A/N: Wow, it's been a while since the last update. I have nothing to say for myself other than life, conferences, academia, and my cat have all been demanding my attention. But I'm back to writing and we can continue where we left off. I hope you will stick with me and this story through our ups and downs... Special thanks for editing to my friend the nincompoop. You know who you are :)
Chapter 4: The Good Place
Hermione was still giggling when she entered her apartment later that night. Well, stumbled back in, would be more accurate. She shushed herself for absolutely no reason, continuing to giggle mirthfully.
You can always rely on the Weasleys to throw a good party, she observed while fighting her way out of her travel robes. She very nearly stumbled over her large bag of gifts which rested at her feet, prompting her to laugh even harder.
She and Ginny had reverted into what she supposes would have been their teenage selves, if not for the war. Immature, carefree, and gleefully silly. Hermione drank, partied, laughed with friends, and turned Ron magically pink. At some point late in the evening Harry magnified the sound of his WizPhone, playing Muggle classics. Dancing in the Moonlight sounded throughout the garden, followed by the Dancing Queen and many more that sent Hermione into a spell of nostalgia. She looked up to the moon, wondering how Christmas was on the south hemisphere. Crookshanks must be enjoying some grilled fish on the beach, she mused to herself, a small smile cresting her lips.
After the toddlers were put to bed, Hermione and the rest played a few games of exploding snap for the good old times. She would have likely lost half her hair if not for the WWWs surprisingly conscientious face-shielding spell. Well, conscientious was perhaps too generous a term. It would have been conscientious if it did not redirect the hit at other players. With so many active shields, every explosion bounced until it ended up lighting someone's dress on fire, hitting walls and rugs, or like that one time - finding its way into Arthur Weasley's hair. At any other time, this would caused some distress among the older witches and wizards, but at the end of a day spent mostly drinking, and with so many skilled witches and wizards in the room, Arthur simply patted it out and shot a jelly-legs hex at the baffled George. Then, everyone were graced with a display of Charlie rolling onto his back in laugher with butterbeer spurting from his nostrils.
Most surprisingly, among all the drunk adults, was that Ginny managed to keep up with the antics while fully sober. She carried an enchanted water glass around the room, convincingly getting giddier by the minute. In fact, Ginny managed to reach that same destination where Hermione arrived after three… four? Maybe five glasses of wine.
Yes, she was classily smashed, Hermione decided kicking off one of her shoes and in the process landing on her behind. She picked off her other shoe and tossed it at the rack. So what if she was a bit of a mess? She was a bit drunk, enjoyed a nice party, and there was no one here to see her anyway. She crawled on all fours snickering and attempting to get up when a voice startled her into the next life.
"Well, isn't this graceful?" mocked a figure from the doorway.
Hermione screamed, fumbling for her wand. Shit, it was in the outer robe. She lunged for it.
"Ow! No need to shriek like a banshee," complained the potential assailant, putting his hands to his ears.
It was only when her wand was pointed at him, eyes widened, did her drunken mind start fumbling through its files. Right, fucking Malfoy. In her house. What a way to ruin a nice night.
That was also when she noticed his widened eyes, flared nostrils, and the funny lack of a wand in his hands. Instead, his arms were raised in a defensive stance, palms open wide at chest level.
She frowned, putting her wand down. Last time she checked in with Malfoy, this kind of situation would have led to a duel and the destruction of the better part of her furniture. Smoking dents in the walls and all that kind of crap. She crooked her head to the side, puzzled.
It was also only then that she noticed noise coming from her living room.
"Holy shirt-balls!" announced the TV.
How did she not notice this? She pulled herself back up to standing position with all the elegance she could muster given her state. Arching an eyebrow at Malfoy - who still stood alarmed in the doorway - she straightened her back and marched right past him into the living room.
She landed on the couch and grabbed for the popcorn. Not that she was hungry, but it was there. Besides, it was about making a point. My property.
"It's kinda my bed, you know," the blonde figure plopped down beside her.
"No," she corrected him, looking to her left at the offending Malfoy, "it's my couch. You're using it as a bed."
He pinched his lips, huffed, and then crossing his arms across his chest, glaring at her from the corner of his eyes. "So much for hospitality," she heard him mutter under his breath.
Hermione settled in comfortably and looked at the screen. She has seen ads for this series before.
"Huh, that's ironic, The Good Place?" She asked Malfoy, pointing to the screen "Aren't you more of a Bad Place kind of person?"
Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her, "that's exactly…" he trailed off. "No. Don't tell me you have never seen The Good Place," he looked at her half disbelieving, half accusing.
"Well, I have work to do - " she started.
"What's the point of all this Muggle…" he waved his hand around cutting her off, "…flair, if you do not avail yourself of one of the most well-crafted TV series to grace the magical or non-magical theatres?"
"Wow," Hermione leaning back, "Malfoy, I had not idea you felt so strongly about a TV series…"
"It is not a mere TV series, Granger," he continued in exasperation, "it is a discussion around philosophy, a discourse around the timeless significance of life, death, ethics and morals. It is a complex exploration of existentialism and nihilism, of human relations - "
"You're awfully sophisticated for a vagabond, aren't you?" she snorted. "Fine," she pulled her legs up, side-saddled on the sofa, "you convinced me."
He arched an eyebrow at her, "of what exactly?"
"Put on the first episode, I'll give it a go," she motioned to the TV, and when he didn't move she leaned in toward him and pointed at her wine rack, "and grab one of those bad boys. I assume you already know where the glasses are."
She settled back with the bowl of popcorn, pulled a blanket onto her lap and waited for Malfoy to fetch her some wine. It might not be that bad, him living here, if she gets him domesticated. As for now… She might be drunk, but that never stopped Hermione Granger from being as sharp as a thorn. He might give something away… and then she will solve this mystery of the darn Malfoy. If she gets just a hint out of him… let some detail slip. And some was well better than none at all.
Draco had a very pleasant day following Granger's departure to her party in the early afternoon. Once the door shut behind her, Draco sat and attentively listened for the familiar popping sound indicating apparition. He then sat for another two minutes to ensure that the hostile witch was indeed gone.
Satisfied with the silence and the nearly undetectable hum of life outside the apartment, Draco got off his new bed and started strolling around the house. It was predictably quaint and dull, Draco mused to himself, an abode to fit the witch. It was beyond evident that Granger put little to no thought into the design of her house. By this point in Draco's wandering of the Muggle world, he came to recognise the tell-tale signs of traditional Muggle bachlorette-eque British decor. The furnishing was usually old, decorative pieces were kept to the minimum, and there was an array of seemingly pointless objects laying around that occasionally would spring to life in unexpected ways. Granger's living room fit that criteria nearly to the mark, but for a series of familiar magical objects that intermingled with their Muggle counterparts. There was a large couch, a smaller swivel couch, a coffee table in between them, a bookshelf, a Television that projected footages that were not alike photographed theatre plays with sound. Muggles apparently created fake memories for each other's amusement, Draco was startled to find out about a year and a half before. Since then he got quite fond of the immediately accessible Muggle theatre. So the Television set, alongside the other inanimate inhabitants of the room were all enclosed in the life-draining cream coloured walls. At least this aspect of Granger remained consolingly predictable.
So it was: just three rooms, all plainly furnished, clean but with as little imagination as humanly possible, Draco rolled his eyes at the interior.
"Not even a vase to add character," he grunted to himself. But this was useful information. Granger does not stay here often, Draco reflected, peering into a strange box that looked like Muggle wiring and technological… artefacts, Draco raised an eyebrow at a mass of entangled wires. They had spells on them, he could feel, and upon closer inspection he could detect runes scattered among the mess. Puzzled, Draco set it down and continued scouting.
Indeed, he's seen houses like this before. Mostly among the young female university students that would invite him over for a night at a time. Those houses would usually be mostly barren in the communal areas and could rarely be described as well-kept. Granger's home was tidy. It was also quite obvious that she selected her own furnishing… though where she found such ancient items, he was unsure of. Draco wrinkled his nose at the age-stained coffee table. Well, beggars can't be choosers. And this wasn't even a metaphor.
Shrugging his shoulders Draco kept moving through the house.
Leaving the cream cage that Granger called living room behind, Draco dawdled into the minute kitchen and started rampaging through the cabinets. It would appear that the inhabitant of the apartment scantly cooked for herself, and if it was not the case, then she was less imaginative with her cooking than with her decor. The knives were left to dull and she didn't even appear to have a mixer.
Could it be that Granger had a partner that she spent most of her time with? That would explain the lack of homeliness, Draco thought to himself. Her partner must be the one cooking for the two.
It was not long before Draco detected a pile of old Daily Prophets and set himself up nicely to read with a hot mug of Earl Grey. He huddled into his blanket on his newfound bed and started shuffling through the titles.
"WizPhones taking over Wizarding Britain" - flashed the heading - "with new Wizch," screamed today's title in bigger letters. The image below was of an enchanted watch. "Wizch?" Draco grunted, "really rolls of the tongue," he remarked to himself sarcastically.
"Shacklebolt launches integration policy," declared yesterday's paper, and under it a different story: "Muggle obliviated following unprecedented gnome attack."
"Potter appointed Head Auror", called another paper, and yet another: "Forbidden forest still forbidden"
"Ghosts fight for haunting rights," declared the Thursday issue, and Wednesday announced: "Magical toddler turns Muggles into radishes."
Most amusing of all was the story of the Muggle who stole a broom as a prank and accidentally flew it across Birmingham. The lad was captured and obliviated.
Three mugs and twelve newsletters later, Draco was convinced that too much has changed since his departure. He curled deeper into his blanket and sipped the comforting hot liquid.
He was gone for two years and in the meantime the Wizarding world launched into the biggest Muggle integration project since trains and cameras appeared in late 1800s. Apparently Shacklebolt had full departments preparing for this since the war ended. According to the Tuesday Daily Prophet, a full 20-year plan was published a year ago that day. The highlights were mentioned to include things like greater emphasis on Muggle studies education, occasional reporting on Muggle news, "Muggle-ysing" wizarding fashion, and most astoundingly, launching collaborations between magical and non-magical business ventures. Flipping through the pages he noted items like "Hogwarts field trips" to the Muggle world, Muggles married to wizards and witches telling of their experiences with the wizarding world, expansion of Muggle sections in book stores, workshops with Squibs, and so forth.
Draco pressed his lips into a thin line, frowning. If there was anything that Draco learnt about Muggles during his two years among them, is that they never wasted an opportunity. While bringing the Muggle world into the magical was an acceptable strategy, he supposed. No doubt it would be quite a pain to execute, but Draco could see some value in it. But bringing in the private sector could lead to the revealing the magical community to Muggles. One, two Muggles in each company being aware of magic would lead to tens if not hundreds of Muggles looking for ways to harvest benefits from us. If not harvest us. Frowning, Draco tossed the newsletter away. This would lead to no good, he thought to himself.
Well, that explains the title "Squibs appointed heads of magical relations", Draco thought. So squibs are finally becoming a "valuable asset"… he rolled his eyes.
Well, it's not like he could do something on that account. No doubt anyone opposing Shacklebolt's plan would be branded heretic in the post-war wizarding Britain anyway. One way ticket to the Azkaban, much like you father?
Setting such thoughts aside, Draco decided to focus on his knowledge of the Muggle world and seek out the entrance to the domain that the Muggles call Netflix. After fussing for a while with the remote control - a black plastic rectangle with soft buttons - and taking a break to make yet another tea mug, Draco finally managed to make the red letters appear across the screen. Feeling awfully pleased with himself, Draco sought out the TV series that he has been missing for the past six months on the streets. And since he's done so well, he decided to treat himself to some popcorn as well.
As he mentioned before, his evening was going splendidly before Granger crushed through the front door. She was giddy upon arrival, but that did not last long. Not that he was entirely surprised when a wand was pulled on him within their first 24 hours of co-habitation. He was expecting no less, but this… he can't say that it was entirely provoked. In fact, all it took was one very short mocking comment and he was facing a dangerous opponent, if he recalled correctly. It was unwise to battle a witch or wizard who has been drinking, he knew, but it was even more unwise to duel a renowned "war hero". Not to mention that he was wandless, and thus no better than a stark naked baby in combating her spells. Much like all this time in the Muggle world. No wand, no magic, no safety.
Thankfully, Granger decided not to hex his behind into the next century, but he noted that she was scary after a couple of drinks. Hair tossed around her face, an intimidating grin, and that glint back in her eyes. He had not realised how bleak she looked this morning until he saw her tonight - it seemed like some passion, spark, maybe simple lack of reserve - was back to her. Either way, he would not agitate drunk Granger, at least not while wandless, Draco decided, pulling the cork out of the wine bottle he selected after being commanded by Granger.
Crazy witch, he thought to himself while pouring wine into two glasses.
He crushed back onto the couch next to the witch, handing her her glass and taking a hefty swing from his own. One for the road, he told himself. He would need it.
"Cheers," Granger said, eyes fixed on the screen.
Draco shrugged in response and settled himself in with his own blanket and nursed his glass. Although he has already watched this season, he was not opposed to repeating it. As long as Granger did not assault him, he was fairly happy.
It was odd to sit side by side with Hermione Granger. Draco kept sneaking sideways glances at the witch, partly expecting her to explode into a sea of angry pixies. The witch sat silently, eyes fixed on the screen in concentration, occasionally reaching for the popcorn or sipping wine. He studied her from the corner of his eye. Granger was clearly older than when he last saw her about four year prior. He ran into her in Flourish and Boltts one autumn afternoon when he was shopping for a birthday gift for his mother. They didn't speak then. Draco saw Granger across the shop, they exchanged an awkward nod of acknowledgement, and then she proceeded to hang herself off the arm of the arrogant halfwit and leave the store. The next time he saw her was in the morning of this very day, when he woke up naked next to her.
He wondered what her partner would think about that. Was she still with that blundering duffle-bag?
Stealing another glance of the witch, Draco thought back to that afternoon. She still looked girlish then, different from their Hogwarts years. It was almost comforting to see today's Granger resembling the Hogwarts one more than the bookstore-4-years-ago Granger. Nowadays, she filled in physically and always bore a serious expression. Well, aside from her grand entrance earlier that night.
"You're a bit like Eleanor," Granger spoke after a while, breaking his stream of thoughts.
Draco glanced at her, "what? Blonde?" he asked.
"No," she responded, "an arsehole."
Draco huffed in annoyance. "How very observant," he said drily, before adding "and you are quick to judge and sure of your infallible righteousness," he accused.
Her head whipped to the side, glaring at him, "I've got years of experience to draw on," she remarked in an acidic tone. Bringing school up? Draco thought, how mature.
Draco pointed to the screen, "seeing someone is not knowing them," he retorted wistfully, "one episode and you decide you know Eleanor. Things may be more complex than the black and white dichotomies that your Gryffindor mind is used to operate in."
Granger's eyes narrowed dangerously and Draco realised his mistake.
Fuck.
He quickly yet elegantly, for a person huddled in a blanket, picked himself off the couch and drifted toward the kitchen. He hoped that Granger registered his flight as a dramatic exit, or at least a nonchalant move to get some wine.
Granger was not cunning! Granger was far from a master of wordplay, from a manipulative trickster. She was never strategic. Granger was not any of those things, and that is why he did not expect to find himself backed into a corner. She spoke straight… She didn't have a bone of deception in her body, Draco complained to himself. Granger was decidedly not a Slytherin. But right now, on that sofa, she was.
It seems that I am not the only one who has changed, Draco thought to himself sourly.
The terms of the game changed rather quickly, he observed. But he must not tarry. He must not let Granger have the upper hand. He picked the bottle of wine and made his leisurely way back to the living room. Draco Malfoy, whatever the situation, would not be outsmarted by repartee. She may have drawn him to say exactly what she wanted, but he knew what she was after and he was not going to give it to her.
He sat down on the sofa and re-filled the half empty glasses, trying to project calmness itself under her calculating gaze.
He licked his lips, this is a game I've been bred to play, he reminded himself.
Pasting his famous smile onto his lips, crooked with the slightest hint of mockery, Draco handed Granger her glass.
She smiled coldly back. "You were going to tell me how things are not black and white in your world, Malfoy," she prompted him, "do enlighten me."
Draco pressed his lips into a wide smile that did not reach his eyes, "Well, nights are dark, days are light, Granger," he began.
Her gaze did not falter, "and you would tell me that your nights are all in hues of grey?"
Draco tilted his head to the side looking upward, still smiling "filled with stars, the moon, enchanted fireflies and all that."
She imitated his smile, a disconcerting sight. "Ah, so in the darkness of your soul you have some light," she concluded.
"You wound me," Draco mockingly pressed a hand to his chest, "in this analogy I am the day, with mere specks of darkness, shadows falling from trees and flowers protecting from the harsh sun, locked chests keeping treasures safe…" he trailed off.
Granger smiled ruefully, eyes glinting. With growing horror, Draco was coming to the realisation that drunken Granger was not simply still sharp, not simply ever more hungry for knowledge, but enjoying the hunt for that information. She was right on the way to becoming his new Bogart.
"So darkness is a necessary evil for the light to be seen?" Granger sneered, "a philosophical argument centuries old. That does not excuse evil."
"So I am evil?" Draco inquired, "that is quite a harsh assessment for a few disagreements back in our youth."
"Is that so? You would call years of torment at Hogwarts a few disagreements? Then I suppose that your predicament in the streets of London was through no fault of your own…a genuine misunderstanding?" she suggested, raising her eyebrows.
Ah, there it was.
"Tormenting?" he asked, mouth gaping in mock astonishment, purposefully neglecting the other part of the sentence. "I thought we were getting along so well. Are you telling me that that was not friendly banter?"
Granger's smile twisted into a disagreeable grin. "Why, I do not tend to call my friends Mudbloods."
Draco tapped his fingers on his chin, the TV series speaking to itself in the background, "well, I now see where we might have had a misunderstanding."
"Do tell," Granger leaned in, eyes fixed on his face, "who have you had a disagreement with in court? About two years ago."
Draco sighed heavily, "Why Granger," he said mournfully, "it was just revealed to me that we were not friendly at all, all this time, I must take time to come to terms with these disturbing news… I'm afraid I cannot divulge such details with an apparent stranger."
Granger raised an eyebrow, "yet you are comfortable staying in my home…" she sipped her wine.
"As you well know, I have limited choice in manner of accommodation."
"Yet you did not draw on your friends when you came into trouble two years ago," she observed. "Nor now."
Draco pursed his lips, damn. "At times, trusted friends are in short supply."
Granger narrowed her brown eyes at him, running them across his face in search of… something. The silence stretched. In the background, Eleanor was trying to convince her soul mate to help her in her predicament.
"Well then," said Granger at last, "might I suggest that we put our disagreements in the past? A first step might be to get you some new clothes, if you will."
Draco held her gaze for a moment. Following this evening he did not know what to make of Granger. One part a generous charity giver, one part psychotic puzzle solver? What he knew for certain is that he did not want to end up on the street again. Still holding her gaze, Draco nodded.