It's absurd, how nervous Hermione feels when she presents her find to Draco the next day.

He makes a show of holding the bag up to the light of the kitchen windows, inspecting its contents closely. He frowns. Sniffs. Lets the mesh twist in his palm. Then he hands her back the bag with a good-natured sigh.

"Alright, Granger, you win. I have no idea what these are."

Her shy smile swells with triumph. "They're key limes."

Draco's eyebrows rise and he makes a small, intrigued move with his mouth. Which she does not find adorable. She does not.

"'Key' limes?" he says. "What, are they charmed to open locks?"

Hermione giggles – really giggles. So she tries to cover the embarrassing noise with a gush of information, like she used to do in school.

"Actually, the limes possess no magical properties whatsoever. They're just named that way because they're often grown in the Florida Keys. It's a small cluster of islands off the southernmost tip of the United States. Well, the Keys are classified as an archipelago, actually. Some of the Keys are included in a national forest, with a tropical climate and a…."

She trails off when she realizes how pedantic she sounds. But for the first time in their acquaintance, Draco doesn't call her on it. He just ducks his head, gives her a shrewd grin, and goes back to the piecrust dough she set him on earlier that morning.

Today he stands next to her at the kitchen island. He keeps his back turned firmly against the bottle of Ogden's Firewhisky – still unopened, still where he set it last week – and his body is so close to hers, their elbows bump as they work.

"Why do I get the feeling, Granger, that you didn't choose these wholly un-magical, wholly un-British fruits at random?"

She's not going to giggle this time. She's not.

Instead, she cuts the strings of the mesh bag and dumps a few limes onto the counter. The tiny green fruits roll about until she gathers them together into a small pile by her knife.

"Because it wasn't random at all," she says. "So here's another test: can you guess why I chose them?"

Draco's hands pause, mid-knead. "I don't know the specifics, but I bet I can figure out the general reason."

"Give it your best, then."

"Alright." He returns to his dough. "Every pastry you've delivered has some connection to the recipient, or at least to how you think of them. Greg with the black soul and the Black Forest cake. Pansy with the peanut brittle."

"Does Pansy especially like peanuts?" Hermione asks teasingly.

Draco snorts. "Yes, but that's beside the point. I suspect, like with Greg, you picked that one for the name. Pansy being brittle, and all."

Hermione has to concentrate on rolling the limes beneath her palms to keep from flashing him a pleased grin.

"With me," Draco goes on, his tone imperceptibly softer than before, "It's the apples. Like maybe you remembered how much I liked them in school, so you showed up at my door with a happy memory all soaked in magic and cinnamon."

She doesn't confirm or deny this. Just keeps rolling the fruits against the countertop to soften their flesh. "And the limes? What's your guess on the limes?"

He fixes her with a direct, steady gaze – rooting her to the spot with all that pale grey she used to find so cold.

"You," Draco says. "The limes are your happy memory."

Up until this point, she's made a habit of refusing to break eye contact with him. But suddenly she can't look away fast enough. She inspects the counter, the limes, her own hands. Anything but the piercing grey in front of her.

"T-twenty points to Slytherin," she stammers with a shaky laugh.

Draco laughs, too, and then returns to his piecrust without making note of her strange behavior. They work silently beside each other for a while, and she takes advantage of the quiet to collect her thoughts. And, okay, maybe to wonder exactly what he's thinking. Because after such astute observations about the PTSD Pastry Tour – especially as it concerns her – surely he's thinking something?

Unaware of the tumult inside her head, Draco abruptly growls. "Okay, Granger, I give up. Congratulations."

"Huh?"

"The suspense is unbearable, so just tell me already."

"Tell you what?"

He rolls his eyes. "The memory, Granger. Your memory. The reason we're making a pie with Yank limes that can't open locks."

"Oh. That."

"Yes. That."

She regards him: the long line of his fingers in the dough; the smudge of flour on his knuckles; the way he watches her now with a sort of open-faced anticipation.

Then carefully, so carefully, she says, "My parents. The memory is about my parents, and the trip I took with them the summer before the War."

She waits guardedly for his reaction. When none is forthcoming, she begins to gnaw at her bottom lip, unsure of…unsure of….

Draco must realize what she's expecting from him at the same time she does, because immediately, his eyes hood over and he casts one of his classic smirks at her. But beneath his familiar facade, other emotions seem to war. Shame, she thinks, and maybe even a prickly kind of hurt.

"Granger," he drawls, "you do know I'm not going to hex you if you talk about your Muggle parents, don't you?"

Hermione feels her cheeks redden. She's somewhat embarrassed to admit it, even to herself. But this is one of the things she's been so nervous about this morning: how Draco Malfoy will handle a reference to Muggles. The very people he once vowed to torture and subjugate.

"I suppose you won't," she answers cagily.

He nods, as if that's good enough to close the subject, and moves back to his piecrust. Yet she's still waiting, watching him stretch out the dough for rolling. He must sense her remaining hesitation. Without looking up from his task, he says, "Go on then, Granger. Tell me about the memory. Before my curiosity kills me."

Okay, Hermione thinks. Okay.

"It was the summer right after our sixth year," she begins. "After Dumbledore…well, after. Things were starting to look grim. Every day, the War just seemed to get closer and closer. I knew I'd be leaving soon to help Harry hunt for the Horcruxes, and I…I was terrified. All I wanted to do was escape, even for just a little bit. So I begged my parents for a trip, somewhere sunny and new and far away from England. My parents had a dental convention that July in Miami, in the States. I suggested we all go together and extend the trip down to the Keys. And that's what we did: we drove down this long motorway across an impossibly blue ocean, stopping at every island along the way. We fished, and played board games, and didn't wear enough sunscreen, and ate more pieces of key lime pie than I can count…."

Draco has stopped working and now stares at her intently. When she doesn't continue, he gives her the smallest nod of encouragement. "It sounds great, Granger."

"It was the best summer of my life."

Her eyes start to burn without warning. Horrified, she reaches up to wipe at them. Draco takes a step closer, just before she blurts out: "I Obliviated them. A few days after we got home from our holiday. I sunbathed and swam and ate key lime pie with them. And when we got home, I wiped myself from their minds and sent them to Australia."

Draco gives two stunned blinks – a habit he seems to have picked up from her. "For Merlin's sake why, Granger?"

"To hide them from your…from the Death Eaters. I was Harry Potter's Muggleborn best friend. It was reasonable to think that my parents might become targets, the longer the War went on."

"That's…damn. How long did they stay Obliviated?"

"Almost fourteen months. It took an entire team of curse breakers to undo what I did to them."

He makes a pained hiss. "Shit."

"Shit, indeed. Which is exactly the kind of daughter I felt like. They were mad as hell about it, too, once they got their memories back. But here's the worst part: if the War repeated itself, I would do it all over again. Because I was, and still am, willing to do anything – anything – to protect them."

The air rushes out of Draco, and he shakes his head at the kitchen counter.

"Would it…would it seem disingenuous to say that I completely understand?"

Hermione thinks back to Harry's testimony at Draco's trial. To the things Harry heard Draco say in the Astronomy Tower their sixth year, the night Dumbledore died.

He's going to kill me if I don't do this. He's going to kill my parents.

"No," she whispers. "That doesn't seem disingenuous at all."

They share another long stare, the air heavy with the things they aren't saying. Draco watches her wipe away a few stray tears, his hand flexing on the countertop between them.

"Tell me about them," he says. "Your parents, I mean."

She's taken so aback by his request that she's momentarily speechless. Not knowing what else to do, she turns back to her limes and slowly begins halving them with her knife. After a few slices, she's composed enough to comply.

"Well, they're both dentists, as I said before – Muggle doctors who fix people's teeth. It's a bit ironic, considering my old overbite. And considering how much my mum likes sweets."

"Like mother, like daughter?" he teases.

Hermione grants him a tentative smile, and he takes this as his cue to continue rolling out his crust. She takes that as her invitation to continue talking.

"They're funny, my parents," she goes on. "In a terribly corny way. It's awful and endearing at the same time."

"How so?"

"Well, my mum acts out everything, like her stories need charades to be properly understood. Not just waving her hands in the air – we're talking full-out finger puppets. And my dad has this book of jokes that his great-uncle or someone gave him. Every time we have guests over, my dad tries out a new joke at the front door. It's his equivalent of a handshake."

"Example?"

Hermione cringes. "Really?"

"Really."

"Alright, but you asked for it: how does a squid go into battle?"

"Is it a giant squid? Like the one in the Black Lake?"

"Um…I'm not sure, actually. Let's just say it's a regular-sized one."

Draco considers this. "Well, in that case…I have no idea. How does a squid go into battle?"

"Well armed. Get it? Well armed?"

Draco groans and then does that wince-laugh thing she does not find charming. She does not.

"That's awful, Granger. Truly."

"I warned you, didn't I?"

They go back to their work, both of them smiling faintly. But there's something else she wants to share with him. She slices one lime, two, until she's brave enough to say what she's been thinking since he admitted to his drinking problem. It's the secret she's only shared once – on a deep, dark night in the Forest of Dean, when she and Harry thought all hope might be lost. A secret that Draco might…appreciate. Might need.

"He's a recovering alcoholic," she finally says. "My dad."

From the corner of her eye, she sees Draco go still. He's listening, obviously, so she continues.

"I was really young when he went through it, so I don't remember much about that time in his life. Just some hazy things when I was small. The fights my parents had. The sound of ice cubes in a glass. The way my dad's hands shook when they held mine. I don't know how bad it truly was. But I do know that things were better afterward. Much."

"How did he…how did your dad beat it?"

"Love," she says plainly. "We loved him, and he loved us, and somehow, that helped him learn to love himself enough to quit."

The truth, however powerful, sounds somewhat glib out loud. She wonders whether Draco is going to sneer at this small offering of hers. He doesn't, though. He just studies her closely, those pale grey eyes burning into hers in a way that makes her both uncomfortable and oddly…confused? Frustrated?

Aroused?

The last, completely unbidden thought jolts her. She leaps back to her limes, desperately ignoring the heat of his gaze upon her cheek. Her knife cuts are frenetic, as though the sheer strength of them might clear away that persistent buzz in her brain. The feverish movements seem to be working, until:

"Can I meet them some day? Your parents?"

His soft inquiry surprises her so greatly, her hand slips. It takes two full heartbeats for her to register the hot stab of pain her right index finger. She looks up at Draco, looks down at the kitchen island, and then feels herself sway on her heels.

"Oh, look," she whispers, pointing to the island. "More blood."

And then her knees buckle.

She doesn't make it to the ground. Instead, she lands in tangle of arms and legs, with her back pressed against someone's broad chest. In this half-fallen, half-crouched position, she feels herself spun around until she is curled in Draco's lap, facing him.

Why are we on the floor?

She doesn't know whether she asks the question out loud or just thinks it. The answer ceases to matter much when Draco pulls her injured hand into his and, in the weirdest instinct ever, places her bleeding forefinger into his mouth.

The static in her brain goes wild. She can't think, can't think, can't think, but she can feel the slightest, most fascinating slide of his tongue along her cut.

"My blood," she manages to gasp.

My dirty, muddy blood.

Draco's trance breaks, and his cheeks flush bright pink at the realization of what he's just done. He pulls her finger from his lips, grabs his wand from his hip pocket, and begins feverishly murmuring Vulnera Sanentur over the cut. He does the counterspell so quickly that her finger is repaired within a matter of seconds, left with nothing but a small white line of healing skin.

When he finishes, he rubs his thumb across the line. "Does it hurt?"

If Harry or Ron asked her that, she would say no without hesitation. But there's something about the way Draco studies her finger that kills her lie, before it even leaves her mouth.

"Yes," she whispers. "It hurts."

"The cut was bad. Much deeper than mine was the other day."

His voice sounds raw but…reverent. Like she's done something divine just by bleeding on him.

"How did it taste?" she blurts.

Still staring down at her hand, Draco lets out a hoarse laugh that does something positively sizzling to her spine.

"Coppery," he says. "Just like mine."

And there it is.

There it is right there, hanging between them like a banner. Echoing around them like a song. His blood, her blood. Blood that is currently pounding, flooding, rushing through her brain.

"Do you…do you still believe that my blood is—?"

"Of course I fucking don't," he rasps. "How could I, after…after everything?"

She becomes suddenly, intensely aware that she's wrapped in Draco's arms, sitting in his lap. And yet she makes no move to extract herself. He doesn't try to change their position, either. Instead, he stares right at her, all pale blond and electric grey. For some reason, looking into his eyes makes her head spin from what she suspects isn't just blood loss.

"Draco," she whispers.

He shivers noticeably but doesn't recoil from her breath on his skin. "Hermione."

"I…I think you should do the cutting from now on."

He blinks several times, emits another strangled laugh, and then nods. Slowly, he unfolds his legs until he has pulled both of them into a standing position.

"Good idea, Granger. I think you've sufficiently proven yourself a menace in the kitchen for today."

She can't be sure, but she thinks she feels one last stroke of his thumb against her finger before his hand disappears from hers.

Less than two hours later, he pulls the pie out of the oven and sets it beside the bowl of topping they prepared. Hermione, who has been slowly folding meringue upon itself with a wooden spoon, leans over the pie pan at the exact same time as Draco. She can feel her curls brush his shoulder, but he doesn't shy away as they both drag in the aroma.

"Is it like you remember?" he asks, and his breath ghosts the side of her cheek.

They've been doing this all morning: circling each other more and more closely, until they're practically touching every time one of them moves even a fraction. Each time they speak, they do so quietly. As if they're both afraid that noise might dislodge the fragile orbit they've created. She's not sure what any of this means, and she is definitely not letting herself overanalyze it. Nope, nope, nope.

She leans in farther. To the catch scent of the key lime pie, she thinks. Not to be nearer to him.

"It really does trigger my memories," she says.

"Is that…a bad thing?"

She shakes her head. Tries to ignore how the movement places her face a centimetre closer to his. "Not at all. Especially when you take into account the smell of this one."

Draco makes a noise of disbelief. "The smell, Granger?"

"Oh yeah, the smell. It's sweet and tangy and rich all at the same time, you know? This pie smells like…like…"

"Magic?" he offers smugly.

She smacks him on the arm. "No."

"What then? Does the pie smell luscious?" His smirk broadens and he reaches across her, toward her mixing bowl full of meringue. "Silky? Delectable?"

Her eyes track the proximity of his forearm to her body. She has to say something – anything – to distract herself from how very close he is to her right now.

"Are we quite done exercising our powers of gastronomical description, Malfoy?"

"Not yet, Granger. Not before we try scrumptious, or transcendent."

Hermione can't help her laugh. In an impulse she doesn't really understand, she places her hands on Draco's hips. He goes absolutely still, and she takes advantage of his sudden rigidity to switch places with him.

"Less describing, Malfoy, and more dolloping."

He nods dumbly as she removes her hands. With what she thinks might be another shiver, he begins scooping out the meringue. Soon, the pie has grown by several centimetres of white foam atop the creamy yellow filling.

Draco places the wooden spoon back into the empty bowl. "Now what?"

Hermione demonstrates a wand flick that she's invented, a sort of hybrid between Lumos and Incendio. "The incantation is 'Deminuo Confrigo,'" she explains. "I created it during the War to melt small objects like some of the Horcruxes. I wanted something more controlled than Incendio or…or…."

"Fiendfyre," he finishes.

She nods, worried that this oblique reference to Crabbe will rattle him. Instead, Draco's face remains impassive. He repeats her words twice for practice and then, with a deft twist of his wand, incants the spell. A small blue flame bursts forth, making his wand look suspiciously like a butane torch. Draco is so thrilled with the results that he laughs and spins toward her.

"This spell is bloody fantastic."

He returns to the pie and begins to toast the top of it with the flame. As she watches him, wearing that joyous smile and wielding the charm she created, Hermione feels a flood of warmth in her core.

"That thing smells too transcendent to wait," she says. "I'm going to get some plates so we can eat right away."

Draco makes a grunt of assent – he's clearly having too much fun with the Deminuo Confrigo to argue, or help. Hermione moves farther into the kitchen toward a bank of whitewash cabinets.

"Accio dessert plates," she says with a quick swish of her wand. Instantly, an upper door opens and two small plates float out from inside it. She slips her wand back into the pocket of her jeans just in time to catch them.

At first, the plates appear elegant, if plain. Just simple white china, bordered with a delicate line of gold. As Hermione examines them, however, a gold-etched peacock feather winks magically in and out of existence at the center of each plate. At the tip of each feather, a chip of emerald stone glitters.

Hermione traces the healed pad of her finger across the enchantment.

Pretty. So pretty.

She's still admiring the shimmery feather on the top plate when she hears a soft snick in front of her. Startled, she glances up just in time to see the cabinet reopen and two more dessert plates float toward her. The new additions land, unbidden and unsummoned, on top of their companions.

Frowning down at her stack of four plates, she spins back around to the front of the kitchen. "Draco, is there something wrong with your—?"

The pretty, bewitched plates nearly shatter to the floor when Hermione sees Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy standing arm-in-arm at the other end of the room. Staring right at her.

"Miss Granger," Lucius drawls. "How lovely to see you again."