To Hermione's great relief, it was the housekeeper and not Malfoy that greeted them. A tall woman in her fifties with a countenance brooking no nonsense, Mrs. Tannenbaum helped Blaise, Hermione, and her parents out of the Floo and into Malfoy's flat. Monica and Wendell stumbled forward, dazed from the abrupt change in scenery. Mrs. Tannenbaum simply ushered them all into a sitting room with a full tea service, including biscuits shaped like her surname. There she gathered their bags, coats, and other cold-weather gear, and exited without a word. It was a warm welcome, all things considered. Hermione appreciated the crisp lines of royal icing on her biscuit as she took a tentative bite and gathered her bearings.
The flat drew the eye upward, thanks to vaulted ceilings. A nautilus-shaped skylight provided a glimpse of the darkening sky. Although it was spacious, modern white walls and black and white chequerboard marble flooring created the illusion of a much larger home. Instead of the old portraiture styles, the walls bore black and white photographs, including one of a woman in a rose garden. Despite facing away from the camera, Hermione quickly identified her as Narcissa Malfoy. She'd recognize that hair anywhere. And yet the photo didn't move.
Aside from the tufted black sofa and the glass table occupied by the tea service, few furnishings remained, and all were on theme. Light reflected off each spotless surface, unfiltered by colour or clutter of any kind. Hermione lightly tugged at the sleeves of her pale pink jumper, one of her favourites, stealing a glance at Blaise. Her arm burned again, but she transformed her gritted teeth into a grin. He returned her smile with a cat-like one of his own. It was if he felt perfectly at home, his back straight even as he sat on the edge of the sofa.
The sitting room opened up to a large kitchen, an expanse of white granite and stainless steel. There were more Muggle touches here than the photographs. Her parents would appreciate that. As she filed that thought away for later, Hermione jostled her teacup against its saucer as she witnessed the kitchen window slide from one side of the sink to the other, adjusting itself to capture the fading daylight. Monica gasped and reached for Wendell, who hadn't noticed the shifting pane, his eyes fixed on the nearby bar cart.
Mrs. Tannenbaum reappeared and invited the group through the hallway towards the bedrooms. Her reedy voice rippled across the marble. "This way, please."
Hermione and her parents' bedrooms lay across from each other. Although tempted to see what room Malfoy chose for her, she guided her parents inside their room to get settled.
The room on the whole appeared much softer in style compared to the main living area. Though it, too, was white, lush carpet greeted her feet, and the large bed was piled with a vast array of downy pillows. It struck Hermione, not for the first time, that Malfoy had many faces, and what her husband presented to the world and what he valued in terms of comfort could be quite different. While Monica and Wendell yawned, Blaise made suggestions on additional items Hermione's parents might need, and Hermione added them to the list Malfoy suggested she make for the housekeeper. After handing it off, Mrs. Tannenbaum gave a slight bow.
"There's no need for that," Hermione said. She hoped she'd come across as firm but gentle. "Thank you for helping us during our stay."
"Yes, thanks ever so much," Wendell chimed in, testing the mattress. Monica gingerly sat down beside him, exhaustion written all across her face.
Mrs. Tannenbaum established herself as the perceptive sort. "I'll be back with these tomorrow morning," she waved the list in the air. "Breakfast is at 6:30, and the linen closet is just down the way, across from Mr. Malfoy's room. Enjoy your evening."
Blaise didn't dawdle either, and after a brief confirmation of his arrival time tomorrow, he left Hermione to tuck her parents in.
"It's only for a few weeks," she assured them, smoothing Monica's hair back from her face.
After she turned the light out and shut the door, Hermione relaxed and rolled her shoulders forward and back. Only for a few weeks, she reminded herself as she took the doorknob of her room in hand. A sliver of light peeked out from under the door, so she at least wouldn't step into darkness.
She turned the knob and nearly gripped the frame in shock. The cosy room featured a large portrait window which looked over the city. A fireplace, a four-poster bed with a red velvet comforter, and a large mirrored armoire completed the furniture. Hermione opened it cautiously, finding her clothes and a large tray of glittering jewellery. Were these the famed Malfoy jewels?
She decided to freshen up and get to bed. Although she didn't anticipate sleeping much, she changed into her flannel pyjamas and tied up her hair. As she crossed the threshold of the bathroom, she quickly realised it wasn't hers alone.
The bathroom was an old-fashioned jack-and-jill. Two sinks shared a marble worktop, one claimed by her toiletries. The other looked unused, but Hermione felt unease creep into her stomach. Next to the full glass shower was a door identical to the one she'd just walked through.
Hermione checked that the lock worked, twisting it back and forth a few times. She hesitated. She had a feeling she knew what lay on the other side of the door. Did she really need to confirm it?
Malfoy's bedroom looked unchanged from the last time she saw it. She'd only seen the one room, and only out of necessity. The bed was wide, and the black sheets looked as soft as she remembered.
His voice curled around her like smoke. "Returning to the scene of the crime, Granger?"
She spun around to face her husband and laid a hand over her heart, as if the gesture would stop its racing. "Malfoy, you scared me. I didn't think you were here."
He gestured to the fireplace behind them. "Just got home," he said, his eyes travelling up and down her person. She experienced his leer as cruelty, like a rare butterfly in a frame, pinned while her wings fought against the glass.
"Your housekeeper left to get a few things. Blaise had some helpful suggestions. He'll be helping me, for the time being."
Malfoy strode across the room to his armoire and leafed through the clothing inside. It occurred to her that it matched the one in her room. "I suppose half that list is potions ingredients."
"Yes. Of course I'll go back and forth to the greenhouse as needed for ingredients I've stored to get through the winter." She realised she sounded more like a squirrel than a scientist.
"I'm sure there's a lot you'll need that would be considered black market."
"I'm using most of it off-label, as they say."
"I'm sure you are," he snickered.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Theo's kept me apprised of your habit."
"I don't have a potions habit," she said, hackles rising.
He dismissed her claim with a wave as he lay pyjama bottoms and a dressing gown on the upholstered bench at the foot of his bed. "There's no use denying it, I've seen the ingredients you buy."
"They're not for me." Her voice rose far above her normal volume.
He continued avoiding eye contact, shoving past her into the jack-and-jill bathroom. "We won't let it get out, if that's what you're worried about. It'd ruin both of us. My fate is tied to yours, whether we like it or not." He turned the knob for hot water.
"Malfoy!" Her shout ricocheted off every hard surface. "They're for my parents, okay?"
Malfoy shut off the water and finally met her eyes. His searched hers for an extended, uncomfortable silence, punctuated only by the slow drip of the tap. His question came out in a deceptively neutral tone. "Why would your parents require—"
She wasn't ready to have this conversation with him, especially not near a toilet they were apparently meant to share. "I like the room."
"...Good. It served as my personal library before your arrival. Try not to re-catalogue everything." As if accepting her avoidance, he turned the water back on and washed his face.
She stayed rooted to the floor, attempting to ignore the smell of his soap. Lavender, maybe?
"Was there anything else?"
She sent him her patented glare that used to have Ron running for the hills. No effect. He simply continued to move through his routine. "How long do we have to keep this up?"
"There's a winter celebration at the end of December, before Christmas," Malfoy said, drying his hands.
"The Solstice Ball. I've heard of it."
London's annual Solstice Ball, a secretive formal affair, attracted wizards and witches from far and wide. Invitations could not be bought or transferred to anyone else, and therefore were highly coveted by social climbers and party lovers alike. Many a Ministry career sank or floated based on whispered conversations on the dance floor. Sacred Twenty-Eight families traditionally announced engagements at the ball, signalling the end of years of courtship for bright-eyed young Pureblood couples. In recent years, the guest list diversified, with Half-bloods and even Muggleborns in attendance for the night of feasting, dancing, and dramatic displays of magic.
He brushed past her again, more gently than before. Hermione followed him into his bedroom. Malfoy picked up his pyjamas and looked back at her pointedly.
"What?"
"What was it like, the barn where you were raised?"
His meaning hit her like a bludger to the skull, and she whipped around to give him privacy. The hair on her arms raised at the sound of leather gliding through metal as Malfoy undid his belt, and she felt a flash of warmth at the soft fall of his street clothes. It startled her when he resumed speaking.
"Pansy thinks it's best that we make an appearance together. We'll pose for photos, dance, rub elbows, perform our best impressions of a happy couple and leave. And you won't stay here in the flat forever, either. We'll get you something in the same building, although I doubt anyone will track our comings and goings over time. There will probably still be some occasions where we'll want to present a united front. You can count on me to be on my best behaviour and I hope I can rely on you as well."
"Pansy's involved now?"
"She has a PR firm. She's the best at what she does."
Malfoy, Theo, Blaise, Pansy. Hermione was drowning in a pit of snakes.
The shuffling of fabric ceased, and Hermione surmised that he'd finished changing clothes. She spun to face him, her fists and teeth clenched. "I don't plan on attending anything past the Solstice Ball. I'm sure it surprises you, considering your reputation as a peacock, but I have no desire to re-enter the spotlight. I don't need a flat in this building. I'll return to Cyclamen."
Malfoy stood, legs wide and arms crossed. His wand stuck out, tucked under his right elbow, but Hermione ignored the potential danger, distracted by the open dressing gown flowing over his broad chest. "What makes you think Cyclamen Cottage is still yours to return to? You broke our agreement."
"Our agreement, but not the Vow," Hermione pointed out.
His eyes narrowed, but he didn't deny she was right. "It was some risk you took, coming back. You're as bad as Saint Potter, so used to everything working out. He couldn't stand to lose even a House Cup," He paused. "This isn't the Cotswolds. While you're here, don't go anywhere unaccompanied if you can't manage a glamour or Polyjuice."
"Fine, as long as Cyclamen remains mine. As long as we're setting boundaries, Harry's off-limits. And so are my parents. Don't even speak to them," she threatened.
"I wasn't planning on it. What would we even have to discuss? 'So, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, how did you raise such a delightful little witch?'" His voice dripped with sarcasm.
"I'm sure you'd have them spouting out anti-Muggleborn sentiments in no time."
"That's changed," he said abruptly, setting his wand on the nightstand. He turned to face her. "For me, Theo, Pansy — everyone I still associate with. I don't tolerate slurs. I was awful, Granger. I swallowed every bit of nonsense my father fed me. But someone… close to me showed me the light. We'll never get along, you and I. Hate me all you want. I deserve it for everything I put you through. But I will never lay my hand or my wand on you. You have my solemn vow."
"I — um," Hermione stammered, stunned at his confession. Malfoy didn't believe those same things anymore? His face was sincere, his left hand slightly shaking. Was he nervous?
She stood in his bedroom, in his flat, in his city. She was trapped here with him for the next few weeks, at least. Hermione had worried he'd cage her like an animal, force her to perform for the world at large without care for her well-being. But here he was, acting as if she held the keys to the entire zoo.
Who changed his mind? Theo?
Another Malfoy mystery she didn't need to uncover in her short stay. Curiosity burned through her brain, but she told herself there were better uses for it. Besides, it would take much more than an apology for Hermione to trust the man in front of her. But she couldn't help but admire the way the lamplight washed over his face, earnest, and somehow, younger.
Malfoy began to turn down his bed, signalling that the moment had passed. He pushed a pile of decorative pillows to the left side of the bed.
When he spoke again, his voice wasn't gentle, but it wasn't scathing, either. "Pansy's coming early tomorrow so we can get our story straight. I suggest you get some rest. If there's anything else you need, Mrs. Tannenbaum is probably back by now."
"There's jewellery in the armoire," Hermione blurted out. She hadn't meant to mention it. But the picture of Narcissa in the garden, the way her gloved hand met the grayscale rose petals, weighed heavily on her mind.
He froze, gripping his top sheet. "It belongs to the matriarch of the Malfoy family," he paused as if contemplating his next words carefully. "Which is you."
"How long has she —"
Her voice failed her as she immediately realised she'd said the exact wrong thing. Hermione gulped as Malfoy's long legs carried him across the floor in seconds.
There was no mistaking the swell of anger in his eyes as he strode closer, backing her into the bathroom. She opened her mouth to say something, but Malfoy had already shut the door in her face, locking it from the other side.
Draco pressed his back against the cold door and didn't move until he heard Granger extinguish the light and shut her door. With a sigh, his eyes snapped open and he ran a hand through his hair.
Granger was intolerable at the best of times. They'd only ever interacted in small doses, and it always ended in tears or bloodshed. Now they shared not only a home, but also a loo. As long as she stalked the halls, he'd have no peace.
He glanced at the four-poster, and instead of an empty bed, his memory of their night together transposed itself on the sheets. It had ended so fast, which was to be expected of a first time. His body charged forward, hungry and desperate, even as his brain warned it would be his only time. His heart cried out for another, its sorrow buried by Occlumency.
But when he was alone — so miserably alone — he allowed himself to recall the long flushed column of her neck, her arched back, her sculpted legs. The scent of honey in her wild hair, the taste of it on her soft skin. The way she —
"Oi, Draco," A gruff voice from the fireplace interrupted his reverie. "Nice dressing gown, ponce."
Greg Goyle's face loomed large, green, and bulbous.
Draco raised his Occlumency walls to cover his shock. He hadn't heard from Goyle in years. Draco had no desire to speak to him after Narcissa's funeral, and their big fight. It had been a falling out for the ages, splitting their long-standing friend group into Theo and Draco versus Daphne and Greg. Blaise loved to say he was a neutral party, but Draco knew his position was political, and therefore he straddled the fence of the two sides.
"Greg, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Draco modulated his voice to an appropriate mix of surprised and welcoming of the intrusion.
"It's been too long. And before you say anything, it's my fault. I shouldn't have had so much to drink at a funeral, and you know, it was so close after we lost Vince… I'm sorry."
Draco kept his guard up. "I appreciate it. I'm sorry, too. I should've contacted you sooner. My grief consumed me, and I lashed out at my oldest friend. It wasn't right."
Goyle seemed to accept the false apology and barreled on. "And your grief now, well it's unimaginable, mate. I heard and I knew I had to get in touch with you. We all loved Lucius. He was like a father to all of us."
"Yes, yes he was," Draco prepared himself for the next lie. "He was the best father a boy could have."
Goyle's friendly smile twisted. "I know. That's why I found it so odd — Daph did, too — that there've been no services announced."
Ah, so Goyle was here to shame him. He could handle that. "I'm sorry to say my father's body was in no state to be displayed, and I worried about who might come out of the woodwork. He didn't care for anyone to make a scene, as you know. And after Mother's funeral, it didn't feel appropriate."
"I thought you might say that. You're a considerate son."
The compliment fell flat. Goyle was always a terrible liar.
"Thank you, Greg, for your condolences," Draco said with a nod, intending to end the conversation. The bed called his name.
He didn't take the hint. "That's why I took it upon myself to organise a vigil for Lucius. Nothing big, you understand. Feel free to invite Nott Jr. if you like. Tosser still owes me an apology, but I'll let bygones be bygones, you know? Now more than ever, we need to stick together."
Draco's blood ran cold. By 'we' did Goyle mean Purebloods, or Death Eaters? Draco hadn't had many opportunities, beyond charitable donations, to show society he had moved beyond the Mark on his arm and all the hateful ideology it represented. It was public knowledge where the Malfoy family stood during the war, and his trial and subsequent stint in Azkaban did him no favours. Wizarding society rarely evolved, and therefore didn't expect its members, let alone a Pureblood heir, to change his stripes.
Theo, meanwhile, told Goyle exactly where he could stuff his opinions at the last funeral they'd attended together. It descended into an all-out duel, and Goyle, outmatched, slunk away to lick his wounds. But the man bore signs of Slytherin despite his limited wit, and Draco thought perhaps he'd also been plotting his revenge.
Goyle cleared his throat. "I'm sorry if I overstepped. It makes sense that you didn't do something big, and a gravestone would be covered in graffiti. I'm sure the Muggleborns would dance on it night and day. It's just that Lucius did so much for us, and he deserves a final send-off."
"I'll think about it." Draco, eager to end the conversation, made an uncharacteristic misstep. He opened a proverbial window, and Greg climbed through.
"Come on, Draco. What's there to think about? He was your dad," his former best friend wheedled.
"When and where?"
"Tomorrow, nine o'clock. The Greengrass property, in the mausoleum. Very private, only a few trusted friends will be there. They only want to support you in this difficult time."
More like they wanted to sniff out his loyalties and anoint a new leader. Lucius, to Draco's knowledge, continued to support the cause, even after Draco cut him off. He tamped down his rising panic. Plus, he couldn't face the Greengrasses. He hadn't been back there since… he couldn't finish that thought. "I don't know if I'm ready for that."
"It'd mean a lot to Daph. She's torn up about Lucius, you know. So much good blood spilled. Too much, but we'll change that, eh?"
Good blood spilled. Draco's throat caught, images of his mother and bride-to-be's lifeless bodies flooding his mind. He hid his discomfort with a cough and simply nodded.
"One more thing... what's the deal with Granger? Throwing them off the scent?" His too-wide grin was back.
As Draco discovered in their second year, Goyle could in fact read. So of course Goyle had read the paper and knew of his marriage to Granger. The meeting with Pansy couldn't come soon enough. He and Granger needed to get on the same page, fast.
"Off the scent of what?" He let his other question remain unspoken. Who was 'them'?
Goyle winked. "I see you. We'll talk about it at the vigil tomorrow."
And with a flash of green light, the odious man was gone, leaving Draco alone in the deafening silence.
