TAGS: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Post-War, Post-Hogwarts, POV Draco Malfoy, Flashbacks, rock and roll bar, Apothecary, The Slytherins Started a Band, Angst, Smut, Minor Character Death, Secret Relationship
CHAPTER COUNT: One shot
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It was an imperfect start to the night. One of the amps needed mending, and would need more attention than a repairo could lend it. He'd have to see to it in the morning. The firewhisky burned on the way down, warming his bones and settling some of his nerves. With the comb he kept in his back pocket he slicked the sides of his dark hair then carefully sculpted the front with his fingers. Ensuring the little pompadour style was just right. He'd just slid a cigarette between his teeth when he heard it.
"Hello, Draco."
He closed his eyes, willing it to be a hallucination, but he hadn't taken any experimental potions or Muggle recreational drugs in some time. The lighter sparked and he took a long drag before turning around. Angling his head to convey a nonchalance his insides didn't possess.
"Granger."
The curly mane was longer, nearly to her waist, and in a loose plait over one shoulder. She fidgeted with the end, spinning it between her fingers. There were more freckles across her face and her skin was tanned. Little strands of gold wove their way through her hair. Kissed by sunshine. As if she'd spent the last year soaking up its warmth before returning to the dreary British isles, radiant and ready to fuck him up royally.
They looked at each other, and he wondered how it was that she'd recognized him from behind. The dark hair was the real mask. And he'd abandoned the robes and the bespoke suits for slim trousers and black jackets. Nothing about him screamed Malfoy anymore. He'd stopped wearing the signet ring on his left hand. It was instead on a long chain round his neck, tucked under his shirt.
"I'd know you anywhere," she said, as if reading his thoughts. She was always doing that. For someone who was rubbish at occlumency and loathed divination she had either an advanced proclivity for legilimency, practicing it without realizing, or she was a bloody seer.
When he still hadn't said anything she released her braid, tossing it behind her. "I didn't know you played," she said, nodding towards his guitar. "You're quite good—"
"What are you doing here," he said, flicking his ashes into his empty cup.
"You know why I'm here."
"I really don't."
"To see you, obviously. How—how are you?"
He finished his smoke, blowing his exhale above them and vanishing it with a charm. Downed his whiskey and grabbed the neck of his guitar. "Bloody fantastic," he said, and walked around her.
"Where are you going?"
He laughed. "Bold question coming from you."
"You're angry."
"Yes, well-spotted."
"Bit unfair of you—"
"Unfair? You left without so much as a goodbye, Granger, you don't get a say in fair." he said, working his way along the edge of the crowd. Nodding at some regulars. Signalling to Theo to send him another drink. At last he turned to her, and beheld her scrunched nose. The clenched jaw. She'd explode if he let her. "Get out of my bar."
It started as a game, almost. Just how worked up could he get the Gryffindor princess? But then it became a challenge. Because when she was truly heated, and more importantly, truly heated in his direction, she almost gave in. He just had to let her. Oh, how he loved to see her angry.
They'd formed a sort of friendship within the first month of their repeat year — eighth year for many of them, a fresh start at seventh year for others. He'd sought her out after a week. It wasn't hard to find her. There was one table in the library that everyone knew belonged to Hermione Granger. And for years Draco steered clear, eying it with disdain from across the room. Until he strode up to that table, sat in the seat across from her, and spewed out a rehearsed monologue of apology. She'd offered her hand, and he'd almost ruined it by laughing at the ease of it all. That he could even be forgiven, especially by her.
He kept sitting at her table. At first, because she told him he could study with her if he wanted to. He didn't, but he'd just settled a longstanding bit of school age shame and inherited bigotry and felt like it was the proper thing to do since he was already seated and she'd asked something none of their peers had asked of him.
And then came the huffs of annoyance. He'd coveted them instantly. Hermione Granger huffed when he threw his bag on an empty chair. She huffed when he opened his books and asked her what she thought of Professor Sinistra's lesson on binary stars the night before. She huffed when he asked her about Shakespeare. She huffed when he leaned his chair back, tilting it on two legs.
That was the start of it all. Absorbing those huffs. They lead to him instigating arguments and questioning her theories. To asking to compare essays, knowing he'd left little notes for her throughout his paragraphs, errors and innuendo just to watch her sputter. Always tucked between the smartest paragraphs, so she'd praise him a bit, too.
None of his friends had moved beyond their house; content to stay quiet beneath the green and silver banners of Slytherin. Half the school rejected them anyway. And Draco found himself at an impasse. It was hard to start over with a Dark Mark on his skin and accusations of traitor from people he'd once counted as friends or at the very least followers. Goyle hadn't returned to school but the howler he sent made it clear if they ever crossed paths again Draco would have to prepare for a duel. As if Goyle even remembered more than a dozen spells.
Either way, he knew every time he walked alone through the halls that he had a much greater risk of a wand at his back than a wave from his peers. And the friendlier he got with Granger, well, he started walking with his wand in hand.
"Since when are you chums with Gryffindors? Especially that one." Blaise asked one night. They'd just sat down for dinner, piling pieces of roast and potatoes on their plates. Blaise had seen them in the library, arguing over the last copy of a Nordic rune dictionary.
Draco shrugged. "Can only take so much of your drivel. Helps to broaden my social horizons."
"Blaise is just jealous because he can't get a date for Hogsmeade this weekend," Pansy said. She had one hand laced with Theo's and the other tipped firewhisky into her goblet of pumpkin juice.
"Why would I want a date with anyone in this school?" Blaise countered, accepting the flask.
"That what you're doing with Granger?" Theo said, and Draco laughed.
"She always checks out all the books we need for class. If I want good marks on my N.E.W.T.s I need to study, and that means sharing a table with the swot on occasion. "
Blaise narrowed his eyes and said nothing.
Knotgrass & Nettles was a small apothecary tucked in a narrow wizarding street in Edinburgh. The black brick building was three storeys tall, with a basement, ground level, and upper level. After finishing their education and spending a summer drinking their way through the Zabini vineyards, Draco and Theo split the cost and bought it from an aging wizard named Rodrick Toppington who was eager to sell and retire to the highlands. Their last night in Italy, drunk and stupid, Draco had charmed his hair dark brown on a dare. Arriving back in the U.K. without so much as a second glance in his direction was a strange sensation. So he'd kept up with the charms, and his friends didn't say anything. Edinburgh wasn't London, but he'd had a lifetime of being the fair-haired Malfoy heir.
Draco was put in charge of the apothecary, as he received top marks in potions and herbology, and Blaise, quote, "Couldn't tell a tentacula from dittany, mate, wouldn't want to risk it." Because he had the funds to keep the shop running without much sales, Draco chose to sell more rare magical plants and standard potion kit ingredients. A few bottled brews — pepper-up and calming draughts and the like. Just enough to see a few customers a day. Things to keep him busy so he didn't write letters to one witch.
They turned the top level into a flat. It was supposed to just be the three of them, but Pansy and Theo were a packaged deal these days. She'd brought in furniture from one of her family homes, all of it tasteful if a bit antiquated in style. They took turns charming the fabrics and finishes until it was cohesive.
The best part of their building lay hidden. At the back of the apothecary, beneath trailing vines and beyond tables of cauldrons was a door. A simple wooden door painted charcoal grey. A serpent door knocker at its center. And down a spiral staircase was the entrance to Golpalott's Fourth Law, a moody speakeasy of a bar that had flourished over the last year. Particularly because of the music.
Every weekend the Silver Tongues played to a crowd of mostly young witches and wizards, clutching bespoke cocktails made by Theo. Blaise played bass and crooned, Pansy drummed, and Draco found that he liked the guitar far better than the pianoforte he'd been required to learn as a child. It at least gave him a boost in learning a new instrument — having perfect pitch did come in handy, and if he cared enough he would have sent a thank you note to his instructors. But alas.
There was something about the feel of the instrument against his body. The neck of the guitar cradled in his hand. The strings, thrumming beneath his fingers. Plucking out notes and letting everything fade away until all he knew was the music. The crowd, so often faceless to him. Nodding along. Swaying. Moving to the sounds.
By Halloween he'd developed a routine with Granger. They'd nod at each other in the halls or in class, if they locked eyes, which happened with increasing frequency. Always a quick dip of the chin, nothing too overt. And every evening after dinner they'd claim the table in the back left corner of the library, just beside the astronomy books. He would work on essays while she did the reading for lessons three weeks ahead of what they were supposed to be working on. Outlining essays that weren't even assigned yet. Making notes in hasty slopes across parchment.
"What are you aiming for?" He asked her one night. The History of Magic reading was beyond boring and Granger was furiously writing something that seemed like an essay on Merwyn the Malicious, even though they hadn't covered the dark wizard yet let alone been assigned an essay.
She jumped in her seat and he smirked at her blush. "Just trying to stay on top of things. N.E.W.T.s will be here before we know it and I want to make sure I have time to study."
"Granger, they give us two weeks revision. You'll be fine."
"Two weeks to review seven years of material isn't long enough!"
"And what would be long enough, do you suppose?" It took everything he had to keep his lips from twisting. She had already returned to her essay, murmuring to herself as she went and completely missing his cheekiness.
They rarely talked outside of the library. Until one day she approached him in the corridor. It was early afternoon, and the sun streamed across the stone floor, warming his legs where he leaned against a wall with Blaise. They'd been talking about some Muggle music he'd heard over the summer and was determined to play at all hours in their dormitory. Even when Draco was trying to sleep.
"Did you take my book?" She asked, hands on her hips.
Draco raised an eyebrow, looking from her ugly shoes to the top of her curly head. "I know you have an extension charm on that bag and it's likely full of books. Be more specific."
"The Jocunda Sykes biography! I was reading it last night in the library and," she blushed, "I fell asleep and it wasn't there when I got back to my dorm."
Blaise laughed. "Surprised you don't just transfigure yourself a bed in the library every night. Snuggling with your books."
She glared at him before turning back to Draco. "Well? Do you have it or not?"
As a matter of fact did have it, but he wasn't about to return it to her. At least not yet. Not when he could get her just a bit more worked up about it later, when they were alone. Or as alone as they got.
"Not sure I've heard of that one. Class is starting, Granger, don't want to be late," he said, then turned back to Blaise. Ending the conversation before his friend could say something else to Granger to annoy him.
It was midnight, and the Silver Tongues were due back onstage to close out their set before last call. It was a Saturday, and the crowd had been loud and sang along, waving their arms. Casting shadows on the walls around the Snake Pit, the clever little name Pansy had bestowed upon the stretch of the bar that served as the music venue. With its dark walls, cramped area, and moody candlelight it was fitting.
She sat at her kit, spinning a drumstick in one hand and smoothing her straight black hair with the other. Adjusting the way her fringe fell across her forehead. Her dark eyes narrowed at him as she mouthed, "What the fuck?"
Draco leaned over her to half shout in her ear, "She's here."
Pansy pulled back and widened her eyes, then looked out at the crowd, scanning the faces. Blaise spoke into the mic, "The Prince has returned!" and tossed a grin at Draco. "How about another round before he sneaks off again?"
Not in the mood for his shit, Draco slung his guitar on and tuned quickly. Pansy counted them in and he strummed the first notes of a popular Celestina Warbeck song that they'd remixed to better fit their sound. Turning it into a piece of rock and roll that slunk into corners, around couples entangled in the dark. His hips swayed with the chords. Moves he'd seen at a Muggle rock show that had all the girls screaming.
Theo levitated a drink over the crowd, settling it atop Draco's amp. And the movement drew his eyes over the waving arms, the singing faces, the dancing, the writhing bodies — straight to the back corner. Where Hermione Granger watched with arms crossed and lips parted. He scowled at her. What part of "Get out of my bar" did she not understand?
All of it, apparently. Because throughout their final set she watched. Those big brown eyes fixed solely on him. Every note he picked. Every pedal he pressed. Every hand he smoothed over his hair she watched. And he tried not to watch her. He really did.
Draco had never spent Christmas at Hogwarts, other than fourth year, when the excitement of the Triwizard Tournament and the finery of the Yule Ball lured most students to stay. This year, however, the Great Hall was nearly empty. Draco was the only Slytherin, somewhat glad to be rid of Blaise, who constantly ragged on him for going to the library so often, and happy for the break from Pansy and Theo's less than subtle hookups on the common room sofa. There were a half dozen Hufflepuffs, a few Ravenclaws, and at the Gryffindor table was Hermione Granger and a few younger students. Of all the so-called eighth years, it was just the two of them.
The decorations were more grand than he expected but nothing like what his mother used to do at the Manor. This year she was at Azkaban, visiting his father. Only one family member was allowed so Draco had remained at Hogwarts. He didn't mind. Going home hadn't felt the same in years. They'd spent the summer at the chateau while the Ministry seized most of their possessions.
After a few boring minutes chewing on a piece of bacon and staring into his coffee cup he threw the last bite onto his plate, grabbed both plate and mug, and walked purposefully across the room.
"Why would they keep all these massive tables when there are so few of us even here?" He said, putting his food down across from Granger. "What about unifying the Houses and all that rubbish from the start of term feast?"
She stared at him as if he'd grown antlers, then glanced around before answering. "Probably don't want to draw further attention to anything."
"Didn't fancy going home?"
"No," she said, and tucked back into her food. "Not this year."
They ate in silence for a while, and he was grateful of the magic that kept his coffee full, hot and black as night. Then she started talking, and he listened while she spoke of her parents. The pressure to restore their memories before too much time had passed and it was no longer possible. How she'd worried about them, all the way across the world in Australia. That she'd been in contact with the Ministry there and several memory charm experts throughout the world, along with the lead mind healer at St. Mungo's.
"Surely someone will be able to assist you in restoring their memories," he said. Their plates had cleared, and most students migrated to the courtyard where Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall had conjured fresh snow. Snowball fights at Hogwarts was tradition.
"I'm on a waiting list—"
He scoffed. "Jump straight to the top. All you have to do is remind them who you are to get what you want." Merlin, he sounded like his father. Being Hermione Granger would open doors that once opened for a Malfoy and were now forever barred to him.
"I'm not cutting the queue just because a few people know my name," she said, gathering her books. Even on Christmas she had books with her. Tucked under her arm.
There was a weekend dress code for the two week break, which meant instead of a uniform skirt that skimmed her knees beneath heavy robes she wore fitted Muggle jeans and a periwinkle jumper. A contrast to his black trousers and jumper. It looked soft.
He snatched the books from her arm, confirming with a graze of her sleeve that indeed the knit was as soft as it looked.
"Malfoy, give them back!"
"For fuck's sake, were Potter and Weasley so underdeveloped that they never carried your books?" He said. "Poor form."
The blush across her cheeks ripened. "Uhm, well, no but you don't have to—"
He waved her off. Keeping his stride a little shorter so they walked side by side. "Don't tell me you plan to read all day?"
"What else would I do?" She said, laughing a little. He'd never made her laugh before.
"You'll come with me," he said, and turned down the corridor, quickening his pace. Leading them to the back of the school. "Might want a warming charm"
She cast one on herself and then another over him, which surprised him, and he opened the door to the grounds. Leading her to the greenhouses.
The day before he'd been bored out of his skull, wandering outside. First to the Black Lake, staring into its dark depths. Then to the quidditch pitch, which had become overgrown in the off-season. He wasn't allowed on a broom anymore and while he'd thought it might be nice to see it, turns out it felt like shit. Eventually he made his way back round to the tidy row of greenhouses, dipping inside to warm up with the flask of Ogden's he'd tucked into his cloak.
He wasn't sure why he picked greenhouse three. It wasn't like he'd cared much for Herbology beyond its connection to Potions. He certainly didn't have a favorite greenhouse, like Longbottom undoubtedly had. But he'd slipped inside and immediately wanted to return again, with Granger.
She refrained from asking questions as they crossed the snowy grounds, crunching the frozen grass under their feet. When he held open the door she tilted her face in resignation before heading inside.
All along one wall was aconite, blooming purple in the sunlight. It was a temperamental plant, and one that they'd studied extensively. Along the opposite wall was asphodel, cultivated from the grounds. And there, at the back, was a whomping willow sapling. About a meter tall, with silvery tendrils of leaves. It wriggled a little, and the leaves swayed.
"When do you think this arrived?" She asked, stepping closer but not too close. "I'm surprised Professor Sprout didn't lock the door."
"She did," he replied from beside her. "Warded it, actually."
"If she warded it then how are we inside?"
"I broke the wards, obviously."
"You did what?"
"Don't make me repeat myself it's so plebeian. Sprout is away for the holidays and I was bored yesterday. Wanted to see what all the secrecy was for, so I dismantled them," he said. A light snow began to fall outside. "Besides that, I was cold."
"I can't believe you broke through a teacher's wards," she said, shaking her head, but the look on her face was pure awe. "Did you know it takes a whomping willow eighty years to reach maturity? The one on the grounds is at least two hundred years old, to be that size. I've always wondered how they transplanted it here."
"Thought you might like it," he said. She'd always seemed to like looking at the whomping willow from the library's windows.
"You should do that more."
"What, break into warded classrooms?"
Granger laughed, a full laugh, like a warm breeze in summer. "No, that will only get you into trouble." She turned towards him and pointed at his face. "I meant that. Smile. A real smile."
Draco looked at her and she scrunched her nose. "I just meant that—you don't really—you have a nice smile," she stammered, and he stepped closer.
"Been looking at my mouth, have you?" He grinned when she hit the table behind her, hands reaching for the wood. Curling around the edge.
"Only because of how much you talk when I'm trying to study. You're distracting."
He rested his hands on either side of hers, stepping his fingers until they met warm skin. "I like when you're flustered, Granger, it's a good look for you."
She rolled her eyes but tangled her fingers with his. Their knees grazing.
And he found her lips were just as soft as they looked.
There were three things Draco tried to do in his adult life. The first, to always owl his mother on Sundays. The second, to keep his drinking to a manageable amount. And the third, to not obsess over Hermione Granger.
He failed at all three most of the time. Though he had to fail significantly at the second before he would fail at the third. And even then he had to be deep in his cups (gin, preferably) before he would speak of her. Blaise didn't entertain it, said Draco was a right prick and shouldn't waste any more of his time. Theo was a good listener but admitted to not having a clue how to navigate the situation.
And Pansy was perhaps worst of the bunch. Because Pansy had never been one to let things go. For a year she scolded him. Thrusting parchment into his hands and saying, "Just write to her, you nob!" and "How I ever thought I had feelings for you when you're this pathetic is beyond me." and his personal favorite, "Go have a wank since you're still this hung up on the witch. I'm busy."
Sometimes she pushed him at girls in the crowd, which helped somewhat. At least for a few hours. Other times she listened to him go on about "another thing about Granger" while pacing the flat, spilling his G&Ts on the carpets. She was the only one who still read The Prophet. Even though he told her he didn't want to know, she always clipped any article that mentioned her. Nothing about her current life. Always mentions of her wartime contributions. There hadn't been a recent picture since the final battle. He'd have stuck it in a drawer, hopelessly pathetic, if there had been. It was bad enough he'd had to incendio a small collection of articles with photographs of her from before the war that he'd held onto for months.
And so it was that when they'd taken a bow after their final song, a cover of a Muggle rock number that the crowd always screamed for, Pansy grabbed Draco by the back of his jacket and threw him into the tiny storage closet behind the stage that they used as a dressing room.
"Are you confunded?" She asked, red lips twisted in a sneer.
"I should think not."
"Over a year you whinge about this girl and she shows up looking like that and you waltz off the stage all calm?"
"What would you prefer I do, Pans?"
She poked him in the chest. "First you talk to her."
"I already did that."
She poked him again, harder. "Talk to her again."
"I told her to get out and if she's as bright as the world thinks she is she'll listen." Pansy pinched him. "Ow! What the fuck?"
"If you don't go talk to her I will and you'll find I have quite a lot to say."
"Pansy, do you really need to get involved?" Blaise interrupted. "He told her to leave, isn't that enough?"
"I think she's here for a reason and you'll spend at least three years obsessing over it if you don't find out," she said, ignoring Blaise. "Do you want me to summarize what that would look like?"
"I don't obsess—"
"She was wearing a periwinkle jumper when you kissed her on Christmas Day. How sweet, it was just like her Yule Ball dress, remember? After that your little library dates were more physical and less academic, though she'd always make you wait until every other student left before she'd touch your cock. And did I mention that her eyes aren't just brown they're like cinnamon and oh, how about that she asked McGonagall to rethink segregating students into Houses and wouldn't things have been better if we weren't always cast aside as the evil Slytherins?" Pansy stared at him and he stared back. "Did I cover most of it? I realize that was a brief summary."
"Don't forget the endless description of what it was like to wake up to find her gone," Blaise drawled. "I think I could describe every detail of that one right down to the pine needles stuck to his shoe."
"Oh, fuck off, both of you. If I knew you were going to use my drunken confessions against me I would have found other friends," he snapped.
The temporary tattoos were starting to itch. They'd ordered them from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and much as Draco hated giving his business to that family they were rather ingenious. They covered his Dark Mark completely. No charm or glamour had ever been able to take it away. But after a few hours it started to molt, and he rubbed at the skin.
"Draco, darling, I mean this with sincerity so do listen. If you don't get your arse out there and talk to her I will be forced to take matters into my manicured hands." Pansy opened the door and all but shoved him out of it, where he stumbled and was greeted, once again, by the one witch he'd never gotten out of his mind.
"I thought I told you to leave," he said, swallowing a dozen other things he wanted to say to her. Things he'd said over and over in his mind for one year, 89 days, and however many hours.
Thirteen hours, forty minutes. Not that he'd remembered.
It was warmer than usual for May. They'd spent the day walking the grounds, skirting into the edges of the Forbidden Forest for privacy. He pressed her against trees and kissed her neck. Trailing his fingers along the bare skin of her thigh. While the rest of the school prepared for final exams, they'd finished their N.E.W.T.s and awaited the results. Officially, they would be owled to them on June first but Granger was convinced that if they stayed until the last train to London they would get them early. So Draco stayed along with a few others from their year — Blaise, Longbottom, and two Ravenclaw girls he didn't know the names of but one of whom Blaise had been seeing. They'd been locking Draco out of their room for a few weeks.
The elves in the kitchens were amenable to Draco's earlier request, and when he set up the picnic in a small grove of Wiggentrees just inside the forest Granger was impressed. Or at the very least, she smiled and plopped down on the blanket. They spent hours there, on their own. Where they both felt comfortable simply being together.
When the sun set, and the sky darkened, they vanished the picnic and lay back on the blanket. Tracing the summer constellations in the twilight and sharing secrets. Like that she'd once stolen a neighbor's bicycle so that she could get to the library before it closed. That he'd always hated the peacocks his father bred and gave them a wide berth. She kissed him first that day, clutching his shirt and loosening the buttons. Greedily mapping his skin with her mouth. Whenever she initiated things he felt drunk, like everything was just a little hazy at the edges, but there at the center of it all was her.
And as they caught their breath, tangled together in the springtime air, he whispered, "I'd go anywhere with you. Do anything you asked."
A day in the sun and an evening beneath her left him too tired to stay awake. The sound of birds woke him up just as dawn reached the grounds, and there was no witch beside him.
"Granger?" He called, thinking she mustn't have gone far. Slipping his trunks back on and reaching for his wand, he circled the little clearing. But her bag was gone, along with her dress, and after a few minutes looking around he dressed, collected his blanket, and trudged up to the castle. The Great Hall was open early for breakfast and the Hogwarts Express left at eight sharp. But she wasn't in the Great Hall. And when it came time to board the train she wasn't there, either.
She'd simply left, and she never said goodbye.
Pansy was right. Or, rather, her memory of what Draco had told her was right. Granger's eyes were like cinnamon — warm and fiery. And now that he'd looked in their depths he was treading above scalding water.
"Surely you know me enough to remember I never listen to you," she said.
He swallowed. "So, what, you used your sway with the Ministry to track me down?"
"No, I wrote to Theo a few weeks ago. You never wrote me back and I figured—"
"Theo?" He glanced towards the bar to find the traitor busying himself with a drink and whispering to Pansy. "Why would Theo answer — what do you mean I never wrote you back? You never wrote me once."
She scoffed and crossed her arms. "I wrote you quite a lot, actually. At first I assumed your owls were going to the Manor and perhaps your mother was meddling. Then when summer was over and you still didn't reply I thought you might be angry with me. I assumed you'd get over it but you didn't. I wrote less frequently after that. Felt a bit useless."
Draco shook his head. "I don't know what you're playing at but I never received a single letter from you. I woke up alone on a thin blanket surrounded by bloody loud jobberknolls and spent my last hours at Hogwarts looking for you."
"My international portkey went through," she said, the words quiet. "McGonagall sent a patronus to tell me. I had to get to the Ministry and then I was off to Australia. You knew that was always my plan."
"Yes but I at least expected five minutes of your precious time to say goodbye. Safe travels and all that."
"I didn't want to wake you. You always had trouble sleeping."
"I think I would have gotten over that inconvenience quite quickly, Granger, but I've never—" He growled and tugged at his hair. The charm would wear off soon, and he needed to leave before anyone saw.
"Draco, I left a note and told you I'd owl as soon as I could." She took a step closer and he hated the lurch in his stomach. The twitch in his fingers.
"Must have blown away or something." He cricked his neck, jaw tight.
"Look, can we just go talk somewhere quieter?" She bit her lip. The left corner, which he knew meant she was nervous, not deep in thought.
And he was a fucking idiot because he said, "Alright." Then apparated them to the flat above the shop, releasing her just as quickly before he could pull her closer.
He made tea, busying himself in the kitchen while she looked around at all the things Pansy had put on the walls and across the floors. She shed her jacket, draping it over a chair. There was stilted conversation about the apothecary and the flat. About Blaise, Theo, and Pansy. How they'd spent the summer after Hogwarts playing music before buying the building and cleaning it up. She'd gone to Australia to work with a memory expert and mind healer. It took six months to make much progress with her parents but they'd now had some of their memories returned to them — in pieces but they remembered her. Both Grangers had moved back to the UK while Hermione settled everything in Australia.
They switched to whiskey and sat at opposite ends of the sofa. Draco held his glass against his temple and closed his eyes.
"Let's just get through the painful part, yeah?" He said. "Why now?"
She'd taken her hair down, and the smell practically bowled him over. It was just as he remembered. "I'd stopped writing but then I heard about your father so I tried again."
It was front page news, High Ranking Death Eater Lucius Malfoy dead at 46. A full article dedicated to the life and crimes of a man who withered away in Azkaban until one day the guards found him on the floor. Apparently they got the Prophet in Australia, too.
"When you still hadn't written me back a few weeks later I wrote to Theo to make sure you were okay. I figured—"
"Why Theo?"
"We took Arithmancy together. He was always kind to me."
"What do you want me to say here, Granger? I never got a single letter and now you just pop back in as if nothing's changed. I've spent far too much time in melancholy over you to revisit the last year if it's a fleeting thing your noble Gryffindor heart had to check off a list."
"It's not—I just wanted to see you. To make sure."
"That I'm alright?"
She nodded.
Draco chuckled and drained his glass. "And then what?"
She blushed, and pulled her wand. Bracing for a hex he stilled when she pointed it at his face. "Finite," she said, waving it over his hair. "Sorry, it's just strange to see you with dark hair."
"For me too, if I'm being honest." He smiled, but it felt like a grimace.
"Did—Is it because of your father?"
"A little, yeah. Doesn't help the grieving to see a little part of him whenever I look in a mirror. But I started it before he died."
"I'm so sorry, Draco," she said.
Everyone was sorry. Everyone offered just how sorry they were and he rarely believed it. "You know, I feel relief some of the time. Pansy says it's normal for us to feel relief. As if the sins of our fathers can be absolved from us because they're dead. But that's not been my experience. If anything it's all magnified and I'm just…angry. And tired."
"His crimes are not your burdens."
"Aren't they, though? My family legacy is right here," he tapped his forearm. She opened her mouth to defend him but he shook his head. "Don't. Just…It doesn't matter."
"It does matter. You shouldn't have to hide—"
"Granger, charming my hair isn't hiding. If I were hiding I'd have changed my name and dropped my friends. Permanently fucked off to France the first chance I got. It's just nice to have some semblance of privacy, that's all. Some autonomy."
"I guess it explains why you weren't in the paper often."
"What do you mean?"
She blushed again, and he had to stand, move his feet. "Just that the Prophet hardly ever said anything about you. No new pictures or anything." The blush deepened and he circled the armchair across from her. He wanted to tuck every blush into his soul. "You never wrote me back but I still…"
"What did it say?" He asked, leaning over the top of the chair.
"What, the paper?"
He shook his head. "The note you left me. The one I conveniently never received thus making me assume you'd wanting nothing else to do with me once the sun came up."
"It said that I had to go to McGonagall's office about my portkey and if I didn't see you before the train left…" she trailed off and looked away.
"Tell me."
"I wanted you to come with me," she whispered, "and when I got to Australia I sent an owl, telling you where I would be. There's a potions mastery program there and I thought—but I didn't hear from you so I wrote again. Did you really not get any of my letters? I told you how I felt and I meant every word."
Draco pushed the chair out of his way, stepping close enough to cradle her face in his hands. Shivering when she wrapped one of her own around his wrist, holding him there. "I'd have been there that same day, Granger."
And he leaned down and kissed her. Pulling her up from her seat to press against her body. She wrapped her arms around his neck, melting into him with a little whimper against his mouth. He tugged at her curls, moving her head just enough to deepen the kiss.
The cotton sundress she wore was a deep green, and he was vain enough to think she'd worn it on purpose. He'd always told her how she looked best in green but he never told her why. She'd assumed it was his Slytherin pride but she was wrong. It was because the first time he kissed her it was in a greenhouse. The first time he touched her, they'd giggled under a green plaid blanket she'd tossed over them on her bed. He'd spilled a bottle of ink in the library, the first time he tasted her. The dim candlelight flickering in the reflection while it soaked into the emerald cover of his potions journal.
Every memory of her was sunlight and leaves and the warm glow of a candle. He learned her sounds against that green blanket. Moved with her beneath the setting sun, in their little copse of Wiggentrees in the Forbidden Forest. Stole her breath behind tapestries, with their woven fields of lush knotgrass and towering pines.
He held his arms around her and lifted until her legs wrapped around his middle. The flat was small by his usual standards but the steps to his bedroom were far too long, and he kicked the coffee table out of his way to shorten the journey. Granger bit at his lower lip, the way she knew made him mad, and he pressed her against the wall, rattling the paintings. Taking every little squeeze from her thighs and grinding his hips closer. He kissed her jaw, her ear, her neck.
"Missed you," he said against her skin. "Fuck, I missed you."
A tug at his scalp and she claimed his mouth again, sliding her tongue against his. It was as if time had slowed, the sands of an hourglass moving one by one. They'd kissed in a greenhouse and he'd never stopped. It was euphoric, to have her mouth move against his. To clutch her chin in his hand while he nipped and sucked at her lower lip, turning it rosier and fuller. To feel her pulse, hammering in her throat, beating against his fingers where they rested. Her neck, cradled in his hand.
She pushed at his jacket and he let it fall to the floor behind him. Sliding his hand over the bare skin of her thigh, up and under the skirt of her dress, curving over the round of her arse and back down, to squeeze just above her knee.
He maneuvered them to his bedroom and kicked the door shut behind them. Setting her down just long enough to cast privacy charms and ward the door before grabbing for her again. Wrenching her dress over her head and watching her curls spill over her shoulders and down her back. Feeling them slip between his fingers where he pressed her closer.
"I missed you," she said, getting the words out between panting breaths. Tugging at his shirt and trousers. "So much."
The little gasps — he'd missed those. The way she'd release them like prayers when he worked her with his hands. Sliding through the wetness with a careful practice, playing every note he'd ever coaxed from her. Remembering just how she liked to be touched. Circles with gentle pressure until she whined, and he could increase the pressure just enough. Until she came with shallow gasps, thrumming beneath his fingers.
Her hands — he'd missed those, too. The clever fingers that gripped him tight, moving in perfect strokes, up and down, twisting at the head. Teasing and treacherous hands, turning him into the one who gasped. Plucking notes until everything faded away. He divested them of their final layers, not even taking a moment to admire whatever lace she'd put on. Just for him. Hoping he'd listen to her. And how he missed listening to her. The moan when he pressed a finger inside of her, dragging it through the warm heat of her cunt. The deeper moan when he added another finger, moving in tandem with their tongues. Rubbing his thumb over her clit. Until she said, "Please," and then, "I need you. I missed you. I need you."
He'd thought about getting to fuck her again. If he'd pin her hands and be rough, which she'd once shyly admitted she liked. To lose the control she was so desperate to maintain during the day. He'd thought about gripping her hard enough to bruise, holding her throat, and if that would seem like punishment or wish fulfillment. But the bed was firm, and he wanted her beneath him. Scratching down his back. Tugging at his hair. Sucking the spot below his ear until it left a mark. She was just as he'd remembered. Thighs falling open so that he could settle between them. Ankles pressed against the small of his back, urging him deeper. Harder. He'd missed that. The way she used her legs to get what she wanted. He'd give her anything when she was under him. Swaying. Moving to the sounds.
"Want to feel you," he ground out between thrusts, gripping her hip tightly with one hand and lacing his fingers with hers where it rested on his pillows. Until he could turn them, letting her straddle him, tall and magnificent above him. Moving her hair over her shoulder to tickle her breast. Mouth forming a silent O as she rode him. He'd missed that. Missed how often he thought about that mouth, with its perfect shape. How it looked stretched around his cock. How it felt against his skin. He cradled her jaw, letting his thumb press into her chin until she leaned down and he could kiss her again.
The thin sheen of sweat on her collarbone tasted like he remembered. The way her walls fluttered was exquisite. And when she came he wanted to give her everything he had. Draw out her pleasure until he reached his own. He kept pace, pressing up against her, teasing her clit with his fingers and sucking along her chest. All while she keened, cradling his head.
Gasping, she said, "Don't stop," as if he could. As if he would ever. Not until she screamed for him, the near silent little scream that locked her muscles. And as he pounded into her, he felt it. Sparks blurred his vision and his own body tensed as he came.
Whispering against her skin. "Mine. Always be mine."
When Draco finally gave up and went back to the Slytherin dormitory Blaise was waiting for him.
"Where've you been?"
"Looking for Granger. Did you see her this morning?"
Blaise scoffed. "Why would I see her?"
"Oh, I don't know, because you attend the same school and thus eat in the same place and walk the same halls and she's rather hard to miss."
"Perhaps she's hard for you to miss but I don't give her a second thought."
"Not in the mood for this today, Blaise, I slept on the fucking ground," he said, and flicked his wand at their bedroom door. Summoning all of his belongings into his trunk in neat stacks. Then he changed his clothes and ran a hand through his hair, too late for a shower.
"Why does it matter where Granger is?" Blaise asked from the doorway. The train would leave in fifteen minutes, and he needed to catch her.
"Not that it's any of your business but we've been seeing each other for some months now."
"Can't be that serious, her being what she is. You being what you are."
Some days Draco wondered why he even bothered with Blaise for anything other than the occasional bit of drunken fun. His advice was terrible and he'd never understood half of the things Draco was troubled by.
"Piss off," Draco said, knocking his shoulder on the way out. He had to get to the platform as soon as possible, before he was stuck wandering the train, sticking his head in compartments to inquire after a lost curly-haired swot who made his hands tremble.
Unfortunately, Blaise walked with him. Asking more questions about Granger that he answered in as few syllables as possible. Yes, they'd kept things secret. No, it wasn't because either was ashamed of the other they were just private people. Yes, he was serious about her. No, he didn't care what his mother and father thought. Yes, she returned his feelings. He thought she did, but now—
"So you're not sure then?" Blaise said, hands in his coat pockets, pulling out some crumpled parchment and tossing it in the bin. They wove between the few sudentss waiting to board the train, Draco scanning each head with a frown. "You don't seem sure."
"She'll be here," he said.
The scarlet train rolled into Hogsmeade, steam puffing and engine rumbling. But there was no Granger. And while he stared at the Scottish countryside he let Blaise convince him that their summer in Florence would get him out of his sour mood.
"She's a pretty little bird, I'll give you that, but why bother when you can spread those wings of yours? Think of it as a visitor, here for a moment and gone in an instant."
"Mixing metaphors certainly suits someone of your social standing, Blaise." The trolley witch had been out of chocolate frogs and pumpkin pasties by the time she reached their compartment. The sky had turned a dreary grey, misting the windows with rain. Draco missed the sun.
Draco left Hermione sleeping in his bed, her curls fanned out across the pillow. Moonlight on her face. He padded on soft feet to the kitchen for a glass of water. Blaise leaned against the counter, grimacing through a hangover-preventing potion.
"You need one?" He asked, and Draco shook his head. "Tastes like rotten pumpkin juice."
"Surprised you're not immune by now. It's a nightly habit at this point."
Blaise chuckled. "Perhaps one day I'll learn my lesson. Until then, thanks for brewing this shit."
Draco sipped his water, drinking it down and refilling it. With a nod he turned to go back to his room.
"Was it worth it?" Blaise said, tossing the empty vial into the sink.
"Worth what?"
"The pathetic misery and overdramatics. Wasting a year of your life on someone who abandoned you."
"Turns out she left a note," Draco said casually.
"I'm sure she did."
"Yes, you would be, since you took it." He raised his wand.
"What? You're barking."
"When I came back that morning your shoes were dirty. You always shined them at night. Did you forget that day? Or was it because you fancied an early walk? And when we were on the platform you tossed some parchment. I didn't think much of it then but it makes sense to me now. You never liked the idea of me and Granger. Just like my father. Did he put you up to it?"
"Mate, you clearly need to sleep if your brain is giving you these types of delusions." Blaise held his hands in front of him, and Draco liked that he was scared.
"She wrote to me. A dozen or so letters. What did you do with them?"
"Draco—"
He stepped closer, until the tip of his wand hit Blaise's sternum. "You're a shit liar when you don't have time to think about your story, you know that? Tell the truth before I show you what I learned about getting answers from uncooperative fools. It wouldn't be the first time I've had to interfere."
"Fine. I ran into Granger outside the Great Hall that morning and she said something about telling you she'd owl you, and that you were in the forest. Thought she might have been setting you up to miss the train. Didn't want her to fuck up our summer. Childish, I suppose."
Draco pressed his wand into the soft flesh beneath the chin. "Fucking right it was childish. You saw—I told you I cared about her and you said nothing. What about the other letters?"
"Her owl left them at the vineyard and I never gave them to you. If I did you'd have left."
"And after that?"
"Sort of had no choice but to keep intercepting your post at that point. Didn't think she'd be so persistent."
"Give them to me. Now." He removed his wand but kept it trained on Blaise's face.
Blaise sighed and summoned them. Draco snatched them from his hand and disarmed Blaise without a word. T
"I was going to tell you, but then everything with your dad and you…I'm sorry," Blaise said. "It seemed like a passing fancy."
"Things would have been a lot easier if it was," Draco replied, flipping through each neatly addressed letter. Blaise had at least respected his privacy enough not to open them. "Hey, Blaise?"
He'd started to retreat, but Draco couldn't allow that. "Yeah?"
"Get the fuck out of my flat."
When he'd told his mother over Christmas that he loved a Muggleborn he'd expected a row. Not yelling, that was beneath their station. But the kind of cold, clipped anger he'd grown to expect of her. But the war had left Narcissa disillusioned by her upbringing. Resentful of her husband, for how his choices had caused their family pain. How they had caused her only son pain.
It had been over six months since he'd woken in the Forbidden Forest alone. He'd told his friends he was over it, mostly, but that was a lie. And not a very good one, according to Pansy.
His mother asked him to explain and he did, while she listened. Sipping sherry from a small glass. Asking questions and nodding. Until she'd finished three glasses and said, "I lied to the Dark Lord for you. We go to great lengths for those we love. Don't think me incapable of the same with your father. I'll do what I must to protect you."
"I'm tired of the lies, Mother," he'd said. "He won't get any more from me."
So he'd written a letter. One that he spent more time drafting than he did his final Transfiguration essay. And his letter was returned to him a month later. With a brief response scrawled across the back.
Perhaps a trip to Australia upon my release is in order. If you endeavor to tarnish the Malfoy legacy in this way, Son, you'll leave me no choice but to interfere. Sanctimonia Vincet Semper.
Visiting Azkaban was out of the question. Firstly, because he had no desire to set foot in the prison but more importantly because he didn't need to. Not to do what had to be done.
His father always said that the right leverage, be it money, be it fear, be it pretty words, would always open doors. Especially for a Malfoy. And in this instance, Draco found that he was right.
A few hundred galleons for a low-level guard at the prison made things surprisingly easy. Draco met with him in Diagon Alley on a warm day in March. It took a bit of gold to make the introduction in the first place. He'd told the man that his father's birthday was drawing near, and all he wanted was to deliver a gift. Prisoners weren't allowed gifts, for obvious reasons. But he'd pressed a second purse into the man's hand. Told him that a box of hazelnut truffles was all he asked for. With a simple note that said, For my dear father, from your dutiful son.
A funny thing, allergies. He'd read about them one night, studying for the mandatory Muggle Studies course in his final year at Hogwarts. Granger's head in his lap, reading her own book. Offering helpful bits of insight while he stoked down her arm. So commonly diagnosed among Muggles. And yet, for the majority of his life, Draco wasn't allowed many foods and he'd never understood why. Curious, he'd seen a Muggle healer — a doctor, who specialized in allergens, a few months after leaving school. He told her of all the foods he'd never eaten. Shellfish and nuts weren't allowed at Malfoy Manor. In school he was always told not to touch them. Especially hazelnuts. His father detested them. Made his throat itch just to smell them. The elves knew not to serve them. To inspect all post for them.
Prisoners weren't allowed gifts. When the guard rotation shifted and Lucius was found, it was too late. His throat had swelled shut. A box of half-eaten chocolates scattered across the floor. They were tested for poisons but they were just chocolates, from a small sweets shop. His family was informed and they held a small burial ceremony on the grounds of the Manor. The first and only time Draco had been home since leaving for his eighth year. Narcissa wore her finest robes. And when the last of the dirt covered the ebony coffin, she'd dabbed at her cheek with a handkerchief and walked with her son back to the large, empty house they both hated.
A tragedy, that Draco had no choice but to interfere.
Hermione stirred when he sat back on the bed, adjusting the blankets over them both. She twisted in the sheets and reached for him, curling against his side. Running the tip of her finger over the scars on his chest.
"Everything okay?" She asked.
"Perfect, actually."
"Draco?" She turned her face and rested it on her hand. Stilling her movements.
"Yes, love?"
She blushed. "Are we—Is this just goodbye?"
He pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. Breathing in the contented little sigh she released. "It's too late to say goodbye, Granger. You should know that."
"And here I thought you wanted me to get out of your bar."
"I don't think I could ever get away from you. It was too late from the moment your lips kissed me back in the greenhouse. Just took a bit longer to get there."
She chuckled and kissed his neck. "You were waiting for me?"
Draco flipped them so she lay back against the mattress and kissed her until they were both breathless. The way he'd done over a year ago, when he had his fingers against her thigh and her lip between his teeth.
"Just had to take care of some things first."
"Like what," she asked, a little dazed as she wrapped her leg around him to pull him closer.
"I spoke with my mother, and she approves."
Granger furrowed her brow. "Really? When?"
"Last Christmas. At the chateau." He summarized the visit for her, and the subsequent talks he'd had with his mother.
"But you were angry when I got here."
"I was, but only because I wanted to be sure."
"Sure of what?"
"Did you really come back for me?" She nodded, and he kissed her. "To be sure that you weren't a passing fancy. More than a pretty visitor crossing my door."
"You'll have a hard time getting rid of me, I'm afraid."
He tucked his face in her neck, breathing deeply. "Good," he said, "I'll do what I must to keep you."