Chapter Text
Pansy had been right about her prediction for the Italian restaurant. Calderone Pieno was the sort of place that took reservations months in advance. She supposed the name Malfoy still held weight in these upper echelon circles for him to get one on such short notice.
The maître d' sat them in a secluded table that had a view of the sun disappearing beneath the London skyline. Malfoy pulled out her chair. It was the fanciest place Hermione had ever been; and she’d attended dinners with the Minister’s personal staff.
The lighting was dark and moody, there were no prices on the menu, and there were indeed a few too many forks for Hermione’s liking, but it was private enough to be free from rogue reporters, thank Merlin.
Candles floated above them, the flames bouncing off pieces of a reflective mosaic tiled into the ceiling. It was all very ambient. Hermione felt like she was on some sort of film set.
Was this technically their first date? It certainly looked like one from the outside. Would she mind if it was?
Malfoy requested a bottle of red wine, which was brought promptly.
No, she wouldn’t mind.
“How did you manage a reservation here on such short notice?” Hermione asked as he filled her wineglass.
“I called in a favor. Blaise’s mother is currently married to one of the owners,” he said, somehow not managing to answer the question in the slightest. What did ‘currently married’ even mean?
“Who?”
Malfoy’s eyes met hers across the small table as he swallowed his mouthful of wine. “Blaise Zabini?” He took in the lack of recognition on Hermione’s face. “He’s a friend of mine, and was a Slytherin in my year. He was at the flat a couple of months ago?” he treaded carefully when referring to the night Hermione had come back in a cloud of anxiety.
“Oh.” She released a soft chuckle. “Yes, I remember him now. That’s nice that he was able to get you in.”
“It is,” he said, the depth of his voice causing a shiver to run down her spine. Hermione squared her shoulders, but Malfoy had noticed the shaking regardless. “Are you cold?”
“A little,” she admitted as she sipped the wine. Her wand had been left in their flat due to the tragic lack of pockets in her dress, and she hadn’t grabbed a shawl. The night air was dropping in temperature as the sun set, and Hermione lamented her lack of foresight. The hair on her arms had begun to rise, and she was acutely aware of just how much of her skin was bare as the cool air kissed her.
Malfoy didn’t hesitate to draw his wand and cast the warming charm on her behalf. He did so wordlessly, and the wand was already sheathed at his side by the time she’d realized what he’d done.
It felt as though a heavy blanket had settled over her shoulders, blocking the cooler air and trapping her own warmth.
“Thank you,” she said as she took another sip of the wine. It was some of the best she’d ever tasted, because, of course, it was. He could actually afford it. He gave her a polite nod, and an awkward silence filled the space between them.
Hermione looked down into her glass and was reminded of a topic she’d been meaning to broach with him. She didn’t think this was the most apt setting to discuss teratogens, but she was willing to bring up just about anything to break the empty silence.
“I’m not supposed to drink,” she noted as she swirled the dark liquid and took another sip, feeling the cold slide down her throat and warm her stomach. Malfoy’s own glass paused halfway to his mouth, and he raised an eyebrow.
“I thought you weren’t pregnant?” he said, tension coloring his voice as he set his wine down.
“Oh! I’m not,” she corrected, blushing. “But once I am—I mean—I shouldn’t.” Well, wasn’t that eloquent?
“I know that,” he said, fingers spinning the stem of his glass absently, his grey eyes never leaving her. “I wouldn’t risk it if I thought–”
“I know you know that,” she interrupted in an attempt to reassure him, setting her glass down as well and leaning in. “But there are a couple of other things that I should avoid, and I wasn’t sure if you knew already.”
“What?” he asked, sounding slightly stressed. Hermione regretted bringing this up, worried she was ruining the dinner.
“Well, caffeine, for one,” she sighed, knowing how she relied on it in the mornings.
“Oh,” he said, “I’ll get the alternative blends then.”
Hermione blinked, surprised that his first instinct was to make sure she was accounted for. “I would appreciate that.”
“And while we’re cutting things from your routine, I don’t suppose you could stop leaving your used dental floss on the kitchen table?” he asked, hiding a smirk behind the rim of his wine glass.
Hermione took a moment to register the odd pivot in the conversation and then gasped, slapping her palm over her mouth in horror. She had a habit of carrying dental floss in her bag and using it after meals. She may have forgotten to dispose of it on occasion.
“Oh my god,” she whispered from behind her hand as Malfoy returned his wine to the table, his smirk only growing. “I’m so sorry.” She must be flushed red now, based on the heat in her cheeks.
How many times had she forgotten to toss it in the bin? He hadn’t touched it, had he? No, surely he would have used magic.
“I’m so sorry!” she repeated in mortification as Malfoy let out an audible laugh.
“It’s alright, Granger,” he reassured, seeming to enjoy seeing her so flustered. “I just levitate it to the pile that I’m collecting. I’m going to weave it all into a pillowcase for you once I've got enough.”
Her jaw dropped in shock until she realized he was absolutely taking the piss out of her.
“You arse!” She leaned across the small table and swatted his arm. He gave a subtle roll of his eyes.
“Well, people do normally keep hygienics in the loo, Granger. I don’t know why you’re flossing at the table.”
Hermione huffed and flipped her hair behind her shoulder. “My parents were dentists and happened to teach me how to properly take care of my teeth, thank you very much,” she said, raising one eyebrow at him.
“Was that before or after the Densaugeo?” he asked, reminding her of the accidental spell that had hit her in fourth year, causing her teeth to grow down past her chin.
She would have hexed him there if it weren’t for the fact that she was currently wandless, so she settled for kicking him under the table. It took a few tries before she managed to make contact with his shin, and he hissed sharply, but still seemed too smug for his own good.
The waiter came by then, pointedly ignoring whatever had just occurred between the couple as Malfoy sat up straight from rubbing his leg.
Hermione couldn’t read any of the Italian on the menu, so she panicked, choosing something that sounded vaguely familiar and hoped she’d like it.
“So,” Malfoy drawled after the waiter retreated, rolling his shoulders as he leaned back in his seat, somehow still managing to look poised. “Dentists? That’s an exclusively Muggle occupation?”
Hermione swallowed the last dregs of wine from her glass and lamented that she’d finished it before their food had even arrived. “Yes. They fixed people's teeth. Cleaned them, straightened them, extractions, that sort of thing.”
Malfoy refilled her wine.
“I suppose that would be a necessary vocation in a magicless world,” he conceded.
“Well, your Quidditch captain certainly neglected to take advantage of his resources.”
“Flint?” He barked a laugh that surprised her. “He fixed his teeth eventually, I think. I saw him a few years ago, and they weren’t nearly so prominent.”
“Good for him,” she mumbled, reaching for her refilled glass.
“Are they still doing that? Your parents?” he asked.
“Yes,” Hermione answered. “Last I saw.”
Malfoy’s eyebrows knit together as he dissected the strangely-worded statement.
“They live in Australia,” she added, not wanting him to jump to any conclusions.
“Oh,” he hummed. “That’s… exotic. What made them decide to move? I’m assuming your family lived in Britain while you were in school.”
She let out a strained, unconvincing laugh. “They um, well, you see, I– I sort of forced them to go.” Her skin had grown hot and prickly at the thought of her parents. She regretted having brought them up at all. She was so warm. That damned charm! Hermione twisted her fingers into her napkin to busy them.
Malfoy looked torn between his curiosity for uncovering what on Earth she was talking about and diverting the conversation to give her emotional space.
“Voldemort was killing Muggle families, you see,” she began to explain, fighting the tightness in her throat that threatened to choke her words.
Malfoy’s body went still, and she couldn’t fully tell if he was breathing. He knew exactly what she was talking about.
“Granger,” he said, his low voice sounding hoarse, but Hermione continued.
“So I was taking necessary precautions.” She swallowed the lump that had formed, still twisting the napkin in her lap and avoiding his eyes. “I Obliviated myself from their entire memory and sent them to Australia, where I thought they’d be safe. And they are. They were never found, so…” Her words died, and her hands had begun to tremble.
She saw his throat bob in her peripheral vision; the only sound now was the quiet instrumental music playing from somewhere in the restaurant, along with the hum of surrounding conversations.
“When I went back to get them, I couldn’t reverse the spell,” she said, her voice breaking slightly, but determined to finish telling him the story. She was too far in at this point, and he’d surely have questions. And as her husband, she supposed he had some right to know. It may help him understand her more. “I tried for years, but I was completely gone from their minds. They don’t remember me, and they never will. So now I visit every few years when I can get away, and see how they are from a distance.”
Hermione sniffed, stared determinedly at the mosaic ceiling to keep her makeup from running and wondered if, perhaps, Malfoy thought she was completely, or only partially insane.
She looked at him after a few seconds, realizing she hadn’t heard him say a thing.
His gaze rose from the table as her head turned, and they locked eyes.
“You erased yourself?” he asked, fingers twitching where they rested next to his glass. Hermione nodded, coming back to herself as her eyes dried.
“Gods, I’m so sorry, Granger, that’s… awful.” He dragged the palm of his hand down over his mouth, and she found it in herself to laugh at his discomfort.
“I’m sorry, I don’t normally get so weepy when I talk about them,” she admitted, ignoring the look of wary concern on his face and trying to deflect. “It just hits harder sometimes, and I think my birthday may have brought up some feelings.”
She felt more or less returned to her normal self now, blotting away the moisture from her lashes with her fingertip.
“You did the right thing,” he said, his knuckle tapping distractedly against the tablecloth.
He looked so serious that it made her breath catch in her throat. Silver eyes pinned her in her seat.
“What?” she breathed, nearly a whisper.
“Sending them away, protecting them,” his voice was tight as he looked at her. “It saved them, Granger, don’t ask me how I know, but I do. You did the right thing.”
His thumb had moved to spin the ring on his left hand.
This was not the typical reaction she received when confiding this part of her life in people. Usually, she received subtle judgment; she was told how crazy it was that she jumped to such drastic conclusions. Or people simply wanted to know if it was very difficult to do so much memory magic (it was). And on one memorable occasion, she was told it must have been so nice to not have parents breathing down her neck while she was a teenager.
But not once had anyone ever told her plainly that she had actually done the right thing.
For the past ten years, she had hated herself for what she’d done to destroy her family. Sending her parents away was the hardest thing she had ever had to endure, hands down. Erasing herself from her mother and father’s memory was worse than the Crucio; it was worse than Bellatrix’s knife, it was worse than nearly every part of the war, because it never got better.
She had Harry back from the dead, but couldn’t even get her own parents to move back to Britain.
And now, the last person in the world she could have thought would reassure her about any part of the war had just healed something in her.
Malfoy knew things that she didn’t; that much was obvious. She didn’t want to know what he’d seen in Voldemort’s inner circle, or what he’d heard. But here he was, jaw tight, eyes honest, telling her that she wasn’t crazy or impulsive or bloody stupid for doing what she’d done.
“I regret it every day,” she said, slightly choked, flexing her hands and resting them on the table.
“Don’t,” he said earnestly. One of his hands found hers across the table, grounding her in the present. He squeezed it. She squeezed back. “They’re alive because of you.”
The tears that had just dried came back with a passion. Hermione closed her eyes, willing the lacrimal fluid to be contained.
She breathed in once and held it, focusing on the music playing in the background, the soft hum of other conversations, and the warm hand under hers. They’re alive, they’re alive, Malfoy’s words reminded her.
Hermione released the breath, blinking away the last of the wetness on her lashes and retracted her hand. Malfoy pulled his back as well, and it disappeared into his lap. He was still studying her, waiting to see if she had truly internalized his words or was simply trying to save face.
“Thank you,” she said with an awkward laugh, trying to break the tension. “That’s not the reaction I normally get, if you couldn’t tell. I’m alright now, though, really.”
And to her honest surprise, she was.
Something in her settled after finally telling Malfoy about her family. Subconsciously, for the last three months, she had been bracing for his judgement. The people she’d mentioned this to often subtly approached her with caution after she told them, foolishly worried that she’d try to erase all of their memories too. She had been dreading the moment that he’d fortify his walls around her, destroying all of the interpersonal progress they’d made.
But, he hadn’t. It almost seemed as if he respected her for having done it. His eyes studied her in a way they hadn’t before.
Hermione felt her pulse jump at the sudden change in appraisal, thankful that the arrival of the food tore his gaze away.
They ate slowly, conversation occupying their mouths more than mastication. Malfoy asked about the DRCMC, and Hermione asked about the cases he’d worked on recently.
He made a dry joke about halfway through her lasagna that took her several seconds to register, but when it did, she nearly choked on her bite through a fit of laughter. His ears had gone pink, a faint blush on his cheeks in the dim light, when Hermione had accidentally splattered a dot of sauce on her wrist, and in a disastrous moment of impropriety, licked it clean off.
She’d only realized the impertinence of the action for the setting after wiping the saliva from her wrist, her eyes going wide and meeting Malfoy’s before bursting into another round of giggles, stifled by her hand. Blame it on the wine, she decided, knowing full well that she hadn’t partaken nearly enough to concede responsibility for her actions. He looked horrified enough for the both of them.
At some point, the cushioning charm on her heels had faded again, and seeing as she was without her wand to recast the spell, she opted to kick them off beneath the tablecloth.
Despite the rather rocky start to the evening, she was having a fantastic time. Calderone Pieno was a stunning establishment with even better food. She felt confident in her dress, and Malfoy was proving himself to be excellent company, not that she didn’t already know that.
While they tended to have petty disagreements every other minute, he never backed down, challenging her points and making her brain work faster than it had anywhere else. He was a dedicated rebuttalist, she’d give him that.
They agreed on more than she would have thought, too, like that pumpkin juice should absolutely not be eaten with fish, and the best every flavor bean was the peach one, if you were lucky enough to discern it from vomit.
A short silence stretched as their evening wound down and Malfoy cleared his throat.
“I went into muggle London for the first time alone when I was nineteen.”
Hermione looked up from her empty plate in surprise at the random statement. “Oh…?”
He sucked his teeth and she saw the ghost of a smile pull at the corners of his mouth. “I’d just been cleared to leave the manor grounds, and… I don’t know… I just wanted to explore it, find out what I’d been missing, despite spending so much time on the magical side.”
Hermione matched his expression and smiled. He was fiddling with his silverware, arranging it meticulously across his plate to indicate that he was finished eating, unaware of her eyes fixed on him. “And, did you?”
Malfoy was still studying his fork as he contemplated this, and let out a laugh at some memory before sharing. “I was really freaked out by all of the vehicles at first. I still am,” he whispered to himself before finally meeting her eyes.
A slow grin crept across her face as they looked at each other, both drowsy from rich wine, heavy with food, and somehow not wanting to face the inevitable end of the night. If he wanted to impart information about himself to her, she was not going to stop him. Hermione found herself craving the glimpses of him that this night was offering her.
Malfoy waved a hand around. “Everyone else was sticking their arms out, and I was afraid that if I didn’t blend in, they’d realize I was a wizard and burn me at the stake, so I–”
“That only happened to witches,” she interrupted, tearing off the corner of a bread roll and popping it into her mouth to keep it occupied.
“Sorry?” Malfoy’s silver eyes jumped to hers, got distracted as her tongue licked a crumb off her lips, and then rose to make appropriate eye contact once again.
“They didn’t burn wizards during the witch hunts. Men caught using magic were hailed as prophets and messengers from the gods. The pinnacle of misogyny if you ask me. Oh, sorry, do go on.” Hermione cut her history lesson short as she registered Malfoy’s hesitant stare.
He chuckled softly. “Right… Well, regardless, I accidentally hailed a cab, and got in, because apparently teenage Draco had the survival instincts of an aubergine. I did have my wand stowed, so I at least had that advantage.”
He looked away, down at the table again as he pulled his lower lip between his teeth, spinning the wedding band on his left hand absently. Hermione wanted to kiss those lips. They looked soft.
Sorry what? Hermione blinked to try and clear the fog. She needed to reign her thoughts in.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Malfoy swallowed and looked at her, his ears going pink. “Sorry. It’s a stupid story. I just–”
She shook her head rapidly, making her vision swim as her curls brushed against her shoulders. “Oh! No, it’s not that I don’t want to hear it, it’s just come out of nowhere, is all.”
Malfoy sat up straighter. “I thought you’d find it—because you’re more familiar with muggle—never mind that was presumptuous of me. I apologize.”
Desperate to damage control, she grabbed his left hand to stop his fidgeting. “It wasn’t presumptuous. In fact, I’m now quite invested in this story, and will be rather cross with you if you don’t tell me how it ends.” She let go of his warm hand and rested her chin on her palm expectantly.
He was reluctant to finish, and likely regretted ever saying anything, but Hermione was more than willing to wait him out. They sat there until Malfoy released an amused sigh and continued.
The cabbie had asked him where he had wanted to go, and in his unfamiliarity with the entire taxi process, Malfoy had told the driver to choose for him. After some clarifying questions, and inquiries as to his potential status as an ignorant tourist (Malfoy had repeated the word with great offense) the cabbie had driven him around muggle London, serving as an unofficial tour guide, eventually venturing into the Knightsbridge area. Hermione perked up at the mention of their neighborhood as Malfoy told his story.
“He stopped in front of one of the buildings and said it had always been his dream to live there. I fell in love with the area too and moved in a week later.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow and laughed. “Rubbing your wealth and resources in his face, then?”
Malfoy looked affronted. “What? No!”
She shrugged and tore off another piece of the roll, teasing him. “Oh, look at this million-pound penthouse I love! It sure would be a shame if a rich wanker bought it on a whim and kept me from fulfilling my lifelong dream!” She did her best to imitate the way she imagined a London cabbie would sound, and couldn’t help but release a burst of laughter as Malfoy stared at her, taken aback by her strange and sudden comfortability around him.
“I don’t think Bernie minds, seeing as he lives a floor below us.”
Hermione took another bite of bread and narrowed her eyes at him skeptically. Malfoy smirked.
“He had a great aunt no one knew about pass away quite suddenly and leave him a small fortune.” He tapped his fingers together. “Four times removed or something like that.”
“Did he now?” Hermione said with obvious suspicion. Malfoy nodded sagely and took a long sip of wine.
She watched his lips close around the edge of his glass, and his throat as he swallowed. Malfoy had nice lips, she thought as he rolled them together, savoring the flavor of wine. He caught her eye then and she looked away, pretending like she didn’t even notice he was there as a smile fought its way onto her face.
“What are you thinking about, Granger?” he asked softly.
She looked back at him with a demure smile, lit by the subtle flickers of candlelight between them. “You did that for him? The cab driver?”
Malfoy adjusted his cuffs and shrugged, deflecting the conversation as he called the waiter and inquired after dessert.
~~~
Malfoy was certainly a gentleman, she thought as he paid the bill, pulled her chair out and offered his arm as they exited towards the Apparition point on the street.
Hermione blew out a little breath, her fingers tensing over his sleeve, feeling the muscle of his arm flex under her hand as they stepped outside.
The sun had gone down ages ago, though she didn’t even know what the time was. After the warming charm ebbed earlier in the evening, the wine had warmed her while they had been inside. But now, the September night air was chilly against her bare arms, and she shifted into Malfoy’s heat, a little closer than she had intended, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“I wish you could see the stars in the city,” she lamented, tilting her face towards the black, cloudy expanse above them.
“Mhmm.” Malfoy followed her eyes as his steps slowed, pausing them on the pavement. “I could always see them in Wiltshire,”
“And at Hogwarts," Hermione added, lowering her eyes regretfully at the lack of celestial bodies visible in London.
“I don’t miss Astronomy classes, though,” he said with an amused huff as they resumed their ambling towards the Apparition point. Hermione’s feet were feeling pinchy again.
“Those star charts took forever to do,” she agreed, laughing quietly and catching herself on his arm as her toes were rubbed raw by the unbroken leather. His other hand came to brace her as she released a frustrated whine. “Godric, I can’t wait to take these bloody knives off of my feet.”
“What’s the matter?”
“My shoes are pinching me.” She took a valiant step forward before limping again. “Ow.”
Malfoy’s arm tightened, preventing her from moving again as his eyes flitted to her feet, mostly obscured by her hem, and seemed to be troubleshooting.
Hermione blinked slowly, the wine and rich food making her eyes feel delayed in focusing.
She expected him to tell her to take her shoes off, or to recast a cushioning charm, or perhaps tell her to suck it up and walk another five meters to the Apparition point. He did none of those things, instead opting to drop her hold on his elbow, hook his hand under her knees, and hoist her into his arms.
Hermione squeaked, scrambling for purchase and anchoring herself around his neck.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, her face just inches from his. He moved in smooth, long strides towards their destination.
“Is this helping your feet?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and looking at her out of the corner of his eye. She had to roll her lips tightly together and avoid glancing at his mouth. Why did he have to smell so bloody good? She didn’t want to kiss him, she didn’t.
“Uhm.” Hermione rotated her ankles, noticing now how the slit of her dress was falling open. “Yes?”
“Then I’m helping.” He turned his face to hide his smirk and ignored the way she rolled her eyes. “Grab my wand, would you?” he said, after stopping over the point.
“Hmm?” She adjusted her hold on his shoulders. All she could feel and smell was him.
“It’s there in the holster, you’ll have to Apparate us since my arms are full.”
Hermione slipped the hawthorn wand from the holster tucked under his outer layer of robes. “You could set me down, you know.” She tightened her grip on his slim wand, wondering if she wasn’t perhaps too heavy for him.
“Not if your shoes are hurting you, now go on.”
She released a quiet scoff, but appreciated it nonetheless. Focusing especially hard due to the haze of wine, she closed her eyes and felt her magic slip into his wand’s unfamiliar core.
It welcomed her magic, more so than other wands she’d borrowed in the past, and after focusing on their destination, she Apparated them to Knightsbridge.