You know," he starts without preamble as she enters the room, "I'm not sure with what you've been messing about all day, but you could at least keep me company until you find a way to get me out, Granger."

Ah, so he's in one of those moods today.

Hermione has had a relatively long day at the shop, and she wants nothing more than to fall in to bed and read until she passes out, sleeping until dawn. What she doesn't want, is to cater to the whims of a blond git who isn't even really a person. Not to mention, it is making her increasingly uncomfortable to pretend she has any belief in his ability to resurrect. He's dead. He's a portrait. Paint and magic and a very gaudy gold frame.

Draco Malfoy is nothing but a memory by all accounts. She just can't bring herself to tell him. After a few days of research and a conversation with the only agent in the Department of Mysteries who would give her the time of day, she has no reason to believe anything else.

He has also been absolutely bi-polar all week. Some days, he is every bit of the complete prick he has always been to Hermione and anyone she cares about.

But other days, when he is contrite and humble and sad and sweet… whenever he looks at her expectantly, asking what she's found, there is this fragile hope that softens his countenance. The portrait, the memory of the man, allows himself to be much more vulnerable with her than she would have thought possible. Perhaps the portrait wasn't painted correctly? Maybe that should be her next line of research: Portraits gone awry and curses that last as eternally as canvas.

This mood, however, this entitled and snappy Draco, feels very familiar. "I was working, Malfoy. I know it's not a concept you understand, but I'm quite proud of my career choice."

He scoffs and starts to say something when she throws in a very petty name-drop, "And Severus needed my help on a project so it simply couldn't be helped."

"Snape? You're working for my godfather?"

"With would be the operative word, not for. Severus and I are partners. We opened an apothecary next to the old Fortescue's."

"Well, wonders never cease," he says with a bit of sarcasm though not much heat. Then he waves it all away and returns to his original point. "Regardless, it wouldn't kill you to talk to me a little. I only have so many books in here, and I've read them all."

Hermione looks up from where she was carefully running a brush through her hair. "The books function? They open and you can read them?" She's never heard of anything of the sort. But then again, she's never seen a portrait with quite so much background.

Draco shrugs and, using the book in his lap as reference, flips through a few pages and faces them out for her to see. "Of course. Completely functional. But... and I know this might surprise you... books are a poor substitute for a social life. They might keep you company, but I'd like a little more stimulation than that."

She snorts, recognizing a wide opening for a double entendre but doesn't follow it. She's not sure she's ready to tip that scales into depravity as to sexually banter with an inanimate object. "You don't actually know me all that well, Malfoy. I'm quite social. Selectively so, but I don't just have my head buried in books at all hours."

He rolls his eyes and leans back on his little sofa. "Yes... right: McLaggen. How can I forget? Hope I didn't scare him off. Wedding bells in your future, Granger?"

Having finished her grooming, she lays the brush on her vanity and responds, "Oh, Merlin, no. He was just a one off. Well... maybe a two off. Three... Whatever," she rushes forward to find the point of her denial. "There will be no wedding bells with him or anyone else. Not now, anyway. I'm far too engaged at the shop."

There is a slow grin stretching his face, his perfect teeth gleaming out at her. He's so lifelike it's eerie. "So you were just using him for sex? My, my, aren't you just full of surprises, little lion."

"Not using. Just… it's just sex, Malfoy. There doesn't have to be a winner and a loser. We both got to have sex. End of."

His grin is firmly in place, and he gives her a rather obvious once over. "Who'd've thought?"

"Not you, obviously," she banters back, a little ashamed to admit she is enjoying his delight. He was very handsome and quite popular within his social circles. What girl wouldn't preen a little under his assessment? "McLaggen, however, had a vague idea from sixth year."

"All that protesting you did, and you let him have his grubby way with you? You little tart." The way he says it sounds like praise, and she simply smirks in reply.

He can believe whatever he wants. Truthfully, Cormac only scored some kissing and a little handsy exploration back at Hogwarts. No reason for Draco's portrait to get more detail than that. Not to mention, it always feels more alluring to not quite know everything.

Ok so maybe she is depraved enough to sexually banter with an object.

"So, did you have a chance at any research today?"

She looks back at him from where she is slipping off her shoes and feels that familiar guilt flood over her previous enjoyment. He asked the question casually, like it was of little consequence, but she knows that's just a façade. She can nearly taste the stress he's trying to hide. "No… I'm sorry, I was at the shop with Severus all day."

He looks brokenly disappointed for just a moment but quickly schools it and shrugs. "I know you can't spend every waking moment looking in to it. Maybe tomorrow then?"

"Yes," she placates quickly. "Maybe tomorrow after I finish up the potions I started tonight."

He nods, and she suddenly wants to be out of the room. Vaguely aware he started this conversation asking to be entertained, she's afraid she just can't look him in the eye right now, guilt eating away at her. "I'm just going to see if Harry needs help with dinner or anything. I'll come back after I eat. Maybe we can… talk? Or something."

If he realizes this is merely an excuse, he doesn't comment and merely bids her a good evening until she returns. She slips out of the room and releases a sigh of relief before trudging down the townhouse's many steps and finding Harry chopping carrots for a salad.

"Something smells delightful," she says, and she means it. Harry has turned out to be a strangely adept cook. Considering his mediocre potion skills (yes, mediocre, Slughorn. Fuck off.) he has proven to have a natural knack for the more artistic process of food preparation.

"Thanks. It's just some chicken baking and a little vegetable hash. Hungry?"

"Starved," she says with a grin and sits at the table to watch him cook. Having very little culinary talent of her own, she has always enjoyed being a spectator to his process.

"So how's Malfoy?"

Hermione gives a quick roll of her eyes and says, "A prat, predictably. Still assuming I can rescue him. Harry, how do I tell him all signs point to dead?" Her sarcastic tone in the beginning gives away to her more sincere emotion underneath. She likes to pretend it doesn't affect her, but truthfully she feels bad for the image of the man. She hates it when he seems truly bothered by his situation. Which, unfortunately, is almost all the time.

Her friend just shrugs. "Probably should be upfront about it… or, I don't know, just don't and wait for him to move to the parlour."

Ah, Harry. A bastion of well-thought-out advice.

"I might do a little more research, I suppose… if I can find the time. I mean, I think I've explored most of the information available about the Malfoys, but I would like to look into portrait lore and see if there might be a reason he's so dissatisfied. A curse perhaps."

"Whatever you think you're up for, 'Mione. Just don't wear yourself out over it." Harry is spooning hash onto matching plates with pieces of baked chicken and then carries them over.

"Wine?" She asks.

Agreeing, Harry suggests, "A white. Something buttery." Hermione thinks it's adorable when he uses terminology he learned from cooking programs on the telly.

She selects a Chardonnay from their small wine rack and opens it cleanly with a flick of her wand. You never have to worry about corking a bottle with magic. It's the little things that make life so grand.

Hermione pours them both a glass and takes her first bite, Harry joining her and tucking in to his own plate. It's not long before curiosity seems to get the better of him.

"So, what do you think happened to him? Malfoy. What exactly did your research turn up so far?"

She shrugs, taking a dainty bite of chicken. Excellent fucking chicken, she would like to note.

"I can't find an account of how he died, exactly. Just that he was running away from the battle with his parents. His mother's body was found, and she had dramatically bled out. Nearly bled dry."

At his curious look, she clarifies, "Sorry. That was a bit dramatic. Not a vampire bite, the Aurors checked, just really deep mortal wounds. Lucius was separated from the two, I know that. Thorfinn Rowle's account places him alone in the Forbidden Forest after Riddle fell. There is no information on Draco specifically, but he's amongst a list of two dozen former Death Eaters that vanished that day. Since the initial count, investigations in the area have unearthed the remains of over two thirds of them. Logic follows that he met a similar end. Eaten by Acromantula, murdered by Centaurs, starved to death while in hiding, succumbing to wounds after the fact… it's a grim picture."

Harry grimaces, looking down at his plate like he's lost his appetite. "I can see why you're not in a hurry to tell him your theories."

Hermione laughs a little at his discomfort, partially to mask her own, and takes another bite of the remaining hash on her plate. "Well, they are just theories, so I don't feel obligated to share them just yet. I'd rather have something concrete to tell him. I think if I report back what I found so far, he will just insist it proves he's alive. Quite sad, really. He's in such deep-seated denial."

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about this. I'd not realized having him on your wall would be such a bother."

She shrugs, unsure what to say. It is a bother, but, as she had considered before, it's not like Harry asks for anything. She's sitting here eating this beautiful meal he made for her without even a conversation beforehand asking if she would like him to. It's the least she can do.

"It's not really too terrible. I just feel a bit guilty when he asks. I mean, I know the real Draco is gone, but I don't like that disappointed look on his face all the time."

"Strange, isn't? Malfoy being gone. Don't you wonder what did happen to him?"

She shifts in her seat. "I prefer not to think on it, honestly. You know, after the Manor…" She doesn't need to specify what she means by that, both immediately thinking of the night it almost ended for the Golden Trio and, subsequently, Draco's white lie that might have saved them all. "…I guess, after that, I thought maybe he would be the redemption story, right? That, after the war, maybe he could start again."

"I would have spoken for him," Harry admits thoughtfully. "If he'd survived and they had put him on trial… I would have spoken on his behalf. I saw him at the top of the Astronomy tower. He wasn't going to kill him, Hermione. I didn't really think so then, but I'm sure now, looking back. If Bellatrix hadn't arrived just then… I think things would have been very different. Maybe he would have even been standing on our side."

Hermione nods, and they sit silently for a moment, sipping wine and lost in their own individual reverie of what might have been.

"You know, he hasn't called me a Mudblood or anything since he arrived."

Her friend snorts. "Of course not. He's asking for your help."

"Alright," she concedes, "fair point. But even still, he's actually been oddly polite. Petulant, at times. Entitled… but also almost nice, more often than not. If portraits have the mental likeness of the time they were painted, his must have been right before the final battle, right? I mean, he looks basically the same. So, maybe, right before the end, he didn't hate us as much as he let on?"

Rising to his feet and picking up both of their empty plates, Harry hums a noncommittal reply and carries the dishes to the sink. "He was still a complete tosser who broke my nose," he eventually comments, and they both laugh, the heavy atmosphere broken.

"Maybe… I might be able to find out more details on his case. I know you went to the Unspeakables, but I could ask Kingsley…"

Hermione understands this is a generous offer from her friend. Harry Potter does not like to throw his proverbial weight around for personal gain. She's grateful and quite touched.

"Thanks, Harry… I would appreciate that."

"Anything you need, Hermione. You know that." He holds her gaze and Hermione nods at him, knowing he means every word.

"Would you like to watch something? I don't know if I want to face him yet."

Harry agrees and they settle in to the sofa together, a blanket shared over their laps. Hermione finds her attention wavering and her thoughts returning to the blond man upstairs, bored and alone and waiting for her return. When the credits role, she bids Harry good night and makes her way back to her room, an apology on her lips.

He's not asleep when she enters, as she had hoped might be the case. Draco is back to reading one of the books from his small shelf, a historical account of Wizarding politics if the title is of any indication.

"How is it?" she asks and, when he looks up, indicates with a nod to the book.

"Dry. I don't doubt the accuracy, though. The author has exactly no flair."

She snickers. "So, not written by Lockhart, then?"

Draco quirks an eyebrow in turn. "Oh, now you're on the same page as the rest of us? I seem to recall you batting your little doe eyes at him in Defense."

Hermione can't help the blush at being caught, but then promptly returns her temperature to normal when she realizes what he's just admitted. "You noticed me that closely? Well, I'm quite flattered."

She expects him to sputter and deny, but instead he just grins and shrugs his shoulders in seeming acceptance of her assessment. Huh.

"So, have you read it before?"

"Twice. This time, I'm playing a game. Every time the author uses the phrase 'as is Wizarding tradition' I do a round of sit-ups. I should be pretty fit by now. He's quite fond of repeating himself."

She just barely stops her tongue from waggling, "You're pretty fit already." Instead, she nods in understanding and grabs her nightdress before heading into her en suite. "I'll be right back," she tells him, and he waves her away.

Inside, she studies herself in the mirror, thinking of the past and how she has always seen herself and how people see her in turn. She admits that her confidence has increased tenfold since the war. Though, when she looks back at her formative years, she assumes she was still just an ugly duckling back then. Maybe someone saw something in her before she even realized? Hermione grins before schooling the expression and heading back into her room.

"Goodnight, Malfoy," she offers, as she slips in to bed.

His reply is quiet, but she hears him return the sentiment and then drifts into a contented sleep.

Two days later, Harry makes a very rare visit to the potions shop on an equally rare day that Hermione is the only one tending the store. She grins as he enters and notes the bag of take away in his hand.

"Harry, you are the best person I've ever known."

"You don't know the half of it. Would you like to know what I've done today?" He sets the bag on the counter as Hermione flips over the 'open' sign to 'closed' and locks the door.

"Do tell- Oh my God, you brought hummus. I could kiss you."

"Why does it seem you're the only person in my life that says that." He favors her with that boyish grin of his.

"Because you spend all your time with me and the others never have a chance. Their loss." She flips her curls over her shoulder and smiles at him, not quite sure why he doesn't have a witch on his arm, or at least not one serious enough that he's bring her 'round the house, but believing fully that he will find what he's looking for someday. Not with her of course. He's far too brotherly to her for that. But she loves him without limits in their perfect platonic way.

"So, what did you do today?"

"Oh, right. Well, I went to see Kingsley… for you… and was roped in to watching a presentation on new training exercise safety for the Auror program. It was dreadful, Hermione. The worst three hours of my life."

"Three hours? For a safety presentation? That seems… thorough."

"There were flow charts," he deadpans. "And pie graphs. Oh, and one very detailed list of every single way you can hurt yourself with your wand physically. There were five that involved the nose alone."

Hermione snickers. "I'm so sorry," but it's said through a laugh, so it's not terribly convincing.

"Well, it could be worse. I could be Malfoy. Speaking of-"

"That's a hell of a segue."

Harry shrugs and goes about spreading hummus on a bit of naan. "So I'm not a wordsmith. Sue me. Anyway, I looked into the Malfoy case. What the public records don't mention, because technically he's an open investigation, is that his blood was found near Narcissa's body in the forest. And his wand. They are currently closing the case and ruling him an official casualty of the battle."

She's not surprised to hear that at all, but it's still gruesome and unwelcome news. "I thought as much. I mean, I knew it, but it's hard to accept sometimes. He's just so much like him. And how in Merlin's name do I tell him?"

Harry doesn't seem to have an answer for that, not that she expected one. She wanted answers, and he provided them. How and if she now presents them to her dead flatmate… That's on her.

Outside of the morbid news about Draco, it's been a good day. Hermione is grinning when she walks in to her room that evening, half chuckling under her breath at Harry's parting comment as they separated in the hallway. Her friend had continued to complain through dinner about the training seminar he found himself attending today, griping good-naturedly as they retreated to their separate rooms.

"The things I do for you, Hermione."

"You adore me, obviously. That's why you cook for me. I like to think of it as payment for all those tests and essays I helped you with in school."

He had grinned at her and asked, "How many meals, do you think, is each essay worth?"

"Oh, a dozen at least. I figure I have a good couple of years yet before you kick me out."

He had shaken his head and smiled, answering, "Never."

The smile still bright on her face, she closes the door behind her and comes face to face with her new reality.

Right. Draco.

Her mood still sunny, she favors him with a genuine smile. "Good evening, Malfoy."

One brow raised, he answers in kind, the corner of his lip tugging upward as if he might return her grin. "Granger. You look uncharacteristically not stern and intense today."

She snickers as she slides her feet out of her house slippers, luxuriating in the thick rug she had placed in her bedroom, as opposed to the cold wood floors of the rest of the house. Harry really should consider some warming charms if he's not going to look into carpet.

"Why, thank you. What a nice compliment. You, yourself, are looking much less pointy and ferret-like as well," she snipes back, injecting as much humor as possible.

He lets his grin get away from him, and Hermione notices for the first time the dimple that forms in his cheek when he does. Has she really never seen him smile? Sneer, yes. Smirk, of course. But this broad grin, complete with perfectly straight, white teeth, is as rare as a Phoenix.

"Had a nice day, I take it?"

She hums in reply, trying not to focus too much on how much more handsome he might have been had he smiled more in his short, tragic life. "How was yours," she finally asks, choosing a nightdress from her chest of drawers.

"Oh, you know me. Full schedule, as always. Tea with all of my numerous not-dead friends, pick-up Quidditch in the afternoon. Hardy dinner of fruit and room temperature carafe water. It's a burden, this charmed life."

Everything he says is the most depressing thing in the world, except for the pleasantly, humorously, sarcastic tone that delivers it. Hermione looks up to find him still grinning. Is this what it's like to see Draco in a truly 'good mood'?

"It's a wonder you can find the time," she quips back, smile ever wider. Hermione considers, for a moment, before blurting out what is probably a bad idea. "Would you fancy a game?"

His eyebrow cocks back up. "A game? What did you have in mind?"

Searching her room for answers, she thinks out loud, "Trivia, perhaps? Something knowledge based? Oh! You have Hogwarts: A History in there. You can ask me anything from that and see if I can answer." She walks to the bookshelf beside her bed and skims her fingertips over the tomes before finding what she wants.

Holding up the cover for him to see, she continues, "And I'll ask you questions about Wizarding Historical Society."

"Well," he starts, "I suppose I might have a few minutes to fit you in before my next engagement."

And so, they had played. Quips became relatively civil arguments and fact checking and back to good-natured ribbing until suddenly it was the middle of the night.

Hermione yawns and checks the clock on her nightstand. "Malfoy, it's three in the morning. I think we call it here."

"Tired of losing? I don't blame you, Granger. Really, it's alright."

Hermione personally thinks she's still winning, but there are three answers in contest between them. Rather than argue, she pretends to concede. What does losing to a portrait really matter? "You win, Malfoy. Well played."

He pouts at her. "I like it better when you have a bit of fight in you, little lion. Don't give up so easily."

She hasn't smiled this much in one evening in a very long time. She gently closes the book in her lap and lays it on the nightstand, slipping her legs beneath the bed sheet. "Rematch, then. Another night. If you can fit it in your schedule of course."

He shakes his head, still smiling, and simply tells her, "Good night, Granger."

It truly has been a great night. She will tell him about his apparent demise later. Tomorrow, maybe.

She's asleep before the melancholy can take over.