I was so thrilled by the response to Dandelions and Birthday Blues, written for Draco's birthday in June, that I decided to write a follow-up piece. There was a rather open end left last time, so I hope some of your questions can be answered in a meaningful, satisfying conclusion that's full of the feels.
Thanks to my incredible beta, NuclearNik.
Dandelions and Mended Hearts
Early autumn sunshine streamed into the Hogwarts Great Hall, warming the otherwise dull atmosphere. Draco leaned on his elbow at the far end of the Slytherin table, absentmindedly stirring a cup of tea. The early hour meant that he was relatively alone on this Saturday morning. His only company at the moment was a couple of Hufflepuff fifth-year girls. Most students were still in their beds, fast asleep and dreaming away precious hours.
Of course, if he could sleep at all that's exactly where he would be. But in the last four months—or rather, in the last two years—sleep had been evading him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of the horrors of the Dark Lord's regime. Fear, torture, death… Even if he had only seen a glimpse of these terrors, surely he would have lost sleep over it. Unfortunately, he had seen far more than a glimpse. Draco had seen enough to keep sleep away for the rest of his life, he was sure. Being awake wasn't much better, but at least he could try and distract himself with the here and now.
Shaking his head slightly, Draco lifted his teacup to his lips and sipped. At least there was some solace in the quiet morning hours like this. Being surrounded by so many young students was almost as dizzying as his dreams. While the older ones were still clearly shaken from the war, the optimism of the little ones was almost unnerving. It was almost as though the first-years didn't know there had been a battle here last year. They scampered about and giggled as they traipsed over the spot where the Dark Lord had fallen down dead just months ago.
Draco supposed it was for the best, but it didn't stop it from being strange.
As he reached for a piece of toast, movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention. Looking up, he followed the new figure entering the Great Hall. Her head bobbed and her hair bounced as she walked with a spring in her step.
Draco would know that head of hair and that walk anywhere.
Granger.
He scowled. Who went and told her she could be so damn perky? It felt… off. After watching her convulse and scream on his family's drawing room floor, he couldn't really fathom how something even as simple as a smile could cross her face ever again. He certainly hadn't been smiling. He hadn't smiled in a long time.
Draco tracked Granger as she crossed over to the Gryffindor table, sat with her back to him, and immediately reached for the coffee pot. She had poured only a few drops into her mug when a barn owl swooped down from the ceiling and landed beside her, a letter and small parcel clutched in its talons.
Who was Granger getting mail from on a Saturday?
It had to be from the ginger idiot. Draco had seen the two of them sucking face after the battle in May. He had forced himself to look away for fear of vomiting. Though, in retrospect, he wasn't sure if it was because he couldn't stomach the thought of Granger snogging someone or that the last time he had seen her, she had been tortured by his aunt.
Draco shook those ridiculous thoughts out of his head. Yeah, it had to be from Weasley, he decided. Taking another bite of toast, he glanced over at Hermione to see if she was blushing or something—surely a letter from a boyfriend would make that annoying face turn red.
Not that he really cared. It was just nice to think about something other than the war for two minutes.
Granger slit the top of the envelope with her untouched butter knife.
He raised his eyebrows, craning his neck slightly to get a better look. And then—
A loud voice erupted from the parchment in her hands.
Well, it seemed like he didn't need to work too hard to figure out who the letter was from.
"HERMIONE? HELLO, DARLING! IT'S YOUR PARENTS. ARTHUR WEASLEY IS HERE. SAY HI, ARTHUR!"
From all the way where he was sitting, he saw Granger's ears turn red as she whipped her head around the hall with panic on her face. Quickly, Draco took a strong interest in his toast.
Oh Merlin. Was that her Muggle parents? Had they written her an enchanted letter? Oh, this was too good. This was far better than a letter from Weasley.
"Erm, yes. Hello Hermione," Draco heard Mr. Weasley's voice speak awkwardly through the parchment. He fought back a chuckle and continued to listen in.
Not that it was hard.
"OH, CAN WE JUST…erm… can we just speak normally?"
"Yes, go on then."
The voice–her father's, likely–continued.
"We're writing today to wish you a very happy nineteenth birthday, darling. We've sent a small parcel your way. We hope you like it. It's not much, but we're still… Well, we're still transferring our assets over from Australia. I'm sure you understand. But we thought it would make you smile, and we hope this will make you smile, too."
Draco looked up just in time to see Hermione's face split in an ear-to-ear grin as singing burst forth from the parchment.
Happy birthday to you!
Happy birthday to you!
Happy birthday, dear Hermione!
Happy birthday to you!
From the moment he heard the first notes, he couldn't help the fullness that expanded inside his chest. The melody floated across the hall, reverberating throughout the nearly-empty room in a sweet sort of way.
As it echoed all around him, Draco couldn't stop the nagging feeling in the back of his head that told him he had heard this song before. Something about it was so very familiar. It must have been a Muggle song.
"Love you, darling. Happy birthday!"
The voices faded, leaving Granger with a splotchy face and that same grin.
So it was her birthday, was it?
An odd thing, really, Granger having a birthday. He had never stopped to consider that the girl would have something so mundane as a birthday.
Draco almost couldn't help himself as he craned his neck to watch her carefully unwrap the parcel attached to the letter. Unfortunately, her bushy head blocked his view, and he couldn't quite tell what sort of birthday presents she had received.
Not that it mattered, he reminded himself when his neck muscles began to strain with the effort of watching her. Why should he care what the know-it-all got for her birthday? Quickly, he returned to his tea and toast.
He had just drained his cup when Granger stood and exited the Great Hall, wrappings tucked under her arm. Where was she going so early on a Saturday? He imagined that she was probably heading the library. It was a wonder that she didn't just move her bed down there and camp amongst the shelves.
Shortly after Granger's departure, a trickle of students began making their way into the Great Hall. Frankly, there were more people than he cared to deal with, so he swung his legs over the bench and plodded out into the Entrance Hall to head out onto the grounds. He wasn't quite sure what to do with his Saturday, but seeing as the weather would likely take a turn for the worse in the next couple of weeks, a walk outside couldn't hurt.
As he pushed the heavy front doors open, Draco vaguely wondered what Granger had planned for her birthday. Probably something with Potter and Weasley. Eighth-years were permitted more leniency than younger students with coming and going from the premises, so she might meet them somewhere else. He didn't blame her. If he had the opportunity, he would definitely get away from this constant hellscape of a reminder of the worst mistakes of his life.
But at least here, he got fewer hateful looks than in public.
Granger wouldn't have that problem, of course. A day with Potter and Weasley surely awaited her, filled with sappy, doe-eyed looks and presents—just the thought of it all was making him sick.
No matter, though. The fresh air on the grounds cleared his head and filled his lungs from the moment he set foot on the path leading out to the lake. This early on a Saturday no Quidditch teams were likely to be out practising, leaving it blissfully quiet for now. The only sounds Draco could make out were the chirping of birds and the gentle sway of early autumn winds rustling the branches of ancient trees nearby.
Inhaling deeply through his nose, Draco felt the crisp, clean air fill his lungs as the sunshine warmed his face, soaking into his skin and bringing a smile to his face. There wouldn't be too many more mornings like this left this year. Perhaps a walk around the lake would do him some good. He could clear his head a bit, get away from everyone.
Draco traipsed down the path toward the lake. Its surface glistened in the sunlight, the gentle, glittering waves occasionally caressing the otherwise still surface. He found himself matching the ebb and flow of the water with his breath. Already, he felt calmer— far calmer than he ever did when he tried to drift off to sleep.
When he finally reached the lake's edge, he began the winding walk around its perimeter. With each step he took the water threatened to lap at his toes, but he stayed just out of the reach of the tide.
Another deep breath. Yes, this was peace, surely.
Turning the corner around a cluster of weeping willow trees, he found an unexpected sight nestled under the branches of a great river birch.
Granger.
She hadn't gone off with friends, it seemed. In fact, she wasn't with anybody. She was quite alone.
What didn't surprise him to see, however, was that she was reading. A thick tome sat open on her lap; it appeared to have engrossed her completely. She didn't look up as he approached. Draco took the opportunity to study her from afar. How exactly had the war affected Gryffindor's Golden Girl? Was she as fucked-up as he was now?
Probably. She was likely just better at hiding it than him.
Right now, she didn't look particularly fucked-up. She looked normal. She had on blue jeans and a tawny-coloured jumper. Her hair was pushed back with a headband. Draco supposed that had been a practical decision. The monstrous bush on her head was known by everyone to have a mind of its own.
As she read, her teeth dragged back and forth over her bottom lip. A nervous tic, perhaps? Or perhaps one of concentration?
Even after knowing this girl for seven years, he found he hardly knew anything about her. Hell, he hadn't even realized that she would be so human as to have an actual birthday. Which, in retrospect, was a ridiculous notion. Everyone had a birthday.
Which brought another question to the forefront of his mind: what was she doing spending that birthday alone?
For half a second, he felt oddly compelled to step forward and wish her a happy birthday.
Quickly, he shook off that idea.
Still, there was an unfamiliar tug in his chest urging him to step forward where she would notice him. Though Draco immediately dismissed these thoughts as well, he found his feet carrying him around the bend toward where she was sitting. The gravel path crunched lightly under his footsteps. After only three steps, she looked up. Her mouth formed a slight "O" shape, her eyebrows high on her forehead.
"Hullo, Granger," he said in what he hoped was a disinterested tone. "You're out and about early."
She snapped her book shut as the corners of her mouth turned downward.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" she said with a sigh. "I'm really not in the mood today."
"Why? Because it's your birthday?" he questioned.
Granger pursed her lips. When she spoke again, she took a defensive tone. "Look, I don't need you out here giving me a hard time. I just want to read in peace. Is that too much to ask?"
Draco raised his hands in defeat. "Sure, sure. I'll leave you alone. I just came over here to tell you happy birthday is all."
As the words left his mouth and floated over in her direction, he watched as her face shifted, first from anger and frustration, then to confusion before landing on a soft expression that he hadn't ever seen on her before.
Yet, when she looked at him like that, it almost felt familiar.
But how could her eyes have ever been so kind when she looked at him?
"You… wanted to wish me a happy birthday?" she confirmed in a whisper.
"I did. Is that so odd?"
"Well, frankly, yes it is. Receiving birthday wishes from you is how I know that the world really has turned on its head."
Draco snorted. "You can say that again."
The two fell silent. Only the soft lapping of the water on the shore could be heard.
"Thank you. For the birthday wishes, that is," Granger said softly, after a minute or so.
"You're welcome."
Silence fell between them again. Granger reopened her book and settled against the tree once more. Draco had stopped about ten feet away from the little cosy spot she had created for herself, and he didn't approach any more than that. Even one bit closer and he was afraid he would be overstepping some unspoken boundary.
"So… erm… Why are you out here? Don't you have any birthday plans?" The words slipped out of him before he realized that he had spoken them aloud.
Granger looked up from her reading once more. She considered him for a moment before answering.
"As a matter of fact, I don't. I'm here because… Well… Merlin, I don't know why I'm telling you this. I don't have any birthday plans because everyone else is busy today."
Draco immediately sensed the disappointment in her voice. He was all-too-familiar with that feeling. He hadn't had a good birthday in ages.
"Oh? No one available?"
"Luna actually wanted to throw me a birthday party, but I declined."
"Lovegood? Throw a party? No thank you."
Granger's lips twitched. "I actually agree with you there. I like Luna, but I would be afraid of what could turn up at a party with her as the host."
"What about Weaselette? She came back."
"Quidditch," Granger explained. "She's captain and they booked the pitch for an all-day practice. The first big one of the year."
Draco nodded. "I see."
But that still didn't explain the boy wonder and the ginger idiot.
"Potter and Weasley?"
"Auror training. No vacation scheduled for months."
"Ah."
Draco shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his toes. Gods, this was turning into an awkward conversation. Why had he wandered down here in the first place? More importantly, why had he suddenly felt compelled to speak to Granger? Regret was beginning to climb higher and higher in his throat.
"Actually, I haven't even received a birthday letter from either of them. I suspect Harry'll write a belated note or something."
Draco frowned. "Not Weasley?"
Granger cleared her throat. "Well, no. I suspect not."
"He's a pretty piss-poor excuse for a boyfriend if he's not even going to bother writing to you for your birthday."
Something about these words must have affected her because her face immediately flushed scarlet. Even from several feet away, he could see her jaw tense up. Shite. He had just stepped on some sort of nerve, hadn't he?
"He's not my boyfriend."
Draco froze. He wasn't sure what sort of response he had been expecting, but this certainly wasn't it.
"You're… But I saw the two of you making starry eyes at each other after… Well, after," he finished lamely.
"Yes, well, that only lasted for a few weeks. Ron… He's very different as a boyfriend than as a friend. It didn't work out."
At that moment, at least four Weasley-related insults popped into his head, ready to bite into Granger's ripe misery. It would have been easy. Just slip in a snide remark and move on with his day. That had been the way he had lived his life for so long that it was almost tempting. He even nearly opened his mouth to speak those acrid words, but a strange little voice in the back of his head held him back.
He was trying to move forward, wasn't he? Going around mocking Granger wasn't going to solve anything, and the thought of deepening her frown didn't give him the pleasure it used to. Instead, he found his mind floating in a sort of limbo, unable to discern what the right path forward was.
"Sorry," he found himself mumbling to her as he shifted, shuffling his feet in the gravel.
Draco mentally kicked himself. How foolish must he look right now? What place did he have apologizing to Granger, of all people, for a shitty relationship with someone as stupid as Weasley that didn't work out?
He was about to open his mouth to justify his choice of words when he took another look at Granger. While he had been busy agonizing over the kinds of things he was or wasn't supposed to say to someone like her, it seemed that she had withdrawn into herself. Her knees were tucked up to her chest, the book closed and laying at her side. Draco couldn't help but notice the waves of sadness that emanated off her.
He blinked and rubbed his eyes. Who was it that he was looking at? Was this really Granger? The Hermione Granger, fearless, daring, and outspoken? The girl he saw before him now didn't match the image in his mind of the girl who had slapped him all those years ago–who had stood by her friends fiercely and who hadn't broken, even under the duress of torture. This girl was small and sad, nothing more.
A thought floated across his mind: Perhaps—just perhaps—she was just as lonely as he was, just as isolated.
Immediately, his heart did an odd sort of flip.
Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Listen," he began, looking anywhere but at her. "I know I'm probably your last choice for who to spend time with today. Or any day, really. But… would you like some company or… something?"
When Granger didn't respond right away, he shot a glance in her direction. She was looking up from her spot on the ground with mild disbelief, head tilted ever so slightly.
"I won't–look, I won't be an arse, okay. We can just sit quietly. You just… Well, you looked like you could use someone to sit next to, that's all."
Still, no response. He sighed again, tamping down the urge to get frustrated. Instead, he took careful steps forward onto the grass and settled at her side, stretching his legs in front of him and leaning back on his hands. Granger was still watching him.
"Why?" he heard her whisper miserably from beside him.
He stared up at the branches, watching the way the light filtered through them.
"Because you look like how I've felt for months. You're just as lonely as I am, Granger. This sad excuse for a birthday is proof enough of that."
Grimacing, she stretched her legs out parallel to his.
"I see your point."
"So? May I keep you company on your birthday, Granger? It beats my plans of doing absolutely nothing of consequence today."
She looked him up and down, as though assessing him in some manner, before nodding her head. "Some company would be nice, I suppose. Even if it is from the amazing bouncing ferret."
Draco scowled, but quickly recovered when he considered her tone of voice. She had been joking, not in a mean-spirited way, but in a–dare he say it–friendly way instead.
"As long as you don't forget the amazing part, I won't hold that comment against you."
She rolled her eyes and chuckled, and Draco found himself joining in with soft laughter. As they laughed, the air between them settled into something akin to relaxation.
"So what did you get from your parents?" he asked, drawing his eyes back to the lake, now sparkling more as the sun moved higher in the sky.
Granger pulled the package he had seen her receive in the Great Hall from beside her where it had been concealed from his sight. She had opened the wrappings, and Draco leaned over to glance inside.
Two books and a blue package of sorts.
"Muggle books?" he guessed, eyeing the volumes. Only Muggles used soft-bound books like that. It was one of the few sole things he knew about Muggle culture, what with having received his own singular Muggle book many years ago.
"Yes," she said, lifting the items up and handing them to him. "Love's Labour's Lost and Much Ado About Nothing."
Draco just blinked. Were those words supposed to mean something to him?
"Why would there be a story all centred around nothing?" he pondered, flipping through one of the books.
"It's not about nothing. It's a Shakespeare play. They both are."
"Why would anyone want to shake a spear at someone to play?" he pondered aloud, perusing the first page of Love's Labour's Lost.
Beside him, Granger let out a sort of indignant snort.
"It's not that at all. These stories were both written by the famous playwright, William Shakespeare. He lived about four hundred years ago and his works are completely brilliant. My mum and dad know how much I enjoy them. They clearly thought I could use a bit of levity. They sent me two of his comedies, after all."
Draco considered them for one more moment before handing them back to their owner.
"Comedy, huh? I suppose a laugh would be good for us all, I daresay. Lend them to me when you're done?"
Those words seemed to have broken Granger because she merely blinked at him. Disbelief seemed to be a common thread in this conversation. He watched as she shook her head and inhaled.
"Sure. If you'd like, you can read one and I'll read one and then we can trade?"
"All right."
It felt strange, being so agreeable with Granger of all people. For the past seven years, he had spent a great deal of effort hating this girl, and letting her know exactly how much he hated her. The conversation between them now felt too easy. It was almost as though they could have gotten along much sooner had it not been for the circumstances of their births.
Somehow, the thought just depressed him.
"What about that?" Draco gestured to the blue package.
"Oh, these?" Granger held it up. Draco squinted at it. Yes, it definitely looked familiar, but he couldn't quite figure out why or how. Could these be…? A memory from long ago swam to the surface of his mind.
A kind girl. A birthday biscuit. That silly song.
"They're biscuits," Granger clarified. "A special treat. My parents don't normally let me have sweets, you see."
In an attempt to hide the swooping in his stomach at the reveal that they were, in fact, biscuits, Draco snorted in amusement. "You, Hermione Granger, war heroine, have restrictions on sweets put in place by your parents?"
Her cheeks turned slightly pink at this assertion, and Draco felt his brain oddly label the look as charming.
"They're just thinking of my teeth," she quipped, ripping the packaging open.
"That might have been understandable when your teeth were the size of a beaver's, but—"
"And whose fault was that?" snapped Hermione. "I specifically remember that Potions class during our fourth year when you were particularly cruel. That really hurt me, you know."
Draco mentally backtracked. He was here to make amends with Granger, not dig up old, painful memories.
He ran his hands through his hair again.
"Sorry," he said outright. "I was a complete git back then."
Granger considered him for a moment before extending her hand, biscuit package and all.
"Want one? They're chocolate."
Peering inside, he noted that the biscuits did indeed look rather mouthwatering.
"All right, then."
His answer must have surprised her because her eyes widened slightly as he reached over and pinched one between his fingers. It was slightly crumbly, and a small chunk split off when he lifted it toward him. For some reason, Granger didn't look away as he took a bite.
He was about to comment on this, but as the biscuit touched his tongue everything else seemed to fall away. At once, the emotions from that day all those years ago came rushing back to him. The misery. The despair. The comfort. The joy. Draco closed his eyes in nostalgic bliss.
These were it. These biscuits… They had to be the same ones. He nibbled at the one in his hand some more, savouring the warmth that spread through his body with each bite.
"That good, huh?" Granger joked, biting off part of one herself.
Draco wasn't sure how to phrase it. Despite his attempts at improving their relationship, he wasn't sure if he was ready to reveal one of his most precious memories to Granger.
"It just… It reminds me of something. Something nice."
"Well, they say that taste and smell are the senses that are most strongly connected to memory," she posited after taking another bite.
Draco gave a noncommittal grunt of interest as he popped the rest of the biscuit in his mouth. He savoured the way it melted on his tongue. The sensation was nearly instantaneous. An inexplicable wave of happiness rolled over him, and he found himself leaning back all the way on the ground, supporting the back of his head with his hands.
"Can I ask you about something?" he said on a whim, not looking at Granger, but rather up at the azure sky through the leaves.
"Sure." Granger moved so she, too, was lying just beside him.
"What in Merlin's name was going on with that singing letter this morning? Were those your parents?"
Granger chuckled. "Yes, they were. It seems they contacted the Weasleys to help them out. Which, actually, is rather surprising."
"Oh? And why's that?" He turned his head to the left to face her. Her expression, at least from this angle, was oddly difficult to read.
"After the war… After what I did to them–I Obliviated them and sent them away, you know–I was afraid my parents would hate magic."
Draco swallowed his surprise at this heavy admission, allowing her to keep talking.
"What happened at breakfast made me… Well, it made me really happy. I haven't gotten a proper Happy Birthday To You serenade since I turned eleven. I can't imagine it was easy for my parents to arrange, so it was really special that they went out of their way to show me they're comfortable with magic again."
Granger turned her head to face him, and the two just watched each other for a moment. Draco couldn't help but feel his heart lift when she talked about her parents like that, with such depth of feeling and affection.
He looked upward again, heat gathering in his cheeks. Rather than focusing on that, he decided to switch gears a bit. He hadn't forgotten the nagging feeling in his chest that he had felt when the song echoed through the Great Hall.
"What's a Happy Birthday To You serenade? Does it have anything to do with that ridiculous song your parents sang in the letter?"
"Yes. It's a popular Muggle birthday song. It's incredibly common."
Draco paused at her words.
"What's that look on your face?" Granger pressed, an odd waver to her voice. "Does that song mean something to you?"
He opened and closed his mouth several times before deciding how to tell her something so simple, and yet so confusing. "I think I've heard it somewhere before. But now that you say it's common, I guess it's not all that surprising." He shrugged off the his curiosity.
Silence hovered between them for several long seconds. Draco closed his eyes to soak in the fading vestiges of summer. How had he ever taken beautiful days and simple moments like this for granted before?
It was Granger who broke the silence. The way she spoke compelled him to turn and look at her again. When he did, their eyes met and there was an odd sort of tenderness there in her expression.
"I'm not surprised you've heard it either," she began, swallowing a bit roughly. "Though I suspect your reasons for believing so are a bit different than mine."
Draco lifted his head a quarter-inch off the ground, allowing the blades of grass to tickle the nape of his neck.
"And why's that?"
"Because I'm the one who sang that song to you."
Draco watched Granger's mouth form the sentence, watched as her lips moved in sync with the words he thought she said. He heard them as they drifted through the space between them and landed in his confused ears.
He heard, yes, but his brain stalled as he tried to process what she had said. It was as though he had stopped understanding English; as though she was speaking some sort of foreign language to him. Gobbledegook, perhaps.
But as the seconds ticked by, he replayed Granger's words again and again in his mind and slowly–so, so slowly–what she said began to sink in.
Because I'm the one that sang that song to you.
It hit him suddenly. Like a lightning bolt or a bludger out of nowhere.
Quick as a snitch, he shot up into a sitting position and looked down at her, still flat on the ground.
Draco managed to croak out a single word.
"W-what?"
He watched as Granger swallowed. Her eyes didn't leave his. They were clearly searching him, trying to figure out how he was taking this gobsmacking news. Though her eyes remained still, the rest of her body was trembling, as if she could hardly contain the information that had just spilled from her. Yet, when she began to speak again, her voice was calm and measured, even if it appeared to be difficult to have that kind of restraint.
"That Muggle song–Happy Birthday To You–you recognize it because you heard it twelve years ago on your sixth birthday. You recognize it because it was me who sang that song to you."
It was as though the entire world came crashing down around him.
The memory he had held so close to his heart all these years… Was it tainted now? That girl had been his first real friend. She had been so quick to offer kindness and compassion to a boy she didn't know.
And that girl was Hermione Granger, of all people.
Draco wasn't sure if the sudden nausea he felt stemmed from disappointment, regret, or the demystifying of one of his most precious memories.
Searching his memory, Draco tried to picture that day exactly as it had gone. He remembered running away from the birthday party his parents had prepared when no one came.
He remembered meeting another child near his age under a tree in Wiltshire. He had never asked their name…
But he knew that she had been a girl, not necessarily a pretty one, but a kind one. If he really focused hard, he could remember wild hair.
She had been a Muggle, of that he was certain.
Over the years, it seemed, the details had fogged over and faded until he was no longer able to picture her face or her voice. Though he often summoned the warm feelings that day had given him, the exact details were fuzzy.
He knew he had received that Muggle book, Matilda, from her.
She had also given him a dandelion crown.
She had sung to him.
She had given him biscuits.
She had made him feel loved in a way that had never quite felt before–had offered him real friendship in an innocent, wondrous way. It was a friendship he still clung to even to this day, as childish as it seemed.
And what had he done to her in the intervening years?
Insulted her.
Threatened her.
Hexed her.
Stood by and watched her being tortured.
Yes, the nausea was definitely was coming from a place of regret.
Draco realized that he had been staring at the ground for a time. He turned back to face her. When his eyes met hers again, another wave of realization barreled into him.
Granger never forgot. Brilliant witch that she was, she had remembered it all.
For him, only the edges of a complete photograph remained, it seemed.
"H-how? How did you know it was me? How did you remember? We were… That was such a long time ago."
Rather than respond with words, Granger did something odd. She reached forward and gently ran her fingers through a lock of his hair. Draco froze in reaction. Her touch was so soft, so reassuring that he was tempted to close his eyes.
"I recognized you the second I saw you on the train, you know. How could I not? Blond hair like that? You were one-of-a-kind when I first met you. That much was always obvious. I saw you on the train dressed in robes once again, completely immersed in the magical world where you had grown up. I had so many questions I wanted to ask you, and I almost did."
Draco tried to recall that first journey from Platform 9 ¾ but all that came to mind was meeting Potter and Weasley in their compartment.
Regardless, he didn't have to think very hard to guess why Granger hadn't approached him.
"I wanted to reintroduce myself so badly, but the venom that came from your mouth broke my heart before I could say a word. You were nothing like the sweet little boy I remembered from all those years ago. And when you spoke to me so harshly, so cruelly, I just knew that there was no way you remembered me. I wasn't sure then that I wanted you to remember me, actually."
The constant eye contact was beginning to wear on him, so Draco turned his head to face the lake again. He absently drew patterns in the dirt with his fingers.
"I'm… I'm sorry," he managed to mumble.
"I pretended I didn't recognize you because it hurt too much to think about what you would say if you knew. But every time you were horrible to me, it killed me inside. Not just because you weren't the boy I remembered, but because I always wondered and imagined what must have happened to you to turn you into someone so mean."
Draco wasn't sure what to say to this. Luckily, Granger was talkative enough for the both of them.
"Still, I always held out this irrational sort of hope that one day you'd remember. I celebrated your birthday every year, you know."
Eyes wide, Draco twisted to face Granger again. She was sitting up now, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her searching eyes were filled with a sort of nostalgia, and a little smile tugged at the edges of her lips.
She celebrated his birthday? What did that mean? He tried to remember if he had ever interacted with Granger on those days or received a mysterious note over the years. He thought of nothing in particular at first, but after a minute a dusty memory floated to the surface of his mind.
Sixth year. His coming-of-age year. Granger had tucked a dandelion in her hair.
Draco's mouth went dry.
"You… You wore dandelions in your hair, didn't you? On my birthday."
He swallowed as she nodded.
"I did. Every year, actually. I always wondered if you noticed, if you made the connection. I hoped, especially in sixth year, that you would see it and it would mean something to you."
"Especially in sixth year?"
"You may not have realized it, Draco, but I saw you."
That statement didn't need elaboration.
"It did. Make me feel better, that is. I didn't really know why at the time, but it did." Draco's voice trailed off. He shifted uncomfortably in the grass, unused to both sitting on the ground and being so frank about his emotions.
Thankfully, Granger seemed used to both because mere seconds after his admission, a dazzling smile grew on her face. She lit up, truly. In that moment, Draco wondered how he could have ever forgotten a smile that radiant.
"I'm glad," she said, scooting a bit closer to him. "You can call me Hermione if you like. All my friends do."
"Friends? We're—that is—?"
"We've been friends for twelve years, haven't we? I think it's about time you start calling me by my given name, don't you think?"
Draco opened and shut his mouth three times as the meaning of her words soaked in.
Had she truly never given up hope that he'd remember? Never given up hope on him? His brain whirred so quickly that he scarcely had time to think about the implications of everything she said. The whole conversation was a blur. A dream. A flight of fancy.
"Hermione," he said slowly, tasting each syllable on his tongue.
She grinned at him.
An overwhelming need stirred in his chest—a need to make up for the years of pain he'd inflicted on this girl who had offered him kindness in his moment of need. Someone had always been there for him, even if he hadn't known it.
He had to do something, and asking her to use his first name seemed like a good start.
The feeling inside his chest welled so strongly that more words spilled from him. "Call me Draco, please." He didn't care that it sounded like begging.
She formed his name on her lips and his heart soared.
It occurred to Draco only now, just how odd it was, meeting like this on her birthday. It was almost fortuitous. Kismet.
Well, if connecting on their birthdays really was fate, there was nothing to it but to encourage the repetition.
Feeling bold, Draco reached across Hermione's lap and snagged the blue package from the other side of her legs. She watched his movement with a mild raise of her brow.
With a little flourish, he drew out two more biscuits and offered one to Hermione.
"Isn't it a little early for more?" she asked with amusement.
He responded playfully. "Too early for more biscuits? Never."
Beaming, she accepted it with both hands and drew it up to her mouth.
"Just wait one second. This is your birthday biscuit. I have to sing to you first."
Draco cleared his throat, feeling sillier than he had in years. When was the last time he had felt silly of all things? He was fighting a lifetime of instincts, but this lighthearted tone just felt right.
He opened his mouth to sing, only to realize within seconds that he knew neither the lyrics nor the melody properly.
"Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to Hermione. Erm…"
Hermione was quick to jump in and help him finish. By the time the last notes echoed out over the Black Lake, a laugh bubbled in Draco's chest and burst out, unabashed and joyful.
Hermione joined him in his laughter, and soon the two teenagers were fighting tears of mirth together. It wasn't until he caught his breath that he came to a shocking realization: this was the first time he'd really laughed… smiled, even, since the war.
It was nice.
Yet this sudden shift in his relationship with Hermione was nothing if not jarring. And as much as he didn't like putting himself out there, if they were going to give being friends a real go–something he really couldn't believe was happening–there was something he had to get off his chest first.
"Is there any way we can go back? Any way we can start over? Like we're meeting again for the first time." He paused as her face froze, brows slightly furrowed. Shite. He didn't want to mess this up. This was more important than laughter, more important than remembered biscuits shared a long time ago. "I'm not asking you to forgive me or forget anything. I just… I want to try to be the same boy you thought you were going to meet on that train. Can I?"
His admission seemed so simple and yet, from the moment he spoke he felt as though he had been exposed–as if the layers of his soul had been peeled away until he felt raw. The last two years had taught him nothing but secrecy and loneliness.
This, being here with Hermione, was anything but that.
As the two of them looked at each other, Draco felt an unseen thread wrap itself around his heart in a comforting embrace. The other end of the thread stretched between them, invisible but strong, from his heart to Hermione's.
Though Hermione didn't respond with words, she reached out to him and covered his hand with her own. The sensation of her skin, roughened from the hardship of war, against his own was a foreign one.
But it was warm. It was nice.
The two friends sat together for a long while, not speaking, but simply enjoying each other's company. Though the innocence of childhood and the uninhibited ability to freely converse had passed long ago– they had, after all, grown up and lived through horrible things that no person should ever see–the same feeling from that day so long ago remained. He couldn't quite pinpoint why or how, but the comfort and kindness that he had clung to for years flooded back into his body as though it had never left.
Unconsciously, Draco plucked blades of grass from the ground, twirling them in the fingers of his right hand. He focused on the texture of the plant in his hand: rough, ribbed, and paper-thin, with just a hint of morning dew lingering in its veins.
He could tell that Hermione was watching him fiddle with the grass, her upper body leaning forward and long locks of chestnut hair falling past her shoulder to hang in the periphery of his vision. There had to be something he could do for her. Some sort of gesture that could show her just how much that memory from all those years ago meant to him. He twisted the grass between his thumb and forefinger more insistently.
The little green plants almost reminded him of—
Wait. Could that work?
From the holster he had acquired over the summer, Draco withdrew his wand–a wand that had caused so much pain and suffering, as well as great cause to rejoice. Such extremes. The spell he wanted to perform now certainly wouldn't be so exceptional. It wasn't some sort of rare magic or monumental thing.
But he did hope that it would somehow tell Hermione what her presence in his life—even if misunderstood—had done for him. Wand in hand, he pointed the tip at the blade of grass in his fingers. The moment he muttered the transfiguration spell, the flat plant rounded out. From the tapered tip, a bud appeared and then, a flower. A small, blooming, yellow flower.
A dandelion.
From beside him, he heard Hermione's tiny intake of breath. Perhaps she thought he would offer it to her, but somehow one didn't seem enough. Instead, he transfigured more and more blades of grass until he had a lapful of the flowers. Draco could sense that he had Hermione's rapt attention as he lifted his wand for one final spell.
One by one, the dandelions lifted into the air, their ends knitting together to form a never-ending loop. When the last flower had been fastened, Draco floated the crown until it sat in the air just above Hermione's head.
"Hold still, okay?" he whispered in a gravelly tone. Hermione blushed, trying to look directly above her without moving. "There. A birthday crown."
When the flowers rested gently atop her head, Draco watched as Hermione raised her arms above her head to inspect the crown with her fingers.
"It's perfect," she breathed. Leaning back once more after a moment, she sent a smirk his way. "I think you have a better memory than you're letting on."
"Oh? And what gives you that impression?"
"You remembered the crown I gave you. And the biscuits. Maybe even bits of the song. How is it you couldn't remember my face? Or my hair at the very least?"
Draco sighed. "I'm not sure, honestly." Truth be told, he actually wasn't sure. It wasn't as though he had been obliviated. He hadn't been so young that it was bound to be something he would forget. The memory had been foundational, certainly. Then why?
The answer he had always told himself was that sometimes details from our lives, no matter how special–how sacred–slipped through the mind like sand in a sieve. But that seemed a bit too poetic, he thought.
"I might not have remembered you specifically, but I did remember how you made me feel. And–Oh! The book. I remembered the book."
Hermione raised her eyebrows at him, mouth forming into a hopeful grin.
"Did you end up reading it?"
"At least fifteen times."
Draco wasn't sure how it was possible, but Hermione's eyebrows shot higher.
"Fifteen? When we met, you could hardly put two letters together."
"I read it that night, you know. Under the blankets. I've read it every year on my birthday since then."
He watched as Hermione counted in her head.
"That's only thirteen times. What about the others?"
"The war," he said simply.
Hermione's lips puffed out a small, "Oh."
As he watched her face, Draco contemplated telling her more than that. He had only just started talking to his girl in a real way. Could she be trusted with some of his darkest moments? With his most guarded secret pleasures?
For a second, he drew back, the black cloud that had been hanging over him for years threatening to engulf him.
But then he saw her face—sweet and kind and so very, very good.
She deserved to know his whole story. She could handle it.
Still, he couldn't quite look at her as he spoke. He laid back on the grass and looked up. She didn't mimic the movement.
"I read it at least three or four times during the war. Actually, reading Matilda was one of the only things that could help me keep my head when I was left alone at the end of the day. When the Manor quieted each night, dark and nearly silent, I was left with nothing but my thoughts, shut in my bedroom until the morning when the Dark Lord or Bellatrix would summon us to a meeting. In the quiet, often the only things I could recall were screams. Blood. Flashes of green light."
He paused for a moment, allowing himself the smallest glance in her direction.
There was the slightest sheen of tears in her eyes.
He faced the leaves above again.
"The book was an escape. It's about a girl who escapes her own horrible home through her ingenuity and guts. I might have had some of the brains, but I knew deep down that I was far too Slytherin to have that sort of bravery. So I read about it instead."
Gathering what measly courage he possessed, Draco turned to face Hermione again. He wanted to tell her this while looking at her. He needed to.
"But I didn't just use the book to escape. I used it to remember in a way. I used it to remember you. Obviously not your face or the flowers or anything. But the idea of you, this kind person who had trusted me just like that. Who wanted to be my friend without hesitation or bargaining chips. Who gave of herself so freely. Do you know how powerful that was to me? Do you know how powerful it still is?"
Tears had begun to fall from Hermione's eyes, droplets gathering on the tip of her nose and the ends of her delicate eyelashes.
She had very pretty eyelashes.
"You saved me, Hermione. Your book and the knowledge that someone out there had ever cared for me like that–that's what saved me."
When he said all that he could, Draco felt all the air leave his lungs with a great heaving breath of relief. He closed his eyes and listened to the gentle sniffs of his friend.
"Did you really read it on every birthday?" she asked after some time.
"Every single one."
"Do you still have it?"
Wordlessly, he raised his wand again and summoned his most treasured possession from where it was buried beneath a pair of dress robes in his trunk. It took a minute or two, but the book finally came zooming across the grounds and into his waiting hands.
He handed it to Hermione.
With reverence, she accepted the thin, paper book. It was far more dog-eared than it had been all those years ago. The cover had been folded over at the corners. The pages had yellowed, and a small chocolate smudge covered the bottom half of the title page.
Draco didn't have to look to remember they were there. He had memorized every single facet of that little book.
Hermione, on the other hand, touched the book with such awe it could have been mistaken for some sort of holy text. He watched as her fingertips grazed the cover, a smile ghosting her lips.
"I thought I'd never see it again," she murmured, tracing the title with her index finger. Then, with careful hands, she opened the book. Its spine was so worn out that it fell automatically to the place he had left his bookmark last.
Hermione gasped when she saw it.
The dandelion.
Whole arm trembling, she lifted the dried, flattened flower before her eyes, which were quickly filling with tears again.
"Is this…?"
He nodded.
"You kept it? All these years?"
Her emotion moved him, and he soon found his own eyes welling up.
When the salty tears spilled from his cheeks and onto the sleeves of his robes, he innately knew that these were not tears of sadness or frustration. These tears were unlike any he had shed before.
They were tears of happiness.
Through her sniffs, Hermione spoke, her voice trembling. "You know, that book was an escape for me as well." She paused to wipe a stray tear from her cheek.
"When I was a little girl, I was teased quite often. For my hair. For my teeth. For knowing too much. Even at that young age, when my classmates were running around outside, I much preferred to sit and read. I always felt so isolated from all my classmates, even in nursery. As I grew, I began to look for friends in the pages of books instead of in school. That's when I found Matilda. The book was a present for my fourth birthday. At first my parents simply read it to me, but from the moment I met Matilda Wormwood, I knew that I had found someone I could relate to. I devoured that book entirely by myself. And then I read it so many times that I nearly had the whole thing memorised.
"But what made Matilda so extra special to me was that she could do magic. Some time shortly before I gave the book to you, I tried–just being silly, mind you–to move objects with my mind like Matilda could. I tried to move a book from my shelf. Imagine my shock when it floated right into my hands!" Hermione smiled at the memory and Draco felt a grin round his cheeks.
"Matilda made me feel like I wasn't alone. And when I saw you on that day, I just knew that you were like me. I knew that you needed a friend who could help you when you felt alone. Giving you that book was like giving you my whole heart."
Hermione squeezed his hand. "Thank you for taking such good care of it."
Draco wasn't sure what to say, so he chose to remain silent for a while. He had never been good when responding to others' emotions. Somehow he didn't think a simple 'you're welcome' would cut it. He had to think of something better to say. Something meaningful. Looking down at their hands, he saw their fingers intertwined. They looked natural like that.
He had an idea.
"You know, when we were six, I couldn't read very well," Draco said once they had dried their tears. "But believe it or not, I'm a fair reader now. Can I… Can I read it to you?"
Hermione's smile, though no longer watery, still contained a hint of wistfulness.
"Nothing would make me happier."
Clearing his throat, Draco flipped back to the page where he had stored the dandelion bookmark. Hermione leaned against the tree trunk and adjusted her dandelion crown, her eyes trained on him.
He began to read.
"You seemed so far away," Miss Honey whispered, awestruck.
"Oh, I was. I was flying past the stars on silver wings," Matilda said. "It was wonderful."
Miss Honey was still gazing at the child in absolute wonderment, as though she were The Creation, The Beginning Of The World, The First Morning.
Draco knew that he had told the little girl to wait upstairs in her bedroom until it was time for the party, but he found himself bouncing with excitement. It wasn't as though he was the one celebrating a birthday today, but somehow the occasion seemed momentous.
Little Matilda Malfoy had come roaring into their lives six years ago and had been a force of nature ever since. Her riotous blond curls bounced with every exuberant step she took and the delight that radiated from her little face could thaw even the iciest of hearts. In short, she was his whole world.
And to think that she was now six? It didn't seem possible.
Draco recalled his own sixth birthday with both anxiety and fondness. No one had shown up. Terry Boot, who was still a git by all accounts, had gone out of his way to tear Draco down. He had run off in tears.
All in all, a disaster.
The only thing that had saved the day was his chance meeting with a little Muggle girl.
And the funny thing about it all was that she hadn't just saved the day. By all accounts, she had saved his life.
Draco sincerely hoped that Matilda's sixth birthday would have a positive impact like that.
Not that he was ready for his daughter to meet the love of her life.
The young father snuck upstairs ten minutes early, padding along the soft, carpeted floor that led to his daughter's bedroom at the end of the hall. He would earn a cuddle for this–for bending the rules just a bit. Just as he cracked open the white door that led to her room, he heard soft voices from within.
"Do I look pretty, Mummy?"
"You look lovely, darling. Lovely and daring and so full of joy you're fit to burst."
Draco burst in at that moment, feigned shock on his face.
"My wife, breaking her own rules about birthday parties! You were going to take her down early, weren't you?"
She huffed playfully at the insinuation. "I would never. I was just helping Matilda fix her hair. She wanted to wear it up."
Draco stepped closer and inspected his daughter's head. Her hair, normally worn down or in a plait, now sat atop her head, pinned back carefully.
Somehow, it made her look older. If he looked especially closely, there were signs all around this room that his daughter was growing up. Most of her stuffed animals no longer sat on her bed, but rather, on a shelf. She had recently insisted that she was too big for her snitch nightlight. He wasn't sure how he felt about all that.
"You are the picture of beauty," he said, swooping down to take her into his arms. "But aren't you forgetting something?"
Matilda's dark eyes lit up. "My crown!"
"You're absolutely right. We have to fulfill the Malfoy family birthday tradition."
Hermione Malfoy lifted her wand and conjured a tiny ring of dandelions before placing it gently atop the curly, blonde head currently nestled beside Draco's.
"There. Now you're ready. Shall we go out to the garden to greet your guests?"
Matilda gave a whoop and wiggled out of her father's arms, landing on the carpet and bounding to her bedroom door.
As Draco and Hermione made their own way out of their daughter's space, Hermione reached for his hand.
"You'll never guess what she picked out for us to read before bed."
"What?"
Hermione gestured to the book that had been set out on Matilda's bedside table, well-loved and worn to tissue.
Fingers interlocked, Draco kissed his wife and headed down the staircase just behind their daughter. They were headed into the garden where tables and chairs, balloons, cake, and party favours had been arranged for their little girl.
He was about to give Hermione's hand a nervous squeeze when he happened to glance out of the window.
Children. At least twenty of them.
Draco had known that his daughter's sixth birthday would surely not be at all like his own. She was loved by everyone she met. How could she not be? But to have it confirmed warmed his heart. All these children were there for his Matilda, who was neither weird nor bad–simply very, very loved.
Happy (40th!) birthday to our dearest fictional bookworm friend, Hermione Granger. I hope this story left you with plenty of warm fuzzies. If you're feeling so inclined, I'd love to hear from you by way of a review. Find me on tumblr by the same name. Love to you all!