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The emerald whoosh of the Floo deposited Hermione onto the familiar softness of the rug in her and Draco’s London apartment. She brushed a non-existent speck of soot from her work robes, a tired but contented sigh escaping her lips. It was five-thirty on the dot. Her birthday. A Tuesday, no less, but Draco had been insistent: “Be home on time, love. I’m taking you somewhere special.”
She had expected to find him already there, wrestling with his cufflinks or charming his hair into that state of perfect disarray. She’d expected the warm glow of the living room lamps and perhaps the scent of the expensive aftershave he only wore for special occasions.
Instead, she was met with near-total darkness and resounding silence.
Her well-ordered mind immediately cycled through possibilities. A power outage? Unlikely, magical flats rarely had such mundane problems. Had he been called into the Ministry? A flicker of disappointment pricked at her, but she quickly dismissed it. He wouldn’t, not tonight.
Her eyes flickered around the room noticing the candles. A dozen or so, scattered around the room, their small flames dancing and casting flickering shadows on the walls. The air smelled of vanilla wax.
A smile bloomed on her face. This had Draco Malfoy written all over it.
As she moved towards the coffee table, where a single candle illuminated a small scroll, her mind drifted back. It was so like him, this intricate romance. A world away from the loud, chaotic pub where it had all, impossibly, begun. Ginny, as she often was, had been right. Hermione had been working too hard, burying herself in her research at St. Mungo’s. One dragged-out evening at the Leaky Cauldron had turned into a full-blown surprise when Ginny’s new friend, Holyhead Teammate Melissa, had shown up with her girlfriend, Pansy Parkinson, and a gaggle of Slytherins in tow.
The night had been a blur of Firewhisky and laughter, but she remembered the end of it with perfect clarity. The crowd had thinned, leaving just her and Draco at the corner table, the noise fading to a comfortable hum. They’d started talking, hesitantly at first, then with a shared, surprising passion about the nuances of restricted transfiguration. That conversation had bled into a coffee meeting a few days later—strictly for academic purposes, she’d told herself—where the coffee had been forgotten, growing cold on the table between them as they talked for hours.
Five years. Five years of this unexpected, brilliant man who still found new ways to surprise her.
She reached the coffee table, her fingers tracing the edge of the creamy parchment. It was rolled neatly and tied with silver ribbon. A small tag was attached, his familiar script adorning it.
For my favourite witch.
Her heart gave a happy little squeeze. With a sense of rising excitement, she untied the ribbon and unrolled the parchment.
Your evening begins where the true king of this castle demands his tribute. You’ll find your first guide there.
Hermione chuckled. There was only one "true king" of their flat, and it certainly wasn't Draco. She walked into the kitchen, the candlelight’s dancing shadows following her. Sure enough, in the corner by the back door, Crookshanks’s twin food and water bowls sat gleaming. He was a notoriously messy eater, but tonight they were spotless and polished to a high shine. In the food bowl, where his biscuits should have been, lay a small note cut into the shape of a fish.
A flicker of unease fluttered in her chest when she realised Crookshanks wasn’t here to greet her. “Crookshanks?” she called out, a little louder than intended.
No answering jingle of his collar, no complaining meow from a disturbed nap. She called his name again, moving through the apartment to peer under sofas and into his favourite sunning spot by the window. He was nowhere to be seen.
The momentary panic was swiftly overtaken by amused, eye-rolling realisations. Draco adored that cat almost as much as she did. The two of them had formed an unbreakable and mischievous bond. Crookshanks wouldn't be missing; he’d be in on this whole surprise.
“Ginger mischief,” she murmured, shaking her head as she returned to the kitchen to read the fish-shaped note.
Your furry menace has absconded, but luckily, I have your next surprise in store. Follow the ribbon.
Her eyes followed the line of the note and she saw a shimmering, emerald green ribbon tied to the leg of the kitchen counter. It was a green so deep it looked like liquid jade in the candlelight. It snaked out of the kitchen and down the hall toward their bedroom.
Feeling a giddy thrill bubble up inside her Hermione followed the path.
The ribbon ended at their wardrobe; the silken tail tied neatly around the handle. Hanging on the outside of the door, encased in a protective charm and a zip-up bag, was a dress. She carefully unzipped the bag and her breath caught in her throat. Inside was a dress of the deepest sapphire silk, with elegant, long sleeves and a gorgeous wrap fronted waist. It was the colour of the sky just after sunset, a shade close to Ravenclaw blue. He’d always said the colour made the rich chocolate of her eyes glitter with hidden flecks of gold. A nod to the brilliant mind he’d fallen for, and the beautiful woman who held it. It was perfect.
Tied to its hanger was another small, silver tag. A witch is never fully dressed without the perfect shoes. An arrow was drawn beneath the words, pointing to a box on the floor. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, were a pair of sleek silver heels, she knew instantly they would be charmed for comfort. He knew she hated impractical footwear.
Carrying her treasures, she went into their en-suite bathroom. The room was warm and cosy, a magical heating charm Draco must have cast before he vanished. Setting the dress and shoes down, she quickly began to get ready. With a few efficient charms, she refreshed her makeup and coaxed her curls into a cascade of soft waves that fell over her shoulders.
The silk dress felt like a second skin as she slipped it on. It fit as if it had been tailored for her on the spot. She looked in the mirror and in her reflect was a woman who was unequivocally, incandescently happy. A genuine blush already coloured her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled with an excitement that no charm could replicate. She felt cherished. Seen.
And to be seen is to be loved.
As she fastened her last earring, new words began to swirl the mirror as if written in steam, the misty script glowing softly in the dim light.
A final drop of courage for the next destination.
Her brow furrowed in thought. Courage? The message faded as quickly as it had appeared. Puzzled but trusting, she followed the unspoken instruction back out of the bedroom. Destination? Perhaps back to the Floo? She headed toward the fireplace in the living room.
There, suspended in the air, floated an elegant flute of champagne. A stream of golden bubbles danced their way to the surface. Tied to the delicate stem with iridescent ribbon was the final note. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she carefully took the glass and unfastened the parchment. The note was short, the words simple.
Take this and Floo to where it all began.
Her breath hitched. The pub? No, that was Ginny's story. Their story… their story began over cold coffee and a heated debate. She knew exactly where to go.
With a thumping heart and a steady hand, Hermione stepped into the roaring green flames of her hearth, took a deep breath, and spoke the name of the cosy, quirky coffee shop with perfect clarity.
The familiar spin of the Floo network ended abruptly, and she stepped out not into the bustling café she remembered, but an enchanted world of their own. The shop was closed, silent save for the soft notes of a classical melody, barely a murmur in the air. The air was thick with the rich scent of fresh coffee now mingled with the intoxicating perfume of something floral. The only light came from hundreds of floating fairy lights that drifted lazily through the room, twinkling like captured constellations.
A rumbling “Meeeow!” cut through her amazement.
Hermione looked around. There, sitting primly by the counter as if he owned the place, was Crookshanks. He wore a perfectly fitted little black bowtie, and his broad, furry chest was puffed out with an air of immense pride.
A joyful laugh bubbled out of her. She scooped him up with her free arm, holding the champagne flute steady in her other hand. “You were in on this, you little traitor,” she whispered, burying her face in his thick ginger fur and kissing the top of his head. He responded with a purr so deep it vibrated through her chest, a motor-like sound of a mission successfully completed. He then nudged her arm with his head, the gesture urging her forward.
She followed his silent instruction once again, her heels making no sound on the magically softened floorboards. She turned the corner toward the secluded table in the back—their table. The area was transformed. It was an island of light in the dim room, surrounded by a sea of flickering candles. Rose petals were scattered across the floor in a velvet carpet, and there, in the centre of it all, stood Draco.
He wore a perfectly tailored dark suit that made his hair seem impossibly bright. He looked nervous, his shoulders set in a line of tense anticipation, but his grey eyes were soft, hopeful, and so full of a profound love for her that it momentarily stole the breath from her lungs.
As she came to a stop just a few feet away, he moved, sinking smoothly to one knee. He held out a little black velvet box, opening it to reveal a ring that glittered in the candlelight.
He waited until her gaze was locked on his.
“Happy Birthday, Hermione,” he began. “My entire life was an inescapable path laid with stones I didn't place. Then you sat down at this table and blasted it all to dust with your brilliant mind. You are the most extraordinary, infuriating,”—a ghost of a smirk touched his lips, mirrored in her responding teary grin—"and brightest part of my world. A future without you is unimaginable now. So please, love, do me the one honour I’ve ever truly wanted. Be my wife.”
Hermione’s entire world was held here in this moment. There was only the twinkling of the lights, the scent of roses, and the look on his face. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the beautiful sight of him. Against her chest, Crookshanks let out another deep purr, as if to say, Well? Go on then.
Breaking the spell, she moved carefully. She placed the champagne flute on the nearby table, then gently set a still-purring Crookshanks onto the cushioned seat of the closest armchair. In a rustle of sapphire silk, she sank to her knees in front of him.
Her answer came out on a breathless, tearful, joyful sigh. “Yes—of course! Yes!”
A dazzling smile broke across Draco’s face. With a hand that trembled ever so slightly, he took the ring from its box and slid it onto her finger. He paused to take her in for just a moment before he leaned forward, cupping her face in his hands and drawing her into their first kiss as an engaged couple. It was a kiss full of promises, of years of quiet surprises and shared laughter.
Around them, the fairy lights twinkled their silent applause, and the rumbling purr of their furry accomplice served as the first witness to where it all truly began.
It was Hermione’s favourite birthday yet.