Hermione wakes slowly the next morning, pulling herself piece by piece from a delicious dream she can't fully recall. It dances on the edge of her memory, and she decides to chase it by squeezing her eyelids harder together and burrowing deeper into bed.
She reaches out to tuck her worn, cotton comforter beneath her chin, but her fingers grasp something soft and downy instead. She wrenches her eyelids open to find herself covered by a fluffy, ink-black blanket that she's never seen before. Blinking without comprehension, she pushes herself into a seated position and peers blearily around her.
Nothing looks familiar. No potted plants or purple curtains or framed photos of Harry and Ron. Just sunlight and expensive furniture and row upon row of leather-bound books.
"Where the—?"
And then it hits her: she fell asleep in Malfoy Manor. And apparently stayed all night. Without being murdered or maimed or even hexed. The thought alone is mystifying. But something else strikes her, and she scans the library frantically.
She finds what she's searching for lying on the floor beside the sofa, his eyes shut and his breaths even. He's still in his white, oxford shirt and loosened tie, with his copy of Potions in Practice open across his stomach. His jacket, however, is missing, and she can guess how her black blanket came into being.
Sleep has mussed his hair, and it now spreads in white-blond tufts across the colourful rug beneath his head. Carefully, so as not to wake him, she reaches down and brushes a few strands from his forehead. At her touch, Draco hums a contented noise but doesn't wake. Something about that sound makes her heart constrict and, for a second, Hermione thinks about leaning over to taste his lips.
Instead, she untangles herself from her covers and climbs off the sofa. She stands above him, unsure about what to do until her stomach rumbles. So she pulls her wand out from her cardigan to perform a de-wrinkling charm on her dress and then steps over Draco's prone form. Her shoes lay next to one of the sofa's clawed feet, and she starts to slip into them. But a hitch in Draco's breath makes her pause and pull back one foot.
Slowly, gently, she picks up her ballet flats and sets them on top of his transfigured jacket. The Gryffindor-red shoes stand in stark contrast to the inky black of the blanket. There's no way Draco won't see them when he wakes up, and they should let him know that she's still somewhere inside the Manor.
Message thus delivered, Hermione creeps quietly from the room. In the dark corridor outside the library door, she takes a minute to orient herself. To her right, she sees a long row of closed doors. To her left, a hint of light glows from the end of the hallway. She moves in that direction, hoping to find the main staircase.
A few wrong turns, several unfamiliar corridors, three staircases, and some whispered swears later, Hermione finally – finally – finds herself at the door to the Manor kitchens. She pushes against the ancient wood and sighs in relief to find the huge room empty, of both elves and Malfoys. After a quick scan of each of the pantries, she sets to work.
Hermione has no idea how long she's in there, scurrying between mixing bowls and frying pans and ovens. Instead of tracking time, she loses herself in the consistency of batter, the sizzle of crisping sausages, the smell of vanilla. This is the reason she started baking that early May morning last year: for the sheer joy of it, certainly, but also for the way the ingredients demand a total commitment of her brain and heart. The transformation of food is the closest thing to magic she's experienced outside of her wand and, each time she cooks, it's the closest she gets to freeing herself of her dark, wonderful, terrible past.
She's stacking the last crepe onto a tall pile when a faint "ahem" draws her attention to the doorway. Draco stands there, watching her. He's shucked his tie, and his shirt and hair are still messy. Her shoes are in his hand and there's a softness to his eyes that she hasn't seen before today.
Her heart constricts again. So much so, she can only whisper, "Good morning."
"Good morning," he says. The rough, just-woken quality of his voice does something pleasurable and vaguely awkward to her core.
"Breakfast?" she offers, desperately hoping he doesn't notice her cheeks redden or her pupils widen. Draco just nods and circles the kitchen island to stop right behind her. He drops her shoes to the floor, so that she can slip into them whenever she wants. Then, without saying a word, he leans around her to take a strip of meat from a plate of food she set out.
In doing so, his chest presses against her shoulders. Before she's consciously aware of it, Hermione pushes back into him. The moment their bodies are flush, Draco inhales sharply. But he doesn't pull away from her. Instead, his free hand drops to her hip.
"Granger," he whispers in her ear, and her brain buzz explodes.
She's about to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him until he can't breathe anymore, when another voice stops her short.
"Good morning, Draco. Miss Granger, what a pleasant surprise."
Hermione's attention slides reluctantly to the doorway, where Lucius Malfoy is staring at them. Draco lingers at her back for a few heartbeats, his hand still on her hip. Then, with a tiny groan only she can hear, he lets her go and steps to the side.
"Father," Draco drawls. The lack of welcome positively drips from that one word.
"Do you mind if I join the two of you?" Lucius asks, either oblivious to or unbothered by his son's irritation. "I couldn't help but follow the smells of breakfast."
From the corner of her eye, Hermione sees the hard lines of Draco's mouth soften.
"Are you actually hungry this morning?" he asks his father. Despite his prior annoyance, Draco's voice is tender. As though Lucius' being hungry matters far more than it used to.
"I am," Lucius says, smiling. "Although it may not be that surprising, given the effect Miss Granger's cooking seems to have on me."
The unexpected compliment almost makes up for the opportunity she and Draco just missed. Hermione summons another plate and quickly serves up two crepes, half a grapefruit, and a large helping of sausages. She hands the plate to Lucius and waits for him to pull out his wand to acquire his own cutlery and barstool. When he doesn't, she frowns and summons them for him.
"Thank you," he says quietly as he takes his seat, "for doing all this work, Miss Granger. You see, I am no longer permitted the use of a wand. Ministry's orders."
Hermione feels something cold drop to her stomach. Part of her is pleased, thrilled even, that the infamous Lucius Malfoy has been chastened in this way. That he can no longer do the type of harm he used to do with a wand. But another part of her is sickened by this punishment – by the sheer horror of a wizard being so denuded.
"I'm sorry," she whispers.
Before she really knows why, before she can comprehend the lunacy of it, she reaches out to grasp him. Three sets of eyes snap toward the sight of Hermione Granger's little hand, clasped over Lucius Malfoy's.
Almost at once, Hermione jerks her fingers back as though she's touched a viper. "I didn't…I'm not sure I…."
Draco saves her by fixing himself a plate. Loudly.
"Granger," he says, his volume at least three notches higher than usual. "Should I put jam on these little pancakes, then?"
Hermione feels such a strong rush of gratitude, she could kiss him. But Lucius still watches them closely, so she fills her words with derision.
"You're not twelve anymore, Draco. Eat them with caster sugar and a squeeze of lemon like a grown-up."
Draco sneers, but when he crosses behind her to sit next to his father, he trails his fingers along her waistline. And just like that, she's smiling again.
The rest of the morning passes pleasantly, with the three of them sharing polite conversation until Narcissa joins them. Upon seeing Hermione, wearing yesterday's dress in a new shade of green and sporting a nest of morning-hair, Narcissa arches one eyebrow. Thankfully, the older witch doesn't comment upon Hermione's appearance as she makes her own plate.
"How lovely," she says, taking her seat. "I haven't had crepes in ages."
Narcissa, however, apparently didn't join them just for breakfast. She has only taken a few bites of grapefruit before she fixes her son with a meaningful stare.
"Draco, darling, about that thing you asked me to arrange yesterday?"
He all but drops his fork onto his plate and looks up at his mother. "Yes?" he asks eagerly. "Did you get it?"
"I did. But there's a slight…wrinkle." At Draco's frown, she sighs. "The only time they'll permit it is tonight. At 6:30."
He balks. "Tonight? Tonight tonight? As in, this evening?"
"I'm afraid so. Apparently, another family made a reservation for the...location as well, but they did so for tonight. So it's more convenient for the Aurors to monitor everything this evening, rather than next Saturday."
"How is that our bloody problem?" he growls and runs a hand through his messy hair.
"You know why, dearest. You can curse them all you like, but it won't change their decision. So please, try to be grateful that they said yes at all."
"I will. Try, that is."
Narcissa clicks her tongue in disapproval but doesn't reprimand him further.
"I've made the Floo-call to Bastien to rearrange things," she says. "Luckily, they had an opening at 7 p.m. tonight – so early, it's almost gauche. Still, begging wizards can't be picky about their cauldrons."
Draco scowls down at his plate, but he says, "Thank you, mother. For taking care of all this. You've…done so much already."
"Of course, darling. Anything for you. And you should know: all the effort is worth it, I think. Quite worth it."
For just a fraction of a second, Narcissa's gaze darts toward Hermione. Hermione knows, then, that they're discussing something that has to do with her. Draco only piques her curiosity further when he angles his body toward hers.
"Granger, are you finished?"
She frowns down at her plate, cleaned of everything but a half-eaten sausage. "Yes, but what—?"
"Would you mind following me back up to the Library?" he interrupts. "I have some things to do, and I need your help."
"Of course I will," she says. Partly because it's true and partly because she's now dying to know what's going on. Draco clears their plates, levitating them to the sink and setting a sponge to work with a scrubbing spell. Hermione nearly laughs at the sight of it: Draco Malfoy, performing household charms without her help. More proof that the Malfoy house-elves really are liberated. More proof that he's been paying attention to their lessons in more ways than one.
Oblivious to her amusement, Draco kisses his mother on the cheek, nods at his father, and goes to the kitchen door. Hermione anxiously rises to join him.
"Lovely to see you again, Hermione," Narcissa calls after her with a knowing little smile. "Do enjoy yourself, won't you?"
Frowning, Hermione turns back around to ask Narcissa what she means. But before she can do so, Lucius stands and interrupts the thought.
"Miss Granger," he says, "thank you for another enchanting meal."
"Anytime, Mr. Malfoy. And please, call me Hermione."
Lucius bows slightly – a throwback to his pureblood manners, no doubt. Then, in a move that must take a great deal of courage, he puts one arm around her shoulders and gives her the world's most awkward squeeze.
By the time they reach the Smaller Library, Hermione has almost stopped feeling mortified by what just happened in the kitchen. Draco holds the door open for her, and he lets loose a long breath.
"So…both my parents have hugged you in the past twenty-four hours, right? I'm not hallucinating that?"
"It seems not. Which makes me wonder: how cold do you think hell is, now that it's frozen over?"
"You know, I'm not even sure my father has ever hugged me."
Hermione shakes her head as she follows him into the room. "You should try one of your father's hugs sometime. I highly recommend them – very warm and sincere. And clearly well-practiced."
Draco laughs loudly and strolls to the center of the library. There, the transfigured blanket has vanished, returned instead to its original form. She watches him, hoping he'll reveal the details of what he and his mother were discussing in the kitchen. But as he slowly tidies the room – Vanishing their used takeaway containers, folding his restored jacket neatly upon the back of the sofa – she decides she can't wait any longer.
"What were you talking about earlier?" she blurts out. "With your mother, in the kitchen?"
Draco pauses, lowers his wand, and faces her with a strange smile. It's close-lipped: equal parts sly and unsure. Without answering right away, he pockets his wand and steps closer to her. When they're near enough to touch, his smile drops and he clears his throat nervously.
"Granger, do you have any plans tonight?"
She frowns in thought. Today is…Sunday? Normally, Hermione spends Sunday night surrounded by legal texts and reams of parchment, preparing to-do lists for the upcoming week. A nonessential task, certainly, but far more routine than spending time with Draco, whom she hasn't seen outside of a Saturday for a while now.
Aside from this morning, of course. And this morning has been so…so….
Draco's staring anxiously at her, and she realizes with a jolt that she hasn't answered him yet. Seeing him standing there, worrying his lip with his teeth and near-twitching with nervous energy, she tries not to smile.
"I don't know, Draco – do I have plans?"
Draco, clever man that he is, catches her meaning instantly, and some of his tension disappears.
"That depends, Granger. Do you think you could refrain from reacting violently to a surprise this time?"
"Well, that depends, too. Are you going to shove me into some form of magical transportation without telling me why?"
His sly grin returns. "Of course I am."
Hermione crosses her arms and forces her face into a scowl; it's rather difficult, since all she really wants to do is smile like a bloody fool.
"What are you up to, Draco Malfoy?"
"You'll see, Hermione Granger."
She sighs in faux annoyance. "Okay, keep some of your secrets…for now. But I won't be going anywhere with you until I know what form of magical transportation we're going to use."
"A Portkey, if you have to know. It's in Diagon Alley, and it should activate for us at 6:30 tonight."
"What's the dress code, then?"
"Why would you think there's a dress code?"
She snorts. "This is you we're talking about, Draco."
"Fair point. Dress is semi-formal, I'm afraid."
"Why 'afraid?'"
"Because our Portkey reservation is only nine hours away, and I'm not sure that's enough time for you to gain control of your hair and do fancy dress."
"Are we fourteen again, Draco? Because insulting my hair didn't help you then, and it won't do you much good now."
"Fine, fine." He throws his hands up in surrender. "Leave your hair as it is. We can store our wands in it during dinner."
Hermione ignores the insult and jabs one finger at him in triumph. "Ha! So we are going to dinner!"
He smirks. "Well caught, Granger. But the 'where' is going to remain a mystery until tonight. I mean it."
"I can live with that. I'll just Floo home to rest and get ready, and then we can meet up in Diagon Alley? Maybe near Flourish and Blotts? There's a special order I've been waiting on and I…."
She trails off when she sees Draco's smug expression waver.
"Actually," he says, cringing, "could I just Floo to your flat, and then Side-along with you to the Portkey? That would be…more convenient, I think."
"How? Side-alongs are so miserable, Draco. Why not just Apparate to Diagon yourself?"
He trains his eyes on the floor. "Because I can't. Not for another three weeks and one day."
"Three—?" she starts out, but then she understands.
In three weeks and one day, it will be the second of May. Which happens to be the second anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. And also the date the Wizengamot chose, when setting most of its Azkaban sentences.
"That was part of your sentencing, wasn't it?" Hermione asks him softly. "They revoked your Apparition license for two years."
Draco seems hideously embarrassed, but he nods.
"That's one of the reasons you connected our Floos, isn't it?" she goes on. "So you could come see me, before then?"
He hesitates before nodding a second time.
The ache in her stomach reminds her of the one she felt that morning, when she learned about Lucius's wand restrictions. On some level, she understands this aspect of Draco's sentencing. On another, all she wants to do is grab him.
So that's exactly what she does. She stops fighting against her instincts and narrows the space between their bodies.
Again, Draco goes rigid at her touch. But after only two seconds' uncertainty, he wraps his arms tightly around her as well. She leans her head upon his shirt and breathes in the clean, spicy scent of him. She can feel all of him – the rise and fall of his chest, the muscles of his forearms across her waist, the shape of his belt buckle against her abdomen – and she has to tell herself not to shiver with satisfaction.
"That's a hug from every Malfoy in twenty-four hours," she whispers into his chest, and she feels rather than hears his laugh.
"Hermione, I—" Draco begins, but she cuts him off with a light squeeze. She can guess what he's going to say, and she doesn't want this moment to be their beginning. She wants tonight – every secretive, frightening, marvelous minute of tonight – to be their beginning.
"I better get going," she says with forced casualness as she releases him. "If I'm going to follow orders and do something with this big, bushy head of mine."
Draco's breathing has become shallow, his pupils dilated. But he smiles anyway – probably at her use of one of his favorite, old taunts.
"Why do that, Granger, when your hair provides so much extra storage space?"
"Are you telling me you prefer this," she asks, pointing to her head, "to my beaded handbag?"
Draco snorts elegantly. "I'm not sure – they're both spacious and strange."
Hermione shakes her head, as if to emphasize the offending nest of curls, and moves to his fireplace. Once she stands at its center with a handful of Floo powder, she looks back at him.
"6:15 at your place, Granger?"
"It's a date," she says. Then she drops the powder and calls out for her flat. Instead of the swirling green of the flames, all she really sees is his lips as they curve into a smile.