Eyes narrowed, Draco glared at the two people he had invited into his home. It was true, he decided then: good deeds really don't go unpunished. He had helped Granger, taken her in, and told her two dumbass friends about it. In return, they sic the ministry on him. A wave of disgust rolled through his body, and he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to smash something. Anything. Preferably Potter or Weasley's jaw, but they had wands. He didn't.
"Look, Malfoy…" Harry began in almost consoling tone, but the slytherin was too angry to listen.
"Fuck you, Potter! I could have left her; I should have left her! Where she was - you'd have been lucky to ever find her! You know she looked like shit? That's right. Your precious girl had bags under her eyes the size of bowling balls. And I help her, I fucking console her, bring her to my house, tell you about her… and this is how you pay me back?" he yelled, stabbing a finger towards the doors. "By setting your hounds on me?!"
"Oh, get over yourself ferret, you do one decent thing in your miserable life-"
"Ron, don't escalate!"
"That's right, hold a schoolyard grudge, you filthy-"
"-and we don't know if he's even innocent, because-"
"RON!"
"-peasant! Why don't you go scrounge up some knuts for your family!"
"-maybe he's the guilty one here, and now he's just trying to cover his tracks!"
"Wow," Draco growled, voice laced with sarcasm. "You must really be the brains of the auror department, Weasley. So, according to you, I kidnap the witch and then-what? I decide to incriminate myself by handing her back over to you?"
"Well, we'll just find out, won't we?"
"You're a fucking joke of an auror, you know that? Hanging on by your boyfriend's coattails-"
"ENOUGH!" Harry bellowed.
Ron was red in the face; Draco - as pale as snow under a full moon. He was panting and kept balling his hands into fists, knuckles crackling. He had been stupid, so stupid, to think that they wouldn't hold the past over him. It would always be there: in the sneers and glares, the curses that trailed when he walked by, the open hostility, the naked contempt. It would forever follow him like some dark passenger, making others suspect even his most benign intentions. He hated everything at this moment: these two, for not giving him even the tiniest benefit of the doubt; his parents, for following a deranged maniac; himself, for listening to them. He hated Voldemort as well... for just existing, for such a twisted and vile evil should never even be brought into this world, and he hated the world itself too, for being so unjust, and cruel, and callous. He would never get a break, would he?
"Hold it, Malfoy, this isn't what you think," Harry beseeched.
"Oh yeah? Well, what is it then? Because it sure as hell looks like half the auror department out there."
"We didn't know what was waiting for us here, it's the goddamn middle of the night-"
"Oh, well pardon me for thinking you'd want a prompt summons for this. Maybe I should have waited a month or two-"
"-and it was just protocal. Look, I know you don't like the Ministry, but-"
"The ministry?" Draco sneered, his voice laden with scorn. "Why would I ever not like it? Because they've taken my wand? Gifted me with a whole series of humiliating hoops that I have to jump through every day? Because they confiscated half the Manor, claiming 'dark artifacts'?"
"There were dark artifacts here…"
"THEY TOOK THE SILVERWARE, POTTER! The fucking silverware! Ewers and vases from the early Ming Dynasty! They emptied the wine cellar! Tell me, how much dark magic is in a 50-year-old bottle of scotch?"
Harry reddened; he hadn't heard anything about this.
"If that's true, then it's an egregious misuse of authority..."
"Ha! 'Egregious misuse of authority'." Draco's laugh, dry and humorless, echoed through the vast hall. "Thievery is what it was, plain and simple. And those… people out there perpetrated it. Yeah, your colleagues and partners are no better than the average crook."
Harry and Ron glanced at each other. They'd caught some whispers on the job about misappropriations and confiscated property disappearing from hold-up… but nothing on this level. What Malfoy was alleging reeked of corruption.
"Ok, Malfoy, let's just focus on this for now. You're in the middle, like it or not. So the easiest way for you is to go down, and-" Harry quickly raised his hands, preempting Malfoy's objection. "-as a witness! As a witness, just give a statement, and we'll go from there. No one's looking to set you up!"
Draco snorted.
"That's bull. Did you even hear what Weasel was spouting next to you? And that's child's play compared to what the others will think."
"Ron was just… anxious. We - the two of us - are just very anxious to see Hermione. Right, Ron?"
Ron grunted something that might have been an affirmative.
"See? Nobody else will enter your home, I promise. You just give your statement-"
Harry broke off, seeing Draco vehemently shaking his head.
"Ok, how about I take your statement. You and me. Nobody else. I just want to know what happened to my friend."
There were pleading notes in Potter's voice, which cooled Malfoy's anger. He had loathed the all-lauded savior in school, but those feelings failed to carry over the war. Besides, Potter had nothing to do with his misfortunes. Those stemmed from his own past and the new ministry, where Potter was just a cog in a machine. A naive innocent, who believed in justice, and stood up for what was right. You'd think the war would have changed that, adding some cynicism, but no, he truly believed in the good guys, and the good guys had won. Hadn't they?
His request was reasonable, though, and Draco, still seething from anger but trying his best to conceal it, acquiesced.
"Very well. But I'm sure it can wait until after your reunion."
They perked up at that last phrase, looking like puppies with a new chew-toy.
"Yeah." Ron, being silent for most of the last exchange, had to clear his throat before speaking. "We'd uh… very much like that."
Draco was about to respond, when there was a pounding on the front doors.
"Draco Malfoy! Ex-Death-Eater, Ex-Dark-Wizard! In the name of the law, I order you to open these doors!"
The voice, magnified by sonorus, sounded pompous and haughty. Harry winced at the sound.
"That's Rawlings," he murmured to Ron. "Take care of him?"
Ron nodded and, rolling his eyes at Malfoy's reminder that he would permit no one else inside his precious home, stalked to the doors. He identified himself and then walked out, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Meanwhile, Harry approached his school nemesis.
"Hermione?" he inquired.
Draco sighed and clasped his hands; Linny, ever-willing to serve, materialized at his feet.
"Take Mr. Potter and his friend, Mr. Weasel, to Ms. Granger," he commanded. "Where is she, anyway? I swear, it's been over an hour."
"Ah, yes, Master Draco, it has." Linny kept glancing between him and Harry while she spoke. "But she be very tired. Linny check on her, and miss is sleeping soundly. She even, if Linny may be so bold, snore a little!"
The elf giggled, seeing this as highly amusing.
"Hmm, I see. Well, Potter, should we wake her?"
Harry squeezed his eyes shut so hard that dark spots started swimming in front of him. Two conflicting impulses - to see Hermione immediately and to let her get a good night's rest - warred within him. He made his decision and exhaled slowly. He had waited five months; he could last a few more hours.
"No," he finally answered, shaking his head. "Let her sleep. If it's alright with you, we'll stay the night and see her in the morning."
Draco, unhappy but accepting, nodded his agreement.
"Right, then. In the meantime, tell me everything. Where, when, how. This… we'll get to the bottom of this."
Draco groaned. This night would never end.
"Oh, and, uh… Malfoy?"
"What?" the blond bit out.
"Err… how do you know what a bowling ball is?"
Muttering some choice profanities under his breath, Draco didn't even bother answering.
. . . .
There was a little space in the between the rings of creamy curtains, and a playful ray of sunlight peeked through. Eager and bright, it made its way over the floor and the bed to rest on the cheek of a frizzy-haired girl, warming it until a slow and happy smile graced her features, and she stretched, reaching arms high above her head and curling her toes with delight.
There is a moment there - just before you open your eyes, and the world's expectations come thundering in - of pure, unconditional bliss. Dreams are still reality at this point, and whatever good things we wish for seem just around the corner. Hermione, sickened by months of loneliness, confusion, and worry, bathed in this feeling, nuzzling contently against the soft cotton pillows.
They were so much better than the ones at her flat. Those, she had bought on discount for just several quid; dusty and thin, they made worse headrests than some of her books. Oh - her books! She would need to grab them. There was a fascinating historical novel she'd picked up in a quirky little bookshop near Oxford, and she was only half-finished. Maybe she could even bring it here…
Here… Because she was in Draco's home!
Eyes flashing open, Hermione sprung up, flinging away the sheets she had nestled into sometime during her slumber. Last night's events rolled through her mind, and she cringed, realizing that all of her determination to stay awake had amounted to nothing.
Well, it was embarrassing, but not something she could change. Draco would understand, she thought with a shrug, and glanced around the room. Several rays of light - including the mischievous little fellow that had woken her - were bursting through gaps in the curtains, which she approached, marveling at the soft texture, before flinging the material to the side.
Gasping with delight, she soaked in the awe-inducing sight spread before her. Linny had called these rooms the Rose Suite, and now Hermione understood why. Roses of a dozen hues, ranging from milky white to a glistening onyx, grew in a beautifully chaotic arrangement right beneath her windows. Impulsively, she flung them open, and let her senses be submerged in a rich bouquet, tempered by a subtly-sweet fruity fragrance. A fresh breeze ruffled her hair, and she giggled, feeling as giddy as a child does on Christmas morning after running downstairs and seeing that the space under the tree's branches is filled with presents of all different shapes and sizes.
A keen anticipation filled her very being, for today was the official end to her nightmare. She would be whole again!
Turning back from the windows, she noticed someone had placed a pile of folded clothes and some toiletries on one of the armchairs near a walk-in closet. A closer inspection revealed they were hers, from her flat. Pushing away the mystery behind their appearance, and, instead, comforted by the fact that she had something to wear, Hermione grabbed her toothbrush and spent the next ten minutes in the en-suite making herself presentable. Then, she stripped off the bathrobe she had slept in (she needed one of those - so comfortable) and dressed herself in a pair of faded jeans and a burgundy sweater, before clapping her hands and calling out for Draco's elf.
She frowned for a moment at that characterization. Draco's elf implied a degree of possessiveness that was positively medieval! After all, didn't elves deserve equal rights?
It's unknown where this train of thought might have led her, but, fortunately (or not), it was derailed by said elf's arrival.
Linny beamed at the pretty miss. Guests were such a rare occurrence at the Manor these days, and that meant there almost were no tasks to complete! No great feasts to cook, no piles of plates to scrub, and no messes to clean up. Parties of hundreds had once trooped through these great walls, serviced by whole host of house-elves. Now, it was just Linny and Gupfell, who tended the gardens. It got lonely.
"Miss look so wonderful this morning! Did she rest well?"
"Thank you, Linny, yes, I did. I was just hoping that you could take me down to Draco."
"Oh, but you has guests! Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasel are here waiting for you! They comes last night, and then yell, yell, yell! Master yell at guests, they yell back! But then it quiet down, and they ask for yous, yes, but miss was so very tired, so Linny says 'no! You must let miss rest!', and they sit and wait!"
"They're… here?" Her heart fluttered, and an odd tightness seized her chest.
"Yes, yes. Right outside."
Hermione looked towards where the elf was pointing with anticipation, eagerness, nervousness, fear; her chest felt crammed with feelings that yearned to break free and swamp her. Tentatively, on quivering legs, she approached the door that led to the boudoir, brushing her hand against the handle. It was just a door. One last barrier. Another bout of fears threatened to engulf her, but she swept them aside, and, with a gulp and a push, opened the door.
They were there. The bodies sprawled uncomfortably in plush baroque chairs with gilded armrests were… were her boys. One with midnight black hair, unruly and unkept, and eyes that (she knew!) would be as green as fresh spring grass; the other, sporting a fiery mane and a face kissed with freckles. It was so strange, so exhilarating, seeing them there, unable to recall their names, but so firm in the belief that this was her family. She had missed them so, so much.
A gasp - the tiniest one - escaped her throat, but they heard, and blearily opened their eyes, winking away remnants of sleep, and then they were on their feet, yelling incoherently, and she was rushing to them, and they to her. They collided in the middle of the room, a bundle of joy and tears, limbs tangling in a choking, sobbing embrace. They held her tightly, whispering 'Hermione, Hermione', and their faces touched, trails of tears mixing together.
Let's leave them there, dear readers. Let's look away now, give them a little space, because some moments are too intimate to share. Softly, so as not to disturb, we'll close the door, and walk down the Manor's pristine halls, ignoring the oaths and curses from portraits of Draco's prejudiced ancestors. They were a product of their times, but those are in the past. We… we look towards the future.
A/N: This chapter, whether because of the emphasis on dialogue or the multitude of conflicting emotions, was the hardest to write (so far, eh-eh-eh). Share your thoughts!