Chapter Text
In from the snow
Your touch brought forth an incandescent glow
Tarnished but so grand
- Taylor Swift
September 2007
The week before Hermione Granger turned twenty-eight, a new bookstore opened on Diagon Alley.
She spotted it from a hundred feet away, and excitedly tugged on John's hand. "Look!"
The old-fashioned, gorgeously wrought, and freshly painted sign hanging over the small storefront allowed no misunderstandings. It depicted a stack of books, leaning more precariously than the tower of Pisa and somehow propped up by a ladder. Between the legs of the inverted V this created sat a black cat, curled around a cup of tea, from which magically animated wisps of steam elegantly rose and coiled around the ladder rungs. The longer she looked at it, the more impressive the charmwork became: the tower of books seemed to lean ever closer to toppling over, and the cat occasionally lazily blinked its large green eyes.
"Yes, yes, all right," John said with a grin. "Cats, tea, and piles of books, I get it. We'll go once we're done with The List."
The List had been composed three weeks earlier, after a careful survey of John's apartment and of her own, and consisted of seven items she'd determined needed to be bought new for the flat they would move into together in a month. They worked their way through it efficiently, Hermione bolstered by a new, unexpected motivation.
She had loved Diagon Alley the moment she had first laid eyes on it at the age of eleven, and it had never quite lost that magical – there really was no other word for it – feeling, but the prospect of 'cats, tea and books' held a particularly strong appeal. Flourish & Blotts stocked any book one really needed, but it lacked the warmth that suffused the Muggle libraries Hermione had loved as a child. It was always so busy around the beginning of a new school year, and then so commercial the rest of the time, displaying vapid bestsellers front and center. The staff was never able to recommend anything she hadn't already read – which, admittedly, one could perhaps blame on her voraciousness. But still.
Armed with new bedsheets – hers featured an abundance of cats John had objected to, and his were meant for a twin bed and had vehemently resisted the extension charms they had attempted –, kitchen knives John had handled very carefully, and the fluffiest bath towels known to man, among other things, Hermione left the last shop with a spring in her step.
“We still have time before the shops close,” she announced.
John grinned. “How lucky,” he teased, “I was just about to suggest we go to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes!”
She made a face at him. The joke shop was a truly impressive creation, but she had to be in the mood for it. Her let’s sit down and read until we forget the rest of the world even exists mood was very different from her let’s walk into a store where forgetting your surroundings is extremely dangerous and virtually impossible anyway mood.
“We can meet up here in an hour,” she suggested.
John shook his head. “We don’t have to do that, I’ll only be a minute –”
“No, it’s fine,” she insisted, suddenly certain she wanted to discover this new shop all on her own. “Go. And give George my best, I haven’t seen him in a couple weeks.”
She’d seen Ron only the day before, so there was no point in sending him her regards; and anyway, it always felt a little strange, sending messages to her ex via her current boyfriend. She was lucky, she knew, that John and Ron got along well. A little too well, in fact; John still got starry-eyed around Ron Weasley, the war hero, which Ron revelled in and Hermione found unsettling. And inexplicable, since John was, thankfully, quite capable of being normal around her.
“You know everything I buy is getting used at your birthday party, right?”
“No more than two explosions,” she said firmly. “And nothing on Wednesday, we’re celebrating on Saturday!”
“Aye aye, captain.”
He saluted, then leaned forward to kiss her briefly before turning away. She watched him make his way down the street in long, confident strides, smiling. And then she turned in the opposite direction, focused on her new goal. It was a lovely, sunny day; the temperatures had not yet cooled down quite enough to make a cup of piping hot tea absolutely irresistible, but cats and books…
She peered into the windows, but they had been charmed so that you couldn’t see inside the store, so she pushed the heavy wooden door open. An enchanted door chime above her head played out clear piano notes that lingered for a good thirty seconds, until she had had time to both recognise Debussy’s Clair de Lune and wonder if the damn thing was broken. But the music faded away, leaving Hermione standing before what she immediately identified as her own personal heaven.
Unlike some wizarding stores, it was not any wider than it had appeared from the outside, though it seemed quite deep. Right by the windows, which let in a great deal of sunlight, was the tea area: charming little rattan chairs with plush cushions placed around small round tables, a counter with colourful cupcakes on display, and behind it shelves stacked with dozens or hundreds of types of tea. Hermione was immediately charmed when she spotted a small grey cat curled on one of the chairs, fast asleep in the sun. Above it, a huge, enchanted painting depicted a stunning coastline of cliffs, with blue-green waves crashing into rock stacks looming high.
The sign outside had lied about one thing: there were no wobbling stacks of books threatening to fall over if she looked at them the wrong way. Instead, shelves that seemed to be made of the same dark wood as the walls rose from floor to ceiling. Most of the shelf space was filled with books – gorgeous, old, leather-bound books; books with golden shimmering spines; books that changed colour and several paperbacks that might very well have been printed the Muggle way – but to Hermione’s delight as she advanced between shelves, she found that here and there sat a cat, peering down at the intruder with lazy haughtiness. There were no schoolbooks, no celebrity biographies, no central display prompting her to buy this month’s latest releases and no sign at all that the world outside even existed. A half-dozen more cats of every color imaginable were perched on a variety of cat trees, cat shelves, cat beds, and cat baskets. In between all of these were a couple cozy-looking armchairs and sofas, all a velvety midnight blue lined with gold. The overall effect was of a place where what little furniture had been intended for human use had been promptly colonised by cats. ‘Cats and books,’ indeed!
Most remarkable of all, and certainly most pleasing to her, was how quiet and empty the store appeared to be. Aside from the cats, she was the only visitor, and there were no employees in sight, either. Hermione moved between shelves at her leisure, and no one came to ask how they could help her, or to suggest authors she had already read, or to recommend the latest bestseller. It took her all of five minutes to select five books. She sat down on one of the sofas with one in her lap and the other four on the table beside it and began to read Wizarding Prisons Around the World: A Comparison.
She was ten pages in when she was interrupted.
“Of course you’re the first customer,” said a voice to her right, causing her to start; she had been so absorbed she hadn’t noticed anyone come in. “I should have taken that bet.”
She glanced up, half-frowning, because really, was that any way to greet a customer – but the frown dissipated as soon as she laid eyes on Theodore Nott, half a dozen paces away, one shoulder leaning with practiced casualness against a row of shelves, his hands shoved into the pockets of midnight-blue robes that looked like they might have cost as much as a month of Hermione’s rent.
“Theo! What on earth are you doing here?” Had he been skulking between the shelves this whole time?
“I work here,” he said, as though that were a perfectly reasonable reply.
“Since when do you work?” she asked before she could stop herself.
His mouth twitched; she knew from the look in his eyes that that was as good as a smile. “We’ve only just opened. I don’t need to ask what you’re doing here. This place must be like bait to Hermione Granger. Was it the catnip that did it?”
She glanced around the room again, then swept her gaze over Theo. The dark robes matched the armchairs beautifully and gave him an overall very serious look, at odds with his obviously teasing words.
She wondered, uncharitably, what the interview process for such a place was like. How had a cozy little bookstore on Diagon Alley ended up hiring Theodore Nott?
“Out with it, Granger,” said Theo.
She pressed her lips together. She wasn’t going to say that.
“It’s very nice,” she said.
“Nice,” he echoed. “That’s not quite what you were thinking and we both know it, Granger, but thank you all the same.”
Back at Hogwarts, Theo had spent a lot of time in the library, she recalled. He hadn’t stood out as an overachiever – certainly no match for her –, but she had seen him more often surrounded by books than by people. And she knew, from some of his manners and from the way Draco spoke to and about him, that his family had a significant amount of money.
"You bought a bookstore,” she said slowly. “You bought a bookstore because you were, what – bored?"
“Oh, Granger,” he said, a delighted glint in his eyes, “jealousy doesn’t become you.”
“I’m not –” she began reflexively, and then she stopped herself, because really… well, of course she was.
His voice took on a familiar, teasing lilt. “You know, I’m sure they would name any bookstore you’d like after you. You probably wouldn’t even have to ask. In fact, I could rename this one, if you’d –”
“Oh, shut it,” she said.
“In a way, it would likely be a good business decision. Yes, you’ve convinced me; I’ve a mind to name this store after you. What shall we call it? I’m afraid Granger & Nott’s doesn’t have much of a ring to it. Not to mention, it would rhyme with the competition. Is that good or bad, in your opinion?”
“I’ll want royalties,” she informed him.
“Well, there goes that idea,” Theo said. “I certainly couldn’t afford to pay you.”
“Of course not. I assume you spent the last of your fortune furnishing this place.”
“And wasn’t it worth it? Admit it, Granger, you love it already.”
She couldn’t hide her smile at that. She had once been uncomfortable around Theodore Nott. In a group setting, he was the least loquacious of Draco’s circle, and she had interpreted that silence as judgment. She now knew he had been assessing her, but she had passed the test somewhere along the way. Now, on the rare occasion when circumstances threw them together, he teased and joked, and allowed – no, expected her to tease back.
“You can love it more,” Theo went on. “Within three minutes, you’ll have at least two of the bloody beasts vying for your attention. I’ll bring you some tea, and you can finish that book.” He glanced at the stack beside her. “Or all five of them.”
“Oh,” Hermione said, looking around again. “Is that the concept? I can stay here and just – read? You don’t sell books?”
“You can buy any book you like,” Theo said. “Or you can stay here and just read, yes.”
“Oh no,” she said mournfully.
He was right. She loved it already.
Theo brought her tea and then, to her surprise, sprawled on an armchair across from her, one leg casually draped over the other, looking about as loose-limbed, comfortable and arrogant as his cats. She found herself rather torn between the book in her hands – Magical Prisons Around the World – and the man lounging across from her. It had been a few months since she'd last seen him, also in Diagon Alley. They had never, not once, been alone in a room together. She kept throwing him glances over the edge of her book. He appeared entirely engrossed by Cookies, Cupcakes and Croissants: Recipes for the Aspiring Chef.
"Do you bake the cakes here?" she asked.
He looked up. "No. But maybe I'd like to. Will you help?"
She snorted. "I'm useless in the kitchen."
"Oh? Then you can be my food taster. Like the person who tastes the food before the king eats it. If you drop dead, I'll know not to give it to my other customers."
"What other customers?"
"Touché," said Theo. "Well, I'll know not to feed it to the cats, anyway."
Hermione looked at the tabby cat that was currently headbutting Theo’s shin. “Do they have names?”
“Salazar, you really do still think I’m a monster. Of course they have names.”
He took out his wand and cast silently; a laminated brochure flew towards Hermione, who caught it, and then stared in shock at it. She had not expected Theodore Nott to have prepared a flyer with pictures of each cat next to its name, age, and a quick description of its personality.
She had not expected, ever, to calmly sit across from Theodore Nott and wait as he cast a spell, any spell, and not flinch.
“So this one is… Starfish?”
“Believe me,” Theo said archly, “she earned that name.”
Hermione looked at the orange cat that had settled half a foot away from her on the sofa. “And this one’s Pumpkin?”
“No, this one’s Peach. Pumpkin’s her brother.”
“You have littermates? Where did you get all these cats, anyway?”
“Is this an interrogation? The cats were acquired perfectly legally, Granger; don’t you worry your head about it.”
She smiled, shaking her head. “Well, now I’m suspicious.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Theo said. “I’m a very trustworthy, law-abiding person. It’s actually a marvellous stroke of luck that brings you here today,” he went on, changing the subject a little too quickly for a perfectly innocent person, “since I was about to owl you.”
The smile slipped right off her face, and alarm bells started ringing in her head. She couldn’t imagine why Theodore Nott, whom she hadn’t seen in many months – and even then only by circumstance – would have been planning to write to her. Over the years they had shared a few laughs when coincidence had put them in the same room, but he had never actively sought out her company or asked for a favour. They liked each other well enough, she thought, but they existed in completely different circles that had never overlapped and never would.
And yet, he now asked, casual as anything: “Are you free Wednesday evening?”
“I have to work on Thursday,” she answered reflexively, before the oddness of the question had even fully registered. What?
“You wouldn’t have to stay late. You could just drop by.”
She frowned at him. “This isn’t for anything illegal, is it?”
Theo snorted. “I’m well aware of your choice of career, Granger. Congratulations on the recent promotion, by the way. Please rest assured you are the last person I would ever invite to a pleasant evening of breaking the law. No, no, as far as I know, this is all perfectly above board. We’re just having a party at Draco’s place, and I know he’d like to have you there.”
Her world tilted. For a moment, she couldn’t speak. It was all she could manage to even breathe.
“It’ll be low-key,” Theo said when she remained silent. “It’s not going to end up in the papers. ‘Party’ probably isn’t the most accurate word. It’s more of a… get-together. You wouldn’t have to stay too late, or anything.” Now he was looking at her oddly. “I can make sure a couple cats are there. Or you can bring a friend, if that’s the issue? To be honest with you, Draco thinks the Weaslette is a riot, even if he’ll never admit it.”
He could have conceivably gone on to make a dozen more concessions; she was still stuck several sentences back.
“Draco’s place?” she repeated finally. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears.
“Yes,” Theo said, drawing out the single syllable as though speaking to someone a bit thick in the head. “A party. At Draco’s place. On Wednesday.”
“He’s visiting?” she said lightly, trying to feign indifference. Her heart had sped up.
Draco Malfoy had left for France four years ago, immediately after his highly-publicised break-up with Astoria Greengrass. She knew that not because he’d told her, but because Harry had. The Auror Department kept tabs on him, just in case. Draco hadn’t written, hadn’t Floo-called. Why would he? They weren’t friends, either. She had no idea how often he visited England; she had certainly never been invited to see him on one of those occasions before. She hadn’t seen him in person in seven years.
“No, he’s coming back. He’ll be renting a new place, not far from here actually. That’s what we’re celebrating.”
“Oh.” She felt dizzy. How far was not far? “Theo, I – I haven’t spoken to Draco in years.”
The look Theo gave her told her he knew exactly how long it had been. After all, he had been there.
“Honestly, neither has Blaise, I’m pretty sure. We’ll all be doing some catching up.”
Blaise? “Who else will be there?”
“Who do you think? Draco doesn’t actually have that many friends. There won’t be anyone you haven’t already survived having a drink or five with. Pansy will definitely be there. Blaise might show up, or he might not, you know how he is.”
She didn’t, actually. She hadn’t seen Blaise Zabini or Pansy Parkinson since Hogwarts, though she couldn’t have said with certainty who was ignoring whom.
Theo shrugged. “Look, Granger, you can just say no. You needn’t worry about sparing my feelings; I don’t have any. I promise I won’t ban you from the bookstore.”
“I’m not saying no,” Hermione said, although she really should have been.
She enjoyed relaxed, cozy evenings at home with only Crookshanks and, sometimes, if he was very quiet and utterly absorbed in a book, John for company. This Wednesday also happened to be her birthday, but she had already insisted on celebrating it on Saturday instead. She had been looking forward to a quiet, peaceful, perfectly mundane evening, exactly like every other Wednesday evening. She would make dinner and then settle down with a book, perhaps the exact book she had open in her lap right now, and then she would go to bed early, because she had a meeting first thing on Thursday morning.
She hadn’t seen Draco Malfoy in seven years.
“I’ll be there,” she heard herself say. “Of course I will.”
“Of course you will,” Theo echoed. “I’ll owl you the details, then. Now – I believe you came here to read?”
He glanced down at the cover of the book in her lap. A shadow seemed to pass over his expression before he returned his gaze to his recipe book, and they fell into easy, companionable silence, broken only by the occasional sound of a page turning. Reading with Theo was surprisingly pleasant; there were few people Hermione could simply sit with in silence without them becoming restless. But she was the restless one today, her mind incapable of focusing on wizards’ life in captivity when every sentence she read rearranged itself into “I know he’d like to have you there.” When she reached the end of the first chapter, she realised she had not absorbed any of the content. She frowned, annoyed at herself, and flipped back to the start.
Draco had awaited his trial from within the confines of Azkaban, in those messy, confusing few weeks after the final battle. She had asked him about it, once.
She reached out and gently pet Peach, who arched into her touch, pleased. Hermione sank her fingers into warm, soft orange fur, and thought of Crookshanks at home. She checked her watch, and started – it was already almost time, and she didn’t want John to come looking for her here.
Why not? She wasn’t doing anything wrong.
She scratched Peach behind the ears, and closed her book. The sound made Theo look up.
"Have a curfew, do you?"
"Yes," said Hermione, "if I'm not home by seven, I'll turn into a pumpkin."
"Oh? Then you should stay, I'll save on Halloween decorations."
"It's September," Hermione said, affronted.
She stood up and looked at the shelf she had taken the book from.
“Keep it,” Theo said.
“I don’t – I wasn’t planning on buying it today.” John would probably object to her adding another book to her collection before they had even set up the bookshelves.
“Borrow it, then. I’m sure I can trust you to return it.”
Hermione hesitated only for a moment before tucking the book into her bag. She needed to read it, she reasoned, to be better prepared at work.
“Thanks,” she said, a little awkwardly.
“Don’t mention it.” He nodded at the four other books still stacked on the table. “You can have those, too.”
“Oh, no,” she said, smiling. “I’ll come back for those. I’ll just put them back n–”
He waved his wand, and the books on the table flew back to their respective shelves. “That happens to be my job, Granger.”
She had once again felt nothing, not a trace of fear or suspicion or concern, when he cast that spell.
She could feel his eyes following her as she crossed over to the door. Her hand was on the handle when he said, his voice carrying easily in the empty store, “I’ll see you on Wednesday, then.”
“See you Wednesday,” she replied, and left.
John was already waiting, several dozen feet away, leaning against a lamppost; he waved and grinned when he spotted her.
“Well?” he asked when she reached him. “Do you have a new favourite store?”
“I liked it,” she admitted.
“What a surprise. I’ll come with you next time, hm? Make sure you don’t spend your entire paycheck in one go.”
As they walked away, Hermione turned back towards the store. Unlike the sign hanging out front, the name was displayed rather discreetly, in small golden letters just above the door: Refuge.
She wondered how Theodore Nott had decided on that.
Wednesday was the longest a day in the office had felt in a long time. It had started rather predictably: a couple of owls from friends wishing her a happy birthday, a phone call from her parents, and a few packages she had set aside for later. And one beautifully handwritten note from Theodore Nott informing her that they would meet up at six thirty in front of the Refuge. Hermione had tucked a bottle of wine next to Wizarding Prisons Around the World in her bag – she had finished it, and would use the opportunity to return it – and gone to work, and since then, the hands on the clock seemed frozen.
No one mentioned her birthday, which she was glad for. No one mentioned the return of the Death Eater who had inexplicably walked free after the war and then fled to France in 2003, either. And no one asked if Hermione Granger, tireless and diligent Ministry of Magic employee, had ridiculous, incomprehensible plans to see him that night.
She could just… not go. Pansy and Blaise certainly wouldn’t be disappointed. She had told Theo she would be there, but he would understand if she said she was too tired, or didn’t have the time. Who planned a party on a weekday, anyway? She would regret having gone in the morning.
And how long would you regret not going for?
Hermione made a face at her stack of paperwork. She hated being this distracted. It wasn’t fair that Draco Malfoy could still hold such an influence over her thoughts when she hadn’t seen him or even heard from him in years. When she tried to look at it objectively, she could admit to herself that it was precisely that absence that had allowed the memory of him to grow into something bigger than he deserved. Her nineteen-year-old self, fresh from the horrors of war and the relief of victory, had built their fragile connection up to more than it had been, more than it could ever be. Chemistry did not a relationship make, and too much wine could not overcome years of animosity and ingrained prejudice.
She wondered if he regretted it.
She wondered if he ever thought about it at all, or if it was only some distant, half-forgotten memory to him.
She sighed and looked at the clock again. It was going to be a long, long day.
Hermione arrived at six twenty-three. Theodore Nott was already waiting outside, wrapped in a long cloak that was a little too much for the weather. Despite the hood pulled low over his head, she recognised him from the easy way he leaned against the wall, one leg bent at the knee. He was a man with the gift of looking perfectly at ease in any circumstance; Hermione had no doubt he could make lounging in a prison cell look comfortable.
Theo kicked off from the wall when he spotted her, but did not lower his hood. She could hardly blame him for the attempt at discretion; she had tucked her hair into the grey, nondescript scarf she wore wrapped almost all the way up to her eyes. Sometimes she still got stopped in the street for a picture or a comment, and she decidedly was not in the mood for that tonight.
Still, when she was within earshot, she glanced meaningfully at his cloak and asked, “Are you sure this isn’t for anything illegal?”
“Too late, Granger,” he said. “You’re here now.”
She looked around. “Is it just us?”
“The others are already upstairs,” Theo said. “Now that you’re here we’re only waiting for Draco.”
She blinked. Neither of those sentences had made any sense.
“I thought it was Draco’s place we were going to. A sort of – housewarming?”
“You thought right,” Theo said. “But he might, ah, not know that. Yet.”
Hermione groaned. She hated surprise parties. Her friends knew better than to spring one on her; she hoped Draco’s knew what they were doing.
“Come along, Granger,” Theo said as he tapped his wand against the stone wall, two feet to the left of the door of the Refuge.
She obediently sidled up next to him, and when he stepped aside and gave her an exaggerated bow, she headed up the staircase that had appeared. At the top of the flight of stairs stood a plain wooden door that had been left ajar; light streamed out from it. Theo elbowed it the rest of the way open, then motioned for Hermione to – again – enter first.
It was… a hallway. There was a coat rack on one wall, from which two cloaks hung and under which two pairs of shoes had already tidily been placed. Hermione could see three doors, two of which were closed.
The ‘place’ Draco had rented out was an apartment right above the Refuge.
“You’re jealous again,” Theo observed, earning himself a scowl as Hermione toed off her own shoes. The floor was very, very clean.
“Theodore, darling,” came a feminine voice from beyond the open door. “You’re back!”
“Did you miss me, my dear?” Theo replied, matching the dramatic tone the woman had adopted as he guided Hermione towards the living room.
“Ever so much,” said Pansy Parkinson from where she was sitting, primly, on the very edge of a five-seater leather sofa. “After all, it’s been all of five minutes. Hello, Granger.”
“Hi, Parkinson,” Hermione said. “Zabini.”
Blaise Zabini, who was reclining on a pile of cushions placed on a rug, nodded at her. The sight of him sprawled on the floor felt shockingly familiar, though it was one she had last seen at Hogwarts. If Theo could look comfortable anywhere, Blaise had the ability to make anything look like a million Galleons – even a bunch of cushions in a bachelor pad.
“Have a seat, Granger,” Theo said.
There were a couple cushions Blaise had not monopolised, but Hermione decided on the sofa, sitting down at the opposite end from Pansy, who didn’t even glance her way. Theo didn’t comment, though she thought he might have wanted to.
“Nice place,” she said, to say something.
“Ugh,” said Pansy. “Do we have to?”
“Let’s at least wait until Draco arrives to start with the compliments,” Theo agreed.
Hermione shrugged. It hadn’t been a very inspired compliment, anyway. The room was rather nice, she supposed. It was certainly very large. It was a kitchen, dining room and living room all in one, tiled floor on one end and parquet where they sat now. The walls were painted a stark white, and the kitchen was immaculate, with black marble countertops and white cabinets. But Draco Malfoy belonged in mansions and castles and forbidding woods and exquisite gardens, not this shockingly modern, pristine white apartment that didn’t even look big enough to have a guest bedroom.
Theo ducked behind the counter separating the kitchen area from the dining area, and emerged with five stemmed glasses and a bottle of champagne with a white label.
“Now that’s more like it,” Pansy said. “Is that blanc de blancs?”
“I remember your favourite, dear,” Theo said, popping it open with a twist of his wrist.
Hermione was surprised he didn’t use magic for it. He served it the Muggle way, too, though he did cast a charm for it to maintain its temperature.
“Wish Draco would hurry up,” Pansy muttered, looking longingly at the glasses.
Hermione privately agreed; she couldn’t allow herself to drink too much tonight, but she would have liked to have something to do with her hands, at least. She glanced towards the door, but her eyes caught on something on the wall, a framed, moving picture of a waterfall hung right above the door frame. The waterfall itself was beautiful, the type of thing you could buy posters of paintings of, but this picture was clearly a personal one – it had been taken on a cloudy day, and the blurry edge of a tourist’s hat was visible in the lower left corner.
Pansy followed her gaze and snorted.
“He’s already hung that up?” She rolled her eyes at Hermione. “Draco went to Australia once, like, forever ago, and he hasn’t shut up about it since.”
Forever ago, Hermione thought. It did feel like that, sometimes.
Other times, it felt like it had all happened only yesterday.
“So, Granger,” said Blaise suddenly, “what brings you here?”
He had flopped over onto his belly, his chin lazily propped up on one hand, his face upturned as he appraised her with dark, dark eyes. On another man, the effect might have been flirtatious; coming from Blaise Zabini, it felt rather more like a rattlesnake’s warning.
“Same as you, I’d imagine,” Hermione said.
Hermione was not naive enough to believe, then or now, that the Slytherins around her had renounced all their blood purity views. But Draco cared about these people, and for his sake they had tolerated her, once.
“The booze, then,” Blaise said knowingly.
“It had better be excellent,” Pansy muttered.
Her tone was convincingly indifferent, but her fingers kept tapping out a nervous rhythm on her thigh. Hermione remembered the girl who had fussed over Draco for years at Hogwarts, and wondered whether Pansy had also gone a while without hearing from him.
Surely not seven years.
Hermione felt suddenly, violently ashamed that she had ever thought of Pansy Parkinson as pathetic.
“Well, we’re glad to have you,” Blaise went on. “This would be a very sad showing without you.”
Even once Hermione realised he was still talking to her, she could not begin to formulate a reply. It had taken Theo a while to warm up to her, and even longer for her to understand that that was what had been going on, but she knew without the shadow of a doubt that Pansy and Blaise did not like her, had never liked her, and would never like her. It was mutual, and neither side felt the need to address it, or to pretend.
“Hermione Granger, war hero. Certainly makes this little Slytherin reunion look less clandestine.”
“Oh, shut up, Blaise,” Pansy said unexpectedly. “As if you know anything about war. How was Greece, by the way?”
“Perfectly lovely, thank you for asking. Would you like to see the pictures I took?”
“If Draco keeps us waiting much longer, I may have to take you up on that offer before I die of boredom.”
This back and forth felt oddly familiar to Hermione, though she hadn’t been a witness to it in years. She knew – hated that she knew – that the sneering and the sniping wouldn’t escalate beyond this, and they never seemed to be offended by any of it.
“He’ll be here in ten minutes,” Theo said, sounding amused. “Can you survive that long?”
Blaise let his face drop onto the pillows. “Wake me up in ten minutes, then.”
Pansy made a face at the back of his head, then leaned back and eyed the ceiling critically. “Is your charmwork still as good as it used to be, Granger?”
“Better,” Hermione replied.
She expected – deserved, perhaps – a sneer, but Pansy only gave a small nod and said, “Well, can you make this place less boring?”
Hermione considered it. The room was… extremely neutral. Everything was either black or white, and the walls were bare but for the framed picture of the Mitchell Falls and a clock above the sofa. She was neither a partier nor an interior decorator, but anything would brighten the place up, so she raised her wand and out shot multicoloured garlands that she sent criss-crossing across the ceilings, followed by shiny silver streamers she hung from the doorway. A bright green banner that flashed obnoxiously whenever it switched from WELCOME BACK to LET’S PARTY adorned the counter.
“Tasteless,” Pansy observed. “I like it.”
“It’s perfect,” Theo agreed, setting a platter of appetizers down on the coffee table. “Absolutely hideous.”
“Thanks,” said Hermione.
Just then, a chime rang out.
Pansy tensed, Blaise seemed to sink down deeper into the cushions, and Theo said, “That’s him.”
The sound of footsteps making their way up a flight of stairs had never inspired such a feeling of anticipation in Hermione as it did now.
“Theo, I thought I told you to keep the door lo–”
Draco Malfoy, sounding exasperated, shoved his way through the silver streamers and immediately cut himself off by swearing, loudly, when a bucket of confetti appeared over his head with an audible ‘pop!’ and cheerfully tipped over, streaming down over his hair, his face, his clothes.
“That wasn’t me,” said Hermione.
“Surprise!” cried Pansy, Blaise, and Theo in unison.
“I’m catching the first Portkey back to France,” said Draco, brushing confetti out of his eyes, but he was grinning – first at Theo, who was the only one standing, then at Pansy, and then, as his gaze slid down the sofa and reached Hermione…
She couldn’t have said, with certainty, whether he reacted. His smile didn’t falter, and his eyes seemed to glide seamlessly from her to Blaise, still facedown in the pillows.
“Hi, everyone,” Draco said in an uncharacteristically soft voice.
He looked… good. Better than the last time she had seen him. Better than he had in Hogwarts. For some reason, that felt unfair. Hermione drank him in with her eyes, unable to help the way her gaze swept over him, from head to toes and back up again, intent on taking in every detail, honing in on any change. He was less sallow, less thin, less fidgety. He wore light blue robes which, paired with the silver-blond hair that hung loose over his eyes instead of being slicked back and that small, genuinely fond smile, made him look almost angelic, which was an absolutely ridiculous thought.
“It’s good to have you back,” Theo said, pulling him into a brief, one-armed hug.
Pansy rose to her feet, so Hermione imitated her, and they both stood rather awkwardly. Draco stepped around the table and kissed Pansy on the cheek, then hugged her, lingering long enough to murmur something in her ear before releasing her.
Then he turned to Hermione, and Hermione swore she felt her heart stutter in her chest. She could not take a hug, she realised with a rising panic, she couldn’t have him close enough to feel his breath against her ear as he spoke words just for her, she couldn’t –
Draco leaned forward and pressed his cheek to hers, kissing the air, before repeating the gesture on the other side. For that brief moment the scent of him, faint and clean, overwhelmed her with its familiarity; she suffered through the ridiculous, inane realisation that he had not changed his brand of soap, and that she recognised it. And then he stepped back again, and she mourned the loss of him even as her head cleared.
He said: “You’ve changed your hair again.”
It was in a Dutch braid, which she had decided was excellent for the office. “Am I supposed to keep the same hairstyle for a decade, just so you still recognise me when you return?”
“I would recognise you anyway.” He reached out and picked up the end of her braid with a finger. “You could dye it pink or shave it all off, and I would still recognise you.”
She forced herself to take half a step back before she could sway forward and lean into his touch. He had no right.
He seemed to realise as much himself, because he abruptly turned away, and threw himself onto Blaise’s back. Blaise let out a rare, undignified yelp, and then they were wrestling on the pillows, and Hermione watched them gratefully, because it gave her an excuse not to meet Pansy’s eyes.
Forever ago.
Time, she had thought, healed all wounds. People became more hardened with age and experience. They learned to shield their hearts and tell the difference between limerence and love. Adults valued steadfast reliability above lightning strikes.
Hermione, it was now clear, had learned nothing in the last seven years.
The rules of the wrestling match were somewhat unclear, but it seemed like Draco had lost, mainly because he was laughing too hard to do much else. Then again, Blaise was on his feet, so maybe he had lost.
“Are you done?” Pansy asked. “Because the champagne isn’t going to age any better in those glasses.”
“You’ve already opened it? Heathens.”
“We were bored. You took forever.”
Despite herself, Hermione glanced at the picture of the falls again. Forever ago.
With a wave of his wand, Theo flew the glasses over from the kitchen counter, hovering each one in front of its intended recipient until it had been safely plucked from the air. Not for the first time, it occurred to Hermione that Theo was very comfortable casting wordlessly. She inhaled the scent of the champagne, grateful to finally have a glass behind which to hide her nerves.
“Wait, is this the champagne I just brought back from France? Theo!”
Theo shrugged. “Where else is one supposed to get champagne?”
“Do you have any idea how much this costs?”
“Draco, if the Malfoy finances are in such dire circumstances, I’ll pay you back,” Blaise drawled.
Draco scowled at him, and said nothing more about the cost.
“Shall we toast, then?” said Pansy. “To Draco’s return, to a great many future parties spent emptying his wine cellar, yadda yadda yadda.”
“Cheers,” said Theo, raising his glass, and they all echoed him and clinked their glasses together, one by one, their eyes meeting above the champagne.
Pansy sat back down on the sofa with a pleased little sigh, much more relaxed than when Hermione had first come in. Theo sat down next to her, and then reached out and pulled Hermione down by the waist until she was beside him. Blaise sat, cross-legged, on the cushions, and after a moment, Draco joined him there.
“Bought these just for you,” he told Zabini. “How do you like them?”
Hermione sipped her champagne and allowed her gaze to sweep over the Slytherins. She had not seen them all together in one room since that final year at Hogwarts, when everything had felt familiar but still distinctly wrong. Draco had just spent four years abroad, but the atmosphere between them did not seem to have suffered from it. She was just as out of place as she had been back then.
“Breathe, Granger,” said Theo.
His voice was low enough that only she would have heard him, because, she realised with a start, they were sitting very close together. His arm had released her waist once she had sat down, but his hand rested on the sofa just behind her back as he leaned part of his weight on it, casual as anything.
“I have your book,” she said. “I mean, I finished it.”
Theo’s expression softened into something uncharacteristically warm. She hadn’t even known his eyes could do that.
“Of course you did,” he said, his voice fond, and no longer as quiet; out of the corner of her eye, Hermione thought she saw Draco glance their way. “Why don’t you return it the next time you stop at the store? I bet I can find you your next read then.” He leaned in even closer, so that she could feel his breath against her cheek as he spoke. “Do you ever read fiction, Granger? There’s a novel I think you would love.”
“I enjoy fiction,” she said, which was true. These days she mostly read for work, but curling up with a good novel was one of life’s greatest comforts.
“Stop by this weekend, then,” Theo said. “Or whenever you have a moment. Peach misses you.”
“Oh, Peach is such a sweetheart,” Pansy said suddenly from Theo’s other side. “So easy, so affectionate.” She leaned forward so she could look at Hermione and added, “That litter was born on my property. Moggies, to tell you the truth, but cute all the same. What did you think of her?”
“She’s adorable,” Hermione said honestly.
Pansy inclined her head in agreement, then gestured with her chin at the glass in Hermione's hand. “And what do you think of that?”
“It’s good,” Hermione said.
“Granger’s not the biggest fan of sparkling wines,” Theo said, which was true, but didn’t need to be brought up just then.
“It’s not sparkling wine,” Pansy said in feigned indignation – and since when could Hermione recognise when Pansy Parkinson was joking? –, “it’s champagne.” She pronounced it the French way.
“It’s my champagne,” Draco said loudly, the first overt indication that he had been listening.
“And we’re celebrating you moving into your new apartment,” Pansy said. “Aren’t you even going to give us a tour?”
“As if you haven’t already looked through all the closets and cupboards.”
“Granger hasn’t,” Pansy said.
Draco looked at Hermione then, but only briefly, as one might reach out to touch a dish hot from the oven and then withdraw the hand the moment the painful lick of heat was felt. It was that, more than the awkward cheek kiss, more than the odd comment on her hair, more than the nostalgic picture of Mitchell Falls, that finally eased the painful doubt that had lingered in the back of Hermione’s mind for the better part of a decade.
Draco Malfoy had not forgotten.
“Well,” said Draco airily, reaching over to grab an appetizer from the platter on the coffee table, “Granger has better manners than you lot, then.”
“So, no tour, then?” Blaise asked.
“How about a speech?” Pansy suggested.
“Pansy, no one wants to hear that. I was looking for entertainment, not torture.”
“We’ve already toasted,” Draco said. “Finish your glasses and I might make a speech when we open the second bottle.”
“What a terrifying threat.”
Hermione hid her smile by taking another sip of her champagne.
“Having fun?” Theo asked, his voice still very close to her ear.
“It’s nice,” she said.
“It will be even nicer when you finish your glass,” he promised, still with that strange warmth in his tone. “I remembered your favourite, too.”
“Oh no,” Pansy said, “and here I thought I was special. You’re breaking my heart, Theodore.”
Theo teased her back, and then Blaise chimed in, and then Draco said something, and the insults started to go back and forth again. Hermione sank down into the sofa, amused; without missing a beat, Theo raised the arm that had been behind her to instead rest on the back of the sofa, inches from her head. She sipped her champagne and allowed her eyes to jump from Slytherin to Slytherin in time with their retorts, like watching a ping-pong match. She was having fun, she realised. Wasn’t that something? She felt nineteen again – not the nineteen-year-old who had agonised over how to restore her parents’ memories, but the one who had got properly drunk for the first time, stayed out past curfew, and spent months flirting with a boy with unforgettable grey eyes.
It could have been minutes or half an hour later that Pansy said, “Granger’s glass is empty! Bring out the next bottle!”
Hermione looked around; everyone else had already finished their glass. Theo gestured for her to set it down on the table; he then sent all the glasses flying back towards the kitchen area. No more champagne, then.
“This one’s for you, Granger,” Theo said as he summoned the bottle over to them.
It was made of clear glass, the wine inside a pretty orange-pink hue, the label silver. Six wine glasses were produced, and the bottle was uncorked. Blaise made a snide comment about how improperly Theo did it, and Pansy tossed a pillow at him, which he promptly added to the pile he was lounging on.
When the six glasses were full of rosé, it was to Hermione that Theo first held one out, and when she took it, he allowed their fingers to brush for longer than strictly necessary. She frowned at him.
It was not like Theo to show affection, let alone exaggerate it the way he had been doing all night. She wondered if he was trying to make her feel more at ease with the Slytherins, then dismissed that thought; Theo was not cruel, but neither was he the type to go out of his way to make a witch feel slightly less awkward. Perhaps he was just already slightly drunk.
When everyone had a glass in hand, Draco tapped his wand against his, producing as clear a chime as if his wand were made of metal.
“Ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards, scoundrels and cads, esteemed friends and tolerable acquaintances,” he began grandiosely, as Blaise jeered and Pansy took a very generous sip of wine, “we are gathered here tonight to celebrate my triumphant return to the dreary and rather damp charms of England. Thank you all for your presence!”
“We’re actually just here for the alcohol,” said Blaise.
“However,” Draco continued, ignoring him, “today is a momentous day for more than one reason. Today is not only the day you will always remember as the day Draco Malfoy once again graced the streets of wizarding London with his presence – no, today, we celebrate Hermione Granger’s recent promotion within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – ”
“Boo,” said Pansy flatly.
“Draco, do you realise how many illegal artefacts are still in your vault?” Theo asked.
“– where she will continue her stellar career and no doubt make meaningful changes to our society.”
“Yippee,” said Pansy.
Hermione felt dizzy.
“And today,” Draco went on, “the 19th of September, is also Hermione Granger’s twenty-eighth birthday!”
“Twenty-eight?” Pansy repeated.
“Oh, you’re actually old,” Blaise said.
“Happy birthday!” Theo said.
Draco sent one of the canapés hovering in front of Hermione’s face, and with a wave of his wand Theo stuck a candle in it and lit it. Hermione, somehow, managed to find enough air in her lungs to blow it out. Stellar career. She let the canapé drop into the palm of her hand, and allowed herself to look at Draco. Magical Law Enforcement. His eyes were clear and alive, as though the one glass of champagne were the closest thing to an illicit substance he’d partaken in all week. Meaningful changes.
Not only had Draco Malfoy not forgotten her – he remembered, word for word, a conversation they had had eight years previously, before their N.E.W.T.s, when Hermione had still had doubts about what she wanted to do after Hogwarts.
“Happy birthday, Hermione,” said Draco, and she realised she was staring at him.
Embarrassed, she tore her gaze away, instead looking down at her glass of wine.
How do you even know my birthday? she wanted to ask.
“Thanks,” she said. “Welcome back.”