Complexities
By Bambu
~o0o~
Chapter Six: Benevolent Espionage
Draco raised his teacup to his mouth, inhaling the soothing aroma of the bergamot oil which his house-elves added to his morning beverage. All but three of the original host of twenty house-elves had been given clothes and released by the Ministry of Magic. The remaining three – Winken, Blinken and Nod -- had been Draco’s childhood caregivers and playmates, and had used skills learned in the Malfoy nursery to very effective use. They’d escaped detection by the invading force of Ministry officials and had welcomed home their Master Draco with an effervescence that was entirely gratifying to the young lord of the Manor.
While the house had been under occupation, it had been impossible for Winken, Blinken and Nod to maintain it from their hiding places, and far too large for three elves to attempt the renovations by themselves after the Ministry-appointed investigators had sealed the Manor. The investigators, a team supervised by the overzealous Percy Weasley, had applied themselves to their task -- cataloguing and removing any Dark Arts items deemed proscribed -- with an enthusiasm granted by the carte blanche of the Minister of Magic’s directive. The entire Estate had been searched, scoured and pillaged for several months. The sheer volume of debris the Ministry’s teams left behind had shocked Draco when he’d first arrived at his home. He’d even found crumpled pieces of foolscap, ink stains and quill parings in his closet, his clothes littered and stained on the floor as investigators had removed even his undergarments in an effort to leave no drawer undisturbed in their rabid desire to be thorough.
The Malfoys’ had a large Dark Arts collection, amassed over the course of several generations, and included a number of tracts and gadgets which had only been classified as Dark Magic after Grogan Stump was appointed Minister of Magic in 1811. During his years in office and zealous restructuring of the Ministry, Stump had been famous for more than just authoring the workable definition of ‘beast’ and ‘being’. Stump had been responsible for many of the more restrictive legislative acts defining ‘Dark’ and ‘Light.’ Many of the wealthier wizarding families, mostly purebloods, had been forced to either destroy or conceal family heirlooms from the mid-1800’s to the present day. The Malfoys, having been at the pinnacle of Wizarding society for centuries, could have housed their own museum of Dark objects.
Now, however, after six weeks of the joint efforts of three house-elves and one determined wizard, there still remained a tremendous amount of repair work to be done within the Manor and on the Estate. Thus far, the only rooms Draco had fully restored to their antebellum state had been the kitchen and house-elves quarters, and his personal suite; bedroom, bath and study. Draco was certain that the entry’s thirteenth century parquetry flooring would never be the same.
Mentally giving his head a shake, Draco sighed, then took a drink of his coffee. It was perfect, and it soothed his ruffled soul. It was good to be home, even if that home still suffered after twenty months’ worth of neglect and abuse. He leaned back in his weathered Monceau chair, and felt a filtered shaft of early summer’s sunlight warming his back, even though dittany -- his mother had once coaxed it to climb -- covered the arbor where he was seated. He was in one of his favorite places, the walled-in herb garden just off the kitchen. The rich, redolent scents of herbs -- predominately lavender and rosemary blended with the distinctive fragrance of hyssop and his mother’s prized Abyssinian shrivel fig -- were the strongest indication that he was indeed home.
The herb beds were set out in a variegated diamond pattern, which had been put in place during his great-great-grandmother Catherine’s time. In the seventeenth century, Catherine Malfoy had scandalized the family by befriending a Muggleborn witch. The only redeeming feature of ‘that Mudblood’’ as she was referred to by the family’s portrait gallery, had been the fact that her father had been of Muggle royal blood. Catherine had once visited the Muggle palace where her friend had been raised, and returned to Malfoy Manor insisting upon creating a ‘proper’ herb garden. Her parents had been indulgent and the kitchen garden had been transformed. That Mudblood had married a foreign Prince and Catherine’s rebellious phase had been forgotten.
The herb garden had been one of Draco’s favorite places to play when he’d been very young, and had remained a favorite breakfast haunt when he’d returned home for the holidays even after he’d gone up to Hogwarts. The estate was large and rambling, the park filled with deer and other game, including the arboreal clabberts in the wood and the dugbogs in the lake, but the very wildness of it had preyed upon Draco’s childhood fears, and he’d been happiest in the secure confines of the kitchen garden, where the house-elves were but a shout away.
When he’d returned home after the Ministry’s release of the property, the herb garden had been overgrown with disuse and neglect. Many of the magical plants had become feral, wreaking havoc among their magical and non-magical neighbors. The fanged geranium had rendered its neighboring belladonna, comfrey and flutterby bushes merely a collection of twigs. Draco had personally tended to the once lovely formal herb beds over the past several weeks. He’d pruned the fanged geranium, and the flutterby bush was once again full of foliage and shaking in occasional delight.
A large barn owl drew Draco’s attention from his contemplation of the carefully tended beds of herbs and reviving plants. His initial thought that the owl had been white, had been quickly corrected when the sun shone on the broad wingspan, and the owl’s feathers were revealed, a standard, middling brown. It wasn’t Hedwig then.
The most pleasant surprise of the past several weeks had been the day Draco had received a letter, borne on the leg of a snowy white owl, from Harry Potter. Harry had written to thank Draco for his willingness to put juvenile prejudices aside to help Hermione. Initially, Draco had been livid that Potter assumed pride of place to write such a letter, as if Hermione were the Scarhead’s property. Then, after he’d given it more thought, Draco had uncrumpled the parchment – he’d almost torn it to shreds in his initial fury – and reread the letter. The sincerity of Harry’s words had been undeniable. He’d been thanking Draco for saving his friend, and he’d meant it. It had taken Draco three days before he’d responded, and a somewhat stilted but increasingly civil correspondence had sprung up between the once-bitter enemies. Perhaps when the Manor had regained its splendor, Draco would invite the wizarding world’s Savior to dinner.
As he watched the large avian glide in for a landing he hoped it would bear a positive response to his latest attempt at hiring a wizarding contractor. There was so much work to be done that, if left to his abilities, it would take years to complete, even with the assistance of three loyal house-elves. The master suite was uninhabitable, and the main rooms had all but been destroyed by months of careless disregard and overzealous wizards.
The anticipated response would be from the fifth contractor he’d attempted to hire in the past month. None of the others would even consider tackling the work for a reasonable sum of galleons. The Ministry might have relinquished the funds bequeathed to Draco from his grandparents’ Estate; however, it wasn’t sufficient to cover the cost of renovation and maintenance of an estate the size of his. Draco had to be careful with his funds, in an effort to survive until the judicial disbursements of the bulk of the Malfoy resources were made. He had no way of knowing when, or if, that would happen.
It had been a humbling experience to discover just how low the Malfoy name had sunk in terms of respect in the wizarding world. Other families who’d been loyal to Voldemort’s insurgents had been equally stripped of their fortunes and their respectability, and only a handful had survived. None of the surviving pureblooded families had been at the pinnacle of their society as had the Malfoys, thus their descent wasn’t quite as precipitous, nor so public. Draco had been cocooned from much of the backlash as a result of his sheltered position at Hogwarts, even as he’d had to earn his way. But now that he’d returned to his home, if not his former life, the reality of what his family had lost was sobering.
In the post-Voldemort War world, Malfoy patronage wasn’t coveted, in fact it was shunned. Lucius had dragged the family name through the mud. And with Narcissa’s death at the hands of her sister, the prominent families who hadn’t followed the megalomaniacal Tom Riddle were loath to welcome Draco into their society. He, in turn, had found that, aside from being a bit lonely and the difficulty of hiring labor at the Estate, he didn’t care overmuch,. Still, he had more than enough to occupy his mind.
Finally, the nondescript barn owl landed, and the last of the Malfoys offered some of his crumpet in exchange for the parchment tied to her leg. Draco recognized the distinctive, slashing handwriting of his former mentor and the lines around his eyes crinkled as he smiled. It wasn’t the letter he’d been expecting, but it was welcome, nonetheless.
“If you’ll rest for a few moments, I might have a reply.”
The owl blinked at him and settled on the rim of a neighboring chair, perfectly content to wait in the shady arbor.
Draco hoped that the letter contained the information he sought, the reason he continued writing to Snape on such a regular basis. It was information that he would not openly ask for or admit that he was eager to read, for the same reason that he refused to acknowledge that he was dreaming about her several times a week. Slytherins were never that obvious. Unrolling the parchment, he quickly read the letter. An involuntary grin tugged at his mouth, made him look the part of a handsome young wizard rather than the last heir to a now-crumbling dynasty.
How he would have enjoyed the scene Snape painted. Hermione Granger in full rant against the rigidly-held prejudice of Percy Weasley would have been a sight to behold. Draco could just imagine it. Her feisty stance, chin tilted upward in righteous anger, her eyes flashing and her honeyed curls dancing around her pretty little face in emphasis of her vehemence. That he had apparently been the cause of her protective indignation caused Draco’s chest to swell, just a bit. He’d lived for the past several months with a daily goal of riling Hermione up to the point where her passions were ignited, usually in anger. And almost always that anger was directed at him. To have it directed on his behalf, and at a Weasley no less, was rather satisfying.
Perhaps Snape would be willing to part with the entire story, not merely snippets of details from the newest faculty member’s housewarming. While an idea tumbled about in his mind, Draco thought about Dumbledore’s choice of DADA Professor. The eldest Weasley son was well-respected for his subtlety, his cleverness and his genuinely likeable personality. Draco refused to acknowledge that he was relieved by the fact that the newest professor was married quite happily to a part-Veela with two children and a third on the way. He wondered how the students were adjusting to the upheaval in the change of faculty so near the end of the year. Maybe he should invite Snape to dinner at the Manor to find out. If he had any other motives for inviting Snape to dinner, he conveniently ignored them.
Retrieving foolscap, ink and quill from the supply he kept at the outdoor table – he tended to conduct much of his correspondence over breakfast in the garden – Draco quickly quilled an invitation to the Potions Master. After tying the missive to the barn owl’s leg he sent her on her way.
“Winken! Nod!”
Almost instantly two small pops sounded amidst the buzzing of insects searching for sustenance among the flowering shrubs. The house-elves appeared under the sheltering foliage of the arbor, neither of the small creatures cared for sunlight or the outdoors, but they would come when their master bid them.
“I believe we will be having company for dinner on Saturday night. I haven’t heard from Master Rending, so it appears that sorting out a dining room is up to us.”
“Oh, Master Draco, I is afraid the dining room need so much work.” Nod was wringing her hands in worry that she would be punished. Draco, while he had been demanding and autocratic, had never been known for his cruelty to the house-elves. His father’s treatment of them had been a different matter, but the ingrained training and inherent drive to please-at-all-costs was a difficult one for house-elves to overcome.
“I realize that, Nod, but what about the family nook off the kitchen. The one mother and I used to use when it was just the two of us?”
The room he was referring to was approximately the size of his study, and had once held a more intimate-sized table than in the formal dining room. Where the table had gone, Draco had no idea. It couldn’t possibly have been on anyone’s list of Dark Arts items. It was a plain, hand-scrubbed deal table that, at a stretch, could seat eight, and had been in the family for more than three hundred years. It had been the table where his mother had taught Draco how to use knife and fork and to eat properly. It was one of the two most cherished items that had been taken from his home by an unforgiving and uncaring Ministry.
“Needs work, Master Draco. Nod can start today, sir.” The little elf almost curtseyed in her pristine tea towel.
Winken had remained quiet throughout the conversation, his little head nodding in agreement with his elder, his little green-tinged ears bobbing in his enthusiasm to assist in any endeavor of the young lord’s.
“No time like the present,” Draco agreed. He put away his writing implements and gracefully stood, rolling the sleeves of his linen shirt up to his elbows. He glanced at the unblemished expanse of skin on his forearms, specifically his left forearm, and silently thanked his mother for the sacrifice that had granted him freedom and a future. Squaring his shoulders, Draco retrieved his wand from the small tabletop and headed into the house. His first task would be to unblock the chimney in the nook. He’d become accustomed to menial duties over the past two years, and he relished the idea of reclaiming another little piece of his kingdom.
While a young pureblood got his face, hands and clothing soot-streaked -- even a well-aimed ‘Evanesco’ was known to cause backlash in the case of chimney sweeping – the Potions Master of Hogwarts was attempting to pound a little learning into the thick skulls of a joint Slytherin-Hufflepuff class of Fifth Years.
“Fifty points from Hufflepuff, Mr. Abbott, for the sheer inability to read in linear fashion and follow directions.”
The temperature in the potions dungeons seemed to plummet by several degrees as the students held their collective breath. It seemed that their Professor was ‘in a mood.’
“I’m… I’m sorry, Sir.”
“Sorry, Abbott? I don’t care about sorry. Read step number three. Out loud, boy.”
Young Mr. Abbot who, until that morning, had managed to escape the Professor’s notice for his entire five years at Hogwarts, had rather spectacularly managed to not only melt his cauldron, but the entire side of his stone worktable. Only the quick casting of a containment shield by the Potions Master had prevented a larger disaster.
“Er… Add four pinches of ground scarab beetle and simmer for five minutes… er… sir.”
“Well, we’ve established that you can read. Now step number four, Mr. Abbott.”
“Yes, sir. Lower heat, and add four drops of armadillo bile…”
“Stop. Is that what you did, Abbott?”
“Er… no, sir.”
“You are quite right, Mr. Abbott. That is not what you did. And how do I know this, Mr. Abbot?” With each question, Snape’s voice had dropped to a softer, more deadly tone, and he’d stepped closer to the young wizard, who at this point was visibly shaking.
“Because… because… the cauldron melted… sir?” Young Abbott’s voice unfortunately broke at that moment, and the last word came out in a high falsetto. But not one of his peers laughed. When Professor Snape was in this type of mood, anyone who earned his attention had the full sympathy of the rest of the class.
“Correct, Mr. Abbott.” Snape’s voice was almost a whispered caress as he came to the boy’s side. “I want four feet of parchment on my desk in the morning explaining why the importance of following a linear progression of steps is vital in a potions laboratory.” Snape whipped around to take in the attentive faces of his other students. “Your Wit-Sharpening Potions should be ready to decant at this point. Do so now. Leave a sample upon my desk and clean up. Abbott, you are dismissed.”
Snape returned to his desk, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He still had two more classes to teach and one horrendous headache to combat. He ignored the scuffling sounds of students scrambling to obey his orders, and sat down for a moment. As the door opened into the corridor to release a shaking Anthony Abbott, a school’s barn owl flew into the classroom, making a beeline for the Professor.
“Aphrodite, you are too kind,” Snape murmured to the owl as she landed on his desk and offered her leg. He unrolled Draco’s invitation and a wicked smirk played across his lips as he read what his former Apprentice had written.
The Hufflepuff who was putting her bottle on the Professor’s desk almost dropped her vial in terror at the look on Snape’s face. She’d been in the Great Hall when he’d followed Mr. Malfoy from the room in March, the night Miss Granger had been attacked. He’d been terrifying then, but his expression now made her fingers almost nerveless. Quickly easing the vial onto his desk, Miss Wimpole returned to gather her book bag and leave the dungeons. After her OWLS, she would never take potions again.
At lunch that day, Snape timed his bon mot with precision. He waited until Hermione was about to take a sip of her pumpkin juice when he spoke. “I will have to miss the Newt Scamander lecture on Saturday, I’m afraid. I’m having dinner with Draco at Malfoy Manor.”
Her reaction was everything he could have hoped. Hermione choked, and he very solicitously assisted her, thumping on her back until her paroxysms subsided.
“I understand, Severus. I’ll ask Hagrid if he wants to go. He won’t understand the finer points of the lecture, but at least there will be some examples of the Bicorn for him to look at…” She spoke for several minutes, babbling about the newest species of Bicorn and the possible ramifications to the habitat of the preexisting species, before she’d regained her composure enough to venture on the topic in which she was most interested. “Please give Draco my regards while you’re there.”
Snape noticed the flush spread across Hermione’s cheeks, and she refused to look at him when she spoke, which was a good thing. He was out of practice at hiding his reactions from her, and he thought that his smug satisfaction might be a bit obvious. “I will be pleased to convey your wishes, Hermione. I actually think that Draco is a bit lonely.”
He thought that Hermione was rather fetching when she was embarrassed, and he let the topic of conversation turn from Draco. He’d already gained the information he needed. Her interest had not diminished.
The remainder of the week passed rapidly, and when Saturday arrived, Snape was as eager to leave Hogwarts for the evening as Draco was to have company. For indeed, Snape had been correct, Draco was lonely. He’d made a one or two attempts at forming new friendships after his return home, but most viewed his attempts with suspicion. In general, the few associates of his father’s who’d remained free, were people he wanted nothing to do with, and those who’d fought on the side of the Order of the Phoenix only had to hear his last name before they were mentally counting their family silver and tucking their babies in bed. Draco rarely cared for the good opinion of others, but he missed the camaraderie he’d found at Hogwarts during his so-called Apprenticeship. If he were truthful, it was the sparkling brown eyes and sharp wit of the DADA Apprentice that he missed the most, and whose eyes he saw frequently in his dreams or when he closed his eyes in fantasy in the shower. He’d been used to seeing her at least once a day, and their verbal skirmishes had often been the highlight of those days.
Dressing for dinner, Draco chose rather informal attire of charcoal grey, summer weight trousers and a hunter-green linen shirt. Snape had become almost like family to him, and he felt no need to dress to impress. He quickly passed through the foyer and into the Apparation entrance. Many of the older wizarding Manors had dual entries. One highly warded for Apparation, and which was easily isolated from the rest of the Manor, and then an inner foyer which led to the remainder of the house. Draco waited on the edge of the Apparation field, looking with a critical eye at the still-scuffed and scratched parquetry flooring, the twin fireplaces on either side of the foyer -- the one on the left to heat the witch’s cloakroom, and the one on the right for the wizards. His mother had never used the small fireplaces, but had kept her antique Chinese vases on the hearth for display. They’d been smashed with such vindictive force that the pieces had been ground to dust. Draco doubted that even Dumbledore’s Reparo would be sufficient to piece the vases together. The porcelain dust had been tracked by dozens of pairs of feet throughout the house over the course of the twenty months’ of Ministry occupation. Instead of the elegantly decorated foyer it had once been, the small room was bereft of furniture or ornamentation of any kind.
The pop of Apparation alerted him to his guest’s arrival, and Draco welcomed his mentor to his home. Snape had dressed for the occasion, more formally than his teaching robes and less formally than what he’d wear to a Ministry function. The elder wizard wore black wool trousers, and white linen shirt. He wore a weskit, which was cleverly embroidered with black serpents. Draco grinned when he noticed Snape’s festive nod to colour. He wore jade cufflinks.
“Severus, I’m glad you could accept my invitation.”
“It was my pleasure, Draco. The Hogwarts kitchens have to provide meals that meet children’s tastes, and I confess that I occasionally prefer a broader palate.”
Draco chuckled, a rich mellow tone, and something not heard within the walls of the Manor in a very long time. “Come, Severus, I’m afraid we must make do with the small dining room and my study, tonight. But I think Nod and Blinken have managed to scrape up a decent meal.”
Indeed, Nod and Blinken had put together a decent meal, Sole Colbert with parsley and scallion butter, Devils on Horseback, early summer peas from the gardens, and a simple but delectable Apple Charlotte with a light custard sauce for dessert. The Malfoy wine cellars had been as depleted as the rest of the Estate, but Draco had unearthed a rather nice Pinot Grigio to accompany the fish, and the two Slytherins had enjoyed each other’s company and the delicious meal. His father’s son in public manners, Draco had thanked his small staff before suggesting to his guest that they have their after dinner drinks in his private study.
The lord of the Manor led the way through the house, ignoring the mostly bare walls – the family portraits that had once hung on the walls were being refurbished – and the lack of carpets. The mellow mood of dinner, kept him from pointing out all the slights and potshots that the Ministry’s minions had taken at him and his family during their tenure in his home, but Snape noticed in any event.
Severus Snape had been an inner circle Death Eater for over a decade, and he’d been a guest at Malfoy Manor on countless occasions. It had once been an elegant and gracious Manor house, resplendent in the accumulated wealth of generations. Now it resembled nothing more than a building which had withstood a war, and an interior which had not. As they passed the formal dining room, the formal parlor, the reception room, the morning room, and the closed doors of Lucius’ library, Snape’s ire grew. Lucius had been in prison for half a decade, and Narcissa had been dead for over two years. How could such a desecration have been allowed to happen?
He would not break the bounds of good breeding and complain to his host, but Snape certainly planned to blister Albus Dumbledore’s ears when he returned to Hogwarts. As they entered Draco’s comfortable study – the recovery of the room was complete here – Snape was unaware that an evil glint was shining in his umbral eyes.
Snape looked around the room, at the freshly painted, terra cotta walls which offset the white of the ceiling, crown moulding and the carved marble frontispiece around the large fireplace. It was a cozy room, unlike the more imposing library downstairs, and he could see why Draco spent much of his time here. A loveseat, in fabric to match the walls, faced the fireplace, and was flanked by two comfortably worn leather armchairs. The built-in bookcases were to be found on either side of the fireplace and appeared to be filled, almost to overflowing. There was a large, monochromatic Ansel Adams Muggle photograph hanging over the mantle, the very stillness of the composition a contrast to the several framed wizarding photographs in place of prominence. He was surprised to see one of himself, taken the day that Draco graduated from Hogwarts as one of the top five in his class academically.
Draco had preceded his mentor into his study not noticing his friend’s interest in the renovation. He’d learned to ignore the decay in the rooms they’d passed on their way from the small dining room. He’d been so pleased to have reclaimed the nook, painting the walls a warm café au lait, and finding a carpet that he could Reparo in time. He’d been pleased discover a farmhouse table in one of the attics, and he’d easily Transfigured it into an appropriate dining table, with chairs to complete the set. Tonight had been the first meal in his newly completed informal dining room, and Draco was basking in the glow of his accomplishment.
He turned to offer Snape a drink, only to see the signs of malicious mischief in the Potions Master’s look. It was amusing that the wizard who’d been so guarded for decades willing to let his shield down around him. Draco was highly honored by that fact, and his heart warmed a bit to know that he truly had found a friend in the difficult and brilliant wizard. “What’s so amusing, Severus?”
Snape didn’t answer for a minute. If anything, the older wizard’s smirk grew broader.
“What gives, old man?”
“Old man?” Snape cocked an eyebrow in his grinning host’s direction.
“It got your attention, didn’t it?” Draco had a fairly wicked smirk of his own.
“Well, Draco, I was just imagining…” He paused as he accepted the snifter of Armagnac from the younger wizard, and let the rich aroma fill his sensitive nostrils.
“Yes, Severus...” Draco was becoming more curious by the minute. He took his own snifter of the cognac and dropped into one of his leather club chairs flanking the small fire in the hearth.
“I was just imagining what Hermione Granger’s reaction would be if she were to see the state in which the Ministry left the Manor.”
The image of an outraged and vocal curly-headed witch came to both wizards who knew her well. They burst into laughter.
Draco managed to gasp, “I can… just… imagine it. She’ll make buttons… Preserve our History, Save Malfoy Manor!”
“POHSMM… Possum?” Snape’s drawl was entirely sardonic and affectionate even as their laughter resumed.
For a few minutes two of the more intelligent wizards in Britain thought of increasingly silly acronyms for Hermione’s entirely fictional new campaign for the downtrodden of her chosen world.
When all the amusement seemed to have been wrung out of the moment, Draco was lost in thought, staring into the flames. “She does have a big heart, that witch.”
“That she does, Draco.” Snape was lost in thought for a moment or two and his inner Gryffindor, something he’d only recently discovered that he had, clawed its way to the surface. Damn Dumbledore anyway. The Potions Master’s mouth opened of its own accord and the words tumbled from his lips. “She misses you.”
Draco’s head shot up and he looked at Snape piercingly. It was entirely out of character for the Head of Slytherin to make such a direct statement. What was he playing at?
When asked that very question, the raven-haired Professor just stared at Draco for a long moment. “Hermione has trusted me from the time she was a child, and, despite my best efforts, she has respected me. Still does. She knew that I was a double agent from her fourth year…”
Draco had never known how Snape had become friends with the Gryffindor lioness, but what he was hearing gave him some inkling. He was shocked at how long Hermione had known about Snape’s status as a spy, and he didn’t interrupt the unexpected candor from his companion. He sipped his drink, enjoying the burning warmth as the brandy relaxed his muscles, and he listened to Snape explain.
“Never once did she think of betraying me. There were times when I’d return from being summoned to the Dark Lord, so wracked with pain from the Cruciatus that I could barely stand, and the bushy-haired know-it-all would be there, waiting with a cup of tea. It did nothing to ease the pain or the aftereffects of the sadistic bastard’s entertainment, but it warmed my heart to know that someone cared enough to know whether I was dead or alive.”
Draco started in his chair, and Snape was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice his host’s movement. The young Malfoy had never really understood the precariousness of the ex-spy’s life. He’d been told academically, after the fact, that Snape had been a double agent. He’d known that without Snape’s intelligence gathering skills, Potter might not have succeeded in defeating Voldemort. In his early years, Snape’s shift of allegiance might have bothered Draco. But had been a long time since he’d subscribed to the inherent hypocrisy of pureblood supremacy Lucius Malfoy had espoused while being enslaved to a half-blooded psychopath.
Thank the gods for his mother, Draco thought. She’d buffered him for years, and after his father had been captured and imprisoned for his attempts at the murder of witches and wizards his son’s age, Narcissa had at long last allowed Draco to know about her own doubts and concerns. Never let it be said that Narcissa Malfoy was a Muggle-lover, but the aristocratic daughter of the Black family had believed in purity, not the annihilation of lesser beings. She didn’t object to Muggles or the Muggleborn, as long as they kept to their own kind. Draco had listened to his mother’s ideals, and taken them one step further. He’d steadfastly chosen neutrality. It was only years after he’d decided on his position that he realized his heart might’ve tipped the scales in one direction, but he was still having difficulty facing that truth.
Still, the enormity of the dangers that his Professor had faced, when told in Snape’s rich baritone, finally brought the reality home to Draco. He looked at the lean spy master, at the deep lines in his face, and thought that it wasn’t really any wonder that the wizard looked older than his years. He paid closer attention to Snape’s words when the older wizard picked up his tale.
“After the Final Battle, I was certain that Hermione’s regard would fade, that she had believed, like so many others, that I was a bastard, but a useful bastard as long as I assured her friend’s continued survival. I couldn’t have been more wrong. She was at my bedside when I awoke in St. Mungo’s after the Final Battle. She brought me flowers. I hate tulips, but they’re her favorites and she’d thought they’d cheer me up. Nothing materially changed in the way she treated me. When she was accepted into the Auror program with Potter and Weasley, I assumed that was the end of her kindness. But she sent me letters. Newsy little letters, filled with the minutia of her life, and even if I did not respond, they came with regularity. And then she asked if I would accompany her to a lecture on Potions methods -- it was one I had planned to attend in any event -- and we went together. The war had changed her, and if I’d bothered to read her letters with anything more than superficial attention, I would have noticed that she had grown up.”
Snape contemplated the balloon-shaped glass in his long-fingered hands, rolling the snifter between his palms, warming the alcohol.
“If I had ever had a younger sister, I would have liked her to have been like Hermione Granger.”
Draco didn’t speak, couldn’t think of anything to say. He’d never really asked for details of Snape’s life, being grateful for the fact that the spy was his friend. He’d never considered how lonely an existence the older wizard had led. Draco ran his slightly calloused fingers through his hair, disheveling the silky strands into an unruly fall around his face. The silence in the room was filled with some unrecognizable tension. Draco could feel it between his shoulder blades as he watched Snape stare into the flames.
After several moments of contemplation, Snape raised his head, his own dark locks framing his hawk-like features. His eyes pierced the veils of Draco’s soul with chilling honesty. “She is a woman worth loving, Draco, and she seems to want you. Pull your broomstick out of your arse and ask her out.”
Later that night, as Draco undressed for bed, he contemplated Snape’s personal revelations. He was rather honored by the older wizard’s confidence and startled by his suggestion. Thankfully, Snape had changed the topic after his extraordinary comment, and the remainder of the evening’s conversation hadn’t veered in so personal a direction. However, the tenacious whisper of thought had plagued Draco throughout the evening: from bidding his guest good night, to warding shut the Apparation point, to returning to his rooms for another hour of brooding, to the point where he was now standing starkers in the middle of his newly refurbished bedroom clutching a green linen shirt and wondering what Hermione Granger would think of the herb garden.
Bollocks!
He’d so carefully worked at schooling his thoughts about Hermione into a rigid configuration, pruning them as surely as he’d pruned the thyme and rosemary if they grew a little wayward. Draco hadn’t wanted to examine his reactions to the former Gryffindor witch too closely, especially after the events in March, when she was unlikely to be prepared to cope with the revolution taking place in his heart and mind where she was concerned.
Draco was as still as a statue, his only movement the rise and fall of his chest, and the illusion of movement cast by the play of flickering firelight over the smooth, sculptured planes of his body. His grey eyes were unfocused, his thoughts entirely absorbing.
She’d always been able to wind him up. Other than her two cohorts in life-threatening adventure, there had never been anyone else who could excite a response from him just by the mere fact of their presence. When had wounded vanity and learned prejudices become anger and competition? So long ago he couldn’t delineate the evolution. When had competition in turn become fascination and then the outgrown need to command her attention regardless of whether that attention was positive or negative? The alteration of his regard had been so gradual that he couldn’t possibly mark the progression. When had that need for her attention turned into…
Bloody hell!
The discomfort of his thoughts urged Draco to move. He paced an unconscious pattern, barefoot, across the thickly padded Oriental rug on the floor of his room. He ignored the slight chill that emanated from the niche of bay windows where his couch was nestled as he wove behind the couch, around the squashy armchair where his pajamas were draped and charted his path back to the fireplace, skirting his intricately carved, sandalwood four-poster. He ignored the freshly papered- jade patterned walls – even though he’d been understandably smug the day he’d figured out how to transfigure parchment to wallpaper and adapted the permanent sticking charm to hold it in place – his surroundings were insignificant in the face of his mental upheaval.
If Draco was honest with himself, and there was no time like the present, he’d needed Hermione’s attention for years. He’d needed it when she’d shown up to the Yule Ball in their Fourth Year on the arm of Viktor I’m-the-Internationally-Famous-Quidditch-Player-but-an-Arse-Otherwise Krum. He’d been so certain to gain her attention when he’d led that Umbridge cow’s Inquisitorial Squad in their Fifth Year. Hermione had tilted her swotty little chin and sniffed. He’d needed it in Sixth Year when half of Slytherin had ostracized him and the Gryffindor Princess had warily offered to study with him. He’d scorned her, of course, because he shouldn’t have needed the attentions of someone like her. But his mind had called him a liar. And still, he’d needed her attention after graduation, when the choice had been his to make: to follow a madman and attempt to eradicate the Hermione Grangers of his world or to stand against his father’s choices. He hadn’t needed to see her to know how she would’ve reacted to his evolving social conscience. And, finally, he’d needed her attention from the moment she’d arrived at Hogwarts on September 1, when the blasted Daily Prophet had printed pictures of her on a date with that wanker, Justin Finch-Fletchley, and called it ‘Young Love.’ Draco had nearly been ill.
Draco resumed his rigid pose in front of the fireplace, the warmth keeping him from noticing the chill as late night became early morning. Once his brain had unlatched the lock, the dates and moments that he’d desperately sought Hermione’s attention came sluicing through the floodgates. September 19, when the large, gilt package had been delivered to Hermione at the High Table, Draco had wanted to blast something. By Valentine’s Day, when he’d crossed the boundaries of civilized behaviour, he’d been unable to control the spiraling cruelty of his tongue in his ever-increasing need to focus her attention on him… only on him. He’d certainly gotten her attention that day. Until that moment, he’d never realized that he had the ability to make Hermione cry. But when she’d departed from the High Table, tears brimming in her caramel-coloured eyes, something had twisted in his chest.
He’d been angry with her for eliciting the response in him, and furious with himself for responding like a trained familiar. And then, when he’d worked himself up to apologize, weeks later, she’d rebuffed him. No, to be fair, she’d asked if they could talk at a later time. She’d practically begged him. But he’d been so chuffed at this magnanimity that he hadn’t paid attention to the fact that the professional carrot Smith had dangled in front of her was an opportunity she couldn’t – and shouldn’t have had to – pass up. His wounded ego had reacted instead of his brain. Draco’s fist clenched around the linen in his hands and his grey eyes darkened in remembered fury at Smith’s perfidy.
In retrospect, Smith had manipulated them as adeptly as if he’d cast Imperio. When Draco had realized just what the sodding bastard had been planning to do to Hermione, his overriding need had been to protect her and to kill Smith. The depth of his response had been shocking to the Malfoy heir, to say the least. He’d done a fairly decent job of ignoring the implications, shoving his feelings behind the wall he’d carefully maintained for a decade. After March First, he’d been so disturbed by his own wayward feelings about the DADA Apprentice and that they might, in any way, parallel Smith’s that he’d maintained his distance from Hermione, attempting, on the one hand, to ignore the aching in his soul, and, on the other hand, to prove that he wasn’t like the vermin who’d attempted to manipulate, rape and control her.
By the time of the trial, Draco had begun to recognize that what he felt for Hermione was potentially an honest and abiding affection, even if he’d been a little late in coming to terms with it, and casting off what had been an ingrained response to her from their school days.
During Smith’s trial, when it had appeared that the former Hufflepuff might be granted leniency, Draco had wracked his brain for a way to keep the mad wizard from any chance at freedom and any opportunity to hunt Hermione again. Draco had talked himself into believing that any decent wizard would have done the same. No civilized wizard would allow such a rabid beast to roam free within the wizarding world. No witch would be safe – let alone Hermione. Draco’s self-delusion had worked until the second she’d buried her face into his chest, seeking comfort, her surprisingly soft hair tickling his nose. She’d felt so… delicate… so… right in his arms, that he’d almost been unable to breathe or let go.
When they’d returned to Hogwarts she’d understandably sequestered herself until the day that he’d left to take up his familial responsibilities. The Malfoy Estate was a large one and required constant husbanding, especially as it had sunk into a state of disrepair. Since that day six weeks ago, Draco had carefully hidden his feelings on the subject of one Hermione Jane Granger. Even if he had written to Snape more frequently than anyone in his life, ever; or greedily read each word of Snape’s replies, searching for any hint about Hermione, or re-read the paragraphs where Snape talked about her. Those letters, where Snape wrote about her directly, had been read and re-read so many times that the parchment had lost the tightness of its curl.
But now that Snape had raised the issue in such a forthright manner -- unheard of for a Slytherin Head of House – Draco’s feelings for Hermione had assumed monumental proportions. He couldn’t think of anything else. Draco wondered if he’d even said good night to his guest, so great had been his preoccupation. He hadn’t seen Hermione in almost two months, and if the twist in his stomach when he thought or heard or read about her was anything to judge by, absence had indeed made his heart grow fonder.
Standing nude in front of the fire, its light casting a bronze tone to his skin, Draco dropped his shirt to the floor and came to the full awareness of just how much he missed Hermione… and how much he wanted her. He braced one long arm against the mantle, and stared into the flames, imagining how the light would highlight her honeyed curls and reflect off her shining dark eyes. Groaning, he lowered his brow to the carved sandstone and thought that Snape had been right. The last heir of the Malfoys remained still as a statue for a long, long time before seeking the comfort of his bed and the lackluster enjoyment of his hand.
~o0o~
...next chapter…