Blaise,
I hope you're well. The dinner is coming up and I'd like to wear one of my old suits. Could you bring me one from the manor? Maybe two.
I'd also like to wear more jeans. They're comfortable.
D.
oOo
24th December 2005,
Draco stood facing his bed, staring at the custom tailored black three-piece suit on his mattress.
He'd received it that morning in a package sent by Blaise, along with a pile of jeans. His friend had told him that he'd rummaged around in strange Muggle shops to find these "globalised" trousers. Draco hadn't really understood Blaise's touch of humour.
Draco meticulously folded the trousers, just as he had done with his Hogwarts uniform in his school days and had simply stored everything in his chest of drawers. A wave of nostalgia nearly overtook him, but he was interrupted from his thoughts by Granger, who had come to fetch his laundry basket.
It had all happened early in the morning. His day had gone normally after that. He buried his usual anxieties in his mind by concentrating on preparing breakfast. Chopping, heating, cleaning and washing up were exactly the distracting tasks he needed. It had been his routine for three weeks now.
oOo
01 December 2005,
"I could make the meals," Draco said as he picked up the tray Granger held out for him.
She stood still and slowly looked up at him, blinking several times as if trying to take in his words.
"All meals,'" he then clarified, looking away.
He'd been acquiring the courage to ask her for weeks. He wanted to prepare the inspiring recipes from the cookbooks he'd grown to love. Crepes and pastries for breakfast, soups and pastas for lunch and dinner– even simple cocktails, as he'd never really gotten a chance to enjoy alcohol.
So, he took the plunge, his heart racing at the thought of Granger refusing to indulge his forming hobby .
"All the meals?" she repeated, sounding as if she didn't believe it.
"If it would help," he shrugged, feigning nonchalance.
As he stared at her, waiting for an answer, a bead of sweat formed on his forehead. What if he messed everything up?
"Okay," she merely replied.
Then she withdrew and joined Albert, who was waiting for her by the stairs. As if everything was normal. As if it was truly that simple.
oOo
With breakfast cleaned up and Granger off to work, Draco set about the long day ahead. He'd mentally prepared for a month, meticulously organising every detail to be in order.
Because that evening, Christmas Eve–the first he'd celebrated in seven years–he and Granger would be hosting the Zabinis, the Potters and Ginny Weasley for dinner.
It had been Pansy's idea, deciding, after so many years apart, it was time to gather and build something together. Draco would almost have found it ironic coming from her, the analogy of an old couple on the verge of divorce being amusing, if he hadn't been so stressed at the idea of seeing such a large number of people.
Of course, he had been the first to hear about Pansy's crazy idea. She'd wanted to be absolutely certain he was up for it before telling anyone, including her husband. She told him two weeks before anyone else and spent every visit during that time asking him countless questions to ensure he was in a position to agree to such a thing.
oOo
9th December 2005,
"Are you going to be able to manage so many people at once?"
"Yes, I will. I'll take potions if I have to."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm positive."
"Are you going to cook the whole meal?"
"If I have to.
"I'll bring the appetiser, then. I make great verrines. I'll tell the Potters to bring some cheese.'
"OK."
"If there's any trouble, you can always go back up to your room, OK?"
"OK."
"And if anyone makes you feel uncomfortable, I'll deal with it personally."
"OK."
oOo
When Pansy had finally understood that her own state of mind was not necessarily Draco's, she had agreed to talk about it with the others. It was for the best. Draco didn't want to spoil everything by showing her the slightest weakness.
Because while Pansy's worries were focused on the others' behaviour towards Draco, he had quickly realised that his anxieties were developing in other ways. He was terrified of not being able to act as naturally with his friends as he had when they were younger. Terrified of not being able to act with them as seamlessly as one would expect life long friends to. Terrified just by imagining himself failing miserably at the tough exercise that was conversation.
He barely spoke. That was one of the things that hadn't changed in two months. He communicated very little, but was concise in what he said and contented himself with observing and listening to those around him. Although others didn't complain, Draco was convinced that it was still not enough. He was certain that he had fallen in their esteem, that he was no longer as valuable to them as he had been in the past. He no longer had anything to offer them.
Long gone were the days when Draco thought that his mere presence, his name or even his angelic face entitled him to respect and appreciation. To be deified.
How was he going to get through a long Christmas dinner without worrying about the trivialities of his best friends' daily lives? How was he going to cope when they talked about subjects he knew nothing about because he no longer had any connection with the magical world? How would he cope if someone asked him a question and he didn't know how to answer?
That was what worried him. He didn't care how his friends behaved towards him or whether they were there. He was used to it by now. He was slowly regaining the ability to tolerate other people's company. Besides, almost all of them had come to visit him at least once. The only person he hadn't seen since the war was Weasley No.7.
In fact, it was perhaps the only meeting he was dreading. How would he face her knowing that not that long ago, his peers had destroyed her family?
He was aware that he was living with Granger, who had been directly affected by his own mistakes, but things seemed different to him. Perhaps he didn't feel as guilty for Weasley as he did for Granger, but their reunion–if it could really be called that–would take place under conditions that were hardly conducive to any form of redemption.
His conscience told him that if the witch had agreed to come, there was no reason for it to go badly. But that didn't mean Draco was relaxed.
So he turned to cooking to get rid of his anxieties. He had spent the day on the ground floor preparing dishes of all kinds for dinner. He'd leafed through loads of recipe books since the dinner had been announced, then meticulously selected the dishes that would suit each of the guests.
He had even made the effort to send letters to Theo and Pansy to ask their advice on the favourite foods of the various guests.
He hadn't made any choices. At least, he had chosen to prepare everything. He would prepare lots of different things. He liked that, it was a more than suitable way out. He put on the tattered apron that once belonged to Granger's grandmother and set to work, quickly transforming the kitchen into a cabaret of smells, flavours and colours..
He had even practised the more ambitious dishes, after finding them difficult to get right the first time. In fact, he had spent so much time in the kitchen over the last few days that it had practically become his new home.
Not that he didn't like his room, on the contrary. He'd ended up making it a room more or less in his image. There were books piled up on previously empty shelves arranged by author and genre, his clothes piling up in the chest of drawers–now full of new jeans and his old suits–and a few drawings on the walls, sent by Theo.
He had been surprised to receive Theo's art the first time, a wonderful piece depicting their group of friends at Hogwarts. He had immediately recognised Pansy, Blaise, Theo and himself, sitting on a sofa in the Slytherin common room. The drawing was so well done and so realistic, with emotions visible on all four of their faces, that you'd have thought the scene had actually happened, that they had once sat like that on a green and silver sofa.
Theo had sent him a few more after that. According to the little notes that accompanied his works, it was Potter who had encouraged him to do so, because he found it unacceptable that his husband did not share his talents with others.
Draco had not been able to contradict him. He agreed with Harry Potter. It was the first time such a thing had happened. His past self would probably have winced when hearing this, and would even have called anyone who dared to suggest such a thing mad.
The blond had only caught a glimpse of his former nemesis when he'd dropped Theodore off for a second time to take Granger on a long trip to the mountains. At least, that was what Theo had told him.
He and Potter had not spoken since the war. Not out of spite, animosity or disgust towards each other, but because of a simple combination of circumstances. He didn't come to the Pyrenees very often and Draco hadn't tried to talk to him much either. He had nothing to say to him. Or maybe he had just one thing to tell him: that he was grateful to him for making his best friend happy.
Pansy had become the only person he really talked to. Of course, it was rare for him to say more than three sentences in a row, but he did converse with her from time to time.
Blaise was more distant, probably less comfortable than his wife with his silence.
This had given Draco a great deal to think about, and he had wondered why, when he had never been the most talkative of the bunch, Blaise suddenly seemed embarrassed by his silence. After all, Draco was undoubtedly the most reserved and observant of the group. He had never been fond of useless words and incessant chatter. He talked, laughed when appropriate and sometimes even got angry when necessary, but that didn't make him futile. The only people who had made him gossip in the past were those who annoyed him to no end, those who didn't deserve his silence and his comments. Potter and his gang had been among them.
But now, what had changed? Of course, his silence wasn't the same as before, but why was Blaise so disturbed by it? Draco didn't understand. He felt as if a trench had been dug between them. A trench that only Blaise had dug.
Draco sighed. His friend had been quick to send his clothes. Perhaps he had wanted to make amends in some way? He wasn't sure.
He considered all of this as he ran his fingers over the silk of his suit on his bed, but was brought out of his thoughts by a few knocks on his door.
He didn't jump. That was new too. He was less afraid. No, he wasn't scared anymore. He felt more at ease within the walls of the house he'd been living in for eight months. He knew it inside out, down to the smallest detail. He had visited every room, slept a dozen times in the library–by accident–spent whole days in the kitchen and whole mornings in the bathtub of the upstairs bathroom. He was at home, strange as it may seem to admit it.
"The oven's ringing," Granger said as soon as he opened the door.
He raised his eyebrows and hurried downstairs.
He abandoned his manual countdown once he finally learned to set the oven timer. Although he still counted the things around him, he had to admit it was a delight to no longer calculate the number of seconds it took for his meals to cook.
He went into the kitchen, Granger following him, and turned off the oven, before taking out a dish.
"Do you want some help?" she proposed from the doorway.
That was new too.
Their exchanges had evolved. They no longer consisted of a simple hello or small talk.
That had begun to change when Draco joined the impromptu film session on the living room sofa a few weeks prior. He had been far from comfortable that day, but it had been a catalyst for change between him and Granger.
However, if Draco were to be honest, it was a conversation a few weeks after Hermione showed him how to make hot chocolate that really changed things.
oOo
22nd November 2005,
Draco was sitting in the kitchen, leafing through his recipe book as he prepared the one he had planned the evening before. At bedtime, he had had a sudden craving for sugar and had promised himself to prepare something simple, but which would undoubtedly bring back memories of his childhood: a chocolate fondant.
Just as he was about to take out the ingredients he would need, the door to the room opened and Albert entered. Draco stood still and gave the dog a frightened look.
Although he was no longer afraid of him, he wasn't comfortable with the idea of the dog approaching him. The further away Albert stayed, the better Draco felt. After all, he didn't know this animal, he had no idea what it was capable of and whether Granger had trained it well enough for it not to attack him. One encounter with the dog hadn't been enough to make Draco rational.
Albert approached and Draco remained frozen in place as the big dog nuzzled its nose against his legs. Draco thought he would faint.
What was Granger doing? Couldn't she look after her pet on the only day of the week she spent at home?
It was decided: Draco hated Sundays.
While he was inwardly cursing at Granger, she decided to walk through the kitchen door.
"Albert," she promptly whispered, her cheeks red with embarrassment. "Come here!"
Draco stared at her without moving a muscle.
"Sorry, he must have smelled something that attracted him."
Draco's eyes widened in astonishment at her apology.
"He's at home," he murmured without really knowing why.
"So are you," she blurted out in response.
oOo
Draco still remembered the shock he had felt when he heard her say those words. Everything had changed from that point on. No longer was there a heavy atmosphere, no more awkward silences. Just calm, peace and cordiality. It was so much simpler.
"Perhaps we should set the table?" he suggested as he carefully placed his dish on the counter.
"Already done," she replied, shifting from one foot to the other.
At the same moment, Albert walked through the kitchen door and came to rub against Draco's legs. Draco froze at first, but eventually crouched down and offered the dog a few caresses.
"I don't have much more to do for dinner," he explained as he straightened up, his gaze locked on Granger's.
She nodded, biting her lip, then looked down at what he had prepared with a greedy expression. This relaxed Draco, who was so anxious about his food not being to everyone's liking.
"In that case, I'll go and get changed. They shouldn't be long."
She slipped away, Albert on her heels, and Draco remained frozen in the kitchen as the reality of the evening's arrival settled in.
He swallowed and turned his eyes towards the large bay windows that looked out onto the outside. His gaze was quickly lost in the snowy immensity that had become the estate surrounding the house.
He was desperate to get out. He wanted to put on his snow boots and go for a walk. He wanted to discover the mountains he'd been eyeing for months.
He had come to know the contours of the mountains and the rocky heaps of the peaks by heart. He could have traced it on parchment with his eyes closed.
Yet Draco was unable to get through the bay windows, doors or even windows leading outside. It was beyond his ability.
Every time he put his hand on a handle, every time his eyes focused on the path he would have to take to get out or every time he imagined himself outside, his heartbeat quickened and he stopped. He wasn't taking any risks. He chose the cocoon he'd been living in for weeks, the same warm, risk-free cocoon he didn't want to leave. It was too difficult.
Why should he look any further when he had everything he needed in the house? Maybe he wanted the snow, the mountains, the Pyrenean countryside. Maybe it would be good for him. Maybe it would...
He didn't want to think about it. He knew what he was losing by staying here, he was perfectly aware of it, but the ordeal wasn't worth it. Not in his opinion. He didn't want this any more.
Draco wiped his hands on a tea towel, which he then placed on the dish of lasagne he had cooked so that it wouldn't absorb the smells of the other dishes.
Looking at the clock in the room, he decided it was time to go upstairs and change. The guests would be here soon.
oOo
Hermione's eyes filled with tears.
Just the sight of the dress hanging on a hanger, itself clinging to her standing mirror, was making her sick. She was feeling ill. She wanted to wrap herself in layers and layers of duct tape just to see her reflection behind the midnight blue dress she'd chosen a week earlier.
It had been hanging there ever since, it hadn't moved and Hermione saw it every morning. Every evening. And it was always the same torture to imagine putting it on.
How could she possibly fit into it with the weight she'd put on recently?
She had cried when she got off her grandparents' old scale. She had cried when she saw that eight appear on the tens side. She had cried when she saw the marks on her thighs and hips.
Her reflection was hideous. That's what she told herself before heading off to her dressing room to get some old overalls, a shirt and some boots. That would be enough.
The sound of the doorbell rang through the house as she wove her hair into two identical braids. The evening could begin. The evening of horror could begin.