Chapter Text
Ch. 6 SLOWLY I REMEMBER WHY I CANNOT PRETEND
☍☄☍
Lady Narcissa Malfoy’s heels tapped daintily on the marble floor as she made her way down the long corridor to the East Wing, a small scroll of parchment held in her hand. Theo’s update about Draco’s condition made her cautiously hopeful. And as hope burgeoned in her breast, she decided she would share it with the man she had maintained an assiduous, rimy, and near decade long distance from—her husband, Lord Lucius Malfoy.
He had repaired (under threat of a most painful demise) to the East Wing after Narcissa learned of his perfidy (which he strenuously denied) toward their son’s beloved, Miss Hermione Granger. And while Narcissa admired Lucius’s acumen for strategy and sometimes manipulation, that had been her line in the sand. The repercussions of whatever Lucius had said, or done, continued to impact their son catastrophically.
Narcissa had, of course, deployed her own, far-reaching repercussions in the decade of Draco’s estrangement, banishing her husband from her bed, separating her Black family assets, and wresting control of Malfoy holdings from him, diminishing his power as punishment. Lucius had relented, committing to atonement in his singular way, which Narcissa encouraged with aloof silence.
Now hopeful that the restoral of their son was not only possible but imminent, Narcissa was inclined to inform Lucius. She paused at the oak double doors which led to Lucius’ living quarters, sibilant calls and sounds indicating Lucius was, per usual, engrossed with his favored approach to making amends.
“Pspsps! My darling girl! My little princess, why don’t you come to papa? Would you like some plimpy and ramora? Only the best for my princess and her charming brood, yes! My beautiful, merciless lady. Eat, so you can feed your children. Yes, that’s a good girl.”
Narcissa steeled herself as she opened the door without rapping, her eyes widening slightly at the chaotic tableau: At least a dozen kittens in varying shades of ochre, saffron, roan, silver, and terracotta, lounging, scampering, playing, running; bits of string, balls of yarn and other feline accoutrement were scattered about the floor; Lucius, kneeling on the Tabriz in front of the fireplace, his brushed velvet, emerald green dressing gown open to partially reveal his naked broad, still well-toned chest. His feet were clad in enormous brushed suede slippers and green socks imprinted with orange cats. His lustrous silvery hair a curtain over his face, occluding Narcissa’s view, as he beckoned toward a wicker basket lined with the plump throw pillows Narcissa had carefully chosen several months ago.
Trills, chirps, and little yips emitting from the basket as the contents squirmed, stretched, wriggled. A meow of displeasure from the basket’s largest inhabitant—La Belle Dame Sans Merci, or La Belle, Lucius’s part-Kneazle familiar of seven years.
La Belle regarded Narcissa scornfully with unblinking blue eyes—she did not appreciate the intrusion. Narcissa and her sisters had raised Kneazle and feline familiars in their youth, so she knew and loved them well. Narcissa blinked slowly, respectfully, awaiting La Belle’s permission to enter her domain. La Belle blinked once, twice, and flicked her thick, grey tail. Narcissa was granted entry. Kneazles were excellent judges of character.
Narcissa’s eyes glinted at the kittens around La Belle Dame and squealed (lowly, for it wouldn’t do to encourage Lucius overly much) at how precious they were. On the far side of the room sat Crookshanks on his large, tufted silk cushion, a porcelain plate of what looked like pâté in front of him, his grizzled face imperious as he blinked his approval of Narcissa—she had, after all, brought him to the Manor after Draco’s accident made him incapable of caring for the aged creature.
Lucius pushed another plate in front of La Belle, then looked at Narcissa cautiously. Expectantly. Their interactions were rare, and rarer still were positive ones. Narcissa catalogued the fresh scratches on his stomach and face, then nodded her chin ever so slightly in greeting. Lucius pulled his robe close as Narcissa looked down her nose with a passive mien. “Our son has recovered from his episode.”
Lucius rose slowly, his features soft, receptive. “Thank you for telling me.” Ever so slightly, his shoulders dropped. “This one didn’t last as long as the others, did it?”
“Miss Granger has joined their party. Theodore believes that her presence is responsible for Draco’s rapid improvement.”
Crookshanks mewled plaintively. Lucius cooed, his jaw ticking slightly. “Yes, Miss Granger is a witch of many talents and charms. Isn’t that right, Lord Shanks? Yes, your mummy is here, but you won’t forget me, will you? And you’ll tell your mummy how well you’ve been pampered, what a good boy you’ve been, yes.” He singsonged with a wide grin toward the elderly but still spry cat. Crookshanks ignored him. Lucius looked peevishly at Narcissa. “Did he ask…how was he?”
“He is not ready, Lucius. He still needs time.” Narcissa’s tone was strategically gentle.
“We have lost much already.” Lucius frowned before loosing a pspsps toward Crookshanks, who flicked his tail.
La Belle Dame rose up in her basket and stretched languorously in front of the fire. “She looks well, and happy. As does Crookshanks.” Narcissa crouched down and held out her hand for La Belle’s inspection as Lucius pulled several kittens off the hem of his robe while Narcissa stifled a laugh. Her husband, the Lord Malfoy, had indeed become a “Crazy Cat Lord.”
Theodore had given Lucius the moniker once he had not so subtly taken over Crookshanks’s care, relegating Narcissa to the sidelines, which suited her well. It gave Lucius something to do. It didn’t take long for Lucius to become obsessed with the continuation of Crookshanks’s bloodline. “A most noble creature whose house should carry on.” Lucius harassed families in the UK and EU, soliciting images, ancestry, and health information on all potential mates until finding La Belle Dame. Three litters later, Lucius’s wing, and by extension the rest of the Manor, was overwhelmed by cats of all shapes and temperaments, sired by Crookshanks. Narcissa’s garden was, for the first time, gnome free.
Lucius preened. “They deserve, and receive, the best, dear wife. Lord Shanks still has life in him. The kittens are healthy, intelligent. Perhaps—” Lucius frowned and dropped onto the chesterfield. “I am loathe to part with him, but if Miss Granger should wish…I am merely a caretaker. Would it be helpful for her to see him? Or perhaps I could be helpful in other ways, now that Miss Granger has returned.”
“Our assistance was a hindrance before, Lucius. We must let it play out.” Narcissa cleared her throat. “Our son would not allow it, even if he did remember.”
Lucius flashed his eyes toward her, then turned toward the fire. “Of course. I will do whatever is required. I am become a paragon of penance.” La Belle Dame jumped into his lap with a meow, forcing her head under his hand. He smiled softly. “Isn’t that right, my merciless one? Your papa is learning to be good.” He cooed and blew kisses as he petted her.
“We have several events next week. Do ensure Hector and Henriette finalize your sartorial selections.” Narcissa wandlessly episkeyed the scratches on Lucius’ face and torso, which he acknowledged with a slight jut of his chin before returning to the high level negotiations which had marked him in the first place, meeting Crookshanks gaze with his steely yet deferential own.
In the corridor, Narcissa permitted herself a small smile at the softer, kinder man she knew as husband, hope continuing to unfurl, cautiously, in her chest.
☍☄☍
☄☈☄
Draco scrubbed a hand down his stubble-covered cheek. He looked dreadful, worse than how he felt. He leaned toward the mirror and took stock: his gaunt face, the purple tinge around his eyes, his matted hair. Though this ‘episode’ had been the shortest ever (a mere three days, huzzah!) he looked like he had been in the wars. Like sixth year. Like living with the Dark Lord. He was gaunt, haggard, his eyes haunted and restless. The face of a man who had secrets, both thoughts and deeds.
His hair. It had clearly gone flying without him, his hands caught in a mass of knots and tangles, a nest of straw. How did Granger’s hair look in the morning, those thick coiled curls? Could he run his hands through it, or would it… Granger . She had been here, sat with him, fussed and even fed him? Alongside Theo. Theo, who had inveigled Draco into the scheme to restore her memory. His redemption , if he wanted. An eternal ascension. He could be set free.
If Draco’s issues could be parlayed into something like healing for Granger, he could not begrudge it. His episode might even garner him some overdue appreciation, he mused. After all, not even Potter could say he’d sacrifice his sanity for his best friend, all things considered.
And this episode had been blessed with dreams, fantasies really. Wishes perhaps. Draco’s mouth watered at the memory of how sensual, how willing, ‘dream’ Granger had been with her ministrations. The fantasies were prurient, visceral. He could taste her, feel her, smell every version of her: The Granger who was brilliant, condescending, her hair a halo. The Granger who was fearless, righteous, bold, eyes crackling with indignation. Maybe he’d tease Potter, tell him just how beguiling and wanton his best friend was in Draco’s dream world. But then, there was also The Granger that shrunk away from him, hated him. And Draco was trying hard not to be the loathsome cockroach who was once justly reviled. To be worthy of the grace extended to him by people he had harmed. Taunting Potter (about Granger, at least) was antithetical to that goal.
He turned his thoughts to the Draco that had spitefully pleasured himself with repugnant fantasies about the Golden Girl at Hogwarts; the depraved, randy teenage boy who contorted Granger into a fever dream of degradation, debasement, a body to be used for his pleasure. A boy raised to hate her and all those like her.
That Draco also had an extensive catalogue of Granger’s looks: wrathful, spiteful, condescending, brave, determined. Those looks had excited him, fed his dark desires, driven him to manipulation, to obsession. But he had long ago evanescoed both that version of himself and that Granger he had created. She deserved better.
This Granger— Farmer — offered Draco a new catalogue of looks: tender, worried, wondrous, sad, even hopeful. She was still making trouble, albeit in his dream world. Granger’s soft, lovely face was a beacon, guiding Draco back through his shifting states, filling him with hope. She remained in the reveries of his mind. He would do better.
Draco’s eyes flickered to the mirror in distaste. He shouldn’t have let his hair grow so long. He shouldn’t have a mirror in this room. He shuffled through the drawers of the vanity with no success. “Mipsy!” He sighed. A low crack sounded before Mipsy appeared before him and bowed.
“Master Draco, you are looking much better.” Her large turquoise eyes appraised him warmly as she tucked on her elegantly embroidered pinafore.
“All down to you, Dr. Farmer and Nott, Mipsy. Thank you.” Draco smiled kindly at the elf who had known, and cared for him, since he was a child. “Would you bring me some scissors, Mips? I need to cut my hair.”
Mipsy’s bottom lip jutted in disapproval, her eyes narrowing. “Young master’s hair is pretty. Mipsy will wash, get clean. No cutting!”
“No Mipsy, I want to cut it. I—” A sharp twinge of pain behind his eye cut Draco off.
Mipsy mewled worriedly, reaching for his hand. “Young master should be resting now. Not worry about his very handsome looks. Come.”
“No, Mipsy. I’m fine. The scissors, please. And I’ll cut it.” He added before Mipsy could retort.
Mipsy nodded curtly, snapped her fingers and disappeared to reappear in several seconds, a pair of large, red scissors in hand. “Here are scissors, young master,” she scowled.
“Thank you, Mipsy. Please don’t look like that! I have cut my hair before.”
Mipsy tugged her ear as she gave him another once over. “Yes, master. Mipsy remembers. I will fix laters.” She was gone in a crack of disapproval, leaving Draco to shake his head at how overbearing she was.
“Was that Mipsy?” Theo’s voice called from the bedroom, followed by the man. Theo stopped in the doorway, his face fixed in disapproval. “Did Mipsy bring you scissors?”
Draco rolled his eyes. “I need to cut this off,” Draco turned back to the vanity and ran his hands through his hair in an attempt to detangle it.
“Salazar, let me.” Theo accio’d a comb and began to detangle. “I’m not surprised your first waking move is to worry about your appearance. Vanity, thy name is Draco.” A firm tug of hair emphasised his point. “What brought this on?” Theo peered at him curiously via the mirror.
“It reminds me of him ,” Draco muttered. “And I thought we weren’t using magic because of her .”
Theo hummed. “She isn’t here, lover. Now the hair! It does give you a rakish air,” He twisted the now detangled strands and pursed his lips. “How low are we going?”
Draco indicated with his hand as Theo raised an eyebrow. “Post-war Draco coiffure then. Though I will say there’s nothing wrong with looking like CCL pre-Kneazle days. He is rather delicious.” Draco grunted in disgust as Theo snipped aggressively, silky locks falling on Draco’s shoulders and the marble floor.
“How’s Granger—Er, Farmer?” Draco watched Theo’s face in the mirror.
“Granger.” Theo shook Draco’s shoulders merrily. “Knows her name now, at least. She’s fine, all things considered.” Theo carded his hands through Draco’s shorter locks, cutting off straggly bits. “Thanks to you. She remembered Harry when we brought you back. And me.” Now it was Theo’s turn to watch Draco closely.
Draco made a noncommittal sound in his throat, both pleased and disappointed by this development. Was it because he wanted to be the one she remembered first? And why would she remember Draco first? It was unreasonable. Potter was her best friend.
Theo rested his chin on Draco’s shoulder. “No need to pout! She didn’t exactly remember. She said the situation felt familiar. She took it in stride. She was always a formidable witch.” An expression of guilt flickered quickly over Theo’s face. He was hiding something. Draco would let him keep his secret. He has enough to think about.
“I’m not pouting.” Draco pouted. “So, what happened? Did Granger stand over my unconscious body and remember Potter? Should I protego myself in case they want to test another spell on me?” He rubbed his chest absentmindedly.
“You’re such a baby. It was just the once .” Theo dodged a swat. “Well, that’ll need fixing.” He tousled Draco’s jaggedly shorn locks. “Anywho, this is very glam rock of you. Tempts me to desecrate my own mane. Maybe I’ll do it for the next tour. We can twin awhile.”
Draco grimaced, turning away from the mirror as Theo settled between his legs.
“This was a short-term episode for you, Drakey.” Theo placed his palms on Draco’s cheeks, lips inches from Draco’s own before slapping him lightly. “Do you know what that means?”
“Fuck, Theo! And don’t call me that.”
“No thank you, you’re not my type.” Theo offered breezily, squeezing Draco’s chin. “It means you’re forming and retaining short-term memories. And I think it’s because of Granger.”
Draco pulled away, pushing Theo away with his foot. “You did say she was the best in her field. And I’m everyone’s type.”
Theo rolled his head side to side, humming. “You’re not. And she is. But that isn’t what’s helping you, or her. Is it?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Draco said coolly.
“Idiocy thy name is Draco.” Theo clicked his teeth. “You’ve always had a thing for Granger, Drakey-poo. And she’s always had a thing for you.”
Draco gestured for silence with a raised hand. “Even if you could prove such a thing, which you cannot, it has no bearing on this situation. You’re wrong about Granger. She hated me. And soon enough she’ll remember that. And I’ll deserve her scorn. And she’ll be herself, again. Which is what you all wanted.” Draco fought the slump in his shoulders.
“I always collect evidence, darling.” Theo patted his chin. “The only person who thinks Granger should hate you is you. And Potter. And maybe…nevermind that. Her bedside manner would indicate she does not.”
Draco’s cheeks warmed, the ministrations of ‘dream’ Granger hurtling forward. “One would hope a medical professional would have a caring bedside manner. It doesn’t matter anyway. She’s going back to America. Her life is there.” There was an edge to his voice.
Theo picked up on it immediately, tugging it, fraying it.
“I wouldn’t be so sure that she’s leaving. Chance and all that. But back to you. So you remember, then? Excellent.” Theo kissed his cheek wetly. “Let’s get you sorted, then maybe we can go see Granger? She’ll likely want to run her own diagnostics, if you’re willing.” Theo waggled his eyebrows.
Was he willing? Draco wanted to see Granger, feel her hands pressed against his skin, hear her reassurances that he was doing so well, that she was proud of him, that he was a good boy. Wait. He shook his head, dispelling the tangle of desire and reality.
He couldn’t, wouldn’t, let those old feelings out of their box. Draco would never have her as his own, never be welcomed in. Granger would remember her well-earned loathing of him, and it would make her inevitable rejection of him easier to bear. And her life was in America. She was leaving anyway. She was always leaving.
Maybe his work here was done. She now knew her name. He could leave the rest to Potter and gang. Draco could make things simpler for everyone. And then, maybe, Granger would see he was no longer that Draco, the one she despised. She would understand, finally, that Draco had never despised her. “No, leave her alone. I can go back to the studio. I have some writing to do.” Draco needed his piano. He felt fine. He was fine.
“Right, then. Come with me.” Theo was all business, rigid, perfunctory. Draco followed him as he swished back into the bedroom.
☈☄☈
“...and that’s when Harry and I decided to get married. Blaise took it in stride, though I wonder about him sometimes. And I don’t blame him. He was there while Harry waited seven years to decide.” Ginny’s hand was warm in hers as they walked the grounds. Hermione had spent the last few days either cloistered with Draco or sleeping, exhausted by the compulsion to spend every waking moment at his bedside. Theo had finally convinced her that she needed to take care of herself, get some fresh air. Ginny had carted her off, chattering excitedly as she fussed over her like a mother hen. As Hermione was brought up to speed with the last decade of her friends’ lives, her mind picked and scratched at all she had learned and felt since arriving at Eden House, pulling apart the details so that they could be reconfigured into forms that had meaning, made sense.
First, she could not make sense of her parents’ behavior. Why had they left the UK and lived under assumed names? What were they running from? They had been normal, straightforward people. She could remember nothing untoward or criminal or irregular about them. There was the memory of a place, Hampstead Heath, a house there. Solid, quiet. Then, the house in Brisbane, their dental practice. She searched for names, for faces, the suburban complacency, only to find empty spaces, warped fragments. This had been an issue after the crash as well, when the medical team tried their best to find someone who knew her, could support her. Hermione did not remember; rather, what she remembered was so distorted, so nebulous, it produced no actionable leads.
Then, there was the school where she met Harry, Theo, and the rest of them. A boarding school in Scotland. Here they were, close friends, nay family, over a decade later. Something had happened at that school, something dreadful, perhaps violent, even criminal. Whatever happened had forged bonds stronger than blood. Hermione had been part of that bond, yet at some point been hammered out like an imperfection. Who had wielded the hammer? Her parents, perhaps. But why?
Then, there was the comforting surprise of the easy conviviality between herself and the others. Her love for Harry had stepped forward as if from behind a corner, simply, quickly. His every gesture and sound hearkened back to deeply earthed treasures within her. Ginny was more of a revelation, but still a known, comfortable variable. Her fiery wit and room-filling laughter soothed Hermione like a weighted blanket. And Theo! He was a well-worn shoe, his warmth a balm, his mischievous, compassionate wont a second skin. Why had it taken her so long to find them? For them to find her? She could accept their rationale, she supposed. Which brought her back to her parents and their apparent escape from the UK.
The three of them had taken turns, filling in the blank spaces of Hermione’s understanding. She had met the others briefly, and wondered what else Pansy, Neville, Luna and Blaise would reveal about the Hermione they knew and how they all fit together.
She hoped her mind would use the information to close the gaps in her memory, help her remember. Most of the stories were colorful, nigh unbelievable. They were a collection of misfits, apparently, despite their obvious privilege. They had (obviously) gotten into a lot of trouble. And they needed absolute anonymity. Hermione had a growing sense that they were all hiding from something. And that something might be connected to the school.
They all deeply loved one another, perhaps too deeply. Hermione was no prude (she had her own predilections, unfulfilled curiosities) but this lot had no reservations about exploring them apparently. They had all, at one point or another, been involved romantically or sexually with someone else in the group. And they were refreshingly, if uncomfortably transparent about it, which contributed to their strong bonds. She wondered who else in this group she had been involved with. Which brought her to Draco. A man she had been involved with. A man who had nearly ended his life after she left. She felt protective of him, proprietary.
During her shifts at his bedside, she was reluctant to let even Theo touch him, attend to him. She had talked to him, held his hand, asked him questions as his eyes twitched and rolled behind their lids. He was listening, she knew it. She had dozed in snatches, holding his hand, dreaming the old dreams, no longer dreams. Draco, a man she had loved (this pang in her chest was love, wasn’t it?) and who did not remember loving her (had he loved her?). A man who had tried to end his life. She swallowed with difficulty, blinking away tears. Their bond of silver and gold, fragile, gossamery. But metal nonetheless.
“Hey now, are you alright?” Ginny squeezed her hand and brought them to a stop.
Hermione smiled absently. “Yes, of course. Tired.”
“I’m prattling, aren’t I? I’m just so happy you’re back, Hermione. I missed you.”
Hermione leaned into her embrace, her hands cupping the back of Ginny’s head.
“Come on,” Ginny sniffled defiantly. “Stiff upper lip and all that. Neville and Luna are probably wondering where we are.”
Hermione took in their surroundings. The grounds were extensive. The gardens were glorious. They were nearing the greenhouse where Neville and Luna awaited them. A movement on the roof drew Hermione’s gaze. A large, snowy feathered owl perched, a wing splayed. Ginny howled and within seconds they both materialized.
“Hermione,” Neville offered gruffly with a wide smile, leaning over for an embrace. He smelled of warm, clean earth and sunshine, his eyes reminding Hermione of foliage, a deep, healthy green. She knew these eyes, this smell. Neville was her friend, had even…saved her life? She’d have to ask about that. He wore filthy overalls and gashed wellingtons which had seen better days, a tattered straw hat and similarly tattered flannel shirt, which spoke of long, hard days in the garden. “I told Theo the Golden Girl wouldn’t need much coddling.”
Ginny glanced at him sharply, lips pursed.
“Thank you, Neville. It’s all still a bit muddled, but I feel I know you. Why do you call me the Golden Girl?”
“Hi Hermione,” Luna cooed, interrupting, her long, blonde hair a curtain around her torso. She was a slip of a thing, her rainbow jumper and purple leggings lending her a slightly otherworldly appearance. She nuzzled into Hermione’s chest and wrapped her arms around her before staring intently into above her head. “You have fewer wrackspurts today. That’s good. Draco still has too many.” She sniffed Hermione and then kissed her cheek gently.
Ginny stifled a groaning laugh as Hermione’s nose crinkled in confusion. Luna was clearly into New Age culture. What the hell was a wrackspurt?
“That’s a relief?” Hermione managed. Theo was right. Having a psychiatrist in house was beneficial.
“Would you like a tour? I have some medicinal plants that should be of interest.” Neville gestured toward the greenhouse, and with Luna on one side and Ginny on the other, Hermione followed him inside.
The greenhouse was magical, a miracle, much larger on the inside than it appeared to be. Every single surface, horizontal and vertical, was covered in plants. Hermione clearly made out the edible plants beds, healthy, verdant and bursting. There were fruit and citrus trees as well, laden with fruit. Above them, leafy, tropical plants swayed in welcome. Noises of delight and surprise escaped Hermione’s lips at every discovery as Neville watched her, grinning widely.
“This is magical, Neville. How do you manage to grow plants from such disparate climates in one place?” Hermione swooped down to touch what appeared to be a fern, its serrated edges ochre-tinted. Its delicate frond curled away as if sentient.
“Climate controlled zones, technology really. Each area is set for optimal conditions. If you look on that bench, there you’ll find medicinal plants.” Hermione saw several large cannabis plants along with other, unfamiliar ones. “I also collect rarer plants whose medicine is a bit more temperamental. Mind the signs, some of them don’t take to being touched.” Hermione frowned but nodded her head, as Luna danced off to the far end of the greenhouse and began talking to the plants. “Come this way, I’ll show you my latest project.” He turned a corner which led to another impossibly long corridor of plants and stopped in front of a door. It opened into a cold, dark room where he donned some gloves and offered her a pair before flicking a dim light on. “I’ve always had an interest in herbs and other naturally occurring ritualistic medicines. When Theo said you were coming, I started on this.”
Hermione took in the shelves lined with jars of various sizes. In the center of the room were two tables, upon which sat covered trays. Neville removed the cover off one tray, revealing healthy, large fruits. Mushrooms.
“These are psilocybe cubensis and mexicana, respectively.”
Hermione oohed and aahed. Her lab purchased processed psilocybin from approved sources. She hadn’t handled a magic mushroom since the Brian days. He loved tripping during their camping trips. She had consumed them in raw form but found the effect too disorienting. The processed psilocybin was cleaner, easier to manage. “They’re beautiful. Healthy. When do you think they’ll be ready for harvesting?”
“A few days, maybe a week. I can let you know.” Neville walked down the row. “I’ve just colonized some McKennai. Hopefully I’ll transfer them in a few days as well.”
“Neville, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what do you do with all of this? I mean…”
Neville raised an eyebrow. She was an idiot. Of course a rock band would want their own supply of magic mushrooms.
“I thought I’d try processing some psilocybin.”
Oh.
“So now you know it’s here. If you’d like, you can help me harvest when the time comes.”
“I want to help!” Ginny muttered from behind them.
“Only if you promise not to eat them like last time. You were puking for days.”
Ginny summoned the decency to look abashed.
“I’d like that, Neville.” Another gap between Hermione and Hermione contracted, pulling her two selves closer. She listened closely as he explained the differences in strains, his ardor evident. This wasn’t the first time Hermione had listened to Neville explain the properties of plants enthusiastically. An image of a younger Neville in black robes, laughing to himself as he repotted plants…that screamed. She dispelled the confabulated vision with a shake of her head.
They made their way out of the room and into the greenhouse, where Luna held two crowns of corn flowers, lavender, forget-me-nots, and white roses, which she placed on her and Ginny’s head. She had covered her own head with ivy and what appeared to be twinkling purple lights, which looked like fairies whenever she moved.
“Now you’re ready,” Luna clasped her hands together.
“Am I? For what?”
“To open your heart.” Luna skipped off with a wink.
Thwoomp. Hermione pressed a palm against her chest. “Is she—”
“Yes,” Ginny answered. The question remained intangible.
Hermione had to have missed her unusual friends. Certainly. It was a certainty rooted in the earth, rooting her through her feet. The vibration in her pocket startled her. A message from Theo, stirring other intangible questions. Draco’s awake and vitals are clear. He’s in his studio. Hermione sighed. The studio wasn’t in the house. They would no longer be under the same roof. Would she see him again? Maybe he didn’t want to. He rejected the memories of me.
“Everything okay?” Ginny sounded suspicious.
“Um, yes! Draco’s awake and Theo’s cleared him to return to his studio.” Hermione shrugged. She would not take this personally. But he hadn’t even said goodbye. She was being ridiculous.
“Oi, Gin, don’t forget your supplies. Give these to Malfoy and Theo when you see them. And have you seen my wife?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out plastic pouches stuffed full of cannabis. Neville reached into another pocket and pulled out some rolling papers, then sat on the low rock wall encircling the greenhouse, crossing his long, very sturdy legs in front of him as he rolled a joint.
Being impossibly handsome must be a prerequisite for rock stardom. Pansy was a lucky woman.
“Yeah, Nev. She was napping on your balcony. Naked.” Ginny winked as she stuffed the pouches into her pockets.
Neville drew his lips into a smile and tucked the tightly rolled joint between them, then stood and stretched widely. “That’s me off, then. Wife needs as much tending as the plants.” And with a wink he ambled off, humming.
“They’re sickening,” Ginny groaned. “But it beats the alternative.” She looped her arm through Hermione’s and tugged. “I’ve lost more of these special deliveries than I care to admit. It’s best I do it now, while it’s still fresh.”
Hermione balked. “I’d rather not. I should get back to the house. I can take Theo’s if you want.” She would not go chasing after Draco, not when he chose to leave. She was not taking his departure personally, but she also had her pride.
Ginny eyed her coolly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say the doctor who just spent the last several days at her patient’s bedside was now trying to avoid him. Why?”
“I have no reason to avoid him.” Hermione bristled.
“Good. Come on then.” Ginny pulled on her arm until she relented. Until Hermione let herself be led down the path. The path to Draco.
☄☈☄
Draco lifted his hand from the keyboard, satisfied that the F major chord was the solution. He noted it, then returned to the keys. The muddle in his head always cleared when he sat at the piano. Theo had hemmed and hawed during the entire assessment, trying to convince him to stay at the main house for another day. But Draco needed distance, space, and quiet. He needed to clear his head, rid himself of the dream Granger. Stay out of her way so she could fully remember herself. And remember she hated him.
“ Do you roll with the waves,” Yes. That was it. “Or do you prefer the …”
No, that wouldn’t work. He scribbled out the word and played the D chord, humming. The melodies sometimes needed coaxing, and when he unlocked them it felt almost orgasmic. He hummed again, trying the words at a different register.
“Do you wish that you loved me?” Where did that come from?
A knock on the door, two raps followed by three, signaled Ginny was there to pester him. She’d likely heard him, therefore was unlikely to be deterred if he ignored her. At least it wasn’t Theo, who he had barely escaped earlier. Theo could be worse than his mother at times. He turned the door knob. His mother … the hair . He pulled open the door.
There stood Ginny. And Granger. And Granger looked flustered.
Fuck.
“What…do I owe the pleasure to?” He growl-greeted. Nice save . Utterly Gentlemanly. His mother would be so proud. His mother … He carded a hand through his hair.
Ginny smirked and extended her hand, which held his cannabis supply. Draco reached for it, but she pulled away coyly.
“Now, now. Invite us in first. We haven’t come to check on you. I could use some tea. What about you, Hermione?”
Ginny brushed past him with a look that he interpreted as don’t fuck this up . He wouldn’t. Chastened, he opened the door widely and gestured for Granger to step inside. “You keep encountering me at times when I’m…fully occupied by my thoughts. I promise I’m not as…” It wouldn’t do to lie. “Prepared for company. Though I’m sure I have tea. Do come in.”
Hermione withered him a look, but walked in silently.
“I’ll make the tea then. You’re absolutely helpless with appliances.” Ginny tossed the pouch of marijuana on the sofa and flounced through a doorway, leaving Draco to stand there awkwardly with Granger, who was taking in her surroundings. He cast a glance to ensure everything was orderly, and very normal. Nothing magical in view.
“Would you like to sit?” Draco cringed. As opposed to what, old boy? What else would Granger like to do? Don’t answer that. He sat down in the wingback and gestured to the sofa.
“Thank you. It’s,” Granger noticed the small stack of books on the floor. “Nice. Cozy. This is where you make your music. How are you feeling?” She sat on the sofa close to the books.
Draco watched her elegant, tanned fingers skate on the books, picking up the one on top. A dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice. Fantastic. At least it wasn’t something by Scamander. Or gods forbid, his copy of the abbreviated Hogwarts: A History . Small mercies. She might know her name, but Draco was certain she hadn’t been told about… everything else. Had she? “I’m fine, thank you. Theo said I was good to go, and honestly I don’t…” Draco pulled in a slow breath. It was not her fault. He would be better. “Thank you for attending to me, Granger. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve your care.”
Hermione cocked an eyebrow and nodded her head before returning her attention to the book in hand. “A favorite?” She flipped it open and brought it to her face, her eyes fluttering slightly as she inhaled before she put it in her lap.
FUCK. The smell of books was an aphrodisiac, so Draco couldn’t fault her. He shifted slightly, crossing his legs as his considerable attribute rose to half-mast in agreement. Allez . “A comfort read. Yes.” He mustered a smile in his effort to play his part. “Do you read, or…?” He drifted off. Well done.
Hermione’s eyebrows lifted slightly at his obvious stupidity, but then smoothed out her features. “Not as much as I would like. But this is definitely my favorite. A classic, isn’t it? Girl and boy deny their obvious feelings for one another. A tale as old as time.”
It was suddenly very hot. Was this room very small? She was looking at him curiously, her head tilted ever so slightly. He remembered her in the library, all those years ago. She’d work furiously for hours, surrounded by piles of parchment and broken quills, her nose pressed into ancient tomes as she devoured the words. But, every so often, she’d lift her head up and tilt it. Making sense, figuring out whatever she had read. Draco would watch her quietly, buried in his own book, his eyes fixed on her. Always fixed on her. Watching her brain work. Imagining what it would be like to hoist her up, a book in her hands, her legs wrapped around his hips, her moan of delight as the book fell to the floor and her nose buried in his neck…
Draco blinked. Where the hell was the tea? His mouth was very dry. “Yes, old as time.” He parried. Terribly. Maybe he could show her the books in his bedroom. He glanced toward the hallway which led there.
She picked up another book. “Interesting. How are you finding it?” Hmmm. A feint?
Ah . Draco had been reading Muggle mathematicians and was currently studying the ancient Greeks. “I’ve always enjoyed Arithmancy. And Euclid assembly of mathematical knowledge into a cogent order so new proofs can fill in the gaps is thrilling.” Draco settled back, smug in the certainty that he had out-swotted her.
Granger quirked an eyebrow. “I see you’re not wearing your mask. And you’ve cut your hair.” She stared at him expectantly, hands clasped in her lap. Ah, a riposte .
“Is this a therapy session?” Draco bit out before realizing a f lèche was disproportionate.
Granger looked flustered. “No, this…I’m making small talk.” She blushed again, her eyes darting to the doorway Ginny had disappeared through. The clatter of crockery grew louder.
“Might I suggest a less clinical approach?” Draco stilled his bobbing foot, uncrossing his legs so both feet were on the floor, scrubbing a hand down his thigh. “It got too long. Theo cut it. I’m not to be trusted with sharp objects apparently.” Displeasure flashed across her face. Good. “I don’t wear the mask when I’m alone. And you’ve already seen me, in various states of consciousness, without it. Would you like me to put it on?” His voice dropped into his chest and became a growl as he leaned forward, resting a forearm on his thigh. A definite counter-attack.
Granger smoothed her hair, tucking an errant curl behind her ear. Her cheeks beet-red, her chest heaving ever so slightly, as if she were trying not to pant. Theo had said to observe for physical signs of distress. She brought a hand to her jacket collar, fidgeting with the zipper.
Interesting.
“No, that’s quite alright. Unless you want to, which, obviously, your comfort comes first. Unless, that is, you’re comfortable, in which case so am I. Then,” She pulled her bottom lip with her teeth, nibbling on it. “Do what you need to, Draco.”
Draco melted into the upholstery. His name from her lips was an incantation, a rite. He would worship at her feet until the end of time to hear her say it over and over and over, sanctifying him, cleansing him. The boxes in the closed corner of his mind were rattling, howling, aching to be opened. Point to Granger . Why was he thinking of this conversation as a match? She wasn’t his opponent. Not anymore. Well, never really. It was a long time ago. This version of Granger didn’t know their history, how they grappled for domination…no that wasn’t right either. She had called him Draco . His face was hotter than Hades. He had an unfair advantage. It was unsportsmanlike. But, this wasn’t quidditch. But he still had an advantage. Gods, where in hells was Ginny?
Draco forced himself to stillness as their history bubbled to his lips, ready to spew out like projectile vomit. Wait, S.P.E.W.? Maybe there was something he could tease at…
“Tea’s done! I hope you like builder’s,” Jenny bustled in, laden with a tea tray. Granger looked visibly relieved as she took her cup, settling her gaze on Ginny’s form.
Thank Merlin. Draco was about to waylay a years’ long plan, definitively turning the tides back against him.
“Come get your tea then,” Ginny ordered, waiting for him to rise before settling in the chair he abandoned.
Draco managed to remain scowl-free as he fixed his tea, then realized his seating option was the sofa. Next to Granger. Determined to keep his scowl-free streak, he sat down gingerly at the other end, leaving at least a foot between them. An arm’s length. Distance. Within reach.
“So now we’re all going to be living together, I thought Granger should see where all the magic happens.” Ginny slurped her tea dramatically.
And Theo thought he was the only adult in the room. Draco kept his face impassive. “No magic happens here, Granger. Ginny is overly fond of metaphor.” He smiled pointedly in her direction.
“I think Granger understands I didn’t mean actual magic, Draco dear .” Ginny retorted, blinking her eyes rapidly.
“Yes, I didn’t think actual magic happened here, as magic isn’t real,” Granger chuckled uneasily, bringing the cup to her mouth, her eyes roving between them.
“No, it isn’t.” Draco shot a glance at Ginny, an eyebrow raised in warning. He pictured crossing that metaphorical magic bridge and shuddered. Everyone had been so worried about Granger remembering Granger that the whole “magical war child soldier Dark Lord heroine brightest witch of her age” thing became a footnote. Who was Granger without her magic? Morgana wept.
“Well, that was helpful. Moving on, since Granger will be with us for a while, she’ll need a lay of the land. It's a huge estate, and there’s so much to enjoy. The weather is fantastic for exploring. So now you know where Malfoy does the majority of his skulking. But I’m sure he knows some fantastic trails he could show you. He’s an avid rambler, aren’t you, Draco?”
“No that won’t be—” Granger startled, nearly spilling her tea.
“It would be my pleasure.” Draco interrupted, flashing her a smile. Clearly his presence affected her, awakening the searing contempt she had always so thoroughly communicated. Maybe Theo’s point about his presence had merit. Hate was a powerful motivator. And the sooner he could end this charade the better. Bonus points if it was Draco’s efforts that brought it about. He and the Boy-Who-Whinged would finally be even. Or, Potter would be indebted eternally to Draco, a state of affairs infinitely preferable. “How long will you be staying?”
“A few weeks,” Granger muttered quietly. “Though really, I don’t want to interrupt your creative process. Or be a nuisance.”
“Stop it,” Ginny waved dismissively. “You’d never be a nuisance.”
Draco was impressed at how unperturbed his face remained. A veritable battlement of impassivity.
“We want you to make this your home, get comfortable. Right?” Ginny notched Draco with a stern look.
“Of course. Make yourself at home.” She was really laying it on thick.
“I’m grateful, yes. And thank you for the tea. We’ll leave you to it then.” Granger stood, her leg grazing Draco’s foot as she returned the cup to the tray.
Ginny scrambled, setting the cup heavily and gathering up some of the biscuits and meeting Granger at the door.
Granger’s face was a mixture of emotions. Something tugged in Draco’s chest. Even after all these years, she still couldn’t conceal her feelings. He envied her. His life felt like a struggle to feel anything at all. His ribs felt like they would crack at the effort it took to remain senseless, emotionless. To not become a prisoner to the rage and loss that warred within him. The desire for forgiveness. For relief. It would swallow him whole if he didn’t push it down, down, forcing it into the jaws of darkness. Clamping that jaw shut. The songwriting was a respite, lest he lose himself to the pain. He had almost succumbed to it before, let it consume him. He could not let that happen again.
“I’ll see you soon, then Granger. In fact, we can meet tomorrow morning for a walk. Say 8am? Harry should join us. See to it, Ginevra.”
Ginny nodded slowly, letting his use of the imperative and her loathed given name roll off her back.
“I’ll walk up to the house for breakfast if you’re interested.” Draco extended his hand, which Granger accepted slowly.
Gods, her hand was small. He squeezed it gently, turning it and releasing his grip, and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. He was, to his very core, a gentleman. But the thrum of energy between them, ancient and unyielding, wasn’t gentle as it battered his spine in a torrent.
“Oh!” Granger murmured low as she hesitantly pulled away, a low sigh leaving her mouth.
Ginny’s face was a study in amusement.
“That sounds lovely, tomorrow morning then.” Hermione opened the door clumsily and stepped out.
Ginny leaned in as she passed Draco. “Bloody clever, ferret. Ten points to Slytherin.” She whispered, waggling her eyebrows before following Granger out.
“Make sure dear Harry is there.” Draco closed the door before Ginny could respond, then settled back on the couch. His heart was thumping indelicately. He was not to blame for having manners. The gestures of propriety were ingrained in him, and very useful. A lady’s departure merited a gesture of respect. Obviously. His heart lurched again. Maybe he’d have Theo give him a once over. Give him something else to fuss over.
Though, of course, he hadn’t kissed Ginny’s hand when she left. Nor did he kiss Luna or Pansy’s hands anymore. Well, he saw them every day. And Longbottom was now the custodian of Lady Longbottom’s hands. That’s all there was to that.
He flexed his fingers, clenching and opening his hands on the count of four.
It was merely a gesture. Courtesy. After he grew accustomed to seeing her, he was certain it would stop, just like he had with Pansy, Luna and Ginny.
He had hoped to give her space. Now he was doomed to see her every day.
Fuck.
☄☈☄
“Nary a brush or comb, eh?” Draco drawled as Harry pottered into the breakfast room. His complete disregard for appearances mystified Draco. Potter managing to remain undetected with that shocking mop of unhygienic hair was testament to the witlessness of the wizarding world.
Harry carded a hand through it, exposing the silvery lightning bolt scar on his forehead briefly. “The wife likes it and—” He grabbed a croissant off a tray and prepared his tea. “She didn’t leave much time for my ablutions.” At Draco’s chuff of disgust, Harry hummed to himself and smiled.
“What I know of your and Parks’ marital acts is enough to wish for another bout of amnesia.” Draco tapped his fingers forcefully on the table.
“She did this very interesting thing with her m—”
“Enough.” Draco spat out in a Snape-like tone. Snape must be spinning in his grave at his circumstances.
Harry chortled into his tea, the bubbling sound raising Draco’s hackles.
Uncouth. “Remind me again, why are we acquainted?”
Harry pursed his lips and set his cup down. “You stalked me. Which at first I considered fair, given certain events from our misspent youth.”
“Ah, yes. The Heir of Slytherin era.” Draco smirked.
“Then you insisted—no, demanded—I befriend you. When I picked up the guitar, you naturally deferred to my musical genius and offered your own musical gifts.”
“Naturally.” Draco now schooled his expression in homage to his former Potions master.
“Then, when the Prophet found us out, you relocated us here. And I never look a gift horse in the mouth. Or is it a gift ass?” Harry singsonged, biting the croissant in half.
“Continue.”
“And when I returned from my walkabout, you were here and… unwell. I figured you needed me.”
“Unlikely."
“You do recall that you walked Gin down the aisle, right? That during your convalescence it was me holed up with you as you pounded the piano. Mate, should I fetch Theo?"
“How noble of you.” Draco smiled thinly. He enjoyed playing this game with Potter. He had to keep him on his toes.
“Good morning.”
Harry swallowed hard as they both turned to see Granger at the door. Draco swept his gaze down her body. She was once again wearing jeans which outlined the soft taper of her thighs. Her oversized wax jacket unfortunately covered some of the most interesting attributes. Draco’s breath hitched as he took in her hair, half up in a messy topknot, the rest of it loose and springy. Her skin glowed, her cheeks fresh and pink.
He really must talk to Theo about these palpitations.
“Morning! How are you feeling?” Harry stood and dusted non-imaginary crumbs off his trousers. “Breakfast before we go?”
Granger smiled again and poured herself some coffee while Harry prepared her a plate. Draco watched their backs, listened to their hesitant yet jovial banter. He congratulated himself on his brilliance. Surely a walk with her best friend would bring it all crashing back for Granger. Draco would humbly accept their gratitude and undying loyalty. He would be a benevolent ruler.
Draco listened, his features drawn into a neutral mien, as Harry prattled on about their planned ramble. Granger nodded, occasionally smiling and every so often glancing toward Draco. He acknowledged her interest with a nod, refusing to interrupt, noting how she observed dining protocol, unlike her friend. Small mercies. When she placed the serviette on her plate, Draco did the same, rising from his chair.
“Shall we?” He offered Granger his hand as she rose from the table, eliciting a frown from Harry. Much to Draco’s delight.
The day promised to be a cool, clear one. A light, northwesterly breeze and the distant cries of terns overhead a perfect invitation to explore. Draco fell back, allowing Harry to walk alongside Granger and continue their banter. They were taking one of the outer trails today, a circuit which took them out to the moors and would circle them back to the cliffs. A full day’s ramble. More than enough time with Harry to jog Granger’s memory further. And hopefully, Draco wouldn’t be lying unconscious at their feet when it happened.
“How did the two of you become friends?”
Draco looked away from a tree which had drawn his attention. The landscape was changing as they approached the moors. He met her gaze steadily, taking in her open expression, and ambled alongside her. “At school. We were in the same year.”
“In Scotland, our school,” Harry offered, glancing at Draco over Granger’s shoulder.
“Yes, the school we all attended . Where anyone could attend, apparently. But you deny it was a school for delinquents.” There it was, the exasperated, know-it-all tone that epitomised Granger. Were her eyes fixed on Draco’s mouth? No, that wasn’t right.
“Given Harry’s admittance, that’s debatable.”
Granger chuckled, turning to Harry and tapping his shoulder. “You two are so different. So…it seems the admissions policy was forgiving.”
Harry barked a laugh. “Clearly, as demonstrated by his admittance. Right git he was.”
Draco scrubbed a sleeve over his face to hide a scowl.
“Get into a lot of trouble did he? Though I sense the same could be said of you.” Granger lilted.
Harry stumbled as Draco felt his own step falter. Maybe this was it? Success was within reach. Merlin, he was brilliant. “You could say we both got into a lot of trouble. We were often on the opposite sides of trouble, like sides of a war even. I don’t know how the school survived our battles.” Draco hid a satisfied smirk, avoiding Harry’s very obvious glower.
Granger stopped suddenly, a hand flying to her forehead.
Draco’s breath hitched. He’d gone too far. What was it that Theo said? Signs of physical distress? Harry had frozen, his face a study in apprehension. They both waited for a decade, watching Granger’s stilled body.
“Is that heather?” She cooed, walking off the trail and brushing a hand over a small mound of purple. “I didn’t think it had a fragrance.”
Draco released a shuddering breath, relief washing over him. He joined Harry behind Granger's crouching form, ignoring his silently mouthed threats and pantomime of decapitation.
“I hadn’t noticed a fragrance, but you’re likely right.” Draco offered before flashing Harry the solitary finger salute.
“ I will kill you ,” Harry mouthed silently.
Granger plucked a sprig and put it into her pocket. “I love it.” She adjusted the straps of her tiny backpack and continued walking. Draco motioned for Harry to fall alongside her, which was greeted with another solitary finger salute.
The legendary Gryffindor courage was clearly waning.
“And yet you formed a band together. Were able to set aside the grievances of youth.” Granger continued her thread.
Draco pressed his lips together. His efforts were clearly unappreciated, and he’d allow Harry to navigate the conversation.
“Well, I think we both realised that we got caught up in long standing affairs that had nothing to do with us. And, in the end, had hurt us both. Malfoy sought me out after all that, begging for my forgiveness and acknowledging how similar we were, actually. When he admitted my superiority it left me no choice but to accept his friendship.” Harry flashed a toothy smile at Draco.
This was too much. “Harry’s creative liberties with our history aside, our acquaintanceship is due to my emotional maturity. And, though it pains me to admit, he was somewhat helpful during my…. convalescence. One day soon I’ll pay him back for all of his assistance.” Draco batted his eyelashes at Harry’s scowl.
“Are you both always like this? Threatening and bargaining?” Granger huffed, her eyes flashing at Draco in what looked like annoyance.
“It can’t be helped, I'm afraid. Harry just brings the worst out of me.” Draco huffed, feeling his hackles rise.
“I doubt you need much help with that,” Granger exclaimed, her eyes widening. “I’m so sorry! I don’t know what came over me.”
Draco ran his tongue on the inside of his cheek, nostrils flaring. There she was .
“No problem at all, Granger. I suppose it can’t be helped.”
“Look at that tree there, a birch maybe, what do you think?” Harry cried out, pointing toward a scraggly thing that was definitely not a birch.
“And what do you mean by that?” Granger bit out, her face flushed.
Draco took in her posture, her hand resting on her hip, regarding him with all the bluster of an angry headmistress. Intimidation and arousal, no encouragement, in equal measure. She might not remember exactly what she was, but who she was hadn’t changed. And her dislike for Draco was the clarion call to her forgotten past. He could use that, even if he didn’t like it. “I mean that you’ve likely grown accustomed to having your opinions and thoughts go unchallenged, leaving you unencumbered by social mores.”
Granger’s mouth gaped open. “You…you…” She sputtered.
“Me, what?” Draco leaned in, catching a whiff of that spicy, earthy, uniquely Granger smell. Their foreheads were close enough he could’ve licked the flyaway coils, her breath a staccato heat on his mouth.
Granger backed away, huffing. “Are you always this infuriating?” Her head tilted back as she summoned restraint.
Draco hoped she’d stomp her little foot. Punch him even. “My, my. You’re excitable for a medical professional.” He smirked, grounding down into his feet for the inevitable blow to his face.
Her head snapped up. She once again closed the short distance between them, her hand raised. Draco was ready, almost giddy with anticipation. She jabbed him with her tiny (surprisingly sharp) index finger in the chest. Oh.
“I’m not here as your medical professional. Anyone’s. And your assumptions about an entire class of people are ridiculous. We’re humans, we bleed and feel and even shit the same as you.”
Draco did not need that image in his mind.
“And I’m not excitable. You provoke me. Why? What do you want from me?” Granger’s eyes had gone that lovely, fiery shade of amber gold as she glared at him.
“Oi!” Harry stepped between them. “Can’t we all just get along?”
“Wait,” Granger stuttered, palming her forehead. “This is all wrong.”
Harry wrapped an arm around her. “What do you mean? Tell me what’s happening.”
Granger shook her head then slowly met Draco’s gaze fiercely. “Him. He’s all wrong. I…he should have red hair.”
Harry bent over, howling with laughter as Granger narrowed her eyes at Draco, the corners of her mouth tilted upward. She was fucking with him. Another point to Granger.
“I see you’ve remembered the Weasel,” Draco drawled icily. “But have still taken leave of your senses to even think I could ever be confused with him.”
“Hermione, you’re brilliant!” Harry added helpfully, cheerfully. Draco shot him a look that would kill if he hadn’t already died. Git.
“Please tell me the Weasel isn’t actually his name,” Hermione groaned. “It’s…Ryan? No. Don’t tell me. I’m…. Ronald?” Her teeth clacked as Harry squeezed her.
Draco watched their interaction, dreading what was coming, even pitying Potter. He’d have to tell Granger about the Weasel, and why he wasn’t here. And Draco did not, would not, participate in that scene. Exeat sinistra Draco.
“Apologies, Granger. I meant no offence. My respect for you and your profession are unquestionable.” Draco saluted her and began walking away.
“Harry?” Hermione asked plaintively as Potter crowded her.
Draco quickened his pace after putting his sunglasses on. He needed to expend energy, exhaust himself. He had done all he could, more than he should have. Harry could enjoy her the rest of the day, even if sparring with her had been amusing.
“There is no way I was involved with that man.” Draco heard her say as he increased the distance between them with alacrity, though he was tempted to turn around and agree with her. Vociferously. She might not remember who she was, but she hadn’t changed much if all. She was still defending the not-at-all downtrodden masses, unable to handle perfectly reasonable critiques, and resorting to physical violence all too easily. Her stabby index finger most certainly left a bruise on his chest.
He broke into a jog, leaving the Golden Duo to their own devices. He’d certainly get his fill off her in the next few weeks. And once he was no longer in view, he apparated. Harry could tell him off later.
Fuck.