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“Bloody lovely?!” Hermione’s voice reached heights it never had before, rereading the words in the Missed Spells section of The Daily Prophet.
Her arms dropped, with them the papers did too. She looked at her flatmate in disbelief and if one looked carefully, they’d see the smoke coming out of her ears.
“Ginny!” Hermione whaled. “I was joking about writing an ad!”
The ginger witch stood from the horrendous 70s sofa, which they had inherited from Mrs Crista Litoris, the tenant before them. It was massive, orange-brown with pink lace on the edges, and had a very obvious imprint of Mrs Litoris’ arse.
Yes, Ginny and Hermione had hung up her name tag from the door as a keep-sake:
C. Litoris
Ginny clutched her non-existent pearls at the outrage of her best friend. She crossed the space and snatched The Daily Prophet from Hermione’s rigid fingers and held it up to her own face.
She read it quietly, then flinged the papers on the couch table when she was done. “I think I wrote it perfectly well, thank you.”
Hermione sighed in great irritation. It wasn’t about how well her friend had written it. It was the fact that Hermione hadn’t tried to put herself into the world of dating again after her disastrous marriage with a muggle called Boris Withersome. A man so self-absorbed, she had lost herself during the five years of their relationship to try to get something out of it. Just a touch of a hand when they walked through Covent Garden. A hug when she cried from being burned out from her Ministry job. A chuckle when she joked yet again about Crooks stealing her tuna. Anything.
It had taken another three years of healing after their divorce to even look at a man again. Honestly, she had become quite content with her life. It was quiet, soft, and easy. No eggshells she had to walk around, no fear of saying the wrong words yet again, and certainly no thoughts of self-doubt circling in her head. Just peace. Living with Ginny was the best decision she had made in years. Ginny was a strong-willed woman, one who didn’t take bullshit excuses and saw right through people. The only time dear Boris tried to worm his way back into Hermione’s life, Ginny pulled her wand on him, making him bolt. A brilliant sight, forever treasured in Hermione’s memories.
It also meant that Hermione couldn’t hide anything from her friend. So when Hermione had come back from tea on a fancy boat the day prior, Ginny immediately noticed the grin on her face.
“What did Padma do this time?” Ginny had asked, laying in Savasana on the pink yoga mat on the living room floor.
“She tried to steal the Crown Jewel’s again,” Hermione had chirped and hung up her keys on the wall.
Ginny had hummed. “That’s not it. You’re smiling,” Ginny had said, “tell me now.”
Hermione had turned away to fidget on the door lock.
“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” she had tried to play it down. “This guy had a nosebleed just as we went beneath the Tower Bridge, and him and his friend bickered about never bringing a handkerchief, because the nosebleed guy thinks it makes him look like a snob–”
“It is kind of snobby.” Ginny exhaled loudly and closed her eyes again.
“Well, I always have one in my purse so I offered it to him and I don’t know… It was nothing.”
“Doesn’t sound like nothing.” Another deep in- and exhale had filled the silence between them.
“He was struggling with cleaning himself up because, you know, being on a boat and the waves—I helped him.”
“You helped him clean off his blood?” Ginny’s eyes had flown open again.
“His friend was very squeamish,” Hermione had explained.
“Are we talking about eye-contact, slow-swiping kind of help?”
“Uhm… kinda.”
“Why didn’t you ask him out!”
“I—how do you know I didn’t?”
Ginny had changed into Child’s Pose, took a few slow breaths and had said, “I know you.”
Hermione had braced her hips and scoffed. Ginny was right, she always was, but how could Hermione explain…
“Well, I could always write one of those Missed Spells ads,” Hermione had joked.
Ginny hadn’t responded, which wasn’t something too unusual, so Hermione plummeted onto the sofa and let the conversation die out.
Now she sat in the same spot, trying to explain what was going on inside of her head. Instead, she mumbled, “Thank you, Ginny. I know you mean well, but…”
Ding-dong!
The doorbell interrupted Hermione’s planned confession, making her jump up in distress. Ginny caught on and her brows knitted in response.
“Are you expecting someone?” Ginny asked, stepping toward the door.
“Uhm—”
“Oh my god, you so are!”
Ginny looked through the peephole, and as soon as she did, she stumbled back and slapped her hands over her mouth.
“So, about yesterday—” Hermione hurried to the door and put herself against it as a temporary shield. “I… didn’t ask him out because he asked me out first,” she explained and then yelled, “Just a second!”
“You got asked out by—”
Hermione nodded and shrugged at the same time and then mouthed, I'll explain later, before finally turning around and opening the door.
There he stood, in all his glory: the man in question, the nose-bleeding, handkerchief-less Draco Malfoy.
Yes, the Draco Malfoy.
Wizarding society’s number one bachelor, reformed Death Eater and author of, what Ginny liked to call, The Apology Letter Chronicles. Letters as in, ever since the war had ended, he had sent Hermione an owl every year on May 2nd. The letters always entailed great details of his faults, and never any excuses for them. Hermione would always reply with a short note, explaining that she accepted his apology and that he doesn’t need to send more of them. He did anyway. Boris used to poke so much fun at him she started to hide the letters and tell him that Draco had actually stopped after the second letter.
The Draco Malfoy had one hand gripping a bouquet of flowers, the other hidden in his perfectly tailored suit pants, and looked dashing overall.
“Hi,” Hermione breathed, standing in her doorway, and if one paid just the right amount of attention, one would definitely see her eyes turning into heart-shapes.
Draco’s eyes swiped over her and his lips curled into a world-class smile.
“You look beautiful,” he complimented, and when Hermione stepped to the side and welcomed him in, he took the invitation by crossing the threshold into the flat.
His gaze went from left to right, swiftly registering their living situation. They snapped back to the sofa.
“What is that?” he asked, trying to suppress his shock at the brown-orange monstrosity.
“It’s our Clitoris,” Hermione uttered nervously, and instantly wanted to explode into non-existence.
“Sorry, what?” Draco asked, bewilderment sitting deep in the ridge between his brows.
Ginny barked a laugh and held her stomach, making Hermione throw her a venomous look.
“We like to rub it for good luck,” Ginny continued to egg on. “Try it, Malfoy!”
“The tenant before us, Clitoris—I mean C. Litoris, as you can see,” Hermione said before Ginny could cause any more damage, and pointed to the framed name tag on the wall behind Draco, “left it behind.”
Draco looked over his shoulder, laughed, and turned around again. Hermione’s face burned with a deep blush, she hadn’t quite expected their first date to start like this.
To her surprise, Draco sauntered over to her, took a few seconds to take her in, and then bent down. His lips ghosted across her cheek as he pressed the gentlest kiss on it.
When he retreated, he presented her with the bouquet. She took it with trembling hands and whispered, “Thank you.”
“Oookaaay,” Ginny drawled loudly, “I’ll leave you two to it.”
She turned to disappear into her room, but before she did so, she whipped around and pointed a finger at Draco. “If you hurt her, I’ll hurt you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Draco replied and that was already enough to make Hermione spiral for the next two to three business days. Her mind wandered to naughty places, where naughty things would be done to earn a Yes, ma`am of her own.
“Are you ready to go?” Draco interrupted her thoughts.
“Yes!” Hermione replied enthusiastically. She patted Draco on his breast pocket. “Theo taught you to bring a handkerchief, I see.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” he said and put his palm over her hand. She felt his heart flutter beneath her fingers.
Their gazes met. Hers was filled with surprise by the affection she received. His was filled with a softness Hermione wouldn’t have expected. Seconds passed. She should have been uncomfortable. Closeness with her ex had always felt like a transaction. If she denied it, he would deny her basic decency. So it became a means to survive. But not with Draco, no—he let go of her hand and offered his arm instead. They stepped out to the hall and made their way down.
“I read the ad,” Draco said and clearly bit back a smile.
“Oh, god,” Hermione choked out and felt another rush of blood painting her face crimson.
“Bloody lovely?” Draco cited. “You could have told me in person, you know. It does boost my ego, though, I must warn you.”
“I—ugh!” Hermione huffed.
Draco turned serious and stopped before the last flight of stairs.
“I’m joking,” he said, “I say a lot of dumb stuff, I’m sorry.”
Hermione smiled. “No, it’s fine. Ginny wrote the ad because I didn’t quite tell her the entire story of who the bloody lovely man was, because—”
“Because she hates me,” Draco finished.
“She does.” Hermione nodded. “But not for the reason you think.”
Draco’s expression softened, curiosity making him raise an eyebrow ever so slightly.
“She’s still mad about the game,” Hermione continued.
“What game?”
Hermione pulled on Draco’s arm so they’d finally get to enjoy the lush summer evening, waiting for them outside the building.
“What game?” Draco repeated, a laugh bubbling up from his throat.
“You don’t remember the game?”
“The game? As in—” Draco seemed to realize when a quiet Oh! dropped from his lips.
“You destroyed her broom. Never apologized.”
“Fuck,” Draco uttered. “I have to make it up to her. I can’t have my wife’s best friend be angry at me for eternity.”
The sun greeted them with its orange and red hues, just as it was setting behind London’s skyline.
“Wife?!” Hermione squeaked.
“You heard me,” Draco doubled down and led her to a black Aston Martin, waiting at the side of the road.
He opened the door and Hermione gladly climbed into the luxurious car, biting the insides of her cheeks not to smile like an idiot.
Maybe dating wasn’t that bad after all.