14.
Hermione woke up to the buzzing of her alarm, and groaned in complaint, still tired after a late night at the Ministry doing paperwork. With a yawn that made her jaw crack, she rolled over – her hair a mass of tangled waves over her face – and shut off the intrusive noise with a slap of her palm. She squinted bleary-eyed at the green glow of the clock; 6:30am, 19th September, it told her, and Hermione realised with an odd little twist in her stomach that it was her birthday, and she was forty years old.
Despite being a birthday, especially such an important one, it felt no different to any other day, which was rather normal, really. Birthdays had ceased to be huge events for Hermione after her 21st. Once the children had been old enough to make her clumsy, love-filled presents under the watchful eye of Molly Weasley, it had brought a good deal of joy and sparkle back into the day, but it was still only really a day like every other. She still had to fulfil all her usual responsibilities.
In recent years, the tradition had become Hugo and Ron bringing her breakfast in bed – Rose being off at Hogwarts of course – before she unwrapped her presents. Usually she received a tastefully chosen piece of jewellery from Ron that Hermione suspected Ginny had a hand in picking, something homemade from Hugo, and a card and more thoughtful gift from Rose that always arrived by owl in the early hours. If it fell on a weekday, then Hermione would have to get up and get Hugo ready for school, drop him off, and go to work as usual, before they had a celebratory dinner at the Burrow afterwards. If it was a weekend, she'd have a lie in, and then they'd go visit Hermione's Muggle side of the family during the day, before dinner. And in the days following, cards and small presents would trickle in from both wizarding and Muggle friends and extended family.
It was certainly nothing hugely exciting but Hermione had gotten used to the pleasant routine, and to wake up alone was strange, and felt wrong. It would have been strange enough merely not having Hugo's noisy, cheerful presence, and to be without Ron as well...it left Hermione feeling horribly off-balance and forlorn. She went about her morning routine as per usual, anger and loneliness a small, tangled muddle sitting leaden in her stomach, which she ignored as best she could. And in deference to the fact that today was supposed to be celebratory, she wore a dress – a chocolate brown long-sleeved shirt dress, with a pleated knee-length skirt. Last year's birthday gift to herself, from Karen Millen, it had been expensive and she loved it. Pretty and tailored, it made Hermione feel as though she looked more curvaceous and elegant than simply newly middle-aged and not as slim as she used to be.
Over breakfast, Hermione's dad called to wish her a happy birthday, and invited her over for dinner the next evening – she accepted with pleasure, glad not to feel completely alone. Then, just as she fetched her black wool coat, a pair of owls appeared at the large sliding window in the sitting room – there for just that purpose. They were Hogwarts postal owls, each carrying a parcel, and Hermione exchanged the parcels for owl treats and a scritch of the owls' head feathers before they flew off again, back to the castle. The parcels were the children's presents of course, and the leaden knot in Hermione's stomach untangled and dissipated slightly as she took in Rose's bold chicken-scratches – dashing off Hermione's full name and address in case the owls delivered wrongly – in comparison to Hugo's careful, rounded print.
Hermione didn't have time to both do her breakfast dishes and open the presents before work, so she chose the presents, carefully tearing Rose's brown paper package open with something approaching a pure, light happiness. It suddenly felt like her birthday. She set aside the card and unwrapped layers of tissue paper to find that her daughter had given her a beautiful little blown glass otter statuette about the size of Hermione's fist – a sleek creature of whiskey brown glass all swirled through with shimmering gold, sprawled sleepy-looking over a smooth clear glass rock. Hermione loved it. She admired and read the accompanying card, a shaky smile playing at her lips.
Dear Mum,
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
I know an otter is a little predictable
– Indeed, Hermione had a corner of the china cabinet in the lounge dedicated to miniature versions of her patronus, most of which had come from the children –
but this one was just so pretty, I had to get it. I thought it might look nice on your desk at work – maybe you could use it as a paperweight?
Anyway, I hope you have a lovely birthday, mum. I'm sorry I can't be there to celebrate it with you. I know it'll be odd without dad OR Hugo there, but don't let the day pass without marking it, okay? Do something FUN, and then write and tell me about it.
All my love,
Rose xoxo
Well, it seemed that Rose had gotten over the worst of her resentment toward her mother and father, Hermione thought with relief. It was a sweet card, mature beyond what Hermione would have expected from Rose, and reminded Hermione that her little girl was well on the way to growing up. She wasn't sure how she felt about that.
She opened Hugo's present next, the sloppily wrapped bundle revealing a box of chocolates, and a five galleon gift card for Flourish and Blotts, which Ron had to have financed at least in part. There was no way Hugo would have been able to save up either 5ʛ, or the – approximate – equivalent of £20. Hermione wasn't sure how to feel about that – right now the thought of Ron contributing to getting her something made her feel uncomfortable. But that was ridiculous, really. Who else should help Hugo buy her a present but his father, and her husband besides?
She read Hugo's card next – a comical one, in comparison to Rose's elegant choice. The message inside was just as sweet in its own way, though.
To Mum –
Happy, Happy Birthday!
I hope you have a super day. I miss you heaps, even though Hogwarts is bomb. I know a voucher is pretty lame as presents go, but I didn't know what to get you, and you always love book shopping. So I hope you like it, and the chocolates.
Love you loads and loads,
Hugo
P.S. I ate two of the chocolates. Sorry!
Hermione tucked her bounty of gifts into her handbag after rewrapping the otter carefully in its tissue paper, and latched the sliding window shut before slipping on a pair of black court shoes that went well with the wool coat she wore over her dress. She hurried through to the lounge, checking the security of the bun she'd twisted her hair into as she went. It might be her birthday, but that didn't mean she had time to dawdle – if she didn't Floo in now, she'd be late to work, and she had an appointment with a witness first thing. She disappeared in a leap of flame, the weight of the presents in her handbag somehow making her feel lighter, a smile printed on her face.
The morning passed without incident – Mariska brought Hermione a latte and croissant in the morning, and wished her a very happy birthday, and the division had pitched in and bought Hermione a card that they'd all signed, and another voucher for Flourish and Blotts – this one worth 10ʛ – which combined with Hugo's voucher, would allow Hermione to buy a good half dozen wizarding novels, or slightly fewer nonfictional texts. Hermione's appointments were all prompt for once, and she had little paperwork to do. And every now and then, she reached into her third drawer down and fished a chocolate out of the opened box she'd stowed there.
Her equilibrium slowly returned – even if Hugo and Ron had been home with her, her workday would still be just the same as it was now. And so as long as Hermione didn't think about the empty house she would be returning to this evening, everything felt nearly normal. Nearly.
There was a not entirely unexpected knock on Hermione's office door at just past midday – Hermione was rather certain she knew who it was, and a pleased smile flickered on her face.
"Come in," she called as she slid a leaf of parchment into its appropriate case file, and placed it over at the right of her desk, upon the teetering stack of other current case files. She leaned back in her chair, hands folded primly in her lap, smiling at Malfoy as he entered, and closed the door quietly behind him. He was handsome in a crisp pale grey-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just beneath his elbows, a charcoal on black paisley vest, a well-matched tie pulled casually loose around his neck, and black trousers above what were no doubt criminally expensive Oxford shoes. Malfoy's hair was slightly mussed, and his eyes were tired and shadowed beneath, but he returned Hermione's smile with a warmth she was perpetually surprised to receive from him.
"Good morning," she greeted him smoothly, still relaxed back into her gloriously ergonomic Muggle office seat as he approached, a small silver wrapped object in his left hand.
"And to you, Granger." He rounded the desk instead of sitting down in the chair opposite, and Hermione arched a brow, wondering – "And best wishes on the occasion of your birthday, as well." And he held out the small square gift to her, and bent to place a soft kiss on her cheek as she took it from him, their hands grazing together. She gulped, suddenly breathless as he straightened and smirked briefly at her, before he moved around to sprawl long-limbed and lazy in the chair across the desk from her. As if he belonged there. As if he were perfectly comfortable.
"Thank you, Malfoy," she said as soon as she was sure her voice wouldn't come out as breathless as she felt. "You really didn't have to."
"Oh, I know. But I couldn't resist. It's not every day you turn thirty," he answered, lips twitching back toward that infamous smirk as Hermione levelled a flat mock glare on him.
"Really, Malfoy?"
He laughed quietly: "What, you're telling me you're not thirty?"
"Malfoy, you know exactly how old I am, and that kind of ridiculously false flattery will get you nowhere." Malfoy's gaze turned sharp; predatory, Hermione thought, breath catching again. His voice when he spoke was slightly thicker and lower, and just as predatory.
"So you're telling me there's somewhere for this –" he didn't need to clarify what this meant; they both knew " – to go?"
Oh god. Hermione could feel her cheeks flaming red as she realised what path her offhand retort had led them down.
"Not with that kind of ham-handed attempt at flattery," she shot back lightly, and the moment of tension broke, leaving Hermione feeling stupidly bereft. But then Malfoy shot her a look that was equal parts flirtatious and mischievous, and she was buoyed up again.
"I'll remember that. Subtle flattery – yes, I think I can manage," he said airily, and then, matter-of-factly: "But really, if you told me you were thirty, I wouldn't exactly disbelieve you, Granger. You look amazing, honestly. Absolutely gorgeous." She blushed again, resisting the urge to hide her face behind her hands like a child. Malfoy was too kind. Unlike most of her divorced friends who had lost pounds and pounds through the stress of separation, Hermione was still the exact same as she had been since the holiday in France when she'd put on five pounds – 5'5" and 150 lbs – her hair was getting a few grey threads in it, and as she never bothered with make-up she most likely looked tired and stressed.
"Clearly, subtle flattery is beyond you, Malfoy," she said pertly, unconsciously looking down and smoothing the skirt of her dress, and tucking an escaped lock of hair behind her ear. She felt acutely uncomfortable under the weight of his gaze – more appreciative than Hermione really thought she deserved. But while the way he looked at her seemed rather improbable an expression to level at her, Hermione thought that it was genuine. He really thought she looked beautiful. He smiled then, as if he'd read her mind.
"I'm not flattering you – I'm making an observation. Now, hurry up and open your present, so I can take you out to lunch," he told her briskly, and Hermione obediently did as she was told, a warm feeling banishing the last of the leaden tangle in her stomach that she'd woken up with that morning. She slid her nail carefully under the edge of the wrapping paper, breaking the small sticking charm he'd clearly placed on it, and then slid out a small leather box, that looked rather like a jewellery box. She glanced up at him, wide-eyed and anxious, but he just nodded his head toward the box.
"Go on, open it."
She cracked it open with her heart in her throat, wanting it to be expensive jewellery and dreading that it was at once. What would it mean, for Malfoy to be buying her flowers and jewellery, and taking her to lunch? It would mean he was courting her. Be honest, she told herself; he already was courting her – her, a married woman! – and worse, she was letting him. And – and then she opened the box properly and saw the light of liquid gold burst to life within the shadow of the black velvet-lined box.
"Oh...Malfoy..." she breathed, lifting out a tiny vial less than half the size of her little finger. It was hooked to a silvery chain by a diamond pave bail attached to a matching screw-on stopper, and filled with a substance that shimmered like liquid gold. The vial and chain were simple and unornamented besides the diamond pave, and yet obviously expensive – Hermione suspected they were crystal and platinum respectively – and nearly as precious as what the vial contained. "Felix Felicis..." Hermione looked up at him, feeling stunned. "You didn't."
"I did." Malfoy grinned widely, clearly pleased with the impact his gift had made on her, as she stared at him gape-mouthed like a poleaxed fish. "Do you like it, then?" He stood, tall and lean and absurdly pleased, and Hermione nodded vaguely.
"Yes – I mean no, I mean – Malfoy, it's too much! I can't accept something so –" But he was already moving around her desk and taking the necklace from her unresisting hand, undoing the clasp and whisking it neatly around her neck, his fingertips hot against the nape of her neck. Her eyes slipped shut despite herself, and her breath caught in audibly as she savoured the brand of his touch. Then:
"There," Malfoy said softly close to her ear, before moving to one side slightly and leaning back on the edge of her desk, long legs stretched out and crossed lazily at the ankle. It meant he was just close enough to reach out and shift the vial slightly, so that it rested just below the hollow of her throat. "Perfection."
Hermione felt that she could be reasonably certain Malfoy wasn't only talking about the necklace, and little electric sparks fizzed in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't meet his eyes, staring instead at the knot of his tie and wondering what on earth the gift meant. No one had ever given her anything like this before. Never.
"Look in the box – there's a little ribbon tab, at the bottom," Malfoy said, voice low and quiet; intimate. "Lift it up." Hermione found the tab with fingers that felt a little shaky, and tugged it carefully up. Beneath what had appeared to be the base of the box, was another small compartment, within which was nestled a large gemstone of brilliant deep blue in a delicate platinum setting, with a diamond pave bail identical to the one on the vial.
"Oh my god... Malfoy..."
"It's tanzanite," he said, again in that low, intimate tone as she lifted the pendant out by the bail. "It changes colour depending on the type of light it's exposed to, and the angle it's viewed from."
For a moment Hermione had thought it was sapphire, and had quailed at the thought of the cost – now she found herself wondering just how expensive tanzanite was. She shifted the pendant, and half-stifled the thrilled sound she made in reaction as the hue of the gem shifted from deep blue, to a shade of violet, and then at yet a different angle, a burgundy red. It was beautiful, and far, far too much for Malfoy to be giving her were they mere friends and colleagues.
"If or when you choose to take the Felix Felicis –" Malfoy went on " – you can replace the vial with the gem. Or you can swap them out as you desire, or put the pendant on another chain and wear them together. And I know you think it's too much, but really it wasn't, Granger. I brewed the Felix Felicis myself, and the tanzanite was part of recent business acquisitions made by the Malfoy family business, so the cost to me personally was really rather insignificant." He seemed a little nervous now. Hermione thought that he was worried she'd refuse the gem, if not the vial as well, and indeed she was considering it. Not because she wanted to say no, but because of what it meant. Even if neither of them openly acknowledged the significance of the gift, it still remained an unspoken factor.
Such expensive, thoughtful jewellery was not a gift you gave to anyone but a lover. The fact of it made Hermione's chest squeeze tight, and her nerves squirm in her stomach not entirely unpleasantly. Malfoy was silently but insistently courting her; it couldn't be denied. And she – she was letting him. What was wrong with her? Was she really so ready to walk away from Ron? To indulge in some kind of – of affair with Malfoy, that would no doubt only be short-lived? But Malfoy was looking at her, grey eyes uncertain and hands curled nervously tight over the edge of the desk, and Hermione realised she'd left him hanging, the silence thick in the air. She smiled quickly – nervily.
"I do think it's too much. Entirely too much. But..." Hermione's fingers touched gently to the crystal vial hanging at her throat. "It's also utterly beautiful, and I – I can't bring myself to refuse it." Malfoy grinned then, wide and pleased as he pushed off from the desk and straightened, running a hand through his already-ruffled hair.
"Good," he said decidedly, radiating self-satisfaction that mingled with badly hidden relief. "Now, I know you don't have lunch plans – you told me so yesterday – and I thought we could go to The White Hart for a bite. Yes?" He arched a brow, waiting for her answer but clearly confident in what it would be. And he had every reason to be so sure, Hermione thought rather dizzily.
"That sounds lovely, Malfoy," Hermione said lightly, as she carefully put the gemstone back into its velvet lined box, which she tucked into the depths of her handbag as she stood, smoothing her full skirt. "Do you know, I don't believe I've ever been?"
"Well then it's about time you do. It's one of the few Muggle places that purebloods don't have to be ashamed of being seen at. As one of – if not the – oldest pubs in London, it has a certain class, despite being Muggle-owned and operated." Malfoy reached her coat before she could – holding it out for her to slip into like an old world gentleman, and she bit her lip hard, thumb brushing over her wedding and engagement rings as she slid her arm into the left sleeve. It was a much-needed reminder that, break or no break, she was still a married woman. And Malfoy, a married man. It would be foolish to forget that.
But so easy.
The White Hart was a pleasant mix of old-fashioned decadence, and airy modernity, and the food was fantastic, but not as good as the company. Malfoy insisted on champagne – "Because it's your birthday; you need to celebrate for Merlin's sake!" – although being a workday, they only had the one flute each. Hermione ate, and laughed, and generally enjoyed herself immensely – Malfoy's dry wit, and his ability to hold up his side of an intellectual conversation made him a stimulating person to spend time with. By turns they mock-argued over the opposing views they held, chatted about the children's doings, and between mouthfuls of lunch segued their way from the topic of potions-making, all the way through to current Muggle technological developments.
Hermione forgot about everything but the moment – Malfoy's smiling grey eyes that crinkled at the corners, his lopsided smirk, and the way their feet bumped together under the table. The captive interest in his expression as she talked and he listened. The way he challenged her assumptions, and gently teased her over her eccentricities and odder views. For a little while, the world outside of the pub – outside of the two of them – seemed to fade into the background, and being with him felt so...natural. So right. But she didn't question what that meant, not right then. That would wait until later on, when she was home alone with nothing in particular to occupy her time. Right then, Hermione just wanted to enjoy her birthday lunch.
When it was finally time to leave, Malfoy helped Hermione with her coat again, and then bent his head to place a kiss on her cheek. He smelt of heady champagne and expensive cologne, and Hermione laid her hand on his wrist unconsciously, as if to try to keep him close as she breathed him in. But then he was straightening after lingering several heartbeats too long, his expression reluctant, his eyes fixed meaningfully on her mouth.
"I know we're in Muggle London, and arrived together, but I think we should probably return to work separately anyway, just in case. The last thing you'll want to deal with the day after your birthday is waking to more rumours in the gossip rags," he said kindly, and Hermione nodded, the moment of frisson between them drifting away into nothingness. The gossip columns had been rather focused on her and Malfoy lately; clearly the reporters had picked up on their developing...friendship, and wanted to milk it for all the sales it was worth.
"That's pretty well the last thing I want to deal with any day. But you're quite right," she agreed wryly. "Thank you for lunch, Malfoy, and the gift." Her fingers drifted to the vial again – Liquid Luck, hanging around her neck, which Malfoy had brewed for her himself. "It's been a lovely way to celebrate my birthday."
"I'm glad," he said simply and honestly, as he opened the pub door for Hermione. "You deserve it, Granger." She flushed at the way his tone softened and gentled over her name, her cheeks hot, and lifted a hand in a little half wave goodbye, before stepping out into the crisp London air, the door falling shut behind her. Hermione paused on the footpath beside the entrance to the pub for a moment, taking in a deep breath and letting the chill air fill her lungs and cool her cheeks. And then she let out a sharp sigh and set off towards the nearest apparition point, her heels clacking on the pavement and her head in the clouds, dreamy and fizzing.
