Chapter 8
Despite having showered the previous night, Hermione decided to shower again. Seeking to rinse off the last traces of sweat left from her nightmare, she stood under the hot water for longer than she needed to.
Sharing things with Malfoy didn’t make it worse. He didn’t laugh her off, didn’t tell her that she’d get there eventually. He didn’t remind her that others had it worse, that it could have been worse. He listened and shared in return, showing that while he didn’t know, he could understand.
It didn’t make it all go away. She would still have nightmares. But when she did, maybe he would be there to listen. Maybe.
After using her wand to dry her curls in a tidier way, she dressed herself and padded down the corridor to Malfoy’s room. She knocked twice on the door and stood back. The door opened quickly, and Malfoy peered out.
“Everything alright, Granger?” A tinge of concern touched his voice, but only slightly.
“Oh, yeah, nothing’s wrong. Did you want me to show you this charm? It can wait until later if you’re busy, I just had some time before I started looking over my notes for the potion.”
“Yes, come in. I’ll just grab the books I want to take this afternoon.” He stepped aside, making room for Hermione to slip into the room. It wasn’t dissimilar to hers, just decorated with a few more personal effects.
Without trying to be nosy, she spied a picture of a young Draco – maybe only 9 or 10, younger than she had ever known him – stood next to a version of Narcissa much younger and happier than she had ever witnessed her to be. Her hair had no touch of grey and she stood tall in fashionable, well-tailored robes with a delicate hand placed on the young Draco’s shoulder. She used the other hand to gently smooth back his hair – drenched in gel, Hermione noticed, laughing inwardly – with a motherly smile before turning to face the camera. The young Draco turned to give his mother a wide, cheeky grin before facing the same way.
The moment played on repeat, mother and son smiling at each other. The frame was sat on the nightstand, tilted in such a way that Hermione was sure the real Malfoy would have been able to see it clearly from where he lay on his pillow.
She turned to smile pleasantly at the real Malfoy as he approached with three different books, trying to act as if she wasn’t staring at the photo.
“So, you’ll want to start with your standard disillusionment.”
Hermione liked being at the Weasley home. It felt safe, homely, welcoming. It wasn’t the same as it had been before the war, but it was still comfortable. Even though Charlie was wary of Harry and struggled to look at him, even though she no longer looked at the family as her potential future in-laws, both Harry and Hermione relished their time with their second family.
The pair were squirreled away just outside the garden door, both scarfing down one of Puddy’s sandwiches each. Both loved to have a good serving of Molly Weasley’s cooking, but neither wanted to take more than their fair share. They knew how far leftovers could go, and how sorely it would be needed.
“How are things with Malfoy?” Harry asked, a mouthful of food stuffing his cheeks. “You’re eating well, if this is anything to go by.” Hermione laughed in response, leaning into her best friend’s steady shoulder.
“It’s fine. He seems… different. Yeah, very different to how we knew him at school.”
“Well, he would’ve sooner smacked a Graphorn than go anywhere near you back then, and here you are now staying at his manor and studying together.” Harry teased, his tone light and mirthful.
“It’s not exactly my choice, but I’m glad he isn’t making it harder than it needs to be. He can definitely be… difficult… I suppose, in his dedication to his job, but what did I expect? Unspeakables aren’t exactly known for their lack of care and detail.”
“Azkaban must have changed him.”
“It would change anyone, Harry. You know that.”
“I didn’t think he deserved to go there.” Harry’s tone was low now, not wanting anyone to overhear. His eyes darted across the grass lawn in front of them. “His father? Sure. He was a monster who grovelled at the feet of Voldemort. But Draco? He was like us, wasn’t he? He didn’t have a choice.” It was rare to hear Harry willingly bring up the war, and Hermione nodded in agreement.
“None of us chose what happened to us. None of us wanted what it did to us. We fought a war started in our parent’s generation and had no say.” This is something Hermione had struggled to come to terms with. The fact that it wasn’t fair, that it shouldn’t have happened, that she had no control over it. She grappled with that reality every day.
“I think that about Ron, sometimes.” Harry sighed. Hermione stiffened beside him at the mention of his name and sighed, closing her eyes.
“I know. But you got help. So did I. He chose not to get help, and at a certain point we had to just… let him do what he wanted to do.” Everything that had happened between her and Ron still hurt now. It still hurt the whole family. She could see it in Molly’s eyes, when she laid the table for 11 people on instinct, before remembering one could never come and one had to stay away. Even Bill had been there for her, on her side when it happened, but it hadn’t lessened her guilt. Her pain.
“I did things I regret. What I did to Charlie-”
“It’s not like that at all, and you know that.” Hermione cut Harry off immediately with a sharp tone, refusing to let that thought take hold. “Besides, the fact that you regret it, the fact that you apologised, that you did everything you could to make amends… that’s why it’s different.” Silence lapsed between the old friends.
“I wonder how he’s doing.” Harry barely whispered, and Hermione knew he was talking to himself and not to her.
“Shall we get back inside? We don’t want Molly to worry.” Hermione groaned as she stood, flexing her knees and banishing the wrappers that Puddy had carefully placed the sandwiches in. She extended a hand to Harry and helped him rise alongside her before pushing her way back inside the house.
Malfoy’s eyes were strained slightly by the effort it took to read the disillusioned book, but he was pretty satisfied with the charm Hermione had taught him. It definitely minimised some of the boredom that would come with doing nothing all day other than scanning the horizon for potential threats.
Malfoy made a mental note to discuss with Hermione the benefits of Mandrake for its restorative qualities, and also wondered if her charm would work for parchment so he could take actual notes while he read. If it didn’t, maybe she could modify it. Practical charms such as that were not Malfoy’s area of expertise, but novel thinking was. He had invented several wards he used regularly, some of which were rippling and stretching right now, indicating there was someone trying to get in. Malfoy turned the page to read on about-
Shit. Someone was trying to get in.
It took mere seconds for Malfoy to conjure his broom from nowhere and tear off towards the edge of the wards, and less than a minute to arrive. Somewhere in the process, he fired off a small paper bird and sent it to the Weasley house ordering Hermione to remain in the house and keep her wand out. He offered no detail. He had no time.
He felt a ripple of strong defensive magic from the direction of this house. He knew it was Hermione throwing up wards of her own.
Still disillusioned, Malfoy’s feet hit the ground and he threw his broom to the floor, wand arm out and magic crackling over his skin. His eyes scanned the area where the pushing in the wards had come from trying to find-
“Oh, for the love of Merlin.” Malfoy cursed bitterly under his breath. He cancelled the disillusionment with a lazy wave of his wand, startling the lanky ginger on the other side of the wards.
“Malfoy?” The ginger man spluttered incredulously.
“Weasley.” Malfoy drawled, folding his arms and drawing himself up straight to his full height.
“What the fuck are you- why the fuck are you here? At my family’s house? Why can’t I get in?” And then a terrifying mix of fury and confusion ran white on the freckled face of Ronald Weasley. “You get the fuck out of there right now! You leave them alone! It’s my fucking family you piece of shit! What do you think-” And on he continued, physically beating his fists on the wards. It sent ripples up them and the translucent glaze that separated the two men briefly came into view, holding as strong as ever. Malfoy smirked arrogantly and rocked back on his heels.
“You can do that all day, Weasley. My wards will hold as long as I please.” Unsurprisingly, that did nothing to assuage the rage emanating from the youngest Weasley boy. Malfoy let him suffer a few more seconds before rolling his eyes, bored of the display. “Keep your panties on, I’m here on Ministry business. If you stop acting like a blast-ended skrewt, I’ll modify the wards to permit you entry.”
“Permit me entry? To my family home? Get fucked, you stupid blond ferret!” Malfoy smirked at that, thoroughly enjoying himself. He let Weasley stew for a few more moments before casting a few simple spells to permit the unkempt man entry.
Precisely one second later, the ginger man pushed through the invisible barrier and threw a heavy punch at Malfoy’s face. Which, of course, he dodged easily and responded in kind with a full body-bindings curse. It was not hard to dodge a blow from a man clearly desperately out of practice in any kind of duelling or combat. Malfoy wrinkled his nose, realising the bound man on his knees in front of him smelt like a bar. Not the up-scale, well-lit type of place he himself would frequent. More the kind that had sawdust on the floor and a group of drunks that never left.
Curses tumbled from Weasley’s mouth as he flushed red, trying to struggle against the curse but finding himself unable to.
“This is my home. How dare you!” Weasley hissed through clenched teeth, hardly able to force the words out through the binding curse.
“Oh, do shut up, Weasley.” Malfoy pretended to dust off his sleeves, the perfect caricature of aristocracy. “I am here on behalf of the Department of Mysteries. If I weren’t, do you honestly believe that the Boy Who Lived and the Golden Girl would allow it?” Sweet, merciful silence from the bound man. “I am going to cancel my curse. If you even think about making a move towards me, I will know and I will throw you out of these wards I have so expertly constructed so fast that you will not know what happened until you realise you’re on your arse watching me walk back towards your family home.”
He physically saw the other man bite back a curse, settling on shooting daggers with his eyes. With a flick of his wand, Malfoy cancelled the curse and stalked back towards the house without another glance. He was not offering to share his broom with Weasley, so he banished it again and settled on walking. At a good pace, it would only take 10 or 15 minutes.
Somewhere behind him, he heard the other man shuffle to his feet and set off as well. Malfoy slowly replayed the image of binding the man he hated as a boy. Hated for his family, his lack of wealth, his friends that he could trust. It was satisfying. That would keep him smiling for weeks.
Before long, the Weasley house came back into view and Malfoy remembered to send a follow up message to Hermione. He should’ve sent it sooner, but he was too distracted. It was rather selfish of him, but at least there wasn’t real danger he supposed. His paper bird would inform her that another Weasel had returned to the den.
The two cut an awkward pair, Malfoy ahead by probably 20 meters as the house drew closer. Malfoy’s brows furrowed as he realised that the wards hadn’t been taken down and that all the windows had been shuttered.
Then a horse patronus came racing out, galloping the few hundred meters and skidding to a halt gracefully before the blond man. The horse was beautiful and tall, an untangled mane flowing gently. This was juxtaposed startingly by the panicked voice of Ginny Weasley tearing itself from the horse’s mouth.
“No! Draco, do not let him in! Keep him away!” The hairs on the back of Malfoy’s neck jumped to attention and he whirled to deflect a hot curse that came barrelling for the back of his head.