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When he walks through the door, Hermione’s struck by how well her mind’s eye nailed him.
He looks like he sounded on the phone: Uptight. Wealthier than anyone around her age should be. Like a man who would pay someone else to take his cat to the groomer.
“Do you...well, do you shave long-haired cats? Ones not...predisposed to care for their own fur?” His tone had been both apprehensive and long-suffering.
He’d wasted no time bringing said cat in, and it’s just as well. Weekends are by appointment only, but the shop is even quieter than normal for a Saturday. Must be the holiday weekend. Most owners choose to board with their local vet and add on a nail trim or bath while they’re at it.
She should have been taking the opportunity to study, but she closes the well-worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird she’d been indulging in and places it on the counter behind her.
“Hello,” he says, perfunctorily polite. He lifts the fancy leather cat carrier slightly in explanation, ignoring the hiss from the interior. “I was told you groom cats and had some availability today.”
“Yes. I think we just spoke. This is your first time here?”
He nods, coming closer and setting the carrier on the ground. Hermione pulls a fresh new-client card from the drawer and selects a pen with a fake purple blossom taped to the top. Why people steal pens with Bark Avenue on them, she doesn’t know. “Okay. Name, please?”
“Draco. Well, that’s my name. Her name is”—he hesitates, clearing his throat—“Ms. Whiskers.”
Her finger twitches imperceptibly, but she’s sure he saw it. He seems like someone who sees everything.
She writes the name without comment. “Okay. Ms. Whiskers. And I will actually need your name as well. Draco?”
“Yes. Draco Malfoy. She’s—she’s my mother’s cat. My mother named her. But you can put me down.”
She glances over him. He’s tall, in all black, not a single hair in sight. Not any of his own pale blond strands, and certainly no cat fur. Hermione wonders if maybe it is his mother’s cat.
He looks like he stepped off the cover of a magazine, and it’s an annoying contrast to how she feels after scrubbing and drying a giant Saint Bernard this morning.
“How old is Ms. Whiskers?”
“She’s thirteen.”
“Is she declawed?”
“No. And she’s indoor-only, so she won’t be too cold.”
Hermione warms at the faint tone of judgment in his voice. She’s still waging an internal war over whether—once she finally earns her DVM—she will decline declaw requests, or perform the procedure infrequently to keep more cats in good homes.
Draco looks like he has leather couches and expensive rugs, so the intact status of Ms. Whiskers’ claws and the prioritization of her comfort ticks his attractiveness up another notch.
He’s more forthcoming as she fills out the rest of the card. Nothing else is as embarrassing, perhaps, as his cat’s name. As though she hasn’t heard worse than Ms. Whiskers.
“Are you looking for a standard lion cut?”
Draco looks taken aback. “I didn’t know there were other options.”
She knows how he’ll react, and she wonders why she’s teasing someone who looks a little uptight. Her mother loves to retell the story about the time a very young Hermione trimmed hair from their patient dog’s ears with her safety scissors, earnestly explaining, “I don’t know what makes me be so naughty.”
She hasn’t ever really figured it out or outgrown it.
So Hermione keeps a straight face as she points to a framed picture on the counter. It’s one of her favorite Persian cat clients, body shaved except for a notched strip of fur left in place along his spine and down his tail. “You could go with The Dragon.”
His raised brow and look of disdain give her a shiver of satisfaction, and she bites her lip to stifle her laughter.
“Lion, please,” Draco says with finality. “Who will be handling her? I should speak to them. She’s a bit...persnickety.”
“That’ll be me.”
Draco looks her over, as though noticing Hermione’s hair and disheveled appearance for the first time. “Ah. Okay, then.”
She tries not to take it personally. The Saint Bernard left her in no shape to make a good impression. “Why don’t you let her out, and you can tell me more about what makes her persnickety.”
She rounds the counter and Draco drops gracefully to a crouch, unzipping the door to the carrier. “Come on,” he says. “Out you come.”
Ms. Whiskers does not come out. Not even for a treat Hermione plucks out of the bowl on the counter and hands to Draco.
He finally tips the carrier gently until the cat slowly emerges, decidedly intact claws scrabbling for purchase. “There’s a girl,” Draco says softly, sinking long fingers into the ruff around her neck.
The warmth in his tone doesn’t escape Hermione’s notice. But her focus is on Ms. Whiskers, in all her enormous, fluffy glory.
The perpetually-dour Persian cat expression seems reflective of Ms. Whiskers' actual mood after an undignified eviction from her carrier. She looks every one of her thirteen years, and it's clear she's not brushed often.
“We try brushing her,” Draco says as he zips the carrier shut, as though reading Hermione’s mind. “But she strongly prefers that we don’t. Bit unpleasant about it, really.”
“Mmm,” Hermione says, kneeling to get on Ms. Whiskers' level. “That’s fairly common. Has anyone ever groomed her before?” She rubs her fingers together and makes the universal chirping noise that humans use to entice cats. “Hello, lovely.”
Ms. Whiskers stares dubiously from her place next to Draco’s shoe.
“Yes, but it’s been some time. She usually seems happier afterward, but the last place we took her shaved patches here and there for almost an hour before referring us to a vet for sedation. I don’t know what went wrong, and I don’t want to stress her too much. She’s very important.” He rubs one of the cat’s velvety ears between those mesmerizing fingers. “Important to my mother.”
Hermione takes in the rising pink of his cheeks. God. A man who loves animals is her weakness. “Good of you to look out for them both.”
A treat finally draws Ms. Whiskers near enough to Hermione for scritches. “Aren’t you a lovely old lady?”
She pauses petting to shake tufts of fur from her hand, wondering again how someone who so obviously loves this cat can keep his black peacoat pristine.
Hermione scoops Ms. Whiskers up, holding her with a calm confidence that inspires trust in most clients, both animal and human alike. She doesn’t seem nearly as persnickety as advertised. “Shall we get started making you more comfortable?”
Draco straightens as well. “Oh. I expected starting this might be a more...delicate operation. Like, elbow-length gloves and a protective vest. Won’t she panic when she sees the equipment?”
Hermione feels a moment of empathy for the teachers of any current or future children this man may have. “There’s no one else scheduled at the moment, so no noises to frighten her. Would you like to stay and watch?”
“Oh, no. I have an errand.” He watches warily as Ms. Whiskers purrs and nuzzles into Hermione. “Just...please be careful with her. She's very—”
She wonders how hard he’s biting his tongue on the word important. “We’ll be fine. But if she’s not up for it, I won’t force anything. Don’t worry.”
“I’ll be back in…”
“An hour should do.”
Once Draco finally leaves Ms. Whiskers in her care with a reluctant backward glance, Hermione walks behind the counter with the warm weight of a fluffy, ancient cat in her arms. She likes to under-promise and over-deliver, but she’s never yet left a lion cut unfinished, and it seems unlikely that Ms. Whiskers will be the first.
She goes through practiced steps with muscle memory. She can feel the beginning of some mats in Ms. Whiskers' fine fur, but they aren’t anywhere near advanced enough to be painful or twisting her skin. It’s still possible to comb and carefully snip them out one by one. But for a fluffy geriatric cat, prone to stiffness and resistant to brushing, the clean shave will help her feel her best for quite a while.
Hermione would never refuse a client wanting to stay for the process, but she’s relieved that he had an errand, because her practice involves constant conversation with the animal. It seems to calm them and helps her stay focused. She praises Ms. Whiskers’ pretty pink toe beans as she presses the pad of each paw and snips the tips of her claws.
“Not a drop of blood,” she says, pleased with herself. “Do you trust me yet?”
Ms. Whiskers tolerates most of the shave from inside a strategically wrapped towel, permitted to dig her trimmed claws into an anti-fatigue mat. Hermione provides a steady, soothing narrative that's answered with warning grumbles. For the last bit, the cat goes limp with a gentle, practiced hand on her neck, attitude shifting into what Hermione thinks of as this is where I die; I may as well accept it.
She leaves a tidy mane in place, realizing she forgot to ask about the fluffball at the end of the tail. She opts to leave one in case it’s very important to her owner, deciding it’s easier to take off than grow back.
“You’re not persnickety, are you,” she coos. “He might be, a little bit. But he's handsome, isn't he?”
"Did you drop off your kitty, darling?"
Draco sighs. Sometimes he wonders if he will be perpetually eight years old in his mother's eyes. "Yes, mother."
"Did you meet anyone interesting while you were out?"
"Actually, yes." For once, he finally has a promising answer for this standard line of questioning.
When he sees how her face lights up, he feels a little guilty for denying her most of her matchmaking attempts. But Draco's idea of a suitable partner generally does not align with hers.
"Tell me, darling! How did you meet her?" Narcissa tucks her feet beneath her on the sofa, expression eager. "Or him," she adds magnanimously. "Whomever will make you happy."
She hints regularly to Draco that his bisexuality doesn't bother her one bit, because she's woke. He thinks it's less to do with open-mindedness and more about her impression of a doubled pool of potential partners, one of whom might settle Draco and provide her an eventual grandchild.
"She's grooming Ms. Whiskers."
"Oh. Okay!" She's concealed the hint of snap judgment as best she can, and presses onward valiantly. "Well. That's something! You have a love of animals in common, then. Tell me about her."
"She's funny. Quietly funny," he amends. "And Ms. Whiskers really liked her. It was surprising." His face softens at the memory of his cat settled contentedly in the arms of a stranger. "She's sharp and interesting. And she didn't seem to recognize my name at all."
This is the most common complaint he has about the children of stuffy family friends and business associates his mother tries to set him up with: boring, or worse, only interested in his bank account.
"Is she pretty?"
He rolls his eyes. "Does that matter to you?"
"Of course not, darling. People are more than their appearance!" Woke. "I'm just curious if you find her interesting on a physical level as well."
Messy curls, flushed cheeks, and the imprint of teeth biting into a bottom lip. A faded, oversized university sweatshirt, absolutely covered in some sort of animal fur, exposing one kissable shoulder and collarbone in a very uncalculated and appealing way. Sure hands, slipping a bookmark inside her own copy of Draco's favorite book, gathering up his fussy, beloved cat with ease.
"Yes, mother. She's pretty."
Hermione has just finished examining Ms. Whiskers' ears when she hears the bell signifying Draco’s return. She pets down the luxurious plushness of shorn flank and relishes the soft prickle as she draws her hand up against the lie of fur. Ms. Whiskers purrs generously as Hermione carries her back to the lobby.
Draco stands in front of the counter, car keys fisted in his grip.
“My mother thinks I should ask you out.”
He immediately winces.
Hermione’s startled, but his vulnerability is disarming. How can a man that looks like that be so inept at asking someone out? “Your mother thinks—I’m sorry, do I know her?”
“No. It’s just—well, Ms. Whiskers took to you right away. She doesn’t usually like strangers. It can be hard for her to warm up to people.”
“So your cat likes me, and your mother thinks we should go out?” Ms. Whiskers is now a revving engine, vibrating under Hermione’s amused petting.
“Sorry. Here, let me—” He steps close to collect Ms. Whiskers carefully from her arms.
She expects him to hold the cat at a distance, stow her away promptly in her carrier. How else he keeps his clothing so pristine, Hermione doesn’t know.
What she doesn’t expect is the way he cradles the cat close, peacoat bedamned, scritching behind her ears and speaking in a low voice. “Hey there. You look nice, don’t you? You must feel so much better.”
Warmth spreads through her at the tone of his voice, and Hermione has to remind herself he's talking to his cat. “Is her tail okay like that? I forgot to double-check.”
“It’s perfect.”
The cat melts against him in a fit of purring, arching her naked shoulders to rub against Draco’s chin. He drops his nose down into the still-fluffy fur on top of Ms. Whiskers’ head, closing his eyes and breathing in deep for a moment.
“Does she smell different to you? Sometimes if you have another cat at home, the shaved cat smells and looks different. It’s like bringing home a stranger.”
“She’s the only one. And I think she smells the same.” Draco draws his face away, smoothing her fur. “Nice. Familiar.”
His unguarded affection makes her decision an easy one.
“Listen, I will ask you for coffee. But if you want a second date, your mom and Ms. Whiskers need to give you a pep talk.”
“That’s fair. I’m not very good at”—he pauses to gesture back and forth between them—“this.”
She nods understandingly. “Yeah. It’s okay. Ms. Whiskers gave me a heads-up about that.”
“Did she?” He picks up the carrier and places it on the counter, opening it with one hand. His eyes never leave Hermione. They’re the most startling shade of pale blue, almost grey, and the kindness is evident.
“Mm-hmm. ‘Please don’t reject my dad just because he’s socially awkward. He’s very handsome and kind.’”
He gives her a shrewd look, picking up on the important part of her teasing. “You think I’m…”
“Well, Ms. Whiskers does. The jury’s still out for me.”
He smiles, minding the cat's head as he tucks her in the carrier. “If you’re free for dinner tonight, maybe we could do that? Instead of coffee. Or in addition to.”
Apparently, a little compliment gives him a confidence boost. “Okay.”
He picks her up at seven and she savors the appreciative look he gives her. She took advantage of a rare occasion to dress up, but anything's an improvement over being covered in fur and drool.
He’s impeccable in his suit and tie. Not a cat hair in sight, of course.
Dinner is wonderful and conversation flows easily. He doesn’t try to order for her (which she hates) and he does pick up the bill, which she doesn’t fight (she asked him for coffee, not a fancy French meal). When he asks if she’d like to go for a little walk after some excellent crème brûlée, she doesn’t hesitate.
They stroll along the river, and although the sun is still out on the spring evening, the breeze off the water makes her shiver.
“I have a confession,” he says, removing his jacket and placing it around her shoulders.
The jacket smells of citrus and spice. She shrugs into its gentle warmth; it’s a scent and feeling she could get used to. “What, that Ms. Whiskers is your cat? And that you love her immeasurably?”
He gives her a sheepish smile as he rolls his sleeves in the waning sunlight. “I guess it was a bit obvious. I'm not ashamed to have a cat, of course. Her name is just...regretful. Anyway, she’s been my only girl for a long time. Thank you for taking such good care of her today.”
Hermione spies a peek of a tattoo along one forearm and needs to know more about it. It feels a little personal to ask about so soon, though. Maybe she'll get to see more of it later.
There are more pressing questions in the meantime. Like: “So, you said you work for your family’s company. That’s somewhat vague. What do you actually do?”
“It’s nothing glamorous.”
She scoffs. “Listen, you already know I’m putting myself through veterinary school grooming treasured pets. I’m not used to glamour. Lay it on me.”
He scrubs a hand along his jaw. “Alright. Check the pocket.”
She pats his jacket pocket, dipping her hand inside to discover...a small lint roller. With a very famous brand name embossed on the handle.
“Ah. The family business. I’m guessing you don’t just work for a store that sells these?”
He shakes his head, eyeing her carefully. “No.”
There’s more to unpack there. Maybe that’s the reason he doesn’t date much; he seems very wary of how she might take the news of him apparently being heir to a massive brand of cleaning products. But to Hermione, the most satisfying thing about the discovery is solving a mystery. “It drove me crazy wondering how you kept the cat hair off your clothing. The peacoat!”
He groans a laugh, head back, pale neck exposed. Very biteable. “God. I have to hang that in the closet and make sure to shut the door. She seeks it out as a substitute for her perfectly adequate bed if she can get her claws on it. And those,” he says, nodding to the travel-sized lint roller, “can’t work miracles.”
“Bite your tongue,” she says, slipping it back into his pocket. “Your clothing is pristine enough that I noticed, and it’s germane to my line of work.”
“I shouldn’t complain if it helped me catch your eye.”
“You have to give Ms. Whiskers her due. She’s an excellent wingwoman.” Hermione takes a leap, slipping her hand into his and lacing their fingers. “Really talked you up. Saved you from that dreadful attempt to ask me out.”
The answering squeeze of his grip is full of promise. “Well, I suppose I have just one more reason to love her.”