A/N: I love how I can't commit to Saturdays or Sundays for these chapters. Let's just say that they'll be a new chapter every weekend. It was late Saturday night when I finished writing this, and my eyes were too tired to proofread it. I am amazed at the writers who regularly create chapters that are 5k+ words. Kudos to you all.
I really appreciated the boost in comments on my last chapter. Another warm hug to you all. Now, let's get to it.
The library is unrecognizable once we're finished with it. It no longer has the overwhelming and endless depths it once had. Instead, it's quiet and intimate and looks like the sort of space that you would go to read. Not wander around aimlessly until you've found what you're looking for. No, now it is the place you'd be looking for.
The furthest wall has replaced its broken glass. It is now one giant window, from floor to ceiling and wall to wall, overlooking the hedges and gardens outside. In front of it sits a cozy fireplace across from a patched green couch that wouldn't belong in any of the other rooms within Malfoy Manor. Between them is a darkened grey rug with a glass table atop it. It's just large enough for a tea tray or two. A study table is tucked behind the couch, ready for purposeful reading.
There are four display cabinets closer to the library's entrance. These are Tomsy's creations, who insisted on sharing some of the Malfoy heirlooms in an accessible way. One holds the ancient wand of Armand Malfoy, held up by a metal wand holder with the family crest over the seam. Another keeps the rarest book in the library. Something written by one of the earliest named wizards in history. Granger had to stop herself from telling me all about it, amazed that it survived the fire. She suggested that it may have had a protective spell placed on it at some point during its hundreds of years in the family. The third cabinet holds various vintage potion bottles, arranged so that they almost look like an art piece. And one is empty. We couldn't decide what to fill it with.
And then there are the books. Towering bookshelves as high as the ceiling fill up the walls. Granger had insisted on sorting them by genre and author's last name and delighted in setting up her own system that I never entirely wrapped my head around. But they're all there, visible the second you walk into the space. Books begging to be read, "as they should."
After hours of renovation, Tomsy and Granger stand together near the entrance and between the cabinets to take in the complete change in the room. Meanwhile, I find myself sprawling my limbs across the couch, ready to fall asleep in front of the fire.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Granger asks. I let Tomsy reply in the affirmative, suddenly realizing that I care more to sleep than stand and wonder if we missed anything.
"Let's just hope that this one doesn't burn it down," she tells Tomsy to make him chuckle.
"Alright," I sigh. "I think we're done here."
"You're probably right," Granger says, realizing how dark the sky has become on the other side of the glass. "I should head home."
I walk Granger to the fireplace that is connected to the Floo network. We walk in silence. What could she be thinking about? One of the many book titles we came across, I imagine. Or how she would have arranged things differently, suiting them to her more contemporary style. Maybe she's just glad to be leaving and is filled with relief that she didn't touch another cursed book.
"I'm back at the Wizengamot tomorrow. There is a trial for a wizard that used magic in front of a group of muggles. They've been obliviated, but he's refusing to explain why he did it. I imagine that he was trying to impress somebody and got carried away," Granger starts as we near the fireplace.
"Hmm." So, she won't be here tomorrow.
"Well, I guess I'll be seeing you."
She stands in front of the fireplace, taking her time before she eventually asks for the Floo powder. Why didn't I have it ready?
"I guess so," is all I can say. The words float in the air between us as she steps into the fireplace, disappearing in a flash of green.
What home does she have waiting for her? She'd mentioned a flat where she lives alone. Perhaps she earned some gold for her efforts in the war and could afford something nice. Or maybe her muggle family had more money than I'd ever wondered about. How did they make a living, anyway?
As I crawl back into the comfort of my four-poster, I imagine her lying in a clean apartment, surrounded by a deep red comforter, and falling asleep to the sound of a busy London outside her window. Would she be comfortable spending six months trapped there without the freedom to leave? I'll never know what it looks like or what anybody else's home looks like other than my own. But at least somebody is willing to come and share my surroundings with me, even if it only takes up a little bit of my time.
Valencia arrives the following day, apologizing for postponing our last meeting.
"Have you been up to anything interesting?" She asks as she takes her coffee from Tomsy and arranges herself in the study.
"No," I say, wondering what she would say if she found out that I'd nearly burned down the library. Her eyes tell me what I needed to know as they glint with the knowingness of somebody who has heard otherwise.
"I have something for you, by the way. I would have sent it by owl, but I'd only just received it yesterday and thought that it might be a nice surprise." She holds up a thin envelope with a black wax seal holding it together.
"Is it from my mother?"
"Yes."
I feel a small leap somewhere inside of my chest as a smile forms on my lips. I reach out my hand for the letter, only for it to be pulled back.
"You can have it after. Maybe it will encourage you to do a little bit more talking than usual, hmm?"
An image of me pulling out my wand and putting a hex on her crosses my mind. I could grab it from her cold fingers and punish her for taunting me with something so personal. But my hand doesn't instinctively go for where my wand would be, and the idea leaves my mind as soon as it enters it.
"I was actually thinking about things the other day. About how there could be some truth in what you said. About me being "born into the wrong family" and all of that."
"And what did those thoughts result in?"
"I couldn't help but wonder when I started agreeing with people like my father. And I can hardly remember a time when his actions didn't make sense. I do recall a time right before I went to Hogwarts. Father pulled me aside and said that he wanted to talk to me about something important, and I remember being excited that he wanted to have an adult conversation with me. He said that I would be meeting a lot of new people when I went to school, and how important it was to align myself with the best kinds."
"And what kinds of people were those?"
"The pureblood kind. Or even the half-blooded, if they were special. But it was around this time that I started hearing the word 'mudblood' an awful lot."
Valencia pulls out her quill, scribbling down some notes. She nods at me to keep going.
"You said that the earlier the memories, the better. That's probably the earliest one that I can think of."
"Did your father tell you that you should be avoiding these mudbloods?"
I nod. "He said that they were a threat to our family and our magic. And to the magic of everybody else who deserved it."
"Did you believe him?"
"I didn't have any reason to think otherwise."
"Draco, that helps. It sounds like you never had any outside sources to teach you about diversity in the wizarding world. But there are quite a few years between this memory and the war, and the Wizengamot is going to wonder why you never started thinking for yourself when you were at Hogwarts. What are we going to tell them?" She asks like she knows the answer but that I should know, too.
She's right. There were years where I could have realized what trouble I was getting myself into. All of those years of taking Muggle Studies and sitting next to mudbloods in class. I could have realised that they weren't all bad.
I decide not to say anything.
"When did you realize that your father was a Death Eater?"
"I didn't really know what a Death Eater was until the second year. My mate Theo told me about it sometime after the Chamber of Secrets was opened. He spoke very highly of them and his father, and he even said that he would have become one, too, if given an opportunity."
Theo. The boy who I'd grown up with. We would sneak off to play while our parents spoke over tea. Our friendship wasn't by chance but by Father's wishes. I didn't want to know where he was now.
"To me, it sounds like you had no positive influences in your life that promoted something other than blood purity."
She was starting to sound more like a therapist than a lawyer. Maybe Snape should have hired one of those, too.
"But I'm still the bad guy even if it was my destiny to become one."
"Are you the bad guy?"
"I was." And maybe that would never change.
She nods slowly, a sadness passing over her usually guarded face.
"I know that you've done some bad things, Draco. There's no getting around it. But our world is trying to move forward and leave the war in the past. It is my hope that the Wizengamot will realize that punishing you further won't do anybody any good and that your intentions were to be loyal to your family and not to some greater evil."
Sure, sending me back to Azkaban might not do anybody any good, but I'm sure that people like Olivia would be happy to hear the outcome. A memory of her face sticks in my head and doesn't go away until Valencia pulls out Mother's letter again.
"Here," she slides it over. She grabs the rest of her things and pulls away from the desk, leaving me behind as I hold the envelope in my hands. My name is written across the front in thick ink, and I run my fingers over the lettering imagining how Mother felt to write them.
Valencia has left by the time I've peeled the envelope open.
Draco,
I've heard that you're giving Miss Collins more work than she might have expected. Please try your hardest to stay out of here. If not for yourself, do it for me. I'll be able to come back home someday. I'd like you to be there when I do.
Love,
Mum
P.S. I'd love to hear more about this book. I'm not allowed to have any in here, unfortunately.
I read her words over a dozen times before setting down the paper. Immediately, I summon Tomsy to fetch parchment to write something back. I ask him for a copy of Crafted Creatures, too, and he brings me Granger's. I open it to the first page and carefully copy all the words, filling pieces of parchment with the first chapter for Mother to read. If she can't have her own books, this will have to do.
I slip in another piece of parchment behind the pages of the copied Crafted Creatures.
I'll try my best.
Love,
Draco
The next morning I am greeted with an emotion that I haven't experienced in ages: optimism. It's not loud or sure of itself, but it's buzzing around my head like hope. Not that I will spend my life outside of Azkaban or successfully repent for all of my sins, but that there is something out there worth living for. It must have been Mother's letter that has reminded me of it.
I use the only positive emotion in my recent memory to fuel me throughout the first few hours of my day. I even thank Tomsy when he brings me my coffee, taking him back for a moment before he gets the second.
"Y-you're welcome, Master D-Draco," he stutters in surprise.
The mirror gets to see my face properly for the first time in ages. I find myself approaching it with caution after my late-morning shower, rubbing my palm over the condensation and revealing a pale blond face starring at me. The amount of darkness under my eyes catches me off guard, and I run my fingers into the crevasses as I survey the rest of my face. My hair has grown out and is almost long enough to be tied back. Nearly long enough to look like my father.
My skin remains mostly smooth, but light hairs peck out across my upper lip and threaten to grow longer. Granger has written that she plans on popping by later in the day, and I can't help but wonder if she will notice and think of it as a childish attempt at growing facial hair. I take a razor to it just in case, bringing me back to bare skin.
Tomsy has taken some of my worn clothes to the wash. I push past the robes in my closet to find dark trousers, similar to my usual wardrobe, and a dark green button-up shirt that almost looks like silk. It's more casual than the rest, so I throw it on and tuck it into my bottoms. Proper Slytherin colour-coordination for the day, I suppose.
It's hours after lunch when Granger stops in.
"Sorry," she starts. "I meant to be here sooner, but Miss Lacework asked me to write up a few reports on our trial yesterday, and the day got away from me."
I hadn't even noticed she'd been late.
"Well, Granger, you've just about thrown off my whole day. I had so many plans that I've got to push back now."
"Oh, shove off," she grins, and I feel the same sparkle in my chest as the morning.
She looks more formal than usual, wearing a Ministry-approved cloak. She quickly moves to take it off as she starts walking further into the manor, asking me where she can leave it. "And don't ask Tomsy."
Instead, I take it from her as she reveals a long skirt and t-shirt that shouldn't match. Her arms are mostly bare, showing more of her skin than I'd seen since the Yule Ball. Perhaps I hadn't taken the time to notice, but she looks different – older, even – at least compared to when I saw her screaming on our floor and then later amongst the destruction at Hogwarts. She's got bags under her eyes that match mine. Her skin is slightly worn as it had been through something. She's gotten thicker, too, by the look of it, in a way that suggests that she isn't too busy fighting against a Dark Lord to remember to make dinner. It suits her. My body could use the same treatment.
Granger starts walking us toward the library without a second thought.
"I think I've seen enough of that room for a lifetime," I say to stop her as I place her cloak on one of the chaise lounges in the hallway.
"That's fair," Granger replies with a frown.
The sadness on her face shoots through me, and I have to hold myself back from correcting myself and changing our path back to the library. Despite her changes to the room and our scrubbing it from any traces of Death Eaters, the books still remind me that this manor hates her. The magic throughout the walls wants to be rid of her, and no amount of my growth or changing opinions could sway them.
Where else is there to go? I could take her to my bedroom. There is plenty of room for sitting up there. No. That would be improper. And it might send the wrong message. Instead, my feet end up taking us to another one of the sitting rooms that we have.
"What?"
"What?"
"I caught you rolling your eyes just now," she points out.
"Oh." I hadn't realized that I had. "I was just thinking about how silly it is that this damn house has so many sitting rooms."
"Oh."
We sit opposite a coffee table, and Tomsy brings us tea. We each take a long sip, looking around the room as if waiting for an opening.
"So, have you read any more books lately?" She finally asks.
"I can't say that I have. I guess I can't lie and say that I haven't got any books around, considering just how long it took to sort them all."
She looks displeased as if I've taken away the possibility of having another good literary conversation.
"Tell me about what you're reading," I suggest, and her entire demeanor perks up.
Granger starts sharing her most recent purchase. It's a book about the history of magical schools in other countries, with a particular focus on North American schools. She says that there have been various attempts at creating more, but the political climate there is very different, and they have a hard time agreeing with the muggle leaders on where to place them.
"I could lend it to you if you'd like," she finally finishes.
"I feel like I've just read the entire thing."
"Sorry."
"No need to apologize. It's quicker this way," I grin.
She suppresses a smile as we go back to an awkward stand-off of who will decide the following conversation. Is this what friendship is? Sitting across from each other and waiting for the next thing to talk about? Waiting to see who is brave enough to suggest something? Working on the library together made it seem so easy. There was always an action or decision to discuss. The need to stay busy filling in the gaps when there was nothing to say.
"You know what, I've been meaning to brew a potion for ages, and I haven't gotten around to it because I don't have all of the ingredients at home. Might I ask if the manor has a room for that sort of thing? I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't have all of the top-quality ingredients laying around."
It's as if she's read my mind about our inefficient attempts at friendship.
"Fortunately, we do."
I lead us down the corridor to a room I haven't visited in ages. I've had no need for potions, and most of them require a wand for heating and cooling and the like. It's apparent that the Ministry rummaged through our cabinets, taking some of the riskier ingredients like troll's blood and phoenix tears. The state of it is unlike how they left the library, though, and it looks messy instead of stolen from.
"What do you need to brew, then?" I ask as Granger steps into the room, taking in the vastness of it.
"I've actually been experimenting with the Draught of Peace. I've found that the normal potion doesn't last nearly long enough, and so I've played around with some of the ingredients and think that I've sorted something that can have a long-term effect. I've been testing it out on myself, of course, and this last theory might be the thing to do it."
She writes down the list of ingredients she'll need. It includes syrup of hellebore, porcupine quills, powdered unicorn horn, and plenty of powdered moonstones. We have more than enough of all of it.
"It's the same recipe that we learned in school, for the most part. I've tried changing up the order and adding additional ingredients. Adding more porcupine quills almost lost me my eyebrows," she laughs. "But this time, and I'm quite sure of it, adding more moonstone at the end and then letting it sit before giving it another simmer should do the trick."
"Right."
Granger scribbles down the instructions for my benefit. She could do it all on her own, and I could leave the room without her noticing, but she pretends to need me to stir or shake ingredients as she does the rest.
"You're quite good at this," she says with a look of surprise after I manage to keep up with her for the first dozen steps.
"Don't look so surprised. I was always good at potions. As good as you, I reckon."
Granger lowers the heat as I add in another seven drops of hellebore. Meanwhile, she crushes up more moonstone until it is in a fine powder form and sprinkles it in as I stir.
"Now what?" I ask.
"We need to leave it for a few hours off heat. All the ingredients will sink to the bottom. And then we'll come back and agitate it until the potion turns turquoise, and then we'll simmer it for another hour and bottle it."
"How did you figure this out?"
"Trial-and-error."
"Ah."
The realization dawns on us that we're going to have to spend another few hours taskless. We return to the sitting room and back to our respective couches, only this time we make eye contact while we wait for the other to speak.
"The truth is that potions weren't my best skill. I followed everything by the book. And then Harry found this stupid book in school, and it had all these modifications and new potions written in. And I was so mad that I had never thought to try some of it. So, after the war, I started fiddling with some of the potions that never felt perfect."
"I always liked potions. Spells never felt complicated enough. But potions give you something to feel connected to." It's only after I finish speaking that I realize I'd never really thought about it before. About why Potions was always the class I looked forward to, even on the coldest mornings.
"It ended up being Snape's book that Harry was learning from."
We hadn't spent much time talking about the war together. Only what came before or after. But the urge to talk about it, about somebody we both shared in common, was finally making its way up to my throat.
"It must have been tough for you to find out that Snape was a traitor," I say with sympathy in my voice. It even surprises me.
"What do you mean?"
"That he was still a Death Eater. Even while teaching at Hogwarts."
She pulls back and thinks for a moment. I see the second that something clicks into place for her. There's something about watching her brain work that feels exciting.
"You don't know then, do you?"
"Know what?"
"That Snape was on our side."
"What do you mean?" Did she still think that he wasn't a double agent?
"Oh, Malfoy! Snape was quite complicated, sure. But in the end, his allegiance was actually to Dumbledore and the Order."
I'm careful not to speak right away. To tell her that what she is saying is rubbish. Because none of it is real. Yes, Snape always seemed to want to help me out and protect me from further harm. But even after his death, he was helping a Death Eater steer clear of Azkaban.
"But Granger, he killed Dumbledore."
"Only so that you wouldn't have to!"
"This is- What? You aren't making sense."
"Let me start from the beginning, then."
Granger starts weaving a tale of how Snape had fallen in love with Lily Potter. He decided to work for the Order and vow to take down Voldemort when she died. Apparently, he played his part well and didn't reveal his truth until the end. And even then, Voldemort never knew.
She finishes, and I take a long pause. It can't be true. "I've seen him do some terrible things, though."
"We all did. And some of it can't be fully excused. But we might not have been able to win without his help, Malfoy. He wasn't all good, but he certainly wasn't all bad. He was a hero in the end."
Was anything that I grew up learning true? My parents led me to believe that people like Granger were the scum of the Earth. Snape let me think that he was working with them and agreed on the supremacy of blood purity. He had killed for me and had done things that Granger should never learn about. But in the end, it was all for love…
"Are you okay?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Well, you haven't said anything in about eight minutes," she says. "Tell me what you're thinking.
She stands up, and before I have time to finish wondering where she is going, she places herself next to me. Our knees touch and a shiver runs through my bones. Touch remains so unfamiliar.
"I'm sorry, I thought you would have known. Especially when I heard that Snape had hired your defense. He really never told you?"
"It's not like we were friends, Granger. We were working on the same side. At least, I thought we were."
"But were you working on that side?"
"What?"
"Did you believe in Voldemort?"
"What? Why would you think I didn't?"
"Well, that night in the manor. You didn't tell them that it was Harry. I thought you were protecting us."
"I don't know what I was doing, Granger."
The night comes back to me, and I can feel the images of it all spreading through my brain. The Golden Trio, held by snatchers and fearing for their lives. Potter looking like an idiot with a fat face, willing me not to tell through his gaze. I didn't. No, I couldn't. And then Granger ends up on the floor anyway, so my attempts at keeping anybody from getting hurt were rubbish.
"About that night," I start. I want to apologize. To say that I should have tried harder to protect her.
"Don't bother," she says, grabbing at her forearm. It's then that I see the thick scars on her skin. Mudblood. Something that she would have to look at every day for the rest of her life. The tips of my fingers buzz as I imagine tracing my fingers across the raised skin, feeling the connection between our experiences of that night.
"Granger."
"It wasn't your fault. I consider myself lucky to have gotten through the war with only a silly little scar. Most people weren't that lucky."
She was right. Some of them weren't that lucky because of me.
"I don't think you're a villain, Malfoy."
"Then what am I?"
"An arse, maybe." She laughs at this, and I do, too.
"Then can I apologize for being an arsehole?"
"Sure."
A puff of air escapes my nose, and I smile, nodding in acceptance at my years of bullying. But I wasn't just a schoolyard bully. I was a right, proper arsehole. I had fun with it, too. Something was exciting about the other houses being afraid of us. But when did it start crossing a line? Did Snape go through the same experiences when he was in school? Would I have changed sides eventually, too?
"I'm waiting," she says in a sing-song voice. It's almost cute.
"Okay, you win. I'm sorry for being an arse at school. But I think that everything up to third year is fair game, considering you threw a good enough punch."
"Oh, you remember that, huh?" She laughs again.
"How could I forget," I joke, pulling my hand up to my nose and pretending to be in pain.
She slaps my shoulder gently and keeps up her laugh. It's infectious, and we laugh together until it eventually fizzles out. It's at that time that I look at her. Her pupils widen in surprise when I do, and her head moves backward ever so slightly. She probably doesn't even realize that it does.
"But in all honesty, Hermione." Her name feels foreign on my tongue. I almost pull myself back at it and change it to what she's always been known as. Granger. But changing paths doesn't feel as right as her name did, so I keep going without thinking ahead, letting the truth spill out and feel as uncensored as ever. "I am sorry. About being a dick. For not stopping my aunt when she hurt you. For not being as brave as Snape was and changing sides. I don't know if I ever even thought I had a choice. Maybe I would have done something better than just not identifying you and your friends if I did. I can't take anything back, and I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. But I'm sorry."
It almost feels like a dream, or like a nightmare, to be so honest with somebody that I would have cursed only a few short years ago. They're words that would only feel natural in a dream, yet they come out with ease. It's Granger that looks like she's holding back when I finish, and I have to nudge her to get her to say something.
"And I'm sorry for punching you in the face."
"No, you're not.
"No, I'm not."
We wear matching grins for another moment before she softly places her hand on my knee. She pulls her gaze back to me again as I hold myself firmly in place. Nothing inside of my body feels normal.
"I do forgive you, I think. For all of it. I've learned a lot about myself this year, and I know that holding on to grudges isn't who I am."
"Thank you."
I need her to know that it's not that I don't expect her to forgive me, but it's that I don't deserve it. Maybe she wouldn't be saying these things if she knew the range of things I've been capable of. The blood I've forced others to shed or the unforgivable curses that I've cast. But she looks too content to ruin the moment, and I let her sit with our mutual agreement for a moment longer.
"We should check on the potion," she remembers as she pulls her hand away from me.
We return to check on its colouring, and she admits that it's not quite ready. "It should be soon. I'm sorry, I know it's late."
"It's fine."
We leave the potion again, and I let her lead me back to the library this time. She seems compelled to return, and it's not worth reminding her of why I don't want to go back. She takes a seat on the couch and pulls out her wand, flicking a flame into the fireplace in front of us. We sit in silence, but this time it's a comfortable one. There isn't the same air of awkwardness or urge to speak as before.
My eyes move from the warm glow of the fire to the contrast of the night sky seen from the window next to it. By now, it must be after midnight, and the moon competes with the fire for the brightest light glowing in the darkened room. It's peaceful. I look over at Granger, who is mesmerized by the dancing flames, and dare myself to try occluding again. It feels comfortable enough to try.
I sink into the feeling of it. Storing memories and tucking them away behind classrooms and house halls. I try to hold away the knowledge of Snape's trickery, but the question of why stops me. He was using his status to protect me, even after it all ended. I decide to throw it behind a door anyway before I wonder why he didn't try harder to get me out.
A picture of the lake comes forward, and I see it rippling in front of the windows and next to the fire. All three are in front of me in the library, keeping me still. And then my head jerks forward, snapping my attention back to the room, and I realize that I've fallen asleep. A part of me is tempted to bring my head back and let myself fall asleep again. But there's Granger, who I'm afraid to look over at and see her reaction to my sleepiness. Only when I finally do I realize that she's asleep, too.
At some point, she had pulled her feet onto the couch, tucking them underneath her. She's leaned into the side of the couch, digging her face into the cushion, concealing half of it from me. She looks so comfortable. I want to know what she's dreaming about.
I shake the sleep out of me, and the realization of what's happened dawns on me. After sharing an intimate night of confessions with her, I've fallen asleep on the couch next to Hermione Granger. The thought of it is terrifying. I could shake her awake and ask her to leave or to grab her potion and go. I could crawl next to her and fall asleep again. Or I could leave her be and return to my bed and let her make up her mind about how she wants to proceed in the morning.
It takes a few seconds to let my feet decide for me, and shortly after, I'm retreating to my room. I look at the bed, the comfortable mattress guarded by my belongings, and grab the bright green blanket that mother had knit. Just go to bed, I repeat to myself, begging my body to listen. But instead, I walk back down to the library, blanket in hand, and find Granger in the same spot I had left her in. I drape the blanket across her, careful not to wake her, and nod to myself as her body shakes into it, clearly receptive to the warmth. It's then that I finally return to my room, replace my clothes with pyjamas, crawl into bed and find joyful dreams almost immediately. Because for once, the manor doesn't feel so empty.