All right, so this took me too long, I will grant you. I'm sorry. Life, am I right? Anyway, I'm trying to get on a more regular schedule, so hopefully that helps with updating quicker. Also, reviews always are a nice reminder that you all like what I'm doing ;) I mean, I like what I'm doing, but you all? You all mean so much more than you can imagine. I like to think all of your feedback and input has improved not only the story, but my writing as well.
So review. Please.
Love,
Cherry
"Mrs. Malfoy." Hermione greeted the portrait, uncomfortable with how lifelike the painting really was. She'd met her share of seemingly sentient paintings before, but never one that seemed so alive.
"Please, call me Narcissa." Narcissa responded, clearly aware of Hermione's discomfort. "You needn't worry, I was painted after my return from Azkaban. Whatever prejudices I once harboured in life, I'm aware of the kind of decimation they bring; I choose not to fight those battles in this form." She gestured to the frame around her. When Hermione didn't respond, she continued. "I must confess to you, child, your wariness is not unwarranted. This kind of painting requires a fair bit of dark magic to produce. I'm much more lifelike than you're accustomed to with portraits. And no, I'm not some horcrux." She answered preemptively, sniffing as though it was some kind of insult to even say the word. "I just knew that following the war, a greater target than ever would be on my family, so I commissioned these portraits from a friend in Moldova. All he required was a lock of hair of the subject of the portrait to be woven into the canvas. Upon the person's death, the portrait 'wakes up,' so to speak, so that if any family remains, they may have their loved ones nearby despite their passing."
"I don't see Lucius anywhere." Hermione said, finally finding her voice. Narcissa had never been her enemy; not really. Her intentions had always been to protect her family, no matter the cost. She was a good Malfoy by all standards, though perhaps, Hermione thought, a little soft for Lucius, who nearly sold his firstborn to Voldemort as a show of loyalty.
"No, I suspect he's being stored somewhere dark and unused." Narcissa spoke, a sour note in her voice. "Draco's contempt for his father isn't abated quite yet."
"Colour me surprised." Hermione mumbled, rolling her eyes. Of course whatever contempt Draco felt for his father was lingering; the decisions Lucius made for him as a child were still following him around, possibly trying to kill him.
"Do not speak as if you understand the circumstances." Narcissa snapped, her expression darkening. "You know nothing of our family, no matter how bright you may be. Lucius avoided the Dark Lord's workings for as long as he could. He protected us from His followers, and it was only when he could no longer avoid the Dark Lord's calling that he returned to his service, which was another measure to protect us."
"Protect you?" Hermione asked, gobsmacked. "I know of his return to Voldemort's service. Harry saw Lucius in the graveyard when He rose again, I saw him when he attacked the ministry; I know what Lucius did to support his Dark Lord, I don't see how anyone could view it as anything but blind support for a false god."
"And yet you spoke at his hearing." Narcissa countered, and when Hermione hesitated, Narcissa saw her opening. "You spoke at all of our hearings. At mine, for sparing Mr. Potter's life, at Draco's, for lying about Mr. Potter's presence in our home, and at Lucius's, for his surrender at the final battle. Yet here you stand, claiming your disdain for a dead man while treating his son - who shares many a trait with the man you claim a monster- with more than what many would consider a polite respect."
Hermione's voice caught in her throat. More than a polite respect? Is that how her care for a patient was perceived? As more than a polite respect? And more than that, how would a portrait, locked away in a drawing room, know of how Hermione had treated her son?
"You now try to process my meaning." Narcissa recogonised Hermione's expression. "Alas, the nature of the charm that keeps me so lifelike restricts me to this painting, so I haven't been spying, but Draco visits me often. Heartbreaking, really. My son knows I am the last tie to whatever positive memories he has from his life before my death, so he clings to that which he once had while trying to move forward. He talks about you." Narcissa dropped the fact, enjoying the way Hermione's eyes shot to hers. "A former brilliant hero turned cautious Healer, tormented by the ghosts of her past. Tell me, do you find solace in bonding with my son? I know he does you."
"We-we've gone through similar experiences. As a Healer, I find patients are comforted by something familiar."
"Ah, I think you mask the truth. Just as Draco does." Narcissa argued. "A mother knows all, Miss Granger." Narcissa smirked languidly, the expression eerily similar to one Draco had made many times in his life. "No matter how terribly Draco tries to mask his true intentions from all those around him, I'm aware. And I suspect you are too."
Overwhelmed by the accusation, Hermione turned and fled the room, hurrying down the corridors and stairs to escape whatever insinuation Narcissa had made at her. They were nothing more than acquaintances, she and Draco, even if she had a strange daydream in which he starred as the love interest. It was nothing more than that: a daydream. She couldn't possibly feel something more than a friendship with Draco, and there was no way he could he feel the same, no matter what Narcissa said. No, he could feel the same. Because Hermione didn't feel anything deeper than a superficial friendship. Blimey.
"Are you all right?" Jumping at Draco's voice, Hermione turned and let her heart begin to settle. "I was just coming to find you." Draco explained, his brow knit in concern.
"Yes, I-I just got lost." Hermione said, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Your home is too large and too monochromatic, I don't know how you can find your way without a trail of breadcrumbs." She jested and Draco smiled curiously, clearly aware Hermione wasn't fully being honest, but he didn't press it.
"I had to memorise the paths I took." Draco admitted, gesturing for Hermione to join him in the dining room. She walked through the doorway before him, two settings appeared at the end of the table just as they had been last time. "Father didn't like my previous method of marking the corners I needed to turn with chalk."
"But chalk can be cleaned so easily." Hermione scowled at the thought of being punished for something so easily fixed. The most irrational thing Hermione every thought her parents did was when they lectured her about playing in the front garden after dark and as she aged, she'd been able to make sense of it; but to discipline a child for such a harmless practice? It had Lucius written all over it.
"You're suggesting my father to be a reasonable man." Draco scoffed. "As though he didn't once threaten to Crucio me for sharing my opinion out of turn at an event when I was nine."
"What?" Hermione breathed, looking up to Draco, who wouldn't make eye contact as he pulled her chair out for her. "Malfoy," Hermione pressed, watching him sit down in the chair at the head of the table. "That's not right."
"Of course it isn't." Draco snorted. "No one's ever accuse my father of being right." He seemed to wince as he sat and Hermione nearly stood in reaction.
"Are you all right? Does something hurt?" She found herself reaching for his ribs and stopped herself, aware of Narcissa's voice in the back of her head.
"No, no." Draco countered, raising his hand to assure Hermione, who sat back and folded her hands in her lap. "Nothing's wrong."
"You're certain?" Hermione confirmed. "If there's anything wrong, I need to know. As your Healer."
"It's nothing. I promise. You've been nothing but a superior Healer." Draco tried to soothe her nerves. "Please, Granger, I'll be the first to tell you if I need assistance. We should really eat, I think Mimmy will take it personally if she comes in and we haven't touched our plates."
"Right." Hermione nodded, remembering for the first time that she was there to eat, not to obsess over Narcissa's accusation or Draco's behavior. She looked down at her plate, recognising the meal as duck confit, one of her favorite French dishes. When she took her first bite of duck, her eyes nearly rolled into the back of her head at its perfect seasoning and flavor. Merlin, the last time she'd had confit this good was when she was in France. How were Draco's elves so well-versed in cuisine?
"Enjoying it?" Draco asked, an eyebrow quirked at Hermione. She nodded, mouth full of potato. When she swallowed, she dabbed her mouth with her napkin.
"I need the recipe for this one." She pointed to the dish before washing her bite down with a drink of white wine. When Draco chuckled she continued. "No, honestly, the last time I had any confit this delicious must have been in Bordeaux. By any chance, did you send your House-Elves to Le Cordon Bleu?"
"They've travelled." Draco glossed over the subject, aware that no, his House-Elves had not received any formal training, but they were more cultured than many wizards he knew. "We've had to entertain many a crowd, so they have to know what's expected to pass as authentic."
"Hm, well c'est authentique, if you ask me. I feel as though I should pay my compliments to the chef."
"No, please don't." Draco stopped Hermione, a clear look of worry in his eyes. "All it takes is one compliment to go straight to Mimmy's head. You didn't even compliment her last week, but your confirmation that you were returning for dinner tonight indicated that you must have enjoyed the food, so she spent the past four days preparing this duck. Thrump has been avoiding kitchen duties as often as possible due to her excessive habits. She even demanded Friday off so she could journey to France to be certain she did the dish justice."
"Well it shows." Hermione smiled to herself, secretly enjoying when Draco got worked up. He was always so composed and reserved that to see him passionate about something was more than a little pleasing.
The two spoke casually as they ate, and neither was surprised to find that it was easy to carry a conversation with the other. It was a little disconcerting to Hermione, who was questioning herself now more than ever, but all in all, the two got on very well. While last meal they had spoken of their pasts, tonight was heavily geared toward their futures. Draco didn't have much to say about the subject, clearly worried more so with his present than what was to come, so Hermione steered the conversation toward herself, willing to take on the topic if it meant reducing the awkwardness surrounding the topic of Draco's current dilemma. It was somewhat cathartic, Hermione would confess, to discuss her future with someone who hadn't always known her. Harry, Ron, Ginny, and even Luna knew Hermione as she once was and expected her to be a certain way in the future. Hermione didn't really have anyone else to discuss the issue with; so she told Draco all about how she'd thought she knew what she wanted in life, and how her breakup with Ron has led her to a crossroads where she doesn't now know what the next step is. Should she focus on her friendships? New relationships? Her career? And what of her career? Was she happy where she was? She knew what she was doing, and how it allowed her to use her expansive knowledge to help others, but was she really doing all she could? Work at St. Mungo's had felt like the light at the end of a very dark tunnel when she was twenty, providing guidance during a time when nothing made sense, but now? Now that she was facing a change in her life, she wasn't so certain it was enough.
Draco was silent, taking in every word Hermione spoke. She was interesting, and engaging, and far more introspective than any person Draco had ever known.
And she'd let her hair down.
Draco wouldn't say he was entirely distracted by Hermione's appearance, just a little. Since returning into his life, Draco had only seen Hermione with her hair down once: when he'd showed up in her flat unannounced, but it felt different this time. She looked different this time. Like she was no longer putting up some appearance for others to interpret and reach a certain result. Was it simply the hair though? Draco wondered. She had told him how her relationship with Ron was over, with finality this time, and Draco had known what an influence Ron had been on her. He'd seen the two interact when he was in Hermione's flat that day. He had heard the way they argued, and to be free of that had to be at least somewhat of a relief, even if it meant losing a long time partner. Not that he really knew what losing a partner was like. Draco's first (and so far only) relationship was with Pansy Parkinson in his fifth year. She was enamored with his wealth and bravado, she was a pretty enough pure-blood, and having grown up together, it seemed like a good match. Of course, Pansy stroked his ego with compliments and praise - which Draco wholly enjoyed - but when it came down to it, neither was romantically attracted to the other. Kissing Pansy had been like kissing a sister, and while others in his circle might've found no fault with such a thing, Draco didn't want a wife he didn't love and that didn't love him. It was the one thing he couldn't fault his parents for. Their connection was founded in a genuine love, not just born of necessity, and while Draco had a difficult time imagining what witch in her right mind would want to bear his children, he knew that whatever witch it was would have to want him for more than his bloodline.
He internally snorted at his train of thought (since when had he become a romantic?) and went back to dissecting Hermione. The only actual difference in her appearance was her hair, so it had to be that which made her feel so different. Surely it wasn't Draco's interpretation of any post-Ron personality changes; he didn't know her well enough to recognise those, did he?
"May I ask you a question?" Hermione changed the subject, aware Draco's attention had begun to drift off somewhere else. She was getting used to it, it seemed to be Draco's nature to only follow a subject for so long before he disappeared into his mind.
"I suppose." Draco conceded, hoping this line of questioning wouldn't delve into too personal territory. He smirked as Hermione held her finger up and washed down her bite with a drink of wine, her eyes closing briefly at the refreshing bitterness that cleansed her palette. She set the glass down and tucked one side of hair behind her ear, clearly thinking through how she planned to phrase her question.
"Last time we had dinner, you seemed hesitant to take your seat." Hermione looked up at Draco and he anticipated where she was headed.
"And you noticed something similar tonight, so you wonder what it is." Draco concluded and Hermione nodded.
"If it's not too personal, that is."
"No, I wouldn't consider it personal. Well, it is personal, but nothing all that private." He adjusted in his chair, his mind returning to place it did when he thought of his reason for displeasure. "This was my father's chair." He explained, looking down at his plate as he spoke. "He ate here every single night he was master of this home, no matter what time it was. He could arrive home in the early hours of the morning following an extended day at the office, and he would still sit here, commanding house-elves to and fro, demanding his meal. Every meeting he ever held, he sat in this chair. Being the head of the house was his lifelong goal; no one could take that from him.
"Until the Dark Lord came along, and my father handed over the seat with resignation and a severe awareness that he was losing all that he had worked for, to someone who was more powerful than him. So He sat in this chair, presiding over his court for months, testing His followers' loyalty - even my father's - killing any who failed, and I watched both these men base their importance on where they sat at a bloody table. So I refuse to let my worth be defined by something as trivial as a seating arrangement." Draco paused, willing his heart rate to slow. Maybe it was private, he thought sourly as embarrassment seeped its way into his mind. He hadn't intended to elaborate so thoroughly on why the chair made him irritable, but just has she had before, Hermione had a way of encouraging Draco, silently assuring him that his thoughts and opinions were valid and wanted.
A surge of compassion spread through Hermione. She'd known what kind of feelings Draco held toward his father and Voldemort; she'd witnessed it time and time again since their reconnection, so she hated that they had such a profound effect on him, even over something so simple. Though clearly it wasn't really all that simple. This meant something - quite a lot, actually - to Draco, and here he was, grinning and bearing it because she was his guest. Guilt rooted itself in her belly, Hermione aware that she was now part of the problem, too.
"Then we shouldn't sit here, should we?" Hermione finally spoke, picking up her plate and Draco's. Rather than fuss about with the wine and silverware, Hermione turned and began marching toward the doors, leaving Draco to pick up the rest of their dinner as he followed her excitedly. He hadn't expected Hermione to do anything expect maybe pat his hand and tell him she was sorry that felt such a way, so when she made such a bold move, a sense of relief replaced the shame Draco had previously felt.
With a quick 'pop,' Mimmy appeared in the doorway, blocking Hermione's path.
"Is the meal not to Miss Hermione's liking?" Mimmy questioned, her ears dropping low. She wrung her hands and shuffled her feet, her oversized oxfords clattering about. "Mimmy thought Miss Hermione would like the confit de canard, but it must be terrible if she is leaving."
"No no!" Hermione stopped the house-elf from whatever punishment Mimmy was about to inflict on herself. Hermione was clearly familiar with Dobby's training, which had rubbed off on Mimmy, Draco noted with amusement. "It's delicious, Mimmy, I promise. See? I'm bringing it with me."
"Is it?" Doubt clearly laced Mimmy's voice still, her grapefruit-sized eyes looking up at Hermione for approval, or maybe manipulation, Hermione began to think. "Good enough that Miss Hermione would like dessert once she's finished her dinner?"
"Well, I don't think my enjoyment of the food can be indicated by eating more of it." Hermione had never particularly enjoyed the process of eating dessert after a meal. No, sweets deserved their own time and shouldn't be forced when one was already so full of other delicious goods. But then again, those big, blue eyes were quite convincing. "Oh all right." Hermione caved and Mimmy's mood shifted drastically as she clapped to herself.
"Mimmy will get started right away. Does Miss Hermione have an aversion to cream?"
"No." Hermione answered, wondering what was in store for her. She expected it to be delicious (since Mimmy never seemed to make anything poorly), but cream? Such a decadent flavor following confit? She'd have to start watching her waistline if she had any more meals cooked by Mimmy.
"Oh brilliant!" Mimmy gushed. "Mimmy will go prepare something now!" She disappeared as quickly as she'd come and after a moment's pause, Hermione righted her attention and continued to lead the way to another place for her and Draco to finish their meal. It was with a cold realisation that Hermione began to put together where she was, wandering the ground floor of the manor dangerously close to a certain room that held poisonous memories for Hermione. Draco noticed the slowing of her stride and was nearly as quick to notice where in his home they were, so he took the lead and gestured for Hermione to follow.
"You've never really gotten a tour, have you? You'll have to follow me." Draco spoke, hoping to distract Hermione as they walked past the drawing room she'd been tortured in. Admittedly, talking had its benefit for Draco, too, as he hated the memory of that day as well.
He was home for break, and it was a marvelous feeling to be rid of Voldemort, even if it was only for a short while, but of course, Bellatrix made certain the manor never felt too far removed from its leader's presence. Draco had been in his room - trying to ignore the muffled cackling and screaming that came from somewhere in his home - when he was called upon because some Snatchers thought they'd caught something good. They were right, Draco came to learn as he was forced to identify his schoolmates. They were all filthy and far too thin, clearly on the run, but one by one, Draco had been forced to indicate if he knew them or not. He'd tried so hard to avoid giving an answer. He couldn't, no matter how he felt toward them during their schooling. They were on the verge of death, starving and running from the pseudo-law, desperately trying to defeat something Draco only wished he could kill himself. He needed them, and he needed them away from his home, off on their heroic quest.
Then came the torture. He hadn't wanted to stay, he truly hadn't. It had been bad enough to have to identify Hermione, he didn't want to see her on the receiving end of Bellatrix's crucio for possessing something that was more rightfully her's than it had ever been Bellatrix's. He hadn't watched (Merlin knows what kind of shape he would be in now had he watched), but the screams and moans were enough to turn his stomach even today.
"Now, if I know you at all, Granger, I think you'll appreciate dining in this room." Draco said as he stopped in front of a set of doors, opening one enough for Hermione to see inside.
Curious, Hermione took a step forward and gasped, her eyes widening greatly at the sight before her. Draco had taken her to a library like no other private she'd seen, the room nearly half the size of a Quidditch field and two stories high, books lining all available wall space, though four massive arched windows lined the wall opposite where Hermione stood.
"Oh Draco, this is fantastic. You must have every volume of Hogwarts: A History ever made." She continued to look around the room, in awe of the sight before her. Only Hogwart's library had ever made her feel this way before. There was something about magic mixed with books that made Hermione revert to her eleven year old self, brand new to wizardry and all it meant. She would never outgrow the sense of wonder.
"Thought you might like it." Draco smirked proudly, pleased with himself. Why hadn't he thought to take dinner here last time? "I think we have one of Bagshot's manuscripts laying around here somewhere..." He trailed off, a funny feeling lodging itself in his chest.
"Granger, did you just call me Draco?"
"I know the feeling, Granger." Draco pressed, willing himself not to bear his soul once more to the woman he feared he was growing too close to. "You might feel as though you've suffered at the hands of a villain, and you have, but I promise you, you are not alone."
