Blaise was watching Draco pace. This was not new, but he'd been itchy and irritable for a few hours himself, and knew Draco was feeling worse, and watching his lover's anxiety was now only proving to chafe his nerves.
"Stop. Stop pacing this instant. She said we could come at noon, and it is 11:58, why don't we just Apparate there already if you're so antsy?"
Draco had stopped and flinched a bit at the boom in his voice, which he felt a little bad about, but mostly he just felt mild relief at the cessation of the pacing. Ah well, one of the downsides of a natural bass voice was that one had to constantly watch one's volume.
Draco saw his momentary remorse, and rather than address it, he instead answered the question,
"She's got Anti-Apparition wards, the house is under a Fidelius, and she's got a penchant for punctuality. Even Potter hadn't been there before he took me. I'm not sure we couldn't be killed for trying to show up early."
Blaise nodded, waving his hand in a 'get on with it' gesture, and pronounced as haughtily as possible,
"You may re-commence with the infernal pacing."
Draco snorted and then chuckled at the idea of permission, jiggled one leg, and stared at his pocket watch for the seven-hundredth time since they sent Hera off after breakfast. Fourteen further steps and a leg jiggle later, Draco sneered at him,
"Now we may go, your royal bloody majesty." Blaise laughed the comment off,
"You're just mad that I got to be royal for a moment." Draco snarled momentarily, grabbing his upper arm and Blaise felt himself being pulled like taffy as they Apparated.
He felt Draco release him, and swayed for a moment on his feet. Merlin knew—Blaise hated Apparating—he discreetly organized all his travel around wizard ships, trains, and Floo. He felt Draco put a questioning hand on his shoulder and brushed it off with a wave of his hand. He'd known that this would happen, all nausea and spinning brain for just a moment. He felt himself flush and hoped that it would pass quickly and he wouldn't vomit. Draco handed him a conjured glass of water, glistening with condensation, and he drank it greedily.
"Thank you." His companion nodded, and narrowed his eyes behind Blaise, presumably at Granger's house.
"Blaise, should we call the Aurors? That noise can't be a good sign."
He turned his head a bit and honed his hearing past the mild pitchy ringing in his own ears, increasingly becoming aware of a rhythmic thumping coming from the house,
"No need for the goon squad, I think it's just music." Draco snorted, apparently unconvinced.
When Blaise felt the last roll of nausea go from his stomach to his tight throat, he released a breath, pried his fingers off his kneecaps, and stood upright. Upon turning, he was faced with a delightful country cottage, an English front garden that was full of herbs and wildflowers, seemingly wild and unmanicured—but secretly perfect—with patches of fruit trees along the borders. He could almost feel the sun and comfort radiating off the field-stone corners and lintels of the structure. He found himself chuckling, suddenly understanding what Draco had meant about being instantly and paradoxically comfortable in the house with Granger,
"It's fucking precious. Of course this is her house." Draco pulled a slight sneer,
"It's not as twee in the inside, but yes, it's very obviously hers."
Draco led the way up the cobbled path, past the patio where Granger had apparently nearly bled out, and knocked on the front door. Blaise felt a shudder of itchiness go under his skin like a bolt of lightning and in reassessing Draco's ramrod spine, recognized the tension there. He placed his hand against the curve of Draco's lower back, a comforting gesture that he knew was only ever well-received in private, so he wasn't offended when Draco shuddered and eased under his hand, then shot him a glare. He was grateful for the comfort, but his pride wouldn't allow it to linger, or it just smacked of coddling. Blaise gave a knowing smile and removed his hand.
No one answered the door, and the thumping continued from within, the moment having officially become awkward.
"Perhaps she didn't hear the knock over the music. I can't imagine she'd mind if we just went in, under these circumstances. She's been friends with Potter and Weasley long enough that she might not even expect them to even knock."
Draco nodded, recognizing that her friendship with those two was oddly close, that the Wonder Duo lacked manners, and that it was likely she couldn't hear them, though his aristocratic face was also showing his opinion of what Blaise kept calling 'music', and his upper lip had clearly decided was not. Blaise chuckled and opened the door, wincing slightly for Draco's sake at how much louder the music was without the door as a barrier. The bass was vibrating through his whole body, forcing him to breathe in time with its pulse, and a sliding high melody twisted through it before he heard a breath and a man's deep melted chocolate voice,
Hah, sicka than your average
Poppa twist cabbage off instinct
niggas don't think shit stink,
pink gators, my Detroit players
Now, Blaise had always considered himself a connoisseur of the female form, but what he saw as soon as they breached the vestibule made his gut clench and his cock twitch. He'd ceased to hear the lyrics of the song at all, transfixed as he was. He'd wooed and bedded English girls, French girls, Italian girls, but he'd never seen anything like this. His father had been a wizard from Nigerian royal lines but not an heir, and had met his mother while she was on holiday in Tunis, and because race mattered less than blood in the wizarding world, it had never occurred to him that the svelte lines of European women might not be the most appealing shape a woman could be.
Hermione Granger was dancing with a mop in her parlor, but her thighs were ample, the color of burnished bronze, and taunt like bowstrings as she squatted low in a tee shirt and cotton shorts. She bounced on her heels and it shook her ass to the beat, and the more she moved the more he felt his brain shut off. She was singing along to the song, some higher pitched lyrical chorus, and he glanced briefly back at Draco, who was also staring. Draco seemed equally captivated, and just a little horrified at himself for looking. As Blaise turned back to her, Draco cleared his throat loudly, and when that had no effect, he shouted over the music,
"Granger!"
She jolted upright and whirled towards them with a surprised 'eep', but her wand had appeared from some mysterious place within her light cotton attire and was leveled at them at a potentially vicious angle before recognition lit up in her amber eyes. Blaise watched as she stood, pulling her legs out of a near pounce to stand politely with her ankles together, wand behind her back, as if she hadn't just been moving like some kind of primal goddess of sex and power. He felt like he had whiplash from the rapid changes in her body language, but she was taking one of those big breaths like she always did before a lecture of some kind, so he refocused soon into her first sentence,
"...very punctual of you Malfoy. Anyway, I'm going to go change, you two are going to go eat chocolate in the kitchen and meditate on happy memories. Then we'll head outside."
She turned and walked away, still a little embarrassed if the hesitation in her steps said anything, and Blaise took a moment to assess her figure overall. Petite frame, high cheekbones, Ridiculous Hair, strong shoulders, perfect posture, small breasts, a narrow waist given away by the folds in her baggy shirt, wide curved hips, thick thighs that were touching now that she was standing, small feet with high arches, and slender toes. She'd certainly developed since Hogwarts, and whenever he'd seen her since she'd been in the all-encompassing crimson robes of the DMLE or the inky indigo of the Unspeakables, so he hadn't noticed her figure. He rapidly turned to Draco with a slightly accusatory glare,
"You failed, rather spectacularly, to mention that the swot had, in fact, become magnificent to look at." Draco shrugged,
"I hadn't seen any evidence of that. The last time I saw her here she was in a shift to her ankles, and covered in blood. The only thing I noticed is that she looked smaller when unconscious."
Draco was walking as he spoke, presumably towards the kitchen, so Blaise followed. His ire wasn't totally soothed, even knowing how much the sight of her bleeding had likely unsettled his mate, as he still sometimes had nightmares about her torture in his home.
...
Mortified. She was mortified. Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini has seen her dancing—to hip hop of all things—which she always did with abandon. Harry and Ron had seen it once at Grimmauld Place, just after the war and before she returned to Hogwarts, again when she had been cleaning. Ron had been equal parts awestruck and angry that she'd been capable of any movement that sexual when still refusing to let him get a leg over. Harry had looked speculative—as if he was realizing she was female and not a textbook—it was the same look he'd given her at the Yule Ball fourth year after his shock had worn off. Then he'd grinned, and ever so slightly taken the piss,
"Mione, have you been hitting the clubs while we're at late night training sessions?"
The memory bothered her, irritated her enough that her embarrassment burned away, because she remembered Ron's immediate jealousy and rage over even the idea of her going out and dancing. Ron's jealously and insecurities had been a constant source of friction, and her inability to fully forgive him for leaving while they were on their Horcrux hunt had only added fuel to the fire. No—better to not think of all that, it would just bring on a fresh bucket of rage that would ruin her day—and anyway, she had guests. It was a bonus that those guests wanted to learn something, she'd been looking forward to it all morning, and she was not going to let the mere memory of Ronald Billius Weasley spoil it.
...
Draco eyed the Swiss chocolate already on the counter, but couldn't find fault, so he tore the paper and foil off, split the bar in two, and handed half to Blaise. The concept of meditating on happy memories was so completely foreign to him that it had nearly shaken the image of Granger dancing out of his head. Was that something Muggles did, dancing like that, something she learned visiting her Grann in Haiti, perhaps? It certainly looked liked a tribal dance—all her visceral femininity on display—and then to whirl around so poised to attack. It had been a visual reminder, again, that Hermione Granger was not just the swotty Gryffindor he remembered, but a witch who had fought and likely killed, and might just still be a little bit broken.
That made him disappointed in the world a bit, somehow it didn't seem right for Granger to be marred in any way by a fight she'd been victor in, but he mentally acknowledged that he didn't look at the world from the position of a victor. He'd looked at the world for a short time from the position of the defeated, trying to hold onto his pride, until his fathers funeral when his mother had pointed out that he wasn't a loser in a war, but a cornered victim of it. That hadn't sat well. He'd later decided that if there was a word for his position, his perspective on the recent war, that it was Survivor, and he could live with that.
He bit into a nib of the chocolate absentmindedly and was shocked to discover it had a silky lemon and lavender curd center—his favorite, but Blaise hated lavender—he let it melt on his tongue while he turned to see Blaise's whole face go pliable with ecstasy, which did not make any sense. He raised a brow, and his lover licked his lips before answering the unspoken inquiry,
"Bourbon and salted caramel in the middle—heavenly."
"Odd, I had lemon and lavender curd." Blaise pulled a predictable face of disgust. Granger walked into the kitchen at that moment, now more reasonably dressed in a pair of Muggle jeans and a massive Quidditch sweater that draped off one shoulder at her neck. It was crimson, but not Hogwarts kit, so he wasn't surprised that when she turned toward the counter to fix herself a coffee that the back read "KRUM". Even if it rankled a bit, it was better than her swanning about in one of Weasley's old pullovers.
His face must have become pinched, because Blaise was looking positively smug at his annoyance, which only deepened his scowl. However, Granger turned and addressed them, so both their faces immediately became stoic, if a little bored.
"How do you both like the chocolate?" Blaise spoke first,
"We ate from the same bar, but the centers were different." Granger smirked wickedly, and Draco was suddenly aware of how infuriating that expression must be on his own face to other people.
"And was it your favorite, Zabini?"
"Blaise, please, bella, and yes it was." Draco rolled his eyes at Blaise's flirtation, it was clearly for his own amusement, and frankly pointless, as she—just like them—would be drawn to a partner and married off soon. Granger's smirk grew smug before she spoke,
"Good. I spent months helping George develop it, it's nice to know the chocolatier didn't mess up the recipe."
Draco turned over the piece still in his hand ensconced in foil and read the paper wrapper with intent this time, finally seeing the fine print which stated 'recipe licensed from Weasely's Wizarding Wheezes of Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade, England'.
"He didn't credit you." She chuckled, and her smile turned lethal again,
"He didn't have to, I'm part-owner. I take particular pleasure in showing up to shareholder meetings and silently reminding Ron that my share is bigger than his."
Draco was only momentarily flabbergasted before Blaise broke the silence with his thunderous laughter, and Draco's face seemed to fracture open as he joined in. Merlin, he couldn't remember the last time he'd found something that funny. She smiled genuinely at their laughter, this being only the second time Draco had seen Granger smile at him rather than in his periphery.
It was with that thought that a fresh electric shock of itching flowed under his skin, but it somehow seemed less irritating for the time being. Blaise gave a small shudder at his side and his laughter tapered off, so he must have felt it too. Granger's smile eased from a sunshine grin to something softer, and she spoke in her lecturer tone again,
"Alright gentlemen, shoes off. Then let's head outside and do this. The Patronus is difficult, but absolutely worth mastering."