CHOICE

June 2004

She had not called. It had been over a week, and she hadn't called. Draco was frustrated. He was in his study, and it was midmorning, already stiflingly hot. An article – he couldn't even remember what about – lay abandoned on his desk.

At first, he'd been content to wait, to let her come to him. But it had been more than a week. Why hadn't she called? He had thought that her natural curiosity would get the better of her, but so far it hadn't. And increasingly, he found his work, which usually kept him sane, was not holding his interest.

His thoughts, more often, were on her.

He would have to seek her out if he truly were going to help her. He had hoped it wouldn't come to this; he had hoped the seed he had planted in her mind would take root. But the week was almost over, and he wasn't certain he was able to waste any more time. He wanted to use the weekend to find out more about her... get to know her, this altered Hermione Granger.

He had called her countless names in school – mudblood, muggle, bitch– all without ever knowing anything about the girl. He had told her that she didn't belong; that she wasn't worthy; that she wasn't welcome in the wizarding world... But now, Hermione Granger seemed to be the most intriguing thing he had ever stumbled upon in the Muggle world, possibly the wizarding one too.

It wasn't her, as such – was it?- it was the mystery surrounding her; it was seeing her outside the wizarding world, living as a muggle, fitting in, too, and yet somehow seeming more. It was knowing that he had to help her, he had to; that he was, for once, acting for more that himself and doing the right thing.

He stretched and stood up from his desk, trying to ignore the burn in his throat and the craving it signified. Some days were harder than others. He knew what type today would be.

His eyes fell on his Pensieve. He thought again, as he had done so many times, of their meeting in Oxford. He'd been taken aback by the sight of her, utterly surprised by her appearance – and yet he shouldn't have been; Oxford... well, it was her world.

And yet it wasn't. At least not for him, he now realised.

For all of the times he had called her Muggle, told her she wasn't a witch, he had never actually thought of her as a person, an entity, outside of the wizarding world. She had always seemed so at home there, understanding the magical world better than most purebloods; so utterly confident that she belonged, regardless of what anyone said.

And he saw now, that she was right.

He'd known it before his run-in with her, but he really saw it now.

And even though she fitted into the Muggle world, had been born into it, she was as much a part of his world. Because she did belong. And that, he knew, was why he could not give up. Why he would have to seek her out: To give her the chance to know the truth of her own nature, to know what she was, what she had done.

Draco had been a coward by nature; not full of that impetuous bravery which had so characterised Potter, Granger and their fellow Gryffindors back in school. He had no experience of such things, except on the outside looking in.

He had run from every fight, every challenge, anything to save his own skin... Only to discover, after the fact, that it was worthless. That he was worthless.

She hadn't called yet. She had wanted to, really, she did.

But as happened so often, so bizarrely, there was a crisis at the Bodleian. If she were being honest, it was part of what she loved about her job, the small daily chaos of academic life. It was usually something to do with an incorrectly interpreted motif on a Celtic torc, or the discovery of an early-Tudor text which shed new light on the lives of the gardeners of Hampton Court, or something of that nature.

On this particular day, it was that the microfiche copies of a number texts had gone missing. Not the actual texts themselves, mind, just the microfiche copies, but this was enough to send all of Hermione's department, and half of another into complete disarray.

Jules was tearing around, looking frantic (and in dire need of a cigarette, Hermione knew from experience), and Stanley Pent, the Professor of European Art History, was bellowing down the phone at some poor soul from IT; Norman was fidgeting and complaining, and getting in everyone's way; and Hermione could see Cassie sniggering into her cup of coffee like a mild-mannered anarchist.

Nothing went to plan that day.

Hermione had planned on getting to work early that day – earlier than usual – to get ahead in some of her work. She had some research to do for Jules, and she had (thankfully) finished helping with Norman's papers, so it she knew she would be able to give it some real time and attention. She also had a mid-morning appointment with her dissertation supervisor, to discuss her course progress. After that she had hoped to call this Draco Malfoy.

But, as it was, none of that happened.

Hermione didn't know why she was even surprised.

She had arrived at the Library just after six – a little later than she'd really wanted, but she couldn't function on an empty stomach – and managed to make good inroads on her research project for Jules, even if it was far from finished. As usual, once people began arriving around eight, things began to get... messy. Deborah from downstairs needed her help in the archive room, Jules wanted a quick chat about the research project, and Cassie, as usual, was demanding her company for coffee.

It had barely hit ten, and Hermione was just settling back in to work when the Great Microfiche Debacle Part IV began. And perhaps it was the fact that this was the fourth time this had happened which made Hermione raise her eyes to the heavens, or perhaps it was the fact that this still managed to plunge the entire department into turmoil, despite it being a relatively small issue.

But, then again, this was what her entire department thrived on. And she would sacrifice a thousand early mornings and late evenings, if it meant she could live and work here, in this place of history and books, and towers and knowledge.

However, as the department propelled itself into a frenzy, with people darting here and there, Hermione found herself having to call her dissertation supervisor, Dr. Lotte Felderman, and cancel their meeting. When she explained the situation to her supervisor, the woman had laughed heartily and said she'd heard all about it.

The rest of Hermione's afternoon was taken up almost entirely by the growing mess of the Microfiche Disaster. Hermione, who had little interest in the whole thing, kept to the background, and quietly answered the phones and responded to inter-departmental letters and emails, which kept her away from her own work for the entire day.

It was close to five when things finally began to settle down for the day. The issue with the microfiche system was resolved (for now), and Hermione knew she was done for the day. She couldn't stay on at the Library, as she so often did; she couldn't take her work home with her, as she always did; she just couldn't.

She was utterly spent.

The thoughts of doing anything other than curling up on her sofa with a good book and a glass of wine... well, she felt she deserved an evening of indulgence.

Packing up her bag, and saying goodbye to no-one, Hermione strode out the door and headed straight for home. Too tired to even notice the details of the glorious summer evening, it wasn't until Hermione had finished her first glass of wine and was watching the news as she rummaged through the kitchen that she remembered the card sitting in her diary, and the man she had decided to call.

Sighing, Hermione looked over at her clock, and saw that it was almost seven in the evening. She had hoped to simply call and leave a message, rather than talk to him directly on the phone. She wasn't sure why.

She went to her diary, and retrieved the card, before picking up the telephone. Oddly, she could feel her heart going thump-thump-thump, just as it did on her morning run; and as she dialled the number, it picked up pace, galloping in her chest like a runaway horse.

As the phone began to ring, she tried to calm herself, and instead found herself thinking about his nice, low voice, and wondering if it would sound as nice on the phone, and then realising what she was about, she gave herself a mental slap.

She thought it might end up going to his answering machine. She thought she might get lucky.

And then...

"Hello?"

No, she was never that lucky.

It was evening. The light of the sun hung in the sky like a marigold, filtering through the wide windows, flung open, and the mellow evening air was welcome in the stuffy room. Draco was standing at the window, deep in thought.

He had slipped.

He was onto his fourth glass of Firewhiskey, and it wasn't even seven. Usually he limited himself to two – though he'd indulged in an extra glass at dinner with Pansy the other night – but this was not good. Despite the beauty of the fine summer evening, the sweetness of the air, Draco felt like he was drowning.

He had waited and waited. He'd given it all day, tried so hard to be patient, and he still held out hope that she would call yet. But as he watched the glorious day start swinging to a close, the still-bright sunshine turning burnished and bronze, casting longer and longer shadows, Draco was losing faith.

He took another sip of his drink, before grimacing and pulling out his wand to vanish the offending beverage. That final taste of alcohol had caused the headache, which had been lingering around the base of his skull for most of the day, to suddenly, poundingly, come to the forefront.

Draco called out to his one remaining house elf.

"Pipsy? C'mere a minute."

With a crack, Pipsy appeared, giving a respectful nod.

"Can you get me some tea, please – a large cup, a proper one."

"Of course, Master Malfoy, sir," she replied with a grin, before disapparating.

On the other side of the penthouse, Draco could hear her crashing about in the kitchen as she prepared the tea and chuckled to himself. Deciding to have a quick shower, he left the study and headed down the hall to the master bedroom.

The shower was a good idea, he admitted, as the powerfully hot spray hit his neck and shoulders. He allowed the water to course over his body for a minute, before wetting his head and reaching for the shampoo. As he lathered up his hair, his headache began to abate.

And then, just as he was rinsing the last of the shampoo out, he heard it... A phone. His phone.

He jerked suddenly as he realised what it could mean. He leapt from the shower, pulling a towel around himself and ran out the door of the en-suite, through his bedroom, then down the hall and skidded into his study. Thankfully, it was still ringing, as he reached out a hand to pick it up. He didn't even allow himself a moment to think, or even feel. It would do no good at this stage, anyway.

"Hello?" he said, just a trifle out of breath.

A beat of silence, and then:

"Hello? Is this... Draco Malfoy?"

There it was. Her voice. Soft, a bit uncertain, and muffled slightly by the line.

"Yes," then a pause. "It's you, isn't it?"

"Yes. Well, that is... I think so."

And then - impossibly, improbably - she laughed, and continued speaking.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you before now. I mean, it's a bit outside office hours, so to speak... I meant to call at lunchtime, you see."

"Oh, you needn't worry about that," he answered, his headache, all previous anxiety and frustration gone; he simply couldn't believe that she'd actually done it.

"So, Mr Malfoy-"

"Call me Draco."

"Right, so... Draco," she began again, her tone warm, almost amused. "You said that if I wanted to talk to you, I should call... So, talk."

Draco paused. Well, that was unexpected. And he was perched in his office in nothing but a towel, the shampoo still dripping from his hair. But that was irrelevant. This was his chance. He only wanted to talk to her tonight, but he hoped to meet her, at least once, over the weekend.

"Well, Hermione – can I call you Hermione? Or would you prefer Granger?"

"Hermione is fine. No one calls me Granger. Not since school."

"Oh really? Remind me, where was it you went to school?"

"St. George's Upper College, in Salisbury. I lived in a place called Smithley Folding – it's only a small village – about twenty minutes outside Salisbury."

"Did you like school?"

"What's with all the questions?" She deflected the question with one of her own, tone becoming guarded. "Why do you care if I liked school?"

"Am I to take that as a no, then?"

"I didn't say that-" she began to say but Draco cut her off again.

"I didn't really like school either, if you're interested," he said.

He could hear her give a faint growl of exasperation at the other end of the line, and he had to suppress a laugh.

"Fine," she spoke, sounding resigned. "I don't like to think of school much. I don't have the best memories of it. So... where did you go to school?"

"Just some private boarding school up in Scotland. I doubt you'd have heard of it."

"Why didn't you like it?" she asked. "I always wanted to go to boarding school. I remember reading Enid Blyton when I was younger... The Twins at St. Clares, you know."

"It can be a very... difficult place to be. Lonely. Yet you have no privacy. And... my last few years there were not easy..." he was hesitant to say any more to her, especially over the phone.

"I know that feeling..." she breathed, so softly he almost missed it.

"Do you?"

"Yes... though not from school. From somewhere else."

He paused, unsure whether to ask her where she knew the feeling from, sensing it was important somehow. But her tone seemed to discourage it. She was distant; giving nothing away, leaving him with more questions than answers. But he had to try, didn't he?

"Where?"

She sighed, and when she answered her voice had turned cold and murky."I'd rather not say."

"I'm sorry," he said, withdrawing quietly "It was none of my business. I shouldn't have asked."

"No... It's fine. It's not something I like to talk about."

"Quite a few things so far you don't like to talk about. School, and now this... I don't want to make you uncomfortable, Hermione, so tell me, what do you like to talk about?"

"Books," she replied immediately, and Draco had to laugh.

It was a good, honest noise, and Draco liked the sound of it. Evidently, Hermione did too, as she let her own gurgle of laughter.

It was perfect. Her answer was so quintessentially Hermione, so much a part of the girl he had known, however little, that he knew that she was not really lost, and that perhaps, one day, she would return.

"Of course, books. I love them too, you know," he paused a moment, thinking, thinking, before taking a chance. "They saved me. I was in a dark place, a few years ago now – not long after I left school – and I... was drinking... a lot. But books, well it was a love for them that helped me to fight my way back, when I had too much time on my hands. And I often did."

There was silence following his speech, and for a moment Draco thought the line had gone dead.

"Oh."

Her heart was pounding, so intensely that she could feel her pulse thrumming through her, right down to her fingertips. Hearing Draco Malfoy speak about his loneliness, his drinking; about his own love for books, how that love had saved him – it felt as though his soul was speaking to her own. He knew; somehow, he knew. And yet she did not know what to say.

He knew the pain of isolation, the fear and despair, and the warmth and knowledge and companionship of books, just as she did. She knew, so well, the lifeline they offered. She had been saved by them herself. Books were her solace and her saviour. She thought she could trust someone who felt the same way she did about books.

But first, she needed to answer him. Properly, this time.

"You know... I'm not quite sure what to say to you, because... well, your own experience is so very much like my own. It's like they are two threads, running parallel to each other.

"I know that I'd never seen you before Tuesday. But you seemed to know me. How could that be, I wonder." She sighed. "I want to trust you, Draco, but I have strong reasons for distrusting most everyone I meet.

"I'd like to tell you some of my own story, if I can, but I would like to trust you first. And I want you to tell me how it is that you knew me, and my name before I spoke it; and how you seemed to expect that I would know you too, and were surprised when I didn't.

"So, you tell me some, and I'll tell you some."

"That's what this comes down to, doesn't it?" he replied with a sigh, "I know something, and you want to know too. And you do deserve to know. It is your right.

"But... I can't tell you over the phone. If I tell you... It will have to be in person. I really can't do this any other way.

"And, as for the question of whether to trust me... Well, Hermione, I've never given you a reason to, have I? But I will say this: I will do what is right by you – I promise you that. I'm sorry that I can't answer your questions."

"So that's it then? You want us to meet?" she asked, a sour note creeping into her tone.

"You want to know?" he asked, in a sudden outburst, sounding exasperated – almost desperate, though not quite. "Because, Granger, you know there is something; you can feel it – call it, I don't know, intuition, if you will.

"I can give you all the answers you need. I can tell you things you couldn't even dream," he continued now in a softer voice, before adding. "But only if you meet me."

She hesitated, struck by his (admittedly) compelling words; by the low murmur of his voice in her ear, every bit as nice as she had thought it would sound.

It was so risky. She was gambling everything she had if she chose to meet him, everything she had worked for– if she chose to meet him. And she wasn't sure if she was able to do that.

"I don't bite, you know."

His reply was charming, and silly. And just the push she needed.

"God, you're insufferable."

"But...?"

"But, yes, Malfoy, I'll meet you."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes, you plonker," she replied, unable to stop herself laughing, even if it was only a touch hysterical, because, really, it was done now, wasn't it? There was no going back. His laughter joined hers, and she noticed, for the second time, what a good, friendly sort of laugh it was. A nice laugh. A man who, apparently, loved books, understood them, the way she did – and he had a nice laugh. Maybe she really could trust him.

She only hoped he was worth the risk.

A/N: Right so I went off on holidays after posting the last chapter and got home to an avalanche of reviews and new follows and faves.

Not gonna lie. I cried.

I never thought when I started writing this that anyone would ever read this, let alone enjoy it. I am so humbled and astounded by your unbelievably lovely reviews and fantastic feedback. Thank you so, so much to everyone who has taken the time so far to read this, to tell me what they think, to follow the story. Thank you.

Next chapter: the meeting between H & D.

-Millie xx

20/07/2018: I have updated this chapter with the edited version. Enjoy!