Hermione arrived precisely on time. She could see Draco through the cafe window: he was seated in the same spot as last time, hands clasped tightly on the table in front of him, with a coffee and a scone sitting in front of the empty chair opposite him. She was too far away to make out details, but she'd bet that there were lavender flower petals sprinkled on top of the scone. Shifting her eyes back to Draco, she noticed that his knuckles were standing out white; she could practically feel the tension radiating off of him. When she entered and approached the table, he stood and began speaking immediately. "I've already set some time with Shacklebolt to discuss—"
"No," she interrupted him, her heart beating faster than it should as her carefully prepared speech vanished from her head like morning mist — she quickly regrouped. "You said in your letter that you didn't want to hide. Well, I don't either, Malfoy. We're going to finish this project together." His mouth was hanging slightly open, surprised. "Besides," she added, clearing her throat, suddenly uncomfortable, "adding another Auror at this point would only slow our progress."
Draco's failure to pull out her chair made her realise just how shocked he was. Seating himself a moment later, he waited for her to continue. She took a long drink of her coffee to steady herself, and noticed that she'd been right: the scone was lavender, with large sugar crystals and dried flowers sprinkled across the top. A pleasant warmth spread through her chest, loosening some of the tension there.
"I don't know exactly what happened that summer, when you took the Dark Mark. While you told me earlier that you wanted it, and wanted to prove yourself, you were still just a child. You were a victim too, in a different way. I didn't see it back then, but I can recognise that now." He tried to protest, but she continued and he settled for grinding his jaw. "I'm not saying that you aren't responsible for your actions, but I can see how difficult it must have been for someone raised with your ideals to change their mind… to admit that you were wrong. I'm glad that you finally realised that and are trying to help others see the same truth."
"While I don't fully understand why you'd choose to mark yourself again, I see that it's a way for you to make sure you can't forget or hide your past. I respect that." She took a long drink of coffee, considering her next words. "It surprised me, because I've tried to forget most of the war, to be honest… I still have nightmares where it feels like I'm reliving it all over again. I'll never be able to forget."
He nodded to her, his eyes gentle and understanding. "I've had similar experiences... Do you find yourself avoiding things related to the war?" She nodded, and his eyes searched hers before continuing. "What about me? Do I remind you of the war?" She didn't know what to say — she pressed her lips together and looked away. As if he could read her mind, he nodded. "I've seen it in your eyes a few times, you know… the surge of memories. The first week we were working together—"
"It's better," Hermione blurted out. "They're less frequent now that I've spent more time with you. I'm not sure why I reacted the way I did at first. I was so angry at you, I couldn't even think." She looked away, embarrassed.
"I think you'd be surprised at how common that is for someone who has experienced the sort of trauma you've been through. It's normal, Hermione... Most of the people I've worked with have experienced the same reactions. It makes sense that you would as well."
A deep sense of relief flooded her. She hadn't realised how badly she needed to hear someone say those words: that what she was experiencing was normal. A rush of embarrassment followed. They were supposed to be here discussing work, and here she was on the verge of tears, having finally made the connection: recently her flashbacks had occurred immediately after interactions with people who reminded her of the war. It seemed obvious now, but she'd spent so much time trying not to think about it, that she hadn't paused to consider how connected it all was.
"Is it the same for you?" she asked quietly.
He nodded again. "It was much worse immediately after the war, as I'm sure it was for you, too. When I was released from Azkaban, I nearly drank myself to death before my mother shipped me off to America, hoping that the change of scenery would help me. She didn't know what else to do." He chuckled humorlessly to himself. "I think she wanted me to find a nice American witch to settle me down; instead I wound up at Muggle Uni.
"Wizards in America live much more closely with Muggles, although they call them 'No-Majs' in The States. One of the witches my mother tried to match me with had a Muggle girlfriend who her pureblood parents didn't approve of. When you grow up along-side one another, you realise the perceived differences with Muggles don't exist, which was the case for many of the purebloods our age in The States. As I got to know Rainelle, the Muggle, I came to realise the very same thing, and it nearly destroyed me… I had what you'd call an existential crisis, I suppose.
"Previously, I'd been angry about the failure of everything Voldemort and my parents had promised. Realising that the 'threat' they warned me of, that I'd been fighting against, was just people trying to live their lives — I was filled with shame. Most of the American Muggles don't even want anything to do with the magical community when they do find out about it, if you can believe that."
"I can." She smiled in spite of herself. "Muggle-born, remember?"
"Fuck, right, sorry." He gave her a sheepish grin, and Hermione couldn't help but be endeared by it. "Anyway, I spent a lot of time with Rainelle in Charleston, where she lived. She eventually convinced me to try Muggle therapy. She's also the one who gave me the book I mentioned in my letter. While she doesn't understand much about the wizarding world, she said a lot of what I talked about reminded her of the white supremacy movement in America; she was right. I read that book over and over — it may as well have been written about me.
"I felt a hefty sense of obligation. Instead of running, I needed to do something. I thought the best way to help others would be something akin to what the Muggle therapist had done for me. Sure, we've got mind healers, but they often rely more on potions and Occlumency — some will even use Obliviate on patients." —she shifted uncomfortably, but he didn't seem to notice— "So instead of pursuing a traditional education, I attended Muggle Uni and studied psychology before returning to London."
She had so many questions, mainly about how he ended up attending a Muggle Uni in the first place (she still hadn't had the opportunity to ask him), but he hadn't addressed the most pressing question. "And your tattoo?"
Currently covered by his shirtsleeve, he stared down at where his Dark Mark was concealed. "I got it while I was at university. Muggles are obsessed with them, I swear; it was rare to see someone without a tattoo while I was on campus. Anyway, some people use tattoos to tell stories or simply to represent significant moments in their life and I liked that. Some people also added new tattoos over old ones, and I had more than a few people recommend I get cover up work done on my Mark — the Muggles thought it was just a shit tattoo. So I did. But, in addition to The Mark, I have other parts of my story represented, important people that influenced my recovery." He placed a hand over it protectively and they lapsed into silence.
After a few moments, Hermione worked up her courage. "Can I see it?"
He stiffened. "I'm not sure that would be a good idea." Draco glanced nervously at the nearby tables.
Reaching across the table, she placed her hand on his gently; his skin was ice. "Please?" she asked, softly.
Draco's gaze on her was searching, and whatever he was looking for, he must have found it. Throat working, he nodded and unbuttoned the shirt sleeve, but he didn't make any move to roll it up himself.
Gently, she pushed his sleeve up a quarter of the way, her thumb brushing the skin of his wrist. The touch was strangely intimate, and the busy cafe blurred into the background as she focused only on him. Keeping hold of his arm, she turned it ever so slowly, inspecting the black and green swirls of the ink. His shirtsleeve still covered The Mark — she suddenly felt very nervous.
As she traced the various images on his forearm, she felt his skin pebble, and wondered if he was ticklish. Hermione's fingers stopped at an inked sketch of an intricate knot. She looked up at him questioningly.
"That one's for Snape. The Unbreakable Vow he made with my mother saved my life," Draco explained. "I wish I'd had the opportunity to thank him." He watched her warily, looking for a reaction.
Her finger continued its path, circling a green rosebud.
"My mother," he said simply, without waiting for her to look at him.
Rotating his arm again, she placed a finger on a golden snitch (though this one was black) near the line of his shirtsleeve.
"Surely you can guess at that one, Granger," he said fondly.
"Harry?" she guessed with a disbelieving laugh.
He smiled, and it transformed his features. "As much as I hate to admit it, yes… that one's for Potter."
Nodding absently, she returned her gaze to his arm, pretending to look at the swirling ink when, in reality, she was just trying to decide if she was ready to see it. Suddenly, she adjusted her grip, wrapping her hand around the base of his scrunched shirtsleeve. Hermione looked up at him then, wanting to make sure this was alright. His eyes were hard, the smile gone, but he nodded curtly, granting her permission. Without breaking his gaze, she pushed his sleeve to just below the elbow, exposing the Dark Mark. As she lowered her gaze, he squeezed his eyes shut as if he were afraid to watch.
Amidst the ink work, the Mark stood out prominently. Holding her breath and looking closer, she noticed it was altogether different from the ones Voldemort had branded his followers with; Draco really had transformed it. Cracks ran through the skull and pieces of it appeared to have been chipped away — somehow the ink gave the impression that the skull was ancient and moments away from crumbling into dust. Slytherin green vines beginning near Draco's wrist had threaded their way through the skull — it looked like life pushing its way through the cracks.
The bottom of another design was just visible, a few strands of something that might be pearls peeking from beneath his sleeve. She shifted her hand to push it just a bit further, but Draco's hand came to rest over hers.
"I think that's enough for today, don't you? A man must keep at least some things secret." His voice sounded strained and a bit gravely.
She blinked, coming back to herself: she'd been inspecting him like a new specimen in a research collection. As the thought occurred, every contact point between them came alive with energy. Reluctantly, she released him, pulling her hands back. She thought she imagined his arm adjusting slightly so that his fingers brushed against hers as she withdrew.
He traced the vines on his arm, his fingers following the path hers had just taken, she realised. "Our mistakes shape who we are, but they don't define us. We can grow into something new and better, but it takes time, work, and often pain." His fingers paused over the budding rose. "I would be in a dark hole somewhere if it weren't for my mother. She didn't really know how to help me most times, but I always knew I was loved." He tapped the rose, and it unfurled as she watched, the ink rearranging itself. "But I was one of the lucky ones. Most people in my situation don't have anyone who truly supports them; their love is often conditional. If you won't conform, you're cast out, or worse…"
They both lapsed into silence, Draco continuing to trace the lines of his tattoo while Hermione watched his delicate fingers. It was mesmerising. After a few moments, his fingers stopped moving, and he rolled down his sleeve, buttoning the cuffs and breaking the spell she was under.
"Well then," Hermione said, feeling a touch dizzy, "we should get to work… I do hope you'll show me the rest some day."
"It goes a lot further than my forearm," he responded with an arched eyebrow, one corner of his mouth turning up.
"Regardless, I'd like to see it." The words slipped out and her cheeks heated instantly. Clearly, she had not sufficiently recovered her wits or she would never have said something so inappropriate. Not waiting to see his reaction (maybe she was the only one whose mind had gone to indecent places at that comment), she grabbed her coffee and scone and strode decidedly towards the office. Of course, before she'd gone far, Draco's long stride had allowed him to catch up to her. The rest of the walk to the office was in complete silence.
Once they returned to the office, Draco hoped things could return to how they'd been last week. He had not expected to be working in this office with her again, but when she'd said that she didn't want him to bring on another Auror, he had been stupidly happy. Why she decided to give him a second chance, he had no bloody clue, but he would take any excuse to spend more time in her presence.
He was pulled from his thoughts when Hermione asked him if he'd reviewed her latest correlation data. She was nervous: chewing on her bottom lip and not maintaining eye contact for long, even when they were speaking. Perhaps she was as rattled by their conversation as he was. He felt scrubbed raw — like he'd revealed too much of himself. At the cafe, he had steeled himself for the rejection he was sure was coming. Instead, she'd listened to him. Her last comment before they'd left was playing a slow, torturous loop in his head.
"It goes a lot further than my forearm," he said, hoping to make her blush.
"Regardless, I'd like to see it."
She had blushed quite prettily. Had it just been a poorly worded response? It must be; his imagination was getting the better of him. Still, he couldn't stop himself from getting lost in the fantasy momentarily, and heat spread from his chest.
He shook himself and sat in his usual seat, attempting to put the boundaries back in place; he had to remain professional. The project would last for at least another five months (he'd already lost one), and then they'd go their separate ways.
As the morning progressed, they fell back into a familiar rhythm. Draco stayed in his chair behind the desk, and Hermione stood, rearranging notes and adding documents to the wall, just like any other day. Things were comfortable, though Draco couldn't help but feel like something had changed between them.