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.

12. Touch Me Not

Twelve

Touch Me Not

May 28, 2011

When the first bookstore opened in Godric's Hollow between the plant store and the pub, Hermione had been at the front of the line. She was a frequent enough visitor for the owner—an older wizard—to offer to unlock the doors two hours early. Just for her. Hermione's presence in town was generally met with odd looks and the occasional wizard who would ask for a photo. But almost everyone left her alone.

Still just as quaint as she remembered it when she'd come with Harry, the village had expanded in the years after the war, but it was a ghost town early Saturday morning when she knocked on the door of the bookstore.

The bell on top of the door jingled as the door opened, and the older man greeted her with a smile. "Ah, Miss Granger. I've got some new selections for you to peruse."

"At this rate, I'll need another bookshelf." Hermione laughed. "But today I'm here for journals for the kids."

It was something she'd started doing for Harry's kids a few years before, a set of blank pages she encouraged them to fill with whatever they wanted. A creative outlet. Hermione picked out a pink one for Lily to fill hers with scribbles and artwork. There were unicorns on the front and that was always a safe bet. James would stack his with an assortment of his interests, which mainly included Quidditch, and Hermione found one covered in Snitches for him. Al was a little harder to choose for, but she found a journal with the planets on the cover that she knew he would like.

Selections made, Hermione turned, her elbow catching another journal by mistake and knocking it on the floor. She picked it up, ready to return it to its spot, but caught sight of familiar constellations on the front.

Al would probably run out of pages first and he loved the stars. She slid it on top of the other three.

It never hurt to have a spare.

The journals were half-forgotten, nestled deep in her trusty beaded bag, when she made her second stop. She needed to pick up an item on the short list Narcissa had given her from the plant store. A special order kneeling pad for her comfort. It was ornate and ridiculous, but she bought it anyway. And to reward herself for her continued ability to compromise, Hermione decided to indulge in an aloe plant, too. She was in the process of paying when she spotted a drooping cactus.

"Is this priced correctly?"

It was early—too early, as the store had only opened ten minutes before—so when the teenage boy who had barely spoken a word to her covered a yawn with his fist, Hermione didn't judge him.

Free Cactus.

Couldn't be correct.

Everything had a price, even a sagging plant. Hermione had never seen a plant look so sad, and she found herself curious about the little thing. When she grazed her fingers against its spines, pushing to find any soft spots that would determine if the plant had, in fact, already died, it still pricked her in a way that told her it was very much alive.

It made her smile with thoughts about something else that was just as small and defensive.

Perfect, really.

"The price is correct, but it's a lost cause," the clerk replied with a shrug. "Do you want it? If no one takes it by the end of the week, my boss told me to bin it."

Hermione didn't believe in lost causes, so she ended up with a drooping cactus.

The first thing she did upon returning home was place the aloe plant with the others in her conservatory. The second thing she did was search every room of her house that contained books for a very specific one that would help her situation.

One about desert plants.

After all, she already had one cactus, a grumpy thing that Luna had brought back from Mexico. Spelled to keep dry from the rain and humidity, it had no business surviving the English winters in a large pot just outside her back door, but it had stubbornly lived through the last three and showed no signs of dying. So long as she left it alone. Most of the time, when it didn't need pruning and she didn't need its water for a potion, Hermione forgot she even had it.

At long last, she found what she was looking for in a chest full of books she had meant to donate to charity. Relaxing on the ottoman in the conservatory to read, she set the droopy cactus on the small table next to her to bask in the sun. Her skim of pertinent information didn't take long. As it turned out, it wasn't dying. It had been kept in a cold store when it needed warmth, neglected without enough light or water. Of course it was sagging…

It was stressed.

Well, Hermione could remedy that. "Shall we, little one?"

With dragon-hide gloves—the task would be painful in anything else—she set a stasis charm and spent the rest of the hour humming to music from the Wireless as she worked to re-pot the prickly little plant. Hermione considered placing it with the others in her conservatory, but as she set warming charms to keep it at the recommended temperature, Hermione changed her mind.

It needed time and attention and the right amount of space.

Maybe then it would perk up and grow.

Hermione had just finished when her wards announced the arrival of Pansy and a surprise in the form of chipper Daphne. Hermione took off her gloves and laid them down before leaving to greet her guests, stealing a final glance over her shoulder at her pitiful cactus.

She was just passing the table when Pansy came through the door of the conservatory bearing breakfast with coffees floating above the boxes. Daphne waddled behind her, already sipping on what looked like juice with a straw. They sat at the table and ate French toast because Daphne had a craving for them.

"Don't judge me," she said after she finished her breakfast and half of Pansy's. "I'm celebrating."

"Oh?" Hermione was curious.

"Yes, I went to visit Scorpius and he looked at me." That snatched both her and Pansy's attention instantly. Daphne smiled. "It was only for a second, but…"

It was progress.

"I didn't stay long. Things were tense after Scorpius went to bed. Draco brought up therapy to see if I knew anyone in the area for children—"

Because Daphne had a standing appointment with one and had for years.

Hermione had to force herself to breathe because Malfoy had actually listened. "What happened?"

"Not sure, but Narcissa wasn't keen on the idea, saying there was nothing wrong with him. That he's just stubborn. Draco… well, he got frustrated and stormed out. I wasn't trying to be around Narcissa any longer than necessary so I left as well."

There were at least thirteen more questions bouncing around Hermione's head, but she knew better than to blurt them all out at once. "Oh, that's interesting."

"Yes, but also odd. Still, I won't complain. I'm going to ask my therapist for recommendations."

Well, that was something, so they ate French toast to celebrate small victories.

"I'm growing life and trying not to end my husband's because he's hovering." Daphne rubbed her belly fondly as Hermione laughed along with Pansy. "Laugh now, but at some point you'll both be where I am now."

They both stopped laughing, and Pansy blanched. "Hope to fucking Merlin not! Besides, I can speak for Granger as well when I say I am happily self-coupled."

Secretly, Hermione didn't completely reject the idea like her friend.

"Wait a minute." Daphne cocked a blond eyebrow and rested her folded arms on top of her baby bump. "Didn't you spray your perfume on Percy Weasley's invitation to your Summer Solstice party?"

"I would never—" Pansy looked scandalized. At the disbelief on her friend's faces, she tried another angle. "It was a slip of the hand." Hermione folded her arms to match Daphne, leaning back in her chair. "Perhaps I might have done that, but how dare you ruin our circle of trust, Daphne?"

"Oh, I already knew, if that's what you're worried about." Hermione waved a lazy hand. "Dean gave Percy the invitation so of course he told Ron about it. Ron told me the day before yesterday."

There was a sour look on Pansy's face for several long seconds. "Did he like it?" she asked in an uncharacteristic rush for their nonchalant friend.

"Ron didn't give a detailed account of his reaction, but I know that he cleared his schedule to attend." Hermione watched Pansy smother her pleased expression by smiling into her cup. "Last I checked, you were complaining about his flowers. What changed?"

"Somehow he figured that I like orchids and tulips." Pansy gave her a knowing glare. Hermione looked away and whistled. Pansy rolled her eyes. "That's what I thought. Anyway, I saw him at the Ministry. He asked me to take tea with him so, naturally, I gave him the most complicated tea request I could think of, just to be a bitch—" Of course she did. "But by the time I made it to his office, he had a cup waiting for me. It was impressive. And the conversation wasn't dull. He invited me to lunch on Tuesday, but I haven't responded yet. He's quite… rigid."

Hermione and Daphne exchanged knowing looks. Pansy's ex-husband had been a strict traditionalist and a very controlling man who made her feel worthless. While there were things that had been ingrained in her since birth, she'd done everything possible to leave what she could behind. They both knew their friend ran at a moment's notice when anything reminded her of what she'd left behind.

She and Daphne had a silent conversation where the latter agreed to let Hermione take the lead. "Percy is…" she trailed off for a second, choosing her words. "Okay, yes, he's rigid and a bit intense, but he's a good man. And who knows? He might be good for you."

Pansy finished her juice and cut her eyes between her friends. "Was that supposed to be a pep talk? Because bloody hell, Granger, that was terrible."

They all laughed.

"Wear something floral," Daphne suggested.

"How do you know I'm going to say yes?"

"Because I know you."

Hermione never understood their dynamic. They were close, but also cycled between hating and loving each other. Regularly. When Daphne and Dean eloped about a year after the war—to the shock of literally everyone—the former had been distraught when Pansy had cut her out just like everyone else in the pureblood circle.

Of course, Pansy had been newly married and living in Germany at the time, under the thumb of her husband. They hadn't spoken until just over three years prior when Pansy had shown up with bruises from her mother's hexes and a wild determination to become a new person.

Still, they argued and fought. There had been times when Pansy had refused to go to events if Daphne was going to be there. But all of that ended when Astoria's condition deteriorated, when they'd returned to London and the inevitable turned into any day now. When she died and Daphne started to drown in her grief, Pansy had halted her current projects and all but moved into their home for a week to help Dean keep her afloat.

For herself and the baby she was carrying.

Pansy had fed her crackers while she'd cried. Sat in the tub and held her hand while Dean kept her hair back as she got sick. Stayed by her side when she'd wandered around listless. Hugged her when she'd wanted it. Left her alone when she'd needed it. Pansy had even become quite adept at cleaning charms.

And how did Hermione know all this?

Because she'd let Pansy talk it out. Every day.

And grieve on her sofa. Every night.

Initially, Dean hadn't been enthused—because of the long-standing animosity between them—but after a few days, when Harry had asked him how it was going with Pansy's invasion after they'd dragged him out for a pint, he'd finished his and said, "She's not so bad."

A week hadn't been enough, as there was no timeline for grief, but Pansy knew it was time to leave them to pick up the pieces together. Rebuild. And they did.

They still were.

"Why were you at the Ministry anyway?" Hermione asked.

"I went to have lunch with Draco to annoy him into letting us take him to dinner—" Pansy glanced at Daphne. "He said yes, by the way. To the group dinner."

Daphne smiled and adjusted in her chair. One or two more shifts in her chair and she would be ready to sit on an actual sofa. With her feet up. "How much did he argue?"

"He said yes."

"That's not what I asked."

"Just yes… you know, let's leave it at him agreeing." Pansy lazily waved her hand. "The rest is irrelevant."

"So…" Daphne trailed off with an excited look Hermione had only seen a few times, but it always had something to do with food. "Important question: will there be cake?"

Nothing had changed, Hermione chuckled to herself, but then frowned, slightly lost. "Sorry, whose birthday is it?"

They both looked at her as if she'd gone insane. "It's Draco's."

"I didn't know that." If she had known that at some point, time had definitely made the exact date vanish from her memory. Narcissa hadn't mentioned anything about his birthday—or about him—only the end of season soirée she had been chosen to host just before the start of summer.

"I suppose you wouldn't." Pansy shrugged. "Well, his birthday is on June fifth, and he's agreed to dinner. Nothing fancy, of course. Want to join us?"

For a moment, Hermione thought she was addressing Daphne, but as it turned out, they were both looking at her. She swallowed, eyes flickering back and forth between the two expectant witches.

"Umm… Malfoy and I aren't…"

He was a curiosity she had only just admitted to having. Well, admitted to herself, at least. Outside of that, they were acquaintances, but certainly not friendly enough for her to attend his birthday dinner.

"Well, we're not too much of anything, really. Outside of helping him and Harry with the logistics of a raid they're working on, and morning tea discussions about articles in the paper, we don't really speak."

They exchanged confused looks.

"Morning tea discussions?" Pansy folded her hands on her lap. "And that is…?"

Uncomfortable under two sets of probing eyes, Hermione awkwardly shrugged, looked away while examining the ends of her hair. She needed a trim. Badly. "We discuss the articles in the paper he's reading. I'm usually making breakfast, but I make him a cup of tea. It's a fruity blend Narcissa likes. It's light."

If at all possible, they looked even more confused.

"Draco prefers either coffee or tea so strong it's almost black. He also has never let me make him a cup of tea," Pansy informed her with a look so serious Hermione thought there was going to be a test on it later.

"Could be because you're shite at it."

Pansy ignored Hermione's sarcastic comeback. "Also he won't allow outside… well, anything. Nor will he or drink or eat something when he can't identify where it's come from. I am genuinely surprised he lets you make Narcissa's meals—he's extremely paranoid." The two witches gave each other cagey glances. "With good reason."

Great.

Now there were even more questions crashing together like waves against rocks, but she thought it best if she gave them time to subside. Calm down. Arrange themselves in logical order. Preferably when she had a Quick-Quotes Quill. Or a tape recorder.

They were watching her expectantly, and Hermione shrugged. "Not sure what to say."

She was certain he watched her… maybe that was due to his paranoia that she might lace Narcissa's food, which was patently ridiculous as she had been working hard to keep his mother's faculties intact for as long as possible.

If Hermione truly wanted to harm his mother, all she had to do was wait.

"As far our mornings, that's how they go. He used to read, work on his crossword, and leave, but now he talks either very little or at length." It depended on his mood and level of agitation with her. Hermione kept that to herself. "But he leaves at precisely seven every morning."

Despite that one break in the habit.

"Oh!" Pansy snapped her fingers. "How did dinner go with your parents?"

"Abysmally." Hermione sighed. "Ron was there. My mother was trying to play matchmaker."

They both winced, but it was Daphne who spoke up. "I heard."

"How?"

The fact that their conversation had already spread amongst their friend group made her intensely uncomfortable. Maybe it had to do with the fact that Hermione was an only child and didn't have many friends before Harry and Ron, but she was a private person who kept everything close, especially if it was personal. Ron, who had so many siblings, never had privacy so he saw no issues with sharing. Their relationship problems being known and spoken about had been one of their many issues while they were dating.

"After he left you, he went to the pub with Dean and Neville. Dean told me, obviously," Daphne said. Apparently she hadn't told Pansy, who looked supremely confused…and slightly betrayed. "Wasn't my place." Daphne shrugged and sipped her orange juice. "I'll admit, I thought at some point he'd convince you, but I'm glad to be wrong."

Pansy relaxed in her chair. "Sounds like you're finally admitting that you're not fine as you are." A sharp spike in adrenaline accompanied her words, but when Pansy held her hand up, Hermione settled down. "I don't want details. I'm just glad you've stopped lying to yourself. I'm also glad I don't have to worry about you going back to that Weasley." She shuddered delicately.

"Why would you both think that?" Hermione had to know if something she'd said or done made people think she would go back to Ron, despite being vocal about them not working.

Daphne and Pansy exchanged looks before the latter folded her arms and waited while the former looked around and huffed. "I like visiting you. Not just because we've gotten close over the years or because I've found peace here since my sister died, but I come here to keep you company. It wasn't the only reason Girls Night was started, but it was one reason. Ginny thought—well, we all know that lonely people will get to the point where they'll do what it takes to not be lonely anymore." Daphne gave her a meaningful look.

Hermione was embarrassed. Shocked. She didn't know how to process the new information. Half of her wanted to be angry, to declare that their worries weren't necessary, but the other part secretly knew they had a point, and maybe even a reason to worry enough to start a group activity. "I understand that you all were acting as my friends, but I'm not that person. I—"

"We know that now." Daphne rested a hand on her stomach, a sign that her baby was moving. "But it's hard to tell what you will and won't do because you're guarded and you keep yourself incredibly busy. You seem okay, especially when you're taking on everything and everyone effortlessly, but I know how that looks. I've seen it in D—" Daphne cut herself off and looked down. "Anyway, I just thought eventually you would get tired of it and go back. Besides, when you two had that one off two years ago—"

"Merlin, don't remind me," Pansy blurted out. "I was barely your mate then but I wanted to shove you off a cliff when you told me what had happened."

"I believe you told me just that." Loudly and with a lot more swearing, if Hermione recalled correctly. Pansy seemed to remember the same conversation all at once and smiled, still proud of herself. There was also mention of her being too smart to do something so fucking idiotic. She remembered thinking it had almost felt like a compliment.

Daphne looked between them and shifted in her chair again. "Weasley will get over the wound to his ego, but for what it's worth, I'm glad you're not going to settle."

"Tell me that again when I'm forty and surrounded by cats and chickens. I—"

"No more bloody chickens!" Pansy exclaimed. "Fuck off with that."

Daphne laughed. "They're cute."

"One of them pecked me. I can't remember which one so I hate them all." Pansy's logic was clearly sound to herself.

"Well, I'm not settling, so no worries there."

"Good." Pansy reached for Daphne's juice until the witch slapped her hand, even though she was eyeing the climbing roses. Hermione picked up her own drink and regarded the now frowning Pansy with a smirk. Something she did must have triggered a thought because Pansy's eyes widened; defeat all but forgotten. "Speaking of drinks—"

"Literally, no one was speaking about drinks," Daphne deadpanned.

"Semantics." A handwave later and Pansy had fully shifted towards Hermione. "About my inhibition potion for my solstice party. How is it coming along? Did Blaise deliver what you needed?"

"One question at a time. It's going well. Blaise delivered everything I needed so I'll brew it today. If we've missed anything, I have to do inventory later so I'll be sure to send him a list. It should be ready before the party."

"I'll make sure he doesn't delay."

"How strong are you making it?" Daphne asked.

Hermione smiled. "Strong enough for Pansy to say hello to Cho willingly."

The blonde witch cut her eyes over to her old classmate. "Why exactly don't you like her? I need details, because your hatred of her—while comical—is confusing."

Pansy was ready. Almost like she'd been waiting for this moment. "She's too nice, too positive, too pretty, too smart, too humble—"

"So…" Daphne theorised with a wave of her hand. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't like Cho Chang because she's a good person?"

"Exactly!" Then Pansy reconsidered her stance. "Well, sort of. It's really because she's too good of a person. It's unnatural. She forgave Granger for disfiguring her friend—"

"That was literally half a lifetime ago," Hermione argued. "We've all grown up and Marietta's face is just fine." Well, it was once the word had faded. It took a few years for it to completely vanish.

She was aware that she probably could have handled that better.

Shockingly, there were no hard feelings. The last time she had seen Marietta was at Padma's engagement dinner in February. Marietta was an Unspeakable, married to a wizard who worked in Magical Transportation. They had two children—girls. Her life was normal and she was happy.

"But still!" Pansy argued. "If someone disfigured me, would you forgive them?"

Daphne paused for so long it made Pansy scowl. "I mean, let's be honest. Granger's a fighter and will most likely be doing the disfiguring…"

"I am not!" Hermione's indignation was wholly ignored.

"As for me, it depends on what you did, and if I like you at that moment." Daphne flashed a too-wide grin.

Pansy fixed her lips to argue, but shut them in dramatic fashion, examining her nails. "Okay, that's fair."

Hermione cleared her throat. "I would like to point out that I'm out of the disfigurement game."

"Sure you are."

Hermione turned to Daphne for assistance, but only received a raised eyebrow in return. Then she pushed her hair over her shoulder and adjusted in her seat for a third time. By the way she was holding her round belly, it had less to do with discomfort of the chair and more to do with being kicked in the ribs by an active baby.

"Face it, Granger," Daphne said finally. "You're always willing to do what you feel is right, and if that means charming a parchment to make sure everyone remains loyal, then so be it. It's ruthless in a morally grey way that I can respect." She gave a half shrug and Pansy nodded along in agreement. "You'll fight for anything you believe in, even when it's not your war."

"That's who I am." Hermione looked over, catching sight of the drooping cactus that was bathing in sunlight. "I think you both know, like I do, that some things are worth fighting for."

---

When Hermione became a Healer, and later when she privatised and specialised her care in her current department, she made a promise to herself that she would never work on the weekends.

For five days, she worked diligently, but the weekends were her time to do what she pleased. A chance to refresh. A break from the pressures and routine of working and caring for patients. And with a patient like Narcissa Malfoy… well, she needed the time away.

It was mere minutes after Daphne and Pansy had left when Draco Malfoy's name appeared on her calendar—blocking three hours off for a meeting that would begin at three o'clock. Hermione almost declined, and would have had she been confident that he would reschedule for another day during the week, rather than the more likely alternative: not at all.

Except he owed her.

And yet.

Some battles weren't worth starting, let alone fighting, so she accepted the meeting.

Then Hermione went about her chores: gardening and watering the plants in the greenhouse, feeding the chickens, and collecting eggs. She made a meal—roasted chicken and potatoes—as his meeting would run right into dinner time. Or over, should it take longer than anticipated to answer the questions.

Time quickly got away from her, as it often did. The sun had peaked in the sky when she turned her work indoors. After a quick lunch, she had an even quicker Floo call with Ginny. The kids wanted to talk to her. Mainly Albus, who inquired about several things, including his marker and his future friend.

She got off the call wondering if Harry and Malfoy had talked about their sons meeting.

The lack of surprise from Ginny told her that he'd at least brought it up to her.

That was something.

Hermione glanced at her watch. It was a quarter past two and there was time for one last task before Malfoy's arrival via her office's Floo. That way, after he left, she could relax until it was time to meet everyone for drinks—a monthly (or so) outing that had evolved over the years and blended all her social circles together for one loud and boisterous evening.

Motivated, she began the careful process of hanging herbs to dry in the designated area inside her brewing room, all while making notes of ingredients she would need to order from Blaise with a Quick-Quotes Quill.

Focused on her task, Hermione barely registered the tingle of her wards coming to life, signalling the acceptance of a new arrival.

Malfoy.

She figured Malfoy would remain in her office, poking around her space as she'd done his, so she took a moment to finish hanging the last of her muslin bags from the ceiling. After dusting her hands off on her jeans, Hermione glanced down at herself and frowned at her denim smock dress, black leggings, and green Wellies.

Not very professional, but impressing Draco Malfoy wasn't her job—especially not on a Saturday.

Still, Hermione fixed her messy bun and threw open the door to her brewing room only to find Malfoy preparing to step directly in front of the door. The only hint of his hesitation and discomfort was the way his focus initially seemed to be further down the hall, searching.

Well, until it shifted abruptly to her.

They both froze like statues. If her heart leapt in her chest, no one was any the wiser.

Least of all him.

Hand still on the door, Hermione's fingers tightened around the knob. "I assumed that you would wait in my office."

"I wasn't sure if you had received the meeting invitation via the Magi-Scheduler. It appears that you…" Malfoy trailed off, looking past her into the part of the brewing room he could see from his vantage point. His expression slowly morphed into one that she couldn't put into words. Intrigued? Perhaps. In a way. "You have a brewing room?"

Definitely intrigued. "Yes, I…"

The words died on her tongue when Malfoy took an unconscious, distracted step towards her, entering into the outer edges of her space. Hermione inhaled, wanting to step back, but there was nowhere to go.

It wasn't their first breach of personal space, but this one made her take notice. After that night with Scorpius, Malfoy had maintained his distance. Physical or otherwise. It seemed like a conscious effort. He would observe and dissect, comment and argue each of his points to resolution, but he operated from the safety of his own citadel.

Never leaving.

But Malfoy's almost unlimited self-control, and his aloof and guarded manner weren't limited to just her. She knew that from her own observations and interactions. From his mother to Harry to everyone he spoke to at the charity event… He treated everyone differently, according to several factors, likely history and propriety, but kept them all at arm's length, never letting anyone close. Hermione hadn't bothered to analyse him from that vantage point before (or compare them to the times when he'd stepped too close) because it had never mattered.

Until right then when Malfoy stepped into her territory.

Unsure of her own voice, Hermione stepped aside, putting as much space between them as she could.

"Would you like a tour?" It was the only question she could think to ask. Malfoy didn't respond with words, just accepted her invitation with one of his piercing looks. With nothing else to do, Hermione watched him as he explored from the doorway.

He had dressed casually, though it didn't seem like the best word to describe his attire. Still black, of course, but more relaxed. The fit of his trousers weren't so perfect and the top two buttons of his dress shirt were unbuttoned. He didn't even wear a jacket or tie.

Business casual.

Malfoy's first stop on his journey around the room was to the wall alongside the door with floor to ceiling bookshelves. It was filled to the brim with potion tomes that he greeted by running his fingers across the spines, stopping every so often to read a title. The almost careful manner in which he explored caused an odd feeling to blossom in her chest, one she didn't know how to describe, only that it didn't feel right.

Strange.

From the books, he continued on, the sound of his shoes echoing on the stone floor. He had a quick look in her drying space, where herbs hung low from the ceiling in muslin bags. It was perfect for her height to reach up, but a challenge for him if he didn't want to bump into any of the sacks and disrupt their progress.

With one backwards step, Malfoy exited, turning towards the main attraction.

Her cauldrons.

All of them.

Beneath two large windows with the curtains currently drawn, there was a table that stretched the entire width of the room. Five cauldrons of increasing size and density sat on top, made with different bases and equally spaced apart with spots to prepare and chop. Each cauldron had a specific purpose. All were ready for immediate use with a small, hovering bookstand, ready to meet her at the cauldron of her choosing. Under the table were extras that weren't needed often—the rare ones.

With his hands behind his back, Malfoy examined each, sizing them up in a silence so tense she instantly wanted to fill it with words.

Something.

Hermione only barely managed to stop herself from providing a lengthy explanation about her reasoning behind having so many cauldrons. Barely stopped herself from visibly twitching. There was an odd feeling growing in her chest as he went from small to large… and then turned his attention to the largest of them all.

In the centre of the room, with its own book stand, was her biggest cauldron—aptly nicknamed by Harry when she'd first purchased it over two years ago: Tank. It was easily large enough to completely submerge her should she sit inside. To use it, due to her height, Hermione had to stand on a stool.

There and gone, a thought passed.

Malfoy wouldn't need anything.

Like the others, he inspected it with the same careful ease he seemed to show all her cauldrons. But unlike the others, Malfoy walked around Tank twice—the second time he brought one hand from behind him to run a finger along the brim as if he were checking for dust.

Her fidgeting worsened as his tour continued, and she wrung her hands together and tapped her foot. Playing with her hair and dusting invisible dirt from her smock dress. Not knowing where her agitation stemmed from bothered her, but Hermione wrapped her fingers around her left wrist and squeezed to further tamp down the peculiar feeling twisting and heating up inside her.

Or, she tried to.

But it wasn't working.

Malfoy vanished into her stores with its rows of shelves that started just off the floor and ended right above the doorway, packed with ingredients she'd either stored herself or purchased. For a second, she remembered that her Quick-Quote Quill was still in there, ready to continue her list. She wondered if he would look.

Probably.

Then she wondered if she would still feel so strange if he were making comments—critical or otherwise—or maybe even if he asked questions. But he said nothing. His expression wasn't detached, but it wasn't welcoming either. Intrigued, but not exuberant. In fact, as the silence continued on, his unresponsiveness marched her closer and closer to an unfamiliar edge. The longer Malfoy was out of sight, the more Hermione continued to stew in discomfort… until the answer dawned on her like a lost key that had been in her hand all along.

Outside of herself, no one had ever been interested enough to look around. Explore. Analyse. And now Malfoy—of all people—was in there doing just that, inspecting a part of her world that she had never shown anyone. A place where Hermione spent enough time to not see the flaws—tea cups left around the room, bulbs that needed changing. Tank could use a thorough cleaning as well. It was a part of her that, thanks to his visit, she'd only just realised was private.

The invasion didn't feel good.

Not because of anything he was doing. No, her feelings stemmed from within and the fact that all she could do was wonder what he was thinking—if he was thinking anything at all.

Was he observing her world rather than judging it?

And did he like what he saw?

She needed to know the answer, if only to satisfy a minuscule part of her curiosity.

Not to know if he approved.

Hermione first rubbed her temple, then dragged her hand down her face, cursing herself for letting him in instead of redirecting him to her office. Unfortunately, she had no one to blame but herself.

By the time Malfoy emerged from her stores, face still annoyingly blank, Hermione had managed to wrangle her features into an arrangement resembling clinical neutrality, but only after she'd subdued her agitation into submission.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Are you finished?"

In lieu of an answer, Malfoy took one last look around. "I wasn't aware that you brewed in your home."

"Your mother's potions need to be made weekly. Where else would I be able to brew?" He looked back at her, grey eyes slightly widening with surprise. Meanwhile, hers narrowed. "She didn't tell you?"

"We don't discuss her treatment." Malfoy's face hardened, confirming what she had already observed: they didn't discuss much of anything. Hermione kept the questions about that to herself. His visit wasn't casual. Favour or not, it would be a shame if he left in anger before she could get the information she needed. Malfoy touched Tank's bookstand. "I still find it strange that you're the one who brews my mother's potions."

She stood up straighter, stance defensive. "We're not about to have this brewing with books argument again."

"I'd rather not repeat that particular exercise in futility."

"You still disagree with my method, then?"

"I doubt a few weeks will change either of our fundamentally different stances on the subject." Malfoy gave her a pointed look that she ignored in favour of glancing in the direction of her drying room, noticing that one of the muslin bags was perilously close to slipping off. "My surprise stems from the fact that not only do you brew, but you have an entire room dedicated to a craft that you're not passionate about."

"I think the fact that I have an entire room shows at least some level of passion."

"Perhaps to your career, but not to the art."

Hermione fought back a scoff. "That's a bold assumption."

"Tell me then." His eyes fell on her like lead weights. "Am I wrong?"

Well, no. He wasn't. Which burned.

However, Hermione would rather fling herself off the metaphorical bridge she was trying to construct than give Malfoy the satisfaction of being correct about anything that pertained to her. That had been a lucky guess.

"Are you still checking your mother's potions batch?"

"Yes." Malfoy matched her in both attitude and posture. "I make it my business to look at everything and everyone that enters my home."

"Because you only trust yourself."

Now it was his turn to remain silent.

It felt like they'd reached a stalemate; neither were gaining any ground. Rather than dig trenches, Hermione gestured to the door. "We should get on with the purpose of your visit. If you'll follow me…" She led the way out and was already in the hall before Malfoy could so much as move.

Still, she watched with a certain level of questioning discomfort as he took one last look around before following her out. Hermione took a large step back once he filled the space in the hall with his presence. "Lead the way, Granger."

Normally, she would have routed him back to her office for their meeting, but her own agitation made her change her mind and adjust. The thought of being with him in her crowded office for the length of time needed to go through her questions made her uncomfortable.

She needed the space.

The sunlight.

"Just a moment." Hermione left him standing there, deliberately ignoring the look on his face.

After gathering everything she needed—the set of questions she'd transposed to the parchment she'd given him, notebook,pen, and recorder for the bits she inevitably missed—she returned to Malfoy, who hadn't moved from his spot. And if she caught him still glancing back to her brewing room, well… it gave Hermione the answer she had been trying to discern from his silence.

Malfoy approved.

---

Hermione continued down the hall that led to the open space of her living room and kitchen. Looking over her shoulder at the sharp-eyed man, she wasn't surprised to find him taking it all in, scrutinising her home. He had only seen from the outside, and it was so different from his. Colour in spots where his was neutral, cluttered where his was empty. The scent of cooked food still lingering in the air, and two plates sat on the island under stasis charms.

She thought Malfoy would comment, but he didn't, eyeing the herbs in the windowsill above her sink.

"Just this way." Hermione opened the door to her conservatory, leading the way to the table. Malfoy just stood in the doorway, eyes moving back and forth, taking in what his mother had called her jungle just the day before.

Whether that had been a compliment remained to be determined.

Hermione was setting up the table when Malfoy finally joined her, still looking around, even as he retrieved a shrunken briefcase from his pocket. He took his eyes off their surroundings for a moment as he spelled the briefcase back to its regular size. After summoning what he needed, his glasses and the parchment she'd presented him with, he stood next to his chair, his eyes on her.

Waiting.

Maybe for her. Maybe for the battle to begin.

But today, there was no need for a fight.

Not when his presence was the equivalent of an armistice.

However temporary.

"Before we start, I suggest we take a short walk. We can call it a continuation of the tour or an icebreaker." It wasn't a stretch at all, or even an uncommon act when meeting with a family member of a patient. Granted, it usually happened either in her office at home or at the hospital. This location would be new, even if the suggestion was the same.

But Malfoy looked at her as if she were asking him to do the impossible, like stand in the centre of an inferno and not choke on the flames.

"An icebreaker?" The texture of his voice felt like silk brushing against her nerves. "The activity would be appropriate if we were strangers." Malfoy's brow quirked so quickly she almost missed it. "I don't believe you and I meet the qualifications. First and foremost, we aren't strangers."

Hermione folded her arms. "But we aren't friends."

"You're correct."

They weren't anything at all outside of people whose lives had been entwined to the point where they shared space, conversation, and a rare meal. Two people who had grown up together, seen each other in school for years, interacted, but didn't know each other at all. Her analysis felt like a gross oversimplification of the complex maze that was their past and present, but that was the best Hermione could do with the question mark standing in front of her.

"I still think an icebreaker would—"

"You didn't invite me here to get to know me. You invited me to answer forty-six questions, but since you insist, Granger, lead the way."

After a lingering look, Hermione did just that.

The late May air was warm and slightly humid; the breeze was still scented from last night's rain. It was sunny out, something that was becoming less rare as they marched towards summer. Blue skies expanded in all directions with thin clouds that did little to block the sun. But that didn't matter.

It might not have been a true icebreaker, but Hermione found that she probably needed the moment more than Malfoy did. She began to unfurl like a tightly closed flower under the expanse of the afternoon sky, that coiled spring inside her chest slowly unravelling. The inhale she took was deep, rehabilitating, and when she exhaled, it felt like the first time she'd done so in weeks.

The air around them had little to do with the simmering tension Hermione constantly felt in his presence—that was as normal to her as magic itself. No, the environment was peaceful. Relaxing. Liberating. Removed from civilization, all that was left was the green expanse of the pasture that stretched to the edges of the forest, clucking chickens, wind rustling the trees in the breeze, and the small, unconscious reminders of Malfoy's presence.

He hadn't so much as looked in her direction since opening the door with a polite yet stiff 'after you' gesture. His grey eyes had taken to the skies and the world beyond her home, absorbing everything. Malfoy looked indifferent for a while. His default setting. But with each glance Hermione snuck in his direction, the more she wondered, the more she thought something might be there. Maybe a quizzical sort of approval.

Or maybe she was hallucinating and it was nothing.

But then Malfoy abruptly stopped and looked back. "You grow mainly herbs and both root and leafy vegetables outdoors."

That was not a comment Hermione had expected. "Yes, at least I do at this time of year. There are a few fruits I'm growing out here." She pointed to each. "Strawberries are over there, rhubarb. I've cleared that bed to plant pumpkins, and that one is for courgettes."

"And you grow all of this for your patients." Another one of his non-questions that begged for an answer.

"Mostly, but also for my family, friends, and myself. It's purposeful." Hermione looked around and a random thought struck her at the oddest of moments. "Scorpius would love it here." Her head snapped back to Malfoy, who had gone from carefully blank to contemptuous.

Definitely the wrong thing to say.

"What makes you say that?"

Hermione could tell he was ready for an argument, but rather in defence than offense. She made herself relax, removed the natural edge from her tone, and continued walking, only looking over at Malfoy when he started walking with her again.

She stared straight ahead, smiling as she thought of the little boy holding the spring of mint like it was something precious. "He likes plants."

Loves was the more appropriate phrase, given his daily reaction to each sprig and clipping Hermione let him hold over breakfast. Narcissa allowed it, as she had a similar passion, but said nothing. She just watched. Observed. She had questions, Hermione could tell, and they likely pertained to the fact that every day since he'd taken her hand, Scorpius was shifting closer, looking at her more, staring.

When Hermione sat next to him instead of across the table the day before, he'd held the hem of her shirt for most of breakfast. Neither of them had moved until it was time for him to go to his lessons. It had been a blur trying to divide her attention between Narcissa and Scorpius, but the only thing she remembered was not wanting to sever the literal connection he had reached for.

"And you know this how?"

The answer was layered. "I bring him a clipping or a sprig of a plant each day. Or, at least I have been since Tuesday." When confusion crossed his strong features, Hermione knew just what to say. "Your mother knows."

Which didn't return Malfoy to his default.

His quiet demand for more became louder in the moment of silence.

But there wasn't much to tell.

Scorpius was still the same hyper-obedient child who did everything as he should both in his grandmother's presence and out. Still the miserable and lonely boy with a rigid schedule, weighed down by ridiculous rules and training… Still the child whose cup she moved from right to left each day. The one she waved to each time he left.

It had been a few days since he'd taken her hand, but the shift had begun. That was hard to articulate.

Each reaction to a new plant was slightly different than the previous. Chamomile got her worried looks until Narcissa lifted the book to cover her eyes. Lavender was the first he'd accepted in his grandmother's presence. Rosemary stirred his curiosity. And yesterday, he held on to the parsley longer than he had any of the others.

Hermione found herself already planning, listing, and ordering herbs that she wanted—

"So he likes plants." Malfoy's statement ended her musing abruptly.

"Yes."

There was a small part of her that waited with bated breath for further questions and scrutiny, but none came from the man beside her who observed everything with his hands clasped behind his back. Malfoy continued walking and Hermione fell in step with him, only stopping once they reached the greenhouse and he opened the door for her without asking.

"I can—"

Malfoy held the door open wider, barely concealed impatience etched in his expression. Exactly why he was doing it had little to do with want and more to do with his own etiquette, manners, and training.

She really hated that word.

With a huff, she walked through the door and when she heard it shut with a soft click, Hermione turned and caught him. Malfoy's hand was still on the knob, but his sharp eyes were everywhere, taking in the space she spent just as much time in as she did the inside of her home. There was a part of her that wanted to be as uncomfortable with his exploration here as she had been in the brewing room, but he didn't seem judgmental. Just curious.

Malfoy walked past her as if she didn't exist, but she casually invited him to have a look around.

Not that he heard her.

Hermione excused herself to fix a few of the large bags of soil that were leaning precariously. The task took longer than anticipated. One of the bags was close to ripping and then she decided where they were wasn't the best place. A few charms later and her task was complete.

She didn't have to look long to find Malfoy.

Black contrasted with everything vibrant and light. Hermione found the colour abrupt and sharp, but against the lush surroundings of her greenhouse, Malfoy was striking. And when he carded his fingers through his hair—well…

She took out her wand to check the temperature control charms. The charms were fine.

Weirdly enough.

Hermione joined him in front of the tangerine tree. None were ripe yet, but there would be plenty when it was ready. She followed him over to the lemons that were mere days away from pickable condition.

"No wonder you needed my mother's help with gardening."

His first comment.

"I didn't need it, per se." Or her very haughty criticisms of… well, everything, but missing Auror and lost memories aside, the experience hadn't been entirely negative. Hermione had learned a lot, written down more, and was almost looking forward to their next gardening session. "I've already told you this, but she finds exercise tedious, despite the importance of physical activity in her care plan. Your mother enjoys gardening, as you might know, and well…" Hermione gestured to the life around them. "It was a compromise."

"Funny, she's never been good at those until you."

She snorted. "She's likely never needed to study the art until me, so there's that."

Malfoy didn't disagree. "I also don't think I've seen my mother so frustrated with a person."

"Outside of you?" Hermione cocked a brow. Narcissa was endlessly frustrated, both with her son and by his actions… or lack thereof.

He didn't issue a denial. Nor did he argue. Malfoy did what he was good at: he created a verbal diversion. "What are the empty tables for?"

"For expansion purposes." She skimmed her fingers along the green leaf of the arka plant. "I have to ensure the quality of the ingredients I use for the potions I brew for my patients."

Malfoy remained silent, but when he spoke up, his tone was even and almost casual, even if his words were not. "Have you answered your questions yet?"

"About?"

"Me."

Hermione's mouth dropped open as she sputtered, shocked and unable to form a good argument that he wouldn't cut through with the same finesse he employed on his crosswords. "I—"

There was space between them, but it barely equalled a metre. Hermione found herself lifting her chin up just to keep watch. In the unfiltered brightness of the greenhouse, Malfoy's eyes were piercing, searching, cold despite the controlled warmth of the space. Feeling cornered in an open room wasn't new, but when Malfoy turned and eliminated half of the distance between them, she felt the uptick of her pulse, felt time all around her slow, felt that familiar sensation of fight or flight.

"I know when I'm being analysed, Granger," Malfoy said coolly, still probing for whatever it was about her that—if Harry's comment was to be believed—didn't ring true or honest. "You've been assessing me since becoming my mother's Healer. You've been doing it since I got here."

It was easy to lie or divert elsewhere, but no. That wasn't in her nature.

"So have you." Hermione brashly stared at the man still observing her with an intensity that she was now familiar with but still unsettled by. The warring emotions in her should have stolen her eloquence, but instead it made her bolder. "Have you figured me out?"

The silence that followed her question was only a few seconds, but it felt never-ending. Hermione used it to predict his next move and figure out her own. She knew, like she knew every plant in her vegetable patch, that Malfoy was doing the same. Even though she had a list of ideas about his response, he still managed to surprise her by issuing a silent agreement. He gave her no option but to take it when he lifted his eyes past hers before continuing his tour of her world.

Hermione went with him.

She analysed their exchange to death during the silence that continued even once they were outside her greenhouse and matching strides as they ventured towards the forest. His choice, not hers. They were just starting the walk when Malfoy's hands disappeared into the pocket of his trousers. His relaxed posture was the opposite of his stern expression. Hermione could almost feel his coiled tension.

"I suppose in order to fulfill your requirement for an icebreaker, since we have but a few safe topics of discussion, we could continue the argument regarding your need to separate your pragmatism from your idealism. Or I could leave it on the calendar for Monday."

A flash of memory from last night's argument with both her mother and Ron appeared in her head. "Better leave it there. After last night, I've done enough arguing to last me weeks." One blond brow rose, but he said nothing further. Why she offered more, Hermione had no idea, but honesty spilled from her unchecked. "My mother has ideas about how I should live my life. I—" And then realised who was on the other side of the conversation. She snatched her words back before more could escape. Except four. "Apparently yours does, too."

"Apparently so." Malfoy's gaze returned to the pasture before him. "But that's not a topic I'm willing to discuss."

With you.

"Same."

There was a pause. A shift in the breeze and energy between and around them. Malfoy's attention went to the rustling trees. "Your wards are intriguing. Did you set them yourself?"

"No, I had a Specialist set them when I first moved in after the threats started. I've read enough to learn how to make improvements." He rolled his eyes and shook his head, a hint of amusement playing at the corner of his lips. "I improved the security measures and the bit of warding magic that both allows and restricts access to my home."

"How far do they extend?"

"Everything that falls within my property, which extends into the forest." When she glanced over, it seemed as though he were making a mental note. Which made a small alarm go off. Leave it to Malfoy to change the rules. "These don't sound like icebreaker questions."

"They're not," he admitted. "Potter is curious how Mathers got past your diversion wards, as am I. He makes your wards sound almost infallible, but I know that nothing is perfect."

"I'm curious as well." However, in honesty, she hadn't had a moment to really investigate. "As far as my wards, they're strong, but I've never said they're perfect. With enough power and force, they'll fall too. As will the wards over your home."

"And yet you remain confident, despite the obvious threat against our lives? One that quite literally showed up at your home."

"As opposed to what? Living in fear? I refuse to do that." Hermione turned to look back towards her home. "I'll check the diversion wards to see what happened." When Malfoy said nothing in response, she looked back at him just in time to catch the breeze ruffling his hair, causing part of it to part from the rest. He didn't notice or she was sure he would have rushed to fix it, but the imperfection made him look slightly less severe. More natural. Approachable.

Handsome, a traitorous voice whispered that she pointedly ignored.

"How is Mathers?" Hermione asked in an attempt to silence and compartmentalise the word.

"Stable but sedated. Responding to the antidote well. Davies said that his mind…" Malfoy shook his head. The fact that Roger was on his case meant that he'd dropped everything to do so, which wasn't a good sign. "His memories are too fractured to extract. Even if he does recover, he'll be a shell of himself. They're just trying to make him comfortable at this point before reviving him." Which was tragic news. He looked so young.

But then Hermione remembered something. "The letter? What did it say?"

"Standard threats that they have been making for months: releasing the poison into the air."

Despite the fact that Malfoy made his entire statement seem like old news, it was new to her. The poison was deadly enough by touch alone. Once it made it into the bloodstream, it was hard to come back from. Seeping into someone's pores would make that happen quicker. The wider implications of such an attack would be astronomical. They wouldn't have enough antidotes to treat everyone. Choices would have to be made. It—

She would need to talk to someone about mass-producing the antidote instead of leaving it in the hands of the few staff members who knew how to make it.

It would take months, but it could save so many lives.

"It also said something odd at the bottom. Don't hide."

An icy chill shot up her spine and buried itself there for a few agonising moments before fading away. Gone but certainly not forgotten. She knew that message was personal and directed at her.

"Oh…" It was the only thing Hermione could muster.

Her attempt at subtly must not have worked because Malfoy was now scrutinising her. She looked down at her shoes before focusing on the path ahead. Al's marker was getting closer. She felt his eyes on her long after she looked away, but that didn't stop it from rattling her nerves as they approached a topic that returned to her focus each full moon. One that was a little too personal to discuss with the sun in the sky.

"Was Mathers bitten?" Hermione chanced a glance at the man. Yes, he still looked suspicious.

"Not during a full moon." He sounded suspicious, too. "Potter said he would continue investigating the note. Independently."

Whether or not Malfoy knew it, his last word meant that very soon, Harry Potter would be around to discuss security options that she didn't want or need. There would be meaningful looks and Ginny as backup. But Hermione would be ready with the threat of a long talk about keeping secrets in the form of biological warfare threats.

To her surprise, Malfoy said nothing else on the topic.

When they passed Al's marker, Hermione ran her hand on the top of the flag. "Has Harry talked to you about setting up a playdate between your sons?"

There was a small hesitation in his step. "Is that what he was trying to discuss with me yesterday?" His voice was dry, but there was a hint of amusement. "How interesting."

"Would you consider it?"

"I doubt my mother would have any opinion one way or another. She would encourage a friendship between the two. For strategic reasons, of course."

No further explanation was needed. Narcissa was always planning for the future, and Albus was a Potter. There was value in a name. Or so a woman like Narcissa Malfoy would think. A friendship between the pair—something Malfoy had failed at when given his only opportunity—would be a good look for the Malfoy family. It would afford Scorpius a certain protection he'd likely need in the event of trouble when he went to Hogwarts. Smart of her to allow an alliance, but Hermione found herself willing to look past all the machinations to what was truly important:

Two lonely children in desperate need of a friend.

"Would you encourage it?" she asked the man who glanced over once the question was out, mouth forming a tight frown. "Scorpius—"

"Has never been around other children. Just us and the staff."

Hermione's heart hurt once again, the pain ragged and dull. "Why not?"

The question went unanswered, but she had an inkling that it had to do with security and threats and the reason behind the familiar scars on the back of Sachs' hand. Hermione understood but also didn't, not that she had the chance to utter anything before Malfoy cleared his throat.

"Did he—" A quick pause was taken to push past the reluctance that was displayed so openly on his face. Malfoy exhaled and tried again. "Did Scorpius ever come down yesterday?"

Hermione wondered how long that question had been on his mind. The way he forced it out meant that it had probably been there for a long time. Possibly longer than he'd been at her home.

"He watched you leave."

Malfoy said nothing, just looked away. There was a weariness to him in that moment, one that was both foreign and familiar to her. It echoed in the open space around them, hinting at more than exhaustion. A pain that was bone-deep and visceral.

Initially, Hermione was rendered speechless, but the need to fix everything overrode her good sense and she couldn't keep quiet. "You should try again. Maybe he—"

"Don't meddle, Granger," Malfoy snapped, but there wasn't much heat to it, just a firm resolve, a resigned sort of severity from someone so far outside their comfort zone that they were beginning to disengage. Slow down. Give up.

And while it wasn't her place, Hermione had been on both sides of their missed connection. The link between father and son. She had a grip on one end and found herself trying to grab the other before it drifted away, but Malfoy was too stubborn and trapped by his own self-reliance to grab hold. It might have been a fruitless effort, but Hermione couldn't watch a man drown without offering some aid.

Usually, she preferred action, but this time words would have to do.

"Don't give up on him." A swell of emotions caught her off guard. "You're all he has left."

Malfoy never said anything to her statement, remaining in what appeared to be thoughtful silence for the rest of the walk. But when they returned to her home, his first question made a tiny bloom of hope sprout where none had existed before.

"When would this… playdate take place?"

---

The ice wasn't completely broken, but they got to work anyway.

Malfoy put on his glasses, picked up the parchment with her questions, and scanned it more than once. Over the rim, he gave her a long stare, followed by a quick quirk of his brow that seemed unapologetically smug. And if the sequence briefly lit up the small portion of her awareness that registered attraction, Hermione—well, it didn't matter. She killed the power to the entire section for the second time that day without a second's hesitation.

Because no.

"Where would you like to start?" he asked, voice low, entirely focused on his task.

Despite killing the lights, Hermione found herself blinking at him repeatedly until she recovered, looking away and down as she touched the side of her warm neck. Then back at the man across from her, who was flipping through the pages as if checking to be sure he'd brought them all.

No matter how many times she'd seen him in glasses, it still momentarily tripped her up—especially when he was right there. "Wherever you'd like." Distractedly, Hermione picked up her recorder. "Do you mind if I tape this?"

"I don't mind." Malfoy didn't look up, not even when she started the recorder and sat it on the table between them. "Your questions aren't in order, so I took the time to organise them chronologically."

Hermione's hand stalled mid-reach for her pen. "You did? That means you—"

Malfoy shot her a piercing look. "Looked at your questions? Obviously. You aren't the only person capable of higher thought, Granger."

"Of course not." She rolled her eyes with a scoff. "I'll be honest. I was expecting more attitude and less cooperation, as you've made it pretty explicit that you're not interested in being involved."

In an instant, his expression hardened. "I don't like owing anyone anything."

Well that settled that.

Hermione reminded herself about picking battles for the second time. "What number did you rearrange to be first?"

"Nineteen, coincidentally. Any known similar illnesses in her family history? The answer is complicated, and likely why she didn't answer it." Malfoy folded his hands together on the table in a move that drew her attention first to his long, lean fingers, then to his left wrist…

There wasn't even a hint of the tattoo she knew was there from what she'd seen in Harry's office.

She frowned in confusion.

"Obviously my aunt…" Malfoy trailed off with a distasteful frown. If he stared any harder at the parchment, it would likely catch fire. She wanted to tell him that she'd moved on—had to because she wanted to live her life not haunted by the past and all the nightmares from it. Instead, Hermione cleared her throat, gesturing for him to continue. "I haven't found any other incidents of my mother's form of dementia on either side of her family."

He'd looked?

Judging from his expression, Hermione knew better than to ask. "Nothing similar?"

"Outside of outright insanity born from nature, nurture, or Azkaban? No." She made several notes as Malfoy continued on. "That question leads into the second. Number thirty-four, which further questions her family tree, as it pertains to intermarriages."

Hermione found the question after a brief scan. "I only asked due to a lot of pureblood tendencies towards inbreeding to remain unsullied. It's well-documented that the act can and will affect future generations due to the lack of genetic variety, making them more susceptible to insanity and rare diseases—even those not commonly found in wizards, like your mother's."

"Ah. I'd deny it, but the House of Black's motto is Toujours Pur, so take that as you will." Malfoy tilted his head, glancing at her before shrugging almost casually. "At the time, it wasn't uncommon, but some families took it to extremes, like the Gaunts. As far as the Blacks, I believe there are a few instances of second cousins marrying and having children, but nothing closer than that."

Hermione was surprised. Not by his words, but how candidly he spoke them. He was still a little detached, but she could acknowledge that they were beyond throwing accusations about the other's character.

It was… progress.

Maybe her expression was a little too astonished for Malfoy because from one breath to the next, his tone changed from his version of normal to incredibly curt. "You asked for answers to fill in the gaps my mother wouldn't. I'm giving them. No need to look so shocked."

That earned him a dubious look. "Excuse me for being sceptical. You've refused to so much as discuss her condition with her, yet now you're helping me freely with information it appears you've done research on. Favour or not, it makes no sense."

Thus far, getting any sort of information out of Malfoy had been like cleaning layers of paint off of an old table: she scraped tirelessly, but it would only come off only in little chips and flecks. Today, in several short minutes, she'd gotten more out of him than she had in all of their morning conversations combined.

It made no sense.

"I don't do anything in halves, Granger. Either I'm assisting as requested or I'm not." Apathy flowed off him in waves. "It's your choice."

He made no sense.

But she was intelligent enough to know when to draw and when to fold. She did the latter, but only after skimming her notes while under the weight of his gaze.

"So…" Hermione cleared her through lightly. "No creatures in the bloodline?"

Malfoy exhaled, something just above a whisper, and rolled his eyes with an attitude that cut through his normal stoic nature. "Just because I'm pale and have white-blond hair doesn't mean I have Veela blood. The same goes for my mother."

"She's the only blond of the Black sisters." Hermione shrugged. "The question is valid."

"True, but still utterly ludicrous."

Hermione would have laughed had he not looked so heated. "So, no Veela blood or instances of intermarriage. Genetically—"

"All pureblood families are related in some capacity. Potter and I are cousins, in a way. Same goes for him and his wife, however distant. No one bats an eye beyond third cousins."

Frowning distastefully, she underlined intermarriage twice. "That's still disgusting."

"That's the pureblood way, at least, it used to be. It's a culture with traditions that are dying slowly as well, or so I think." There was something cold in his tone that, despite the warmth of the room, made her inwardly shudder. "My mother has a different opinion, as you likely know."

Hermione did, in fact, know. "It's impossible that every person in every pureblood family is actually a true pureblood. The signs of inbreeding would become obvious throughout the generations, whether through various deformities, infertility, or madness."

Malfoy agreed. "I know of other well respected families that aren't fanatical and have members that they acknowledge aren't completely pure in blood. I believe this is how things will become in the future. Distinguishing by name rather than blood purity."

"And you're okay with that?" Hermione only asked because of how he had been raised.

But it was the wrong question.

Malfoy levelled her with penetrating grey eyes, his response so low and deep she almost didn't hear him. "I'm not that boy anymore, Granger."

He sounded so honest that it made for a brief moment of discomfort for them both, but for two entirely different reasons: Malfoy seemed unsettled by his own honesty, Hermione was unsettled by him as a whole.

Everything from his quiet confession to him drinking light tea that he didn't like—according to two people who knew him far better than she did. From the way he didn't argue about her bringing food into his home to the way he silently familiarised himself with her world. Admired it… however subtly.

Hermione was so baffled she felt like she had to answer the questions about Malfoy that had been flying around in her brain. With attentive eyes, she observed the way his gaze dropped back to the parchment. He wasn't reading, only staring as he seemed to reset. Lower his iron gates. Raise his drawbridge.

However, before Malfoy could completely isolate himself in his fortress, in a voice just as quiet as his, Hermione asked him a question that had been burning inside of her for weeks now.

"Who are you?"

"I'm…" In the blink of an eye, he shut down and sealed himself off—tight. "I am not your patient."

But it was natural for Hermione to push. Call her thirst for knowledge a character flaw that had gotten her into some sticky situations in the past, but that was who she was. And without a second thought, she began pushing, not thinking at all about the person she was trying to delve into.

She wouldn't go too far. Just a peek. A handful of dirt might have the answers she sought.

"I'm aware, but you pointed out who you weren't. I merely asked who you were."

"Tell me, Granger…" Malfoy's expression narrowed as he folded his hands on the table. Leaning forward just enough to make Hermione consider purchasing a larger table, his voice was low, equally as serious as the glint in his eyes. "Who do you think I am?"

He was challenging her. "You're…"

She trailed off when he sat up straighter in his chair. Waiting. Watching. He was gearing up for a clash of words, a war he wanted to wage for whatever reason. Defensiveness? Maybe she had hit too close… but to what target? Hermione had no idea. There were so many subjects they'd spoken about. And while she didn't mind arguing with him on some things, this wasn't one of them. So, she took the high road.

Honesty.

But she left him with something Kingsley once told her.

"You're human, Malfoy, so only you get to decide who you are. Not me. Not anyone."

Several emotions flashed across his face like bolts of lightning cutting through a stormy sky. They were gone before Hermione could fully decipher them or even determine if his reaction had been positive, negative, or something in between.

Then his focus rested on her, the line of his jaw tight as he stared at her with such severe examination that Hermione felt her skin prickle under his attention.

But she didn't look away. Wouldn't. Couldn't.

Not for the first time, Hermione wondered what was going through his head. Too lost in her own thoughts, she didn't realise she had been holding her breath until it was over.

Then she exhaled it all in one go.

It was only then that Malfoy averted his eyes, turning his head towards her plants by the window, mouth pursing. "It's warm in here."

True.

Judging from the bits of colour on his face and neck that she hadn't noticed before, he wasn't lying about the heat. Hermione preferred not to regulate the temperature in the conservatory with magic; it wasn't good for some of the plants. Heat was always trapped inside during the sunnier days like today, as few and far between as there were.

"Would you like something to drink?"

Ever the consummate hostess, Hermione didn't wait before leaving. Her exit was a little more abrupt than she'd planned, but she honestly didn't care. She needed the space. In a second unplanned move, before fixing two glasses of water, Hermione walked around her island three times to expend the restless energy that had settled into her bones.

Probably from working on a weekend.

That was it.

That was all it could be.

When she returned with water, Malfoy had already rolled up one sleeve and was working on the other, which should have provided a visual of the tattoo that wasn't proper for him to even have.

But the canvas was blank.

Glamoured, Hermione reminded herself as she placed the glass in front of him and returned to her own chair. Malfoy thanked her the same way he did every morning when she placed a cup of tea in front of him. Composed, if a bit subdued. They drank in silence, but she noted the way he didn't drink his water until after she took a few sips of her own. When he finished, Malfoy adjusted his glasses and rested his joined hands on top of the parchment once more.

"Are you ready to continue? We have several questions left."

"Yes."

From there, Hermione learned more about Narcissa, namely through incidents. The first time Malfoy recalled his mother forgetting— months before leaving Scorpius in the dress robes shop. She'd called him Lucius several times before realising her mistake. That had been nearly two years before when they were still in France.

The timeline was worrisome. It made her wonder just how advanced the illness actually was. It would require more testing… and possibly a favour from Roger.

He owed her.

"No other incidents followed that for a year until she berated one of Astoria's Healers, accusing her of breaking into the house. That's when I knew there was something wrong, but she continued to ignore the issue."

"Is that when she went to see the first Healer?" Hermione recalled that was the one who had only recommended rest.

"Yes. By force."

From there, they continued on. Malfoy made short work of her list, noting the questions that overlapped and were repetitive, much to her annoyance.

At least until Hermione realised that he had a point.

Not that she ever would admit it aloud.

But it was forgivable because his responses had such detail in them that soon the focus of the interview shifted from the strict format of her forty-six questions to them just talking. Malfoy's deep voice had a certain… cadence to it. Still a bit posh and proper, it had an edge that was all his own. But the rhythm was steady. Pleasant.

It wasn't horrible to listen to him.

Unconsciously, Hermione found herself writing less, then she gave up altogether and laid her pen down to strictly listen. It was fine, her recorder would pick up anything she missed while she watched him.

With his black attire and temperament that seemed to slide up and down an invisible scale Hermione couldn't read, Draco Malfoy was such an interesting contrast in her well-lit and colourful room. Visually, he had a backdrop of light from a sun that was in the perfect position to cast a warm glow over him, making him look like darkness bathing in light.

It was difficult not to stare.

Impossible not to notice.

"In case you haven't noticed, Granger, my mother likes to be in control of every aspect of her life, which stems from a period of time when she wasn't. She struggles with transitions."

A family trait, but Hermione kept those words to herself, only nodding while watching him.

During Hogwarts, Malfoy used to speak with bold and aggressive gestures. But time—and perhaps life and his mother—had curtailed the habit—mostly. Every now and then he would use his hands to emphasise his words, but not often.

"I've noticed, but I haven't sorted how to make her understand that she needs to scale back."

He briefly glanced over his shoulder, scanning the room he seemed periodically bemused with. "Society occupies her mind. It gives her purpose. She was active when we lived in France. As a warning, due to the change in season, I doubt you'll get much cooperation from her until her event."

That was interesting.

Not the last bit about her cooperation, but the former.

From what Hermione knew, they hadn't returned to London until Astoria's condition worsened to the point where everyone knew and accepted that the inevitable was upon them. "I was under the impression that her motivation to participate in society had less to do entertaining herself and more to do with maintaining your family's name in important social circles and networking to find you a new wife."

Malfoy gave her a dark look. "It was."

A twinge settled in her chest.

She took a sip of water and changed the subject. The topic was too raw and the reality of the situation too harsh. "I've only observed her at one event. Has she had any incidents of forgetfulness that you've noticed when she's extremely busy or stressed?"

"A few."

"Could you recount those incidents for me with as much detail as you remember?"

As it turned out, he could.

It wasn't only that Malfoy was observant and analytical of the surrounding world. The way in which he picked things apart from the smallest detail—well, that was no surprise. She'd already seen him in action and experienced it for herself.

However, the penetrating knowledge of his mother and the level with which he remembered details? Now that had been impressive in a way that seemed impossible for him to be apathetic.

Strained relationship, notwithstanding, Malfoy knew too much not to care. He'd been watching for too long to be a casual, uninterested observer. She'd seen the way he looked when Narcissa had forgotten about the intruder, but whenever she so much as turned a soft eye towards the situation, he would lock himself inside his castle with such a severe expression that Hermione knew she had to go around, because climbing those high walls wasn't a possibility.

Not without experience or the proper tools.

She had neither.

"Were there any changes in her incidents once moving back to London?"

"Yes, but there were several factors that could have played a role…"

As she listened to his hypotheses, Hermione found that she liked that Malfoy didn't speak in monosyllables—and hadn't in some time. It had made her job infinitely easier and gave her a lot to think about. There were still things he hesitated on or got defensive about, still questions he answered with a certain level of reluctance.

But he answered them nonetheless.

They had two left when Hermione heard her phone ringing. Pushing away from the table, she excused herself with a polite grimace.

"Sorry, it's probably my mother." She was the only person Hermione knew who used the Muggle telephone.

Not that she was in the mood to talk to her after dinner last night, but in the spirit of being a good daughter, Hermione did just that, leaving Malfoy in the conservatory to answer the phone.

As it turned out, it wasn't her mother, but her father. And he had taken on a new role in their odd family dynamic: mediator. The position was natural for him, given his nature, but not one he had to assume regularly as Hermione had done her very best to avoid arguments with her mother.

"You should come over later for tea. Your mother will be out."

It was a trap. Her dad wasn't a ritual tea drinker. "I'm meeting with a patient's son right now."

"But it's Saturday. You never work on the weekend…"

"Couldn't be helped," she said dismissively with a flourish of her hand, despite the obvious fact that he couldn't see her.

There was a pause. "Are you okay?"

Because she knew what he was really asking, Hermione responded automatically. "I'm eating, drinking, and sleeping normally. Promise."

"Okay then, but—"

"I'll be busy later. Another time?"

Her father exhaled, which meant only one thing: he was about to speak his mind as opposed to executing his fake tea idea. "Hermione, I don't always agree with her tactics, but your mother means well. She worries and… so do I."

With a long sigh, Hermione shifted her weight and rubbed her temple with her free hand, closing her eyes. It was probably the most she'd heard him say in one conversation in years. Progress, but only after conflict.

"Ron isn't the answer to your worries."

"Never said he was." She almost dropped the phone in shock, only just managing to hold on to listen. "Don't get me wrong, I like him. He's a good bloke, but it's clear he's not a fit. I try to stay out of it, as it's none of my business, but your mum—"

Hermione chuckled bitterly. "Has decided to make it hers. Right."

Her father heaved a sigh. "Your mother has a tendency to blend ingredients together without accounting for taste, smell, or consistency—sometimes it works, but most of the time it doesn't. They say you have to try a new food ten times before your taste buds can decide whether they really like the food or not, but I say don't keep forcing yourself to eat something that you know isn't palatable because you might miss out on finding something that is."

For a moment, Hermione was left speechless as her heart thudded in her chest. There was only word that spilled from her, one full of all the emotions she hoped she could convey through the phone.

"Dad…"

And for the first time, he seemed to understand what she was trying to say. He cleared his throat, but he still sounded choked up. "You'll find something that works for you. I know you will."

When she hung up, Hermione sat on the sofa for several minutes with her head in her hands, nearly forgetting about Malfoy in the conservatory. She concentrated on blinking back tears from the swell of emotions brought forth by her father's words. It took just a few more minutes before she got up and relished in the feeling, the connection, and continued on. But now, the canyon between them didn't feel so wide or daunting.

After a series of cleansing breaths, Hermione refocused as she opened the door to the conservatory—only to find a briefcase in the chair where Malfoy had once been. The man himself was standing in front of her indoor potted garden. His back was facing her but his hands were behind him, as they had been when he'd explored her brewing room. Thoughts about the conversation with her dad took a step backwards as her curiosity stepped into its place.

What was he looking at?

Her feet moved accordingly, carrying her to the spot next to him, footsteps loud enough to alert him to her presence but quiet enough not to disturb whatever he was doing. Not that it mattered. Malfoy didn't react when she entered his territory, nor when she stepped into the space next to him.

A little too close, but it was too late.

She was already there.

The answer to her question was both what she'd expected and not: Malfoy was just… looking. Not touching anything, he was careful with his appraisal of her plants, just as he had been with everything else in her home. In truth, Hermione wasn't surprised. He'd been looking in that direction off and on for quite some time.

Interest had finally got the better of him.

She knew the feeling.

"How does a gardener have a dying cactus?" He cut his eyes to the prickly little thing still on the table next to her ottoman.

"Because it's not dead," Hermione told him firmly. "It just needs care."

"Ah, a project." His drawl was so deep that it sounded like it came up from the earth itself. "You still have those. Still a champion for the defenceless and lost causes."

"There's no such thing as a lost cause, at least not in my mind. If you care enough to try, anything is possible. Little things like time, patience, and attention can make a big impact."

He said nothing, turning his attention to her. Malfoy examined her as if he were trying to figure something out. A riddle. A question. It was a look she had seen before. He seemed to want in her head, but without Legilimency. Unsettling as it was, Hermione held his gaze, eyes narrowed with resolve, until he turned away.

Moved to the next plant.

Changed the subject.

"You might as well take a butcher knife to your plants with how you prune."

Slightly rattled from his assessment of her, Hermione accidentally snorted at his snippy comment in a move that eased the tension she hadn't realised she'd been holding in her neck and shoulders until it was gone.

First Narcissa, now her son. Apparently everyone wanted to criticise her pruning.

"You're an expert then?" She rolled her eyes. "Is that a Malfoy family trait?"

Once again, grey eyes cut over to hers, but there wasn't derision in his glare. Just weight. "My mother showed me how as a child in the Manor's garden. We still have a greenhouse with rarities hidden under blood wards."

Well, that was fascinating.

Malfoy reached out to touch the branch of her umbrella tree that nearly hung in his face. His thumb scraped the rough edges where she'd pruned only last week. "You could use a softer touch…"

"Is that so?"

He let go of the branch, moving on to a different pot she'd placed directly in front of the window. Unlike in her brewing room, that time Hermione went with him, not wanting him in contact with anything he had no business touching. Judging from the questioning tilt of his head, it was a plant he hadn't seen before in a pot nearly the circumference of the table. The leaves were thick, healthy, and a vibrant green. Open.

"Mimosa Pudica, commonly known as Touch Me Not," Hermione informed him. "I use it in a balm for Luna whenever she's travelling. She has a tendency to end up in poison oak or ivy." She fondly shook her head. "Though, the name implies otherwise, you can touch it, if you'd like."

For several moments, Malfoy didn't move. But then his hand came from behind him, tentatively moving towards the plant, one finger leading the way.

He was hesitant and careful, but he wasn't doing it right.

Without thinking, Hermione stopped him by resting her right hand on top of his. Malfoy tensed. But she ignored his reaction and continued on, shifting her stance and guiding him. Her free hand rested lightly on his back as she urged him forward. His skin was warm, maybe from the room. She was surprised to find that his hand felt rougher than it looked, fingers curiously scarred on the tips with light marks that were ready to fade away.

"It's sensitive," she said in a voice that was low and soft, but confidential as she guided his finger up the spine of the plant. They both watched leaves fold together just from his touch. "If you touch it wrong, they'll close up too early. Ruins the effect."

The small hairs on the back of Hermione's hand and arm stood on end when she peered up at his face. Only… he wasn't watching the demonstration. He was watching her with another one of his unreadable expressions that made her feel as if he were trying to peer into the very core of her being.

It all came together slowly but in a rush that was as contradictory as the man beside her.

Their position.

Her hand covering his.

The other on his back.

The way he'd tensed.

Hermione all but threw his hand back at him, stepping away several paces. Her cheeks were warm with embarrassment.

"Um." She ran a flustered hand over her hair as she turned, heading towards the table. "We have a few questions left. If you're ready."

Malfoy said nothing for a long moment. "I'm ready when you are, Granger."

When she glanced over her shoulder, Hermione expected to see derision and disgust all over his stoic yet stern face, but she found something completely different.

A sight that should have been private.

Malfoy glanced at the hand she'd touched. Nothing strange there, but then he flexed it before making a tight fist. The muscles in his forearm bulged and rippled, shaking under some strain. Then he relaxed, stared out the window for several seconds, and returned to the table, moving with ease that belied the tension she still felt.

By the time he sat down, Malfoy had returned to his default neutral state.

She knew he was inside his fortress, its walls high and strong…

Except for the smallest crack.

There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.
Leonard Cohen

---

A/N: Happy Holidays to all who celebrate. This chapter got away from me in edits, but hello 80% Dramione interaction. Loads to unpack, information, little Scorpius/Hermione moment that had me in my feelings. As for Draco and Hermione, I wanted to show their shifting dynamic, that she's wearing him down bit by bit but this chapter is a nice step forward. I wanted to display how sometimes she's right and sometimes he is, also more of that delicious tension and building of attraction (already there but growing). Anywho. I had plans for a New Years post, but it's likely I'll be social distance visiting family all day (prob all week) and yelling will be done if I'm tethered to my laptop. Then on Saturday, I'll be on the road 12hrs back home. With that being said, I'll be back to my regular posting schedule on Jan 8th. Happy New Year!