Malfoy,
I hope your mother is well, please let me know if you need anything.
H.G.
Draco shoved the letter in his pocket before sending his own to the family healer the following morning. When the healer arrived, Narcissa was checked thoroughly.
"A few bruises, but otherwise okay," Healer Wimberly said as Draco walked him back to the floo. "Her distress seems to have faded, and she is stable again."
Draco had added Wimberly to his staff about four years ago, when things with his mother had taken a turn for the worse. He trusted him and didn't shy from letting him know of his guilt, especially if it meant he could do something to help his mother.
"It's my fault," Draco told the healer. "I'd been away too long, left her with the elf. She got confused."
The healer pursed his lips in thought, "I must ask, Mr. Malfoy, because as you know I collaborate with Healer Rivington..."
Draco took a sharp inhale.
Rivington was Draco's mind healer, and it had been a long time since he had met with him. Going on two years, actually.
"I only mention it because you might find it helpful... as your mother's condition worsens, it would only make sense that there might be more pressure on you. It's a lot to manage," Wimberly stated.
"I'll send him an owl," Draco resolved.
After all, he was in no place to argue.
Draco sat in Healer Rivington's office a few days later, half of him grateful he was able to be worked in so soon, the other half of him annoyed for the same reason.
Draco hadn't followed up with the healer in some time, not because he didn't like the man or find the sessions helpful; in fact, he greatly respected the healer, particularly for his propensity to call Draco out on his shit. However, Draco went through bouts of avoiding the sessions typically because he had a tendency to rather like wallowing in his own despair... or at least pretend that he didn't have any.
"It's been a while," Healer Rivington said from his perch in an ancient leather chair.
"I'd say I've been busy, but you know that would be a lie," Draco answered.
"We've done too much good work for us to go back to pleasantries, I appreciate your honesty. It's normal to need a break from this sometimes... What brings you in today?"
"My mother is in a bad way," Draco said.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Worse than she was. I feel slightly responsible, I don't see her much."
"You still have your flat in London?"
"Yes."
"Are you... getting out any? Seeing anyone?" The healer asked, but Draco knew what he really meant; Are you drinking a lot again, having nightmares, being a recluse, talking to anyone that isn't an elf?
"No...well," Draco corrected, "not exactly."
"How do you mean?"
Draco sighed and ran a hand through the front of his hair. He knew he had to tell him, but in all his muttering to himself before he got there today he couldn't quite figure out the words.
"Have you heard about the new things they are doing regarding house elves? The welfare department and all of that?" Draco started.
Rivington raised an eyebrow before saying, "I read something about it in the Prophet a bit ago."
Draco continued, "Well obviously, my family has elves, so I have been seeing to all the... regulations and such..."
"From what I read, Hermione Granger is responsible for most of those initiatives, yes?"
Rivington had said it for him. Maybe this wouldn't be as hard as Draco thought.
Still, Draco pursed his lips when the healer said her name. Rivington knew good and well who Hermione Granger was, not just from her fame in the Wizarding World, but from things Draco had told him in confidence over the years when relaying his remorse, bitterness, and neurosis.
"Yes," Draco, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
"Have you... encountered Miss. Granger in these efforts to comply?" Rivington asked.
"I'd bloody well say so," Draco yelled out, almost hysterically.
Rivington didn't respond, only watched Draco. The older wizard ran a thoughtful finger under his mouth, giving the younger time to recover from the outburst.
Draco took in a sharp inhale, and loosened his tie a bit. Why had it decided to start strangling him to death?
Rivington leaned back in his chair, and when it became clear that Draco was not going to elaborate, he led with, "From what I recall you mentioning in the past, she can be quite... spirited."
Draco stiffened. Yes, I'd say so, he thought, like the time she slapped me in the face at school, rode a dragon out of my aunt's vault, or, most recently, fucked me witless... twice.
"I don't imagine the run-in was very comfortable?" The healer continued.
"Not at first, no." Draco said, and his eyes bore into Rivington.
The healer looked back at Draco for several beats, eventually clicking his tongue before saying, "I never bothered training as a legilimens for good reasons, Draco."
Draco sighed and said, "We... did the initial meeting thing, she had to observe my flat, then we had a few drinks. It was nice."
Draco's minute offering of detail caused Rivington to lean his fingers to his lip in thought again.
Rivington then stated, "I seem to be drawing to mind a story you told of her once, involving that incident at the Quidditch World Cup, do you remember?"
"Of course," Draco drawled.
"Remind me of it."
Draco's fingers traced his now exposed throat as he sought to remember. His discomfort dissipated some as he lost himself in relaying the memory.
"It was the summer going into fourth year. Everyone was at the cup... My father, and some other Death Eaters decided to get drunk and... play with some muggles down the road..."
Draco swallowed and continued, "My father told me to wait by this particular tree... to watch," he said, scoffing and shaking his head.
"He… liked to make me do things like that... watch."
"Like the year before that with the hippogriff?"
"Yes, yes, when the Golden Trio found me and Granger pointed her want at my throat and hit me. Anyway… I always acted like I was happy to be there — maybe I was. I don't know," Draco said.
"You were too young..." Rivington said, trailing off.
The adults that were supposed to protect us really fucked us up.
Draco shuddered at the thought, not just because Hermione's words returned to him, but because of the realization that these two instances were some of most tame out of the horrors he'd been exposed to from a very young age.
Things he'd thought were normal.
Rivington cleared his throat, "So what did you see, at the World Cup?" Rivington asked, steering them back to the original story.
"They... floated them around, tortured them—- wanted to make a statement for what was coming."
"Mmm," Rivington said, "Then Granger showed up?"
"Yeah. Potter, Weasley, and Granger showed up, and I told them they'd better stay out of the way, keep Granger hidden."
"Because Miss Granger is a muggleborn," Rivington said plainly.
"Yes," Draco let half laugh escape through his nostrils, "I was being a prat about it, told them they were after muggles. She got in my face and said 'What's that supposed to mean,' Potter said 'Hermione is a witch," and Weasley cussed me.
"How did you respond to that?"
"Something like... "have it your own way then," and "If you think they can't spot out a..." he trailed off, avoiding the slur, then continued, "I basically told them to stick around if they wanted her to be next."
"Did you mean for them to leave, then?"
"Of course. My father was out of his mind, there was no telling what he would do."
"Your father knew of her heritage at the time?"
"Yes... I'd mentioned her to him..." Draco trailed off then continued, "and... they used to talk about them... being filthy. Acted like you could tell, smell it or something."
"You believed that?"
'When I was younger."
"So you didn't want your father and his friends to get ahold of her?"
"I don't know," Draco furrowed his eyebrows and absentmindedly shook his head before continuing, "Besides, it's rubbish isn't it? Granger smells like..." Draco didn't finish his sentence.
Rivington tilted his head, and his eyes brightened a bit, and Draco had the sneaking suspicion that the older wizard was disguising a smirk.
The healer was silent for several beats until he finally asked, "So your father had a propensity for violence towards muggles and muggleborns when he'd been drinking, what do you suppose is yours?"
Draco didn't respond and instead screwed his face into a look of distaste at the man.
Rivington continued as if saying something obvious, "You stated that you and Miss Granger had a few drinks."
Draco knew when he'd been caught, Rivington always caught him.
A smile slithered around Draco's features as he closed his eyes and said, "It seems, Rivington, that I fuck them."
Draco told him everything, and when he was done Rivington leaned back in his overstuffed chair.
"Do you plan to see her again?" He asked
"I—- no there is no plan, I mean, other than things to do with the elf."
"Do you want to see her again?"
"I don't know, it's —- I don't really know much about her now do I?" Draco froze, the thought he had at dinner dawning on him again, "I don't even know if she's... available," Draco shook his head at the thought.
He didn't even particularly want to be having these thoughts at all, especially as he had spent the last few days worrying over his mother, so he stated that, "I think it best if I focus on mother at the moment..."
"Is that really what you want to do?"
"Yes," he said, and Draco meant it... mostly.
Draco continued, "I need to get ahold of myself don't I? The drinking, the depression...the girls."
"Girl," Rivington corrected.
"Girl..." Draco agreed, sneering at the realization, "It's not exactly productive is it? It's my responsibility to care for my mother, I've got duties. I need to take things more seriously."
"I'd hardly describe you as serendipitous, Draco, though I typically only see this serious side of you"— the older wizard waved at hand at him for emphasis, —"broody, calculated, thoughtful."
"There are other sides to me."
"Ah yes the old Black versus Malfoy debate, you're still on about that then?"
Draco rolled his eyes and continued anyway, "There is one side of me that wants to stay away from her," even saying her name felt forbidden, "and another side of me that can't help myself."
"This preoccupation with Granger—" Rivington started, but Draco interrupted.
"I am not—"
The healer put a hand up to cut him off. "Forgive me, this... situation, with Granger, you speak about it as if it just happened, as if it was outside of your control, as if at any moment you could not have stopped it if you wanted to."
"I didn't want to," Draco confessed, "stop it, that is. I very much wanted it, needed it, even." Admitting it felt right, but he was unsure where the healer was going with this.
"I think you have felt powerless to your circumstances your whole life. Powerless to your father, powerless to being used as a pawn in political agendas, powerless in your own home as it became a fort for said agendas... even powerless in your own mind as an individual desires, goals, and ambitions you might have held were taken over by duty, and pride, and what others wanted of you—- required of you. I think for the first time in a long time," the Healer paused and gave him a knowing look, "you did something you 'weren't supposed to do,'" Rivington made air quotes with his hands to emphasize his last point.
Draco looked at his nails. It was true. Once every few years, as Rivington was well aware of, Draco would get it in his head to do something his family might have considered rebellious, but he continued to live functionally as the dutiful Malfoy heir. He continued to go through the motions of upholding a legacy he cared little about.
It was a lot to hear; the acknowledgement, the affirmation— to be spoken well of in a way that wasn't solely meant to build his ego. It was an implication that he was not just a Black, not just a Malfoy, but that he is Draco first.
Rivington continued, "There is so much more to you than being the former child soldier of a megalomaniac. You're loyal, intelligent, compassionate, you take care of your own, and you have a great capacity for love, even when it's not convenient."
Draco looked back up at the wizard who continued, "You have much more to give. Much more to be. I know you have to continue to care for your mother, but have you ever considered applying yourself to something that isn't based on someone else's expectations, or some sort of penance for your past? Something that you chose for yourself rather than someone else choosing for you?"
"I don't know," Draco said slowly, and he realized as he spoke that he genuinely didn't know.
Draco still didn't have his answer a few days later as he sat in his mother's room. She was having a good day today, or at least a good couple of hours since she seemed to know what year it was. She ate from a bowl of fruit Ceely brought not long ago, along with tea service fitted on a tray that splayed across Narcissa's lap.
Draco took a sip from his own tea cup from his position in the chair across from her bed.
He was happy to see her eating, as it had become a rare occurrence these days.
"It's been a week, darling," Narcissa's voice droned in a bored voice from her large four poster bed.
The canopy split open just enough to reveal her face. Draco heard the tink of her fork as she balanced it inside her bowl, "You don't have to keep staying here, Draco."
He made a sound to acknowledge he had heard her, but otherwise didn't respond.
She lifted her tea cup to her mouth, "I'm sorry," she said, "I imagine my little scene was quite alarming."
On her good days, she was almost normal, definitely weak, but she at least resembled the woman she once was.
Draco spoke, finally, "I should have... checked in sooner," he said as he sat his own cup down on the small saucer without a sound.
"The elf does a fine enough job. I understand you have a life to live."
Not really, Draco thought, and cleared his throat instead of verbalizing this.
She pursed her lips, and the two of them, Narcissa sitting up in her bed, Draco sitting across from her, remained in silence for some time.
Draco jumped when she spoke again, and he thought he might have dozed off.
"I'd like to speak with my sister," Narcissa stated.
Draco wasn't sure how to respond, unsure if she was losing herself again, because she couldn't possibly mean—-
"Andromeda," his mother said, confirming her meaning.
Draco straightened himself.
Cut off due to her traitorous union with a muggleborn Draco was never given the opportunity to meet his mother's other sister, much less know her.
"I could... try to send an owl, see if I could contact her," Draco started.
"You can try, but she may have wards against us..." Narcissa trailed off, "they're on the Manor too. She'd likely be cursed if she stepped foot in here."
Draco swallowed at the thought of blood curses, disfiguring jinxes, and other magical attacks he had not witnessed since the war.
"I could sort that out," Draco said, "and I might know someone who could get in touch with her."
His mother's eyes narrowed at him, then widened.
"Why—" she cut off as she lifted a hand to her mouth, and Draco could see pieces coming together in her otherwise scattered mind. The thought of this cut into him, remembering how his mother had always been so sharp and composed when he was younger,
"—why were you with that girl... the other night?" She finished.
Draco froze, trying to understand what she was asking until he remembered.
"Tell Granger I won't be back tonight," He had told Ceely as he held his mother in his arms.
She must have heard.
"Granger?" He asked as if it were an afterthought, "She...works for the ministry... checks on the welfare of the elves."
"Oh," his mother said, but she looked somewhere past him. Her eyes were two dark and empty tunnels and he watched her fall away again before his very eyes. She sniffed, and said something that he couldn't quite make out. He didn't ask her to repeat herself, his throat was too dry to speak anyway.
Narcissa sunk into her pillows, and Draco jumped up to remove the tray before it could fall to the floor.
She looked so small in the large bed.
When his mother rolled away from him, she did not address him again.
Draco wasted no time in asking Hermione to meet him the following evening at the Leaky Cauldron.
He got there before her, several minutes earlier than their expected time, if only to practice to himself each word and facial expression he planned on making in order to ensure the meeting went smoothly.
She arrived, of course, right on time.
He watched as she entered through the front and look around he pub. It was an odd sensation, knowing she was looking for him, and he couldn't help but relish in the look of recognition her face gave when she noticed him finally.
Morgan le Fay's bollocks, Draco thought, pushing down the image and the stupid flit he felt in his stomach.
As she walked to him, he finally checked. No ring, but Draco wouldn't put it past Hermione to not want to be tied down. Or maybe Weasley can't afford one, he thought smugly.
Draco stood to greet her, but he wasn't sure if he should hug her, kiss her cheek, or do some other gesture appropriate to two people who knew each other in such a way. Instead he busied himself with her chair, and he noticed her eye him carefully as she slid into it.
As he walked around to his own seat she asked, "How is your mother?"
"She's... better," Draco said, settling in and catching the eye of the barmaid who indicated she would get to them next. He might need a few drinks to get through this... but no fucking Creme de Mente.
She sat stiff backed and proud, and it dawned on him she might be under the impression he meant to talk about them. Because they hadn't exactly done that had they? They'd not talked about what they'd done, what it meant. He pulled at his sleeves a bit, busying himself with acting as if he was straightening them, even though Risly was quite good with long lasting ironing charms.
He was about to ask Hermione Granger for a favor, like a friend, but they weren't exactly friends were they? In fact, he was quite sure she hated him.
But, she'd come here at least, that was something. Granger was a know it all do- gooder, afterall. Surely she wouldn't pass up the opportunity to put aside differences and... awkwardness... to sanctimoniously help someone in need.
Besides, Granger had said that last time was to be the last time. She certainly had yet to offer any explanation for her own bold initiations, so she couldn't possibly expect him to verbalize such intricacies.
He would leave that to her, he rationalized.
"I need a favor, Granger," Draco started, cutting to the chase before he lost his nerve.
Just as he thought, her demeanor softened as she said, "What's sort of favor?"
"My mother, as you may have gathered from the other night, is not in the best of health," Draco said.
Hermione nodded.
"It's... been like this for a bit. She gets confused, forgets herself..." he couldn't believe he was admitting this, but it felt necessary, even if looking her in the eyes proved quite difficult at the moment.
She furrowed her brows, "When did it start? Your mother's symptoms?"
"She's... not really been right since—" he swallowed before finishing his sentence "...the war." Who among us has? Draco thought. "But it escalated after my father's death. The mind healers have done all they can right now, they keep her at bay with potions. She has some good days, some not so good..."
Hermione nodded a few times more, and he could practically see the gears turning in her eyes.
"She's sustained no magical injuries otherwise... no curses, nothing like that," Draco continued.
Hermione looked at him for several beats, yet Draco's focus remained on the wooden table as he traced patterns with his finger. He thought he might evaporate against the burning of her gaze.
When she spoke again her voice was soft, "It sounds like grief, Draco," Hermione said.
Draco snapped his eyes to hers.
Such an intimate thing, one's first name, though Draco thought another word should be invented for what it felt like for the witch in front of him to say it.
Their eye contact was broken by the barmaid's arrival.
When the witch left to fetch Draco's fire-whiskey, and Hermione's butterbeer, she continued, "I've read about this. Grief doesn't just solely affect the mind... it's the other side of love... It seems your mother's symptoms could be a sort of magical barrier to protect herself... which would be why the mind healers could only do so much... it's—-"
"Love magic," Draco finished, scratching at a place on the table with his nails.
The most deeply powerful, yet complicated magic. He heard Potter's voice from all those years ago.
Hermione nodded again, her curls bouncing excitedly at being able to relay information to him, but Draco had to stop himself from remembering a similar movement they made against his dining room wall.
"What do you need?" Hermione asked, ripping him away from the spiraled hair.
His mother's request made sense now. The oldest magic was calling from deep within her. Perhaps his mother instinctively knew the remedy she needed.
Perhaps her sister could help.
"I'm unsure if this would be helpful at all, but she has asked me to reach out to her sister. I understand you continue to be close to the Potters and he happens to be the godfather..."
"Andromeda." Hermione interjected thoughtfully. It reminded him of how quick she answered questions in school.
Hermione agreed to get in touch with his mother's sister and set up a meeting, and the air between them became less tense as they spoke a little while longer about simpler things: elves, mostly, but also things like what in the world do you do all day, Draco?
"Mope, mostly." He meant it to be funny but when Hermione didn't laugh he continued, "On good days I meet with financial advisors, sign documents, see to the management of the Manor and other investments. I do some philanthropic work behind the scenes, and steer very clear of politics," Draco answered.
It only became uncomfortable again as they made to part for the night at the pub door when Draco wasn't sure again if he should pat her on he shoulder, kiss her hand, or shake it.
Hermione resolved herself to a simple nod, and went to pass through the door.
However, Draco, with one part of him in a need to have all of his bases covered strategically, and another part of him perhaps emboldened by the ease of their conversation tonight, grabbed her lightly by the arm and leaned towards her ear.
"Hermione," he said, indulging himself in each syllable.
The witch's eyes darted to the soft hold on her arm and scaled up to his eyes. She tilted her head in challenge, but he'd already resolved himself to behave.
Tonight was about his mother, after all.
He licked his lips before asking, "How versed are you at rewriting ancient pureblood protective wards?"
Hermione gave him a conspiratorial grin, "Very," she said, and stepped out of his reach.
"I'll let you know when she agrees to meet," she said.
Then she left, leaving him standing with his hand slowly closing around the now empty space where she had just been in his grasp.
