Hello :) Everlasting thanks to LightofEvolution, In Dreams, Mcal, and to everyone reading. Reviews are a blessing and I hope you are all doing well
After Draco leaves Hermione, he isn't sure where to go. Perhaps it's some old habit dying hard, maybe it's a longing for the only person left in Britain (besides Hermione) that cares for him, but he finds himself landing in Wiltshire, just outside the Manor gates.
There is a small amount of property between the Apparition line and the Muggle repelling charms and security wards that protect the gate. He pops back into existence with the ability to leave before anyone would know he's been here, the gate being the line that signifies guests to the house. But where the fuck would he go? Draco can't think clearly.
Part of him is ready to march through the gates and present his blood to the earth, taking ownership and feeling like he has control over his life.
Part of him, however, is thinking that he could still run if he wants to. He may have signed with the Ministry, but nothing is binding him to the land. He could leave all of it. Take what he has left of his galleons and make for the other side of the world.
The largest part of him knows that while he has to stay, for his parents if nothing else, the end result will hardly be the future he once envisioned. Instead, he can now imagine a life he doesn't like, virtually trapped in the manor with Lucius and Narcissa, three aging Malfoys eating alone in their huge dining room that seats fifteen, all the other chairs left empty. He can clearly see lonely days and solitary nights, passing his mother in a corridor with a polite nod, walking past his father's office door, always closed, never inviting. He imagines years will pass, and he will grow in anger and regret. His parents will expire in the house, likely after years of feeble existence and need for constant care, until, finally, Draco is left alone. No heir, no wife, no one to mourn him, and the Malfoy family will die anyway, the Sacred Twenty Eight down another line.
Of course, he knows he has choices. He could go back to Hermione right now and let her apologize and accept it without hesitation. Perhaps it's more than he deserves. As his ire cools, Draco is fully aware that he probably has no right to be angry… Not at anyone, but especially her. Though he knows that, it doesn't seem to soothe the hurt.
Nor the utter surprise. Hermione is the strongest, boldest witch he's ever known. If even she cannot face his demons at his side, it diminishes much of what little hope he has harboured in the past weeks.
With a sigh, Draco squares his shoulders and takes a breath. At the least, he has to go back to Grimmauld. Hermione will be worried for Benedick if he does not. Regardless that he feels nearly betrayed, he won't punish her in that way.
He takes one last look at the gates, knowing he will be back here soon enough, and Apparates back to Grimmauld. Back to her.
XXXXXXXX
Hermione makes her way home in a daze. She Apparates, though she hardly remembers it, and finds herself standing in Harry's foyer, trying to wrap her mind around what just happened. Draco's face when she had faltered…
She had known, of course, that Wizarding Britain has been less than forgiving of any former Death Eaters and supporters. But after these weeks, getting to know him as she has, Hermione doesn't see him as anything more than Draco. It wasn't until she was confronted with presenting him to the Weasleys, a family still reeling from the effects of war, that she considered what his presence might mean.
Harry finds her soon enough, standing there, shell-shocked as she is. He's searching low to the ground as he begins to speak before looking at her distressed face.
"Hermione, I haven't seen Benedick, and he's always here for dinner-... What's happened?"
She looks up, blinking. She tries to speak, but she can't quite figure out what she will say. It all sounds so silly, so banal.. 'I had a fight with my boyfriend' doesn't seem to capture the weight of it.
"I… Draco…"
"What did he do?" Harry is on her in a moment, hands laid gently on her shoulders and eyes searching hers. She shakes her head, a weak denial.
"Nothing… It was me."
"You?" He seems genuinely surprised, and she loves him for it, as if Hermione Granger is incapable of hurting anyone.
"I was thoughtless." She looks back at him, unable to explain beyond that, and takes a deep breath. "I need to go change, alright?"
Harry steps away, allowing her to escape. "Come back down when you can? I'll make something to eat, and we can talk about it."
She agrees and makes her way to the stairs. After plodding slowly up the steps, she enters her bedroom to find Benedick sneaking in the window. With a soft and sad smile, she sniffles and crosses the room. "Hello, darling." Picking him up, she holds him close, but finds that he is a bit stiff momentarily. She hopes he hasn't had a run in with any animals outside.
Benedick relaxes a bit as she starts to put him down. "Just a moment, and I'll get you something to eat."
With that, she selects the first cotton pyjamas she finds and changes out of her restrictive office wear. One last look in the mirror, and she exits the en suite to find Benedick watching the window. "Something interesting out there?" He doesn't react and she picks him up again to carry downstairs.
In the kitchen, Harry is throwing together sandwiches and looks up as she enters. "Oh, you found him."
"I did," she says fondly, scratching at the marten's head. "He was just coming home."
"Strange," he mutters, and selects a piece of turkey from a plate. He walks closer, and holds it out to her familiar. After a moment of hesitation, Benedick takes the piece. "He's always home when I get here."
Hermione isn't sure how to respond, so she shrugs and then places Benedick on the ground by his shallow bowl. "Do you have enough of that to give him a bit more?" she asks, gesturing to the turkey.
"You spoil him," Harry mutters. Hermione grins softly, knowing he does just the same.
She watches him place a bit of turkey in his dish. Benedick slowly takes a bite, seeming a bit less eager than usual. She hopes he's feeling alright.
Bringing the two plates to the table, Harry sits and gestures that she do the same before diving right in. "So what happened?"
Hermione lowers her head a bit, letting out a sigh before she speaks. "Percy invited us to the Burrow this weekend."
"Right. I suppose Malfoy couldn't be bothered? Not willing to mix with the riff raff?"
"Not at all," she denies. "He seemed willing. Not excited exactly, but willing."
Harry snorts a bit, amused and slightly disbelieving. "I may have to give him more credit, then. So what's the problem?"
Hermione tries to find the words, not sure herself what exactly was the issue. She's certainly not ashamed of him.
"I guess I thought maybe it was too soon. It will be hard on the family, facing someone with the Mark, you know? Maybe… I guess I thought I should make sure we're going somewhere before I put everyone through all that."
Her friend lets out a low whistle, and Hermione closes her eyes hard, understanding exactly what that sound means. She messed up, and Harry Potter is about to tell her about it.
"So if you're not sure things are serious enough to bring him 'round to your sort-of family, you don't think he would take that to mean that you're not serious?"
She immediately denies the assertion. "But I am! Harry, I really am. I'm completely in love with the bastard." She shoots to her feet, beginning to pace. "Don't ask me how or why, Merlin knows I have no idea, but I am! And the worst part? I think he really cares about me, too. Against everything, his family, his upbringing… This isn't just some fling for me. Why on earth did I hesitate? For Molly bloody Weasley? As if she's ever hesitated where my feelings are concerned. It certainly can't be to protect Ron, prancing around with Lavender under my nose."
She's building into a right tear, frothing up quite nicely.
"And you know what else?!" she nearly screeches. "It doesn't matter what anyone thinks except for me, and I think he's bleeding wonderful!"
Hermione stops pacing to find Harry watching her with wide eyes. "I need to send him an owl. I refuse to let this misunderstanding drag into some melodrama. I'm going to owl him and ask him to meet me tomorrow so I can apologize properly. He stood up to his father for me, Harry. His family. I'm a complete idiot if I can't do the same for him."
She brushes her lips over Harry's cheek, muttering a distracted, "Thanks for listening," and makes her way to her room to compose a contrite letter.
Somewhere in the middle, Benedick comes poking into her room, seeming to glance over the paper. When she's done, she takes the message downstairs and asks Harry if he would mind terribly sending it off. He doesn't hesitate, dear friend that he is, and Hermione returns to her room with her familiar cuddled in her arms.
She feels exhausted, the evening early, but yet feeling like she's been awake for days. Readying herself for bed, she collapses under her duvet, grabbing Benedick and pulling him close. "I know you like to roam, but maybe don't go quite yet," she whispers into his fur. "Keep me company until I fall asleep, darling?" She strokes his back, and he settles in beside her, turning his head so his nose is pressed against her cheek.
"He'll forgive me, right?" she mumbles, sleepy and a little sad. "I'm not perfect, after all."
With a sigh, on the cusp of her mind drifting away, she adds in a soft, sleep-slurred voice. "I'd forgive him. I hope he loves me that much."
She doesn't feel it when the marten slips away, nor does she hear when the window squeaks upward and her familiar slips off into the night.
XXXXXXXXXXX
Of course he's going to forgive her. Fuck, he's been lying to her about being her fucking pet for weeks. What right does he have to be offended? To be hurt? She's been utterly forgiving, and he's been a duplicitous cunt. He doesn't even want her to apologize now. He's heard more than enough, more than he deserves. He certainly doesn't deserve an apology, and he plans to tell her that post haste.
Draco makes his way to the owl post to collect her message. He watched her write it; knows exactly what it says. He thanks Harold absently and tosses a couple of coins on the counter.
He opens it carefully, finding her familiar scrawl within. There, the words he watched her write. Draco skims them to refresh his memory and formulates a response.
Harold scuttles around, making appearances at being terribly busy and not looking over Draco's shoulder with every pass. Ignoring the man, he pens a simple response, accepting her invitation and including his own apology from his abrupt departure earlier that day.
"Please have this arrive at eight in the morning, if you would." He throws in an extra coin for the specific request.
Harold pockets it, patting it as he agrees, and Draco nods his departure.
What he should do, he would suppose, is return to Grimmauld and curl up for some sleep, but he finds more guilt than usual at the idea. How can he cuddle up with her as she's lying there feeling wretched in regards to him? Over what? His petty hurt feelings? Walking the quiet streets outside the post, Draco squeezes his eyes closed and rubs his fingertips across his forehead.
In the end, he does return home but scuttles through her room and out her door into the house proper as she sleeps. There's a particular chair in the parlour of which he's quite fond. Heavily carved wooden legs and arms, back brocade with a scene of two lovers, it is time worn, almost a hundred years old. His mother has mentioned the chair in passing. A courting gift, she had said, from her uncle Orion to Walburga. In truth, Narcissa had confided to a young Draco, Orion had it made for a different witch, but she denied his suit. When Arcturus Black negotiated the betrothal to Walburga, Orion gifted it instead to her.
And all that interesting family history aside, it's incredibly comfortable. Draco suspects Cushioning Charms to be imbued into the seat.
Quietly, he creeps through the house, listening for sounds of Potter and finding none, before curling up in the seat of the chair and trying to quell his racing thoughts. His guilt and regret bubbling underneath agitation and nerves. He will refuse her apologies tomorrow. He will soothe her doubts. Draco doesn't need dinner with the Weasleys. It's not as if he had even wanted to attend. If all Hermione has to give is herself, it's more than enough.
Sleep is fitful and shallow, but it comes, and Draco fades in and out until morning light streams through the windows.
He stretches, arching his long, sleek back, tiny little claws digging into the upholstery. It is here that Potter finds him.
"Oi, not the chair!"
Draco is jarred by quick movement as Potter lifts him and deposits him on the floor. The tosser is running his hand over the fabric that had been Draco's very nice little bed.
"Shedding all over everything…" He's mumbling to himself, irritated. Potter seems dressed and ready for the day. Draco wonders after the time.
With a sigh, everyone's favourite wizarding savior turns his eyes downward to Draco. "Hungry, I suppose?"
Taking that as a cue, Draco trots himself into the kitchen. He is a bit, now that it's mentioned. He certainly won't turn down some fresh berries. They taste particularly sweet on his marten tongue, no cream required.
He hesitates in the doorway, finding Granger sitting there in mismatched pyjamas, a familiar parchment in her hand. After eight then, Draco can surmise.
"Oh, I didn't realize you were up." Potter has wandered in behind Draco and noticed Hermione as well.
She looks up with a moderately bright smile. "Morning, Harry. Oh! Benedick, there you are. Up early were we?"
Potter snorts. "Hardly. Lazy thing was asleep on Walburga's chair."
"I don't know why you even keep that thing. Garish monstrosity," she comments. Draco makes note; if their relationship survives the great marten debacle of '99, he will hire a decorator for their future home. That chair is a treasure, thanks.
"Post already arrived?" Potter comments absently as he goes about continuing what appeared to be breakfast preparation in the works, pulling berries from the pantry to add to the mix.
Her smile grows as she answers. "From Draco. He agreed to meet me today for lunch. Maybe I've not completely buggered this whole thing."
Her friend laughs, seeming surprised by her wry comment. "He'd be a fool not to forgive you. After everything? He's lucky to have you, and he must know it."
Her cheeks go a bit rosy, and she thanks him. "I don't get a free pass, though," she's quick to add. "He might not be perfect, but he's given everything for this relationship. He stayed in England, Harry. He wasn't even going to live here. Now look, hanging around a city that hates him, telling his father about us. If he is willing to go to the Weasleys, I shouldn't have been anything but grateful. Merlin, Harry, what if he's only meeting with me to tell me he's still angry? What if he ends things?" Her face has fallen, smile faded.
Draco fucking hates this. The last thing he wants is to listen to her berate herself when he wants nothing more than to kiss away her concerns and apologize for his reaction.
As she talks, Potter has done a lovely job of creating an artisan plate of various berries. He even includes a bit of egg from the scramble he is throwing together for himself and Hermione.
Laying two plates of eggs on the table, he sits and nudges Hermione's knee. "Here. Eat. Stop worrying. He says he's in love with you, yeah? You think he'll be so upset about Molly's over salted roast that he would give you up?" He smiles, and she answers with a watery laugh.
"She really does pack the salt in there, doesn't she?"
Turning the conversation to other things, Potter goes on about something Ministry related while Draco munches on his breakfast, zoning out and planning his lunch. He has so much he could say, that he should say, bitter confession sitting on his tongue.
When his plate is clean, he makes his way to Hermione's feet and leans against her calf. She always seems to take this as a sign to pick him up. Draco could use the assurance of her touch.
"All finished, darling?" She lifts him, as anticipated, and sets him across her thighs. Pinching a bit of egg, remnants from her own plate, she offers it to him, and Draco takes it gently from her fingers. Hermione coos at him, praising him for his manners and stroking his neck.
If something terrible were to happen, if he were to be trapped in the body of a weasel for the rest of his days, he could be somewhat sated in the arms of Hermione Granger. He nuzzles her, comforted by her presence as much as he is choking on his ever-present guilt.
Fuck him, he loves this witch. What the fuck is he doing?
"I'm going to get ready for the day, I suppose. What does one wear to a lunch date to beg forgiveness?" She grins at Potter, a bit more mirthful than before.
"Something cut low on the top and short on the bottom, I would imagine," he quips, and she laughs as she leaves the table, Draco still held tight to her chest.
XXXXXXXXX
Hermione is positively vibrating when she arrives at the designated restaurant for her lunch with Draco. Staring at the door, she smoothes her hands down her denims and adjusts the shoulders of her fitted blue top. She went for simple with her attire, as if this is just an ordinary day. She hopes by the end of this conversation, it is.
Stepping into the space, her eyes scan and find Draco waiting for her, two water glasses sweating onto the table, a cup and saucer set at each place setting. He catches sight of her immediately and stands in greeting. Ever the gentleman, her pureblood wizard. She can't help but smile at him, elated when it's returned.
"Draco… Thank you so much for making time for me today. I am so so-"
"Stop, please." He has lifted his hand to request silence and gestures to the booth beside them. They are tucked back in the corner, and Hermione is grateful for the privacy. She takes her seat only to be nudged over when Draco sits beside her rather than across. She takes that as a good sign.
"Please, don't. I know you think you're here to apologize, but I won't hear it." Her heart plummets momentarily, hurt and confused, but he doesn't leave her floundering. "You never need to apologize to me. You had every right to hesitate, and you're right. I highly doubt the Weasleys would be thrilled to see me-"
"That's hardly the point," she interrupts. "Lucius Malfoy, I imagine, was less than thrilled about me, yet you still told him about us. You should expect the same courtesy from me."
He shakes his head at her, and she notices for the first time a bit of sorrow behind his eyes. "You don't owe me anything. And definitely," he says quickly as she tries to interject, "not an apology." He searches her eyes, and Hermione feels he isn't finished. For once, she holds her tongue.
"I love you, Granger. Nothing changes that. I'm just hoping you can always say the same."
She nods emphatically, hands reaching for him and settling on his chest. "Of course, I can. But, Draco, you're making this way too easy on me. You deserve an apology and I am sorry," she rushes out before he can stop her. "So you might as well forgive me because to decline it would be terribly rude." She sits tall and gives a firm nod. So there, her expression says. It's a petulant apology, and it tricks him into a grin.
"I'll forgive you anything," he says grandly, then falters. "Anything at all. Fuck, you deserve better than me. I wish I could…" She watches him trail off, warring with himself. Likely, his mind has drifted to whatever slight he has in his past, but now isn't the time for that. Today was her day for contrition, and she'll be damned if he makes it about whatever petty grievance he feels she should have.
She kisses him, leaning close and pressing her lips to his. Hermione is a bit horrified with herself when she feels her eye water and a tear slip down her cheek. When he pulls away, he sweeps it up with his thumb.
"None of that," he says softly, and she smiles at the kindness on his usually stoic face.
"I ordered you some tea," he tells her, and she looks down, chuckling in that broken way of nearly a sob.
"You're good to me," she says and means it, but finds him pensive when she looks to him for response.
"I'll be better," he says. "Someday, I promise, I'll be anything you want."
It's heavy, the air stifling, and she refuses to look deeper, think harder, on whatever this is that rests on his soul. So, instead of answering or asking or digging, she just kisses him again until the crease fades between his eyes, and he is smiling at her in that genuine way that makes her heart ache with warmth.
"Lunch?" he offers, and she picks up her menu while settling into his side.