Chapter 4
Books and walks fill her days as she sinks deeper into the isolation of the countryside. She considers over and over the option of returning to London, maybe staying with Harry and Ginny for a while, but every time that thought enters her mind she knows that will do little to solve anything, she needs direction–a purpose. And she knows even a quick visit home will only draw her back into the comfortable and unfulfilling monotony. Besides, she loves her little cottage, and the quiet little town just down the lane. It's the restless loneliness she doesn't love.
The measured beats of the afternoon raindrops are interrupted by a pecking at her kitchen window.
It's Harry's new owl, Asha, and she's carrying quite a burden of letters. Hermione allows Asha entrance and relieves her of the parcel, but before she can offer a treat, the elegant bird takes back to the sky leaving a few feathers in her wake. Asha normally stayed to rest and take any return correspondence Hermione had, but this day must find her busy.
At least a bundle of letters gives Hermione some diversion. She sorts through finding letters from Harry and Ginny. A quick missive from George that makes her laugh as he recounts an incident with Ron falling into a box of fanged frisbees and running down Diagon Alley as they nipped at his backside.
Neville has some answers to her questions about her garden and Professor McGonagall, now Headmistress McGonagall, tells her she's pleased that Hermione is seeking her own path. The last letter brings her a swell of pride. She may be an adult, but her respect for Minerva McGonagall runs deep and the idea that someone besides herself cares for her success in life is bolstering.
As she stacks the parchments and clears away the bits of wax from the seals, there is another tap at her window. This time a lovely barn owl is perched on the sill, a single letter tied to its leg.
This owl has no compunction accepting a treat, but flies off almost as quickly as Asha.
The parchment in her hand is a deep blue, the color of new night in the sky. Her name is etched on the outside in an elegant script, the silver ink glinting in the lamplight of the room.
The matching silver wax seal is imprinted with a design that Hermione thinks might be the Gemini constellation, but it's small so she can't be sure.
The contents of the letter are most enticing. Looking over it once more, she realizes that she knows that logo, she has seen it many times, in many places that she holds dear—her textbooks.
Every textbook, ever required of her as a Hogwarts student is a part of her personal library, and every book contains the seal from Constellation Press.
Aware of her availability in the job market, the editor in chief, an N.B. Misselthwaite, is offering her "a unique opportunity" to work in what they call "Content Development". If she understands correctly, she'll get to contribute to what students at Hogwarts, and possibly other magical institutions, will learn as they discover and hone their magic.
She rushes to her desk and scratches out a response. The writing is hasty and messy, so unlike her, but she doesn't find that she's concerned with perfectly blocked lines so much as she is with communicating her enthusiasm for the offer.
Her enthusiasm wanes, however, when she remembers she doesn't have an owl, both owls that visited her today left in a rush, and this village is muggle. The fleeting thought that Malfoy will help her brings a chuckle, but she's sure she'll figure out a way to send her reply.
She folds the parchment and tucks it away deciding to spend the remainder of the afternoon listening to the rain.
Two days. Two days was the limit of time she was willing to wait before seeking the help of Draco Malfoy.
The late morning sun blazes and a trail of sweat begins to inch it's way down her back on the short walk from her garden to the shallow woods separating her from the Malfoys.
When she emerges from the woods her breath catches in her throat. The field is blanketed in a wash of purple blossoms. Lavender. How did she miss that almost the entire field was lavender?
Heat shimmers up with the bright, medicinal scent and Hermione lets her steps slow and her fingers trail over the flowers. The buds are velvety, the aroma more delicate than the piney leaves on the shrubs.
Closing in on Malfoy's cottage she hears his voice call to Scorpius toward the back of the property. She makes her way around the side to find another sight that draws her up short—a shirtless Draco Malfoy harvesting lavender… by hand.
His skin is pale, bright in the almost midday sun, and he glistens with a sheen of sweat from the exertion of his work. He brings his body to full height and wipes the perspiration from his brow with the back of his left forearm.
She sees it then. The Dark Mark; grey and ruined at the death of it's master. She knows, logically, she should be disgusted, enraged, have some sort of vehement negative emotion at the sight of it, but her years since the war have taught her many things. One among them is that some of her peers didn't have a choice. Harry wasn't given a choice about his involvement, raised as he was to be a sacrifice; and for all the vitriol he threw her way during their years at school, Draco Malfoy was used as a pawn to do Voldemort's bidding. A sacrifice in his own right. But the Wizarding world likely doesn't see his time suffering as a penance worthy of forgiveness.
But that little boy; that beautiful, charming, vivacious little boy is a testament to the lessons Malfoy surely learned during his time on the altar of war.
"Hermione!" Scorpius's sweet voice rings over the short expanse and Malfoy whips his eyes toward hers.
She sends them both an uneasy little wave and tries to put on her brightest smile for the lovely young man who is always so happy to see her.
"Granger," Malfoy's voice heavy with the strain of the work he's been doing. Hermione can see several bushels of lavender surrounding his place in the field. "What oh so joyous occasion brings you in our presence this fine day?"
His sarcasm laced voice makes it all too easy not to be distracted by the tight lines of his chest, the strong slope of his shoulders, and the cut of his abdominals underlined by his low slung denims. No. She is not going to appreciate his finely honed body.
Shaking her head clear and fixing her eyes on his, she finally speaks, "How do I send an owl around here?"
"Have some important correspondence do you?"
"I'll have you know I was offered a job." The lilt of antagonism taints her answer and she scolds herself internally for falling into their old ways. "Anyway," she softens her approach, "I don't have an owl and it has not escaped my notice that this is a mostly muggle village."
"That it is," he agrees, "but I think I can help you." He doesn't sound excited, but she'll take the help.
He goes back to picking lavender. Scorpius follows his lead and she watches as he snips some stems and adds them to the bushels, then uses one to tease Ollie. She's giggling before she can stop herself and Malfoy is looking at her once more. "What are you waiting for, Granger? The faster it's picked, the faster you get what you want." He tosses an empty bushel basket toward her, holds up his shears and demonstrates his technique.
Scorpius looks pleased to have her along and he cuts a bit more lavender before he's loping across the field, his winsome shrieks echoing over them.
She has no idea how much area they've cleared when he finally, finally, declares them done. But her back aches and she absolutely reeks of lavender and sweat. "Not too bad, Granger. Think you have some strength left in those hands?"
Flexing her knuckles a few times, she looks at him sceptically, "I suppose I do, but… aren't we done here?"
"Done? We need all the raw ingredients today. Can't stop now."
He turns to walk away and she calls out. "What about my letter?"
He stops and looks over his sun-reddened shoulder at her, "We'll take care of your letter." He starts walking again and stops when he realises she's not following, "Look alive, Granger, we've got things to do."
With nothing else to do she shrugs and follows after him, ducking into a rustic barn on the far side of the property.
They find Scorpius in the barn, his arms waving in great animated circles as he relays some grand story to a stall of goats. They bleat and gripe in time with his story and he responds as if they certainly understand each other. Ollie is resting comfortably on the back of the largest nanny, her coat spotted brown down her flanks and her blue eyes fixed on the young Malfoy.
When the tribe spots the elder Malfoy their bluster picks up and they filter toward the platform at the end of the stall.
"Malfoy," Hermione can't hide the confusion in her voice, "what's the story with the goats?"
Malfoy looks affronted, "The goats have names if you please." He leans over the gate and scratches a black and white one behind the ear. "Isn't that right Esmerelda?"
"Esmerelda?"
Malfoy gives her a challenging look and she raises her hands in supplication, "Hello, Esmerelda," she offers as she reaches over to give the goat a scratch of her own.
The volume of the goats rises as the moment lingers and Malfoy jerks his head toward the platform at the end of the barn. She follows, her curiosity peaking, and he motions for her to take a seat on the low stool.
"I'm not sure…"
"Granger," he pinches the bridge of his nose, "just sit on the stool. If you're anything like the girl I knew in school, you're up for the challenge."
Emboldened by his assessment, she settles onto the stool. Scorpius is all smiles as he leads Esmerelda up a short ramp and onto the low platform. Between her and Hermione, Esmerelda is the only one who knows what's going on and stands dutifully waiting. Hermione looks to Malfoy once more to find him far too amused with the whole situation. "A little guidance perhaps?"
Malfoy is holding back his amusement, but points to the bucket to her right. She picks it up and holds it in her lap. Malfoy rolls his eyes, "You can't expect to collect milk with the bucket in your lap."
She bites her tongue and puts the bucket under the goat's udders. Esmerleda gets a little antsy and shuffles her hooves, bleating at the incompetent human tasked with her milking. Hermione waves a hand toward the goat, "Again, a little guidance. I've never milked anything."
"It's easy, Hermione." Scorpius steps in, he reaches out with a small chubby hand, this thumb and forefinger wrapping around the top of the nearest udder, then the remaining fingers rolling down, the milk shooting out into the clean bucket below. "See. Easy. Just trap and roll."
"Just trap and roll, huh?" She gives him a smile and he nods. Sure thing. Just that easy. She takes a deep breath and reaches out, her fingers wrapping around the top to the udder. It's warm and firm, full of the creamy milk Scorpius so easily expressed. She gives her fingers a roll down the udder and… nothing.
She sucks in a determined breath and tries again. Still nothing. Pulling her hands away Hermione shakes them out and reaches forward with new conviction. A hand on hers stops her possibly overzealous approach.
She can feel warmth at her back and the firm muscles of his arm are settled intimately along hers, his larger hand enveloping hers as he guides her fingers around Esmerelda's udder.
"Trap and roll." His voice rumbles through his chest and through her person as his fingers wrap around hers and he shows her the technique to finally fill the bucket with milk.
The ting of the liquid into the bucket is more satisfying than Hermione imagines it would be. And she traps and rolls one udder then the next until Esmerelda and Malfoy seem satisfied that the udder is empty.
Malfoy gives the tolerant goat a light tap on the rump and she trots down from the platform and out into the fenced enclosure through the barn doors.
Scorpius peers over into the bucket and gives her a thumbs up as he leads the next goat up the ramp. "Good job, Hermione! It took me ages to get it right."
Hermione gives him a genuine smile and proceeds to milk two more goats; the bucket soon full of pungent, fresh milk with rich cream floating to the top.
"Not bad for a rookie, Granger."
All the goats are in the outside enclosure. She watches as Scorpius fills the trough with hay and buckets of what look to be kitchen scraps. The goats bleat merrily as they munch and frolic, a few of the smaller ones butting Scorpius with their heads as he laughs at their antics.
The ache in Hermione's hands is quelled by the sweet sound of Scorpius's innocence, but she soon remembers her purpose in coming here today. Turning as Malfoy pours the last of the milk into a holding canister she asks, "So my letter?"
Malfoy casts a quick charm over the milk and it occurs to Hermione it's the first magic she's seen him perform since she stumbled upon him here. He starts to walk from the barn and turns to look at her as he reaches the door, "You coming, Granger?"
Scorpius seems content with the goats, Ollie is purring away in a sunny barn window and a still shirtless Malfoy is striding toward the house. Hermione hurries from the barn and as she watches Malfoy pull his discarded shirt over his head she allows herself a moment to appreciate the ripple of muscles in his torso.
He raises his eyebrows at her, seemingly catching her in her appraisal and resumes his walk toward the house, a hint of amusement on his face.
Following him through the back door, Hermione pauses in shock at the kitchen. This kitchen is so far removed from any preconceived idea of Draco Malfoy. The butcher block island is well-used; the surface marred with slices from one one of the designer knives nestled in a nearby block. A sturdy rack hangs over the island, shining copper pots dangling among bundles of drying herbs. This kitchen is so similar to the one she's spent so many hours in at the Burrow; she forces herself to hold her judgement, obviously, she knows nothing about this man.
Malfoy washes his hands at the deep apron sink before lifting the lid of a dutch oven bubbling away on the hob. He takes a greedy breath of the aromatic steam rising from the surface before dipping a clean spoon into the broth for a sample. His lips purse in consideration and he steps to the rack to pluck a sprig of dried thyme. He adds the savory herb, a sprinkle of roughly ground salt and replaces the lid with a satisfied nod of his head.
Hermione observes all this, so frozen in shock at the degree of domesticity that she forgets her original purpose. But any fleeting thought of her response to Constellation Press is derailed by a panicked cry from Scorpius as he comes flying into the kitchen, fat tears rolling down his cheeks and Ollie skidding in behind him with a persistent yowl.
The notion that she is good in a crisis is dispelled in an instant when she continues to stand dumbly at the end of the island as Malfoy calmly sets his spoon on a rest and scoops his frantic son into his arms. "What happened, Scorp?" There it is again, Scorp, but this time with such a gentle timbre she aches for those long past years when her father tended her childhood emergencies with the same care.
Her forward motion in the next moments is unconscious at best, but she finds herself standing next to Scorpius as his father perches him on the edge of the island for a full assessment. Ollie nudges her leg and reflexively she picks him up to be closer to the darling boy he's bonded with. Straining to be closer, Ollie stretches out a soft paw to touch Scorpius's shoulder and Ollie is rewarded with a watery smile from the now calming child.
"I don't see any bones poking through the skin, or missing limbs. What's wrong, Scorpius?"
She has never seen a bottom lip poke out and quiver in such a cute way, not even on Bill and Fluer's bewitching little Victoire; but here is Scorpius, his lip trembling pitifully and his eyes magnified by tears as he presents his right palm to his father, and all she wants to do is gush about how adorable he is, maybe hug him, but she valiantly resists the urge.
"I… I… got a splinter…" He sniffs and wipes his wet face on the back of his other arm, "on the fence."
Malfoy gives him an amused look, "Were you walking the tightrope again?"
Another sniff and a subtle nod from Scorpius and Malfoy answers with a small chuckle, "I'm sure it was your greatest performance yet. But let's get this splinter out shall we?" Scorpius nods again and watches with wide eyes as his father aims the tip of his wand at the angry red place where the splinter breached the skin and with a warm rush of magic, the offending piece of wood slides out with little fanfare.
Sensing his playmate is on the mend, Ollie squirms in Hermione's arms and jumps to the floor on padded paws. Hermione remains transfixed on the vision of Malfoy in his role as expert, veteran parent. He waves his wand with practiced efficiency, cleaning and soothing the tiny cut; then his calloused fingers run over the place where the splinter once lay and Scorpius smiles up at his father glowing with love, gratitude, and relief. Malfoy lifts the healed hand to his mouth and lays a gentle kiss to Scorpius's palm before guiding him to the floor so the energetic lad can, no doubt, return to his tenure as a "circus performer".
Her mouth hangs open as Scorpius disappears through the back door and Malfoy resumes his bustling around the kitchen as if he's not just shifted her world off its axis.
"Don't just stand there, Granger. If you're staying for dinner, you can at least help."
A heartbeat, a mere moment passes before she answers, "Alright. What can I do?"
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