Author's Note: This one is dedicated to VN, who told me that I write pretty, old-fashioned love stories.
Chapter 1:
Hermione Granger strode with a purpose in her step, turning when she came upon Knockturn Alley. A leather-bound first edition of Hogwarts, A History was tucked under one arm of her wool coat, her bag under the other. She was no stranger to the shadier parts of wizarding London—she could often be found taking creatures from all walks of life into her care. With the chilly autumn wind nipping at her and sending a shiver down her spine, the journey down Knockturn Alley suddenly seemed more daunting than it had earlier that morning.
She held her chin up and squared her shoulders. Just last week she had retrieved an abused house elf from the home of a frightening pureblood widow. Surely seeking assistance from one of the shops down this road would be significantly less foreboding. Hermione kept her head up and hugged her belongings close to herself as she walked. Go to Noggin and Bonce and turn left. Three shops in, just past Markus Scarrs Indelible Tattoos. His mother's words echoed in her mind as she followed the instructions, avoiding the curious stares of the Dark patrons of Knockturn.
A hissing sounded from Hermione's left and she skipped slightly, trying to avoid contact with a hag-like elderly witch. "Such a pretty one, child. Come in, come in. I've just put the cauldron on!"
Hermione lifted a hand and gave what she hoped was a grateful smile. "I'm sorry. I'm here on business. Maybe another day?"
"I'll hold you to it!"
Hermione turned around, stumbling slightly as she continued on her path, her heart beating rapidly in her chest. The sound of a tattoo machine could be heard filtering through an open door, buzzing in the streets beyond. She was nearing her destination. Curiosity, the worst possible thing to have when traveling in the seedy underbelly of London, bubbled up and she peered into the open door of the tattoo shop. A large man, who appeared to be in a perpetual state between man and werewolf looked up from where a skinny vampiric man was carving away at his arm. "Can we help you, miss?" came the gravelly voice of the half-wolf.
She shook her head vigorously and then took another twenty steps before she found herself at her intended destination. Malfoy's Antiquarian Book Restorations. A lump rose in her throat as she stared through the window. It had been years since she had seen Draco Malfoy in person.
While she had used her fame for a better cause, heading near constant fundraisers and rescuing ailing or abused creatures, Malfoy had slipped into near reclusion. He had served a brief stint in Azkaban for his role in the War and had all of his riches stripped from him upon release.
Looking upon him now, Hermione saw that he had matured. He was no longer lanky and pointy, but now sported a defined jawline and his blond hair was brushed to the side instead of straight back as he had always worn it when they were young. He was hunched over a workbench, looking through a set of magnifying glasses strapped to a headpiece. She watched his hands work as he smoothed them over a strip of leather fabric, an ancient looking tome cracked open before him.
Malfoy must have felt her gaze because he looked up from his work and his brows furrowed behind his magnifying glasses. He pulled them from his head and smoothed a hand through his hair, rising from his bench uncertainly. Hermione felt her throat constricting and her hand shot out of its own accord. She pulled the door open, and it registered, somewhere in the back of her mind, that he had a bell that chimed when it opened—an odd sound to associate with her former foe. "Granger?" he asked, and his voice was deeper in his older age.
Her lips parted as she stared up at him as he neared, removing the skin-tight dragon hide gloves he had been wearing. He was tall, towering over her in a way she couldn't remember. "Can I help you?" he questioned, staring at her as though she were a strange enigma.
Heat climbed from her chest and up her neck, into her face, staining her cheeks scarlet. "Your mother didn't tell you?"
"Why are you speaking to my mother?" his voice turned harsh and he crossed his arms, his stare an icy scrutinization.
Hermione took a step back and held the book to her chest. "She lives with Andy. I was with Harry to visit Teddy Lupin and mentioned a book I had just purchased that was in desperate need of repair. Your mother told me you owned your own restoration shop."
Draco narrowed his eyes, trying to gauge whether she was telling the truth. "I swear—what ulterior motive could I possibly have for coming here?" Hermione asked quietly, and he lifted his face to look down his nose at her.
"You bought the first edition Hogwarts, A History from Mabel Yaxley," he mentioned slowly, his eyes flickering over her shoulder at an elderly wizard staring in at the pair from the street.
He reached over and closed the door, drawing the shades over it and the windows with a simple wave of his hand. "How did you—" she began, following him as he walked back to his workbench.
"I deal in antique books, Granger. Did you really think news of the War heroine meeting a Death Eater's grandmother to purchase one of the rarest wasn't going to reach me?" he quipped, sitting on his stool and leaning on his elbows on his table. "So, let's see it."
Hermione, protective over her spoils, carefully set the book on the corner of the oak table and unwrapped the velvet cloth that encased it. It was in dreadful shape, the leather torn in several spots, the binding nearly completely ripped apart and the back cover missing completely. Malfoy let out a low whistle, holding out a single fingertip to run along a prominent tear. "Merlin. I hope you got a good deal on this because it's going to cost you a pretty galleon for my services."
Hermione watched as he pulled on his gloves once more, fascinated by how they shaped to his hands so that it almost looked as though his hands themselves were covered in dragon scales. "May I?" he asked, not waiting for her response as he lifted it carefully.
Hermione was fascinated by the regard with which he stared at the book. He peered at it, each tear, dent, or unraveling bit seeming to cause him an internal pain. She had never met another person who looked upon a book with such reverence, but his lips were parted slightly as he opened the front cover. "Written in centuries-old Gaelic from the blood of a slaughtered Norwegian Ridgeback," he commented, running a gloved finger over the fading script.
She knew this, of course, though she felt he likely spoke out of awe rather than to educate. "Have you ever seen anything so spectacular?" she asked, leaning on her elbows to watch as he delicately turned a page.
"I have seen my fair share of beautiful ancient literature. First editions dating back a thousand years and bound in human flesh. But this…this is truly incredible," he conceded, glancing up at her with a wide smile.
Hermione felt her heart stutter slightly at the sight, her nerves tingling as she listened to him speak of the book as though it were a true treasure. "Can it be saved?"
Malfoy scoffed and rolled his eyes. "I'm the greatest restorer in Britain. Of course, I can save it. Come with me."
He stood, closing the book gently and waved over his shoulder for her to follow. "I have a few different dragon leathers I could use to rebind it," he mentioned, and he stopped in a large room where giant rolls of every fabric imaginable resided.
Malfoy shuffled to the back corner where dragon leather rested. "Were dragons killed for the sole purpose of becoming book bindings?" she asked absently, touching one roll that felt particularly rough.
"I buy my leathers and hides from a tamer who skins and tans them after natural deaths," he responded, lifting a rather reddish-toned roll.
A slight wrinkle formed between his brow as he ran the material between two fingers. "Eh. I don't like this. It's not regal enough for the history in that book."
Hermione glanced around, running a fingertip over a roll of crushed velvet. He was rubbing his chin in a cupped hand, staring at the sepia leather. She looked at him, wondering what was going on behind those eyes of his—grey, a striking, storm-cloud grey, she discovered. "Granger," he said slowly, his eyes flickering up to meet hers, "I may have a solution to our bookbinding problems. But it would require you to trust me completely."
Hermione raised a brow. Trust him? She had not seen him in nearly eight years and before that, he had been one of the most untrustworthy individuals she'd ever met. His face, how it lit up at the sight of the book, flashed through her mind and she tilted her head to the side, appraising the man before her. He may have been a low life, and still might be, for all she knew. But she knew in her heart, Malfoy would not ruin that book. "What do you have in mind?"
A smile spread across his face and he pushed past her, going back into the main part of his shop. "It's going to take me a while. Probably a month, maybe a little more," he began as he touched the cover of the book. "But I think, if you'd let me, I could take a small square of this leather and reproduce enough to create a new binding completely. A bit of tricky potions work, but I think I can handle it."
Hermione drew her lip into her teeth and his eyes flickered to them briefly before he looked back up at her eyes, his brows raised in expectant excitement. She looked at the book and sighed. "How much will this cost? I don't have much—it took me two years to save up to purchase the book as it is."
"A hundred galleons."
Hermione felt her jaw drop. It would take her six months of eating bread and beans to be able to save up the difference. "Well, I suppose the leading expert would want his just dues. I hadn't expected quite that much."
"What do you have?" he asked, swallowing as he looked at the book. "Maybe we could work something out."
Hermione could tell by the way he slid the book closer to himself that he was itching to begin working on it, just as she wanted nothing more than to have it in a suitable condition. "Fifty. I couldn't ask you to do it for half of your asking price."
He bit the inside of his cheek and glanced at the book between them and then around the room. "Do you ever have spare time?" he questioned, leaning on the high workbench as he spoke.
She recoiled slightly and sputtered for a moment. "I—I run a shelter for creatures down on their luck. I'm there most days."
"Could you come past here for an hour each night after you leave? As you can see, I'm not very well organized and this place could use a dusting," Malfoy told her, glancing around them for emphasis.
Hermione's eyes rose to the shelves of books awaiting repair, to a dusty display case where he showcased some of his work, and up at the ceiling where a spider had made a web. "If I do that, you'll do it for half?" she clarified, looking up at him with bewilderment.
"Granger, I have never wanted to restore a book so badly in my life. If you told me you only had a single sickle, I'd be making the same deal right now," he told her with a laugh that appeared to have nervous undertones.
Hermione knew Malfoy was living on his current wages, his entire vault seized to pay reparations after the War. She felt terrible asking him to do such a thing and vowed that she would pay him back—in gold—over time. Her eyes flickered over his shoulder at a framed photo propped on the opposite corner of the work table. In it, Malfoy was holding a gorgeous blond toddler, a tiny doppelgänger of himself. "What a handsome boy. What's his name?"
Draco looked around, momentarily confused before his eyes settled on the photograph. "Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy."
A strong name seeped in the constellations of the Black family tradition. "How old is he?"
Draco's face fell to a frown and he turned the picture face down on the table top. "My mother didn't share that with you while she was busy spreading my business?" he hissed, his mood turning sour once more.
Hermione swallowed, unsure of what he was speaking about and what exactly was going on, why his mood had soured in the blink of an eye. "I didn't have a chance to really talk to her much. She kept busy with Teddy and his tutor."
He was silent for a long moment before his fingers tapped the back of the picture frame. "Scorp passed away. A nasty bout of dragon pox just shy of his second birthday."
Hermione's hand flew to her mouth and horror flooded her body. "I am so sorry, Malfoy. I had no idea."
Malfoy cleared his throat with a wave of his hand. "It's not something I care to speak about. Can I expect you here tomorrow?" he questioned, rewrapping the book in the velvet encasing Hermione had brought it in.
Her hand left her mouth and she touched his arm lightly. "I really am sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."
His eyes flickered down to where her hand rested and she felt a sort of warmth spread up into her wrist. She dropped her hand and her lip went back between her teeth as she reached into her bag for the other fifty galleons. "Yes. I'll be here. Is six a suitable time frame?"
"That will be fine," he snapped, turning his back on her as he shelved her book and made his way back to his prior project.
Hermione took that as her dismissal and she mumbled a quiet, "See you tomorrow," as she placed the money on his workbench and turned to go.
She paused at the door and looked over her shoulder to see Malfoy lifting the framed photo back upright, staring at it morosely. It felt like an invasion of his privacy—he, a stranger for all they had been through—to see him mourn his loss. She lifted the hood of her traveling cloak against the wind and strode from the shop, reeling from the strange encounter with the man she hadn't seen in years.
It was such a brief meeting and she had not been able to get a feel for who he was now. He seemed moody, but she supposed that was to be expected. Never did she think that he would have lost a child and it ripped at her heart that she had been the grim reminder for the day. As the witch passed the old hag, she pulled her hood further over her face and avoided everyone's gaze, itching to be far from Knockturn Alley.
How ironic, the first civil conversation Hermione had ever held with Draco Malfoy and she was the one to ruin it. Hello foot, meet mouth, she thought as she groaned at her ignorant error. The sun seemed to shine brighter as she stepped out into Diagon Alley and she lowered her hood to take in what little warmth it offered.
Hermione wondered how Malfoy's wife—had he married the younger Greengrass sister?—was handling the loss of her only child. Malfoy's hands, ungloved, came into her mind. She couldn't recall seeing a wedding band as he worked. Though, she supposed, being around such precious materials and in and out of gloves may have been a deterrent to wearing one.
She would be lying if she said she didn't have any worries about entrusting her book to Malfoy, but he was the most well-known in his field—she'd done her research. His grey eyes haunted her, alight with burning curiosity and admiration for the written words he held in his hand. Their encounter had lasted no more than ten minutes, but already her own inquisitive nature was tingling with the desire to know more.
Who exactly was Draco Malfoy—Hermione had never truly known, had she? What made him tick—his face transformed over something as simple as a book, hadn't it? Were he and his wife still actively grieving after the loss of that precious boy in the photo—hadn't his eyes looked hollow and cadaveric as he had looked upon his baby boy? A sharp pang sliced through her chest as she felt a burning sympathy for her one-time nemesis. Hermione vowed that she would use her time with him wisely, getting to know every little nuance he would offer her.
o-o-o
A/N: Please review! And thank you to everyone who reads and reviews! Your support is much appreciated! Thank you to otterlyardent for taking the time to beta this chapter.