The room is brightly lit and smells of lavender. The brochure for the facility says that there are healing properties in lavender so Narcissa adapts to the floral scent during her visits. Once she leaves, the scent lingers and reminds her of what is lost, of what will never be again, and she fights the tears that threaten to spill every time she smells it. Tears are for the weak, after all, and it’s only in the privacy of her room where she lets go and allows herself that weakness.
Draco looks peaceful when he sleeps. She can sit by his bed brushing the pale blond strands away from his face and believe that he’ll soon wake up and everything will be okay. Instead, when he wakes, he blinks at her and smiles childishly before asking her to tell him a story. She’s fortunate that he still talks. Many of the inhabitants in this place simply lie there or make the most dreadful noises as they attempt to sleep. Draco has nightmares, but his mind is broken so she hopes he doesn’t realize the bad dreams are actually memories.
Voldemort has been gone for eighteen months, finally destroyed by Potter, and the world is in a period of reconstruction. So much was destroyed during the war, both people and places, and it is taking time for everyone to live again. She has seen a flier advertising the re-opening of Diagon Alley, an area that was completely decimated near the start of the war, and she thinks back to her youth where visiting the area was a treat. She remembers her glimpses of it after Voldemort destroyed it, the ruins and fires and bodies that hadn’t been removed by the time the Prophet sent a photographer. Sometimes that image wakes her from sleep and she feels as if she can’t breathe.
She did nothing in the war. Her husband languished at Azkaban while her son was forced to make choices no child should make while she stayed out of it all. She is proud of Draco even if he went against everything she was taught. He made a dangerous choice, the only one he truly had by that point, and he suffers even now for his bravery. She visits him daily and wonders if she might have been able to save him from this fate had she not been so determined to protect herself. Remaining neutral ensured that she wasn’t at risk, but her husband died in prison for his choice to follow a crazed half-blood and her son is lost in his mind because he refused to follow in his father’s footsteps once he had his first taste of death.
Draco whimpers and she reaches for the flannel on the bedside table. It’s damp and she twists the cloth to remove the water before she brushes it against Draco’s brow. She rubs it soothingly against his pale skin, careful not to press down on the scar marring his flesh, and watches him settle back into sleep. A mother should never have to see their child this way. It should be her in the bed and Draco who has his whole life ahead of him without the pressures of his youth and the expectations of his family on his shoulders. She does nothing except exist anymore. She’s forgotten how to live, not that she’s convinced any longer that she ever truly knew how.
The sound of the door opening draws her from her thoughts. She collects herself and glances at the Mediwitch who has entered. The girl has become part of Narcissa’s routine over the last year. She is one of the best in her field and it’s fortunate that she has taken Draco’s case. The Mediwitch they had prior was old and cranky, treating Draco as if he were a monster despite the truth of his actions, and Narcissa always hesitated leaving her son in that woman’s care.
This girl, however, is unbiased. It’s ironic, really, considering what Narcissa knows of the past the young woman shares with her son. Lucius would come back from the grave if he knew that Narcissa allowed a Muggleborn to care for their son, but she doesn’t care because their son deserves the best. Hermione Granger, from all accounts, is the best. She is focused on her work and does research in an effort to find ways to help or cure the many effects of the curses that were suffered during the war. She is only twenty-four but she seems so much older. When Narcissa looks into her eyes, she sees a girl far older than her years.
“How is he today?”
Narcissa looks at her son and sighs. “The same,” she says honestly. She has gone from barely speaking to this girl, wary of any Mediwitch in contact with her son and especially someone heralded as a hero of the war, to developing something akin to friendship.
“He’s reacted well to the new potion I started giving him,” Hermione tells her as she consults her notes. “Have there been any more instances where he’s recognized you?”
“Last night, he looked at me as I was telling him a story and he said ‘Mother’ in a voice that sounded more alert and I thought---I hoped,” she trails off as she takes a deep breath and tells herself not to cry. A hand on her shoulder squeezes gently and she glances up to see Hermione looking at her with concern.
“Perhaps I should ask if you’re okay,” Hermione mutters as she studies her carefully. “You’re still not sleeping, are you?”
“You are here to look after my son, not me,” she says tightly, unaccustomed to anyone giving her such a thorough look or caring how she is doing. It has been years since she’s been touched even casually and she refuses to admit it feels nice that someone cares, even someone who is paid to do so.
“You’ll be no use to him if you don’t take care of yourself,” the irritating girl points out in a pompous tone that gives Narcissa an idea just why her son was always talking about the ‘know-it-all Mudblood’ during his holidays. “My job is to make sure that my patients are doing well. Draco needs you, even if it may seem that he’s beyond help, so that means you are part of my concern, Mrs. Malfoy.”
“I am fine, Miss Granger. The question is how is my son?”
“You’re not sleeping and I doubt you can tell me the last time you’ve eaten a full meal. Perhaps I should make your updates on my research and efforts dependent upon you taking care of yourself.”
“I would point out that such behavior is unacceptable for a medical professional but I somehow doubt you’ve ever paid attention to the rules when it suits you better to ignore them, Miss Granger. Threatening a patient’s relative is very low, even for a Gryffindor.”
“I made no threats, Mrs. Malfoy. I was merely musing about several possibilities aloud. I take my job very seriously and the majority of my time is spent with my patients or doing research on possible cures so I find it appropriate that I expect a patient’s relatives to take care of themselves should I need them at some point.”
“Perhaps your eating and sleeping patterns should be analyzed, Miss Granger. I highly doubt that the circles beneath your eyes have become so dark and deep after one or two restless nights.”
Narcissa is pleased when the girl frowns and looks at the chart instead of denying her accusation. It takes only a few minutes of complete silence, save for the rustle of parchment, before she begins to feel guilty. Bringing up probable nightmares and an inability to sleep to one of the few who was actually there the entire time and helped face and defeat Voldemort is entirely inappropriate and rude.
She studies the girl discreetly as she focuses on Draco. Hermione Granger isn’t a beautiful girl; at least, not in a flashy ornamental way. She’s quite pretty, though, and could probably look beautiful if such a goal was ever in her mind. Narcissa doubts the girl has ever cared one way or another about her physical appearance so long as she’s dressed and able to study or work properly.
Narcissa has spent many hours over the last year watching the girl that she hopes will bring her son back, even in some small way. She is aware every time the girl hasn’t slept well because her skin will be pale and the circles will be darker. She knows when the girl does sleep well because her eyes will sparkle slightly with an optimism that doesn’t seem possible in someone who has seen and done everything Hermione Granger has in such a short life.
She knows that there are five freckles on the girl’s nose during the autumn and winter and that the number increases to nine during spring and summer. She knows that the girl bites her fingernails and chews on her quill, the latter always causing a bit of ink to remain on her lips or cheek when she is working. She knows that the girl’s hair refuses to stay up unless the blue clip is used and that it always escapes a braid before the end of the day.
Her gaze lingers on Hermione’s mouth, watching her lips as she does her tests and takes notes. If they quirk on the right, it means she’s pleased with the results. If they quirk on the left, it means she’s perplexed by her notes. And if they curve downward, it means the results are unchanged. Narcissa is happy to see them quirk on the right and waits for information.
“I think the latest potion is helping,” Hermione finally says once her tests are complete. She looks up and meets Narcissa’s gaze. “We won’t know for a couple more weeks if his moments of awareness are going to become more frequent or if they’re just a momentary effect caused by the new potion, but I have hope that this might work. There’s still a lot more to be done, of course, but this is the first favorable news we’ve had since I started working with him. I may be wrong, though, so please don’t get your hopes up.”
“He’s looked at me twice in the last week and recognized me, Miss Granger. I know that means very little to anyone else but, to me, it has meant more than anyone can realize,” she admits as she looks at her son and brushes his hair away from his cheek. “I have to hope because I’d have nothing if I didn’t.”
“I’ve found another spell recently that I might be able to use to help piece his mind back together,” Hermione tells her quietly. “I’m still doing research because it’s old and hasn’t been used in over a century so I have no results to analyze. Once I make a determination one way or the other, I’ll discuss it with you. If it doesn’t work, I’ll move on to the next experiment and see what I can find out. I’ve succeeded in bringing around another patient who had suffered hours of the Cruciatus curse and he’s making steps to recovery so there is a reason to hope. In your son’s case, however, I’ve no idea what curses were used on him so it’s a lot of trial and error, which takes time. He’s stubborn, though, and survived when everyone thought he’d die so I believe we’ll eventually have favorable results.”
“We are very fortunate that you’ve taken an interest in his case,” Narcissa says sincerely as she looks back at the girl. “Anyone else would have let him lie here until he died.”
“He saved a close friend of mine, Mrs. Malfoy. I’ll do whatever I can to save him,” Hermione answers honestly. She looks away and stares at her notes again. “Besides, I promised you that first day that I’d try to get him back for you. I don’t break my promises if I can help it.”
Narcissa looks at the blanket that is covering Draco and licks her lips as she shifts in the surprisingly comfortable chair. She has become used to this awkward feeling over the past few months, though she’s not exactly sure what it means. She normally ignores it and blames it on nerves or lack of sleep. After all, it certainly can’t mean what she thinks it might.
“How long has he been sleeping?”
The question pulls her from her confused thoughts and she says, “About an hour, I guess. I’ve been here most of the day and he was awake earlier. He wanted to hear another story and he played with his blocks until he got tired.”
“I’m glad he’s enjoying the blocks. It shows that he’s no longer content simply lying in bed and that he wants to get up and be more active. That’s very positive.”
She listens to the scratch of the quill against parchment and watches as Hermione grows thoughtful before she makes more notes. It’s almost possible to see the girl thinking, to see the multitude of ideas that must be in her head, and Narcissa finds it fascinating to watch her think. “Draco has always been very stubborn,” she says with a slight smile as she thinks back over the years.
“Yes, I know,” Hermione says dryly before she flashes a quick smile. “In this case, that stubbornness is helping me so I can’t mutter about it. Do you have anything from his early childhood that he might find familiar? If he’s having moments of cognizance, a favorite toy or book might help pull him out of his mind even if only for a few moments.”
“I’m sure I have something. I can look when I return home this evening,” she replies as she tries to remember what was actually saved from his childhood.
“Good. Bring it with you when you visit tomorrow, if you find something. I’d like to introduce a few things to see if they produce any results. You should look tomorrow, though, as you really do need to try to sleep more, preferably after a good meal,” she adds in a firm no-nonsense voice that probably makes most of her friends snap to attention.
“Perhaps you’d like to join me for a meal.” Narcissa is surprised when she says the words that have been in her mind for several months. She has managed to resist saying them until now and cringes as she realizes she sounds hopeful and vulnerable, wanting to sound brave and confident.
“Join you?” The words are repeated softly and it’s obvious that the girl hadn’t expected the casual invitation.
Narcissa looks up and arches a brow, refusing to display any signs of uncertainty despite feeling as if she’s done something terribly brave. “Yes. I was thinking maybe dinner somewhere nice with good food so we can ensure that we both eat a proper meal.”
Hermione blinks and continues to look stunned even as her cheeks flush a pretty shade of pink. Narcissa feels rather smug that she’s managed to cause the girl to be speechless, a condition she doubts she ever suffers. She tries not to feel ridiculous for asking her son’s Mediwitch, a Muggleborn hero of the bloody war, to dinner as it is easy to pretend she meant it as something casual and friendly should the girl refuse. It wouldn’t mean anything more than something casual, after all, since Narcissa was far too old for an intelligent pretty young girl and there was the entire issue of her never having felt such awkwardness for a woman before that just makes things even more complicated, it seems.
“All right. I’d enjoy that,” Hermione replies finally. She’s still blushing and keeps looking from her notes to Narcissa as if she’s unsure where to look. “I work late, though, and I’m not really dressed for somewhere very nice.”
“I stay with my son late,” Narcissa reminds her, feeling relieved and intrigued about the acceptance of her invitation. “I’m sure we can find somewhere enjoyable to have a meal. Tonight, then?”
“Tonight,” she agrees with a shy smile that contradicts the secure and firm woman who gives orders and discusses research and potions with poise and knowledge. She suddenly looks much younger and less jaded than Narcissa has ever seen her. “I’ll, uh, come by after my rounds. Probably half eight, if that’s not too late.”
“It’s fine,” she says with a shy smile of her own, feeling more like a bashful teen on a first date than a woman over fifty who has had a lengthy, loving marriage and a son as old as the girl that has somewhat managed to unknowingly seduce her. Narcissa almost rolls her eyes when she realizes that she’s blushing, too, and wonders why her natural self-confidence has to desert her when she’s embarking on something new and rather frightening.
“Good. It’s a date then,” Hermione declares before she bites her lip and shifts in place. “I mean, I assumed---is it a date, Mrs. Mal---Narcissa?”
Narcissa meets her gaze and her lips quirk into a smile that hasn’t been on her lips in longer than she can remember. She brushes her fingers across Draco’s forehead before nods, watching as Hermione relaxes and smiles in reply. “It’s a date, Hermione.”
The End
Time For a Change
Story Notes:
4/3/06