12.
It was indeed a book Malfoy had given her – a Muggle book, no less. The Language of Flowers: An Alphabet of Floral Emblems the navy fabric cover read in large, gold stamped letters, the pages dipped in gold so that it shimmered in her office light. The book looked old and new at once, as if magic had been use to restore it
She opened the slim volume with a creak of its spine, and a scatter of dried flowers that had been pressed between the cover and the first page fluttered out onto Hermione's desk. She recognised the hibiscus, with its delicate, papery petals, dried a dark wine red. The other flowers she didn't know on sight, but they were long, delicate stalks covered in small white flowers, filling the air with the richness of their scent as they tumbled free. A velvety, dark sweetness, floral and creamy at once.
Hermione's breath caught, and she looked up at the door of her office, double checking that it was shut. Feeling silly over it, she waved her wand at the door and locked it with a click. She looked back down at the sweetly intoxicating scatter of flowers, and then the book, feeling stupidly nervous. And then she noticed the note Malfoy had scribbled on a small card attached to the inside title page with a sticking charm. It was curiously sweet and old-fashioned in tone:
Hermione,
I thought you might find this useful; your secretary's Witch Weekly magazines can only get you so far, I imagine. If you'd rather not have a need for it, simply owl it back to me and I'll take the hint. As for the flowers; they're Venetian mallow and tuberose. The former is a fact, the latter a thought.
Yours respectfully,
Draco A. Malfoy
The fact that he had used her first name made Hermione feel all hot and sweaty, and she shrugged off her cardigan and let out a wobbly gust of a sigh, shaky, and prickly with heat. She noted the book's print date – 1857, a 1st edition – and then flipped through the delicate pages – complete with watercolour illustrations – to Venetian mallow, which was apparently a variety of hibiscus. 'Beauty, delicate', the book read, and Hermione's breath stuttered and caught again. Her only thought was simply an overwhelmed, deliciously flattered: Oh my god.
She paged through frantically the next few leafs of alphabetically listed flowers interspersed with full page illustrations, landing on tuberose. 'Dangerous pleasures'. There was a wrench of desire deep inside her that shocked her, and she pressed her thighs together. Her fingers trembled on the book. A fact and a thought; what did Malfoy mean?
Hermione grabbed up a rectangle of fresh parchment and a self-inking quill that happened to be in a dark green ink, and scribbled:
Malfoy,
And then she swore and crumpled up the piece of parchment, scrapping it and beginning again on a fresh sheet:
Draco,
Thank you, for both the book, and the flowers. I appreciate them – perhaps a little more than I should – and I eagerly await another opportunity to make use of the book.
Oh shit. That was far too forward – it seemed altogether too easy to let her feelings run away with her on parchment, Hermione thought ruefully, and scrapped that sheet too, pulling out a fresh one. She decided not to make mention of the tuberose's meaning directly, mostly because she had no idea what to say.
Draco,
Thank you, for both the beautiful book, and the flowers you chose. I appreciate both, and shall indeed be keeping the book – awaiting the next time I do something worthy of a compliment, so that I may make use of it. I'm sure that you will of course keep in mind that my secretary is not exactly a font of discretion and Witch Weekly is actually rather comprehensive, however.
Yours appreciatively,
Hermione J Granger
She paused and scanned it carefully, looking for any mistakes or unwise expressions of feeling – and with an embarrassed groan realised she'd left the 'Weasley' off her last name. Merlin, what an unfortunate Freudian slip. She quickly scribbled it in:
Hermione J Granger-Weasley
She blew on the parchment lightly to dry the ink as she scanned it again, and found no fault. Light, friendly, admittedly slightly flirtatious, but also reminding him not-so-subtly of the reality of their situation. A free agent, Hermione was not – and neither was Malfoy for that matter. And while neither of their relationships were exactly operational at the moment, that didn't mean that lines should be crossed – that was not the sort of person Hermione wanted to be. She folded the parchment up neatly, sealed it with a blob of wax, shuffled the sweet peas and book into a drawer, and then unlocked her office door with a wave of her wand, before calling Mariska through with a tap on the intercom.
"Yes, Ms Granger-Weasley?" Mariska asked, appearing in the doorway.
"Could you see this delivered to Mr Malfoy immediately?" Hermione asked, holding out the parchment with a business-like smile. And then, as her secretary took it: "Thank you, Mariska."
"Of course, Ms Granger-Weasley," Mariska said, badly hidden amusement on her face. "I'll see it sent to him asap."
Later that afternoon – forty-two minutes later to be precise – Mariska knocked on the office door, dragging Hermione out of dry work reading through investigative notes relating to a case that was going up before the Wizengamot in several weeks' time.
"From Mr Malfoy," her secretary said, looking flustered and embarrassed at once, manner nervous as she held out a dainty posy of appealing, draping flowers with a label attached that appeared to have the name of the variety stamped on it, and a folded piece of parchment sealed with a blob of silver wax and Malfoy's seal.
" Thank you, Mariska," Hermione answered, taking both from Mariska with a nod of thanks, wondering what had the young woman so het up, as she rushed out of Hermione's office as though she'd been bitten. She removed the label on the posy – "Cypress Vine (Ipomoea quamoclit)" it read – and placed the posy in an empty coffee mug she had to hand, filling it up with a stream of water from her wand, before opening the accompanying parchment note.
This time the note was less formal, and rather more casual, without even an opening address:
The quamoclit is for your nosy secretary – thank Merlin for wizarding florists with prompt delivery. It's a pretty flower, but I would have sent you a bouquet entirely composed of Ranunculus instead, which is also a pretty flower...but with a meaning to match the recipient.
You're always fantastically worthy of praise, Hermione.
Yours truly, Draco
P.S. how did she react?
Hermione dragged out the book, flicking to the entry on Cypress Vine. 'Busybody', it read simply, and Hermione gasped and laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. Oh god, poor Mariska. She'd no doubt looked it up, and – god knew what she thought – either that Malfoy had directed it at her, as he indeed had, or perhaps that Malfoy was upset with Hermione and it was only accidentally appropriate to her. She laughed again, genuinely amused. Malfoy was wicked.
She paged through to Ranunculus next; an illustration of a display of attractive flowers lay on that page in delicate watercolours. Layer upon layer of crepe-paper thin petals artfully swirling around one another, in a variety of gorgeous colours. 'Ranunculus: You are radiant with charms; I am dazzled by your charms' it read. Hermione sat staring at the page for a long moment, feeling warmth muddle through h er, her thoughts milling and searching confusedly.
Why was Malfoy full of compliments and appreciation, when Ron had never been like that? Why couldn't Ron ever put some effort in? They were married for Merlin's sake – he had far more reason to be complimentary to her than Malfoy did. And yet did he ever bother, at all, in the slightest? No. And if Hermione was honest, he never had. Sure he'd been great during the war, and good with the other big things in life that had come after that, but if something wasn't a dire crisis then Ron didn't even notice it
It made Hermione wonder, like an itch under her skin; maddening to the point of being unbearable. Decisive but rather breathless at her own daring, she took out two sheets of parchment. On one she wrote:
Draco,
I actually almost feel sorry for the poor girl – she looked utterly distraught! Hopefully it teaches her a lesson about prying that her parents clearly never taught her.
As for your preferred bouquet – I'm more flattered than I can say, and a little bewildered too. I am hardly charming. That seems far more your area of expertise, judging by the delightful compliments you seem intent on showering me with.
Yours, Hermione
P.S. I have a rather odd request to make of you, as a friend – hypothetically (really, truly hypothetically,) if I asked you to take me out or entertain me or the like, what would you do?
On the second one she quickly dashed out:
Ron,
I'm sorry to bother you, but I have a question for you, if you'll play along with me, pretty please? If I asked you to entertain me – to take me out or something – (not that I am, mind,) what would you do?
Thanks for humouring me,
Love, Hermione
And then, feeling both guilty and rather ridiculous, but determined to stay the course, Hermione sealed and labelled the notes and hurried out to Mariska's desk, handing them over with a request to owl them at end of day.
It might not exactly be fair on either of the men to ask them such a thing, but Hermione wanted desperately to know what each of them said. It might help her sort through her thoughts, which so far had only been growing more confused. She might not have any idea of what Malfoy's intentions were, but his answer contrasted with Ron's could still help her in figuring out whether or not it was worth saving her marriage. At this point, Hermione would be nearly willing to ask Professor Trelawney to divine tea leaves for her.
...And that her marital situation was in so precarious a state was incredibly depressing, and made her want to curl into a ball and cry. Hermione sighed miserably, and forced herself to turn her attention back to her work. She could worry about her marriage and whatever the hell was happening with Malfoy once she got home; she had all evening alone to mope, after all.
"Hullo, Ron." Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, lying back in the recliner and holding in a sigh of exhaustion. She'd had a busy afternoon in the end, and had barely been home long enough to kick her shoes off and pour herself a gin and dry lemonade, and she was not in the mood to talk to Ron. But she had owled him, so really she owed him a conversation. It shouldn't have come as a surprise that he'd decided not to follow proper etiquette and return her communique in the same manner she had used by writing; Ron still avoided putting quill to parchment wherever possible. She put her phone on speaker, and balanced it on the arm of her recliner.
"How are you?" she asked him politely, before sipping at her drink. Oh Merlin, it was delicious.
"I'm fine, 'Mione. Had a good day training – the team is in smashing form. You?"
"Tired, honestly. This afternoon was a nightmare; I had a meeting at three with that pompous idiot Jenkins and he ruined my mood entirely. Glad to hear you're well though." The conversation was horribly stilted and awkward – Hermione felt like they were strangers making polite chitchat, and she hated it – what had happened to nearly twenty years of marriage? How did it all fall apart to this so quickly?
One of Hermione's first attempts at knitting under Molly's tutelage suddenly sprang to mind; she'd dropped a stitch in one of the early rows of a scarf without realising, and knitted another foot before she'd seen the hole growing slowly as the wool came undone. In the process of trying helplessly to fix it, she'd unravelled the whole project down to tangles of twisted yarn. The whole thing – which she'd spent weeks knitting – had been pulled apart in moments by one little slip.
Ron cleared his throat uncomfortably, clearly feeling the awkwardness too. Hermione closed her eyes and saw Gryffindor red yarn dragging through her fingers. Such a waste. She'd begun again on the scarf; it had been lovely and woolly, with twists of gold thread through it, and kept Ron warm on the pitch during winter training for years. If only repairing a marriage was as easy as picking up dropped stitches, and beginning again.
"Shit. Well, that sucks, 'Mione," Ron said weakly. There was a pause, and then: "I'm just calling about your owl? I got it just now, and you know how much I hate writing letters, so I thought I might as well call."
"Oh, right, of course."
"Bit of a weird question," Ron remarked flippantly, and Hermione frowned. She could just picture him now, all confusion and bewilderment over why she would want to know such a thing, and it made her want to choke him. Yes, it was just so weird that a wife, whose marriage was in crisis, would want to know what her husband might do to woo her if they were to try to mend things between them.
"Well...not really..." she said, and heard him sigh in annoyance in response. She bit her lip, and then asked brightly: "Did you think of anything?"
"I guess? A few things. Maybe taking you out to the Quidditch, and then lunch at the Burrow, with everyone?" Ron ventured, and it was Hermione's turn to sigh.
"Did you think of anything with just us?"
"I – I thought you might like the opera?" Ron hazarded, and Hermione all but ground her teeth together. She'd never, ever expressed an interest in the opera. "Or a movie and then burgers, maybe. Just the two 'f us. Nice and romantic." That was marginally better, but still so...Ron. No effort, no attention to detail, no attempt to think of anything special.
"What about something a little fancier?" Hermione prompted.
"I don't know, Hermione!" Ron gave up in obvious frustration. "I'm not that kind of bloke, and I never have been. You know it, I know it – I don't know why you asked that stupid question in the first place," he burst out with, and Hermione pressed her trembling lips together hard, feeling rather like crying. She didn't know why she'd asked either. She should have known Ron wouldn't change.
"Sorry, Ron," she said wearily. "It was silly of me. Look...I should go. I only just got in, and I need to get changed, and have a shower and all."
"Oh. Yeah. Right. I've got to head off soon anyway. Going out with the boys tonight." By which he meant the team, Hermione knew. She forced herself to smile and sound cheerful.
"Sounds fun! Have a good time. Don't drink yourself sick." She hesitated a moment, then: "I love you."
"Yeah, you too, 'Mione. See ya."
"Bye, Ron." And then the phone beeped and the call screen flashed, and he was gone.
Hermione,
I feel like this is a test, and I question the wisdom of answering. I'm going to, though, because I'm an idiot, apparently. I'm sitting at home right now – at the desk in my study with a glass of Dragon Barrel Brandy – and finding myself bored out of my wits and missing your company.
Writing you seems like a better way to occupy myself than drinking far too much brandy and falling asleep on the couch. Perhaps I should look into getting a Muggle telly? From what you've said of telly, it sounds both utterly awful (reality television especially,) and terribly fascinating. Perhaps you'll be able to suggest some quality shows, like the detective one you mentioned at lunch today?
Anyway, as to your question: I don't know what I'd do exactly – yet. There are so many possibilities. To be honest, my first thought was that I'd like a repeat of today, and that I think you'd rather like it too. Sun, good food, wine, and pleasant conversation.
But then I thought that was probably too predictable and ordinary, and something more extravagant was in order. Something that involved you in a criminally expensive dress. A gallery opening and then dinner at one of those experimental Michelin starred Muggle restaurants that are usually booked up six months in advance, perhaps. But we haven't talked about art yet; I'm not certain what you might appreciate, if any at all.
Which brings me to my third thought; that I could simply ask you, before I planned anything. Have you make a variety of suggestions, and then surprise you with a day out involving a select few of my favourites. It's practical, and assured of enjoyment, but perhaps not thoughtful enough?
My fourth and final idea, was portkeying to a lovely villa in Spain for at least a weekend, if not a whole week. You seem like you need a holiday, Granger. Sightseeing in both wizarding and Muggle locales, beautiful scenery, delicious food, and time in which to read, or swim, or sunbathe undisturbed, with drinks under the stars in the evenings.
So. Does the above answer your hypothetical satisfactorily? Perhaps you can tell me why you're asking me these strange questions over lunch – day after tomorrow, at that French cafe I was telling you about? Lunch with you is far more entertaining than eating alone. Let me know.
Yours,
Draco
P.S. I did have a fifth thought, but I thought maybe I shouldn't write it down, Granger. I'll let you guess what it involved.
Fic Notes:
This fic is thoroughly plotted, and two-thirds written at approximately 110,000 words. I will be posting chapters twice weekly, Wednesdays and Sundays NZT. I've tried my best to thoroughly ground it in reality; all named Muggle locations are real places. Even Hermione's outfits are sourced from their named shops, just for fun.
The floriography book The Language of Flowers: An Alphabet of Floral Emblems (1857) exists and is available free here:
/collection/the-language-of-flowers-an-alphabet-of-floral-emblems-1857/
General Notes:
I'm back on a part-time basis after a long hiatus, despite family life and real life writing keeping me very busy. I'll be tying up loose ends and making some new beginnings as well.
I've gone through the entirety of Gravitation/The Risk-Reward Ratio and The Just World Fallacy, and edited them for style, typos, grammar, and minor plot inconsistencies that were bothering me, and as of 01/08/23 am beginning to re-upload them. I'm sure I've missed some mistakes (feel free to let me know once I'm done,) but they feel tidier to me now. I'm toying with the idea of an epilogue novella of vignettes, working title Axiom, and plotting it out just in case.
Onions and Icebergs is officially abandoned, I'm sorry to say. There's a chance I may yet finish it in the future, but I have no solid plans to do so at this point.
I have however been inexorably drawn to writing a sequel to Crumple, working title Aftermath, which was in fact what pulled me back to my fanfics. Much like Crumple it has little actual plot, and is most angst, an exploration of trauma, and relationship building. I'm currently 25,000 words into it and have the rest (very roughly) plotted, and will begin posting it in September 2023.
He Dreams He's Awake is still on hiatus, but not officially abandoned. I enjoy writing in present tense, and may yet pick it up again once Aftermath is finished, or even try to work on both at once.
All the completed and active fics mentioned above will also soon be findable over at AO3, under my user name Kaleidoscope.
Lastly and most importantly, thank you so very much to everyone who has ever read my fics, and favourited, commented, shared, or recced them. It's crazy to know that words that come out of my head can be enjoyable, and even make people feel things. I'm so happy to be back, doing what I love again, and I hope my writing is still enjoyable!