Chapter 15

The End Is Just A Beginning

-oOo-

Draco inspected the front lawn with a frown. Nothing had changed since yesterday: it was still mysteriously free from peacock excrement and immaculately kept. House-elves really were a godsend. It was a fine patch of grass, adorning the entrance to what possibly was the finest private residence in England – although that Buckinghurst place the Muggle queen lived in reportedly was rather nice, too – and it was surrounded by miles and miles of prime land.

If anyone – Ronald Weasley, for example – ever ventured to tell Draco you couldn't buy happiness, they'd get a kick up the arse.

Right, then. There was no point in dilly-dallying – there were deals to be struck, members of the Wizengamot to corrupt, and he ought to be paying a visit to his parents today as well. When he had perused the Daily Prophet over his morning cup of tea, he'd noticed some dinner he'd be expected to appear at in the society pages—

A rare smile flew across Draco's face. No one would be dragging him to the Brockdale Foundation's annual fundraiser. A few weeks ago, Astoria had packed her bags and decamped to her parents' slightly less grand abode.

The divorce settlement had been generous: he was still one of the wealthiest men in England. Only yesterday, he'd been hailed the most eligible bachelor in the country by Witch Weekly. Blaise Zabini had sent him an owl to inform him of the honour, which begged the question: what the hell was Blaise doing reading gossip magazines in the first place? Draco was footloose and fancy-free again, for the first time since—

The only time he had ever been fancy-free had been as a lowly Ministry employee, and Draco's good mood faded quickly when he remembered how that had ended.

"Rippy!" he called curtly. The house-elf appeared and Draco directed him towards his washbasin. As he proceeded to shave himself, with the house-elf warming a hot towel to be used afterwards, Draco did his best not to wonder where Hermione was.

If he spent a little longer than necessary in certain places around the house that day, nobody appeared to notice. The new shelf with Muggle books in the library received the benefit of Draco's attention for ten whole minutes without any books being removed, but Welder just continued to trim the herbaceous border outside.

What the Master was doing wasn't his business.

It was almost as if those weeks and months at Malfoy Manor hadn't happened.

In the wistful way of emigrants who don't know if they ever will return, Hermione often talked to Harry and Ginny about the wizarding world. However, the occupants of the Manor never came up in their conversations. They had little love for Draco, and she didn't think any of the Potters even knew what Astoria looked like.

They didn't know the Malfoy house-elves either, so when a particularly handsome set of crystal tableware in the antique shop near her flat reminded Hermione of Eddel and the hours spent polishing already glistening glasses, she had no one to share it with. A little girl in her school uniform, bursting into tears after being startled by a passing lorry, bore an uncanny resemblance to Essie. And somehow, almost every new book she picked up to read when she needed a break from innominate terms and Reduction into Writing, reminded her of Draco.

It was over and done with, she admonished herself as she examined Kazuo Ishiguro's latest book in the university bookshop before putting it down again. She didn't fancy reading it, not if she couldn't discuss it with—

It was only a collection of short stories, anyway – not even a novel. She never read short stories.

Even Hermione's rage against Astoria had abated somewhat. It was difficult to reconcile it with the knowledge that Hermione had transgressed in her turn. While being Umbridge's goddaughter didn't give Astoria the right to dispense justice summarily, Hermione couldn't deny that she had reason to be angry.

If there was anything Hermione had learnt by living through a war before she was out of her teens, it was that you paid the price for what you chose to do. Merely being on the side of the angels wasn't absolution in itself.

In a twisted way, she considered them even. What had happened to Umbridge couldn't be mended – and Hermione hadn't ever lost any sleep over it (whatever that said about her moral compass or lack thereof) – but in her books, the debt had been settled now.

Despite her own sins, Hermione couldn't forgive Astoria for manipulating her sense of what was real, or attempting to keep her indefinitely at the Manor. There would be a reckoning for that if she had anything to say about it, but it would have to wait.

As she settled back into her thoroughly Muggle life as Helen Foster, it seemed like Hermione could be waiting a very long time to cross paths with Astoria Malfoy again.

There was a loud crack. Hermione fumbled around for her wand, before remembering that she didn't carry one on her person anymore. Her hand dropped and she raised her chin, to nobly face whoever it was that had found her at last—

"Rippy! What are you doing here?" She would have been less surprised to find a Crup nesting among her course books.

"Let me see if I got this correctly," she said a while later, as they'd sat down over a cup of tea made by Rippy. He had insisted. Hermione hadn't demurred; she knew very well he made much better tea than she did, so there was nothing self-sacrificing over the gesture. Her electric kettle had been an object of much admiration before they'd advanced to the subject at hand. "You're saying it's all my fault?"

"Hermione must come back!" She'd forgotten how squeaky Rippy sounded when he was annoyed.

"Rippy, I couldn't even get to Malfoy Manor, even if I wanted to. The wards, remember? Anyway, that's beside the point…"

But Rippy was insistent.

When he had finished explaining, Hermione sat dumbfounded, cup of tea long forgotten in her hand. Other humans may have doubted the house-elves' insight in their humans' affairs, but Hermione knew Rippy was watching Draco with an eagle eye most of the time. It had been Rippy who had been playing with Draco in his nursery when Lucius and Narcissa had followed Voldemort to his first defeat, and the house-elf had been looking after Draco ever since.

This required careful consideration. There was something Hermione had to find out first, though.

"Rippy, why are you wearing clothes?"

Draco toyed with the lid to his inkwell. There was a minute smudge on its silver surface, and he amused himself with turning it in all possible directions, watching the little black dot through the crystal of the inkwell itself. It was probably the most fun he'd have all day.

When a very familiar voice appeared out of nowhere he started violently, dropping the lid and splattering ink all over his robes.

"You're the best advertisement I've ever seen for the idle rich. Don't let anyone who actually works for a living see you, or you'll have a revolution on your hands."

Scrambling to his feet and turning around in one ungraceful movement, Draco couldn't have kept the smile off his face for a million Galleons. It was indeed Hermione. She was dressed in something Muggle and her glorious hair was all over the place as usual, and there was no one else in the world Draco would rather have in his study right now.

A beaming Rippy in the background confirmed that this was no Polyjuiced impersonator.

"What are you doing here?" Draco said and immediately cursed himself. You'd think he'd been raised in a barn (or among Weasleys). To make amends, he pulled out a chair for her, and thankfully she sat down, apparently still pondering how to answer him.

"I guess you could say I've got a proposition for you." There was a twinkle in Hermione's eyes, and she looked happier than Draco had seen her since she'd pushed through the decree on Social Welfare for Hags.

"Well?" This time he managed to sound a little more suave, and even remembered to raise one eyebrow.

"Do you remember what you asked me in the orchard that time?" she asked gently and he winced. Usually, Draco remembered it at 4AM, cursing himself for having been so stupid and wondering if he'd ever get the chance to love someone again, before telling himself to stop whining and get on with it.

It rarely worked.

"I think we can both agree that you did a pretty desperate job of it," Hermione informed him and Draco squirmed. "It'll be better if you leave those things to me in the future."

He hadn't expected that.

"So, here it goes." She seemed to brace herself. "No matter what I do, I can't seem to stop thinking about you, and I'm pretty sure it's the same for you. What do you think, should we put an end to our mutual misery and finally admit that we fancy each other?"

"But—but why?" It seemed incredibly important to find out right now, before he managed to mess this up again.

"What could a woman like me want with a man like you?" Hermione guessed his question straight away; it must have been the stammer that had given him away. Malfoys weren't prone to stammering.

"Exactly," Draco agreed, his befuddlement evident in the way his jaw was hanging open a little. He snapped it closed as soon as he realised.

"Because no matter how I try, it's more fun arguing about Centaur rights with you than it is to take my clothes off with anyone else. I figured the only way of getting around that is to try more traditional activities with you, as it were." She grinned. "If we're lucky, we'll find something even better than quarrelling."

Draco suspected that the glorious mix of confusion and hope and happiness he was feeling was written rather large on his face. Hermione couldn't seem to help herself. She was laughing as she flung her arms around him, kissing him properly for the first time.

Draco caught on soon enough, but there was still a bit of wonder in his voice when he spoke: "Ditching the Muggles then, Granger?"

Surely she wouldn't have come back if she didn't mean to stay?

"I think so. I was a little too quick to give up on the wizarding world. They won't get away from me so easily. You know, I wonder if I wasn't depressed before. Even before Astoria contacted me I was just ready to give in. Me!"

Draco had to agree it seemed odd, when she put it like that.

"Well, I've figured out now that the problem isn't magic, it's people," Hermione went on. "Get the idiots out of power, and we'll be just fine. You should see what the Muggles have done: it was much better when I was growing up! Or perhaps I saw things differently then..."

Draco had no idea what she was talking about, but it seemed to mean that she was staying.

"Anyway, I've learnt quite a bit from living with the Muggles. Even if they're not half as interesting as wizards," Hermione said.

"Shacking up with me won't be boring, at least," Draco offered, now that he had a chance to get a word in.

"Who said anything about shacking up? You'll have to woo me first!" Hermione laughed, and the room seemed to fill up from within with sunlight.

"Oh, I'll will, all right," he promised. "Until you're putty in my hands!"

If there was anything Draco wanted to always remember, long after all other memories became frayed around the edges and blurry with old age, it was the face of Hermione Granger as she contemplated the idea that she'd ever be putty in his hands.

-oO THE END Oo-

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