Fic: Interrogated
Title: Interrogated
Author:
withdrawnred
Rating: PT
Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger
Word Count: 4,300
Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to Steven Moffat, Tom MacRae, British Broadcasting Company, JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.
Summary: Hermione’s friends want to know why she hasn’t told them about her impending date.
Warnings: Profanity, gossip.
Author’s Notes: Written for round 4 of the
dramione_remix, with Amy and Rory (Doctor Who) as the prompt. Huge, huge thanks to my betas callarose, dormiensa, and the late breaking unseen1969 for their wonderful feedback and support. Also, if you’re unfamiliar with Doctor Who or Amy and Rory’s storyline within the show, fear not! This remix is based around a quote from their arc.
“Good morning, Mr Potter!”
Harry nods and smiles. “If you say so, Donna.” He’s always been amazed at how Hermione’s secretary could be so … awake at such ungodly hours. It wasn’t even ten yet, and she was as alert and content as if she’d taken a couple vials of Pepper-Up. Knowing her, though, she’d never touched the stuff. That would just be unnatural.
Some people have all the luck.
“Is she in?” he asks, nodding his head towards the door labelled “Hermione Granger, Deputy, Muggle Liaison Office”.
“I’m afraid not. She’s out in Muggle Dublin for most of the day in meetings. Some emergency came up, and I’ve just finished clearing out her calendar.” Donna flips quickly through her timetable. “Yes, quite right. She isn’t due back to the office until tomorrow morning. Is there a message you’d like passed on to her?”
“No, nothing urgent. I just wanted to stop in and see how she’s doing.”
Donna smiles warmly.
“She isn’t working too hard, is she?” Harry asks, unable to keep the concern from his voice.
“You know I count on you to keep an eye out for our girl.”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure, such a lovely young woman. Miss Granger’s been working as much as ever, but you know, she seems more energised.”
“More energised?”
“Perhaps happier? I’m not sure. But she’s definitely had a spring in her step the past few weeks.” She peers around, as if watching for eavesdroppers and Extendible Ears. “And well, just between you and me, I think she’s quite excited about Mr Malfoy.”
Harry’s brow furrows in confusion. “What about Malfoy?” Draco Malfoy had become a fixture in Wizarding society after the war, but in a much less formidable sense than his father before him. Having been a key member of the Order during the war, and now a contributing member of the Ministry, there weren’t many in society that felt he should still be ostracized. If Harry were totally honest, he’d admit that Malfoy’s all right. A hard worker, and Harry could hardly call him evil anymore. Yes, he was willing to admit it — mentally, at least. He doesn’t think his stomach could handle those words actually coming out of his mouth, though. All stubbornness aside, their world is probably a better place because of Draco Malfoy.
“Why, he’s asked her to dinner this weekend.”
Harry’s eyes proceed to nearly pop out of his sockets. Well, that is just ridiculous. Hermione and Malfoy — “Like, a date?”
Donna nods, a wide smile on her face. “Oh, yes! He was here just a few days ago, and he — oh, I wasn’t eavesdropping, I promise you. He asked her just within hearing distance. I do give her the privacy she deserves. Frankly, I think they’d be just lovely together. He’s quite charming, and you know how I adore Miss Granger.”
Harry grunts something of a response, his mind still reeling. Sure, Malfoy was a good enough bloke, but the two of them … it’s just — Merlin, he can’t even think about the concept.
Preposterous.
“You mustn’t tell anybody, though, Mr Potter. I find gossiping beneath us both.”
“Yes, of course, Donna.” He struggles, but finally pushes a smile through his shock, and bids her adieu.
Not twenty minutes later, he breaks that promise — something he both is and isn’t ashamed of.
“Gin,” he starts, looking into green flames the shape of his girlfriend’s face, “you’ll never believe what I just heard.”
A short time later, she responds as expected: “You have got to be kidding, Harry Potter.”
***
Friday. It’s Friday, finally. Hermione smiles to herself. She’d thought this week would never end. First there’d been those troves of reports to approve and pass on, and then that ridiculous emergency in Dublin. One day or meetings had turned into nearly three, what with the back-and-forth between departments and no clear, delegated decision-maker. If she never had to interact with another bureaucrat in her life, she’d be the happiest of witches.
But alas, that wasn’t in the cards. Why did she work for the Ministry, again? She had to chant herself to sleep sometimes with “For the greater good. For the greater good.”
Although, with how tired her bones were now, she doubted she’d need any chanting or sheepcounting to fall asleep tonight. This was fall-asleep-on-your-desk tired.
“Hermione.”
She jumps at the sudden noise behind her. Ginny’s just crossed the threshold to her office, and as the girl shuts the door behind her, Hermione notices she is grossly out of breath, and she’s immediately concerned. She also wonders how she hadn’t heard her friend coming at all.
Tired, indeed. She must be getting old.
“Ginny, are you all right?”
Ginny puts a finger up, and rests her hands on her knees, gathering her breath. When Hermione hands her a small glass of water, she nods in thanks. “Why is your office so bloody far from the lift? It must be a kilometre.”
Hermione’s more interested in how Ginny knew she was in anyway. Yes, word travels fast, but she literally just stepped out of the Floo from Dublin. In fact, she still has the telltale dust all over her jumper.
“The better question is why you were in such a hurry. Running isn’t exactly advisable in these corridors, Gin.”
She didn’t really care if she came across as swotty or if she lectured too much. A lovely courier nearly snapped his neck in two the week before. He’d been sprinting down the halls and, in an attempt to avoid an errant incantation, had swerved — right into the open lift. Needless to say, that evening there’d been much grumbling about the slow, and at times inoperable, lift.
Hermione was more than a little tempted to instate some speed-detecting charms.
Ginny waves the comment away with a snap of her wrist. “More important things to discuss.”
Hermione stared back, expectant. “And that would be?” After a moment, her paranoia gets the best of her and she frowns. “Did something happen while I was in Ireland?” That would be just her luck. Three days in the bowels of Dublin’s Ministry, and Harry had fallen off his broom. Or The Burrow had burned down. Or McGonagall had—
“Oh, I don’t know. Your impending date, maybe?”
“Oh!” Hermione shoulders slumped in relief. “That. I thought for a second something serious had happened.”
“It has, Hermione! You’re about to go on a date with Draco Malfoy. What is wrong with you? Are you feeling lonely, is that it?”
“What? No.”
“I just don’t understand — you deserve so much better than that.”
Hermione can’t honestly say that she understands what Ginny means by that, but she doesn’t have the mental energy to dig into the issue. “Sure. Whatever you say, Gin.”
Ginny bristles. Then again, it isn’t like Hermione was trying to disguise her brush-off as anything else. “Be serious, Hermione. It just doesn’t make sense — the two of you together. He’s going to hang you out to dry.”
Hermione shakes her head and smiles at her friend. “Whoever said I wouldn’t hang him out to dry?”
This takes Ginny aback. “What?”
“You’re acting like he’s got me wedded and bedded, Ginny. It’s just a date.”
Ginny glares a little bit, as if her gaze could burn the very word.
“Why are you protesting so much?”
“Because it’s Malfoy.” Ginny slumps down into the couch near the door, her long legs folding haphazardly. “How can you stand him?”
“Draco isn’t so bad, you know,” Hermione says, resting her body against her desk. She can practically see Ginny perk up, and Hermione mentally curses.
“Draco, eh?” Ginny leans forward, resting her elbows on her knee. “Since when is he ‘Draco’?”
Hermione doesn’t honestly want to think about this, and when she rolls her eyes, she isn’t sure if it’s at herself or at the girl sitting on her couch and occupying the little headspace she has on reserve. “I don’t know, Ginny, and I really don’t care, to be honest. I’m dead on my feet right now, so can we continue this some other time?”
Preferably to the tune of ‘never’.
Ginny huffs in frustration, but she removes herself from Hermione’s couch and leads the way down to the Atrium. Their walk down is quiet and veers as far from their previous conversation as possible — for which Hermione is merciful.
***
Hermione stares at her fireplace, jaw wide in shock. Two bodies have just stepped through the Floo into her flat. Two bodies with whom she is all too familiar. The kind of familiar, where she could make their murder look like an accident.
She jerks her dressing gown shut with her free hand, and the sudden movement sloshes her tea over the rim and onto her fingers. Hissing at the burning heat on her skin, she scowls at Harry and Ron. Clearly, she’d forgotten to put her wards back up the night before.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asks, not trying in the slightest to hide her annoyance. It’s early. She’s two sips and one slosh into her morning tea on an empty stomach. She hasn’t even showered yet, and she is dead tired. This is not a good time for surprises.
Harry’s smile is disarming, charming. Or at least designed to be. It may work on her secretary, but Hermione’s seen him direct that one at too many young women and reporters to be affected at all. In fact, she’s a little insulted that he thinks such a look would work on her. Her — his best friend. She decides to just assume it’s the best he’s got, rather than thinking about the ramifications of him thinking such a glance would work on the brightest witch of their age.
Even then, she’s confused.
“Is it that strange that we wanted to spend the morning with you? Maybe have some breakfast, or tea. Whatever.”
“To be honest, I’m a little surprised that you’re even up this early. It is before 11, don’t you realize?” In fact, it’s barely nine. She then gets a good look at Ron — and promptly braces herself. He has the look of someone who’s been restless for two weeks straight. His gaze is flitting around all over her living room, from spot to spot, never focusing on any one thing for longer than three seconds. And his fist keeps clenching and unclenching.
Well, she’d had a suspicion that their visit was more than just that, but Ron’s behaviour certainly affirmed it. Harry clears his throat, almost embarrassed. “I heard through … erm, through the grapevine that you’ve got a date tonight.”
Hermione’s eyes widen. She turns around to rummage through her cupboard.
“With Malfoy,” Harry finishes, and she feels a new knot form in her shoulder almost instantaneously.
Wedged in between various foodstuffs, her fingers wrap around the shorter end of a tin, she yanks it out. Hermione slowly turns around while she pops the lid off the tin. “Biscuit?” she asks, holding the tin out as an offering. Their only response is a collectively expectant look. “Are you serious? I can’t even get to my morning tea without an interrogation?”
“So you don’t deny it?” Ron’s stare is as accusing as ever, arms crossed in a way that he must think looks intimidating.
“I’m not trying to keep anything a secret. I just don’t fancy making a public announcement each time I go on a date.”
"You should have told us," he growls.
Hermione sighs and drops the tin on her counter with a loud clang. “Because I knew this would happen. You would react like this. You’d each try, in your own way, to convince me to not go. But what you don’t realize is this isn’t just some out-of-the-blue date. I’ve gotten to know him over the years, and even better over the past few weeks and months.”
“You may think you know him—”
“What makes you think I don’t?” Hermione winces and clenches her fist. Her voice is growing too loud and high, too quickly.
“Merlin, Hermione. It’s Malfoy, for crying out loud!”
“What makes you think you know him any better than I do? What, do I need to get every relationship — romantic or not — approved by you, Ronald?”
Harry steps forward, almost as if he thinks he’s about to play the peacemaker role in her kitchen. “Of course not, Hermione. You know we’re just worried about you.”
She scoffs. “Nice way of showing it. You may as well be jumping up and down, shouting that I’m not capable of making my own bloody decisions.”
“That isn’t it at all,” Harry protests.
She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the counter. “Well then, what is it?”
“We don’t trust him.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you aren’t the one going on the date, isn’t it?” she snaps.
Ron’s face is as red as she’s ever seen it. “None of us should be going out with that sod!”
Her self-control snaps at that comment, and before she knows it, she’s four steps closer to him, her finger poking hard into his sternum. “Who died and made you king? I’m not sure if you remember, but I’m not sixteen years old. And I don’t know where you get off trying to tell me which choices to make, Ronald Weasley.”
“Fine!” he yells, brushing her arm away from him. “Don’t come back crying to me when it all ends in a mess.” She barely has a chance to respond before he’s digging through her container of Floo powder — her empty container of Floo powder. Hermione barely manages to withhold her amusement at the sight of a grown man being prevented from storming off dramatically by a logistical failure. Floo powder has been on her shopping list for at least two weeks.
Ron huffs and waltzes towards her couch, inspecting the various books and knick-knacks set on the side table with a grimace. She turns back around at the sound of Harry’s sigh. He’s leaned against her counter, and Hermione supposes that’s as sure a sign of relaxation as she’ll get this morning.
“So you’re really doing this, are you?” Harry’s voice almost speaks of acceptance. It may not be excitement, but that’s something she’d never expected from this situation.
“Yes, Harry.” She offers him a small smile—her first of the morning—and walks over to lean next to him, their shoulders lightly brushing.
“But that means you’ll have to look at him.” If she’s not mistaken, that was definitely a whinge.
“I mean, he’s really nothing but a pointy … ferret. That can’t be fun to look at.”
It’s a struggle not to laugh, but she manages with a quick pinch to her thigh. Ron makes up for it by contributing a sort of malicious chuckle. “Be serious, Harry.”
He chuckles, and a smile escapes her. “I’m being at least half-serious. Are you telling me you’re actually attracted to that face?”
“Yes,” she says, plain as fact. “Anyway, it’s just a date. You two are acting like I’ve agreed to marry him.”
The blunt response seems to catch Harry by surprise. He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I guess I just don’t see it. But, you know, I’m not into blokes, so I guess…”
Hermione shakes her head. “That’s not it, Harry. You know when sometimes you meet someone so beautiful and then you actually talk to them and five minutes later they're as dull as a brick? Then there's other people … when you meet them you think, ‘Not bad. They're okay.’ And then you get to know them and ... and their face just sort of becomes them. Like their personality's written all over it. And they just turn into something so beautiful. *
“When you look at him, you see everything he was when we were younger. So does Ron. Ginny, too, I’d guess. His face is marked by your experiences with him at Hogwarts. That’s what defines him, in your eyes.”
“And not in yours?” he prompts.
“Not at all,” she says, locking eyes with Harry. “He’s grown up quite a bit since those years. We all have. He’s still a snarky little shite, but I think the world would stop rotating if that was no longer the case. It’s taken a while, but when I look at him I no longer see the twelve-year-old who called me a Mudblood. He’s proven himself to be more than anyone expected of him, and that’s the person I see.”
She starts to get anxious when several seconds pass, and Harry doesn’t respond. (Ron is being a complete child: pretending to retch all over her couch.) Just as she’s about to elbow him, Harry chuckles. “You think Malfoy’s beautiful?”
“Shove it!”
***
Several hours later, Hermione is standing inside Chez Pompadour, far enough away from the maître d’ for the hostess to not pay attention to her. Despite the brave face she’d put on for Harry and Ron earlier, her nerves are completely frayed. Ron had responded as expected. From the second they stepped out of the Floo, she knew he would react poorly. On the positive side, though, Harry seemed to be at least on the road to acceptance. She should count it as a step in the right direction, she supposes.
As she spreads her hand down the skirt of her dress for the seventh time in half as many minutes, she feels hot breath fan across her neck. “Good evening.”
She turns swiftly, hoping that he didn’t notice her shiver in response. “Evening,” she says with a slight nod.
His eyes drift, slowly taking her appearance in. There’s a quick intake of breath before he remarks, “You look … well, stunning, Granger.”
Hermione’s brow rises, just a tad. “A compliment from Draco Malfoy?” She smirks, unable to help herself. “I must be doing something right.”
“Certainly.” He smirks in return, and then turns to ask for their reservation.
The hostess spares more than a cursory glance at him. Elevator eyes, more like. It wouldn’t have irritated Hermione so much if the woman hadn’t followed it with one that shouted of her impression of Hermione and Draco together: somewhere between confusion and pity.
Unfortunately, figuring out a way to spill a glass of merlot on her fine blouse would be overly complicated. She settles for a good, old-fashioned glare.
There’s a flurry of restaurant activity—well wishes, menus, and platitudes exchanges for more platitudes—which leaves Hermione feeling the full weight of the lull that follows. She bends her head, gazing over the very short menu. Well, at least if everything looks good, there are only three options to debate over. A quick glance around the restaurant tells her that their date hasn’t been ambushed — yet. This isn’t exactly the kind of place Harry and Ron would expect to find her, but Ginny’s a bit more resourceful.
“Looking for something?”
Hermione’s head snaps back to Draco at the sudden introduction of conversation. An arched brow is the only quirk in his otherwise neutral face. She can feel her face heat just as she’s scolding her body for betraying her by blush.
“What, do you think your precious henchmen will crash our dinner?” he asks, his voice not hiding any of his amusement.
“I doubt they’d ever think to find me in a place like this.”
“I take it that means they know you’re out with me tonight,” he posits.
She hums in response.
“Donna, then?” he asks, to which she nods. “How did you know Donna’d spill?”
A shrug in response. “She has such a sweet spot for Harry, it’d only be a matter of time.”
He scoffs. “Of course she likes Potter.”
“Don’t be an idiot. You know she likes you as well as Harry.”
“That, my dear, is the result of much planning and work. Potter just waltzes in and she’s besotted with him.”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “You are so dramatic.”
“I speak the truth, you know. Potter gets practically everything delivered to him on a silver platter.”
She barely resists the bait. “I’m not having this argument with you again.” She thought they’d put the relative difficulty of Draco’s and Harry’s lives to bed months ago. It’d be too soon if she never heard Draco complain again about how much more he had to work to get approval in society. “New topic.”
“Fine.” He huffs. “Let’s talk about how Tweedledee and Tweedledum reacted, since you seem so fixated on it.”
“What does that make you? The Caterpillar?” He frowns at the volleyed insult. “Nothing unusual to report. Ron was angry. Harry was mostly confused and trying to understand but not quite hitting the mark.”
“Did Weasley storm out?”
A smirk escapes her. “Not for lack of trying. I’m out of Floo powder, so his stomp ended at the fireplace.”
Draco barks in laughter, and she finds her body relaxing in response. All jokes with Harry aside, she does find Draco beautiful, especially when he lets down that wall. This is the first she’s seen of his less-guarded side in public.
“It sounds like everything went as expected, then. I asked you out where Donna could hear. Donna gossiped. Your friends reacted.”
She nods at each of his points.
“Then what’s wrong?”
Not having expected him to pick up on her edginess, Hermione blinks. But then again, at this point he knows her better than most. Possibly even better than the boys do. “Nothing. I just didn’t expect it to drain me. I almost wish we’d kept it under wraps.”
“Colour me surprised. One test run to see how people would react to us, and you’re running back to secret with your tail between your legs. What kind of Gryffindor are you?”
“One who still remembers her hexes — vividly.”
Draco puts his hands up in faux surrender. “I’m just saying. You’re starting to sound like you want to return to keeping each other a secret.”
“No! Not at all,” she says quickly, reaching her hand across the table in supplication. Within seconds, he’s gripping her hand. Hermione still isn’t used to how the feel of his skin on hers calms her. “I mean, it’s done now. It’ll get easier over time, I hope. What about you — did you decide whether to tell your friends?”
“Pansy has known for months now. I’ve never been good at keeping things from her.” That explains some of the looks the brunette has given her over the past weeks and months. “As for the rest, they’ll find out through the tabloids, and I’ll deal with their earful when it comes.”
“I think I like your strategy better than mine.”
Their shared smile is enough to close the topic.
Over the next hour, they each devour their dinners, complete with shared morsels of lamb and duck, and later they sup on the greatest lemon parfait Hermione’s taste buds have experienced.
When they finally leave the restaurant, Hermione feels more content than she has in months.
Oh, the wonder of a good meal and one less secret.
“We’ll have to do this again sometime,” he says, pulling her body closer to his once they emerge onto the pavement.
She smiles, lacing the fingers of her hands through each of his. “That sounds lovely.” Hermione likes the idea of not having to travel to the likes of Paris to go on a date involving public places.
The lines of their bodies press together, and they fall into a familiar pattern. They each turn their heads just so, the perfect angle to press their lips together. Her hands are planted on his slim hips, clenching and unclenching the material of his jacket. She could never help it, and he’d stopped caring about the wrinkles a time ago. Draco’s hands go almost automatically to cradle her neck, and she melts even further into him, groaning deeply.
Before they really get carried away in the middle of Diagon Alley, Hermione pulls apart, after a nip for good measure, and rests her forehead against his chin. Draco exhales in a growl, but instead of the expected (complaining about the interruption), he simply squeezes her upper arms and then begins leading them toward the Apparition Point.
They’re still linked by the laced fingers of one hand each. For a reason she can’t quite pin down, she feels the need to state the obvious. “It’ll probably take a while for Ron to come around.”
“I’m afraid I’m rather drawn to causing Weasley a few sleepless nights,” he says, his finger drawing in her palm. “And a bit disappointed that Potter didn’t make a fuss. Doesn’t he know I’m a dangerous man?”
She blushes hotly when she deduces what his fingers are spelling out, and he grins wolfishly.
One large exhale, and she breathes out her response. “Later.”
* This is a direct quote taken from “The Girl Who Waited” (Doctor Who, 6x10), written
by Tom MacRae.
Author:
withdrawnredRating: PT
Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger
Word Count: 4,300
Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to Steven Moffat, Tom MacRae, British Broadcasting Company, JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.
Summary: Hermione’s friends want to know why she hasn’t told them about her impending date.
Warnings: Profanity, gossip.
Author’s Notes: Written for round 4 of the
dramione_remix, with Amy and Rory (Doctor Who) as the prompt. Huge, huge thanks to my betas callarose, dormiensa, and the late breaking unseen1969 for their wonderful feedback and support. Also, if you’re unfamiliar with Doctor Who or Amy and Rory’s storyline within the show, fear not! This remix is based around a quote from their arc.“Good morning, Mr Potter!”
Harry nods and smiles. “If you say so, Donna.” He’s always been amazed at how Hermione’s secretary could be so … awake at such ungodly hours. It wasn’t even ten yet, and she was as alert and content as if she’d taken a couple vials of Pepper-Up. Knowing her, though, she’d never touched the stuff. That would just be unnatural.
Some people have all the luck.
“Is she in?” he asks, nodding his head towards the door labelled “Hermione Granger, Deputy, Muggle Liaison Office”.
“I’m afraid not. She’s out in Muggle Dublin for most of the day in meetings. Some emergency came up, and I’ve just finished clearing out her calendar.” Donna flips quickly through her timetable. “Yes, quite right. She isn’t due back to the office until tomorrow morning. Is there a message you’d like passed on to her?”
“No, nothing urgent. I just wanted to stop in and see how she’s doing.”
Donna smiles warmly.
“She isn’t working too hard, is she?” Harry asks, unable to keep the concern from his voice.
“You know I count on you to keep an eye out for our girl.”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure, such a lovely young woman. Miss Granger’s been working as much as ever, but you know, she seems more energised.”
“More energised?”
“Perhaps happier? I’m not sure. But she’s definitely had a spring in her step the past few weeks.” She peers around, as if watching for eavesdroppers and Extendible Ears. “And well, just between you and me, I think she’s quite excited about Mr Malfoy.”
Harry’s brow furrows in confusion. “What about Malfoy?” Draco Malfoy had become a fixture in Wizarding society after the war, but in a much less formidable sense than his father before him. Having been a key member of the Order during the war, and now a contributing member of the Ministry, there weren’t many in society that felt he should still be ostracized. If Harry were totally honest, he’d admit that Malfoy’s all right. A hard worker, and Harry could hardly call him evil anymore. Yes, he was willing to admit it — mentally, at least. He doesn’t think his stomach could handle those words actually coming out of his mouth, though. All stubbornness aside, their world is probably a better place because of Draco Malfoy.
“Why, he’s asked her to dinner this weekend.”
Harry’s eyes proceed to nearly pop out of his sockets. Well, that is just ridiculous. Hermione and Malfoy — “Like, a date?”
Donna nods, a wide smile on her face. “Oh, yes! He was here just a few days ago, and he — oh, I wasn’t eavesdropping, I promise you. He asked her just within hearing distance. I do give her the privacy she deserves. Frankly, I think they’d be just lovely together. He’s quite charming, and you know how I adore Miss Granger.”
Harry grunts something of a response, his mind still reeling. Sure, Malfoy was a good enough bloke, but the two of them … it’s just — Merlin, he can’t even think about the concept.
Preposterous.
“You mustn’t tell anybody, though, Mr Potter. I find gossiping beneath us both.”
“Yes, of course, Donna.” He struggles, but finally pushes a smile through his shock, and bids her adieu.
Not twenty minutes later, he breaks that promise — something he both is and isn’t ashamed of.
“Gin,” he starts, looking into green flames the shape of his girlfriend’s face, “you’ll never believe what I just heard.”
A short time later, she responds as expected: “You have got to be kidding, Harry Potter.”
***
Friday. It’s Friday, finally. Hermione smiles to herself. She’d thought this week would never end. First there’d been those troves of reports to approve and pass on, and then that ridiculous emergency in Dublin. One day or meetings had turned into nearly three, what with the back-and-forth between departments and no clear, delegated decision-maker. If she never had to interact with another bureaucrat in her life, she’d be the happiest of witches.
But alas, that wasn’t in the cards. Why did she work for the Ministry, again? She had to chant herself to sleep sometimes with “For the greater good. For the greater good.”
Although, with how tired her bones were now, she doubted she’d need any chanting or sheepcounting to fall asleep tonight. This was fall-asleep-on-your-desk tired.
“Hermione.”
She jumps at the sudden noise behind her. Ginny’s just crossed the threshold to her office, and as the girl shuts the door behind her, Hermione notices she is grossly out of breath, and she’s immediately concerned. She also wonders how she hadn’t heard her friend coming at all.
Tired, indeed. She must be getting old.
“Ginny, are you all right?”
Ginny puts a finger up, and rests her hands on her knees, gathering her breath. When Hermione hands her a small glass of water, she nods in thanks. “Why is your office so bloody far from the lift? It must be a kilometre.”
Hermione’s more interested in how Ginny knew she was in anyway. Yes, word travels fast, but she literally just stepped out of the Floo from Dublin. In fact, she still has the telltale dust all over her jumper.
“The better question is why you were in such a hurry. Running isn’t exactly advisable in these corridors, Gin.”
She didn’t really care if she came across as swotty or if she lectured too much. A lovely courier nearly snapped his neck in two the week before. He’d been sprinting down the halls and, in an attempt to avoid an errant incantation, had swerved — right into the open lift. Needless to say, that evening there’d been much grumbling about the slow, and at times inoperable, lift.
Hermione was more than a little tempted to instate some speed-detecting charms.
Ginny waves the comment away with a snap of her wrist. “More important things to discuss.”
Hermione stared back, expectant. “And that would be?” After a moment, her paranoia gets the best of her and she frowns. “Did something happen while I was in Ireland?” That would be just her luck. Three days in the bowels of Dublin’s Ministry, and Harry had fallen off his broom. Or The Burrow had burned down. Or McGonagall had—
“Oh, I don’t know. Your impending date, maybe?”
“Oh!” Hermione shoulders slumped in relief. “That. I thought for a second something serious had happened.”
“It has, Hermione! You’re about to go on a date with Draco Malfoy. What is wrong with you? Are you feeling lonely, is that it?”
“What? No.”
“I just don’t understand — you deserve so much better than that.”
Hermione can’t honestly say that she understands what Ginny means by that, but she doesn’t have the mental energy to dig into the issue. “Sure. Whatever you say, Gin.”
Ginny bristles. Then again, it isn’t like Hermione was trying to disguise her brush-off as anything else. “Be serious, Hermione. It just doesn’t make sense — the two of you together. He’s going to hang you out to dry.”
Hermione shakes her head and smiles at her friend. “Whoever said I wouldn’t hang him out to dry?”
This takes Ginny aback. “What?”
“You’re acting like he’s got me wedded and bedded, Ginny. It’s just a date.”
Ginny glares a little bit, as if her gaze could burn the very word.
“Why are you protesting so much?”
“Because it’s Malfoy.” Ginny slumps down into the couch near the door, her long legs folding haphazardly. “How can you stand him?”
“Draco isn’t so bad, you know,” Hermione says, resting her body against her desk. She can practically see Ginny perk up, and Hermione mentally curses.
“Draco, eh?” Ginny leans forward, resting her elbows on her knee. “Since when is he ‘Draco’?”
Hermione doesn’t honestly want to think about this, and when she rolls her eyes, she isn’t sure if it’s at herself or at the girl sitting on her couch and occupying the little headspace she has on reserve. “I don’t know, Ginny, and I really don’t care, to be honest. I’m dead on my feet right now, so can we continue this some other time?”
Preferably to the tune of ‘never’.
Ginny huffs in frustration, but she removes herself from Hermione’s couch and leads the way down to the Atrium. Their walk down is quiet and veers as far from their previous conversation as possible — for which Hermione is merciful.
***
Hermione stares at her fireplace, jaw wide in shock. Two bodies have just stepped through the Floo into her flat. Two bodies with whom she is all too familiar. The kind of familiar, where she could make their murder look like an accident.
She jerks her dressing gown shut with her free hand, and the sudden movement sloshes her tea over the rim and onto her fingers. Hissing at the burning heat on her skin, she scowls at Harry and Ron. Clearly, she’d forgotten to put her wards back up the night before.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asks, not trying in the slightest to hide her annoyance. It’s early. She’s two sips and one slosh into her morning tea on an empty stomach. She hasn’t even showered yet, and she is dead tired. This is not a good time for surprises.
Harry’s smile is disarming, charming. Or at least designed to be. It may work on her secretary, but Hermione’s seen him direct that one at too many young women and reporters to be affected at all. In fact, she’s a little insulted that he thinks such a look would work on her. Her — his best friend. She decides to just assume it’s the best he’s got, rather than thinking about the ramifications of him thinking such a glance would work on the brightest witch of their age.
Even then, she’s confused.
“Is it that strange that we wanted to spend the morning with you? Maybe have some breakfast, or tea. Whatever.”
“To be honest, I’m a little surprised that you’re even up this early. It is before 11, don’t you realize?” In fact, it’s barely nine. She then gets a good look at Ron — and promptly braces herself. He has the look of someone who’s been restless for two weeks straight. His gaze is flitting around all over her living room, from spot to spot, never focusing on any one thing for longer than three seconds. And his fist keeps clenching and unclenching.
Well, she’d had a suspicion that their visit was more than just that, but Ron’s behaviour certainly affirmed it. Harry clears his throat, almost embarrassed. “I heard through … erm, through the grapevine that you’ve got a date tonight.”
Hermione’s eyes widen. She turns around to rummage through her cupboard.
“With Malfoy,” Harry finishes, and she feels a new knot form in her shoulder almost instantaneously.
Wedged in between various foodstuffs, her fingers wrap around the shorter end of a tin, she yanks it out. Hermione slowly turns around while she pops the lid off the tin. “Biscuit?” she asks, holding the tin out as an offering. Their only response is a collectively expectant look. “Are you serious? I can’t even get to my morning tea without an interrogation?”
“So you don’t deny it?” Ron’s stare is as accusing as ever, arms crossed in a way that he must think looks intimidating.
“I’m not trying to keep anything a secret. I just don’t fancy making a public announcement each time I go on a date.”
"You should have told us," he growls.
Hermione sighs and drops the tin on her counter with a loud clang. “Because I knew this would happen. You would react like this. You’d each try, in your own way, to convince me to not go. But what you don’t realize is this isn’t just some out-of-the-blue date. I’ve gotten to know him over the years, and even better over the past few weeks and months.”
“You may think you know him—”
“What makes you think I don’t?” Hermione winces and clenches her fist. Her voice is growing too loud and high, too quickly.
“Merlin, Hermione. It’s Malfoy, for crying out loud!”
“What makes you think you know him any better than I do? What, do I need to get every relationship — romantic or not — approved by you, Ronald?”
Harry steps forward, almost as if he thinks he’s about to play the peacemaker role in her kitchen. “Of course not, Hermione. You know we’re just worried about you.”
She scoffs. “Nice way of showing it. You may as well be jumping up and down, shouting that I’m not capable of making my own bloody decisions.”
“That isn’t it at all,” Harry protests.
She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the counter. “Well then, what is it?”
“We don’t trust him.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you aren’t the one going on the date, isn’t it?” she snaps.
Ron’s face is as red as she’s ever seen it. “None of us should be going out with that sod!”
Her self-control snaps at that comment, and before she knows it, she’s four steps closer to him, her finger poking hard into his sternum. “Who died and made you king? I’m not sure if you remember, but I’m not sixteen years old. And I don’t know where you get off trying to tell me which choices to make, Ronald Weasley.”
“Fine!” he yells, brushing her arm away from him. “Don’t come back crying to me when it all ends in a mess.” She barely has a chance to respond before he’s digging through her container of Floo powder — her empty container of Floo powder. Hermione barely manages to withhold her amusement at the sight of a grown man being prevented from storming off dramatically by a logistical failure. Floo powder has been on her shopping list for at least two weeks.
Ron huffs and waltzes towards her couch, inspecting the various books and knick-knacks set on the side table with a grimace. She turns back around at the sound of Harry’s sigh. He’s leaned against her counter, and Hermione supposes that’s as sure a sign of relaxation as she’ll get this morning.
“So you’re really doing this, are you?” Harry’s voice almost speaks of acceptance. It may not be excitement, but that’s something she’d never expected from this situation.
“Yes, Harry.” She offers him a small smile—her first of the morning—and walks over to lean next to him, their shoulders lightly brushing.
“But that means you’ll have to look at him.” If she’s not mistaken, that was definitely a whinge.
“I mean, he’s really nothing but a pointy … ferret. That can’t be fun to look at.”
It’s a struggle not to laugh, but she manages with a quick pinch to her thigh. Ron makes up for it by contributing a sort of malicious chuckle. “Be serious, Harry.”
He chuckles, and a smile escapes her. “I’m being at least half-serious. Are you telling me you’re actually attracted to that face?”
“Yes,” she says, plain as fact. “Anyway, it’s just a date. You two are acting like I’ve agreed to marry him.”
The blunt response seems to catch Harry by surprise. He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I guess I just don’t see it. But, you know, I’m not into blokes, so I guess…”
Hermione shakes her head. “That’s not it, Harry. You know when sometimes you meet someone so beautiful and then you actually talk to them and five minutes later they're as dull as a brick? Then there's other people … when you meet them you think, ‘Not bad. They're okay.’ And then you get to know them and ... and their face just sort of becomes them. Like their personality's written all over it. And they just turn into something so beautiful. *
“When you look at him, you see everything he was when we were younger. So does Ron. Ginny, too, I’d guess. His face is marked by your experiences with him at Hogwarts. That’s what defines him, in your eyes.”
“And not in yours?” he prompts.
“Not at all,” she says, locking eyes with Harry. “He’s grown up quite a bit since those years. We all have. He’s still a snarky little shite, but I think the world would stop rotating if that was no longer the case. It’s taken a while, but when I look at him I no longer see the twelve-year-old who called me a Mudblood. He’s proven himself to be more than anyone expected of him, and that’s the person I see.”
She starts to get anxious when several seconds pass, and Harry doesn’t respond. (Ron is being a complete child: pretending to retch all over her couch.) Just as she’s about to elbow him, Harry chuckles. “You think Malfoy’s beautiful?”
“Shove it!”
***
Several hours later, Hermione is standing inside Chez Pompadour, far enough away from the maître d’ for the hostess to not pay attention to her. Despite the brave face she’d put on for Harry and Ron earlier, her nerves are completely frayed. Ron had responded as expected. From the second they stepped out of the Floo, she knew he would react poorly. On the positive side, though, Harry seemed to be at least on the road to acceptance. She should count it as a step in the right direction, she supposes.
As she spreads her hand down the skirt of her dress for the seventh time in half as many minutes, she feels hot breath fan across her neck. “Good evening.”
She turns swiftly, hoping that he didn’t notice her shiver in response. “Evening,” she says with a slight nod.
His eyes drift, slowly taking her appearance in. There’s a quick intake of breath before he remarks, “You look … well, stunning, Granger.”
Hermione’s brow rises, just a tad. “A compliment from Draco Malfoy?” She smirks, unable to help herself. “I must be doing something right.”
“Certainly.” He smirks in return, and then turns to ask for their reservation.
The hostess spares more than a cursory glance at him. Elevator eyes, more like. It wouldn’t have irritated Hermione so much if the woman hadn’t followed it with one that shouted of her impression of Hermione and Draco together: somewhere between confusion and pity.
Unfortunately, figuring out a way to spill a glass of merlot on her fine blouse would be overly complicated. She settles for a good, old-fashioned glare.
There’s a flurry of restaurant activity—well wishes, menus, and platitudes exchanges for more platitudes—which leaves Hermione feeling the full weight of the lull that follows. She bends her head, gazing over the very short menu. Well, at least if everything looks good, there are only three options to debate over. A quick glance around the restaurant tells her that their date hasn’t been ambushed — yet. This isn’t exactly the kind of place Harry and Ron would expect to find her, but Ginny’s a bit more resourceful.
“Looking for something?”
Hermione’s head snaps back to Draco at the sudden introduction of conversation. An arched brow is the only quirk in his otherwise neutral face. She can feel her face heat just as she’s scolding her body for betraying her by blush.
“What, do you think your precious henchmen will crash our dinner?” he asks, his voice not hiding any of his amusement.
“I doubt they’d ever think to find me in a place like this.”
“I take it that means they know you’re out with me tonight,” he posits.
She hums in response.
“Donna, then?” he asks, to which she nods. “How did you know Donna’d spill?”
A shrug in response. “She has such a sweet spot for Harry, it’d only be a matter of time.”
He scoffs. “Of course she likes Potter.”
“Don’t be an idiot. You know she likes you as well as Harry.”
“That, my dear, is the result of much planning and work. Potter just waltzes in and she’s besotted with him.”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “You are so dramatic.”
“I speak the truth, you know. Potter gets practically everything delivered to him on a silver platter.”
She barely resists the bait. “I’m not having this argument with you again.” She thought they’d put the relative difficulty of Draco’s and Harry’s lives to bed months ago. It’d be too soon if she never heard Draco complain again about how much more he had to work to get approval in society. “New topic.”
“Fine.” He huffs. “Let’s talk about how Tweedledee and Tweedledum reacted, since you seem so fixated on it.”
“What does that make you? The Caterpillar?” He frowns at the volleyed insult. “Nothing unusual to report. Ron was angry. Harry was mostly confused and trying to understand but not quite hitting the mark.”
“Did Weasley storm out?”
A smirk escapes her. “Not for lack of trying. I’m out of Floo powder, so his stomp ended at the fireplace.”
Draco barks in laughter, and she finds her body relaxing in response. All jokes with Harry aside, she does find Draco beautiful, especially when he lets down that wall. This is the first she’s seen of his less-guarded side in public.
“It sounds like everything went as expected, then. I asked you out where Donna could hear. Donna gossiped. Your friends reacted.”
She nods at each of his points.
“Then what’s wrong?”
Not having expected him to pick up on her edginess, Hermione blinks. But then again, at this point he knows her better than most. Possibly even better than the boys do. “Nothing. I just didn’t expect it to drain me. I almost wish we’d kept it under wraps.”
“Colour me surprised. One test run to see how people would react to us, and you’re running back to secret with your tail between your legs. What kind of Gryffindor are you?”
“One who still remembers her hexes — vividly.”
Draco puts his hands up in faux surrender. “I’m just saying. You’re starting to sound like you want to return to keeping each other a secret.”
“No! Not at all,” she says quickly, reaching her hand across the table in supplication. Within seconds, he’s gripping her hand. Hermione still isn’t used to how the feel of his skin on hers calms her. “I mean, it’s done now. It’ll get easier over time, I hope. What about you — did you decide whether to tell your friends?”
“Pansy has known for months now. I’ve never been good at keeping things from her.” That explains some of the looks the brunette has given her over the past weeks and months. “As for the rest, they’ll find out through the tabloids, and I’ll deal with their earful when it comes.”
“I think I like your strategy better than mine.”
Their shared smile is enough to close the topic.
Over the next hour, they each devour their dinners, complete with shared morsels of lamb and duck, and later they sup on the greatest lemon parfait Hermione’s taste buds have experienced.
When they finally leave the restaurant, Hermione feels more content than she has in months.
Oh, the wonder of a good meal and one less secret.
“We’ll have to do this again sometime,” he says, pulling her body closer to his once they emerge onto the pavement.
She smiles, lacing the fingers of her hands through each of his. “That sounds lovely.” Hermione likes the idea of not having to travel to the likes of Paris to go on a date involving public places.
The lines of their bodies press together, and they fall into a familiar pattern. They each turn their heads just so, the perfect angle to press their lips together. Her hands are planted on his slim hips, clenching and unclenching the material of his jacket. She could never help it, and he’d stopped caring about the wrinkles a time ago. Draco’s hands go almost automatically to cradle her neck, and she melts even further into him, groaning deeply.
Before they really get carried away in the middle of Diagon Alley, Hermione pulls apart, after a nip for good measure, and rests her forehead against his chin. Draco exhales in a growl, but instead of the expected (complaining about the interruption), he simply squeezes her upper arms and then begins leading them toward the Apparition Point.
They’re still linked by the laced fingers of one hand each. For a reason she can’t quite pin down, she feels the need to state the obvious. “It’ll probably take a while for Ron to come around.”
“I’m afraid I’m rather drawn to causing Weasley a few sleepless nights,” he says, his finger drawing in her palm. “And a bit disappointed that Potter didn’t make a fuss. Doesn’t he know I’m a dangerous man?”
She blushes hotly when she deduces what his fingers are spelling out, and he grins wolfishly.
One large exhale, and she breathes out her response. “Later.”
* This is a direct quote taken from “The Girl Who Waited” (Doctor Who, 6x10), written
by Tom MacRae.