Fic: Save Me, San Francisco (2/3)
Title: Save Me, San Francisco (2/3)
Rating: T
Word Count: 20,000(ish)
Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling and 20th Century Fox, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.
Summary: In which Hermione has to find Malfoy and return him to his rightful place in Wiltshire.
Warnings: Language (sorry, guys - I just can’t control Malfoy’s mouth!), memory!fic
Author's Note: Written for the second round of dramione-remix, with the prompt being Dimitri and Anastasia from Anastasia.
Betas: eilonwy1, dormiensa, and callarose
Part One
PART TWO
Hermione sighs as she walks in the door to her flat. A quick glance at her watch-still set to San Francisco time-tells her that she only has a couple hours until her Portkey back to California leaves. Placing her bag on the dining table, her eyes scan the flat. It feels like it’s been ages since she’s been home. These past five days could have been a year, as drained as she is. She’ll definitely need a real holiday after this job.
At the feel of something against her ankles, she looks down to see her Dorian. Hermione quickly picks the grey cat up and holds him against her collarbone. Dorian curls further into her and almost immediately begins purring, and she’s glad that her absence hasn’t completely robbed her companion of his affections. Cats could be so finicky-if she ever left Crookshanks for more than two days, he’d have snubbed her for twice as long.
With a quick scratch of his head, she sets Dorian onto one of the arms on her couch. He makes a show of protesting with a loud meow, but just as quickly settles down into the cushion for a nap. “Oh, I have missed you,” Hermione mumbles at the cat with a chuckle before turning to the mantle above her fireplace. She quickly studies each of the pictures and pulls out her wand, casting a spell to hold each of the magical photographs still. She tucks a couple under her arm to be put away, one a picture of Draco himself and the other of a triumphant Neville leaning over a cauldron containing his first successfully brewed potion. Neither of those are photographs she could explain to a memory-addled Draco.
She glances around the perimeter of the living room and grabs everything that may be too strange to be considered Muggle-the Sneakoscope and Extendable Ears from her bookcase, as well as the box of Floo powder from the mantle. Arms full, she pads back into her bedroom and gingerly places the items next to her old trunk. Hermione yanks the trunk open and blows the thin layer of dust away from the top contents. She honestly can’t remember the last time she’d opened it. She lays the Sneakoscope, now stuffed into a sock, into one of the few open spaces in the trunk. And just as she’s about to lay down the frames, she notices a folded piece of parchment tucked into the side of the trunk, between the fabric panel and her oldest copy of Hogwarts: A History. Her hand freezes, hovering over the trunk, and she can feel her heart hammering as she swallows.
Hermione exhales heavily and gingerly takes the parchment out of the trunk. She’d almost forgotten about this. She unfolds it in her lap, gently pushing Dorian away from the paper. Immediately, she recognizes the sharp strokes. Even now, she doesn’t need to see the two small initials in the corner to know the artist: DM.
Staring back at her is a scene that even now makes her smile. It shows the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, back when it was still the headquarters for the Order. Somehow, he’d managed to capture the essence of every person in the room. Seamus is grinning unabashedly at Ron, whose blush shows through even without colour. Harry and Ginny are gripping each other’s hand, and it seems like they barely even notice the other people surrounding them. Hermione herself is there, too, staring off-Merlin knows where.
This drawing had helped her through many sleepless nights after the war. She’d often found it hard to focus on the good after so much loss in such a short amount of time.
The sound of three sharp knocks on her door startles Hermione-who in Merlin’s name could that be? She hadn’t told a soul that she was back in England, mostly because it was for mere hours. She walks slowly into the living area of her flat, near the door.
Then, three more knocks-more insistent this time-and Ginny’s voice. “I know you’re in there, Hermione. Open up!”
Hermione’s eyes widen in shock, but she quickly opens the door. “What are you doing here?” she blurts.
Ginny just smirks. “There may or may not have been a charm to tell me when you’ve returned.”
She tries not to smile at her friends’ resourcefulness. “Glad to see you’re taking advantage of Harry’s position.”
The redhead grins widely. “It has its uses.”
“Well, since you’re here, the least you can do is make tea,” Hermione says with a playful grin. In all seriousness though, Ginny’s makes a damn good cuppa. Of all the things she’s inherited from Molly, that’s the best-at least in Hermione’s opinion.
Ginny just smiles and turns towards the kitchen. It’s almost unnerving how easily she navigates through Hermione’s kitchen. Soon enough, she’s put tea in a pot and the kettle on the stove.
“So, is it done, then?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet? What does that mean?”
“I’m just tidying up the flat. I’ve got a Portkey back to San Francisco in a couple hours.”
“Wait… You plan on bringing him here? To your flat?” Ginny asks, eyebrow raised high.
Hermione rolls her eyes. “Not necessarily, but I figured just in case.” When Ginny moves her hands to her hips, she continues, “Fine, Molly. Do you think he’d expect me to drag my bags around with everywhere whilst he’s in London? Or maybe I’d just leave my things at his hotel room.”
“All right,” Ginny says, her hands up in mock surrender. “Down, girl. So you got him to come back?”
Hermione shrugs. “He mentioned that he’s unhappy in San Francisco, so I told him my employer has a position for a new art director that he might be interested in.”
Ginny frowns. “Since when has Draco Malfoy been interested in art?”
Hermione sighs, her mind going to the parchment on her bedroom floor. “A while, actually.”
Ginny nods slowly, “Colour me surprised. So he accepted?”
“Yeah. A couple days later, he called to say he’d be willing to interview for the position. So he’s taking a short holiday for a long weekend here.” Hermione smiles gratefully when Ginny places a cup of perfect tea in front of her. She takes a long sip and hums in pleasure. “Thanks for making this. I wish I could make it like you do, honestly.”
Ginny smiles back at her. “Anytime, love. Don’t get me wrong, Hermione, but you don’t exactly seem pleased about this whole thing.”
“I’m just tired.”
“I can only imagine,” Ginny says slowly. “So when you said ‘tidying up’, you meant…”
“Making it Muggle-friendly,” Hermione says with a chuckle. She’d never thought she’d have to do something like this, especially for one of the pureblood elite. “I’m almost done, though.”
With that, Ginny follows her back to the bedroom, where she quickly folds up the parchment and finishes placing the photographs into the trunk.
“What’s that?” Ginny asks, gesturing towards the unfolded parchment in Hermione’s hand.
“Just a drawing.” Hermione hopes Ginny interprets her answer as flippant and that she thinks it’s unimportant.
“Right.”
Hermione can tell she’s unconvinced, but at least she drops the topic.
* * *
It’s been less than a week since she first landed in San Francisco-maybe three days since she “bumped” into Draco at that café and less than one since she and Ginny sat in her now Muggle-friendly flat. Ultimately, she’s very happy that she went back to England, even if for such a short while. She’d agonised over the short twenty-four hours between when she’d returned from England and when she had to meet Draco en route to the airport.
Her anxiety soars from that moment and shows no sign of ever waning, but she’s secretly gleeful at his obvious nerves, enough that she forgets about her own. If only momentarily, it’s still a relief.
She ribs him about his fear of flying-“How do you think you got here if not by plane? People don’t travel the Atlantic by ship like they used to, you know.”-for which she gets the expected glare and a short rant-something about how he’s not overtly fond of flying and, moreover, planes aren’t to be trusted. She does a double take when he says he doesn’t like to fly, because it’s something she so naturally associates with him. Hermione never thought in a million years that she’d hear those words escape Draco Malfoy’s lips. But at the same time, a large part of her agrees with him. After so many years of travelling via Floo or Portkey or Apparition, spending hours upon hours on a hunk of metal, and trusting that it’ll remain in the air and not drop straight to the core of the earth, is disconcerting at best. At worst, it’s frightening, but she tries not to even allow her nerves to think about venturing in that direction.
Several hours later, when a shock of turbulence rocks the plane, Hermione grips the armrest of her seat like her life depends on it. Almost immediately she snaps her head towards Draco. But it seems those sleeping pills had really done the trick; the man was out cold, even snoring softly.
She’s amazed that she’s even got this far, to be quite honest. Ginny had been right from the start-this entire thing has been crazy, insane, unthinkable. That confidence she’d claimed in her ability to complete this job? Hermione doubted she’d fooled Ginny for a second. She’s long since accepted that she’s more or less transparent, especially regarding … certain people, and Ginny is better at reading people than most.
Once the plane finally steadies-at this rate, she’s starting to wish they were flying by broom-she releases the death grip and pries her fingers from the armrests. Draco is still deep asleep, ever the heavy sleeper. Hermione’s always envied that of anyone who can sleep through anything since she seems to wake up at the smallest sound or strange feeling. As she glances at Draco, she realises that this is the first time since their meeting at that café that she’s truly had a chance to look at him-really look. It’s kind of annoying that he hasn’t changed much. So many years have passed, and yet she swears he looks like barely half that time has passed. His hairline is receding slightly, and there are a few light scars here and there from their childhood and the war, but other than that and his Muggle attire, one would think it was 1998.
He looks peaceful, and Hermione is struck by a sense of déjà vu. It had always amazed her how different he seemed when asleep, especially compared to his usual snarky, snide self, like being asleep was enough to smooth away all of his stress and preoccupations. When he’s asleep, Draco Malfoy looks calm-as if his life had taken a completely different turn years ago. If only the peace would last. She honestly doesn’t know what his parents plan on doing with him once she returns him. Perhaps they’ve figured out a way to return his memories; perhaps they haven’t. She resolves to alert Harry-as if Ginny hasn’t already-and make sure he has his Aurors keep an eye out for anything … ulterior. She wouldn’t trust the elder Malfoys with a Sickle, to be frank.
It’s only then that it occurs to her.
She still cares. And too much.
Hermione lays her head back against the seat and closes her eyes, willing sleep to claim her. Anything to make this flight go faster-to get this bloody thing over with already.
* * *
“So, this is home,” Hermione says as she pushes the door to her flat open, her voice relaxed but her eyes roving the room for anything she may have missed in her sweep the other day. Satisfied that the flat is as “safe” as can be, she pushes forward. “Go on and make yourself at home. I just need to put these bags in my room.”
When she returns, seconds later, he’s just where she had expected him to be: hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, eyes glancing over the pictures and knick-knacks decorating her mantle. He looks up then, expectant and kind of awkward. This is certainly the first time the two of them have been in a flat together, with the marked exception of the two seconds it had taken him to throw his things in his hotel room. If the reason for his awkwardness, slight as it is, is that he’s unsure what is and isn’t appropriate between them, she can sympathise. So she throws him a bone.
“Would you like some tea?”
He visibly relaxes. “Please. Can I help?”
She waves him off. “No, no. I’ll just be a moment.” Hermione pads over to her kitchen, and she stops short when her hand instinctively goes to her pocket, where she usually keeps her wand. She glances over at her bag, where it’s been stored of late, and sighs. She’d never really thought about how much she relies on her magic to do even the most mundane things-like preparing tea. So, wandless, she carries on, boiling the water and setting up the tea service the same way her mother always does. Although it’s certainly more time-consuming, she’s grateful for that. It allows her to gather her thoughts and go back over her plan. She has a tentative back-up just in case the whole thing backfires, but she’s praying to whatever higher power exists that Plan A will go through. Plan B is much less foolproof, and she thinks it just begs to fail.
Laying the tea egg, full of Earl Gray-she’d thought of putting in his favourite, but figured that would make him more suspicious than she would like-into one of her grandmother’s old teapots, Hermione then pours boiled water in and latches the top. After a quick exhale and count to three, she lifts the tray and returned to the living room.
“I see you’ve found Dorian,” she says with a chuckle as she lays the tray onto her coffee table. Draco is sitting in one corner of her couch, a book in one hand and her cat occupying the other. “Careful. He may never let you stop petting him,” she adds with a cheeky grin. “How do you take your tea?”
“Milk, please, and two sugars,” he requests. “You know, I’m not sure I’ll ever recover my left hand at this rate.”
Dorian looks like he’s on Cloud Nine at this point, his purring indicating just how happy he is. “He doesn’t get many visitors these days, so I would be surprised if he ever lets you leave.” She smiles and hands him a fresh cuppa.
“Ah, well. It’s the least useful of my two hands anyway.”
Hermione’s cheeks redden. Well, maybe he meant it as an over-arching I’m right-handed and so obviously my right hand is more useful than my left! sort of thing. But he looks far too mischievous for that to be true, she thinks when she finally locks eyes with him. Hermione allows him a small smile but shakes her head. Men…
“I am glad you’re not allergic. I always forget to ask people if they are before inviting them in.”
“Have a lot of people come round, do you?”
Her mouth falls ajar at the innuendo. “Friends,” she emphasises. “I have a lot of friends come round.” Cheeky bastard. It seems that losing his memory hadn’t robbed him of his snarkiness. It may have taken a while for him to get out of his shell, so to speak, but apparently they’d gotten past that point.
“So,” he says between sips, “tell me about this company you’ve hooked me up with.”
“What, you mean you didn’t research them whilst you were deciding?” Hermione teases with a raised eyebrow.
“Of course I did. I don’t know how responsible that’d make me if I just jumped onto a trans-Atlantic flight without even looking into the firm I’m supposedly interviewing with.” He settles back into the couch, Dorian settling himself into the man’s lap. “I know what they say about themselves, and what the media says about them. But not the employee’s perspective. Or the outsider.”
She nods. That is a valid point, and not one she’d expected. “That’s fair. And I hate to disappoint, but I don’t have much of an insider’s perspective. I’m technically a contractor-I help many companies find the applicants they’re looking for, not just one.”
Hermione pauses, taking a long sip of tea in order to better postulate her answer. “However, no applicant I’ve sent to them has ever failed the probationary period, which is when my contact with them ends. As far as I know, their employees are happy with the company and with the work they do.
“I mean, what do you want from your next employer? From what I could tell you had two standards. One, getting out of San Francisco. And two, not being treated like chattel.” He’d gone on for what seemed like days on that pier about being essentially a lackey to someone else’s whims, the result of that most often being that he got the blame for mistakes but his superior got the praise for things well done. “I’d say chances are that this one fits the bill. In fact, I can say for a fact that it does.”
“And you know that how? You said yourself, you have no personal connection to any of these people.”
“Well, for one, the position is a ranked one-Art Director. Does that say ‘lackey’ to you at all? Sounds to me like you’ll have enough of your own little minions around to treat like chattel.”
Draco doesn’t answer. Rather, he continues drinking the tea, but she can still see the rather wide smile behind the rim of his cup. Having finished hers already, she waits for him to down what remains of his cup, and then she offers her hand to him.
“Ready? Let’s show you London, shall we?”
* * *
“You’re sure this is all right?” Draco looks at the gates with some suspicion. As if responding to his very presence, the gates are slowly opening, and he continues to eye the iron with what she can only assume is caution. Thank god for motion sensors, she thinks, as they’re the only feasible Muggle explanation for something like this. “I don’t see any placards or information booths or anything.”
Hermione nods slowly. “Yes, of course.” The strength of her voice is surprising. She’s very glad that Draco’s too busy analysing the gates to the manor to look at her, as she’s still in the process of composing herself. This is the second time she’s ever set foot on these grounds, the first since the war. Where’s your courage, girl? This house has never failed to make her feel inadequate as a Gryffindor.
“And we just … walk in?”
“The gate’s open, isn’t it?” He still looks unconvinced, so she continues, “What say we just take a turn around the gardens, and if you don’t want to go around the actual house, we can go home.”
He looks at her then, and she quickly grows uncomfortable under his gaze. Did she really just say home? “Sorry. I mean, back to the city.”
“Fine,” he says with a quick shrug and follows after her as she walks to go around the house.
The gardens are as beautiful as anyone should expect of such an elite family. Hermione can’t control her gut reaction to the sight of them-an immediate gasp and wide eyes.
Even Draco, as obviously reticent as he is, mumbles, “Wow.”
A winding pathway of large hedges, trees, and intricate patterns of flowers leads towards a quaint gazebo and an ancient willow tree. The view is magnificent, especially with the flowering trees in full bloom.
“Apparently, spring has sprung.”
He chuckles in response. “Too right. You don’t see springs like this in San Francisco. At least, not that I’ve ever seen in the city.”
Hermione nods. “How strange it must be to have something like this in your own back garden.” She glances over her shoulder at the house, its presence rather foreboding. “I wonder if the owners remember to appreciate it.” It’s something she’s always wondered about stately homes and their curators-and even those who lived in the homes once upon a time. Did they always notice the beauty just beyond their noses, or did it take a drastic change-such as between seasons-to open their eyes?
“There’s only one way to find out,” Draco offers, his eyes still scanning the grounds.
Hermione can’t help but laugh. “Oh, I’ll certainly never live on a property like this.”
“Why not?”
She fidgets under his sudden attention. “Beyond the fact that I could never afford a lifestyle like this, you mean? I’ve never been much for large spaces. Prefer it a bit cosier. Less to dust.”
“So you’d prefer a cramped flat in the city? After living in one for so long, more space is really attractive right about now.”
“I said cosy, not cramped. I think, ideally, I’d live in a cottage somewhere. Maybe in a forest.”
“A forest.” Draco’s brow is raised. “A bit random, isn’t it?”
She shrugs. “I’ve always loved forests, trees, that sort of thing. They calm me, I think. I’d probably get married in a forest if I could.”
He hums, which she can only take as agreement to some extent. “I feel the same, I think, about the coast. Something about the salty air.”
“Fresh air, at any rate.”
It’s always amazed Hermione how freeing a breath of fresh air can be. As much as she’s always been committed to her research, be that for schoolwork back at Hogwarts or in the stacks at the Ministry, she’s always loved sitting out on a patch of grass when the weather cooperates. There’s really nothing like a light breeze in springtime. It’s been a long time since she’s actually taken the time to just sit and enjoy anything. There’d certainly been no time for that during the war, no matter how breathtaking she’d found the sight of a freshly bloomed daffodil. And after the war? She’d been much too busy making sure nothing fell apart-both the government and what remained of her friends. And, in truth, herself. Perhaps she didn’t do it consciously, but working herself to the bone removed the possibility of thinking about what they’d lost-really thinking about it.
Wandering around the garden towards the gazebo, Hermione gets that feeling-one she both loves and loathes-that usually accompanies her forays into nature. That of being a mere speck on the canvas of the universe. How untouched the forces of nature appear, despite how tumultuous her life has been. The stresses of her day-to-day, or even of all her years, are nothing. There’s something both healing and frightening in that thought.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Draco deadpans. Hermione’s eyes dart to him. He’s partway up the stairs to the gazebo, his feet planted on different steps, and his eyes are riveted on something. She follows his gaze to find a pair of white peacocks. The birds look as suspicious as Draco himself looks, and they put Hermione on edge. She’s been wary of touching much of anything, even the oak in the centre-for all she knows, there could still be any number of items that would curse a Muggle-born. She wouldn’t put it past the Malfoys.
“Are you glaring at them?”
Hermione looks back at Draco, who looks to be barely restraining himself from laughing at her. She mentally fumbles for a reason. “I … uh, hate birds. They freak me out.”
“Birds.”
She nods vehemently. “Especially peacocks. I’ve heard they’re the Dalmatians of bird folk.”
“Bird folk?” And this time he does laugh, this one more of a bark if anyone were to ask her. “Where do you come up with this shit?”
Hermione rolls her eyes and hurries to catch up with him, careful to stay a large distance from those damned birds. “I’ll have you know Dalmatians are known for being unpredictable. Not good with children, all that. Despite what Disney would have us believe-”
“So now you think Disney is conspiring against us. I hadn’t taken you for one of those types.”
She glares up at him, suddenly remembering and cursing the large height difference. “What types?”
“Those bloody conspiracy theorists. I suppose you think Disney’s trying to sexualise today’s youth and all that rot.”
“I’m not a conspiracy theorist! And you know, as far as subliminal messaging goes-”
“Jesus, you really can’t take a joke, can you?”
Hermione lifts her eyes from where she’d been staring at a spot on his shoe, but she can’t continue glaring whilst he’s grinning down at her like that. She’s felt the effects of his smile before, and she hates that it still does such things to her. Hermione can feel her face growing hot and her stomach jumpy. He just laughs again.
“Come on,” he says. She nearly jumps when she feels his arm wrap around her shoulder. “Let’s have a look at this gazebo.”
Immediately, her mind goes into overdrive, trying to figure out why he’s suddenly that comfortable with her. She hopes beyond hope that it’s just him being comfortable in a platonic way. Because if it’s him being comfortable and forward … that may bring what she’s doing to another level of betrayal in his eyes. The more pressing matter, however, is figuring out how she can brush him off whilst still maintaining whatever camaraderie exists between them.
The answer comes to her in the form of a very feminine throat clearing behind them. Hermione spins quickly out from under Draco’s arm to look Narcissa Malfoy in the eye.
He’s slower to turn, and she watches his face closely-just as she’s sure Narcissa is doing-for any semblance of recognition. Draco barely blinks; he just smiles and greets her, his manners apparently one of the remaining vestiges of his former life. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”
Narcissa is a great actress, Hermione thinks. Looking at the woman, you’d never have thought she was standing in front of her only child, who thought she was nothing more than a stranger with a large house. “Good afternoon. I came down to ask if you two would care for tea.”
Hermione glances at Draco, who simply shrugs at her. “I don’t see why not,” she says.
Narcissa gives them a sweet smile. “Wonderful. Please follow me.” With that, she turns on her heel and walks back toward the manor. She is every inch the aristocrat, from the top of her perfect coif to her graceful stride. If Hermione didn’t know any better, she’d think the woman was actually gliding. “I do hope you’ve been enjoying the grounds,” Narcissa continues, playing the part of the perfect hostess. “You certainly picked the perfect season.”
“Yes, we have,” Draco answers softly. “Your gardens are phenomenal.”
Narcissa smiles over her shoulder at him. “Thank you very much, young man. We certainly pride ourselves on the grounds.”
The rest of the walk is quiet, and both Hermione and Draco are content to simply take in the splendour of the inside of the house. The décor is immaculate, as she’d always imagined it would be. Her previous experience with the place had been rather limited. It’s quite different from other Wizarding houses and establishments that she’s been to before. The Ministry, Hogwarts, and the Burrow all come to her mind as having very cluttered décor, as if the inhabitants felt it necessary to cover every inch of wall space with something, anything. Malfoy Manor, rather, looks much like any of the Muggle stately homes she’s been to. Anyone could see that the decoration of each space was agonised over, and in fact, it was probably agonised over centuries ago.
“Please wait here. I’ll make sure the room is ready.” That is to say, let me clear out the house-elves, and please make sure my unknowing son doesn’t see them and have a panic attack.
This is exactly what they’d planned. It had been up to Hermione to get him to the property and to tea with his parents. It had been up to the Malfoys to procure a potion that would return his memories. Hermione will make her getaway as soon as possible after he consumes the potion-through the tea, she’d guess. That had been one of Narcissa’s absolutes in the agreement. She didn’t want the girl messing up any chances they had of piecing their family back together. Hermione had had no qualms about that requirement-she is more than happy to get away before his temper unleashes. Let the Malfoys deal with the problem they’ve created.
When Narcissa closes the door to the room, Hermione turns to Draco, who’s looking rather peaky. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “This place has just been giving me the weirdest feeling. Almost like déjà vu, like I’ve been here.”
She looks at him carefully, even going so far as to put a hand on his shoulder to grab his attention. “Do you think-”
“No,” he cuts her off with a laugh, one filled more with bitterness than joy. “There’s no way. What kid doesn’t dream of growing up in a place like this?”
They both look up, startled, when Narcissa throws the door open with a loud creak. Her smile is pasted back on her face, and Hermione almost envies how good an actress the woman is. Though she supposes it’s part and parcel of her upbringing as one destined to be married off to someone rich and powerful. Or at least, that’s what these elite families hope, Hermione would think. “Please, do come in.”
Hermione follows Narcissa into the room, with Draco behind her. It takes all of ten seconds for Hermione to realise which room Narcissa’s decided to take their tea in, and her body halts of its own volition.
“Are you all right?” Draco whispers, his hand at her back, gently urging her forward. She takes a deep breath, swallows, and surges forward.
“How do you take your tea?” Narcissa asks as they take a seat on one of the settees. Hermione waits for Draco to answer, meanwhile trying to will her heartbeat to something more resembling normality.
“Cream, two sugars, please.”
She watches, almost in a daze, as Narcissa sets about preparing his tea. Hermione imagines it’s been a long time since the woman has done anything so common for herself. She’ll chastise herself for the rudeness-mental though it may be-later, but it’s taking most of Hermione’s concentration to not look at that spot on the floor near the fireplace. Just the thought gives her goose pimples. The details of her last experience in Malfoy Manor are burned into memory, never fading-no matter how much she might wish or pray.
“And you, my dear?” Narcissa asks her, handing Draco his tea.
“Just the same, please,” she says softly, not trusting her voice to carry any louder. She quietly thanks their host when Narcissa offers her another cup and rests the saucer on her arm, hoping the warmth will ease the risen flesh.
Draco, polite as ever, waits for Narcissa to prepare herself a final cup and sit before he takes a sip of the tea.
“So, tell me,” Hermione hears Narcissa say, “what brings you to Wiltshire?”
After a slightly awkward pause, during which Hermione’s sure he’d expected her to speak, Draco answers, “Just a bit of sight-seeing. I’m visiting and haven’t seen a house such as this. It’s quite magnificent.”
“Thank you,” Narcissa says demurely, taking a small sip of the tea. Hermione does the same; she’d never admit it to Narcissa, but it’s quite possibly the best cuppa she’s had in years.
“What’s next on your timetable, then?”
“A nap, I’m hoping. I’m a bit jetlagged, I think,” Draco says, trying his best to stifle a yawn and failing.
Hermione looks up at him from her cup. He’s nearly finished his tea, and she can already see the signs of a sleeping potion. He can barely keep his eyes open. His last sip looks like it takes all of his remaining energy, and almost immediately he’s asleep.
Narcissa hurries over and grabs the saucer and cup from his hand, placing it on the side table. Hermione quickly gets up and gathers her things while Narcissa mutters things to her sleeping son. As much as she dislikes Narcissa and Lucius, Hermione believes they deserves the alone time with their son after so long.
“Where are you going, Miss Granger?”
Hermione already has her hand pressed against the door, fully prepared to leave and never return. “My work here is done.”
Narcissa clucks. “I’m afraid not. I need you to hold him down while I cast. This spell has the possibility of causing tremors, and I don’t want him to get a concussion from falling onto the floor.”
Hermione glares at the woman. Didn’t Narcissa know what she’d experienced in this room? That she wants out of here as soon as possible.
“If nobody holds him down, I can’t guarantee that the spell will connect with him during the casting.”
Hermione sighs. Of course, there had to be some danger involved. “Fine.” She drops her bag unceremoniously in the middle of the floor, her care for niceties and manners long since gone. She makes her way over to the settee and positions herself behind Draco so that she can wrap her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his. Hopefully he isn’t too much stronger than she is, and Narcissa will have clear access to his torso for however long the spell requires.
She closes her eyes and rests her forehead against his back as Narcissa casts. Through her eyelids, she sees flashes of purple, and almost immediately his body begins thrashing. At times her body wants nothing more than to just let his go. She hasn’t had to use many of her muscles aside from carrying one or two books since the war, and her arms and legs burn from the exertion. After what feels like a half hour, but must surely have been less than a minute, he stills. Hermione lifts her head to look at Narcissa, who nods. Hermione can only assume that means the spell is over, and so she quickly unravels herself from around Draco, repositioning his body so that he’s lying across the settee.
“Now you may leave,” Narcissa says, her voice low.
Hermione doesn’t know why the matriarch even keeps up that pretence of politeness. Don’t worry, she wants to say, you’ll never catch me near your property again. She marches over to her bag. When she bends to grab it from the floor, she hears a very low moan. She glances over her shoulder when she stands again, meeting the very angry eyes of Draco Malfoy.
Hermione keeps her face as impassive and free of emotions as she can, and turns towards the door again. With a deep breath, she leaves the room and walks as swiftly as she can towards the gates, from which she Apparates home.
Part Three
Rating: T
Word Count: 20,000(ish)
Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling and 20th Century Fox, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.
Summary: In which Hermione has to find Malfoy and return him to his rightful place in Wiltshire.
Warnings: Language (sorry, guys - I just can’t control Malfoy’s mouth!), memory!fic
Author's Note: Written for the second round of dramione-remix, with the prompt being Dimitri and Anastasia from Anastasia.
Betas: eilonwy1, dormiensa, and callarose
Part One
PART TWO
Hermione sighs as she walks in the door to her flat. A quick glance at her watch-still set to San Francisco time-tells her that she only has a couple hours until her Portkey back to California leaves. Placing her bag on the dining table, her eyes scan the flat. It feels like it’s been ages since she’s been home. These past five days could have been a year, as drained as she is. She’ll definitely need a real holiday after this job.
At the feel of something against her ankles, she looks down to see her Dorian. Hermione quickly picks the grey cat up and holds him against her collarbone. Dorian curls further into her and almost immediately begins purring, and she’s glad that her absence hasn’t completely robbed her companion of his affections. Cats could be so finicky-if she ever left Crookshanks for more than two days, he’d have snubbed her for twice as long.
With a quick scratch of his head, she sets Dorian onto one of the arms on her couch. He makes a show of protesting with a loud meow, but just as quickly settles down into the cushion for a nap. “Oh, I have missed you,” Hermione mumbles at the cat with a chuckle before turning to the mantle above her fireplace. She quickly studies each of the pictures and pulls out her wand, casting a spell to hold each of the magical photographs still. She tucks a couple under her arm to be put away, one a picture of Draco himself and the other of a triumphant Neville leaning over a cauldron containing his first successfully brewed potion. Neither of those are photographs she could explain to a memory-addled Draco.
She glances around the perimeter of the living room and grabs everything that may be too strange to be considered Muggle-the Sneakoscope and Extendable Ears from her bookcase, as well as the box of Floo powder from the mantle. Arms full, she pads back into her bedroom and gingerly places the items next to her old trunk. Hermione yanks the trunk open and blows the thin layer of dust away from the top contents. She honestly can’t remember the last time she’d opened it. She lays the Sneakoscope, now stuffed into a sock, into one of the few open spaces in the trunk. And just as she’s about to lay down the frames, she notices a folded piece of parchment tucked into the side of the trunk, between the fabric panel and her oldest copy of Hogwarts: A History. Her hand freezes, hovering over the trunk, and she can feel her heart hammering as she swallows.
Hermione exhales heavily and gingerly takes the parchment out of the trunk. She’d almost forgotten about this. She unfolds it in her lap, gently pushing Dorian away from the paper. Immediately, she recognizes the sharp strokes. Even now, she doesn’t need to see the two small initials in the corner to know the artist: DM.
Staring back at her is a scene that even now makes her smile. It shows the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, back when it was still the headquarters for the Order. Somehow, he’d managed to capture the essence of every person in the room. Seamus is grinning unabashedly at Ron, whose blush shows through even without colour. Harry and Ginny are gripping each other’s hand, and it seems like they barely even notice the other people surrounding them. Hermione herself is there, too, staring off-Merlin knows where.
This drawing had helped her through many sleepless nights after the war. She’d often found it hard to focus on the good after so much loss in such a short amount of time.
The sound of three sharp knocks on her door startles Hermione-who in Merlin’s name could that be? She hadn’t told a soul that she was back in England, mostly because it was for mere hours. She walks slowly into the living area of her flat, near the door.
Then, three more knocks-more insistent this time-and Ginny’s voice. “I know you’re in there, Hermione. Open up!”
Hermione’s eyes widen in shock, but she quickly opens the door. “What are you doing here?” she blurts.
Ginny just smirks. “There may or may not have been a charm to tell me when you’ve returned.”
She tries not to smile at her friends’ resourcefulness. “Glad to see you’re taking advantage of Harry’s position.”
The redhead grins widely. “It has its uses.”
“Well, since you’re here, the least you can do is make tea,” Hermione says with a playful grin. In all seriousness though, Ginny’s makes a damn good cuppa. Of all the things she’s inherited from Molly, that’s the best-at least in Hermione’s opinion.
Ginny just smiles and turns towards the kitchen. It’s almost unnerving how easily she navigates through Hermione’s kitchen. Soon enough, she’s put tea in a pot and the kettle on the stove.
“So, is it done, then?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet? What does that mean?”
“I’m just tidying up the flat. I’ve got a Portkey back to San Francisco in a couple hours.”
“Wait… You plan on bringing him here? To your flat?” Ginny asks, eyebrow raised high.
Hermione rolls her eyes. “Not necessarily, but I figured just in case.” When Ginny moves her hands to her hips, she continues, “Fine, Molly. Do you think he’d expect me to drag my bags around with everywhere whilst he’s in London? Or maybe I’d just leave my things at his hotel room.”
“All right,” Ginny says, her hands up in mock surrender. “Down, girl. So you got him to come back?”
Hermione shrugs. “He mentioned that he’s unhappy in San Francisco, so I told him my employer has a position for a new art director that he might be interested in.”
Ginny frowns. “Since when has Draco Malfoy been interested in art?”
Hermione sighs, her mind going to the parchment on her bedroom floor. “A while, actually.”
Ginny nods slowly, “Colour me surprised. So he accepted?”
“Yeah. A couple days later, he called to say he’d be willing to interview for the position. So he’s taking a short holiday for a long weekend here.” Hermione smiles gratefully when Ginny places a cup of perfect tea in front of her. She takes a long sip and hums in pleasure. “Thanks for making this. I wish I could make it like you do, honestly.”
Ginny smiles back at her. “Anytime, love. Don’t get me wrong, Hermione, but you don’t exactly seem pleased about this whole thing.”
“I’m just tired.”
“I can only imagine,” Ginny says slowly. “So when you said ‘tidying up’, you meant…”
“Making it Muggle-friendly,” Hermione says with a chuckle. She’d never thought she’d have to do something like this, especially for one of the pureblood elite. “I’m almost done, though.”
With that, Ginny follows her back to the bedroom, where she quickly folds up the parchment and finishes placing the photographs into the trunk.
“What’s that?” Ginny asks, gesturing towards the unfolded parchment in Hermione’s hand.
“Just a drawing.” Hermione hopes Ginny interprets her answer as flippant and that she thinks it’s unimportant.
“Right.”
Hermione can tell she’s unconvinced, but at least she drops the topic.
* * *
It’s been less than a week since she first landed in San Francisco-maybe three days since she “bumped” into Draco at that café and less than one since she and Ginny sat in her now Muggle-friendly flat. Ultimately, she’s very happy that she went back to England, even if for such a short while. She’d agonised over the short twenty-four hours between when she’d returned from England and when she had to meet Draco en route to the airport.
Her anxiety soars from that moment and shows no sign of ever waning, but she’s secretly gleeful at his obvious nerves, enough that she forgets about her own. If only momentarily, it’s still a relief.
She ribs him about his fear of flying-“How do you think you got here if not by plane? People don’t travel the Atlantic by ship like they used to, you know.”-for which she gets the expected glare and a short rant-something about how he’s not overtly fond of flying and, moreover, planes aren’t to be trusted. She does a double take when he says he doesn’t like to fly, because it’s something she so naturally associates with him. Hermione never thought in a million years that she’d hear those words escape Draco Malfoy’s lips. But at the same time, a large part of her agrees with him. After so many years of travelling via Floo or Portkey or Apparition, spending hours upon hours on a hunk of metal, and trusting that it’ll remain in the air and not drop straight to the core of the earth, is disconcerting at best. At worst, it’s frightening, but she tries not to even allow her nerves to think about venturing in that direction.
Several hours later, when a shock of turbulence rocks the plane, Hermione grips the armrest of her seat like her life depends on it. Almost immediately she snaps her head towards Draco. But it seems those sleeping pills had really done the trick; the man was out cold, even snoring softly.
She’s amazed that she’s even got this far, to be quite honest. Ginny had been right from the start-this entire thing has been crazy, insane, unthinkable. That confidence she’d claimed in her ability to complete this job? Hermione doubted she’d fooled Ginny for a second. She’s long since accepted that she’s more or less transparent, especially regarding … certain people, and Ginny is better at reading people than most.
Once the plane finally steadies-at this rate, she’s starting to wish they were flying by broom-she releases the death grip and pries her fingers from the armrests. Draco is still deep asleep, ever the heavy sleeper. Hermione’s always envied that of anyone who can sleep through anything since she seems to wake up at the smallest sound or strange feeling. As she glances at Draco, she realises that this is the first time since their meeting at that café that she’s truly had a chance to look at him-really look. It’s kind of annoying that he hasn’t changed much. So many years have passed, and yet she swears he looks like barely half that time has passed. His hairline is receding slightly, and there are a few light scars here and there from their childhood and the war, but other than that and his Muggle attire, one would think it was 1998.
He looks peaceful, and Hermione is struck by a sense of déjà vu. It had always amazed her how different he seemed when asleep, especially compared to his usual snarky, snide self, like being asleep was enough to smooth away all of his stress and preoccupations. When he’s asleep, Draco Malfoy looks calm-as if his life had taken a completely different turn years ago. If only the peace would last. She honestly doesn’t know what his parents plan on doing with him once she returns him. Perhaps they’ve figured out a way to return his memories; perhaps they haven’t. She resolves to alert Harry-as if Ginny hasn’t already-and make sure he has his Aurors keep an eye out for anything … ulterior. She wouldn’t trust the elder Malfoys with a Sickle, to be frank.
It’s only then that it occurs to her.
She still cares. And too much.
Hermione lays her head back against the seat and closes her eyes, willing sleep to claim her. Anything to make this flight go faster-to get this bloody thing over with already.
* * *
“So, this is home,” Hermione says as she pushes the door to her flat open, her voice relaxed but her eyes roving the room for anything she may have missed in her sweep the other day. Satisfied that the flat is as “safe” as can be, she pushes forward. “Go on and make yourself at home. I just need to put these bags in my room.”
When she returns, seconds later, he’s just where she had expected him to be: hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, eyes glancing over the pictures and knick-knacks decorating her mantle. He looks up then, expectant and kind of awkward. This is certainly the first time the two of them have been in a flat together, with the marked exception of the two seconds it had taken him to throw his things in his hotel room. If the reason for his awkwardness, slight as it is, is that he’s unsure what is and isn’t appropriate between them, she can sympathise. So she throws him a bone.
“Would you like some tea?”
He visibly relaxes. “Please. Can I help?”
She waves him off. “No, no. I’ll just be a moment.” Hermione pads over to her kitchen, and she stops short when her hand instinctively goes to her pocket, where she usually keeps her wand. She glances over at her bag, where it’s been stored of late, and sighs. She’d never really thought about how much she relies on her magic to do even the most mundane things-like preparing tea. So, wandless, she carries on, boiling the water and setting up the tea service the same way her mother always does. Although it’s certainly more time-consuming, she’s grateful for that. It allows her to gather her thoughts and go back over her plan. She has a tentative back-up just in case the whole thing backfires, but she’s praying to whatever higher power exists that Plan A will go through. Plan B is much less foolproof, and she thinks it just begs to fail.
Laying the tea egg, full of Earl Gray-she’d thought of putting in his favourite, but figured that would make him more suspicious than she would like-into one of her grandmother’s old teapots, Hermione then pours boiled water in and latches the top. After a quick exhale and count to three, she lifts the tray and returned to the living room.
“I see you’ve found Dorian,” she says with a chuckle as she lays the tray onto her coffee table. Draco is sitting in one corner of her couch, a book in one hand and her cat occupying the other. “Careful. He may never let you stop petting him,” she adds with a cheeky grin. “How do you take your tea?”
“Milk, please, and two sugars,” he requests. “You know, I’m not sure I’ll ever recover my left hand at this rate.”
Dorian looks like he’s on Cloud Nine at this point, his purring indicating just how happy he is. “He doesn’t get many visitors these days, so I would be surprised if he ever lets you leave.” She smiles and hands him a fresh cuppa.
“Ah, well. It’s the least useful of my two hands anyway.”
Hermione’s cheeks redden. Well, maybe he meant it as an over-arching I’m right-handed and so obviously my right hand is more useful than my left! sort of thing. But he looks far too mischievous for that to be true, she thinks when she finally locks eyes with him. Hermione allows him a small smile but shakes her head. Men…
“I am glad you’re not allergic. I always forget to ask people if they are before inviting them in.”
“Have a lot of people come round, do you?”
Her mouth falls ajar at the innuendo. “Friends,” she emphasises. “I have a lot of friends come round.” Cheeky bastard. It seems that losing his memory hadn’t robbed him of his snarkiness. It may have taken a while for him to get out of his shell, so to speak, but apparently they’d gotten past that point.
“So,” he says between sips, “tell me about this company you’ve hooked me up with.”
“What, you mean you didn’t research them whilst you were deciding?” Hermione teases with a raised eyebrow.
“Of course I did. I don’t know how responsible that’d make me if I just jumped onto a trans-Atlantic flight without even looking into the firm I’m supposedly interviewing with.” He settles back into the couch, Dorian settling himself into the man’s lap. “I know what they say about themselves, and what the media says about them. But not the employee’s perspective. Or the outsider.”
She nods. That is a valid point, and not one she’d expected. “That’s fair. And I hate to disappoint, but I don’t have much of an insider’s perspective. I’m technically a contractor-I help many companies find the applicants they’re looking for, not just one.”
Hermione pauses, taking a long sip of tea in order to better postulate her answer. “However, no applicant I’ve sent to them has ever failed the probationary period, which is when my contact with them ends. As far as I know, their employees are happy with the company and with the work they do.
“I mean, what do you want from your next employer? From what I could tell you had two standards. One, getting out of San Francisco. And two, not being treated like chattel.” He’d gone on for what seemed like days on that pier about being essentially a lackey to someone else’s whims, the result of that most often being that he got the blame for mistakes but his superior got the praise for things well done. “I’d say chances are that this one fits the bill. In fact, I can say for a fact that it does.”
“And you know that how? You said yourself, you have no personal connection to any of these people.”
“Well, for one, the position is a ranked one-Art Director. Does that say ‘lackey’ to you at all? Sounds to me like you’ll have enough of your own little minions around to treat like chattel.”
Draco doesn’t answer. Rather, he continues drinking the tea, but she can still see the rather wide smile behind the rim of his cup. Having finished hers already, she waits for him to down what remains of his cup, and then she offers her hand to him.
“Ready? Let’s show you London, shall we?”
* * *
“You’re sure this is all right?” Draco looks at the gates with some suspicion. As if responding to his very presence, the gates are slowly opening, and he continues to eye the iron with what she can only assume is caution. Thank god for motion sensors, she thinks, as they’re the only feasible Muggle explanation for something like this. “I don’t see any placards or information booths or anything.”
Hermione nods slowly. “Yes, of course.” The strength of her voice is surprising. She’s very glad that Draco’s too busy analysing the gates to the manor to look at her, as she’s still in the process of composing herself. This is the second time she’s ever set foot on these grounds, the first since the war. Where’s your courage, girl? This house has never failed to make her feel inadequate as a Gryffindor.
“And we just … walk in?”
“The gate’s open, isn’t it?” He still looks unconvinced, so she continues, “What say we just take a turn around the gardens, and if you don’t want to go around the actual house, we can go home.”
He looks at her then, and she quickly grows uncomfortable under his gaze. Did she really just say home? “Sorry. I mean, back to the city.”
“Fine,” he says with a quick shrug and follows after her as she walks to go around the house.
The gardens are as beautiful as anyone should expect of such an elite family. Hermione can’t control her gut reaction to the sight of them-an immediate gasp and wide eyes.
Even Draco, as obviously reticent as he is, mumbles, “Wow.”
A winding pathway of large hedges, trees, and intricate patterns of flowers leads towards a quaint gazebo and an ancient willow tree. The view is magnificent, especially with the flowering trees in full bloom.
“Apparently, spring has sprung.”
He chuckles in response. “Too right. You don’t see springs like this in San Francisco. At least, not that I’ve ever seen in the city.”
Hermione nods. “How strange it must be to have something like this in your own back garden.” She glances over her shoulder at the house, its presence rather foreboding. “I wonder if the owners remember to appreciate it.” It’s something she’s always wondered about stately homes and their curators-and even those who lived in the homes once upon a time. Did they always notice the beauty just beyond their noses, or did it take a drastic change-such as between seasons-to open their eyes?
“There’s only one way to find out,” Draco offers, his eyes still scanning the grounds.
Hermione can’t help but laugh. “Oh, I’ll certainly never live on a property like this.”
“Why not?”
She fidgets under his sudden attention. “Beyond the fact that I could never afford a lifestyle like this, you mean? I’ve never been much for large spaces. Prefer it a bit cosier. Less to dust.”
“So you’d prefer a cramped flat in the city? After living in one for so long, more space is really attractive right about now.”
“I said cosy, not cramped. I think, ideally, I’d live in a cottage somewhere. Maybe in a forest.”
“A forest.” Draco’s brow is raised. “A bit random, isn’t it?”
She shrugs. “I’ve always loved forests, trees, that sort of thing. They calm me, I think. I’d probably get married in a forest if I could.”
He hums, which she can only take as agreement to some extent. “I feel the same, I think, about the coast. Something about the salty air.”
“Fresh air, at any rate.”
It’s always amazed Hermione how freeing a breath of fresh air can be. As much as she’s always been committed to her research, be that for schoolwork back at Hogwarts or in the stacks at the Ministry, she’s always loved sitting out on a patch of grass when the weather cooperates. There’s really nothing like a light breeze in springtime. It’s been a long time since she’s actually taken the time to just sit and enjoy anything. There’d certainly been no time for that during the war, no matter how breathtaking she’d found the sight of a freshly bloomed daffodil. And after the war? She’d been much too busy making sure nothing fell apart-both the government and what remained of her friends. And, in truth, herself. Perhaps she didn’t do it consciously, but working herself to the bone removed the possibility of thinking about what they’d lost-really thinking about it.
Wandering around the garden towards the gazebo, Hermione gets that feeling-one she both loves and loathes-that usually accompanies her forays into nature. That of being a mere speck on the canvas of the universe. How untouched the forces of nature appear, despite how tumultuous her life has been. The stresses of her day-to-day, or even of all her years, are nothing. There’s something both healing and frightening in that thought.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Draco deadpans. Hermione’s eyes dart to him. He’s partway up the stairs to the gazebo, his feet planted on different steps, and his eyes are riveted on something. She follows his gaze to find a pair of white peacocks. The birds look as suspicious as Draco himself looks, and they put Hermione on edge. She’s been wary of touching much of anything, even the oak in the centre-for all she knows, there could still be any number of items that would curse a Muggle-born. She wouldn’t put it past the Malfoys.
“Are you glaring at them?”
Hermione looks back at Draco, who looks to be barely restraining himself from laughing at her. She mentally fumbles for a reason. “I … uh, hate birds. They freak me out.”
“Birds.”
She nods vehemently. “Especially peacocks. I’ve heard they’re the Dalmatians of bird folk.”
“Bird folk?” And this time he does laugh, this one more of a bark if anyone were to ask her. “Where do you come up with this shit?”
Hermione rolls her eyes and hurries to catch up with him, careful to stay a large distance from those damned birds. “I’ll have you know Dalmatians are known for being unpredictable. Not good with children, all that. Despite what Disney would have us believe-”
“So now you think Disney is conspiring against us. I hadn’t taken you for one of those types.”
She glares up at him, suddenly remembering and cursing the large height difference. “What types?”
“Those bloody conspiracy theorists. I suppose you think Disney’s trying to sexualise today’s youth and all that rot.”
“I’m not a conspiracy theorist! And you know, as far as subliminal messaging goes-”
“Jesus, you really can’t take a joke, can you?”
Hermione lifts her eyes from where she’d been staring at a spot on his shoe, but she can’t continue glaring whilst he’s grinning down at her like that. She’s felt the effects of his smile before, and she hates that it still does such things to her. Hermione can feel her face growing hot and her stomach jumpy. He just laughs again.
“Come on,” he says. She nearly jumps when she feels his arm wrap around her shoulder. “Let’s have a look at this gazebo.”
Immediately, her mind goes into overdrive, trying to figure out why he’s suddenly that comfortable with her. She hopes beyond hope that it’s just him being comfortable in a platonic way. Because if it’s him being comfortable and forward … that may bring what she’s doing to another level of betrayal in his eyes. The more pressing matter, however, is figuring out how she can brush him off whilst still maintaining whatever camaraderie exists between them.
The answer comes to her in the form of a very feminine throat clearing behind them. Hermione spins quickly out from under Draco’s arm to look Narcissa Malfoy in the eye.
He’s slower to turn, and she watches his face closely-just as she’s sure Narcissa is doing-for any semblance of recognition. Draco barely blinks; he just smiles and greets her, his manners apparently one of the remaining vestiges of his former life. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”
Narcissa is a great actress, Hermione thinks. Looking at the woman, you’d never have thought she was standing in front of her only child, who thought she was nothing more than a stranger with a large house. “Good afternoon. I came down to ask if you two would care for tea.”
Hermione glances at Draco, who simply shrugs at her. “I don’t see why not,” she says.
Narcissa gives them a sweet smile. “Wonderful. Please follow me.” With that, she turns on her heel and walks back toward the manor. She is every inch the aristocrat, from the top of her perfect coif to her graceful stride. If Hermione didn’t know any better, she’d think the woman was actually gliding. “I do hope you’ve been enjoying the grounds,” Narcissa continues, playing the part of the perfect hostess. “You certainly picked the perfect season.”
“Yes, we have,” Draco answers softly. “Your gardens are phenomenal.”
Narcissa smiles over her shoulder at him. “Thank you very much, young man. We certainly pride ourselves on the grounds.”
The rest of the walk is quiet, and both Hermione and Draco are content to simply take in the splendour of the inside of the house. The décor is immaculate, as she’d always imagined it would be. Her previous experience with the place had been rather limited. It’s quite different from other Wizarding houses and establishments that she’s been to before. The Ministry, Hogwarts, and the Burrow all come to her mind as having very cluttered décor, as if the inhabitants felt it necessary to cover every inch of wall space with something, anything. Malfoy Manor, rather, looks much like any of the Muggle stately homes she’s been to. Anyone could see that the decoration of each space was agonised over, and in fact, it was probably agonised over centuries ago.
“Please wait here. I’ll make sure the room is ready.” That is to say, let me clear out the house-elves, and please make sure my unknowing son doesn’t see them and have a panic attack.
This is exactly what they’d planned. It had been up to Hermione to get him to the property and to tea with his parents. It had been up to the Malfoys to procure a potion that would return his memories. Hermione will make her getaway as soon as possible after he consumes the potion-through the tea, she’d guess. That had been one of Narcissa’s absolutes in the agreement. She didn’t want the girl messing up any chances they had of piecing their family back together. Hermione had had no qualms about that requirement-she is more than happy to get away before his temper unleashes. Let the Malfoys deal with the problem they’ve created.
When Narcissa closes the door to the room, Hermione turns to Draco, who’s looking rather peaky. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “This place has just been giving me the weirdest feeling. Almost like déjà vu, like I’ve been here.”
She looks at him carefully, even going so far as to put a hand on his shoulder to grab his attention. “Do you think-”
“No,” he cuts her off with a laugh, one filled more with bitterness than joy. “There’s no way. What kid doesn’t dream of growing up in a place like this?”
They both look up, startled, when Narcissa throws the door open with a loud creak. Her smile is pasted back on her face, and Hermione almost envies how good an actress the woman is. Though she supposes it’s part and parcel of her upbringing as one destined to be married off to someone rich and powerful. Or at least, that’s what these elite families hope, Hermione would think. “Please, do come in.”
Hermione follows Narcissa into the room, with Draco behind her. It takes all of ten seconds for Hermione to realise which room Narcissa’s decided to take their tea in, and her body halts of its own volition.
“Are you all right?” Draco whispers, his hand at her back, gently urging her forward. She takes a deep breath, swallows, and surges forward.
“How do you take your tea?” Narcissa asks as they take a seat on one of the settees. Hermione waits for Draco to answer, meanwhile trying to will her heartbeat to something more resembling normality.
“Cream, two sugars, please.”
She watches, almost in a daze, as Narcissa sets about preparing his tea. Hermione imagines it’s been a long time since the woman has done anything so common for herself. She’ll chastise herself for the rudeness-mental though it may be-later, but it’s taking most of Hermione’s concentration to not look at that spot on the floor near the fireplace. Just the thought gives her goose pimples. The details of her last experience in Malfoy Manor are burned into memory, never fading-no matter how much she might wish or pray.
“And you, my dear?” Narcissa asks her, handing Draco his tea.
“Just the same, please,” she says softly, not trusting her voice to carry any louder. She quietly thanks their host when Narcissa offers her another cup and rests the saucer on her arm, hoping the warmth will ease the risen flesh.
Draco, polite as ever, waits for Narcissa to prepare herself a final cup and sit before he takes a sip of the tea.
“So, tell me,” Hermione hears Narcissa say, “what brings you to Wiltshire?”
After a slightly awkward pause, during which Hermione’s sure he’d expected her to speak, Draco answers, “Just a bit of sight-seeing. I’m visiting and haven’t seen a house such as this. It’s quite magnificent.”
“Thank you,” Narcissa says demurely, taking a small sip of the tea. Hermione does the same; she’d never admit it to Narcissa, but it’s quite possibly the best cuppa she’s had in years.
“What’s next on your timetable, then?”
“A nap, I’m hoping. I’m a bit jetlagged, I think,” Draco says, trying his best to stifle a yawn and failing.
Hermione looks up at him from her cup. He’s nearly finished his tea, and she can already see the signs of a sleeping potion. He can barely keep his eyes open. His last sip looks like it takes all of his remaining energy, and almost immediately he’s asleep.
Narcissa hurries over and grabs the saucer and cup from his hand, placing it on the side table. Hermione quickly gets up and gathers her things while Narcissa mutters things to her sleeping son. As much as she dislikes Narcissa and Lucius, Hermione believes they deserves the alone time with their son after so long.
“Where are you going, Miss Granger?”
Hermione already has her hand pressed against the door, fully prepared to leave and never return. “My work here is done.”
Narcissa clucks. “I’m afraid not. I need you to hold him down while I cast. This spell has the possibility of causing tremors, and I don’t want him to get a concussion from falling onto the floor.”
Hermione glares at the woman. Didn’t Narcissa know what she’d experienced in this room? That she wants out of here as soon as possible.
“If nobody holds him down, I can’t guarantee that the spell will connect with him during the casting.”
Hermione sighs. Of course, there had to be some danger involved. “Fine.” She drops her bag unceremoniously in the middle of the floor, her care for niceties and manners long since gone. She makes her way over to the settee and positions herself behind Draco so that she can wrap her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his. Hopefully he isn’t too much stronger than she is, and Narcissa will have clear access to his torso for however long the spell requires.
She closes her eyes and rests her forehead against his back as Narcissa casts. Through her eyelids, she sees flashes of purple, and almost immediately his body begins thrashing. At times her body wants nothing more than to just let his go. She hasn’t had to use many of her muscles aside from carrying one or two books since the war, and her arms and legs burn from the exertion. After what feels like a half hour, but must surely have been less than a minute, he stills. Hermione lifts her head to look at Narcissa, who nods. Hermione can only assume that means the spell is over, and so she quickly unravels herself from around Draco, repositioning his body so that he’s lying across the settee.
“Now you may leave,” Narcissa says, her voice low.
Hermione doesn’t know why the matriarch even keeps up that pretence of politeness. Don’t worry, she wants to say, you’ll never catch me near your property again. She marches over to her bag. When she bends to grab it from the floor, she hears a very low moan. She glances over her shoulder when she stands again, meeting the very angry eyes of Draco Malfoy.
Hermione keeps her face as impassive and free of emotions as she can, and turns towards the door again. With a deep breath, she leaves the room and walks as swiftly as she can towards the gates, from which she Apparates home.
Part Three