A/N: HI!!! OMG, I'M ALIVE!!! And instead of studying for APs I'm working on this story! The plot, as they say, is beginning to congeal. Or thicken, whichever you prefer. I hope you enjoy this chapter, more to come soon. See if you can guess the direction we're heading in.... SORRY FOR THE WAIT!!! I LOVE YOU GUYS SO, SO, SO MUCH!! Thank you for all your awesome and kind reviews!! They inspire me and help me get started when I hit a dead end in the plot!
Also, on a side note, I've realized that fanfiction has been deleting my "chapter breaks." So in this chapter I've finally started to indicate the breaks using "8888888." Hope that hasn't been too confusing in the past. I'm going to start fixing it chapter by chapter. And without further ado!:
The Travesty of Human Fallibility
She was lazing with Harry in her apartment, lying on the sofa with a large mug of tea, chatting idly. He had put on some jazz music, and her speakers played it softly in the background. Ophelia was at Harry's, supervised by Ginny and playing with their kids, and Hermione and Harry had taken the chance to talk.
Harry sat across the coffee table from her, on the floor, his head leaned back against the chair. "Have you heard how Ron's doing recently?" He asked.
"I haven't," Hermione confessed. "I need to ask Luna. I think that we can visit him soon, though, and hopefully we'll be able to see."
Harry shook his head sadly. "Yeah." They were both silent for a bit. "Hey," he said suddenly, lifting his head up. "I've been meaning to ask you for a while. You've been really distant lately—is everything okay with you?"
Hermione blushed, then paled. "I," she searched frantically for something that was not quite a lie.
"Can I help you with anything, anything at all?" Harry asked, and his sincerity made Hermione squirm.
"No, it's just—work—some people—you know," she stammered, trying to be as honest as possible.
"I could talk to Malfoy," Harry offered, and Hermione blanched.
"Who said anything about Malfoy?" She demanded, slightly sharply.
"Oh, I just thought maybe he was riding you hard about funding or something."
Hermione practically squeaked at his word choice. "I can handle Malfoy just fine on my own, thanks. I've managed so far." She ignored Harry's dubious look. "I'm going to go get some more tea—can I get you anything?"
She wasn't sure why she was avoiding the question. She was merely embarrassed about the fact that she'd stormed in to his office and childishly screamed insults at him, that was all.
Hermione came back in to the room. "He just—I don't even know, Harry, but I can't control myself when he gives me that horribly annoying smirk." Harry laughed, a deep guffaw, and Hermione eyed him tartly. "Glad you find my trials so amusing."
"No, I just—the way you phrased it was sort of odd, that's all."
"It's true!" Hermione insisted, her voice taking on the nasal quality of one who is fruitlessly trying to convince others.
"What, that he makes your, and I quote, 'blood boil passionately?'"
Hermione threw a pillow at him. "Harry Potter! I said no such thing! Stop joking about this, it's a serious issue."
"It's a serious issue!" Harry mimicked, but raised his hands, laughing, to ward off further pillows. "Joking, joking, keep your knickers on."
"You had better be," Hermione huffed.
"You've got to admit, though," Harry said after a pause. "He's not a bad looking bloke."
Hermione choked and made a fake retching noise. "I refuse to discuss this matter further," she said primly, getting up. "That is," she said slyly, looking over her shoulder at Harry, "unless you have something you'd like to tell me?"
It was Harry's turn to choke on his tea. "Gods, no—Me!?" He stopped for a minute, then exclaimed. "And—Malfoy!?"
Hermione couldn't stop laughing for the rest of the night.
But she also couldn't stop thinking of the frustrating mental picture that Harry's words had brought up. That of her, on a balcony, in a soft silky dress that hugged her perfectly, and a pair of deep, dark, unreadable grey eyes.
888888888
Malfoy was cooling his heels at home, trying not to worry about his mother. He had called up a few friends and specialists, and had found some sort of program that was not directly connected to St. Mungos. Although it was allegedly based on some muggle method called "rehabilitation treatment" it sounded to him like the real deal. Narcissa would go away for a few weeks, maybe a month or two, he could visit her occasionally, and then when she came home she would be fixed.
Really, it was an excellent plan.
All he needed to do now was gain Grey's approval. Deciding thus, he hunkered down to the fireplace, grabbed a handful of floo powder, and stuck his head in, bellowing "Grey Manor!"
He appeared in the familiar vaulted marble room Grey called his "study." Lined with beautiful mahogany bookshelves full of leather-bound books, with huge windows, it was more palatial than cozy, but Grey liked the space.
"HERB!" Draco shouted, his disembodied voice ringing through the vast room.
"Coming, coming, coming," someone called, and soon a rumpled figure emerged from behind a bookshelf, precariously balancing a stack of tomes. "Ah, Draco. How are you holding up? Please, come in, come over, make yourself at home."
"Can't right now, I've got to get working on something. I just need your approval."
"What for?"
Draco passed through the parchment on which he had written most of the details. "Found a sort of recovery program for mother. It's headed by a girl I knew in school—bit mad, but the location's pretty remote and it seems like a fairly private program."
Grey nodded, absently running a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. "Hmm, get her out of the public eye, yes, ah, based on the muggle concept. I think this would work well. How often are you allowed to visit?"
"I think every few weeks," Draco replied. "Not too often, because they want the guests to be pretty independent."
"Well, you certainly have my approval. When is Narcissa safe to leave the hospital?"
Draco smiled at this. "They flooed me today. I was going to pick her up this afternoon."
"Fabulous!" Grey also grinned. "But don't you have work? Let me pick her up, I'd be happy to set her up at Thompson's."
"Are you sure you don't mind?"
"Not at all," Grey assured him, and the matter was decided.
"I'll visit her in a few weeks," Draco said, idly wondering why Grey was so eager to pick up his mother. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth or anything, but he'd always thought of Grey as his and his father's friend, rather than his mother.
He returned to his own study, and finished signing and filling out all the necessary paperwork. He attached the thick envelope—with billing instructions, the place was devilishly expensive, naturally—to his beautiful eagle owl, Iris.
"There's a girl," he cooed, uncharacteristically gentle, as he set her on the window sill. She cocked her head at him after a peek outside. The weather was bleak and grey, not a day he envied her to fly in. "C'mon, do it for mother." With a last reluctant glance (if owls could roll their eyes, he had no doubt he'd be in for it right now,) she departed, leaving him completely alone.
He idled about for a while, contemplated doing some work, dismissed that idea, made a mess for the house elves to clean up, and then decided to get out and do some shopping. He was running low on some potion ingredients.
"The fact that this is a normal time for people to do shopping has nothing to do with it," he carefully explained to the room at large. "I am absolutely not hoping to see anyone in Diagon Alley."
8888888888
She wasn't sure why she'd done it before. Obviously it had been because she was drunk, probably it'd had something to do with the fact that he had a flawless, masculine beauty, and possibly she had enjoyed his advances—his kisses and caresses, so soft and delicate.
But standing stock-still in an out of the way corner of Diagon Alley, holding Ophelia's hand with a white-knuckled grip, and watching the passerbys—one of whom happened to be Draco Malfoy—Hermione suddenly knew, with a little tingle of disgust or desire that ran down her spine and pooled in her stomach, that she would do it again.
He moved with the self-assurance of a dancer, flowing from one step to the next. His coordination was impeccable, his awareness flawless, and he wove effortlessly through the crowded street, never bumping or brushing and yet also somehow managing never to stop, or step aside. Perhaps it was the arrogant set of his shoulders, or the haughty way he would flick his eyes down, just so.
And then, just as Hermione Granger reached a shocking realization that very nearly sent her reeling, those startlingly gray eyes performed their trademark flick—and landed on the confused face containing a pair of eyes of (he rather privately thought) a matchless, depthless brown.
A sharp gasp—the breath hovered on her lips. He tipped his fedora, an acknowledgement. And then she narrowed her too-wide eyes, sent him a death glare to rival all death glares, and whipped around, pulling Ophelia along behind her. He paused, momentarily, observing her tactical retreat.
Then he smirked.
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Harry stood alone in the hallway. Hermione had been unable to come, Ginny had refused. So it was only him, Ron's oldest and best friend, who was willing to see what kind of progress Ron had made.
Luna came to greet him in person. Her hair—still long and blonde—was loose, forming a sort of soft halo around her. Her eyes and voice were as dreamy as ever, but something about her constancy in the world of uncertainty was oddly reassuring.
"Hello Harry," she said, smiling. "Are you ready to see him?"
Harry resisted the urge to gulp and sound nervous. "Yeah, yeah I am. How's he doing?"
"Very well. He was…unwilling…to really commit to the program at first, but he's really improved. He's started to socialize with some of the other patients during group therapy sessions, and he starts his one-on-one counseling tomorrow."
"Oh, um, that's great Luna, that's really really great," Harry sputtered awkwardly. "Who will, uh, who will his personal therapist be?"
She turned her large eyes upon him. "Me, of course. I try and take as many of the inmates as possible." They had reached a door. "This is his room." She knocked brusquely on the grey door, calling "Ron! You're guest is here!" in a tone that Harry had never heard Luna use before.
"Coming!" Someone called, and the door opened, revealing a small-ish room with a bed and desk, and a couple Chudley Cannons posters that had somehow made the move with Ron.
Harry drank in the sight of him—he looked better than he had in years. The dark bags under his eyes were gone, his hair was combed, and the furrow in his brow that Hermione had fretted would become permanent seemed to have erased itself overnight. Ron gave him a lopsided grin, and then they awkwardly embraced, slapping each other on the back so as to preserve their dignity.
"Good to see you, Ron," Harry said gruffly. "You look great."
"Thanks for coming man," Ron replied, and everything was alright between them.
"I'll see you in an hour or two, Harry," Luna bid them goodbye, wandering off down the corridor.
Ron jerked his head toward her and smiled. "Still every bit as crazy as she ever was," he said fondly.
Harry grinned. "Some things never change."
"Yeah," Ron said absently, ushering him inside. He patted the bed, pulling out the desk chair. "Here, have a seat. Hey—you'll never guess who else is here!"
Harry inclined his head curiously. "Yeah?"
"Narcissa Malfoy! Apparently she had some big collapse or something. I've had a few group sessions with her, she's pretty quiet."
"Whew," Harry whistled. "I had no idea Malfoy was having problems at home…"
"What, are you guys all chummy now?"
"Shut up." Harry gave Ron a good-natured shove. "Enough about the git, anyway. How're you doing?"
"I'm doing well," Ron said hesitantly. "Some of the people here are pretty nuts, and some of them are just kind of normal, cool people. There's one guy, Luke, he's nice. Luna's nice, Narcissa's not horrible… I'm surviving."
"Good to hear. Hermione and Ginny're worried sick about you."
"Obviously not that worried. Couldn't be bothered to come, could they?"
"You know that's not true."
Their eyes met, and it was Ron who looked away first. He let out a breath. "I know… It's just tough being locked away in here. Makes you wonder who your real friends are… You know?"
Harry clapped him on the shoulder. "You're a decent guy, Ron," he said. "We're all behind you, no matter what, and you should understand that."
Ron smirked, a spark of his old humor lighting up his eyes, turning them from grey to clear, azure blue. "Only decent?" He quipped.
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Harry was walking down the hallway he entered, feeling like a large weight had been lifted off his chest, when it was abruptly replaced.
"Potter!" Someone called behind him, and he whirled around to find a surprised looking Draco Malfoy standing a few feet behind him.
"Malfoy," he responded neutrally. "What brings you here?"
"As Weasley has no doubt told you, my mother is also a patient here." Malfoy took a few steps forward. His voice had been cool, but held none of the usual malice, so Harry did not step back. "Look, Potter, you're actually just the person I wanted to see."
Harry blinked. "I am?"
"You see," Malfoy took another step forward, and lowered his voice slightly. He was looking at Harry intently, as if trying to judge what his reaction would be. "I need to ask you a favor."
"I'm not sure I'll be able to help you. And I'm not sure if I want to," Harry said honestly.
"And I don't blame you for that. It's just—well, this is about Hermione."
Harry stiffened, and Malfoy's face hardened ever so slightly. "What about Hermione?"
"She won't speak to me."
"You're not exactly her favorite person right now. If you ever were."
Malfoy barked a laugh. "That's the understatement of the year."
"What I don't understand," Harry began, and then corrected himself. "One of the many things regarding this situation that I am currently confused about," he said, "is why you're approaching me about it. I don't have any reason to like you any more than she does."
"I was hoping that you'd be a little more rational than her, and listen to what I have to say."
There was a long moment of silence, during which Harry eyed Malfoy seriously. Abruptly, he seemed to realize that they were standing in the corridor of a mental hospital. "Alright," he said shortly, and began to walk. "Where are you headed?"
"Not important, I'll walk with you," Malfoy said, matching his long-legged strides to Harry's. They exited the ward together, and when they were on the street, Harry looked at Malfoy.
"Talk."
"I don't want to take the baby." Harry stopped abruptly, turning to look Malfoy directly in the face.
"Good," he said finally. "That child is the most important thing in the world to her."
"I realize that. I…insinuated some things that I shouldn't have… She… makes me very…irrational."
Harry snorted. "Irrational doesn't even begin to cover the way you've behaved toward her."
"I realize that. And… I want to make it up to her."
"Look, Malfoy," Harry said harshly. "I don't know what game you're playing, but it's time you left Hermione out of it. Don't you think you've made her miserable enough?"
"Just—"
"No, I know what you want. You're here to ask me to be your advocate, to tell Hermione to give you a chance. Why? Why should I? You have been nothing but awful to her, to me, to Ron. You were miserable in school and not a hell of a lot better afterwards. I'm not the type to hold grudges for schoolboy games but you've never done anything to attempt to redeem yourself."
"You're right. I know. Yet here I am, asking for a chance." He paused, and then looked at Harry. "I know we're not friends. But I'm asking you as a friend might. Please."
"Why?"
"I don't—just. Please."
Harry had never seen the other man look so desperate and wild. He was still Malfoy, his hair was still impeccable, his clothes aligned and probably more expensive than Harry could even guess. But there was something about his eyes. Harry suddenly smiled. "Can't say it, can you?"
"What?"
"Nevermind." He shook his head abruptly, as if to clear it. "Listen up, Malfoy, and listen good. You've taken advantage of Hermione, twice, and forced her to do things against her will. I'll talk to her for you, because I'm somehow convinced that you're a halfway decent guy, and there's more to the relationship between you two than either of you is letting on. But if there's a third time—Merlin forbid I see your face again."
Malfoy smiled then, a huge grin that reached his eyes. "You won't regret this, Potter, you won't."
Harry shook his head again, nodded to Malfoy, and dissapparated.
