8.
"Why are you even calling?" Hermione asked, staring blankly across the street as she watered the front garden, mobile phone held to her ear. Tension thrummed through her as she struggled to keep her voice even and calm. On the phone with Ron for less than a minute, and they were already on the verge of arguing.
"I was just letting you know I'm at the Burrow, Hermione. In case you need anything. That's all," he said, sounding sulky and angry down the line.
"And what does that have to do with scolding me for getting flowers?" Somehow Ron had heard on the wizarding grapevine about the dainty and beautiful arrangement of quince flowers Malfoy had sent her after their lunch at The Veela's Folly. They were sitting inside on the breakfast bar inside at this very moment – if she craned her neck she could see them sitting there through the window; a pretty splash of colours. Quince for temptation. The spice of life, she'd thought with a grin and a blush when she'd googled the meaning. Temptation; what she was to Malfoy, and if she was honest that made her feel giddy.
"From Malfoy, Hermione!"
"Oh for god's sake, Ron, they were just some silly old fashioned way of saying thank you for going to lunch." She tried to keep her voice calm so that the nosy neighbours didn't hear her having a row down the phone like some fishwife.
"Lunch?" Ron almost shrieked down the phone, half deafening Hermione. Oh shit. She hadn't been mentioning that for a reason. Hermione flipped the hose off at the nozzle, abandoning the marigolds and picking her way across the damp lawn in bare feet.
"It was to talk about the children, Ron." She turned off the hose tap at the wall. "About Rose and Scorpius. They've been spending a lot of time together –"
"Just like you and his fucking ferret father? Having cosy lunches and sending flowers?" Ron spat and for a moment Hermione could hear a commotion in the background on his end of the line. Of course, she thought with weary resignation as she wiped her damp feet on the door mat and locked the door behind her. Everyone at the Burrow would be listening in, no doubt. As much as she loved them all, that was one thing she wouldn't miss...if...
"They're friends –" she began to explain as she made her way over to the breakfast bar, stooping to rest her elbows on the benchtop and fiddling with an earring.
"Oh and what are you and –"
"– Malfoy and I are barely acquaintances!" She straightened, free hand making a fist.
"Who have lunch and send flowers? You must think I'm an idiot, Hermione," Ron snapped, all nasty meanness, and she flinched. It hurt, but more than hurting, it made her angry.
"Well, when the shoe fits, Ronald," she snapped, losing her patience. "Malfoy wanted to speak to me about the children, because if you'd read the last owl I'd sent you – which you obviously haven't – you'd know Rose has been getting in trouble for protecting Scorpius from bullying, and –"
"Why couldn't you talk about that in the office?"
"He asked me to lunch, and he'd already booked it, and I didn't have any plans, and it just...it seemed reasonable to go!"
"I don't want my wife going to lunch with Draco bloody Malfoy! "
"You don't get to just order me about, Ronald! This is not the fifties, and I am not some obedient possession who'll do whatever you want. You're being ridiculous, and controlling, and completely irrational!" She yelled it down the phone at him, eyes filling up with tears.
"The hell I don't! I think I should be allowed to tell my bloody wife that she shouldn't go to lunch with a sleazy, up himself, dick of an ex-Death Eater!" he yelled back down the line, crackly and distorted, clearly ropeable with fury.
"Well we're on a break right now so even if you could tell me what to do, you can't right now. I can do whatever I want," she bit out through her teeth – and wanted to take it back almost as soon as she'd said it. It was too hurtful. "I –"
"Fuck you, Hermione, you – you cheating whore," Ron snarled then before she could reply, venom saturating his voice. She sank down onto a stool at the breakfast bar as he went on, her eyes welling up and a nausea digging at her stomach. "You stuck up bitch. You always think you're so much better than me. So much cleverer. So much classier. Really though, you're just an arrogant, stuck up, know-it-all – you and Malfoy deser–"
There was the sound of a scuffle then, and then Harry's voice came on the line. Harry. Harry had been there, eavesdropping, while she was here in her and Ron's house, feeling more alone than she'd ever felt before. Ron's accusations rang in her head.
"Hermione? Hermione are you there?"
"Yes." She stared at the multi-coloured arrangement of pretty quince flowers numbly; they looked a little like poppies, some of them, while others resembled delicate full blown wild roses. They were so pretty. So thoughtful a gesture for Malfoy to make. So dangerous.
Bitch. Arrogant. Stuck up. Whore.
Hermione wished she'd never gone to lunch. She wished she'd never come back from lunch – yes, why not. If she was going to be accused of it, and punished for it, it was a real shame not to have been able to do it. She stared at the flowers and wondered what it would feel like to kiss Malfoy's mouth. Alone on the balcony of The Veela's Folly like they had been yesterday, with the sea crashing below them and the freezing wind snatching at her hair and clothes.
"Shit. Shit, Hermione, Ron didn't mean that. You know he didn't mean that, right? He was just...well you know what he's like." Harry rushed to defend his other best friend, his tone all overflowing with concern. "Are you all right, Hermione?"
"I'm fine, Harry. Really. But I'm really not comfortable with talking to you about this right now," Hermione said numbly, rather certain she was in shock. Harry started to protest, but she cut him off as sobs started to heave up in her chest, making her breathing funny. "No. I don't want to. Tell Ron...tell him to read my letter, and then owl me when he's calmed down." And then she ended the call and put her mobile on aeroplane mode to avoid all the further calls she knew would come, sliding it across the bench to be halted with a rattle by collision with the pen jar.
"Screw you, Ron Weasley," she said, raw and wet, and then dissolved into wretched, unwelcome tears.
Hermione laid down her self-inking quill and folded the letter for Rose, shuffling it carefully into an addressed envelope and gathering it up along with the one for Hugo, as she stood. Usually she would write to the children at home, but she'd spent most of last night crying, thanks to her conversation with Ron. She still hadn't even turned her mobile back on for fear of the deluge of texts and voicemails. But she'd had a lull in her workload this morning, and had decided to dash the children off a quick note each. She missed them both very badly right now, with Ron off at the Burrow and everything so awful.
She'd give the letters to Mariska to post now, she thought, and then it would just about be midday and time to take lunch 'til 1pm, then do some paperwork. and then she had an appointment with Thornton from departmental accounts at 2pm – a minor budgeting issue that shouldn't take long to sort out. And by then the files on the Quincy case should have arrived, and until the end of the workday, she would be absorbed in the Quincy files. What fun.
Hermione rounded her desk envelopes in hand and pulled her office door open, Mariska's name on her lips – only to come face to chest with Malfoy, who had his fist hovering in the air as though he had been about to knock. She took a quick step back in startled discomposure, and so did he, lowering his hand.
"Granger," he greeted her, inclining his head politely, and memories of how gentlemanly he'd been the day before yesterday rose unbidden in her mind. Gentlemanly...and also intelligent, sympathetic, dryly witty, and genuinely interested in what she'd had to say. He had been surprisingly pleasant company, and they had hardly bickered at all – and even that had clearly been playful. And right now Hermione couldn't help comparing his behaviour to Ron's even though that was probably entirely unfair of her.
"...Malfoy. What brings you down here?" she asked slowly, head canting to the side slightly and one hand resting on a hip, envelopes clutched in the other hand. Behind her she could see Mariska at her desk, watching them both with a smirk on her lips. The young woman had sent Malfoy through to surprise her on purpose, Hermione knew, and while normally that would irritate her, today she fought to keep a smile off her own lips.
"Lunch," Malfoy said succinctly, arching a dark blonde brow in query. Hermione hesitated, and he went on smoothly but she could sense his uncertainty and eagerness. It was actually rather sweet, the way he looked away shyly, and rocked on his heels ever so slightly. He seemed for a moment like an overgrown boy – awkward and filled with nervous anticipation – and nothing at all like the permutations of Draco Malfoy that Hermione had seen up until now. The arrogant, insecure boy, the frightened, cruel teen, the reclusive young adult, who'd eventually re-joined society as a distant, haughty man who was suave and quick to snarkiness – the man before her was like none of those.
"Lunch?" She echoed it, as a question, slipping past him toward Mariska, tossing a casual glance over her shoulder. Malfoy shifted to face her, looking slightly set off-balance by her nonchalance.
"We actually didn't talk about Scorpius and Rose, at the Folly. And I feel like, considering the trouble they've been having at school, perhaps we should," he said carefully while Mariska watched their exchange like a hawk. Hermione didn't care that the young woman was listening – Malfoy had made a perfectly reasonable suggestion. And also Hermione wouldn't actually mind it getting back to Ron; it would serve him right after his behaviour to know that Hermione wasn't going to do his bidding. She smiled to herself.
"Well, I was actually just heading out for lunch now, Malfoy, if you'd like to join me. Nowhere as fancy as The Veela's Folly, though." She was actually planning on eating lunch at a small Muggle café she liked, in London near the entrance to Diagon Alley. It had the most delicious croissants she'd had outside of France, which wasn't really saying a lot, she supposed – she didn't exactly frequent cafés often. Which was probably good, because considering the delicious, buttery treats they had, she'd pile on the pounds in no time.
"I'm not fussy, Granger. Lead on and I'll follow," he answered, and for moment their eyes met and he smiled at her, in such a way that her breath caught in her throat, and her pulse stuttered, palms beginning to sweat. She turned away quickly and held the letters for the children out to Mariska.
"Would you mind posting these off before your lunch break?" she asked as Mariska took them. "They're for Rose and Hugo."
"Of course, Ms Granger-Weasley. No problem." Mariska gave her a bright look. "Enjoy your lunch," she told Hermione meaningfully, and Hermione hid a quiet laugh from Malfoy, rolling her eyes at her secretary.
"Ta, Mariska. You too." And then she swept out of the office, beckoning to Malfoy, who fell in at her side with a long, lazy stride, and a glance she couldn't read.
"So this is a Muggle café," Malfoy commented, looking around with interest, and Hermione hid a smile.
"Yes, it is. Now stop saying 'Muggle' so loud. People will hear you."
"Sorry." Malfoy looked a little embarrassed – and a little odd too, a nearly forty-year-old man staring about the extremely ordinary café like a child. He looked undeniably good though despite that, stylish in a charcoal wool trench coat and soft dark blue scarf, the tip of his nose and high on his cheeks reddened with the cold. "It's very different."
Hermione looked around the plain little café with fresh eyes as she shucked her own coat, noting everything that she took for granted; aside from the modern decor the electronics were the biggest difference, and the coffees themselves of course. Wizarding society drank coffee, but only the percolated sort – and tea and butterbeer were the usual choice in cafés and pubs. It looked very different to the Victorian Era Wizarding aesthetic.
"I suppose it is." And then it was their turn. The young barista managed a half smile, looking harried.
"Hi, what would you like?"
"Erm... Do you mind if I...?" Hermione checked, waving at the menu board, and Malfoy shook his head.
"No, not at all. Go for it, Granger – I'll trust your judgment."
"Two servings of the pumpkin soup special, two croissants with jam, and two large lattes with a caramel shot each thanks," Hermione ordered, paying with her card, and smiling to herself as she noted Malfoy's keen interest in the process. "And can you hold the croissants and coffee 'til ten minutes after the soup?"
"No problem." The barista smiled tiredly, holding out their table number card in its metal holder. Hermione took it and turned to look for a free table, shuffling out of the way a little and waving Malfoy along with her. It wasn't very busy today, happily enough.
"There!" she said enthusiastically. "That table by the window." It was a quiet spot with a view of the footpath, and they settled in comfortably.
"So that number...?" Malfoy asked as he slid his scarf from around his neck, and rasped the heel of his hand idly over his stubble.
"Is the number of our order. When our order is ready, the waitress will be able to find us thanks to the number we have displayed on the table. Very efficient."
"Ahh." Malfoy nodded sagely, and a brief silence fell between them, before: "Did you – did you get the bouquet?" he asked tentatively, looking nervous again, and Hermione felt like kicking herself. In all the stress of Ron spitting the dummy, she'd forgotten to write a thank you note to Malfoy. She'd meant to, of course, but it had been lost in the mix – somewhere between drinking well over a bottle of wine, and weeping her eyes out.
"I did! And Merlin, I meant to thank you – I meant to owl you a note last night in fact – but I got distracted by...erm, family issues, and –"
"Did you like them?" Malfoy interrupted, grey stare warm and amused on her face as he cut through her waffling apologies, and Hermione nodded swiftly.
"Quince for temptation," she said without thinking and blushed hot, dropping her gaze to the table top for a moment. Then: "Thank you, Malfoy. I appreciate the flowers – and your thoughtfulness. They're both very pleasant surprises." Automatically her gaze flicked up to his face and then down again – shamelessly coy, and she cringed at herself. She wasn't some silly girl, and this wasn't a date.
"It's my pleasure," Malfoy told her, and it seemed like more than just a polite response coming from his lips. Staring at him across the table, Hermione could feel the sincerity in his tone. And perhaps a completely different sort of pleasure and sincerity in the way he looked at her, in her dusty pink silk blouse with the top four buttons undone and brand new black tweed pencil skirt with a daring slit at the side, her hair beaten into a soft bun, little wavy locks wisping out.
And then a waitress arrived with the food, and dashed the burgeoning moment into nothing. Hermione thanked the woman, as Malfoy looked away from her, sliding his hands through his hair and fiddling with his cufflinks in an unmistakable attempt to refocus himself. Hermione thought that she should be glad the waitress had interrupted, because really romantic moments with Malfoy were really the last thing she should want – her life did not need to be more complicated right now. She might be on a break from Ron, but engaging romantically with Malfoy was...well, not wise at all, and she was too old to be foolish.
"So – Rose was telling me that Scorpius made Seeker. You must be very proud. Like father like son?" Hermione asked, blowing on a spoonful of steaming hot soup to cool it, before trying it – it proved to be delicious, as always.
"Yes, I'm very proud of Scorpius. But Salazar, I don't hope he takes after me," Malfoy said dryly, smirking a little ruefully. "I certainly don't want him to follow in my footsteps. Luckily, aside from his incredible prowess at Quidditch, he's nothing like the stupid little git that I was at his age."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, finishing another mouthful of soup, before inquiring just as dryly as he: "Incredible prowess, Malfoy?" Her disbelieving 'really' went unspoken, and Malfoy grinned around his spoon.
"Mmhmm." Then: "Utterly amazing would also work, if you preferred. Also, magnificent, and –"
"Oh shut up," she told him, grinning back. "You know, you act so full of yourself, Malfoy, I'd nearly believe you were serious."
"You think I'm not?" He arched a brow, and she made a face at him.
"You're infuriating, do you know that? And, you have a way of sneakily making every conversation all about you," she realised and said in the same moment, jabbing her soup spoon toward him accusingly. He looked genuinely surprised by that, and then thoughtful.
"I do apologise," he said smoothly a moment later. "And in the interests of turning the conversation away from myself, I notice you've bought a new skirt."
"I – what?" Hermione spluttered without thinking to censor her reaction, although luckily she brought her hand up to hide her mouthful of soup and toast. "How do you know it's new?"
"Well, you just confirmed that, Granger," he pointed out. "But maybe I just guessed. Or someone told me. Or perhaps I'm just a keen observationalist."
Hermione smiled smugly. "Or maybe, you just stare at me a lot more than is appropriate in a workplace."
"Lucky this isn't a workplace, then," he shot back.
"So you admit it then," she said slyly, feeling silly and happy and light as she pointed across the table at him again, this time with a toast finger she'd already dipped. Then she popped the toast in her mouth, expecting him to come out with something else that is clever and amusing.
But instead: "Of course," was all he said, very calmly and matter-of-fact, and Hermione's stomach lurched with a delicious pleasure. "And so I noticed that you've never worn this particular skirt before – it's rather notably different to what you usually wear, save your favourite – and so I assumed it was new. And may I say," he added with an artful nonchalance. "You look uncommonly lovely in it."
She blushed. Flamingly. But she'd take the compliment, she decided – she got few enough of them from Ron so as to not feel guilty about compliments from other men. "Thank you, Malfoy. Flatterer."
"Not flattery, Granger. Admiration." He smiled at her, an oddly gentle expression, and...slightly sad? Only not for himself, but for her, and she bristled just barely at that; what exactly was the gossip circulating about her and Ron right now? She knew there would have to be some – he'd have told the Weasleys, and probably at least half the Quidditch team, and no doubt one of them would have spilt the beans about the temporary separation. The break. Oh god, she realised with a jolt of horror. What if their decision to take a break got into the papers? The children might see. Horror gripped her for a brief moment, and she forgot entirely where she was.
"Are you all right, Granger?" Malfoy's voice broke through Hermione's swirling panic, and she was yanked firmly back to reality – to the small Muggle café, and the pale, handsome man sitting across the table from her.
"Oh, yes – sorry," Hermione said as she waved a hand dismissively, smiling apologetically across the table at him. "My mind went wandering – between work and the – the break I've been rather busy distracted lately.."
"Mm," Malfoy said, and then swallowed his mouthful of soup. There was a little smear of it on his lower lip, and Hermione fought the urge to wipe it away – and then his tongue darted out and swept his lip clean. Her abdomen twinged oddly; a feeling that darted down into her womb and made her feeling glowing warm. Malfoy's voice was sympathetic as he went on. "I heard on the grapevine yesterday that your husband is still staying at his parents'."
"What? Where – how?" Hermione gaped at him in shock, the pleasant feeling in her abdomen chased away by cold dread. Malfoy winced.
"Oh shit. I'm sorry. Were you trying to keep it hush-hush?"
"Yes! Well...I don't know. I certainly didn't want it spread all over the Ministry though! Next thing it'll end up in the damned Daily Prophet, and –" She broke off, sighing and rubbing little circles at her temples as she felt a stress headache coming on. She met Malfoy's sympathetic gaze steadily, trying to pretend that she wasn't about to panic, scream in frustration, and burst into tears. She hadn't looked in the paper yet today; she wouldn't be surprised if it was at least alluded to in the gossip column. Shit. "Who did you hear it from, Malfoy? And when?"
He looked deeply uncomfortable. "My secretary, yesterday." He answered her reluctantly, but thankfully without trying to dodge the question. Hermione sighed – she wasn't surprised it was the bloody secretarial pool – and resisted the urge to sink her head into her hands and come apart at the seams.
"And how did she know?"
"Granger...I don't think I'm the person to be talking to about this. You should be talking to your husband," Malfoy prevaricated, and Hermione leaned forward, wanting to yell at him to tell her everything he bloody well knew, but all too aware of the people sitting around them. She settled for the voice she used when Rose was acting out; a deadly calm, steely tone.
"You can't just let things like that slip and then refuse to tell me anything more, Malfoy. That is cruel, and wrong, and unfair. If there's something you know that you think I should know, then tell me." She stared him directly in the eyes, asking for his understanding, resolutely ignoring the awkwardness strung tense in the air between them. He looked undecided and horribly uncomfortable, and Hermione tried blackmail with little hope that it would work. "Please, Malfoy. Either tell me, or I'm leaving."
Malfoy looked torn for a long moment further, and then he shook his head, apologetic and awkward. "Sorry, Granger. But maybe you should go then – use the rest of your lunch break to talk to Weasley." He looked tired, suddenly – older and more worn than he should at thirty-nine. "I'm not about to get in the middle of someone else's marriage, and I'm not going to be the one who breaks news to people when I don't know if it'll be bad news or not."
"Malfoy..." Visions flashed through Hermione's mind, driving her mad with anxiety. What had Ron done? Was he flirting with the secretaries? Spreading gossip by bitching about her within earshot of people? Had he told the team and had they spread it around? Or talked about how she'd laid there like a dead fish during sex? Oh Merlin she wanted to cry, and she needed to know, and if it was something awful, as she rather suspected it was, then she'd rather not hear it from Ron's lips. But Malfoy shook his head again, jaw tight and eyes dark as if he were angry, only Hermione knew it wasn't directed at her.
"It's not my place. If you want to know, ask Weasley." He said Ron's last name – her last name too – with deep disdain. As if he was better than Ron. It made Hermione bristle with defensiveness, oddly. Ron might not be a brilliant husband, but Malfoy had never been a good person.
"Since when do you care about what your place is?" Hermione asked in frustration. Malfoy shrugged a shoulder; expression earnest and open, and somehow helpless, grey eyes apologetic.
"Since it's you, Granger." He looked young again as he said it in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone, and Hermione noticed the way his fingers curled tight into his palm and his eyes dropped from hers. Shyness written all over his face, and she realised for the first time that Malfoy wasn't just all suave, practiced flattery. He actually liked her. Not just in a womanising, flirtatious throwaway manner – he actually liked her. With feelings. It was written in the tightness of his voice and the stiffness of his shoulders, and the way his eyes flicked up nervously to read her reaction.
She sat there stunned; doubting herself – what if she was misreading him? – and shocked into near speechlessness. He had bought her flowers, talked to her often, taken her to lunch...but up until this very moment, Hermione had thought Malfoy was just playing the game and enjoying himself in the process. Having fun. Amusing himself with a casual attraction. But that wasn't amusement on his face right now. It was feelings – desire, longing, admiration – and it looked like they ran deep.
"Oh," she said softly, and only that, and Malfoy winced and looked away. She swore inwardly and rushed to add, lightly but with a note of sincerity: "I appreciate that, Malfoy." His gaze slid back to her. "I can't imagine many people merit that courtesy."
He chuckled weakly. "No. Not many at all. But between your daughter defending my son, and...and your scintillating company..." He was trying for casual but he looked and sounded too nervous, long, pale fingers twisting up his paper napkin. Hermione knew with sudden, rising fright that he was going to say something that would cross the line entirely, and god what was she doing? She was a married woman. Panic flushed through her.
"The children!" she burst forth with suddenly, clutching at a safe subject to discuss, Ron totally out of mind for a moment. "We keep forgetting them."
He blinked; long lashes dark blonde, fluttering indecisively. And then his mouth curved into a wicked, sweet smile, equilibrium reached again. "We do, don't we?" There was an implication there that Hermione could hear him drawl, despite him remaining silent: almost as if the children are just a useful subterfuge. She swallowed hard, thinking about Rose and Scorpius, not whatever Ron might have done, or what (she hoped?) Malfoy wanted to do.
"At least they haven't gotten themselves into trouble with Professor McGonagall again. And I heard from Rose that they had great fun during their detention with Hagrid," she said; safe, light, ordinary conversation. Malfoy seemed to radiate an odd mix of relief and disappointment as he listened, smiling across the table at her.
"And in her last letter she told me that the children who were bullying Scorpius had suffered an unfortunate series of misfortunes. Quite accidental, apparently," Hermione added, unable to repress a small smirk – although she had done the responsible thing and told Rose the accidents should stop before they got in trouble again.
"Scorpius doesn't write to me much," Malfoy said, a little wistful. "I write every week like clockwork, and I'm lucky to get even a short note back."
"The two of you seem to get on, though," Hermione offered, and Malfoy somehow made a smile seem edged with misery, shrugging slightly.
"We do mostly, I suppose. We were very close while he was younger. Before he went to Hogwarts we spent every day together, just him and I. But he's a teenager now –" Hermione grimaced in understanding "– and since beginning Hogwarts and having it beaten into him – often literally – that he's a bigoted monster's spawn, well." Malfoy stopped and looked down at his hands, large but elegant, twisting the paper napkin up. "There's resentment there, towards me. Which I don't blame him for. It's just made it difficult."
There was something very strangely vulnerable in seeing Malfoy be so honest, and it mesmerised Hermione, and filled her with empathy for his position. It couldn't be easy to parent with a past like his – Rose and Hugo flung every risky choice she had made, which had the misfortune to be documented in the history books, in her face. It was hard to set boundaries for your child when they had handy proof of how many mistakes you'd made. She expressed her sympathy and said as much, and Malfoy made a sound that was nearly a laugh.
"Mistakes – that's a very diplomatic way to put it, Granger."
"You were a child, Malfoy," Hermione said very earnestly, leaning forward a little, laying a hand over his, still torturing the napkin. "It didn't feel like it at the time, but looking back...you were indoctrinated from birth into playing the role that you did. You were a child trying to do what your parents had taught you were right, and while you could have chosen better, I can't blame you for what you did."
His hand shifted beneath hers, his fingers curling up and twisting around her smaller ones, and it terrified her and felt far too good at once. His fingers were warm and firm. "You're a better person than I, Granger," he said, but she still hadn't withdrawn her hand from his so she couldn't be that good. Her gaze glued itself to their hands, twisted together on the table, out in the open in front of everyone, and even though they were in the Muggle world, nervousness churned in her stomach. What if someone saw? No one would ever believe it was innocent. Merlin, she knew it wasn't innocent.
"Two large lattes with caramel shots, and two croissants?" a bright voice asked, and Hermione snatched her hand away guiltily from Malfoy's, and immediately cursed herself for making them look suspicious and awkward. She felt her cheeks flare hot, Malfoy's gaze amused and knowing on her, and the pretty waitress smiling just as knowingly.
"Yes, that's us thanks." She pushed her mostly finished soup and toast over to the side, clearing a space for her coffee and croissant. Malfoy followed suit, bestowing a charming smile on the waitress as he thanked her mutedly. The waitress bustled off, and Hermione sighed in relief, still embarrassed by her own behaviour. She took a sip of her latte, letting her nerves settle, and then lifted her eyes to Malfoy; far too lean and attractive across the table in his suit – the cut and style of it influenced just enough by wizarding fashions for it to appear exotic and vintage in the Muggle world.
Merlin, he was undeniably appealing. She couldn't help but compare him to Ron, who perpetually slobbed about in jeans and a tee shirt, as though he was still in his early twenties and not a middle-aged, married father of two. She didn't ask for high fashion perfection, but it would be nice if Ron could make an effort sometimes. And Merlin, now she was thinking about Ron, and worry flooded her sickly. She pushed it aside and tried to focus, forcing a smile.
"We – erm, now that I know Rose and Scorpius are friends, we'll have to make sure they stay in contact over the Christmas hols. I feel terrible that they haven't been able to spend time together in the holidays before now," she said casually, ignoring the fact that only a moment ago they had essentially been holding hands. Malfoy finished his mouthful of croissant, nodding.
"Of course. I'm sure Scorpius will love that. He'll be spending a week of the holidays in Spain with his mother, but other than that he'll be at home with me." So Astoria was still in Spain, was she? Hermione found herself wondering how permanent that living arrangement was. Clearly there was no love lost between Astoria and Malfoy, but Hermione doubted a legal separation was on the horizon – purebloods didn't divorce without dire reason.
"And where is 'at home' for you? The Malfoy Manor?" Hermione felt herself tense even as she said the words, old memories stirring in the dusty recesses of her mind. Nightmares uncoiling beneath dust cloths she'd thrown over them; stretching and rustling all full of menace. The smile she bestowed on Malfoy was brittle. He was staring at her arm, and she realised with an embarrassed jolt that she was rubbing at her forearm through her blouse with a thumb, where Bellatrix Lestrange had cut her. She pulled her hand away and cradled her latte in both hands, raising an eyebrow at Malfoy.
"No, not the Manor," he said after a moment, sounding as though he was lost in far off memory himself. "I never liked the Manor after the war. I purchased a house in Ilkley with the money I got from my parents after Astoria and I were married. I didn't want to raise my child in the Manor. Not with all the..." He trailed off, shame and old ghosts carved into the set of his features.
"I know," Hermione finished quietly, and he shot her a grateful look, all smoky-warm grey eyes and faint tilt of a smile. "Ilkley sounds lovely though. It's a well-established wizarding village isn't it?"
"It is – one of the oldest in Britain. It's experienced a bit of a boom since the War. Lots of Muggleborns and Muggle families with magical children have been moving there. It's thriving." Polite small talk, yes, but it was still enjoyable. Hermione found it fascinating to see how Malfoy had changed; talking animatedly about how Scorpius had gone to a day school for magical children – Muggleborn and half-blood alike, as well as a few purebloods, squibs, and even the Muggle siblings of Muggleborn children. It had been a bit of a social experiment, apparently, and the roll now had over sixty children. Malfoy didn't say as much, but Hermione suspected that he funded it.
"And what about you, Granger? You live in the Muggle world, don't you?"
"You're well informed, Malfoy. Wandsworth, to be exact." And she told him about their comfortable little house, and how she preferred living in the Muggle world with its access to electricity, and a wider range of friends for the children, and the normality that she remembered from her pre-magical childhood.
"It's already a quarter to one," Malfoy commented idly after they'd chatted for a pleasant while, and polished off their croissants. "Don't you want to go talk to Weasley? I don't mind."
"Actually no, I don't," Hermione told Malfoy decidedly. "I am enjoying a pleasant lunch out with a...a colleague, and I shan't cut that short to go find out what infuriating shite my husband has done." He raised a brow as if impressed; perhaps he was. She wasn't usually so piquant. "I'll go see him after lunch," Hermione added. "I don't have any appointments until two, and my workload isn't exactly heavy right now."
"So I rate over Weasley, do I?" he asked her slyly, smirking, and she laughed, feeling warm inside beneath the full force of his wicked smirk.
"That doesn't take much right now, Malfoy, to be fair," she teased, grinning. But yes, she couldn't deny that she preferred lunch with Malfoy over trying to talk to Ron. One was irrational, irritating, and exhausting, and the other made her feel...a lot of things, all of them far too tempting. And if she were sensible she wouldn't risk indulging those feelings – but Hermione was sick and tired of being sensible. She shifted in her seat a little, discreetly plucking at her blouse to better frame her generous swell of cleavage.
"But yes. I rate you." She returned his wicked smirk, feeling suddenly, dreadfully daring. "Highly." Oh Merlin, she was so bad.