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Hermione Granger sat in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor for the first time since the war.
Memory moved strangely. The room itself seemed unchanged, grand and coldly beautiful, all marble and silver with ancient magic pressed into the walls. However, without the presence of a megalomaniac madman and cries of tortured muggles (including her at some point), it no longer carried the weight of dread that it once had.
Ten years had passed since then. Ten years since they had stopped being children playing heroics and villainy, and had started becoming adults who learned to live with what they had survived.
Hermione and Draco had buried the hatchet soon after the Wizengamot pardoned the underage Death Eaters. Their reconciliation didn't involve theatrics or dramatic apologies, but rather the quieter and more complex work of learning to coexist in the same spaces without sparking another wizarding war.
They were not friends, not in the way she was friends with Harry or Ginny, but they had settled into something close to peace, thanks to fate's twisted sense of humour.
Theodore Nott, Draco's oldest friend, had married Harry Potter, her best friend, the boy who had once carried the world on his shoulders. Pansy Parkinson had somehow ended up married to Ronald Weasley, her other best friend, as if the universe itself had decided to stitch their fractured school years back together with marriages that still filled the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly with rampant speculation years thereafter.
As a result, Hermione and Draco saw one another often during birthdays, holidays, dinner parties and other gatherings. They shared tables, passed each other glasses of wine and made polite conversation about work, politics, and the ordinary triumphs of adult life.
They also interacted at the Ministry often enough outside of their shared social circles, but it never extended beyond what duty required. Their exchanges lasted as long as the assignment or report demanded before receding once more into courteous distance.
Hermione Granger's work at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures frequently intersected with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's Investigation Division, particularly on cases involving cross-border trafficking, protected species and post-war black-market activity. Draco Malfoy, trained at the French Ministry after the war and being fluent in six languages (including Elfish), proved invaluable when dealing with foreign magical beings and displaced communities. He served as an unofficial liaison between international enforcement agencies and the British Ministry, although his formal title was Head of Investigation Division.
However, despite all the years of social meetings and working closely together, they had never quite crossed the invisible line from acquaintance into friendship. There were no lingering conversations, personal confessions, or attempts to redefine whatever frail truce they had fallen into.
After the war, Draco made a conspicuous and very public effort to dismantle his old convictions and inherited prejudices. He immersed himself in muggle culture with the same intensity he applied to everything else, collecting experiences as though they were evidence in a case he was trying to prove to himself.
Football matches. Theatre. Grand opera houses in cities that Hermione had only visited for conferences and Ministry summits. Even ski-ing in the Alps.
She hadn't sought out that information. However, it was nearly impossible to avoid when both the Prophet and Witch Weekly were determined to catalogue his every public appearance, especially those featuring whichever model or socialite happened to be on his arm that month.
The articles were always the same glossy photographs, whispered speculations and Draco Malfoy's redemption arc, served up as entertainment for a society still hungry for post-war transformation stories.
Hermione had received the owl two days earlier. The message had been an unassuming and neatly folded note written in Draco Malfoy's hand, requesting her presence at Malfoy Manor at her earliest convenience. There was no preamble, explanation or hint of what the matter concerned.
Naturally, before she could overthink or draw insane conclusions, she had consulted Pansy and Theo. They had both reacted with the same unhelpful nonchalance, and so Hermione resolved to face whatever Malfoy wanted with the same stubborn, deliberate confidence she brought to every other major decision in her life.
Turvy, a house-elf wearing an impeccably tailored emerald-green three-piece suit had greeted her the moment she stepped out of the floo, looking as though he had wandered from a high-end wizarding boutique rather than the service corridors of Malfoy Manor. He bowed low, introduced himself in a voice both crisp and earnest, and escorted her through the sweeping corridors toward the drawing room, offering tea and an array of pastries while she waited for Malfoy.
By the time Hermione reached for her second scrumptious raspberry scone, she had begun to form a working theory on the night’s agenda.
Draco Malfoy, she suspected, had purchased some new muggle appliance, and instead of consulting the instruction manual like a normal person, he had summoned her. It would be entirely unsurprising for his particular brand of absurdity.
After all, this was the same man who had once flooed directly into Grimmauld Place to interrupt Theo and Harry's anniversary evening because he had discovered that some stoves ran on gas and found the concept deeply concerning.
Hermione took another thoughtful bite of her scone, glanced around the opulent room and braced herself for whatever strange and deeply unnecessary crisis awaited her.
"The master is ready for you in the dining area," announced the same elf who had greeted her earlier. "Please follow Turvy."
Hermione glanced at her wrist and conjured a quick Tempus. A quarter past six.
Did Malfoy honestly eat dinner this early, or was this some new aristocratic scheduling quirk he'd picked up abroad? Last she'd heard, he had spent a few months in Italy with Blaise Zabini.
She rose and followed Turvy down the corridor, her heels echoing softly against the marble floor. With each step, the manor seemed to dim around them, the once-brilliant chandeliers giving way to a softer and more deliberate gloom.
Hermione slowed. "Is there something wrong with the manor?" she asked, glancing up at the shadowed arches. A small part of her worried Malfoy had attempted to install electricity and somehow disrupted the ley lines in the process.
Turvy didn't break stride. "Master says it is for ambience and mood." He pronounced both words carefully, as though reciting from a foreign book.
Hermione pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. If Draco had explained those concepts, she could only imagine the lecture that must have followed. Given that Malfoy was fluent in Elfish, she had no doubt he had thoroughly contextualised the meaning.
They stopped before a pair of tall, carved double doors.
Turvy reached up, pushed them open, and bowed so deeply his nose nearly brushed the carpet. "Miss Granger is to enter alone. If you have requests for Turvy, please summon. Thank you."
And with that, he vanished, leaving Hermione standing on the threshold of whatever Draco Malfoy had planned.
The room beyond the doors glowed with candlelight arranged along the length of the dining table perched on golden candlesticks. The light pooled low and warm, casting the ancient stone in honey and gold. Beeswax, citrus and faintly floral scents filled the air.
At the far end of the table, positioned deliberately so he faced the entrance, stood Draco Malfoy. He was one of the first things she saw as she crossed the threshold. The flicker of the candles traced pale fire across his hair. He clasped his hands loosely behind his back, posture composed, immaculate, as though this were a formal negotiation rather than a dinner. He was wearing a casual shirt and trousers.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
"Granger," Draco said at last, her name low and steady in the candlelight.
Her heart gave an entirely unreasonable lurch.
The table between them had been set for two with pressed linen, fine crystal and a single porcelain vase at its centre holding a spray of pale blooms she didn't recognise. The chairs were pulled back just slightly.
Hermione stepped fully inside and closed the doors behind her with a soft and deliberate thump that echoed faintly through the vast space. "You said it was urgent," she said instead of offering a greeting.
Draco inclined his head, the candlelight carving his profile. "It was." He moved to the chair closest to her, positioned where she had unconsciously slowed and drew it back with quiet care. "I sent the owl two days ago," he added, watching her closely. "I wasn't certain you would come at all."
"I had to consult your friends," Hermione replied as she took her seat, smoothing her skirt beneath her, "so I could make the necessary preparations for this visit."
He pushed her chair forward before crossing to his own place. A faint, almost amused curve touched his mouth. "I didn't realise one needed to prepare to visit a colleague."
Hermione lifted a brow, gaze flicking pointedly to the candles, the table, the carefully staged hush of the room. "Am I here as your colleague, then? Because a candlelit dinner feels excessive, don't you think?"
Draco's eyes met hers. "Perhaps," he said, after a beat, "that depends on what you think we are."
"What I think we are," Hermione repeated the words as if they were foreign.
"Ce que vous pensez que nous sommes," Malfoy said in perfect French accent.
"I thought you called me here because you had an appliance issue," Hermione said, folding her hands atop the linen and studying him over the rim of her wineglass.
"An appliance issue?" Draco echoed, genuinely taken aback. "If that were the case, I would have consulted the manual or Potter."
Hermione scoffed. "I have far more appliance knowledge than Harry. He barely left his room at the Dursleys', Malfoy."
Draco blinked. "Why are we discussing my best friend's husband's childhood trauma over dinner?"
"Because you just implied he's a better muggle than I am."
"That is not remotely what I said."
"Your tone suggested it."
Draco leaned back in his chair, candlelight catching on the edge of his glass as a small, reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. "You misunderstand my intent. I was merely pointing out that I have male acquaintances for such matters. And despite what you seem to believe—" he paused pointedly "—I do know how to read an appliance manual."
Hermione regarded him for a moment, then hummed. "I'll believe that when I see it."
He lifted a brow. "You wound me, Granger."
"I know about the stove incident," she replied primly, "I found my assumptions on historical facts."
"Well," Malfoy said, gesturing languidly to the candlelight and the meticulously arranged table between them, "what are your assumptions about all this?"
Hermione followed the sweep of his hand, then returned her gaze to him, unimpressed. "I believe," she said with measured care, "that you are attempting to butter me up for support on your upcoming initiatives."
Draco scoffed. "Please. I wouldn't need to seduce you for that."
Hermione's brow arched. "Are you seducing me?"
He tilted his head, eyes glinting in the glow. "Are you feeling seduced?"
Before she could reply, he snapped his fingers. With a soft pop of displaced air, several house-elves appeared at the edges of the room, each dressed in an assortment of festive attire, such as scarlet waistcoats, miniature velvet cloaks, and tiny felted hats trimmed with gold thread. The whole ensemble reminded her of Santa's workshop.
They moved in synchrony, placing the appetisers before them. Thin slices of smoked pheasant layered over crisp apple and fennel, drizzled with a honey-mustard reduction and finished with candied walnuts. Beside it, warm rolls brushed with rosemary butter.
The elves bowed in unison and vanished.
Hermione glanced down at the food, then back at Draco. "How do you know I like candied walnuts?" she asked, eyeing her plate suspiciously as she lifted her fork.
"My best friends are married to your best friends," Draco replied smoothly. "I have a wealth of informants at my disposal."
"Have you been spying on me, Malfoy?"
"Please," he said with mild offence. "Malfoys do not spy. We inquire and receive answers."
Hermione's lips twitched. "That sounds significantly worse." She took her first bite anyway.
For a few moments, the only sound between them was the gentle clink of cutlery and the distant crackle of candle wicks. The flavours were bright and balanced, the sweetness of the walnuts offset by the savoury depth of the pheasant, and Hermione found herself grudgingly impressed.
Just as she set her fork down, the house-elves reappeared, gliding forward with the next course.
They set identical shallow bowls of roasted butternut squash soup before them both, its surface marbled with cream and scattered with toasted pumpkin seeds and sprigs of fresh thyme. Steam rose gently, carrying the warm scent of nutmeg and garlic.
Hermione leaned closer despite herself. "This smells incredible."
Draco watched her reaction rather than the dish. "It should. The recipe is from Provence."
The elves bowed and vanished.
For a moment, neither of them spoke as they lifted their spoons and tasted the soup. Candlelight trembled across the table, gilding the rims of their bowls, softening the sharp lines of the room.
"I wish you'd tell me," Hermione said at last, setting her spoon aside, "why you called me here in the middle of December, insisting it was urgent, and yet all we're doing is— eating."
Draco's gaze lingered on her for a beat longer than strictly necessary. "Would you not rather talk after dessert?" he asked mildly. "My elves are very particular about dinner schedules."
Hermione huffed, though not without humour, and took the final spoonful of soup. "Fine."
Almost on cue, the house-elves reappeared, clearing the bowls and replacing them with the next course.
Before each of them, they set a porcelain plate bearing roasted duck breast, the skin crisp and lacquered with a spiced orange glaze. It rested atop a bed of wild rice studded with dried cranberries and slivers of toasted almond, with roasted Brussels sprouts and caramelised shallots arranged carefully at the side.
The elves bowed and vanished once more.
Hermione eyed the plate, then Draco. "You're doing this on purpose."
His mouth curved faintly. "Doing what?"
"Delaying."
"I challenge you," Malfoy said with lazy confidence, "to tell the elves that you'd like to pause the next course. You can deal with the tantrum."
"Elves do not throw tantrums," Hermione huffed.
"They do if they know you speak Elfish," Draco replied. "They take it as criticism of their pacing."
They finished the main course in companionable silence, the crackle of candles and the distant hush of the manor filling the space as they ate.
When they were done, the house-elves cleared the plates and rematerialised with their final offering. A dark chocolate torte, rich and glossy, layered with spiced pear compote and crowned with a swirl of vanilla cream. A dusting of powdered sugar fell like fresh snow across the plate with sugared cranberries arranged beside for colour and brightness.
The elves bowed once more and vanished.
Hermione stared at the dessert, then at Malfoy. "If this is what you serve before delivering bad news," she said quietly, "I may never forgive you."
"If you believe that me having romantic feelings for you constitutes bad news," Malfoy said quietly, "then yes, I'm delivering bad news."
Hermione blinked.
"What?" she asked, the word escaping before she could catch it.
"You heard me."
"I—" She faltered, gaze dropping to the dark sheen of the torte as though it might offer some rational explanation for what he had just said. "I don't understand."
Draco drew a slow breath, his posture shifting, as if bracing himself. "I've spent the past several years deliberately immersing myself in the muggle world," he said carefully, measuring each syllable. "Because," he continued, watching her face with quiet intensity, "I intended to court a muggleborn witch."
"And that muggleborn witch is… me?" Hermione asked, incredulous.
His mouth curved, though his eyes remained steady.
"If there are any other muggleborn witches present, I'd appreciate them excusing themselves."
Hermione let out a breath that she hadn't realised she'd been holding. "Malfoy," she said, her voice low and unsteady, "you can't possibly be serious."
"I've never been more," he said earnestly, then hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. "Unless… you're not interested?"
Hermione's pulse thudded in her ears. She searched his expression, still half-convinced this was some elaborate prank. "What about the supermodels and celebrities?" she asked at last. "I hardly believe you're interested in me when I look nothing like them."
Draco huffed a quiet, humourless laugh. "They were my mother's friends."
Her brows knitted.
"She insisted I bring a date to public functions," he continued, faintly exasperated. "Lest the wizarding community assume I'm gay." He paused, then added quickly, "Not that there is anything wrong with that. I am progressive, as you know."
Hermione stared at him. For a heartbeat, she said nothing — just looked, the words circling in her mind like stunned birds. Then she let out a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a disbelieving scoff. "So all of Wizarding Britain thinks you've been living some glamorous, unattainable romantic life," she said slowly, "and in reality you've been… what. Training to court me?"
Draco's gaze didn't waver. "Yes."
"You realise," she said, trying and failing to sound flippant, "that this is the most absurd confession I've ever received."
He smiled faintly. “I was rather aiming for something memorable.”
Hermione shook her head, a small, incredulous smile finally breaking through. The tension in her shoulders eased, just a little, as though the world had shifted and she was finally standing on steadier ground. “You could have just asked me out for coffee,” she said.
“I could have,” he agreed. His gaze drifted briefly to the long table, to the soft gold glow of the flames dancing across crystal and porcelain, before returning to her. “But then we wouldn’t be having a formal candlelight dinner. A proper beginning that feels intentional. We could even make it an annual tradition.”
She looked back at him, the thought settling warm and steady in her chest. “I don’t hate it,” she admitted softly.
Somehow, this kind of Draco Malfoy absurdity was very on-brand.