BLACKBIRD - thrilljoy - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1: PART 1

Chapter Text

PART 1: 05 JUL 2009 - 01 JAN 2010
“Don’t swear by the moon, for she changes constantly. Then your love would also change.” - William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

Chapter 2: DRACO - TEE SHIRT THEORY

Chapter Text

WED 05 JULY 2009

Draco loathed change.

When his expanded role in Snape Lab conflicted with Quidditch practice for the Oxford/Hogwarts Varsity team, Head Coach Hooch had peremptorily dismissed him from the team: Change. He supposed there were always the bouts at the Burrow. But there was something invigorating about playing at a semi-professional level that even the fieriest clashes with Potter couldn’t replicate.

Mother had wasted little time filling his newly lightened calendar with teas, dates, and Society events. Father quickly followed suit, looping him into more Malfoy Estate and Holdings meetings.

There was a bright side to these changes, however. Draco was able to display his business acumen. And the myriad of dates solidified the sneaking suspicion that he might actually want more than a loveless, business arrangement of a marriage. He held that fiendish suspicion behind layers and layers of walls, never letting it see the light of day. Although… sometimes when his defenses were down, and his walls were floating in a sea of something top-shelf, 80-proof, and dreadfully expensive, he’d let his mind wander… And that’s where it tended to go.

He tended to wonder why he’d never felt the spark his parents had. Even after innumerable dates with some of the most beautiful, accomplished, and pedigreed witches in Europe. He was particular, sure, but he didn’t have a list or anything. He wasn’t Mr. Darcy. He wholeheartedly trusted his mother’s judgement in selecting potential candidates to succeed her as the ‘Malfoy woman.’ She knew what it took to be Mrs. Malfoy. He was looking for… something else. Something that moved him. Something… indescribable… Hence, he didn’t have a bloody list. He supposed he’d know it if he found it. When he found it. When he found her. And he hadn’t found her yet. He did, however, have somewhat of an anti-list.

Unfortunately, Astoria had many of the qualities on that list. Their arrangement (which had been convenient at the outset) was swiftly approaching its expiration date. He’d have to let her down gently. And soon. Because she was starting to get that look in her eyes. That mooning, starstruck look like she saw a lavish wedding and tow-haired babies in their future. She’d even dropped a not-so-subtle hint about a courting agreement. Draco shuddered at the thought. They had no future. And a courting agreement would be a complicated and monstrously expensive decision to undo. Not to mention Father would be livid. He abhorred even the hint of bad decisions… and bad matches.

Dating Astoria had once been a good play. Their handful of dates and appearances at Society events with her on his arm had cooled the heels of many of the women Mother and other mothers threw onto his path. Besides, the women who clamored to enroll in courses where he served as T.A (with the hope of catching his eye) put themselves out of the running since it was unethical and forbidden in the Hogwarts University bylaws for Teaching Assistants to fraternize with their students. And yes, that had factored heavily into Draco pressuring Snape to give him more T.A courses. Not that he’d admit that to Narcissa.

The additional assignments and lab responsibilities also provided convenient excuses to skip the incessant teas, salons, galas, and whatever other faff Mother pressed him to attend. Draco taking those additional T.A assignments off Jensen’s plate had afforded the bloke more time to devote to research. He’d recently made a breakthrough and landed his own lab under Snape’s imprint. Jensen’s promotion had led to Snape further expanding Draco’s scope in the lab… A virtuous, yet vicious, cycle.

Pansy agreeing to host an Exchange student with a multisyllabic flower name for a year – Heather or Hyacinth or something: Change. She’d drag the girl to all their dinners and outings, and it would throw off the group dynamic. Draco had honed his circle to those who didn’t need him for status or access, who wanted none of his money, who didn’t leak his whereabouts or spill his secrets to the Prophet, and whose company he genuinely enjoyed. He was required to tolerate infernal, grubby-pawed women on Marriage Mart dates and Society events. He would not abide whatever hanger-on Pansy was babysitting for the year.

Pansy had assured him that the new girl had passed a Muggle background check. Furthermore, the bloke her father used for these kinds of things hadn’t uncovered any concerning intel. “You’re under no obligation to like her, Draco. Just be nice.”

He’d chuckled at that. Any witch who’d completed a lengthy personality test and matched with Pansy Parkinsoncertainly had thick skin. She’d need it in spades to survive their den of snakes. He’d be polite, certainly, but he didn’t have to like her… or be nice. Draco loved Pansy dearly, but he couldn’t imagine having two witches with her personality around. Pansy wrapped her wrath in a prim and polished shell he sincerely doubted this American expat could even come close to replicating. And he didn’t think their group had room for a third strong-willed spitfire with a dry wit and fiery temper. He already had his hands full with Pansy and Ginevra!

Snape backtracking and softening on the permissions and research niche he’d carved out for Draco, making him share with some new Apprentice – Graham or some such: Change. Although Snape was his godfather, Draco had clawed his way up the ranks in Snape lab. He’d be damned if some new swotty Apprentice unseated him this late in the game. The git already had an Herbology Mastery, stellar marks in Potions, years of research experience, and was studying to be a Muggle Doctor. Draco was never threatened by anyone, but this Graham swot certainly came close. He’d have to keep an eye on the fellow.

Since her exchange student was due to arrive tomorrow, Pansy was staying in England for most of the summer and would spend a few afternoons a week at her top-secret Ministry internship. All she could say was that she was putting her knowledge of runes and ancient languages to the test. Draco and Lucius had high clearances by virtue of the Malfoy Estate’s business with the Ministry, but even Father hadn’t been read into Pansy’s work.

“The nature of my work is unspeakable,” she’d chided with a wink.

Blaise was interning with the Foreign Investments arm of Barclay’s for the summer and Theo was completing a couple courses toward his Culinary Arts degree at Le Cordon Bleu London. He’d finished his pastry certificate a few summers ago and was completing coursework at Oxford/Hogwarts to fulfill a deathbed promise to his late father. His Econ/Poli-Sci double major was the usual curriculum choice for most heirs so they could educably steward their Estates without total dependence on lawyers and solicitors. Since circ*mstances dictated the snakes remain in England for much of the summer, they’d spent a few weeks at the Parkinson villa in Fiji for Draco’s birthday at the beginning of the summer and planned to do a few weeks at the Zabini Estate in Italy before the start of term. The next few months laid open to Draco, ripe with possibility.

Draco’s mobile buzzes beside him on the bed. Theo, Blaise and Harry in the boys’ group chat making plans for the night. They’d settled on a cigar lounge. Draco declines, opting instead for a quiet night in listening to music. He preferred the cigar clubs in Spain and Italy anyway. He does, however, agree to go out with them Saturday night.

He fumbles among his sheets for the remote to turn the stereo volume up when an old Chaka Khan song starts playing. ‘Captured effortlessly. That’s the way it was. Happened so naturally, I did not know it was love.’

His mobile buzzes again. Astoria requesting ‘help’ choosing a gown for the night’s Gala –endangered animals or something. He’d had his excuse ready that morning at breakfast when Mother extended the invite: late night at the lab. It wasn’t entirely untrue. He had actually stayed a little late today - hunting down Vinea capra for the Fairy potion he was working on. He was under ever-increasing pressure from Snape to lock down a vendor and present the overbearing man with a test brew. The deadline was swiftly approaching, and Snape’s deadlines were monstrous, ghastly, barbed things and utterly immovable.

Draco had a narrow window tomorrow morning in which to find a vendor, execute a purchase order, then start prepping the brew all before a business meeting with Lucius at noon. This development had been met with grumbles from Father, who’d reminded him (as if such a thing were necessary) that he didn’t work at the lab on Fridays and that Estate business took precedence. Narcissa had tapped her pendant and wrapped her gauzy shawl tighter over her shoulders as if she too had caught the chill from Father’s icy glare. One could have heard a Fairy fart in the deafening silence of the dining room. Draco had lost his appetite after that, pushing the sausage and runny eggs around his plate until Mother summoned Celine to clear the plates and bring espresso and biscotti.

Father was right, of course. Draco didn’t work Fridays. He preferred to keep Thursday afternoons and Fridays flexible in case travel or business obligations arose. Which they always did… at the most inopportune times. But he was a Malfoy, “and this was Malfoy business,” his father’s stony drawl would echo from the recesses of his mind, galvanizing him into action. ‘Malfoy business’ was also why he routinely declined Snape’s offer to join the Ministry delegations to conduct consultations and administer their Potions to their creature clients along with representatives from St. Mungo’s and the Magical Creatures Unit (MCU) under the protection of a team of Aurors.

Teal or green, reads Astoria’s next text.

Two more buzzes bring photos. The teal (a low-cut number) or the green (a backless number).

Decisions, decisions, he teases, buying time.

Ultimately, he chooses: The green. While the honorary snakes - Harry, Ginevra, Luna, Ron, and Neville – had attended Gryffindor or Ravenclaw Academies. Draco had attended Slytherin Preparatory School in London with the rest of the snakes. This fact, coupled with the emerald stone in his Malfoy family signet ring, led everyone to assume his favorite color was green. He didn’t correct them.

Blaise and Theo had once commented on the parade of green-clad witches photographed with Draco on Marriage Mart dates, hoping to increase their chances by linking themselves to the Malfoy color in his mind. Or at the very least catching his eye with his purported favorite color.

“But-”

“But green is not your favorite color,” Theo interjected with that whiny voice he used to mimic Draco.

Harry smiled mischievously. “It’s like those graphic tees-”

“The what?” Blaise asked.

“Muggle tee shirts with slogans and song lyrics,” Harry explained.

“Ah. Carry on.”

“There are some that say, ‘If you can read this, you’re too close.’ For Draco, if they don’t know his favorite color’s green…” Harry intoned, quirking a brow at him.

“They’re not close enough,” Draco mused.

And thus the ‘tee shirt theory’ was born. Sure, once upon a time, he’d had the Slytherin green bedding and room decor. But as he aged, his tastes evolved. Now he opted for modern pieces and clean lines. Less of the stuffy, oversized dark furniture that added to the Manor’s imperious grandeur.

Alas, his favorite color was grey, not green. Grey, the color of his eyes. Halfway between white (all colors) and black (the absence of color). He was also partial to red. There was something about its brilliance and vibrance that especially appealed to him. Many of the flowers in the Manor Garden and greenhouse were shades of red. In nature, red could signal poison, beauty, or food – like berries or apples, some of his favorite fruits second only to oranges. He knew all of this in theory, not quite in practice, since the only ‘foraging’ he did - outside of the practical courses for his recently declared Herbology Minor - was through the Portuguese orchards and the Manor greenhouse.

The radio DJ keeps the 80s vibes going with another Chaka Khan song. ‘Through the fire, to the limit, to the wall. For the chance to be with you, I'd gladly risk it all. Through the fire, through whatever, come what may. For a chance at loving you, I'd take it all the way. Right down to the wire. Even through the fire.’

His mobile buzzes again. Want to see what’s underneath?

Astoria was… a lot. But Merlin if she wasn’t sexy and generous with her body. And if she was offering...

Please, he replies.

He tries to calm himself while awaiting her response. Would she call? Would she send a video? A text? The heat of anticipation pools low in his belly. He settles deeper into his pillows and runs a hand down his torso, the sensations a tingling counterpoint to the warm honey in his veins. Three buzzes back-to-back and he’s hardening. He palms himself over his pajama bottoms, feels the throbbing as he squeezes. A groan catches in his throat as he opens their text thread and flicks through the pictures of her in lacy black lingerie.

“Merlin.” He exhales a long, shaky breath as he slips his hand inside his pajamas, setting a languid pace with a slow, tight grip. Heart thundering in his ears, chest heaving, his hips buck off the bed and warm seed spills over his fingers as he imagines spilling all over her tit* instead. When his heart rate slows and the last spasms of his org*sm have abated, he vanishes the evidence with a wandless cleaning spell.

He doesn’t trust her enough to send an image or video of him cumming… or the aftermath. As such, his reply is simply: Thank you. Come by later for round two.

Sex with Astoria was… prosaic. Unremarkable. But as the heir to quite literally the largest fortune in wizarding Europe – if not all of Europe – he was particular with his prick. The only ‘talk’ he’d received from Father had consisted of three hissed words. “Don’t embarrass me.” The man would have his head if Draco added any errant branches to the Malfoy tree, not least of which with a witch he deemed unsuitable.

The woman he brought home to Lucius would have Mother’s vociferous approval. She’d be beautiful, accomplished, and worldly. And if he didn’t love her already, he would at least see himself growing to love her in the future. Hmm, maybe he did have a list after all. But surely that wasn’t the extent of it, his mind wondered as he let it wander… to that place. It would be nice if they had some things in common. Something upon which to build a foundation. Bonus points if she had a great sense of humor and a trenchant wit. Integrity and poise… Funnily enough, he was describing someone like… Pansy. But… softer. Not as sharp around the edges. Surely there were other things he sought, but they were stuck in the pre-verbal part of his brain.

He supposed he’d know it when he felt it. If he felt it. Thankfully, Mother never pressed or pried when he rejected a witch. Though the fount of her patience was deep, it wasn’t bottomless. His parents - dubbed ‘Slytherin Sweethearts’ by the Daily Prophet and the defunct French version, Le Présage – had met and fallen in love at Prep School. After pursuing degrees at Oxford/Hogwarts – simply unheard of for a ‘Malfoy woman’ – Narcissa and Lucius married at the ripe old age of 21, very late for a Malfoy marriage. In contrast, Draco’s Potions Mastery and Oxford Economics course work required four years minimum. He was entering his third year in the fall and pursuing his Potions Doctorate could add as much as six additional years.

His paternal grandmother Éve (with whom Narcissa’d had a bitterly contentious relationship) had balked when he said he might prefer a college-educated woman. “A woman like that wouldn’t make you or the children a priority, Draco. Her concerns would be outside of the home,” she’d scoffed. “That is not appropriate of the Malfoy woman.”

He’d disagreed. A self-actualized woman, who was doing exactly the things she wanted to do, would be an expert prioritizer, have her own interests, and wouldn’t be breathing down his neck all the time. A self-actualized woman would know her weaknesses and strengths and hire the appropriate nannies and support staff to fill the gaps. He didn’t want a woman who would consider being his wife – the ‘Malfoy woman’ (an expression he loathed, by the way) – her crowning glory and the yardstick by which she’d measure her worth.

sh*te. Maybe he was Mr. Darcy after all.

After vicious disagreement Draco, Mother and Mémé Éve had reached a compromise: No hard sciences.

Chapter 3: HERMIONE - HONEYGLOWS

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THU 06 JUL 2009

Hermione began her exchange year in England hungover, slumped over her bags in Heathrow Airport, shoveling a sausage roll into her mouth and sipping a (shudder) Chamomile tea. Who’d had the bright idea to road trip with friends for two weeks before her departure date, leaving a mere day and a half to pack her life into a trunk, duffle bag and backpack – with Extension charms, of course – then got dragged out to a surprise going-away slash super early birthday party, got blitzed then dozed in the back of the car as her parents raced traffic to get her to her gate on time? Oh right, this gal.

She hiccups and laments the miserable sight she must make sallow and puffy-eyed, slumped over her luggage with her sweatshirt balled up under her head like a pillow. During a moment of lucidity after she’d stumbled home in the wee hours, she’d sorted her gifts and stuffed the ones she’d need in London into one of her bags. Then she’d showered and dressed in black leggings and a long sleeve shirt before falling into bed. The same leggings and shirt she’d worn to the airport under an oversized Harvard/New College sweater with her feet jammed into colorful Nike sneakers. She was in the UK now so she supposed she should call them ‘jumpers’ and ‘trainers,’ even in her head. She snorts at the Britishisms then immediately regrets it as a jolt of pain zips through her already pounding head.

She’s sprawled on the floor of the Arrivals terminal waiting for Pansy from her host family. Pansy’s last text said she and her friend, Daphne, had hit traffic. She smiles at how close she and Pansy had gotten in such a short time. She didn’t regret not taking a Portkey or the International Floo one bit. She would have spewed all over herself when her feet touched something solid after the disorienting pull of Portkey or the whirl of the Floo. A long red-eye flight to sleep off the worst of her hangover had been the best option.

Merlin, she’d miss Harvard, and New College - Harvard’s original college which housed the Wizarding departments. But she was going to freaking Oxford! And Hogwarts – hoggy, warty, Hogwarts! She had her med school pre-reqs under her belt and was a newly minted Herbology Master – the youngest to obtain an Herbology Mastery in Harvard history! She’d knock out her Potions Apprenticeship this year at the most prestigious lab in Europe (if not the world), take classes with amazing Professors, then return to the States for her final year at Harvard. She’d finish her Potions Mastery, take her MCAT, attend Harvard’s Medical School, obtain her Healer rites at the New College Healer Hospital then channel all those achievements into an illustrious medical career. Hermione was nothing if not a planner. And that was her plan.

First things first, though: hydration… And standing up without seeing double. Hermione sees them walking toward her: two Pansy’s and two Daphne’s pushing trollies. Pansy is tall and slim with shrewd, green eyes, glossy black hair in a pixie haircut, an impeccable royal blue romper, expensive leather sandals and a buttery, brown leather handbag in the crook of her elbow. Daphne is very pretty, curvier, and slightly taller than Pansy, with blue eyes and long, curly, honey blonde hair in soft waves down her back. She’s wearing a white sundress and white leather sandals with a matching white purse in the crook of her elbow. Hermione ignores the pang of self-consciousness that flares in her as the four – er, two – of them walk toward her.

Everyone chooses different ways to express themselves, she counsels herself.

Hermione favored black. And a pop of color. She’d recently cut her bushy, curly brown hair to shoulder length. Freed from all the bulk, her hair now naturally fell into waves or big, juicy ringlets around her shoulders. It even had more dimension and streaks from her recent time in the Australian sun. Besides, there was no contest. She was dressed for travel and had been on the road and on flights for the past week while these girls had spilled out of bed well-rested, then expertly applied their makeup before selecting their crisp clothes. If anything, Hermione had just gained access to two impeccable closets to raid if the need arose. That meant less of the need to shop for clothes and more chances for her to shop for the things that mattered to her – like books and knives and foraging gear. She snorts again, a bad idea with the pounding in her head that the greasy pastry and her least favorite flavor of tea did nothing to assuage.

“Granger!” Pansy’s voice is equal parts miffed and amused at the sad sight of Hermione slumped over her bags. “This is Daphne Greengrass,” Pansy says, pointing to the tall blonde witch beside her.

“Nice to officially meet you.” Hermione ekes out a smile for the blonde witch who’s still fuzzy around the edges. A marked improvement from when she’d appeared in duplicate. “Cool earrings,” she says, hoping a compliment would liven up the chilly reception she’d given Daphne.

“Thanks.” She smiles. “They’re aquamarine, my family stone.”

“Oh right, that’s a thing you all do here.”

“Mmhmm. Pansy’s is peridot,” she says, pointing to the ring with the pear-cut gem on Pansy’s right hand.

Pansy waggles her fingers. “Indeed. The pear cut was popularized by Narcissa Malfoy. You’ve heard of her, right?”

Hermione nods. “Vaguely.” Her response is flat since slogging through the mess of her hungover brain to offer up facts required more energy than she can muster at the moment.

“What’s the damage, Granger? You struck me as a more vibrant person… with all your exclamation points.” Pansy smirks down at her, miming sending an exuberant text message with her thumbs.

It was true. She and Pansy had exchanged loads of texts and emails since being paired together for Hermione’s year abroad and in her excitement, she had used lots of exclamation points. But her head was spinning, and she was trying to keep down her meager breakfast.

The damage? Hermione sniffs and croaks out, “Cuervo.”

Pansy rolls her eyes and slides her hand into the supple leather handbag perched in the crook of her elbow. The light glints off the stone on her ring as she removes three vials from her bag. “Hangover and Pepper Up. And a Rejuvenating, since you’ve been on a transatlantic flight. Drink up, Granger.” She holds out the potions to Hermione who downs them one by one.

“Thank you. I owe you.” She smiles at Pansy as the fog in her brain abates. She feels the tingle of the Rejuvenating Potion spreading warmth and ease through her body. The Pepper Up sends a jolt to her brain. “Whew!” She shudders. “Thank you!” She exclaims, more alive this time. As the fog lifts, Hermione combs her muddled brain for the files marked ‘Malfoy.’ There wasn’t much.

After the Brits declassified the War Inquiry Report and trial transcripts, there had been an article or two in The Chronicle – the national wizard newspaper back home in the US. Narcissa Malfoy and her husband, Lucius, had been members of Voldemort’s inner circle. Her change of heart – and subsequent betrayal of the Dark Lord – had led to his defeat and averted an all-out war. The woman’s fashion choices, however, had not made it into the Chronicle. Or at least not the pages Hermione read. “Narcissa’s a War Hero, right? Like um… Harvey Parker?” Hermione smiles.

Daphne guffaws. “Please call him ‘Harvey Parker’ when you meet him later. He’s so used to everyone knowing his name, he’ll probably get a kick out of someone bunging it up like that. I think Harvey Parker may be a first, right Pans?”

Hermione feels the heat of a blush rising up her cheeks. Mortified, she shakes her head. “Sorry, I-”

“Potter,” Pansy corrects her, amused.

“Sorry. Harvey Potter.”

Daphne laughs even harder. “Ha-” She wheezes. “-Ree.”

“Harry Potter! Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry!” The sight of Daphne clutching her sides as she laughs sets Hermione off too. “But you’ve got to admit,” she adds between giggles, “me remembering their names from two half-page articles almost four years ago is really good.”

Daphne pulls her cell phone out of her bag. “I’m texting Harvey. This is too funny!”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Granger, we won’t fill your head with any more talk of family stones and traditions right now. You’ll get enough of that soon. We want to show you around London!” Pansy exclaims as she motions for a nearby gate attendant to help them load Hermione’s bags onto the trollies. Soon the bags are in the trunk of Pansy’s SUV and they’re speeding down the M4 highway toward central London. After Pansy and Daphne show her around the city, they park in front of an open-air sandwich place with long rows of bench seating. Hermione is grateful her stomach has finally settled so she can keep down lunch.

Soon more people are around the table, introducing themselves and chattering excitedly: Theodore (“Call me Theo!”); Blaise (“Call me Blaise.”); Harry (“Call me Harry. Though I’ll answer to Harvey, just for you!”); Ginevra (“Call me Ginny!); Ronald (“Call me sometime. Ouch! Merlin, Blaise. Fine, call me Ron.”); Neville (“Just Neville, thanks.”); and Luna (“You’ve got some visitors...”).

Luna is so dreamy and aloof Hermione isn’t sure she’s altogether here with them. She frowns and looks to Pansy for help parsing Luna’s cryptic message.

Pansy shakes her head and mouths, “Ignore her,’ before instructing everyone to tell Hermione about themselves and what they’re studying at Oxford/Hogwarts.

Daphne, Blaise, Harry, and Theo are studying Business and Economics at Oxford and Arithmancy at Hogwarts. Ron, who has a striking mop of wavy red hair and a lazy smile, is studying Political Science and Diplomacy at Oxford College and taking the required coursework at Hogwarts to become an Auror. Ginny, his younger sister, studies Kinesiology and Journalism at Oxford College and Charms at Hogwarts. She’d also recently signed to the Holyhead Harpies, a co-ed team in the Premier Quidditch League, with plans to continue coaching or become a Sportswriter after her professional career ends. Next, Luna shares that she studies Veterinary Sciences at Oxford College and Care of Magical Creatures at Hogwarts. Neville is next up since he’s sitting next to Luna.

Pansy leans over to her and whispers, “They’re dating.”

Neville shares that he studies Botany and Geology at Oxford College and is working toward an Herbology Mastery and a Potions Minor. Hermione grins and tells him she just completed her Herbology Mastery and could offer him any help he needed and would also love to accompany him on any foraging quests. He accepts her offer with a smile and invites her to join him on a foraging mission next week. After she and Neville exchange numbers, the group press her to share her majors and Mastery plans next and she marvels at the breadth of the group’s interests. She finds Pansy’s majors and concentrations the most interesting… and puzzling. Pansy studies Arithmancy and Runology at Hogwarts and several languages at Oxford.

Hermione leans into her and whispers, “What languages do you speak, Pansy?”

Pansy rattles off nearly a dozen languages she spoke in varying degrees of fluency.

Hermione chuckles when Pansy says she speaks near-fluent German. “I learned some German when I was considering attending Durmstrang University.” Their Potions program was a close second to Oxford’s.

Pansy frowns. “Why in the world did you think you needed to learn German for Durmstrang?”

Hermione snorts. “I thought it was in Germany.” The location of the draconian university was a tight-lipped secret in the States but Pansy’s, “Everyone knows Durmstrang is in Norway,” echoed the response any witch or wizard who’d spent time in Europe gave Hermione whenever she relayed the story of her blunder. Hermione rolls her eyes. “What does one do with Runes, Arithmancy, and several languages anyway?”

Pansy grins and taps her nose. “That’s an unspeakable secret, Granger.”

Hermione quirks a brow and smirks at her. “Well, you must be an absolute whiz on the Puzzle pages!”

Pansy shrugs. “I dabble. There are a few people in our group who are pretty good at those, but they do them only sporadically. After one fiendish Wednesday puzzle, Neville swore them off altogether!” She grins at Neville who blushes. “Only one person in our group still does consistently. He’s pretty good but-”

She’s cut off by Luna who gasps and exclaims in her breathy, distant voice, “Honeyglows!”

Neville turns to Luna and smiles fondly as she runs a hand through his hair. “What’s up, hun?” His tone is more loving than the one Pansy takes when she echoes his question, her voice dripping with sarcasm and disbelief as she exchanges a look with Daphne.

A serene smile spreads over Luna’s earnest face. “I sense honeyglows.”

Neville’s eyes widen and dart around the restaurant. His face is plastered with an almost comical level of concern. “Where?”

Hermione doesn’t know if he’s serious or just really committed to the bit.

“Here!” She says excitedly. “I’ve never sensed them here before.” Luna places a hand on his chest to calm him. “It’s fine. They follow nargles.”

Neville’s eyes widen even more as he audibly gulps before spluttering, “Are there- Are there nargles here with us today?” Once again, Hermione can’t tell if he’s genuinely concerned or just humoring his girlfriend. She doesn’t understand how the wizard in front of her could possibly be afraid of something he couldn’t see. And with such a cutesy little name, how bad could a honeyglow be? If there were an indeterminate amount of them whizzing about (if Luna was to be believed) but no one else could sense them, how much trouble could honeyglows and nargles really cause?

“Yeah, right,” Pansy mutters under her breath so only Hermione can hear.

“Maybe,” Luna says in her breathy, distant voice. “The honeyglows seem unsettled though. A lone nargle is rare and can be harder to find, even for honeyglows.”

Neville slumps in his seat and sighs in relief. “Phew, just one nargle. You scared me! I thought you were going to say there was a whole herd of them.”

Luna laughs – a tiny, tinkling laugh. “Groups of nargles aren’t called a herd. That would be silly.”

Hermione flashes an incredulous look at Pansy and then Daphne.

‘Ignore her,’ Daphne mouths.

“I can usually sense nargles. But I suppose a bottle of elvish wine will dull one’s senses.”

Neville blushes.

Hermione considers asking Luna what the heck a nargle even is and how one knows when they’re about but Pansy cuts into her thoughts. Leaning into her, she whispers, “This isn’t everyone Hermione. You’ll meet the others…” She waves her hand. “Whenever.” She cuts her eyes to Daphne. “Speaking of others. Daph, where is he?”

Hermione wonders who he is.

Daphne smirks at Pansy. “He’s out with Stori.”

Pansy huffs. “How much longer do you think that’ll last?”

Daphne shrugs. “Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“It’s nice to have another Muggleborn around the group,” Harry says after the meal as they troop out of the restaurant and mill about on the sidewalk. The rest of the gang are hugging each other and talking excitedly about their plans for later.

“Oh right, that’s one of the words that’s different across the pond. We’re called non-mag in the States. Ooh, are there any Muggle things, you miss Harry?”

“Like what?”

Hermione shrugs. “I don’t know… bowling, skate rinks, mini golf, batting cages? Arcades? Going to the movie theater?”

Harry smiles a tad self-consciously. “Erm, a bit.”

“We can do them together,” she offers as Theo approaches them. “It might actually help make me less homesick…”

Theo smiles warmly. “I know what some of those words are, but not all of them. I’m intrigued. I think I’ll tag along to some of these Muggle adventures.”

Hermione swats Theo’s shoulder, smiling broadly. “Oh yeah?”

Theo smirks back at her.

“Well, you’re not invited!” She giggles and his eyes widen as he darts toward her and tickles her. She shrieks and dances away from him.

Daphne and Pansy shake their heads.

The gang make plans to meet up at a pub later before the others head off toward a covert location from which to Apparate. Pansy and Hermione walk back to the car chattering excitedly.

Parkinson Manor is in the ritzy Clifton suburb of Bristol near the Avon River Gorge. Pansy gives Hermione a tour of the Manor and introduces her to the Parkinson elves and Pansy’s parents (Stanislas and Brigitte). Afterward she unpacks in her room, takes a long hot bath in the en-suite bathroom, then settles in for a quick nap. She sleeps through a couple wand alarms and is still rather tired when Pansy comes in to wake her. All the travel and partying have finally caught up with her and Hermione’s body demands rest. Her limbs are heavy, and she knows she’ll be bad company. “I’ll be up for something tomorrow,” she says, snuggling deeper into the pillows as Pansy walks back toward the door to her room.

“We usually meet up every Friday for dinner, but our usual place is still under renovation. We’ll resume that tradition next week.”

Sleepily, Hermione asks why they don’t just go somewhere else.

Pansy scoffs. “We’re Purebloods. Tradition is paramount. It simply wouldn’t be Friday night without Ronaldo’s.”

“So, no plans tomorrow?”

“No. We’ll all meet up on Saturday to watch the boys and Ginny play Quidditch at the Burrow. She has to return to Wales for Harpies pre-season training on Sunday so they’re playing tomorrow instead. They usually play Quidditch on Sundays.”

Hermione yawns. “Okay.”

Chuckling, Pansy teases, “You’re not going to ask me what the Burrow is?”

Hermione giggles. “No, I’ll find out soon enough.”

“Sleep tight, Granger.”

FRI 07 JUL

Hermione awakens obscenely early the next morning. Tossing and turning and unable to go back to sleep, she decides to take a walk through the Parkinson gardens instead. She jams her feet into slippers and ties a robe around her pajamas - soft jersey pajama shorts, and an oversize long-sleeve Quidditch tee from Krum’s rookie year. Maroon with white stripes on the sleeve, the shirt has the team mascot (a lion), his number (09) on the front and his surname splayed in large white letters on the back. She returns to her room and naps for a couple hours before her hunger is too much to ignore. She enters the dining room around 11:30am to find Pansy at the table enjoying a late breakfast. When Mitsy appears, Hermione asks for a plate of whatever Pansy’s having before settling in a chair across from Pansy.

“Krum, as in Viktor Krum?” Pansy asks between bites of egg and sausage.

“The very same,” Hermione replies. Her smile turns into a smirk as she says, “Didn’t take you for a Quidditch fan, Pansy.”

“Gods no. I only go to the matches to see and be seen. But the boys talk about him. He started in the league really young – one of the youngest pros if I remember? And he does all those feints and crazy dives. The boys are gonna lose it to know you know him! And well enough to have his shirt.”

Hermione grins in lieu of telling her she has multiple Krum shirts.

“How’d you two meet?” Pansy asks, waggling her eyebrows.

“We met a few years ago at the World Cup in Australia. I’ve spent a few breaks and summers down there with family. A friend of a friend invited me to their fancy box seats. By this time Viktor had been Pro for a few years and there’s me in a fancy box, no interest in the game - in his line of sight for most of the match as he did his fly overs - engrossed in a book. He catches the snitch and presents it to me. There’s this huge fanfare and I’m like, ‘Um, thanks, I guess?’ He invites me to dinner and everyone in the box is going nuts, so I agree to it.” She shrugs. “He’s hot and it’s a free meal. Surprisingly, we hit it off. He’s all dark and broody, with his accent and his muscles. But he’s also super sweet and kind. He’s a generous lover and not shy in letting me know how much he likes and desires me… There was never a spark though. It was more so just, you know… a rolling boil. We’re not exclusive. He dates other people and so do I. But we’re kind of always there… in the background for each other. It feels good when we’re together but I never… crave him… you know?”

“And you want that?”

Hermione bites her lip. Did she want that? “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I don’t have time for cravings.”

“Mm.”

“What about you?”

Pansy giggles. “Cravings?”

Hermione nods.

“I’ll tell you about mine someday.”

Hermione smiles. “I’ll hold you to that.”

After breakfast Hermione returns to her room to get dressed for the Lab. She conceals her sleeves of tattoos with glamours and puts her hair in two French braids. She mutters a Spiraligo charm to prevent the braids from unraveling without for hair ties. She prefers braids to a bun or ponytail to combat frizz and humidity while brewing. She opts for a black short-sleeve dress over a white collared shirt and Mary Janes. She slips her knife roll and Potioneering kit into her bag.

Pansy eyes her outfit with a hint of approval before they step through the Floo to Hogwarts. Pansy deposits her in front of the Science building, calling over her shoulder for Hermione to text her when she’s done. “We’ll do lunch on Diagon!”

Snape’s assistant, Millicent Bulstrode, meets her outside his office. She tells Hermione her itinerary for the day includes a few hours in Snape Lab before attending a campus tour. She’s handed a stack of lab journals for her use and three black Apprentice robes with a green stripe on each sleeve and a ‘Snape Lab’ placard on the lapel. She dons one and follows Millicent on a tour of the lab. She’s pointed to her lab station where Professor Snape meets her.

Hermione fishes a stack of pens and pencils from her bag – preferring them to quill and parchment – and drops them on the desk. She removes her new watch and places it on the desk as well. She draws the layout of the lab from memory and fills the page with her notes while Snape debriefs her.

Snape bristles at her umpteenth question but answers all the same. “No. No other lab functions have been digitized, Miss Granger.”

There are floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with vials of potions, ingredients, and cleaning supplies.

“Correct, Miss Granger, we use a standard silver thistle-based Sanitatum for cleansing.”

She co*cks her head as she scans the shelving units again, not quite able to discern the organizational system in use. She just might be on the cusp of cracking the code when Snape clears his throat. She follows the sound to find him a few paces in front of her about to turn down a corridor which – when she catches up to him – he informs her leads to more storage. Further along they pass two large conference rooms, Snape’s suite, and a few empty offices.

She continues her barrage of questions when they return to her lab desk. Snape responds through clenched teeth. She soldiers on with her final question (something about the organizational system had been nagging at her), asking him why certain items are stored near each other.

He quirks a brow at her in slight derision, his response nearly a growl.

Chastened, she averts her eyes. How else was she to learn if not by asking questions?

The walls of the main lab are ringed with individual cubicle-style desks, and many have stacks of paper, parchment, quills, lab notebooks, writing utensils, mugs, and other personal effects. There are two long lab benches in the middle of the room. There are various metal, brass, and pewter cauldrons bubbling at one of the long workstations in the middle of the space. Timers and lab notebooks float beside each active cauldron with notes, observations, and instructions. Beside each cauldron is a thick wooden cutting board. Many of the cutting boards have ingredients in various stages of preparation under Stasis charms.

She fights the urge to ask what they’re brewing but Snape motions for her to explore with a flick of his wrist. She returns to him when her curiosity is slaked. There’s a certain gleam in his eye when he requests a practical demonstration. He says she’s terrific on parchment - though he must certainly be rethinking his decision after all her questions - but he needs to assess her practical skills to know where to place her on the Lab roster. He lists the potions he wants her to brew and extends the empty workstation to accommodate the additional cauldrons he floats over. Wolfsbane, Amortentia, Veritaserum, Soporificus, Dreamless Sleep, Pepper Up, Hangover Potion, Sober Up, Calming Draught. Many of which they brew around the clock to keep a steady supply for Mungo’s and the Hogwarts Infirmary.

Snape hums his approval as she flawlessly breaks down 30 beetle carcasses, extracting their hearts and carefully plucking their beautiful iridescent wings. The wings gave potions like Soporificus their lustrous sheen.

He tuts when she expertly scrapes the skin off a squat, knobby Mortifera root without piercing the flesh (which would have released an acrid scent into the lab).

While she goes through the steps to brew Wolfsbane verbally she does not brew it since it’s not the proper lunar condition for the start of the brewing cycle. She brews the other potions flawlessly, leaving the Amortentia for last.

She takes a whiff of the brew when it’s complete and its aroma has faint notes of scents she associates with Viktor: chocolate and almonds; grass (quidditch drills); figs (he is Bulgarian, after all); the spicy earthiness of his soap and pomade; and the zest of his cologne. The mute blend is rounded out by the pungent acridity of alcohol. Though he sees her whenever he’s in town and often arranges Portkeys for her to see some of his games when he really misses her, she thinks of him most when she’s tipsy… and horny.

Snape lets her help herself to a few potion vials. She nabs a few Hangovers and Pepper Ups since one can never have too many. Besides, she owes Pansy a couple vials. Since she’s an Herbology Master, has stellar grades and completed even more of her Potions course load than initially expected before the start of this Apprenticeship, Snape offers her an expanded role with a pay bump and new title: Senior Apprentice. They set her Summer Hours at 8am-3pm Mon-Thurs, with the plan to reassess at the start of Michaelmas Term based on her classes and workload. She’s getting paid well and will do some independent research, will assist on cases from Mungo’s and the Ministry, and will brew potions to fill their Mungo’s and Hogwarts quotas.

He dismisses her and says she’ll meet the rest of the team on Monday. “Welcome aboard, Miss Granger.”

She stows her robes in her secretly extended beaded crossbody bag and follows Millicent’s instructions to the Student Affairs office in Albus Hall. She joins the tour led by a wizard named Oliver Wood, who’s completing his Doctoral work and plays for the Yorkshire Badgers. There are a few other people on the tour, and he’s not annoyed by all their questions. In fact, he seems genuinely excited to nerd out about the school and shows them all a bunch of secret passages and tunnels. He seems genuinely impressed when Hermione charms their campus maps to display all the secret information he’s given them.

“It’s like we’re marauders, staking out the place and planning our attack,” someone jokes, and they all laugh.

Wood asks for her number and for permission take her out sometime. She smiles and agrees.

“sh*te!” He exclaims, glancing down at his watch. “I’m late for practice. Coach is not going to be pleased to hear I’m tardy from chatting up a pretty girl on a campus tour,” he teases.

Hermione giggles – she can’t help it – and chides herself that she’s agreed to go out with yet another Quidditch player. How do they keep finding me? She snorts, laughing softly to herself, shaking her head as she opens her text thread with Pansy.

She tells Daphne and Pansy about Wood over lunch on Diagon Alley. They use Pansy’s cell phone to look him up in the digital student directory and shriek at the first image. “Hermione, he’s proper fit!” Daphne scrolls to the next picture. “And he’s got a freaking eight-pack in his old Varsity Quidditch team picture!” Daphne exclaims.

“You said he’s a Doctoral Student and a Quidditch player?” Pansy asks. “Is that more your type? Brain and brawn? Sports and smarts?”

Hermione shrugs and smiles at Pansy.

After lunch, they give Hermione a tour of the grid of streets that make up Diagon Alley. Daphne has to make an appearance at a Society tea and Pansy has a date with a suitor whose identity she refuses to divulge. They ask if Hermione wants to entertain herself for a few hours or if she’d prefer to return to the Manor. Hermione opts to explore Diagon for a bit. Her first stop is Flourish and Blotts. She wanders up and down the aisles of the bookstore, tracing the spines of books that look interesting, and plucking a few off the shelf to skim. She’s perusing a text on potion stabilizers – a riveting passage on the superiority of Tutela res versus Stasis charms – when a shadow falls over the page. She looks up to find Ron with a stack of books in his arms.

“Hi Hermione. Bye Hermione.” He calls cheerily over his shoulder as he rounds the corner.

She brings a few books up to the counter to purchase before meandering over to the tattoo parlor around the corner. She decides to get a tattoo to commemorate the start of her time in England. While she has a lot of tattoos on her arms, she still has some empty spaces to fill between bigger pieces and the fleshy undersides of both arms. A bell tinkles as she steps inside the small, immaculately clean shop. The artist introduces himself as Dean Thomas, before leading her to a sitting area. They chat and she tells him she wants something UK-related that’s not Big Ben. “What’s the official… fruit of the UK?”

“Apples.”

“That’s great! My parents met in New York! They both attended Columbia University for Dental School. Two Tar Heels in the Big Apple; what are the odds?” Hermione already had a tattoo of scuppernong grapes - the state fruit of her home state, North Carolina. Her parents had moved back home during her final year at Gotham Preparatory Academy to be closer to family who’d helped them buy the failing dental office they’d reinvigorated into the booming practice it was today. “What about a bright red apple with a bite taken out of it? Ooh, and a worm!”

Dean chuckles, drafting the piece and showing it to her before transferring the stencil to her skin. He completes and magically heals the piece then gives her a charmed business card that updates with his hours. He taps the card with his wand to display his personal cell and gives her permission to text him directly to book appointments and hash out tattoo ideas in advance.

She’s window-shopping in front of a couple expensive dress shops up the street when Pansy texts her that her date is over. They meet up and Apparate back to the Manor for drinks and eventually dinner by the pool while the sun sets. They agree to do another late 11am breakfast the next day before they’ll Floo to the Burrow to watch the gang play Quidditch. “We may end up at the pool at Nott Manor afterward,” Pansy adds.

“Looking forward to it!” Hermione exclaims as they stop in front of the doors to their respective rooms.

Pansy quirks a brow at her. “The match?”

Hermione giggles. “No, the reading!”

SAT 08 JUL

Saturday is a scorcher. Hermione puts on a red bikini, a black mesh tank, frayed high-waist denim cut-off shorts, and flip flops. She transfigures her beaded bag into a beaded tote and chucks in a towel, a bottle of water, protein bars, the copy of ‘Hogwarts: A History’ she’d picked up at Flourish, her well-worn copy of ‘Pride and Prejudice’ and an erotic romance novel charmed with a dark leather cover and silver script on the spine that reads ‘Bardolph’s Theories on Economic Expansion.’

The Weasley Burrow is even more fanciful than Hermione could have imagined. The day is a whirlwind of food and laughter, innumerable gingers, and lots of children underfoot. More of Pansy’s extended friend group arrives and Hermione meets Padma and Parvati (sisters), Connor, Dennis, Paul, Benjamin, and Eddie – all of whom had attended Gryffindor Academy with Harry, Neville and the Weasleys.

Once the match ends, people meander over to the house and side yard to help Molly Weasley prepare a late lunch. Ginny coaxes Hermione onto a broom despite her objections that she’s not a strong flyer. She much preferred swimming. Or simply remaining on the ground. From the snatches Hermione had caught of the game, it was clear that Ginny was a menace on the field. However, she turns out to be a surprisingly gentle teacher. When Hermione says she’s hit her limit, Ginny helps her land smoothly, and they join the others in the side yard. Mrs. Weasley floats out platters of food and they enjoy a late lunch before the group splits up. Blaise says he’ll catch up with them later, jogging to catch up with Ginny as she enters the house to help her mother with the dishes. Pansy, Daphne, Theo, and Hermione apparate to Theo’s Manor and lounge by the pool for the rest of the afternoon.

Blaise joins them later and they’re listening to music and chatting when Daphne gets a call. “Astoria, is everything okay?” She asks when the call connects.

“Her sister,” Pansy whispers to Hermione.

“Wait… what? Astoria, slow down! He did what?” Daphne frowns at Pansy.

‘What happened?’ Pansy mouths.

Though her side of the conversation is garbled, Hermione can tell Daphne’s sister is distraught.

“Stori, it’s okay… No, I’m at Nott Manor… No, he’s not here… Yes, you can. Yes, you can! Just Floo here… Yes, she’s here too. You can tell both of us at the same time.”

The Floo roars from inside the house and the witch who Hermione presumes to be Astoria pops her head out of the deck doors. She has the same deep blue eyes as Daphne but is even taller and more svelte than her sister and has straight, ash blonde hair. “Daph, hurry!” She calls before turning on her heels and retreating further into the house.

“Hello to you too!” Theo crows after her. “That witch never fails to remind me why we never invite her out.” He flicks his eyes to Daphne’s departing form. “No offense, Daph.”

“None taken. But she’ll come out with us tonight.” She rolls her eyes at Theo’s dramatic gasp. “She shouldn’t be alone.”

Theo rolls his eyes in lieu of a response. Wise move.

Hermione chuckles and pads over to the drink cart to refresh her glass.

“He must have finally done it. For the life of me, I’ll never know why he allowed that set up. He should know better. Does he know he can say ‘No’ to mummy every once in a while. Does he have to go on every date she sets for him!” Theo nudges Blaise as they sidle up to her. Theo pulls three shot glasses forward and fills them with tequila. He hands one to Blaise and Hermione. “Trust me, you’re going to need it.” Theo says, motioning for Hermione to knock it back. She does so with a grimace and bites into the lime he offers her. “Good girl.”

“Such a defiant little dragon!” Blaise bites back a laugh. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was a bit of a romantic. Holding out for Mrs. Right or something. Must be all that ‘Slytherin Sweetheart’ talk that mummy’s filled his head with.”

They chuckle.

Hermione frowns to herself but bites back her question. None of this sounded romantic. But it wasn’t any of her business. From what she’d learned of Pansy and Daphne, their parents introduced them to eligible wizards but did not schedule their dates – though apparently some parents did – and they were under no pressure to marry any time soon from the looks of it. She wondered what made him – whoever he was - and even Astoria, so different from the rest of their friends.

“And Theo, mate, you owe me a hundred galleons.”

Theo blanches. “I thought we said 50!”

Hermione pours three more shots and places a lime wedge in front of each glass.

“Right. And I had double if he ended things before term started. Pay up!”

Theo grimaces. “I’ll transfer the galleons to your vault by the end of day Monday. Pleasure doing business with you, Zabini.”

Hermione hands them their shots and limes, setting herself up to do another with them. They clink glasses before knocking them back. “Do you guys bet on everything, or just your friends?” She asks, grimacing at the residual taste of tequila and lime juice.

Blaise and Theo grin. “Everything. We’re equal opportunity betters.”

“And what does ‘Slytherin sweetheart nonsense’ mean? How can anyone find a sweetheart if they’re being set up on dates by their mother?” So much for staying out of it!

Theo shrugs. “It’s the Pureblood way. Since the Almost War, things have changed but they’ve also stayed the same. Pureblood status may always have cultural cache and many in our friend group come from families that held those beliefs for centuries. His family still value it but they’re not fanatical. For them it’s a mix of things: romance, duty, tradition… But I think tradition will always come first.”

They continue to talk her ear off about the Sacred 28, Pureblood families, The Dark Lord, and their experience over the past few years since all-out war was averted. She vaguely remembered the Chronicle headline calling it the ‘Almost War.’

Hermione hears the voices of the other girls getting louder as they approach. “… you’ll find someone else, Stori,” Daphne counsels her sister. “He’s not the only fish in the sea.”

“Yeah, but he’s the biggest. And the best. I want the best,” Astoria retorts, rather mulishly.

Pansy scoffs. “Astoria, this isn’t a game. He’s not some prize.”

Astoria snorts. “Isn’t it? Think about it-”

Hermione tunes them out and turns back to Theo. “Who’s this ‘he’ everyone’s always talking about? Does he have a name?”

“Ha!” Theo exclaims. “He-”

Pansy clears her throat, cutting Theo off as the girls come to stand in front of him. Pansy turns toward Hermione and introduces her to Astoria.

“Oh right, the exchange student.” Astoria purrs as if the term was derogative. As if Hermione were nothing more than a mangy rodent. Like her namesake hawk considering its prey, the witch co*cks her head and steps closer to Hermione. “How long are you here for?”

Hermione stands her ground and replies with a tight smile. “A year.”

Astoria clasps her hands together. “Well then, I won’t waste my time getting to know you. We’ll keep it cordial, yeah?” She co*cks a perfectly arched brow as if expecting challenge.

Hermione’s gaze hardens and she bites back a rude retort.

“Stori, don’t be a bitch,” Daphne admonishes.

Hermione gasps.

Pansy quirks one of her perfectly trimmed eyebrows. “What? You were thinking it, Hermione.” They roll their eyes at each other and smirk.

“I was too polite to say it. A courtesy she didn’t give me.” Hermione turns to Astoria, “But it’s good to know where we stand. Goodbye, Astoria.” Hermione pivots on her heel and jumps into the pool. When she comes up for air, slicking her wet curls back from her face, she smiles innocently up at a drenched Astoria.

Astoria scoffs, gesturing at her soaked see-through patterned shift dress. “This is vintage Missoni!”

Hermione mutters a drying spell, flicking just a few more drops with a discourteous wave of her hand in the girl’s direction. “Good as new.” She flashes her a sh*t-eating grin before swimming over to where Blaise and Theo are slipping into the pool to join her.

Flying may not be her thing, but swimming certainly is. She races with the boys, holding her own against them, even beating them a few times, before reapplying sunblock and laying out on a pool chair, dozing in the last rays of the afternoon sun. The gang agree to split up and sort out dinner on their own before meeting at the Leaky Cauldron on Diagon around 9pm. Hermione requests a Muggle Pub experience after the Leaky with beer, darts, and pool.

“That can be arranged,” Blaise answers with a twinkle in his eye.

Back at Parkinson Manor they eat dinner on the balcony in Pansy’s room before separating to shower and change. Hermione dons a little black spaghetti strap mini dress. It hugs her curves, skimming her full hips and bum (as the Brits called it). She’d started to come into her own the past couple years as her figure filled out and she became less self-conscious about it. She enjoyed showing off her curves every now and again. She tames her hair into loose curls with Sleek-EZ and keeps the rest of her makeup simple with mascara and pink-tinted lip gloss. The time she’d spent in the Australia sun over the past few months and doing some of the travel she’d promised herself she’d do before college – and then put off for one reason or another – had her olive skin tanner and glowing, and the constellations of freckles on her cheeks, nose, shoulders, and chest were more prominent. She loved them. She loved ‘Summer Hermione!’ Tan, glowing, sexy, empowered. She forewent her Chacos and Birkenstocks – her ‘adventure sandals’ as her mother called them – in favor of some black platform sandals that were more on trend than she usually went for. Pansy had nudged her toward them while shopping in London her first day.

Pansy grins at the sandals and says Hermione’s outfit is very 90s, grimacing when Hermione digs in her bag for a flannel to knot around her waist for full grunge. Pansy vanishes the flannel back into the beaded bag with a flick of her wand, then tuts at the unpolished toenails she spies peeking through Hermione’s sandals.

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Hermione, really? We talked about this.”

Ad nauseam. “A proper witch wouldn’t be caught dead with unpolished toes. It simply isn’t right,” Hermione parrots Pansy’s words back to her in a nasally voice. She recalls the spell Pansy had taught her by the pool yesterday when she’d deigned to appear without painted nails: Unguis (for nail) and erubesco (for pink or red). She mutters Unguis aurum coruscent instead, coloring her toenails sparkly gold.

Pansy’s nails are painted in her signature blush pink. She’s in a royal blue sundress with matching sandals, and a little silver purse. Her jewelry for the night is silver and diamonds. Hermione twiddles with the rings on her fingers under Pansy’s scrutinizing gaze. Some were plain gold bands. One was the class ring from her high school and the other was the small diamond ring her parents had given her as a high school graduation present. Her ears were pierced with two sets of small diamond studs she always wore which paired with a delicate silver necklace with a small diamond solitaire pendant. She often wore rings and necklaces when she wasn’t brewing or foraging. She also had a few statement earrings passed down from her mother and other women in the family that she wore for dates and other special occasions.

Hermione crosses paths with Astoria on the prowl at the Leaky Cauldron wizarding pub (or ‘Leaky’ for short, as Theo had informed her). She flicks her gaze over Hermione, her eyes snagging on her hips and ass in her little black dress. Hermione wills herself not to slump, cover her body or show any weakness under Astoria’s withering, hawk-eyed glare.

“No bra, Hermione,” the insufferable witch spits. “Are we making a feminist statement?”

“Sure,” Hermione deadpans. Whatever got her out of whatever the hell this was. Why did Astoria hate her anyway?She scoffs. “Are you negging me, Astoria? I thought you weren’t acknowledging my presence?” She chides, pitching her voice to be heard over the din of the club and realizing she’d said more words to Astoria than she cared to utter ever again. If she never ever saw the witch again after tonight it would be too soon. Hermione flicks her eyes over the witch in cool appraisal. She’s tottering on nude stilettos and is in a backless, hunter green dress that doesn’t cover much more than Hermione’s. Honestly, the witch looked good. But two could play this game. “You should really use a cushioning charm, Astoria. I learned a fortification charm that might give your ankles some relief. You look…” Hermione co*cks her head for effect. “Wobbly. I could teach you. Wouldn’t want you to snap your ankles once you get some more liquor in you.”

Hermione hopes she hit the right balance of bitchery and helpfulness, cursing herself that she was being even remotely helpful to the woman who’d decided they were arch nemeses within 0.07 seconds of meeting her.

Astoria rolls her eyes again but mumbles, “Teach me,” so low Hermione almost misses it.

“What’s that?” Hermione teases, leaning in closer and cupping her hand around the shell of her ear.

“Teach. Me,” Astoria bites out.

Hermione rolls her eyes and enunciates the spell clearly. “Fortificus Talus.”

Astoria repeats it, casting it wandlessly before turning on her heel, throwing her hair over her shoulder, and strutting back toward the bar.

Much steadier now, Hermione notes, catching a whiff of her perfume – gardenia, lavender, musk, verbena, and pear. Fruity, floral, and sexy. Hermione curses her good smelling ass. So much for even a perfunctory ‘thanks Hermione; you rock!’ Hermione bites her lip.

Theo and Blaise materialize, each with a shot for her in an outstretched hand, the other holding two shots for themselves. “Drink up, Hermione!”

She accepts and knocks the shots back with them. Cinnamon overpowers her palette while a deep burn of whiskey coils down her throat. She lets out a garbled cry. “Blech, what is that!”

“Ogden’s,” they grin, singing the cursed name of the odious drink in unison.

“Ugh, gross. Never again!” Hermione pokes each of them in the ribs.

They fall over themselves with laughter, following behind her as she elbows her way to the bar to order something to wash away the vile taste. She’s delighted they have Crabbies, her favorite brand of alcoholic ginger beer. She starts a tab with a bottle of Crabbies and two more execrable shots for the boys. They knock the shots back before pulling her and her bottle of Crabbies out onto the dance floor.

Later, a cute guy, Seamus, strikes up a conversation with her at the bar while she waits for another round, distracting her from the text message she’s crafting to Viktor. She spends an hour and two more drinks locked in a heated discussion with Seamus about mythical creatures’ rights.

Pansy taps her and tells her they’re Apparating to the alley near Ivy House, the Muggle pub they’d agreed on.

“Can I come?” Seamus asks, flashing Hermione with puppy dog eyes.

Hermione giggles and nods her head. She attempts to close out her tab and he cuts her off, offering to pay. She smiles up at him as he steps in closer and presses a sweet kiss to her lips.

“Have a shot with me,” he whispers. He orders them two of what he’d been drinking and hands her the glass of reddish liquid. “Tortoise sloe gin,” he whispers in her ear, crowding into her space.

She eyes the shot before sipping it. It goes down easy with hints of citrus and plum and that clean, chemically aftertaste she’s always associated with gin. Her eyes sparkle. “Ooh, I like that!”

“I thought you would,” he beams. “It’s Irish, like me.”

Hermione blushes and raises up on her tiptoes, kissing him again. She turns to Pansy who’s eyeing them with a wide grin. “Lead the way.”

Seamus threads their fingers together as they troop out behind Pansy and Apparate to an alley near the pub. The gang dances and sings along to the music while they wait for a pool table to open up. They’re deep in a competitive game – Pansy and Harry against Hermione and Seamus – when Hermione sees a flash of green streaking through her field of vision toward the door.

“He’s here,” Harry deadpans, motioning to the front of the pub. Hermione looks up and catches a flash of icy blond – the back of what she presumes is his head – heads above many of the other patrons as Astoria hugs him from behind.

Seamus pulls Hermione closer to him, nuzzling her neck and whispering that it’s her turn.

“Kiss me for luck!” She grins up at him. They press into each other, Seamus deepening the kiss before Pansy clears her throat. They step away from each other and Hermione lines up her shot. Hermione and Seamus lose the game but call dibs for a rematch against the winners of the next round. She pulls him over to a free darts board. He steps in close and gives her a tutorial. Hermione likes his scent: woodsy, spicy and sweet. There’s notes of plum and cherries, sage, a hint of soap, and light sweat from a night of dancing and bodies pressed against each other. She also smells herself on him - ginger and berries.

He’s tall and strong, kind, confident, steady, and warm. When he lets her win the round, she turns in his arms to face him and runs her fingers along the stubble of his jaw. He tucks a stray curl behind her ear and leans in to kiss her. She smiles up at him, taking in his green eyes and close-cropped, wavy auburn hair. He crooks his finger under her chin as their lips meet. Though she’d switched to beer, he’d been sipping gin-and-oranges and his mouth tastes warm and sweet.

Their kiss starts playful and sweet, his hands playing in her air. Her fingers creep up his lean form before she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He presses into her - warm, soft, hard, and everywhere. They take their time, learning each other and building a rhythm with their lips and tongues. He presses his thigh between hers, groaning each time she rocks against him, responding with whimpers of her own.

They’re broken apart by a loud, “Oi! Oi! Clear the board!” to their left. They return – flushed and overheated – to the pool table to lose another game before Seamus pulls her along behind him (as she waves goodnight to Pansy) toward the single-stall bathroom. He presses her against the door and trails his fingers up her thigh. He rucks her dress up to her hips and vanishes her underwear before sinking one finger, then another inside of her while his thumb circles her cl*t. His deft fingers bring her to climax once, then twice as she palms him over his jeans.

She Apparates them to her room in the Manor and they have sex. Sloppy, loud, drunk, fun, toe-curling sex. He teases her org*sms out with his rhythmic thrusts, and she crests with his name on her lips. He kisses her until she can’t breathe and she’s gasping for him to keep hitting that spot, right there. Right. There. Harder, deeper, faster. He’s good. Merlin, he’s good. He slumps against her, muttering cleansing charms and an Alohom*ora to open the balcony door and let in the warm summer night air that feels so delicious on their sweat-slick skin. She’s in a post-coital haze. Sated. Thoroughly shagged and boneless.

He slaps her ass before padding to her en-suite bathroom to shower. He returns, dresses, and kisses her cheek, before scrawling his number on a post-it note on her desk. He taps it and grins. “Call me, Hermione.”

SUN 09 JUL

Sunday morning, Hermione’s awoken by an owl tapping on her window at 9am with a letter from Harry. His note says they should play Mini Golf today since the day will be ‘glorious.’ Sunny and cool, according to the Weather app on her phone. Hermione tears a corner off the parchment and pens an excited ‘Let’s do it!’ She sends the owl off with her response, head scratches, and a handful of treats from her bedside table.

Harry’s response – crammed into a hilariously smaller corner ripped from the piece she tore from his original note – says he also invited Theo and Blaise who were annoyingly curious and were still over at his place where they’d ended up last night. In a final corner torn from his latest response she writes down her number and tells him to text her the details.

She receives his text fifteen minutes later. It includes his address for her to call out at the Floo. He tells her to come by after 10:30am when they’ll have finished breakfast. She receives another owl with ornate heavy gray cardstock and crisp, tight cursive inviting her to T.A a Remedial Potions review course with the option to increase her course-load the following term if her work is acceptable. She considers the offer, weighing the pros and cons. She’d be paid for her time and gain teaching experience but adding this to her plate would mean removing a course and her Elective to make time. On the other hand, it would help keep her Herbology skills sharp and give her the opportunity to forage throughout Europe. Thinking long term, it would set her up nicely for a future Adjunct Professorship. ‘Professor Granger,’ she whispers to herself and giggles. It’s not what she wants now but she supposes maybe someday in the future.

There’s an invite to the Herbology Dean’s office for the following day at 8am to discuss the position details and compensation. She pens a response agreeing to meet and conveying her excitement. She opens her window and clucks a rhythmic owl call, smiling at the imperious white Fen owl from the Parkinson brood that perches in front of her on the windowsill ready to accept her letter. She sends him off with a handful of treats.

She takes breakfast on her balcony and the owl returns just as she’s calling for Poppy and Mitsy to clear her dishes. The owl is laden with lesson plans, resources, a T.A Contract and Hogwarts’ Book of Ethics. She flips through the Ethics guide. A random passage catches her eye and she flips back to the page in question. “Teaching Assistants are expressly forbidden from fraternizing with their students or others over whom they hold a position of power as pertains to their academic and professional standing at Oxford/Hogwarts University, or their professional prospects. Should such relationships arise, they must be reported to the Dean and Headmaster/mistress of College for investigation.”Since he studied in a different academic department, none of this applied to her and Wood, who’d texted to invited her to dinner next week.

She shoots off a quick text to Pansy about her plans for the day before taking a cold, invigorating shower. She opts to wear a spaghetti strap tank, high waisted black cut off denim shorts, Chaco sandals, and knots a random flannel around her waist. She has a collection of old well-loved flannels and sweatshirts collected from her father, boyfriends, and friends over the years. She slathers a generous layer of sunscreen on her face, arms, and torso. While she loved the sun, she’d become almost fanatical about the application of sunscreen since she’d begun her tattoo sleeves.

Hermione enjoys her time with the boys in Muggle London. Theo suggests they do something the following week. The other boys agree, and they plan to meet up next Saturday since, per Blaise, “Sundays are for Quidditch.”

So begins their Muggle Adventure club.

Chapter 4: HERMIONE - LAB GIT

Chapter Text

MON 10 JUL

Hermione receives her first Daily Prophet owl on Monday. She’s just finished her post-yoga shower and is crossing over to the closet when an owl crests the balcony ledge and lands on the little table. She grabs the treats tin and pads out to the balcony to retrieve her paper and feed the owl. She breakfasts on her balcony while she flips through the paper, acclimating herself to the styles of the various writers and catching up on the stories of the day. Next, she turns her attention to finding the Puzzle page. She finally finds it on page 27. Oddly, it’s right next to the Society page. She snorts in derision. Surely the people who did the puzzles didn’t also read Society pages. Almost immediately the words of her HNC Magical Philosophy Professor echo through her mind in his droning baritone. ‘A well-rounded thinker syncretizes information from various sources to expand their mind and proffer stronger theories.’ As such, she skims the Society page.

CAN DLM’S NEW LINDHURST HEIRESS GO THE DISTANCE?

IS THE GRASS GREENER ON THE LINDHURST SIDE?

The moving picture under the headline shows the back of a blond man’s head as he enters a restaurant, holding the hand of a shorter strawberry-blonde witch in strappy heels and a moss green dress who walks in behind him. Hermione rolls her eyes, thankful that Viktor didn’t subject her to that level of media attention and scrutiny. His team allowed only blind items of Krum and his ‘mystery woman’ to make it to print sans photos or identifying details. Since neither she nor their relationship were famous, when people walked up to Krum and wanted to take a picture of him, their eyes glazed right over her as if she was invisible. It allowed her to keep her privacy and anonymity. Being unknown kept her safe during her travels and foraging and didn’t put her looks or clothing up for debate or discussion. She was not the story.

She turns her attention back to the Puzzle page. Wizard puzzles required a mix of magical and Muggle knowledge ranging from Mathematics and Natural Sciences to History and Anthropology. She skims the prompts, hoping to find some of the tame fare she was used to back home in the Chronicle. She’s floored to find the page hosts two wildly difficult rune and Arithmancy puzzles that are more difficult than the Sunday puzzles back home. Sunday puzzles were the hardest each week and she’d only completed her first Sunday puzzle a couple years ago! This development did not bode well for her mornings. She tries attacking the puzzles from a few different angles but is thwarted every single time.

Disappointed by the lack of progress some thirty minutes later, she resolves to ask Pansy for help. Only this requires waiting – and delayed gratification (which is better than none) – since the witch tended to sleep in most mornings. Hermione figured today would be no different since Pansy’s Ministry internship was in the afternoons. The Puzzle page back home allowed her to stretch her brain. And the burst of euphoria from the completed puzzles kick-started her days. She needed that kick. She craved it. In contrast, the Prophet puzzles had drained her. Hermione trudges to the dining room where she leaves her paper open on the dining room table with her notes and proofs clearly marked along with a plea for Pansy’s help.

She returns to her room, seeking the easy wins: Muggle crosswords. The dopamine hits from Monday puzzles – the easiest of the week – paled in comparison to the thrill of completion of a good Wizard puzzle. But beggars could not be choosers. She wishes she could complete a digital version of the Chronicle puzzles. However, digitizing and organizing all the characters one needed in order to complete the Arithmancy and rune puzzles was surely a Herculean task. Which meant they would likely never be digitized in her lifetime. Grumbling, she navigates to the New York Times crossword app on her smartphone. Although Muggle crosswords and magical puzzles appealed to different parts of her brain, magical puzzles simply couldn’t compete with the snazzy little ditty that plays when she completes each Times puzzle on her phone.

With two little wins under her belt and her mood lifted, Hermione pads over to the closet and sifts through the rack for something to wear to Lab. She’d learned to dress in business casual under lab robes from her previous experiences. That way she’d always be ready for last minute meetings and inspections. She loved her black head-to-toe. With all the time she spent foraging and brewing, black was a sort of armor. It hid a host of things better than any other color could – sweat, Bubotuber pus stains, explosions, dirt, grime, and blood. Black also had dimension, allowing her to play with textures and proportions. And everything matched, making it easier to get dressed! She could go from work to play and day to night with ease. It was one less thing to agonize over in the mornings. Her days were long enough already, spent making innumerable decisions and taking in reams of information. She felt powerful, sexy, put-together, and stylish in black. She often added in a pop of color via shoes and accessories, but black was the basis for the majority of her outfits. She saved vibrant colors and funky patterns for dates and other social events. For the day ahead, she dons a short black dress over a white short-sleeve button down and pebble leather brogue shoes.

After meeting with the Herbology Dean to discuss her T.A. course assignment, Hermione heads over to Snape lab and meets the rest of her lab mates. Snape notifies her that he’s changed his mind about her purview. She will work closely on the experimental potions for Mungo’s and the Ministry with the unofficial Interim Lead Apprentice – a wizard named Malfoy. He’s undoubtedly related to Narcissa, but Hermione could only speculate to herself if he was a son, nephew, or distant cousin. She’d been rather young and thousands of miles away during the Almost War and hadn’t paid the closest attention to news coverage about it. At the time, it was the big scary thing happening in the distant backdrop of her life.

Snape cuts back into her thoughts with instructions to move her things to the empty desk beside Malfoy’s. She’ll be sandwiched between him and their Junior Apprentice, Clearwater. Clearwater helps relocate her pencils and lab notebooks then Snape flicks his eyes to one of the wall clocks and calls their briefing meeting to order.

They’re in the middle of the briefing when the most gorgeous man enters the lab. A tall, trim wizard with silvery blond hair, impeccably tailored robes and trousers, and immaculate shoes. He strides over to the lab station next to Hermione’s then stacks the parchments in his arm neatly onto the desk beside hers.

Snape finishes his sentence then motions between them, “Malfoy: Senior Apprentice Granger-”

Hermione nods and gives Malfoy a shy smile in greeting.

“-Granger: Interim Lead Apprentice Malfoy,” Snape finishes.

Interim Lead Apprentice Malfoy nods in her direction. There’s not a hint of emotion on his face as his eyes flick from her head to her toes, then back to Snape.

“Lead Apprentice Jensen was granted a Fellowship and his own lab in my division, so his post is open. I will make my final decision before the term starts. There are some strong candidates.” Snape looks between her and Malfoy before continuing his spiel.

She gives Snape a tight smile and makes a mental note to ask him some follow-up questions. She didn’t want the position if the Lead Apprentice had to tend to administrative and managerial tasks and directed the brewing of the simple, but necessary, general potions for Mungo’s and the Infirmary. She’d come to hoggy, warty Hogwarts to expand her Potions expertise and conduct research. She wanted to help make breakthroughs and solve complex cases. That was her plan. And she would stick to it. Besides, she had already committed to the Herbology T.A position. She couldn’t take on anything else. Malfoy could have it. She sighs and glances at him.

He narrows his eyes and ever so slightly quirks a brow.

She thought she’d felt his eyes on her, but she couldn’t understand why. If his frosty non-greeting was any indication, he’d already made up his mind about her.

Snape drawls, “Malfoy…” and she tunes him out.

With his attention on Snape, Hermione takes the opportunity to further inspect Malfoy. The shoes are definitely dragonhide, and his slacks are a shade darker than his gray eyes. The collar of a white oxford shirt peeks through the top of his robes which aren’t closed all the way. His hair is a blond so frosty it’s almost silver and looks abominably soft. His skin is pale, but not sallow, and his bone structure is as sharp as chipped glass. He sits ramrod straight and seems to carry himself with an easy, regal elegance.

Hermione straightens her own spine, turning her attention back to Snape when she hears her surname.

“And Granger will show you her technique for processing Mortifera root. It’s perfect. I want that to be the new lab standard. She mentioned something about the organizational system. Fix it,” he spits. “She may be able to salvage those vesica and pumilio root cuttings.” One of the Junior Apprentices squirms under Snape’s withering glare before he flicks his gaze back to Malfoy. “Let her see them. She’s an Herbology Master. Listen to her.”

Hermione doesn’t have to turn to know that Malfoy is glaring. If he could freeze her with his glare alone, she’d already be entombed in ice, slowly melting all over the lab floor.

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and chances a nervous glance at him.

He averts his eyes, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he clenches his teeth.

“And Malfoy, I want Granger on the Fairy case with you-”

“Why? That’s Lead Apprentice work.”

Snape narrows his eyes. “Where exactly are you on the Vinea capra?”

“I’m working with a vendor on Diagon.”

“Granger,” Snape barks. “What is the most expedient way for us to source Vinea capra?”

Oh goodie, pop quiz! And what better way to make friends than to undercut and overshadow her lab mates on her very first day? Yay! Thanks, Professor Snape! Hermione clears her throat. “This time of year?” She thinks aloud. Snape nods and she presses on. “The freshest source would be in Spain. Harvested from the Altamira Caves in Santillana del Mar after the new moon.” She calculates the moon cycle quickly in her head. “The next one’s… tomorrow night.”

“And mox ivy?” Snape asks, narrowing his eyes.

She keeps her eyes trained on him and ventures slowly. “Hmm, mox ivy is fine for dried Vinea. However, if we’re using Vinea fresh from the source, we should use dried Dulciradix root to bind instead. In my experience, Fairies hate moxivy. It tastes very bitter to them. They prefer the sweet, earthy taste of Dulciradix. Fresh Vinea and dried Dulciradixwould also decrease the brewing time. Gervase of Tilbury wrote the first Compendium of Fairies. It has some very useful information about their preferences and known allergies. I could lend it to you,” she offers to Malfoy when she dares to meet his eyes.

He reaches behind himself and silently summons the tome into his hand.

“There’s a tabula brevis on page 42. I suspect his ancient publishers required this succinct summary table because Gervase tends to ramble,” she jokes. Like you are now, Hermione. Get it together, she chides herself.

Malfoy doesn’t even blink. If one didn’t know any better, one may have thought ‘tabula brevis’ an ancient calcificuscharm and worried she’d just turned the man to stone.

She wants to snark, ‘That was a joke,’ but fears that would only dig her deeper. “Unless you like rambling,” she rambles, stifling what could only be called a wheeze. Exhibit A: This very moment. “In which case, read chapters four and six at your leisure. But don’t say I didn’t warn ya,” she smiles… or rather, grimaces. Again, nothing? Said smile falters.

His nod of understanding is the only indication that this was in fact very real and not some elaborate pre-alarm nightmare.

She gives him another small smile – one last ditch attempt to break the ice and… his eyes flick down to her lips before he looks away.

Oof, time of death? She glances down at her wrist, forgetting she’d already removed her watch and placed it behind her on the desk. Old habit.

“That, Malfoy, is why I want Granger on the Fairy potion case,” Snape drawls, ever the charmer.

She bites her lip. What was Snape’s damage?

“Hand over the case files and turn your attention back to the Bogrels.”

A trill of excitement courses through Hermione. They were working with Fairies and Bogrels! Bogrels were bipedal creatures who lived deep in the Scottish Glen alongside Redcaps and Bowtruckles. Whereas Redcaps were little terrors on the forest floor and winged Bowtruckles ruled the skies, the shy and furtive Bogrels built extensive networks of homes in the dense canopy of trees. They were shrewd, resourceful creatures but very wary of humans and wizards. Bogrels’ relationships with other forest creatures like fairies, centaurs and giants were further soured by their symbiotic relationship with werewolves and Redcaps. It was storied that Redcaps’ robes and caps were dyed red from the blood of their prey, including humans. The forest whispered tales of Redcaps luring travelers deeper and deeper into the glen, never to be heard from again. In fact, it was most unwise to traverse the glen alone. There was even a cautionary rhyme, Allingham’s adage. ‘In the glen, flames are red, caps are redder. In the glen two is good, three is better.’

Malfoy glances at Snape and nods. He seemed to be a wizard of few words and many nods. After the debriefing, he drops a stack of parchments on her lab desk then returns to his own. Without uttering a single word.

She rolls her eyes and reviews the Fairy files before inspecting the stasised ingredients his abominably handwritten notes say are kept at Station K. Though his handwriting was atrocious (as was hers, so it was truly the cauldron calling the kettle black) everything was impeccably organized and well-researched. The ingredients were meticulously prepared and she’s able to easily follow the thread of his thoughts.

Malfoy rejects the first two times Hermione slots onto his scheduler to discuss roots and lab organization. When she finally looks over at his lab desk to see what could possibly be keeping the man so busy, he’s doing the Puzzle Page gnawing on a stupidly expensive wren quill. The f*cking Puzzle page! She hoped he snapped that damned quill.

“You schedule it then,” she huffs, snatching her satchel and the newspaper Pansy had delivered by owl and stomping out of the lab and off toward the Dining Hall. She savors the delicious schadenfreude at the tiny snap she hears just as she clears the door jamb.

After the intensity of the morning, she looked forward to a quiet lunch on the Quad to read, decompress and finish her puzzles. Even back home, her life was full with school, the lab, dating, family and friends, so she always looked forward to her quiet lunches as a chance to rest and recharge.

After lunch, she returns to the lab just as Malfoy’s returning to his desk from Snape’s office. She considers him again. The man, though insufferable, was objectively beautiful. Soon she’d come to appreciate how beautiful and serene he looked during periods of deep focus and contemplation. And how he’d mess it up by giving her a withering glare or appraising her as she approached. He’d snap his eyes down then back up her entire body in 0.3 seconds as if she was the most inconsequential thing he’d ever seen, and say things like, “You’re late.”

“Late…?” She frowns, taking a step back from him, craning her neck to meet his eyes. Merlin, those eyes. “For what exactly?”

He quirks an eyebrow as if she’s the one talking about a phantom meeting he’s late for. “Our meeting.” He lifts his left arm, and the sleeve of his robes pull back to reveal an immaculate silver watch. Which he taps with one of his long, elegant fingers, light glinting off the emerald ring on his right ring finger. “Roots.”

Upon closer inspection – through narrowed eyes – she notices the watch has a slightly duller finish. Titanium. Like the watch she’d thrifted during her recent road trip. Higher quality, more heat resistant, and ten times the price of silver. She didn’t wear rings or a watch to brew anymore. She’d learned her lesson via a Silthswitch decoction cauldron explosion in fifth year. And its embarrassing reprisal a year later. Even though she’d upgraded to her own vintage titanium watch, she still habitually removed it and placed it on her desk whenever she entered a lab. Instead, she brewed with wand alarms, floating alarm clocks, or by consulting one of the many clocks that usually dotted lab walls, including the walls of Snape lab.

She huffs, returning to her desk to consult her Scheduler. He’s behind her in four long strides, bringing his scent of leather and ginger, standing too close, straightening a pencil on her desk as she reviews the change he’d made while she was at lunch. The event he’d slipped onto her schedule in her absence is now a raging, red color signaling that it’s overdue. She swears she can actually feel her blood boil in her veins.

She banishes the angry, red invite with a flick of her wrist and sets a new one to start in one minute. She plucks a small berry from the wintermint plant on her desk and pops it into her mouth. “Lead the way,” she urges, turning to face him.

He towers over her, his face impassive as he looks down at her.

She fortifies herself, squares her shoulders, vowing to just stand here – stand her ground, blinking up at him and those steely, gray eyes. She wills her face not to betray a hint of emotion until Merlin himself returns and tears her gaze away under threat of death. She chews her winterberry, enjoying the sweet minty taste.

They stand there, eyes locked and just … breathing at each other. They remain deadlocked for several long minutes, silently daring the other to fold first. Until she stops glowering and starts... noticing. She notices the soft pink of his lips. She notices the silvery peach fuzz on his cheek and jaw. Notices the way his left nostril flares ever so slightly every few breaths. Notices that his eyes aren’t just light gray. There are flecks of green. Blink and you’d miss them. A blink and she’s taking in his whole face, a composite of little details. Details he’s also cataloguing of her. She wonders what he sees. Another blink and something shifts. The green flecks in his eyes are extinguished, slowly subsumed by a darker gray creeping in toward his pupils.

He’s Occluding!

Now she’s inspecting. Seeing which features slacken and which harden as the mask of indifference settles deeper into his mien. She blinks back up to his eyes which, yes, are definitely darker now… A tad duller, more… vacant. Upon solving the puzzle, her face must reveal her surprise, her concern, her… triumph or some other emotion he finds intolerable. Because in the next second, he tears his gaze away and stalks toward the prep station.

She follows behind him and he tells her – rather snarkily in his crisp, posh accent – that he too had questioned the organization of the lab materials. And Snape had nearly bitten his head off when he moved two ingredients his Freshman year. But now that he’s Interim Lead Apprentice, although he’d never had anything to do with the organization system before, it’s now his problem. And his fault.

“What do you propose?” She asks. This was her first day. He’d been here for years. His ideas should take precedence. And if they were good, she’d support them. After all, one did catch more flies with honey.

“Organize by division, class, order. Not by use. Instead, color code by use and contraindications. That way we can find related things next to each other and follow the color coding as needed.”

It’s what she would have suggested… If Snape hadn’t looked at her like she was belching Bubotuber pus all over his pristine tiled floor when she had broached the topic. “Agreed.”

“And you’ll co-sign?”

She shrugs. “Sure.”

“Any objections.”

“None. Mortifera?” She gestures to the roots and tubers on the tray in front of them. “Do you use the Yukimura technique or Gerevich’s?”

“Yukimura.”

“With a super sharp hook knife? 2.5cm blade?”

“No. 3cm Zwilling.” Zwilling was the preeminent knife brand. Their blades and construction were second to none.

She informs him that they make quarter sizes. “Try a 2.75. That length gives you more control over the blade, with less bulk and heft for closer cuts and less nicks. You have long fingers and if you play the piano or any instrument, you’ll have enough dexterity to adjust and maybe even use the 2.5 soon.” One could say she had a thing for knives. Equipage, the elective course she’d taken on Herbology and Foraging tools had dedicated an entire section to knives. Specifically cultelli, little knives. She was a tad… fascinated with them. “You should read Perec’s ‘L’Art de la Préparation’.”

He frowns. “I’ve read Diekstra’s ‘Prep’-”

“Which is a hackneyed, sloppy plagiarism of Perec’s ‘L’Art.’ A theft he only got away with because Perec wasn’t English.” Everyone knew not to get Hermione started on Diekstra! Or interdictions, the process of censoring fraudulent scientists. “Read Perec and forget all of Diekstra’s tripe. I’ve seen your work, that’s not Diekstra. You’re beyond him.” Gods! She had to stop complimenting opponents in the heat of battle!

“Fine.” That muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Was that our agenda?”

“Yes.”

“Great.” She glances at the clock. “I’ve got to get to the Apothecary then order an official Portkey from the Ministry. Are you coming with me to Spain tomorrow?”

He co*cks his head. “I don’t babysit.”

She frowns. “Babysit?” She stops herself, opting instead to count to five – then ten – to calm herself before responding. “Are you an Herbology Master?” She quirks a brow, echoing Snape’s words from earlier and affecting his bored, dry tone.

Malfoy’s eyes flash. Then he enumerates each point on his fingers as he rattles them off. “You’re going spelunking, alone, in a cave…” Here he pauses, dramatically, for emphasis, before continuing, “At night, under the new moon… in Spain?” Six fingers. “Do you even speak Spanish?”

She shrugs, not feeling the least bit inclined to prove anything to this man. “Conversationally.” She gives him a smug smile. “I’m not entering the cave. I’ll Persuasi some goats to pick the sprigs and return them to me. It’s named after them for a reason.” Goats loved the stuff. “But never fear, you’ll see me bright and early the next day.” She turns on her heel and heads to Snape’s office to update him on her plan. Leaving Malfoy stunned.

He's a… ooh… He’s a… little terror. No. No, she could do better than that. He’s a… he’s a prick. He’s a pompous, arrogant dick!

Pansy and Daphne agree with her when she relays the story of her ‘lab dick’ to them over dinner at a restaurant on Diagon.

“Och! He sounds like a right git,” Daphne quips between sips of wine.

“Git?” Hermione echoes.

“Yeah. I guess you Americans would say ‘asshole’?”

“Hmm, git.” Hermione likes the sound of that. “Lab git.” It fits.

TUES 11 JUL

Although Hermione and Malfoy spent Tuesday arguing over the Bogrel case, she did see him using a 2.75 Zwilling to prep roots. The man had dragonhide shoes and expensive watches. Of course, he could snap his fingers and have a new set of Zwillings. Snape made her lead on a new casefile delivered from the Ministry that morning but instructed Malfoy to check her plan before implementation. The git challenged every single item of her plan and questioned each decision she made. As such, she has a pounding headache by the time she returns home to shower and change. She slams a Pepper Up and a Rejuvenating potion before Portkeying to Madrid.

She enjoys a casual dinner with Viktor at a little French bistro before returning to his hotel and letting him take her mind off the hellacious week in the lab, teasing org*sms out of her with his skilled tongue and nimble fingers. He’s thrusting into her, another org*sm building with each stroke, warmth unfurling through her body when her wand and phone alarms go off at 23:30. She has thirty minutes until midnight, the point when the moon is highest in the sky and at its most potent. Thirty minutes to Apparate to the caves and charm the goats to collect sprigs she’ll set in the field to soak up the light of the new moon. It had to be tonight. If she missed her window, they’d have to wait an entire month since the light of any other moon was too powerful. “Viktor!” She moans, as he hikes her legs up, pulling her back from her thoughts. She arches into him as he increases the speed of his thrusts, the sensations increased with the new angle and pace.

He c*ms with a grunted, “Her-mi-o-neeee,” spilling into her as her walls pulse around him with her org*sm.

She makes it to the field outside the Altamira Caves with scarce minutes to spare. Thanking her lucky stars the goats are amenable, only headbutt her thrice as she does her spellwork, and mercifully exit the caves with a large bounty that will mean they can keep the plant stocked in the lab for a while. The haul is enough to support multiple test batches while they tweak the Fairy potion until it’s perfect.

“Procure better foraging boots!” Pansy scoffs from a nearby sofa as Hermione walks out of the Floo into Parkinson Manor.

Twiddling her toes, Hermione glances down at her Wellies and frowns. “These are perfectly adequate.”

“Perfectly adequate is an oxymoron! But I’m not arguing your grammar, Granger, just your footwear.”

“Wellies work just fine. Leave me alone. I’m going to bed.”

“You have a dragonhide satchel, dragonhide gloves and a bajillion knives and tools. You need higher boots that protect your legs from the elements and brambles, shrubs, and nettles.” Pansy narrows her eyes. “And a tighter fit around your legs and calves.”

“Yes, mom!” Hermione teases as she tromps down the hall to her room.

WED 12 JUL

On Wednesday morning, Hermione and Malfoy reach a consensus on the Bogrels and brew the Fairy potion with her ingredient recommendations in relative peace. Well, as peaceful as it gets between them. They only bicker on the best technique for processing the Vinea. Mercifully, their Junior Apprentice, Penelope Clearwater, settles the argument. Hermione’s method wins and though he grumbles, Malfoy complies. Was it the end of the world if the Vinea was diced instead of pulverized? No. But it did shave minutes off the brew time and would make for a more pleasant mouthfeel.

The afternoon brings a fresh case request – a balm for the fauns (goat men) of the Paravel Forest in Austria. Which sets off a new round of bickering. Maybe she was irritable (as he’d groused) because she’d been to Spain and back in only one night and hadn’t slept very well. Or maybe it’s because he’s impossible (as she’d parried back). The argument had started about the merits of finely ground keratinus versus cornudurum for the brewing of the balm. After devolving into name-calling they’d taken five minutes to snarf down the fruit they each kept on their lab desks before meeting back at their brewing station to pick back up their gauntlets. Hermione argues that keratinus is more than adequate given the fauns have such thin ear skin. Malfoy, of course, disagrees. Stalemated they move on to the overall balm approach and, surprise, another argument.

He wants to use Henri-Philippe Claude’s approach.

She scoffs. “Of course, you do. He’s French, and thus infallible in your estimation.” She’d learned the day before that his family hailed from the Loire region of France, adding more fuel to the jabs and barbs she slung at him.

He rolls his eyes in response.

She advocates the approach of Togolese scientist Yézoumi Akogo. “She was mentored by Claude at the Sorbonne and her text, ‘Le guide définitif des baumes’ – which is truly the definitive guide to balms – has an eight-page digressus. She explains why she no longer follows Claude’s approach and provides head-to-head data for fifty balms made her way versus his way.”

“I want to see it,” he growls.

Hermione Accios the book from her desk and flips to the digressus before Malfoy snatches it from her hands. He devours the eight-page dissenting opinion before handing the book back to her.

“I’m not convinced. I want to see it for myself. I brew Claude’s way. You brew Akogo’s way. Then we compare.”

“Malfoy, no. That’s a waste of lab resources.”

“No, Granger, that’s the scientific process.”

“No, Malfoy,” she grits out, jabbing a finger at the digressus. “That’s the scientific process. There is no need to re-do the work she’s already done.”

“Yes, Granger, there is,” he counters, with a gleam in his eye. “She brewed in pewter. We’re brewing in stainless steel.”

Hermione throws her hands up. “Oh, for fu-” She’s chastened by a maelstrom of tiny “shushes” that whiz around the corner from the corridor leading to Snape’s office. She giggles. “I’ve never experienced one of these in person.” She’d heard a Howler in action, but never a Shusher.

Draco quirks a brow. “Me neither.”

“Really? You’ve never been capital-s Shushed before? I’d think this were a monthly, if not weekly, occurrence for you,” she chides.

He sighs. “Are we brewing?”

“Malfoy-”

By the time they’re finished brewing their comparison batches, everyone else has left the lab. Including Snape who’d cast them a dark, chastising look as he’d taken his leave.

There is only a negligible difference between the two salves brewed in the stainless steel. A point she gives to Malfoy. But the Akogo brew is clearly superior. A point he refuses to concede and says, as his final word on the matter, “Since I’m the Principal Potioneer on this case, I’ll be the tiebreaker.” He pauses as if he could ever actually approach this objectively. “We do it my way.” He’s not exactly smiling. No, it’s more a flash of canines. His expression is lupine and predatory as he revels in the kill.

“Yes, sir,” she sneers with a mock salute before stomping over to her desk to gather her things. “That is a dangerous precedent you’re setting, Mr. Malfoy,” she spits rather Snape-ishly. “But I’ll allow it since it is precedence. Remember this moment.” If she had her way he’d come to regret it.

“Come off it, Granger. You’re not a bloody martyr.”

“Hmm, others may think differently.”

Pansy and Daphne certainly did think differently when she relayed the harrowing tale to them over dinner and drinks by the pool at Greengrass Manor.

Astoria rushes through the double doors, perches on the arm of Daphne’s pool chair and picks from her plate. She’s in something tight, slinky, and green. Hermione figures it’s the witch’s favorite color since it was the second time she’d seen her in green in as many days. She must favor it like Pansy favored blue and she herself preferred to wear black. Hermione glances at Daphne who’s in lavender this evening. She didn’t seem to favor any particular color. Two nights ago, she’d been in magenta. The only constant with Daphne were her aquamarine earrings, her family stone. Astoria did not wear any family stone jewelry, in marked contrast to her sister and Pansy.

“Ooh, Astoria, hot date?” Pansy asks.

“I am, aren’t I?” She winks, smoothing her hands over her bodice. “I saw D yesterday. He asked to see me again tonight.”

Daphne gasps.

Astoria turns her attention to Hermione. “Hemorrhoid, I would explain, but…” The insufferable witch pauses for dramatic effect, inspecting her nails. “This doesn’t concern you.” She winks.

Enunciating each syllable, Hermione grits out, “Her-mi-o-ne. It’s Hermione. But you knew that already, Pretoria.”

The witch ignores her retort and casts a dark look at Daphne. “Don’t fret Daph. I told him he had to feed me first.” She snickers. “If only so he can complain about that swot from his work over dinner instead of while he’s shagging me.” She adds grimly, adjusting her cleavage. “I’ve brought the gals out tonight, though. I doubt I’ll hear more about her once he sees them.”

Daphne and Pansy squeal.

“Hermione’s also complaining about a git from work,” Daphne says. “Maybe she needs some distraction tonight too.” She smirks at Hermione.

Hermione chuckles. “Don’t worry, I plan to text Seamus later.”

“Oh, how droll your work sounds, little American,” Astoria muses with mock pity. “What do you do exactly?” She asks flatly, inspecting her nails.

“I train circus fleas,” Hermione deadpans.

“Oh… fun?” She intones with a dead-eyed smile before turning her attention back to Daphne and Pansy. “I’m off to Gavroche. Kisses!” She trills as she struts back into the house.

Pansy turns to Daphne. “You don’t think they’re-”

“No… although she did say he texted her late last night.”

“And you let her go?”

“She only told me this morning. Said that he was on and on about work and then they shagged like crazy.”

“Ew, Daph! You know I hate hearing about his sex life.”

“Pans, you’ve got to talk to her. She’ll never take any wizard seriously as long as he keeps her on the hook.”

“Only if you talk to him.”

“Oh, come on, he won’t listen to me. He’s like one of those mice with the lever Hermione was telling us about. As long as he keeps getting treats, he’ll just keep pressing that button.”

“Treats?” Daphne smirks. “Pansy, grow up.”

Pansy purses her lips.

“Get Harry to talk to him,” Daphne offers.

“I don’t have sway over Harry. Get Theo to talk to him,” Pansy counters.

“Theo and I are still… finding our rhythm.”

“Well?” Pansy asks, blinking at Daphne.

“Well, what? She’s an adult. And you know how he is. This will all… sort itself out,” Daphne says, not sounding the least bit convincing.

THU 13 JUL

Thursday, when their bickering reaches a crescendo, Snape prowls from his office with his wand drawn. He pulls Hermione and Malfoy from case work and banishes them to separate sides of the work top to brew quota potions for Mungo’s and the Infirmary. Seething, they cast withering glares at each other, silently blaming the other for their timeout.

Every so often she’d roll her eyes at the mind-numbing tedium of quota potion brewing and catch sight of Malfoy zeroed in on a task. Unwittingly she’d find herself impressed by his meticulousness and awed by his beauty. He really was just so utterly gorgeous. He seems most at peace when he’s in deep focus, concentrated on his task. There’s a confidence and ease about him in those moments. He’s graceful, agile, and light on his feet. His silvery hair almost glows with some kind of inner light. It’s obscene. She thinks she’s seen hair that color before. Maybe in a dream or something because she’d certainly remember it in reality. It has an almost Veela quality to it. She thinks she’d know if he were a male siren. And besides if he were part Veela or Triton, he wouldn’t be so darn sour.

Now she’s outright staring at his hair. It has a whisper of a wave to it and looks soft. So immensely soft. And those eyes. His eyes could be very expressive. She’d seen him interact with others in the lab and there wasn’t that imperial distance he kept with her, or the tension crackling with others as it did between them. No, on her, his eyes were hard and dark like chips of steel. She didn’t know him well enough to deduce how much of the darkness was his disdain for her and how much was the Occlusion. Hard, dark eyes; soft, pale hair and skin. He’s a study in contrasts: soft, hard, lush, angular, darkness, brilliance. He’s reminiscent of marble. How a skilled artist could etch soft scenes out of the hard planes of brittle rock.

Yes, she thinks, this man is art. Too complex for a single glance, he needed to be studied and considered from different angles to understand his many layers. She snorts to herself. That was utter drivel. She might as well be talking about onions. Or ogres. Oh, for goodness’ sake!

He's tall like an ogre but the comparison stops there. He’s a foot taller than her, she guesses. And though they’re all in lab robes she knows he’s trim. He consistently wears slacks that are black or shades of gray under his robes which he often left open, relishing in the arctic temperatures of the lab once brewing got underway. The chill in the lab was a nice contrast to the heat of so many cauldron flames and did help one not feel like a swamp monster during the physically and mentally taxing process of prep and brewing. However, said arcticity was not appreciated first thing in the morning when one had not yet worked up a sweat. Hermione had tweaked the intensity and responsiveness of a body temp regulating charm she’d learned from Seamus and kept her lab robes closed.

The multiple styles of dragonhide leather shoes he wore had also not escaped her notice: various hide colorations and styles of shoe. It reminds her of Pansy’s qualms from earlier in the week. She’d saved up and her parents had matched her dollar for dollar so she could purchase her foraging supplies – knives, dragon-leather gloves, and a foraging case. Zwilling were a premier German Bladesmithing brand, renowned amongst Herbologists and Potioneers the world over for their quality, resilience, and handling. Even though she’d procured the dragonhide at auction, it was still a splurge. She’d justified the exorbitant price because dragonhides were not only high-quality but also stunningly beautiful and resilient. The hide would be able to stand up to the wrath of nature and the wear-and-tear of foraging and potion-making, and if properly cared for would age well and last forever. Her foraging set was created from the hide of the Saharan Hornsnout – a large, regal race with beautiful blue and purple colorings against their inky black hides.She knew the cost of her gloves and satchel. She couldn’t even imagine how expensive dragonhide shoes were – let alone multiple pairs in different styles as he had.

Who was he?

Chapter 5: DRACO - LAB SWOT

Chapter Text

THU 13 JUL

“What’s the latest on lab swot?” Blaise asks.

The boys are in Theo’s study at Nott Manor for a nightcap after fencing. They’d already heard Draco diatribe about her Tuesday evening after tennis. Then he’d invited Astoria over to… work out the frustrations that tennis and venting couldn’t quite quell. It had been brisk. And rough. And fun. Gone was the witch who used to lie back and think of England. Maybe he’d written her off too quickly. After two harrowing days in the lab, he’d been able to turn his brain off and just… unleash.

“She always has the right answer. Always asks to see your work. Show your proof. Explain why you abandoned other avenues. Defend your approach. I just want to tell her to f*ck off.” Draco gulps his drink, slouching deeper into the buttery leather armchair. “She’s a bloody swot,” he spits.

Theo snorts loudly. “She sounds just like you,” he chides.

Draco glowers at Theo. He was not that bad.

“What did Snape say?” Blaise asks.

Draco huffs. “Snape’s loving it,” he spits. “He’s all like ‘she’s an Herbology Master, Malfoy, are you’?”

“Ah, I see. You’re mad because she’s a more advanced swot than you,” Theo chides.

“She helped solve this case I’d been stuck on, and it actually put us ahead of our timeline but-”

“Oh! Was she an arse about it?”

“No! That’s the thing! She’s not even like that. She’s just… argh! I can’t explain it. She’s gotten under my skin. We fight about everything. Where to cut, how to cut, when to cut. Cauldron material: brass, cast iron, copper, gold, pewter, silver; Flame level: high heat, medium heat, low heat, embers; How to stir: clockwise or counterclockwise; Ingredient addition: sprinkle or pour; Preparation: chop, crush, dice, pulverize, shave, tear. I swear she’d make me check the wind direction and tell me how to angle my arse to fart downwind. I just want to…” He drains the rest of his glass in another long swallow then stalks over to the bar cart to refill it. “Throttle her,” he growls.

Theo and Blaise exchange curious looks.

“Oh?” Theo asks in a suggestive tone, waggling his eyebrows. “I haven’t seen you this worked up about a bird since… ever.”

“Babe alert?” Blaise chimes in, returning to the conversation now that the topic was on fit birds.

Draco pours two fingers of Theo’s delicious top-shelf bourbon and considers his glass. He takes a sip. It goes down smooth, leaving a bouquet of caramel, honey, and vanilla on his palette. Its heat pools low in his belly, mixing with the heat already there whenever he got worked up thinking about her. Granger. Merlin, the bourbon even tasted like her … the vanilla of her perfume or shampoo whenever either of them leaned over the other’s workspace to inspect their progress. The honey from her tea. She preferred ginger and herbal teas, a proclivity they unnervingly shared. She also smelled like berries and citrus. And mint from the wintermint berries or gum she chewed during the tedious process of writing lab notes. He preferred a Muggle Ayurvedic chewing stick to get him through the tedium. Better for the teeth and digestion, as he’d told her yesterday. She’d rolled those big, beautiful eyes and said her parents were two of the eight dentists (teeth healers) who’d approved the particular gum she chewed. He’d offered her a stick, if only to watch her grimace like others did when they sampled it for the first time. There were notes of licorice, ginger, apple, cinnamon, and an earthy taste most found off-putting. But she’d liked it. And had happily chomped away on it for a few minutes. He had not tried her gum... that day.

He shrugs. “She’s… cute. I suppose.” Olive skin. Big, expressive brown eyes with flecks of gold. Plump pink lips. Delightfully curly hair that always looked ready to spring from her braid. He turns to face them. “She does this thing with her hair to keep it off her face. It’s-”

If he said ‘cute’ again, he’d never hear the end of it. Besides it was her brain that drove him crazy. She had a breadth of knowledge and experience that rivalled his. He’d swiftly learned why Snape had promoted her before the ink had dried on her contract. When last they’d spoken, the new guy was supposed to be a Junior Apprentice. Monday morning Draco had walked into the lab and the new guy was a woman, and a newly minted Senior Apprentice to boot. She also had a knife-sharp wit. Pun very much intended in light of her knife fetish. He’d know. And that Zwilling tip had paid off. He’d never had a lab mate nerd out about knives like that before. It was… f*ck, it was hot.

Wait, what? He was talking about her… wit. Right. Knife-sharp. He’d seen some of his lab mates doubled over in stitches, laughing and joking with her. He only got the cutting edge of her wit. Others got the laughs. He got the cheek. The sarcasm. The acerbic retorts that stung if he dwelled on them too long. And he lobbed them right back to her. Parrying blow for blow until they were banished to their separate corners to cool off. Literally.

“Yes,” Theo coaxes. “It’s… what?”

“We lost you for a second there.” Theo chuckles. “Is there a bed in whatever room you were just in?”

“What?” Theo asks with feigned innocence. “You were just telling us how cute your little lab swot is. We were hoping for some more of that fabled Malfoy loquacity. I think that was ten words so far? You’re about ten off from your daily limit. After that you power down, right?” Theo chides, miming a robot powering down.

Blaise cackles, earning him a stern look.

“My blond, broody darling, please redirect all that ardor toward Theodore,” Blaise quips.

“More like broady,” Theo jokes and they mime a Muggle high five.

“Do you want me to finish or not?”

“Oh, don’t let us keep you. Will you have to rewind the fantasy to get yourself worked up again or did you stop at a good place?” Theo teases.

Draco rolls his eyes and turns to Blaise, the saner of the two… by a hair.

Blaise smiles. “I’m listening. Tell us all about her.”

Draco shrugs. “That’s really it,” he says, earning an exasperated sigh from Theo. “What? All I see of her is her face and the little peek of her white collar under her robes. You’ve seen my Lab robes. We’re all just heads and feet.”

Theo snorts. “Yeah, right. Draco, you don’t really expect us to believe that all of this is because of some disembodied head. This must be some witch to have you twisted up in knots for an entire week.”

He’d texted Astoria again last night to… work out the knots. She was fun when she wanted to be and knew how to spend money well. Too well. She’d countered his offer of ‘company’ with ‘dinner… then company.’ He’d taken her to Gavroche. Somewhere Muggle and expensive to keep the vultures off his back. Despite his feints and ruses, the paps had an almost uncanny knack of finding him and Astoria when they were out at Wizarding establishments.

She’d ordered them oysters, caviar, and blanquette de veau. He requested Duck à L'orange for himself. And refused to be baited into a discussion about his obvious objection to the veal stew, deftly steering the conversation back to lab swot when Astoria wouldn’t let it go. She’d rolled her eyes behind her glass but let him continue his rant while the food and the bottle of Cote de Beaune Chardonnay worked through his system. Over their crème brulée, she’d told him to stick to his guns when he wondered if he’d played his trump card too soon by putting his foot down on the faun balm.

After he’d tuckered himself out, she’d cozied up beside him on the velvet-upholstered booth and rubbed tantalizing patterns up and down his thigh, inching closer and closer to... “Ready for company?” She whispered in his ear.

He swallowed thickly and nodded, closing his eyes as she kissed his neck.

“So am I,” she purred.

Back in his room she’d climbed on top and set the pace. He’d sat back and watched her take her fill. His thoughts floated loose and free on a sea of Chardonnay while she wrung shared ecstasy from them again and again. His hands roved over her body, and he played with her cl*t as she rode him. He was present and fully in the moment until…

Until he ventured behind his walls and found her. With those big, expressive brown eyes. And that curly hair that must be just shy of unruly if she always kept it leashed in two French braids. He wondered what it would feel like if he unbraided them, releasing her hair in a halo around her face. Imagined running his fingers through her soft curls. Imagined tracing his fingers along her warm, olive skin. Mapping her pleasures and swallowing her moans as he tasted the sweetness of her lips. Merlin, those lips. Those plump, pink f*cking lips. “f*ck!” He cried out as he crested again. He buried his head in her neck. Astoria’s neck. And kissed her softly. Kissed Astoria softly. f*ck.

Another snort pulls him back. “As I said, some witch,” Theo mutters.

“Your point?” He levels at Theo.

“Draco, you like them… feisty. You keep the company of some… how to put this?”

“Strong-willed women?” Blaise offers. They did share the one brain cell after all.

“Exactly. Especially the ones you date. The ones that get repeat appearances are usually-”

“Spunky?” Blaise offers, working the poor cell overtime.

“After he’s done with them,” Theo jokes, slapping Blaise another ‘five.’ “I was going to say spirited.”

“Nah, they’re well-bred but they’re not horses.”

“Plucky?”

“Too… under-doggy.” They don’t even bother articulating the punchline. They simply communicate it telepathically across that shriveled cell and slap five in triumph. “Frankly, darling, I think you hit the nail with feisty.”

“Agreed! If they’re not feisty, you don’t even bother to hide how bored you are. I think that’s why you instituted the partial face clause. All the Prophet photos of you are from odd angles because otherwise Wizard society would see you stone cold bored over their tea and toast.”

There was one obvious problem with Theo’s theory. “Cho,” Draco challenges.

“Could wipe the field with you in Quidditch,” Theo counters, disgustingly pleased with himself. “Sometimes I fear you’d leave me for Potter if he didn’t have eyes for a certain flower. Cho was feisty in her own way. The point stands. You like feisty women who aren’t afraid of a little… tension. With the ones you really like there’s sexual tension-”

“It’s not like that,’ Draco counters. “This isn’t the tension you… f*ck out.” He’d know.

He’d tried.

“If she’s that irksome, just ignore her,” Blaise offers, unhelpfully. “Can’t you avoid her?” He asks when Draco rolls his eyes.

“No. Snape has essentially made us partners. We work together on everything. In fact, today he pulled us from our cases and had us making Pepper Up and Rejuvenating like we were in third year. He started this, then benched us like petulant children!”

Theo chuckles.

“But enough about lab swot,” Draco says, flashing Theo a conspiratorial grin as he changes the subject. “Blaisey, I heard you dawdled at the Burrow after Quidditch on Saturday. Did Ginevra give you any?”

It’s Blaise’s turn to chuck a cushion.

It smacks Draco in the face just as he raises his glass to his lips. “Ace shot, mate,” he sputters, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Mate, could you not have broken up with the sister any other day? She took it out on the new girl,” Theo pipes up, changing the subject again.

“Oh yeah, what’s she like?” Draco asks, ignoring the dig about him and Astoria.

“You’d like her. She’s fun.”

“Smart,” Theo offers.

“Funny,” from Blaise.

“Feisty,” says Theo, winking, because he just can’t help himself.

“She seems genuine,” Blaise adds. “Feels like she’s been around forever but it’s only been a week. Harry likes her too. And you both can be quite… prickly… with new folks.”

“Good. I’ll meet her tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Is she single?”

“Nah. Picked up some bloke at the bar her first night.” Theo pads over to the bar cart to refill his drink. “And Daph told me Pansy said she’s dating some Pro Quidditch player. Said we’d lose it when we found out who. And he went to see her in Spain this week.”

“Hmm, did she give you any clues?”

“No, just that if Pansy hadn’t been in the room when the new girl got a Skype video call from him and talked to him herself, she wouldn’t have believed it. Pansy says she has a ton of his Quidditch jerseys. He keeps her out of the papers, but they’ve been together forever.”

Draco frowns. “Forever? I can’t think of a single Pro who’s not in the paper at least once a month with a new witch.”

Theo holds his hands up. “Hey, I’m just the messenger.”

“And if she’s got a Pro on her arm, why is she rooming with Pansy?”

Theo shrugs.

“Things are not always as they seem,” Blaise deadpans, flashing each of them a dark look.

FRI 14 JUL

Draco’s late to Friday dinner at Ronaldo’s the next night. One of his mother’s tea guests waylaid him at the Floo, peppering him with inane questions. He cursed himself for not using the Floo in his wing. He’d just had to pop in and chat with his mother before leaving like a dutiful son.

When the weather was nice the snakes ate on the back patio under fans and strong cooling charms. Ronaldo’s was a Muggle restaurant, but the owners were Half-bloods, so they helped them take the proper precautions to stay discreet. He chats idly with the owners about the recent renovations before crossing to the hostess stand to put his card down for the meal. He’s just finished up with the hostess and is making his way toward the patio door when he thinks he sees her coming out of the restroom. He’s not quite sure. Her face looks familiar but everything else about her seems different. They’re moving toward each other now. She appears to be walking in the direction of the patio as well.Surely, they weren’t heading to the same destination…

She’s a far cry from the swot with whom he’d bickered all week in the lab. Her hair is off her face in a ponytail and her face is slightly flushed. She looks windswept, sun-kissed, and sweet. Merlin. His eyes slide down her body, wide-eyed as he takes in her attire and… surely his brain is short circuiting. Tattoos? Black sandals; bright pink toenails – the most color he’s seen on her all week; a sleeveless black dress that hugs her curves. Where’d those hips come from? And that ass? He’d only ever seen her in swot mode. Robes closed against the frigid lab temperatures, a white collared shirt peeking over her robes, and prim dress shoes and loafers on her feet.

Clad in their voluminous black lab robes they were all just disembodied heads and legs. He’d known she must have had a body under that robe - she’s human after all. But Gods, never in a million did he think the body looked like that! She’s all curves and soft edges. He tries to remember if he’d even so much as glimpsed her at the pub last week. He supposes his attention had been elsewhere.

She co*cks her head, and he realizes he’s been caught staring.

“Granger?” he splutters, at the same time as the corner of her lips quirk up and she asks, “Malfoy?”

Chapter 6: HERMIONE - "DLM"

Chapter Text

FRI 14 JUL

The day had been perfect so far. Hermione had risen early and decided to venture out on her first Coastal Walk. One of the things she was most excited to do in England was explore the many coasts and beaches. She’d taken a car out from the Parkinson garage and driven 30 minutes from Bristol to Layde Bay in Clevedon. She dressed in bike shorts, a sports bra, and a long-sleeve rash-guard top for added sun protection, put her hair in a ponytail and wore an old Nike cap and trainers. She shrank some wellies into her backpack just in case there were muddy or water-logged areas and threw some books, snacks, and bottled waters in as well.

It was a gorgeous day. Bright and sunny. The sun dappled beautifully between the leaves of the canopy overhead as she walked the wooded path. She climbed the suspension bridge and marveled at the panoramic views of the bay, the beach, and miles and miles of rolling hills. She descended and walked along the rocky beach before setting down an enlarged towel in the sand to read on the beach for a few hours. Later, she hiked up to the Wellington Park Hotel for a late lunch of ceviche, scallops with bacon on wild rice and a glass of Riesling. On her return trip to Bristol, she took a detour to the Bristol Museum and Art Gallery and walked each floor taking in everything from mummies and fossils to paintings and pottery.

Back home she showers and naps and then gets ready for dinner and drinks with Pansy’s friends. She dries her hair with drying charms and throws it into a ponytail. She dons a plain black racerback bodycon dress that hits just above her knees. She chooses not to hide her tattoos under glamours and finishes the look with her black platform sandals and ubiquitous beaded bag.

She Apparates to the alley near the restaurant and just as she’s walking in, her phone rings with a call from her mother. She takes the call, updating her mother on the lab shenanigans since the last time they’d spoken. She’d forgotten to cast a cooling charm so she’s a sweaty mess when she hangs up. She goes to the restroom to freshen up and cast a cooling charm before heading out to the back patio to meet Pansy and the rest of the snakes.

On her way out she stops short when she spies an all too familiar flash of silvery blond hair heads above everyone else in the restaurant. They couldn’t possibly be heading for the same area, could they? Her eyes move down his body as they walk slowly toward each other. He’s in a white button-down linen shirt with his sleeves rolled up his forearms. His lean, muscled arms, and long graceful fingers are on display. As he slips something into his trouser pocket, the light glints off the emerald in the ring he always wears. She wonders whether emerald is his favorite color or simply his family stone. Not that she’d ask him. The ring is like her class ring but… different. The stone is bigger, the ring is heftier, and there’s something… inexplicable about it. Objects enchanted with powerful or ancient magic often had an… essence about them. The ring has that essence in spades. It exudes magical power. He exudes power. Her eyes drift lower. He's in light gray slacks and crisp white trainers. Her brain snags on that detail after a week of seeing his feet clad only in the world’s rarest and most expensive leather.

She realizes only belatedly (after her own inspection is complete) that he is also studying her. His eyes take in her tattoos and slide down her body. He appears… flummoxed. Her lips quirk up in a wry smile, and she wrinkles her nose at him in consternation. As they both reach for the handle of the patio door, her incredulous “Malfoy?” is met with his curious “Granger?”

Pansy finds them both stunned in the doorway as she opens the patio door. “On a last name basis, are we?” She asks as she pulls Hermione out onto the private patio behind her.

Hermione looks back at him, mouth agape.

A faint blush creeps up his neck and cheeks. His gaze is heavy and unfathomable for mere seconds as he drinks her in. His eyes snag on one particular detail. She chuckles and as his eyes snap back up to hers, he realizes he’s been caught checking out her ass.

Pansy guides Hermione over to the chair beside her own.

Malfoy follows behind them, dumbfounded.

Hermione smiles down at Harry who is seated to her right. Daphne is on his right, next to Theo. Blaise is on his right, next to Malfoy who is pulling out his chair. Although the table is a circle, he is sitting at the head of it. Interesting. The rest of the snakes have small plates and drinks in front of them. All that’s left are dregs and crumbs.

“Draco you’ve been quite absent recently. Meet Hermione. Hermione, Draco.” She gestures between them as Hermione pulls out her chair and takes her seat.

“Draco? Draco Malfoy?” Hermione whispers to Pansy as she sits in the chair between herself and Malfoy.

“Yes,” Pansy whispers to her. “Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

“Lucius?” Hermione asks, pinching her nose. “He’s their son, isn’t he?”

Pansy quirks a brow. “Yes?” Her voice goes even quieter. “DLM. He’s also Astoria’s ex.”

Hermione’s eyes widen as the puzzle pieces all slot into place. The notorious him. DLM. Blurry side profiles and the back of his head with a Pureblood darling in the papers. Her mind races, cataloging all the pieces: Puzzle pages; bickering about superior texts and authors, techniques, theorems, proofs, and potion formulations; Nitpicking preparations; Sending, resending, and banishing meeting invites; Dragon-leather, knives and expensive watches; Veelas and ogres and onions. “Oh my- that’s lab git,” she squeaks, fighting the urge to scream at the sick irony of this moment.

She couldn’t do the Puzzle page in the morning without those initials taunting her from the next page. Some inane story about him that she urges herself to ignore despite flicking her eyes over it. Some picture of an arm or the back of the head - she now knew was his - as he led some green-clad Pureblood darling behind him. The Prophet was obsessed with him but wouldn’t (or couldn’t) print his entire name and wouldn’t (or couldn’t) print a decent full-face picture of him? Why? So that people wouldn’t unwittingly be terrorized by quite possibly the richest wizard (second only to his father, of course) and most eligible bachelor in Europe! That’s why!

Not that it changed anything! But it did explain the myriad pairs of dragonhide shoes. The understated but expertly crafted and undoubtedly expensive watches (plural!). The immaculately tailored robes. The ring. The hair. The regal elegance. The imperiousness… Hermione releases a shaky breath.

Pansy chortles. She’d gotten an earful all week about the lab git who, as it turned out, was her dear friend. “Oh, my Gods, this is rich!” Pansy titters, setting down the glass of water she’d been primly sipping. “Of course! How did I not put two and two together?”

Malfoy has his head down whispering to Blaise and Theo who both glance over at Hermione.

Theo guffaws and Malfoy swats him repeatedly with his cloth napkin.

The waitress arrives to take the food and drink order of the two newcomers. Hermione reviews the menu quickly before ordering. They glare at each other when they both order a bottle of Crabbies. She feels a tickle in her brain as he brushes a curious finger of Legilimency against her walls. She only had the claptrap siding up, her baseline. Nothing load-bearing. Luckily the only thing front of mind was menu options. The seared swordfish looked promising, but the shepherd’s pie had caramelized cheese and crunchy onions on top. When she glances at him suspiciously, he looks away breaking the connection. His curiosity had gotten the better of him once again and she caught him every time.

Theo chuckles. “The Ginger Twins! Oh no wait, that’s Fred and George. We’ll come up with a better name later… Mr. and Mrs. Swot?”

‘Swot?’ Hermione mouths to Pansy.

“Know it all. But… not in a good way,” Pansy whispers.

Ah, so a pejorative. She glances at Malfoy who’s already glowering at her. He’s the swot. She holds his gaze, narrowing her eyes at him, wishing she knew Legilimency so she could take a quick peek.

He breaks first and glances away.

Theo continues unperturbed. “No, no, I can do better than Mr. and Mrs. Swot. Bah, it’ll come to me… And for their next trick, they’ll order the same entree. On the count of three, my pretties, one, two-”

Malfoy swats at him again. “Shut up, Theo,” he admonishes, before ordering the swordfish.

She orders the shepherd’s pie.

“Ooh Hermione, your little Irish bloke’s rubbing off on you,” Blaise teases.

Hermione feels her cheeks heat.

“He’d better be doing more than that!” Theo calls.

Hermione chucks her napkin at him.

Pansy rolls her eyes then whispers, “And what about that Wood guy?”

Somehow Theo still hears. “Ooh, more wood for you, Hermione? I daresay, our pond jumper is a little lady’s man. Or er, what’s the woman’s equivalent.” He calls over, ducking the napkin she snatches from Pansy’s lap to throw at him.

“Man’s lady?” Blaise chimes in. “Hmm, no. It lacks a certain je ne sais quoi.”

“Whatever it is,” Daphne teases, “she’s got a thing for Quidditch players. First Krum and now Wood.”

Blaise chokes on his water and Theo claps him on the back. “Viktor… Krum?” He ekes out between wet coughs. The guys exchange looks she can’t yet read.

Hermione shrugs.

“Ace roster, Hermione!” Theo calls.

Pansy joins in the fray. “Yeah, she wears his shirts to sleep and everything. She’s got a nice little collection from the looks of it,” Pansy chides, nudging her. “I heard him begging her to see him while she was in Spain.”

Malfoy’s mumbled, “Spain,” is drowned out as Hermione shrieks, “Pansy!” Heat rises up her chest and neck and she knows her face is nearly beet red when the waitress returns with two ginger beers and more warm bread, butter, and olive oil for the table.

Hermione tears into the bread and stifles a moan. The bread was so much better in Europe.

“I know,” coos Pansy, who’d already received an earful about the bread at several dinners throughout the week. “The bread alone is worth the plane ride to you, darling, I know. We can all leave and give you two a private moment.” She gestures to the bread and they giggle.

Theo cuts through their bread lovefest. “Is it only current Quidditch players or will past players do? Any position preference?”

She pointedly ignores Theo, thanking the gods her mouth is too full of bread.

Daphne, however, does not. “I haven’t heard any complaints about the positions Wood’s put her in. Or Krum for that matter, though with a-”

Hermione groans and shoots Daphne a censorial glare.

Pansy, the traitor pipes up. “Well Krum is an active player and so is Wood. The Yorkshire… Puddings? Or something.” She waves her hand dismissively. “So, I’d say current Quidditch players only. Isn’t that right, Granger?” She asks feigning innocence before cutting her eyes to Malfoy as she enunciates Hermione’s surname.

He shoots Pansy an unamused look.

Theo tuts and turns to Malfoy as well. “You’ll need to find some other way to settle your differences, mate. Current Quidditch players only.”

Blaise’s hand shoots out to prevent Malfoy from pummeling Theo as the table dissolves into raucous laughter, only stopped when the waitress returns with the first set of entrees.

Conversation and drinks flow easily among the gang. The sun has just dipped below the horizon and the table is illuminated by the soft glow of string lights and light charms when the waitress returns for their dessert order. The gang orders one of everything on the menu á la mode and rotate the small plates around the table, taking nibbles.

Hermione is enamored of the bread pudding. She’d hated the dish as a child. She nudges Pansy and asks if Mitsy would make some for them over the weekend. “Do you think she’d teach me how to make it?”

Pansy smiles at her. “Sure.”

Theo clears his throat, more serious than Hermione had seen him in the past week. His demeanor, usually so light, is rather stern. Gone is the man who always had a joke on his lips.

Hermione straightens in her seat.

“I can teach you,” he offers.

Her eyes widen. “You can? You-”

“Yes, I’m a Pastry chef. I trained in France.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes when she cuts her eyes over to him at the mention of his favorite word.

“I’m still working on my Culinary Arts degree during the summers though.”

“Wow, Theo! How’d that start?”

“I became obsessed with Muggle baking and cooking competition shows and it grew from there. I took some cooking classes at Cordon Bleu London and then went to France because… France…” He shrugs.

Malfoy narrows his eyes when she glances at him again.

“I can teach you. We can make other things too. And that’s not innuendo.” He chuckles.

Daphne swats his shoulder playfully.

“I didn’t think it was until you denied it, Theo.” Hermione smirks. “But I’d like that. There’s nothing better than a home-cooked meal from someone who really likes to cook, you know? That taste of love in it. I’d be happy to eat anything you feed me-”

Theo’s eyes widen and a grin spreads across his face.

“And Theo, so help me Merlin, if you make a dirty joke or innuendo, I will shoot you the nastiest Bat Bogey Hex you’ve ever felt. You’ll snot green for a week.”

His expression falls. “Fine. But in order for it to be the nastiest I’ve ever felt, I’d have to snot green for a week and a half.”

“My girl!” Blaise chuckles. He raps his knuckles twice on the table. “If we’re done here, my darlings, there’s a band that opened for Mother dearest a few years ago that’s playing a gig at the Roxy tonight. We could check out Roxy and then that new club on Diagon, Snare?”

The gang all agree.

“What kind of music do they play?” Hermione asks.

“A little pop, a little ska. Are you okay with those?”

Hermione nods, draining the rest of her drink. “I love ska. My father was in a ska band as a teen. He introduced me to a lot of different genres of music. I listen to a little bit of everything. And I give everything at least a chance.”

“Good girl.” Blaise chuckles. “Would we have heard any of his stuff? Will I find anything if I look him up online.”

“No, there’s nothing extant. Although if you come for Sunday dinner, you’ll get dinner and a show.” She grins.

Blaise smiles. “Tempting offer.”

She supposes if Friday dinners are always this fun, she can gladly make time in her schedule to attend them. And she doesn’t have to bait Malfoy. She can simply ignore him. There’s enough conversation and laughter to distract her from his presence.

Chapter 7: DRACO - INTRIGUED

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FRI 14 JUL

Draco was sat in his usual seat at their usual table at their usual restaurant. This was just another Friday night with friends. Except it wasn’t. Because she’s here. She did not belong here. Not that any of the other snakes seemed to share this sentiment. They were laughing and chumming it up with her as if she’d been here their entire lives. To them she was a funny, sexy, tattooed bookworm. A chum. A mate. A friend.

They were not with her day in and day out at the lab, bickering and competing with her. And seeing the snakes interact with her, hearing how much they enjoyed spending time with her, and knowing that this witch was also the swot from the Lab had given him whiplash. She was certainly a puzzle.

He liked puzzles. And like puzzles, he found her… intriguing. And when her eyes flickered over to him after he brushed a curious tendril of legilimency against her walls he discovered that she was also an Occlumens. Quite skilled by the speed at which she’d surmised he was the intruder. Startled, he’d retreated.

Loathe as he was to admit it, her Potioneering skills were excellent, and according to Snape she was the youngest Harvard/New College student to obtain an Herbology Mastery. Of course, she’d be a skilled Occlumens. He’d bet a few hundred galleons she was a Parseltongue too. So far, Harry was the only one of their group with that skill. She was probably also secretly an Alchemist, or working toward it, because why not? Since it seemed it was her goal in life to obtain every bloody Wizarding honor and skill possible before she turned 25, maybe 30, and to figure out the meaning of life and the universe. His father had studied Alchemy at Oxford/Hogwarts before taking up the reins of Malfoy Estate and Holdings. The man didn’t have many people to nerd out about the universe with. Those two could beat each other over the head with facts and quibble and snipe about the smallest details. A passion they both shared.

A low growl of frustration rumbles through him. He hurries to mask it with a gulp of Crabbies.

Blaise nudges his water glass closer. He’d eyed him all night, watching Draco knock back ginger beer after ginger beer, coaxing him to slow down and glaring at him until he took a sip of water.

“Happy?” He hisses after a sip of water.

“Immensely, darling,” Blaise retorts.

It didn’t help that she also drank ginger beers and would also ask for another every other time he ordered a refill from the waitress. Seethe, gulp, growl, nudge, repeat. Blaise stilled his hand more forcefully after he switched to top-shelf whiskey. He needed the edge taken way off and didn’t care for the burn of something cheap or the abominably cinnamon pungency of Ogden’s. And tonight was too tame for anything elvish or goblin.

“After this he’s cut off,” Blaise advises the waitress.

Like hell he was. He was paying for this bloody meal. His money, his rules.

“Ignore him,” Draco says as he gives Claire a soft smile.

“Ignore him,” Blaise retorts.

“Yes, Mr. Zabini.”

After the waitress departs, Draco flashes a glare at Blaise who gives him a sh*t-eating grin and claps him on the shoulder. “I tip better.”

Chastened, Draco sips his whiskey and tries to keep his eyes off of her. He does. But who knew she was hiding all that under her robes and imperious academic walls. The couple times she’d smirked at him when Theo said ‘France,’ had sent him into a tailspin. She was convinced he had an unhealthy affinity for his homeland and bringing a relic of their lab feud to the dinner table on the back patio of Ronaldo’s had set off all his alarm bells. It was difficult to reconcile the swot he bickered and competed with in the Lab with the funny, worldly woman across the table from him now.

‘Nd yu tonit,’ he haphazardly texts Astoria under the table.

He’d have to compartmentalize. If he allowed the disparate parts of Hermione Granger to coalesce into a whole, he’d… he didn’t know what. But it would be bad. Especially with where his mind tended to wander when he thought about her. He needed to keep them separate. Granger was his lab mate and Hermione was… a friend of a friend. Whoever she was, Narcissa would loathe her. He chuckled into his drink. Earning a curious look from Blaise. He stares blankly at him before he turns his attention back to whatever Gra- Hermione was saying. Something about ska. He didn’t care much for reggae. He’d heard it at Muggle bars mixed into the DJ sets, but it wasn’t a genre he sought out. He preferred classical music and jazz, and had a budding interest in soul.

She seems to carry on well with the boys. Harry seemed happy to have another Muggleborn around who had similar experiences to him, straddled both worlds, and could catch his Muggle references with ease. She also deftly evaded and shot down Theo’s flirtations and didn’t let Blaise and Theo’s innuendos slide. Good! Because it was unspoken that Blaise was licking his wounds after his last romp with Ginevra – but they belonged together. Theo had been enamored with Daphne since they were in leading strings. And there was something unfolding tortuously slowly between Pansy and Potter if they could both kindly extract their heads from their arses. He wonders how many of these dynamics Her Swotness has picked up on. She seemed perceptive. Though neither of them had figured out they were connected to the same gaggle of people for almost a week despite lambasting the other to anyone who would listen. This failure lessened his estimation of both of them by a smidgeon. It was humbling.

Chapter 8: HERMIONE - VERY DECIDEDLY NOT WATCHING THE QUIDDITCH GAME

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SAT 15 JUL – SUN 16 JUL

The second Muggle Adventure day went off without a hitch. She’d taken the gang Go-Karting and they’d loved every minute of it. She’d ended the day with Pansy by the pool before a dinner date with Seamus. She was awoken early the next morning to the blaring of his alarm. They breakfasted on her balcony before she sent him off with a kiss and bid him good luck on his mission.

She spent the next few hours poring over lesson plans for the Herbology Review course she was T.A.ing. She finalized her lesson plan, allocating time in each class session for lecture and hands-on practical experience. She was excited that the Instructor, Professor Sprout, had agreed to allow her one class a month to take the students foraging and gave Hermione a duplicated copy of her ancient, annotated Almanac to help her plan for the in-class foraging and her own personal romps. She owled the Professor a copy of her finalized lesson plan, then knocked on Pansy’s door with a poppyseed muffin and mug of peppermint tea and told her to meet her by the pool.

They swam and lounged for a couple hours before preparing to leave for the Burrow to watch Ginny and the boys play Quidditch. They showered and Hermione changed into a black tank, shorts, and sandals. She threw her hair into a ponytail, looped it through the opening in her old Harvard cap and threw some sunglasses and her copy of Hogwarts: A History into her bag. She also glamoured a spicy new romance novel that had her favorite romance internet forum all in a twitter. The glamoured book now purported to be the innocuous ‘Guide des Plantes Aquatiques’ by French Botanist Aufidius De’Candolle. Except the man’s real name was actually Augustin and he'd written no such thing.

Malfoy’s at the Burrow, but Hermione ignores him. Or tries to. He’s a whiz on his broom. Second only to Harry. Confident, graceful, and long. Malfoy’s daring where Harry is bold; cautious where Harry is reactive. Not that she noticed, however, because she was very decidedly not watching the Quidditch match. She does not notice his ease on the broom. How it seems like an extension of him. How this was yet another thing he was impossibly good at without breaking a sweat. She does not notice his determination and skill, how his eyes tracked the snitch while simultaneously keeping track of the gameplay. She does not notice how methodical he is. She does not notice how he sends Harry on wild goose chases that end in them completing dives and feints they pull out of mere centimeters from the grass. No, she’s reading her book. Which is forgotten altogether in her lap during their explosive final battle for the snitch!

Lighter on his broom and seemingly possessed of a death wish, Harry just barely edges Malfoy out for the snitch. With a wide-eyed grin, he surges forward. His broom tips precariously as he snatches the flash of gold out of Malfoy’s reach, winning the match for his team who hoot and holler as they zoom toward Harry to clap him on the back.

Hermione knows the precise moment Malfoy’s dark gaze flicks over to her. Can feel his gaze on her skin clear across the field. “sh*t,” she whispers, snapping her eyes back down to her book. She plucks it from her lap and flips through the pages, hoping he can’t see the blush creeping up her neck and cheeks. Or that her book is upside down.

Chapter 9: HERMIONE - RHYTHMS

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Hermione soon fell into a rhythm in which she spent the rest of the summer. A rhythm punctuated by birthday parties, Quidditch matches (er- reading at Quidditch matches), Coastal Walks, Friday night dinners at Ronaldo’s, Muggle Adventure Days, Sunday cooking sessions with Theo, Foraging sessions, outings with the girls, dates, great sex, and Lab shenanigans.

Sundays she studied and ate brunch with Pansy before they Flooed to the Burrow to watch the weekly Quidditch match. As always, Quidditch bouts were prime reading time for Hermione, but she would often glance up to catch a stellar play and witness more of the bitter rivalry between Draco and Harry. Although Draco played with grace and strategy, he was no match for Harry’s raw power. She wondered if Malfoy ever let himself go. If he ever surrendered to a moment. To a feeling. To an impulse? Was he always so buttoned up and orderly? Was everything in his life so particular? Always just so?

Harry put his all into the game. He played Quidditch with every bit of his soul. In fact, the man played so hard he often dozed into his plate at their post-Quidditch lunch. A time or two… or three, Pansy even had to ply him with a Pepper-up!

In contrast, after composing himself (which often involved zooming over the forest near the Burrow at breakneck speed) Draco strode off the field and bantered with the others throughout the meal before making his exit to the Manor to study or attend to Estate business. Harry left everything on the field. What did Draco leave? It was evident that Harry played to win and for the thrill of flying and diving.

In a dark corner of her mind, Hermione wondered what motivated Malfoy to show up to lose week after week after week. Maybe he didn’t mind being Harry’s foil. Maybe he enjoyed being a pain in Harry’s ass and strove to make it that much harder for him to clench each victory. The git certainly didn’t mind being a pain in someone’s ass – she knew that from personal experience.

Each Sunday after they helped Mrs. Weasley clear the dishes, the snakes would lounge by the Parkinson or Nott pool before Hermione’s cooking session with Theo. Sometimes they invited Daphne and Pansy to eat with them or they’d eat while watching Muggle cooking shows and cartoons from all over the world.

After recharging at the weekend, Hermione threw herself headlong into each new week. She was off early to the lab Monday through Thursday. Each evening after a sh*t in the Lab, Hermione would eat dinner with Pansy and her family at the Manor or go out with Daphne and Pansy and some of the guys. Some nights she went on dates with Seamus or Wood or a guy she met at Flourish or in the Apothecary. Other nights – usually Thursdays – the boys (Harry, Theo, Blaise; and Neville and Ron if they were free) would join Pansy, Hermione, and Daphne in Pansy’s family media room to watch a movie or a couple episodes of a TV show.

Fridays were Hermione’s solo exploration day. She’d drive off to do a Coastal Walk and hike or tour a museum, and eat lunch at a beach or cliffside hotel. She’d return to the Manor to shower and nap then join the crew for dinner at their usual spot. After dinner they’d catch a show at The Roxy, or they’d go for drinks at the Leaky or another Wizard or muggle bar.

She’d sleep in late Saturday mornings and join the Parkinsons for brunch before she, Theo, Harry, and Blaise would do something Muggle: Arcade, Bowling, Laser Tag, Ping Pong, Tennis, amusem*nt parks, go-karting, trampolining, ax throwing, mini golf, archery… Sometimes, if it was still early afternoon when they lost interest in their activity, they’d catch a movie at the local theater. Pansy often joined them at the movie theater and Hermione would stop the other boys with an outstretched hand to ensure Harry and Pansy sat together in the theater. Then she’d settle in between Harry and Theo. After the movie they’d text Daphne (and Ginny if she wasn’t on the road) to join them for dinner and drinks at a Muggle restaurant. They’d debrief the movie during the meal, arguing about the plot and allowing Harry and Hermione to tell them about similar movies or other movies and shows the actors were in. Some Saturday's Hermione would drag the gang to Karaoke. The gang took to karaoke really well, having boned up on Muggle music after the Almost. After a couple weeks, karaoke became a staple Saturday evening activity.

Professional Quidditch matches were often played Saturday afternoons or evenings. The snakes attended Ginny’s final home matches before she went out on the road. Hermione also attended a few of Wood’s matches and invited Daphne and Pansy whenever she went to one of Viktor’s matches. One Saturday Hermione, Daphne and Pansy took a Portkey to Finland to watch Viktor’s team play the Finnish Wolves. After the match, they went to dinner with a few members of the Bulgarian team then attended a house party with players from both teams.

Afterward, Viktor and Hermione went back to his hotel room, and he worshiped her body as slowly and tenderly as he always did. She always had such powerful org*sms with him. He knew her body like the back of his hand and was so attentive. He liked a slow rhythmic pace with deep strokes that hit every nerve ending. His hands were everywhere, grasping her wild curls and gripping her hips and ass. He couldn’t get enough of her ass. He was always such a gentleman in public, but in private or on secluded walks after dinner, his hand would start wrapped around her waist – pulling her in close – then stray lower and lower. He especially liked when she wore muggle jeans or pants with back pockets that he could slip a hand into. Alone in his hotel room or flat when she visited, he often pulled her into his lap while he reviewed game strategy.

f*cking Seamus was sloppy and sweaty and loud. He’d take her on the counter, on the couch, against the door, against the wall, in the shower, on the floor, and all over his bed. That summer, they christened every inch of his new flat. He was a Junior Auror with Charms and Transfigurations Masteries from Hogwarts and did a lot of undercover work abroad. When he returned from a mission, he’d invite her out for dinner and dancing and she could see the heat and hunger in his eyes as he greedily took her in, pulling her in for a hug, his hands roving down her sides along her hips and ass. Often, they’d go out for a cuisine he’d been missing during his clandestine assignments. Indian, Thai, Mexican, Vietnamese, Ethiopian, Brazilian, Cuban, Jamaican, Chinese. His vast palette and tolerance for spice made eating with him fun and exciting. And Seamus loved dancing. He’d take her ballroom dancing and to reggae and salsa clubs. She’d raid Pansy’s closet for dresses, gowns, and kitten heals to wear dancing with him.

Seamus also liked public sex. Bathrooms, coat check, the side of the building, sitting on the same side of the booth as her, teasing circles along her thighs and then fingering her while she fought to maintain her composure and finish her meal. He’d tease and coax her through org*sms, chiding her to be quiet as he Finite’d every Muffliato or Silencing Charm she cast. Hermione lost count of how many times she’d cum with a strangled moan, knuckles white, her fingers gripping the stem of her wine glass or her knife, her arm halted in mid-air as she brought a bite of food to her mouth trying to appear as if everything was fine at their table. Face flushed, she’d crest, wanting nothing more than to slump against him and sob his name into the crook of his neck as she came all over his skilled fingers.

She returned the favor often. Edging him during the meal, a puddle of precum on his thighs while she dragged her fist slowly, so slowly, up and down, up and down his length until he whimpered and begged and pleaded for her fingers to move. “f*ck!” He’d bite out, his napkin balled in a fist at his mouth. “Faster,” he’d plead. “Tighter.” His breaths coming in short gasps, his legs quivering under the table. “Please, Hermione. Gods, please. Puh-please,” he’d beg.

And when she acquiesced – increasing her pace, tightening her grip, passing her thumb over the sensitive head at the apex of each stroke – he’d cum in spurts that coated her fingers and the underside of the table before they vanished the mess, casting a Scourgify over the entire table. The dazed, blissful look he flashed her each time gave her a heady high. She relished that sloppy kiss he’d place on her lips, his finger crooked under her chin to lift her mouth to his. He’d kiss her deeply until she whimpered and forgot herself and then he’d whisper all the things he’d do to her later then return primly back to his meal. Righting his napkin in his lap as he tucked himself back in, zipped up and muttered a smoothing charm, setting himself back to rights. Those whispers always promised more than just dessert.

Wood was meticulous and had incredible stamina. He was a wonder with his tongue. He liked to eat her out under the stands when he won. Her underwear vanished or dangling around the ankle of the leg thrown over his shoulder, her back pushed against the stands or against the wall of the tunnel to the locker rooms. Her hands fisted in his wavy black hair and his hands on her waist or hips were the only things keeping her up as she dissolved into a boneless puddle while he teased org*sms out of her with his tongue. When he lost, he’d mutter a Disillusionment charm then f*ck her rough under the stands. His co*ck pulled out over the top of his Quidditch kit, her dress rucked up around her waist, fisted in his hands for leverage, her thong pushed to the side or vanished altogether. Taking her in long, sharp strokes that left her gasping and babbling nonsense as he railed her. His hands gripping her hips, her shoulders, and sometimes wrapped around her neck, her back arched against him, the thwack of skin on skin echoing dully under the metal and wood stands. He’d work out his angst and frustration on her body, buried deep inside her, ripping consecutive org*sms out of her until her skin tingled and her mind went blank. He’d slump into her after he came, slowly softening and slipping out of her. He’d watch with hooded eyes as his cum mingled with hers and trickled down her inner thighs before he cast a cleansing charm. Half hard again he’d take her hand and lead her back to the now empty locker room, peeling her clothes off and shagging her again in the shower before rubbing soap over every inch of her and washing her reverently. He’d run his fingers over her body, pulling her flush against him, his co*ck thick and hard against her belly. He’d kiss her until their lips were swollen and he’d bloomed hickies – tiny little pricks of heat and pain – all over her neck, chest, and tit*. Every nerve ending on fire while she stroked him feverishly, panting and cursing as he came in hot spurts against her tummy. The evidence immediately washed down the drain by the hot shower water falling around them. She learned to attend his matches with a spare pair of knickers in her bag and had gotten deft at Mending and Smoothing charms to right the clothes he ripped or wrinkled, balled up in his fists as he f*cked her. They’d join the rest of the team for dinner and drinks, his hand on her thigh throughout the meal as he debriefed and joked with the team. She’d make conversation with his team members and their girlfriends. Then they’d apparate to the Leaky or another wizarding pub. She’d sip a beer or cider while they danced until his post-game and post-coital adrenaline wore off and he began to crash. Then they’d disapparate back to his flat and watch ‘How It’s Made’ reruns on his Tevo and talk about anything and everything under the sun before he carried her to his bed, and they fell asleep with him wrapped around her. Before long, she had a few Wood Quidditch tees added to her collection.

And then there was Draco Lucius Malfoy. He’d split her into Granger in the lab and Hermione outside of it. So, she did the same to him. Draco was essentially a non-entity. They kept their polite distance, were never alone together, never initiated conversation with each other, laughed politely at each other’s jokes, and orbited each other pleasantly. There was no push, there was no pull. They just… existed.

But Malfoy? Malfoy was a thorn in her side. He was under her skin and the bane of her existence. He was more exacting than Snape! He criticized everything she did, undercut and questioned any idea she had, and for every time she corrected him, he gave it right back. Some small voice in the back of her head said that he improved her technique and ensured that her ideas were well thought out, but she would rather die than credit him with anything.

Time and again it floored her that someone so objectively gorgeous could be so unerringly and horrendously, poncey, prattish and swottish. Words Pansy and Daphne had taught her. The better to lambaste him during the thirty minutes a week they allowed her to rant about him. Literally! “Thirty minutes, starting now,” Pansy would say, setting down her phone with the timer running down or charming her wand to vibrate when time was up.

Though Hermione knew Snape could almost feel the disdain they bore each other; he still paired them together on Lab projects and to fill Potion quotas. After weeks of research and tinkering, their project to optimize Wolfsbane to allow for maximum potency, least side effects and cheapest price had finally resulted in a potion that checked all the boxes. Snape would soon begin trialing the potion in ten wolves before reporting the results to the Ministry. And just like that Hermione would soon be co-Author on her first British Wizard research study. They were also working on a potion to cure a mysterious illness that had cropped up in a nearby centaur herd and had been approached by another local Fairy community to help institute a protocol for the distilling process to harness and monetize the medicinal properties of a mushroom indigenous to their lands. Due to her dual Potions/Healing degree, Hermione was also pulled into a longitudinal study about premature death in goblins. When they weren’t at each other’s necks – which was only when they were in deep focus on their individual tasks – she and Malfoy actually worked quite well together. While they scrutinized and inspected each other’s work, they never had any issue with the finished product. Mainly because they didn’t let the other start anything until they first eviscerated the original idea then painstakingly rebuilt it into a plan that satisfied them both.

With all the time she spent around him, she’d come to appreciate his cologne and associate certain scents with him. When he’d lean over into her space to inspect her cauldron or her lab notes, she’d catch a whiff of his scent. Notes of leather, mint, ginger, anise, citrus, parchment, cedar, and eucalyptus. He also drank many of the same mint, herbal and ginger teas as she did. But where she might fight the midafternoon slump with an espresso and an orange or a peanut butter sandwich with dates and honey, Malfoy opted for Earl Grey tea and protein bar or an apple with peanut butter. Or he’d swipe her orange, so she’d started bringing two. In return, she’d nick his apple, so he’d started bringing two. These weren’t favors. No, it just simply wouldn’t do to have a hangry lab mate.

Chapter 10: HERMIONE - OPHIOLOGY (THE STUDY OF SNAKES)

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Hermione soon learned that there were always multiple conversations occurring at the same time among the snakes. During Harry’s birthday party at the end of July she was just catching on to some of the rhythms of the group. By Ginny’s birthday in mid-August she was holding her own amongst the fray.

The guys would have a conversation going amongst each other that they slipped back into if the table devolved into madness or if the group conversation petered out. As did the girls. There was the conversation the group was having with their words; there were the pokes, prods, jokes, and innuendos that made up the sub-text; there were several text threads buzzing at the same time (tertiary conversations); and then there were the micro-conversations they each had on a 1:1 level through glances and meaningful looks.

Hermione soon learned to flash warning glares at Blaise and Theo before or after she said something to communicate that she wasn’t in the mood for their chides or innuendo. They’d know from the depth and duration of her glare how much not to mess with her and would proceed accordingly. After Theo had taken an innuendo too far during one meal, she’d muttered an Arceo charm that sealed his lips. One look from her was all it took to silence them after that!

She exchanged looks with Harry whenever someone mentioned doing something with magic for which Muggles already had a really nifty device or system. With their eyes, they debated whether or not to tell the snakes about said invention or conveyed chagrin that they had previously informed the group, but they hadn’t been interested… or impressed.

Hermione would often glance at Daphne with a plea in her eye to get her to explain something or to remember to tell her the background of a story or anecdote later.

Since Hermione sat next to Pansy, they communicated through elbow and thigh nudges. A quick press of Pansy’s thigh meant don’t take the bait, a long press meant proceed carefully while a hand squeezing her knee meant don’t engage at all. A poke to her rib meant go on and an elbow meant that she’d been distracted and missed something. They each kept their cell phone on the knee closest to the other and would tap it to signal they’d sent the other a text that needed a response asap.

Whenever Ginny was at dinner, they exchanged looks signaling they were thinking of a downright vile curse or hex to direct to someone at the table and would defend the other if it devolved into a duel. During one of the rare occasions where Ginny and Ron attended Friday dinner together, Ron noted that Wood’s playing was all over the place at matches since meeting Hermione and maybe she was a distraction. “Or maybe he’s throwing the games so he can shag you silly under the stands after each loss.” Ron broke into a grin at the look on Hermione’s face. “Oh no was that supposed to be a secret? Come on, Hermione! As if he’s the first Quidditch player to do that?”

She and Ginny exchanged twin murderous glares and cast at the same time. Ginny cast her infamous bat bogey hex – the first time Hermione got to see her do her damage in real-time. Hermione cast a Siccio spicum, a nasty ear drain hex. Thick green boogers flew out of Ron’s nose in the shape of bats and circled his head, tittering and hooting in a growing chorus as more appeared while wax drained slowly out of his ears down his neck and under his shirt. Before anyone could even think to cast a Finite, he’d shot out of his chair so fast that it clattered behind him as he darted over the railing of the patio and sprinted away from the restaurant. Initially stunned at the display, the other boys soon dissolved into belly bursting laughter before gathering their wits about them enough to go after him. Seeing them all vault so easily over the railing had been amazing. Their athleticism had not gone unappreciated. The way they each ran down the alley in different directions like chickens had sent the girls into another fit of laughter.

Hermione did not share knowing looks with Draco. They glared at each other enough in the Lab. They seemed to have an unspoken agreement that until they could tolerate or willingly seek out the company of the other, they would keep a wide, polite distance. Sometimes she thought she could feel his eyes on her but whenever she did glance over at him (rarely ever), he was either looking at his plate or in conversation with someone else. And besides, nothing got past this group. She was sure someone would have said something by now if his eyes were on her as often as she imagined. That didn’t seem the type of thing any of them would let go unnoticed.

She knew because sometimes she would daydream about a dish or dessert she missed from home or that she had a sudden craving for and someone – usually Blaise – would tell her that she’d been staring at Theo like she could kiss him, eat him, or kill him. She’d blush and say that she’d been thinking about baby back ribs or brisket or apple pie or cornbread or empanadas or lemon meringue pie. Theo would joke that Hermione didn’t look at Theo lovingly. No, she looked at him like a hungry baby. She knew that he’d feed her, burp her, and put her down for a nap. She looked at him and just saw food. “If I didn’t know any better,” Theo teased, “I might feel like an elf… or prey.” They’d laugh, and he’d nod or text to let her know that he’d added her requested dish to their itinerary for their weekly cooking lessons.

Their cooking lessons weren’t all one-sided though. While they helped Hermione’s confidence in the kitchen, she also got to help in the preparation of dishes she loved or craved. In exchange, she brought Theo herbs, mushrooms, morels, and other edible plants and berries she gathered on her Coastal Walks and foraging sessions. She introduced him to new vegetables, condiments, jams and other intriguing items from markets and grocery stores. She also brought him vintage cookbooks from her thrifting adventures and travels. At the end of each cooking session, she’d text Pansy, Daphne – and sometimes Ron – to join them. If they were free, they’d Floo over and the four of them would eat the food and dessert for lunch. Theo often pressed them for reviews and suggestions to make each dish better. Ron would eat a bucket of screws if they were slathered in enough sauce, so his reviews didn’t hold much weight. When Daphne attended, Pansy and Hermione would walk through Nott Manor gardens or the conservatory while Theo and Daphne did the dishes and then they’d say their goodbyes and Floo home leaving Daphne and Theo alone.

Chapter 11: HERMIONE - PUZZLES

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Pansy was a steady, calming presence for Hermione. She guided her through the group dynamics. She urged her to stake her claim on the Land Rover or Jeep as she drove longer distances to more remote places for her hikes and Coastal Walks. Pansy dragged Hermione along to the shops with her, sniffing less and less at the idea of thrift shopping. She also placed clothes into Hermione’s closet she thought she’d like for her dates and group outings.

Hermione made sure Pansy didn’t sleep for too long in the sun and reminded her to reapply her sunscreen every hour along with her, so she didn’t get too toasty. Though Hermione’s diligent sunscreen practice was to protect her tattoos, Pansy appreciated it because according to her. Purebloods couldn’t be too tan. Apparently, it was frowned upon. For one thing, it signaled too much leisure time and not enough time spent in Society or committed to charitable causes and for the other reason: freckling.

“Darling while your freckles look magnificent, my mother would have a conniption if she saw one on my face.”

Pansy also helped her with the onerous, mystifyingly difficult Prophet Puzzle Pages. Hermione would start them in the mornings, at what Pansy called the ‘Ungodly’ hour of 06:00 AM. “Granger, you’re up before the bloody owls.”

She was. Hermione liked to wake up and do a bit of yoga to ease into the day and get her blood pumping. Then she took a long hot shower before breakfast. Then she’d turn her attention to the dastardly Puzzle page. She would methodically break down each problem, showing her work and proofs and writing down her translations. After throwing the towel in, she’d leave the paper out for Pansy who would finish them, correcting her proofs and owling the pages for Hermione to pore over during her own lunch break.

“Of course, Bertrand’s proof! How could I be so daft?” Hermione muttered to herself one afternoon at the lab. She was crunching away happily on one of his apples, reviewing Pansy’s corrections and the right answers.

“What’s Bertrand’s proof got to do with crushed Chizpurfle shells, Granger?” Malfoy deadpanned.

She rolls her eyes and shoots him a sidelong glance. “Nothing. It’s this freaking Puzzle page. If you must know, Malfoy.”

“Swot,” he jeers, returning to his pulverizing.

“Swot? Me? You do the Puzzle pages too. I’ve seen you.” She had. He’d enter the lab in the mornings – scarcely a few minutes after she did – and set his things on his desk then turn up the thermostat (which Snape would promptly turn back down with a scowl when he entered the lab). He’d sip his tea – sometimes mint, sometimes herbal, often ginger or Earl Grey – and he’d do the puzzles with one of those mind-bogglingly expensive, tiny wren quills. When he inevitably snapped the finicky quill, he’d whip out a pencil he’d nicked from her desk. She knew it was hers because she’d yet to see another black Ticonderoga pencil in the entire country. “You’re a swot too then.” She scoffed. “And so is Pansy, because she completes them when I get stumped.”

“Firstly, I know. I help her help you.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped.

“We have different approaches, and you always choose the most…” He sighed for added effect. “Roundabout way. It makes for a good laugh. And secondly, you only needed Bertrand because you used Grice’s Paradox. You set yourself up for the uncertainty. If you had just stuck to good old Morton’s Fork, you wouldn’t have been in such a tickle, Granger. Sometimes it seems you’re too smart for your own good. That’s why you’re a swot.”

“Pickle,” she said, correcting him.

He co*cked his head. “Pickle?”

“I wouldn’t be in such a pickle.”

He gave her a blank look like she was the one who’d used the expression incorrectly. “But there’s nothing in pickles except seeds. Tickle is better. It signals discomfort.”

Though she’d shrugged them off with a chuckle, his words had replayed in her mind for the rest of the day. She generally thought she was clever, resourceful, and balanced. But her approach to the Chronicle’s Puzzle Page back home wasn’t working with the Prophet’s. She was trying to use the same brute force approach and the Prophet pages required finesse. Bloody England.

Since she now knew Draco was indirectly helping her anyway, she decided to cut out the middleman (read: Pansy) the next day and ask him for help directly.

When she hit a wall at breakfast, she texted him: I’m this close to resorting to Peeve’s proof for Mancy #3. Any tips?

The gang had recently taught her the Hogwarts term related to one of the poltergeists that roamed the magical College halls. Peeve’s proof involved plugging a random number into a problem and hoping for the best.

After ten minutes with no response, she shot off another text. It’s Hermione by the way. Well, Granger to you, but I guess it’s before 8am and we’re not in the lab… So I’m still Hermione?

Go away, I’m not interested in black market grimoires or whatever you’re peddling.

Shut up! I know you’re awake and I know you know it’s me. Help!
After a few seconds she shot off: Please.

Fine. What have you tried so far?

Polanyi’s Principle for Irrational numbers but then Newcomb’s Folly takes me right back to 0.

Ah, I see you’re working on finesse. Good girl. You’re close. Flip the order in which you apply them.

She rolled her eyes at his ‘good girl,’ hating that she kind of liked it. She shook it off and tried his approach… which worked, of course. Swot.

Thank you! She shot back, quickly finishing the rest of the puzzle.

Now your turn. Help me with the rune crossword #7 across. Is that a typo? The Scythians peoples weren’t around in 743 CE.

Ah yes, William Short was a slippery sumbitch. Of all the Prophet puzzle writers, Short’s rune puzzles were always the most diabolical. Hermione rattled off the history and geography, explained the sleight of hand in the question’s wording, then helped him reach the conclusion on his own. She soon learned that he preferred clues and nudges to help set him in the right direction while she preferred for him to just tell her the best proof, theorem, or principle to apply to solve the problem,

His puzzles require too much History. I usually skip them. Came his reply after her text lecture.

Now you don’t have to, with me – the swot whisperer – at your disposal. :)

Ha! Right. Later, Granger.

Slowly this became their thing. Dawn text exchanges requesting each other’s assistance to solve puzzles. Sometimes they’d text about a particularly funny, interesting, or downright outlandish article in the paper. She didn’t comment that the pictures on the nearby Society page of him on a date made him look like he’d just sniffed a vat of spoiled milk - like the messages she knew he received from Blaise and Theo. He didn’t chide her whenever Bulgaria or the Badgers lost, asking her if she needed a Pepper Up potion to recover from a long night - like the messages she received from Blaise and Theo.

They developed a tenuous early morning peace that neither wanted to disrupt.

Chapter 12: HERMIONE - COASTAL WALKS

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Hermione wasn’t much of a collector. But she knew her time in London was limited so she’d prepared to allow herself one collection. She set aside one large mason jar (charmed with an Indestructo spell) in which to collect small stones and seashells from her coastal walks and hikes. She collected a tiny keepsake from each new place she visited and charmed each one to show the date collected, coordinates and the name of the coastal walk or hike when she tapped her wand against it for posterity.

There were other things she brought back from her walks. Tasty pastries, Herbal and citrus soaps. Body scrubs. Tiny sample bottles of interesting perfumes (light, fresh, earthy, clean scents. Creamy, sultry scents with base notes of amber and spices and top notes of citrus). Interesting pieces from boutiques, thrift shops and estate sales for herself, Pansy and Daphne. And bottles of local wine and liquor she’d bring to Friday night dinner or present to Theo during their cooking sessions.

She didn’t bring anything back for Draco from her Coastal Walks. Besides their tenuous puzzle peace, she didn’t have much to go on.

Chapter 13: DRACO - TREATS

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The treats started arriving from the very first of Granger and Theo’s cooking sessions. Narcissa adored Theo’s cooking. Whenever they made something that Theo knew Draco and Mother would enjoy (especially French pastries), he’d owl them over a couple servings in a Tupperware under a Stasis charm.

Granger would kill me if she knew, so shut up about it. Theo had scrawled on the note with the first sample.

That had rankled… Although it was entirely true. Outside of the lab, Draco suffered for Malfoy’s impudence.

As much as Theo keened under compliments, he also appreciated candor. So, after they licked the darned thing clean, Draco and his mother would the clean Tupperware via an Owl along with a small bouquet of flowers from the gardens or greenhouse, and a note with their review.

Draco supposed Granger was growing on him. In fact, he soon came to look forward to his mobile buzzing at 07:00 AM. A phrase he never thought he’d utter. Only two people texted him that early. Father and Granger. Draco had initially thought it best to keep his distance. Why get attached to someone who would only be in their lives for a year? He thought genial cordiality was as good as it could or needed to get with her. But this – the little smidgen that it was – was better than nothing. Gods, it was better than nothing. And he ate it up greedily.

He'd once preferred to do the puzzles later in the mornings, after he’d already settled in at the Lab. But he’d changed his rhythm for her at the drop of a dime (a Muggle expression that hadn’t clicked for him until now). She hadn’t even had to ask. He supposed he was glad she didn’t attempt the weekend puzzles. They were mercilessly difficult. He liked a challenge as much as the next guy, but he wasn’t a glutton for punishment. He supposed he quite missed their banter on the weekend mornings, but he wasn’t usually awake that early anyway.

Morning puzzles was their thing. It was sweet. Innocent. And he could still keep his distance… which was for the best. Then the boys invited him out for Go-Karting.

Chapter 14: DRACO - GANGLY

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SAT 12 AUG

The first time they’d gone Go-Karting with their little ‘Muggle Adventure club,’ Theo, Harry and Blaise had raved about it at boys’ night. They told Draco that he just had to join them next time. He had fast cars, motorcycles, and all the lightest, fastest brooms. He didn’t have to Go-Kart. But he supposed he could see what all the fuss was about. Besides, Theo had pulled the birthday card. He’d been away on Nott Estate business on his birthday, which he never celebrated anyway. A reprisal of Go-Karting was their belated present to him. And little Theo’s birthday wish was for Draco to join them.

They told Draco to dress casually. Actually casual, they’d stressed. Apparently ‘Malfoy casual,’ was not casualenough.

He usually waved them off whenever they teased him. He’d lost count of how many times they’d asked if he knew the definition of the word and ignored its meaning or if he believed that what he called casual was actually casual.

“One can never tell with you, little dragon,” Theo cooed, earning a wandless stinging jinx to the calf.

“Casual,” Blaise pressed. “You’ll be folding those gangly limbs into a teeny-tiny little car. You’ll thank the Gods for soft clothes.”

Casual clothing didn’t have to be soft. The two were not necessarily mutually exclusive. But the more pressing issue was, “Gangly? I am not gangly. Theo is gangly. I am lithe. Agile. And you’d do your best not to confuse the two or I’ll sic Parkinson on you.”

“Oh no, the Word Police? Whatever shall I do?”

Their previous conversation echoes in Draco’s mind on Saturday morning when he rises from bed. Casual. He rolls his eyes and pads over to his closet. From the sea of grey, he selects a soft, charcoal grey short sleeve tee shirt and lightweight joggers. He rounds out the look with muggle trainers. Casual.

Since the Malfoy elves are serving light fare in the Manor this morning, Draco apparates to Grimmauld Place twenty minutes early to feast on whatever delightfully hearty breakfast Potter’s elves will be serving. Kreacher made no bones about wanting his Master to die a young death and served the most sinfully delicious foods in his ceaseless quest.

Draco enters the dining room to find Potter and Granger tucking into bubble and squeak with a runny egg on top. Granger throws her head back in laughter at something Potter says and looks visibly startled when she makes eye contact with him.

She casts her eyes over him in a quick head-to-toe glance before clearing her throat. With a smug grin and a mocking tone, she says, “Look who came to play today. Nice to see you, Malfoy.”

It was indeed nice to see her. Her hair is in French braids – her lab hair, and now he supposes, her adventure hair. A pair of sunglasses are perched atop her head and she’s in her usual all-black – bike shorts, a racerback tank, and some colorful Nike trainers. Her tattoos are on full display. Whenever she didn’t have them glamoured, he’d surreptitiously explore a new patch of skin, puzzling out what each tattoo meant.

He chuckles and shoots her a playful, challenging look as he steps over to greet Potter who grins up at him. “Yes, Mummy said I could play with Harry and the other boys today.”

Grinning, Potter stands and claps him on the back. “Happy to have you, mate.” He waves at the breakfast spread on the table. “Help yourself.” He spies Draco warily eyeing a jar of deep red liquid. “It’s not what you think. It’s lingonberry juice. Non-alcoholic.” He winks. “You’ve got to try some. Hermione brought it back from Norway.” He resumes his seat and turns his attention back to Hermione with a sh*t-eating grin. In a move that clearly surprises her (because it was more like Theo and Blaise to rib her about her maleffect on her beaux’s Quidditch matches), Potter taunts, “Small prize though, considering they clobbered Bulgaria. But we all know you’re not really a good luck charm at Quidditch matches, eh Hermione?”

Her jaw drops and she chortles before swatting at his shoulders. “Et tu, Potter? Don’t start! I get enough from Theo and Blaise. Not you too.”

“I think it’s because you don’t pay attention to the gameplay. You read for Merlin’s sake. Does Krum even bother giving you the snitch when he wins?”

Hermione shakes her head between bites of squeak. “No, that got old quick. And besides, there are kids in the crowd who go nuts for it.” She chuckles softly to herself. “He once said it was rewarding my bad behavior.” She grins at Harry.

Draco cuts in. “What do you read at the matches, Granger? If I may ask.”

She glances at him and though her shrug is nonchalant, he notices her eyes dull almost imperceptibly. He wonders why she requires Occlusion to answer such a simple question. “Nothing special, just… whatever I’m reading at the moment. I bring a couple options in case I tire of one.” Though this line of questioning surely wasn’t new to her, it seemed to have hit a sore spot. “I don’t attend every match I’m invited to. I pay attention to the beginning and whenever the announcers say there’s a battle for the snitch. I catch the highlights. And besides, it’s nice to be around someone doing something they’re passionate about. I’ve been attending Viktor’s matches for years. If he had an issue with me reading at them, he would have stopped inviting me already.”

Point very much taken, Draco holds up his hands in mock surrender just as Theo and Blaise come tumbling in through the Floo. They smack sloppy wet kisses on Hermione’s cheeks. “Merlin, Granger, that Aquavit had us on our arses.”

She grins at them. “Did you drink it from those little glasses?”

They had indeed. And had been wholly unprepared for the consequences. Last night’s Aquavit confidence had lost Theo and Harry scores of galleons to Draco. “Of course!” Theo grins, piling food onto his plate. “Pinkies up and everything.”

“Good boy!” Granger calls.

Theo pretends to keen under the praise.

Blaise and Draco roll their eyes at each other.

Bellies full, they Apparate to an alley near the Go-kart track and walk over. Hermione is up front with Harry while Draco brings up the rear with Blaise and Theo. Draco eyes her figure appreciatively, then takes in his surroundings, trying to look anywhere but back at her. The boys prattle on, explaining all the rules and things they’d learned about Go-Karting from their last excursion. How Theo had begged Hermione to cast an Extension on his cart to accommodate his legs and she’d been scared to do so in case the Magic affected the electronics. After much hemming and hawing, however (Theo had laid it on rather thick), she’d successfully cast at the chassis. Far away from the electronics. But they hadn’t risked casting speed charms. To go faster today they’d bought out the track for a few hours and were riding the karts with bigger engines and higher top speeds. They weren’t as fast as the motorbikes Draco was used to, but they didn’t require licenses and he could race his friends. Something he’d never been able to do before she’d arrived.

Chapter 15: HERMIONE - THAWING

Chapter Text

SAT 12 AUG

Draco was here. Draco was here. Why was Draco here? Harry had told her they’d invited him but didn’t expect him to show since his parents often pulled him into last-minute business or social obligations. In fact, his exact words had been: “There’s a better chance of pigs flying than Draco actually showing up.”

Hermione got the sense the Malfoy heir didn’t exactly own his own time. Why was he here? Didn’t he have a mega-scale infrastructure project to fund or some currency to back up with one gazillionth of the infinite Malfoy fortune? Now that she was reading the British press frequently, it was hard to miss the goings-on of his family since their names were plastered all over the Wizard and Muggle press. She often read a line or two of a story about one of their latest endeavors before flipping the page but continued to draw a hard line at Society pages. She didn’t give a rat’s ass about whatever pretty bird was perched on DLM’s arm. Wasn’t there a charity tea for the Bowtruckles or a garden fete for a new Mungo wing to schmooze and hob-nob at? Why was he here?

“Oink oink,” Harry snorts when Hermione exits the restroom after breakfast.

She stifles a giggle and pats his shoulder. “It’s fine. He and I are…” She waves her hands, searching for the right word to capture whatever it was they were doing. Thawing?

Harry co*cks an eyebrow.

She sighs. “Thawing.”

Harry smirks. “Thawing, she says.”

Hermione huffs and walks back toward the dining room.

“Thawing,” he parrots incredulously as he falls into step behind her.

Malfoy’s talking to the guys near the Floo. She didn’t know he got this casual. The man who wore crisp oxfords like a second skin is in joggers. Joggers! His legs go on forever. His ass – Gods! And that shirt just… clings to him. It’s obscene. His muscles, his posture, his stature. He was just so… long. He just kept going. Per usual, he’s a spectacle of contradictions. Hard body, soft hair, hard muscles, soft clothes. Broad shoulders on a lithe frame. He wasn’t wiry or gangly, just… substantial.

Hermione drags her eyes up his body. Something she’s never really able to do. Not that she would if she could. Well, she was doing it now so she guessed she would if she could but… Merlin, where was she? She blinks at Harry who’d just stepped into her field of vision.

“I said, all set?” He asks with a twinkle in his eyes.

She nods, flashing him a smile as she grabs her bag. “Mmhmm,” she adds before clearing her throat.

Later, she watches Malfoy take in the track. His keen eyes roving over everything. Regal as he reviews the instructions and jokes with the attendants. Studious as he flicks his eyes over the contract and liability waivers. Reading everything quickly, inhaling it like he did the massive tomes in the lab. As always, the man exudes a raw, unmistakable power. It’s magnetic. It’s intoxicating, it’s… f*ck. It’s hot.

“Draco, darling,” Theo says, nudging Malfoy. “I know it must absolutely pain you to sign a contract your solicitors haven’t personally reviewed. But you’ve made it this far and it’s either zoom-zoom or sulk-sulk!”

Malfoy shoves him and signs his name in a looping, elegant cursive she’s never seen. It’s much different from the strict almost harassed scrawl of his handwriting in the lab.

They go for dim sum after Go-Karting. Pansy’s already seated at their reserved table and coos that she’s excited to see them all in one piece.

Harry grins at her. “You might want to cover your ears for this next bit of news, Pans.” He turns to Draco. “Hermione convinced us to get our motorcycle licenses. We finished the modules, sat for the exams and got our licenses in the post. Now we can start a biker gang!”

Malfoy grins and jokes with the boys about booking a track to race on or booking a trip to Germany to speed down the Autobahn.

Blaise is the voice of reason and says they need more lessons before they can brave foreign roads with no posted speed limits.

“I guess that’s why Mr. Parkinson asked me for my opinion on a few motorcycles,” Malfoy says. He gives Hermione a deep, unfathomable look she doesn’t know him well enough to decrypt.

Is he thanking her? Is he asking if she also got her license too? Is he asking if she’d be racing with them? She’d given him a run for his money on the track and she wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t given himself a magical boost around that tight corner in their final race. That could all be in her head though. He was more confident on the track and hugged the corners while she couldn’t quite shake years of cautious driving that had her slowing down into curves. But yes (to answer the question he hadn’t asked), she had gotten her motorcycle license. Theo had purchased a couple bikes and given her permission to ride one anytime. Pansy’s father, Stan, had also purchased a motorbike for her use. He'd been so excited to have an excuse to go down that rabbit hole again.

Hermione blushes. She didn’t know Stan had sought Malfoy’s counsel before making that purchase.

Pansy shoots her a look.

“What? We talked about it at dinner that night-”

“Right,” Pansy interjects. “You said you were getting your license with the boys and they were getting bikes. We did notdiscuss my father purchasing a bike for your use. Or his. Is he getting his license?”

Hermione flushes. “Pans-”

“Don’t ‘Pans’ me. Answer the question, Hermione.”

“He already had one. He rode as a youth. I think he’s just excited. Your mother forbade him from riding once and she’ll do it again.” At the look Pansy gives her Hermione presses on. “Don’t worry. He’s just excited. He’s living vicariously through me a bit. It’ll pass.” Hermione shrugs and bites her lip.

Thankfully the waitress returns to take their orders. Theo squeezes her shoulder as he deftly changes the subject. She sees Draco catch the gesture, but she looks away when his eyes flick up to meet hers.

Usually when they go to the movie theater, Hermione has her own bucket of popcorn with extra-extra butter and an extra dash of salt. Pansy and Harry share a plain unsalted bucket with chocolate covered raisins dumped in while Theo and Blaise share a bucket with light butter. Merlin knows what possesses Hermione to ask Malfoy how he takes his popcorn and why, oh why, when he replies, “with an ungodly amount of salted butter,” she grins and says, “same,” and offers to share with him. That seems like putting the cart before the horse. The cart being an overfamiliarity with him and the horse being the tenuous peace they’d reached with their daily puzzle adventures.

Ever the gentleman, Malfoy offers to hold the popcorn at the concession stand. They troop into Theater 3, falling into single file as they walk down the aisle to their row, illuminated by the title card: Special Screening of The Godfather. Pansy first, followed by Harry with Hermione close behind, then Malfoy with their popcorn, and Theo and Blaise bringing up the rear. They take their seats, and Malfoy settles the large bucket onto his lap. They share the armrest between them. His long legs are splayed a bit wide and press into hers. Hermione tries not to overthink their closeness and the fact that she can feel his heat and smell him over the buttery saltiness of the popcorn. She feels like a truffle hound, locking onto his scent. Mint. Ginger. Eucalyptus. Bergamot.

Then there’s the intimacy of casually reaching over and taking popcorn from his lap. Sometimes his fingers graze over hers absently. Like when she’s too focused on a scene to grasp at the kernels she’d reached in for or when she absentmindedly leaves her hand in the bucket, leaning over to whisper with Harry. The first couple times she and Malfoy whisper apologies, but soon he’d playfully pluck her fingers away. Sometimes he’d just wait, his fingers lazily on hers or entwined with hers to catch her attention as he whispers that he wants to hear what she and Harry are saying or request their insight on the film. Then she’d lean over to him and whisper the anecdote from Harry or get him to settle an argument they’re having. Then he would offer his own opinion, his breath warm and buttery on her neck, their fingers still and curious in the space between them.

Their relationship blossomed in liminal spaces. The early dawn hours over puzzles, and in the dark cocoon of the movie theater. Hermione wondered if they’d ever catch each other’s gaze at the dinner table and have a secret conversation with their eyes. She wondered if she’d ever learn enough about him to bring him back anything from her walks or travels.

After Go-Karting, Malfoy didn’t join them for any future Muggle adventure outings, but he did join them each week at the movie theater. He’d hold the popcorn, settle into the seat next to Hermione with the bucket on his lap and she’d whisper to him and Harry.

Their text exchanges soon expanded to include film and television discussions and recommendations. Though after a particularly thrilling text exchange about a film she found herself reminding him that they had movie nights at Pansy’s and suggested that he attend if he was free. They didn’t text each other about anything personal. But the week before Narcissa’s birthday she did text to congratulate him on his official promotion to Lead Apprentice. Something they’d been bickering too viciously for her to do in person at the Lab the day it was announced. He replied ‘thank you’ with a smiley face – the first she received from him – and a warm feeling coursed through her that she swiftly tamped down.

Chapter 16: HERMIONE - LESS WORK FOR THE ELVES

Chapter Text

SAT 09 SEP

Hermione’s third month in England started with preparations for Narcissa Malfoy’s birthday party. She rose early and read on her balcony to calm her nerves before picking at her oatmeal with blueberries. She was entirely too nervous to stomach anything more. The stress of meeting Malfoy’s mother, dining with his mother, spending the day with his mother - as well as the other matriarchs - had her nerves fried and her stomach in knots. What if she did the wrong thing? Gods! What if she said the wrong thing?

Sure, she and Malfoy had been thawing recently, but that was on neutral territory like Ronaldo’s and the lab. Today she’d be entering his family home. It felt… illicit. The plan was for Pansy to okay her dress selection for the day, then they’d Floo to Malfoy Manor along with Brigitte for brunch with Mrs. Malfoy and the Greengrass women. Then they’d spend the rest of the day at Mrs. Malfoy’s favorite spa in Wiltshire. Hermione considered bailing for the umpteenth time. She’d done nothing but fret in the two weeks since Pansy had sent the RSVP response on her behalf. She’s crafting her excuse when a knock on the door cuts through her reverie and Pansy pops her head in.

“Let me see what you’ve selected, Granger.”

Hermione didn’t understand why she needed to dress so fancy to go to a spa. Whereupon she’d immediately remove all this faff anyway and don a robe. Why couldn’t they just be casual? Comfortable? Weren’t they overdressed for the spa?

When she’d raised her objections, Pansy had retorted that it was Narcissa Malfoy - slowly enunciating each syllable. “There is no ‘overdressed’ with her.”

Hermione had rolled her eyes and promised to select an appropriate dress. And now, the moment of truth. She gnaws the thumbnail of one hand while pointing to the dress she’d laid out on the bed with the other. It’s a yellow-green color close to the peridot family stone Pansy wears in her ring.

“Granger!” Pansy barks, startling her, and making her drop her hand. sh*te. “You cannot bite your nails at this brunch. It’s impolite.”

“Sorry,” Hermione murmurs.

“And that dress is an absolute no. It’s entirely too casual for brunch. Vetoed.” Pansy flicks her eyes between Hermione and the errant dress. “That dress is not good enough for your first time in Narcissa’s home.”

“Isn’t ‘no’ already absolute, Pansy? If I said something was an ‘absolute no,’ you’d have a conniption.” Hermione huffs and stalks toward her closet to sift through her dresses.

“You only get one first impression, Granger.”

If Malfoy had told his mother half of what she’d told hers, they were well beyond first impressions. And squarely in damage control territory.

Pansy crosses the room and perches on the edge of her bed. “Why would you choose this color, Granger? I’ve never seen you wear green.”

Hermione gives a grunt non-answer and pushes aside another dress Pansy would surely veto. “The Malfoy stone is emerald. I figured Mrs. Malfoy would appreciate the nod.”

Pansy scoffs. “Lucius Malfoy loves green. Narcissa prefers purple. It’s her favorite color. Besides, Astoria will be in green. I know you’d hate it if you two matched.”

Hermione giggles. “Very true.”

“Where’d you get this dress?” Pansy asks, fingering the tiny beading along the hem.

“Malkin’s sale rack.” Deeply discounted at the back of the store. Hermione and her purse strings preferred thrifted dresses but there was something so enchanting about Madame Malkin’s creations.

Pansy holds up the dress for further inspection. “I’ll take this. That way it’ll actually get worn.”

“Or I can charm it a different color.”

“You’d better not be charming any of mine, Granger!” Pansy exclaims. “Play with your own clothes. Any garments of mine must stay their rightful color. Look at me, Granger. Don’t.”

Hermione turns and holds up her hands in mock surrender. “Fine! I won’t. Scout’s honor,” she adds as she drops her hands, two fingers crossed as she hides one arm behind her back.

Pansy rolls her eyes at the Muggle expression.

Hermione returns to sifting through dresses and pulls out a violet sundress for Pansy’s inspection.

Pansy shakes her head as she rises to her feet. “No. Narcissa will be wearing purple. It’s her birthday. You cannot wear the same color as her. In fact, never wear purple anywhere Narcissa will be. Wear the red one.”

Hermione pushes aside hanger after hanger, grumbling that it wasn’t like the woman was the Queen or something. Why couldn’t she wear a color simply because Narcissa Malfoy was wearing it?

“That one.”

“Red? Are you sure?” She’d heard enough about Purebloods and their color rules. “Wouldn’t wearing red to Malfoy Manor make entirely the wrong impression?”

Pansy sighs. “It’s 2009. Our generation aren’t so bound to those rules anymore. You won’t catch Draco in red, but he wouldn’t mind if you wore it. Maybe don’t wear red to public Malfoy family functions. Lucius may not be as understanding. But a private brunch or tea should be fine.”

As ordered, Hermione dons the red dress. A wrap sundress with short flouncy sleeves and a hem that stopped just above her knees. She refuses to wear a stitch of makeup and leaves her hair loose in big juicy ringlets. She finishes the look with nude heeled sandals then chucks a backup outfit (sneakers and comfortable clothes) into her beaded bag and transfigures it into a little red handbag to match her dress. She also packs a new romance novel diverted to her by one of the proprietors of Flourish & Blotts. During a chance meeting with him at Snape Lab, she’d gushed over books and the shop and how she envied him for his access to early releases. Since then, he’d sent her manuscripts and new releases he thought she might like. She glamours the cover to look like some stuffy treatise on creatures’ rights, which none of the company she expected to spend the day with would give a second glance.

Pansy gives her a final onceover when they meet by the Floo. Her mother, Brigitte, gets a call from her co-chair of an upcoming Society event and gestures for them to leave without her, mouthing that she’ll catch up later. Pansy chats excitedly with Hermione as an elf - who introduces herself as Céline - leads them through the Manor.

They pass room after room after room after room. Some with doors closed or ajar, others with doors thrown wide open baring the resplendent décor, plush furniture, ancient art, and sculptures within. Hermione takes in the view of the grounds through each large bay window they pass. She spies the enormous greenhouse in the distance and wonders what manner of ancient, exquisite plants are housed within. Since it often fell to her to forage for the plants Snape Lab couldn’t source from vendors at an acceptable price, she could safely assume the plants therein only held aesthetic value. Just like the greenhouses at the Parkinson and Zabini Manors which she now knew like the back of her hand. Hermione sees rows and rows of tall hedges, all manner of flowers, sloping lawns, and what looks to be the start of a maze. She sees tons of Sycamores and Silver Birch trees with their dappled silver-white bark. Her eyes snag on the leaves. She knows she’s seen that exact shade of green before… but can’t quite place it. The leaves are a lighter green than the huge, knobbly Black Poplar trees that stand tall and proud at Parkinson Manor and almost the same color as the mossy beeches that dot the Nott Estate. Finally, they’re led into a dining room where Narcissa Malfoy is breakfasting with… him.

Hermione thinks she feels his eyes on her before she fully registers his presence. Can almost feel him watching her as she walks toward the head of the table to greet his mother.

Mrs. Malfoy stands and welcomes Hermione into her home then steps in to kiss Pansy on both cheeks. Sure enough, she’s in purple. A lilac linen shift dress. Malfoy is in a light gray t-shirt and dark gray joggers. His hair is more disheveled than usual. It’s Malfoy, so it's relatively neat and tidy, but it’s not his usual brand of carefree polish. In fact, it appears sleep tousled.

Mrs. Malfoy gives Hermione a deep, genuine smile. “Darling, it’s so nice to finally meet you. My husband and I have heard so much about you.” Uh oh.

Hermione glances at Malfoy whose attention is on the quiche he’s slicing. She chalks his pink-tinged cheek up to her imagination, for surely the man didn’t blush.

“Welcome, my dear,” Mrs. Malfoy continues, calling Hermione’s attention back to her.

Hermione’s struck by how the center stone in the flower pendant around Mrs. Malfoy’s neck is the exact shade of her eyes. Forget purple, blue’s her color. “Good things I hope.” She glances at Malfoy again, catching his dark, liquid gaze over the rim of his glass before his eyes travel down.

‘My eyes are up here,’ she would joke if they were a skosh better acquainted. The positive rapport between them seems… tenuous. Fragile. Like any little misstep could derail all their progress.

His eyes rise to meet hers, slow and smooth as molasses. She gives him a soft, curious smile and feels her face flush when she turns back to his mother whose smile deepens as she looks between Hermione and her son.

A new elf steps up to Hermione and introduces herself as Zadie, before pulling out a chair for her. Hermione smiles and thanks Zadie as she settles into her seat.

“Help yourselves, dears,” Mrs. Malfoy offers, gesturing to the crystal decanter in front of Hermione. “It’s finally citrus season. You ladies must try the orange juice.” She smiles proudly. “It’s fresh from our grove in Portugal.”

Pansy smiles and pushes the glass from her own place-setting closer to Hermione as she lifts the juice jug – if one could call a heavy, crystal decanter a ‘jug’ – and pours herself a glass. She gives Pansy the filled glass and is about to fill her own when Malfoy clears his throat, drains the rest of his glass, and reaches over the table, placing his empty glass near Hermione’s elbow. A smirk slowly spreads across his lips.

Hermione bites down on the inside of her lip, before flashing him a smile and shrugging her shoulders. “You’re right, Malfoy. Less work for the elves.” She fills his proffered glass, sets down the crystal decanter and leans back in her chair, sipping heartily from the glass with her eyes locked on his. “Delicious.” She turns to his mother. “This juice is delicious, Mrs. Malfoy.”

“Darling.” She smiles. “Call me Narcissa.”

“Narcissa.” Hermione returns her smile and flicks her eyes back over to Malfoy then down to the table. Her eyes alight on the paper open to the Puzzle page in front of him. Interest piqued, she asks, “You do the weekend Puzzles?”

There’s another one of those obnoxiously expensive wren quills beside the paper. The tiny, delicate wren quills were magically charmed with an ink chamber and a sharp solid gold nib. More absurdist than functional, wren quills were the kinds of things people bought simply because they could afford them.

Draco chuckles softly and shakes his head. “No, I’m not a masoch*st.”

Narcissa fidgets with her pendant necklace and shoots him a censorial glare.

He ignores his mother and leans in. “Why? Are the weekend mornings a little lonely for you?”

Hermione turns back to Narcissa though she can feel her face heating and knows there’s a blush on her cheeks. “You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Malfoy.”

“Narcissa,” his mother corrects slowly, waving her hand. “I think we’re past ‘Mrs. Malfoy’.”

Hermione’s blush deepens. What did that mean? “Narcissa.” She stammers, taking a fortifying sip of orange juice. She’s thankful when she hears the distant roar of the Floo and voices approaching. She smiles when Daphne and her mother, Delilah, appear but her expression falters when the insufferable twat, Astoria, enters the room. Daphne and her mother are in aquamarine and turquoise, while Astoria’s sundress is almost the exact same shade of green as the stone in Malfoy’s family ring. A theory Hermione had been turning round and round in her mind suddenly solidifies and she wonders what the witch tells her dressmakers whenever she commissions these pieces. Or if hawk-face just color-charmed dresses she already has. For Astoria’s sake, she hoped it was the latter.

The trio greet Narcissa, Hermione, and Pansy, then settle into their seats around the table.

Hermione feels fortified, flanked by Pansy and Daphne.

Astoria scoots her chair even closer to Malfoy before sitting down.

Hermione catches Malfoy’s eye over the rim of her pilfered glass and smiles before glancing away. She hadn’t seen news of them in the Prophet recently and hadn’t heard the snakes rib him for backsliding with her in weeks. It seemed the witch wanted to remind him what he was missing. Good for her.

As they’d grown closer, Daphne and Pansy had told her about the nightmare dates they’d attended both on and off the ‘Marriage Mart,’ as they called it. Both were unofficially off the market since Daphne was rekindling things with Theo again and Pansy and Harry were ‘testing the waters’ as Pansy had put it. They’d shared dribs and drabs about their relationships with the wizards, but Hermione sensed it unwise to pry further. Instead, she let them tell her what they cared to share in their own time. Both witches were surprisingly adept at deflecting and evading questions they didn’t want to answer. In fact, all the snakes were. She’d never met six more perplexingly cagey or evasive people in her entire life.

Their tales made her think of her relationship with Viktor. They both dated other people. He was even photographed publicly with other witches at Society and non-Society events. Neither of them pressed the other for commitment. She couldn’t promise anyone commitment anyway. Not yet. Her first priority was her education. She’d be in London for a little under a year before returning back home to the States. Back to her real life, as she’d taken to calling it because sometimes this – the people, the rules, the customs – didn’t feel real. Sometimes it felt like this magical, mythical place she’d wandered into through the back of a closet and would leave it all behind when she remembered which coat was blocking the little door back to reality. Crystal decanters and one elf to greet you, another to seat you, and yet another to ask if everything was to Miss’s liking could not be reality. It simply couldn’t be. Not for Hermione anyway. But it was all Astoria knew, and all she wanted. It seemed Draco was a surefire way to guarantee the witch got the life she wanted. Hermione couldn’t fault her. They were both singular in their pursuits. They just had different dreams.

Astoria prepares a plate of fruit for herself and though the decanter is squarely in front of Hermione, she asks her sister to pass her the orange juice. Daphne obliges and Astoria pours herself a glass and offers to do the same for Malfoy. “Did you want some juice, Draco? Orange juice, your favorite,” she says in a sing-song voice as she smiles and bats her lashes at him.

He glances up from his paper and gives her a polite half-smile. “No, thank you.”

“Oh, but I insist,” she insists in that tooth-achingly saccharine tone. “Where’s your glass?” She asks, just as Brigitte enters the dining room and greets Narcissa.

Hermione takes a sip and that liquid heat from earlier rekindles in his gaze as Malfoy’s eyes track the glass’s path to her lips.

“Here,” Hermione says, nudging the empty glass from her place-setting toward Astoria.

“Odd,” Astoria says, eyeing the glass.

“Less work for the elves,” Draco mutters.

Hermione meets his gaze then glances away quickly, refusing to linger as she stifles a giggle. It was always too tempting to laugh at inappropriate times, and she’d never learned to control the impulse.

Astoria sets down the decanter. The glass and servile act are forgotten as she turns her attention toward new prey. “Hermione, dear,” Astoria tuts in faux concern, “you’re in Gryffindor colors.” She turns her attention to Pansy. "Did you not educate our little American friend about the color code?”

No way. This was not happening. There were only two people in this room who would ostensibly be offended by her color choice. And they could not care less. So why the heck did Astoria feel the need to take up the mantle?

Pansy sighs. “Stori, you’re-”

Annoying. Hermione agreed. She fights the urge to fidget – to bite her thumb or tuck a stray curl behind her ear – and stands her ground. If they were doing this, she was all in. “Daphne and Pansy went to Slytherin Prep, but Estonia,” she meets her eyes, daring the witch to correct her. Two could play that game. “You attended Ravenclaw Academy. Isn’t that right?”

Astoria ignores her, refusing to provide the answer they all knew to be correct.

No matter. It was a rhetorical question. “Why aren’t you in blue? You’re in green whenever I see you. Doesn’t that make you a color traitor?”

Astoria narrows her eyes and explains herself slowly as if her green ploy wasn’t painfully, dreadfully obvious. “The Malfoy stone is an emerald, O’Reilly. So when I’m with a Malfoy, I wear emerald.” She gestures to her dress, which is decidedly not emerald, but they’d get there.

Astoria’s folly was the pièce de résistance and Hermione would hold that sad fact to play as her trump card. “And what color is the Greengrass stone?”

Aquamarine, another rhetorical question. Formed from beryl, the same mineral as emerald, but a blue stone where emerald was green.

“You come from a ‘Sacred’ family as well.” Heavens above if Hermione wasn't sick and tired of hearing ‘Sacred’ this and ‘Sacred’ that. “Why does Malfoy heritage precede your own?”

Narcissa touches her pendant. The Parkinson and Greengrass matriarchs clear their throats. But it was far too late for censorship. They were in the thick of it now. Astoria had cried ‘havoc;’ Hermione was merely releasing the hounds.

“Ugh-”

Hermione bulldozes right through her objection. “Emerald is the stone. The Malfoys wear the emerald stone. You wear…” Hermione co*cks her head, appraising the exact shade of Astoria’s dress. “Pine green,” she says derisively.

Astoria rolls her eyes. “This is custom Malkin. And it’s emerald green,” she spits.

“No. Emerald is the stone. Which is formed in metamorphic rocks when lava superheats chromium, vanadium, and iron. The varying concentrations of chromium and vanadium give emeralds a range of color. As such, all emeralds are not the same shade of green. I would venture that unless there’s some big honking rock in the Malfoy vaults all the signet stones are chipped from, that the Malfoy emeralds are not all the same tone.”

Astoria crosses her arms over her chest and narrows her eyes at Hermione. “Swot.”

“There isn’t,” Draco adds coolly. Ignoring Astoria’s volley. Which is nothing they hadn’t already called each other several times in the Lab. “The heir chooses his stone when he reaches the age of majority. All Pureblood heirs do. Theo and Blaise chose their stones and had similar ring ceremonies.”

Narcissa smiles distantly. “Lucius chose a light-toned emerald with a subtle-blue green tint as a nod to me since the Black family stone is sapphire.”

“I chose a medium light crystal. The color of-”

“The trees,” they say in unison, as Hermione finally places where she’d seen the color of those leaves. Had seen it every weekday for months. Light glinting off his stone in the lab or at dinners, or when he tapped his ring on the lab station or her desk to get her attention. She points absentmindedly behind her in the direction of the Silver birch trees as her mind files away the newly reconciled piece of information.

He co*cks his head, appraising her. “Silver birch. Grey and green like my-”

“Eyes,” they say in unison. Again.

“Narcissist,” she teases.

He chuckles and gives her another curious look.

“What? I see enough of your eyes in the Lab to have learned their topography by now.” Disapproving looks. Indignation. Dissent. Challenge. “You’re not a mystery-”

“The lab?” Astoria asks, voice dripping with disbelief. “You never said you worked at a lab.”

Hermione frowns. “Why does it matter?”

“Because you said…” Astoria gasps. “You lied-”

Hermione waves her hand dismissively. “Whatever. You’ve been rude to me since we met. Literally the day we met at the pool, you were… What did Pansy call you-”

“Granger,” Pansy warns before turning her attention to Astoria. “She works at Snape Lab with Draco.”

Astoria blinks once, twice, thrice, before gasping. Turning to Draco she points toward Hermione. “Is she lab swot!?”

Draco clears his throat.

Hermione chuckles.

Narcissa clutches her pendant, pulling it side to side along the thin chain. “Dear that was…” She clears her throat. “Months ago.” Her look of concern only serves to make Hermione laugh harder.

Astoria gasps again and flashes a glare at Daphne. “Did you know?”

Daphne’s eyes widen. “We- we found out Ronaldo’s at the end of her… first week?”

Hermione nods at Daphne. “Mmhmm.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Astoria asks her sister.

“I… um, it… slipped my mind?”

“Your concern for me is touching, Euphoria. But don’t worry. I gave him a moniker of my own. I called him…” She turns her attention back to Malfoy. “Lab git.” She smiles conspiratorially. “Pansy and Daphne taught me the word.”

Draco and his mother exchange twin smirks.

“And look at the two of you now. Breaking bread in my home.” Narcissa places a hand over her heart. “I’m glad to see your fires have… cooled. It’s been a while since I got an earful about the lab swot-”

“Mother,” Draco groans.

“I got an earful about her too.” Astoria directs her eye roll at Hermione. “More than once.”

Draco clears his throat.

“And to think, it was Pansy’s American friend,” Narcissa adds.

“Still doesn’t explain why you’re in red,” Astoria winges again, stuck on that point like a hawk with a bone.

Hermione shrugs. “Pansy said Malfoy wouldn’t mind.”

“She said- she said I wouldn’t mind? Pansy, what? What does that mean? Why would you say that?” He splutters. “Why- why would you say that?” He asks in an accusing tone.

Pansy finishes her bite of food, uncowed by Malfoy’s tone… and pinkening cheeks. “Relax, Draco. I just meant you wouldn’t care.”

“I don’t,” he grumbles, his gaze flickering toward Hermione again. His eyes snag on her cleavage. Again.

He follows her pointer finger from her cleavage to her eyes as she mouths, ‘Eyes up here.’

He smirks, incensing Astoria who excuses herself from the table and exits the room.

Mrs. Greengrass’ voice is small and soft when she clears her throat to get Hermione’s attention. “Miss Granger, you must excuse my daughter. For your peace, in the future you may find it best to just…” She sighs. “Ignore her.”

Hermione takes a deep breath. “Mrs. Greengrass, I hope you didn’t take offense to my aquamarine comment. I only meant she’s not married yet-”

“Darling, I did not. I’m a Greengrass by marriage and I still wear my rubies from time to time. Some things are traditions, other are… choices.” She looks to Daphne and then Pansy. “I believe this generation are getting better about discerning the difference. And making better choices. Though some are a bit more… stubborn.”

Brigitte and Narcissa each give Delilah a soft smile.

“Delilah, she’s young,” Brigitte says in consolation.

“Yes, but she won’t be forever.”

Astoria returns and resumes her seat next to Malfoy. She and Hermione ignore each other the rest of the day. Hermione has no complaints as they’re poked, prodded, scrubbed, waxed, shaved, and moisturized. They soak in the heated whirlpool. They shvitz in the sauna. Then every inch of Hermione’s body is massaged until she she’s boneless and glowing.

Back at Parkinson Manor the girls finish preparing for the party. She refuses to let the stylist team straighten her hair and opts for a braided updo instead with a few loose tendrils to frame her face.

She’d received a bonus for her work in the Snape Lab over the summer and used some of the money for a few new things. The first: a new tattoo. A spray of stars along the nape of her neck and down her spine. She’d asked Dean for a random sprinkling of stars and challenged him to hide some actual constellations within the piece. “Maybe Cassiopeia and whatever stars and constellations are usually around it? That’s the only one I can ever find.”

Secondly, she’d purchased her party dress. A Malkin’s original. An inky blue mermaid style dress with spaghetti straps and a cowl neckline that draped over her decolletage and clung to her curves before flaring out a bit from the mid-thigh. The hem was just under her knee. She’d heard of Narcissa’s conservativeness so she glamoured her tattoos again and ensured the back of the dress wasn’t too low. She didn’t want to scandalize the woman further after her poor showing this morning. Between what Malfoy must have told his mother about her and the day they’d had so far, she wasn’t sure how much lower she could possibly sink in the woman’s estimation.

She slides her feet into the strappy, sparkly silver heels Pansy insists she must wear, replete with a Talus and a bevy of cushioning charms. She finishes the look with two pieces of jewelry. The first: a diamond tennis bracelet. A recent gift from Krum she’d thanked him profusely for but told him she couldn’t accept. He’d left it on the hotel’s bedside table when he left her the next morning with a note that read, ‘I insist. It would make me happy for you to accept.’ And so, she did.

The second piece of jewelry was her final acquisition with her bonus money – earrings she’d haggled over after seeing them in a boutique window during a recent hike around the River Ouse. It was a delicate, simple piece. A line of stars that hugged her earlobe and spanned both piercing holes in each ear before dropping down to her shoulder in thin cords. Each thin line of stars ended with a man-made diamond formed from alluvial deposits mined from the Ouse riverbed. The earrings grazed her shoulder and twinkled softly as the crystals caught the light.

Chapter 17: DRACO - PLAY NICE UNTIL DESSERT

Chapter Text

SAT 09 SEP

The morning had started quietly enough. A quiet breakfast with his parents while his mother gabbed about her party. Lucius made himself scarce halfway through the meal, a little too excited to take what he claimed was a ‘business call.’ Draco would bet a hundred galleons that the call was actually Stan Parkinson luring him away to the golf course.

Draco half-listened to Mother after that, inserting ‘oohs,’ ‘ahs’ and ‘hmms,’ at appropriate places while he flipped through the paper. He even came back to the Puzzle page to give it a once-over, marveling at the esoteric questions. The wording and clues were so abstruse as to render the questions unintelligible. 3-Down appeared to be a mix of Amharic and two other ancient languages he couldn’t place right now, and the asterisk indicated it was an anagram that had to be decoded using the responses of 12-Across and the circled squares from 15-19 Down as a key. His perusal was interrupted by the unmistakable roar of the Floo and voices approaching. He never attended mother’s pre-bash brunches and hadn’t meant to dawdle. Unfortunately, he didn’t have enough time to excuse himself from the table before the guests arrived and he’d pass them in the hallway anyway, so he stifled a groan and prepared for company. He resolved to excuse himself once the company was settled around the table.

And then she’d traipsed in wearing that dress. Merlin, that dress! Besides her shoes, he’d never seen her in color before. Any color. Let alone his color. His thoughts had tripped over themselves to make sense of the sight. The tasteful cleavage, the swell of her breasts, the way the dress hugged her curves and flared over her hips – those hips. Had he shamelessly raked his eyes down, down, over every exposed and glamoured piece of flesh and then back up as he’d wanted to or had that just mercifully been in his head? Merlin, she was beautiful.

He’d drawn his mother’s ire with his masoch*st comment. She’d toyed with her pendant necklace, a sign she was exasperated. The pendant – a white narcissus flower with a rare blue diamond in the center – had been her final courting gift from Lucius. Besides the necklace, a pair of diamond earrings and her two wedding rings were the only pieces of jewelry Narcissa wore most days. And she’d only ever removed the rings once.

Oh! And that display with his glass. His co*ck had twitched at the sight of her lips where his had been, sipping juice with a co*cky grin. Point Granger.

“My dragon!” Mother calls, sweeping into his closet twenty minutes before the first guest is set to arrive for the evening. She pats his cheek. “My dragon, Astoria is threatened by Miss Granger.”

Draco hums distractedly, fixing his tie in the full-length mirror. He’d surmised as much. Astoria technically wasn’t in the picture anymore, so it didn’t matter. Since she was so concerned with Granger, she could date her for all he cared. They were both single.

His mother catches his eye in the mirror and lifts a brow. “Why is Astoria threatened by Miss Granger?” She steps back from him, perching on the edge of the fainting couch.

Draco shrugs. He really didn’t know. For all he knew they’d never met. “Didn’t know they knew each other. I didn’t even know they’d met before today.”

Narcissa huffs. “My stars, of course they’ve met. Didn’t you catch that pool comment? I pulled Daphne to the side at the spa. They met at Nott Manor during Miss Granger’s first weekend here.”

“Hmm.” He vaguely remembered something Theo had said a couple months ago. Merlin, that long? Was it his imagination or had Hermione only been here for a couple months? When did she find time to do all these things? Did she have a bloody time turner no one knew about? People talked about her as if she’d always been here. As if everything about her was common knowledge. He felt like he was always playing catch up. “Beats me.”

“And this Miss Granger has nothing to do with the dissolution of your relationship with Astoria?”

Draco scoffs. And he never scoffs. “We weren’t in a relationship, mother. It was just dates.” And sex. It hardly registered. His mother quirks a brow in disbelief. He rushes to answer her question instead of protesting. “And no, it had nothing to do with Granger. We’re lab partners. And Pansy brings her around. She’s in the friend group now.”

She co*cks her head. “But your comment earlier about puzzles...”

“Yes, we text. We do the Puzzle pages in the morning. We discuss the news, politics, muggle movies, art, and literature in the evening. She’s kind of always…” He waves his hand absently. “In the background.”

Narcissa considers his words with a soft smile and a distant look before her eyes focus again, locking eyes with him in the mirror. “In the background?” She echoes. Since her tone more than belies her disbelief, the air quotes are downright impertinent. She leans forward. “Darling, that doesn’t sound like the background. It sounds like she’s in the foreground.” Her expression turns pensive.

Draco pauses his ministrations and turns to her, waiting for her next words.

“And how long has she been-” She waves her hand again. “We’ll split the difference and say… on your radar.” She quirks a brow at him. “How long has she had your attention? This seems different from when you were lambasting her as the lab terror.”

“I don’t know. Things sort of just… happen with Granger. For a while there’ll be nothing and then one day you’ll wake up and there’s some new routine that you’ve been doing with her for weeks. She’s like a… uh…” He splutters, trying to find the word to describe it. Nothing real comes to mind. His mind wanders to Luna and all of her mythical creatures no one but her could ever see or hear. “She’s like a… nargle that way. Just… nargling her way in.”

Narcissa giggles. Giggles! “But you don’t hate it?”

There’s a swell of emotion in his chest. Did he hate it? Gods no. Not even a little bit.

The Floo roars in the distance and cheery voices call out for Narcissa. She stands and pats his cheek before exiting the room in a flurry of robes and excited chatter.

Later, Draco finds himself following her and Mother around the party like a lovesick puppy. She was here, in his home, again and there’s more contradictions for his brain to reconcile. She’s in midnight blue, another color he’s never seen her wear before. The dress is modest yet shows off her curves. Thin straps with a low back. It skims her waist and hips then flares gently under her bum down to just past her knees. And she’s in heels. Had he ever seen her in heels besides business-looking heeled brogues in the lab or at Ministry meetings? Strappy silver things that catch the light like her earrings. He couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. There’s always something to draw his eye back to her. She’s about all he can see. All he can focus on. Her lips, her eyes, her smile, her dress, her laugh, her wit. Had she always been like this? This charming and effervescent and bright? And gorgeous? Gods, she’s gorgeous tonight.

Mother had warmed up to her as well. A development he had not expected. He’d expected Narcissa to loathe Granger. But she’d taken quickly to the witch. He’d never seen Narcissa like this with any witch. Not even Pansy, who many called her protégé. Narcissa kept Granger engaged in conversation, patted her hair, asked about her dress and earrings, linked an arm through hers and guided her around the ballroom. Mother spent the night fussing over her, made sure her drink was always fresh and that she tasted each of the passed apps. It’s unlike anything he’d ever seen. Even Pansy and Daphne seem gobsmacked. Usually, he’s the one led by the arm through the party like a petulant child one needed to keep close lest they pants the Minister of Magic (Blaise 1999) or get shamelessly Champagne drunk, hop on top of the Grand Piano, and belt out O Fortuna at the top of their lungs (Theo 2000). But tonight, Narcissa keeps Hermione on her arm, introducing her to the Who’s Who of the UK Wizarding World. Often when he strays too far, Narcissa suddenly remembers she has a son, catches his eye, and beckons him over to her with a smile and slight nod. Then he’d find himself in a surprisingly interesting conversation with his mother, Granger and whoever else the duo are charming. He’d catch himself laughing genuinely or offering up an anecdote of his own volition with Granger egging him on. A time or two they’d even snagged each other fresh glasses of champagne from floating trays.

So, it’s not entirely surprising when he makes his way to the dining table to find that the spot near Father that he’d been assigned earlier has been relocated. Earlier he’d been slated to sit between two eligible witches and across from a third he’d cancelled on weeks prior who his mother was still hopeful would suit. Now he’d be sitting to the left of Narcissa, with Granger across from him, to Narcissa’s right. Hmm.

Mother usually allotted fifteen minutes at the start of a large meal for people to converse with their table mates. She would seize the quietude of a natural lull in conversation to stand and commence the meal. Awaiting the caesura, she asks Granger about her family and studies.

Granger explains to Narcissa that her parents are dentists (teeth healers), that she’d already obtained her Herbology Mastery from Harvard, and will be T.A.ing for an Herbology class this term to keep her skills sharp. She’s almost through with her Potions Mastery. To Narcissa’s inquiry about how Hermione’s done so much in so little time, Hermione informs her that she’d completed some required coursework while still in Preparatory school and was further assisted by her practice of taking classes during winter and summer breaks and carrying a heavy course-load in previous terms.

“What’s next after schooling, Miss Granger?” Narcissa asks.

Draco knew the answer already. Medical school, Healer rites, Medical residency then she wants to combine Muggle Healing practices, Wizard Healing and Potions research to improve current treatments and develop new ones.

He’s fascinated. Few Wizards were trained in both Muggle and Wizarding healing practices. Mostly because one could become a Wizard Healer in a fraction of the time it took to become a Muggle Doctor, and one could use magic and potions to heal most wizarding ailments. Besides, wizards were only afflicted by a fraction of Muggles’ ailments. But that did mean (as with many things, he could now openly admit), that wizards had made advances where Muggles hadn’t, and were still in the dark ages in places where Muggles weren’t.

“Miss Granger, your life seems to be devoted to the hard sciences. What do you do for fun? In your…” She glances at Draco. “Sliver of free time?” She leans in, awaiting Hermione’s response.

Hermione smiles, biting her lip in that way he’d learned she did when she was nervous or editing and censoring herself, gathering her thoughts. Mere weeks ago, he wouldn’t have known how she would answer that question, but now he does and none of her responses surprise him. “The Puzzle page, reading, yoga. I’ve also been doing coastal walks and hikes each Friday. I’ve been exposing the boys to Muggle things like bowling, Go-karting, mini-golf and ping-pong.”

Narcissa’s face softens. “That sounds like fun. Does my son join you?” She lays a hand on Draco’s, squeezing softly.

When Granger glances at him, he mouths, ‘No’ as he shakes his head. If Mother knew he was skiving off teas and Society events to watch movies and gallivant about Muggle London, he’d never hear the end of it.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Hermione concedes, raising her hand to her mouth and gnawing on her thumbnail. She never quite bit it, he’d noticed, it seemed to just hang around for the tactical feel against her teeth.

Narcissa makes a sound like a chuckle but something so base would never escape her at the dinner table of such a large event. “I believe it is a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer, dear,” she says, reaching out and lowering Hermione’s hand to the table. “I used to bite my nails,” Narcissa says with a soft smile. “My love gifted me something to expunge the habit.” She touches the pendant on her necklace, pulling it from side to side along the delicate chain.

Draco masks his surprise more artfully than Hermione. He hadn’t known the why of the necklace, just the when. It seems the gift was subversive in every sense of the word. The necklace served its purpose well. Too well. It had replaced one fidget with another and allowed Narcissa to convey a range of emotions without uttering a single word.

His eyes flicker back over to Granger, and he chuckles softly behind his glass. Someone could give that witch a gift to help with her nail-biting. But she didn’t accept jewelry. He’d heard Pansy lambast her about the indignity of refusing several gifts from Krum, particularly jewelry. He'd apparated to Ronaldo’s early one Friday afternoon and entered the back patio in the middle of Pansy’s haranguing.

“Hermione, the man can’t claim you in the press. You’re a ghost! Quite literally an enigma. You don’t think Krum wants to look at you and know that some part of you is his? To lay claim? To know that your identity may be a ‘mystery,’ but his affection for you is not? That’s jewelry.”

No, that was the problem, according to Granger. She did not want to be claimed. Being claimed led to promises and she couldn’t make him any promises. She had her plan and didn’t want to deviate from it. Being claimed meant talk of marriage and children. Per Hermione, ‘once ‘me’ became ‘we,’ plans tended to change. And she didn’t want to make anyone else until she made herself first. “Besides, he has an Assistant who shops for him,” she’d added in closing. “It feels less… personal.”

Personally, he never outsourced gift selections, but Draco wasn’t in the habit of procuring jewelry for witches. He only raided the Malfoy vaults for himself.

“Miss Granger?” Narcissa presses. She still hadn’t answered the question.

Granger’s blush deepens and she takes a sip of her wine. “I’m sure he would… If he’d been invited-”

“Oh,” Narcissa says. He can tell his mother is truly curious. “Why wasn’t my dragon invited?”

Hermione’s lips quirk in amusem*nt at ‘my dragon.’ “Well, he wasn’t there when I offered Harry.” She chuckles. “And Theo and Blaise invited themselves… it’s been the four of us this summer… and Pansy joins for parts of it… Malfoy and I-” Hermione flushes, her mouth agape as she searches for the words. It was equal parts hilarious and sweetly endearing.

Draco co*cks his head and smiles, his turn to take a fortifying sip of wine. He knew how they’d started but they were… thawing recently and it was… nice.

“Oh honey, I know.” Narcissa squeezes Hermione’s hand and her flush deepens.

He doesn’t know why he’d allowed Hermione to lull him into a false sense of security with her charmed tattoos, her little blue dress, those big brown eyes, and her sweet baby doe act. Granger’s a Viper. She’d have to be to survive their snake den. He supposes he should have seen it coming. The way that look flashed in her eyes before she struck. The look he knew all too well from Granger. Didn’t really see it from Hermione. Although he’d heard from the boys she did have a competitive streak and won almost as many games as Harry whenever they competed during their muggle outings. And he supposes she’d restrained herself this morning. First impressions and all. But she’d been plumbed with expensive champagne all night and was loose and relaxed.

She picks up her glass and he swears he can feel time slow as she brings it to her lips, a sly grin spreading on her face. “Oh? And what has Draco said about me?”

Narcissa does giggle at that. And the sound of Mother’s candid laughter at her preeminent summer event mixed with Granger’s gall makes Draco nearly choke on his wine. With all eyes on her, Narcissa recovers swiftly. She touches a hand to her pendant as she rises from her seat, thanks everyone for attending, then claps her hands signaling the elves to plate the first course.

He’s surprised at Granger’s interest in hearing what he’d said about her. What light questioning he’d asked of Pansy and Daphne had revealed nothing. According to them, Granger had brought him up less and less since her first week. Inanely, he’d countered with, “What about when you and Daph bring me up?”

Pansy had narrowed her eyes. “What makes you think we talk about you, Draco?”

She’d had him there. It seemed he was a non-factor to Granger despite their frequent text exchanges. He, on the other hand, relished any tidbit he received about her. It wasn’t like he ever had occasion to ask her about herself. And with the previous tirades he’d delivered to Theo and Blaise, they would probably eviscerate him if he asked them anything about her now. He was left with whatever information she offered to the group when he was around; whatever Pansy and Daphne jokingly revealed; and whatever Blaise, Theo and Harry teased out of her on Friday nights at Ronaldo’s.

Maybe it was just the law of supply and demand but sometimes he stunned himself with how hungry he was for information about her. He supposed it was a natural consequence of their intense antagonism. And maybe he could admit in the quietude and privacy of his brain, deep behind his Occlumency walls that he was genuinely interested in her. More interested than he’d ever been in anyone else. He thought, bewildered, that he might have the makings of… a crush.

That couldn’t be right. It was absurd! She wanted almost nothing to do with him and he hungered for whatever pleasantly trite and polite specks of attention she gave him after the heat and intensity of their rivalry all day in the lab. It drove him up a wall. They had three modes: rich and effusive over text; explosive in the lab; and sublime and almost dead-eyed around the snakes. But they couldn’t be explosive here. They needed an official truce.

He shoots her a text message while his mother is distracted, whispering with Remi about the second course. If she announces a new course every time you say something to stun her, this dinner will last all of 15 minutes. Truce until dessert?

Her text response is almost immediate. Who is this?

He rolls his eyes and glances up from his mobile at her. Very funny, Granger. I’m serious.

She’s grinning behind her wine glass. Fine. I accept your truce. I’ll play nice until dessert.

Merlin, if his co*ck didn’t twitch at that.

During their dinner truce, they continue to make polite conversation. He shares more about his relationship with each of his friends and tells her stories from Prep. He tells her about his love of motorcycles and cars, which had developed after the ‘Almost War.’ How he and Ginny had bonded over Quidditch. How he was still conflicted about being cut from the Hogwarts Quidditch team due to his increased responsibilities in the lab. He tells her about how he fenced with Theo, played squash with Blaise, and did Jiu-Jitsu with Harry. Every few weeks he played tennis with Daphne and Pansy (those two were an indomitable force in mixed Doubles). And how in just that first day in the Lab she had supplanted Pansy as the person he bickered with most.

“I agree we’re the three most-stubborn members of the group,” Hermione concedes. “Intractable and headstrong-”

“Like goats,” Narcissa muses before signaling the next course.

He and Hermione smirk at each other.

Hermione inquires about his post-Hogwarts plans. He tells her that he’ll finish his Potion’s Mastery, and recently declared for an Herbology minor since he’ll have enough credits at his current rate. Then he’ll obtain a Potions Doctorate while continuing to hone his research. He’ll also spend some time running the Malfoy Estate and helm their businesses. “My wife can assist if she chooses. It’s uncommon but not unheard of… Though she’ll most likely spend much of her time with philanthropic work and following her other passions.”

“And what’s it like running your Estate and business ventures?” She queries, leaning in with her interest.

He tells her that some parts are interesting: the travel, learning about the geopolitical landscape to make better investments, and hearing companies pitch themselves to secure funding. And there are some aspects he doesn’t enjoy: ass-kissing, politicking, and being away from his friends for days or weeks.

She gives him a tender smile. There’s a look on her face like she’s realizing for the first time that he’s… human.

They discuss potions and research and give each other insight into the separate projects they’re working on at the Lab. Since Michaelmas Term is starting soon, she also asks for pointers going into her first T.A. gig. Conversation flows easily between them with only minimal interruption or coaxing from Mother. Draco supposes he’s enjoying himself. The rest of the table falls away. It’s just him and Hermione. Good wine. Good conversation. Good food. They’ve never given each other their full attention in person like this outside of the lab. Even in the lab they’re Granger and Malfoy. This is different. It’s… nice.

They agree to extend the truce past dinner and even dance together for one song. A popular wizarding composition melding together stories from Greek mythology. She’s just as soft as he imagined she’d be in his arms. She smells of the usual scents he associates with Granger – vanilla and ginger. But tonight, there are deeper notes – neroli, patchouli, and sandalwood. The violin cries its last bittersweet notes as Orpheus wailing for Eurydice and he’s working up the courage to ask if she’d care to dance the next song as well when Astoria steps into his line of sight and requests the next dance.

He quirks a brow. It was… unusual for a woman to initiate a dance. Some of the stodgiest members of their set considered it downright rude. “Astoria?” He croaks.

Hermione stiffens in his arms before stepping back from him. Instantly he misses her warmth and sweetness. She meets his gaze. ‘Bye Draco,’ she mouths, before walking away without acknowledging Astoria.

Astoria smiles and steps into his arms as the piano sets the tempo for a waltz.

He spins her just in time to see Theo pull Hermione in for a dance. He watches them joke and laugh and wonders if he himself will ever be that familiar with her. He wonders what will happen beyond tonight. Whether this changes anything or if the truce is like any other. Temporary.

To her chagrin, Draco leads Astoria off the floor after one dance. They would absolutely not be dancing the ‘Sweethearts Waltz,’ the last dance of the night. No Society fete was complete without the chance for married couples, couples in long-term committed relationships and betrothed couples to take to the floor with their sweethearts and declare their love for all and sundry. Many a secret couple had been launched via the ‘Sweethearts Waltz,’ and many a wizard had made his intention known by remaining on the floor with a witch. So, it was no surprise that Astoria would try to keep him distracted whenever they danced the penultimate song of the night, hoping to tip his hand or signal a deeper commitment by trapping him on the floor during the ‘Sweetheart.’ After depositing Astoria with her mother, Draco walks slowly around the perimeter of the dance floor. Interested – like everyone else – in which couples remain. He spies Jensen take the floor with Millicent Bulstrode, his long-term girlfriend to whom he’d recently proposed. He sees the Bulstrode matriarch wipe a happy tear from the corner of her eye. They’re the only couple launching tonight, the rest are couples he’s seen before like Stan and Brigitte and his own parents. If only one couple were launching, the wizard chose the song for the evening. Jensen had chosen ‘Three Little Words’, a piano-heavy wizarding standard. The sonata was a complicated piece to play, but beautiful and sweet under masterful fingers. TLW was a popular choice. It was… traditional, and frankly, overdone.

Or maybe he remembered all too well the stinging pain as his Piano Master wrapped his fingers shouting, “Lenta! Lenta!” Coaxing him to slow down and not rush the coda, the second movement - the blossoming of love. “È amore. Non avere fretta!”

It is love. Don’t rush it!

When Draco launched the ‘Malfoy woman,’ he wanted something… untainted. A new song. A fresh perspective.

And he wanted violins.

The song ends and the other couples leave the dance floor. Jensen and Bulstrode remain for their ‘first look,’ and congratulatory applause. A Prophet photographer materializes to take photos of the happy couple before their friends and family swarm them.

After the excitement dies down, core Malfoy family friends remain. More drinks are poured, and they play Muggle and magical games on the front lawn and throughout the house. Draco finds himself paired with Hermione facing off against Pansy and Harry for a round of Muggle cornhole. They win and Hermione motions for him to follow her. She nicks a bottle of Champagne on her way out of the door and requests a tour of the gardens.

He leads her through the house to the gardens and she marvels at the flowers and plants in the moonlight, leaning in to smell a few along their path. Her step falters when they pass the amortentia roses. She sniffs a few times, a slight frown marring her features. She shakes her head and catches up with him in time to skirt a few peaco*cks strutting down the path to the gazebo. He steers them through a hedge when Odilia, a particularly persnickety peahen with a mean bite, veers toward them. They burst through a hedge not far from Theo and Daphne dancing in the moonlight to the faint music coming from the house. Thwarted, Odilia squawks angrily behind them.

He grabs Hermione’s hand and pulls her back through the hedge, down a hidden path toward the grotto. He casts a few light charms to illuminate the clearing and takes a seat on the stone bench in the copse of willow trees. She kicks off her shoes and he watches her take in the scene. The grass under her feet. The reeds that lead down to the water’s edge. The burbling fountain where the water cascades over several large rocks before spilling over into the pond beneath it. The ducks and frogs playing, the fish swimming just beneath the surface, and the turtles bathing in the light of the gibbous moon. She tiptoes to the water’s edge and dips her feet in, giggling when several fish swim over to inspect her toes.

He can’t fight his smile at seeing the expression of pure joy on her face in his favorite place in the Manor.

Toes sufficiently inspected, she settles beside him on the bench. They pass the Champagne bottle back and forth and talk about everything and nothing in the warm still night. On nights like these – with the burble of the fountain and the chorus of crickets – his mind tended to wander to the heavens, and his late aunt, Andromeda.

“Are you into Astronomy, Hermione?”

“I’m Hermione now, huh?”

He shrugs, elbowing her softly.

“Maybe. I appreciate them aesthetically. I even got a star related tattoo recently. But I couldn’t tell you what was up there besides Cassiopeia… and the Big Dipper?” She wrinkles her nose and smirks.

He’s still stuck on the tattoo. He missed them tonight. “Oh,” he says, bringing the bottle to his lips. If only to stifle the questions he shouldn’t, wouldn’t ask: Where? Can I see?

“Are you into Astronomy, Draco?” She echoes his question, reaching for the bottle.

“Well, seeing as the Blacks all name their children after constellations, I’d say yes, somewhat.”

She takes a swig from the bottle and hands it back to him. “Not to violate the unspoken terms of our truce but I must disagree. Just because one side of your family has a fascination with the stars doesn’t mean you have to.”

“True. My aunt was fascinated with them. She taught me so much about them before…” Before the Dark Lord killed her in his last stand, avenging Narcissa’s betrayal. The bitter words die on his tongue. He pauses to drink deeply of the champagne - crisp, sweet, alive. “I’ve come to appreciate them deeply.”

She hums in response, putting her hands behind her on the stone bench and leaning back, tipping her head to take in more of the night sky. “What am I looking at?”

He drinks her in. Gods, she’s exquisite. He blames all the alcohol he’d consumed this evening for him swaying closer to get a better look, to catch her scent again, to feel her warmth, to trace a path through her soft freckles. He must have been silent too long because she turns to him. He leans away slowly, handing her the bottle. He looks up and studies the sky, orienting himself. He feels her eyes on him but he couldn’t, wouldn’t meet her keen gaze. He swallows thickly and starts at the constellation she knows, Cassiopeia. Then he tracks a path west through Vega; north through Cygnus, Cepheus; then southwest through the Andromeda galaxy, Andromeda constellation and its twin constellation Leo – one of the brightest constellations – which chases Andromeda through the sky. Furthest in the summer and closest in the winter chill, they’re always separated by a waxing and waning Saturn. “The furthest planet we can see with the naked eye.”

“Where’s Hermes?” Her namesake.

“Not Hermes. Its technical name is actually Lyra. The harp. Start at Vega,” he says, pointing to the constellation’s sentinel star. “Then up,” he adds, tracing its shape for her.

He looks down and watches her trace the path with her eyes again, then track a path from it to Cassiopeia for reference.

“You should track it from Polaris too. The North Star. It’s usually the brightest.” Unless Venus or Saturn or some other planet was showing off. They could be here all night with the particulars and caveats of the stars. Aunt Andromeda had taken it slowly, teaching him the rules first. The constants. Then the exceptions.

With Lyra mapped to both reference points she turns her attention back to him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Their eyes meet and she doesn’t look away.

She quirks a brow. “What’s going on in that big, beautiful brain of yours?” She reaches up, hesitating before she commits to the action and sweeps a lock of hair off his forehead.

No one touched his hair. He gives her a lopsided smile, melting into her touch despite himself. Big, beautiful brain. He files that away for later.

“Nothing.” He hiccups.

“Thinking of extending this truce?”

He nods softly and gives her a sheepish smile.

Chapter 18: DRACO - FIRSTS

Chapter Text

MON 11 SEP

Monday is a day of firsts. It’s the first day of their last week before pre-term break and the first official day of their truce. Draco can sense the shift between himself and Hermione. Their guards are down, and their fangs are sheathed. He’d been genuinely excited to see her this morning. And by the way her smile had brightened her face and reminded him of how utterly beautiful she was, she’d been happy to see him too.

Around mid-morning, Hermione took a break from restocking the lab shelves in accordance with their new lab organization system to polish off some tea and toast. She’s crunching contentedly on an apple from his desk, watching him shelve the galea root and ibi vine. He ticks off their respective checkboxes on the inventory sheet then floats over a jar of dried incassum root into the slot next to the ibi vine. Hags went into estrus in early autumn. They always kept a hefty supply of incassum to brew anti-wart potions after the annual Hag mating rituals. One could set their clocks by the yearly Hag warts outbreak.

Hermione chucks the apple core in a nearby bin. “I think that spot should be for the ignis root, Dra-Malfoy.”

He smiles at her slip-up. “We don’t have any more,” he says as he floats over a jar of fresh juniper root. He sets down his wand and checklist and steps toward her. “I can hear you thinking, Granger. What’s wrong?”

She frowns. A sure sign of bad news. “We need ignis for the goblin potion, the wrackspurt potion, and the pelican potion. Diagon Apothecaries are running low so they’re charging triple. I told Snape we had enough. He asked me and I-” Her eyes are wide with panic when she meets his gaze. “He’s going to kill me. He’s going to grind my bones and put them in the wrackspurt brew instead. That’ll bind it quite well, don’t you think?”

Draco touches her shoulder. “Calm down, Granger. His bark’s worse than his bite.”

She chuckles darkly. “Of course you’d think so. You’ve worked with him for years. I’m fresh meat.”

He chuckles. “Granger it’s okay. We can get more. Sna-”

“Exactly!” Her eyes brighten. “We can get more!” She grabs his hand.

And before Draco can stop her, he feels her magic curl around him then that familiar fuzzy tug of Apparition behind his navel.

“I know just the place!” She exclaims. “Neville and I-”

One minute they’re in the lab and the next they’re-

“-Saw a patch of ignis growing around here just last week!” Her eyes are trained on the ground, following the trail of dark grass and scorched earth that signals the presence of the fiery red ignis plant. “I need gloves,” she says, reaching her hands deep, deep into the pocket of her robes.

Draco scans the woods around them, trying – and failing – to pinpoint their surroundings. “Hermione, where are we?” Draco growls.

“Epping!” She calls excitedly over her shoulder. “Neville and I always find good stuff here since it’s so ancient. We steer clear of the northeast quadrant though. Those giants are fierce.” Her voice grows more and more distant as she tramps through the brush in search of ignis. “Quanfertimus was such a sweetheart, but his mate didn’t like me and Neville picking all her…”

He’s stands there dumbfounded, having been Apparated against his will clear to the other side of England and the witch was chattering away as if this were an everyday occurrence. As if she habitually kidnapped people in the middle of the day.

He flushes as he remembers the warm tingle of her magic on his skin. The way she’d pulled out of a panic-stricken tailspin about Snape’s wrath and just bam! Apparated them to some ancient forest to pick ignis because she remembered it was here. There’s a tantalizing swirl of emotions coursing through him. Awe, fear, lust… frustration.

He hears the snapping of twigs and branches first, then her voice. He chuckles softly. Apparently, she hadn’t stopped telling her story.

“… In the end it was fine because she and Quanfertimus liked the scarves, but it’s still a bad omen to run out of red thread.” She startles when she sees him and whirls around to look behind her as if she’d find him there too. She narrows her eyes at him. “You’re like… gawping.” She mocks him, dropping her mouth in a wide ‘O,’ before grinning. “Are you stuck?”

He shakes his head. And closes his mouth.

She closes the distance between them, coming to a stop right in front of him with a hand on her hips, her gloved hand closed around a riot of blood red ignis roots with thick stalks and bushy, dark green leaves. She co*cks her head. “Do you have anything I can put this in?”

He fishes in his pocket for an enchanted mesh bag into which she deposits the ignis.

“There’s a Wizard Tavern nearby with the best fish and chips I’ve had in England so far. Even Neville was impressed. Their chips were so light and crisp, they were almost airy.” She turns his wrist to look at the time on his watch. “Care to join me?” He feels that tingle again and steps back from her.

“Hermione…”

She looks up at him, meeting his gaze. “Yes?”

“You can’t surprise side-along someone. Didn’t you learn that in sixth year?”

She blinks and color rises high on her cheeks. Her hand smacks her forehead. “I’m so sorry. I went from like panic to euphoria and didn’t stop to think. I- You don’t- We don’t know each other like that- I should’ve- I’m sorry, Dra-Malfoy. I should have asked first. And Gods! I was about to do it again! Do you accept my apology?” She scuffs the toe of her black Oxfords against a little rock, biting her cheek as she waits for his response.

It’s Draco’s turn to stifle a smile. He holds out his hand, which she accepts. “Lead the way, Hermione.”

The fish and chips at Smith’s truly do live up to their hype. They snag a table outside and sip crisp ales, crunching on the stellar fries and sandwiches while they natter on about proofs and theorems from today’s puzzles, current brews at the lab, and a few stories from the day’s paper they hadn’t texted about earlier. He allows Hermione to pay for their excursion and Apparate them back to the lab.

The afternoon brings another first. Snape hands them a new case file and Granger says she’ll let him craft their approach while she finishes processing the ignis root. Even Snape is taken aback since usually they’d snatch at the case file the second Snape placed it between them, vying to be the first to read the dossier. Another first follows twenty minutes later when Granger agrees to his plan after a scant few questions and no corrections or substitutions!

There’s a pep in his step when Draco leaves the lab and not even Theo or Blaise’s good-natured ribbing during their squash game can sour his mood. Life was good. Life was really, really good.

Chapter 19: HERMIONE - FALSE START

Chapter Text

TUE 12 SEP

Tuesday brings more firsts. The first day in the lab with their completely revamped organizational system. Unbeknownst to Hermione, it’s also a day of lasts. She and Dra-Malfoy are both at Cauldron K, brewing their latest attempt at the Wrackspurt potion. At this stage they’re mostly tinkering. Tweaking the preparation of this and that ingredient, testing different Cauldron materials, and comparing various flame heights.

She’s marveling at his immaculate cuts on the Cupio root. Distracted. Too distracted to stop him when he slides the cuttings off the cutting board into Cauldron F. Remembering a second too late that Cupio is positively explosive when mixed with Ferita flower, the new binder they’re testing today since they’d swapped out Satago for Vorax root. A fraction of a second later the cauldron explodes with a loud boom! Instinctively Hermione pulls Malfoy with her as she jumps back from the cauldron. Without thinking she reaches for the nearest wand – his – and casts a spell Seamus taught her.

Reviewing declassified mission details and learning new spells was her new favorite form of pillow talk. He’d let her pick his brain about odd spells and charms that he’d used to disorient and surprise his opponents and turn the tide of a case in his favor. She hopes at this moment that she’s using the right wand movement. She’d only practiced it in the air with her fingers, not with a wand the length and heft of Malfoy’s. She vehemently hopes his wand accepts her magic. She’s relieved when the remnants of the cauldron and its exploded brew are floating gently in a sheer, blue shield ball that shimmers and crackles with their shared magic.

Their shared magic. Meaning his wand – and by extension his magic – hadn’t rejected her. His magical core had accepted her and didn’t view her as a threat. Not just anyone could pick up a sorcerer’s wand and use it. Wands had ancient self-protective mechanisms tied to the magical core of their bonded owners. That she’d been able to use his wand and it hadn’t turned on her or miscast the spell meant he trusted her. Deeply.

They blink at each other in disbelief, unable to form words.

His eyes flick between her face, her hand holding his wand, and the floating blue shield ball. They hear footsteps approaching from down the corridor that leads to Snape’s office. Malfoy’s eyes widen. ‘f*ck,’ he mouths, raking a hand through his hair.

Snape tears around the corner at top speed already mid-sentence as he lays into them, berating them for their folly. It doesn’t seem to matter that it’s her very first mistake since she’d arrived months ago because his “Senior and Lead Apprentices should bloody well know better!” Though he’s boiling mad at the both of them, Snape directs the brunt of his ire at his Lead Apprentice, Malfoy.

While Snape berates Malfoy, Hermione inspects the wreckage. She tries to derive any data she can about the failed brew before banishing the remnants as the argument escalates behind her.

“Ah, well maybe I made a mistake naming you Lead Apprentice, Malfoy,” Snape hisses.

Hermione turns, eyes wide, mouth agape and looks at Malfoy.

His eyes dull as his Occlumency walls slam into place. He stiffens and bites out a challenging retort, “Maybe you did.”

Hermione’s shoulders sag. One did not poke the Snape. Even she knew that!

Snape recoils slowly, not backing down. “Fine. I’ll give it to Granger.”

Ah yes, Snape’s patented manner of making a gal feel just swell!

Malfoy’s jaw drops before he snaps it shut again. His eyes are heavy on her as Snape turns his back on him to face her.

“Miss Granger?” Snape seethes.

Wow, what a way to make an offer. Her mind is reeling. Snape narrows his eyes when she meets his gaze. She didn’t want this. Not like this. Definitely not like this! They’re both just spooked… and angry… And they don’t mean it. Her mind races to find the words to buy them all some time. To slow the train down before it ran off the damned rails! “Um- uh… I’ll think about it?” She splutters, fidgeting with the wand in her hands.

She glances at Malfoy. Something flickers in his gaze as his walls crumble for a second before they’re built right back up. His glare turns murderous before he stalks to his desk and grabs his things. Seething, he snatches his wand from her and storms out toward the Floo.

Snape adds insult to injury when Malfoy returns to the lab after lunch. A parchment whizzes out of his office and hovers in the space between their lab desks. On it she can see revisions to the Lab Roster. Her name is in red ink at the top under Snape’s, in the slot labeled ‘Lead Apprentice’ for this division of the lab. Malfoy’s name is where hers used to be along with Samuel DiLaurentis, the other Senior Apprentice. Her eyes track down to where there’s more red ink under the T.A course-load section. She’s now slated to T.A a section of the Potions Research Methods course for the upcoming term. A course she’d only just finished her previous term at HNC.

“I can’t T.A another class.”

Draco’s eyes flash to her. “Why not?”

“I already agreed to T.A an Herbology course.”

“But you’re an Herbology Master. Why aren’t you teaching the course yourself… as a Professor?”

“Because I don’t have the necessary teaching experience.”

“You’d make quite a Professor,” he spits.

She channels her best Pansy and takes the comment the way he didn’t mean it. As a compliment. “Thank you.” She shoots him a sarcastic grin. “But I don’t want to be a Professor… not yet anyway.”

He sniffs dismissively.

“Malfoy, I can’t teach this class. I only accepted the Senior Apprentice promotion because Snape offered me more credit hours and the University will allow all my research and work product to count toward my capstone. Which HNC will accept. I can’t take on this additional course, and I can’t drop any of my other classes. They’re either requirements for my Muggle degree or my Potions Mastery. Please talk to Snape.”

“Why? You got what you wanted.”

She scoffs and throws her hands up in resignation. “Have you listened to a word I said? Listened to understand, not just to rebut?”

He turns from her, and rifles through his folders for an active case to work on.

She rolls her eyes and snatches down the parchment. Snape’s quill angrily nudges her elbow. Signing the paper would accept the changes and update the Lab’s magic. She can’t sign this. This is wrong. All wrong.

Malfoy doesn’t so much as look at her the rest of the day in the Lab… or the following day. And Snape is gone most days, returning at the end of the day for debriefs and status reports before locking himself in his office. The three of them remain at an impasse.

THU 14 SEP

Hermione vows to discuss the position with Snape on Thursday. To ask him so many questions and make so many irrational demands that he rescinds the promotion and gives it back to Malfoy, who’s absent from the lab all day. Snape doesn’t make an appearance either. She spends the day brewing technical potions with the rest of her lab mates then returns to Parkinson Manor for dinner. When she finally updates Pansy on the situation in the Lab, the witch’s jaw drops.

“This happened Tuesday, Granger? Why’d you wait so long to tell me?”

“Because it’s not the usual barbs and bickering, Pansy. This is huge!”

“Pansy, could you at least pretend to be impartial here?”

“He’s one of my best friends, Granger. Maybe if this was Blaise or Theo… but I can’t really be impartial about Draco. It’s not in our DNA. He and I shoot straight with each other. Even when it hurts. And so, I’m going to do the same with you. By accepting the position, you betrayed him.”

“I did NOT accept the position! Snape clearly offered it up to spite Malfoy. I said I would think about it! I made a split-second decision to stall them so Snape wouldn’t ask someone else who would accept. I thought Snape would have come to his senses by now or that Malfoy would have apologized… But they’re both-”

“Stubborn.” Pansy smirks. “Yes. And Snape’s his godfather so they fight dirty. Like family.”

“Snape has played us off each other since day one. And we fell for it. We reined it in recently. We still bicker about every little thing, but it’s lacked teeth for weeks. And at Narcissa’s party it felt like we were really starting over. Then the explosion happened before we’d even gotten off the ground! His wand accepted my magic, Pansy!”

Pansy’s eyes widen. “What?”

“I used his wand to shield the explosion. I told him I didn’t want the position. I flat out said, ‘I don’t want this, and I can’t accept this’.”

Pansy quirks a brow. “You said that?”

“Yes! He didn’t believe me. Why didn’t he believe me? If he thinks I’d snatch something like this away from him… he doesn’t know me at all!”

“Darling, he doesn’t know you at all. You’ve been here two and a half months! Daph and I have gotten to know you a bit better than the boys, but none of us really know you. Draco, least of all. So yes, he doesn’t know you. You come in here – all beautiful and tattooed and fun and brilliant and talented with your Herbology Mastery and your big plans. He’s never met someone like you. None of us have. And if you were anything like the people we’ve met (especially the people in Pureblood Society), you’d be vicious and conniving and would mow down anyone in your way to get what you wanted. And the fact that you didn’t just grab the position outright… He must think you’re just taunting him or playing with your food. Trust me, the fact that you won’t take it is probably more baffling to him than if you were to take it. I’ll talk to him about being so suspicious of you since you’ve given none of us any reason not to trust you so far. But you have to understand where he’s coming from. Between the women after him for his money and status and what his family endured in the first Wizarding war and everything that went down with the ‘Almost,’ he’s suspicious of anyone not in our circle. He’ll take time. Snape is… very hard on him. He expects excellence. Between Snape and his father, Draco’s under a lot of pressure. So this mistake in the lab is about more than just the mistake. And it seems like Snape thinks you’re competent. He immediately started you working on actual cases with the Lead Apprentice and was willing to make you Lead Apprentice without hesitation. Of course, Draco’s threatened.”

“I asked him to talk to Snape.”

Pansy chuckles and rolls her eyes. “Men.”

“He knows I don’t want it. I want this on my own merit, not through the backdoor.”

“Why haven’t you talked to Snape?”

“I resolved to do it today, but he wasn’t there. He left a note saying he expects my answer before the start of term.”

“And.”

“He can rot. I’m sick of all of this. I need a break.”

Viktor was in town for League business, and they’d already agreed to a date at a new French restaurant tomorrow evening. Pansy had already lent her a pair of sandals for the occasion.

“Krum?” Pansy asks with a gleam in her eye.

Hermione smirks as she flicks to their text thread on her cell phone. “Krum.”

He wouldn’t mind her company two nights in a row.

Chapter 20: DRACO - BIGGER FISH

Chapter Text

THU 14 SEP

Thursday evening finds Draco alone in his study, taking the edge off with music and a tipple of brandy. He’s tuned to an Oldies radio station that’s playing music from the 50s and 60s. The Righteous Brothers’ rendition of Unchained Melody starts slow and low. ‘Oh, my love, my darling, I’ve hungered for your touch. A long, lonely time. Time goes by so slowly and time can do so much. Are you still mine? Lonely rivers flow to the open arms of the sea. Lonely rivers sigh, ‘Wait for me…’ Wait for me.’

He’d skived off from Lab today, requesting a rare sick day in a terse email to Snape. There’d been no response. Not that he expected one.

He’d slept in then played tennis with Blaise, Theo, and Daphne. After a late lunch he’d returned to the Manor and gone for a swim, before showering and retiring to his room to read. After dinner, he’d skulked to his study to ruminate. Again.

He eyes his wand beside him on the desk. “Traitor.”

More jarring than the explosion had been the fact that his wand had cast true. It hadn’t ignored her command, or worse, backfired. It had obeyed her. At the height of the Dark Lord’s reign of terror, he’d charmed his wand with several protective and impediment charms. In case those failed to prevent someone from casting a nasty curse with his wand, he’d also woven in a strong Vestigium which collected geographical data as well as the fingerprint and magical signature of the spellcaster. Information that would provide incontrovertible proof that could keep him out of Azkaban. Luckily, no one else had tried to use his wand… until her. And because of his extra security, he’d always be able to lock onto her magical signature. He could use the information gleaned from the Vestigium spell to put an illegal trace on her. He could follow her. Show up wherever she was in the world at any moment. Plot her movements on a map. On a dime, he could vanish things to her, wherever she was. Not that he'd ever use the information in these ways. He didn’t wish to track her… or harm her. That would veer over from grey magic into the black depths of dark magic.

“Pansy,” comes the voice from the other side.

“Enter,” he says. “Brandy?” He offers as she settles into one of the chairs in front of his desk.

She accepts.

“Draco, how drunk are you? Scale of one to ten.”

He shrugs. “Six.” It had been a long week. He pours a finger of brandy and slides the glass across the desk to her.

She takes a sip, pulling a face as it hits her tongue. “It always takes me a few sips to get in the right headspace for brandy,” she croaks before taking another sip.

“Much as I enjoy your company, Pansy…”

She sighs. “I talked to Hermione.”

A bolt of anger slams through him. “That f*cking wi-”

“She said she didn’t accept the position.”

“She did.”

“Draco, what did she say exactly.”

He frowns, jogging his memory for her exact words. “She said she’d think about it.”

“Doesn’t sound like ‘yes’ to me, Draco. Did you hear her say ‘yes’?”

He huffs, slumping against the back of the chair. “Snape is operating like she accepted. He changed the roster. He changed the course assignments. All that’s left is for her to sign her name on the dotted line to update the lab’s magic.”

“Has she signed it, Draco?”

He rolls his eyes. “She hasn’t signed it yet.”

“What makes you say that?”

He scoffs. And he never scoffs.

Pansy quirks a brow. “No, Draco, it’s a valid question. What about her makes you say that? What has she done?”

He sits mulishly in the cavernous silence, while inside his brain he’s pilfering the Hermione and Granger files. By the time he begrudgingly grumbles, “Nothing,” there’s a slight flush on Pansy’s cheeks and she’s topping up her empty glass. Absolutely nothing. And therein lied the paradox. It didn’t make any bloody sense.

“She used your wand, Draco,” Pansy says softly.

He closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, girding himself against a swell of emotion. He tries to tamp it down, but his brandy-soaked walls are useless. She’d used his wand. She’d used his frigging wand.

“She used your wand, Draco,” she echoes. “You trusted her. Who are you really mad at?”

“Draco.”

“Pansy.”

“You’re not mad at her. You’re threatened.”

He rolls his eyes. So?

“She’s nipping at your heels. You were next in line for years and all of a sudden there’s a threat to the throne. You’re not mad at her.”

He sighs. This isn’t anything he hadn’t already admitted to himself.

“You trusted her. You’ve bickered all summer. But she’s never gone above you to Snape. She’s never undercut your decisions. She’s never cut you out of discussions. She’s never amplified your mistakes. So why would she betray you now?”

“Bigger fish.”

Pansy scoffs. “Oh, come on, Draco.”

“Why do you trust her so much?” He counters.

“She’s dated Krum in secret for years.”

Draco rolls his eyes. Big whoop. That was her secret. One measly secret didn’t a vault make.

Pansy continues unperturbed by his skepticism. “We’re at Ronaldo’s once a week. Have any paparazzi ever shown up there? Potter and the boys are with her every week in Muggle London. Have any paparazzi ever swarmed them coming out of a bowling alley or the Go-Kart place? Have any paparazzi shown up at the movie theater? At any restaurants on Saturdays? We’ve told her some outlandish stories… most of them true. Have you been called by Rita Skeeter to provide comment? She used your wand, Draco. Why do you trust her so much?”

He shrugs.

“She said Snape hasn’t been around much at the lab this week. Is that true?”

It was. Since the explosion, they’d only seen him coming or going, robes billowing behind him.

He nods.

“So, when exactly would she have spoken to him?”

“She could have emailed him.”

“Right,” she snarks. “And ruined the chances of Snape ever giving her another opportunity? This requires more finesse than an email, Draco. You know that. She said she gave a noncommittal response so that he wouldn’t offer it to someone who would take it. And to give you two time to cool off. Was she wrong?”

He could think of at least three Junior Apprentices and one Senior Apprentice who would jump at the promotion.

He sniffs.

“Ah, I know I’ve swayed you when you sniff.” She smirks. “My work here is done,” she says, rising to her feet.

“I’m still mad at her.”

“Of course, you are. It’s distraction.”

“From?”

She smiles. “Only you know the answer to that question, darling. See you tomorrow.”

“No, I have a date with Helena tomorrow,” he says, refusing to meet her eyes.

“Ah, second date?”

His eyes flash to her and he nods.

Pansy smiles. “Theo owes me a lot of money. Where are you two going?”

That brand new French restaurant in Mayfair. “Lucard.”

Her smile curls into a rather wolfish smirk. “Enjoy.”

Chapter 21: HERMIONE - LUCARD

Chapter Text

FRI 15 SEP

Lucard received rave reviews in Friday morning’s Prophet, which Hermione had read over breakfast with Krum. They’d talked excitedly about their upcoming date, speculating on what dishes the chef would feature in the menu degustation, the seven-course tasting menu every fine French restaurant put their own spin on. It was their tradition to sample the tasting menu whenever they tried a new French restaurant. Krum was a Pureblood after all, and tradition was ‘paramount.’

In the afternoon Pansy (who will make her excuses to the group at Ronaldo’s) helps Hermione prepare for her date. She’d thrifted her dress during one of her recent Coastal walks. A dark, terracotta orange knit dress with a plunging neckline, a halter back, and a slit up to her mid-thigh. She transfigures her beaded bag into a brown clutch and finishes the look with sable brown platform sandals from Pansy’s closet. They tuck her hair behind one ear, pinning it in place with an orange begonia from the Parkinson greenhouse. They leave Hermione’s face bare except for mascara and tinted lip gloss. She glamours her tattoos and puts a complementary patterned shawl in her bag for when the temperature drops. She allows Pansy to cast an Unguis on her fingers and toes in the pale pink shade she jokingly dubs ‘Pansy Pink’ to Pansy’s utter un-amusem*nt.

Viktor pounces on her the second their feet touch the ground in the alley near the restaurant. She’d barely gathered her bearings after the pull of Apparition when his hands are everywhere, his lips chasing hers as he pulls her closer into his embrace. He kisses her soundly, palming her ass as he crowds her into the wall. He groans low in his chest when she pulls away from him. “Hermione, this dress,” he whispers, leaning in for another kiss.

She lets him indulge then pushes him away softly. “Viktor.” She giggles, swatting his chest playfully. “Our reservation.”

He chuckles. “Let them wait.” His hungry smile dies on his lips as they register the bright zing of a camera flash.

There’s a loud whistle and in seconds, the paparazzi descend upon them.

Viktor swears under his breath. “We gave them a decoy location! I don’t know why they’re here. I’m sorry, Hermione.” He pulls her into him, twirling a curl around his finger. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

She smiles up at him. “I’m not worried.”

“Coach Iliev will haggle them down to a blind item. You’ll see.”

She nods and gives him a small, appreciative smile. “Thank you.”

He takes her hand and leads her to the restaurant, dropping it only to fish a wad of cash from his pocket and hand it over to the hostess after she’d remarked upon their late arrival and informed them that she’d already released their table.

While Krum butters up the hostess, Hermione spots that familiar, surreal shade of silvery blond across the restaurant. She’d know it anywhere now. Him.

She gasps as realization dawns. The paps are here because he’s here!

The stoic, bored expression he wears around Astoria is absent. So that must be some other build-a-blonde across the table from him. He’d backslid with Astoria a few times since their breakup. Indiscretions for which Blaise, Theo – and even Daphne – ribbed him mercilessly. With all the turmoil he’d been in since the lab explosion, Hermione’s surprised he hadn’t pressed the Astoria button this evening. But she supposed it made sense. To be back on the media merry-go-round with Astoria would signal their relationship was something more serious than sex. Something it most assuredly was not. Not that it was any of her business… but one couldn’t eat dinner with the snakes in peace without the barbs and innuendo. As with the Society page, she could do her best to ignore it, but it was her milieu and thus unavoidable. From the bored look on his face though, Hermione surmised Malfoy would likely press that button later.

She hoped for Astoria’s sake he would. If only because Astoria seemed to like him so much. Though Pansy – and even Daphne – were not convinced. Fine. Maybe the witch didn’t like him as much as she liked… his trappings. That was Hermione’s working theory anyway. From the little she knew of Astoria, she supposed there was much for the witch to like: he was objectively attractive, wealthy, agile, fit (in both the American and British senses of the word) – and that athleticism surely translated to bed sport. He had long, nimble fingers from piano and Snape’s exacting standards. The sex had to be good, right? Otherwise, Draco wouldn’t be chasing her tail at the slightest inconvenience. And she certainly wouldn’t entertain him if he wasn’t… master of his domain. Although… she supposed the illustrious Draco Malfoy didn’t really have many options. With the Prophet tracking his every move, it must be difficult for the infamous DLM to have casual sex without the hounds sniffing out his trail and exposing him. Astoria had been thoroughly vetted and was a frontrunner for his hand in marriage. It would hurt her suit to expose their arrangement… therefore she was trustworthy and discreet… but only because she had to be. The man at the apex of the Wizarding world couldn’t screw whoever he wanted without it being front page news. How sad. Honestly, they deserved each other. She was a hawk, and he was a snake – apex predators destined to devour each other.

Malfoy’s date flips her hair over her shoulder, and Hermione catches a glimpse of his face again. His visage is only slightly less stony than it was with the hawk, but from the little she knew of him, she can tell he’s miserable. If she were a betting man, she’d put up some galleons that Astoria would definitely be hearing from him tonight. Viktor seeking her hand and playing absentmindedly with her fingers pulls Hermione from her thoughts and back into the present moment.

The hostess grabs two large dinner menus, smiles and beckons for them to follow her. “Suivez-moi.”

Viktor leads them behind the hostess hand-in-hand, doing the happy little wiggle he does when he’s about to eat good food. A blink and you’d miss it action Hermione’s honed to catch after so many years. She giggles then stifles it self-consciously. To avoid drawing too much attention, she turns her head as he looks back to catch her eye in an attempt to make her laugh harder. A mistake because she locks eyes with him across the crowded restaurant. Time slows and Hermione registers the exact moment he notices her. She watches the spark of recognition in his gaze heat up to something dark and molten as he drinks her in head to toe. There’s a storm in those gray eyes. She feels like a sculpture on display.

Rapt, his eyes track slowly back up her body. She stumbles when their eyes meet again.

Viktor notices her misstep and turns back to her, pulling her in by her waist until she’s in front of him. He trails behind her, his hand warm on the small of her back, skimming his fingers softly, teasingly along her skin.

Chapter 22: DRACO - ORANGE

Chapter Text

FRI 15 SEP

Draco’s out with Helena Machado, Portuguese Natural Gas heiress, polyglot, piano pedagogue, and Quidditch afficionado. Evidently, they’d had a lot in common and their first date had been… Honestly, he didn’t remember much about their first date. But the overall impression was… passable. He’d still been buzzing from the news of his promotion at Snape Lab when he agreed to see Helena again, making her the first witch to make it to a second date since Astoria. Then Snape had thrown a strop in the lab and demoted him. And now his chickens were coming home to roost. An expression he’d learned from her. He’d let Helena take the lead on the details of the date and she’d chosen the new French restaurant, Lucard, which had furnished them with one of their best tables. He sips the excellent Beaujolais Bordeaux and picks at the sundry amuses she’d ordered for their appetizers.

He couldn’t believe Hermione had betrayed him like this. She’d accepted the position she’d sworn up and down she didn’t want. Who knew the little American interloper would be the biggest snake of them all? Granger still hadn’t declined the position. And Snape was maintaining radio silence. If Snape had wanted to return the position to its rightful owner, the insufferable man would have already placed a meeting on Draco’s Scheduler at the most inopportune time or presented himself at the Manor to discuss his intentions forthwith.

Pansy was convinced it was a matter of finesse. Declination was a delicate matter that Granger needed to conduct in person. Pansy seemed convinced that’s why Granger still hadn’t done it. And despite all her flaws he didn’t know Granger to be a liar. Pansy was correct. No personal information about him or his friends had been leaked to the press since Granger’s arrival. Mother had welcomed the witch into their home twice, and she hadn’t absconded with any precious heirlooms. And he’d let his guard down around her.

After the splendor of the grotto, Tuesday’s lab meltdown had given him whiplash. He simply could not get his bearings. He supposed he’d know whether Granger had fed Pansy tripe or truth when they returned to the Lab after break. If Snape offered him his position back, then he’d know whether Granger was as impeccable with her word as she claimed to be. Until then, his thoughts would roil.

Helena places a hand over his on the table, repeating her last question.

He meets her eye as he responds, then asks her one of his own so he can escape to his thoughts again.

She turns toward the clamor of the paparazzi outside.

“Vultures,” he grumbles into his drink, ever thankful the Malfoy Estate kept the Prophet deep in their pockets and Skeeter continued to play by their rules… for the most part. He tunes out the paps’ furore and brings his attention back to Helena who splutters midsentence. “Merlin, is that Viktor Krum?”

He glances toward the hostess station to find that Viktor Krum has indeed entered. Unfazed, Draco turns his attention back to his wine.

“In Portugal we call him El Sombrio,” she says, almost worshipfully. “Did you know?”

The better question was, ‘did he care?’ He shakes his head. “No.”

“It’s because he’s dark and broody.” She gestures to her face.

Draco gives her an unamused look.

Helena brightens. “Sim, assim!” She exclaims, gesturing to Draco’s face. “Just like that! On the pitch, the opposing Seeker doesn’t see El Sombrio until he’s just behind him. Like a shadow.”

Draco quirks a smile as she giggles. Then she loses him again, rattling off facts about the bitter rivalry between Krum and Shahzad, the Portuguese Seeker. He schools his face into a neutral mask, curious to see which new tart Krum has on his arm tonight. He glances over when he sees a flash of orange behind the Quidditch Pro and it’s… her.

Orange. Another color he’d never seen her in. He now knows she reserves color for fun and special occasions thanks to Astoria’s ribbing.

He clenches his teeth as thoughts of her enter his mind unbidden once again. This time of a different vein. Like how beautiful she looks tonight. As beautiful as she’d looked at Mother’s party where he was sure he’d spent full minutes on the bench near the grotto just staring at her, moonstruck and tipsy. Merlin, that dress. A décolleté halter-neck dress in deep orange that skims her curves and grazes the floor as she steps closer to Krum. Tasteful. Sexy. And that slit - his mind slips to all sorts of naughty places between her soft thighs. sh*te. He’s vexed with her. Vexed!

For years Draco’s eyes had glazed over blind items about Krum and his ‘mystery women’ gallivanting and cavorting across Europe. Across the globe. He’d never given them a second thought. Somehow that had changed recently, and those brief stories had taken on new meaning since he’d developed a hunch that the ‘mystery woman’ moniker was not code for multiple unnamed women, but for just one. Just for her.

His eyes skim her body again. He tries to school his features back into a neutral mask when their eyes meet. sh*te.

He and Krum notice her stumble at the same time. Draco flinches in his seat, powerless to do anything if she fell. His traitorous body reacts nonetheless. When Krum turns back to her, Draco returns his attention to his date who’s signaling the waiter for another glass of wine. He takes another sip from his wineglass. Something red and delicious she’d ordered that was going to gravel in his mouth ever since she’d arrived. He needed something harder.

He flicks his eyes to her again and sees Krum smile down at her and coax her to walk in front of him. Krum’s other hand – the one not in hers – skims down her back and rests just above the ample curve of her bum, his fingers trailing along her skin. Draco grinds his teeth when he notices her shudder. He combs his mind trying to think of something else. Anything else.

He comes up empty. Landing again on that dress, speculating about its provenance. It’s another dress with an interesting texture, like the one she’d worn to Narcissa’s party. Thrice now Granger had called Pansy and/or Daphne in a near panic as she prepared for a date with Krum, and they’d left Draco at a restaurant or on the tennis court to help her prepare. Events like the Mungo’s Annual Charity Gala (which he’d skipped) or a Quidditch Premier League function (which he’d read about in the Society pages not looking for a glimpse of her and only finding a blind item about Krum and his ‘mystery woman’) or the opening of the new wing at the British Science Museum (which he’d also attended). She seemed to attend only certain kinds of functions on Krum’s arm and tended to skip things like club openings, restaurant openings, and Society events. After those events Krum’s name and picture would be splashed across the Society pages with different witches, often Purebloods. Well, they’d have to be for the Pureblood Society events. Granger wouldn’t be allowed at those, even if she cared to attend. Though he supposed that restriction was more de rigueur than de jure these days. Not that anyone tried to challenge it or had occasion to.

When she did accompany Krum to an event, it seemed Hermione attended as ‘mystery woman.’ Well, that was Draco’s hunch, anyway. Since any time Pansy left him to help her, the blind items in the paper the next day discussed Krum’s mystery woman. She’d been dating Krum for years in secret while his other dates were constantly splashed across the Society pages. The requirement for anonymity surely wasn’t Krum’s condition. While Draco didn’t know the exact reasons Granger required secrecy, he could certainly empathize. Given the opportunity for anonymity, he’d take it in a heartbeat. Blaise and Theo didn’t garner the same media attention as he did, and since the ‘Almost,’ Potter featured less and less in the Prophet. He and Pansy seemed to be slowly rekindling things and their first date in years had been given a few lines below the fold a few weeks ago. Besides, if Hermione was a headline chaser, the snakes would have already ousted her from the group. One thing they did not tolerate was a leak. Still, he wondered…

Krum’s mystery woman sat across from him – enjoying her wine and the tasting menu – while Draco’s own wine and food went to ash in his mouth. It took all his effort to focus on Helena and not steal yet another glimpse across the room.

At the end of the night, the only things Draco left Lucard with were a new appreciation for a particular shade of orange, more fodder for his hunch, and a headache. Helena had made her excuses and left before dessert. There would notbe a third date.

Draco returned home and finished packing for Italy before taking a hot shower and falling into bed. The next day he Floo’ed directly to the Zabini ancestral Estate in Tuscany. He’d done enough business with Blaise in Italy and Portugal that they’d linked his Floo directly to the Zabini properties years ago. He enjoys a week and a half of peace with the boys, drinking good wine and eating amazing food at the Estate and little hole-in-the-wall restaurants they ride to on scooters and motorbikes.

They’re on the beach eating seafood and drinking white wine spritzers when Blaise reminds them that the girls are coming by for a few days. Draco had managed to distract himself from her for a few days but didn’t think he could bear them being in the same house right now.

At breakfast the next morning, Draco informs the boys that he’s been recalled to England on Estate business. Blaise and Harry don’t press him, but Theo gives him a knowing smirk he itches to hex off his gitty face. He rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to his frittata and cappuccino.

The joke’s on Draco however, because the next day Father sweeps into his study, drops a thick prospectus on his desk and tells him to read it cover to cover before a meeting he’s scheduled for them in Stockholm the next day.

Chapter 23: HERMIONE - LITTLE BIRDIE

Chapter Text

SAT 16 SEP

Hermione Apparates from Viktor’s hotel room early the next day. She locks away the memory of gray eyes molten and intent upon her at Lucard behind thick mental walls and turns to the task of packing for a well-deserved vacation. She meets Pansy and her parents by the Floo a few minutes before the Portkey activates. They spend the next week and a half traveling across Southeast Asia. She spends her 21st birthday on a white sand beach in Bora Bora shopping for crocheted dresses and skimpy bikinis, eating roast corn and fresh seafood on the beach while the waves lap at her toes.

The Parkinsons give her birthday gifts back at the villa. Two pairs of dragonhide boots. One laces up to her knees and the other stops around midcalf. She hugs each of them and thanks them profusely. They also give her a Weatherall cloak – lightweight, packable and suitable for all kinds of inclement weather – and two dragonhide wand holsters – one for around her thigh and the other for around her chest and shoulder.

“These are from me.” Pansy winks at her as she opens the box to find a brand-new set of Zwilling knives forged with Damascus steel and another box with gunmetal black dragon-hide platform Mary Jane shoes with silver bands under each scale. The shoes appear glossy black until they catch the light and sparkle. “There’s a matching folio for all you patents, breakthroughs, and important lab documents.”

Hermione smiles and wraps Pansy in a tight hug. “The knives... How’d you know?” She asks when they part from the hug.

Pansy shrugs. “A little birdie told me.”

Ah yes, more snakey, coded language. Which Hermione finds curious because she’d only ever ranted to one little birdie about Zwilling knives. If she were talking to said birdie, she’d thank him for the gift. On the off chance they repaired things by Christmas, maybe she’d put a little effort into his gift.

They join Theo and Blaise for a couple days at the Zabini Estate in Tuscany. The ‘knee of Italy’ as Blaise jokingly calls it. Apparently, Malfoy had made his excuses and left the day before they arrived citing ‘Malfoy Estate business.’ Hermione figures the timing is too convenient to be true but she’s too busy gorging herself on honey-roasted feta, insalata caprese, beef and salmon carpaccios, panna cotta, crostatas, focaccia, canederli, tiramisu and innumerable pasta dishes to very much give a f*ck. Malfoy is not her problem until next week. Until then, she’ll enjoy some peace and quiet.

Blaise gives them a tour of the gardens, orchards and vineyards and they enjoy a wine tasting and meal at a long table in the lee of a picturesque ridge. They spend their nights laughing, singing, and dancing to the music played through the stellar Zabini sound system, each offering up a different song for the gang to rate. They get tipsy off the different drinks Hermione and Pansy brought back from their travels through Southeast Asia including Rice Whisky from Laos and Sangsom rum from Thailand. They also enjoy the slew of fruits they’d smuggled from their travels and kept under Stasis on the dining table.

THU 28 SEP

The two-week break passed in a haze of fun, sun, drinks, good food and good company. Hermione and Pansy return to England on Thursday to gray skies and heavy clouds that portend rain.

An appointment with Snape appears on Hermione’s Scheduler for the next afternoon. She accepts the invite, grumbling about insufferable baby-men and stubborn goats as she pads over to the bathroom to shower. She ends the night reading a few more chapters in her Terpenes text, putting her a month ahead of her required reading. With her obligations at the lab and the potential for frequent Ministry travel, it seems best to give herself a buffer and stay ahead on her course work.

Chapter 24: DRACO - TRUCE

Chapter Text

FRI 29 SEP

Though Draco would never admit it aloud – and certainly never to Blaise or Theo – he missed the easy text banter with Hermione. He even missed their bickering at the lab. That cursed parchment whizzes off her desk and into Snape’s office minutes before she walks in. Her robes are open and underneath she’s dressed more casually than she’s ever been in the lab. He spies a tank top and biker shorts. Coastal Walks, right. His eyes drop to her feet. She’s in open toed sandals. His eyes snag on her toenails, which are painted red. He pulls upon his knowledge of roses under Narcissa’s tutelage to pinpoint the exact shade. Upon closer inspection, he sees they’re actually cerise. A deep pink that’s almost red, the color of ripe raspberries.

She clears her throat, and his eyes snap up to hers.

He recovers quickly. “No open-toed shoes in the lab, Granger.” He keeps his tone measured, imperious. Dry.

Her retort is swift and icy. “Is that the tone you’ve taken with all your Lead Apprentices, Mr. Malfoy?”

His eyes widen in shock before he can slap his Occlumency walls into place. His anger is visceral and consuming. Acrid bile rises in his throat.

She fidgets with one of her braids as she walks to her desk and rifles through the neatly stacked lab journals and parchments for the one he knows is in Snape’s office.

“He summoned it to his office,” he grumbles.

She sighs before muttering under her breath. “You’re both arrogant… insolent… petty… stubborn goats.”

“Pardon?” He asks, intrigued despite the anger he can feel roiling inside of him at the sight of her once again.

“I’m. Not. Accepting. It. You. Git.” She bites out before striding to Snape’s office. Her pace quickens when Snape barks out, “Granger!”

Her words send him reeling. His mind races a mile a minute. Granger rounds the corner, returning to her desk scant minutes later and he doesn’t have time to… to think, to apologize? To… to do much of anything before Snape bellows, “Malfoy! Here! NOW!”

She rolls her eyes at him as they pass each other. She’s gone when he returns to his desk but there’s a little note that just says ‘GIT’ in large block letters floating over it.

He chuckles and mutters a sticking charm, affixing it to the wall in front of his desk. He’s Lead Apprentice again and all should be right with the world. Except there’s no ‘Congratulations’ text coming from her. In fact, there’s no texts from her at all. Not for the first time in as many weeks, he misses their truce. And their easy banter from Narcissa’s birthday, which feels like a lifetime ago. He’d missed his nargle.

After firmly setting his mind to skip tonight’s weekly dinner at Ronaldo’s, Draco texts Theo and Blaise to inform them of his absence citing the need to work late (a blatant lie). Theo threatens to hex his balls off if he’s indeed a no-show.

On Brontham’s! Blaise’s text swiftly adds.

A shiver runs down Draco’s spine. Brontham’s Almanac was tied directly to the Blood Magic of the Sacred 28 and updated itself automatically with the ever-expanding family trees and errant branches of the 28 families and their descendants. The book also duplicated itself for each twig’s later use whenever a child was born. No truer or more incorruptible text existed in the known universe. It was their code. A sentence preceded or succeeded by swearing on Brontham’s was the bone deep truth. Deeper than a promise or a threat, anything backed by Brontham’s was a vow.

As such, Draco Apparated to Ronaldo’s promptly at 5:57 pm.

“Draco, don’t even bother sitting,” Pansy admonishes as he steps through the door onto the patio. He feels a presence behind him and glances back to find Hermione a few paces behind.

Pansy’s eyes dart between the two of them. “You two need to talk.”

“Pansy!” Granger whines behind him.

“You’re both on timeout until you kiss and make up!” Ignoring Draco’s searing glare, Pansy dismisses them with a wave. “Ta!”

Granger huffs before turning on her heel, retreating back into the crowded restaurant toward the front doors.

Draco follows suit, rolling his shoulders and taking a deep breath before stepping out of the front door. He finds Hermione leaning against the wall and stops a couple paces in front of her. He slips his hands into his trouser pockets and looks down at her. She’d changed since he’d seen her earlier at the lab. Her hair is now in a ponytail. He now knows braids are her lab hair and her adventure hair. She’s in a fitted sleeveless dress with a scoop neckline that shows a whisper of cleavage, her beaded crossbody bag is slung over her shoulder, and she’s in different sandals. Again, his eyes catch on the berry-red color of her toes. He wonders why she hasn’t painted her fingernails the same color and supposes his question is answered when she starts absently gnawing at her thumbnail.

He launches into his apology. Explaining how he should have taken her at her word when she’d said that she didn’t want to be Lead Apprentice. He concedes that he should have talked to Snape sooner instead of dragging this out for weeks.

She counters that she hopes she’s proven that she’s not gunning for him (a Muggle expression that means she’s not going to undermine or sabotage him, she clarifies). And that maybe they can stop believing the worst of each other because really, what have they done to warrant such suspicion?

Neither can think of anything though their narrowed eyes and absent expressions show they’re really trying. After a few minutes she continues. “Haven’t we proven our competence to each other?”

He grumbles in agreement. “Don’t fish for compliments, Granger. It’s beneath you.”

She huffs, but there’s a small smile on her face.

“It’s a mindf*ck to keep splitting you between Malfoy and Draco. Do you not tire of splitting me into boxes?”

“No.”

Not that he’d ever admit it to her but there was a tactical reason for the splitting. In the Lab, she was Granger. When they were arguing, she was Granger. When things were… pleasant and his walls were down, she was Hermione. When he needed distance or was Occluding, she was Granger.

She frowns. “Well, I’m tired of it. Can’t we just be Draco and Hermione?”

“Tell you what, we spend most of our lives in the Lab anyway. We should just be Granger and Malfoy. Agreed?” He quirks a brow.

“Truce?” She raises her head to meet his eyes, extending her hand for him to shake to seal the deal.

“Any other concessions before we shake, Granger?” He jibes.

“Come to movie night. Just one.”

Why? It’s moments like these that stumped him. To Occlude or not to Occlude. He narrows his eyes.

She holds his curious gaze and does not flinch.

He agrees with a caveat: “Just one.”

“Okay. And hey, congratulations… again.” She smiles, a faint blush kisses her cheeks.

“Thanks.” And he means it – all of it – as he slots his palm against hers and shakes on their second truce.

“And thanks for the knives?” She says tentatively.

He can feel his face heat as he nods.

Her smile widens.

He’d have a few stern words with Pansy.

The snakes cheer and applaud when they return. Theo presses a bottle of Crabbies into each of their hands and signals for the waitress to take their orders. They talk and drink and part with plans to Apparate to the National Quidditch field grounds the next day for the World Cup.

Chapter 25: DRACO - PAGE 269

Chapter Text

SAT 30 SEP

The Quidditch World Cup match rages on for a whopping six hours before Argentina wallops Finland. Hermione read for most of it. Draco’s still thinking about their moment as he crawls into bed in the wee hours of Sunday morning, bleary eyed and buzzed off Elvish wine. The day had been a blur of insane plays, theatrical feints, several melees for the snitch, a bottle of ace Argentinian red and Theo’s Boeuf Bourguignon with apple tarts for dessert.

After dinner, they’d all sat in the grass drinking and laughing well into the night. The girls turned in for the night at a more respectable hour while the boys stayed up playing exploding snap and a few rounds of poker that saw Theo winning back his losses to Blaise from the last two boys’ nights.

As Draco reviewed the day’s events in his mind, it snagged on that moment again. He’d returned from a snack run with drinks and bags of popcorn and nuts. He been passing out the drinks and throwing each person their requested bag of snacks when he caught the subtle glimmer that tipped him off that Hermione had glamoured her book. His doubt had solidified further when he’d squinted to read the spine.

Firstly, there was no Ophelia Fletcher.

Furthermore, Fineas Fletcher had not posited any theories (extant or otherwise) on Reanimation. He would know. Father had studied Alchemy – and even completed a couple feats – before being ensnared in the Dark Lord’s web. The Manor Library boasted all of Fletcher’s known works and personal journals.

Odd.

With the rest of the gang distracted – rehashing a play during a timeout – he’d leaned forward and muttered a Finite over her shoulder. Before Hermione knew what hit her, he’d plucked the naked book from between her fingers.

She’d gasped and turned in her seat while he read the cover. ‘Tessa Dare, A Lady by Midnight.’

He skimmed through the text while she swatted at him and tried to pry the book from his hands. He kept it out of her reach as his eyes slipped over the page.

“I’d expect this from Theo, but not from you,” she chided.

“He’s not familiar with your glamours.”

“And you are?” She challenged.

She had him there. He glanced at her. “What’s the matter, Granger? Are you ashamed?”

She huffed. “No. I just don’t want to be in the corner of a photo of you in the Prophet reading smut…” She grinned as an idea struck her. “But I can owl you the book when I’m done.” She took on a mockingly helpful tone. “Since you seem so interested. In fact-” She tapped her pointer finger against her lips. “Let me know what you like. I have loads more in my trunk. I might have something more your speed.”

“Ha ha,” he’d jibed, shoving the book back into her hands, more affected by the words he’d skimmed than he could ever let on. He’d tucked them away behind his Occlumency walls for later.

The next morning over breakfast in their tent he looked at her. Did she just sit there at Quidditch matches, knickers wet, getting slowly worked up while everyone around her watched the gameplay? Engrossed in her book, mentally edging herself for a few hours? How did she seem so utterly calm and unaffected, even at the World Cup? There hadn’t even been a blush on her cheeks or neck.

He quickly stifled the next thought. Refused to give credence to the notion that he envied the bloke she would text or owl to help her work through the sexual frustration she’d been stoking all day between the covers of that book. The next thought strikes him like a thunderbolt.

That’s why Wood took her sixty ways from Sunday after every Quidditch match she attended. The bloke had tanked his stats with mounting losses because his head was full of thoughts of her mewling and panting under him, losing himself in her tight, wet, c*nt and spilling into her saucy, f*cking mouth.

That’s why Krum begged her to come to all his matches. What he’d known and gotten to experience for years. And why he didn’t mind even one single iota that she paid more attention to her books than his game. He’d bet a bushel of galleons Krum stopped presenting the Snitch to her so that no one would investigate the cheeky made-up titles she glamoured onto her books if a shot of them made it into the Prophet.

That’s why she’d Occluded that day at Potter’s house.

Just when he thought he’d locked another puzzle piece into place, he realized he’d been looking at the entire thing from the wrong angle. And instead of being one step closer to solving her, he’d instead looped right back to the beginning. The witch was an enigma wrapped in a blasted riddle!

She’d sat there yesterday, reading for hours. Had she spent all that time horny, waiting for the moment she could return home and pleasure herself or call someone to get off with her? Merlin, this witch! He wondered how slick she’d be if he slid his fingers into her while she straddled his lap, reading that passage… and more.

He recited it in his head again as he pushed the eggs around on his plate. ‘She stroked him there, softly. Tenderly. Because everyone deserved a bit of tenderness, and she was so very hungry for it herself.’ Merlin.

Back in his study after Sunday dinner, he hears a tap on his window. He opens it to find Cowan, a snippy white owl from the Parkinson brood with a small roll of parchment tied to his ankle. He gives Cowan treats and scratches before untying the scroll. The parchment is bare except for a word in quotations. “Muto.”

“Muto,” he says, and the parchment transfigures into Hermione’s novel. He wouldn’t read it. He couldn’t read it. Erotic fiction wasn’t for- he banishes the thought. Hadn’t his earlier fantasies shown that the genre had its merits? And besides, this was a challenge. He did not back down from challenges. Especially not when they came from her.

He finishes annotating a prospectus for a business deal his father had looped him into then reviews the invoice from Flourish for the upcoming term’s textbooks before grabbing the novel off his desk and decamping to his bedroom. Upstairs, he settles into bed and inhales the book. He sees himself – and even her – reflected in some of the characterization.

‘Nothing was fussy, just precise.’ Hermione was the least fussy woman he knew. She was a good counterbalance to Pansy and Daphne. Pansy could be cunning and shrewd, but her edge rattled people. And Daphne tended to have her head in the clouds unless there was some emergency. Hermione had a calm self-assuredness that he quite admired. He tended to wear the Malfoy name like a shell or a suit of armor. Sure, she had a healthy amount of adult skepticism, but her shell wasn’t as thick. Unlike him, she didn’t seem to exist behind leagues of walls and barriers. She was like Harry, and even Theo, in that regard. And sometimes… Sometimes, he envied them.

‘Why couldn’t a woman let an action speak for itself? If he’d wanted to use words, he would have used them,’ he reads, and chuckles. As a man who spoke through his actions, he felt oddly seen. Even if the author was poking a bit of fun.

He sees them both in the line, ‘I started to see that there was honor to be found in doing a task well, no matter how small.’ Self-motivation and an innate quest for excellence were two traits Snape had an uncanny knack of screening for in those he accepted into his Lab. It’s why they were constantly innovating and barreling through their budget expectations. Surely one day soon they’d outpace the Ministry’s and Mungo’s resources… Then where would that leave them?

‘He loved knowing anticipation worked just as well as application.’ Anticipation and application. Draco figures that precise combination is the primary ethos of and motivation for reading erotic fiction. Not to mention the delicious heat pooling in your belly from an author capturing a look, a feel, or a deep, burning love so well you felt it in your soul.

He sighs. Fine, maybe Granger had a point. Maybe it was okay to read erotic fiction in order to have a private thing that was just for your pleasure and enjoyment.

He returns the book to Hermione via owl the next morning with a similar note that says, ‘I read it and I enjoyed it. 6/10.’ He cues the note to rain little dick-shaped confetti all over her when she touches it. He wasn’t so heinous as to make her clean up the confetti herself – or worse, embarrass an elf by asking them to do it – so he sets the confetti to vanish after five minutes. Just enough time for her to panic.

Her text reply is three simple words: Prove it, dick.

His mind went instantly to a passage near the end of the book. Page two hundred and sixty something. He’d taken a picture of the page. He summons his mobile and navigates to the image in his photo library:

[“He sat next to her and drew the fabric of the borrowed shirt aside to bare her shoulder. “You please me…” His lips traced the slope of her neck. “There is no comparison. None.” He slid his hand beneath the shirt to cup her breast. His strong fingers molded and shaped her.

She moaned as he teased her nipple, rolling it under his thumb, “Samuel.”

“Yes.” His voice was husky as he drew the shirt up and over her head. “Give me my name.”

“Samuel,” She whispered, glad that he’d given her this one way to please him. “Samuel, I missed you every day that you were gone. I’ve missed you so much.”]

He knew from the stack of books on Granger’s lab station that she annotated everything. Charmed post-it notes filled with her scrawl stuck out from every page. She’d grab one of her books to read during her lunch break and refreshed the books every few weeks. He’d even teased her about it. She’d replied that she had unfettered access to one of the oldest surviving academic libraries in the world for one year and wasn’t wasting a single second of it. When he’d first caught sight of her reading some dusty text during a Quidditch game at the Burrow, he’d completely believed the charade. He hadn’t even bothered to squint to make out the title.

She was good. She didn’t simply alter the books’ appearances, she wholeheartedly committed to the bit. Everyone around her believed that she was really reading a dense, dry text. They believed that she was actually enraptured with some archaic tome on magical. That she truly found the esoteric text more interesting than the Quidditch match hundreds had crammed into uncomfortable seats to watch while they spilled beer and pumpkin juice all over themselves, cheering for their favorite players to bludgeon each other and catch a shiny little snitch. And until yesterday, he’d found the act entirely plausible. But if the subtle rippling on the page was any indication, those words had affected her as much as they affected him. They’d even brought her to tears.

He shoots off a final text. Pg. 269.

She does not respond.

Romance fiction did not nargle its way into their text conversations. They did not talk about her romance books after that, though he’d shoot her a knowing smirk anytime he caught her reading a book that looked too dry to be real after her lunch break at the Lab or while waiting for the rest of the gang to arrive at dinner or whenever she watched them play Quidditch at the Burrow. He supposed it was an inside joke they shared, since the books were always about the same size, had an innocuous dark leather binding and silver lettering on the spine. They always had some tell like Shakespeare or song references and always purported to be Compendiums, Guides, Tracts, Treatises, or White Papers.

He did not ask her what she was actually reading. He did not ask her to share quotes. His eyes did not linger on her when she shifted in her seat or reached for a glass of water, so engrossed in the ‘dry treatise’ that Theo and Blaise would have to repeat themselves to get her attention and resort to throwing bits of parchment or the paper covering from their straws to jar her from her reverie. He did not begin to yearn for the day when his own future sweetheart would share such quotes with him, bookmark scenes to try with him, and ask him to stop what he was doing to come ravage her.

Nothing had changed between them.

Chapter 26: DRACO - MOVIE NIGHTS

Chapter Text

True to his word, Draco attended the very next movie night after their second truce, arriving just as they’d selected a movie. He’d gotten the memo that they usually kept things super casual – soft comfy clothes in which to lounge, drink, and stuff themselves with snacks. Hermione had been in yoga shorts, fuzzy slippers and a 2007 Bulgaria World Cup shirt that had never hit the market since Bulgaria got shut out that year after their loss to Moldova. He’d wondered if she’d been at that match. Another errant thought had hit him, and he'd yearned to sink his fingers into the thick curls in a wild, beautiful halo around her face. He’d greeted everyone and taken a seat on one of the sofas piled high with cushions and blankets that were arranged around the room in such a way that offered each an unobstructed view of the screen. The gang had selected ‘Alice in Wonderland,’ a classic that Hermione and Harry insisted they watch. Besides the two of them, Draco was the only one who’d read the books. After pressing play on the movie, Hermione had sat on the opposite end of his sofa. They were movie buddies after all. She’d crossed her legs under her, nestled into the cushions and pulled the soft, plush blanket he’d had his eye on closer to her. Not that he’d ever admit it, but his heart had sunk a little when he’d realized that she’d actually chosen the couch because it was her usual couch (hence the blanket)… And not to be closer to him.

There’d been a few bottles of white wine from Zabini Vineyards on ice and she’d co*cked an eyebrow asking if he wanted a glass. He nodded in assent. She’d sat closer after handing him his glass and leaned in to whisper, “This is one of my favorite movies.” He could hear the smile in her voice when she said, “I think you’ll really like it.”

“Mm, looking forward to it,” he replied as her berries and vanilla scent surrounded him.

“I love animated movies, but this one takes the cake. I have a few Wonderland tattoos as well.”

He chuckled. “I’ve noticed.”

She giggled. “What drew you to these books as a kid?”

Draco shrugged. “Dunno. They had these silver embossed spines with tiny, intricately detailed scenes on the spine. I’d never seen anything like it. Then I read them and quite liked the March Hare and the Mad Hatter.”

Hermione smiled. “You would. You’re as frustratingly dense as them. You’re always changing the subject-” She chuckled as he swatted her shoulder. “And you’re even more of a grammarian than they are! “You might just as well say,” added the March Hare, “that ‘I like what I get” is the same thing as “I get what I like!” She’d chided him, reciting the passage in a horrendously snooty, posh accent that smacked of pretense and indignance.

He swatted her with a cushion, and she giggled.

“Hush,” Pansy (the Mad Hatter to his March Hare, if one followed Granger’s analogy) spat, making them giggle harder.

“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe!” Hermione recited the nonsense poem in a high-pitched accent that had Potter joining in on their giggles.

Pansy threw one cushion then another at her. “Desist, Granger!”

The gang polished off all the bottles of wine and by the end of the movie they were all wine drunk and not quite ready to end the night.

Theo suggested they play a game. “Something tame,” he clarified.

Hermione and Harry volleyed names of Muggle games back and forth before settling on one with a name more unusual than the ‘Charades’ Harry had taught them to play during their Prep School days: Pictionary.

The night had been fun. Draco supposed he could make himself available for more of these movie nights. Nargles.

When Draco missed the next movie night, Theo texted him first since the movie had been chosen for Blaise and Draco’s edification. Hermione had performed a Celine Dion song at Karaoke that week and the gang had chuckled at the callousness of the line, “I finished crying in the instant that you left.” She’d followed it up with another Celine Dion hit. ‘My Heart Will Go On.’ They’d discussed the beauty of the classic ballad. Hermione and Harry told them it was from the movie ‘Titanic.’

“Is that the blimp that went down?” Blaise had asked.

“It’s nice to see that your body was present for Muggle Studies in Prep School, even though your mind, sadly, had been elsewhere,” Hermione had retorted, chuckling as a stinging jinx from Blaise narrowly missed her.

“The blimp was the Hindenburg,” Harry explained. “The Titanic was the ship.”

“Right!” Draco exclaimed. The information jarring something in his brain. “The iceberg!”

“Yes!” Hermione and Harry exclaimed in unison, beaming at him.

“There’s a movie about it!” Hermione gushed. She was always telling him when there was a movie or documentary about some Muggle thing that interested or perplexed him. Lately he’d been viewing her recommendations so they could discuss them.

“There’s a movie about the Hindenburg?” Blaise asked with mock confusion.

Hermione swatted at him. “The Titanic, Blaise. Keep up!”

“Surely it’s a documentary?” Theo quipped.

“No, it’s a dramatization. It’s not just about the ship. It’s about the people on the ship. And there’s a love story in it.”

“What? How?” Draco, Blaise, and Theo all echoed.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “The film gave us so many things like the sweaty handprint car sex scene, the quote "draw me like one of your French girls," and an everlasting argument pertaining to a certain piece of driftwood.”

Grinning, Draco had declared, “We should watch it next.”

He’d received a text from Hermione next asking why he wasn’t present. He’d blamed last minute business and pocketed his mobile, turning his attention back to his date, unsure why he lied in the first place. But it was a little white lie. He and… er- Charlotte were at a Brazilian steakhouse in Muggle London. He’d already rescheduled on her twice. He couldn’t cancel on her again lest her father tank a pending deal with the Malfoy Holding Company. And truly it wouldn’t have mattered except Charlotte wanted ice cream. Not gelato, or custard or any other Muggle variant. No, she wanted Fortescue’s! He’d smiled and reached for her hand, Apparating them to Diagon. After a short walk to Fortescue’s, he ordered the chocolate overload: chocolate ice cream with all the fixings and some enchantments because why not? They’d come to Fortescue’s for the Fortescue's experience after all! He’d been too engrossed in his ice cream to notice the camera flash.

At breakfast the next morning he was greeted with his stupid grin in the Society page. Mother commented that he looked happier than he ever had on a date. He didn’t have the heart to tell her it was the blasted ice cream. He couldn’t tell her he’d been chuckling to himself about how he agreed with Granger that chocolate ice cream was just the unsweet, flavorless, chalky vehicle for the sweet fixings. Truly, nothing beat vanilla. When Hermione had proffered the theory to the gang, they’d all disagreed and ribbed her that it was such a vanilla take and quite unlike her! She’d agreed that not all chocolate ice cream was created equal, but the vast majority was chalky and flavorless, not the rich, creamy, decadence they countered her argument with. This had led to the ordering of ice cream from various muggle grocers across London and an impromptu taste test and movie night.

Sure, there’d been a smile on his face in the Prophet picture and sure, he looked like he was enjoying himself on the date, but it hadn’t been present company. Since he wasn’t touching or kissing the witch, the image of his unobscured face didn’t violate any of the agreements the Estate had with the Prophet, so they’d blown it up to three-quarters of the page and went into the details of what they’d both ordered. Something about that level of detail had Skeeter’s frigging fingerprints all over it. Florian would never squeal, which meant he'd have to break it off with Charlotte and her loose lips.

He doesn’t receive any messages from Hermione that morning, and he doesn’t pry. After all, the Puzzle page was always near the Society page. She’d have to be blind not to see his gigantic face, regardless of whether or not she actually read the Society page. Once again, he wondered why he hadn’t just told her the truth. He supposed he’d brought this upon himself. He could have just told her he’d had to reschedule a date. What had he been afraid of? That she’d be upset he was missing a movie night? He’d committed to one as part of their truce and he’d more than held up his end of the bargain. Besides, the snakes all missed one group outing or another for family or other obligations. They didn’t own each other’s time.

He never used to see the snakes this much before she’d arrived. Friday dinners had been the only standing event the entire Slytherin group (plus Harry) attended. Sure, they’re done the odd Saturday Quidditch match at the Burrow, or a Quidditch match here or there but now there were movie nights on Thursdays; Muggle adventures and theater trips on Saturdays; and Hermione and Theo had their Sunday cooking time. Besides squash, tennis and jiu jitsu, boys’ nights didn’t have a set schedule. They kept a loose ‘catch us if you can’ setup. Harry usually left after one drink, unless someone needed to rant or to workshop a decision before they made it or debrief a disastrous decision after the deed was already done. Draco’s life was certainly fuller now than it had been before her. While it was great to use their activities as an excuse to get out of tea or dates, if duty truly called, he had to answer. It didn’t matter what day of the week it was.

Hermione didn’t attend the Friday night dinner that evening but sent a bottle of Ouzo from Greece. According to Pans and Daph, it was a spontaneous thing. Seamus’s mission in Greece wrapped early and he’d arranged a Portkey for her to visit him. The girls had forbidden Hermione from refusing by using one of their vetoes. Their trio had gotten miserably drunk recently and emerged from that evening with an unbreakable vow that gave them each three vetoes. Apparently, Pansy had exhausted hers almost immediately but Hermione and Daph were more sparing with theirs. He wondered if the recent closeness between Pansy and Harry, and Daphne and Theo were the result of any vetoes. The gang enjoyed the ouzo and agreed that this would be a new tradition. If they ever had to miss a Friday dinner because of travel or other obligations, they were required to send a bottle or token from wherever they were. And if multiple people were missing, there’d be a competition and the loser would be exiled. Nargles.

He receives a text message from Hermione just as he was settling into bed. I think lying should be against the terms of our truce.

Are you sure? Lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking their clothes off. It was a new thing they’d started. Replying with relevant song lyrics. The most points were awarded for seamless integration and relevance. Nargles.

Point, Malfoy, is her nearly instantaneous reply.

He hadn’t been able to resist, and he knew she loved pop punk.

But seriously, it’s no honor among thieves not no honor among snakes, she adds.

It was a quick lie. A measureless lie.

Still, you wound me, Mr. Malfoy. Mine honor is my life. I know you have no moral compass, but your dishonesty offends my honor.

Oh, that was not to be borne, he sat up in bed, and leaned back against the pillows. His fingers worked faster than his brain as he pressed the call button. He heard her breathy giggle on the other end of the line. This was new.

“You wound me, Miss Granger.”

More giggles, and shuffling. He couldn’t tell if she was alone, remembering only belatedly that she was with Seamus. There was a surge of… something through him at the thought that she’d taken his call even if she wasn’t alone. Warmth pools in his belly. And lower… a tingle. He leaned deeper into the pillows, crooking the other arm around his head.

“Are you still in Greece?” He asked, his voice low in his chest.

She let out a puff of air that zipped right to his... “Don’t distract me. I’m cross with you.”

He chuckled at her piteous attempt at Britspeak.

“I’d bet a stack of galleons you’re at the window now. Or on the balcony.” He paused, closing his eyes as he listens. He heard her breath hitch and the whoosh of waves in the distance. “Have you got a balcony in that room, Hermione?”

That was the only question he would allow himself since his mind had screamed at him (despite being delightfully hazy and wall-less after a night of Ouzo and Grappa) not to ask her, ‘what are you wearing.’ Because why… Why would he ask her that?

Her soft, almost imperceptible chuckle was all the confirmation he needed that she was indeed on a balcony. He imagined her… naked. She tended toward dresses where she couldn’t or wouldn’t wear a bra. Maybe she’d had on knickers earlier in the night, but Seamus seemed the type to vanish them or rip them off. He seemed the type to sleep wrapped around her, a leg thrown over hers, a hand on her waist or hips. Draco knew, because so was he. Was she naked in Greece on the phone with him right now? Leaned over the railing of the balcony at her beachfront hotel? Everyone else asleep but her… and him?

“What do you see?” He bent one knee and slid his foot up the bed, slouching deeper into the pillows.

She huffed. “Malfoy.”

“Fine.” He smiled. “I’m sorry.”

“And?”

And? And? What else was there to say? He promised no one absolute honesty. As a Malfoy and a Slytherin, his approach was to ‘tell the truth, but tell it slant.’

“Granger, I don’t promise absolute honesty… just… Better lies. That’ll have to be enough for you.” His voice was gruffer than he’d meant it to be. This… all of this… this whole thing was… new… weird… disorienting…

His heart hammered in his chest as he waited. Waited for her to say something… anything. Waited in the silence that stretched through the unfathomable darkness and the thousands of kilometers between them… Where the only sounds were her breaths and the distant crash of waves.

“Fine.”

Finally. He let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Softly, slowly, through his nose. “What do you see?”

“Malfoy. It’s 02:00 AM here.”

“Sorry, I forgot about the time difference.” It was midnight in Wiltshire. “Why are you still up?”

“Long story.”

“Everything alright?” There was genuine, innocent concern in his voice.

“Yes, I’m fine. The suspect wasn’t talking, so Seamus got recalled to put the screws on him. I walked on the beach though. It was nice. Peaceful.”

“What do you see now?”

“I see the water, the tops of beach umbrellas and maybe some lights in the distance. There’s some bioluminescence. Maybe some jellyfish or lumies.”

Lumies. Duplicating her lab experiments and proofing her lab manuals had been head-scratching work in the beginning of their acquaintance before he’d learned ‘Granger’s Rules of Grammar.’ He used to return her lab manuals and proofs with big red question marks over mysterious words like “lunies” and “lumies” that she’d written in her shorthand to save time while foraging or brewing but had forgotten to elongate in the final version of her reports. Now that he’d caught on to her grammar rules, he could revise the shorthand with a flick of his wand. Lunies became lunar plants and lumies became bioluminescent plants.

“Where in Greece are you?”

“Took a ferry out from the mainland since there’s no Apparition points here. I’m in an old hotel. It’s meticulously well maintained. White sand beach. I walked through some olive groves and a pine forest earlier while Seamus napped.”

Ferry. Pine Forest? “Thassos Island?”

“Yes.” He heard the smile in her voice. “Limelas, the capital. We’re on Makryammos Beach.”

“I haven’t been. But I hear it’s lovely.”

“Did you like the Ouzo?”

“You know I did. We tend to enjoy the same flavor profiles, Granger.”

They quipped back and forth. Ginger. Apples. Pears. Grapes. Stone fruits. Spicy. Oranges. Limes Lemons. Sour. Herbal. Sweet. Minty.

They talked about food and other preferences then Greece and other remote islands off major countries they’d visited until the cadence of conversation decreased and their responses were slower and farther between.

He heard the snick of a lock clicking and the soft metal on metal sound of her closing the balcony curtains then shuffling as she settled into bed. The crash of waves receded but was still discernible in the distance. Her voice was thickened with sleep but her swotty little brain pushed her to ask more questions and tell him more facts which in turn tickled his own swotty brain and kept him asking for more or sharing some of his own. Their brains yearned to share and learn but their bodies begged for rest. For quiet. For sleep.

He turned in bed, finding a comfortable angle while lying on his stomach. His mobile - set to speaker mode – lay on the pillow beside him.

The device slipping between the pillows startles him awake sometime later and he finds the call is still connected. It’s 04:30 AM. The call time matches the time on the clock. He’s lulled to sleep again by the soft cadence of her breaths, the distant waves, and the chitter of birds rising with the Grecian sun. It’s 06:30 AM where she is after all, closer to 07:00 AM by the time he feels his eyelids droop and Morpheus tug him into his dreams.

“Sweet dreams, Hermione,” he mutters sleepily as he rolls over, accidentally disconnecting the call.

And so, they broke the call barrier. When the speed of thumbs angrily or excitedly typing out opinions or facts became too slow for their thoughts, they’d call the other. They still did their puzzles in the morning in sober silence, but some nights ended with them falling asleep to the sounds of the other’s sleepy mumbles and deepening breaths. Nargles.

Suffice it to say, Draco does not miss the next Movie Night. Since Pansy’s currently refreshing her wing of the Manor ahead of her 21st birthday, Movie nights are now held in a newly renovated room. Draco arrives early and Pansy gives him a tour, explaining her plans for the space. There’s a pang of something when Pansy waves at a door offhandedly and says, “That’s Hermione’s room.”

Draco slows his pace subconsciously and drifts closer. He wonders what the room looks like inside. Are there personal touches or collections? Merlin knows Pansy wouldn’t have let Hermione design it herself for fear that the decor would be all black with wall-to-wall floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. By now he’s so close he can hear Hermione talking on the other side of the door.

Pansy glances back at him when he isn’t further along the hall beside her at a window she’d been talking about. He quickens his pace to catch up to her. On their way back down the hall, the door to Hermione’s room opens. Her mobile is crooked between her ear and shoulder, she’s got a towel slung over one shoulder and she’s reaching up to take her hair out of the bun atop her head. There’s so much for Draco to take in. Her feet are bare, her toes are colored a shade of orange that puts him in mind of Portugal… and Lucard. She’s in a sports bra, and yoga shorts slung low on her hips. He sees more skin than he’s ever seen before. He can see snakes and vines, flowers and butterflies, and a dagger in a piece that wraps around her hips.

Pansy steps forward and traces some of the ink. “Is this the piece Dean did at the Tattoo Expo?”

Hermione nods.

“What was the theme?”

Hermione covers the mic. “Shakespeare. We went with Lady Macbeth, ‘Appear the innocent flower, be the serpent beneath it’.”

Pansy smiles. “It’s gorgeous. Did he win?”

“Second pla-…” Hermione frowns. “Sorry mom, repeat that last bit. She did what?”

Draco takes in her room, stepping in closer with his curiosity. The room is in the same style as Pansy’s though there are more bookshelves (as he’d suspected). There’s a television across from the bed. The bedding is also white. There are less pillows than Pansy’s, with a plush patterned blanket folded at the foot of the bed. There are a few neat rows of small pictures on the wall near her desk, which houses a neat stack of books and a printer. The sight reminds him of how they continue to hound Snape to modernize the lab and allow them to type up their lab notes using digital lab journals. The man wouldn’t hear it! There’s a purple yoga mat with blocks, straps, and a bolster on the floor near the bed and her laptop is open with a video paused on a woman laying on her back with her legs akimbo and her arms crossed over her chest. The room smells resoundingly like Hermione – berries, citrus and vanilla with something deeper, muskier. He spies a cone of incense on her desk, curling a faint tendril of its smoky spice into the air.

He steps forward again, absently crowding further into Hermione.

She looks up at him. “Mom, I gotta go. Chat later, okay? Also, please add some Twizzlers and Nutter Butters to the care package, would ya? They don’t sell them here and Pansy wants to try some. Get a few flavors of Twizzlers, and the peel-off kind if they have some…. Ok… yup… yeah… will do.” She huffs. “I will… Mom!” Her eyes flash to Pansy. “Pansy, she said she’ll only get the Twizzlers if you promise to brush and floss right afterward.” Hermione’s eyes widen and she nods at Pansy. “Mom, she’s nodding… Yes… great… no… no! Please! C’mon I can’t… yes... Ok, bye. Love you too!” She steps back, her eyes moving between him and Pansy then back up to meet his. Her face softens. “Are you two on a tour? Is my room the last stop?”

He blinks dumbly. Not sure why or how he even got so close, but he’s here now. He gives her a sheepish grin and nods, carding his fingers through his hair.

She steps backward into the room and waves her hand. “Chez Hermione.” She points to a pile of clothing on the couch which he pointedly ignores. “Pans, for your approval. Austria and Bulgaria.”

“Right! Meeting the folks.”

Hermione grumbles. “Yeah, it’s too soon.”

Pansy balks. “It’s been three and a half years.”

“Three and a half years of nothing. It sends the wrong message.”

“It sends the message that he cares about you. Don’t beat the man over the head with how this is ‘just casual.’ He knows. Let him show you off, Granger. Let the man wine and dine you. Don’t be so allergic to nice gestures. You deserve it.”

Hermione flushes. He knew she got an earful of something similar at least every other week. Whether he witnessed it at dinner or heard Daphne and Pansy discussing it at tennis. The gist of the rants was always that she didn’t have to try so darned hard to be unlovable. That whatever insecurity was pushing her to so vociferously reject that man needed to be wrangled and strangled before she lost him. And if that prospect sent a pang to her stomach, then she liked him enough, and shouldn’t sabotage it. End of story. That was Pansy’s way of saying she wouldn’t entertain any further argument on the matter. Try again next time. ‘End of story.’ Draco agreed with Pansy. But he didn’t have any body parts he wanted hexed off, so he kept his lips sealed. And besides, it wasn’t any of his business. He was not about to coach Hermione on how to accept another man’s gifts and affections.

Draco runs his hand over the blanket at the foot of her bed. It’s warm, soft, and fuzzy like the blanket they’d fought over during a recent movie night. She’d argued that it’d been her blanket since the start of the tradition and as a newcomer he had no claim to it. He’d rebutted that he actually had a stronger claim to it since he was a guest and she technically lived here, albeit temporarily. She’d countered that since she’d purchased it on a Coastal Walk it was hers in every sense of the word, final offer. He suggested she cast a Duplicatus so they could each have their own blanket. Which she did. Problem solved. Even if pressed, he’d never admit to the relief that she’d performed the wandless charm so flawlessly that the duplicated blanket smelled like the original: a mix of her – sweet, citrusy, and floral – and a mix of him – familiar and warm. And how that unique mixture pleased him, appealed to the primal, possessive part of him, and sent a lick of heat down his spine.

She glances over to him and sees him running his hand along the blanket on her bed. “Malfoy, you cannot have it.”

He catches her eye and chuckles but doesn’t release the blanket. Gods it was soft. “You’re supposed to be giving me a tour.”

“No, I’m supposed to be showering. I was coming to tell Pansy to start the movie without me.” She turns to Pansy who nods and leaves the room. Hermione turns back to him.

His eyebrows are still raised expectantly.

She giggles and gestures around the room. “Books, desk, Polaroids, art, closet, couch, bed, television, bathroom, balcony.” She walks to the balcony and throws the doors open, letting in the fresh, crisp night air.

“I expected more black.” He teases. With a slight frown, he asks, “What are Polaroids?” He steps closer to her desk and bends down to inspect them.

“They’re instant photos. There’s this camera and special film you use, and it spits out the photo that you shake to reveal the image.”

“Can I see this camera?” He asks.

“No, I don’t have it here. It's my father’s. They’ve been off the market for a while, but you can get the camera and film secondhand if you’re lucky. The photos don’t move but I think you guys would like the process of seeing it develop in front of your eyes.”

He hums in response, his eyes tracking down the spines of the books on her desk. He taps the top one. “You didn’t tell me you got your hands on Navender’s Ghost.” He quips, picking up the book and flipping through it. Padma was the Prophet’s Book Editor and she’d given it a rave review in a recent edition. He was excited to read it when it was finally released. Hermione had charmed clear post-it notes so she could annotate the book without marring the pages. He flips through again, skimming her notes.

She grins. “I’ve got a guy at Flourish.”

“A guy at Flourish.” He echoes, turning to face her. “You mean Ron? He doesn’t give me early access to books.”

She shakes her head. “No, I met the owner-”

“What? How?” He splutters. “Flourish has been on Diagon for centuries. Even if Flourish and Blotts were real people they’d be positively ancient. They’re long dead by now.”

She swats at him. “Flourish and blot are literary terms; Artistic flourish; ink blot. Snape and the owner are friends. Snape introduced us at the lab. We chatted about books, and he said he’d send me advanced copies of books I might be interested in. Including treatises and guides.” She winks. “He can’t possibly read all the stuff he gets sent.”

“Lucky swot.” Draco gripes.

She rolls her eyes. “Take that,” jutting her chin at the book in his hands. “It’s really good. We’ll talk about it when you finish.” She motions to the shelves which he walks toward, noting the singular flower floating under stasis nearby. “Take whatever you like, and we’ll compare notes.” She strides over to her en-suite bathroom, leaving him to take in every inch of the room at his leisure and comb over her books. “I imagine we’ll have a similar take on that one.”

Thus begins their book exchange. Nargles.

He doesn’t miss the following movie night either. She enters wearing actual clothes and not the Quidditch shirt, shorts, and slippers she usually wore. Though actual clothes for Hermione are usually some all-black Muggle athletic wear. You won’t find him complaining, however, the view is usually quite terrific. True to form she’s in black: a long sleeve black shirt tucked into fitted black cargo pants with her wand holstered to her thigh… and fuzzy pink socks.

“Those socks are abominable!” Pansy screeches.

Hermione grins and looks down at her feet, wiggling her toes. “Oh pish, and I’d planned to give you one in every color for your birthday.”

Pansy scoffs. “Not unless you want me to string them together and strangle you with them! Although, you would like that if-”

“Pansy, Desist,” Hermione squeals. “I told you that in confidence! Do you really want to play ‘spill the biggest secret,’ hmm?”

Muzzled, Pansy purses her lips and nuzzles into a faintly blushing Potter.

Hermione deposits the jumble of items in her arms onto the coffee table. A jumper. A dragonhide forager satchel and gloves he’d seen around her workstation a few times. A well-used almanac. A field notebook and pen. And boots.

He reaches over despite himself, touching the boots though he could tell by the slight iridescence when they caught the light that they were also dragonhide. He’d know. He wore his namesake like armor. The boots had to be new. Ah, that’s why Pansy had asked about his dragonhide guy all those months ago. They appeared to be Tavastian Ridgeback. Rare, ancient dragons with colorful striations reminiscent of nebulae. Ridgeback hides made for perfect ‘forever pieces’ since their inner suede was supple and warm and their innate magic made them able to rejuvenate their hides and scales after injury. This primordial magic survived even after death. Ridgebacks only died of old age or sickness. This meant they were never on the market and when they were, their hides sold for a mint! The entire hide usually went to the highest bidder who stored it in their vaults to make pieces until every scrap was used, like the old ways. Those boots would be soft, warm, weatherproof, resilient, and last for lifetimes. The perfect gift for a forager. Money was like water for a family like the Parkinsons, but such a gift showed their affinity for Hermione, their support of her adventures and her future career choices, and their faith in her ability to achieve her aspirations. He knew Pansy cared a lot for Hermione but a gift like this showed that despite her constant ribbing about the witch’s fashion choices, she did see Hermione as more than just a plaything.

“What’s with the get up and the gear, Granger?” Draco asks, turning the boot to catch the light, illuminating the hide’s striations and iridescence.

She reaches up to put her hair in a ponytail and her shirt rides up. His eyes track along the top curlicues of her hip piece before he drags them up to her face.

She tells him she and Neville have started foraging together during new and full moons to harvest plants that bloom or at full potency during those stages of the moon cycle. Snape Lab had secured a major grant to brew a new bone potion for lycanthropes since many older lycanthropes – if they lived that long – were afflicted with brittle bones. Snape had made Granger Lead Potioneer on it, which made sense since this kind of research was right up her alley. And she’d looped in Neville, who hadn’t been selected for a brand new Herbology Apprenticeship in Sprout lab. Snape had pulled some strings and snatched him up to consult for Snape Lab. In his role as Lead Apprentice, Draco had helped Snape prepare the budget for the next funding cycle. As such, he knew Snape had put in for more Fellows, another Senior Apprentice and one or two Herbology Apprentices. However, none of those new lines were guaranteed without significant grant funding or capital investment from Hogwarts or the Ministry, or a donation from a munificent alumnus or benefactor. For all his faults, Snape knew talent when he saw it.

Granger and Neville had isolated two potential plants with osteoregenerative properties tied to moon cycles that might be useful in the potion. The first was Candesco lunam, a bushy lunar plant that looked like mint and was most potent (and toxic) during the full moon. Since flowering sucked energy from the plant, they only flowered during the full moon, throwing up beautiful lilac flowers. Though the plant was less potent during the new moon it was also at its least toxic, making the new moon prime harvesting time. They could worry about harnessing the full power of the plant and counteracting its toxicity once they proved its usefulness in their potion. The second lunie they were testing was Campana opisthotonos, a bell-shaped plant that grew in the Fen marshlands in eastern England.

“We’re also collecting Vinea celosiostrum samples with the Ministry Magical Creatures Unit,” Neville chimes in as he enters the room, in a similar get up to Hermione’s. “Marshmen are complaining about algae blooms and we think that’s the culprit.”

Draco continues to inspect the boot in his hand as Neville continues on about how the invasive species of purple vines with clam-shaped flowers thrived in marsh conditions, sucking nutrients from native plants and disrupting the delicate balance of the surrounding ecosystem. Draco zones back in at the sound of Hermione’s voice.

“Snape Lab and Sprout lab are working on something to counteract it,” she adds.

He’d heard about their foraging adventures and wanted to see cool plants as much as the next guy. He was a Potioneer for Merlin’s sake. While Draco kept his course-load focused on Potions and his Muggle majors, he’d taken an Herbology course every other term and had recently declared for an Herbology Minor. He wasn’t uninterested. He had recently given Granger an earful about how much time they all spent together but he did want to see these lunar plants in their natural habitats. Should he ask to join them? It was just one night, right? One night couldn’t hurt.

“Draco we can hear you thinking from over here!” Pansy jibes as she snuggles into Harry’s side. “Just say you want to go. And remember, don’t follow the hinkypunks!”

They all chuckle.

He grins up at Neville and Hermione. “Can I come?” Nargles. Tiny bioluminescent nargles.

Chapter 27: DRACO - FORAGING

Chapter Text

Draco enjoyed foraging more than he cared to admit. On bank holidays, magical holidays, or during their late-night foraging sessions, he’d tramp along behind Neville and Granger as they nerded out over their almanacs and field guides. His favorite part was eating the wild berries and edible plants. He soon learned that his native Loire region of France had the best labruscas. Wild Meslier grapes were crisp and tart while wild Meunier grapes were a juicy, naturally effervescent varietal that tickled the tongue. He took several home to Narcissa along with a few cuttings which she planted in the Manor greenhouse post-haste.

Hermione knew the best places for wild pomums since apples were one of her favorite fruits. She preferred wild German apples. They picked several varieties while foraging in the Harz forest in Northern Germany, renowned (even amongst Muggles) for its magical properties and abundance of creatures. They picked crimson and yellow Jonagold apples. He liked their crunchy texture and sweet, honey taste. Hermione and Neville preferred Braeburn apples. Bright red apples with pink and orange dappled skin that were tangy, sweet, and creamy. When they returned to Harz during a full moon to pick silver thistles (the main antibacterial agent in the lab’s Sanitatum potion), they stumbled upon a tree heavy with ripe mondapfels. According to Hermione, the white moon apples were only edible in autumn and sweetest under a full moon. It was the sweetest, juiciest apple Draco had ever tasted. He polished off the first and immediately picked a second.

After eating the moon apples, the world had taken on a deliciously hazy quality. They heard the stars whispering to one another while the moon sang the sweetest, saddest melodies they’d ever heard. Drunk on the night’s giddy laughter, they let the warm autumn breeze tickle their fingers and cheeks as they danced through the underbrush. Buzzing and breathless, they stumbled into a copse of tall trees and laid down in the soft, soft grass. The universe shared its secrets with them for ceaseless eternities and lulled them to sleep with hauntingly beautiful lullabies. Draco’s last memory before the oblivion of sleep was of his favorite twin stars smoothing his hair behind his ear, brushing soft kisses on his cheeks like Mother and Andromeda often did after telling him a bedtime story in his youth. He yawned, content and loved, and sank into his dreams.

He came to lucidity eons later, his back slumped against a tree, taking a hearty swig of the cold water in his canteen. He glanced around the clearing to find Hermione and Neville sat with their backs against trees as well, babbling and giggling about something the moon said. They bickered for a while, calling out for the moon to settle the argument but he never did. A passing Fairy shushed them.

Draco snorted, asking Hermione if that counted as a capital-S shush? Hermione threw an apple at him but the effort of dodging it sapped his energy and he nestled into the tree and dozed again to the susurrus of Hermione and Neville’s whispered speculations about the moon’s silence.

Draco awoke to the sun’s bright light filtering through the canopy and the return of most of his wits. He fumbled in the grass for his water canteen. Neville and Hermione stirred as he drank deeply. Sated, he passed the canteen to Hermione and Neville who both guzzled thirstily.

“That was…” Hermione shook her head, crooning Jefferson Airplane in a dreamy, distant voice as she fished around in her bag. “When you’ve just had some kind of mushroom, and your mind is moving low.” Grinning triumphantly, she extracted three granola bars and chucked one each at Draco and Neville.

Draco tore the wrapper off hungrily and jammed the entire bar in his mouth. “What exactly does your almanac say, Hermione?” He asked after swallowing.

Hermione bit her lip as she searched her bag for her German almanac. She flipped to the page about the apples they’d consumed and muttered a translatus charm to properly translate the information. She slapped her palm against her forehead in exasperation. “You can pick them when they ripen on the full moon, but you can’t consume them raw until the gibbous moon five days later!” She bit her lip and gave him and Neville sheepish looks. “I’m sorry guys. I mixed up a few words… My German is rather rusty,” she said, with a silly grin on her face.

Draco asked her the question he should have asked the first time he’d followed them to Germany to forage. “When did you learn German, Granger?”

“I picked it up at Gotham Prep when I was considering Durmstrang.”

He chuckled “You were going to choose Durmstrang over Harvard/New College?”

She shrugged. “Their Potions Program is in the Top Five. Snape did an Exchange year there.”

He knew that. “Why German though? Everyone knows Durmstrang’s in Norway.”

“Not everyone,” she retorted darkly. “Their Admissions Director arranged a Portkey for my interview and thank Merlinshe spoke English because I soon learned their primary language is Norwegian and they are definitely not in Germany.”

He and Neville doubled over in laughter. To think the indomitable Hermione Granger had made a co*ckup of that magnitude!

Hermione rolled her eyes at them and leaned her head against the tree. Soon he and Neville followed suit from the bases of their own trees, goggling at the brilliance of the sun filtering through the canopy of leaves overhead. “We really should go.”

“Yeah,” Neville agreed. Yawning, he added, “We’ve been here for eons,” as he nestled deeper against his tree.

Draco glanced at his watch, tutting at the hour. The elves would be putting the finishing touches on breakfast and his parents would be heading to the dining room. “Mmhmm, in a minute,” he said, his eyes heavy.

Growling bellies and the call of nature finally broke their trance around noon. They stood on shaky legs and brushed leaves and twigs and… Fairy dust… from their hair and clothes. They gathered up their canteens and foraging haul, parting with incredulous looks before Apparating to their respective homes.

Their next foraging session is on Priscus, the wizarding Day of Remembrance. Since Hogwarts was closed for the day, Draco, Hermione, and Neville meet early at Parkinson Manor to eat a light breakfast and Portkey to eastern Athens. They hike Mount Hymettus into the Kaisariani Forest. Draco helps Hermione and Neville pick several plants and mushrooms they need for many of the potions they’re currently brewing at the lab. Hermione spies a couple boulders and asks if they can sit and take a 15-minute water break. The boys agree and they each break out their canteens and snacks.

Hermione’s eyes lock on a point just over Draco’s shoulder. He follows her gaze, turning his head slowly on the off chance they have creature company one shouldn’t spook with sudden movement. And he sees… meters and meters of pale pink flowers with tightly closed buds. He follows closely behind her as she ambles into the field of flowers. They’re pretty, sure, but there are no discernible features he can recognize. Upon further inspection only one of the flowers has started to bloom. Once his eyes become acclimated to all the sameness, the nascent bud – whose bulb is but a wee bit more open and infinitesimally darker than all the rest – sticks out like a sore thumb (another Muggle expression she’d taught him).

That’s the flower Hermione plucks… and hands to him, “For Narcissa.” She smiles. Bright and sweet, so sweet. “It’s a Dionysia triduana,” she explains. And he has to coax himself to focus on her words – for surely Narcissa will want all of these facts about the flower – and not… observations about her lips, and how her eyes sparkled as she shared her passion with him. “These only bloom for three days. On the fourth day they wilt and drop their seeds from their styles. Narcissa can plant the seeds and have Dionysia for the rest of her life.” Her smile deepens. “The first bloom of the season is good luck.”

And she was giving it to his mother?

“Thank you,” he replies, floored. “She’ll love it.” He smiles and accepts the flower, cushioning the delicate bud then shrinking it with a brevis charm before placing it in the small outer pocket of his backpack since (per usual on their foraging adventures) his cargo pockets were already full. The Manor elves loathed this new habit of his.

“Those plants are finicky and demanding,” Neville says when they return to him. “And they only grow along the most pristine water source.” He smiles. “That’s good news for us, though,” he adds, pointing to the stream below them. “That means we can fill our canteens there.”

Before resuming their hike, they trek down to the stream and fill their canteens with the coldest, sweetest water Draco’s ever tasted in his entire life. Canteens full, they hike back up to the path and continue along until their satchels were full. They summit and take in the breathtaking views before taking a steep shortcut back down to the base of the mountain. Lunch at the Kaisariani Monasteryincludes mineral water and Mastiqua (a Greek sparkling water with Mastiha resin from the Greek island of Chios that tasted like licorice and pine), and a few dishes to share: moussaka; papoutsakia (stuffed eggplants); and fasolada (bean soup). Hermione insists on dessert, and they all share a bougata (phyllo stuffed with semolina custard dusted with cinnamon, almonds, and powdered sugar).

Narcissa loves the Dionysia flower and bougata pastry Draco brings back from Greece. He relays the story of how Hermione plucked the sole bloom among thousands of Dionysia in the clearing just for her.

“That Miss Granger is so thoughtful.” Narcissa smiles and pats his cheek. “Like you, my dragon.”

The next day he helps Mother select flowers for a bouquet she plans to send Hermione. Or tries to.

“My stars, does Miss Granger have a favorite color?” His mother asks when he arrives in the greenhouse per her summons.

He stares at her blankly. “Erm…” He couldn’t tell whether Hermione favored any color besides black. Whenever he saw her at movie nights her nails were always whatever odd shade that had struck her fancy that day. Although, whenever he caught a glimpse of her nails in public, they were always a shade of pink. “I don’t think so. Maybe pink? Deep, vibrant hues. Nothing pale.” That precluded half of the greenhouse flowers, which only ranged in color from snow white to blush pinks and soft peachy shades the color of ripe cantaloupe.

“And does she have a favorite flower?”

Was this something he should know? She’s an Herbologist; every flower’s her favorite. He’d never heard her talk about receiving flowers and that day in her room, besides a few pots of plants, there’d only been a single flower.

Upon closer inspection the stasised flower appeared to be a Cuppedia florensis. A large salmon-colored flower with a thick stem and jagged, ovular petals that resembled a crocus. The Cuppedia’s calyx and stamen were edible at full bloom and its ovule produced a sweet nectar one could drink from the stigma like a straw. He’d pressed his nose to the bud and inhaled. Beneath the powdery, floral scent were deeper notes of citrus and honey.

He’d also spied the wintergreen plant on her desk. Its leaves tasted like muggle Winterfresh gum, which she also chewed. She kept some of the little red mint berries (which were only edible when ripe) in a little tin on her lab desk. He did not sneak a berry or two when she wasn’t around. Just like she didn’t sneak any of his tooth sticks when he wasn’t around.

From what he knew and glimpsed of Hermione, she appreciated a good backstory. And from the way she’d picked just one Dionysia for Narcissa instead of a bunch, and the way the sole Cuppedia had floated in her room, she would appreciate one flower as a token of Narcissa’s gratitude instead of killing a few. “No, give her one with an interesting provenance. And just one, not a bouquet.”

Mother gives him a soft smile and beckons for him to follow her. They venture into the bowels of the greenhouse where pots are packed cheek by jowl on floor-to-ceiling metal shelves. His mother whispers a Venio charm and floats down a dark stone pot. Inside sits a thick thorny bush with vibrant magenta buds in dark, dense soil. The geosmin scent of fresh, moist soil mixes with the sweet, ambrosial aroma of the plant.

“This is Sato satiata,” Narcissa says as she hands him the pot and fishes her pruning shears from the pocket of her robes. She selects a little flower in full bloom and snips close to the branch. “Satos are said to be the primoris plant. These are the first to grow in magically enchanted soils, appearing almost of their own volition. It is likely that many of the places you all forage for the most crucial plants in your potions come from soils once blessed by the Sato.”

Back in her study, Mother pens a ‘thank you’ note and sticks the Sato to the other side of her thick taupe cardstock with an Adhaero. She hands the bundle to him to send off by owl. As he takes his leave, she pats his cheek. “I like her, Draco.”

So did he. So did he.

Greece, and even their trippy night in Germany, turn out to be positively idyllic compared to their run-ins with creatures like imps and ghouls. But none would end up comparing to their first run-in with those bloody Redcaps. He’d take tripping balls on moon apples over pretending to drink warm Redcap mead any day!

Chapter 28: HERMIONE - BLOODY REDCAPS

Chapter Text

THU 19 OCT

Hermione quickly grew accustomed to Draco’s presence at movie nights. Thursday nights she’d Floo home from the lab then do a few hours of homework, reading or grading. Then shower and talk to her parents back home for a half hour before meandering over to Pansy’s new media room. If she wasn’t foraging with Neville, some movie nights she’d walk in wearing a Krum or Wood Quidditch shirt to mess with the boys. Other days she’d wear a tank or shirt and leggings or bike shorts. His eyes would take in her freshly washed, still damp hair, and her shirt. She never missed the flash of something behind his gaze if it were a Quidditch tee, then his eyes would drop to her feet.

She’d fought it at first but now she allowed herself to like that he noticed and was interested in the color of her toes. She’d settle in beside him on the couch, and he’d lean over, closing the distance to ask her what inspired today’s color. She’d tell him what plant, bug, piece of media, or random thought inspired the color choice. He’d chuckle and return to his side of the couch. But they’d get closer as the movie went on, side by side on his corner or hers to whisper about the film. They stayed there longer and longer after each movie, their conversations taking turn after turn until a yawn would escape them, and he’d walk her back to her room then Floo home.

Tonight, he seemed sleepy. Last night, he’d joined her and Neville foraging in Puck’s Glen, the woodland in western Scotland. They’d been on the hunt for Capsanguis mushrooms and gotten waylaid by a band of Redcaps in the middle of a raucous Blood Moon Ceremony. The Redcaps had chittered smugly, excitedly passing their trio goblets of warm mead. Hermione muttered for them to pretend to drink the warm liquid and then pour it out whenever no one was looking. The Redcaps tried to ply them with the mead for hours, topping up their goblets again and again, chittering among themselves and growing increasingly impatient and agitated until it was clear the drink wasn’t leading to its desired effect. Finally, they’d grumbled and granted their trio clearance to collect the mushrooms.

The Redcap Chief waddled closely behind them as they tromped through the brush, skirting mounds of rotting fruit to harvest the Capsanguis. Some of the stinky mounds came up to their knees and were prime spots for large mushrooms with caps the size of fists. The Chief eyed them curiously and tutted when they harvested too many mushrooms from a single mound. When they returned to the rest of the horde the Chief motioned to one of his comrades.

From what they could decipher of the squat fellow’s thick brogue, the Redcap horde had heard about Snape Lab from the centaurs and requested their services.

Hermione counseled the chief and his deputy to request a consultation from the Magical Creatures Unit (MCU). A cavalcade of boos and cries erupted from the horde. They categorically refused to enter the Ministry.

Neville suggested they send a Patronus to request the form and someone from the MCU could hand-deliver it to the Glen.

“With a few Aurors. They wouldn’t come alone,” Draco hastily added.

“And one of ye will join them?” The Chief asked.

The trio exchanged nervous glances.

“Certainly,” Draco acquiesced.

She was grateful for his bravery since she couldn’t have given a convincing response through her blush, nor Neville due to his flop sweat. “Unfortunately, Chief, our Portkey is activating soon, and we need some… erm-”

“Sable root,” Neville chimed in. “All the way on the other side of the Glen. We have to go.” He mimed checking the watch on his wrist. “Thank you all for your… erm-”

“Hospitality!” Draco added, smiling convincingly.

When the Redcap Chief handed her a goblet of warm mead under the auspices of sealing the deal, Hermione pretended to startle, swinging her satchel wide to knock over the proffered goblet. “Until next time!” She croaked as they walked backwards off the little knoll.

They crept along, eyes trained on the knoll until it faded into the distance. When they were well out of the Redcaps’ earshot, they’d slumped against trees laughing and marveling at how they’d almost been made into Redcap dye.

Draco declared that they needed a codeword to signal when it was unsafe to eat or drink anything from a band of creatures. Not all creatures were carnivorous or dangerous but for the ones that were the code word would be…

“Persephone.” Hermione suggested.

It was 03:00 AM when she’d finished the last leg of their trip, Apparating from the International Floo Arrivals platform to her room. Scant hours later her phone alarm blared. She managed to snag another hour of sleep by foregoing yoga and the puzzles. Instead, she and Draco had completed them together at their desks during lunch. It was the first time they’d done a puzzle in person together. It was nice.

He’d fallen asleep on her shoulder during the movie, having moved closer to ask her why the décor looked so dated. She’d felt the weight of his head on her shoulder partway through her explanation. In his defense she had been rambling. She’d chuckled and pushed him down to lie on the cushions behind him. Per usual, everyone else slipped out at different times during the film, until only she and Malfoy remained.

The screen goes blank after the credits roll and Hermione casts some soft light charms. She reaches for him then pulls back, unsure if what she meant to do was crossing some invisible line. But it just looks so soft. And just this once. He looks so peaceful and beautiful in repose. “Malfoy,” she whispers as she runs her hand through his hair. It’s just as soft and silky as it looks.

He stirs and looks up at her with a soft, lazy smile. “Those bloody Redcaps.”

She giggles. “Let me walk you to the Floo.”

“No, I’m comfortable here,” he grumbles, closing his eyes again. “Besides, we didn’t discuss the movie.” He yawns. “Talk to me about the little monsters.”

She giggles. “You didn’t watch the movie.”

He grins and opens his eyes. “Play it again.”

She scoffs. “We got maybe four hours of sleep last night. And you just got another two! You’ve officially gotten moresleep than me. I need to go to bed. I’ll be delirious soon!” She stands and reaches to pull him up off the couch.

“Fine.” He swats her hand away and rises, following her out the door. “No Krum tee today?” He jokes.

She shakes her head. “I mostly wear them now to mess with Blaise and Theo. But I do really wear them to sleep.”

“Should give you a Malfoy tee,” he mutters sleepily behind her.

“Why? To burn?” She jokes, whirling to face him and walking backwards.

He chuckles and his eyes flick down to her toes. He hadn’t asked about them earlier.

They’d told Snape about the Redcaps during their morning debrief. Little was known about the inner workings of their hordes since few people had ever survived Redcap encounters. None with their wits intact. He’d had them repeat the tale to Carter Murphy, the Director of the MCU.

“Logs and mead. Interesting,” mused Dr. Murphy, frowning at Snape. “Redcaps aren’t known for their hospitality. They’ve never offered us a place to sit. And they’ve never served anything on any of our encounters. We’ll keep an eye out during the Consult.”

“The mead is putrid,” Hermione added. “There’s no way anyone willingly drinks it.”

“The operative word may be ‘willingly,’ my dear. We’ll keep you apprised, Snape,” Dr. Murphy said as he rose from his seat.

“Those bloody Redcaps,” she says, giggling. “They were still on my mind.”

Draco smirks. “Night, Granger,” he says as he grabs a handful of Floo powder. “Malfoy Manor,” he calls sleepily.

THE HEEL

FRI 20 OCT

They text about the puzzle pages as normal the next morning but Hermione’s not at Friday night dinner. In her usual spot is a bottle of grappa from Italy with a set of tulip style glasses.

Blaise scoffs. “Sending a competitor’s grappa? That witch must have a death wish.” Which he echoes in their group chat and minutes later chilled bottles of Zabini Reserve grappa appear beside them with additional tuliped flutes. ‘Good girl.’ He shoots off in the group chat.

The snakes compare the two bottles of grappa head-to-head. The Zabini grappa wins by a landslide since it’s more unctuous and jammier than the competitor’s.

Later, Hermione sends through some stellar olive oil for the table and fresh tiramisu for dessert. Blaise texts her images of gold stars in the group chat and she responds with a smiley face.

Draco texts her later in bed. We missed you at dinner, Granger. How’s Italy?

Breathtaking.

Where are you?

You want clues?

No, I’m not good with Italian geography. We don’t have a property there. I know it’s shaped like a boot. Where in the boot are you?

I’m at the tip of the heel. In the Apulia region. The Ionian Sea is right outside my window.

Can you hear the waves?

Yes. His breath hitches as he debates whether to ask if he can call her. Unsure if she’s with someone on this last-minute trip.

Do you want to hear? She asks. And he supposes he’s thankful for her bravery.

Yes.

His mobile buzzes with her call seconds later.

“Hi.” Her greeting is breathy and sweet.

“Hi,” he replies. They fall into a comfortable silence as he listens. To the waves. To the sound of her breathing. To the quiet night. To the faint click of keys as she types on her laptop. “What are you writing?”

“My report about the goblins. Snape Owled me this morning with a last-minute request to Portkey out to meet with the Russian clan. They agreed to give blood for our research proposal. There were a few phlebotomists and Creatures Rights people from the Ministry.”

It’d been less last-minute when Snape had asked him to go, but Draco had declined citing ‘Estate business.’ He didn’t see the appeal of Ministry trips. They were more Granger’s speed anyway.

“And what brought you from Russia to Italy?”

“The Floo Network.” She giggles.

“Granger.”

“The beach.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “One of the MCU guys said the heel is divine this time of year. He gave me some great recommendations and I hopped the International Floos to get here.”

“How are you getting back home?”

“I’ll program my return Portkey tomorrow afternoon. I’m getting really good at it!” He can hear the joy and pride in her voice. It’s earnest. And sweet. And puts a smile on his face too.

“Tell me about Apulia. Where are you?”

“A little town called Torre San Giovanni.”

“What’s it like?”

They talk about the beach, cases, classes, teaching… And soon he’s drifting off to the familiar sounds of her breathing and the waves.

Chapter 29: HERMIONE - DEFORESTATION

Chapter Text

FRI 27 OCT
A week later, Hermione’s with the girls in the Maldives for Pansy’s birthday. Per the group chat, Blaise and Malfoy are in Madeira on Zabini Orchards business. Theo’s along for the ride. Upon request, they charm the dining table with a Vestigium and text the boys its magical coordinates. In seconds, two bottles of Madeira materialize atop the table along with a set of glasses. They send the boys several fresh green coconuts, pre-cut with a straw through each hole.

Hermione’s phone buzzes with a text from Malfoy during dinner. Hey, what are you up to?

We’re decanting the Madeira. Looks yummy. How were the coconuts?

Perfect.

Anytime I’m in a country with fresh coconuts I guzzle them. I’m rather shameless.

Wow! Major causes of deforestation: logging, mining, overpopulation, fires… and Granger. Who knew?

Hardy har.

What are you ladies up to tonight?

Madeira. Food. Karaoke. In that order. You?

Coconuts. Food. Wine. Bed. In that order. :)

I’ll text you when we get back. Is that okay… If you’re still up?

Sure. Later, Granger.

Madeira-drunk and ready to boogey, the girls troop down to the resort nearby. They dance the night away at the little resort club then close down the karaoke bar a few doors down. Ginny says she wants to walk along the beach, which somehow turns into a race onto the sand, stripping off their clothes at the first dune when someone – they’ll never settle the argument about who – dares them to streak into the ocean. They race each other, ripping their clothes off and shrieking as they clamber into the warm water. They swim and splash each other, then retrace their steps, donning their clothes before sinking into the sand and laying there, talking about anything and everything until Pansy has to pee. They walk back to their villa with their arms linked and bid each other good night as they split off and head to their respective rooms.

Hermione showers and settles onto the couch on the balcony, downing a glass of water, then another, and refilling it one more time before texting Malfoy. Are you still up?

A few minutes pass and she’s buzzing, awaiting his reply. Itching to call him.

Yes. Are you back at the villa?

Yup. What time is it there?

11pm. You?

2am.

Merlin, Granger. Go to bed.

No! I’m not tired. You can’t make me! :p

We can talk tomorrow.

It is tomorrow. Let’s talk now. I was looking forward to our chat! I like them.

Can I call you?

2am and he calls me ‘cause I’m still awake…

LOL. Point Granger. Is that a yes?

Merlin, yes! She wants to hear his voice. She clicks the call button and presses the phone to her ear. “Hi,” she trills, tipsy and buzzing.

“Where are you?”

“Earth to Malfoy! The Maldives.” She giggles.

He chuckles. “Yes, zoom in.”

“You usually guess.”

“Granger, The Maldives is a string of hundreds of atolls. We’ll be here all night. And it’s already morning where you are.”

“We’re in a huge villa on Maguhdhuvaa Island. I’ve got a big bed and a balcony and can walk out into the pool.”

“Did you swim today?”

“Mmhmm, we went to the beach.” Several times. “Did you swim today?”

“Yes. The hotel has a heated pool.”

“That sounds lovely,” she says.

He chuckles. “It was lovely. Did you hike?”

She huffs. “Technically, I went on a very flat walk. Did you know there are no hills in the Maldives? None.”

“No, I didn’t.”

She can hear the smile in his voice. It’s thick with sleep, in that timbre that makes heat pool low in her belly.

“There are mountains in Madeira.” He chuckles.

“Tease,” she chides, giggling.

“What did you sing at karaoke?” He asks after their laughter dies down, and she’s asked him to describe the views from the peaks.

She rattles off the titles, humming the melody of the songs he’d never heard or doesn’t recognize by name alone. “You’re such a good sport letting me hum off-key in your ear like that. And this isn’t me fishing for compliments. I’m just being honest.”

He chuckles softly. “Granger, it’s not a problem… I like your voice.”

She blushes, grateful that he can’t see her. “Can I tell you a secret?” She hiccups.

He hums in assent.

“I like your voice too.”

“You do?” Deep… and chesty. Zip!

“Don’t do that! That’s not fair! I can’t turn on the deep throaty thing like you can.”

He laughs. “Give it an hour or two. When you’re snuggled under your blankets, in your pillows, fighting sleep to tell me more facts with that swotty brain of yours… That’s how you sound.”

She gasps. “Really? I had no idea.” She pulls her lip between her teeth.

“Have you not stayed up all night talking much before?”

“Honestly, no… Have you?”

“A little.” She can hear him shifting in his bed. “I had a girlfriend the last year and a half of Prep. Cho Chang. Harry introduced us after he went on a couple dates with her. She was on the Quidditch team at Gryffindor Academy.” Chuckling, he adds, “Seems you’re not the only one with a thing for Quidditch players.”

She snorts.

“Cho attends Université Beauxbatons.”

Good for Cho. “Do you two still keep in touch?”

“Not really. I text her on her birthday and she gets a holiday card addressed from the family. She also attends Narcissa’s New Year’s Eve party if she’s in town. Invites to that should go out soon FYI.”

She doesn’t know why this line of questioning is so important to her, but she presses on. “Would you be dating her if she hadn’t gone to Beauxbatons?”

“I convinced her to go to Beauxbatons. And besides, the relationship fizzled out. It felt better to be friends than to keep pressing us into a shape we didn’t fit. It was… what’s that Muggle expression… little love? Kitty love?”

She giggles. “Puppy love.”

“Right.” He chuckles. “It was puppy love at best. So no, Cho and I are non-starters.”

It was oddly comforting to hear that he was capable of something long-term and steady. More comforting to hear that it had ended. Hermione would explore neither line of thought.

Chapter 30: DRACO - THE LIST

Chapter Text

SAT 28 OCT

Draco couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought about Cho, let alone talked about her. “Cho was a while ago. So, it’s been a while since I fell asleep on the phone talking to someone.”

Or even remotely wanted to. She’d changed that. Nargles.

“Why does it seem easier for us to connect over the phone or like, in the dim light after movie night?” She asks.

He contemplates her question for a few moments. “There’s no baggage there… You joke with Harry and the other boys, and they push your buttons but… I don’t know. Maybe the buttons I push are bigger? Maybe your feelings about me are… different?” This is new territory for him. He feels himself creeping toward some precipice, some new discovery. Emboldened, he presses on. “Maybe you should explore what makes me different?”

She remains silent. Neither responding nor objecting. He imagines she’s biting her lip like she does when she’s deep in thought.

He continues. “Also… we don’t trust each other. We got off on the wrong foot in the Lab and that experience gave us some trust issues. Even though we called a truce.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. Closer to the edge now and he can see it. “Furthermore-”

She giggles. “Swot.”

He chuckles. “Furthermore,” he enunciates. “The truce. Truces are inherently temporary. Maybe we end it-”

She gasps.

“And usher in a new era. Let’s call it a second chance.” He waits for her response.

“Do you give many second chances, Malfoy?”

“No. Do you, Granger?”

“No.”

“Fine. Let’s take it for the gift that it is and not waste it.”

“Okay. So, do-over?” She offers.

He nods in agreement and smiles at the motion she can’t see. “Yes,” he says, finding his voice. “Do over.”

He hears the smile in her voice as she says they’ll seal it with a ‘pinky promise’ when they see each other next.

Frowning in consternation, he asks, “What’s a pinky promise?”

“It’s in the name, Malfoy.” Swot. “It’s a promise you seal by locking pinkies together. It’s Muggle.”

“Hmm, sounds magical,” he replies, hearing the double meaning just as she starts to giggle. He smiles. “You know what I mean.” He can hear the waves picking up and a breeze rumbling through the phone. “Is there rain in the forecast, Granger?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you smell it?”

“Not yet. But the temperature dropped.”

And just like that he’s thinking about her again and what she may or may not be wearing. There are a few minutes of relative silence punctuated by the sound of her chair scraping softly and her feet padding over to the bed. He can hear the rustling of fabric as she settles in, getting comfortable.

“Malfoy?”

“Yes,” he croaks.

“Have you explored what makes me different?”

“Pardon?” He asks, stalling.

She chuckles. “You said I should explore what makes you different from Blaise and Theo…” Right. “Have you explored what makes me different?”

“Ah… a little.”

“Hmm… Have you made a list, Mr. Darcy?” She asks with a fake English accent.

He chuckles. “Yes.”

“Swot.” She lets out a breathy sigh. “How long is it?”

“Three items.”

“Oh. Given it just ‘a little’ thought, huh?” She teases. “What’s the first item?”

He rolls over onto his side and flips the pillow onto the cool side. “I find you intriguing.”

He hears her tap a fingernail on her tooth. “I think that would be number one on my list as well...”

Long minutes of silence pass where he doesn’t want to interrupt her thinking. Because she could say just about anything right now. Literally, anything.

She giggles. “No, actually number one – which is good and bad – is that you’re annoying… Aggravating. You’re a know-it-all who calls me a know-it-all as if you’re not a freaking know-it-all! You make my blood boil!”

Draco hears her shifting in bed, undoubtedly sitting up, innervated by her tirade.

“But I also…”

He waits, with his breath caught in his throat. “Continue, Granger,” he coaxes on the exhale. “Finish the sentence.” His voice is so gruff it’s almost a growl.

She sniffs. “You’re annoying and you make my blood boil. But I keep coming back for more.” She huffs. Her voice is muffled on her next words, and he envisions her resting her head in her hand. “It’s like I have no control or self-preservation instincts around you. They go down the drain. It’s like my brain doesn’t trust you but it like… doesn't know that.”

“You can trust me,” he whispers. He closes his eyes, shocked again by his sincerity with her. His care. His patience. He’d always considered himself a patient man… until he met her. She thought she lost all her self-control around him? Well, he’d had to dig deep to find more. “I won’t hurt you.”

She sighs. “You don’t know that.” Her voice is distant. Small. “You’ve already hurt me once. You can’t promise that. You may not want to hurt me… now… But you don’t know that you can’t… again. That you won’t.” He hears her deep breath in. Out. “That’s not something either of us can control or prevent. Not with 100% certainty.”

“The fact that I care enough not to hurt you means something. It means something to me… It should mean something to you.”

“Is that on your list?”

He huffs. “Gods… it is now. Number four.” He chuckles. “And since you said it. I too find you annoying (that’s number two). But you’re not vapid. You annoy me and we bicker, but I’m not put off by your presence. I don’t crave your absence. Well, maybe a bit in the beginning but…”

“But not anymore?”

“Granger, I start my mornings with you. I end my days with you. We sit and chat at the movies … and at movie nights. I think I’ve shown I don’t find you annoying outside of the lab.” He chuckles.

“Outside of the lab. Thanks for the clarification,” she teases. “Wow, we do spend all day at the lab with each other, huh? We spend quite a lot of time together.” She chuckles. “Much of it is spent snarking at each other… and then in silence.”

“I don’t mind silence… Neither do you. In fact, I think we enjoy it and enjoy that we don’t feel the need to fill it with inane chatter. I like talking to you because it’s not hot air and fluff. You interest me. You listen and consider my opinion. I feel heard. I… didn’t know I needed that.”

“You’re welcome,” she says. Once again he hears the smile in her voice.

“To second chances?” He offers after a few minutes. Grateful she hadn’t asked for the third item on his list.

“To second chances,” she agrees, and it’s such a sleepy, dreamy sound. He knows she’s drifting. He hears the rain start falling. “I smell the rain,” she mutters in that dreamy, sleepy voice and he wishes he were there to smell it too.

Soon the sound of the rain is louder through the phone as it starts to rain harder in Torre… erm… wherever she is. Before long he’s just listening to the roar of the rain, the rhythmic crash of the waves, and her sleepy mumbles before they cease entirely, replaced with her sleep-deepened breaths. And soon he’s drifting too. His list is forgotten and it’s just this moment, stretching on.

Chapter 31: HERMIONE - FRENCH ORANGE TART

Chapter Text

SUN 29 OCT

Michaelmas (Fall Term) was shaping up to be way different than the summer. The Quidditch season ended with the World Cup, so Hermione had gotten her Saturdays back. Well, just until the spring, when the new season started. She used the free time to study and grade coursework or watch Ginny and the boys play Quidditch at the Burrow. Which it seemed they would do until they froze to death on their brooms. Sometimes she and Pansy would troop to the Lido Spa in Clifton to get massages and swim in the heated pool.

The nip in the air also called to mind snow and the winter holidays. Pansy had broached the topic of holiday plans while they’d lounged on the beach in the Maldives. One benefit of Oxford’s trimester system was the long breaks between each term. The Winter Holiday break would last four weeks. “Granger, what are your plans for Winter Break?”

“Viktor and I usually go somewhere warm right after my final exams. Then I spend Christmas Eve through New Year’s with family.”

“And after New Year’s?”

“Nothing planned yet. What about you?”

“My parents used to stay in town through Christmas for business and social calls and then travel in January. But since the Almost War they spend December and January travelling. They pick a couple countries and travel slowly from end to end. They come back for a day or two for the Malfoys’ New Year’s Eve Ball. This year, they’re travelling throughout the Indian Ocean. I’ll be joining them in the Seychelles after Finals. Would you like to join us after you leave Krum?”

Hermione smiles. “I’d love to Pansy! Thank you for the invite.”

“Great. So, you’ll go from Seychelles back to the States. Have you gotten your invite to Narcissa’s New Year’s Fete yet?”

Hermione frowns in confusion. “Yet? I can’t imagine-”

Pansy waves a hand in dismissal. “Narcissa adores you. You’re frequently at her teas. You’re going to the New Year’s ball. You should start searching for a dress. Or am I styling you?”

Hermione chuckled. Teas were one thing. Balls were another. Narcissa’s birthday party had likely been an exception. An invite extended to her as a guest of the Parkinsons’. It wasn’t a requirement to extend an invite to her again on the same grounds. But to Pansy, her attendance at the fete was a foregone conclusion and as such, no longer up for debate. “Uh, I think I’ll find something.” She adds a smile at the end to make it sound more convincing. A non-existent dress for the non-existent invite.

“Ok. After that, we snakes usually go skiing for a week at someone’s chalet. This year we’ll be at a Malfoy property. Do you ski, Hermione?”

She grinned. “If you count the bunny slopes.”

Pansy tutted. “Yes, as a future Linguist, I cannot deny that skiing on a bunny slope is still skiing. And Cauterets has plenty of-”

“Cauterets?”

“Yes. In France.”

Hermione chuckled. “I take it the Malfoys aren’t superstitious. They bought a cabin in a place whose name connotes burning and wounds?”

“If this a Seinfeld reference, Granger, save your breath. It’s not a cabin. Don’t let any Malfoy hear you say that. It’s a mansion.”

“I thought you said chalet.”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “A quibble.”

“Oh, it’s a quibble when I object? But when you-”

“Granger, with all the reading you do one would think you would appreciate the attention-”

“Obsession-”

“The care,” Pansy stressed, punctuated with a glare. “The care I show for words.” This was followed by a five-minute haranguing on a word Hermione had used last week to describe a rare book she was reading. She’d mistakenly called it ‘arcane’ which meant understood by few, instead of ‘recondite’ or ‘recherché’ – rare or only accessible to a few. “And did I correct you, Granger?”

“You knew what I meant.”

“Yes, but did you?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Hmm, maybe it’s your delivery?”

“Oh Granger, there is simply not enough time in the day. Where were we? Right, Cauterets. After skiing we usually split up. The boys go gallivanting while Daphne and I head off in the opposite direction. We were thinking Australia this year.” She smiled. “You’ve piqued our interest. Care to join? Care to plan?”

Hermione smiled. “I’d love to.”

From there the conversation had turned to other things. Like where she stood with Wood. She admitted she’d seen him with less frequency since the end of the season. He texted her for a fix and the sex was just as intense and leg quaking as it had been during the season, but Hermione suspected she filled a particular niche in his life and had told him they could cool their heels. He was under no obligation to date her or turn this into a relationship. It’s not what she wanted or needed from him. He’d looked equal parts confused and relieved.

With the pressure of the semester and other responsibilities since the start of term, Muggle Adventure days had decreased from all-day affairs into afternoon trips to the movies, followed by dinner and karaoke. Pansy, Daphne, and Malfoy were now fixtures for their outings and Ginny attended when she didn’t have Harpies obligations. Hermione knew from Viktor’s experience that the post-season could be just as grueling as the actual Quidditch season with all the workouts, strategizing, rehabilitation, appearances, philanthropy and volunteering the players were contracted to complete.

Her truce with Malfoy was holding strong. They’d slipped back into their routine of morning puzzles and late-night text convos - puzzles, politics, news, movies, literature. She started and ended her days with him. She found she quite looked forward to picking his brain. Their conversations still flowed much easier over text than they did in person, but their current ease of interactions were night and day compared to the summer. He’d even kept his word and attended movie nights at Parkinson Manor. Each evening after the movie ended, the others would drift away and they’d have their nightly literature and film conversation in person instead of over text.

Recently their nightly conversations had evolved from text exchanges to all night phone conversations where she fell asleep to the waves, his sleepy mumbles, and the cadence of his breaths.

And then there was the most recent development: his list. He had a list… about her. And had counseled her to make one about him! Which she had, on the beach after breakfast:

1. Although he was annoying, she enjoyed his company. Their conversations and the energy between them were different than with Blaise and Theo. She considered herself an open and honest person but had quickly learned that communicating with the snakes was all about strategy. She learned to hold her cards a bit closer to her chest since anything she shared with Blaise or Theo inevitably made its way back to her in jest. They were two of the most unserious people she’d ever met. Their constant ribbing and the fact that they did not keep secrets unless specifically asked had made her a bit more selective about what she shared with them. Technically, that was also true with Draco. It seemed that they could talk about everything under the sun, except themselves. She still didn’t know any personal details about him besides his name, a few anecdotes, and the layout of a few rooms in his Manor. Did she want to learn more?

2. He was brilliant and challenged her constantly but was also generous with his knowledge. They shared similar academic and personal interests and could talk about anything and (almost) everything. In contrast, her conversations with Theo and Blaise tended to be more superficial and fun. She knew Theo and Blaise had serious sides, but they reserved them for academics and Estate business. She supposed she knew Draco’s academic and business sides because she spent most days with him in the lab and his interests intersected with her own…

3. Draco was objectively attractive and positively gorgeous and confident without being smug. Although he could be arrogant at times. Theo was tall and slim with foppishly curly black hair and rugged good looks while Blaise was tall, with dark olive skin and short wavy black hair. Honestly, Blaise was almost too handsome and charming. She could see how Ginny had fallen under his spell, and why she and Blaise couldn’t stay away from each other. Blaise often joked that Ginny was his Krum, so he knew exactly what Hermione was going through in a long-distance relationship with a Quidditch player with insane stamina and a high libido.

4. Hermione was attracted to him. She was not attracted to Blaise or Theo… or Harry. They’d become like brothers to her. She did not view Draco like a brother. In fact, between her and the beach, she had the mild beginnings of a… crush. Not that he ever would make any advances (since he didn’t appear to have casual flings with witches)… but Hermione wouldn’t deny his advances if he ever made them. Though she supposed he wouldn’t since he only dated Pureblood witches on dates his mother arranged with the intent of finding him a wife. Although she also supposed that if he did have casual flings, he would keep them a secret. She’d giggled to herself at the thought of Europe’s best kept secret being the identity of the woman Draco Malfoy was casually shagging and not the location of Durmstrang. She supposed she wouldn’t mind being DLM’s mystery woman. She was already Krum’s, another of Europe’s closely-guarded secrets.

Her reverie is cut short by the tinkle of her phone alarm signaling she has thirty minutes to pack before her Portkey back to Parkinson Manor activates. Back home, she unpacks before Flooing to Theo’s for their weekly cooking session. She’d been looking forward to today’s menu for weeks.

“French orange tart!” She’d blurted one evening at dinner when Blaise had asked her for the second -or third- time what Theo’s gitty face had made her think about tonight.

The lackluster lemon meringue from the Muggle trivia bar a few nights prior had plagued her thoughts. The dud had left something to be desired and she wanted it done right. A buttery, flaky crust. A sweet yet tart filling with a hint of tang. Mint and fresh or candied oranges on top. With a dollop of whipped cream.

After her exclamation, Theo had exchanged a look with Malfoy that Hermione hadn’t known how to decipher. She’d bit her lip and returned to her visions of delicious French pastries.

“Ooh, and a Croque Monsieur! Also let me know what you all want from France.” Viktor was due in France the next weekend for League business and had invited her to join him for a few days.

“Ooh, chummy Krummy’s taking ickle ‘Miney’ to France,” Blaise cooed. Earning him Hermione’s napkin to the face.

“You finally settled on a place?” Daphne asked.

“Yes.” Hermione smiled. They’d be in Provence and Occitanie before jetting to Monaco for the Yacht Show. Krum’s best friend had invited them aboard for the race.

“You’ll let me get veto power over your outfit selections, right?” Pansy added.

Hermione grinned. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good girl,” Pansy cooed.

Between the hectic start of term and travel and business obligations, it was weeks before her scheduled aligned with Theo’s again. But French Orange Tart was finally on the menu tonight… and it was well worth the wait!

After their session, Theo packs a Tupperware container with two slices of tart and another with candied orange slices.

Allowing her curiosity to get the better of her, Hermione leans over to ascertain the identity of the person to whom Theo had been addressing samples of their delectable treats since the start of their Sunday sessions. She’d seen him reserving portions and writing messages on his pale blue cardstock during their previous sessions but never thought to ask who they were for.

She frowns. “Narcissa and Draco?”

“Indeed,” Theo replies, continuing to pen the message in his beautiful script.

“Why them?” Hermione asks as she helps herself to another slice.

“For one thing, the oranges are from their grove in Portugal.”

“So?” She retorts between bites.

“And Draco really likes tarts-”

Unable to resist she interjects, “I know. He’s got a new one on his arm every week,” in a very Theo-like move.

Theo’s pen clatters onto the table as he doubles over with laughter. “Point, Granger,” he wheezes.

“Will he really eat it even though I helped make it? He tends to… scrutinize everything I produce. We may have reached a truce but we’re still incredibly hard on each other. It’s not as bad as the summer though. Back then I couldn’t fart without first telling him how I planned to do it and fielding inane questions about if the timing was right; if I’d considered simply overriding my body’s innate biological urges; and if I didn’t think a burp would better serve.”

“Funny. He used to say the same about you.”

Smirking, Hermione rolls her eyes.

“Besides, I’ve sent him dishes before. He’s got a thing for citrus.” Ah, so that explained that one cryptic look. “That lemon loaf we made with the icing and the candied lemons got top marks. He asked me to make it for his next birthday brunch. And that citrus sugar we made? He puts some in his tea every now and again. Narcissa loves it too. It’s an open secret among our crew that Malfoy’s a citrus head.”

“Hmm.” Hermione shrugs. She knew he ate the desserts they all passed around during snake dinners but everyone in the group had a sweet tooth. It was something that they all shared in equal measure. And sure, she knew he liked citrus. It’s why she’d led them to the little copse of wild pomelo trees at the base of Mount Hymettus before they’d Portkeyed back home from Athens. “I knew that.”

“Right,” Theo says, not sounding even remotely convinced. “And what else do you know about Draco?” He chides.

She glances at Theo. “His middle name, Lucius,” she says with a goofy grin. “Ooh, and gray, his favorite color.”

Theo smirks.

As was quickly becoming apparent, she didn’t know much about Draco Malfoy. She knew his views on many things, his literature and film proclivities, and his predilection for gray. But she didn’t know anything about his childhood or life beyond the lab. As she’d realized on the beach earlier, they seemed to talk about everything and anything under the sun except themselves.

Theo clears his throat. “I said, ‘you don’t mind do you’?”

Drat, she’d been lost in her thoughts. “Fine. We can send him a slice,” she concedes. “I suppose that’s fine…” She takes another bite of her tart, swiping it through the fresh cream. Something didn’t sit right with her, however. What was it Theo had said about top marks? “Just as long as he hasn’t been, like, rating them or something. I know he gets a har-”

She shoots a wild glare at Theo at the sound of his pen clattering onto the table for the second time this evening. A flush creeps up his neck and cheeks.

Hermione gasps. “Show me!”

Chapter 32: DRACO - FRENCH ORANGE TART

Chapter Text

SUN 29 OCT

Draco’s in his study reviewing a prospectus and listening to classical music when Theo’s owl finds him. A precocious little fellow who pips for more treats and enjoys Draco’s head scratches while he unties the parcel to find two Tupperware dishes in a little basket. The first one contains two slices of some kind of tart, topped with whipped cream, candied orange slices and garnish. The second smaller one is full to bursting with candied orange slices. The clues point to French Orange tart.

The first note is in a tight scrawl he knows so well from Hermione’s lab notes: ‘Enjoy!’ When he touches the page to trace the letters, the note bursts into flame nearly singeing his fingers. Likely an Ambustor charm. Swot. He chuckles when the fire congeals into the shape of a dick before it fizzles out. Payback for his own confetti dicks after the World Cup.

The second note starts off cheery. From Theo: ‘French orange tart, whipped cream, extra candied orange slices for Narcissa, mint to garnish. Hermione thinks you’ll like it because you like tarts (and she didn’t mean the dessert kind).’Cheeky.

Before the paper shreds into a thousand tiny pieces that fall into his lap (a Sparga charm, her doing; again, swot) he makes out the rest of the words in Granger’s scrawl, messier as it tends to be when she’s excited or worked up: ‘Send your “rating” and rationale post-haste or better yet, say it to our face! Oh, and do bring along your pastry degree, cookbooks you’ve authored, your critically acclaimed food column or something, anything(!) that qualifies you to pass such lofty judgments! We (don’t) wait with bated breath.’

A challenge. A flash of antagonism he hadn’t seen in a while since they’d settled into their extended truce.

Not one to back down from a challenge, Draco vanishes the confetti then shoves his feet into his trainers. He mutters a spell to tie his laces and Apparates to Theo’s, his mind on the little kitchen and pantry tucked away in the East Wing that he knows Theo’s commandeered for his own use, leaving the elves to the main kitchens and pantries. He’s crafting his rebuttal all the while, planning to open with the fact that Theo had requested feedback on the dishes. The words die in his throat when he sees the sweet, idyllic scene of Theo and Hermione together in the warm, cozy kitchen.

They’re washing dishes, dancing, and singing along to Muggle music on the radio. She’s in a black tank and bike shorts. Her ubiquitous flannel is thrown around the back of one of the stools in front of the long wooden table. She’s barefoot and one of those orthopedic Muggle Birkenstock sandals she loves so much are discarded off to one side. One would think her parents were foot healers given her odd collection of ergonomic trainers and sandals. He’d never paid much attention to toes before her but with her penchant for black, her shoes and nail polish were often the only color he saw on her. Her toes are colored the same shade of purple as the irises in the Nott greenhouse. Those irises had won Theo’s late mother, Ephigenia, many a blue ribbon in Muggle flowers shows.

Draco notices that once again her fingernails aren’t painted. He’d seen her absentmindedly gnaw on her thumbnail enough now to know this was likely to make them less noticeable and prone to end up in her mouth. That, or her rebellious streak meant she’d do just enough to get Pansy off her back while asserting her own free will to remind Pansy (who could be a tad overbearing) that she was her own person and not Pansy’s doll. Good girl.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of the sight of her beautiful curly hair around her face. It’s his favorite version of Hermione. Though he’d take ponytail adventure Granger in a pinch. He’s coming to enjoy the full range of her hairstyles – whether it’s pulled off her face into a tight bun or in braids at lab; wild around her face, tumbling down her neck like it is now; or in a ponytail, those big juicy curls bouncing as she dances or laughs; or even when she tames it into waves.

He still rarely gets the chance to really look at her. They were always in group settings with other people or traipsing through dim forests. And there was always so much happening at once. He never got to sit still with her in a well-lit room, to really take her in while she was in her element. As they’d agreed per their truce, he’d been working to reconcile lab swot Granger with real world Granger instead of splitting them. However, he always got a light fluttery feeling in his gut that made him shift in his seat when he thought of her, just her. Hermione.

He wonders if the feeling is fascination or puzzlement. She was so different from the other witches in his life. He’d been acquainted with her for almost five months now and wondered if his pervading interest is a signal of something more. Something deeper. Some more permanent interest… like… a crush? Something had struck him on that bench in the grotto months ago when he hadn’t wanted the night to end. He'd kept it arrested and suspended in his chest in the aftermath of the explosion. But it had slowly taken root in the ensuing weeks after their truce. The notion that he might just have a crush on Granger. A teeny-tiny, itty-bitty… little crush.

The time she spent in the sun – by the pool and on those Coastal Walks that Pansy and Daph had told him she’d started the week she arrived and continued to go on (by herself no less) – kept her tan and glowing. All that walking gave her shapely legs, hips, and an arse which he could appreciate objectively. He was a hot-blooded human with two eyes after all. His impression of her hadn’t changed since that day in Ronaldo’s months ago: curvy and soft. And then there were her tattoos. He tried to focus on a different patch of skin whenever he could. He couldn’t be seen roving his eyes over every inch of her. No, that would be ludicrous! From his examinations, he’d gleaned that her tattoos were mostly Muggle literature and music references. Some of the pieces that stuck in his mind from his cursory inspections were references to the Alice in Wonderland series he’d also enjoyed as a child. So far, he’d spied a Cheshire Cat, a bunny in a vest with a pocket watch and monocle, a small blue vial with a pink tag reminiscent of the ‘drink me’ vial, and a dancing ace of spades. Other pieces that had caught his eye included purple raindrops, a flaming guitar, a Wild thing, and a bust of the Bard. He also noted that she appeared to use flowers and plants as filler pieces.

All the dancing must have her overheating because she throws her hair into a messy bun atop her head. He’s heard through the grapevine (read: his mother) that the girls had all trimmed their hair at the spa before one of her recent teas. He would have noticed without her confirmation, however. Not because he studied the witch but because he was… attentive. He’d filed the tidbit about Hermione attending Narcissa’s teas to discuss with her later, but their text conversations always went in a hundred different directions and there hadn’t been an appropriate segue. Furthermore, his mother had been rather cagey about it. Dissembling. According to Narcissa, inviting the young lady to tea was another way of thanking her for the interesting flowers and fruits Miss Granger gifted her from their foraging outings. Granger didn’t attend every tea she was invited to, however. A habit that Pansy detested but his mother paradoxically found charming and assertive. Furthermore, he supposed he’d hear from his mother (or worse, Pansy) if Hermione ever embarrassed herself at a tea. Nevertheless, he always made himself scarce when he knew she’d be in attendance. He couldn’t suddenly increase his tea appearances on the off chance he’d see Granger there. His mother would then begin to wonder if his infrequent attendance should be more frequent…

With her hair up in a ponytail and off her neck, he can see that the vines that creep up her arms and shoulders trail into a splash of stars up her neck. It’s undoubtedly the tattoo she’d alluded to at Narcissa’s birthday, which felt like a lifetime ago with how much their friendship had since blossomed. He wonders if there was any method in the madness. If one could trace constellations in that galaxy of stars. Not him, of course. This was as close as he would ever get. From his distant vantage point, the cloud of stars is merely a nebula – a distant, formless smudge. But someone could, someone… closer.

The song changes again. A tune he doesn’t know the words to despite hearing it a few times prior. Theo and Hermione dance faster to match the increased pace of the song and he can’t distinguish one tattoo from the other. Soon he’s just watching her dance. He casts his eyes along her delicious curves. A hand towel falls from the counter, and he roves over the terrain of her hips and her glorious bum as she bends down to retrieve it. His spoon falters a breath away from his lips as he takes in the view, dumbfounded. He’s lost his train of thought. He jogs his memory as he brings the final bite of pie to his lips. Merlin, one could get lost in all those curves. Not that he’d ever have the chance.

He presses a finger to some of the crumbs left on the little plate and brings them to his lips, watching her sway to the music. Between movie nights, nascent foraging adventures, and late-night phone calls, they’d grown even closer recently. But he wouldn’t press his luck. One could get lost in all those curves, but not him. He wasn’t dating for the fun of it. He was looking for a wife. She was squeamish at the prospect of getting expensive gifts… Merlin, knew how she’d warp the space-time continuum to evade an offer of commitment. Besides, he was getting ahead of himself. They were friends. Period, full stop. That didn’t mean he couldn’t wonder if she had any hidden Wonderland tattoos besides the conspicuous pieces on her arms. Everyone in the gang counted ‘food-motivation’ as one of their many predilections. He’d bet any amount of galleons that she had an ‘eat me’ cookie hiding somewhere he’d never see.

Speaking of eating, the tart was bloody delicious. He could go for another piece. He’s dragging a finger through the last of the crumbs, considering floating the pie plate toward himself from the other side of the long wooden prep table when he hears the Floo roar in the distance.

Daphne’s familiar voice calls out a cheery, “Hullo!”

Hermione turns with a smile to greet Daphne and shrieks at the sight of him perched on a stool at the long wooden prep table licking his fork. “For f*ck’s sake!” She swears as the platter in her hand clangs against the table. “How long have you been there?” Her eyes flash down to the plate of crumbs he’s pressing his fingers through to gather every bit. “Do-”

He sees her tamp down the smug smile at the thought that he’d enjoyed the tart so much he was licking the crumbs. He knows she must be fighting the urge to serve him so she could see him enjoy another slice herself. He’s entirely sure that if he asks her to cut him a slice, she’d cut out his liver with the pie knife and serve him that on the little plate instead. So, he waits. Absentmindedly pressing a finger to the very last of the crumbs and licking them off his finger.

“Do you want another slice?”

There she is.

Draco nods. He catches her scent as she steps into his space with the pie plate and pie knife poised to cut a piece much smaller than he’d prefer. The familiar whiff of berries and vanilla is mixed with ginger from the tea she’d been drinking. He’d seen her take a few sips between belting out lyrics and dance moves. It was really Theo dancing and washing the dishes; Granger singing, dancing, sipping tea, and drying the dishes. There’s a sheen of perspiration on her skin and he smells her faint musk, light and heady. He feels himself swaying toward her in his seat, drawn to her. He leans in closer under the pretense of scrutinizing the slice. He reaches out, softly pushing her hand away, broadening the angle to allow for a bigger cut. “There,” he coaxes.

“Okay,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her skin is warm. The kitchen is warm. Too warm. He needs air and water. A stiff drink and… a cold shower. Drink me, eat me, bite- the apple! The apple with the bite and the worm that she said she’d gotten her first day in Diagon. That was the ‘bite me.’ He’d yet to see it. Maybe a flash of red when she chucked something at Blaise or Theo.

She cuts the slice and places it on his plate.

“Thanks.” He looks up at her. “May I have some tea as well?” She leans her hip against the table, maintaining eye contact. A frisson of heat shoots straight down his spine, pooling low in his belly. Gods. She is utterly unaware how much of a vision she is. How much she has him by the balls at this very moment. He’d gladly let her slice out his liver – take the spleen too(!) – and serve it up to him on that pie plate. And he’d lap it up hungrily. Greedily. If she willed it. f*ck.

She points the pie knife at him, only slightly menacing. “I want your rating first.” She gestures to the pie and then back at him with the knife. “No tea or pie until I hear your rating.”

His seeker reflexes activate, and he shoots a hand up to still her knife-wielding hand. His hand wraps around her wrist. He can feel her pulse quicken under his fingers. She tries to wriggle out from his grasp. He tightens his hold and lifts his arm to maintain his hold as she brings her arm up over her head trying to get free. His eyes catch the telltale flash of red. The apple. Drink me, bite me, lick me. f*ck. Me. Merlin. Where was his head? He rises from his seat to keep his hand wrapped around her arm. Their dynamic shifts as he rises to his full height, towering over her, looking down into those big, brown eyes. Whereas before she was over him, his head tipped up to meet her gaze; now he’s over her, crowded into her space – the pie between them – staring her down.

Her lips part, revealing a flash of pink as her tongue wets her lips. Those lips. Flashes of challenge and hunger war in her gaze.

Maintaining eye contact, he moves his other hand slowly, slowly to pluck the pie knife from her grasp and place it on the table beside them. He lowers their hands and loosens his grip on her but doesn’t let go. Merlin, he can’t let go.“10/10.”

She scoffs. “You're just saying that so I don’t flay you with the pie knife.” Except he’s not. She doesn’t have the pie knife anymore. Cheeky witch.

“Before he ever trained in France, Theo could make French pastries with his eyes closed and a hand tied behind his back. And French Orange tart is a particular specialty of Remi, our Head Elf. You’ll meet her in Cauterets. She spends most of her time between the French properties. The texture is smooth. Unctuous. Theo’s is more orange than sweet, which is a thin line and easy to cross. And the candied oranges are divine. A nice touch. Mother will weep into a napkin when I give them to her. So… 10/10.”

He can see on her face that there are so many questions she wants to ask him. He’d just given her so much information with so few words. He knows, by the way she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and the way her eyes dart over his face trying to read him – his brows, his eyes, his cheeks, his lips. By now she certainly knows how much he can communicate and hide from his expressions alone and is cataloging every single detail before he shutters back up again.

He wonders what she sees.

She drags her eyes back up to his and gives him a sheepish grin. “I helped.” So earnest as she bites her lip, waiting.

He doesn’t know what to say. Can’t help the smile that ticks up one corner of his lips. “I know,” he whispers.

She glances down at their hands, his thumb unwittingly rubbing a slow circle around her pulse point. She’s warm. And soft. He swears there’s sparks where their skin meets; can feel her pulse under his fingers. He doesn’t register that he’s just stood there, goggling at her, stroking her wrist until he feels her pulse increase. Literally feels it tick under his thumb. He meets her gaze and drops her hand, breaking the spell. He takes a step back, bringing the offending hand up to rake his fingers self-consciously through his hair.

She blinks. “Tea? It’s ginger.”

He smiles. “I know.”

“Citrus sugar?”

“Yes, please.” He swallows thickly, taking the pie plate from her hands just to have something to do. To have a moment to gather himself. “Daph, should I cut you a piece?” He croaks. Refusing to meet either Theo or Daphne’s gaze. He knows they’re together, leaning against the sink, watching them. He telepathically begs her to respond. He’s not above using a bit of Legilimency to plant the idea in her head. Luckily, he doesn’t have to.

“Sure!” She exclaims cheerily. Too cheerily.

Cheeks ablaze, he meets her gaze only after she responds. By the wide grin on her face, he knows he’ll hear about this night again soon. He hazards a glance at Theo who smirks at him. Yup, definitely hearing about this soon.

Starting the next day whenever Hermione had something citrus or ginger flavored, she brought him one too. Nargles.

A Crabbies at the bar, a scone, a slice of gingerbread or lemon loaf, fruits, a random plant, or herb that smelled or tasted like citrus or ginger – wild lemons, lime, oranges, pomelos – foreign biscuits and Stasised pastries from her travels. And soon he started returning the favor. Nargles. Big, hairy nargles.

Chapter 33: DRACO - BETTER LIES

Chapter Text

TUE 31 OCT

On Halloween, the gang meet up at Nott Manor to pre-party. Having forsaken a theme this year the costumes are… all over the place. Daphne and Theo are an Angel and Devil. Pansy and Harry are Nurse and Doctor. Blaise and Ginevra are Vampires. Neville and Luna are Explorer and Grumpkin (another of the creatures Luna is always nattering on about… And for some reason it’s purple.) Ron is with his new girlfriend, Lavender Brown. Ron is a Quidditch Star (for the umpteenth year in a row) and Lavender is a Muggle Cheerleader. Padma and Parvati are also dressed as Muggle Cheerleaders. Draco is dressed as a Muggle Detective which means he’s ‘just wearing his usual clothes with a trench coat, Fedora, and pipe’ (as Pansy had so astutely observed). Hermione is Catwoman, a muggle superhero. She’s in cat ears, a soft black long sleeve catsuit that zips down the front, and black knee-high heeled platform boots. She’d charmed a long cat tail that flicks and moves but doesn’t exist in meatspace so she can ‘dance and move without tripping over it all night.’

They gather in a sitting room decked out with streamers, pumpkins, ghouls, and goblins. There’s a little bar where elves dressed as tiny vampires serve drinks and custom co*cktails. Couches and chairs are arranged in a circle around low tables laden with finger foods and hookah pipes.

Draco’s on one of the couches sipping a whiskey neat and smoking a mango-flavored hookah when he sees Hermione hit her limit with Lavender, Parvati and Padma who are blathering about Divination. Hermione’s eyes plead for Pansy to save her, but the witch simply smirks at her and turns back to Harry. She looks to Daphne who’s engrossed in a conversation with Neville and Luna. He knows she’s about to look at him next when her chest rises and falls on a long sigh. Draco had swiftly discovered Hermione’s tell whenever she was about to look at him in group situations. A vestige from the height of their frost when he was quite literally the last person in the world she’d wanted to acknowledge. He knew to look away whenever he saw a long sigh or her roll her eyes in resignation. Tonight, it’s the former, and Draco busies himself with ashing the hookah. He’d let her stew for a bit. He wonders if he has any tells she’s picked up on. From the corner of his eye, he sees her fish her mobile out of the top of her boot and pretend to take a call (she doesn’t even bother checking the screen or pressing any buttons), snagging a fresh bottle of Crabbies on her way out. He’d bet any amount of galleons she’s heading to the library.

After twenty minutes his glass is empty, he’s a bit lightheaded from the hookah… and he decides to test his theory. He excuses himself from a conversation about the Cannons with Blaise, Harry, and Ginevra, and heads to the library. On his way out, Theo calls for a game of beer pong. Potter pipes up from his spot on the couch next to Pansy. Draco says he knows just the person to take them down.

Sure enough, she’s in the library. Sat in one of the overstuffed chairs, reading a collection of 19th Century Muggle Poetry.

“Granger, it's Halloween. You can’t spend it in the library.”

She giggles. “Oh yeah? What’s your excuse?”

He smirks. “Detective work.”

Her eyes flash and she lets the book fall closed in her lap. She brings her wrists together in supplication. The motion pushes her breasts together and deepens his view of her cleavage. “Are you here to arrest me, Mr. Malfoy?”

Zip! His mind goes blank and his co*ck twitches at the sight.

What would she do if he locked her wrists together? Smirking, he drags his eyes down to her lips, her chest, her wrists then back up to her eyes. “I’ll let you off with a warning.”

She grins and picks the book back up.

“Anything good in there?”

“Actually, yeah. I just learned the provenance of the expression, ‘Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink’.”

“Hmm, never heard it. Who said it?”

“Coleridge. ‘Day after day after day after day. We stuck, nor breath nor motion. As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean. Water, water, everywhere, and all the boards did shrink; Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink’.”

Water, water everywhere… A sea of witches and the one that intrigued him most…

“Potter and Theo want to play beer pong. A little birdie told me you beat some fellow countrymen in the Maldives. Something about them having to buy you all a round of drinks and when they lost the rematch they had to streak into the ocean?” He quirks a brow.

She grins. “I plead the fifth, your honor.”

They trounce Potter and Theo in beer pong. Since the night was still young, they’d played for fun only. No stakes. Which meant the losers didn’t have to perform dares or submit to punishment.

After pong, Draco and Hermione return to the sitting room, squeeze in beside each other and pass the pipe while they each down another bottle of ginger beer. Slightly buzzed and hazy from the hookah, the group all Apparate to the Apparition point in Diagon and troop noisily to the Leaky.

Hermione gets a real call just as they’re turning the corner and hangs back to fish her mobile from her boot. Her face lights up when she checks the call screen. “Mom!” She exclaims.

Draco and Pansy look back at her and she waves them off mouthing for them to go in without her. Once inside, he’s pulled to the back corner for a game of dare darts. After each round, the highest scoring person challenges the lowest scorer to a dare. It starts off rather tame. Blaise dares Theo to dance on the bar for the next song. The next round, Draco dares Blaise to take a belly shot off Ginevra. Next Draco dares Theo to take a belly shot off Daphne. Draco to Blaise: another belly shot off Ginevra.

Theo to Draco: “Take a belly shot off of… anyone.”

Draco shoots Theo a challenging look. “That’s not fair. I didn’t come with a date.” He liked seeing his friends paired up, but it certainly had its disadvantages.

Theo claps him on the shoulder. “Mate, we’re in a bar full of people. No one here would say no to you.”

Draco’s eyes dart to Pansy. “Pa-”

“Don’t even think about it,” Pansy deadpans.

“Would you let Harry do a body shot off you?”

Pansy flicks her eyes to Potter over at the pool table and she smiles. “If he asked.” She pats him on the cheek and saunters over to Potter.

Draco’s eyes drift to Hermione who’s dancing with some bloke. “Give me another dare,” he snarls.

Theo shrugs and shakes his head. “Can’t, mate. That’s the dare.”

“Is this a precedent you’re setting for the game moving forward or just tonight? Because that’s dangerous. Have you thought through the implications?”

Theo scowls. “No backsies…” He demurs a bit. “Just for tonight.”

“Fine.” Draco stalks to the bar and turns on the charm to ask the bartender.

She grins up at him, pours the shot and hands it to him as she lays out on the bar. The crowd gathered around them whoop and holler.

Draco wins the next round and with zeal in his eyes dares Theo to streak naked around the block.

Theo chortles. “Well, that is quite the escalation. Are you sure?”

Draco shrugs and nods defiantly. “I’ve commissioned a dare and apparently, there are no backsies.” He narrows his eyes at Theo. “Are you refusing? Commissioner!” He whirls around, searching for Blaise over the heads of the crowd. He knows he’s being absolutely obnoxious, but Theo’s stunt had rankled, and payback did have a certain reputation to uphold. “Commissioner! Who’s mediating tonight?”

“Right.” Theo chuckles. “Who’s gonna watch my pasty white arse as I run away?”

Blaise steps in dragging over Pansy and Potter. “Well, when ya put it like that!” He teases Theo who’s making his way toward the front door.

Hermione stumbles over to them with the random bloke she’d been dancing with following close behind her.

Draco watches Pansy fill Hermione in on the details, her eyes widening with each new piece of information. He blinks, dazed, as he registers her next words.

“I’ll do it with him!” She squeals.

Theo grins.

Pansy scowls at Hermione. Her look turns positively murderous when Mr. Random agrees to streak too. She grasps Hermione’s shoulders. “Look at me, Granger!” Pansy barks. “Are you sure?”

Hermione smiles at her and nods.

“How drunk are you on a scale of one to ten?”

Hermione gives her a lazy smile. “Four.”

“Granger!” Pansy admonishes.

“Okay!” Her face drops a little. “Five.”

Pansy narrows her eyes.

“Pansy, we streaked in the Maldives. What’s the problem?”

He quirks an eyebrow up at that. He hadn’t heard that they’d streaked.

Pansy scoffs. “That was nighttime beach vacation streaking. There was no one else around. Not to mention Rita f*cking Skeeter was thousands of miles away. This is Diagon. We’re not exactly anonymous here.”

Hermione shrugs.

Pansy can’t let it go. “I feel like ‘sober Hermione’ would want me to stop her.”

Hermione shakes Pansy’s hands off her shoulder. “Well, this Hermione wants to do it! Let’s make a deal: I’ll do it and you can give me a Sober Up potion right after. If I regret it, you give me this memory and show me how adamant I was. But if I sober up and don’t regret it, we belly back up to the bar and get me loosened up all over again! Deal?”

Pansy huffs. “Deal. But your tattoos stay hidden. And get rid of that blasted tail!”

Hermione flashes Theo a thumbs up and a big grin, then Finites her tail and tears her cat ears off her head, throwing them to Draco.

He smirks at her when he catches them.

“Count us down!” Theo yells.

Their friends start counting down from ten and soon the rest of the crowd is too. Most don’t even know what they’re counting for until they get to ‘two’ and the streakers start running, tearing off their clothes and shoes. Everyone’s laughing and cheering as wands, shoes and costumes fly into the air and the trio races down Diagon and hooks a left at Vertik to loop around the strip. Spurred on, more people join in, tearing off their clothes and hoofing it behind the original crew. Pansy, Ginevra, and Daphne dart out to collect Theo and Hermione’s cast-offs.

Blaise is charged with gathering the clothes for the random bloke. He gathers them, grumbling all the while that such a task is beneath the Commissioner. “That should be written into the rules!” He yells as he plucks up random bloke’s unmentionables.

The crowd erupts again as the bleary silhouettes of the trio solidify in the distance. Draco doesn’t look down as Hermione approaches. He keeps his eyes on her face as she shimmies into her costume, with Pansy and Daph shielding her from the cheering crowd.

Sobered up, Hermione grins and says that she’s still fine with the streaking. The bartender calls over to them and offers them a round of free drinks.

“Yippee!” Hermione calls as she stalks toward the bar. “I have to catch back up to everyone anyway.” She and Theo grab seats at the bar. Daphne stands behind Theo. Under the auspices of placing Hermione’s cat ears back on her head, Draco steps up behind Hermione, cutting off Mr. Random who skulks away.

Hermione leans back and giggles up at him, adjusting the ears.

“What can I get everyone?” The bartender asks, smiling at Draco.

A beer for Daphne, a ginger beer for himself, and tequila shots for Theo and Hermione. The bartender sets up a row of shots and pours the tequila across all of them, placing a lime wedge in front of each glass before handing them each a saltshaker.

Theo and Hermione knock back one shot after the other. Theo hands his fifth to Daphne and Hermione giggles, swiveling on the bar stool to hand her fifth to Draco.

He steps into the space between her parted legs and accepts the shot as she pours the salt on the junction between her thumb and pointer finger. He smirks, holding her gaze as he licks the salt. He closes his lips over the sensitive skin and sucks gently. She gasps and squirms in her seat. After he knocks back the shot, she reaches behind herself for the lime wedge which be bites from between her fingers.

He smiles down at her, and she tilts her head to meet his eyes. He removes the lime wedge from his mouth then knocks on the bar with his ring to signal the bartender and orders Hermione a glass of water. He motions for her to drain the glass, which she does after pouting up at him. He drags his eyes down the column of her throat, to the top of her cleavage, finding the catsuit is zipped lower than it was earlier in the night.

She swivels to set the empty glass on the bar before turning back to him. “Done. See, ah!” Her jaw drops and she sticks her tongue out.

His co*ck twitches at the sight and he swallows thickly.

She co*cks her head. “Pool?”

He chuckles. “I heard you sucked at pool.”

She crooks a finger and beckons him in closer. He bends down and she pulls him in by the collar until her lips are a breath away. Her breath is warm as it ghosts over the shell of his ear. “I’ve been practicing,” she whispers. She gives him a conspiratorial smile as he meets her gaze. Their faces are millimeters apart. She puts her finger to her lips. “But shh, keep that hush-hush. Let’s use that to our advantage.” The look on her face is equal parts smug and happy.

He quirks a brow at her, and she mimics his face in jest. In case her newfound confidence is just bluster and liquid courage, he’s good enough at pool for the both of them. “Let’s do it,” he agrees.

She taps the side of her nose twice. Our little secret. “Better lies.” She winks.

He smirks.

They make their way over to the pool tables and call dibs on the next game. Once they get possession of a table, they rack up and win the first game off his skill alone, with her playing the role of fuddy-duddy. The next game they win with a series of her ‘lucky shots.’

“You had me worried,” he whispers as she lines up her penultimate shot. “I’m impressed.”

She gives him another smug look as the losers clear the table. Theo and Blaise stumble over and demand a match. He lets her at it, and she wins with a perfect game, down to 8 ball corner pocket and a trick shot that she looked so f*cking sexy landing. Merlin only knows when he’d ditched the trench coat. He thanks his lucky stars that he made it through the game without anyone commenting on the bulge in his pants. Blame the sight of her bent over the table, the flash of cleavage as she lined up her shot, and the sight of her pert, round ass in that catsuit. His co*ck twitches again. Gods, his brain was an obscene place during those three games.

He needed air.

Chapter 34: HERMIONE - 20 QUESTIONS

Chapter Text

TUE 31 OCT

Hermione’s spoils include a hundred galleons and two dares each from Theo and Blaise. Draco disappears after their final win citing the need for some fresh air and the chance to search for his missing trench coat.

“What are the rules on saving dares?” She asks Theo and Blaise.

Blaise tells her that she’s untested and so doesn’t have the clearance for wild dares. Her dares can only be used during an active dare-based game.

“Fair. What are dare-based games?”

“Truth or dare, dare-darts. Dares can also be built into the rules for Never Have I Ever and 20 Questions.”

“Can I use a banked dare to deny a dare levied against me?”

“Yes, but only if you have a banked dare from that person. You can’t use a banked dare from Theo to block a dare from me.”

“I see. And can another person dare me to do the thing I just refused from Theo?”

“In a veritaserum game? No, it’s one and done. However, if there are no truth agents (like veritaserum), compulsive agents or spells (like Comperio), dares may be repeated.”

“Brutal,” she mutters as she shakes hands with Theo and Blaise. “I accept those terms.” Turning to Draco, who’s returned with Pansy and Harry in tow, she says, “I’m going to the bar. You coming?”

He smiles down at her. “Sure.”

Blaise trails behind them with drink orders from those remaining by the pool tables.

They do shots with Blaise by the bar before he returns to the rest of the group. She and Malfoy knock back another before she drags him onto the dance floor. They’re dancing to a new wizard pop song when they’re surrounded by the group corralling them out the door, toward the Apparition point. Their next stop is a Muggle club where Harry got a VIP section so they can eat and regroup before more drinking and dancing.

They Apparate to the alley near the club and walk around to the front, and skip the line before being ushered inside by Harry’s contact. He leads them to a VIP table laden with bottles of champagne on ice. They settle in around their table. Hermione finds herself sat between Malfoy and Pansy.

“We should eat first. Then champagne,” Pansy counsels, as she passes around the stack of menus.

Hermione puts her hair up to get it off her neck then sets her cat ears on the table in front of her. Malfoy snaps them up, placing them on his head in place of his fedora and grinning down at her.

He quirks a brow at her. “Did you snort some gillyweed when you were running down Knockturn?”

She smirks. “Come on.” She unlocks her phone, navigates to her camera app, and snaps a photo of him. Showing him the photo, she asks, “What would you name that cat?”

“Benvolio.”

She grins. “I was thinking Bartholomew.”

Draco chuckles, “That was the name of my Classics tutor.”

She giggles. “How many tutors did you have?”

He shrugs. “Lost count.”

“Did you run them off?”

“Not all of them...” He smirks as he places the cat ears onto her head. “What would you name yourself as a cat?”

“Hmm… I forgot what I look like,” she demurs, handing him her phone to snap a pic.

He turns the phone to show her the image. “Kitty.”

He smirks.

“No, Snuggles.”

Draco chuckles. “I pegged you for the type to name a cat something weird like Mingus or…” He pauses, eyes closed while he searches his mind for a doozy of a name. “Crookshanks.”

Hermione giggles. “Ooh, Mingus. That’s your cat name!”

She scrolls to the photo of him with the cat ears and turns the screen toward him. “Meet Mingus.”

They laugh.

“I’ll text this one to you,” she says.

“Hermione, have you decided what you’re ordering yet?” Pansy asks, jostling Hermione as she spreads out the comically large menu. Hermione’s thumb slips and scrolls too far left, displaying a selfie she’d taken earlier to send to Viktor. A mirror selfie from the bathroom at Nott Manor. One hand is in her curls and her catsuit is zipped alluringly low, exposing a precarious amount of cleavage of her cleavage.

“Send me that one too,” Draco teases before getting roped in by Theo and Daphne, seated on his other side, to strategize food selections.

Why does she tap the sexy selfie then scroll right to also select the image she’d originally intended to share with Draco… And then sends him both? Blame liquid courage. Bold, brazen, shameless liquid courage.

They’re so close she can feel his phone buzz in the pocket of his trousers.

And they’re so close she can see the faint blush spread up his neck and cheek when he flicks to the second image. He clicks the screen off when Theo leans in to ask him another question. He clears his throat and glances down, smirking at her when their eyes meet. “Well played,” he growls.

Her own phone buzzes with a text from Viktor reminding her to send the promised picture of her costume. Another buzz brings a text asking her to call him. She leans over to Pansy, asking her and Potter to stand so she can exit the booth.

“Wait, what do you want?” Pansy calls after her.

“Order me a cheeseburger with everything; fries; and a big honking co*ke, please!”

With that Hermione traipses outside to call Krum. The frigid night air feels good on her skin. Viktor’s spending a few quiet days with family in the Bulgarian countryside. His reception is spotty, so their conversation wraps quickly, effectively cut short when a younger cousin begs to play the beta version of a new game featuring furious fowl on Viktor’s smartphone.

When Hermione returns to the snakes, she squeezes back between Pansy and Draco in the booth. Pansy is mid-snog with Harry and Draco resumes his conversation with Theo and Blaise. She puts her hand on his thigh under the table, feeling his muscles flex in surprise under her palm. When he turns to her, she asks if the waiter took their order. He shakes his head, his eyes flicking down to her hand on his thigh. Feeling a blush spreading over her cheeks, she removes her hand while his eyes track its path back to her own lap. A moment later, the waitress appears with towers of nachos, salsa and guacamole for the table.

They’re munching on the chips when Malfoy turns back to her and asks. “On a scale of one to ten: How drunk are you right now?”

She considers it. “Three? You?”

“Five. How drunk were you planning to get tonight?” He asks.

“Seven. You?”

He shrugs. “Same.”

“Okay. Do you want to do a bottle of something?”

He looks down at her drink. “Rum would go with your co*ke.”

She smiles. “Let’s do it!”

He signals the section attendant, who returns with the rum and sparklers a few minutes later. They giggle. “Let’s play a game,” he says, nudging her thigh with his.

She lets out a puff of air, scanning the rest of the group. All of whom are whispering (or more) with their dates for the night. “Everyone else is busy.”

He gestures between her and himself. “You and me.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “What game do you play with two people?”

He shrugs. “20 questions. Answer or sip. Tame. No dares.”

She smirks. “Fine. You go first.”

He shakes his head and chuckles. “Flip for it.”

She conjures a galleon, and he calls tails as she flips it. It lands heads up on the table between them. “You go first.” She repeats before Vanishing it.

True to his word, he starts off tame. “Middle name?”

She smiles. “Jean. Favorite season?”

“Summer.”

“Why?”

“My birthday’s June 30th.”

She scoffs. “That’s it? It’s your favorite season because of your birthday? Not because of the weather, or the beach, or long vacations?”

He shrugs. “Must there be a deeper reason, Granger? You asked, I answered.”

She taps her lip while she considers. “Touché.”

He winks at her. “Best advice you’ve ever received?”

Way off-key, she croons, “True to your heart. You must be true to your heart!”

He chuckles. “Did you show us The Goofy Movie just so we would understand that reference one day?”

She giggles. “Maybe.”

“Real answer, please.”

She sighs. “Honestly, it’s not that far off from that. ‘To thine own self be true.’ Hmm… what’s your favorite thing about yourself?”

He pauses to consider. “Thoughtfulness. It’s something I can use both for myself and for other people.”

She smiles and nods in understanding.

He narrows his eyes at her. “What’s a question you’d never answer?”

As if! She rolls her eyes at him and takes a sip. “I thought you said tame. Do you have any favorite colors?”

He smiles. “I have two.”

“And they are…?” She coaxes.

“Gray and red.”

Gray, she knew. But red? Really? She frowns. “Not green?”

He shakes his head slowly, a gleam in his eye. “Not green.”

“Astoria said it was green.”

“I bet she did,” he deadpans.

She snorts. “How many people know your actual favorite colors?”

He smiles. “The people around this table.”

“Is this you trusting me with a secret?” She asks, tapping the side of her nose.

He chuckles. “Granger, this whole game is about trust.”

She co*cks her head. “I thought it was about getting me drunk.”

“That too.”

“You wear gray all the time. I never see you in red. How is red one of your favorite colors?”

He shrugs. “Just is.”

She narrows her eyes. “Is that all I’m going to get out of you?”

He gives her a lopsided smile. “I figured you’d understand. You’re in black all the time… But I don’t think it’s your favorite color either.”

She smiles as she shakes her head.

“What is it?”

“Is that your question?”

He shrugs.

“It’s changed a few times in my life. When I was younger it was purple. Now I think it’s pink. Deep pinks. Magenta, fuchsia, hot pink. No pastels. Who knows, in a few years it may be something else.” She smiles. “What’s your actual question?”

“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Hermione considers the question. Love was devotion and affection, connection and delight. Love grew over time. It wasn’t just a feeling. Love was an ethic. Love was a verb. Lust at first sight, she believed in. But love at first sight? “No, I don’t believe in love at first sight.” She smiles softly. “Do you?”

Cautiously, he meets her gaze. “Maybe,” he says faintly.

Oh. “Has it happened for you?”

He narrows his eyes at her, breaking the spell. “Is that your question?”

She glances away. “Yes?”

He reaches for the bottle and takes a swig. “What’s your idea of a perfect date?”

She takes a deep breath. “That’s a tough one. It’s never really about where you are so much as what you make of it, ya know? Is it one of those dates with good meaty conversations and you’re only stopping to take a bite or a sip of wine? Is it one of those fun dates filled with laughs, banter, and good conversation? Is it one of those really sexy, romantic first dates where you’re like giddy and almost breathless? The wine is good, and the lights are low. You feel sexy and desired, and your date is just scrumptious. Everything feels like a prelude to sex and you’re vibing off each other and it’s all innuendo and coy smiles?” She shrugs. “It depends. There’s no one size fits all date.”

Though an eyebrow’s quirked, he’s nodding in understanding.

Maybe she’s pressing her luck but… she doesn’t stop herself from asking, “What did you like about Astoria?”

He meets her gaze. “I would answer that question for you in private. Nut not here.” He lifts the bottle to his lips.

She stills his hand. “What about a Muffliato?”

That muscle ticks in his jaw.

She keeps her hand on his. “Don’t drink. It’s okay.”

“Nope, that's the rule.” He nudges her thigh with his and smiles. He takes a sip but doesn’t retract his thigh. “What’s the stupidest excuse you’ve used to get out of a date?”

She smirks at him, takes the bottle and swigs. “When did you realize that you’d rather chase a great love and risk losing it than not have love at all?”

His eyes grow hooded. His gaze heavy and lazy upon her, slipping from her eyes to her lips to her neck, then back up where she’s sure she’s blushing under such charged appraisal.

Damn her physiology for always betraying her innermost thoughts. What trickster god invented blushing anyway?

It’s the most intense look he’s ever given her… Not that she’s keeping track. His hand is a warm weight over hers as he tries to take the bottle and she silently vows to ask simpler questions.

Chapter 35: DRACO - DRUNK TONGUE

Chapter Text

TUE 31 OCT

This is why Granger held her own in the den of snakes. “That question presupposes too much, Granger,” Draco says as he tries to take the bottle from her.

She meets his steady gaze and holds firm. “It presupposes nothing, Malfoy. It is empirical.”

Empirical? She’d been here four bloody months. She didn’t have enough data to be empirical. That question was a whammy! “No, Granger. It’s a whammy.”

She tightens her grip on the bottle. “Switch to co*ke for a bit.” She smiles and places her co*ke in front of him with her other hand. “Give me time to catch up.”

He narrows his eyes but complies, sipping the soft drink. Since they’d taken the gloves off, he asks, “What are you most afraid of? I’m not talking spiders or rats. What keeps you up at night?”

She gives him a rueful smile, holding nothing back. “Failure. I fear being exposed as a fraud. I’m afraid to be found lacking… or worthless. I fear losing myself.” She sighs. “Not just abandoning myself but… giving away too many pieces and not getting them back when I need them. Or ever again.”

He holds her heavy, searching gaze until she breaks it, bringing the bottle to her lips for a long pull. A physical burn to rival her aching heart.

He chides himself, ‘what the f*ck happened to tame?’

She wipes a drop from her lips. “What’s the worst thing about being single, Malfoy?”

He takes a deep breath. “A cold bed. What’s the best thing about being single?”

Her response is instantaneous. “The freedom. What’s the second worst thing about being single?”

His response is just as swift. “The pretending.” Gods, the pretending. An old Sam Cooke song plays in his head. ‘Oh yes, I’m the great pretender. Pretending I’m doing so well. My need is such, I pretend too much. I’m lonely but no one can tell.’

He gives his next question a bit of thought before asking, “What’s the worst thing about being single?”

She’s silent in her contemplation. “Not feeling like someone’s priority. Their first choice. Feeling like maybe it’s because I ask for too much…” She snorts before chuckling darkly. “Or honestly, maybe I offer too little. Maybe I’m simply not willing to pay the price that’s asked of me for a great love.” Sighing, she shrugs. “What’s the best thing about being single?”

“The anticipation,” he says without missing a beat, eyes tracking the hitch of her breath, the flash of her tongue as it darts across her lips, and the kiss of pink blooming up her neck and cheeks.

His stomach growls as he smells food. Merlin, he’s hungry. Not just for food. For her. For her he’s… ravenous. Three waitstaff appear laden with trays of food. They set down all the snakes’ burgers and fries and Pansy directs them to set an order of mozzarella sticks in front of him and Hermione. One waiter refreshes her co*ke, and Draco signals for him to bring a glass for him and some more pitchers of water. The table is silent while the snakes devour their meal, savoring the crunchy fried goodness after a night of drinking, dancing, and hijinks that’s far from over.

Soon the table is buzzing with chatter again and they’re each cracking open their own bottle of Champagne and toasting to good times. The other couples slowly drift downstairs to the dancefloor while Draco and Hermione return to their game.

He nudges her thigh, picking absently at one of the mozzarella sticks she hadn’t eaten. He swipes it through the marinara sauce and pops it into his mouth. He looks down at her as he brushes the corners of his mouth with his thumb and pointer finger and licks his fingers. “Number ten.” He winks at her. “Do you enjoy massages?”

She rolls her eyes and takes a swig from her champagne bottle. She stares pointedly at him. “Do you enjoy massages?”

He shrugs. “Depends on who’s offering.” He swivels in his seat and points to his shoulder. “Took a bludger here the other day and it still smarts. Don’t be shy.”

She giggles and swats at him.

“Do you like grand gestures?” He asks as he turns around, his eyes intent upon her face.

She frowns. “I don’t know. I think it’s really the little things for me. Grand gestures always seem so… public, you know? They’re like, ‘hey look at this thing I did for her’ instead of ‘here’s this thing I’ve done for you. Or with you.’ The grand gestures never seem to be about the recipient. They can sometimes feel embarrassing. Or maybe I’ve been getting the wrong gestures?” She sighs. “I don’t really know…” She peters off, reaching for her Champagne bottle.

He nods and stills her hand. “‘I don’t know’ is a valid answer. You don’t have to drink on that.”

She smiles at him. “And what about you?”

“Well, with Pureblood families there’s courting and betrothal and the requisite gifts. The wizards aren’t really on the receiving end of gestures. Grand or otherwise. We’re usually the ones making the grand gestures and giving the gifts. We’re the ones that have the power and the resources, so it makes sense, but you know… Sometimes it would be nice to get a little token of affection. To answer your question: I wouldn’t know.”

A “Hmm,” escapes her as she considers this information. “Interesting.”

He grins. “Though I suppose in the old days, when you offered a lady your handkerchief and she gave it back to you… you had something of hers. Does that count?”

She giggles and swats him. “Gross!”

“Why are you still single?” He asks before he can stop himself.

She scoffs. “I’m not single.”

He co*cks his head at her and taps her bottle with his ring.

“Fine,” she grumbles and takes a swig. “In my defense, I don’t have the bandwidth for anything more than casual right now. I can’t do serious. Viktor and I have been… playing it by ear for a few years now-”

He frowns. Once again, the words are out before he can stop them. “He hasn’t claimed you-”

She sighs. “The minute we show up on the Society pages there’s going to be an Inquest about who I am, and what I want. Am I after his fame? His prestige? They’re going to call me a distraction when he doesn’t catch the Snitch. They’re going to follow me around. I’m going to get Howlers. And all for what? He’s the Star player of his Quidditch team. He doesn’t need the distraction and I don’t need the stress. His team management likes that with me around he’s not chasing as many skirts as he was when he first went Pro. He’s less distracted, incidentally. They’re squashing Prophet headlines about us and downgrading them to blind items once or twice a month. That’s the Prophet’s new racket: extorting the team to pull stories and blind items. And I’m sure you know the price goes up just a smidge every single time. They dubbed me his ‘mystery woman.’ He hasn’t claimed me because I don’t want to be claimed.” She smiles softly. “They’ll call me ‘just the girlfriend’ or a ‘fling.’ Which will be fine until they start counting how many years it’s been without a ring. Then they’ll cast me as pathetic. Or if we just show up in the Society pages with no statement, then I’m the kept woman… Or worse, a gold-digger. I can’t win for losing. And besides, I didn’t move all the way to England to-” She catches herself and slaps her mouth shut self-consciously.

Finish that sentence woman. Didn’t move to England to what? Didn’t move to England to what!

She shakes her head, her lips caged behind her fingers.

He rolls his eyes in jest.

“No, I already drank,” she says. “I don’t have to answer. Do you believe in soulmates?”

“No,” he spits without missing a beat.

She smiles and raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Really, but you believe in-”

He narrows his eyes at her, cutting her off with, “Is that your next question?”

“Sure.”

“Then it’ll have to wait until I ask mine.

“Oh, come on, Malfoy. Just ‘no,’ end of story. Who are you - Pansy?”

“No is a complete sentence, Granger.”

She rolls her eyes and slumps down in the booth because she knows he’s right.

He hooks his hand under her leg and pulls her closer to him, leaving her leg resting on his thigh. He leans in and says, his voice almost a growl, “What turns you on.”

She flushes. “That.” And takes a swig. “Why don’t you believe in soulmates?”

He rolls his eyes and drops his head against the back of the booth. “Oh, come on Granger. There’s seven billion people alive right now and I’m supposed to find my soul’s mate in the 70 years I have on this earth? Get a grip. Do you know the machinations it would take to finagle two souls to be in just the right spot at the right time and have the right chemistry? That sounds like one of those unsolvable Sunday Prophet puzzles-”

“They’re not unsolvable,” she interjects.

“Have you solved one?” He asks, sounding mulish to his own ears.
She smirks. “Not yet.”

He scoffs. “And what if there’s more than one soulmate? How many million, billion souls have existed and currently exist on this Earth? You don't do calculations with billions of variables on the scale of log10. You and I both know that’s not possible. That’s not good data science. Why can’t Theo be my soulmate and Blaise and Pansy and Daphne and whoever else. My soulmate can only be my wife? If soulmates were real, Pureblood families wouldn’t be set up the way they are. That combination of magic and near-infinite resources would have been honed over generations to divine each person’s soulmate through… blood magic or something. So, no, I do not believe in soulmates…” He quirks a brow. “Do you?”

“Is that your question?” She spits.

His eyes flash to her. “No.” He chuckles.

“You would combine your magic with someone who you don’t believe is your soulmate?”

“For the good of my family and because of my responsibilities as the sole heir and future head of the Malfoy Estate?Yes. I would absolutely do that. As have so many Malfoy heirs before me. Marriage isn’t all ‘rainbows and butterflies,’ Granger-”

‘Point Malfoy,’ she mouths mockingly.

“It’s business.”

She scoffs. “If you truly believed that, you would have settled down with – I don’t know – Astoria. In fact, why didn’t you? From the looks of it-”

He spits Muffliato and Disillusionment charms. “Because she was f*cking annoying! They all are. I’m casting my lot with the witch who makes my skin crawl the least! With whatever precious time I have, I’ll find that witch and we’ll scratch out a life together. Hopefully we’ll grow to love each other before the little ones ship off to Prep and we can spend our lives traveling, eating good food and drinking good wine. Maybe my friends will like her but if they don’t then she’ll have her own friends. I’ll have my Potions and Estate business and other businesses and whatever the f*ck else I want to do. Marriage is but one part of my life, Granger. It won’t be my entire life. Please, I beg you, don’t bring Astoria up again. I don’t think about her anymore. Neither should you.”

He narrows his eyes at her, unsure if that look on her face is sadness or pity. Or worse… both?

She reaches for him, confirming his suspicion.

“Don’t.” He turns his head. He didn’t want her pity.

She returns her hand to her lap.

When he’s got his emotions under control and some walls up, he turns his head back to her and tracks his eyes down her body to her hand in her lap. The other is wrapped around the bottle in the crook of her leg resting on his. He knows his gaze on her is heavy, hungry. When he meets her eyes again, she doesn’t look away. “Where’s the ‘eat me’ cookie?”

Her eyes widen and her mouth drops in surprise. She narrows her eyes. “I don’t-”

He chuckles, tapping her bottle with his ring again. “Better lies, Granger. Lying poorly is against the terms of our truce.”

“How-”

“Ah ah ah.” He taps the bottle again. “Drink first, then question.”

She huffs at him before taking a reluctant swig. That look of challenge he both fears and adores crosses her face. “Why do you want to know where the ‘eat me’ cookie is?”

His smug, triumphant look at her confirmation of the cookie is short-lived because- sh*te. He pokes his tongue into his cheek. He takes a sip, refusing to answer. “Why tattoos?”

She bites her lip in thought. They sit for a while, him studying her as she crafts her answer. “I got tired of hearing that I didn’t seem like the person to xyz... Everything I did people were comparing it against some version of me I thought I’d left behind years ago. Why are they clinging so hard? Here I am in front of them and they’re talking about her. I think the tattoos started as a statement, ya know? Like a ‘f*ck you.’ Then I found I liked the whole ordeal. And I could become a collage of the things I loved most. Not just books and plants and stuff, but ideas. And they’re all so pretty. When I got my first few, I would just sit and stare at them. Now they’re all just ‘my skin.’ I don’t think about them so much. But I will say there’s a thrill in seeing someone get to explore them for the first time. There’s a rush of being traced and explored in that way. Like I’m the art. It…” She smiles self-consciously. ‘It turns me on a little bit. And I come with built-in conversation starters, ya know? ‘Oh, what’s that one?’ And ‘what’s that from?’ Sometimes I’ll forget if I have something and I have to text my guy back home like, ‘Did we already do the one of Pooh Bear fisting himself with honey’?”

He splutters on the sip of water he’d taken and Hermione cackles.

“I think it forced people to see me as an adult. My own person. A person who contains multitudes and doesn’t just fit into the simple little box they’d put me in. Would you ever get a tattoo?”

“Almost had one,” he replies, distant.

She frowns. “Really? What happened.”

His eyes snap to hers. “The Dark Lord fell.”

Slowly her eyes widen with understanding. “So… out of the question?”

He shrugs. “Tattoos and marks were touchy subjects with us for many years… Then you came along. I’ve heard Daphne and Pansy talking about it. I think… I think if you were to propose matching tattoos, that it would mean a lot to them. I think they’d say yes if they thought it meant a lot to you too.”

He can see the emotion in her face. He loves that some of his oldest friends have met someone who was moved to tears at the thought that they’d want a permanent way to remember her.

“Would that count as a grand gesture?” She asks.

He gives her a soft smile. “To them, the grandest.”

He hears the faint sound of Jay Z rapping over the Muffliato, ‘I don’t be at places where we comfy at with no be-atch. Oh no you won’t see that.’ “Have you ever cheated or been cheated on?” He asks.

She smirks. “That’s two questions.” Swot. “But I’ll answer them. To my knowledge, I have not been cheated on. And I have not violated the established terms of a relationship either in letter or in spirit. That’s my definition of cheating, by the way.” She winks and pokes at him. “A little bonus for ya. What about you? Same question.”

He looks down at her. “No. Never.” He licks his lips. “I’ll massage the truth. I am, after all, a Slytherin and a Malfoy. But, if I didn’t want to do something, I wouldn’t do it. If I don’t want to answer a question, I won’t. But I’m selfish, and possessive with what’s mine. I’m also careful, discreet… and loyal. I appreciate those qualities in the people around me, especially my friends. And they’re paramount in a partner. So no, I do not – how’d you put it? ‘Go against the established terms of a relationship either in letter or in spirit’.”

He takes a sip. Searching for another question. Something light this time. He remembers her rolling her eyes earlier while talking to Lavender and Parvati before fleeing to the library. “Do you believe in Divination?”

She scoffs. “Do not get me started on that drivel they dabble in. That is not Divination. Hmm,” she adds, tapping her chin while she ponders her next question. “How do you like to be loved?”

He closes his eyes and can’t help the smile that spreads across his lips as he gets lost in his thoughts. They wash over him in a warm, tipsy haze. Like her, he valued the little things above all else. As a man – and wizard – who had everything and access to anything, what else was there? She couldn’t possibly know how she’d stumbled onto so many of his love languages: bringing him good food and snacks; giving him things she knew or thought he might like; talking and texting with him for hours; expanding his worldview, respectfully challenging his beliefs (or, more politely than she did in the lab!); listening to him, seeking his advice; … making him feel smart and seen and… cherished. She was a good friend, after all. So, it was undoubtedly second nature to her, but not many people in his life did things for him just for the sake of it. Few people did anything for a Malfoy without ulterior motive. That he counted her such a good friend after only four months… meant the world to him. He feels a flush creep up his neck and cheeks and shakes his head, then raises his bottle for a sip.

“Malfoy!” She teases, waiting until he meets her amused gaze. “Surely you started this game to share information about yourself, and not just to get drunk,” she chides.

He shrugs. “I want to tell you things. There’s a war in here.” He taps his head. “Tell her, don’t tell her, tell her, don’t tell her…”

She chuckles. “Hmm, next time we play we should take veritaserum.”

His eyes flash to her and she puts her hand up in mock surrender. “I’m joking.”

“We only do Veritaserum on New Year’s. Just you wait. I hope you’ve been paying attention. Start preparing your questions now. We go for blood…”

She chuckles. “Good to know.”

His next question is, “Do you prefer kissing or cuddling?”

“Both. Don’t make me choose!” She grins. “I really like being touched. I like a hand on my shoulder, my thigh, my ass. I like being close. I like to sit on the same side of the table on dates. Seamus doesn’t mind but it… sometimes flusters Viktor. It’s kind of… cute.” She looks up at him. “Sorry, you don’t want to hear about Viktor.”

He smirks. “I don’t need visions of Krum slurping spaghetti at a little table playing footsie with you under the white tablecloth when I’m watching him play-”

She cuts him off to joke, “We play more than footsie,” descending into giggles when he growls at her.

“Granger, it’s fine. You can talk about them… But no, I’m not chomping at the bit to hear about your dates. As I’m sure you’re not interested in hearing about mine,” he hedges.

“Malfoy, do you actually enjoy dating? Getting dressed up, picking the restaurant, reviewing the menu? The nerves, the jitters, the excitement?”

He shrugs. “When it’s good, it's good. It gets tiring though. I want to be at the stage where I’m planning stuff for and with someone special. Not yet another first date. There are places I go alone or don’t take anyone but Mother so they remain untainted by dates. And so that the vultures don’t look for me there. I have some places I’d like to share with someone special but… I have to find her first.” He gives her a lazy smile, absolutely not imagining her across from him at that rooftop restaurant in Paris with breathtaking views of the city or that little beachside place in Solet. He slaps up some more walls. Speaking of which, “Who taught you Occlumency?” He asks.

Her eyes flash up to him. “I taught myself Occlumency. Who taught you Occlumency?” She asks.

It hadn’t been some hobby or passing fancy. Learning Occlumency had meant the difference between life and death… or worse, Azkaban. He gives her a weak smile and goes to take a sip.

She stills his hand and shakes her head.

His smile deepens with his next words. “Twenty. Let’s end the game off right, Granger. Tell me a secret about me. If you accept, I’ll give you a free dare for your dare bank.” He leans into her, so close their noses almost touch.

“Two dares,” she hedges.

He quirks a brow, nodding to accept the counteroffer.

She narrows her eyes. “Challenge accepted,” she whispers, not moving an inch.

“Good girl,” he growls.

“You are the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in my entire life, Draco Delicious Malfoy.” She grins ear to ear, eyes sparkling as she settles back into the booth.

His eyes widen. Delicious? He was Draco Lucius Malfoy. He was everybody’s cup of tea. But hearing it from her lips… and with that wordplay? His co*ck twitched. Merlin.

“Same question, same terms,” she offers, placing her champagne bottle on the table before plucking his bottle from his hands and placing it on the table beside hers with a smug grin, betting on him taking the bait.

He wonders if he should go for the gusto: You’re like nothing and no one I’ve ever met before… I can see myself falling in love with you.

Gods, he’s clobbered. He’d lost track of his alcohol consumption ages ago. He’s still trying to figure out how much of a bombshell to drop on her when her eyes widen and she Finites all his spells.

He can hear the music pounding in now. In one swift motion she pulls her leg off his and shoots up to her feet, albeit a little unsteadily. The DJ is scratching at the track and restarting the song as everyone hoots and cheers.

Chapter 36: HERMIONE - EIGHT

Chapter Text

TUE 31 OCT

“Finally, they’re playing some freaking reggae!” Hermione squeals in excitement. Up on her feet, she grabs at the water pitcher and pours them both a glass. She thrusts one into Draco’s hand and drains hers, motioning for him to do the same. When he sets his empty glass on the table, she drags him down the stairs onto the dance floor. She grins, holding his hand up and rocking her hips rhythmically from side to side. “Dance with me!”

‘If I ever tell you ‘bout Maxine, you would say I don’t know what I know but… Murder she wrote!’ The crowd roars the lyrics as the lights flash and their bodies press against each other. The DJ deftly strings together song after song. ‘Soon you will find out the man I’m supposed to be! Bam bam, what a bam bam!’

‘I would like to get to know you baby. Like to get a piece of that sexy body.’

‘For the longest while we’re jamming in the party, and you’re wining on me. Pushing everything right back on top of me… Let me hold you. Girl, caress my body. Turn me on, turn me on.’

‘Hot and groovy in the soca party. She’s hot and groovy. Baila with me baby… She show me a motion that get my attention. Jam me in a cozy corner and whisper softly to me. Groove me and move me in the soca party. She said to move me and groove me, work up me body.’

For every song he’s there, singing along with her when he knows the words. His hands around her waist, gripping at her hips while he moves in time with her. Even if they’re pulled apart from each other for a song or two, they find their way back and it feels like heaven in his arms. His hips pressed against her, his hands everywhere.

‘We danced all night to the songs they played. Weekend come again, do it just the same… Remember the songs used to make you rock away. Those were the days when love used to reign.’

‘When I find that girl, I’ll lock her down. I swear that girl will be the only one for me. The one that makes my life complete… Could you be in front of my face? Good love is something that I want to embrace. I got a King size bed but no Queen to share it with me. I want to know your name, right now. Right now.’

When the DJ starts transitioning back to Top 40, Hermione pulls them off the dancefloor for some air and to use the restroom. He waits outside the lavatory for her while she goes and then they swap places. He grabs her hand when he exits the restroom, diverting her from returning to the dance floor and leading her out of the side door to the alley instead. The crisp air hits them and she lets out a breath as she leans against the wall. He casts a warming charm and a modified Impedimenta so people wouldn’t want to open the door unless there’s an emergency.

His hands play in her hair as he crowds into her. “So beautiful,” he whispers reverently. He runs his thumb along her jaw then back up along her lips.

She pushes her hips into his, feeling how hard he is.

He rocks against her. Stepping in closer, he lowers his head to the crook of her neck. He breathes her in and on the exhale, he says her name so deep and slow that heat pools low in her belly like warm honey. “Hermione.”

She gasps. He hadn’t called her ‘Hermione’ in ages. Not since Narcissa’s party. Since that night there’d been nearly two revolutions of the moon around the earth and fifty-two revolutions of the earth around the sun. The earth had moved, but they’d stood still. Despite establish routines, traditions, and countless minute changes, they’d steadfastly remained ‘Granger,’ and ‘Malfoy.’

Except tonight. This moment. This thing – whatever it was – was between Draco and Hermione. For fifty-two days he’d withheld her name, and as it fell from his lips laced with heat and longing, it’s manna and sweet nectar. She could live on that sound alone. She recalls that novel and the passage that had moved her to tears. Dredged up again, she feels it so deeply it sends tingles down her spine.

She closes her eyes as he rests his forehead on hers. The seconds tick by slowly until they’re nose to nose. He shifts and softly, so softly, kisses her cheek. She smiles. He kisses the other cheek. Then the other. Back and forth. Back and forth. Slowly, slowly, making his way closer to the corners of her lips. His ginger-champagne breath ghosts between them when his lips graze hers.

She opens her eyes, turning her head when his lips graze hers again. “Malfoy,” she whispers.

“Draco,” he urges her as he playfully chases her lips with his.

She turns her head in the other direction as he closes in. “Malfoy.”

“Call me Draco,” he begs, wedging his thigh between hers and pressing into her. She can feel him harder still. “Give me my name.”

She drops her head to his chest and closes her eyes as she catches the reference, knowing he feels it too. They shouldn’t do this. He’s drunk. They couldn’t. “Malfoy,” she whines, looking anywhere but at him. She knows his eyes are on her. Can feel the weight of his gaze. When she finally, finally looks up at him, his gaze is heavy, and hungry. “Let me take you home.”

The quick flash of a frown is replaced with a wry smile that quirks up a corner of his lips. “Why?”

She blinks up at him, incredulous. “Why?” She smirks. “How drunk are you right now? Scale of one to ten.”

He shrugs, stepping back from her. “Eight.”

She pokes him gently in the chest. “That’s why.”

He shakes his head, confused. “What? It’s not like I said ten.”

She scoffs. “You should never be at a ten.”

His turn to scoff. He flicks his eyes down to her finger.

She brings the rest of her fingers and her palm flush with his chest. He leans onto her hand slightly. A little pressure, a little heat. She can feel his heart hammering under her palm. Oh.

“Pish, I’ve been at ten.”

She co*cks her head. “Yeah? Happy times? Best night of your life?” She asks, her voice tinged with sarcasm. “Tell me, were you drinking to remember… or to forget?”

Merlin, that look. That look he gives her is so sad and tender. And that’s why he needs to go home.

“That look,” she says, tracing his frown then touching the corners of his lips. “You wouldn’t look at me like this… at five or six.”

He scoffs again. Another sign. She’d never heard him scoff before. “f*ck five Draco,” he mutters.

I would. She thinks through her own tipsy haze. Tonight, I would. She lets out a long breath. They stay like that for a while – studying each other’s faces. His hands are on the wall on either side of her, holding up most of his weight.

“One thing,” he says after a while. “You glamoured your tattoos earlier. Show me one no one’s seen before.”

She lets out a puff of air and smirks. “The artist who does them is the first to see them. Even before me.”

Another scoff. “Right, fine. Someone besides the artist. They don’t count. The painter thinks of his masterpiece differently than the patron.”

“I don’t have one.”

He smirks. “A patron or a fresh tattoo?”

She chuckles. “You know what I mean.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t buy it. ‘The lady doth protest too much.’ But Granger, it’s your body. Your choice. You can say no.”

She runs her hands along his arms. “I know that.” She reaches out for his hips and pulls him into her. He steps in closer, dropping his hands from the wall, down by his sides. She pushes her hips against him. “I know that,” she repeats, smiling up at him. “I just don’t know if you’ll remember it.”

He gives her a soft smile, his hand back in her hair, playing with a curl. “You’ll have to pluck the memory out yourself… I know you can.”

She frowns. “I’m not a Legilimens.”

“Have you tried?”

She bites her lip and shakes her head. “I’ve read the theory but have not applied it.”

He tugs gently at a curl. “Try me.”

She searches his face, his eyes. “Are you sure?”

He nods his head.

She watches him for a while, unsure if he’s putting the walls up or taking them down… Or simply waiting. Like she is.

“Yes,” he says in assent.

She knows the first step to Legilimency is eye contact, which she maintains. She’s not doing this. This is a breach. He couldn’t want this. This wizard who kept all his secrets closely guarded, who was so meticulous about everything, would not want to be explored in this way. Invaded. That would be a violation. She bites her lip again.

She gives him a soft smile. “I didn’t do it.” She puts her hands on his chest. Feeling his heartbeat under her palms again. Still racing. She taps her pointer lightly over his heart. “I don’t want to do anything you’d regret.” She taps again for emphasis. “Anything.”

He leans into her and strokes his nose in the crook of her neck. “Tattoo reveal?” Back to their previous topic. He inhales slowly before placing a gentle kiss to her throat, then another, moving up slightly, another. Up, another.

She can feel the warmth of his breath on her sensitive flesh. Can smell him. Can feel him. His warmth, his heat. The full force of his affection and attention on her as it had been all night was heady. Intoxicating.

She lets out a shaky exhale. “Is all that part of the request?”

He frowns and steps back. “No. I just have you here and I want to touch you. I’m greedy. ‘I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it’.” More Shakespeare. He rakes a hand through his hair.

She misses him being so close and... everywhere. She rocks her hips off the wall and tugs him back into her.

He pushes into her, his hard length against her. She sinks back against the wall under his weight once more. He steps closer into her, slotting his thigh back between her legs. He lowers his head back into the crook of her neck, breathing her in before one tender kiss. Then another.

“I can’t unglamour specific areas. I’ve been practicing but I don’t have the focus right now,” she says, sighing as he nibbles at a sensitive spot. “And you’re distracting me. So, everything’s going to be visible.”

He gasps, excited that she’s met his request. He raises his head to meet her eyes and his smile is equal parts smug and genuine joy.

She can’t help but grin back at him. She snakes her hand between them to unzip the front of her catsuit, but he stops her, bringing her hands down by either side. He skims his hands up her hips, her waist, up her sides, her ribs, then up to her shoulders. Then back down. Gooseflesh trails in the wake of his curious fingers and she can feel the warmth of his palms when they meet in the middle of her chest. He unzips slowly down to her navel. She pushes the sleeves down her shoulders a bit, exposing more of her neck and chest and her tit* with the little cat-face pasties over her nipples. His irises are liquid pools of obsidian as they drink in the sight of her.

He traces a path up from her navel with a finger and she places her hand over his, stopping him at the place under the swell of her breasts where the piece will be when she Finites the glamours. Her new sternum piece. She whispers the incantation, and all her ink appears.

He traces the curls and intricate lines of the piece with his fingers, his knuckles grazing the underside of her breasts. He takes each of her hands in his and raises them above her head pressing them into the wall. He groans as her breasts rise with the motion. He lifts his hips then rocks them into her again, grinding against her.

She lets her head fall back with a moan that he swallows with a kiss. She thrusts into him, meeting his hips, grinding her cl*t along his thigh. Heat pooling low in her belly, pressure rising up her spine as she meets him thrust for thrust. Her nipples harden to peaks under her pasties and the pressure sends a frisson of heat to her core, mixing with the delicious sensations he’s building. He groans before rocking into her again. And again. And again. She whimpers as she meets each stroke, panting as she breathes out his name, “Draco.”

He groans, rocking against her again and again. And again. Harder, faster. His gaze upon her is heavy and molten as he drinks in every inch of exposed flesh. He drops his head down to hers bringing them nose to nose. He rests there letting them enjoy all the little points of contact. His lips graze hers, his breath a ghost on her lips before he captures them in a kiss that leaves her whimpering as he deepens it. Rocking all the while, unfurling something deep within her that demands release.

She shouldn’t want this. Not now. Not like this. She turns her head, breaking the kiss. “Malfoy,” she chokes out, breaking the spell. She’d gotten caught up in him again.

“I know.” He releases her hands, and she lets them fall limp by her sides. His hands find her waist as he dips his head to trail kisses down the column of her throat, then lower and lower still. She feels a slow, sensual trail of wet heat as he flicks his tongue out, laving at her skin, before sucking gently. Down between the valley of her breasts and finally onto the tattoo. He rubs his nose and lips against her skin, and she hums low in her throat, letting her head fall back against the wall. She feels his lips quirk up in a smile as he places one last kiss before righting her sleeves and zipping her back up. He thanks her and presses a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. She wraps her arms around his waist and pulls him into her. They stay like that for a while, swaying softly. Silent but for the sound of their breathing. And the distant sound of cars passing on the nearby street. The faint thrum of music and the bass line from the party inside.

“Apparate with me?” He asks after a while.

She nods in agreement against his chest.

He takes her hand and cancels the Impedimenta before Apparating them to his wing in Malfoy Manor. He points out the Floo to her as he leads her through the hall. “The Floo is just through there. Whenever you’re ready.”

She smiles up at him, nodding in acknowledgement.

He leads her to his room and casts soft light charms throughout. He steps into his closet and returns with some clothes folded in the crook of his arm. He hands her an oversized long sleeve Malfoy Quidditch tee with a huge grin on his face. His name is emblazoned in all caps across the back along with a Phoenix. His number, 04, is embroidered on the upper right corner on the front. He also brings her a pair of socks. “You can transfigure one into shorts and maybe the other into slippers? And here’s a tote bag for your clothes.”

She smiles up at him, tiptoeing to press a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.”

He walks over to the en-suite bathroom and after a few minutes she hears the shower running. She changes and explores his room. It’s crisp and modern and smells utterly like him – ginger and bergamot. There’s a TV mounted on the wall across from the bed. There’s a small writing desk in one corner with a laptop and a few books. There are some bookshelves along the wall between his desk and the closet door. She pads over to his massive closet where the scent of cedar and mint are strongest. Her eyes widen at the sight of the fainting couch and go wider still as her eyes trail the spiral staircase leading to another level. She hears the water shut off and pads back out to the bedroom proper. There’s a couch at the foot of the bed which sits between two giant windows that overlook the manor gardens. Each window has a padded seat with plush gray cushions. There’s another small couch along the same wall as the bathroom. The bedroom is painted a soft, off-white color, the plush carpet is light gray, and the bedding is white with black trim. The two bedside tables appear to be a pale oak wood. There’s a book on the left bedside table, which Hermione assumes is the side of the bed he sleeps on most often.

He chuckles when he returns from his shower to find her exploring the books on his desk. There’s a heavily annotated text on Philosophy, Politics and Economics. Under that lay a book about Neoliberalism in South America. And underneath that is an advance copy of a Chinese high fantasy novel.

“Swot,” he whispers before pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She taps the novel. “I want to read this one when you’re done. Padma called it ‘hauntingly beautiful’ in her review, and she’s always so spot on.”

He smiles and nods then conjures two glasses and casts an Aguamenti to fill them with water. She chugs the proffered glass as he does the same then motions for her to take the right side of the bed.

On his side, he pulls back the duvet and top sheet, climbs in under them, and beckons her over. She casts an Aguamenti on both their glasses to refill them and sets her glass down on the closest bedside table. She climbs in and he pulls her to him. “Thanks for making sure I got home okay.”

She smiles. “You’re welcome.”

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, his eyes on her lips. He lowers his head closer to hers when she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth.

It’s so hard to deny him when he’s all dark eyed and flushed. And so darn kissable.

“What if I kiss you?”

He nods.

“Lie back.”

He obeys her command, sinking down into the pillows.

She curls into him and presses a kiss to his cheek, his jaw, his neck and then snuggles into the crook of his neck. Breathing in his scent of citrus and warm spices until their breaths synchronize and deepen into sleep.

Extricating herself from his soft, warm embrace in the morning is harder than all the ‘no’s. It’s hard to give up the possessive arm around her waist and the leg thrown over hers. Hermione instantly misses the pressure and heat, the attraction, being desired – so thoroughly desired – and kissed – so heartily kissed. She knows she’ll think about his lips and his touch everywhere in the days to come. She will welcome the memories. Their private ghosts.

She conjures a sticky note from his desk and pens a note requesting that he text her later. She leaves it on his bedside table under a fresh glass of water. She quietly gathers her belongings and casts a five-minute Silencio on the Floo, grabs a fistful of powder, calls out clearly for Parkinson Manor and steps through the Floo into Pansy’s wing.

She pads down the hall to her room, strips down, takes a scalding hot shower and washes her hair. She falls into bed twenty minutes later, casts a Muffliato, and sobs. Her body screaming to release the full range of emotions she’d had to bottle up last night and processing all the new information and feelings that all felt so illicit.

Last night’s experiences had happened to a woman who knew how to navigate them better. She’d been in control (though he’d tried like hell to chip away at her resolve). She’d given herself over to the moment yet kept them back from the brink over and over and over again. She had no more ‘no’s’ left in her. She felt unmoored, like a farce had crumbled around her and she was floating out to sea amid the flotsam. Somehow the rum and Champagne had given her a clear head but in the new dawn her brain’s gone all fuzzy, and she feels raw. Exposed.

Draco was sweet and intense in equal measure. She still felt off-kilter and out of her element around him. Sometimes when the only thing between them was hundreds of miles and a fuzzy cell connection, she’d wake to his drowsy mumblings and listen to his soft, sleepy breaths and there’d be a tiny twinge of… something… A scintilla so small and middling she could blink it away. All of those little nothings had caught spark last night and if she wasn’t careful…

She sighs and glances over at the clock. 06:14 AM. She thanks the Gods that Snape gave them the day off from the lab and snuggles deeper into her pillows. Willing herself to calm the roiling in her brain so she can catch a few more hours of sleep. The weight and pressure of his embrace, his molten, raging heat and the scent of ginger and warm spices are decidedly absent.

Chapter 37: DRACO - SOBER MIND

Chapter Text

WED 01 NOV

Draco’s not sure if it’s the rays of the sun harassing his eyelids, the pounding in his head, or the insistent elf at his bedside asking him if he needs anything and adding that Mister doesn’t usually sleep this late on Wednesdays but he’s bloody awake now. Snape (in his bountiful mercy) had given his Apprentices the day off, knowing they’d probably need it to recover from the night before. How right he was.

Draco peeks through one slitted eye to ascertain the identity of the elf. “Céline, may I have a Hangover potion, a Dreamless, and some…” His eyes flicker to the wall on the clock but his vision is too blurry to read the dastardly time. “…whatever meal it is?”

She nods and disapparates with a pop, reappearing a minute later with his requests. He thanks her, downs the vials, and devours the meal.

He’d been present last night and had only used a faint baseline Occlumency to keep himself in check… until thatquestion during 20 Questions. He hadn’t gone full tilt so he could still feel everything. As such, he’d been lucid. Present. He hadn’t gotten too drunk in case things escalated, and he hadn’t known until he’d pulled her outside just how much he’d wanted her. And it wasn’t just the alcohol and the lowered inhibitions. It was number three on his list: He wanted to f*ck her. But they had so much baggage despite their wicked chemistry. And it seemed shagging him was not on her list. He certainly didn’t regret pursuing her so… brazenly. And he could chalk last night up to a bit of drunken fun. He wasn’t going to erase or jeopardize all the progress they’d made by making a big to-do about it. Especially since she wasn’t as interested as he was.

She’d been an excellent mate and ensured he made it home safely. Trust was important to him, and she hadn’t broken his trust in any way. Consent was also paramount, and she hadn’t taken advantage when she didn’t know if she had his anymore or if he was even in a state to give it freely. He’d offered her his mind and body and she’d protected them instead of… violating him. And for that he was grateful. He didn’t want to hurt her and now he knew that she didn’t want to hurt him either. Despite their incessant bickering, they bore no ill will toward each other. He was surprised that he didn’t feel embarrassed or indebted to her. She had a good heart and was truly impeccable with her word.

What he did feel, however, was… rejected.

She clearly welcomed his advances and had even returned his interest. But she’d leaned away when he tried to kiss her lips… Several times. And that last kiss in his bed had been sweet, so sweet, but… chaste, so chaste. He shook his head, refusing to wallow in those thoughts any longer. It was too early, and his mind was a buzzing, jumbled mess. He felt the slight pressure at the base of his skull as the Dreamless Sleep started to kick in. He needed to text her before he fell asleep again. He’d thank her. They’d put last night behind them. And they’d move on. No harm, no foul… as the saying went.

After Céline returns to retrieve the empty vials and breakfast tray, he reaches over to grab his mobile from his bedside table. He sends her a brief message. Thanks for making sure I got home okay, Granger. He puts the phone next to him so he can feel the buzzing if she responds before the Dreamless Sleep pulls him under.

He wakes hours later – parched and groggy – to the last rays of sunset and a message from her: You’re welcome, Malfoy! :)

Céline pops in again and asks if he wants to take his dinner in bed. He tells her to set it on the couch instead and he eats while finishing the new novel. There’s radio silence from Hermione the rest of the night and he tries to distract himself by starting a book she’d recommended.

He reads until midnight. His eyes are strained, and he’ll only be guaranteed a few hours of sleep if he can’t shut his brain up. It’s too soon to take another Dreamless so he asks Céline for a Sleeping Potion. He vows to try again tomorrow as he drains the vial. He’ll text her about the puzzles, give her the book in the lab, and they’ll return to normal. They will. They have to. He settles himself against his pillows and welcomes sweet oblivion.

Chapter 38: HERMIONE - BLIPS

Chapter Text

WED 01 NOV

A cloud hangs over Hermione’s day. She’s restless and insatiable all day. Her brain was too jumbled to do the puzzles or crosswords that morning. She’d even been too distracted to focus on the news stories and kept reading the same sentences over and over again. After late lunch she took a long, calming walk through the Manor gardens admiring the dark oranges and ochres of late fall. But after a nice, hot shower she was restless again. She attempted some light reading before getting dressed for class but couldn’t recall an iota of what she’d just read as she headed for the Floo.

She passes her lecture in a daze before muscle memory carries her to her tutoring appointment. Her phone buzzing during the session jars her from her torpor. She scrounges in her backpack for her phone to find… a text from him.‘Thanks for making sure I got home okay, Granger.’

She thinks better of responding immediately, opting instead to wait for a follow-up text, because surely, he has more to say about his uncharacteristic behavior. She turns her attention back to her tutorial group and their discussion on… um… lycopods.

There’s still just the one text from Malfoy as she’s exiting the classroom, so she shoots off a quick, ‘You’re welcome, Malfoy!’ and puts it out of her mind.

THU 02 NOV

Thursday is more of the same, and Hermione’s thankful at first. ‘You can do this,’ she coaxes herself. Believing it, living it… until her brain wanders to that text… again.

‘Thanks for making sure I got home okay, Granger.’

Halloween was fun. He’d been drunk and flirty. She’d been tipsy and… there. She’d been a willing participant. And yes, she’d made sure he got home okay and didn’t do anything he’d regret. They were friends. It didn’t mean anything.

Halloween was an… outlier. Thus classified, she’d remove it from her dataset like a proper researcher. Like he had. Fine.

Outlier removed, she takes a hearty bite of her blueberry muffin, opens her paper, and attempts the Puzzle page.

Her phone buzzes with a text from him inquiring about the proof she’s using. She replies to his request then requests a clue of her own. They’re texting about the Puzzle page over breakfast and it’s just like any other Thursday… Because it’s just another Thursday.

Her thoughts are still a jumbled mess as the elves clear her breakfast tray. She needed an objective observer. Someone who knew them both. Someone with a shrewd intellect and a keen eye to cut through the bullsh*t and chatter and ask the hard questions. Someone like… Hermione’s brain comes up empty. Pansy could fit the bill, except she’s one of Draco’s oldest friends… and admittedly biased, as evinced by their Lab kerfuffle. The witch had grown up with Malfoy and understood him better than almost anyone else. If Pansy told Hermione that last night meant nothing, she’d wonder what exactly Pansy meant by that. On the other hand, if Pansy told Hermione that it was something, she’d wonder what more she knew. Draco had played his cards quite close to his chest – never letting her get more than a quick peek – until last night when he’d let them slip in a drunken fumble. What’s more, Hermione couldn’t bear the alternative: That he’d only pursued her because he was drunk.

What exactly was she expecting here? This was Draco Lucius Malfoy. He only dated pretty, rich witches who were bred stricter than most dogs, lived in huge mansions, and came with trust funds and deep Gringotts vaults. Jean and Harlan Granger didn’t come from a long line of snippy, upper crust Lords and Ladies. Malfoy was out to find a wife. His intentions with any woman would be far from casual. Not to mention, he didn’t really do casual. Literally! She’d seen his attempts at casual, and they still involved bespoke tailoring and expensive pieces from esoteric French brands.

Draco Malfoy didn’t dress casually, didn’t carry himself casually, and certainly didn’t date casually. The Prophet and Witch Weekly didn’t plaster photos of his dates and pepper the Society pages with headlines about him because he was a playboy. They did it to be the first to get the scoop on what could potentially be his future wife. A woman who would ascend to the top of the Wizarding world like a queen. A woman who would have properties all over the world and access to unfathomably deep vaults full of jewels, galleons, and Merlin only knew whatever else rich wizards stockpiled. His family had near infinite resources at their disposal, influenced the lives of wizarding folk and magical creatures across the globe, were involved with several European Ministries, and even had their hands in Muggle politics! She’s so far out of his league that she’s surprised he’d even noticed her.

Halloween had simply been a fluke. They’d been friendlier as of late. They spent long days in the lab, and often talked well into the night. He’d gotten his wires crossed, mistaking affection for attraction. That’s what it was. She and he were just… a blip. Halloween had been a blip. The heat from his touch, possessive and curious all over her body: blip. The mounting pressure and pleasure from rocking herself against the swell of what she knew would be an impressivelittle dragon: blip. The feel of his lips on her skin, chasing hers for another deep, disorienting kiss: blip. His lips and tongue swirling and sucking, nipping and nibbling on her skin, trailing hickies in their wake: blip. His gaze heavy, hungry, and dark upon her lips, her neck, her breasts, her ass: blip. Blip, blip, blip!

But the thought of seeing him and pretending like all those blips hadn’t happened was too much to bear. She needed time and space alone to catalog and file them behind her walls. She needed the chance to tamp down the big feelings that were threatening to spill over and that couldn’t be allowed to grow another inch.

In utter need of a break, Hermione decides to play hooky. She could always tell Snape she was foraging if he asked where she’d been. She decides she’ll go to class and then get the heck out of England, planning to be on a beach well before sunset. She settles on a country she hadn’t visited yet: Portugal. She searches Google for a ranking of beach towns in Portugal. After cross-referencing that list with the location of Portuguese national parks, Aljezur emerges as a top contender. She’ll Floo from the British Ministry to the Portuguese Ministry in Lisbon and finally to the International Floo at Faro Airport. From there she’ll rent a car and drive west up the coast to her hotel in Aljezur. She’ll do the reverse trip when she returns and plans to check out the Magical District in Lisbon on her way back home.

She texts Pansy to alert her about her last-minute travel plans. She also texts Seamus to invite him to join her if he’s free.

Going to see Seamus? Pansy’s text asks.

Sure. Her noncommittal response, ‘Sort of,’ is not entirely a lie. Although it’s made even less true when Seamus responds that he’s on a mission and can’t accompany her.

Pansy’s reply comes shortly thereafter. We’ll talk when you get back.

Hermione feels her pulse quicken in a mini panic at the thought of rehashing all of this.

She packs her backpack as normal and adds a couple bikinis, some clothes to hike in, clothes for a nice dinner or two, and some other bits and bobs. She texts Penelope to cover her tutoring sessions to bring them even for previous favors and makes a mental note to bring the witch a bottle of something delicious from Portugal. She attends her mid-morning class, then lets her Herbology students out early and heads for the International Floo departures at the Ministry.

Chapter 39: DRACO - BLUR

Chapter Text

THUR 02 NOV - FRI 03 NOV

The Thursday Society page was filled with pictures and tidbits from Halloween. The largest image was one of Draco and his friends – minus Granger who is a friend, just a friend – walking past the line of people into the Leaky. Immediately below were the results of the annual costume contest and a blind item about several people streaking. There were no distinguishing details, so their secret was safe. He texted Hermione to ask if she was okay with the implications.

Her text response came almost immediately: Correlation does not imply causation… Besides, we weren't the only ones that streaked that night. I ran really fast. I’m sure if any images exist, I’m a blur. :)

Their text conversation continued to flow easily after that, and they were even joking with each other. It seemed Halloween was squarely in the past. So, he was surprised when Hermione wasn’t at the lab on Thursday.

Or at dinner on Friday. In her place are a few bottles that turn out to be from Portugal. He tamps down the thought that he missed her voice and likely would have called her and fallen asleep to the sound of the waves from her hotel room last night if he’d known she was out of town.

“Krum?” Daphne asks Pansy, co*cking her head at the bottles when she enters with Theo.

“Seamus.” Pansy shrugs, placing her napkin onto her lap. “Didn’t get more details and didn’t veto any clothing. Seemed spur of the moment.” She glances at Draco. “I haven’t seen her much this week.”

He clears his throat and gestures toward the bottles. “Pansy, share.”

Pansy reaches for the bottles and passes them to him.

The first bottle is Medronho, a translucent almost straw-colored fruit brandy from the Algarve region. Sweet with a pleasant burn. Next is Aguardente bagaceira, a clear grape pomace distillate more vegetal and less sweet than grappa. It’s better than the competitor grappa she’d previously sent from Italy. The third is a squat, ornate crystal bottle of Singeverga that he knows from the smell alone (before everyone else has spit it out) was sent with him in mind. It’s caramel colored and hits so many of his favorite herbal notes: vanilla, coriander, cloves, saffron, cinnamon, and nutmeg. He reads every single word of the label, learning how the liqueur is produced by the Benedictine monks at the Singeverga Monastery. In fact, it’s the only liqueur produced at a Monastery.

“When will that witch learn to stop sending me wines from rival vineyards,” Blaise jokes, eyeing the bottle of Aguardente murderously.

“Why, because you’re jealous?” Daphne quips. “Threatened?”

“No, because now we must acquire them. This,” he holds up the bottle, his mien softening, “is bloody fantastic.”

Blaise shoots Draco a conspiratorial look. Through mergers and acquisitions, Blaise continued to expand Zabini Orchards throughout Italy, Spain and Portugal. His expansion was proving to be quite the cash cow (another muggle expression he’d learned from Granger). He would, of course, accompany Blaise to any acquisition meetings and throw Malfoy Holdings’ hat into the ring. Say what you wanted about the man, but Blaise did have a good nose for business.

He texts her later as he climbs into bed. What time is it where you are?

11:15pm, comes her reply a few minutes later.

We’re in the same time zone for one of your adventures. Is this a first?

I think so! :) How’d you like the Singeverga?

Delightful. Though I was quite singular in my opinion. :) More for me. I’ve added it to my collection. Did you tour the Monastery?

Yes! I did a little cheeky Apparition.

Ah, where are you staying?

Not gonna guess?

He knew Portugal like the back of his hand. Several Malfoy Estate properties dotted the country and he’d had to learn everything about Portugal’s geography and terroir for some Zabini deals. Give me clues. Can I call you?

He waits, his heart pounding in his chest. Hoping against hope that she’d say ‘yes.’

He lets out the shaky breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when his mobile buzzes with her call.

“Hi,” she says softly, so softly, when he picks up.

He closes his eyes and smiles. “Hi.”

He hears her rise from the bed and open the balcony doors, amplifying the crashing waves. They sound close. So close that he almost feels like he’s there with her.

“Wow. You must be right on the beach.”

“I am.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “I visited the Nature Park and some cathedral remains today.”

He smiles as she begins to rattle off facts.

“Did you know this is one of the areas of Portugal the Moors occupied? One of the drinks is from this region-”

“Ah, the Algavre region. Medronho only became regulated a few years ago. Most Portuguese people prefer it homemade.”

“So, I’ve learned. I’m not in a very touristy place – coastal, natural. I came in through Faro and drove West, right along the bottom of the country. It was spectacular.”

“Why didn’t you stay in Lagos?”

“I’m a bit north from there actually. I wanted to visit the Park.”

“Aljezur?”

“Ding ding ding!”

He smiles. “What were you doing when I called?”

“Listening to a record.”

He admits he likes when hotels have record players and records. “What are you listening to?”

“Sam Cooke,” she replies.

“Ah, I’ve heard some of his stuff. What song were you playing?”

“I Belong To Your Heart. One of my favorites.”

He hears her pad over to the record player then the scratch and whirr of the music resuming as she drops the needle back down. He presumes it’s the hook by the swell of the orchestra.

‘I belong to your heart. Like the sun to the day. Like the stars to the night. I belong to your heart! As I kneel at your throne, say you love me alone. Let me hear from your heart, my love, that I belong.’

“Beautiful,” he whispers when the song ends.

“I love Sam Cooke. My dad has a lot of Cooke records in his collection. If I ever started one, I’d start with those. And I’d hunt down a copy of Lee Moses’ Bad Girl record.”

“I don’t know that one. Sing it for me.”

She giggles. “I wouldn’t do it justice.”

“Doesn’t matter. Let me hear you, Granger. Pretend we’re at karaoke. You sing me something…” He doesn’t know where he gets the gusto when he adds, “And I’ll sing you something.”

Years of piano had taught him how to carry a tune. He was more comfortable tickling the keys, but he could hold a note just fine.

Chapter 40: HERMIONE - RECORDS

Chapter Text

FRI 03 NOV

Karaoke was one thing, backed by the scratchy instrumental, buoyed by liquid courage in a dark room. Singing for him,was another thing entirely...

“Okay.” Hermione takes a deep breath, marshalling her courage and swaying her hips as she gets into it, holding her cell phone like a microphone. “Mama, they call her a bad girl. All because she wanted to be free. But I'm in love with the girl, and I believe that she loves me... Love is a mystery, can never be explained by anything. But I believe one of these days, the whole world will understand… What my heart feels, my lips must confess, and I would never let her alone… I don’t care if they call her bad, bad girl!” She’s breathless when she finishes, dissolving into nervous, excited giggles when she hears him applaud on the other end of the line.

“Brava, Granger.”

“Your turn,” she calls, launching herself onto her hotel bed, propping herself up on her elbows.

She hears him shift in his own bed, his voice low and sure in his chest.

“These. Arms. Of. Mine.”

She can’t help the gasp that escapes her lips at the deep rumble of his voice in her ear. Gods, his voice was good. Deep, silky, and smooth. Merlin! Was there anything the man couldn’t do?

“They are lonely. Lonely and feeling blue. These arms of mine. They are yearning. Yearning from wanting you. And if you would let them hold you. Oh, how grateful I will be.”

Hermione had never wanted to be serenaded before. Had always cringed at the thought. She’d always imagined it would be mortifying. Maybe it was because he wasn’t in front of her. There was distance between them, and she couldn’t feel his heavy, searching gaze. Or maybe it was because he was always so reserved, astute yet genuine. Something about that combination meant being serenaded by him couldn’t be cringey or awkward. ‘Hold my brain. Be still my beating heart.’

His voice was glorious stripped bare like this, sans tinny backing track at the karaoke place. Just him. All him.

“That was beautiful.” She knows she’s gushing but can’t help it.

“Thank you, Granger.” She hears him shift again. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

She smiles. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

He chuckles. “Grading exams, then helping Mother finalize the guest list for the New Year’s Eve party. Then we must select the invites. I was planning to duck out to attend that Lord of the Rings marathon at the theater. We’d planned to surprise you at dinner tonight, but… you won’t be back in time-”

“No, I won’t.”

“So maybe we’ll get the DVDs and do it ourselves some other night.”

“That would be fun!” It genuinely would. “What’s the dress code for New Year’s? Is it puffy ball gowns and tiaras?”

“Formal dress code. Long dresses and gowns, but not ball gowns. Some women wear dress robes, and the men wear suits and ties, but not tuxedos.”

“Are any of your mother’s event’s ball gown and tuxedo shindigs?”

“Black-tie? No. The only black-tie event is the Debutante Ball in the Spring, which is hosted at a different Manor each year. Next year’s will be hosted at McMillan Manor. Their heir’s banned from almost everything else so they’re… clinging to this. The rest of the Society fetes and innumerable teas and garden parties are all formal attire.”

“Like what?”

“The Parkinsons’ Litha fete in June for midsummer. The Faulkners’ Lughnasadh Ball in August-”

“Do you attend all of those?”

“Yes, I must. Mother wouldn’t hear otherwise.”

“Do you enjoy them?”

“No, not since we were children.”

“And now?”

“They’re inane. I sulk. I drink. I exchange tight smiles and trite remarks with the Pureblood witch on my arm. Mother and Father network. I abscond to the betting tables and take everyone’s money. I drink some more, maybe smoke a cigar…” He sighs. “Then I go home.”

She’d noticed he hadn’t brought a date to Narcissa’s birthday party. “But you don’t always bring a date, do you?”

“Rarely do I consider the witch on my arm my ‘date.’ Usually I’m ‘escorting’ someone.”

Hermione frowns. More of his March Hare word play. What exactly was the difference? “Those sound the same to me. What’s the difference between a date and an escort?”

“Context. An escort is a duty. A date is a choice. A pleasure.”

"The line must be gossamer thin, Draco, because I can’t see it.”

“The line is whether I’m seen with them again or whether we were seen together before. Are we dating or will we begin dating? Unless I’m dating someone, my escorts for Society functions are planned well in advance. I usually escort someone as a favor to Mother or upon request from Father to raise the profile of a business partner’s daughter. Context. Furthermore, I don’t bring dates to fetes hosted at Malfoy Manor. It would send the wrong message about my intentions. The woman on my arm at a Malfoy event is or will be the next Malfoy woman. It’s a tradition most heirs still follow. Besides, at Malfoy Manor events I’m usually playing host. The witch would either feel abandoned or they’d have to be on my arm or near me the entire night which would send the message to her and everyone that we were rather serious. Even without dancing the Sweetheart…”

“Wow. It all sounds so… grand.”

“Oh, it is. Just delightful,” he retorts, voice dripping in sarcasm.

“What’s New Year’s like?”

“It’s like Narcissa’s birthday party but bigger. Grander. Loads more people. We use a larger ballroom. There’s no dinner. Just passed apps and a refreshments table. People can graze or make plates and sit at small tables set off to one side. The snakes usually meet in my study around 8:30pm to exchange gifts. Officially, the festivities start at 9pm. Dance, drink, mingle, repeat. Countdown and then secret friends and family only stuff.”

“I see,” Hermione says.

“You’ll stay through all of that and breakfast.”

Oh? “Oh, for the… the secret friends and family stuff?”

He chuckles. “Yes, they might involve some veritaserum.”

“Right, Never Have I Ever-”

“And other things.”

Other things?

Chapter 41: DRACO - DISTRACTION

Chapter Text

FRI 10 NOV

By the next Friday, he and Hemione have slowly returned to their rhythm. It seems Halloween is a snafu they’ve buried in the past with no intentions to exhume. Fine.

Friday’s Full Moon is the Wolf Moon – one of the longest Full Moon nights of the year – dubbed the ‘Werewolf Moon’ by the snakes. It had been their annual tradition since childhood to spend the night at someone’s Manor, eating snacks and sweets, and watching movies all night long. As the years passed, the tradition had evolved from video tapes to DVDs to blu-rays to streaming services, and alcohol had been added to the menu. This year they’d spend Wolf Moon at Draco’s watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Harry’s favorite film franchise. Draco had seen the movies countless times but hadn’t made it even halfway through the first book – Strider was poised to tell the gang the tale of Tinúviel – but Draco had abandoned the quest, unable to bear yet another blasted song!

The snakes’ presence would also give the elves a captive audience upon which to test recipes for the NYE refreshments table. The day had been… interesting. Though neither he nor Hermione worked on Fridays, they’d both found themselves in the Lab for one reason or another. He’d been tweaking the heart potion for the Abbasi giants ahead of the looming deadline. As with many of the potions they were contracted to create on the Ministry’s behalf, the giants’ heart potion was a negotiation bargaining chip. An enormous deposit of sandstone had recently been discovered in the Bowland Valley smackdab in the middle of the Abbasi giants’ catchment area. Sandstone had several applications including the manufacture of glass, TV screens, and computer chips. The Ministry was brokering a deal wherein the giants would lease the land to developers who would provide the labor and mining equipment. The deal would directly line the vaults of at least half the Wizengamot members (including the Malfoy vaults) and the other half would benefit when the stock they held in the partner companies increased (including the Black vaults).

The giants, who dwelled in the caves and hills of the Bowland forest, were fierce negotiators and refused to continue talks until a working potion was offered for in vivo testing. In vivo testing - which the giants called ‘live testing’ - involved using the potion in a few test cases to evaluate the side effects and therapeutic benefit. If a potion was intended to cure or solve a particular issue in a small group, the next phase after in-vivo would be rolling out the potion for use. If the potion was intended for large-scale or commercial use, the next phase would be a Phase I research trial. The giants had gone radio silent with the Ministry and Wizengamot, only responding to inquiries from Snape Lab for more blood and specimens to support Draco’s in vitro (in the lab) testing.

And if the pressure from Snape weren’t enough, Draco’d also been pulled aside at Society events, business deals and even dinner at the Manor last week by Wizengamot members to apply pressure more directly. Hence his presence in the Lab today, tweaking a new iteration of the potion. He hadn’t been satisfied with the results from the batches he’d brewed in the steel cauldrons and found considerable improvements from the copper and brass brews. He’d been able to brew the potion at higher temperatures in the darker metals which made for a more cohesive product and faster brewing times. These features would help drive down the potion’s price at scale. He wouldn’t even bother with gold since the Apothecary that brewed their potions at scale charged a hefty premium for gold brews. He’d hoped for a breakthrough today. His research and fidelity tests with torqueo root signaled the root would be a perfect binder for the potion and would provide many cardioprotective benefits. It would also impart a deep, sweet woodiness to the potion that would significantly improve the taste. A feature he now optimized for in his brews thanks to Granger.

Speaking of whom… He’d been in front of his brass cauldron inspecting the brew and waiting for it to come back up to the appropriate temperature to add the torqueo when he looked up to find Granger strolling over to her Lab desk. Her hair was in a messy bun atop her head with her wand stuck through it. Her hair was always in two French braids at the lab. Always. This aberration meant she’d been called into the Lab very last minute. And there was yet another aberration that sent his mind reeling: her lab robes were open. She never kept them open, preferring instead to tweak the temperature charms he could feel whenever he stepped into her space to inspect her cauldron or proofread a report over her shoulder. There’d been a chill in the air that morning and Snape, who tended to overcorrect with the thermostat, had the lab hot as blazes. As such, everyone’s robes were open… including hers, it seemed.

He was treated to a rare sight as he flicked his eyes over her. Patent leather Mary Jane heels with a black and oxblood brogue pattern, sheer black tights, and a little black Corduroy dress she wore over a crisp white collared shirt. This Lab Granger was prim and proper with her collared shirt and pinafore dress, but heat licked up his spine as he remembered Hermione, and the planes of her delicious curves from Halloween. The champagne-tinged memories were fuzzy, but his body remembered heat and softness, lust and desire. The precise chemical co*cktail was stronger than it had been with a woman… ever. He hungered for that brew again.

The Floo roared to life again and a number of officials from Mungo’s and the Ministry had tromped in just as Snape rounded the corridor from his office to greet them. Draco saw Hamish Fischer fall behind the group. The bloke had been a couple years ahead of them at Prep and favored himself the wizard Doolittle, much to his father’s chagrin since he came from a long line of bankers. Hamish Senior was President of the Swiss National Bank and commanded the largest and richest Pureblood Estate in Switzerland. To make up for this divergent interest, Fischer had tacked on the standard heir majors (Econ and Poli Sci) to his Magical Creatures Mastery. It wasn’t enough to lead a hedge fund or a bank, but it was enough to head off bamboozling business associates and swindling solicitors.

“Are you coming, Hermione?” Fischer called over his shoulder.

An avowed animal whisperer, the bloke had landed himself a cushy gig with the Magical Creatures Unit (MCU). Although Draco had crossed paths with Fischer on previous potions projects and preparations for the subsequent Ministry delegation trips, he’d never attended any of those trips and Fischer never came to the lab. This arrangement worked for Draco because the git was almost as bad as Luna. Except he rambled about creatures Draco had actually seen with his own two eyes like kappas and kelpies.

Hermione smiled. “Yes, I just need my manticore file. I’ll see you in there, Blac- Blake.”

Blake? Draco had never heard anyone actually call the bloke, ‘Blake,’ since he’d always preferred to go by his surname, Fischer. There’d been a spell when the git had first made Slytherin Quidditch Captain where he’d wanted the boys to call him by his middle name - ‘Blake’ - but it had never stuck.

‘Blake’ stopped in his tracks. “Are you going to give me a tour, Hermione?” He teased.

A tour? He could not be serious. Unless one needed to know the precise location of the crushed Euglossini wings, one could take in the entirety of the main lab in a single turn. But this was not Draco’s business, and he certainly did not need the distraction. He’d taken a deep breath and busied himself with measuring out the volume of diced torqueo required for this volume of potion.

Granger giggled. “I could give you the tour now. It’ll be quick.”

Draco snapped his head up. She could not be serious.

“Oh yeah?” Fischer winked at him. “Malfoy.”

He nodded at the bloke, refusing to even speak his name. Not even ‘Hamish,’ which he knew would rankle. Instead, Draco returned his attention to his lab manual to double-check his calculations. He couldn’t stand the git. During his final year at Prep, the git had always bragged to the guys in the locker room before Quidditch matches about his hippogriff tattoo. He always kept it glamoured and apparently only his select few seventh-year friends ever got to see it. All the other boys just had to believe the rumors. That was ‘Blake’ for you: smoke and mirrors. Draco, Blaise, and Theo had never cared to ask what one needed to do to get into the inner sanctum. However, as he watched Fischer swagger over to Granger from the corner of his eye, he wondered if the conditions had changed. No matter, he’d never cared much for hippogriffs anyway. Draco rolled his eyes at Fischer’s act. He’d seen peaco*cks at the Manor display their balls with more tact. And self-respect.

Granger placed her arms on Fischer’s shoulders. “Spin for me.”

Great minds did think alike.

Fischer chuckled. “What’s that?”

She met his gaze. A look of challenge tinged with heat. Draco knew that look. Didn’t like that it was directed at some other bloke. In his presence, no less. “Spin.”

Fischer licked his lips. And spun. Slowly.

Draco stood to inspect his cauldron, ensuring he’d be found otherwise engaged for the rest of the ‘tour.’ He scooped the allotted torqueo into his palm, stirred once counterclockwise, then checked the time on his watch to note in his lab manual.

“Et voila,” she said. Not phased in the slightest that he could hear the smile in her voice. “The tour.”

“That was quick.” Fischer joked “Will you be in-”

“Draco, no-” Granger cut Fischer off, casting an Exorio, which lifted the torqueo out of Draco’s hand just as he was about to drop the handful into the cauldron. The stalled cuttings bobbed gently as they levitated mere inches above the rim.

He spluttered in confusion. “Granger, what the fu-” He looked up to find a 13” Khaya wood wand in her hand still pointed at his cauldron while, curiously, her 11” rosewood wand still sat atop her head keeping her bun in place. He narrowed his eyes. Just how close were she and ‘Blake?’

She rushed over to him with Fischer hot on her heels. “Torqueo is a class 1 accelerant. It’s positively explosive with copper. It denatures the metal simply by coming in contact with it. Page 712 of ‘Roots and Shoots,’ Malfoy. You said you’d read it,” she bit out.

He had. And didn’t appreciate the dressing-down. ‘Roots’ warned of torqueo’s explosive properties, but ‘Rhizomes’ said it was hogwash and that brass (an alloy of copper and zinc) was safe. “Yes, but Voinnet’s ‘Rhizomes’ said that brass was fine.”

It was written by a fellow Frenchman, so he’d taken his word for it. Furthermore, in his experience, ingredients that were contraindicated with copper often performed fine with brass. One just had to ensure they were using strong stabilizers. Which he was.

She scoffed. “What’s with you reading all these frauds and plagiarists? Alain Voinnet was interdicted last year. He’s a fraud, Malfoy.”

Interdiction was the harshest penalty for academic misconduct. A tradition started by the French Wizengamot (the Conseil) centuries ago and adopted unchanged (down to the name) by the English shortly thereafter. It was reserved for the most egregious cases and was particularly rare since it required unanimity. It was censorship, plain and simple. After interdiction, books were recalled, chapters rewritten, and all research credit stripped from the author.

“I’m surprised the book didn’t pulverize itself when the Conseil handed down the verdict. Unanimous, Draco. The first unanimous interdiction in 150 years. Burn it. It’s going to get you killed.” She’d demonstrated by plucking one of the cuttings and swiping it along the rim of the cauldron. The rim sizzled and bubbled, and a dark mark bloomed in its wake.

He let out a puff of air and felt his shoulders sag as he muttered, “f*ck.” He thought he’d done his due diligence. Thought he’d been using best lab practice by seeking two premier sources. Sources he trusted. But seeing the reaction on the rim proved his theory false. He’d now be adding ‘rim check’ to his pre-brew workups, thanks to her.

She gestured to the floating roots with Fischer’s wand before the bloke plucked it gingerly from her hand. A look of surprise crossed her face for half a second, but she recovered swiftly, her hand reaching up to find that her wand still sat squarely atop her head. She cleared her throat, a faint blush spread across her cheeks. “This much torqueo could level the workstation.”

She’d just narrowly avoided a second lab explosion all while flirting with ‘Blake.’ “Thanks, Granger. I mean it.”

She smiled. “You’re welcome.” The moment had been short-lived, however, because she just could not help herself. “You’ve got to start reading the trades, Malfoy. Herbology and Potions. I’ll get you subscriptions for Christmas.”

“You wouldn’t,” he retorted. He didn’t need some bespectacled bird showing up sweaty and winded from flapping those tedious tomes all over England. He’d tried to read a couple back-issues of Nostrum, the Quarterly periodical published by PSOP (the Professional Society of Potioneers), that Snape kept in his office, but they were nothing more than sheep food. He couldn’t make it a full page without yawning. “Just give me the highlights. That’s beach reading for you, right?”

She chuckled and gave him that look - the same one she’d given ‘Blake.’ “You know what I read on the beach.”

Oh. He quirked a brow. “On the beach too, eh?”

She nodded, straightening her spine as Snape bellowed her name from the conference room near his office. She sped off toward the corridor, leaving him and Fischer at his lab station.

“That was hot!” Fischer called out after her.

She waved him off. A stack of parchments and a pencil whizzed off her desk and disappeared down the hallway behind her.

Draco plucked the suspended torqueo from the air and deposited them back on his cutting board.

Fischer winked at him “She’s quick, that one. Beauty and brains. No wonder you had performance anxiety. Happens to the best of-”

“That’s not what I would call it,” Draco gritted out through clenched teeth.

“Which part did you take issue with?”

Since he was intent on adding torqueo, he had a tough decision to make. Go back to stainless steel or upgrade to gold. He needed to think. “Did you need something, Fischer?”

“What does she read on the beach?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco deadpanned.

Fischer co*cked his head. “I attended the Mungo Gala last week. You were decidedly absent. Astoria was there. Ditched Faulkner to cozy up to me.” He winked suggestively.

“She’s a free agent.”

“Free? You’re not… circling? She is a Greengrass.” He quirked a brow. “Or have you netted a bigger fish?”

Draco narrowed his eyes.

“Ah, a non-denial denial. Must be some witch. Wedding bells?” Not quite.

“Did you need something, Fischer?” Draco repeated. And he hated repeating himself. An hereditary aversion.

“Is there anything between you two?”

This could not be happening. He hadn’t so much as thought about Astoria in weeks. “Astoria and I are done. I’m not her keeper.”

Fischer clutched his middle as he doubled over in laughter. “I’m not worried about Astoria, mate,” he wheezed after he’d gathered himself… And had the gall to wipe a happy tear from the corner of his eye. “I’m talking about Hermione. You weren’t exactly giving that cauldron your full attention, if you know what I mean.”

“I was distracted,” he grumbled.

“Ah, you do know what I mean.” Fischer smirked. “How committed are you to this… distraction?” He co*cked his head.

“I’m not her keeper either.”

“Yes, but would you like to be?”

“I am not your competition.” And he wasn’t. Anyone who wanted that witch’s attention had to crowd out Finnigan and Krum. He wasn’t even on the board.

“You forget, Malfoy. I’ve read from the same ‘divert, not divulge,’ handbook for heirs as you have. We can stand here and talk in circles all morning, but you’re a busy man. And I’m not above calling dibs.”

But he certainly was. “My dates are front-page news, Fischer. If she and I were… anything, it’d already be in the bloody Prophet.”

Fischer scoffed. “Not if it’s a mésalliance.” An unsuitable match.

There hadn’t been a British mésalliance in almost a century. The French, however, had exiled one of their own just fifty years ago. They’d rebuked the union between Denis Delaire and his half-blood bride, Ursule Saint-Pierre. The French Prophet, Le Présage, and French wizard society had been whipped into such a frenzy that the couple – fearing for their lives or sick of the intrusion and vitriol or both – had simply vanished. Afterward, Delaire had made a name for himself in the Muggle press as a McLaren driver on the Formula One circuit, but had remained notoriously private. The Prophet had restructured shortly after the couple’s disappearance and kept a tighter lid on its operations, preferring to be more subtle and proving to be more receptive to payola than Présage (which folded shortly thereafter) may have been.

Fischer narrowed his eyes when Draco refused to take the bait. “Lucius would never allow that.”

Draco didn’t know if ‘that’ meant ‘him dating Hermione,’ or ‘news of their escapades being printed in the Prophet.’ Either way the git’s subtext was clear. He believed that whatever Draco and Hermione were (or were not) was damned by circ*mstances well beyond their control. That if the Fates didn’t doom them, Lucius’ prejudice surely would. And would be bolstered by the traces of anti-Muggle discrimination that still lingered in people’s hearts despite the strides made since the Almost War.

Besides, asking for clarification would have signaled interest and tip his hand. And he couldn’t stand there ignoring the git forever. So, he’d had to – how’d the git put it – ‘divert, not divulge.’ “Look, I am a busy man. If you want to explain to the Wizengamot why this potion is further delayed, by all means let’s keep nattering away. You got the tour and you’re…” He glanced down at his watch. “Ten minutes late for that meeting. You know how much I loathe repeating myself…” He paused for emphasis. “But did you need something-”

“Blake?” Granger called as she rounded the corner. “They need you to give report from your last site visit. They’re not convinced by the data. They want you to paint a picture,” she added dryly.

Fischer gave Draco a onceover before winking. “Coming, dear!” He called, bounding over to her.

She swatted him in the gut. “You’re in rare form today. Jones invited me out to trivia in Glasgow next week. You didn’t tell me he-”

Draco lost the thread of their conversation when they got too far down the corridor. Didn’t tell her what? Didn’t tell her what! Once again, he found himself wondering just how well Granger knew a person and when they’d even met. He’d declined previous Ministry delegation trips since he never knew when Lucius would spring a new prospectus on him and pull him into a business meeting or Estate deal. But it seemed high time he joined a delegation or two… Just to see what all the fuss was about.

It wouldn’t do to have a Lead Apprentice with no field experience. Snape had said something similar months ago before assigning Granger her first trip. Yes, he’d talk to Snape about adding him to delegation trips in the new year.

After that, the hours had ticked past slowly as Draco started his brew from scratch in the stainless steel. He’d directed the caterer elves to put the leftover food on the end of the second long workbench around 12:45 PM, then picked at a sandwich while the brew came up to temp. The torqueo was added to the stainless steel brew without incident and somehow the feeling of success was anticlimactic in the shadow of the morning’s tumult. He bottled the test brew, finished his lab report, and added a Monday debrief meeting to Snape’s scheduler.

Back at the Manor, Draco’s waylaid at the Floo by his father and Stan Parkinson who ask him for an update on the giant potion. “There has been a development. You should receive an official update on Monday.” They hem and haw, pressing for details until they hear the voices of Narcissa and Brigitte Parkinson approaching.

“Draco, will you dine with us at the Moonrake tonight?” Brigitte asks as she kisses both of his cheeks.

Mother tuts, patting him on the cheek. “Oh, Birdie, you know he hates the club.”

He did.

The Moonrake in Wiltshire was England’s oldest wizarding social club. Even older than White’s. The true etymology of the club’s name was a hotly contested issue. Some argued moonrakers were the Wiltshire gangsters who had smuggled casks of moonshine between hay-covered drop sites under the cover of darkness and others argued it referred to the Wiltshire drunkard who tried to rake the moon out of the Shearwater lake whenever he was deep in his cups. Either way, the name paid homage to the town’s deep thirst for spirits. Pureblood Elders went to the Moonrake to tipple, dance, and gamble, tucked away from the prying eyes of the Prophet. Draco rather preferred to get drunk in the privacy of his own home, but his parents were more socially inclined than he was. Hence, they frequented the Moonrake on Friday evenings. Sometimes they popped over to France to imbibe at its sister club, Balivernes.

He loved his mother dearly, but tipsy Narcissa was a handful. And his father? The closest the man got to letting loose was within the confines of his club. The two of them together was a nightmare.

Draco smiles at Brigitte. “I must decline tonight, Mrs. Parkinson. I’m hosting friends for dinner.”

She smiles. “Next time then.” She turns to his parents. “We’ll see you in an hour?”

Narcissa nods.

Draco takes his leave and returns to his room to shower and change ahead of dinner. Since it’s going to be a long night, he opts for a tee shirt and joggers with a jumper draped over his shoulders in case there’s a chill.

Hermione’s the last to arrive. Zadie leads her into the sitting room where they’ve gathered for pre-dinner aperitifs, custom co*cktails the elves had developed to ring in the new decade.

“Sorry I’m late,” she calls to everyone, smiling at him as she accepts the drink he proffers.

“It’s a silver bell,” he says. “Gin, lime, sugar, mint, club soda, cucumber.”

“Mm, refreshing,” she says as she takes another sip. “How’s the heart potion?”

He smiles. “I switched to stainless.”

“And…”

“No explosion.”

“Malfoy!” She swats him. “Is it done?”

“Yes, I finished it. I’ll brief Snape on Monday. We’re ready for the rollout.”

“This is exciting! Did you toast already?”

He chuckles. “There’ll be no toast.”

“Malfoy! At least cheers with me.” She smiles. “This is huge!”

He clinks his glass with hers.

“To torqueo,” she chides, earning her a tickle hex.

She’s giggling and clutching her sides when Theo and Blaise sidle up to her.

“What’s so funny, Professor?” Theo asks.

Draco cancels the hex so she can catch her breath.

“What?” She asks.

Blaise chuckles. “We’ve heard so much about buttoned-up, swotty Granger, but had yet to see her in the flesh.”

Draco scowls at him.

“So, this is what’s always hiding under those dastardly robes,” Theo adds, earning him an elbow to the ribs. “Do your students call you Professor, Professor?”

Granger rolls her eyes. “No, they call me, Hermione. And if you call me Professor again, I’ll hex you.” She flashes Theo a devilish grin. “Something new I learned this week.”

“Ooh, a little Irish Delight?”

Draco stills her hand as it inches toward her wand and nods toward the elf who’d led her in. “Zadie, we’re ready for dinner. Please inform Céline.”

Chapter 42: HERMIONE - 4AM

Chapter Text

FRI 10 NOV

They’re in yet another Malfoy Manor dining room, eating a sumptuous spread prepared by the elves. Remi and Céline, explain each dish and the wine pairing before disapparating to let them eat the course away from their curious gazes. After each dish, Draco summons the elves to hear reviews before they plate the next one.

They’re eating and talking excitedly, discussing a lamb dish when Narcissa and Lucius enter. The gang all stand to greet them. Hermione glances over at Pansy to make sure she’s not breaking some obscure Pureblood rule or ritual. One could never tell with these people. The witch looks shocked and almost pale when they lock eyes.

‘What?’ Hermione mouths.

Pansy just shakes her head and looks down.

Hermione follows her gaze, hoping she hasn’t spilled something on herself or that she wasn’t about to be found by the regal and formidable Lucius Malfoy to have used the wrong fork.

Narcissa and Lucius circulate around the table, greeting each person in turn. Soon they’re in front of her. She’d only seen Lucius at Narcissa’s birthday party and had exchanged less than a handful of words with the man. He looks like an older, shrewder Draco. With the same silvery blond shade of hair, in a long straight ponytail down his back. He’s severe and imposing in pitch black robes, black trousers, and a walking stick. His inky dragonhide boots are so matte they seem to smolder and suck the light into themselves. His eyes are a darker gray than Draco’s and don’t have the same specks of green. He has a few gold and jeweled rings on his fingers, including an amethyst on his pinky she imagines is from Narcissa. But his signet ring catches her eye. The band is gold – whereas Draco’s is platinum – and while Draco wears his on his right hand, Lucius’ is on his left hand, signaling it’s his wedding ring and tied to another’s. Narcissa is dazzling today in a rich aubergine robe and black heeled boots that match her clutch.

Hermione kisses Narcissa on both cheeks and Narcissa compliments her shoes as they step away from each other. “My darling, they’re divine.”

They were a practical gift from Viktor. She’d started accepting those. Her eyes flicker over to Pansy again to find the witch’s eyes are even wider. Hermione fights the urge to roll her eyes. How could she possibly be f*cking this up?

Narcissa continues to cluck over her, peppering her with questions about the lab and her courses. Lucius remains stoic and unreadable. Hermione knows enough from Draco’s expressions to know that the man is not bored. She might even venture to say he appears curious, almost keen.

“My dear.” Narcissa says as she reaches for her hand, slotting their palms together then raising their arms. It’s only when she feels Narcissa trace along her skin that she realizes why Pansy was having a f*cking conniption. She gotten new tattoos in Portugal. One piece for each snake and she’d glamoured them to surprise them later. She’d modified a vestigium spell to lock onto the traces of magic that her tattoo artist, Francisco, had left behind after healing each piece.

Vestigium spells had a wide host of applications. They were used by Aurors to detect magical signatures at crime scenes and on dark artifacts. Vestigia were also used to review the recent spells cast by a wand and were the basis of traces, Portkeys, and the spells they used to vanish items from one place to another or send items through to Ronaldo’s. Despite its track and trace functions, a vestigium wasn’t necessarily dark magic, but the way she was applying it was certainly gray. Now that she knew what to look for and could pinpoint the vestiges that foreign magic left behind, she had found the last faint tendrils of magic left behind by Dean when he’d healed her tattoos during their last session. The trace was too faded to manipulate with a glamour charm like she’d done with Francisco’s traces, but she wondered if Seamus knew any spells she could use to amplify the trace. Although, if he did, that would certainly be crossing over into dark and unspeakable magics.

“These are beautiful,” Narcissa says, cracking into Hermione’s reverie. “How long have you been collecting tattoos?” Narcissa has full view of her forearms since Hermione had forgotten to roll the cuffs of her sleeves back down and glamour the rest of her tattoos when she’d walked through the Floo.

Stunned, Hermione splutters and trips over her words. She never thought she’d ever discuss her tattoos with this woman. She tells Narcissa she started collecting them – her word – when she was 18 and that they’re mostly related to literature, music and film with some plant-related filler pieces and any random bits that had struck her fancy.

Draco snorts – no doubt thinking of frisky Pooh – and his father snaps his eyes to him in censure. Blaise and Theo slump against each other in silent laughter. Daphne covers her mouth with her hand. Pansy and Harry exchange looks, begging each other not to react lest they start laughing and receive the same scathing glare from Lucius.

“Well, your glamours are impeccable, Miss Granger. I’ve seen you a handful of times and never would have known you had these. Wouldn’t you say, dear?”

And though Hermione appreciates Narcissa for always making her feel welcome in her home, she wished she could tell her she didn’t have to make the block of ice she called a husband thaw to her. She already had her hands full with one Malfoy man.

“Fooled me,” he drawls in his crisp imperial tone, without a hint of emotion. His eyes slip lazily to hers then flick over her arms before he turns his attention back to his wife.

Hermione shudders at how much he sounds like Snape. Hermione notices Narcissa fidget with her pendant necklace.

Having said his piece, Lucius places his hand in the crook of his wife’s elbow, and they bid everyone a good night as they depart.

It’s only after she hears the roar of the Floo that Hermione allows herself to slouch in her seat. “Why did that feel like meeting the King or something?”

Theo winks at her. “Those two are far worse. When you meet the royals on New Year’s Eve, it’ll be much tamer.”

She glances at Draco, who just shrugs. After dinner he leads them to a sitting room in his wing with a gigantic TV, a sound system, and assorted media players. She’d never imagined the space he used to consume all her media recommendations. But this warm space with plush sofas, high-pile carpet that she imagines will feel so warm and soft under her bare feet, and top of the line electronics certainly tracked.

Pansy pulls her aside and informs her that Narcissa never gives compliments like that. “Divine is not a word Narcissa uses often. She tells people they look ‘well,’ that she likes a color they’re wearing. She compliments an attribute, but never a look or a thing. Not unless she means it.”

Hermione smiles and thanks Pansy for the translation of that weird encounter. She supposes she should be happy to get Narcissa’s approval. But her shoes are starting to pinch, the tights itch, and she’s tired of being in stiff, business casual clothes. She wants to be in a soft sweatshirt and leggings, sprawled on one of the soft, plush couches watching a movie with Malfoy beside her, warm and delicious-smelling, peppering her with questions.

She catches his attention and gestures for him to meet her by the door, out of earshot of the others.

Once he’s in front of her, she starts, “Hey, I need to go change-”

“Oh, do you need a change of clothes?”

She shakes her head. “No, I brought some.” She quirks a brow at him. “Why? Are you trying to get me in another one of your Quidditch jerseys?”

He smirks at her as she exits the room, heading for his bedroom. She hears Pansy let out a loud “Oh?” behind her, but it’s none of her business. Her itchy tights and aching feet are her primary concern. She enters his room and closes the door softly behind her. She unlaces the shoes and kicks them off, sighing in relief to have her feet flat on the ground. Even with the cushioning and Talus charms her feet ached from being kept at that angle for so long. She rolls them and vows to massage them during the movie. She smirks, wondering what Draco would say if she asked him to massage them. They hadn’t exactly given each other straight answers on Halloween.

She removes her tights and is just bending over to pick up her discarded dress when there’s a soft knock on the door. “Come in.” She whispers.

“There you are.” He lets himself in, shutting the door softly behind him. “Pansy gave me the third-degree. Asked why you turned right.”

Hermione frowns in confusion.

Draco gives her an understanding smile. “There’s a washroom down the hall. If you were going there, you would have turned left.”

She shrugs. “I didn’t know.”

“Exactly. Hence, the conundrum. What did you tell her about us?”

She flushes. “Nothing?”

“Nothing?” He frowns at her. “Why not?”

She glares quizzically up at him and can feel her nostrils flare. She calms herself, choosing instead to take the Slytherin tack. She co*cks her head. “What would I have said?”

He steps away from her, rubbing the back of his neck.

She smirks up at him. “Right.” She gestures to her body where she’s standing in just her collared shirt and underwear with her dress, and tights in her hand. “Look, I’m in the middle of something here.”

“Right,” he says, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. On his way out, he stops by his desk and taps on a book. “For you. I expect your thoughts this week.”

Everyone makes it through much of the first movie, but a few begin to doze during the second. Soon people are whispering ‘Good night,’ and slipping out of the room toward the Floo. As the only two who’d read all the books, Malfoy and Hermione are awake throughout all the films, whispering about each one. Soon it’s just the two of them. The final movie ends, and they tidy the room until Gabriel and Zadie Apparate in and shoo them out.

Draco slings her backpack over his shoulder, and they walk back to his bedroom. They settle onto the couch at the foot of his bed.

She glances at the wall clock above his desk. “Gosh, it’s 4am.”

“I’m not tired. I think I got my second wind.” He quirks his brow at her to make sure he’s used the expression correctly. “But if I hit that bed I’ll be out like a light.”

She giggles.

He smirks. “What? Did I not use that one correctly?”

She smiles. “Yes, you did.” She crosses her legs under herself and rests her head on the back of the couch.

“About Halloween-” he starts, breaking the silence.

She closes her eyes, batting down the swell of emotion in her chest. “Malfoy, it’s 4am.”

“So… you don’t want to talk about it?”

“I’m still gathering my thoughts.”

“Still?” He frowns. “It’s been two weeks.”

“It’s too soon.”

“Too soon?” He shifts so he’s facing her. “Too soon for what?”

She shrugs and stands. “It’s 4am. Nothing good happens after midnight. Can we agree to disagree about having a conver-”

“You can stay.”

Oh.

“Stay?” She echoes, her voice a whisper.

“Yes. Here.”

“Here?”

“Granger.”

“I…” She bites her lip. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“It’s just to sleep. I won’t touch you.” He shifts again, this time angling his body away from where she stands. “I won’t even look at you,” he teases.

After a minute, she sighs. “Halloween… you were so drunk-”

“I wasn’t so drunk.” He shifts back around and lifts his head to look up at her.

She rolls her eyes.

“I had my wits about me that night. I Apparated us here, didn’t I? And I don’t see you splinched. You weren’t splinched. I wasn’t splin-”

She interjects. “Yeah, but you were at an eight-”

“Which is just one more than the seven I was aiming for-”

“You were…”

“What? I was what?”

“You were different.”

“How so?”

She chews the inside of her lip as she tries to find the words. “You know… different.”

He chuckles softly. “Granger, use your words. I know you know all of them. Use some different ones.” He nudges her foot with his.

She huffs.

Something flickers in his gaze. “We said do-over, right? Fresh start. This is me using mine. What are you doing?” There’s an edge in his voice. Blink and you’d miss it.

She flops back on the couch and lets her head fall into her palms. “It’s 4am.”

“No one else I’d rather talk to.”

She feels the heat of a blush rising up her cheeks. “Why aren’t you like this around everyone else?”

He chuckles, gently placing a hand on her back. “I gained your words, but I lost your face.”

She stiffens and turns her head to meet his gaze. “I can’t have this conversation right now.”

“I can see that.” He lifts an eyebrow, removing his hand from her back before waving it in mock dismissal. “Well, when you’re ready, you know where to find me.” He stands and she leans back, resting her head on the couch, taking him all in. Socked feet, dark gray joggers, a light gray Oxford University sweatshirt. Her fingers ache to run through his soft, disheveled hair. His eyes are keen and searching. “Shall I walk you to the Floo? Or would you rather slip out without saying goodbye?” His lips curl into a smile.

Despite the teasing, it still feels like she’d failed some test. They’d agreed that trust was important to them. She’d pulled them back from the brink many times that night, stopped them from doing more than they ought. Despite the distance, her mind was still a jumbled mess. And somehow this was her fault?

She feels his eyes on where he knows that tattoo is, and Merlin help her but she takes the out. “I got a new one.” She smiles. She’d explored the Bairro Mágico in Lisbon during her return from Aljezur and had gotten a few pieces at a Magical tattoo shop.

“Is this a world premiere?”

“Yes. I got a Celtic Friendship knot for Nott; a grape cluster for Zabini; pansies for Pansy; daphnes for Daphne, and…” She quirks a brow up at him, signaling for him to guess.

“Sexy for Draco? What, you got a little mudflap girl on your arse for me?” He beams. “You shouldn’t have!”

She swats at him, pushing him away as she stands.

“No, a dragon.”

He co*cks an eyebrow. “Where?”

She takes a step closer to him. “Guess.”

His eyes flick back down to her feet. She’d noticed him catch a glimpse earlier. “How do you decide on a color?”

She shrugs. “Pansy taught me the charm. No doubt hoping I’d stick to ‘Pansy pink.” She snorts. “But if I see a color I like, I set a snapshot in my mind then I say the unguis spell.” She wiggles her toes. “Et voila. Gamma Leonis.”

“The exoplanet from today’s Prophet? The one near Neptune.”

She nods.

“But they’re blue.”

She smiles. “So is Neptune.”

“And not your fingernails because?”

“Because I’d bite them down to the quick.”

He smirks down at her as she puts on her poshest accent.

“And Pansy said a proper lady doesn’t bite her nails. It’s less tempting if I leave them bare.”

“Hmm. First guess.” He touches the side of her hip where his grip had been possessive, almost bruising, weeks ago. “Here.”

“No.” She giggles, shaking her head. “But you’re gonna lose it when I tell you what is there.”

“Here,” he says, his fingers grazing her ribs. She rolls her eyes and moves his hand down when she feels his thumb grazing the underside of her breast.

“No. Final guess?”

He skims his hands down to her hips and spins her around so her back is to him. He trails a finger down her spine, bringing his hand to rest on the small of her back above the curve of her butt. “Here,” he croaks.

She turns her head, looking up at him over her shoulder before shaking her head.

He steps into her and presses a warm, lingering kiss to her temple as he pulls her flush against him. He takes her hands in his and wraps both of their arms around her body and begins to sway them from side to side.

She leans her head back on his chest as he starts humming, the vibrations a low rumble against her back. She catches the tune and hums along. ‘And I'd give up forever to touch you, ‘cause I know that you’d feel me somehow. You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be, and I don't want to go home right now… And I don't want the world to see me, ‘cause I don't think that they'd understand. When everything's made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am... I just want you to know who I am.’

She unwraps their arms from around her and releases them at her sides before turning to face him, resting her forehead on his chest. She should go. It was nice to just stand still with him and breathe. But it was late and the longer she dawdled the harder and harder it was to deny the prospect of falling asleep in his big bed, with his arms, scent, and warmth around her.

His hand finds her wrist and he absentmindedly rubs lazy circles with his thumb like he’d done that day in the kitchen. Looking back on it now, that day had shifted things between them.

She looks down at their hands and chuckles, catching his gaze as she looks up at him.

He quirks a brow in surprise. “Here?”

She nods and he rolls back the cuff of her right sleeve to reveal a dark, thin dragon with jewel-colored striations coiled around her wrist, breathing fire.

His smile spreads slowly across his face. “I’m honored.” He brings her wrist to his lips, trailing kisses along his namesake. “And where are the pansies and daphnes?”

She glances at the clock over his desk and gives him a soft smile. “Some other time?” She meets his gaze. “Goodnight, Malfoy.”

He starts to follow her, but she puts her hand on his chest and gently backs him up until the back of his legs hit the couch and he perches on the edge of it. He catches her wrist as she pulls away and pulls her into him, nuzzling into her neck and kissing her there once, twice. “Night, Granger,” he whispers.

Neither brings up the preempted conversation again. Though they return to their routine, they can feel something building but neither wants to be the one to call the other’s attention to it and break the spell.