Huh. Well, apparently I can either be shockingly inappropriate or melancholy. Those are my two extremes. I wouldn't mind a pint, actually, and I have a mad impulse to send Jasper for some elvish wine. But that is a terrible idea and I know it.
It seems I'm also not subtle about it.
"What's wrong?"
I can't think of what to say. 'I don't want you to leave?' 'I miss you already?' 'I want to put my hands in your perfect hair?'
"Nothing," I say, managing a smile. "Eat your cake."
"I'm done with it, if you want the rest." Granger points at it with her fork but she's looking at me. "What is it, really?"
I won't lie but I also refuse to make her uncomfortable again, for the second time in a row. I pick mental track B. "Thinking about Blaise in the park, that's all. Potter was hopefully smuggled out tonight. I hope his head is still shaved."
Granger contemplates this, her head turned to the side as she stares off for a moment. "It's easy to forget about all that, here. I wouldn't have thought that would be the case."
There's probably something to explore here. It's hard for me to think about anything but her, so I wouldn't know. I split the difference in what's probably an unwise way, but fuck it.
"Speaking of Blaise, would you like to see what he hit me over the head with, to show me that I'd fancied you at school? It was very rude; I should have hexed him."
Her interest is piqued, her face lighting up. "Clearly, yes. Cough it up."
Digging into my pocket, I bring out the Yule Ball photos I'd taken from my room after my shower earlier. I hand her the one of her, spinning in a dress, and me standing on the side, watching her.
This probably makes her feel awkward, too, and I probably shouldn't have done it. But I'm so exhausted from trying to figure out what I should and shouldn't do, and when. I need to go to bed, sleep and recharge my mental energies for tomorrow.
We have all day tomorrow. I don't want to drive her off to sob in the shower tomorrow. Or again tonight, for that matter, if that's even what she was doing. The close proximity of my shower is helpful, but I don't want it to be needed.
"I look… quite pretty," Granger says at last, in a tone of mild surprise, as if it never occurred to her.
"You always do," I tell her quietly. "You always look pretty."
She glances up from the photo with a sweet and brilliant smile, open and beautiful. The sort not out of place on Lovegood's innocent face. "Thank you."
She looks so pretty right now, her hair curly and wild, her eyes bright and fixed on mine. A small flush is in her cheeks. She looks alive, almost as if she's on tenterhooks for something.
What I've handed her is a memory of Krum, probably the best night she ever had with him.
"You can keep it," I tell her, gesturing. "Bit embarrassing for me, really, remembering Zabini showing me those. I looked like a total twat there. I had no idea."
Granger's looking down at the photo again, reminiscing. "You went with Pansy."
"Yes, she and I are clearly paying each other loads of attention. She's dating Theo now. I mentioned that, didn't I? They were at the casino-cum-strip club last night."
Was that only last night? How?
An odd expression flickers across her face again, quick as a flash. "Yes, sort of. I wonder if it did turn into a strip club. You must ask and find out. I'm dying to know."
"Why? Not confident you're right, based on the hard evidence of glitter in my hair? I don't recall you needing so much validation, Granger."
Her eyes roll so far back in her head, I can't see the irises. "Don't you?" She shoots an arm in the air, bouncing on the edge of her seat, eyes wide and optimistic. "Pick me, pick me."
I snort and burst out laughing. I can't stop; I think I might choke, and Granger starts to look offended.
Wiping my eyes, I finally calm myself to the odd chuckle. "Oh, you are funny, Granger."
"You don't have to sound so surprised by it," she says, a little primly, still insulted.
But I want to be honest. "I am, though. You have to understand, it's new to me. Until you arrived here and showed up knocking on the door to the lab right over there, we hadn't really had a true conversation. Ever. Obviously not at school. And I thought I was seeing you, in the park, which is stupid - but we've covered that."
I try to brush past this as a matter of course, and Granger is starting to look distinctly uneasy.
"How funny you are, how cheeky and - inappropriate -"
She starts to sputter at this, turning a little pink, but I keep going.
"- It's not that I didn't think you could be, or anything like that. But finding out how much more there is to you has been… a pleasant surprise," I finish, trying to tone it down a bit now.
She still looks uncomfortable and I start trying to clarify. "I know that sounds like the world's worst backhanded compliment, but I don't mean it like that. I'm trying to say I keep seeing new and amazing parts of you. Please keep them coming."
I can't tell if this makes things worse or better, but at least I was honest about it.
After an interminably long moment when I don't know if I've mortally offended Granger or embarrassed her so badly she's going to sprint back to her room, she finally contributes, "You're different, too."
"Do tell," I prompt agreeably. Fifteen minutes on the timer, and I might as well play ball.
But her cheeks are fully flushed again and now I'm riveted. What is it? How much of me was she remembering, how clearly? What's her comparison point?
"You seem… less serious. Lighter."
I realise what it is with a start. I'm happy, here, now. I feel happy, so I'm having fun and laughing, joking, just enjoying my time with her and not feeling like I'm carrying the weight of the park, of her wellbeing, on my shoulders. Even before that, the weight of the war and of choosing the side I did, was slowly drowning me. The difference has never felt so stark. I didn't even realise it was there.
"I do feel lighter. It's silly, almost. I feel a little like a kid," I admit, hoping it isn't too much.
"No, 'kid' isn't right," she contends, not bothered at all. "I hope. Kids wouldn't know eiaculatus or crepito, for instance."
"You're right; they wouldn't know the Latin, but boys would definitely know about eiaculatus and crepito, not to mention many colourful alternatives, from an embarrassingly early age."
Granger shudders. "Boys are gross."
"Yes, we are, but you're the one who flicked sperma into my lobster bisque over lunch, so don't get on your high horse too soon."
"Thank was an accident, thank you very much. You distracted my aim."
My eyebrows shoot up. I have too many things to contest here. "I wasn't even talking! I don't think I was, anyway. And what were you aiming for?"
"Your nose, of course," she says, as if it was obvious.
"So you're saying if we were to have another go at it, here," I point to the table, "you'd manage to not hit my bowl of soup, and hit me in the nose instead? Let's see you try."
I toss her a full, cream-coloured vial of our precious alba pellis and she pops the stopper out with her thumbnail, as I grab a small bowl we'd use to crush ingredients in.
"Fine," Granger snips defiantly, her jaw set. "Watch me. And don't talk this time."
I'm quite sure I hadn't been the last time, either, but I can follow directions like a good boy.
Sometimes. She's just about to flick some when I ask, "Should I fill the bowl with something?"
Stopping mid-flick, she shoots me an evil look.
"Sorry, sorry," I say, hands raised innocently. "Nevermind me. Carry on."
She nails the faux soup bowl, dead centre.
"It would be impressive if you were aiming for the bullseye," I note, "but as you're trying to avoid it…"
"Shut it, you." Granger flicks another blob. This one splits in two, but half still lands in the bowl.
"You're not even close to my nose, by the way, if you hadn't noticed. Do you need eyeglasses?"
I have an idea. With my wand, I mark an actual bullseye target into the bowl, rings of colours into the centre of it. "Alright, then, let's see how well you aim now."
I hear the danger in this as it leaves my mouth, but it's too late.
"What do I get if I hit the middle?"
('You're on. Easy bet. What do I get if I win?'
'You get to snog me, of course,')
"More lava cake, for the bowl," I fill in smoothly. "Tomorrow - or tonight, if you feel like more. If you hit my nose, another shower in mine; I know it's the best in the Manor."
Bollocks, I should have stopped with the first thing. The timer rescues me, setting off and I lunge for my wand to cast the glamour at the exact ninety-third minute. "I didn't mean - you don't have to win that, you can just have it, if you want -"
Granger snatches the wand from me and I stare at her, flabbergasted.
"Stop babbling, you nutter. You're going to run out of time to cast this and you've been waiting all night."
Bossy, sometimes, is Granger. Stubborn. "Besides, it's my turn to rub my head and pat my tummy."
"It's pat your -"
"I know what it is," she snaps, rolling her eyes in exasperation, but she's laughing a bit too. "Now, scoot. It's my turn to do one."
"Fine, let's see, then." I step to the side, crossing my arms over my chest to watch. She hasn't even practised. We're going to have to re-start this brew tomorrow morning. I had to do this several times in the air before I ever aimed it at the cauldron, but -
No, well, she's done it. Six figure-eights later, there it is, the incandescent swooshing of the blend between the glamour and the potion.
"Showoff," I grumble, and Granger gives me a self-satisfied smile. It's gorgeous.
It's late and the task is done and I should go to bed. She should go to bed. But all I want is her head on my chest, sleeping, fingers twitching lightly as she dreams. Smelling the lavender of her hair, my arm around her back to clutch her shoulder under my fingers, feeling her breathe slowly in and out.
My heart hurts at what I had, what I lost. What I have right here and need to leave, at least long enough to sleep. What I could keep having for a week or two, until Granger leaves - one way or another.
I make some sort of excuse, no matter how thin. We'll be back in here tomorrow, all day, right? Right. She turns to leave and I want to think I see that same quick flash of reluctance I imagined last night, but it's just me.
I extinguish the lights in the lab as we reach the door, me gesturing to Granger to go ahead of me. I'm turning right while she turns left, and she grabs my shirt in her fingers to pull me around.
Caught off-guard, mid-step, I almost stumble into her. As it is, I catch myself, but her back hits the doorframe and my hand stops us on the wall. She's lifting onto her tiptoes, chin raised, pulling my shirt down so she can touch her lips to mine.
It's the softest touch, like silk, almost tentative. Then, it isn't. It's not greedy or urgent, but it's confident. Firm.
Granger's fists are in my shirt and my other hand slips behind her neck, my thumb on her cheek, and she kisses me.
It lasts a second and an hour as everything around me stops.
I'm too stunned to react much, but she kisses me, her mouth opening slightly, feeling my lips with hers. My body feels cold and hot at once, currents running down my nerves head to toe. Her pressure lightens, then intensifies again, and my heart is staggering wildly.
Just before I can wrap my second hand into her hair - gods, how I've missed her - she breaks it off, stepping back and looking up at me.
Her eyes are dark, the light dim, and she whispers, "I'm sorry. I just had to know if it felt the same."
"Did it?" I choke out, elated and miserable at once.
Granger swallows hard and she doesn't seem to know what to say. Neither do I.
Did it? Did it not? Was it awful to her? Better?
I can tell she's about to turn away and I can't help myself. I grab her forearm and she looks back up at me.
"Sorry is something you don't ever have to say to me," I whisper, and she nods.
Her eyes might be a little shiny now, in this dark hallway, and I watch the bravest witch I've ever known walk back to her room for the night.
Sunday morning finds our roles reversed. Granger seems perfectly well-rested and I'm an exhausted mess. I didn't sleep a wink, until what felt like thirty minutes before Suz woke me up.
"Master Draco, the Miss is in the potions lab. You is needing to hurry up. Up, Master Draco," and she actually vanishes the covers from my bed.
"Suz," I croak. "Stop torturing me."
"Yes, Master Draco," she squeaks and disappears, maybe to wherever she vanished my comforter to, with her loudest possible crack of Disapparition.
Wincing, I roll out of bed and into an ice cold shower. Have to wake up somehow. Once a cold shower would have served another purpose as well, but Granger's lack of enthusiasm - or even response - last night told me everything I need to know.
Did it feel the same? Seems like no.
And if no, it seems like not in a good way.
The shower helps, and the coffee Jasper leaves in my bedroom helps more. Extra strong, piping hot. I properly position my hair after grabbing some generic clothes at random, definitely not the better-cut trousers and button-down, sleeves rolled casually to the elbows for proper potions work. I can handle the unique indignities of last night with my usual aplomb, I'm sure.
Until Granger cuts my knees out from under me four seconds after I walk into the room.
"You look…"
Dashing? Still slightly damp? Coolly aloof?
"...tired. Even with a bit of a lie-in."
"I'd have had more of one if Suz hadn't woken me. Was that your doing, Granger?"
"Tut tut," she admonishes me in a very cheeky imitation of me from yesterday morning. "We have work to do."
I yawn. "Alright. Let me send off these orders, though. I didn't do it last night. Is there anything else I should add to it?"
Granger looks unsure of herself, then leaps. "Could I - write to Ginny? Well, I already wrote a letter to Ginny, but could I send it?"
I don't see why not. I'm trying to think of this as less of a prison and more of an extended-stay property until Potter does whatever Potter does. Granger seems to be on board with this angle, at least insomuch as she has not stolen my wand while I slept and taken off.
My father would have different opinions, I'm sure, but he isn't here.
We walk together down to the owlery and Granger chatters away, asking about the painting hung outside the double oak doors of the library ('Is it a Renoir?'), as I remind myself nothing has changed. I had been presuming she was disinterested all along. I can still enjoy every minute I spend in her company; I just have one more agonising memory to add to all the fantastic ones.
My mother is taking her tea and morning paper as we pass the solarium where we had lunch yesterday. She lifts a hand, twinkling her fingers and goes back to her paper, a small smile on her face.
"You'll be able to get back to having tea with her tomorrow, if you like," I offer. "I'll be back at work during the day."
"Oh, right. What is it that you do?"
We have never talked about this. She's curious, but she won't be for long.
"It's dull. I work for a company that works as a go-between of sorts, between Gringotts and companies looking to rebuild the damage from after the war, reopen their businesses, or build from scratch. We're a consultant, in a way, helping those companies shore up their proposals for funding, helping them craft business plans when they need them, and helping to facilitate the negotiations for loans from Gringotts."
Granger seems to find this infinitely more interesting than I do. "So you work with the goblins!"
"Well, the company does. We have several dedicated people specifically to manage goblin relations. They won't meet with the average wizard for a loan, you know."
Of course she knows. "So what do you do there, if not goblin relations?"
"I help the companies with the financial proposals, pre-Gringotts, obviously. Most plans that get brought to us are complete rubbish; people have no idea what they're doing."
"So that's why you were so good with the… the park financials," she muses, soldiering on past the mention of the park.
I snort. "Ah, I'd have been good at that, anyway. Dolohov's an idiot. The only similarity between Dolohov and what I usually see is a tragic lack of basic common sense."
"Why do you work at all?" she asks, then blushes. "Sorry; that was rude."
We've arrived at the owlery at the edge of the gardens and I unlatch the door. "Watch your head. They swoop," I advise. "And it's fine. People ask, usually confused as to why I bother. They mostly know our situation, after all. When I got a job, some people assumed we were actually in trouble; that was rude."
Granger laughs softly under her breath.
"I work so I can have my own spending money, just like anyone else. I can't touch any significant portion of my inheritance until I get married. I don't like living off Daddy's allowance."
"Universally relatable," Granger approves.
"Hush."
She laughs again, louder this time. "No, I meant it. No one likes living off someone else's purse strings; everyone wants their own money. The only portion that isn't universal is the whole 'grotesquely large inheritance' bit."
"Indeed. A man of the people, that's me. Until I get married, anyway. Then I'll become a poncey prick like my father is in public."
Granger looks around at the miscellaneous fowl. "Do I just pick one? Does it work like Hogwarts?"
I motion to a bird, and it flies down to her. "They don't know you. I have to tell them it's alright. You can tie it to her leg now; she'll wait."
"Do you - do you need to read it first?" Her eyes are down, looking at her feet.
"No." I'm puzzled. Has she been wondering this for the whole walk down here?
She exhales. "I mean, you could, if you need to. I was prepared for you to ask, if you said I could send it at all."
"Granger, I don't want you to feel like you're trapped here. This is temporary. Hopefully it's all over by the end of the month. Send whatever you want; just be smart about what's in writing in case it's intercepted. We'd rather not have the Dark Lord come check on you. But you know that well enough."
She looks back up at me now, through her dark lashes. "Something tells me your father would approach this differently."
"Very likely," I confirm. "But if you're coming down here with me, he won't ask, and I doubt my mother would, either. She doesn't want you to feel like a prisoner any more than I do, I'm sure."
"She really is wonderful, your mother," Granger says, a little wistfully, as she fastens the letter to her designated owl. "You're very lucky."
I'm tying my own letters to two different owls, the one to Morocco going to one of our youngest fowl who has the energy and motivation to make the trip. He's no peregrine falcon, though.
"Where are your parents, Granger?" Aside from knowing they're dentists who withheld treats, I've never asked anything else.
She bites her lip and I'm horrified to see that it's to stop it wobbling.
"Granger, what is it?" I grip onto a pine perch in front of me to keep from going to her.
"They - before we went on the run, the summer before seventh year, I - I Obliviated them."
Halfway through this, she starts crying in earnest and I almost can't help it.
"I was afraid for their safety. I Obliviated myself from their memories and sent them away."
Without even realising I've let go of the perch with my hands, I move to her side and wrap her up in a hug as she sobs into my shirt.
"Your mother has been - she makes me miss my mother so much. It's not as if I saw them a lot, being at school, but it's so hard knowing they have no idea I even exist. At least if they were just abroad, I could write them, but I can't even do that."
Granger cries and I rub my hands up and down her back, feeling that this is completely surreal. If she wasn't so upset, she'd never want me doing this. I need to step away as soon as she's alright.
But bloody hell, I'd had no idea. I can't imagine how difficult it must have been, both the incredibly advanced Obliviation to remove something like this - not an event, but eighteen years of memories of a specific person - but also how long it must have taken, steadily and methodically removing every trace of herself from their lives.
One parent at a time; she'd had to do it twice.
Brilliant witch. Brave witch. Tough witch.
We walk back up to the Manor, Granger still occasionally sniffling but trying very hard to act like she didn't have a full sobbing episode in the owlery. I tried to tell her she has nothing to be embarrassed about, but the malevolent look she gave me curdled my blood, so I shut up.
I'm not sure if it's an aversion to crying, crying in front of me, or an aversion to remembering it in detail. I'm really a bit at loose ends; is it worse to change the subject and give the impression I can't wait to talk about something else, or worse to stay on a topic she doesn't want? Girls are so much better at navigating this sort of thing.
I turn toward something adjacent and Granger can take it in whatever direction she prefers. "What do you and my mother talk about?"
This has the added benefit - to Granger - of being extremely dangerous to me and she capitalises at once.
"Her perfect, precious popkins, mostly."
Alright, I can fall on this sword with dignity. I think. "Well, I'm both perfect and precious, so you shouldn't be surprised."
"You dispute the 'popkins' bit?"
"I think I've aged out of it by now. But one never ages out of being 'perfect' or 'precious.'"
"What's the appropriate, acceptable age range for a 'popkins,' in your expert opinion?" Granger might be verging into swot territory, and I can give her something to work with.
I give her a healthy side-eye. "Well, isn't it in the dictionary? I believe 'popkins' ends at puberty, officially. I'm a bit beyond it now."
Granger tilts her head as I swing open the heavy door to the Manor, holding it for her. "'Perfect, precious, post-pubescent popkins.'"
"Much more specific. And even the 'post' part fits the alliteration. Nicely done."
"Quite the tongue-twister," Granger observes.
"You'll have to update my mother's assessment of her darling only child tomorrow over tea. Might hurt her feelings, though; I don't know if she'd agree with our newly-defined version of 'popkins.'" I peek into the solarium for my mother as we pass, but she's evidently finished the morning paper and is nowhere to be found.
"You think she disagrees that you're post-pubescent?"
Snorting, I say, "Well, you never know. Might just be wishful thinking that I'll be ten years old forever. But no; given how often she keeps trying to get me to take her friends' daughters, nieces, and neighbouring distant relations to society functions and weddings, she's well aware that I'm past puberty."
Granger goes oddly quiet at this. "I'm sure she just wants you to be happy," she ventures at last.
"Oh yes, I hear about that a lot. This scar project has been very helpful in that regard, in fact. It's kept me busy through almost all dinners. Sometimes I feel a bit bad about that, about leaving her on her own so much when my father is travelling, until I remember how often she tries to set me up with eligible witches. Your daily tea with her has been wonderful, I think, for her company."
Granger looks touched at this until I follow up with, "You're really helping me out," and then I get a smack on the arm for my trouble.
We're finally back in the lab and I call for Jasper to bring up a tray of coffee and some breakfast options: fruit, croissants, maybe, and whatever Granger wants. To no one's surprise, Granger asks for a banana and I shake my head ruefully.
"Why do you hate bananas so much?" she demands.
"I don't at all," I defend. "I just consider them strictly a breakfast offering, something that should never feature in any sort of pudding."
Granger contemplates the unanticipated wisdom of this - I'm a fount of wisdom, really - and contributes her own. "I feel that way about chocolate, in a way. I want chocolate to be chocolate. I don't want minty chocolate, or surprise fruity chocolate, or anything else randomly appearing when I'm expecting to taste chocolate."
Good to know.
"So chocolate-flavoured cherry minty toothpaste would be a no-go for you?" I verify with an abundance of caution.
Her disgusted face is enough and I burst out laughing. I hadn't thought about the possible pitfalls of mentioning dental care in regards to her parents' profession, but she doesn't seem to be stuck on it.
Well, now I know what to send Suz out for later.
The benefit of this button-down shirt is that I can simply unbutton it to test options on my scar and not take it off altogether. Given Granger's blatant disinterest after last night, I feel like it would be imprudent to strut around the potions lab shirtless again for the second day in a row.
"What are you doing?" she confronts me swottily, a hand on one cocked-out hip.
"Er -" I fumble around, looking for an easy explanation.
"You're going to end up dangling your shirt ends over the cauldrons."
Well, she's not wrong, that would be a concern that I would need to be alert for, but then my ego takes another whack.
"Don't act like an amateur," she sniffs, and fine.
Fine. I yank the shirt off. I'll show her 'amateur'.
"If you must know," I huff indignantly, "I was trying not to distract you so badly today. I know it's difficult for you when I'm walking around like -" I gesture up and down my torso, "- this."
Granger rolls her eyes and turns away. "I'll manage, as long as you aren't exploding cauldrons or ruining the potions."
"Excuse you."
"For all I know," she goes on in an infuriatingly superior tone of voice, "that's really how you exploded your sixth cauldron."
"You think I walk around here shirtless when I'm alone?"
She looks at me in exasperation. "No, I think you walk around here dangling bits and pieces over hot cauldrons without paying attention. You being shirtless would avoid the problem. Do keep up."
But I've gotten tangled, now nearly sputtering. "'Dangling bits and pieces?'"
Granger's started laughing and trying to muffle it. "I meant -"
"If you hadn't noticed, these lab tables aren't exactly at the height to be at risk of any other dangly bits and pieces of mine, if that's what you're trying to imply."
"Well, I wasn't; not exactly, but if you'll walk around here shirtless, why not pantsless, too? How do I know how you like to lounge around your own wing of the Manor when you're alone?"
And this is actually a fair point. Not that I brew potions naked, by any stretch, but even so.
"Alright, then. I solemnly swear, I will not brew potions with anything dangly or bitty at risk."
There are a fair number of loopholes in this, on purpose, and I see Granger hide a smile as she turns back to the cauldron in front of her.
"Trousers on and shirt off, that's me, from now on, rest assured."
Granger, of course, is wearing appropriately prudent denims and a top that's fitted, to avoid dangling anything discretionary over hot cauldrons on her own workstation. Perfectly reasonable potions-brewing attire lends itself naturally to a clingy-sort of apparel that I try to ignore - again. Every day.
Hours later, we've both still had only failures in the tests we're performing. Granger has nearly finished testing the chopped petal varieties, and even thrown in a few that seemed promising with more of a diced option - just in case it was the chopping size that was objectionable.
It wasn't.
After having already spent nearly three solid weeks testing exactly like this to come up with the alba pellis we're currently using, my patience is somewhat thinner.
I take out my frustrations on the crushed petals, grinding them for everything my arm and wrist can handle each time.
"Get a fair bit of practice at that, have you?"
I look up, hair slightly sweaty - again - and dangling in my eyes more than I'd like
(dangly bits)
and not a single appropriate response comes to mind.
This witch will be the death of me.
"Care to switch?" is all I come up with.
"Mm," she considers. "No. When I'm done with this, I get to start the full petals. It's a just reward."
I have to contest it on principle. "I think the one doing all the grinding down of the petals should get the easy next test."
"Should have been quicker, then, shouldn't you?" Her self-satisfied smirk is unbearable.
"I beg your pardon. Crushing these down takes far longer than chopping them, thank you very much." Alright, yes, Granger's faster than me on an even track, but my task does take longer. I'll stand by it.
A knock at the lab door makes us both whip around.
My mother is standing in the doorway. "I came to ask if you'd both like to join me for lunch today."
Granger, ever the respectful houseguest in the Manor she didn't ask to be in, replies, "Of course, Narcissa. Thank you so much. Where should we meet you?"
"Fifteen minutes or so, outside the conservatory? It's turning into a lovely day," my mother states, giving me a solid eyeful of opinion at my shirtless appearance.
Yes, lovely. Lovely day; lovely lunch. I sigh.
