Chapter 4: Dangerous Places

September 2, 2017

He hated seeing her in his house, which was quite the unexpected thought. He couldn't count the times when he tried to picture her here—running through scenario after scenario of getting her back here, of walking her around the grounds, of introducing the most famous Muggle-born to his parents as his…

Draco pinched his nose. He had been such an idiot.

Hermione looked tense, though no more than usual, which probably meant she was trying very, very hard to not be tense. Draco bit back the urge to place a hand on her shoulder. The hand holding had been enough of a memory for today, and he had no desire to relive any more.

Liar. He scowled.

"Draco, where's Ron and Harry?"

"Potter's in my dad's old office."

"And Ron?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Why would I know where your husband is?"

"Because he arrived at your house this morning?" Hermione said more than asked, clearly frustrated. A hand went to her stomach, but she shook the thought off. "Arthur didn't really brief me on the difficulty or number of items that need to be confiscated."

"And if I tell you the number is zero?"

"I won't believe you." She briefly smiled and then pointed a finger down the hall. "The office is…"

"I'll lead you. Do you want tea? Toast?" His voice sounded thin and fake, like he was treating her as some ordinary houseguest. Which she is. She is.

Hermione shook her head but her hand was still on her stomach. His eyes flickered down before leading her through the halls, purposely avoiding the drawing room or stairway to the cellar. The whole place had been repainted ten years ago. He had thrown out couches and ottomans, ordered a new mantle, and had the lighting changed (though much to his chagrin, Astoria was a little too fond of crystal chandeliers). It had been expensive as hell but did nothing to bleach the memory from his mind.

"I'm okay, you know."

He hadn't asked. He hadn't bloody asked if she were okay. Draco kept walking, eyes on the white printed wallpaper and dark grey beadboard paneling. Sconces hung every couple of feet but he knew it was still a dark place, a dark memory for this woman.

"It's been a decade, Draco."

"More than that."

"I feel like you're walking me around in circles."

"I'm not." He turned and she almost slammed into him. Had she really been that close? They were inches apart, the top of her hair almost in his eyes. He looked at those eyes and could see the bits of gold, the small specks of red, and he thought again how much of a bloody Gryffindor she was. Draco immediately pulled away and continued walking, ignoring her breath and smell and everything. "Arthur Weasley should be here."

Hermione's voice was firm, strong. "I don't mind being here."

"Well I do."

"Draco, you can't say that sort of thing." Hermione had stopped walking, the small heels of her shoes no longer clack clack clacking on the dark cherry floor.

He sighed before running his hand across his hair, thick and dry with gel. Draco winced at the feeling. The tightness in his chest was only building and he rubbed his eyes. He was tired and exhausted from the bloody Aurors that showed up on his doorstep at 8 o'clock. Astoria had been concerned all night, doubly concerned when she remembered that Scorpius had his first day of Hogwarts and what if Slytherin prejudices still existed?

They did, though not as strongly as when they were students, and thank Merlin the post arrived with a letter from their son saying he was having a great time and even made a friend on the train named Albus. Bugger that.

Needless to say that Draco hadn't slept well either.

He didn't need her here, an added worry, an added…complication. And he told her that honestly. "I don't like seeing you here. I didn't then, and I don't now." All I see is you bleeding on the floor. All I see is my fucking aunt cursing you and me just…just watching.

"Draco…" Hermione touched him and he swore it hurt.

"This isn't bloody right, 'Mione." He didn't shrug her off. "I…I haven't seen you in so long. We haven't…". Damn, he was mussing it all up. Why couldn't he even think coherently? His shoulders had relaxed down when she started moving her hand, rubbing her palm in soft, small circles on the curve of his back. Draco hadn't even realized they were tense. "We haven't had a decent conversation in years, and I really hate that the first one we're having is in this place."

"This is your home." Hermione placed her other hand on him. Her chest was heaving, tugging the buttons of her light blue blouse apart, and Draco swallowed. He tried to keep his contact up as she spoke. "I'd like to see it."

What? "No."

"I think it would help."

"No, Hermione." He broke from her hold and turned. "I'm not taking you to the drawing room."

"Why would you?"

A third voice spoke, one that was definitely a woman and most certainly his wife. Draco raised his eyes to the hall in front of him, seeing Astoria in mint green robes, her dark hair fastened in a loose but smooth bun. She was wearing her emerald ring—a long standing Malfoy heirloom begrudgingly given to her by his mother—and that was the hand she chose to hold out to Hermione. The frizzy-haired witch took the paler hand and firmly shook it. Astoria smiled. "Ms. Granger, the Aurors are in the office, not the drawing room. Draco and I will take you." She looped an arm within his and led her husband back to the office and the Aurors.

Potter and Longbottom were hunched over one of many of his ancestor's book of runes. It was taking them a while to translate the cover. Entirely too long as it appeared to be the same book they were staring at when he originally apparated to get Hermione. He was hoping the witch, who had passed Advanced Runes with him, would be a helpful addition and if anything, get them out of his house faster.

If Hermione had been flustered by Astoria's appearance at all, she certainly didn't show it. She looked briefly around the room, noticing the dark curtains that had been pulled away. There were floor-to- ceiling paned windows banking the fireplace behind the almost black wood of the large desk. Two green candles stood on the mantle, sitting in silver, tall candlestick holders. A square old mirror stood between them. Draco kissed his wife on the cheek and moved from her rather tight hold. He grabbed the candles from the fireplace and tossed them to Potter, who, of course, caught them both.

"Morsmodre candles." Draco answered their blank stares. "The skull is on the bottom. Burn them completely and the dark mark goes into the sky. Handy if you lose a wand."

"Experience?" Potter asked in a not completely threatening way.

Draco was amused, wondering if he had received a similar letter from Albus talking about his new best friend who just so happened to be a Malfoy. "Assumption. Astoria, there's another box of books in the library that would probably be of interest. Could you get it?"

His wife smiled and placed a long, cool kiss near his temple. Longbottom and Potter watched her as she left. Hermione just looked at Longbottom. "Where is Ron?"

"Ron?" Potter was the one who answered. He stood from his crouching position on the floor, tossing the seemingly untranslatable rune book to Longbottom, and gave her a quick hug. "Unsure but I wasn't expecting you to be here! Arthur sent you instead?"

The witch nodded. "Yes, but…" She shook her head. "Ron said he was coming here."

"He told me he couldn't a few days ago. Said he had another appointment. Neville was nice enough to come down from Hogwarts for a bit."

"I need to head back tomorrow." Longbottom was crossed legged, his face almost completely planted in the book. "And your sons...weird that they look just like the both of you but act completely different. I actually look forward to my Slytherin herbology class this year."

Draco wanted to rebut but figured he would get nowhere in a room with three Gryffindors. Instead, he grabbed the book from Longbottom's hands and gave it to Hermione. "Will you please tell these…professionals that this book is not some dark magic grimoire? That, even though I'm sure Nicholaus Malfoy was an arse, this is nothing more than an extensive catalogue of pie recipes?"

Her eyes seemed distant, but at his insistence, Hermione took the book and read the runes for a few minutes. Nodding her head, the witch adjusted her skirt and kneeled. "So, Neville…how many confiscations do we currently have?"

"Well only three so far but there's still…"

Draco dropped his attention and moved to the small cattycornered bar on the left side of the desk. A tall glass bottle of fire whisky was dead center, upside down tumblers circling the brown liquor. Draco pulled the top off the fire whiskey and grabbed a tumbler. Blowing bits of dust off, he poured for one, two, three, four seconds and took a large sip. Potter turned to him, green eyes dull behind those crooked glasses. He then looked to Hermione, and Draco could see the worry.

Where the hell is Weasley?

"Want one Potter?"

Harry looked at the glass and then the bottle, clearly tempted, but shook his head. "I'm not really supposed to drink on the job."

"Ah, well." Draco took a long, hard swig. "More for me then."

.

.

.

September 2, 1998

The library had less books now. The restricted section was no longer there, and anything that could be somewhat tied to dark magic had been removed. The shelves were newly dusted. The spines had been all aligned and alphabetized and looked over with a fine tooth comb. But even though it was different and nowhere near as musty, Hermione felt an overarching calm as she entered. Books had always been her…everything. They were the reason why she was who she was—why her marks were so good, why she was so clever, why she wasn't some silly nit who literally beat others with sticks while riding different sticks in midair.

Madam Pince stared at Hermione from her desk, probably because she was the only student who attempted to go to the library on the first day of classes. Or more likely because she was here but not studying at her normal corner table. Hermione patiently stood by the entrance, a large piece of parchment firmly set on top of the five library books she thought looked interesting as she waited.

She could barely eat at breakfast at the thought of what this training could possibly be like. Occlumency was notoriously difficult; even the strongest, most powerful wizards failed to master the skill. And maybe it was because she had been trying to wrap her head around how someone like Malfoy could do it, but she had felt positively perturbed when Ginny, all happy and flushed from an early, self-imposed Quidditch practice, asked her if she had made any of her study outlines yet.

Hermione had told her that even she had it was no business of hers and went back to eating her eggs.

Thinking back, Hermione had been in a rather pissy mood. Yes, she hated when Ron and Harry would steal her notes and use her papers as references for their own. And although she yelled at them for it, she was never truly bothered like she was with Ginny. It was like she didn't want to see people, that everyone around here became suddenly annoying. Asking her for notes and to help absurdly terrible boys, when really all she wanted was to keep her head down and maybe help McGonagall with some broken picture frames.

It was the real first day, and she felt quiet and insular and was worried it would carry on. The only real time she spoke was during class because it was absolutely outrageous no one knew the proper way to transfigure a marble into a fire pit. And even after that she felt exhausted, like she was pushing and pushing on a car that wouldn't move. Her muscles felt weak, her brain fried, and it had literally only been the first day of classes. Stop it. You're Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age.

It didn't help that everyone was always whispering and pointing at her with excited glee. Or that the first years would follow her or poke her gently with a wand to see if she were real and actually here. It happened a few times in the past—being best friends with the Boy Who Lived would do that to anyone—but she had never felt such positive attention so focused on her before. She thought of what Draco had told her on the train, that she was the hero and should bask in this. But she couldn't help but just resent it all.

Madam Pince was still staring at her, and Hermione looked through the glass window of the door to the library and down the hall. Where is Malfoy? Sure, he had never actually agreed on coming, but Hermione thought she could see his curiosity when she had approached him in the hall yesterday.

She had purposely taken her time eating, and when she had looked over to the Slytherin table, he seemed to be done with his own food and flirting with Pansy Parkinson. Hermione rolled her eyes. If he's standing me up for a shag, I'll…

Blond hair caught her eye and she backed away from the door, fuddling with the books in her hands and making sure she didn't drop the parchment with her notes. Draco Malfoy soon opened the heavy wooden door. His hair was a bit out of place and that miffed her. "You're late."

Malfoy took a sweeping glance of the library "What happened to all the…"

"You're late, Malfoy."

"I'm not late. How can I be late when you never gave a time? You're lucky I'm here at all."

Hermione bit her lip. "You can still dawdle after dinner. You must have seen that I left."

His grey eyes were metal, piercing. Hermione felt cold when he looked at her, and it was then she realized that she had never spent time alone with him before. She always had Harry and Ron beside her, and he always had Crabbe and Goyle. But now it was just the two of them, and her chest tinged realizing how grateful she was Harry and Ron were both alive.

"I don't keep tabs on you, Granger." He touched his hair and noticed a bit was out of place. Draco tried to massage it back in line with the rest of his head, and Hermione couldn't help but roll her eyes. Vain little git. Malfoy continued, "But I'm sorry."

What? "What?"

"I'm sorry? What? Never heard an apology before?"

She was about ready to drop dead. "Not from you. I didn't think…"

"Pansy has this inane idea that we're still dating." Malfoy gave up on his messed up hair and took a harder look at her. "You do realize class has just started today, right? What are you doing with so many books?"

"They're not for class." She moved again to rebalance, trying to get over the blunt blow that Draco Malfoy had just apologized to her and treated her with an ounce of humanity. It was galling, earth shaking, and Hermione bit back the urge to praise him like a little boy who remembered his manners.

He shook his head. "Well, what you're doing is completely brainless." And he's back. But before Hermione could argue, Malfoy drew his wand and cast a wordless Wingardium Leviosa. Her books were floating from her hands, and with another flick, they moved in a neat, stacked pile towards Malfoy's side. The parchment Hermione kept folded in her palms. She slipped it in her pocket before Draco continued, "Really with all the studying you do, I thought you'd know better."

"There's a nicer way to go about it, you know." Hermione's arms sank in relief. "You don't always have to be such a massive prick about things."

His mouth curved up. "But then I wouldn't get to see the annoyed look on your face."

"You want my face to look even uglier?"

That froze him. Malfoy's wand dipped, and the spell almost broke. The blond boy caught himself. "Granger, where do you want your stupid books?"

Hermione crossed her arms, feeling a bit smug that she managed to faze him. "Nowhere here. Follow me." She opened the door for her books, and him, she supposed. "I hope you're good at charms."

He growled a curse under his breath and followed her out, still levitating all of her books. Hermione turned back to get a look at his face, pointed and serious. His grey eyes kept the books meticulously in place, never slipping or sliding and always hovering about a meter above the ground. A misplaced warmness hummed in her chest.

"I'm mildly enjoying this."

"Granger." He was less than pleased. "You said to meet in the library and now we're walking to Merlin knows where." She could hear the exasperated sigh. "What is going on in that Muggle brain of yours?"

"Muggle things like grocery shopping and auto repairs," Hermione said flippantly but paused when her books stopped following. "Malfoy…"

"Repairs?" He looked gobsmacked, eyes wide and confused. "You mean to say that those monstrous metal automobiles actually break down? What the hell is the point of that?"

For the second time in an hour, Malfoy managed to render her practically speechless. Thoughts were buzzing in and out so quickly that Hermione had to finally settle on one and hope it got her confusion across. "…you know about cars?"

"What the bloody hell is a car?"

"Autos then." She blinked at him. "You've heard of automobiles?"

"In Muggle Studies."

Her jaw certainly dropped. It must have. She could feel the dust settle in her mouth. Arsehole, pureblood purist Draco Malfoy was taking Muggle Studies? There must have been some gargantuan mistake. "This year? You're taking it this year? You know what that class is about, don't you?"

He noticeably flinched. "I have some idea."

"It's about people who can't do magic. People like my parents. People like me for the first eleven years of my life."

"I realize, Granger."

"Why the fuck are you taking Muggle Studies?"

Whatever scowl he had morphed to a slight grin. Malfoy straightened his back, smirking and holding in what seemed to be a chuckle. He looked at her curiously. "Granger, did you just curse?"

"That's what you're focused on? I curse! Of course I curse! Muggle-borns curse! Death Eaters don't take Muggle Studies!"

"WILL YOU KEEP IT DOWN!"

Both students turned around at the voice, the deep, gruff tone reverberating across the otherwise empty halls. Hermione's brown eyes spotted the owner of the voice, a rather large portrait of a seated man dressed in medieval wizard robes. The painted man huffed. "Some of us need to wake up early tomorrow."

"Sorry." Hermione shook her head, surprised by herself, and continued to walk down the hall. Draco had cast the levitation spell and was soon following her again. When they made another turn, Hermione heard his voice, strangely quieter than before, against the stone.

"Ex-Death Eater."

It took her a moment to realize why he was saying that. Bugger. "Yes." Her voice echoed. It sounded low, shameful. Hermione felt unreasonably terrible. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"It's why I'm taking it though." His footsteps padded behind her, hard and even on the cobbled floors. "Because of—Granger, stop."

"Malfoy, we're almost there. Just…"

"No." He hissed, and then she heard her books collide with the floor, leather and stone smashing and even a solid rip of a badly fallen page.

Hermione immediately went to her books' rescue, on her knees and trying to fit some of the pages back to the spines. These were old books, classic wizarding literature, and Draco had just left them broken. She looked at him, all red and stern and still, but that didn't bother her in the least. "What is your problem?"

"Me? My problem? You're bloody ridiculous to think I would go there!"

Hermione glanced around but there appeared to be no more portraits that would shout at them. "These books are priceless."

"These books are in every five-year-old wizard's home!" He grabbed at his hair. His chest heaved and heaved and Malfoy began pacing.

Hermione didn't know what to do. She was still on the ground, all the books now fixed, but the boy in front of her had gone absolutely bonkers. And Hermione knew it was her fault. "Fine, Malfoy. We can go back to the library. I just thought…"

"What that I wouldn't remember what I had to do in there? Who died there?" He sneered, "Fuck off, Hermione." before walking away.

And for the first time in maybe ever, Hermione didn't feel anger or annoyance or pity towards Draco. She just felt miserable.