Chapter 9
The last training session before the World Cup kicked off had ended at lunchtime with everyone feeling good enough for the coming games. The team was strong and their working ethic stronger. Draco had a good feeling about it. For the first time, he could be more than confident in their ability to win something.
The team piled into the Leaky Cauldron, one after the other, moving tables and chairs together to sit next to each other. Cheers and whoops came from the regular patrons as they took to the bar, ordering pints of beer and drams of firewhiskey.
“Cheers!”
The quidditch team erupted into a fit of cheering and whooping, clinking glasses together so hard the drink spilled a little over the side. Draco sat in the middle among them, smiling and quite happy for once. So much so, everyone noticed. Ginny especially.
“Right, right! Listen for a minute you hooligans,” Ginny commanded, standing on her seat and capturing the attention of the team. “I think we should all give a big cheer for the man that got us here. Now, we all know he’s a bit of a prick, a bit of a wanker, but we all respect him for the player he is. Give it up for our ferret, Draco Malfoy!”
The team cheered, clapping at Draco which made him feel oddly appreciated. His cheeks tinged slightly pink as they calmed and enjoyed their drinks.
The deal made at the end of the training session was to have a few sociable drinks with friends, but Draco could envision it now, staying until last orders, shotting whatever was going, drinking three drinks at a time. It was not the night for it.
“Right, home time!” Every single person of the English National Team booed, loud and obnoxiously. “We are not playing our first match of the World Cup hungover and grumpy. Get home, get a decent meal and sleep and I’ll see you in the village tomorrow.”
Begrudgingly, the team agreed to look at the bigger picture for once and therefore no more drinks were bought, and they filtered out. Draco finished his own and Flooed home without a glance backwards. He had too many things to do today.
He walked out of the Floo walking through his empty and quiet living room and making his way to the spare bedroom he used for the majority of his stuff, surveying the makeshift office for his health and wellness report Hermione had filled in and signed off. It had completely slipped his mind to file it, and he couldn’t imagine The Department of Magical Games and Sports would be too happy with him if they didn’t receive it prior to the first match.
Sticking out of the book on top of the desk, he finally spotted it. A beige coloured parchment that had been the bane of his life to obtain. Glancing over, the corner of his lips tugged upwards ever so slightly. She had missed a line. The first line had her signature as well as Draco’s, but she had missed the bottom line.
He turned on the spot and disapparated to the foyer of St Mungo’s, his lips still holding their ghost of a smile. The waiting rooms were busy enough for Draco to have to weave in and out of the people waiting for treatment or to visit relatives. A few times he collided shoulders with someone and had to utter a quick, “Sorry!” before turning back and marching on his way. By the time he reached the rehabilitation centre he was slightly out of puff and warm. No one was manning the main desk, and it left him in two minds whether or not to just walk through. With how positive his previous encounter with his ex-wife had left him, he decided to carry on through to her office.
Taking a deep breath, he walked round the desk and carried on down the corridor. Her door was ajar, and his curiosity got the better of him. Leaning against the wall, he stuck his head round. “Granger?” There was no reply. He took one step in, scanning the room quickly. His eyes stopped on a ponytail of bushy, unkempt hair. “Granger. What the hell are you doing on the fl—”
He stopped as she turned to him, tears streaming down her face. Draco’s face morphed into confusion as he moved across the room towards her. Almost on instinct he knelt on one knee and placed a hand on her shoulder. Hermione jumped at the touch but didn’t move away, if anything she moved a few mere centimetres closer.
“I’ve got you, pretty girl.”
Her office was a mess by Hermione’s standards. Files laid on the sideboards not put away, mail piled on the perch by the door and coffee cups started collecting on the side of the desk. Draco continued to hold her, let her know she could cry and was safe in his arms for as long as she needed him to be there while he continued to glance round the room.
There. On the wall surrounded by her countless achievements – far too many for an average person – the calendar. But this was the second week of May, not the second day of May, so why –
It hit him like a bludger.
Her parent’s anniversary.
Salazar strike him! How did he not realise straight away?
He squeezed a little tighter. Her sobs squeezed his heart a little tighter in return. She was cold, pale, and he couldn’t work out if the trembling was just the crying or shaking from lack of food. Draco knew it fine well, she was still grieving, still wishing she could have changed the outcome of their early demise.
He could recall the day it happened in May 2004. Kingsley had called for Hermione to visit him in the ministry, not unusual at the time of year he had discovered since being around the Gryffindors. They had laughed, joked around that it was because of their newly established relationship. He had felt guilty for days afterwards.
The thought of Hermione’s parents being captured and tortured for information filled her with so much terror, she removed herself from their memories, creating false ones and sending them to the other side of the world. Along with the help of both the British and Australian Ministries of Magic, their memories were fully restored but couldn’t bring themselves to come back. They had lived a false life in everyone else’s eyes, but they had actually lived it. Believed it.
Living a suburban dream, they were safe. Secure from the magics that nearly ripped them of their daughter one too many times. Except muggle life brought just as much danger as well, one no one had really thought to be considered. A drunk driver ran them off of a country road and they succumbed to their injuries.
It was clear Hermione had never forgiven herself and if he was honest, Draco didn’t think she ever would.
“I’m sorry.” Removing herself from his embrace, she sat up, leaning against the oversized chair she liked to read on. He had often found her there late at night, asleep with some research in her hands. “I was fine the full day and I-I just thought about them for half a second and—”
“Stop apologising, Granger. Cry and scream from the rooftops if you must.” His knee and hand were lightly brushing hers and he couldn’t resist the urge to squeeze it reassuringly. “Do you have any more patients? Or are you done for the day?”
“Done for the day, thankfully. I’m going to stay and monitor—”
“No. Go home, Granger. You need the rest, and you need to eat.”
“I ate an apple this morn—”
Draco lightly grabbed her shoulders, twisting her torso in his direction. “Not good enough. Go and make a proper meal.” His voice was stern, demanding. He knew she lacked the capacity to put herself before anything or anyone else.
“Okay.”
“Okay. Glad we cleared that up.” Draco rose to his feet, straightening his jacket and wiping down his trousers. “I’ll see you around, Hermione.” Without a look back, he made his way to the door.
“Wait!” Hermione too rose from the ground, wiping her eyes of the tears and fixing herself. Draco turned, looking at her caused a smile breaking through his harsh façade. “Why are you smiling?”
“Your hair. It’s never been so, so bushy,” Draco said smoothly. “Honestly, the volume in it is impressive, Granger.”
She let out a giggle before crossing her arms to look annoyed, but she didn’t truly seem it in the slightest. “Shut up, Mr Perfect Hair. I’m sorry my hair genes were never as good as yours.”
“They never will be. My perfect hair is superior to all,” Draco scoffed. He had missed the sarcastic comments he could throw at her, and the ones she could throw back worse.
“Moving swifty on you prat... Should you not be leading your team to victory?”
“We trained this morning, and I let them go to the Leaky for a celebratory drink. Get their spirits and such up. Only one though, they can’t be hungover going into the first match. I’d kill them myself.”
“Ah, I see. Why are you here then?” Hermione asked, moving to sit behind her huge oak wood desk. She grabbed a tissue, wiping her eyes and nose once more before vanishing it and giving Draco her full attention.
Draco placed the parchment on her desk, pointing to the bottom. “You erm, you missed a signature on my release form. I would say it’s not urgent, but I have to fi—”
“File it with the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Got it.” She looked it over once, twice and a third before lifting her head. “Would you mind if I check it once more? Your muscle mass still wasn’t as high as it was before.”
Draco shook his head. “Not at all, fire away.” He hiked himself onto the uncomfortable bed, laying on his back. “Would it kill you to put a few pillows on this thing?”
Hermione laughed. “Why would I need pillows? Patients are on the bed for a few minutes maximum, just to let me carry out an exam. Then usually they do some physical therapy which involves movement, not laying on a bed.”
Draco huffed. “Those few minutes are bloody sore then.”
“Stop being dramatic. Extend your leg for me, good. How does that feel?” She held his leg with a featherlight touch, remembering exactly the points he had been feeling the pain.
“Not tight anymore, no more of the pulling feeling. It feels fine.”
“You haven’t been overexerting yourself? Out with the confines of playing quidditch? And all the excess training on top of that of course.”
“How do you mean?” Draco failed to catch her meaning which seemingly disappointed her.
She sighed, reluctantly opening her mouth again. “Intense running, intense stretching, any other intense physical workouts?” Hermione asked, her voice getting a little higher for every word.
Draco frowned. “What else would count as an intense physical…” the words trailed off and the penny dropped.
Is she actually asking me this?
“Hermione, are you asking me if I have had sex?”
Her cheeks blushed furiously, making her turn around to her desk at the speed of lightning. Hermione scribbled a quick signature with her pen, dating it the same as the previous one. “There we are, now you are officially back in Team England.”
“Now, hang on a minute,” Draco quickly said, sitting up and running a hand through his messy hair. “Granger. Look me in the eye and ask me your question.”
Her eyebrows raised at the command, and he was suddenly unsure of himself. If he had crossed a line it would send them completely spiralling backwards. As if you have made any progress. She moved closer, stopping an inch before his knees would hit her thighs.
“Yes, Malfoy, I am asking if you have had sex.”
He was surprised she actually came out and said it. His eyebrows flew up, the breath knocked from him momentarily. The temperature in the room skyrocketed at least ten degrees. “I have not,” he ground out, forcing his breathing to keep steady and willing his voice to work.
“I see. Well, that’s good.” She smiled slightly. “For healing your leg of course. You’re a free man to do as you please.” It was a nice attempt at a cover, he could appreciate her attempt. Stepping over a line was exactly what Draco’s specialty was so obviously; he had to ask her.
“Have you? Engaged in sexual activities of your own?”
Ew. That was an awkward way to ask Draco. Fool.
Hermione attempted to stifle her snort. “No. I have not.”
Relief flooded him and yet, he didn’t know why. He couldn’t be angry at her, could he? Would it hold up in a court of law when he was already an accused adulterer? Probably not.
“Glad to have cleared that one up then,” he said. Hermione just nodded. He picked up the sign off sheet and gestured to it. “Thanks for this.”
“Anytime, Malfoy. You better hurry if you’re to catch them. They’ll need time to make copies and send it to the Quidditch association. Filing is hard work you know,” she giggled.
“I’ll make tracks then. Thank you, Hermione. Truly, I erm, I couldn’t have done it without you.” He was suddenly embarrassed to be making such a declaration, but it was the truth. “Are you coming to the game? Obviously not for me, for y-your country. Your country’s quidditch team.” He couldn’t help stumbling over the words.
“We’ll see,” Hermione replied softly.
“We’ll see,” he echoed.