Chapter Seven

The near-freezing rain and sleet of early December kept Hermione in a state of listlessness as she settled into routines of work, study, and home. Letters of rejection for her applications to Mount Vernon and Northwick Park Hospitals had both arrived outside on the street earlier that week, compounding her foul mood. She had forgotten about the danger of the post, having neatly printed her address as '12 Grimmauld Place, London' on the myriad forms she had filled out. Presumably, the postman had chalked it up to some sort of user error and placed it in the neighbour's box instead. The residents of number eleven next door had thankfully chosen to leave the mysterious mail to a nonexistent address on their front steps, abandoning the letters to the elements of a London winter rather than their rubbish bin.

With access denied to more meaningful work, Hermione grew increasingly frustrated in her job. As with so many things, she had thought she knew what she was getting herself in for when she began accepting ER stints, but the hours on her feet were fatiguing and the constant turnover of patients prevented her from seeing any real impact on their lives. She would continue working there as long as she needed to, but her determination to get out was renewed with every passing shift.

For each moment of annoyance there, she found a moment of satisfaction with the extracurricular studies now consuming the majority of her spare hours. Things were not unfolding as she had planned, that was sure. No, she wouldn't have expected that she would be following a syllabus of sorts composed for the benefit of Draco Malfoy. Nevertheless, she was thrilled to bits that things were progressing with her Legilimency readings as she mastered control over her own mind and learned to extend herself with wordless spells. She knew now that Professor Snape had intended to give her lessons all along, but her utter mortification over the things she had said to him kept her from asking him anything directly. When her time with the readings was through, she suspected that she might be able to ask Draco for help with practice. She supposed it was possible that he remembered what Snape had said to him in their lessons, or that he owned a Pensieve and would allow her to enter the lessons herself.

She also didn't know how much Draco had let slip about the rest of her situation. He was still a Slytherin, after all, even if he had become somewhat of a friend to her in the past several weeks. Accordingly, she knew she could expect a certain amount of discretion in his behaviour; he would never repeat anything she told him needlessly. On the other hand, if Snape hadn't readily agreed (and what had Astoria said...? 'He finally agreed to teach you?'), she imagined that Draco would have used any information she had given him to gain Snape's involvement.

The note he had left her was unexpected, to be sure, and extraordinarily helpful, so she wondered why it hadn't been included on the reading list he had initially drawn up for Draco. Perhaps he had discovered the source after he had initially made this list, or perhaps he remembered her as a student well enough to recognize the difference between her needs and Draco's. If he worked in the Malfoy library as frequently as she did, he could easily witness her progress through the stacks of books on her desk and would know how to steer her in the right direction. Whatever the reason, she was glad to have his assistance, however unacknowledged it was between them. He certainly appeared willing to help her despite her unfortunate outburst. Of course, he had also discovered her limp body after witnessing her panic in his presence, and she hoped that the note he left wasn't drafted up out of pity or that spirit of obligation that seemed to haunt Draco. Perhaps when the day came, after she had exhausted all other resources, she could ask him again for help.

Perhaps.

On the morning of December 6, Hermione woke up with the dull tug of an aimless wish from her childhood to be anything but English. When she learned in primary school that other children in the world woke up to find sweets and toys in their shoes on that day each year, she felt the righteous indignation that only a seven-year-old of dentists could muster over the loss of culturally mandated chocolates and mint humbugs. Hermione, you're thirty now, she repeated to herself before pulling the covers back and finding the energy to begin the day. There's no earthly reason why you should hold on to that. It was, however, enough to remind her to prepare a Christmas hamper to send to Wendell and Monica Wilkins. She filled it with PG Tips and jars of Marmite for Monica, several packages of chocolate-covered digestives for Wendell, and a Christmas pudding for them to share. Anticipating the warmer weather in Australia and hoping nothing would melt upon the package's arrival, she tossed in some plain digestives as an afterthought and jotted down a brief word of greetings to the couple before setting it aside to mail on Monday.

After heading out into the city for a quiet lunch and an hour of window-shopping in Camden, she gathered her things for another study session at Malfoy Manor. For the first time in nearly a month's worth of visits to the estate, she heard someone else in the home. Rather than making another beeline to the library, she followed the muffled noises to the conservatory where she found Astoria sprawled out on a stone bench with a book in hand. Ah, Hermione thought, I knew I liked her. She subconsciously approved of Draco's choice and rapped on the doorframe to alert the young woman to her presence.

"Oh, hello, Hermione." Astoria quickly scrambled into a seated position and held up a large hardcover. "The Goblin Rebellions: A New Appraisal. Much better than you would think, but the prose is still unbelievably dry."

"And here I thought I was the only person who read obscure histories," Hermione said, smiling. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the stone fountain and array of ferns and bromeliads scattered about. "This looks like a brilliant place to curl up with a book."

"I've learnt that the best place to curl up with a book is anyplace where Scorpius isn't." She marked her place and set the book beside her on the bench. "He likes to, shall we say, 'help' the process along."

"This I understand," Hermione sniggered. "When I'm reading with Albus, he sits perfectly still and eventually falls asleep in my lap, but James? Good luck if all the pages are intact when we're through. It's a good thing I can repair them." Suddenly realising that even if Astoria knew the Potters, she might not be familiar these two names, she explained further. "Er... I'm sorry. Albus and James are Harry and Ginny's little boys. I've been living with them in London."

"How do you like it?" she asked congenially. "London, that is? You didn't grow up in the city, did you?" She moved to the end of the long bench, making space for Hermione to sit down beside her.

Dropping her bag as she moved to the bench, Hermione sat down, reluctantly keeping Astoria from her task. "No, I didn't. I grew up in Winchester, not too far away from you here. We went in several times a year when I was younger, visiting all the museums and gardens. My father loved the theatre and loved to surprise us with tickets to a play, so there was a great deal of Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde in my life long before I could ever fully understand what was going on. It's completely different to live there as an adult, though, and I'm afraid I haven't taken advantage of the city like I should." She shrugged. "And you? Where did you grow up?"

"Mostly Kent, but our mother also made sure we were in France every summer. Her mother took her there when she was young, so we had to do the same." She slumped back into a more comfortable position, her book forgotten by her side. "I'm glad to finally run into you again. Other than the shifting piles on your desk, there seems to be no evidence that you've even been here."

"A part of me still feels uncomfortable treating your home like my own private library," Hermione said apologetically. "I try not to bother anyone when I stop by."

"Nonsense," she responded firmly. "At least it's of some use to you. Besides, we're already used to it with Severus." She lowered her voice as she continued. "Truthfully, sometimes I still feel like a visitor here myself, but that's the nature of these old established houses. They've outlasted us all as a kind of testament to the strength and longevity of the families who built them, and each individual can only do so much to really make them their own. I know my mother felt the same way in our house. Perhaps Daphne does in hers, but she's not likely to articulate it."

"I understood a great deal was changed about this house in the last ten years," Hermione stated tentatively, thinking of Draco's words to her at their first meeting.

"Well... yes. What could be changed, anyway. I'm sure you noticed the protections placed on the library? Similar spells guard other family possessions in the house, like the portraits, the suits of armour, certain tapestries, and so forth. They are rather difficult to alter."

"I didn't know that was possible. That's common practice, is it?"

"Continuity and tradition, you know, are paramount in this world."

"The Wizarding world or the upper class?"

Astoria paused and looked at her thoughtfully. "Both, I suppose." Thinking this over, she added, "For better and for worse." She began to look around the room. "As to the recent renovations, well, some were finished by Mother Malfoy immediately following the war and some were finished by Draco and me after we were married, like this conservatory. I like to call it the Winter Garden, but I think that's a battle I'm losing. Actually, she's here now for the holiday season – arrived yesterday from Paris and is getting reestablished in the north wing of the house for however long she decides to stay."

"Narcissa..."

"Yes, of course."

"Will she have a problem with my being here?" Despite everything that happened at the end of the war, Hermione remained wary of Narcissa Malfoy, having never really spoken with the woman. "I can go, if it would make things easier. You can owl me when it's best to return."

"Don't be silly, Hermione. She's rarely in the library, so I doubt that you would ever run into her there. Draco told her about you last night at dinner, and she reacted with perfect ambivalence."

"Are you certain that's a good sign?"

"I think so. She's rather preoccupied with being a grandmother while visiting, so no one else is really a concern."

"Ah... and that must be why you're in here reading now."

"Absolutely. He doesn't know quite what to make of her, so she insists on spending a lot of time with him."

"And you'll let me know if you ever change your mind about my being here?"

"Of course."

The two women fell into casual chatter for a while longer before Hermione pried herself up from her seat and headed out of Astoria's Winter Garden. Abandoning the blonde to goblins and strife once more, she heard raised voices as she approached the library at the end of the hallway. Stopping just outside the closed doors, she didn't have to strain at all to understand every word of the argument.

"... see and I am not about to enter some obsolete institution filled with sniveling, slobbering malingerers lurking outside death's door." Professor Snape's voice was dripping with disdain as he rebuffed his companion. "I do not need to be there for this stage. Handle it on your own."

"Disillusion yourself, then," Draco pleaded insistently.

"Disillusionment would indicate that I harbor a secret desire to go and that I only object to visiting openly because I don't want to be seen by anyone." Each word he spoke was enunciated with an unnatural clarity as he added wryly, "I assure you, no such desire exists."

"Perhaps there's a way you could Apparate directly into the test room."

A lengthy pause followed this statement, and Hermione's imagination began filling in the gap with a number of the professor's exasperated expressions from her student years. They were usually leveled at Neville then, or Harry, but now she saw them directed towards Draco in her mind's eye and felt a perverse sort of glee at the thought.

"All right, all right," Draco mumbled under his breath. "Scrap that idea."

"If that passes as an idea with you these days, I now have a much clearer understanding as to why we've cycled through so many incarnations of this particular potion." And then she heard a remarkable thing: a burst of hearty laughter from Professor Snape, followed by reassuring words of support. "Draco, you don't need me there to gather results. You have this all under control."

She had no time to process this when she heard approaching footsteps in the adjacent hallway and had to make a decision quickly. Would it be better to enter the library, breaking up whatever the two men were discussing, or risk getting caught by the person approaching? She opened the door and hustled over to her desk, trying to avoid their notice.

"Granger," "Miss Granger," they said simultaneously, abruptly ending their conversation.

"Oh, hello," Hermione said, trying to sound nonchalant as she pulled out her chair. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting something? I can return later."

"No, Granger." "Of course you are." They spoke at cross-purposes.

"Er... I'll just go, then, shall I?" She began pushing her chair back into place.

"No," they insisted in unison.

"Stay, Granger," Draco said firmly. "We were finished."

As Hermione settled into her chair and began pulling out stacks of notebooks, the doors were flung open dramatically for the entrance of Narcissa Malfoy.

"Draco, darling. Severus," she said to each in turn as she regally glided into the room. "And Miss Granger. I was told I would find you here."

"Mother."

"Narcissa."

"Mrs. Malfoy."

"You're all here. Good." She continued to make her way towards them with an unmistakable air of elegance and deliberation. "Miss Granger, I would like to invite you to a private dinner here at our home tonight."

"Dinner?"

"Severus, I expect you to join us as well."

"Is there anything I can say that would prevent you from demanding my presence?"

"No."

She turned to Hermione with an unreadable expression on her beautiful face. "Miss Granger, dinner here is served at eight o'clock. I trust that will give you enough time to dress properly?"

"Yes, certainly."

As gracefully as she swept into the library, Narcissa Malfoy swept out.

That certainly could have gone worse, Hermione surmised. It was clear that the woman had no problem with Hermione's frequent presence in the manor, but it was also clear that she hadn't escaped the firing squad yet either, and that event was not something she was looking forward to.

She faced Draco with her hands on her hips in defiance. "Malfoy, what just happened here?"

"You've just been steamrolled by Mother, Granger. Don't worry, I'm sure it won't be the first time. She possesses an uncanny ability to coerce anyone into doing whatever she wants them to do."

"Really? I don't seem to recall you being the picture of obedience as a child," she dug at him.

"Malfoy blood gives one the ability to resist."

"If that's the case, this may be the first and only time in my life I've ever wanted to be a Malfoy," Hermione responded dryly.

Draco merely grinned, and she could have sworn she saw Snape's eyes glittering with amusement as well.

As she thought over Narcissa Malfoy's instructions, a new concern popped into her mind. "And when she says to go home to dress properly, what does that mean?"

"I believe she intends for you to return to your place of residence in order to find a change of clothing," Snape replied with a smirk, "but I could be mistaken. Perhaps she's questioning your ability to align buttons."

Draco exited the room shaking with laughter at that comment, leaving the other two to their studies for the remainder of the afternoon.

Hermione returned to her seat, pulling out the list of sources to take inventory of how much she had left to do. Setting aside a few books she had recently finished, she plucked a small red volume off her stack and got to work. After a few minutes of silent reading, she looked up to address Snape. "Thank you, by the way. That was very helpful."

His eyes never left his work. "You'll faithfully doublecheck all your buttons in the future?"

What? Oh. "No, I meant to thank you for..."

"Miss Granger, I have no earthly idea what you're talking about."

Impossible man. Just as they had done for the past few weeks, the pair spent the afternoon immersed in study. She worked steadily through the texts, copying out incantations and sketching wand movements to take home for practice. When something looked particularly tricky, she would utilise an empty alcove to review the new spells while she still had possession of the books. It was harder to practise the spells at Harry's house, where she couldn't double check her work against the original text. Each time she thought she felt a pair of black eyes on her, she turned around to find him focused on his own work.

When the large grandfather clock struck seven, she scrounged together her things and headed for home to prepare for an evening with the Malfoy family. What she would have given for Ginny's advice at this moment! Unfortunately, the Potters were all still out somewhere, and she had no one to ask about what clothing would meet Mrs. Malfoy's standards. Throwing on a simple navy dress, she checked herself in the mirror, surprised to receive a low whistle rather than any words of grooming advice. In lieu of the guidance of a trusted friend, she settled for the approval of a fairly inarticulate inanimate object and headed back through the Floo.

The room, usually empty, was thankfully occupied. Astoria stepped forward to take Hermione's coat. "Draco mentioned that you might be a bit nervous. Do you have any questions?"

"I was told to dress properly." Hermione gestured to her choice. "Is this appropriate or are you good with Transfiguration?"

"This is very good, but if I may...?"

Hermione nodded, and with a few gentle flicks of her wand, Astoria gave the dress a slight tailoring. Standing back to admire her work, she offered kindly, "You look wonderful. Please don't worry – I'm sure you'll be fine."

You'll be fine. I've heard those words before, she thought as her mind drifted back to Draco's words to her on the day she collapsed by the drawing-room. I've even heard them in this house, and they didn't do much for me then. Surely Narcissa Malfoy wanted to do her duty and invite the girl who had befriended her son over for one meal. There would be stilted conversation from all present, her duty would be discharged, and she would be able to return to work in peace in the coming weeks; these were her only hopes as she sat down to dinner.

For the first few courses, Narcissa reigned over her table with refined diplomacy, guiding the table conversation through a series of safe and emotionally uninvolved topics. It was current affairs in the Wizarding world over the soup course, followed by travels abroad over the fish, and so forth and so on until Hermione finally sensed her time had come. She had deferentially held herself back as she listened to the others discuss and debate with perfect ease, throwing in a comment or two when politeness demanded it. Somewhere in the midst of the entrée, Narcissa focused her attention on her dinner guest.

"Miss Granger."

"Mrs. Malfoy."

"I understand you've been using our library for the past several weeks."

"Yes, Mal... er, Draco and Astoria have been very generous." She said, correcting herself in front of his mother. Her eyes flicked across the table to her former professor who was steadfastly avoiding her gaze. "Many people have been generous with me, sharing resources and... knowledge."

"And I understand you have recently returned to England."

"Yes, it's quite nice to be home. Australia was a wonderful place to live and learn, but I'm an Englishwoman through and through."

"Learn?"

"I attended university there, then medical school. I had finished a residency, which is rather like a professional apprenticeship, and was working on specialised internships in my hospital there."

"Muggle university?"

"Yes."

"Ah, I see."

Hermione had always prided herself on her ability to read people, but as the dinner conversation progressed, she was struck by the growing awareness that this ability was entirely dependent upon the people she was with. Understanding Harry and Ron was a cinch; when their outward actions and true intent were at odds with one another, it was usually because they didn't understand their own feelings on the matter. It was rare that they were trying to hide something from themselves and even rarer still when they were trying to hide something from her. It was more than just her friends, however; her encounters with her patients over the years were also marked with the sort of transparency that only comes from seeing people in an extraordinarily vulnerable state. With Narcissa Malfoy, she had no idea what to expect and little understanding of what she actually meant. 'Ah, I see.' She sees what?

"So you are in Healing like my Draco?"

"Yes, although I believe our work is fairly dissimilar. I worked with patients directly and only spent a portion of my time in research, while I believe Draco's work is almost entirely research-based." She looked up at Draco. "At least, that was my impression. Is that right, Draco?" Hermione asked.

"Essentially. I never work with patients."

"The administrators at St. Mungo's want to keep you from doing any damage, do they?" she asked cheekily, expecting a quick comeback from her verbal combatant.

Instead of the retort or dressing down she was waiting for, Draco fell silent and his face paled several shades as his jaw noticeably clenched up. In the meanwhile, Astoria and Narcissa exchanged uncertain glances and no one said a word. Hermione doubted that he would have been that sensitive about the issue unless something had happened that she didn't know about. But what?

"Well, that's a shame," she addressed him a bit too warmly, trying to recover from her misstep. "I'm sure it's the patients' loss, as you're enjoyable to talk to these days." She looked at the older woman and pointedly remarked, "I didn't know what to expect when I came home, but I was delighted to find out that we could share a meal companionably and impressed to hear of your son's commitment to St. Mungo's. You must be quite proud of him."

That seemed to sooth the matriarch's ruffled feathers, but she remained decidedly reserved for the remainder of the evening. Filling her place in the conversation, Draco took charge of matters. "Say, Hermione, what is the nature of your research?"

"The long answer or the short answer?"

"Let's begin with short and see if it's wise to move onward from there, shall we?"

"Certainly." How short was short? People often asked about her work out of a well-mannered compulsion, but precious few actually wanted an answer. She decided to play it safe. "I work with the brain."

"That's your short answer?" Snape sputtered out in disbelief, finally joining the conversation.

"Yes."

"That... from you."

"Sir?"

"Miss Granger, I suffered through six years of your verbosity and excess, and no amount of corrective encouragement ever seemed to direct you towards concision in your prose."

"I..."

Draco spoke up, heading off any perceived arguments before things became even more volatile. "How about the slightly longer answer, Hermione?"

"Yes. Well..." She looked around the table to see various states of attention from everyone present: Narcissa was listening with vague disengagement, and Snape looked positively bored as he stabbed his meat with the knife in his hand, while the young couple was doggedly invested in their encouragement, nodding with bright eyes as she spoke. "I'm a neurologist on the Muggle side of things, so I work with the brain and the nervous system: How is it organised? How does it function? What happens when it's damaged and how can it be repaired? If the brain is damaged, what does it look like in terms of other behavioural symptoms?"

"Muggle side... Does that mean there's a magical side to your work as well?" Astoria asked.

"Not officially. I ran a series of clinical trials on the effectiveness of Healing Potions and Charms, monitoring my results through Muggle means – different kinds of scans and the like. Then I would change one element and run the tests again to try to fine-tune the treatment."

"And your results?" Snape asked clinically.

"Some trials were more effective than others, but I generally learned how to better match a patient with the treatment they needed. I could answer all kinds of new questions, you see: Which part of the brain does this charm stimulate activity in – the hippocampus or the amygdala? How can I direct it to the part of the brain that needs more blood flow? If this potion encourages a certain type of regeneration, how can I modify it to solve a different problem?"

He didn't have anything to say in response, but appeared to give consideration to her words.

"That's the slightly longer answer. I can go longer still, if you'd like to hear about which charms and potions I used for trials or the theories behind how I chose variables for the experiments, but that's the gist of it. I didn't have the opportunity to do very much, mind you. I was, after all, working seventy or eighty hours each week for my full-time job and had to devise different methods of getting access to the materials I needed. Or," she continued thoughtfully, "of getting witches and wizards to the materials I had."

Draco and Snape, whose reluctant interest was now piqued, silently exchanged a glance.

"What do you mean, Gr... Hermione?" the young man asked.

"I couldn't perform any trials in a Wizarding hospital because Muggle equipment runs on electricity. I'm sure you know how pointless that effort is, unless someone somewhere can discover why the two are incompatible and develop a way to allow the two to coexist. Instead, I brought Wizarding patients to my Muggle hospital to set my controls and then put them through all the paces of the treatments and their variants."

Trying to avoid a technical turn that would isolate herself and Astoria, Narcissa took over the lead once more. "And why Australia, of all places, Miss Granger? I understand wanting to flee the country after all that happened here, but wouldn't Paris or Amsterdam have sufficed?"

Malfoy must never have told her about this, she realised slowly. He tried to spare Hermione from answering, almost growling out a warning under his breath. "Mother, I..."

"No, it's all right," Hermione said quietly. "Mrs. Malfoy, I went to Australia to be with my parents. They moved there over a decade ago."

"I see." She glanced reprovingly at her son, as if questioning his desire to stop her. Turning back to Hermione, she said, "That sounds lovely, my dear. Time with family is important."

"Yes, well..." Hermione was unsure exactly how to proceed. However foolish the belief, she felt that the mutual survival of very dark days built a firm, but tacit trust among those who would not have chosen it otherwise. She hoped they felt the same, and she spoke as plainly as she could. "It is difficult to spend time with family when they don't know who you are." Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione watched Draco placing his flatware down on his plate, his eyes fixed on the dish before him. All of the others – Mrs. Malfoy, Astoria, and even Professor Snape – were watching her intently as she explained herself. "My parents no longer think they have a daughter, you see, so I was merely a friendly neighbour to them. I modified their memories at a time when I barely knew how to access them because I thought their lives were at risk, and I sent them to Australia with the belief that they were childless. I couldn't change them back when I returned after the war. I wanted to stay close to them while I learned how to help them, but I wasn't just spending time with them. I was trying to repair the damage I caused. They still have no idea who they really are."

The professor's eyes flew open as he watched her, marked with the dawning realisation of why Draco had come to him weeks ago with the request to teach his former student. Ah, she thought as she noticed the bewilderment flash across his sharp features, he never told Snape about this, either.