Postscript and Aftermath
"This is my favorite part. It starts and ends here. The pebbles shine, the plan worked (...) Lesson number one: Be sneaky and have a plan. But the stupid boy goes back, makes the rest of the story postscript and aftermath. He shouldn't have gone back." Hansel, Richard Siken
_
Hermione knew it’d be a long day.
When she woke up from a night of dreamless slumber, she immediately was overtaken by a sense of dread. She couldn’t pinpoint why, but she knew something was coming.
She tried to ignore the feeling as she fed Crookshanks and fixed herself breakfast. It came back in full force when Cartwell’s owl dropped a short, straightforward request for a meeting into her outstretched hands. It stayed with her for the rest of her routine, and only intensified when she arrived at the MRC and took a seat across from Cartwell’s desk.
“What’s going on?” asked Hermione, anxiety turning her stomach.
“Let’s wait for Hughman, he should be on his way,” said Cartwell, standing up from her chair and walking over to her tea set. “Maybe some chamomile tea?”
Hermione swallowed, wringing her hands together. “Should I be taking a calming draught instead?”
Cartwell chuckled. “The way things have been around here lately, I wouldn’t advise against it,” she said, filling two teacups. She handed Hermione one and took the other to her desk, taking a quiet sip.
Bloody hell, thought Hermione, watching the tea swirl around in her cup. Maybe her plan had backfired somehow -- maybe the Wizengamot had ignored her request and now Hughman was angry for having soured his relationship with them on her behalf. Or maybe Cartwell was upset that Hermione had gone over her head and spoken to Hughman directly. Maybe Hermione should’ve taken Malfoy up on his offer to get back at Rookwood by less than respectable means. Maybe she shouldn’t have left Hogwarts in the first place.
She took a sip of her tea, scrutinizing Cartwell over the rim of her cup. Her mouth was set in a firm line, her eyes running over a parchment with forced interest.
“If this is about Rookwood--” tried Hermione.
“Please, Hermione, wait for the director to get here.”
Her response made the room feel even more suffocating. Hermione sagged back into her chair, forcibly tearing her gaze away from Cartwell. If she kept looking, Hermione would analyze every twitch of the healer’s face until her brain melted into a pool of stress-induced sludge.
They remained in silence for the next ten minutes, Cartwell looking down and scribbling something on a piece of parchment, and Hermione staring at the wall behind her head with her heart steadily rising until it got stuck in her throat.
When Hughman finally stepped through the door, Hermione suppressed the urge to stand up and pull him into a hug.
“Miss Granger!” he said loudly, skipping forward and dropping into the chair beside hers. “I apologize for making you wait, of course, but you understand that I’m a busy man. I was just finishing a Floo call that went on for forever--” he twirled his hand with a flourish, “-- you know how those things go, of course.”
“No problem.”
“Well, Edina, shall we give Miss Granger the amazing news?” he said, turning to Cartwell, who forced a smile. “I’ll do the honors, of course.”
“Certainly,” said Cartwell.
Hermione shot her a glance, then reluctantly turned to face Hughman. “Miss Granger, I’ve told you plenty of times about your importance to the Center, of course.”
“Sure,” said Hermione, frowning at the way his voice increased in volume.
“I’m always thinking of ways to better this center and the trajectory of my employees,” he continued, “and considering the amazing work you’ve done with Edina on the rehab program, it felt like the right time for you to progress.” In his excitement, he leaned towards Hermione, his torso hanging over the arm of his chair. Hermione leaned back and smiled tightly. “So I’m promoting you, of course.”
He grinned. Hermione looked at Cartwell from the corner of her eye, who watched the exchange with eyes full of pity. When she finally opened her mouth, her words sounded breathless.“Excuse me?”
“A promotion just seems in order for you, Miss Granger,” said Hughman, ignoring Hermione's crestfallen expression. “We’re wasting your talents with those criminals, and after the entire ordeal with Mr. Rookwood, Edina and I have agreed it was the perfect time to rethink your place within the MRC.”
“Actually, I--” tried Cartwell, but Hughman continued as if she hadn’t spoken.
“Going forward, your main task will be to revise reports from our different initiatives and finalize all the paperwork that’ll be sent to the Ministry,” he said, nodding eagerly. “You see, that’s a key position that hasn’t ever been filled. You’ll essentially be in charge of ensuring we’re meeting all of the Ministry’s standards.”
Hermione swallowed past the lump in her throat. “You’re taking me out of the program?”
“I’m relocating your talent, Miss Granger,” he said in a patronizing tone. “It is a promotion, of course.”
She was too stunned to reply immediately. She wondered if he truly believed she was fooled by his attempts to glamorize his punishment. The more he stared at her with an expectant expression, the more Hermione felt fury rise in her chest.
“Sir,” said Hermione at last, “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but this doesn’t seem like a promotion in the slightest. It seems like punishment for speaking up.”
Hughman frowned. “Of course not, Miss Granger. We’ve already spoken about your feelings regarding Mr. Rookwood. It was perfectly normal for you to be emotional about his behavior.”
“I wasn’t emotional,” spat Hermione. “I was bringing up a reasonable concern. And I don’t think it’s the right time for me to leave my position in the program, Cartwell and I are finally making progress with them--”
“Oh, don’t you worry about it,” he said loudly, pointing at Cartwell. “Edina here is perfectly capable of continuing her work by herself.”
“I’m not implying that she isn’t--”
“She’s been doing that without your assistance since the MRC opened, Miss Granger.”
Hermione’s eyes widened. “I obviously know that--”
“Then there’s no problem,” he exclaimed, standing up. Hermione’s mouth opened to protest, but he quickly rushed his words out. “Ah, of course, as promotion goes, this one comes with actual benefits,” he winked at her, pulling out a rusty key out of his pocket.
“Sir--”
He dangled the key in front of Hermione’s face like a parent presenting a child with a shiny new toy. The burning in her chest increased from warm anger to scalding ire. “You’ll finally get your own office! Isn’t that exciting?”
When she didn’t move to take the key, he cleared his throat and placed it on Cartwell’s desk, tugging at his tie.
“Director Hughman, I don’t care for an office.”
“Don’t be so humble, Miss Granger, you earned it,” he grinned. “Ah, the office is just down the corner. We’ve already put a plaque with your name on it, so there’s absolutely no way you’ll miss it.”
“Can we discuss this further?” she said through her teeth.
“Unfortunately I have no more time to spare, I’ve got a Center to run!” He swiftly pushed his chair away. “Enjoy the office!”
In two long strides, he opened the door and left the office, leaving a ringing silence in his wake. Hermione gripped the arm’s leather chair, digging her nails in. “So this is his M.O, right?” she hissed. “He drops the bomb and leaves you to deal with it?”
“Pretty much,” said Cartwell, sighing. “I tried to change his mind, but when he gets an idea in his head, it’s pretty much impossible to reason with him. He still believes I’m primarily responsible for the program, so I couldn’t protest too much without giving it away.”
A lie always comes back to bite you in the arse,thought Hermione, reaching for the rusty key. She chuckled mirthlessly. “He gave me an office like a consolation prize,” said Hermione, her heart pounding inside of her chest. “I’m not fooled. I had a meeting with him in which I insisted that he talk to the Wizengamot about Rookwood, and suddenly he wants to take me out of the program?”
“I’m truly sorry, Hermione,” she said, “but I told you that it wasn’t the smartest way to handle that situation.”
“So I should’ve stayed quiet?” Hermione fired back. “Maybe I was naive to think I could’ve solved it in one conversation, but you’re telling me I should just swallow my pride and accept whatever these men try to shove down my throat?”
“I’m not the enemy, Hermione,” said Cartwell, flinching. “I’m on your side.”
Not when it comes down to it, thought Hermione, feeling scorned and alone. “And you can’t reason with him about this?” she asked, already fully aware of the answer.
“You know that I can’t,” she sighed. “I do my best where it counts, Hermione. With the patients. And I assure you that you don’t have to worry about the program. I’ve taken into account what you said, and I’m going to change how I work with them going forward.”
Hermione thought about how Theo slowly started to unfold in front of her -- less likely to make a joke of every situation, more genuine when he considered her questions.
She thought about Malfoy, less argumentative and more willing to listen. About Pansy’s face faltering when she remembered Muggleborn children being tortured.
I did that,her mind protested.
Hermione thought about feeling capable and driven for the first time since the war, and wanting to scream.
“So that’s it?” she said quietly, feeling her eyes beginning to burn. “I go to that office, start to push paper around, and give up on the work I’ve already done?”
“I honestly don’t know what else you can do.” Her voice was low and apologetic. Hermione exhaled sharply, feeling the walls of the room closing around her. “Hermione, I’ve left some files in your new office. Look them over, it'll distract you. There’s a lot we can discuss about the PTSD patients. And I’ll keep you updated on how the program progresses, I promise.”
“Alright,” she nodded, unable to absorb the healer’s words.
“You can even help me do some research for the meetings,” offered Cartwell. “I won’t leave you completely out of the loop.”
Hermione's instinct was to force a smile, but she reined it in before it could take shape. She wouldn’t fake reluctant acceptance. Cartwell could be uncomfortable at Hermione’s anger and disappointment. She could deal with her own willingness to bury her head in the sand.
“Did he at least tell you what’s going to happen with Rookwood?”
Cartwell hesitated for a beat, her expression turning even more sour. “The Wizengamot didn’t change its decision, Hermione. He’s still getting fined.”
Hermione only nodded, turning away and leaving without another glance.
She walked down the hall, stopping in front of her new office. The door had grey paint peeling off in the corners, and a copper plaque with her name in bold white letters, but no title. Hermione wondered if Hughman thought that her name was enough to carry her, or if he simply hadn’t bothered to think of a title for her fictitious new position.
Hermione stood in front of the door for what felt like hours. She finally dragged her eyes away when she felt magic begin moving insistently inside of her. It made the hairs of her arms stand up and her fingers tingle, threatening to rip books apart and shatter glass.
She forced it down and turned to march towards the fireplaces, her hands gripping the strap of her purse like a lifeline. Hermione was aware of the stares following her, tracking her every move, as if she was a mirage, or a ghost.
Her heartbeat felt like thunder in her chest. She felt her eyes begin to water, but she blinked it away. She wouldn’t cry there, where everyone could see.
As she threw the floo powder beneath her feet, emerald green flames engulfing her from head to toe, the only thing looping in her mind was that she wanted to be somewhere she could scream.
_
Draco frowned at the reflection in the large ornate mirror. He tied a final knot in his deep green tie, straightened his lapel, and smoothed the wrinkles in his suit. The formal clothes hugged his skin familiarly.
He looked like himself in all the ways that counted. He’d gained weight, so his face was a bit fuller, his arms stronger. His hair was a few inches longer, curling around his ears, stray strands falling on his forehead no matter how many times he brushed them away. It was the best that he’d looked in awhile. But the more he stared, the more he was convinced there was something wrong. Or maybe not quite wrong, just fundamentally different.
You look bloody good, he mumbled to himself. Relax.
He studied himself once more, trying to soften his features until he didn’t look as surly, but he couldn’t quite remove the irritated glint in his eyes. He huffed and left the bathroom, swiftly grabbing the pack of cigarettes from where he had left it sitting on top of a corner table.
“Draco, we’re going to be late,” said Daphne, looking up from her seat on the edge of his bed.
She looked like the embodiment of pureblooded beauty. Her dress matched the shade of Draco’s tie and was embroidered with white lillies. It was long-sleeved, with a modest neckline and demure skirt falling just above her knees, just long enough to avoid any insinuations about her propriety. Her hair was parted in the middle and pulled into a sleek ponytail, making her green eyes pop. If they stood side by side, they’d make a perfect picture.
Daphne arched her brow when she caught him staring. Draco sighed, turning away from her to light up a cigarette. He wanted to be attracted to her, but his appreciation for her beauty was detached from emotion, a merely objective assessment.
“I need to smoke,” he muttered around the cigarette, “Or you’ll have to make an excuse for your mother, because I won’t go.”
“Fine,” she said, standing up from the bed and walking over to him. She reached out a hand and pulled the pack from his fingers, taking a cigarette and mentioning for him to light it up for her.
He exhaled from the corner of his lips, then lifted his wand to light hers. Daphne coughed after her first drag, and he smirked. “You don’t need to smoke for me.”
“Please, I’m not smoking for you. You’re driving me to, since you’re probably the surliest fake boyfriend on earth,” she grumbled. “My family isn’t that bad, you know. We’ll eat, then you’ll make conversation with my father over a bottle of firewhiskey, nothing out of the norm. I bet you had to do the same when you dated Pansy.”
“I wasn’t pretending to date Pansy,” he retorted. “I’m just trying to figure out how I’m going to make him believe I’m actually in love with his daughter.”
“Like it’s that hard?” said Daphne, the cigarette dangling from her fingers. “Shouldn’t take too much effort, I’m very lovable.”
Draco snickered, glancing out of the window into the gardens. From his window on the second floor, he could see the setting sun and large expanses of the grounds stretch out in front of him, charmed to sparkle with soft lights.
Daphne was lovable, thought Draco, feeling morose. In an ideal version of the universe, falling in love with her would be as easy as breathing -- it’d make perfect sense. They’d be the companions their parents taught them to yearn, even if they never felt passionate about each other.
Alas, in this version of the universe, Draco stood in front of the perfect witch, wishing she was another. One who was wrong for him in all the ways that counted.
“What’s up with you?” she asked. Draco tore his eyes away from the window, meeting her expression of concern. “You’ve been different, lately. I noticed it that day at the bar. You looked distracted.”
“Nothing is up with me, besides the usual annoyance of having to do what I don’t want,” he said, sliding up the windowsill a fraction to chuck the cigarette butt into the yard. “Aren’t we late? Let’s go.”
Daphne rolled her eyes, but stubbed her cigarette out in a coffee cup. Draco snapped the window shut. “Ah, the beauty of plain, straightforward avoidance. You give Slytherins a bad name, Draco Malfoy, we’re known for our subtlety.”
“I’m subtle when I need to be,” he fired back. “You want to apparate us there?”
“You trust me not to splinch us?”
“A leap of faith, perhaps,” said Draco, offering his arm. Daphne wrapped a delicate hand around his elbow. “Do not splinch us.”
“Oh, shut your trap up,” she said, then apparated them out of the room.
_
They landed in the entrance hall to the Greengrass Manor.
Draco glanced around his surroundings. He vaguely remembered running around the grounds with Daphne and Pansy, trading cards from Chocolate Frogs and giggling as they pranked unsuspecting elves. It was before they went to Hogwarts, and boys hanging around girls became less about child’s play and more about betrothal arrangements.
“Come on, mum and Astoria must already be in the dining room,” said Daphne, looping her arm through his. “Are you impressed by our decór?”
“Ah, yes,” said Draco in a sarcastic tone. “It’s a prerequisite for my wife. Her mother absolutely must have good taste in floor tile and uncomfortable chairs.”
“Believe it or not, but my father is the decorator in the family. He says a home has to reflect a man’s true soul.” Draco snickered, his mind instantly flashing to his flat. He doubted Douglass Greengrass would approve of his willingness to let Granger run rampant with it. “My mother takes care of the gardens and social functions.”
“The garden doesn’t need to reflect your father’s soul?” asked Draco, and Daphne shot him a look. They were walking down a long corridor, surrounded by the echo of Daphne’s heels clicking against the piasentina porcelain tiles.
“Flowers and plants are for women,” said Daphne, sounding resentful, “and looking pretty, don’t you forget.”
“Stand straighter, little girl,” a voice hollered. “Your posture is just tragic, hasn’t your mother taught you better?”
Draco jerked his head to see a woman yelling at them from the sole portrait hanging on the wall. She looked strikingly like Daphne, but much older and grimmer. She was red in the face, her large hat threatening to fall off as she shook her head disapprovingly at them.
Once she noticed Draco’s gaze on her, she smoothed her expression. “Oh, what a handsome lad, this one,” she smiled at Draco, her lips twisting when she looked back at Daphne. “Do your best to keep him, will you? If you’re able to, with that disgraceful manners of yours. I should’ve pushed more classes on you when I had the chance, but you were always such an odd duckling.”
“What on earth,” muttered Draco, letting Daphne drag him away.
“That’s my grandmother, ignore her,” she said, seeming unfazed by the woman spewing criticism after her. “The old hag spent her entire life putting my sister and I down, it’s fitting that she was eternalized like that. I don’t mind her.”
“The audacity! I was the one who made you who you are!” yelled the portrait.
Draco rolled his eyes. “I'd've incendio-ed her straight to hell the first time she opened her mouth,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “I hate these demented portraits.”
“My father insists that she means well,” she muttered. “Well-behaved witches don’t talk back to their elders, even the dead ones.”
Before Draco could respond, they turned the corner leading to a huge dining room. Asta and Astoria stood up from their seats as soon as they came into view.
Daphne didn’t look anything like her mother -- Asta was much tinier, for once, a good six inches shorter than her daughter -- and while Daphne had inherited her mother’s slightly slanted green eyes, they didn’t hold the same glint. Asta’s dark hair sat in a neat knot on top of her head, not a single strand out of place, and as she walked towards them, her limbs looked frail, like she were light as a feather floating above the ground.
“Oh, finally,” she muttered, her voice sounding hoarse. “Draco, it’s so nice to see you, it’s been such a long time.”
“It’s great to see you too, Mrs. Greengrass,” said Draco, bending down to press a kiss on the back of her hand. Asta’s smile grew. “As beautiful as ever.”
“You’ve always been such a charmer,” she said, then looked over her shoulder at Astoria. “You know Astoria, of course.”
“We’ve met,” nodded Draco, watching Astoria greet him with a shy peck on the cheek, a spitting image of her mother.
The atmosphere felt expectant -- each of them was careful not to speak too loudly or step on anyone’s toes.
It was familiar in a way that made Draco sigh inwardly with boredom, and sufficiently uncomfortable that he yearned for the evening to be over and done with.
Asta led them to the white mahogany table in the center of the room, lavishly decorated with white linen and silver plates. Asta chose the seat left of the head of the table. Astoria sat beside her, and Daphne and Draco lowered themselves into the two chairs across from them.
“Douglass will be here in a second, he’s just wrapping up some work,” said Asta. As if on cue, a house elf wearing a blue velvet dress appeared, carrying a large tray with silver goblets embossed with the Greengrass coat of arms. The elf placed one in front of each of them, then disappeared without waiting for orders. “White is okay with you, Draco? We have a good selection of elf-made wines as well, if you’d prefer.”
“Your choice is lovely,” he said, without intention of drinking it.
“Perfect,” she said, her gaze travelling from Draco to Daphne. “You make such a beautiful couple, I’m overjoyed by your union. I know your mother is as well, Draco.”
“She’s certainly happy.”
“And that Witch Weekly article? It was such a lovely read. Although Narcissa and I agreed we must arrange to get you new photographs taken soon. You both look dashing, but it’s important to have new material.”
“Mother--” tried Daphne.
“Don’t start, Daphne. You know how it is,” said Asta, bringing the goblet to her lips. “There’s no harm in sharing your happiness with the world. Everyone is excited for your betrothal.”
“Mother,” hissed Daphne. Draco shifted uncomfortably. “Please, don’t embarrass me in front of my boyfriend.”
“Don’t be silly, Draco knows what’s at stake here, doesn’t he?” said Asta, searching for Draco’s gaze. “You’re not leading my daughter on, correct?”
Draco cleared his throat. “Of course not,” he said, making sure his voice didn’t waver. “But Daphne and I have both agreed that we prefer to take things slow. Besides, people become tired of having something thrown in their faces all the time, don’t they?”
“Certainly,” said Daphne. “If we keep our relationship more private, people's curiosity will grow, which is always a good thing.”
“I agree,” said Astoria, turning to her mother with a sweet smile. “Don’t you remember when Edgar Rosier and Olivia Gaunt started dating a few years ago? No one could stand them, it was so obvious that they had paid for their media coverage.”
“Or even the Weasleys,” added Daphne. “Didn’t one of them marry Fleur Delacour during the war? I remember, everyone complained how distasteful it was that they were being painted as these star-crossed lovers when so much more was happening.”
“Exactly,” finished Astoria, raising a perfectly trimmed brow. “You don’t want Daphne and Draco to be seen as desperate, do you?”
Draco watched the back and forth between the sisters with mild amusement. Daphne smiled at Astoria, who gave her a subtle nod.
“Of course not. You have a good point there, Astoria,” said Asta, having already finished her drink. “We wouldn’t want to be compared to the Weasleys. But we must find a balance.”
“We can work with that,” said Daphne, giving Draco a sidelong glance. “Right, Draco?”
“Certainly,” he said through his teeth.
Asta seemed appeased for the moment, “That reminds me, I wanted to ask about that apartment of yours. I hadn’t heard about it prior to the article that Narcissa sent me. I hope you both know that it’s inappropriate to purchase a place together before we officially settle an engagement.”
Draco was quick to speak. “That was a misunderstanding,” he said, nudging Daphne’s foot with the tip of his shoe and hoping she’d understand the signal. She nudged him back. “I went to Italy to purchase some pieces for one of my family’s cottages in Venice, and Daphne was kind enough to accompany me.”
“You know how they like to twist things,” said Daphne.
“Oh, good. It’s important to know the boundaries,” she said. “I know that both of you have been raised properly.”
“We’re all aware of the circumstances, mother.”
“That’s a relief,” said a husky voice. Immediately, the women stood up from the table. Draco shifted in confusion, then followed suit.
Draco had met the head of the Greengrass family before, from afar and with disinterest. The Greengrasses hadn’t been involved with the Dark Lord or harbored any attachment to the dark arts. Even if they were largely respected, they had always been somewhat reclusive, their social circle smaller than most.
Douglass was of unremarkable appearance. He was balding, barely taller than his wife, and his age showed in the wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes. Together, Douglass and Asta looked poised and somber, but without calling unnecessary attention to themselves. In contrast, Astoria and Daphne carried themselves with the elegance and allure expected of people of their stature.
Draco wondered if that was intentional.
As he watched Douglass press light kisses on each of his wife and daughters’ cheeks, an understated confidence in his movements, he thought that the Greengrass patriarch was a man who did little without purpose.
Draco shook his hand firmly when the man reached him. “It’s been a while, Draco. Please, sit down,” said Douglass, finding his seat at the head of the table. Draco obeyed, uncomfortable with the way the women waited for them to sit before following suit. “How is your mother?”
“She’s well,” he said. “She’s been making herself busy.”
“That’s good,” he nodded, taking a sip of his wine. “Your father? Have you had any contact with him at all?”
“We exchange letters regularly,” said Draco, clenching his fist under the table. He didn’t want to talk about his father, especially not with this man. “He’s been doing well, as much as can be expected, of course.”
“It’s unfortunate how his case was handled,” said Douglass. He paused when four well dressed elves appeared, holding an array of trays.
They didn’t look up from their tasks, not even to address their master and mistress. Instead, they worked at a synchronized pace, their movements alarmingly silent. They were quick to set the table and disappear.
Draco thought of Minzy -- alway shivering with anxiety, stumbling on her own feet, but responding with a sarcastic attitude when she thought she could get away with it. His mother must’ve turned green in envy when she saw the Greengrass’ house elves: practical and mostly unseen.
“As I was saying,” continued Douglass, cutting a piece of his lamb, “I believe your father’s case was judged too harshly. But you know how the Ministry was eager to improve its image after that disaster.”
Draco bit back a retort. That disaster killed thousands of people, he thought, while your family watched safely from afar.
“Dear,” said Asta, fluttering her lashes as she turned to her husband. “Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about such depressing events at dinner? Fortunately all of that is behind us, and we have a bright future to look forward to.”
Douglass nodded, dabbing his lips with an embroidered silk napkin. “Ah, of course, the lovely union of Daphne and Draco,” he looked at them, an unreadable expression on his face. “How did you find your way to each other, again?”
Daphne licked her lips, smiling sweetly. “Well, we’ve been friends since Hogwarts--”
_
Douglass’s study was so immaculate and sparse, Draco had trouble believing the man actually spent any time in it. The floor was stone and completely bare, and the windows were covered by heavy velvet drapes. On the far wall sat a small oak desk, with a couple of cream leather armchairs sitting across from it. Above the desk shone a large, golden unicorn horn, and to its right was displayed what looked like a centaur’s head.
Draco quickly averted his eyes, trying not to let his disgust show. His gaze fell on the near wall, where portraits of the Greengrasses’ male lineage tracked his every move.
“Make yourself at home, Mr. Malfoy,” said Douglass, walking into the room. Draco followed, shutting the door behind him.
“Do you mind?” asked Draco, pulling his pack of cigarettes from his coat’s pocket.
“I do, if you’re choosing to smoke so cheap,” said Douglass, opening a desk drawer filled with expensive cigars. He took one out and handed it to Draco. “Your father should’ve taught you to appreciate a good cigar. A friend of mine gifted me these from a lovely tobacco farm in what used to be Ceylon. The elves there are known for their exquisite skills.”
Draco placed the cigarette pack in his jacket pocket and lifted his wand to light the cigar. “My father’s more of a drinker than a smoker,” he said.
“I’m not much of a drinker myself,” said Douglass. “A good wine now and then, some firewhiskey when it’s appropriate, but I believe a man must know how to restrain himself.”
Draco hummed in agreement, sitting stiffly in the armchair Douglass pointed him to. They shared a moment of silence, both observing the smoke forming grey clouds in front of their faces.
Despite the comforting taste of tobacco, Draco couldn’t allow himself to relax. He didn’t know what Douglass wanted from him -- he couldn’t imagine he’d called him into his study to give a stern warning against hurting his daughter. But discussing the finer details of pureblood courtship would be just as unappealing.
Douglass’s expression was unreadable, and with each passing second, Draco felt an increased sense of foreboding. “I don’t drink much, either,” he said finally, watching the cap of ashes lose its grip on his cigar and drop into the ashtray.
“I noticed,” said Douglass, his eyes falling on Draco. “Your glass remained full throughout dinner. You could’ve mentioned that you would prefer a non-alcoholic beverage.”
“Wouldn’t want to inconvenience your wife, sir.”
Douglass nodded in appreciation. “I think it’s unnecessary for us to further discuss your relationship with my daughter, Draco,” he said. “I’ve raised Daphne to handle her own affairs, she understands her responsibilities well. And to be frank with you, I’ll leave the silly details of courtship to the women.”
“Certainly,” said Draco flatly. He wondered what Douglass saw when he looked at his headstrong, storm of a daughter. A flower, maybe.
“Asta has been quite enthusiastic about this relationship of yours, like a pet project of hers, if you catch my drift,” he said, coughing roughly when the smoke escaped down his throat. “I guess I’ll need a drink, after all. Could I interest you in some firewhiskey?”
“None for me, sir.”
“Suit yourself,” said Douglass, pulling his wand from its holster inside his sleeve. He summoned a large bottle of firewhiskey from inside the desk, along with a crystal glass. “As I was saying, I don’t feel the need to meddle, as long as everything goes smoothly, of course. We’ll let the witches worry about that, and we’ll talk about what really matters. Are you following me, Draco?”
Unfortunately, thought Draco. Douglass’s gaze was sharp and steady on him, as if expecting him to falter. “Daphne and I are having fun getting to know each other,” he said, with a stoic expression. “I assure you I only have the best intentions.”
“As you should,” said Douglass in a patronizing tone. “You’re a part of the program at the Center for Mental Rehabilitation, aren’t you?”
His scrutiny reminded Draco of Bellatrix, who had made a hobby out of trapping him into his own weaknesses. Despite that, the glint in Douglass’s eyes felt calculated, differentiating him from the category of wizards who he was used to dealing with.
It made him more cautious of what he let show.
“Yes. It’s a part of my probation.”
“What do you think of it?”
“It’s interesting,” he said. “Poorly managed, of course. I’ve avoided calling too much attention to myself. I want it to be done and over with as soon as possible.”
“Excellent,” nodded Douglass, sipping his firewhiskey. “Discretion is a difficult art to master. It baffles me how little it’s been cultivated by those in our circles. We’re the ones who need it the most. The war debacle is a perfect example of how histrionics leads absolutely nowhere.”
“Is that why your family remained neutral, sir?”
“The Greengrasses have never affiliated themselves with barbaric displays of violence,” said Douglass. “There’s nothing to be gained by going to war.”
“We can agree on that.”
“I can respect your family for your loyalty,” he drawled. “But this is a new era, and as such, it’s important for your generation to get rid of the mentality most of mine have fallen victims to.”
“Do you believe things are changing, sir?” asked Draco, thinking of Granger’s steady refusal to give up on her principles. He wondered if Douglass would respect that, too, or if he would try to squash it.
“I think we can, but we need to commit to establishing ourselves as pillars of the wizarding community.” He licked his lips, leaning forward in his chair. “But I’m an old man, Draco. That mission should be in the hands of our youth, such as yourself.”
Draco’s stomach turned at the idea. He suppressed the urge to stand up and leave, making sure his question came out steady. “And how do you believe we should do that, sir?”
“Investing in said youth, of course. Increasing morale, so to speak. If morale is high, the intricacies will sort themselves out.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“Hogwarts wasn’t built in a day, Draco,” smirked Douglass. “Everything is possible with patience and playing our cards right. Your mother has assured me that you’re committed to our vision for the future, but man to man, I must ask you directly.”
“I’m not sure that I have the power to help with much, sir.”
“Ah, that’s a problem we’ll soon solve,” he said with a wink. “Now, you already have the right mindset. Continue with the program, avoid calling any attention to your probation status, and of course, continue getting to know my daughter.”
Draco flattened his lips in a resemblance of a smile. “I plan on doing exactly that, sir.”
“Then we’re on the same page,” said Douglass. “Now, would you care for another cigar?”
_
Draco ignored the portrait of the late Greengrass matriarch yelling after him as he power-walked down the hallway. He wanted out -- out of the immaculate, spotless walls of the Manor, away from the watchful eyes of this family.
He was too intimate with the feeling of anger beginning to boil inside of him. But now, it was accompanied by a horrible shame that made Draco want to rub off every inch of skin until he felt less disgusted with himself. The past hour had felt like his return to the leading actor of a well-rehearsed play. Familiar, yet freshly unpleasant, with an audience that would close the curtains on him if he appeared to falter.
Draco was almost out the door when he heard Daphne hiss his name. He twisted his face in a scowl and turned around, finding her on top of the staircase, beckoning him with her hand.
“No way,” he hissed back. “If I go up there your parents will think I’m sneaking in to shag you.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’ll look stranger if you don’t try, for Merlin’s sake. And it’ll be quick, they’ll just assume you’re giving me a goodbye snog.”
Draco exhaled an impatient breath, then quickly walked up the stairs. He tried to quell the emotions swirling inside of him. He didn’t want Daphne to notice.
When he reached the top of the stairs, she grabbed his arm and dragged him into a guest room. Inside, Draco pulled his arm away. “You don’t mean literally snogging, right?”
“I wouldn’t kiss you unless I were under wandpoint,” said Daphne, then she frowned. “Or our parents’ expectant gaze. You know what I meant.”
“We won’t get to that point,” snapped Draco, feeling claustrophobic. “We’re ending this charade tonight. I just spent half an hour smoking cigars with your father, pretending to be as much of an imbecile as he thinks I am. I can’t do this anymore.”
“Oh come on, Draco,” said Daphne. “What did you expect?”
“To get my mother off my back for a while and help you out, which is what we agreed to in the first place,” he hissed. “But now, I have a mother who’s on my arse more than ever. I have your father, who expects me to propose to you, and prepare to represent him officially in whatever bloody mess he’s cooking up in his spare time. Bloody politics,” he spat.
“Listen,” whispered Daphne, “I understand that I might’ve miscalculated their investment in this. But like I said, soon Astoria will have her own betrothal and they won’t care about mine any more.”
“That could take months, Daphne,” said Draco. “Do you seriously think we’re going to be able to put them off for that long? If our mothers had their way, you’d be wearing a ring right now.’
“I don’t care,” she snapped. “I’m not ready, Draco.” Her voice shook. Daphne pressed her fingers to her eyelids, and Draco felt a stab of pity. “I need more time,” she said.
“I’m sorry, but no,” he said, shaking his head, ignoring the tears slowly gathering in her eyes. “I don’t want anything to do with any of this. This is a bloody mess, and I’m done with messes.”
“What did my father even say that bothered you so much?” she said, wiping her eyes. “He’s a good person, Draco. Better than most, I guarantee you that. He wants us all to be in a position where we don’t have to retort to violence again. He cares deeply about the pureblood community.”
“The same father who barely lets you speak at the table? Don’t be delusional, Daphne. We don’t get the luxury of having good fathers,” he scoffed. “And to be frank with you, I could care less about the pureblood community. I only care about living my own bloody life.”
Daphne pursued her lips. He watched how swiftly her expression transformed. The fear in her eyes disappeared with a blink of her eyes, and a cold smile appeared on her face. “Have you told your mother that?”
“Fuck you,” he snapped. “Don’t act like you’re not the one who’s got more to gain from this.”
“Then don’t act like you don’t have anything to gain at all,” she said. “You’ve got to trust me on this or we’ll both get screwed. Give me more time to figure something out.”
“To figure out your escape to bloody America? Leaving me to deal with this?”
“We both know that you’re going to leave with your reputation mostly intact,” she said. “You’re not the one who’s gay. And a female.”
Draco exhaled loudly, crossing his arms. He and Daphne stared at each other. He didn’t care about fighting with her; he didn’t care about any of this, he thought. Except your soon to be widowed mother is counting on you.
“You understand that if we keep doing this, it'll blow up in our faces?”
Daphne sighed. “And what if it doesn’t?” she fired back. “You don’t need to think too hard about this, Draco. If it’s bad with your mother right now, then it’s going to be bloody worse if you tell her you willingly broke up with me. I won’t take the blame for that, not yet at least.”
Draco was almost impressed. Daphne knew she had him cornered. Fuck, he thought. He’d give anything to be out of there, to be at his flat, Granger rubbing his back, in the one place he didn’t have to worry about schemes and trying keep a sandcastle from crumbling.
“Figure it out, Daphne,” he said. “Soon.”
She smiled and pulled him into a hug. “I promise.”
Draco patted her softly on the back and pretended to believe it.
_
He didn’t spot her immediately.
She sat quietly on the couch facing the fireplace, her legs criss-crossed and eyes fixated on Draco’s slim figure. He looked troubled. He was holding himself too tightly, his beautiful face set in a sneer.
He ripped off his suit jacket in one brusque movement, throwing it into the hall closet without looking where it landed. Hermione pressed her head to the back of the couch and took in the way he stepped out of his shoes and undid the buttons of his dress shirt, giving her a full view of his chest.
Hermione had known Draco for years, but had spent most of that time unaware of how handsome he actually was -- but she noticed it now. He was the opposite of what she thought she’d want: all poise and refined beauty, not one rough edge to speak of.
He hadn’t even looked at her yet, but she felt the knot in her chest begin to ease.
“Are you enjoying the view?”
Hermione jumped. “I thought you hadn’t seen me.”
Draco chuckled, finally meeting her gaze. His eyes softened slightly, but he was visibly tense, his jaw set tightly. “You don’t think I’d notice someone in my house?”
She shifted in her seat. “I’m sorry. I’ve been here all day and I didn’t even ask you,” she said, swallowing nervously. “Am I pushing a boundary?”
“If I didn’t want you here, I would tell you, Granger,” he said, stepping towards her. “I could lock the Floo, for starters.”
“I already have a perfect memory of this place,” said Hermione. “I could just apparate.”
“I’m quite good at anti-apparition spells,” he shot back, stopping in front of her. He placed both hands on the back of the couch, caging her in. “I’m not doing that, though.”
“Because you like me here?”
He scoffed. “I’m not flattering you either.”
“A bit of flattery goes a long way,” said Hermione, her eyes steady on him. Malfoy bent down, their faces just an inch apart.
“I don’t think you need it, though,” he whispered. “Hi.”
“Hi yourself,” said Hermione, moving to clutch either side of his chin and pulling him down to kiss her. She wanted to get rid of the look on his face.
The ease with which his lips found hers made it feel like they’d been doing it longer than they had been. They didn’t have to spare too much effort into the way they moved together, his tongue wrapping around hers, her mind becoming dizzy, her heart hollering inside of her chest. His shoulders were still tense, and her head was still hurting, but the longer they kissed, the easier it became to forget.
Hermione slid down the couch, dragging him with her. He groaned in appreciation, tugging his lips away from hers and finding her neck. She loved how his body cloaked hers without making her feel overpowered. She loved how the muscles of his back flexed under her hands -- how he seemed eager to touch all of her at once.
“Do you want me?” he asked, pressing a kiss to the corner of her lips.
“What do you think?” she muttered, hitching her hips upwards. His body shook and Hermione crumbled the fabric of his shirt in her fist.
His mouth found hers again, and she went under, unable to form any coherent thought as their hips snapped together over their clothes, their lips locked in a beautiful dance they created for themselves.
_
She pressed her eyelids closed, letting the quiet wash over her, their breathing the only sound echoing in the room.
They had been lying in bed for a while, naked and exhausted, bodies slick with sweat. Hermione waited for sleep to find her, but her heart was still racing inside her chest.
Draco was the one to break the silence. “We don’t get a peaceful day around here, do we, Granger?” he said, his voice barely audible.
Hermione snorted. “Doesn’t seem like it, no,” she agreed, opening her eyes. “You noticed?”
“You were sitting in the dark when I first came in, love,” he said, the corner of his lips twitching. “It was kind of obvious.”
“I don’t want to bother you with my problems,” said Hermione. “I know that I’m a lot to handle, even when I’m not constantly throwing my issues your way.”
“Have I ever made you feel like I wouldn’t listen, Granger?”
Hermione licked her lips. “You’re not in a good mood either,” she said. “I realized something recently.”
“Yeah?”
“I have this habit of putting everyone’s burdens above my own,” said Hermione. “And sometimes it’s too much for me to carry. People push and I cave in, then I don’t fix anything and I feel guilty.”
“Do I make you feel like that?”
“No, you don’t,” said Hermione, firmly. “But I’m working on getting these pieces of myself back, Draco, because I remember a time when I didn’t feel like this. And what I don’t want is to do the same thing to you without realizing.”
“I don’t think that’s the case, Granger.”
“Maybe not, but I wanted to say that it’s okay to focus on your issues first, and it’s okay if sometimes you can’t add more stress to yours. You didn’t look good when you got here tonight, so we don’t need to talk about my problems.”
Draco sighed, averting his gaze. She studied him, balling her hand into a fist so she wouldn’t reach out. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.
“I think it’s possible to find a balance,” he said. “I think it’s possible to let yourself be taken care of, without overwhelming someone. And you can be there, without letting someone else overwhelm you.”
“I don’t know how to find that balance,” she said quietly.
“We can help each other, if you want,” he whispered. Hermione wanted to ask how, she wanted a guidebook. She wondered if Draco knew that she was terrified of losing herself in the process of finding him.
She lifted her hand to caress his cheek, unsure of how to respond. He covered her hand with his. “We’re majorly messed up, Draco.”
He chuckled. “I don’t disagree.”
Hermione smiled when he squeezed her hand. We can help each other, she repeated to herself. “Alright,” she muttered. “You start.”
He didn’t answer straight away, and Hermione held her breath as she waited, wondering if he’d put his guards up, if he’d said empty words with no intention of backing them up.
“Okay” he said, in a shaky voice. “I’m going through the old debacle of trying to do the right thing and not getting screwed over in the process.”
Hermione clicked her tongue. “A very hard thing to accomplish.”
“Don’t I know it?” He raised a brow. “I don’t have a good history of making the right choices.”
It was hard for Hermione to offer any reasonable advice when he was talking in riddles, but she took it for what it was. He was trying. “I think you know what’s right.”
“I do?”
She hummed. “Sure. Maybe what you’re struggling with is finding the courage you need.”
“And what happens if I don’t find it?”
“I’m not sure, Draco,” sighed Hermione. “I think you’d have to learn to live with what that brings you. The places it’ll take you.”
“I guess,” he grunted. “So, what’s hurting you?”
Hermione took the hint, willing herself to keep her end of the bargain. She bit her bottom lip, trying to fight the shame she felt when she considered her predicament. He won’t judge you, she reassured herself.
“I got fired in the disguise of a bogus promotion,” she rushed out. “Congratulations, you’ve got rid of me pestering you twice a week.”
“What the fuck?” he frowned. “Are you joking?”
“I wish,” sighed Hermione, watching him bristle on her behalf. “When I talked to Hughman about Rookwood, it didn’t even cross my mind that he would find a way to retaliate. I feel so naive.”
“What a bloody git,” he snapped. “What can you do?”
“I don’t know,” she shook her head. “Cartwell warned me that I should’ve let it go, but I didn’t listen to her.”
“I’m sorry, Granger.”
“There are too many weird things happening around us, Draco,” she whispered. “I’m going to find out what’s going on. I’m sick of being out of the loop.”
Something indiscernible passed over his eyes, but he quickly pushed it away. “Sometimes it’s better to not know, Granger.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t like feeling used. And I think that’s exactly what’s been happening.”
Hermione thought he’d argue with her, but he just sighed.
“I’m not going to try to talk you out of it,” he said, sounding like he wanted to do exactly that.
“And you wouldn’t be able to,” she said. “I’m going to be more cautious this time.”
Hughman had taught Hermione a valuable lesson -- making her case without anything real in her arsenal had been foolish. It was necessary to understand all pieces of the puzzle before she made any moves. She had made it easy for Hughman to sweep the rug from under her, and she was determined not to repeat that mistake.
“I still feel bad, though,” she muttered. “Was I silly to think I was making progress? Even if it was with Theo? Even if it was with you?”
He exhaled a sharp breath. Hermione’s heart faltered as she waited, refusing to look him in the eye -- she didn’t want him to lie to make her feel better. She’d rather not know.
“I think,” he said hesitantly, “I think you were getting closer than anyone else, if that’s worth something.”
Hermione searched his gaze. “I’m furious.”
“Anger isn’t a weight, Granger,” said Draco, kissing her on the forehead. “For you, anger is a weapon.”