Hogwarts had some of the best food when I was growing up. I really enjoyed their steak and kidney pie, but my favorites were always the jam doughnuts.

From the breakfast room at Malfoy Manor, Draco stared at the words in Granger's Prophet column that Friday morning over his meal of fried eggs, bacon, and tomato.

In his grand plan to notify Hermione that he knew her identity, he had planned his meals extremely carefully. But though he had been very meticulous in his research about her, there had not been a lot of text in her biographies devoted to food. As such, Draco utilized two instances of dishes from Hogwarts in his scheme—one of which had been their steak-and-kidney pie, which Hermione seemed to have deduced pretty clearly, as indicated by her article.

Attempting not to let any of his thoughts show on his face, lest his mother notice, he glanced upward once to find that this effort was inconsequential. Narcissa was fully occupied by Blaise, who had the jam spoon in front of his mouth and was busy cleaning it very thoroughly with his tongue. The two's eyes were locked onto each other, though neither uttered a single noise. Draco hastily looked back down, wishing he could scour the image out of his brain.

Turning back to the newspaper, he read it a fourth time and began making some plans. She wants jam doughnuts, does she?

Well, he would deliver.

Given that Draco was busy with meetings all day, he was unable to fulfill that request right away. In any event, he was content to let her stew over it for a bit; throughout the day, he smirked to himself a few times as he imagined her wondering, thinking about him.

He ended up with some jam doughnuts that evening thanks to Tipple's fastidiousness, and—apparently—a very obliging elfen cousin who worked in the Hogwarts kitchens. As the superfine caster sugar exploded inside of his mouth and strawberry jam oozed deliciously from the sweet dough, Draco's Sense went nuts. He could feel the moment when Hermione realized what he was eating, some of her emotions coming loud and clear through their bond as if they were his own.

So began a juggling act of Draco's energies. He had to make sure that between dealing with the numerous estate issues that required his attention, he made time to respond to her articles and eat his meals with her. It was only possible to balance it all by implementing a series of daily rituals.

That Wednesday, for instance, he had a meeting shortly after dawn with the head of the centaur herd, a palomino male named Tiberion. At that meeting—his fourth with the squatters—he learned that there were now 11 of them instead of merely the original eight. The centaurs still did not want to move. They liked the forested land that legally belonged to Wilson, and did not understand why they should be bound to a law made by a government which they did not recognize the authority of.

They spoke with Draco but still refused to really negotiate. But Draco had spent time with centaurs before, so he knew they did nothing quickly. It would likely take several meetings to consecutively proceed without aggression, before they would even be interested in what he had to say.

He listened to Mr Wilson's side of things, too. The man was livid the centaurs were on his land and would not go. He was even angrier that Draco had not immediately banished them now that he was back, and refused to listen that the centaurs also had legal rights. Their poached area was a huge expanse of Wilson's land, which he was still expected to pay annual tenancy to the Malfoy estate for, and had done so faithfully (if begrudgingly) for the past two years the squatters had been there.

Draco understood why he was angry. The man had legitimate complaints and had been ignored for years, which had him questioning the continuation of his tenure. Wilson came from a long line of magical horticulturists, and his family had farmed the lands of Four Oak Farm for three centuries. In fact, the Wilson family supplied a significant percentage of domestic herbal potion ingredients, some of which came exclusively from their forests, including the lands where the centaurs had staked territory. Draco felt confident that Wilson had most likely taken large monetary losses already. It was certainly not fair.

By the time Draco made it home from his sunrise rendezvous, he felt like he had already put in a full day, but it was only just breakfast time and he still had a busy day ahead.

He made sure to make it into the breakfast room before he could be distracted by anyone else. Daily ritual number one: breakfast with Hermione.

Tipple appeared near the doorway, initiating another daily meeting. The elf basked in his requests and his praise with obvious pleasure. "Good morning, sir. Does you have any requests today?"

"Good morning, Tipple," Draco greeted. He thought back to Hermione's most recent column where she had discussed her experimentations with French toast. With a smirk to himself, he addressed the elf again. "If it's no trouble, I'd enjoy some French toast this morning."

"Tipple can do it for sir right now," the little elf squeaked in response, smoothing out the front of her little dress and apron with her spindly fingers in an anxious way, like she was already itching to get started.

"Only if it's not a bother." He paused thoughtfully, thinking back to a breakfast he had once sat down to in Boston. It was another delicious memory. "I do love cream cheese stuffed French toast, but I'm sure that's too much trouble…"

"No troubles for Tipple. You'll see." She Disapparated with a loud crack.

Her French toast was almost as delicious as the surprise and recognition Draco could feel through his Sense as he ate it.

That Friday, only two days later, another of Hermione's articles came out. In it, she included something Draco could only construe as a challenge. When I was growing up, there was a Muggle drink called Orangina which we could occasionally buy as a treat.

Did she think he might not be able to procure a Muggle drink? Draco inwardly scoffed. He had learned years ago how to navigate the Muggle world, and though he still made occasional mistakes, he felt more than equal to a light challenge. Besides, he had actually tried Orangina before, years ago while staying in Italy. He already knew what it looked like.

He made plans with Blaise to go out into Muggle London for a meal, and decided he would be able to also pick up some of the drink while he was there.

They sat down at an Indian restaurant they had chosen solely by virtue of its being just down the street from the bodega where he had found and purchased a large bottle of Orangina. Nevertheless, they ordered an entire spread, and when Blaise heard their waiter speaking in Punjabi, he hailed the waiter in their language to add on an order of samosas.

"Nice," Draco agreed once the man had moved away again.

Blaise grinned. "It's not a language I'm strong in, but it never hurts to practice."

Draco was certainly not about to complain. The samosas arrived first, filled with an excellently spiced potato filling, the peas fresh-tasting, and the wrapping perfectly flaky and crispy. As he enjoyed it, he could feel Hermione take notice of his meal. Then the rest of their food arrived and neither he nor Blaise could resist the perfectly balanced scent of cloves, cardamom, and saffron.

Once Draco was sure he had Hermione's attention through their Sense, he opened the Orangina he had brought with him and drank quite a lot of it in one go. Her reaction to recognizing that he had risen to her challenge was so strong, that if he closed his eyes, he could practically feel her there with him. Almost as if she were seated at their table, both annoyed and gratified that he had completed her request. Then, he ate his meal with her.

In his mind's eye, she was the Hermione Granger from the photograph that accompanied her bi-weekly article, with a dusting of freckles just visible across the bridge of her nose, and her hair braided tightly to her head for only a couple of inches until it exploded into a mass of curls. She would also tuck into the tandoori chicken and paneer tikka with him. The paneer imparted a smoky flavor; Draco paired it with a mint coriander chutney. The chicken was so tender, it melted in his mouth.

He imagined that if Hermione were there with him for real, he would tell her about his visit to Ludhiana in northern India a few years back. It had been on that trip that he was introduced to poori, a fried dough used to grab bites of the curry and rice that made it the best kind of comfort food. Ludhiana had surprised him, because for how industrial it was, it was also home to the Nehru rose gardens, where the Muggles had installed a collection of over 1600 rose varieties. Draco had never seen anything like it. But Hermione was not there in that little restaurant, and so his communications were limited to a series of delicious flavors.

The next morning, Draco went to the St Mungo's research division for his meeting with Julianne Chen regarding the current status of the lycanthropy project. Chen had been giving him weekly updates, which were more frequent now that the experiment was coming to a close with promising results.

Today, she was asking him for more money.

"We are a bit out of our budget, given a few unforeseen expenses," she told him, directly following her positive debriefing. "Only another 230 galleons."

Internally, Draco winced. He was already fighting with Waverell on a near-daily basis over financials. Even so, Chen was looking at him with an expression that clearly indicated she did not expect him to refuse her such an inconsequential amount of galleons, given the sum of what he had already donated. What killed him even more, was that she was right. It was not an outrageous amount to ask of a sponsor.

It was funny, he decided, how he was willing to continue ruining himself and his bank account for the sake of a project his father started. Trying to shake away thoughts of Lucius, locked in Azkaban for life, Draco concluded his visit with a promissory note which Chen could present to Gringotts. Even so, as he returned home, his mind continued to drift back to his father, who he had still not seen or spoken to since just after the war and before their imprisonment. A part of him wondered what he would have to say to Draco regarding the state of affairs the House of Malfoy was currently in.

But Draco did not have to wonder long, because Waverell appeared only hours later to reprimand him personally. A long-winded rant ensued, where Draco could not get in a word edgewise until Waverell's pause after, "Yet still, you seem intent on trawling for the last dregs of what is meant to sustain the estate."

"I've deducted it from the ledger for the household expenses," Draco muttered. "We will just have to be tighter with that budget this month."

"That's not how any of this works!" shouted Waverell. "If only your grandfather could see the state of things!"

"I am attempting to protect the legacy with his money—"

"Oh, yes, by watching it go up in smoke for a hospital with more donors than they know what to do with already."

"I'm trying to make something that will make an impact—"

"It will make an impact when the goblins come to seize your lands to pay your debts!"

Draco's face burned with shame and frustration after nearly every encounter he had with his lawyer these days. Worse still, it seemed more and more apparent that Waverell was uninterested in hearing any of what Draco had to say for himself, nor did he seem to have any actual plan for moving out of the mess. It seemed almost as if the old warlock had accepted the inevitability of total bankruptcy.

The thought made Draco's stomach flip. If Waverell was not on his side any longer, he was in deep trouble indeed.

That very evening, he owled the only person he could think of that could help him. A schoolmate turned successful lawyer, Adrian Pucey. In the years since Hogwarts, Pucey had done more than just marry Draco's oldest friend, Pansy Parkinson—he had made a name for himself as a lawyer.

Draco could not go to just anyone and ask them if they would help him comprehend the many moving pieces that were his estate's convoluted finances, but he did want to understand, and Waverell was not helping him do that. Pucey met all Draco's criteria for the type of lawyer he was looking for: young, from an old family, with his own estate, and a sterling reputation. A meeting was arranged for the following afternoon at Pucey Manor.

"Iggy Waverell is a veritable tome of legal knowledge, but he's too old-fashioned," said Pucey once Draco had explained his frustrations. "He doesn't think in the modern day."

"Can you promise me your discretion? I hardly need explain why." The Puceys were an long-established pureblooded family just like the Malfoys, well-to-do and rich. The other wizard would understand where he was coming from.

"Of course," said Adrian smoothly. "Give me a few days to sort it out myself, then I'll owl you and we can set up a meeting. In the meantime, you had better head into the drawing room if you've no further business with me. Pansy has been frothing at the mouth to see you again."

"Is she home?"

Adrian smirked. "She's been waiting for you since this morning."

As Draco stepped into Pansy's drawing room, he found that she was indeed waiting for him. Tea was laid out and Lady Pucey herself was resplendent on the center sofa with the great window behind her like a royal backdrop. She was wearing a rich green chiffon gown with a very generous amount of ruffles that still did not hide her condition. She called further attention to it by resting her hand on her enormous belly, looking as pleased as the crup who got the pygmy puff.

"Well, well. Look who it is," Pansy all but purred at him. "Draco Malfoy, you have been away a long time."

"It's good to see you again, Pansy."

"Likewise. Do have a seat."

She made a big show of wandlessly making tea for him exactly how he used to take it. He did not comment, even though he had not drunk his tea that way for a few years. Instead he asked after her health and her family, as was the polite thing to do.

Pansy had three children under the age of five—two girls and a boy—and expected to welcome her fourth within the next two months. She seemed blissfully happy with Adrian, to whom she had been married six years.

As she spoke of her growing family, Draco felt a surge of longing within him as well. His thoughts went to Hermione, and he wondered if she would want children someday. He would not be opposed to the idea himself. If she did, he would give her as many as she wished.

Pansy returned him to the present with a prompt. "Tell me what you've been up to."

Draco obliged her, more because of their shared history than anything. He explained that he and Blaise had been exploring the world, and recounted a couple of amusing anecdotes from those travels.

Repositioning herself primly on the sofa, Pansy gave him a look. "Still no news of a soulmate?"

Pansy Parkinson had been Draco Malfoy's friend since they were three years old, being one of a very select pool of acceptable playmates approved by his parents. They were aged seven when Pansy found out about the Fatemark as the two of them played in the Parkinsons' backyard grotto. Lord Basil Parkinson was an accomplished charms master, while his wife Iris had been an adept herbologist. Together they created a beautiful and exotic place for their children to play in behind their small manor house.

In the grotto, a young Draco and Pansy had spent many an hour leaping off of the large, flat leaves of the Bouncing Lily Pads, through the indoor Singing Waterfall, and landing with a splash in a small pond filled with clean, fresh water and numerous harmless magical water plants and flowers. Pansy had grown up seeing Draco in nothing but his swimming outfit and pale as he was, the Fatemark had been unnaturally even paler so that it stood out, even on him. One day Pansy had finally asked him about it, and he had told her. The rest had been history and she had, to his knowledge, respected his secret.

"I'd have said if there was someone for you to meet," he finally answered her.

"Do you know who she is?"

Though he considered lying, Draco instead decided to trust her, despite their eight-year estrangement. "Yes."

Repositioning herself once more on the sofa, but this time looking a good deal less imperious about it, Pansy leaned toward him a little more. "So you know who she is, but… you haven't met her?"

Draco confirmed this with a nod.

The smallest wrinkle of a frown marred Pansy's forehead at this. "Why not? I thought once you found your soulmate, it was meant to be explosive and you'd basically be glued to one another? Isn't that what all the stories say?"

He shook his head again. "I wouldn't even know where to start."

"The beginning's a good place."

Draco looked up at her, unsure what he was expecting to find there. A lot had happened since their shared childhood. It seemed like a century ago, as far as he was concerned. And yet, here was the same little girl in front of him, now a woman with children of her own, and it occurred to him how trusting he had been at the age of seven compared to now, when he hesitated.

Before he could second-guess himself, he explained, "I met her years ago, but we didn't… know. Back then. I know her identity now, but I haven't formally reached out to try to seal the bond."

Shrewdly, Pansy observed him, her dark eyes calculating. Draco had always thought her upturned pug-nose was a shame, because she was otherwise quite pretty in his opinion. Possibly even more so now, in her role as the matriarch of her own family.

"If you're so close to bliss and total happiness, why do you seem upset?"

"It's complicated."

Pansy frowned. "Do I know her?"

"Oh yes." Draco bit out a laugh that sounded more like a bark. "She was in our year at Hogwarts."

Her eyes grew wide, and Draco could practically hear her mind spinning through a role call of all the female students in their year. "Well, are you going to tell me the story or not?"

Because of all that had happened and all they had been through, it had ultimately always been easy for Draco Malfoy to trust Pansy Parkinson. Rubbing at his temple with the hand that was not holding his teacup, he took a deep breath, already knowing he would do it again. He had barely spent two minutes on the tale, beginning with the boring diet of his then-unknown soulmate, and commencing with the taste war they had undergone months ago, when Pansy interrupted him.

"It's Hermione Granger, isn't it? Your soulmate."

Draco stopped in his tracks. "How did you know?"

"It's just the way you were describing the fight. It was… reminiscent."

Rattled a bit, he did his best not to seem shaken as he confirmed that she was correct, and continued the story. He spent the next seven minutes leading her down the path he had followed, the rabbit hole he had fallen into once he had seen that first article in the Daily Prophet , and the way his Fatemark had begun to change and take shape.

Pansy sat and listened, making no further interruptions until Draco had finally said all there was to tell. Now he sat back, and waited to hear what she would say.

She took her time responding, leaning back with a quiet sigh. "And this is why you've been upset?"

There was no point in denying it. "You must remember our history? Not to mention, she comes with an entire circus, both in the news and in her choice of friends—"

"You're drawing conclusions about a witch you don't even really know," Pansy interrupted him.

He stopped and stared, unused to such frankness from her. There was no need to ask her to explain herself, she already knew he would want her to.

"Think about it, Draco. This is your soulmate. You've been waiting for her every day since you were a child and you first understood what your Fatemark was." She shifted on the couch again, this time as if in discomfort. "Consider that in trying to take every angle into account, you've actually overlooked one of the most important aspects."

"And what is that?"

"The witch herself. It doesn't matter that your soulmate is famous and successful, or that she was a bushy-haired know-it-all teenager. She is just a woman, who you really don't know."

"We went to Hogwarts with her, which I remember pretty well. Also recall that I read all six of her biographies. Plus she's all over the news—"

"So you know plenty about her then, sure," said Pansy slowly, as if she were explaining something obvious to someone of limited intellect. "But are you the same wizard you were when you were at school? Are you what they say in the news?"

To this, Draco had nothing to say. Sometimes he, himself, was still unsure of the answers to those questions.

"Of course you aren't," Pansy continued more gently, as if also sensing something of the inner struggle he was undergoing. "Yes, Granger is a war heroine and famous for her radical legal activism, plus freakishly smart." A bit of the teenaged Pansy had snuck into the grown witch's voice here, almost so that Draco expected a sneer to accompany this list of positive traits, but Pansy didn't. "Granger is willing to make big changes for what she believes in, and she's full of courage."

"Right, but—"

"And so," Pansy interrupted him, "are you."

Taken aback, Draco started. "Me?"

"Yes. You've become a traveler, a connoisseur of culture and food. You are a man of the world now. You need to give Granger a chance to get to know the wizard you've become."

He snorted.

But Pansy had not yet concluded her lecture. "Not to mention, you need to learn other things about her, too. You might remember things, and know all those facts you learned from the books you read, but there's still a lot you don't know."

Attempting nonchalance, he replied, "Like what?"

"Is she a morning person? What are her quirks? Her favorite book? What kind of music does she listen to when she's sad?" Pansy listed off, ticking each item off on her fingers as she did. Then, with only one finger left to tick off, she met Draco's eye to be sure she had his attention when she meaningfully concluded, "Is she lonely?"

Her words gave Draco pause, because in all his ruminations, he had never actually stopped to consider that Hermione might be as lonely as he was. It seemed obvious in retrospect. Frowning at being caught out like that, he countered, "She's got plenty of friends and admirers. Whenever anyone from the Prophet gets a picture of her, she's always with someone."

Draco knew this because he had personally combed through several months worth of back-issues of the papers, pausing every time there was a mention of Granger's name, or especially a photo. Most of the time, she seemed to be in the company of friends or people she was working with.

But Pansy was not about to let him off so easily. "Surely you know that a person can be surrounded by people and still feel intensely lonely."

Draco knew she was thinking of the war now, or possibly even of sixth year. It had been a lonely time for him—for all of them, when you could not count on another soul, and could barely trust yourself. Even the confines of your own mind was an unsafe landscape where concealment was necessary for survival.

"By your own account, she's been trying to find you." Pansy sat back now, her hand resting on her stomach once more.

"I know it's time." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Past time. It's just… she comes with a lot."

"A lot," Pansy agreed.

"Thanks for the confirmation," he said sarcastically.

She crooked a smile at him. "I'm so very glad you dropped by today, Draco. I've missed you, and I'm very excited for you to fall in love."

Though he replied with a quip, he was mentally at war with himself. After all, wasn't he already more than a little bit in love with Hermione Granger? The prospect of falling even further was terrifying.

As Draco reflected on the interaction later, he had to admit that Pansy had been right. For what seemed like the hundredth time, that evening he re-read all of Hermione's articles that he had on hand. As his eyes scanned over the now-familiar way she wrote about food she had loved throughout her life, Draco had to wonder how she had gone from bouillabaisse and shepherd's pie to whatever awful food-adjacent thing she had been eating when their Senses first began to connect. She had replaced the food that even she admitted gave her comfort, with something bland and boring.

The funny thing was, once Granger had begun to engage in his game, she had done so readily. He had always enjoyed a good challenge, as he easily got bored, which was why he had enjoyed the flexibility of a life of travel. Granger was proving to be a worthy adversary, keeping Draco on his toes, even when he had the upper hand. He had to admit that in an ideal world, they were a good match.

But we don't live in an ideal world. The reality is that she is who she is, and I am a convicted Death Eater. He thought of the faded Dark Mark that still marred his forearm. Despite what anyone thought about it, being Hermione Granger's soulmate was a big deal that was going to come with a lot of attention from the press. Being Hermione Granger's soulmate as Draco Malfoy, pureblood scion and former Death Eater, was going to make headlines. It was a huge leap of faith, and he was—he hated to admit it— scared. Just as Pansy had hinted. Just as Blaise had berated him for previously, on more than one occasion.

Not only that, but Pansy had been right about something else as well. The longer they had interacted, the more Draco could not help noticing that while her articles were often a balance between playful and demanding, there was something in them that also hinted at an undercurrent of loneliness and longing. In nearly each one, there was a reference to home, family, and people you cared about.

Draco accepted then and there that it really was time to stop teasing her from the shadows. It was not his intent to be cruel, he just was not quite ready for the confrontation that would happen. And it would happen.

He would have to be careful how he did this. But how to send the message that he was there and willing, but maybe that she just needed to be patient with him a little longer? He was going to have to come up with something extra special. Something perfect—just for her.

While he considered what that might be, he learned that Hermione was scheduled to give a radio interview the following morning. Curious and strangely nervous at the prospect of hearing her voice, he switched on the wireless radio at the appointed time. As the host listed off her many accolades, Draco's heart felt as if it were swelling within him. She had already achieved so much.

Then, Hermione was formally introduced, and she said, "Hello."

Hello. Her single word reverberated through him as if she had spoken it from within his lungs. A pang went immediately through Draco of his own accord as well, an intense longing that she had not actually said hello to him.

He listened intently to the program, drinking in the sound of her voice and even, once, her throaty little laugh. She talked a lot about the laws she and her team were presenting to the Wizengamot, to make Wolfsbane potion available to anyone without needing to register or pay for it.

As she spoke, Draco thought of what Chen and her team were working on in the St Mungo's research center, and an idea formed. Granger's law was meeting opposition from some of the council, but depending on what Chen's team concluded in mere weeks, a veritable revolution could shake the magical world with regard to Werewolfery.

He was not sure how, but he liked the idea of being already tangentially connected to Hermione in this one small way, in the real world.

At the end of the radio show, someone wrote in to ask about the article in the Prophet. Hermione's answer was surprisingly forthcoming and therefore, a clever diversion from what Draco knew to be the truth; he was again impressed by her social dexterity. "Cooking reminds me of my family. My mum and grandmother took turns cooking for my family when I was growing up. Most were Yoruba dishes." The host replied with an asinine answer which Hermione was gracious enough to laugh at. She ended the answer with: "Any food tastes best when it's eaten with people you love."

It gave Draco an idea. He collected Blaise and they left immediately for the Portkeys, Blaise eager to come along the moment he deduced what they were up to.

"Another soulmate errand, hm?" The wizard, looking somehow both pleased and skeptical, glanced up at the list of departures. "Are we going anywhere in particular?"

"Lagos."

"Ahh, I love Portugal. Will there be time for the beach?"

"Lagos, Nigeria," Draco clarified. He had picked this place because it was where the Granger biographies indicated her mother had come from before emigrating.

Blaise looked interested, and perhaps a small bit disappointed, but he recovered quickly. "What are we doing there?"

"Getting dinner," Draco replied, leading the way to the ticketing counter.

"Why there?"

He'll know eventually, he told himself, with regard to Blaise. "It's where my soulmate's family is from."

"How do you know?"

"Just help me, will you?"

His friend kicked up a bit of a fuss at this answer, but there were logistics to attend to first, and Blaise was patient. He knew Draco would have to explain, because once they were seated for the entirety of an evening meal, they would be stuck there together.

Within an hour, they had arrived and had managed to find a restaurant somehow by Blaise cobbling together some pidgin language with some locals. Thankfully for Draco, the woman who ran the recommended place spoke some English. He explained that his Fatemark had tied him to a Nigerian woman and that he was interested in sending her a message through his Sense using traditional Yoruba cuisine. The woman, while a bit stiff and cold to him at first, warmed quickly upon learning of his reason for being here. Blaise also aided in convincing her to help him in his quest. She served them both up a hearty plate of jollof rice, moi moi, and plantains.

Moi moi, Draco quickly discovered, was a cooked bean pudding made from a combination of bean paste, peppers, onions and spices, along with crayfish meat. There was a whole boiled egg in the middle. When he stuck his spoon into the little dish the pudding was contained in, it came away almost like a custard. It was moist but firm, and had hunks of crayfish meat in it that were deliciously spiced and very fresh. A sweet, earthy undertone which he thought might be nutmeg, gave the pudding a unique flavor. He had to wonder if this was indeed something Hermione had grown up eating, and what cooking in the Granger household had been like.

Almost as if answering his question, he could soon feel Hermione's desolate reaction as they ate the meal together. She was lonely, heartbroken, but hopeful. It was time. It was past time, as he had admitted to Pansy. But Draco also knew Hermione would need some easing into the idea of who he was.

"Don't you think it's time to stop playing games?" Blaise's question from across the table took him from his reveries.

But Draco was not cowed by the accusation this time, and he had known this conversation was coming. "It's not a game. It's courtship."

Blaise's stern look morphed into one of interest. "How so?"

"Being with her is not going to be easy."

"Are you saying you know who she is?

"I do."

Shrewdly, Blaise eyed him. "And you're scared?"

"There is… a lot for me to atone for."

"But you're not running?"

"No."

"Are you going to tell me who she is?"

Draco rolled his eyes. Of course Blaise had latched onto that part of the sentence. Still, it was easier to say it again, now that Pansy already knew. "It's Hermione Granger."

Blaise stared at him. "You're fucking with me."

With a shake of his head, Draco raised his eyebrows pointedly. "I'm not."

"No kidding," Blaise quietly murmured, his huge eyes roaming around the small restaurant and on the meal in front of them. "And all this…"

"I'm telling her I know who she is." He explained again about the article Granger had been writing in the Prophet. "When I get back to the house, I'm going to write to her."

"To meet?" an incredulous Blaise pressed.

"Soon."

True to his word, Draco sat down at his writing desk the moment they returned to the Manor. He formed a plan weeks ago, and had picked up three sheafs of two-way parchment in anticipation of reaching out, knowing the time was getting closer.

But penning his first letter to Hermione was daunting and he threw away several versions of his note before finally deciding he did not hate what he eventually came up with. Before he could second-guess himself, he sent the missive via owl, and hoped it would reach her in a timely manner. He hoped it would reach her at all. Once the owl was sent, he placed his three sheafs of parchment at the forefront of his desk. He began watching the two-way parchment early the next morning, despite not really expecting a reply during Hermione's working hours.

It was much later at night when the first sentence finally appeared. He was in the library alone, reading about centaur land disputes. Tipple had left him with a tray of cheese and grapes, along with a flagon of pumpkin juice.

I've never had moi moi with crayfish in it before, her script sprawled across the topmost corner of the part of the page within its embellished borders. My grandmother used to make it with fish or liver, since those were more readily available in Cheltenham. While Draco's heart pounded and he tried to unscramble his brain enough to respond, she added another sentence to the parchment, where it appeared before his eyes. I never much preferred the liver version, but the crayfish were superb.

He could feel her nervousness through his Sense, and it was oddly this that gave him his courage. Did you enjoy your birthday dinner?

I did. Thank you. His heart soared as he watched the ink pen itself across the page, and knowing that somewhere she was writing those words to him in real time. Is it really you?

Yes, Hermione, it's me. His gaze lingered on how he had written her name, and he instantly decided he liked it. She had a visually beautiful name; how had he never noticed before? A thrill ran through him.

Her next words were not romantic, but practical. How can I know for sure? I'm sorry, but I must be cautious. I'm sure you can understand why.

Draco stared at those words. He hated that she had to write them, but he did understand. There were people out there that could want to harm her, most likely dangerous people. In fact, he admired her guarded optimism for both its facets.

If you give it a moment, you should be tasting pumpkin juice, he wrote.

He took a long drink from the flagon Tipple had set aside for him, even taking the time to move it around in his mouth in case it might make the flavor come in clearer to her. As he did so, he added to his reply. When I was first getting my Sense, you were living on the most boring diet known to man. In case she did not get the hint, he underlined the word 'boring'. Judging from the vague feeling of amusement that came through their bond, she clearly understood his full meaning. I had been Sensing you for a couple of weeks at the time, and kept trying to reach out, but you were too busy doing whatever it is you do all day. I retaliated with the spiciest soup I could find.

Throwing down his quill, Draco delighted in feeling her burst of anger at the memory. Her reply to this was more scratchy in appearance than her previous ones, as if she had tried to write as quickly as possible and the quill had dragged in her haste. That soup was awful! ('Awful' was underlined twice). I thought you were trying to kill me!

Draco actually snickered aloud to the empty library. He responded, I was just trying to gain your attention, and it worked. Should you require further proof that I am who I claim to be, I have a Fatemark on my right shoulder blade which has been itching for about four months now.

No, I believe you. Mine is on my left shoulder blade.

"Mirrors, interesting," he muttered to himself. From what he had read, mirrored Fatemarks instead of identical copies were uncommon. No one knew what it meant, or even if it meant anything.

But he was stopped in his musings when he saw the next thing she had written. When do you want to meet?

Draco only stared at the parchment, about halfway filled up by now. What to say to that? He had known she would ask. It was inevitable. He had prepared for it, but the words were still hard to write. Because he did want to meet her, right then, and pull her into his bones and his soul and never let go. The longing was so strong, it took all of his will to resist it. No, he thought privately to himself, it will be better for both of us in the long run, to do it this way. He knew that it would be easier for her if she was already a little bit in love with him before he revealed himself. He tried not to think too much about the formidable prospect of wooing her with only his words, but was resigned to the facts.

Finally, he picked up his quill and wrote, I'm not ready for that yet.

He could actually feel her heart sink through their bond, and it just about broke his own. Her tiny reply, Why not? only served to make him feel even worse.

He had already prepared his answer ahead of time. Being with you would change everything for me.

Her response took a few moments to appear. I won't deny that's true. My assistant and I have drafted several different plans about how to deal with the public when the time comes.

Draco did not doubt this for one moment. Maybe we could get to know one another a little bit this way first?

After a tellingly long pause, she wrote, Okay.

Thank you, he wrote back quickly. Draco hated that the hour was so late already and they barely had time to talk. Tomorrow's agenda was packed too. I'm sorry to cut this short, but I have an early meeting.

So soon?

Sorry, he wrote, hoping she believed him. Any requests for breakfast?

Nothing too adventurous, please.

I make no promises, he answered, hoping to convey some levity.

When will I hear from you again?

We could have more of a conversation tomorrow evening, if you're free.

Yes.

Good night, he wrote. Though it had been true he really needed to get to sleep, he sat in his seat a moment longer, staring at their conversation that took up much of the space between the parchment's borders.

As he ran through what they talked about, one more sentence ran along the bottom: I never got your name?

Smiling softly, he wiped the parchment clean so it could be used again tomorrow.

.

.

The next evening, once Draco had finally been released from his obligations, he raced to his desk in the library, where he had stored the two-way parchment. He had wanted to bring it with him and keep it in the pockets of his robes, but his day reviewing the Malfoy estate's legacy and financial situation with Pucey had been too important to be distracted from. Even for her.

It had been a wretched day, full of bad news. Finally, Draco understood why Waverell had been reduced to shouting at him. He had been stewing through it all for hours, grateful for the impassivity on Pucey's face for the duration.

When he sat down at last to take out the two-way parchment, there was already a sentence from Hermione waiting for him. How did you know about the bouillabaisse?

Draco smiled; he did not have to ask what she meant. You have six biographies. There is a lot of information about you available.

You read all six of my biographies? came the near-instantaneous answer, giving away that she had been sitting in front of the parchment and waiting for him to reply.

He felt momentarily guilty that he had kept her waiting. I did my homework.

You seem to know a lot about me. I still don't know much about you.

Here we go…

She proposed, Three questions?

He declined. Too many.

It isn't much to ask.

Of course you'd say that.

I'm your soulmate.

"Too right you are," he said to himself, feeling intensely proud of that fact. But he instead deflected, So you are. Still no.

Two questions, she tried, clearly seeing that she was getting nowhere.

It's too many.

Fine. One question. Just one, every time we talk.

Well, he supposed she would need to be able to ask him some questions, or else how would they be able to get to know one another? Wasn't that the point of this exercise? Agreed. But I'll get to do the same.

Her reply came swiftly. Fine by me. What's your name?

Pick a different question.

Why not? It's the first thing two people usually find out about each other when they meet.

Sure, except you'd just have me found.

I would not.

If Draco was not much mistaken, he could somehow tell through their bond that she was lying. If you say so, he wrote. I'm still not comfortable with you having that information yet.

Has anyone ever told you how infuriating you are?

Yes. In fact, she had been one of those people on more than one occasion, back at Hogwarts.

Fine. I know you like to eat, but can you also cook? That's my question.

It was a soft question without a lot at stake. Draco greatly appreciated it, and so he rewarded her with a longer reply. I am good at a few things, but my family kept a cook when I grew up so I didn't have many opportunities to do it. I've been traveling the world for the past few years, eating and cooking all kinds of food.

Really? Is that why at first you seemed to be eating at all times of the day and night? Where was your favorite place to stay? Where was your favorite food from?

Conversation with Hermione Granger turned out to be spectacularly easy. Even though this was technically several more questions than their agreed-upon one, Draco still answered. He told her about his visit to Malaysia years ago, when he ate the most incredible crêpes. He explained that the best thing he'd ever done in his life was broom-diving in New Zealand, where he jumped from a Muggle plane while harnessed to a modified broomstick. He told her that often, he and his traveling companion had merely gone to their local magical embassy wherever they were, and took random Portkeys to see where they ended up.

That must have been an incredible lifestyle. Though I shudder at the thought of broom-diving, personally.

Draco had a private chuckle to himself, because he thought he had remembered that about her from their first-year class. They wrote to one another for too short a time before Hermione had to write out, It's my turn for an early night. I'm afraid it's been a long week due to some legislation I'm trying to push through. Tomorrow will be another long day.

I understand.

Talk tomorrow?

Yes. Good night.

Good night.

That night, Draco dreamt of her beside him. It was so clear and tangible to him, that when he awoke the following morning, feeling spectacularly rested, he was disoriented to find her not there with him.

A/N: Wowie, two chapters in pretty quick succession. That's nice, right? I'd always intended to post these together since there is so much overlapping time between this and the last. Alas, real life got in the way. I must thank all persons who commented from the bottom of my heart. I love you all so much, even though I am terrible and really didn't respond to everyone.

I got a comment a few chapters back from someone who wanted to make sure Pansy was doing well. So here she is, conveniently as a plot device. But also, I was thinking about it and I am pretty much always horrible to Pansy in my fics. I don't even mean to be. So it seemed only fair that at least in one story, she gets to be resplendently happy.

Requests were made for Indian food. You'll never hear me complain about that! I couldn't resist adding some of my favorites. Also, I love cream cheese stuffed French toast, and so should you.

My alpha reader was sarenia, who had the unenviable task of delicately pruning my overgrown hedges of exposition. My gratitude is deep (also soft and pleasantly fuzzy). My beta reader was iwasbotwp, who really deserves an entire parade and an awesome foot massage, but gets this shoutout instead. Thank you both so much, my friends!