True to his word—the second time around—Draco dutifully compiled all the research he had amassed over the preceding months and years into one neat bundle to send to Granger. He noticed the copy of Potio Ex Animo still sitting on his nightstand, wholly unforgotten since his drunken night in the library. Flipping to the dog-eared page, Draco ran his finger over the Latin text: The Draught of Inanis. Swallowing, he conjured a scrap of parchment and a quill from his father's nearby office and scrawled: Draught of Inanis? He tucked the note at the bottom of the bundle.
He knew Granger was clever enough to work out that the potion had absolutely nothing to do with developing a remedy for his mother's condition. It could have been included accidentally—independent research mixed in with the rest, completely innocent. Or he could ask her about it directly when she made the connection. Draco hadn't quite decided how to play it yet.
Before he could think on it any further, he wrapped the bundle with fine silver twine and made his way to the owlery on the manor grounds. Day was bleeding slowly into night, the last of the sunlight dissolving into the western sky. It was a chilly evening, and Draco was already regretting not bringing a cloak. He remained in his shirt from earlier, left sleeve still rolled to the elbow, the dried blood still visible along his forearm. He'd been too lazy to roll it down, too unbothered to vanish it. Part of him wanted to see it—the blood, at least. A reminder that he could destroy the Mark.
He could. And he knew he probably would again. But it was Granger's voice at the back of his head now, telling him he shouldn't. Somehow, the insufferable swot had gotten to him.
Pushing away thoughts of the Mark—and Granger—and the Mark and Granger—Draco climbed the steps of the owlery. At the top of the tower he found his eagle owl, Noctua, lazily preening the underside of one broad wing. The old floorboards creaked under Draco's feet, and Noctua snapped his head round, eyes narrowed, ready for a threat. Recognising his owner, however, the owl shook himself and cooed softly.
"Hey there, boy," Draco murmured, scratching the top of Noctua's head with his fingernails, just the way he knew the owl liked. "I've got a job for you."
Noctua nipped playfully at his fingertips, asking for a treat. Draco obliged. The owl munched contentedly as Draco tied the bundle to his leg, then pressed his head into Draco's outstretched hand with a low, satisfied hoo.
"Take this to Hermione Granger at Elixir, in Diagon Alley." With a final peck at his fingers, Noctua spread his wings and launched elegantly into the air, gliding effortlessly through the aperture and out into the darkening sky. Draco watched until the owl was nothing more than a speck against the night. Then he waited—knowing, rationally, that it would take far longer than a day for Lucius to find someone willing to smuggle a letter into Azkaban. The Malfoy name did not inspire trust, inside the prison or out. The idea that any guard would take Lucius Malfoy at his word alone—that the bribe would be forthcoming in one to two business days—was laughable.
But sometimes—not often—Draco hoped.
Hope kept him in the owlery a full hour longer than he would have otherwise stayed. Eventually he gave it up and made his way back down the winding steps. The temperature had dropped sharply, and he walked back to the Manor at a brisk pace, determined to look in on his mother before locating a bottle of Firewhisky and retreating to the library or his room. He hadn't yet decided whether he wanted to get slightly drunk or thoroughly obliterated.
He found his mother in the parlour.
Draco quickly rolled down his sleeve and cast a quiet Scourgify as he stepped through the front door. "Mother?" he called, approaching the parlour.
"In here, darling!" Narcissa's voice was bright and clear.
He paused in the doorway, watching her before she noticed him. She seemed in excellent spirits—smiling softly, her long blonde hair loose about her shoulders, lit gold by the fire she had set burning on the far wall. He hadn't seen her like this in months. "I didn't expect to find you here."
Narcissa turned, and her smile widened. "I decided it was time to stop moping—I've been so silly about your father." She patted the seat beside her. "Come, sit, my darling. Have a cup of tea. You will never guess who I heard from this afternoon."
Draco allowed himself a smile at her enthusiasm and fixed himself a cup from the drink cart before settling into the black leather wingback that had stood in that room through several generations of Malfoys. "Who did you hear from, Mother?"
"Astoria Greengrass! You remember her—Daphne's sister?" she asked brightly.
Draco suppressed a groan. His mother was attempting to set him up again. "I do, yes."
"She owled me today asking if I had time for tea. Isn't that lovely? So I've invited her to lunch tomorrow—the three of us, in the solarium. Hopefully you're not otherwise engaged, darling. She seemed quite thrilled at the prospect."
The smile slipped from his face. For one unguarded moment he had let himself believe his mother knew what year it was. Clearly, she didn't. He took another sip of tea and pretended it was Firewhisky. "That does sound lovely, Mother."
"Wonderful! Jinxy!"
Narcissa turned her full attention to the subsequent lunch she now had to plan, and Draco sat staring into the fire while she and the house-elf debated the merits of soup versus salad, the freshness of the meats in the storeroom, and the eternal question of chicken or fish. He listened as long as he could bear it before quietly slipping out of the parlour and into the kitchen. He took a bottle of Firewhisky and headed for his room.
Draco decided to get obliterated.
——
Astoria Greengrass was pretty in the way all pureblood witches raised with the full complement of high-society niceties were pretty. Her dark hair was swept back in a low chignon at her nape, perfectly smooth and without a strand out of place. Her blue eyes sparkled as they met Draco's, and a faint blush rose in her cheeks when he deigned to look at her. Her manner was demure; her features spoke of good breeding.
So yes, Astoria Greengrass was pretty. And as Draco sat at the table laid for three—his mother to one side, Astoria across from him—he found that he could not have been less interested.
"Draco and I were so thrilled to hear from you, my dear," Narcissa said, spreading a white linen napkin elegantly across her lap.
"I was so pleased by your invitation, Mrs. Malfoy." Astoria's tone was warm and polished. "Truthfully, I wasn't expecting one so soon. But I had been thinking only the other day: I simply must see the Malfoys. It has been far too long." She reached across the table and clasped Narcissa's hands in hers.
"The Parkinsons' Yule Ball was the last time, wasn't it?" Narcissa asked.
A barely perceptible flicker crossed Astoria's face—the smile dipping for just a fraction of a second—before she composed herself. "Something like that," she replied pleasantly, withdrawing her hands.
The last time Narcissa had seen Astoria Greengrass had been at the trial of Marlow Greengrass, who had received five years in Azkaban just a month before Lucius's own sentencing.
Astoria turned to Draco. "And Draco—it is lovely to see you again." Her cheeks coloured prettily as she glanced downward.
"You as well, Astoria. I hope you're well. Last I heard, you'd taken up residence on the continent," Draco replied.
"Yes—France, for the past few years. Bordeaux, specifically. It's simply gorgeous there; and don't even get me started on the wine." She gave a light, tittering laugh.
"I'm sure. I've always been more partial to Firewhisky, myself."
"Oh, I remember." She giggled. "Fourth year—the Halloween party Theo threw in the common room. I still remember the impression you did of Celestina Warbeck right before you passed out on the couch."
Draco laughed along with her, though he had no memory of the evening whatsoever. Passing out drunk was apparently not new for him. At least he was consistent.
"Darling?" Narcissa's voice cut across the laughter, her smile glassy, her eyes darting between them.
Of course—in Narcissa's version of events, Draco was in his fourth year, which would make Astoria a third-year, and suddenly he couldn't think why he had ever agreed to this—"Would you excuse us a moment, Astoria? My mother isn't quite feeling herself," he said, rising smoothly and offering his arm.
Narcissa took it, staring up at him in bewildered confusion.
"Of course," Astoria murmured quietly.
Draco guided his mother from the solarium, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "It's all right, Mother," he said softly.
"Draco, what on earth was that girl talking about?" she asked, and he could hear the tears just below the surface.
"She's a confused little thing, that's all. Nothing to worry about." He kissed the side of her head. "Come, let's get you upstairs for a rest. I'll have Jinxy send up some tea."
"Your father—?"
"He'll be writing any day now. I promise." He used his father's prison alias without thinking: "Lyon." Narcissa nodded, visibly calmed by it.
"You're right—I am a little tired," she admitted, her smile more grimace than anything.
Draco settled her into bed, tugging the heavy duvet up over her narrow shoulders. "Just rest now."
"You're such a good boy, Draco," she murmured, her eyes already closing. "Such a good son."
He felt the prick of tears and deftly blinked them away. "I'll take care of our guest. Sleep, Mother."
She was asleep before he reached the door.
——
Astoria was still at the table when he returned, sitting rather than standing—which he took as a good sign. "I'm sorry about that—my mother—"
"She's not quite all there, is she?" Astoria interrupted, her voice stripped of its earlier polish.
"I beg your pardon?" Draco said coldly.
Astoria shook her head. "Sorry. I can be blunt. Not one of my more charming qualities." She wrinkled her nose. "My mother gets confused sometimes as well," she added, more softly. "That's actually why I came back to England."
"Does your mother think it's 1994, too?" He dropped back into his chair. The soup had gone cold.
"Not quite that far gone," Astoria said. "For my mother, the Dark Lord never happened." Draco flinched at the title. "Sorry—another bad habit. I have rather a lot of them."
He reached for his teacup, found it cold, and sighed. "God, I wish this were Firewhisky."
Astoria reached below the table and produced a slim silver flask. She unscrewed the cap and tipped a generous measure into his cup, then took a long pull herself. "Cheers."
"Cheers," Draco echoed. "Where have you been hiding a flask?"
"I refuse to wear a dress that doesn't have pockets. I don't care how unladylike it makes me."
A laugh escaped him. "Are you the same Astoria Greengrass who walked in here an hour ago, or an entirely different one?"
She rolled her eyes. "There's Astoria," she said, curling her lips over the O in a precise drawl, "and then there's Astoria."
"I'm familiar with that particular routine," he replied, taking a long sip of his Firewhisky-laced tea.
"How long?" she asked. "Your mother, I mean."
"Since the end of the War, on and off. She's either in bed, unable to function, or she believes it's a different year entirely."
"That must be hard," Astoria said quietly.
"Yes," he agreed.
A brief silence. Then: "Daphne takes care of my mother. She called me back when things got too difficult. She's a typical eldest sister—takes care of everything, pretends it's all fine, until it very suddenly isn't." Astoria reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. "The bags under your eyes rival hers, Draco."
He looked down at her hand, then back at her steady blue eyes. "I'm doing the best I can."
She squeezed his fingers. "Have you ever considered St. Mungo's?"
He pulled his hand away at once. "No. Get out."
"Draco—I only meant—you're not equipped to handle this alone—"
"I said get out."
Astoria rose, unhurried. "I didn't mean anything by it. It's all right to ask for help." She paused in the doorway, seeming to weigh something. "I'll be in England for a while. If you need a friend, don't hesitate." She squeezed his shoulder gently, then left.
Draco sat rigid with fury, so angry he could barely see. How dare she suggest he simply deposit his mother at St. Mungo's? He drained the rest of his Firewhisky-laced tea and slammed the cup down hard enough that it shattered. Fine china scattered across the table in the afternoon light, glinting—calling to him, testing him.
You shouldn't do that.
Granger's voice, somewhere in the back of his skull. And he surprised himself by listening. He stood unsteadily, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened, and breathed. In and out. He needed to get away from the sharp objects immediately, or he would give in—he knew that. The skin of his left forearm prickled with anticipation, and it would be so easy—
Pop. "Master Draco, sir!"
He exhaled slowly. "Yes, Jinxy?"
"Sirs is having a letter!"
Draco forced a smile. "Leave it on the table, please."
"Yes, sirs!"
Another pop, and he was alone again. He spotted the purple E on the seal immediately and recognised it as Granger's. He tore it open, hoping for news of a breakthrough.
Mr. Malfoy,
I have reviewed your research and have a few questions. Would it be possible for you to come by the shop around 4? Apologies for the short notice—we could make it Monday if that would be better for you.
Sincerely,
Hermione Granger
Master of Brewing and Potion-making
Owner and Founder, Elixir
It was just past three o'clock. A couple of steadying measures of Firewhisky and he would be ready to go.
——
As Draco was wont to do, he drank rather more Firewhisky than he had intended. He was unsteady on his feet when he registered that it was already five to four, that he ought to Floo rather than Apparate in this state—
But then there was the familiar jerk behind his navel and he was spinning, spinning, much too fast, and God, he was going to splinch himself—
There was a deafening crash, the wind punched out of him, and his face connected with the floor.
A sharp gasp—the sound of glass breaking nearby. Draco pushed himself upright—too quickly—his vision tilting and swimming. His jaw ached; he opened his mouth and cracked it deliberately. The ache eased. Before him stood Granger and an elderly customer, who had dropped a vial that was now spreading in a slow, colourful puddle across the floor.
Déjà vu.
"I'm sorry—this is an emergency. I'm going to have to ask you to come back tomorrow," Granger said to the woman, taking her wrists between both hands. The woman nodded and hurried out. Granger followed, saw her to the door, and then closed it firmly behind her. The lock clicked. "You have to stop doing that, Malfoy."
"Sorry," he mumbled from the floor.
"You broke a chair!"
"Is that what I hit?"
"You're supposed to land on your feet, not your face. I'd appreciate it if you didn't flatten any more of my furniture."
"What's a belly flop?"
Suddenly she was standing directly over him. "You're drunk," she accused.
"Yes."
"Malfoy—"
"You said you had questions."
She sighed. "At least get off the floor."
"I'm quite comfortable here."
"Malfoy—"
"You're no fun, Granger," he said, and rose unsteadily.
She grabbed his arm to help steady him. "Why are you drunk at four in the afternoon?"
"Been a bad day." He shrugged.
"First you bleed all over my office, then you frighten off my customers and break my furniture, and now I have to deal with you while you're pissed. Wonderful. You really are more trouble than you are worth, Malfoy."
"I know." And he did—he really, truly did.
Granger sighed and put an arm around his waist, steering him toward her office. "Come on—I'll get you something to sober up."
"Don't want to," he said petulantly.
"That's too bad." She deposited him into the familiar yellow chair with the floral cushion. "Stay here—don't Apparate anywhere—I'll be back in a moment."
She returned with a small purple vial pinched between her fingertips. "I don't want it," he said quietly.
"I won't discuss Narcissa's care with you while you're like this."
Draco took the vial and drank it in one go. He had taken his share of Sober-Up Potions, but Granger's was by far the most effective. And the most brutal. "It hurts how sober I am," he murmured, shuddering.
Granger's mouth curved. "I've heard that before. I've adjusted the formula—it shocks you back rather than easing you. It does sting a bit. Not my finest work, honestly."
"You have to tone it down, Granger. That's a dreadful transition."
"But effective."
"God, my mouth tastes appalling."
She winced. "That's the worst side-effect. I'm still working on it."
"The worst side-effect is—Christ, my head. You do understand the whole point of a Sober-Up is to ease the hangover, not replace it with something worse."
"Constructive criticism, noted," Granger said, rolling her eyes.
"Can I at least have some water?"
She chuckled and Summoned him a glass. "There, you big baby."
Draco gulped several mouthfuls and set the glass on her desk, where she had settled across from him. "You said you had questions?"
She nodded and drew a long piece of parchment—densely annotated in the margins—from the formidable stack on her desk. "Yes. My first thought was a standard Memory Potion, which I'm certain you've already tried, though it's noticeably absent from your notes."
"First one I attempted."
She made a note. "How many doses? And over what period?"
"Once weekly for roughly six months. No change, so I—"
"—increased the concentration of stewed Mandrake?" she interrupted.
"Yes."
She scribbled. "Any difference in efficacy after that modification?"
"She never once misplaced her wand," Draco offered.
Granger looked up sharply. "Be serious."
He relented. "No change of any real significance."
"A Depression Draught? That's absent from your notes as well."
"My records from immediately after the War were rather patchy. Probation tends to put a dent in one's filing habits." She flashed him a warning look. Draco sighed. "You already know the answer—of course I tried one. She refused the mass-produced variety on account of the taste, and I couldn't exactly slip it into her tea with it smelling the way it did. So, after my probation lifted, I brewed a flavourless variant and administered that for about six months as well."
"Alongside the Memory Potion? Did you modify the Depression Draught?"
"Yes, at the same time. No modifications—the ingredients were too volatile; I didn't want to risk destabilising it."
"Why did you stop?"
"It wasn't doing anything. It took an age to brew, and it began to feel like a waste of time. That's when the research"—he gestured at the tower of parchment on her desk—"came in."
Granger nodded slowly, nibbling at the feathers of her quill. "Figures," she murmured.
"What does?"
She looked up, blinking once, twice, as if returning from somewhere else. "You've done precisely what I would have done."
"Oh," he said, rather dumbly.
"Increasing the Mandrake concentration was a sound call. As was the flavourless Depression Draught. I wouldn't modify the existing formula myself—but I might be able to devise a different version, with less reactive ingredients that I could actually tinker with—" She trailed off, quill between her teeth again.
Plump pink lips against dark feathers. A flash of tongue. Draco snapped back to attention. Hermione Granger had just told him he had done a good job. He could hardly believe it—which meant she had to be mocking him. "Right," he snorted.
Granger either missed his tone entirely or chose to ignore it. She cleared her throat. "There's a Muggle condition called dementia—wizards get it too, I suspect, though there's precious little research on it from our side—and I'm going to look into it, see what's been studied." Her voice had softened, and she was suddenly less certain, her eyes fixed on her parchment. She had mentioned Muggles, and was bracing for his reaction.
She still thought he was the same. He wasn't—not even close. He was so far from the rotten boy who had hurled slurs at her on the Hogwarts grounds simply because he wanted to see her flinch. "Sounds like a sensible approach, Granger. Wizarding potions have so far proved entirely useless."
Granger blinked slowly, visibly surprised. She swallowed, her eyes searching for words. "Oh," was all she managed.
"It's not how it used to be," he offered—the only concession he was willing to make just yet.
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "No. I suppose it really isn't."
"Anything else?" he asked. His head still ached from Granger's brutal potion—and from the fact of being sober at all.
"One more thing!" She lifted the parchment high as she reached the bottom of it. "Most of your research is very logical—methodical, built up piece by piece, working from a foundation. Which I admire, genuinely, that's how I approach things—"
"Granger, you're rambling."
She blinked. "Yes, I do that," she said, with a small, almost self-deprecating laugh. "My point is that the last item didn't fit. The Draught of Inanis? I'm not familiar with it, but I'm quite certain it has nothing to do with memory or memory loss. Unless it's something you invented yourself."
Here it was—the moment he had known was coming, yet still hadn't settled on a plan for. He could call it an accident, claim it was stray research included by mistake. Or he could tell her the truth. He wasn't sure how the words left his lips, but they did. "Unrelated. Something I came across—for myself."
"Oh—something separate? No trouble at all. I'll look into it; as I said, I'm not yet familiar with it," she said easily.
"Thanks, Granger." The words felt strange and thick on his tongue, as though his mouth wasn't quite sure they were allowed.
"That's all for now, I think," she said, with a small smile. "I'll be away for the next few days, but I wanted to address some of the gaps while they were fresh. I think better with all the pieces in front of me."
Draco nodded and rose. "I'll owl if anything new comes up—and vice versa?"
"Yes." She smiled again. And then, as if nervous, her tongue darted briefly across her lower lip.
Why did he keep looking at her mouth?
Draco turned to leave, made it as far as the doorway, and stopped. "Why can I Apparate directly into your shop?" he asked, turning back. "The first time I did it I was furious and didn't even think—I just arrived. That's highly unusual, Granger. Anyone could simply materialise in your back office."
Granger rolled her eyes. "I have the wards configured to permit Apparition during business hours. I was going for a welcoming feel—apparently too welcoming."
"All I'm saying is, if you value your furniture—"
"The chair would have been perfectly fine if you hadn't been drunk," she cut in.
Hot shame shot through him, coiling in his stomach. He could feel the redness crawling up his neck. For a moment he had almost forgotten—the Firewhisky, the itching need to simply stop feeling—but here it was again, in full force. He gave a curt nod when what he wanted to say was I'm sorry. What was left of his pride would not allow it. "Right. I'll see you soon," he said lamely, hands tucked in his pockets.
"Yes," she replied, not quite meeting his eyes. "I'll see you soon."
Draco held her gaze for a moment—or rather, he held her lips—before turning and walking away. They were beautiful, he decided. Kissable, even. The thought made his anxiety spike sharply, and he made his way out of the shop and home without looking back.
He desperately needed a drink.
And he definitely needed to stop thinking about Hermione Granger's lips.