HERMIONE
Hermione sits at the table, concentrating. It could be today. It could be tomorrow. It could have been any of the last several days, too, and she can't sit around the Manor any longer. She and Narcissa both enjoy one another's company to keep from going mental, but she just couldn't do it for another second today.
It's been a little over two months since the final battle. Hermione has spent hours, full days, in depositions. Testimonies. She recorded official statements and clarified details until she thought she was going to pull her hair out.
Every point had to be verified independently by someone else at first. Until quite recently, it felt like. Hermione's judgement was deemed to be 'flawed,' a uniquely insulting injustice she's never had to deal with before now.
She's so tired of everyone, everywhere, deciding things on her behalf: that she doesn't know what she's doing or saying, that she couldn't possibly mean it, that she must be too traumatised to be of use.
Even Draco had still been doing it, until almost the very end. He had the individual motivation of truly trying to look out for her and it was sweet coming from him. It frustrated her, but she understood it. But she doesn't feel like that's anyone else's motivation now. Now, they just want the Malfoy men to hang, and invalidating Hermione's testimony was paramount to it.
She won't let it happen. And she's not the only one fighting for them, but no one's accounts mean more than hers or Severus's. Harry's word would have gone a long way, but Harry -
Hermione shakes her head, concentrating on the table again. She taps her finger on the table and assesses what comes out. She waves her hand in a flat gesture. No more.
She did have letters from Harry, though. She'd made copies of everything relevant and given them to the panel, letting them read Harry's own writings. Severus had told Harry a great deal before he was set free, details and plans, the full situation. Harry had been spreading the word among the Resistance, in turn, ever since he'd arrived.
Infuriatingly, Severus's judgement was deemed perfectly sound. He wasn't romantically involved with one of the defendants, after all. Her own mental state had to be reviewed before she was able to contribute anything in the way of depositions. People made depositions on her. The process was maddening.
Butterworth was extremely helpful, testifying that he'd been to see her many times since her exit from the park. They were working together on the "acknowledgement and processing of her trauma," and after the final battle he had connected her with a specialised Mind Healer.
Her psychiatric work is ongoing, something that she'd have kept up with even if the Wizengamot hadn't required it to validate her state of mind.
Hermione collects her winnings and waits for the next hand.
In addition to her hours and hours of legal preparations, studying for her NEWTs has been a big help to pass the time. She'd felt quite refreshed on potions work, arithmancy, and runes, but there was a lot to brush up on.
She's thoroughly enjoyed it, the studying and the challenge of impending tests. She's always tested very well, always loved being assessed this way. She knows she holds up well to scrutiny.
She wishes the extensive assessment of her mental stability felt as validating. To be fair, it was harder to prove, not a simple right or wrong answer to a formula on a piece of parchment.
She's giving serious thought to Draco's suggestion of becoming a Healer. She liked the battlefield medic experience, odd though it feels to say. She found that she could focus in the chaos, could hone in on what needed to be done. The urgency and drive was thrilling, her Occlumency more useful than she could have ever imagined. She was useful, helping others, in a time of crisis.
But hopefully there are no more battles for a very long time. Instead, she's considering Mind Healing as a speciality.
But whatever she decides to do, she'll need her NEWTs to do it. They're usually held in late spring, but that's right around the corner. She asked the Ministry for a special exception, for herself and any other Resistance fighters from her year or below who never had the chance to take them.
This was granted without fuss - no questions about her mental state over that request, she'd noted with dry irritation - and the next testing date will be right before her birthday, in the middle of September.
The dealer hits an immediate twenty-one and Hermione loses a hand. Oh well; have to lose some of them or they'll grow wise to her game and throw her out. He deals again and someone else sits down on her left side.
Hermione prefers being the first seat at the table, all the way to the right. The first one dealt hands or additional cards. She still has to account for the cards that additional players receive, of course, still has to count and tabulate those too. But she doesn't have to account for their behaviour, idiot novices taking a card when they clearly shouldn't, a card that could have or should have gone to her.
She likes it here, at the casino. It's not her first visit. She'd had to reach out to Theodore Nott to find out where it was, how to get in. That felt odd to her but she figured with the war officially over, they all might as well begin building bridges again. Pansy Parkinson even reached out, thanking Hermione for what she was trying to do for Draco.
She had to start with only a small pile of pocket change she found on Draco's desk, but she's grown it to the extent that she can play comfortably now.
Being here playing cards reminds Hermione of her father. It's another reason she's enjoyed her sessions with the Mind Healer she sees, Healer O'Dell. It's another reason she's considering it as a profession herself. With the Obliviation in the park, the clear wrinkles in the memory charms and their execution, she wonders what else might be possible in the recovery of memories, the breaking down of complex Obliviation.
She's also seriously considered going into legal work or the legal system, having seen how slowly and ineffectively the Wizengamot has turned over the past couple of months. But making change there seems almost insurmountable for one witch - even a prodigious one. Healing could make an immediate difference.
Another person sits down and more cards begin moving, more participation. Hermione has to concentrate harder to track what she sees and this is what she wanted. This passes the time. The numbers are soothing, the constant flipping of new cards onto the table, the pairing up and tracking and tabulating. The repetition.
It's like a song in her head.
A scantily-clad cocktail server saunters by and Hermione asks for a refill of her water. As the server leaves, Hermione gives her head a little shake. Honestly, how Draco didn't spot what this place was… but Draco never sees what doesn't beat him over the head. Draco is extremely intelligent, but he sees only what pertains to him and nothing beyond.
He's very tunnel-visioned in that way.
In one regard, it's one of her favourite qualities about him. He does not pry. He'd never asked once, over two weeks of rapid letter-writing, what she was writing or to whom.
She'd been systematically cataloguing his contributions, her treatment there at the Manor, their work on the lotion. His inventions, his motivations, everything he was doing to help. Most of her correspondents were receptive - at least, it had seemed so over parchment. She'd found that she needed to re-emphasise her positions again afterwards with frustration frequency, but her foundation of details ended up playing a critical role.
Once forced to examine things in sequence, people had to admit that Hermione's views and opinions were not happening in a vacuum. She had crafted almost two weeks of mounting evidence.
But Draco had never asked what she was doing then. He knew she was doing more than simply writing to Ginny, but he never asked. He trusts people to tell him things that affect him, a precious and naive outlook Hermione adores. She wants to find out how deep this runs, if it even still does after all the subterfuge of the final battle and shadowy strategies leading up to it.
They've had very little time together, after everything was said and done. Two hectic, insane, almost magical weeks at the Manor before everything happened. Several days afterwards at the Manor in a recovering sort of haze, and then Draco and Lucius were arrested.
Now, two months later, here she is: sitting at a blackjack table by herself, counting cards and killing time.
They'd told her it should be this week. They're determining appropriate sentencing, processing his release, be patient Hermione, it'll be soon. She's been told to 'be patient' so many times she wants to scream. Any day now. Yesterday? Today? Tomorrow? Be patient.
At least he's being released. There was serious doubt about that for a while, despite her fervent efforts. The first time she heard, she was so furious she nearly lost her head, and it set her back significantly in how they viewed her own competency. She had to keep her temper under control after that and use her wits and documentation to provide clear evidence. A rational presentation, calm and collected.
Lucius will serve five years. His aid to the Resistance late was not discounted, by any stretch, but he'd been a deeply-embedded Death Eater for decades. But he did enable Hermione's freedom and in the end, sent her and Draco to assist in the final overthrow. Hermione was honest and clear about her time in the Manor, and was happy to have contributed what she did. Severus testified as well, precisely what Lucius was involved with and when.
Narcissa took it as well as could be expected, in Hermione's opinion. She and the older woman have been a stabilising support for one another, through all of this. She loves Narcissa deeply.
It was Narcissa who suggested writing to her parents in Australia as a sort of pen-pal from London. It's been a way to get to know them again, their life there, what they do. They could retire, probably, but they both like staying busy. They enjoy their work as paediatric dentists because they like working with children. No, they don't have any of their own.
And all the while, the possibilities of Mind Healing and memory recovery percolate in Hermione's mind.
Hermione spends a great deal of time in the Manor library doing research or studying, or in the conservatory with Narcissa. Sharing meals in the smaller sitting room, rather than the large and overbearing dining room with just the two of them in it.
Sometimes they take tea in the solarium instead, and as the weather begins to warm, they walk the gardens together. She lives at the Manor, a circumstance no one ever spoke of outright. It just… happened. She'd gone back to Draco after the final battle because she wanted to, yes, but she'd been telling the truth.
Where else would she have gone? She doesn't exactly have a flat. She has no wizarding money with which to rent one. She went from boarding school at Hogwarts, to being on the run hunting Horcruxes, to being held captive in the park.
Oh, she knows the Weasleys would have taken her in, in an instant. A heartbeat. But that would have felt exactly like that - being 'taken in.' Charity, almost. It doesn't feel like that at the Manor.
It feels like home. Narcissa treats her like a daughter.
Also… she's not certain if things will ever be the same with Ron. If they'll ever truly reconcile. Ron said more hurtful things than anyone, that her mental faculties have clearly been compromised. She's stupid, idiotic, naive. It can't possibly be Hermione thinking these things, saying them. Staying at the Manor with Narcissa Malfoy, defending Draco and Lucius. His Hermione would never.
Realising his freedom had been bought and paid for by Draco made things even harder for him.
She tries to understand Ron's perspective, even though he's not granting her the same consideration. They'd lost the initial war and were captured. They'd been - well, not together, not exactly, but it's how Ron remembered them. And now…
But his harsh words cut through her more than anybody else's. He can't speak about it calmly and she can't row anymore, can't listen to the insults he throws at her again. Of everyone now acting like Hermione needs someone to act on her behalf 'in her best interests' because she's clearly incapable of it, Ron has been the worst.
Some days it feels like she lost Harry and Ron both, in one fell swoop. Draco is imprisoned. Some days Hermione feels so alone, she cries in the shower until she can pick herself back up off the floor and stay busy instead.
In a very odd way, she misses Ginny as her 'roommate.' In a different life, she and Ginny might have been roommates after school. She misses Ginny terribly in general, of course; her closest girl friend. But Ginny is working through her own grief in her own ways, leaning on her family for support, seeing her own Healer. She usually sees Ginny once or twice a week, but it's not the same as living with her.
Ginny hadn't even voiced any protest about Hermione testifying on Blaise's behalf. Hermione wasn't sure if Ginny would. She could have seen it go either way. But Hermione was honest: Blaise's idea freed Harry. Blaise risked his own life for weeks, impersonating Harry and it was all voluntary. Blaise's interjection at the battle facilitated the opportunity to kill Voldemort. Blaise never took a Dark Mark, was never a Death Eater. In the end, Blaise was assigned community service and a probation officer.
Ginny didn't testify but neither did she object. Yes, Ginny would have been the best thing about the Burrow, but Hermione still thinks staying there would have driven her out of her mind long before it would have helped. She'd have gone completely mental or she and Ron would have destroyed the place mid-row.
When her grief and loneliness feel like they're going to overwhelm her, Hermione reaches out to her Mind Healer, O'Dell, and talks through it all, again and again. With Butterworth, too, sometimes.
It helps.
Luna has been an unexpectedly bright spot. Hermione should have reached out to her and felt guilty that she didn't, but she'd had so much on her mind. Luna did it, instead, offering to help with Draco's case and testifying on his behalf.
Hermione hadn't seen her at the final battle and didn't even know if she'd been there. There were so many Resistance fighters under Polyjuice it was impossible to tell who was there and who wasn't. But Luna confirms that she didn't fight. Hermione is glad. Luna's soul is ultimately a gentle one. The blood-thirstiness of that final confrontation wasn't for Luna. She's just as glad that Luna wasn't a part of it.
In the end, this relatively neutral stance helped Luna's words carry more weight. She also had the added benefit of giving Draco some helpful testimony from before the initial war, from her time spent in Malfoy Manor's dungeons.
The person to Hermione's left stands up and two more sit down at the end of the little semi-circular table. The dealer deals again. Hermione counts, takes cards, counts more.
Soothing. Repetitious. Her respectable - but not ostentatious - stack of chips in front of her slowly grows. Slowly. She's not here to rake the house. She wants to come back, after all.
Hermione is holding her water glass in her left hand, using her right to place bets, to request or decline cards. She thinks a little absently that she'd have hidden her left arm before. She always tried to hide it. If not with long sleeves, then by not using the arm when she didn't need to.
It looks perfectly normal now. No one gives it a second glance. She's the only one who does, still occasionally taken by surprise at the smooth skin there.
In Draco's absence, another thing she's done to stay occupied is begin making more and more alba pellis, packaging it to prepare for eventual distribution. Samples were handed out among the Wizengamot as evidence of Draco's drive to provide something good to wizarding society.
Hermione always has to hide a private smile at these descriptions.
('I'm no hero. I did it for you')
No, Draco is not a societal altruist. It's not in his nature to stretch himself for people he doesn't know, doesn't care for. But that's just part of who he is. Even so, he might have made the lotion for her, but he also has no problem with sharing it out now that it's made. That's what matters. It will do a lot of good for a lot of people.
Severus was able to spin Draco's involvement in the park into many productive angles. Hermione was impressed. Severus, always taciturn and remote, provided only the bare necessity in the way of deposition. Crisp, clear answers. According to Severus, Draco had always hated the park. Hated the Confunding of the captives - at this detail, Hermione had to step out.
She'd come to realise there were still many nuances to the park that she still wasn't fully apprised of. Some of them proved too difficult to listen to. Healer O'Dell tells her that it's not necessary to put herself through it. If she thinks it's helpful, she can stay and he'll help her talk through it as she needs. If she doesn't think it's helpful, then leave. No sense forcing it on herself.
But to hear Severus tell it, Draco jumped back into the park willingly to keep the captives from being killed off in a loss of profitability. His revenue turnaround efforts, extensive and intricate, were directly tied to the smuggling out of captives back to the Resistance. He spent over a hundred thousand galleons of his own money over months and months of involvement to make this happen.
"Did Draco Malfoy know the 'sale' of captives were going to the Resistance operation overseas, facilitated by Mr Krum?"
"Yes."
"Did Draco Malfoy personally pay for the release of Ronald Weasley?"
"Yes."
And so on. Snape's complete lack of expository detail worked in Draco's favour. No one dove too deeply into what Draco might have known and when, how his motivations evolved.
Hermione herself doesn't really know. All she knows is how it did end up. Draco's motivations were to benefit her; if others benefited as well, it was a positive byproduct. But as she herself told him, she believes people are in a constant state of evolution, of change, based on the experiences they have in life.
Her own views and feelings have changed radically from the teenager she was at school, to the Resistance fighter she once was, to the captive she had been - to the woman she is now.
The woman who murdered a countless number of Dark fighters and allies. Truly, she has no idea how many she personally cut down. Two dozen? Three? The woman sitting here on a sojourn from Malfoy Manor in an illegal casino, drinking ice water and technically cheating in cards. If you count using superior brain power as cheating, which Hermione doesn't. Not really. It's not her fault she's just better at it than the others.
Good timing. She wins another hand.
The best part of blackjack, Hermione thinks, is that you aren't the opponent of every other player: as long as you follow basic etiquette and generally-accepted rules of when to hit and when to stay. Players past a novice level of knowledge are expected to play a certain, even predictable, way. Once that basic level of performance is met across the table, the only opponent is the dealer themselves. Every player at the table 'wins' the hand if the dealer busts. It facilitates a certain level of camaraderie.
She sees something similar at craps, though that's a game she does not understand at all. Taking the occasional break from blackjack to get food or just needing the loo sometimes, she stood over the craps table to watch. A few of the marked areas on the table seemed to make consistent sense. Most of it seemed completely random, full nonsense to Hermione.
The raucous group atmosphere of the craps table is almost infectious, though. It seems as though everyone wins together or loses together. But it's a true roll of the dice in every literal sense. It's not for her. She likes the relative predictability of the blackjack table, the narrowing of odds in her mind, the rush of vindication when her bets pan out.
Hermione swings through the loo again now and stops at the bar to order some fish and chips. She sits to wait for her food, scanning the room with idle amusement. How long until the lights dim further and the music starts up in earnest? How long until the glitter comes out to play?
Not busy counting at the moment, her thoughts drift to Ginny. Ginny had wanted to talk yesterday, said it was important. They'd met in Diagon Alley rather than the Burrow, which she prefers anyway.
Ginny doesn't, not usually. Being in public is hard for Ginny. People keep approaching her, thanking her for killing Voldemort. Buying her drinks, sending over ice creams. She's the hero and it makes her feel ill. Don't they all know she'd rather it wasn't her?
Ginny's been seeing a Healer like Hermione. She'd tried two or three before settling on this one, and Hermione had encouraged her.
'Mine from the park was an idiot,' Ginny had said. 'Knew injury Healing, sure, but kept acting like I'd been through a singular event. One trauma, like an accident. I couldn't talk to him.'
Hermione had told her, 'You have to trust one. You have to feel like you can talk to them. If you don't feel comfortable with one, try another. They're not all thick.'
Yes, Hemione is interested in the possibility of Mind Healing. But that's not what they talked about. Ginny's Healer, the one she'd finally connected with, had recommended that she see Blaise. Said it could help Ginny parse through what had happened in the park in several different ways.
Ginny wanted an opinion. Hermione was generally in favour of the idea. She explained to Ginny her first interactions with Draco at the Manor, how helpful it had been to be able to ask questions from someone who was there - as long as you felt he was finally truthful about it. And Draco had been, it was clear across every facial expression and uncomfortable word.
Hermione thinks Blaise will be, too. She doesn't know what had been in the letter, but she could see the regret and shame written on Blaise's face every time she looked at him.
She told Ginny this and then left it alone. She can't tell Ginny what to do about Blaise, but if it were her, she'd want all the information she could get. Hadn't it driven her initial reconciliation with Draco? Being able to ask things, finally, and get answers?
With this, her thoughts now float back to Draco.
Will he be released tonight? Narcissa would tell him where she is. She understands Hermione can only sit and stare into space at the Manor for so long. For days, weeks, Hermione could barely stand the thought of not being there when Draco got home. No one knew when it could be. But after a while, even her myriad pursuits of activity there at home weren't enough. Sometimes she has to have a change of scenery.
Narcissa understands. Even without using the Legilimency Hermione knows she's proficient in, Narcissa is extremely perceptive. Maybe that's one of the core qualities of an expert Legilimens: innate perception. She catches Narcissa watching her sometimes, a little smile on her lips. But like her son, she also does not pry. She leaves Hermione to her thoughts.
Hermione sent off one final letter this morning to the Wizengamot, pleading for Draco's release one more time. She had one more thing to say. And now, she has butterflies in her stomach. Did it work? She feels intrinsically that it'll be tonight.
Be patient, Hermione.
Unconsciously, she pulls a face. But she'd grown desensitised to this feeling, this will-it-or-won't-it of the timing. The nervous anxiety she feels is a newer resurgence, as if her instincts are telling her it'll be tonight. She catches herself watching the door.
She hasn't been able to see Draco or even write to him. She tried writing, in the beginning, but when he didn't write back she knew they weren't passing along her letters. She complained loudly and often about this, too, but eventually decided she needed to pick her battles. She dedicated her energies to defending him instead.
They've had hardly any time together, really. It's been both the shortest and most intense relationship of her life. Neither of them really know how or where this is going to go, but it's going to go somewhere.
She lifts her water to her mouth again as she waits for another opening at the blackjack table.
Waits. Waits.
Draco
I wait. And wait. Maybe it'll be today, they say. Probably in a few hours. Guess it'll be tomorrow. Sorry, Malfoy, be patient. Soon. It'll be soon.
I'm still not sure exactly how it all happened, but I've been sentenced to house arrest - with the exception of work, hilariously. My job was deemed 'helpful to wizarding society,' since I help companies plan and fund the rebuilding of damaged or destroyed businesses and public districts. It puts people back to work, helps our economy, and generally beautifies things.
So house arrest with work release - work and home, work and home, indefinitely. I'm also on probation and have to meet with a social worker regularly to coordinate community service and ensure I'm toeing the line as otherwise specified. If I do all of those things, my social worker will help recommend an end to the house arrest at some undefined point in the future.
I've been here just over two months and I know I'm lucky. Even with the glacial pace of processing my official release, at least I'm going home. My father isn't, not that that's surprising. But I didn't really expect my various 'good deeds' to count for enough to let me leave here and go home.
My barrister, Jalen Porter, snuck me a few of the depositions the week before last, once the panel had finally decided. Once I was no longer deemed a serious and violent threat to society, I suppose. Security had lightened a bit at that point. My detention here became more of a nuisance and began seriously testing my patience. I could go home, but no one would tell me when. I think Porter became concerned about my temper. Reading the depositions might have been a strategic distraction. Either way, I was grateful for it.
They were enlightening. I've had very little reading material, first off. None, to be exact.
I was genuinely touched by the assortment of people who had tried to help. The bulk of the reports were from Severus or Granger, of course, but several of the Resistance fighters had given a statement about my assistance and contribution in that final battle. Lovegood made a statement about how 'kind' I was when she was held in our dungeons, defending my general character.
Severus's claims of my actions and motivations in the park were questioned and verified by myriad sources. The Healers for Lovegood and Granger were brought forth to testify that neither ever had physical injuries or any other evidence of violence or sexual assault from me. Krum gave a statement that, while still presenting a convincing public act in front of Dolohov, I facilitated his purchase of captives at an increasing pace until the park was finally empty.
On the whole, everyone is still far too generous in their impression of me. It ends up looking like I'd been helping the Resistance all along, or trying to, in an increasing capacity as time went on. But I do have a solidly-established streak of self interest and if their testimony gets me home to Granger faster - or at all - I'll nod and agree.
Severus kept meticulous records. Of course, his own involvement was questioned but it was only perfunctory. His known identity as a double-agent gave him protection.
Yes, he was helping run the park from the beginning. But he also suggested and helped implement the memory charms in the first place, intended to lessen lasting pain and suffering. He brought in Healers and made sure those he found could be trusted. He improved the dormitories and living conditions under the guise of positive PR, making sure the captives weren't just held in cells and fed scraps. Kept the calming charms in place, anti-anxiety charms, tasteless contraceptive serums added to the food. Provided them with social interaction within the dorms, books and rudimentary entertainment available.
He was the initial and primary point of contact for Krum and the Resistance abroad. He created the extended Polyjuice formula that made the Resistance's final attack strategy possible.
During Granger's stay at the Manor from the start - long before she and I had reconciled - Severus had been notifying the Resistance of her treatment, reassuring them of her safety, keeping them updated on my movements.
The result was a documented foundation of months of help, on my account.
Granger's depositions were equally enlightening. Severus's answers and descriptions were curt and to the point. Granger was clearly temperamental, fighting back every point. Elaborating, arguing back. She refused to concede a single debate and I love her violently for it. Fiery little witch.
Both sides of the depositions were recorded, of course, and it's infuriating to read how they discounted every statement she tried to make. Severus's testimony held water. But half the time it feels like they only let Granger speak at all just so they could say they did.
She was one of the Golden Trio of the first war, master Horcrux hunter, Potter's Golden Girl, a war heroine. Unbalanced and desperate, borderline incompetent and hysterical from her captivity and ongoing trauma, but sure; let her talk just so they can say they let her. So no one can say they tried to hush her up.
But she did not give up, and I can see from the documents how at least some members of the Wizengamot panel tried to verify her claims. And when they did, her statements were valid. Of course. Slowly, very slowly, her arguments began to hold more weight. The progression over time is clear.
I know they weren't letting any post through. Even if I believed Granger had left the Manor and moved on - which I don't, not really, at least not in rational moments. During especially lonely and dark nights, the back of my mind whispers that surely she will, surely she has, but most of the time I can stuff those thoughts down - even if I believed Granger wouldn't have written, I know my mother must have tried.
But no letters were forthcoming, so they were being suppressed. Also maddening. Not strictly legal.
And no visitors other than my barrister. I've grown fond of Porter but I'd have liked a little variety. Even convicted Azkaban prisoners are allowed visitors and post. Their excuse anytime I questioned anything was that because I was in a 'transitional period' of custody, the regular rules didn't apply.
Full bollocks and I wish I could have been a fly on the wall of my mother and/or Granger verbally arguing the point.
But as Porter reminds me, I am going home. Yes, this process is deeply flawed, but be patient, Draco. Also: don't balls it all up. Don't be an idiot now. Don't give them a reason to revoke anything at this point.
So I read and re-read the depositions I kept hidden in my holding cell until Porter finally says he needs them back. I can see Granger fighting every second of her portions, arguing and debating, points and counterpoints. Her fury at it all. Her indignation. I can hear her voice in my head as she says the words.
I miss her so badly it hurts.
I want to know what she's doing, how she's been spending her time. If she's still at the Manor. She could be. It's likely that she is, unless she went home with Ginny. But home with Ginny means home with Ron. I'm not jealous of her ex-boyfriend, not any longer. Not after our last couple of days together. But things didn't seem particularly amicable on that front.
I hope she's alright. I wonder if she kept seeing Butterworth. I wonder if she's planning to take her NEWTs next month. That's fast, but if anybody could pull it off, Granger could.
I hear the locked door open at the end of the hall and I can't help but perk up. I do this several times a day, infuriating myself every time because it's almost never for me. I would have guessed I'd get used to it by now, tuning out the noticeable click of the latch, but I never have.
Who was that psychologist, the Muggle who talked about classical conditioning? Granger would know. Pavlov, that was his name. Dinner bell rings, Draco salivates. Door latch clicks, Draco looks up.
But this time the footsteps do come by way. Still trying to temper my expectations, I remind myself it's probably Porter. It is, but he's also with one of the Ministry guards.
"Let's go," says the guard brusquely and across my flash of disbelief that it's actually happening now, I dart through the door before he can say they made a mistake.
Porter shakes my hand at the processing desk after the supervisor returns my few effects and my wand. Wishes me well. Et cetera. Porter says "Congratulations" in a bit of an odd tone, but I'm hardly listening. I can't wait to get out of here. I've practically got one foot into their Floo connection when the floor supervisor stops me.
A fast dart of dread shoots through me. Should have gone, they've changed their minds, going to keep you after all.
"Mr Malfoy, wait. I need to tell you the schedule."
The... schedule? When I'm supposed to meet with a probation officer and all that? Well, that's pertinent. I'm so impatient, though, I'm bouncing on the balls of my feet.
He leans over the counter in a conspiratorial manner and I'm so intrigued I walk back over. He drops his voice. "It's late, Mr Malfoy. I wanted to let you know that the DMLE officers won't be coming to your residence to establish your house arrest monitoring until tomorrow morning."
This is irregular and I stare at him suspiciously, my impatience on hold. "Why?"
He shrugs and I spy his employee badge dangling at the end of a lanyard. Darren Edgecombe. "The scar treatment you came up with. My daughter - well, thank you. That's all."
Granger must have gotten it to her. I definitely had nothing to do with it, outside inventing it to begin with, but I manage a nod. "Of course. I'm glad it helped."
He gives me a slightly more imperious look now, warning me in an official law-enforcer sort of tone, "Don't go abusing your last night. If you take off, they'll revoke the sentence and throw you in Azkaban."
Well, no, I'd be an idiot to do that. What I'm facing is both reasonable and tolerable. "You don't need to worry, sir. I'll behave myself."
But now he winks at me, almost roguishly. "House arrest can get old and you don't know when it'll end. You've been here a while already. I thought maybe you'd like to have one night on the town. Just don't go doing it with my daughter."
I stare at him, flabbergasted. I haven't the slightest clue how to read this exchange. What a peculiar man.
"I'll behave myself," I say again, blinking twice. But I will not be inspecting the mouths of either gift horses or Marietta Edgecombe. "Don't worry."
Apparently that's all I have to offer but he seems content with it. Before anything more bizarre can happen here, I step through the Floo. Time to find my girl.
I wasn't even thinking about having a night out. I was thinking about taking Granger to bed immediately. But when I arrive at home, it's only my mother there.
My heart drops to my feet and she must see it on my face.
"No, darling, she's waiting for you. But we weren't sure when it would be, and Hermione gets restless. She's at the… casino."
Narcissa delivers this with a faint distaste in her mouth and I choke back a laugh. The casino? Granger is out gambling? Hilarious. My mother would have a much stronger reaction if she knew it was also a strip club. Oh, I'd love to see that. But Granger didn't leave me, leave the Manor; she's just out playing cards.
Feeling lighter than air, I hug my mother tightly.
"What was your final sentence?" she asks and I give her the most succinct summary possible before heading to my room. I need a shower, a change of clothes, I need to go see my girl.
In the world's quickest shower, I realise I was probably a little abrupt with my poor mother. She's been waiting months to see me and I bolted back here as soon as I could. I'll apologise before I bolt again, but I can't help it. It's time to play some blackjack with the brightest witch of our age.
On my way back out, I notice what I was moving too fast to see a few moments ago. I'd brushed right past it, but now I'm facing it squarely. There's a box on the dresser to the right of my bedroom door, small and square. Velvet.
I pop it open to see a ring there. Not my mother's. It must be an heirloom and I wonder from which side of the family. But it's stunning - an antique setting, ornate and delicate. The central stone is flanked with others, the band wrapped in diamonds. I blink at it several times, thinking the past hour can't get more strange, and my mother raps on the doorframe next to me.
Ah. I hadn't missed the box at all; it hadn't been there until just now.
I hold up the box, mute and questioning.
She smiles, a small and private one tipping up the corners of her mouth. "It belonged to my mother. I wear a Malfoy ring from your father's side; this one is a Black ring, from the Rosiers of the family. It was forged in France. I've had the setting tightened and the diamonds cleaned. It's time it was yours."
"I'm touched, Mother, but I don't think it'll fit." She must be joking with this.
"Ask her. She'll say yes."
"You've discussed it?" I can't believe that actually happened, either. Granger and I dated for roughly two weeks before the rude interruption that was my arrest.
Narcissa gives a little shake of the head. "No. But she will. She loves you."
"Don't you think it's a little soon?"
"She's been living here for months. I'd say a good bit of your relationship has been unorthodox, wouldn't you?" My mother has an infuriatingly superior look on her face but I can't help one final argument.
"Men don't typically ask this question if they aren't certain of the answer."
She rolls her eyes. "I've been living with her, just the two of us, for the last two months. I'm certain. Just take it with you. Keep it on you. I'm not saying it has to be tonight; I just wanted you to have it. It's time to move on past the war."
Fine. I stuff it into a pocket and she favours me with a fond look. "Stubborn boy. Now, go on. Off with you."
Hermione
She has a sixteen. A crummy hand, all things considered. Ordinarily, this could go either way and she would look at what the dealer is showing. Best practice is to wait it out, and that's what she does. She knows there's a disproportionate amount of high cards left in the shoe and the dealer has to take one.
He does and busts, as she predicted he likely would. She wins without needing any special calculations. These hands are good, they're reliable, and they don't arouse suspicion. She played like anyone else at the table would play it, and -
Someone sits down to her left and she catches the smell of his soap. Hermione closes her eyes and inhales deeply on reflex, before it even really registers. Draco.
She turns towards him and his warm hands grasp her face, pulling her in to kiss her. His thumbs stroke her cheeks, his fingers reaching the base of her neck and into her hair. She'd left it down tonight and she's glad, Draco loves it so much, and he tangles in it now. Feeling his hands sends a shivery shock all the way down to her toes. Draco. Finally.
The dealer asks if she wants the next hand, which is stupid, because clearly she doesn't. "Let's go home," she exhales against his mouth. "Come on."
Maddeningly, he pulls away, his grey eyes sparkling at her. "Not yet. I get one night before my house arrest starts, and I want to play cards with you. Also, -" he looks around, "shouldn't the real party here be getting started soon, by your count?"
Torn, Hermione hesitates. She's been playing cards. She wants him. But if this is their only chance for a night out…
He sees her visibly cave and grins, that mischievous half-smirk up one side of his mouth that she loves. "I'm going to get a drink. Do you need anything?"
Hermione shakes her head 'no' and repositions them at the blackjack table so Draco has the right-most seat in front of the dealer. He lifts an eyebrow when he returns but she motions to sit. Don't ask.
He does sit, putting down some money for chips. The reason, which she can't explain out loud, is that she will occasionally play against best practice etiquette when she has a better-than-average hunch that a high or low card might be coming up next - one that would benefit her hand.
Better for Draco to be able to play normally without having to account for her seemingly random decisions. The other people who come and go at their table just think she's a novice. She doesn't care about them.
She waits to re-enter the game until they shuffle afresh, though. Snogging him at the table meant she couldn't keep track of what cards were coming out, so now she waits until the dealer begins again. She wants to snog him more, wants his hands all over her, but he wants to do something new for awhile. She can do that.
Now she can see Draco trying to track the high cards the way she'd shown him. This is much harder, though. Much faster dealing and they're using five decks in the shoe. Eighty cards worth ten. Twenty aces.
Hermione herself is far less rusty than she was when she taught Draco the basics, though. It is fun, and now that she's not solely using it to pass the time, she stretches her legs with it a bit. Hell, even if they do throw her out, at least now Draco is home. She doesn't need to come here anymore.
She splits jacks and hits a twenty on one - which she splits again - and a clean twenty-one on the other. Occasionally, she catches him giving her a look: the sort that says 'good gods, Granger, you do this at speed?' Ah, it is validating. Hermione does enjoy being good at things.
It feels like no time at all passes before the lights do get dark and the music changes. She'd been sure she was right, but it's still delightful to see it happen.
She and Draco abandon the blackjack table and he claims a stool at the bar. She tucks between his knees, her back to his chest, and leans back into him. Draco sets his chin on her shoulder and wraps his arms around her, and she sighs contentedly.
There is a suspicious lack of any cocktail servers now and a new contingent of strippers. Shocking. Cue more glitter, she thinks.
Her shoulders shake with laughter and Draco leans in, nuzzling into her neck. His hands are on her hips, his thumbs sneaking under her jumper to rest on her hip bones. He knows she's a little ticklish there and she wriggles backwards, undoubtedly his intention all along. She can feel him hard at her back and closes her eyes, enjoying his fingers on her skin.
"If you keep doing that," she whispers, twisting her head so he can hear her over the music, "we're going to have to leave."
"I could shag you in the back room instead. I'm sure there is one," and Hermione seriously considers it.
She reaches a hand up and back until it's behind Draco's neck and he leans into it, his fingers splaying across her stomach, almost as if -
Turning around to face him, she snogs him properly. No impatient blackjack dealer waiting this time. Gods, she'd missed him. Missed his smell, his face, his hands. His hands are starting to slip up the back of her shirt now, and they really are going to have to leave. Not because this display is particularly inappropriate, given their surroundings, but because she will drag him to find a back room before much longer. She draws the line at the loo, but she'll find somewhere.
"I love you," Draco says, pressed deeply into her hair. Hermione thinks she'll never get tired of hearing it.
"I love you too," she answers and nothing's ever felt more natural. She reaches for his hand. Time to go. They need to talk, too, need to catch up, but there's time. Shagging first.
But his hand is in his pocket now. When did it get there? The last she recalled, it was steadily moving up her back.
"I really didn't know if I was going to do this tonight," he says a little unevenly, "but given the setting, I can't imagine a better place to tell my mother -"
Hermione's thoroughly baffled. Huh?
Draco stands up off the stool and she's forced to step back. She takes another step automatically when he goes down to one knee in front of her.
"Hermione -" as if from the end of a long tunnel, she hears her first name. Has he ever called her by her first name? "- Granger, will you marry me?"
She stares at him dumbly.
"I know it's soon. But I love you. I want you and only you, for the rest of my life. Please. Will you marry me?"
Mute and stunned, she blinks a few times. What if he only asked…
But she nods. Her head moves up and down. The bartender behind her screams and claps her hands over her mouth, drawing a small crowd from around the bar and Hermione doesn't hear a bit of it.
Draco
She won't stop gawping at the ring, which I think is a good sign. Even snogging me with her arms around my neck, she's looking at it. I've picked her up, slid her legs around my waist, my hands full of her arse. She's snogging me with eyes wide open, distracted and staring at the ring.
The bartender is still shrieking her congratulations and I wonder how many proposals of marriage this illicit little establishment sees in an average year.
A bottle of champagne lands on the bar with two flutes, but after seeing I refuse to take my hands off my witch, the bartender does the honours and pops it for us, pouring two glasses.
Finally breaking for air, Granger sucks in a deep inhale. "You're insane," she breathes, but before she can come back in for more, I set her feet back on the ground and hand her a glass of champagne.
"Cheers."
She takes a small sip, slowly, as if savouring it, but then sets it down. I wave for the bartender again. "Not good? I'll get something different. Here, what would you like?"
But Granger stops me. "I -" It's so dark in here, it's hard to tell, but I think she's gone red. My heart drops.
She swallows hard and it seems like she has to force herself to make eye contact. "I can't."
She can't marry me. It's too soon, I was right, this was stupid, it hasn't been nearly long enough.
I rushed things and now -
"I shouldn't have any. I'm pregnant."
There's a distant roaring in my ears and Granger angles me towards the bar stool I recently vacated. It's a good thing because my arse hits it in the next second and now I'm the one gawping.
"What?"
Now she looks horrified and I realise my shock is being taken the wrong way. Much like I misunderstood her reticence a moment ago, we're getting all tangled up and that won't do.
I grab her shirt in my fingers like she always does to me and pull her in. She presses her face into my chest and I grip her so tightly she huffs out a breath. Is this real? "Are you really?"
More comfortable with her face hidden, I can feel her nod. "You didn't know?" she asks.
Leaning back to see her, I'm incredulous. "How would I have known?"
"Well, I'd - I didn't want to do it that way, but I was getting very frustrated that they kept saying you'd be released and then not doing it. I sent your barrister a note to take to the panel, that you needed to be home. I'd asked them not to say anything but I sort of assumed one of them would anyway, but maybe they didn't even read it, maybe you'd have been released today anyhow, and -"
I remember Porter's odd-sounding 'congratulations' to me on the way out. It sounds different now, in my memory.
"That was really presumptuous of me, by the way, I'm really sorry to use it like that, but they were making me so angry with all the unnecessary delays." Granger's crying a little now through her rambling explanation, and I wipe her cheek with my thumb. "I've been - a little hot-tempered. And your mother didn't tell you?"
"She knows?"
She shakes her head, sniffling. "I haven't told her. But I think she might anyway. She's very perceptive, your mother."
('Ask her. She'll say yes. I'm certain')
"You really didn't know? You didn't ask me to - to marry you because -"
"Because I knocked you up?" I scoff. "No. No, I did not. Sorry about the knocking up, by the way, not exactly part of the plan."
('It's time to move on past the war')
It had to have been the first night we had sex. We were too distracted to think about it. No contraceptive charms were cast. Neither of us were thinking about anything but the attack on the castle. And I hadn't thought about it since.
('I've been handling that part of my life for quite some time')
Until I didn't. Whoops. And what were the odds, anyway? One time? She sniffs again and I pull her back into my chest. Her words are muffled but I can still hear her. "We've done a lot of things out of order."
Yes, we have. Still somewhat in shock, I rub my hand up and down her back. "Okay, well, let's try to separate things out. If you weren't pregnant, would you still have said yes?"
She nods. "And you asked, even though you didn't know."
"Yes, but I wasn't convinced tonight was necessarily the right night to do it. My mother gave me the ring -"
Granger looks up, watery-eyed but happy again. She looks at the ring. "I knew she knew."
I smirk at her. "I can't prove that she did, but her timing does seem suspicious. In the end, I liked the idea of telling her I proposed in the middle of a strip club, so I did it tonight."
She covers her mouth with a little laugh. "I suppose we should go home glittery."
The bartender overhears this and does the honours of some confetti glitter, shooting a spray of it into the air. Granger lets out two rapid, short sneezes that are adorable.
Looking around for the first time in a while, I see we've drawn a fair bit of attention. Draco Malfoy just proposed to Golden Girl Hermione Granger at a bar, next to a blackjack table, in front of six scantily-clad dancers.
"It's okay to have a little, though," I tell her, putting the champagne flute back in her hand one more time. "We should toast to both, don't you think?"
A cheer goes up from around us and Granger looks mortified, realising that we are not at all alone. I raise my glass, grinning, and everyone else does, too.
"Oh, gods," she groans, covering her face with her hand. "Everyone is going to know."
"Well, yes. Might want to get ahead of that tomorrow with the important people."
Granger sighs. "Well, that's basically just Ginny. No one else would expect to be my first call." She swipes at her face again, tears dried at last.
"What's the bigger news, do you think?" I ask, amused.
She blinks several times, conflicted. "I really don't know. Can we not tell your mother I'm pregnant yet, though?"
I consider. "Alright. Since we think she knows anyway, let's force her to tell us she knows. Let's see who can out-wait who."
With a mischievous grin, Granger takes one more small sip of champagne before setting it down on the bar with a definitive motion. "Let's go home."
And so, I arrived at an illegal underground casino and left with a pregnant fiance.
Surreal.