A few days later, Draco sat with Hermione on the floor of Elixir, open containers of Pad See Eaw—one of Hermione's favorites, he'd have to remember that—in front of them.
She was tenser and quieter than usual, and it was unnerving Draco. Ever the pessimist, Draco thought back on the past couple of days, trying to pinpoint what he had done wrong.
Before he could voice his concerns—before he had even been aware that he wanted to voice his concerns—Hermione cleared her throat and spoke, "I actually had an ulterior motive for having you come over for lunch today." Hermione flicked her eyes to his shyly.
Draco couldn't help but furrow his brow. "What is it, Hermione?"
"Look, I know we've only been—whatever—for a little while now, and feel free to say no, it's totally all right if you want to say no—" she rabbled.
Draco couldn't help but grin. "Out with it, Hermione."
"Right. Well, as you know, I'm moving—"
"And you want to know if I'll help."
"Yes," she confirmed with a nod.
Draco sighed.
"You can say no—" she began again.
"Will Weasley be there?" he interrupted, remembering the other man's threats.
Hermione stilled. "No, but Harry will be." She blushed lightly.
"Do you want for me to be murdered?"
Hermione laughed at that. "Harry isn't as hot-tempered as Ronald, I'm sure you'll be all right."
"Hermione, do you remember the last time he saw me?"
She furrowed her brow in response. "Not really, no. Just, never mind, it was silly—" Now she was frowning, and that was just unacceptable.
He sighed again. "No, I'll do it, Hermione. You just—promise me I won't be killed?"
Smiling again, Hermione jostled her shoulder with his. "I'm sure you can protect yourself from Harry," she said with a chuckle.
"I'm sorry, but were you at the Final Battle? He did kill Voldemort." The name tasted wrong on his tongue, like it always did.
"With a disarming spell," Hermione argued.
Draco smiled down at her before leaning in for a soft kiss. "Don't worry, Hermione. I'll be there, even if it means I'll be met with certain death."
"You are so dramatic," she huffed, before kissing him back. Pulling away, Hermione seemed to think for a moment before she spoke again, "I'll talk to Harry. He knows we're friends, but he doesn't know about—"
"Us snogging each other?"
"Yes," she confirmed. "I didn't know if—how—if I should—?"
He chuckled before kissing her again. "It's all right. We don't have to define anything right this second, and I'm fine with Potter not knowing."
She looked relieved, as if she had been worried about betraying him, or hurting his feelings. Silly thoughts, of course. He was fine being her dirty little secret as long as he was hers.
"It's already been over an hour, Draco, I should be getting back," Hermione said reluctantly.
Draco rose first and offered his hand to her so he could pull her up. Having pulled her up from the floor, Draco did not release her hand, but instead pulled it to rest on his shoulder. "One more for the road?" he whispered against the shell of her ear.
He could feel her shiver slightly, before she quickly wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "One more," she agreed softly.
Draco was trying to take it slowly with Hermione, letting her set the pace. There was plenty of kissing, and hand-holding, and innocuous touching, but it stayed as such, with the exception of the night they had gone to the Muggle pub. The kissing was typically gentle, affectionate—simple and sweet. This kiss was different; she was pulling him into her, their chests touching as he wrapped his arms around her tighter. Willing to test the waters, he brushed his tongue across her bottom lip, which she immediately opened, granting him access.
This wasn't as gentle as before, he thought, as her tongue slid against his own, her lips frantic against his. Pressing him, hungrily, wanting more. This was passionate.
It was he who pulled away, breathless. "I thought you had to get back to work."
"I do," she replied, panting a bit. "I just wanted to—to do that."
Draco smiled and pressed his forehead against her own. "I have no qualms with that."
"Good," Hermione said, rising up on her toes to press another kiss to the corner of his mouth. "But now I really do have to go." She pointed to the door, where there a woman stood, attempting to peer into the locked shop.
"I'll see myself out," Draco replied, releasing her from his arms. "Owl me tonight?"
She smiled brilliantly at him. "Tonight," she confirmed.
When Draco left Elixir, he did not immediately go home. Instead, he made his way to St. Mungo's, where he had an appointment to meet a Healer there.
He had wanted to tell Hermione about it at lunch, but she had seemed so tense that the appointment had all but slipped his mind.
But now he was nervous—Draco no longer had a lot of experience with interacting in the public in a way that did not involve being spit on—and he was completely unsure what to expect. Would they turn him down at the door? Refuse to help him? Once the Healers learned the help was for Narcissa Malfoy, of course they would help, but what if they wouldn't listen to him?
Draco sighed as Purge and Dowse, Ltd. came into view, steeling himself and his nerves. This was important, and he couldn't afford to dissolve into a puddle of anxiety.
Looking around, Draco found the street mostly empty, and he quickly stepped through the window of the abandoned store, and promptly found himself at the reception area of St. Mungo's.
In the middle of small receiving area, a plump witch sat with at a circular desk, scribbling at a piece of parchment with a quill. Noticing that someone had entered, she looked up at him, putting her quill down. Immediately, her eyes went to his blonde hair that clearly signified his Malfoy heritage. Her eyes narrowed, but she made no comment. "How can I help you?" she asked coldly, and somewhat suspiciously.
Draco gulped and made his way to the middle of the room. "Yes, hello. I have an appointment with Healer Wilson."
The witch didn't even look at him as she spoke again, "Wilson in poisoning or Wilson in long-term care?"
"Long-term, ma'am," he offered politely.
She looked up at him quickly, shocked either by his politeness or his admission; he wasn't quite sure. After a moment, she shortly offered: "Fourth floor, third office on the left."
"Thank you," Draco said with a small smile that the witch ignored.
Destination now in mind, Draco made his way past the desk and into the magical lifts, which quickly took him to the fourth floor. Following the witch's directions, Draco found himself in front a heavy wooden door, with a golden engraved nameplate: R. Wilson.
Taking a deep breath, Draco rapped his knuckles lightly against the door.
"Come in!" said a deep voice on the other side of the door.
Draco hesitantly pushed the door open, and was met with a cramped, but brightly lit office. A large wooden desk took up most of the room, and the remaining space was stuffed with books and models of anatomy and the magical brain.
Behind the large wooden desk sat a man much younger than what he had expected—perhaps in his early 40s, if Draco had to guess. The man was slim, and of shorter stature, with dirty blonde hair and warm brown eyes. "Ah, Draco Malfoy! Come in, please; sit!" Healer Wilson called, motioning with hands for Draco to step forward.
Draco was flabbergasted by this warm welcome. Nonetheless, Draco forced his feet forward, and promptly sat in one of the chairs across from the Healer. "Hello, Healer Wilson. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me today."
"Nonsense. So you mentioned in your letter that you were looking into long-term care?"
"Yes, sir," Draco affirmed. "For my mother; she's unwell."
Healer Wilson looked up to him, leaning back in his chair with his hands crossed behind his head, expectant.
Draco sighed, not wanting to explain his mother's condition to another person. "Do you know much about Muggle diseases?" he asked hopefully.
To his surprise, Healer Wilson nodded. "I went to Muggle medical school as well as doing Healer training."
"I have a friend who owns a potions shop; she's been trying to develop something for my mother. In her research she came across dementia."
"Ah," Healer Wilson replied unhelpfully.
Exhaling, Draco spoke once more: "She thinks it's 1994 and has for months now. In the past she used to come out of them, but this time—she's not."
"Hence the need for long-term care."
Draco nodded, his frustration with the man building.
"But yet you wrote to me specifically."
"I knew you worked with memory—with the brain. I figured you were the best person to oversee her care," Draco reasoned.
Healer Wilson nodded. "Reasonable."
Finally his frustration was too much for Draco to handle. "I apologize, sir, but you are not being incredibly helpful," he snapped.
Healer Wilson smiled widely and chuckled. "I'm simply waiting for the bribe," he said.
Draco's head snapped upwards. "Bribe?"
"I've worked with your father before."
Draco's blood cooled, and the fight left him. This had been a dumb idea. "Apologies," Draco mumbled, rising to his feet to leave.
"The bribe?" Healer Wilson asked.
His hand on the door knob, Draco took a deep breath before turning back to the Healer. "I didn't come here to bribe you. I came here to help my mother. I'm very well aware of what my name means in this world now, and that's fine. But my mother did nothing wrong, and her situation doesn't deserve to be mocked." Without a look back, Draco quietly closed the door behind him and made his way home, now completely at a loss of what to do.
It had been a while since Draco had visited his faithful friend, firewhiskey, but he desperately wanted a drink right now. Fingers tingling in anticipation, Draco made his way to the kitchen and poured himself a large tumbler of firewhiskey, which he sipped at greedily, until half the glass was gone.
Draco went to fill the glass back up, but then thought better of it. Draining his glass, Draco grabbed the bottle of firewhiskey by its neck and made his way to his bedroom; he was too distraught to even look for his mother.
Settling himself on top of his sheets, he laid back on his pillows to stare at the ceiling. Absently, he took a swig of firewhiskey.
Draco awoke hours later, still on top of his comforter, empty bottle of firewhiskey beside him in the bed. Draco groaned—his head was splitting—and then he realized what had woken him—a light rapping at the window on the other side of his room.
With a grunt of exertion, Draco swung his legs from the bed and made to stand. The room was spinning, and he was disoriented as he made his way to the window, where an unfamiliar barn owl was tapping impatiently.
Draco opened the window, and the owl at the sill held out his leg, where a letter was tied. Draco quickly untied it and the owl promptly flew off. Rubbing his bleary eyes, Draco unfolded the letter and read it three times before meaning settled in.
Mr. Malfoy,
It appears that I have had a lapse in judgment in regarding your case. I'd like to accept your mother as a full-time patient to St. Mungo's Hospital of Magical Maladies and Injuries' Janus Thickey Ward.
I am willing to accept her case as soon as Tuesday, next week, if that is acceptable to you. Please owl me your decision as soon as it is convenient to you.
Healer Robert Wilson, MD.
Draco let out a relieved breath. So all was not lost, after all.
The pain in his head made itself known once more, and Draco massaged his aching temples.
He had just wanted a few drinks, to numb the anxiety. Of course he ended up with an empty bottle—of course. Draco flinched at the harshness of his own thoughts.
He'd been better lately. So he'd messed up—it was all right.
He would just have to do better.
Saturday morning, Draco found himself in a comfortable pair of trousers and an old Quidditch t-shirt. It was much too early, and the sun was high in the sky, blinding him ever-so-slightly. For a moment, he was regretting this decision, until he remembered that he was here because Hermione asked him to be.
Sighing, Draco knocked on the door of the townhouse Hermione had once shared with the Weasel. He was eager to see her, as he always was, but he was not eager to see the home—the life—she had shared with that complete and utter oaf.
It was not Hermione who opened the door, though—it was Potter. "Malfoy," he greeted, his eyes narrowed.
"Potter," Draco replied.
Potter simply stood there, eyeing him with disdain, before swinging the door open with a scowl, immediately turning his back and making his way back inside.
Draco, unsure of the layout of the building, simply followed Potter, hoping it would inevitably lead him to Hermione. Which, of course, it did.
"Malfoy's here," Harry spat.
Immediately, she looked up from where she sat cross-legged on the floor. "Draco!" she called happily, smiling up at him.
He wanted to wrap his arms around her. He wanted to kiss her. "Hermione," he replied, with a tilt of his head.
At his response, her smile wilted a bit before Draco darted his eyes towards Potter. She followed his gaze and blinked slowly at Potter before nodding slightly, clearly at herself.
"Where do you want me to start, Hermione?" he asked.
"The kitchen, if you don't mind? Everything is already packed up; all you need to do is shrink all the boxes and apparate—" she began.
"Apparate?" Potter asked quickly.
Hermione shook her head, as if confused. "Silly me. You can Floo from here, Draco."
Draco could tell immediately that Potter didn't buy it.
"Sounds great, I'll start in the kitchen—which is—which way?" Draco asked, hoping Hermione would volunteer to show him so he could have a moment alone with her.
Instead, it was Potter who piped up, immediately. "I'll show you, Malfoy."
Draco could hardly help his grimace. He shot a pained look at Hermione where she still sat on the floor. She merely shrugged and offered a little smile.
Unhelpful.
Dutifully, Draco followed Potter to the kitchen. Immediately, Potter closed the door behind them. "You aren't fooling anyone, Malfoy," he said lowly.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Potter."
"I know you're together."
"Potter—"
"I'm not an idiot, Malfoy, as much as you may think I am," Potter challenged. "She's been my best friend since I was eleven years old. It's easy to see. You always seem to be around, and she's been happier lately."
Draco couldn't find the words to respond. He bit his tongue and looked Potter directly in the eyes.
Potter sighed and leaned back against the countertop. "She likes you. Do you like her? And I mean, honestly? Or is this just a rebellious, fuck with the Mud—"
"Don't," Draco interrupted darkly.
Potter's eyes widened, but he did not speak.
Draco swallowed, and ran his tongue across his teeth, trying to prepare his words. "Yes," he responded finally, dumbly.
Potter narrowed his eyes. "'Yes' what?"
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, leaning on the counter opposite of Potter. "She and I—" he began, "we're new. We're trying. But yes, I like her."
Potter laughed then. "The irony."
"Fuck off, Potter."
Just then, the floor flew open, and Hermione walked in with wide eyes. "Boys—" she saw their stances and began again: "Oh gods, already?"
"I was just telling Malfoy that I know you two are together."
"We aren't—we're not—what—?" Hermione looked frantically to Draco.
"You aren't a good liar, Hermione," Potter interrupted.
"He knows—because of you, might I add—so can I kiss you now?" Draco asked, ignoring Potter completely.
Hermione flushed a deep red, looking between Potter and Draco repeatedly. Potter rolled his eyes and tilted his head towards Draco. As if she had been granted permission, Hermione made her way to Draco and pecked him lightly on the lips. "Sorry," she murmured.
Draco laughed before pressing a kiss to her hair. "Should've known you were a terrible liar," he said, rubbing her back soothingly.
"This is weird," Potter said with a grimace.
"Yes," Draco agreed.
"You can't tell Ronald," Hermione said desperately, turning away from him immediately to face Potter.
Draco bit his lip, and closed his eyes, waiting for Potter's reaction. When he opened them again, he found Potter's eyes trained on where he and Hermione had clasped their hands together. Then to her eyes, then to his. Draco immediately looked away.
"I won't. For now," Potter replied.
"I didn't even want you to know yet, Harry," Hermione begged.
"Neither one of you is good at hiding it," Potter replied. "You need to be better, if that's what you're set on doing."
"You can't tell Ginny either—she'll tell Ron."
"You're asking me to lie to my wife?" Potter asked.
"No! You just can't tell her—"
"You're my best friend, so I won't tell Ron, but Ginny—"
"Hermione," Draco interrupted, "he can tell his wife."
"But she'll—"
"Can Potter and I have a moment alone?" Draco asked.
Hermione twirled around to face him. "Draco—" Her eyes were wide and pleading.
"Just a moment, all right?" he promised, looking into her eyes.
With a brief nod, she turned away. "Five minutes. A second longer and I'm hexing you both."
As soon as Hermione left, Potter began to speak, "Malfoy—"
Draco ignored the man and cast a Muffliato on the door. "You know her ear is pressed directly against this door, right?"
Potter sighed. "You're right."
"I'm fine with you telling your wife—"
"—I never asked for your permission—"
"But I don't want Weasley to know."
"Why?"
"It's a long story."
"Not a good answer, Malfoy."
Draco groaned and nodded. "It's not. You're right, it's not. I just—I want her to be happy. And Weasley finding out about us right now? I mean, they haven't been broken up that long. It will cause more harm than good, right now."
"He has something on you, doesn't he?"
"No," Draco replied honestly. "But if you think even for a second that your wife might tell him, it might make things complicated."
Potter furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.
Just then, they were interrupted by a banging at the door. "It's been five minutes, boys! Who am I hexing!?"
Draco rolled his eyes before opening the door. "No one, Hermione. I told you, we were just talking."
Hermione smiled the brightest he had ever seen. It was infectious, and he smiled right back at her before he leaned in for a kiss.
Potter cleared his throat before pushing himself off of the counter. "Well, I've seen about enough of that for a lifetime. Can we get back to moving?"
"Yes," Hermione said excitedly. "Draco: kitchen! Harry: living room!"
Draco smirked as Potter obediently followed her from the kitchen, leaving him alone.
It didn't take long for Draco to shrink down all of the boxes that had already been packed, and within an hour, he was apparating to Hermione's new flat. He set the shrunken boxes on the counter of her new kitchen before immediately apparating back.
He found Potter in the living room, packing up books by hand. "Where's Hermione?" Draco asked, as he neared.
"Bedroom—upstairs," Potter answered.
Draco walked away from Potter, quickly finding the stairs and said bedroom at the top of them. Hermione sat on the stripped bed, her gaze empty and focused on nothing. Boxes littered the floor, but no attempt had been made to shrink them. Hermione simply sat there forlornly.
Without knocking, Draco made his way to the bed where he perched at the edge. "Are you all right?" he asked softly.
"Yes, I'm all right," she replied immediately.
"Tell me the truth."
Hermione sighed. "I'm all right. But it's sad—I had this whole plan for my life. And not one of them panned out. Ron, the Ministry, my parents—" she cut herself off. "I'm not sure I'm ready to give up on the plan."
"The plan rarely works out, Hermione."
"But can't I just dream a bit longer?" she asked.
"Of course you can. But if you close your eyes, is it still your dream?"
She forcefully shut her eyes for a few moments. "No, it's not." She looked back to him.
"Dreams change."
"They do," she agreed.
"It's just a room, Hermione. That's all it is."
"It's my room."
"Hasn't been for a while. The transfigured couch at Potter's, remember?'
Hermione laughed. "It'll be strange, sleeping on my own for the first time in years. At least with Harry and Ginny, I had other people around."
"I'll stay with you," he offered immediately.
"Draco, I—"
"Just to sleep. On the couch, if you want."
"Your mother?" she asked.
"I'm taking her to St. Mungo's on Tuesday."
"Oh, Draco, why didn't you tell me?"
"You were being weird about asking me to help you move."
"And here I am, being even weirder. Sitting on the bed I used to share with your worst enemy. Gods, I asked you to help me to move, what is wrong with me!?"
"Hey—" he called, grabbing her wrist.
"No, this is—"
Draco pulled her towards him. "I don't know what's happening with us—I don't. But I want to be next to you. You came to Azkaban with me, so of course I'd help you move."
"Will you help me shrink all of this down?" she asked. "If I stay any longer, I'm not sure I'll be able to leave."
"Point and I'll shrink, Hermione," he replied, hopping off the bed.
Hours later, Draco and Potter arrived at Hermione's new flat with the last of her belongings. With a hug and a promise to owl him the next day, Hermione banished Potter to the Floo.
As she walked towards him, she murmured, "Thank you." She buried her head into his chest.
"Of course," he murmured against her hair.
"I'm sorry, today was weird."
"I've had weirder."
"Will you stay?" she asked. "On the couch? It's a new place, what if it's haunted?"
"You'd have me sacrifice myself to the ghosts?" he asked.
"Not sacrifice, but fend off."
"So you want me to protect you?" Draco asked with a smirk.
Hermione glared up at him, a slight redness tinging her cheeks. "No," she said weakly.
Draco chuckled down at her enrage. "I'm just teasing you, Hermione," he said as he wrapped his arms around her. "Of course I'll stay."
"Are you hungry? We can order takeaway," Hermione offered.
"Whatever you want, Hermione," Draco replied softly, closing his eyes as he let his head rest against the top of her curls. Truthfully, the day had exhausted him and all he wanted to do was crawl into bed with Hermione in his arms—a new possibility that he very much looked forward to it, if the time for it ever arose.
"Indian?" she suggested helpfully.
"Indian," Draco agreed.
Forty-five minutes later, Hermione led him from the kitchen and into her partially-unpacked living room, where she placed her Malai kofta and samosas on the table, and then unceremoniously dropped herself onto the cushions of the couch.
Draco chuckled at her as he followed and placed his own food—fish Biryani and garlic naan—next to hers and lowered himself to the couch with much more grace. As Hermione continued to lean against the arm of the couch, Draco reached over and opened a container and plucked a samosa from it. "Don't hog the samosas," Draco admonished Hermione.
"Don't hog the naan," she argued, finally sitting up and opening her own container of food.
"I wouldn't dream of keeping you from the naan, I'll have you know."
Hermione grinned at him as she reached for a slice of the bread.
Draco couldn't help but smile back. He took a bite of his own food, and looked away from Hermione, where he was faced with a tremendous black box sitting across the room, the face of which was mildly shiny and reflected their forms where they sat on the couch. "What is that?" Draco asked, slightly taken aback.
Hermione's eyes lit up and she beamed at him. "That's right. You have no idea. It's a television," she explained unhelpfully.
"A telewhat?" Draco asked.
"Hang on." Hermione gracelessly dropped her fork, and rushed over to the massive box, dropping to her knees next to it. "I made sure that this building was outfitted with outlets so I could bring this. A lot of wizarding flats don't have them, you see," she said, as she began to fumble with a rope that appeared to be made out of rubber.
"What language are you speaking, Hermione?" Draco asked.
Hermione shot him a look and replied in a dead-panned voice, "Russian."
Draco leaned back on the couch, placing his hands on the tops of his knees. "I don't think so—I know Russian and I'm quite certain—"
"You know Russian?" Hermione asked as she continued to fumble with the rope.
"Da," Draco replied.
Hermione ignored him as she seemed to find whatever it was she was looking for. "Ah!" she exclaimed, rising from her knees and standing in front of the tele-thing, which suddenly roared to life in a flurry of bright colors and sounds.
Draco was on his feet immediately, pushing Hermione away from it and the impending explosion.
Suddenly, Hermione began to laugh. "Draco, relax. Look," she instructed, pointing at the screen.
Draco, his heart pounding, turned his head and saw a portrait of a man talking about—the weather? "What the fuck is this?" Draco asked.
"It's a television!" exclaimed Hermione once more, still completely unhelpful.
"You've said that and again, what language are you speaking?"
"The Queen's English."
"We don't have a queen."
"You truly know nothing about the Muggle world, do you?" she asked softly.
"Is that thing going to explode or not?"
Hermione chuckled. "No, it's not going to explode. Well, it shouldn't, in any case. Come, sit," she said, motioning back to the couch.
Draco cast one more suspicious glance at the tele-thing, where a different portrait was now talking about an unfortunate gridlock in the city—whatever that meant—before following Hermione and setting himself back down next to her. "What does it do?" he asked.
"It's a Muggle form of entertainment and information. We have The Daily Prophet, and Muggles, well, they have papers, too, but they also have this as a way to get their news."
"Muggles have a box just for news?" Draco asked, confused. "That's idiotic."
"No, not just for news. There are shows, movies, documentaries."
"I don't know what any of those are."
"I am becoming aware of the gaps in your knowledge," Hermione teased.
"You wound me," Draco replied.
Once more, Hermione was on her feet, suddenly rummaging in a nearby box, before pulling out a rectangular object with a girl on the cover. "Draco Malfoy, I introduce you to the movie," she announced. "This is one of my favorites. It's a romantic comedy, so nothing too heavy." She kneeled in front of the tele-thing, and out of the rectangular object, slid another rectangular object; this time black. The black object seemed to disappear into the tele-thing, and then the colors changed, and then there was music, and words.
"Never Been Kissed?" Draco mused.
"Just watch," she urged, settling back next to him and stealing another piece of naan from its foil.
Draco obliged, smiling as Hermione finished her food and leaned into him.
When the movie finished, Draco found himself leaning halfway on the arm of the couch, Hermione pressed tightly to his side, with his arm around her shoulders. She looked up to him excitedly. "What did you think?" she asked.
Draco squeezed her shoulders gently. "Well, there are several things I didn't understand, but those aside, I liked it. It was funny," Draco replied thoughtfully.
"Cars?" she asked.
"Are those the things they move around in?"
Hermione nodded.
"Yes, cars."
"But you liked it?" she asked brightly, hopefully.
My favorite part is the part where I got to put my arms around you, Draco thought to himself. Pushing his lustful thoughts away, Draco nodded. "Yes. Although my head hurts a bit now."
Hermione looked thoughtful for a moment. "Probably the lights and colors—you're not used to looking at a screen. It's late anyways, I should probably get to bed," she said, standing up.
Immediately, Draco laid down and sprawled himself across the expanse of her couch. "I'll be here," he murmured sleepily, pulling the blanket from the back of the couch down and around him. "Fending off the evil spirits."
Hermione dropped to her knees in front of his face and sought his lips for a gentle kiss. "Thank you for today, Draco," she murmured.
"Of course," he replied softly.
"Goodnight, Draco," Hermione said quietly.
"Goodnight, Hermione.