I think quarantine has been good for me. Not the job loss part (thank you for the reviewer who showed concern, my parents are kind enough to pay my rent while I'm in college so it hasn't been detrimental to me like it has been for some people), but the part where I get a little more me time. Which in turn fuels time to write.
And thank you for the lovely reviews! I apologize to the person who screwed up their sleep schedule staying up to read this, but I appreciate that it means so much to some of you. When I think about why I wrote this story, it wasn't just to satisfy some desire of my own, but I did it for you all, too. Otherwise, I would've never published this :)
So thank you for you all, even those of you who didn't review. I hope you all are enjoying this journey as much as I am.
Love,
Cherry
As one would expect of a spoilt, wealthy, entitled child, Draco had grown into a man that didn't like admitting when he was in need of help. So when he'd fired Caulfield, the ex-Auror, Draco had inherited a folder filled with papers that meant nothing to him. What did these symbols mean? What about the list of spells that he'd written? What language were they written in? Did Caulfield have a secret coded language for taking notes? Was this payback for a possible undue firing? He'd definitely seemed angry when Draco had fired him, maybe this really was payback.
"Thrump." Draco called into the empty office, and with a pop, the house elf appeared in front of Draco's desk, where Draco sat.
"Master called?" Thrump asked, his wrinkly brows pulling together at the sight before him. Though he could never bring himself to say it to his master's face, Trump had thought the young man would begin to look better after completing treatment for the hex ailing him, but he possibly looked worse. His pale skin was dull, his hair haphazardly shoved from his face. His once aristocratic cheekbones were becoming sharp and gaunt, and the dark circles under his eyes made the normally aluminium colour of his eyes appear much darker, like a well-worn piece of slate. Was this due to exhaustion? Illness? Had the witch not done her job? No, Thrump had made sure his master's wounds were healed, so this was something else. Something new.
"Can you read this?" Draco tossed a piece of parchment toward the creature, who snatched it from the air and scanned the text with his round, blue eyes. He grunted and shifted his weight, turning the parchment all directions before he grumbled.
"Thrump cannot. Is it a form of Elvish? Should Thrump know it?"
"No." Draco cut in before the house elf could fret too much, hating how Thrump got when he felt like a failure. "No, I was just hopeful it might look familiar. I can't decipher it and have scoured our library for decoders or translators, yet I haven't found anything at all."
"Thrump can search." Thrump offered, eager to please his master. "Thrump knows many that might recognise the symbols."
"That won't be necessary." Draco answered sharply, not wanting Thrump to share the information with the wrong source. What if this was all a trick and Caulfield had coded a message that said 'Draco Malfoy killed his parents' or something worse? "I'll continue the search, thank you, Thrump." Draco leaned forward in his chair and flicked his wrist, Thrump bowing deeply before disappearing.
Draco sighed and closed his eyes as he rubbed his temples. This shouldn't have been so difficult. Nor should it have consumed so much time. Draco had become less responsive at work, and while his position really just required him to be a figurehead, he was a weak figurehead as all his staff questioned his appearance and behavior. He was erratic, short-tempered, dispassionate, and much too much like his father. Draco had hoped to improve the image of Malfoy Investments now that he operated the company. That began with the culture of his staff, and they feared him as they had feared his father. And it didn't help that he was spending so much time dwelling on a possibly unsolvable case. The Aurors hadn't found anything new, what made Draco so certain he could? Pride? Desperation? Knowing Ronald Weasley was one of the Aurors on the case? That did little to reassure him they'd find the answer.
With a moan of discontentment, Draco shuffled the parchment in front of him into a roughly neat stack, sweeping it into the bottom drawer of his desk before shutting it tightly.
"Ouch! Watch what you're doing, Healer!"
Hermione looked down at the portly man laying on the bed below her, rolling her eyes when she saw him rubbing his knee.
"Apologies, Mr. Lundel, but there will be some pain associated with this treatment. After all, you did step into a patch of Quiddlepines, these quills are embedded quite deeply into your leg." For emphasis, Hermione smiled sweetly as she pulled one of the ten centimetre quills from the man's calf with her wand. He grimaced as the needle popped free, and Hermione set it into a glass jar to her left. After all, Quiddlepine quills carried quite the medicinal properties, and were quite expensive since no one liked to get near the explosive animals.
When the last quill was removed, Hermione applied a salve to the small puncture marks, applying plasters over the largest holes, before sending Mr. Lundel on his way. With a wave of a hand to the next patient in the waiting room, Hermione continued her day officially aware she was bored with her career. For years, Hermione had appreciated how routine and predictable her job was. She came in in the morning, saw a number of patients who had done something stupid and landed themselves with small injuries, and whatever time she had remaining was spent reading medical journals for the latest information. Now, Hermione realised how much she'd missed the intellectual chase conducting research had provided her. First with Draco, whose hex was unfamiliar, and now with the search for a way to use Witch's Ganglion to hide cursed scars. It was all she could do to keep her mind in the present as she thought of the trip she had planned this evening. For most, Hermione's trip would be a chore, but to a studious bookworm like Hermione, going to Flourish and Blotts because they'd just received a book she'd ordered was an exciting adventure. So she forced herself to pay just enough attention to her work to do her job correctly, but in reality, her mind was other places, as it so often was these days.
When the last patient was seen, Hermione hung her green robes in the decontamination wardrobe and let her hair down, admiring the curls that had begun to more naturally form the more often she didn't tie them up.
"Don't you look positively chuffed." Another Healer named Katie commented as she haphazardly tossed her robes into the decontamination wardrobe. "Have a date?"
Hermione worked semi-regularly with Katie, and knew that her love life (or lack thereof) was common gossip, so she didn't give much of a response. Just a shrug and a wink, which made Katie more curious than ever. What had Hermione Granger so excited she was acting like a schoolgirl?
On the ground floor of St. Mungo's, Hermione used a Floo to travel to Diagon Alley, and made her way down the cobblestone pathway toward the forest green door of the bookshop she knew so well.
Flourish and Blotts was surprisingly empty for a Friday afternoon, Hermione decided. There was a smattering of customers (mostly middle aged women who seemed to travel in pairs), and the manager, Daniel Krollsby, looked as bored as Hermione had felt just hours ago at her own job. The two waved and Hermione approached the counter as Daniel fished her order from under the desk.
"Interesting order, Hermione." Daniel nodded toward the book titled Uncommon Plants and How to Harvest Them. "Planning on taking up Herbology?"
"No, not quite, Daniel. It's just a side project." It was of interest to Hermione partially because it included Witch's Ganglion, but also because it included other plants that were of interest in potion making.
"And do you speak Russian?" He nodded toward the book. "I might've taken a glance at the contents, and about half the instructions aren't translated."
"They're not?" Herimone asked, flipping through the pages to verify. Daniel was right. "Ah. It looks like they weren't able to translate the technical instructions, just the descriptions are in English. No matter. You sell translation books, yes?"
"That we do." Daniel smiled and pointed straight up. "Second floor just above us."
"Thank you. Do you mind if I leave this with you?" Hermione placed her hand on the book, sliding it toward Daniel, who picked it up and secured it to his chest.
"I'll guard it until your return." He answered with a grin, which Hermione returned. She'd always enjoyed Daniel and his boyish charm, which hadn't been present when they'd met. At first, Daniel had been shy, and quiet, which fit his mousy look and horn rimmed glasses, but as they'd grown to know each other, Daniel's personality had begun to shine through, and Hermione had found a friend in a bookstore clerk, which Hermione was thrilled at because before Daniel became the manager of Flourish and Blotts, it had been his father, Victor Krollsby, who wasn't so impressed with Hermione's desire to share the knowledge she learned with anyone who would listen.
Hermione headed back to the front of the store and up the staircase, avoiding the teetering stacks of books that looked bound to fall any moment. The second floor of Flourish and Blotts housed a less magical supply of books. Things like travel, cooking, lesser history, and language (obviously) were stored in the less frequented area, and Hermione rather enjoyed knowing that she could browse at her own leisure without having to deal with prying eyes. Running her hand along the spines of the books as she passed, Hermione found the language section and moved her way down the shelves, looking for Russian. As she read lower and lower, she bent in half to continue to scan the shelves, crawling onto her knees to get a good look at the bottom shelf.
"Now I knew you loved books, Granger, but are you praying to them?" The familiar voice pulled Hermione from her search, and her stomach tightened in anticipation.
"And here I was thinking religion and praying was a muggle thing." She responded, not taking her eyes from the shelf. "Ah, there. Russian Herbology Terminology." She plucked the book from the shelf and stood up, dusting off her knees. Finally, she chanced a look up at the voice's owner and her stomach flipped a little. Draco looked exhausted. Like something was eating away at his insides. And Hermione hated it. She knew Draco well enough by now to know that nothing was physically ailing him, but there was something else going on. Something that kept him up at night. She wanted to ask, but what business was it of hers?
"Planning to flee the country and become a herbologist?" Draco gestured to the book. "I thought that was Longbottom's profession of choice."
"Good memory." Hermione pointed at Draco with the book. "Neville's currently a professor of Herbology at Hogwarts. No, this is to translate a book I purchased about Witch's Ganglion." Hermione tucked a curl behind her ear and scrunched her nose. "And I know I need to return the books you lent me. I promise, I will. They've just been so instrumental in my research and I'd hate to let them go before I knew I'd exhausted their knowledge."
"Keep them as long as you like." Draco encouraged Hermione, shamefully clinging to the idea that it might bring them together once again. While he would never admit it, this meeting wasn't by chance. Yes, he had planned to go to Flourish and Blott's that evening, but he was initially going to head into Twilfitt and Tatting's to put in an order for custom robes as he knew they closed earlier in the evening than the bookstore, but when he saw a certain bushy-haired witch walking into Flourish and Blott's, he made a detour. Yes, he'd miss his appointment at Twilfitt and Tatting's, but the Malfoys had been patrons for decades, something Draco would hold above the owner's head if he had to. There was no chance he'd miss an opportunity to see Hermione when it'd been so long since he last saw her.
All right, so five weeks wasn't very long for two people who had only seen each other for almost the same length of time, but Draco was lonely, and Hermione knew him so well that he didn't have to put up an image when he was around her. He was tired, and lost, and so desperately wanted answers he could almost taste them, and he didn't have to convince Hermione that he felt any differently. It was easy with her. So he'd followed her into the bookshop.
He'd seen her speaking with the man at the counter. The one who fawned over her and tried to ensnare her with his dimples and bookish charm. It was pathetic and transparent, though Hermione couldn't see it. For someone so smart...
"That's a dangerous suggestion, Malfoy." Hermione half grinned, teasing Draco. "Offering for me to keep a book as long as I like means you may never see it again."
"Then I'll know it's gone to a loving home. I can't imagine a better place for a book to be than on your shelf." Draco responded, wondering if he was being too forward. Was he being forward at all? He hoped he was. He hoped he was? That was new.
"Other than a massive library with its own personal archivist house elf who ensures the dust falling from the sky never touches a single page." Hermione jested. "Oh admit it, Thrump would throw a fit if he knew you just offered Malfoy antique books to me."
"Yes, that he would." Draco agreed, knowing she was right. "On second thought, I'm going to need those books back right away, Granger, before Thrump notices they're gone."
She laughed and Draco suddenly found new reason for humour. Life had become so dull, so homogeneous, and he'd seen no reason for entertainment. But making someone else laugh? Making Hermione laugh? He liked that.
"So what brings you to a bookstore? Don't you have enough novels to last you four lifetimes?" Hermione asked, flipping through the pages of the book in her hands to busy herself lest she stare too long.
"Ignoring that Hermione Granger just suggested any number of books would be more than one person could consume in a lifetime," Draco quirked an eyebrow, enjoying the smirk forming on Hermione's lips as she scanned the pages of her book, "I'm in need of a translator. Trouble is, I don't know what I'm translating." He muttered, preferring no ears hear their conversation.
That got Hermione's attention, and she looked up at Draco, curiosity swimming in her eyes.
"Oh?" She asked, closing her book. "Do you have what you need to translate with you? I'd be able to take a look."
"I don't." Draco shook his head. "It's rather confidential, and I didn't want to risk losing it if I took it with me."
"Then how do you plan to find the right translator?" Hermione put her hands on her hips and pouted, looking rather petulant. Draco enjoyed it.
"Memory?" He offered, and Hermione groaned, pulling a pen from her bag. She opened the herbology book to the last blank page and offered the two to Draco.
"Write it down, I'll do my best." Hermione held the materials out as Draco dramatically hesitated, looking at the pen.
"And what is that device?" He asked, knowing perfectly well what it was. He was a wizard, not a fool. But Hermione didn't know that.
"A pen." She answered hurriedly. "A much more useful tool to taking notes and sending letters than any quill could ever be."
Draco took the pen and book, awkwardly trying to manoeuvre the pen into his grip.
"Oh my god, you fool, you hold it the same way as a quill!" Hermione huffed and forced Draco's fingers around the pen frustratedly, and like the actor he was born to be, Draco acted as though a light bulb had gone off and he suddenly knew how to use a pen. While she watched him, Draco put great care into acting as though he barely remembered the symbols, when in actuality, he would never forget them. He drew the most non-English looking letter first, which vaguely resembled a five with lines and dots interwoven throughout the design. He pretended to struggle to remember another symbol (this one looked like the letter 'C' with hatch marks in the middle of it), and by the third, Hermione realised Draco was pretending and she began to grin and tore the book from his hands when he'd barely finished.
Scanning the three symbols, Hermione leaned against the shelf, mumbling to herself as she moved her hand between the three. Draco watched, devouring every second of her thinking process, and when she spoke, he wondered why he hadn't asked for her help sooner.
"It looks like it's based in Scottish Gaelic. See that symbol there?" She gestured to the five. "That looks like the letter 'G' but with Dwarven influence. This one, too, it's practically the Scots Dwarvish word for mantle." Hermione looked away from the page before turning to Draco. "Is this about the Floo?" She asked lowly.
Fearing his mouth would betray his desperate search, Draco only nodded minutely and Hermione threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly before grabbing him by the shoulders and stepping back.
"Oh that's wonderful, Draco! Where did you find this information?"
"I...hired someone." He answered, flustered. "Someone not bound by law." He was hesitant to say that part. What if Hermione thought less of him for it? Her best friend and fiancé were Aurors. Well, ex-fiancé.
"And he can speak Scots Dwarvish. Impressive." Her lower lip jutted out and she nodded appreciatively.
"Speaking of, how do you speak Scots Dwarvish?" Draco asked, folding his arms and leaning a shoulder against the bookcase. Hermione turned, mirroring his position, though she hugged her book to her chest.
"I don't." She shrugged. "Just enough to communicate with some of the dwarfs that cleaned our dormitories at Hogwarts." Hermione leaned her head against the shelf and smiled. "They didn't appreciate it. Thought I was trying to steal their work." She smiled at the memory and for the first time, Draco wondered what it would have been like to be in Gryffindor. To finish a day of classes and return to some tower with a warm fire and well-worn furniture; to friends who helped each other with assignments and told stories, rather than children of other pure-bloods who competed with each other at every turn.
"While I don't know it well enough to translate, I'm sure there's a book here that will help. After all, your language looks to be based on Scottish Gaelic and Scots Dwarvish, more so the latter." She stood up straight, all business again. "You need the Scots Dwarvish to Wizard English Translation Book. I think I saw a copy over here." Hermione rounded the corner, the smile tugging at the corner of her lips dropping as her eyes met a familiar pair. "Ronald."
Redness crawled up the man's neck, painting the tips of his ears. "Hermione." He greeted her with a nod. "Fancy seeing you here."
"It's a bookshop, Weaslebee." Draco sidled around the shelf, one eyebrow raised. "I'd say you're more out of place here than Granger." Irritation rolled off Draco in waves, and Ron could tell. He was bewildered, having caught his ex-fiancée and former childhood nemesis together in a public place. And he knew Hermione's treatment of Draco only took one month, which had to be up, were they here together?
"You know, it's funny, Malfoy, I don't recall asking your opinion." Ron sneered.
"And I don't recall asking for you approval before I speak." Draco retorted, standing nearly nose to nose with his former classmate.
With a disappointed sigh, Hermione looked between the two men, knowing whatever had brewed between the two as children was just coming to a head now, and something told her she was in the middle of it all.
"I had to purchase a book and ran into Malfoy."
"Oh." Ron seemed to calm down at that, much to Hermione's annoyance. What right did he have have police her choices? Especially when he was already with another?
"But we're on our way to dinner." Hermione looked to Draco, almost pleadingly, and his expression shifted into an almost evil-looking smirk.
"I'd never miss such a date." He confirmed, looking from Hermione to Ron. "I'd be a fool to pass up such an opportunity."
