Chapter Text
Hermione toed the ground with her boot, thankful she’d opted for thick woolen socks given the temperature as she stood outside in silence, watching the man before her work.
How had she ended up here, with him of all people?
Right, she thought bitterly, Neville’s doing.
Six months ago, Hermione had purchased a house. A quaint cottage, really, something on a modest piece of land that had been owned by a widowed witch, who was eager to sell after the passing of her husband. It was kismet, as Hermione’s mother would have said, because it just so happened to go up for sale when Hermione was finally ready to sell her parents’ home in Hampstead.
It had been nine long years since she made the decision to not restore their memories, and it was time.
Unbeknownst to Hermione, something she blamed herself for because she did not ask the right kind of questions when purchasing real estate and trusted the smooth-talking realtor easily, there was a structural flaw with the home that made itself known slowly, but increasing still, once ownership changed hands.
A tree, it seemed, planted just-so on the lay line that ran through her property, with roots chasing along the magic and beginning to buckle the foundation.
Hermione initially had just managed the damage with repairing spells. The first crack in the wall of her kitchen was patched up quickly, the boughed hump in the hardwood floors covered with a rug, the flower bed seemingly torn apart by creeping roots shooting through her grass relocated to the other side of the house.
Until she awoke one morning and the entire south-facing wall was crooked. Not intentionally, reinforced by magic like the leaning structure that was The Burrow—she had even called Arthur Weasley over to take a look, to see if he had any ideas on how she could stabilize it.
He was of little help, but she thanked him for making the trip out to Cardiff anyways and sent him off with a hug and a reassurance that she would be at the surprise birthday party he was planning for Molly in the coming weeks.
Hermione had stared at the damned wall, knocked askew as if it were made of cardboard and was hit with a strong gust, eying her sage-green curtains on the window as if they had personally offended her by daring to hang straight while the window was at a slant. She didn’t even want to begin to think about the magical properties involved that had allowed the glass panes of the window to remain intact, while actually increasing in area as the rectangular shape had morphed into a rhombus.
Neville was her next stop.
“Can you just come look at it, please?” Hermione had all but begged, Flooing to the Three Broomsticks and traipsing up to the castle, catching Neville unawares in his office, which was more of a storage closet off of the largest greenhouse at Hogwarts.
“Hermione,” he said with a sigh, brushing some dirt off of his shoulders. “I get that I’m the plant guy, but trees really aren’t my area of expertise.”
She huffed frustratedly, feeling a bit like a petulant child, and resisted the urge to stamp her foot. But Hermione had been convinced that the wall was tilting further by the day and that the east-facing wall, the one that ran along the front of her house, was moving now too.
“I know someone, though.”
Hermione brightened at that, looking at her friend hopefully. “Yeah?”
Neville scrunched up his nose and moved to his desk, bits of parchment and scatters of loose soil and plant cuttings taking up most of the space and dug through a drawer.
“Yeah,” he said with a heavy sigh. “He’s a…well, tree farmer, I suppose, for lack of a better term. Magical arborist, but he got his start in the Muggle world. Just…don’t hate me for it?”
He slipped her a small business card, with the only thing printed on it an image of a large fir tree and a telephone number.
“Neville,” Hermione said, frowning at the card, “this is odd. I can trust this man?”
He looked thoughtful for a moment before nodding. “Professionally, yes. He actually helped us treat the old Whomping Willow a few springs back when it got sick, and is helping with some of the Forbidden Forest restoration efforts. He prefers discretion, though, hence the lack of identification on the card.”
“Neville, who the hell is this man?”
After Neville was saved from answering any further questions by a loud crashing in the greenhouse, a Venemous Tentacula had decided to make an escape from its pot, Hermione bade her then distracted friend goodbye and went home. She dialed the number on the card, appreciating that while this tree farmer was a supposed wizard, they had entered this century and had a Muggle phone as well.
It was very convenient, and Hermione was desperate.
The line had trilled in her ear until a gruff voice answered. “Magical Tree Services.”
“Er,” Hermione hesitated, pacing around her home office. “Hi. I have a tree on my property that needs attention. I was wondering if you had time to look at it?”
“What kind of tree is it?” The voice sounded familiar, but Hermione couldn’t place it.
“I don’t know, exactly. I thought it was just an oak, but the roots are—”
“Is it on the lay lines?”
“Yes, from what I understand. It hasn’t—”
“When did this happen?”
Hermione grit her teeth in frustration at being continually cut off. Neville said this man was good at what he did, but he was an arse. “I bought the property six months ago. I did not realize there was a problem until recently. My wall is crooked.”
She huffed as the man laughed, obviously holding the receiver away from his mouth. “Address?”
Hermione gave him her address, tapping her foot on the ground.
“I can be there tomorrow morning. Does six work?”
No, actually, it didn’t. That was her only day off that week, and six in the morning was early, even by her standards as Hermione wasn’t one for a lie-in often. But she also didn’t want to argue with this man, whoever he was, and get off on the wrong foot.
“Yes, fine.”
“Great. Oh, who am I speaking with, by the way?” He added as an afterthought.
“This is Hermione Granger.”
Silence…
Then, a heavy sigh.
“See you in the morning, Miss Granger.”
Something about the way he drawled her name made her shiver.
As it turned out, Hermione needn’t be concerned with getting things off on the wrong foot with this tree-farming magical arborist stranger. Because that ship had sailed, years ago. She was standing outside at 5:55 in the morning, her breath puffing out in little clouds as she sipped her strong black coffee, when the person who she thought would fix her slowly tilting home, popped through her wards.
Draco. Fucking. Malfoy.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Hermione said exasperatedly, realizing how silly she’d been. Now that she was confronted with the man, she immediately recognized his voice. The sarcastic drawl he’d had since they were children, although his voice had deepened quite a bit to a low rumble.
Malfoy’s voice wasn’t the only thing that had changed, much to Hermione’s chagrin. He was taller, annoyingly tall. Broader too, leaving behind the lithe Seeker body belonging to a boy, giving way to a man. A man whose tight white t-shirt stretched indecently over his chest, whose red and black checked flannel shirt seemed too snug on his biceps. Surely that would limit his range of motion.
Even his pristine white, blond hair had darkened a bit, looking more golden in some spots especially where it was shorn close to his head on the sides. The top, which was still a bit longer, looked sun-bleached. He even had a dusting of golden stubble on his stupid, chiseled jaw.
If the poncy “I’m better than you” expression on his face and the sharp, cutting grey eyes didn’t give him away as Draco Malfoy, former bully and one-time Death Eater, not seen in wizarding society in years, she wouldn’t have believe it to be him. He looked…like a Muggle. Wearing flannel and denim and boots that had clearly seen their share of earthen floors, carrying a canvas rucksack over his shoulder.
“Granger,” Malfoy said tightly as he approached.
“Malfoy.”
That was all the conversation they needed, apparently. Hermione set her thermos down and led him to the side of the property where the tree in question was.
It was cold, and she could easily go inside, curl up under a blanket, and read as she liked to do on her mornings off. Maybe toss some scones in the oven, enjoy several cups of tea, and watch the sun come up the rest of the way. But somehow, doing so felt like giving Malfoy a satisfaction he didn’t deserve. Besides, she hadn’t seen nor heard of him in years and despite Neville’s trusting nature, Hermione wasn’t so sure.
It was more prudent for her to stay and watch, she told herself.
After seeing him pull various things out of his bag, some magical and some mundane, and watching with curiosity as he worked in silence, Malfoy didn’t pay her any regard as he cast spells over the tree and begun making notes in a small notebook.
With a Muggle pencil.
For forty minutes Hermione watched him, the two of them in a stony, awkward silence, before Malfoy put his belongings back into his rucksack and turned towards her. A light sweat was beading on his brow, despite the chilly weather and his face was completely impassive.
“It’s sentient.”
“Obviously,” Hermione said, slightly mocking the drawl she’d come to associate with the man. She thrust a hand towards the nearest side of her house which was very clearly not square. “It’s affecting the structure of my house. Hence, you being here at Merlin’s bollocks o’clock.”
Malfoy gave an amused smirk. “My, my, Granger. Quite the mouth on you. Who knew?” He threw the strap of his bag over his shoulder and headed towards the house, placing a hand on the exterior wall. “This isn’t safe.”
“You are rife with keen observations today.”
She had a bit of an attitude, but it was cold, it was early, and Draco Malfoy was on her property. As much as she had a hundred questions, mostly being why and how and what the fuck, she also was irritated by his mere presence.
“You are…” Malfoy said with a sigh. “Not a pleasant person in the morning. Another keen observation.” He looked like he too was battling with the entirety of the situation, furrowing his brow and opening and closing his mouth as if he was itching to say something foul but stopping himself.
“I’ll need a bit more time on this.”
“How much time?” Hermione whinged, worrying her lip between her teeth. “Malfoy, I cannot have my house falling apart. Neville said you were the best.”
“I am the best,” he replied without an ounce of arrogance. “That doesn’t mean what I do is easy by any stretch. A month, tops. Maybe sooner, if I can come out more often.”
“I’m only off on Tuesdays right now,” Hermione rushed out, thinking of her ever-demanding work schedule. She could give up two shifts in the A&E, but the money was useful, and they were short staffed with another healer on maternity leave.
“Don’t trust me to be on your property without your watchful eye?” He said a bit derisively, venom lacing his words.
“That’s not…no, I didn’t mean—”
Malfoy scoffed. “Spare me your platitudes, Granger. Tuesdays it is, I start my day at six but if this is the kind of beastly attitude I’ll be confronted with, I can come at seven since you’ll obviously insist on supervising me.”
Hermione felt properly ashamed and chastised. He wasn’t wrong, not entirely, that the idea of him being on her property without her being there made her uneasy. But could he blame her? She hadn’t seen him since his trial, nearly a decade ago and the last words they’d spoken to each other had been full of vitriol, of contempt. She’d be an idiot to trust him.
“Seven. Tuesdays.”
“Fine,” Malfoy said through gritted teeth. “In the interim, I suggest making arrangements to stay elsewhere, should this get any worse. But clearly, you’re still a stubborn little witch, so make sure your medical directives are up to date if the house collapses on you.”
He turned to leave, heading towards the end of the property line to Apparate out, with Hermione yelling after him.
“Wait!” She ran through her yard, feet slipping a bit on the wet grass. “Do you really think that could happen?”
Malfoy laughed, the sound echoing across the lawn. “I’m a tree farmer, Granger, not a bloody carpenter. Call someone else!”
He left with a small pop, leaving Hermione gnawing on her lip in the lawn, wondering what the fuck she had gotten in to with this house.