The next day, Hermione wakes to a sharp throbbing in her temples. And to pupils that refuse to work properly when they meet the sunlight. And to the taste of week-old rubbish on her tongue.
"Oh, hell," she moans into her pillow. "What have I done?"
At first, she can't remember how this happened. Then the previous night comes flooding back to her in perfect, painful clarity.
Everything had started so innocently. She parted ways with Harry and Ginny as quickly as possible, unwilling to witness them make the inevitable transition from snogging to not-just-snogging. As Hermione watched them vanish into the night, she felt a sense of relief that they had taken her news so well.
But suddenly, the relief transformed into complete terror. Because she liked Draco Malfoy. Like liked him.
Which could go badly. Bad badly.
Panic bubbled in her chest, and all Hermione could think to do was Disapparate from the alley beside the Muggle restaurant to the pavement outside Number One, Diagon Alley. In front of her, the Leaky Cauldron sat bright and welcoming, the din of a good Friday night pouring out from the open doors. She peered into its dirty windows cautiously but saw no one inside she knew.
With her lips set in a grim line, she entered the tavern, marched up to the long bar, and ordered their largest glass of firewhisky, pleaseandthankyou. The first sip scalded her throat, and it made her wonder how the hell Draco could drink bottle after bottle of this stuff. Of course, that only meant she had to try more.
By her second glass, all the things she told Harry and Ginny resurfaced in her mind. Like the way Draco made her laugh, despite herself. Or the way he talked about the War as though he didn't resent their conversations. Or the way he was trying to shed his ugly past like an old skin. And, okay, sure, she also thought about the way she kind of sort of wanted to find out how his lips tasted.
By the fourth glass, she shared that information with the bartender. Or, at least, some version of it.
"He's a prat," Hermione began, sloshing the liquid in her glass with an expansive gesture.
The bartender, an older witch with one of those wide-open faces, nodded sympathetically and gave another patron a refill. "They all are, sweetie."
"Ah, but this one's a special-case prat. There have been articles about his prat-ishness. Published ones."
The bartender started hanging clean glasses above the bar without comment. Unfortunately, Hermione took this nonresponse as her cue to keep babbling.
"I mean, he's arrogant," she went on. "Still. After all these years. Even though he's remorseful now, and troubled, and sad, and…and bloody Batman, he still thinks he's great."
"And you don't agree?" the bartender asked.
Hermione tossed back another drink of whisky and groaned. "That's the problem: he is great. Just not in the way he thinks. I mean, yes, he's fit, good-looking, and rich. Hence Batman. But he's also funny. And clever. And perceptive. And honest in a way he didn't use to be. And…and his eyes. Merlin, his eyes."
She didn't finish cataloging all the things that were wrong but also weirdly, unexpectedly, wonderfully right about Draco Malfoy until her glass rattled with only ice cubes. By this point, the night had grown very late. Without Hermione realizing it, the bartender had already ushered out the remaining patrons, locked the front doors, and Lumos Nox'd the main lights. Then, with a practiced hand, the older witch led an unsteady Hermione to the Floo station at the back of the Leaky.
"Where to, love?" the bartender asked, gently positioning Hermione in the fireplace and scooping up some Floo powder.
"Granger's Flat. I mean, my flat. Hermione Granger. I mean, I'm Hermione Granger. And I have my own flat."
"How nice for you, dear," the bartender said, patting Hermione on the back before tossing the powder at the younger witch's feet.
All of which leads Hermione to her current predicament: lying full-clothed in bed after 2 p.m. on Saturday, hungover and still very confused about a funny, clever, perceptive, honest wizard with stupidly interesting eyes and a bad past.
"Why am I an idiot?" Hermione wails, kicking at her tangled sheets.
"Well, Miss," a small voice to her right squeaks. "Given the smell of your breath, Maevy would say Miss had two – no, three – too many drinks last night."
Hermione immediately rolls onto her side and pulls her covers back up to her chin.
"Maevy, what are you doing here? I didn't...I didn't show up at the Manor last night, did I?"
The elf, who looks quite at home sitting on the plush chair beside Hermione's bed, gives the witch a tranquil smile.
"No, Miss, you did not. Maevy is just here to deliver a message. And to help Miss, by the smell of it."
Hermione opens and closes her mouth dumbly, and then croaks, "Message? Why didn't Draco just send Pleiades?"
"Well, to be honest, Pleiades is still a touch…miffed at Mister Draco, after all that flying around inside the dining room last weekend. But the real reason Maevy is here, and not an owl, is because Mister Draco wasn't the one to send Miss a message this morning."
At this last piece of information, Hermione jerks up into a seated position. And then gasps at the ensuing pang in her head. It feels like a vomit-inducing combination of a spin and a jab.
Maevy gives Hermione a sympathetic pat on the hand. "Miss should really think about moving more slowly this afternoon. At least, for a while."
"Miss will take that suggestion under extreme consideration."
Hermione clenches her eyelids shut and places her fingers upon each of her temples in order to press away the pain. The attempt is illogical, but she's just about willing to do anything to lessen her headache. It's in this pose that Hermione feels, rather than sees, the soft drop of something into her lap. She peeks down through squinted eyelids to find a small, square envelope on her blanketed knee.
This envelope is shaped like the ones Draco usually sends, but it's not the same luxurious cream colour. The paper of this envelope shimmers iridescent silver or gold, depending on the light – magic cardstock, obviously charmed to catch the reader's eye. As Hermione picks up the envelope and slides it open, she muses that stationery like this probably costs a small fortune.
The calligraphy on the invitation inside is lovely, but not Draco's. This writing slants in a direction opposite to his, and the ink lines are also lighter, as if made by a smaller hand. In a pretty yet somehow unyielding way, the note reads:
Miss Hermione Granger's presence is expected today
Four o'clock, at Malfoy Manor
for Afternoon Tea with Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy
That's it. No elaborations or explanations. No reply card, either. Just a command for tea. Today. With the High Priestess of Purebloods herself.
Hermione sighs loudly. "Well, that's just bloody fantastic, isn't it?"
"How so, Miss?"
"Your…employer? Mrs. Malfoy? She wants me to meet her for tea. In less than two hours."
"And why is that a cause for swears, Miss?"
Because her sister tried to kill me two years ago? Because Narcissa might try to finish the job today with tea and crumpets?
Because I want to snog her son senseless?
Aloud, Hermione says, "Because I'm so hungover, I think I might actually be dead and I just haven't figured it out yet."
Maevy pats Hermione's hand again and then twists in her seat. From behind her back, she pulls out a black satin clutch. Maevy opens the purse and removes a brown apothecary bottle.
"One of Mister Draco's Sober-Up Potions," she explains, while she hands the bottle over to Hermione. "Maevy has carried them with her the last few years, just in case."
Hermione inspects the bottle, and a cold lump of shame settles in the pit of her stomach. "Thank you, Maevy," she whispers.
The elf shrugs offhandedly. "Will Miss need more of this potion in the future? Perhaps Maevy should continue to keep it stocked?"
Despite the way the motion makes her brain slosh, Hermione shakes her head. Hard.
"No, I won't. Especially if I want to keep seeing Draco. But thanks, Maevy. Really."
Hermione unstoppers the bottle, tilts her head back, and tips the contents into her mouth. The liquid feels oily against her tongue, and it leaves behind a mildly herbaceous aftertaste. She gulps every bit of it down, closing her eyes in anticipation.
"Merlin, he was right," she sighs in relief a few seconds later. "He does brew an excellent Sober-Up."
Her headache and nausea evaporate, as if they never occurred at all. Suddenly, the idea of tea with Narcissa seems less terrifyingly impossible and more…well, terrifyingly probable. Hermione pats her hair, which has become an absolute rat's nest.
"Oh, Maevy," she sighs. "I'm still a mess."
The little elf waves her arm toward the door of Hermione's loo. "Miss should clean herself up; Maevy will do the rest."
An hour later, Hermione has scalded the previous night from her skin, teeth, and hair. Wrapped in her bathrobe, she emerges from the washroom with a fresh face and neat-ish curls to find that Maevy has placed a set of clothes upon her bed.
"Um, Maevy?"
Hermione points to the outfit that the elf has laid out: a white sheath dress covered in colourful, embroidered petals, a cardigan, and a pair of ballet flats. Each of which looks quite different than when Hermione last saw them all in her wardrobe. "I…erm, I didn't know I even owned that much green."
Maevy surveys her creation proudly. "Miss didn't, actually. Maevy charmed a few items. Aren't they just lovely for a springtime tea?"
Feeling oddly petulant – and highly Gryffindor – Hermione folds her arms across her chest. "Could we transfigure those back to their original, red and pink colours, please?"
"But the Malfoys love green."
Hermione rolls her eyes. "I'm well aware. But I don't."
Maevy delivers another one of those deceptively casual shrugs. "Very well. But could Miss clarify something for Maevy?"
Hermione gives a hesitant nod.
"Just so Maevy is clear: Miss is willing to spend hours and hours in the Manor, and bake the Malfoys complicated confections to enjoy, but Miss is not willing to wear an entire spoke of the colour wheel? One that might endear Miss to her rather formidable hostess this afternoon?"
Hermione sputters. Then, with an irate grunt, she ushers the ridiculously smart elf out of the room so that she can put on the damned outfit. Which she will not admit is perfect for tea. She will not.
Maevy waits on the sofa, tiny legs crossed and bat ears twitching lightly, when Hermione finally enters the living room.
"How pretty Miss looks in green. Is Miss ready to Floo to the Manor now? We'll be a bit early, but that should give Miss a little time to spend with Mister Draco beforehand—"
"Actually, just give me a moment, Maevy. There's something I need to do first." Then Hermione adds, "Oh, and Maevy? Don't think you and I aren't going to have a serious talk later about my Floo, and privacy, and what friends do and don't tell each other."
"Of course, Miss Granger." Maevy nods gravely, but Hermione doesn't miss the sparkle in the little elf's eyes.
Away from the elf and in the safety of her kitchen, Hermione leans against the counter for support. I can do this, she thinks. I can do this. Then she goes to her fridge to retrieve what she came in here for: a long, creamy tart, filled with cranberries and toasted hazelnuts. It's an experimental dessert but the best she can do on such short notice. With her wand, she summons a lavender-hued cakebox, sets the tart inside, and wraps the whole package up with fairy lights and a transfigured sprig of purple thistle. The result is lovely and looks far more Granger than Malfoy. Which is sort of the point.
Hermione levitates the cakebox into the living room, following behind it with her wand raised. She needn't do so – she could just carry it, after all – but doing magic has always soothed her, ever since the day she received her Hogwarts letter. The surge and tingle of it reassures her. Focuses her. And boy, does she need to focus right now.
Finally, just beside the fireplace, Hermione tucks the box under one arm and slips her wand into her cardigan. "You coming, Maevy?" she asks over her shoulder.
"Oh no, Miss. Maevy has errands to run in Diagon Alley. But Maevy wishes Miss the best of luck. Just go to the Ladies' Parlour – it's a yellow room on the first floor, not too far from the Smaller Library. Mrs. Narcissa will be waiting."
Before Hermione can answer or even turn fully around, she hears the crack of Disapparition behind her. Maevy, it seems, isn't going to stroll hand-in-hand with Hermione into this tea.
Facing her Floo station, the witch shudders slightly.
Alright, she thinks. Alone, then.
Hermione has prepared herself for the long, lonely walk from the Smaller Library to wherever certain doom awaits. She's therefore surprised to step out of the green flames and see Draco pacing frantically between his fireplace and the armchairs.
Upon seeing her, Draco jerks to a halt. Instead of saying hello, he closes the gap between them with two long strides.
"You don't have to do this, Hermione."
His voice, even strangled with fear, sends a frisson of delight through her. Delight, and a sudden surge of much-needed confidence.
"Oh, but I must, Draco. Otherwise, what will I do with this tart?"
She hefts the cakebox up for him to see. He narrows his eyes at the box, as though it might contain a boggart.
"You made my mother a tart?"
"Well, I made the tart a few days ago. And I've brought it to your mother today. But I'd appreciate it if you kept that little detail between us."
He stands frozen, less than half a metre from her. His whole face has pinched in on itself with tension, and she thinks she can actually hear his teeth grinding in his skull.
"I have no idea what she wants, Granger. Or what she's going to say to you."
He delivers the warning in his most hostile drawl, almost like a reprimand. But she knows, without having to ask, that he's not mad. He's worried.
She feels herself grinning. "Do you think you could take me to the Ladies' Parlour? Because Maevy's directions left something to be desired. I mostly got the word 'yellow' and somehow, I don't think that's going to help me much."
Draco doesn't move, except for the twitch of a muscle in his jaw. Sighing, Hermione transfers the cakebox to one arm, reaches for his hand, and drags him to the library door. Only when they've left the room and started down the hallway does he speak.
"We're going the wrong way, Granger. Unless you'd like to visit our billiard room."
"Not today, Draco. Not today."
As he changes their direction, she feels his hand shift inside hers until, suddenly, he laces their fingers together. Within no time at all, they reach what must be the Ladies' Parlour. Warm sunlight pours out of the entrance, and Hermione can smell the floral notes of her favorite tea. Draco jerks them to a stop beside the doorway and pivots toward her.
"You don't have to go inside."
She angles her head toward him and whispers, "I'm pretty sure I do."
"No, you don't. I can just tell my mother you fell ill and had to go home."
"I'll be fine, Draco. And I have my wand on me, if not."
"Bloody Gryffindor," he growls, but he gives her hand a tiny squeeze.
Before she can respond with some disparaging remark about his house affiliation, Draco leans over, brushes his lips against her cheek, and then practically bolts away from her down the corridor.
There's an absolutely still moment, where nothing in the universe moves. Then, slowly, Hermione wonders whether the buzz in her brain has lost its volume control. That might explain why it's changed from white noise to raucous stadium-cheers.
Listening to the roar in her head, she absently touches her cheek. The skin there feels warm, from either her blush or his kiss. Or both.
Once Hermione has both her brain and her blush under control, she crosses the threshold of the parlour, feeling a little like she could take on Voldemort himself.