Mutualism

Draco wasn't sure what possessed him to offer Malfoy Manor's gardens for the War Orphans' Benefit Dinner.

He'd heard about it through Pansy, who had scraped back enough of her reputation and influence to be allowed to purchase a committee seat. It had been a passing remark, a throw-away, wedged between debate recaps on whether the prime rib would be grade R4L or R4H and the most flattering shade of uplighting for Hogwarts' Great Hall.

He could've just thrown money at the problem. Told Pansy to go wild at her favorite nursery and send him the receipt. The approach would have kept him anonymous and uninvolved, fulfilling the twin priorities that had dominated Draco's post-acquittal existence.

But there it was. The offer fell out of his mouth and onto the table, nearly upsetting the tea service and stunning Pansy into a record thirty seconds of silence. She recovered with an elegant shrug and a promise to relay his offer to the committee.

Draco doubted it would go far. They would probably make a show of it. Debate the matter, force a vote, and record the rejection in the committee's minutes, which would be filed away somewhere dusty and forgotten. Just like he had been.

Wizarding society had eschewed association with the Malfoy name for an entire year. They reviled his imprisoned father, forgot about his heartbroken mother, and actively disdained Draco himself. Just because he'd been able to afford a gifted Advocate and had, admittedly, lucked into a lenient Wizengamot bench. He'd been cleared under the law, but the court of public opinion rendered its own judgment. He had no reason to expect this committee—this unofficial jury of his peers—to be any different.

And then Hermione Granger arrived at his door.

She wore a long-sleeved Weird Sisters shirt, faded denims, and scuffed white trainers. Her hair was pulled back in a high, sloppy bun, and a patchwork fabric bag hung casually over her shoulder. It looked like she popped over during her morning errands. Like a trip to the place she'd been tortured was equally traumatic as a trip to the grocer's.

It was a lie.

Draco knew it was a lie because he could hardly walk past the manor's drawing room without breaking into a cold sweat. He wasn't sure how she hid it. Dissociation? Potions? Or did therapy actually work for her? He wanted to ask, but that would mean admitting he needed more help than he was already receiving. And though he did, Hermione didn't need to know that. Best to keep the depth of his trauma and the breadth of his failure in healing from it a secret.

Still, her composure impressed him. Hermione's gaze was steady and assessing. Unabashed, she looked from his face, down his chest—which today was clothed in a soft, light blue cashmere sweater appropriate for the season—and past his khakis, finally ending at his loafers.

Illogically, Draco felt overdressed, and a frisson of pique caused his lips to purse. Who was she, to show him up in his own damn house? To lord her comfort over him, when he still felt chained to the propriety and expectations of his blood? Ungracious thoughts—old ideas, ugly things that he'd adopted but weren't his own—suddenly reared. His lips continued to twist as the words he would have said just one year ago turned bitter on the back of his tongue.

Draco opened his mouth a fraction and exhaled, breathing away the recrimination and hatred that had, until very recently, defined his life. He was trying something new, a suggestion from his Wizengamot-appointed PsychoSocial Healer.

A blank slate.

Starting everyone from zero, including himself.

It was likely a load of rot.