Things, naturally, did not go according to plan.
Instead, Draco spent the majority of his time sampling the fine firewhiskies that had been provided for him by the ancient House of Black. He spent the entirety of a week vacillating between extreme bouts of drunkenness and debilitating hangovers, which more oftentimes than not called for another bottle of Blishen's Best or Ogden's Finest firewhiskey.
He drank. He slept. He blacked out, something he laughed to himself about after the fact—how apropos it was to blackout in Black Manor.
He cried, too. And he yelled.
He visited his mother most evenings—oftentimes where the crying and yelling took place. He loved her, and he hated her. Mostly, he just wanted to know her—to understand her.
He lamented that he'd missed his chance.
He hated that she'd robbed him of it.
The elves had yet to reappear, and the evidence of Draco's drunkenness became apparent quite quickly; there were empty bottles everywhere.
On the ninth day, Draco roused himself from the bed, headache already beginning to throb at the base of his skull, and set to cleaning, determined to stay sober for at least half a day. He'd clean his room, then he'd begin his task on the gardens. He'd promised his mother, after all.
Even though he was currently angry with her.
Draco vanished the empty firewhiskey bottles—all twelve of them—dressed quickly, thankful that he now had two matching pairs of shoes courtesy of Potter, and headed outside to the gardens.
He had made very little headway when felt an irritating niggle at the back of his brain, accentuated in part by his ever-present headache. Draco furrowed his brow, confused, but continued to dig with the shovel he had found in a dilapidated shed at the furthest side of the house. The niggle, however, persisted.
"It's not polite to keep a lady waiting, Draco."
Draco whirled around, suddenly understanding the niggle. Blood wards. Someone had made their way onto the estate.
Of course, that person just had to be Pansy Parkinson.
"Pans?" he asked, headache flaring.
"Hello to you, too, darling," Pansy replied with a roll of her eyes.
Draco furrowed his brow once more, several questions forming at the front of his mind. The first: "What are you doing here, Pansy?"
He had not seen Pansy Parkinson in a number of years, probably not since the Final Battle, if he had to determine a definitive date. She had abruptly broken up with him in their fifth year at Hogwarts—apparently to date Astoria—and had disappeared after their seventh year. Draco couldn't even recall having seen her at his trial, which he now realized was strange. Even though they had broken up, he and Pansy had grown up together, and he very much had considered her a lifelong friend, romantic entanglements aside. Her absence, he remembered, had hurt him at the time, but had been quickly forgotten by a stint in Azkaban.
Her sudden reappearance stung, then, as he realized that she had abandoned him when he had probably needed her the most. It made him angry.
"You look like shit, Draco," Pansy said, not answering his actual question.
Draco stood, wiping the dirt from the gardens on his denims, and glared at her.
Pansy wrinkled her nose at the action. "And dare I say, rather common."
Draco glared harder, gritting his teeth. "What are you doing here, Pansy?" he repeated, his anger growing.
Pansy flinched slightly, but her expression remained cool. "Where is she?" she returned after a moment.
"Where is who?" Draco asked.
Pansy rolled her eyes again, as if she were asking the most obvious question on earth. "Astoria, you utter fucking prat."
Draco stared at her, wondering if she were asking a serious question. Then he saw the raw urgency in her eyes and knew that she was. He laughed bitterly. "I don't know, and I don't fucking care," he answered.
Pansy sighed, an exasperated sound. "I know you know where she is, Draco, and I'd appreciate very much if you told me."
Draco left out a frustrated breath, an answer to her own sigh. "What do you want, Pansy?" he asked, sounding exhausted to his own ears.
Pansy stomped a foot, a crack in the façade that was her impeccable breeding. "Tell me where the fuck she is, Draco Malfoy, or I swear on Merlin's grave I will hex you!" she demanded.
Draco laughed again. "I haven't seen you in years, Pansy. Then you show up here, making demands? I think not, Pansy. I think rather the fuck not." He hadn't wanted to sound hurt—he had wanted to sound strong, angry. Not hurt. But the words hadn't come out quite as he had intended.
Pansy visibly faltered, as if she had come to a conclusion of her own. She looked away from him, some of her determination and haughtiness fading away, as if had been an illusion. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. He wasn't certain if he'd ever heard Pansy Parkinson apologize for anything before. Draco looked back to Pansy, who looked equally as uncomfortable with her apology. Draco asked his second question: "How are you here, Pansy?"
Minutely, Pansy wrung her hands together before her arms fell to her sides, stilling. "I went to the Manor—Malfoy Manor," she corrected. "An extremely rude Ministry official told me that the house was no longer in your possession, so I went to Granger's horrid little shop—" Pansy wrinkled her nose at this, "—and she told me where I'd find you." Pansy's eyes flitted over him in judgement. "She looks almost as horrible as you do."
Draco froze, suddenly lost for words. "Hermione?" he asked quietly.
She rolled her eyes again, irritation evident on her face. "Is that what we're calling her these days?" she asked. "Yes, Hermione." Hermione's name was a sneer.
"What—?" he began, his list of questions for Pansy suddenly forgotten.
Pansy huffed. "If you don't recall, you rather notoriously did an interview with Rita about your relationship with her. Now, if I'm being rather honest, Draco, I found it to be in very poor taste."
"How—?" Draco asked.
Another eye roll. "I get The Prophet in France, you know."
France. Pansy had been in France. That felt important somehow.
"Now, if we've quite gotten that out of the way, can we return to the topic at hand? Where is Astoria?"
Something clicked in Draco's stuttering mind. Pansy. France. The Prophet. Astoria.
Astoria. Her suspicious glances down the hallway every time she opened her door. Her prolonged disappearance. Changing hotels so fewer people knew her. Draco narrowed his eyes at Pansy. "She's been hiding from you, hasn't she?"
Something that looked a little like guilt flashed over Pansy's face before she swallowed. "Yes, I suppose she has," she replied eventually.
"For how long?" he asked.
"About a year," she answered, and it seemed like the truth. "She came back for a little bit—" Pansy's expression twisted into something that looked a bit like agony before she continued, "but I woke up one morning and she had gone again. I've been looking for her ever since—I—" she cut off again. "I had suspected she was in Scotland, but a week ago Rita sent me photos of you and Tracy with her, so I came back to England."
"Rita?" Draco asked, dumbfounded and unable to process everything else Pansy had just told him.
Pansy looked vaguely uncomfortable. "We kept in touch," she replied quietly after a moment. "After Hogwarts."
"Pansy—I—what?" Draco asked.
"I didn't say anything about Hermione, so you don't get to say anything about Astoria," Pansy said haughtily, jutting her chin out defensively.
"Are you in love with her?" he asked seriously.
Something unreadable flashed in Pansy's eyes. "Yes," she replied shortly.
Draco laughed. "She destroyed my relationship, you know."
Pansy sighed. "I wondered as much," she said. "When I saw Granger. Astoria can be—" Pansy wrinkled her nose, searching for words.
"A psycho?" Draco supplied.
She glared at him. "Self-destructive," she corrected.
Draco rolled his eyes. "Right," he said, disbelief evident.
"Are you going to tell me where she is?" Pansy asked, softening, something like desperation creeping into her expression.
"Yes," Draco replied after a moment. "Just—" he cut off before opening his arms to Pansy, motioning vaguely for her. Pansy understood in an instant, rushed to him, wrapping her arms around his middle. Draco pulled her into him, encircling her in his own arms. "I've missed you, Pans," he said quietly as he held her.
"I've missed you, too, Draco," she replied. "I'm sorry that I—it was all too much, you know?"
"I know." And he knew, he really did. Better than most.
Pansy pulled away from his embrace, eyeing him once more. "You really do look like shit, Draco," she said, her voice softer.
Draco choked out a laugh. "Thanks, Pans."
"Now, at the risk of sounding repetitive—where is she?"
"Hawthorn Inn, room 417," Draco replied, taking a step back from Pansy.
Pansy let out a heavy sigh, a sound of relief. "Thank you, Draco," she said sincerely.
She looked awkward for just a brief moment, as if her purpose had now been accomplished and she was now unsure what else to say. Draco felt it, too. They were old friends, but the bond they had once had was no longer there. Draco felt its absence acutely—he had never been uncomfortable around Pansy. Draco made a vague waving motion. "Go get her, Pansy," he said, attempting a smile.
Pansy smiled back—a real, genuine smile. Draco had always thought that Pansy was beautiful when she smiled.
Once Pansy had disapparated, Draco turned back to his shovel with a huff, beginning to dig once more, determined to plant at least one flower today.
She had scarcely been gone for ten minutes when Draco felt the niggle again—having become attuned to it now that he had realized what it was—even before he heard the telltale crack of apparition. He turned around, surprised to find that Pansy had returned. Draco furrowed his brow as he took her in. Her smile had vanished, and had been replaced by a distinctive worried expression. She had visibly paled, and she was wringing her hands together, tearing at her nails.
"Pans?" Draco asked.
Pansy's eyes shot to him. "She's gone. I—she left this morning. I saw her room—it was a mess, Draco. Empty bottles of liquor everywhere." Pansy ripped at a nail, flicking it onto the ground, before she brought her fingers to her mouth, gnawing at her nails. Draco knew Pansy well enough to know that she struggling to keep her anxiety at bay.
Draco sighed, massaging his aching temple with his fingers. "It's been like this ever since—" Draco paused, realizing something. "It's been like that since she returned from France." He narrowed his eyes at Pansy, whose own eyes flickered away from his, looking slightly misty. "What happened?"
Pansy gnawed at her fingernails before answering. "It's not my place to say," she said quietly. "How bad is she, Draco? Be honest with me."
Draco shook his head. "I don't know, Pansy. She's a mess. Erratic, I guess. Drunk a lot. Hermione—" Draco cut himself off, not wanting to think about Hermione. "She snapped her wand."
Pansy paled even further. "Draco, you have to help me find her."
Draco flinched. "What?" he asked. "Absolutely not."
"Draco," Pansy begged. "I know you're angry with her right now. But I need to find her. Please."
Draco shook his head. "No, Pansy. Wherever she is—she's fine. She can take care of herself."
"Please," she begged again. "What if it were Granger?"
A low blow, and by the way Pansy was staring at him, she knew it, too.
What if it were Hermione? Draco's blood ran cold just at the mere thought. If Hermione were missing, or in trouble, or he was worried about her—There wasn't even a question in Draco's mind. If it were Hermione, he would do anything to find her, even if they weren't together. He'd always known he'd do anything for Hermione.
Draco looked up to find Pansy watching him intently, and it occurred to Draco that perhaps Pansy would do anything for Astoria, and Draco couldn't fault her for that. "Fine," he said quietly, resigned. "Let's check The Leaky first. She stayed there before."
Pansy nodded, her expression grateful. "I'll apparate us," she said, grabbing his arm.
"Pans, wait—" Draco cried out. But it was too late, and Draco was being pulled and twisted as Pansy apparated them, dropping them directly in center of a very crowded Diagon Alley. Draco grimaced as several sets of eyes landed on Draco and Pansy, watching them suspiciously. "There is a secluded alleyway we can apparate to," he finished, unhelpfully.
"Sorry," Pansy said, squeezing his arm. "I didn't quite realize."
"It's been a long time since you've been here, Pansy," Draco replied, leading her away and down the street towards The Leaky Cauldron.
"Cleary," she replied lowly.
They walked down the street in silence, Pansy's hand tucked into the crook of his elbow.
Draco saw her before she saw him. He would be able to identify her in a sea of a hundred people easily, so distinctive she was and how familiar she had become to him. It was the hair, mostly, that gave her away—her riotous curls that looked so beautiful strewn across a pillow—
No.
Hermione was walking down the street with Potter, heading straight towards him and Pansy. Draco felt his throat close, and suddenly breathing became incredibly difficult. His fingers began to twitch where they lay at his sides, and his stomach dropped sharply. It was an odd combination of anxiety and exhilaration at seeing Hermione again—it had been so long since he had seen her, and his heart began thrumming excitedly in his chest, as it apparently had not gotten the message that Hermione was no longer his.
His chest hurt at that realization.
Belatedly, Pansy had realized that Draco had stopped walking, and she tugged impatiently on his elbow, completely unaware of the emotional clusterfuck that was currently walking down the street. "Come on, Draco. What—?" Pansy turned to look at the sight that Draco currently had his eyes locked on. "Oh, fuck," Pansy said, seeing Hermione and Potter, who were talking quietly to each other and hadn't seen Draco or Pansy yet.
"I haven't seen her," Draco said quietly. "It's been—I haven't seen her."
Pansy rolled her eyes. "You really are helplessly in love with her, aren't you?" she asked.
Draco didn't answer. It seemed fairly obvious.
It was Hermione who saw them first, her eyes locking first on Draco's face before her eyes flitted down to where Pansy held him by the elbow. She faltered for a moment, tripping briefly over her own feet.
His first instinct was to rush towards her and catch her, prevent her from falling. Then he wanted to pull her into his arms and bury his nose in her hair. He suppressed these urges with a visible shudder and watched as Potter started, grabbing her hand and steadying her with a furrowed brow. Hermione gestured minutely towards Draco and Pansy, and Potter turned to look, narrowing his eyes as soon as he saw the location of Pansy's arm. Draco grimaced, realizing suddenly what it must have looked like, and pulled his arm out of Pansy's grasp.
Draco flushed a deep red as both parties stared at each other, everyone unsure of what to make of this sudden and unexpected meeting. Draco swallowed, noticing that Potter's eyes were still trained on him intently, very clearly studying him. Draco looked to Hermione, who was more interested in her shoes than anything else. Draco allowed himself to check over Hermione. Potter had said she hadn't been doing well, and Draco catalogued several hints of that as his eyes roved over her.
Hermione's wild hair was disheveled and appeared slightly oily at the temples, and it lacked its normal gleam and shine. Her golden skin was pale and wan, as if she had not gone outside in several days. She had clearly dropped several stones, as the familiar purple jumper that she wore hung limply around her collarbones. Once more, Draco was struck with the instinct to gather her into his arms, pull her into his chest, and hold her until all of her hurts went away.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
"Well, this is uncomfortable," Pansy announced.
Hermione refused to look up, still intently studying her shoes.
Draco missed her so fiercely it felt as if his heart were being ripped out of his chest. He wanted to say 'hello', to ask her how she was. He just wanted to hear her voice again. The words caught in his throat.
"Granger," Pansy continued, her voice taking on a falsely sweet tone. "By chance, have you seen Astoria recently?"
Hermione's head snapped up at that. Her eyes landing first on Pansy, then Draco. They locked on his for the briefest of moments, then she grinned. It was a mean grin, a sad grin, a knowing grin. "Astoria, of course," she said quietly. Potter's narrowed gaze had turned to daggers. Hermione cleared her throat, answering Pansy in her most authoritative, business-like tone, "No, Pansy, I have not seen Astoria." Hermione turned to Potter. "Harry, come on, let's go."
Potter was still staring at Draco as he nodded, wrapping a comforting arm around Hermione's narrow shoulders.
Draco wanted to stop them. He wanted to ask her not to go. He wanted to steal her away and take her back to their flat, where they were safe and together, and they would never leave.
Potter and Hermione passed Draco and Pansy, Potter putting a very deliberate berth between them. Draco couldn't help but turn and watch Hermione walk away. It tore at him, having to watch her walk away from him, and he very literally could not breathe. Her missed her so fucking much.
As Hermione disappeared down the street, Draco let out a heavy exhale, attempting to control the wild hammering of his heart. "Can we continue? Or are you going to have this mental breakdown right on the street?" Pansy asked.
Draco glared at her. "Fuck you, Pansy."
Pansy merely rolled her eyes. "Don't worry, we're going to delve headlong into your relationship woes as soon as we find Astoria," she said, continuing to pull him down the street.
They arrived at The Leaky Cauldron, and Pansy immediately rung the bell at the main counter several times before shrieking, "Excuse me, does anybody work here?"
A haggard looking innkeeper came around the corner with an annoyed expression on his face. Draco could hardly blame the man; Pansy had a tendency towards being a lot to deal with. "Yes, ma'am," the innkeeper said in a tired voice. "How can I help you?"
"Do you have an Astoria Greengrass staying here?" Pansy asked hurriedly.
The innkeeper rolled his eyes, but pulled the inn's ledger from beneath his desk, dropping it down onto the counter loudly. Idly, he flipped through the pages.
"I hardly think the attitude is necessary," Pansy muttered under her breath.
"I could say the same for you," Draco replied lowly.
Pansy rolled her own eyes, but did not answer.
"Ah, yes," the innkeeper finally said, clearly bored. "Ms. Greengrass checked in yesterday—"
"Great," Pansy interrupted. "What room is she in?" she continued.
The innkeeper rolled his eyes once more, clearly fed up with Pansy. "757," he replied, slamming the ledger shut.
"Thank you," Draco enunciated, looking pointedly at Pansy, who was already rushing towards the stairs. Draco followed as she nearly sprinted up the steps. "Pans, slow down," he said, feeling breathless. "I'm a bit out of shape."
"No," Pansy replied, breathless herself. "I already feel like a rube. What kind of inn doesn't have a lift?" she huffed.
Draco rolled his eyes. "You do know where we are, don't you?" he asked.
Pansy did not reply but continued to run up the stairs. When they finally reached the seventh floor—just as Draco realized they probably could have just apparated—Pansy rushed down the hallway, and finding the door to room 757, began banging on the door. "I know you're in there!" Pansy shouted. "Astoria Selene Greengrass, you will open this door right now!" Pansy continued to pound on the door until several of the occupants opened their doors, wondering what all the noise was. Draco motioned vaguely to Pansy with an apologetic look. "If you don't open this door in 10 seconds, Astoria, I'll open it for you!"
"Pansy," Draco warned, indicating with a gesture that they had attracted witnesses.
Pansy stilled, straightening her shoulders. "Right," she said through gritted teeth. She knocked at the door again, in a much more civil manor. "Astoria, it's Pansy. Can you—can you just open the door?" Pansy tried again, her voice softer now.
The door opened slightly with an almost inaudible click, and Pansy took a tentative step forward when Astoria failed to appear. She seemed hesitant, almost confused, and she turned to Draco, questions evident on her face. Draco merely shrugged and gestured that Pansy should enter.
With Draco's encouragement, Pansy pushed at the door, opening it just wide enough so that she and Draco could slip through. Draco followed Pansy, closing the door behind them. The room before them was completely dark, and it took Draco's eyes several seconds to adjust. When his eyes had adjusted, Draco quickly scanned the room around him.
Even though Astoria had only been at the inn for a day, the room was already in disarray. Empty beer bottles littered the coffee table, spilling onto the floor. The sink was already full of dirty dishes, and it appeared as if Astoria had moved all the bedding from the bedroom and piled it on the couch. It wasn't until the bedding shifted slightly did Draco realize that Astoria was lying on the couch, staring at them warily with dull eyes. "You finally found me," she said to Pansy. Her eyes flicked to Draco. "I suppose I deserve this." She looked guilty for just a moment before she looked back to Pansy. "I told you not to look for me."
Pansy walked towards the couch, dropping to her knees before Astoria. Pansy brushed a lock of dark hair away from Astoria's face. "You knew I wouldn't listen," she replied softly.
Astoria flinched at Pansy's touch, and Draco watched the intimate display in front of him, growing uncomfortable. Draco scratched at the back of his neck as Pansy and Astoria whispered to themselves. "Well," he said, even though he felt as though he were interrupting an intensely important moment. "If there's nothing else, I suppose I'll head on home."
Pansy didn't look at him, but nodded to indicate that she had heard him. "I'll swing by a bit later," she said, still stroking Astoria's hair as she stared at her.
His presence no longer needed, Draco slipped out into the hallway and apparated back to Black Manor. Draco was met by Potter, sitting on the steps of the porch with his arms crossed. Draco wasn't even surprised to see the other man—he had felt that familiar niggle as he apparated onto the estate. Walking towards the steps, Draco sighed. "It's rather rude to show up unannounced as frequently as you do," Draco drawled.
Potter stood and walked down the steps, uncrossing his arms and balling his fists tightly at his sides. "You fucking bastard," he said to Draco, raising his arms and pushing at Draco's shoulders.
Draco pushed back. "Fuck off, Potter," he said coldly. "And don't touch me."
"You fucking bastard," Potter repeated, pushing him again, harder this time.
"What?" Draco seethed, pushing Potter off of him.
"I fucking told you that you were fucking up. I fucking told you," Potter said, his face turning red with rage.
"Yes, I remember that conversation, Potter. What the fuck do you want—Fuck, stop pushing me!"
"And then she has to see you on the street with Pansy fucking Parkinson, holding her godsdamned hand—"
"Potter, I know what it looked like—" Draco interrupted, but Potter talked over him.
"Are you fucking her?" Potter asked. "Are you fucking Pansy Parkinson?"
"What—? No! Of course not—" Draco began.
"Then why were you holding her fucking hand?"
Draco shook his head, looking away from Potter. "We always used to walk like that," he said quietly. "Even after we broke up. It was always a habit," Draco admitted. "I'd never—Potter, I'd never. She—with Astoria."
Potter stared at Draco, as if attempting to discern whether he was being truthful or not. He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it even further than it normally was, and sighed. "I want you to stay away from her," he said.
Draco nodded. "I was already doing that."
"No. I want you to stay away from her. The picture with Tracey was bad enough, but she believed you, and if you had just come back and apologized, she would've taken you back in a heartbeat, but now with Parkinson—that one really hurt her—"
"Taken me back?" Draco asked bewildered. "She broke up with me, Potter."
Potter's expression grew unreadable. "You are a colossal idiot, aren't you? She didn't break up with you, you fool. She just wanted some space. You're the one who never came back."
Draco thought back to the day he'd left her alone in that flat. She'd broken up with him, hadn't she? Draco tried to remember, but—it was all a blur. She'd said she was going to stay with Potter and Ginny, but she—Draco realized in an instant, she'd never said the words. Then he remembered the look in her eyes when he'd grabbed his things—she just wanted some time to think, but he'd—he'd left again. He'd left her again. "Fuck," Draco swore, grabbing for his wand in the pocket of his trousers. "Move, Potter, I've got to go—"
Potter pushed Draco's hand away. "Did you not just hear what I said to you?" he said. "I told you to stay away from her."
"No," Draco began desperately. "I didn't—I didn't realize—"
"I know," Potter said, softening. "But it's too late now. You left her, and she kept waiting for you to come back. She saw you today with Parkinson, and—" Potter cut himself off, shaking his head. "You guys were good together, you know," Potter continued after a moment. "But I think you need to leave her alone until you get your shit together."
Draco looked down at his hands as they spasmed. "I don't know if I can do that without her," he admitted in a rare moment of weakness in front of his former childhood nemesis.
Potter clapped his shoulder. "I know it's tough, mate. I know. But you have to try."
Draco nodded. "Try," he repeated.
"Try."