AN: This chapter is dedicated to Apple Pies And Other Amends, a truly fantastic fic by ToEatAPeach that I decided to name this chapter after. You'll see why-
Really, if you haven't read Apple Pies And Other Amends, please do, it is *chefs kiss*.
Hermione is torn.
Looking at her wardrobe assessingly, she paces back and forth, biting the corner of her thumb in the process.
Thinks the barely there twinge of pain is the only thing keeping her grounded, currently.
Because she can't decide, she can't choose what to wear, and she has been agonising over her wardrobe for the last bloody hour. Knows she'll be late if she wastes any more time deciding. The thought makes her feel even more jittery inside; feel even more on edge.
She wants to look nice, to feel nice. Picks up a particularly nice looking cocktail dress and appraises it briefly. All of her nice, going-out-feeling-good dresses are packed in the furthest reaches of her wardrobe, having not been touched for several months now.
Wonders if she'll be a reclusive shut in for the rest of her life-
Her eyes glance quickly at the clock on her bedroom wall.
No time for this.
Right, yes. Decision time.
Her hands grab at two dresses, the two she has somehow, miraculously whittled the decision down to. One is a long, soft ensemble of a dusty rose, one she knows she has a matching set of robes for. Not that she'll need the robes, really. It's not as if the Weasley's have suddenly started to care that she dresses in muggle clothing.
But, Ginny had said to dress "nicely" earlier when she had floo'd to check in about her birthday party, the redhead also having mentioned canopies and "summer breeze".
The other dress is shorter, but flowing, a delicately light shade of yellow, and it matches the description of "summer breeze" perfectly, she thinks. Hermione remembers when she had first tried it on and how Ron's eyes had lit up-
She promptly drops the dress onto the floor as if it has burned her.
Pulls the other dress closer to her chest, and half turns, intending to put the dusty rose dress on and call it quits.
But she stills, turns back toward the dress on the floor.
Ron had liked this dress. But so had she.
Still does, in fact.
Being self-aware has perks and burdens in equal measure. Because she knows that in every other circumstance, every other aspect of her life, she is headstrong, sometimes detrimentally so. But somehow, since- well since everything with Ron, she has found herself scrutinising every little thing in herself that she knows he had hated. Finds herself with a deep loss of control that has her almost teetering on hysterics.
Her eyes hover on the dress again.
Knows she can't keep doing things to please Ron, even now, but also knows she must take back control, for herself.
She bites at the soft skin of her lip, picks the dress back up. Makes a decision and throws the dress on before she can think herself out of it. She pulls a pair of strappy, open toed heels on and quickly scrapes her hair into a messy bun. Barely even glances at her reflection because she is absolutely sure that if she does, she'll start scrutinising again, picking at all of the things that Ron had often brought up- harmless, meaningless jokes she had thought at the time, but has since been ingrained into her mind as reasons-
Looks at the clock again; takes a deep, stuttering breath.
Marches straight for her fireplace.
On the other end of the floo, Hermione lands in the Weasley's fireplace.
She carefully steps out, making sure not to get soot on her dress or shoes.
"Alright there, Golden Girl?" and Hermione is beyond pleased to see George's lanky figure slumped against the doorway before her.
"George!" she says, feeling a smile slide onto her face. George slips into the room, and pulls her into a quick, warm hug. Realises she hasn't seen him in months, now.
He takes a quick step back, and his eyes appraise her quickly, his hand catching on her elbow to slowly twirl her around in a little circle, feeling herself laughing as he does so.
"Tell me, Hermione, did you use the Confundus charm on me or do you just look mind blowing today?" He says this with a devious glint in his eyes, his voice light and teasing.
Hermione rolls her eyes at him, but her smile has grown and even though she knows he's joking, she feels the rising heat of a blush on her cheeks. Instead of giving him the satisfaction of a response, however, she slaps his arm playfully and moves around him, heading into the kitchen.
The house is quiet, almost, and empty of any Weasleys, or guests for that matter. There is a faint sound of bass, of music from outside drifting into the room from the back doors.
As if sensing where her thoughts have gone, George comes to stand beside her, "they're all outside," he explains, "Harry and mum fixed the canopy from Bill and Fleur's wedding, all the food and booze is out there too."
Hermione hesitates, fiddles with the edge of her bag. Feels an intense sense of nervousness in her chest, nervousness at having to see Ron, nervousness at the potentials of everything that could plausibly go wrong-
"You can relax, you know," George says quietly, so quietly in fact that Hermione almost doesn't hear it, "the idiot's not here yet." He briefly, reassuringly squeezes her shoulder.
Thinks such a duality is intriguing. That George, as rambunctious as he is, as insanely blunt as he can be, is one of the only Weasley's who seems to see her uncomfortableness with Ron. One of the only ones who seems to be able to half admit that Ron, their Golden Boy, is not at all perfect- that something isn't right with the way he's treated her.
One of the only one's who'll admit it out loud, at least.
But Hermione understands. She does. He's their family, their child, brother, sibling, someone important to them. Even if he's made mistakes, even if he's continuing to make them, to hurt her in ways they don't particularly like, he's still family to them.
So they shove the situation under the carpet, gloss over it. And it hurts more, Hermione thinks, because she's seen it happen closer to home, with her parents. The fact they resolutely ignore what happened during the war, what she did, as if it's some huge, horrible mistake that needs to be covered up. Ignored.
No, Hermione understands all too well.
But she's grateful for George, at least. And Ginny, too, she thinks, as she sees the redhead in the distance, through the glass panes in the door.
Hermione steps out into the expanse of the fields surrounding the burrow, George at her side. Harry and Mrs Weasley have both done an amazing job. There are canopies similar to the ones Bill and Fleur had at their wedding, but the canopies are a lovely shade of light green. The canopies are scattered about, a few on the left side bundled together. From here, Hermione can see rows upon rows of catering tables, stacked with plates and masses of food.
On the right is another cluster of canopies, surrounded by wildflowers and where most of the guests seem to be congregating. Tables and chairs are laid out haphazardly, the decorations are minimal but still, there seems to be a lovely, happy buzz amongst the guests.
Directly in front of herself and George, in the middle, is one canopy, a lovely looking cake with "Happy Birthday Ginny!" written across it in wide, loopy letters. It is nestled upon a table, surrounded by various presents and gift boxes of varying shapes, sizes and colours.
Ginny is standing to the side of the table, greeting someone- a girl with a burly looking smile, perhaps a fellow harpy, Hermione muses as she makes her way towards them.
The burly girl has left by the time Hermione reaches the central canopy, and she quickly slips her gift onto the table as she passes. Ginny turns then, and sees her approaching.
"Hermione!" she says chirpily, pulling her into a tight, strong embrace, "I'm so glad you came."
"Of course I did," Hermione replies, giving her a grin, "this all looks so lovely, Harry did a good job."
Ginny nods, glancing around at the canopies, "they really did, best birthday ever."
"I'm definitely jealous," Hermione comments, "your cake looks fantastic."
They both chat for a while, and Hermione realises she has quite a bit with the case to catch Ginny up on, but decides she'll do so later.
"Would you like a drink?" Ginny asks after a moment, and Hermione nods briskly.
"Yes, I could do with a drink," she replies, trying in vain to keep her eyes from lingering on the back doors of the burrow.
Ginny nips off then, and Hermione finds herself on her own. She plonks herself down in one of the nearby chairs, out in the sun.
Having been cooped up inside the Ministry all week with such good weather, she takes a moment to enjoy it. Considering the way her current case is going, this will be as much sun as she'll likely see for the next month.
The sun feels warm, not too overbearing, and there is a soft breeze lingering in the air. A small sigh leaves her as she leans back and basks in it.
"I come bearing a gift," Ginny's voice says after a few minutes, and Hermione opens her eyes to see Ginny holding what looks like a fancy but most definitely potent, pink cocktail.
The birthday girl takes a seat next to her, handing her the drink. It smells faintly like grapefruit and lemons. Taking a swig, she notes that it only tastes like grapefruit, not a hint of alcohol, which in itself should be intensely foreboding. She takes another sip, yes, most definitely a dangerous drink to have, and she thinks about swapping it for something less likely to go down so smoothly, but she then notes Ginny's empty hands-
"Why don't you have a drink?" she asks, eyes lingering on her friends most definitely alcohol free hands and then resting on Ginny's face, who's cheeks have gone a bit pink.
"I'm not thirsty," she says, waving Hermione off.
"But it's your birthday, surely-"
"Honestly, Hermione, I'm fine-"
"You didn't drink any wine with me the other day, either, which, might I add, is not at all like you. If I didn't know any better, Ginny Potter, I'd wager you're hiding something-"
"Well, I'd have liked to keep it to myself for a bit longer, but seeing as I was going to tell you first-"
Whatever Ginny is going to say, what Hermione thinks- no definitely knows Ginny is about to say, is cut off with a loud, booming voice, followed by a sudden surge of activity under the guests canopy.
An excitement buzzes around the guests in the area, and Hermione briefly sees a shock of Ginger hair amongst all the ruckus. Harry is briskly walking their way in the distance, a spritely smile plastered on his face. Her heart feels like it's dropped into her stomach, and it can only mean one thing.
Ron is here.
In the brief pause between Hermione acknowledging the youngest male Weasley's arrival and Harry joining them at the central canopy, she has fled in the opposite direction.
So far, she's been having a lovely time, sees no reason to linger and deal with Ron- or whatever absurd amount of embarrassment he is likely to cause. And so she continues on her way toward the refreshments, thinks she is most definitely too sober to be dealing with him at all.
Sees fit to rectify that notion beforehand, taking a large gulp of the dangerous grapefruit concoction Ginny had handed her in the meantime.
Reaching the refreshments canopy, she downs the rest of the cocktail and picks up another at random from the nearest table. This one is bright blue but somehow tastes like pineapples. It'll do.
Her eyes take in the other tables, then, and she notes the vast quantity of food available. Perhaps she'll simply hide out here until Ron inevitably runs into her.
Picking up a plate, she moves carefully around the tables, and wonders if it had been Harry or Molly who had placed stasis charms on the tables, keeping the delectable treats at just the right temperature. One of the tables appears to simply be full of deserts. Several different cakes and pies are displayed, chocolate and fudge and vanilla, as well as an assortment of biscuits and cookies- wagon wheels, wafers and gingernut biscuits.
Hermione has trouble deciding what exactly she'd like to try, but places a few of the gingernut biscuits and chocolate digestives on her plate. Moving along toward the pies, she is again spoilt for choice; rhubarb and ginger crumble, cherry pie, a rather delicious looking banoffee pie-
"I've heard the apple pie is surprisingly good."
She nearly jumps out of her skin at the sudden voice from just behind her, having not seen a single soul under the canopy as she'd walked over, and whirls around to see Malfoy stood barely a metre away, hands stuffed in the pockets of his rather immaculate black suit trousers. He's wearing a white shirt, today, the sleeves carefully rolled up over his forearms, and no robes.
At this moment, Hermione feels displeased. Not even for his sudden appearance, not even for his presence at all. In fact, she is startled to find she feels quite the opposite- and that notion is simply another notch added to her suddenly and inescapable collection of confused feelings.
No, she is displeased because up until this very moment, she has so far made good on her promise to simply, entirely ignore whatever had occurred the previous night at Malfoy Manor. Hadn't even thought about it, contemplated it- nor any of the feelings she had experienced. Not at all.
The sight of his stupidly well pressed pale shirt is enough to remind her, rather rudely, that she had stared at his chest last night. Enough now, to have her brain frozen in contempt, enough to have her rambling the first words to appear in her head before she even has a chance to stop herself.
"What are you doing here?"
Rather than looking afronted in any way, as if knowing she'd ask this, he smirks at her, and she doesn't know how to feel about that fact.
"I do work with Potter on the daily, Granger," he says, slowly, carefully, expression languid, "Why? Do you not think I deserve to be here?"
Slowly, her brain begins to work again, and she realises her mistake.
"No, no," she says quickly, sharply, "I just- I hadn't really expected to see you here, I suppose." She waves her drink laden hand dismissively, hoping it comes across as carefree, and then turns back to the piles of food.
His tall frame comes to take up the spot next to her, and she finds herself comparing his refreshing scent today to the intense mix of firewhiskey and apples from the previous evening-
"To be fair, I almost didn't show up," he says, getting a plate of his own.
"Oh?" she says, because it is the only thing she can think to say. Picks up another digestive just for something to focus on, even though she already has several biscuits piled on her plate.
"I've been rather quite busy today," he explains, picking up a gingernut biscuit of his own, and Hermione briefly notes that he has used a glamour of some kind on his arm, that arm, and a spark of curiosity fills her. And she almost, very nearly asks about it- asks why he has, but he continues talking, and she finds her eyes drawn to his face, instead.
"Working on the case-"
"The case? On a Saturday?" she almost sounds incredulous, but only because she's never met anyone that would willingly work on a weekend, besides herself of course. But then again, she isn't entirely sure why she feels so scandalised, he did allow her into his home to continue working on a Friday night, for Godric's sake.
"Of course, we need to get a head start," he says matter of factly, "before anyone else gets hurt.".
"Yes, of course," she says, but feels something quite like disappointment flare in her chest. Perhaps, she thinks, because he had worked without her, "Did you make any headway?"
Malfoy shakes his head, and reaches for the apple pie he'd mentioned earlier. It did look rather good, she supposes.
"We'll discuss this at the Ministry on Monday," Malfoy says, and upon seeing her face (a growing look of contempt, she's sure), he continues, "it is the weekend, after all, and I came here hoping I could take a break."
She could understand that. Malfoy grabs one of the dessert spoons and takes a bite of the apple pie.
"Is it good?" she asks, and he nods in a way that expresses a great deal of enthusiasm.
"Most definitely," he says, licking his lips, and Hermione has to turn away quickly, so her eyes don't linger, "why don't you try some?" He gestures to the pie with his free hand, and she finds herself shaking her head, a small smile tugging at her lips.
She moves to get her own piece of the pie, but then he pushes his plate in front of her demandingly, and the gesture is far too intimate. Cannot imagine any other time that Malfoy, a Death Eater's son, someone who once, even if forced, followed Lord Voldimort, would share his food with her, a muggleborn, a mud-
Picking up her own spoon, she pushes the thoughts from her head, and takes a quick bite from the opposite corner. Malfoy doesn't seem to notice, but he also doesn't seem to be at all bothered at the notion of sharing food with her. It's quite a good pie, she thinks, most likely better because of the sweetness from the added sugar, the filling is all apple, sweet, and pleasantly light.
He raises an eyebrow at her, a question.
"It's nice," she says, then continues, "I don't particularly like apples, actually, unless they're baked like this," she explains. Malfoy pauses in his ministrations (taking a sip of his own drink), to look at her in mock shock.
"I never would have guessed, considering the sheer amount of apples you seem to have in your possession," he comments, a curl to the corners of his lips a clear indication that he is teasing her.
Heat rises onto her cheeks, and she feels the need to explain herself. Puts her plate down on the table in front of them.
"Those were purely for making amends," she says, taking a sip of the blue cocktail in her hand.
"Oh, I know, Granger," he retorts, "You need Sturgis and Humphries to think we get along." the corner of his lips quirk slightly. He is amused, then.
"You don't think I'll be able to ruse them?" she sniffs, but there is a smile playing across her lips, testing the waters.
His grey eyes meet hers, and there's something in them again, the same thing from last night-
"Just keep bribing me with apples and I'll be on my best behaviour, Granger," he says, his voice low, teasing and then he leans in closer, his face hovering close to hers, close enough that she can smell cinnamon and apples, "unless of course, you'd like me to be on my worst."
Something utterly dangerous flutters in Hermione's abdomen, then. Feels the blush on her cheeks intensify tenfold. Wonders if they're starting a new feud, a new game, now, except this one feels different, feels like it's crossing some line they've set. Wonders what the rules are, how far are either of them allowed to go?
His eyes are dark, boring into her own, flecked with an intensity- or even heat-
Wonders if he's trying to rile her up for the hell of it, to see what she'll do- how she'll react.
"Worst?" she asks, and the smirk ghosting his lips deepens. It is perhaps the most prominent smirk she's seen him wear, and it has her breath catching in her throat.
"Yes, Granger, my worst behaviour," he replies, and it sends shivers cascading down her spine, "I never have thanked you properly for the apples- for making amends, which is awfully bad mannered of me."
She turns towards him, her head tilted to see his face, his own so very, very close, their bodies a spare inch apart. Can almost taste the apple and cinnamon on his tongue, and it makes everything feel entirely fuzzy, warm. A familiar feeling pools in the pit of her stomach.
He seems to be waiting on something, waiting on something from her. She can't seem to think lucidly, can't think of what it is he's waiting for- a response perhaps.
"How do you intend to thank me?" she asks, a half whisper, feeling entirely sensitive and numb in equal measure.
This must have been somewhat close to what he wanted to hear, because he's smirking fully now and her heart feels like it does an awful flip inside her chest.
"Well," he begins, voice low and what Hermione knows now is most definitely heated, "I think I might start by-"
"'Mione?"
Hermione whips her head around to see a shock of cropped, ginger hair.
"Ron?"