Balaur
Eight
“Welcome, Draco!”
Unused to anything approaching “welcome” or “kindness” in public in the recent past, Draco nearly missed the stool he’d selected in an inconspicuous spot in the Leaky Cauldron’s private drinking room. It took 500 galleons and a recognizable face to get past the wards.
“I take it your healer doesn’t know you’re here.”
Luna Lovegood — no, Longbottom now — stood tending bar in her husband’s establishment. Having managed to graduate from Hogwarts early (in spite of the Carrows and Severus Snape), the blonde oddity studied the healer’s craft by day and helped out the new family business by night.
“How’s Hermione?”
The feeling — of dropping from a great height at great velocity with no hope of rescue — consumed him, as did the irony that Hermione must have experienced this same sensation each time he'd defiled her.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know. Can we move past this interrogation? Get me a bottle of Old Gaffer’s and make sure my glass never empties.”
“Whatever happened between you can be settled if you go back. Hermione’s not the type to hold a grudge.”
Shock, which had been following him around like those accursed Ministry house elves, placed itself firmly on the counter where Draco swore he could see it smirking.
“My mother always said pregnant witches can be moody,” the strange but insightful witch continued compassionately, “Hermione’s probably moved past it already. You should go.”
After due consideration of his situation (and of the half-empty bottle of Old Gaffer’s), a slightly altered Draco Malfoy resolved to return to Romania to keep his word to the witch who’d taught him about the transformative power of forgiveness and who increasingly found it difficult to shoulder the burden of her own hellish war experiences.
His plan hit a snag between the establishment’s exit and the apparition point a quarter-block away…