I'm back, so I hope you're all still with me. I had fun writing this one, so I hope you all enjoy it too. Maybe it'll inspire you all to let me know if you like where it's going?
Love,
Cherry
After the last of the potion had been rubbed in, Hermione cleaned her hands off and began pack up her belongings, refusing to look at Draco as he slid off the desk and dressed himself. Things had gotten a little too personal that afternoon, she didn't need to go making it all the much more so by watching him button up his white shirt with lithe fingers. Nor did she need to think of his fingers as lithe.
"So I'll begin the next potion tomorrow. You'll be available next Thursday?" Hermione asked, unrolling her sleeves and pulling the edges over her pruning hands. While her fingers itched to redo the braid her hair was tied back in, she refused to touch the frizzing strands, knowing that a certain somebody would most definitely have an opinion on the action.
"I will." Draco agreed, adjusting his arms so his shirt didn't cling to his still drying skin. He shrugged on his blazer, grimacing as his coat trapped his cotton shirt to his side. What he wouldn't give for a good Scourgify in that moment. He'd have to wait until he was in private, seeing as the Healer still in his presence would hardly approve of such an action when the goal of the potion was for it to dissolve naturally into the skin. But he was a Malfoy, damn it, and while the name had lost much of its weight, no proper Malfoy would be caught sticking to his own clothes.
"Hard to imagine it'll be the last one, no?" Hermione asked conversationally as Draco led her out of the office, the two walking toward the drawing room. She noted - both with curiosity and enjoyment - that no longer was she leered at as she walked through the halls of Malfoy manor, for the paintings of Draco's ancestors were covered with curtains that seemed nearly magically sealed, judging by the way not a single noise emanated from the purist paintings. Hermione wondered if it was her presence that had made Draco shun the paintings, or had it been of his own volition? It was too vain to believe he'd done it for her - sparing her judgment and the occasional cruel comment - given that she would only be around those painting for a matter of minutes once a week over the course of a month, but a great part of her hoped that even if it wasn't for her directly, perhaps it was a show of good faith for the Muggle-borns; some indication that Draco was rejecting his old ways and moving toward a more united future.
She'd have to get the charm to pass along to Harry since it didn't seem like that painting of Walburga Black was planning to quiet down anytime soon.
As Hermione stepped down from the last marble stair, a squeaky voice chirped from somewhere down the main hall.
"Miss Hermione is leaving?" It asked, and Hermione turned to see Mimmy, wringing her hands like she always seemed to do.
"Oh, yes." Hermione cleared her throat, hoping to stave off whatever lingering anxiety she had as a result of her discussion with the house-elf. "Someone has to feed Crookshanks, after all." She lied easily, knowing that Crookshanks was very well fed at his home at the Burrow. She'd left him there at the start of the war - knowing he would be safe chasing garden gnomes all day - and after the war, well, after the war she didn't feel very much like she could care for anyone but herself, if she could even do that. He was better off with a loving family that could give him the encouragement and entertainment he needed.
"That mangy old cat of yours?" Draco asked, his brows raising dramatically. "That thing is still alive?"
"Yes, he is still alive, and he's quite well, thank you for your concern." Hermione retorted. "Though I don't know why you're so worried with his well being."
"Worried? No. I figured it was dead when it didn't pop out of any cupboard or closet at your flat last week. Come to think of it, I didn't see any orange hairs strewn about the place. Rather tidy for a home with such a furry companion." Draco (somewhat) silently judged Hermione's reason for leaving, knowing that she likely wanted to get home as soon as possible, a fact he was all right with given how much he seemed to overshare when he she was present. While he rather enjoyed the normalcy of their interactions, which were barely tainted with his woes and tribulations like all of his other conversations, he much preferred keeping his guard up and steadfast, something that he was become less resolute about every time their paths crossed. Still, he couldn't help but tease her. It was nearly second nature, and the way her mouth popped open at the possibility of being caught in a lie was far too amusing to ever quit.
"Master must not question Miss Hermione." Mimmy chided, pointing a knobby finger at Draco. He raised his eyebrows at the house-elf in surprise.
"Mimmy, does being your employer earn me no respect? For the love of Merlin, I gave you your freedom and I still get spoken to like that?"
Hermione smirked as Mimmy stamped her feet, ears twitching enthusiastically. She rather enjoyed having another defend her, even if it was clearly just as a pawn in Mimmy's power trip.
"Mimmy gives Master Draco much respect, but he must not treat Miss Hermione like a criminal." Hermione nearly stuck her tongue out at Draco but Mimmy continued. "That being said, Miss Hermione must stay for dinner if she does not have a pet to care for." Mimmy turned to Hermione with eyes round as saucers in an obvious attempt to guilt Hermione into staying. Hermione hated that it was working.
"Oh all right." She huffed, folding her arms across her chest. "I suppose Crookshanks can wait another hour to eat." She continued to try to pass the lie as truth and though she missed Draco's smirk, it was Mimmy's smile that had her both convinced she'd made the right decision and worried her as to what this dinner was going to entail.
As it happened, dinner at Malfoy Manor was as formal as its decor and occupants. The dining hall was decorated in black and white (though mostly black) and its vaulted ceilings were nearly dwarfed by the chandelier that hung over the fourteen person table. At the head of the far end, a set of fine china and a goblet sat, an exquisite meal much like the one sent to Hermione by Draco just a week ago. A second set of dishes appeared at the place just next to the head of the table, and as they neared, the scent of it all reached Hermione's nose, and in a moment of sheer embarrassment, her stomach growled quite loudly. When Draco gave her a judgmental (albeit harmless) sideways glance, Hermione shrugged.
"I'm a healer, Malfoy, not a millionaire." She noted sourly as she eyed the lamb and asparagus hungrily. After all, she had only eaten breakfast, and what a poor excuse for a breakfast it had been: a cup of tea and two slices of toast.
"What, the bounty on the Dark Lord's head didn't grant you such wealth?" Draco asked as he pulled out the chair where the plate of food had just appeared, waiting for Hermione to sit. While she hadn't expected the motion, the gesture was that of a properly raised gentleman, not a man seeking a woman's favor, so Hermione sat, trying her best to recall the etiquette lessons she'd very briefly received during her childhood. Did she place her napkin in her lap now, or when she began eating?
"My cut for Voldemort's demise was much less than Harry's." Hermione made a point to use the once villain's name. She nearly called him Tom, just to prove a point that had once been instilled in her from a great man. "After all, the Ministry was ready to hand everything over to him until he clarified that he was far from the solely responsible party for bringing about the death of one of the most feared wizards of all time. Besides, I donated the majority of my earnings to several different post-war reparation funds. Hardly seemed fair to pocket money for doing something that needed to be done."
Draco chuckled as he sat at the head of the table, a funny look flitting over his face as he did. He didn't explain. "Always a Gryffindor, no? Never accepting a bit of respect when you've done something worthy of it."
"Then I suppose you're always a Slytherin." Hermione returned as Draco floated a decanter over to the table to pour them each a goblet of red wine. "Assuming something that earns respect warrants a cash reward."
"Well, call me cynical, but there are only two things to which people actually display respect to: money and fear. Since the Golden Trio has never really resorted to fear, I assume that any respect you lot have been given is in the form of mounds and mounds of Galleons." In the following moment of silence, Draco picked up his fork and knife and began to cut into his meal, Hermione happily following suit. The first bite was near perfection, Hermione decided, the lamb tender and impeccably seasoned, and the sauce (or glaze, or reduction, or whatever it was) was absolutely sublime. Was this the benefit of having house-elves, Hermione wondered. Were they kept around solely because of their ability to cook five star meals at the drop of a hat?
"I take it the food is all right?" Draco asked, a chuckle bubbling in his chest as Hermione's eyes flew open and darted to his, dropping her fork back to her plate, which had been sandwiched between her lips less than eloquently just a moment ago. She finished chewing and swallowing and nodded, setting her silverware down to take a drink.
"It's quite lovely." She responded. "Truthfully, I've had few a better meal, and I spent many summers in France as a child." A pink tinge rose to Hermione's cheeks, knowing that she was very likely embarrassing herself, but in exchange for a near Michelin star restaurant food? Why, she might dance around in a circle and sing a song if it meant more meals like this.
"You travelled to France?" Draco asked, his curiosity peaked. He spent more holidays than not in France as well growing up. "Whereabouts?"
"Oh the usual places." Hermione dabbed her napkin to her mouth, eyeing the asparagus lightly. That would have to be her next bite. "Paris, Cannes, Lyon, Strasbourg," she prattled off, tucking her hair behind her ear. "My parents enjoyed culture, none more than that of the French. We would rent a car and take day trips to other cities - Saint-Tropez, Versailles - anywhere with some sort of adventure or history to be found."
As Hermione continued to gush about her holidays with her family, Draco selfishly began to wonder if he would reach a point in life where he could fondly reflect on the time he had with his now deceased parents. His memories weren't nearly as idealistic as Hermione's; no, trips to France were for business or fashion, not enjoyment, but perhaps those moments he stole with his mother (the trips to museums, or quick stops into a pâtisserie for an éclair and an espresso on the way back to the summer home) would be the highlights of his time in France. Maybe someday, he could reflect on them positively, rather than feel his mood sour at the realisation that he would never have those moments again.
"My favourite was Giverny." Hermione continued, unaware of Draco's lingering focus. "It's where Monet is from, he's my favourite painter. There's an entire museum devoted to him." At Draco's distance stare, Hermione thought it to mean something different than it did. "Though I suppose you don't know Monet, do you? He was a Muggle painter, very famous for his-"
"Impressionistic paintings, yes." Draco finished for her, returning to the conversation. "Yes, I know Monet. Anyone with an ounce of culture knows Monet."
"Oh." Hermione answered stupidly, surprised at Draco's knowledge of such a great, Muggle artist. "Not that you shouldn't know Monet, I suppose, but I would've assumed, given your background, that, er, you...wouldn't have cared to know such an artist." The statement was less than eloquent, but it was better than the alternative: "It's shocking you know Monet given your history of hating Muggles and anything they produce, including wizards and witches."
"Yes, well, the Malfoys might be part of an elite class of wizards, but we also see the value in things. You'd be surprised at the investments we made into Muggle means. Earned us quite a galleon, electricity did."
"Electricity?" Hermione's mouth dropped open. "Your family invested in electricity?"
Quite enjoying knowing more than the brilliant Granger for once, Draco continued. "Of course. Along with the steam engine, the printing press, the wheel, fire. We Malfoys were around for it all."
Hermione narrowed her eyes, realising that on some level, Draco was toying with her. Had any of it been true?
"Clever." Hermione retorted and took another bite, letting the flavors drown out her annoyance. Merlin, was it delicious. She might just have to befriend a few house-elves if this was the product of their free labour.
The meal continued, and the two easily slid through conversation from one topic to the next; they spoke of Hermione's work and Draco's business (which was indeed as the head of Malfoy investments, making Hermione wonder if she should attribute the success of any modern technologies to his family), briefly about their shared time at Hogwarts (though most of the discussion was about how terribly unfit some of their professors were at their jobs), and for quite a lengthy amount of time, the two bantered quite playfully about the success of the most recent Quidditch World Cup, held almost a year prior. While Hermione didn't enjoy the sport all that much, she found great entertainment in watching Draco - calm, stoic, controlled, Draco - nearly losing his mind trying to justify Egypt's win, which Hermione only now found herself opposed to, rather liking the way she made Draco squirm. In all actuality, she'd been somewhat pleased to know that Bulgaria's loss had come because their alluring Veela mascots couldn't distract the opposing team's female seeker from her goal of capturing the snitch.
"All I'm saying is Zaghloul relied on her broom, not talent to win the game." Hermione took a sip of wine, smirking into her cup.
"Her broom? Granger, that's like saying a beater relies on his bat; of course she relied on her broom! Besides, the entire Egyptian team was riding Firedarts, not just Zaghloul." Looking like he was just a moment away from pulling out his hair, Draco reassessed his tactics. "You're just wound up that your boyfriend didn't win."
Hermione's eyes narrowed as she lowered the goblet from her mouth, setting it down next to her empty plate. "Viktor was never my boyfriend."
Sensing that he'd found the proper insult, Draco continued. "Oh? Could've fooled me. You two grew awfully close our fourth year, did you not?" Draco got a knowing look in his eye. "Very close, some might say. Close enough that perhaps you might oppose the team who drove that same boyfriend to retirement."
"I don't like your insinuation, Malfoy." Hermione reddened, either from the wine or embarrassment, she couldn't tell. "Can't a girl have a friendship without having it questioned constantly?" Admittedly, Draco's accusations were reminding Hermione of the thinly veiled accusations Ron had made when they attended the 2002 World Cup at Viktor's expense. He'd insisted that Hermione bring her friends to watch the tournament from his box, and while Ron had had a great time during the match, it was only after Hermione's empathy for Viktor's second loss that Ron had suggested maybe Viktor and Hermione's relationship wasn't as innocent as it seemed. He'd slept outside the tent that night.
"A girl can most definitely have a friendship without it being questioned, but we all saw the way Viktor looked at you at the Yule Ball in your pretty little robes. Nary a man could keep his eyes off you that night, and while your eyes were set solely on your Bulgarian Seeker, perhaps you were too blinded by 'friendship' to comprehend the want in his eyes." Draco took his hand off his glass, knowing that just as he had earlier during his treatment, he was babbling on far too much, and it seemed as though the wine was steering him into a territory he never thought he would be discussing with Hermione. Suggesting that he - like every other male student in attendance at the Yule Ball - had given swotty, Muggle-Born Hermione Granger a second glance because she looked beautiful...that must've meant he'd had one too many drinks.
"Well," Hermione tried to ignore the implication of what Draco said, assuming it was the wine leading her to interpret what he'd said to mean he'd fancied her, even just for one night, and brushed over the subject. "Last Viktor and I spoke, there seemed to be a new woman in his life, so these little 'boyfriend' remarks both you and Rita Skeeter are so keen to make will have to end soon."
"Hm," Draco mused, trying to let the tension fade from the room. It did, somewhat, but there was a lingering feeling that both Hermione and Draco couldn't quite place, and in all honesty, neither wanted to grant the feeling enough validity to give it any consideration.
"Well, thank you for dinner." Hermione thanked Draco, noticing that it was nearing nine and dinner had spanned just over two hours. "I should be getting home now, Crookshanks and all." She took her napkin from her lap and the moment she sit it on the table, Mimmy popped up across the table, eyes wide and pleading.
"Miss Hermione is leaving so soon?" Mimmy asked and Hermione's mouth opened and closed several times before she nodded.
"Yes, it's getting quite late, anyway." Hermione confirmed and Mimmy snapped, vanishing all of the empty plates.
"She'll be back next Thursday, yes?" Mimmy continued. "If Miss Hermione liked the dinner, Mimmy and Thrump can prepare another dish specially for Miss Hermione. Does she like chicken? Steak? Pork?"
"Enough, Mimmy." Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Hermione thought that in that moment, he looked more like his father than he ever had before. "Out of obligation due to your incessant begging, Granger stayed for dinner, I sincerely doubt it shall ever happen again."
"Something French." Hermione spoke, much to her chagrin. She hadn't meant to arrange another night of dinner at Malfoy Manor, but it meant opposing Draco (and receiving another divine meal), so before she was even aware of her doing, she'd made the plan. Mimmy looked thrilled.
"Very well then, Miss Hermione! Good evening." Mimmy bowed dramatically and disappeared with a pop, leaving Draco and Hermione alone together again.
Coming to her right mind, Hermione blinked and stood up, Draco following suit, albeit much more gracefully. "I apologise for that." Hermione began. "I didn't mean to invite myself to dinner at your home. Please, feel free to disinvite me, if you see fit; I spoke without thinking."
"Granger, I've spent more of my free time with you in the last month than I've spent with any other person, most of it not wholly unpleasant. One more dinner won't do me in." He gestured to the doorway and the two walked back to the drawing room, Hermione taking a handful of Floo powder from the bowl next to the fireplace.
"Well, goodnight, Malfoy. I'll see you next Thursday." Hermione tossed the powder into the Floo and turned to Draco, the two smiling politely at each other, some unspoken thing passing between the two again.
"Goodnight, Granger."
"Strawberry's Cure has an invisibility property to it." Luna explained like it was common knowledge. "Theoretically, you could rub it on your skin for a temporary return to your arm's original state."