willow

"I'm like the water when your ship rolled in that night
Rough on the surface but you cut through like a knife"

willow - Taylor Swift

The autumn sunlight penetrated through the yellowed layers of leaves; it illuminated the benches worn by the changing seasons and made people, who had decided to spend some time in Kensington Gardens, squint their eyes. One of them was lying on a bench, eyes closed, trying to block out the noises around: children screaming, women chattering, the eager footsteps of those who had decided to go jogging despite the cold air.

He stretched and sighed.

Muggle London, a house in a quiet neighbourhood and only rest! They had told him. But he knew very well that the Aurors, just to keep him out of trouble, would have sent him even to America. Draco was too valuable a source of information. Any Death Eater would have wanted to kill him, but among Muggles, he was well disguised. Of course, the Manor had been confiscated; Aurors had been inspecting it for months, convinced that there were important clues about where the other Death Eaters might be hiding.

The first day he had arrived at his house in the West End, he had almost burned his hand with a toaster; the first time the phone rang, he had destroyed it with an Avada Kedavra, and when he had accidentally turned on the television, sitting on the remote, he had managed to transform it into a pigeon announcing the latest lottery draw. After all, he had never been good at Transfiguration.

Two days later, the Ministry saw fit to send Harry Potter in person to explain to him that no Muggle object in that house should be interfered with.

Draco Malfoy felt compelled to reply that, if it were up to him, he wouldn't even breathe Muggle air. At that point, the Savior of the entire Wizarding World had asked him if he preferred to remain locked in a cell in Azkaban, waiting to understand how involved he was in the Magical War. Perhaps silence had been a rather eloquent answer, as Potter didn't push further.

Since that day, Draco had been living in the West End, among Muggles. He knew someone was watching him, maybe two Aurors, but he was calm enough; he didn't bother Muggles and the Aurors left him alone. Every Tuesday, on his doorstep, he found groceries for the entire week.

Things had been working like this for two months.

That day he received a letter - delivered by a postman! - from Shacklebolt. He informed him that, unfortunately, the two Aurors assigned to help him - now that's what they called it... - had been requested for a mission of the utmost importance... read: to retrieve yet another Death Eater who had escaped Harry Potter. Therefore, they would be replaced.

He had racked his brains all morning, wondering who they would send to take care of him.

Too many Aurors were engaged in the hunt for the remaining Death Eaters, and so was a large part of the civilian population, eager to be useful in the fight against the Dark Lord's followers. The alternatives were few; he thought of improbable names of people who perhaps, after all this time, were already dead and buried... maybe someone from the Order of the Phoenix. After all, he had left Hogwarts just after the end of the war, and when the Aurors had descended on the Manor, they had taken everyone - him and his parents - and locked them in a cell in Azkaban, waiting to know what the future held for them. The matter had ended quite quickly; his father sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss, while his mother, squeezed for two miserable hours of interrogation, had been declared guilty, ten years in Azkaban and goodbye. Finally, he, Draco, had obtained absolution in exchange for his collaboration because he was a useful weapon that the Ministry could use against the Death Eaters: it took a while to make the Minister understand that no follower of the Dark Lord would ask for Draco back, offering information in return. So they had asked him if he knew the hiding place of any Death Eater, but he had only thought of the Nott Villa.

Two days later, a Death Eater had nearly killed him. That's how the charade in Muggle London began. Draco still hadn't figured out the real reason they kept him there, but surely it couldn't be anything important... or at least, nothing important for his safety.

He sat down and removed the bits of leaves that had settled on his light-colored hair. He watched a child who had stopped in front of the statue of Peter Pan - yes, he found that name strange - and stared at it, captivated. It wasn't the first time Draco had observed such a scene; he didn't understand what they found in it. It was just a statue of a child, with a horrible and socially embarrassing name.

When a gust of wind sent shivers down his spine, Draco decided to head back home. He took a leisurely stroll through the Gardens to enjoy a bit more of the autumn sun, then reached an exit and took it.

The journey home was short. The small apartment assigned to him wasn't even half the size of the house he had grown up in; the walls were cream-colored, and there were few furnishings, just the essentials for living.

When he arrived in front of the red brick building, he noticed the female figure sitting on the steps in front of the dark wooden door.

The girl was futilely trying to push her curly hair away from her face, particularly unruly due to the wind. She wore a long black coat and synthetic leather boots. Draco approached her and observed her for a few seconds, then asked:

"You, Granger?"

§

"Malfoy, I've already told you it wasn't my decision," Hermione retorted.

The discussion had been going on for almost an hour now. Of all people, how could they have sent her to him? I mean, wasn't she with Potter and Weasel? Wasn't she saving some house-elves? Damn it! He was convinced he wouldn't see her again after the war, and here she was, with that proud look that never left her face.

"I know you'd prefer to have a Pureblood, but..."

"It's not about that," Draco muttered.

"Excuse me?" Hermione shifted slightly in the chair she was sitting on. He was standing and pacing back and forth in the small living room.

"It's not about that, Granger."

She raised her eyebrows, sceptically. "Then enlighten me, why?"

"It's..." he didn't stutter; Malfoys didn't stutter. "You're a woman and, um, you're not trained..."

Hermione made a sarcastic face and stood up from the chair. "It's because I'm a Mudblood, Malfoy. Don't play the altruist, it's not like you."

Draco cursed loudly. "Granger, you're, as always, a dense person."

"And you're the same racist, it's nice to see that people don't change, isn't it?"

At that point, he shot her a dark look and didn't respond.

Hermione picked up a copy of the Daily Prophet from the floor and placed it on the shelf.

"Malfoy, I won't do your shopping once a week, and I won't tail you discreetly. We'll go everywhere together, even to the market. And don't make that face; I don't like it any more than you do, but, as you said, since I'm not trained like an Auror, I'll be your babysitter."

She had smiled as she said the last word; she knew how much that annoyed him.

"Will you tuck me in as well?"

"I'd prefer to surrender to the Death Eaters. For our joy, I'll be with you for a couple of weeks. Your security detail will be back sooner than expected. I'll sleep upstairs."

"Upstairs you will be freezing," Draco observed.

"I'll take care of warming up the space with a few spells," she said and carried her bag upstairs.

§

"Granger, what are you doing?

"Dusting, can't you see?

"In my room? What the heck... you've been here for a few hours, and you're already causing trouble.

"I don't think I quite understand."

"...You never understand"

§

The next day, Draco was forced to leave the house at seven. He never woke up at that hour, not even to go to the bathroom.

He washed himself with movements slowed by sleep and when he came down for breakfast, he saw Hermione already dressed and at work in the kitchen. Coffee was in one carafe, milk in another. Hermione leaned forward to rummage through the cupboard shelves, cursing as she moved various cereal boxes.

"'Morning" Draco muttered, appearing next to her.

She jumped, and her hand instinctively went to her wand.

"Didn't you hear me come in? You're terrible as a babysitter."

"Malfoy..."

"Yes?"

"Malfoy, would you explain to me why there are only cereals in your cupboard?"

"Um, I usually eat them..."

Hermione slammed the door so hard that it swung back. "Malfoy! Just cereals? Is that all you have to eat?" she exclaimed.

"The Aurors had abandoned me, Granger" he murmured. "I had nothing else to live on... can you blame me?"

She narrowed her eyelids and curled her lips. "They did your shopping once a week! Did you happen to ask them to buy you only cereals?" she asked, incredulous.

"Uh... yes, but they were the only decent food they gave me. I mean, they would get me onions, lettuce, raw chicken, uncooked pasta, and other stuff I would never have survived on!" he explained.

Draco was almost certain he saw Granger's jaw drop to the floor.

"You're a..." she began. "A... a...

"Go on, please. You're delightful when you stammer."

"A arrogant, good-for-nothing jerk!" she concluded.

"Hey!" he started, but Hermione was quick to cut him off.

"We're going grocery shopping," she declared. "Eat your beloved cereals and get dressed; the market has been open for a while!"

§

Hermione paid and thanked the fruit vendor. She took the bag with the apples, but Draco snatched it away from her fingers, grumbling, and headed towards the first counter he saw.

The girl sighed and tucked the strand that had escaped from her ponytail behind her ear. When she had received the letter from the Ministry, she had almost burst into laughter, thinking it was a very poor joke. Unfortunately, a few hours later, the Minister had confirmed her assignment. When she had informed Harry, he had choked on the Butterbeer he was drinking. Fortunately, the assignment would last only two weeks. Not even enough time to get used to it.

She believed that Draco Malfoy would not make cohabitation easy for her, but, until that moment, he had been a surprise. He had only complained when she entered his room; otherwise, he behaved as if she were just an acquaintance; sure, he hadn't spared her a good dose of sarcasm, but it was still better than being constantly insulted, which, she had to admit, she had expected.

"Granger, can you move?" Draco called out, a few steps away from her.

Hermione startled and, chin up, headed towards him.

"What else do we need to get?" Draco asked.

She huffed. "Vegetables, fish, spices, cheese..." she began, but Draco interrupted her: "Yes, yes, alright. We're in for a fantastic morning of grocery shopping, I get it."

"Malfoy, it's not my fault that no one bothered to teach you that you won't always be served and revered..."

He made a face. "Those were the plans before they condemned my family, Granger."

"Well, they weren't exactly innocent..."

"You know what people whisper, Granger. The truth is something you dream of."

"I know what I've seen, Malfoy."

"If I were to judge you based on what I see..." he almost immediately stopped himself.

"No, indeed, you've judged me for quite different reasons, but please, enlighten me on what you see as well," she snapped, irritated.

She had hoped that the war had changed him, but it wasn't the case: Draco had remained the same.

How long had Hermione fought against those prejudices? She had even defended house-elves because she knew what it meant to feel different, inferior. She hadn't lacked weapons: she had been the brightest student in her year, but there was always something that penalized her. And to think that now people believed she was favored, that the Ministry job had been handed to her because she had been at Harry Potter's side for years.

"That's not what I meant."

"Mmh, I think it is, but a lot of water has passed under the bridge. What you think matters less than zero to me. Now, please, can we finish shopping?" she didn't wait for the answer, moving away from him, heading towards the vegetable counter.

Draco followed her, grinding his teeth. Damn it, she had unfairly accused his family first; he had just wanted to counter, to prove her wrong, but he had managed to ruin everything. As usual, he had insulted her; willing or not, whatever he said, in everyone's eyes - in her eyes - was an insult to her person.

He approached Hermione and watched her critically choose which tomatoes to take.

"Give me the greenest ones," she said finally.

§

After almost an hour, they finished shopping; carrying lots of bags, they headed to the Gardens and, passing a group of playing children, Hermione stopped in front of the statue of Peter Pan.

"It's been a while since I passed by here," she noted, with a melancholy voice.

Draco couldn't help but ask her:

"Do you know who he is?"

The girl turned towards him, surprised by the question, but after a moment, she masked her dismay with the same scowling expression as before.

"Peter Pan."

"I can still read, to the dismay of many."

"He's the character from a children's book," she explained. "The story is about him living on an island, the Neverland, with other children who, like him, have refused to grow up."

Draco weighed the information, then, in a colourless tone, asked:

"And that little creature there?" he said, pointing to what looked like a tiny girl with a pair of wings.

"She's Peter Pan's fairy friend; he, thanks to her magical dust and happy thoughts, can fly," Hermione said, looking at him, waiting for his reaction. Draco didn't disappoint her.

"Magical dust and happy thoughts?"

"Ah-ha."

He thought about it for another moment. "Muggles," he said, a few seconds later, dismissing the matter.

§

"Granger, what's that... thing?"

"Raw chicken."

"Smells the same as Potter after a Quidditch match."

...

"And it's greasy in the same way!"

§

The next morning, Hermione left the apartment at nine and ordered Draco to stay at home and not go out for any reason. The house was imbued with spells that would protect him.

He retorted that, after the dinner the day before, he wouldn't even be able to roll out of the apartment.

In response, she slammed the door hard.

Draco took advantage of the girl's absence, went up to her room, and was surprised not to find any spells sealing the door. He entered cautiously, carefully observing the surrounding space.

The suitcase was still half-full. On the dresser lay a brush - which she didn't use, he was quite certain of that; her hair was too tangled even for wooden bristles - a book, and a scarf. The bed was untouched, there was nothing on the floor, except for a piece of paper that Draco ignored; instead, he looked at the two frames that occupied the surface of the bedside table next to the bed.

The first photo portrayed Hermione with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley: it had certainly been taken after the end of the War. Their faces were serene, and all three were smiling happily. In the other, there were Hermione and two other people Draco identified as her parents: the woman was the exact copy of Hermione while the man had passed on to his daughter the same half-mouth smile.

He wondered if Granger's parents knew where their daughter was at that moment.

Draco shook himself from his thoughts and decided to leave that room. The girl had told him she would be back fairly soon, so he didn't want to be found there, searching through her things.

He returned to the living room and turned on the television; the device was tuned to a program discussing how to care for an injured ferret. Draco grimaced and changed the channel, as Potter had taught him. He went back two or three channels. However, Hermione returned before he could take an interest in the content of the broadcast.

"Granger, you were quick" he observed.

She didn't answer and watched him. "I should take a picture of you" she said a few seconds later.

"Excuse me?"

"The Malfoy heir with a remote control in hand, watching... - Hermione turned to the TV and almost burst out laughing. "I was pregnant, and I didn't know it!"

Draco looked horrified at the screen and quickly changed the channel as soon as he saw a woman holding a baby.

"I was doing, um, channel something" he explained.

"Surfing" she corrected, grinning.

"Yes, that" he muttered. Unfortunately, he hadn't written down all the words Harry Potter had told him... truth be told, he hadn't even listened to all of them.

Hermione left her bag near the entrance and headed to the kitchen, holding a bulky book in her hands.

Draco turned off the TV and quickly followed her, peaking at the title of the volume Hermione had just placed on the table.

"Cooking has never been so easy?" he asked, looking at her.

She blushed and cleared her throat. "Yes, um, you complained that I can't cook, and well, um, it's true, so...

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well, not even Hermione Granger can do everything. I mean, cook. I don't blame you, you know; some people have called me a jerk, arrogant, and good for nothing because I don't cook. I understand you" he mocked her.

"At least I try."

"The result is always the same, well, if I'm honest, at least my result doesn't risk killing me."

"Don't exaggerate" she muttered. "It was just a bit..."

"Poisonous? Highly carcinogenic? Plant fertilizer?"

She rolled her eyes. "You're so dramatic. I've eaten worse."

"And I've eaten better, but you can't punish me like that. It's cruel."

Hermione smiled, drumming her fingers on the cardboard cover of the book.

"Okay" she said at last. "I'll make an effort to make you eat something edible, but let it be clear, I'm doing it so I don't hear you complain anymore that my food will give you excess fat or liver problems."

"Thanks, Salazar" Draco muttered.

§

"Granger, in the recipe it says two handfuls of salt. You put in like half a jar," Draco observed.

Hermione dried her hands on the apron she was wearing. "I like salty stuff, Malfoy. If your palate doesn't approve, well, I'll get over it."

"I believe the rest of the human race doesn't approve. Doesn't Weasley say anything about your salt doses or does he obey as usual?" Draco threw the question without even realizing he mentioned Weasel.

However, Hermione noticed and let slip the wooden spoon she was using to stir the pasta. Her eyes clouded for a moment. Hermione picked up the spoon from the floor and rinsed it.

Until a few seconds ago, she was humming a Weird Sisters song, while Draco was casually reading the seventh-year Potions textbook. Now, she fell silent and stared, without really seeing it, at the boiling contents of the pot.

Draco tried to understand why she reacted that way to hearing Weasley's name. As far as he remembered, after the end of the War and just before he entered Azkaban, the two of them were still together.

He cleared his throat, but she didn't turn or show any sign of having heard him; she continued to stare intently at the contents of the pot.

"Granger?"

Hermione didn't respond.

"Granger?" Draco raised his voice, and she jolted.

"Yes?" she asked.

"The pasta."

"Ah, right," she muttered and turned off the stove.

Before she could pick up the pot, the oven mitts slipped from her hands twice. In the end, Draco stood up and, after taking the pieces of fabric from her hands, drained the pasta and divided it into two portions, then added two spoonsful of sauce, as indicated in the book.

When he had prepared the plates, he turned to her and noticed that she had sat down with her hands in her lap.

"So, Granger, finished with the trance?" he asked, bringing the food to the table.

"Hmm?" Hermione looked at him.

Draco huffed and pushed the plate closest to her. "Never mind. Eat."