The steel in Hermione's spine weakens, just a touch, when Narcissa Malfoy rises to greet her. It's nothing the older witch says or does, per se; it's just the persistent sense of better-ness that seems to radiate like an aura off each of the Malfoys. Almost as though privilege and wealth compose their very DNA.

"Miss Granger," Narcissa says warmly, while exuding an air of noblesse that sets Hermione's teeth on edge. "So good of you to join me today."

Like your invitation left me much choice.

Aloud, Hermione says, "It was good of you to invite me, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Narcissa, please. Let's not stand on formality."

"Alright. But I insist you call me Hermione, then. I hear enough 'Granger' from your son."

One of Narcissa's cheeks dimples reflexively. She smooths an invisible wrinkle in her robes, perhaps in an attempt to cover her amusement.

"I suppose that's fair…Hermione."

As if to punctuate their accord, Narcissa sweeps her arm toward a set of delicate-looking wingback chairs that have been upholstered in bright yellow brocade. In fact, the entire room is yellow: wallpaper, rugs, curtains, paintings. Even the wainscoting. Everything in the parlour oozes butter, or daffodil, or mustard.

Narcissa must notice Hermione's reaction to the colour scheme, because she asks, "What do you think of the décor?"

Hermione places the cakebox on an empty side table and takes her seat in one of the wingbacks. "It's very…sunny," she hedges.

"It's very garish," Narcissa says bluntly. She sits down across from Hermione and levitates a steaming china teapot toward them. "Lucius's grandmother decorated this room many years ago, for ladies' luncheons. I suppose she thought the colour would lighten the conversation. Personally, I think it only contributes to migraines."

Hermione relaxes a millimetre as she takes a teacup from Narcissa's extended hand. "Imagine the amount of Pepper-Up Potion they must have added to the tea back in those days, just to bear all this 'lightness.'"

Narcissa grins – actually grins – and Hermione can see a trace of Draco in the expression. "Oh, I think it was more than tea or potions they were drinking in here, if you catch my meaning."

"Can you blame them?" Hermione asks. "There's only so much a witch can do to survive all this canary and sunflower."

"Agreed. It's not half as pleasant as, say, green."

"Or red," Hermione counters, and then blanches when Narcissa conducts a deliberate review of her clothes. Which happen to share the exact, spring-green hue as the robes Narcissa wears today – a fact Maevy conveniently forgot to mention. To Hermione's relief, the older witch doesn't comment on Hermione's outfit; instead, she waves one hand dismissively in the air.

"Green, red, puce…anything but yellow, as far as I'm concerned."

Hermione nods. Then, with the flame of Gryffindor pride still flaring inside her heart, she decides to take a stab at a thornier topic.

"I like how you've remodeled the parlour on the ground floor," she says. "Much lighter in there now. At least, from what I've seen of it, whenever I'm standing in your foyer."

Narcissa's expression freezes – a trait she apparently shares with her son, whenever the subject matter or situation takes an unexpected turn. Then the older witch smiles knowingly.

"Thank you. I do find that the cream has changed the tenor of the room."

"Quite right. Cream doesn't have the same negative connotations that the black and slate grey did. Less…torturous, perhaps?"

Narcissa's lips quirk higher. "Well, Hermione, I'll give you this: you certainly have a way with words."

"That I do."

A few minutes pass as the witches drink their tea in uneasy silence. Eventually, Hermione can no longer stand the tension in the room, so she sets down her cup.

"I've brought something special for us today."

Narcissa mirrors Hermione's actions with her own teacup. "Oh, good. I was so hoping to try another of your treats."

While Hermione levitates the cakebox toward them, Narcissa does the same with a set of china plates – no peacock feathers this time, but silvery "M's" that magically change from upper- to lower-case and back. Hermione is just about to remove the tart for serving, but Narcissa catches sight of the box itself.

"Oh," she sighs. "The wrapping is quite pretty. May I?"

When Hermione nods her assent, Narcissa raises her wand and directs the package into her own lap. First she admires the fairy lights and the charmed thistle. Then she opens the lid to ooh and aah at the confection inside.

"This looks scrumptious. Shall I serve us each a slice?"

"I can do it," Hermione says, but Narcissa waves away the offer.

"No, I insist. I'm the hostess, after all."

Hermione bites the inside of her cheek as Narcissa wands a slice of tart onto each of the dessert plates. Hermione can't help but wonder how the rest of this tea will go, when they keep dancing between sincere conversation and stilted niceties. Maybe this is the way of things in pureblood society: all unspoken rules and guarded smiles and skilled machinations. If so, Hermione doesn't want much part in it. But…given how she feels about Draco now, her distaste for pureblood convention may be a moot point.

She accepts a plate from Narcissa but waits for the older witch to take the first bite. After all, the tart was a last-minute decision, one she's afraid might rescind her invitation to Malfoy Manor forever. Luckily, Narcissa's eyelids flutter shut and she makes an involuntary, happy noise. She finishes her chew before asking, "Cranberries, I think, with some kind of nut?"

"Hazelnuts. Toasted."

Narcissa's eyes finally open. "What an interesting combination. I wouldn't have thought to pair them, but they work well together."

"Thank you. I've made so many desserts lately, I find that I have to get a little more creative now. I've been trying out new flavor and texture combinations, or presenting old dishes in unusual ways."

Narcisssa sets aside her tart, picks up her teacup, and gives Hermione a warm smile. "Like a Potions Master might?"

Hermione is taken aback when she feels a blush warm her cheeks. Who would have thought she would care about Narcissa's flattering comparison?

"In a way," she answers, with an awkward laugh. "I don't have much time to do it anymore, but I do like brewing Potions."

"As does my son."

Narcissa's voice never changes inflection, but Hermione is a very smart girl. It's their first, real reference to Draco, and Hermione knows it means something. A subtle implication, perhaps, or a subtle question.

"Yes," Hermione says carefully. "Draco did quite well in Potions class. Sometimes better than me, prior to our sixth year."

Narcissa clicks her tongue. "Ah, yes. Draco's sixth year. What an…interesting time that was."

Is this my test? Hermione thinks.

Out loud, she says, "'Interesting' seems a bit understated, Narcissa. 'Horrifying' might be more accurate. Particularly for Draco."

"Oh?" Narcissa takes a sip of tea. Raises a flawless blonde eyebrow. "Did you interact with Draco much during your sixth year?"

Here we go then.

"No, I didn't. But I remember his deterioration. Partway through that year, he started to look terrible, honestly. His skin went sallow and he lost far too much weight. I only found out later what kind of stress he was under. I want to…I think I…." Hermione sighs and sets aside her uneaten slice of tart. "Narcissa, may I be quite frank with you?"

The older witch gives a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Of course. I do love honest conversation."

"Alright." Hermione meets Narcissa's bright blue gaze dead-on. "Draco and I disliked each other, almost from the moment we met. The first time we ever spoke directly, he called me the dirtiest word in the Wizarding world. He was an arrogant, spoiled, cowardly git and, although I never let him see me do it, he made me cry on many occasions. I hated him for making me feel less than worthy, and making me doubt myself. But to be fair, Draco hated me, too. For beating him in marks. For being beloved by most of our teachers. For doing so well at magic, even with blood he just knew was dirtier than his – an idea he no doubt learned while sitting next to your haute couture stilettos."

Hermione pauses in her brutal tirade to gauge Narcissa's reaction. Narcissa, however, sips her tea impassively and waits for the younger witch to continue. So Hermione heaves another sigh.

"I suppose the answer to your question, Narcissa, is yes – Draco and I did interact. In the worst possible ways. But something changed our sixth year. I'm not sure if it was after he began missing our N.E.W.T.-level classes, or after his eyes went so dull, but I started to watch him. When Harry cast that Sectumsempra on him, I was livid. Draco never deserved that, and to this day, I hate that it happened to him. He didn't even deserve it after he sat there and let your sister Crucio me. I know I'm one of the few people who hold that opinion, but I truly, deeply believe it. It's one of the reasons I started bringing baked goods to everyone: because I believe we all deserve better than what that War gave us. No matter how soon, or how late, we realized our errors."

Narcissa hums lightly. "And do you believe that Draco has 'realized his errors?'"

"I do. But that's not why I'm still coming to your home. If it was just about holding up a mirror to Draco's mistakes, or letting him know that at least I've forgiven him, then I would have stopped after those apple tarts. I didn't, though. I couldn't. Because…because it turns out that Draco is so much more than I thought he was. I'm not a fool: I know he's still his old self, in some ways. He's still arrogant and short-tempered and extravagant. But he's also intelligent, honest, witty, thoughtful, and…and he's trying so hard not to be that boy who hated me."

Finally, Narcissa's icy exterior melts. She abandons her cup with a clatter, leans forward, and fixes Hermione with a fierce stare.

"Do you still hate him, then?"

"Of course not. Quite the opposite, actually."

The confession pours from Hermione's mouth as though she's just swallowed Veritaserum. It's a lot of truth to speak aloud, particularly to your former enemy, and both witches fall silent for a long while. Then a soft, tender glow enters Narcissa's eyes.

"I can see why Draco likes you so much."

At this, Hermione begins to cough. "Ma'am?" she chokes out, rather inarticulately.

"My son. He adores you."

"He…adores me?"

"Oh, yes. It was terribly obvious that morning in our kitchens, when we shared the key lime pie. And when Draco speaks about you…my goodness, his whole face changes. But it's also obvious that he's terrified to tell us. He fears our reactions, I think."

"Due to my blood status," Hermione concludes.

Narcissa retrieves her teacup. "Among other things, my dear."

"For instance?"

"Your wealth. Or lack thereof, I'm assuming. Your position at the very Ministry that punished our family. And your previous connection to the youngest Weasley boy, who undoubtedly still hates my son."

As Narcissa rattles off this list in that pleasant, high-born cadence of hers, a lump of dread lodges itself in Hermione's throat. How could she have been so foolish? So silly as to think that maybe she and Draco Malfoy could ever have something? That his prejudiced parents might actually approve of someone like her?

"I see," she says dully. "I should probably go then, yes?"

Narcissa responds with a pealing laugh. "Oh, dear girl, no! You mistake me completely."

"I do?"

Narcissa laughs again, like Hermione has just told a hilarious joke. "Of course. Those are the objections that Draco thinks I'll have to your…friendship."

"But you…?"

"Don't have them anymore?" Narcissa finishes. "No, I don't. I did, at one time, obviously. Once, I hoped that Draco would align himself with someone from the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Infuse our line with new, pure blood and our vaults with more Galleons. I wanted that future for us, almost as fervently as Lucius did. But I've come to want other things for my family, now. Things that are much harder to come by."

"Such as?"

"Peace," Narcissa breathes. "Calm, uneventful, unambitious peace. And, where Draco's concerned, happiness."

"So how do I fit into this new vision of your family's future?"

Narcissa shakes her head. "My dear girl, in the short time you've been visiting us, you've brought both of those things I so desperately desire: peace to this home, and happiness to Draco. It's unexpected, I'll admit, but not unwelcome. Not at all. So as to your place in our future? That's entirely up to you."

Hermione does her once-twice blink. Then she smiles broadly and raises her wand toward the cranberry-hazelnut tart.

"More dessert, Narcissa?"

The sun has set and the yellow décor faded into a more bearable gold, when the two witches finally emerge from the room. They remain in such deep conversation that neither notices the lanky figure, leaning dejectedly against the wall opposite the parlour door.

Narcissa catches sight of her son first. "Draco, darling, whatever are you doing out here?"

"I'm—" he starts, but his mother cuts him short before he can articulate an excuse.

"If you insist on lingering about like a Hogwarts ghost, darling, please try not to slouch." Narcissa turns away from her son to face the young witch at her side. "Hermione, dear, you'll have to forgive me, but I suddenly find that I'm rather tired. Do you mind horribly if I leave you two children to entertain yourselves?"

"Of course not, Narcissa. And thank you again for inviting me to tea. It was…most enlightening."

The witches share conspiratorial smiles, before Narcissa bustles down the hallway away from them. Draco waits to speak until his mother disappears around a corner.

"Narcissa?" he asks, with an incredulous frown.

"That's your mother's name."

"And Hermione?"

"That's my name. Two for two, Draco."

"Did she…did my mother hex you or something?"

Hermione feigns a shudder. "Worse. She hugged me."

Draco blinks at her once, twice, and she will absolutely admit to herself how adorable she finds that.

Hermione loops her arm through his and pulls him away from the wall. "Come on, I'm starving. One can't live on floral tea and tarts alone."

Draco allows her to drag him along the corridor, silent and still blinking as though he just received some startling news. When he finally finds his voice again, he rasps, "I was so…I didn't prepare anything for dinner tonight. Should we…? Maybe Maevy and the other elves could whip up something for us to eat?"

"Nah. Let's be casual tonight."

Hermione walks her fingers down the length of his arm until her hand fits into his. She sighs contentedly when his fingers entwine with hers, and she leans her head lightly against him.

"Tell me, Draco: have you ever had Muggle takeaway?"

"My mother actually, honest-to-Merlin hugged you?" Draco asks around a mouthful of chicken tikka masala. He uses his fork to gesture at the Styrofoam container he's holding. "This is bloody amazing, by the way."

"She did indeed. And I told you so – nothing beats Muggle takeaway. Nothing."

Hermione takes her own bite, savoring the gooey perfection of palak paneer and silently congratulating herself on her choice of cuisine. Earlier, while Draco stayed in his library to transfigure their green velvet armchairs into a comfortable sofa, she Floo'd home and ran downstairs to the variety of takeaway shops on her street. There was a fraught moment when she wavered between pizza and Indian food. But judging by the satisfied look on Draco's face as he consumes another forkful of chicken soaked in buttery tomato sauce, she chose wisely.

As he sets aside his meal, Draco's expression shifts to a different kind of satisfied, in the form of that ever-present smirk.

"And thus, Hermione Granger utters her favorite phrase of all time."

"What, 'Muggle takeaway?'"

"No, 'I told you so.'"

Hermione giggles and doesn't feel the least bit silly doing it. "It's only one of my favorite phrases because I've had to say it so many times."

"Along with 'let's research it' and 'For Merlin's sake, Harry, don't do that.'"

Hermione gasps in fake shock. "Draco Malfoy, did you just use Harry Potter's given name?"

"Damn, I think I did. Quick, perform a Scourgify on my tongue."

"Wouldn't a Scourgify just fork it further? Your tongue, I mean."

"Taking cheap shots at Slytherin snakes, are we?"

"All Slytherin shots are cheap, by their nature."

Draco rolls his eyes and, to her delight, pinches one of the feet she slid closer to him during dinner. At the moment, they each sit on opposite ends of the newly-transfigured sofa: him, with his long legs stretched out in front, and her, leaning against one rolled arm of the sofa with her bare feet splayed across the cushions. In retaliation for his pinch, Hermione digs the toes of both her feet under his thigh and then wiggles them.

"Gross, Granger. I don't know where those feet have been."

"Inside my shoes," she says, grinning as she points to the ballet flats she removed earlier. Draco makes a disgusted noise, but he grins back at her in a way that sets her pulse racing.

"Like that's any comfort," he complains.

"Would you like me to go traipse through some muck, to give you a point of comparison?"

"The muck might be an improvement."

"Don't you dare disparage my beautiful feet, Draco Malfoy. Or my ballet flats."

His smile grows wicked. "About those little flats of yours, Granger…."

"Yes? What of them?"

"Well, I couldn't help but notice that they're very…green."

"Oh, are they?" she asks breezily. "How did that happen? Let me remedy the error, straightaway."

She discards her own takeaway container, pulls her wand from the pocket of her cardigan, and chants Finite Incantatem over the shoes. Immediately, they shimmer back into Gryffindor red.

"You missed a spot," Draco drawls, gesturing with one hand to her entire person. Only then does she remember that almost everything about her is green tonight.

"Bloody hell," she mutters, and then casts the spell repeatedly over her clothes. With each wave of her wand, her cardigan reddens and the petals on her dress return to their original pink. She's so intent on undoing Maevy's creation that she doesn't notice Draco's hand slip into the coat pocket where he keeps his wand.

"Satisfied?" Hermione asks, facing him again with a haughty lift of her chin. But he's still grinning wickedly, as though he's won some kind of prize.

"Red really isn't your colour, Granger. I think you look far better in green."

She scoffs, despite the flutter in her heart. "Hardly."

"Don't believe me? Then maybe you should see for yourself."

Bewildered, she tilts her head to the side. "Draco, what are you—?"

She stops short when she catches another glimpse of her clothes. Which have been transfigured back into green. Not spring-green, though. This time, they're a dark, woodsy, Slytherin green. She's about to whip out her wand to undo the charm, and possibly hex him for good measure. But then she just groans. After last night's trip to the Leaky Cauldron and today's emotional turmoil, she just doesn't have the strength to cast even one more spell.

"Fine," she moans. "I'm too knackered to fight it. Go, Slytherin, go. Rah, Slytherin, rah."

Draco laughs – that loud, genuine sound that makes her heart soar. "This is excellent news, Granger. Apparently, all I have to do to win our battles is tire you out."

She should argue with him, probably, or lecture him on the unauthorized use of clothing charms. Instead, she sighs sleepily, pulls her feet out from under his thigh, and stretches her legs proprietarily across his lap.

In response to this new intimacy, Draco freezes and his face goes blank. Hermione, however, has learned his moods well enough by now to see that he's thinking. Weighing and evaluating several courses of action before he follows one. She closes her eyes, reclines fully against the sofa, and waits for him to make up his mind.

Eventually, Draco rests his palms upon her bare legs and wraps his long fingers around her calves. Hermione makes a happy noise in the back of her throat and nestles further into the sofa. And further into him.

They stay like that for so long, they both lose track of time. Neither of them comments on their current position. In fact, neither speaks again for the rest of the night. They remain just as they are – Hermione with her eyes shut and Draco, staring into the fire and tracing patterns on her skin with his thumbs – until finally, she drifts off to sleep.