The following week, Hermione's case of nerves has completely vanished.
At work, she's whistled show-tunes and witty comebacks and well-formed arguments in favor of a primary school programme for giants. At lunch with Harry and Ron on Wednesday, she's belly laughs and eye rolls and bad puns. And with Pleiades, when he arrives at her window on Thursday evening, she's a happy little dance that must never be seen by another human being.
This time, her invitation contains only one line of that perfect calligraphy. It asks, very simply:
Shall we?
With her own flourish of ink, she writes back, We shall. She has a giddy moment where she considers Flooing straightaway to his library and handing him her reply in person. Not to see him sooner. Just to test out the Floo, of course.
"Of course," she says aloud with a giggle. Hearing her, Pleiades angles his head entirely to one side.
"Do I sound crazy, boy, talking to myself out loud?"
He cocks his head fully in the other direction: an owlish confirmation of her insanity. She giggles again anyway and pets his sleek feathers until he presses his large head into her hand, almost cat-like in his affection. The comparison amuses her even more when he begins to make a series of low, rhythmic hoots she would almost swear is a purr.
Still stroking his feathers, Hermione leans closer. "Pleiades, can I ask you to make a quick stop before going back to the Manor tonight?"
His large, feathered eyebrows nudge together, which she takes to mean, Maybe. Maybe not.
"Such a Malfoy," she grumbles, but she's grinning as she fetches a spare piece of parchment and her quill. She scrawls out a quick note, charms it dry, and attaches the note as well as her reply card to Pleiades' thin leg. As she presents him with a handful of treats, she says, "The scroll is for Ginny Weasley, at No.12 Grimmauld Place, London. It's on your way home, I promise."
Pleiades narrows his luminous eyes, to indicate how much this extra work irritates him. But he doesn't drop his additional parcel when he flutters to her window.
"Just like your owner," she says, passing him a few more treats for the road. "All bark but only a little bite."
Perhaps this offends Pleiades, because he gives her thumb a playful nip. Probably to remind her that he is, in fact, a Malfoy. Hermione waggles her fingers at him in reprimand and opens the window so he can get on with it. Then she returns to the book she abandoned upon his arrival and settles into her couch with a contented sigh.
At five p.m. that Saturday, the sound of Hermione's activated Floo whooshes throughout her flat. She sets down the kettle she was just about to put on for tea and rushes to her living room…where someone entirely unexpected stands, brushing dust from his clothes.
"Harry!" she cries out in surprise, moving forward to hug him. It isn't until she's already wrapped her arms around him that she pauses and pulls back to inspect his face.
"What are you doing here?" she demands. "Is Ginny okay? Where is she?"
"Last-minute Quidditch tryouts. And nice to see you, too, friend."
"You don't mean that she's...?"
Harry beams. "I do. She's been hand-picked to tryout out for the national World Cup team. Summer training begins next month, to run alongside Harpies' practices."
"That's fantastic! But, Merlin, she's going to be exhausted from the double workouts."
Harry nods sympathetically and then flashes a lecherous grin. "And so bloody fit. The wedding is the week after the World Cup – can you imagine how she'll look on our honeymoon?"
Hermione sighs. "Why must you always force me to smack you, Harry Potter?"
"Because I'm the Chosen One?" he tries, and they both dissolve into a fit of laughter – one that doesn't stop her from swatting him playfully over the head.
"Tea?" she asks, and so he follows her into the kitchen where she uses her wand to set the kettle boiling. She joins Harry at the table, bringing with her a platter of the gingersnaps she created last night.
After Harry finishes his first one, he looks at her thoughtfully.
"You did something different with these, didn't you? A little heat on the back end?"
She smiles in confirmation. "Cayenne. It's one of my favorite secret ingredients for spice-heavy desserts."
"They're quite good."
"I know," she says, levitating the steaming kettle to pour hot water into their cups. Harry laughs at her self-assurance as he takes another biscuit from the platter.
"Lord, Hermione, you're starting to sound just like Malfoy."
He must notice the way her wand twitches as she floats the kettle back to the stove, because his grin fades. Harry, however, has never been a pushy friend. Instead, he chews gingersnaps and waits for Hermione to say her piece.
Finally, by his third biscuit, she lowers her cup and levels him with a pointed stare.
"Does Ginny actually have World Cup tryouts tonight?"
"Yes."
"And did you really come here to help me pick out an outfit?"
"Yes."
Under her disbelieving glare, he sighs. "And…no. Look, Ginny did have to cancel tonight, but it was my idea to come in her place."
"So you could interrogate me?"
To her surprise, Harry cackles. "Well, yeah."
"Did you bring some Veritaserum with you, then?"
"I must have left it in my other robes."
Hermione snorts and tries hard not to let that sound remind her of Draco. "Merlin, Harry, you really are an Auror now, aren't you?"
He looks so pleased by her statement that she can't help but sigh in defeat. She's not mad; not really. After all, Harry is her best friend. At some point, he was bound to get curious about the way the PTSD Pastry Tour recently seems to have morphed into…something else.
"Well, you might as well get on with it, then," she says good-naturedly, lifting her cup toward him in a welcoming gesture.
Apparently that's all the cue he needs, because he blurts out, "Are you and Malfoy dating?"
Jump right to the point, why don't you, Harry?
Aloud, Hermione says, "Nope." She pops the "p" emphatically, exaggerating the letter with a smack of her lips.
"Are you, you know, going to?"
Hermione furrows her brow and silently dares him – dares him – to push that issue. Harry takes the hint. They fall into a meditative silence, sipping tea and chewing gingersnaps until he finally raises his green eyes to her brown ones.
"Guess you should get on with it, then," he says begrudgingly.
She frowns. "Get on with what, Harry?"
He moans, runs a hand through his messy black hair, and then drags that hand over his face. "The fashion show," he mutters behind his fingers. "I promised Ginny I would perform her duties tonight and I always keep my promises."
Hermione sets down her cup and smirks in a way that she knows is Malfoy-esque. "You do realize that you've brought this upon yourself, don't you?"
Harry nods gravely. "I do. And I will face the consequences of my actions like a good Gryffindor."
She pats his hand, jumps from her chair, and proceeds to subject him to almost two hours of payback. All the dresses Ginny left there last week go on display, especially the outrageous ones. Hermione and Harry both giggle at a long white gown covered in ostrich feathers, a set of robes embroidered with moving, glow-in-the-dark solar systems, and a fluffy, pink-and-gold taffeta number that could only have been popular in the 1950's.
Finally, at a quarter past seven, Hermione gets down to business and tries on the black silk dress she's been eyeing all week. If it's possible, she loves this one even more than the dress she wore last weekend. Tonight's dress fits perfectly, snug in the strapless bodice but flaring prettily at her waist when she spins. It even has deep hip pockets where she can hide her wand. Without Maevy there to direct things, Hermione opts to leave her hair wild and her lips colour-free. But she does slip the transfigured heels back on and fasten diamond studs into each of her earlobes.
When she exits her bedroom and performs a twirl for Harry, he lets out a low wolf-whistle. "Wow, Hermione. You look almost as good as Ginny would in that dress."
She snorts, dipping one foot behind the other in a kind of curtsy. "Considering how you feel about her in clothes, I'll take that as a compliment."
It's then that Harry spies her heels. "Um, Hermione?"
"Yeah?"
"Since when did you start wearing shoes like that?"
"What, don't you like them?"
"They're nice. And they definitely show you off in the leg-department. But…Merlin, Hermione, they're so tall for you."
She glances down at her pointed toes. "Oh, I know, but Draco's at least a head taller than me, and it's nice to look into his eyes when we…."
Hermione trails off when she realizes what she's said. She glances back up at Harry, and he's watching her again with that concerned frown.
"Are you sure you're not dating Malfoy?"
"Really, Harry? Really?"
She infuses her words with as much indignation as possible. Mostly because she doesn't know the answer to his question anymore.