26.

Malfoy had somehow managed to turn up with high tea from the Ritz. Hermione had no idea how, especially considering it was only 12.15, but she decided she wasn't going to ask questions. Instead she just enjoyed the array of dainties with gusto, her office door firmly shut, Malfoy sprawled in the chair opposite all arms and legs and eyes like storm clouds fixed on her as he ate tiny sandwiches in single bites. She didn't think the Ritz's high tea had ever been consumed with such blatant disregard. They made small talk over the food, neither of them keen to break the fragile happiness that had been spun between them.

They whiled away over half their lunch break like that.

But eventually Hermione was full and the high tea had been devastated, and there was nothing left to do but talk. And something had been playing on her mind again since she'd left Malfoy's office. Ron's damned texts. Those ugly, poisonous words. They'd been steeping in the back of her mind since she'd read them, but speaking to Malfoy again – and seeing the Mark on his arm – had brought those stupid, horrible accusations to the forefront. And Hermione wanted them gone. Exorcised. And she suspected there was only one way to do it.

"Malfoy – before we talk about anything else, I think you need to look at this." Hermione said as she dug through her handbag and pulled out her phone – no signal as usual – tapping into her texts with Ron, and scrolling to midway through his angry messages. "It might seem stupid, but could you read these?" She laid her phone down on the desk and spun it around to face Malfoy, sliding it across toward him. This was the most efficient way to communicate her stupid fears.

He looked at her, eyebrow raised dryly as he licked a smear of mayonnaise off his thumb. "Granger, I honestly have no idea how to work one of these things. You'll have to help me."

She sighed and stood, rounding the desk. "Take it." She put the phone in his hand, and stood by his side, feeling suddenly breathless and nervous. "They're from Ron. Read them. And just tell me when to scroll down." He shot her a questioning look. "When you've finished reading what's on the screen," she expanded with a forced smile, but a hint of nerves bled through into her voice and Malfoy's face shifted, turning serious.

"You're worrying me, Granger," he said as he took the phone, and Hermione shook her head.

"It's nothing. Not really. I just wanted – well, you'll see."

Malfoy started reading at the seventh text Ron had sent.

[Are you at his place? I bet you are, you fucking bitch. You were just looking for an excuse to screw him.]

Immediately his breath jerked in sharply and he glanced up at her, his face a mask of icy anger, his eyes darkened, full of indignant rage on her behalf. "He called you a bitch?"

Hermione felt herself go trembly at his reaction. For some reason she suddenly felt like crying. "I've been called worse. By you, even," she reminded him lightly of long ago, and saw the flinch. The shame flashing across his face. "Anyway, it gets worse."

He kept reading, commenting almost involuntarily occasionally.

[You were probably already screwing him.]

"Shit. But we hadn't slept together then."

[You're such a fucking hypocrite. Mad at me for making a mistake, when you've been prancing all around town with Malfoy for weeks. It's so obvious.]

"Granger, I'm sorry. I didn't realise..."

[That's why I slept with Antonia, you know. Because I know you're already screwing that disgusting Death Eater prat.]

He winced at being called a Death Eater, Hermione thought, his gaze flicking to his arm where the faded Mark lay, although all he said was a vehement, "He's a prick."

And then his hand flexed on the phone so hard that the casing creaked dangerously as he looked away from the screen, mouth twisted in anger, breathing hard through his nose.

[Don't you have any self-respect, Hermione? He hated you. Dirty mudblood. That's all you always were to him. Just a dirty, tainted animal. I never thought that. Ever. But I'm not good enough am I? You stupid whore.]

"Malfoy –" Hermione slid her hand over his, fearing for her phone's survival, and his grip relaxed with an effort.

"You're not an animal. Or a mudblood. Or a – a whore." His voice was rough.

"I know that," Hermione said, trying for tart but coming off weakly. Maybe she shouldn't have showed him this. She regretted it now. But he read on.

[After everything we've been through, you'd turn on me for him? At least I didn't fuck one of your worst bloody enemies.]

[So yeah I did screw her. But we were on a break. I thought that meant we were free to do what we wanted. And I knew you were already spreading your legs for him. So I slept with Antonia. So what? It's not like I screwed Bellatrix or Narcissa.]

"Salazar's fucking sake." He went red with anger, and the only reason he didn't slam the phone on the desk, Hermione suspected, was because she was still holding his hand. "Why am I reading this, Granger? Because you want me to challenge Weasley to a duel? I suppose if I kill him now, we don't have to wait until you officially separate from the prick. You'll be a widow. Very respectable."

"Malfoy..." Hermione said, somewhere between chiding and soothing. "Only two more texts. And these last two are really the ones I wanted you to see," she added quietly, her body stiff with tension now. Vibrating with it. "Just read." A beat passed.

[Bet he wished he'd had the chance to rape you when his Aunt had you pinned on the Manor floor. Well, he's taking the opportunity to stick his dick in you now, isn't he? Lucky you, Hermione. He's just using you, you know.]

"No," he said frantically as he read it, going from red with anger, to ashen. Horror poured off him, almost tangible. He sounded panicked, and sickened, although he kept his voice nearly steady. Bet he wished he'd had the chance to rape you. "No. No, I didn't. Fuck. Merlin's sake. No. And I'm not using you. Fuck. Granger. I –"

She scrolled down to the last one. Some forty year old mudblood workaholic. You're just a challenge to him. A trophy. You stupid bitch. And then Hermione plucked the phone from his unresisting hand and returned to her chair. Her hands felt clammy. Behind her knees felt sweaty. Malfoy looked stricken and coldly furious at once, and Hermione wasn't sure if any of it was aimed at her, but she hated it anyway. It transformed him into someone she didn't like. But still loved. Merlin.

"Why did you show me that?" Malfoy demanded sharply, his eyes steely, sitting forward on his chair, tense with anger. Hermione felt sick.

"I just – Ron sent me those, and it made me –"

"Made you what?" he almost snarled, his anger transforming him, a window back into the past; taut and furious, a horrible contemptuous sneer shaping his mouth. "Made you think he was right? What was this morning about, then, if you thought that? What was –" Hermione recoiled from his anger as if he'd struck her, and Malfoy saw her reaction, snapping his mouth shut and burying his head in his hands for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said, muffled and miserable, and then lifted his head. His eyes were bleak, fogged with memory and horror. He rubbed his left arm, unconsciously Hermione thought. "That wasn't fair of me."

"No," Hermione agreed. "But maybe it was stupid of me to show you. I know – I know that what Ron said was dragon dung, but it's been stuck in the back of my head since he sent them. Just...stewing." She looked down at her hands, fidgeting with a jagged notch on her left thumbnail. "It scares me," she added, before Malfoy could speak. "I hate that what Ron said got under my skin. I keep thinking about it. I keep thinking about something that happened over twenty years ago during the war, and I can't stop wondering why on earth you'd be interested in me." She looked him in the eye. "I want to know that I'm not making the wrong decision, here."

Hermione didn't know if she was talking about being with Malfoy or leaving Ron. "Maybe it's unfair to put this on you, right now. And it's not that I doubt you, or don't trust you – but I do want to hear it from you. Before we talk about what's going to happen next."

Malfoy sighed. "I guess I knew this was coming eventually. It's not unfair that you want to know. I would too." He paused for a long time, rubbing at his arm with a thumb. It was funny how they'd both been marked on their left arms, Hermione thought. She by Bellatrix, he by Voldemort.

"I threw up, afterwards," he said softly eventually, looking past Hermione's shoulder, unable to hold her gaze for more than a few heartbeats at a time. "I didn't like you, before then. Or afterwards, honestly. But you were so brave." He said it wonderingly, lost in memory. "And I hated seeing you hurt like that. I was so sick of death, and suffering, and cruelty."

Hermione watched Malfoy silently as he went on.

"I wanted you to be gone. To be safe, somewhere that wasn't my home. I wanted you not to be lying on my floor screaming, while my aunt –" He broke off and shut his eyes for a second, swearing under his breath. "Shit. I hate thinking about this." His composure was halfway shredded, his eyes red-rimmed and a vein at his temple showing, his jaw twitching as he tried to hold it together. "I definitely wasn't thinking about doing anything to you, Granger. I just wanted you and the others to be far away, and for everyone to get out of my home." The pain in his voice was sharp. Bleeding raw with memory.

"Malfoy..." she started, still half-regretting asking, but he shook his head, taking a breath and smoothing out the tension in his features as he went on, picking his words carefully.

"I was a coward," he said quietly. "Honestly, maybe I still am. I haven't exactly been tested on my bravery or lack thereof, since then."

"I think you'd do the right thing, Malfoy," Hermione said sincerely, and he shot her a sad smile, faint and haunted.

"I hope so. I couldn't live with doing what I did, then. Standing by and letting terrible things happen." There was a twist of sickened memory to his expression. "Back then, you were everything I was not. Brave, and stoic, and so determined. In retrospect, you were incredible. At the time, I respected you despite myself, even if I didn't like you," he said, his momentary lapse in composure resolved as he cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders, running a hand through his hair and straightening his waistcoat and tie. And then he was perfectly put together again, his gaze meeting hers steadily.

"I hope I could be half as brave now as you were then, as a teenager. And Salazar's sake, I'm not using you, Granger. I've already told you why I'm attracted to you. You're intelligent, and sexy – so damned luscious – and Weasley's just trying to hurt you because he's lost you." He huffed a laugh then. "You are a workaholic, though."

Hermione smiled ruefully. "I guess. But –"

"I don't mind," he interrupted. "I like ambition in a woman." His flash of a grin was wicked, before it softened into an expression that made Hermione's heart flutter and her breath catch. "I don't want some witch barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. I want you, however you are." He leaned forward then, forearms braced on his thighs, and his expression was so intent Hermione found it hard to breathe. Dark and wanting, insistent. Shades of the old Malfoy who got what he wanted, and expected nothing less than that. She fought the urge to go sit on his lap and twine her arms around his neck.

"Good," Hermione managed, voice wavering traitorously, and he sat back with a faint triumphant smirk. She cleared her throat. "So, is there anything you want to talk about? Or should I lay out what I think we should do?"

Malfoy laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Let me guess, you have a bullet point list, arranged in order of priority?" Hermione blushed. She did, in fact. Except –

"It's numbered!" she defended herself, pedantic, and he just snickered harder. She rolled her eyes and began to read from the list. "Nothing sexual," she started with, and that stopped his stifled laughter short.

"What counts as sexual?" Malfoy seemed honestly curious, head tilted thoughtfully and grey eyes clear.

"If you wouldn't do it to your mother, you shouldn't do it to me," Hermione told him primly, and Malfoy shuddered.

"Ugh. That put a terrible mental image in my head, Granger."

Hermione hid her smile behind her parchment. "Sorry. It was the best example I could think of."

"So kisses on the cheek are fine. Kisses on the hand. Hugs," he went through thoughtfully, and then stopped there for a long moment, clearly still racking his brain – until he finally gave up, looking slightly forlorn. "Shit. But okay. That's fair, I guess."

"I don't like it either, Malfoy," Hermione said, and meant it. But she went on. "Um. I was thinking we could probably get away with having lunch out, maybe once a week?"

"Twice," he said abruptly, almost before she'd finished speaking. "Twice a week. Tuesdays and Thursdays." There was a pleading note to his voice, and Hermione didn't want to say no anyway.

"Twice," she agreed. "Preferably at discreet locations. But not at either of our houses."

"Travelling by floo, my house is discreet," Malfoy pointed out. Hermione's cheeks heated again, mortified.

"I can't," she said, thinking of the two of them alone, in complete privacy, free to do whatever they wanted. "It's too...I just can't." Thank Merlin he didn't push for an explanation, although Hermione was fairly certain he'd guessed why already, and was flattered. "No more flowers either." He nodded grudging acceptance. "And...I guess if you're genuinely passing by, stopping in my office is okay. Sometimes. But not too often." Hermione looked down at her brief notes, and up at him. "That's all I could think of, for now."

"I can live with those, I guess." A moment passed in awkward silence as reality sank in. Malfoy chewed on his lip. "Shit, I already want to break the rules."

"Well you can't."

"You would stop me, wouldn't you." He smiled. "You're such a goody-goody."

Hermione harrumphed, indignant, and acutely aware he'd got it wrong, her skin tingling. "No," she said primly, " the problem is that I'm not sure I would stop you."

"Oh, Merlin, don't say things like that, Granger." His eyes flashed, mercurial and just as silver, and Hermione felt her pulse pick up, a flush of heat prickling over her skin. This was dangerous. She looked at the clock; it was quarter past one already.

"Well then, I'll say that you should go, instead," she said with an attempt at firmness, "because I have a hearing at 1.30, and I don't want to be heading into the courtroom flustered and thinking of – of breaking the rules with you." Malfoy sighed, capitulating without protest.

"Fine, Granger." He pushed himself to his feet, and snagged the high tea stand off the desk with two fingers. "I'll see you on Thursday, for lunch? Perhaps we can go to The Veela's Folly again. My treat."

"That sounds good." She smiled, and he came around the desk and bent to drop a kiss on her cheek. Soft and lingering it was far too close to Hermione's mouth for propriety, and made her want desperately to turn her head into it so she could catch his slightly parted lips full on the mouth. Her chuckle when he drew back was husky, her breath short. "If that's how you kiss your mother, Malfoy, I may need to reconsider this whole thing," she teased him, and Malfoy gave her the faintest smile as he stepped back, his expression composed save for his eyes, which were pupil-drowned silver rings, lust-swamped and wanting.

"Thursday," he said low and intent.

"Thursday," Hermione agreed, her voice shaky. The next few months were going to kill her.

"You look incredible." Malfoy kissed her cheek lightly and then stepped back, admiring her with appreciative, steel-bright eyes. Hermione smiled, pleased. The Veela's Folly was fairly posh – and admittedly, she'd wanted to provoke this reaction – so she'd bought a new dress from Karen Millen. A tailored black pencil dress with a hint of gold at the belt, three-quarter sleeves and a v-neck, it felt brave for her – especially with the way it showed off half of her forearms. Hermione felt as though the scars were obvious, even though she knew they were all but invisible. Her hair was in a low bun that she hoped looked artfully messy instead of just a mess, and she wore his necklace, as always.

"Thank you. You look good too." Another suit, impeccable as always; rather Victorian Muggle influenced today, instead of the Edwardian look he usually favoured. It was very steampunk, Hermione thought with amusement, eyeing the cut of the knee-length well tailored frock-coat, and the silvery sateen ascot. It suited him, somehow. He looked like he'd slept better too, the dark hollows under his eyes faded. And he'd shaved. Hermione wasn't sure if she was disappointed over that or not.

"How's Scorpius?" Hermione asked as they settled at their table and the waiter left them to peruse their menus while he fetched the drinks they'd ordered and took Malfoy's frock-coat with him. The restaurant was busy but they were in fairly private spot by a window, with a beautiful view of the wind-tossed waves. The weather was fine but beyond the cliff it was still bleak and windy, and seabirds rode the eddies and updrafts with a wild, wheeling abandon. "I got a letter from Rose yesterday saying they were both okay and hadn't had any more issues, but it was very brief. She didn't really say much at all."

Malfoy's face clouded as he smoothed down his subtly paisley patterned waistcoat, in charcoal and grey. "He's fine physically. Mentally, I don't know. Not great. He still won't tell me why Potter's kid decided to attack him." Malfoy shrugged helplessly, a frustrated anger simmering up just under the surface. Hermione bit her lip. She didn't know either. She'd thought about texting Harry and asking him if he'd found out any more from James but it had seemed wrong to do that, somehow.

"I know you don't like Harry, or his children, but James isn't – well, he's not like that. He's been raised Muggle enough that he knows never to bully someone for being gay. He's generally just not a bully at all. He and Rose have always been friends. I would've thought he'd get on with Scorpius, if anything."

"Well, it didn't work out that way," Malfoy said grimly. "Maybe his father's dislike of me has bled over."

"Maybe." Hermione frowned. "But it doesn't make sense, to me. I feel like there has to be a reason."

Malfoy shrugged. "It doesn't really matter why, in the end. So long as the little bastard doesn't do it again." There was a raw, wounded edge to his voice, and it shook slightly as he went on. "I can't stand the thought of it happening again. Scorpius already – he already tried once before, just after he told Tori he was gay." He swallowed hard, eyes far off, lost in painful memory. Hermione wanted to wrap her arms around him.

"Merlin, I can't imagine... I'm so sorry, Malfoy," she said softly instead, and he offered her a weak smile of acknowledgement. And then they had to pause a moment as the waiter arrived with Hermione's daisyroot draught spritzer and Malfoy's old-fashioned, and Malfoy told him they needed a little longer before they ordered their meals.

When they were alone again, Malfoy sipped his drink, the ice ball rolling in the tumbler and then went on. "I offered to take Scorpius out of school and get him a tutor, but he didn't react well to that idea. He insisted he wanted to stay."

"Because of Rose, do you think? Because if that was why, we could make sure they keep in touch," Hermione offered, arranging the cloth napkin over her lap – she'd quickly decided on the salmon, upon skimming the menu – but Malfoy shook his head.

"No, I don't think so. He's just determined to stay. I don't know if it's sheer stubbornness or what." He clenched his jaw, looking blankly out at the view. "I hate it. It's not enough that he's tormented for being my child, but he's teased for being gay as well? It's too much. Merlin, is this my payback for being such a bullying little shit? My son has to suffer for my sins?"

"God. I'm sorry, Malfoy. The wizarding world sucks sometimes," Hermione said, a blunt kind of sympathy, smoothing the menu shut on the table in front of her. "They're well behind the Muggle world when it comes to sexuality, sadly. Although half-bloods seem much more accepting, in general, I've noticed."

"Most of it's pureblood hang-ups that have bled over and influenced wizarding culture at large," Malfoy explained tiredly, fiddling with his napkin. "You can't carry on the bloodline if you won't marry someone of the appropriate sex."

"Do you care?"

"No. I don't think so. It would have been nice to have grandchildren one day, but the Malfoy name can die for all I care. It's brought me nothing but pain." He dropped the napkin and reached out, fingers curling over Hermione's left hand where it still lay relaxed beside the menu. She instinctively tried to pull it back as she thought of the scars, a jolt of discomfort slamming through her, but Malfoy tightened his grip. His eyes met hers. "You don't normally wear short sleeves," he said softly, his eyes still on hers and his hand enveloping her smaller one, his thumb brushing gently back and forth over her wrist. She stopped trying to pull away, but anxiety thrummed in her bones.

"They're hardly short," she argued weakly.

"Mm. Shorter," he specified. "I noticed you always stay covered to the wrist." He tapped said wrist with his index finger. His questioning expression was as brittle as Hermione felt in that moment, and laced with a trace of guilt.

"Yes," she said softly.

"Because of my Aunt? That day?"

"Yes," Hermione said again, voice barely audible now, feeling so horribly exposed. Old memories swam behind her eyes. Insubstantial ghosts that carried a taint nonetheless.

"I don't see any scarring," Malfoy said, and she let him turn her arm over and draw it closer without resisting, his fingertips skating up the inside of her forearm feather-light as he examined her. She bit her lip, waiting for the moment of – "Oh," he breathed as he finally made out the thin, pale stripes of scarring, the sound full of regret. "I see. I'm sorry, Granger."

"It's fine." Hermione stared at his fingers, petting gently over her skin as if he could wipe away the fine scars. "It was a long time ago."

"It's very faint," he said, as if reassuring her, and she appreciated the thought despite not needing it. And then he looked up at her again, white-blond hair catching a shaft of sunlight that had made it through the cloud cover, his left eye shining like ice in the bright light. His expression was solemn, entirely focused on Hermione. She felt as if the universe had shrunk to just the two of them. "But you still keep it covered."

"So do you." She looked at his left arm pointedly, and his mouth twisted a little; self-loathing and bitterness.

"That's different, Granger." Malfoy let her arm go, his hand going to his Mark, rubbing at it through his white shirt. "It's more obvious, for one. I saw you looking the other day. And on the weekend."

"I didn't notice it the night we – um." Her cheeks went hot as she broke off and sipped at her drink, flustered. The trace of a smile slid across Malfoy's expressive mouth.

"You were a little distracted at the time, I believe."

"Can I see it?" she asked with a sudden curiosity, and Malfoy grimaced.

"I'd rather not flaunt it in front of people if I don't have to, Granger. They don't react well to seeing it. I don't know why you'd want to."

"It's on your arm, Malfoy. I can hardly avoid it."

"Fine. After lunch then. Out on the balcony. I can admire the view, and you can look at...that," he said with a delicate distaste, making it clear he didn't understand why she wanted to, but he was willing to put up with it if it made her happy. Hermione loved that. And then he smiled at her, bittersweet. "Now, are you ready to order?"

Lunch was lovely, but far too short. Hermione could've spent five hours sitting there with him and barely noticed the time passing, she was sure. They turned the conversation away from scars and Dark Marks, to slightly less awkward things. They talked about the children of course; pointless speculation about what had happened to make James behave like that. Malfoy wasn't very helpful – his opinion of James was coloured by his opinion on Harry. He didn't hate him, but there was dislike there, and distrust. Ron came up once too, when Hermione worried he wasn't going to keep his lunch date with Rose, and she thought maybe Malfoy did hate Ron. Just a little bit. Or perhaps a lot.

But mostly they talked about less personal things. Like the love potion case Hermione had lost, spending a good fifteen minutes in animated discussion about it over their – delicious – food, and Hermione realised just how much she'd missed this. Stimulating conversation over things that perhaps didn't directly affect her, but made her think. That presented her with problems – ethical or otherwise – to solve. With Ron, conversations had always been about the prosaic, day-to-day things, or silly jokes. Never anything more interesting. Malfoy gesticulated with his fork as he explained a point, his eyes narrowed in thought and his tone emphatic, and Hermione found herself gazing at him dreamily.

"What?"

"I love this," she said without thinking, and Malfoy gave her one of his patented blink-and-you'll-miss-it smiles.

"What're the rules on expressions of love?" he asked her, soft and dark, and Hermione's stomach flip-flopped.

"I – I don't know."

"Hm." He was thoughtful. He didn't say anything, though. Just went back to his point, fork jabbing the air again.

As Malfoy escorted her from the restaurant out to the balcony, his hand on the small of her back, he dipped his mouth to her ear. "I love you, Granger," he told her in that honey-dark tone he'd used at the train station at the start of term, and Hermione felt a terrible, visceral desire surge through her body, her insides doing things. Her mind blanked. She barely managed to keep her feet moving, feeling light-headed and unsteady as they walked out to the balcony rail, Malfoy's frock-coat over his right arm. The sea was foaming greens and blues, white tipped and wild, and the air was icy, cutting through Hermione's coat. Malfoy cast a warming charm, and she thanked him, smiling.

"Do you still want to see?" he asked reluctantly, nodding to his arm, braced on the railing now as he leant out over the ocean. At her brief return nod Malfoy hissed in a harsh breath, undid his cufflink with deft fingers, and rucked up his sleeve with quick, efficient movements. He held his forearm out for her inspection; strong but lean and ivory pale, the bones of him pressing against his skin, a fine tracery of veins showing at his wrist and twining down the centre of his forearm. And atop that, the Mark. Faded to a purplish scar, it had lost some of the fine detail it would've had while Voldemort was alive, but it was still recognisably the skull, and the snake. A symbol of hatred.

Hermione reached out and touched it as the wind whipped and tore at them, and Malfoy took a small, shuddering breath that was nearly lost beneath the wind. His skin was warm and silky but where the Mark was it was slightly raised; embossed onto him. She looked up and saw his eyes were fixed on her hand, his lips parted. The wind had whipped colour into his cheeks. She splayed her hand out over his forearm; the heel of her palm covering the coils of the snake, the tips of her fingers just barely obscuring the skull, and he bit his lip. "Malfoy." He looked up at her with wide, startled eyes that looked far younger and more vulnerable than they should. Echoes of decades past. "I love you."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, searching for words, his gaze on her mouth now. "I want to kiss you," he said at last, hoarsely, "and I can't. This is so cruel, Granger. You can't say that – can't be this, and then...I can't even kiss you." Hermione tugged down his shirt sleeve briskly and then took his cufflink from his right hand, putting him back together as she tried to steady herself; she wanted to kiss him just as much as he wanted to kiss her.

"Would it help," she said tightly as she fussed with his cuff, "if I said something horrible?"

"No. Not even a little," he said, low and ragged, turning her by her shoulders toward him, and she stared at his chest as he put his mouth close to her cheek. She desperately wanted to bury her face against him and slide her arms around his waist in a very un-platonic hug. "Then I'd just want to kiss you to shut you up."

"I could mention your mother," she suggested, fingers hooking into his waistcoat pocket. He laughed.

"I'm afraid even that won't work, Granger. I'm too far gone."

"Harry?"

"Ugh. Maybe." Amusement threaded through Malfoy's voice. "But I think even that might not be enough." He turned his face and kissed her cheek, soft and full, and then drew away fast, leaving her windswept and missing his heat, warming charm or no. "I better go, Granger." He shrugged his frock-coat on, the perfect Victorian gentleman. A blond Mr Darcy. A Heathcliff who wasn't an utter bastard.

"Thank you for lunch," she said inadequately, and he inclined his head.

"Tuesday."

"Tuesday," she echoed, and then he disapparated.