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A fluttering of butterflies stops Hermione from knocking on the imposing wooden door of Malfoy Manor.
Narcissa’s coolly commanding voice emanates from the scattered wings. “They’ll lead you to the garden, Ms Granger.”
In a flurry of motion, the butterflies dart away—across the overgrown grass—through the towering hedge maze—until Hermione feels completely and utterly lost; as though the Queen of Hearts might appear at any second and threaten her head.
She turns another corner, disorientated and almost dizzy, and sees Narcissa lowering a teacup delicately onto its saucer.
“I see you found your way.” She flicks her fingers and the butterflies dissolve into puffs of multi-coloured smoke that drift away on the gentle breeze. “To what do I owe the—” her mouth turns down slightly at the corners, “—pleasure?”
“I’m here to talk about Draco,” Hermione says as she squares her shoulders and tries not to feel underdressed and awkward and wildly bushy-haired and out of place.
Narcissa’s icy blue eyes narrow as she gestures stiffly to the other chair.
Hermione focuses on not tripping over her own feet or catching her skirt in the swirling metal. The kind of garden chairs that are better to look at than sit on. She fusses for a moment with her coat and then laces her fingers together and stills her hands in her lap.
“What about Draco?” Narcissa raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow.
Hermione flexes her toes and tries not to squirm. She wishes there was another teacup—that she had an excuse to fidget—something to drink so that she doesn’t have to awkwardly clear her throat.
“He’s been wondering about his father,” Hermione says carefully.
Narcissa’s eyebrow lifts again as she raises her teacup to her red-painted lips. Hermione twists her fingers around each other and waits. Patiently. Very patiently.
“Is that so?” Narcissa sets the teacup down and gently nudges the saucer towards the centre of the table.
“If he—Mr—Lucius—is still…” Hermione sucks in a deep breath. “If he’s still angry. With him. Draco.”
“Still incapable of eloquence, I see.” Narcissa’s lips twist with Draco’s smirk. “Draco is a grown man,” she continues before Hermione can sputter out a response. “He can speak to his father himself.”
“Just because he can,” Hermione says as she leans forward, “doesn’t mean he wants to.” She clenches her jaw as she meets Narcissa’s frosty glare and tries not to flinch.
“His father,” Narcissa says tightly, “prefers to apologise in person.”
“And will he apologise,” Hermione says as she clenches her hands in her skirt, “or will he expect one?”
“That depends on how much longer Draco continues to ignore our owls.” Narcissa looks past Hermione’s shoulder and exhales softly in what could almost be a sigh. “Is that your meddling?”
“He’s a grown man, Mrs Malfoy.” Hermione straightens. “I don’t make decisions for him.”
Narcissa’s gaze skips past Hermione and lands on the table between them. “Tea, Ms Granger?”
Hermione licks her dry lips. “Please.”
Narcissa flicks her fingers and the teapot floats to a teacup Hermione hadn’t seen a moment ago.
“Do you take milk?” Narcissa asks as she refills her own cup.
“Depends on the tea.” Hermione eyes the sinking petals. “I presume it wouldn’t suit.”
“No,” Narcissa says as she lifts her teacup and purses her lips. “It wouldn’t.”
The tea is slightly too hot and slightly too bitter. It tastes of flowers—as though she’s inhaled her grandmother’s perfume—and Hermione tries not to grimace.
“Floral teas are an acquired taste,” Narcissa says conversationally. “Perhaps your palate isn’t accustomed to them.”
“Not yet,” Hermione replies in a light tone. “Maybe next time I’ll enjoy it more.” She takes another sip and perhaps it’s her imagination, but the tea tastes a little sweeter than it had before.
Narcissa—for a fraction of a second—smiles faintly. “Perhaps.”
The conversation fades as they sip from their respective cups—Hermione wants to gulp down the rest and get to her feet—but she sets the tea down and stares at the petals.
“They’re rose,” Narcissa says as she stands and smooths out her skirt. “The butterflies will lead you out when you’re done.”
Hermione opens her mouth and then closes it again. “Thank you, Mrs Malfoy.”
Narcissa waves her hand dismissively. “Give Draco my love.” She turns on her heel and glides down the path, her skirts rustling with each step.
Hermione huffs out a quiet sigh and finishes her lukewarm tea. She swirls the dregs and petals around for a moment before setting the cup against the saucer with a soft clink.
It would’ve been easier to fight a troll. Maybe even two. Hermione scoffs as she gets to her feet and does her best to flatten out the wrinkles that her white-knuckled grip had created in her skirt.
The butterflies appear out of thin air and dance around her face—her hands—her hair.
“I’m going,” Hermione grumbles as she steps onto the path. “No need to rush me.”
For a moment the butterflies seem to swirl more intensely—her vision fills with myriad colours and fluttering wings—and then they drift away to lead her back home.
Hermione pauses by her front door and sniffs the air. Draco’s made lunch—something with lemon—and her stomach growls as she hangs up her coat.
“Your mother,” she calls out as she undoes her shoe buckle, “is too much like you.”
The faint sizzling comes to an abrupt stop. Draco’s head peeks out from the kitchen. There’s a dab of flour on his cheek and Hermione can’t help smiling as she undoes her other shoe.
“I’m choosing to believe that’s a compliment,” he drawls as he waves a spatula at her. “Was she nice?”
“Compared to…?” Hermione makes a face. “She sends her love.”
“And father?” Draco asks as he fiddles with his overgrown fringe. “What did she say?”
Hermione crosses to the kitchen and slides an arm around his waist—tucks her chin on his shoulder. “She said he’d rather apologise in person.”
Draco huffs. Settles an arm around her shoulder and presses a kiss to her forehead. “You’ll come with me?”
“Only if you don’t burn lunch.” She grins innocently up at him.
Draco swears and untangles himself from her embrace. “You distracted me,” he calls over his shoulder as he races back to the stove.
Hermione leans against the dividing wall and feels as though the butterflies are still fluttering around between her ribs. “Is it almost done?”
“Almost.” He turns from the stove and tilts his head slightly. “Do you think tomorrow is too soon?”
Hermione gives him a reassuring smile. “I think tomorrow’s perfect.”