Malfoy Manor isn't exactly how she remembers it.
Admittedly, the last time she saw this place, it was the Easter holidays of her absentee seventh year and she was terrified out of her damned mind. But she's certain that something about the Manor is different today.
Some things are the same. The enormous grey home still has its endless turrets and windows, and those imposing hedges still line the long drive. Hermione just can't place the difference. And then she sees them.
The writhing, black entry gates that guarded the Manor – the ones made of malevolent enchantments – have gone. In their place are what appear to be perfectly ordinary, wrought-iron gates. The kind you'd see in front of any stately old home in the English countryside…if that home were Muggle.
For a minute, Hermione is baffled about what to do with them. She shifts the cakebox to one hand and her wand to the other, ready to perform any number of spells to get the Malfoys' attention without touching those gates.
A quick Sonorus, perhaps?
Oi, Malfoy! Fancy some sweets? But of course you do, you colossal ferret.
Maybe not.
Faced with the normalcy of such gates – in front of Malfoy Manor, of all places – Hermione feels quite at a loss. The feeling does not dissipate in the slightest when a tinny voice calls out to her from what resembles an electrical speaker, set off to one side of the gates.
"Does Miss need some assistance? Miss has been standing there for an awfully long time."
It takes Hermione a few seconds to recognize the high-pitched voice as that of a house-elf, and a few more seconds to school away the grimace that accompanies this recognition. There's a good chance that the Malfoys have wards set to alert them to Apparitions, and an even better chance that they're watching her right now from the windows of their huge home. It will do no good for Hermione to storm the place with a judgmental glare and a few choice words about house-elf injustice. Not if she wants to complete this Tour the right way.
Juggling the items in her arms, Hermione presses a small button below the speaker. "I'm…I'm…."
Her mind goes ridiculously blank, before she plunges on in just two breaths.
"I'mHermioneGrangerandIbroughtsomethingfortheMalfoys." A gasp, and then: "SomethingforalltheMalfoysbutjustDracowilldo."
She pants at the end of the speech, absolutely horrified at herself. Over two months of preparation, totally wasted in the face of plain, old gates. She's just about to Disapparate in humiliation, when a different voice comes through the speaker. One that she instantly recognizes, mostly from hearing it hurled at her so many times in the past.
"Granger?"
He sounds the same, she thinks. But…different. Like the Manor itself.
Maybe it's because his voice is a bit deeper than the last time he called her a dirty name. Or maybe it's just the distortion of the intercom. That might also explain why he doesn't sound scornful, but…amused?
Hermione takes a few seconds to calm down and then pushes the button again.
"Hello, Malfoy. I'm just here to drop off a gift. Could you open the…erm…well, perhaps you might…remove the wards from the…?"
She hears what distinctly sounds like a laugh – a real one, not a cruel snicker.
"I'll buzz you in."
And just like that, the gates of Malfoy Manor open with a low electronic whine. Hermione takes one hesitant step, then another, and then scurries past the gates as though they might try to bite her. She spares one backward glance at them, baffled to see an electrical pulley system moving them back into place. Which makes no sense, because…well, because Magic. And Malfoys. And Magic, dammit.
By the time she makes it to the expansive front steps of the Manor, she is sweating despite the cold, and her hair has freed itself of its ponytail to curl into a spectacularly ungroomed mess. Notwithstanding her mission of reconciliation and peace, she is quietly cursing the landed classes and their need for long-arsed driveways so as to intimidate any visitor with conquest on his mind.
It's in this disheveled, unprepared state that the massive double doors of Malfoy Manor swing open upon her. At first, Hermione thinks that no one is there to greet her, and she blinks rapidly at the empty air in front of her. Then her gaze trails down to a girlish house-elf, smiling prettily up from the interior of the home.
"Would Miss like to come in?" the elf offers, with a sweeping gesture to the inside of the Manor. Hermione nods dumbly and follows the invitation, wondering in some still-functioning part of her brain why the house-elf appears to be so well dressed. The little creature is wearing a black suitcoat and pencil skirt, tailored perfectly to her proportions, and the tiniest black heels Hermione has ever seen. An emerald brooch winks up at Hermione from the elf's lapel.
"Welcome to Malfoy Manor," the elf says pleasantly, closing the double doors and plunging them into semi-darkness. The elf snaps her forefingers, and a few chandeliers illuminate the length of the opulent foyer.
"Let Maevy take your coat, Miss."
Hermione is about to protest being waited upon, and also the loss of her water- and dessert-proof trench. But she thinks better of it after the elf gives her a stern look. Hermione bends down to accommodate the elf in removing her coat and scarf, which the creature promptly stows in a coat cupboard disguised as a panel in the wall.
"Thank you," Hermione tells the house-elf. "You don't need to serve me, but I appreciate the help."
The elf quirks a strange smile up at the witch. "Is this Miss's first time at Malfoy Manor?"
Hermione's stomach flops. She is just about to respond when another voice answers for her, from deeper into the foyer.
"No, Maevy, this is not Miss Granger's first time at the Manor."
Hermione spins toward the sound and sees Draco Malfoy sauntering into the foyer from around a corner.
Even in the dark, he moves with that aristocratic ease she always envied at school. Like the world knows better than to demand hurry from him. Hermione tries to keep cool, to keep her heartrate under control. But her first sighting of a Malfoy in almost two years has her fight-or-flight response jumping into overdrive. It takes her entire reserve of courage to stay immobile and breathe normally. She has to remind herself that all her work is for naught if she turns heel and flees. Or if she hexes him on the spot.
Maybe just a quick Densaugeo, for old times' sake? See how he likes having tusks?
Maybe not.
Hermione makes herself study him analytically while he approaches, as though he's a spell diagram or a particularly complicated potion. In her analysis, Draco Malfoy looks much the same as she remembers – pale, unnaturally blond, with a face so symmetrical and patrician it's unfair. And yet…he doesn't.
When did he get so tall? she thinks as he comes closer. And what's different about his face? Something's…changed. Something's not the same, and I have no idea what.
Draco stops just a few metres from her and gives her a humorless, tight-lipped smile.
"Unfortunately," he says, after a beat.
Hermione blinks once, twice. It's a habit she picked up from Ron, when faced with something she doesn't quite understand.
"Unfortunately?" she parrots.
Draco's carefully controlled smile fades. "Unfortunately, this is not your first time at the Manor."
Hermione can actually feel the blood flooding her cheeks. Which is terribly ironic, given why he hates her. And what happened to her in this house, almost two years ago. Without her conscious bidding, her eyes drift to her right, toward the front parlour of Malfoy Manor.
It's a lovely room, she can tell even from here. Wide windows let in the light from the garden, and pieces of priceless antique furniture dot the walls. The new cream-coloured upholstery and wallpaper suit the room so much better than the heavy greys and blacks of her memory. But to be fair, Hermione really only got a good view of the ceiling the last time she was in there.
As if he's read her thoughts, Draco moves quickly to block her view of the parlour. It's an oddly kind gesture. Or perhaps he does it to avoid that conversation. The one involving curses and swords and batshit-crazy aunts who met justifiably bad ends.
Almost forcibly, Hermione drags her gaze from the parlour, back to Draco. His stance is casual: shoulders rolled back, hands in the pockets of his black trousers, not a care in the world. But there's a hard line to his jaw, as if he's clenching it shut. When her eyes meet his, she suddenly places what's so different about him.
Animosity.
She can't find any trace of it on his face, for the first time in their almost-decade of acquaintance. There are new frown lines around his mouth and the shadow of exhaustion along his eye sockets and temples. But not one mote of hatred or even derision in his pale grey eyes. Just restraint, caution, and…maybe the tiniest hint of curiosity? She can't actually tell, and that in and of itself is intriguing.
Hermione has always prided herself on reading people, but Draco Malfoy is a bit of a puzzle. Especially after their sixth year at Hogwarts. She certainly hadn't seen the end of that year coming. Nor had Draco, if Harry's testimony at the Malfoys' respective War trials was to be believed. Hermione refused to read the ghastly trial transcripts, but she had helped Harry write and practice his testimony until they both couldn't see straight. In it, Draco came across as a far more ambivalent villain than she'd originally thought.
It isn't until Draco coughs politely just now, that she realizes she's been staring this entire time at him. Her blush returns with a vengeance and she peers down at her ballet flats, the cakebox, the floor. Anywhere but his face.
"Yes, well…" she says lamely, gaze locking desperately with little Maevy's. The elf gives her an encouraging thumbs-up, and Hermione is almost certain she will finally die in Malfoy Manor. This time, of embarrassment. But when Hermione hazards another tiny glance at Draco, he's staring just as intently at her. The curiosity in his eyes has grown stronger. As has the caution.
"Why are you here, Hermione?" he asks quietly.
She would bet every Galleon she owns that it's the first time he's used her given name. Ever. It knocks her right off guard, and her mind begins to buzz unhelpfully.
Here? Why am I here? Why are any of us here, really? What is 'here,' exactly?
She actually has to physically shake her head to silence it. If she could see Draco's expression when she does so – which she can't, given the movement of all that dark, unruly hair around her cheeks – she might catch a brief flash of real amusement on his face. But it's gone when she peers back him.
In answer, she raises the cakebox higher between them. "Reconciliation," she finally says. "Peace. In the form of baked goods."
The ghost of his old smirk appears. "Ah, yes. I've already heard about your…mission."
She frowns. "You have? From whom?"
At this, he snorts lightly. Coming from Millicent Goyle, the sound had been positively barnyard. From Draco Malfoy, however, this snort is about as refined as a starred review of a good-vintage Bordeaux.
"You've visited half of Wizarding England with your cakes," he drawls. "Including most of the surviving members of Slytherin House. And you expect me not to have heard about this little crusade of yours?"
Apparently, that derisive phrase – little crusade – is all Hermione needs to regain her mental footing. One of her hands threads through the ribbon on the cakebox, while the other fists onto her hip. It's all she can do not to drop the box and poke him in the double-breasted chest of his stupidly nice suit, like she did when they were children.
"If you already knew about my 'crusade,' as you so flatteringly put it," she hisses, "then why ask me what I'm doing here? I know you were second behind me in marks, Malfoy, but I didn't realize you were in such dire need of repetition."
Draco's nostrils flare in anger and, to her astonishment, his cheekbones redden. When he answers, however, his voice is tempered and neutral. Well, mostly neutral, given the fact that he makes his response through gritted teeth.
"I simply asked what you were doing here, Granger, because you've already visited almost every other damned person who fought in the War. And it gave me pause, at first, that even Gregory sodding Goyle was on the receiving end of one of your supposed culinary 'masterpieces,' but somehow I wasn't. Then I understood, with perfect clarity, that I was getting yet another lesson on my many failings. Being reminded of all the terrible things I said as a child. And let's not forget the terrible things I did." He glances briefly at the parlour, before those grey eyes lock back onto hers. "Or in your case, the terrible things I didn't stop, right? And so it doesn't matter that I can't sleep because of three years of sodding nightmares, or that I drink so much my hands shake when I don't, or that I wish I could undo every goddamned thing that happened in this house two years ago. It never matters to anyone, you see? Because it's always clear, no matter whom I might be now, that the only bloody thing any of you people care about is who I was back then. And who I was back then doesn't deserve one of Hermione Granger's precious, magical cakes."
At the end of this speech, he's panting. Much harder than she was panting earlier, outside his gates. She waits for a few heartbeats, to see if he has more to add, but apparently he's spent his anger and is now staring at her with a mix of frustration and mortification. They are both frozen like that for an interminable amount of time when, finally, she asks:
"Is that what this is really about? Cake?"
She smiles, very faintly, to let him know that she's teasing. Only teasing. Draco blinks, in much the same manner that she did, and then scowls deeply.
"Why would I want one of your sodding cakes? I have house-elves for that."
Hermione glances at Maevy, who has stayed close throughout this exchange and now flashes the witch another encouraging thumbs-up. Hermione's lips hitch higher and she glances back at Draco.
"Then it's a good thing I didn't make you a cake."
Without further ado, she hands him the box she's been holding this entire time. Mindlessly, Draco takes ahold of its ribbons – silver, curled around a pretty arrangement of greenery on top. The motion of transfer jostles the box's lid, and a tantalizing whiff of cinnamon floats out toward them. Hermione watches Draco involuntarily breathe in the scent, and she hides her widening grin by looking down at the elf.
"Maevy, would you be so kind as to fetch my coat and scarf?"
"Of course, Miss."
Within less than a minute, Hermione is dressed for the cold. She turns back to Draco, who still stands motionless in the middle of his foyer, holding onto the string of the cakebox like it's the tail of a viper.
"You could probably use a warming charm on those," she suggests, nodding toward the box. "And they really are divine with vanilla ice cream. If you have any."
Instructions thus delivered, Hermione spins on her heels, exits the doors that Maevy has so helpfully opened for her, and strides down the long drive without a backward glance. Only when she is outside the gates, at the designated Apparition point, does Hermione pause.
Behind her closed eyelids, she can almost see an image of the four perfectly baked tarts sitting in that cakebox, each containing ring upon concentric ring of apples. Each ring of thinly sliced apples piles upon the next to form the shape of a fist-sized rose, glazed with just the right balance of cinnamon, sugar, and lemon juice. Hermione lets one more image chase the pastries: that of thirteen-year-old Draco Malfoy, peering sneakily around the Great Hall at the end of lunch before shoving a few extra apples into the pockets of his robes.
With this last image dancing across her closed eyelids, Hermione Granger allows herself a final, triumphant sigh and Disapparates back to the safety of her own flat.
