Chapter nine: Battering Ram

Hermione was baffled.

Harry had Floo-called her that morning with an urgent message: the Ministry was demanding to see results of the rehabilitation program. Taken aback and rather displeased – hadn't they gone through this already-, Hermione had rushed to arms, writing a series of letters to the Ministry to defend the program while Harry worked from the inside.

After the second letter, she'd taken a moment as it dawned on her that she was fighting for the Slytherins.

After the fourth, she'd decided that she didn't care, that she saw something redeemable in Pansy, Draco, and Adrian, and that defending them (and the other members of the program) was the right thing to do.

After the fifth, she was getting angry with the Ministry, feeling the familiar world-weariness settle in the corners of her eyes.

After the seventh, she'd managed to get them to agree to an extension of time before they were presented with results, though Harry, Hermione and Luna would have to present evidence to a committee to prove that they were truly rehabilitated.

Feeling triumphant, though still incensed beyond belief at the occurrence, Hermione slumped on the table next to a cooling mug of tea, hair an unbrushed mess and hands ink-stained. She decided to take the afternoon off from her Potions Mastery, just as there was an unexpected knock at the door.

Frowning, and hoping to Merlin that it wasn't a Weasley because she was in the mood to hex something, Hermione folded her dressing gown around her and went to open the door.

The last person she expected had shown up on her doorstep: Draco Malfoy. He looked pale, with circles under his eyes like he hadn't slept all night, and Hermione's kind heart dropped into her stomach. "Is everything okay?" she asked worriedly, as if he was one of her friends, and ushered him in the door. Her flat was a bit messy, but right now she wasn't worried, pushing a silent Draco to the couch.

Draco looked around the flat, a bit uncertain, and then at Hermione, taking in the messy hair, inky hands, and dressing gown. His mouth twisted into a tiny smile, and Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Don't start," she advised, sitting across from him. "Why have you shown up at my flat at this ungodly hour?"

It was probably rather close to noon, but the comment was meant to provoke another smile, which it did. Heartened, Hermione looked at Malfoy with curious concern, cataloguing his posture. She'd thought he was doing well with the program and with life in general, despite his habit of needling her, and wondered why he looked lost.

"Um," he started softly. "Remember that I said I was going to talk to Ollivander?"

Hermione nodded encouragingly.

"Well, he said I could come by today. And I…" he took a deep breath. "I don't know what to say. How do I even begin…?" Draco's voice cracked. "He was tortured in my house," he said. "I… can't escape responsibility for all the things that happened during…" the war.

As Malfoy took a moment to work past the panic and the self-recrimination that was obviously choking him, Hermione held out a hand. "Malfoy," she said firmly. "Do you know what day it is?"

He looked up at her, eyes trailing up her ink-stained hand, confused. Hermione pushed the simmering irritation from the morning behind her, focusing on the boy in front of her.

"It's a Saturday," she said.

"At Hogwarts, it's a new school year. It's been more than a year since the fall of Voldemort, it's been a few months since you started the program, and this morning you walked into my flat and didn't comment on my hair, which makes it a very special day in my opinion," she said with a smile. Draco looked up at her, blinking rapidly, and Hermione nodded.

"If you're stuck in the past," she said, and she was speaking for herself as well, "You aren't going to be able to move forward. Bad things have happened in your life, and they've had difficult consequences, but you're strong enough to grow instead of become bitter. You took a big step by asking to speak to Ollivander, and now you have to take another. So take the step. Move forward. And you know what? I bet you'll find that the more steps you take, the easier it gets."

Malfoy listened to her speak carefully, nodding along, then looked up at Hermione. His eyes looked better now, still circled by evidence of a sleepless night, but a bit more… at peace.

"Do you always talk so much?" he said weakly. "I thought therapists were supposed to ask questions about feelings and shite."

Hermione grinned and punched him in the arm. It was as close, she thought, as they were going to get to a hug.

… or it would have been, if Draco hadn't sneak-attacked her at the door, face pressing into her curls for a brief moment before waving good-bye.

…

Draco wasn't sure what had possessed him to give Granger a hug, but he supposed he'd needed the moral support. Straightening his shirt cuffs, he headed back to the apparition point, going over Granger's words in his head, telling himself that he could do it.

He tried to hold onto that feeling as he stood at the doorstep of Ollivander's new residence, a pretty little seaside cottage with a beautiful garden. Draco knocked on the door, feeling the imprint of Hermione's messy hair on his cheek and wondering how that gave him courage.

Someone called 'coming' from inside, and Draco shifted from foot to foot, taking deep breaths. The door opened and Draco braced himself, but it wasn't Ollivander – it was a plump, cherubic woman who smiled kindly at him and asked, "Draco Malfoy?"

"That's me," Draco replied, a bit wary, and the woman beamed. "I'm Mrs. Spooner, the housekeeper. Just follow me!"

He followed her into the house, looking around curiously and noting that it seemed cozy and warm. Mrs. Spooner was chattering away. "He's expecting you. Just go right through that door, dearie, and I'll bring you two tea in a moment," she finished, pushing him on the small of his back and bustling off to wherever the kitchen was.

So he was left with another doorway to go through, all on his own.

Draco decided in a burst of recklessness that he'd already come this far, and with a few quick strides, walked into the room.

It was warm, and full of books and overstuffed chairs, but Draco's gaze was drawn to the man sitting closest to the fire, a skinny white-haired man with eyes that were piercing and soft all at once. Draco cleared his throat and said cautiously, "Mr. Ollivander?"

"That's me," came the voice, and it wasn't angry, just polite. "Why don't you sit down, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Draco," he replied automatically, not wanting to use his surname just now. He seated himself on a couch across from the fire, sitting with his back poker-straight, and looked at the other man, wondering where to start.

"So, my boy," said Ollivander, getting to talking first, "What can I do for you?"

Draco's mouth dropped open. He had words on the tip of his tongue – I'm sorry, please forgive me, I wish I could change things – but they all slipped away at his comment. He blinked, closed his mouth with effort, and leaned a bit closer. Instead of saying he was sorry, he supposed he'd just have to show him.

"Mr. Ollivander," Draco said, meeting the older man's eyes, "Would you teach me how to make wands?"

Ollivander steepled his fingers, clearly thinking. After a pause, he held out his hand, and Draco knew without question what he wanted. Drawing his wand, he handed it over to the other man, wondering what it was going to say.

He'd had to replace his after Potter had Disarmed him, winning its allegiance away. In any event, Draco was not the boy he was when he'd gotten his first wand, and he wondered if his new one reflected that.

"Not your first," Ollivander mused. "Hawthorn, 10 inches, reasonably pliant. No, that wand has moved on… this one, however – Larch and Unicorn hair, 10 ¾ inches, unyielding…"

Ollivander's eyes softened, and Draco felt as though he was missing something important. What would a wand say of him, if it could speak? He did not know. However, the wand must have told Ollivander what he wanted to hear, as he handed it back to Draco and offered him a mysterious smile.

"You want to make wands, you said?" the older man inquired as Mrs. Spooner came in with the tea. Draco nodded, unable to speak. There was a curious lump in his throat, something akin to relief, which was making his eyes water. Of all the possible reactions, he'd never expected this.

Ollivander clapped his hands together with a pleased grin. "Well then, Draco," he said, "Let us begin!"

…

A/N:

I think this is probably a record update time for me.

The information on wands I obtained from the Pottermore wiki. It said that it was unknown if Draco ever regained his old wand, so I took some liberties. I did choose Larch and Unicorn hair with a purpose!

Thank you to my reviewers! I tried to update soon, as promised, and hope to churn out as many chapters as I can before I go back to school. After that, we'll have to see!

I hope that you enjoyed this chapter. See you in the next one!

Isefyr