Chapter Four: Malfoy

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter


I've always been an early riser. At one point in time it was because I was young and had so much energy and things to do that I couldn't afford to waste precious hours sleeping away the day's potential in bed. At another point in time it was because of school. At another time the reasoning was that I found it difficult to close my eyes when the Dark Lord and then prison kept me practically shaking with fear – I was in a perpetual state of being terrified to look over my shoulder in case of who or what I may find behind me. After that it was because I felt young again. I had a new wife and there were so many better things that I could be doing in bed besides sleeping. Those were the days that I'd rise with the sun in all manners of speaking. Later it was due to Scorpius being an early riser. Children are so needy. During his baby days I found a new, deeper understanding and respect for my parents, especially my mother and of course the house elves that had to put up with me.

Now I have no wife and Scorpius could barely be bothered to look in my direction much less call on me for something he may need, so I am free to turn in my bed as much as I want. But of course fate is cruel and I don't, or rather I can't stay in late. I've lost so much sleep that most nights I waver between a neither-here-nor-there stupor, hovering amidst sleep and wakefulness. I see Astoria sitting on the edge of the bed. She turns to me and smiles, but then she inevitably twists and morphs into more melancholy images where she's wet and covered in blood. This has happened every night since, yet still my heart jumps as if trembling in an earthquake. I squeeze my eyes shut because all I want to focus on are those spots of lights that appear behind my eyes – green, yellow, iridescent blobs of light that burn through the darkness – and not the ghost of my dead wife. I can't keep that up forever and so eventually I must get out of bed to do something, anything to get away. Of course now the only reason I have for rising early is my tortured mind.

Something scratches at the window and my muscles lock with terror. It's only an owl. Whew! I get up, open the window and shoo away the creature, unfairly blaming it for nearly giving me a heart attack. I receive a message that says I should come to St. Mungo's immediately and that I should bring the antivenin for Tempatio Mellitus – the sweet temptation snake.

It's a little after six in the morning by the time I reach there, but I'd rather be surrounded by other people's sickness than face the one in my own mind.

xxx

I'm now on the first floor with Healer Prakash in his office. He makes me wait for forty-five minutes because he says he has to attend to a patient who was in desperate need of this antivenin. He contacted Mr. Nott, he says, but was told that Mr. Nott is in America and could never make it back in time and was thus told to contact me. He's a gangly, balding man whose looks alone might be detrimental to his career. He looks completely incompetent. I don't know how someone can look incompetent, but he just does. He slightly resembles Granger's husband, so maybe that's why when I look at the man all I see is a walking waste of time. Anyway, he has returned and is now berating me.

"We have to wait too long for these potions, Mr. Malfoy."

"Well, time is a great healer, I hear." He does not look amused. Why does no one ever get my jokes? We battle on through like that. I make snide comments, he ignores me. A half hour later I step out of his office and I can see that the accident and emergency area of the first floor is starting to full up. I need to use the toilet and passing by I hear a crawling wizard telling the Mediwitch that he was dared to stuff two doxies up his arse and now he can't feel legs. The Mediwitch asks how long he hasn't been able to feel his legs. That would not be the first question that would come out of my mouth.

I use the toilet and I am about to move on to my next meeting that's supposed to be in Ireland when walking by I swear I spot Rose Weasley lying on a cot inside one of the rooms. I walk back and peep in. Her mother is nowhere to be seen, but sure enough that is Rose Weasley and suddenly everything makes sense. She is sitting up in bed. She looks pale and sleepy, but otherwise fine. She looks up and sees me and pales even further. It takes me everything not to laugh. I step into the room.

"Mr. Malfoy,"

"Rose Weasley, what are you doing here?"

She looks like she wants to ask me the same question, but would never dare to be so disrespectful.

"I'm sick."

"I figured as much, but what are you sick with?"

She glances at her bandaged hands and surreptitiously tries to smuggle them under the blanket. I look at her hands pointedly. She stops immediately.

"Ummm…Poison."

"Poison? Now how in Merlin's name did you manage to get poisoned? It wouldn't be because you were sneaking about in my house and got into places you weren't supposed to be in, no?"

"Umm…" She has this look of 'tell' on her face and her cheeks slightly colour.

"You know, I thought that if I told Scorpius not to go into that room that he'd simply stay out. He's never completely disobeyed me. He's taking things too far. I'll have to have a chat with him."

"It was my fault, sir! I wanted to know what was in the room." Classic Gryffindor. Her droopy, sleep-heavy eyes open half-mast wide with her outburst.

"Really?"

"Yes, and he told me that it's forbidden, but I pressured him because when he told me that I couldn't go there, I wanted it more than ever."

"Uh huh. And why is that? That's the kind of behaviour that Scorpius exhibits and that's because he's spoilt or so says a friend of mine. The moment he can't have something he automatically thinks that the universe has wronged him and it should be his given right to have it come hell or high water. I admit that I lapsed there and spoilt him. However, I never thought that Granger would have spoilt her children."

"I'm not spoilt. Mum always taught me to have goals and that nothing is unachievable or unattainable." She punctuates that with a yawn. I want to see her achieve alertness.

"Ah! So if you can't have something, you don't see it as another one of life's inevitable hurdles, but as a challenge."

"Hurdles are meant to be crossed, sir."

"Indeed."

She looks like it's on the tip of her tongue to ask me what I'm doing here. She keeps looking past me to the door, probably expecting to see her parents or maybe even Scorpius.

"Scorpius is not with me."

This time her face turns a deeper shade of red and her reaction gives me some insight into her thoughts on him. I think the poor child fancies my son. How unfortunate for her that he just happens to have the personality of a Bobotuber these days. Weasley would have a fit if he knew. I have to clear my throat loudly to stifle a laugh.

"You get along alright with Scorpius?"

"He's alright, sir; decent enough. He's not as daft as he might look. I suppose we have that much in common. He's really quite tough and doesn't have much to say these days, but he listens."

"He listens to you? He trusts you?"

"I suppose…" Even with her brain demanding sleep she answers a bit suspicious of where I'm going with this. I remember that she's the smartest witch of her age. If this was Potter's son I could spell out my motives on a fluorescent green placard and he'd still ask me what the point of it was, and he'd be fully awake. I decide to switch tact.

"So, now your Christmas holiday has been ruined with this injury?"

"It's not as bad as it looks as the snake only sprayed me, not bit me. The Healer says that the worst is over. My hands only itch and are a bit aching, but they're not as bad as they were last night. I still have that sweet taste in my mouth, though, but the disorientation and hallucinations are gone. I can remember things more clearly now. The Healer said it usually takes a while to go away, but I should be alright by the time my birthday comes around."

"And when's your birthday?"

"New year's eve. You can come if you like. We usually have a fireworks display and a party. It's very, very fun."

"Hmm, I don't think I'd be welcome. I can get along fairly alright with your mother, but your father and your uncle and I don't exactly get along that well." Actually, I don't get along that well with anybody right now, but who knows what I'll do under the influence of alcohol. I really can't stand Weasley. He's such a waste of skin. And Potter… don't get me started on him!

"Well, Dad is usually quite busy these days. He's hardly ever home anymore, so I doubt that you'd run into him." She mutters.

Now, I'm not so completely stupid or emotionally incompetent that I can't see when a child drops a hint that something may not be alright at home, and as a responsible adult I should ask whether everything is alright at home and that would inevitably lead to some heart-to-heart discussion on how her father works too much blah blah blah teenage angst. At another time I might have listened to her, but right now I have my own teenage angst problem to worry about, so I take up her lead and run with it.

"Hmm, sometimes parents don't always know how the choices they make affect their children." Before she can comment I launch into my story.

"Scorpius' mother, Mrs. Malfoy, wanted to become a Healer in America. Across the pond is reputed to have the best medical services in the world, surpassing even England's. I don't remember much of her in school, but I suppose she had to be relatively smart if that was the route she decided to set on. She wrote the examination and when she came home her parents asked her how she thought it went. Honestly, she thought it went well and she would know. I always say that you must know if you flunked an examination or not. You must know if you gave them what they were looking for." Rose nods in agreement. I bet that she never had a moment to doubt herself unlike how Crabbe or Goyle did in my days where they hoped to baffle the examiners with their bullshit instead of their brilliance.

"Anyway, everyone was very happy for her. Time passed and she made preparations to enter into training. She would have been moving to America. Everyone was most supportive, though her father kept telling her to curb her enthusiasm. Her mother berated her father for being too negative. I suppose her mother was in full support because she never realized any dream outside of the home. She was a rich, traditional, pureblooded witch and therefore had grown up with the idea that a witch's place was beside her husband's in the home and to be fair that's the route that her eldest daughter, my sister-in-law, took. But that didn't mean that my mother-in-law never wanted more for her youngest daughter."

She looks up at me with surprise.

"Yes, there are families who still think like that. The wizarding world isn't exactly known for being the most trend-happy people. We are particularly outdated. We've only recently upgraded to quill after centuries of lugging around stone and chisel in our backpacks; so I've no doubt that feminism is still on the back burner, especially so in pureblood families."

She shrugs and smiles, eventually admitting that I am right.

"Three months passed and the results for the examinations finally came through. My wife's father intercepted the letter and forged his own reply stating that the school had rejected her. She was devastated. The bitter pain of regret was almost too much for her to handle. Her father comforted her as much as he could, but still she fell into a depression. He suggested that she take a break from England and they vacationed in Italy. That's where I met her. A year later we were married. A year later, when he was on his death bed (he was a Healer as well – did I forget to mention that – well, he was a Healer), he contracted a disease while attempting to heal a patient and as usual with people near death he felt remorseful and finally confessed. He said that Healing is a field that rarely appreciates your talents (and it'd be even worse for a witch), only demanding more at the sacrifice of spending time with the people that matters the most. He said that he knew she would want to surpass him and to do that would mean becoming worse than him."

"She must have been so angry with him. And I can't believe that he held her back from her dreams."

"Initially she was angry, but after a while she forgave him."

"What?"

"I encouraged her to go back, surely she would get in. I don't know how it happened, but after a while she began to support the same belief as her father. I believe she convinced herself out of some deference to him. But then I suppose not believing in that would mean admitting that her life with me was only second-best to her dreams which simply wasn't true. I like to believe that she was quite happy with me." Though, recent events threaten to prove otherwise. "Why do you think he did it?"

She blinks slowly; her eyes glazed like a donut and I wonder if I'm losing her. "I don't know, sir." She mumbles.

"We've thought about it a lot over the years after he confessed. Her father had died and so we had no other choice but to listen to her mother's reasoning and deduce our own. Her mother said that he had done it out of some misguided form of love and self-preservation. He wanted to keep the tradition that he knew, keep close the daughter that he loved. I don't know. People do strange and cruel things for the ones we love and care about.

"I suppose my wife was able to rationalize it because she knew that I did the same once. Those were the reasons behind me becoming a Death Eater – self-preservation. Oh don't look at me like that! I know that you know what I am, what I used to be."

Suddenly it's as if she can look at every which way except the direction of my arm. She stares me hard in the face. It borders on disrespect, but I know it's only because she doesn't want to be rude and stare outrightly at my arm. Her curiosity gets the better of her and she quickly glances at my arm, seeing only black sleeve before she looks back up, looking slightly relieved. I don't know what she expected to find. That I'd embroider the Mark onto my clothes so that it'd be easier to spot?

"Anyway, eventually my wife forgives her father." I know that I should end that line with 'And you should forgive your father too, but I can't bring myself to say anything so obviously in Weasley's defence and also, my little story had practically nothing to do with her petty teenage angst problems and any addendums to my story would only serve to highlight that. I'm just going to have to trust that Rose lives up to her reputation and makes the mental connection herself. But more importantly, I hope that she is awake enough to remember what I'm saying and will tell Scorpius that story.

"Did they say when you would be released?"

"I'm not sure, sir."

"Well, I'll try to bring Scorpius by later so that he can offer his condolences." And while you still have my subliminal messages fresh in your mind. "I hope you feel better soon. You should rest up."

I wave my wand and a bouquet of flowers appears at her bedside table. In slow, heavy movements she leans over to smell them, but as soon as she nears they burst into canaries. She laughs almost giddily.

"Thanks, Mr. Malfoy!"

I take my leave wondering how that could be possible. How is it possible that the spawn of Weasley and Granger could be a genuinely nice child?

I step out into the hall just in time to see Weasley and Granger chatting near the lift. He turns in my direction, heading over to Rose's room and I quickly turn around and study the nearby painting of a warlock doing some sort of medical work or the other. I look back and Granger is talking to a Mediwitch and Healer Prakash. I'm about to walk over to the lift when Weasley comes back out much too quickly from Rose's room (I suppose that she finally fell asleep) and I am forced to have a stilted conversation with this warlock.

"With your colouring and fair hair many might say that you're a Jinx, but I say you're an Albino."

"Bugger off!" I scowl at him.

I look back and I see Weasley taking his leave. The lift door closes on him and just then Healer Prakash spots me. He waves me over. I contemplate ignoring him, but Granger is looking at me directly; her expression suspicious and sour. I expect that she wants to have words. Blaise's words echo against my mind. Against my better judgement, I walk over to the pair. The Mediwitch has left.

"Mrs. Weasley, I'm sure you remember Mr. Malfoy." She nods. "He's responsible for your daughter receiving the antivenin in time, so you should be thanking him."

Granger looks like she has a lime wedged into her mouth and the Healer is genuinely confused that no thanks is forthcoming. "Umm…"

"We need to talk, Malfoy." She cuts him across.

"Indeed. Have you had breakfast?" She shakes her head. "Neither have I, so we should go eat. Rose is sleeping, but she's fine." Her eyes narrow to slits. "Please excuse us, Healer." I take her arm, but she shrugs me off violently. I roll my eyes and head to the lift and she reluctantly follows me in. I press the button for the Fifth floor – tea room.

We order our breakfast – she with tea and a muffin, me with tea and two croissants – and settle down to a seat near the window. The tearoom is mostly empty, only a tired-looking witch at the other side nibbling wearily on a sandwich and another witch looking like the coffee she's having might be life-saving; she looks that grateful for it.

The winter sun has appeared to paint the landscape in pale and wet pastel colours. Granger slowly rolls her shoulders and stretches her neck and I can see the fine, light hairs on her neck that catch the light like a haze, like a veil. I feel a yearning that I am certain has nothing to do with Granger herself, but more with the ambience and mood of the day. It reminds me of something, some time when I was happier and in love. Who is to say what sight or scent will trigger the thought of a loved one or a memorable time? Association is a powerful mechanism of the mind and heart. Just the image of her neck and the feeling it inspires lighten my mood.

"Before you accuse me of enabling the machinations of Satan or whatever evil underworld lord with whom you presume I associate, I have a question for you."

"Just one question you have? I have lots for you, so I'll let you go first." Her answer is cool, her lips pursed into a thin wrinkle of irritability.

"Did your daughter tell you how she got poisoned?"

"She said that she touched a suspicious-looking plant. Al says that a faery bit her. The doctor says that it's Tempatio Mellitus poisoning: the sweet temptation snake sprayed her. I'm inclined to believe the Healer."

"And you would be correct."

"What the hell are you doing with creatures like that? Those snakes are an endangered species! It's illegal to own one! I don't know why you try so hard to remind me of the criminal you once were."

"Are you finished?"

She hits me a glower cold enough to freeze oil.

"Look, do you know of MIA?"

"The kind of dirty-looking English rapper of Tamil descent?"

"What?"

"Never mind, I do." She answers, looking all the while like she's thinking up ways to murder me and not get caught. I hurry along. "The 'M' in MIA actually stands for Malfoy. MIA stands for Malfoy Industries Apothecary."

"Theodore Nott is the director –"

"Right, and I'm the owner."

She stares at me blankly, the glower having slid off her face in muted shock.

"My father-in-law was a Healer and he got infected with a disease while healing a patient. It eventually killed him, but in a quest to find him a cure I accidentally found the cure for something else – Spattergroit."

Her mouth droops open, her shock no longer hidden. "You?"

"I sold the rights to my wife and so, though on medical books it says that I discovered it, most records (especially business records) list her as the discoverer. It's listed under Greengrass, not Malfoy." She continues to stare at me with her mouth parted in a most unattractive fashion. "That led me to launch my business. However, this was close to my recent release from prison and I had just married Astoria. In other words, I was very much in the public's memory and needless to say, I was not triggering fond thoughts. I couldn't afford to be associated with the Malfoy name, not in this country anyway, so I started a new business and I put Theodore Nott as the head, while I took a more background role. This way I'm out of the public eye and I still keep what little reputation I have as a gentlewizard."

"That's…that's quite…thoughtful of you."

Does she mean starting the business or letting Nott be the Director? Or does she mean that with a tone of surprise, as in she never thought I could be so clever? I don't bother to question. I'll just assume that she's thinking the worst of me, like she always does.

"Initially it was a small business venture. The potions were brewed by me, in my house, but obviously the business grew. Out of habit, tradition, I don't know, certain key ingredients are still kept at my house and the venom of the sweet temptation snake is one of the key ingredients."

"You keep those creatures in your house? You must be dangerously stupid or insane!"

"They are in a magically sealed room and for over twelve years there has never been an incident until last night when your daughter decided to break and enter into it."

"Whose point are you arguing? You just admitted that a twelve year-old could get into the room. It's not like she was breaking into Gringotts!"

"Which you have done before. I see now where she gets her criminal aspirations! You ought to be happy that I have the bloody snakes in the first place because you need their venom to make antivenin, you ungrateful wretch!"

"I'd be more grateful if you didn't have the snakes in the first place!"

"The snakes didn't come to her! They didn't re-grow their vestigial legs and crawled over to her to bite her. No, quite the opposite. She broke into my house and went looking for what she got!"

We reach a stalemate. She is quiet, but it is a quiet rage.

"You couldn't possibly be upset with me. I saved your daughter's life!"

"You shouldn't have to in the first place!"

"Pshh. You're more upset that it was me who saved her life, isn't it? If it was Potter or someone or the other you'd have forgiven them instantly. 'No-no, accidents happen –'"

"That's not true!" She hisses. "It's just that you made me doubt myself. I decided to give you a chance and then this happens. All of the sirens went off that this is something that has you written all over it."

"I don't know how many times I have to tell you that I am not the same person that I was when I was sixteen."

"And I know that. There is overwhelming evidence to support that," she gestures to our current meeting as proof, "but the mind is a terrible thing. Last night was not so bad, despite everything. We had a good conversation, but when Rose got sick, the first thing that came to mind was you and what happened with Katie Bell all those years ago. Yes, I know that it makes no sense; you have no reason for doing something like this, but association is a powerful mechanism of the mind and heart."

I look up at her strangely, but she's looking down into her cup, stirring her tea fastidiously. It's so strange that she would say something like that when I was just thinking it – association is a powerful mechanism of the mind and heart. I don't say anything. I'm struck dumb by the surrealism of it all, that for one brief moment in time Granger and I have unconsciously and uncommonly agreed on a philosophical matter.

The tearoom is quiet except for the soft clinking of her spoon against the teacup. She's staring out the window. Her face no longer can be used to illustrate a Blast-ended Skrewt. Instead, she looks lost in thought. The light catches softly on her, illuminating the edges of her hair like a halo. Halo? I look up and realize that because of poor design schematics, there's an overhead light directly above her. It's quite redundant design-wise as there is a window right next to us doing a perfectly good job of side-lighting her surprisingly striking profile, with the result that she looks like sunlight has broken forth from the clouds and is shining down her. She looks . . . stunning. There is no other word to describe her, though trust me when I say that I'm thinking of alternatives and I like them even less than the word 'stunning'. I feel unbelievably uncomfortable as if the temperature in the room suddenly rose to desert heat. I feel more uncomfortable because this time I have no biscuits with which to accuse her of poisoning me.

Something is wrong with me. There is no possible way that I could have sanely thought that Granger is looking beautiful. Great. I guess I now have to Obliviate myself. I can't have that memory of shame rattling around in my head for any competent Legilimens user to stumble across.

She drags me out of my deeply disturbing thoughts by her voice.

"I was so scared," She's still looking absently out the window. "She was writhing in pain on the ground. She was having spasms, her eyes had rolled to the back of her head and her hands were turning a horrid grey and black colour like they were on the verge of crumbling like cigarette ashes from the lighted end of a fag. Hugo was bawling. He didn't know what to do. Ron was not at home. He left to do something earlier at the Prophet and then he went to work, I suppose."

'I suppose?' I try not to say anything regarding that indication that there may be trouble in paradise.

"I skated into her bedroom. But do you know what I remember about that moment?" She turns to look at me. "In books they love to depict Harry, Ron and me as magnificent heroes, graceful in our elevated and epic acts of bravery. I did not have a becoming hero's walk. I was all flailing arms and legs. I even partly walked into the doorway and nearly dislocated my shoulder." She huffs out a laugh at her clumsiness that makes me smirk as well. I have to admit that I never quite thought of her as graceful, but I can imagine her looking like she's on the deck of a boat in a storm, pitching around uselessly in what would never be considered heroic.

"No, it's never a hero's grace or pace. I was tall and gangly and clumsy and slow, calling out to Astoria unintelligibly, splashing through the water to her. I skidded and fell to the side of the tub in an undignified heap. I was the one that found her."

I don't even realize what I said until I hear no response from her. I look up (I hadn't even noticed that I was the one now absently stirring my tea and staring into the brown depths as if the cup held the answers to my grief) and she's there looking at me with these great, big, brown, deliquescing puppy eyes; her lips positively wibbling in pity for me. My word she looks like that Dickens orphan Oliver!

"Malfoy," She even reaches out and touches my hand. This is unexpected. I snatch my hand away.

"Forget I said anything."

"You know, you can talk to me."

"I understand that concept. It's what we've been doing for the last five minutes, no?"

"I mean that you can talk to me about…about her, about Astoria."

"I have no interest in speaking to you about my wife."

She turns her attention back to her tea and neglected muffin and I too try to bite into one of the croissants, but I might as well have eaten sawdust – it was that dry. As I sit there contemplating how this pastry sucked up all the saliva in my mouth like a wad of cotton, Granger swoops in for a second attack.

"Last night, you said that there are certain rooms in your house you don't step foot into anymore. Is it because of what happened to her? Or is it because of the war?"

"Granger…"

"No Malfoy, you'd don't have to be defensive. I understand."

"No, you don't. People keep saying that they understand, but they really don't. I understand that you must feel the need to say something, anything because saying nothing is insensitive, but let me tell you that whatever consoling and vapid words you can muster up, whatever purple prose you can twist together to weave into some sappy poem on grief would never be enough. No one understands and they never will because they never had a wife that for years only sat there and nodded absently as she stared off into space reliving her own personal horrors silently. I can't remember the last time I had a conversation with my wife. For years all I got were vacant nods and crushing self-doubt and guilt. My marriage was falling apart, crumbling like pyramids right before my eyes so that when I saw her lying in that tub; do you know what I felt? I felt inevitability. Everything was careening towards that end. And no one will ever understand that feeling where I knew it was coming, but still it hit me like a kick to the chest because it was like a giant sign that read 'YOU FAILED AND ALL OF THIS IS YOUR FAULT!' You don't understand at all and as much as we don't get along, I don't think I'd want to wish that feeling of guilt on you, or anyone really."

"I do understand, more than you think actually." It's mumbled so low that I almost don't hear her.

In that one sentence I realize that her seemingly sympathetic words are actually empathetic. Her marriage is falling apart and is heading in the same figurative direction as mine. We stare at each other with our necks and cheeks surprisingly not inflamed, but paler than usual. The shock of our confessions has left us breathless, speechless and drained with our hearts pounding and our concentration shot. The intimacy of what we just shared almost pales into comparison to who we shared with, and after the shock dissipates, shame creeps in and I can see the tiny red blotches gather angrily up her neck and cheeks. She moves to get up, but I reach across and do the most surprising thing. I reach across the table and grab her arm, imploring her to sit down with the look in my eyes alone. She sits back down, probably more out of confusion than anything else; completely not expecting the touch on the arm and the eye contact. I would admit that my actions may be mistaken for sympathy.

"Granger…"

"Forget I said anything."

"You don't have to be defensive, I understand." I mock her earlier statement and she rolls her eyes before she does something that resembles a sneer (she needs more practice) and says,

"Stop being a dick."

"Still waters run deep," I mumble but she hears me and understands my meaning."It's the shock that we can have such heavy feelings right under the surface and the fact that we ourselves don't even realize it."

Her anger melts away and sadness descends on her like a shroud. I know that feeling and she knows it too. Things are falling apart and she doesn't know how to keep it together. I definitely know that feeling.

She moves her hand to resume her half-hearted eating of the muffin and I am forced to pull away. I hadn't even realized that my hand was still on her arm. I vaguely realize that I had been making soothing circles. My word! The shame! Graciously, she pretends not to notice, but more than likely she really did not notice.

We sit there in awkward silence, unsure of what to say to each other and I wish that I hadn't stopped her. I should have let her go. I have nothing to say to her. Eventually I clear my throat. "I have to go. I have a meeting in Ireland. I probably missed my Portkey."

"Work?" She asks falsely casual.

"Something like it. Most of my time is divided between travelling round to all my shops, dealing with any problems requiring mediation with the various managers, liaising with the other divisions, and being the heavy hand when relations between the heads grew acrimonious or intractable. I travel, I talk, shout down Floo networks on the rare occasion that I might be in office. I write stiff letters and I submit memoranda, but I find it difficult, even embarrassing to say that I work. Nott really does most of the heavy lifting."

She smiles a little at that, shaking her head that I'm boasting about my lack of responsibilities.

"And let me guess, that's just the way you like it, isn't it?"

I smile broadly and briefly at her. "Quite," She gives me a funny look, even cocks her head to the side like an owl. "What?"

"I don't remember you ever smiling."

"What? I smile."

"No, you smirk, you sneer, you grimace, but you don't smile. I mean, you didn't show any teeth just now and it looked more like a disingenuous rictus that gives you the look of a serial killer, but it really softened up your features."

"And we're back." This time she breaks into a broad grin and it's my turn to look at her funnily.

"I was joking. You should smile more. You look better when you do."

"Granger gives me a compliment? Hmmph. I'm sure that in the next few minutes England will be swallowed by a massive earthquake after fire and brimstone hail forth from heaven."

She rolls her eyes, but her grin stays. "I said you looked better, not good. It really softens up your forehead and chin."

I don't say anything. I only lean over and I hear her breath hitch as I pull something from her hair. I conjured a dead rat and rest it right next to her muffin.

"What was that you saying, rat's nest?" She positively scowls at me for all of two seconds before she transfigures the rat into a ferret.

"A ferret is only a rat with ideas above its station." She says. I scowl at her and she bursts out laughing and I do too.

"You're an arse."

"You're a self-righteous know-it-all."

"And we're back to normal."

"And we're back." I get up to leave and she gets up too. "See you around, Granger."

"Wait, you didn't tell me what you think about what we talked about last night." It was the most roundabout sentence I've ever heard her utter and it is only then that I notice the tearoom is starting to fill up more. People are giving us some odd looks; well, more to her really as they wonder what on earth she would be doing associating herself with a former Death Eater.

"I'll give you my answer on New Year's Eve." She gives me a confused look. "Rose invited Scorpius and me for her birthday celebrations." With that I turn on my heel and disapparate, but not before I hear her mutter that she's going to kill her daughter. I laugh as I spin away and the last image I see is of her shaking her head and laughing too.


A/N: Oh Draco, did you really just lie to a little girl in the off chance that it might help you with your son? I wouldn't put it past you. BTW, thank you to all those that reviewed and alerted and favourited. I forgot to respond to the reviews I got last time, so...THANK YOU! I appreciate your comments!