Lucius had refused to come to the sitting room, but they'd expected as much.
Draco sits in the velvet green armchair facing the fireplace, slumped over with his hands clasped tightly together and his blonde hair falling over his forehead. It's much longer and wild now than it was during his time at Hogwarts, a far cry from the days when he was always put together and perfectly polished. His eyes, grey and haunted, watch the ornately-colored flames that lap at the stone flue, the muscles in his jaw twitching with subdued irritation. His black tie hangs around his neck, the knot loosened and tugged at, and his white button-down shirt is wrinkled and untucked. There's a caged animal quality to him nowadays, no longer the regal and delicate creature from their childhood. Hermione likes him better this way, raw and vulnerable and real, but right now she can see the places where his tightly knit threads of control have started to unravel and it frightens her. Lucius' less than polite rejection of his son's invitation to join them in the sitting room has left a noticeable chink in Draco's resolve and the air is thick with resentment. "Not entertaining such foolishness," he'd said. "Not showing any hospitality to that Mudblood." In response, Draco had flicked his wand with more force than necessary and unapologetically sent an ornate, green ottoman flying across the room until it crashed against the opposite stone wall and splintered into pieces. Some things change, she'd mused. Others simply never do.
She sits to Draco's right, still and poised, one leg crossed gracefully over the other with her unruly hair tamed and pulled back into a tight bun. Her eyes wander nervously around the room, but always find themselves landing back on something comforting and familiar, on Draco, studying his seemingly calm expression, but knowing something much more explosive lies just beneath the surface. She fights the urge to reach out and touch him, to place a hand gently on his shoulder, to bring him back to the present. She could do it, lean over the armrest and tear him away from his demons, but she doesn't move. Instead, she smiles politely at Mrs. Malfoy and flattens her jumper against her stomach. Her mind is reeling and she's sure anxiety has colored her cheeks in a faint flush, but she reminds herself it will all be over soon and then they can return to their lives and the unconventional happy place they've managed to carve out in this post-war world.
Narcissa has declined to sit and instead hovers in the middle of the darkened room. Upon first glance, she's still the picture of pre-war class, but her face is considerably more lined and Hermione can see the way the edges of her deep green robes have frayed since then. Her hair is shorter and makes her look older, her hands rough and cracked from labor once completely foreign to her. She awards most of her attention to her son, watching him carefully in the eerie firelight, her arms stretching out towards him imperceptibly. If he notices, he shows no signs of it and makes no move to comfort her obvious unease. It makes for quite an uncomfortable situation and Hermione can't help but wonder where they go from here. Unexpectedly, it is Mrs. Malfoy who presses forward, clearing her throat so that her son's eyes lazily look up to assess her.
"May we have some privacy?" she asks softly, meeting Draco's gaze. "I'd like to speak to Ms. Granger alone."
Hermione knows there is nothing to fear about this shell of a woman. She knows it's foolish to worry herself with good impressions and attempting to seek an acceptance that will never be awarded to her. Still, even with the roughness that now mars her edges, Narcissa Malfoy manages to command respect and Hermione can't help the flicker of intimidation that flares up in her stomach. Draco must know, must see the way it heats her face because as he slowly nods and pushes himself up from his chair, his eyes remain trained on his mother, but his words address Hermione.
"I'll be in the foyer," he says, his voice just above a whisper. "Ten minutes, and then we're leaving."
Narcissa, stone-faced, nods and Hermione attempts a small smile, but he doesn't return it. Instead, he runs his fingers roughly through his blonde hair and exits the room, his footsteps echoing against the stone. When he's gone, Narcissa turns toward Hermione for the first time and Hermione is surprised to see her face soft and vulnerable, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears.
"I apologize for my husband," she says quietly, as though she fears being overheard. "He's been ill as of late and is not keen on having company. I hope you'll also understand the difficulty he's facing with this situation."
Hermione catches the way her lips curve around the word 'situation' with disapproval, but she doesn't question Mrs. Malfoy's sincerity. Merlin knows the situation has been more than difficult and Hermione has been fighting a losing battle for months to convince those closest to her that Draco deserves a place not only in her life, but in her heart. So, she nods, unable to find the proper way to express her commiseration.
"I want to preface by saying I do not hate you, child. The world is a new place now with new allegiances. I do not fear telling you that my distaste does not lie in the purity of your blood. However, I can not condone your relationship with my son. I will accept it because I must, but I will not celebrate it. I can not bear, after all that I have gone through, to have him ripped out of my life now. I will not endure it. You may have his heart, but please let me have my son."
Hermione swallows and nervously uncrosses her legs, sliding her slick palms against the fabric covering her thighs. She tries to quickly arrange her thoughts, wondering how best to respond, weighing her options. She could protect Draco, spare Narcissa the pain of knowing it was her son who willingly separated himself from the rest of the Malfoy clan, despite Hermione's wishes and not because of them, but she won't. She's hoping that Mrs. Malfoy will respect honesty over being falsely placated.
"I've never intended to cause your family trouble." Hermione's voice wavers slightly, but she continues on. "I have expressed to Draco the importance of finding a common ground, a place where both you and I can exist in his life, separately. He seems..." She pauses and watches her fingers fidget in her lap. "Resistant, despite my protests."
Narcissa stiffens slightly, but nods. "I see."
There's a stretch of silence then, long, maybe three or four minutes, but nowhere near as long as their allotted ten. Draco, however, re-enters the room, taking long strides to where Hermione sits. His face is pale, more pale than normal, and pinched. He holds out his hand to Hermione and she recognizes it as a demand, not an offer. She places her smaller one in his and allows him to pull her to her feet, his fingers squeezing hers gently with a reassurance his face doesn't show.
She can feel Mrs. Malfoy's eyes on them, her gaze burning into the invisible ropes that bind them together, and she imagines them filled with longing rather than loathing. There's not much left in this world for someone like Narcissa Malfoy and, really, the war could have easily had much different results. She can't help but pity the woman who seems to have lost everything she ever valued, misguided into choosing the wrong side, if she'd ever been given a choice at all.
Hermione gives Draco a pointed look and he sighs, his shoulders sagging slightly. He hesitantly releases her hand and turns to his mother. It's awkward, the way he leans forward and gives her a stiff peck on the cheek, the sentiment cold and mechanical. They exchange no words, no further gestures. Draco simply straightens and turns, regains his grip on Hermione's hand and pulls her forward, towards the fireplace. Narcissa's heels click against the stone behind them, but she says nothing and neither of them turn back. It all feels very surreal and strangely empty, no surge of the triumph she'd expected to feel leaving the Malfoy manner with Draco's hand curled tightly around hers, his decision clearly made.
Draco's voice enunciates their intended destination and then she's enveloped in heat and green light so bright she's forced to close her eyes against it. When she blinks them open again, it takes a moment for them to adjust to the blackness and for her to register they're now standing in the fireplace back at their own darkened flat. Automatically, she moves to step forward, but Draco's hand snaps, lightening fast, to her wrist and tugs her back until she's pressed against his chest. His arms then move to wrap around her, enclosing her in warmth and the scent of spice. She can feel him exhale and his breath fans against her shoulder as he buries his face into her neck.
"I'm so sorry," he says, his lips brushing against her collarbone. She isn't sure what offense he's actually apologizing for - the behavior of his family, being subjected to the slur Mudblood, the horrible things he did throughout their childhood - maybe it just feels right for him to say it in that moment. It doesn't matter because when she whispers "I'm sorry, too" into the darkness, she's not sure what, or rather who, it's directed towards either.