Chapter 36: Draco

Dream by Day

"Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night." ― Edgar Allan Poe, Eleonora

Earlier that day—
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Chateau Malfoy

Draco slathered fresh raspberry jam on his croissant, which was still steaming from the oven. When the first taste hit his mouth, he closed his eyes and sighed in appreciation. He loved fresh bread.

The breakfast room of Chateau Malfoy featured high ceilings adorned with intricate plasterwork. The tall windows and French doors were draped with heavy silk curtains pulled back to let in the morning light and reveal views of the extensive and manicured gardens.

A large polished oak table, set with fine porcelain plates, silverware, and crystal glasses, sat in the center of the room. Tall-backed chairs with upholstered seats were neatly arranged around the table. The walls were paneled with dark wood, and above the fireplace hung an elaborate mirror with a gilded frame. The mirror was flanked on either side by paintings of the landscape around the Chateau, Abraxan horses galloping over the distant hillside.

It was still early, and no one had yet joined Draco for breakfast, a fact that he was savoring as eagerly as the taste of his pastry. He had a wonderful dream during the night—a dream so vivid, so visceral, that he needed this time alone to recover, even though he had already tried unsuccessfully to shower away the memory of it.

But he couldn't think of that dream now. Again. He pushed the memory into one of his mental boxes and focused on how the buttery flakes of the croissant melted onto his tongue and mixed with the sweet tartness of the jam.

Since Pansy and Theo's arrival, Narcissa's matchmaking efforts had abated, for which Draco was grateful, but Narcissa still hadn't stopped entirely. Just yesterday, she invited a young witch from a prominent Swiss family of cauldron-makers for dinner. The witch was pretty but only spoke German and heavily accented French, which Draco had tried to follow. This morning, he had trouble remembering her name.

Suffice it to say that Draco appreciated some solitude.

Spending each day with two friends and each evening with two friends, his mother, and a rotating cast of eligible witches—it was a lot to adjust to after his mostly solitary routine at Malfoy Manor.

Draco had corresponded with Willy when he had woke earlier, commending his employee and checking in on the Charitable Potions Trust. Willy seemed to be handling things well, sending Draco a summary of his efforts at the end of each day, which Muffy delivered to Draco at the Chateau. It was remarkable how far Muffy could apparate with her elf magic, flitting from the North of England to the South of France with little effort. If only wizards could do that, too.

In any case, thanks to Muffy, Draco could keep relatively up-to-date on Willy's work. He had already informed Healer Wells that the Trust could not supply at full capacity during August, but Willy had exceeded Draco's meager expectations. Perhaps, if things continued well enough, he would ask to keep Willy on as an employee beyond the summer.

Draco was looking forward to potentially attending the open practice for the English National Team later that day. While he would never admit this to anyone, not even Theo, playing George Weasley and Angelina on a broomstick at the DA made him curious about how their sister Ginevra might fare in the championship. While she had made the team, the starting roster was not yet set in stone. He vaguely recalled her skill from Hogwarts, but he had been preoccupied during his Sixth Year for obvious reasons. Then, during his government-mandated NEWT year, he kept his head down and studied.

"Bonjour, mon petit choux," Theo announced as he waltzed—literally, with a grand spin to top it off—into the breakfast room and sat to Draco's left at the table so they both faced the windows.

"Your accent is terrible."

"It's only been a week," Theo complained as he poured himself a cup of tea. "I know how to say the important words. The dirty ones."

"Do not look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"You know what—was that a wink?"

"I was going for a cheeky glint."

"It was obscene. I do not consent."

"You can't withdraw consent from my face, Draco."

"I could hex it off you. How about that?"

"You're so cranky in the morning."

"You make me cranky."

"I know what'll cheer you up."

"… English practice session today?"

"Definitely. Let's—"

"No!" Came the imperious voice of Pansy Parkinson, who swept into the room with a flourish of her sleeveless floral robe and a whiff of oud-scented perfume. "Absolutely not." She glided over and sat across from them at the oak table, wasting no time pouring herself a cup of coffee from the French press.

"Absolutely not what?" Theo pouted as he forked some eggs and bacon onto his plate.

"No more Quidditch."

"But that's the entire reason we're here," Draco remarked, wondering what Pansy's attitude was about.

"No, that's the entire reason you're here," Pansy countered, tucking a perfect stand of her bob behind her ear and sipping the steaming liquid from her cup. "Three matches is quite enough for me until the final, thank you very much. I draw the line at practice. It doesn't even count for anything!"

Theo pointed at Pansy with his fork. "The English team is mostly new players compared to the World Cup roster two years ago—this is a make-or-break moment in the composition of the team. They barely won their semifinal against Norway."

"I don't care!"

"Well, what are we supposed to do then?"

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Here's an idea. We're in bloody Provence—how about we see some of it outside of a Quidditch pitch?"

"What do you want to see?" Draco chimed in. He was still grateful for Pansy's intervention at Narcissa's brunch the previous week and felt that agreeing to her request would ease the severity of the favor she might collect in the future.

"You're the one with the obscene chateau—what do you recommend, Seigneur Malfoy?" Pansy plucked a fresh pain au chocolat from the basket in front of her.

Draco mulled over what Theo or Pansy might enjoy. He considered a broom ride to admire the Kelpie habitats along the coast not too far away but figured Pansy wouldn't like its athletics. Then he considered a quick trip to Paris, which he knew Pansy would like, but that would take all day, and he promised Mother that he would be home for dinner. Pansy would insist on staying to experience the nightlife.

"There's an estate not too far from here. It belonged to a Marquis and his Princess wife—they were renowned potioneers during the eighteenth century. They had a Muggle chateau and a magical laboratory with one of the best greenhouses in France. The architecture is charming, and I haven't been in years." Not since he was a teenager—before his life had gone to shit. He wondered if the Castle Sauvan was still the same.

"I do love royalty," Pansy commented.

"Fine," Theo agreed. "Magical historic estate today—but we're still attending the final, right? England versus France! It's not to be missed."

"Fine," Pansy acquiesced, but not before giving Theo a disdainful look.

Their conversation was cut off by the sudden opening of the door, and Narcissa Malfoy swept into the room. She offered a serene smile to Pansy and Theo.

"Mother," Draco greeted, rising slightly from his seat.

And then he froze, his stomach coiling into a tight knot.

Lucius Malfoy strode behind her, his cane tapping lightly against the marble floor. Draco's heart stuttered. His father was supposed to be halfway across Europe, indulging in his pompous boat tour with the Serbian Minister's cigar club. His mother swore it.

"Good morning," Lucius said, his voice smooth and unbothered as if he weren't standing in the presence of a son who had banished him from his ancestral home not months earlier. "Ah, Pansy. Theodore." He nodded toward them with practiced aristocratic charm, offering a slight smile. Pansy politely nodded, and Theo, though visibly surprised, smiled as well.

"Uncle Lucius," Pansy greeted him warmly. "Lovely to see you."

"Always a pleasure, Mr. Malfoy," Theo chimed in, though his eyes flickered nervously toward Draco as if gauging his reaction. Draco remained silent, his gaze on the steam rising from his teacup.

"I trust your visits have been enjoyable?" Lucius continued, seating himself next to Narcissa.

The breakfast table, mercifully, had been set informally, avoiding the awkward issue of who would take the head seat. This position was now, officially, Draco's as the regnant Lord Malfoy, even in France.

Theo was quick to fill the silence, smiling broadly. "It's been brilliant, sir. The Quidditch matches have been exhilarating." His tone was cheerful, but Draco caught the wary glance Theo threw his way again. The tension was palpable, even if everyone else was pretending otherwise.

Pansy, always adept at diffusing uncomfortable moments, leaned in. "How was your summer, Uncle Lucius?" she asked smoothly. "I heard you were on a grand tour of the Danube?"

Lucius smiled, his posture relaxing into the chair. "Indeed. It was quite a pleasant experience. The Serbian Minister was a most gracious host. We toured several prominent landmarks along the river, and I had the opportunity to meet with a few distinguished European officials—and members of the Wizengamot, in fact."

Draco's fingers tightened around his teacup as his father spoke. The gall of the man—speaking of political connections, as if he hadn't been forcibly removed from the Wizengamot after thrusting their family into servitude of a man-shaped demon snake the first time.

(The second, most recent time, they had just thrust him in jail and stripped him of his titles—hence the tension.)

Lucius continued, his voice turning slightly more serious. "I've been rather concerned about the werewolf issue making the rounds in the papers. The rune stone bombing as well—utterly chaotic. But Warlock Allard was quite receptive to my letters on the subject. I believe"—he glanced at Narcissa, his voice brimming with hope—"that in time, the Malfoys will regain their ancestral seat on the Wizengamot."

Draco's blood boiled. How dare his father speak so casually, presumptuously, as if he had any right to be involved in government again? Lucius hadn't even asked for Draco's opinion, hadn't acknowledged him beyond a glance, and instead spoke around him to Pansy and Theo. It was as though Draco didn't even exist.

And then, as if the weight of the entire situation wasn't enough, Draco's mind betrayed him, turning again to Hermione Granger. Granger had been fighting tooth and nail to influence that very same Wizengamot Lucius coveted. Granger, who—despite Draco's best efforts—seemed to occupy far too much space in his thoughts. Why was it that everything came back to her? The idea of Granger needing to court his father's vote was repulsive.

"Draco?" Narcissa's soft voice broke through the din of his thoughts. He blinked and looked up, meeting his mother's concerned gaze.

"Fine, Mother," he replied, though his voice was strained.

Lucius was still speaking, oblivious to Draco's growing frustration. "I think it's time to restore the Malfoy name to its rightful place. The Wizengamot needs people with vision, people who—"

"Enough," Draco interrupted, his voice low but sharp.

The table fell silent. All eyes turned to him, and for the first time that morning, Lucius looked at him.

Draco's chest rose and fell with barely contained anger. "And who will take the Malfoy's ancestral seat on the Wizengamot, Father?"

"Draco—" Narcissa began, but he cut her off.

"No, Mother," Draco said firmly, his eyes hopefully converting his desire for her to step back. "Tell me, Father—what are your plans? And how willyouserve the Wizengamot when you are not even currently welcome in the Malfoy's English home?"

Lucius's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. The tension in the room crackled like electricity.

Draco stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "Excuse me," he announced, his voice tight, before standing up and saying a bit louder, "My friends and I are taking an outing to the Castle Sauvan today, and I must prepare. Enjoy breakfast, everyone." And then Draco turned on his heel and exited the room.

Draco's footsteps echoed through the stone corridor as he stormed from the breakfast room. His heart pounded in his chest. He couldn't believe Lucius dared to come here and act as if nothing had changed.

"Draco!" Lucius's voice rang out behind Draco, sharp and commanding. The tap of his cane punctuated his words as he followed Draco into the hallway. "You insolent, ungrateful disgrace of a child."

Draco stopped but didn't turn around. His breath came hard and fast as he fought to rein in the surge of rage that nearly sent him spinning. He kept his back to his father—he didn't want to give Lucius the satisfaction of knowing how much his words stung.

"Who is the current head of your family?" Draco asked coldly, still facing away, his voice taut with control.

There was a pause, and then a cruel laugh broke the silence. It was the kind of laugh that always made Draco feel like a child again. Lucius had mastered that particular laugh long ago.

"You think," Lucius said, his voice dripping with derision, "that because the Ministry of Magic named you the head of the family, that makes you one? You may have legal rights, Draco, but the head of the family is built through action. Through legacy. And you"—Lucius spat the word—"have done nothing."

Draco clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. He had known this was coming. Lucius had always wielded words like weapons, and his father's talent seemed fresh.

"We moved to France to give you space," Lucius continued, stepping closer. "Your mother insisted it was for the best—that you needed time to come into your own. And what have you done in these past five years? You've retreated further into yourself. Is this what you want your life to be, Draco? Living in the shadow of your potential?"

Draco's jaw tightened. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout and tell his father about how every day felt like a fight against that shadow—against the expectations placed on him, the weight of the Malfoy name, the pressure to be something more than the damaged son of a disgraced man.

"And despite what you may think," Lucius pressed on, his voice hard but laced with something Draco could almost mistake for sincerity, "I love you. Everything I've done—everything—has been for you. For your future. But I cannot build it for you."

Draco turned to face Lucius at last, eyes blazing. His father stood there, posture stiff and face impassive save for the faintest flicker of something softer in his eyes. But Draco couldn't let himself fall for a father's softness. Not anymore.

"And what if the life I want," Draco said slowly, his voice low but steady, "isn't what you expect for me?"

Lucius's brow furrowed, the barest hint of confusion crossing his features. "What do you mean?"

Draco swallowed hard. "You think I want to restore our reputation? You think I want to sit on the Wizengamot like Grandfather Abraxas, weaving political webs and making alliances?" He took a breath, his voice trembling with frustration. "You think I want to build a family in the way you did?"

Lucius stared at him, his expression unreadable. "You don't want a family?"

"I don't know what I want," Draco said, his words coming out in a rush. "Except for you to stop trying to control me. Stop thinking you can shape me into whatever you believe the perfect Lord Malfoy should be."

Lucius's eyes hardened with … Disappointment? Concern? Draco couldn't tell. "You need help, Draco," Lucius said. "Perhaps I have not been the best parent. I'll admit that. But I am still your father. I can guide you."

"No," Draco snapped, stepping forward, his voice rising. "I don't want to be what you were."

For the first time, Lucius blinked, his composure cracking ever so slightly. Draco pressed on. "The world is changing, and I'm not going to ally with people like Warlock Allard—who voted to imprison me for life at eighteen years old, in case you've forgotten—just to shove werewolves and other 'undesirables' into the dirt. For what? So that we can grasp a social foothold at the Ministry? I've not been sitting idle, Father. I'm building my own life—"

Lucius scoffed, the sneer returning to his lips. "Your charity?" he mocked. "That pitiful little organization? Is that your idea of building a life? Something so easily replaceable that a seventeen-year-old Hufflepuff can run it out of my old study?"

Draco could feel his pulse pounding in his ears. "How do you know that?" he demanded.

Lucius smirked, his lips curling with amusement. "I may not be the legal Lord Malfoy anymore," he said, his voice smooth and dangerous, "but I know everything that happens in my home."

Draco felt a cold, sick feeling settle in his gut. His home. Lucius's home. Would it ever be Draco's, truly his? Or would Lucius always find a way to watch him and pull at the strings?

Something inside Draco wilted, and the fight drained out of him all at once. He looked away, staring down the long corridor.

"Fine," he muttered, his voice hollow. "Do what you want. Come back to England. Sit on the Wizengamot. Restore the family name. I don't care."

Lucius stepped forward, but Draco couldn't meet his eyes.

"I have to go," Draco said quietly, turning away. He didn't look back, and Lucius did not follow after him again.

Two hours later—
Castle Sauvan, Provence

"Lovely place," Theo commented mere seconds after they passed through the wrought iron gateway behind a gaggle of chattering Muggles.

"Your chateau is more impressive," Pansy remarked beside them. "This one doesn't even have a moat."

"True, I do like a moat," Theo agreed. "But every estate can't have one. Otherwise, they wouldn't be special."

"We're not at the magical part yet," Draco conveyed in a remarkably even tone.

After Draco's conversation with Lucius—during which his father had kindly informed him that he was under constant surveillance, a generational disappointment, and good for nothing except his potential for continuing the family line—Draco had retreated to his room and brushed off his occlumency skills for an hour. The practice had left him in a state of indifference, which was bliss in comparison to the depressive tornado Lucius had turned him into.

"So," Theo began, eyeing Draco like a startled doe in the wood. "Are you going to act like this for the rest of the day?"

"Like what?" Draco asked, hardly sparing Theo a glance. They made their way around the side of the Muggle castle to the back gardens, expertly manicured, with an artificial lake in the distance.

Pansy hastened her stride to break even with Draco. "Like you're a reanimated corpse."

A twinge of guilt broke through Draco's mental shields. "I … am not."

"Lucius is a prick," Theo said as if commenting on the weather. "Want to talk about it?"

"No," Draco replied through clenched teeth.

"Hmm, not particularly healthy," Pansy said.

"What did you two talk about?" Theo inquired. Nosy git.

"Nothing," Draco insisted, picking up the pace.

"You don't have to listen to anything Lucius says, you know," Theo pressed on, his long legs capable of matching Draco's stride.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You could talk about it anyway. Might make you feel better." Theo stepped before Draco, halting him and allowing Pansy to catch up.

"I'm not one for working through feelings, but I'm open to contributing the occasional snide remark," she offered, pausing beside them as she pretended to smooth her impeccably coiffed hair.

Draco looked deeply into Theo's sky-blue eyes, trying to convey the urgency of his following words: "Stop. Now."

Said blue eyes narrowed sharply. "No."

Draco almost growled, and he regretted his next words before they left his mouth. "My conversation with Lucius is far down the totem pole of feelings we need to work through. How about you talk about Blaise, then? "

Theo's expression dropped, and the flood of guilt washed over Draco as expected. He looked away at the sand-colored gravel path.

"What about Blaise?" Pansy asked.

"Nothing," Theo hissed. "Draco and I already spoke about it."

"Did we?" Draco threw back at Theo. "I recall a vague back and forth on a balcony followed by getting blackout drunk."

"It was not vague! Stop trying to deflect."

"Stop bringing Lucius up!" And now Draco's peace of mind was shattered. He looked up at Theo, who looked pissed off, but also somewhat satisfied as if he knew what his comments had done to Draco.

Pansy let out a sound between a scoff and a laugh. "Stunted. You two are both so fucking stunted."

"Do you want a tour of the estate or not?" Draco spat, stepping around Theo and marching imperiously into the first row of hedge-lined paths. "There's a door inside a stone wall down this way."

Draco led them in silence through the gardens, which he was happy to note seemed familiar, still. Some things were nice, good, and timeless. Some things didn't need to change with the times. Some things were fucking fine the way they were.

He found the right portion of the estate easily enough. But once he was certain he had located the right stone wall, he did not immediately spot the door. Draco began to feel uneasy. He had meant to bring his guidebook from his suite at Château Malfoy, but the book had slipped his mind after the fight with his father and his occlumency.

"We've been wandering forages," Pansy complained.

"It's been five minutes," Draco replied.

"What are we looking for, again?" Theo asked.

"A door." Draco's eyes scanned a few meters down the path, but all he spotted was climbing ivy and a Muggle couple holding hands.

"This door?" Pansy inquired, pointing at a wooden protrusion in the span of the stone wall right in front of Draco's eyes. Fuck, he was out of it.

"That is, indeed, a door! Good work, Pansy." Theo commented happily.

"Well, is it the right door?" She replied, piercing Draco with a frustrated and disdainful look.

Draco knew it was the right door, but now faced with the thing, he could not remember how in the bloody hell it opened. Fuck his father, and fuck the fight that made him forget to check his book. "I think so," was all he said.

"Brilliant." Theo approached the door, which Draco knew was locked, and tried to force it open, only managing to make the hinges rattle. "It's locked. Go on, then, Draco."

Draco shifted uncomfortably, drawing a blank. "Er …"

Pansy, incredulous, said, "Surely you know how to get in."

He did know. He just couldn't fucking remember. "Well—"

"You must be joking. This was your idea!" She placed her hands on her hips and glared at him.

"It's been years! I didn't memorize the incantation."

"Why not?"

"Can't be too hard to get in. It's not like it's Gringott's," Theo chimed in, trying to placate them both. He pulled out his wand and cast, "Alohamora!"

Draco opened his mouth to tell him it wouldn't work, but Theo found out soon enough when the door refused to budge.

"What if we blasted it open?" Pansy suggested.

"Or we could just ask for help," Theo countered. "So violent, Pans."

"And whom do we ask, exactly?"

"There's a nice chap just over there." Theo pointed toward where Draco had spotted the Muggle couple.

"Theo, that's a Muggle. Look at his shoes." Pansy sniffed, clearly offended by the sartorial decisions on display.

"Is it? Huh."

Draco was trying desperately to recall the last time he had been here. Unfortunately, it had been when he was fourteen—and it was with his parents. And that only got him thinking about Lucius again. He could not recall how his father had opened the door.

"Would you two just shut up?" he hissed. "I'm thinking."

Theo tutted his lips. "Pansy, be quiet. Lord Malfoy is thinking."

"Oh, do forgive us, please, my Lord. We've seen the errors of our ways." Pansy had the gall to clasp her hands in front of Draco, mock pleading.

Theo joined her, the ponce. "I solemnly pledge fealty to your house—my magic is yours to command—"

"Shut. Up."

And then, before Draco could attempt the wand pattern he had mustered from his mind, the door swung open toward them, forcing the three Slytherins to jump in surprise.

And then—there she was.

"Need some help?" Hermione Granger stood, leveling them with a superior expression, her hand placed confidently on her hip.

And for a moment—a long, silent moment, perhaps several because he had temporarily left his senses—Draco thought he was hallucinating. He thought he had gone mad because how could she be here? In France? In a magical estate so close to his own, in an entirely different country than where he had last seen her?

Yes, certainly Draco had gone mad. Because just the evening prior, he had dreamed of her. And suddenly, the memory of his dream, which he had carefully packed into a mental box, violently escaped.

Draco's dreams had always been strange, fractured things—memories mixed with nonsense, half-remembered sensations that slipped away as soon as he woke. But not this one. This one had lingered, clear and vivid, as if it had really happened.

He could, even then, still feel the tension from the Dueling Arena where he and Granger sat across from each other two weeks ago—the same small round table between them, the same charged air, thick with desire.

Yes, in his dreams, he could admit it. He wanted her.

Except this time, in his dream, she didn't pull away. In his dream, she had looked at him, those brown eyes bright and fierce.

"You're impossible to ignore," Dream-Granger said, her voice low, almost breathless. Then she stood, rounding the table with deliberate purpose, and before he could react, before he could even breathe, she had shoved him back into his chair.

Dream-Granger sat on Draco's lap. His pulse hammered in his chest, his hands gripping the sides of the chair, frozen, as she leaned in, her breath warm against his skin. Her lips hovered just over his, so close he could taste the anticipation, the heat of it.

And then, in a whisper that tore right through him, she said his name. His given name. "Draco."

And then she kissed him. Fervently, deeply, with a hunger that mirrored his own. He had kissed her back, letting go of every hesitation, every doubt, his hands sliding around her waist to pull her closer, to make sure she was real.

She wasn't, but he would take what he could get.

There had been nothing but the sensation of her lips against his, her weight in his lap, the world blurring around them until nothing else mattered.

Dream-Granger pulled her lips off his and panted against his mouth.

"Please," she rasped into his ear.

And then Draco woke up drenched in a hot, sticky sweat.

It had taken Draco a moment to realize it had just been a dream. His heart had still been racing, his skin tingling with the memory of her touch. His mind struggled to reconcile the dream with his reality. Because, in reality, Granger hadn't kissed him. She hadn't even stayed.

But Merlin, he wished she had.

Draco slowly returned to his body, realizing that, yes, Hermione Granger was standing in front of him, and yes, they were at the entrance to the magical estate at the Castle Sauvan in Provence, and … no one had spoken.

Draco had returned to his body, but he had not regained control of his tongue. He looked at Granger as if she were an apparition, unsure if she was Granger or Dream-Granger.

Thankfully, Theo filled the silence first—with all his usual charm.

"Um … what the fuck? Hermione?"

"Youweretrying to get in here. Weren't you?" Granger inquired. She looked uncomfortable, and Draco still could hardly process what was happening.

Theo continued, "Yes, but … Salazar! Forgive my poor manners, Hermione. How are you?"

And then his bloody wanker of a best friend stepped forward and kissed Granger on both of her cheeks. Draco looked on in stunned silence. Why did Theo get to fucking touch her?

In front of him, Granger had mumbled something in reply to Theo, and then Pansy had reintroduced herself with what Draco assumed was her characteristic bluntness. He had to assume, because he was not processing any spoken word.

Granger was wearing a dress as yellow as the sun—or perhaps a butter dish. It may as well have been butter because the bodice clung to her body like a second skin. Sleeves? There were none, and Draco took the opportunity that Theo and Pansy provided by distracting Granger to admire Granger's elbows.

Yes, Granger had elbows.

Then Pansy walked through the doorway, followed by Granger and Theo. And Draco numbly waddled after them like a duckling. He briefly registered his familiarity with the Sauvan laboratory building and greenhouse.

Theo spoke again, mentioning Draco's name, which jolted him to awareness. "Not my fault. Draco's the one who forgot the instructions."

Draco glared at him, wanting to retort with a barb, but Granger cut in.

"Oh," she said, rummaging around in her bag. He looked on, confused. And then she pulled out a parchment, duplicated it, and reached her arm toward him. "Here's a copy of my guide."

Draco stared at her hand, which bridged the space between them. It looked so small. He wasn't sure how he would react if he touched her skin—he didn't trust himself. So, carefully, he reached forward, not allowing their fingers to graze, touching only the minimum amount of paper required to take possession of the parchment.

"Thank you," Draco said, probably too quietly. And then the sinking realization hit him. He had not even greeted her. Thankful that he seemed to have managed to retain the use of his voice during his mental breakdown, he added. "And … hi, Granger."

Ganger's eyes widened, still that lovely shade of amber. "Hi, Malfoy."

And it was at that point that Draco knew he was in trouble. Because his heart stuttered, and he wanted one thing only: for Granger to say his given name.

One hour later—

Draco wasn't sure how he had made it through his makeshift tour of the laboratories, especially with Granger joining their group. Her fucking collarbone alone was enough to send him into a state of pathetic reverie.

However, his potion-making brain took over once he spotted Cornelie Henriette's bespoke pewter-copper cauldron. Everything he had been fascinated by as a teenager came flooding into his mind, and he was able to lead Theo, Pansy, and Granger through the laboratories.

Granger listened intently. Granger read every placard. Granger asked him questions. Granger seemed to be enjoying herself.

Granger Granger Granger.

And now, here they were in the magically extended greenhouse, flora thriving as far as his eye could see. Draco was muttering something about the windows and the architecture of the space and how his grandfather had tried to model the Manor on it, prattling on to Theo and Pansy, but really, he was watching Granger. She was kneeling to examine one of the flower beds.

He had a great view of Granger's spine and watched the vertebrae arc over to bring her eyes closer to a plant with vibrant purple leaves.

Theo cleared his throat softly beside him.

Draco blinked into awareness. "What?"

Theo and Pansy were wearing matching smirks that Draco did not like at all.

Pansy quietly hissed, "Pathetic. Pull yourself together."

"Shut up," Draco retorted in a whisper, though he self-consciously smoothed the seams of his tunic.

"Why don't you two go off? I want to talk to Granger," Pansy continued, ignoring his demand.

What did she want to talk to Granger about? Draco narrowed his eyes, readying himself to ask, but Theo cut in, wrapping a firm hand around Draco's upper arm.

"Right-O, Pans. And I want to go find the Pernisial Flower—I read on one of the placards inside that there is a specimen on the premises."

"Penis Flower?" was Pansy's wry reply. "Honestly, Theo, do try to reign in the homoeroticism."

"Pernisial—you know what? Goodbye." And then Theo dragged Draco down a path with shadowy grasses, twice as tall as the wizards. Draco tried to glance back at Granger, but she slipped from his view.

Draco shrugged out of Theo's grasp. "Desist."

"We're looking for a flower with cobalt blue roots—unfortunately, it could be any flower because it—"

"Transfigures, yes, I know. I've seen it before." Draco said, looking around to gauge his bearings in the greenhouse.

"I am a Master of Transfiguration! I've always wanted to see one in person," Theo exclaimed. "Why didn't you say something sooner?"

"Didn't come to mind," Draco replied with a shrug. "If I remember correctly, I think it's toward the center …"

"You have other things on your mind, obviously." Theo followed half a step behind Draco as the blonde wizard led the way through the meandering rows of plants.

Draco did not reply, rounding a corner with some blooming nightshade. Theo could fish all he wanted—Draco wasn't talking. Not about his father and not about—

"Hermione looks lovely today, wouldn't you agree?"

Fuck him. Draco sped his pace.

"She enjoyed your tour, I think." Theo continued, unfazed by Draco's avoidance.

They wandered into a round opening in the path, the stone floor visible in a mosaic of concentric circles. Dappled sunlight hit them from the glass panels above, and Draco was struck by familiarity and stopped.

"Don't worry, I don't believe she noticed you ogling her," said Theo casually.

Draco's head whipped around to pierce his friend with a glare. "I do not ogle."

"Sure," Theo agreed. "And you don't stare. And you don't—I don't know, fucking pine, I suppose—"

"I've had quite enough of your meddling," Draco hissed. "Granger and I are nothing to one another. In case you've forgotten—she ran away from me. She doesn't like me. I'm not a sadist."

"Maybe she just needs time to process, run through the logic of it—although if you ask me, love is not at all logical."

"Who brought up love?" Draco blinked at Theo dumbly. "Fucking ridiculous."

"I brought it up just now," the dark-haired wizard replied, examining some knotgrass. "Feelings aren't logical. That's why you need to talk them through, Draco."

"Theodore, please give it a rest today," Draco pleaded, bringing his hands up to rub at his temples.

Theo turned back to look at Draco and frowned, giving him a rare serious expression. "I won't give it a rest. I know what Lucius does to you, Draco, and I won't let you downward spiral into your mental pit of nothingness again—it took me five years to coax you out of that depression in the first place."

Draco was stunned into silence. "What?"

Theo stepped toward him, defiant. "That's right. Forgotten, have you? How you tortured Astoria until she broke it off with you, disappeared into your cellar, and shunned all society—even me."

Draco was speechless. He tried to find the words to respond. Was Theo right? But—he hadn't been that bad, had he?

"That's right," Theo nodded fiercely. "I know the signs. So, I'll keep pestering you, and I'll tease you about Hermione Granger, and I'll force you into my club once a week, and I'll get Muffy to sneak me into your Manor—because I care about you." Theo took a breath. "And I won't watch you turn into a ghost again because of your fucking father. I have a fucking father, too. Luckily, mine's locked up, but since yours isn't, we'll have to deal with him together."

Draco's throat tightened. He and Theo had never had a conversation like this—not ever. Not unless they were utterly shitfaced and couldn't remember anything the next day.

It was all too much. His father's return to England, Astoria coming back, his mother's matchmaking, his potion working, werewolves and aconite and attacks—Potter and Granger and Granger almost dying—the ordeal of fucking existing, sometimes. Draco liked to avoid things most days, but avoiding things was impossible in recent months.

Draco blinked, shocked to feel something prick at the corner of his eye. He cleared his throat, deciding to indulge Theo for a brief moment.

"My father's been spying on me—in the Manor. He knows about Willy. Fuck, he probably knows about Astoria, too." Draco shook his head. Did his father know about the aconite? Draco wasn't sure if he cared anymore—about anything.

"Shit," Theo replied. "Is there anything you can do?"

Draco shrugged. "I don't know."

Theo nodded slowly, clearly lost in thought. And then he quirked his head and smiled. This was one of Theo's mischievous smiles, which he donned when trying to convince Draco to join a scheme.

"Come live with me," he said.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Okay, sure."

"I'm serious!" Theo insisted, stepping closer to Draco. "Set up your lab in Nott Manor—Merlin knows I have the space. The entire East Wing is empty. You can have any room you'd like. Bring Willy—Willy can have a suite, too. Malfoy Manor has all of Narcissa's nice things. My manor is a blank slate. I have the ground floor and basement for my stuff. But you can take the rest. I'm not doing anything with it."

Draco was stunned at the enormity of his friend's words. He could only say, "That's—a big thing to offer, Theo."

"Think about it," Theo replied, his voice urgent. "I mean it."

"I don't know …"

"Just think," Theo insisted with a tone of finality. "And fuck Lucius."

He couldn't help himself—Draco chuckled.

"And maybe if you're lucky enough," Theo said with a cheeky grin, "you could fuck Granger."

Draco looked around, desperate to confirm that they were alone in this shadowy part of the greenhouse. "Theo, keep your voice down. Salazar."

"So you agree—you would enjoy that?"

"Enough," Draco hissed. He wandered over to a single calla lily blooming on the opposite side of the rounded opening where they were standing. It was odd for a Muggle flower to be housed inside the Sauvan greenhouse.

"I meant what I said, you know," Theo murmured. "Granger was looking."

"She does have eyes," Draco replied. Beautiful ones. He remembered how they looked: dark and warm, glinting with the flames from the sconces at the DA. He wanted her to look at him that way again but knew it would never happen. They were too different—too opposed in life, circumstances, and history. Perhaps that light breath on his lips was all he would ever get.

And then suddenly, the flower in front of him transformed. The calla lily pulsed with blue light, emanating from its roots and breaking through the soil below it.

A moment later, instead of a calla lily, dark green, feathery leaves emerged from a hearty woodlike stem—and at their peak was a single, bright yellow marigold.

Theo rushed over beside him. "You found it!"

Up Next: Hermione experiences pureblood flower language.