I don't own Harry Potter, period. Boo-hoo.

AN: Wow, nice and slow, isn't it? I hope the picture is coming together little by little. That's the aim, anyway. A couple of you have asked about Lucius' pov; I'm getting there. I originally said maybe this chapter, but it'll probs be the next, honestly. I have a plan, don't worry. :)

Hermione sat down next to Lucius, one of the new combs in one hand and a bottle of spray detangler in the other. Draco was in the bathroom, taking stock of his spotty beard and assessing his new razor and shaving cream. She knew he'd likely always used a barber or his wand to take care of the problem before he'd been captured; but all the prisoners lost their wands and permission to do magic as soon as they were sentenced. So he'd had to learn over the last few years how to shave, all by himself, and he'd only had shitty tools with which to do it. Not anymore. She'd gotten him a top brand of both materials and she knew he was delighted to put them to work.

It was a good thing, too- not just for his own self-esteem (she scoffed at herself for that thought), but because his being busy meant she could get to work on Lucius' hair without interruption. Draco had stood in the doorway of the upstairs bathroom and watched her wash his father's hair with great care; while the older man had merely blinked furiously through the soap suds and water as they'd streamed into his eyes and down his face. The son hadn't said a word- just watched her actions with a curious expression on his face. Not the kind of look Ginny had asked about, no. Simple curiosity. As if he wanted to ask her a dozen questions, but daren't. As if he was afraid of her, somehow.

If that wasn't laughable, nothing was.

Now Lucius sat quietly on his bed once more, a towel about his shoulders as his only son became reacquainted with the good, old-fashioned art of shaving. Hermione put a hand on his arm.

"I need you to turn around, Lucius," she murmured, clucking at him softly with her tongue. His head indeed turned at the noise, but it was towards her and not away. She smiled. "The other way."

She had to put the items down and use both hands to direct him, but he finally turned away. She tucked one leg beneath herself and then got to work. The detangler misted over his hair and she sprayed it all over before she put it down. Lucius wrinkled his nose.

"Tickles, does it?" she asked. And she began talking to him like he was her once beloved cat, or a now beloved horse. Pulling the comb through again and again until his hair lay smooth and flat beneath her hands, though a bit damp. Speaking softly. Making conversation with the air.

It was incredibly relaxing and she could feel tension leaving her own shoulders as she worked and then, miraculously, leaving his as well.

"I think I'm almost glad you're here," she said. "Your son I could take or leave, but you're no trouble, are you. No, not you. You know exactly what's going on around you, I'd wager- underneath all that determined ambiguity. I was like that, once." She paused and turned him some more to work on the other side, so he was facing her. "You're just like an old stud, wanting to be put to pasture. I have some fellows in the barn you'd like, I think.

"Not," she added pleasantly, "that I think you're that old. Good heavens, you're not an antique. But you do need a good rest, don't you? Tired of it all, that's all you are. Believe me, I know the feeling. I know." And then her voice drifted off and she worked in silence for a few more minutes; her mind on her own troubles- like the nightmares that left her heaving, or the old dreams that kept her from visiting her friends.

Hands still tugging the comb gently through his hair, she continued to be lost in her own thoughts. She was so distracted that she hardly noticed when Lucius closed his eyes and leaned his head gently against her working hands; let alone when the final lines smoothed from his brow, and the lightest of smiles curved his tired lips.

Draco walked out of the bathroom and down the few feet back into his bedroom. He was holding the bottle of aftershave in his hands and sniffing appreciatively at it.

"Like it?" Hermione asked and he jumped slightly, then snapped the top closed. He ran a hand along his now smooth, soothed jaw line and gave her a nervous glance.

"It's…" Alright, he was going to say, but that was rude and ornery of him. The truth was that it smelled wonderful. Not as wonderful as she smelled, but even if half her face looked like crap she was still a woman; and it had been a long time since he'd been around any of those- especially ones that smelled good. He resisted the urge to shrug off her question and ignore her and set the bottle down on the dresser.

"It's very nice," he managed to say, even if his voice was slightly hoarse and he felt incredibly awkward. "Thank you."

She waved a hand. "Well, are you going to shave your father or shall I?"

Draco walked over to where she stood next to a seated Lucius, who was once again staring straight ahead of himself at nothing. Draco held himself very carefully so that he didn't touch her, or crowd her space, but even so she took a small, gasping breath and moved away.

He watched her quietly for a moment as she struggled to control herself- the telltale shake of her shoulders had returned- and then spoke.

"I'll do it."

She nodded and began to back out of the room. "You can have lunch once you're finished. And then I'll need to take care of your hair." She hesitated at the doorway and looked back at them. "Both of you," she added, and then she left.

Draco turned to his father and helped him stand, then walked him back to the small bathroom, where he sat him on the commode. He noticed his father's hair was, for the first time in years, hanging straight down his back and glistening still with damp and some kind of conditioning product. So, the little witch had lovingly taken care of his old man's hair.

It made tears rise to his eyes and he blinked them away; told himself they were tears of anger and not because he was so fucking touched. That should have been his mother's job, by rights. Or better yet, his father should still be able to take care of himself. And instead, this was what his family was reduced to: charity at the will of another mental patient. A broken, diminished family given like a present to an even more broken woman.

The entire world had gone mad. Putting the back of his hand to each eye, he pressed hard, willed the tears to recede, and finally turned on the tap. Then he knelt before his father and began to gently apply the cream.

"This won't hurt a bit, Dad," he said and started to pull the razor down, one long stroke at a time.

Lucius looked past him, not moving, blinking at nothing.

Lunch was quiet, too, each member of the strange trio thinking his or her own thoughts, each focused on something besides the sandwiches in their hands. Hermione finally broke the silence as she poured some more lemonade for them all. The kitchen door was open and a nice breeze drifted through the house intermittently, the scent of flowers wafting along on top of it.

Juniper, Draco thought and glanced up at Hermione, who seemed to have gotten over her little episode from earlier. He tried to breathe as surreptitiously as possible, not wanting to alarm her anymore. But she smelled so damned…

"I can hear you sniffing me, damn it," she growled and the pitcher of lemonade made a clunk as she put it back on the counter harshly.

He flushed a bright red and ran a hand over the back of his neck, the remains of his sandwich forgotten.

"I can't help it," he murmured.

"Well try," she said. It was bad enough she'd caught herself doing the same thing to him earlier, she thought angrily. Davidoff had always been one of her favorite scents; she still didn't know what had possessed her to buy the entire product line for him- for both Malfoys, really. But as soon as he'd gotten within two feet of her she knew she'd made a mistake.

She didn't want men to smell like pretty things, nice things. Men smelled like, well, men, and that was how it should be. They smelled like sweat and dirt and other, nastier, things and that was best. Because the farther she kept away from them the better. Except Harry. Harry didn't smell like those things. Sometimes he was dirty, and sometimes sweaty, but it was always accompanied by a spicy, earthy smell- like one of her horses. She loved it.

That's why she couldn't sleep with him anymore. He was too good for her, and he still loved Ginny, and she knew- she knew- that Ginny still loved him. So off those memories went, the way of all her other dreams.

And now Malfoy- now both of them- smelled nice. Good, even. And it unearthed a well of memories and dreams she'd been trying desperately bury for eight years. Which was why she'd rushed from the room earlier and locked herself in her bedroom and cried and laughed and finally taken a pill to calm herself. So, now she was out here, having lunch , and preparing to cut their hair, and he had the nerve to smell her again when she'd so clearly-

"I know you have to smell- I know sometimes you won't be able to bloody help smelling me," she finally said. "But you can help letting me know you enjoy it- I'm not here for your enjoyment. You're not bloody here for your enjoyment. You're here to work until I tell you to stop. So if you happen to accidentally smell me, please- please- refrain from acting like it's the best damn thing you've smelled in years," she hissed.

He pressed his lips together tightly, willing himself not to protest, to tell her that it was the best damn thing he'd smelled in years. What, did she think he was proud, or glad that was how things were? He wasn't! He didn't want to feel a fucking thing for her scarred, mental, muggleborn arse, let alone like smelling her. But Merlin take it, he couldn't help a fucking fact, now could he?

Still, he didn't say a word and merely stared at the sandwich on his plate and finally Hermione seemed to calm down.

"Come out onto the back porch," she said. "If you're done with lunch."

"We're finished," Draco replied after a quick glance at his father.

"Good, then bring that stool with you- the one in the corner." She grabbed the towel, shears, and smaller scissors she'd stacked on the counter and took them outside. Draco followed a moment later, stool in one hand, father right behind him, clinging to the other hand.

"Lucius first, I think," she said. Draco set his father on the stool and Hermione deftly tucked the towel about his shoulders. "His hair is long enough that the trimmings should fall straight away," she murmured and got to work.

"You're not cutting it all off?"

Hermione scoffed. "It's lovely hair. Why would I cut it all off? Do you want me to?"

"No, I just-" Draco fell silent and watched her work. The scissors quickly snipped away the split ends and she even layered the bottom the tiniest bit.

"This is the last part of him, isn't it?" she said quietly and looked at Draco as she whisked the towel away and shook it out. "And you've clearly made a point of trying to keep it up, of not letting anyone else cut it. Why should I take that away from either of you?"

Draco stared at the ground, unable to reply. Hermione eyed him for a minute, then dusted off the back of Lucius' pants with the towel and pointed him towards the bench on the other side of the porch. Draco took his father's place almost reluctantly and Hermione began tugging at his shirt. He clutched his hands around his middle, holding onto it.

"Hey!" he protested and she sighed.

"Draco, your hair is going to get everywhere. Trust me, you don't want it under your collar. I'll put the towel around, but my dust buster is broken and I have no desire to run an unnecessary load of laundry for one measly shirt."

"Why don't you just use magic?" he muttered and felt her hands still. He looked over his shoulder at her and saw the blood had drained from her face. It made the pink scars stand out even more. He looked away. "What?" he said, feeling uncomfortable.

Hermione had wondered when they were going to have this conversation. She'd been hoping they could just avoid it altogether, but trust a Malfoy to notice fucking everything.

"Take off your shirt," she said, her voice low.

"No!"

"I already saw your bloody back, Draco, now take off the shirt!"

"Yes, and maybe I didn't want you to see it! Why can't you just-"

Hermione tried taking some deep breaths. No, she was still too angry. If she didn't walk away now she might do something she'd regret. Finally she thrust the shears towards him.

"Fine. Cut your own damn hair. I don't care what it looks like, anyhow." And she stalked back into the house. Through the living room, into her bedroom, closed the bathroom door.

Leaned over the sink and stared.

Calm down, she told herself. Calm down, please. He's scared and being ornery because of it. He's ashamed. You've been there. Take it easy.

But she couldn't calm down and seconds later her hair brush hit the wall, followed by her straightening iron and blow dryer. Followed by a bottle of perfume that actually shattered quite nicely against the shower wall. Ginny's scent- a birthday present two years ago. The room was immediately filled with the smell of magnolia and sandalwood and she took another deep breath, then another.

And she finally felt her heart rate slow, her pulse move sluggishly as it does right after a rush of adrenaline or rage. She turned on the tap, splashed some water on her face and then dried it. Telling herself she'd clean up the mess in her bathroom later, she opened the door of her bedroom to find Draco standing outside, staring at her, his eyes wide.

She shut the door again.

When she finally emerged ten minutes later, she didn't see Draco anywhere in the house. Slowly, she made her way back onto the porch, checking for Lucius.

The older Malfoy was still seated on the bench, his long hair drying in the light Spring breeze and bright sun. There was a neatly folded shirt lying beside him. Draco, she thought. She looked to the other side of the porch and found him. He was seated penitently on the stool, shoulders hunched, towel draped across his back.

He didn't ask her anymore questions as she picked up the scissors and got to work; and the only information she offered was to talk about the village they'd been in; the life she led here and how people knew her; and the class she was leading this afternoon.

Draco ended with hair stuck under his collar anyway.

He didn't complain.

AN: OMG I love Draco. Unf unf unf.