Chapter One
The autumn chill disturbed the sheer curtains of the apartment sitting room. The pale blue fabric reached out towards her as if to pull her away from her novel. She blinked deliberately in annoyance.
10 ¾ inches. Vine wood. Dragon heartstring.
The room was rather plain, which suited Hermione just fine. She had never had need of unnecessary adornments. Whether this indifference towards ornamentation was a reflection of her own countenance or a reflection of her practicality could be debated.
A sigh accompanied the next gust. She gripped the sides of the rocking chair to propel herself to her feet, bare toes curling instinctually at the temperature and she took the necessary few paces to shut the window. A survey of the outside world revealed little of interest: light gray clouds coasting towards the East, a man in a long coat walking his rather small dog down the narrow sidewalk, two children dangling their legs from swings at the little park across the street, their mother glancing between them and her surroundings with her scarf pulled up around the length of her neck. As she watched, it began to drizzle. Hermione spared a few seconds to watch before returning to her chair and her book and its world which did not have magic in the traditional sense but which drew her in as if by some such force.
A world which she would in fact not be able to return to save the course of five minutes, as a series of raps at her door demanded.
"Can I come in?" asked a vaguely frazzled voice.
"Harry," she smiled softly, "what brings you by?" as she stepped back to allow him entry.
He rubbed his hands before briefly bringing them to his mouth for a breath of warm air to fold around them. His coat was shrugged off in the next second, which Hermione absently took from him to hang on the coat rack drilled into the wall. Harry spoke as he slipped off his boots: "I happened to be in Muggle London. Disturbing case, can't really talk about it. Thought I'd pop in for some tea."
"Of course," was the reply he received as he was led out of the entry hall and through the sitting room to the adjoining kitchen. He pulled a wooden chair back from the round table in the center of the room and settled himself into it.
Harry hadn't gotten to see Hermione much recently, what with their respective work loads. And being as work took up a substantial portion of each of their lives, it made an obvious talking point. Or it would if his line of work allowed such free conversation. And besides, work was work and it should stay out of his personal life; even if they did work together on some cases, it was better they talk in a professional capacity while at work and in a personal capacity while outside of it.
"How have you been?" The obligatory question.
"Fine. You?" The obligatory answer.
Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses downwards as he did. "It could be better, but I'm living through it."
"As always," said with a smirk.
"As always," with a returning one.
Hermione turned her back to the stove, having set out the kettle of water to bring to boil. She stepped to the side to lean against the counter without the danger of burning herself. She made herself content with analyzing his face, which, despite being somewhat paler than usual, was not all that different than she expected it to be. He needed to shave, she thought, but she wasn't rude enough to say so without invitation.
The relationship of Harry and Hermione had been a stable force in each of their lives, despite the shortage of time they had allotted lately for the active upkeep of it. It needed no encouragement to be comfortable and needed no frivolous reminders. There was an understanding between them which had not quite always existed but which at least had been a compounding factor for as long as either could trace it to. Of course, this was not to say that Ron wasn't an important element to each of them as well as to them in a joint sense; it merely warrants pointing out that the two existed in a companionable tie on their own and thus the silence that presently stretched across them was not in any way difficult.
It was Hermione who now broke it. "Have you seen the Prophet?"
Harry, unbeknownst to him, quirked an eyebrow—his left, Hermione noted absently. "You have?"
She scoffed. "Nothing more than a glance at the front page, but I thought you'd think it was funny. You can keep a woman in a jar for a year but apparently that won't change her nature."
"Is it my love life again?"
A smirk was the only direct response. "You're quite the eligible bachelor apparently now that Ginny's on the Harpies and galvanting across Europe. Perhaps I'll set you up." A grin now, accompanying the obvious jest.
Harry huffed. "Merlin forbid Skeeter should ever learn that people can have relationships strong enough to survive distance or she might die of shock."
"Merlin forbid, indeed," she said while laughing. "What would the world come to?"
"And how's our noble suitor Malfoy?"
It was Hermione's turn to huff. "I thought you didn't read the Prophet?" she shot.
He only smiled. It was a stupid, boyish smile, she thought.
"And honestly, where she ever gets such ludicrous thoughts is beyond me. You have one barely civil conversation with your former bully in a public space and suddenly you're star-crossed lovers."
The whistle of the kettle drew Hermione's attention away. As she set about removing the rounded blue pot from the burner, Harry stood to grab two of Hermione's small porcelain mugs from the cupboard to her right, placing them in front of her as she moved on to collect one scoop of sugar for Harry's. His sweet tooth had mercifully tamed itself since his early days of Hogwarts, and he could bare with just one scoop of pure calories nowadays. The habit had been helped by these tea visits—Hermione would encourage him to be sensible, but it always seemed her work was half undone once he next visited the Burrow.
With a quiet "Thanks" from each to the other, Hermione led the way to the sitting room, where she retook her spot by the window and Harry occupied the entirety of the worn loveseat, stretching his legs out before him.
Hermione wanted to continue the conversation of her best friend's relationship, but chose to exercise more tact than simply blurting the question of when he would consider proposing. As she was searching her usually sharp brain for some entry back into the topic, Harry provided one for her:
"Ginny playing pro is a fantastic opportunity and I'm happy for her, I just don't like the extra attention it brings. I wouldn't change it for anything, I just wish I didn't have to have a camera face every time I step out of Grimmauld Place."
"I don't expect it to ever be something you feel comfortable with Harry, but I'd thought you would at least be used to it after a decade and a half in the Wizarding World."
He took a long sip of tea. "I am, really." He paused for a moment. "Mostly."
"You've been in this relationship since you were seventeen, Harry. The only reason it's being publicized now is because there's a change; they've left you alone for quite a while besides this—well, they've left your personal life alone, I should say. Things will slow down again, as they always do." She paused to drink before continuing, which she managed to pass as incidental, though with Harry's observational skills it was surely unnecessary. He had a great deductive mind when put to a case, but he was generally oblivious in day to day life. "Until something else changes, that is."
She was met with a sigh. "Well hopefully nothing else changes then."
Satisfied with having an answer to her unasked question, Hermione moved on to a new subject. "Are you going to dinner Sunday? We missed you at the last. Dearest Ronald ate an entire cake; it was truly disgusting."
"If work allows."
Evidently not the last line of questioning, she thought. Somehow it always wound back to his job. Not that Hermione didn't understand—her caseload was frequently threatening to swallow her whole—but it was worrying to her how much it seemed to dominate his life the past few weeks. It was busy always, that was not contestable, but it was not always consuming as it appeared to be now. As she considered offering an ear to listen when needed, it occurred to her it might be annoying to hear a suggestion he had already shot down, and so she continued on with the topic of the Weasleys.
"Victorie and Dominique will have a brother it seems."
"Bill must be happy."
Hermione gave him a mock reproachful look. "Are you implying men cannot be happy with daughters?"
"Hermione, why would—"
"Kidding, Harry," were the words to cut off the start of his rhetorical question.
They shared a smile, and both were quiet.
Draco sat, somewhat peacefully, behind the desk which once resided in his father's private study.
10 inches. Hawthorne. Unicorn hair.
It was an ancient oak affair with trimmings whose designs were surely as imported as the materials used to craft them. Such an old—one could even say historic, given the real importance the family once possessed—statement piece surely did not appreciate the abuse of his fingers tapping incessantly against its top. Whenever Draco happened to notice what he was doing, he immediately ceased. He mustn't be giving away emotion of any sort, even in private, for slipping into such habits in private would surely make it harder to maintain his carefully crafted, masked visage in public.
He was reading a letter, a short one at that. He had reviewed it at least twice already, but possessed hardly any recollection of it beyond one phrase. He rubbed his right temple for what felt like the thousandth time, according to the muscles around the spot. I'm asking for your assistance, it read, words he hadn't expected ever to hear from Potter within any imaginable context. What could Saint Potter possibly need from him? He'd fucked off after the trial and beyond the early days where they would see each other in other Death Eater's trials as witnesses, the most he'd interacted with him since was the odd occasions wherein they exchanged a nod of acknowledgement in Diagon Alley (or that one time in Muggle London, which Draco could not bare to admit was real lest he acknowledge being caught actually engaging with a culture he pretended to feel nothing but vague distaste for).
Pale gray eyes roved over the heavy parchment. Nice paper too, he grudgingly admitted to himself.
Dear Malfoy,
I've had something come up in a case I've begun directly supervising that I would like to consult with you on. I have a general plan that I'd like to meet to discuss with you, if you're willing. Strictly and confidentially speaking, I'm asking for your assistance. Please meet me at the Hog's Head at noon this Thursday. I'll buy the first round.
Best,
H. Potter
To say he wasn't intrigued would be a lie. How could he not be? It was the most interesting thing that had happened since Father died.
Draco winced internally; surely it was wrong to characterize the death of the man he had once idolized—not to mention a man by whom he was given life—as "interesting." The man hadn't been the best of mentors or fathers but he had cared for his family as he should have and attempted to lead them in a manner befitting to their station and in the direction which would yield the most gain. Whether this was always achieved was highly questionable; nonetheless Draco begrudged that the man had done what he considered to be his best. His relationship with his father had been a distant one after the war. Looking at him had simply reminded Draco too much of his own faults and mistakes. He turned his head to the side and back minutely. At any rate, he considered anything interesting if it provided distraction from the mundaneness of his current life.
He noticed the fingers of his right hand tapping again, though the only reason for this was the unpleasant rapping noise his silver and emerald ring made as it clashed with the tabletop. He stopped them immediately with a scowl, conveying one of the emotions which he did not attempt to prevent from being seen.
Should he even bother replying? What right did Potter have to ask him of anything? Free beer, whispered a small voice in the back of his mind. He dismissed it in irritation.
With another heavy scowl, Draco set to writing his reply in his overly condensed cursive.
Potter,
Make it the first two.
D.M.
Sealed with the family crest and handed to a quickly summoned house elf, Draco resolved to put the matter out of his mind and set off to roam his grounds.
This is just a note to say that I don't switch between following different characters in the same chapter unless these things are happening simultaneously, and thus some will be like this one, rather short (~2000 words), and some will be much longer. None will be as short as the prologue, unless I decide to write an epilogue; I prefer to keep those as minimal as possible. Also, I will not do Author's Notes every chapter, but when I do it will be at the end.
On another note, thank you to my first reviewer and favoriter, I appreciate it very much! And thank you to everyone else reading this; just knowing you are is awesome to me :)
This is my first story in about six years (I'm on a new account, but I may transfer some of my old work to this one), so we'll see how this goes. I'm excited to get back into it at least.