CHAPTER TWO

"You know how the time flies
Only yesterday it was the time of our lives..."
-Adele

After signing the separation papers, Lucius spent several weeks even more isolated than he'd been since the war ended. Not only did he not leave Malfoy Manor, he rarely ventured outside of the master bedroom.

It was driving Draco barmy.

"You want her back, don't you?" he snapped one evening while sitting on the poofy-topped stool in front of his mother's vanity. She hadn't taken it when she moved out. She hadn't taken much. Why would she? She had the money to buy new furniture and clothes and jewelry, everything she wanted that in no way reminded her of her former life.

"Of course I do," said Lucius. He was sitting up in bed, his back to the ornate carved headboard, a tray in his lap. The house-elves were bringing food directly to him despite Draco's insistence he go down to the dining room - or, at the very least, the kitchen - to eat. Tonight's meal was brandy flamed peppercorn steak, one of his Lucius' favorites. He'd hardly touched it.

"And yet you're acting the way she... this is why... she left because... Look at yourself!" Draco stood up and gestured toward the mirror on the ceiling, a fixture he'd thought really novel as a kid but found disturbing as a young adult. Lucius looked up. He hadn't shaved in some time and his long, thinning hair was stringy and dirty. In his son's opinion, he looked very much like a haggard Muggle vagabond, the sort that always smells of piss and whisky.

"Your point?" asked Lucius dully.

"My point? Mother wants a husband in her bed, not a homeless vagrant!"

"To say 'homeless vagrant' is redundant," said Lucius without conviction. He sighed and set the tray of food on the bedside table.

"I cannot live like this."

"You sound like your mother."

"I don't even know you who are, Father!" Draco plopped back down on the stool, nearly upending it (and himself). "For what it's worth, Mother loves you."

"Love?" he chuckled bitterly. "Your mother is, as we speak, in the south of France, on holiday with a Greek Quidditch player half her age." Lucius reached for the Prophet beside him in the massive four poster bed. He turned to the society pages and showed his son the black and white moving picture that had him particularly despondent today. "These days, she likely spends as much time in bed as I do. Why aren't you off lecturing her?"

"Because she's not laying about in bed stinking like last week's scrambled eggs, wearing filthy silk pajamas, and-"

"She's probably not wearing anything." Lucius missed the disgusted look on his son's face as he was staring enviously down at the picture. Narcissa looked beautiful, as usual. Her hair was secured in some sort of fancy up-do, her delicate ears and slender neck were dripping in diamonds, her plunging neckline left little to the imagination, and she was smiling at Pana-what's-his-face in a way she hadn't done her husband in a decade. "She's probably naked and writhing under him as we speak, completely forgetting the fact that she ever had a husband with whom she once-"

"I'm going out." Draco stood again, returned the stool to under the vanity, and straightened his button-down shirt. He couldn't listen to another moment of this. While he knew he was his father's only confidant and was trying to lend a sympathetic ear, she was his mother.

"Out?"

"To dinner. With a friend."

"With a lady friend?"

"Just a friend." Draco scowled. He was glad his father did not share his mother's talent for Legilimency, as he was certain neither would be happy to know which witch had so thoroughly captivated his attention as of late. He wasn't lying, though. She was indeed just a friend.

He hoped to eventually be more.

"Go on, son. Live your life." Lucius slunk down until he was on his back, staring up at his reflection. "I'll be here when you return."

Draco had no patience left for melodrama, thus he rolled his eyes and reached for his jacket, hanging off one of the four posters. "Of course you will, Father. Where else would you be?"

Upon closing the bedroom door, Draco leaned against it, needing a moment to steady himself. He closed his eyes, pressed his palms to his temples, and took several deep breaths.

"That man is not my father," he said aloud.

No wonder Narcissa could go out and publicly cuckold Lucius the way she was - she probably considered the husband she once adored most unfortunately dead. And was she wrong? This shell of a man left in his place was less lively than the subjects of the portraits around Hogwarts. As much as it frustrated Draco, he could only imagine how much worse it was for his mother.

He felt badly for her. He understood. He empathized.

And yet...

And yet a tiny part of him hated her.

Hated her for leaving. For living.

For letting him stay behind, stuck.

For finally giving up.

She was leading the sort of life Draco could only dream about. Of the three of them, she'd fared best in the post-war inquisitions and trials. Draco was regarded as a coward, his father a slime who ought to be in Azkaban, while his mother was lauded for having lied to the Dark Lord. She was the entire reason he and his father weren't rotting behind bars for life. Harry Potter felt he owed his life in part to her, and speaking out in favor of releasing the Malfoy men was his way of repaying that life's debt.

Draco loathed being indebted to Potter.

And then, once they were released, the reputation recovery efforts started.

For one of them.

Draco volunteered with the efforts to rebuild the school. He donated family money to the war orphan fund. He purchased a new home for the Lovegoods and spent weeks helping Ollivander put his shop back in order. He even reached out to the Golden Trio personally, and then to his aunt Andromeda, and then to Professor McGonagall and Severus Snape and Neville Longbottom, expressing remorse for his actions and those of his parents and begging for eventual absolution. He wasn't entirely genuine in this - he still thought Longbottom was a loser and Snape was a two-timing traitor and Ron Weasley was both a prat and a prick - but he couldn't deny that he owed Potter for saving him twice and supporting his mother, and he was grateful to McGonagall for being the first to welcome him back into the wizarding world with her forgiveness, and he was glad Hermione worked in the cubical right next to his in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes office.

He stopped in the hallway just before the front entrance to give himself a final once-over in the mirror. His hair was parted to the side, his jacket was appropriately Muggle, his shirt collar was straight, his pants wrinkle-free. He looked... good. Much better than the man upstairs, not that the elder Malfoy was currently setting a high bar.

"She's just a friend," he told his reflection. "You're lucky she's even that."

"Don't sell yourself short, dear," wheezed the mirror. "You're a handsome specimen. Carry yourself with the dignity befitting a man of your blood and stature and the witches will be falling all over themselves for you."

All of the mirrors in Malfoy Manor were charmed to puff up the denizens gazing into them. He wondered if his father's ceiling mirror had anything to say to him these days. He fought an involuntary shudder at the thought of that mirror giving positive feedback in the past, given what it must have reflected. His parents used to adore each other, and their... encounters... were not restricted strictly to their bedroom. More than once as a child he'd wandered into a room seeking a snack-preparing house-elf or parental permission to use the pool only to catch his parents in various states of undress, pawing at each other like teenagers in the astronomy tower.

As positively revolting as he'd found such behavior, these days he would prefer it to seeing his mother with other men in the paper and his father - his impotent father - confined to bed like an invalid.

With one final glance at his reflection, he hurried out, down the walk, past the gate, to the apparition point. He could apparate directly from the Manor, of course, but that required dismantling the wards until he returned and he was afraid another Daily Prophet reporter would show up at the door begging for an interview with the reclusive master of the house. Lucius had set the dogs on the last one, who just happened to be the son of a Muggle man, and it was up to Draco to smooth things over before "Old Prejudices Die Hard as Malfoy Sets Dogs on Half-Blood" made the headlines.

When he arrived at the restaurant, she was already seated. He checked his pocket watch. He wasn't late. Four minutes early, in fact. But there she was, looking every bit as beautiful as she had at work the day before. Her hair was pulled back in two french braids; he liked it out of her face. She wore a hint of makeup, dusky pink lips stick and dark mascara, no eyeliner or shadow or blush, and the scoop neck of her mahogany colored cocktail dress gave just a hint as to what her witch's robes and lambswool jumpers kept hidden. He approached the corner table slowly. She hadn't noticed him yet. Her nose was, unsurprisingly, in a book. Her cinnamon brown eyes scanned each page from left to right, left to right, before turning. She was a fast reader. But then, he knew that, from work. And from Hogwarts, though he hadn't found her bookishness quite so attractive back then.

She seemed to sense someone was staring at her. She lowered the book - only slightly - and looked to her left and right, and finally straight ahead, to where he stood, smiling.

"Draco! Hello!" She rose to greet him with a kiss on the cheek that made his chest tighten, even though this was how she greeted all of her friends, male and female, both at work and outside it. "I was early, but rather than sit at the bar nursing the one drink I can handle in a night, I thought I'd see if our table was ready. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not!" He pulled out her chair, which seemed to surprise her. It's not a date, he reminded himself sharply. Just dinner. Between friends. Coworkers. Friends.

"Thanks! You look nice." She slipped the book in her bag, which was hanging on the back of her chair.

"As do you." He cleared his throat. "Hermione." Just saying her name aloud made the tight feeling in his chest worse. Ugh. He really was as pathetic as his father. Pining over a friend who, not so long ago, actually hated him. He wondered if she had any idea. If so, she did not let on.

"This is such a formal place!" She tugged anxiously at the neck of her dress, as if trying to turn it into a turtleneck. "I hope I'm not underdressed."

"No, not at all!" he assured her. Should he not have picked such an upscale place? Perhaps something a bit more 'everyday' would have suited her style better?

Salazar's snake, what was she doing to him?! He was a good-looking, wealthy, enviable young wizard. He'd never felt so anxious or uncomfortable on a first dates! Not that this was a date. It wasn't. But still.

"I would have chosen someplace... else... but I wanted us to have privacy - to talk! - which meant none of the usual wizarding places, and since I'm taking you out to thank you with that assignment and the paperwork you helped me complete over this last month, I thought this better than a pub or... or..." What did Muggles call those places with the takeaway chips and cheap hamburgers? "A quick food place."

Merlin's bloody balls, what was happening to him?! He'd dated several witches since the war, and three before, and he'd never been this knotted up inside over it, this unsure, this... insecure in his standing.

Not that this was a date. It wasn't. But still.

"No, no, this is perfect! I like it. It looks like the sort of place one might go on a date. Not that I can remember what it's like to date!" She laughed, as if the idea of dating were utterly absurd. "But it's really lovely, Draco. It's fun to try new places. Shall we look over the menu?"

There was one on the table already. They reached for it at the same time. His fingertips brushed hers and she immediately pulled back.

"Sorry, you look first. I already glanced it over, when I first came in."

"No, you first."

Ladies first, always. His father taught him that when he was twelve, back when the man was an impressive specimen with no shortage of interested witches buzzing around him like flies on dung every time he went out in public without his wife. His father used to give him a lot of advice, too much, really, about how to attract and keep and please a woman, sharing tips that "always" worked. At the time, Draco had secretly found it funny. How could these tricks "always" work when the only witch the man had ever had to attract and keep and please was his wife of twenty years? But somewhere around age fourteen Draco realized his mother wasn't the only woman the Malfoy patriarch was frequently pawing. At the time, this had instilled in him a sense of awe and jealousy - he was struggling to find the perfect date for the Yule Ball while his father could have any woman he wanted! - but by sixteen it disgusted him to think of his father cheating on his mother... and now he wondered whether his father regretted that prior infidelity, as Narcissa liked to remind Lucius of it whenever he complained about her going out with male 'friends.'

"I've never had rack of lamb. Would you like to share it?" asked Hermione. "We could get something to share for a starter, too. This place has one fixed price for the entire menu and you choose one option from each course..."

He wondered if she wanted to share food because she was worried about cost, or because she was worried about her figure, or because she just wasn't that hungry or wasn't a fan of the cuisine, but he didn't want to make things even more uncomfortable by asking, so he simply said, "The lamb is one of their best dishes here. How do you feel about mussels?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but there was the waiter, ready to take their drink orders.

"Sedlescombe 2011 Regent red, a bottle," said Draco.

"Water," said Hermione.

"Water?" asked Draco. Was he an imbecile to order the wine? Was that presumptuous? Rude? Did modern, progressive witches dislike it when wizards ordered for them on dates?

Not that this was a date.

It wasn't.

But still.

"I'm a lightweight, that's all." She giggled apologetically. "If I drink nothing but wine all through dinner, you'll have to carry me out of here!"

Wouldn't mind that, he thought, but he smiled. Get it together, Malfoy! "Ah, yes, of course. Water for me, too. With the wine."

"The bottle?"

"The bottle."

"Excellent choice. I'll return momentarily with your wine and to take your order."

"Honestly, I feel out of my league here," confided Hermione once the waiter had hurried away. "Do you old-line purebloods dine like this all the time?"

She said 'purebloods' with a smile, but the word stabbed him straight through the center of his chest. Would he never escape the stigma of having been a Death Eater, inducted into a madman's inner circle at barely sixteen? Would she ever see completely beyond the boy he'd been before that, the one who mocked her mercilessly and looked down on her for being Muggle-born? Would she ever forget how he regarded her with jealousy and derision and, at times, outright hatred?

"I'm sorry, Draco!" She reached across the table to place one of her soft, small hands on top of his. "I was only teasing! I hope I didn't hurt your feelings."

"What? Of course not!" He laughed it off. Convincingly, he hoped. "My family used to eat here often, when Father had business dealings with Muggles. Mother and I would come along, and the other men typically brought their families as well, but it's been a long time."

"How are your parents?" Her hand was still on his and her eyes were full of sympathy. Surely she knew there were problems at home. The entire wizarding world knew it, thanks to the Society editor's obsession with Narcissa's blossomed social life.

"Doing well," he lied. "Mother is in France, on holiday, while Father manages things at Malfoy Manor." This was not the dinner discussion he'd been hoping to have. Thankfully the waiter's quick return saved him from having to say more.

Soon enough they had their wine and mussels and were awaiting their lamb, and conversation was flowing more easily. They talked about work and the weather and whether the Holyhead Harpies were going to make it into the next Quidditch World Cup, and neither brought up his fucked up parents or her still-recovering-from-Obliviation parents or his friends Blaise and Goyle or her friends Harry and Ron and by the time they were ordering a chocolate souffle to share, Draco was convinced the date was not only going well, but was, in fact, a date.

"I'm really glad we've gotten to know each other so well over the last couple of years, Draco." She smiled at him across the table, and his heart fluttered stupidly in response. "You're nothing like the boy you used to be."

"Times change, and so do people," he said, immediately giving himself a mental back-pat for it. "For the better, I hope."

"For the better, no question!" She reached out and took his hand again.

And then she said the worst possible thing a witch could say to a wizard under such circumstances.

"I wouldn't trade our friendship for all the galleons in Gringotts!"

A/N:

Thanks for reading, reviewing, following, and adding to faves!

To clarify, I do plan to head-hop a bit between Lucius and Draco in this fic without sectioning off into individual scenes so I can show what both are thinking/feeling within the same moments without rehashing, but I'll try to keep it from being too confusing. Let me know if I'm failing in that and I'll take another approach.

Please let me know your reactions! As I've said before when writing other fics, I am but a noble niffler and reviews are my favorite shiny objects.

-AL