Chapter Four

Healing was a funny thing.

In the months following, the world was in chaos. But it was the good kind, the recovering kind, and Draco moved into a city apartment with his mother, because country-sides and big manors reminded him of blood and screaming and insults carved into flesh.

Lucius Malfoy was dead, his body left to rot where Draco had slain him in the forest. Rot, or be eaten by the beasts that lived there. Narcissus Black had returned to her maiden name, and to her family; family that was willing to love her and let her serve her repentance as Draco Malfoy had his.

Draco finished his education and applied for a job in the Ministry's law department. There were certain things that needed to change, and Black Enterprises (formerly Malfoy) was in good hands with his mother, leaving him plenty of time and mental clarity.

Thomas worked in a cubicle a floor down, and they ate lunch together sometimes. Draco liked Thomas, he decided, and how the man talked and how he thought. Ideas and brilliance that became words that spilled from his mouth, and Draco enjoyed listening, though it didn't at all match another brilliance he knew.

Hermione Granger was with Potter and Weasley, of course, working to take charge of the world she had saved. He saw her sometimes, and she never said a word, and he didn't either, but her lips always quirked, and one time, he realized that his had, too.

Chaos, but the good, recovering kind.

Draco sat on a bench in the park near the Ministry.

Recovery would take a long time, and be painful. He knew, intimately well.

The scars on his arm, made by his own nails, were proof.

But the sunshine was warm and soft, and his Mark hadn't hurt since that final, fateful day.

All wasn't good, but it would be.

###

When Granger asked for his help on a classified project she was putting to works, he agreed immediately. Only when they made it to her office did he realize they hadn't spoken since that day so many months ago in the kitchen of Bill and Fleur's house.

That didn't matter, though.

There was a comfortable familiarity between them. The kind of people who had seen the worst of each other and knew better, who had faced their own respective hells together, who had—

Made breakfast in early mornings with hot chocolate and sunshine.

Who had escaped.

The project took weeks. Good, long, hard weeks, and Draco learned that the brilliance in her eyes was even more dangerous in her mouth. And the curls of her bushy, brown hair had caramel streaks in certain light.

And she laughed when he made sarcastic comments.

Sarcastic, but not snide—that had taken a while to learn how to do—and her laughter made him want to learn more of what brought it forth.

When the project was over, she invited him to dinner and drinks. He had wanted to agree—the warm fluttering in him almost made him—but he remembered his mother, and the hollow look in her eyes she got when the sun set, and had quietly declined.

Granger had studied him, as she'd once done all those months ago, and just as quietly told him that she enjoyed working with him, and looked forward to the next time.

That night, as he ate dinner with his mother, he slowly, haltingly told of what had transpired at work.

And some of that hollow, haunted look in her eyes melted to something softer.

###

The next time Hermione Granger invited him to a meal, it was for a work function. He wanted to decline, wanted to find a reason to say no, but his mother no longer needed his presence at night to chase away her demons, and dangerously intelligent eyes bore into him, seeking truth and detecting lies.

So, he accepted, with a bowed head and anxiety curling in his stomach.

He had made a point to avoid people. All people. It didn't matter who; he didn't want to interact.

The members of Dumbledore's Army and the Order who worked at the Ministry were friendly with him, often offering good-mornings and waves and smiles. Ginny Weasley had once brought him coffee; more like, she had gotten the wrong coffee and didn't want it, and had been walking past his office and thought he might.

But the action—of giving him something, freely, without hesitation or hidden intent—was the same.

But there were more people here than just those few who had seen him fight, seen him bleed, seen him claw at his own arm, trying to tear off the skin. They remembered him as his father's prodigy. They remembered how many friends had disappeared into Malfoy Manor and never returned home.

So, he stayed distant.

But Granger watched him, and he had no valid excuse, so he agreed, and something more than a small quirk curled her lips upwards.

"Something in your outfit needs to be gold." As bossy as ever, but he didn't mind.

He truly never had.

"Okay." And because he was braver and stronger he asked, "Any other requirements?"

And because she was kind and forgiving, she answered, "Don't forget to bring your wit. I like how it sounds."

She was gone before he could respond, and he realized, in that moment, that he had never stood a chance.

###

Draco had never in even his best dreams imagined he'd return home from work to find his mother and a certain, clever witch enjoying biscuits and wine together, but there they were. He stood in the doorway, watching in a happily entranced daze.

His mother stood first, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek. "You never told me you kept in contact with friends from your school."

Because she hadn't been his friend in school, and he regretted that now, but it was clearly a passing lie she'd told his mother. He had his talismans against his nightmares, and he realized that Granger, brilliant woman she was, had given his mother a talisman of her own.

He managed to say, "I don't talk about school much," before Granger stood also.

"Good evening, Draco."

And he forgot how to breathe. It was always Malfoy. Bill called him Draco. Finnegan called him Draco. But Granger—

Always Malfoy.

Except now he was Draco. Now—

He released a shaky breath. "Good evening, Hermione." Her name tasted sweet on his tongue, and he liked how it felt in his mouth. Strong, but also rolling and soft. "You didn't mention you were coming by."

Something twinkled in her eyes then, a sort of mischief that he knew would forever get him in trouble, and he wanted it to. "I wanted to surprise you."

"You succeeded."

His mother watched, ever-aware, almost as brilliant as the pretty woman in front of him. "I'll get you some wine, Draco."

Granger—Hermione stepped closer. "Aren't you going to ask what I'm doing here?"

"Will you tell me?"

Banter, like in the kitchen during breakfast. Familiar and relieving and exhilarating.

She smirked. "Will you ask?"

His lips curled in a small smile. "What are you doing here, Hermione?" Because he'd use any excuse to say her name now that he knew what it tasted like.

She pursed her lips in thought. "I was in the area and wanted to say hello."

"No other reason?"

She took another step. He stayed still. That's how it would always be, he knew, her stepping and him waiting, patiently. He had done too much to hurt her and not enough to help her, and every boundary set would be ones she put into place.

Every boundary crossed would be led by her.

"Is it unprofessional to say I wanted to see you?"

"Yes," his smile widened slightly.

She was close enough he could smell her now. Hot chocolate and golden sunshine, and something sweet and soothing. "Oh." She paused and tipped her head. "Are we friends, Draco?"

"I think so." But he didn't know, because he didn't know how to have friends. Thomas had taught him a little bit about being friends and having friends, and Ginny had brought him coffee one time, and Hermione invited him to meals and to work functions, and gave him passing smiles.

One of those smiles quirked her lips again, but this time it wasn't passing. "I think so, too. Draco?"

"Yes, Hermione?"

"Can I kiss you?"

And he just stared. And stared. Because they had shared mornings and breakfasts, and smiles and banter, and anger and healing. And he loved her, but she was—

Hermione Granger.

She wasn't someone who wanted to kiss him, no matter what they'd shared. Except, she did.

So, he nodded, slowly, jerkily. She brought a hand to his face gently, a soothing warmth on his skin, and he leaned into it.

"Draco?"

"Yes, Hermione?"

"Have you ever been kissed?"

"Yes." Once, by Pansy Parkinson, and another few times, by Astoria Greengrass. Pansy had been sloppy and more curiosity than anything else. Astoria had been gentle and slow, and she'd tasted like mint, and he had liked the kisses they'd shared.

Hermione studied him. "Okay," and stretched up on her toes, and he leaned down, and they met somewhere in the middle.

She was, she was—

Warm, and tasted like the hope that had kept him moving forwards, and when he tentatively cupped the back of her head, she pulled him closer.

Warm hope, hot chocolate and morning sunshine.

Soft.

Footsteps from the kitchen broke them apart, and while he blushed a faint pink, her eyes sparkled with that beautiful mischief. His mother just gave him a glass of wine with a knowing tilt to her head. "So, she's the one who taught you how to cook like a Muggle."

Draco's blush intensified, Narcissa's lips curled in a slow, contented smile, and Hermione laughed.

Bright and happy and wonderful.

And when she met his gaze, she winked, and her smile danced with promises for a future. Hopeful and content and brilliant.

A future where shattered souls and broken minds could finish healing. Where he could kiss her more, and become better at it, and learn more things that made her laugh, and eat dinner with the two women he loved.

A future that, after a life that had crushed and destroyed him, was soft.