Chapter 5: Beefing

What she didn't realise was that he was playing the long game.

He would get rid of her by sheer force of personality. It was one of his gifts.

So he would play along, pretending he had accepted her presence on his voyage Down Under but he would make the trip so boring, so clinically academic that she would go ahead and…

(Fuck. No she wouldn't, this was Granger.)

Fine. If he couldn't bore her away, perhaps danger would do the trick. Except... this was Granger.

(Fuck. Again.)

His head was starting to hurt. That's when his phone buzzed bringing him back to his study, where he was lounging once more with his legs propped up on his desk. It was Granger of course:

Granger: Portkey is booked for 3am on Friday

Draco: 3am, what the Dickens? No!

Granger: It has to be 3am, vastly different time zones - remember?

Draco: No.

There were jumping dots which he now recognised indicated that she was in the process of writing back to him. Astonishingly quickly, some text appeared.

Granger: I'm picking up the portkey from the Ministry tomorrow.

Draco: No.

Granger: It's all already sorted, Malfoy. Just say thank you. See you tomorrow.

Draco: Fine.

Unhappily, he recognised that he had been browbeaten into submission once again. Worse, she hadn't even had to try very hard! Why couldn't he seem to muster the proper fortitude to stand up to this witch? It seemed to him that all Granger needed to do to get him to follow her off a cliff would be to crook her finger and he would launch himself in her direction, like a marionette on a string.

So he got back to plotting.

He could concede that the likelihood of finding the fountain and successfully brewing an elixir with Granger around were improved. But so we're his chances of inflicting grievous bodily harm. (Not on her admittedly, of course. He was still a gentleman. Perhaps he could start by gouging out his own eyes and then move on to his ears…)

He stopped that gruesome thought in its tracks. Too much brooding, and not enough problem-solving.

The fact that she was blackmailing him was frankly, something to respect. He could try to get some dirt on her and turn the tables but he suspected it wouldn't be as simple as asking Bletchley if he had heard anything salacious. Besides, she had lost everything - what else did she have to lose?

No, Granger would be more of a long game. Clearly, she was clinging to him to give herself some sort of purpose. What he needed to do then was to help her to find an actual purpose again and then he would be rid of her. That thought sent his brain whizzing down familiar neural pathways that all lead to the same pleasant place in the control centre- the plotting place.

In the meantime, this would call for a truce… of sorts. He would show up at her house, he would say thank you to her for organising the damn Portkey even if it killed him.

In the meantime, he had an owl to send.

Draco touched his wand in his pocket and then clicked his fingers. Five large suitcases floated into the room a moment later, in response to his non-verbal summoning spell. With a quick, muttered reducio they were shrunk to the size of a matchbox each and were promptly deposited in a neat canvas knapsack which he then slung over his shoulder.

"Milto!" Draco called.

There was a loud crack and Milto materialised in the room.

"It's 8 o'clock, I'm going to leave now," Draco told him.

"Very good, Sir," Milto responded with a nod of his over-large head.

"Is everything prepared?" Draco asked, absentmindedly rolling up the sleeves of his oxford as he gazed at his reflection in the large mirror he kept in his dressing room.

"Milto has prepared things to the exact specification Sir," Milto assured him, coming forward and handing Draco a bundle wrapped tightly in a soft cloth.

Draco gave him a nod and nestled the bundle under one arm.

"Well then, I suppose all that's left to say is thank you and I trust you will see to things while I'm gone," unable to help himself he quickly followed this up with: "You know, you could take a holiday, old chap."

Milto looked highly offended at the suggestion.

"Milto has much to do tending to the gardens and someone must be here should Master Scorpius need access to the Manor for any reason!"

It was evidently still a sore point with Milto that Scorpius had elected to stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays. Draco had suggested it of course, but he couldn't deny that he too was a little hurt that Scorpius had acquiesced so quickly claiming that "all the serious students stay back at Hogwarts to study!"

Sometimes Draco wondered whether Scorpius had been swapped at birth. Certainly, neither he nor Astoria had been so exuberant about their education. But then Draco took a look at his son's shock of white blonde hair, aristocratic features (some called them pointy, Draco preferred Romanesque), and the grey eyes that were a mirror to his own. His progeny.

"Very well, Milto," Draco finally said gently, "Well I'm off then. See you soon, I should think."

He strode past the little elf who was looking uncomfortably wet around the eyes and sniffly around the nose and headed for the entrance to the Manor. Like Hogwarts and most other buildings of magical significance, one could not simply apparate within Malfoy Estate grounds. However, being the master of the Manor did have its perks and Draco did not have to go quite so far as the front gate before he could will himself into another location. He strode through the door and into the cold night air.

"Fuck!" he shouted to no one. (It was very fucking cold.)

He had elected not to put on his winter coat for two reasons:

He wouldn't need it in Australia and bringing it along to Granger's seemed like a bother

He had noticed that he cut a rather dashing figure in the mirror just now and he didn't want to spoil the effect

He had on some sturdy Wyvern leather boots (more supple than dragon), his most form-fitting trousers belted over a white oxford rolled up to his elbows (what else?). What he had been so pleased with though was the careless effect of the dark scarf he had wound around his neck which immediately made him look adventurous and the wand holster resting jauntily over his left shoulder. It made him feel like getting into a wandfight with some rogues.

It was with that pleasant daydream playing through his mind that he hit the boundary line he knew he could confidently apparate from and turned confidently on the spot.

He strode up to the now familiar yellow door, tensing his freezing hands a few times and hoping that his cheeks hadn't had time to go bright red in the cold.

Huffing out a frosty mist onto the stained glass, he wrapped his knuckles against the door firmly, wincing at the sharp feeling of cold bones meeting the colder door.

He was inwardly resolved to let himself in rather than freeze to death if she didn't materialise inside a minute but as luck would have it, he heard her trampling through the house immediately.

She opened the door and gave him a rather shocked look.

"Malfoy, what are you doing?" she asked, irritation masking her surprise.

Draco smiled inwardly. (Step 1 of his master plan: Catch Granger off guard.)

"I thought I might come a bit earlier. Have you eaten?" he asked her, trying to look pleasant and not at all like his bollocks were about to freeze off.

"Come in, come in," she ushered although her tone wasn't exactly friendly and she looked rather peeved, "Lord, you must be freezing!" she admonished, "Where on earth is your coat?"

"Won't need it where we're going," he explained with a shrug as he stepped through the threshold and past her into the blissful warmth.

Once inside and warm enough to think again, he eyed Granger and caught her staring at him, completely off-guard. She looked pissed off but also intrigued.

(Mission accomplished then).

He pushed the wrapped bundle into her arms.

"It's beef bourguignon," he told her, politely, "I quite fancied one last hearty winter meal."

By now they had moved through the mudroom and into the kitchen. He caught her glancing guiltily at the stove where an open can of soup sat next to a rather miserable-looking pot on the hob.

"Fucks sake, Granger," he said with a deep sigh, "Must you be such a cliche? A bit of depression soup-in-a-can for one?"

She scowled at him so deeply, that he could feel the heat bringing his frozen toes back to life.

"Nobody asked you for your opinion, Malfoy," she retorted.

He thought about apologising for a moment, after all, he had shown up far earlier than he knew she would be expecting him.

(Then he thought, nah.)

"Get rid of that," he said, gesturing to the stove. He strode forward into the adjoining dining room, took off his knapsack, and then returned to the kitchen, taking the bundle out of her hands as she watched on.

He noticed she was dressed casually in muggle denims and a white singlet with a blue button-down layered over the top. Her hair was plaited very neatly and peaked over her shoulder, coming to rest on her right clavicle which he could just see the outline of between where her singlet and her button-down met. She looked more like herself than he had seen her in a long time.

"You're being rather bossy," she told him.

"Oh apologies, I don't mean to encroach on your territory," he replied with a roll of his eyes, taking the bundle into the dining room and depositing it on the table, "get some bowls and cutlery please," he told her.

She gathered things as he set about unwrapping the dishes. Milto had packed a large dish that he now laid gently on the table. He could feel that it was still piping hot. Out of the bundle he also took a smaller dish which he knew would be gratin dauphinois. Finally, there was some fresh bread and a nice bottle of wine.

"Wine glasses too!" he called over his shoulder.

Granger entered the room a moment later looking a little dazed but compliant. She had the required vessels and went about setting the table without saying much of anything. It would have been disconcerting except Draco knew she was thinking furiously and that soon it would be unleashed upon him. He hoped at least to get a good bite of the potatoes before it came hurtling forth, as he was hungry.

"I'm not going to ask who made this food," she said, sitting down heavily when he politely pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit so he could serve them both.

"You mean my highly remunerated elf? The one who gets sick leave and annual leave and for whom I have a pension account open at Gringotts in compliance with the legislation I believe you are almost solely responsible for".

She gave him a fierce look, "Yes and I'm extremely proud of that work, you should know. You speak of it like its some terrible imposition."

"Granger, I pay Milto above the compulsory wage. I pay a generous pension into his account every month. I am not against any of this. I would also have cared for him into his old age and provided for him with or without the legislation," he added, ladling a big helping of food into their bowls.

"Good for you," she replied bitterly, "but can you blame me for being skeptical? After all, I was good friends with Dobby. I heard some things about how your family treats house elves."

It was Draco's turn for fierce looks, "I am not my father," was all he said to her but he did not let up on eye contact. She met his gaze but after a moment she sighed and her eyes dropped to the food in front of her.

"Sorry," she said, "I don't want things to start out like this. I was just surprised. I didn't expect you until later."

He nodded a little stiffly and took a large bite of potatoes.

"Perhaps some wine will help," Granger suggested after a moment and then poured them both a generous glass. She proffered one to him, which he took gratefully. Then with an arched brow, she turned to him and said, "To new beginnings."

He supposed this was an olive branch. He touched his glass to hers and it made a satisfying clink. He caught her eye. She was smiling a little, or trying to. They both took a long sip.

"I received a call from Scorpius. He was in Hogsmeade with Albus Potter. I almost missed the call, I thought there was a bee trapped in the window or something. I figured out it was the Apple without a moment to spare".

Granger huffed a laugh, "It's not called… never mind," she said, "Do I detect a new fondness for muggle technology? What was it you said about my push to introduce computers to the ministry again?" She teased.

"A shambolic plan that would end your career," Draco replied plainly.

There was a beat of awkward silence.

(Might she be about to cry again?)

"Guess I should have listened to the great and wise Malfoy," she finally said, taking a veritable gulp of wine and then busying herself with her dinner.

"I understand now," he told her sincerely, "how frustrating it must be for someone like you to know about the efficiency and convenience of muggle technology and yet not be able to use it."

She shrugged, "Why do in one email what you can do over three weeks through owl posts and levitating memos?" she mocked.

"What did you do to the case, by the way, to make it work?" Draco asked, trying to change the subject.

As expected, Granger's face lit up.

"I had the idea a few years back. Hugo went through a stage where he was obsessed with science and geology. I took him to a science museum and we went to a presentation on rare minerals. That's where I learned that tourmaline is incredibly conductive. In fact, when it is exposed to great quantities of energy (and what is magic but energy?) it can generate a piezoelectric effect, in other words, an electric charge. So you see, with the help of some clever rune work, I figured out how to disrupt the energy and absorb it rather than it flowing through like a current. The trickiest bit was figuring out how to use the piezo energy to charge the device but I had some help from some very clever colleagues on that one and voila - muggle phones that convert magic into battery life. My colleagues and I are calling the material we make the cases from Maginullium."

He was quite bewildered. She had said a great many words he was sure he had never heard before. She continued, "I considered regular quartz of course, far more cost effective and easier to find, but as I'm sure you're aware tourmaline has certain magical properties that make it a superior material - its higher capacity for absorbing magic alone and affinity as a vessel for elemental and earth magics makes it worth the extra cost."

"Also, it's prettier," was his interjection.

"Yes, prettier," she agreed.

"Fuck me, Granger—it's hard enough keeping up with you in the magical world. How on earth do you find the time to master muggle nonsense as well?"

She looked at him, exasperated but also faintly amused. "The muggle world is also my world, Malfoy. I refuse to choose."

He snorted, mostly to cover the uncomfortable twist in his chest. Of course, she refused to choose. Granger had always been annoyingly good at everything—school, her career, saving the world. And yet... the way she said it, like she was defending something fragile, made him wonder how much of her competence was for show.

"You raised the kids the muggle way before they started at Hogwarts, didn't you?" He asked although he already knew the answer.

Granger shrugged, "I wanted them to understand that part of them as well. Of course, Ron found it frustrating and Molly tried to stage several interventions."

Draco sighed, "Yes, I have some experience with grandparent-led interventions."

"Old Lucius wasn't fond of the way you parented Scorpius?" she asked curiously.

"You could say that and then you could say it again with more fervor," he told her around a mouth of stewed onions.

"Interesting," she said thoughtfully, and then after taking a bite, "Merlin, this is excellent!"

"Do you cook?" he asked her.

"Yes, although I wouldn't say I'm anything special," she supplied, "I won't even ask you. I know the answer."

Draco rolled his eyes, "I'm an excellent cook."

She was visibly taken aback, "I'm sorry," she supplied, "I made an assumption."

"Granger, I have a doctorate in alchemy. I can handle a curry or even a souffle."

"You have a…." she trailed off, eyes wide with surprise, "Come again? You have a doctorate?"

He huffed, rather annoyed.

"My god you're prejudiced!" he accused, "Yes. Yes, I do. I have a doctorate in alchemical sciences and a master's degree in archeomancy and ancient runes. Of course, this was all after I completed my apprenticeship in potions and earned my bachelor's. Oh, and I have an advanced diploma in demonology. I was toying with the idea of training as a charmwright but Scorp tells me I'm too old to keep on with the student life."

Granger's mouth fell open. "I thought you were just bored at the manor brewing moonshine and noodling around with dark artefacts," she told him in shock.

"Noodling!" Draco replied in offence, "I do not noodle!"

"Sorry!" Granger said, looking over her glass of wine at him earnestly, "You surprised me. That's all. I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose. You had decent enough grades at school."

Draco sniffed, somewhat mollified that she had deigned to notice but also offended that what she had described as 'decent' grades were second only to her own… well and Theo Nott's but only in Transfiguration and Arithmancy.

Speaking of noticing things though, he noticed the corner of her mouth was now tinged red with the wine and her eyes were still wide and had a distinct sheen of curiosity. He prepared himself for the interrogation.

"Where did you study?"

"Private apprenticeship with a Potion Master in Slovenia to earn my bachelors It took me two tries to pass the panel and be accepted for novice level, nightmare! I gave up potions and pursued my masters at Oxford, so was the doctorate actually - both undertaken at Avalon of course. I did Demonology in Berlin though, that was my lost year before I settled down with Astoria. She had no tolerance for my messing around with demons so I decided not to continue my studies in that particular field."

"Malfoy!" Granger basically shrieked, "I can understand. Demonology is an EXTREMELY contentious discipline. It's generally thought to be quite firmly one of the Dark Arts."

Draco blew a raspberry loudly, "Pish posh, most demons are harmless. It only gets dark if you don't know what you're doing and the worst that can really happen is that you summon something nasty and it eats your soul or curses your family tree. The Germans are much more logical about these things, you know. In Berlin, demonology is a subject they teach at school. Of course, they don't actually teach you how to summon, that's one of the common misconceptions Granger, which you have evidently gobbled right up with your Gryffindoresque prejudice. Demonology is focused on the banishment of malevolent spirits, not the summoning which is more in the realm of Necromancy or the Occult Arts. You might know that if you weren't so utterly blind about anything that you perceive to be remotely dark or even just dark arts adjacent."

It was her turn to roll her eyes.

"But why? Alchemy I think I can understand but why Archeomancy? Why Demonology?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," he told her mysteriously.

Of course, the answer was distinctly lacking mystery - it was for the same reasons he had studied alchemy. The same reason he hadn't done anything really in the past decade and a half, give or take.

"How long have you been trying to create a panacea?" she asked him suddenly.

He took another sip of wine, not altogether surprised she had worked it out so quickly.

"Since I found out that Astoria could not be cured by any known treatment or any reputable healer in the entire magical world," he supplied, calmly.

"So you figured if there was no cure, you could shoot for immortality," Granger said. He wasn't quite sure if she sounded horrified or empathetic.

"It's not like that, Granger," he told her suddenly finding the need to meet her eyes and communicate something with her quite fervently, "Not like Voldemort I mean. I only ever wanted it for her. Not for me. Always for her."

She looked back into his eyes for a moment and then nodded, "I believe you," she told him, "So what did you try? Another philosopher's stone?"

"Tried," he told her, "Failed."

"The Holy Grail," she asked.

"Well, that might explain the interest in Archeomancy, mightn't it? No dice yet though."

"But you did end up finding the Fountain of Youth," she said. It was a statement.

"After trying a great many other things, yes and I'm not sure we could quite confidently say that I have 'found' it yet, can we? I found a few drops of highly potent magical water among my grandfather's things in the Malfoy vault. Might just be semantics but I'm pretty sure the finding of the fountain part is why I'm sitting here with you right now"

"And when we have found it, you aren't going to brew an elixir of immortality. Just some less potent variant that can cure blood curses?" she continued, ignoring him completely.

"I'm not interested in immortality," he said, the words coming out sharper than he intended. "Not even for Scorpius. I firmly believe that wizards are not supposed to live forever." He glanced at her, half-expecting her to argue. When she didn't, he added, more quietly, "But they shouldn't die in their thirties either. Not because some ancestor made a bad bargain."

He hadn't meant to say so much. It wasn't like her opinion mattered—not really. But she was watching him now, her expression softer than usual, and for some reason, that made it harder to lie.

"Malfoy," Granger said, her tone deadly serious, "It's very important to me that you are being entirely sincere."

Sincere? She thought he wasn't being sincere? The predicatability of Hermione Granger, champion of all things earnest and exhausting, questioning his sincerity was almost enough to make him roll his eyes with such enthusiasm that his eyesight may never recover. He resisted only because there was something in her expression—brow furrowed, mouth tight—that made him hesitate. She wasn't just grilling him for the sake of it. Granger was worried. Maybe even scared.

That unexpected vulnerability gave him pause. For the briefest moment, he considered actually reassuring her. Then the moment passed.

"I need to absolutely know that this is not some misguided quest for glory and immortality. I do not relish the thought of being pulled into something so potentially good and then having to turn around and stop you from turning into the next great dark wizard. Can you promise me that even if it was the only way to save Scorpius you wouldn't chase immortality".

If it had been any other witch talking about having to stop him from becoming the next Lord Voldemort (as if it would be just an annoying chore), he might have either laughed or felt offended. He had to concede that for Granger, it would probably just be another day's work.

Bletchley had told him she had saved the universe with a bit of clever wandwork just last year when that idiot Babbins messed around with some powerful temporal magic. (Terrifying witch).

"We could do an unbreakable vow if you want," he offered.

Her nose crinkled with distaste, "I swore off those the moment I learned what happened between Snape and your mother".

"Legilimency?"

"I never learned," she said wistfully, "Though I would dearly love to. No Malfoy, I think I'm just going to have to trust you. If things start getting a bit shady I can always shove some veritaserum down your gob and make you divulge your darkest secrets."

"Hurrah for contingency plans," he said drily. Also not doubting that she was being very serious.

She just smiled over at him, her lips now stained a deep red.

There was quiet for a moment. Just the clinking of cutlery against plates, scraping food into hungry mouths and small sips of wine on both sides. Draco was starting to feel almost companionable when she ruined it again.

"Did you get the itinerary I sent you?"

He felt himself nearly strain his eyeballs in his attempt to keep himself from rolling them.

"I got it, Granger".

"And are you going to tell me your grand plan for tracking down the Fountain yet?" she asked bitterly. Draco smirked into his glass.

In response to one of her many (many) text messages and owls in which she had attempted to interrogate every detail of his planning out of him, he had casually mentioned that he had a method for tracking down the Fountain. He hadn't meant to keep it from her but when he had refused to tell her (out of spite at first, he would admit) she had gotten so huffy that there was no WAY he could tell her now. So he had decided not to and the mystery was driving her mad.

She was glaring at him again, a smudge of dinner on her cheek. Her large, doe eyes transmitted a kind of mental evisceration that gave him tingles of amusement, not the scared kind he knew she was going for.

"You'll find out in due course, Granger," he told her in a tone that was suggestive of patting a small child on the head in a fatherly, patronising sort of way.

Her eyes narrowed further.

She stood up with an idiosyncratic huff and started grumpily clearing up the table.

Draco was torn. The gentleman in him wanted to help. Paradoxically, the gentleman in him was opposed to manual labour. It was an intriguing philosophical conundrum that he decided to ponder rather than make a decision one way or another.

She was in the kitchen, rattling the crockery rather loudly when he roused himself, sighed deeply, and swept from the room.

She was in her quaint little galley kitchen, elbows deep in sudsy water.

He leaned against the doorframe, watching her fiddle with a wineglass. Granger was the picture of someone about to have a nervous breakdown—staring into the stained rim like it held the answers to the meaning of life. If she sighed one more time, he was going to hex the sound out of her entirely.

What was her problem, anyway? She'd practically bulldozed her way into his plans, yet here she was, looking like she might dissolve into a puddle on the kitchen floor. He couldn't decide if it was guilt, anxiety, or something else entirely. Not that it mattered. Granger could fall apart later, preferably somewhere far away from him.

"Salazar's sake," he muttered, "are you a witch or not?"

"Some things are best done the muggle way," she sniffed, not deigning to look at him.

He sidled up next to her and grabbed a dish towel from where it hung on the oven door. Cooly, he whipped it over his shoulder where it stayed before he whipped out his wand and began levitating dripping dishes into the air and casting drying charms on them.

Granger stopped what she was doing and turned to stare at him, agog.

"Why bother with a dishtowel if you're just going to use magic?" she asked, exasperated.

He shrugged, looking smug. The dishtowel had been an experiment—he'd known it was a muggle drying tool but had no idea how to wield it effectively. This, he decided, was the superior solution.

She shook her head at him and returned to washing the last dish.

He took the opportunity to get another look around.

The kitchen was quite appealing once you got over her tiny it was. It was a blend of modern convenience and old Victorian charm, with white subway tiles accented by little pots of herbs and herbs and spices and muggle cookbooks on some floating shelves. There was some attractive but simple wooden cabinetry above granite countertops. The many muggle appliances gleamed silver but he noticed she had the kind of old-fashioned cooker they had in the manor. It was a cheerful red colour (very Gryffindor).

"I like your house," he heard himself say to her before he had even finished his thoughts.

She turned to him then and unexpectedly, leaned forward, and swiftly snatched the dishtowel from his shoulder to dry her hands.

"I've seen your house, Malfoy. I know it's not much compared with what you're used to," she said with a half-smile, as if daring him to be offended.

"Small can be good," he replied automatically, though the words felt foreign in his mouth. He glanced around the room—bright, warm, and cluttered with the signs of a life lived too busily. It wasn't the kind of house he'd ever imagined for himself, but it was... human.

He flicked his gaze back to her. She was still watching him, her head tilted, eyes sharp and searching. It was unnerving, that look. It made him feel like she could see straight through him—and that she didn't like what she saw.

"Thanks for dinner," she smiled at him slightly and he felt that maybe he was wrong and maybe there had been a warming up of sorts.

(Step 2 of his master plan: lure her in and try not to piss her off too much)

"I was planning on getting a bit of sleep before we leave," she continued, "You can stay in Hugo's room if you like?"

He nodded his agreement. It had been a long day and it was about to become significantly longer, he realised. He followed her out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

It wasn't for another hour, as he tried to make himself comfortable in the smallest bed he had ever deigned to try to fit his body in, that it occurred to him that not even once had either of them asked the question of whether she could be corrupted by the allure of immortality.

But then, of course, they hadn't questioned it. She was the golden girl.

He was something else. Something tainted. He knew she only half trusted that he was being sincere about his intentions.

He felt annoyance but also resignation. His mind strayed to the dark shadow that was permanently branded on his arm and consequently, had permanently branded the way people perceived him.

But what they didn't know was that it hadn't permanently branded his soul. Astoria had been the first to teach him that and then Scorpius had reminded him every day since he was born. Creatures with compromised souls didn't love the way he did.

He let his fondest memories of two of them usher him into sleep.