your eyes make little daggers
The smell of rue clung stubbornly to her skin. Eventually she gave up rubbing it raw and sunk onto her rickety bed, resigning herself to its scent. In second year - when she still believed her cleverness rendered her invincible – she ripped a weathered page out of a book and pilfered the herbarium for rue, the torn page detailing that the plant could withstand a basilisk’s poisoned breath. When they had discovered her, petrified, her pockets had been full of small yellow flowers and bitter leaves.
As she clipped its sprawling stems in cool albeit amiable silence alongside Draco Malfoy she suddenly remembered the herb’s nickname.
Here I am picking herb-of-grace with a rueful former Death Eater. That is, if he really is remorseful, if it isn’t all for show.
She could feel his gaze on her back and found herself trying to puzzle his inner workings. Did he resent the rigid world which he was being made to inhabit - wandless, alone, without wealth or prestige. His face betrayed no such dark machinations. It seemed less pinched than it had in childhood, less surly. She had noticed a small almost invisible fleck of scar that ran across the left side of his lips towards his chin. Had that always been there?
The following morning, they resumed their work in the garden, this time harvesting thyme. Her knees ached from kneeling and she found it difficult to follow her companion’s methodical and rapid pace.
“Felix Felicis is a very greedy potion, requiring large volumes of ingredients, some extremely rare and costly not to mention an intricate and often times grueling brewing process,” he said, seemingly noticing her fatigue. “It’s almost meant to frustrate potion makers during every step of the process. For the rue and the thyme, they need to be dried in a particular way – not to early or late in the process - or they won’t be potent enough. The yield of the potion is also laughable with relations to its cost, probably why there is so little of it that is brewed and even less of it in circulation.”
“Are you calling me greedy for attempting to make it?” she grit out, annoyed by his impromptu lecturing and feeling hot, tired and grimy. I know all this. I’ve read quite possibly every single entry regarding the bloody potion available in magical libraries.
“No,” he quickly responded, halting his motions in order to briefly meet her eyes. “If anything, I think it’s commendable. Committing yourself to such a tedious endeavor. And besides,” he resumed his careful cutting, “I’ve always wanted to brew it.”
She wondered if his desire had been borne during sixth year. She thought of how desperate he had been to win the brew in Slugghorn’s class. How his eyes had lingered on the small vial long after it had disappeared into Harry’s pocket.
“So this is all some great intellectual exercise for you,” she said while resuming her task.
“One could say that.”
“Do you resent the fact that you won’t be able to take it?” Merlin Hermione stop pushing.
But she found she could not stop pushing, she felt an itch to sink her claws into his heart for the purpose of examination, of diagnosis. She wanted to know what lay at the bottom of it, puzzle out whether inside it lay dormant a yearning for some twisted form of glory. If she had to tread cautiously around it while working alongside him, lest she awaken it.
He let out a low chuckle, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Believe it or not I have no need for any luck. There’s no doomed task I need to accomplish. Nothing my heart desires. No one left I would want to take it for.”
She remembered reading in the newspaper that his mother had died of some unspecified degenerative illness. He had been granted an early release to be at her bedside when it had happened. For weeks Andromeda had been wracked with grief. Harry had told her that, in the night, when she thought no one could hear her, she would often whisper to her dead sister.
“I have a hard time believing that.”
“It would be extremely stupid for I, wandless-formerly-incarcerated-Death-Eater-currently-on-indefinite-probation, to try to rob Merlin’s Order-first-class-recipient-and-extremely-competent-duelist Hermione Granger.”
“I don’t believe you.” She pressed on, digging her heals into proverbial earth.
“When the people who tell you what it is you should want your whole life go ahead and die, you don’t really have anything left to fill your heart with. In a way, its freeing. In a way all of this,” and he gestured to his surroundings, “is afterlife. And there’s no need for luck in the afterlife.”
He’s actually gone mental. “So your heart is just one big empty room?”
He laughed, “for someone who doesn’t wish to be asked personal questions you sure are willing to dole them out. Not sure if I should be insulted or flattered at the image. I guess I should try furnishing my big empty room of a heart.”
Feeling her face heat up, she halted her furious inquiry and returned to her task. For some reason, she didn’t feel the need to be polite with him – no need to mediate herself. Perhaps because of how much had transpired, there could be no pretense with him. Whatever she felt, she spoke. Which, to her alarm, she found herself enjoying.
A muffled ringtone interrupted her ruminations.
“Sorry, this is important,” he said, quickly standing up and brushing dirt off his trousers before answering the call in a clipped tone a little way away. She watched him pace alongside the rows of rosemary, nodding his head into the phones receiver.
Draco Malfoy on a flip phone. The novelty of seeing him do such mundane things will never run out.
Flipping his phone closed with practiced ease he strolled in her direction. “We need to leave quite quickly if we’re to make the purchase of a key ingredient. Could you be ready soon?”
She cast a quick scourgify over herself, a stasis charm over the thyme and bent to pick up her beaded bag. “All ready to go.”
His expression was at once amused and impressed. He gestured her towards the path leading to the apparition point. They walked briskly, the tall grass undulating in the cool summer breeze. Suddenly a whinnying sound pierced the quiet, she whipped out her wand.
A murky green snout shoved itself into Draco’s side. “Equuleus get off, we’re in a rush.” He glanced at her startled expression. “Sorry if he startled you, he’s a nuisance but he isn’t dangerous.”
Hermione observed the creature. It strongly resembled a small horse, but it’s coat was a dark green blueish hue dappled with light specks on its hind legs and rear. Its mane was a dark tangle of hair and algae.
“It’s a kelpie!” she exclaimed, recognizing its drawn counterpart from her old Care of Magical Creatures textbook.
“It’s a big baby who won’t leave me alone anytime I stray too close to the wetlands,” he struggled against the kelpie who continued to bump his head into Draco’s torso. “You are too big for this. I swear to Merlin one day you’re going to trample me to death. Right, here’s an apple, now please let us be on our way.” He tossed an apple which the kelpie happily caught in its unexpectedly sharp teeth, trotting away towards the pond that lay a little way away.
“Equuleus? Like the constellation?” she asked as they resumed walking.
He looked away, seemingly attempting to conceal a blush that crept onto his face. It was useless of course, Hermione could see it on his neck.
“It’s a Black thing.”
“Hmhm I’m aware,” and she couldn’t help but smile.
∆
They apparated to an alley which she recognized as being on the outskirts of Diagon Alley. She quickly untangled her arm from his, clearing her throat. He guided them to a store with a faded sign advertising some wilted plant, holding the door open for her in what she assumed was an automatic reflex of his well-bred upbringing. She narrowed her eyes at him as she moved passed him and he lifted his hands and eyebrows in a confused defensive gesture.
The store was overflowing with colourful plants, a squat man in thick round glasses emerged from a back room. “Wotcher Draco. Over here! Made it just in time. Egg should be ready soon” the man rattled off before noticing Hermione. “My stars, is that the Hermione Granger, such a pleasure, tremendous work truly, tremendous.” He enthusiastically shook her hand. “Draco what’s this business being friends with the Hermione Granger? So so lovely truly.”
“She’s hired me for a complicated potion, the Ashwinder egg is for this particular brew,” Draco answered casually, unfazed by the man’s enthusiasm.
“It’s lovely to meet you sir, thank you for helping us procure an egg,” she said, her hand still clasped in his.
“Oh, yes the snake should be leaving its egg soon.”
The sound of the door’s tinkling bell interrupted their disjointed conversation. Hermione felt her stomach drop into the floor at the sight of the man she had cursed at the war memorial.
“My, my if it isn’t the Golden Girl and,” he paused genuine surprise briefly flashing across his face, “notorious Death Eater Draco Malfoy. Lubich, I’ve come to pick up the Ashwinder egg I know is about to be available.”
“I am sorry sir but it has already been promised to Draco and Ms. Granger, another should be available in six weeks-”
“Lubich, under current regulations, does all Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry staff not have priority when it comes to the purchase of regulated items including potion ingredients, wand wood, broomsticks and other magical objects?”
“Yes but-”
“Please wrap it up in a parcel. I am in a rush.”
The shop keeper looked crestfallen, apologizing in low tone to her before returning to the back area. Hermione felt a wave of rage swell inside her. She wondered if he even had use for the Ashwinder egg or if he was intent on exacting some version of revenge for the slugs she knew he had no doubt vomited for hours.
“Still making that greedy little potion I see,” he sniffed in disapproval. “And that you’ve chosen an odd bedfellow to do so. Isn’t he the very reason you need the potion in the first place. Yes, I know what happened to your parents, what you-”
“No.” The word was spoken in an icy tone that reminded her of his father, for a split second she saw him in his face – a cold and frightful mask of authority.
“I caution you against speaking to Ms. Granger with such lack of respect befitting of a witch of her caliber Mr. Lamb,” his tone was poisonous and in a flash, she saw not a potioneer that kept apples in his pockets but the man his father had groomed him to be. “Ms. Granger has kindly taken on the task of reintegrating me into magical society. But I find myself slipping into dark thoughts sometimes, Mr. Lamb. Increasingly I find myself yearning for the good old days of potioneer hunting. So, few of us left, and so few ingredients to divvy up between us. Seems almost economical.”
“You wouldn’t” he stammered.
“There is a reason I am the only Death Eater left alive. I am very resourceful.”
She watched the Hogwarts’ potion maker’s face grow pale. “You’re just going to let him threaten me like that?” he exclaimed at her.
“I have no idea what you’re saying Edwin.”
“Well frankly I am disgusted by the company you choose to keep Ms. Granger. Filth like this belongs in Azkaban.” He spat loudly onto Draco’s face, which - much to Hermione’s surprise - remained stoic, before quickly grabbing the parcel and stomping out.
“How awful. Stand still let me vanish it,” she raised his wand and he flinched slightly – a gesture she pretended to ignore. “Disgusting foul little man, how dare he even weigh in on such matters,” she grumbled nonsensically, “besides you’ve literally served your time, too much time I’ll mind you because of course the Ministry loves a spectacle of cruelty no matter who is running it. Oh, how I abhor that man. If anything, you’ve more than earned reintegration into society-”
“Do you really believe that?” he asked, his shock too genuine to mask. “Your eyes have been making little daggers at my every gesture since we started working together.”
“Oh well that’s different, that’s because you’re you and I’m me,” she trailed off, unsure of how to explain her confused understanding of what lay between them. “You seem surprisingly cavalier about being spat on.”
He shrugged– a gesture so deeply at odds with his prissy teenage self - “I have plenty of self-loathing at home. That was amateur hour.”
She was disarmed by his openness, the fact that he would so casually divulge such vulnerabilities to her.
“And I don’t particularly care for that awful man. I’ve met dementors more suited for teaching children than him. What he’s doing to Madame Pomfrey is unconscionable.”
“What did you mean by potioneer hunting?” she asked, that detail had picked at her interest.
He grew pensive. “During the Dark Lord- sorry, Voldemort” he grimaced at the name, “during the war there was a, how should I put this, a concerted push to seize the means of magical expertise, by culling those not loyal to the cause. The Death Eaters killed dozens of potioneers, anyone with the ability to make magical objects.” He trailed off. “I’m sorry, I’ve frightened you.”
“No, you haven’t. Nothing frightens me anymore.”
∆
They landed in the meadow with a dull thud. She immediately started furiously pacing towards the cottage. “I guess we’ll fetch the egg that will be ready in six weeks. I know enough from my readings that the herbs won’t be affected much by the expanded timeframe, I guess we should prioritize other ingredients as of now, maybe get a head start with the murtlap and then place it in stasis-”
“Granger slow down,” he said, lengthening his strides to interrupt her trajectory. “I’ve got something-”
She felt her anger move inside her like a snake, coiling itself around her heart. Suddenly she whipped around. “How dare he call me greedy? I have only ever asked for so little of the magical world, to just let me live inside it,” suddenly she couldn’t stop the words pouring out of her, “after the war, I continued to ask for so little, just a little dignity. A modicum of willingness to understand where all the fuck the hate and the violence and the war even came from in the first place and for help in rooting it out. I sit at my little desk every day and just try to stop it but I can’t, I can never make it stop” her pulse beat wildly, “I never ask for more because everyone always said to just work hard and others will understand. But I worked so hard in school and it wasn’t enough. They still tried to kill me. And I’m so tired of subsisting on crumbs, there is so much want inside me and if this potion is the thing that makes me greedy so be it. I want to stay greedy. I want to tear into the world.”
He looked at her in rapt attention, standing perfectly still. Wordlessly he reached into his pocket and retrieved a blue handkerchief. He unfolded it carefully, revealing glittering fragments of eggshell.
She stared at the boy who had taught her the magical language of hatred - the boy to whom she often bitterly retraced all the horror to - who now cradled gently in the palm of his hand the delicate thing that she wanted most. It was all too much. She sunk to her knees and cried into her hands. She cried for her parents and for the little werewolf girl from work and for Dobby and for how much she loved a world that hated the ones she loved. After several seconds, she felt a hesitant hand on her shoulder. Slowly her trembling subsided. Eventually, as the stars began brightening themselves against a darkening sky, she let out a long sigh.