Measure Of A Man

by inadaze22

To truly know someone is to differentiate between who they once were, who they are now, and who they're capable of being. Hermione realises the duality of one man as she rectifies what she knows of the past and begins to understand the pieces of who Draco Malfoy is now: a father, a son, and a man.

11. The Facets of Human Connection

Chapter Eleven

The Facets of Human Connection

May 27, 2011

For all the questions Hermione had about Draco Malfoy, she at least had one answer

Like his mother and son, he was a creature of habit and routine. Malfoy was staunch with his morning swim. Particular with how he spent his time during tea. Uncompromising when it came to his rituals surrounding crosswords and reading the morning paper. But at the same time, he wasn't too rigid, able to compromise. Hermione's presence had made him adjust his routine slightly—even if only by force. Now it had expanded to include gruff greetings, toleration for whatever tea she had made, and conversation.

The surface of this man remained true to the person she knew he once was, right down to his attire and the way in which he parted his hair.

It was an odd thought, considering there was much more to him, a deep chasm of intricate thoughts and reasons behind his actions and all the pieces that made up his identity. Hermione was barely skimming just beneath the surface, just beginning her quest to understand who he was now.

But this morning represented a shift—a small dip.

It was ten minutes past seven, and Malfoy was still there, showing no signs of leaving.

It was—well, first and foremost—odd.

He wasn't reading, she could tell when he was—his intense concentration gave him away. Malfoy engrossed himself in whatever he was reading, regardless of interest. Hermione could quietly relate. But right then, his attention went from the paper, to his watch, then to her, head tilted as if he had a pressing question that he would not ask. Malfoy went through three cycles of this before she realised what was happening.

He was waiting.

On what, Hermione had no idea. Whatever it was, he seemed to battle back and forth with himself about it while she kept to her task of making Narcissa's breakfast: buckwheat crepes with ham, spinach, and mushrooms. Healthy and light. She only had plans to make two: one for herself and one for Narcissa, but Malfoy's prolonged presence left her needing something to do. So, she made a third, packed it into a glass container charmed to maintain freshness, and placed it next to him. The glass clicking against the granite broke the silence.

"What's this?" Malfoy cut his eyes to the container, then back to her in mild suspicion.

"Breakfast. I made an extra." Hermione shrugged. "You can leave it if you'd like. I've noticed you only drink tea. I've never seen you eat a meal before leaving, except for your protein drinks."

And that was odd, too.

"That's because I don't." With two crisp actions, he folded the paper and checked his watch one last time.

"What are you waiting for?" It wasn't a question she intended to ask, their conversation for the morning was long since over, but she couldn't help herself. Malfoy was so off-course that he was throwing her off, too.

"Nothing." Obviously a lie. "I have an inquiry in thirty minutes with Chief Warlock McLaggen. My third."

Hermione cringed.

Third? Tiberius must have been very suspicious… or very paranoid. Or both. But she remembered who she was speaking to: Draco Malfoy, whose reputation for being on the wrong side of every war had preceded him.

The restoration movement would be yet another wrong side for anyone who wished for things to remain the same. And taking no side would be just as wrong to someone who wanted change, someone like her. Malfoy couldn't win either way. The difference between good and evil was clear from all sides, but distorted by perception and motivation, and hardly ever processed with any sense of clarity. Draco Malfoy was doomed to spend his life in the grey—always suspected and never trusted, regardless of stance.

And for the first time, Hermione wondered—well, nevermind.

She cleared the discomfort lodged in her throat. "You should probably be gone then."

Malfoy hummed his low, rumbling agreement. It sounded like brass, refined and polished. "I suppose."

But he didn't move.

For several seconds, Hermione watched him from the corner of her eye. Not yet ready to eat, she sipped tea and catalogued her thoughts. Malfoy's reputation was limited by what others thought of him. Preconceived notions. Not who he was. Hermione had learned over the years, as she struggled to find her own identity outside of her reputation, that it was a convoluted construct and struggle. People were in a constant state of flux, shifting and evolving. Hermione wasn't immune to it…

And neither was he.

The thought weighed so heavily on her mind that the warning slipped out unchecked. "Don't drink the tea."

A single blond brow rose above the rim of his glasses. "Did you?"

"No. I just thought—"

"I'm an Occlumens, Granger. I can withstand Veritaserum. He doesn't know this as it's not in my file." Harry had mentioned that Malfoy had been trained ages ago, but the knowledge had been lost to time. That it wasn't in his file—well, that was definitely a violation but… also, none of Hermione's business. She wouldn't judge as most of the Wizengamot's activities and interests toed the proverbial line—lack of precedent left them with too much control.

"So you know about his tea—"

"It's an open secret." Which was just as disturbing as Malfoy's overall ambivalence about it. But then she remembered what he had said in Harry's office and forced her many opinions down. "I'm certain a lot of secrets have come out, just not the ones he wants." A ghost of a smirk played at his lips. Then he looked at his watch. Again. Malfoy frowned.

Hermione couldn't tamp down her rampant curiosity. "What do you know about the movement?"

"It's existence." He looked at her hard with a strange combination of accusation and resignation. "Does that seem to be something I'd involve myself in?"

Malfoy seemed more likely to ignore something like an entire underground Ministry restoration movement because it didn't suit his needs. "Not likely. If I remember correctly, you want to shut down the Death Eater organisation so you can check it off your to-do list and get on with your life."

"Precisely." He cut his gaze away and remained silent until he finished his tea. "You have opinions."

"Of course I do."

"But I don't see you leading a rebellion."

Fair point, but Percy seemed twitchy about her involvement, and she was reluctant to push him. He didn't want her involved—yet. Though, he hadn't said anything about the future. Percy chose each of his words carefully, crafted what he wanted someone to know and omitted anything even mildly extraneous, which is why she paid close attention to even minor updates on his progress.

She tasted her tea. "I certainly know more about it than just its existence."

"Is that so." Not a question—a statement. Malfoy tapped his finger on the granite. "One could argue that restoring the power to the Minister won't change everything."

"The same argument could be made that it depends on who sits in the Minister's seat after the next election. The best leaders are great teachers. They can bring about change through compromise, have an eye towards the future, and build those up around them because of it. They're humble and genuine. Firm but never to a fault. They follow an ethic of responsibility to their people by creating the best possible future. I can think of a few people like that I would willingly follow."

"Oh?" It didn't sound like interest yet it wasn't apathy. Malfoy put everything he'd brought with him aside in a move that made it clear Hermione now had his attention. And he had hers. "Who?"

"I thought you would talk more about my idealism or at least argue that no one person exists that fits that role in its totality. In fact, I can think of at least three more fitting responses to my statement than your question."

"I suppose you're right." Malfoy shrugged in consideration. "I do have more opinions on that matter concerning your odd blend of idealism and realism, not to mention the fact that you should keep them separate. Unfortunately, though, I don't have time to argue with you today, Granger. It'll have to be Monday."

"Did you just schedule an argument?"

He glanced at his watch again. "It appears I did."

Fifteen minutes after seven, less time until his Inquiry, yet he still didn't move.

Malfoy did, however, glance at the doorway surreptitiously in a move she calculated much like most things concerning him. Not that she understood the meaning, but she knew just enough to understand that it meant something. Malfoy was the sort that did nothing without purpose or cause. He calculated everything and everyone, but his variables were still unknown so Hermione could never tell if she was holding the question, the solution, or meaningless parts of a complex equation.

"What are you waiting for?"

"Nothing."

An obvious lie, but Hermione was beginning to learn when to press harder and when to release.

At least with him.

With nothing else to do or say, as Malfoy would leave when he was ready, Hermione charmed the dishes to wash, and took her tea and breakfast to the stool next to him. A first, as she usually stood across the island and silently read and answered his crossword upside down until he realised what she was doing and scowled.

Malfoy's folded Prophet was closest to her and an article caught her attention with just one glance.

"They're building an Aquatic Sanctuary for rare magical creatures in Berlin and giving the public the opportunity to observe and learn about them." It looked like it would be offering protection for those whose homes were being destroyed by humans.

"I saw." Malfoy pushed the paper in her direction, granting her permission to take a look, which she did, reading the article thoroughly until his next statement stopped her. "I despise aquariums. Animals belong in the wild."

"But they're providing a safe haven."

"In a tank."

"Better than danger. Fish like the tank. It's all they know."

"No, they live in a tank because humans don't give a fuck about anything. You call it a sanctuary, but the way I see it, it's just a place where the same people who destroyed their habitats can observe them for a special rate of one Galleon and five Sickles on weekdays. It's disgusting." When he put it like that, the idea soured. "There's nothing glamorous about living in a cage."

He was speaking from personal experience. The more she learned about the archaic pureblood culture he was born into and expected to uphold the ideals of, the more Hermione found herself quietly agreeing with him.

His tank was pristine, but there was only room for one. It was too cluttered with duties, so clouded that it made it hard for him to see things the same way Hermione—or anyone else—could from the outside.

But in thinking about his tank, she was forced to think about her own that she removed herself from years ago. It called to mind all the expectations that had driven her into the ground, and her own skewed perceptions hadn't changed until the excess was removed. Her clutter was different than his, of course, filled with expectations of greatness and stuffed with the work thrust on her simply because of her status as a hero, reputation as the brightest, and potential to lead.

"I suppose you're right," Hermione said finally, turning the paper over so neither could see the article. "But you're also wrong."

Malfoy's eyes held hers like a magnet. "Oh?"

"Just because you're born in a tank doesn't mean you're condemned to one forever. If you want to be free, free yourself."

"That's easier said than done when—" He stopped himself, but she finished it in her head, pieced together from the odds and ends of conversation she'd had with others. When the tank is all you know.

"Oh."

She could only manage the one word, but Malfoy's discomfort morphed into something physical that stirred something inside of her. Not because it was a new topic—Hermione had been on the receiving end of so much information about Draco Malfoy over the last few months that she hadn't taken a moment to process all of it. She treated it like speculation. But with the more recent conversations on her mind, his unfinished statement and unspoken words felt like an answer. A confirmation.

It felt real. Human. Raw.

The same way she felt when she covered him with that blanket.

Did he sleep there last night?

Or the night before?

Would he tonight?

Those questions were on the tip of Hermione's tongue, and she spent so much energy choking them back that something else slipped out. "You're going to be late. Whatever it is you're waiting for isn't here."

"As I've stated before, I'm not waiting for anything."

And his particular enunciation made it click. "Your mother doesn't come down for at least another thirty minutes."

"I'm not waiting for her."

Okay so now she was confused, who else—oh!

Scorpius looks for you every morning without fail.

When he realised that she had sussed him out, that he was now exposed, Malfoy's face hardened like stone. He pointedly looked away, stood, and left, taking everything he'd come with: the Prophet, the crossword book, and his pen.

But also something he'd been given along the way.

The glass container.

In Malfoy's haste to run from the truth he had all but admitted—albeit accidentally—he missed something key, something quiet and nearly undetectable. Hermione didn't notice it either until Malfoy stepped under the archway of the door.

Scorpius.

Raised on the tips of his toes, bracing himself, he peeked around the corner, staring after his father's retreating form with a longing that was as wide and deep as the ocean, one Hermione hoped to never know. Scorpius opened his mouth to call after him, but stopped, upset and unable to find the words or the courage he needed in order to speak. His shoulder slumped in renewed sorrow.

There were three types of connections.

Ones that were found, ones that were lost, and ones that were missed by minutes…

Seconds…

Moments…

When Scorpius waved to the empty space where his father had just been, Hermione's heart clenched so tight it hurt. But for which end of the missed connection it ached for most… for the first time, she wasn't sure.

---

Hermione wondered if Narcissa stood in front of a mirror each night and practiced schooling her facial expressions into a variety of emotions in order to decide just the right one to use in every instance.

Like now.

They hadn't been outside long, but Narcissa had already examined every tree, plant, herb, fruit bush, and vegetable in her greenhouse and garden with a look so perfectly distasteful that it was nothing short of staged. It was as though Narcissa had counted everything she didn't like and the number was offensive. Meanwhile, Hermione gave her the tour in perfect silence, oftentimes having to look away in order not to get caught rolling her eyes.

Which was not only immature, it was backsliding.

But Hermione had to admit that Narcissa had come dressed to work, wearing probably the most casual attire she had ever seen her in: hair styled perfectly under a wide brim hat with a soft pink mesh scarf wrapped around her head and neck to protect her from the sun. She wore a long-sleeved floral shirt, comfortable trousers (because proper women don't own jeans, Miss Granger), and a surprising pair of wellies that were so clean they were likely as new as the shiny pink gloves on her hands and the pressed apron tied around her waist.

Meaning she'd taken the time to prepare, even with only one day's notice.

Still, Narcissa looked like she had stepped out of another era. It wasn't the first time Hermione had made the comparison. Nor would it be the last.

They had rounded their way back to the start of the tour when Narcissa primly laced her fingers together and cast a long, dramatic look around, tilting her sunglasses. "I have several questions, Miss Granger."

Of course she did, Hermione thought with a long-suffering sigh. "Go on."

"Who taught you how to garden?"

"A friend of mine named Neville helped me start from tomatoes and herbs. He showed me the basics about plant care." Neville worked primarily with magical foliage, but knew enough about mundane vegetation to help Hermione begin her garden. "He's an absolute genius with magical plants."

Narcissa looked around with a tight frown. "You use the word genius far too generously."

Hermione almost choked on the litany of words ready to spill from her lips in defence of her friend, but she swallowed them down and took the high road—which was hard. "I believe I've used the word correctly. Your criticism is harsh and unnecessary, not to mention, unfounded as you don't know—"

"First—" Narcissa raised a gloved finger. "Without criticism, there is no improvement. Someone as intelligent as yourself should know this and not take offence to my observations."

"You're right, but there's a way to criticise constructively without insulting a friend of mine."

And someone who had been essential in helping her find normality through her outlet in gardening, planted the seeds in the form of words that led to Hermione looking into Healing as a career alternative.

To make the difference you want to make, you don't have to be the best at everything, you just have to care.

Narcissa lips thinned in consideration. "I meant no offence as I was speaking as someone with extensive experience with mundane horticulture. When I married Lucius, I redesigned the gardens at Malfoy Manor to make them more functional, as his family had little interest in upkeep." Narcissa touched the stem of her blackberry bush, full of berries not yet ready to be picked. "Tending a mundane garden is different. I only asked who taught you to garden after observing your garden's current state."

"Why does that matter?"

"Because your mundane plants are treated like the magical plants in your greenhouse, and that simply will not do."

Hermione didn't understand the difference or why it mattered. Her expression obviously spoke to that because Narcissa shook her head. "There are three basic elements involved in caring for plants: light, water, and heat. Like people, each plant is different, not only in appearance but in what quantity of each basic element they require to survive, and what additional care they need to thrive. Because surviving and thriving, while used interchangeably far too often, are very much at opposite ends of the spectrum."

"What does that have to do with magical versus mundane gardening methods?"

"Caring for mundane plants like one would magical plants can keep them alive, but they will not thrive. Magical plants do not always require certain maintenance that mundane plants need in excess. Your magical plants are thriving in the greenhouse—particularly your moly, arka, and bubotubers—but your mundane plants are just surviving, especially your flowers both inside and outside the greenhouse. They appear healthy enough, but they won't flourish if they don't have a full range of the necessary minerals and proper care, just as people won't."

As someone with a thirst for knowledge, Hermione's interest was piqued. She fell into step beside Narcissa, who took her for a second turnabout in the garden.

But that time with a new perspective.

Narcissa was more proficient in horticulture than she'd originally let on. Pretty soon, Hermione found herself jotting down notes for future reference.

For the first time, on a level deeper than clinical, it dawned on her that Narcissa would no longer remember her own advice at some point. Her skills. Her family. Her name. Over time, her memories would begin to come and go like the tide, and then they would be just gone. Her body would exist even as the soul that lived in it slowly dwindled away…

Hermione looked away momentarily as a small swell of emotions brushed against her heart. She batted the feelings away because it wasn't a good thought to have.

Not so impartial.

"When you landscaped in preparation to plant, it's obvious that you followed directions from books, as yours is exemplary. However, books leave out a certain je ne sais quoi that is hard to describe, but it differentiates a nice garden from an excellent one. Yours is… functional, at best, if a bit dull and unimaginative, but that…" Narcissa trailed off, showing a level of tact she hardly ever used around Hermione.

After all, tact was usually reserved for those she needed to be tactful around. Hermione had never met her requirement before, and judging from the almost embarrassed expression, perhaps she did now, but it didn't matter. Hermione already knew what Narcissa was going to say.

Dull? Unimaginative?

But that's who you are.

After an awkward yet almost apologetic silence, Narcissa stood in front of her hydrangea bush by the fence that separated her garden from the pasture. Again, she frowned when she spotted yellow leaves. "Do you prune with magic?"

"No."

"Good, you shouldn't." She paused and properly lowered herself to her knees with a certain grace that could not be taught. She touched the base of the plant, removing blooms and leaf debris. "Your hydrangeas are suffering from moisture stress, either too wet or too dry. It rained two nights ago, yet this is already parched. Perhaps the debris here was blocking the water from getting to the roots, which account for the yellowing leaves."

"I thought that a little debris would make a good compost."

"Perhaps for other plants, but not hydrangeas. What is good for one is not good for all. You should also consider clipping these old stems to allow the plant to breathe."

"I can do that… or you can."

Narcissa lifted her head, one blonde brow arching above the rim of her glasses, but said nothing, only began her task after extracting her hand shears from her apron—spelled to cut through anything. After finishing, she stood and examined her work.

"I suppose I can work with this."

Instead of paying attention to her words, Hermione found the tiny flower of compliment hidden in the vast garden of criticism. Now, she was ready to learn. "Any other points you would like to make?"

"Your pruning is horrible, especially on the fruit trees in the greenhouse. Your cuts are wrong, you either snip too much or not enough, and on several occasions, you have clipped them too soon. Knowing when to prune is critical for young trees, as they need to be trained in order to develop a strong structure."

Trained.

There was that word again, niggling at her, calling forth images of little Scorpius standing at attention with a serious expression on his face. The boy who never smiled, only watched and held everything inside.

Like his father.

Hermione snapped back to focus only to find Narcissa casting a look at her house. Her security guards stood just outside the door, probably bored. There really had been no reason for their presence today as Hermione's wards practically guaranteed her safety.

But they had their orders.

"Miss Granger, I find myself curious about something." That tone made Hermione inwardly cringe.

"Oh?"

Merlin.

Conversation starters like that never ended without tense discussions. Recent common ground aside, tensing was only a natural reaction. Progress wasn't linear, nor was it one-dimensional. It was full of twists and turns, ups and downs, backtracks and loops that would eventually lead to where they were supposed to end up. Or maybe it wouldn't. Perhaps they would get to at a point where they were both comfortable with the balance.

Or maybe discussions about their differences would be their normal.

"You have a rather large home for someone who is unmarried and lives alone." Narcissa cast a sidelong glance back at Hermione. "While lovely, I cannot decide if you intend to rectify that. However, given your liberal views on marriage and the fact that you live in virtual solitude, I'd have to conclude not."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I don't owe you a response as it's none of your business, but my opinions on marriage aren't indicative of whether or not I intend to marry at all. That's quite short-sighted of you, but—" Hermione bit her own tongue, but the sharp look she received in response made it clear that Narcissa knew her next words.

But that's who you are.

Narcissa frowned. "It is expected for a woman to give up her home when she marries. You have settled here, at least it appears so from the parts of your home I have seen. It does not seem likely that you would be able to give this up. Additionally, it would be quite hard to transfer a vegetable garden of this magnitude."

"Or my future husband can live here."

"It is simply not proper, Miss Granger." Narcissa's laugh mocked her sentiment. "How can he be head of a home that is not his?"

"Because we're partners in life and what's mine is his. There is no room for pride or ego in love and respect."

"You say this now because you don't know—"

"I'll always say this because it's what I believe." Hermione took a deep breath. "Just like you have your beliefs, I have mine. I don't necessarily agree with yours, but I don't dismiss what you say simply because I find it antiquated and regressive. You shouldn't dismiss me either. Perhaps as we continue working towards compromise, you should try to understand me, just as I'm trying to understand you." Hermione couldn't see her eyes, but felt them weighing heavily on her. "Why are you concerned about whether I'll marry?"

"As I often tell Draco, it's not good to be alone."

"I have friends and family. I have my work and I love that I work on an individual scale. I have my home, this vegetable patch, and a great appreciation for myself. I don't seek outside validation. I'm content."

"But are you happy?"

The question struck her like a thunderbolt, but Hermione didn't react. Didn't answer. "I—"

"I often find myself wondering how you manage to keep everything together." Narcissa removed her sunglasses, tucking them in her apron. "You cook for me, prepare my potions weekly, and monitor my condition while keeping detailed records on the progression of my disease—one that you don't even specialise in—and researching the nature of it. You frequently consult with other Healers to make sure that you are providing the best care. Additionally, you have this garden with chickens and a home much too large for one person. You still work at St Mungo's doing floater work, attend dinners with your parents, host gatherings with your friends, and you make yourself available whenever anyone needs anything… according to Pansy. How much time do you actually make for yourself, Miss Granger?"

The question, while soft, had a hint of genuine concern that matched the look in her eyes.

"I make time." Some. "I just like keeping busy."

Narcissa started walking and Hermione fell into step beside her until they stopped between the radishes and carrots. "When Lucius died, I was inconsolable. Even after we moved to France, I managed to distract myself with helping Draco secure a wife and a flurry of activities to avoid thinking about him. I wonder if you're doing the same, distracting yourself from your own… restlessness."

There were several rebuttals on the tip of her tongue, but they all were flawed. Parts of her were still stunned by Narcissa's awareness.

"Just think about it." The older witch's tone bordered on motherly.

"Pushing marriage isn't a remedy to loneliness." The thought was so strange that Hermione snorted. Then she closed her mouth, flushing first in embarrassment then wincing at the fact that she'd admitted having a problem. Out loud. To her patient. In the middle of her garden.

Maybe Narcissa hadn't noticed.

One glance told Hermione that she absolutely had.

"Perhaps you're right and it is not the answer. But maybe finding someone who understands you is."

Hermione processed her words as she cleared her throat and looked away, awkwardly pulling at the end of her braid. "I…" After trailing off, Hermione brushed away a leaf that had gotten stuck in Narcissa's hat. "We should get started working on the garden. Any other critiques?"

Even her patient's critical appraisals felt better than the current hollowness inside her ribs.

Narcissa led the way down a row of vegetables almost ready for harvest, then turned back to Hermione, who was clinically monitoring her gait. "Overall, your garden is lovely, Miss Granger. Healthy—despite errors due to inexperience." Narcissa readjusted her scarf. "My criticism seems harsh to you, as it appears you have worked quite hard to cultivate this land, but I cannot help but examine with a sharp eye geared towards improvement."

Which was fair.

Her words were also laden with double meaning.

"That being said, your garden needs proper and correct attention, that is, if you are willing to learn from someone as old-fashioned as me."

She was.

And with a short nod, it began.

---

Time passed as they worked alongside one another. Narcissa taught her tricks she'd learned while cultivating Malfoy Manor's gardens. How to cut. Where to cut. When to cut. She showed Hermione the results of her errors in split branches and prematurely dying leaves. They pulled weeds and Narcissa showed her the difference between healthy soil and its dusty, barely living counterpart.

It was a humbling experience that could have gone a lot differently had Narcissa's tone been harsher, had Hermione been stubborn and unwilling to listen. But it had gone well. Today certainly wouldn't be the last time they disagreed, but perhaps the length of time between each one would grow.

While Narcissa was good with all her other fruit-bearing vegetation, she seemed to pay special attention to the flowers. Cared for them. Genuinely liked her variety. She had more specific instructions and ideas on which she should plant for added pollination. And she knew just the place where they could go, a place that would require Hermione to extend her fence at least a metre out.

Not feasible at the moment, but it was something to consider.

Before she knew, the recommended hour had passed, but Narcissa wanted to finish weeding the row of broad and runner beans before she stopped for the day. Hermione noted the colour in her cheeks, the healthy glow of satisfaction. Despite the sweat on her brow, she looked far more relaxed than she'd seen her after all their walks combined.

Happier.

Everything shifted in the blink of an eye. Narcissa stood to her feet, but stopped short as she looked past Hermione and tilted her head strangely. "Miss Granger, you have said in the past that if I believe I am having an incident to inform you immediately."

Hermione dropped her notebook and rushed to her side, reaching into her pockets and finding a cloth to wipe the sweat from her brow. Narcissa looked visibly shaken, but more than that, she seemed confused. Visual hallucinations were a common symptom of her disease and there were so many ways to handle one, but Hermione settled on a tactic she knew would work.

Hermione kept her voice calm, speaking in soothing tones. "Narcissa. Tell me what you see."

"I always see Lucius."

A chill shot up her spine as Sachs' words played in her mind. Her comforting presence.

Her voice seemed far away as she stared on, taking an unconscious step towards the hallucination. "But it is not… Lucius has been here all along. All day."

Now the question of what else she kept to herself lingered. Suddenly, meeting with Malfoy was of utmost importance. She couldn't delay. But right then, Hermione walked alongside Narcissa as she slowly approached her mirage. In front of the chicken coop where the three were still running around, Hermione made a request only her patient could hear. "Tell me about the person you see."

Narcissa didn't hesitate. "A man with black hair and skin that's covered in bruises. He's on the other side of the stream, both watching us and trying to get inside. But he cannot. He does not stop trying. It looks painful. His hand looks… wrong."

That… was an oddly specific hallucination.

"What is he wearing?" Hermione took out her wand and performed several quick diagnostic charms that didn't reveal anything spectacular. It worried her more.

"His clothes are tattered and dirty. His hair is wild with leaves and branches stuck in it. He looks so real. Like Lucius. It's remarkable."

Quietly disturbed by the visual she was painting, Hermione asked. "Can you look at me, Narcissa? I'd like to see your eyes." When she turned her head, she discovered that they weren't glazed over like they had been that morning in the garden. They were clear. Focused. Scared. "Let's get you out of the sun and I'll make you a cup of tea. I'll—" Hermione turned her head. "Uhh…"

Hermione had very limited experience with hallucinations of any kind, but she did know—from extensive research and training—that there were different levels and types to consider.

Something else she knew?

It wasn't a hallucination if she could see it as well.

Dread invaded Hermione's body, sinking into her skin as her stomach dropped. Adrenaline propelled her into action, not running from but rather towards the man. Narcissa was somewhere in the background, yelling for her to stop.

Not that she'd ever listened before—the word wasn't in her vocabulary.

As she got closer, the man came into clearer focus. Narcissa had been accurate in her description, right down to his filth. He kept walking into her wards like he had no idea that he would fall into the stream if he succeeded. Almost as if he knew no other way, stuck in a trance. Idea in mind, Hermione ran towards the walkway that served as a bridge, exiting her wards, fully prepared for a fight…

That never came.

She crept towards the almost skeletal stranger, one step after the other, wand pointed, and eyes and ears open for any surprises. It was unsettling the way he repeatedly collided with her invisible wards that shimmered from the unauthorised contact. His eyes were focused and unseeing. He was barefoot, all his visible skin covered in festering cuts and bruises and welts that made her wonder if he'd walked straight there from wherever he'd come from.

How had he gotten through her diversion wards?

"Who are you?"

The stranger's head slowly turned, movement stiff and unnatural, allowing her to see his dark, empty eyes for the first time. When he opened his mouth, blood and saliva ran from the corners of his lips, staining his filthy chin and torn clothes. Hermione could barely make out his tongue, but she could see that it was the source of the bleeding. Bitten clean off.

His jaw worked hard, lips moving as if he were trying to speak. Her fist tensed around her wand.

"Hermione Granger."

The voice he spoke in was gargled from the blood spilling out and hoarse from overuse.

"We see you."

Or screaming.

"We see you all."

And he charged at her—as best as he could, given his slow gait, due to his obviously broken ankle. But he was wandless. Not a threat. There was no fear, only logic. Hermione aimed for his chest, just a Body Bind Curse to subdue. But she never had the opportunity to fire.

Instead, a Stunner came from behind her, whizzing a safe distance away from her head and landing on its target with enough force to knock the man right off his feet. Feet over head, the stranger landed in a heap of twisted limbs in the patchy grass a few metres away. Hermione whipped around, ready to fight, only to find one of Narcissa's ever-present security guards behind her. The other guard was across the creek with her patient, who looked on anxiously, wringing her gloved hands.

"What the hell?" she yelled at him, rushing over to the unconscious man. Pressing two gloved fingers against his neck, she searched until she found his pulse. Weak yet steady. The guard didn't look a bit apologetic, which made anger flood her veins. Through gritted teeth, she sucked in a breath. "I had it under control. You don't stun an obviously injured person like that. It's barbaric!"

"He charged at you." Impatience was written all over his gruff face. "Mrs Malfoy gave me an order to help you, so I did my job—"

"Your assignment is to protect Narcissa, who is quite safe within my wards. I don't need your help. Go back to your actual job."

The wizard looked leery, his wand still tight in his grip, ready to hex again if the man so much as moved. "I heard what he said to you, Miss Granger. You shouldn't—"

"While I appreciate the concern, he's not a threat. He's unconscious and injured. I'm a Healer. It's a part of my oath and duty to help those who need it, regardless of what they've done. So, go." She glared daggers at him until he went, eyes following him until he was back at Narcissa's side, delivering a message into her ear. One that she nodded at, but didn't look too pleased about receiving.

Distractions gone, Hermione sent a Patronus to Harry. The message was quick and to the point. And while she waited, she stabilised him and performed every diagnostic charm she could think of that wouldn't harm him. His magical readings were all over the place.

Ah, so he was a wizard. Good to know.

From there, she noted his haggard condition: the wounds on the soles of his feet, obviously infected sores and burns all over his visible skin. He was too thin and warm with fever. Wherever he had been kept, he had been there a long time, likely caged like an animal with no one to tend to his ailments. With clinical gentleness, Hermione gently turned his head towards her. More bruises. Discolouration around both of his hollow eyes that were open and red from strain.

Bitten tongue. Tense muscles. Bloodshot eyes.

All the classic signs of overuse of the Cruciatus Curse.

The stunning likely hadn't helped. She glared over her shoulder at the guard, who stood on the other side of Narcissa, still waiting. Her patient had her arms folded and was tapping her foot. She could have left, they were finished, after all, but she remained right there.

Hermione continued her assessment. More strained muscles, rope burns on his wrists that served as proof of his captivity. He had landed awkwardly on his left arm, so she moved to the other side to prepare to reset his shoulder…

Then she noticed it. The letter in his discoloured hand.

With a start, Hermione immediately used her wand to remove it. She didn't read it, more concerned with the man's black fingertips and the slow spread of darkness that was indicative of the infection that would soon enter his bloodstream. The sight brought forth unforgettable memories.

His hand looked just like Molly's when she'd been poisoned.

Harry arrived with a soft pop, looking as if he'd been fighting or running. His shoulders were tense, glasses crooked, cheeks coloured, and a light sheen of sweat painted his forehead. Ah, he must have been in the middle of a training session when he'd gotten her message and rushed out in a hurry. His immediate relief upon seeing her uninjured was written all over his face. Harry slipped his wand back into the holster over his shoulder.

"Are you okay?"

Before Hermione could respond, Malfoy appeared on the scene in all black, no jacket, leather wand harness on display. And though his face was all sharp lines and stoic indifference, he bore the same signs of physical activity: a slight flush, no sweat, but his hair was in mild disarray, as if he'd run his hands through it several times.

Probably in irritation.

"Granger."

He must have been there when Harry got her message, which meant they were still teaching together. No one was missing a limb. Interesting. Hermione was almost proud of them.

"Malfoy."

In the span of a single blink, Malfoy scanned her from head to toe before glancing over at the unconscious man. She was getting better at noticing, but it was still impossible to know what he was thinking; his stone-faced expression gave nothing away.

"Are you injured?"

The question came as a surprise, probably to them both. "No, but he is." She gestured to the man lying in the grass, stepping aside as they approached for a closer look.

Colour bled from Harry's face as recognition dawned on him. "Oh fuck. It's Mathers."

The missing Auror.

Harry stepped to one side of the stunned wizard, Malfoy to the other, while Hermione stood at his feet. "I'll call in a team."

"C Team," Malfoy suggested without tearing his attention from the unconscious man. "They need practice canvassing. We'll need to complete a proper sweep of the area. Three kilometres out in all directions."

Harry agreed with a nod and—to Hermione's surprise—without argument. "We'll also need to contact his family."

"Later." Malfoy crouched next to Mathers' still form, his hands on his knees. "When he's stable."

"Right." Harry ran a heavy hand through his hair. Hermione knew he was troubled, even as he backed away. Harry took everything harder than he should, because he valued everyone, right down to Deloris. However, he was still the consummate professional, a true leader, and he knew what to do. Quickly, Harry put his feelings aside and pointed his wand in the air to call forth his silvery stag.

It was time to get to work.

One knee in the grass, Malfoy slid his wand back into its holster in a smooth motion. He hadn't been as affected as Harry—at least not visibly. His reaction had been far more subtle and thus harder to point out for dissection. The first clue of his inner workings came from the simple fact that Malfoy seemed unsurprised by the brutality.

Hermione noted nothing beyond indifference in his clinical indifference. "Do you know him?"

"Not like Potter."

Hermione knew what he meant.

Being an Auror—well, now the Head of the Auror's Office—was Harry's career, something he knew he would be doing for a long time. He had always made it a mission to know every person who worked for him. Families, birthdays, hobbies. This assignment and collaboration with the Task Force was just that: an assignment. It was about the people who went from assignment to assignment with him. They were important.

Malfoy, from what she could ascertain, was different. No surprise there. The people who worked under him were just that: people. He didn't try to get to know them, wasn't interested in gaining their respect. All business. It was a surprisingly linear way of thinking that Hermione knew didn't always work. His detachment—in addition to the fact that he was Draco Malfoy—was likely why everyone deferred to Harry. And also why he didn't seem to care.

"I'll see that he's transported to St. Mungo's," Hermione said just to end the odd silence. "When he wakes, he'll likely need to be questioned."

Malfoy said nothing as he examined the man's injuries. "Looks like the work of the Carrows. They're particularly heavy-handed with the Cruciatus curse. They also think setting captives loose in the forest without a wand to hunt like prey is a perfectly acceptable form of entertainment." She had the wisdom to think before asking how he knew about such a barbaric act. "Did he say anything to you?"

Hermione gulped. "My name." That didn't bother him at all, so she told him the rest. "We see you. We see you all."

She noticed the shift, the stiffness in his shoulders, as he lifted his eyes to hers. For a second, Hermione saw the worry in them before he tucked it away. "Anything else? Anything… more specific?"

"No."

Harry joined them, his jaw set in a tight line. "They'll be here momentarily. Will he be okay?" His eyes were hopeful despite his grim expression

Malfoy answered before she could. "He'll likely end up like Longbottom's parents. It'll be a waste to question him or even retrieve his memories."

"There have been significant strides in reversing the long-term effects of the curse." While possible, his response wasn't exactly true. She rested a hand on Harry's shoulder. "They won't know how bad he is until he regains consciousness."

"How long will that take?"

"I have no idea." Hermione levitated the letter with her wand. "This was in his hand. It's poisoned, and while I didn't read it for obvious reasons, it looks the same as all the others. His hand looks like Molly's. It has to be the same poison." Malfoy didn't hide his confusion; his eyes cut back and forth between them as he tried to put the puzzle pieces together. Harry heaved a sigh and Hermione tried to fill in the gaps. "It's a slow-acting poison that is fatal if left untreated for—"

"I'm familiar with it."

That's right. Sachs.

Still, there was so much tension and finality in those four words that Hermione left it alone.

"Do you still have the antidote?" Harry asked.

"I have one vial that will have to do for now, but I can make more. I would have gotten it, but I didn't want to leave him alone." Lest anything else happen. Or he regained consciousness—or worse: vanished.

"Did you stun him?" Malfoy asked with a frown.

"No, your mother's security did when he tried to attack me before I could put him in a Body Bind. He's likely been cursed, Imperius if I had to guess, and sent here to deliver a message, so I can't hold his actions against him. He didn't come close at all to harming me."

All at once, understanding swept across Malfoy's features like a quickly-moving thunderstorm. "My mother's security team? Why is she here?" He whipped around to look for her. "Where—"

"Right over there."

The aggravated wizard spotted his mother on the other side of the stream with both guards. Harry excused himself as Task Force members began arriving with a series of pops, ranging from loud to soft.

"Your mother came here to work in my garden in lieu of walking, which she hates. She's remained safe behind my wards the entire time, if that was your concern." At that, he gave her a hard glare. "She's the one who noticed Mathers when we were finishing up."

"This is where you live?" Malfoy rose to his feet, grey eyes now surveying his mother's surroundings. He seemed to take in everything from the chickens chasing each other, to the bits of her garden that were visible from their vantage point, to the white bricks that made up her home. "It's remote." Malfoy reached out, skimming the edges of her active wards with the same hand that bore his signet ring.

Close but not touching.

"Yes, and it's warded tight."

Malfoy trailed his fingers along the invisible barrier, still a hair's breadth away. "I can't see them."

"But you can see your mother, right?"

"Yes."

"It's because you have the same access to my home as your mother does. If you didn't, you wouldn't be able to see anything."

Malfoy's only response was a single arched brow.

Hermione looked back at Harry, who was giving directions with authoritative patience to a Task Force member who seemed confused about where they were. Harry mentioned her house and every one of them looked around, seeing nothing. The truth of her words seemed to dawn on him all at once.

"But—"

"You're my patient's son, it made sense to let you in."

His voice was low, controlled. "Of course."

For reasons unknown, Hermione stepped right to the edge of her own wards. Next to him, but still out of reach. "I won't let any harm come to your mother, not while she's in my care. You know that, right?"

The silence that fell between them extended until the sound of the first set of team members leaving to canvass the area. Hermione turned, preparing to Apparate into her home to retrieve everything she would need, but hesitated.

"I know." His voice was so low she barely heard him.

Hermione shook off the touch of unease she felt before Disapparating, landing just outside her brewing room. From there, she gathered what she needed, and made a Floo call to Theo to send someone to her home to transport a new patient. By the time she made it back outside, the Task Force had gone off to explore the area. Narcissa had transfigured something into a chair and was back in her sunglasses, watching what was occurring just outside her wards with a bored fascination. Her guards were standing at attention by her side.

"I have a meeting with my planning team for the end of season soirée I am hosting."

"I didn't expect you to stay," Hermione replied honestly.

Narcissa crossed her legs and laced her fingers together. She wasn't moving. "I thought I might be of some assistance. I was the first to see him, after all, and I saw him long before we finished gardening, but he was just standing there, watching. I assumed he was a hallucination."

"About your hallucinations—"

"I do not wish to speak about them right now, Miss Granger." She reached up to touch the ring dangling on the chain around her neck. "I have had a rather trying morning."

"That's understandable." Hermione let it go. For now. "We'll discuss this later."

The witch then lowered her glasses, giving her a cursory onceover as she changed the subject. "I see you remain uninjured. Good. I heard the presence of my security guard angered you. He was merely acting on my orders to protect you. I was…" She trailed off, adjusting her glasses as she turned her head back to where her son and Harry were—not yelling or fighting—just talking across the stream. The latter nodded and when one of the Task Force members arrived back on the scene, he went to speak to them.

Malfoy was left alone with the still-unconscious Mathers.

When he kneeled next to the man and pulled out his wand, Hermione excused herself with few words. After a small tug, she appeared across the stream at the still-unconscious man's side. With Malfoy. Immediately, she noticed the blood around his mouth and chin had been cleaned. His eyes had been shut, and there was a steady rise and fall of his chest with each breath. He appeared to be sleeping.

He would wake soon and probably need to be subdued.

Then she realised something. "Did you do anything—"

"I'm not proficient in Healing, Granger." Malfoy rose from his stooped position, pocketing his wand. "Potter cleaned the blood."

"Okay." Hermione had almost no proof, but somehow, she knew that he was lying.

Much like that morning, though, she gave no indication of disbelief. Nevertheless, there was a curiosity building inside of her that would no longer be ignored. What he had done for Mathers wasn't much, except that it showed a hint of humanity hidden in a small act of kindness from a man who did everything possible to put forth an image that only perpetuated what people already thought about him.

Cynical. Apathetic. Meticulous. Distant. Demanding.

Accurate.

Hermione recalled the photo with baby Scorpius from his office, the way Malfoy never shut out his son, the way he held onto the boy when he dreamed of his mother, and waited until the very last minute for him to come to the kitchen—okay perhaps… not entirely accurate?

Malfoy's dichotomy was something she hadn't been able to wrap her head around during any of their interactions, and he didn't make figuring him out easy. But really, it had not weighed heavily on her mind until that night in his office. The mystery he shrouded himself in had to be intentional. Malfoy seemed to prefer being an enigma, and she had a few guesses as to why.

Not that he would ever confirm if she was right.

Still, Hermione thought about it more and more. The only solution to the equation of him was that perhaps his behaviour provided him true privacy, as well as a measure of control. Everyone—friend, foe, or stranger alike—thought that they knew Malfoy well enough to predict what he would say or do in any given situation.

Leaving him the opportunity to either prove them correct or not.

It was always his choice.

And it was becoming more and more apparent to Hermione that he hadn't been afforded the opportunity to make many of those for himself. Much like his son.

Her solution made sense, in a way, but it begged the question of who he actually was.

That had been the constant niggling thing at the back of her mind that reared to life whenever he did something unexpected.

Or even something expected.

Hermione cleared her throat. "I called Theo, he's sending a—"

Right then, Susan appeared, followed by two Mediwitches Hermione knew only by face. Malfoy stepped away from Mathers and left her to it. In no time, she had explained the situation, detailed the diagnostic charms she'd performed, and handed them the potions. Hermione left them to set up transport.

Duty finished, she approached Harry and Malfoy, who appeared to be having a discussion. When she moved closer, they both looked as if they had been waiting for her to join.

Hermione furrowed her brows. "What?"

"Narcissa's memory of what she witnessed…"

"Ah, yes. She told me that she'd noticed him before she said something."

"I was wondering how long Mathers had been there. If, at any point, she had seen him from the corner of her eye. Is her memory safe to extract?" Harry shot an uncomfortable glance in Malfoy's direction. The man remained inscrutable as ever. She frowned at him, but turned to her best friend, who awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. "I only ask because of her—"

"Dementia, Potter," Malfoy snapped so suddenly Hermione jolted.

Harry glared at Malfoy, his jaw clenched. "I was trying to be sensitive—"

"When you don't have to be. Not around me. I'm well aware of my mother's disease and Granger is her Healer. She doesn't need your pity." He spat the last word like it was poison.

"I'm not pitying her, I'm—"

Before it devolved into arguing, Hermione mediated. "You can extract the memory, Harry. It shouldn't be an issue."

And it wasn't. Except, when asked, Narcissa looked at them individually for several awkward seconds before she frowned. "Memory of what exactly?"

If Hermione noticed the slight way her son's face fell, she wisely kept it to herself.

---

On the ride home from King's Cross after First Year, Hermione told endless stories about her time at Hogwarts. Naturally, she left out the bits about ill-advised late night detention in the Forbidden Forest, two-faced Quirrell, and any part where she'd nearly died. If she'd told her parents everything, they'd never have let her return to her true home.

When Hermione explained Sorting, about the possibility of being given a choice, her parents had asked her to sort them.

Just for fun.

For her dad, her answer had been automatic. He was the quintessential Hufflepuff with all of the characteristics: loyalty, fairness, impartiality, patience, and modesty.

Her mother had been harder, but ultimately, she'd decided on Gryffindor. Hermione felt she was most like her: daring, courageous, intelligent, and brave. The hypothetical Sorting error had gone unchecked for over twenty years before being realised at an impromptu dinner gathering.

Everything had been shaping up to be a normal evening, one where Hermione arrived with high hopes after spending the entire afternoon following the intruder incident reviewing Narcissa's files. Charles, who had diagnosed her after a battery of Muggle tests, had forwarded the results over by Owl, but they were hard to understand as Hermione wasn't a doctor. There were, however, a few Squib physicians that helped at St Mungo's she could lean on for possible help interpreting the data.

She'd spend the rest of her day making appointments.

Tired from the long day, Hermione had all but crashed in the chair she always sat in, and spent the better part of an hour half-reading while watching her dad paint with jazz music in the background.

And then something happened.

A shift.

A notable one that occurred when Hermione's father abruptly stepped away from his canvas and cleared his throat—the noise made her lift her head, her eyes falling on his latest work.

Daybreak. The moment the sun began to rise. The start of a new day. A beginning.

Hermione wasn't much of an artist, she didn't have the skill or drive, but she knew enough to understand how different this was from his abstract work, how far he'd come as an artist during the course of his classes. The details, from the direction of the sunrise to the star or two on the opposite end of the canvas, were thoughtful and evocative. It was beautiful.

Her father stepped back again, now looking with artistic eyes, and tipped his paint stained fingers against his chin.

"We're working on different styles in my art class. What do you think?"

Hermione hadn't expected his—well, anything, if she were being honest, so his question made her heart jump. "Looks great, Dad." Her voice was so thick with emotion that it drew her father's attention.

"Are you okay?"

It had been years since he'd asked for her opinion about his work. "Yes, yes I am."

"Good." His modest yet pleased smile inspired one of her own. He looked so proud, navy fingerprint smudges on his cheek and all. Her dad closed his eyes, letting the swell of music take him back in time. "Dizzy sounds good tonight, doesn't he?"

Hermione wasn't keen on the music, as it had been reduced to background noise for so long, but she was a fan of her father. "He really does…"

His smile only grew.

That feeling of hope and optimism remained until her mother called them downstairs for dinner.

Then it died a fiery death when she spotted Ron sitting at the table with her mum.

Her dad stopped short at the sight of him, clearly puzzled, but greeted him with kindness nonetheless. "Good to see you again, Ron."

"You too, Mr Granger."

As Hermione blinked in confusion at the sight before her, two things dawned on her:

First, her mother's invitation had been a trap.

Second, the woman who'd given birth to her was actually a Slytherin.

Cunning. Resourceful. Ambitious. Determined.

"Ron stopped by to say hello." Her mother flashed a warm, dramatic smile as she gestured to their guest. "And since he was on time for dinner, I invited him to stay. I hope you don't mind." While rolling his eyes, her dad took his seat next to his wife and complimented the meal— roasted lamb, potatoes, and salad—as he did every day.

Hermione already knew the meat would be bland and overcooked at best.

She looked at her friend.

It wasn't that Ron was a terrible liar—he could lie with the best of them and look on casually as someone else crafted a tall tale. They had a lot of experience with that, actually. Years. She knew him as well as he knew himself. Sometimes even better. And because of that, Hermione knew exactly what to look for: the slight flush and fidget, naturally, but it had been his imperceptible recoil at her mother's words that was damning. It was all the evidence needed to determine that his presence had been planned.

Expected.

Anticipated.

Hermione felt her temper spark, but tried to stomp it out before it could catch. Instead, she smiled. It was a forced and twisted one, thin with barely concealed contempt.

"Oh, how…" She trailed off to exhale her next word. "Nice."

Because Ron knew her just as well, his eyes widened. He reached for his glass of water and took a long drink.

"It is, isn't it? Have a seat. Ron." At that, the redheaded man's head jerked up in response. "Be a love and get Hermione's chair."

Her dad sat back and watched the show while Ron cringed without looking. He likely couldn't help his reaction because—as her best friend—he already knew the expression he'd see on Hermione's face, the dangerous sparks shooting from her eyes and a look of perfect disdain. Ron knew better than to follow through on her mother's request.

Especially if he wanted to see the canaries again.

"Uh…" Blue eyes continued shifting as he scrambled to get himself out of the situation. Hermione watched him with the same fascination Al would watch a worm wriggle in the dirt after a storm before she took mercy on him.

"I'm perfectly capable of getting my own chair, thank you." She took the last empty seat.

Ron gave her a weak smile; she glared in return. He swallowed audibly.

"It's good manners, Hermione. You should never turn down a man's kindness."

She was ready to launch into a diatribe for the ages, but remembered where she was and the goal she wanted to accomplish. Hermione closed her mouth, took a breath, and counted to ten—then twenty—before she opened her eyes again and plastered on a smile. "What's for dinner?"

"I made roasted lamb, just how you like it."

Today's meal was more of an effort than she'd made in years.

"Doesn't Ron look handsome?" Her mum wiggled her eyebrow.

Honestly, there was no amount of counting that could stop her from saying something before the end of the night.

Hermione's dad sighed with uncharacteristic impatience. "Can we eat now?"

"Yes dear, we can."

Dinner commenced.

At least for the three of them.

As for Hermione, well…

There were a million things she wanted to say, and not all of them were nice or in line with her ideal temperament. In her attempt to stifle herself, she only made matters worse. Now everything was tangled up in knots that were impossible to unravel without disrupting the progress she'd made.

Conversation with her dad aside, Hermione had assumed that the irregular invitation had really meant something from her mother. A sign of change or a possible shift in the dynamic she'd worked tirelessly to fix. It had given her hope that perhaps she was on the right path towards atonement for her past mistakes with them, but in the end, today's dinner was just a ploy for her mother to play matchmaker.

And that burned bad enough for Hermione to stand up abruptly. "Mum, a word please?"

"After dinner, lo—"

"Now. Please." With that, she marched out of the room, leading the way to the sitting room at the front of the house, far away from other ears. When her mum appeared in the doorway less than a minute later, she didn't look amused.

Well, that made two of them.

"Hermione," her mum began with a patient sigh, stepping fully into the room and folding her arms across her chest. "I already know what you're thinking." Hermione couldn't help herself, she snorted in disbelief. The noise made impatience begin its slow creep across her mother's face. "You might not see it now, but I'm doing you a favour."

"I fail to see how blatantly ignoring everything I've said is doing me a favour, so please"—she waved her hand—"explain it to me."

Never one to back down, Hermione's mother accepted the gauntlet she'd all but thrown down.

"You're nearly thirty-two and single. It's not a problem, except for the fact that you have been for years. You're not even trying. If that's what you wanted, I'd be fine with it, but it's not." She unfolded one arm to point towards the kitchen, where Ron likely sat in awkward silence with her dad. "There's a man in there who's been through it all with you, through things your father and I can't comprehend. He clearly loves you, but you won't even let him."

"Not that it's any of your business, but Ron and I have been down that road already. It didn't work. We're not compatible." Amongst other things she had no energy to explain in detail.

"Who's to say it can't now?"

Talking to her mother was like trying to teach Arithmancy to a three-year-old who couldn't even read. "You're wasting your time, not to mention his and mine. Have you been listening to anything I've—"

"What do you want, Hermione? Do you even know?" Her mum ran a hand over her fluffy hair in a move she often did when she was nearing her peak of frustration. It was one of many of their similarities. "You've been stuck in the same place for years. Ever since you got sick, you've been at a standstill, busying yourself with your patients and your garden—and excuses."

Hermione flinched. "Thank you for being so supportive, Mother."

Her mother winced at her own misstep. "I'm not saying that I don't support you. I'm saying that I'm concerned for you."

"Because I'm thirty-one and single?" Hermione scoffed with disbelief, rolling her eyes. "I don't need a partner to be fulfilled, Mum. I'm happy as I am."

"Are you?" She took a concerned step forward. "Because if you were truly happy, I don't think I'd be so worried. You're drifting and have been so long that you're lost. I just don't understand why you're dead set against a man who wants to make you happy."

"Because he can't, Mum! He can't!"

"Ron wants to give it another chance. How can he when you've closed yourself up and won't even entertain the possibility that it could work?"

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose and took a single, calming breath. "I'm tired of arguing about something I don't want."

If her mum heard the shift in her tone, she ignored it. "Which leads me back to my previous question: what do you want? Do you even know? You're obviously waiting for something, but you aren't actively looking for it. You've given up, love, and as your mother, that worries me. And… perhaps I shouldn't have asked Ron over for dinner—"

"Perhaps," Hermione shot back, hating the shrill in her voice. "I've already told him I'm not interested, and here you are making him think he can persuade me when he can't."

Her mother sighed. "I just don't want you to be alone. You'll wake up in ten years and regret the fact that you were too stubborn to settle down with someone who wants you. It's a harsh lesson, but you can't get everything you want. Sometimes you have to find someone and stick with it."

That made her recoil. Not from her words, but from the implication.

It didn't matter so much that it was Ron, her mother just wanted her with someone—anyone.

That was just… selfish. Both to her and Ron. She might not love him the way he wanted her to, but he was one of her oldest friends. He deserved more than being her someone.

"You'll understand one day."

Hermione shook her head. She was willing to compromise about so many things, but not this.

Not now.

Not anymore.

"As my mother, you're supposed to encourage me to strive for something more than a warm body. You're supposed to tell me to find someone who understands and accepts me completely, flaws and all. Today. As I am. Where I am and where I'm going. Someone I can do the same with. You're supposed to tell me that I'm worth it and I deserve better than settling for something I know in my bones isn't right for me. You're supposed to tell me to wait."

Her mother took several steps towards her, stopping only an arm's length away. As usual. Though she tried and sometimes succeeded, she wasn't naturally a warm and comforting type of parent, far too pragmatic and set in her ways.

"Your dad wasn't my type and I fell in love with him anyway. It's not settling to be with someone who doesn't match your fantasy."

"But it is when you don't love them, when you know they don't really love you either."

"Of course, he does."

Hermione heaved a sigh. "Ron loves the idea of me, but not me."

"That's not fair, Hermione, and you know it."

"No, listen." She held up her hand. "I nag, can be self-righteous and bossy, and while I'm finally at a point where I can accept that I'm not always right, it still irritates the hell out of me when I'm not. I'm arrogant and analytical. I'm challenging. I've got my own Code of Ethics where I frown on breaking one set of rules but not another. It doesn't make sense but sometimes, I just don't. I'm slow to experiment without evidence of success—"

"You're more than all the negatives, love."

"I know that, but I also know these are the pieces of me that Ron doesn't like, complains about, and wants to change. And while I'm capable of self-correcting, most days I don't want to because without those imperfections, without those bits of me that he finds aggravating, I'm not being true to myself. If I go back to him, we'll fight, and to keep a long-term peace, I'll have to play a role. I can't stifle myself like that. I won't. I'd rather be alone than feel like I've got to be someone else."

"You think I don't compromise with your father? There—"

"The difference is that you two love each other." Hermione couldn't stop the swell of emotions. "Ron loves the version he imagines me to be without those pesky flaws he hates so much, but it doesn't work because I'm not her. I'm not who he thinks I am or who I once was anymore. I'm me."

Her mother sighed for what felt like the millionth time. "I just want what's best for you."

"You don't even know what that is." Hermione looked away. "Dinner's getting cold and we shouldn't keep everyone waiting."

After a gesture to lead the way and a short staring session that ended without resolution or any further disagreement, she followed her mother out. The table was as quiet as ever; her dad was nearly halfway finished. Ron had waited to take even a single bite. When her mother sat down and began eating, he glanced over at Hermione, giving her a series of looks—his way of showing concern.

She nodded in return and started on her lamb. "Dinner looks lovely."

"Thank you." Her mother's response was crisp and dry, nothing like the exuberance she'd shown before.

Hermione felt bad for being the cause of the mood shift, but she was more upset about the ground she would likely have to make up with her mum after that conversation. Dinner ended up being a quiet affair, layered with tension so heavy it weighed down every interaction.

No one could sit still. Fingers drummed on the tabletop. Shoes tapped on the tile floors. Forks scraped against the plates.

Hermione used the silence to figure out which main ingredient her mother had purposefully altered (she'd substituted fresh mint for dried in the Mediterranean mint sauce, which made the texture odd) while noting that the lamb was too well done.

Ron chattered on about inane topics to stave off the silence, and her dad went from responding to stealing glances at her mother, who ate with a perfectly blank expression. She didn't say much, but responded to Ron's idle chatter with fond looks, even when the topic was something wizarding that she had no understanding about. All attempts at drawing Hermione into the conversation ended with her mother returning to silence, so after a few times, she reduced herself to little intones to agree or disagree all while knowing one thing:

Her mother's mood would last through the rest of the meal.

And it did.

Even through dessert, which was orange honey cake with pistachios. She would have asked for the recipe, but her mother abruptly left to answer a phantom phone call after serving both her dad and Ron. With a shrug, Hermione plated a piece for herself while her dad watched.

Ron wasn't so tactful, but he at least waited to talk about dinner until they had left her parents' and were sitting in the grass by the stream outside her house. "What happened with your mum? Cause she completely changed after you two got back from talking."

"We talked about her meddling in things she doesn't understand." Hermione saw no point in lying. "You, to be exact."

"Me?"

"If she invites you to dinner again—and I know she invited you this time." He winced. "Just… do us both a favour and decline." She listened to the sound of slow moving water and the rumble of thunder coming from the south. "I don't want her to keep giving you the impression that you can change my mind when I know you can't."

"Change your mind?"

"You're not stupid, Ron." She gave him a knowing look in the dying light of day. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. There's only one reason why you would accept a dinner invitation from my mother without telling me. And you've had plenty of chances."

In fact, just yesterday evening he'd come by, only to find Hermione armed with potions and teas as gifts, on her way to Daphne and Dean's for a visit ahead of the birth of their baby. Ron had gone with her and lingered until she finished touring the nursery and chatting, accompanying her back home where they watched a film on the telly.

Plenty of time to mention dinner with her parents.

Ron sighed; his silly ploy at complete innocence was up. "I'm trying, Hermione." He threw a rock in the direction of the stream and frowned when he missed. "Just like I told you I would. Tonight… didn't go so well."

"Understatement."

His next question only hinted at the true scope of his frustration with her reluctance and refusal. "What do you want me to do, Hermione? I'm—"

"I want you to stop and listen to me, rather than what you want." She poked him in the arm. "I didn't ask you to try. Quite the opposite, actually. I asked you to leave us in the past."

He fixed her with a hard stare, but she didn't flinch. Didn't blink until he did. Ron rolled his eyes at her stubbornness, his hair gently blowing in the evening breeze. "Why are you so against me?" Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but he interrupted her, voice soft as his gaze returned to her. "We loved each other at one point."

Ron wasn't wrong.

They had loved each other through war and the false peace perpetuated by the Ministry, through mourning, recovery, and healing. Through the thousands of fights and pains between. Life had been chaotic when they had first fallen for one another. And still, even now, Hermione thought of their time together in the way of first loves—when everything was a first and she had no understanding of the word and its true meaning, when she didn't even know or love herself.

For the first couple of years, Hermione thought that love wouldn't be any harder than the war they'd just fought and the pain from the losses they'd incurred. She thought that love was the answer to all her questions. At that time, Hermione thought love was about being needed and selflessly putting his happiness before her own, suffering in the name of the word just for the sake of some version of life she wasn't even sure she wanted.

It was beautiful, in a poetic way, but unrealistic.

Hermione grew older, as all people must. She changed; it was inevitable with the life she was living after the war. It wasn't exactly healthy or wise, but at that time, she was focused on the integral role she played in the Ministry as their champion. Little did she realise, she was actually their pet, running on their hamster wheel, wearing herself thin yet going nowhere.

And perhaps initially she hadn't sprouted in the right direction, but at least she was growing.

But her love for Ron?

That didn't grow. It stayed exactly the same. It got comfortable. Stagnant. As did he. More than that, what made things worse was that he wasn't interested. He felt that they were doing all right as they were, fights and clashes notwithstanding, as he battled for his top place in her priorities. As she rose in the ranks at work, Ron clung tighter to the person Hermione used to be. The girl from Hogwarts. The girl in the tent. The girl that put his needs higher in the months (and years) after the war because of the loss of Fred. The girl that made him comfortable due to nothing more than familiarity and proximity.

A girl she couldn't be anymore, not only because she had been working too hard to give him the attention he craved, but because Hermione wanted more.

Originally, after the death of their relationship, Hermione thought more was career-related, and she wanted to be the champion for those that couldn't defend themselves. She had plans to make the wizarding world a better place for everyone, to work diligently, to right all the wrongs, end the prejudices. And when they began piling more responsibilities on her to distract her from her efforts, it made it harder to work on her own projects and proposed laws, but she sacrificed sleep and food to get everything done.

But the fulfillment she sought wasn't related to her work. Not completely. That was something she'd learned during the hindsight provided by the damage she'd done to herself and the fallout of her carelessness. The mending and restoration had led to more self-assessment in the months that followed her departure.

It took therapy, buying a house, and starting a garden—it took becoming a Healer—for Hermione to properly heal herself. Not from what had happened, but from all the trauma she'd been too distracted helping everyone else overcome to truly deal with on her own. It had taken a complete overhaul to become more aware of her identity and reconnect to who she had been before the war verses after, now with the full understanding of how one had become the other. She hadn't determined what that more was, but she was aware of what it wasn't.

And to her, more didn't involve going backwards. Only moving forward.

"Nothing to say?"

Hermione snorted. "Now, you know me better than that."

"I do." He sounded so earnest.

Looking out at the forest, she steeled herself. This was the last time she would have this conversation. "I'm tired of talking about this, especially since you're just going to ignore everything that I'm saying in favour of what you want."

"It's not just about what I want, Hermione. I think you're being stubborn and unreasonable." Ron's undertone of irritation and bitterness burst out into the open, giving voice to feelings he'd been suppressing for the entirety of their short conversation. "You've never moved on, you've never—"

She jerked her head back to Ron just in time to watch him run a frustrated hand through his hair.

"That's factually inaccurate. I don't need to be with someone else to prove to you I've moved on. I'm sick and tired of having to explain myself repeatedly. I'm tired of you thinking that I have to—"

"I'm not telling you that you have to do anything, I'm just saying that I'm here and I want to try and see if we can get back to what we used to have. I want—"

"Do I matter that little to you?" Her voice was smaller than intended, but full of everything she felt.

"You matter a lot to me, Hermione. Of course, you do! It's why I keep trying, even though you refuse to give me a chance. That's all I want. One chance."

"One chance to do what exactly? You want so much from me, Ron, but what I want doesn't matter to you. That's not love. That's not what it means and how it's supposed to feel."

"Herm—"

"It's about mutual respect and acceptance without making one person feel less than—without making them feel like their wants are born out of stubbornness. It's about so much more than that, so much more than I even have the time or energy to explain."

"Hermione, I know what love is, and I know we had it. We owe it to ourselves, our friends, and our families to—"

"I don't owe you or anyone anything." The words burned their way out before she could temper her own flames. "I only owe it to myself to always be the best version of who I am at every point in my life. I owe it to myself to be happy."

Ron lifted his eyes to hers.

Her confession was hard to speak out loud, but even more difficult to admit to herself. "I—I… I'm not always happy, Ron. I'm restless and I haven't figured out exactly what I want or what I'm looking for. But I want to." Raw emotion coursed through her, growing wilder by the second. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she didn't hide them. Not from him and not from herself. "I want to figure it out. I don't want to settle, and you shouldn't either. You should want more than that. You deserve better than someone who doesn't want the same things as you."

Ron said nothing, only looked away, his lips pressed tight while Hermione further opened the door to the parts of her that she had kept private. Secret. Tamped down during their relationship and in the years following.

"I… I want to be seen. I want intimacy. I want a connection. I want to be turned inside out by someone who knows me just as well as I know myself. I want someone who loves me for who I am, and you don't. I can't keep bending and contorting and stretching myself thin to keep the peace and make you happy. I'll snap. Again."

She could tell when the memories jumped to the forefront of his brain by the way his eyes went distant. "Hermione…"

"I love myself. I know my value and identity. Maybe I'll find what I'm looking for, maybe I won't, but I'll wait the rest of my life before I settle for anything less than what I deserve. And I deserve to be loved correctly… or not at all."

If it doesn't set your soul on fire, it's not worth the burn.
C. Churchill

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A/N: Happy Friday! This was tied for one of my favorite chapters I've written so far. So much happens and foreshadowing galore and deeper meanings to actions and words. My jam. Thanks to my beta dreamsofdramione and my alpha Bailey0407 for all their hard work. I do know Christmas is next Friday and I anticipate to post on schedule.