Where You Can See Right Through
"There are so many things I'm not allowed to tell you (...) There's a part in the movie where you can see right through the acting, where you can tell that I'm about to burst into tears, right before I burst into tears and flee to the slimy moonlit riverbed canopied with devastated clouds." Dirty Valentine, Richard Siken
_
“I’m sorry, boy,” said Hermione to Crookshanks, cradling him in her arms. She dropped her purse on the floor by her bed and laid the cat on the mattress, flopping beside him, belly down. He purred angrily, and she felt a twinge of guilt for having neglected him the past few days. She scratched the top of his furry head and waited for him to calm down.
Upon arriving home, Hermione had given Crookshanks one of the chewy treats she kept hidden for special occasions. The cat had eaten eagerly for half a minute, then proceeded to growl at her, as if suddenly remembering he was cross. She snickered, thinking that he and Malfoy were eerily similar -- petulant, affection-starved and a little too much on the best of days.
Once Crookshanks had tired himself out, she left him on the bed and went to shower, stepping into the bathroom, turning the knob, and stepping under the spray. Hermione took her time, lingering in places she didn’t usually pay much attention to -- the spot just below her ears, the stretch marks around her thighs, and the patch of skin under her breasts. Places Malfoy had touched. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the faint memory of his hands.
Every bit of hesitation had flown straight out of the window. Something that felt so right couldn’t possibly be wrong,she reasoned with herself. Well, let’s hope.
As if in a trance, Hermione turned off the shower and got dressed in a comfortable combo of sweatpants and a jumper. Mind elsewhere, she ran a brush through her wet hair, existing in an unfamiliar state of serenity.
The knock on the door shattered her peace like a glass bowl falling to the floor.
Hermione set the brush on top of her dresser and walked towards the door, gingerly pulling it open just an inch -- when she saw Harry’s cumbersome expression, she felt absolutely ridiculous and opened the door all the way.
“Hello,” said Hermione in a casual voice. Harry looked out of place, his hands hidden inside his pockets, eyes downcast. “Harry?”
“Hi,” he said, finally looking up at her. There was uncertainty in his eyes. Instinctively, Hermione understood that he wasn’t there to confront her about working for the MRC.
Should I tell him?she asked herself, inhaling sharply. Yes, just do it.
“Harry--”
“Hermione--”
She sighed. “Do you want to come in?”
“No, that’s okay, I’m just dropping by to invite you to the Burrow,” he said. “I’m leaving in a few. It’s Sunday, remember?”
Hermione was startled to realize that she had not, in fact, known it was Sunday. She let go of her hold on the door and ran her hand through her damp curls, running through the past few days -- there was the meeting on Friday, then she spent the rest of the day and night with Malfoy. She had tried to leave the next morning, but he asked her to stay and help him organize the new furniture. Somehow not offended by the transparency of his excuse, Hermione spent half the afternoon arguing with him about where to put the sofa (she thought positioning it in front of the windows would block light into the room, he disagreed), then setting up shelves and levitating the bed up to the second level of the flat. Then Malfoy left her alone for thirty minutes to find them food, and Hermione rearranged everything she thought she could get away with. He didn’t even notice. And spending the night under him again just made the most sense.
“Ah, right,” said Hermione, realizing her silence had made the air between them even more uncomfortable. “Celebratory lunch with your soon to be in-laws?”
Harry smiled. “Yes, I’m guessing Molly will last half an hour before begging Ginny to try on her wedding dress. She’s been not-so-subtly hinting at getting it refitted.”
Hermione snickered, “I know. Ginny showed it to me when we went to look at wedding magazines last week,” She shook her head with mirth. “I don’t really think a ball gown with pink tulle and a turtle neck is Ginny’s style.”
“Ginny would rather elope than wear it,” he said, his body finally loosening up. “And I’ve never seen someone so excited about a wedding before. It’s all she talks about.”
“I’m happy for you both, Harry,” she said. “Ginny was shining when I saw her. You are too.”
Harry nodded, then his face reddened, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before she asked you to be her maid of honor, I was planning to, but--”
“Things got busy?” asked Hermione, knowing she was giving him an out. She was more bothered that Harry didn’t realize she’d actually learned about his marriage from The Daily Prophet first. “I get it,” she said, because he was her friend, and she hadn’t been honest with him either.
“Exactly,” said Harry. “And about the Ron thing--”
“Harry,” she interrupted. “Let’s not, yeah?”
“Alright. Well, I’m going to the Burrow then,” he sighed. “You know you’re welcome to come, right? You’re always welcome.”
Hermione pursued her lips, considering it. Ginny had asked her to be her maid of honor, and she guessed that the position came with more responsibilities than she could guess at. Talking to Ginny wouldn’t be the worst idea. And, more than that, she couldn’t deny that she felt guilty for not coming out and just telling Harry about her job. Maybe telling everybody about the MRC would help diffuse Molly’s attention -- it’d be something.
When Harry saw her hesitate, he jumped on the opportunity, “Come on, it’ll be fun. And you don’t have to talk about Ron to me, but maybe you should talk to him in person. He’s been talking about you more than ever lately. He really wants to work things out.”
His words felt like he’d dumped a bucket of freezing water on top of her head. Hermione steeled herself and said, “I bet. But I probably shouldn’t go. I actually have a bunch of work to do.”
Hermione ignored the way her heart tightened when his face fell. Inside her mind were whispers of, why do you make yourself uncomfortable for his sake, you know he’s not going to do the same. She allowed the words to take root inside of her and planted her feet firmly into the ground. She had told him about Ron, and he hadn’t listened. That was it.
“Are you sure, Hermione? Because--”
“I’m sure,” she said in a firm voice, keeping her gaze steady.
It felt like getting a piece of herself back.
_
A couple of days later, Hermione was walking down the hallways of the MRC with her nose buried in a large stack of parchments. She had crafted a completely believable excuse to ask Cartwell for access to reports about previously released rehab attendees, and the woman hadn’t suspected anything other than a desire to learn more about the work that had already been done.
What Hermione really wanted was to find out why people like Goyle and the Carrow twins had been released before Theo, or even Pansy. The dots weren’t connecting in Hermione’s head, and the more she read, the more she figured they weren’t supposed to -- too many aspects of the program simply didn’t make sense.
Hermione was about to turn the corner towards the staff lounge when she felt a hand close around her wrist and pull her into a hallway.
Her mind instantly flashed to clusters of lights, flashing wands, and bodies falling all around her, motionless like dolls being pushed from a shelf. Instinctively, she yanked her arm away, sliding down the wall to the floor, scrunching into herself, a phantom burning on her arm making her dig her nails into her palms.
“Granger,” said a voice sounding like the bottom of a well. “Fuck, I’m sorry. Bloody hell.”
She hadn’t even realized she had closed her eyes. Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain.She heard someone slide down the wall next to her. And then, a hand massaging her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Hermione struggled to inhale, breathing in his familiar smell, letting it wash over her. She felt her heartbeat slow. “Granger?”
Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain. The burning on her arm was becoming less like lava and more like faint flashes of heat.
She slowly opened her eyes, still breathing through her mouth, and met Malfoy’s gaze. His face was even paler than usual, and his eyes were full of concern. She reached a hand to grip the fabric of his shirt.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” said Hermione in a shaky voice. “Don’t grab me from behind, don’t pull me without making your presence known.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding frightened, “you know I didn’t mean to scare you, right? I called your name, but you were distracted--”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, more firmly. “Don’t touch me without identifying yourself. I can’t-- I can’t handle it,” she finished, taking a deep breath. “Please just don’t.”
“Okay, okay, I promise I won’t,” he said quickly. “Believe me, Hermione, I’m so sorry--”
“I know,” said Hermione, forcing herself to stand up.
“You were starting to look exactly like that day in the supply room--”
“Draco,” she muttered, “I’m better now, crisis averted. What are you doing here? We don’t have a meeting today.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he insisted, looking up at her. Hermione sighed. She had somehow forgotten how easy it was to be triggered.
“I’m fine. I promise,” she said, offering him a hand. He took it, pulling himself up. “What are you doing here?”
Malfoy didn’t quite look convinced. He bent down to press a kiss into her hair, then said, “I went with Theo to an apothecary near here. Apparently he needed more unicorn horn for a stamina enhancing potion,” he said with exaggerated disgust. “Obviously, I didn’t know that when I agreed to go. Theo’s a strange one, frankly.”
Hermione chuckled, trying to picture Malfoy trailing after Theo while he rambled on about aphrodisiacs. “Who knew you were such a prude.”
“Can you imagine who he’d shag that he’d need a potion for? They’re all over forty, he better be careful he doesn’t break any hips.”
Hermione actually laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with an age gap,” she teased. “How old is Zeta again?”
“You know, Granger. I thought a bit about it, and I think you’re using Zeta to deflect.”
“Excuse me?” said Hermione, wrinkling her nose in confusion.
“From our own gap. You’re older than me, after all.”
“Oh please,” said Hermione, rolling her eyes. “We’re less than a year apart, I’m not a bloody cougar.”
“There's nothing wrong with an age gap,” he mocked.
Malfoy pulled her in for a sloppy kiss, almost making her forget exactly where they were.
“Draco, we’re in the middle of the MRC. This already looks weird without you trying to snog me.”
“I warded the hallway as soon as we stepped into it, Granger, I’m not stupid. Every person thinking of turning the corner is suddenly overcome by an uncontrollable desire to get a scone from the cafeteria.”
“Oh,” said Hermione, looking over his shoulder and down the hallway. She hadn’t even noticed no one had passed by. “Those scones are terrible. But that’s smart of you.”
“I’m just going to ignore the shock in your voice,” he said, nose in the air. “It says more about your lack of perception rather than my lack of intelligence.”
“Sure it does,” said Hermione, rolling her eyes. “Well, nice of you to drop by, but I have work to do.”
Hermione bent down and grabbed her files, reorganizing them in her arms. Before she could leave, Malfoy stepped in front of her. “It’s almost lunch time.”
“So?”
“So let’s go back to the flat. I’ll tell Minzy to fix us something.”
“I brought a tuna sandwich from home,” said Hermione, even as the thought of it made it unappealing. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience your elf.”
“Ah, of course, a house elf that loves to serve would certainly be inconvenienced by doing her job,” chirped Malfoy. “My healthy elf, who lives in dignified conditions, of course,” he added. Hermione fought off the urge to roll her eyes again. “Come on. I know you want to.”
“You don’t know what I want,” snapped Hermione. She let out an exasperated sigh when Malfoy instantly assumed a puppy-dog face. “Draco,” she said patiently, hugging her files to her chest, “you can’t come here and expect me to drop what I’m doing to hang out with you. This is my workplace, and I take my work seriously.”
He pursued his lips, pouting like a petulant child. “Well, if you don’t want to.”
“That’s not what I said at all,” she said. “I’m just telling you to keep what I just said in mind before pulling me into hallways and trying to snog me. I could be in serious trouble if someone saw us, and I can’t just give you attention whenever you feel like it.”
Hermione studied the emotions passing over his face. She held her breath, half expecting him to argue with her.
Surprisingly, he looked down at his shoes, rubbing his neck in an unexpected display of humility. “Alright, Granger,” he said, lifting his gaze. “I’m a bit of a git sometimes, aren’t I?”
She smiled. “You have your moments,” said Hermione, watching his expression soften, as if to say, I’m trying. “If you want to, I’ll let you feed me lunch, alright? I need to grab my purse from the staff lounge, though. I’ll meet you by the fireplaces.”
Malfoy frowned. “I already told you that I don’t wait around for anyone,” he said in a snooty voice. “How ridiculous would I look?”
“Perish the thought,” she chuckled, starting to make her way down the hallway, Malfoy falling into step beside her. “I can’t think of anything more degrading.”
She noticed the attention they were gathering from the staff, who always seemed to be dawdling about in the corridors, so she quickened her pace, falling a couple of steps in front of him. Malfoy was leisurely strutting around like they were back in Italy, and Hermione almost regretted not having insisted he waited by the fireplaces.
When they reached the lounge’s door, Malfoy snickered from behind her.
“What?” asked Hermione, turning around to catch his amused expression.
“I never saw that poster before,” he said, pointing to the moving cartoon of Harry, Ron and Hermione giving a thumbs up. It’d become such a fixture she had stopped noticing it. “The MRC is Golden Trio approved? What a feat. I bet Hughman wetted his trousers when he first met you.”
“He still hasn’t asked me for an actual photo, so I’m counting that as a win,” said Hermione. “Draco, wait here, alright? I’ll be right back.”
He ignored her. “How come the Weasel manages to look even more ridiculous in cartoons than he does in real life? He looks like a red-headed doxy. I need to show this to Theo.” Hermione sighed, then started pushing open the door.
She was stopped by the sound of her name being hollered. Oh, no,she thought, immediately recognizing the voice.
“Ah, fuck,” muttered Malfoy. “I’ve summoned him.”
“Hermione!”
She spun around, eyes wide, watching with dread as a red-faced Ron Weasley stomped his way over to her. She didn’t look over at Malfoy, but she could almost feel him stiffen beside her, tension filtering into the air with almost palpable force.
“Ron,” she exclaimed in greeting, nervous laughter escaping her lips. He stopped in front of her, looking from her to Malfoy with confusion. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” he said, shooting Malfoy a pointed glance. “What’s he doing here?”
“None of your bloody business,” snapped Malfoy. Hermione sighed.
“Ah,” said Ron, like it had just occurred to him. “You’re part of that low-life program, aren’t you?”
“Ron--”
“We need to talk to Harry about getting some Aurors down here,” he told Hermione, ignoring Draco’s sneer. “You don’t know how dangerous it is with all these Death Eaters in the same building. I’d volunteer. Make sure he keeps his ugly mug far out of your sight.”
Malfoy chuckled humorlessly. “Are you implying Granger needs you to keep an eye on her, Weasel? Could you even do that? I was under the impression you’d become an Auror from riding Harry’s dick.”
Ron turned even redder, reaching into his robes for his wand. Hermione shot him the angriest look she could muster. He froze in place.
“You’re a member of law enforcement,” she spat. “Control yourself. And you,” she said to Malfoy, “I can take care of myself, thanks.”
Malfoy looked hurt, and Hermione willed him to remember she couldn’t be friendly with him in front of Ron.
“Now, why are you here?” she asked Ron, watching as he fumbled with embarrassment.
“I thought we could get lunch,” said Ron, looking at her hopefully. Malfoy snickered. Ron whirled around furiously. “Why the bloody hell are you still here, ferret?”
“Granger’s going to--”
“Malfoy was just leaving,” interrupted Hermione.
“I was?” he asked, sounding irritated. She shot him a pointed glance, and his face cleared. “Yes. I was, indeed.”
“We’ll finish discussing this matter later,” she said, trying not to sound too enthused about it. Meaning, I’ll find you later.
Malfoy nodded imperceptibly, like he understood. “You know where to find me,” he said, then scowled at Weasley. “Choke on your food, Weasel.”
“Fuck you.”
Hermione let out another exasperated sigh. She waited for Malfoy to disappear down the corner, then turned to Ron, moving the files in front of her like a shield. “I shouldn’t go to lunch with you, after the scene you caused.”
“I’m sorry, Hermione,” he said, voice low. He rubbed a hand on his neck. “I was just surprised by seeing you talking to him. That Death Eater scum just acts like he owns everything, it pisses me off.”
“Ron, it’s for work, I don’t want to talk to him,” said Hermione. “And you making a big deal out of it just makes it more miserable.”
“I know. I already said I’m sorry, Hermione, what more do you want?” said Ron grudgingly. “What does talking to him have to do with your work anyway?”
Hermione tapped her foot nervously. “I help Cartwell with the rehab program,” she said, looking at the floor.
“What?” he squeaked. “That’s absurd.”
“It’s part of my job,” rushed Hermione. “Come on, I know that you didn’t come here to talk to me about work. Let me grab my purse and we can go have lunch, alright?”
Before he could answer, Hermione turned away from him and pushed open the door to the staff lounge. She ignored the curious looks directed her way and scurried towards the desk where she had left her things. She grabbed her purse and threw the files, along with a few scattered quills, inside of it.
As she walked back into the hallway to find Ron, Hermione felt her head start to throb. By the end of the day, she’d have a full fledged migraine.
“There’s a café just down the street, we can eat there,” said Hermione. Ron nodded, and they made their way out of the MRC’s building in silence.
At the café, they placed their order and sat at a small table near the loos, the furthest they could get from the general view of the restaurant’s clientele. Ron fidgeted in his chair, looking like he was working up to whatever he was going to say. With him in front of her, she noticed he looked better. His hair looked washed, and his Auror uniform was pressed and free of wrinkles -- a stark difference from how he’d been the last time she had seen him.
“How have you been, Hermione?” he finally asked in a soft voice. “It’s been a while.”
Hermione grabbed the salt shaker and began to fiddle with it. “I’m good,” she said, turning the salt shaker over in her hands. When she thought about it, she realized it was the truth. “How about you, Ron?”
“Same,” he nodded. “Could be better, though. I’ve been thinking about the last time we talked.”
“Yeah?” she said, her stomach falling with dread.
“I didn’t mean to come off so strongly,” he started. “My head was all over the place, really, you understand, don’t you?”
Hermione tapped the shaker, watching salt pour out onto the table. She waved a hand to clean it, stalling until she could find an appropriate response.
“Sure,” she said at last, sounding far away.
“Sure?” started Ron, before they were interrupted by their food being levitated to the table. Hermione waited for Ron to dig into his soup before changing the subject. “How have things been at the DMLE?”
“Oh, they’ve been great,” he said enthusiastically, ripping off a piece of bread and popping it into his mouth. He slurped a spoonful of soup, gulping audibly, like in a cartoon. Hermione grimaced. Some things never changed. “It’s been better since Harry took over, everyone’s been chuffed. I’ve stopped getting those rubbish missions too. Even managed to spend a couple of days with Charlie back in Romania last week.”
“That’s nice,” said Hermione, eating her soup at normal pace. “The food isn’t going to disappear, Ron. You have splashes of tomato all over your face.”
“I’m hungry,” he said, mouth opened as he chewed. “Y’know, we could get you a job at the Ministry, even at the DMLE. This way we could all spend more time together, and you won’t have to see Malfoy’s ugly mug all the time.”
“I’m not interested in working at the DMLE, Ron,” said Hermione. “I told you that the first ten times you brought it up.”
“I thought things changed,” he shrugged. “Back then you were still hiding away at Hogwarts, I figured now you were feeling a little better.”
“I was helping rebuild the school,” said Hermione. Leaving for Hogwarts had been a sore spot between them for years; he usually didn’t bring it up so casually. She knew that Ron blamed her for stopping their relationship before it could properly get off the ground.
They had pushed and pulled each other apart for so many years. Back then, she hadn’t thought that those months would be enough to bury them.
“It wasn’t just about that, though, was it?”
“It wasn’t,” she agreed. “But it wasn’t about what you think it was, either,” she sighed. Leaving for Hogwarts had also been about her. Hermione needed to rebuild. Even if it had taken her longer than he had initially predicted.
And then, while she was there, she had to pretend she wasn’t upset by Ron sleeping with virtually every woman who gave him half a glance. Trying to hurt her. The distance wasn’t the problem, she didn’t think. It was the resentment that did them in. He never understood that she had left to find herself, not to lose him.
Eventually, she didn’t have to pretend any more.
Ron shook his head and mumbled something under his breath. The lack of understanding between them made Hermione feel claustrophobic.
He exhaled, avoiding her eyes.“Do you not want to work at the DMLE because you’re cross with Harry?
Hermione’s mind needed a second to reboot after the abrupt change of subject. She bit her lips, then said, “Is that what Harry told you?”
“Not exactly,” he shrugged, cleaning his fingers with a paper napkin. “It’s not hard to notice things have been weird. So, are you cross with him?”
“We’ve had a couple misunderstandings,” said Hermione, trying to sound neutral. She knew pretty well that Ron would report to Harry everything she said about him. “Why do you ask?”
“Hell, Hermione, maybe because my best friends aren’t even acting like themselves, any more? When was the last time we all hung out together? Just the three of us?” said Ron angrily. When she didn’t say anything in response, he threw his hands up. “You don’t even remember, do you? Well, I do. It was before you went to Australia, over a year ago.”
“You’ve been busy too, Ron.”
“Not for you,” he said in a soft voice, eyes searing into her. Hermione shifted uncomfortably. “Never for you, Hermione.”
Hermione fumbled with what to say, wanting desperately for the heavy atmosphere around them to dissipate. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Ron, I really don’t.”
“The past is in the past,” he shrugged, “but I want to change things. Ginny told you about the engagement party they’re throwing next week, right?”
Hermione frowned, taken aback by the way he kept shifting the direction of the conversation. “Yes, she owled me yesterday,” she said. “Apparently it’s my duty as maid of honor to make sure everything runs smoothly.”
“But you’ll still have some time for yourself,” said Ron. “So I thought it’d be an opportunity.”
“Opportunity for what?”
“For us,” he continued, looking hopeful. “The old crew from Hogwarts will be there. We can all have fun together.”
“I think that’s bound to happen,” said Hermione, lifting her glass of juice to her mouth to hide her face, “since we’ll all be there.”
“Yeah, sure, but I thought it’d be nice if we went together.”
“Like I said, I’m going to be running around helping Ginny. She’s already stressed enough as it is, I don’t know how much free time I’ll actually have.”
“Come on, Hermione,” he insisted, leaning forward in his chair. “You’ll do me a huge favor if you go with me. I won’t have to bring a poor bird to be harassed by my mother.”
Hermione scoffed. “Just go by yourself.”
“And what fun would that be?”
“Ron--” started Hermione, eager for the conversation to be over. “You know we’re friends, right?”
“Of course we are.”
“And if I go with you,” she said, searching his eyes for understanding, “we’ll go as friends, right? Just friends?” Ron licked his lips, meeting her steady gaze.
“Yeah,” he nodded, sounding less confident than he wanted to. “We’ll go as friends.”
_
Draco was quietly seething as he sat by the Manor’s kitchen island. Around him, the kitchen bustled with activity -- the house elves were running themselves haggard, preparing the menu for his mother’s dinner party that evening, cleaning a never-ending stack of dirty dishes, and shooting him annoyed glances when they thought he wasn’t looking. They clearly wanted him out of the way. Ignoring them, Draco scowled and ate from an endlessly-refilling bowl of profiteroles.
Unfortunately for them, the kitchen was about the only place in the entire house that he could count on not being found by his mother.
He couldn’t believe Granger had ditched him for Weasley, of all people. Even he felt awkwardness between them was almost palpable, and her discomfort around the git made Draco feel uncomfortable, in turn. He couldn’t quite understand the reasoning behind putting up with someone like that, especially for the sake of a crumbling old friendship.
She hadn’t even told Weasley about her real job. It wasn’t a surprise, necessarily, but it made Draco resentful that she’d still chosen to go with him. Weasley doesn’t know basic information about her life, he thought bitterly, not like I do.
“Master,” said Minzy, appearing out of thin air. Her eyes were wide like saucers, and he immediately knew that she’d had an encounter with his mother. “Mistress told Minzy to give you this, Mistress insisted that you read it immediately.” Draco frowned at the slight shake of her voice, but grabbed the magazine from her outstretched hand.
“Thank you, Minzy,” he said, making sure he spoke softly.
“Would Master like some more profiteroles?”
“No,” said Draco, narrowing his eyes. “Are you the one who’s been refilling this bowl?”
Minzy sheepishly lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Master did not seem bothered by it. Master ate three full bowls. Minzy thought the Master needed it.”
“It’s okay, Minzy, I’m not upset. But no more, alright?” said Draco. “And I didn’t eat three bowls,” he mumbled under his breath.
Minzy looked at him suspiciously. “May Minzy go?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving his hand. He stared for a beat at the space she disappeared from, feeling even more pathetic. Granger had made him look so pitiful that his own elf was feeling sorry for him.
Draco lifted the issue of Witch Weekly to eye level, his surliness only intensifying as he opened the magazine and found the page his mother had marked.
The two pages spread was illustrated by the overused photo of Draco and Daphne at the St. Mungo’s ball. They were stepping down the Victorian staircase and into the main room, Daphne with her arm curled around Draco’s. The photographer had captured the exact moment when she had tilted her face towards his, her mouth lifting in a demure smile. Draco remembered spending most of the ball calculating each of their movements and interactions, all to keep up with the sham of courting her. Now, the sight of it nauseated him -- he felt angry for having to do it, in the first place.
The photo was accompanied by an article filled with speculation about their time in school and fabricated anecdotes about years of mutual pining. The piece ended with comments from close friends, who claimed they couldn’t be more in love with each other.
His eyes grew wide when he read how he had spent over ten thousand galleons in Italian luxury furniture for a love nest with Daphne. Draco quickly called for Minzy, who appeared by his side before he had finished saying her name.
“Minzy, where’s my mother?”
“Mistress is at the ballroom on the third floor, Master,” said the elf, looking concerned.
Draco muttered a barely audible thank you and stood up, crumpling the magazine in his fingers. He marched to the ballroom, where he found his mother trying different table settings. With each swish of her wand, the forks and knives rearranged themselves in front of her, like obedient toys.
She didn’t acknowledge him immediately, and Draco closed his eyes and mentally counted to three, trying to get a handle on his temper.
“Mother?” he said finally.
Narcissa turned and smiled, walking to him and pulling his face to plant a kiss on each cheek. “Draco, dear. Did that pitiful elf of yours give you that magazine?”
“Minzydid,” he said, lifting his hand to show it to her. “Mother, how does the Witch Weekly know where I’ve been spending my money?”
“I told them, of course,” said Narcissa. Draco set his mouth in a hard line. “They owled me yesterday morning with a draft of the article, as a courtesy. It was to be expected, given how much money this family has given that magazine over the years. So I wrote them back, adding some interesting information.”
“You thought it was okay to tell them fabricated stories about my life?” asked Draco, taken aback by her casual tone. “Mother, this is a step over the line.”
His mother smoothed her face into a blank expression, and Draco felt his stomach drop. “Fabricated?” said Narcissa, sounding confused. “I didn’t lie to them, Draco. I don’t know why you look so upset. You didn’t think I would find out that you went to Zeta’s shop with Daphne?”
“Are you spying on me?”
“Of course not,” she said, her hand flying to her chest with offense. “I went to La Farfalla Concept over the weekend to select furniture for the dinner party. Zeta was kind enough to mention you had spent a couple hours there with your girlfriend, purchasing enough furniture to fill an entire house,” She shook her head. “It was embarrassing that she knew before I did, Draco.”
Draco’s heart pounded in his chest. He wasn’t sure whether his mother was being purposely obtuse, or if Zeta simply hadn’t mentioned the name of the person he had been there with. He was overwhelmed with anger -- of being found out, of having his privacy invaded -- and fear.
It hadn’t taken him long to realize that it hadn’t been the smartest move to take Granger there. But by the time it had dawned on him, he hadn’t wanted to ruin the peaceful weekend they’d been enjoying together. He didn’t think that Zeta would owl his mother to tattle on him -- but he hadn’t counted on Zeta, most likely innocently, mentioning the visit to her in person.
“You still shouldn’t have told Witch Weekly about my private life,” protested Draco.
“Their original draft was full of speculation, Draco. It pointed out that you had hardly been seen together as of late, and wondered if the relationship had already lost its spark. I didn’t want you or poor Daphne to see an article about how you’d already lost interest in her,” she argued. “Of course, I had wondered that myself. But since you’ve rarely been at home lately, I’ve assumed you had been holed up with her somewhere. Still, I must ask why you felt the need to buy a house, when you have an entire wing of the Manor to yourself.”
Draco fumbled with what to say, his mind reeling. “Mother--”
“I’m not unhappy with you, my son,” she smiled. “You must have used your own money, since I didn’t receive a receipt from Gringotts. I was simply curious. You know that Daphne is welcome here, and you’ll both be expected to live here when you get married.”
“Can we not talk about this? I have absolutely no plan to marry Daphne,” said Draco. His mother gave him a skeptical glance. “The fact is that I don’t feel comfortable that you’re willingly feeding those vultures information about my life.”
“Honestly, Draco,” said Narcissa, sounding genuinely confused. “You know perfectly well that we work with the media when it benefits us, as it did here. I’m proud of you for taking this courtship so seriously, and so is your father.”
“You’re missing the point, mother.”
“Am I?” she asked. She lifted a hand towards his face, a crease forming between her brows as her finger rubbed over the stubble in his jaw. “I don’t know where you’re getting these silly ideas in your head, dear. This is how it has always been in our family. You’ve never questioned it before.”
Her tone was effective in making Draco feel like a child. He opened his mouth to argue, but he couldn’t think of anything that would get through her -- she was right, it was business as usual for the Malfoys. Every pureblood family that fancied themselves respectable played along with the media when it suited them. If it were an ordinary courtship, his mother’s intrusive behavior wouldn’t have fazed him.
But it wasn’t. Draco had gone to La Farfalla Concept to furnish a flat where he could hide away with Hermione Granger. There was nothing ordinary about the situation, and he was starting to realize that the deeper he got in it, the more of a tangled mess it all became.
“I’d still appreciate it if you talked it over with me first, though,” he said, knowing he sounded weak. She lowered her hand, her eyes scrutinizing him. Draco shifted uncomfortably, feeling that she’d figure it all out, if she stared at him for too long.
“That’s reasonable,” conceded Narcissa. “Since you’re here, there’s something else I’d like to talk to you about.”
“Yes?” asked Draco, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I’ve been talking to Stewart--”
“I already told you that I’m Stewart’s primary contact in this family.”
“Perhaps in normal circumstances, but you’ve repeatedly refused to listen that your father is unwell,” said Narcissa. Draco stiffened. “I’m not interested in arguing with you again, Draco. But as your father’s wife, I will be making the decisions regarding this matter.”
“And what decisions would those be?” said Draco with a mirthless laugh. “Because I’m only following the diagnosis given by a certified healer, mother. If I believed father was sick--”
“Your father is sick,” she interrupted. “He fainted in his cell last week, for the second time.”
“And no one thought to inform me of this?”
“You’ve barely been home,” said Narcissa. “And considering that you've been focusing on your relationship with Daphne, I’m not upset about your absence. Nor is your father. I’m taking care of him. I’m letting you know because it’s important that we maintain an united front.”
“What are you going to do?” he asked, the words sticking in his throat.
“Stewart and I have been discussing opportunities to reduce his sentence to house-arrest,” she said smoothly. “I would prefer him here, rather than Azkaban.”
“That’d be possible?” said Draco, his stomach turning at the idea.
“It may be, if we play our cards right,” said Narcissa. “If I understand correctly, the Wizengamot is about to undergo some significant changes. That’s a good sign for us.”
“Are you talking about pureblood families reclaiming their chairs?” said Draco. “I thought that was a rumor.”
“Nothing is settled,” said Narcissa, sounding grave. “Subtlety is crucial with organizations like the Wizengamot and Ministry, but things may take a turn for the better. Which is why it’s imperative that you continue investing in your relationship with Daphne.”
“What does me dating Daphne have to do with anything?”
“Let your mother worry about that, Draco,” she said dismissively. “Now, unless you have an interest in helping me turn this ballroom into a casinha in Portugal, I would suggest you go. The ladies are arriving in less than two hours.”
Draco swallowed as his mother turned her back to him, feeling paralyzed.
“And dear,” she said over her shoulder. “You look so handsome when you’re clean-shaven.”
_
When she stepped out of the fireplace later that evening, Hermione was surprised to find Malfoy’s flat empty. She had taken her time getting ready before arriving, but she had thought that he would wait for her. She’d simply assumed he’d be there.
As she looked around, Hermione was hit by both concern and confusion. She didn't think that Malfoy had been upset over their encounter, she was sure he had caught onto the meaning behind her words.
She pursed her lips and pondered -- if she went back to her own flat, Malfoy might show up and think she’d bailed on him for the second time that day.
Her mind made up, Hermione took off her shoes and climbed the stairs to the second level of the flat, which they had turned into one large bedroom. She took out a book from her purse and settled into Malfoy's expensive sheets to wait. It was hard to fully concentrate on the words, her heart growing heavier with each minute that passed.
The next hour felt more like two, and Hermione had given up on the book to stare up at the ceiling. Maybe she’d misread things, mabe Malfoy had been genuinely upset -- maybe he was telling her so by not showing up.
Even as she thought it, it didn’t sound right to her. Malfoy had always been honest with her. Brutally honest, at times. He wasn’t the type of person to make her puzzle out his anger. It was the exact opposite of how she behaved, and one of the reasons why she could trust him.
He wouldn’t disappear on her.
Hermione hugged a pillow to her chest and waited, her eyes growing heavy. She’d have to convince him to buy a radio -- music would fill the hollow silence that took over the flat when he wasn’t there to fill it with his energy. She closed her eyes and emptied her mind, sinking into the pillow and letting herself relax.
It was dark when she felt the spot beside her dip with his weight.
“You came,” she whispered, eyes still closed. Malfoy carefully laid an arm over her body and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Took you long enough.”
“I didn’t think you’d be here,” he said, voice barely audible. Hermione opened her eyes slowly, blinking when the light momentarily blinded her. “It’s past two in the morning.”
“Why wouldn’t I wait for you, Draco?” said Hermione. He stiffened at her words, and she lifted a hand to run her fingers through his hair, satisfied when he began to relax against her again. “Want to tell me what happened?”
“Not really,” he mumbled. “Want to tell me how it went with the Weasel?”
“Ron was Ron. There’s nothing new there, not really,” said Hermione, turning onto her side to face him. Malfoy looked hollow, and his brows were furrowed. She brushed a finger to smooth the crease between his eyes. “You don’t need to talk if you don’t want to, Draco. But you always listen when I tell you things, so I’m here to listen to you, too.”
Malfoy groaned and turned flat on his back. “You always want to talk.”
“Not really,” said Hermione. “I don’t really talk to other people, but somehow you alway get me babbling my feelings to you. You only have yourself to blame.”
He gave a weak chuckle. Hermione moved to sit on his hips. Malfoy automatically placed his hands on her waist, and she bent down to brush a light kiss on his lips. “I can distract you in other ways, if that’s what you want.”
“Oh, love,” he whispered. “How could I turn down an offer like that?”
Hermione smiled and leaned down to press their lips together again. She placed a hand on his jaw, tilting his head up so she could kiss him more deeply. She breathed him in, and he responded just as eagerly.
Malfoy looped his arm around her, holding her tightly, then rolled them over until she was on her back and he could press himself completely in the space between her thighs. Hermione moved to take his shirt off, but before she could do it, he collapsed into her, tearing his lips away to hide his face in her shoulder.
“Okay,” said Hermione, listening to his harsh breaths. She rubbed her hand up and down his back. “It’s alright.”
“Bloody hell,” he groaned. “You must think I’m a bloody imbecile.”
“You think I don’t know that you have feelings, Draco? You’ve never fooled me.”
“Let me just pretend,” he grumbled. Hermione placed her hand under his shirt, rubbing her fingers over his bare skin. “Hermione?”
“I’m here.”
“Have you ever felt like your entire life was out of your control?” asked Draco, the hitch in his breath almost imperceptible.
“All the time,” she said, hoping he heard the honesty in her voice. He dug his chin into her shoulder, and groaned into the pillow. “It’s okay to be frustrated.”
“I’m not frustrated,” he snapped. “I’m bloody furious.”
“About what?”
“Everything,” exclaimed Draco, his voice going up an octave. “Every time I feel peaceful, my father shows up and fucking ruins it. Whenever I get a reprieve from him, it’s not too long before he’s back somehow, making everything that much harder.”
He tore himself away from her in one abrupt move. For a second, Hermione was terrified that he’d get up and leave, but he just sat on the edge of the bed, his hands on his knees, facing away from her.
Maybe she should’ve left him alone with his anger, but it felt right to slide closer to him, to wrap her arms around his leg, to rest her forehead against his back.
“My mother’s just as bad as him, you know?” he spat. “She loves me, but her love always comes with conditions. And I keep killing myself to meet them, and I don’t know why.”
“Because she’s your mum,” said Hermione. “Of course you want to make her happy.”
“Yeah, but sometimes I just don’t know if I can,” whispered Draco. “I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. This is why I don’t talk about my feelings, Granger.”
You talk about your feelings more than anyone I know,thought Hermione, but she chose to stay silent. If Draco wanted to delude himself into a cold persona, she didn’t have it in her to judge him --
They were both flawed, grappling with anything that would make it more bearable to live with the wounds that hadn’t yet begun to heal. Their scars weren’t the same, but if they tried, Hermione thought they could fit them together like the world’s most pitiful puzzle.
But even though it would be easier, she didn’t want to do that, not really.
There was nothing beautiful about being broken together.
She wanted them both whole.
“I think you’re making perfect sense,” she said finally.
He shivered, and she tightened her hold. “I just wanna sleep,” he mumbled.
“Alright, sweetheart,” said Hermione, scooting back in the bed and pulling him to lay back down with her. It didn’t take her much effort to settle them in a more comfortable position -- their arms around each other, cheek against cheek. She brushed a kiss to his jaw and closed her eyes. “Let’s just sleep.”