Draco did not see Granger again until mid-June. She came into her laboratory at Trinity just as he was recasting her wards.
She looked as sweaty as he was, and rather more harried.
"You're limping," observed Granger as she trotted past Draco, her Healer robes streaming behind her.
"Perceptive."
"Bludger?"
"Manticore."
This gave her pause. She pivoted. "Have you had it looked at?"
"Obviously."
"By whom?"
"Healer Parnell."
"Oh, he's wonderful. Excellent. Bye."
With that, Granger closeted herself in her office.
Draco might've been offended at this cavalier treatment of his esteemed self, except that he recognised the distant look in Granger's eyes – the far away, thinking of something, probably solving world hunger look.
Under the pretext of double-checking the interior warding, Draco sauntered into the laboratory proper. As always, it was irreproachably neat. It seemed to him that there were more bottles of Sanitatem than before, and also a few other healing potions of varying potencies, clustered into groups. Again, no written notes anywhere, nor any real indication of what Granger was working on.
He was bending over a group of tiny phials, trying to determine if any of them contained either the Green Well sample, or the Beltane Ash, or the mystery substance she had harvested at Ostara, but he was interrupted by Granger poking her head out of her office.
"You won't find much of interest there," said Granger when she saw him snooping.
"I need to learn The Computer," said Draco, a hand on his chin.
"It would help."
"Teach me," said Draco.
He'd rather expected Granger to leap at the occasion. However, she said, "No."
"No?"
"I'd rather keep you useless, for strategic reasons."
"Ungenerous of you."
"I know," said Granger. "By the way, I have a favour to ask of you."
"The answer is no," said Draco.
"Brilliant," said Granger. "That's sorted, then."
She pulled her head back into her office and shut the door again.
"What's sorted?" asked Draco to the closed door.
"Nothing," said Granger from within.
"Tell me."
"No."
"Is it to do with the Solstice coming up? Litha?"
"Go away – you said you didn't want to help."
"I'm opening this door," said Draco.
"Don't. I'm not decent."
"Liar."
"It's true. I'm undressing," came Granger's voice. It was slightly muffled.
Draco paused. "Bit convenient, isn't it?"
"Just give me a sodding minute."
Draco gave her a sodding minute.
Granger pulled open the door again. She was accompanied by the cold draft of cooling charms and a (surprisingly enticing) whiff of antiseptic and sweat. Her hair was a mussed-up bun at her crown. She had removed her Healer robes and replaced them with Muggle clothes.
"You're still not decent," said Draco, observing her shorts and the low-cut top (still long-sleeved, however).
"Please. This is normal attire when it's bloody scorching. Are all wizards secretly nuns, or is it just you?"
Draco considered this an attack on his machismo, and seriously contemplated offering to show Granger how much of a nun he was not, except he couldn't think of how to phrase that in a manly, virile way.
"Have you changed your mind about the favour?" asked Granger, backing out of his way so he could come in.
Draco took his usual chair in front of her desk and assumed a magnanimous pose. "I've decided to, at the very least, hear you out."
"Thank you for lavishing me with your charity."
Draco gestured at her to continue in a kingly sort of way. Also, he wasn't having any difficulty focusing on her face and her low neckline was not distracting him at all.
"I'm only asking you this because I know you are morally corrupt and have no ethical standards," began Granger. "I would ask no other Auror what I am about to ask you."
"Strong preface," said Draco. "I am flattered. Continue."
"How do you feel about thievery?"
"In favour," said Draco.
"You don't even know what we're stealing."
"What is it?"
"What if it were – theoretically, of course – a precious relic of critical religious significance?"
"...When are we going?"
"Have you got any plans for the Solstice?" asked Granger.
"Thievery of a religious artefact with a surprisingly naughty Healer," said Draco. "You?"
A pleased look flitted across Granger's face, then disappeared. "I have plans with a morally bankrupt Auror."
"He sounds like a catch."
"I'm beginning to think he is," said Granger. Her withheld laughter made her eyes bright.
"So tell me."
"Promise you won't report me to the authorities?"
"I am the authorities, Granger."
"All right." Granger clasped her hands in front of her in a nervous knot. "I'm going to steal part of a skull."
"A skull."
"Yes."
"Human?"
"Yes."
Granger watched Draco anxiously for his reaction. He made her suffer by staring at her expressionlessly for a full twenty seconds.
She was holding her breath.
"Diabolical, Granger."
Granger let out the breath.
"Is the person dead or alive?" asked Draco.
Granger looked scandalised. "Dead, of course."
"I don't make assumptions. Whose skull?"
"Mary Magdalene's."
Granger was holding her breath again.
"What?"
"I told you it was of religious significance," said Granger.
"Isn't she wildly important to the Muggles? The Christian ones? Where is her skull kept? Are we going to raid the Vatican?"
"Well, that's the good news, I think. Her skull lies in a reliquary, in a crypt. And that crypt is in a quiet little monastery in the south of France."
"So what's the bad news?"
"Well – speaking of nuns – the monastery is run by the Benedictine Sisters of the Sacred Heart."
"And?"
"They're witches."
"Ah," said Draco.
"They've been undercover as a religious order for centuries, to escape persecution. They protected the Magdalene when she fled from the Holy Land. Stealing from them will be slightly more complicated than Apparating in and nicking their most precious relic."
"I assume that you have a plan," said Draco.
Granger looked offended that he would even ask. "Obviously. I am choosing a simple approach with the fewest moving parts possible. Your input as an Auror would be appreciated, incidentally."
"Tell me."
"The monastery is open for visitors – it's a popular walk up for Muggles in the area. We are going to be bumbling Muggle newlyweds."
"Must we be bumbling? I shall find it difficult to remain in character."
"Yes, we must. Our walk up will coincide – unfortunately, silly us, we are so bumbling – with the Benedictine Sisters' midsummer celebrations."
"Must we be newlyweds? We quite detest each other."
"I know, but yes. If the nuns try to bar entry, because of the midsummer celebrations – they probably won't, but just in case – we'll say this visit was the highlight of our honeymoon, and that the pilgrimage up was a wedding vow promise, and that all we want to do is pray to the Magdalene, and won't they please consider making an exception? I will cry. You can cry, too. Hopefully they let the snivelling idiots in with minimal supervision."
"And if they don't?" asked Draco.
"That will mean they are heartless wretches and I shan't feel bad for Stunning them to get in."
"See, that's the problem with morals. I would've just skipped to Stunning."
"Yes, well, I have a slightly more developed sense of ethics than you do, so I would like them to deserve it in some capacity. Only slightly, mind. I can't claim to be too noble, since I'm setting out to damage a priceless artefact. Though, it's for a very good cause – does that balance out? Anyway, by mid-morning, most of the Sisters will be down in the village – there's a basilica there where the townspeople congregate with them. There will only be a skeleton crew left at the monastery, and, of course, whatever wards these witches have put up to protect the skull and their other relics."
"The priceless relics that they've been protecting for centuries. A few dusty Caterwauling Charms, I'm sure. This'll be a doddle."
"That's why I'd be rather pleased if you'd come with me," said Granger. "I have some knowledge of wards, but yours eclipses mine. Now, in the event that things go pear-shaped, I've prepared a few – er – distractions that I'll be planting as we do our innocent bumbling tour."
"What kind of distractions?"
Granger waved her wand and a glowing rune came to life between them. She flicked her wand and displayed two or three more. Every one of them contained the radical Kenaz: fire.
"Incendiary devices? In a monastery?"
Granger bit her lip. "Yes."
"You're a menace, Granger."
"But I've modified them – they will look a lot worse than they actually are. They'll give the Sisters real trouble to extinguish, though. I integrated combustible metals."
The alchemist in Draco was intrigued. "What metals?"
"Magnesium, lithium, potassium."
"Aguamenti will do bugger all," said Draco. "They'll need to find a dry extinguishing agent."
"Yes. By the time they work it out, we'll be long gone. I've put a peripheral boundary on each explosion; the fires will look enormous, but the real damage should be limited to a square metre."
"And disguises?" asked Draco.
Here Granger looked ambivalent. "I'll leave yours to you. I was going to do a few simple glamours. I studied in France for two years and I was only recognised once, by a fellow English student. I don't think the nuns in the country's most remote monastery will be up to date on Hermione Granger's most recent look."
"Fair."
"We'll bumble our way through the monastery, Stunning and Obliviating as needed (hopefully not at all), and I shall take a fragment of the skull so tiny, they won't even know it's gone."
"And then? We Disapparate out?"
"The entire area is warded against," grimaced Granger. "That's why we're being Muggle walkers. We'll have to trot along to the edge of the ward to Disapparate."
"Portkey?"
"Too trackable, unless you've fixed the one you attempted in the ring?"
"I haven't," said Draco. "That enchantment is a real bugger. There's a reason why there's an entire Department dedicated to Portus experts."
"Damn it."
"Brooms?"
Granger responded to this intelligent suggestion with all the gratitude and eagerness that might have been expected, which is to say, none at all.
"Why is it always brooms, with you?" she asked in a kind of snarl.
"Because they're bloody useful, and a good deal faster than bimbling back down the trail by foot until we can Disapparate. Unless you're secretly a mountain goat Animagus?"
"But how would we even involve brooms? Hide them on the trail in advance?"
"Can you squeeze a broom into your Extended pockets?"
"Probably," said Granger, frowning. "Probably just one, given the awkward shape."
"That's settled, then. Disillusionment and a quick broom-ride out. I've used it hundreds of times to get out of sticky situations. As soon as you hit the sky, they can't see you at all – and you're miles away before they can summon their own brooms."
Granger sighed. "Fine. Broom until we're past the Anti-Apparition Ward. Then we Disapparate out. Only in the unfortunate event that we trigger a ward or they catch us with our hands on the skull and give chase. Otherwise, we leave the way we came."
"I'll choose one of my racers," said Draco, growing rather excited at the prospect. "I can attach a second seat."
For her part, Granger looked tetchy. "A racer. Wonderful."
"The point is to be fast. Shall we do a S.W.O.T. analysis?"
"No. I know it's a good idea," said Granger. She looked pouty. "I don't have to like it."
"Good. When shall I bring my broomstick for you to squeeze into your pocket? We'll have to see if the shaft fits whatever minuscule crevice you're offering, Extension charms or no."
Granger valiantly attempted to keep a straight face.
"What?" asked Draco, his own face impassive.
Granger collapsed into a restrained giggle. "W-why did you have to phrase it like that?"
Draco's poker-face was impeccable. "Like what?"
"Like a horrid euphemism for – ugh – never mind."
"For what, Granger?"
"I said, never mind."
Draco let up and smirked. "Who's giggling about penises now?"
Granger, realising that he'd been taking the piss, gave him a black look. "At least I'm not choking on an omelette while doing so."
"Choking while stuffing your gob at the Knob is a rite of passage."
Granger couldn't help the snort that escaped her. "Stop."
"Now, if we can stop talking about penises for one moment–"
"I'm not talking about penises – you are."
"I'm talking about broomsticks and pubs. I'm innocent."
"No, you're maddening." Granger pressed her fingertips to her temples. "Right. Let's focus. I have places to be."
"Where do you have to be?"
"Places," said Granger. "As for us, we're leaving next Friday. I shall Jot the details to you, but, in brief – we'll Floo to Aix-en-Provence. I'll drive us to the town of Saint-Maximin so that we arrive like Muggles."
"Fine."
"And keep this escapade to yourself," added Granger.
"No," said Draco in a gush of annoyed sarcasm. "I was thinking of placing an advert in the Prophet."
"I just don't want people asking questions–"
Draco held up his hands to frame an imaginary headline: "Attractive Auror Agrees to Hare Off to France with Harridan Healer."
"Harridan?" repeated Granger, in a harridanly sort of way.
"Or Harpy – would you prefer that? I'd like to keep the alliteration."
Granger's nostrils flared. "I would prefer it if we brought this conversation to a close."
"Huffy Healer," said Draco, generously.
Granger's jaw clenched.
Given that he didn't want to have his bollocks jinxed off, Draco rose to make his exit. "Raging Researcher?" he called over his shoulder. "Piqued Professor?"
There was something delightfully murderous in the way she spat "Malfoy!" at his retreating back.
When Draco had descended the stairs in King's Hall, well clear of jinxing range, he took out his copy of Granger's schedule and investigated the 'Places' she had to be.
It was an Italian restaurant in an hour. Participant(s) unspecified.
Draco stuffed her schedule back into his pocket.
He had a certain suspicion that Granger had a date.
And he didn't care at all, and it certainly didn't irritate him for no reason.
He sent a Jot to Zabini, out of an abundance of – well, he'd call it caution – asking him if he had any plans that evening. Zabini said no, but he'd be glad to have plans; should they meet at the Macassar?
Draco sent back his agreement. Theo was invited too, who suggested they invite Pansy, who brought her Longbottomed plonker of a husband, who invited MacMillan, who arrived with three Ministry colleagues, and they ended up making quite an evening of it.
One of MacMillan's juniors was a witch with whom Draco had slept a few times over the years. She gave him her amorous attentions all evening and he accepted them with a kind of listlessness – the touches at his thigh, the holding of his arm. However, when she trailed after him to the dark corridor leading to the loo, he found that he had no desire to pursue anything further with her. When he returned, very much un-mussed, and with an offended looking witch behind him, Zabini and Ernie both regarded him with a raised eyebrow.
Whatever. As he shot back his Firewhisky, Draco reflected that at least he could rest easy that it wasn't bloody Zabini that Granger was cosying up to tonight.
-
The journey from London to France went as smoothly as could be desired. Draco met Granger at one of the International Floo departures in London. After she pronounced herself satisfied with Draco's holidaying Mugglewear ("Quite smart, really – you look like you own a boat.") they stepped into the fire.
Then, after a longish, three-minute whirl in the Floo that made Granger green, they found themselves at the hearth of the Tournesol in Aix-en-Provence.
From there, Granger took over, navigating them to a car hire place, and then driving the forty kilometres to the charming seaside town of Saint-Maximin-la-Sainte-Baume. Their suitcases were in the boot, their snacks were in the back seat, and the car stereo played something that wasn't Austrian folk music. Draco found it to be altogether a pleasant drive through olive groves, vineyards, and hilltops dotted with medieval ruins. Perhaps there was something to be said for the Muggles' scenic routes, rather than the immediacy of Apparition.
Granger was full of a kind of nervous energy that manifested itself in a stream of informative babbling paired with peppy driving. Draco endured the former and rather enjoyed the latter. Their hired Peugeot had looked, to Draco's unpractised eye, like a stodgy sort of car, but Granger had awakened a zeal for life in the thing.
They whizzed past meandering Provençal traffic without issue until Granger found a challenger: a black Citroën whose chief joy was racing to catch up and pass them, and then slowing down again in a pissy sort of way.
"Twat," said Draco, the third time this had happened.
"A Parisian, of course," said Granger, observing the registration plate.
"I've half a mind to hit him with a puncture," said Draco, spinning his wand between his fingers.
"That wouldn't be sporting," said Granger. The road straightened out enough for her to attempt a pass. She shifted gears. "Hold onto your trousers."
The Peugeot's engine whined in startled protest as Granger hit the accelerator. The car responded with an astonishing burst of speed. Draco's head and body felt as though they were being pressed into the seat by the G-forces – a delightful sensation that made him want to whoop.
The tyres squeaked and their small car surged ahead of the Citroën.
"Cheers, dickhead," said Draco, making the V-sign to the other driver as they passed.
The man in the car made an equally friendly gesture back.
As they whizzed down the road, Draco remarked, "I didn't think this car had that kind of verve. What did you put in her for petrol, Pepperup? Oi – you had your wand out!"
Granger was tucking something into her pocket. She started. "What? No."
"And you called me unsporting?"
"I only gave us a bit of a boost," said Granger, with a triumphant glare back at the other car through the rearview mirror.
Draco observed her. "Granger's Paradox."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You're a speed demon, and yet you hate flying."
"I'm not a speed demon," scoffed Granger. "I'm just a bit impatient."
"You ski, too. Isn't skiing rather an extreme sport? You launch yourself down the Alps at high velocity?"
"Only if you put it that way–"
"From the top of a mountain," said Draco. "Thousands of metres in the air. Brooms will take you two hundred metres up, at the most extreme."
"It's different when there's nothing below you."
A lengthy argument ensued. Meanwhile, the country around them grew wooded. They took a slip-road off to a rural road, winding down through gorges and then back up again. They passed through convivial medieval villages and then down a sinuous country lane, which eventually brought them to vast flatlands striped with lavender fields and, finally, the sea.
"Oh, how beautiful," sighed Granger, in a moment of uncharacteristic softness.
"A balm upon the soul," said Draco, with enough of an edge to suggest cynicism, to cover the fact that he meant it.
The picturesque town of Saint-Maximin came into view under the afternoon sun.
"We'll stay at the hotel tonight," said Granger, "And we'll do the walk up and the – the other activity – tomorrow morning."
Draco felt her give him a sidelong look, to which he quirked an eyebrow. "What?"
"The nicer hotels were all booked up, so don't be a prat about the quality of the place. It's... older. The restaurant is apparently lovely, though."
"Is the hotel run by ogres?"
"Of course not – this is a Muggle town."
"Then it'll be fine."
"You've stayed in a place run by ogres?"
"Yes," said Draco. "A stakeout in Budle. I did learn a bed bug extermination spell as a result, so we'll be sorted if you feel anything scurrying up your legs tonight."
"Eurgh," shuddered Granger.
Granger's mobile, which had been serving as a kind of live map for the duration of the drive, suddenly announced that the Hotel Plaisance was coming up on their right.
The hotel was old and tired, but beautifully situated.
The small foyer was packed with other arrivals, all of whom were being served by a single, hard-of-hearing old woman, who moved with all of the agility of a mollusc. Eventually, it was their turn, and the woman gave them the key to their room and took their names down for a dinner reservation.
The tiny room had a bed of questionable structural integrity, a lamp, a caved-in sofa, and an afterthought of a bathroom.
There was a vague, fusty scent to the room, as though someone's great aunt had sprayed perfume and then died there in sad circumstances.
"All mod cons, Granger," said Draco as they took stock.
"Sea view, at least?" said Granger, banging open the shutters to air things out.
The bed squeaked as Draco sat on it and then sank almost to the ground, with intimations that it was planning on collapsing entirely under his weight as soon as he was asleep.
Granger observed Draco where he sat, his knees almost at his chin.
"The bed is yours," she said with what she'd no doubt intended to sound like generosity. It sounded rather strategic to Draco's ear. She had her eye on the sofa. "I'll Transfigure this into something serviceable for myself."
"Something serviceable," repeated Draco, as Granger undertook a complex, ten minute Transfiguration exercise, turning the sofa into a lovely, cushy-looking bed, in a regal burgundy.
Granger missed the raillery. "That should do it," she said, slightly breathless from the magical exertion. "Now. I should like a shower. What are your plans for the evening? Dinner's at eight."
"My job," said Draco, already warding the window. "I'm going to have a wander. I'll meet you back here at quarter to."
"All right," said Granger. She had pulled out a list.
"What's that?"
"My itinerary for the evening," said Granger.
"...You only have three hours," said Draco. Even from across the room, the list looked long.
"I know. I'd better crack on. There are so many lovely little museums and bookshops – and of course, the basilica."
Granger grappled with her luggage, pulled out a change of clothes, and stepped into the bathroom.
Draco left her to it and stalked the hotel's dingy halls, warding as he went. He did not find any baddies. There were only Muggles present. Granger's plan, at least for Day One, was unfurling smoothly.
Tomorrow was an entirely different story, of course. Draco returned to their room to read the tome on warding he'd brought with him.
Granger had already left – all the better for him to squeeze in another bit of studying. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out on Granger's bed, the book floating above him as he flicked through pages.
Draco had been focusing his study on warding techniques on the Continent, but especially on the work of magical religious orders. He hoped that his readings on the warding systems of Cistercian and Dominican Monks would, at the very least, give him a clue tomorrow when he uncovered whatever the Benedictine Sisters had cast around their beloved relics.
As promised, Granger returned at a quarter to eight. She saw him reading and immediately made a beeline for him. "Ooh, what've you got there?"
"Studying for tomorrow," said Draco. "Give me a minute – I found something interesting."
Granger approached the bed to read the title of his book. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw that she had changed into a white, breezy sundress. Her hair was tied into a plait, though it was slowly unraveling. She smelled like sun on skin and something sweet. He took a deeper breath. Almonds?
She was chewing on something.
Draco held out his hand, his focus still on the book.
"None left," said Granger.
Draco floated the book lower so he could look into her eyes. "Liar."
Granger sighed and pulled out a crinkly bag. "Datte fourrée à la pâte d'amande."
Draco took the proffered marzipan-stuffed date.
It was exquisite.
"Mm," said Draco. "Bless the French."
He resumed his reading, but only for a moment, because Granger was hovering over the book in a jealous sort of way.
He floated the book lower again. "Yes?"
"Could I have a look?" asked Granger.
"You can have it after dinner," said Draco, floating the book back up again.
Granger perched a thigh on the side of the bed.
"Can I help you?" asked Draco, observing this activity.
"Budge up," said Granger. "We can both read."
"No, we can't. Personal space, Granger," said Draco, making a shooing motion with his hand.
"This is my bed," noted Granger, quite rightly.
Draco shifted over with a grumble (there wasn't much room to shift). "We're about to go to dinner."
"But you found an Interesting Thing," said Granger. Her eyes were alight with curiosity.
She squeezed onto the bed next to him. The book floated above them.
"This is–" began Draco.
"Quiet," said Granger. "I'm reading."
Draco lapsed into annoyed silence.
Granger did not read, by the way – Granger devoured. Her reading speed outpaced Draco's by fifty percent at his best guess, and he was himself a fast reader. However, he did not turn the pages to cater to her pace; he gave her a moral lecture about the importance of Absorbing the Information and Savouring the Text instead.
She responded with a long and dramatic sigh. Draco felt the expansion of her chest against his side. That made him aware that Granger was there in a different way than her impatient presence. It made him alert and twitchy, because he was lying down on a bed with a woman, and that woman was Hermione Granger. If he'd ever been mad enough to imagine such a scene, he would've pictured a moment of recoil, of distaste, probably, at this level of closeness with his childhood enemy.
Instead, she felt warm, and she smelled like sunshine and almonds, and her hair was touching his neck, and it was intimate and strange. He felt a kind of pleasurable paralysis, of not wanting to breathe, of not daring to move and accidentally touching her too much, or worse, causing her to move away.
He turned the page, with no idea what he had just read.
His eyes kept drifting from the book above them to her legs, which were bent at the knee, with one leg crossed over the other. Her dress was bunched up at her thighs, covering anything of interest – there was nothing indecent about any of it, really – and yet it felt illicit and thrilling, to see Granger's legs from here. She had kicked off her sandals to join him on the bed. He could see the delicate arch of her bare foot, the tan lines where the sun had kissed her and then worked around the straps, the pink-painted toes.
The delicate foot started to bounce.
"You're doing it on purpose to annoy me, being this slow," said Granger.
Draco snapped his eyes back to the page. "No, I am being attentive."
Granger waved her wand to tell the time – it was eight on the dot. "Ugh. We've got to go."
She rose and slipped on her sandals. "The Caleruega warding technique sounds terribly sensitive. Do you think the Sisters might be using that?"
"They might be," said Draco. (He found that his brain was working in a kind of slow motion; it was still processing her thighs and the bunched-up dress, and had not yet joined him in the present.)
"We'll have to be ever so careful tomorrow, if those things are as hair-trigger as this text suggests."
Granger was redoing her plait. Draco got a whiff of her shampoo. That brought his brain back to the present, because it liked it.
She was still going on about the chapter they had just read, and whether Draco felt that he needed more preparation, and whether they should revisit the plan, and if so, which parts they should modify. Perhaps she should feign illness in the monastery to distract the Sisters while Draco went into the crypt, to buy him more time? But no, he hadn't studied the maps as she had; it had taken her weeks to memorise the labyrinthine paths, &c. &c.
Which was excellent, as it gave Draco time to Get a Grip. What the fuck was wrong with him? He went to the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face, and hopefully some sense into his brain.
They made their way downstairs to dinner.
-
The restaurant was all a-bustle. It was a lovely outdoor installation on a long kind of wharf that extended out into the sea, crammed with as many tables as possible. Draco and Granger threaded their way through the other patrons to a table for two at the end of the wharf.
It being midsummer, the sun was still hanging over the horizon at this late hour, tinging the sea gold and orange. It was an utterly gorgeous June evening; the breeze played lazily with their hair, the sea splashed along the edge of the wharf in musical little wavelets, the sea-birds weaved their wheels above.
As it turned out, the half-deaf old lady who had taken their reservation had creatively interpreted their names.
The slate placard indicated that the table was reserved for Hormone et Crotch.
A solemn waiter came by to light the candles on the table. Granger's lips were pressed tightly together. Draco felt an uncomfortable bubbling of hilarity.
"Monsieur, the wine list," said the waiter, handing it to Draco.
"Merci," said Draco.
The waiter recommended the red; Draco went with that, because all of his brain power was focused on not bursting into a scream of laughter.
Granger's eyes flitted back to the placard. She let out a gurgle that she turned into a kind of cough.
The waiter enumerated the evening's menu. Granger nodded her approval of the buttered sole while Draco croaked out a yes for the fillet mignon.
Granger was biting one of her knuckles. Draco heard her undertaking a deep breathing exercise.
Finally, the waiter left.
Granger collapsed onto the table. "Crotch," she gasped, attempting to breathe.
"H-Hormone?" wheezed Draco.
Granger was a boneless mass of restrained laughter. Her shoulders shook. Draco fell back into his chair and actually felt himself disintegrate into mirth.
"My god," breathed Granger. "Oh my god... why... why..."
Draco attempted to sober up, but then he looked at the placard again, and Crotch looked back at him in a beautiful flowing script, and he brought his napkin to his mouth to muffle himself.
Granger took a deep breath. "What wine did you order, for us, C-Crotch–"
Her voice veered high and she couldn't finish the sentence because of her shrieking giggle. A few heads from the tables around them turned her way. She hid her face in her hands.
"They're going to think we're already pissed and kick us out," said Draco, valiantly straightening up and attempting to regain control.
"Right." Her face still hidden in her hands, Granger breathed. "Hide the placard. I can't see it again. I will die."
Draco flipped the slate so that it was face down. "Done, H–"
"Don't say it," said Granger.
The waiter returned, bearing bread, butter, and wine.
"Merci," said Granger, wiping at a tear.
As for Draco, he could hardly feel his cheeks. He gestured to the waiter to leave the wine bottle.
After a bit more breathing, both of them had regained their self-control – well, mostly. Granger was avoiding looking anywhere near the slate.
The sea caressed the rocky edges of the wharf below them. The patrons chattered, as did the gulls. The sun tilted lower. The bread was split and buttered and Draco poured the wine.
"Cheers," said Granger.
"To success tomorrow," said Draco, tilting his glass into hers.
The final trace of amusement vanished from Granger's face. She grew serious.
Draco eyed her. He cast a silencing charm around them. "You're nervous."
"Yes," said Granger. Anxiety tightened the corners of her mouth. "A lot could go wrong and, to be honest, it frightens the bollocks off of me. I haven't done anything like this in well over a decade. I'm a law abiding citizen now, you know."
"Mostly." Draco could think of at least twenty laws that Granger had broken since he had been assigned to her in January.
"Mostly," conceded Granger.
"Tomorrow will go according to plan. And if it doesn't, you'll set fire to the place and we can go steal a better skull. "
An amused huff escaped Granger in the face of this cavalier attitude. "You aren't the slightest bit worried, are you?"
"I promise I've faced missions far more nerve-wracking than a gaggle of nuns," said Draco.
"Have you?"
"Obviously."
"Tell me."
So Draco told her. He shared two or three of his favourite stories, which prominently featured his own heroics and wits. Granger was not the captive, eyelash-fluttering audience that he usually shared these tales with, however. She was analytical and inquisitive, and asked some rather penetrating questions. Why didn't he Silence the Sirens first? The knife fight was thrilling, but how did he let himself get disarmed in the first place? Why didn't his emergency kit include blood replenishing potions? Shouldn't all Aurors have a basic knowledge of the properties of Aconite? Why hadn't he used a nerve agent on the troll?
Why, indeed? Draco parried, and countered, and justified, and defended, until Granger was satisfied.
He poured himself a second glass of wine, finding himself rather wrung-out and thirsty after the interrogation. His tales were usually followed by praise and gushing, and starry-eyed gaspings about his bravery and sagacity. With Granger? Not a chance.
"At least one of us will be feeling confident, which is better than none," was her closing remark.
She drained her glass of wine. Draco offered to refill it and she acquiesced, saying that she needed it for emotional support.
The waiter arrived with their orders. It was about time; Draco was ravenous. The car snacks and single stuffed date seemed very far away.
Granger said, Bon appétit, and Draco responded in kind.
He put away the fillet mignon with gusto. As for Granger, she poked distractedly at her plate, her pensive gaze on the coastline curving away from them.
After five minutes of this, Draco lost his patience with her absent-mindedness. He tapped at her plate with his knife. "Food first, then thinking."
Granger blinked. Then she pointed somewhere behind him. "I think I can see the monastery."
Draco turned around in his chair to look at the sandy-grey protrusion jutting from a distant cliff, above the tree-line. "My word. That's rather high up, isn't it?"
"It's almost a two hour climb."
"So eat. If you feel faint, it'll be a broom ride up."
The threat was sufficient. Granger ate.
Draco's Jotter buzzed in his pocket.
"My mother," he said as he composed a response. "She wants to know that I've arrived safely."
"Does she know you're here with me?" asked Granger.
"No," said Draco. "Only that it's for work."
"Good." Granger sipped at her wine.
Draco sent back his response, assuring his mother that all was well and that he hadn't been waylaid by French bandits.
Granger was finishing her sole. She was struggling to keep a neutral expression; a look of amusement kept washing across her features.
"What?" asked Draco.
"Oh – nothing." Granger found a fresh focus on a carrot, which she pushed about with her fork. "I didn't know your mother used the Jotters."
"She didn't. I convinced her to get one last week, since owls to France take so long."
Granger glanced up with a vivid interest that she was trying, and failing, to keep hidden. "Did you? Does she like hers?"
"She does. What's got you so intrigued?"
"Nothing," said Granger, making intimate eye contact with Draco's chin.
"Was that really your best try?" asked Draco in the face of this miserable failure.
Granger offered him more wine in a transparent attempt to distract him, which only fixated him more on his line of enquiry. (He did accept the wine, however.)
"Granger."
"Yes?"
"Tell me."
"We should review our plans for tomorrow," said Granger in another attempt at a side-step.
"We've reviewed them ad nauseum. What is it about the Jotters?"
Granger busied herself with pushing the carrot around again.
Draco reached over and blocked her fork with his knife. "Stop punting the bloody legume around and answer me."
"Carrots aren't a legume," said Granger. In the face of Draco's stare, however, she added, "It's absolutely nothing – I thought your mother was rather traditional, so I was surprised that she'd even try a Jotter. That's all."
"That's not all, though," said Draco.
Granger tapped Draco's knife with her fork in an unspoken request to remove it from her plate.
He did not.
Granger sighed. "You're utterly unrelenting. Did you know?"
"Yes. Now tell me."
"...Did you just steal my carrot?"
Draco chewed. "Yes."
"Wow."
"You weren't eating it, you were pushing it about on a forky carousel. Now, tell me."
Granger shifted back in her seat with a resigned sigh. "I rather thought you'd have worked it out by now."
"Worked what out?"
Granger paused as though to gather herself. Then she asked, "Do you know who invented the Jabbering Jotter?"
"...Wasn't it the Weasley twins?"
"No. They merely assisted the inventor in mass-producing and marketing them."
A slow dawning of realisation crept upon Draco. The witch across from him was now holding back a grin.
"You're the inventor of the bloody Jotters?"
"Yes," said Granger.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes." Granger looked terribly amused.
"Explain," said Draco.
Granger settled into a pose that Draco could only describe as professorial. She crossed her legs and held up her fork, ready to point to an invisible blackboard. "Instantaneous communication systems really took off in the Muggle world about 10 years ago. They already had a leg up over wizards with the telephone for the entirety of the twentieth century, but when email became common, and texting, and, later, instant messaging, wizarding communication methods went from old fashioned to utterly archaic. I'd already experimented with rudimentary Magical communication methods as a child – those Galleons, during the war – but I knew there had to be something more elegant, that retained that tactile feeling of parchment or a notebook, but that would be far more immediate than Owling."
Here Granger was interrupted by the waiter removing their empty plates. She accepted the dessert menu, then continued. "I love owls; I find them so quaint and dear, but so slow. Don't look cross, they are slow – you said so yourself not a moment ago. And Flooing is only convenient if you're near a connected hearth. I created the Jotters to supplement those means of communication, not replace them – I do love writing a good letter. I never expected them to be as popular as they are. The twins helped me bring them to market and they get a percentage of the profits."
Draco kept his features schooled into something neutral. The other option was a bug-eyed stare. Not only was this woman frighteningly intelligent, but she was also absolutely minted. Everyone had a Jotter. His own mother had a Jotter and was, judging by the buzzing in his pocket, rapidly gaining proficiency. Granger must be rolling in Galleons. Small wonder she handed off a sackful to a hag without a second thought.
"So this is how you're funding your bloody project," he said at length.
"Amongst other things, yes. I've spent enough time under the tyranny of granting agencies to enjoy the independence."
"But – everyone thinks the Weasley brothers invented the Jotters. Why aren't you claiming credit? They're revolutionary."
"They're really not," said Granger. "Muggle equivalents are ever so much more advanced – they can send each other photos and media and data of all sorts. They can have live calls with hundreds of participants. The Jotters are rudimentary. An improvement, but rudimentary." Here Granger gave a shrug. "The bar was rather low. And as for the credit – I've had my time in the limelight. I'm not in it for the glory. I saw a problem that was in my capacity to fix."
"Is that what your project is about, too?" asked Draco. "A problem that is within your capacity to fix?"
"Exactly." Granger regarded him seriously, now. "I needn't tell you that I'd prefer the truth about the Jotters to remain between us. I only told you because you were being so horridly insistent."
Draco eyed her. "You're positively a mogul. A tycoon."
Granger laughed, but it was bitter. "No. Developing new therapies is terribly expensive."
"Is it?"
"Yes." Granger began to enumerate costs on her fingers, until she ran out of fingers. "Materials, space, laboratory staff, medical leads, legal staff, protocol writers, data scientists, staticians... testing for safety and efficacy is spendy too, of course – pharmacokinetic studies, preclinical toxicology testing, bioanalytical testing, and the clinical trials themselves. And the financial outlay to meet every requirement of the GCP, the GMP, the GLP, the MHRA, and the EMA is eye-watering."
Draco, whose eyes had largely glazed over, said, "Oh."
Granger shifted in her seat in a discontented sort of way. "My project involves complex biologics that are commercially unattractive and nigh incomprehensible to the monumentally idiotic wizards who hold the national purse strings for magical research. So I am very much on my own. On my own and, frankly, at rather an embryonic stage. I'm still doing in vitro research, trying to confirm that my target can actually be affected by an exogenous compound in the first place. Money doesn't solve all problems, unfortunately."
The waiter returned to take their dessert orders. Granger flinched out an apology, having forgotten to even look at the menu, and made a haphazard selection of crème caramel.
Meanwhile, Draco was struggling to understand the paradoxical phenomenon that was Granger. She could have been wealthy – extravagantly so. And yet, she chose to fund her research instead of enjoying a life of leisure. She worked approximately twelve jobs. She could've had her own country house, but she lived in a cramped cottage in the outskirts of Cambridge. She could have a full staff of house-elves, but she only had a cat and a grim tin of tuna in her cupboards.
It made no sense. And yet, as Draco considered what he knew of the witch in front of him, it sort of did. She was too driven for a life of leisure. Too grounded for the extravagance of large homes and house-elves. Too much of a Do-Gooder to do anything but Good with that money. It was all terribly laudable. Dreadful, really.
Granger cleared her throat. Draco realised that he'd been staring at her, and that the waiter was staring at him.
"Monsieur's dessert selection?"
"What she's having," said Draco.
"Une crème caramel pour Monsieur Crotch," said the waiter, inscribing this precious information upon his notepad with care.
Granger touched eyes with Draco. She held a hand to her mouth.
The waiter left.
Granger squeaked out a giggle, struggled to control it, took a large breath, and was still.
"Hormone," said Draco.
Granger collapsed into a fit of uncontrollable giggling.
"I told you not to do that," she gasped, coming back up for air.
"There is something gratifying about making you utterly lose it."
Granger sniffed and dabbed at her lashes with a napkin. "It's a rare sight, I hope you're appreciating it."
"I am," said Draco.
And he was. Granger's dark eyes were bright with laughter. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips were reddened by wine. Her hair in its loose plait snaked down to her waist, a dark line against her white sundress. Her legs were curled under her; she looked dainty and fragile, and small enough to fit perfectly into a man's lap, if a man were thinking about such things. (Draco certainly wasn't.)
And the candlelight loved her. It kissed at her forehead and flickered warm touches across her collarbone. It danced in her eyes.
The effect was enchanting.
Draco sank, unaware, into a state of soft fascination.
An accordionist began to play, somewhere near the hotel, filling the air with romance.
"Monsieur, your crème caramel."
The return to reality was jarring.
"Merci," said Draco, instead of sod the fucking crème caramel.
Granger was eating her dessert, blissfully unaware of Draco's reverie, thank the gods. He decided to blame the wine for making him such a daft, moon-eyed cretin tonight. That and too few recent shags, clearly, if he was going to faff off and daydream about Granger, of all of the witches in his life.
It would help if she didn't look like a lovely Grecian dryad tonight, about to join Artemis' retinue.
Since when was Granger beautiful?
What an aggravating development.
"Are you all right?" asked Granger.
"Why?" asked Draco, injecting some irritation into the syllable, to sound Absolutely Normal.
"You've hardly touched your dessert," said Granger, gesturing to Draco's crème caramel with her spoon. "Rather uncharacteristic."
There were other things going on that were rather uncharacteristic, but if that was the only one that the Brain was catching on to, that was fine by Draco.
"I'm savouring it," said Draco. He took a slow bite to demonstrate.
Granger's eyebrow twitched. "Stop that."
"Stop what?" asked Draco.
"Being indecent with the spoon."
"I am using the spoon. Anything else is a figment of your imagination."
Granger narrowed her eyes at him. Draco took another slow bite, maintaining an obnoxious level of eye contact. Granger looked away.
"Now you aren't eating yours," pointed out Draco.
"I've quite lost my appetite, watching you snog the cutlery," sniffed Granger.
"You aren't going to finish?"
"No. Do you want it?"
"I'd rather you choke it down and have strength for the monastery. If the nuns get shirty, tomorrow could be rather strenuous, magically speaking."
Granger finished her crème caramel doggedly, if not with enthusiasm.
Draco found himself observing her now with a critical eye. When he had first met her, in long-ago January, he had been struck by the exhausted thinness that had made her face severe and gaunt. It seemed to him that she had a slightly healthier mien, now – but only slightly. She was a little less bony, a little rosier in the cheeks.
Granger gestured to the waiter for the bill. "L'addition, s'il vous plaît."
Her raised arm made Draco realise that her dress had left her arms bare, something that Granger's choice of attire normally trended against. And now, precisely because it was trying not to catch his attention, her left forearm caught his attention – there was a Notice-Me-Not charm there.
He deliberately looked at the table next door, allowing Granger and her arm to slip into his peripheral vision. There: a blur across the skin of her inner arm.
He realised what the glamour was covering with a sickening plummeting sensation in his stomach. A vivid memory returned, of Bellatrix's handiwork, stark against Granger's skin. Of Granger, limp and wrought-out, lying like a dead thing on the drawing room floor. Of the blood oozing out of the fresh-carved letters.
Draco had never used the word Mudblood again, after that.
Now there was something terribly sorrowful in Granger's habit of wearing long sleeves. In the discreet glamour that she'd cast to be able to wear a pretty dress. Draco hid his own inner arm shame from the world, but he would've thought that Granger, of all people, would've been able to heal hers away. Clearly, she still bore the mark of Bellatrix's knife.
"Malfoy?"
Draco blinked. "Hm?"
"You've gone quiet."
Granger had settled the bill with Muggle money. She was rising from her chair.
Draco rose with her. "Just thinking about tomorrow."
But really, he was thinking about a distant yesterday, when this witch had been mutilated in the halls of his home. And she still bore the scar, and she hid it, from him, and from everyone, but it was still there. A daily reminder for her, of cruelty and sick hate. Of how close she'd come to death. Of how near their world had come to a point of no return.
He wished to say something to her – words of sorrow, or of apology – but such words did not come easily to him, and he couldn't see such a conversation go anywhere but difficult, awkward places.
As they weaved their way through tables back off the wharf, Draco concluded that this was not quite the moment. But, watching the blur of the glamour brush against her skirts as she walked, he determined that there would be A Moment, and he would find the words. Not tonight, but some night.
The sun was finally setting, languidly, lazily, on this gorgeous evening, Midsummer less a day.
Granger was looking wistfully along the rocky beach. "There's meant to be a marker along there, where the Magdalene would've first set foot in France."
"I suppose that was on your itinerary?"
"It was, but I ran out of time."
"Let's go," said Draco.
Granger looked at him in surprise. "You'd come?"
Draco gave her his most nonchalant shrug. "I fancy a walk."
Granger's surprise turned to a prudent kind of delight. "All right, it's about a fifteen minute ramble, that way. So the guidebook said, anyway."
They clambered and slid down large boulders to the rocky beach, where they found a kind of coastal path. Granger led Draco along, pointing out features of geological or historical interest as they went. The views became progressively more dramatic as they left the shallow bay that the hotel was nestled in and made their way around the headland.
The tide began to come in. Draco rolled up his trousers and his shirtsleeves (ensuring, on the latter point, that his own glamour was in place), then tied his shoes together, and slung them over his shoulder. Granger carried her sandals hooked through her fingers. They splashed through salty rock pools, as warm as bathwater. The sound of the accordion on the wharf faded away; now it was only the heart-pulse of the waves.
They meandered into a flock of hundreds of seabirds, which took off around them and unravelled into the skies in a whirr of wingbeats and sea-cries. It was a startling moment of sublimity that took a bit of their souls with it. Granger watched the birds' disappearance into the blue with a soft sigh, her fingertips on her collarbone, her lips parted.
Granger said, "Beautiful," and Draco said, "Yes," but they were not talking about the same thing.
They continued. The marker for the Magdalene's point of arrival was a modest stone, half-buried in sand, at the tip of the headland. A few cut flowers were scattered about, as well as candles gamely fighting to stay lit in the breeze.
Granger furnished Draco with a great many details about the legend of the Magdalene's expulsion from the Holy Land, and what disciples were with her, and when she had reached this shore. Draco cared little for the details, but he was glad of the excuse to keep his attention on her, on the way the wind wended her plait hither and thither, on her bare legs trickling with seawater. At one point, she almost lost her balance on the wet stones and her fingers touched his arm. They were quickly withdrawn.
Draco said he supposed that there were worse places to land than Provence. Granger said she thought so, too. Draco asked whether the Magdalene would've eaten marzipan-stuffed dates when she was here. Granger fancied that she was the one who had brought the recipe over from the Holy Land, in the first place. Draco said that stealing the credit for such a sublime culinary creation was a classically French thing to do. Granger agreed.
Then they lapsed into silence and they stood where the land met the sea, and breathed the sweet air, and were tickled by the salt breeze. Little waves strained to reach past their knees before atomising into brine.
Draco found a seastar. Granger was delighted by the discovery and squatted down to look at it, and interrogated Draco on what species it was, and Draco said he hadn't a sodding clue.
They turned to walk back to the hotel, splish-splashing through the warm tide pools, wavelets clinging foamily at their ankles. Their hands brushed a time or two, and they said sorry, and stepped away from each other, and kept walking, and then their elbows brushed, by accident, because they'd drifted together again.
The large boulders near the wharf presented more difficulty for Granger on the way up than down; she stood, irresolute, grasping the wand in her pocket, but there were Muggles about, and her plans to Transfigure a stairway were interrupted.
Draco came up behind her and lifted her in one smooth motion, and received an indignant squeal and a face-full of sandy skirts for his troubles. Her waist felt narrow and taut between his palms, and warm.
He didn't need her help to clamber up behind her, but he nevertheless accepted the small hand she reached towards him and took amusement in the serious effort she put into her pull.
They meandered back towards the hotel.
The sun poured gold across the horizon. With the brightness behind her, Granger looked like she was wearing nothing but light.