Chapter Text
Hermione’s hand was poised above the door knob. She stood outside the small shop for several minutes before she even approached the wooden door. It was almost closing time. She watched him help a customer through the picture window for some time, hidden in the street’s dark shadows at the junction of Diagon and Knockturn Alleys. Her eyes took in the bold lettering of the store sign, The Poisoned Pen, Books and Potions, Est. 2008. She smiled at the name despite her nerves.
He’d remembered.
Hermione’s stomach was in knots and she could feel her heart pounding with anticipation…and dread. She hadn’t eaten anything in days. If she tried, it tasted like sawdust and she couldn’t swallow. Adrenaline coursed through her body, making her nauseous. She wasn't sure she could do this, but she had no other choice. Hermione finally worked up the courage and was ready to enter when the customer, an old witch, opened the shop’s heavy wooden door to exit.
“Many thanks, young man,” the old witch said, without turning her head to look back at the shop owner. Warm, yellow light flooded the street briefly, and Hermione could smell parchment and bergamot as the air pushed through the door. It smelled like him. She stepped back to let the witch pass before stepping to the open door. It was heavy and ornate and fit perfectly with the shop's aesthetic. She caught it before it completely closed and pulled it back open. The bell above the door rang, notifying the shop owner that someone else had entered.
His voice called out from the back, “I’ll be with you in just a moment.” She froze mid step.
He sounded older, his voice a rich baritone. She hadn’t heard it in years but it still caused her heart to beat faster. She was standing just inside the door, too scared to move forward to the counter. The curtain separating the back of the shop from the front parted. His head was down, looking at the texts he was carrying, not at the customer who just entered. He still wore his signet ring and several others. He was dressed in tailored black wool trousers, a slate gray vest that she knew matched his eyes, and a white button-up with the sleeves rolled up. A colorful bouquet of flowers peeked out from under the turned-up cuff of his left arm. The vibrancy of the color stood out against his pale skin. That was new. She wondered what other marks, external and internal, his body might carry now. His blonde hair was cropped shorter in the back than she’d ever seen it, but the top was still long. It fell in a soft wave across his forehead. He wore round tortoiseshell glasses, reminding her that the boy she knew was gone. This man was a complete unknown.
He spoke again without looking up, “I’m so sorry, but I’m about to close for the evening. Is this an emergency or can it wait until the morning? Oh, shit. ”
He’d finally looked up.
The books slipped out of his hands, crashing to the floor, spare papers fluttering down. He stared at her, open-mouthed like he was seeing a ghost. She guessed in some ways, she was.
“Hello, Draco,” she said quietly, with a slight tremor in her voice.
“Shit,” he said again. He couldn’t seem to regain his composure. He didn’t know how long he stood there, just staring at her, taking her in. She looked older but was still the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. Her hair was wrong though. It was stick straight and had blonde streaked through it. Her features were more angular and her body filled out, nothing gangling and awkward now. Hips, breasts. Holy hell. The last time he saw her she was crying uncontrollably, unable to stand on her own. He held her up as best he could until she was pulled away from his arms, tearing his heart out. He realized he’d been standing there far too long without speaking.
“Mi-, uh, Mrs. Weasley," he said, shaking his head, trying to dislodge the memory. Another long pause. "Or should I address you as Madam Undersecretary?” he said, his voice finally confident. When she didn’t immediately answer, he asked, “What happened to your hair?” Nope, that was completely wrong, he thought. “What can I do for you?” he tried again. Yes, better.
“It’s not,” she finally replied.
“Not, what?” he said. Had he fallen while in the back, trying to reach the books, and suffered a concussion? Was he seeing things? Had he died?
“Not Mrs. Weasley,” she said, matter of factly.
He shook his head in confusion. “Not Mrs. Weasley?” he questioned.
“No,” Hermione confirmed. He waited for her to continue but she didn’t.
“Since, when?” he asked, not believing her. None of this made sense. Why was she here? Tonight of all nights?
“Since 1 pm today. I signed the papers about 7 hours ago. And so we don’t have to do this again, I’m also no longer Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic. I quit today,” she said, the false bravado she started with fading by the end.
He was finally beginning to process the situation. Another long pause as she pulled self-consciously at her hair.
“So then, what should I call you?” he asked.
She finally looked him in the eye, those beautiful gray eyes, and opened her mouth to respond. Before she could say what she was going to say, he shook his head. He knew what she was going to say and he couldn’t handle it. A silent plea, not to utter what she was about to. “I’m sorry, Dra-”she began, but he closed his eyes and shook his head more adamantly. “Alright, Malfoy," she said, finally retreating to safe ground, “Call me, Granger''.
No longer married to Ron Weasley. No longer working for the ministry. It was too much and if it felt that way to him, he couldn’t imagine how she was coping with it. With a sigh, he opened his eyes and looked more closely at her face. He could tell there weren’t enough freckles on her cheeks.
“Take it off, Granger,” he muttered.
“What?” she said, slightly indignantly.
Malfoy rolled his eyes. He hadn’t meant anything untoward. He knew she was hiding something. “Take off the glamour. I can tell your face isn’t your face.”
“Fine," she huffed and waved her wand. Indeed, many more freckles appeared, as did red-rimmed eyes and a puffy nose. Dark circles and lines of worry, too. He badly wanted to soothe those lines with the pad of his thumb but instead, he stood rooted to the spot. He was angry that she was there. Angry that she was clearly not okay. So goddamn angry. He felt it boiling inside him. It had been years since he felt this part of him. He thought it was locked away, compartmentalized. All the rage, passion, and sadness stored in a neat little corner of his mind he never visited anymore. Only she could make him really feel–well, anything if he’s being honest.
He swallowed hard. “I’ll ask again. What can I do for you?” he said, with more bite than he actually felt. He was so torn. He drank her in, not realizing how much he missed being in her presence. She was in a traveling cloak, a maroon cable knit jumper, and tweed pants. He noticed now that she was carrying her beaded bag, which probably meant she was carrying her whole life around in her hands.
He hadn’t spoken to her in 10 years. It was almost like they had never– he stopped his train of thought. He absolutely couldn’t think about that now. There had been no communication, no owls, no mutual acquaintances, nothing. Their paths had not crossed in all that time. He’d seen her wedding announcement and read about her rise in the ministry ranks in the Prophet. But not a single word until “Hello, Draco” left her mouth. He cocked his head to the side and waited for her response.
“I need a job," she answered, in a timid voice he had never heard before. This Granger was not someone he knew. She was the smartest person he ever encountered. Clever, bold, confident. The person in front of him was scared and subdued, a shadow of her former self. Was it possible that the years were unkind to her? Had Weasley and the ministry stolen her fire?
“A job? You want to work– here?” he asked.
“Well, yes. It appears I have burned almost all of the bridges in my life. Or rather they were burned for me. Thanks to a loophole in magical law I have no home and I agreed to forfeit access to our Gringotts account," she said bitterly. “The divorce,” she choked on the word, “while not public, wasn’t pretty. People took a side and it wasn’t mine. I don’t have anyone left.”
Malfoy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, was homeless and friendless–abandoned. How could it have come to this? He wanted to ask her all of the questions that were rattling in her head but he could see she was exhausted. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes and he didn’t want to push her. There was only one time he ever saw her break and he knew what it took to get her there. The guilt he felt for playing a role in that was monumental.
She continued, “I’m so sorry, Dra–Malfoy to come to you like this, after so many years of not speaking. I know I have no right to ask anything of you but–”.
He cut her off. “Stop. Please don’t say anything else right now. You owe me no apology. Ever. Tonight's not the time to– to um, to talk about– the past, us, whatever.” Merlin, he was handling this badly. He needed to focus on right now. What did she need right now? “It’s getting late and you’re clearly tired. Where are you staying tonight?” he asked.
“I have a few galleons. I’ll get a room at the Leaky Cauldron for a few nights until I figure something else out,” she said, clearly with a plan in place.
He scoffed. “The Leaky Cauldron?! Do you not have your tent in your bloody beaded monstrosity of a bag? Camping would be better than the Leaky Cauldron. No, absolutely not! The place is fine for a pint but who knows what lurks in the undoubtedly unlaundered sheets.”
“Merlin, I forgot what a snob you are. It’s not like I can’t scourgify the sheets,” she pushed back.
“No. You’ll stay here,” he said as if it was already decided.
“Here?! Malfoy, I can’t sleep on a bookshelf. I am perfectly capable of taking care of my–”, she said, a sob breaking through her last word. She couldn’t take care of herself. It’s why she was here, humbling herself, asking for a job, wasn’t it? Her pride hurt but it hardly mattered. She hated being this vulnerable in front of anyone, but especially him.
He fought the urge to go to her. To wrap his arms around her. For just a second, he’d seen her. The old her, the one he knew so well…once. Then she was gone again. He lowered his head and took a deep breath, trying to calm his emotions. “I own the whole building, Granger. The book shop is on the first floor, my potions lab takes up the second, and I live on the third,” he explained. “I have guest quarters you are welcome to stay in. If you don’t feel comfortable staying with me, I will find you a place where you will feel safe and accommodated.”
“You don’t live at the Manor? I’d just assumed…” she trailed off.
“No,” he said. “Never again after 8th year.”
“I couldn’t possibly impose on you,” she said. He could feel the excuses ready to tumble from her mouth. He was tired and hungry and didn’t want to have this fight.
“Granger, I take care of what’s–”, he stopped, remembering himself. “I take care of people I care about, my friends. And even though, well– we’re still friends, right?”. She didn’t look at him but she nodded. “Right, good. Then, please let me take care of you and give you a place to stay until you are…” he said, not knowing how to finish the sentence. Back on your feet seemed like the wrong sentiment. She was fighting a battle all on her own and had been for a while. He couldn’t fight it for her but he’d be damned if he let her go it alone. No matter the past, he owed her this.
“Malfoy, the job, too?” she asked tentatively.
“Yes, of course. I thought that was understood. I could use help around here, with stocking and inventory. Do you have any interest in book buying? I’m shit at knowing what other people want to read. And Merlin, it will be nice to have someone help with the brewing. I have things I’ve been wanting to try and I can’t do it by myself,” he said, getting lost in possibilities. He didn’t miss the small smile when he mentioned book buying, though.
Having an intellectual peer around all the time promised to be stimulating. He hadn’t felt that since he left America. When he opened The Poisoned Pen, he never envisioned running it on his own, he’d pictured something different. But now was not the time to dwell on this. He turned his attention back to her. Hermione’s cheeks had more color to them now but she still looked dead on her feet.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he said. “Are you hungry?” She shook her head no. “Alright, then. I’ll show you to your quarters. You can shower or just go straight to bed. Whatever you want,” he said, leading her through the curtain to the back of the shop. There was a spiral staircase leading to the upper floors. He wanted to put his hand on the small of her back to guide her but he refrained as they started climbing the stairs. As they passed the second floor, he pointed out a few things but could tell she wasn’t listening.
When they reached the third floor, the stairs opened into a large open space with high ceilings and exposed brick. “Lumos,” Malfoy said, and soft yellow light from Edison bulbs lit the area. She was too tired to take much in but knew the space was impressive. There was a restaurant-grade kitchen, large windows, wingback chairs, a large sectional couch, a fireplace, framed film posters including The Exorcist, and a very large television mounted to the wall. She paused for a moment, registering how much Muggle influence was in the living area.
“That is a very large television,” she said, as she wondered at it.
“You know I don’t do anything in half measures, Granger. Bigger is always better,” he smirked, fully intending the double entendre. She blushed and laughed a little. It sounded like magic. He continued, wanting to see if he could make her blush even more. “We have movie nights here. Kind of like we used to in the common room– well, not exactly like we used to.”
“We?” she asked.
“Yeah, we, me and– Fuck. Oh, shit. I totally forgot. What time is it? Shit. I’m sorry. I was supposed to meet my partner at 8:30. Oh, balls, she’s going to kill me,” he said as he looked at the clock.
“Your partner?” Hermione asked, her voice distressed.
Malfoy hurried over to a beautiful great grey owl on the window sill. He picked up a quill and jotted a quick note on a piece of parchment that was stacked there and opened the window.
“Strix, please take this to Pansy,” he said to the owl. “Sorry in advance, I know she’ll be in a mood, but I promise extra treats for your trouble tonight.” Strix, looking as annoyed as an owl could spread his wings and took off into the night
“Pansy? Pansy is your partner?” she said in a high, strained voice.
“Yes,” he replied, as he walked back over to her.
“Oh Malfoy, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude. I’ll leave,” she said, very clearly distressed.
“Leave? Why? You just got here,” he said, not understanding distress. “Pansy will likely be pissed initially, but you know she'll get over it eventually. She missed you too.”
“Pansy is your partner now, and I don’t want to cause trouble. I would never want to come between two people in a relationship,” she explained.
It finally dawned on him how his words had caused the misunderstanding.
“Oh no, Granger. I’m sorry. God, no. Pansy is my business partner. She returned from France today on an ingredient buying venture. We were scheduled to meet to discuss what she was able to procure. I was supposed to head there after I closed the shop. That’s all,” he said. He left out the other business he and Pansy were going to discuss but Hermione didn’t need to know about that. Her being here likely changed everything anyway, didn’t it?
Hermione visibly relaxed. Malfoy took it as a good sign that he no longer needed to worry about her bolting but he could tell that the misunderstanding had taken something out of her. He wanted to assure her further. She was turned away from him, so he very gently put his hand on her shoulder. “Granger, will you please look at me?” he asked softly. She turned to face him, the soft light of the bulbs making his hair glow like a damned halo. He left his hand on her shoulder.
“This is my home and I have never shared it with anyone. You will not find conflict with those who visit it. You will be safe here, I promise you.”
She collapsed into tears and into him. The day finally got the best of her. He held her while she cried. And from the way she clung to him, he was certain no one had hugged her or held her for a very long time. He wrapped one arm around her shoulders and with the other, he held her head.
It had been a very long time since she’d felt that cherished and protected. Her gasping sobs turned to quiet whimpers, her grief overflowing, no longer able to be held at bay. She didn’t know how long she cried, only that he never let go. She tried not to remember before, there was only right now, and now, he was here. Eventually, she became aware that she was breathing normally and that Draco was running his fingers through her hair.
“What’s wrong with my hair? Why did you ask what happened to it?” she asked.
He chuckled. “That’s what you caught, from all of that, was it? It’s just that it’s straight and…blonde”, he said, with slight disdain. “I like it brown and curly. Wild– like you. Look, I can see you’re exhausted. Can I, please, carry you to your room?”
She could only nod in the affirmative. He lifted her as gently as he could, wanting to carry her burdens as his own, knowing it wasn’t possible. He opened the doors to the bedroom with wordless magic. He set her on her feet by the side of the bed. He took off her traveling cloak. He asked if she had a camisole under her sweater. When she nodded again, he pulled the heavy sweater over her head. He told her to sit and he removed her shoes. He pulled the covers back and she climbed into the bed.
“I have to go to Pansy’s but I’ll be back before you wake up,” he assured her. He didn’t want to leave her but he knew talking to Pansy wouldn’t keep until morning.
“I don’t think I’m her anymore,” she said as she yawned, “I never feel wild… or alive. I’m just so tired. I think I’m broken, Draco,” she said as sleep overtook her.
The sound of his name on her lips rushed through him. He knelt on the floor next to the bed and leaned in. “Darling, you are not broken. You are deeply and profoundly whole,” he whispered, “and you are Mine.”