Saturday 26th July, 1997

Draco didn't make it to Hermione's house the day after his session at Stonehenge as planned. Though his procrastinating was partially to blame, the main concern was the logistical issue of realizing apparating to the middle of her parent's London suburban neighborhood would break some magic secrecy laws. And with the wizarding world sifting through the Malfoys' activities with a fine-tooth comb in search of damming material to crucify them further, he wasn't about to appease the masses.

Dr Cobb suggested he expand his exploration of muggle innovation, citing the young wizard's new experiences in muggle London, and venture taking a bus or train. The thought terrified Draco; he always apparated to a designated alley a few blocks away from the doctor's tower in the heart of the boiling metropolis and only had to walk the remaining distance for his appointments. Occasionally, especially when it was just him and his father, the two wizards would meander to a local coffee shop for tea, but they never wandered so far to justify needing to learn muggle transportation.

The only muggle transportation Draco had ever used in his life was the Hogwarts Express. And even that carried a questionable reputation among the Pureblood families. Each year, some Pureblood parent would petition the school governors to allow those with magical means to simply floo into the school. And each year it'd get 'considered' for a month before being politely denied.

Thankfully, Draco had some old letters from Hermione they exchanged over the Christmas break - some of the worst few weeks of his life - where she mentioned the exact suburb she lived in. Hampstead Gardens of northwest London. The name itself meant little to the Pureblood; he didn't know how muggles orientated their towns and neighborhoods. The most exposure he got was seeing the rural hamlets circled around the manor, and Hermione's neighborhood sounded much more crowded and lively than those.

Getting there was the issue. It took him a day to accept he couldn't pull off apparating without drawing attention to himself, nor did he feel confident in his conviction and mindset enough not to splinch himself from the unknown distance. It took another day for him to come to terms that he wasn't prepared to learn muggle transportation.

He could've asked his parents to apparate him, though that would've opened up the door for them to ask questions and get more involved in his personal life than he was prepared for. And that also didn't solve the issue with being seen by muggles popping into the middle of their precious suburbia.

Broom was out - it was too far and too light out for that. Nor was he capable of navigating that far from the air where there were no street signs or indication of where he was.

Which left the Rolls-Royce.

It was Draco's first time using the prized Muggle vehicle outfitted with thick, intricate spells that made the contraption run. Years ago, his father taught him the wandwork and incantations required to make the luxurious vehicle whir to life, and then the additional incantations needed to relay his desired location. The car itself was beyond expensive but the true value came from the exquisite spells layered in heaps on it. It drove itself, navigating the roads and existing among Britain's traffic autonomously. That meant that while Draco would be forced to sit in the car for the nearly two hour drive to London, he wouldn't have to do much of any work along the way.

Of course, he had to appear like he was driving it for the other muggles on the road.

When Saturday rolled around, he tried to make every excuse he could that day to justify it being a bad day to go visit her. Breakfast with his parents. Reading in his room. Watching the gardening witches levitate a pergola over a small pond in the backyard with Japanese koi. By the time the sun began its slow crawl down the sky in the early afternoon, he'd run dry of excuses. And suddenly, he felt impatient to see her.

Picking his clothes brought on a wash of anxiety mixed in with annoyance. Before the incident at their manor months ago, he would've unthinkingly grabbed for his black, fitted muggle suits. They formed around his figure perfectly, the fabric imported from Italy and the lining a refined mulberry silk from India. But those suits were crafted for the boy he used to be. Back when he knew how to wear them and the image he was going for. Now he wasn't sure.

He wondered if Hermione would recognize him in the muggle clothes. And if she did, he wondered if she would even like him that way. Maybe it was too far removed from what he used to be.

After settling on his trusty jeans, trainers, t-shirt, and flannel long-sleeved shirt to cover up his left arm, Draco set out to find the car in the garage tucked on the far, far edge of their property. His father knew he was going to see Hermione and needed the car to do it, having given his blessing and a curious look at the teen but said nothing more. For that, Draco was infinitely pleased. He wasn't ready to field questions from the older wizard. They still hadn't talked about his relationship with a Muggleborn, but that conversation wouldn't happen if Hermione decided a month of radio silence was her breaking point and cut off their relationship altogether.

He'd do everything in his power to explain the truth to her. If nothing else, she deserved that much. And that much he could give her.

The almost two hour trip to northwest London was, surprisingly, a pleasant time. The car maneuvered all on its own, leaving Draco to merely sit in the driver seat, hands on the wheel in a loose, unfamiliar grip, and looking like he was in control. The rural roads were empty for the most part, allowing him to be restless with his thoughts and zone out on the countryside whizzing by him. As the time passed and he got closer to London, more and more cars began to join him on the roads and he was no longer able to ignore their presence.

It was his first time driving despite not actually driving at all. And it was terrifying.

Some people got too close and honked at one another, others weaved dangerously in and out of their crowded little pack, reminding Draco of how he'd fly aggressively on the pitch in pursuit of the snitch. If he knew how the wheel, clutch, or any instruments in the car worked, he might've gotten the nerve to take hold of the vehicle on his own. Maybe driving fast and dangerous, like he did with his broom, would have the same freeing feeling. But he needed to get to the Granger's in one piece and didn't think his parents would approve of him returning the car battered and broken.

As he drew closer and closer towards London, Draco watched the landscape around him morph. The trees and open fields abruptly shifted to occupied lots with narrow roads and sparse patches of grass. Instead of the world being green and earthy like the fertile, open hills of Wiltshire, muggle suburbia was a thriving hive with so many people, houses, structures, and cars. He knew that muggles outpaced his own kind's population and monopolized on the land, oftentimes preferring to sacrifice space and privacy in exchange for a more convenient commute. Without the advantage of magic, they were forced to rely on the basal transportation methods like the long car ride he'd just suffered.

It was late afternoon by the time Draco realized his car had taken a turn off the main highway and was now navigating thin roads lined with manicured hedge walls in uncanny synchrony and brick houses, some duplexes and others freestanding. Even without having a map in front of him, he had a feeling he finally entered Hermione's neighborhood, Hampstead Garden.

Before Draco could begin to formulate his opinion, his car took a sudden turn right onto a one-way. The houses were closer towards the road and there were several cars parked on the curb, forcing his own vehicle to smoothly drive around them. It was a cramped street but strangely quaint and welcoming.

His car slowly crept to a stop in front of a faded black driveway connected to a one-car garage and a three story house. With palms clammy and a nervous tingle burning in his stomach, Draco didn't move from his safe spot in the car, merely eyeing the small dwelling apprehensively.

This was it. Hermione Granger's home. A muggle's house. In a painfully stereotypical, charming suburban neighborhood.

Tempted as he was to give into his nerves and direct the car back to Wiltshire, Draco mustered whatever bravery he had and kicked the door open, planted two feet on the asphalt, and stood on the shallow curb's dip. The house was probably considered a decent size by muggle standards, but for someone accustomed to living in a manor the size of a resort, he found it horribly cramped. The exterior was made of faded red and burnished brick, thick white framed windows - eight windows faced the street, he was amazed that the house was so small he could count them - and a brown shingled hipped roof with dramatic slopes to accommodate the third floor. It was taller than it was wide, but from his vantage point Draco couldn't tell how far back it ran on the plot. Maybe it was simply rectangular shaped.

Glancing at the neighbors houses, though, showed him that the chances of it being deceptively larger was not high.

There was one front door, rather narrow and uneventful looking, that was accompanied by a single, cement stoop with a crack down the middle and a black stone path leading up to it from the street. The plants and landscaping were more wild and unkept than the manor, but not unseemly. The bushes on the left were overgrown and large, but the hedge between the garage and home were perfectly square and leveled. It was a strange mishmash of immaculate perfectionism thrown together with a careless hand.

Kind of like Hermione. Perfect in her class scores, but more cavalier with her general appearance. His urge to get back in the car and stomach the two hour drive home was stronger. It was a stupid idea - he didn't know what he was going to say to Hermione despite reciting speeches on the way there, didn't know if she'd even want to see him considering she never replied to any of his letters, and was completely out of his element in the muggle neighborhood.

Everything around him was so foreign and eerily strange; they had plastic boxes for their trash sitting on the grassy bank next to the street, matchbox sized houses and cars crowding the area, and a constant soundtrack of buzzing and motors.

It was a mistake. Turning around with a defeated sigh, he grabbed for the door handle with every intention of retreating back to Wiltshire and the safe recluse of his bed.

"Oiy, lovely set of wheels there, lad. Is that a '77 Corniche?"

Draco would've ignored the deep, baritone voice - naturally full of authority but ragged and unrefined unlike his own father's caramelly brogue - if it hadn't been a few meters behind him. His hand instinctively wanted to reach for his wand hidden against his side, but one glance in the car window reflection showed him the man speaking behind him was clearly, obnoxiously, indisputably muggle.

Abandoning the car door handle to turn to face the man properly, Draco would've actually preferred a Death Eater looking to get a comeuppance on his 'traitorous' family. At least then he would be justified in drawing his wand, acting on his fear, and relying on magic. At least then he wouldn't be forced to deal with his sudden crescendo of anxiety as he stared at the smiling, jovial man in front of him.

The Muggle was older with thin blonde-reddish hair, a receding hairline glistening with sweat, and dressed in a raggedy old t-shirt, jean shorts that stopped at the knee, dirty white socks that went up to his shins, and grass-stained white trainers. Draco could smell the disgusting mixture of body odor, petrol, and sod from the large bag of grass clippings held between his hands. The man, still smiling, shifted his eyes between Draco and the car behind him, and it was only then the teenager put two and two together.

"Huh? Oh. Um…" The wizard awkwardly looked over his shoulder at the vehicle. "I… erm… No, it's a Royce-Rolls."

The Muggle's eyes, bright blue and so full of life, immediately snapped back to Draco. He laughed lightly. "Right, right. A Rolls-Royce. But a Corniche. Body work looks to be the restyle in '77. Before your time but I was in my prime during those days, I was. Hard to tell now I'm sure." He lovingly patted the small potbelly protruding from his oil and sweat stained t-shirt. "Bet she drives like a dream, she does."

Draco's mind went blank. Why didn't he take Muggle Studies? Why didn't he learn how to better communicate with Muggles? Why did he think this was a good idea?

For a few seconds, Draco merely stared at the man and the man seemed content to continue gazing in open adoration at his car. Out of pure panic of what to do and make the man go away, he stammered out, "I'm here visiting someone who lives at this address." He nodded at the house in front of him. "Hermione Granger. Do you know her?"

That caught the man's attention. "Know her? Well, that depends on the day and when you ask her. Sometimes she's right proud to claim me as her dad, and other times I think she tries to pretend we aren't related. Typically after I embarrass her or tell a joke. Dad and dentist jokes are some of the most cruddy."

Dentist. Dad. It was Hermione's father.

When picking his clothes, it never really crossed Draco's mind that he might run into her parents and have to be introduced to them. Among Pureblood society, a boy courting a girl was expected to always look his best when in attendance with his potential future in-laws. Impressions were the spine of their community. And he completely botched that etiquette up. He should've picked the black fitted suit for his inaugural meeting with her parents. Instead he was wearing baggy jeans, an unbuttoned long-sleeved shirt, and cotton. So much cotton.

Then again, Mr Granger was covered in sweat, petrol, mud, and grass. Neither one of them were at their finest for a meeting. And who said anything about him courting her? Was he technically courting her?

"Are you a friend of Hermione's? One of them Weasley boys then? A bit blonde in the hair compared to the other one I met but genetics are fickle sometimes, aren't they?"

Draco frowned immediately. "No. No, I'm not a Weasley." That offended him. "I'm… erm… Draco Malfoy. We're…." His mouth went dry just as his words did. Were they still dating? He hadn't talked with her for a month and she was ignoring his letters. "I know her from… I'm- We were… erm- are. We are kind of-"

Thankfully, the Muggle put him out of his misery with a snap of his fingers. "You're the boyfriend!"

The boyfriend. Not her boyfriend. The boyfriend. But that also meant that she still considered them dating, at least as far as her parents were concerned.

At the very least, that dredged up Draco's manners. He stepped away from the car to properly introduce himself. "Yes, sir. Draco Malfoy. A pleasure to meet you." Protocol dictated that he extend his hand for a gentleman's handshake, but taking in the muggle's acrid smell and dirty appearance, he panicked at the thought of touching him.

Mr Granger saw the debate and twitch in the young wizard's hand and arm, and chuckled fondly. "Apologies for the smell. Weekend yard work, you know how it is." No, he really didn't. "It's nice to finally have a face to go with the name. Unique name at that, Draco. Jane and I used to be astronomy buffs back at Uni. Where are my manners? I'm Charles Granger. You can just call me Chuck or Charlie."

Everything about the muggle unsettled Draco - from his easy smiles to his shared name with Charlie Weasley - but nothing bothered him more than how much he immediately liked the man. He was quirky and smelly and covered in half the yard and laughed way too freely. And he acted like they hadn't seen each other before in a Diagon Alley shop when his father got into a physical brawl with Arthur Weasley. To be fair, Draco hardly remembered Hermione's parents either, far too distracted with other things and took heart that her parents hadn't taken note of him.

"I was… um… I was looking for Hermione. Is she home?" Draco asked, looking away from the muggle towards the house behind him.

Mr Granger scratched at his disappearing hairline and shook his head. "Not at the moment. She just went down to the corner shop with her mum, though. Be back in a wee second." Seeing disappointment flash on the boy's face, he jerked his head at the luxury car. "Hermione mentioned you live out in Wiltshire, innit?"

Draco nodded. There wasn't necessarily a town that he lived in. It was always just the manor in Wiltshire. "North of Salisbury."

"Quite the drive. Hermione'll be cheesed off if I don't make you come inside and wait for her. She'll be back soon."

Before leaving the manor, Draco should've sent an owl and made sure he picked a good time to come. He brought it on himself to assume she lingered around her home like he did, being friendless with nowhere to go and no drive to leave even if he did. It was tempting to turn down Mr Granger's offer, but waiting was his best option to finally talk with Hermione.

Running his hand over the nap of his neck, the Slytherin nodded slowly. "I don't mind waiting out here for her. I wouldn't want to-"

"Chuck! You win one of those weekly prize draws you keep trying for?! And blow your earnings on the car?"

Both Draco and Mr Granger looked across the street - the former scared at the unfamiliar voice and reaching for his wand while the latter had a big, goofy smile stretched across his face. Standing at the end of his driveway, pushing one of the plastic bins containing trash to a small grassy embankment, was a man in plaid shorts and a collared polo, his salt and pepper hair neatly styled to match his clean-shaven face. The friendly ambiance was palpable between the two neighbors even with the street that separated them. And even with the street and the distance, they both seemed completely content to yell across the expanse.

Draco was mortified. He would never hold a conversation like that, not just because the manor had no neighbors. And he could only imagine the aghast expression his parents would have if they witnessed the unseemly spectacle in the flesh. A man covered in sod yelling across the street to another man pushing a bin of rubbish with his bare hands. Muggles were animals.

"I wish!" Mr Granger bellowed back before gesturing to the blonde wizard, gratefully without actually touching him. "Remember Hermione's boyfriend I was telling you about? It's his car!"

"No kidding?" The neighbor clapped his hands, clearly approving of the expensive vehicle gracing their little street. "He's a keeper then. Don't scare him off." He turned towards the pallid, scared-into-silence teenager. "The real question is which club do you drink pints for? Arsenals I hope!"

Which club… Draco blinked owlishly at the question. The man might as well have been speaking a different language.

Seeing the young man's blank, panicked look, Mr Granger chuckled and shook his head. " 'e's from Wiltshire. Probably a Southampton fan," he quickly lied on the teen's behalf, saving the young wizard from having to bumble his way through and admit that he had no idea what football clubs were. "Listen, I've got to get cleaned up for supper, but come over Wednesday for the PSV match. We can watch it in the den."

The neighbor nodded. "Right-o! We'll see if Wenger's new training style keeps paying off. Leave it to a Frenchman to make the club turn dry and give the players a bloody meal plan to follow."

While Mr Granger and his chatty neighbor exchanged a few more jovial pleasantries, Draco discerned they were talking about a sport. It was reminiscent of his father's own Quidditch conversations with ministry officials in the days leading up to the Cup tournament, where they were afforded affluent luxuries and a gracious host with high brow society. Those days were, in a way, simpler, back when Draco tried to turn a cheek to the nightmarish curtain slowly descending on his life. He relished the wealth and influence his family name brought, and the kind of commanding attention his father immediately garnered from his peers. Those days were easier, predictable, safer. And they were so distant that they felt like they belonged to someone else. If he knew those moments would string together to create pivotal events that'd ruin his family with a landslide, he would've done something sooner.

"Draco, lad? Your car will be safe here. Though Mr Pennyworth across the way might come over and snap some photos with it." Mr Granger dragged the brown bag of grass to rest beside the rubbish bins and gestured for Draco to join him up the walkway.

Once inside, Draco was guided to a small sitting parlor and adjoining dining room separated by a humble squared archway that spanned the length of the rooms. Both were small, at least by his standards, and crammed in with a combination of uncoordinated pastel floral print drapes and botanical wallpaper, lace doilies underneath framed family stills, and hoary orange-hued oak furniture covered in high gloss lacquer. The carpet was pathetically flat with a disconcerting lack of padding, and the only tasteful decor was the white moulding layered around the door frames and windows. But even that was almost eclipsed by the garish hunter green paint.

Thankfully, Draco was saved from engaging in much dialogue and having to lie about how pleasant the home was. Mr Granger, after depositing the wizard on a love seat in the front room, gestured down at his own unkempt state, and excused himself for a shower. Dinner, he called back from halfway up the stairs, would be served when the girls returned.

Dinner? Draco had zero intention on staying for dinner.

Alone with his thoughts, he looked around the small yet whimsical area. It was maybe half the size of the manor's entrance hall - at least in width but it lacked the sweeping three story tall ceilings and grand staircase yawning up to the second floor. And while the entrance hall was only the first taste of the mansion, Draco was currently staring at half of the entire bottom of the Granger's residence. The other half was devoted to a kitchen that he could spot through a narrow doorway and another section of rooms off set from the minuscule foyer.

It was strange trying to imagine Hermione coming from such chastened beginnings. There was no magic, no extravagance, or priceless art. It was his first glimpse of Muggle living, and it seemed so casual and small and meager. And yet, still bleeding with an enormous amount of life and love. As gaudy as the decor was, he couldn't turn without seeing some framed picture of Hermione as a child or the family smiling from a beach or snowy mountain. All of the portraits in Malfoy Manor were done to capture their haughty likeness, and he was always told they were never allowed to smile.

Even if they were, they wouldn't have the pure radiance that the Grangers emitted from their out of focus pictures. The Malfoys didn't have that kind of familial connection.

Luckily, Draco was saved from the treachery of his own melancholic thoughts when the front door opened and a pair of laughing, feminine voices carried through the home, enchanting its very foundation and breathing love into the homestead.

Draco was on his feet in seconds. And as the voices drew closer, so too did his anxiety; worries over her hating him, over blaming him for what he did, over the weak man he felt like.

But all of those worries were cast out the window when Hermione rounded the corner and immediately stopped, feet turning stiff like lead, as her soft russet eyes met his awaiting silver ones.

"Draco!" She spared only a half second roaming her stare up and down his figure, taking in his unfamiliar attire, before hastily closing the distance between them and throwing her arms around him.

Unexpectedly, by a magic stronger than anything Draco was familiar with, all of his apprehension, doubts, and anxiety were gone as her body pressed against his. His arms immediately wrapped around her smaller figure, collapsing around her in a protective hold in preparation for her to move away too prematurely. He wasn't ready for it. If he had his way, he would exist like that for the rest of the day or all of eternity. The world fell quiet as it was forced to watch the reunion, both teenagers basking in the unabashed presence of the other, expecting nothing but getting so much at the same time.

He dug his face into her hair-covered neck, enjoying her familiar scent of stale inkpots and, albeit cheap, soury raspberry shampoo. It brought his world into focus and reminded him that what he did, all of his sacrifices, were worth it if it meant he was able to hold her one last time.

She was the first to break the hug, drawing back a bit to look up at him with caring yet widened eyes. "What are you doing here? I mean, it's wonderful that you're here but… how did you get here? Apparition?"

Of course she'd pragmatically focus on the logistics. He shook his head and nodded towards the bay window behind them. "I took that thing out there."

"A car? You know how to drive?"

"Merlin's bollocks, no," he choked out a laugh. It felt good to laugh. "Belongs to my parents. Spelled to work itself. I was going to apparate but I didn't… It doesn't matter. I'm sorry if this is a bad time - your father said you were going to be having dinner soon and I can come back a different-"

"-No! Draco, no, you're fine," she smiled up at him, ignoring the sounds of her mother tip-toeing up the stairs, undoubtedly to find the Granger patriarch and ask about the curious white-blonde boy entangled up with their daughter. "How have you been? I've been so worried!"

He frowned and leaned back a little from her. "What do you mean you've been so worried? Why haven't you responded to any of my letters? I thought you hated me for what I did or… or for not contacting you sooner. Or something! Merlin, every time an owl flew back, I practically assaulted the bloody bird to check if it was a response from you."

It was her time to frown and scrunch her brows together in concern. "You wrote? I never received anything from you. Maybe Apollo delivered them to the wrong house. Did you send them here?"

No, Apollo didn't mess up. That messenger had done a fine job.

It only solidified Draco's presumption that him and Harry were not fine. They might've struck a cursory, frail accord when both captured at the manor, but that treaty was tenuous at best and weak enough that it shattered when their lives were yanked back from a potential death. Now that they could look at things through a wider lens, Harry must've rekindled his blame at the Malfoy heir. There was no better explanation for him blatantly ignoring his letters and request to have them passed over to Hermione.

"No, I didn't send them here," Draco eventually replied in a defeated tone. "I sent them to Harry and asked him to pass them along to you. I - stupidly - thought that you wouldn't accept anything from Apollo and that Harry would…"

Hermione's face fell as she understood the unspoken. And while she looked on the verge of wanting to say something on it, she didn't.

"Can we talk somewhere private?" Draco whispered to her, looking around the room with a grotesque amount of floral print. He hoped wherever she led him wouldn't have a botanical garden plastered on the walls and drapes.

Hermione wordlessly nodded, gently took his hand, and guided him from the sitting room. They zigzagged back into the teeny foyer and continued their trek through another narrow doorway and corridor. At the end of it was a white door left ajar and a cheerful pooling of sunlight coming out of the room, almost enticingly.

The entire house was bright and welcoming. And Draco felt his breaths come in easier while inside. Maybe it was the small size that kept him grounded, letting him know exactly where the windows and entrances were. Or maybe it was the refreshing amount of light and lack of sinister magic seeping from the house's pores.

Draco followed her to the room at the end of the hall, which turned out to be her bedroom.

If they were courting, he'd just shattered at least three rules. No chaperone, accompanying her to a bedroom, and not reassuring her parents about his respectable intentions.

He wasn't sure what kind of bedroom he was expecting Hermione Granger to keep. When they were children and he took sport in making fun of her, he conjured images of a barbaric room with sticks for toys and mundane, still photographs. He also expected it to be a mess, much like her wayward hair that she used to keep more wild when they were kids, and there to be an unnatural amount of Gryffindor colors splashed on every surface.

What he wasn't prepared for was the exact opposite of all of that.

The room was extremely small by his standards. Not even big enough to fit a queen size bed. Instead, there was a slender twin shoved against the same wall the door was located on. A bay window took up half of the wall perpendicular to it, with a tasteful alcove that had a built in desk, a very thin and uncomfortable looking chair missing chunks out of it by design, and a collection of small potted plants and a strangely tall desk lamp.

The carpet was that same style of incredibly thin turf and the most brassy color of sky blue that did nothing to compliment that periwinkle and white painted walls. To add insult to injury, her bed comforter was white with thin strings of pastel flowers - why is there so much floral print everywhere - and the bottom half was covered in an itchy looking blue blanket. Across from the bed was a wingback armchair in electric teal upholstery.

Four dominant shades of blue. None of them matched or were even remotely harmonizing.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Hermione patted the spot next to her but Draco ignored the invitation. Instead he awkwardly stood near the foot of it and dove his fingers into his hair, raking at the soft roots as he fought for his nerve and tried to collect himself enough to talk to her.

The truth. She deserved the truth.

"Draco, I'm just happy that you're well. I was so worried about you. I know you said you needed time to process, and I'm more than happy to give you that time, but please don't push me out."

Yanking his fingers free from his hair, leaving a myriad of blonde strands standing at awkward angles, he nodded in appreciation for being given a starting point. "I know and I'm… Merlin, Hermione. I'm so sorry for that. I promise you that I won't do it again - I won't ignore you again. You're the person that least deserves it. And I was stupid for thinking Potter would actually be man enough to pass along the letters. I'm sorry."

She grinned ruefully. "Apology accepted. And cut him some slack - he's going through just as hard of a time, Draco."

The Slytherin barked a humorless laugh. "Oh he is, is he? Yes, I suppose getting used to celebrity status can take some time. Don't worry, I'm sure the Prophet will run a birthday special for him next week and he'll find comfort in being praised as the hero that survived a kidnapping, muggle disease, and the killing curse twice. I'll probably get an honorable mention for being the villain who kidnapped him."

Hermione didn't stay seated on the bed long. She slowly stood up, perhaps recognizing that the discussion was taking a distasteful turn. "Is that what all of this is about?" Her eyes narrowed on him, but her voice was so sympathetic it made him turn away. "Are you jealous of him?"

"What?!" He spun back to her. "Jealous of him? No! What is there to be jealous of? The fact that the Prophet is running articles heralding his success while completely ignoring all of the lives and sacrifices others made? The fact that he did nothing except step in front of a killing curse meant for another? You do realize that, right? Harry did nothing in this war. I'll give him credit for having the bravery I don't to take his own life. That's the only thing about him I'm jealous of."

She blinked rapidly as if struck and slowly shook her head. "Don't say that, Draco."

"Why not? Save for you, everything else in my life is in shambles. My father looks at me like I'm about to shatter at any moment." Because he was. "And my mother? Well, she can't even manage to be in a room with me for more than a few minutes before finding some excuse to leave. Because I'm a living, breathing reminder of what our family had to endure, and no matter how many galleons she throws at renovations on the home, she can't change me from being that reminder."

"I'm sorry about your parents," Hermione mumbled warmly and looked torn like she wasn't sure how to word her next sentence. "Maybe… Maybe if you and Harry talk. Maybe if you apologize for what you did, things will be-"

"Apologize?!" Later on, he'd regret not putting a silencing charm on her room and saving himself the embarrassment of yelling with her parents in the home. "The only words I have for that tosser are hexes and curses, both the spell sort and swear words." With a few sharp, purposeful steps, he closed the distance between them and spoke dangerously low to her in a volume just above a whisper. "I have nothing to apologize to him for, Hermione. Nothing."

She said nothing for a few lengthy seconds as they stared at one another, her brows knitting together in concern and confusion. "But… you were a spy for the Order. You're on our side. You didn't want to kidnap Harry. You were forced to do it."

"I was," he nodded once. "But I did it to save you. Don't you get that? Doesn't anyone get that?!" Drowning in the sudden flood of emotions that he kept behind a perfectly constructed dam for months, he spun away from her and tangled his fingers in his hair again. "I'm not you, or Potter, or any of the Order members who would happily give their families' lives in exchange to make sure some prophecy came to fruition. I have loyalty and priorities and-and my own desires for who I want to survive the war!"

Her eyes glistened with the continued wave of sympathy, but also confusion and contemplation.

He pressed on. "Every time someone says that I'm an awful person, that I deserve to be tossed into Azkaban for kidnapping Harry and that I got off easy because my father just so happened to be responsible for making the escape possible, all I hear is them damning you to death. Because that's what they're saying! Don't you see? If I didn't take Harry, the Death Eaters would've gotten him anyways and you would've been killed."

He saw the debate flash on her face and her mouth open to refute him. He quickly cut it off before she could speak by yanking back his left sleeve and shoving his forearm at her. "I know the Death Eaters, Hermione. I was one! They wanted Potter and they had ways to get to him - his healers were compromised, Snape got taken… it was only a matter of time before Harry was taken too, if not by me then by another, and they'd have taken and killed you too, in front of me most likely."

Hermione swallowed thickly a few times, a sad understanding finding peace in her eyes. "I knew the risks I took when I started dating you, Draco." She smiled sadly. "They're the same risks I took when I became Harry's friend."

"So you're just willing to die for him then? You wanted me to let them kill you?"

The question hit her hard. So hard that she sat back down on the bed and looked at her hands worrying themselves together. "I don't know," she quietly answered. "I know that… that Harry was the Chosen One. He had to survive to make sure Voldemort died and to end the war. He was-"

"Enough!" Draco yelled so loud that they both flinched. "I'm bloody sick of it! Chosen One this, Chosen One that. That's really ironic coming from you of all people, considering you dropped Divinations and cursed the subject for being too unclear and 'fluffy', I believe your words were in the library that year. Everyone except for maybe the Ravenclaws considered Trelawny to be a fraud, for Merlin's sakes! So how is it that you can swear off all of her classes as made up rubbish, but cling to this one prophecy? What makes this prophecy so much better than any of the other garbage that god forsaken professor's muttered about?!"

Hermione looked down at the floor between her feet. "Woolly. I called it woolly."

"And suddenly now you're paying into the whole prophecy stuff to the point that you're willing to die for him? Bollocks, Hermione!" He approached her again, but this time gentler and spoke more softly. "I chose to become involved in this war to make a difference and avoid Azkaban, that's true. I could've gone into hiding last summer with my mother. In hindsight, maybe I should've. But originally I chose to spy to try to save two people in the war: my mother and father. That changed four months later when we started dating and… and then I decided that if you three survived - you and my parents - then my sacrifice was worth it. Because I sacrificed everything else, Hermione."

She closed her eyes and nodded weakly. "I know."

"No, you don't. But maybe it's about time we had that discussion I told you I wasn't ready to have yet."

He calmed down enough to sit on the strangely teal wingback while she sat perched on her bed, respectfully silent and supportive, while he trudged through the previous year, going over all of his experiences as a Death Eater and leaving nothing untouched. He didn't watch her reaction when he described the raids, the rounds of torture he propelled onto others, and got choked up when he eventually got to Christmas break. But he persevered, going into bitter detail about losing any shred of dignity he had left, either at Rabastan Lestrange's hand or his own doing by taking lives.

Dinner time came and went, the hours passed, and they continued talking, her parents not bothering them. Hermione occasionally asked a few clarifying questions or involuntarily gasped, but otherwise graced him with a loving, supportive silence.

She became cross when he described his mother taking forever in finalizing her own arrangements and affairs that delayed his eventual hiding. And it was because of that, and because it was nudged back to Easter break, that the entire kidnapping debacle was hatched. Had Snape gotten his way and the Malfoys immediately been secured in hiding in Zanzibar, Harry never would've been kidnapped and Voldemort would've rotted from the muggle disease. But that's not how it happened.

When he got to the kidnapping part, he stopped and looked at her. "I did everything right, Hermione. I gave Dumbledore the sign that my cover was blown and that I was being forced to act under duress. At first, when my father told me about that signal, I was almost in tears with relief. Because you Gryffindors always touted how wonderful and strong and great Dumbledore is. He's always been there for Harry. And this one time I needed him to be there for me, he abandoned me. He knew my cover was up."

Hermione stared at him and shook her head frantically from side to side. "No, Dumbledore would've done something. He would've-"

"-He did nothing, Hermione." He didn't yell, too exhausted from the conversation that had gone on for hours. "The Order kept me for questioning for a few days, and I thought that was their own cover to buy time to arrange my hiding. They never should've released me without getting the surveillance spells off me and getting a proper debriefing. Instead, Dumbledore didn't even try and just released me. He didn't even try. Because all of us, in his eyes, are just collateral damage. I knew I was damned and would be killed, but I wasn't about to let you get tossed onto a casualty list. Because you would've. And if that means I'm forever going to be hated by the public, so be it."

The witch looked troubled, but by which part Draco wasn't sure. Maybe she was finally understanding that every time someone cursed him for kidnapping Harry, they were indirectly supporting Hermione's murder and sacrifice. Or maybe she was shook at the thought of Dumbledore no longer being a pillar of benevolence and unadulterated altruism.

After a few moments, Hermione pushed herself up from the bed to approach him on the chair, reaching out to caress her hand along the ridge of his jawline. "I don't blame you or think you're a villain," she softly said. "I'm sorry you were put in that position. All of those positions. No sixteen year old should be a spy and be expected to know how to handle those sorts of things." She paused. "But I do think you and Harry should talk. Not right now but eventually."

Draco turned his cheek into her hand and relished the relieving feeling of her touch that reaffirmed they were ok. "I have a mind doctor I'm seeing. A.. erm… American squib. Psychologist, I think his title is. We do enough talking between us that I don't have to add Harry into the mix."

"I'm not asking you to do it right away. But promise me that eventually, you'll talk with him."

The Slytherin placed his hands on her hips and groaned in the back of his throat. "Only if you promise to come with me to France. My parents want to spend some time in Reims and I don't like the thought of not being able to see you that long."

"France?" She hooked a brow up. "When? Because I'm actually going to France towards the end of August and was going to invite you to come with me. There's a… there's a wedding. And I wanted to bring you as my date."

"Whose wedding?"

The hesitation in her voice was all he needed to know that she didn't want to say it. "Fleur and Bill Weasley. And- wait! Before you say no, you did ignore me for a month. The least you can do is come with me as my date to their wedding."

The thought of being stuck at a happy event like a wedding with the Weasleys, of all people, sounded as close to hell as Draco could get. Not to mention, Harry and Snape would certainly be there. "Are we still negotiating?"

"I like to call it compromising. We're meeting each other halfway."

"Fine." Negotiating. "I'll go with you to this wedding on certain terms. First, you come with me to Reims and meet my parents. We're going towards the end of the third week in August." She stiffened and looked panicked. "I met your parents and it's only proper if you meet mine."

"Yes, but my parents didn't fund a megalomaniacs war and live by the family motto of…." she casually plucked his hand up to read the inscription on the side of his platinum signet ring. "Sanctimonia Vincet Semper. 'Purity will always conquer'. Of course, I'm sure they'll just love me."

Touche. "Purity comes in all kinds of forms," he countered with a smirk. "Not just the obvious type of purity a Pureblood family would honor. Besides, the Latin word Sanctimonia also shares the meaning of charity and chastity and virtue."

She leaned back a bit to gaze at him down the length of her nose, amused but clearly unconvinced. "So all of this time, the Malfoys have been misinterpreting their own motto when it really means 'Charity will always conquer'?" She shook her head. "Is that your only condition for going to the wedding?"

"I don't want to sit with Snape or Harry when we're there."

Hermione nodded immediately. "Then you'll be happy to hear that Harry isn't going. If Snape goes, we won't sit near him. I'll agree to those terms if you agree to not only go to the wedding but also take me to Disneyland."

Disneyland in Paris. Right. He'd promised that to her months ago.

"You drive a hard bargain, woman," he grumbled but was far from actually annoyed. In her empowering presence, he felt like he could finally approach all the demons he shied away from. He felt confident and like himself, and not nearly like the withering, scared wizard cowed into silence at the manor. "Isn't a Weasley wedding close enough to a circus for you?"

"That's not funny, Draco."

"Fine, I agree to your terms. Just be prepared for everyone to glare at me. Maybe even toss a few death threats."

"They won't do that. I promise."

The heaviness of their conversation had passed like storm clouds, leaving behind the aftermath of relieved parties to enjoy the break in the dreary weather. They breathed easy, smiled wantonly at each other, and just enjoyed their company. But the day had turned in and welcomed its nocturnal counterpart, the sun being exchanged for the moon and the hours stretching into early evening. They both missed dinner and Draco had a two hour drive back to Wiltshire.

Standing to stretch, his muscles creaking at being prone for so long on the chair, Draco looked out the window briefly. "Before I go, I need to ask a favor of you." He flipped his tongue to the side, digging underneath the soggy mandrake leaf to press it against the flatness of his tongue, and opened his mouth to show her. At first, she said nothing, just leaned forward with a confused expression, but when she realized what it was, she nearly fell backwards in shock.

"You're doing it?! The full moon is-"

"-Next Sunday, I know." He stashed the leaf back under his tongue. "I can do that part on my own, assuming the bloody weather cooperates and I don't have to start this all over. But I'll need you there when I finish it during the storm. I… I'm afraid of messing it up and ending up as a half bird or something."

Hermione continued to stare at him in wonder. "What makes you so sure it'll be a bird? No one really knows what their animagus form will be unless they've made a patronus."

"I feel like a bird is pretty close to my personality. Cunning, flighty, quick to peck someone's eyes out."

His poor attempt at levity was ignored as she shook her head slowly. "I can't believe you're doing it. Have you told your parents? You'll need to. And you'll need to register right away. Especially with your trial and probation that-"

"Right, about that…" He cut her off and awkwardly looked to the side, staring at a strange electronic box with a lit up digital clock. There were a collection of thin plastic cases directly beside it. "I'm… um… I'm going to register. But I'm not going to do it right away. I want to use it while the heat on me and my family is at its worst, and register once it gets better. That way I can travel and whatnot without danger. Which means I need you to not tell other people about it."

Hermione jerked. "You want me to lie?"

"I mean, I didn't say to lie, per se. It's just… omitting the truth. And… and I guess lying if someone were to ask you. Hermione, please. I promise to register when things improve. And that's even assuming I don't mess this up and it works."

"You're brilliant," she blurted out in a rush. "You won't mess it up." She paused to chew on her bottom lip and consider his request. "Another compromise then. I will keep it a secret all the way up until the end of the first term. By then, you better register — you're on probation and they'll immediately throw you in Azkaban if they find out. So, by end of term, preferably sooner. Deal?"

Four months. He would be granted anonymity for four months. It was the best he could get. "Deal."

She let out a sigh, smiled, and reached for him. "Good. Now, let's go see if dad left some food out for us and then get you set up in the spare room for the night. Mum will have a fit if you drove two hours back home at this hour."

He didn't put up a fight as he was guided out the bedroom, finding the rest of the house quiet and sleepy. And while he didn't like the thought of spending the night in the muggle home, he also didn't like the idea of leaving her and going back to the depressing manor. "It's not like I'm actually driving, Hermione. I sit there and pretend. It's rather relaxing."

She stopped when they were right outside of the kitchen, the appetizing aroma of fish pie wafting out, and leveled him a look. "Well, then pretend that it's exhausting so that I have a reason to keep you here longer. Really, who's the Slytherin here? You or me?"