Hermione liked to think of herself as a perceptive sort. It was certainly an accurate statement; she wasn't called the 'brightest witch of her age' for no reason. Even so, the identity of the gift sender continued to elude her.

It was frustrating, to say the least.

"A funny thing happened the other day," Ginny said, passing Teddy to Hermione and smiling at the laugh that her friend was able to elicit from the five year old. "I got a parcel in the post, with a note apologizing but no signature. I've seen enough of your notes to recognize the mystery bloke's handwriting, so I thought it was a mistake, but then I opened it and figured it couldn't have been for you."

"Why?" Hermione laughed as Teddy changed his hair to match hers, the sandy color disappearing in favor of brown curls. He grinned back, perfectly content to sit in her lap and read while his surrogate mum and favorite aunt talked about boring adult nonsense.

Ginny slipped out of the kitchen and came back with a broom - Hermione hadn't any clue about the model, but it looked nice, for a flying death trap.

"Oh, no, definitely not for me," Hermione said quickly, attempting to ignore the way GInny burst into laughter at the horror on her face.

"It's the newest model - so new, in fact, that I don't believe shops are allowed to market them yet. They're only available if you have enough money, and even my teammates have to wait to get their hands on one. Whoever sent this has serious influence."

Hermione turned the card around in her hands, Teddy's chubbier ones reaching out to trace the letters.

"Pretty," Teddy commented before going back to his book. He was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to learn the fancy writing until he was ten; that's what his dad told him anyway, whenever he visited Harry at work.

"I suppose I'm just a bit confused," Hermione said. "Whoever's been sending the gifts obviously has reason to apologize to both of us, or at least they think they do. Now I'm more certain than ever that it's not a mysterious suitor. Who would feel as though they needed to try and buy both of us off?"

Ginny shrugged and set the broom down on the kitchen counter. "I'm sure you'll figure it out, but I for one don't particularly care. Whoever it is, I'm keeping the broom." She grinned and high fived Teddy, whose smile vanished when he was informed that he would not in fact be testing Mum's new broom out by himself, or at all, for that matter.

When Hermione Flooed back to her own flat, she regarded the week's basket, sitting atop her dining table, the penmanship perfect as always. The baskets were steadily becoming increasingly intimate, if that was the correct word to use, and Hermione's instinct insisted that despite her suspicions, the sender lacked any malicious intent. It was certainly off-putting receiving such personal gifts from someone who insisted on keeping their identity secret, but there was a distinct lack of alarm bells going off.

She held the card in her hand for a minute, studying the words with the barest trace of a smile on her face.

In the hopes that this makes you smile after a difficult week.

Wait a minute.

How did the sender know she'd had a bad week?


"Are you the one who's been sending me gifts?" Hermione demanded, slamming the card down on Blaise's desk with half a mind to hex him right there and then. "Has this been a fun little game to you, listening to me tell you all about them and the mystery suitor and play along while I tried to guess his identity? What did you hope to gain from this, Zabini?"

"Whoa, whoa, wand down, Granger," Blaise stammered, hands in the air and his usual nonchalant air nowhere to be found. "What are you talking about?"

"Your note? You finally made a mistake and let it slip that you talked to me on a daily basis."

Blaise started at Hermione in disbelief, then down at the note, and back at Hermione. It would have been rather comical if she hadn't been so irate.

"Hermione, I didn't write this."

"Of course you did."

"No, I didn't. Look." Blaise held up a piece of parchment with his handwritten notes from a meeting, the messy scrawl far from the distinct calligraphy Hermione had come to associate with her mystery suitor.

Hermione scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Please. You could have easily enchanted a quill or hired someone to write the notes for you."

"Granger, what was in the basket?"

"Excuse me?"

"What was in the basket?"

"Why are you asking me? You already know what was in the basket. You sent it."

Blaise leaned forward, his folded arms resting on his desk as he smiled sweetly. "Indulge me."

"Romance novels, mostly," Hermione said, uncertainty creeping into her voice. "A few mystery and historical fiction books I'd been eyeing the other day while shopping."

"Do I seem like the kind of bloke that would send books whilst trying to woo someone?" Blaise drawled, posture much more relaxed once he realized he'd won his case.

Hermione deflated, her shoulders slumping as she slid into one of the chairs across from Blaise. "No, I suppose you're right. Sorry I threatened to petrify you, take your wand, and leave you to fend in Muggle London by yourself."

"Uh, you mentioned none of those things."

"Well, sorry for considering it."

"Apology accepted. I think," Blaise added, making a mental note never to anger Hermione Granger again.

"Besides," he continued, "you're not my type. No offense intended." So much for his plan to not poke the dragon.

To Blaise's intense relief, Hermione snorted. "None taken. You're not exactly my type either."

Blaise arched an eyebrow. "Really? Then what, pray tell, is your type?"

"Quit while you're ahead, Zabini," Hermione warned, her eyes narrowing into a glare.

Blaise shrugged, grinning as he pushed the note back towards Hermione. "It was worth a shot. But now that you know your mystery suitor isn't me, do you have any more theories?"

Hermione huffed and shoved the card back into the undetectable pocket she'd sewn into her work robes. "I was so quick to assume that it was you that I didn't bother to consider anyone else. It's obviously not Harry, or Ron. It's not Terry."

"Terry Boot, the stuffy Ravenclaw? How do you know it's not him?"

"I went on a date with him after the gala, and after only a few minutes, it became very apparent that he did not know me well enough to be the one sending the gifts," Hermione said.

"Was there a second date?" Blaise asked, briefly entertaining the thought of a jealous Draco.

"No, there wasn't. The entire time I just felt...off," Hermione admitted, remembering the pit in her stomach that would not disappear no matter how enjoyable she found Terry's company to be.

A knowing smirk crossed Blaise's face. "Is it possible that you felt guilty while you were on the date because you fancy your mystery suitor?"

Hermione Granger excelled in many fields, but masking her emotions was not one of them. She blushed scarlet, sputtering as she angrily tried to deny Blaise's accusation. "I do not fancy him! I don't even know him!"

"If you say so, Granger."


Granger thought that I was her mystery suitor and was more than ready to leave my helpless self to the vultures. Do something before this is all blown out of proportion.

Draco groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as he tossed the note from Blaise out the window. He should have stopped to consider the consequences before he had sent Granger the latest basket, but he had been so pleased with himself and his stealthiness, so caught up in his game of trying to one up himself, that there was the slightest chance that he maybe, possibly, subconsciously left a clue in his card that would bring Hermione closer to discovering that her mystery suitor was him.

Of course, he knew why Granger could never discover that it was him. She hated him, loathed him even. And why shouldn't she? Draco had bullied her for years, taunted her and called her racist names, made her feel like she was less than all because of her blood status. In the end, it hadn't even mattered, because she was the Muggle-born savior of the wizarding world while he was the pureblood Death Eater pariah.

He would have hated himself, too.

But it wasn't fair to Granger to keep her guessing, wondering who was sending her gifts when Draco had no intention to reveal himself. It was time for him to stop and remove himself from the situation before things got escalated, and he became even more emotionally attached than he already was.

It was comforting to know that he had something in common with Granger, at least. They both had an astonishing hatred for one Draco Malfoy.

"Darling, come have tea with me in the garden."

Draco closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. "Of course, Mother. I'll be right down."

His mother's garden was as lovely as ever, the flowers enchanted to bloom without regard for their respective seasons. It was easily Draco's favorite part of the manor, if only for the sole fact that it wasn't actually part of the manor.

"Stop scowling, dear. You'll wrinkle."

"Sorry, Mother. The roses are absolutely beautiful and the tea is excellent, as always, though neither can compare to you."

Narcissa smiled winsomely. "Charming as ever, just like I raised you to be."

"I only wish everyone saw me the way you do," Draco said quietly, sipping his tea and carefully averting his eyes from his mother's face.

"They will, in time. Human memories are fickle - the judgment will pass before you know it. It's difficult to believe that it's already been five years since the war, and yet the ministry has just thrown a gala in honor of the anniversary. Time will continue to pass just as quickly."

Draco made a disbelieving noise, adding an apologetic grimace when Narcissa tutted at him.

"You'll understand more when you have children of your own. The years seem to fly by, and they grow up before you can pause to notice. Take Edward, for instance."

"Who's Edward?"

"Your cousin Nymphadora's son with that dreaded werewolf. I suppose he goes by Teddy. He's probably showing signs of magic now."

"I wasn't aware that Nymphadora had a son. You don't speak about Aunt Andromeda's family very much."

"No, but I've been meditating on it recently, and I think I should like to attempt to mend the bridge with my sister, so to speak. After losing her only child and her husband, it would do Andromeda some good to be around her family, and I would like to get to know my grand-nephew as well."

Draco set his teacup down and reached across the table to take his mother's hand. "I think that's a wonderful idea, Mother. Let me know if there is anything I can do."

"You've already done more than enough, my sweet boy."

Narcissa smiled and squeezed Draco's hand before prattling on about what wizarding high society must be like with her absence, and what girls must have debuted by now, and speaking of the lovely Astoria Greengrass, did Draco still keep in touch with her?

Draco did, in fact, still talk to Astoria, and even her sister Daphne, on occasion, but he was quick to assure his mother that those relationships were strictly platonic. When Narcissa began to entertain the idea of her son getting engaged to Astoria and giving her perfect pureblood grandchildren, Draco paled, and desperately tried to ignore the wrench in his gut when he attempted to think of a single bird he'd be interested in courting and could only picture a frizzy-haired, formerly bucktoothed Muggle-born.


The following week when Monday came around, Hermione found herself incapable of concealing her shock at the lack of a parcel in her office or her flat. As unbelievably embarrassing as the admission was, she had come to look forward to unwrapping the gift from her mystery suitor and attempting to discern any clues she could from the attached card.

Maybe it was for the best that he had decided to give up on her - Hermione was obviously driving herself insane, and she had no doubt in her mind that she was annoying all of her friends with her talk of the suitor.

She had nearly resigned herself to the fact that she'd never figure his identity, already in her pajamas and reading one of the romance novels she had received when she heard a tap on her window.

The speed at which she scrambled out of her bed and to the window would have normally been mortifying, but there was no one around to bear witness, save for the silent owl that was patiently waiting for her to give it a treat.

There was no package, and as Hermione weighed the envelope in her hand, she suspected that she was on the receiving end of more than just a short note this time.

She waited until she was settled back on her bed to tear the ribbon off of the letter, her hair messily wrapped into a bun and pinned in place by her wand as she reclined against her pillows. The handwriting was the same as ever, and the sight of it alone was enough to make Hermione smile.

Hermione,

I can only imagine how curious you must be about who I am, or perhaps you couldn't care less. I know if it were me, however, I'd be dying to know.

This is incredibly selfish, but I cannot reveal my name to you. I am far too ashamed, and know that if you were to know who your 'mystery suitor' was, you would only react in disgust. I apologize for prioritizing my own peace of mind, but the thought of you destroying the gifts while picturing my face is too awful to bear.

I do want you to know, however, that when I started sending you these gifts, my only thought was to atone for my sins. I never intended to become as emotionally involved as I am, and once I realized how deep it went, I knew it could no longer continue, for Hermione Granger would never look twice at someone like me.

Instead of a name, I will leave you this one last gift, and hope that you will continue to think of your mystery suitor fondly. I know I shall do the same for you.

My sincerest apologies, but I cannot in good conscience drag you down with me, so to speak. Take care, Hermione.

Deepest regards,

Your Mystery Suitor

Hermione stared at the letter in disbelief, her eyes falling on the necklace carefully secured to the parchment. It was a dainty, silver thing, and when she lifted up the chain, a delicate clamshell pendant swung above her mystery suitor's parting words.

The game was over, then. He was removing himself from the equation before she even got to know his name.

She read the letter a second time, and then a third, and even a fourth. She grabbed the quick quotes quill from her bedside table and started making a list of clues that the writer had unwittingly given her in the letter, and gathered all of the previous cards from her desk in case she had previously missed something.

The mystery suitor obviously knew what her Patronus was - the necklace was far too personalized for him not to know, but that didn't mean anything. All of the members of the Order knew that Hermione Granger had an otter as her Patronus, as well as countless others who had been at the Battle of Hogwarts.

He was incredibly self-deprecating. Hermione felt a twinge of sympathy for him, no matter how frustrated she was that he insisted on keeping his identity a secret. She knew what that was like, that built up regret and self-loathing that no amount of therapy could rectify. She was regaled as a war hero, and yet there were still days when she had to call in sick to work because she hadn't slept, far too caught up in memories of friends lost, constantly wondering if there was a way she could have saved at least one of them and then hating herself for thinking about saving one over another.

He knew she had a temper, but that wasn't hard to figure out, either. Hermione wasn't proud to admit it, but her temper had become rather infamous, both at Hogwarts and at the Ministry. Between the Marietta Edgecombe incident and the way she frequently stormed in and out of Kingsley Shacklebolt's office, witches and wizards alike had learned not to cross paths with an angry Hermione Granger.

None of these things were enough for her to figure out who the writer of the letter was, but there was something niggling the back of her mind. She hadn't forgotten the last note she'd received, the one mentioning the bad week she'd had, and she could only recall mentioning that to Blaise.

But Blaise hadn't been the only one in the room.


A/N: What can I say? College is tough, and writer's block is even worse. Updates will be infrequent at best, but I have absolutely no intentions to abandon this story.

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