Hermione has a theory. To test said theory, she switches up the time she arrives home after work each day. Ten past six. Half past five. Five past seven. Then she watches the kitchen clock. Unfailingly, at the two minute mark, Draco Apparates into the front hall.
After a full week of this exact pattern she confronts Draco. "Do you have a ward alert on your wand for when I arrive home?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"So we can eat dinner together."
When he says these matter-of-fact statements, as if his motives are obvious, Hermione never has a reply ready. She appreciates the overtures at civility, or friendship, she supposes, but what her brain trips over is the intent behind them.
"Is that what your family was like growing up?"
"Yes. It was important to my parents."
"Ah."
"And speaking of my parents...well, my mother, actually, is aware that I've now met your parents on several occasions."
Hermione sits at the table and wrings her hands. She should have seen this coming. "I've put you in a difficult position, haven't I?"
Draco sighs and sits across from her. Hermione senses a negotiation is imminent.
"I said I'd never make you go. But I have been asked, begged, to have you reconsider by my mother."
"Oh."
Before she can gain a proper foothold on her feelings over that revelation, Draco rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.
"There's more. I haven't been entirely honest with you."
From inside his jacket pocket he pulls out a bundle of letters and slides them over to Hermione. Neatly tied together with a string is what appears to be several dozen pieces of correspondence addressed to her.
"You've been intercepting my mail?" Her voice almost reaches a screech and now her memory races to recall if she's missed anything important recently. Has he kept crucial Ministry notices from her?
"Not your mail. Well, yes, your mail, but only these letters. My mother has been writing to you."
"You had no right," Hermione scolds and immediately tears open the top one. Her eyes whizz across the parchment filled with the neatest quillmanship she's ever had the pleasure of reading. Narcissa has written a personal invitation for Hermione to join them at the Manor for New Year's Eve. Which was a few weeks ago.
Hermione glares at Draco and rips open the next one. "Why?"
"Why has she written to you?"
"No, you prat, that's quite obvious." Hermione waves an open letter in his face, this one an invitation to a luncheon. Each successive letter has more invitations, entreaties to spend time with her. Teas, shopping trips, dinners, etc. There's even a letter from months ago asking to trade book recommendations.
"Why did you feel it was your right to keep these from me?"
"She wouldn't let me read them in advance and I hadn't a clue why she wanted to write to you so badly. I thought I might spare you from anything...potentially offensive."
"Yes, I'm not sure how my delicate psyche would have handled this," she turns the letter around so he can read it, "offer to accompany her on a garden tour at the Shafiq Estate."
"My family and you don't exactly have the best history, can you blame me for being cautious here?"
"If you've learned anything about me, then you should know I don't appreciate having others decide what's best for me. You withheld information from me."
"I apologize," he says through gritted teeth. Draco glares down at the table, fingers tracing an abstract pattern on its surface.
"This was ridiculous and unnecessary."
"I know. My mother also made her displeasure quite plain."
"Did she hex you?"
"No, but I think she heavily considered that route."
Hermione reads through a few more politely-worded pleas for her time and attention. She notes the careful details Narcissa works in, phrases like, "My husband is unfortunately detained that day," or "Lucius will be unable to join us."
Easy enough to figure out how the Malfoy patriarch still feels about Hermione's presence.
"Your mother seems quite determined to get to know me. And I suppose I can no longer be so rude as to refuse her."
"You weren't rude," Draco says quickly. "You don't owe her anything."
"Do you want me to come to dinner with you this weekend?"
"Only if you want to and you have no prior engagement."
"Not what I asked you."
"Yes."
"Then I will. And," Hermione stands and walks determinedly to her study, "I'll be writing to your mother myself to tell her so."
Curiosity holds her mind hostage all week in the lead up to dinner at Malfoy Manor. Will Narcissa be as welcoming as her letters? How does this more mature, thoughtful version of Draco act around his parents? Will anything trigger unwanted memories of torture or imprisonment? Given what happened to her there years ago, her recollection of the house itself is hazy at best.
But as she clasps a set of cerulean robes, Hermione is surprised to experience a sense of calm.
The same cannot be said for Draco. Pacing in front of the fireplace, he gives her a sort of jerky nod in greeting. "Good, you're ready, you look nice. My parents will greet us immediately, I'm sure, and then the adjoining room is where we'll dine."
She's never seen him so flustered. He's almost babbling. "And we'll Floo in so we don't have to go through the front entrance. The dining room is in the West wing and faces the back of the estate and—"
She can see what he's trying to do and the kindness surprises her.
"—my mother will insist on after-dinner tea in the adjacent parlour where she'll no doubt give you an unwanted history on every décor choice. I promise we won't leave those rooms, unless you're dead set on seeing the library, but that's in—"
"Draco. I'll be fine. It's only dinner at your family's home."
"Right, of course." Her reassurance only has him looking slightly less troubled. "I must warn you, don't expect my father to—"
"I expect nothing from your father. Nor do I fear him."
"Well, don't expect him to say anything at all tonight. I don't want you to feel slighted if he pretends you don't exist."
"Better to be ignored than openly hexed," Hermione mutters.
Before they go through the Floo, Draco puts a hand on her arm.
"If at any time you feel the way you did at the Museum gala, we'll come back home."
In the face of such sincerity for her well-being, all Hermione can do is nod.
Her blonde, statuesque in-laws are the first thing Hermione sees once she spins out of the Floo. A portrait of wealth—of wizarding aristocracy—in their fine, black silk robes, they would appear somber but for the lush, decorative elements covering the entire room behind them. This room at least is warm in tone, creams and dark browns, though made stuffy by all the lavish accoutrements of gilded furniture, wall-sized tapestries, and countless busts and vases.
"Hermione, welcome." Narcissa glides towards her, clasps both her hands and brushes kisses to each cheek.
"Thank you for having me, Mrs. Malfoy."
"Narcissa, please."
Hermione swallows her pride, at least three jinxes, and two insults as she addresses Lucius. "Good evening, Mr. Malfoy."
He merely inclines his head at her and finds a way to make "Miss Granger," sound like a slur.
Beside her, Hermione feels Draco tense and sees Narcissa's nostrils flare.
"Shall we go through?" she says and gestures for Hermione and Draco to walk ahead. Both men pull out chairs for their wives then take seats across from them. It's a smaller table than Hermione expects, and she wonders if this might not be their usual eating place. She suspects Draco requested they keep out of a certain part of the house entirely.
They're served by elves and Hermione bites her tongue other than to offer a quiet "thank you," each time she receives food or drink. These elves at least look in better health than the way Harry described Dobby during his servitude to this family. She feels Lucius' disdainful eyes on her each time an elf appears, as if daring her to say something.
Narcissa makes small talk about the meal, filling in the silence with idle chatter about each dish and asking how Hermione enjoys it. Hermione is content to keep everything surface level tonight, but doesn't Narcissa go and surprise her.
"Draco tells us you're working on monumental legislation for Wolfsbane?"
Across the way, she clocks an eye roll from Lucius.
"I wouldn't call it 'monumental,'" demurs Hermione, still reeling from the question being asked.
"But Draco says it's very important," Narcissa enthuses. "You must enjoy being in a position where you can enact such wide-reaching change. It's for children, is that right?"
"Oh, ah, yes. For children bitten during the war. I mean, for all affected children, really, it's just we've seen a surge in werewolf numbers from that time period. Providing those families with safe access to Wolfsbane will ensure they can attend Hogwarts if they wish."
Lucius snaps his fingers for more wine.
"How noble," says Narcissa and Hermione is sixty percent sure it's a genuine statement. "I see Draco did not exaggerate when he spoke of your impressive career ambitions."
She beams at her son. "Do you have any trips coming up for work?"
Lucius makes a derisive sound that the entire table collectively pretends never happened.
"No, I haven't gone abroad since the wedding," says Draco.
"It's so nice to have him home all the time, isn't it, Hermione?"
"I'm sure Draco is pleased to see you so often," Hermione says. "Though he must miss the traveling, what with all the places he's been; it seems like an exciting career."
Lucius snorts into his wine glass again. Hermione ignored the first instance, but she can no longer let this slide.
She addresses Lucius directly. "Do you not approve of your son's career? He's very good at what he does."
"I'm sure he is," says Lucius carelessly. "Draco has many talents. If only he applied them somewhere useful, like perhaps at the Ministry."
Draco shifts in his seat, posture stiffening. "Are your usual lapdogs no longer up to snuff, Father?"
"Having well-placed connections within our government has always served this family well."
"Oh, has it?" Draco sneers. "Tell me, Father, have you had your Apparition license reinstated yet?"
Lucius's lip curls and Hermione holds her breath, anticipating cutting cruelty.
"Enough," says Narcissa. "We have a guest and you two would do well to remember how to behave at the dinner table."
"But Miss Granger is no mere guest, my dear," drawls Lucius. "She's family now. We wouldn't want her to have any false impressions. She should be aware of exactly who she married."
"I said, enough, Lucius."
Narcissa's tone brooks no argument, a verbal icy dagger that Hermione senses she only employs in extreme cases. Both men fall silent and the only sounds during the dessert course are spoons against dishes and sips of wine.
"We'll take tea in the blue parlour," Narcissa announces and that signifies the end of dinner and the beginning of more socialization in yet another high-ceilinged, opulent room.
True to its name, the parlour is indeed blue. From walls to furniture to art displays, powder blue is the reigning shade.
"This must look gorgeous in the sunlight," Hermione says before she can command her tongue. "Not that it isn't now."
But her comment has Narcissa bursting to tell her more. "Oh, but you must come for an afternoon, so you can appreciate it properly. Now, see the upholstery on this settee? It was designed for—"
Apparently one compliment on her décor choices is all it takes to receive an unabridged history of design selections for the entire room. Hermione is led from this chaise to that chair to this rug as Draco nurses a glass of brandy on a large sofa with Lucius. Hermione catches Draco's eye as his mother waxes lyrical about an heirloom snuffbox and he gives her a faint "I told you so," smile. Her lips twitch and she turns away, lest she miss any details about a Venetian vase Draco broke as a child.
Once Narcissa has concluded her lengthy presentation, she turns hopefully to Hermione, "We could tour the gardens now as well?"
"Oh, ah..."
"I think that's probably enough for tonight," Draco interjects, getting to his feet. "And you'll have something to show her another time."
Though she seems disappointed, she acquiesces. "Of course, we hope you will join us for more evenings in future," says Narcissa with a significant look at Draco.
She guides them back to the traveling room for the Floo as Lucius offers a curt goodnight and prowls off elsewhere.
Narcissa gives them both a fond farewell with a fixed smile and Hermione suspects Lucius is in for quite the row once they leave. Good. Arsehole.
Draco hesitates before reaching for the Floo powder. "Actually, would you mind waiting here a moment? I just want to grab something from my wing. I could use your help with it."
"Oooh, for work?"
"Yes. I'll just be a few minutes."
He closes the door behind him and Hermione makes herself comfortable in an armchair. Until she hears soft voices from just outside the door. Overcome with curiosity, she crosses the room and presses as close as she can. Still, she only hears indistinct murmuring.
Sighing at her compromised morals due to proximity to the Weasley siblings, Hermione rummages around in her bag for a pair of Extendable Ears. It's not ethical, but she can't help but wonder if the politeness from two-thirds of the Malfoy family tonight is all for show.
With the earpiece in, she hears Draco's voice immediately: "—trust Father to be at his most despicable."
"You let me handle your father. Although, things must be progressing nicely with her if she agreed to come here tonight," answers Narcissa.
"I'm sure she just felt she owed me for spending time with her parents."
"Have you been following my advice at all?"
"Mother, it's not that simple."
"But it is, darling. Your match letter said 'highest compatibility possible.'"
"Granger doesn't believe in all that."
"She doesn't believe in ancient magic?" Narcissa sounds scandalized. "Let me send her home with some of our books. She hasn't been taught the old ways, I could help her."
"No, please don't. This isn't what she wants. She didn't choose me, she didn't choose this. She's made that very plain."
Narcissa scoffs. "Don't say such things. Besides, you have more than two years to convince her otherwise. Plenty of time."
"Mother, please."
"You're so dour these days, have you tried letting her get to know you better?"
"Of course I have."
"And the flowers? You have been bringing her flowers, haven't you?"
"I ensure the front hall vase is always filled."
Narcissa tuts in disapproval. "Draco, you have to present them to her. "
"All the flowers in the world aren't going to sway her, that's not—she's not...I just need to retrieve something for work. Father hasn't been in my wing again, has he?"
"No, I checked your wards myself."
"Thank you." Hermione hears Draco retreat further down the hall and almost pulls the Ear back.
"Draco," Narcissa calls. "Your magic matched you two for a reason. Surely you wouldn't give up so easily?"
Draco never replies, Hermione only hears the clicking of his shoes as he walks away. Yanking the Ear, Hermione settles back in the chair, unsure of what to think.
She can see now the motive behind Narcissa's behavior tonight and in writing the letters. Her belief being so strong in this so-called "compatibility magic" that she's styled herself the friendly, welcoming mother-in-law, hoping to make Hermione feel more receptive to Draco.
While sweet, in a way, Hermione still thinks whatever "ancient spellwork" this is, it holds no more water than reading tea leaves.
And is all this the basis for Draco's kindness towards her as well? Is he only accepting of Hermione because he thinks some magic is telling him he should?
Mind whirling, she almost jumps when Draco returns holding a book.
"I thought you might be quite interested to see this."
He's wearing black gloves to handle the book, and the sight causes a stir in her abdomen. Gods, her shower thoughts tomorrow morning are definitely going to feature those. When she lets her eyes roam from his covered hands to the book itself she gasps.
"Oh my God, is this a first edition?"
"No, it's not the original. Back-dating spells place it in either the third or fourth printing run though, so it is very old and quite delicate."
Hermione gapes in awe at the title: Malleus Maleficarum or as it's known in English, The Hammer of the Witches.
She conjures her own pair of gloves. "May I...hold it?"
"Yes, I was hoping to test something. Before we leave the Manor, I want to be absolutely sure this is safe for handling. For you, specifically."
He carefully transfers the book to her hands then draws his wand.
"Feel anything? Dizzy? Visions? Strange urges?"
Hermione stares down at the cover and turns the tome over in her hands. "No, nothing odd. Is it all right to open or should we do this on your stand at home?"
Draco lowers his wand and stands, motionless, for a beat or two. His lips part as if he wants to say something, but no sounds escape.
"Draco? Are you—?"
"Home. Yes, at home would be better." He takes the book from her and lowers it into a protective satchel. "I prefer to spell the pages to turn. Less risk of tearing that way."
When they arrive back at the flat, Hermione follows him straight to his study, excitement coursing through her.
Draco props the book on a stand, admires it for a moment, then turns to her.
"Thank you. For coming tonight."
"Your mother seemed keen for this to occur. But is your father always so...?"
"Miserable?"
"Uh. Yes."
"Everything makes him miserable these days. The Ministry, his sentencing, society at large, my career, my decision to marry you."
"He'd rather you be wandless for five years?" she asks in disbelief.
"No, he'd rather I accepted his solution of a hefty bribe to Matrimonial Affairs to classify me as exempt from the law."
Hermione staggers back from Draco's desk. "He...he offered a bribe on your behalf?"
"I certainly didn't ask him to," Draco says with a deep scowl. "I only found out from my mother. When I heard what he did I contacted the office myself to sort it out. As you can imagine, it caused an even wider rift between me and him."
"But they—they accepted his gold? You could have been exempt?"
"Oh, they were all too happy to receive a sum of that magnitude."
Hermione grips the back of a chair to steady herself. "I can't believe it...you...you could have avoided all of this. Why didn't you just let them take it?"
"Use that brain of yours, won't you? How would that have looked?" he snaps.
"You're assuming they would have dared let something like that get out," she argues.
"Did you think maybe I didn't want to skirt the law this way?" Draco asks, incredulous. "All my life he's thrown gold at anything in my path. Which worked until it didn't." His gaze flicks briefly to his left forearm. "I'm not letting him decide for me anymore."
"But this decision didn't just affect you!"
"Leave it, Hermione," he barks and stalks past her.
"No, I will not leave it!"
Hermione follows him out to the sitting room, anger and confusion coursing through her and finally reaching the boiling point for eruption. He only stares at her, waiting for the incoming fury tsunami to unleash. The word vomit comes out like the worst stream of unstoppable, uncontrollable magic. It's a part of her that she's kept dampened, and Draco's revelation frees her from containing it any longer.
"Your family is—is—horrible! The whole lot of you just—just awful people! Did no one think for one second how bloody traumatizing it is for someone like me to have to marry someone like you ? Of course not, because everyone moved on! They don't have to think about how I've been tortured at your parents' feet, how I bled on your floor, how I was almost killed right in front of you."
Her voice trembles and loses strength—she's angrier than she's ever been. At him, at their world, at herself for being attracted to him.
"And you—" she chokes out through frustrated tears, "you had an out because of course you did. And you didn't take it. Didn't think to perhaps once spare me from pain. Didn't think of anyone but yourself."
Hermione rushes down the hall and shuts herself in the bathroom. Sinking to the floor, she doesn't even bother with a Silencing charm as she cries into her arms. No one would hear her pleas, no one would listen to reason, no one saw this as violating her free will, but the Malfoy family can still stroll into the Ministry and toss gold around in exchange for favors.
She hears his footsteps approach the door, stop and wait, then a sigh as Draco heads to the bed instead.
Hermione doesn't bother accounting for how long she sits there and lets tears run down her face. All she knows is her muddled mind is caught in the unfairness of it all. She's stuck in one gear, and unsure of how to shift to the next.
When she develops pins and needles in her legs, she stands, shaking her limbs. The arguing, the crying, it hasn't been enough of a catharsis. She needs more and she won't find it here.
Outside the bathroom, she finds Draco sitting on the edge of the bed, cautious grey eyes awaiting her verdict.
"I don't want to be here right now." Hermione pushes her hair off her face and sniffles. "I'll be at Ron and Luna's for a bit.
Draco says nothing. She doesn't know whether she wants him to or not, but waiting for him to speak is futile anyway.
She apparates away and the next moment is on a familiar doorstep. Ensuring her eyes are at least dry first before she rings the bell (a giant bumblebee engraved with "bee right with you!") and waits for her friends.
Ron answers and it almost makes her crumble all over again.
"Hermione?"
"Hey," she croaks with a weak smile, "okay if I come in and hang out for a bit?"
"'Course you can." He steps aside with a concerned frown and follows her to the living room.
Much like the couple that inhabits it, Ron and Luna's home is both haphazard and cozy. There's more potted plants than she can count, knitted blankets and pillows everywhere. Messy and lived-in and everything Hermione would have hated in a home. Even now as she looks around, she's tempted to tidy: to pick up the Drooble's wrapper beneath the coffee table, to vanish the dead fern in the corner, to shake out and fold at least three bunched blankets.
"So, what did Malfoy do?"
"Ron—"
"Don't 'Ron' me, he must have done something. Or wait—" He stops his forward progress through to the kitchen. "Weren't you having dinner with all of them at the Manor tonight? Oh gods, Hermione are you okay?"
"I'm fine, just felt a bit...suffocated. Go on, make the tea, please."
Ron frowns again but busies himself with a kettle.
"Hello Hermione!" calls Luna as she bounds down the stairs. "Thought I heard you. I love it when unexpected people drop by!"
She sits right beside Hermione. "Is Draco coming, too? He's invited if you like."
"He isn't," Ron calls from the kitchen.
"I know he's not coming, dear, just letting Hermione know he's invited!"
Luna winks at Hermione and they both stifle giggles at the grumbling they can still hear.
"Dinner was all right, though? At the Manor? It's not the most pleasant place. Or at least, the bits of it I saw were quite depressing."
Ron comes in carrying a tray and plops it down unceremoniously on the coffee table, muttering darkly beneath his breath all the while. "Rotten family—imprisoned my wife—tortured my best friend—bloody pureblood tossers—"
"Why don't you do some baking, love?" Luna suggests and strokes his arm. "Seems like you need to let off some steam."
Ron throws up his hands and stalks back to the kitchen.
"If making tea doesn't do the trick, he's usually good after a few loaves of bread," Luna says conspiratorially.
"I'm making pound cake!"
Luna lets Hermione quietly sip her—expertly brewed, to be honest—tea without prompting her for more information. This lingering peace her friend extends is why Hermione came here over the frantic interrogation she might have faced at Harry and Ginny's.
"I've been feeling overwhelmed for...for months now," Hermione finally says. "And angry and sad and...well, I feel as if all my outlets have been plugged up. There's nowhere for these feelings to go and I—I let them get the better of me tonight."
"Is it Draco? Or the marriage in general?"
"Same thing, aren't they?"
"Not necessarily. I know you resent the marriage bit, anyone would. But what do you like about Draco?"
Hermione takes a minute to think through all her interactions with him since the wedding.
"He's intelligent. Capable. He takes pride in his career. One he made for himself. He's kind to his mother and kinder to his father than he should be. He was great with my parents. He listens when I speak, and treats me with respect. I...enjoy our conversations. When he—when he opens up more I can glimpse the man he's become and I...I like who that is."
"Seems like despite the gruesome circumstances that forced you together, that you might have gained an unexpected friend. There's nothing wrong with that."
Luna smiles, but when Hermione cannot return the expression, cocks her head to the side. "Oh, I see. Did you perhaps leave out that you find him attractive?"
Hermione almost drops her cup. "I—that is—he—um. He is good-looking. Yes. Okay, yes, I find him attractive."
"Well, that's wonderful!"
"It is?"
"Yes, attraction is a very fun feeling and even more fun to explore."
"I mean, I agree in theory, but I'm not sure it's wise for me to act on it in this situation."
"Is it because you feel guilty?" Luna frowns. "That's the worst feeling, we should banish it."
"Well, yes, of course I feel guilty. I shouldn't feel like this for Draco while I'm actively trying to have the marriage dissolved and this law stricken down. It compromises everything I stand for."
"In my view, those two things aren't mutually exclusive."
"Well, in my view, I'd look like I'm having my cake and eating it too. I can't act on any of this while fighting the very concept. I can't have both. It makes me the most awful sort of hypocrite."
The oven door slams and they both jump. Ron storms into the room, red in the face but for a few spots of flour on his cheek.
"I hate this—I mean, gods, do I hate this—but Hermione, why can't you?"
"Why...can't...I?" she echoes.
"Those old windbags you're fighting at the Ministry, they just do as they like, right?" He waves his mitted hands around. "And their hypocrisy has shite effects for everyone. But you aren't hurting anyone or weakening your cause or whatever. You always tie yourself up in these knots." He shakes his head. "I hate seeing you sit here and saying you're a bad person. Judgment is off though because, ew, Malfoy, but yeah. You can be miserable and fight the law or happy and fight the law. That's all it is."
This is all very nice and mature advice, Hermione concedes, but it's distracted her from her original purpose for needing to be out of the flat and away from Draco.
"I'm sort of really angry with him at the moment," she admits. "It wasn't malicious, what he did, just...selfish and shortsighted, in my opinion."
"Stay here as long as you like," says Luna.
"Or at least until you've had a slice," Ron adds and hustles back to check on his cake.
After another cup of tea and a heaving slice of vanilla-lemon pound cake, Hermione feels comforted and content, even if a little drowsy from all the emotional turmoil and dessert.
"Will you go back tonight?" asks Luna.
Hermione hesitates, unsure of what it is she wants in the moment. But she knows Luna and Ron have no more advice to give for now, and she needs to choose how to proceed.
"I think I should. See if we can't find common ground here."
When Hermione returns to the flat, she finds it dark and quiet. Stepping carefully into the bedroom, she sees Draco is the furthest point possible from her side, fast asleep.
She likes how he looks in slumber: untroubled, youthful. The Occlumency probably accounts for the peace he exudes, but Hermione surmises it's also because it's the only time during his day that he doesn't have to strain to mask all of his emotions.
Again, the second she puts weight on the bed, he jolts awake. Wide eyes watch her settle down for the night and he makes that sleepy, pleased noise before rolling over.
When Hermione sleeps, she dreams of eating several different types of pound cake at once.
The next morning, Draco enters the kitchen and stops when he spots her.
He obviously doesn't know what to say to make this any better. Neither does she.
Eventually, he clears his throat.
"I bought new flowers. For the front hall. For you."
Hermione fights back a sudden urge to laugh, thinking of how displeased Narcissa would be at her son's attempt at presenting flowers.
"Show me?"
He leads her to the newly filled vase. Hermione looks at the arrangement thoughtfully for a minute before giving up and resigning herself to researching the meaning.
"Thank you, Draco."
"I'm not the most adept at talking with people."
"That's not true at all. You had people hanging on your every word at the museum gala."
"That's work," he says dismissively. "It's a learned and necessary skill."
"You never were one to keep quiet at school."
"Hmm, true, and look where that got me."
"Well, you seem to be doing all right for yourself now."
"What I meant was: I'm not very good at expressing my true feelings," he nods at the vase, "and you deserve more of those. So many more." The seriousness in his voice startles her.
"White tulips?" She reaches out a finger and strokes one of the flowers.
"I—yes. The tulips."
White tulips: an apology.
It takes two days for her pride to wilt and her bravery to blossom.
They've tiptoed around each other since her blow-up following the dinner at Malfoy Manor. Hermione didn't think Draco could be any more stiffly polite than he normally was, and yet he was starting almost every sentence with, "Pardon me."
He gives her even more space than in the earlier days of their marriage, almost constantly in his study.
As much as she loathes the idea of being forced into a situation against her will, this new dynamic creates a loneliness deep within her. She regrets her harsh diatribe, and worries it may have cost her progress in getting to know Draco better.
After dinner, Hermione knocks on his closed door, unsure if she'll be ignored.
"Come in."
Draco is bent over a ledger. The Malleus Maleficarum still remains closed on the book stand.
"Am I interrupting?"
"Nothing that can't afford to be interrupted."
Hermione wrings her hands. She's always been shite at apologies despite purchasing and reading an entire book on how to craft a sincere one.
"Have you started working on it yet?" she points to the ancient, withered book.
"No, I've been waiting."
For her? She wonders.
Hermione takes a deep breath and ploughs ahead with her prepared remark.
"I wanted to say I'm sorry. For what I said about your family the other night. It wasn't kind."
"Perhaps not," Draco shrugs. "But it was true."
"Not fully. Not where you're concerned. And I suspect your mother is making an effort."
"My mother has a better grasp on both reality and what's important in life."
Hermione takes a tentative step closer. "And with your father...I wasn't aware how strained you two were. I didn't mean to imply his bad actions were your fault."
"Things between my father and me..." Draco trails off and rubs his temples. "I'd idolized him all my life. And now...now we constantly disappoint each other."
"You're not very like him."
His fingers fall away from his forehead. He looks like he wants to disagree, which Hermione will not abide, especially when she knows she's right.
"People always make comparisons between boys and their fathers," she says dismissively. "I've heard it with Harry ever since I've known him. But honestly, the more we learned about his parents, it's clear he's far more Lily than James."
Hermione stands and leaves Draco with: "You're much more like your mother, I think."
She's halfway out the door when she hears a quiet, yet firm, "Thank you."
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