Chapter 10
Hermione couldn’t believe she was conversing with her old school bully – or that she was even enjoying herself. Over plates of osso bucco and Mediterranean salad, Draco had explained how after the war, he had chosen to use his family’s funds to build a potions agency. He had always excelled in potions at Hogwarts (Hermione had always assumed he was getting good grades because of Snape’s favouritism, but even when Snape had become the defence against the dark arts teacher in their fifth year, Draco had gotten an ‘O’ in his potions OWL), and now with his father in Azkaban, Draco had inherited the Malfoy fortune, and had decided to put it to good use.
“The original plan was to just improve the taste of the potion,” Draco explained, excitedly gesticulating with his fork, “but once I started breaking the potion down to its ingredients I wondered if there was just an overall better way to brew it.”
Hermione nibbled on a piece of cucumber. “If you do end up brewing a potion that takes less time to make, what would the end goal be? Would you outcompete other suppliers on the market?”
Draco shook his head, poking at the beef knuckle on his plate. “I don’t think there’s any need for it. Perhaps I would have it published in schoolbooks or household guides so that people can produce it themselves instead of relying on suppliers.”
“That sounds very closely aligned with my project,” Hermione noted. She bit her lip. Would it be too much to ask Draco to operate as a researcher for her new project? It seemed like a big ask, especially considering they had only started talking this evening. All of this was likely small talk, she was sure of it.
Before she could speak further, a young wizard with fluffy brown hair sat down beside the two. “Hello, you.”
Hermione beamed up at Neville Longbottom. “Hi, Neville!”
Draco awkwardly nodded at the professor.
“Mind if I join you two here?” Neville asked. “I decided to join the ball so I could get away from the Hogwarts work, and instead I’ve had parents bothering me every five minutes to bump up their children’s grades.”
“Of course!” Hermione shuffled her chair closer to Draco to make space for Neville. The Hogwarts professor sat down, and a plate magically appeared in front of him.
“How is Hogwarts?” Draco asked politely. “I haven’t been since, well, you know.”
Neville nodded, understanding what the other wizard was referring to. “Hogwarts has been great. The rebuilding project actually resulted in a lot of inter-house connectivity and it’s thriving. Even more than when Dumbledore was headmaster, if I say so myself.” He busied himself with the tureen of stroganoff that had materialised on his plate.
“You know,” he added, pointing a bread roll in Draco’s direction. “The new Potions master, professor Dagworth, isn’t bad, but I know McGonagall would have preferred that you had taken up the position instead. She feels very strongly about having professors closer to the students’ ages teach them.”
“McGonagall offered you a job at Hogwarts?” Hermione asked, mystified.
Draco scratched his ear, clearly uncomfortable with the attention that both she and Neville were giving him. “Yes,” he replied. “After the school was rebuilt, she sent me an owl asking if I would be willing to take on the role. The only requirement was that I return for our eighth year and get a NEWT in potions since that was the qualification that all Hogwarts professors have to have.”
“We could have all been at Hogwarts for our eighth year then!” Hermione exclaimed.
Draco shrugged noncommittally. “I don’t think I was the most suited for the role, given my history and all.”
“Bullshit.” Neville frowned, scooping up another spoonful of mushrooms and beef. “You know better than I do that people who directly experiences the Second Wizarding War can better teach the subjects at Hogwarts, given the direct exposure and all.”
Draco poked at a stray leaf on his plate, not saying anything. Hermione could sense his discomfort and hastily changed the topic.
“Neville, would you care for some dessert?” She asked, picking up the silver-edged menu in the centre of the table.
“Yes, please,” Neville grinned, mopping up the remaining gravy on his dish with a chunk of bread and cramming it into his mouth. “You’ll have some too, right, Draco?”
Hermione froze, stunned. Neville had just called the blond wizard by his first name. Were the two – friends? It seemed so, because rather than protest, the slytherin just nodded, and picked up a menu for himself.
Once the three had ordered (Neville a strawberry and hazelnut tart, Hermione a custardy crème brûlée sprinkled with violets, and Draco a chocolate lava cake), Neville launched into another conversation with Draco, the two talking about potion ingredients and where to procure the best ones. Several times, Neville offered to grow some of the plants that were often used in potioneering, but Draco politely shut him down each time.
Hermione marvelled at their dynamic between tiny, mouse-like bites of her dessert. She never would have thought that Neville, of all people would have such a bond with Draco Malfoy, especially when you considered that Neville probably got bullied by the Slytherin more than she did.
Perhaps Draco Malloy no longer was the man she thought he was.
Her train of thought was interrupted when the band on the stage began playing, and couples began milling on the dance floor.
There was a tap on her shoulder, and Hermione froze for a moment when she caught sight of a flash of red hair.
George grinned down at her, his hand outstretched. “Come on,” he said. “I’ve promised Angeline the last dance.”
Hermione glanced apologetically at Draco and Neville, the latter good-naturedly waving her off. Setting her bag on her seat, she took George’s hand, and he pulled her over to the dance floor.
With one hand on her waist and another grasping hers firmly, the redhead gazed down at her as they began a slow waltz. “How are you holding up? I reckon you’ve already seen that.” He jerked his head in the direction of where a certain witch and wizard were snuggled up to one another, so close that you could barely discern one face from the other’s.
Hermione took a deep breath. “If I’m honest? Not great.” George nodded sympathetically. “I mean, it’s fine when I’m at work with Corinne or when I’m busy doing something with Harry and Parvati, but when I’m alone with my thoughts –“
“You can’t stop thinking about it,” George finished off. “You don’t have to explain grief to me, Hermione. I lost my twin brother and there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about him.” He swallowed hard.
“Well, you have more reason to grieve,” Hermione justified. “He was your soulmate. You lost him so soon, and it’s not like me and Ron. He didn’t betray you or hurt you.”
George shook his head. “No, Hermione.” Seeing him so serious, no longer laughing, but with a somber expression and a dark shadow cast over his face, was unnerving. “Grief doesn’t choose how it’s going to hurt, or why. It doesn’t matter what Ron did to you. You loved him deeply, and now he’s gone. And you’ll never get him back, and that’s going to hurt, even if it’s for the better.”
Hermione felt her eyes sting. “He doesn’t deserve me missing him,” she spat. “He’s the one who fucked off.”
George burst out laughing. “Look at you,” he marvelled. “Swearing like a sailor. Where did the bossy Head Girl Hermione who banned our Skiving Snackboxes go?”
Smiling despite herself, Hermione shrugged. “I guess my priorities have changed.”
George dipped her low. “There’s always good to loss. I may have lost Fred, but it brought Percy and I closer than we ever had been before. And look at you now! Not giving a shit what other people think of you and keeping your head high. I think it’s worth it to lose Ron if I get to see more of this Hermione.” He winked cheekily.
Hermione laughed, feeling a lot lighter than she had when she had first stepped into the ball. “I suppose you’re right. There’s going to be some good that comes out of this.”
“You suppose?!” George twirled her quite ferociously, fake indignation all over his face. “You just got a Weasley Wizard Awakening, young lady, I expect a little more praise.”
Hermione squealed as she spun, the vertigo making her dizzy and giggly. “Okay okay okay,” she conceded, trying to catch her breath. “You’re right, George, thanks for the Awakening.”
George beamed, spinning her around one last time as the song came to an end. “And you can always drop by for a visit if you need some Dungbombs for a – ahem – certain purpose.” He winked.
Hermione hugged the wizard tightly, hoping to convey her gratitude. “Thank you,” she breathed, as George rubbed her back gently.
Someone cleared their throat loudly. “Excuse me, brother dearest, but I’d like to have a dance with my girlfriend, now.”