"What the fuck is wrong with you, man?"
Draco looked up from his firewhisky as Blaise stomped out of the Floo and cast a wandless charm to clean the ash off his trousers.
"Do you know how much arse I'll have to kiss to make up for the tantrum you just threw in there?" Blaise was clearly exasperated, but Draco couldn't bring himself to care. He merely scoffed and took another drink, Procyon's head resting on his foot. Blaise sighed, then slouched into the wingback chair next to Draco's, apparently abandoning his planned tirade.
"It'll be fine. We'll send them a Honeydukes basket or something." Draco felt Blaise's eyes on him, but he did not look up. The amber liquid in the crystal tumbler he was holding sloshed a bit as he gripped it tighter. "Let's grab something to eat, yeah? Shake this off?"
"No." The thought of eating made Draco sick — past experience had taught him that once he'd had about three glasses of whisky, he wouldn't be able to stomach anything other than maybe some fruit. Fruit tasted better coming up anyway.
"Just have a drink with the old crowd. Don't worry, no one will talk to you, they know you're the silent type these days." Out of the corner of his eye, Draco could see a pleading expression on Blaise's face. Guilt churned his stomach.
"Drop it." Draco took another sip, keeping his answers terse so his friend would leave him with his misery. The alcohol had stopped burning his throat about twenty minutes ago, and now all he felt was numb. Blaise dragged his hand over his face in frustration.
"All right, not tonight. But Friday night," Blaise stood up from the chair, pointing a finger in Draco's face, "you are coming out. I got someone for you."
"Fuck off." Draco slapped the hand away from him, a bit amused by how his hand seemed to drag itself through the air. He really was sloshed.
"I'd go for her myself, but I was with her sister once and, well. You'll like her, though. Great body." At least Blaise didn't wave his hands in the air in the shape of an hourglass — Draco wasn't sure he could take that.
Draco placed his glass on the table with a sharp thud, causing the crup to lift his head to check on his master. "I said drop it."
"She's a solicitor for Gringott's. Handles inheritance law or something like that. Really smart, absolutely gorgeous, great body…"
Suddenly getting up from his chair and walking into the kitchen, followed by Procyon, Draco called out over his shoulder, "Good night, Blaise."
Blaise followed him, helping himself to a blackberry on the fruit and cheese platter that Sheffield had set out on the counter under a stasis charm. "You don't have to marry her. You don't even have to date her. Just one date, get back out there, see if you can't catch her Snitch, if you know what I—"
Blaise was cut off when Draco bellowed, "Sheffield!" The old elf appeared. "Has Pro eaten?"
"No, sir."
Draco picked up the little dog and looked him full in the face. "We've talked about this, Pro." Pro just huffed at him.
"Sheffield, has Master Malfoy eaten?" asked Blaise pointedly.
Eyeing Draco out of the corner of his eyes, Sheffield answered, "Master prefers to drink his meals."
"Shut it or I'll give you clothes." Draco and Sheffield both knew it was an empty threat; this was almost a ritual between the two of them. Draco would threaten clothes, Sheffield would make a barbed retort and retire for several hours, leaving Draco to fend for himself.
Sheffield just rolled his large eyes and strode out of the room. "I'll only hang them in my closet and be back in the morning. Procyon won't eat unless you do, sir, so eat some cheese at least," he ordered as he disappeared down the hall.
Draco obediently took the plate from the counter to the table, and set the little dog on his lap to hand-feed him cubes of Mimolette and an Irish cheddar, which Procyon eagerly took from Draco's fingers. He scowled at Sheffield's back. "Gods-damned elf."
"You know I'm just going to stand here, watching you snog your ridiculous animal, until you agree to come out on Friday." Hearing no response, Blaise continued. "It'll be casual. We'll just go to the Leaky, have a couple drinks and some weird food. Barely a date at all."
Procyon licked Draco's mouth as Draco swallowed a blueberry. "One drink, an hour tops. Will that shut you up?"
Blaise slapped his friend on the back. "Absolutely! I'll pick you up here at seven."
Scowling, Draco said, "I'll meet you there. And no dessert!"
Walking back towards the Floo, Blaise called out, "We'll see. I'll see you Friday at seven!" And with a whoosh from the fireplace, Draco and Procyon were alone. Draco picked up a grape from the plate and crushed it between his teeth, then swallowed it without chewing further. The barely-masticated fruit made its way down his esophagus slowly before finally resting in the lake of acid and drink that was his belly. Draco swore he could feel it sloshing around like a paper boat in a rocky bath. He swallowed hard, trying to quell the urge to purge his guts, and fed Pro another piece of cheese.
That Friday, the Leaky was packed when Hermione entered, having just closed up Flourish and Blotts. Standing on her tiptoes to scan the tops of heads for familiar hair, she finally spotted Ginny's brilliant red tresses at a table near the bar. Moving within the crush of bodies, muttering, "Pardon," and "Excuse me," and "if I could just…" she finally squeezed onto an empty stool next to Ginny.
Ginny was crammed in next to Harry, who was chatting with Ron and Padma about something that she and Harry had encountered through their Auror duties. Padma and Harry had been partners for the past several years. Harry had gone through training earlier than Padma, having skipped his eighth year to go straight into the Auror academy. Padma had finished eighth year and sat for her NEWTs, initially intending to study as a healer. But six months into healer training, she'd suddenly dropped out and applied for the academy. It had surprised many, but not Harry or Hermione. Padma had been a fierce dueler in the DA with a phenomenal command of offensive and defensive charms, and her brief healer training only made her more valuable as an auror.
Seated between Ron and George, who was across from Hermione, was Neville Longbottom. He didn't come to their Friday pub nights that frequently, often being busy with his duties as the Herbology professor at Hogwarts. Next to Hermione, rounding out their usual crew, was Angelina.
"Circe, it's crowded in here," Hermione muttered, grabbing Ginny's butterbeer and taking a swig.
"Apparently there was some Ministry thing for one of the departments today, and they all wound up here after," Ginny grumbled. Even for a Friday night, the pub was exceptionally stuffy. Hermione felt her hair frizzing with the extra moisture produced by that many bodies and the heat from the open kitchen; she twisted her hair and poked her wand through it to hold the messy bun in place.
Hermione took another drink of Ginny's beer before the redhead swiped it out of her hands. "The line at the bar is too bloody long for you to steal my drink," she said, half-jokingly.
Looking over at the bar, Hermione saw that Ginny was right. "All right, I'll go in a few minutes and get the next round. Sorry. But," Hermione paused dramatically. "I have news!"
Ginny hushed everyone at the table. "Quiet, everyone! Ron, shut your gob and listen! Hermione has news."
Everyone obediently looked at Hermione, curious expressions on their faces. Hermione took a deep breath.
"I'm moving to Italy for a year!"
The table exploded, clapping for her and drawing the attention of the whole bar over to their table. Hermione grinned, her face hot with embarrassment and pride. Ginny wrapped her in a big hug, and Harry was next in line.
"Italy? Are you serious?" Harry whispered into her ear as he hugged her. She nodded into his shoulder, tears pricking her eyes as he held her. "Just for a year," she whispered back. Harry had been right by her side through her entire illness, and before that they'd been keeping each other alive for most of a decade. This would be the first time they hadn't lived near each other since they were children, and she knew she would miss him.
As everyone retook their seats, Neville asked, "So what's in Italy?" Hermione spent the next several minutes explaining about her time research fellowship, how she'd be studying the materials that go into making time turners and she'd come back next year to hopefully take a position in the Department of Mysteries to engineer new time turners, although she wasn't counting out academic work. After a few minutes of answering questions and absorbing recommendations to visit this restaurant or that museum, Hermione stood to grab a new round of drinks and order herself some food. When she got up to walk towards the bar, George grabbed her upper arm.
"Hey 'Mione. Congrats on the Italy thing, that's brilliant."
"Thanks, George," Hermione replied, giving him an odd look. He was affectionate, but he didn't generally snag her like this.
George cleared his throat, a gleeful expression on his face. "See that guy sitting at the bar?"
Hermione glanced over to see a balding man with a nice expression nursing a beer and smiling at her expectantly. "Yes…"
"I invited him here for you! Sort of a date, you know?" The humor danced in George's eyes.
"You did WHAT?" Hermione responded, waving back to the gentleman and trying to keep her face blank.
"Yeah, he's one of our suppliers and he's really nice. He has brought you up every single time he comes in, makes sure to mention how lucky you are to have the beauty and the brains. I couldn't turn down his request for a simple meeting with The Great Hermione Granger, Destroyer of Horcruxes now could I?" George covered his mouth to hide his giggles.
"George Weasley, I am going to murder you. You have got to stop doing this. It's not fair to them. Or to me."
"I know, but it's so much fun to watch you sweat!" He gave her a wink, then pushed her towards the bar.
Hermione sighed, plastered a pleasant expression on her face and went to greet George's mystery man. George had been doing this every so often since she and Ron had broken up. The first time was with a hunky Quidditch player, and Ron had seen red. Hermione had to admit, watching Ron try to keep his cool while she flirted with one of the Wimbourne Wasps had been a total riot. He'd played Seeker, and she'd always had a thing for seekers, with their lean bodies and perfectly sculpted muscles and talented hands. But her enthusiastic response to the seeker, who had wound up taking her on a very lovely date and thoughtfully given her a perfectly respectable orgasm, had emboldened George. He'd taken a few years off of this joke while she was seriously ill, and Hermione had begun to long for those days. Over the last six months, he'd set her up with a congenial but terribly dull man George had known at Hogwarts; a bumbling, greasy git who smelled like the troll she'd fought in first year; and Dean Thomas, who'd had no idea what was happening. Hermione had wound up helping him plan his proposal to Seamus, and their wedding was in just a few months.
Now, as Hermione took her seat on the stool next to her mystery date, he introduced himself. "Hi, I'm Ned. I'm sure George told you what a big fan I am of yours."
With a tight smile, Hermione signaled to Tom the barman for firewhisky. "Hi, Ned."
Draco walked into the pub to a round of applause. Upon looking around, he saw a group of folks he was pretty sure he recognized from Hogwarts all clapping and getting up to hug someone with brown hair. As he watched, the brunette turned from her hug to give someone else a radiant smile. Hermione Granger. He hadn't thought about her in years.
Scanning the room, he found Blaise at a table in the corner with Pansy and a woman he presumed was Marsha. He made his way over to the table.
"And I said it's Squeaker, my pygmy puff! Well, as you can imagine, everyone laughed. That's how I met Blaise, actually, he caught Squeaker when he ran out of my bag. I don't think Squeaker will ever let another man touch him."
Draco nodded a greeting at everyone and took his seat next to his date. She had short blonde hair that had been layered and fluffed and curled into a style that Draco was sure was meant to look "effortless," but judging by the strong smell of candy floss emanating from her head was held together by enough product to put even Draco's variety of serums and pomades to shame. She was wearing black pants and a Slytherin-green top that had ruffles — fucking ruffles — at the shoulders and dipped low enough in front to show off an ample bosom, within which was nestled a a gold pendant of the letter "M" encrusted with emeralds. Pansy eyed Draco, then flicked her gaze to Marsha and back to Draco. Pansy didn't like her either.
"Yeah, I better not hear about anyone else touching your Squeaker," Blaise said with a wink. Everyone laughed, Marsha loudest of all. Her laugh was high, grating, and she punched Draco in the shoulder as she exploded in mirth.
Draco would honestly have preferred to be in the presence of the Dark Lord himself at that moment, rather than be near this repellent creature.
When the laughter calmed down, Marsha turned to Draco and laid a hand on his forearm. Noticing this intrusion into Draco's personal space, Pansy shot her a look of pure loathing.
"So, Drake, Blaise tells me you're in construction," she said as she moved her hand up to gently squeeze his bicep. Draco tried not to visibly cringe at the nickname.
"Draco is more an architect. You know those storefronts in Diagon? The ones with that new bar? Draco's," Blaise explained.
Marsha perked up. "Oh, you own those?"
"No, he designed and built them," Pansy interrupted. A disappointed look flickered across Marsha's face, and Pansy scoffed.
Draco cleared his throat and grabbed a menu. "So, I haven't been here in a while. What's good these days?"
"Tom got a new chef, and he's totally redesigned the menu with this Irish-Italian theme. It sounds strange but you'll love it, I swear. This place has gotten quite good," Blaise said, waving down a server from across the room, who acknowledged him with a nod.
"Well, if you like this kind of place." Marsha was looking at the menu with a repugnance she wasn't trying nearly hard enough to hide, considering she was on a date. "Pansy, do you remember that lovely little trattoria we dined at when we were on holiday together? Our families are old friends," Marsha explained to Draco.
"Yes, Mother forced her on me," Pansy muttered low enough that only Draco could hear. The level of obliviousness this woman would have had to maintain in order to escape Pansy's very obvious abhorrence of her was considerable, and Draco tried to suppress a smile.
"Where is that waitress?" Marsha looked around with her brow furrowed, tapping her bright red talons on the tabletop.
Draco stood up from the table. "How about I go order drinks from the bar while we wait?"
"I'll come with!" Pansy was already out of her seat. "Firewhisky for you, Blaise?" Blaise nodded.
"Marsha?" Draco inquired politely.
"A gillywater. But make sure it isn't Swiss. I got sick on an imported Swiss gillywater once. Do you remember that, Pans?"
"That was terrible," Pansy responded blandly.
"I was sick for days! Had to miss half the trip, and I was convinced I was dying. As long as it's not Swiss, it'll be fine. But if they just have it on tap, make sure to ask them to check the label. I'd like it cold, no ice, just in the bottle if they have it, with a straw either way. Preferably French, but make sure it isn't —"
"Swiss, got it." Draco turned from her, rolling his eyes at Pansy. As soon as they were out of earshot, he hissed at Pansy. "What the fuck is this?"
"I know, I know, I'm so sorry. Blaise apparently met her on his own and his own date flaked so he roped me into this — I didn't even know who he'd invited for you until I got here. She's been selfish and narcissistic as long as I've known her. And coming from me, well…"
"I know Blaise thinks I'm desperate for a good lay, but Circe's tits, the situation would never be this dire. My hand is far better company." They had finally made their way through the crush of bodies to the bar, and Draco pulled a couple Galleons from his pocket and tapped one on the bar, signaling his intent to order.
He heard a voice next to him say awkwardly, "It was nice to meet you, Ned. I hope everything works out with… with your hair." Draco's eyes dragged themselves to the owner of the voice, whose slightly-frizzy curls were held up by her wand. The curly head was exchanging goodbyes with a man whose hair growth potion had produced quite patchy results, and the unfortunate hairline trudged away. As the curly head turned, her wand clipped him in the shoulder and as a few curls dislodged themselves from the twist, Draco found himself caught in the amber gaze of Hermione Granger.
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Oh, sorry," she said softly, flicking her eyes away suddenly and adjusting her hair. Draco swallowed hard and replied, "It's fine."
"Granger, how good to see you," Pansy said politely. Draco shot her a bemused smirk. "What?" Pansy whispered defensively. "I'm allowed to grow." She turned her attention back to Hermione. "How have you been?"
Hermione tried unsuccessfully to cover the shock on her face at hearing Pansy Parkinson greet her as if they hadn't utterly loathed one another in their school days. But she seemed willing to go with it, for the moment.
"I've been well, and yourselves?"
"Oh, you know, it's all fabric and needles for me these days," Pansy replied, referring to her own growing fashion line.
"And for you, Mal— I mean, uh, Draco?"
His name on her lips made him feel… something. A tiny flip of his stomach, the smallest clench of hist fist. "It's been… I've been... fine." He leaned forward on the bar a bit more, allowing himself to stoop just enough to be a bit more level with Hermione, who had stayed seated on her stool.
Tom the barman finally made his way over to their section of the bar. "Sorry about the wait, folks. What can I get ya?"
"Two double firewhiskys for me," ordered Pansy, coins already on the bar for payment.
Draco gestured for Hermione to order. "Oh, umm, a gillywater for me, please." Her cheeks were a bit flushed and she gave Draco a shy smile.
"Swiss okay?" he asked her, a tiny glint in his eye. She narrowed her gaze at him. "Sure, but it doesn't really—"
"It's a long story," he murmured to Hermione, then turned back to Tom. "Two gillywaters, Swiss if you have it, and another double firewhisky." Pansy cackled. "Tremendous," she said under her breath.
"Got Swiss, but only in the bottle."
"That's fine," Hermione said.
Draco took over. "One in the bottle, and one in a glass, no ice, with a straw." Pansy covered her mouth, trying to control her laughter.
"What am I missing?" Hermione's eyes flitted between the pair of them, a cautious smile on her face. Draco set his coins on the gleaming walnut bartop and nodded a thanks to Tom, then turned to Hermione to answer, but was interrupted by the arrival of Neville Longbottom.
"Hey, Hermione, saw that your date left. How was it?" Neville asked, not addressing Draco and Pansy.
Draco's jaw tensed, but he wasn't sure why.
Hermione looked between Neville and Draco. "Oh, umm, it was… well, it's over now and that's the best I can say about it," she said with a breathy laugh, looking around to make sure Ned wasn't in earshot. Draco's jaw relaxed.
Neville caught Tom before he moved on to the next set of customers and ordered a butterbeer for himself, then seemed to notice Draco and Pansy for the first time. He nodded to them in greeting, then looked at Hermione warily. "Doing okay?" he asked.
"Longbottom," Pansy purred. "It's been an absolute age." Every exposed bit of Neville's skin reddened. "It has, Parkinson."
"Oh, it's Parkinson now?" Pansy asked teasingly. Neville was suddenly fascinated by his own shoes. Draco shot Pansy a questioning look. Pansy just smirked, her eyes never leaving Neville.
Hermione, seemingly having had enough of inside jokes and awkward conversations, got up from her stool with her bottled gillywater in hand. "Don't want to keep your girlfriend waiting on her Swiss gillywater," she said as she nudged Neville, who looked up long enough to nod before heading back to their table with his butterbeer. "We should be going."
"Nice to see you again, Longbottom," Pansy called after Neville, taking a moment to openly appreciate his backside before levitating the two tumblers of whisky over the heads of the other diners as she made her way back to Blaise and Marsha.
"She's not my girlfriend," Draco blurted out before he could stop himself as Hermione turned away, taking the bottle from her lips. She stopped and looked back at him. "No?"
"Gods, no, she's… actually can you do me a favor?"
She looked at him suspiciously. "Depends on the favor."
"Can you wait five minutes and send me a Patronus?"
She took a step back, alarmed. "What? Why?"
"Just… just send me a Patronus in five minutes and say there's an emergency at the job site and I'm needed there."
Hermione held his gaze, considering him.
"Consider it payment for that refreshing Swiss gillywater?" His eyes didn't leave hers, and he could see the emotions flicker across her face. She had never been able to keep her feelings hidden, even when they were children. Especially when they were children. He saw her cycle through suspicion, appraisal, then finally amusement. "The date's that bad?" she snickered.
"Yes." Draco tried to put just enough desperation in his voice to demonstrate the horridness of this date without seeming like a giant arse who couldn't politely suffer through a single unpleasant evening. He relaxed when he heard her chuckle. "Go on, then." And she gestured with her head in the direction of his table, where he could just see Marsha's head bobbing around trying to find him.
"Thanks," he said breathlessly, and girded himself to rejoin his group. Just five more minutes. He watched Hermione walk down the hall towards the loos, presumably so she would be in a private place to send that Patronus, then turned back to his own group.
When he set the glass of definitely-not-Swiss gillywater in front of Marsha, she just muttered, "Finally." She took a long drink from her straw and sighed contentedly.
"I bet that's refreshing," smirked Pansy.
"Such a difference," Marsha responded. Draco only grunted in response. The server approached their table and started rattling off the specials. As Marsha was placing an order with requests that included no oil, butter on the side, no cheese, and could the waitress please get make sure no white wine sauce touched the broccoli, a silver otter appeared and a female voice, sounding quite serious, came out. "Sorry to bother you, Mister Malfoy, but there's been an emergency at the job site. The Cornish pixies got into the cranes again and you know you're the only one who can get rid of them before they chew through that Brazilian wood. We need you here now."
Draco fought very hard to keep a straight face as he conjured his own Patronus and responded, "I'll be right there."
Pansy commented with a grave expression on her face but barely-concealed delight in her eyes, "Wow, Draco, that sounds serious."
Confused, Blaise responded, "Pixies? When have they been a — ow!" Pansy had kicked him, quite hard, under the table.
Draco plastered on his most apologetic face and turned to Marsha with a shrug. "I'm sorry to be off so soon, but as you can see—"
It was clear that Marsha had seen through his ruse. She looked murderous, positively mortally offended, and after a beat responded, "It was nice to meet you," then turned away to glare at Blaise, presumably to scold him for setting her up with such a rude man.
As Draco rose, he heard Blaise continue, "Man, it's Friday night. Can't this wait until tomorrow? And who was that?"
"Can't be helped, they're eating through the Brazilian wood." And he turned and walked towards the exit.
Hermione was waiting for him in the alley, a brown paper sack in her hand. Draco grimaced at her. "Pixies?"
"You weren't specific. Is your Patronus really a kitten?" she mocked.
Draco frowned at her. "It's a Norwegian Silver Kneazle, thank you. They're very fierce hunters," he responded defensively. "Like you have room to talk, with that cheeky little otter. What's that?" he asked, gesturing to a paper sack she was holding in both her hands.
"Since you were skipping dinner, I got a meal to-go for you. Ravioli and chicken vesuvio with a side of cabbage." She held the bag out to him and he took it, a wary expression on his face. "Snagged it off the bar, actually. It's good though, I swear."
He nodded his thanks and started to turn away towards the apparition point. "Thanks for the rescue," he said, turning back towards her.
"You're welcome," she responded simply, and turned away to walk back into the bar.
Draco apparated directly in his kitchen, warm meal in his hand, and noticed a large parchment envelope on the kitchen table. The owl post must have come while he was out, and Sheffield had left this for him. The envelope was addressed to "Draco Malfoy, Malfoy House, London," and when he opened it, he saw another, smaller envelope along with a note from St. Mungo's explaining that this had been sent through their patient coordinator, and both parties still remained anonymous. Anonymous, he thought. That's curious. The second envelope was addressed to "Personnel Services," and he opened it quickly, holding his breath as he read it.
Dear Family,
I hope this letter may be of some comfort, although words cannot express the depth of my gratitude. I am eternally thankful for the life that was given me, and I can only imagine the depth of your sorrow at losing your loved one so unexpectedly. I awake each day feeling the gentle thrum of magic inside me. It is because of your loved one that I am alive today. You will always be in my thoughts, and I will honour the sacrifice of your treasured family member as best as I can. I thank you and offer my deepest condolences.
The parchment made a crinkling noise and he realized he was clutching it too tightly in his fist; he laid it on the table and tried to smooth out the wrinkles. The letter was unsigned; the handwriting an unfamiliar scrawl. For several long minutes, Draco just stared at the thick parchment. He could see places where the writer had struggled — where the ink had blotched just a bit and been fixed with a spell.
He had never allowed himself to wonder about the circumstances surrounding Astoria's death. Astoria had died while saving a patient, that much he knew, but now she was dead and there wasn't anything that could explain that to him, to make her death make sense, to make it have any meaning. Truthfully, he had never cared that she'd died to save someone else. At times, he even hated her for that; there was still time for them to research, time they could have used to find a treatment for her. She had to have known what she was doing and he just… couldn't think about it. He was a selfish bastard and mere moments ago, he would have traded her life for the one she'd saved without a thought. But now, reading the letter written by the person whose life had been saved, who held Astoria's magic in their body, he didn't know how to feel. He wanted to fall on his knees and thank the gods that her magic still existed somewhere in the world. He wanted to rip this letter to pieces and burn the shreds one by one. He wanted to meet this person, to see if they felt like Astoria, if he would recognize her in them. He wanted to run right out the door and fly as far as he could and never return. He wanted to sleep.
The letter broke his grief apart, but he felt the pieces begin to settle into a mosaic, the new image unclear but not as bleak. As if this letter was a sign for him to make his life into something decent, maybe even lovely, again. Draco wasn't sure he believed in fate, but the letter before him felt like the universe giving him the tiniest bit of permission to let go. Maybe he was finally ready to take a step, just a small one, toward moving on.
Procyon trotted into the kitchen and begged at Draco's feet until Draco finally noticed the little dog and pulled him into his lap. The crup immediately started sniffing at the bag of food, still warm, and his paws slipped as he tried to find purchase on the table by using the letter. Draco made a tsk sound and folded the letter to gently place it in his robes. He set out the meal before himself and the dog, and hand-fed him bits of chicken and ravioli as his mind wandered through the letter, through memories of Astoria, and finally, for some inexplicable reason, to Hermione Granger.