Maybe it's the aftershock of their five-pronged confessions, or maybe it's the bottle of wine she almost finished. Whatever the cause, Hermione feels jittery as Draco leads her from the dining room to the Smaller Library, where they shared their first tea.
He pushes the library door open and gestures for her to go inside. When she crosses the threshold, she passes close enough to smell his aftershave. The lingering spice of it sends her head spinning, and she staggers. One of his hands grips her elbow again, while his other hand lands – disconcertingly, distractingly – on the small of her back.
"Trouble walking tonight, Granger?"
"It's these damned shoes," she lies. "Your pushy house-elf made me wear them, Merlin knows why."
Draco emits one of his elegant snorts. "Yes, I can see how someone might dislike the way a pair of heels makes a pretty girl's legs look."
Her humiliation – and confusion and frustration and that other word she doesn't let herself think – grows. So she keeps her comments to herself as he leads them over to the fireplace. The pair of green armchairs is still there, facing the oversized fire and flanking the small tea table. Upon which sits a silver tray, stacked with….
"Macarons!" Hermione exclaims. She hurries over to them as quickly as her transfigured heels will allow.
The macarons on the platter are far prettier than the ones from his first attempt. Each of these little biscuits is perfectly symmetrical, perfectly puffed, and shiny in the firelight. Hermione picks one up and looks back at him.
"Your handiwork?"
When he nods, she gleefully pops the biscuit into her mouth. But after the first chew, her teeth grind to a halt. Although the texture is perfect and the taste divine, she'd recognize that flavor anywhere.
Slowly, she finishes the bite and then asks, "Key lime?"
Draco nods again, a mysterious smile playing across his lips. Wordlessly, he sits in his chair and pulls his own biscuit from the tray. She studies him for a wary second before she takes her own seat.
"These are…excellent," she concedes, gesturing to the stack of biscuits.
"Are they?" He contemplates his own macaron. "You don't think they might be a touch dry?"
Hermione shakes her head. "No, they really are lovely. Where…erm, where did you get the key limes?"
That enigmatic smile returns. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
"Alright. My mother and I went into London to find them."
"Wizarding London?"
Draco just shakes his head, and Hermione chokes. Actually chokes.
"Muggle London?" she rasps.
"Well, they certainly don't carry key limes in Wizarding grocery shops. Trust me, we checked."
Hermione is blinking so rapidly, she thinks her eyelids might be broken. "Draco Malfoy. And Narcissa Malfoy. Went shopping. In a Muggle supermarket."
"Five of them, to be precise. You didn't tell me that key limes were considered an exotic fruit in England. Rather tricky of you, Granger."
"How did you…just how?"
"With some wandering around, before I finally gave in and asked for directions. And with some Muggles staring at us, as well. My mother is part of that generation that insists on wearing robes, no matter where she goes and no matter who might see her. Plus, the money exchanging was a bit of a mess."
"Then why didn't you just make a different flavor?"
Draco feigns surprise. "Damn. If only I'd thought of that a few days ago."
"Why?" Hermione asks, undeterred by his teasing. "Why would you do something like that? Why would your mother?"
"I thought that part would be obvious."
"It isn't."
"Really? And here I thought you were stunningly, unquestioningly brilliant."
"I am."
Draco laughs – one of those loud, genuine affairs that makes her feel all kinds of wonderful things she isn't going to think about right now.
"Reason number one, Granger. Mine, and yours."
All Hermione can manage is a dumbfounded, "Oh."
She places another macaron to her lips, in an effort to keep from saying aloud the things she's not supposed to be thinking. Draco waves his wand in summons, and his water appears on the table along with her near-emptied wineglass. Which reminds her….
"Draco," she asks quietly, "how long has it been since you've last had a drink? Of alcohol, I mean."
He takes a long sip of water, narrowing his eyes as if he has to give it some thought. "Well, let's see. Carry the one, divide by four…that's…yes, that's twenty-one days, twenty-two hours, seventeen minutes, and approximately forty-eight seconds. Not that I'm counting."
Hermione balks. Then she begins the rapid math in her head.
"That's…that was about—"
"The night before you arrived for our first lesson," he says, saving her the trouble, "I got totally pissed. And I mean totally pissed. A bottle and a half of firewhisky, stumbling blind, vomiting in the rubbish bin, lying halfway in my bathtub and halfway out. The kind of pissed that makes you ashamed when you wake up. Not that that's any different from the other times I've gotten drunk. But this one was…let's just leave it at 'bad,' without any more details."
"But you seemed so normal that morning. So put together."
He shrugs. "Over the past three years, I've learned how to handle my hangovers. I brew an outstanding Sober-Up Potion, and I drink about three litres of coffee. I did that morning, so I'd be prepared when you arrived."
"Why, though? Why did you get so drunk that night?"
Draco flinches, as though what he's about to admit might physically hurt him. "Because I was afraid."
"Afraid? Of what?"
"Of…well, of you, I suppose."
"Me?" she squeaks.
"Yes, you. What you were going to say to me, and what you were going to make me confront about you. About myself, too, and the reason I drank in the first place."
Hermione blanches. "That was the day you cut your fingers, wasn't it?"
Draco doesn't respond but takes another swig of his water. She watches the movement of his lips against the glass, the bob of his throat around the water. Her eyes slide to her glass of wine and then back to him.
"Why was that the last day you drank, Draco? Why did you pick that day to stop?"
"Because," he says slowly. Thoughtfully, as if he's only coming to the truth of what he speaks while speaking it. "I was thinking about stopping for the last few months. Just because I needed to stop, you know? Just because I was supposed to, at some point. But after that first morning, when we made the pistachio macarons, something…changed. Now, I want to stop this. I don't want to be numb anymore."
"Numb?" she whispers.
"I've been drinking to go numb – to stay numb. But now, I want to...feel. Anything, everything. I want to be with my friends without seeing them through a haze of booze. I want to have conversations with my parents where they don't have to yell at me because I can barely stay awake. And maybe…maybe I want to feel some other things, too."
Hermione doesn't ask him to name those other things. Instead, she pulls her wand from its hidden pocket and swiftly Vanishes her glass of Cheval Blanc.
Observing the charm, Draco raises one eyebrow. "Granger, as you pointed out earlier, that's an exceptionally good glass of wine you just Vanished."
She shrugs and gives a small smirk that she can tell he likes, by the way his lips twitch when she does it. "I know it is, Draco. And I suddenly find that I don't have a reason to drink it anymore, either."
She's pleased when Draco's mouth drops open a fraction.
"Accio my water glass," she calls. Soon, her goblet from dinner lands on the tea table. She performs an Aguamenti to refill it, lifts it toward Draco in cheers, and takes a slow, deliberate drink. He's watching her and she knows it, but she doesn't hurry the gesture. Once finished, she sets her cup next to his on the table and meets his gaze full-on.
When Draco finally speaks, his voice comes out low and rough.
"You don't have to do that, Granger. You're not the one with the problem."
"Oh? Is that so?"
They assess each other across their water glasses. Hermione raises her chin in her best imitation of Narcissa Malfoy. It's not an easy task, since Draco is gazing at her in a way that's setting her insides on fire.
Finally, he nods, like her challenging stare has answered some question for him. He stands from his chair and walks over to the fireplace. Then he turns toward her and holds out his hand.
"May I show you something?" he asks.
Her face stays impassive as she rises to join him on the wide marble hearth. Internally, of course, she screams at her fingers not to shake or twitch or do anything embarrassing when she takes his outstretched hand. He wraps his fingers around hers and then reaches with his free hand to scoop something out of a tall vase next to the fire. In his open palm, a handful of dust shimmers.
Floo powder, she thinks, right before Draco tosses it into the fire and calls out "Granger's Flat." A whirl of emerald-tinged flames dances all around them. The colours shift and fade, until she's staring at what looks exactly like her sofa. In her living room. In her flat.
"What the—?"
She only has time to utter those two syllables before Draco scoops powder from the container next to her own fireplace, flings it at their feet, and calls "Malfoy Manor." Once more they're swirling through the Floo Network, tumbling magically together until they arrive in a green cloud at the hearth in Draco's library.
The two trips occur in such rapid succession that Hermione finds herself off balance. She clings to his shoulder for stability, gripping the sooty fabric of his coat.
Which she releases the minute she regains her footing, so that she can swat angrily at him.
"What was that, Draco Malfoy?" she demands, her hands only leaving their assault to ball up into fists on her hips. "How the hell did you get access to my Floo station?"
"Maevy?" he says sheepishly.
"You sneaky little…snake!" she shrieks, and goes to swat at him again. He catches her wrist mid-swing, twists it gently so that his thumb is planted in the center of her palm, and holds up his other hand to stop her.
"Hear me out, Granger? Please?"
There's a rumble of warning from Hermione's throat, but she does not argue. Draco must understand that this is the only opportunity he'll get to explain himself, because he plunges forward quickly.
"Every time you Apparate here, you're always green around the gills. Like it makes you nauseated. I mean, you're good at it, but you clearly don't enjoy it. I noticed that the first time you came to the Manor with the tarts, and it hasn't changed since. So I thought you might prefer the Floo, instead. I discussed the idea with my parents, and my mother visited the Ministry this week for special permission to join our fireplaces—"
"Your mother?" she interrupts. "Narcissa asked for an exception to your family's restrictions? For me?"
"And received it, just in the nick of time. As Shacklebolt so delicately put it in his letter this morning, the approval had far more to do with your name than ours. I asked Maevy to perform the connecting charms on your end while you were getting dressed tonight, so I could surprise you. Which…I now realize was a terrible idea."
He ends his sentence with the lilt of a question. Hermione lets out a graceless noise that one might categorize, unflatteringly, as a guffaw, and she jerks her hand from his.
Then she thinks long and hard about what he's just revealed. About him noticing her anxiety with Apparition. About his intercession with his parents on her behalf. About him recruiting Maevy to his plot.
At first, Hermione just scowls indignantly. But after a few agonizing minutes, her scowl melts into a frown. Then slowly, oh so slowly, the frown softens until it's gone.
Seeing this transformation, Draco ventures, "Not so terrible an idea? Maybe?"
There are clear lines of discomfort – and hope – in the set of his mouth. She rather likes that.
Wordlessly, Hermione steps around him toward the vase of Floo powder. She grabs a handful of the dust, saunters directly in front of the fire, and turns to face him.
"Maybe," she finally answers. Then she leans forward, just the tiniest bit, and places her powder-free hand on the lapel of his coat. With a dash of mettle even she finds surprising, she places a soft kiss on his cheek.
When she pulls back, she finds that his face has gone slack and he's pale as bone. Except, of course, for the attractive hint of red along his cheekbones.
"Guess you'll find out at next week's dinner, won't you?" she teases, and then she tosses the Floo powder at her feet. Just before she calls out for her flat and vanishes into the green flames, she sees Draco's fingers reach up to brush the place where her lips touched him.