Of Beauty, a harry potter fanfic

Edited 20 June '11

Of Beauty

"But she warned him not to be deceived by appearances, for beauty is found within."

-Beauty and the Beast

"It's not right for a woman to read. Soon she gets IDEAS and starts THINKING…"

-Gaston, Beauty and the Beast

~0~

Hermione tapped her feet as she waited outside the ominous Malfoy Manor. It had been approximately forty five seconds since she had rung the presumptuous, bonging doorbell, and she knew they were taking their dear sweet time on purpose. It wouldn't even surprise her to know that father and son were on the other side smirking at each other as the Mudblood shivered in her galoshes, soaked with melted snow.

Well, Hermione would not submit herself to being affected by their pettiness. Mostly. The longer she had to wait, the more thorough her search, and subsequent interview, was. Every month they played this game with her, and every month she got the last laugh. After all, they were the ones on house arrest, not her. She was free as a bird, and they were penguins that couldn't fly, trapped in a zoo.

After exactly one hundred and twenty seconds the door groaned open to reveal a wide-eyed elf. She was young, and blinked up at Hermione silently. With a gentle smile Hermione slipped in and began to shod her winter clothes: gloves, scarf, and her hat with the silly little yarn ball sewn to the top.

All these she kept on her person though, since the last time she had left her stuff with one of the house-elves it had been returned ripped and stained with unimaginable substances. Cleaning hadn't even been an option, and the garments had gone straight into a dumpster.

The little house-elf said nothing, and Hermione followed her into the parlor. She frowned, though, as she noticed that the room was not done up with the same peculiarity the Malfoy family was known for. In fact, the room was a downright mess.

The detailed wallpaper had been ripped down, and some of the floorboards ripped up. A workbox containing some hammers, nails, and other rudimentary Muggle construction tools had been upturned and tossed over the destroyed floor. All the furniture was huddled on the opposite side of the room, the inanimate objects somehow managing to look like a mass of scared house-elves. Interesting.

Hermione offered the actual house-elf a tight-lipped smile, to which the elf disappeared with a silent pop. A few seconds later Hermione approached one of the easily accessible chairs to lounge while waiting for whatever Malfoy would be her tour guide this month. She inwardly hoped it was Narcissa, as the woman was too polite to offer any snarky remarks while Hermione cast Searching spells on the entire manor.

A few minutes later revealed that it was - unfortunately - not Narcissa, but a dour Draco.

"Malfoy," Hermione greeted curtly.

"Let's just get this over with," Draco muttered desolately. Hermione frowned at the youngest Malfoy's lack of biting insults, but followed him.

"Where are your parents?"

Draco shot her a unfathomable glare. "Questioning, as you should well know, Granger."

Hermione frowned. In all actuality, she had not been informed of that, and knew of no reason why they should be called in. Her monthly inspections had come up clean.

Hermione didn't comment on that, though. "Are you renovating?"

Draco didn't even bother to look at her this time. "No."

They were in the kitchen, the house-elves pausing awkwardly in their work as Hermione performed the obligatory Detection spells. Quickly they moved on.

"You know," she murmured, "I could easily demand you tell me what you are doing to your parlor. It is rather odd."

Draco shot her a look of pure, malignant disgust. For a moment, Hermione felt light guilt at lording her power over him. After all, Draco had turned to the side of the good at the very end, even if the Ministry barely acknowledged the Malfoy's last minute change of sides.

"I wanted a change."

It explained the Muggle tools, she guessed, as the Malfoys had yet to acquire their wands from the Ministry. A year of probation was harsh, perhaps, but much more lenient than any of the other Death Eaters' punishments.

They were about halfway through the manor, tense silence having descended. Hermione decided to begin her questions early, so as to not be forced to stay in the dreary place a moment longer. Even though months had passed, the malignancy of the place, the acts that had taken place to her and others, still lingered.

"Any luck in finding a job?"

Draco flinched. "What do you think?"

"There have been many rehabilitated Death Eater children-" Hermione quoted, only to be interrupted.

"Yeah, well their father wasn't Lucius Malfoy. And they weren't responsible for the death of Dumbledore."

Hermione was momentarily stunned at the bitterness in his voice. She had thought Draco was, if not happy with his lot, at least content that he hadn't been thrown in the newly rebuilt Azkaban. She reassessed this, though, as she took in his appearance. He was taller than her by at least a foot, but he was still painfully thin. Much better than at the end of the war, but not that weight proper for his size. Shoulders jutted from a ridiculously loose dress shirt and his slacks were tightly belted with a leather belt that appeared to be at the last loop.

"You weren't responsible for his death, Malfoy." A little gentler this time.

Her didn't respond though, remaining tense and dark as she preformed the last of her Detection spells on the guest bedrooms. Once finished, they retreated back to the torn up parlor. Hermione sat herself on the previous chair, but Draco remained upright, leaning against the wall with crossed arms. Hermione continued the checklist of questions, floating parchment and quill magically taking note of his responses.

"How many applications to put in this week?"

"Eight."

"How many responses?"

"Zero."

"Any responses at all this month?"

"No."

"How much have you spent on food this month?"

"Fifteen galleons."

"Any unauthorized uses of magic?"

"No."

Hermione sighed, though she wasn't surprised by the answers. Like always, she left her business card on the table, containing her title and Floo address.

"If you need anything, contact me."

Draco just shrugged, not even bothering to see her out as she exited Malfoy Manor.

Hermione should have realized when she joined the Office for Wartime Rehabilitation and Repercussions (OWRR) that Grover Lockhart would be just as obnoxious as his distant relative, Gilderoy Lockhart, if not worse. Unfortunately, her desire to put the shambled wizarding world back to rights overcame her irritation of the blond hair, cheesy smile of man.

She had miscalculated how badly the man could test her nerves. If faced with a boggart now, she would be unsurprised to find Grover popping out at her, pleading for a date and perhaps a swing by his place?

Luckily, Hermione was in such a right snit that she easily brushed off his overly amiable greeting as she barged into his office.

"Why would you not tell me about the Malfoys?" She demanded immediately.

Grover's perfectly manicured eyebrows shot up in surprise. "The Malfoys, Luv? Why would I do that?"

"They're my case," Hermione said through gritted teeth. "And they were cleared; their punishment was set."

"Unfortunately," Grover said lightly, "or maybe fortunately, we found more evidence against the Malfoy patriarch."

Hermione mulled over the news briefly. "And Lady Malfoy?"

"She was clearly over distraught. She is currently recuperating in the Mental Ward at St. Mungo's."

Hermione stared at him aghast. "You can't do that! That is outside your legal rights!"

"It is most definitely not. The MLE approved, and she did not put up much of a fuss."

Hermione thought of how skinny Draco was, alone at the Manor with no way to leave or have visitors. "How long will they be detained?"

Grover smiled, smug satisfaction practically oozing from his unnaturally tanned skin. "Indefinitely."

The following month Hermione did not have to wait at the doorstep. The snow had receded a bit, but she had prepared herself to wait at least a few minutes in the biting air. It worried her more than she cared to admit when a humbled house-elf swung the door open almost as soon as her fist hit the lacquered wood.

"Erm, hullo," Hermione mumbled in shock. The elf just nodded imperiously (obviously learned from one of the male Malfoys) and allowed her inside. Again she was led to the Parlor. She wasn't sure whether to be surprised that no work had been done since her month previously, or not.

She settled in the same chair and waited. A few minutes later Draco slouched into the room. Hermione frowned at his unkempt appearance: his hair was messy and uncombed, while his dress shirt was only half tucked in.

"Let's get this over with," he snapped, leaving the room so quickly she had to jog to keep up.

They took the same path as usual, though when they began to reach other parts of the Manor, concern began to gnaw at her. Like the Parlor, other parts of the house had been systematically destroyed, then left to rot. Renovation begun, only to be tossed aside like a half eaten biscuit.

"Er, Malfoy?"

"Hm."

"Is there a reason for all of the torn up rooms?"

He just grunted, shrugging. No help there, apparently. After reviewing all the rooms they adjourned to the Parlor once again. Hermione crisply ran through the interview list, unsurprised that the answers had remained the same, though the concern inside her chest felt steadily heavier and heavier.

"Malfoy…" she murmured after finishing, "you know about your parents?"

He scowled, his sharp face creating harsh, bitter lines with the twisting of his thin lips. "How could I not, Granger?"

"I know it may not seem like it, but we're working on getting them released. The charges are not harsh enough for a long sentence."

"Don't lie. Everyone wants my father in prison. You'll change nothing."

"Now see here, Malfoy-"

"Don't. Just don't."

"You're mother should be leaving St. Mungo's-"

"Shut up!"

Hermione's mouth snapped shut like a trap. Malfoy stood stock still, body tense and shaking, his arms wrapped desperately around his torso. In a flash he strode from the room, leaving Hermione to gape after him.

Hermione was deep in thought as she entered the bright waiting area that lead to all the employee's offices. Malfoy was acting strange, and she was quite unhappy with it. She could deal with him acting like a terrible, close-minded git - but a melancholy, morose Draco? No, most definitely not. She would have to find some kind of help for him. She couldn't fathom being in the Manor by herself for such a long time, not allowed to leave or perform any magic. She could understand his mood, but… why the unfinished projects?

"Hullo, Luv."

Hermione jerked out of her musings just short of reaching her office. So enthralled with her thoughts, she had not noticed Grover.

"Mr. Lockhart," Hermione greeted stiffly.

"Such formality," he teased, and his eyes glimmered at her with boyish enthusiasm. "Grover is all you need to call me."

"I just came from Malfoy Manor," Hermione tactfully evaded.

"Hm?"

"Yes," Hermione confirmed, "I think something must be done for him. Maybe a support group? Or maybe an escorted outing-"

"Hermione, Hermione," Grover shushed, to Hermione's extreme irritation. "This is his punishment, remember? It's not supposed to be a picnic, and he most certainly should not get recess."

"But, sir, his mental state-"

"-how about we discuss this over dinner? Candlelight, red wine, a secluded corner. Just us."

"I do not think that would be appropriate. Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Lockhart."

"Do you not want help for the Malfoy brat?"

Hermione felt rage bubble up inside her belly, almost exploding from her throat in a nasty set of insults and expletives. This man, her boss, was walking the fine line between bribery, blackmail, and abusing authority. If his uncaring personality hadn't turned her off at the first meeting, then this would certainly quench any thoughts she previously had. The man was a toad.

"I am late for an appointment," Hermione excused, fury barely hidden beneath her tense words. "Good day."

She could feel his eyes following her as she stiffly fled the building, like coals burning into her shoulder blades.

A week of research brought Hermione to an unfortunate conclusion. Oddly enough, despite all the wars the wizarding world had gone through, they had only a small selection of mental health books - at least in comparison to the Muggle World. It was with great determination that Hermione had visited a small book shop in Muggle London, purchasing multiple books on psychology and mental disorders.

To her consternation, it seemed Malfoy was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The punishment the Wizengamot dueled out was the worse thing that could have been bestowed upon Draco, and the removal of his parents had not helped in the slightest. In his isolation, the disorder could only spiral downward.

Grover, the wanker, was not in the least bit helpful, so it was going to be left up to Hermione. She frowned, staring at the splayed textbooks on her kitchen table. Her flat was musty with the smells of parchment and leather bindings.

She was not a trained professional. She knew next to nothing about PTSD and how to treat it, despite all the reading up she had done. Basically, she was clambering blindly through a pitch-black maze.

But Hermione had always been a go-getter of sorts, so a week later she bravely stood before the Malfoy Manor front door with her shoulders thrown back and chin lifted ridiculously high.

"You're early."

Hermione had decided not to sit this time. She was bedecked in comfortable trainers and slacks, arms crossed stubbornly. Draco, on the other hand, was wearing his usual attire, though this time more stained and yellow. It appeared he had been working on something.

"I'm not here on business; just a visit."

Draco frowned, his slate gray eyes narrowing in suspicion. He didn't respond.

"Are you working on something?" Hermione asked curiously. Draco shrugged noncommittally, and she had to tamper down a sarcastic remark. "May I see?" she asked politely.

He studied her, and Hermione felt distinctly odd beneath his perusal. It was still an adjustment when he looked at her blankly, without malice or hatred. He shrugged again, and began to shuffle from the room. Taking this as assent, Hermione followed.

A twist and turn later, and they were in what she supposed was the ballroom. Rays of sunlight spilt through crystal roof windows, making watery, cheery patterns. The oaken wood floor was shined to a high gloss, though a layer of dust belied how long since it had last been in use. The only miring of the fairytale room was the corner, where Draco had obviously been at work. Glossy floorboards had been torn up and tossed haphazardly to the side, revealing a rough layer of granite beneath.

Without waiting, he moved to that corner, grabbing a hammer on the way, and began to pry up another board. Hermione watched for a few minutes as he struggled. He tugged ferociously at the lovely wood, unheeding as it dug into his fingers and tore at his skin. With a sharp crack the piece broke away, and he threw it behind him. A second later, he began again.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

A slight struggle. A small silence. "No." Continuance.

Hermione backed up, far enough away to not be hit by a hastily flung board. She lowered herself to sit, cross-legged, while studying the younger Malfoy at his ferocious job.

He barely paused in his work, only occasionally to wipe sweat from his forehead, or tuck his mussed hair behind his ears. Her back begun to ache, but it couldn't compare to how sore his body must be. He had been going at it for hours, not including before she had popped it unannounced.

It was when the cheery yellow light morphed into a flaming red that Hermione decided she had been there long enough. She stood with a barely suppressed groan, ankles popping loudly. She approached Malfoy carefully.

"I must be leaving now," she announced softly. "Good night, Malfoy."

He didn't stop. Hermione left the Manor hurriedly.

The expression that had been on his face… She hadn't seen it until that moment. So bittersweet. So guilty.

She recognized desperation all too well.

"You're not overworking yourself again, right Hermione?"

Hermione shook herself from her stupor to smile sheepishly at Ginny. She had decided to invite the newlywed Mrs. Potter over for tea to catchup, but her mind kept rudely wandering.

"Sorry, Ginny," she murmured apologetically, wrapping her fingers around the warm teacup. "I'm gathering wool."

"Highly doubtful," Ginny sniffed. "More likely trying to unravel the next project you've started on."

Hermione flushed. "You know me far to well."

Ginny shrugged, though her lips twitched smugly. Luckily, she didn't question Hermione on her new 'project,' though the topic change was nearly as disconcerting.

"Is the horrid Grover Lockhart still harassing you?"

Hermione scowled. "If you can imagine, he has gotten worse."

"As much as you complained, I can hardly see how that is possible."

Hermione felt the irritation bubble up in her at even the thought of his dinner date bribe. She had been avoiding the office like a plague ever since. "He tried to force me into a date."

"Bloody-"

"-I know. He's a wanker of the first degree."

"I don't understand," Ginny muttered after a calming sip of tea, "why you do not allow Ron or Harry to deal with it. I'm positive they could easily put him in his place."

Hermione sighed. Yes, they could, but…. "I know, Ginny, but I want to handle this myself. I should not be running to them for everything."

"I'd hardly say you're running to them for everything."

Hermione shrugged.

"Just promise you'll do something if it gets any worse."

"I promise." Though Hermione wouldn't let it.

Malfoy seemed slightly surprised that she had deigned to appear for another unjustifiable visit. Quickly though he settled his blank mask into place, shrugging at her question if she could join him.

They did not go to the ballroom this round, which she was slightly disappointed as it was another beautiful day. Winter was slowly slipping away to the warm dewiness of spring. Instead, they meandered their way to an ornate bedroom. Heavy velvet curtains with gold trim adorned the four-poster bed, and delicately woven tapestries decorated the walls. She noticed that nothing had been touched yet.

She stood awkwardly as Draco paused, hands limp at his sides. He seemed to be studying the room, and she noticed at the foot of the bed was the old, beaten tin toolbox. Minutes later he seemed to come to a decision and rummaged in the toolbox before producing some kind of scraping object.

He strode to the wall, reaching as high as he could (much higher than her - why did she keep noticing his height?) and began to scrape. A large rip filled the room as he tore away a thin swath of the tasteful wallpaper. He stared blankly at it, then dropped it to the floor. He began again.

Hermione watched, not bothering to offer help this time as he slowly cut away, piece by piece, the home of his childhood.

"Ah, Hermione, I have been looking for you!"

Hermione cursed gloriously in her mind. With a tight smile, Hermione turned. "Mr. Lockhart. I have been quite busy."

Grover looked at her like he would a naughty child. "Now, don't be dim, Luv. I'm your boss and I know your schedule. Where have you been spending all this free time of yours, eh?"

Hermione frowned. Had he been checking up on her? She decided to answer with only half the truth. "Research, sir. I've noticed how apathetic some of the Survivors have been and wanted-"

"-that is not your job, Hermione."

Hermione blinked in surprise at how he had hardened his voice. "But-"

"Do you see healing potions and nurse smocks around here? You were not hired to heal, Luv. You were hired to perform simple check ups."

She should not have come back to the office. Why did she think it could possibly be safe now? The waiting room was a minefield that she could never cross without hitting a tripwire called Lockhart.

"I like going above and beyond."

"Please, Hermione, leave the men to their jobs."

Indignation roared like an avalanche. "Excuse me?"

"Have you given any thought to my proposal?"

Some nerve must have snapped; a brain cell exploded, because Hermione could not stop the words the tumbled from her mouth any more than she could have defeated Voldemort with a daisy and some apple pie.

"I will never go to dinner with you, Mr. Lockhart, nor any other sort of place with you. The only time I will ever wish to see your face is at work, and even that is a bit much."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth Hermione knew she would regret them. While it felt fabulously good to release the tightly coiled rage she had suppressed deep in her breast, the furiously foreboding expression that marred Grover's handsome face promised trouble.

"I will," Grover murmured dangerously, "forget these words, as I realize some women are unable to hold their tongue under duress. This is Strike One, Hermione, do you understand?"

Hermione tilted her chin defiantly, but it seemed he wasn't looking for an answer, as he had already stormed into his office, slamming the door behind him.

Hermione visited Draco twice more before his monthly came up. She knocked on the door, donned in her professional skirt and jacket, armed with parchment and semi managed hair. She was shocked when it was he who opened the door instead of another random house-elf.

"Malfoy," Hermione greeted in surprise.

"Granger," he replied lightly. He was dressed in slightly more decent clothes than usual, and his hair had been combed. As she stepped in he moved to remove her jacket in a gentlemanly gesture.

"I'm quite fond of this jacket," Hermione said hesitantly, though still allowing him to take it.

Her heart performed a percussion beat as his lips gave a barely noticeable twitch. "The House Elves will not sully your clothes."

Hermione sniffed, but a small smile played about her face. She followed him professionally through the house, performing her spells with brief efficiency. She mentally noted that none of the projects he had started had not been continued very far past the point she had last seen them. Unsurprising, new ones were discovered in odd areas around the house.

It was on a bed that she noticed them. They were not magical in any way, really, though the Howlers had once been.

Stacks upon stacks of cream parchment letters and flame-red Howlers-tumbled messily on a bed in a random guest bedroom.

"Malfoy…. What are all these?"

The slouch he had entered suddenly straightened to a tense pole shape. "Nothing."

But Hermione was stubborn and entered the room, running her fingers over the paper. Various handwritings in various inks, all splayed out for her to see.

'You killed my-'

'-rot in hell-'

'-Death Eater-'

'-undeserving-'

'-monster!'

She was horrified. "How often do you get these?" She whispered hopelessly.

Draco shrugged. "Occasionally."

He was lying, she knew. From the sheer overwhelming amount, he had to receive one every other day, if not every day. They were not all addressed to him personally, but it was still his family, his parents. He was shouldering the guilt for years of injustice that the wizarding populace was heaping on him with uncaring abundance.

"Why do you keep them?"

His gaze slid away, staring intently at the corner. Avoidance.

"Answer me, Malfoy." A request, not a command. "Please."

The words were barely audible in the dusty air, but they hit her harder than the Cruciatus Curse.

"I try to respond, but how can I ever give them the words they want?"

It was a question that she could not answer. No one could, because there was no right response. Those people were not looking for an apology. They were merely venting their rage, pain and loss; the Malfoys were a perfect target, as they had gotten off relatively easy compared to so many of the other families.

With one final glance, Hermione followed Malfoy out of the room.

Hermione woke with the sun shining in her eyes with obnoxious brightness. She prepared to utter a grumpy spell to seal the curtains when a brilliant idea woke her up. Perhaps it was juvenile, but she was prepared to try it anyway. In a dash she was out of bed and getting ready for the day, dressing in warm but comfortable clothes.

Her kitchen was not used often, but she was capable enough to make something simple. She toiled for an hour, attempting to prepare just the right foods for the trip; promptly gave up, then apparated to a deli to just purchase the right menu. It was not too expensive for two anyway.

A little after noon with the sun blazing and a brisk breeze, Hermione knocked with a no nonsense rap on the main door of Malfoy Manor. She waited for a few patient minutes until Draco answered, squinting and blinking at the mid-afternoon sunlight.

"What?" He demanded sullenly.

Hermione displayed the basket before her proudly. "I thought we could do something different today," she offered as explanation. Draco just eyed the wicker basket warily.

"I think not," he finally replied.

Hermione frowned, then smiled. "Please, Malfoy? You are almost as pale as Nearly Headless Nick."

Draco looked only vaguely disgruntled at this revelation, but still unmoved.

Hermione continued to wheedle. "Please?" She thought quickly. "Draco?" Killing Blow.

He blinked dazedly for a moment before his gray eyes focused intensely on her, to which she had to restrain a heavy inclination to blush.

"Fine," he grumped.

"Bah Humbug to you too," Hermione snarked good-naturedly, waiting as Draco pulled on a tattered, but elegant, robe.

He shut the heavy door behind him with a petulant slam and slumped after her. Hermione ignored his theatrics in favor of finding the perfect picnic spot. She didn't know why (alright, she knew exactly why-was it not obvious?) but she had a feeling Draco never left the Manor. The way he squinted at the sun, like a bat carried unwilling from it's cave, seemed testament of that.

Despite how overrun they were, the Malfoy gardens were still quite lovely. Vines and flowers entwined against cobblestone pathways to create bright, lively splashes of color. Elegantly brought benches were placed in various secretive nooks, carefully hidden from searching eyes. Hermione was observant, and curious enough to find them.

Finally she found a spot that consisted of a small mound with lush grass only slightly overgrown. It offered a perfect view of the manor and the once delicately pruned gardens. Quickly she pulled forth a quilt from the magically arranged basket and flapped it to lay smooth over the ground. She settled herself, basket beside her, only to notice Draco still standing uncomfortably a few feet away.

"I promise not to bite, Draco-" his body seemed to shiver at his given name when she murmured it, "-come sit."

"Hmph."

But he sat, collapsing unceremoniously beside her on the patchwork blanket. Immediately, Hermione began to pull out the sandwiches wrapped in foil: thick slices of rough rye on generous slabs of roast beef and other assorted vegetables. A plate of Cornish Pastries and Custard Tart followed suit.

"The house-elves could have made all this," Draco said indifferently.

"Of course," replied Hermione, "but that would have been twice as hard to force you to make them do it for me."

Draco slid an unfathomable glance at her out of the corner of his eye. "Quite right."

Hermione secreted a grin and began to munch on her sandwich, carefully watching him to ensure he ate as well. After a few tentative bites he seemed to find the food as favorable as she did. A soft breeze weaved through them, catching Hermione's untamable curls and teasing them in her face. Draco quirked an amused brow but said nothing, to which Hermione scowled in return.

After they finished, leaving Hermione so stuffed she imagined could not possibly eat another bite the rest of her life, they lounged. It was a comfortable silence, though Hermione could feel questions gnawing viciously at the back of her mind.

"Have you started any new projects?" Subtle, she thought, so subtle.

Draco just shrugged though, to which Hermione wasn't surprised. She doubted he saw them as just projects.

"Why have you become some quiet?" Blast her loudmouth curiosity. Yet, as Hermione stared at him, he seemed to be pondering.

He didn't look at her when he responded; he seemed to be looking away on purpose.

"I have spent eighteen years of my life talking with insults and curses. It is difficult to speak… nicely."

Hermione was dumbstruck. It wasn't-it wasn't that he didn't want to talk to her, per se, but that he didn't quite know how. He was telling the truth, in that he could not have been taught much about small talk and genial conversations. His childhood was filled with power play and plotting. Words were cutting daggers, not bonds of friendship.

"Well," murmured Hermione, not quite able to hide the joyful smile on her face, "you have a lifetime to practice."

Hermione froze, aghast at the memorandum she found on her desk. Effective immediately, half the cases she worked with had been removed from her responsibility. Grover, in a petty display of power, had cut her workload in half when it hadn't even fazed her before.

She scanned the list and breathed a silent sigh of relief to find Malfoy still on the list of names she kept. Of course she would still visit him if not (somehow, she couldn't imagine not seeing him now-why was that?) but she preferred to keep his eccentric behavior away from others. It seemed too personal, too close. A sacrilege, of sorts.

"Bugger," muttered Hermione aggravatingly. With a quick swish of her wand the list went up in flames.

The party at the Burrow was delightful and rambunctious, as usual. Ron and Ginny were in an explosive argument about Quidditch, with Harry playing peacemaker: Bill escaped the kitchen where a loud boom had occurred. Molly and Fleur screeched after him, promising later retribution.

Hermione sat at the dining table amidst it at all, a secretive smile on her face as she sipped a cool glass of (not spiked) Pumpkin Juice.

Oddly enough, she was more excited for her next visit with Draco.

He nodded to her in greeting as she slipped past him. He took her sweater and hung it on the coat rack beside the door before motioning her to follow him. She was curious as to what room he would start on today; so many of the rooms had already begun the process of destruction.

She froze, though, as Draco stepped into the next room. She did not budge past the doorway, because this was the room-the room-

The rip of the viciously shouted "Crucio!" coursing through her body, tearing muscles and distorting bone, bursting blood vessels. Bellatrix's maniacal giggle, whispering in her ear. "How does that feel, Mudblood? Delicious-"

She never entered this room; just cast the spells hastily from the doorway because-because-

A butterfly brush of skin at her elbow jolted her from her memories. Draco. Draco was staring at her, his grey eyes open; knowing, acknowledging. His hand wrapped around her forearm now, stopping the shivers that threatened to overtake her. She couldn't do this-

"Hermione."

Hermione felt the soft whisper of her name on his lips like a jolt of lightning. What was wrong with her?

"Come," he commanded gently, pulling her with him into the room. One, two, step. One, two, step.

"Draco, I really-"

He pressed his fingers to her lips, thoroughly shushing her. "Sit," he said, pointing at a spot on the floor. Weakly, Hermione followed his instruction. The room was the same as before, the only addition being a thick film of dust that coated every surface and crevice in sight.

Draco moved to the spot where it had taken place, the center of a lush rug with delicately woven fibers. Suddenly there was a razor in his hand and he was slashing at the carpet with all the ferocity he could muster. Strands unraveled and the only sound was the harsh intake of their breathing and the scream of fabric being sundered apart.

He stopped, gasping, then strode over to her. Grabbing her hand, Draco pulled her to stand, shoved the razor in her hand, and tenderly shoved her in the direction of the carpet. She gripped the razor with white knuckles, her bones practically groaning from the stress.

One, two, step. One, two, step. And then she was ripping at the carpet like he had been, all the desperation and pain flowing from her in pure violence, the memory slowly being ripped apart before her like a lion ripping into prey.

The razor wasn't enough, and Hermione whipped her wand out to point at the rug threateningly. A stream of condensed flames rushed out, consuming the rug completely, devouring it until only ember and ash was left.

Then strong arms were wrapping around her, pulling her back. She turned in his embrace, throwing her arms around his neck like a lost child. He was tense for a moment, then grasped her with the same desperation she held him with. Fingers threaded through her hair and around her waist. He hunched over, his face pressed against her neck, and she could feel his lips brushing against the sensitive skin as he whispered something over and over, though she could not fathom what. Pleas, apologies, memories? She could feel his tears running down her collarbone.

To her surprise, they ran down her cheeks too.

She was hollow as she entered her office, but the good kind of hollow. It was as though a shovel had come and scooped all the bad feelings from her chest, tossing them away in a nowhere grave. She couldn't tell if she felt lost or revived.

She sat at her desk, staring off into space, not bothering to review any of her interviews or inspections.

At that moment Grover decided to enter, without even a cursory knock.

"Hello, Luv."

Hermione stared at him blankly before she reformulated her thoughts. "Good afternoon, Mr. Lockhart."

"I'm certain you got the memo on your desk about your cases?" He was lounging in the doorway, blocking the exit. His eyes studied her hungrily.

"Yes," Hermione said, "though I assure you it was unnecessary. The case load was easy to handle."

"I didn't want you to overburden yourself," he explained condescendingly. "You were so distraught last we spoke."

"Mr. Lockhart, if I was distraught, it was not because of work."

He shrugged, brushing off her words as though they were no more noticeable than an irritatingly persistent fly. "Speaking of which," Grover continued, "there was one more adjustment I forgot to make."

Hermione frowned.

"You're off the Malfoy case. I was worried about your personal vestments concerning the family."

Hermione was standing up in a flash, seething. "You can't do that!" She snapped, fists clenched at her sides. "This is an abuse of power!"

"I think you'll find," Grover said smoothly, "that this is very well in my power. Tell me, how often have you been visiting a month?"

Hermione fumbled. How could he know? How could be possibly know that she had been visiting Draco so often? Had he been watching her, or Malfoy?

"That is none of your business," Hermione forced between gritted teeth.

"Either way, you will be stepping off the case. Good evening, Luv. I hope you sleep well."

Hermione had her face buried in her hands, her hair a regular rat's nest, as she sat tensely at her kitchen table. That man was awful, curse him! How such a man ever became promoted was beyond her; it had to have been is looks, which, after the previous Lockhart, Hermione found distasteful at best.

She groaned again, only to nearly fall out of her seat as a voice echoed through her apartment.

"Now what's the matter?"

Hermione gaped at Ginny for about three seconds before dropping her head back in her hands. "Everything. Just bloody everything."

"Hmph," Ginny said, sounding awfully like her mother, "let me get some tea started, then you can tell me all about it."

A few minutes later they were settled down with steaming mugs before them. Ginny waited patiently, thought her expression was a tad mulish.

Hermione sighed. "Lockhart halved my list, as well as taking Malfoy off-" And then it all poured out, the entire sordid tale. Lockhart's nasty underhandedness, Malfoy's issues, Hermione's visits. It was water through a sieve. Unstoppable.

"I know, I know," Hermione mumbled, "this is weird, but Draco is honestly much better, and he needed my help."

Ginny sipped her tea, perhaps a calming mechanism. Finally she grumbled, "You and your charity cases, Hermione."

"He's not quite a charity case any more," she whispered dejectedly.

"Well," Ginny said, "I say just continue to visit the Ferret on your free time. Lockhart is a git, but I can't imagine him being able to do much worse. I'll talk to Harry. Who is this man's boss?"

"He answers to the MLE. We're a small side branch."

Ginny snorted. "Perfect-"

"-I really don't want to run to the boys for everything," Hermione interrupted.

"Nonsense," Ginny replied shortly, "this man is not doing his job. It needs to be righted, and I don't understand why you are not utilizing the options presented to you. If he's doing this to you, imagine what he could be doing to the others."

Hermione's shoulders slumped. "You're quite right."

"Of course," Ginny said smugly. "You know, Hermione, that you don't have to do everything yourself. No one thinks less of you for asking for help every once in a while."

A small smile graced Hermione's lips. "I know, Ginny, sometimes I just let things get out of control."

Hermione entered quickly, the breeze attempting to catch her in one last gust. She grinned up at Draco with flushed cheeks. As soon as he locked the door behind her she slipped from her jacket and reached to draw him into a quick embrace. He returned it briefly, though his hands lingered against her lower back.

"What are you working on today?" She asked as they separated.

Draco shrugged, though a hint of smile touched his thin lips. "Follow me."

They traversed the corridors until they came to a grand set of mahogany double doors, which Hermione knew led to the library.

"Please don't tell me you're ripping this room up," she begged.

His small smile widened. "No."

They entered, and Hermione noticed the cushioned arm chairs pulled up to the hearth, a small, cheerful fire crackling within. Tea and a pile of books were set on a small, delicately carved table.

"Oh," murmured Hermione, "are we just reading today?"

Draco nodded. "I thought you would find more enjoyment in this."

A sigh escaped her lips. This was good. This was right. "Thank you," she breathed.

Hours were spent in comfortable silence as he read a book on Charms and she read one on Transfiguration. Sometimes he would glance at her, and sometimes she would glance back. Sometimes their gazes would lock and their cheeks would blush. Hermione felt juvenile, young, and pure. It had been so long since something so untainted had been a part of her life.

He escorted her to the front door at dusk.

"Draco, I wanted to tell you," Hermione said hesitantly, "they took me off your case. I won't be doing your monthlies anymore."

Draco stared at her solemnly for a moment. "Will you stop visiting then?"

"Absolutely not." Hermione replied fiercely. "You're still my friend."

Another pause, then his calloused hand reached up to caress her cheek, cupping the line of her jaw tenderly. She held her breath as he bent forward, tensely.

But his lips just brushed against her ear, sending shivers down her spine. "Then I cannot bring myself to mind."

Hermione left flustered, aching, and confused.

A few weeks passed when everything went smoothly. Hermione used her exceeding amount of extra time to do research and ponder other job opportunities she could try. Even before Grover's underhanded attempt to thwart her, the job was not challenging. The only confounding occurrence had been Draco, and that was no longer a job anymore.

The man who took over for the monthlies was a mild mannered bloke who kept himself to himself. Hermione spoke with him about the situation (certainly not mentioning anything personal) and he admitted to her being a gracious, self-sacrificing being. This may have been taken a bit far, but Hermione was not going to correct him if it worked in her favor.

For a few weeks Hermione was perfectly content. She had not encountered Grover in her office, and Draco had not started any new projects. They spent a majority of their time reading, debating, and drinking good tea. As surreal as the idea was, Hermione realized that she had made a new friend.

"House-elves deserve rights too!"

"I care to disagree."

"How is that fair for you to enslave them? What makes you so much better than them?"

"That's not it, you daft witch. They want to serve! Why not let them?"

"So, if a house-elf wanted to, say, play Quidditch for a living, would you let them?"

"Your example is ludicrous."

"I'm waiting."

"I'd tell them to go for it. I don't need a crazy house-elf. They make this tea, you know."

"Yes, well, it's a delightful brew."

"I highly doubt Muggle science is comparative to Wizard's."

"Your perspective is so skewed."

"I've read up on this subject, you know. Rubbing sticks together for fire? Really, Granger?"

"For being so intelligent, you are quite foolish."

"I would say the Muggles are quite foolish."

"You do realize I am going to prove how advanced Muggles are to you… by a trip to London."

"Yes, you do that. I'll be here."

"You won't escape that easily, Draco. You'll be accompanying me."

"Merlin help me."

"Only a few months left, Draco."

"Yes, then the freedom of society awaits: terrified stares, hateful comments, services refused."

"Don't be bitter. I'm sure there are places you can go."

"I care to disagree. As soon as they see a dreaded Malfoy they won't hesitate."

"Well, then, I will just have to go with you."

When Hermione walked into her office, she was immediately stunned to see Grover lounging behind her desk, feet rudely propped up on all of her folders.

"Mr. Lockhart," Hermione said tightly, "to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Oh, I just wanted to check up on your progress, Hermione. Imagine my shock when I found these."

He was holding the Muggle books, the ones on mental illness and psychology.

"And…?" Hermione asked, a sarcastic tone edging her voice, sharp like a razor. "How does my reading concern you?"

His lips twisted into a smug smile. "Would these happen to connect with a certain request that you made months ago?"

Immediately Hermione felt danger. She felt as though he was trying to worm her into the corner by forcing her to say the wrong words. She refused; she would not have Draco snuffed to the side, like his parents had been.

"No," Hermione said resolutely. "Those are for my own research. Even you should be aware of my propensity for education, Mr. Lockhart."

"Hmmm," he replied. "Of course, Luv. I forgot what a diligent little witch you are. Perhaps I could find some use for these as well."

"Perhaps." With that, as impolite as it was, Hermione turned on her heal and left, chased from her own office. The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach writhed like a tangle of vicious snakes.

Spring rain pelted down heavily as Hermione approached the Malfoy Manor entrance. She had an umbrella, and had taken the initiative to cast a drying charm, but it was still miserable. The only upside of the weather was the indication that summer was right around the corner.

Hermione knocked hurriedly once she made it up the grand steps. Surprisingly, the door was not answered right away. Usually Draco or a house-elf (if he was too far away) would answer in a matter of seconds. This wait, uncomfortably, took her back to the beginning of her monthly visits.

With an impatient frown, Hermione knocked once more. A small curl of worry sprouted in her chest, but it wilted quickly enough when the door slowly creaked open to reveal a stiff looking Draco.

"About time," Hermione was about to say, except the words died on her lips. Behind Draco stood a very smug Grover. The worry blossomed into full-blown fear. She stepped in, closed her umbrella with a loud snap, and turned to glare at Grover.

"What are you doing here?" She asked, though she couldn't quite keep the aggressive dislike from her voice.

Draco, to her chagrin, was tense and impassive. He looked extremely like he had when he had first started tearing the house up, room by room. She wanted to cup his cheek, to smooth the shameful lines from his face with the brush of her thumb.

But first: Lockhart.

"I took into your request into consideration, Luv," Grover was saying. "You're quite right, Mr. Malfoy does need help, and I think St. Mungo's is the perfect place for him."

"No," Hermione hissed. "Draco is perfectly fine-" She ignored the way Grover's brow shot up at the way Draco's name rolled so familiarly off her tongue "-and does not need to go to St. Mungo's."

"I've seen the house, Hermione."

"So?" Hermione challenged. "And what does that mean? Nothing, that's what. You should leave, Mr. Lockhart."

His smug grin slowly slid from his face to reveal a bitter snarl. It was then Hermione realized how twisted this man truly was. Like a child, he reveled in spite when he did not get what he wanted. He wanted a date with Hermione, and she had refused him. If he couldn't have what he wanted, then nobody could. He was so used to getting his way that he had never learned to go without.

"I think you forget, Hermione, that I am your boss. Perhaps you don't realize that it is my say whether someone needs medical help or not."

"Is that what you did with my mother?"

Hermione fell silent as Grover gaped. Draco was staring at Grover with a fierce defiance.

"Lady Malfoy needed attention. She was distraught."

"Of course she was distraught," Hermione interrupted. "You just unfairly put her husband in Azkaban! He had almost fulfilled his punishment!"

"You say he didn't deserve it?" Grover argued, teeth gritted. "That he wasn't a monster? A killer? A beast? None of them should be allowed out. Even Azkaban is too good for the likes of them!"

Hermione stared at him, gob smacked. Slowly, she hardened herself.

"Mr. Lockhart, I think you are forgetting whom you are speaking to," she said slowly, threateningly.

"I'm speaking to a woman who is my employee."

"No," Hermione said, eyes flinty, "you are speaking to Hermione Granger: Harry Potter and Ron Weasley's best friend. You are speaking to a fighter in the war against Voldemort. You are speaking to a veteran. What right, when you never fought, do you have to dispense justice against the opposing side?" He tried to interrupt, but she rolled over him like a freight train. "None. If I can forgive them, if Harry Potter can forgive them, then anybody should be able to."

Draco was staring at her, eyes unreadable. Grover's throat worked as though the insults he wanted to throw were stuck.

"Now," Hermione whispered, "if you value your job, get out."

Grover stiffened, as though he had been slapped in the face. With a snarl, he pushed past her and ripped through the ornate door, slamming it behind him. It echoed loudly in the large, empty greeting area.

Draco was still staring at her, his face impassive, static. Hermione felt a momentary speechlessness. Was he angry at her? What did Grover say to him?

"I don't need your, or Potter's, forgiveness."

Hermione tensed. "Whether you need it or not, it's still there."

"Is that why you visit me? Sympathy? Pity?" Draco said bitterly. "Look at the poor, reformed Death Eater, all alone in his mansion. Am I your new project, Granger?"

Hermione flinched at the use of her last name, the distance he put between them like a sharp, tugging pain. "Don't be daft," Hermione spat back. "What kind of 'project' would you be? You're not a house-elf. I visit because I want to, because I like the presence of your company!"

Draco turned away, and she thought maybe there was a flash of hurt in his eyes. "You should leave."

Hermione resisted the urge to childishly stomp her feet. "No, I'm not leaving until you see reason." With a few strides, she stood a mere hairsbreadth away from him, staring desperately up at him. She reached a hand to cup his jaw. "Don't you see?" She asked, her voice a whisper now. "That you draw me here? This couldn't be a project, not anymore. This is selfishness, pure and simple."

Draco seemed completely immobile. Like a stone, he was frozen

"Please," Hermione whispered, "don't push me away."

And then he was moving. Like the flowing of a stream, so smoothly natural she barely even noticed that his muscles were working. His hands came forward to wrap tenderly around her neck, and he hunched over her vulnerable form. And then he was a mere breath away, his lips barely brushing hers. Then he was kissing her, and Hermione was lost.

Perhaps it was not sensation, or lust, of any other physical feeling. It was belonging that caught her in stride. The complete sense of rightness. Even with her feelings for the foolish pureblood, she hadn't expected such a reaction to the feel of his lips pressed against hers. Velvet skin like a magnet: touchable, unreal, perfect.

He released her and gazed. "I take it I don't have to leave?" Hermione said breathlessly.

"No," Draco said, seemingly without words, content to just touch her, feel her.

And she wrapped her arms around him tightly, though not desperately. Yes, they were children of war; children of strife and pain and horror. It made her ponder: had they ever grown up, or were they ever young? Would they ever truly recover and forgive themselves for the atrocities they were forced to commit, all in the name of survival and honor? Perhaps before she looked deep inside herself, she would have to look deep inside of others.

Draco: aristocratic, hypocritical, lovely Draco. In the last months he had delved and fought and struggled with demons that had restrained him for so long. He tore away floorboards, and memories, and guilt, and Hermione witnessed it, perversely invited to watch him build his cocoon, then rip through it. She hadn't realized, not until now, that with every destructive rip of wallpaper, every singed carpet, that she was rebuilding her own image of him, the forgotten enemy, as well.

But it didn't matter, because redemption was discovered in the most unlikely of places. Like friends, like family.

Like love.

finis