Happy weekend! I'm posting a bit early this time. My poor husband is currently working the overnight shift at our local hospital, probably bored out of his mind. This might not be his most favored reading material, but he is indulgently supportive and follows along. So maybe this 3k of content will help him pass a few minutes. Maybe I'll earn a smile for dedicating to him :) See you in the morning, dear!... I'm going to bed :P
Endless love to my team as always LightofEvolution, In Dreams, and Mcal and, as always, to all of you. Thank you so much for reading and for your lovely reviews. That goes to you anons and those of you with PMs turned off as well since I cannot send you private thanks.
Hermione removes yet another missive from the leg of a proud and stately owl. She might have just refused it altogether, but that seems rude to the animal in question. He's just doing his job, after all.
Treat dispensed and owl on its way home, she tosses the scroll next to the small accumulating pile on her family's dining table. Counting six, she sighs. On Saturday, she had nearly burned the first two but thought better of it. She doesn't have to read them, but once incinerated, she has no options. Hermione likes options, so she let them rest.
It had been a long day, napping and crying and otherwise feeling worthless. That night, however, she had showered and taken stock of her old home, feeling that purpose would soothe her heartache.
And so, beginning at nearly eleven at night, she had made strides to de-clutter and rearrange the home. She can't let it remain in this limbo forever, understanding that eventually she will need to either live in it or sell it. On Sunday morning, still feeling fresh betrayal from Harry, living in it was a temporary safe harbour, though she was still drowning in bitter memories.
Now, Monday dawning bright and blue, clear skies shining happily through the large picture window in the family room, she is reconsidering that notion. Perhaps instead of mourning the Grangers that were, she should be celebrating their health and safety. Should she not be grateful they have a happy life ahead of them?
Feeling bolstered yet a bit emotionally drained, her focus has become boxing away the items that once decorated the home to her mother's taste. Next, she finds herself storing and cataloging her father's model ships and extensive collection of Wolverhampton Wanderers memorabilia, taking the house down to its bare bones, staged for a new life, possibly her own. Regardless, though, if she should sell it or make it hers, it will be ready for a transformation.
Thoughts drift to Draco often, his owls making it impossible to forget him for long. Their situation is so laughable, it's grotesque. She practices in her head how she could possibly respond if anyone ever asked her why they are no longer together. Hermione feels like an utter fool, complete imbecile, for not realizing, never noticing, that there was something inherently off about her familiar. It was far too clever, much too intuitive, and suspiciously intelligent.
And what she had felt for Draco had been powerful, and she feels ice clench her heart whenever his face flashes through her mind, all crooked smiles and grey eyes. How could he lie to her for so long? How can you love someone and treat them with so little respect?
Oh, he tried to tell her, he says, but it seems awfully convenient, slimy and sneaky, to offer a blanket apology without actually confessing. She stomps around angrily when she thinks of it, slamming dishes into cabinets in her bid to rearrange the kitchen. How dare he think that would be enough?
The back of her mind shows her his haunted face and broken posture as she had left Grimmauld, but she files that neatly away, beneath surface thoughts and emotions as she focuses on throwing out her mother's mismatched collection of tupperware. She's not ready yet, to forgive. She doesn't want to not be angry. A quick glance at the scrolls on the table and she continues, stomping into the study to deal with her father's outdated Encyclopedia Britannica, vowing to purchase a new set for herself.
Draco hasn't been to his father's office in so long, he nearly forgets where it is. Turning down the wrong corridor more than once, he finally asks a receptionist on the ground floor who directs him, recognition and surprise evident on her face. Have they forgotten the Malfoys still own the company? He's ten minutes late when he arrives.
Natalie is a tall, stern looking witch with black hair and thin shoulders. He has always imagined McGonagall may have looked similar years ago.
Having started with the company at a very young age, Natalie had been a fixture in Draco's life through his formative years. She's hardly aged in the five years since he's seen her, and he imagines she is no more than fifty, regardless that she has helmed the company, first by Lucius' side and then alone, for nearly twenty-five years.
"Mister Malfoy."
"I apologize, Natalie," he begins, presenting hand for her to shake. She does, and her grip is strong. "I had some trouble finding my way."
"I imagine," she agrees. "You were hardly more than a boy last time you were here."
Draco isn't sure if he should bristle. Is she asserting some form of dominance? A play for power? She seems forthright enough; perhaps he can take the comment at base value.
"Shall we sit?" He gestures to the chair near her as he circles the desk and takes his father's old seat. The leather is cold and crisp, unused for so long, and almost too large for him. He's never felt so much like a child as he does trying to fill his father's chair. He hopes Natalie doesn't see how nervous he truly is.
"I understand," she says, taking her own seat primly and folding one bony knee over the other, "that you have some ideas for Malfoy Industries."
He can't tell if she's in favour of his involvement, has no idea if she feels threatened or excited by the prospect. Clearing his throat, he confirms, "I do. I've been in the acquaintance of a Muggle-born who has some interesting technologies in her home." Natalie gives him nothing, so he goes on, feeling very much like he's interviewing for a position in his own company.
"Much of it seems purely entertainment based, though entertainment does sell. However, I'd first like to look at communications. Muggles, you see, have small devices that act much like the Floo, but without the powder and need for a fireplace. I know there is a niche market of two-way mirrors, but those are specific to only the mirrors charmed as pairs. This system is an entire network, and anyone who has one of these can-"
He stops talking and stares. From the pocket of her robes, Natalie has withdrawn a small black rectangle, the face covered with numbers. "You're speaking of the telephone?"
He nods, feeling more ridiculous than ever. Finally, Natalie smiles, self-satisfied and indulgent. "I tried to take this to your father in 1987. They were different then, of course. Muggles were still using them, by and large, with physical connections required; much more like the Floo at that time. Now, however, their convenience is staggering."
Draco nods, inviting her to continue.
"The Muggle world, Mister Malfoy, is constanting searching for new ways to live without magic. Our world, by contrast, has a tendency to grow complacent, arrogant in our superiority."
"So you… think there is a place for this type of project? Do we have the resources?"
She snorts a bit. "Our resources are fairly lacking, namely gold. I do, however, have some ideas if you would allow me?"
Draco nods, eager but trying to remain stoic. The woman has always struck him as a bit of a viper, though an oddly sincere and polite one. He imagines they are fortunate to have her on their side.
What Natalie lines out is a complete overhaul of the company, beginning with some of the veteran staff. Many, it would seem, have been collecting salaries off no more merit than being pure of blood and having history with Lucius or his father before him.
The investments as well, she has a thing or two to say in that regard. Some of the silent partnerships Lucius mentioned are with slightly unsavory firms in Knockturn Alley. The only one Natalie suggests they continue to back is Quality Quidditch Supplies. They had taken a hit when a competing outfit opened just before the war and found themselves indebted to the Malfoy family, much to their chagrin what with the gossip surrounding the Malfoy name. Now, they are a healthy competitor and one of the only respectable companies that will still do business with Lucius. Their gratitude and loyalty never wavered, despite their misgivings of the family and Quality's owner being rather outspoken against the corrupt Ministry during the war.
Natalie has little negative to say in regards to the Potions patents and import department, and Draco agrees it seems a healthy and autonomous segment of the business on the whole.
Her plan to fund and pursue communications advancements is sound, and Draco finds himself relieved to have a cohort in regards to his plan. He offers suggestions based on the technology as he has seen it in action, marrying the details with wizarding aesthetics and day-to-day life.
"When can you have a full budget proposal?" A lot of pieces need to fall into place, including a team of charms specialists, but Natalie is unruffled.
"By Thursday," she says, no nonsense and with ever-present challenge in her voice. There is no need; he believes her readily.
"Thursday, then," he says as he stands. "Same time?"
"Perhaps ten minutes earlier," she replies in a rare moment of levity. Draco laughs. He's just decided he likes the woman.
At the Manor, Draco greets his mother and tells his father in only the most vague terms that his plans are underway with Natalie at the helm. He owes him no more, if even that much, but he can't help but feel proud when Lucius tells him, "Well done."
In the Malfoy owlery, his smile finally falters, the energy of the day shriveling up in the face of disappointment. His owl has returned, the seventh flight in three days; no reply once again.
He pets the bird, praising and thanking him and asking for another flight. The owl nips at him lightly, affectionate and understanding.
On the outside of the scroll this time, rather than her name, Draco pens, "Please, please read this," and then begins to write.
He tells her once again that he is so incredibly sorry, begging her to speak with him in person, so that he might explain himself. He tells her he made strides today with his family's company, but that it feels hollow without her to share in his success. He tells her he loves her. Over and over in every way he can imagine, he professes his adoration and respect, pleading his case.
He fills the entire parchment, not even leaving room for a signature, and ties it to his owl, saying a prayer to the Gods that she at least reads it before burning it to ash.
Draco wakes early the next day and starts his morning at the owlery once more. No message, yet again. It's now the fourth day since his world fell apart. He makes a decision and Floos to Nott Manor, wishing his Muggle inventions were already wizarding standard. He hates the grimy feel of the powder on his hands.
"Bit early, isn't it?" Theo looks groggy and disheveled.
"Depends how late you stay up bonking the Chosen One, I expect. Look, is Potter there?"
A rustling and one head is replaced with another. "Morning, Malfoy."
He cuts to the chase. He has no other reason to speak to the tosser. "Have you seen Granger?"
Potter scrunches his face in irritation. "No, thanks to you. Not since Friday. She won't answer my owls, and she took the week with the Ministry."
Draco bristles that the man is blaming him, but really, he can't argue the point. Potter hid the truth on Draco's request. Or at the very least, on his insistence that it was the right thing to do.
"And you have no idea how to find her?" He sneers a bit, thinking Potter is a pretty poor friend if he has not even a guess where she might be.
"Not her office, not the Weasleys, not Grimmauld. Where have you tried?"
That stings. Draco can't tell if Potter is trying to make a point or honestly asking, but he feels like absolute rubbish that the answer is he hasn't tried anywhere. Skirting the question, he offers, "I've sent her probably ten owls. She accepts the message but never replies. I don't even know if she's reading them."
Potter chuckles with no humor. "She crumpled mine up and sent it back to me."
With a grimace, Draco notes, "Not sure if that's better or worse."
They both sit in silence for a moment, contemplative and tense. Finally, Potter sighs. "Look, Malfoy, Hermione doesn't do anything she doesn't want to, and right now, she doesn't want to be found so I've stopped looking. Maybe give her another few days?"
He nods in reply and they say their goodbyes, Theo yelling a farewell from the background. Truthfully, it's the worst fucking advice, and he has no intention to follow it. If there is the slightest chance she could misconstrue his silence as disinterest, he is not willing to risk it.
Dressing fully for the day, Draco makes his way out, searching for his witch.
The looks he receives are not much improved, and he side steps wizards and witches that glare and gawk as he reaches his destination.
Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes is as garish and he remembers, purple facade and frightening clownish sign. He knows relief like no other when it's the twin, not the youngest brother, that greets him.
"Malfoy! You know, I had the most interesting Floo call this morning. It seems a Natalie Taylor would like to meet with me in regards to one of my patents, at the Malfoy company headquarters no less. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
He offers a grin, and Draco feels like a bit of a heel that, no, he doesn't know a fucking thing about it. He left the particulars largely up to Natalie. But, rather than admit that, he smiles back and says offhandedly, "We have a lot of new things in the works. Natalie will share the details with you."
Weasley nods, seeming quite pleased, and asks, "If not about your mysterious business dealings, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"You know Granger pretty well, as I understand it." Draco tries not to grimace, remembering just how well.
The twin cocks his head and eyes him. "Well enough. Any reason you ask?"
He begins with the excuse that he rehearsed all the way here, trying to affect a nonchalant posture and easy smile. "I was thinking of doing something nice for her. Are there specific places she likes to go? Not restaurants, of course; we do that often. More like… a weekend holiday? Anywhere she frequents?"
There is a long and unbearable silence. The look on George's face morphs as his mouth stretches into a wide and knowing grin full of teeth. "You've had a row."
"I… what? It's a simple enough question-"
"Is she avoiding you, then?
Draco feels cornered. As panicked as a marten staring down a hound. Finally, he spins on his heel and makes for the door. "If you've no ideas, I understand. Good luck at your meeting."
He almost makes it to the door when he feels a rush of magic past his knees and the door clicks locked in front of him. He turns, indignant and angry, feeling threatened and vulnerable.
"Sorry, sorry. Look, there's no reason to be dodgy about it. Hermione is a bit temperamental. If she's blowing off a bit of steam, you might want to let it rest."
Preceded by a short pause, Draco finally admits, "It's been four days. I want to make sure she's alright."
Weasley squints his eyes a bit, studying. "What'd you do?"
"Something unbelievable stupid." He means that literally. No one could possibly believe this level of utter cock up.
"Have you tried her parents' place?"
The world stops for just a moment. All spinning, sound, breathing, light… Everything narrows into vast blackness, a pinpoint of hope on the horizon?
"Her parents?"
"Right. Hampstead. You know what happened to them, right?" At Draco's nod, George continues. "She still has the house. Hasn't been there since last summer as far as I know, but maybe if she doesn't want to be found…?" He trails off, letting Draco fill in the blanks.
"Do you know how to find it?"
The wizard shrugs. "Never been there, but I know it's in Hampstead Garden. Could probably ask a Muggle."
Draco eyes him, then nods, a moment of understanding between them. "Thanks, Weasley."
"Anytime. See you Sunday?" He's so earnest, open and lacking guile, that Draco blinks before responding with honesty.
"I hope so." Then, he leaves the shop to follow his new lead.
It's not difficult, honestly. Draco finds that Muggles are oddly helpful when presented with a question. Before he knows it, he is standing at a door in Hampstead Garden, asking a stout woman if she knows the Grangers.
"Oh, of course, dearie. Just two houses down on the other side. Half-hidden with bushes. Such a private family. Haven't seen them around in… Well, goodness, maybe not for a year or more."
Draco thanks her, the woman seeming more than happy to help a "friend of their daughter" in locating them, and makes his way down the street.
It's mid afternoon by now, the day slipping away from him. He tries the front door first, knocking and standing politely, preparing himself in case the house is wrong and a Muggle greets him. No one answers the door, so he tries again before sneaking his wand from his robes for a quick Revelio. No life shows under the spell's compulsion, but if Hermione is indeed in residence, she might have warded against it.
Circling the house, Draco finds himself in a lush, if somewhat overgrown back garden. The back of the house itself is riddled with windows, showing a glimpse inside to a nicely furnished home. Trying the back door, he knocks again and waits. After some time, he decides to try the knob and finds it locked. Alohomora does the trick.
He steps into a kitchen bathed in oranges, scents of citrus in the air. He continues on, passing through a large sitting room with those eerie Muggle photos on the walls. Unmoving, he has always found Muggle photos off-putting. Most seem to feature a couple in various stages of their lives. The woman is stately with a long neck and warm smile. The man has Hermione Granger's mouth and eyes. Any doubt that he has found the correct house leaves him, and he moves into the next room.
The house is spacious and well decorated but not the sprawl of his Manor, and he tours the entire residence quickly, finding a bedroom that must have been Hermione's, lined as it is with books. He wonders idly if the Grangers, upon losing their memories, had thought this to be their library turned guest room.
The last room is back on the ground floor and completes his circle back toward the kitchen. A dining room with windows floor to ceiling and a large round table seating eight, a pile of missives sit like a mocking center piece, not one of their seals broken.
Draco falls into one of the chairs and reaches for one of his messages, turning it in his hand. Accepted, but not acknowledged; collected, but not read. She may as well have sent them back with his owl. Worst of all, she's not here, and Draco doesn't know if she will return. He found nothing of hers throughout the house. No clothing, no food or signs of life, trash or otherwise. Perhaps he had been right that she doesn't want to be found. Maybe it was a mistake to come here, to force himself into her presence. Maybe she saw him outside and Apparated away…
He drags himself from the table and, with one last look at the house where a little girl grew up into a powerful witch, he spins in place and retreats to the Manor, appearing at the gates and trudging back up the path to the door.
Pipsy appears to greet him, but Draco can hardly even look at the elf, defeated as he feels.
"Mistress Narcissa is looking for Master. Mistress says it's nearly time for tea."
A bolt strikes Draco and he groans, burying his head in his hands. Fucking tea. He completely forgot, this was supposed to be the day that Hermione Granger met his mother properly. The day he wanted his mother to fall in love with her even just a little, a fraction of the affection Draco himself feels for her. Instead, he must make his excuses. Does he tell her that it's over? That there is no need to meet Hermione because the witch likely hates him with more venom than even during the war? Or does he beg off, stating a need to reschedule in the unlikely hope that they might reconcile in the coming days?
Marching as if to the gallows, Draco approaches the solarium, catching sight of his mother through the open door. She has her tea cup poised at her lip, and then she smiles across the room before catching Draco's eye. Just before he enters, she speaks.
"Draco, darling, I must say you're not one for tardiness. Please join us."
His eyes go wide at the invitation just as he crosses the threshold and catches full sight of the room.
There, in a daffodil yellow wingback, looking angelic in a white sundress, is Granger. Her expression is even, eyes betraying nothing as she looks at him.
"Hello, Draco."
In a daze, he takes a seat.
Thank you again! And quick reminder, I'm currently signed on for a comp over on AO3 if you are interested in some Dramione drabbles! You can search for "DramioneLDWS" to see the collections. We've been through a warm up and round one and so far I'm still in! I wrote my next drabble tonight for the set posting Thursday!