Eight

A Silent Shout

May 18, 2011

Narcissa looked like a ghost trapped between two worlds.

Shrouded in darkness in the garden at five in the morning, her shadow shimmered against the grass, cast by the flickering light coming from the lone outdoor lamp, highlighted by the moon itself. Her silk white nightgown hung below her knees, the wind blowing, fluttering her gown like a silent, billowing flag. Her legs were exposed to the chill of the elements as her loose blonde curls blew around her shoulders. A robe lay forgotten around her feet.

From the sliding glass door, Hermione could see it all.

Narcissa's face was slack. Blank. Skin so pale it was almost translucent. Her eyes were milky, completely iced over, like she was not present, even in her own mind.

Hermione had been awake, thanks to early morning research and notes from her and Theo's discussion with Charles regarding possible reasons behind Narcissa's irregular readings, when the charmed parchment used to monitor her patient's vitals had started trembling—a sign of trouble.

She was in the Floo in a matter of seconds.

The sight that had greeted Hermione when she arrived was not one she had expected.

Malfoy.

He stood facing the glass door, watching his mother with his hands clasped behind his back. Dressed in his normal black attire, tall and imposing, the only thing that was off about him was something she didn't see until she approached his left:

A forming bruise on his cheek and a black eye.

But Hermione didn't spare Malfoy another glance, already retrieving her wand and a potion to sedate her patient from her charmed bag. "How long has she been there?"

"I have no idea. I found her out here when I returned home."

Ah, from his overnight work in Wales.

She doubted that he'd slept, but Hermione pushed that thought aside and dug a little deeper, her arm fully submerged in the bag as she rifled around for the last thing she needed. "And how long ago was that?"

"Thirty minutes."

"Did you try—"

"Granger, the state of my face should tell you exactly what I have and have not done." There was a sharpness, an edge to his tone that didn't land easy on her ears. It was hard to determine if there was anything beneath it because Malfoy's bruised face gave nothing away. He took a step back. "This isn't the first time this has happened, even before she became your patient. I'll leave you to do your job." When he turned to leave, one hand was still behind his back while the other—his right—went to his shoulder, gripping it as if trying to massage the tension away.

Was he hurt?

To his retreating form, Hermione repeated something she had said to him several times in the last month, much to his aggravation, which she cared little about. "I understand you don't want to be involved, but it's not just my job. It's her life and she's your mother. It would be helpful to know your side of her disease."

Malfoy didn't stop, didn't react, vanishing from sight through the paned double doors of the study next to the staircase. The drapes went down and he was gone, leaving Hermione to contend with his mother.

Hermione sighed to the empty room, braced herself, and walked out.

The predawn air was crisp; the breeze was cooler than she had anticipated, making Hermione's face and body beneath her clothes feel slightly brittle. In contrast, beneath her feet, the grass was soft once she stepped off the cobblestone in her slow approach. In the last month, there hadn't been many incidents, but enough for Hermione to learn how to handle Narcissa better. She knew to remain calm and keep her responses brief, no sudden movements, knew not to bend to pick up the robe, but use a spell—which she did.

Hermione was just about to cast a warming charm on the robe—Narcissa had to be ice cold—when the woman turned to her abruptly. Physically, she was unharmed, but her blue eyes were still vacant. Lost. Haunted. Her lips were faintly trembling. Not from a fear response, but because she was whispering something under her breath. Hermione couldn't hear.

When Narcissa blinked a few times, Hermione thought she was beginning to come out of the episode. However, the fact that she looked almost happy to see Hermione made her realise that no, she wasn't.

They were simply Healer and patient. Nothing more.

And yet, the smile on Narcissa's face was slow, familiar. Fond. "Meda."

Hermione's breath caught in her chest. She struggled to complete a simple task like form words. Every shred of logic and research in her head told her that she looked nothing like Andromeda, but that was who Narcissa saw.

An image. A mirage. A ghost from her past and a shade from her present.

She knew what to do, what she needed to say, but the urge to correct Narcissa was strong. Still, Hermione took a deep breath and went on a trip with her.

Back to a time when her life was simpler, her mind whole, and her sister was at her side.

"Cissa." Hermione kept her tone affectionate and light, trying to mimic Andromeda's speech pattern as best as she could. "Are you cold?" When she touched her bare arm, Hermione immediately realised that no, she wasn't cold at all, but impossibly warm. The only way that would be possible was with a charm.

Hermione instinctively looked over her shoulder, almost expecting a second presence.

There was none.

"It's beautiful out." Narcissa lifted her eyes to the sky, her tone light in a way Hermione had never heard her speak before. "I think I'll stay. Just a little longer."

"It'll be morning soon. You should come inside."

Narcissa lowered her head slowly. There was a look in her blue eyes that was both inviting and tinged with sadness. She touched Hermione's face with a tenderness that left her incapable of moving or speaking, left her staring into her eyes and stepping closer. Her voice trembled when she spoke. "I know you aren't real. I know you're a hallucination. Like the others."

Like the others.

The words sent a chill rippling up Hermione's spine, rooting her to the spot.

But then Narcissa's face softened, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. "But I'm glad it's you here now." Her voice lowered to a whisper. "If only to see you again."

Narcissa seemed to crumple, and Hermione had no option but to pull her close and lower them both to their knees in the grass. Narcissa's pain was loud in the morning's silence. It tugged and squeezed, carved and moulded, applying enough pressure to her fragile state until she broke and shattered under the weight of it.

Listening to her sobs was just as distressing as the knowledge that she likely wouldn't remember this episode when she woke up. Hermione stroked her hair as she trembled, placating her with soft words she truly meant despite the fact that Narcissa irritated her greatly.

"It's okay, I'm here now."

There was an ache in Hermione's chest that clawed its way up, a heaviness that kept her from being able to breathe properly. Nothing terrible, just that this memory would stick with her for days. Weeks. Months. Her stomach quivered as she pushed down the swell steadily rising in her throat.

This was the human element to an ugly and cruel disease that was unjust and painful to watch.

But also horrible to experience first-hand.

It was a cold reminder that Narcissa's entire life was changing beyond her control and there were parts of her journey that she would never remember. Like crying out for her sister. Striking her son. And gods, yes, she was the most aggravating person Hermione had ever treated, but it was her duty to be patient. To be understanding. To be kind… even when Narcissa wasn't.

And that was sobering.

Grounding.

Hermione held Narcissa until she calmed, until her grip loosened, until she had enough of a grasp on her own mind to do her job. She couldn't keep the chill from creeping further into her skin, couldn't stop her fingers from trembling as she manoeuvred until she could uncork the vial.

"Cissa, w-who else do you see?"

It was a question Hermione was scared to know the answer to, but nonetheless had to ask.

Had to know.

Narcissa lifted her head, and Hermione carefully dried her eyes with a whispered spell. The older witch's quiet confession was spoken in a tone laced with an emotion she hid so well during the day: terror. "Those I know are dead. The Dark Lord, he was here, just as real as you…"

Hermione swallowed.

Malfoy.

Distress and confusion started to work their way across Narcissa's features; what little colour was there faded fast. She knew what was next, had experienced it once before.

The combativeness. The panic. Fear.

She knew she had to act fast. "Drink this. It'll help them go away."

"You're not real. Why should I trust you?"

"Because I'm…" Hermione trailed off, staring at her patient, scrambling for reasons. She did not want to lie to Narcissa, but she also needed her to comply. "Just trust me. Please."

By some miracle, Narcissa did, accepting the vial with hands that shook hard, and bringing it to her lips. The sedative worked quickly, and soon Hermione levitated her patient back into the house and tucked her into bed.

By the time she closed Narcissa's bedroom door and asked Zippy to notify her when the older witch woke, Hermione's exhaustion was bone deep. Both physically and emotionally.

Her mind was whirring with several ideas about how to effectively utilise the Palliative Care team, who were due back at the start of next week. It might have been early on, but the last thirty days had shown Hermione that Narcissa needed monitoring around the clock, and it couldn't be done with her enchanted parchment that monitored her vitals alone. There had to be someone there, someone who could coax her back, isolate the triggers for her episodes. Help her.

One for the day and one for the night perhaps.

Hermione was still thinking about logistics when she returned to the kitchen and found Malfoy placing his daily note by Scorpius' seat.

"I assume your attempt was a success." He didn't look up, but his voice sounded as tired as she felt.

"It was." Hermione paused. "Do you plan to sleep at all?"

She had to ask because when she thought about it, more often than not, he spent his days at the Ministry and his nights in Wales canvassing with a team for a possible Death Eater hideout. Malfoy was, by definition, burning the candle at both ends… and it showed. He was beginning to look drawn, paler. His posture and face told Hermione he hadn't slept in days, if not longer.

"That's none of your concern."

Well, he sounded just as sharp as ever.

"No, I suppose it's not." Hermione went into her bag and retrieved two vials that might help him through the day—Invigoration Draught and Girding Potion. She frowned and retrieved a third for pain before placing them all on the end of the table. "One's for pain. The other two are for you. They aren't substitutes for actual rest, but you'll become a danger to everyone and yourself without some sort of aid."

Hermione would know.

She'd wound up in St. Mungo's after tempting fate too many times.

"I don't want your potions, Granger. Nor do I want your pity," Malfoy spat. So cold and devoid of warmth, it was even more unsettling than the fury that was contained within his eyes.

Hermione's fist tightened at her side before she took a deep, cleansing breath and left them on the table as a standing offer. "I don't pity you and I definitely don't envy your life. Take them or not, Malfoy, I don't care." She ran a hand through her wild curls. "I'm honestly trying to help and I don't have the energy for your attitude today. Your mother—"

"What about her?"

"She's resting and I…"

There must have been something he heard, a twinge in her tone that cooled him down. "Who did she think you were?"

Rubbing a rough hand over her cheek, Hermione sighed. "Andromeda, but I doubt she'll remember anything."

His snort was bitter, grating, derisive. "Lucky for her."

She had looked at him before, earlier, and again when she'd entered the room, but just then, Hermione took a closer look. Malfoy's eye was worse now—angry and painful, the fresh bruise had spread across his cheekbone and blended away on his right temple. The other mark on the left side of his face had been the one Malfoy had, unsuccessfully, attempted to heal. The discolouration ran from his temple to his cheek, red and swollen, standing out against his pale skin.

She felt… bad for him, for what had likely happened when he'd gone to help his mother, for what her disease was likely doing to him. Not that he would ever admit it.

And when empathy crossed her mind, Malfoy's eyes flashed, and a sudden scowl marred his injured features. "I've already said that I don't want your pity, Granger. And before you deny it, I don't need Legilimency to hear it loud and clear."

Taking a patient breath, Hermione waded through his defences as she took step after step until there was only a table between them. "Forgive me for feeling bad for you, I'll try not to. But if you take a seat, I can heal you."

"I'm fine." He didn't move.

Pursing her lips, Hermione broke eye contact and rubbed her arm first then rested her hands on her hips. She tried to remember how she spoke to all her cagey patients, but gave up trying to treat him like anyone else when he so clearly wasn't.

"You're terrible at Healing Charms, Malfoy. Just like you're probably not fine." He remained unreadable, a stoic mask if not for the small tick of his jaw. "She told me what she saw, who she thought you were. That must have been—"

"I'm not having this discussion with you of all people."

He abruptly left the room.

In the silence following his departure, Hermione frowned at the empty space he had just occupied.

That went about as well as expected.

Then she noticed two of the three potions she'd left were gone. Hermione hadn't seen him take either.

The one that remained was for pain.

Hermione went about making herself tea and breakfast in preparation to stay until Narcissa woke up. Eggs, toast with jam, and green tea were quickly made, and Hermione contemplated crafting a sensible lunch for Narcissa, who probably wouldn't even be up before then. As she sat at the island, flipping through a recipe book for ideas, she snuck glances at Zippy (as she had done every morning) while he crafted a fine breakfast for a little boy who never seemed interested.

For the first time, Hermione asked, "Why do you make Scorpius such elaborate meals?"

"It is what Mistress wants," the house-elf answered automatically, voice low and devoid of any emotion. Without prompting, Zippy added, "Mistress wishes to refine his palate."

That was absolutely ridiculous, but Hermione kept her thought to herself as she watched him seamlessly combine each ingredient with magic before cooking and plating the meal. Another snap and it floated over to where Scorpius sat each day, charmed to keep warm. Continuing on his daily routine before his return to Narcissa's room, Zippy vanished with a second snap of his fingers—a bit flummoxed when she thanked him.

Hermione wasn't alone for long.

Malfoy appeared—yes, appeared, as she never once heard his approach—in the doorway while she was placing her clean teacup back in the cupboard. Still bruised, Malfoy seemed calm and composed in that way of his. He held a folder steady in his hand. He had obviously taken the potions. His colour had returned, eyes brightened, posture straightened, he'd even had a shower and changed clothes. The only reason Hermione had been able to tell was because of the difference in the style, material, and cut of his trousers. And his hair wasn't completely dry yet. He'd abandoned his jacket for a black leather wand holster that he'd strapped to his right shoulder.

The best position for a quick draw.

Perhaps that was also the reason his glasses were tucked in the front of his shirt.

He didn't put them on until he dropped the folder on the end of the island.

"You left these."

There was no telling what was inside. In the last month, Hermione had managed to coordinate and organise her research and bought a file cabinet to keep everything in order. But she had research spread out between two houses.

"My mother's potions ingredients."

Something she had misplaced two days prior.

Before Hermione could move, Malfoy had the folder open, and as she approached, she caught sight of untidy scrawl. He'd made notes.

Lots of them. In handwriting she could hardly read.

Hermione retrieved the folder, glancing up at the impassive man who didn't move. She took a small step away and out of his bubble before allowing her attention to settle on what he'd done to her ingredients.

There were notes on her morning and afternoon potions, which looked more like suggestions than criticisms from what she could ascertain. But on her evening potions, Malfoy circled two ingredients—knotgrass and dandelion root—underlined two more—Goat's horn and hops—multiple times, and made more illegible comments beneath that. Hermione turned her head to the side to try and decipher but came up with nothing.

"Who created the potion?"

His question made her blink twice before turning her attention to him, not at all surprised to find intensity where most people found dullness. The fact that Malfoy appeared to be waiting for an answer made her more comfortable. "I thought you didn't care to be involved."

Barely concealed irritation appeared in a flash before fading, but there was a twinge of it lingering in his tone. "And I thought that as my mother's Healer, you would be astute enough to know when something is wrong."

"Oh, I know something is wrong. I've known for weeks. The only reason you don't is because you don't care to know. Simple as—"

"Your evening potion doesn't work."

Hermione inhaled, readying her response when she paused. "Excuse me?" Single-minded, Hermione brought the parchment to her face, squinting at his notes. Merlin, was that an A or a triangle? Or a D? "Has anyone ever told you that your handwriting is utter rubbish?" Absently, Hermione waved her hand before he could argue. "Not that I understand your notes, but what makes you think—"

The words died when she felt him at her arm, looming over her shoulder like a shadow. Malfoy pointed to the two ingredients he'd circled. "How did you make the decision to use this amount of knotgrass and dandelion root?"

"I felt that snowdrop would be too harsh on her stomach and these two were recommended as replacements without diminishing the efficacy."

It didn't take a genius to know that Malfoy didn't like her answer. "Who told you that?"

"I confirmed it with several Potions Masters—"

"That's lazy and unlike you and, frankly, it annoys the hell out of me that I have to break it down this much for someone who is supposedly so bright." The final word was spat like it tasted vile in his mouth.

Hermione straightened her spine and set her shoulders. She felt herself warming from being flustered and irritated and unanchored—a state of being that, around him, was beginning to feel normal. A feeling she despised so much that the question of why he bothered her had been locked away in a box, within a larger box, inside a metal cage, behind a spelled door inside her mind.

She turned and found herself toe-to-toe with him. His solid chest was eye level, so she raised her head, looking at his strong jawline, his eyes behind the frames of his glasses, his bruises.

"As far as your mother's condition is concerned, I am limited to what I know, what I've read during research, and what I've been told. This sounds like it's outside of all three. Obviously, a gap exists that I didn't know about. You can't blame me, but you can lose the damn attitude, Malfoy, and inform me so I can help your mother."

His eyes were narrowed. "You want me to do your job for you then?"

Hermione fed him back a wide-eyed look of flaming dissent. "No, I want your help. If you've figured something out, and it sounds like you have, either speak up or get out."

"Your experts are idiots."

What made it worse was that right now, Malfoy was in her personal space criticising her work ethic, but there was the part of her brain that recognised the vague scent of mint, cedar, and something clean coming from him. She would have been perfectly sane had it smelled as horrible as he was acting.

She banished the thought immediately, gearing up to take him on.

Hermione had never made a habit of backing down.

"My experts are at the top of their field for a reason—" Hermione remembered who she was defending herself against and recoiled abruptly. Rather than retreat or struggle under the intensity he seemed to carry with ease, she turned to him completely, her brows knitted together. "Actually, I'm confused as to why I'm explaining this to you as you've expressed time and time again that you don't care about any part of your mother's treatment."

Malfoy took a step back. He dusted the invisible lint off his shirt, turning his head in such a way that made the bruises on his face look even worse. Internally, Hermione winced. Externally, she maintained the fierceness that came along with the momentum of her statement, waiting for his response.

"I don't." There was a rough edge to his voice that made the hairs on Hermione's neck stand up. "I just thought you should know, Granger, that while the ingredients are not technically incorrect, the potion is rendered ineffective by my mother's allergy to Goat's Horn."

Wait, what?

She held up the universal symbol for pause. "I'm sorry, what allergy?"

Narcissa had none listed in her file. When she'd asked, before their standoff in her office the very first day, Narcissa had made it clear that she had no allergies. The fact that there was—well, there was the anger rising in her that stemmed from the blatant disregard Narcissa had for her own health in order to keep something as petty as an allergy a secret.

Real damage could have been done.

Second, that could have been the key to everything: her irregular results and how she seemed to sharply decline in the evening. She had been practically drinking pumpkin juice as evening potions for the last month. None of the potions were effective unless all three were being taken accordingly.

Shite.

A month's worth of work never happened, just like that.

Hermione's mood further soured. Tightened. She shut the folder, placed it on the granite island, and repeated herself one last time. "What allergy?"

Malfoy's expression shifted to something between a glower and a smirk, his eyes still hard. If at all possible, he stood taller. "I'm not surprised she didn't tell you. She scarcely remembers it herself, but it's not lethal. Goat's Horn has magical properties that don't work on her, which essentially neutralises your evening potions…and likely all the others as well." There was a hint of something lurking underneath each word, each breath, that seemed to take pride in flexing his knowledge.

Pride in knowing something no one else knew.

And how did she know that?

Well, she recognised it in herself. "When did you figure this out?"

"Last night before my Portkey to Wales. I found your ingredients list the day before and took a look. It wasn't hard to figure out the problem in her potions from there."

"Because she's your mother and you know these things."

"No, because I consult myself and my own knowledge when I want to figure something out. Not so-called experts," Malfoy snapped, but his tone was less caustic and more… Hermione wasn't actually certain. "There are several alternatives that would serve as a replacement, but based on the other ingredients, you should add more arka and dandelion root. I've included the amounts on the parchment." There was a pause as she scanned the parchment. He made no apologies for his poor handwriting. "Furthermore, you don't need hops in there at all. It's useless, not at all the binding agent you and your experts seem to think it is. Might I suggest something common like shellac."

Hermione was speechless.

Malfoy had obviously put more thought into it than he would ever confess. Still, it was probably the most she'd heard him speak about anything concerning his mother's treatment.

A step forward.

Change?

He was open. However accidental that had been, and Hermione forced back that giddy part of her that wanted to ask him a million things now that he seemed to be in a talkative mood. She kept her tone fixed with that undercurrent of irritation she almost always felt about and around his mother. And him.

"How did you find out about her allergy?"

"The ingredient was in a vanity potion of hers t—" Malfoy suddenly remembered himself, their proximity, and who he was speaking to, all but reaching out and snatching back the words he had spoken.

One step forward, two steps back.

After clearing his throat, Malfoy fixed his tie and ran a quick hand down the front of his shirt before taking yet another step back. Hermione allowed herself to follow each step as he closed himself up before he said anything else unintentional, frowning at herself for not asking a better question while she had the opportunity.

"What does it matter how I know, Granger? Now you do. Also, you have your parchment and your solution. Brew the potion with those suggestions and it should work."

"Fine." She waited for him to say something else, but he didn't, long gone back into his fortress with high walls. "Thank you for your help, however reluctant."

"I'm just trying not to get punched again."

Hermione frowned. "How many times has something like that happened?"

"Enough." Well, that was that. Conversation over. "Additionally, I found your potions book and left it upstairs in your designated area."

"I'll need it to brew, along with the parchment, of course."

His eyebrow lifted above his glasses. "You brew with books?"

"Yes."

"Because you're unfamiliar with the potion?"

Hermione folded her arms across her chest, feeling suddenly odd. "I brew with books, and even parchment, no matter how many times I have created the potion. It's necessary for error-proof potions making."

Malfoy looked like someone with weighted opinions. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why books or parchment? Why do you need directions when you already know what you're doing—especially when you've made a particular potion before?"

"Why does it matter, Malfoy?" She found herself on the defence. "The potion is brewed correctly."

He brought his hand to his chin and made a small hmm noise before pulling his wand from his holster and summoning a single vial of his mother's potions. The colour told Hermione that it was her afternoon dose. Malfoy caught it effortlessly while re-holstering his wand.

For a second, Hermione was torn between watching his visual inspection of her work and just watching him. But she quickly settled into some twisted hybrid of the two that had her watching every motion of Malfoy's hands, every movement of his eyes. She took the same breath he did when he uncorked the potion and took a small whiff.

Evaluating him in some foolish mission to figure out why his actions didn't match his behaviour, she couldn't look away.

"Each week, I've looked at the potions you leave for my mother. Admittedly, your potions appear correct and the quality is quite good, given the lack of imagination." That made her bristle. "They are… better than some Apothecaries." He didn't look exactly thrilled about having to compliment her, however backhanded. Hermione raised an eyebrow in challenge. "Although, it could be better."

She didn't take criticism well. Not unusual, but his burned. "You already admitted that my potions are brewed correctly, that they are better than some Apothecaries. How could they possibly be better?"

"If you experimented, they could be, but you obviously don't." An echo of the boy he'd once been coloured the deep timbre of his voice. "Something I find very strange."

"And why's that?"

"I remember you differently."

Just like that, the flames of her anger were extinguished.

Hermione blinked at him in naked confusion she didn't bother to hide.

Apparently, he was feeling particularly loquacious and challenging; his step forward was as confident as her step back was defensive. "You've always annoyingly had the right answers. The Room of Requirement. Protean coins. Umbridge. The dragon at Gringotts. Your house-elf agenda. I'm certain there's more that you, Potter, and Weasley have managed to hide from the world, but as it stands right now, people will follow, should you ever choose to lead."

"I have no interest in that."

"So I recall." Malfoy's scrutiny was heavy, like a lead weight, his voice low as though he didn't want anyone else to overhear the conversation, which was ridiculous because they were alone. "Not only have you changed careers, you also don't experiment. Not so daring anymore, are you?"

Her fingers curled into a fist.

At her lack of immediate response, he probed harder, unreadable eyes searching hers for what seemed like years in a matter of seconds. It wasn't the first time she'd heard those words, but coming from Malfoy, coupled with her exhaustion from Narcissa, they made her wilt. She no longer wanted to engage. An involuntary flinch made Hermione look away and stall for time or something witty to say before she left, but she came up empty-handed on all fronts.

She hadn't retreated from any of their previous conversations in the last month—Malfoy seemed to be the master of dramatic exits—but there was a first time for everything. Still, Hermione kept her calm as she picked up her folder.

"I'm going to check on your mother." She passed him on her way out, resolved to wait in Narcissa's sitting area until she—

"Interesting," his voice rang out in the silence. "For the last month, this is all I had to say to shut you up."

Hermione took a hard breath, knowing he was only saying that to get a rise out of her. She wouldn't take the bait.

"I'm as tired as you pretend not to be." Hermione turned around, using a last flare of energy to make her final point. Malfoy's arrogance had diminished into a grimace. "Don't underestimate me, Malfoy. I'm still quite daring, but I don't expend energy to experiment unless I absolutely have to. Until I have a reason. And right now, I don't. Also, you speak of who I was when the only reason I did any of it was because it was right and also I did it all to help Harry. My job is done in that aspect."

"Perhaps, but you're a Healer now. I should think that improving the potions you provide your patients warrants experimentation."

"The potions work. Or they would have. Your mother's undisclosed allergy is the cause of all this, but that doesn't negate anything else. When that's fixed, they will work. Why would I try to fix something that isn't broken?"

"Just because something isn't broken doesn't mean you've achieved optimal results. How would you even know? You haven't experimented enough to ascertain if something is broken or not. I believe knowledge is about the pursuit of truth, rather than convenient applications. There is always room for improvement."

"That can be said about people as well."

He flinched, and it was more dramatic with the bruising on his face, but he recovered quickly. "Ah, yes. People." His drawl made her tense, made her want her wand in her hand, but she squeezed her empty fist tighter. "You think you know us all so well, don't you?"

"One could argue with your assessment of my character that you're the same way."

Malfoy scoffed. "Don't waste my time with the 'we're so alike' bullshit. We're not."

"I never said we're alike. I—"

"For the last month, I've listened to your rhetoric. Your opinions about different topics, your deep-seated wish to make the world a better place one person, one interaction at a time. It's all bullshit, idealistic, but I'll bite. On the original subject of experimentation, how can you strive for a better world when you won't experiment? When you won't let yourself try something new? The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results."

His words lit a fire inside of Hermione, a call to arms to defend herself. All thoughts of abandoning the conversation vanished like smoke in the breeze.

She readied herself.

"First, I don't expect different results. I expect the correct ones."

Malfoy folded his arms.

"Second, it's not all bullshit—"

"People aren't wired to care about anyone except themselves, their inner circle of family and friends, and anyone that serves a purpose to them. Humans are inherently self-centred, greedy, and self-seeking. Every single thing we do, we do in order to serve the interest of our own."

She took a step towards him. "People are not inherently anything but human, however your pessimism doesn't surprise me."

"I'm a realist, Granger, and you may say all the right things, but you're no different than anyone. Your work seems like altruism when you're driven by your desire to feel good about yourself, to look good in the eyes of others, and to remain consistent with your principles. Your selfishness may take a different form, but in the end, you're just like everyone else."

"You have no idea who I am. Or the work I do."

His expression didn't change, but she detected a flash of something in his eyes. "I know enough about your work. Perhaps not about anything else, but your 'make a larger impact on a smaller scale' view is flawed by your behaviour. In order to incite the change you talk about, you have to be willing to make alterations and modifications to existing solutions. You have to keep pushing. You can't be as complacent as you are, dependent on your existing knowledge."

Hermione shifted her weight from foot to foot. "You quoted Einstein before when you said—"

"Your bias is showing." Malfoy looked more annoyed than disappointed.

She huffed, not in anger, but because Hermione found herself flustered and it aggravated the hell out of her. "No, it's not. As I was saying, if you want to quote Einstein, he also said that problems cannot be solved with the same mindset that created them. You think my beliefs are bullshit, but you haven't expressed your own on the matter."

"You don't care to hear my views."

"I wouldn't have said anything if I didn't." She approached him slowly, like one would a wild cat, his eyes heavy on her, tensing more and more with each step she took. But Malfoy didn't back away, didn't back down. Not even when she stood right in front of him. "It's so easy to criticise when you do nothing."

"So we should all be like you, then? Solving the world's problems one at a time?"

With a curt frown, he folded his arms across his chest, and for a second, Hermione's eyes drifted to the sleeve of his shirt, remembering the splashes of colour her curiosity wouldn't let her forget. Malfoy abruptly dropped his arms in a move that drew her attention back to him. Back to his statement.

"I'm not surprised you've misinterpreted my statement. We cannot solve the world's problems. I've never once put that responsibility on my shoulders. I'm only one person. As are you. I merely said that I'd rather make significant changes on a smaller scale. They're more impactful that way. And change always ripples out. Furthermore, I believe it's our duty as humans to leave this world better than we found it, however we can, and that's what I intend to do. In my own way. Starting here."

Hermione lifted up on the tips of her toes and whispered a Healing Charm.

Malfoy braced one hand on the granite and inhaled sharply, probably to argue, but his words were dead on arrival. Hermione worked, her fingers hovering over his healing skin as she murmured another spell, but the weight of his gaze remained heavy. Piercing. Hard to ignore. Hard to decipher.

But tension seemed to bleed from him as the magic took hold, as the pain he'd never confess to feeling began to recede.

Seconds passed, but felt far longer, before his bruises completely faded, healed, and vanished into nothing except flawless skin.

"That is how I am wired," she said in a near whisper as she lowered herself back until the soles of her shoes touched the wooden floor again.

His eyes followed her action. Followed her.

They exhaled simultaneously. Hermione felt strange and untethered, but not disoriented enough to stop her from making her point.

"I'm not perfectly altruistic, but I am wired to care about people. I'm wired to help any and everyone I can, even you. And for someone who doesn't give a damn, you've obviously put a lot of thought into my character."

That seemed to wake him from his trance. His eyes hardened. "Just as I assume you having these daily discussions with me are to determine mine. Have you got your answers yet?"

"No."

He was so cagey, so defensive; it would take a thousand conversations to understand him and more energy than she had time to expend. Malfoy gave her an odd look before checking his watch. Hermione glanced at the clock behind him.

It was just past seven.

Time for him to leave.

With just enough time to be gone before Narcissa's normal arrival, though today she'd be having a lie in.

But Scorpius…

Malfoy didn't say goodbye, he never did, he simply sidestepped her on his way out. The only difference today was the fact that he repeatedly ran a rough hand through his hair, messing it up, then shook his head as he approached the threshold of the kitchen that would lead him in the direction of his office to Floo into work. He was off to continue his schedule, working a job he never got paid for, while she remained to do hers—all the while noticing the little things that weren't her business, but kept the flames of her curiosity flickering.

One in particular?

"Scorpius looks for you every morning without fail."

Malfoy paused just inside the arch of the doorway. She could see the wave of tension in the rise and fall of his shoulders, the flex of his hands, the rigid line of his posture. His audible breath.

"I thought you should know."

He continued on.

Hermione considered being there when Narcissa woke, but she wasn't.

She needed the rest.

As did the staff.

After deciphering Malfoy's handwriting, researching alternatives all morning in her office, and checking everything over with her experts first—who seemed impressed by Malfoy's suggestions—Hermione reached out to Neville to see if he had the herbs in his greenhouse. He did, thankfully, already dried.

Perfect.

From there, Hermione fed the chickens table scraps and took her frustration out on the weeds in her herb garden. She watered everything in the greenhouse and made notes on how the arka plant was growing for Neville. It had grown. Not much, but just enough. With mostly everything done, Hermione treated herself to an early lunch and a book when she found herself hungry just before eleven.

But after finishing her sandwich and two chapters, that mounting frustration returned, distracting her to the point where she was reading pages twice. Which was how she found herself in her brewing room with a trusty book on the stand, making a batch of the evening potion for Narcissa.

Pretty soon, everything was chopped, diced, minced, sorted, and added with flicks of her wrist into the bubbling cauldron. The flames were low, just like they should be. Everything just as Malfoy had directed in the horrid handwriting she was beginning to decode. Perfect.

It took Hermione a little longer than usual to focus. A little longer to settle. More effort to clear her mind. Brewing was as difficult as it could be calming, but today Hermione found herself agitated.

It probably had something to do with the earworm that stuck with her from her conversation with Malfoy.

It wasn't that she couldn't brew without books—she could—but there was comfort in the action, in the routine. She always set a text up on the stand, flipped to the right page, and started from the beginning, looking on as she went. There was familiarity in the habit.

Hermione wasn't exactly passionate about potions or cooking. Despite having a room dedicated to each craft, she cooked and brewed potions mainly for others. But the joy she got in it wasn't just the fact that she could help them, it had to do with the residual part of the child in her that loved the act of following directions. Hermione liked the order in it, the stability; she liked the process of making something that, in truth, didn't require a lot of talent to produce.

And the bit about not experimenting?

Well.

There was no need for any other project. Everything had worked as it should through an extensive amount of research and the consultation of experts. It made no sense to change something that had been proven to work. No need to change the written word.

That went for Narcissa's case, as well.

The readjustment to her evening potion had taken little effort—just a tweak.

Right now, the brew looked as he'd described on the corners of the parchment.

What did he want her to do? Adjust the entire thing? That made no sense. Banishing the thought to the corner of her mind, Hermione inhaled and exhaled before allowing his words to roll off her shoulders into a heap around her feet. Then, she did things her way.

The proper amount of time passed before the potion exuded its faint purple smoke, indicating completion. And after bottling it into seven vials, a glance at the wall made her frown. It was nearly one.

Narcissa should be up soon.

And they needed to talk.

That mood followed her back into Malfoy's residence, where she stocked the new evening potions and disposed of the old ones. When Hermione went to check on Narcissa, Zippy was stationed outside her door. Watchful. "Has she woken up?"

"Mistress continues to sleep peacefully."

"Please get me when she wakes? And if she isn't up in an hour, please come get me anyway. I'll be around here."

"Yes, Miss."

With a friendly nod at the house-elf who seemed eager to follow her command, she left the way she'd entered, walking through Narcissa's private sitting area. The room was decorated in her ornate traditional style—the only part of the house embellished in such a manner, a symbol of the room being strictly hers.

Like Malfoy's office.

Hermione had options to pass the time. She had research to review and notes to continue drafting on her day to day care for Narcissa's case study. There was a smaller study upstairs, right next door to where Scorpius' tutor conducted lessons, which had been cleared after that disastrous first day. Hermione was headed there when she spotted something strange in the living room.

Someone who had drifted off-course from his schedule.

Scorpius.

Standing by the glass door, with his back to her as he stared out into the empty garden, he pressed one hand on the glass that was sure to leave a smudge for Zippy to clean.

It was probably the loneliest sight Hermione had ever seen.

After backing away, she went on the hunt for his nanny; Scorpius' location didn't quite line up with his schedule she had all but learned. Hermione found Catherine in the library where his tutoring sessions took place with the tutor himself. She was helping him tune a stubborn piano for music lessons.

Hermione asked if either of them had noticed that their pupil had left.

"It's fine. I'll find him when we're ready to get started."

It sounded like something she had done before, something she had great experience with.

"Oh, I know where he is." The tutor pressed a key on the piano and, though not musically inclined, it still sounded wrong to Hermione's ear.

"Can you keep an eye on him until we finish?"

Hermione almost said something much different from her actual response, which was, "Of course."

When she returned, she found Scorpius in the same place, his hand still on the glass. What he was looking at or for, Hermione had no idea. She stood next to him to see if she could figure it out, but all she did was alert him to her presence.

He looked up at her. Not startled or scared. Just blank.

Staring had been their default for the last month. He did it at breakfast and the occasional lunch when Narcissa would request his presence. Scorpius looked on as she asked Narcissa her battery of questions—something she tried not to do in his presence, but Narcissa didn't especially care.

It was innocent really, if a little unnerving, but it changed when Hermione started moving his glass of juice from his right to his left. The original reason had been so he would stop accidentally reaching for Narcissa's, but after that day Scorpius began watching her differently.

It was hard to explain.

His routine was set in stone. Whenever he entered the kitchen, he would look around for his father, then after his spell of disappointment, his eyes would fall on her. Only her. And he would watch Hermione through his grandmother's initial directions to the point where she was certain if tested, he would never remember what she'd said. Scorpius would watch her through breakfast, but wouldn't touch his juice until she moved it from the right to left. And after a few days of that, he even started looking back at her whenever he was sent to lessons.

The first time Hermione waved, he'd nearly walked into a wall.

Her second instinct had been to chuckle, which was quickly overridden by her first: to make sure he was okay. But Scorpius just blushed and walked away.

She didn't hear Narcissa's first comment about his behaviour, but she had heard her aggravated sigh.

"That boy."

Today was different. And it likely had to do with his appearance when and where he shouldn't have been. Scorpius stared at her for long enough that Hermione started a conversation to break the silence.

"Do you want to go outside?"

It was overcast, breezy, and would probably rain soon, but perhaps it would hold out long enough for Scorpius to get the fresh air he likely needed. The nod he gave in response was as hesitant as expected. That uncertainty extended even after she opened the door, allowing a gust of wind to blow his hair askance. In fact, Hermione had to walk out first before he tentatively followed.

"Feels good, yes?"

Scorpius didn't agree and it wasn't more than a few wind gusts later that Hermione followed him back inside where he sat in front of the window, fixed his hair, and watched. He was more content to observe rather than experience the weather for himself. At least the wind. Odd for a child his age, but it made sense in an odd sort of way.

Having nothing better to do, Hermione joined him, folding her legs comfortably. Just like his.

As it turned out, the rain didn't stay away. Darkening clouds continued to roll in, and soon droplets hit the glass pane in a slow, rhythmic beat that quickened as the storm barrelled overhead. Hermione glanced over at Scorpius and found him looking at her curiously.

A soft smile developed where none had been before. "You really remind me of your dad. Only you don't scowl as much as he did."

If at all possible, Scorpius perked up, scooting closer to her, eager to hear more.

About his father.

Hermione's heart skipped a beat, and she suddenly felt a bit lightheaded. "Your dad… you want to know more about him?"

Scorpius nodded, jittery in the way children got when they were stifling excitement.

Dread rose in her chest as she rubbed the back of her neck, patting down her frizz with several strokes. Hermione struggled to find the words.

What could she tell Scorpius Malfoy about his father?

In school, he had been a spoiled bully, a bigot, an ignorant blood purist who was intolerant and manipulative and believed himself better than everyone else. Malfoy had been his father's son. But everything couldn't be blamed on his parents. Malfoy had made bad choices, done awful things, and—Kingsley's words came roaring back.

Words that reminded her that, while Draco Malfoy had been all of those terrible things, she didn't have the right to judge him. Not at face value, not at all.

Not when he was trying to atone.

In his own way.

Though vastly different, Hermione had made choices for which she sought a similar version of atonement with her parents. Being on the winning side of the war hadn't justified every single one of her actions, just like him being on the losing side didn't deem him eternally a villain incapable of change.

It just made them both human. Two sides of the same coin. Capable of great and terrible things.

It wasn't her place to determine what he deserved, but in that moment, it wasn't about Malfoy.

It was about Scorpius.

But it definitely wasn't ideal to give him a true account of the person his father had been, even as she sought answers to determine who he was now. The pieces she had of Draco Malfoy's life made little sense—the notes he left and the distance he kept, the time he'd invested to figuring out the problem with his mother's potions and his overall apathy towards her disease—but something Hermione did know was that he had changed.

And perhaps Scorpius deserved to know this version of his father.

She knew it wasn't her place to tell him anything, but the open curiosity on his adorable face made Hermione try to find something she could say.

"Your dad and I… Well, we weren't friends. I don't know him that well, but what I do know is that he's smart and is good at fixing things." The more she spoke, the easier it got. Somewhat. "He was good at flying. He played Quidditch—" Scorpius tilted his head to the side like a confused baby owl. "Ah, you don't know Quidditch. Neither do I, but—" Maybe one day Malfoy would teach him. Hermione cleared her throat. "Your dad was great at potions. Still is, it seems."

None of it was a lie, even if the truth was far more complex than the washed down version she gave.

Scorpius hung on her every word, cheeks flushed pink as if he were holding his breath.

He wanted to know him.

The sight of his curiosity made Hermione's heart squeeze tightly in her chest. She found herself grappling through the files in her mind just so she could help him. "H-he likes reading the paper and crosswords puzzles. He swims. He sets your place at the table every day and puts your note there himself."

That made him freeze before producing not just one note, but a small handful, from the pocket of his trousers, dropping some like most kids did when they tried to grab too many things for their little hands. What spilled from his pockets represented days and days of notes. Notes that Scorpius kept close as he tried to decipher his father from words too illegible for him to read.

There was a sad sort of irony that Hermione couldn't help but notice.

Couldn't help but feel the ache in her head and heart.

What she'd told him wasn't much, but from the way his attention went from her to the notes, maybe it was enough.

For now.

One by one, after looking at each note and trying to decipher it, Scorpius returned them to his pocket that was clearly charmed to hold the sheer volume of notes he kept there. He then returned to watching the storm, getting up and standing in front of the window, just as she had found him before.

He seemed contemplative and stoic in a way that made him look older than five.

As though life had dealt him a bad hand—maybe quite a few—but he was bearing it.

Even the way Scorpius held himself, like his father with both hands behind his back, made her feel both amused and sad. It was a strange mix that hurt because she could see that beneath it all, everything about him spoke of anguish. And melancholy.

A roll of thunder and a flash of lightning came and went, but he didn't flinch. His focus was on the raindrops that slid down the glass, distorting the world outside, raindrops that he'd begun randomly tracing the trail of with a small finger. As she watched him, a question was called from the recesses of her mind. Hermione had no idea why she even asked it or where the question had come from, but in the silence between them, as the rain fell, the wind gusted, and lightning crackled overhead, a quiet question floated from her mouth to his ears.

"Are you okay?"

She immediately felt the bottom drop out of her heart when Scorpius tensed then fell apart right before her eyes.

He flinched as if her words had physically struck him, the hand still behind him curling into a small fist. The action tugged hard on every heartstring Hermione had and a familiar tightness returned. Only more intense.

She heard Scorpius take a sharp breath before he rested his head on the cool glass. It only lasted a moment before he took a step back, wrapped his small hands around his stomach, and curled in on himself as though he needed protection and the only place he could find it was… in himself.

Hermione moved on instinct rather than logic, placing a gentle, encouraging hand on his shoulder. He sidestepped. His message was clear.

Don't touch. Keep away.

And she listened, but remained close, helpless, hating that she'd unearthed his pain with one question. Scorpius' cheeks reddened as he turned his back to her completely, taking ragged breath after breath as if he were struggling for air.

Trying to keep something in that desperately wanted out.

"It's… it's okay to not be okay."

No, Scorpius didn't make much noise, his hurt remained silent, but his pain?

That was loud, vivid, and honest.

It shook Hermione to the core.

He lifted his head, staring at the ceiling as he struggled on, fighting it, breathing so loud it was deafening. Like the storm outside, the one in front of her was a force of nature all its own.

Scorpius was all Hermione could hear. His devastation was all she could feel.

But slowly, he began to realise that he wasn't alone. That she was there. And he seemed to retreat further. Deeper. Fixing his face brick by brick. Getting his breathing under control. Scorpius did everything except cry.

And she hated that somewhere along the line, he had been taught to control himself to that extent.

Hermione crawled to him, putting herself back in his line of sight—face to face. She had no idea what to say or what to do. But she knew she had to do something before he closed up again. Hermione didn't touch him, but she tried her best and offered some comfort.

A word.

The only one she could muster.

His name.

"Scorpius."

Whatever progress he'd made crumpled with the quivering of his lip. The forming tears in his eyes were scrubbed away too hard with small hands he then used to cover his face. Scorpius staggered back as if unmoored. And all Hermione could do was try to pull him back with words.

"Can I help?"

Gods, her hands were shaking so bad with her overwhelming urge to help him, to reach for him, to give a hurting child the comfort he so desperately needed. But the look he gave her haunted Hermione long after he calmed himself down enough to leave.

A look that said one thing.

No, she couldn't help.

He had been quiet for too long.

Ginny eyed the pie Hermione offered with the same suspicion she reserved for James whenever he tried to blame Albus and Lily for something they clearly hadn't done. Hermione held her breath until she accepted the offer. Because really, who would turn down a pie?

Blueberry especially.

It was Lily's favourite.

But acceptance didn't smooth her furrowed brows or remove that pinched expression from her face—the look that meant Hermione wasn't sure if Ginny was going to hold on for a meaningful lecture or let it go until next time.

In truth, she didn't know which would be worse.

"You only bake dessert under duress or for someone's birthday." Ginny looked to her right at the second bag. "It's no one's birthday and you've baked two pies. What the hell happened to you today?"

Actually, she'd made three, but Hermione kept that bit of information to herself.

"I made that for Daphne. She loves pie." Hermione cleared her throat. "Where are the kids?"

"Nice diversion attempt, but I'll allow it. James is upstairs finishing his homework." She stopped and yelled for him to come down because Hermione was there. She could hear immediate movement. "Lily's with my parents, and Albus is out with Harry. He needed a break." Ginny sighed and joined her at the table. "School was rough today. He came home in tears and he's still eating lunch alone."

Hermione hated to hear that. Al was so kind and generous, but he never knew what to say to the other children. He'd get so excited that he'd just freeze up, sort of like stage fright. The children avoided him, called him names, and—well, he needed a friend who understood him.

"I know it's not my weekend, but if you—"

"Oh no, we couldn't." Ginny waved her off. "Harry took him to dinner and they're going to the Planetarium."

Albus loved the stars.

"Still, I wouldn't mind." Thoughts of another little boy's pain and loneliness swelled and swirled in her memory, then receded, before coming back harder—like the tide. With it, Hermione felt the first signs of the emotional blowback from the afternoon rise in her chest. She felt tightness behind her eyes that matched the one in her chest and blinked furiously to prevent any tears from falling. Her thumbnail dug into her hand—hard. "It'd be nice to see him."

Ginny said nothing at first, then leaned forward, placing her hand over Hermione's locked fingers, trying to catch her eye.

Hermione looked past her friend to where another redhead entered the room. "Hi James!" she greeted him with a bright smile that quickly hollowed out.

At seven, James wasn't a hugger, never had been. He was more inclined to run or complain his way through one, but there must have been something on Hermione's face that made him approach with a tentativeness she had never seen before. Something that made him pause at her side…

Then wrap his arms around her.

The hug didn't last long, just a few seconds, but it helped.

Having no idea how much she needed that, James hopped over to Ginny's side with a wide smile. Too wide. Like a Cheshire cat. "Muuuuum…"

Already knowing what he wanted, Ginny gave him a long look. "Did you finish your assignments?"

"Yes!"

"Go get your shoes on and I'll take you over to the Burr—" With a whoop, he ran back out, and seconds later, they both heard him stomping around upstairs. Ginny chuckled to herself and Hermione couldn't help but join in. "George is doing fireworks at the Burrow. Angelina's in town. You should come. Take your mind off whatever it is that's troubling you."

"It'll just be back tomorrow." Hermione knew her smile was tight as she stared at her friend across the table.

"You never did say what happened today."

Hermione took a deep breath. "Not what, who."

Ginny's eyebrow lifted. "Malfoys'?"

"Yes, but no. The smallest one is…" Hermione was at a loss for words. "Ginny."

"Oh." Whatever her friend knew about the Malfoys' situation seemed to settle in. "Oh… how long has it been? Six months?" Ginny winced, knowing too much about loss. "Not a lot of time. Not for any of them, even Malfoy."

Hermione frowned. "From what I've gathered, it wasn't a marriage of love. Just duty."

"Doesn't change the fact that he lost someone, too."

The words stuck to her like a second skin, a film that no amount of scrubbing could cleanse, they settled and made her itch with irritation. Made her oddly restless.

It was one thing to think of Draco Malfoy as father and son, but another to remind herself that he was in fact a widower. That he'd lost someone, as well. His attitude certainly never served as a cue… he never acted like someone who was in mourning.

But that wasn't fair of her.

How could anyone tell someone how to grieve?

Much less someone like Draco Malfoy whose pride and defensiveness had made him hard pressed to ask for help in its simplest form. Even when he needed it.

Especially then.

Her thoughts made her decline Ginny's invitation a second time and brought her to her next destination: Dean and Daphne's. When Hermione showed up at their doorstep after dark, Dean took one look at her face, then at what she was holding, and stepped aside.

"Daph! Hermione's here! Looks like she's brought a pie!"

The pregnant woman practically materialised at the top of the stairs. "Oh! What kind?" They locked eyes and knowing expressions passed between them. "Dean can you—"

"Ron's invited me to the Burrow for fireworks, remember? But you said you wanted me—"

"To work on the nursery, yes yes, but now you can go." Daphne had already started down the stairs, one hand on the railing and the other cradling her ever-growing belly. She was in her eighth month and starting to waddle, which was how she walked over to her husband, kissing him soundly before shooing him off.

Dean left before she could change her mind and put him back to work, but not before he looked back. "Want me to bring anything home?"

"We're out of crisps. You ate them all."

They all knew that was a lie, but Dean just smiled. "Sure thing. Sorry, love."

"The cheese ones, please."

He just chuckled, nodded fondly, and left them alone in the foyer.

"Smells fresh." Daphne accepted the pie with a raised eyebrow.

"It is." Before she could ask, Hermione told her the flavour. "Blueberry."

"One of my favourites."

That was a ticket, because Daphne led the way to their living room, where Hermione took off her shoes and settled on the smaller of the two sofas, waiting while Daphne grabbed two forks. They ate in companionable silence. Daphne used her baby bump to balance the pie. They were halfway finished when the blonde held the fork to her lips, and handed the pie off to Hermione.

Not that she was finished, but she clearly had something to say.

"As much as I love your pie, I know you didn't bake one just to come here and share it with me. You hardly like baking at all, unless it's someone's birthday or you're agitated." Daphne reached over and scooped up another bite. "You look like the latter. What happened?" When Hermione said nothing, Daphne sighed. "Obviously something happened, so don't lie."

"Just a long day."

"How is he?"

The he she was referring to was obvious. Ginny had asked her the same question, but for some reason honesty came easier with Daphne. Likely because she knew. Because she had experienced Scorpius' pain for herself. The father and son weren't the only ones who had lost someone.

"I…" Hermione exhaled a rough breath. "I've spent the hours it took to prepare and bake this pie from scratch wondering how someone so small can feel so much. It's…"

Mind-boggling.

Heartbreaking.

Crippling.

Watching him stumble towards the edge of falling apart only to fight and claw his way back was a different kind of pain, more than unbearable. And worse, watching Scorpius compose himself as if it were a practised act made her nauseous.

Long after he had left, Hermione had struggled to stay within the boundaries she'd set up when she'd started working as Narcissa's Healer. Struggled to hold on to the belief, the idea, the fucking delusion that she could keep to the outside of the Malfoy family's storm.

Honestly, she hadn't done a good job.

Hermione had stood outside the library earlier and listened to Scorpius struggle through music lessons, cringing as his nanny gently corrected him over and over until it was time for him to move on to another subject: dead languages. And he seemed to struggle through that as well with the way his tutor kept having to tell him to focus. Pay attention. Hermione had only just been able to pull herself away.

But that knowing discomfort lingered, whispering the truth that she preferred to ignore because it really wasn't her place.

As Malfoy liked to remind her, she had one patient, and Narcissa was it.

But was it?

The random question made Hermione remove herself completely—not only from the room, but the Malfoys' home. She'd let Zippy handle Narcissa's meals for the rest of the day, went home, pulled weeds, chased the chickens, reorganised her cupboards, and aggressively made three pies.

The third one would be a gift for Scorpius' nanny.

"I went over earlier, apparently right after you'd left." Daphne didn't look especially thrilled about the visit. "I didn't stay long. He was not having a good day."

Of course not. Hermione bit her lip before asking, "Did he look at you?"

"No."

They continued eating the pie with new vigour, but Hermione could no longer taste the sweetness of the fruit or the richness of the crust. It tasted like nothing. Daphne must have felt the same way; they stopped eating almost simultaneously.

Hermione put the pie on the table and it wasn't long before she ran a hand through her hair. Daphne did something very similar, looking past her at the blank wall over her head. She grabbed Hermione's hand and held on without questioning any further.

Honestly, she thought that Daphne would be the first to crack, but in the end, it was her own frustration and heavy emotions that outweighed everything else.

"I'm frustrated," Hermione confessed abruptly. "And I'm not certain I'll be able to remain objective."

"With Narcissa?"

"No, Scorpius." Hermione sucked in a deep breath while Daphne watched her with an unreadable expression. She exhaled until she had nothing left. "I'm not always clinical, you know. I do have a heart. I'm not impervious. I'm not blind nor am I deaf to a child who is crying out for help. I have tried to keep my distance. Gods, I've watched this play out for an entire month, but I don't know how long I'll be able to ignore what's so blatantly happening in front of me. How don't they see?"

"Draco is too busy to see. Too distracted trying to atone for his sins and fix… well, everything to protect his family. Too overwhelmed by everything that's happened and everything that's coming at him incredibly fast." Which was an excuse, but also a reality. Hermione didn't know whether to empathise or criticise. So she did neither, continuing to listen. "And Narcissa doesn't want to see. She's wilfully ignorant to the fact that she's turning him into Draco. Blessedly, not who he was when he was a child, but who he is now."

"Apathetic? Pessimistic? Frustrating? Disconnected?" The list went on and on, but Hermione left it at that.

"Ah yes, all of that." Daphne shook her head. "But moreover… lonely."

"How is Malfoy lonely? He has you all in whatever capacity he needs. He has Scorpius who carries around weeks worth of letters that are completely illegible to him, but does so because he's desperate to know his father." Hermione took a breath, rubbing her hand across her forehead. "How I see it, this is by choice: the distance he keeps and the loneliness you say he feels. He's only lonely because he chooses to be."

For just for a moment, Daphne fell silent. "It's not an excuse, that's just all he knows."

In solitude the lonely man is eaten up by himself, among crowds by the many.

Friedrich Nietzsche

A/N: Happy Friday and sorry for the wild ride of emotions and angst *hides* This was a complete insert chapter I'd forgotten to write, but boy was it fun to watch Draco and Hermione continue to be throw off balance by each other. Also, lol at all the theories about Narcissa's irregularities. I was like "dang I wish I would have thought of that. HA! In the end, it was simple, an allergy. There's a lot of complexities at play with everyone, but in the center of it is Scorpius. Boy was I emotional when I wrote that scene. I had such a vivid picture in my head of it. But it's an important moment for Hermione to experience as she goes on...and the development of their relationship which is fast approaching. Until next week! We meet another little one we've only seen in name. Albus. (not yet for their meeting tho)

:)

inadaze22