Vanilla

Draco visited Lucius’s grave on Mondays—sometimes Thursdays—but always Mondays.

The grave lay beneath the sprawling willow tree in the backyard of the Manor, marked by a plain headstone. Just a name, a birthdate, and a death date. Narcissa had wanted it to say, Loving Husband and Father, but Draco had refused, his opposition so firm that they hadn’t spoken for weeks. When she finally broke the silence, she was in tears, begging for forgiveness—for everything.

For not protecting him, for not stopping his father, for failing as a mother. 

A part of Draco would never forgive them. Never forgive his father for demanding more than he could ever give, for extinguishing the light inside him before it even had the chance to grow. Never forgive his mother for bowing her head and staying silent while Lucius’s anger thundered, for her stillness the night he writhed in agony after receiving the Dark Mark. He could still hear Lucius’s voice as the pain subsided, cold: “Crying shows weakness, boy. Malfoy men are not weak.” 

Narcissa had fallen for Lucius when she was barely more than a girl. Handsome, pureblooded, and endlessly charming, he had made her feel special, untouchable. She’d often told Draco that story, as if it were a fairytale. But love, for Narcissa, had been blind and all-consuming, drowning out reason and, eventually, her son. Lucius was her everything. Once Draco was born and Lucius began a downward spiral, Narcissa had to take the rose-tinted glasses off, and it had caused a sort of hatred for Draco that she never acknowledged or tried to prevent.

Draco had realised the bitter truth long ago: his mother had loved his father more than she would ever love him. But he didn’t resent her for it. How could he? She had been nineteen when she married, twenty-four when she had him—little more than a child herself, thrown into a world that demanded dutiful wives and perfect sons without ever warning of the sacrifices.

It was her job. He was her job. He often resented himself for taking a life away from her, she could’ve lived a good life without him. 

But she had to become a mother, and she didn’t know how to.

Draco loved his mother, more than anyone else. It was an odd juxtaposition, but he loved her. So he always visits his fathers grave to make her happy. 

Because while she took the rose-tinted glasses off, she still believes Lucius was a good man. 

“I’m going away for a while,” Draco began, standing before the gravestone the day before his departure. It was Monday. “So I won’t be able to visit for a bit. Not that you’d care, but… I thought I’d give you a heads-up.”

The wind whipped around him, rustling the leaves of the willow tree overhead. Its branches groaned as they swayed, casting fractured shadows across the grave. The sun broke through the gaps, catching Draco’s face, and he squinted against the light.

“Mum’s taking up piano again,” he said after a pause, his tone lighter. “She says you taught her. Claims she used to be able to play perfectly. I don’t know if that’s true, but I heard her the other day. She’s rusty, sure, but… give her a bit more practice, and she’ll be playing like a prodigy again.” He let out a dry chuckle. “It might be the only decent thing you ever did.”

He hesitated, his fingers brushing the edges of his coat pocket. “You’d probably disown me if you knew where I was going. Eight weeks away, helping protect a man trying to pass a bill for centaur and werewolf and merfolk rights. Imagine that.” His voice grew sharper, tinged with bitter amusement. “But I suppose you’d already have disowned me the moment you found out the bill was written by a Muggle-born. Two things you hated more than anything—giving rights to others and Muggle-borns.”

He stared at the headstone, its plainness almost mocking in its simplicity. There was more he could say, but he didn’t know how to put the tangled mess of his thoughts into words.

“Anyway,” he muttered, stepping back. “I’m having dinner with Mum now.”

Draco turned, ready to leave, but his feet stalled before he could take a second step. His throat felt tight, the words clawing their way out before he could stop them.

“I love you,” he said softly, his voice barely carrying over the rustling of the willow leaves. His chest clenched, as if his very body rebelled against the admission. But it hung there, heavy in the air, undeniable.

The last time he’d said those words to his father, he’d been sitting in that cold, sterile hospital room, Lucius’s lifeless body stretched out before him. Narcissa had filled the space with her grief, her cries echoing off the walls, while Draco sat silently, emotionless, the weight of everything unspeakable pressing down on him.

Now, he walked away without looking back, the memory trailing after him like a shadow.

Narcissa was waiting for him at the back entrance of the Manor, her posture as composed as ever. She quickly wiped away a stray tear, tight-lipped. Impeccably dressed, as always, she stood there like a portrait of elegance, not a hair out of place. Draco couldn’t remember a single day his mother hadn’t been perfectly groomed, even during the war when chaos reigned and survival took precedence over appearances.

He often wondered if she ever got tired of it.

“Thank you for doing that,” she said softly, her voice tinged with both gratitude and sadness. A lone tear slipped down her cheek, replacing the one she’d just wiped away.

Draco nodded in acknowledgment. She extended her arm, and he looped his into hers without hesitation. They walked into the Manor together, silent for a moment. Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, her entire demeanour shifted, her sadness tucked away beneath a familiar tone of determination.

“Oh!” she exclaimed lightly. “One of my friends mentioned her daughter recently broke up with her boyfriend. She’s quite pretty, apparently. I suggested the two of you meet—”

“Mum,” Draco interrupted, groaning.

“—Perhaps once you’re back from France, or Italy, or… wherever it is you’re going. We can arrange a nice lunch or—”

“No, Mum, please don’t,” he interjected, his voice laced with exasperation.

“Oh, stop complaining,” she replied breezily, ignoring him as if he hadn’t spoken. “Someone needs to fill this house with children. It’s dreadfully dreary, just the two of us.” She paused, glancing at him. “And stop fiddling with your tie. Honestly, Draco.”

He arrived promptly at the Ministry at quarter to eight. They were scheduled to depart around nine-thirty, but Draco preferred to arrive early. The quiet before the day’s chaos gave him time to gather himself.

Taking the lift up to his office, he carried a small mountain of mail that had accumulated over the weekend. Mondays were his designated day off, per his mother’s insistence, which meant his post often exceeded that of his colleagues over the weekend. His focus was on the letters as he unlocked the door and stepped inside, sorting them into a manageable pile.

The sound of someone clearing their throat broke his concentration. His head snapped up, his grip tightening slightly on the letters, and his gaze landed on Hermione Granger. She was seated in his chair, her posture composed but her eyes keenly observant.

Hermione Granger, in his office.

Draco froze. She had never set foot in here before. Their correspondence had always been through memos or dictated letters, never in person. What struck him more was the fact that they were alone—a rare and unsettling occurrence. His heart betrayed him, quickening its pace as his mind scrambled to catch up.

After a moment of stillness, he moved with forced composure, depositing the stack of letters onto a nearby shelf before turning back to face her.

“Granger,” he started coolly, his brow arching as he studied her. “May I ask why you’ve decided to make yourself at home in my office? And—” his frown deepened as the thought hit him “—how, exactly, you managed to get past my wards?”

Hermione, unfazed, stood gracefully and shuffled through a neat stack of parchment she’d brought with her. Without preamble, she handed him a single memo.

“From Kingsley,” she said simply, her tone brisk. “Read it, and then we can discuss why I’m here.”

Draco accepted the memo, his fingers brushing hers briefly, a moment he immediately chastised himself for noticing. He raised a brow, scanning her face for a clue, but found nothing except calm resolve. As he unfolded the parchment, his mind lagged behind, still trying to reconcile the sheer oddity of this situation—Hermione Granger, in his office, entirely uninvited.

He looked down at the memo, the words blurring for a moment as his focus sharpened. His eyes skimmed over the text once, twice, ensuring he hadn’t misread it.

When the meaning fully sank in, his stomach plummeted.

He had got his wish—he wouldn’t be spending eight weeks with McCain after all. However…

“McCain has apparently taken rather ill and has been transported to St. Mungo’s,” Hermione began, her tone brisk, though tinged with dry amusement. “If you ask me, I’d say his liver has finally given up.”

She drew a measured breath, her expression settling into something more neutral. “So, due to the short notice—and with no one else having the requisite seniority or familiarity with the bill—Kingsley has recommended I take his place.”

Draco’s grip tightened slightly on the parchment as the reality set in. Eight weeks. He would now be spending eight weeks with Hermione Granger. Not entirely alone—two other aurors would be accompanying them—but as her main security detail, he’d be with her for almost every waking moment. Twenty-four hours a day.

“As for your other two questions,” she said, not looking up as she began to organise her stack of files. “I made myself feel ‘at home’ because your chair is unusually comfortable, and as for your wards... well, let’s just say, I suspect even a third-year could manage to break in.”

Draco bristled slightly, though her tone was almost teasing. Almost.

She glanced at him briefly, before she straightened the last of her files. “We’ll need to work on those if I’m to trust you with my protection.”

Hermione gathered her things, strode up to him, plucked the memo from his hands, and headed for the door.

“I’ll see you in forty-five minutes,” she said over her shoulder before promptly exiting, leaving Draco rooted to the spot where he’d stood since he first entered the room.

For a moment, his mind refused to catch up. Then, like a crashing wave, awareness hit him all at once.

He pinched his arm sharply, half hoping to wake up from what he thought must be some bizarre pseudo-nightmare. The sharp sting confirmed otherwise, and he grimaced at his own foolishness. No, this was real.

It also dawned on him, with no small amount of mortification, that he’d likely looked like a complete idiot—standing there dumbfounded, slack-jawed, and utterly silent while she breezed in and out of his space as though she owned it.

But could anyone blame him? First, the shock of finding Granger—of all people—alone in his office. Then, the bombshell that he’d be spending eight long weeks with her. And finally, the most unexpected twist: she’d joked with him. Well, more of a pointed jab than a joke, but still. Hermione Granger, making a quip in his presence, had been so unprecedented it completely short-circuited his brain.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. He’d need to pull himself together—and fast. There was no way he could afford to let her catch him off guard like that again.

Then he smelt it.

Vanilla.

It lingered in the air like it belonged there, as if it had decided to settle and make itself comfortable in his office. The scent tugged at his memory, dragging him back to the moment he’d caught it in his amortentia. It had been all-consuming then, and it was utterly disastrous now, scrambling his thoughts and making his stomach twist.

“Fuck.”

This was not going to help—certainly not with the tension already roiling within him every time Granger crossed his mind. Now her stupid perfume was adding fuel to the fire.

At precisely 9:27, Draco left his office, stepping into the lift and descending to Kingsley’s floor. He made a point to straighten his robes, smoothing out imaginary creases before taking a steadying breath. When he finally opened the door to Kingsley’s office, he walked in with the practiced confidence of someone who spent years perfecting the art of appearing unflappable.

Kingsley sat behind his expansive mahogany desk, calm as ever, while Granger occupied one of the chairs opposite him. An empty seat beside her waited. Draco made his way over, avoiding her gaze, and sat down, crossing one leg over the other in what he hoped came off as casual indifference.

Kingsley cleared his throat, placing a sheet of parchment in front of both of them.

“This is your updated itinerary.” He began, his deep voice steady and authoritative. “Draco, I trust Hermione has informed you of McCain’s sudden… illness. In light of that, we’ve made a few adjustments to your schedule. You’ll begin in Ireland instead of Scotland and conclude in Romania rather than Russia. Additionally, your stay in Italy will be extended. With the new Italian Minister of Magic being appointed later this week, we felt it prudent for Hermione to have extra time to familiarise herself with him before negotiations begin.”

Draco’s mind snagged on the last part. It was a smart change, he had to admit—one he’d actually suggested to McCain a few days ago. The older gentleman had dismissed it outright. Now, seeing it implemented, he couldn’t help but suspect Granger was behind the decision. She struck him as the type who preferred to have every fact, every angle, firmly in hand before stepping into any sort of debate.

He ignored the persistent scent of vanilla.

“Right, sounds good,” he said, his voice even.

“I assume you two have everything packed and ready to go?” Kingsley asked, his sharp gaze flicking between them.

“Yes,” Hermione replied crisply, her tone as efficient as ever. Draco nodded in agreement, keeping his response silent.

“Good,” Kingsley said, leaning back in his chair with a faint smile. “Well, I’ll see you both in eight weeks. Not that either of you will need luck—competence isn’t something either of you are short on.”

Hermione offered a polite smile, while Draco merely inclined his head.

The walk to the main atrium was a study in silence. The only sounds were the clacking of Hermione’s heels and the soft rustle of their robes. Draco kept his pace steady beside her, though every time her arm brushed his, a sharp jolt of awareness shot through him. He drew in shallow, controlled breaths, determined not to let the proximity unravel him. If Hermione noticed his tension, she gave no indication—except for the occasional sideways glance, her brows furrowed as though trying to decipher his peculiar behaviour.

Just before they reached the lift, Hermione came to an abrupt halt, stopping Draco in his tracks.

She inhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Look,” she said, holding up a hand as if to ward off interruption. Draco tilted his head slightly, crossing his arms. He didn’t speak but raised an eyebrow, silently inviting her to continue.

“We’ve had... our fair share of issues over the years,” she began, her tone tight but measured. “But I also understand that you’re one of the best Aurors in the Ministry. Evidently, Harry trusts you enough to put you in charge of my protection.”

Draco’s lips twitched as if to speak, but he stayed quiet, sensing she wasn’t finished.

“I know this change was sprung on you last minute,” she continued, her expression softening ever so slightly, “and for that, I apologise. However—” her voice sharpened again, her gaze hardening “—while you may be competent at your job, and Harry might trust you implicitly, I do not.”

Draco opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“No. Don’t interrupt me. I need to make this abundantly clear.” Her voice dropped, simmering with quiet intensity. “I trust very few people. And you, Malfoy—the boy who made my life hell for years—are not one of them. You may have redeemed yourself in the Ministry’s eyes, in Harry’s eyes, maybe even society’s. But for me? It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a stellar performance record and a few nods of approval from others.”

Her words hit with the precision of a hex, each syllable deliberate and cutting.

“You’ve barely spoken to me since you were hired. You’ve never apologised. Not once. And yet, I’m expected to put my life in your hands for eight weeks.” She paused, her expression tight with restrained emotion. 

She stood there for a moment, breathing deeply, her eyes sharp and unyielding. Draco realised with a sinking feeling that she had practised this speech—carefully chosen her words, rehearsed how to confront him. The thought sent a pang of guilt straight to his core.

While he had been preoccupied with his own foolish crush, spinning fantasies that she might see him as something other than the boy he used to be, Hermione had been remembering the person he had been—the one he’d spent years trying to bury.

Any shred of approval or civility he thought he’d earned from her wasn’t born of forgiveness or understanding. It was professionalism. Pure, clinical detachment. And now, as she stood before him, exposing her honest feelings with unwavering resolve, it hit him how far he still had to go to earn even a fraction of her trust.

She still saw him as a threat, and that realisation filled him with shame. It was a sharp, bitter emotion he couldn’t ignore, but he knew it was deserved. That didn’t make it any easier to bear.

“Hermione,” he began quietly, his voice softer than he intended. Her breath hitched at the sound of her name from his lips, and she froze ever so slightly, as though bracing herself for what he might say next.

He took a step closer, his gaze steady and sincere. “I know this is far too late, and it’s a mistake I’ll regret for the rest of my life. But I want you to know—truly—that I’ve changed. Whatever it takes for you to see that, to believe that... I’ll do it.”

She didn’t respond immediately. Her arms stayed crossed, her posture rigid, but her eyes searched his face as though trying to find any cracks in his sincerity.

Draco held his ground, hoping his words might chip away at the wall she had built. He didn’t want her forgiveness—not yet. He wanted a chance to start over. A clean slate.

For now, she stayed guarded, her expression unreadable.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Was all she said, before marching away from him.