Hermione refuses to be something so clichéd as a bundle of nerves, twitching her way through the week before her first baking lesson at Malfoy Manor. After all, why should she be nervous? This is exactly what the PTSD Pastry Tour is about, albeit in a heightened way: healing, eating, and magically cooperating. Order Members and Death Eaters, moving on from the sins and scars of the past to find better lives.
She reasons that few former Death Eaters have as many emotional scars as Draco Malfoy. The man practically screams therapy. And since Hermione imagines that he would probably rather eat slugs than go to a psychiatrist, baking seems as therapeutic as any other activity. It's practically her duty to help him, isn't it?
So goes the logic-loop in Hermione's brain for the entire week, until she wants to cancel the lesson, throw away all her cookware, and move to an isolated island where no one can find her. Instead, she does the next best thing and sets up a few distractions.
First is Wednesday afternoon tea with Ron and Ginny at the Ministry. But all Ron wants to do is talk about his idea for a ganache-based smoothie – Hear me out, 'Mione. Dad has one of those Muggle blending things – and so that's not much help. Friday evening is drinks at the Leaky Cauldron with Theo and Erik, who seem to adore each other and trying to make her laugh until she snorts. The night ends up being great fun, much more than she expected. But even though Draco's name doesn't come up, Hermione can't help but think of him each time she stares too long at Theo's expensive jacket or well-bred jawline.
Finally, when she needs it most, there's a Saturday morning breakfast at her flat with Harry, only two hours before The First Lesson. Harry has no idea that he's her pre-date for Draco Malfoy, nor is Harry exactly a morning person. But his best friend has asked him for a favor, so he arrives dutifully at 7 a.m. with a bag of scones and two cups of steaming coffee – black, the way they both prefer it this early in the morning.
"So," Harry says, after exiting her fireplace, tossing the bag of scones onto her table, and flopping onto the sofa. "Have you picked out the bridesmaids' dresses yet?"
She groans as she joins him on a neighboring cushion. "I can't wrap my head around why Ginny would want me, of all people, to decide something like that. I get that I'm the maid-of-honor, but honestly? She knows I'm just going to settle on something purple."
"And knit," he says with a fond grin.
Hermione punches him on the shoulder but nods in agreement. "And knit. I mean, we do live in England."
"And my wedding's in August, Hermione."
"Fine, no knit. Trench coats, perhaps?"
"Oh, yes," he enthuses. "Perfect. Because you could get one for Gin, too, for the honeymoon. And then convince her to wear nothing underneath it so we can—"
Hermione whacks his shoulder a second time. "Ew, Harry Potter. Just…ew."
"I'm a man in love. What can I say?"
"Maybe something that doesn't involve me picturing two of my best friends naked?"
"Hm," he muses, pausing to take a huge gulp of coffee. "You could distract me from my naked fiancée by telling me why in the bloody hell it was necessary that I be at your flat before the crack of dawn. Yeah?"
"Dawn broke twenty minutes ago."
"Metaphorical crack, metaphorical dawn. And quit stalling."
She sighs and leans into the back of her sofa. "Do you remember the side project I've being working on?"
"The PTSD P.T.?"
Hermione smiles broadly. Harry understands her love of acronyms, and his understanding is one of the things she loves about him.
"The one and only. It seems to have taken a turn for the…weird, lately."
"How so?"
"Malfoy, for starters."
Harry nearly spits out his next gulp of coffee. "Malfoy? Draco Malfoy?"
"No, Lucius."
When Harry blanches, Hermione laughs. "Kidding, Harry, only kidding! Merlin, can you imagine? Although, Lucius may be a possibility at some point…."
Harry is still ashen when he asks, "Hermione, are you going to clarify? Or just keep letting me assume that Lucius Malfoy Imperio'd you into making him dessert?"
Hermione takes prim sip of her coffee. "That depends. Are you going to ask me to provide a sample soufflé for the Auror Office to analyze?"
Harry groans so Hermione relents and tells him the whole story, from her first disastrous visit to the Manor, to tea this past Tuesday, to Draco's odd request. She's very thorough, except for the intentional omission of a few minor details: the type of dessert she brought Draco last Saturday, and the way he called her pretty. Or not called her pretty. Whichever. She doesn't know why, but these small things feel personal, and she wants to keep them to herself.
"Whew," Harry breathes once she's finished. "That's…wow. That's something, isn't it?"
Hermione toys with a loose thread on the blanket covering the back of her sofa. Finally, she asks, "Harry, am I doing the right thing here? With Malfoy?"
"Well, that all depends, doesn't it?"
"On what?"
"On whether you see this thing as part of the PTSD Pastry Tour's core mission, or whether it deviates."
She hums a thoughtful sound. "You know, I've been over this exact question all week, and I think it might be a little of both. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. Especially if I can help him. With the drinking, and the self-loathing."
"And the lingering bigotry."
"And the suits that really are too formal for weekend wear."
Harry laughs loudly at that one and, in a gesture of approval for both the joke and the mission, he reaches over to clutch her coffee-free hand.
"Is this…is this about that thing you told me, when we were in the Forest of Dean?"
Hermione hesitates, her hand stiff under his. She knows what he's asking – which of the deep, dark secrets they shared with each other in the deep, dark forest. What she doesn't know is whether she's ready to admit out loud that this secret has almost everything to do with why she said 'yes' to Draco Malfoy. So instead of speaking, Hermione just nods her confirmation.
Seeing this, Harry sighs. "It's the right thing, then. You're doing the right thing."
"Good," she says, relieved in a way that she could never explain to him, and would never need to. They're quiet for a while, finishing their respective coffees in peaceful silence. Then, out of nowhere, he says:
"Goyle, huh?"
"Ew, Harry….just, ew."
Harry Floos out of her flat just a few minutes before she's meant to leave. She takes a moment to check her Undetectably Extended handbag, which she packed last night with the supplies for today's lesson. Then she examines her outfit: trainers, jeans, and a maroon zip-up hoodie. Clothes so casual, they will no doubt displease the Malfoys' delicate sensibilities. This idea in turn pleases her, and so she Apparates, safe in the knowledge that her clothes alone might provide her some defense.
When she lands, the electrical gates are already open, probably in anticipation of her visit. True to his word, Draco is also waiting inside the double doors of the Manor.
"Are you really wearing that?" she demands, upon finally arriving at the entrance.
Draco frowns and inspects his own outfit. "What's wrong with what I have on?"
She hates to admit it, but there is unequivocally nothing wrong with how Draco Malfoy looks right now.
She'd been expecting the perfect blond coif and ubiquitous black suit, neither which would be appropriate for a morning of sifting flour. But instead, the pale fringe of Draco's hair falls loose to his brow, and he's dressed in a light grey jumper and Muggle jeans. Granted, he's also wearing brown wingtips that probably have some Italian surname embossed inside them. Yet for him, the outfit is damned near casual. Not trainers and hoodie casual, but still.
"You're…perfect," Hermione confesses, and her cheeks bloom furiously at his smirk.
"You expected anything less, Granger?"
Before she can argue that "Draco Malfoy" and "perfection" are hardly synonyms, he motions for her to come inside.
"The kitchens are at the back of the house. We'll have just a bit of a walk to get there."
"Kitchens?" She shuts the front doors behind her and moves to follow him. "Plural?"
"Singular," he calls back over his shoulder as they start walking. "But rather large. Sort of feels like a series of interlocking rooms, given the sheer number of pantries."
"You sound like you're familiar with them. Does the Landed Lord who can't cook know his way around his own kitchens?"
She's expecting a snarl or insult as a reward for her teasing. Instead, Hermione can practically hear the smile in his voice when he says, "The Landed Lord was a horrible little boy who ate nothing but stolen sweets for the first twelve years of his life. So…yes. He does know the kitchens."
They fall into a companionable silence as they wander the ground floor of the Manor, a floor that reminds Hermione she'd still need an engineer and trail of breadcrumbs to figure this place out.
"Is everything in this house labyrinthine?" she finally asks.
"Absolutely and intentionally. Designed that way to confound—"
"Potential invading forces," she supplies. "Just like your ridiculously long driveway."
Draco laughs softly. "Why am I not surprised to hear that Hermione Granger is now an expert on the interior and exterior design defenses of Britain's great Wizarding homes?"
She's quite glad he can't see the second blush spreading across her cheeks. "Oh, you know what they say: I'm a jack of all trades and a master of—"
"All those trades as well," he finishes. She sniffs at the implication that she is, in fact, a swot. But his voice sounds venom-free, so she keeps quiet until they've reached a wide, pock-marked wooden door.
"Here we are," he says, resting his palm on the scarred wood.
"That's…quite old, isn't it?"
Draco drums his fingers gently against the wood. "It is, actually. This part of the house dates back to William the Conqueror."
"William?"
"The Conqueror. Yes."
"What, are you going to tell me that he was a Malfoy, too?"
"No, but he did grant this estate and the original fortress to Armand Malfoy in 1071 A.D. So…there's that."
Hermione tries, with only moderate success, not to gape like a rube.
"Yes," she manages to squeak. "There's that."
Draco doesn't notice, or at least he pretends not to notice, her discomfort. He pushes against the ancient door, and it swings inward to reveal the most magnificent kitchen Hermione has ever seen.
The room runs the entire length of the Manor, and it does contain innumerable pantries. There are also three commercial grade ovens, a bank of deep farmhouse sinks, two walk-in freezers, and a wood-block kitchen island as long as two end-to-end sofas. Potted herbs hang in baskets from the ceiling, reaching their leaves to the light pouring in from a high set of eastern-facing windows, and the spotless white tiling practically glows. The space is airy and bright and tastefully updated, presumably well after William the Conqueror broke bread in it.
At this moment, however, the most prominent feature of the kitchen would have to be the sheer number of house-elves occupying it. Hermione can see at least eight of them – a huge sum, even for a wealthy Wizarding household. And like Maevy, each and every elf is dressed as if they're about to attend Paris Fashion Week.
"Maevy?" Hermione asks. "I thought you were meant to have a break right now?"
"Maevy wanted to see if she could be of service to Miss. We all did." Maevy indicates her companions, many of whom give Hermione cheerful waves.
"Well, erm…I actually instructed your…Master…that you were to have the morning free. So he could learn these skills properly."
"Master?" Maevy titters, glancing between Hermione and Draco.
From the corner of her eye, Hermione spies Draco making some sort of "cease and desist" motion at Maevy. But he freezes when Hermione glares fully at him.
Ignoring the tense interplay between Draco and Hermione, Maevy merrily repeats, "Master!" As if it's the most absurd thing in the world.
"Miss is funny, isn't she?" she laughs.
The other elves make a chorus of cheery agreement and, without further ado, they disappear into thin air with a collective "pop." Hermione wants to gape more at the kitchen – she really does – but the house-elf issue is burning a figurative hole in her brain. She waits until she's sure that all the elves gone and then spins completely around to face Draco.
"Okay, what is the deal with your house-elves? I thought you people tortured them and dress them in tea towels? Not that I'm complaining about the change in procedure, at all. But why does Maevy act like I've grown another head when I say anything of the sort? And why are her clothes nicer than yours?"
Hermione expects defensiveness; she always expects some kind of defense from him. But once again, the grown-up Draco seems to have a smaller chip on his shoulder than the younger version. He merely gives a rueful shrug.
"Another part of our sentencing. Our house-elves were freed by magical edict just after the trials. Some of them chose to stay, of course, especially after we renovated their dormitories into luxury suites. Those that stayed all but run the roost now. No more 'Master this' or 'Mistress that.' They're basically insufferable. And we're mandated to give them what the Ministry deems a fair yearly salary."
"May I ask what the Ministry deems a fair salary for a Malfoy house-elf? If that's not too forward of me."
He tells her without hesitation, and she begins to cough so violently he has to fetch a glass of water. Once she's improved, Hermione croaks, "Maevy makes more in a month than I do in a year."
Draco takes the empty glass from her and places it in one of the kitchen's deep sinks. "Shouldn't that make you happy, Granger, given your school-aged crusade for…what was it? Vomit? Purge?"
"S.P.E.W. The Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare."
"That's the one!"
Hermione grimaces. "I'm thrilled for Maevy, truly. Less so for my own vault."
"Nasty shocks are what you get from not reading trial transcripts."
"Apparently."
He waits another second or two for her to process. Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back onto his heels. "What's on our agenda for today?"
Mostly recovered, Hermione gives herself a little shake for clarity and places her beaded evening bag on the edge of the kitchen island. Draco eyes the handbag suspiciously.
"What is that thing?" he asks.
"What thing? This bag?"
He nods. "It's like something my Great Aunt Walburga would carry."
Hermione's laugh breaks free of its own accord. "I cast an Undetectable Extension charm on this purse a few years ago. It's not…technically licensed. So let's not mention it to anyone else, okay?"
Draco gives a low whistle. "Hermione Granger, breaking the rules? What would the Minister say?"
She points a finger at him in mock ferocity. "Nothing, if you keep your mouth shut."
When he laughs, her shoulders relax a bit. "Speaking of rule breakers, would you believe that I've actually met your Great Aunt? In a sense, anyway."
"Where?"
"At the house Harry inherited from your cousin, Sirius. Walburga Black's portrait is hanging in the front corridor."
Draco groans. "Oh, hell. I'm sure she's enamored with you well and good, then."
"She certainly is. Which is why I accidentally-on-purpose used a Permanent Sticking Charm on those nice curtains that hang over her portrait. Shriek the M-word at me a few too many times and see what happens."
He coughs awkwardly. "Point…ah, taken."
She can tell that Draco's unsure of whether he should feel offense that his racist old aunt has been shuttered, or shame that he shares – shared? please let it be shared – the old hag's horrible beliefs. Perhaps both, Hermione decides, as she reaches into her purse to pull out large bags of sugar and almond flour, a handful of spice jars, a carton of eggs, several sticks of butter, a few tiny bottles of gel, and two rolls of silicon parchment.
Draco clears his throat and moves closer to the ingredients. "So what will all of those ingredients make? Theoretically."
Hermione peeks up at him, her smile radiant. "Theoretical macarons, of course."