The first thing she notices about Lucius Malfoy is his hair.
Like his son's, Lucius's platinum hair glows in the sunlight. But in place of the long, pampered mane Hermione remembers from their unpleasant past, Lucius now wears his hair short. Longer than Draco's, certainly, but well above the line of his shoulders. It's unsettling, to find that Lucius Malfoy actually has a neck under what was once groomed tresses and lace cravats.
The second thing Hermione notices is how impossibly gaunt he's grown. The last time she saw the Malfoy patriarch in person, he was running wandless through the Great Hall of Hogwarts, screaming for his son in the middle of battle. Back then, Lucius's face bore lines of torture and terror. Yet he still looked very much like a middle-aged aristocrat. Now, standing in the harsh light of his own kitchen, Lucius looks for all the world like a well-dressed scarecrow. So haggard and thin, a strong wind could finish him.
In contrast, Narcissa Malfoy is as impeccable as ever. Despite the early hour, she already wears a set of black dress robes, pinned shut at her throat by a twinkling emerald brooch. Her pale hair rests in a sleek chignon at the base of her head, and her lips are painted a fetching shade of coral. She's ever so poised, ever the Lady of the Manor.
And yet….
And yet Narcissa's appearance also shows the fine cracks of stress. They're much less evident than her husband's, but they're still present. A few deep lines around her mouth. A streak of what might be white – and not white-blonde – along her left temple. And the hand she clutches to her husband's elbow, as though she's afraid he might tumble over without her support.
War, Hermione realizes, took its toll on all the Malfoys.
This thought jolts her out of her inspection of Narcissa and Lucius, and she turns with some alarm toward Draco. Draco, however, does not acknowledge her. Instead, he glares murderously at his parents, one hand gripped on his wand and the other clenched to the edge of the kitchen island. Apparently, he didn't expect their visit, either.
After a prim cough, Narcissa addresses Hermione first.
"Miss Granger, I trust you don't mind that we've intruded on your work today. But the aromas from the kitchen were simply too inviting to ignore."
"N-not at all," Hermione stammers as she steps closer to Draco. She sets the peacock plates – four of them, for the four people now in the room – upon the counter. "I'd rather hoped you both would join us at some point."
"How kind," Narcissa says, at the same time Draco snorts in derision.
Narcissa shoots him a look. It's one Hermione has seen Molly Weasley give Ron at least a thousand times, and she almost lets out an hysterical giggle at the surreal comparison. Trying not to shake, Hermione pulls the finished pie closer and removes her wand from her pocket. She keeps her movements slow, her wand pointed downward at all times, so as not to spook anyone. Merlin knows, the tension in the room is already excruciating enough without hexes flying.
"May I cut us each a slice?" she offers.
Lucius takes a step toward the island and nods eagerly. "Please do."
Hermione wands a slice of key lime pie onto each plate and then floats the plates gently across the island, in front of each person in the kitchen. She waits, stiff and uncomfortable, for someone to say something. Or curse someone. Or at least take a bloody bite. But Draco still hasn't moved, nor does he seem inclined to. So, with an awkward pang about making the Malfoys feel comfortable in a space they own, Hermione summons four forks, four napkins, and four of the barstools that usually perch below the far kitchen windows.
Draco takes his seat last, and he doesn't shift his glare or relinquish hold of his wand until he eats a bite of the pie. Almost at once, his eyelids flutter shut and he emits a small groan of pleasure – a sound echoed, rather disconcertingly, by his father.
Hermione watches in amazement as both father and son forget the tension, forget the Muggleborn witch in their midst, forget that they're sodding Malfoys, and tuck into their respective pieces of pie with fervor. Their zeal is a testament, really, to how dour and flavorless their last three years must have been.
Narcissa and Hermione, however, remember exactly who they are and with whom they sit. Each witch gives the other a strained smile, picks up a fork, and tries a nibble of the pie. Fortunately, Narcissa relents first.
"Oh," she breathes, after swallowing her bite. "Oh, this is very good. Very good indeed."
Hermione feels an odd swell of pride, but she inclines her head toward Draco. "You can thank your son for that. He's become quite an adept baker this past month."
"Has he, now?"
"He has. Although I'm not that surprised, given how well he did at school."
One of Narcissa's finely sculpted eyebrows lifts. "Oh? I was under the impression that you, Miss Granger, were the student who excelled most at school."
"I…I was. But Draco often challenged me."
This time, it's Lucius's turn to snort. The noise is hauntingly reminiscent of the elegant one his son so often makes.
"Miss Granger," Lucius drawls, "do I detect false modesty?"
Hermione can feel Draco watching her, monitoring her response with a carefully blank expression. So she sets her jaw into that same stubborn line she used with him the last time they discussed his mother.
"Alright. Draco was an excellent student but I was better. By far. Then again, I had something to prove, didn't I? What with my parentage and all."
That last, sarcastic comment stops Lucius's sneer right in its tracks. He sets down his fork – onto his nearly licked-clean plate – and shares an unreadable look with his wife. After that, Narcissa appraises Hermione coolly.
"Miss Granger," the older witch says, "may I ask you a somewhat frank question?"
Hermione hesitates, but only for a moment.
"Of course, Mrs. Malfoy. You've opened your home to me for a month now. I'll try to answer any questions you might have."
"Very well, then. But first, let me provide some context. Has Draco told you that I receive the occasional visitor to the Manor?"
"No, he hasn't."
"Well, I do. My husband's guests are limited, and monitored by Ministry-set wards. But Draco and I are permitted to receive a reasonable number of visitors each month, at our leisure. I grow so tired these days, I can't do much more than host a yearly tea for my old society friends. These are women with whom I share a past; women who understand how different our futures are now. I hosted my most recent tea in January, just after the holidays."
Hermione squirms on her barstool. She isn't sure, but she can guess where this is leading.
"January's tea was…pleasant enough," Narcissa goes on. "Truth be told and just among those of us at this table, I don't think I'll host it next January. As much as I enjoy having company, I find more and more that I don't have much in common with my old associates. But one fascinating topic of conversation did come up this year."
And all at once, Hermione already knows what the older witch will say, even before she says it.
"That topic was you, Miss Granger. More specifically, your desserts. Christine Zabini insisted I request one of your apricot crostatas. Priscilla Parkinson just wouldn't stop raving about your peanut brittle. And I won't even discuss the way Eleanor Goyle practically salivated over your Black Forest cake."
At the mention of Eleanor Goyle – Greg's mother, she presumes – Hermione feels Draco's shoe graze hers under the kitchen island. She hazards a side-long glance at him, to see if it was intentional. There, on his lips, she finds the barest hint of a smile. Inexplicably, the warmth in her stomach is back, and she discovers that she has the courage to interrupt Narcissa's story.
"Mrs. Malfoy, if I may be so rude, I think I know what you'd like to ask me."
Again, Narcissa arches that perfect, patrician eyebrow. "Oh? Do you?"
"Brightest Witch of Her Age, Mother," Draco mutters, and Hermione kicks his nearby foot.
Without waiting for his retaliation, Hermione says, "You want to know why Malfoy Manor was the last of all my visits. You want to know why I would willingly spend time with people I disliked but barely knew in school – like Blaise, or Pansy, or Goyle – before I would spend time with someone I admittedly hated, but interacted with more. Namely, Draco."
Narcissa doesn't confirm this out loud. But Hermione can tell from both of the older Malfoys' expectant faces that she guessed right. Even Draco, who has folded his arms across his chest, can't hide his interest.
After all, isn't this exactly what he asked her, the first time she arrived at the Manor with a cakebox full of apple tarts? She didn't answer him then, and it makes sense that he still wants to know now. What makes less sense is why he hasn't pushed her on the issue yet; why he's waited until today, with his infamous parents present, to find out.
Maybe, on some level, he's afraid of the answer. Maybe he wanted company more than he wanted to hear how much she used to hate him…how much she still might. Or maybe he's waited this entire time for her to be ready to talk about this. For her to examine herself, while trying to analyze him. If that's the case, then he deserves the truth.
They all do.
"The answer is simple," Hermione says quietly. "I was afraid. Afraid of the two of you, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, and of Draco. I was afraid of what you all could do to me. But mostly, I was afraid of how I'd handle being back here, in this house. I was terrified that if I saw this place and all of you again, I'd crumple to the floor and never get back up."
The truth hangs heavy, and she waits for one of them to do something unpleasant. Pretend that she's terribly vulgar for admitting such weakness. Laugh scornfully at her, perhaps, and confirm that her fears were well-founded.
But the Malfoys don't do any of these things. Instead, Narcissa sighs wearily.
"Oh, my dear girl. This family understands what it means to be afraid. I wish, more than anything – anything – that we never had reason to fear. And I know it may seem like cold comfort now, but I wish you never had, either."
Hermione tries hard, and fails, not to gawk after this confession. Her mouth is still hanging open when Narcissa shakes her head, as if to clear away sad thoughts, and scans the room.
"Well, that's enough of that, I suppose. I do believe we should have some tea. Yes?"
Narcissa doesn't wait for a response to summon a kettle and more priceless Malfoy china. Within the minute, a cup of that gorgeous floral tea sits in front of each of them, along with another round of freshly cut pie slices.
For lack of anything better to do with her mouth – because Merlin knows, she has no idea what to say right now – Hermione picks up her cup to sip silently. She's thinking that she has never felt so awkward in her entire life when she feels another press of Draco's shoe against hers below the table. This time he maintains the contact, even as he leans over to grasp his own tea.
The subtle touch is so comforting, it's insane. So, feeling particularly crazy, Hermione edges her foot back just a bit closer. To her shock, Draco does the same, until their calves rest lightly against each other. The sensation is simultaneously soothing and dizzying, and Hermione has to take a deep breath just to keep her head steady.
Mercifully, neither Narcissa nor Lucius sees the silent interplay going on across the table. Lucius is too busy taking enthusiastic bites of his second slice, while Narcissa watches him diligently, like every calorie he consumes means something to her. Given how painfully thin he is, that's probably true.
Once Lucius finishes, Narcissa beams at Hermione.
"My husband rather likes sweets," she confides.
"Dear, please don't—" Lucius begins, but Narcissa silences him with an amiable sniff.
"It's true, Lucius, you do! Or are you going to keep telling me it was Cornish pixies, banging around here at midnight last week, on the hunt for the rest of those apple macarons?"
A laugh echoes through the kitchen, and it takes Hermione five full seconds to register that it's hers. She clamps her hand down upon her mouth, aghast that she's just laughed.
At Lucius Malfoy. Inside Malfoy Manor.
She's just about to remove her hand and either apologize or defend herself profusely, when a distinct, snorting sound makes her head swivel toward Draco. Draco has folded his arms back across his chest and he's biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing aloud.
At Lucius Malfoy. Inside Malfoy Manor.
Lucius's expression goes dark and, for a heartbeat, Hermione thinks he might hex them both. The sinister effect is rather lost, however, when Narcissa snickers, too.
"Pixies," she gasps, and the three of them – Narcissa, Draco, and Hermione – start laughing outright. The fire in Lucius's eyes extinguishes, and his mouth draws into a sour frown.
"Amused, are we?" he drawls.
Narcissa and Draco begin howling when Hermione, in lieu of an answer, slides her uneaten slice of pie in front of Lucius.
Later, Hermione bids Narcissa and Lucius goodbye at the base of their grand staircase. She waits, long enough to see them whispering together before the shadows of the Manor swallow them. Then she faces Draco with her eyebrows raised all the way to her hairline.
Before she can barrage him with questions about what the hell just happened in his kitchen, he offers, "Walk you to the Apparition point?"
She blinks once, twice, in her most Ron-esque way.
Draco's never made an offer like this before; as far as she knows, he hasn't even stepped foot outside the Manor in the past month except to visit Theo. And now, he wants to walk her out, like…like a gentleman. She's shaking her head at how bizarre this day has gotten, when she sees Draco's jaw tighten.
"No, I can't walk you out?" he asks gruffly.
"Oh!" she gasps, realizing her error. "Of course you can! Sorry, I was just shaking my head because…well, this has been such a weird morning."
For some reason, his responding sigh sounds relieved. He rakes a hand through his pale hair, lets his palm rest on the back of his neck, and then grins down at her.
"Granger, I know exactly what you mean."
They stroll out together, Draco hanging back so she won't have to run to keep up with his long stride. For most of the walk, they share a companionable silence, both probably thinking about that morning's revelations. His parents. Her parents. Their latest round of blood-letting.
Draco confirms this when, halfway down the endless driveway, he addresses her with his old smirk.
"So, Granger, how does it feel to have officially faced your demons?"
She attempts one of his refined snorts. "I would hardly call your parents demons."
"Not anymore, you wouldn't."
This earns a real laugh from her. "Well, no. Not anymore."
"Hermione Granger: the Most Forgiving Witch of her Age?"
"It doesn't have quite the same ring to it as my usual title, does it?"
He considers that for a beat, then offers, "How about 'Hermione Granger: She Who Speaks Witch-to-Witch with Narcissa Malfoy, and Lives?' A bit too wordy, perhaps?"
She's thankful for the March chill that cools her blush. Draco's new tagline is so close to what they discussed last week, when she bragged about talking to his mother, that Hermione knows it's no coincidence. The tagline confirms what she suspected that day: Draco wanted Hermione to talk to his mother. He wanted the two witches to meet, face to face.
But to what end, Hermione still has no idea.
She's so distracted by this new puzzle, she altogether misses the fact that they've passed the entry gates and reached the Apparition point outside the Manor's wards. Head down, lost in thought, she actually keeps walking until she feels the tug of something upon her hand, yanking her to a stop. When she looks down, she's stunned to see Draco's hand wrapped around hers. Her wide eyes trail from their clasped hands, up the length of his arm, to his playful smile.
"Plan on wandering the valleys of Wiltshire this afternoon, Granger?"
"I…I'm not…I don't…."
He chuckles and pulls her closer to the Apparition point. Closer to him, too.
"You should go home and rest, Granger. Clearly, the sheer joy of making pie with me has addled that big brain of yours."
She wants to sneer at him. Wants to deliver some witty retort about how "Draco Malfoy" and "joy" are mutual exclusive concepts. But all she can seem to concentrate on is the feel of his palm against hers when he lifts her hand toward his face.
"Sorry, Granger," he murmurs, suddenly sincere as he inspects the tip of her mended finger. "I'm a shite healer. This one's definitely going to scar."
"It's alright." An insane idea flits into her head, and she gently places her free hand on the left forearm of his jumper. Right over the place where the faded outline of his Dark Mark must be. "We all have a few scars."
His arm tenses beneath her touch, but only briefly. When it relaxes, she risks a glimpse up at him. Draco stares down at her, and she would swear on everything she holds holy that his grey eyes are actually scorching her. The way he stares at her is confusing and frustrating and dear-Merlin-don't-think-arousing, and she suddenly needs to be anywhere but there right now.
Hermione pulls her hand out of Draco's as if it's on fire and, with a curt nod at the man she does not find attractive – she does not – she Disapparates home.