An Apology
It was raining in Wiltshire, and Draco’s mother was thrilled.
“Oh, they’ve needed this!” Narcissa exclaimed, leaning over the breakfast table to see the roses outside.
Draco refrained from commenting on the frequency of rain in England, instead focusing on his tea and scone, which were very good.
“I’ve been worried in particular about the Polyantha,” she continued, “they were looking a bit droopy. I’m sure this will do them some good.”
Draco observed his mother for a moment. She was canted forward, her hair nearly falling into the butter, her elbows on the table as she peered at the garden. Her smile was slightly lopsided when she smiled with teeth. That was something he knew about his mother, now. He hadn’t always.
She was smiling her slightly lopsided smile as she fell back into her chair, turning to him. “I’m boring you.”
Draco shook his head.
“Thank you for taking breakfast with me, my Dragon,” she said, the old pet name from his childhood falling easily from her tongue, “you know I worry about you.”
“Mother–” Draco began, but she cut him off.
“And if I don’t insist you join me now and then you might never leave that office of yours. I barely see you more than I did when you were in America!”
Draco raised an eyebrow at this sentiment. Narcissa smiled a bit.
“Are you doing your work well?” she asked, and Draco nodded. “And are you doing work you can be proud of?”
Draco nodded again. This two-part question had become a refrain from his mother. The first was one he’d been asked at the dining table each time he’d returned from school for a holiday or the end of term. It invariably meant one thing: Will we be proud of your marks? But it meant something different now, coupled with her second question, something she’d asked Draco first before giving her blessing to leave England for a job at MACUSA. Narcissa reached out, as she did every time he nodded at the second question, and clutched his hands in hers.
“Good,” she said softly.
One of his mother’s hands came up to brush a stray hair out of his face. Her fingers were rougher than they’d been in his youth, calloused from time in the garden. She had hands she could be proud of, she’d said to him before. Draco looked down at his own hands, grasped in one of hers.
He cleared his throat, thoughts headed for the morose.
“I’ve got to get to the office,” he said quickly.
Narcissa nodded. “Have a good day, my Dragon.”
Draco exited the cottage through its front door instead of using the Floo. The building Narcissa lived in used to house the gardener tasked with maintaining the grounds of Malfoy Manor. It was a cozy space, only slightly grander now that Narcissa had taken her impeccable taste to it. The cottage sat by the Manor’s rose garden, and the window of the parlor gazed out over the blooms. They sipped their tea there and didn’t talk about the looming manor house beyond it, which neither of them had entered since the end of Draco’s year of probation.
Outside the cottage, Draco regarded his childhood home. Sometimes, on his worst days, he could swear that he still saw darkness leaching from the stone. But today it was only a house, large and empty, a hollowed out reminder of the future he once thought he’d have. He stood, pelted by rain, looking up at it for a moment more. Then he apparated away.
***
Draco only had time to stop by his flat and grab a coffee before heading to the office. He’d hated the taste when he’d first moved to the States, but had grown to love it as he’d developed the habit of working late into the night. Coffee was simply more efficient than tea in keeping him awake, and in adulthood, Draco Malfoy valued efficiency.
He exited the floo in the main lobby of the Ministry, early enough that it wasn’t full. This was his routine. The stares had gotten better over ten years, but they’d never fully go away. Narcissa had done what she could, publicly renouncing her past beliefs and pouring their considerable amount of galleons into war relief efforts and Muggleborn-specific causes. But on his second day back in London, walking back from Flourish and Blotts, a middle-aged witch had caught a look at him. He’d watched, frozen, as her face had transformed into sheer panic, as her breathing had quickened, and as her fingers had come up to clutch at her chest. Her companion had attended to her quickly, shooting an apologetic glance at Draco.
“Flashback,” she’d offered as an explanation, “she has them sometimes.”
Draco had nodded, suddenly unable to breathe either, and had moved past them quickly, turning back once to watch the younger witch help the older sit down on a bench.
Since then, he’d avoided busy places. He spent most of his time in his flat or his office, and preferred to go out in muggle London when dragged away from his work.
Shaking the memory from his head, Draco strode across the atrium. As he finished his coffee, he looked up. There, several people ahead of him, was an eternally recognizable head of curly brown hair. She was almost at the lifts, early, like him, and wearing fitted black trousers and a blue blouse. Draco felt himself freeze at the sight. Almost without thinking, he ducked behind a column and into an alcove, out of sight of the witch.
Draco looked down at his palms, which were sweating. What was he doing? Hiding from Hermione Granger? Surely not. Surely he hadn’t panicked at the mere sight of her. He peered out from the alcove, watching as the lift arrived at the head of curly hair filed on. She turned, and he caught full view of her face, her freckled nose and dark eyes. His heart sped up, and he ducked back into the alcove.
Had she seen him? Gods, he hoped not. Draco stood there as the bell dinged, signaling that the lift had headed down. He closed his eyes and worked to slow his breathing.
In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.
As Draco’s head cleared, he took stock of where he was. Flattened to a wall, taking cover behind a marble pillar and a large plant. He sprung out, realizing how ridiculous he must look.
He’d been surprised to see her, that was all. The glimpse of her from his office doorway had sent his heart moving at an alarming rate, and she’d clearly panicked as well– she’d practically sprinted down the hall. He knew she was coming, knew they’d be working together, but hadn’t known exactly how it would feel to see her again, for the first time since she’d testified at his trial.
He’d thought about her often. He’d practiced what he would say to her if he ever had the chance to apologize. He discussed her with the mind healer he’d seen in America, and had seen her photos in The Prophet over the years. But seeing her in the flesh, her intelligent eyes bright and somehow wiser for the time that had passed, was enough to make him forget all his practice.
Draco shook himself again. He righted his robes and headed to the lift, hoping no one had seen him. She’d run away the evening before, after all. Perhaps that’s what she wanted, what she needed. Draco could follow her lead, could stay away from her. She was only here temporarily, after all.
***
Draco knew that his mother had given galleons, hundreds and thousands of galleons, to the Ministry since the war. But there were some things about his workplace that made him wonder where in Merlin’s name those galleons were going. The coffee was swill, the lifts were ancient, and, to his acute dismay, the walls between offices were paper thin.
Draco had counted himself lucky that for the last month, the office next door to his own was empty. He worked best in complete quiet, but had learned early that silencing his own office would only end in disaster– missed memos, missed meetings, and once, Harry bloody Potter casting a bombarda on his door after getting it into his head that Draco had been abducted.
On Wednesday afternoon, Draco was working through a particularly nasty bit of legislation. The new bill– werewolf employment rights– seemed to be purposefully complex and long-winded, and Draco was sure it was full of loopholes that the Wizengamot was hoping to pass undetected. His new neighbor, who he was valiantly trying not to think about, had a habit of blasting Muggle music as she worked. How she got anything done with it playing so loud was anyone’s guess, and Draco’s own productivity had slowed to a crawl.
He was re-reading Section four for what must have been the fifth time when the music suddenly cut out. Draco breathed a sigh of relief and reapplied himself to the section, inking down a question about the bill’s language. But the moment he’d dotted the question mark, that music was replaced by the sound of an argument coming through the walls.
Draco’s head sunk into his hands. He couldn’t make out the words, but the tone of the conversation was clear, and getting louder by the minute. He looked at the wall entreatingly, hoping that he could will Hermione Granger to kick whoever was bothering her straight out of her office.
After a quarter of an hour or so, the voices rising in pitch, it became clear that working would be impossible. He got up from his desk, wiped his hands on his trousers, and headed the few paces through the hall to the source of the sound.
He knocked on the door once, softly, to no avail. Gritting his teeth, he knocked again.
The door flung open, Hermione Granger, red and clearly frustrated, standing behind it. In the face of the angry witch, Draco became sure he’d made a terrible mistake.
“Well, if it isn’t Draco himself,” came a drawl from the other side of his office. Draco turned and blinked, but yes– that was Pansy Parkinson sitting on Hermione’s sofa, holding a pair of perilously high heels.
“Hi, Pans,” he said, confused, before refocusing on the witch before him, “Granger.”
“Yes?” she said, looking up at him.
“Pardon the interruption, it’s just–” he felt Pansy’s glare on him, and forced out, “the walls are rather thin, and I’m working through a bill.”
Hermione blanched.
“Oh. Okay, yeah, we’ll…” Hermione glanced at Pansy, “Pansy was just leaving. We’ll leave you to it, Malfoy. Sorry.”
The witch seemed to be having trouble meeting his eyes.
“Thanks. Sorry to interrupt,” he said again, before turning on his heel.
***
Draco returned to his office, still flushed from the interaction, when he realized that Pansy was on his heels, and instead of heading down the corridor and to the lifts, was entering his office, shutting the door behind her, and silencing the room.
He froze as he bent to sit down in his chair, briefly thinking that those actions would be the sign of a rather fantastic conversation if this was any other witch. But this was Pansy Parkinson, her hand on her hip, her glare murderous.
“Malfoy,” she said, and Draco’s mind raced, trying to remember what he’d done to incite such a rageful Pansy, “I’ve just come to the Ministry, which I hate, to have a quick chat with my friend because she never seems to leave. I was hoping to be in and out in twenty minutes or so, which is about as much time as I can be in this building without breaking out in hives, and was planning to spend that time advising my friend on her outfit for a Friday evening event, which she’s rather worried about, ensuring that her brilliant little head doesn’t confuse cocktail with business casual, and perhaps even strong-arming her into some lingerie if she can leave the office long enough to need it.”
“Um– what?”
“So please tell me why,” Pansy cut in, “I just spent nearly a quarter of an hour in this horrible building convincing my very good friend Hermione Granger that you are no longer a blood purist?”
Draco’s head shot up. “She thinks that?”
“Evidently,” Pansy replied.
Draco’s mind began to race, combing through each of their interactions since Monday. “Gods, what did I– I haven’t–”
“She says you won’t look at her, Draco. Will barely speak to her, flat out refuse to take the same lift as her or use the break room at the same time. What’s she supposed to think?”
Draco’s eyes widened.
“Oh, Gods.”
“You’ve been avoiding her like she’s got the plague, of course she’s going to imagine the worst, Draco–”
“I’m not avoiding her! I mean, I guess I am– but it’s not– I mean–”
“Draco,” Pansy cut in, her arms crossed now, her voice icy. “How about you tell me right now what the fuck your problem is with her? Because if you’re still holding onto some petty… I swear to Merlin, Draco. She’s my friend.”
“No,” the wizard said, finding his voice. “It’s not that. Not at all. I just… Gods, Pansy. How am I supposed to talk to her?”
He looked up at her, his eyes wide and open. Pansy’s ire seemed to lighten, just a bit, and she sat daintily on his couch, nodding for him to continue.
Draco let out an exhale of frustration. “After everything my family’s done to her. Everything I’ve done. Hermione Granger shouldn’t have to be reminded that I exist, much less have to work in an office next to me. So yes, I’ve been staying out of her way.”
Pansy nodded, slowly. “You’re avoiding her so that she won’t have to see you, not so you won’t have to see her?”
Draco nodded fervently. “You did tell her that I’m not– anymore, that I don’t–”
Pansy waved him aside. “Well. I suppose I should’ve guessed it. I was worried this was a ‘Draco Malfoy, sworn enemy of the Golden Trio’ thing.”
“Of course not,” Draco said.
“But no, it’s a ‘Draco Malfoy, determined to drown in his own guilt’ thing.”
Draco looked up sharply at Pansy, but didn’t respond to the jab. He asked, instead, feeling the desperation in his own voice, “What do I do?”
Pansy stood, looking at him curiously. “You apologize, Draco. And then you treat her like a normal person.”
The witch straightened her jacket, although it had never been askew, and picked up her handbag. With her back to him, Draco’s voice came, “is there any chance she’ll forgive me?”
Draco watched Pansy’s shoulders lift in a sigh. She turned around and said simply, “It’s Granger. There’s a chance.”
***
Draco worried about it for the rest of the day. He’d apologized to many people before– in fact, more people than most 28-year-olds in the world, likely– but this one felt heavier than the rest. This was Hermione Granger. The list of sins between them, of things he had to apologize for, felt endless. In what possible words could he atone for all of them?
He worried about it at Snakes Night later that evening, swirling his whiskey around his glass at a chic muggle bar because Theo had claimed that the “the familial disapproval in the walls” of Nott Manor was particularly stifling today. He worried about it as Pansy gave him a significant look before returning to her gossip with Theo, the two of them managing a fight even when they shared exactly the same opinions. He worried about it as Blaise attempted to engage him in a debate about Muggle vs. Wizarding Whiskey distillery processes, in which they always reached the same conclusions.
He worried about it for the whole of the next two days, until Friday afternoon, when he sternly told himself to pull it together. At quarter to five, he stood from his desk, took a few breaths, and forced his legs to carry himself out of his office and to her door. He forced his hand up to knock.
“Harry,” her voice came, “I meant it when I said this is really not a good time.”
Her voice drew closer and the door wrenched open, and then she was there, standing right in front of him, her face moving quickly from frustration to naked shock.
Draco cleared his throat. “Not Harry,” he said, lamely. The witch just nodded. “May I come in?” Draco asked.
Hermione didn’t nod, but she backed up, leaving room for him to enter. Taking this as an invitation, albeit a lukewarm one, Draco entered her office. He stood, awkwardly, in the center of the room. Hermione closed the door and stood by it. She was wearing a dress, he realized. And not a work kind of dress– something shorter and with a neckline just a hair too low for the workplace. She hadn’t been wearing it earlier. Not that he’d been looking.
Seeming to find herself, the witch said, “Hello, Malfoy. What can I do for you?”
Draco looked up to meet her eyes, his face flushing. “I wanted to– I mean, I’m here because…”
He trailed off, every one of the words he’d prepared gone from his mind. She raised an eyebrow. He noticed her bag slung over her shoulder as though she was about to leave. It was enough to get him talking.
“I’ll be brief, because I see you’re leaving, but I wanted to– I needed to apologize.”
He looked up at her, trying to gauge her feelings.
“For?” she asked, her face unreadable.
He cleared his throat, finding the words he’d practiced over and over in his head. “For everything– for my actions in every moment of our acquaintance. For being a mindless bigot, an unforgivable bully, and a coward in the moment I might have finally done something. For the despicable beliefs and actions of my family. I’m under no illusion that any words I say could atone for a lifetime of causing you pain. I don’t expect you to forgive me, and I assure you that I haven’t forgiven myself. But I need you to know that I hold none of my former beliefs– none of them.”
Draco heard himself stop speaking, felt his breath come up short. Despite his pounding heart, he looked straight at her. The witch was pale. And then she nodded.
“I have to go,” she said.
Draco had imagined countless scenarios of how the witch might respond to his words, but this wasn’t one he’d considered.
“I’m sorry for holding you up,” he managed.
“No more apologies,” she said, looking squarely at him, eyes inscrutable.
He nodded, unsure what to say. It felt like a dismissal, so he turned towards the door. As his hand reached the doorknob, her voice came, “I don’t accept the apology you make for your family.”
Something in Draco’s chest dropped, and he turned to face the witch, dreading the look on her face. But it was open, her eyes clear.
“We shouldn’t have to apologize for the sins we inherited. Our own are heavy enough.”
Draco nodded again. He left her office and returned to his own. He heard her door shut and the click of heels past his door a few minutes later, the earliest she’d left the building the whole week. Draco remained in the office until late in the night, pouring over his casework, and fell asleep on the couch.