A/N: basically it's about Draco and Henri/Hermione getting to know each other in their present roles.
I'm still struggling with getting words in the right place and spelled correctly. I think this chapter is okay but bear with me if you find some mistakes.
Some weeks later
Draco was nervous, and that made him annoyed. It's not like this was the first gift he'd given a bird before. It wasn't like it was an engagement ring. It was just a box with a gift inside.
It was part of his plan for them to spend more time together, so he could have more opportunities to jog her memory. To be fair, he'd had plenty already, but it was hard, you know, trying to come up with a conversational opener that wasn't capable of causing offence or all-out shock. He remembered the warning Dumbledore gave him.
From the night at the pub, Draco and Hermione met pretty regularly. Turned out Draco couldn't cook to save his life, aside from Cup-A-Soup, so Hermione made extra food a few times a week and invited him over on the pretext of helping her with her study.
Draco regularly found himself reading out statements from Hermione's immense stack of study workbooks, study aides and her own pile of notebooks so she could fill in the final part of each sentence. All except the sentences where he couldn't pronounce the words. No point looking like a dumb idiot, even if he was dead. He still had pride.
They were engaged in exactly this activity around Hermione's kitchen table while her baked potatoes were cooking when a very scary woman with horrifying hair waltzed into Hermione's house without bothering to knock. She stopped short at the sight of Draco, textbook in one hand and a can of beer in the other, and got out her 'J'Accuse!' pointy finger.
"Henri, dear, you haven't introduced me to YOUR FRIEND!" Gerry announced, fingering her large carry-all bag as if she had an Uzi in it. The glower she bestowed on Draco had been known to make children cry.
Henri blinked and said "This is my neighbour Draco," she said calmly. "He's been really good at helping with me with revision. Draco," she continued, glancing at him, "this is Gerry, my social worker. She's amazing."
Glowers didn't work on Draco, inheritor of the Malfoy Look. "Fancy a beer, Gerry?" Draco asked. "Henri doesn't like drinking during study time."
"As she should!" Gerry thundered. "And yeah, I wouldn't mind one, ta."
[The following day, Gerry asked Henri to visit her calamitous office. "Do you want me to get a background check on this Draco neighbour done?" she asked. "What sort of name is Draco, anyway?"
"Why do I need a background check on him?" Henri asked, mystified.
"Well, it's just that we don't know who or where the crims that attacked you are. Could we put it past them to stalk your address and move right next door?"
Henri frowned. "Seems like an awful lot of work for criminals to arrange to live in a house next door when all they need to do is break into my actual house and finish what they started? Besides, Draco's really nice. He'd be the last person to commit such crimes." But still she shivered.
Gerry smiled sympathetically. "All right. No background check of Mr Blonde and Gorgeous," she decided, cackling when Hermione blushed. "But how about some more deadbolts?"
Hermione nodded gratefully. "Yes, please."]
"Um, Henri," Draco began as he walked into Hermione's kitchen, "I er… got something for you." He placed a medium-sized box on the kitchen table. It was emblazoned with both English and Japanese text, neither of which meant much to her.
Hermione finished pouring the coffee and stepped back from the kitchen bench with an excited smile. "For me? Ooh, I wonder what it is?"
"One way to find out."
Hermione carefully prised the packaging tape away with some scissors (Draco was suddenly reminded of Christmas times at Malfoy Manor while a younger version of himself dove into massive piles of gifts, ripping off bows and wrapping paper and destroying boxes in his haste to open every present, conceivably at the same time, while his mother laughed indulgently, house-elves were on stand-by to clean up after his mess and his father was elsewhere in the Manor, getting lit on alcohol and scheming with his evil friends. The memory gave him heartburn.)
Once she opened the box and pulled out what seemed like a blizzard of Styrofoam packing beans, she pulled out something sleek, black and shiny with an 'O' expression.
"It's a motorbike helmet!" she laughed, although she was a little confused.
Draco shuffled his feet and ignored the delicate pink colour forming on his cheeks. "Yeah, I wondered if you wanted to go on some rides with me around the place? Or maybe further out?"
"On your bike?" she asked doubtfully, and Draco struggled to remember when he'd ever seen her on a broom in the Wizarding World. He couldn't recall.
"We'll go somewhere quiet to start with, and I'll teach you all you need to know. Build up real slow." Gods, how desperate did he sound?" Shit, this was a stupid –
"Okay," Henri said happily, clutching her helmet to her waist like an oversized bowling ball. "I trust you to be gentle with me."
Draco smiled back and kept any visions of the dungeons at Malfoy Manor firmly away from his mind.
Teaching Hermione to ride pillion took Draco longer than expected, and there were a couple of times when he was certain Hermione would throw in the towel and storm off, but after much coaxing and encouragement, both got the hang of each other on the bike.
She also had to buy a leather jacket, a cost which necessitated a visit to Gerry with a request for extra funds. Gerry was sorely tempted to deny the request, based on a niggly feeling that she didn't want anything to harm her dear, sweet girl with the Brains of Britain, but that excuse was not in Social Work England's interminable manuals on How To Do Everything From Answering The Phone To Wiping Your Arse, so the money was duly ponied up, although not without a sense of dread on Gerry's part.
Of course, as a teenager, Gerry made her own parents sick with worry every time she hared off on a loud, growly motorbike, clutching the waist of an older long-haired biker with an unusual smell of smoke wafting around said hair. And if helmets existed at the time, she'd never seen any.
It's not the same though, she lamented into her pot plant, giving it a top up.
Draco and Henri's first trip resulted in Draco's pannier bags (normally reserved for courier documents) bulging with items of interest, courtesy of Hermione.
"Are you sure you don't mind?" Henri asked for the third time. "I mean, it's your day off and all."
"I'm fine," Draco replied patiently, also for the third time. "I haven't done a run into central London before. It'll be fun." He peered closely at Hermione. "Are you getting cold feet?"
"No!" she squeaked, which definitely didn't answer Draco's question. "It'll be fun. And… it's overdue. I need to see them."
Draco recalled what was being kept in the panniers, and wondered why he was so caught up in himself at school he couldn't see past his own dick to realise that underneath all the girly swot and attempts to save the world, Hermione was a selfless, lovely girl.
And beautiful.
A vision of her stuck to a dungeon wall with her breasts exposed and her stomach slashed caught him by surprise. He shoved it to a dark corner of his mind before parts of his anatomy could shamefully react.
The pair, looking rocker-like in their blue jeans, black jackets and alien-ish helmets, rumbled off to London on Draco's mostly-behaving black motorbike. Hermione, as was her habit, clutched Draco's waist like a wee young possum baby clinging to its furry mum with a death grip, sure in the knowledge that if it fell off, it would never see another meal again. It also meant that not a centimetre of air could squeeze between them where they connected. Draco tried not to think about it.
First stop was the hospital Hermione spent so much time in. Hermione took off her helmet, fluffed out her short hair and extracted the bunch of flowers she bought along, straightening out the bouquet wrapping where it got squished by the pannier. She looked at the bouquet critically, then around, as if judging whether a jaunt to the hospital's florist would result in a less wonky-looking bouquet, but apparently decided that these would do.
Draco was expecting to be left to his own devices by the motorbike, but Hermione grabbed his arm (encumbered as she was with flowers and helmet) and escorted him inside. They ventured down many corridors, up many escalators and across many air-bridges until they came to a large and busy ward.
"Henri, is that you?" a female voice gasped, and suddenly Hermione's tiny form was engulfed by a mini-legion of loud and energetic nurses. Greetings became loud and effusive, and Draco tried to discretely position himself as close to the ward exit as he could.
But to no avail.
"Who's the handsome devil that came in here with you?" one of the nurses asked, waggling her eyebrows expertly.
Again, Hermione blushed. "He's my neighbour," she explained. "He gave me a lift in."
"On a motorbike?" the same nurse shrieked. "Do you know how many motorbike accidents fill up our wards? By God, girl, you had better be careful on that rumbling beast of his, hear what I'm saying? And him too, of course."
"I promise!"
"Any progress on your memory returning?" another nurse asked.
"No," Hermione sighed, "and it's really frustrating. All I get are flashes of something, and they make no sense. I still don't know my name or where I live or what I'm doing with my life."
The nurse squeezed her shoulders sympathetically. "I'm sure it will return some day."
"Sometimes it doesn't," Hermione said dolefully.
"Most times it does," the nurse said firmly. "Now, we should probably rescue your man from Mildred," she added, glancing at a very uncomfortable Draco with his back to the wall, being interrogated by an elderly administrative clerk who got around with the aid of two walking sticks and was completely deaf in one ear.
Having said her goodbyes and extracting Draco from the prison of Mildred's walking sticks, they set off along the corridor to make their lengthy journey back to the car park.
"Draco," Hermione said thoughtfully, did you wear a tie at school?"
"What?" Draco wasn't expecting that question. "Um… yeah?"
"What colour was it?"
"It was green. And silver. Not that I mind and all, but why do you want to know?"
"I had a memory flash of a teenage boy wearing a red and gold tie," Hermione replied. "Obviously you went to a different school. Oh, well. It was a long shot, anyway."
Tell her, Draco forced through his head.
But he didn't know what to say.
He really hadn't put much planning into this exercise at all. That should probably change, lest Slytherin and Dumbledore start hurling lightning bolts at him. He saw a button with a lightning mark on the ship's bridge. He had no doubt they would use it. Weasley definitely would, if he found it.
"Some schools" – he coughed to cover his nerves – "um, some schools have different coloured ties to denote different Houses."
"Really?" Hermione asked as they waited at a set of lifts. Then she sighed. "That doesn't really help me at all."
Draco mentally kicked himself all the way back to the bike.
Their next destination wasn't too far away, and soon Hermione and Draco roared up to a large depot where monstrous yellow and green pieces of agricultural machinery were shoehorned into whatever parking spaces would take them.
Draco and Hermione picked their way through the machinery and entered the building through an enormous open garage door. "Hello?" she called out uncertainly.
"Over 'ere, lass, how can I 'elp ye?" A solid-looking bearded man in hi-viz and a tatty beanie advertising one of the Premier League's football clubs popped out of an office located close to the door.
"I'm looking for Xavier Booth. Is he available?"
The man's bushy eyebrows sailed up in surprise. He didn't think the depot's newest recruit was a ladies' man. Then again, standing protectively behind the lass was a tall, skinny blonde bloke with a frown on his dial.
Hermione filled in the unexpected silence. "A few months ago, he found me unconscious in the park and, um, I wanted to thank him and the others who helped get me to hospital" –
"Bloody hell, girl, was that you?" The man rushed up to Hermione (ignoring Draco) and grasped her arms. "There's no way I could have recognised you from the sorry state you were in that day! Well, this is marvellous! You look absolutely smashing now! Wait a mo, I'll fetch him. He's in the smoko room with the others."
With that, he turned around, let out an ear-piercing whistle and bellowed "Xavier! Front and centre, lad!"
In another corner of the large building, a door creaked open, and a young face worried popped out. "Now, look Frank," he said bravely, "If you've got extra work to give me just before knock-off time" -
"You've got a guest!" Frank interrupted, beaming, indicating Hermione with a sweeping arm. "You found her some time ago in the park, she was badly injured…?"
Xavier's eyes boggled. "Bloody hell, no way!" he gasped and sped across the floor to where Hermione stood, screeching to a halt beside her. "Jeez girl, you're looking wicked!" he exclaimed before half-reaching out an arm. "Er, can I have a hug?" he asked sheepishly.
Hermione beamed. "Of course!" she replied, and stepped into Xavier's embrace, not seeing Draco's seething look of wrath because he was behind her.
By now, the other employees had shambled over, curiosity getting the better of them. To the assembled, Hermione cleared her throat and said "For a while now, I've wanted to come here and let you know how grateful I am that those involved in my rescue reacted so appropriately and got me the medical attention I needed. Particularly Xavier, who found me." Hermione smiled extra nicely at the young man, who blushed, which directly correlated to the grinding of Draco's teeth.
"I didn't really know what to get you as a thank you," Hermione continue, "so I hope this is drinkable." She pulled out two six packs of beer from a shopping bag at her feet, the nicest she could afford.
"All right!" The workers were jubilant. Passing the beer over to one of them, Frank said "Make room in the fridge for these, Scotty!" Scotty, in turn, set off for the Smoko room on winged feet.
"So you're completely cured, then?" Xavier asked later, as he walked Hermione and Draco back to the bike.
Hermione smiled, a little sadly. "Yeah, pretty much," she replied.
Draco felt like a heel.
Draco coaxed Hermione into the pub that evening. He felt bad about her cooking for him, but he certainly couldn't reciprocate. Not without a wand, anyway.
The pub was setting up for its weekly quiz, and the building was busier than normal. But it still didn't take long for Tara of the Mascaraed Eyes to fasten herself to Draco's elbow as he was trying to take beers back to a table some distance from the action.
"But we really need you in our team!" Tara pouted professionally, lashes a-flutter. "We don't have any blokes that can help us with car questions and sports and stuff."
"Sorry," he said politely, "but I was really thick in school. Don't know much about anything, to be honest."
Tara huffed. "But" –
"Sorry," he said again (he wasn't) "I'm keeping my friend waiting. Good luck with the quiz thing." Draco turned away from her, breaking her hold, and headed back to Hermione as quickly as possible without making it obvious.
Tara glared after him. You'll keep, she snarled to herself.