August
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The Cold War, Draco learned from Theo who'd learned from Granger during their afternoon in Diagon Alley together, was a sort of war without any fighting. It was a muggle thing, had something to do with the Russians and the Americans. Draco tuned most of it out, hung up on the fact that Theo and Granger had become friendly. So friendly that they'd met up for lunch in Diagon Alley and then spent an afternoon shopping and boyfriend hunting.
That last part certainly didn't bother Draco at all. And he most certainly didn't feel any relief when Theo clarified that they'd been hunting for a boyfriend for him, without luck, apparently. Draco mostly couldn't wrap his head around the idea that Hermione Granger had no problem spending time, in public, with Theodore Nott.
"Did people not stare at you?" Draco asked, regaining his composure after having nearly spluttered his wine across the chessboard between them.
Theo poked his knight; it seemed reluctant to move, perhaps sensing an impending capture by Draco's castle.
"Some. But she said people stare at her anyway. And it's not like I've never been stared at before, at least once someone realizes who I am."
The knight finally moved, a begrudging trip to its new square.
"And that wasn't—uncomfortable?"
Draco captured the knight, placing Theo's king in check. Theo sighed, but when Draco looked at him he had his head tilted, the beginnings of a smirk twitching at his mouth as he tapped a shard of his fallen knight against the board.
"These questions aren't selfishly motivated in any way, are they?" Theo asked, moving a bishop to protect his king.
No.
Of course not.
Absolutely absurd.
"Because if they were," Theo continued, entirely unaffected when Draco captured his bishop. "I'd only have supportive things to say."
Theo paused, the sincerity of his words seemingly catching up with him, and then grimaced.
"Don't hurt yourself," Draco said.
Theo flicked a piece of his shattered bishop at Draco, "I've just suffered sincerity for you. You can at least admit it."
"I don't know what you're talking about." But Draco's heartrate had increased; he could feel it in his neck, against the collar of his shirt. He moved his castle, clearing the path for his queen. Checkmate.
—
After the library, Granger cleared the entire hallway leading away from the Floo parlor in a matter of days. Outside of enormous libraries and house elves constantly delivering new trinkets for her to examine, her work could apparently be done in the less affected areas of his family home with relative ease.
It wasn't that they were back in their Cold War—or whatever other muggle comparisons she wanted to make about the state of their working relationship—but more that Draco simply couldn't decide how to behave around her. He oscillated between heavy occlusion to chip away every unwanted emotion—substantially less irritation these days, and substantially more of something else—and concerted efforts to have normal, civil conversations with her.
It was both more comfortable and significantly less hassle to try and act as if they weren't Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy when they interacted. But he couldn't maintain that illusion when he realized she'd started wearing long sleeves, even in the heat, to cover her scar. Nor could he forget such things when the same heat made him want to roll up his own sleeves, only to be reminded of the hideous brand on his arm. The worst, though, were the times when he felt a bolt of something entirely inappropriate towards her, making pretend niceties an impossibility to maintain. They became Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy again: emphasis insurmountable.
"We should move to a different wing," he said, trying to reroute her after she finished dampening the dark magic attached to a bust of Lucius Malfoy I. According to her ever-present diagnostic runes, it was the last object in the corridor leading from the parlor that required her attention.
Today, he'd tried avoiding occlusion, but he wouldn't last much longer if she insisted on tackling the south hall.
"This is the next logical place to clear," she said, shoving up one of her sleeves—the right one—before she paused, pulling it back down again.
"That's the guest wing," he said.
They stood facing a long hallway. At the end, a set of stone stairs led to two other floors, one up and one down. Several doors and archways punctuated otherwise blank swaths of stone wall. Draco's skin prickled just looking at it.
"What does that matter?" She threw her question over her shoulder as she marched into the hallway, ignorant to his misgivings.
"We've had"—Draco took a step forward, tangentially pleased his stomach didn't immediately drop—"many unpleasant guests. Especially during the war."
That stopped her, one foot hovering before it finally came down on the stone floor. A number of paces ahead of him, she turned, swallowing.
"Unpleasant guests?"
"Him. His people."
Granger had the good grace to look unsettled. This may have been the entire purpose of why the Ministry had sent her here, but this hall was something else—something more. No one used it, not in years, not since then. There was no rush to subject themselves to it.
He tried to elaborate. "I believe my father really did make an effort to bring as many cursed objects we knew about to you, especially from this hall. But I anticipate it will still be extremely unpleasant. There's at least one room on the next floor that we haven't been able to open since the war."
"So what do you suggest?" she asked.
"There are several other wings that need attention—"
"This is my job."
"Oh, is it? How disappointing. I was under the impression these were social calls."
She rolled her eyes, hands finding her hips.
"I know what I'm doing."
"I know—I know you do. I'm just—suggesting an overabundance of caution, perhaps delay this part of the manor for a while more."
She didn't budge. Not even an inch. She didn't even dignify his concerns with a response. She just stood there, brows raised, eyes narrowed, heels dug in as deep as she could get them: a vision of stubbornness.
Finally, "Please let me do my job."
His teeth clicked together as his jaw snapped shut. Stubborn fucking witch.
"Fine."
He sighed, conjured a chair for himself, and tried to bury his anxiety in potions theory.
—
The problem was in separating the curse from the flesh. Simple in theory, a complete cunt in practice. If Draco could get the curse to release its grip on the skin, then the rest of the healing would only require a bit of scar paste. Everything he'd tried thus far had resulted in burns and scabs and dark magic fighting back, staking ownership over the scarred skin and reacting violently at the suggestion it vacate.
Draco crossed several items off his list of rare potions ingredients, already foreseeing unpleasant reactions with the base healing potion he'd been using. He'd have to place a few special orders to acquire those that had promise; many were hardly things grown in his family greenhouses. Perhaps Theo would have some at his Estate.
"Malfoy," Granger spoke from nearby.
He drew a line through an entire paragraph of exceptionally unhelpful herbs, not looking up. He hadn't expected to hear from her for hours, honestly. She'd been so determined to force this hall into submission.
"Hmm?" he offered as he paused, considering the implications of acquiring and adding dragon's blood to the current iteration of his brew.
"Malfoy." Her voice came softer. He sighed. He'd finally settled into his work after she'd insisted on tackling these particularly unpleasant rooms.
"Yes?" he asked, making a point this time to continue evaluating the list of ingredients in front of him.
"Draco."
That got his attention, head snapping up, torn from his work with an almost violent force: stunned by the use of his given name.
He dropped his list, scrambled to his feet, and cancelled the transfiguration on his chair all in the span of a single gasp. Granger cradled her right arm, the veins beneath her skin glowed a bright, angry red, creeping and crawling up her forearm and her bicep. Her sleeve had been cut open, probably a slicing hex she'd done to assess the damage. Her fingers and her hand glowed almost entirely red: webs of bright red veins. Draco's stomach flipped; her fingers seized, rigid muscle that wouldn't relax. The tension in her hand hurled him back in time, memories of his own fingers torqued in agony under the Cruciatus. His head spun from the sudden need for Occlumency.
Her voice didn't even tremble when she spoke, low and a little bit breathy. He didn't miss the glassiness in her eyes though, tears about to fall.
"I've stopped the spread," she said. "But I'm not familiar enough with this type of blood curse to reverse it."
"Why are you so calm?" Draco asked, not sure what else to do. Should he touch her? Should he give her space? His whole body had stalled in panic, in indecision. He leaned deeper into his Occlumency, trying to freeze out the heat of panic, trying to slow his heart's frantic beating.
"I'm not calm. I'm actually feeling really unsteady—could you please help me to the Floo? I need to go to St. Mungo's."
She'd said one thing, but acted completely the opposite.
"You—this is you not calm? In an emergency?"
Right, an emergency. He finally moved, wrapping her good arm around his waist and hating the inappropriate thrill that tensed his muscles and sent heat rushing up his spine. He cast a featherlight charm on her and she immediately sagged in what he hoped was relief over not having to hold up as much of her own weight.
She held her jaw tight. A tear broke from her lids but she barely blinked, determination evident in every measured breath, every step she took for herself.
If this was Hermione Granger not calm, The Dark Lord never stood a fucking chance.
—
"Why are you here?" Granger asked, entering the waiting area at St. Mungo's where Draco had spent almost three hours, bored out of his mind. He sat, he stood, he occasionally paced, irritating the nurses who wouldn't tell him a damn thing. But he'd also been too worried he would miss her if he left to get a book or something else to occupy his racing mind.
So instead, he engaged in extremely reluctant waiting, thoughts spiraling to all manner of grotesque ways the blood curse had mangled Granger's arm.
She looked perfectly fine. More than that, surprised to find him there.
"I was waiting for you," he said. He rose from his chair, resisting every impulse to reach for her right hand and examine it. But from where he stood it looked completely normal. She flexed her fingers as he watched. Why did she still look so confused?
"But—why did you wait for me?"
A chill raced down Draco's spine, coldness that had nothing to do with Occlumency. He hadn't engaged those defenses since the healers whisked Granger away, leaving him to focus on controlling his breathing. As such, standing in front of her now, he was completely himself. This left the door open for what felt suspiciously like mortification, carried by the implication that he shouldn't have waited. Was it inappropriate? Had he overstepped?
He slid his hands in his pockets, trying to resist the urge to fiddle with his cuffs or shuffle from foot to foot. He fought the desire to request she roll up her repaired shirtsleeve and prove his family home hadn't permanently mangled or maimed her.
He cleared his throat.
"You were harmed at my family's estate, Granger. It felt like appropriate decorum to ensure you were alright. I—apologize, if you'd rather I leave—"
"No." She almost reached out, at least that's what he inferred from the small jerk in her arm and shoulder, but she stopped herself. "I just—didn't expect it."
"Are you?" he asked. "Alright? That is, are you alright?"
She crossed her body with her left arm, massaging her right forearm where the curse had been just hours before. But she smiled, something reassuring, something warm.
"Oh, yes—I am. It was a pretty run of the mill blood curse. I've been filtered and replenished. Good as new."
"And that's it?" It wasn't that he didn't believe her, but he wanted—needed—to make sure. His whole body practically thrummed with the desire to cross the three feet of distance between them, examine her arm, and then apologize profusely, possibly on his knees. That was a dangerous thought; he packed it up and put it away, a little chill.
"Yes. It's pretty straightforward, actually. I'm just a little lightheaded from all the blood they purged. Blood replenishers take time—I'm sure you know."
He did. They were an extremely common healing potion. They worked best when taken with food and drink.
"We'll get you some food, then," he said.
"What?" Her left arm fell back to her side; probably a side effect of the shock. Her eyes had gone wide too—huge expressive orbs practically begging him to make more sense.
He felt like he'd been perfectly clear.
"Food, Granger. We should get you some strength, help that blood replenisher along. You are looking rather ghostly. Come on."
He offered her his arm, an instinct from a different version of himself who didn't have to consider what it might look like for Hermione Granger to walk arm in arm with Draco Malfoy.
And strangely, unbelievably, inexplicably: she took it. Admittedly, her eyes narrowed once her surprise passed, and she looked like she trusted him less than she trusted a blast ended skrewt, but she took his arm and walked with him through the hospital halls and out the doors.
He tensed. He couldn't help it; every ounce of his self-awareness had been narrowed down to the pressure of her hand gripping his forearm and the warmth from the crook of her elbow radiating through his shirtsleeve. He didn't comment on the wobble he felt in her steps, on how it became clear, as they stepped onto the footpath outside St. Mungo's, that she'd benefited from his steady arm.
He tried to ask his question in as matter-of-fact way as possible; the last thing he wanted was for her to think he intended to make fun of her. His house had attacked her, for the second time, no less. He'd have to be tremendously cruel to layer casual insults on top of that—and maybe he had been at one time, but that was before he'd had casual cruelty lobbed at him on a regular basis. Perspective had a revelatory magic to it, he'd realized.
"How far do you think you can walk?"
Inconveniently, St. Mungo's just happened to sit in the middle of muggle London.
"I'm—" she started. Her grip on his arm tightened, a beat, and then loosened again. Draco looked ahead, resolute in his commitment to let her have privacy in whatever battle against her limits she needed to have. "I'm not up for walking very far."
It wasn't what she meant, but for some reason, those words had the same effect on Draco as if she'd said I trust you with my life. Granger had just admitted to a weakness, no matter how small, and evidently trusted him not to take advantage of that. He almost laughed at how utterly unbelievable such trust would have been mere months earlier.
Draco considered his options, which had essentially been limited to whatever was in his line of sight.
"Do you like Italian, Granger? It looks like there's a place on the corner up there."
Her grip tightened again.
"It—it will be muggle," she said, voice quiet.
"Well that's—fine." He struggled with the words because he knew she wouldn't believe him, not because of the principle of the thing. Sure enough, he could see her head angling in his periphery, probably seeking confirmation that he meant what he'd said.
He turned and met her gaze. He'd expected suspicion but saw something more like wonder. He had to pack that away too, lest it double him over with an uncanny sense of satisfaction that wove between his fibrous parts that sometimes felt like they may unravel at the seams.
"It's—fine?" she asked.
"Yes. I—ah, started carrying more muggle money on me in Sarajevo. Magical spaces aren't as separate there. It, well, seemed like a smart thing to do here, too. Just in case." He reached into his trouser pocket to pull out his wand and his billfold, unshrinking it.
She might have let go of him then, if only for a moment, to make it easier for him to cast his spell and fumble with his money, but she remained firmly in place. If anything, she leaned more heavily into him. He suspected she might be struggling more than she wanted to admit.
He held out a handful of bills to show her.
"Do you think this would suffice?"
Her hand shot out to the muggle money, shoving it down.
"Merlin, Malfoy. Don't—my gods, put that away. You could probably buy the whole restaurant with all that," she laughed, but her pitch of it crept towards hysteria. She swayed.
He indulged in a frown as he returned his billfold to his pocket and led them down the block.
"Oh don't pout, Malfoy," she said. He could see her smiling up at him from the corner of his eye. He did not, could not, look. "Did you not pay attention while Gringotts converted your galleons? That was a lot of money."
He simply raised a brow and tilted his head towards her, just enough that she'd be able to see, but not enough that he'd have to look into her eyes, not from this proximity.
She snorted a laugh, grip on his arm holding strong as he opened the door for her, leading her inside the restaurant.
—
It was sometime after the appetizer arrived that Draco experienced a complete system meltdown in what felt like a very literal sense. Even without actively engaging in Occlumency, there were still things he'd frozen out, chipped off, packed away. And those things, so diligently ignored for so long—months, probably—flew from their hiding places, molten, and rejoined the flow of blood pulsing through his veins.
It happened as he stared at their fried zucchini blossoms, which irritated him probably more than they should.
"Sometimes they're stuffed with cheese, Malfoy. I'm surprised Blaise hasn't made you try them. His family's Italian, right? They're delicious," Granger had said, insisting over the rim of her wine glass.
Draco enjoyed fine things: fine foods, fine wines, fine dining. And the company of fine witches. Which was where things fell apart: staring at this absolutely ridiculous appetizer, sipping the most expensive red wine available—in what happened to be a not inexpensive restaurant, according to Granger's protests once she saw the menu—and in the company of someone he couldn't entirely deny was a fine witch.
He was on a fucking date.
An accidental date.
And that thought became the key that unlocked whatever room inside his mind held all the inappropriate things he'd thought about Granger since she'd started working in his home, flooding his system with a rush of heat. Heat in embarrassed varieties, fond varieties, and lustful varieties, most distressingly.
All those thoughts that weren't supposed to be a problem, that he'd tried his best to ignore, that he'd packed away to deal with at a later date, roared to life inside his head, drowning out the tasteful piano track playing throughout the restaurant. Apparently this would be the later date, the specific time he'd finally have to manage several identity crises worth of traitorous thoughts: while staring at fried fucking zucchini blossoms.
As his eyes bored holes into the appetizer plate between them, Draco tried and failed to find a part of him that was disgusted, or upset, or otherwise revolted at the idea of being in a date-like setting with Hermione Granger. Instead, all he could find was a seed of rebellious pleasure, and an internal chiding that said he couldn't take it back now, couldn't unthink it now that he'd thought it; he wanted to be on a date with Granger.
He almost excused himself to find a place where he could groan at his own idiocy in private, perhaps hex his own bollocks off for finding himself so deep, so suddenly, and so unwittingly. Evidently, he had a skill for self-delusion.
As it turned out, fried zucchini blossoms were delicious. He couldn't stop himself from watching Granger's mouth as she partook. She, in turn, watched him with an equal look of curiosity he couldn't place.
"You're left-handed," she said.
He paused, fork hovering midway between his plate and his mouth.
"I am," he said, lowering his fork and ignoring his bite.
"I haven't noticed before."
He tilted his head: face warm, and he wished it was from the cabernet.
"You've seen me cast plenty of magic for—years."
She shrugged, sipping her wine. She glanced at his left hand again, resting near his plate, still loosely holding his fork. He felt the weight of her gaze as her focus travelled up his arm, snagging on his forearm, at the thing they both knew lived beneath his sleeve, before continuing upwards: bicep to shoulder to collar to—finally—his face.
"I just never noticed." She almost sounded surprised by her own admission.
"I suppose I don't know why you would."
When, exactly, had Granger gotten pretty? He'd noticed before that she'd changed since school, but he hadn't connected those changes to the face in front of him: open and warm and glowing from the candlelight at the center of their table. Flickers of light danced across her freckles, illuminating them not unlike the stars in the sky. He wanted to reach out and trace every path between them: draw constellations on her skin.
Oh, he was so very fucked.
He'd never come anywhere close to thinking those kinds of thoughts about Astoria. In fact, he'd stayed the length of several Quidditch pitches away from that line of thinking, despite all his opportunities at the many luncheons and dinners and social events he'd escorted her to.
His conversation with Granger stalled in a shockingly similar way to all of his attempted outings with his betrothed: swirling in an eddy of awkward glances before traveling downstream, towards the waterfall where one of them would have to jump.
The only question Draco wanted to ask, the only conversation he really wanted to have was entirely inappropriate and far too date-like for his denial, or lack thereof, to stomach.
He was dying to know why she and Weasley had broken up. When he'd first learned that fact, months ago during Theo's birthday, Draco had packed the stemming questions away so quickly it was a miracle he'd had any control over his occlusion, particularly with alcohol involved.
His other, absolutely-not-date-related, go-to conversation topic was work. Which wasn't an option, owing to the fact that he probably knew more about her work than anyone else in her life. He had the distinct pleasure of witnessing it, after all. So, that topic toppled off the fucking table.
He glared at the zucchini blossoms.
He could ask her what she liked to do in her spare time.
Except she'd already admitted once that she had very little of that since she spent so much time on her work. Also, that would have been an absolutely pathetic not-date conversation starter.
He revised his desire to be excused; he would also require privacy to throw himself off the tallest building he could find. It was as if he'd never been on a date before, never spoken to this witch in his entire life. He might have shaken himself if not for the fact that Granger's impossibly expressive eyes were currently fixed on him with curiosity. This was not a date, nor could he think of it as one.
This was dinner designed for her wellbeing. She needed food to aid her blood replenishing potions and, because she'd been harmed in his home, he felt a responsibility for her care.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, finally taking the long-abandoned bite of his appetizer.
"Better," she said. "The food is helping. I'm feeling a little less woozy. So, thank you. This was a good idea."
She lifted her wine glass, pausing just before the glass touched her lips. Draco found himself envious of a curved rim of glass, so close to her mouth as she spoke.
"The wine might not have been the most medically advisable choice," she continued. "But it's been a long day."
He lifted his own glass, "I do have good ideas sometimes."
She laughed. "Did you just make use of understatement, Draco Malfoy?"
He might have. But his brain had stalled, utterly confunded, at the sound of his given name spoken so easily from her lips. For the second time that day, in fact. More than that, she'd been teasing him. It felt like a spark of fire in his chest, catching on nerves and veins and entire muscle groups, building to a conflagration at his fingertips.
He cleared his throat.
"Why dark artifacts?" he asked.
She looked up from where she'd been tracing patterns against the white tablecloth, apparently not immune from the novelty of their situation, either.
"Oh, well—I just," she flustered, blush blooming behind freckles. She released a sigh and settled her hands on the table, tone shifting. "I was stuck—felt stuck. Stuck in the Magical Creatures Department, stuck with—Ron, too. A lot of things weren't working quite how I wanted to. When I ended things with Ron"—Draco logged that fact with the force of a sledgehammer inside his skull—"I realized I wanted to have a more immediate effect with my work. This fit."
"And you enjoy it?"
Of all the stupid, idiotic, imbecilic questions he could have asked. He went with the one where he inquired as to whether or not she enjoyed her work, stuck in the manor where she'd once been tortured and now subsequently injured mere hours before.
"Very much."
He might have choked on his wine if he'd been sipping it.
"Oh," he said, disbelief slipping from his mouth before he could stop it.
Their meals arrived: hers, a creamy saffron risotto, and his, a lamb dish in a burgundy sauce. With fresh plates in front of them and dashes of awkward conversation behind them, the looming label of date reasserted itself.
They ate mostly in silence, a few stunted attempts at marveling over their delicious food. Until finally, Granger came up with something else.
"Why did you decide to move out of the manor?"
He finished slicing his cut of lamb and set his fork and knife down, offering her his undivided attention.
"I'd gotten used to living on my own. While I was abroad I—" he stopped, grimaced, and restarted. "That's not—I'm sorry. That's not entirely true. I just couldn't live there anymore. Not with everything that's happened."
He expected to feel flayed, exposed by such honesty. But instead, it felt a lot like gasping for air, breaking the surface in a pool of water after being held under for far too long.
"Being abroad," he continued. "It was good for me." And he tried to will her to understand just how good. How he'd finally been able to be someone unrelated to his family legacy. How, from the moment he arrived, he pretended like blood purity meant nothing to him, a belief already severely fractured by the things he'd seen and done and agonized over during the war and his two years under house arrest.
And how, at some point, he stopped having to pretend. And it had been a marvelous feeling.
"And now you're back," she said, perhaps seeing his point, perhaps not.
"I am."
"And you're engaged."
The crescendo towards feeling like he might finally reveal himself clattered a measure too early, banging around inside his head: off-key, off-tempo, off-topic.
"I'm—betrothed."
"Is that different?" she asked. Her tone had taken on a sharp quality, no longer quite as warm, quite as welcoming.
He shouldn't say it. He didn't want to say it.
But he said anyway, gods be damned.
"It's different to me."