I Love(d) You (Once)

Chapter Sixteen: Of Boggarts and Gnomes

Astoria, a girl who had lost her boyfriend through the most tragic circumstances…and now he was back. Was he? Astoria looked at the man in front of her, and admitted… it was possible she was dreaming. (If this is a dream, let me stay in this dream.) Theo never liked going outside, and kept largely to himself.

For someone who would back away when attention was drawn onto him in a group conversation, for him, it would be excruciating to explain where he had been for the last five years. So Astoria understood why he did not want to reappear in the Wizarding community in this country.

That was why Astoria did not tell Draco.

And that was why, somehow, through the natural flow of things, she continued to go on dates with Draco… Astoria knew she was probably two-timing.

(Most definitely)

Draco fought hard to keep his eyes open as a woman sung on stage. It wasn't that he was uninterested. It was much, much more than that; a rocket could travel into the abyss of his boredom for a thousand years without ever touching its limits. He'd rather be copying out a French dictionary word for word – maybe he'd be able to pick up vocabulary. The lady was singing was almost incomprehensible to him. Astoria on the other hand, looked entranced with the performance. When Draco once told a pretty white lie and said he was fond of musicals and plays. If only he knew how it would come back to haunt him.

Thus three hours of entertainment, he sighed inwardly.

Thankfully, and not a moment soon enough, the woman died (on stage of course), collapsing onto the ground. A male confessed to killing the woman he loved and the curtain fell, signalling the end of the play. Draco would've cheered out loud if the play were not one of tragedy, and social discourse hadn't prevented him from doing so.

As the actors ran across the stage to be individually congratulated, and Draco clapped wildly; this was the most attention he had paid to the play in the whole four acts.

"What did you think of it?" Astoria asked.

"It's different to what I normally do," he responded with truth this time (and hoped, please please they would never do this again), with a bedazzling smile that could launch a thousand ships into the sea. In return, she gave him a smile that would've made Draco fight a thousand ships at sea, trying not to feel disappointed in how apparent Draco's disinterest in her favourite show had been. She said nothing, but instead, held onto his arm as they descended down the flight of marble stairs.

Of course, holding his arm to steady herself was an excuse. Seven women in ballet flats would fall on their faces before Astoria so much stumbled in her six-inch suede. They floated down the staircase together, young, in love and incredibly rich—and… unnoticed. The tabloids and camera still considered them a beautiful couple, but their relationship was subdued, and lacked the passion, or fire required to grab head-liner attention after the first month.

It made sense, even to Astoria. Draco and she were doing nothing exceptional to warrant consideration. It was in its core, and endless cycle of entertainment, fine dining and drinks. Watch, eat, and drink. Rinse and repeat.

An hour, three courses and a bottle of red wine later, Draco patted his lips with his napkin and thanked the waiter as he took and replaced his plate with one which had a slice of brownie served with a scoop of ice-cream on the side.

"You know," Astoria said, picking up her spoon. "If you don't like the French opera, you don't have to lie to me."

"I had to make an effort," he said. "I know you've made compromises."

She nodded. Astoria looked down at her dessert, then let out a soft sigh. At this, Draco's brow furrowed and was scrunched in a tight frown. Between his hands rested a small espresso, warm and untouched. Above them, the soft chatter of the high-class restaurant filled the momentary silence across their table. The candle in the middle of the table flickered unsteadily, casting an incongruous gloom to the atmosphere – whether this was the product of the situation, or a dramatic failure to create ambience in the room, Draco was unsure. "Are you alright, Astoria?"

"Of course."

Then why do you look so distracted? "Um, well… you seem a bit under the weather recently."

Astoria shrugged, and leaned back into her seat, popping a small piece of brownie in her mouth. "This is delicious," she said, deadpanned. Then: "Draco, all your ice-cream's going to melt."

Draco watched his ice cream swim. Am I out of touch with dating? "Is there something you might want to tell me?" he asked her, watching her eyes move past him.

"Don't be silly."

"You can tell me anything, right? I mean… can you see Theo again? I mean, I'm your boyfriend, you should tell me these things. If you're seeing Theo again, you would tell me, right?"

Astoria pursed her lips, and shook her head though her guilty heart thundered. "Yes, I would tell you, if I saw Theo again, the illusion. I would. I'm just like this sometimes. Can we just finish the dessert and go home?"

Or maybe it's a generation gap thing? If it had been anyone he liked less, he'd have obliged. But because it was Astoria: "Can we talk about this?" he asked again.

"I don't want to."

"I think we should," he insisted again, though this time it was not because of his love for Astoria, but for the love he had for himself. Growing up in a world of unprincipled figures, dissimilation, and having the grounds of his belief irrevocably shaken, Draco feared ambivalence and at this moment, he cared more about the security of his own mind than Astoria's feelings.

Something was wrong. He knew it, and he would find out what it was even if it deducted more than a few brownie points from Astoria.

She glared at Draco and placed her dessert fork down beside the plate. "No, I don't want to discuss this tonight. Let's meet up tomorrow."

Alarm bells rang in his head, and from the back of the restaurant, there was a peal of laughter, and the tinkering of wine glasses one of the guests at the punch-line of an amusing joke. Draco considered his options, predicting how to manipulate the situation to suit him best. One micro-expression, and he could make Astoria guilty, but she could pretend she missed it. Grabbing her hand and refusing to let was disrespectful and really rude but Draco knew he pushed hard enough, she would erupt in anger and spill everything.

If you want respect, treat people with respect, Maurice Pucey had told him long ago.

It had been five short years since he'd renounced himself as the scion of the Malfoy-Black line, and Draco had never once used his manipulation skills intentionally since then. There were times he'd been tempted – times such as now – when it was so much easier to make things go his way. Even with no gift for divinity, he was damn certain his reactions would produce such results.

From across the table, Astoria frowned further, when Draco nearly slipped into an expression perfect for inducing sympathy, his tear ducts ready to spout hot, painful tears. "Draco, you should know already, I know exactly–"

There was a gentle, warm feeling pushing against his torso, at the apex of his ribs, and suddenly, the disapproval so well-acquainted with Hermione's frowns, eyes staring into the depths of his soul; Pansy's 'tch's, a loud hiss of her irritation personified; and Maurice Pucey's long, heavy sighs sent Draco's half-formed expression to drop from his face, and he hung his head low. "Tomorrow, then."

"So as I was saying," Harry said to Hermione and Ron. It was nice, just being with his best friends at a bar, sipping drinks. "Ginny has the most disgusting cravings ever. And I thought Ron with his hunger-pangs were bad." Ron made a face and punched his best friend on the shoulder.

"You said you liked the jelly, curry and whipped cream stew. And no, not separately, but all mixed into one dish," Hermione pointed out.

"Never fear because your sister has beaten you with her levels of grossness." Harry shook his head and there was a hint of pride in his voice for his wife. "Did you know some apothecaries sell baby Bang-End Scoots to eat?"

"You mean Blasted-End Skrewts?" Hermione corrected but sure hoped she was wrong.

Harry snapped his fingers. "Those things. You can buy them dry and…"

Ron covered his ears. "I don't want to know."

Harry held up a handful of peanuts in his hand and popped them in his mouth, crunching hard on them. "She eats them like that."

"Is it safe for her to eat skrewts?" Hermione shoved the tray of peanuts away from her, she didn't think she'd be able to look at them in the same way for a long time.

"If baby James is born with a stinger tail then we'll know for future reference won't we?" said Ron, grinning at Hermione.

She downed her beer in a few gulps. "Harry, are you sure you're allowed to be this late on your precious night off? It's almost nine."

"Blimey! Time sure flies when you're worked like a slave," Harry said, standing up. "I should go back home. Buy an extra bag of skrewts on the way back."

"Say hi to her for me," Hermione said, waving him goodbye.

"Tell her to lay off those snacks, I don't want a lobster for a nephew!"

Harry wrapped his scarf around his neck and grinned at them before disapparating with a crack.

Ron touched her arm. "So what do you think?"

"About what?" she asked.

"Having kids." He shifted in his seat and fidgeted.

Her fingers fluttered across the tabletop. "I've given thought about it," she replied. "Who hasn't?"

"Do you think, you know, that might be us in a year or so?" Ron asked.

Her heart stopped. "No!" she blurted out. "We're still dating, we're not even engaged… and-and- we don't have a proper house and we need to pay for our rent and our food and... I'd have to take time off work and…"

"Hey, hey!" Ron raised both of his arms in the air. "I just wanted to know what you thought. If I knew it would make you freak, I wouldn't have asked."

"Kids are, in my mind," she said, "in the very far off future."

"Very far off?" Ron raised his eyebrows and he lips twitched into a grin. "Not as a granny I hope."

Hermione laughed and shook her head. "Just… not anytime soon."

"I see," he said as evenly as possible.

"I mean, you don't want to be a father yet, right?"

"Yeah, not yet," he lied.

(About a week later)

Coffee beans fell from his hand into the container one-by-one. Draco reached into the top drawer for a spoon and came out empty handed. He scowled at the laminated kitchen posters lined beside one another on the wall with sticky-tape: "Wash your hands before dealing with food", "DO NOT STICK KNIVES IN THE TOASTER" and finally, "Wash everything after use".

Inside the little red toaster was a teaspoon—the only spoon (the only in the whole wide world!) in the kitchen. "Now that's a decent logic going on here," he muttered to himself as he made sure the electric plug had been pulled out before he took the teaspoon out of the toaster and washed it in the sink. "Stick the end of the spoon into the toaster so you're safe from being fried. This is the problem with blindly following instructions, you fail to realise why you are following them. Beware! The lack of critical judgement leads to ridiculous dogma by an even more ridiculous autocrat, and where would be?"

Rants. Such pessimism could only come from a night when Draco slept poorly. Even his coffee tasted cold and sour. Antarctica was warmer than Astoria's attitude towards him of late and he could not, for the life of him, understand what he did wrong!

"Good morning!" Like a burst of sunshine, Hermione burst into the room. He frowned and stared up at the kitchen clock. Five to eight. Experience told him that Hermione's happy hours did not start until well after lunchtime. She was a night-time person and dreaded waking up. Leaving the house so early could only mean one thing. She wanted to get away as quickly as possible. "Why are you here so early?"

"I've been arriving this early for the past week."

Huh, that explained the dark eye circles. Draco shrugged and stored away this piece of information to analyse when he cared about it more. He saw Hermione's mouth move in the corner of his eyes but he couldn't hear her words with the loud hissing sound from the steamer. "What did you say?"

"I said you can't make a career depending on mind-altering substances."

"Are you talking about coffee?" Draco said with a snort. "Where would anyone be without this miraculous substance?"

She pinched her lips together but nodded, knowing that he would be impossible to work with if he hadn't had his morning coffee. "You don't need a drug test to tell you're addicted."

"Coffee isn't a drug," Draco explained to what felt to him as every day. Hermione hated coffee and he was convinced she was under a case of sour grapes—for some reason, she was immune to caffeine. "We'll have this argument again some other time. Have you seen Artie?"

As if hearing his name, he popped his head into the kitchen, two blue folders in his hands. "Morning, guys."

Hermione raised a quick eyebrow to Draco and he confirmed it with a very miss-able wink. "What's this, Malfoy?" she said with injected venom. "You're going to drag me behind?"

"Hermione Granger, you're a shark!" Draco threw his trade-mark insult at her just in case Artie hadn't caught on they'd been fighting—he shot her an intense glare which made her heartbeat speed up for whatever reason—"I wish you would just stop trying to swim ahead!"

Hermione stole a peek of Artie and his face was a travesty of immense horror. She fought back a giggle. "I don't know how well-versed you are with sharks, but you do know if they stop swimming, they can't breathe and they'll die, right?!"

Draco rolled his eyes and made a few pronounced claps. "And she finally gets it."

"Guys! What happened now?" Artie gasped, hugging two blue files tight across his chest. He wondered whether he missed anything—they were fine the day before. "Can't you just get along!"

"PFT!" She couldn't hold it in anymore; she let out a snort and erupted in a cascade of laughter. Draco's poker face offered more resistance to the funnies and twitched before it crumbled and soon, Hermione was clutching onto Draco's shoulder just to stop herself from falling over from laughing. "Did you see his face?" Hermione said between chokes.

"Can't you just get along!" Draco copied Artie's desperate plea, tears of laughter soaking his eyes. He felt Hermione's fingernails dig into his shoulder and somehow that, the sleepless night and the combination of the lack of coffee sent him into another fit of hysterical giggles.

"Oh, oh I think I might just die from this," Hermione said, brushing tears from her eyes.

"Guys," said Artie, looking distinctly embarrassed. They were at it again, laughing at something no one thought was funny except themselves. "When you two are done laughing, you might want to take a look at the files. It's Boggart exterminations and a gnome de-infestation for us today."

When the laughter finally died, they moved back to their work station in the corner of the floor. Hermione took a file from Artie's hand. "I'll take the gnome infestation. I'm quite good with dealing with them. They like The Burrow."

"Perfect. You go for the gnomes and I'll take down the Boggart which, apparently, is so mature an average witch or wizard of handling," said Draco.

"Or maybe they are just rich and rather pay for extermination than be frightened. Speaking of Boggarts," she said to him, "If a Boggart appeared in front of you, what would you see?"

"I'm a coward remember? A Boggart would get so confused with all the things I'm terrified of and explode just at the mere sight of me."

"And you're proud of that?"

Draco smirked and raised one eyebrow at her. "Maybe I am. What about you? Except for that awful fear of heights which apparently you've been cured of…. you were the one who thought jumping out from the third-storey would be a good idea."

"I guess it would still be the image of McGonagall telling me I've failed all my subjects."

"And by fail, you mean anything less than A+. Artie, what are you scared of?"

"It's kind of stupid so I'm not going to say anything."

"Loud noises?" Hermione mused aloud, recalling the time Artie tripped in shock at the sound of an owl smashing into a closed window.

"Martha's my best friend," Artie reminded her.

"She is loud," Draco conceded.

"And don't tell us you're afraid of Boggarts."

"I wonder what would appear in front of you if you're scared of them?" mused Draco. "That's a paradox in itself."

"Fish," Artie said as he wrinkled his nose at the mere mention of the piscine. "Ever had to touch their slimy bodies? Eugh! Just thinking about it makes me sick." He shivered and shook his head trying to dispel his thoughts.

"I know what I'm going to get you for your birthday now," joked Draco.

"Aw, you'd get him something?" cooed Hermione. "That's so sweet of you! It's a wonder he hadn't fallen in love with you yet."

"It's because you keep getting in the way." Draco said, completely dead-panned.

And they banter on again, thought Artie as he absentmindedly handed Hermione a piece of paper with the address of the case site. "Have fun de-gnoming. Today Draco's my supervisor."

"Gentlemen, have a good time with the Boggart."

(About an hour later)

Draco opened the gate to the garden of the house, he frowned. Something was wrong. A lot of things were wrong. The whole garden was crawling with gnomes. Some swung from branch to branch while others rolled in the flower bed, trampling the vegetation. Though considered to be a small threat, their presence and incessant habit of destroying meaningful labour made them irritable pests.

Draco glared at Artie. "You mixed up the addresses."

A gnome jumped in front of them and screeched, teeth and bottom bared. Draco pulled his wand out of his robes and flicked the pest from his line of sight. The gnome screamed as it created a dirt rainbow in the air, making squelching sound as it hit the grass.

Draco grimaced. "You start taking care of this. I have to go help Hermione. A Boggart is most dangerous when they catch their victims by surprise."

Xxx

(At close proximity with a Boggart)

"It's quiet," Hermione whispered to herself. As she swung the front gate open it lead her into a small, quaint garden with rows of pumpkins creeping along the footpath. Where were the gnomes?

A rustle.

There?

Hermione pulled her wand out in one fluid motion and trained her wand from the source of sound. Prepared herself for a gnome to come flying out.

Nothing. Sometimes gnomes know to hide….

But there had definitely been a rustle. There it was again! Rustle. Rustle. Rustle. She took a tentative step forward and—

"BOO!"

"AH!" yelped Hermione, jumping back. She flicked her wand, ready to flick a hex at the offending gnome but stopped when she saw that it was a person. "Ron! What are you doing here?"

Ron grinned at her. "Thought I'd drop in and surprise you at work. Don't worry, I took care of it before you got here."

"Oh," said Hermione, so that's why she hadn't seen any gnomes in the vicinity. "You should've left me to do it. It's my job…"

Ron waved his hand dismissively. "Whatever, 'ermione. What's yours is mine and what's mine is yours, right?"

"Ron, I'm working!"

"Sh," said Ron, his voice growing soft. "I have something cool to show you." He put a finger and motioned her to wait and dug his hand through his satchel before pulling out a big book.

"What is it?" Hermione moved in closer.

"A new product for the shop. I think it's… it's going to be big! I've charmed it so it creates this effect. I mean—let me start from the beginning and demonstrate it to you." Ron held a photo taken of them with Harry and Ginny a few months ago when they just found out Ginny was expecting.

Harry pulled Ginny into a kiss and entwined his arms with his wife. Ron had caught Hermione and everyone by surprise by pulling her into a swooping kiss just as the photo was being taken. In the next few frames, everyone was shrieking with laughter. She loved that photo and she couldn't help up smile.

"You slide a photo into the album." Ron did so and he flicked the picture with his fingers two times. "Now the magic happens, can't do this kind of stuff with electronic toys!" he added.

Hermione peered into the book and the image began to blur and spin. The image stopped, stilled and became clear enough for her to see what was in it again. "The picture, it's—"

"It shows the future. Or rather the future the person with the book wants it to be. I mean, don't you think it would be a hit-prank with the boys? Place a photo of some bird their mate fancies and show them the 'future' of the girl as some ugly crone…"

There was Hermione's dream quarter-acre house with a garden and a white picket fence in front. Ron's imagination was so on point to what she described to him late at nights; it could've come straight from her own imagination. Three kids ran across the lawn and screamed: "MOM! DAD! Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny are here!"

She was there, in a home-maker's apron, holding a vase of flowers (why was she holding that?), Ron stood by her side on the porch. Ginny waved and rushed to greet them. "Hey, Mrs. Weasley," Ginny waggled her eyebrows. "How's life going for you?"

Mrs. Weasley.

She saw the life she would have with Ron. It was everything she'd described. Hermione stiffened, her face turning pink. She had her white picket fence house. They looked appropriately mature to start a family. The timing, the place, everything was right to her plans. She stared at the moving scene again, and the ill-feeling in her gut settled.

The Hermione in the picture was smiling… but would she be lying if she said she could see the small strain in the corner mouth? The strain she often felt when she was holding something in so hard, she was barely breathing?

"Hermione Granger, you're a shark."

"I don't know how well-versed you are with sharks, but you do know if they stop swimming, they can't breathe and they'll die, right?!"

"It's never going to get any better than this."

Was that all she wanted from life? She felt like she had been pinned under a boulder and was suffocating. I'm not even content with what I thought would be the ideal reality!

"Whaddya say, 'ermione?" said Ron, uncertainty growing in his eyes.

Granger!

"GRANGER!"

The boggart started to grow younger, and silver-blonde hair started to sprout, the silhouette's head—a frown appearing on Ron's features…

"Riddikulus!" The form faltered and fled into the rafters of the house.

She felt his hands grab her shoulders. A Boggart, she realised. Artie mixed up the addresses. This was a Boggart… Hermione looked up at him, horrified. "I-I, don't understand."

Draco pretended not to understand the situation either. "So, uh, I guess I'll deal with the Boggart," he said, without looking at her:

"I'm not running away," she said.

"You're not," Draco assured her. "I was the one who was assigned with the Boggart."

"Okay, then," Hermione said. "I will go to where I was assigned to." Hermione swung the iron-gate creaked shut behind her, leaving Draco alone in front of the open garden. Draco took a deep breath and took his wand out and prepared to confront whatever laid in store for him. It had been Voldemort before, but now the evil man seemed like a bad dream.

It flew from the shadows.

"Ri—" yelled Draco. He stopped mid-incantation when he saw what was there in front of him.

Himself. An eighteen-year-old with the cruel, savage, war-torn look in his eyes glared past him and Draco knew, from his nightmares, what the Boggart was showing him. A thin trail of blood trickled from the vision's nose and his eyes flitted right to left. An obscure angle twisted his limbs as though he'd been skewered. He looked and was insane. Without a concern, the teen turned his back on Draco and pointed his wand to the ground.

"Shit." He felt blood rush into his head and jumped back. "Riddikulus!" he cried but it had no effect as he couldn't think of a funny image.

But there were other ways to go about killing a Boggart. There was one spell which was un-blockable, and could instantly kill its target. "Adv—"

The eighteen-year-old said it first. "Avada Kedavra." He didn't need to turn around to know who'd been struck. Another established fact: Lucius Malfoy was (in his nightmares, and now in this illusion) behind him.

It took him a second to recover before he whispered the two words without hesitation, aiming his wand to the teenage murderer. "Avada Kedavra."

The non-being exploded in a burst of green light.

Draco stepped outside of the room, shaken. With deliberate movements he made his way out of the garden, and shut the iron-gate behind him.