The Alkahest

Chapter Fifty-Four: The Han Solo Move

"He totally Han Solo'd you," Ron said, in amazement. His gaze had gone unfocused as he imagined it. "That's amazing. I've always wanted to 'I know' a girl," he admitted, to Susan.

Hermione glared at him. "Don't idolize that idiocy," she said, scornfully, picking through a baby catalog. She'd come over to help them figure out the furnishings for the nursery, although really she'd just needed to get out of the flat. After finishing the essay and sending it in (he'd successfully wheedled with the dean for an extension of forty-eight hours), Draco had declared her a 'distraction' from his work and had banned her for the rest of the day.

Susan smiled widely. "Want to practice it with me?" she offered her husband.

Groaning, Hermione, circled a bassinet in red marker. "Don't."

Ron nodded, and Susan sobered, looking at him almost fretfully. "I love you," she said, breathlessly, staring into Ron's eyes.

"I know," he intoned, lifting his eyebrow in a haughty look.

"I'm going to leave," Hermione threatened, and stood. Susan laughed as Ron's hand locked around her wrist, pulling her back into her seat.

Chuckling, he released her, and said, "You're such a poor sport."

"I really want to watch Star Wars again," Susan murmured, thoughtfully. She stood, heading for the bathroom. "Also, no one told me that being pregnant made you need to use the loo all the time. All the books go on and on about tender breasts, and not a single paragraph dedicated to the bladder. I should write my own book," she muttered. She was still ranting quietly to herself when she closed the bathroom door.

Ron smiled fondly after her, and Hermione stifled the urge to roll her eyes. If they could stop being so blissfully in love right at her, that'd be just great. Because it was really annoying. Cute, too, but also so annoying. So annoying.

"How's George doing?" she asked, curiously. She hadn't been by the Burrow much lately, and she was pretty sure she'd last seen him at her own wedding.

The fond smile fell right off Ron's face as he groaned. "He's a grade-A prat, as usual. He hasn't been by the shop to work the actual counter in weeks. He wants me to open and close, while he flits in and out to glance over the paperwork between snogging Angelina's dumb face off her skull. He says he's wedding planning, but I know my brother and he's not planning a sodding wedding."

"You know, the shop's doing really well, these days. Why don't you hire someone?"

"Thank you, because I've been saying that for months. We could easily afford to hire someone to watch the counter!" Ron exclaimed, gesturing wildly. "And if he thinks I'm going to keep up these ridiculous hours when I'm a father, he's in for a surprise."

Hermione squinted. "Has he made you co-owner, yet?" she asked, gently. That was sort of a sore topic for all involved; although George had promised to do so more than a year ago, the promise always failed to materialize somehow. Given how stormy Ron's expression grew, she surmised that George hadn't made good on it over the past month, either. "You could always threaten to quit."

"He knows I'd be bluffing," he said, bitterly.

Susan came back out, drying her hands on her jeans, and said, "Bluffing about what?"

"Quitting the shop," Ron sighed. "Because, as Hermione reminded me, I'm still not co-owner. I'm just... a shop-boy."

"That's not true, the last four products the shop came out with were yours," Susan defended him, putting a soothing hand on his knee. "And they're selling brilliantly. You said so, yourself. It's as much your shop as it is his... it's just a matter of paperwork, at this point."

"Maybe he just doesn't want... You know. To have to replace his name," Hermione suggested, gently.

Ron flinched a bit. "Well, now I feel like a prat."

"Don't," Hermione laughed, softly. "He made you a promise, and whatever the reasons, he should still keep it. And you're a good partner, and he's an idiot if he doesn't recognize that."

He inhaled raggedly, and sent her a crooked smile. "Okay, this is getting too serious for my liking. Did you pick out a new crib, yet?"

"I circled a few," she said, rolling her eyes good-naturedly as she turned the catalog over to his grasping hands. Susan leaned into his shoulder to look them over with him, her arms circling his waist, and Hermione decided then and there that maybe they were more cute than annoying. Just a bit, though.

0o0o0o0o0o0

"Change of plans," Draco announced, as soon as she stepped out of the Floo. Wide-eyed, she just stared at him, unaware that there had been plans to begin with. "We have to go to the Manor for dinner in about thirty minutes."

Hermione groaned, her head tilting back as she turned to stomp down the hallway.

"You stole her only son out from under her roof!" he called after her, his voice equal parts accusing and amused. "If all she asks in return for losing the precious gem that is me is the occasional dress-up dinner, you got the better end of the deal."

"Is it too late to return you?" she snarked, pulling off her t-shirt. She didn't even want to contemplate what she'd have to wear over there.

"There is a sixty day return policy. You're months overdue," he called back, apologetically.

She unbuttoned her jeans and opened the closet door, sighing at the parade of dresses that greeted her. Draco had pulled his favorites up to the front, and she felt petty enough after being kicked out of her own house all day to walk right past them. "I'll just put you in with the rubbish then."

"Don't ignore my picks!" he barked back, and Hermione wrinkled her nose a bit. Sometimes it seemed like he knew her too well.

Or he'd gotten really, really into Muggle stuff and had spy cameras placed all over the flat.

Leaning on the closet door, she yelled, "As a grown woman, I reserve the right to dress myself!"

He appeared in her bedroom door, wiping his hands on a towel. She hadn't even heard the sink run from him washing up. Apparently she had to endure the reek of potions at all hours of the day, but his parents were spared that joy for the two hours they spent with their son this week. "As a grown woman with the dress sense of a blind dog, you can reserve the right all you want, but do you really want to spend the next thirty minutes trying not to cave into my whinging?" he pointed out, with a smug smile.

Hermione scowled at him and yanked the closet door closed, pulling the chain that activated the lonely overhead light.

The door opened immediately, and she huffed, "I'm putting on the stupid red one you like, so just-" Her protest was cut short as his arms wrapped around her, hauling her in for a quick but forceful kiss.

He pulled back, his smug smile widening a bit when he took in her wide eyes and shocked expression. "Missed you, today," he said, warmly, before stepping back out and closing the closet door again. Hermione gaped at the door for a moment, trying to force a scowl through the urge to smile.

"You're the reason I had to leave in the first place," she complained, when she got the power of speech back. She changed into a bra with a more delicate strap before pulling the red dress off the hanger.

His voice was muffled from the closed door. "I can't help it if your beauty distracts me."

"Oh, it's my beauty, now, is it? Because I seem to recall that six hours ago it was my 'nagging' and the 'shrill piercing quality' of my voice." She stepped into the dress, tugging it up over her hips.

"Don't forget that incessant coughing," he muttered, low enough that she could tell that he hoped she wouldn't hear.

Hermione kicked the door open, pulling the straps over her shoulders and adjusting her breasts within the dress itself. "Excuse me?" she demanded, shrilly, and he grimaced a bit. "And just who's fault is it that I was coughing? Who flooded the room with green smoke when his potion bubbled over? Was that me?"

He mastered his expression and pivoted on his heel to face her, smiling. "So you understand how frustrated I was and how ready I was to give up when I had the ready alternative of shagging you," he pointed out, in a reasonable tone. "You had to be removed."

"Nice try," she snipped, running her fingers along her bra-strap to make sure that it was fully covered by the straps of the dress.

Draco shrugged a bit, sighing. It had been worth a shot.

She headed out towards the bathroom to throw on a quick layer of eyeliner and mascara. "What did you eat for lunch?" she asked, curiously.

"I forgot."

"Draco!" Hermione chided, frowning at her reflection. He appeared in the hallway, pulling on his waistcoat. She watched him frown at the buttons for a moment before looking up at her reflection, his lips quirking a bit in amusement.

He loved that Gaping Koi Fish look she got on her face whenever she was applying mascara. "I'll eat double tomorrow," he promised.

"That's not how it works." Finishing, she fanned her eyelashes for a second before turning to him. He let his hands fall away from his waistcoat as she quickly finished doing up the thirty or so tiny buttons. For all that she complained about them (Draco insisted that these were the fashion, although the only other person she saw these ridiculous garments on was Lucius), she'd grown deft at manipulating the little things. "You promised me when I left that you'd remember to eat."

"I know," he sighed, contrite. "I'm sorry. I will, next time."

"You've already proven that you cannot be trusted. Time?"

He twisted his wrist about to look at his watch. "Fifteen minutes. That's almost enough time for a snog," he added, brightly.

"No, you'll ruin my hair."

"I'll keep my hands behind my back," he insisted.

She straightened his waistcoat by tugging on the bottom of it a few times, and narrowed her eyes up at him. "You promise that every time and not once have you managed to not turn my hair into a bird's nest. You can snog me when we're home."

His expression turned grim. "They warned me the romance would die once the marriage began," he said, theatrically.

"Not the romance," she corrected, primly. "Just the sex."

Draco threw a hand over his heart, as if wounded, and gave her a look of utter and wretched betrayal. She flashed him a grin and pushed onto her toes to give him a peck. Immediately, his hands folded around her neck to pull her in deeper, and she made a protesting noise against his mouth, beating at his chest with her fists.

He made a whining noise as she succeeded in ripping herself away. "No. I felt your fingers start to go in!" she accused, smoothing down her hair.

"That was your imagination!" he swore, although his gaze flicked briefly to her ear as he said it – and, amazingly, Hermione had come to recognize that as one of his tells. He didn't always have tells when he lied, but sometimes if he grew unguarded enough, they came out. An inability to keep direct eye contact was one of his big ones. His eyes never flicked far, staying so close to the target that most people probably never noticed they'd left at all.

But she did. Pointing at him, she said, "When we're home."

"We're home now."

"After dinner," she amended, smoothly. She slipped past him to grab the matching red shoes that Narcissa had bought just for this dress. She turned halfway into the room, walking backwards around the bed as she added, impishly, "If you want to find me my nice red lipstick, I'll leave imprints of my lips anywhere you want the second we're home."

Draco's eyes widened a smidgen, and he disappeared into the bathroom. She could hear him violently tearing apart the contents of her drawers.

Chuckling, she leaned against the bed as she pulled her shoes on, slipping the strap over her heel. As she headed back out into the hallway, Draco appeared in the bathroom doorway, a triumphant look on his face as he held up the little black tube. She took it, uncapping it to confirm the color, and said, "Get your coat on."

0o0o0o0o0o0

Although she was sure they'd both meant to go straight home after dinner, Hermione found herself in Lucius' study right after dessert, poring over her latest proposal for werewolf rights. She had pulled a chair beside his at his desk and was leaning over to read, steadily chewing the lipstick off her lower lip. "But I don't want to give the impression that I want a registry," she finally complained.

Lucius sighed through his nose. They'd been rehashing her various moral scruples for the last half hour. "I understand," he said, and she heard actual impatience permeate his drawl. "However, this is about more than just you. You have an audience – the Wizengamot. And they want a registry."

"So I have to pretend to want something barbaric and disgusting because I know they do?" she demanded, frowning at the paper.

"Yes," he said, flatly. When she looked up at him, surprised by his bluntness, he continued, softly: "You are selling a product, Hermione. A proper salesperson speaks to their audience, entices them to buy. You can't do that if you look like you don't believe in the product – or if you look as though you're uncertain of it. This registry will speak to their desire for safety and control. In return, Wolfsbane will be available over-the-counter at local apothecaries. Potionsmasters will be rolling in riches for the first time in nearly a century over the demand."

"What if it gets prohibitively expensive?" she asked, frowning.

He shook his head. "An apothecary will always offer it for a lower price. They will attempt to undermine each other until they no longer can. The market will resolve itself."

"It doesn't always work that cleanly."

"Then I suppose you and Draco shall have to go into business together and sell it for the meanest profit imaginable," he said, implacably. "You're both skilled enough."

That halted her next protest, and she looked down at the proposal. Of course, she'd nearly forgotten. She was a Malfoy now, and if she decided ever-so-casually to go into business to sell something at cost, she could, because she was sitting on more wealth than she could even begin to imagine. It was amazing, how many doors of possibility just flew open when money was readily available.

"What if there are still werewolves that don't want to register?" she asked, softly.

He looked thoughtful, leaning back in his chair. "I suppose we could include a clause that limits purchases of Wolfsbane to registered werewolves," he murmured.

"No!" she protested, promptly. "No. It should be freely available, no questions asked."

Lucius gave her a nasal sigh, looking exhausted by her naivete. "I will not be the only person to consider that option," he said, flatly. He'd grown so blunt, ever since the marriage. Apparently the Malfoy charm was reserved for non-family members. "If this proposal passes, then failing to register will be illegal. Buying the potion as a non-registered wizard will earn questions."

Hermione sighed. "There should be a sub-department of Magical Creatures that can act upon hiring prejudice," she muttered. "Because I just know people are still going to-"

"Yes, they will still endeavor not to hire werewolves. You cannot stop that, Hermione. At least, not today," he added, in a gentler tone – after seeing the stricken look on her face. "Change is a series of small steps, not one big leap. The first step is the hardest, for everyone. After that, it gets easier." He slid the proposal to her, again. "If you fail to take the first step, you'll fail the entire cause. If there has ever been a fitting use for that fabled 'Gryffindor courage,' I believe this is it."

She stared at the proposal. "Are you always this confident?" she asked, a little plaintively.

"If you're referring to whether or not I am confident in my ability to affect change, then yes," he said. "Although that confidence was hard-won through years of trial and error under the stern tutelage of my father."

"I was asking about your confidence in knowing you're making the right decision, actually."

Lucius fixed her with an enigmatic stare. "Can anyone be sure of that?" he wondered. "If you allow yourself to be plagued endlessly by such questions, you'll never achieve anything. This is written in ink on paper, Hermione. It's not chiseled in stone. Laws can be overturned, re-interpreted, or changed utterly. Turn that in," he advised, picking the paper up and handing it to her. "And I believe I will release you, at this time, because Draco has walked past the study door no less than twelve times in the past five minutes."

With that, he stood, leaving Hermione blinking owlishly at the study door. As if on cue, Draco strolled past, glaring inside.

Rolling her eyes, she stood, too. "I'll turn it in," she decided. "You know, I'd like to pick your brain about a few other things. Are you free for lunch this week, at all?"

Lucius blinked, stalling for a moment. Hermione realized that this was the first time she'd ever actually asked for his assistance – or invited him anywhere. She didn't feel too bad about that last bit, though, because to be fair, Lucius was also kind of a git and nobody in their right mind would invite him into their lives to be an utter arsehole at them. Or so she'd thought, at one point, before she'd gotten to know him a little better. "My schedule is not very full," he said, as though he were not at all interested in meeting with her and was, in fact, doing her a favor by even considering it. "I will owl you my availability."

Hermione pressed her lips together so she didn't laugh. "Thank you," she said, managing to not sound amused even a little. She really was getting good at this.

She preceded him out of the study, the proposal tucked under her arm. Draco had disappeared from the hallway when he'd seen them both standing, and was waiting at the Floo with a large, rounded object covered in a blanket. Hermione stopped mid-sentence when she saw it, frowning in confusion.

Then, something under the blanket gave a soft hoot.

"No," she said, immediately, putting her hands on her hips. "No. Not that thing you call your owl."

"Hercules," Draco said, scowling defensively as he placed a soft hand on the top of the cage. "And you can keep your comments to yourself about him."

"The very first time he bites me, he's going to live on the roof," she threatened, stalking towards the Floo with Lucius sauntering lightly at her heels. The clipped noise of heels heralded Narcissa's return, a little bag of Hercules' things held daintily in her hand. The fact that she looked ready to burst into tears over the seeming finality of Draco's familiar leaving the Manor stayed Hermione's tongue, which was a miracle because she had plenty of rant left.

"You've always hated my owl, and for no reason," Draco insisted, smiling at his mother as he took the bag from her. "Thank you, Mum," he murmured, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

"The only Malfoy owl that has any semblance of manners-"

"Is my father's, yes, I know," Draco finished for her, rolling his eyes a bit. "For all you complain about the Potterwife, you can really hold a grudge, yourself, you know."

Lucius looked surprised and a little smug that apparently his owl was the reigning favorite, and sent Narcissa a triumphant look. Narcissa squinted at him, shaking her head a bit as she tried desperately to work out why on Earth Lucius considered that a battle worth winning. When he shrugged, she sighed and turned to her son. "Now that you have your owl, you have no excuse for not writing," she said, threading her fingers together in front of her anxiously.

"I know, Mum. I'll write," he promised. "Every day. Every hour. On the hour."

"We'll be back for dinner, soon," Hermione promised, once again feeling a stab of guilt over Narcissa's emotional upheaval. When her mother-in-law nodded, her eyes glistening a bit, she stepped forward to press a kiss to Narcissa's cheek. "Thank you, also. It was lovely, as usual."

"Good night, dear," Narcissa returned, sniffing slightly. Lucius inclined his head in silence, apparently considering that an adequate echo of Narcissa's sentiments.

Then, they were through the Floo, and after a heated argument about where to put Hercules' cage, he handed her that little tube of bright red lipstick and told her to re-apply it, because she had a promise to make good on.

0o0o0o0o0o0

"Hello, Granger." Pansy's cool voice felt like ice trickling down her spine, and Hermione froze for just one little second before turning to smile at her.

"It's Malfoy, actually," she said, in a saccharine tone.

Pansy's face puckered a bit, sour, but she rolled her eyes and the expression faded away a bit. When her eyes stopped rolling, they landed on the parchments scattered over Hermione's desk, flicking over them in the briefest display of curiosity before boredom overtook her. Then her eyes flicked back to Hermione, and before the bushy-haired witch could even begin to wonder what she was doing there, Pansy spoke. "It's almost lunch. You free?"

Hermione's eyebrows flew up. "You're asking me to lunch?" she blurted out, incredulous.

The girl's eyes narrowed a bit, her lips pursing. "Do you need me to answer that?" she asked, sarcastically. "Or...?"

"If you're going to be a prat..."

Pansy made a frustrated noise in her throat, a scowl briefly crossing her pretty face as her eyes flicked over the sea of cubicles. She was clearly worried about being overheard, although Hermione highly doubted any of Pansy's friends worked in Magical Creatures. "Fine. Yes, I am. So, do you want to go with me, or not?" she demanded, haughtily.

Hesitating, Hermione took in Pansy's fur coat, the elegant lines of her legs and those fashionable little booties. She looked like something straight out of a fashion magazine.

Finally, she took in Pansy's expression, that weird mixture of arrogance and uncertainty.

Then, she shrugged. "Sure, alright. Let me finish up, here. Shouldn't take more than a minute. Uh, you can sit, if you want," she added, nodding her chin at the little chair to the side of her desk.

Pansy eyed it with open skepticism. "I'll stand," she decided.

"Suit yourself," Hermione huffed, turning back to her work. She finished the thought she'd been writing down before Pansy arrived, and organized her papers briefly. "We'll have to stop by the DMLE. I have a standing lunch date with Harry I'll need to cancel."

"I'll meet you out front." And with a swirl of what looked like wolf fur, she was gone.

0o0o0o0o0o0

A few minutes later, Hermione was bundling up against the chill as she stepped out onto the street. A wind was tearing through the buildings, and it immediately played havoc with her hair as she crossed the short distance to Pansy. The woman looked – damn her – perfectly comfortable, even with only a thin layer of pantyhose protecting her otherwise bared legs.

"Did you have a place in mind, already?" Hermione asked, and spit out some of her own hair that had blown into her face.

"I shudder to think what kind of place I'd end up if you picked," Pansy scoffed, and turned to head down the street. Behind her, Hermione bit back a blistering retort. She sort of felt like she owed it to Draco to at least try to play nice. He'd done plenty of that with her own friends, after all.

On the other hand, her friends weren't unapologetic arseholes.

They spent the walk in mostly frosty silence, and ended up in a restaurant that managed to look both austerely elegant and 'hip.' Quite a lot of young purebloods or half-bloods dotted the tables, even at lunch time. Hermione tried not to stare at anyone as she followed Pansy and the hostess to their table, one of the attendants at the door helping both her and Pansy out of their respective robes (and furs). Pansy's dress sort of reminded Hermione of the roaring twenties.

They sat facing each other, staring each other down as the hostess listed off some of the daily specials while handing them each a menu.

The silence reigned for just a moment longer when they were finally alone, eyes boring into each other over the tops of said menus. Hermione finally broke. "What's this about, Parkinson?"

She shrugged, elegantly. "Draco is my friend. That means we should try to be decent to each other, doesn't it?"

Eyebrows lifting, Hermione asked, carefully, "He's just a friend?"

Pansy glared at her. "It's been years since we dated," she said, flatly. "And yes, we are just friends. I don't have any lingering feelings for him, to answer the question you're trying to avoid asking."

Hermione cocked her head a bit, trying to recall if Pansy had always been this blunt. When the woman began perusing the menu, she let the conversation drop as she did the same, scanning it and trying not to notice the ridiculous prices attached to each item. Thank God for that Malfoy fortune, she supposed, because otherwise her budget would have been somewhat tight for the rest of the week.

Neither did anything to break the silence again, speaking only to the waiter after he arrived to take their menus and their orders.

When he was gone, they were back to staring at each other.

Just when Hermione was ready to throw her hands up and declare that she'd given up and was going back to work, Pansy spoke. "He told me he moved into your flat."

"Er, yes."

"Is it small?" she wondered, with an almost detached sense of curiosity.

Hermione shrugged a shoulder, vaguely uncomfortable. "It feels big enough, to me," she said, although suddenly she wasn't so sure of that. After all, Draco had gone from a fifty-room manor to- well, a three-room flat. Four rooms, if you counted the bathroom.

Which she didn't.

"Why didn't you just move into a bigger one?" Pansy wondered.

"I like mine," Hermione said, a little defensively. "And what would we do with the extra space? It's not like we already have kids."

"You'd have a room for his potions bench," she pointed out. "A library for your reading. You could have an office for when you take your work home." Alright. So had Draco been talking to Pansy about Hermione and her life, or was she just that predictable? The third option being, of course, that Pansy was simply that gifted intuitively. Hermione felt like she could cross that option out.

She shook her head a bit. "I don't mind doing that stuff in the living room and the kitchen table," she muttered. She had sort of grown to like listening to Draco putter about his bench while she read. She didn't really want to relegate him to another room for it.

"Ugh, I'll never understand poor people," Pansy complained, idly.

The waiter returned with the Chardonnay she'd ordered before Hermione could snap something back, and she felt the insult claw around inside her throat before she swallowed it back down. Play nice, she told herself. Play nice for Draco.

Although maybe he'd be proud of her if she just managed not to choke Pansy to death with her bare hands. She knew Harry and Ron probably would be.

"So how're things going with you, then?" Hermione asked, trying to steer the conversation as far away from Draco and her flat as possible. When Pansy launched into an exhaustive tale of her attempts at starting her own fashion line, she sighed a bit with relief when it looked like she'd succeeded. And, well, hell – Pansy had dreams. She'd certainly never known that. She'd never even bothered to wonder – in her head, all pureblooded children just sat around waiting to inherit their parents' money so they could happily do nothing forever.

She supposed that, in the end, that assumption didn't make much sense. It was human nature to find meaning in one's life, after all.

By the time their appetizers had arrived, she was surprised to see that Pansy had grown almost animated as she spoke about her future clothing line. "I could show you some of my sketches," she offered. "I think I might even have pieces that would help minimize your hips."

Ignoring the poke at her hips (seriously, piss off, though), Hermione said, "I didn't know you drew."

Pansy nodded, looking briefly shy. Hermione marveled at the expression, and wished Harry was there to see it because she was pretty certain no one would ever believe it had happened. "I paint, sometimes, too," she admitted. "Not very seriously, though. I try to stay focused on my clothing sketches. Painters just don't make names for themselves, you know? At least, not while they're alive."

Chuckling, Hermione conceded the point with a tilt of her head. "Fair enough. What kind of stuff do you like to paint?"

"People," Pansy said, the answer prompt. "I'm not very interested in still lifes, and I find landscapes awfully boring. I painted Draco in fifth year. He hated it. Said I got his chin wrong and it wasn't that pointy," she added, with another eyeroll. "Of course, it was a perfectly accurate picture. But I guess most people don't like to see that version of themselves."

"Wouldn't they see it every time they looked in a mirror?" Hermione wondered, doubtfully.

"No. Every time a person goes up to a mirror, they subconsciously angle their head to try and get the best version of themselves," Pansy said, with ruthless confidence in her observation. "And they're very well-practiced at it, after all these years. I don't think any adult in the world really knows what they look like, actually."

Stunned, Hermione just stared at her. That was probably the deepest and most interesting thing she'd ever heard Pansy say, and to be honest, she wasn't sure how to take it.

Pansy pulled a face as she dissected her ceviche with her knife and fork. "I don't know why they insist on putting flounder in this," she sneered. She used her knife to edge the flaking pieces of fish to the side of the plate, and speared some squid with her fork. "All it ever does is fall apart. And it soaks up too much of the flavor. It's practically inedible."

"You should have gotten the terrine," Hermione said, gesturing at her own plate. "It's good."

"I should have," Pansy agreed.

"Do you want a bite?"

Pansy blinked up at her, startled by the offer, and looked around. "Off your plate?" she asked, openly stunned.

Hermione laughed, softly. "Sure?" She pushed the plate towards her.

She glanced around the restaurant again, almost as though she were doing something illegal, and then quickly speared a bite of Hermione's food with her fork. She pushed it into her mouth quickly, afraid of getting caught. Her eyes had nearly lit up with mischief, and Hermione once again found herself fascinated by the transformation. "That is good," Pansy said, quietly, after swallowing. Then she smiled, and Hermione nearly pinched herself, sure that she was dreaming.

When she realized that Pansy was actually smiling and not smirking or sneering, she smiled back.