Ten minutes until eight, Harry gives her a brief hug for luck and then vanishes into her fireplace. Hermione stares after him, unsure of how best to proceed.
Should she just Floo, then? Just waltz into Malfoy Manor as though she owns the place?
She realizes now what an intimate gift this Floo connection actually is. She's never had to think about something like this before; it was always a foregone conclusion that she and her friends would connect their homes by Floo.
But with Draco, this pathway is different. It's not just a direct line from her home to his. It's also an invitation to make herself comfortable in his home. To come and go in his world as she pleases, in direct opposition to what Theo told her about the grown-up, isolated Draco. It's also a symbol of Draco's trust in her.
The realization is a tad daunting, so she decides to approach this like a Gryffindor: jump first, analyze later. Repeating "don't think, don't think, don't think" in her head, Hermione hops into her fireplace, announces "Malfoy Manor," and holds her breath for the ride.
Draco's suspicions were correct. The Floo upsets her far less than Apparition, and she steps into his library with a steady heartbeat and a clear head. That is, until she sees that he's waiting for her in one of the green armchairs, and her heartbeat becomes just a bit more erratic.
He has one long leg folded over the other and his face hidden by a thick leather volume. The book's spine reads, Potions in Practice: Sourcing Materials in a World of Shrinking Resources.
"Good read?" she asks as a greeting.
He lowers the book to reveal a smirk. "Good trip?"
"Quite nice, actually." Hermione tries to conceal her smile by brushing some soot off the skirt of her dress.
"Do you feel like assaulting me some more?" he asks. "I think there are still a few spots on my shoulder you didn't bruise last week."
"Well, you should know that I'm a little violent when I have no idea what's going on."
"Duly noted."
Draco closes his book to set it onto the empty tea table. Hermione takes advantage of the fact that his eyes are averted to drink in the sight of him. He's eschewed the black suit for a grey one, and it looks rather striking against his pale skin and hair. Again he wears the white oxford shirt, but tonight he's paired it with a light grey tie that matches the colour of his eyes. Hermione must admit that suits do make nice weekend-wear. Particularly on him.
"Dinner?" he asks, gazing back at her in a knowing way. Like he's aware that she was just checking him out.
She simply nods and slips her hand into the crook of his elbow when he stands to offer it. They exit the library without speaking. Darkness lies so heavy in the hallway, it almost muffles their steps. Almost muffles his voice when he whispers, "You look beautiful tonight."
"So do you," she blurts out, and then audibly groans in humiliation. Draco doesn't respond at all. The only thing he might do, so gently she can't be sure it actually happens, is pull her closer to him as they walk.
After that exchange they move toward the Lesser Dining Room in silence, with only the rustle of her skirt and the shuffle of his shoes echoing in the corridor. She suspects that he's in a quiet mood tonight, and she finds that it doesn't bother her in the slightest. In fact, she likes the quiet between them.
By the time they reach the bright entrance to the dining room, she's overcome with a strangely entrancing idea. Like last week, Draco has set two places for them, together at the far end of the table. But with a light squeeze of his arm, Hermione pulls out her wand and summons one of the place settings. She levitates the whole arrangement – gilded plates, monogrammed cutlery, and glinting crystal – toward the end of the table closest to them. Once she finishes, there is a setting at each end of the impossibly long table.
Draco turns toward her, frowning in inquiry. Hermione's lips just curl into an inscrutable smile. She lifts onto her toes, kisses him lightly on the cheek, and makes her way – with a small swing of her hips – toward the farthest-away chair.
"We're so far apart, we won't be able to talk to each other," he calls after her. But she just waves her hand without turning around.
"You're a resourceful man. I'm sure you'll figure something out."
By the time he's conjured their drinks – no wine this time, but magically chilled, self-refilling glasses of water – he's apparently solved her puzzle. At least, that's what she assumes when Pleiades swoops into the dining room with a pile of parchment and an EverInk quill in his talons.
After Pleiades lands, Draco strokes the owl and murmurs softly to him. Hermione finds this show of affection so damned appealing, she has to look away. She peeks back up in time to see Draco scribble out a note, roll it up, and attach both the scroll and quill to the owl's leg. Within seconds, Pleiades has fluttered to her end of the table and landed beside her plate. The owl allows her to pull the bundle from his ankle, and she unrolls it quickly.
The note reads:
This is ludicrous, you know.
Hermione scans it, grinning, and then grabs the quill to scrawl out her own note:
Well, it's your table.
With a speed that matches her excitement, she rolls the parchment and quill up together and slips them to Pleiades. He gives a longsuffering hoot and makes the trek back to the other side. Draco responds immediately.
I'll have you know, Granger, that we usually eat in here like normal people. You know, by sitting together at a meal.
Next, it's Hermione's turn with the quill, which she wastes no time putting to good use. And so the evening's conversation begins in earnest.
If you never use all these chairs, Draco, then why own the table at all?
Why take calligraphy lessons? Some things in the Malfoy household just ARE.
Like owling your guests at dinner?
May I remind you, Granger, that you were the one who wanted to eat this way?
Fair enough. Although I'm starting to regret this method of communication. Wild animals and gazpacho don't really mix, if you catch my drift.
Don't insult Pleiades that way. He's an impeccably clean bird.
Sure he is. And his feathers go very nicely with chilled tomato soup.
I'm glad you agree.
I'm just suggesting we find a different way to communicate. Like…maybe those pneumatic messages tubes outside Muggle chemists?
Those what? Outside where?
Pneumatic message tubes that use pressurized air to…oh, never mind.
No, no, please go on. This can be one of our new projects, once I've mastered baking. We'll rewire the damned front gates and then install pneuma-tubes to the side of my mother's six hundred year old table.
This table is six hundred years old?!
Give or take.
You know, I can't help but feel like I'm eating dinner with Bruce Wayne.
Who?
Batman's alter-ego.
I repeat: who?
Batman. He's a Muggle superhero who fights evil. Or may sometimes be evil, depending on one's interpretation. He wears a black cape and a mask, and he's super wealthy.
I quite like the sound of him. Remind you of anyone in particular?
I'm not sure you would like Batman, Draco. Unlike most Muggle superheroes, he has no magical powers.
Then how exactly does he fight evil?
With his superwealth. Essentially.
Not seeing a downside to this fellow.
Actually, now that I think about it, you would like Batman. He's all angst and sadness and self-imposed tragedy.
Hermione Granger, how dare you imply something that you could say outright?
Alright, then. You're all angst and sadness and self-imposed tragedy.
That's much better.
The night goes on in roughly the same manner, until Pleiades has finally had enough. Exhausted, the owl drops their last note and then swoops out of the dining room with an indignant hoot. Hermione supposes that's her cue as well, since they finished the dessert course – a roughly-hewn but decadent olive oil cake, topped with fresh buttercream icing and sliced peaches – almost an hour ago. She folds her napkin onto her plate, pushes back her oversized chair, and makes the long walk toward Draco's seat.
When she arrives, she says nothing. But she holds out her hand for him with that little smirk she knows he likes. Draco lifts one eyebrow, smirks back, and takes Hermione's hand to pull himself standing. Their wordless communication is clear enough: if they haven't spoken aloud most of this evening, why start now?
Shaking Draco's hand vigorously like an old chum, Hermione feels her mouth stretch into a full, toothy smile. After all, he just bloody gets it. The sensation of being understood – and by Draco Malfoy – is starting to become less unnerving and more pleasant, each time she sees him. And she's brave enough to admit to herself that she wants to see him. Maybe every day, if he'd let her.
Draco smiles, too. They stay like that for long enough that at some point, their joined hands stop shaking and start…holding. She realizes, with a start, that they've been standing like that for a while: hands and eyes locked, with what seems like less and less space between their bodies. Also, she apparently stopped breathing some time ago.
Hermione drags in a big gulp of air, gives Draco a firm nod of goodbye, and slips her hand from his. It's clear that she intends to leave the dining room as she occupied it tonight - silently - and so he lets her go without comment.
She moves through the dark hallways wordlessly. But when she makes it back to the Smaller Library, she pauses to run her fingers along the place where Draco's fingertips traced her palm, just before she walked away.