Disclaimer: I do not own the rights of any of the characters who all belong to J. K. Rowling, and I am not profiting from this whatsoever.

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Chapter Nine

Just like the morning he had left her flat, he had been quite careful with his point of apparition, when going to her place to pick her up for their date. It was extremely convenient that her place was in walking distance from the Leaky Cauldron, when you exited through the Muggle entrance, as he had realised the first night of their reunion. He had considered apparating to her flat, but as it was still light out in the early February evening, and she had been the one controlling their apparition on the night of their encounter, he didn't want to risk shocking a bunch of Muggles. So here he was, wearing one of his few casual suits that could pass off as 'normal' in the Muggle word, but hidden underneath his dark Wizard cloak as he was making his way through the Leaky Cauldron, trying not to get recognised by anyone.

With some intuitive sneaking and dumb luck Draco made it through the dark pub and out of the Muggle entrance. Once he was outside Draco found a small alcove and let the hood fall down from his head. He transfigured the robe into a black trench coat . It was an odd sensation for him to be walking amongst Muggles like it was just another day. It gave him a sense of melancholy walking down the street. Memories of disdain, hatred and torture filled his head as he watched the people pass him by. No matter how many years passed, how many people told him that he was forgiven for his sins or how many times he looked at the beautiful brunette and her warm eyes, which would light up whenever they looked at each other, he still hated himself for the casualties he had been part of causing during the war. And as he crossed over a trafficked street he admitted to himself then and there - that he never would.

When he reached her front door he knocked firmly on the wooden surface and then took a step back as he awaited her arrival. The faint clacking of her steps grew louder as she neared the door, and Draco felt himself take in a sharp breath when she opened the door between them. It wasn't that he hadn't expected her to be beautiful - she always looked amazing - but knowing that the outfit she wore now, she had specifically picked out for their date, for him, made him feel things inside. Feelings he did not recognise, but welcomed.

Her hair, which at this point reached just under her chin, was split down the left side and brushed flat behind her ears. It framed her face nicely and brought focus to her brown eyes and plum-coloured lips. She was wearing a sleek black satin gown, which ended just above her ankles. It was tied behind her neck and had a deep open back. Her feet were entwined in sleek black peep-toe heels with strings. The ensemble was classic and refined, but the black satin enveloping her body was incredibly sexy, and Draco appreciated every last bit of effort she had put into this outfit.

His eyes finally met her expectant brown ones, and he gave a smile. "You look beautiful…" a slight pause caught in his sentence "...Hermione." The brunette returned his smile and brushed her hand over the dress.

"Thank you Draco." He motioned for her to join him outside, and before she closed the door behind her, she had summoned a black coat, which had been folded nicely on the couch. As the gentleman and pureblood wizard he was, he immediately offered her his arm, which she accepted and rested her much smaller arm on his. They descended the small outdoor stairwell and began walking down the street towards the Thames. The walk there was filled with a serene silence - yet the expectations from both of them fueled the sparks between them, as she held onto his arm.

He felt her eyes on his face, and was certain of what kind of look was plastered across her delicate features. And as he slowly turned his gaze to meet hers - his suspicion was confirmed. Hermione Granger hated not knowing what was going on. A small smirk played on Draco's lips. It wasn't often that someone could get the upper hand with this particular witch. With an "I'm not telling" plastered on his face, Draco turned his face forward and then had to conceal a chuckle when he heard Hermione blow out air in frustration. It was amazing that even after all these years, he still had all her small quirks memorised. Back then, of course, they represented everything he despised about her very being. All those facial expressions and ways of being, used to be attached to her, either beating him in class, defending her friends or fighting for all that was good. Which were all contributing factors to Draco's inner hatred and fight within himself.

The low hum of conversation filled the dimly lit French restaurant as Draco held the door open for Hermione, allowing her to step inside first. Warm golden light cast a soft glow over the intimate space, with candles flickering on each small table. The smell of freshly baked bread and delicate sauces wafted through the air. Draco noticed the satisfied look that crossed Hermione's face as she took in the ambiance.

"This place is lovely," she whispered as he led her toward their reserved table near a window overlooking the quiet London street.

He allowed himself a small smile. "I thought you'd like it."

As he hung their coats Draco felt her brown eyes cling to his figure. It wasn't an unusual feeling, but he had an inkling that she found him unusual at this very moment. Draco's hair, which was usually smoothed back when he was seen in the ministry, was combed through but otherwise dishevelled, quite fittingly for their secret date. He was wearing a two piece royal blue suit with a white dress shirt - a major contrast to his usual dark wizard robes, but he thought it to be very fitting for their date in the Muggle part of London.

Thinking consciously about what he wore was of course not foreign for Draco, as his mother, from a very early age, had instructed him that only the poor and disdained walked amongst others in their worst fittings. But it had proven a challenge to find something in his wardrobe which did not scream "I DON'T FIT IT". What had saved him here, was of course the knowledge that he would be taking her to a place that required a certain look.

Once seated, a waiter promptly arrived with menus and an offer of wine. Draco glanced at Hermione before nodding to the waiter. "A bottle of your best Pinot Noir, please."

Hermione raised an eyebrow as the waiter left. "Pinot Noir? Someone's done his research."

Draco gave a modest shrug. "I try."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, skimming over the menu. Draco felt a tension still clinging to his chest, the pressure of the night and what it represented weighing heavily on him. He wasn't used to feeling vulnerable, especially not around her, but here, in this soft, quiet moment, there was something disarming about Hermione's presence.

She glanced up from her menu and caught him staring. "What?"

"You look... stunning tonight," Draco said softly, the words hanging in the air between them. Hermione's cheeks flushed slightly, and she smiled, looking down for a brief second.

"Thank you," she replied, her voice warm, though there was something tentative in it, as if she were navigating these unfamiliar waters with just as much caution as he was. "You clean up quite well yourself."

The waiter returned with the wine, pouring them each a glass. Draco lifted his to hers, watching as their glasses clinked softly together. "To... new beginnings," he said, the words carrying more weight than a simple toast.

"To new beginnings," Hermione echoed, meeting his gaze over the rim of her glass before taking a sip.

As they began discussing their orders, the conversation naturally flowed into safer, familiar topics—work, mutual acquaintances, recent events in both the wizarding and Muggle worlds. Yet, even with the banter, an undeniable tension hummed just beneath the surface, the unresolved history between them palpable in every shared glance.

When the waiter came to take their orders, Draco noticed Hermione relax a little more. As the night wore on, their conversation shifted from small talk to deeper, more personal subjects. He found himself listening intently to her, the way she described her latest projects, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about things that mattered to her. She spoke passionately about everything from work to magical legislation she was fighting to change, and it fascinated him.

"Sometimes I wonder if the Ministry will ever change," Hermione said with a sigh, swirling the wine in her glass. "There's so much resistance, even from people who you'd think would know better after all we went through."

Draco nodded. "The old ways are hard to break. Trust me, I know."

Hermione glanced at him, her expression softening. "I'm sure you do."

There was a pause, filled by the sound of a violinist playing softly in the corner of the restaurant. Draco shifted slightly in his seat, a heaviness settling in his chest again. This was the moment. He could feel it.

"You know," he began quietly, looking down at his hands before daring to meet her eyes again, "I've been thinking a lot about the past. About what happened, what I was part of... and I know it's not something that just goes away."

Hermione's expression was unreadable as she listened, her eyes locked on his, waiting.

"I'm not proud of who I was back then. I know I wouldn't have been able to stop Bellatrix, even if I had wanted to, and in the moment I was probably more focused on surviving myself…" he trailed off, looking at something far beyond the window. "But I can still hear your screams from that night, and no matter what, I don't think I will ever be able to get past that."

"I'm not... looking for forgiveness, not from you, or anyone else, but—" He hesitated, his throat tightening. "I just want you to know that I've changed. Or at least, I'm trying to."

The silence between them stretched, and for a moment, Draco feared he'd said too much. But then Hermione reached across the table, her fingers brushing his.

"I know you've changed, Draco," she said softly, her voice laced with understanding. "We've all been through things that... shaped us in ways we didn't expect. But you're here, now. And that means something."

Draco felt a weight lift from his chest, a small, tentative smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He squeezed her hand gently before letting it go.

Their dinner arrived soon after, and the conversation shifted once more, lighter this time, filled with soft laughter and shared memories. As the evening wore on, Draco found himself relaxing in a way he hadn't expected, the tension between them slowly unravelling into something... hopeful.

By the time they finished their meal, the restaurant had emptied out, leaving them one of the last remaining couples. The city outside was quiet, the glow from the streetlamps casting soft shadows on the cobblestones. Draco helped Hermione with her coat, the night air cool but not unpleasant as they stepped outside.

"I had a wonderful time tonight," Hermione said, looking up at him with a small, genuine smile.

Draco smiled back, feeling something warm settle in his chest. "So did I."

They stood there for a moment, neither of them quite ready to part ways. Finally, Hermione broke the silence.

"Walk me home?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Draco's heart skipped a beat, and he nodded. "Of course."

As they reached the front of Hermione's building, the conversation that had flowed so naturally between them all evening had started to slow. The night air was crisp, and the warmth of her arm tucked into his felt grounding. There was an unspoken energy lingering between them, something that neither had fully acknowledged but both were acutely aware of.

Hermione fumbled with her keys for a moment, a quiet laugh escaping her as she found the right one. "Well," she said, looking at the door and then back at Draco.

Draco nodded, his gaze lingering on her face. He wasn't sure what to say, the weight of the evening hanging between them. He felt a pull, a magnetic force, to follow her inside—but he wasn't sure if he should act on it. For a moment, the uncertainty hung in the air.

"Would you... like to come in for a bit?" Hermione asked, her voice tentative, but there was a warmth in her eyes. "I have some tea, or... if you'd prefer something stronger..."

Draco felt his pulse quicken. There was something in her tone, an openness, that he hadn't expected. He gave a small nod, feeling the corner of his lips tug into a smile. "Tea sounds nice."

Hermione smiled back, unlocking the door and pushing it open, gesturing for him to follow. He stepped inside, the warmth of her flat immediately contrasting with the coolness of the night air. The familiar scent of her place—something faintly floral, mixed with old parchment and the faintest hint of coffee—surrounded him, and it was comforting in a way he hadn't anticipated.

"Make yourself comfortable," Hermione said, slipping off her coat and gesturing toward the sofa. "I'll put the kettle on."

Draco nodded, shrugging off his own coat and draping it over a nearby chair before he took a seat. He glanced around, noticing small personal details scattered throughout the room: a stack of books by the window, a half-finished crossword puzzle on the coffee table, a framed photo of Harry, Ron, and Hermione from what looked like their early years. It was cozy, lived-in, and entirely her.

He heard the soft clattering of cups from the kitchen and soon, Hermione returned with two steaming mugs. She handed one to him and sat down on the sofa beside him, tucking her legs under her as she settled in.

"So," she began, blowing lightly on her tea, "how was the restaurant? You picked it, after all. Did it live up to your expectations?"

Draco chuckled softly, taking a sip from his mug. "It was good," he admitted. "But I think the company had a lot to do with that."

Hermione smiled at his comment, her eyes glinting with something unreadable. There was a brief pause, and then she set her tea down on the table, turning slightly to face him.

"You know," she began, her voice quieter now, "I never thought we'd be here... like this. The two of us."

Draco set his own mug down, meeting her gaze. "Neither did I."

A beat passed between them, and the tension from earlier that evening resurfaced, only now it was stronger, more tangible. Hermione's eyes lingered on his face, and Draco felt a surge of something he couldn't quite name—a mixture of desire, uncertainty, and vulnerability.

"I'm glad we are, though," she said softly.

Draco's heart thudded in his chest. "So am I."

For a moment, the room seemed to grow smaller, the space between them charged with an unspoken question. Hermione leaned in slightly, her eyes flicking to his lips, and Draco's breath hitched. Without thinking, he reached out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

Hermione's eyes fluttered shut at his touch, and when they opened again, the warmth and openness in them was undeniable. Slowly, tentatively, she leaned in further, and Draco closed the gap, his lips brushing against hers in the softest of kisses. It was tentative at first, a gentle exploration, but then something shifted. The kiss deepened, and Draco felt Hermione's hand slip around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

It was as though everything they had been holding back—the tension, the shared history, the unspoken words—was released in that moment. Draco's hand slid to her waist, pulling her against him as the kiss grew more urgent, more needy. Hermione's fingers tangled in his hair, and Draco couldn't suppress the soft groan that escaped his throat.

They broke apart, breathing heavily, their foreheads resting against one another's. Hermione's eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed, and Draco could see the question in her gaze—one that he shared.

"Are you sure about this?" Draco asked quietly, his voice hoarse with the weight of the moment.

Hermione's response was immediate. "Yes."

That one word was all the permission he needed. The kiss that followed was different from the first—a rush of certainty and longing. Draco's lips moved over hers with newfound confidence, the hesitation gone, replaced by a raw, unspoken intensity. Hermione responded without hesitation, her hands slipping down his chest, feeling the rapid, almost frantic beat of his heart beneath her fingers. The thrum of life there matched her own, their bodies tuned to the same wild rhythm.

Draco's hands found her waist, his fingers curling around her with a mix of tenderness and possession, as if he was both guiding and grounding himself. With gentle pressure, he eased her back onto the sofa, the space between them shrinking until there was none. Their bodies pressed together, every inch of him fitting against her as the kiss deepened, becoming an exchange of breath, desire, and vulnerability.

There was an unfamiliar sense of inevitability in the way they moved together, as though they had always been moving toward this very moment. Draco's touch was reverent, his hands tracing the curve of her body with a care that made Hermione feel cherished in a way she hadn't anticipated. She could feel the quiet restraint in him, as if he feared the moment—this fragile, precious connection between them—might break under the weight of its own significance.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting together in the quiet aftermath of their shared intensity. Draco's breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he held her close, his hand still resting lightly on her waist. The silence between them was charged with an emotion neither had expected to feel so acutely.

"Hermione..." he whispered, his voice thick with something almost too heavy to name.

She gazed up at him, her eyes soft but clear, filled with a strength that anchored him in place. "I'm right here," she whispered back, her voice steady and sure. "I'm not going anywhere."

Draco let out a slow, shaky breath, his heart pounding so loudly it drowned out everything else. It was as if those words—simple as they were—gave him permission to let go of the fear, the doubts, the constant war inside himself. He needed to hear that she wasn't just a fleeting moment in his life, that this connection, this thing between them, was as real for her as it was for him.

With a tenderness that surprised even him, Draco kissed her again, but this time slower, less hurried. He savoured the feel of her lips, the softness of her skin, the warmth that seemed to radiate from her and seep into his very being. The kiss wasn't just a promise of passion—it was a promise of something more. Something steady, something good. Something he hadn't let himself believe he could ever have.

As they broke apart again, their foreheads still touching, their breaths mingling in the quiet, Draco pulled her closer, letting her settle into the curve of his arm. It felt natural, this closeness between them, as if it was something they had both been unknowingly reaching for. Wrapped in the warmth of each other, the world outside seemed to dissolve, leaving only the two of them in the hushed intimacy of the night.

For the first time in what felt like years, Draco allowed himself to believe that maybe he could have this. Something real. Something lasting. Someone who saw him for who he was now, not who he had been. And for the first time in his life, the future didn't seem like something to fear.

And for now, in this moment with Hermione in his arms, that was more than enough.

Next chapter is a continuation of their date!