She'd pulled on a long hunter green cardigan over her cotton chemise, sipped her tea, nestled herself in, listened to the music from the wireless, and finally dozed off while he perused her bookshelves, and then absently skimmed pages of Shakespeare to keep himself occupied and silent. It was not as uncomfortable as he'd imagined it would be.
He tried to shut off the observant, anxious bits of his brain to little avail while she slept. Book titles held his eyes for a short while, but eventually he ran out of things to inspect around the room, and his observation turned to her. There were lighter spots on the skin of her hands, from across the room he could only assume they were small scars from a lifetime of potions, battles, and average childhood scuffs. As his eyes were already on her hands, he began cataloguing her jewelry. His mother had always been able to tell a shocking amount about a woman from her accessory choices, so he decided to occupy his time with trying to see what he could glean.
There was a noticeable lack of a wedding ring, but the presence of several plain silver bands, a wider silver ring dotted with silver spheres that looked like soap bubbles on water, and one massive girdle of an antique silver ring carrying a large chunk of polished amber. His attention turned to the two small diamond stud earrings per lobe, and around her neck a twisted silver torc, as well as a small red cotton pouch hanging from a leather cord. The silver ring with spheres looked like a hammered sheath under the added metal bubbles, simple, contemporary, new—something she'd bought for herself then. The amber ring was clearly aged, kept for sentimental reasons, presumably some kind of past meaning, either family or romantic. Pierced ears were not uncommon, although the second set of holes was new to him, but the diamond earrings provided little insight beyond her preference for classic, understated, and a largely non-ostentatious personal aesthetic. The torc was new, but made after the ancient design, ogham runes ran down each strand of metal and around the flanges, some form of stylized creature's face forming the facing end caps. He couldn't tell what the animal was from this distance. The pouch was a complete mystery, it was sanguine in color, and appeared to have something inside it, but beyond that he had no idea. Perhaps he would tell his mother when he got home tomorrow and see what she inferred. If he couldn't occupy himself effectively this way, he figured he might as well actually read the book in his hands.
When she began shuffling around a few hours later, he froze. Was she naturally fussy whilst waking, or having a nightmare? She answered his mental query by sitting bolt upright with a massive intake of air, as if she was coming up from underwater. He decided not to comment outright, but rather he approached the bed and began casting diagnostic spells under his breath. It was late afternoon, and he knew she should eat, but he wasn't sure if she should leave the bed. His own stomach gave an embarrassingly loud grumble just as he had the thought.
She smirked, "Well, Healer Malfoy, am I well enough to make us something to eat?"
"Technically, yes, but let's keep your activity and meals simple. I shan't be holding your hair if you get ill, and I'm not sure how long you can stand without fatigue."
He proceeded her down the stairs in case she lost her balance, and listened to her bare feet slap a little hesitantly against the stairs behind him. Once in the kitchen, she braced herself against the heavy oak butcher-block table for a moment, and then smirked wickedly at him,
"Malfoy, how do you feel about spicy food?"
He knew his face was giving away too much as his brow furrowed, but he shrugged as if blasé, hoping not to seem too curious. She was suddenly smiling with her face over a steaming copper pot, inhaling deeply with a face that spoke of comfort and nostalgia. He felt he was observing a intimate moment, that was the same face he made when he embraced his mother in private. She gave a hum of satisfaction though, and that stopped him from turning away,
"I have leftovers from visiting my Grann earlier this week. Barbacoa kochon, diri ak sos pwa and crab, oh and I think I have some picklese to go on the side..." She trailed off as she rummaged in the icebox, and gave a solitary 'Ha!' when her hand came up with a small jar of what looked like shredded vegetables,
"I knew I ate all the kibbeh, but I'm glad I left this for today..." She begun moving with a frenzy, darting around the small kitchen for a knife, a lime, two bowls and plates, spoons, napkins, a ladle. She finally stopped with a gusty exhale, and then chuckled at his quizzical face,
"You haven't understood a word I've said, have you?" He chuckled, gestured for her to take a seat, and served the food per her instructions. He knew she likely wouldn't admit it, but she needed to not exhaust herself again. They ate in relative silence, only her satisfactory hums, and his controlled breathing—what she called kochon was shredded pork and it was Spicy—but she didn't seem to notice his efforts not to cough.
"I am assuming this is a regional cooking of some kind that your Grann likes to make?"
"Yes she likes to make it, but it's her regional cuisine—Grann and my dad are from Haiti—Dad emigrated in 1968. Grann stayed...I just got back from visiting..." She trailed off as if there was more information, but he'd heard enough rumors about her estranged parents not to pry. The silence was deafening until she inhaled and whispered,
"It's why your calling me a Mudblood used to bother me so much..." he flinched at the slur, "It wasn't my first time dealing with xenophobia, the kids in primary school called me a half-breed because Mum was English and Dad was a immigrant."
"I'm sorry Granger!" It had exploded out of his mouth and he was mortified at his inability to not say anything, but she gave a sad smile, accepting the sincerity of the statement rather than begrudging his lack of tact. For some reason, Merlin only knew why, he plowed on,
"I was a shite...Wait I saw your parents in Diagon Alley once-" She cut him off with a delicately quiet snort and a tapered finger in the air,
"You saw my mother speaking to Lavender Brown's father in Flourish and Blotts that day. Dad had the flu and stayed home."
"Oh. Well you look like enough to your mother, except for the hair. I assume the curls are your father's doing?" He used a light tone, trying to jest her away from a topic that was rapidly making her melancholic. Her mouth ripped up in that sad smile again,
"I think I look the most like Grann, there's a portrait of her in my workroom. Follow me."
She led him from the kitchen to the warded room, but this time instead of crackling and shimmering ominously, the barrier seemed to push into his skin only slightly before yielding to his entry. The same white trim was repeated here over buttercream walls, shelves lined every wall and were either stacked with potions books or stuffed with vial racks and ingredients in various bottles and flasks, all manner of dried herbs hung from the rafters. Upon closer inspection, each vial and flask were carefully labelled in her precise cursive, complete with a brewing versus expiration date.
The only void in the shelving made room for a portrait, a cubit high and two cubits wide, inside a mahogany frame. The name plate on the frame read 'Esthér Anaïca Madeleine la Granger, 1926—' with a space, he assumed for her death date later on. He was slightly shocked to note that it was a magical portrait. In it was a softly snoring older woman sitting in a high-backed carved wooden chair, crinkles all about her eyes as she was slightly smiling, even in her sleep. Despite an overall complexion resembling expensive chocolate, the skin of her cheeks gave off an ember red glow and were smattered with freckles just like Granger's. This woman had the same high cheeks, heart-shaped face, delicate French button nose, and the same shape of dark curls erupting from under a violently colorful geometric patterned head-wrap. She wearing a style of drop-sleeved cotton chemise in white, a white lace shawl around her shoulders, and a necklace made from what appeared to be many very large crocodile teeth. This woman had gravitas, even in a dozing portrait. He wondered if she would use her charisma to overpower with healthy fear, or warm affection, as her glowing cheeks seemed to imply. Somehow, if she was anything like her granddaughter, it was likely equal measures of both.
Draco was now at a distance that his earlier occupation with her jewelry resurfaced for lack of anything else to do, and Granger was gazing at the painting, paying him little to no attention. He discovered the torc had river otter heads on the end caps, the large stylized eyes set with onyx, whisker pores etched into the metal, and sharp teeth hanging from half-smiling mouths. The tiny pouch was still an enigma, and when she spotted him looking at it resting on her sternum, she reached up to hold it ever so softly, as if it were made of eiderdown. She seemed to know he was curious despite his best efforts to keep his face impassive, and answered his unasked question,
"It's called a gris-gris. It's like an amulet, in a way, for protection. Grann made it for my Dad, now it's mine."
The motion had brought her hands back into his field of vision. While some of the markings on her hands were in fact scars, the majority of the paler flesh, taupe against the usual caramel—were tattoos in whitish ink, just the slightest hint of blue gray—consisting of runes, arithmancy, alchemy, and tiny cross-hatched images like upstairs on her bedroom floor. As far as he knew, there was only one family in wizarding Britain that practiced ritual tattooing, and that was the Noble House of Black, and it was usually reserved for the Head of House. His mother had given him his first one a respectful three days after his father's death, his own were in black ink, and hidden under a glamour at the moment. This he did quirk an eyebrow at, and looked down at her when he heard her abrupt chuckle,
"Yes, Malfoy, to an extent, I am wearing a bit of your inheritance. Sirius Black taught me how, gave me my first one when I was fourteen to declare me the Head of the House of Granger. It was one of the only traditions of his family that he didn't despise." She paused, then spoke again tentatively,
"May I see your hands as they really are?"
...
She'd framed the question carefully. Hermione knew asking to see them all would mean exposing his faded Dark Mark, which he would likely balk at, if if his thick linen dress shirt was anything to go by. But perhaps asking to see just his hands was innocuous enough that he would remove the glamour she already knew was there. Sirius had worn his tattoos openly, but traditionally they were kept hidden, so adversaries could not be aware of the protections you'd given yourself and the House of Black. Malfoy hesitated, likely for this very reason, then spread his fingers wide as if stretching his hands at his sides. Lines of ebony erupted from under his shirt sleeves—ogham twined with nordic runes—making his alabaster skin look slightly blue around the edges of each character. She couldn't stop the inquiry falling from her mouth,
"Black Everlasting ink, woad, and hearth ash from the Manor?" He nodded and replied,
"And Black Manor, with essences of blessed thistle and peony. Yours?"
She admired that he had worked the ancient woad blessing tying him to the land, with thistle for strength, protection, and the banishment of evil, as well as peony for forgiveness. It was a subtle balance, but it suited his historic goals for himself and his family. The lines and characters followed the sinewy quality of his hands and long fingers—they suited Him.
"Muggle tattoo ink in white, essences of lavender, rosemary, dittany, and several different hearth ashes."
Hermione watched his eyebrows rise, and if she had to put a word to his expression, she'd likely have chosen 'impressed'. It was a new, but not unpleasant mien, and likely made rare appearances on his face. She remembered why she'd chosen those elements with bittersweet fondness: lavender for cleansing, banishing evil, rosemary for remembrance, dittany for physical healing, hearth ash to bind the safety of home to her person. There was a tinge of awe in his expression as he looked down at her for his next inquiry,
"May I ask which hearth ashes you chose, and just when this was done?" She felt a twinge of grief skitter through her, and she felt herself trying to keep it off her face when she decided to answer him. The War was long over, after all, and the protections were still active, but somewhat obsolete.
"My childhood home, my Grann's kitchen in Haiti, Number 4 privet Drive, Godric's Hollow, The Burrow, and Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Sirius did the first one at the beginning of fourth year, and I did the rest of them the summer after sixth year. Sirius had been gone for a year, but I remembered how, and Harry had been left the townhouse. I had just Obliviated my parents, and we were getting ready to go Horcrux hunting. So I took the Knight Bus to Godric's Hollow and Privet Drive in order to get what I needed. No one has ever seen them except Sirius and Kingsley, and now you. Harry still doesn't know."
His mouth was hanging slightly open at this final declaration, and she couldn't resist the smug smirk she felt on her face, or the giggle that followed it.
"You protected them all, and you kept it secret?! He still doesn't know?" Magical tattoos were painful to receive, never mind to give one's self, and he was clearly reacting to that fact without his usual reserve.
"Yes, I did, and no, there's no reason for him to know. It's probably obsolete at this point, anyway." He snorted with disdain,
"I can assure you it's not, Granger. Potter was hit with a Reducto five months ago bringing in Rookwood before I joined the DMLE, and Ginevra told me it blew him back like an Expelliarmus, left a massive bruise, but he rather markedly did Not explode. Quite baffling to his fellow Aurors and the staff at St Mungos, but she was just happy he was alive."
It was suddenly her turn to be slack-jawed, and this seemed to fracture the severity of his face. He was grinning at her. She felt her earlier skittering anxiety and sadness grow warm, fluttering south from the base of her throat to swell in her rib-cage for just a moment. Draco Lucius Malfoy was grinning at her, and they had just shared a secret. It had taken three years, but they'd apparently finally figured out how to talk to each other like equals—like friends—and it felt lovely to have moved past their graduation truce or his distant professionalism. She found herself grinning back.