Chapter 8
The hall broke out in a wave of whispers; some scandalised, some excited. Granger’s face was a delicious shade of pink, her mouth opening and closing in that swotty, irate way she used to do when someone else answered a question before her in class.
“Mr. Malfoy, I can assure you, that I am perfectly capable of remaining unbiased,” she finally insisted, her words high pitched and breathy.
“Really?” Draco asked, his mouth falling into an exaggerated frown as he glanced around in faux contemplation. “Forgive me, I must have misunderstood Precious Potter and King Weasley’s intentions when they tried to raid my home without a warrant at your insistence last night.”
The smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks disappeared as her face became flushed with fury and embarrassment.
“Perhaps we should move this conversation elsewhere,” Igor suggested, placing a hand a touch lower on Granger’s back than was strictly necessary - or appropriate - as he glanced at the overly interested interns warily.
Draco refrained from rolling his eyes. He had not been surprised to find Granger in a position of authority here at St. Mungo’s. In fact, she was one of the main reasons he had applied for the position within the Magical and Muggle Maladies Ward. Granger had always been a pioneer in the procurement and production of knowledge on a large scale, and had been one of the seminal researchers in combining Magical Healing and Muggle Medicine.
His time in the Muggle world, so far removed from the influence and indoctrination of his youth, had allowed him the time and space to reflect on the person he’d been while at Hogwarts. He’d been a complete and utter arse to Hermione Granger. Begrudgingly, he could admit he’d been one towards Potter and Weasley as well, but then, they’d returned his barbs and jeers in kind. Potter had nearly severed his torso from his body in sixth year, for Salazar’s sake! So while he felt some modicum of guilt over his words and actions towards Golden Idiot One and Golden Idiot Two, it was nothing compared to the actual remorse he felt over his treatment of the Golden Girl.
Granger had rarely stooped to his level: had never thrown the first punch, so to speak - excluding the one occasion during which she had, actually, punched him. He could forgive her for that one: she’d been provoked. Her retorts were usually in the defence of others and very rarely for herself. More often than not she had merely ignored him, which, if he was being honest, had incited him to toss more insults her way. He’d liked the attention back then, very much ascribing to the “no publicity is bad publicity” policy.
He’d contemplated apologising to her several times since his ban from the Magical World had been lifted, but somehow his words rang false through the parchment. He’d tried to apologise to her at his mother’s party - had even thought he’d made some headway in that regard, and then the Resurgence Movement had appeared and her first thought had been that he was the one leading the charge.
After Potter and Weasley had shown up sans warrant at her apparent insistence, Draco had seriously contemplated giving up his spot, but his ego and his pride had ultimately decided otherwise. Apart from that, he’d done enough therapy to recognise that while he might have given up his old prejudices and misgivings, Granger didn’t know that, and she might not have given up her own.
She’d not yet learned this new version of him; in her mind, he was still the pompous, arrogant, blood purist from their youth. A quick apology and dance at his mother’s party weren’t enough to change her perception of him, he knew. So he’d arrived this morning, intent to move forward. Potter and Weasley had verified his alibi, and if Granger needed more proof that was on her.
What had surprised him was Anton Igor at her side. Igor was bloody brilliant, there was no dismissing that - even if he wanted to. One year ahead of him at Cambridge, Igor was like the older brother Draco had never wanted. Draco was always in Igor’s shadow, his professors always comparing his achievements to Igor’s. It was infuriating.
Beyond that, everyone around him was charmed and enchanted by Igor. The women loved his accent and the way his jacket clung to his shoulder blades just so, and his windswept hair, and all other sorts of rubbish that he’d been forced to overhear. The men loved his affinity to pick up any intramural sport as if he were born to it, his confident demeanour, the charismatic way in which he made everyone around him feel included. He was always willing to provide assistance, lend an ear, buy a pint for someone down on their luck.
Then there were the professors, who were positively enraptured by Igor. It was, quite simply, nauseating. Draco’s therapist felt his disdain for Igor stemmed from jealousy and his own need to be the most liked - or at least most respected - person in the room. That was tosh, in Draco’s opinion, but he respected his therapist too much to voice that particular sentiment.
It must be some sort of karmic retribution that Igor was a Wizard, and not just a Doctor but a Healer too. Bloody fucking unreal that he’d wound up here, as the Chief Resident. On top of all that, he clearly had a thing for Granger. The only silver lining was that Granger appeared to be completely unaware of the fact - either that, or she didn’t reciprocate Igor’s feelings.
Igor was currently glancing between the two of them with a confused, calculating expression, clearly uncertain of their connection to one another.
“Anton, could you escort the other interns to the tea room for the Donor’s Breakfast? Malfoy and I will be there shortly,” she said, glaring at Draco.
“I can come back after I drop them off, if -”
“That won’t be necessary. Thank you, Anton,” she interrupted, turning to smile at him.
Igor glanced between her and Draco once more before nodding and clapping his hands, silencing the audience, who had been watching and whispering with more attention than they’d given to Granger’s Orientation speech. Granger narrowed her eyes at Draco and brushed past him without a word of acknowledgement as she strode up the slope of the auditorium and out into the hallway without a backwards glance. With little choice in the matter, he followed her, his lips twitching with amusement at the tension that was radiating off of her as she led him down the corridor in the opposite direction of Igor and the other interns.
Other Healers nodded at her, politely moving out of her way as she marched them towards what he could only assume was her office. She stopped outside the door, indicating for him to go inside. Had they been ten years younger, he would have swaggered in and made a show of glancing around distastefully, his face set in a sneer. As it was not ten years ago, and he was a reformed man with years of therapy to show for it, he merely sat down in the chair she directed him to and waited patiently.
Granger shut the door and sat down at her desk, studying him for a long moment. “About last night,” she said slowly, and for a heartbeat he almost thought she meant the mind altering shag fest they’d had, but then she continued with “I’m sorry about sending Harry and Ron over. It was wrong of me to misuse my influence with the Ministry - ”
He snorted. “Never mind the fact that your accusations were unfounded,” he interrupted.
She glared at him, clearly not used to people speaking over her. “I apologise, but under the circumstances -”
“What circumstances?” Draco interrupted again.
She huffed a sharp breath through her nostrils, her exasperation evident. “Well, do you truly believe my line of thinking was so out of pocket as to be unbelievable? A Death Eater Resurgence the very evening you, a known Death Eater, returns to the Wizarding World?”
“Or incredibly convenient; a beautiful sleight of hand by a puppet master pulling the strings of easily persuaded minds hell bent on believing the worst of me.” The apples of her cheeks flushed with indignation as she considered his words.
“You think a decade long absence and a quaint apology are enough to make me forget the years of torment and abuse you enacted on your ascent to becoming the youngest Death Eater in history? You honestly think my concerns were unfounded?”
“Perhaps not, based on past mistakes and grievances, Granger, but do you not think that a decade long absence is not enough time for me to regret my choices, to learn from them, to put in the time and effort to atone for them?”
“Hiding away in the Muggle world to save face -”
“I was not hiding away! I was enjoying the freedom from my cage for the first time in my life! I was embracing a new culture that I found myself quite comfortable with, I was learning to live - to heal. It might do you well to remember why I am here in the first place: that during that time I came to care for Muggles enough to become a Doctor, that I loved one enough to - ” he cut himself off, having unintentionally revealed more than he meant.
She stared at him, surprised.
“Potter and Weasley have verified my alibi, why can’t that be enough for you?” Draco asked, glaring at her.
“Just because you were not actively involved with the events of the Resurgence Movement last night does not mean you were not complicit!”
He reeled back at her words as if he had slapped him. That was the crux of it all, wasn’t it? He’d been complicit for so much of the War. Docile, obedient, a dog on a leash, following whatever orders his Masters gave him. Masters, plural, because it had not just been Voldemort, but his own father, that made egregious demands of him. Well, there was something to discuss with his therapist later. A whole new facet of Daddy Issues.
“Granger,” he sighed, feeling more defeated than he had in a long time. “I know you don’t believe me, but I was not, am not, nor will I ever be complicit with the events of the Resurgence Movement. I have cooperated fully, and without complaint, with the DMLE, even when their actions were less than legal. I will continue to do so, and I am happy to provide assistance in whatever capacity to put a stop to the Resurgence Movement.”
He leaned forward and placed a small vial on her desk, a silvery blue memory swirling within. “A copy of my alibi,” he said softly.
“Now, shall we attend the Donor’s Breakfast? It would be rather a bad look for both of us to miss it, I should think, considering your position and my family’s own contributions to St. Mungo’s. You can let Igor know that my concerns regarding your biases have been noted.”
He rose and walked to the door, waiting as she pocketed the vial and followed him out, tension and remorse swirling between them.