good harvest
Somehow, along the way, she had begun to feel at ease. The pit inside her stomach - the heavy thing she had carried for years, its seeds of sown in childhood, when a boy with pale hair called her blood muddy, and taking root the year she had spent on the run, attuned to the smallest details on which her precarious aliveness rested – had grown lighter.
Perhaps it was the sun, the soil she dug her hands into, or the wind which was tinged with lavender, something was slackening the coiled angry scared thing that lived inside her. She refused to consider that it might have involved the grey-eyed potion maker with whom she often found enthusiastically discussing all manner of things – from the mechanics of prophecies to the intricacies of Centaur politics.
Some small part of her felt like it was a betrayal to her younger self, how likeable she found him. He was an unexpectedly rapacious listener, eager to engage whatever knowledge she shared with him and build upon it with his own – something she was rather woefully unaccustomed to. He was well-read, spending his evenings pouring over heavy tomes that would surely put any of her friends to sleep. As she washed the dishes in the evening she would try to catch glances of him - clad in his silver wire-framed reading glasses, nimble fingers steadily turning pages. He read with a frowned expression, brow furrowed as if he wasn’t sure whether to entertain whatever thoughts were being presented to him by the author (most of whom, she discovered after a cursory search, were historians of ancient magic, both magical and muggle). She itched to join him, by the fireplace. Felt a disquieting urge to read over his shoulder.
In truth, she dreaded retreating to her tent. At night, the beating of the wind against its walls reminded her of the Forest of Dean, and she would often drift to sleep amidst a flurry of incoherent images and sounds—footsteps, snarls, and spells hurtling into the undergrowth.
If he had noticed the bags underneath her eyes, he had avoided drawing attention to them. Yet he increasingly brought her cups of tea throughout the day—black, with a hint of lavender.
On some days, his face mirrored her own, bruised with a lack of sleep. On those days, she found him to be prone to bouts of something akin to daydreaming. She would catch him staring idly at a dark corner of the potion room, or simply into space, at some invisible thing only he could see. When he would emerge from his reveries he seemed disoriented – but would quickly regain his composure, slackening his features into a cool mask while carefully avoiding her gaze.
He had a slight tremor in his hands that was heightened by damp weather, she had noticed. On such occasions, she would stir the potion herself. She found it comical, how politely they apprehended one another’s dysfunction. Yet part of her was grateful for his arrangement. She loved her friends but dreaded the question that seemed always on the tip of their tongue: “Are you okay Hermione?”
Respectfully, I would prefer not to answer that.
“How do you know how I like my tea?” she asked one day – a good day in which both their bodies seemed unmarred by history.
“I remember from school,” he answered absentmindedly as he stirred the potion the appropriate amount of times clockwise (an endeavour which the potion detailed should take around three hours).
“Funny I don’t recall our tea parties at Hogwarts.”
This drew a smile from him – a genuine one that made him look young and boyish, so far from the cruel sneer he wore in youth that she could almost take him to be an entirely different person. She (unfortunately) increasingly found herself wanting to draw this particular smile from him.
“If you’ll recall, one of my biggest pastimes was glaring at you. This included breakfast, during which you would pour yourself tea, black, no cream, no sugar.”
“Well, now my question is how does Harry take his tea?”
“Potter drinks coffee, one cream and yes, before you ask, I know Weasley takes his tea with one cream and one sugar.”
Laughter spilt out from deep inside her. “You are quite possibly the most ridiculous wizard I have ever met,” she wheezed.
“I resent the implication that I am more ridiculous than any member of the Weasley brood.”
∆
She observed him the following evening from the reading chair where she had taken to reading while he prepared dinner, watching him as struggled to mince garlic.
He had spent all day drifting off into some imagined place. She wondered what it looked like there, what dark architecture he was being pulled towards. She had tried to draw him away from it all day to no avail, in spite of marshalling her most interesting facts, her most esoteric knowledge.
Eventually, he let out a small curse under his breath and brought his finger to his mouth.
“Give it here,” she said as she shut her battered copy of Memory and other Magical Mnemonics and joined him by the counter. His posture betrayed an instinctual reticence, yet he slowly extended his bleeding index to her.
“I’m just going to heal you alright?” she said before slowly raising her wand. She mended the cut with a quick flick, watching the skin knit itself neatly. A single drop of blood remained on his fingertip. She watched it – the supposed pure thing that had caused her so much grief. Some irrational part of her had thought it would’ve looked different from hers. Unbidden the thought of putting his finger in her mouth to taste it entered her mind and she blushed furiously, quickly dropping his wrist.
As she lifted her eyes she found his own trained on her face. She hoped the early evening shadows would conceal the warmth she knew was colouring her cheeks.
“Sorry, I’ve been a bit out of it today,” he swallowed, grey eyes darting over her cheekbones.
“That’s alright, why don’t I help cook tonight?”
He shot her a sceptical look.
“Oh for goodness sake I can manage peeling a potato,” she huffed as she stomped towards the cutting board.
Her shoulder brushed gently against his side as she leaned over to seize the potatoes from the sink. She felt him stiffen slightly.
“Anything on your mind?” she suppressed a grimace at her inquiry. Merlin Hermione stop prying.
To her surprise, he seemed to relax at her words. “I have to go to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement tomorrow for my yearly evaluation. I’m sorry to say you will have to work on the potion on your own for a while.”
“Oh! That’s okay. We’ve covered next steps hundreds of times so I should be fine.” She resumed peeling the potatoes, sheering brown skin from cold white flesh. Quickly her curiosity got the better of her. “What exactly do they do during these evaluations?”
He smiled softly as he flicked the skin off the carrot in his hands as if sensing how quickly her curiosity had overtaken her. “Truth be told it’s quite horrible. They make me undergo what they call a ‘psychological assessment’ but it's more akin to a several hours-long session of attempted verbal legilimency performed by some ministry lackey. They ask um,” he gave a slight cough, “very invasive questions. Truly an exercise in how much humiliation the human body can bear.”
“That sounds awful.”
“And then they bring in this doctor who pokes and prods at my Dark Mark for ages. It makes me feel like some kind of specimen which, in a sense, I guess I am. Being the world’s last Death Eater and all that.”
“Something akin to an endangered species almost,” she smiled.
“Yes exactly. Sometimes I think they wish they could put me in a zoo, have all the magical children come to learn about the consequences of blood purity fascism and all that rot.”
“Maybe they’ll even get to feed you peanuts and bananas.”
This drew a genuine laugh from him. “Lucky me, I love peanuts and bananas. What am I in this scenario, a cross between an elephant and a monkey?”
She felt relieved to see his features relax. “Yes, something like that.”
She had never liked to cook but she found herself enjoying the process alongside him—dicing potatoes, carrots, and onions, simmering it all in a large pot.
“Oh it’s coq-au-vin isn’t it!” she exclaimed, as he reached for a bottle of red wine and began pouring its contents liberally.
“Ten points to Gryffindor.”
“I love coq-au-vin, my parents used to make it all the time,” she felt the familiar pang of grief she associated with them, with the glaring hole burnt into the fabric of her life.
“Well, now you know how to make it,” he said softly. Some of his hair had fallen over his eyes and he ran his hand absentmindedly pushing it backwards as he smiled at her. “Should we finish the bottle?”
She grabbed it and took a swig from it. “Yes let’s.”
He looked surprised but took the bottle from her extended hand and took a long drink in turn.
They split the bottle in two tall glasses they filled to the brim and devoured the chicken, she felt warm and full. And suddenly words were gathering on the tip of her tongue. “The potion is for them, my parents that is. I obliviated them during the war. It’s been ten years and I still haven’t figured out how to reverse it.”
His gaze was focused on her and he seemed so still for a moment she was sure he had stopped breathing.
“It’s silly,” she continued, laughing darkly. “Some part of me is foolish enough to believe that Felix will steady my hand to cast a spell so dangerous I might destroy their minds for good. Does that make me a bad person?”
“No,” the word came out so firmly it startled her. “There’s no version of you that’s bad.”
She sighed and downed her remaining wine. She could sense his eyes on her throat.
“My mother,” he said slowly. “She forgot who I was, towards the end. It was the loneliest feeling in the world.”
She felt tears gathering in her eyes. “Yes, that’s right isn’t it.”
Something was moving her towards him, and she motioned for him to stand. Slowly she encircled him with her arms and pulled her head into his chest. She felt him stiffen and relax against her, his arms tentatively winding themselves along her back. He smelled of wool, parchment, grass and lavender. She heard his heartbeat, slow and steady against his rib cage.
“I don’t think it’s silly,” he said softly, his voice muffled by her hair. “I think it’s brave.”
She dug her hands into his sweater. Granting him the authority to comfort her.
∆
The next morning, she entered the house finding it already vacant. A note greeted her on the kitchen table.
“Should be back late after dinner. There are leftovers in the fridge, please help yourself.”
She ran her finger across the note. He hadn’t signed it. For some irrational reason, it bothered her. It’s not like we call each other by our first names anyway. He had reverted to calling her Granger, and she simply omitted calling him anything at all.
She felt the feeling swell within her, letting it guide her upstairs. She wasn’t being nosy, she reasoned as she climbed the dark wooden stairs that creaked slightly under her weight. She was merely taking an opportunity to further explore the cottage, ensuring the premise was free of secret dungeons.
She carefully swung the first door she encountered, revealing a tidy bathroom of moss green tile, its sink lined with a razor, a toothbrush and a wrinkled tube of spearmint toothpaste. That’s odd, there’s no mirror. A discoloured spot marked its absence. She closed the door and proceeded to the next room which she found to be empty, clearly awaiting the arrival of some anticipated guest. This must be the room he offered me. It was nondescript, its white walls bare. A pale blue quilt covered the bed, next to which on a bedside table stood a small vase of dried lavender. She felt herself smiling then shook her head in dismay at herself. Merlin get a grip. She didn’t like the warmth the presence of the lavender sparked within her.
The last door led to his room, she could smell the ghost of him within it. It was tidy – a dark navy blue quilt with yellow stitching laying neatly on top of his bed. She found herself drawn to it, running her fingertips along the yellow stitches. Books were stacked in tidy piles on his drawer and bedside tables. She took her time reading their titles. The Galdabrok, The Complete Works of Pliny the Elder, The Pseudepigraphic Testament of Solomon, Magia Naturalis. Why is he reading ancient muggle grimoires? Movement drew her eyes to a framed picture. It was of him as a child. He seemed upset by some unknown occurrence off-camera and clung angrily to his mother’s skirt. She was looking down at him with a loving bemused expression. Her heart ached.
As she turned to leave, her eyes caught on a thick blue sweater haphazardly thrown onto a chair. As she drew closer she saw it was covered in long dark strands, laughing as she realized it was kelpie hair. She had suspected that he occasionally slept outside next to the kelpie and was amused by the image of him - who had sneered at every creature presented to him in Care of Magical Creatures - cuddling with a wet, fanged swamp being.
She quickly darted downstairs, fearing his improbable reappearance. In the potion room, she let out a little breath and began setting up her daily tasks. A few hours later, the little cauldron was bubbling genially and she found herself done by early afternoon, having traded her habitual slow pace with a rapidly determined one. Her palms itched for activity, so she sat in the living room reading chair and tackled her latest book on memory, a heavy academic muggle tome on neuroscience.
The floo roared to life, interrupting her halfhearted attempts to read about neuroplasticity. “You’re back early” she said in the direction of the fireplace, concealing how unexpectedly pleased she felt at this development.
“Oh, Hermione! I didn’t expect to see you here.” Andromeda Tonks stood in the living room clutching a heavy grocery bag which she set down before dusting off her elegant robes.
While she had inferred that Draco and Andromeda had reconnected sometime during the last decade, she was nevertheless surprised when the sole remaining Black matriarch strode towards her and embraced her.
“We can make his birthday cake together,” she said brightly, affectionately squeezing her shoulders before releasing her.
“His what?” she exclaimed.
“Oh, the silly boy hasn’t told you! Today is his birthday. He hates when I make a fuss and usually I leave him alone but I decided today I would make an exception.”
Hermione was alarmed by the amount of information being conveyed and by Andromeda’s tacit acceptance of her presence in the cottage. As though Hermione Granger reading on Draco Malfoy’s couch was something completely ordinary – a domestic portrait. Her spine gave a little shudder of alarm at the dawning realization that was exactly what it was becoming with every passing day. Constant vigilance Hermione.
She rinsed the strawberries Andromeda had brought in a white colander she found in one of the cupboards.
“Victoria Sponge is his favourite” the dark-haired witch smiled as they busied themselves quartering the fruit. “It was his mother’s favourite too when we were children.” Hermione sensed a sadness rise within Andromeda. “He wrote to me after he was released, it’s the first thing he did. He told me later. He didn’t even know me and he begged me to come see her. I didn’t know she had been sick, if I had known” she put the knife down. Hermione covered her wet hand with her own.
“I think he’s punishing himself. He refuses to meet Teddy because he says he’ll be a bad influence. He’s a good boy,” she said, her eyes shining with tears. “Despite that hateful home that made him. He doesn’t think he is but I know he is.”
“Yes, he is” she felt herself saying in a steady tone, squeezing Andromeda’s delicate hand. And she was surprised at how much conviction she held in those words.
“Silly me, getting all emotional. I’m so glad he’s finally let someone in after all this time.”
“Oh no he hasn’t, this isn’t what this -”
Andromeda patted her hand and shot her a knowing look. “Of course. Shall we get cracking?”
∆
An exhausted Draco emerged from the fireplace long after the sun had set. She was unaccustomed to the sight of him in wizard robes as within the cottage he favoured muggle clothing – white shirts, woollen sweaters, jeans, dark slacks. Seeing him, hair falling more tidily than usual clad in robes a navy so dark they appeared almost black suddenly reminded her of the violent history that hung between them and she felt a brief stab of panic. His eyes met hers and to her alarm, he looked faintly embarrassed, before being swept up in an embrace by his aunt.
“Andromeda what are you doing here?” he wheezed as she trapped him up in a tight embrace.
“I know you like to sulk on your birthday like a teenager but Percy Weasley owled informing me that they had scheduled your dreadful evaluation today and I figured -”
“That little snake,” Draco said narrowing his eyes.
“ – that you shouldn’t be alone today of all days. Well, you wouldn’t have been alone, of course, if I had known –”
“That’s quite enough Andromeda,” he said curtly as he finally managed to extricate himself from her arms. Only to collide with a cross-armed Hermione.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me it was your birthday? And what does Percy Weasley have to do with this?”
He let out a long sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “Because I don’t like fuss and Percy Weasley is my extremely meddlesome lawyer.”
Hermione gasped delightedly, “Prefect Percy is your lawyer? Obviously, I knew about his career change but never would’ve expected -”
“It’s been a long day, might we continue this conversation with the aid of firewhiskey?”
“Yes great idea Draco, come let’s eat. Hermione and I made your favourite, Victoria Sponge.”
He blushed, all pretence of annoyance quickly draining from his face, and Hermione thought it rather suited his face. “That’s very kind of you.”
∆
After whiskey had been generously imbibed and cake consumed, Andromeda gave Draco a quick peck on the forehead and flooed home to relieve the babysitter.
Hermione twisted her hands in her lap. “I have something for you,” she said once she had built enough courage to pierce the comfortable silence that hung between them.
He looked dumbfounded. “For me?” he asked, confusedly.
“No, the other Draco whose birthday is today,” she snapped, reaching into her pocket before quickly losing her cool. “Um, I know it’s not much but, well here, give me your hand.”
Unhesitatingly he extended his hand to her. She fastened the dark woven bracelet around it.
“I made it today, it’s kelpie hair. I gathered it from Equuleus. I added some beads I had in my mending kit. It’s a friendship bracelet. Did you ever have those in the wizarding world when you were a child? I used to make them all the time with my friends and we would trade them in the schoolyard. Right, say something please.”
She feared she had done something wrong. He stared at the bracelet, eyes wide in astonishment. Finally, he carefully traced the small runes she had carved into the wooden beads. Good harvest, friendship, joy.
“Oh you hate it, don’t you. I know it’s childish but in my defense, I didn’t know-”
Her words were swallowed by the fabric of his robes as he swept her up in a tight embrace. “I love it,” he said in a hoarse voice. “It’s perfect.” She smiled into his chest, returning his tight-fisted grip.