Turning the Page

Just after one, Draco is sitting on the stool behind the register, arched over a copy of Lord of the Rings he had found in the fantasy section. 

“Having a busy first day I see,” Granger says from the doorway to the other half of the store.

Draco closes the book and sets it down on the table, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Yes.”

They stare at each other. 

“I just thought I’d see if you needed any help,” she walks forward, looking over the book log, used for purchases. 

Draco had sold a copy of Juniper’s Valley to a middle aged woman and a map of Cornwall to a man in his thirties. Both had gone off without a hitch. Though Draco had been embarrassed when the woman had given him back two small silver coins, saying that it was too much change.

“I’m fine,” he says, his tone a bit too short to be appropriate. She had in fact helped him to secure a job that he could see himself genuinely enjoying.

“So I can see. Next door is dead too. Not a soul. Though there rarely is any business before three. Usually gives me a chance to finish up translations.”

“Since when do you speak so many languages?” Draco can’t help his question, though it might be a bit intrusive.

“I’ve always been good with languages. Really got into it after the war. Puzzles that didn’t need to be solved. Nothing horrible would happen if I couldn’t solve it fast enough.”

He nods, pretending as though he understands what she is talking about.

“I saw that you don’t have Russian, Gaelic, or Welsh,” he says casually.

“I’ve got a few penpals who can help me if the need arises, but no I can’t translate those myself.”

“Well, if you needed. Or wanted. I can. Speak Russian. And Gaelic. And welsh, actually.” Merlin, he is having a hard time stringing two words together.
“That would be great. And you must speak some of the others, yes? It would be fantastic if we could divide up the work. I’ve been under a bit of a mountain with it as of late.”

He nods, perfectly happy to have something so stimulating to occupy his time.

“Have you got plans for dinner?” Granger asks.

“Huh?”

“Plans. For dinner, tonight?”

“Oh. No. I haven’t.” Who would he have dinner plans with?

“How would you feel about ordering takeaway? We could sift through some of the stacks. You could make a pile for yourself to work on.”

Who is he to say no?

“I haven’t got any money,” he says quietly.

“We’ll call it a working meal, charge it to the store. Laura won’t mind,” she smiles.

Draco nods, grateful to her for not asking him why he’s flat broke. 

Perhaps she knows. The Malfoy vaults had been seized and donated to those who suffered in the second wizarding war. His ancestral home was sold. All he has to his name is the measly salary paid to him by the DMM.

The bell above the door rings and a woman comes in, ducking immediately into one of the rows of books.

“I should go next door,” Granger says, like some sort of spell was broken by the stranger’s entrance.

Draco just nods, wondering what she’ll want to order for supper.

He is surprised to find that the woman takes nearly twenty minutes to find what she is looking for, but pleased when she sets down a stack of five books on the counter.

“Were you able to find everything you were looking for?” Draco asks, mimicking the store clerks he’d observed in the muggle shops.

“I always do. There seems to be a bit of magic in this bookstore. It knows what I want to read better than I do,” the muggle jokes and Draco has to wonder how she would react to real magic.

“Your total is £74.70,” he notes down the total on the paper record book and opens the register.

“My whole paycheck goes to this store,” the woman says, fishing in a small green pouch for the money. “Not that I’m complaining. There are worse habits.”

Draco just nods along, incredibly grateful when the woman seems to hand him exact change.

As he is slipping her books into a paper bag, Draco realises the woman seems to have deflated.

“Reading feeds your mind. I’d prefer hunger over ignorance myself,” he holds the handles of the bag out to her with as bright a smile as his face can manage.

“Too right you are,” her eyes light up and she bounds out of the store, books tucked into her chest.

He thinks about what he’d said. Years ago, in school, it would have been the truth. He’d never experienced real hunger. Until Azkaban.

Though there were days in prison when he’d have chosen to starve to death rather than be stuck with his own thoughts.

It is truly through the words of others that we cling to our own existence.

Granger’s ordered an awful thing called pizza, which is essentially bread covered in greasy cheese.

It is delicious.

Draco’s on his fourth slice.

“Slow down or you’ll make yourself sick,” Granger laughs, nearly finished with her second slice.

It was true, Draco was scarfing down pizza like his life depended on it.

“Fine. Pass me that stack, then?” Draco points to a stack of translation requests. It seems to be the most popular service offered by the magical bookstore. 

He was very grateful for his mother’s insistence that he learn several languages growing up. He had many tutors to thank.

“I’ll take the french. No offence, but your preterite is terrible,” Draco says, adding more requests to his stack.

It was nearly as tall as Granger’s now.

“Fine by me. Then you can confer with the clients who for some reason think I have no idea how to pronounce a single french word,” she rolls her eyes, popping a grape in her mouth. She’d had leftovers from her lunch and Draco had gotten a kick out of the plastic container she’d had them in.

Draco is surprised at how easy it is to chat with Granger. She’s toned down her know-it-all persona just enough that he is impressed with her intelligence and no longer annoyed by her voice.

After they had closed down the muggle half of the store, they’d found themselves sitting at Granger’s work desk, which doubles as the wizarding half’s counter.

Luckily, the store is exactly as slow as it had been earlier. Draco isn’t sure how he’d handle a familiar face walking through the door.

“Have you been to France?” Draco asks, thinking of the last time his mother had taken him. Just before sixth year, when their lives had still been their own. 

“My parents brought me when I was a little girl. I remember the Eiffel Tower the most. Watching my parents, so in love,” she says, misty eyed.

Draco is trying to remember what he’d heard about Granger’s parents. He can’t remember their names being in the Prophet, though they were muggles, so who is to say they would have been named. 

Draco doesn’t want to ask if her parents are dead, so he doesn’t.

Instead he does something equally as uncomfortable. He shares.

“My mother had a flat in the centre of Paris, right near the Eiffel Tower. She used to get up before me each morning and return with fresh pain au chocolat for both of us.”

“Oh there is a phenomenal cafe around the corner with the best chocolate croissants- no I know,” she shakes her head at his blasphemed facial expression. “I know they aren’t the same, but they really are incredible.”

He’ll have to give it a try. He misses his mother. 

Draco reaches for another slice of pizza, letting the tight feeling in his chest slip away.

Much like the front door of the other half of Turning the Page Books, the entrance to the wizarding half has a bell that announces the arrival of anyone. Unlike the muggle bell, this one sends sparks towards the back of the store.

A small brunette child, a boy, comes barreling around a stack of books a few moments later, launching himself into Granger’s arms.

Draco gapes.

“Mummy!” The small boy exclaims, nuzzling into Granger’s neck. 

“Levi, don’t be rude. Say hello to Draco,” she pulls the small child back from her chest and he twists in her arms.

“Hello Draco,” the little boy says, quite primly.

Levi, she had called him.

Laura had said that Granger and Levi liked to spend their weekends in the store. Levi is clearly not another employee.

“You have a son?” Draco asks, staring at the smart little boy sitting in his mother’s lap.

“Yes.”

“You have a son.”

“Yes, Draco. I have a son. Won’t you say hello?”

Draco opens his mouth and then shuts it.

Only when he feels like his mind has wrapped itself around the concept sufficiently does he manage a soft hello.

“He’s funny,” Levi turns to his mother, whispering rather loudly.

Just then, a woman, a witch actually, turns around the same corner Levi had, out of breath.

Pansy Parkinson.

“Sorry, Mi, your dear sweet angel spawn is a slippery little bugger,” Pansy says, pulling a silvery scarf from her neck.

Draco and Pansy look at each other at the same moment, her eyes going wide as saucers, and his mouth going completely dry.

“Did you spill a hallucinogenic potion in here or is Draco Malfoy sitting next to you eating pizza?” Pansy asks.

She looks great, with much longer hair than she’d had in school. She looks softer, somehow. Maybe it is the woollen jumper in place of her typically edgy clothes or the smile lines she hadn’t had last time he’d seen her. It was during the battle, he thinks. That entire day was a blur.

Who is Draco to say what is typical of someone he hasn’t seen for five years?

“Pansy took me to the park, Mummy!” Levi exclaims, adorably mispronouncing his P’s as soft H’s.

“She did? That was very nice of her,” Granger smiles, only having eyes for her son.

Her son. Draco can’t quite believe it.

Though it had been five years.

The boy's hair is Granger’s colour, but lacks the curl.

“What are you doing here, Draco?” Pansy asks, pulling Draco’s thoughts from the boy’s parentage.

“I work next door. Just started,” he explains. “Explain to me why you are watching Granger’s child?”

Pansy looks at Granger and they seem to have an entire conversation before Pansy gives a half smile and transfigures the planter next to her into a chair.

“I am Levi’s nanny,” Pansy says. 

“Pansy!” Levi shouts and then climbs down from his mother’s lap, shooting off into a row of books.

“I don’t understand, in what world did you two manage to become anything close to friends?”

Pansy laughs and Granger looks down in her lap.

“No one wants to marry the disgraced daughter of a Death Eater,” Pansy says bitterly.

And?

Pansy inhales and continues, “The reparations hit hard, as I’m sure you are aware. I couldn’t find work. Granger here made me her pet project.”

“She seems to make it a habit,” Draco shies away from pitying Pansy. He knows how much he hates to be pitied.

“I offered Pansy a position here, but she refused. Said it would be too boring. So I asked her to watch Levi for me,” Granger adds.

“And while he is the progeny of the swottiest witch I’ve ever met, Levi is the perfect child.”

Draco manages a short laugh, surprised at how much he’d missed Pansy’s usually offensive commentary.

Levi comes running down the centre aisle waving what looks like a wand in the air.

When he grows closer, Draco recognizes it as a very flimsy twig.

“Magic, Mummy, magic!” Levi’s wave of his fake wand is fairly impressive.

Granger lifts her hand and casts a simple spell to rustle the papers in front of them and Levi gets a very serious look on his round face, as though he is making the parchment move.

Draco can’t help a small pang from running through his chest.

Pansy and Granger clap for the young boy and Draco keeps his face straight, barely.

“I have to get Levi home,” Granger says. “Laura should be here soon, but perhaps you two could catch up.”

Pansy stands up and Draco watches her say goodbye to Levi.

He does seem to be as perfect as she said. He looks to be three, maybe four. Which means that Granger was pregnant not long after he was sent to Azkaban.

She’s not wearing a wedding band, though they aren’t exactly a wizarding tradition. 

Had she married a wizard? Someone he knows?

Granger escorts her son out of the store, turning over the closed sign and wishing them a good night.

Draco looks awkwardly at Pansy.

“You look awful,” Pansy breaks the ice and Draco feels immediately better.

“You’re a nanny,” he points out, laughing as she sits back down.

“When did you get out?” She asks.

Draco doesn’t want to talk about Azkaban. Nor his job at the Ministry. He doesn’t want to reminisce about their years at Hogwarts.

Everything in his past makes him feel like a failure.

“How old is Levi?” He asks.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what, Pansy?”

“Don’t ask me about Granger’s son. If you want to know about Levi, you’ll have to talk to her.”

“Fine, then tell me about you. Because I don’t want to talk about my time in Azkaban.”

They stare at each other for what feels like hours. It’s clear Pansy doesn’t want to discuss her life either.

“Honestly, things aren’t so bad. After the dust settled, life went back to normal pretty quickly.  I actually work as a senior designer for a brand here in London. I’ve just stuck with watching Levi because I care for him. Granger’s sort of my only friend.”

“What happened to Daphne?”

“She got married. Her family name remains pretty much unblemished since her father never took the mark. They kept most of their fortune, and she found herself a pureblood wizard to keep her comfortable. It wasn’t the future I saw for myself anymore.”

“And Milicent?”

“Married. Most of the Slytherin girls in our year have settled down.”

“And the gents?”

Pansy smirks. It’s strange for him to be the one looking for gossip, but he’s been so disconnected from the world.

If his reintegration officer saw him talking to Pansy, he could be in trouble.

Depends on how strictly they define “consorting with Death Eaters.”

“Zabini is living in Italy, last I knew. And um, I don’t really know what Nott’s doing. Well, of course you know where Goyle is.”

Yeah, he knows. Another fifteen years in Azkaban. 

Theo’s disappearance is more cause for concern. He’d always been delicate. Or at least as delicate as the heir to a pureblood family could be with a dick of a father.

“So you became friends with the girl you once told me should wear a bag over her head, if only she could find one big enough?”

Pansy looks a bit shocked, but then laughs.

“Oh come on, I had cleverer insults than that, Draco. And yes, Hermione and I are very close friends. She’s been through a lot and we both needed someone who could understand our anger at the wizarding world.”

They should form a club, Draco will be the president.

But why is Granger angry at the wizarding world? Her best friends are the poster children for magical unity and peace. You can’t walk anywhere in the ministry building without finding an image of Head Auror Potter looking out into the distance, at nothing, like some insipid hero.

“Tell me about your job. You said you work for a fashion brand?” Draco shifts into small talk with his old classmate, making a mental list of every question he has for Granger.

There are about three hundred.