The next morning dawned bright and clear with the sun shining over the snowy landscape. I took a moment to gaze out of the window in the kitchen and into the small garden at the back of the house while I sipped my coffee. Hermione was in her customary chair, eating a piece of toast while perusing the Daily Prophet.
I wasn't expecting the high-pitched squeak form the normally calm witch but she nearly fell out of her chair when it happened.
"What's the matter with you?" I asked, taking a sip of my coffee. She waved her hand at me and pushed her face so close to the Prophet that I'm not even certain she could read the words being that close to the print.
She sits back and shoves the paper away from her with a disgusted grunt. "I hate that vile woman." She mutters to herself before shoving the rest of her toast in her mouth. Granted it wasn't a large piece, but I still find it humorous. She almost resembles a chipmunk with the way her cheeks are filled with toast and I can't help but try to stifle my laughter.
She turns her head and glares at me so I come away from the window and lean over her shoulder to look at what has gotten her so irritated.
I'm fairly certain the world stops spinning for one full second before it restarts or perhaps it's just me.
There, emblazoned in grayscale is a photograph of the pair of us sitting on that wooden bench across from the restaurant. Her arm is positioned around my shoulder and her hand comes up to rest on my cheek, turning my head to look at her. She appears to whisper something in my ear and a tiny smile I never knew about from the previous evening crosses my lips. The photograph restarts itself at that point and the sequence begins again.
We look like a pair of lovers sharing a private moment on a snowy evening. The headline insinuates nothing less, though the article below it says some very unflattering things about me and even offers a few speculations about when our relationship began and even hints that my mother is pleased with the union. It's all a load of crap.
"Do I need to worry about Potter and Weasley?" I ask, unable to tear my eyes away as the photograph moves through another cycle. It's almost as if… no of course not.
Her fingers are tangled in her curls while she mutters something under her breath and I hear her yelp as she turns around too quickly to face me. "What?" She says as she attempts to extricate her fingers from her tangled curls.
I point to the photograph in the Prophet, letting her make her own assumptions as to what I'm implying. "Oh, of course not."
"Then why are you so upset?" I probe, taking another sip of my coffee and trying not to jump to conclusions. If she's not upset about the way we're portrayed, what on earth could she be upset about?
Granger almost pouts. "She said awful things about you." I'm a little relieved at the fact that she's not upset that we're insinuated to be lovers. I'm starting to get used to having Gryffindor's Princess attempting to defend me at every turn, but it's still quite strange that she's angry because I was painted in an unflattering light by a notoriously unscrupulous journalist. Does anyone even take what Rita Skeeter says at face value anymore?
"Nothing she said was untrue, Hermione." She knows I'm right and I'm pleased that she at least doesn't try to argue with me. She simply rests her head in her hand with a frown and looks down at the article again, though I can't tell whether her eyes are on the photograph or on the text.
I gently squeeze her shoulder before rinsing my coffee cup out in the sink. When I make it to my room I dress in all black and pull on one of the sets of robes I ordered. My new employer and I never discussed a uniform, but I think I look rather sharp for my first day. My clothing is lightweight and practical and knowing that I'll likely be scrubbing the shop from top to bottom today, I've charmed it to be resistant to dust and liquids.
Hermione is still sitting at the table when I shrug on my coat. It looks a bit strange atop my robes, but I didn't think to purchase a warm, winter cloak. I would much rather be warm, than cold, so I think I can handle looking a little foolish for the moment. I doubt I'll garner more stares than usual.
"I'm off." I say with a wave of my hand. I can only imagine how nervous I appear, but the witch at the breakfast table just smiles at me and it helps me feel more sure about myself.
"I want to hear all about it when you get home."
Home. What a novel concept.
….
I push open the doors at precisely five 'til nine and find my new employer bent over a cauldron. By the steady flick of his wrist, I can tell he's counting the number of stirs and I think it best not to bother until he's past such a critical stage. I know as well as anyone that it's easy to lose count when stirring if you're not careful. There are only a handful of Master Potioneers in existence who no longer have to count their stirs, my late Godfather being one of them.
Once he removes the stirring rod from the cauldron, I clear my throat and greet him with a simple good morning.
He nods in his own greeting and passes me an apron from behind the counter which I quickly tie around myself after hanging my coat on the rack near the door. "I trust you're smart enough to figure out what needs doing?" He asks as he turns back to one of the potions behind the counter and carefully measures out three drops of a ruby red liquid into one of them.
"I believe I can manage, sir." I say, looking around the dusty shop, fully intending to start with the floors. "Please let me know if anything I do is not to your satisfaction."
"Very well, then. The more volatile materials are along the back wall. Don't use magic back there if you can help it, especially if you value your eyebrows." He gives a coarse laugh and I suspect he knows from experience.
"Of course, Mr. Cavendish."
I start with the floors and soon learn that dust is a fickle beast. While Hermione has taught me a few rudimentary cleaning spells, it does little to siphon off the layers of dust and grime from what I now think is years, rather than months of neglect. I find myself cursing his son for the lack of care to the shop. Eventually, I find a broom in the back room of the shop and start making more headway than I was with the charms I was using.
Every so often, I pause in my cleaning to help a witch or wizard locate a particular herb, root, or tincture. A few completely ignore my presence, but there are several who are grateful for the assistance. While I'm not certain I'm very helpful, it makes it easier for me to learn where items are stored around the shop. They don't appear to be organized by any particular system I can recognize, but I'm certain my employer could find each item with his eyes obscured while having been spun around several times. I don't dare to think to change his system but simply try and learn it as best I can.
Once I am fairly certain I've removed the bulk of the dust from one of the narrow rows of shelving, I bewitch a sponge to follow behind me as I cast an aguamenti spell and soon the floors start to take on the color of the dark, rich wood I remember, rather than the faded gray they have been. I make a mental note to personally thank each one of the manor's house elves if I'm ever given the chance when I have to cease mopping by magic and actually get down on my hands and knees once I reach the back wall.
It takes several buckets of water and my sleeves are rolled to my elbows while a sheen of sweat coats my brow, but eventually, the part of the floor I've been working on gleams.
By the time the lunch hour rolls around, I've only managed to complete the floors on two of the eight or so narrow rows. My anti-dust charms seem to be wearing thin and my shirt is sticking to me thanks to a layer of sweat, despite the freezing temperatures outside. I've never done so much manual labor in my life; even the detentions at Hogwarts weren't this taxing.
At this point, my employer steps away from his cauldrons and looks approvingly at the two rows I've done and sends me out to not only fetch lunch, but also to deliver a crate of potions to a private healer down the street.
By the time I locate the healer and deliver the potions, only to be handed another order, I barely have enough time to grab a sandwich from a nearby deli before I'm due back. I'm suddenly thankful that sandwiches are portable because I was able to eat it on my way back to the apothecary. I'm certain my mother would hex me black and blue for walking down the street eating a sandwich if she were to see me, but I remind myself that she made her decision when she sided with my father.
Upon entering the shop, I vanish the left-over remnants of my meal and hand over the new order to my employer before donning my apron once more and starting on row number three. I have a feeling it will take me a few days to get the floors to a state where they can be fully maintained. I may have already swept and waxed, but there's already another fine layer of dust covering the two rows I've already done and I suspect that it's filtering down from the shelves and I curse myself for not thinking to start there.
I have a feeling that by the end of my shift, all I'm going to want to do is fall asleep. I'll be surprised if I can move when I wake up tomorrow and it reminds me of how thoroughly out of shape I am. I've done nothing but laze around Granger's house and before that, the manor. Flying is wonderful and all, but I've done nothing to maintain my physique since I was in school without the rigorous training that being part of a Quidditch team requires. I'm probably lucky I'm still somewhat fit as much as I enjoy sweets, though I know I've got a bit soft.
I make a mental note to find a way to exercise because I'm thoroughly embarrassed to be huffing and puffing as much as I am from a little cleaning. Theo always begged me to go running with him in the mornings while we were at school, perhaps that could be a possibility.
I manage to finish the floors of two more rows by the time Mr. Cavendish says it's time to lock up. He congratulates me on the work I've accomplished on my first day and says he'd never seen his own son work so hard. I can't help but preen with his praise.
"I've learned not to take things in life for granted, any longer, Mr. Cavendish. I am grateful for the opportunity."
"You'll do just fine, young Malfoy." He says before dismissing me for the evening. I'm grateful to have earned his seal of approval and feel quite proud of myself for managing well my first day. As I walk towards the Leakey Cauldron in order to floo back to Granger's house I don't even notice the stares and whispers like I usually would. Perhaps there are less than normal, or perhaps I'm completely unrecognizable covered in what I suspect to be a rather prolific layer of dust.
I'll need to practice those cleaning charms when I get home.
Home. There's that word again.
…
"Hey, welcome back. How was… Oh good heavens, you look frightful." Hermione closes her book and stares at me, her big brown eyes dragging over me from the top of my head to the lackluster gleam of my shoes and back again. I'm not sure I can effectively explain the look on her face.
"I could use a shower." I mumble, shrugging off my coat and attempting to siphon off some of the dust that has managed to cling to it from my debris covered clothing. I was tempted to not even wear it home, but it was too cold out to consider it.
Granger manages to stifle a giggle. "Your hair almost looks brown." She says as she pops up from the couch and struggles to maintain her balance like some sort of newborn colt. I wonder if she's been drinking, but I see no nearby glass of wine or whiskey. Is she always this clumsy?
She pries my coat from my hands, our fingers brushing as she does so. "Go shower and change. I'll take care of this."
I'm still stunned into silence quite frequently by the witch and her seemingly selfless acts. She turns those big, brown eyes on me and I'm helpless but to do what she says. She's taught me so much in a few short weeks and I wonder if this is how Potter and Weasley feel about the witch. I love my own friends, but there's something so completely different about being friends with Granger.
I'm used to those with similar dispositions as my own given that the majority of my friends were in my house at school, though according to Granger I've been accepted into her little fold of orphans and those who know loss all too intimately. That's probably not a good name to call her hodgepodge of friends. My friends. I'm still trying to come to terms with that.
I think I'll stick with the term acquaintances until I've spent more time with them.
I give the witch in question a nod of understanding and a muttered "thanks" before I make my way up the stairs and into the small lavatory to wash away the day's dirt and grime from my body. The hot water cascades over me and I enjoy the quiet solitude it provides knowing the witch downstairs is probably planning to drag me out for another dinner or has something else planned to celebrate my first official day as a member of the workforce.
I'm not certain I've ever truly been able to say that before now. Wearing a suit and drinking a glass of Ogden's while listening to my father's business partners drone on about profit and loss doesn't hold a candle to scrubbing floors with and without magic.
I wrap one of the softer towels from the linen cupboard around my aching body and tread off to my rooms to find something to wear. Pulling on a pair of khaki colored trousers and a blue jumper, I check my appearance in the mirror. My hair is sticking up at all angles, though I have it styled with a wave of my wand before I trot back downstairs. I feel almost human again after my shower.
Sure enough, I'm greeted by the sight of not only Granger but also Potter and Weasley when I wander into the kitchen. Potter is holding a dark amber glass bottle filled with what I can only assume is some form of muggle alcohol while Weasley sips on a butterbeer. Granger is busy bustling around the kitchen evidently preparing enough food to feed a small army, though there are only the four of us here.
While Potter and Weasley seem content to perch themselves against the counter as they discuss the most recent Quidditch match between the Falcons and the Kestrels, I find myself averse to standing idle. But, before I can pick up the serrated knife to cut into the loaf of sourdough Granger has set out, she shoves an amber bottle into my hands and shoos me out of the kitchen with a stern look and a command to relax.
The corner of my mouth lifts in a smirk, though I do pop the top off of the bottle. This witch is something else.
"I'm just saying that if Ellingham wouldn't take three shots for luck before each game, the Falcon's chance at winning might be just a bit better." Harry said to a red-faced Ron.
"Everyone takes a good luck shot before the game." Ron protests. "It's a well-known Quidditch tradition, Harry."
"What's he shooting?" I ask, before taking a swig of whatever is in the bottle.
"Thunderbird Rum." Weasley offers with a shrug of his shoulders as though it weren't one of the most potent alcohols in the wizarding world. I'm fairly certain two shots would render a Thestral catatonic, let alone a chaser for the Falcons.
I force myself to swallow the bitter liquid before I'm tempted to spit it back into the bottle. "What is this swill?" I ask with what I know is a disgusted look on my face, raising the offensive bottle towards the light as if that would help me get a better grasp of the contents.
Potter and Weasley both laugh at my reaction to the offensive beverage. "Beer." Potter says, taking a long drink of his as though it were water.
"It tastes like Hippogriff piss." I say before invading Hermione's kitchen again to pour it down the sink. "How can you drink this?" I ask the pair of Gryffindors who are still laughing at me.
"I think the better question is how do you know what Hippogriff piss tastes like, Malfoy." Weasley quips and I honestly feel a little proud of his quick wit. I don't think anyone has ever even considered the words "Weasley", "wit", and "proud" in the same sentence before. I'm certain I must be the first.
I roll my eyes and uncork a bottle of red wine after tossing the glass bottle in the bin, ignoring the pair of them as they continue their argument about Quidditch. I pour a glass for myself and for Granger who has pulled something from the oven with an inordinate amount of cheese on the top and what appears to be a red sauce.
It smells absolutely heavenly.
With a smile, she takes the glass from my hand and lifts it to her lips. "Thank you."
"My pleasure." I say as I lean against the counter feeling strangely content in this moment of domesticity. "Are you sure there's nothing I can do?"
She shakes her head causing her curls to bounce before slicing into the loaf of sourdough from earlier. "Nope. This is the last bit of it."
She shakes her head again in an attempt to shift her wild curls away from her face as she slices the bread into tidy slices. It reminds me of the precision required for preparing reagents for potions.
I reach over and tuck a few stray curls behind one of her ears without giving a thought to the intimacy of the act until a moment later when my brain catches up realizing I've never seen Potter or Weasley do anything of the sort near her. Hugs, pats on the arm, hand holding… sure. Touching her hair? Never. I've never even done it to Pansy.
"Sorry." I mutter, pulling my hand back quickly, though I feel the ears and the back of my neck growing warm.
"It's fine." She says brushing it off, though I can see a pretty blush chasing its way across her cheeks.
I'm thankful that Potter and Weasley seem none the wiser about the exchange which just occurred between their best friend and the former Death Eater residing in her home. The last thing I need is two wands drawn on me for trying to be helpful.
At least, that's what I tell myself. I certainly don't tell myself I wanted to know how soft and silky her curls felt as they wrapped around my finger.
Nope. I was simply being helpful.
"Oi, Malfoy." Weasley calls out, grabbing my attention away from watching Hermione butter the bread while I sip my wine, telling myself the exact opposite of what my intentions were within the confines of my mind.
I turn my head in acknowledgement. "We're playing Quidditch on Saturday if the weather holds, you in?"
I'm about to mutter an enthusiastic "yes" at the chance to fly again when I'm suddenly reminded of my situation and the fact that my broom is in storage on the grounds of Malfoy Manor and I have no way of retrieving it. Granger seems to sense my hesitation and lays a hand on my forearm.
For some reason, this small action steadies me and I feel compelled to tell the truth. I've been doing that a lot lately and it helps ease the anxiety in the pit of my stomach from living a life of half-truths and white lies. "I'd love to, but I don't have a broom anymore."
Weasley just shrugs his shoulders. "No worries, mate. I always bring a few extras when we play. It's not fair to have half of your players on Cleansweeps and Shooting Stars when you've got a stock of Firebolts and Orbitals at home."
He's surprisingly humble for someone who is a war hero and professional quidditch player. I can only imagine how hard his mother beat him over the head once the fame started going to his head, not to discount the verbal lashing he probably got from Granger, as well. I've heard his sister has some signature hex that is terrifying… and the brother with the joke shop… Weasley never really stood a chance, did he?
The more I think about it, the more afraid I am of Gryffindor women. Terrifying witches.
For the first time in my entire life, I feel like I could actually be friends with Ronald Weasley.
Did I really just think that?
"Who do you play with?" I ask, pouring myself another glass of wine and topping off Hermione's glass in the process. The scent of garlic bread fills my nose and I don't think I realize how hungry I am until now.
"A few of my mates from the Cannon's usually stop by, but it's mostly my brothers, Harry, and Gin. A few of Harry's mates from the Auror Corp join us sometimes." Ron says, finishing off his butter beer.
"Hermione usually comes to cheer us on, though you won't ever catch her on a broom." Harry chimes in with a wide, teasing grin.
The witch points a spatula covered in sauce at the dark-haired wizard and narrows her eyes into dangerous slits. "If you say one more word about my flying I won't feed you and you'll have to another sad sandwich from the corner shop down the street."
Weasley can barely contain his laughter while Potter laughs outright and holds his hands up at an attempt to placate the witch with his beer is still balanced carefully between his thumb and forefinger. "No need to threaten me, 'Mione. It's all in good fun."
"Why don't you fly?" I ask out of sheer curiosity. I've never met a witch or wizard who doesn't enjoy the freedom and thrill of flight. Pansy comes the closest to disliking flying but it's only because she's afraid of heights. As long as she closes her eyes and has a wizard or witch to hold on to, she's fine.
The curly-haired witch returns to slicing up the lasagna into tidy rectangles before levitating everything over to the table. "I just don't particularly care for it." She says, brushing me off.
"But why?" I press, picking up the bottle of wine and following her over to the table.
By the looks on Potter and Weasley's faces, I suspect they don't even know why she dislikes flying and I get the district feeling that she's hiding something. The pair of them sit down at the table and start digging into the food on the table, though I pull Granger's chair out for her and wait until she's seated until I seat myself. I may not be considered a Malfoy anymore, but that doesn't mean I've forgotten my manners.
Her voice gets quiet and her eyes get a far off, distant look. I see her cross her arms over her chest as though she's trying to protect herself from something. "The last time I was on a broom, we were trying to get away from that fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement."
The memories of losing one of my friends thanks to his moment of sheer stupidity return, causing me to pinch the bridge of my nose and then rub my hand roughly over my face as though I'm trying to completely scrub them away. That day where we all nearly died to the uncontrollable flames still haunts my dreams sometimes. Thank the Gods that Potter was being the bigger man that day or I would probably be a pile of ashes spread throughout the Hogwarts castle, right now.
"I just can't bring myself to get back onto one." She says quietly.
"Shit, Granger. I'm… I…" I try and find the words to say something… anything that might bring the smile back to her face, to make her feel better, to ease her pain. Seeing this side of her makes me feel flustered and even more unsteady on my feet than I am these days. She's been so strong since she came into my life that I don't know how to react to this side of her; the solemn Granger who is clearly still haunted by the war.
"Don't." She says, trying to smile. "It's fine. I'll get there one day."
I stay silent but Harry seems to know just the thing to pull her out of her melancholy.
"It's nothing compared to riding on the back of a dragon." The three of them laugh and I feel like I'm missing some sort of great inside joke. Perhaps one day they might see fit to let me in on it, or perhaps we will even have some of our own.
