AN: I don't own any part of the HP franchise and make no money from this work. All rights to JK and WB.
Hermione's face was already ashen by the time Parvati thought it prudent to cast a final matching spell. It was a bit of a relief, the Matchmaker couldn't help thinking, since it meant Hermione couldn't pretend to be any more shocked than she already was.
"But...he's so old," she practically sputtered, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of the ceiling and trying not to be sick.
"I've already said, it has to be a mistake," Parvati snapped, allowing some of her irritation with the bossy-boots to show. "Let's try this one last time."
"But...Slughorn?"
"For Merlin's sake, he's only a hundred," Parvati said. "There are plenty of witches who would take the match, you know. They say a wizard reaches his prime at that age. And anyway, he's got money, status, and you'd never run out of things to talk about. You're both completely academic types."
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard she thought they might fall out of her head.
"Well I'm sorry. I know my choices are limited, but I just -"
"Extremely limited," Parvati said, interrupting her neatly. She waved her wand a few times, clearing the air. "Now hold still. I can only cast this three times in a row. If you aren't happy after that, you'll have to wait another six months before coming in for a re-do."
Hermione sat still. She had no intention of going through this hellish process again. Either the third time would be the charm, or she'd be stuck going on a date with Slughorn...because she refused to even consider the first option she'd been given.
Closing her eyes, she let Parvati's surprisingly good wandwork wash over her, the magic flowing out from the tip of the pretty, slight stick in gentle waves until it felt like she was being coated in gossamer light.
Images rose to the surface of her mind, unbidden. At age five, coloring in paint-by-number masterpieces, describing the lives of the master painters to her increasingly astonished mother. At age eight, helping her father clean out the garage and attempting to heft his golf clubs for him, eyes alight with joy as he promises to take her out to a course soon. Age 13, wishing both that she could go back to Hogwarts early and hoping the summer never ends, because she wants to be a normal girl again, just like the best friend with whom she now struggles to connect. Age 16, head full of fear and also a determination to be brave for her friends, because Harry needs someone to be brave and level-headed, and feeling so proud to know him. All those memories, and others in between, all designed to suss out her true character and find out who could match her, who could be a partner, a helper, an anchor. Who could challenge her...who could love her.
Age 18, thinking she'd already found him.
Hermione's eyes flew open and she felt the spell sinking into her, working its magic deep in her bones until it disappeared with a shiver across her skin, having taken root.
The room was quiet, but for the breathing of the two witches, and then Hermione heard Parvati moving around, the scratch of a quill on parchment, some more whispered wandwork. Her eyes were open, but she wasn't seeing anything in front of her - her vision was stuck in her mind's eye, glued to a fading image of the one true love she should've had.
She heard a sigh and blinked a few times, finally refocusing on the sights before her. Parvati was sitting behind her desk again, quill and parchment before her, wand in hand as it twisted and turned between her fingers. Was the Matchmaker nervous? Was that possible? Hermione tilted her head and drew a deep breath, meant to steady. Instead, she just felt light-headed.
"What is it?" she asked.
Parvati smiled slightly. "Hermione, these spells...they're very tricky magic."
Hermione's face took on a pinched appearance. "Are you trying to imply something? Is there something wrong with me, with my reception of the spell?"
Parvati shook her head firmly. "No. There is nothing wrong with you. You've done everything I asked you to. What I mean to say is, the results will not always be what you expect. As you can tell by now, I'm sure," she offered, referencing their previous attempts. Hermione squared her shoulders.
"Honestly, Parvati -"
Parvati sighed heavily. She was getting tired of having to interrupt, having been interrupted.
"Look, you've been through more than the average witch who walks into this office and that makes it more difficult. The spell wants to please you, wants to find the puzzle piece that fits into the bigger picture of your life, of what you always wanted, or thought you wanted, but it also wants to answer to that part of you that's suffered. Not to find a plaster, or your knight in shining armor, but someone with whom you can heal - together - thereby building your bond more strongly, and really building a life together."
Hermione glanced away, trying to will the sudden onslaught of images from her mind by sheer willpower.
"So it's tricky because I've been through so much?" Unspoken were the words: because I'm a muggleborn; because my best friend is Harry Potter; because the love of my life died at eighteen; because I was battling dark wizards before I was in my second year at Hogwarts; because, because, because...
"It is," Parvati replied practically, but her tone was gentle, "because it means the list of wizards you might be appropriately matched with has dwindled even further...not just because you've waited so long, but because of who you've become."
Hermione met her gaze again and forced herself to relax as the voice in her mind leveled out to a quiet drone and the images spun to a stop, falling away with the weight of what was about to happen.
"Well, then. You've explained yourself. Now stop stalling and give me the good news."
"The good news is that you've already been matched at least once," the former professor said, smiling.
Draco swallowed hard and forced a smile to his lips. "Really? So soon? Who's the lucky witch?"
Madame Vector looked at him sternly over the tops of her spectacles. "I'm not at liberty to answer that right now."
"You mean…"
"She still hasn't made a decision, no."
Draco sat back and let his mind wander as Madame Vector drew up the appropriate formulas for the runes needed for a matching with him. Letting his mind wander was pretty boring...or terrifying, take your pick, and he sat up again.
"So, you're at the Matchmaking Office," he said. Madame Vector glanced up at him briefly.
"Was that a question or a statement?" she asked, quill moving furiously across the page in front of her.
"Question?" he parried.
"Yes, I am at the Matchmaking Office part-time, as a contractor."
"How did that happen?" Draco asked. At the silence from his former professor, he felt his cheeks flush. "If I might ask," he added belatedly.
"You can ask," she replied before dropping the quill to the desk beside the parchment and then beginning to roll said parchment. "However, I am not obligated to answer."
Suitably chastened, Draco sat back again. Madame Vector gave him another stern look. "What are you doing? Come on, up."
"Why? What am I supposed to do now?"
Madame Vector gave him an almost kind look before she snapped her fingers and gestured to the door to their left.
"You're going through."
Draco could feel himself reverting back to the snappish, scared little boy of his youth, masquerading as a the giant of dark wizardry and superiority his own father had pretended to in order to protect everything he'd ever known. He fought it, but couldn't help the snide tone of voice that accompanied his next string of words.
"Why? What's happening?"
Madame Vector almost looked amused. "Don't be difficult, Draco Malfoy. I could still school you six ways to Sunday. Now get through that door and Ms. Patil will direct you on your next steps."
"But -"
"Isn't it obvious?" Madame Vector snapped, interrupting him. Draco wondered if his former professor knew that she'd never made anything obvious a day in her life. When he didn't respond, the woman signed and pushed the door open for him, ushering him through and explaining as he went.
"She's made her decision."
Draco was gobsmacked. "That was quick," he managed to say and Madame Vector gave him a wry glance.
"Indeed. Must be fate," she replied, in a tone of voice that stated quite clearly she didn't believe in any such thing. Then she closed the door firmly behind him.
The wind outside was bitingly cold by the time Walt received a text from his boss and he huffed a little as he drew his coat around himself tighter and pushed against the fray of London's finest in their rush to get home from work, to go to dinner dates, to pick up their children. He'd left the safety of the car and parking garage at least two hours ago in favor of getting some work done in a cozy bistro up the street. As a result, his gloveless fingers froze, gripped hard around two cups of cappuccino, jostled slightly as he brushed through the crowds.
When had it grown so cold? It was perfectly reasonable for this time of year, but he cursed below his breath until the second that his feet hit the smooth concrete floor of the garage. He found the car quickly, settled the drinks into their respective holders, snapped his safety belt across his person, and then directed the car to the exit. It would take another five minutes at best to make it to the pick up point and he prayed Draco was waiting inside, since the man had neglected to take his coat when he'd exited the vehicle that afternoon.
Draco wasn't, and the moment he saw the car, he dashed forward to open the passenger door and slide in. If it wasn't for how closely Walt had grown accustomed to watching the man, he never would have seen the slight hesitation in Draco's frame and subsequent glance over his shoulder. But the movement was over before it began and the car door slammed shut on a thoroughly chilled Malfoy.
"Cappuccino, Sir?"
"What?" Draco responded, utterly startled.
Walt raised his brows and wondered just how well the meeting had gone...or not.
"In the cup-holder. Ought to warm you a bit."
"Hmm," Draco grunted in response and took the cup delicately. The man winced as the sweetness overtook his senses and pulled his mouth away from the rim long enough to frown. Walt watched him from the corner of his eye as he steered the car back into traffic.
"Do you still keep a flask in the back?" Draco asked, beginning to reach a hand behind him.
"You mean do I still keep a flask in the back strictly on your orders, for you, against my better judgment?"
"Don't be an idiot," Draco grumbled. Walt smiled slightly. The meeting went well. Draco never called him names unless he was embarrassed about being caught in one of those betwixt emotions of contentment or bemused indifference.
"Yes, there is a flask back there. No, you'll never reach it from up here unless you wave a wand."
Draco grumbled again, fished his wand from his pocket, and a moment later, a shiny black flask was floating into the front seat. Draco caught it out of the air and unscrewed it, then began to pry the lid off his cup; swore as some of the warm, caramel colored liquid almost sloshed over the side; and seemed to think better of the whole business. Placing the drink safely back into its holder, he held the flask up to his mouth and threw his head back.
Walt frowned.
"Mind if I ask how it went, Sir?"
Draco laughed and let his hands rest in his lap, flask held loosely between them. He turned his head and stared out the window as he replied.
"You can ask, but I'm not obligated to answer."
It was a sad mimicry of the words Draco had been fed earlier in the afternoon, but as Walt hadn't been a fly on the wall, he had no reference for the self-effacing laughter that emitted from his boss's lips after he'd spoken.
"So it didn't go well?" Walt pushed, surprised.
Draco turned back from the window and raked his eyes over his assistant's face. Walt schooled his features into a neutral expression. Draco smirked - at what, Walt had no idea - and took another drink from the flask before capping it and tossing it back into the seat behind him. Then he tugged the cappuccino back out of its holder and settled in for the drive home.
"It went well enough." He sipped the cappuccino carefully and turned his gaze towards the front. "My mother is going to be livid, but it went...well enough," he repeated.
"Livid?" Walt's head swiveled and he cast a deeply troubled look at his boss, who would sit there looking like the cat that got the canary.
"Careful of your driving, Walt," Draco mumbled around the lip of the cup's lid.
Walt's attention snapped back to the road and he managed to break at a light with no casualties.
"Sir?" he prompted, voice mildly strangled. "What happened? Why is your mother going to be livid? You know I have nothing but respect for her, but I'm the one who answers most of her phone calls, and -"
"Oh, shut it, Walt," Draco replied. "You respect my mother about as much as Harry Potter respects her, which is only for the love she bears for me. And she's going to be livid because of the witch with whom I was matched, obviously," he practically snarled.
Walt wondered, not for the first time, if one could get whiplash from emotional turmoil. Still, he kept his tone appropriately distant as he replied.
"Of course, Sir. My apologies."
Draco sighed noisily. "I'm not going to talk about it right now, at any rate. I need to process this."
"Would you like me to make an appointment for you with your therapist, Sir?"
"No," Draco said. "I think I'd better just...stay in, for once. I might call my father." He paused and took another sip of the sweet drink. The car fell quiet for a time and Walt settled into the rhythm of navigating the bustling streets. When Draco spoke again, unexpectedly, Walt practically jumped.
"You can take the night off," he murmured, and Walt dared another glance at him.
So. It went well, but it was going to send Draco's mother into fits. He wondered. He wondered very much, but he didn't dare say another word for the remainder of the drive to Malfoy's home.