"I saw you dancing with the Granger girl," was Narcissa's opening remark at breakfast the next morning.
Well – for Draco, it was breakfast. More technically speaking, it was lunch, given that it was noon. (Theo was getting the last laugh: whatever drinks he had served Draco had resulted in an enormous hangover.)
"I did," said Draco.
"Why?" asked Narcissa. Her tone was light. She buttered her toast as though she didn't actually care about the answer, which meant that she cared very much.
"I was saving her from a dance with someone she didn't want to dance with," said Draco. (This was an inverted kind of truth, but it was fine. His mother was no Legilimens.)
"Ah," said Narcissa. "The gentlemanly thing to do."
"Yes."
"I think it was a good idea," said Narcissa.
Draco met her eyes in surprise.
Narcissa nodded to herself. "Public perception is so important. Draco Malfoy dancing with Hermione Granger sends the right kind of message. We are progressive and we have moved beyond old prejudices. We are relevant; we aren't vieux jeu."
Draco made a muffled sound of acknowledgement around a mouthful of omelette.
Narcissa poured tea. "Miss Granger is making a name for herself far beyond her accomplishments in the War. You heard Monsieur Delacroix talk about her last night – really a remarkable witch."
"Mff," said Draco through his omelette, because he hadn't.
Narcissa gave him a sharp look (she strongly opposed speaking with one's mouth full). "In any case, you may have given me an opening to invite her to some of my functions, if she owes you a favour for the rescue. I've got a few Half-bloods on my lists, but a real dearth of Muggle-borns..."
Narcissa continued in this vein until she was interrupted by a tap at the window. Boethius, Draco's eagle owl, was petitioning for entry, bearing a letter.
"Excellent," said Draco when he opened the letter.
"What is it?" asked Narcissa.
"Leverage," said Draco.
He conjured a quill and scrawled out a response.
-
April came and went in a foggy drizzle. Draco saw little of Granger, whose schedule seemed even more impossibly crammed than it had been previously.
He forced an interaction – a wellness check, really – on a Friday evening when she, wonder of wonders, had nothing on the agenda. It seemed a convenient time to pop by and recast her cottage's wards.
It was pouring, as it was wont to do when Draco had to work out of doors. He cast the strongest rain-repellent charms in his arsenal upon his person and got to work.
The lights were on – Granger was home. He could see her silhouette in the warmly lit cottage, curled on the sofa with a book. Eventually, the shape of the cat appeared at the front room's window to observe Draco. The cat must've made a sound, because Granger's figure followed soon after.
She peered outside and gave Draco a small wave, then came out to stand on the doorstep, wrapped in an overlarge Muggle jumper. Muggles still worshipped the Greek goddess of victory, apparently; Nike's name figured in prominent letters across Granger's chest. Her legs were clad in those Muggley leggings. Her feet were bare.
"Hullo, Malfoy," called Granger through the rain.
Draco supposed that they had last parted on decent terms – they must've, since her first words weren't go away.
He aimed his wand high and cast a silvery grid of light above Granger's cottage.
"What's that one called?" asked Granger as the geometric filaments spread overhead. "It's beautiful."
Draco, focused on his casting, did not answer until the ward was set.
"Caeli Praesidium," he gasped at length. "It's to repel airborne entry."
"Never heard of it," said Granger, watching the silvery sheen dissipate into the rainy sky.
"It's one of mine," said Draco. "There's a point of weakness at the apex of most parabolic wards. This one is like armour – based on geodesic polyhedrons. Strong, but a real bugger to cast."
This was an understatement – the thing was exhausting at this scale, over an entire dwelling, but Draco, being a prideful sort of wizard, didn't like to admit that.
He wiped at the mixture of sweat and rain that dripped down his brow and eyed Granger. He was satisfied that she was alive and that she had remembered to eat in the last week. He could make a clean report to Tonks in good conscience.
"Right – I'm off," he said, holding up his wand to Disapparate.
"Wait," said Granger.
Draco waited.
"You look done in," said Granger. There was a moment of hesitation, and then she asked, "Can I offer you a cup of tea?"
Draco stared at her. "Now I've got to check if you've been Imperiused. Where did we get engaged?"
Granger's fists found her hips somewhere under the Nike jumper's ample folds. "Uffington, and we didn't. And forget I asked. Invitation rescinded."
With that, Granger stamped her way into the cottage and shut the door behind her. Draco reflected, as he climbed the steps after her, that she was correct about him turning up when he explicitly wasn't invited, like some kind of reverse-vampire.
"Anyone home?" he called as he walked in.
"Go away," said Granger from somewhere within. "I shall never be nice to you again."
"Good. It unbalances me."
Draco followed Granger's voice to the kitchen, which looked positively disastrous.
"If you comment on the state of my kitchen–"
"Absolute bedlam, Granger."
Granger had a cooking mitt in her hand and seemed, briefly, to consider slapping him with it. However, she took a breath and turned away to take something out of the cooker instead.
Draco pushed his hands into his pockets and sauntered in. Globs of cream climbed all the way up the splashback. It looked as though a small dairy had exploded.
"I do like what you've done to the place," said Draco.
"Overzealous mixing spell, if you must know. I'm not bothering to clean up until I'm finished."
Granger cast a cooling charm on the pan's contents – a crust of some kind – and began to spoon generous portions of condensed milk, toffee, and cream onto it.
Draco was intrigued. And hungry.
Granger waved her wand towards a bunch of bananas, which peeled themselves somewhat messily. She sliced them with another movement – rather uneven slices, but she nevertheless floated them towards her concoction.
"It's not the prettiest in the world, but it's... something," said Granger, looking doubtfully at her lopsided creation.
"What is it?"
"Banoffee pie. I fancied some but the village bakery closed early today. And, well, I had bananas."
"Excellent," said Draco. He pointed his wand in the general direction of Granger's cabinetry. "Accio spoon."
A drawer burst open and a large spoon flew towards Draco. It was adorned with cat ears.
"Really," said Draco, as the spoon floated into his hand.
"That was a novelty gift," said Granger, attempting to snatch the spoon from him.
Draco kept her well out of reach with one arm and stretched towards the pie with the other.
"It's not ready yet," protested Granger. "It's got to set!"
"It's fine," said Draco. "I'm bloody starving."
Granger stopped straining for the spoon. "Ugh. Don't blame me if it's gooey. Can't you cut out a piece and put it on a plate? Surely we can be more civilised than this?"
"No. I'm always civilised. Let's be barbarians."
Granger pushed a plate into his hand regardless. He laughed when she attempted to serve a "piece" to him, which collapsed into a glob of cream and caramel sauce.
As ugly as it was, the pie was delicious. Draco disregarded the plate and ate directly from the pan, and Granger soon followed his heathenish ways, and they shared a heavenly mess of buttery biscuit crust, condensed milk, whipped cream, and the occasional wonky banana slice. Draco only ate three (3) cat hairs.
Draco had done a great many sinful things in his life, but demolishing a banoffee pie with Granger, with their shoulders brushing and their fingers sticky with toffee, felt so delightfully naughty, it gave him a frisson.
The cat assisted in licking the worktop clean between bursts of Granger's Scourgify.
As Granger put the kettle on, Draco was reminded that he ought to give her a heads-up about Narcissa's plans.
"By the by," he said in a casual sort of way, "You should expect an invitation from my mother. She wants to have you for tea."
"What?" exclaimed Granger, immediately on the alert. "Tea? Me? Why? What did I do?"
"She saw me dancing with you and decided that it was a Good Look to cultivate a rapport with a much-beloved Muggle-born witch."
"How strategic of her," said Granger, fetching mugs with evident agitation.
"It's not a punishment."
"Yes it is. I don't like society things."
"Psh, you were just at the Society Thing of the season, and you did very well," said Draco.
That had been a compliment, by the way, but Granger didn't clue in. "The Delacroix event was different – it was for Healers. I was amongst my own. Not posh Pure-bloods who will laugh at my every misstep."
"You don't have to go if you don't want to," said Draco. "Obviously."
"I'll have scheduling conflicts for the next year; tell your mother that, will you?"
Draco gave Granger his most unimpressed look.
"What? You've seen my schedule – is it not true?"
"You find time to host Kneazle information booths. Surely you can find time for a cup of tea."
"I do not host Kneazle information booths."
"I promise that the ladies aren't that frightening."
"Might I remind you that you nearly Splinched yourself to get away from them?"
"You'd Splinch yourself too, if you were threatened by the bonds of holy matrimony with every lump of sugar."
Granger grew serious. "I would, at that."
"I promise my mother won't be trying to marry you off to the Delacroix daughter."
Granger placed a mug of tea in front of Draco. "Is that what she's trying to do with you? Rosalie is a nice girl. I got to know her when I was treating her father."
Draco waved his hand; this conversation wasn't meant to be about him. "Anyway, look out for my mother's owl. Consider attending, at least."
Granger was not so easily diverted. "Rosalie is sweet. I like her."
"Then you marry her," said Draco.
"Maybe I will," said Granger.
"She was on some French nobleman's arm last I saw, mind you, so you might've missed your chance."
"Damn it."
They sipped at their tea. Granger began to watch the clock. Draco felt that whatever time she had allotted for her break and socialising was coming to an end. He could almost see her working out how rude it would be to leave him alone with his tea, versus how much she wanted to return to her reading, versus how little she wanted him to be unsupervised in her house.
Draco was never one to make her life easy – in fact, tormenting her was becoming a preferred amusement and hobby – and he therefore drank his tea with agonising slowness.
Granger's foot was bouncing under the table. Her mug was empty and had been for some time.
"Is it too hot?" she blurted out at length. "Cooling charm?"
"No, I'm enjoying it," said Draco moralistically, as though he were being virtuous rather than a nuisance. "Have you any biscuits?"
Granger waved her wand to summon biscuits and placed the package rather forcefully in front of Draco.
He opened it with unsurpassable care and delicacy.
Granger suspected something. Her gaze surveyed Draco with doubt, which turned to mistrust when she saw him smirk.
"You're doing it on purpose. I knew it."
She rose, all pretence of politeness gone. "I have things to do that are far more productive than watching you pretend to drink tea. Don't touch anything. You can see yourself out."
The gig being up, Draco picked up his half-finished tea and a biscuit, and followed Granger to the front room. He, too, had better things to do than to pretend to drink tea – it was a Friday night, and his mates were all out getting bollocksed and waiting for him to join them – but, truth be told, Granger could be an even more stimulating source of entertainment.
In the front room, Granger had resumed her seat on the sofa. There was a large book on her knee and a foldy kind of computer beside her. A fire purred and flared in the hearth. The cat was stretched out on a fluffy rug, so flat that it wasn't immediately clear where the rug ended and where the cat began.
It was rather a tranquil scene. Granger seemed to have found her peace again.
She sighed. "Reading by the fire when it's raining is the closest thing we have to a cure for the human condition."
Draco crunched his biscuit loudly.
This was not the correct response. Granger glowered at him. Then she returned to her book.
Draco slurped at his tea.
Granger obstinately kept her eyes on the page.
Draco sauntered over and joined her on the sofa, quite uninvited. Granger's eyes narrowed at the impertinence.
"What are we reading?" asked Draco. "Is it the book?"
Granger shuffled away from him a little. "No, it's not the book. I would never handle that one so casually."
"What's in the Orkney Isles?" asked Draco.
"What?" said Granger, looking up.
Draco pointed at the foldy computer, where a paragraph on those distant Scottish islands glowed on the screen. Granger reached over and slammed it shut.
"None of your business."
"That's Beltane sorted, then," said Draco. "Good. I was wondering where we'd be off to."
"No, it isn't," said Granger, in an utterly transparent lie. "I was looking them up out of – out of simple curiosity."
Draco was feeling magnanimous. "Try again, but with more eye contact, this time."
She really did try. Her eyes met his and she held his gaze, and she opened her mouth to lie again, but all that came out was "Ugh."
Draco tutted.
Granger looked vexed.
"I've never been to the Orkney Islands," said Draco. He attempted to open the computer thing again, but Granger swatted his hand away. "I'm rather looking forward to it."
"There's nothing to look forward to. You aren't coming."
"Is it to do with your project?"
"No," lied Granger, making strong eye contact with Draco's left eyebrow. "It's for a holiday."
"Eyes, Granger, eyes. You need to convince me in my soul."
She met his eyes again, but only an exasperated truth came out. "Yes, it's to do with the project."
"Then I'm going with you."
"No. You can go to Orkney whenever you'd like. You needn't come with me. This will be an absolutely safe, harmless trip. No offal. No hags."
"I'm not letting you go to the arse-end of Scotland on project business by yourself. With my luck you'll be gutted by a kelpie and I'll be made a martyr amongst wizardkind."
"Don't be ridiculous. I won't be near any bodies of water."
"You are going to the Orkney Islands," said Draco, enunciating the final word slowly.
"I know that, obviously. But my business there is fire, not water."
"Right. Beltane is one of the fire festivals," said Draco.
"It is. Actually, it–"
Granger cut herself off, seeming to belatedly realise that the more she continued the conversation, the more she was disclosing.
"Have you finished your tea?" she asked in an overt attempt to change the subject, and also kick him out of her house.
Draco checked his mug, which was empty. "Almost."
Granger, her mistrust evident, reached over, hooked her hand around his wrist, and tilted it towards herself.
"I wish I could lie with a fraction of your brazenness," said Granger, contemplating the empty mug.
She released his wrist. Her fingertips had felt warm against his skin.
"Comes with practise," said Draco.
Granger rose and tidied up a little, which was a clear signal that Draco was overstaying his welcome.
"How are you getting to Orkney?" asked Draco.
"The Hogwarts Express," said Granger with a bit of a snarl.
"There's a wizarding pub in Thurso," said Draco. "I caught a trafficker there a few years ago. Stop growling at me. I'm being helpful."
"I thought Floo travel was tracked."
"I thought this was a holiday."
"It is."
"Then make it look like one. Use the Floo."
"Fine."
"Pub's called The Polished Knob."
"You're joking."
"No." Draco rose. "Thank you for the tea. See you at the Knob."
-
Granger was late.
Draco paced back and forth across the Knob's flagstone foyer for ten minutes before caving in to the barkeep's friendly offer of blackberry mulled wine.
"S'fair jeelit oot," said the barkeep. Draco nodded, assuming that this incomprehensible statement was a comment on the bollocks-freezing weather.
"It's the first of May," he said, cupping the warm wine. "Why does it feel like bloody January?"
"Who are ye waitin' for?"
"A witch," said Draco.
"Obviously, or ye'd have gone by now. I'll bottle up some wine for yer lass."
"A colleague," specified Draco. "But, thank you."
He took out his Jotter and sent an impatient series of ???????????? to Granger.
He received no response. Through his ring he felt faint echoes of her heart rate, not panicking, but certainly elevated. Her schedule told him that she was at St. Mungo's A&E – or at least, that she was meant to be there till 4.30, and Flooing into the Knob at 4.45, and yet, she wasn't here, and it was now quarter past five.
Another ten minutes passed, during which Draco sat near a window and watched the rain mercifully make way to grey sky. Whatever obscure island amongst the Orkney archipelago that Granger needed to get to was warded in its entirety against Apparition, so they would be taking a ferry.
Given that dinner time was approaching and Granger was still missing, Draco accepted the barkeep's offer of cured meats and cheese.
If you aren't here in fifteen minutes, I am assuming you have been captured and will be Apparating to you, was Draco's next missive to Granger. Rather more of a threat, really.
After contemplating his empty plate, he asked the barkeep to prepare a second portion as a takeaway. It wasn't in the range of his normal behaviours to be so thoughtful, but, well, Granger clearly wouldn't have had time to eat, and he didn't want to waste a moment on her arrival scurrying about for food.
The last ferry for the Holm of Eynhallow was scheduled for six. It was now five to.
Draco paid the barkeep for the provisions, Jotted to Granger that he'd be at the docks, and made his way there.
5 minutes, came Granger's response.
Draco arrived at the docks just in time to watch the last ferry disappear into the misty sea.
The lad at the dock was interrogated with vigour on why the ferry had left at 5.58 and not 6.00 as indicated on the schedule. He shrugged and said that his father left when he wanted to leave, and 'sides, there had been no other passengers here. The posh mister should've shown up sooner. Come back tomorrow.
"I'm here," came a breathless squeak.
Draco turned. Granger was running towards them along the docks. Her Healer robes were streaked in something that looked rather like six gallons of blood.
"Merlin's tits," said Draco. "You look as though you've just murdered someone."
"Crivvens," said the dock boy, growing pale. "Is that blood?"
"Severed carotid artery – it looks worse than it was – he's alive," panted Granger. She waved her wand at herself in an Evanesco. "Where's the boat?"
"S'gone, miss," said the lad. Draco noted that he was addressing Granger with far more courtesy than him – looking like a murderer inspired respect. "Ye'll have to come back tomorrow."
"Come back tomorrow?" repeated Granger. She was on the verge of getting shrieky, but she was attempting to keep it together. "I can't come back tomorrow. It has to be today. It's Beltane."
The dock boy gestured powerlessly at the empty dock. "Please don't murder me, miss, it weren't my doing. We do let brooms, if ye fancy the flight? The rain's let up, at least?"
Draco took a fresh interest in the conversation. "Show me the brooms."
"Brooms?" repeated Granger, now definitely on the verge of shrieking.
"Don't let her kill me," said the lad as he showed Draco to a shed. "Two Knuts to hire one, but we ask for a Sickle for a deposit."
The brooms were everything that Draco might have hoped for in this remote outpost: weathered, fatigued, and of questionable durability.
"Any two seaters?"
The lad disappeared into a dark corner and pulled out an ancient model. "Old Glory. She looks tired, but she's weather worthy, sir. My daddy taught me to fly on this one."
"A formidable endorsement, to be sure. Has she got nav?"
"Rudimentary, sir. But she knows the Holm." The lad tapped his wand to the broom and said, "Holm of Eynhallow." The broom tilted herself to a mounting position and pointed steadily northwards.
"Done," said Draco, handing over a Sickle that was worth fifteen of these brooms.
The boy pocketed the coin and, apparently not daring to face Granger again, scurried away.
Draco returned to Granger with the broom.
"No," said Granger.
Draco propped the broom against the ground and leaned on it with great munificence. "All right. I await your solution."
"I'm thinking," said Granger. "Give me a moment."
Granger thinking apparently involved stripping. Draco looked away. Though she was wearing Muggle clothing under her Healer robes, it felt too intimate to watch. From a minuscule pocket in her Muggle jeans she pulled out her anorak, boots and scarf. The ensemble was finished off with knobby woollen mittens.
"We're going to conduct a SWOT analysis," said Granger.
"Every conversation with you is a swot analysis," said Draco.
"S.W.O.T." said Granger.
"I know how it's spelled."
"No. S.W.O.T. – it's an acronym."
"Funny way to spell Granger."
Granger took a deep breath and told herself loudly that Draco Malfoy's central ambition in life was to be a perfect nuisance, and she must stop encouraging him.
Draco said that there was no encouragement needed – it was his natural state.
Granger waved her wand and a glowing quadrant came to life before her, with the following labels: Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities, Threats.
Above it glowed "Broom Ride Across the Sea."
Granger populated the quadrant with a rapidity that suggested a familiarity with this technique. Weaknesses and Threats she filled easily, with things like 'Sea-ghast attacks,' 'Hypothermia,' and 'Probable death.'
In Strengths she put 'Not delaying research for another year.' This seemed to have import – she made it glow red.
Draco was pleased to see her also put 'Malfoy' under 'Strengths.'
"Because," as she explained, "You can actually fly."
However, she also put 'Malfoy' under 'Threats': "Because you're a maniac who will probably do loops and things and kill us both."
In Opportunities, Draco took the liberty of adding 'Make Granger scream.'
Granger crossed that out and put, 'Obtain ash.'
"From the Beltane fires?" asked Draco (surreptitiously adding Granger screaming back in again).
"Yes. You'd have worked it out eventually."
"Already had," scoffed Draco. "But, good – there won't be anything left but ash by the time we get there, at this rate."
"Right, well, I hadn't counted on an idiot wizard attempting to wear a Lebengo Viper as a tie today."
Granger stood back and studied the glowing quadrant for a few minutes. Then she looked at the 1965 Glorious Glider in Draco's hand. Then she looked at the stormy sky.
'Not delaying research for another year' glowed red.
"Fuck," observed Granger judiciously.
Draco cracked a grin.
"Let's do it." This was said very bravely. However, Granger's face was pale. "You needn't look so pleased," she added.
Draco grinned harder. "Front or back?" he asked, holding the broom horizontal. "I'm steering, either way."
"Which is least horrid?" asked Granger as the broom wobbled before her.
"If you're on the back, you're solely responsible for holding on," said Draco. "But you're out of the wind and you can't really see anything, if that helps. If you're on the front, there's nothing between you and the wild blue. But you can hold the shaft and I can hold you."
(There were about sixteen jokes that Draco could've made about shafts at that moment, but he was sensible enough not to do so. He thought he should be congratulated for his restraint.)
"I'm not sure I trust myself not to faint away and fall off the back," said Granger. "You would be holding me at the front?"
"Yes."
It wasn't clear whether this was a good or bad thing. Granger wrung her hands. "Haven't they got any life vests or helmets or things? I should've packed a parachute."
"A what?"
"Never mind. I'll take the front. Hold me. If I die – I just – I have a lot of things I want to do before I die. Please don't let me die."
She looked both deathly serious and ready to cry.
"You aren't going to die, Granger."
"I hate flying."
"I know. Get on."
"Maybe you should Stun me and wake me up when we get there."
"I can't hold your ragdolling corpse in these winds, Granger."
"I've got it – I'll take a Calming Draught," said Granger, riffling through a pocket. "Just half of a dose, mind, to keep the edge off. I don't want to overdo it on the soporifics and topple over..."
The Calming Draught was drunk and, finally, Granger climbed on. Her seat on the broom was tense and pinched up. Her grasp was white-knuckled through the mittens. Her eyes were closed. The Calming Draught clearly took more than a few seconds to kick in.
"Are you ready?" asked Draco, climbing on behind her.
"Just fly," sputtered Granger through clenched teeth.
Draco flew. He took them on a few low circles around the shed to get acquainted with Old Glory. The broom was a stiff old harridan, but she was doughty enough to make headway through the northern wind, encumbered with the two of them. She was steady in the air, far more so than Draco's flighty models at home, which twitched away at the touch of a finger. For a voyage over this arm of the North Sea, Old Glory would do well. Slow and steady.
Draco informed Granger of this fact in an attempt at reassurance. A gurgle was his only response.
Given that Granger's hands were occupied with strangling the broom, Draco cast wind-breaking spells over the two of them, so that they might hear each other talk. He also cast warming charms, which made Granger shudder gratefully against him, which felt interesting.
Draco's final adjustment was having a passenger, which was a rare occurrence for him. The weighting felt different and the steering trended downward.
The few times he'd doubled up on brooms had been for dates and those flights were succeeded by landings in a secluded location and a good snog. Draco rather doubted that there would be sexy bum wiggles against his groin on this flight: Granger clung to the broom like grim death, unmoving, as though she had been Petrified onto it. Only her hair eluded the stiffness. The few strands that escaped her bun softly touched his face. She smelled like shampoo and antiseptic.
Draco leaned forwards and put his hands on the broom in front of Granger, ready to go. She felt small and fine-boned between his arms.
"Cosy," said Draco.
"Urk," said Granger in an eloquent verbalisation of her terror.
Draco turned them northward and began to pick up speed. Granger, eyes closed and all, felt the change, and expressed violent wishes with regard to Draco's fate in this world and the next, which would have made a more delicate man weep.
Draco merely said, "Steady on, Granger," and slowed them down by 0.01 percent.
"To the Holm of Eynhallow, old bird," said Draco, giving the broom a pat.
Next stop: the sea.