Snippets

Chapter Ten

Now, in what world would Hermione even consider telling Draco Malfoy about the vision in which she saw vision-Draco and vision-Hermione swapping spit rather affectionately on a kitchen countertop? Evidently, this one.

Hermione debates with herself for the entire rest of the evening as she attempts to sleep in one of the guest rooms at 12 Grimmauld Place. She continues to debate with herself as she returns home to shower and change her clothing the following morning. She continues still, even as she floos to St. Mungo's and takes the lift up to the Neurological Maladies floor.

He's right there as soon as Hermione exits the lift. He's scribbling notes into a file, much like the one Healer Greengrass always has with her during their appointments, his silver-framed reading glasses perched low on his nose. He's left-handed, which Hermione has never noticed about him before.

Malfoy closes the file and smiles as he hands it to a mediwitch on the other side of the ledge of the check-in desk. He tucks his quill into a pocket on his viridian green robes, and that's when Hermione decides to approach him. She figures that she has to try to catch him in between patients if she's going to do this at all.

Hermione steps up beside him, leaning her arm on the ledge which Malfoy had previously had his file resting on. She realizes belatedly that this is probably the closest she's ever been to this particular wizard– save for perhaps when he was her Healer in Healer Greengrass' absence, or possibly when her fist had connected so satisfyingly with his nose in third year. She's so close to him that she can smell his cologne, she can see the flecks of blue in his otherwise stormy eyes.

"Did you mean it?" Hermione asks in lieu of a greeting, looking up to meet Malfoy's eye. The wizard has at least head and shoulders over her– which, unfortunately, tracks with her vision, in which she had barely been his height even when sitting on the countertop.

Malfoy's eyebrows raise minutely when he turns to acknowledge the fact that someone has just spoken to him, but he schools his expression quickly.

"Mean what, Ms. Granger?" Healer Malfoy responds, his voice grating on something in the back of Hermione's mind. It's smooth and masculine, but it still has that hint of a sharp edge to it which reminds Hermione of just who it is that she is speaking to.

"That we could talk– about our history," Hermione explains quietly, recalling when Healer Malfoy had said those words in their unexpected appointment together so long ago now.

Malfoy tucks his hands into his trouser pockets while Hermione searches his face for even a hint that this man standing in front of her is anything like the version of him she knew all of those years ago.

"Yes," Malfoy states. His voice doesn't sound clipped or irritated– actually, he sounds rather relaxed, which surprises Hermione a bit.

Hermione nods once, accepting this as his answer. She fishes into her own pocket for the small piece of parchment which she prepared prior to coming here. She maintains eye-contact with Malfoy as she slides the parchment across the ledge toward him.

"Alright. Meet me there tonight at six," Hermione says, attempting to hide the slight waver in her voice.

Malfoy reaches for the parchment, picks it up and examines it.

"My shift ends at seven," Malfoy replies, and Hermione notices immediately that it isn't a denial.

Hermione nods once.

"Seven, then."

Unfortunately for Hermione, the clock ticks unbearably slowly until it finally shows quarter to seven in the evening. She tries to use the time in her day productively, but in the end, she winds up mostly just staring at the clock until it would be time to leave.

Hermione had given Malfoy the address for a pub in Muggle London around the corner from her flat for their meeting tonight, partially to see how he would react to a Muggle establishment, but mostly for simplicity's sake. Even nearly eleven years after the end of the War, the picture of Hermione Granger sitting at the same table as Draco Malfoy would raise questions– and likely, cameras– and Hermione has no desire to become a spectacle on the front page of the Daily Prophet this weekend.

Hermione arrives first, taking a seat at a wooden booth in the back of the pub, far away from the bar. She intends to attempt to covertly cast silencing and Muggle-repelling charms on their booth when Malfoy finds her, but even so, she still wants as much privacy for this conversation as she can get without taking Malfoy to her flat.

Hermione had considered that option– that to get the highest level of privacy, that she could simply invite Malfoy to hers– though she also knew that there would be nothing simple about doing such a thing. No, it would be far easier to meet him in public, so she had decided on Muggle London.

The bell above the door chimes at a few minutes past seven– Hermione decides to give him a pass on being late due to the fact that he did tell her that his shift wouldn't end until seven– and in walks Draco Malfoy. Hermione's heart catches in her throat when she realizes what he is wearing– a dark-colored hooded sweatshirt exactly like the one she had been wearing in her vision. His hands are stuffed into the kangaroo pocket on his sweatshirt as he searches the crowd, presumably for Hermione.

Malfoy is also wearing a pair of dark denim jeans and Muggle trainers. Hermione never thought she would live to see the day when Draco Malfoy, the pinnacle of Purebloodedness, would be caught dead wearing Muggle clothing, but here he is.

Eventually, he finds Hermione sitting in the back of the pub and slides into the booth on the opposite side of her. Hermione quickly casts her charms– silencing, Muggle-repelling, notice-me-not– under the table before tucking her wand back into her boot to hide it.

"Malfoy," Hermione greets, resting her hands in her lap and raising her eyes to meet those of the man across from her.

"Granger."

Malfoy's gaze seems trained on her face, his hands hidden below the tabletop– presumably still in his pocket– and Hermione can't help but notice that he does look distinctly uncomfortable. Hermione decides to speak first, especially because while she does want to hear what Malfoy might have to say in regards to their history, she also knows that that is not the only reason why she had approached Malfoy to begin with.

"I have to admit, Malfoy," Hermione begins after clearing her throat. "I asked to meet you for more than just to discuss our history. I'd like to do that, but there's something else I need to discuss with you, too."

Malfoy nods, shifting in his seat as if to get more comfortable– likely a good idea considering the fact that they'll probably be here for a while.

"We can talk about whatever you want," Malfoy states, pausing for a moment before he speaks again. "I have one condition, though."

Hermione raises an eyebrow, but nods for him to continue. She doesn't necessarily think that he is in any position to be making demands, but she allows him to go on, regardless.

"My name is Draco. I would greatly appreciate it if you could call me that– or just refrain from calling me anything if you can't. No one calls me 'Malfoy' anymore, apart from patients, though Healer Malfoy is my title. Outside of work, I prefer 'Draco'."

Hermione's eyes widen. That had been possibly the last thing she had expected him to say. Admittedly, she isn't sure if she can convince herself to say this wizard's own name to his face, but he has asked– politely, too– so she decides to try.

"Do you think you could bring yourself to call me 'Hermione'?" she smirks, leaning slightly forward toward the table, turning the request onto him.

Malfoy– Draco– mirrors her smirk, sucking his teeth with a low laugh.

"I will sincerely try, Hermione."

Hermione nods– in her opinion, successfully hiding her surprise at hearing her own name in his voice. In the next moment, she opens her mouth to begin discussing the points which brought the two of them to this pub tonight, but Draco beats her to it.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he says, his voice, which had been colored with a fair bit of mirth just a moment ago, now turns serious. "I– those words are nowhere near sufficient for the pain that my family and I have caused you. I'm not even sure where to begin."

Draco pauses for a moment, averting his eyes from Hermione's to look off past her left ear before he starts again.

"No– I know where to start. That word is not a part of my vocabulary anymore, and it hasn't been for a very long time. I am sorry that I ever used it, not just to you or about you, but ever. If you take nothing else from this conversation, take that. Blood-status is not a factor which decides who a person is or how they should be treated by me any longer."

Hermione nods again. She had assumed as much when she had learned that Draco was a Healer. Healers don't get to discriminate, nor do they get to choose who their patients are– they have to give the same level of care to everyone, regardless of who they are or what they've done. It is, however, good to hear him say it.

"I'm sorry for how I've treated you and your friends. I've previously spoken to Potter and Weasley. I have spent a large part of my life being a coward, and admittedly, I still am. I didn't go out of my way to talk to them. Potter was easier. To be honest, I had forced myself to not think about you– not until you were my patient."

Draco places a hand– his right hand– on top of the wooden table between them, and it makes Hermione feel momentarily dizzy. Adorning his right thumb, just as in her vision, is a silver ring with the Malfoy crest emblazoned on the face– she can see it clearly now that it's a foot away from her actual face.

"I'm Healer Greengrass' patient," Hermione corrects, though there's no malice in her voice. In fact, it could almost be construed as a joke if she were talking to someone other than Draco Malfoy.

Draco smirks again, but nods in assent, conceding to that fact.

"As I was saying," Draco starts again, unsuccessfully hiding a twitch at his lips which might be a smile. "I'm ashamed of the way that I have treated you. I stood by and watched while my aunt tortured you. There are no words to express my regret, however, I am sorry."

Hermione doesn't realize it until that moment, but she knows now that she has already accepted his apology. In the past eleven years, she had learned to accept multiple apologies which she never received– and she supposes now that Draco's was just one of the many.

Hermione nods once more, understanding that there isn't really anything that she could say in this moment that would be appropriate or necessary.

"How much of my file did you read when you were covering Healer Greengrass' service?" Hermione asks, abruptly changing the subject. She figures that she ought to find out exactly what Draco knows already before she drops her new development on him.

If Draco is surprised by the shift in conversation, he doesn't show it.

"All of it."

Under the table, Hermione squeezes the tip of her left ring finger, giving herself something else to focus on other than what she is about to say.

"Then you know that the visions feel like memories? They feel familiar, like watching myself in a pensieve, even though I've never experienced them?" Hermione questions, deciding, for the moment, to leave out the fact that she now has experienced one of them.

Draco nods, allowing Hermione the time to continue if she has more to say. Unfortunately, she does.

"I– um– I don't know exactly how to tell you this," Hermione stutters, bringing her hands up on top of the table and twiddling her thumbs. Draco's eyebrows scrunch together as he leans slightly forward– toward her. "I had a vision about you. Well, technically, more than one, but I only just saw your face in one last night."

Draco is quiet for a moment before he responds.

"And what was I doing in this vision?" he asks– which is probably the only question that Hermione would've wished he hadn't asked.

Hermione feels her cheeks heat as she trains her eyes down toward a water stain on the wood table between them. When she looks up again, Draco is smirking, leaning on his elbows on the table.

"Ooh, was it naughty?" he quips, edging further toward her. "Judging by the flush on your cheeks, I'd guess yes."

Hermione jerks backward, nearly smacking her head on the top of the backside of the booth, half-denying Draco's implication. Vision-Hermione and vision-Draco had been kissing, which real-Hermione would wager a guess that that isn't exactly what real-Draco has in mind.

"Relax, Hermione. I'm just messing with you," Draco laughs lightly, still leaning against the table. "According to my wife, my sense of humor is 'an acquired taste'. I apologize. Please, continue."

Hermione raises her head with a start. His… wife?

"I–I'm sorry. I– I didn't realize that you're m-married."

If Hermione was flustered before, now she's even worse off. How in Godric's name is she supposed to tell Draco about her vision now? Now that she knows that he's married?

Draco chuckles again, drumming the tips of his fingers on his left hand on the table.

"I'm not," Draco states, and now Hermione is even more confused. "Astoria died three years ago. I was married. I believe, technically, that now makes me a widower."

Hermione gapes for a moment. She hadn't known that Draco was even married to begin with, but now to find out that he's actually a widower. Her heart aches for him. She can't imagine that kind of pain– the pain of losing someone whom you once vowed to spend your life with. That pain must be unimaginable.

"I'm sorry," Hermione frowns, her voice cracking slightly. "I didn't know. I'm sorry for your loss."

Draco tips his head toward her in acknowledgement of her condolences, though he does avert his eyes from her briefly before returning to meet her gaze.

"Thank you," he sighs. "Now please, continue. I presume that my not being married is somehow relevant to your vision based on your reaction just then?"

Hermione nods. Yes, it's relevant.

"I– We– It looked like we were celebrating your birthday."

Hermione hopes that that is enough information for Draco to not question her further– though, of course, that hope is dashed nearly immediately.

"And what else? I know I didn't imagine that flush," Draco tosses back almost playfully, and Hermione has to resist the urge to slam her head onto the table.

Hermione exhales heavily, bracing herself before she decides to finally just tell him already.

"You kissed me– like you'd done it thousands of times before," Hermione almost whispers. "I was sitting on the counter in a kitchen I didn't recognize– wearing that hoodie, actually. I lit a candle on a cupcake and held it up for you to make a wish. You blew out the candle and then you– you kissed me."

Draco seems to process the vision that Hermione has just relayed to him, twisting the Malfoy signet ring on his right thumb around in circles as he does. He clears his throat and leans back against the booth before he speaks again.

"So?"

Hermione breathes deeply again. Well, here goes nothing.

"So– my visions have started to come true."

Hi, friends! Happy Tuesday! I'm uploading this chapter earlier in the day than I typically do because I don't know if I'll have the time this evening and I didn't want to keep y'all in suspense for too long. :P

I know a bunch of you were excited for this chapter after the last one, so I hope that it lived up to your expectations! (: Obviously, in this chapter we got a little bit of insight into who Draco is in this fic. I hope you like him. :P

As always, please let me know your thoughts, any details you've picked up, favorite moments or lines, etc.! I love hearing your thoughts and I read every comment/review! I truly appreciate them more than you know. (:

Thank you so much for spending a bit of your time here with me this week and I will see you all back here next Tuesday! (: