A/N:

Apparently I'm bad at writing dates and have to go back and edit a few chapters. Sigh.

Also sorry for the less-than-great (read: bad) updating. I will keep chugging along. The next chapter is already half-way written but I can imagine it'll take some editing (let's call it the chapter where this story earns its rating).

Thanks to everyone who's willing to deal with my terrible writing schedule!

Chapter 23: Concessions

June 5, 2018

"This must be a joke."

"Am I laughing? Am I even smiling?"

"Well, now you are. Potter, has anyone told you how incredibly creepy your smile is? It looks like you just finished murdering someone."

It really did. The smile was too big, making his eyes look sheepishly small behind the frame of his glasses. Draco naturally felt on edge. Things usually went piss-poor for him after he saw that smile. He twirled his coffee on the long wooden table in what he now considered to be his makeshift office. When Potter had asked Draco for a chat this afternoon, he had thought it would be concerning an update on the reconstruction of the Mirror of Erised. He was making progress after all. He currently could create a glass that would reflect people's current emotions to the exact archetype of that emotion, but that was certainly still a long call away from someone's deepest desires or, for the Ministry's purpose, criminal intent.

"Ginny has extra tickets for the Holyhead Harpies. Backstage. VIP. Guess who insists that I invite Scorpius?"

"You just made me a hero, Potter." He almost regretted the words as they fell out of his mouth. "Scorpius still thinks I'm an ogre for locking his wand up for summer."

That damn smile was still on his face. "I never said you weren't an ogre." Potter pushed off from his chair. "It's this Saturday. Bring your green and yellow."

"I can promise you one of those colors." He shuffled the paper in front of him, careful not to stab himself on any bits of broken mirror. He needed a better organization system. Maybe a drawer. "You mean to invite me again to a family event?"

"It's only me and Albus. Ginny will mostly be on the field."

"No other Weasleys?" He had no desire to sit next to the king for hours on end.

Harry shook his head before standing. "Just us. Hope that's alright."

It wouldn't have been. Decades ago—Merlin—a year ago it would have been intolerable and awkward and the absolute last thing Draco had wanted to do. And sure, maybe there was still the residual bit of awkward air between the two wizards, but there was also the small but growing part of Draco that really didn't mind Harry Potter. "I love my son enough to suffer a few hours with you."

"Same here. Oh, and Draco?"

Hearing his name from Potter still threw him through a loop. "Something else?"

"Sort of…the Aurors always order-in for birthdays. You're okay with Chinese?"

"Chinese?" He blinked. The words came slowly and then, Draco realized what Potter was suggesting. He leaned back in his wooden chair. "What time for lunch?"

"Twelve on the dot." Harry's head turned at the sound of heels on the stone floor. Draco moved to look as well, and out of the corner appeared Hermione Granger, hair loose and frizzed, eyes cast downwards. Harry flicked a pen on the table before stepping back even more. "I'll see you later."

The witch seemed to stutter at the sight of her friend, back twitching and the paper bag in her hand swaying aggressively from the sudden jerky motion of her body. Hermione recovered quickly, however, smiling when she saw Draco and immediately taking a seat at the table across from him. The paper bag was placed in front of them both and she quirked her head, clearly holding back a laugh. "Was that Harry?"

"He is my boss, paperwork aside."

"If that's where you're at, technically I'm…"

"Don't you dare say it, Granger." He let the smirk overtake his face. "I can barely believe I admitted that about Potter. What's this?" He needed to change the conversation before his mind completely broke. Hermione looked…lighter today. She wore a simple gold necklace that was barely revealed by the undone button of her pale blue blouse. The lines on her face were less defined, almost gone. Draco swallowed before eyeing the bag. "Present for me? You shouldn't have."

"Probably not," Hermione admitted. She pushed the bag closer to him. "You won't like it."

He pulled out a smaller box tied with red and white string from the bag and smoothly opened it to reveal small, almost bite-sized tarts with lemon curd. Draco almost laughed at the miniature pastries, but instead his fists curled. "Hermione…"

"It's nothing. Just a little something. I was hoping we could eat them after I take you to lunch."

"To lunch?"

"For your birthday?" She looked at the faux-leather banded watch on her wrist. "It is the fifth…"

"I actually have plans." His voice sounded weak, almost frail. Draco practically groaned at himself. Seeing Granger was becoming increasingly more commonplace now that he was at the Ministry more days than not. Though he still felt the same unease, the same sort of instability of where they stood and strangely, what she wanted from him.

The witch swallowed and crossed her legs across from him. "Oh."

"Oh?"

"With who?"

"Potter and the Aurors."

Her eyebrows rose immediately at that, but Hermione didn't say anything. She looked instead to the paperwork spread out on the table. "Are you making progress with your work?"

Draco crossed his arms. "I plan on submitting a report next Friday."

"Good." Hermione didn't move from her seat. "Great."

"You're awkward." He could tell immediately that his bluntness shocked her, though she should have really known better. "I mean, I know we haven't been the most open with each other recently, Granger, but you're at a different level right now."

"I'm not."

"You are," Draco argued back. "You look happier, don't get me wrong, but bloody awkward."

Her hands fidgeted, proving Draco's point even more. She fingered the coil of her necklace before smoothing out the grey skirt over her knees. For a second, Draco thought she wouldn't respond, that he was too direct, too…aggressive especially now that she was in a clear, defined position of power over him. The lightness that she once carried vanished almost immediately, and Hermione continued to stare at her shoes. "I…look happier?"

"That a bad thing? Most people typically take that as a compliment. But of course…"

"Do you want to get a drink later?" Her head snapped up, the words rushing out as if she had barely thought of them. "I don't have any late meetings today. I can leave around 4:30."

"I have to be in Nice by 7 their time."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "So that's a no?"

Draco felt the edge of his mouth turn up. "Where do you want to go?"

"Have you been to the Grenadier? It's in Muggle London but I like it."

He still wanted to laugh at her. The weight was off her shoulders, definitely so, but her eyes were wide, anxious, as if she were fifteen again and waiting for him to throw one of the lemon tarts at her head. And, weirdly, a part of him did if only to see how she'd react, if she'd yell and scream or temper her emotions down again because she was bloody hiding something underneath that mess of hair. "No birthday cake, please."

"I got you tarts." She blinked and leaned forward, the fire replacing any awkwardness in her eyes. "I expect you to eat them."

.

.

December 5, 1998

The library was becoming Draco Malfoy's new favorite room in all of Hogwarts. The Quidditch pitch—if that could be considered a room—was a close second, but he hadn't played Quidditch in years and even if he had, he doubt it could really compare to feeling up Hermione Granger against a bookcase.

And of course, she wasn't exactly the first girl he had snogged in the stacks. But kissing Pansy was the last thing he really wanted to think about when he was with Hermione and all that bloody red and gold.

"You don't mind this?" Her voice was harried, short. Her cheeks were flushed almost the same red of her scarf, and Draco touched said scarf and twisted it off her neck.

"I've gotten past the fact that you're a…"

"A what?" Hermione's eyes became sharp, challenging.

"A Gryffindor." Draco moved the scarf to his neck. "Overheated, Granger?"

"I meant always coming here to snog."

"Funny you should say that. I was just thinking about my newfound appreciation for the library." His hands moved down her shoulders, rubbing up and down and creating friction between his skin and the wool of her jumper. It was early afternoon, right after breakfast. He had no idea how he'd be able to focus the rest of the day.

She exhaled, his words for some reason calming her, and moved a hand through his hair. Draco felt his body twinge at her touch, relaxing, melting, soothed. "Glad you don't mind."

"Do you?"

"No!" Her whisper was harsh. "I don't."

"Books really are a turn on, huh? Okay then. We all have our things." He removed the scarf from his neck, delicately wrapping the warm garment around Hermione. Her hairline was lined with sweat, but he didn't mind. Draco pushed the bushy strands back and let his hands trail her cheekbones. "I actually have some plans this afternoon."

She looked more worried than she should. "What are you and Blaise planning?"

"Flitwick, actually. And I'm planning to raise my Charms' mark. Flitwick is probably planning on boring me to death." Draco sighed as he saw the growing smile on Hermione's face and held up a hand. "No, I don't need help. Please do not ask."

"I wasn't going to say that."

"Liar."

Hermione stuck out her tongue and Draco actually laughed at how childish she looked. His laugh carried through the library, and Hermione flinched before pushing him aside and straightening her skirt. "Sorry…I don't want people to…"

"I get it." Draco didn't, not really, but he reached down to the floor and grabbed his Charms textbook. "Do you want to hang out later? Go to the lake? The snow isn't too deep yet and I could use some fresh air."

Her lips tightened. "What time?"

"Unsure. I'll probably be let loose from Flitwick's clutches say around…3?"

Hermione shook her head. "I can't then."

"You can't?"

Her head shook again but Hermione didn't give any explanation. Shuffling her feet, Hermione continued to pat down her hair and wrapped the scarf tighter around her neck.

"When can you?"

"Tonight?"

He sniffed. "We'll freeze our knickers off. Unless that's what you had in mind."

"No." She pushed his chest lightly, and Draco leaned into her touch and kissed her quickly. Hermione broke it, smiling. "You're supposed to be teaching me how to be an Occlumens."

"Still on that? I was hoping you'd forgot."

"Draco…"

"Fine. Come to the dorms again. It's Saturday—Blaise won't be there." He kissed her again on the cheek, seemingly addicted to the feel and warmth of her skin. "I'd also like to remind you that it's my half-birthday."

The witch crossed her arms. "And?"

"And I expect half a gift. Don't forget."

"You're a spoiled brat."

"You make it sound like that's news." He moved to kiss her again but thought better. He'd never leave at this rate. Draco settled for a curt wave before turning away.

.

.

June 5, 2018

The streets of London were surprisingly dry that night, but Hermione had still swapped out her shoes for more sensible (or just less painful) flats to navigate the cobblestones. Draco had rolled up the sleeves to his white button-down, the air still thick and humid. "Knightsbridge. And people think I'm the posh one."

"Aren't you?" Hermione bit her lip. "And posh one out of what, exactly?"

"I don't know. Don't question me. It's my birthday."

"Prick."

"Is that okay for a potential Minister to say? It should be a bit more PC than that. Maybe ignoramus or even penis if we want to be anatomically accurate."

"Draco." She stopped and opened the door for him, leaning on the heavy iron knob as the wizard smiled and walked passed her.

It was a smaller pub and restaurant, but it was still early and buzzing with people already. Hermione gestured to a table to the far side where they sat themselves. They were soon welcomed by a red-haired, freckled waitress who could have been a Weasley in another life. "I'll have a pilsner." Draco thumbed the menu in front of him. "I'm not too hungry yet."

"Same." Hermione smiled and handed the menus to the waitress, and Draco was once again staring at her, as if he were trying to pick her apart. She supposed that was fair. Had she really seemed that much happier? And if so, was being happy so out of place for her? She didn't want to dwell on that. "Welcome to thirty-eight."

"Is it as terrible as you make it seem?"

She sniffed. "You're rather spirited today." Her heart pumped. She missed speaking with him, and the energy Draco was building was almost like…almost like when they were dating. Hermione let herself touch on that thought briefly before reclining back in her chair, thanking the waitress when a pint of pilsner was set in front of both of them. "So Nice tonight?"

"Astoria is already there with my parents. She's been staying with them often actually." Draco took a light sip of his beer. "She'll be back in the Manor once Scorpius is home."

"How is she faring?"

A blond eyebrow quirked up at that, and the sip Draco took was longer this time. "Not well." His voice was flat, emotionless.

"I've been looking. I…I'm sorry I've been a little distracted, but I've been asking. I even managed to speak to several people from MACUSA but no word yet. Those…" She swallowed. "That illness is more ancient than the Americas."

"Thank you."

"Of course, Draco. How could you…"

"You didn't have to," He said seriously, eyes straight and hard on her face. "You don't have to do anything for me and my family but you are."

"Don't be ridiculous. You would do the same for me." Hermione shooed away his sniff and hunched shoulders. "You know you would."

"I would." He laid his hands flat on the table, stretching his long, pale fingers, the silver of his wedding ring skidding across the wood. Hermione stared at it, thinking how out of place it looked, how her own gold one looked so strange, so foreign all of the sudden. Twenty years later, Draco looked nearly identical to his eighteen-year-old self. His cheekbones were high, strong, almost making the skin on his face look taut. His eyes were full, distracting, and so incredibly Malfoy. They had always been startling, but in the soft glow of the pub's light, Hermione couldn't stop thinking about how strange they actually were. She must have looked incredibly plain in comparison. Brown eyes. Brown hair. While he was all white and silver. His tongue fell over his lips, licking them wet. "It's nice of you to take me out like this."

"Because we're not friends?"

He laughed at her brashness, she was sure. "We aren't, but you are still one of the only witches in that place I can bear to be around."

"Should I have invited Pansy?"

"No." He crossed his arms. "I never said she made the cut either. How are you?"

He said it so languidly, so effortlessly that it made it seem like the question wasn't incredibly loaded. She watched the wizard practically spill his beer at another big sip and pushed the cloth napkin to him. "I suppose I'm happy."

"So you and Weasley worked it out? I'm glad to…"

"I didn't say that." She waited for an outburst, for Draco to guffaw or say something incredibly sarcastic. But he didn't. He stiffened, back straight, and she knew he was waiting for her to continue. Hermione fingered her gold ring. "He refuses to go to counseling."

"To what?"

"Counseling. Do no wizards know about this?" The fight was still strong in her memory—her and Ron in the family room, Hugo and Rose at school, and them incredibly late for work. He had just gotten back—the fourth time he picked up and left for the Burrow after a tight argument about buying Rose the newest broom of all things—and Hermione had given him the name and references for a doctor she had found. A couple's therapist. Someone who could help them. Someone who could fix this.

"I know of a few families who sought more…traditional methods to try and fix their marriage."

"More traditional?"

"It's idiotic." He waved off the thought. "Get a candle and rock for the elements, stand in a circle. Unclear how any of those things help with infidelity."

"Ron's not unfaithful."

"I wasn't saying he is." Draco let his fingers tap the table, and Hermione wondered why he was getting frustrated.

"Though he hasn't suggested any of those things either."

"So, what has he suggested?"

Nothing. She wanted to say it, the word on the tip of her tongue and teeth. "Is it…" Hermione exhaled and placed a hand on the warm glass of her beer, suddenly wishing that it was something much, much stronger. "Is it terrible that I wish he were angrier?"

"What?"

"Like…" Hermione shook her head. It was hard to explain this and the analogy that came to her would have annoyed him. Stop being ridiculous. You're not a little girl. No, she wasn't. She took a sip of beer. "I was shattered when we fought."

His eyes widened. "Hermione…"

"And you were too, weren't you? You were obnoxious and terrible."

"We screamed a lot."

"We did."

"I hated making you cry." He looked away from her, words weak. "I…I fucking hated that."

"There were a thousand reasons why it wouldn't have worked, Draco. I know that. You do too." She expected him to nod, agree, but all the wizard did was stare at his hand. "But I wanted to fight for it. Didn't…didn't you?"

His chest visibly lifted as he breathed. "Of course, I did."

"Ron doesn't. He doesn't want to do anything."

"Except leave."

"Don't…"

"I'm sorry." His voice was gruff and completely unapologetic. "It's not my place. It's absolutely not my place at all."

She pushed him. "But?"

"But he's a fucking coward." Draco spoke with venom. "I don't need to tell you how I feel about him. You know that already. And how he's been treating you has not made me like him any more."

Her mind was focused only on one word. "Coward?"

"You said it yourself. He's not a fighter. He's not fighting for you. Does he know…Has he met you? Hermione, you're…" He cut himself off. "Look, are you asking me for advice? That's an incredibly stupid thing for you to do. I'm not exactly an objective observer."

"But I'm asking."

"You are?" He sniffed. "Fine. Okay. Look, as much as we try to deny it, I knew you, Hermione Granger. And unless you've changed dramatically these past years, which maybe you have, then I still know you. And you're not the type to stand idly and let things…"

"Die?" Hermione offered.

"Eat at you." Draco corrected. "You're incredibly solution driven, Granger. And you're a bloody Gryffindor."

She sniffed over her beer. "I fail to see how houses come in to play."

"Houses are always in play. There's a reason you were sorted there. You act first, then think."

"You make us sound so brash and…"

"And?" Draco teased. "You are. But it works for you—Merlin knows how but it does."

More and more people were thrumming through the Grenadier, Londoners tired and exhausted from work. Her eyes fell to the clock on the wall. They had been sitting here for fifteen minutes, discussing her marriage of all things. Her gut clenched. "Draco, this is terrible birthday conversation."

"It's not my topic of choice. I agree." He thrummed the table. "Have you been to Nice?"

"Are you inviting me?"

"Could you imagine? Absolutely not. I'm just asking. Changing the subject to something not so fucking depressing." He raised a hand for the waitress. "Do you want something harder?"

"What?"

"Yes, yes." Draco was already turning away from her and pointing to the bar for the waitress. "What do you have here? Cardhu? Sure, on the rocks please. Two."

Hermione bristled. "Draco, you shouldn't really…"

"This is for you. And for me. It is my birthday after all, and my parents are all about wine now." He straightened in his seat. "Unless you have to go?"

"I don't. Hugo's at a sleepover."

"How…exotic."

She kicked him from under the table and Draco cursed before laughing. The sound made Hermione tinge, made her feel warm and giddy, and on reflex, her hand moved to touch his. Draco didn't recoil, but his eyes flickered at the contact. And they remained touching until the waitress came back and set two glasses of whiskey down between them.

"You're chilly." Draco did not make eye contact, but he did reach and take a long sip from his glass. "That's new."

Hermione didn't respond, not knowing what to say. His own pale skin had felt blistering and smooth, and she knew she shouldn't—she really, really shouldn't—but she wanted to touch him again, itched for it. This man had…this man had been everything to her once. In that little, crazy way only an eighteen-year-old could feel, Draco Malfoy had meant the world. And she had written those emotions off as crazy, insane, as childish and naïve because maybe they were. Maybe they were all those things but she had still felt them, and deep, deep within her bones they still clawed at her.

And then, with sudden force, Draco reached over the table again and grabbed her left wrist. His fingers stroked the soft skin of her turned forearm, and she would have stopped him, would have pulled back, if she didn't know what he was looking for. "It's practically gone."

"You never used to wear short sleeves." His grey gaze burned for the mark. "I can still feel it…a little bit."

"You still never wear short sleeves." She looked at his left arm and could see it even though his skin wasn't visible. The mark, the memory of seeing it for the first time, was burned in her brain. "I can probably…"

"I don't want it removed," Draco bit. Hermione withdrew her arm at his tone, and the blond wizard sat back before finishing his whisky. "I swear we can talk about something happy."

"Can we?"

"Maybe. Possibly. We should at least give it a go. I hear Pansy has gotten some legislation through protecting chizpurfles." Draco's smile grew. It looked as if he were glowing, and Hermione knew it was a reflection of her own face. "Tell me that had everything to do with you."

"What if I told you it had nothing to do with me?"

"Then I'd call you a liar."

"Brash, liar…any other names? You have a free pass." The whisky burned her throat. "I hear Scorpius is horrid at Quidditch."

"I hear Rose is horrid at Potions."

"Take that back."

"Why? It's the…" He flinched as she made contact with his shin again.