Chapter Text
Draco winced as he pressed his knuckles into the small of his back. Valentine’s Day was always busy, but this year seemed even more so. He’d sold out of his popular aphrodisiac potion – immaturely nicknamed ‘Boner Brew’ by the masses – in advance of the many romantic evenings planned by couples across the UK, and that was even after brewing new batches three times that week as his stock ran low. Draco followed the final customers to the shop door and flicked his wand to lock it behind them, breathing a sigh of relief.
“No,” he groaned under his breath, as a knock at the door made him pause. He considered ignoring it, but the person on the other side continued knocking insistently, so he pasted his polite, customer-facing smile back on and opened the door again.
Of course.
Why wouldn’t it be Hermione Granger?
She’d barely changed since Draco had seen her at school. He was startled to realise that it had been almost fifteen years since they finished their eighth year at Hogwarts. Hermione’s hair was scraped back into a messy bun, that nevertheless looked stylish and purposeful when paired with her expensive-looking formal robes, and her calculating eyes were as clear as ever.
“Draco,” she said, guardedly, looking up to meet his eyes.
“Hermione,” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation.
They stared at each other for a few seconds, before Draco moved aside to allow her access to his shop. She gave a half-smile and stepped past him. He closed the door and, to his surprise, Hermione muttered a spell to ward it behind her. He quirked a questioning eyebrow and she shook her head, murmuring more spells. Draco felt the tingle of protective magic weaving with his own permanent wards around the shop.
“You’ve placed more wards than I expected,” she said, eventually, lowering her wand.
“Yes, well, even after the revengeful attacks petered out after a few weeks, I decided there was no sense in becoming complacent.”
Hermione nodded, looking around curiously. Draco followed her gaze and felt the familiar pride in what he’d built for himself. Floor-to-ceiling shelves contained bottles, pots and bags of various potions and remedies; tables and chairs were scattered around the floor space, inviting customers to peruse the catalogues whilst waiting for personalised service; tasteful decoration was emphasised by subtle lighting; and private consultation rooms were signposted off the main shop floor. The space was larger inside than the modest shop-front would suggest, and the atmosphere was that of a professional and comforting environment. He had worked hard to build his reputation, and it had finally paid off. Customers felt safe in Draco’s shop; they could trust his integrity as an apothecarist, and the quality of his products.
“Not that it’s anything less than a delight to see you,” Draco began, hovering by the door, “but what is it you want?”
Hermione gave him a small smile and looked down. “It’s good to see you, too,” she said, softly.
Without warning, she flung her arms around Draco’s waist. He returned the hug, wrapping his own arms around her tightly and resting his cheek on top of her head. He allowed his eyes to drift closed, and breathed in the almost-forgotten scent of her shampoo; she was clearly loyal to a brand. They stood that way for almost a minute before Hermione stepped back, wiping her eyes.
“I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink,” she said, voice steady despite her watery eyes.
***
Over mugs of hot chocolate, into which they each added a hefty glug of their chosen alcohol, Draco and Hermione caught up on the parts of their lives they hadn’t shared by letter.
When the battle-weary veterans had returned to school to complete their education, the strains of the war had been startlingly clear. Personalities were subdued, petty school-yard squabbles had paled into insignificance, and everyone just felt grateful to be alive. Mind Healers were introduced to the school, and – for certain people – sessions were mandatory. The environment had been far from pleasant, but had actually served to allow Draco to complete his final year of schooling relatively undisturbed. He’d actually been quite grateful for the therapy and the space that allowed him to begin to process everything that had happened to him. What he hadn’t counted on was the tenacity of Harry Potter and his irrepressible urge to save people. Draco had been drawn irresistibly into the friendship of the Golden Trio, with each of them determined to redeem him. It turned out it wasn’t just Potter that had the saviour complex.
Ron had weaselled (no pun intended) his way into Draco’s weekly routine with his actually-not-bad chess skills. Hermione had been the only other eighth-year who seemed to give a shit about gaining good NEWTs grades, so they ended up studying together more often than not. And Potter…well. Draco had come to realise that Potter was just as infuriating as he’d always suspected. But he was also funny, and kind, and caring, and thoughtful, and…okay. Draco could admit that he might have harboured the tiniest crush on him. Who could blame him? It wasn’t like he was the only one. Potter had returned to school looking every inch the tortured war veteran, but the regular meals and opportunities for physical training had worked their own magic, and Potter had definitely grown into himself. And if Draco wanked himself raw throughout most of that school year (and, okay, a few – fine, all – of the subsequent years) over that one time he’d glimpsed him in the shower, who was to know? Regardless, Draco had become friends with people to whom he had never before spoken a kind word. That year had been transformative for him in many ways, and had been instrumental in his decision to accept an apprenticeship for a Potions’ Mastery in France. And then he was offered a job working for his assessor. And then a residency for the Parisian Wizarding Hospital. And then he agreed to teach a Medicinal Potions class at the hospital’s university. And then, and then, and then… It was less than six months since Draco had returned to England. His savings from working in France had allowed him to purchase and modify the property on Diagon Alley, and there they were. Draco had missed England. France was wonderful; the food, the language, the people…but England was his home. For all its faults, and for all the traumatic memories, it was home.
For Hermione, the road hadn’t strayed so far from home. After the Spell Damage ward at St Mungo’s had managed to restore her parents’ memories, she had decided to pursue a career in Healing. In true ‘saviour complex’ style, she had been determined to find a path from which she could help the most people. Draco already knew she had bounced between the departments, never seeming to find her place, until she chanced upon a stint in the Addiction and Mental Health ward. She had immediately found her niche, and settled effortlessly into her career in magical rehab.
“You’re still loving it, then?” Draco asked, as soon as there was more than a split-second gap in Hermione’s monologue. She blushed and nodded, before continuing to speak.
“Sorry, I get carried away talking about it sometimes,” she said. “But I do have an ulterior motive in coming to see you tonight.”
Draco raised an eyebrow and gestured for her to continue. He was certainly not surprised, and thought he might know where the conversation was heading. Sure enough, Hermione launched into a tirade about the pitiful range of detox potions they currently used, and the wide range of highly unpleasant side-effects they invariably inflicted on her patients.
“It’s enough to drive some of them straight back to their substance abuse,” she raged, eyes flashing with long-held anger. “As if these people haven’t been through enough! And the board don’t care; they’re a bunch of old, stuck-up, prejudiced bastards who clearly think these patients deserve all kinds of suffering!”
“I know the type,” Draco said, drily.
Hermione nodded. “So, you see, I decided we needed a new supplier. The hospital has been stocking more and more original potions, and I tried to find the brewer responsible so I could approach them about working together. Turns out they’re registered in France under a name I’ve never heard before. That might have been the end of it, but…you know me. I did some digging. Imagine my surprise…” she trailed off, giving Draco a wry look.
“Ah. Yes.”
“Why do you keep your identity a secret?”
“Hermione, you’re incredibly intelligent. Surely you can figure it out,” Draco snorted, rolling his eyes. Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Draco interrupted her. “It was only six years after the war when I perfected my Pain Pastilles. The Malfoy name was still muck. No-one would have accepted a remedy from me, and a lot of people would have been worse off. Then it just seemed easier to continue with the well-known and trusted name.”
They looked at each other in silence for a moment. Draco could tell Hermione wanted to push the matter, but he headed her off.
“I imagine you’re here to discuss a range of detox potions?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, simply. “If anyone can do it, you and I can,” she continued, not flinching away from acknowledging their shared expertise.
“Quite right,” Draco agreed. “As it happens,” he added, hesitating slightly, “I was expecting your visit sooner or later. I have something to show you.”
For the next half-hour, their minds focussed on work. Draco showed Hermione the stock of detox potions he’d been working on. He’d already developed some to tackle the addiction of Felix Felicis, Dreamless Sleep, and Draught of Peace, and he was currently in the experimental phase of one for the overuse of Calming Draught. They discussed the need for potions to ease the withdrawal symptoms of Muggle drugs, as well as the plethora of magical drugs available at the flick of a wand.
“There’s…something else,” Hermione said, cautiously, her eyes fixed on one of the several bubbling cauldrons.
“Okay?” Draco said, slowly, prompting her to continue.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard about the problems the DMLE are having with black-market potions?”
“I haven’t.”
“It’s…oh, it’s awful. Really nasty stuff.”
She looked so sickened that Draco led her back through to the main shop floor to take a seat and poured her a glass of Elf-Made cherry brandy. She smiled gratefully.
“Thanks. Urgh, I can’t even think about it without cringing. Some vile people have been adapting love potions with Dark magic. They’re everywhere. I’m sure you understand why it’s a big deal.”
Draco could very well understand. Blackmail, coercion, rape…
“How exactly have they been adapting the love potions?” Draco asked, feeling sick.
“Alongside the usual infatuation and obsession, there’s an element of mind-control, as well as…erm, uncontrollable lust. We don’t actually know all that much about it as it’s obviously brand new. It’s also resistant to every antidote to which we have access.”
“Fuck.”
“Well, yes.”
“How do you know? The last time I checked, the DMLE don’t allow details of cases leaked to ex-Aurors. Even ones as notorious as Ron.”
Hermione blushed and took a sip of her drink. “He, erm, well, he has quite a few friends and…you know,” she waved her hand vaguely. “They sometimes ask him to weigh in on their trickier cases.”
Draco smirked in amusement and shook his head. “Why are you telling me this? Other than as a warning to watch who I let around my consumables?” he asked.
“Officially…I only know about all this because I’ve been working with a contact at the DMLE, and their potions expert is nothing short of useless. They need someone to develop an antidote. They hoped I’d know someone. Someone who may be known for his world-class brewing skills…?”
“Me?”
“You.”
By the time Hermione left, having given him another tight hug and an invitation to dinner in return for his heart-felt promise to think about her proposition, Draco felt re-energised after his fatigue of earlier. He returned to his lab to begin the next step in a few ongoing brews, a thoughtful expression on his face as his mind worked busily over all he’d learnt that evening.
***
It hadn’t taken long for Hermione and Ron to send him a letter with their address, and the very next evening, he was at their house for dinner. Draco walked up the paved path between two sides of lawn; one side neatly mown with organised beds of flowers, the other a miniature version of a slightly overgrown wildflower meadow. Both were littered with kids’ toys, and there was a treehouse in the branches of a huge oak tree. He knocked at the rustic wooden door and listened to the noise from within. The stone-built house looked like something out of a fairy tale.
“You have a beautiful home,” Draco said, kissing Hermione’s cheek when she opened the door.
“Thank you,” she beamed. “Come through, please ignore the mess.”
The house was cluttered, but spotlessly clean. The noise was more pronounced inside; there were at least half a dozen voices, and Draco felt a spike of anxiety that he’d have to interact with more people than he’d expected. When they entered the large, open-plan kitchen and dining room, he realised he had nothing to worry about. Ron was wearing a bright-pink, frilly apron, and was alternating between tending various pots on the hobs and watching the Muggle TV. Hermione flicked her wand and the volume lowered drastically. Ron turned to frown at her, but froze when he saw Draco.
“Mate!” Ron flung his ladle down on the worktop and strode over to engulf Draco in a hug, slapping his back roughly.
“Hi, Ron,” Draco coughed. Ron’s hugs hadn’t mellowed with age, apparently. “Smells good in here.”
“Thanks,” Ron grinned. “I don’t get to cook for adults all that often anymore, so I’ve gone all-out.”
Hermione pressed a brimming glass of white wine into Draco’s hand and steered him to a seat at the dining table. The whole house had a kind of French-countryside feel to it, and Draco felt immediately relaxed. He sipped the crisp wine and looked around in interest.
“Where are your children?” he asked, mainly out of politeness – he had no interest in meeting others’ offspring.
“Ron’s mum has them every second weekend. She loves it and it’s honestly a life saver,” Hermione said, a hand on her chest. “I think we’d have gone insane long ago if we had no break from the little horrors.”
Draco could tell from the soft smile on her face that Hermione didn’t mean it, but he laughed nonetheless.
“Harry was gonna be here, but he couldn’t get a babysitter for his lot,” Ron added.
Draco had half a moment of feeling as though his blood had turned to ice in his veins, before he remembered that Potter ran a foster home. Not that it mattered if Potter was married with a litter of kids. Of course. Why would it? Draco managed a weak smile in response before he swiftly changed the subject.
“Any more progress with that potions issue, Hermione?” he asked, not wanting to give too much away if Ron was unaware that Draco knew about it.
“Yes, actually!” she said, suddenly enthused. “They apprehended one person with a case-full of the stuff. Ron found out all the details earlier today.”
Ron nodded over from where he was stirring a steaming pot. “Just because I don’t work there anymore, doesn’t mean I don’t have contacts. Glad you’re gonna help, mate.”
“You have samples of the potion?” Draco asked, urgently. “I need some. I can isolate the ingredients and design an antidote more effectively.”
Hermione nodded. “I’ve been trying, Draco,” she said, looking uncomfortable. “It’s just such a dangerous potion, and you’re relatively unknown in the potions world…”
“And far too known to the DMLE,” Draco added, bitterly.
“No! No, that’s not it at all,” Hermione said, earnestly. “It’s just so restricted, and they can’t be too careful. I’m trying, though.”
Draco nodded and silence fell for a few seconds before Ron asked about what Draco had been up to in the years since they’d left school. He launched into his favourite anecdotes of his education in France, and the subsequent time teaching, until dinner was served.
When Draco finally left Hermione and Ron’s house, it was nearly midnight and his head was pleasantly fuzzy. They’d opened two more bottles of wine and conversation had flowed as though their friendship hadn’t endured a fifteen-year gap. They showed him photos of their wedding, over which Draco apologised again for missing it, and photos of their children. Draco was surprisingly enamoured by the beaming grins and freckled faces of Rose and Hugo, and he promised to come again on an evening when the children would be present. They insisted that he Floo so he didn’t need to Apparate drunk, and he stepped unsteadily through their fireplace into his own living room.
Only when he lay down in his dark bedroom did Draco allow his mind to return to Potter. Hermione and Ron hadn’t mentioned a partner (about which Draco didn’t care at all, okay?), and he wondered about how Potter had been since they last spoke.
Potter had tried to contact Draco a few times since they left school, but Draco had gone out of his way to ignore any and all communication from the other man. His initially tiny crush had grown into a less-than-tiny infatuation, from which Draco knew he needed to move on. So, he moved away. And stayed away. And ignored Potter. And buried his feelings until they…well, maybe they didn’t disappear as such, but they certainly receded from the forefront of Draco’s mind.
But hearing Potter’s name again that evening had brought all of those feelings back to the surface.
Draco wondered how he was, what he enjoyed, how he coped with a house full of foster kids, and what his life was like.
He wondered if Potter regretted the path he’d chosen; whether he wished he was fighting dark wizards on the front line of the Aurors, or whether he yearned to teach his favourite subject at Hogwarts.
He wondered if Potter dated. Surely, he did? He wondered who Potter dated. He knew that things hadn’t worked out with Ginny and they’d parted ways during Potter’s eighth year at Hogwarts, just a few months after she’d dropped out of her seventh year to follow her dream and accept a position on a professional Quidditch team. But since then?
He wondered if Potter ever wondered about him.
He wondered if Potter still thought about that one time, that one night, all those years ago.
The night Draco had told Potter he was leaving England for the apprenticeship in France.
The night when Potter had kissed Draco.
The kiss that led to Draco avoiding his home country for almost a decade-and-a-half.
The kiss that still featured heavily in most of Draco’s fantasies.
He wondered.