Chapter 21

Draco consulted the recipe that was written out in front of him. He was pretty confident in his ability to follow a recipe, but he was a bit nervous. Hermione would be coming over any minute now and he wanted everything to be perfect. But not too perfect like he was trying too hard, because he didn't want her to think that he'd spent all day whipping cleaning spells around his flat and moving colored pillows around his sofa and wondering what it would be like to have her standing in his home. No, not like that. Hopefully she'd never know that. He wanted everything to be just normal perfect.

He could hardly believe that she was coming over to his home and that she was actually dating him. So far his courtship had gone better than even he'd planned. That Weasel must have been a real plonker (was there ever any doubt?) because it was clear he hadn't given Hermione anywhere near the attention that she deserved. Well, so much the better for Draco. He actually had a reason to be grateful to the ginger menace, yet another thing that was going to be hidden far, far deep where no one would ever find it. She would see that the difference between the two men couldn't be more plain, and that could only be in his favor.

Tonight, he was hoping that they could have a little time together away from the stress of the public (and him trying to figure out how to pass as a Muggle) and without the reminders of the things that had separated them before. A nice meal, good company, stimulating conversation, maybe some…no.

Draco shook his head, trying to concentrate on the cauldron in front of him. It did no good to speculate on any …other…activity that might happen that night. That was how he lost half of an hour when he was trying to decide what to wear and somehow sidetracked into wondering what she was going to wear. And then he'd ended up starting dinner a little later than he'd planned.

Now it was more likely that he'd still be cooking when she arrived, which scuppered his plan to be lounging casually on the couch absorbed in an intellectual book. On second thought, it was probably for the best. What kind of person sits on the couch reading a book while waiting for a date to arrive? On third thought, the answer was probably Hermione, so she'd probably appreciate it. Holding a book in his hand could only make him more attractive to her.

He adjusted the temperature on his cauldron and made a mental note to be sure to show Hermione his books later. His literal books. Not his figurative 'books'. Not like, 'Hey…want to see my books?' He shook his head again at the direction his thoughts kept taking.

Just then the Floo rang out and he looked up to see Hermione coming in through the fireplace. She dusted herself off and then looked up at him and sent him a brilliant smile that hit him all the way in his stomach. He was fortunate he didn't chop off a finger. Not for the first time he wondered if that smile was a particularly potent weapon, or if he was just particularly susceptible to it.

He acknowledged her with a greeting, and she called out to him, "Dragon's Lair?"

He just shrugged, turning his attention back to the countertop. "What, too predictable?"

"A little bit. But sometimes predictable is comforting." She took off her coat and hung it on the coatrack. "Habitaculum draconem," she repeated to herself, chuckling.

From the corner of his eye, he watched her look around and thought he knew what she was seeing. Even she of the extendable-charm-mastery looked impressed at how spacious the flat was. The high, vaulted ceilings gave the room a light, airy feel, and low lighting drifted down to illuminate the living space that was covered with warm rugs and antique furniture. He may be a bachelor living on his own, but he still had standards.

She crossed over to the kitchen area, sniffing at the air, and he was careful to chop with competency and skill just in case she was watching, which, of course, she wasn't.

"Hmm, that smells lovely, Draco. What are you making?" She stood beside him and peered into the cauldron. He tried not to feel disappointed that she didn't greet him with a kiss. After all, he was holding a knife. There was probably a rule about not kissing someone holding a knife. He wouldn't know as the only ones who cooked in Malfoy Manor were house elves and he had no desire to know whether they engaged in any displays of affection while they braised the lamp chops and chopped the vegetables.

"Soup," was his less-than-articulate answer as his thoughts temporarily swerved past the idea that maybe he ought to have made lamp chops.

"Soup? That seems rather tame for such an accomplished chef as yourself." When he looked up at her, her eyes twinkled in a way that told him she thought he was trying to put one over on her.

"As it happens, making soup is my specialty." At her unconvinced look, he asserted, "Making soup is a lot like making potions. You follow a careful recipe. You chop up a lot of ingredients. You throw them all into the cauldron at the appropriate time." His shrug indicated the conclusion was obvious.

"We generally call it a 'pot' when we are cooking," Hermione observed with an amused smile.

He rolled his eyes as he added cubes of potatoes to the vessel in question. "Really, Miss Know-It-All, then why does it say 'Cooking Cauldron' on the side?" With his wooden spoon, he indicated the little label on the bottom.

Hermione bent to look closer and saw that it had a clever stylized logo that proclaimed 'Cooking Cauldron 5 qt.' She laughed and acknowledged that he was correct.

"I told you. I know what I'm doing," he sniffed, only slightly put out that she didn't seem to believe him.

While Draco added more ingredients into the cauldron, Hermione took the opportunity to look around his kitchen. It had a lovely layout with bright, spotless counters of a classy white marble that held subtle streaks of grey. The wooden cabinets didn't have any doors on them, instead holding open shelves that were tinted a surprising mint green on the inside. This made it very easy for Hermione to ascertain that most of his shelves were empty.

Most kitchens she'd been in had usually been filled to overflowing with cooking implements, and Malfoy's kitchen was stark in its cleanness and emptiness. There was only a bare handful of bowls and cups, and what looked like a miniature version of the cauldron he was using.

Suspicious, she glanced over at the blond head that was looking into the Cooking Cauldron and stirring carefully. She turned back to the mostly-empty shelves. "Is there any chance that making soup is the only thing you know how to cook?"

He scowled at her, still stirring, but didn't deny the charge.

"I'll be happy to show you how to cook using things other than a cauldron," she offered, with a laugh.

"I know how to cook, Granger," he repeated, this time with a bit of a pout. After carefully pouring in some heavy cream he stirred a few more times and then set his spoon down. Satisfied, he covered the cauldron and wiped his hands on a towel, turning to her. "Now, then."

The look on his face as all of his concentration was suddenly focused on her, sent a shiver down her spine, and gave her the absurd notion that she ought to start running. The manner in which he crossed the kitchen floor reminded her of a predator stalking his prey, which would make her the prey—a thought that somehow thrilled and excited her.

She took a reflexive step backwards, but found herself backed against the counter. There was no time to protest before his hands had cupped her head and his mouth had descended to claim hers in a fiercely, possessive kiss. He'd been so calm standing there stirring his soup that she'd let her guard down, and she'd forgotten how this man effortlessly made her feel a storm of emotions at once.

Her hands came up to rest on his wrists and the gentleness in his hands was belied by the dark slippery feeling of need that whispered out where his lips dominated hers. She thought she might have moaned because suddenly his tongue was there, completing the sensation of being devoured. Her knees wobbled, and as if in perfect synchronization, one of his arms came down to wrap around her waist, holding her to him.

He finally released her mouth with a last nibble on her lip, but he didn't let her out of his arms. She swayed a little, feeling dizzy from the lack of air and from whatever it was that happened whenever he touched her. When her eyes slowly drifted open, she saw him observing her as he held her against his chest, clearly pleased with her reaction.

"Hi," he murmured, his voice low. She felt the flutter of his breath across her skin.

"Hi," she answered, feeling a silly smile forming on her own face.

He leaned in again and this time his lips touched hers with a lovely softness that gently coaxed all the thoughts right out of her head. After the last kiss, she had felt like she'd been hit with a jelly-legs jinx, but this one was different, as if the edge of his hunger had been sated and he was content to savor the touch and taste of her. His mouth nibbled at her like a delicacy, a soft giving and taking as he licked at her lips. She felt wrapped in a cocoon of warmth as her arms came up around his neck and she pressed against him, her mouth responding in kind. The frantic spinning in her head began slowing down against the soft, coaxing kiss, slowing and slowing and slowing until he finally pulled away and she blinked up at him.

There was a faint beeping sound in the background that she hadn't registered before.

"Dinner's ready," he winked, letting his arms drop from around her, his hand lingering to make sure she was steady on her feet. He moved back over towards his cauldron, and she looked around wondering suddenly how long they'd spent with her back against the counter, and his mouth on hers making her forget where she was in time and space. Surely, it was only a few moments.

Thinking to help, she took a wavering step towards the shelf with the bowls on it and had to mentally shake the fog off of her limbs to work properly.

She stared at the bowls on the shelf for a few minutes, unseeing, before she finally realized what the problem was. "Malfoy, you don't have the right—"

The look on his face made a slight blush come to her already flushed cheeks. "I mean, Draco. You don't have the right bowls for a soup."

He waved his hand dismissively. "Just transfigure them. Whenever I need something, I just transfigure it from something else."

She did a Finite to remove the current transfiguration spell, and suddenly she was looking at a handful of mismatched saucers. "Draco, why don't you have any proper bowls or plates?"

He gave her a wry look. "Well, Granger." It was obviously okay for him to use her surname whenever he wanted. "All my best china recently ran afoul of a foul temper and was smashed to pieces, so this is what I've got."

She almost laughed, remembering that day by the pond. "I find it hard to believe that that was all of your best china. It was positively hideous, if I recall correctly. I rather think I was doing you a favor smashing it all to pieces." She proceeded to perform a couple of simple spells that gave them some sturdy, deep soup bowls and a couple of wide-mouthed soup spoons.

"I agree, it was hideous," he acknowledged, taking the new bowls from her, and proceeding to ladle the soup into them using the stirring spoon that he'd just transfigured. "I'd always thought so. I suspect that's what my mother had in mind when she sent it over to me."

"She wanted you to have hideous china? In order to what, offend any guests you might have?"

He paused, as if thinking carefully about his answer. "She wasn't pleased with my decision to move out. She was quite upset about it, actually." He carried the bowls over to his antique Cherrywood dining table and she followed him. She noted that it had already been laid out with two settings and what looked like a small plate of tiny crackers. "It was after my father died, and I needed to leave and…get away…and she didn't understand that."

As they sat together, looking at the food before them, Hermione sensed suddenly that the mood had changed. She'd never yet broached the topic of his parents. Lucius had been sent to Azkaban for war crimes. It had been a ridiculously short sentence, compared to everything he'd actually done. Narcissa had been placed under house arrest for a period of several years, and as Draco had not yet achieved his majority when he became a Death Eater, his sentencing was even lighter—a period of probation and temporary restrictions on his wand.

There were many families who had fought on both sides of the war that were incensed at the way the Malfoys seemed to receive special treatment. The story of Narcissa's pivotal actions in bringing down Lord Voldemort eventually exonerated her in public opinion, but Draco still faced considerable resentment from most of Wizarding Society.

Lucius, however, had truly made some bitter enemies. Despite only having to serve a year in Azkaban, he never made it back out again. A break-in attempt and an uprising left several inmates dead, and when the dust cleared no one was surprised to find that Lucius Malfoy was one of them. Viewed as a traitor by both sides, the Order had tried to keep him under heavy guard for his own protection, but they had been unsuccessful. There was some rumor that an old spell or curse placed on Voldemort's followers to ensure loyalty had been triggered. Whatever the case, Lucius' death was ugly and reeked of Dark magic.

Trying not to be insensitive, she offered a marginally comforting sentiment as she tasted her first spoonful of Draco's concoction. "I'm sure your mother was grieving over your father and just didn't want to lose the close contact with her only son."

"My mother and I aren't close, Granger." His voice was harsh and sharp, a tone she hadn't heard in quite a while, and it caused Hermione to look up at him quickly.

She ignored the fact that he'd reverted to calling her by her last name. It seemed to indicate something, and she didn't want to interrupt whatever train of thought they seemed to be barreling down on.

"Aren't you, though? Harry always made it sound like you and your mother had a close relationship." By now they all knew the story about how Narcissa had lied about Harry being dead, out of a concern for her own son. She didn't bring that up, though.

"We did, Granger." He eyed the bottle of wine in front of him before he poured some into his glass and drank half of it at once. His voice was sour when he said, "Then she practically sold me to the Dar—to Voldemort."

Sick at heart, and not really comprehending much beyond the hurt in his tone, she reached for the hand that was still wrapped around his wineglass. "I'm so sorry, Draco. Did she really? That must have been horrible."

He didn't shake off her hand. But he also didn't respond to her touch. He gave a little shake of his head, like he was throwing off bad memories. "I don't mean literally. I mean that she knew—she knew what the Dark Lord wanted to do, she knew what Lucius and she were involved in, she knew one day it would involve me, and she just let it all happen."

Hermione tried to sort out this information in her head. There was some bitterness and resentment wrapped around him, she thought. She didn't understand why it was aimed at his mother, though, rather than his father. Perhaps it was because his father was already dead, and beyond the reach of his emotions. She offered, "Perhaps she was afraid of Lucius."

Draco snorted at that. "Of course she was afraid of him. Afraid of the position he'd reached in Voldemort's hierarchy, afraid of what it meant to defy the Dark Lord's wishes."

"Wasn't that everybody, though?" she asked, tentatively, trying to understand his feelings.

He ran his fingers through his hair, a sign of his frustration. He was silent for a moment, obviously reliving some things he wasn't willing to share. "She should have done something. She let them—all of them—him—into our home. She let me get involved in a task doomed to failure knowing it would kill me. She just—" he paused for a moment, not finding the words he wanted, and so repeating what he already said, "should have done something."

She still held his hand between both of hers, and she looked up at him, not surprised to see a sign of real pain on his face. She thought of her own parents and the choices she'd made in the war, and even though there was a part of her that said not to, she couldn't help from asking, "What could she have done, Draco? With all of that against her, what else was there for her to do?"

He stared at her, not quite looking at her but beyond her at something only he could see. Then he abruptly laughed a short, deprecating laugh. "I don't know, Granger. Something. Anything. Anything else than just letting it all happen."

He got up abruptly, pushing his chair away from the table, and began chopping up a few sprigs of parsley and some chives. With his back turned to her, he continued as if he was telling the same story he'd started a few minutes ago, and Hermione understood he was trying to close the subject. "So I told her I was leaving. I couldn't stand to live there anymore. When I undertook Auror training, I also looked out for a little flat for myself here in London, and took only what I needed. She tried sending me some owls, but I refused to accept them, and she finally just sent me that package of truly hideous china. She knew it was my least favorite, and it was the least valuable."

Hermione sipped on her drink while he talked. She forbore to mention that Draco was more than wealthy enough from his own funds, not even including the Malfoy family money, to have bought himself as many sets of china as he wanted. (Even she had a perfectly decent set of her own.) And that in the weeks since she had smashed his (admittedly horrendous) family heirlooms, he hadn't bought any more. He'd just transfigured a few pieces that he needed.

If she had to guess, she would say that he still loved his mother very much. But he didn't truly believe his mother loved him, and so he couldn't forgive her for her weakness.

She filed that information away for another time. As he returned, sprinkling the chopped herbs into her bowl, she decided it was time for a shift in the mood.

"Even the least valuable Malfoy china is probably worth more than my entire flat. I'm surprised you let me throw it at your pale blonde head." She grinned at him as he sat again and faced her, and she saw the slight smile on his face as he remembered. "Actually, you were the one that suggested it, if I remember correctly."

"No, Granger," he pointed out, waving his spoon at her, "I suggested you dash it to pieces on the ground, not try to knock me unconscious with the tea plates."

"Either way, we still wouldn't have had any bowls for our soup today," she pointed out.

He looked up at her, smiling more broadly now. "If I'd have thought at the time that I had any chance of eventually getting you here, I would have set aside a couple of soup bowls, certainly."

She grinned at him again, and at the memory it brought of how he'd looked at her that day beside the pond, before she'd run away. Feeling quite pleased about the way things turned out, she gave him the compliment he'd no doubt been waiting for. "The soup is very good! Certainly deserving of bowls. What did you say it was, again?"

"The recipe says New England Clam Chowder. It sounded modern and classic at the same time."

She opened her mouth to speak, and then paused, thinking. "Modern because it said 'new' and classic because it said 'England'?" She didn't have to wait for his response, because somehow the thought was too amusing and she started giggling into her soup. "Well, it's certainly classic. Classic American. Wherever did you find a recipe like that?" She couldn't imagine he found a recipe for an American soup in the cookbooks at Flourish & Blotts. If they even had cookbooks. She certainly couldn't remember ever seeing any.

He scowled at her, and then looked down at his very tasty soup, scowling harder. "A friend gave it to me. He said it was good."

Hermione was quick to put her hand over his and reassure him. "Actually, it's lovely. Really. I've never had a man cook for me before." The look on his face started to lighten a bit at her words, but then she added, "Even if it was just soup." Then he scowled at her even further while she laughed and stuck another delicious spoonful into her mouth.

Hermione spent the rest of the dinner trying to appease his fragile ego. She was glad enough to distract him from the heavier conversation that had started the evening. She rather thought he started faking his offense after the first few minutes because he was enjoying her attempts to make it up to him.

A/N: Hello lovelies! Thank you all so much for everyone who reviewed and favorited this story! I'm always so happy to post a new chapter, because I look forward to hearing how everyone enjoyed it. I want to apologize for a couple of things, though. First, I'm sorry that I had to break this chapter into two. (That's right, there's a second half to this date.) But I do try to keep the chapters close to the same length, and since I'd been working on these for so long, they just kept longer and longer. The good news is it won't take as long to post the next chapter because it's largely finished and just needs some editing. The other thing I'm sorry for is all the serious pieces. Haha, I know I shouldn't be sorry for those, but I don't know why I keep throwing these serious bits in when I'm supposed to be writing fluff with some humor and romance. I feel like I keep misrepresenting my story. Anyway, thanks for sticking along for the ride, you guys are the best. And I'm hard at work on my Veela story that's coming out next month, too!

Also…I don't know why Draco's making clam chowder. I thought it was weird, too. But the word chowder comes from the same word that cauldron comes for, and they both seem to mean pot, so maybe that's a thing. And assume the time requirements for the cooking have been sped up because…magic.