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The worst thing, Draco Malfoy thinks, about being the fallen scion of an ancient and noble house banished to the Muggle world for his various misdeeds is undoubtedly the grocery shopping.
There are certain things a civilised person should never touch with their own hands; there’s just something awfully gauche about handling unprepared food (isn’t that what staff are for?), and money? The stuff is filthy. Touched by unquantifiable numbers of sticky plebian fingers and even — as Draco has seen on the particular Muggle television show he’s been using as a sort of cultural education guide — rolled up at the end of nostrils (nostrils) and used for purposes he still doesn’t fully understand.
Then, and possibly even more offensive, there are the people. People who grin gormlessly at him in the fruit aisle, or chuckle inexplicably when their trollies collide by the bread. They riffle through discount bins (that stuff is expired, for Merlin’s sake), make scenes at the checkout about the application of coupons (Draco prides himself on his absolute refusal to apply a discount to his shopping) and purchase battered and misshapen vegetables as though appearances don’t matter (they do). They’re insipid, half-witted and worst of all, obliviously content with their grocery shopping and their smiling and their trolley jokes. It is, to a discerning gentleman such as Draco, unfathomable.
This is why, as any sensible person would be forced to do, he has developed a mechanism to protect himself from such unwelcome public interaction.
It mainly involves excessive glaring, if he’s honest.
Draco has perfected the death stare. His glower is unrivalled; he’s a leading light, one might even say, in the scowling community. He has made an art form of pulling down his eyebrows and narrowing his eyes, throwing his gaze around with burning intensity at any poor soul who happens to catch his eye. He wanders the supermarket frowning at peaches and sneering at the cereal, he curls his lip at babies and frowns at wagging-tailed dogs.
It isn’t enough.
Because with absolutely no encouragement from him, he seems to have become a beacon for the attention of a certain type of shopper, and under the honestly ridiculous pretext that his uniform of black tailored suits could be (he shudders to think) the clothing of a supermarket worker: Grannies.
“Do you have organic granny smiths?” a particularly weather-beaten looking lady asks him one Tuesday afternoon.
His frown vanishes at the sheer shock of being directly addressed by such a fragile creature, and as though he is tedious enough to work in a place such as this.
“I’m not sure,” Draco finds himself saying, voice rising in what he can only assume is the unconscious and instinctive application of his manners. Unaccountably he’s looking, eyes scanning the aisles for the green apples she has asked him for. He’s quite sure if she hadn’t caught him off guard he’d have stared her down by now.
And then, to the silent outrage of the part of himself that abhors social interaction and Muggles and helping and people in general he says; “I think they’re over there.”
His eyes widen in surprise at this unintended declaration and worse, the softness in his voice as he points to the boxes of fruit not ten feet away (the woman is clearly an imbecile).
To his continued confusion she only looks at him expectantly. Her eyes are a faded blue, the skin beneath them thin and crinkled like lilac tissue paper. There are white whisps of hair falling around her time ravaged face and he’s fairly sure her cardigan was knitted by someone with only the vaguest idea of what a human body looks like. She also doesn’t appear to be anywhere near as intimidated by him as she ought to be. And really, a hitherto undeclared part of his brain reasons, he needs to buy some apples for himself (the sound of his teeth in a crisp granny smith apple is one of his few selfish joys). He could just—
He sighs, holding out his arm in a begrudging surrender to this feeble octogenarian. “This way.”
He escorts her, (the person Draco thought he was five minutes ago is utterly dumbfounded) chivvying her away from the non-organic produce when she attempts with clumsy fingers to add that to her basket.
Draco wonders who is letting this hapless simpleton out alone in public; she can’t even tie the bag she’s put her apples in. She thanks him when he does it for her, laying her hand on his forearm in a gesture that makes him feel uncomfortably…something. He won’t name it. It’s warm though. He’s still thinking about it when he gets into bed that night.
It’s a few weeks before he sees the strange old woman again. He curtly informs her, as he’s fulfilling her request for a specific can of baked beans from the top-most shelf, that he is not, in fact, employed by the supermarket.
“Thank you, dear,” she says as he hands it to her. He’s still unsure why the dozens within her reach weren’t satisfying her legume related needs. “You’re always here on a Tuesday afternoon?”
He almost kicks himself; he’s not sure why he answers her question truthfully. “It’s quietest on Tuesdays.”
She smiles, and it’s oddly wolfish. “I’m Edith,” she says.
Edith is there to bother him every week after that.
She hobbles over asking for this or that, and Draco, seized by whatever strange instinct he is beholden to that makes him helpful and accommodating to anyone over the age of seventy — okay sixty. Fifty-five? Fuck — finds himself pandering to her every whim.
“Must you insist on the bag of frozen peas which are most difficult to reach?” he asks.
“They’re always the freshest,” she says, patting him on the buttock where he leans over the side of the freezer. If Edith is anything to go by, Muggle women of a certain age are extremely tactile. Draco isn’t sure what to make of it, but it’s not the strangest thing he’s come across in the Muggle world (from his understanding, they’re a people who make polite requests for health and happiness from an omnipotent wise man who lives in the sky), so he tries to take it in his stride.
Edith asks him coyly to take command of her basket and later asks him if he’d like to taste her taco at some point soon. Draco is slightly vexed by the use of the singular noun.
Another time she requests his company at the butcher’s counter. He wrinkles his nose at the smell.
“What are you doing with four pounds of beef, Edith? Red meat is only recommended once per week as part of a balanced diet.” Someone has to make sure she’s caring for herself, he reasons. She’s certainly not sensible enough to do it for herself.
“I’m strong as an ox, Draco. Don’t worry about me.”
“So you’ll be able to carry your bags to the bus stop yourself today then, will you?”
She slows in an exaggerated fashion, hand clutching her hip. Draco rolls his eyes.
“All those steps don’t do my hip replacement any good. Now if there was a nice young man with a motorbike who could help me home…” she trails off wistfully.
“It’s not a motorbike,” he tuts. “It’s an electric scooter. And that’s completely out of the question. I’m sorry.”
He’s absolutely firm on this point. It isn’t enough that she can’t be trusted to do her shopping unsupervised. Now she wants him to accompany her to what he's sure will be an inconveniently small and garishly decorated abode. He attempts to arrange his features in the menacing set that used to come so easily to him.
Edith merely blinks.
“No,” he says again.
Her hands venture lower on his stomach than they likely need to, as she clutches at him from behind, shrieking in glee. He has to resist the urge to turn sharply to throw her off the back of his scooter and into the oncoming traffic. Or that’s what he tells himself; for some reason though, he can’t stop grinning.
Everybody knows Hermione Granger is a do-gooder, so it comes as a surprise to no one at all when she sets up a weekly coffee morning for the elderly at her local community centre.
She tries to convince herself it’s because she likes to be of use, to make lives better, to help, but in her most cynical moments she knows that isn’t the case. Hermione needs to be needed; she always has. So really it’s a selfish endeavour.
Another perk, however, is that the gossip in the over seventy-five community is truly riveting. Harry usually joins her for this exact reason. They get to hear all about Cynthia from across the road’s affairs, the tragic sweep of black rot destroying Arnold’s roses (which Edith has admitted is actually the result of her midnight applications of herbicide), and the truth of the misplaced pride Margaret feels in her eighty-eight-year-old husband Donald’s full head of hair (everybody else knows it’s a toupée).
The most recent hot topic to dominate conversations in the tea room, shouted into long deaf ears and whistled through false teeth, is that Edith appears to have found herself a toyboy. She was, according to Phylis, seen groping him liberally as he carried her shopping bags into her home by Patricia’s neighbour’s daughter, who was walking her dog at the time. Hermione isn’t surprised; Edith has a record for this type of behaviour, as well as a habit of doing anything in her power to earn Arnold’s disregard (which this most certainly has).
Arnold has warned Hermione to expect a kerfuffle today, as he is planning on demanding Edith abandon her strumpet-like ways. He’s late to ride even the first wave of feminism. Hermione prepares her tea with some anticipation; she doesn’t think it’s anybody's business who Edith has convinced to carry her shopping, but she has to admit she’s looking forward to the fallout nonetheless.
“You’re bringing shame on the cul-de-sac,” Arnold says, brandishing a nobbled finger in Edith’s direction.
Harry gasps at the seriousness of the accusation. “Arnold!”
“The only shame is the state of your lawn!” Edith retorts, unapologetic. Hermione hides a smile by shoving a biscuit into her mouth.
“He can’t be a day over eighteen!”
“He’s twenty-nine. The prime of his life! So potent. Flexible, too.”
Hermione watches as Harry attempts to prevent the mouthful of tea he’s just inhaled from dribbling out of his nose.
“What’s the rumpy-pumpy like?” Margaret asks, eyes shining with anticipation. “Patricia’s neighbour’s daughter says he’s a bit of a rogue. He’s got tattoos, she said!”
“He does!” Edith agrees delightedly, “and he’s got a great big—”
“Shame!” Arnold cries. Hermione is disappointed that Margaret doesn’t get an answer to her question.
“Oh give over, Arnold. We all supported you when you bought that Ferrari.”
“It was a Mazda,” Phylis says mildly as Arnold’s jaw hangs open, teeth threatening to spill over his wobbling lip.
Edith looks at Hermione pointedly over the rim of her teacup. “You could do with a nice boy like mine, Hermione. I could ask him if he has any friends.”
“That’s an excellent idea, Edith!” Harry says as she jabs in him the ribs with her elbow. “Does he have any for me as well?” Harry has a soft spot for Edith’s shenanigans the size of Scotland.
Hermione chokes down her biscuit so she can object.
“Hermione doesn’t want to associate with the kind of riff-raff—”
“That’s very nice of you, Edith, but I’m happy as I am.”
“You know I’d have you in an instant, Harry, if you would just succumb to my charms,” Edith tells him, resignation in her voice.
“What does he look like?” Margaret asks. “I always did like a Marlon Brando type.”
“Why don’t you come and see him on Tuesday. I’ll be meeting him at the supermarket, then if all goes well, home for some post-shopping—”
“Harlot,” Arnold grumbles. “She’ll be on to the next in no time.”
“Just because I told you your courgette could have been bigger, Arnold.” Edith makes a lewd hand gesture. “I might keep this one,” she tells Margaret. “He’s got an impressive tricycle if you know what I—”
Arnold pulls himself from his chair, bones creaking, and stomps to the bathroom. The haste of his exit is somewhat hindered by his search for his walking stick.
“Poor fellow,” Phylis says to Hermione. Privately, Hermione is on Edith’s side.
“He’s got it bad,” Harry agrees. “We need to be there to witness this, don’t you think?”
Somehow, Harry manages to convince her to help him drive the contingent of geriatrics to the supermarket on Tuesday, to see for themselves Edith’s young man in the flesh.
She’s fairly sure, whoever Edith’s newest victim is, he can’t live up to the hyperbolic rhapsodising of his looks; the golden hue of his silken hair, the sharpness in his stormy eyes.
“They’re not actually shagging? Edith and her mystery man?” she says, doubt creeping into her voice.
“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Harry shrugs, pouring himself another cup of tea and settling in for the rest of the morning.
Draco is waiting for Edith by the bananas. He stands with his hands in his pockets, straight-backed and attempting to inject even a small amount of threat into his glare. He has to admit that his association with her is probably ruining his aesthetic.
This is where she usually finds him. To be truthful, he’s long given up trying to do any of his own shopping until he’s discharged his duties in assisting her. He’s been forced to accept her as a sort of helpless supermarket-specific attachment (although she did convince him to accompany her to her dental appointment last week. Ghastly business.). In particularly vulnerable moments, he thinks he doesn't even mind (it’s probably the same part of his brain that thought eating a hot dog, on Edith’s recommendation, was an advisable idea, so he doesn’t entirely trust it).
She’s late though, and Draco is just contemplating wandering over to the bus stop to ensure she hasn’t been delayed when he’s accosted by a bespectacled prune of a man who grabs his hand, gripping with a fiendish strength that manages to take him by surprise, and pumps his arm viciously up and down. It leaves Draco feeling more than a little bit bamboozled, and wondering how much time he needs to allow to pass to be polite before he can wipe his hand on his handkerchief.
He prioritises rubbing the feeling back into his fingers, over the scathing insult he could deliver.
“Arnold!” the man shouts inexplicably, puffing his chest out and crossing his arms.
To Draco’s dismay though, it doesn’t end there. A woman whose short stature and long nose make him wonder if she’s a descendent of his old house-elf reaches up on tiptoes to grasp his cheek between her thumb and forefinger. Once she’s secured her grip she pulls, yanking Draco’s face towards her own, so close he thinks he’ll soon become more intimately acquainted than he’d like with her honestly impressive volume of nose hair.
“Madam!” Draco tries to object in alarm.
“I see what she means,” the house-elf woman says. “Cute as a button. Look, Margaret.”
That does it for Draco. “Now listen here,” he says, backing into the shelves of pineapple behind him in an attempt to free his face from her grip. It fucking hurts. “That is not the word I’d—”
“Stop manhandling him, Phylis. You’ll drive the poor boy away.”
“I’m no boy—”
“Good head of hair though. Almost as thick as my Donald’s.” She pats him affectionately on the ear and tugs at it. He’s going to give them all a good dressing down if he could only get a word in edgeways.
“Margaret,” Phylis starts. It looks to Draco like she might be about to deliver a hard truth. Good, he thinks viciously, hair pullers deserve the worst kind of punishment. “You know Donald’s hair isn’t—”
“Him?” The Prune Man interrupts, blinking owlishly through his glasses and speaking for all the world as though Draco can’t hear him. “Weak looking little thing isn’t he? I’m surprised he can even carry her shopping. Doesn't look like he's done a hard day's work in his life!”
He’s grimacing at Draco in a way he’s sincerely missed in people’s reactions to him; finally, Draco thinks approvingly, someone who responds appropriately to his demeanour. He had assumed the elderly were simply immune, but maybe it’s just the women.
Draco is about to establish his control over the situation; to remove all of the hands hovering about his person and put an end to the inspection being made of him as well as the quite unexpected rudeness when he sees her. He hasn’t been so relieved since the convenient murder of a certain Dark Lord who was making his life a misery.
“Edith!” he says as she veers off in the wrong direction, distracted by some discounted biscuits she seems to have spotted. “Edith! Get your fellow senior citizens in hand.” He hopes desperately that she’s remembered to put her hearing aid in today. “Edith!” His voice rises in what Draco is forced to acknowledge could be desperation as Prune Man prods him in the shoulder.
When Edith eventually makes her way over to them, Draco is so overwhelmed he moves quickly to put her wheelie shopping bag between himself and the gathered crowd of geriatrics.
“There you are, Draco. I see you’ve met my friends.”
He thinks accosted by would be a more accurate description of what’s transpired in the last few minutes.
“I’ve been telling them all about your many talents,” she winks.
Draco finds himself standing a little bit straighter. He does have many talents, he realises. And not just scowling either.
“I’m sure Arnold would love some help obtaining his incontinence pads.”
“What? No! I don’t—” Prune Man (Arnold, apparently) sputters.
“Ah. Too late even for those, is it?” Draco has no idea what Edith’s talking about, but Arnold is turning pinker with every utterance.
“Come on, Draco,” Edith says, and hoping for an escape from whatever on earth is happening, he follows gladly.
Hermione is delayed in the car park by Harry’s suggestion of a wager.
“I’m telling you. There’s a whole lot of sexual tension there,” he says.
“Edith and Arnold? They hate each other, Harry.”
Harry nods wisely. “That’s what makes it so passionate. It’s not like they’ll have to tolerate each other for long.”
Hermione doesn’t get around to replying. They both freeze on their entry to the supermarket at the most unlikely tableau that faces them at the fruit and vegetable section.
Because there, striding away from the pineapples, surrounded (and being physically mauled) by her charges, is a person Hermione hasn’t seen in ten years.
Her mouth goes immediately dry. Or wet. It’s confusing. He’s tall. So tall. And he looks as though he might have discovered an intensive exercise regime because: muscles. If she’s honest, she’s seen all this before, though. Height and strength; they're nothing to her. Or not enough, at least.
The thing about being a war heroine is, that most men Hermione has come across physically cower under her scrutiny; their lips tremble and their eyes widen and honestly; sometimes all she wants is someone who can meet her stare.
And Draco Malfoy’s glare is something to behold. Then there are his hands and arms; they’re a canvas of expressive beauty, it’s like he’s inked all of his intensity onto his skin. It’s a declaration in intricate lines and patterns and symmetry in rich black ink against pale skin. They creep up to his ears and over his knuckles. She finds it…alluring to say the least.
It’s then that she realises—
“Is that—” Harry says, voice hoarse.
“Malfoy,” she finishes for him equally breathless.”He’s Edith’s boyfriend.”
“Oh God,” Harry groans, gesturing to Malfoy with an open palm. “He’s—”
“Yeah.”
“He’s so—”
“Beautiful.” Hermione’s swallow is audible.
“It’s the—”
“God the tattoos—”
“—the way he’s acting though—”
“Harry, he could undress me with his eyes.” She really wants him to. Undress her.
“—he’s just so—”
“—fucking hot.” She doesn’t have the brain capacity for eloquence at the moment. All her blood seems to be rushing somewhere else.
“—helpful,” Harry says.
She pauses, thoughts of what’s lurking beneath that expensive suit halting for a moment. Hermione turns to look at him, only to find his eyes closed. “What?”
“He’s so—” Harry runs his hand through his hair (not that it makes any difference to the state of it). “Look how nice he’s being to Phylis.” He sounds frustrated, and she can sympathise.
Hermione looks; and it’s true, his hand is under her elbow as he steers her gently down the bathroom supplies aisle. He doesn’t look happy about it. He also looks as though he might have instigated some kind of intense verbal altercation with Arnold, as he's gesturing wildly with his free hand. She frowns.
“And you find that…?”
Harry sighs. “Oh. Yeah.”
“It’s the general air of inaccessibility for me, Harry.”
“Ah no. I’m quite into the, er, Grandma affinity. It’s because I’m an orphan.” He says, matter of fact.
"Of course." This is going to be a very interesting Tuesday afternoon, she thinks.
“You’re honestly urging her to buy the three-ply toilet paper?” Arnold says, apparently aghast. “Extra soft? Your precious arse can’t handle a bit of kitchen roll? Ultra-strong. That’s what real men use, boy.”
“I demand the best in all things, Arthur,” Draco says (on purpose; he knows what he’s doing). Now that he’s grown used to Edith being nice to him, it’s a bit of a shock to return to the usual animosity from strangers.
“You’ll be telling me you pay someone to service your car next. Or that you moisturise. I bet you’re a bloody vegan.”
Draco is momentarily taken aback because are there people who don’t moisturise? No wonder Arnold’s face has taken on the approximate texture of a walnut.
“Well of course, why wouldn’t a person—”
“Edith!” Arnold bellows to the other end of the aisle. “Edith you don’t need to lower yourself to this ridiculous excuse for a man. Stop this nonsense at once!”
Draco winces at the volume of Arnold’s voice.
“I’ve not got my hearing aid in, Arnold!” she shouts back. “You like Draco? I told you. Potent.”
Arnold huffs impatiently. “He can’t please you like I can, Edith!”
The supermarket has gone strangely silent, the usual background noise of beeping check-outs and squeaking trolley wheels conspicuous in their absence. Draco is slightly offended by the insinuation he isn’t meeting Edith’s grocery shopping needs.
“Now, hold on a moment—” he begins only to be interrupted. Again.
“Is that a promise, Arnold?” Edith asks, hobbling up the aisle to where Draco stands with Arnold.
“You know very well it is!”
Edith reaches out to squeeze Arnold’s bicep, looking thoughtful. Finally, she nods.
“Don’t take it too hard, Draco dear. I hope we can still be friends.”
Draco blinks. Is…is he being replaced? For a responsibility, he never asked for but now...enjoys? Surely he doesn't. Does he?
“Edith, have I not been satisfying you?” he frowns. The expression feels like home, one he isn’t necessarily ready to return to.
“You’ve been wonderful. I’d love to continue with our Tuesday afternoons. Only, Arnold should probably help me with my appointments now. He should be able to carry my bags.”
Arnold grunts once in agreement.
“I can agree to that…” Draco says uncertainly. He feels like he's participating in a conversation he’s not privy to half of.
“Good,” Edith smiles, patting him on the cheek.
“Good,” agrees Arnold, reaching for his hand in a second transparent attempt to break his fingers. Draco won’t fall for it twice. He takes a step back.
And then they’re turning away and making their way towards the tills, age-spotted hands entwined (disgusting, he thinks). Draco is left holding a twelve-pack of three-ply extra soft luxury toilet rolls to his chest with absolutely no idea about what has just occurred.
His strange humiliation is only magnified when he spots the wide eyes of his two honest to Merlin ex-mortal enemies come begrudging saviours observing the whole interaction from the entrance to the supermarket.
They look good. They look…intimidated. Granger grabs Potter’s arm when Draco’s scowl slips back into place.
He sneers. Perhaps his afternoon can still be rescued, after all.