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"I wish there was a way to know you're in the good old days before you've actually left them."
This deeply philosophical thought was casually offered to Malfoy by the barman polishing glasses in the Leaky Cauldron — so fleeting that he wouldn't have paid it any attention. If not for the laughter and heartfelt conversation drifting over from the Gryffindors' table.
Draco listened in: just as he thought. They were celebrating something again. An engagement, maybe, or a christening, or some other such nonsense he hadn't paid attention to in a hundred years.
They were celebrating Granger's promotion. She'd been given a higher position and transferred to the Artefact Management and Dark Curse Resistance department. Malfoy winced and swirled the ice cubes in his half-empty glass of Firewhisky. He didn't understand why a witch with her brains had ended up in the Auror Office at all. They'd predicted at least a Junior Minister post for her, but no. First, she'd worked in the Department for the Regulation of Sentient Beings. Then she'd spent six months in the archives, translating ancient scrolls, and in the end, she'd been the one to help him and Potter track down a ring of smugglers — and then she'd gone fully into artefact work.
Malfoy adjusted his Lieutenant's badge and gestured to Tom for another two fingers. He wasn't properly drunk, but he was well on his way, and the mark on his personal inebriation scale was approaching critical with every glass. He felt terrible. The weather matched. He didn't want to go home. Weasley was laughing too loudly; his wife, Lavender — who also happened to be Malfoy's de facto therapist — was laughing too infectiously. And that only made things worse.
And no, the bleeding-heart Gryffindors had invited him to their table. He'd refused himself. That was so like them — pitying all the orphaned, the wretched, and the lost. Malfoy didn't count himself among any of those three categories. So what was he doing here, at this hour, in this company?
Two years ago, he'd buried his wife. The apricot trees had been blooming obscenely when he'd interred the urn beneath one of them. The sun had shone in Brittany, and three-year-old Scorpius, shrieking with laughter, had caught the falling petals. That day, he hadn't asked for his mother. But Malfoy had felt as though he'd lost all sense of direction. Yesterday was the anniversary of her death. He and Potter had been traipsing around Scotland, trying to track down whatever was terrorising a leprechaun settlement. And today, the realisation had hit him like a wave. Scorpius was staying for the night at his grandparents'. And Malfoy longed to get drunk.
He took a sip, tasted nothing, felt no relief, and set the glass down sharply on the bar. The whisky burned his throat; Malfoy coughed. He felt it in the back of his neck rather than saw it for certain — Granger's concerned glance — and wiped his mouth.
At the far end of the bar, a fight was brewing. A couple of magical poker enthusiasts were looking for a cheat among their ranks, and someone had already grabbed for their wand.
By the entrance, Potter and his lot were saying their heartfelt goodbyes, arranging to meet again next Sunday.
Malfoy's fists itched.
Too much had converged this evening. Other people's laughter. His own emptiness, which he still hadn't gotten used to. The fixed gaze of brown eyes that made him want to look away.
And Potter's words came back to him at the wrong moment, entirely unwelcome: "Learn to accept help. It gets easier."
Malfoy pushed his chair back sharply — it scraped across the floor with a screech. He shoved his wand into his pocket. And paused for a second. As if he might change his mind. He didn't. He took a step forward — and the next moment, he was among them.
The first blow didn't land immediately. First, he was shoved hard. Someone's shoulder caught his injured arm; the smell of cheap spirits hit his nose; and someone snapped irritably:
"Watch your steps, you idiot!"
Malfoy didn't answer. Just shoved back, a little harder than he'd intended. Someone was already shouting. Wands flashed in the air, but spells misfired, hitting the ceiling, the walls, scattering sparks.
He could have. Could have pulled out his badge. One word would have been enough — and it all would have stopped. But tonight, he had other plans. His fist connected with someone's cheekbone; he grunted with satisfaction. The reply came straight away. Sharp, from the side. His head jerked, and a metallic taste flooded his mouth.
Someone grabbed the collar of his robes and yanked him down. A table overturned with a crash; glass crunched underfoot. A light bulb shattered with a ring, shattering over them. In the darkness, it was impossible to tell who was attacking whom.
Malfoy struck again — no longer caring where. Not thinking.
And at some point, he realised he felt almost nothing. No anger. No relief. Just emptiness.
A hand slid to his throat — and squeezed. For a second. Too hard. His breath hitched. A spell flashed to his left. Shot past him. He froze. Pushed his opponent away sharply and stepped back. One more.
His ears were ringing. His breath came raggedly from his chest.
Then he heard Granger.
"Auror Office! In the name of the law, stop!"
Someone was already pulling the fighters apart. Someone was swearing. Someone was laughing nervously, as if at a bad joke.
Malfoy wiped his hand across his face. There was blood on his fingers — someone else's or his own, he didn't bother to distinguish. He picked up his coat from the floor, didn't even shake the water off, and headed for the exit.
No one stopped him.
Outside, it was damp and cold. The air smelled of blossom and recent rain. He stopped on the doorstep, clenched his fist, and lowered his hands.
He could have gone back. He should have said something. He took a step forward, into the darkness, and only after a few seconds understood: he didn't feel any better.
He'd almost turned on his heel to Disapparate — into the silence, into his empty flat, anywhere but here — when he heard steady footsteps behind him.
A hand landed on his shoulder. He flinched as if struck.
"Malfoy, wait."
Of course. Who else? Potter, judging by the shouts from the bar, was busy packing off the offenders. And she — she had followed him out.
Damn her to the Drakkles, and her perceptiveness.
"What do you want, Granger?"
"You're hurt. Let me see."
He shook off her hand and stepped off the doorstep, as if that could put more distance between them.
"Have you trained as a Healer now? Not enough to do with Artefacts?"
She caught up with him and stood in front of him, forcing him to stop. Tilted her head up. Her eyes were tired. And something else, too familiar.
"You should be grateful we stepped in," she said quietly, reproachfully. "Otherwise, you'd be writing reports until the end of summer."
Hermione flicked her wet hair back from her face irritably.
"Why did you get into that? You've got a badge."
He gave a mirthless smile.
"I have."
And that was it. No explanation.
"Piss off," he added, more quietly. "Just… let me leave."
The words came out dully. As if he weren't speaking to her at all. Hermione stepped closer. Took his wrist — gently but firmly. He didn't pull his hand away immediately.
"You have a right to be angry," she said calmly. "But not like this. Don't take it out on people who are nearby."
Her fingers tightened slightly.
"You've been off for two weeks. We've been worried."
He smiled again, more sharply this time.
"'We'?"
His gaze turned colder.
"Keeping an eye on me, Granger? Put me on your latest rescue list? What am I now? A house-elf? A centaur? A Death Eater?"
She frowned and smacked him on the shoulder — not hard, but enough to feel. He staggered back half a step, more from surprise than pain.
"Enough," she said sharply. "Sentient beings don't get into pointless fights."
He grimaced in reply.
"You'd be surprised."
For a second, silence hung between them. The rain had almost stopped. Somewhere, water was dripping from a gutter.
Hermione sighed — tiredly, but more softly now.
"Come on," she said. "Before the whole Auror Office descends."
He was silent. Looked at her. Noticed her stubbornness, her slender hands still holding his wrist. Was irritated that she wouldn't leave. And that, somehow, angered him most of all.
"Let go," he said quietly.
"No."
She didn't raise her voice, didn't take a step back. Just stood there, as she was, looking straight at him.
He exhaled, heavily, as if with effort.
"Hermione… not now."
"When else?"
There was no pressure in her voice, no irritation — just quiet certainty. And that was what finally broke him.
He wrenched his hand away.
"What in bloody hell do you actually want from me?"
His voice didn't crack into a shout, but it came out sharp, with that particular strain that's worse than any outburst.
"For me to sit down with you lot? Have a laugh? Pretend everything's fine?"
She shook her head.
"No."
"Then what?" — he stepped closer, almost looming over her. "For me to be convenient? Obedient? Accept help, as Potter says?"
He bared his teeth — angry, exhausted.
"Great plan. Only one problem, Granger: I don't want to be saved."
The words hung between them, heavy and almost final.
Hermione held his gaze.
"I'm not trying to save you," she said, more quietly. "I'm trying not to lose you."
He froze. As if something inside had glitched, not immediately, with a delay.
He looked away, wiped his hand across his face, smearing the blood.
"Too late," he breathed. "Already lost."
Hermione stepped closer — slowly, giving him time to step back.
He straightened his shoulders.
"Look at me," she commanded.
He didn't want to. But he raised his eyes anyway.
"You're here," Hermione continued calmly. "Standing here, arguing with me, angry. You haven't been 'lost', Malfoy. You're a person who's not coping."
He gave a short laugh.
"Excellent diagnosis."
"I try," she said simply. "And now I'm going to treat you."
He shook his head, no longer with the same sharpness.
"Don't."
"Stop arguing."
She took his hand again — gently, but now without hesitation. Her fingers found the injured spot, pressed lightly.
He flinched.
"Hurt?" she asked quietly.
"No."
"You're lying."
He wanted to answer — to sneer, push her away, restore the usual distance. He couldn't. He didn't have the strength left.
Her hand moved confidently and softly. The magic came almost imperceptibly — warm, precise, not imposing. At first, the pain intensified, then began to ebb, dissolving.
He closed his eyes for a second. Standing like that was unexpectedly simple. Too peaceful.
"Come on." Hermione tugged his sleeve. "It's cold out here."
He opened his eyes and looked at her — at how she was still holding his hand, how she didn't pull away, didn't demand anything, didn't push.
And suddenly understood, not immediately, almost with annoyance, that this was exactly what help looked like. The very thing he'd been so stubbornly rejecting.
He exhaled slowly.
"Just spare me your lectures," he muttered.
She smiled faintly.
"No promises."
She only let go of his hand to pick up his coat from the floor and drape it over his shoulders. The gesture was matter-of-fact, almost habitual.
He didn't argue.
They walked together, their steps sounding strangely even in the night silence.
The walk took no time at all, but it felt longer than usual to Malfoy. The rainy haze hanging in the air gradually dispersed. The first stars were appearing in the sky, and a young moon had risen. Granger stopped a couple of times to admire the flowering trees and point out the moon's reflection in a puddle. He just shrugged, but deep down, he wondered: when had he last walked down a street like this, not trying to drown out the discordant chorus of thoughts, noticing the simple little things around him?
Hermione opened the door without a word, let him in first, and closed it quietly behind her. The flat was warm. It smelled of jasmine candles, lemon fabric softener, and… baking.
Malfoy lingered on the threshold, hesitating to enter, and took a deep breath. He felt like he was starting to thaw. Or warm up.
He'd been here before. Many times. But always — in a hurry, in passing, for quick conversations or after field assignments when they needed to discuss reports. Then, he'd only seen the desk, papers, and shelves of books.
Now, everything looked different.
A blanket lay over the back of an armchair — carelessly, as if used every evening. On the windowsill stood clay pots with basil, oregano, and mint; some of them were labelled in neat, rounded handwriting. On the desk, alongside neatly stacked folders, lay an open notebook — not with reports, but with notes, it seemed, weekly to-do lists. In the kitchen, shortbread biscuits were lined up on a baking tray.
He frowned, trying to understand.
"You bake," he said, not asking.
Hermione, who had already taken off her coat and was rolling up her sleeves, paused for a second, then nodded.
"Sometimes."
He walked further, ran his fingers along the back of a chair, as if checking whether this world was real.
"Doesn't look like 'sometimes'."
She smiled faintly, not turning around.
"It… helps."
She spread a clean towel on the table, put down a jar of star anise infusion, and gestured to the chair.
"Sit."
He obeyed without his usual sarcastic comment, only now noticing how badly his arm was throbbing.
Hermione worked silently, confidently. Her movements were calm, precise, and that alone made things easier. He watched her, watched her concentrated frown, the slight tilt of her head, the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear without being distracted.
Forced collaboration with Potter and Weasley, endless stakeouts, and a few drunken confessions had told Malfoy a great deal about the Golden Trio's lives after the war — specifically Granger's. He knew about her parents, whose memories they'd never been able to restore; about the endless failures in her personal life; about McLaggen's recent injury — he was hopelessly in love with her, and no, it wasn't her fault he'd taken a curse meant for someone else, but… this was Granger. Draco shook his head.
"Is this about Cormac?" he asked suddenly, nodding towards the kitchen. "The biscuits."
She didn't answer straight away.
"Partly."
Her fingers tightened slightly on his wrist as she worked on the injury, and he winced involuntarily.
"Sorry."
"S'all right," he replied.
She finished with his hand, paused for a moment, checking how the magic was settling, and only then let go.
"When it got too quiet," she said, her voice lower, "I started baking. At first, just to keep my hands busy. Then… it turned out to help."
She shrugged, as if talking about something trivial.
"Therapeutic baking, you know. Lavender suggested it."
He raised an eyebrow slightly.
"You bake grief away?"
"More like… bake through it," she replied calmly. "The dough needs attention. It stops you thinking too far ahead."
He nodded, accepting it as he would any other fact.
"Here and now?"
"Nearly," she smiled at the corner of her lips. "Just without the lotus position. Fancy some tea?"
Malfoy smiled. There was too much recognition in her unsaid words. He suddenly wanted to hold onto the moment.
"Only if it comes with your famous biscuits."
In the kitchen, he sank heavily onto a chair by the window and watched as Granger performed her rituals by the stove. He recognised it immediately — the famous London Fog, a drink for those who'd forgotten what real warmth felt like. At its base was a strong Earl Grey, with a bitter note like smoke from a distant fire. Then came frothed milk, thick and viscous as London smog slowly settling over the streets in November. And vanilla. An absurd addition, meant to soften the bitterness, but in reality only highlighting the sharp aftertaste.
It really did remind you of late autumn. Of that damp, clinging haze that blurs the boundaries between houses and shadows, between people and their reflections in puddles. A drink for those accustomed to living in expectation of sun, of warmth, of any kind of break in the clouds.
Some called it "tea for the weather-sensitive". Others called it "winter comfort". Those who knew its true essence simply called it "the Fog". Because, like real fog, it enveloped, concealed, and allowed you to hide for a while from everything outside. And from everything inside.
Hermione brewed two cups and arranged the biscuits in a small bowl. She placed a large ceramic mug in front of him with confidence. Orange. With a giraffe. With a chip on the rim. She noticed beauty in imperfection — Malfoy had noticed that about her, too.
"This is London Fog," she explained, sitting down opposite. "My morning salvation on days when I don't want to get out of bed."
He didn't reply. Just watched the steam rise above the surface — slowly, lazily, as if unsure where to go.
She drank unhurriedly. Cupped the mug in her palms as if trying to warm herself, and brought it to her lips. Closed her eyes for a second. The first sip was the longest. The second, shorter. By the third, she was looking at him over the rim of the mug, and there was too much longing in her eyes.
He didn't touch his own cup. Watched it cool. Waited for the steam to stop. Not because he didn't want to drink — but because he didn't know what to do with this gesture. With this cup. With this kitchen. With her.
She'd said, "on days when I don't want to get out of bed". He understood. Because his days had been like that for two years now.
At some point, she reached out and pushed the cup closer to him. Didn't shove it, didn't insist — just moved it a couple of centimetres. As if to say: "You need to warm up."
He took the mug. His fingers met warmth — the very warmth she'd felt moments ago. Her palms had left something intangible on the ceramic. The heat that was no longer there. Or maybe it still was — depending on how you measured.
The first sip burned not his throat — but something inside. There, where for two years there had been only emptiness, something else suddenly appeared. Small. Warm. Like that very vanilla that tries, but can't quite overcome the bitterness.
He took a second sip. And a third.
Hermione sat half-turned. She was looking out the window, where the stars shone, scattering the night gloom, and smiling at something of her own. Drinking her Fog.
"Bitter," he said at last.
"Agreed," she replied, not turning around.
"And sweet."
"That's the vanilla. It always seems out of place. Then you realise that without it, it would be utterly unbearable."
He held the mug in his hands. Felt the warmth flow from the ceramic to his fingers, from his fingers to his palms, from his palms — further in. To his wrists. To his veins. Filling the icy cold inside.
"London Fog, you say?"
He smiled at the irony.
"Clever name. For those used to not seeing past their own noses."
"Or for those used to waiting for the mist to clear," she corrected.
He looked at her. She was still looking out the window. And in the reflection of the glass — where the stars met her profile — he didn't see the Granger he knew from work. Not the top student, not the Auror, not the one who was always saving everyone.
He saw a woman who was also waiting. Who also drank her tea in the mornings so as not to forget what it felt like — to feel warmth.
He drained the drink to the bottom. Set the mug down on the table.
"More," he said, with certainty.
She nodded, took his mug and hers, and went to the stove. And as she poured the fresh Fog, he watched her back, her thick hair gathered in a messy bun, the way she adjusted her sleeve — automatically, the way you only do at home, when you think no one's watching.
He saw.
And for the first time in two years, he didn't want to look away.
She placed a fresh cup in front of him. The steam curled above the surface again — scalding, impatient.
"Your turn now," she smiled, sitting down opposite.
"What?"
"To hold onto the moment."
He lifted the mug. Inhaled the scent of bergamot, vanilla, and hot milk. And realised he didn't know how to do that — hold onto moments.
But he would try.
For this tea. For this kitchen. For the woman looking at him over the rim of her mug, asking nothing — only that he stay.
He obeyed.
