Chapter 47: Hermione
Companionship
"We like companionship, see, but we can't stand to be around people for very long. So we go get ourselves lost, come back for a while, then get the hell out again." ― Jon Krakauer, Into the Wild
The Next Day—
Friday, September 14, 2007
You are Cordially Invited
To an Exclusive Celebration Honoring
HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER*
On the Occasion of Her 28th Birthday.
Please join me, Theodore Archimedes Nott Jr., for a private evening of revelry, dueling, and fine company as we toast our honored guest.
Wednesday, September 19
8:00 PM
The Dueling Arena, Knockturn Alley
*Order of Merlin (First Class—that's the best one!), Deputy Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures (youngest ever), Special Interdepartmental Consultant to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (fancy), Record-Holder for most N.E.W.T.s in Hogwarts History (no surprise there), Savior of Wizardkind (more prestigious than "The Chosen One" if you ask me), Pestilence to Dark Wizards Everywhere (and we love her for it), &etc.
Early That Morning—
A Remote Spot on the Southern Coast of Wales
"What is that?" Hermione asked, agape.
Malfoy had lost his mind. Hermione should have brought him to St. Mungo's the day before, after Gaethor had nearly hung him by the neck with the scruff of his robes. But it had been less than a minute of hanging, and she had personally examined his neck and eyes. He had been fine.
No longer, it seemed. He'd gone insane overnight.
Malfoy scowled. "What does it look like, Granger?"
"It looks like a bouquet of flowers."
They stood on a deserted beach far outside Llangennith, their planned meeting place that morning. A chilly breeze flowed in from the water and disturbed the tendrils of Malfoy's hair. It also rustled the ridiculous bouquet that he held toward her.
The bouquet featured tall sprigs of purple and white heather, their tiny bell-shaped flowers densely dotting the slender, woody branches.
Hermione blinked. "Right."
Malfoy's neck was fully healed, indicating he had followed her advice with the bruise paste and dittany. Perhaps it was a concussion? He might have fallen on his head when Gaethor released him. As they stood in silence, Malfoy's scowl deepened, straining the tendons from his jaw to his collarbone.
"They're for you," he said.
Hermione blinked again. "For me."
"Yes."
"From you?"
"Obviously."
"Why?"
"A gift."
"Why?"
"Fucking hell—are you going to take them or not?"
Hermione hesitated, her eyes darting between the bouquet and Malfoy's increasingly sour expression. He looked like he might launch the flowers into the sea if she pressed him further. Sighing, she reached out and took the bouquet from his hand.
"Thank you," she said slowly, studying the blooms as if they might explain his intentions.
Malfoy gave a short, satisfied nod. "Good."
"What do I do with them?" The odd thought that Malfoy had brought the heather as a bizarre method of tracking Ersilia popped into her head.
"Merlin, Granger. Has no one ever gifted you flowers before?"
Hermione's confused expression dropped into something tenser. The truth was that she had not received flowers very much at all in her life. Viktor had done so a couple of times during their short relationship, but Terry and Ron never had the mind to. And now Malfoy offered flowers less than two days into their ill-conceived dalliance. She looked back up at him from the bouquet and found him oddly bashful.
"Fine, then," he said without waiting for Hermione to reply. "Use that absurd bottomless bag of yours," he suggested, gesturing impatiently at the beaded purse across her torso.
Hermione gave him a withering look but dutifully opened the clasp of her bag. With exaggerated care, she dropped the bouquet into its enchanted depths.
"I feel the need to remind you that our relationship is purely professional," Hermione stated, closing her bag.
"I am aware."
"Professional. Do you understand?"
"Completely," Malfoy replied, his tone maddeningly flippant. "Where shall we begin? Those cliffs down there look sufficiently vampiric."
Malfoy's tone made it clear that Ersilia choosing this region to hide was just about as likely as him offering insight into his mind.
Hermione rolled her eyes and set off down the beachside, Malfoy following close beside her. Her heart was beating too fast for the amount of exertion walking down the beach required. She could not help but steal glances at him every few meters, his posture perfect, his face calm and unbothered.
Well, she was very much bothered. Hermione suspected that having sex with Malfoy was more of a mistake than initially suspected. All she could think about was the feel of his lips against hers, their ragged panting breaths as the tang of spellfire burned her lungs, how her fingers clutched at his flesh, dug into his muscles, carded through his hair. In the moment, she had been too consumed to consider the consequences of their actions, but with more than a day of separation, her feelings were impossible to push aside.
Hermione … longed. She hesitated to admit it, even to herself, but she did. She longed for Malfoy. She felt a magnetic pull toward him even on an unpopulated span of Welsh shore.
And the flowers. Flowers! They were another surprise in a series of utterly baffling moves from Draco Malfoy. His continued kindness, however reluctantly he might offer it, his seemingly altruistic potion-making aid, and worst of all, the steady comfort she felt in his presence.
She was again picking apart the enigma of flowers when he spoke again.
"Granger," Malfoy said. "Theo has requested that you confirm your attendance to your birthday party on Wednesday."
Hermione tensed but did not break her stride. She had received the invitation early that morning—as did Harry, and likely most people she knew, if Theo was as intrepid as she suspected.
"Fine," she muttered loudly enough for Malfoy to hear over the wind. "Would you request to Theo that this event be appropriately quiet and minimal? I didn't think he'd send formal invitations, for gods' sake."
"You have a lot to learn about Theo, if you thought he would leave an occasion to word of mouth alone," Malfoy replied. His tone suggested that he had experience with such things.
Hermione frowned. "I'm not one for birthdays."
Malfoy paused, and Hermione peaked at him, only to find his expression curiously blank.
"I can tell you from personal experience that Theo does not care. You'll be lucky if this party doesn't have a live band or a portkey to a foreign country."
"He wouldn't."
"He has," Malfoy corrected. "Brace yourself. I inherited Theo—you decided to befriend the man. There are consequences."
Four hours later—
The Blind Banshee Pub, Land's End, Cornwall
Halfway through their survey of the portkey signature on the coast of Wales, Hermione and Malfoy encountered a sudden storm. Not even their above-average attempts at repelling and umbrella charms could fully withstand the downpour, and within a half hour, they were decidedly wet.
Luckily, moments before Hermione called the investigation off, they came across a downtrodden top hat half-buried in the sand, which glowed brightly under their detection charms. Hermione recognized an illegal portkey when she saw one. After several dark magic detection spells, she was confident that a vampire had never touched nor been near the top hat, and they bagged it up for evidence and departed to Cornwall.
The Blind Banshee teemed with visitors eager to begin the weekend. Pints overflowed, chatter abounded, and an unmanned string quartet played a jaunty tune decidedly off-key in the corner by a fireplace.
When they entered the pub, tired and dripping, Malfoy beelined for the nearest empty table, which was luckily close enough to feel the flames from the hearth. He then removed his boots, dumped out the inch of water within, and began casting a veritable conga line of drying charms.
Hermione followed at a slower pace and emulated his actions.
"Well," Hermione said as she squeezed water from her hair. "At least we've eliminated one location from the list."
Malfoy paused his casting to glare. "Cities, Granger. Crowds. We're looking for an ocean of suffering—not a literal ocean."
"It was the Bristol Channel," Hermione muttered under her breath. She was increasingly inclined to agree with Malfoy's assessment of the situation regarding their search for Ersilia but still held hope for the Isles of Scilly. They were practically off the map and a good place for any magical being to avoid detection.
"So, there is a vampire sanctuary further up the coast. I say we have lunch, investigate Tresco and the other isles with our detection spells, and then stop by that sanctuary to see if any of Ersilia's coven passed through." Hermione unpleasantly peeled off her still-damp outer robe, hoping it would dry faster.
"Ersilia finds the average vampire quite … unpalatable. Especially anyone inclined to live in a wizard-run sanctuary," Malfoy said as he straightened from drying his sock-clad feet.
"Evilandprejudiced," Hermione remarked. "How refreshing."
Malfoy scoffed and resumed his drying charms.
"Greetings, friends. Would you like to eat or drink?" came a lightly accented woman's voice.
Hermione looked toward the voice, surprised to find a green apron-clad torso at her eye level, less than an arm's length away. The woman's steps must have been unnervingly silent even among the bustling noise around them. Hermione looked up—and recognition instantly dawned.
"Darla?"
There was no mistaking her. Darla looked precisely the same as in November, except much cleaner. Her dark hair was brushed and fell evenly past her shoulders, and her pale face still held the same thin and pointed features. The vampire looked into Hermione's eyes and smiled widely, revealing the faintest glint of fangs.
"My sister Hermione," Darla greeted warmly, clasping her bony hands in front of what appeared to be a work uniform. "It has been too long."
Hermione froze, half-caught between surprise and unease. Darla's greeting was affectionate, but Hermione couldn't forget how their last encounter had ended—with Hermione bound and gagged in an abandoned house for more than twenty-four hours.
Yet Darla looked to be … working. Had she just asked for their orders? Standing calmly before them, smiling, she made no move to run or attack.
Malfoy visibly tensed in Hermione's peripheral vision. He had stopped his drying charms in favor of resting his wand in hand on the wooden tabletop. His thumb twitched. "Friend of yours, Granger?" he asked, his tone overtly suspicious.
Hermione glanced at Darla, who was eyeing Malfoy with thinly veiled curiosity. "This is Darla. We,ah,met last year during an investigation. Darla, I remember that you decided to join the sanctuary nearby. But … are you working at this pub?"
"My sister Hermione," Darla repeated. She proceeded to pull out a chair at their table and sit, sliding over so that their knees brushed.
Darla leaned in close enough for Hermione to smell the metallic tang of her breath. Hermione was not panicked, per se, but she was uncomfortable. She could not get the image of her bloody struggle against Darla out of her mind.
To his credit, Malfoy did not shout or over-react as he did with Gaethor the day prior, but he kept his wand casually trained on Darla and looked prepared to spring across the table at a moment's notice.
Darla, on the other hand, was at ease. She continued, "I am reborn. My other sisters and I find peace in the sanctuary and this countryside. We make friends with the wizards and goblins. We sleep and frolic. We are sated. It is better than Budapest."
Hermione's tension eased slightly at the mention of the sanctuary. If Darla still lived there, she was under close watch by the Ministry supervisors, paid for from the DRCMC's budget. It was not as though they were alone in an abandoned house, either. They were in a crowded pub in the early afternoon. "That's good to hear," said Hermione. "How did you end uphere? And during the day, no less?"
"I work, and Oksana pays in blood."
Malfoy let out the slightest squeak from the back of his throat, and Hermione leveled him with a glare.
"Some of us enjoy daytime tasks now, with the right rest and clothing. The sunlight is still … unpleasant." Darla's dark eyes at last flicked to Malfoy. "And you have brought a companion. Curious."
Hermione felt Malfoy bristle again."Darla, this is Draco Malfoy. Malfoy, this is Darla."
"It is an honor to meet the companion of my sister Hermione," Darla said, her tone lilting with faint amusement as she offered a shallow bow from her seated position. "I had thought you might be a child of the night, from afar. But you wield a wand."
Malfoy's face soured when Darla said "child of the night," but by the end of her sentence, he had relaxed enough to ease the grip on his wand. "Pleasure," he managed to reply.
Hermione was relieved that the situation had not escalated. She took the chance to inch her chair a bit further away from Darla and took a steadying breath.
Darla inquired, "May I get you something? We have mead, mulled wine, and an assortment of human-friendly fare."
"Yes," Hermione rushed to answer. "Mead. Food. Malfoy?"
It only took a few moments to sort out a conceivable order, and then Darla was off with a promise to return shortly. As soon as she disappeared deeper into the pub, Hermione took a long, shuddering breath.
"Who the fuck is Darla?" Malfoy's voice was low and gravelly, and when Hermione looked at him, her heart skipped a beat at the intensity she found.
"A vampire," she replied. Hermione's mind was whirring. She had considered seeing Darla at the sanctuary a possibility, but not during the day, when most vampires slept, and certainly not during the day in a wizard-run pub. Suddenly, an idea struck her.
Malfoy sneered. "Tell me what happened."
Hermione sighed, and at the look on Malfoy's face, she decided that he deserved to know Darla's background, especially with the idea she just had.
"Last year, the Ministry disbanded Darla's previous coven because they were toeing the line of the Statute of Secrecy," she explained. "I—helped. We located and incapacitated the coven. That evening, Aurors had removed most of the vampires to Ministry holding cells, but they had forgotten about Darla. She captured me and held me hostage for a day. … Harry and some other Aurors found me, and then Darla was taken into custody and sorted out with the rest of her coven."
Before she realized it, Hermione's hand came up to rub at the side of her neck where she knew two silvery needle-like marks remained.
"Captured," Malfoy repeated. He looked angry.
"Yes." Hermione dropped her hand.
Malfoy's eyes flicked between her hand and her neck. "She bit you."
"Well, she was quite desperate. You can't imagine the state—"
"Shefed on you."
Hermione huffed. "They don't bite for fun—"
"We're leaving," Malfoy announced. He bent, quickly re-donned his boots, draped his robe over an arm, and stood.
"No, we're not," Hermione hissed. "We are having lunch and then heading to Tresco—"
"We'll eat elsewhere." Malfoy rounded the table and nudged at Hermione's elbow, but she sat firm as a stone.
"Enough, Malfoy. Sit down," Hermione snapped under her breath. She looked around to find a few other patrons eyeing them warily.
To her shock, instead of making a scene or returning to his previous seat, Malfoy pulled out Darla's abandoned chair and sat mere inches away. When he next spoke, it was so quiet that only Hermione could hear.
"You don't need to stay here." The gentle tenor of Malfoy's voice caused something to stir in Hermione's stomach, and she rested her hands on the tabletop for some stability.
"I want to stay here," Hermione replied, equally quietly.
Though she was not looking at him, Hermione could hear when Malfoy inhaled sharply through his nose and asked, "Then why are you trembling?"
Hermione angled to glance at him, only to find his lips pursed into a thin line and his nostrils flared. His eyes were trained on her hands. When Hermione looked at them, she was surprised to see that he was right.
Hermione removed her hands and folded them on her lap underneath the table. "I'm cold, wet, and hungry. How about that?"
"Fine," came Malfoy's terse reply. He then began casting drying charms all over Hermione, so quick and deft that within a few moments, she felt considerably warmer.
Hermione could sense when her hair had dried, feeling the frizz come to life. She raised her hands to smooth the surface and muttered, "Thanks," to Malfoy.
He sat silently but did not put his wand away.
"I think we should ask Darla about Ersilia," Hermione declared.
"I think we should get the fuck out of here and proceed with our investigation," Malfoy quipped.
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
Hermione argued, "Darla has lived in this region for almost a year, and if a large coven of dark ritualistic vampires passed through, or even traveled nearby, Darla or her companions would have noticed."
"We will be knee-deep in vampires soon enough, Granger. The last thing we need is to involvemoreof them," Malfoy countered.
"I found Darla's coven with the help of avampirenamed Sanguini and hiswizardcompanion, Eric Worple," Hermione informed Malfoy, who looked at her, wide-eyed. She added, "Interspecies cooperation can be beneficial."
"Granger." Malfoy's voice was pained, and he closed his eyes.
At that moment, Darla returned, startling them both when she placed two pints of mead and two plates of ham sandwiches with crisps on the table. "Sustenance for my wizard friends," she pronounced happily.
"Thank you, Darla," Hermione said, forcing an indulgent smile on her face. "Do you have a few minutes to sit?"
"Granger." Malfoy scowled.
Malfoy's opinion did not matter because Darla had already taken Malfoy's former seat, leaning her sharp elbows on the table and beholding them eagerly with her wide, dark eyes.
Hermione took a long sip of the sweet mead and cleared her throat. "Delicious," she said. "I wanted to ask you something, Darla. Have you noticed any new vampires in the area? We're … looking for a coven who might have passed through here."
Darla's smile faltered, and she tilted her head as if weighing her answer. "There is much turnover at the sanctuary. Newcomers arrive, and others leave. I cannot say for certain."
Malfoy snorted softly. "Helpful."
Darla turned her sharp gaze on him. "Who do you seek?"
Before Malfoy could reply, a gruff voice interrupted from the next table over. "You'd do well to watch yourself around their kind." The speaker, a burly wizard in work robes, swirled his tankard and jabbed a finger in their direction. "Vampires can't help themselves. Impulsive creatures."
Darla's expression turned venomous, and with a low hiss, she bared her fangs. The sound sent a shiver down Hermione's spine.
Malfoy stiffened, and his arm wound protectively across the back of Hermione's chair. She was surprised to find that it was not an uncomfortable sensation.
"We are fine, thank you," Hermione replied firmly to the gruff wizard. The wizard muttered under his breath and turned away, though not without glowering at Darla.
Hermione turned to Darla. "I'm sorry about that."
Darla waved a hand dismissively. "It is not the first time. And it will not be the last."
Malfoy's jaw tightened. "And I suppose hissing at people is part of your—being reborn, was it?"
"Malfoy," Hermione warned, exasperated.
Darla smiled calmly at them both. "Iamreborn. I am not the vampire I once was."
Malfoy opened his mouth, likely to deliver something biting, but Hermione raised a hand to silence him. "Darla, would you be willing to help us locate the vampires we seek? The leader's name is Ersilia."
Darla's expression went blank momentarily, and then she inhaled sharply, her lips peeling back to reveal fully elongated fangs. She hissed, "You seekLa Faim Pâle."
Malfoy and Hermione exchanged alarmed glances, and she asked, "Do you know her?"
"Rumors," Darla replied. "Whispers on the wind."
Hermione hedged, hoping not to set Darla off. "What do you know of her?"
Darla sneered, fully revealing her fangs, and said, "All of my kind know her in this part of the world. She is … different. We have not crossed paths."
Hermione waited, hoping Darla would continue, but the vampire made no move to speak again. Hermione nodded slowly. "We think she may be on the nearby Islands—Tresco, or the others across the water from here. Have you ever been there?"
Darla glanced out the window across the pub, where a shaft of late afternoon sunlight cut across the hardwood floor. She said, "I do not like water. None of my kind do. It isolates us.Thisisland is small enough. Those rocks you speak of are … insufficient."
"Isolates you?" Hermione repeated, confused.
To her surprise, Malfoy cut in, addressing Darla. "You don't swim."
Darla glared at him with her sharp, dark eyes. "I know not of a child of the night who enjoys the water."
Hermione's brows raised involuntarily. That detail was absent in most scholarship on vampires. Water was not fatal to them, but all creatures had their preferences, she supposed. Vampires could not apparate. The idea of Tresco was increasingly less plausible. She frowned.
"Could you sense a coven if they were nearby?" Hermione asked. Sanguini had been odd to the point of incomprehensibility and preferred human company. She was still uncertain of exactly how vampires found one another.
"Yes." Darla inclined her head. "Darkness calls to darkness."
Hermione perked up, and Malfoy's arm tensed on the back of her chair. "Careful, Granger," he muttered so only she could hear. His tone was a warning.
Ignoring him, Hermione spoke to Darla. "Would you please help us find Ersilia? Er …La Faim Pâle?We are going to seek her in the city of Edinburgh tomorrow."
Darla pulled back and said, "I do not know."
"Understandable." Malfoy nodded firmly. "Nice meeting you, then." He reached for a pint of mead with his free hand and took a sip.
Darla hunched over a bit when she added, "But …"
Hermione noted how Malfoy pursed his lips unpleasantly before focusing her attention on Darla, who finished her sentence.
"… I would like to help my sister Hermione."
One Hour Later—
"This is a bad plan."
Hermione let the door of the pub shut in Malfoy's face, but his arm whipped out lightning fast to catch the edge. He marched out after her.
Warm, dry, and full of mead, Hermione had long forgotten her trepidation at the initial sight of Darla. She was now caught in the grip of one of her oldest companions: knowledge-fueled optimism. She turned to face Malfoy, standing in the sunlight outside the Blind Banshee.
"It's a good plan," she argued. "I had considered calling Sanguini again to help, but he and Worple have been in Northwest America for almost a year. Something about the clouds—anyway, having Darla on our side will make the investigation much faster."
Malfoy scowled and clenched his fists at his side. "We can't trust her."
"You don't have to trust her," Hermione countered, crossing her arms over her chest. "Darla is an asset, not a partner. We test it out, and if she's more trouble than it's worth, we don't have to continue."
Malfoy remained unpleasantly silent.
Hermione huffed. "You think Ersilia is in a city. How were you planning to find her once you got there?"
"There are signs," Malfoy replied. "Patterns."
Hermione waited for him to continue explaining, but he did not.
"Do try to reign in the abundance of knowledge," Hermione mocked.
Malfoy's scowl deepened. "We need to determine a general location before pinpointing Ersilia's location."
"And we'll start with Edinburgh tomorrow evening.With Darla." Hermione nodded. The vampire had requested to begin their search near dusk. Hermione had agreed that she and Malfoy would pick Darla up at the sanctuary before commencing their search in Edinburgh's Old Town, where the portkey signature directed them. "It's a good plan."
Malfoy's expression dropped into resignation. "I hope you're right, Granger."
"I do, too," Hermione replied. She relaxed her stance and turned her gaze toward the coast. "Now. Tresco?"
The Next Morning—
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Number Twelve Grimmauld Place
Relieved to have the day free until the evening investigation, Hermione rolled out of her bedroom at mid-morning. It was a seasonably warm day, and Hermione donned one of her favorite Muggle sundresses in rich black cotton. She hoped to lounge around for a few hours with a good book before tackling the Grimmauld attic in search of a bad book—something that might provide insight into Rowle's sinister blood magic transfiguration.
According to the French authorities, Rowle and Priscus were entirely ignorant of how the mysterious silver cuffs mimicked werewolf anatomy and power. Even under aggressive questioning from Veritaserum and a powerful Legilimens, they could not uncover other outstanding conspirators.
Harry had complained to her the previous evening that the French Ministry was celebrating a successful end to Rowle's campaign of terror. Having over a dozen criminals apprehended, they were inclined to let the investigation conclude.
Robards was angry. With the overt connections between the rune stones and the silver cuffs, Yelena Livingstone's involvement, and little help from the French, the British Ministry had little to go on. On top of that, the French would not extradite Rowle or Priscus to London until their French trial and convictions were complete—which would take weeks.
Livingstone's entire pack was in protective custody under the guarantee of being returned to their sanctuary for any full moon.
The red-headed werewolf's proclamations of guaranteed freedom for their involvement with Priscus and Rowle kept turning in Hermione's mind. How would turning the entire magical community of Europe against werewolves help them? Thus far, it had only resulted in constant monitoring and incarceration.
Hermione did not know but hoped that researching the cuffs would reveal something more.
With a sigh, Hermione descended to the Grimmauld kitchen. As she approached the open doorway, she spotted a vase of purple and white heather at the edge of the table, precisely where she had left it the night before.
She and Malfoy had parted company well after sunset following a fruitless search of the Isles of Scilly. While searching for a quill in her bag to fill out the required DMLE paperwork, she had seen the flowers and set them in a conjured vase of water.
Her stomach fluttered at the sight of them.
Malfoy had gifted her flowers. The thought frightened and excited her. Much of her believed she and Malfoy were more suited to killing each other than having a normal relationship. But the longing would not go away. When she lay down at night, Hermione could feel the ghost of Malfoy's mouth and hands all over her body. Her mattress became a brass panel of runes, her canopy the long shadow of a private dueling chamber.
Hermione walked into the kitchen and caressed the blooms of heather. Perhaps she would procure a book on flower language, at last.
"Morning, Hermione," came a familiar voice. Hermione jumped and turned to find Harry sitting at the other end of the long table, smiling at her in front of a half-eaten fry-up—and Ginny seated across from him.
"Morning," Hermione replied, stepping back from her flowers as if caught. "Ginny, hello."
"Good morning," the redhead replied with a glint in her eye. "Those are nice." She looked toward the vase.
"Aren't they?" Hermione said, attempting to keep her tone casual and even.
"Where are they from?" Ginny inquired.
Hermione avoided Ginny's eyes as she sat next to Harry and helped herself to a cup of tea from the warm pot in the center of the table.
"Oh—I just thought they would look good in here," Hermione replied, shrugging casually. Before Ginny could ask her question again, Hermione said, "What are you doing here today?"
Her eyes flicked between Ginny and Harry in her peripheral vision. It was achingly familiar—seeing them together. With everything going on with Harry, personally and professionally, she hardly thought they would resume dating. But Hermione also hardly thought she would find herself enamored with a bouquet of heather from Draco Malfoy.
"I'm here to pick you up," Ginny announced.
Hermione startled. "For what?"
"Brunch," Ginny replied. "Although, I suppose it'll be lunch at this point."
"I thought we had postponed that?" Hermione protested.
"Youthought. Harry informed me that you had pushed work to the evening, so I decided to proceed with our plans. Drink up—we're going out!"
"But—" Hermione hesitated, her mind wandering to her beloved books. A glance at Ginny's resolute and defiant gaze quickly silenced any complaints. "Alright."
"That's what I thought," Ginny said, her face lighting up in satisfaction.
The faint rush of the Floo sounded from up the stairs, and the three friends turned when familiar voices sounded. Ron and Lavender walked in soon after.
"Good morning," Ron announced. Without preamble, he stood by the stove and plucked a strip of bacon from the warm pan. He turned back to the table, and his brows rose as he registered Ginny. With his mouth full, he asked, "What areyoudoing here?"
"Nice to see you, too," Ginny muttered as she sipped tea.
"Hi, Ginny," Lavender greeted. "Harry, Hermione." She stood beside Ron.
Hermione nodded in greeting. Ron finished chewing and swallowing, then his gaze raked over the room, spotted the flowers, and settled again on Harry and Ginny.
"What's this?"
Harry looked around the kitchen, confused. "Breakfast?"
"Not that," Ron replied dismissively. He gestured with his half-eaten bacon between his sister and Harry. "This."
Ginny rolled her eyes and settled them on Harry. "He think's we fucked last night."
Hermione choked on her tea.
Ron's face turned cherry red. "Did you?"
Harry, too, choked and coughed, "Of course not—"
"It's none of your business," Ginny cut in.
Ron retorted, "Forgive me for assuming, finding you here first thing in the morning."
"It's practicallynoon, you lazy thimblebug."
"Oi—as if you're ever an early riser when you're not forced."
"I'm an internationally renowned athlete. Of course Iwake upbefore midday."
"Mum always has to drag you from bed—"
"You're one to talk. I'm sure Lavender had to smack you upside the head today to get your eyes to crack open."
"Stinging hex," Lavender interrupted the siblings bickering. "Twice."
Harry and Hermione exchanged amused smirks as the quibble unfolded. Hermione angled her head toward Ginny in a questioning look, and Harry shrugged and shook his head. So, no, they had not done anything together, and Harry seemed fine. Hermione nodded and turned her attention to the Weasleys.
"I rest my case." Ginny pointed at Lavender and sat back in satisfaction.
Ron scowled. "Whatever. Are you ready, Harry? Quidditch starts in a quarter hour."
Harry nodded and took a final gulp of his tea before standing up. He looked at Hermione and explained, "Scrimmage with some Aurors from our recruiting class."
"Do the visitors require food?" came a gravelly voice from the far corner of the kitchen.
They all turned to find Kreacher standing there. And then they froze. Because Kreacher—grumpy, cantankerous, chronically displeased Kreacher—was gently stroking Crookshanks, who sat curled in his arms, purring proudly.
"No thank you, Kreacher," Hermione replied to the elf, who glared at them across the room and ran his knobby fingers through the half-kneazle's pristine orange fur. "… Unless you want something, Lavender?"
Lavender shook her head, just as bewildered as the rest of them. Kreacher gave a disgruntled huff and shuffled out of the kitchen, Crookshanks happily perched in his arms like the captain of a house-elf-shaped ship.
"Meow," Crookshanks declared as they disappeared—much, Hermione presumed, like Odysseus departing Troy.
"That's new," Lavender commented.
"Bloodydisturbing," remarked Ginny.
Hermione turned back to the group, who looked at her oddly. "They … love each other."
"Merlin," Ron grumbled. "Alright then—we're off."
Hermione eyed Lavender, who scrunched her mouth and began to follow Ron toward the exit. An idea struck her. "Lavender, we're having brunch out. Would you like to join us?"
It was a selfish offer. She and Lavender did not spend much time together outside typical Weasley gatherings, whereas Ginny and Hermione often socialized alone. But if Lavender accompanied them that day, Hermione might avoid Ginny's probing questions about the heather bouquet (and thus any personal questions regarding Malfoy).
"Oh yes, I'd love to," Lavender replied hopefully, her blue eye darting between Hermione and Ginny.
Ginny gave Hermione a knowing look and said, "Let's go."
Three Hours Later—
The Griffon Tea Parlor, London
"So, just to be clear," Ginny said, stirring her tea, "you and Malfoy dueled, argued, spent anentire two daystogether, and you're … fine?" She arched an eyebrow at Hermione.
Hermione sighed deeply and avoided looking directly into Ginny's eyes. "Yes, why wouldn't I be fine?"
The Griffon Tea Parlor was one of wizarding London's most elegant dining spots, known for its impeccable service. A glass ceiling arched high above the room, letting in natural light that reflected off the polished marble floors. Ivy climbed the white columns throughout the circular space, neatly trimmed and charmed to bloom year-round. At the center of the parlor, a tiered fountain trickled softly, its water glinting like liquid opals.
The space was filled with quiet conversation and the frequent clink of fine china. Witches and wizards sat at linen-covered tables, sipping tea while house-elves in neat uniforms moved swiftly between them. Hermione knew they were all paid handsomely for their work. Otherwise, she would have boycotted the spot whole cloth. The Parlor had been one of the first institutions to support her House Elf legislation.
Hermione, Ginny, and Lavender lingered over brunch at a table near the fountain. Their plates were scattered with half-eaten scones and bowls of clotted cream. A fresh pot of tea sat between them, its steam curling lazily into the air.
"Why? Oh, no reason," Ginny replied with an eye roll. "Generational murderous bigotry aside, it's not like you had a contentious semi-public Wizard's Duel just this week."
"I wouldn't put it like that," Hermione grumbled. "It was a misunderstanding. We … changed our minds after the duel, and now he's consulting." It was the easiest andonlyway Hermione could explain the situation to her friends. A lie by omission was marginally better than an outright lie.
"He must be difficult to work with," Lavender remarked.
Hermione stiffened. She recalled Malfoy thrusting himself between her and Gaethor, and then placing his arm close around her while Darla was with them in the Blind Banshee. She recalled theflowers."He's not so bad."
Ginny's brows rose. "… And you can't tell us anything of what you're doing?"
"Classified," Hermione hastened to answer. It was accurate and a welcome excuse to avoid discussing the specifics of her and Malfoy's partnership.
Ginny frowned. "I want the full story when you're done. How long will this take, anyway?"
Hermione shrugged. "Hard to say. Might be days or weeks, depending on what we find."
"Here's hoping for days, then," Ginny said while raising her teacup.
"If he's not difficult, then what's he like?" Lavender asked. "Malfoy. If it's not classified, that is."
Hermione took a moment to think about Lavender's question. She had not yet needed to put her feelings toward Malfoy into words. Ginny beheld her intently from across the table, and Hermione grew nervous. What could she say? She decided to be both honest and vague.
"He's different," Hermione replied. "Still a bit harsh with words, but not … cruel, like he was. And he's very knowledgeable, at least regarding what we're doing. And potions. He helped save my life after the apothecary explosion with an advanced antivenin. We talked after I recovered and …" She trailed off, focusing her gaze on the silvery hue of the fountain water, which brought to mind the shade of Malfoy's eyes. She blinked and shook her head. Lavender and Ginny were looking at her expectantly.
"Well, we get along," Hermione finished. Her heart thudded at the thought of everything she wasn't saying. "I'm more surprised than anyone."
"It's strange," Lavender commented after Hermione's words had hung awkwardly in the air. "I was just thinking about Hogwarts—that awful year before the Battle. Do you remember, Ginny?"
Ginny nodded. "Unfortunately."
"Yes," Lavender agreed. She brought a hand up to itch at the bottom of the scar on her cheek. "Can't believe you two went back for NEWTs, after. I couldn't even consider it. But I was trying to remember Malfoy. I can only recall that he was quiet and scared like most of us. And there was this one time … It was before we had moved into the Room of Requirement. Anyway, one of the Carrows was handing out a detention to a first-year girl. The man Carrow—he ordered Malfoy to escort the student to his sister for punishment, and I saw Malfoy lead her around the corner in the corridor, and then he let her go." Lavender paused and gestured with her hand. "Leaned to whisper something, and the girl fled toward the Great Hall."
Hermione tried to fit Lavender's anecdote into everything Malfoy had told her about Voldemort and that year and Ersilia. The fact of being in school all the while must have been jarring.
"I don't remember him doing anything that year," Ginny reflected. "And then the year after the Battle, I didn't hear him speak once, and I didn't see him at all outside of meals. Did you, Hermione?"
Hermione shook her head. "No." Malfoy made himself scarce that year—or perhaps she had made herself scarce while studying and forcing Flitwick to teach her dueling.
"Well, be careful," Ginny told Hermione, her voice soft. "I hope he's not a git anymore, but … just be careful."
"Will Malfoy be at your party next week?" Lavender inquired.
Hermione rolled her shoulder through a twinge of discomfort as she remembered the party. "I'm not sure. Probably. He and Theo Nott are quite close. They live together, now."
Hermione almost jumped as Ginny laughed into her teacup.
"What?" Hermione asked as she suppressed a smile.
"It's bizarre," Ginny replied after breathing through her fit. "Those two, not only at your birthday party but one of them throwing it to begin with."
"Theo is nice," Hermione argued. "We never had a—bad history."
"And Pansy, then?" Ginny arched a brow.
"Pansy?" Lavender repeated. "Parkinson?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. Addressing Ginny, she said, "You liked her, too! I could tell."
"Perhaps," Ginny admitted. "It's still bizarre." Lavender looked bewildered, so Ginny explained, "We mingled at the Gala—Hermione and Pansy arefriendlynow."
"Oh," Hermione exclaimed. She reached for her bag and rummaged around inside, quickly resorting to summoning with her wand when the thing she was looking for did not immediately appear.
Pansy's business card shot into her hand, and she handed it over to Lavender, who looked at it closely with a surprised expression.
"Pansy loved the dresses you made for me and my dress robes at the gala. She runs a business that imports things like fabrics that are easily enchanted, and she wanted me to pass that along to you."
Lavender flipped the card over and then glanced up at Hermione. Her eyes softened a bit. "Pansy Parkinson liked my clothes? And told you about it?"
Hermione felt guilty for forgetting to bring the topic up with Lavender sooner, but Rowle, Ersilia, a misguided duel, and Malfoy had derailed her. She winced. "Yes, sorry. it's been so busy, and—Lavender." Hermione's mind was whirring. "We should owl Witch Weekly now, don't you think?"
"The werewolves turned out to be fake," Lavender pointed out. The cursed scar around her eye stretched as her expression dropped. "I thought that meant you weren't interested any longer."
And then Hermione felt worse. "Oh no, that's not true at all. It's meant to be as much for you as for werewolf rights. I'm so sorry. But if you think of it, now is the perfect time to double down on the message."
"Alright," Lavender agreed. "I've made a few new things you might like to try on—a bit more couture for a magazine. And I was also experimenting with a brand new gown …"
"Just make sure Romilda Vane isn't the one writing that article," Ginny commented bitterly. "Nosy, immoral, vapid bint."
"At least she's moved back to regular Potterwatch," Lavender noted. "And not that paramour series."
Hermione had not thought about that radio program in more than a month. "What did your installment end up being like, Ginny? Did you listen?"
Ginny snorted. "No."
"I did," Lavender smirked. "You're a hateful harlot who broke Harry's heart and thrust him into 'years of ceaseless despair'—her words—and also you're probably gay."
For the second time that day, Hermione choked on her tea, fumbling for her serviette to catch any spittle and conceal her expression. Perhaps Romilda was more astute than they gave her credit for; she was just focused on the wrong person. A fierce need to protect Harry reemerged in her chest.
"That's cruel," said Hermione harshly. "I can't believe people listen to her."
Ginny shrugged. "I don't pay it any mind, and I'm certain Harry doesn't either."
Hermione sighed. "Perhaps there's some negotiating we could do for the interview. They've pestered me for years, so I'm sure I'll have some leverage. I can't think of a single writer on their staff who hasn't taken a jab at me or Harry, though. I wonder if we could bring in someone else …" She glanced at Lavender. "Hasn't Parvati written for magazines before?"
"She did a guest column for Cauldron and Hearth at one point," Lavender replied. "No interviews, though. She just wanted to promote her latest book."
"Well, we can think about it. I'll send an owl later to open the conversation with the editors." Hermione drummed her fingers on the tabletop. "You worry about your clothing, Lavender. Consider how you want to package your business. I'll say anything you'd like and then some."
Lavender smiled at Hermione and said, "Thank you! … Do you think Parkinson Acquisitions has access to enchanted water silk?"
"Er—maybe," Hermione replied. The phrase sounded familiar.
Ginny stiffened, and her gaze focused across the room. She chuckled breathily. "Speak of a Slytherin, and she shall appear."
Hermione and Lavender turned to follow Ginny's gaze. Entering the Tea Parlour through the columned entryway was the unmistakable bobbed head of Pansy Parkinson, followed closely by two other witches.
"Are those the Greengrass sisters?" Ginny asked.
"Yes," Lavender informed them. "Daphne is the blonde, and Astoria is the dark-haired one."
Hermione looked away from the group and down at her half-eaten plate. Her stomach churned, and she sipped hot tea to soothe herself. The fact of Astoria's former engagement to Malfoy made her surprisingly uncomfortable. Even from across the room, she looked beautiful.
"Don't think they've seen you," Ginny said, filling Hermione with relief. "Oh—never mind."
Hermione turned to see Pansy beelining toward their table with a determined expression. The two sisters followed awkwardly behind her, keeping close.
"Hermione," Pansy called from a few meters away, descending the few steps down to the fountain level and their table. "She-Weasley."
Ginny rolled her eyes but did not look too annoyed when Pansy arrived.
"Hi Pansy," Hermione said. She stood to give Pansy a proper greeting and was surprised when the witch pulled her into a full double-cheek kiss, engulfing her in a cloud of strong perfume and a flourish of royal purple robe sleeves.
They pulled apart, and Hermione commented, "Glad to see you're in one piece—after…"
Pansy's dark eyes glinted. "I should be saying that to you. I was, thankfully, nestled in a warm bed by the time you were acting hero. Probably on my third orgasm, come to think of it."
Ginny snorted from her seat, drawing their attention. Pansy asked, "Yes, Weasley?"
"Oh, nothing," she remarked, leaning back in her seat. "Didn't know Georgiou had it in him."
"I'm good at—coaching, you could say—to get what I want," Pansy smirked.
Someone coughed, and Hermione recalled the other two onlookers. The blonde sister, Daphne, shuffled to the side to glance around the group. "Pans, we're in public."
And then Astoria Greengrass, stoic and perfectly poised, also glided out from behind Pansy. Hermione could not help but look into her dark eyes. She was quite pale and wore dark robes that seemed too hot for the late summer weather.
"Hermione, you might remember Daphne from Hogwarts. This is her sister, Astoria. She was two years below us."
Hermione was startled, remembering the dictates of proper social customs perhaps a beat too late to be considered polite. "Of course," she hastened to say. "And—this is Ginny and Lavender."
"I'm sure we all know each other. …Ofeach other, at the very least," Ginny stated. That, too, seemed impolite, but the six witches awkwardly allowed the apparent fact to stand as truth. Pansy was the first to shrug, then angled herself toward the seated blonde next to Ginny.
"Lavender." Pansy took in Lavender's scarred face with interest. "The designer."
"Oh—yes. Hermione gave me your card, er, recently." Lavender gave Hermione a subtle wink, and Hermione was relieved that she had recalled Pansy's gesturebeforeshe had arrived at the parlor.
Pansy whirled around Hermione to approach Lavender, already speaking fashion terms beyond Hermione's recognition. Hermione found herself standing alone with the Greengrasses.
Some of Hermione's Ministry-borne professional acumen took over, and she reached out her hand toward Daphne. "Nice to see you."
Daphne's brows rose, and she shook Hermione's hand. Hermione released Daphne and turned to Astoria, who obliged with a matching shake, her hand smaller and colder than her sister's. "And—nice tomeetyou."
"Likewise," Astoria replied. Her voice was deeper than Hermione expected.
"Do you come here often?" Hermione attempted at conversation. It seemed the most innocuous of her options, which also included: How has life been since your family supported a warlord who wanted me dead? Or: How about this weather?
"Yes," the sisters responded in unison. They did not elaborate.
Hermione blinked. She flicked her gaze toward Ginny, who had been observing. The redhead obliged her with a sympathetic expression that conveyed:Merlin, good luck with that.
"Well," Hermione continued, forcing a smile. "It's nice of you to take Pansy out since she's visiting from Milan." Pansy had told Hermione about her living situation at the gala and her plans to visit London, though they had not been in touch over the last weeks. It was a safe assumption to make.
Daphne frowned. "Are you two … friends?"
"Yes," Pansy called, having overheard the exchange. "And fuck you for that tone, Daph. I'm delightful, and Hermione is slightly less delightful but delightful nonetheless."
Hermione was not sure whether to feel offended or pleased. Pansy's open friendliness toward her since the Castle Sauvan was somewhat shocking, but Hermione did not feel the need to question it, considering the alternative.
"I can get you two bolts of enchanted water silk by the end of next week," Pansy announced to Lavender after returning to their conversation.
"Truly?" Lavender sounded incredulous. "Yes—how much?"
"First-time customers get a discount. I'll send you the details. What colors would you like?"
Lavender's eyes glistened with determination as she glanced at Hermione. "I'm making a gown for Hermione. Crimson is an obvious choice, and I've had her in blue recently. But I think with the winter season approaching and her coloring, a deep emerald would be stunning. Or perhaps something metallic. …"
"ForHermione?" Pansy's brow arched as she also turned her scrutiny to Hermione. All the witches were staring her down at that point, making Hermione feel like a specimen under a microscope. "What's the occasion?"
Hermione shuffled uncomfortably. "An interview in Witch Weekly."
Pansy's brows rose with interest.
To everyone's surprise, it was Astoria who made the first remark. "You'reinterviewing Witch Weekly?"
"It's still tentative," Hermione replied tersely. "Pending terms. It may not even happen."
"Emerald," Pansy declared. "And gold. I will give you an even greater discount. I owe Hermione for a transportation-related favor she gave me."
Pansy smirked at Hermione from where she sat next to Lavender across the table. Hermione recalled their ride around Provence in her Muggle car and could not suppress her smile.
"I agree," Lavender nodded. "Thank you so much."
"Have you seen Theo recently?" Hermione inquired to Pansy. The memory of the car brought him to mind. The Greengrass sisters stiffened beside her, and Hermione eyed them warily.
"Not yet," she replied. "But I'll see him at your party next week."
"You—heard about that?"
"Our boy loves an occasion," Pansy drawled.
Hermione sank back down into her chair, convinced more than ever that Theo would blow the entire event out of proportion. She felt itchy and restless. After making eye contact with Ginny, who looked awkward, Hermione checked the time.
"I should be going," Hermione noted, tilting her head apologetically at Pansy. "I have to meet Malfoy in two hours."
"What?"
They all turned—it was Astoria who had made the outburst. The witch looked like she had just been doused in water. Hermione stayed silent, unsure of how to navigate the situation.
"You're meeting Draco?" Pansy asked.
"I thought he might have told you. … He's consulting with the DMLE on an investigation I'm leading," Hermione replied. She eyed the other witches again and found that Astoria had returned to her previous morose expression of disinterest.
"Well, that's interesting," Pansy murmured, tapping a manicured nail against her purple-clad thigh.
Hermione wasn't sure what exactly Pansy found interesting—the fact that Malfoy was consulting with the DMLE or that she was the one working with him—but she didn't particularly want to ask. Instead, she pushed her chair back and reached for her bag.
"Yes, well," she said briskly, "we should be going."
Ginny, looking more than ready to leave, jumped to her feet. "Agreed."
Lavender, however, was still lost in her design plans. "Emerald and gold," she repeated to herself, her fingers twitching as if she were already sketching ideas in her mind. "Yes. Yes, that could work."
"I'll owl you the fabric details tomorrow," Pansy said smoothly before turning her sharp gaze back to Hermione. "And I'll see you next week, Hermione."
Hermione rolled her eyes but allowed a small smile. "Goodbye."
"Enjoy your meal," she said politely to the Greengrasses before following Ginny and Lavender toward the exit.
By the time Hermione exited the establishment, her mind had already moved on from Pansy's posse and pureblood politeness. She had a vampire to employ, a Malfoy to work with, a life-sucking coven to locate, an ominous birthday party to stress over—and those were just the things at the top of her list.
She admired the silver water once more before it fell out of view.
Up Next: A barrel of monkeys.