Apparently Maevy has permission to Apparate wherever she wishes, regardless of the Ministry-set wards. That's the only way Hermione can explain why she and the elf arrive inside the Manor, at the base of the grand staircase.

Side-along Apparitions haven't been Hermione's forte since the War, and so she stumbles slightly upon their landing. It's not Maevy's hand, however, that grasps her elbow.

"You alright, Granger?"

Hermione allows Draco to steady her, keeping her gaze trained to the marble floor in an attempt to collect herself. When she finally peeks up at him, he's wearing a small smile that she finds rather bewildering.

Were his lips always so full? And his eyes…when did his eyes start doing that weird fluttery thing to her heart?

"Are you alright?" he repeats.

She nods numbly. "Yeah, sorry. Side-alongs just aren't my thing anymore."

"Hermione Granger, not the best at something?" Draco smirks, but there's no malice in it. "Alert the Ministry at once. Inquiries will need to be made."

"Har har, Malfoy."

She straightens her spine and gives him an appraising once-over. The infamous black suit is back, this time with a white oxford shirt and black tie. There's a sharp edge to his jaw tonight, which she now recognizes as nerves instead of cruelty. He smells delightfully clean-scrubbed, like citrus and spice, and he's combed his hair neatly again. Although it's not loose like he wears it on Saturday mornings, she finds that she rather likes his hair this way, too. Even in this buttoned-up state – so similar to their school days – she thinks he looks…Draco looks…he's….

Oh Merlin, I'm in trouble.

Hermione takes his elbow when he offers it and joins him in climbing the never-ending staircase. They are silent for eight, nine, steps, until he inclines his head toward her.

"So, Granger, how ready are you for food-poisoning?"

"I've been dry heaving all day in preparation."

"Damn, it's just like you and O.W.L.'s all over again, isn't it?"

"There was much less vomiting with the exams, I think."

His laugh causes them to pause briefly at the first floor landing. To their left she sees an enormous dining room, dominated by black teak paneling and a long, obsidian table. Hermione moves toward it, but Draco pulls her back.

"Not that dining room?" she asks, and feels his responding shudder against her arm.

"No, not that dining room. Never that dining room."

"Why not?"

"Because that's where he held meetings."

Hermione shudders, too. "You know, sometimes I forget that he lived here during the War."

She feels Draco force a shrug against her shoulder. "I forget sometimes, too. And then I pass by a certain room, or smell something burning, or hear a loud voice, and then I…then I…."

Hermione clutches him tighter to her side as they climb. "And then you remember," she finishes, but kindly. Softly. With just the tiniest clutch of her fingers into the fabric of his coat.

"Sometimes," he says, "I wish I could open up my skull and just scrape out every image I have of him."

"I'd offer you a Memory Charm, but we both know I'm a little too good at those."

Draco snorts. "You'd have to remove the memories of my own home, too. There's nothing like having a mad bastard as a house guest to really change the way you view real estate."

"Too true." She nods sadly, and then attempts a joke: "Charming nine bed, twelve bath mansion for sale in Wiltshire. Two formal dinings, two libraries, a chef's kitchen, and a peacock sanctuary. Torture chamber optional. Only three bloodstains in the main parlour. A real steal at this price."

"Dungeons recently remodeled into a home gym," he adds, and her head whips toward him.

"Is that true?"

"Why, are you up for a quick jog right now?"

"No. But the idea of Narcissa Malfoy doing calisthenics is almost too much to handle."

"Well, my mother is technically a kept woman, isn't she?"

Hermione is still laughing when Draco pulls them to a stop on the second floor, just at the entrance to a long and very lovely room. Like the dark space one floor below, this room is filled by a seemingly endless table. But this dining room is far more welcoming, decorated in warm, cherry woods and lit by a roaring fireplace. Colourful paintings line the walls, the figures in each one moving magically beneath the glittering chandeliers. At the far end of the room, two place settings wait for them.

Hermione emits a small, contented sigh and turns toward Draco to express her gratitude for such a scene. The "thank you" seizes in her throat, however, when she sees his face.

Almost unconsciously, he is studying her in the firelight. His gaze pauses at the curl of her hair, the plunge of her dress, the colour on her lips. He catches her catching him, and the pale skin along his cheekbones reddens fiercely. She sees his throat bob once, twice, as he swallows. All of a sudden she's blushing, too, and she wants to say something to cover for him. But to her horror, to her delight, he speaks first.

"You look…nice tonight."

She runs one hand over the place where the dress catches her hipbone and blushes harder at the way his eyes follow the movement.

"T-thanks," she stutters. "If I had a choice, I would have worn trainers and a hoodie. This was all Ginny Weasley and Maevy."

Moving them closer to their seats, Draco coughs lightly around his embarrassment. "Remind me to give Maevy a pay raise, then."

"Will do. As long as you help me draft a letter to Kingsley, begging a raise for myself."

He laughs as he pulls out one of the chairs for her. "What gives you the impression that Shacklebolt would listen to anything I had to say?"

Hermione sits and places a white linen napkin in her lap. She waits for Draco to take the neighboring seat before replying, with mock sweetness, "Oh, we wouldn't sign your name to the letter. That's political suicide."

"Har har, Granger."

She inclines her head toward him as he removes his own napkin. "That is, unless the Malfoy family intends to donate a sizable sum to the giants' rights Law Library I plan to establish soon."

"I didn't think the Ministry could house a library that large. Get it, large? Large, as in giant?"

Hermione groans and intentionally lets her leg bump his under the table. As a kick. Not just to touch him, obviously. But when she moves her leg back, Draco chases it, and the edge of his shoe settles ever so slightly against her elfishly-enhanced pumps.

He pulls his wand from the pocket inside his coat and casts a quick Aguamenti. Immediately, one set of their glasses fills with water. After a second, nonverbal wave over the table, his wineglass remains empty but an opened wine bottle appears next to hers. She glances fleetingly at its label, glances again, and then directs her spluttering noises at Draco.

"What is that?" she asks, stabbing one finger at the bottle beside her.

"What do you think it is?"

Draco asks the question like he might inquire about the weather: all nonchalance and casual wand work, as the bottle magically pours Hermione her first, ruby-red glass of wine.

"That," she says, "looks an awful lot like a bottle of 1947 Chateau Cheval Blanc. One of the best wines in the world. Maybe in the universe. So I assume that it's not actually what it looks like, sitting next to my glass."

"Filling your glass, technically." Draco shrugs and takes a long, slow drink of his water. "And what if it is what it looks like?"

"Then it's too extravagant, Malfoy," she grits out. "Far too extravagant, and I can't possibly accept."

He smiles lightly into his glass. "I bet I can give you five reasons to accept."

"You can't give me one valid reason," she says, crossing her arms indignantly over her chest.

"Alright," he drawls. He holds up his right hand with all five fingers sprawled away from each other. For each reason, he lowers one finger, until he finishes with a loosely closed fist.

"Five: we have a case of this in our wine cellar. So the Malfoys have eleven more opportunities to flaunt our wealth and extravagance after this one bottle has been drained. Four: if this bottle sits in that cellar for even one more night, it will be a damned shame. I'm not sure if you've noticed, Granger, but the Malfoy family isn't particularly well-liked or well-visited these days. We won't be hosting any 'meetings' anytime soon – which is for the best, I'm sure you agree – nor do I think we're even allowed to throw our annual pureblood Christmas party. So if you don't drink this wine, it will eventually turn to vinegar. Splendid vinegar, I'm sure, but vinegar nonetheless. Three: this wine was undoubtedly purchased to impress the Dark Lord. And I can't think of a better way to chap his scaly arse in the afterworld than watch his most favorite Muggleborn down an entire bottle tonight. Two: I'm an alcoholic, or pretty close to one. Any booze you remove from my home, and thus from my path of temptation, is probably a good thing. Finally, reason number one: Theo tells me you like red wine, particularly a good Bordeaux. And so all I really want – the real reason I decanted this bottle – is to watch your lips when you taste the best red wine there is, and possibly ever was."

Hermione's indignation starts to flee by reason number three and vanishes by reason number two. Reason number one, however, sends her heartrate into overdrive, and she takes a concessionary drink of wine to cover her discomfort. Then she takes a second. And a third. And a fourth, until Draco's laughter stops the glass on its return path to her mouth.

"It never gets old," he says.

Hermione scowls, even though the heat of the expression probably gets a bit lost with her fifth sip of wine. "What never gets old?"

"Being right all the time."

"True," she says, swallowing a gulp of pure perfection. "I've plenty of experience with that. But how would you know?"

Draco-of-old would have taken the bait and delivered the cruelest, most direct hit in response. This Draco – the Draco with whom she's blood-let, whose foot now presses against hers below the mahogany – just grins in triumph and waves his wand over the tabletop.

A colourful salad appears for their first course. Hermione sees shaved fennel, shallots, chopped walnuts, and some figs, amongst other ingredients. She takes an experimental bite and then makes a small, happy noise of approval.

"Lovely, Draco. Really lovely. You did this all by yourself?"

Perhaps it's the wine, or the beautiful setting, or the way he watches her when he thinks she isn't looking, but his first name slips out of her mouth without warning. She doesn't seem to notice, or particularly care.

"I composed the salad," he says. "And made the vinaigrette. But Maevy had a pretty heavy hand in everything except dessert. I mean, I cooked but she was…kind of my director today, while we prepped everything. Honestly, I didn't really try to stop her. I don't actually want to give us food poisoning, you know."

Hermione smiles. "Given that Maevy was the mastermind behind my hair tonight, I don't think I have any room to judge."

Draco's gaze roves over her curls and the glittering hairpins holding them back.

"Yes, well," he says around some gravel in his voice. "She's not exactly subtle, is she?"

Hermione just shakes her head and then gestures for Draco to proceed with the second course. The meal goes on in this fashion, from one delicious course to the next. The entire time they eat, Hermione continues to sip that Cheval Blanc with something akin to worship. Almost as if he can't help himself, Draco watches her closely as she drinks. At first, she worries that he's coveting the alcohol – the heady buzz that follows each gulp of the world's most perfect Bordeaux. But soon, Hermione realizes that it isn't the wine he craves.

He's watching her lips, just as he promised: the way they purse with every sip; the way they fold against each other after a particularly long drink; the way her tongue flicks against them to capture a stray, red droplet. Draco Malfoy can't seem to look away from her mouth. Can't seem to pretend that he's doing anything else.

At one point his thoughts must break free, because he bursts out, mid-course: "Thank you. For being here tonight, I mean."

Hermione sets down her glass and frowns. "Where else would I be?"

He rolls his eyes, even though he's obviously ill at ease with what he just said to her. "Anywhere, Granger. The Leaky Cauldron. Potter's house. Hell, even Nott Manor. Anywhere but here."

Hermione's frown deepens. "Draco, I'm not sure if it's me or the wine that's confessing this, but I think I've come to…well, I kind of like it here now. Despite, you know, everything."

He nods, clearly relieved, but also clearly still upset about something.

"What is it, Draco?" she presses. "What's bothering you?"

He regards her warily, before admitting, "The company, it's…nice. Your company, I mean."

Hermione tilts her head to one side and considers him. She could try to force him to elaborate on this, and part of her wants to – wants to find out why her company is nice, in particular. Instead, she takes another route.

"What, you Slytherins don't have get-togethers? Because I have to tell you, we Gryffindors throw a brilliant game night once a month." The corner of her mouth dimples. "You could join us sometime, you know. Really show Harry up in cards?"

"All that competition and stick-to-itiveness and bravado in one room? Thanks, but no."

She laughs, despite herself. "You joke, but that's eerily accurate. Although I'm sure a Slytherin party would be damned near Roman, what with all the political intrigue and backstabbing."

"Actually, our school parties were mostly just about punch-spiking and shagging in broom cupboards." He grins at her obvious embarrassment. "And we do get together, every now and then. But we drink a lot nowadays. More than we should. All of us, not just me. Plus, our talks can be…troubling."

"Troubling in what way?"

He sighs and traces the rim of his empty wineglass with one index finger. "We talk about the War, sometimes. But there isn't as much remorse as there should be. And on very rare occasions, the conversation gets a bit too…let's just say nostalgic, for my tastes. From people outside my closest circle, there's the occasional 'could have been.' Like we don't bloody well know what life would've been like if he'd won. Like we wouldn't all be dead right now, too."

She wrinkles her nose. "Merlin, that's…ugh."

"Indeed." Draco stills his hand and fixes his attention completely on her. "So it's just…different with you, I think. When you and I talk about the War, you seem to…you really….What I mean is, when it comes to the stupidity and the regret and the resignation and the hope, you really just seem to…."

"Get it," she finishes. "I just get it."

He nods with a lightness that resembles relief. She recognizes it, because she feels that way, too. She's already come to the illogical, weird, but nonetheless spot-on conclusion that, more often than not, Draco Malfoy gets it.

Gets her.

Draco, however, is now staring at his empty glass with a deep, wrinkling frown. As if the glass itself holds the meaning of life, and that meaning isn't pretty.

"Granger," he says. "There's still one thing I don't understand."

Sensing that something big is coming, Hermione sets aside her wineglass. Pushes away her near-empty plate of quail and roasted potatoes.

"And what, exactly, is that?"

"I know why I want you here." His eyes meet hers, and the fire in all that grey just kills her. "But why are you here? How can you even stand to be near me? Is it because of your project? Is it just because you want to complete it? Or is it…pity?"

Draco practically spits the last word out, and his mouth curls into something unpleasant. Something very similar to his old sneer. It's a cruel look, one designed to intimate and, long ago, to bully. But tonight, Draco's eyes give him away. There's something truer than cruelty in them – a blend of worry, anticipation, and some other emotion she's not quite sure she's ready to name yet.

For a long while, Hermione can't answer him. Partly because she's stunned by his sudden vulnerability – by the fact she actually knows him well enough to recognize that vulnerability.

But she's also unsure of what to say. Unsure of how to put it so that he understands what she needs from their friendship. Unsure of how to treat him better than a former Death Eater, but also better than some psychologically-damaged soap bubble. Because while he might be both of those things, he isn't just those things.

Not to her. Not anymore.

"Should I give you five reasons?" she finally asks, with a wry twist of her lips. When he doesn't respond, she holds up her fingers like he did and begins to count downward.

"Five: it was about the tour at first, I'll admit that. For the sake of disclosure, I should also tell you I call it the PTSD Pastry Tour. Ron hates the name, but I love it. Initially, one of the reasons I agreed to your request was because, yes, I did want to finish the Tour. Four: you, Draco, have PTSD, or post-traumatic stress disorder. And you're right, I do pity you for it. But guess what? Everyone I've visited has it. Everyone. The Weasleys, Kingsley, Theo, even Pansy. Here's another tidbit for you: I have it, too. Bad. I hear your aunt cackling in my dreams. If my eye starts twitching when I'm tired, I worry that it's an after-effect of the Crucio. And I still can't go into your front parlour. So I pity myself more than I do you, trust me. Three, and this is a big one: lots of people are willing to talk about the War, but you're actually the only one who seems willing to talk about the bad stuff, too. The really bad stuff, like Voldemort, or the Cruciatus Curse, or the way people act like we should be over it by now. Harry will touch on it with me, but only a little. Ron and I actually broke up because he didn't want to talk about it. But I do. And apparently you do, too. Which is a massive relief. Two: I don't want you to drink yourself to death, because I can't imagine a world without you in it. And one: I like talking to you. And baking with you, and drinking tea with you, and doing magic with you, and arguing with you. So I guess it's safe to say that I like you, Draco Malfoy. I like your company, too."

It's no coincidence that the last finger she lowers is the one he healed. The one that still bears the faint scar of his spell. His gaze lingers on it as she tucks it back into her fist and, perhaps unknowingly, his eyes flit to her lips again.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Draco smiles.

"Fancy some dessert, Granger?"