Chapter Text
APRIL 2005 | THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC, LONDON, ENGLAND
Hermione drummed her fingers on her desk, staring absentmindedly at the potted plant near the window. It was a typical April afternoon in London; little rays of sunshine peeking through grey clouds. A few droplets remained on the window from the early morning rain, and she imagined herself as one of them. She wondered what it would be like to be a water droplet, barely maintaining its shape, clinging to the glass until gravity became too much. Hermione would willingly slide down to the windowpane, joining other droplets in small clumps that would evaporate with the sunset.
It was nearing 4 pm, and all she wanted to do was go home and get in the bath. Hermione couldn’t bring herself to concentrate on the files piled up before her. She wasn’t able to pinpoint the exact moment she had essentially stopped working for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Once the giants had been let off with a treaty, the dementors who defected, and those that had guarded Azkaban, were taken to a compound in the Scottish hills where they would be left to eventually (hopefully) disappear. Any remaining Dementors were left alone, as they always had been. Hermione thought that she would go back to her desk on the fourth floor of the Ministry.
And then more cases of Dark witches and wizards using different beings, beasts, and spirits in their plots against good kept flooding the Wizenmagot. Hermione was needed to help navigate the uncharted waters of prosecuting non-human beings post-war, should they have engaged in criminal acts. Almost years had passed, and case files were still landing on her desk.
Hermione sighed and attempted to crack her back. Tension had been building in her shoulders for several days, and no amount of early morning yoga could ease the ache. It was a habit that she’d picked up from Pansy at the Mansion. Pansy did yoga every morning at nine, and Hermione joined her on the few mornings she found herself waking up in Draco’s bed. Hermione usually did yoga before work, if she managed to wake up in time. But, she never skipped Saturday mornings; paired with a cup of tea, it was the perfect start to a weekend.
Someone knocked at Hermione’s office door, and she startled in the stiff, leather chair. Quickly smoothing out her hair and trying to look busy, she cleared her throat.
“It’s open,” she said, staring down at the first file she could get her hands on. Hermione ran her finger across the page, catching her reflection in the scarlet red on her fingernail.
“Hey,” Harry ducked his head into her office, his hair flopping to the left. Much like Draco, he’d taken to wearing it close to his shoulders. Hermione didn’t think either of them had gotten a proper haircut in years. “Are you busy?”
“Not if you’re asking,” Hermione said nonchalantly, setting the file down. “Is everything okay?”
Harry closed the door and took a seat facing her. He reached toward her desk, picking up the Time-Turner that McGonagall had given to Hermione. Harry turned it over in his hands a couple of times before returning it.
“A few of us were thinking about going out for some drinks,” he shrugged, looking around her office. She didn’t know what he was looking for--he was in it nearly every other day. “If you were interested.”
Hermione tried not to frown. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go, just that she didn’t have the energy. No matter how much she slept, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something. It had her constantly on edge, wishing for whatever it was to show itself. Hermione could sense a change in the air, and the intensity of it was beginning to take its toll. She hardly had energy for sitting alone in her office and enduring a few meetings, let alone sitting at a bar surrounded by tipsy Aurors.
“Not tonight, Harry,” she said for about the third time that month. “Perhaps next week?”
Harry pursed his lips and studied her carefully. Years of camaraderie made her easy enough for him to read, and his Auror training had only increased his skill. Hermione didn’t know what he was looking for in her expression. She was sure that she looked tired and worn out; she had seen it that morning when she caught a glance of herself in the mirror.
“How is Draco?” Harry asked then, leaning back to cross his arms over his chest.
“He’s well.”
Hermione’s tone was sharper than she’d meant it to be. She pressed her palms flat against the desk, willing them not to shake. Draco had nothing to do with her exhaustion. In fact, he had little to do with anything anymore.
“And the magazine?”
“What is it you really want to ask, Harry?” Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. Heat was beginning to rise in her cheeks, and she wished it away. She had forty-five minutes left before she could head home and lock herself away. It was Thursday--Draco was probably out for dinner with a potential investor or business connection. Hermione had no secret plans.
“How are you?” Harry asked after a moment of silence. “How is he?”
“We’re both fine,” Hermione was bristling. Her affiliation with Draco was none of his concern. In fact, until February, Harry had shown their attachment little attention or care. He partied with Ginny right alongside them every Saturday night, and the couple had even posed for an editorial piece on sex after marriage. “Why do you ask?”
Harry pursed his lips and leaned forward. His expression was serious, which was never a good sign.
“You’ve been distant,” he started. Hermione could see him choosing his words carefully, not wanting to say the wrong thing. “And I’m worried about you.”
“Ginny doesn’t seem concerned,” Hermione countered. “I find it hard to believe she wouldn’t say anything to me about it.”
“She says you’re just tired.”
“Because I am!”
It took Hermione a few moments to realize that she’d yelled. Harry’s expression remained the same, save for a barely detectable wince. Hermione took a steadying breath, reminding herself that she only had a half-hour left in her day. Plus, it wasn’t Harry’s fault that she was absolutely miserable.
“I am, Harry. Honestly, I hardly see Draco these days. He has the magazine, and I have all of this,” she gestured about her desk, “to worry about.”
“How does that feel?” Harry was sounding more and more like a therapist that Hermione hadn’t scheduled an appointment with.
“It feels like it’s none of your business,” Hermione hoped her tone would get the point across. She wasn’t going to discuss Draco with Harry. Not that day, and not the day after. It was none of his concern. “And if that was your only reason for coming into my office, I’m a little offended. And I’m not coming out for drinks.”
Harry closed his eyes for a few moments, pinching the bridge of his nose. When his eyes opened again, they were apologetic. The sight almost made Hermione regret what she had said. Almost.
“I understand,” Harry stood up, tucking his hands away in his pockets. “Just remember, I’m here for you. We all are.”
The door closed with a soft click. When Hermione closed her eyes, teardrops slipped past her eyelashes. She hadn’t even noticed that she’d begun to cry. After a few deep breaths, Hermione pulled herself up from the chair and reached for her bag. She was being absolutely ridiculous. What kind of woman sat at her desk crying over foolish things like boys and nosy friends?
Hermione didn’t need to know that people were there for her--she knew that already. She sure as hell didn’t need some kind of intervention or affection from Draco of any kind. What she needed was a warm bath and a glass of wine. Perhaps she’d put on some music while she relaxed beneath a cloud of lavender and mint bubbles. Hermione might even try out one of the all-natural facial scrubs that Pansy had found in America. She’d do anything except sit at a bar, surrounded by drunken idiots. And she’d have a lovely time doing it.
Clarice was still sitting at the reception desk, shuffling papers around. The blonde was nearly six months pregnant and absolutely glowing. Hermione couldn’t help the pang of jealousy that swept through her at the sight, her eyes immediately finding the massive ring on her left hand. The wedding had been called the “Party of the Decade” by Rita Skeeter. Apparently anyone who was anyone had been in attendance, from the Minister of Magic to Harry Potter himself.
Hermione wouldn’t know--she most certainly had not been in attendance. If her memory served her correctly, she and Draco had been boating off the coast of Majorca that weekend. Clarice had returned with a husband, and all that Hermione had managed to bring back was a tan.
“Have a good day!” Clarice smiled innocently at Hermione as she passed the desk. Hermione offered what she hoped was a pleasant smile as she made a beeline for the lift.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like Clarice. Clarice had never done anything to offend her personally. She was just too perfect--too happy all of the time, and blissfully unaware of the troubles that other people faced. Hermione had always wondered if Clarice was genuinely that happy, or if it was all an act. The evidence suggested that Clarice’s life was simply too perfect to be anything less than unhappy, and that's what Hermione didn’t like. She’d never been given that luxury.
Hermione waited until the doors of the lift closed to rest her forehead against the marble walls. The stone was cool to the touch, and she welcomed the relief. The walls of the second floor had been closing in on her for days, condensing her into what felt like the tip of a pin. Hermione was unable to breathe until she was stepping out onto the street below, and she wasn’t able to relax until she was closing the door to her flat. Crookshanks meowed at her feet and Hermione let him guide her to his bowl in the kitchen.
A grey suit clung to Draco in all of the wrong places. The tie around his neck was suffocating, and he didn’t think he could properly move his arms. Every muscle in his body was screaming for him to grab the check and head back to the mansion where he belonged. Instead, he stayed seated across from an editor for the Daily Prophet and his wife. Draco couldn’t be bothered to remember their names, but his mind was too busy to worry about such mundane things.
If Draco could secure a permanent column in the Prophet , he could start to expand the magazine more easily around Wizarding Britain. While successful, the magazine was still seen as a kind of tabloid or trashy periodical. Disrobed needed an air of professionalism for people to see it for what it really was: a lifestyle magazine.
“I must say, Mr. Malfoy,” the man leaned back in his seat, smiling lazily. He lifted the whiskey glass to his lips, maintaining eye contact. Draco found himself wondering how the man got anything past the ghastly mustache on his upper lip. “I am impressed. However, that doesn’t mean I don’t have any reservations.”
“I’m sure that I can put you at ease,” Draco smiled easily at him. He knew the game--it was all smiles and how much money you had to offer. “I promise, the addition of a Disrobed column in the Prophet could increase sales by as much as thirteen percent by the end of the year.”
“According to your market analyst,” the man raised an eyebrow. “Theodore Nott, is that correct?”
Draco couldn’t stop his smile from faltering slightly. Most days, he could stand the sight of one of his oldest friends. He could forget that Theodore’s hands had once run themselves over Hermione’s skin, exploring every muscle as it flexed beneath his touch. But, every once in a while, the mention of his name was enough to make Draco a little mad. Even though that still wasn’t the proper word for the way the image made him feel.
“Yes,” Draco fought the urge to reach for his own glass. “He’s been quite the asset. We wouldn’t have sold nearly as many copies without his expertise.”
“And Blaise Zabini, no doubt,” the man nodded. The waitress arrived with the check as if she could sense Draco’s growing unease. Draco was quick to snatch it up before the man had a chance, reaching for his wallet and handing it back. “All promising young men, such as yourself. Tell you what, I’ll speak it over with the wife and let you know by Monday.”
Draco didn’t need to look at the man’s wife to know that the answer was a hard no. She had been suspiciously quiet for most of dinner, which was never a good sign. He really had to start making sure that the wives stayed at home while Draco pitched his magazine. It was a magazine for men after all--not many women would consider the content to be educational or gossip-worthy.
Ever the perfect host, Draco saw the middle-aged couple to the street and bid them a good evening. Shoving his hands deep in his pockets, Draco decided to take a quick stroll through Wizarding London. Shops were lit up in every direction, brilliant colors attracting witches and wizards to their windows. Draco happened to pass an ice cream shop that was a particular favorite of Hermione’s, and he wondered what she was up to.
It was Thursday--she was most likely at a pub with Harry Potter and the rest of their crowd. He imagined her sitting on a barstool, cheeks flush with wine, and a soft laugh dancing from her lips. Of each of Hermione’s laughs, her tipsy giggle was by far his favorite. The sound was light and sweet, like candy. A few times, Draco had made her laugh so hard that she cried. Hermione had batted playfully at his arm, shaking her head as she sipped on her wine. She thought that he was absolutely ridiculous when he made her laugh that way, and he loved how charmed she was. Rather, how charmed she had appeared to be. Draco hadn’t seen her for a couple of weeks, too wrapped up in work to ask Pansy to call after her. He hadn’t sent her an owl himself in several months, reverting back to using Pansy as his schedule coordinator.
Draco came to a stop in front of the pink and teal shop, staring at the flavors on display. Pomegranate Passion was her favorite. Hermione could inhale two scoops of it faster than Draco could fly on a broom. She got a brain freeze every single time and continued to do it anyway. After three brain freezes, Draco stopped feeling bad for her. Instead, he waited for the moment that her nose would scrunch up, and she’d tap her feet on the floor to try and shake off the cold.
Despite the fact that it was April, Draco knew that if Hermione were there she would beg him to go inside. She’d stare up at him, pouting her bottom lip ever so slightly, and Draco would be marching up to the counter before he’d realize what he was doing. She had that ability--to make him do things without considering the consequences. Such as ordering ice cream while avoiding the chilly spring evening.
Suddenly, all that Draco wanted to do was see Hermione. He checked the time on his pocket watch; it was nearing 10:30 pm. The shop would be closing, and Hermione would be making her way home as he stood there debating the rest of his evening. Before he could change his mind, Draco swung open the door to the shop with more power than he’d intended. The bell sounded as if it was going to break off. Draco composed himself and ordered two scoops of the Pomegranate Passion to-go. The wizard behind the counter placed a charm around the container to keep it cool before handing it over.
Two blocks passed before Draco realized that he had no real idea where he was going. Hermione usually visited him at the mansion, or they were traveling together. Draco had only been to her flat three times, and he couldn’t even remember her address.
Draco pulled a small charm from his jacket pocket. He ducked into an alleyway and pulled the charm to his lips.
“Pansy,” he whispered, hoping it was loud enough. The charms sometimes struggled to work across long distances. “Pssst. Pansy. If you are asleep I don’t even--”
“Shove off,” came the faint growl that was Pansy’s half-asleep voice. “The bloody hell do you want?”
“What is Hermione’s address?” Draco asked. When a few moments of silence met his ears, he worried that she’d tossed the charm across the room. “Pans?”
“I heard you,” Draco could feel Pansy rolling her eyes at him. “What the hell are you doing? Didn’t you have dinner with an investor tonight?”
“It’s most likely a no-go, I can explain when I see you tomorrow.”
“Are you going to explain this as well, or are we leaving that part out?” Pansy’s tone was deadpan, but Draco knew that there was a sprinkle of amusement somewhere in her statement.
“Depends on how fast you--”
“234 Foxtrot St,” Pansy said. “On the fourth floor. Now, don’t do anything that’ll get you arrested, because I’m going back to sleep.”
“Night, Pans.”
Draco put the charm back into his pocket and closed his eyes, concentrating. He felt the tug behind his belly button first, gravity pulling him into a condensed spiral. Within minutes, he was standing on a somewhat familiar street. He was staring at a row of old, brick apartments. Draco searched for 234, finding the numbers on a house directly in the middle of the block. The light in what he remembered to be her bedroom was on, and he could see movement behind the curtains.
A breeze made its way down the street, sending Draco’s hair flying in all directions. He realized that he’d been foolish to go to her home, unannounced. And with ice cream, no less. It had to be the whiskey that made him buy the ice cream and ask Pansy for her address. Under no other circumstance would Draco have arrived on her doorstep, unannounced. She most likely wouldn’t even let him in; she’d keep the ice cream and close the door in his face.
Or, maybe she wouldn’t accept the ice cream. Perhaps she’d laugh at him; she’d think him ridiculous then for sure. After all, what would have made him think he had the liberty to do that?
Despite the fact that they’d gone on many vacations together, they had always been careful to remain hidden from the public eye. At the parties, they danced and let themselves go, but the mansion was a safe haven for anyone to engage in any kind of act that they wanted. Most assumed that their appearances together were little more than sexual play--a way to ease the tension of the workweek.
Draco had to consider the fact that, for Hermione, that was all it was. A way to blow off steam. Perhaps she fancied him in a familiar way, out of comfort rather than anything else. After all, one can only have sex with a person so many times before they simply grow accustomed to each other’s behavior. Draco knew what she looked like when she was cumming, and when she was dreaming. He particularly enjoyed the way that her eyelashes fluttered as she was about to wake up, not knowing that he’d been watching her for hours. She was beautiful when she wasn’t challenging him.
Although Draco had to admit, he also liked it when Hermione challenged him.
Ultimately, Draco decided that it was best that he go home. Hermione had invited him over on a few occasions, but he hadn’t been there for several months. Perhaps she preferred it that way; getting to have her own space. Draco didn’t know what was so bad about the mansion--she could have anything she wanted while she was there. All she’d have to do would be ask.
As Draco was getting ready to apparate home, he remembered the ice cream in his hands. If he brought it back to the mansion, it would sit in the freezer for weeks until one of the house-elves, probably Willy, decided to throw it in the garbage. The front door to the building loomed bright on the other side of the street, and Draco stole one last glance up at Hermione’s window. No movement.
He nearly tip-toed across the street, gently placing the ice cream to the right of the door. A set of four doorbells decorated the brick to his left, and he pushed the one marked 4. It was louder than he had expected, and Draco quickly ran down the street and around the corner. Without a second glance back, he was letting gravity pull him inward and toward the mansion. He landed in the middle of his bedroom and grabbed out to the dresser to steady himself. Two thoughts raced through his mind.
One: Draco had to see Hermione again, soon. He didn’t care how, or when, or what the circumstance.
Two: Pansy was never going to find out about the ice cream. In fact, she was never going to find out that he’d gone to her street at all. Draco would tell her that he’d ended up chickening out just after putting down the charm, and had come right home.
Hermione had just finished pulling off her sweatpants when the doorbell rang. Crookshanks hissed, jumping off her bed and running toward the door. Begrudgingly, she pulled the sweats back on. No one knocked on her door, let alone at 11 pm.
“Are you coming or staying?” she asked Crookshanks, who was pawing at the door. When she opened it, he bolted down the stairs. “I guess you’re coming.”
Hermione smiled as she pulled her door shut and made for the entryway. Crookshanks was breathing on the window by the time she descended the stairs, his nose leaving two wet dots on the glass.
No one stood on the other end of the door. Hermione stepped out onto the landing, looking down both ends of the street. A couple was walking toward her block from a few streets away, and their laughter was the only sound she could hear. If Crookshanks hadn’t nearly tripped her on her way back inside, Hermione would have missed the container on the ground. She could smell the contents the moment that she picked it up--Pomegranate Passion ice cream.
Hermione scanned the street one last time before slowly making her way back inside. The gift had Draco written all over it, but she wasn’t sure how. He was the only person who knew that was her favorite ice cream flavor. Harry still believed it to be mint.
Crookshanks followed Hermione back up to the kitchen, stopping to visit his food bowl while Hermione grabbed a spoon. She sat down at the small wooden table, pulling her left knee up to her chest. A soft smile found its way onto her lips as she dipped her spoon into the container.
Hermione didn’t know what would possess Draco to do something like that. He’d showed up to her home at nearly 11 pm and left ice cream--her favorite flavor, no less--on her doorstep. Draco hadn’t even waited to hand it off to her or say hello. She would have let him in if he’d asked.
Without warning, Crookshanks was jumping up onto the table. He sat down in front of her and cocked his head to the side, glancing between her and the ice cream. After a few moments, he let out an irritated meow.
“I don’t get it either,” Hermione reached up to scratch behind the cat’s ear. He began to purr, nuzzling into her touch. “He doesn’t make any sense, does he?”
Crookshanks meowed again, continuing to press himself into her touch. She indulged him, scratching along his back until he plopped to his side. Crookshanks gave her access to his belly and she scratched along it, the cat purring happily.
She would owl Draco in the morning before she went to work. Before she second-guessed herself and Draco’s intentions.