Wow...it's been a long time, hasn't it? I know that even offering excuses at this point would be ridiculous, so I'm just gonna give you the chapter. I'll try to have the next one up by Christmas...because I pretty much know where the next one is going, I think. I hope some of you are still with me!
So, now, nothing remains, dear reader, but to assure you in the most animated language of the violence of my affections, and hope that no reproach on the subject of lateness will cross your lips once you've read the chapter.
The next day was September 1st, and as usual, I felt pangs of nostalgia all day, wishing that I could be fourteen again, and sitting in the last compartment of the Hogwarts Express with Harry and Ron. Still, I had plenty on my plate, what with my second day at work, Malfoy, and the bond to control; I didn't have a lot of time to dwell.
At work that day, Malfoy gave me my first real case.
"Infidelity: the PI's bread and butter," he said, waltzing into my tiny office with a nearly empty case file and smirk.
"Mine?" I asked excitedly, standing.
"Don't drool, Granger, it's only a bird who thinks her husband's cheating," he said, rolling his eyes.
"Where is she? Shouldn't I have met with her?" I asked skeptically, wondering if Malfoy was "protecting" me right out of optimum performance.
"Normally, yes, but she came in yesterday when we were…at the Manor. Dewhurst saved it for you, thought it'd be a nice introduction."
"Well, hand it over!" I said impatiently, grabbing it from him. He mimed pain, insinuating I'd given him a papercut, but I rolled my eyes and opened the file to read the solitary piece of parchment enclosed.
"Gone more than usual…unresponsive…suspicious parchment in the fire…ragged appearance…seems standard," I said, taking in the information quickly.
"First step?" Malfoy quizzed.
"Head to Diagon Alley, check with his employer," I responded mechanically.
"Good," he said, nodding and holding the door for me. "The official story is that I'm supervising your first assignment," he added.
"Don't you want a jacket?" I heard as I was almost out the door. I looked back at him.
"No? It's nice out."
"Right. Let's go, then," he said, pushing me lightly out the door and flushing slightly. I fought the urge to smirk at him.
We exited the building and I spun us on the spot; we reappeared in the archway of Diagon Alley. It was fairly empty, being a weekday morning, but several people still made their way through the streets with purpose. I walked determinedly to the Apothecary with Malfoy trailing a half-step behind, probably attempting to maintain the guise that he was only supervising, rather than accompanying protectively. I was on the trail, incredibly excited about piecing together the puzzle—even if it was only a simple infidelity suspicion.
A small bell tinkled as we entered the shop, and a middle-aged man stood from crouching behind the counter. Malfoy put his hand on my waist, but I shot him a stern, ceasing glance over my shoulder. He would have to do without, I indicated, and he peeled away from my side to pretend to browse, and presumably watch me very closely.
"Can I help you?" the man asked disinterestedly as I approached the counter.
"Yes, can you tell me," I asked, "do you have a Philip Bransford working here?"
He eyed me. "You his wife? You look familiar…" he said, tilting his head. I heard Malfoy sigh from the shelves behind me.
"No, just…and old friend," I said. "Is he here?"
"Quit," he grunted. "About three weeks ago."
"Oh, he did? I- I haven't spoken with him in a while, do you know why he left, or…" I trailed off, afraid that Malfoy might notice my nerves.
The shopkeeper continued to eye me suspiciously, but eventually responded with, "He claimed he found a different job, one that paid better. Sounded a bit dodgy to me, he said it was in Knockturn Alley, but wouldn't say exactly where," he finished, shrugging.
"Alright," I said, feeling a bit crestfallen, but glad to have some information I looked around quickly, but didn't see anything in the shop that could have suggested pertinent information on my subject. Bransford obviously hadn't told his wife he was leaving his job weeks ago, a big red flag for something wrong in the marriage, I thought, exploring the possibilities in my mind. "Thank you very much," I told the shopkeeper, and Malfoy appeared at my side, ready to leave.
I had turned toward the door when I heard, "Wait a minute!" excitedly from behind me. I turned back around to face him.
"You're Hermione Granger, aren't you?" he asked excitedly, apparently having finally placed me. Bugger.
I was torn: I didn't want to admit my identity, as it was my first case as a Private Investigator, but he seemed so enthusiastically certain that he likely wouldn't have believed me if I'd denied it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Malfoy cross his arms amusedly.
"Um, yes, that's…yes, I am," I stammered out.
"I've read all the Prophet articles of course," he said eagerly (referring to the eventual publication of many of the details of Harry, Ron, and my Horcrux search etc. in the Daily Prophet in the months and years following, including several forcibly obtained biographies), "and I've always thought you were so clever, I mean, the way you always chose the location and cast the protection spells," he gushed. It was always strange meeting people who considered me some sort of celebrity. That particular detail had been divulged by Ron, in the interview we all gave before we realized that the Prophet spun the public interest in our lives far out of control, stopped giving interviews, and the reporters had to begin using secondary sources.
"Well, thank you," I said, attempting to sound pleased, while really feeling slightly irked at the realization that this job may require me to disguise myself a lot more if I was going to be recognized all the time.
"I think I have one in the back, if you wouldn't mind signing?" he asked hopefully. Aside from the fact that signing autographs is something I generally not do, it would be incredibly bad form to leave a trail from my investigation on my very first case.
"Oh, that's nice, but I really must be going actually…it was nice to meet you though, and thanks for your help with Philip, I'm sure I'll find him eventually," I said hurriedly, and turned to find Malfoy had inched closer to me throughout the conversation, but was wearing a very amused expression and seemed to be containing a fit of laughter. I pushed past him toward the door, but grabbed his arm as I went, pulling him out of the shop in frustration.
"Right, well not much there, but at least we know he's been lying to his wife for some weeks." I tried to continue in a nonchalant work voice, but Malfoy began sniggering halfway through my analysis.
"Granger," he said, wiping his eyes mirthfully, "I had no idea I was hiring such a celebrity."
I punched him hard in the rib area, tossed my hair in what I hoped was a dignified manner, and continued to dissect the conversation out loud.
"As I was saying, he's been lying to his wife, which obviously means something…so if we took a quick pass through Knockturn—" I tried to rush over the words, but predictably, Malfoy had something to add.
"We will do no such thing," he said firmly.
"Malfoy, this is my job now," I said, half-pleading with him in the street. "What could possibly happen?"
"Someone. Could. Hurt. You." He said with a fierce and increasingly familiar snarl, while shepherding me against a shop wall.
I backed up into the brick, but held his gaze. "For goodness sake, Malfoy, you will be there the entire time! I'm fully confident in your ability to protect me," I cajoled with disdain, "and may I remind you that, so far in my life, I've faced an acromantula, a basilisk, angry centaurs, a giant, and several Death Eaters—including torture at the hands of your dear friends and relatives—so one would think I'd be able to handle a stroll down Knockturn Alley in middle of a Tuesday morning."
The intensity of his gaze faltered, but still he replied, "It's dangerous."
"It won't be!" I said, meaning it as a promise to stay safe.
He rubbed his forehead. "Why did I agree to let you have this job?" he asked apprehensively.
"You didn't really have a choice," I reminded him with a small smile. "But speaking of that, since this is our workplace at the moment I'd love if you did what you can to limit your physical protective gestures."
"I can make no promise about that," he replied, shaking his head. "We're about to head into Knockturn Alley."
I beamed in victory, and turned to head to the less reputable part of Wizarding London. He quickly took his place at my side. He wasn't touching me, so I wasn't paying attention to what he was doing. Instead, I was forming theories and plans about Philip Bransford's whereabouts and actions.
We soon found ourselves crossing into Knockturn Alley, and the bustling weekday atmosphere of Diagon Alley faded into a nearly-deserted, somehow cloudier street with boarded windows and what felt like a shift in the air to something decidedly unfriendly. I kept my eyes peeled for Bransford, as well as shops that I felt he might be keen to frequent or work in, based on what I knew from his file.
XXXXXX
Granger was taking in all of her surroundings as we walked down the main street of Knockturn Alley; I was as well, but with a different eye. I had spent more time here than she, and I knew that even the interactions that appeared innocent could be anything but. I kept my head on a swivel, despite the fact that Granger was partially right: this was perhaps the least dangerous time to be in Knockturn. Still, I knew things about this place that she didn't; that she shouldn't, ever.
I was also doing my best to restrain my "physical protective gestures," something that I would only be able to do as long as nothing more sinister than glances came our way from those on the streets.
She shot me a sidelong glance that clearly indicated that she felt she was right, and that nothing malicious was happening. I, however, knew that we were only five minutes in, and that there was abundant time for catastrophe.
Granger stopped suddenly in front of a shop that was not boarded up, but the light coming through the front windows was a dusky purple. She peered in, tilting her head. As I was about to raise my head to find the name or a description of the establishment, someone whistled in our direction.
Immediately, I spun my head around and reached for my wand. The only man around was a fat man of about 40, looking tattered and possibly intoxicated. Before I had my wand out, Granger had grabbed my arm. She was still staring at the storefront. She looked slightly pale, but said in a low voice,
"A catcall is not a threat. Ignore it."
She was not the sort of woman who usually ventured into Knockturn Alley, and it was only a matter of time before someone took notice.
I tore my eyes from the man, wishing looks could kill. I then looked down at Granger, who appeared not at all bothered by the incident. I decided that if she was unshaken, it could be overlooked.
But the man persisted. "You better hold onto your girl, there, sonny!" the man slurred. "I'd love to take you home with me, darlin', if you get tired of blondie, there," he laughed.
Granger still didn't turn around, but tightened her grip on my arm and muttered, "Go away you idiot, if you know what's good for you." I didn't know if she was insinuating that the danger to this man would come from me or from her. I did know, however, that I was seething, and that if this man did not stop lusting after Granger immediately, he would soon look back fondly upon the part of his life when he possessed legs.
As soon as the next syllable left the man's mouth, my blood boiled.
"Baby, I would take you home, bend you over, and fuck you until—"
Granger released my arm and we whirled around simultaneously, but she had her wand out faster than I. No words came from her mouth, but a jet of red light issued from her wand and enormous boils quickly appeared on the man's face. He finally closed his mouth as his hands sprang to his face.
"Let's go," she said quietly, stashing her wand and turning to walk further down the street, but I was frozen, locked in a staring contest with the man. At his last words, my mind was flooded with sexually explicit images of the man and Granger: him forcing himself on her and taking advantage of her in a multitude of situations and positions. Disgust and anger ripped through my consciousness. How he could dare to think of Granger in that way was beyond my comprehension. He had no idea what she'd been through, and he was carelessly…
Before I was fully aware what was happening, I had the man on the ground and was kneeling at his side, my wand jabbed more than an inch into his throat.
"Malfoy!" Granger's panicked voice came from somewhere behind and above me, but I had business to attend to.
"If you so much as think anything like that about this woman again," I growled, "you can trust that I will find you, and I will have no problem killing you." I pressed my wand further into his chunky neck slowly. "Understand?"
"Malfoy!" her voice came again, and I faintly felt something as Granger was apparently attempting to tug me to my feet by my shoulders. I had enough adrenaline streaming through my veins that I doubt a werewolf could have pulled me off.
I waited; the man, boils and bloodshot eyes, finally nodded slowly.
Only then did I allow Granger's continued efforts to pull me up affect me, and I slowly rose.
"What the hell are you thinking?" she shrieked as soon as I stood. She was shaking slightly. "You can't just threaten to kill people, Malfoy!"
My mind was still filled with dark clouds. "It was necessary," I said dismissively. Looking around, I saw that the few people who were in the streets following my confrontation with the offending man were scurrying from the scene. One positive about Knockturn Alley: you could trust people to keep their noses out of your business.
"Necessary!" she shrieked again. "You frightened me more than he did! He's a relatively harmless drunk, whereas you are a completely sober wizard apparently capable of murder for a sexual remark!"
Perhaps normally I would have agreed with her, but I was still blinded with fury. "It isn't okay for him to say things like that to you, Granger," I replied, the raggedness in my voice startling even me.
"Of course it isn't, but it was an empty statement, and I had the situation handled!" She opened her mouth to speak some more, but closed it suddenly and shook her head. I thought I heard her mutter, "What am I thinking of," but couldn't be sure, as she swiftly grabbed hold of my waist and apparated us to her doorstep.
Once inside, she released me and turned to face me dead on.
"We'll wait here until you calm down. That shouldn't have happened, especially not in a public place. Now I know you know that, but you're unable to see it right now."
"I knew we shouldn't have gone," I said, defiantly yet softly.
She rolled her eyes. "If you go about life thinking that everything is dangerous, you become the dangerous one."
"You don't know what he would have done," I said stubbornly.
"He would have done nothing, because he flat out told me what he would have liked to do. That's basically the least dangerous thing possible."
She let her breathing slow for a moment, but mine was still rapid. "I know this is the Phenomenon, and that it'll take a moment for you to think clearly again." She leaned her back against the nearest wall and crossed her arms, while I remained upright. My mind was still reeling.
Granger glared at the floor, then her watch, then the ceiling, then at several other items in her house, but very obviously avoided glaring my way.
I did just the opposite, and watched her fume in silence. I wouldn't apologize for that, I told myself. Not after what she'd only just been through—a man like the fucker in the street was a clear danger.
How was she not more rattled? I thought back to her stoicism in Knockturn—she perhaps shook slightly, but her only other reaction was to advise me to ignore the comment.
Is she used to this kind of thing? Beads of sweat formed once again on my forehead as I considered that possibility, and its many implications.
XXXXXX
I wouldn't look at him. I was so frustrated that I'd do something that I'd later regret to someone who was only halfway acting of his own accord. But just before he'd snapped, I was sure I'd been on the verge of a breakthrough.
The event was also rather distressing for my own reasons, if I'm being honest about my feelings. In a small capacity, the crude remarks, but mostly Malfoy's apparent willingness to kill for so little.
Lastly, this instance was all disappointingly familiar. Growing up with male best friends, I'd (unfortunately) grown accustomed to being around people who couldn't control their tempers in the face of harsh words.
But, as far as I'd thought the situation through before this, Malfoy had been the one producing the harsh words: sharp, well-planted barbs that could incite Harry and Ron to fighting with enough prodding—carefully done within the watchful eye of an authority figure, or course. He'd rarely, if ever, been expertly provoked himself.
So when I'd warned him to ignore the drunken man's words, I'd mostly expected him to listen.
A thought struck me: Had I become as important to him as his mother—who seemed to be the only reason he would prove susceptible to the insults of others? Did the Phenomenon force him to hold me in such high esteem? Or was he simply once again unable to gauge real danger from an empty desire? And how could that be, if the strange bond's purpose seemed to be my protection—or was it more? Was it more akin to protectiveness he felt, or affection? Or respect? Or friendship? Or something in the middle?
I put a pin in that train of thought, resolving to think on it later, as Malfoy and I had passed almost ten minutes without speaking—the duration of which Malfoy had passed by looking directly at me. I would have to face him (quite literally) eventually, and better sooner than later.
"Does that happen to you often?" he asked as soon as I met his gaze.
A short laugh escaped my lips, surprising myself. "Which part?" I asked, almost bitterly.
"The blatant sexual harassment, Granger. What else could I possibly mean?"
"I didn't know if you meant the thing with the shop owner," I said sheepishly, my cheeks warming slightly.
He did not laugh this time.
"N-no," I answered. "It has, once or-or twice, but not often," I finished, truly thankful that I was usually too plain a target for pigs.
Malfoy's eyes were still clouded.
"Malfoy, are you…are you alright? Nothing happened, I'm fine, and I understand why you were upset, but please try to also understand that I can handle myself in situations like these. You don't need to go…killing anybody."
XXXXXX
I knew she could handle herself in situations like those—in much worse, too, as she'd earlier pointed out (to a sharp pang of guilt in my stomach).
"I know, Granger, but may I again point out that this isn't exactly my fault, and that it's sometimes impossible to control."
"Is it, though?" she asked timidly. It was the softness of her face and voice that kept me from responding harshly.
"Yes. I became this…this prodded animal, and I simply…react."
"But…you've never been like that! At Hogwarts, you were always so much more collected than Harry and Ron."
"It's not as if I like it, Granger, I like to fancy myself a more highly functioning being than an over-reactive animal.
"But…I suppose I don't understand exactly what goes through your mind, and if there's any way for you to put your mental experience into words…"
I sighed, because it would be as simple as explaining a color, or putting hunger or thirst into precise words. Still, her pleading look was more persuasive than usual, due to the…usual affect her vulnerability had on my perception of her. Irritatingly so, because I'm not one to let a pretty witch get her way just because she's pretty.
"When it happens, something threatening, I…there's this…heat, which you've felt…this heat that I know, if I don't do something, will get worse. At the same time my mind is racing: both with what's already happened to you, and all the things that could happen to you."
As I explained the effect as best I could, she crept toward me, looking directly into my eyes…looking for what, Merlin knows, but it was very distracting. She seemed completely oblivious to my trailing off.
Her eyes were narrow and searching, as if attempting to decode an inscription written somewhere on my face.
XXXXXX
He didn't look any different, I realized frustratingly. There was nothing in his eyes, or anywhere on his face, that separated him from the Malfoy I'd long known, except the absence of the disdain he once showed for me.
But he was willing to killfor me!
But wasn't he always willing to do that? Another voice answered the first thought. Maybe not for you, but he was willing to kill, wasn't he?
He said he was, but was he really? He never actually did…
Well, he didn't today, either. Maybe he really wouldn't have.
"Granger?" Malfoy asked, pulling me out of my analysis of his behavior by way of his gray-blue eyes.
"You don't look any different!" I burst out in vexation.
"Pardon?" he replied.
"I just…I can't figure out how much of this is really you."
Surprisingly, he seemed to know what I meant.
"I don't either," he admitted, running his hands through his hair.
"Well, I hate not knowing things," I said, reminiscent of my 11-year-old self.
"I'm not typically fond of it myself," he said with a drawl. Then he became serious as he said, "but I've found that I don't especially care. It's hard to focus on the subject, anyway. I feel like myself, if that sets you at ease, but with…a slightly different set of interests. And this other thing in my head. When I react like…well, like earlier, I'm myself, but….more so."
The thing in his head was his representation of the Phenomenon, the thing that made him protect and worry, from what I understood.
"That's interesting," I said, pondering. "Thanks for…putting that into words. I'd like to continue thinking on it."
"Knock yourself out," he said, disinterested. Perhaps the why and the wherefore weren't currently important to Malfoy…perhaps the Phenomenon rendered such thoughts as trivial compared to my protection.
Shaking my head slightly, I put the entire matter into yet another folder of my mental filing cabinet, and refocused my thoughts onto the task at hand.
"Are you alright now?"
"Are you?" he returned, closing the minimal distance between us as he took his turn to study me.
I nodded, then continued,
"Do you think we could go back to Knockturn Alley for a bit? I believe I was onto something…pertaining to the case."
XXXXXX
She wanted to go back. Of course she did. Because this was Granger, and nothing was ever simple.
She seemed to take my silence to be a "no," and continued on persuasively.
"I only want to examine that shop we were stopped near a little further, then I'd be very happy to return to the office with you."
I weighed the possibilities—she could be hurt, certainly, but she'd just as certainly make more trouble for me if I denied her (not altogether unreasonable) request.
I agreed, and her face split into a grin.
"Excellent."
We returned to Knockturn Alley with a pop, and flitted into the purple-lit shop (the drunk man was nowhere to be found). Granger asked a few simple questions, and as she'd promised, we'd returned to the office within an hour.
She retreated into her small office, and I made a quick rotation through the rest of the building to confirm that everything was in order, and returned to my own desk.
I spent the next few hours leafing through and scrutinizing the contents of the file we'd retrieved from the Manor—Granger's file. The file filled with the limited available information pertaining to her attack.
There had been no reports of any similar attacks in the magical world and, from what Dewhurst could find, nothing in the Muggle world to suggest anything more suspicious than a standard sexual assault.
(Of course, I entertained the possibility that attacks had simply gone unreported, like Granger's. I had never asked her to file with the Ministry's system of law enforcement—ironic, since she desired a position in that very institution. Perhaps it would be good for justice, but she hadn't brought up any desire to do so, and I couldn't bear to suggest it if it meant making Granger relive the attack in any way. She was doing quite well with putting the matter behind her.)
The attacking man had clearly spent time developing a new and incredibly dangerous spell to temporarily remove the magic from another's body, essentially rendering them powerless—as well as ensuring that no inherent magical powers will repel the rapist, as is common with sexual assault.
I stopped scanning the pages here for at least several minutes, fighting against thoughts and images of a powerless Granger…my blood boiled and my fists clenched.
It seemed incredibly unlikely that he would do such a complex thing as invent this spell for a random, one-time attack. This meant that either it was a targeted attack, and he could very possibly attempt to assault Granger again, or that the other victims' memories were simply modified after the fact.
I sat, fingers together, thinking about ways of obtaining information without asking Granger—I wouldn't make her relive it—I'd catch him (and very possibly kill him) without her.
I snapped the file shut as I heard Granger's chair scrape backwards, and placed it in the trick drawer in my desk only visible to me.
As Granger padded into the room, I noticed that it was nearly time to close the office. I had apparently been lost in her case for several hours—the frequent need to stop from anger was more time consuming than I'd realized.
"I'll need to speak to the wife. The client," Granger said matter-of-factly, but with a hint of triumph.
"For further information?"
"No, to give her information. He isn't being unfaithful. He has a gambling problem."
I was, in short, astonished. I was quite good at my job, and I still had no way to follow Granger's logic to her conclusion.
"That pawn shop, in Knockturn Alley," she explained. "It's a front for a gambling operation. He's a regular there. It's all in here," she said, handing me the file.
And indeed it was.
Remarkably detailed throughts and deductions were laid out neatly before me, encased in manila. She hadn't seen the husband there, but she knew. According to the file, she had seen a trinket in the shop that bore the same emblem on a piece of paper she once saw on Ludo Bagman about six years ago.
Unbelievable.
"Well, I…that's…" I stammered idiotically.
"Thank you," she said proudly (and perhaps with a note of smugness).
"Hang on, how do you know I was going to say something positive?" I said, standing. "Maybe I was about to tell you that this is shoddy at best and you're jumping to fairly distant conclusions!"
"You weren't, and I'm not," she said coolly.
"Unfortunately, you're right," I said, smiling in spite of myself. "I'll send for her immediately.
When the wife arrived, I let Granger share the findings, but kept a close eye on the proceedings from my office.
"Not boring," she said, "…but not all bad, right?"
I rolled my eyes at her optimism.
"I suppose that's fair," I said with a smirk.
XXXXXX
The rest of the week passed relatively uneventfully, as did the one after it. I saw very little of my friends of family, but mollified myself with the reminder that Malfoy saw absolutely none of his family or (presumed) friends.
I solved cases, he found excuses to explain his accompanying me to curious fellow employees.
I occupied myself in the evenings with piles of files of old cases, solved and abandoned. I was determined to know the business inside and out. Malfoy, on the other hand, seemed to occupy himself with one or two high-profile cases, pored over night after night.
In the few instances I wasn't looking over backlogs, I was trying to discern Malfoy's motives and feelings without his noticing, something proving maddeningly fruitless. I had almost no concept of the level of influence the Phenomenon had over his mind.
Still, we passed that time in peace, due to our ability to function in comfortable silence. Our spats occurred mostly at work, as within the walls of my home there was, for both of us, the feeling of safety (with the one exception of a visit from the persistent John), and neither of us cared to bring up the reason for our forced cohabitation unless absolutely necessary.
So, our coexistence, our antagonistic friendship, continued with relative ease.
As Saturday the 12th dawned, I was expecting a visit from Harry, Ron, and Ginny, as Harry had owled me earlier in the week and demanded a visit.
Hermione, we all miss you and are desperate to see you again. I think Ginny might kidnap you before long. We're coming to see you Saturday. Owl back with the time that would be best for you (though Ron says if you say no, we're coming at 6 am).
Much love, see you soon.
Harry.
Though I was warmed upon receiving and reading the letter, I was dreading the idea of having to once again awkwardly incorporate Malfoy and his protective tendencies into time with my friends.
When I presented the inevitability to him, though he grumbled prolifically, he conceded an afternoon-into-evening visit, so long as it took place within the house, "so I don't have to withstand the scintillation at point-blank range."
So I rose early Saturday, incredibly eager in spite of Malfoy-related reservation, and took care in ensuring that the appearances of my house and myself were impeccably ready for visitors. When a knock came at the door at a quarter past 11, Malfoy rose from his seat to look through the front window.
Turning away, he snorted. "Interesting interpretation of 'afternoon,'" he said sardonically, returning to his chair and taking up once more the case file he'd been starting at every evening for more than a week.
I was undeterred, as I hurried to answer the door. My happiness at the prospect of spending most of the day with the three people I loved best was impervious to even the sharpest snark.
As soon as I flung it open, I was met with three shining faces and was quickly enveloped into a four-person hug.
XXXXXX
Once the four Gryffindors disentangled themselves from a lengthy embrace (which I watched surreptitiously) Granger welcomed them into her small dwelling, and a mouth-watering scent hit my nose.
Weasley held up a rather large container with a smirk.
"Mum sent us with pot roast," he addressed Granger. "She hasn't seen you in a while, and she reckons you're thin."
His sister added, "It's why we came early—we figured we'd eat it with you for lunch, so we can tell her you're good and thick." She winked.
"Smells great," Granger said with a laugh. She then looked over her shoulder at me.
"Would you like some?" she asked happily. In turning, she missed the quick, surprised glance between Potter and Weasley behind her. I, however, did not miss it, though I did dismiss it. Sharing was how Granger and I had lived out of necessity over the past weeks, and it had become quite regular.
"I would," I said with a small but grateful smile.
The four of them made their way to her kitchen table (which was expanded for the occasion, cramming the kitchen nearly completely) and Granger dished out servings to everyone, sending a plate whizzing magically my way.
"Don't spill," she called, and promptly forgot me as the four of them sat down to steaming plates and lively conversation.
I turned back to Granger's file, glancing to the kitchen every now and again to be sure that Granger was okay (and to make sure she remained ignorant of what I was examining). I had made absolutely no headway on the case, and had the information it contained all but memorized; that didn't stop me from staring at it almost every evening. If I could find him, and kill him, or at least catch him, and could show Granger and prove to myself that she was safe from him—it was possible that I could be away from her (it wasn't logical, but it seemed to make sense to me regardless—though the part about leaving Granger still felt impossible). Furthermore, I couldn't escape the feeling that a breakthrough was just out of my reach, a glimmering snitch I was chasing, a second too late.
Part of me wished I had a more complete testimony from Granger—the file included my recollections of the story she'd told in the hospital, sparsely detailed, and the shreds she'd told me or let slip since. Another part of me wanted nothing less than to ask her for it…or to listen to it.
I ignored the guests and they ignored me as I spun the wheels of my mind in circles of frustration. They had moved to Granger's room at some point, door open, I realized, as a raucous round of laughter burst into my thoughts, causing me to glance at my watch and realize that it had been several hours since my fork had scraped the last remnants of my lunch from the plate. I looked outside to see that the sun was well past its highest point, where I'd last noticed it, and was streaming from behind orange-tinged leaves.
I rose, closed the file, stretched, and stepped through the front room, past Granger's open door and into the kitchen.
"And I told George I didn't mind, but he still looks so guilty every time he asks…" the redhead's voice floated out, exasperated.
"He almost never asks me," her brother responded glumly.
I stared out the window over the sing as Granger and Potter offered the Weasleys encouragement and advice on their apparently reluctant brother.
They were strange, these people, with their genuine, unfettered conversation and their heavy level of involvement in one another's lives. It seemed utterly exhausting.
Maybe all heavy involvement isn't exhausting, an annoying voice in my head piped in. Maybe just the kind you're used to.
My self-reflection was cut across by Potter's voice, which had interrupted the lull in conversation.
"Hermione, your birthday's in a week." I turned my head to listen better; I hadn't known this.
"Yes Harry, I'm aware."
"Of course you are, Hermione, you're aware of everything. My point, however, was that you should come to the Weasleys."
"Mum wants a celebration, Hermione! Your 21st isn't nothing, you know," Weasel chimed in.
"We could all go, everyone would be there, it'd be lovely. They haven't seen you in ages," the other girl pleaded.
"You're all sweet, but I don't think so. There's no chance I could leave Malfoy for that long, and to ask him to come…it doesn't seem fair, he hasn't seen his friends at all."
"It's your birthday, not his. He can see his friends on his birthday…assuming, that is, that he was actually born, and not spawned from a cauldron…" I might have gone in and cursed Weasley, if a grunting sound shortly following hadn't suggested that Granger had hit him, to the snickering of Potter and his girlfriend.
"Are you even planning on seeing your parents?" Potter continued.
"Not unless Malfoy wants to meet them…and I think it may be best if he doesn't."
"Hermione, then come to the Burrow. It won't be horrible for him, and it's your birthday."
"It's very sweet of you, Harry, but I don't think I can."
I turned away (feeling the slightest twinge of guilt) and left the kitchen, sitting once again in my chair. I most certainly did not want to visit the Burrow, or meet Granger's parents. But it was obvious that Granger wanted to, and the humanity in me knew that she shouldn't have to spend her whole birthday alone with her boss, who hadn't even known it was her birthday more than a week in advance. The important thing to consider, though, was her safety.
XXXXXX
My three best friends had spent nearly 8 hours with me and I could not have imagined a better day. Unfortunately, they had to leave eventually.
I led the three of them to the door, and we said our goodbyes. Malfoy was watching as carefully as ever from his chair.
"Hermione, you should come to the Burrow next Saturday," Harry said abruptly.
I glared at him: he knew exactly what he was doing, bringing this up in front of Malfoy. He didn't falter under my angry stare, and returned it with an defiantly innocent look\
"I suppose we'll see," I said with gritted teeth.
"Hermione, he's not giving up on this one," Ginny smiled. "You know how he gets when he fixates."
I did indeed. I suddenly thought of his "Malfoy is a Death Eater" theory that had become his obsession in sixth year—though in fairness, that had turned out to be rather true. The skin on the back of my neck prickled at that reminder. I stopped myself from turning round to look, but I wondered if the Dark Mark would be visible on Malfoy's arm, were it uncovered.
Draco Malfoy used to want me dead.
It wasn't as though I hadn't remembered Malfoy's past until this moment, I certainly had. It was the first time since…Malfoy had moved in, however, that I specifically thought of the way that Malfoy had wanted me dead on blood status alone, and a lot more so on his personal hatred for me.
I did my best to shake off the thought, but I had apparently been frozen in thought for a few seconds too many.
"Hermione?" Ron asked carefully. I snapped my head in his direction.
"Sorry, I'm fine," I said. A shadow closed in from behind, and I jumped.
"Granger…"
It was just Malfoy. I turned in his direction, his expression more concerned than Ron's.
"Sorry, lost in thought," I said to everyone, smiling.
"We're used to it," Ron said dryly. Harry and Ginny laughed, but Malfoy remained immediately behind me, silent.
I felt intensely awkward, an unfortunate change from the previous part of the day.
"Well," I said, swallowing, "I'll talk to you all later. Thanks for today—er, thanks for coming today, I mean…."
"See you next Saturday, then?" Harry asked maddeningly.
"Bye, Harry," I said pointedly before kissing the boys on the cheek, and hugging Ginny.
After our short goodbye, I closed the door and turned toward Malfoy, twisting my hands inside each other.
He looked taller, somehow, his face unreadable, and I suppressed the urge to go straight into my room and shut the door.
And Merlin, he was looking at me for such a long time, it seemed, that I may have trembled slightly.
"What's wrong?" he asked finally. Had his voice gotten deeper?
"Nothing," I said softly. I was being silly—of course Malfoy wouldn't hurt me now, I knew that…but he had before, hasn't he? For sport, even? This was such a strange moment, such a complete twist on our confrontation and my realizations from the day of my first case.
"You're lying," he said, cocking his head. "You're afraid."
How did he know that?
"No I'm not," I said, like a child.
"Granger, I know you are, so forget about denying it." He took a step toward me, looking concerned. And I held my ground, fighting my desire to take a step back. We were now less than two feet apart. "What happened, did you think about…the attack?" He finished the question with a terse grimace.
"No," I said, willing my mind to come up with an alternate explanation as to what had actually rattled me, but for once, it was blank.
"Did something happen with Potter and company?" He placed his hand on my upper arm (probably unconsciously). I remained perfectly still.
"No," I whispered, suddenly unable to break contact with his pale eyes.
Hermione, stop it! I screamed at myself in my head. He saved you, remember? Forget about the past! Aside from wanting to avoid the conversation, I didn't like the idea of what Malfoy would do if he'd known that he was what had frightened me, even if it was his past self that had offended.
Before, when he had frightened me doing what he believed was necessary to keep me safe, would likely be different than frightening me because he used to…
My newly incredibly unhelpful brain reminded me, abruptly, of running haphazardly through a forest in the middle of the night under a glittering skull, years ago, and coming across a scarily calm Malfoy. 'Granger, they're after Muggles…do you want to be showing off your knickers in midair?….it'd give us all a laugh.'
For obvious reasons, that particular insult from Malfoy—one I hadn't thought of in years—took on new meaning.
Unable to help myself, I wrenched my arm out of his hand.
XXXXXX
Granger had begun acting strangely when she was saying goodbye to the Gryffindor Gang, and was only becoming more inscrutable. She refused to admit even that she was upset, let alone tell me why, and it was frustrating, especially given the increasing candor we'd been sharing.
She defiantly held my gaze, but didn't say a word. Without warning, she pulled her arm out of my grip.
This was troubling, to say the least. Was she having some sort of flashback? Why wouldn't she tell me about it?
"I'm sorry, I need—" she began, but seemed to lose the rest of the sentence in her throat. She cleared it, and then croaked, "a minute." She turned around and took heaving breaths, apparently trying to calm herself.
"Can I…do something?" I asked, after a few moments. I felt entirely too helpless. She seemed to be shaking slightly, and that realization felt like a white-hot knife to the gut.
She turned. "Do you still have it?" I was at a loss as to what she meant, and then I noticed her stare fixed on my left forearm.
I almost vomited.
"It's faint, but…yes, it's there," I said, hollowly.
Something reminded her of my Death Eater days…I didn't know what, and I wasn't sure I wanted to, but it was me causing her this anxiety I was witnessing.
But she already knew! I thought, perplexed. It wasn't a surprise! I seemed to want to defend myself. I tried my best to think what it was that was affecting her so strongly—frustrated all the more by the thought that Granger would have figured it out by now, if she were me…her PI skills were already sharper than mine.
"Granger, I…" I wanted to touch her so badly, to reassure her that I was no longer the awful little shit I was once, but I was afraid I'd scare her further. Instead, I said,
"Please tell me."
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," I said evenly, nodding.
She ducked her head and stared at the floor. "I was just thinking about…the time when at, er, well after the world cup, when…" she took a deep breath and bean speaking very fast. "Whenwewereintheforestafterth edarkmark."
I remembered the encounter, but I couldn't remember exactly what I'd said or done—but obviously Granger could, because she was Granger. Fuck.
I had to ask. "What did I…I mean, what exactly about that particular memory is bothering you now?"
Suddenly, her demeanor changed. She shook her head violently, hair swinging everywhere, and smiled. Odd girl.
"It doesn't matter," she said, still smiling. "I was being ridiculous, you wouldn't hurt me now and you clearly don't feel the same way about what constitutes a good laugh."
She appeared to have shaken off whatever was bothering her—leaving me to once again marvel at the strange enigma that was Granger—particularly, in this instance her strength.
After this cryptic change of heart, I was quite surprised to have her quickly close the distance between us and wrap her arms around me. I blew her hair out of my face and wrapped my arms around her in return, feeling my insides sing.
"I'm sorry," she muttered into my shoulder.
"Don't be," I said, placing my hand on the back of her head. "I'm sorry for whatever it was that I-" I started, but she shook her head violently against me in the middle of it, so I trailed off.
Granger just hugged me without my asking. She wanted to do that.
I couldn't tell exactly what it was about it that had made me so buoyant, but I stayed still in that moment, trying to retain it for as long as possible. Whatever I might have said to Granger six years ago was completely gone from my mind. She finally began to back away, and I felt slightly hollow. I busied myself with trying to pretend she wasn't incredibly attractive in that moment—her cheeks pink and eyes wide but lips twisted in a bashful smile.
Fucking Phenomenon is doing this to you, Draco, it isn't you, I reminded myself loudly in my mind.
"I should…" she cleared her throat, and pointed to somewhere behind me.
I felt undeniable pride that Granger had been rendered speechless by our encounter, but as she tried to walk past me, I didn't want to let her leave that way.
"Wait," I said suddenly, and with no thought on the matter.
"Yes?"
"Next week, your birthday? You, that is, we…we can go. To the Weasleys'." I finished my completely inelegant interjection with a shrug.
She looked at me like she was wary of a practical joke. "…What?"
"I know I'm playing into Potter's hands here, because that's what his obvious hints were aiming at, but…it's still your birthday, Granger, we can go."
"Really?" she asked, as if she was afraid to believe me.
I smirked, but nodded.
She promptly jumped at me again, initiating another hug.
"Besides...I can always burn that outfit when we get home," I said, feeling the need to inject my usual snark into this somewhat overly-saccharine moment.
She pulled back, unsmiling, and flicked my cheek, but then leaned forward into my collarbone again.
I smirked, moved Granger's hair out of my face, and tried to pretend that this second hug wasn't the reason I'd agreed to go all along.
Hope that wasn't too sugary for you...please review! Even just a smiley/frowny face would be appreciated!