
"But you're here helping your mother?"
"My father disowned me, not my mother," she replied.
"To shitty fathers!" Draco said, raising his tumbler, clanking it once more to Astoria's. Both Draco and Astoria took long sips of their firewhiskey. They sat in comfortable silence until there was a light tapping coming from the window of the solarium, a white barn owl clicking its talons against the glass, asking for entrance. Draco stood from his seat unsteadily and made his way over to the window. Opening the window, he took the note the owl politely handed him before giving it a treat and sending it on its way.
"What's that?" Astoria asked as he made it his way back to the table.
"Nosy, are we?" he teased. Draco unrolled the little bit of parchment and found that it was a hastily scrolled note from Granger—so hasty that it was lacking the purple E he had become accustomed to. "The girl in question."
"Oh, what's it say?"
"Malfoy, I need to see you immediately. My office," he replied, reading the note out loud.
"Sexy," Astoria purred.
"I've got to go."
"Don't let me stop you, I can see myself out," Astoria replied, biting into another cracker.
Draco rolled his eyes before apparating from the solarium directly into Hermione's office. She sat stiffly in her chair, her slender fingers gripping her desk. "Malfoy, what the fuck?" she shouted as he took his normal seat.
"What?" he asked innocently.
"What is this potion you're asking me to make?"
"You can call it whatever you like once you've created it," he replied with a smirk.
"No, not that one. This one," she said, thumping a heavy book down in front of him, the pages already opened halfway to The Draught of Inanis.
"Am I in trouble?"
Granger trembled in her anger. "Did you bother to read anything about it?"
"I read that one bit in Latin before I sent it to you. What, Granger?"
"People kill themselves while they take that potion, Malfoy. They kill other people while they take that potion," she seethed.
"What?" he asked, confused, pulling the book towards him.
"Read it," she ordered.
The Draught of Inanis, long since having fallen out of favor due its unpredictable, and often, volatile side-effects, is a potion that was widely used in the 16th and 17th centuries for mental disturbances in both men and women of upperclass, wealthy families. The history of the potion is not well known, though it is theorized that it was created for Quintus Caecilius Metellus Numidicus after his exile from Rome. Very little evidence exits to support this theory. It is known, however, that this potion is meant to numb the user completely, to the point where no or very little emotion is felt. While effective, some users have reacted violently to the potion. In 1632, Ferrucio Palerma brutally stabbed his wife and sons to death while under the influence of the potion, later claiming that he was unaware of what was occurring at the time. In 1739, Sacha Delafose committed suicide, seemingly accidentally, while under the influence of the potion…
Draco didn't want to read more; he pushed the book away. She was staring at him intently, waiting. "What do you want me to say, Granger? The little bit I read didn't include any of those little anecdotes."
"What are you asking me for, Malfoy?" she whispered.
"You've researched the potion; you know what it does. Don't ask stupid questions, Granger. You know what I'm asking."
"Numbness," Granger replied, clarifying.
"Complete and utter," he affirmed with a nod.
"Ferrucio Palerma killed his whole family while taking it—"
"I read it, too, Granger," Draco interrupted.
"I can't. I can't help you with this," she murmured.
"Understood," he said quickly. "I debated even asking in the first place. So let's just forget about all of this, then."
Granger appraised him coolly for a moment. "You've tried the Depression Draught? On yourself?" she asked tightly.
"Yes."
She nodded. "Like I said, I'll see if I can't invent something myself, something less volatile, that way I can tinker with it—find something for you—"
"Granger," he interrupted. "Don't worry about it. Forget it. Just focus on my mother."
"But—"
"Don't."
Granger was watching him, her eyes flickering across his face; studying him. She looked down at her hands, where they still tightly gripped her desk. "Free of charge."
"I wasn't really worried about the money, Granger. Also, you've yet to charge me. It's not good business sense, honestly."
"Well, just let me?"
"Do what you will, Granger. But don't go out of your way for me—I assure you, I'm not worth it."
She looked at him once more, her hands relaxing and reaching across the desk, almost as if she were reaching for him. But no, that wasn't possible. She curled her hands back, as if realizing what she was doing. "That's why I got a mastery—to try new things. So that's what I'll do: I'll try something new," she reasoned.
"Is that all, Granger?" he asked, rising from his seat.
Granger looked up at him, her eyes shining. "Yes," she said quietly.
The look stunned him for a moment—so full of empathy, understanding—kindness. Kindness that he did not deserve. "You make me uncomfortable." It slipped out. He didn't mean to say it, and he could feel the heat in his face as his embarrassment rose.
Her hands curled back even further. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
He knew what she was thinking: Mudblood. "Because you're nice to me," he clarified.
"Not because I'm a Mudblood?" she asked, scoffing.
"No. Don't call yourself that," Draco insisted.
"You did, plenty of times."
"I suck, Granger. You know that."
"I don't know that. Not anymore," she replied with a tilt of her head, studying him.
Draco swallowed. "Granger, I am the fucking worst. And you—you are the best. I can't even say Mud—I can't even say it anymore. I don't want to say it. Because it's just garbage—it's all shit; I found that out right before I had this stupid thing burned into my arm—" he said, motioning to his left arm, covered, always covered—
"You didn't have a choice—" she interrupted.
"Didn't I?" he asked hotly.
"You would've died," Granger murmured.
"That's still a fucking choice, Granger. I did what I had to do to live, or I could have died and saved a whole lot of people a whole lot of suffering."
"Life or death—that's an easy choice."
"Is it, Granger? Is it? Because I don't feel like I made the easy choice," Draco shot back.
"So, you chose wrong," she replied with a shrug. "You should've chosen death."
Draco looked up at her sharply.
"I just wanted you to follow your own irrational thought process. Choose death and you, your mother, and your father die. Choose life—well, someone else dies, not necessarily at your hand, but logically that's how it goes."
"Does their life matter less because they didn't mean anything to me?" he argued.
"Of course not, but that's not the point I'm making," she insisted.
"Your point?"
"You made your choice based on the lives that mattered to you—naturally. It would be irrational of you to choose the option where you and your loved ones die, simply to save others."
"I find you and your logic annoying,"
"No," she said with a smile. "You like me."
Draco stilled and met her eyes. Yes, he finally admitted to himself, I do like you. Instead, he scoffed at her: "Please, Granger."
Her grin never faltered, and the look that graced her face was very similar to the one she had made at Hogwarts, when she answered teachers' questions with absolute certainty. She had discovered something about him, and she knew it. "Draco," she replied easily.
He shivered slightly at his name on her lips. "This is pointless," he sneered. "Goodbye, Granger." In a panic, Draco apparated away. Immediately he headed for the kitchen—he needed firewhiskey immediately.