Chapter Text
Chapter One
Draco
Draco Malfoy pulls the collar edges of his grey wool coat together, tenting it away from his neck and tucks his chin into the pocket of warmth it creates as he heads down the street to the local Sainsbury’s. It’s late afternoon and windy and he sees storm clouds gathering in the distance. There are still a fair number of people out doing their Saturday shopping, but he pays them no mind, keeping up a brisk pace until he gets to the end of the block. As he reaches the front doors of the supermarket, a nearby church bell tolls five o’clock and the street lamps light up around him. He enters the store, his gaze sweeping past the produce aisles and meat counters, past the rows of cans and dried goods and he heads directly to the liquor section.
He’s been here before, but he doesn’t usually come to buy alcohol here. He has a full wine cellar at home with some bottles that would fetch thousands, but today he’s after cheap liquor. A lot of it. He wants to drink himself into oblivion in the worst way he knows. He slows down and begins browsing, perusing the labels, most of which he doesn’t recognize.
The memory of the white marble sears into his mind. Sacred to the memory of—He shakes his head, and runs his hands through his hair, heedless of the mess he’s making of his fringe. He needs something to take him to oblivion. He needs to stop thinking.
He grabs a large bottle of cheap vodka and a bottle of even cheaper rum. Fine. Whatever. He hopes that this will be enough. He hopes it will burn through his gut. Anything to take away that knot that sits in the center of his chest. Maybe he should get a third bottle of something terrible just in case? He turns and heads around to the next aisle and all but crashes into the woman who’s reaching on tiptoe for a bottle on a shelf above her head.
”Pardon—“ he begins, but then he stops, nonplussed. “Granger?”
Hermione Granger pauses in the act of reaching for a bottle and turns to look at him. She’s dressed in a baggy brown jumper over a cream colored blouse and a burnt-orange wrap around skirt. She’s wearing cute dark brown ankle boots and her hair is a wild nimbus around her head. He thinks he sees traces of tears on her cheeks, but her expression is at first startled, then morphs into a frown.
“You look like shit, Malfoy,” she says. The first words she’s spoken to him in probably four years.
Draco feels a faint smile tug at his lips. “You’ve seen better days yourself, Granger.” He looks up at the shelf she was attempting to reach and cocks his head. “Do you need help with that?”
She opens her mouth, pauses then shrugs. He hands her one of his bottles. “Hold that for me, please,” he says as he turns and easily plucks the bottle she wanted off the shelf. He looks down and reads the label. “Fireball Whiskey? Granger, surely you can do better than that.”
She looks down at the cheap rum she’s holding and counters, “And what’s this swill you’re double fisting? Don’t you have massive wine cellars filled with elf made wine and bottles from your vineyard in the Loire Valley or something like that?”
He gives a grim chuckle, and they trade bottles. “I do have some good wine and liquors. Not nearly as much as you think. Most of our cellars were drained by the Dark Lord and his rabble. The elves hid the best bottles but—“ he shrugs. “It takes time to build up a good cellar. Which is why I’m buying cheap swill as you call it. I don’t want to waste my good stuff tonight while I drink myself blind.”
“I’m in the mood to get disgustingly drunk today, too,” Granger concedes. “Why are you poisoning yourself today?”
Draco pauses, earlier good humor suddenly completely gone. He swallows. Remembers the white marble. “It’s—it's the one year anniversary of my mother’s death,” he says.
“Oh,” Granger’s gaze goes to his, and he sees the sudden sympathy in her brown eyes. “I”m so sorry for your loss, Malfoy. I didn’t know your mother had died. Wasn’t she still fairly young? What happened?”
”The fucking Dark Lord. My father’s idiocy and hubris. My failure.”
”What?”
”Maledictus pulmonae,” Draco says. “They say some people are prone to get this when they’re exposed too long to Dementors. She caught it when she was in Azkaban and she never recovered.”
”But—I thought she was exonerated,” Granger says, bewildered. “Why was she in Azkaban?”
”She was sent to Azkaban while she was waiting for her trial. We tried to get her house arrest at that time, but public sentiment was not in our favor. Afterward, I got the best healers I could for her, and for a while she seemed to be better, but then last summer it came back and—“ Draco chokes back the words and pinches his nose between his eyes to stop the tears that threatened to spill. He doesn’t want to cry in front of Hermione Granger of all people.
”I’m sorry, you don’t have to go on,” she says. “But maledictus pulmonae is usually incurable. It’s not your fault she died.”
”It was,” he insists, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “It was my responsibility to protect her once my father died. It—we—Mother’s health and safety was probably the only thing the two of us agreed on in the end. After all the shit that went on in the Manor with the Dark Lord, we knew we were dead men. We just wanted Mother to be safe. And with everything we had, we had no way to keep her out of the worst place in the world.”
Granger looks down and bites her lip, seemingly at a loss for words.
”Anyway, enough of my maudlin troubles. What brings you here wanting to drown your sorrows? Do you live around here? I’ve never seen you in the neighborhood before.”
Granger shakes her head. “I don’t live here. I live in White Chapel.”
Draco blinks. “You’re a long way from home. Did the neighborhood markets near you run out of your particular brand of whiskey?”
Granger’s lip curls in a ghost of a smile. “No, it was—I was just…I started walking and walking and somehow ended up here.”
“Is this mindless wandering a common occurrence of yours?”
Granger shakes her head and sighs. “Ron got married today.”
”Oh,” Draco says. Granger just gave him the news like it was the worst thing in the world, but he actually doesn’t think so. He never thought she and the Weasel made sense. “Who’s the unlucky bride?”
Granger’s lips quirk. “Susan Bones. I caught them shagging in our bed six months ago.”
”I’m sorry that you’re upset over this,” Draco says.
”To make everything even better, today would have been our fourth anniversary.” Granger says.
”Oh, Salazar, what an insensitive clod,” Draco says. “Why am I not surprised at all? Is the Pot Head at the funeral with them?”
”Wedding,” Granger corrects.
”I said what I said,” Draco snaps.
Now Granger chuckles. “Stop calling Harry the Pot Head. And yes, he’s at the wedding.”
”So much for the loyalty of the Golden Trio.”
”Well, Ron wanted Harry to be the best man and Harry refused. Said he’d attend the wedding only because Ron is his brother-in-law, but he’d go as a guest. I really can’t fault him, since they’re family.”
”I could,” Draco says, his mouth a hard line.
Granger shakes her head. “Well, I’d better go pay for this,” she says, holding up her whiskey.
Draco looks down at his bottles. “Same.”
They reach the cash registers and see that two adjacent lanes are open. They complete their purchases at the same time.
“I can’t believe I just watched Draco Malfoy pay for cheap alcohol with Muggle means,” she says.
“I’ve had to do a lot of things with Muggle means,” Draco says as they head toward the doors. “Two years without a wand is no joke.”
”Don’t tell me you scrub your own toilet by hand,” she teases.
”I most definitely have scrubbed my own toilet by hand,” Draco says, “And learned to use a washing machine and vacuumed my own floors.”
”Really? No house elves?”
”Elves were freed. They’re paid a salary now, but no, I was not allowed house elves when I was on wandless probation.”
They reach the doors and Draco opens it for her. As they step outside, it's pouring, and a chill early autumn wind is whistling past them. “Where are you headed?” he asks, opening the umbrella he had stashed in his pocket. It’s charmed to triple in size upon opening. He notes she doesn’t have an umbrella with her and angles his umbrella over her head.
”I was just going to find an apparition point and get home,” Granger says.
“You’ll get drenched,” he says.
”I can conjure an umbrella.”
Draco looks up and down the street, still filled with pedestrians despite the rain. “Not here you can’t.” He tilts the umbrella a bit to ward off more of the rain. “I live right up the street. Why don’t you come with me just until the worst of it passes?”
Granger hesitates, biting her lip again. Her eyes meet his and he sees the indecision in them. They’ve never had a relationship where they could casually go to each other’s homes.
“I’m not going to hex you,” Draco says, a little impatiently.
“No, of course not,” Granger says. She squares her shoulders. “You’re right. Thank you,” she says. “Lead the way.”
They head down the block past the boutique stores and one of the ubiquitous Starbucks that line the street until they reach a corner high rise building. A doorman opens the door for them. Draco nods his head toward Granger. “After you.”
Hermione
The building looks posh. The wood paneling is rich and glossy and the front lobby has heavy walnut furniture and thick carpeting. A giant table sits in the middle of the lobby with an enormous vase and a huge flower arrangement filled with exotic and expensive looking blooms. It looks like the lobby of a five star hotel.
”Thank you, Stephens,” she hears Malfoy murmur to the doorman who opened the door for them. He catches up to her and then heads to a row of mailboxes near the doorman’s desk. He opens his mailbox and takes out two letters, which he puts in his pocket. As he does this the elevator door down the other end of the lobby opens and a woman and a young boy who looks to be about four come out.
“Mister Draco!” The boy shouts out in greeting.
A rare, fond smile crosses Malfoy’s face as he sees the boy. He immediately goes down in a squat and holds out his arms to the little boy who runs toward him and gives him a tight hug. “You look good, champ!” Malfoy says. “Where are you off too?”
”We’re going to meet Daddy for dinner! We’re having Chinese!”
”Is that so?” Malfoy says, straightening up. “I hope you have a great dinner.” He greets the woman, presumably the little boy’s mother. “Good evening, Mrs. Caraway.”
”I’ve told you a thousand times to call me Alyssa,” the woman says with a posh drawl. She’s very tall, very blonde, and very well dressed. Her hair and makeup are immaculate. She’s eying Malfoy as though he’s a chocolate bon bon she wants to eat.
“Old habits die hard,” Malfoy says easily. He looks down at the little boy. “See you Wednesday, Billy.”
”Goodbye Mister Draco!” The boy says as he and his mother head out of the building.
Hermione follows Malfoy toward the elevator. “Who was that?” She asks, curiosity getting the better of her.
”Billy is one of my kids.”
”One of your—?”
The elevator door opens and they step inside. The elevator is wood paneled with chrome and mirrors. Hermione watches Malfoy put a key into the panel and turn it, then press the button for PH. “I volunteer at his pre-school once a week.” Malfoy says.
”You volunteer with little kids?” Hermione would not be more surprised if Malfoy had told her he cavorted with fairies in the moonlight.
Malfoy’s face is pained. “During the war—“ he starts, and then he stops and pauses. He starts again. “I had to do a lot of things I didn’t want to do and I had to see a lot of things I didn’t want to see. My parents tried to keep me away from the worst of it, but I saw people like Yaxley and McNair do things to Muggles that—that—I mean, some of them were little children. I can never get their images out of my head. This is my paltry way of—I just needed to see small kids smiling. It just reminds me that there are still good things in the world when I see that.”
Hermione’s throat tightens, and the Mudblood scar on her arm burns a little under her sweater. She knows the world sees Draco Malfoy as a Death Eater, and a part of her has also condemned him for his easy acceptance of the racial purity doctrine he espoused as a young boy, but now she is forcibly reminded that in some ways, Malfoy is as much of a victim of Voldemort as she was.
“Billy is a cute kid,” Hermione says finally. “How many kids do you work with?”
”Five,” Malfoy says, coming out of the dark space he seemed to be in just moments before. “They’re all great. It’s going to break my heart when they leave me and go to kindergarten next year.”
The elevator door dings and opens onto a small foyer. Malfoy crosses and unlocks his door. He takes out his wand and gives it a wave and Hermione feels the wards around her shimmer to let her through. She follows him into the apartment and then stops dead inside. She knew that it would be luxurious by the way the lobby and elevator looked, but this penthouse apartment is beyond her dreams. They’re on the twentieth floor and the giant wrap around floor to ceiling windows command a view of the city and the Thames. There is light gray marble flooring and lush carpeting. The furniture is black leather couches and chairs with chrome accents. Cantilevered glass coffee tables. Priceless objets d’arts are on display on the side tables and walls. The main living space is set out in an open floor plan where, on one end of the space she can see a chef’s kitchen with a row of hanging copper pots, a wine refrigerator and all manner of modern Muggle appliances. The kitchen area is bordered by a large counter with four bar stools. To the side of the kitchen there’s a small dining section with a round, marble topped table and four leather cushioned chairs. A giant vase filled with white calla lilies sits on the table. The fireplace at the other end of the room has a lit fire and above it, improbably, to Hermione’s eyes, is a large flat paneled television. In the corner of the room near the windows is a baby grand piano.
She starts to laugh.
”What’s so funny?” Malfoy asks, kicking off his shoes.
She shakes her head, and bends down to pull off her ankle boots. She’s wearing little white anklet socks and she’s thankful there are no holes in the toes. “When you said you had to live like a Muggle for two years, I pictured you in some seedy walk up flat with crumbling paint and rickety furniture. But this—“
”I said I had to live like a Muggle,” Malfoy says, putting his bottles down on a nearby side table. “I didn’t say I had to live like an impoverished one.”
”I’ll bet the monthly rent on this place is more than my annual salary,” Hermione says.
“Depending on what you do, it probably would be if I rented this.”
”You own this apartment?”
Malfoy shrugs. “I own the whole building. The apartments below are all rented out.”
”Does that lady down there with little Billy know you’re her landlord?”
Malfoy laughs. “No, and I’d like to keep it that way. If she knew, she and her entire mommy group would make my life miserable. It’s bad enough they know I live here, but at least no one else has access to my floor.” He opens a closet door, twists his way out of his coat and reaches for a hanger, then holds out his hand to Hermione. “Would you like me to hang up your jumper?”
Hermione hesitates. She hadn’t been planning on staying long, but the apartment is warm and she’s intrigued in spite of herself. “Thanks,” she says, taking off her jumper for him to hang. She puts her bottle of whiskey down on the same side table where Malfoy had deposited his bottles. She pulls a hair tie from her pocket and pulls her wild curls into a ponytail.
Malfoy crosses the enormous space toward the kitchen. “What can I get you to drink?” He asks.
”Didn’t you just bring home two bottles of cheap liquor?” Hermione asks.
Malfoy mock glares at her. “The ghosts of all my ancestors would rise from their graves if I ever gave a guest anything like that. That poison is for me.”
”Wouldn’t the ghosts of your ancestors rise anyway to see you hosting a Mudblood in your apartment?” Hermione asks.
The joke falls flat. Malfoy’s lips are in a thin line. “I don’t—it’s not—I’m not like that anymore,” he says finally.
Hermione wants to pinch herself. She can’t bring herself to apologize but she feels sorry just the same. Finally she says, “Just a glass of ice water, please, Malfoy.”
”Sure,” Malfoy pulls out a glass and fills it with ice. She hears four clinks before he starts pouring in water. He heads back toward her. She hadn’t moved from the doorway.
“Come on in and make yourself at home,” he says, pointing toward the leather couches.
Hermione takes the ice water from him and heads toward the couches. As she suspected, when she sits down, the leather is soft as butter and she feels like she has sunk down on a cloud. After all the walking she did today, this feels really good. She suspects if she sits too long she’ll never want to get up again.
Malfoy heads back to the kitchen to fix himself a drink. He comes back with a glass of red wine. He tips his wine to her glass of water. “Cheers.”
”Cheers,” Hermione parrots. She drinks the water greedily, finishing it all in one gulp. It’s been hours since she had anything to drink and she hasn’t eaten all day. Just as she finishes drinking, her stomach gives an embarrassing rumble.
Malfoy laughs and gets to his feet. “Let me get you something to eat.”
”No, really, I couldn’t,” Hermione protests.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Malfoy says. He takes her glass. “Refill? Or do you want something stronger?”
“Just water,” she says and then pushes herself to her feet to follow him to the kitchen. He gives her a refilled glass and then quickly assembles a board with cheeses, salami, crackers and grapes, which he sets on the counter.
“Wrap yourself around some of that,” he says.
Hermione sits on one of the barstools. She watched as he put the board together. He moves easily around the kitchen, which she notes is spotless. Her own apartment is kept neat at all times, too, but this penthouse is easily three or four times the size of her entire apartment. “Did you say you clean this place all by yourself?”
Malfoy grins sheepishly. “I did when I wasn’t allowed magic, but now the elves come twice a week. And I’ve learned a couple of cleaning spells since I got my wand back.”
”I knew it!” Hermione crows triumphantly as she picks at a piece of cheese.
Malfoy shrugs, then turns back to the refrigerator. “I was about to throw something on the stove to cook,” he says, “Why don’t you stay for dinner?”
Hermione suspects that what he just said was a massive lie, considering his earlier plan was to drink himself blind, but she can’t quite bring herself to leave. She never thought she’d enjoy the company of Draco Malfoy of all people, but he’s been surprising her at every step tonight. Besides, she realizes that if she goes home she really will spend the night drowning in Fireball whiskey and thinking of Ron and hating herself, and that’s the most unappealing thing she can imagine doing. “All right,” she finds herself saying, “but only if you let me help.”
He rummages through the refrigerator, and the freezer, putting random items on the counter top, then disappears around a corner behind the kitchen to a room Hermione suspects is a pantry. He comes back bearing a bag with a loaf of bread and a couple jars of condiments. “You make the salad and do something with the bread, Granger. I’ll do the rest.”
Twenty five minutes later, they are sitting at the marble topped dining table together eating the meal they’d assembled. Malfoy grilled salmon steaks and made a dish of sautéed asparagus and almonds. The vinaigrette dressing they use on the salad is something she watched him concoct before her eyes with small bits of raspberries and hints of orange peel in the mix. And Hermione tastes honey in the butter they use on the warmed, crusty bread she sliced. He pairs the meal with a delightful Sauvignon Blanc that he pulled from an enormous closet cum wine cellar next to the pantry. This dinner is so much better than the frozen entree she would have pulled from her freezer tonight.
”Do you eat like this every night?” Hermione asks. “Your cooking is amazing.”
“Sometimes. I like cooking. It reminds me of Potions class. But some days when I’m feeling lazy I find Muggle takeaway is a wonderful invention.”
They eat in companionable silence for a couple of minutes before Malfoy asks, “So, what have you been doing with yourself in the last few years?”
”I’m an apprentice healer,” Hermione says. “I’m going to finish my training next year. I was also thinking of going to Muggle medical school eventually, but I need to find a way to pay for my apartment and tuition if I’m not working full time.”
“Why both?”
”Magical healing is wonderful, but I think there are things that Muggles have learned with science that could complement what I learned as a Healer’s apprentice and if I could integrate the two I’d be such a better clinician.”
”That sounds really smart, but then I wouldn’t expect less of you,” Malfoy says, leaning back in his chair and lazily tracing the rim of his wine glass with the tip of his finger.
”Ron didn’t think so,” Hermione says and then wants to hex herself for letting that slip out.
”Ronald Weasley has the intelligence of a pomegranate. Why you ever bothered to care about his opinion of you I’ll never know. Please tell me you found someone much better once you escaped him.”
”No,” Hermione says, suddenly feeling humiliated. “It’s hard to find people who see me and not one third of the Golden Trio. I feel like half the blokes I’ve dated just wanted to get Harry’s autograph.”
”Wankers. All of them,” Malfoy says, which makes her giggle.
”What about you?” Hermione asks. “I’m surprised you aren’t hosting lawn fetes with a beautiful Pureblood heiress.”
”No,” Malfoy says, a little bitterly. He pulls back the sleeve on his black turtleneck. His Dark Mark is faded now and if Hermione didn’t know any better she would have thought it was some hipster tattoo, but it still covers a large portion of his left forearm. “Beforehand there had been some talk of a betrothal between me and Astoria Greengrass, but her parents ran for the hills as soon as my father went on trial. Which, I can’t blame them. Or her either. The only people who seem to be interested in me nowadays are thrill seekers or gold diggers.”
”Like that lady downstairs?“
”Don’t get me started on Alyssa Caraway and her terrifying mommy group. They’re trouble. I wouldn’t touch them with a hundred foot pole. There have been a few…Muggle girls, but those were just…one night stands. It wouldn’t be fair to any of them to entangle them in my mess when they don’t even know magic exists.”
”Fair point,” Hermione says. She looks around the apartment again. “So, do you live here full time now? Not at the Manor?”
Malfoy tilts his head. “I lived there for six months before Mother died helping to take care of her, but after she died, I just couldn’t bear being there alone. We were actually in the middle of renovating the Manor before Mother died. We wanted to get rid of every trace of—well, the Dark Lord really did his best to defile as much as he could of the Manor. It looks very different now. That—that room where Bellatrix tortured you is gone now. We reconfigured the four nearest rooms around it to expand them and obliterate that space.”
”I see,” Hermione says, not sure how to feel about that.
”Listen, Granger,” Malfoy looks uneasy. “You testified on my behalf at my trial, and I never thanked you for it, and I never apologized to you for what happened back then—“
”You don’t have to,” Hermione says. “I never held you responsible for what your crazy aunt did that day.”
”But I didn’t stop her.”
”I don’t think anyone could have stopped her besides Voldemort. You were trapped in a terrible situation just like I was.”
”I was also pretty horrid to you in school before that and I’m sorry about that,” Malfoy says.
Hermione agrees. “Yeah, you were a right little shit back then. I’ll take your apology for that. Just promise me you won’t ever hex my teeth again.”
”Cross my heart, Granger. Anyway, your teeth look perfect now.”
Hermione smiles mischievously. “My parents wouldn’t let me fix my teeth because they wanted me to wait until I was older, but after you hexed my teeth, I had Madame Pomfrey do the shrinking treatment just a little longer than she was supposed to, and got my teeth to just the right size. So it actually worked out all right for me in the end.”
Malfoy shakes his head. “Brightest witch of our age, indeed.”
”So, what are you doing with yourself these days?” Hermione asks.
Malfoy suddenly smiles a slow smile, and Hermione is startled to see flecks of gold in the grey of his eyes. “You‘ll never guess.”
”I’d say you count the gold in your Gringott’s account but that seems too obvious,” Hermione says entering into the spirit of the banter. “Are you terrorizing Ministry officials and bending them to your nefarious schemes?”
”That was my father. No, I try to give the Ministry a wide berth.”
”I give up. What does a fabulously wealthy, handsome, intelligent yet socially scorned young man do with his time?”
Malfoy gives her an odd look. “That’s probably more compliments than you’ve ever given me in your life.”
”Stop stalling, Malfoy! What’s the answer?”
”Well, I’ve recently secured an apprenticeship with a Potions Master, and I’ll be starting on my mastery in the spring. But I’m also working on getting my degree in chemistry at Oxford.”
Hermione’s mouth falls open. “You’re getting a degree in a Muggle school? In chemistry? Who are you and what have you done to Draco Malfoy?”
”It’s the truth.”
Hermione narrows her eyes. “I hexed you once outside the second floor bathroom in our third year. What hex was it?”
”Jelly legs jinx, you minx. It took me three days to walk straight again.”
Hermione grins. “So you’re really you and not someone Polyjuiced to be you. All I can say is good on you, Malfoy. A chemistry degree and a mastery in Potions. That’s marvelous! What do you plan to do with this? And why chemistry?”
”I’ve always liked potions. And when I looked into chemistry, I realized that learning about the science behind it, the acids, bases, the catalysts, all that, would enhance whatever work I wanted to do with potions. Then, after Mother got sick, I had thought of working with the Healers at St Mungos and coming up with more and better potions to treat the diseases they deal with.”
”Oh, Malfoy!” Hermione looks at him with genuine admiration. “That would be—“ she chokes up a little. “—that would be wonderful of you. I think you could do great things.”
Malfoy turns slightly pink. “Maybe you’re the one Polyjuiced, Granger. I’m having trouble processing this many nice things said about me in one sitting.”
”I’m serious!” Hermione says. “I’d love to work with you some day after you get your mastery and I finish medical school.”
Malfoy looks pleased. “I’d like that,” he murmurs. He looks down at her hands which are clasped around the stem of her wine glass, as if he’s coming to a decision about something but then says, “Are you finished with that?” He points to her empty dinner plate.
”Oh let me help you with that!” Hermione exclaims, coming to her feet. She begins to gather the plates and silverware the Muggle way.
Malfoy laughs, “Are you or are you not a witch, woman?” He takes out his wand and levitates the dinner ware to his sink, where another flick of his wand starts a cleaning charm to wash the dishes and pots and pans. He points the wand again to the table “Evanesco,” he says, and the crumbs and spills on the table disappear, leaving it spotless again. “Why don’t you go have a seat over there on the couch and I’ll bring out a dessert. You want coffee or tea?”
”This late, I should have tea or I’ll never get to sleep,” Hermione says, moving toward the couches in front of the fire.
A few minutes later, Malfoy brings out a beautiful tiramisu and a cup of tea for each of them. “May I?” He says, and he cuts her a slice of the cake.
“How is it you happen to have such a heavenly cake just lying around your kitchen?” Hermione demands after taking a bite.
Malfoy sighs. “After I was sentenced to probation, I came here to live. It’s actually not an easy thing to be cast out wandless with no understanding of how the Muggle world works. I think the first month I was here I lived on cereal and crisps and the apartment looked like a pigsty. I was allowed one Floo visit a month to the Manor, so when I went back I asked one of the elves—Tippy—to teach me how to do household chores and to cook. She was newly freed and thought I was going to get rid of her once I knew how to do her job, and she cried for six hours straight. I had to make all sorts of promises to her before she would teach me. One of the promises was that after I was allowed to use magic again that she and the other elves would come here twice a week to clean and another was they would bring me three desserts every week. Anyway, Tippy has always made the best desserts. I can cook well enough but there’s no way I could make cake like she does.”
”Mmmpphhh,” Hermione says, slowly pulling the fork out of her mouth. “So good. Please tell Tippy for me this is the best tiramisu I’ve ever had.”
She looks toward Malfoy and he has a strange expression on his face. He startles when he sees that she caught him staring at her and busies himself with his tea.
Hermione suddenly feels very apprehensive. The two of them have drifted very close to each other on the couch. She is suddenly conscious of how tall he grew since the last time they’d seen each other at his trial. He’d been a boy of seventeen then, still reeling from the aftermath of the war; he’d looked peaky and withdrawn, too thin, his eyes too big in his face. Since then, he’s filled out to his proper height and frame. He towers over her. When they stood together in Sainsbury’s he was easily a head taller than her, and while his figure is athletically slender, she sees the muscles bunching under his black turtleneck. And his features have filled out from pointy and pallid to angular, with classical lines. His distinctive white blond hair is cut in a taper cut these days, short on the sides and back but longer up top and it suits him far better than the slicked back look he had as a teenager. And his eyes are a rich shade of slate grey that have mesmerized her every time she’s looked at them today. The girls at Hogwarts had whispered and giggled about him back when they were teenagers, and she had been torn between hating him and secretly admiring his looks. The hate is gone now, and there is no doubt he looks far handsomer than he did in school. She suddenly feels her heart pounding very fast in her throat. She springs to her feet, part of her wanting desperately to get away and part of her wanting desperately to stay.
Her eyes alight on the piano in the corner. “May—may I?” She asks. The words come out in a strangled croak.
Malfoy looks confused for a moment and then nods. “By all means.”
She quickly crosses the room to the piano and sits down on the bench. It’s black with ornate carvings and gold trim. It’s a work of art in itself. “Is this from the Manor?” She asks.
”Yes,” Malfoy says, “It was my piano from when I first took lessons.”
”Oh, you play then,” Hermione says, not really sure what she’s saying. She’s feeling like she’s babbling. She opens the lid over the keys. She’s sure they’re ivory, but they have not stained at all with age. She taps one key lightly. It gives off a rich sound.
”Do you play?” Malfoy asks, coming to stand behind her.
Hermione blushes. “I had some lessons, but I didn’t get very far before I got my Hogwarts letter. I never took lessons again after I started school. So, all I know is this—“ she plays a halting version of Chopsticks. It sounds tinny and horrible.
”Merlin, Granger. Please promise me you’ll never do that to my piano again.” Malfoy says. He jerks his head. “Scoot over a little.”
Hermione scoots on the bench, realizing she is now back to sitting right next to him again. She smells the scents on him, citrusy, and a little musky. It smells good to her. “You play something,” she challenges trying to keep her voice from shaking.
Malfoy runs his fingers lightly over the keys in a warm up. Then he pauses, as if trying to decide what to play. When his fingers come down on the keys this time, he transports Hermione to a place far far away from this penthouse flat in Mayfair. She listens to his music and hears the crash of waves from the ocean, she hears the wind, she hears terrible sorrow and bittersweet joy. She feels a terrible longing that makes her want to weep, and then a lilting sense of hope that turns into fear and then anger and then into pounding desire. She’s never heard anything quite like this and she wonders if this is something he composed. Listening to his music, Hermione feels she is glimpsing into Malfoy’s soul. She doesn’t know how long he plays, only that when he’s done, she’s breathless and tears are trickling down her cheeks.
In the overwhelming silence that follows the last notes of his playing, Hermione gathers herself to say something. She turns to him. “Malfoy, that was beaut—“
She never finishes the sentence, because Malfoy leans down and captures her mouth in a kiss.