The Man In The Chair
He wakes up like he does every morning, alone. The space next to him in his bed was empty for so many years before her, and now it is again. There is some cyclical irony in that, he supposes. For a few moments every morning he lays in the bed and watches the sun filter and dance through the drapes and he is young again. The aches which came with age and have grown deep in both his bones and his soul do not exist until he moves.
And yet he must move. After slowly washing and dressing and ignoring the twinges in his joints, he pads through the cottage, the floors adjusting to a slight decline which he appreciates. The house yawns and creaks with him as he reaches the kitchen and prepares tea for two. Once a gesture, then a habit, now a prayer, he takes two cups and stews a Yorkshire Tea bag in each. After a minute, he removes the bags and adds a splash of milk to one cup.
There is no guarantee that the cup with the milky tea will be drunk. If it does, that is good. It means that this morning will be a good morning, and it means that he has at the very minimum an hour before his heart breaks for the day.
Shuffling, he takes the cups into the living room which seems to edge slightly closer to the kitchen every day. He places the cups down on a small table between two armchairs and considers himself for a moment in the mirror above the fireplace.
Who is that old man?
He used to be very handsome, and even now he knows he is aging better than some of their friends. He has a full head of hair (albeit slightly thinning) at nearly seventy-five, and he still has all of his teeth thanks to learning earlier than most magical folk about the benefits of dentistry. The only thing that hasn't changed are his eyes, steely and grey.
'Like the sky before a thunderstorm' she used to say, or 'like November morning mist.'
The tea steams, and he moves to straighten the cushion on her chair even though she doesn't know it is her chair. When she sits in this chair that is good, and it means that that morning will be a good morning. The chair is the first step, then the tea, and then the book. The routine is established, tried and tested, approved by professionals.
The book, which is on the seat of his chair, has been softened from years of handling. If not for the charms on it, it would have fallen apart long ago. It is a map of their past, some parts written by her in her careful, elegant cursive, some parts by him in his raw, slanted scrawl. The pages are worn and yellowed but every one is a thread back to them.
They wrote this story, this memoir, together. They chose key moments in their lives and detailed their experiences. She had insisted that the experiences be extremely, exceedingly detailed, bordering on excessive, which had initially bothered him, but now he understands. Letters, sent and unsent, in their youth, slot in where they fit chronologically, and when they had read each other's parts for the very first time they had added notes and scribbles into the margins, a many layered ghost paper-trail of everything they were.
This book is their history, pressed delicately between pages like dried flowers. It is fragile and faded, but real. It is the place where she falls in love with him, and he with her.
The notebook starts with her words, her introduction, her hook. She wanted it that way, and when it is a very good morning it works without fail. He used to joke that she always loved the sound of her own voice the most, but now he knows better.
Right on cue, the clock strikes eight am, and a small cough comes from the corner of the room. He turns, clasps his hands behind his back and looks at the source of the cough with a small, hopeful smile. It is Opie, the house elf who is responsible for the morning duty, and sometimes she is alone and has to tell him that that day is a bad day.
Today, though she is a very deliberate picture of ease, he notices that her large eyes glitter with excitement, confirming that this morning could indeed be a good morning.
"Good morning Opie," he says, keeping his voice gentle.
"Good morning," she says, keeping her voice calm.
Opie is holding onto the hand of the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. She is dressed in muggle denim blue jeans and a large black jumper that looks very soft because it is very soft, and he knows this because it used to belong to him.
She looks anxious and nervous as she stands in the doorway with Opie.
He notices her clasp Opie's hand tighter but he doesn't react, instead he gives her a small smile and raises his hand in a soft 'hello.'
"Opie, who is that?" she asks, and he knows her face well enough to know that she is cautious, curious, but not scared.
Opie replies softly, "Miss, that is a friend who cares for the house. He wants to know if you will have a cup of tea with him before he checks the grounds. He has a book you might like?"
All rehearsed, every single syllable word chosen carefully. No names, and a shameless invitation because everyone in the modern magic world knows that this woman cannot resist a new and interesting book.
Everyone except, that is, sometimes herself.
"Of course, if you'd prefer to not have company, I understand…" he forces himself to offer her an option not to be with him, because that is what the world's best Healers, muggle and magical, have told him will put her under the least stress. She should choose to sit with him if she wants to, not feel obligated to… any amount of pressure or discomfort will cause her to deteriorate.
Sometimes she declines his invitation. She's too wary of him, or not interested in talking to anyone that day. Sometimes she doesn't even make it to the doorway, not accepting that Opie is there to help her, sometimes she doesn't even get out of bed.
"No, it's ok," she says softly, and Opie slowly walks her over to where the teacups sit.
Standing in front of the fireplace so that she can choose either seat, he watches as she slowly lowers herself into her chair and a ghost of a smile plays on his lips.
He tries not to stare at her, but it has been a long time since he has had a good morning with her, and he contains his excitement by sitting down on the other chair and reaching for his cup of tea.
Opie fusses for a few moments, takes an offensively orange blanket and tucks it over the woman's legs, before she pats her knee affectionately.
"Opie will be just in the corner doing her crochet," Opie says softly, and the woman nods.
His eyes follow the tiny house elf and he smiles wistfully before turning to see the woman look down at the blanket for a moment before reaching out to stroke it as though one might a pet. On occasion, she remembers Crookshanks before she remembers herself. She shifts uncomfortably in the chair.
"Are you cold?" he asks her.
"A little," the woman replies, and the fireplace splutters to life.
She jumps, her hands gripping the sides of her armchair as she stares at the fire and then at him. His heart pounds in his chest.
"Did you do that?!" she gasps, "with magic?"
He shakes his head, looking also at the fire which has appeared to notice the shock it caused her and simmered down to a lazy smoulder.
"No, I didn't, the house has its own magic," he reveals tenderly, "it's part of the way it was built, to adapt to those who live in it, to provide them with what they need."
She considers his words thoughtfully, her eyes moving between him and the fireplace.
"What is your name?" she asks, "do we know each other?"
He sips at his tea thoughtfully, but his insides are dancing a tarantella. It can sometimes take hours for her to ask these questions.
"I go by Willie," he answers smoothly, "and yes, we have known each other a while. You live here, and I help with house maintenance and am a groundskeeper."
She stares at him carefully, and narrows her eyes before she responds, "If the house is magic and provides everything I would need, it's surely capable and doesn't need any maintenance?"
He can't help it when a chuckle falls from his lips automatically. She is trying to catch him in a lie, and this is good.
"The house can be quite fickle," he replies, taking another sip.
She hums and he knows this sound, he knows that she is unsatisfied with his answer, he's heard it many many times before. She picks up her cup and brings it to her lips.
"I wondered if I might read a little of this book to you?" he asks, putting down his cup and picking up the old notebook. He struggles not to observe her every move as she looks down at the tea and then takes another sip, stretching her feet out in front of her. "If it doesn't sound like something you want to continue, I can always stop?"
She settles her cup in her lap and turns to him a little. She seems to be taking in every part of his appearance, and he wonders if this is the moment when she will accuse him of being too old to be a groundskeeper, or tell him he doesn't look like a man who's name is Willie, or throw her hot tea at him, or begin to cry, or begin to scream in pain. There were any number of things that might happen which will require him to leave her, and for Opie to take her back to her room and give her medication.
However, this time, she nods, and her eyes hover over the book in his hands. "Sure," she responds, "I'm interested in why you think I might enjoy it."
Her interest is good, great, brilliant. A scrap of her interest is something he would walk over hot coals for. The mere fact that she remembers what Opie said moments ago about the book is monumental.
With a small, secret smile down at the book, he turns the cover and begins to read.
"A smooth sea never made a skilled sailor."
This story doesn't begin in a pretty way. It is about two souls, Draco and Hermione, who were thrown overboard and lost at sea. They are not star crossed lovers, in fact for a long time they were not lovers at all. They began life oceans apart, but they swam anyway, both reaching for something but not knowing that thing was the other person. Their love didn't come with a compass, just bruised lungs and salt in their eyes and with drowning. Draco drowned in fear, guilt, and regret, and Hermione drowned in pain, pride, and years of believing he was her enemy. They both eventually sank, drowned in trauma.
And there, together at the bottom of the ocean, they asked each other what was keeping them apart, and what was worth fighting for, and they found something heavenly.
This story is a collection of their memories, it begins not at the first time they met, but at the first time their souls did.
The man pauses, there is another line, but he doesn't read this out loud. The process and routine has adapted over time, and for this process to work at this point in time he knows he shouldn't read that line.
It says: My Draco, this book is my life-raft, each page is a buoy. Read our story to me and I will always come back to you.
He looks up at her, and wets his lips with his tongue. He is nervous, but her body has nestled into the groves of the chair formed to fit her over decades, and the frown lines around her eyes have relaxed.
"Shall I keep going?" he asks.
"Yes, please," she says to the flames, "Unusual names, but I like the way you say 'Hermione.'"