Despite what she admitted two nights ago to Harry and Ginny, Hermione knows that tonight is her first real date with Draco Malfoy. The first one that they've named as such, anyway – out loud and to each other.
This is also the first date that she'll prepare for without someone's help. To distract herself from that fact, and from the date itself, Hermione works all day from home, sifting through other departments' memoranda to determine if any of them might affect her giant legislation. The work is so engrossing, she completely forgets to start getting ready until well after five.
The distraction, perhaps, was a bad plan. As Draco predicted, her hair proves itself damned near impossible to control. She performs charms and applies Muggle tonics to no avail. By a quarter to six she's a sweaty, frustrated mess, and she wonders whether she should just start cataloging the curses she'll lob at Draco's head, the minute he appears in her fireplace.
By five after six, however, her hair has finally been conquered, curls semi-tamed with a potion and shaped by a million hairpins into a low bun. She's scrubbed her face, spritzed on some perfume, and even swept a bit of pink gloss over her lips. But as for her outfit….
Hermione stares at the tall pile of clothes on her bed, dresses and skirts and blouses threatening to teeter over the edges. Nothing looks right to her, nothing screams "first date," and she actually gives the clothing a feral growl.
"I am not someone who freaks out about outfits," she tells the pile. "I'm just not."
Sure, she's nervous and excited and a mixture of other, bubbling emotions. But she refuses to obsess about her appearance for even a minute longer. So she holds her wand over the bed, closes her eyes, and says, "Accio semi-formal dress."
There's a light shuffling noise in front of her. When she opens her eyes, a black velvet dress floats midair above its companions. It's actually one of hers, purchased for a Ministry function that she later decided to skip. Like the dress she wore last weekend, this one flares at the hips. But instead of a strapless neckline, this dress slouches prettily off the shoulders. It's lovely, semi-formal, and good enough.
Checking her bedside clock with something akin to panic, she slips the dress on quickly. Then she digs around the floor of her wardrobe until she finds Maevy's transfigured heels. She's just wrapping two strands of her mother's pearls around her neck when she hears the echoing whoosh of her Floo.
Oh, dear Merlin. He's here. He's here. In her flat. In her warm, shabby, welcoming little sitting room, with its overstuffed furniture and overflowing bookcases.
"Just make yourself comfortable," she calls out, fully dressed but not quite ready to face him yet. "I'll be right out."
"How do you know it's me," Draco calls back, "and not some Weasley come to sabotage a perfectly nice evening?"
"Weasleys don't wear that much cologne," she jokes, and sighs in relief when he immediately laughs. "Wait – was that an implicit promise to behave nicely tonight?"
"Absolutely not," he purrs, almost too quietly for her to hear. The innuendo makes her even more nervous or anxious to leave this room – she can't decide which.
"Hey," Draco says, much louder now. "Didn't you have a cat?"
"Half-cat, half-Kneazle, actually. But Crookshanks ran off after the Battle of Hogwarts. We never found him afterward."
"Shit, I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I mean, I wasn't happy about it back then. But Crookshanks was rather old when I got him, so I expected that I'd lose him one day."
"I suppose," Draco says, but he sounds so genuinely apologetic it gives her the confidence to leave her bedroom, ambivalent outfit and all.
Out in the living area, Draco has his back to her as he examines one of her bookcases. Hermione stays quiet for a bit, watching him slide a book out to read its spine. This inspection is a casual enough thing to do, just something to occupy his time while he waits on her. But to Hermione, the act of him exploring her bookshelf is so intimate, so damned sexy, she's already blushing by the time she clears her throat to announce her presence.
At the sound, Draco whirls around with a smirk and quip ready on his lips. The second he sees her, however, he goes still.
He looks fantastic tonight, in his charcoal suit and navy-blue tie: a grown man, and a damned fine one at that. Yet something about his stunned, rapt expression right now gives her a distinct sense of déjà vu. Exactly why, she doesn't know. Not until an image of his younger self – the haughty, privileged boy from Hogwarts – flashes into her mind.
It was fourth year, the night of the Yule Ball. Hermione was dressed to the nines and nervous as hell. But she forced herself to descend the great staircase at Hogwarts like a queen, hand upon Viktor Krum's arm and head raised against the sound of her own name being whispered throughout the school. Though she walked beside Viktor, her eyes pinned themselves to Ron, with his tattered dress robes and petulant expression. Despite her date, and despite the abominable way Ron behaved later, Hermione would watch him all night. She would pine and ache and yearn for him. But before that happened, another face stood out from the crowd. If just for the briefest of moments.
As Hermione crossed into the Great Hall that night, she saw none other than Draco Malfoy staring openly at her. Pansy Parkinson clung to his robes with a bored sneer, and his cronies jostled him; those things should have held at least some of his attention. And yet he watched Hermione with confused fascination, like he couldn't look anywhere else if he tried. Like he didn't understand how or why, but she had become the only girl in the room, the school, maybe even the whole world.
It was unfathomable back then, to her fifteen-year-old mind. But now, his expression is impossible to mistake. Draco Malfoy was attracted to her on the night of the Yule Ball, in a way he couldn't hide. And he's clearly attracted to her tonight. This time, of course, the feeling is mutual.
"Hey, you," she breathes.
"Granger," he says raggedly. "You look…you're just…I mean…."
She decides to save him, just this once.
"You look good, too, Draco. Very." She holds out one arm graciously. "Shall we?"
In a kind of trance, Draco walks over to her and places his hand in the crook of her elbow. She waits until he's snug at her side before she Apparates them both to Diagon Alley. Hermione is careful with this Side-along, and she and Draco land smoothly just outside Flourish and Blotts. Still, they're both aware of the effect that Apparition has on her, and his hands immediately move to her waist.
"You alright?" he whispers in her ear. She merely nods, happy to find that it isn't nausea clenching her stomach but delight. He gives her waist a gentle squeeze before removing his hands. Hermione's having none of that, though – she reaches down and takes one of his retreating hands firmly in hers.
"Where's this supposed Portkey, then?" she asks.
Draco tilts his head toward Flourish and Blotts. "Don't tell me that Hermione Granger is going to resist ducking into a bookshop? After all, we do have five whole minutes until the activation."
She sighs theatrically. "It will take great effort on my part. Consider yourself very, very lucky that I have such dedication to being punctual."
"Lucky, eh?"
"Very."
During this conversation, they've begun strolling down the street. Without breaking stride, Draco leans back toward her ear and whispers, "Seeing you in that dress, Granger? I am lucky. I really, really am."
She shivers happily and tugs him until their shoulders touch again.
As they walk, the lanterns on top of the Alley's lampposts flicker to life. The day has just started to shift into night, and the lovely pink tones of sunset wash over this part of the street. In the early evening glow, Draco's pale cheekbones seem sharper, and flushed. The way he looks in this light…well, if Hermione didn't already know about the existence of magic, she would certainly believe in it tonight.
He notices her staring and smirks. "Something catch your eye, Granger?"
She smirks right back at him. "Maybe. I haven't decided yet."
"Then it's a good thing we're at the Portkey, isn't it?"
"What—?"
Her words evaporate into thin air when Draco pulls them to an abrupt stop in front of a streetlight and uses their linked hands to grab the post. Everything howls, and the world becomes a twisting, discomfiting mass of flashes and shrieks. In the chaos, she hears a tinny strain of music that sounds like an accordion.
Just as quickly as it began, the whirling ceases. They land in a dark, empty alleyway, and Draco leads them toward a bustling city street. Cars roar up and down the busy avenue in front of them, and the pavement upon which they stand is lined with twinkle-lit trees and cafés. The latter are crowded with patrons, everyone clinking coffee cups and blowing cigarette smoke into the night air. Above the cafés and shopfronts, white and grey buildings line the street. Each building is decked with row upon row of wrought-iron balconies, where people are drinking wine and enjoying the sunset.
That tinny accordion music she heard during their Portkey trip sounds clearer now, as it pours out from one of the nearby cafés. La Vie en Rose, if Hermione's not mistaken.
"Paris," she breathes. "You've brought me to Paris."
"Boulevard Beaumarchais, to be precise. Although we won't be dining here. Are those shoes made for walking, Granger?"
She twirls one heeled foot in front of her, showing off Maevy's lovely stilettos. "They're as good as trainers."
Draco chuckles. "Excellent. Le Passage Secret is further into the Third Arrondissement, on Rue de Montmorency. It's just a few blocks from here."
Hermione didn't realize he knew anything about Paris. She had, rather critically, assumed that Draco spent his entire life flitting between Hogwarts and the Manor. The fact that he knows something of the wide world both humbles and pleases her.
"Le Passage Secret…the Secret Passage?" she asks as they begin strolling toward their destination. "Exactly what kind of clandestine place are you taking me to?"
"It's a Wizarding restaurant," he explains. "Very exclusive, and very secretive."
"In other words, very expensive?"
Draco shrugs. "The Malfoys have held an account there for centuries."
"Centuries? Literal centuries?"
"Le Passage Secret shares kitchens with the oldest inn in Paris, which has a long-standing relationship with the Wizarding world. I…think you'll understand better when we get there."
Twenty minutes later, Hermione understands. She really, really does.
Although 51 Rue de Montmorency doesn't contain any visible signs or doors for Le Passage Secret, she can clearly see the brightly-lit windows of a Muggle restaurant on the ground floor of the Inn. Above the entrance to the restaurant, and presumably the Inn itself, a carved stone inscription proclaims this site to be the oldest building in Paris. And home of none other than L'Auberge de Nicolas Flamel.
Hermione gapes at the engraved placard and the Inn for a long while, before asking, "Nicolas Flamel? The Nicolas Flamel?"
"The one and only," Draco answers. "He and his wife began construction on this building in 1407. Le Passage Secret opened its doors in 1550, about three years before Lucius the First applied for our account here."
Hermione tries very hard to keep her mouth from flapping like a trout's. Finally, she manages, "Wasn't the first Lucius swimming in Galleons like the rest of you? Why would he start a line of credit?"
"Well, he'd just been rejected by Elizabeth the First. I imagine he wanted to go somewhere that would keep his bar-tab open and flowing."
"Elizabeth the First," Hermione says flatly. "The Virgin Queen."
Draco grins and gives her a sly, sidelong glance. "Much to the disappointment of my ancestor."
She stares at him for a moment and then slowly grins back. "My ancestors helped build England's first crematorium, in Surrey. Does that count for something?"
"That depends. What's a crematorium?"
When she explains, he begins laughing loudly. "To a family full of Dark Arts practitioners? It counts for everything, Granger."
"So is this what I can expect from our date: gallows humor?"
"Granger, you're on a date with Draco Malfoy. A tolerance for gallows humor is basically a prerequisite."
Their hands are still linked as he waves his wand at the building next to Nicolas Flamel's old home. The mortar joining the two buildings grinds and twists, until a narrow alleyway appears between the two.
"Are you a Secret Keeper for this place?" she asks.
He shrugs again and pulls them toward the alley. "In a fashion. Le Passage Secret is subject to a somewhat broader version of the Fidelius Charm. One that works on public spaces."
Once inside the newly-formed passageway, Hermione can only see a long, blank wall of ancient rocks. Draco taps his wand upon a few of the worn stones in a pattern much like the one on the back wall of the Leaky Cauldron. The stones respond to his magic, rearranging themselves to reveal a gold, intricately-fashioned gate, over which the words "Mot de passe, s'il vous plaȋt" glitter in mid-air.
"La moelle osseuse et oursin," Draco says smoothly, and the gate creaks open.
"The password is 'bone marrow and sea urchin?'"
Draco chuckles quietly as they step across the threshold of the restaurant. "It changes every year. But like I said: humor is a must."
Hermione is still grinning when they approach the hostess – one of those striking witches of an indeterminate age, all sleek brown hair and black robes and infinite self-assurance.
"Mr. Malfoy and Ms. Granger?" she asks in a heavy accent. After they confirm, she gives them a clipped nod. "Bastien said to expect you at an early hour. Please, follow me."
Once the witch has turned her back to lead them through the restaurant, Hermione hazards a quick whisper to Draco.
"She said 'early hour' like we have a disease."
Draco doesn't look at her, but she can see the corner of his mouth lift in the flickering candlelight. "For the French, we might as well. To dine before 8 p.m. is terribly uncouth, you know."
Hermione shakes her head and then allows herself to take in the view.
Although the restaurant is built into the ground floor of an existing building, Le Passage Secret is unlike any place she's ever seen. The closest room she could compare it to is the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but only because they both have enchanted ceilings. Above the diners of Le Passage Secret, a magical sunset puts Diagon Alley to shame: pale peach, rose, and lavender hues fade slowly into the glittering starlight of the night sky. The ceiling, however, is where Le Passage Secret's similarity to Hogwarts ends.
Here, the space feels small and intimate, with every table nestled into its own alcove inside what appears to be an ongoing grotto. The diners within each alcove have complete privacy, aside from their exposure to the center aisle. Running down the middle of that aisle, where Hermione and Draco now walk, a charmed stream burbles prettily. It flows throughout the restaurant yet somehow doesn't wet their shoes. Brightly-coloured fish of a species Hermione can't identify weave patterns in the stream, and fat little candles float upon its surface.
"Merlin," she breathes, still gawking at their surroundings.
"Another Slytherin, actually." Draco nudges her in the side playfully. "Feel like forgiving my House for our differences yet?"
"Is that what this is?" she teases. "You just brought me here in the spirit of reconciliation?"
"Well, you did mention it in your first note."
Hermione flushes, pleased beyond measure that he remembers those words. Feeling embarrassed and happy and lot of other, wonderful things, she admires the beauty all around them.
"If this is what comes from making pastries for people," she says, "then bring on the palmiers."
Overhearing this part of their conversation, the hostess spins around on one high heel and frowns down at Hermione. "Does Mademoiselle desire palmiers for dessert? I believe Chef has planned a cheese course and something chocolate to end the meal. But if Mademoiselle wishes, I can inform the kitchen of any special requests."
Hermione blushes again and waves the hand that isn't holding Draco's at the hostess. "No, that won't be necessary. Cheese and chocolate sound lovely, thank you."
Even with the issue clarified, the hostess scowls as she sweeps her arm toward an empty alcove. "Mr. Malfoy and Ms. Granger – your table, if you please."
Hermione and Draco both duck their heads as though they've been scolded, and they quickly take their chairs without speaking. Once the hostess has poured them each a glass of sparkling water and departed, they let out audible sighs of relief.
"She's…intense," Hermione says.
Draco nods. "She's hosted every time I've eaten here, ever since I was a little boy. And I don't even know her name – I'm too scared to ask. I swear, this is the least intimidating I've seen her. She must really like you."
Hermione smiles archly. "I'm a likeable gal."
"Sometimes. But let's see how you fare after a full meal here."
"Oh? Bring dates here often, do you?"
"If by dates, you mean Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, then yes. I've spent many, many dates here, discussing delightful topics like International Wizarding politics over escargot."
"I can't tell you how much I would pay to watch Lucius Malfoy eat snails."
Draco raises his cup of sparkling water. "Save your Galleons for an eel dish. My father's so slippery, it's like viewing a cannibal in the wild. Or so I've been told."
Laughing quietly, they toast each other across the silken tablecloth. Soon, Hermione has waved away the wine list – a gesture that earns her another soft flicker of grey eyes – and their meal begins in earnest.
Course after incredible course magically fills their plates. Even with all her culinary practice, Hermione has never eaten food like this: caviar-encrusted sweetbreads; root vegetables, swimming in delicate broths; sweet monkfish in braised oxtail sauce; and the thinnest, most tender cuts of meat imaginable.
Although they're dining in what must be one of the finest restaurants in the Wizarding world – if not the whole world itself – both Hermione and Draco can't seem to stop their tiny moans of pleasure with each new dish.
"This lamb is a miracle," Hermione says around a mouthful. "I'm serious: I intend to write the Vatican tomorrow and nominate this lamb for sainthood."
"See if you can get them to approve my marriage to this steak, while you're at it."
The conversation stays light throughout the meal, aided by the occasional toast to their favorite dishes – a clinking of water glasses to the supernatural taste of a sauce, or the divinity of a lamb chop. But somewhere between courses six and seven, their topics shift to those of a weightier nature.
"Forever?" Draco asks as he scoops up his last bite of blood-orange sorbet, served to clear their palates before the next course.
Hermione nods vigorously. "Absolutely. I love my work at the Ministry – drafting new laws, arguing for the rights of marginalized groups. As long as there's inequality in the Wizarding world, I have something I want to accomplish. And unfortunately, I think I'll have enough work for a long, long time."
"Always the crusader, then?"
"Is that a problem?" she counters, lifting her near-empty goblet in a sort of challenge. Draco, however, just clinks his own glass against the rim of hers, while a small platter of cheese replaces their seventh course.
"If it was a problem, Granger, I never would've had the pleasure of trying key lime pie."
Smiling faintly, Hermione shakes her head. "What about you, Draco?"
"What about me?"
"What about your future? Your plans?"
For some reason, he looks startled, and he takes a sip of his sparkling water to cover his discomfort.
"I…I'm not sure if I have any plans, Granger."
"None?"
He shrugs without meeting her eyes. "None to speak of. My bloodline's been rich for centuries. I know it's boastful, but it's also true. Aside from the odd political advisor or land developer, no one in my family has worked for years. Certainly not my father, nor my grandfather before him."
"But even after the reparations…?"
"There are probably still enough Galleons in our vault for another century or two of Malfoy sloth, before one of us has to start amassing wealth again."
That cagey look remains on his face, but there's something else there, too. Something that makes Hermione press harder, despite his words.
"Does that mean that you don't want to work?" she asks. "Just because your ancestors didn't, and you're not expected to? Don't you have any passions that belong just to you, outside of being a Malfoy?"
Draco cringes slightly. "Does it even matter, Granger? No one is going to hire a Malfoy. Not after…everything."
Hermione shifts her chair closer to his so that she can take his hand back into hers. She twines their fingers together – laces them until you can only tell them apart by the difference in their skin tones. Draco frowns down at their joined hands, but his thumb begins to stroke the top of her wrist lightly.
They stay there, quiet and connected, long enough that the untouched cheese plate vanishes and a decadent tower of chocolate takes its place. Hermione and Draco ignore the teetering dessert; he keeps his eyes trained on their hands, and she keeps her eyes trained on him.
"What are you passionate about, Draco?" she near-whispers. "What do you love most?"
Those grey eyes flicker back up to hers, and her heart leaps. He takes a long time in answering, so long she's almost certain her heart will explode and Draco will be wrongly imprisoned for her murder, since none of her friends technically know she's there.
Finally, mercifully, he says, "Potions."
"Really?"
"Really. I love everything about them. The precision and accuracy required for a perfect batch. Their applications. Where their materials come from, and how I could source the rare ones. I…I think about that a lot: what a life working with potions might be like."
Hermione releases a slow breath between pursed lips. And then she begins to smile like a bloody fool.
"Well, I have good – no, spectacular – news for you."
Despite the delicious tension still sparking between them, Draco smirks. "What is it, Granger? The Ministry has decided they need test subjects for a new strain of Dragon Pox?"
"Better. The Ministry is opening up a Potions-Master training programme this fall. A lot of the old Masters were…erm, lost in the War, and we desperately need new ones. All you'd need to do is get O's on the right N.E.W.T. exams and—"
His loud sigh interrupts her. "Granger, I didn't take any N.E.W.T.'s. I was too busy being a minion of evil during our seventh year, remember?"
Hermione dismisses his sarcasm with a wave. "And I was too busy fighting evil. But the test administrators are making some broad exceptions for our class, obviously. We're owed at least that much, after we fought another generation's battles for them. I went back to Hogwarts for a semester after the War, to study and take my N.E.W.T.'s at an irregularly-scheduled time. I'm sure you could sit for exams, too."
"They aren't going to make exceptions for a former Death Eater."
"Maybe not. But they can't stop you from sitting for the regularly-scheduled N.E.W.T.'s, can they?"
Draco snorts, but some of the sting has gone out of his expression.
"The next sitting for exams would be in late June, Granger. That's far too little time for me to apply, and study, and…." He trails off when he sees the fanatical gleam in her eyes. "What exactly are you thinking, Granger? You look like you're going to boil and serve me as our tenth course."
Hermione laughs. "Well, if you must know, I'm mentally colour-coding your study guides right now."
"My…what?"
"Study guides. I'll draw up the ones you'll need for your supporting N.E.W.T. subjects. Arithmancy, no doubt, and Transfiguration. Possibly Charms and Ancient Runes. Since Potions will be your primary focus, we'll have to do extra prep work on that one. But I've no doubt you'll be just fine in that subject."
"And why is that?"
"Because," she says, as she squeezes his hand, "you scored top marks in Potions at school. You still study it. I saw that book in your library, and I doubt it's the first one you've read on your own. You love the subject – that much is clear. And…."
"And?"
Hermione inhales deeply and then confesses, "And you're absolutely brilliant, Draco. As brilliant as I am. It's one of the things I love best about you. So if I can ace my N.E.W.T.'s, then I'm positive you can, too."
Another long, taut moment draws out between them. Hermione ducks her head under the weight of her gushing praise, so that her gaze falls onto their clasped hands. In contrast, Draco can't seem to tear his gaze from her. Slowly, carefully, he curves the index finger of his free hand under her chin and tips it up until she meets his eyes again.
"You would do that?" he asks her softly. "You would help me study?"
"I would, and I will. And I'll tell Kingsley that if the Ministry doesn't accept you into the training programme, then they're all idiots." When he lets out a raw laugh, she grins. "I'd start tonight, Draco, if you'd let me. But I think it might kill the romance."
"What romance?" he teases, but his fingers slip from her chin to graze her cheek. He leans closer to her and, instinctively, she leans into him. Near enough that she can feel his exhalations on her skin.
"Draco," she whispers. Just one word. In either a statement or request, she's not sure.
"Hermione," he whispers back, and she shivers from the heat of those four syllables upon her lips. "Hermione, I think I'm going to kiss—"
"'Mione?" a voice interrupts them. "And…Malfoy?"
With their lips only one second, one heartbeat apart, both Hermione and Draco turn toward the intruder. There, standing a mere step from their alcove and looking for all the world like he might hex them, is Ron Weasley.