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“That’s different,” Neville commented, eyes still fixed to the gaudy pink sign in Madame Puddifoot’s window. He turned to Hermione. “Should we?”
“What?” Hermione blinked back at him. “What if you wind up sitting across from Pansy Parkinson or something and you don’t even know?”
“That’s the point, isn’t it?” he shrugged. “To keep our assumptions from being a problem.”
“I don’t know,” Hermione pursed her lips. “What if I wind up sitting across from Cormac?”
Neville barked a laugh. “Isn’t the risk part of what makes it exciting?”
“Not if it’s Cormac,” Hermione replied with a shudder. “Once was too much.”
He prodded her shoulder. “C’mon. Where’s that Gryffindor spirit?”
“Used it all up in the war?” she tried, ducking her shoulders with a bashful grimace when he leveled her with a that’s-bullshit-and-you-know-it stare. “Oh, fine. But only if you also sign up.”
“That’s more like it.” He opened the door and gestured for her to walk in first.
“Tea for two?” Madame Puddifoot appeared seemingly out of nowhere, an eager light in her eyes. She looked between them excitedly, as if she’d learned a salacious secret. “Are the two of you here on a date?”
Hermione laughed. “Oh, Merlin. No. Us?” she stammered, at the same time that Neville held his hands up with a “Godric, no.”
“Oh, then you must be here about the Valentine’s Day event!” she chirped, unperturbed. “It’s truly an innovative idea, don’t you think?” She gestured for them to follow her to the hostess podium and pulled a sheet of bubble-gum tinted paper from behind the reservations list. Hermione noted there were already a handful of names on it, but Madame Puddifoot slapped her hand over it before she could see more than the scribbled Anthony Goldstein at the top. “No peeking!”
Hermione shook her head and put her hands up. “No peeking,” she promised.
Madame Puddifoot’s quill was a hair’s breadth from the page when she stopped and asked, “Both of you, or just one?”
“Both of us,” Neville said, before Hermione had a chance to back out.
“Hermione Granger,” she said, writing quickly. “And Neville Longbottom.”
“Thanks,” Neville said. “Should be interesting, I reckon.”
“Oh, I do hope so,” Madame Puddifoot smiled. “Remember to apply all your glamours before you come. Hair, eyes, scars, freckles, whatever you like, but you should not be easily identified as yourself by anyone between here and the castle. This entire space will be charmed with additional identity-obscuring magic, which will address voices and muddle people’s memories of things like your height and general shape. It should be the blindest of blind dates, entirely about personality, without assumption or prejudice,” she said proudly, a speech she’d clearly practiced. “Six o’clock sharp, mind you. I won’t have you disappointing someone at my event.”
“Of course,” Hermione assured her. She grabbed Neville’s arm, already pulling to drag him out of the tea shop. “We’re very punctual.”
Madame Puddifoot’s saccharine voice followed them out the door. “See you then!”
***
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Parvati grinned, helping Hermione charm her hair out of its riotous norm. “You! A blind date!”
“Neville talked me into it,” she sighed. “I wish I hadn’t—”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Padma tutted. “This will be good for you. You haven’t done any dating all year.”
“I had to get over the breakup,” she said, knowing from both of their responding expressions that she’d used that excuse one too many times. She and Ron hadn’t dated all that long before realizing they worked better as friends. She sighed. “I’m nervous, all right? What if I’m just too…”
“No. Stop it,” Padma said, swatting her shoulder. Parvati rolled her eyes and waved her wand in front of Hermione’s eyes, muttering glamour spells. Hermione blinked rapidly as the effect took over, her eyeballs tingling for a moment, making her feel like she had to sneeze.
“There. Now you look…”
Padma grinned. “Like some sort of evil ice witch.”
“What?” Hermione yelped. “Don’t make me look evil!”
“I didn’t, she’s being dramatic,” Parvati said, shoving her sister. “I just gave you light eyes and dark hair. It’s not inherently evil.”
“Did you make me prettier than I am?” Hermione asked, touching her face.
“Of course I didn’t,” Parvati said. “What do you take me for, a saboteur? I want you to find someone. Honestly this whole concept is brilliant. You won’t judge someone based on their house or school performance before they’ve even said three words to you, and they won’t make immediate assumptions because you’re Hermione Granger.”
Hermione heaved another sigh, letting her shoulders sag. “Can you take the freckles away? They look odd on this nose.”
“No. Your freckles are cute,” Parvati insisted. “How can they look odd on a nose, anyway?”
“It’s just because it’s not her nose,” Padma said dismissively, swiping Parvati’s hand away when she went to fiddle with the glamours again. “That’s enough with the glamours, we need to get her dressed.”
***
Hermione arrived only a few minutes before six, entering Madame Puddifoot’s to find that there were already quite a few people there, mingling near the doorway in anticipation of the evening. She ducked in quietly, sliding against the wall to get away from the door, took another deep breath, and scanned the crowd. She suddenly regretted telling Neville she would be fine on her own.
“Welcome, everyone!” Madame Puddifoot crowed moments later. “Thank you for your timeliness! The night is young. Ladies, if you would please take a seat, one to each table.”
The crowd parted, and Hermione managed to snag the table by the front window. Outside, she saw couples walking along the street hand-in-hand, already beyond the awkward first meeting. Nerves flared in the pit of her stomach.
“Gentlemen, if you’ll each take a seat. Anywhere you like,” Madame Puddifoot said. “I’ll toll a bell every thirty minutes. If you find yourselves not quite getting along, feel free to get up and swap seats with someone else. But don’t take the bell as a mandate. If you’re getting along, you can stay right where you are!” Musically, she added, “And remember, no names!”
Someone dropped into the seat in front of her, an awkward smile on his face. Hermione returned it, trying not to judge his subpar glamours. They were shimmering; his features were obscured, but the glamours were obvious, indicating he had not yet mastered the art. He reached across the table. “Hello.”
“Hello,” she replied, taking his hand and shaking it. His palm was sweaty. Hermione withdrew her hand and surreptitiously wiped it on her skirt under the table.
“So,” he started, shifting awkwardly in his seat. “You a seventh or eighth year?”
“Eighth,” she replied. “You?”
“Same.”
“Have you got a favorite book?” she asked, trying not to ask the dozens of more identifying questions that came to mind first. Avoiding school achievements and ambitions would be more difficult than it seemed.
“Er, not really. I’m not much of a reader,” he replied.
Hermione’s heart dropped. She fidgeted with her skirt. “Shall we get some tea?”
“Right, sounds good,” he said, sitting back in his seat and gesturing with a hand for Madame Puddifoot. To Hermione’s horror, he then ordered imperiously for both of them. “We’ll have two oolongs.”
“Actually, I prefer an Earl Grey,” she piped up, and Madame Puddifoot nodded, her lips pressed together in a tight line. Hermione straightened up in her seat. “And I like this table, so when the bell rings, you’ll be the one getting up.”
He scoffed. “Decided already?”
“Yes,” she said. “And you’ll do well to wipe the sweat off your palms before you touch your next opportunity.”
She stared out the window and sipped her Earl Grey until the bell rang. Mercifully, he got up without another word.
***
An hour and a half later, a new man dropped into the seat in front of her. “Nice table.”
“Mmm,” she replied, ready to dismiss this one as yet another disappointment. “Quite.”
“I’m starting to think I should have stayed in with my book,” he said, settling into the chair. He waved Madame Puddifoot over. “Might I get a fresh cup of tea, Madame?”
“Certainly. And you?” she asked.
“Another Earl Grey, please,” Hermione replied. It would be her third cup. Madame Puddifoot disappeared, and Hermione returned her focus to her date. Hope welled in her chest. He was the first of the men to sit with her to show any interest at all in reading, and he’d brought it up on his own. “What are you reading?”
“The Keeper of the Key,” he replied.
“Oh! That’s next on my list,” Hermione smiled. “Are you enjoying it?”
“I am,” he replied. “Based on the Prophet’s summary I’d expected more of a horror story, but it’s actually developing more along the lines of a gothic romance.”
“That actually makes it sound even better,” Hermione said. Their teas arrived, and she watched as he dropped a single sugar cube into his cup, stirring before he added a dollop of cream. She grinned. “You take your tea the same way I do.”
He looked at her appraisingly. “Do I?”
“Yes, when I’m not drinking Earl Grey,” she replied. “This I take with just a slice of lemon.”
“Classic,” he replied. “So what are you currently reading?”
“Ecthelion,” she replied.
He put his spoon down. “I enjoyed that one. I read it over the holidays.”
“The prose is just beautiful,” Hermione said. “I find myself reading slowly on purpose just to really take it in.”
“There were some passages I read two or three times,” he replied. “How far into it are you?”
“Roughly halfway.” She took a sip of her tea. “Are you in eighth?”
“Yes. You?”
She nodded. “How do you find it? Being back after everything?”
“I appreciate the freedoms they’ve given us, since we are adults now,” he replied. “And cutting down to a single roommate has been nice. It’s much quieter.”
“I agree,” Hermione nodded. “And I love having unfettered access in the library. All those years staring at the gate on the Restricted Section.”
“It wasn’t that hard to get behind,” he chuckled.
Hermione leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. “The two bars on the end by the poison section?”
“Precisely,” he leaned in as well, lowering his voice. “So you break rules, do you?”
“Only when I think they’re stupid,” she grinned. “You?”
“Rules are made to be broken,” he said. “But only by those clever enough to get away with it.”
“Too right,” she laughed. “But I will say,” she leaned back in her chair, taking another sip of her tea. “It’s a grand old time sitting and watching Madame Pince drag the less-clever off by their ears.”
“She’s got the sharpest eye in Hogwarts,” he nodded. “If you can get past her, you can get away with just about anything.”
***
The two of them ignored the bell the rest of the night, and Hermione found herself dreading the end of their conversation. But soon enough, Madame Puddifoot rang the bell twice. “The evening is at an end, everyone! Should you want to remain in contact with your date, please use the quills before you.” Fluffy pink quills appeared on the table, alongside two small scrolls of smooth parchment. “Fill out the form and wrap it around the quill, leaving it upon the table before you. No peeking!”
Hermione glanced at her date, and reached tentatively for the quill in front of her. He smiled at her and nodded, taking his as well.
She unrolled it to find a short form, asking for her name, how to reach her by owl, if she would be willing to meet her date un-glamoured, and a list of the next four evenings upon which she would be available. At the bottom, it read: “Should your availability align, you will receive further instruction. If your availability does not align, you will be contacted for further coordination.”
She filled her form out with a smile, letting it wrap around the quill and leaving it upon the table.
“I’m glad you sat there,” she said.
Her date reached across the table and took her hand in his. His fingers were warm, and his grip firm but gentle. He tugged her gently forward and kissed her knuckles. “Me, too.”
No glamour would have hidden the way Hermione’s cheeks burned. But she didn’t mind at all.
***
Miss Granger,
I am delighted to inform you that you and your mystery date are both available this Thursday night! He has been instructed to meet you at 7:00pm sharp at the same table you shared on Valentine’s Day. He has also been instructed to bring you a red rose, so that you can be sure it’s him. Please bring him a chocolate frog; this is how he will verify that you are his date.
If for some reason the specified date and time do not work for you, owl me immediately so that I may coordinate a more suitable time.
Madame Puddifoot
***
Hermione, so nervous she nearly cancelled, and only kept from doing so because Parvati actually slapped her wrist when she reached for the doorknob to leave for the owlery, was on the verge of tardiness. She had perhaps two minutes to get a chocolate frog, pay for said frog, and dart down the road to Madame Puddifoot’s.
At this rate her date would meet her panting and disheveled, a stitch in her side, and sweat at the small of her back.
She dashed breathlessly into Honeyduke’s, running headlong into Seamus Finnigan as she entered.
“Oi, watch where you’re going, ‘Mi,” he teased. “You in a hurry?”
“Actually yes,” she replied. “I’m meeting someone at 7:00, and I need a chocolate frog—oh, bugger all, I’m going to be late.”
“Take this one,” he said, handing her a chocolate frog from his bag. “I bought five.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“Yeah, ‘course,” he shrugged. “Just get me one next time.”
“Thank you thank you thank you,” she rambled, and then he gestured to the door. She bolted out, dashing along the road, and only slowing down as she came within sight of the tea shop.
She gulped down a few breaths and then forced herself to take long, slow breaths until her heart stopped pounding from the exertion. Then and only then did she run her hand through her hair, then down the front of her dress, and finally open the door to the tea shop.
“Hello!” Madame Puddifoot beamed at her. “Right on time. He’s waiting for you.”
Hermione followed Madame Puddifoot’s gesture and gasped, freezing in place. She’d know that shock of white-blond hair anywhere.
“Are you—you’re sure—”
“That’s a red rose, isn’t it?” Madame Puddifoot said gently. “And that,” she tapped on the box in Hermione’s hand. “Is a chocolate frog. Go on, love. You know how well you hit it off the other night.”
“I—I—” she stammered, then she sucked in a deep breath and nodded. “Right. Gryffindor spirit.”
“Atta girl,” the old woman patted her shoulder and then gave her a gentle shove. Quietly, she approached the table, where Draco Malfoy sat with his back to the door, his chin on his fist, looking out the window.
“Hello,” she said, softly. He turned and looked up at her, his face going slack with surprise. Hermione swallowed and held out the chocolate frog. “For you.”
“I… thanks,” he said, taking it. He stared up at her for another second before his wits came back to him, and he stood, taking the red rose from the table and handing it to her. “For you.”
“Thanks.”
“I, er,” he gave her a little crooked smile, a fleeting twitch of one corner of his mouth. “Have a seat?”
She nodded, and he rounded the table, pulling the chair out for her. It made her smile, and she ducked her head as he sat back down, settling into the seat. An awkward silence fell between them, Hermione unsure of where to begin and not knowing where to look.
Madame Puddifoot came by with a welcome “Tea?”
“Please,” Malfoy replied, glancing at her.
She nodded. “Black, please.”
“Same.”
“I’ll have that right out for you,” Madame Puddifoot said, winking at Hermione as she turned and walked away.
“Did you do your glamours yourself?” he asked.
“What?”
“On Valentine’s Day. Your glamours were impeccable,” he replied. “If I hadn’t known they were glamours I wouldn’t have been able to tell.”
“Oh,” she shook her head. “That was all Parvati.”
“You’ll have to compliment her for me,” he said. “She did a marvelous job.”
“Yours were well done, too,” she replied. “I never would have guessed.”
“All the credit for that goes to Daphne Greengrass,” he said. “She’s a dab hand.”
“What made you sign up?”
He gestured at himself. “I’m Draco Malfoy. People aren’t exactly lining up to date me. What about you?”
She couldn’t help but chuckle and echo him. “I’m Hermione Granger. No one wants to date me, either.”
“That’s not true,” he said softly. Madame Puddifoot arrived with the tea, placing a small pitcher of cream and a dish of sugar cubes between them. Malfoy watched as Hermione plucked up a sugar cube and followed it with a dollop of cream, stirring quickly before placing her spoon delicately on the saucer. “We really do take it the same way.”
“I wouldn’t lie about my tea,” Hermione said. “In fact I tend not to lie as a rule.”
“It’s easier to remember the truth,” Draco nodded. “You never have to keep your story straight if you just tell the truth to begin with.”
“Exactly,” she agreed. But she couldn’t help but wonder, given that he’d spent all of sixth year deceiving everyone about his intentions. “And your thoughts about lies of omission?”
“They’ll ruin your life by inches,” he said, catching her eye meaningfully. A sorrowful look crossed his face, and he put his spoon down beside his saucer. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes for someone our age. But I like to think I’ve learned from them.”
Hermione held his gaze. “Things like that are easier to say than they are to do.”
“I know,” he replied. “But I’d like to show you, if you’ll let me.”
Hermione lifted her teacup and took a sip. She let the hot liquid coat her tongue and swallowed, taking her time about putting the cup back on the saucer. “Did you finish The Keeper of the Key?”
“I did,” he replied, his brow furrowing slightly. “Are you always so enigmatic?”
“Probably not,” she said with a shrug. “Did you like the book?”
“Yes,” he replied slowly. “Have you started it?”
“I read it,” she replied. “I skived off herbology yesterday to finish it.”
“Hermione Granger, skipping class?”
She smiled a little. “Someone told me it was more like a gothic romance than a horror novel. I couldn’t wait.”
“And did you like it?”
“I loved it.” She shifted in her seat, offering her hand across the table. Malfoy looked at her curiously and reached toward her. She shifted hers underneath his and encouraged him to tilt his hand in her direction, palm out, slipping her fingers between his to hold his hand. “And the whole time I was reading it, I was thinking about my mysterious Valentine, and the way we talked hours away like they were nothing.”
“It felt like five minutes had gone by when the night ended,” he agreed. “I’ve never had a conversation like that one.”
“Me either.”
He stroked the side of her hand with his thumb. “Do you… would you give me a chance?”
She squeezed his hand. “I think I will.”
***
“Look, she’s doing it again,” Hermione gestured to Madame Puddifoot’s, leaning against Draco as they walked, her arm looped around his as they walked toward Honeyduke’s. “That’ll be the sixth year in a row.”
He chuckled. “It was a resounding success. Can you blame her?”
“Oh, not at all,” Hermione grinned, practically skipping into Honeyduke’s. She beelined for the chocolate frogs. “How many?”
“As many as you can carry,” he replied, taking up armfuls for himself as well. “None of these shops carry enough of these things.”
“It was your idea to put one at every seat,” Hermione snickered, though she collected them just as enthusiastically. She met his eye to find him suppressing laughter, his eyes sparkling.
“You should’ve brought your bag.”
“And get accused of theft? No, thank you.”
He heaved a sigh and looked at her over an armful of chocolate frog boxes. “I can’t hold any more. Think this’ll do it?”
“It should,” she said, eyeballing their collective frog haul. “I still can’t believe they wouldn’t let you order directly.”
“I think we’d learn the secret of their card inclusion methods if we bulk-bought for a private event,” he said. “I can’t think of any other reason we wouldn’t be allowed to—”
“Oi, save some for the rest of us,” a familiar Irish brogue interrupted them.
Hermione wheeled around. “Seamus! Why is it that I always run into you in candy shops?”
“No idea,” he shrugged with a cheeky grin. He ran a hand through his sandy-blond hair. “I’m never in candy shops. Why’re you cleaning them out of chocolate frogs?”
“For the wedding,” Hermione chirped. “One for every guest!”
“Right, I owe you an RSVP, I couldn’t get a straight answer out of Luna for weeks,” he replied with a laugh. “But now I know I’ll get a chocolate frog out of it…”
“I’d hit you, but I’ve got an armful of frogs,” she warned.
“So violent.”
“That’s my girl,” Draco said. “Now if you’ll excuse us, Finnigan, we’ve still got to get over to the florist’s, my mother will have our heads if we’re late.”
“Ooh, now that’s terrifying.”
“My mother is not terrifying,” Draco protested, at the exact same moment that Hermione turned to him and insisted, “Narcissa wouldn’t touch a hair on your head.”
“Defending the mother-in-law!” Seamus cackled. “You really are a Malfoy now.”
“Not yet she’s not,” Draco teased.
Hermione beamed. “Two more months!”
“If you survive,” Seamus chuckled. This time, Hermione kicked him in the shin. “Oi! Malfoy, your woman’s beating me!”
“That’s my girl,” he repeated proudly. Then he gestured with a jerk of his head. “C’mere, love.”
Hermione scooted to his side, their arms bumping, armloads of chocolate frogs jostling slightly as they came together. Draco leaned sideways and Hermione lifted her face to meet him. His lips, warm and soft, met hers for a sweet, lingering kiss.
“Love you,” he said softly as they came apart.
Hermione chased after him for one more quick kiss, never content with only one. “Love you, too.”