Oh hey, long time no see! 3.5 years, if we're being exact.

I'm making myself a vow that one day I will finish this story, even if it takes me until I'm eighty to mark it as complete. Half of me wanted to leave it abandoned because my writing has changed so much over the years, and I feel that every chapter needs a major editing gut-job. However, the other half said fuck it; it's free fanfiction — annnnddd that's the part we're going with to cheer us to the finish line.

So, I present to you chapter twenty. Based on my outline, there will be twenty-six chapters in total, plus an epilogue. This story might be updated slowly (and I mean slooowly), but we're picking up the pace in every other way. So if that's not your thing, apologies in advance.

Without further ado …

Part II

Chapter 20: Surprise Visit

Daphne answered the door on its third knock.

"Oh." Her mouth gaped. "Pansy? What a surprise."

It was the societal definition of rude to arrive at one's home without an owl or planned meet-up time, hardly a step above direct apparition into the foyer, but the witch had never been one for subtlety.

"I hope I'm not interrupting."

"Not at all," said Daphne, unwilling to forgo her own manners. "Come in. Can I have Metty bring you a cup of tea?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Metty fulfilled the request, the house-elf apparating and disapprating as the pair sat within the parlour, silent save for the slurping of Earl Grey from Pansy's side of the sofa.

"I came to apologise."

You could drop a feather and still hear it.

"For what?" asked Daphne.

"For how I treated you at the pub that night." Pansy shifted as if the sofa suddenly sprouted thorns. "And well, for everything really. I hate that we've grown so … distant."

Daphne opened her mouth to say something, rapidly deciding against it.

Pansy continued, "Ever since the Yule Ball … well — I know we said we wouldn't speak of it, but I find it hard not to since it was such a discerning point 一"

"It's long forgotten," said Daphne. "Water under the bridge."

"I was terrible to you. Young; mean. I knew you harboured… feelings. And while it was one thing never to reciprocate them — when you found someone who did… I shamelessly used it as blackmail. And that wasn't fair. And I'm sorry."

Was this a practical joke? Karma? What did she do to deserve this level of discomfort?

"We were in school." Daphne waved her hand as if swatting away the subject. "It was ... silliness."

She'd rather undergo seven Cruciatus Curses than have this memory exhumed; thankful her parents weren't home to accidentally overhear.

"Do you still speak to her?" asked Pansy.

Does stalking someone with her count?

Daphne had a sudden urge to sprint through the back gardens. To douse herself with cold water from the nearby river and cleanse her body, mind, soul — certain the latter had disappeared when she accepted that betrothal ring now dancing in the parlour's light.

"No. We haven't spoken since Hogwarts."

Her lie must have been believable because Pansy visibly relaxed, pushing down the solitary section of dark hair that resisted even the best cast smoothing charm.

"I was spewing what my parents told me. For what it's worth —" Pansy paused as if fighting the admission. "None of us came out of that war unchanged. I'd like to think some of those changes were positive."

Daphne briefly considered mixing up the antidote to Polyjuice and forcing it down this person's throat. Certainly, Pansy wasn't the one saying this.

"I'm seeing someone new," said Pansy without prompting. "They encouraged me to see a Mind Healer. To deconstruct certain … preconceived notions — things from my past."

Daphne blinked, and Pansy took the invitation to continue.

"What with my father's imprisonment and my mother's death …"

Pansy had no family left to impress anymore.

Daphne frowned, sympathetic on the outside but jealous in a twisted sense. Pansy looked itching to stay on this discourse, like a child wanting to brag about their newest toy.

"You're finally over Draco?" asked Daphne, trying to lighten the mood.

"Go on. Say it — only took ten years." Pansy hid a smirk as she sipped her tea. "Speaking of, I've heard whispers of a potential match. With your sister of all people."

"Nothing is official. Who'd you hear that from?"

In true Pansy fashion, her life took precedent, and the question became background noise.

"Oh, Daph — I've never been this happy. I have so much to fill you in on."

Daphne wrinkled her nose. The sickening sweetness reminded her of when they were girls, overeating cake in return for an overwhelming urge to vomit.

"Oh? Who —"

"I'm in love with Neville Longbottom."

Daphne swallowed to keep from spitting out her tea, dabbing the corner of her mouth with her sleeve.

Pansy looked like a toddler waiting for praise after painting the walls with mud.

"You … I —" Surely Daphne had heard wrong. "What?"

"He's a pureblood."

"A blood traitor."

"I thought you of all people might understand." Pansy's tone changed, clutching her mug tighter than necessary. "As if you were some picturesque portrait of pureblood values. You had your fun at Hogwarts, gallivanting around with 一 "

"There was certainly no gallivanting."

Just whispered secrets. Sneaking around whenever the world looked away. Afternoons spent in secrecy by the Black Lake and nights finished with curtains drawn around four-poster beds.

"I'm making the proper choice … I'm marrying Marcus."

"But what if you didn't have to?" asked Pansy. "What if you could choose."

She would have chosen solitude over becoming Daphne Flint, but the union assured prosperity. A life of ease with reassurance that she and her family could be whole and together, that her parents might circle a realm close to pride.

Even a charm couldn't cut through the thickness of their silence. Pansy finally broke it with needless justifications.

"He likes my paintings ... I've been doing landscapes recently. Plants and trees and grounds."

"Thrilling."

Daphne didn't hide her disdain.

"It might help, you know …" Pansy trailed off, explaining, "Having a hobby."

"Is that what the Mind Healer told you?"

Pansy's lip grew thin. She sighed like a weight settled atop her chest. "I want us to be friends. Like we were before."

But nothing was the same, and some things couldn't be erased. History forced certain people apart just as it forced others together.

"Fine." Her tea had grown cold, but Daphne sipped it regardless. "I have a dress fitting at noon and dinner plans tonight. Can we continue this enthralling conversation another time?"

xXx

Hermione chewed her bite of toast, finding the inadequately buttered bread equally disappointing as her morning walk. Torrential downpour and stale bread aside, no distraction seemed capable of silencing her thoughts.

Four weeks had passed since their drunken night within the Muggle pub, with a nightcap that would have sent Malfoy's ancestors rolling in their graves.

How many times has it been since then?

Was it better to count (so she could figure out the precise number)? Or admit that she'd lost track (after running out of fingers while counting on both hands)?

He'd never be there when she woke. Staying meant something neither of them would admit, not even with Veritaserum on their lips or wands drawn to their throats.

The unspoken agreement tasted of sin, and she sipped the sweetness like poison-laced wine. The first few times, she could compartmentalise, her conscious formulating rationalisations to lessen each blow — mistake, impulse, temporary.

As if excuses could undo damaged pride.

She'd wave a white flag, let him cross the threshold into her flat as if hate and prejudice and years of torment were cross cancelled by moments of breathtaking intensity.

Bollocks.

She spread more jelly on her toast, hoping the raspberry preserves might make it taste better.

Their script was the same. She'd welcomed that maddening sneer and aura he touted like a wand. That level of authority, like a noble staking claim to land he didn't earn.

"What are you doing here?"

"I left my ring."

That gaudy, silver band he'd worn since they were in school. Not that she had spent much time considering its size, signet, or structure. Certainly, no time anticipating his owl, or the arrival that would inevitably come.

Their song and dance of denial rivalled the best-choreographed waltz. He'd always do or leave something that would warrant a return.

Today, there was no ring or watch. She'd have to scold his lack-of-slyness ('Lost your touch there, Malfoy?').

Because switching their wands on the premise of accidentally grabbing hers was equally impossible as it was obvious. The pseudo excuse nearly guaranteed his return tonight, if not sooner. Perhaps he expected her to be so furious that she'd floo to Malfoy Manor; demand her wand back, inadvertently turning the "mix-up" into an all-day excursion.

Prat.

The move was rude, not to mention peremptory and childish.

Since it was Saturday, with no work and away from prying eyes, Hermione could easily make do with his wand for a day.

As she sipped her coffee, she allowed another thought — how this was precisely what she needed…

Company. Physical connection without commitment. There were no strings risking attachment, no friendship worth ruining.

With that thought, she gave up on breakfast. Her toast was somehow both soggy and dry, and the preserves reminded her that raspberry was his favourite.

xXx

Back at the Manor, water pelted Draco's skin as he washed off certain scents in the shower. Hints of coconut, lilac, and lavender clouded his mind, unable to escape the pleasant memories of last night even if he'd wanted to.

"What are we doing?" she'd asked.

And he knew she hadn't just meant for that night, but his response had been "this," with one hand claiming the back of her neck as they kissed, silencing the ambiguity of what it all meant.

She was reckless. Ambitious. Perhaps he should have remembered that from school, reminding himself of the countless ways she could have earned herself a green tie versus a red one if her blood status were different.

The thought made his mind itch, clinging to cognitive dissonance despite knowing the line he walked was wearing thin.

Make a choice.

Except there wasn't one.

She was a Muggleborn, and while his family had never found it below them to utilise and walk over anyone to get what they wanted, anything resembling a match to a non-Pureblood was out of the question.

And all he could think about were those teachings, the vows — that birthright of promised power that turned men into masked monsters.

Maybe deep down, he'd always known it made no difference. She was no different. A Muggleborn witch: better at everything than he was, save for Quidditch and flying — where Potter bettered him for her.

Or maybe it had been a slow trickle, starting in sixth year. When he looked at a vanishing cabinet, hoping it would sprout a jinx and crush him. When the skin on his forearm seared from a mark he thought he'd wanted — but couldn't handle the weight of. Like when your eyes are bigger than your stomach, realising only after that the food was all poisoned anyway.

At what point could he admit that all he wanted was normalcy? Happiness that didn't come with conditions.

If he didn't ask too many questions or make too many promises, he could pretend this wouldn't capsize his entire existence.

Fuck.

After the shower, Draco's eyelids grew heavy, noting the blues and pinks of dawn creeping through his bedroom curtains. He cast a drying charm, looking at the wand in his hand.

He'd go back tonight. No way he was living with this vine-covered monstrosity any longer than necessary.

The game was foolish, needless by this point. But he'd do anything to make her bite her bottom lip, give that perfect show of disinterest while letting him brush back her hair.

Another pleasant thought came to mind — her flooing to the Manor and stealing it back herself. His parents would be horrified if they discovered her return, but a growing part of him found the idea more amusing than perturbing.

With thoughts of Granger and their night prior (and night soon to come), he pulled on pyjama bottoms, falling into bed face down before letting unconsciousness envelope every thought.

Draco fell asleep for what felt like two and a half minutes.

When he opened his eyes, grogginess met disorientation. Dawn had transformed into daylight, and the sound of someone clearing their throat made his head snap up.

He startled, cursing.

"Language, Draco."

Off to one side of his bed stood his mother, back straight a plank, one hand crossed over the other.

"It's noon."

"I was up late," he said, listing familiar excuses. "Working … I lost track of time."

Her jaw twitched, and the tense pause gave way to Draco's complaint.

"You could have knocked."

"I did," she said. "Three times. I was concerned."

Right. It probably looked like he'd been served a potion full of poison, lying face down and shirtless with drool down his chin.

How long had she been standing there, watching him breathe?

"I'm fine," he said. The real reason for his tiredness certainly didn't need mentioning. "Might be coming down with something. I'll take a Pepperup Potion later."

She decided against arguing, despite wearing a look rivalling the sharpness of glass. "I came to tell you that we're having the Greengrass' over for dinner tonight. I trust that I won't need to emphasise the necessity of your attendance."

"Yes. Fine." Draco hoped his swift agreement would translate into the same for her departure.

"You will be on your best behaviour."

He resisted an eye roll, mumbling agreement as she walked to his door.

"Oh … and Draco." She turned back around, her words dripping with venom. "A basic healing spell might be prudent next time. Surely even she could manage that."

Turning on her heels, she exited by way of slamming his door.

Healing spell?

Realisation and mortification washed over Draco as he scrambled from bed. He walked to the large trifold mirror in one corner of his room, turning to inspect his bare back.

He let out a string of curses, wondering if he could lie — say those four-finger nail marks raking down his spine were from a run-in with some low-hanging tree branches.

Mortification gave way to nausea.

Maybe that Pepperup potion wasn't such a bad idea after all.

xXx

He followed through with dinner.

Given their conversation earlier, he figured it best not to argue when his mother had such delicate knowledge in her arsenal.

Somehow avoiding a ghastly lecture on the entire situation, he knew better than to press his luck. If smiling and playing dress-up for a dinner party was all she requested, he was all the wiser not to fight it.

A Daily Prophet photographer should have been around to capture the grandeur his mother orchestrated. Smiles and greetings went around like the liquor poured when the Greengrass clan arrived at the Manor. Mr Greengrass looked gleeful as he made a pointless show of his two daughters, introducing them as if Draco hadn't spent the better part of his adolescence seeing both on a near-daily basis.

Nothing interested him less than the idea of courtship or betrothals, but one dinner party wouldn't kill him, traded for silence and permission to do whatever he wanted.

Daphne had brought Marcus Flint, who seemed keener on the suggestion of drinks in the parlour room than his betrothed. Draco hobbled through small-talk, noting how his old Slytherin captain wore a superiority complex like ill-fitting dress robes.

His mind wandered elsewhere. To the massive grandfather clock in one corner of the room, watching the minutes tick, praying the night would meet a premature end. Praying he could still make it to her flat tonight.

He had left his wand upstairs, horrified at the prospect of anyone seeing or recognising it.

"Draco, would you mind showing our guest around the back gardens?"

His mother's question shattered his reverie, resisting a comment on how it would have been less conspicuous to just lock him and Astoria in a room together.

The thought brought memories of Granger in his library. Memories that seemed happier than the position he now stood in, walking down the Manor's corridor with the youngest Greengrass in toe.

"Sorry about that," said Astoria once they were out of earshot. "My parents — … They aren't very discreet about this whole showcase, are they?"

He considered pretending he didn't notice or care.

"It's fine," Draco settled on. "Mine aren't any better."

The tiniest smile broke through. "You don't have to go touring me around. We can just sit in the foyer and wait for enough time to pass before going back in."

He considered the idea.

"It's fine. I'll take any excuse to stretch my legs — and run from another one of Marcus's Quidditch stories."

"They are rather dull," Astoria agreed. "Well, if you insist. Lead the way."

xXx

He didn't arrive that afternoon, nor as evening fell.

Hermione considered ridiculously rash decisions like snapping his wand in half or accidentally allowing it to catch fire just enough to render the wood unusable.

Instead, she clung to more distractions.

Come evening, the growling of her stomach was a reminder of how she hadn't eaten more than an unfulfilling piece of toast that morning.

She started in her fridge. Went back to reading. Then, in thirty minutes, she stared into her fridge again as if something could have changed. She cursed Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, wanting to make food appear from nothing.

Then she considered it. What better distraction than leaving her flat entirely?

So she grabbed Draco's wand and her keys, heading to the small Muggle grocer she frequented two streets over. The short walk allowed Hermione to ignore another tugging sensation in her stomach.

Where is he?

Better yet, why did she care? Nothing between them was a guarantee.

But his presence in her life left an imprint, bordering something close to comfort.

Even grocery shopping, the simplest things reminded her of him. How he preferred milk in his tea. How his sweet tooth rivalled hers, grabbing some lemon cake and chocolate biscuits, telling herself it was for no reason besides her own preference. To indulge in, very much alone.

She had a guilty mix of frozen meals and pre-packaged dinners in her basket upon checkout, deciding that she had no energy to make much else.

Dinner for one.

She preferred it that way.

Thanking the checker, Hermione walked out into the cool evening, carrying her overflowing bag. After one pedestrian crossing, a voice interrupted her peaceful solitude.

"Good 'aye, love. Quite the looker, aren't ya?"

Her head snapped up, almost dropping her bag.

A man walked towards her, grey hair peeking out from underneath a cloth-knit cap. He wore a long trenchcoat coat and flaunted a horribly unkempt appearance. He beamed at her, his smile missing a few teeth and the skin on his face more wrinkled than his clothing.

A shiver ran down her as she averted eye contact, crossing the street to rid the unwanted company.

Once across the street, she let her guard down, distracted by watching the Muggle hobble by on the opposite pavement.

"Well, well — what do we have here?"

This voice wasn't much of a warning. Within seconds, her groceries went flying.

"Don't make a sound," said the figure, cans and boxes rolling across the pavement as Hermione was drug into a desolate alleyway.

A wand digging into her throat drove home the point and she cursed, terror battling adrenaline.

This side of the street was darker, with no businesses to illuminate their setting. The unkempt man had been nothing but an Imperio'ed diversion; this person was waiting for her to cross the street into his trap.

Hermione choked back a scream, hysterics clocking in faster than strength. "What do you want?" she asked, her voice cracking.

It was too dark to make out any discernible features. The person was tall, a man, dressed in Muggle clothing.

"I have money —"

"Keep your money," said the man. "You and I both know that's not what I'm after."

This was him. Months of wonder, and nights of missed sleep, and all the hell she'd gone though — she was face to face with her tormentor.

Immobilized, helpless, trapped.

How could she have been so stupid? Travelling alone at night without her wand at the ready?

"What do you want?" Hermione repeated.

"You thought you were safe, didn't you?" he hissed. "Thought I'd forgotten about you?"

His breath smelled of Lacewing flies and Fluxwood. Memories of Polyjuice Potion flooded her mind.

Of course. As if he's use his real identity while capturing her.

She tried reaching in her pocket, but the man cast a blinding spell on her arms.

"You," he said hoarsely, reaching behind her.

She braced herself, ready for anything — apparition, or the tugging down of her trousers, or a knife digging into her skin. Instead, he reached around to grab the wand from her back pocket, inspecting it before throwing Draco's wand on the pavement.

He withdrew a phial from his coat, grabbing her mouth and forcing its content down her throat. She recognised the taste immediately, despite only having read about it.

The fast-acting antidote to Polyjuice burned, tasting of stale earth. It's mechanism of action binded to the potions, halting the effects immediately; however, without it, the drink yielded far different results.

Hermione reached. An again.

She regained temporary movement of her arms as the man grimaced in disgust, disarming the Petrificus Peribitis charm so she could wipe her face and empty the limited contents of her stomach beside the dumpster.

Hermione watched and waited to see if the man might lower his wand.

"Beautiful," he said. "So it is you."

He wanted to make sure she wasn't an imposter. He knew the Ministry had been watching. Knew they'd replaced her with someone else.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"It'll make sense soon."

But she dodge the charm meant to re-bind her arms.

Instead, Draco's wand whirled in her direction, her non-verbal and wandless Accio somehow working. She hadn't expected it, but the second's worth of shock was enough.

"How the —"

"Stupefy!"

But he dodged her spell.

She yelled it again, but the man apparated on the spot, deflecting her curse and sending it to nearby rubbish bins, toppling them over.

She didn't catch her breath before she sent the emergency spell. Two Aurors were by her side after what felt like seconds, asking questions.

"What did he look like? Did you see markings? What happened?"

She didn't know. She didn't see. She failed; he was right in front of her and she failed.

"His breath smelled like Polyjuice," Hermione must have repeated ten times because the Auror's department wouldn't give up, insisting she drop the memory in a pensieve for them to see.

"There's a naked Muggle passed out a few streets over," an on-call Autor said.

"Told you so," said Hermione.

"Bugger. Back to the drawing board."

Hermione was fairly certain their drawing board was less efficient than a Muggle Etch-a-sketch.

She counted her racing heartbeat.

One, two, three —

Reaching one hundred within the same minute, she gave up entirely.

Thanks for reading!

This chapter was non-beta'd so remember, kids: if you saw a typo/inconsistency/pacing error, no you didn't. Kidding. Really, drop a comment, and I'll try to fix it in a timely manner.

3-year update for anyone who cares: I finished nursing school, got my first big-girl job (in the ICU and six months before getting hit with a global pandemic … so that was an experience) and had a baby who is now 1!

Leave a review to let me know your thoughts (or just to say hi!)

Lots of love.

~ MMM