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Friday. It wasn’t exactly set in stone; it had never actually been discussed out loud. It just so happened that Auror Draco Malfoy and Annalyst Hermione Granger, both of the DMLE, met every Friday in the Leaky Cauldron after work, and had done so for a streak of a year and three weeks. That streak, however, ended today.
Hermione frowned and worried her lip as she stared at her full glass of gin and tonic.
“Everything alright with the drink, Miss Granger?” Tom asked, with a deferential bow. He always treated Hermione with a respect that bordered on royal, like she might sprout a tiara at any moment.
“It’s fine, thank you, Tom. I’m just waiting for-” she took an awkward breath “-someone.” And then she made a show of taking a long swig of her gin, just so Tom would go away.
Hermione waited twenty more minutes, with worry twisting in her gut. Should she go back to the office? What if his mission had gone awry- what would she do? March up there and say, ‘Hey, Robbards, the Field Auror I barely acknowledge in the office but get tipsy with every Friday hasn’t shown up to drink and gossip with me, and I’m worried.’No. No, that would be mental. What if he were in St Mungos? Should she go? No, no, that would be equally odd for a similar reason.
“Thanks.” Hermione slammed her tip down on the bar and left. She’d walk home. Clear her head.
Usually on a Friday, they walked home together. They lived close by; his house was closer to the Leaky, but he always insisted on walking past his own front door to drop her at hers; it was the gentlemanly thing to do.
Hermione approached his townhouse, which was totally on her route, so it wasn’t at all mental that she was passing. His lights were on. She wasn’t snooping; she could just see from the street. He was in. Hermione gnawed on her lip for a solid minute as she stared at his front door. I could just check in, make sure he’s ok. Hermione reasoned. What if he’s with a woman? Hermione swallowed. The thought of him being in there with a woman made her hands itch in an uncomfortable way, which made no sense, because as previously stated, they spent maybe three hours a week together and nothing more. No owls. No midweek chats. No tea in the break room. She haunted the archives and the labs; he stomped in the field; they were no more than ships passing in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Fuck it. That was clearly the gin talking. She walked up the stairs to his front door and pressed her balled-up fist gently against the wood, and then paused. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? The rational part of her brain finally piped up, and Hermione snatched her hand back, without knocking, as though she’d been burned. She couldn’t bang on his door! She needed to go home. She needed to have a long, hard talk with herself about boundaries and-
“Granger?” She hadn’t heard him open the door; she’d been too busy staring at her feet like a lunatic, warring with her own decisions.
“Malfoy!” Hermione blinked up at him, and her embarrassment was quickly wiped away in lieu of concern. “Are you alright?” He didn’t look alright. His eyes were red, his knuckles bruised, his hair was an absolute riot, and his shirt looked like he’d wrenched at it repeatedly.
There was a long pause, in which Draco Malfoy just stared at her in bewilderment.
“I- I- You usually come to the pub on a Friday, and you didn’t, and I was worried.” Hermione admitted, “You know how much of a worrier I am.” She tried to shrug off her own actions. Yes, it’s weird that I’m standing on your doorstep, Malfoy, but you know what I’m like? I worry!
“Come in,” Draco croaked, holding the door open for her. His voice sounded like he had been screaming, and he still looked utterly bewildered by her being there at his door on a Friday night.
Hermione entered Draco Malfoy’s townhouse for the first time in her life; unsurprisingly, it was stunning. The cream entryway, with original tile and large ferns in antique vases, was only marred by the two dents in the plaster where someone had clearly punched a wall. That explains the bruised fist.
“I heard on the grapevine that this wall is a total dick.” Hermione pointed at the divots in the plaster and shot him a quick smile as she pulled off her jacket, only to find it being tugged from her hands by his insistent fingers. She dared a glance at him and witnessed a slight tick of his lips. “Shoes on or off?”
“Off,” was his short answer. Hermione obliged and toed off her pumps, leaving her stocking-covered toes to deal with the slight chill of the gorgeous blue, white and green tile. He led her into his warm and inviting sitting room. It looked like something from Hermione’s dream house journal- all tall bookshelves and dark wood and crackling fire and rich green leather upholstery with brass fittings.
“I’ll get you a gin,” Draco muttered, and made his way over to a drinks trolley. Hermione watched his sock-covered feet pad across a thick carpet, and she smiled a silly smile. She’d never seen Draco Malfoy in just his socks before.
“I already had one,” she said just for the sake of saying something. “at the Leaky.”
“And I’ve already had an Ogdens, so we’re even,” he finally spoke as he pushed a beautiful, tall glass into her hand. “Sit,” he indicated the sofa before dropping into it himself. Hermione perched warily next to him. They always sat on stools at the Leaky, right up at the bar, where it was harder for people to join them but easy to eavesdrop. She was sure this was the first time her bum and Draco’s bum had been on the same surface at the same time. What are you thinking about? Hermione managed to shake her mind from its bizarre bum-based wanderings.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come to the pub,” he said through a tight throat. Hermione kept her eyes on the bubbles crackling on the surface of her drink.
“It’s fine, really, we didn’t have concrete plans-” he cut her off.
“We did. I meet you every Friday- I have been doing so for a year and three weeks.” She could see him nodding out of the corner of her eye as he spoke, but he kept his face forward. “I- I had a bad day, and I thought it best not to put that on you.”
Hermione managed to stop her mouth from muttering the idiocy that first popped into her head, which was: ‘You can put anything on me,’ and went with her second option: “That makes sense, but you should know by now; I’m a very good listener.”
“I don’t want to traumatise you, Granger.” He was finally looking at her. Hermione looked back, which forced him to take an awkward swig of his whisky.
“Put aside the fact that I lived through a war and have the scars to prove it, Malfoy,” she shot him a meaningful look, and he had the good sense to look abashed for thinking her so weak. “I spend five days a week knee-deep in viscera and records of massacres. I’m at the human limit for how traumatised one can be-” she laughed lamely, “so do your worst, because it won’t touch the edges.”
“There’s been a rise in New Death-Eater activity.” Draco Malfoy finally spoke, his eyes returned to his glass.
“I know, I was the one who deciphered the coded messages that uncovered their base in Falkirk.” Hermione silently hoped that surreptitiously alerting him to her classification would loosen his tongue.
“Was that your doing? It was exemplary work, Granger.” He afforded her a smile despite his clearly tense mood.
“Thank you, I actually really appreciate that! They don’t let us put our names at the top of the page like in school, so obviously my constant need for praise isn’t being fulfilled.” Hermione chuckled and gave him a little nudge, just like she would on any other Friday night. On Friday nights, he was her friend. “So, what happened with these New Death-Eaters?”
Draco sighed long and hard, “I was up North with the team, and we found a small cell of six men: two former Death Eaters and four new recruits they’d picked up at a bar. They’ve got these new masks and they look fucking stupid.” Hermione watched as he raked his fingers through his hair.
“The old ones were pretty stupid, too.”
“They were,” he nodded. “We apprehended five, but Finnegan was struggling with this kid. Even with the mask on and the big robes, you could tell he was a kid-” he took a shaky breath “just by how he held his wand, how he fought- all arms and legs and fear.”
“You used to look like that when you fought.” The words had slipped from Hermione’s mouth before she could pull them back in. She looked up at Malfoy, expecting something like anger to cross his face, for having the audacity to compare him to the criminal- instead she saw relief. Like maybe Hermione understood him, and that maybe made him feel better. Though, she was never that good with faces.
“He gave Seamus the slip, and I joined the chase-” Draco pushed on after another thick swallow. He was rushing his words, as if he just had to get them out of himself. “It was in an abandoned warehouse, and the kid was cornered. Then- then he threw an Avada at me.” Draco went pale, like he was facing death once again. Hermione couldn’t hold back the gasp that fell from her lips. She moved her hand to his, gripping him, just making sure he wasn’t really a ghost. “I shielded myself and blocked it- and - and it rebounded, and he got hit with it- the boy.” Draco held her fingers tightly in his own. “His mask came off, and he couldn’t have been more than 15 and- and I just- I saw myself- and Did he deserve it? Is it what I deserved?” The questions hung in the air, and Draco Malfoy panted as though he’d just run through that warehouse all over again.
Hermione, driven by the desire to comfort a ‘friend’, pushed onto her knees so that she could be both at eye level with and facing Draco Malfoy, “You’re wrong.” There was that winning Granger tact and delicacy everyone talked about. “On multiple counts, actually.” He looked at her, his brows creased with worry, and his eyes rimmed red with tears, both shed and unshed.
“Firstly, nobody deserves to die, Malfoy, but he fired a killing curse which tragically bounced back on himself, and that’s just Newton’s third law. Should you have died in his place?” Draco just stared at her, lips parted. “No, was the answer I was looking for.” Hermione tried another smile in his direction, but he didn’t reciprocate. “Secondly, you’re nothing like that boy-”
“You don’t know-” Draco started to protest, but Hermione found herself silencing him with a single-handed grip on his cheeks. She’d never touched his face before- he had fine stubble. Why are we cradling Draco Malfoy’s face between our thumb and forefinger, like a madwoman? Despite her brain’s panic, she didn’t let go.
“I knew the worst of you, and I saw you at your worst, too.” Hermione found she could only whisper the words; they were too heavy and ancient. They were words they’d tiptoed around, too scared to speak lest they break the tentative truce they’d built. Draco had said sorry years before, with a blanket statement of contrition that was both sincere and appreciated. It lacked details and specifics, but Hermione didn’t mind; she had no desire to litigate it all again, and so she had accepted his offer, and they had moved on. “I know you better than most, Malfoy. The good and the bad.”
“You do,” he nodded, and she found her hand slipping from his face. When she was ready to feel it drop back into her lap, she discovered it had instead been snatched back up by the hand it had abandoned moments before. Draco wrapped his fingers around hers, and Hermione had to take a beat to recentre her thoughts.
“You really have to want to kill someone to cast an Avada, to make it work. You never fired that curse once in your life, and your level of indoctrination into the dark-side was far more intensive and immersive than some unemployed teen who’s been fed a plate of bullshit at the local pub. You couldn’t fire that spell, not even under fear of your own death.” Hermione stared up at him, watching as the muscles in his face smoothed and relaxed with every word she spoke “You’re nothing like that boy, other than you were both young when someone put a mask on you. And that’s sad, certainly be sad that another kid lost their life to that horrible ideology- but don’t feel guilty and please don’t think you’re anything like him.” Draco nodded as he listened to her words, staring down at her with wide, mercurial eyes that she suddenly couldn’t look into. “and lastly, you don’t deserve anything else bad happening to you- between Harry trying to murder you and me smacking you about, I think you’ve had your Karma, Malfoy.” Hermione let out a little laugh as she stared at her knees.
Why had she knelt on the couch? Why had she talked for so long? Why was she so unbearably awkward? Why was she still holding his hand? No, but really? Why am I still holding his hand?
Or was he holding her hand?
“Thank you.” His voice was a whisper, a siren call to her eyes, drawing them back up to his face. “I should have come to drinks tonight. I should’ve known you’d make me feel better, Granger.” He laughed quietly and let go of her fingers. Hermione felt suddenly cold.
“Well, drinks came to you, so the streak still stands,” she tried to laugh, but it felt a bit empty.
“One year and a month.” Draco smiled a tight-lipped smile and reached into his pocket, retrieving his little appointment book, “my weekly dose of sunshine.” He opened his planner and flipped the pages, showing her every Friday. And there, on paper in ink, without fail, was a little drawing of a sunshine at the 6pm slot: “Just for future reference, it is very much set in stone for me.”
“Me too,” Hermione nodded, finally sliding to sit like a normal human being again, on her bum, facing out. She thought, now that he’d unburdened himself and she’d corrected his wrong feelings, they’d skate back into regular Friday chat: who’s sleeping with who, who’s stealing what, and who smells the worst in the office. But her mouth and a rebellious part of her brain, which she was sure were sabotaging her, had other plans:
“I look forward to Friday all week.” Hermione blurted, her eyes widening with shock at her own words.
“Really?” The breathiness of his voice forced her to look at him again. He seemed hopeful, or maybe he was hungry. It was a bitter irony that the woman who could read anything could not read faces.
“Yes,” Hermione laughed with a dollop of self-deprecation, “at this point, you’re like my only friend.”
It was Draco Malfoy’s turn to laugh; it was a loud bark that made her spill a little bit of her untouched drink on her leg. He reached out to wipe at her stocking-covered thigh, before thinking better of it, and instead leaned back in his seat to observe her, “You have plenty of friends, Granger, famously so.”
Hermione reclined too, just so she could feel on a level with him. “All of my old friends are either married with babies or are shagging their way around America-”
“Ron’s having fun then?” Malfoy smirked down at her. Hermione was confused by how close they were now, sitting almost shoulder to shoulder.
“Lashings of it.” she rolled her eyes. “I could do without the very graphic letters about the mass orgies he’s been attending, but it’s nice to see an old friend happy.” Hermione took a long drink of her gin and tonic. “All of the new people I meet have this very set idea of who I should be, and when I inevitably disappoint them by being myself- well, that’s just uncomfortable.”
“So,” Draco hummed, leaning over her just a little, “I’m your friend?”
“Only on Fridays,” Hermione chuckled. The gin was actually really nice; she took another sip, staring at her glass thoughtfully. “You know,” she snorted as if she was going to tell a funny story, “there was a space of about three weeks last year where the awkward one-armed hug we do, when you drop me off, was the only human contact I got - thankfully the milkman high-fived me the next Monday and broke that streak.” She looked up at him, expecting laughter, but he looked sad. “No, don’t be sad for me-”
“I could be your friend on other days.” Draco’s heavy voice made her blink.
“I was only half joking about the human contact thing,” she tried to wave off his worry, but she realised it wasn’t worry at all when the next words fell from his mouth:
“You said I was only your friend on a Friday, Granger.” Draco’s eyes narrowed. “I’d like you to know that you have my friendship on all seven days of the week.” He sounded angry, or maybe it was annoyance. STOP TRYING TO GUESS FEELINGS, HERMIONE!
“You never talk to me at work,” Hermione expounded, out of left field. Her mouth was once again in charge while her brain ran to keep up.
“YOU never talk to me! I was taking your lead!” his face was suddenly alight as he turned in his seat, pulling his knee onto the sofa to face her. It wasn’t lost on Hermione that his thick leg was now pressed into hers.
“Well, I- I was worried, you know, given our history, that you’d be embarrassed if I spoke to you in front of your cool field-auror friends-” she tried to put her fear of rejection into words, without sounding too desperate. You failed.
“They are not my friends, you are my friend, and I would never feel anything other than proud and pleased if you spoke to me in front of them.” Draco’s words were accompanied by a firm hand on her upper arm. “I mean, they would definitely tease me,” he smiled again, and gave the junction between her neck and shoulder a light squeeze.
“Why?” Hermione was almost struck dumb by the feeling of his fingers right on the border of her blouse collar, almost on her skin.
“Because the blokes at work, they’re all meatheads who think it’s a good laugh to poke fun at a chap while he’s trying to impress a pretty girl, and no doubt if you showed me any attention at work, I’d try desperately to impress you, and I’d probably make a total show of myself!” Draco said it so easily, as if it was entirely obvious that this would happen- and not, you know, what Hermione had imagined, which was Malfoy pretending not to know her and the field Aurors all laughing at her. Also: he’d called her pretty. Had he meant to do that? Probably not.
Hermione understood the kind of teasing Draco was describing; it was reserved for the ‘foxy ladies’ in the office. She’d seen it with her own eyes when Jeanie from the mail room had asked Seamus if he had a nice weekend and all the boys had piled around the Irishman as Jeanie swayed out. The aurors prodded him, mocking his blushing cheeks, and imitating his stammered reply of: ‘y-y-yes, Jeanie’. Hermione was not the type of girl who elicited that kind of response. Usually, when she spoke to one of the burly field aurors, it was to pass on information or scold them for their terrible evidence gathering, and she was met with averted eyes and grumbles.
“What are you thinking?” He flexed his fingers on her collar again, drawing her from the mental spiral she’d been falling down.
“wha-” Hermione blinked up at him, feeling suddenly bare and vulnerable. She usually could keep her ‘spacy’ moments to the privacy of her office.
“You went off somewhere, your face was doing somersaults.” Draco smiled at her kindly, inviting her to be as vulnerable as he’d been when he told her about his day. Offering her the kind of friendship that occurred on other days of the week.
“I was just- I was thinking, your friends- they probably wouldn’t react like that if I talked to you- you know, the joshing and stuff. I’m not like Jeanie- ” had he snuck Veritas Serum into her gin? Is that why she’d been completely unable to control her output for this entire interaction?
“Who the bloody hell is Jeanie?” Draco chuckled, staring down at her with bemused brows.
“From the mail room? She has the big-em-smile.” She’d been about to say ‘tits’, but Hermione had managed not to set her gender back, and also confirm it was not veritas serum in her drink, as Jeanie had an average-sized smile. “She’s the really pretty one.”
Draco Malfoy looked down at his lap and scrunched his brow, as though thinking very hard, “The woman who always has lipstick on her teeth?”
“Yeah.” That was Jeanie. Hermione nodded; he finally understood.
“What’s she got to do with anything?”
“I’m just saying that’s the kind of woman they’d tease you about, a total bombshell, not me. I’m like- homely.” Hermione wished with all her heart that she still had a Time Turner so she could go back to the moment she’d started talking about Jeanie and slap herself silent.
“Who the fuck told you that you were homely?” Draco Malfoy always got more sweary when he’d finished his second whisky.
“Ron.” Hermione stopped looking at him; his scrutiny was making her hands itch again.
“With all due respect, Weasel King can’t get it up unless he’s being choked by a half-giant and watched by at least seventeen other people-”
“Has Ronald added you to his mailing list?” The specificity had been so, well, bloody specific that there was no way Draco hadn’t read Ron’s recent correspondence. Hermione turned back to the man to find him grinning.
“Weasley writes to Theo, they share a passion for putting things up their arses.”
Hermione choked on the last of her gin at his observation and found the beverage being pulled from her hand. She heard the clink of the glasses being set down on the wood as she composed herself and tried to stop coughing.
“My point is that Ronald’s perspective is very skewed, and you shouldn’t be viewing yourself through his lens.” Both of his hands were now free, and each had found its way to her shoulders, pulling her round so she was facing him.
“Whose lens should I look through then?” she asked, feeling heat flood across her body from the points where his big hands lay.
“mine.” Draco’s voice had gone all deep, deeper than normal, subterranean, really.
“What?” She had to stop saying ‘what’ like an idiot.
“You’re gorgeous, Granger,” he spoke with assuredness, as if he wasn’t just being nice, which was silly because obviously he was just being nice. She was ‘fine’ at best. “Always have been!”
“Oh, come off it.” Hermione shook her head. He was totally just being nice.
“You are so fucking hot that in fourth year, a world-class Quidditch star and every boy in Hogwarts ignored a fucking Veela to stare at you,” he scoffed, finally letting her go and falling back into the corner of the sofa. He folded his arms over his belly and stared at her, waiting for her to deny it.
“Viktor said he was drawn to my study method, not my face.” Hermione corrected, folding her own arms and mirroring his pose. She did that quite a lot; now she thought about it, she was always trying to match his demeanour. What did that mean? Hermione didn’t get to analyse her own behaviour further as Draco Malfoy let out another loud and incredulous laugh at her statement.
“That’s what boys say to girls when they don’t want to come off as superficial-” he drew his hand across his face as a goofy smile came to his lips. “I would take you to the sixth-floor boys’ toilets right now, if I could.” He laughed.
“And I’d say no, thank you! Why on earth would I want to loiter in a boys’ toilet?” She chuckled, he was such a strange man sometime.
“Because, Miss Hermione Granger,” he started, and Hermione bit her lip; it always did something funny to her when he said her first name, “in the third cubicle of the sixth-floor boys’ toilet is a full wall dedicated to you, and charmed by Fred Weasley to never be erased.” Draco smiled sadly down at his drink, perhaps remembering the long-gone Weasley twin. “They’ll probably do a chapter on it in later Hogwarts: A History editions.”
“What- what?” Hermione couldn’t expand; all she wanted to know was what?
“That’s probably not the compliment I thought it was,” Draco chuckled again and flicked his wand, refilling their glasses. He took a long sip of his whisky as he levitated Hermione’s gin over to her.
“What is on the wall?” Hermione was confused. What did a dedicated toilet wall mean? Obviously, her mind went to the worst option, which was teenage boys' cum. Maybe they spaffed on a drawing of her or something? That type of thing had happened to Ginny when she’d first joined the Harpies, men sending her posters back to her with a little extra dollop of their DNA crusted on the moving image of her face.
“There are some written tributes from people who’ve observed you doing something unintentionally hot and needed to share. We called it Granger Danger.” Draco huffed a laugh as he recounted a history of Hogwarts Hermione had no idea of. “There are a few drawings, a limerick that I’m 99 per cent sure was Finnegan.” He explained with a wave of his hand as though this was totally normal information. “There’s a whole portion of the wall that’s just poor blokes describing the painful yet exhilarating experience of watching you eat a sugar quill in the library.” He let loose another laugh and downed half his glass. “I’ll admit that a few of those were mine.” He brushed past that information as though he’d never said anything of interest and danced to his next question, “Surely there was a toilet wall dedicated to me?” he raised a brow and shot her a smirk, like he knew there wasn’t, but he wanted her to play along anyway.
“No, Malfoy- we’re not cavemen.” This made him truly laugh, as though it was the first time he’d seen the parallels. “We just talked about you.”
“Oh yeah,” he leaned in closer to her, and she could feel his whisky breath on her cheek. “What were you saying, Granger?”
“Oh, things like, Malfoy’s up to something, and, hey, we should keep an eye on Malfoy.” She gave him a cheeky smile and took a long drink of her third gin.
“That is disappointing. I’d imagined the girls of Gryffindor in their negliges and fluffy slippers, all oohing and aahing over my sixth-year growth spurt.” he gave her knee a little nudge with his.
“In my defence, I was spending most of my time with Harry and Ron, and they did not like it when I mentioned your height. I think it made them jealous,” she extended a little olive branch in their pretend argument.
“Of course it did. I was magnificently tall for my age, and that was while under extreme stress, Granger. Imagine how much taller I would’ve been if my father hadn’t forced me to join a death cult.” She watched as his grin spread. While they avoided talking about their shared trauma, it didn’t stop either of them from delighting in gallows humour, so long as it was vague enough not to trigger anything. Hermione enjoyed it; it was like dancing in a graveyard, the kind of thing that made normal people frown and shake their heads. She could do that with Malfoy.
“At least seven feet.” She played along with a genuine smile.
“Damn you, Voldemort, stopping me from reaching my full potential.” Draco waved his fist at an invisible foe, and Hermione laughed a full-throated laugh. She felt giddy, perhaps it was the gin, perhaps it was the strange tension in the air, perhaps it was all the compliments he’d lobbed at her. He’d called her pretty and hot and, he’d confessed to writing about her on a toilet wall- what did that mean?
“I love that laugh.” Draco Malfoy spoke in a voice that had gone very gravelly, and Hermione noticed for the first time that his arm had moved to the back of the sofa, his fingers tugging gently at one of her curls.
“What laugh?” Hermione, for a reason she wasn’t really sure of yet, wanted to reach out and touch his thigh. Just a squeeze of his meat. Just to see what it felt like.
“That full-throated real laugh, it’s rare, but it’s the best one of your laughs.”
“I didn’t know I had different laughs.”
“You do.”
Hermione stared ahead; she wasn’t sure what to do with this information, or with the way he was looking at her, or with the strange texture of his voice. It was doing nothing to temper the pernicious little crush that had twisted like vines around her gut over the last year. That first drink with him had watered a dead sapling she’d shoved deep in her belly during puberty, and every libation thereafter only served to nurture the creeping emotional fauna, until it was squeezing her heart and screaming, ‘Feed me. FEED ME!’. She was losing her mind.
“You went away again.” Draco Malfoy tugged at the little curl he’d been fingering, dragging Hermione back from her tortured thoughts once again. This is what happens when we don’t talk to people outside of the office.
“I need to eat,” Hermione said quickly, her thoughts of ‘feed me’ still swirling in her head. “I skipped lunch, and this gin is strong,” she laughed wetly and made to stand up; she was giving herself and him an out.
“Let me feed you,” he said, putting an arm out to halt her escape. His word choice had her gasping.
“I don’t want to be a bother-” Hermione wondered how red her face was. She imagined it was the colour of a Weasley jumper, given the heat she could feel radiating off her own cheeks.
“It’s taken me a year and a month to finally get you into my house, Granger. You’re not a bother,” he said easily as he pushed himself to stand. Hermione just blinked. Draco Malfoy was being very confusing indeed. Sure, they sometimes flirted on Friday nights, light banter, nudges, an awkward one-armed hug, and some lingering eye contact. Nothing which might indicate something more- “Come on,” he once again cut through her musings as he grabbed her hand and pulled her to stand.
Hermione could only follow him as he slipped his fingers between hers and tugged her along behind him, deeper into the townhouse. Where had her gin gone? Had she put it down? Her mind had gone all smooth, what with the feeling of his skin on hers.
“Your house is lovely,” Hermione spoke, needing to say something. Had she already said that, or had she just thought it?
“I’m glad you like it,” he said, squeezing her hand, pulling it flush against his thigh. “You okay with roast chicken and veg?”
“Are you going to cook?” she had the wherewithal to raise a dubious brow, which he caught with a smile.
“No,” he chuckled. “I’m going to reheat one of the meals my mother’s elves prepared for me, put it on a fancy plate, serve it to you, and take all the credit.”
“Ah, then I’m okay with chicken and veg.” Hermione felt him give her hand a little appreciative squeeze as they entered the large and underused kitchen.
“Sit.” he pulled out a stool, finally letting go of her limb and set about to do exactly as he promised. Elf ready meals were certainly a cut above the Muggle ones Hermione found herself eating nearly every night in front of the TV. Alone. “Here.” Within minutes, he was sliding a piping-hot, Michelin-grade plate before her, and after a single bite, Hermione could confirm that the food was indeed as delicious as it looked. She chewed thoughtfully, and more importantly, silently. A full mouth was a mouth incapable of saying anything stupid.
“You’ve got a little-” Draco leaned forward, swiping her lip with his thumb, “gravy.” and then he pulled his thumb back and popped it in his own mouth. Hermione swallowed, the ball of half-chewed protein slid painfully down her throat, and for a moment, she thought she might choke.
“You need to stop!” She finally managed to gasp after several thick swallows, once her pipes were cleared.
“Wh-” she didn’t let him question her as she slammed her fork down on the kitchen island.
“I- I know you’re not doing it on purpose, Malfoy, and it’s fine in the pub where it’s neutral territory- but we’re in your kitchen, and I can see your socks, and that’s very intimate, and how you’re acting- like- like you like me, it’s making me think things and- it’s confusing. Is this because I mentioned the thing about human contact and the milkman earlier?” She took a heaving breath and wished to all the gods she had just kept the chicken in her mouth. “Sorry,” she finally spoke after a tense silence, “I didn’t mean to shout.”
Draco Malfoy blinked at her for a solid minute. It looked as though he was picking over every word she’d vomited at him. “I do like you,” he finally said, in a very neutral tone.
“No, of course you do. I meant it in the more in the- you know, the fancying sense.” Hermione placed her hands over her burning cheeks and stared at the swirls in the marble countertop. THIS WAS THE WORST DAY EVER.
“I’m just not used to all the compliments, and I know you were just being nice, but-” Her lungs screamed, so she gulped air. “- do you know what? I’m an idiot! This is why I’m only allowed to have a friend for three hours a week.” Hermione slapped her palms on the countertop with finality and stood, giving him a tight-lipped smile, and spoke primly: “I’m going to go now. Thank you for having me. I’m so sorry. I think the gin got to my head.” With that, Hermione turned on her heel and took a single step before she felt a hand on her waist pulling her to stop. “Please don’t. I’m very embarrassed.” Her voice was so small. She didn’t turn to him; she couldn’t. She’d, in a mortifying twist, burst into tears. She was sure he could tell from her shaking voice, but still, she didn’t want him to see her crying.
“Hermione.” His voice was gentle, and his fingers curled into her hip, pulling her back. Her shoulders hit a solid chest, and another hand found her waist. When had he stood up? “I do like you- in the fancying sense.” He dipped his head so that his lips hovered just beside her ear, “A year and a month ago, I decided to finally do something about my ‘feelings’ for you, so one Friday I got very brave and asked you for a drink-” Hermione twisted in his arms; he was wrong, and Hermione did love to tell people when they were wrong.
“No-no, you didn’t! You asked if I was going to the pub, and I said yes, and then you showed up.” Hermione sniffed and almost forgot about her tears when she realised she was pressed chest to chest with Draco Malfoy, who had just told her he liked her- in the fancying sense.
“Semantics.” his hands drifted up her sides. “The point is, it went quite well, I thought, and then the next day at work you blanked me-”
“YOU BLANKED ME!” Hermione stated, aghast and wide-eyed.
Draco ignored her, letting his fingers dance over her shoulders and into her hair. He pushed each side of her mane back behind her ears, then watched with a knowing smile as the curls sprang free again, refusing to be detained. “I’ve always wanted to do that.” he swiped at her cheeks with his thumbs, and Hermione tried desperately to remember how to breathe. “I decided to try again the next Friday, and so it began- a year and a month trying to woo you- and after all that, you think I’m just ‘being nice’?”
“Yes?” Hermione half answered, half asked.
“Fucking hell, Granger,” he chuckled and cradled her cheeks in his wide palms, “When have you ever known me to be nice?”
“You’re nice to me.” Hermione’s head was swimming; the doubting voices in her mind suddenly quieted by the way he looked at her, like he wanted her, needed her. Had he been looking at her like that this whole time?
“Because I like you, silly witch.” Draco lowered his face to hers, his warm forehead pressed against her own. “I’m mad about you, Hermione.”
“Oh.” Hermione was sure she was about to short-circuit; his breath was whisky and gravy and lust.
“Do you like me too?” He asked, running the tip of his nose along the bridge of hers.
“Yes.” She answered before her self-doubt and insecurity could choke her into silence.
“In the fancying sense?” Draco chuckled, his mouth in a holding pattern an inch from her lips.
“Yes,” and then she was being kissed. Not the kind of kissing she’d experienced before. This kiss was in black and white, in the rain, with swelling music and a kicked-up heel. Even though it was in a dry kitchen and both her feet were firmly planted on the ground, thanks to her complete loss of bodily function. She found herself falling backwards, only she wasn’t falling, she was being held by his strong arms as he folded over her, plundering her mouth with his own. A soft moan filled her ears, and Hermione honestly couldn’t tell if it was her or him who had made the sound.
“I knew we’d be good at this,” Draco growled against her lips as he braced a strong arm around her back, pulling her flush with him.
Hermione hummed her agreement, then took in a shaky breath.
“Finish your food.” Draco planted a final kiss against her lips, then pulled away. “You’re hungry and overwhelmed.” Hermione nodded mutely, because that’s exactly what she was. She noticed with a little smile that he’d pulled her stool closer to his so that when they sat, their legs touched.
Draco ate his dinner one-handed, his free hand cradling the back of Hermione’s neck, making her feel safe and grounded. He didn’t talk; he just let her process and eat.
“Better?” He asked when she placed her cutlery down. He leaned into her, fingering the curls at her nape.
“Yes, much.” Hermione breathed with a nod, and then she was squealing, suddenly held aloft and cradled in strong arms.
“I’ve realised something tonight, Hermione.” Draco muttered, keeping his eyes focused ahead of him as he turned from the kitchen, with Hermione in his embrace: “You’re not very good at picking up on subtext, are you?” he shot her a gentle smile, which stopped her from barking at him that she was ‘good at everything,’ as if reading her mind; he ploughed forward as he rounded the corner into the hallway: “You’re allowed to not be the best at something, sweetheart.” he pecked her nose as he maneuvered them into his luxurious sitting room, once again.
“I’m not good at figuring out what people mean when they don’t say what they mean.” Hermione corrected him, and her voice for the first time in an hour was bold. Draco laughed, “I think that’s a them problem and not a me problem.”
“I think you’re right, Hermione,” he said, taking his seat and holding her across his legs. Hermione swallowed. She’d gone from sharing a bum surface with him to using him as a bum surface. She blinked as she tried to stop thinking the words Bum-Surface in a loop. “Which is why I’m going to endeavour to be straightforward with you from now on,” he vowed, pulling her closer against his chest and tilting her chin up so he was almost speaking into her parted lips.
“That would actually be really helpful,” she nodded, fixated on the cupid’s bow of his sharp mouth.
“So when I asked you, every Friday, if you were seeing anyone, you thought I was just making polite enquiries?” He watched her face like nothing else in the room existed, and it made Hermione’s heart thump.
“Yes.” She nodded, because she had thought just that.
“I see,” he pressed the most chaste of kisses to her slightly pouted lips.
“I’m sorry.” Hermione once again felt like she’d failed at being a person. She was odd. She knew it. She saw the world differently from everyone else, which was why people took so long to warm to her. Her personality was why Harry and Ron had only really taken to her once they’d been trauma-bonded.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, I was at fault.” he kissed her again, deeper this time. “So, for the sake of clarity and assuaging any further doubts, I am very much in a state of devoted fancying,” he grinned, cupping her face. “Of you .” he clarified. “I would very much like to enter into a relationship with you, which occurs on all days of the week.”
“That sounds nice.” Hermione stared up at him; her brain reeled. What kind of relationship? What are the parameters? What does he expect from her?
“A romantic relationship,” he said, narrowing his eyes and taking in her panicked features.
“Oh, good. Yes.” She nodded, wondering if he was reading her mind- and if he was, was it such a bad thing?
“A romantic relationship that is exclusive,” he clarified further, with more kisses.
“Does that mean I have to stop high-fiving the milkman?” Hermione asked with a slightly relieved laugh as the ropes of anxiety loosened themselves in her brain and chest. The big, warm hand sneaking up her thigh was probably helping, too.
“I mean, you’re at liberty to high-five whoever you want, my love, but I will get very, very jealous,” he offered with a silly smile as he stroked Hermione’s cheeks.
“I’ll play it by ear then,” she nodded sagely, and for the first time since he kissed her in the kitchen, she initiated contact. She leaned up and pressed her lips against his, pulling back for a second to try and read his expression. He was smiling. She knew that one. He was happy. She smiled back, not because it was something she was supposed to do, but because she wanted to, very much.
“Would you like to see my bedroom?” Draco muttered against her lips, his hand tightening around her thigh.
“Okay?” Hermione panted against his chin, and then she was once again being hoisted and carried through his townhouse.
“All the original wood on the bannister,” he almost wheezed as he practically jogged up the stairs with Hermione flung over one shoulder, laughing and gasping.
“Lovely,” she commented, because it was a lovely bannister. The kind she could imagine Mary Poppins sliding down.
“You’re lovely,” he grumbled, patting her bottom, and then she was put back on her feet in a luxuriously large master bedroom with a massive bed covered in a crisp, white, fluffy duvet. There was an ornate floor-to-ceiling mirror, and more seating than a bedroom really required. His boudoir was just a smidge smaller than her entire flat.
“You could convene an emergency wizengamot meeting in here.” She looked up and noted that the ceilings were so bloody high.
“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you. I’m trying to cop a feel with the girl I really fancy.” Draco chuckled into her neck, from his position behind her, his fingers spanning her ribs.
“Oh, sorry.” Hermione nodded, now feeling a little more secure in this mutual attraction; what with his persistent boner pressing into her spine. She felt like she could partake in some flirty banter- or at least attempt it: “I didn’t realise. How’s it going?” She turned her neck to look up at him, her face deadpan, and waited.
“Quite well, I hear she might like me in the fancying sense.” He played along, one eyebrow raised.“Though, I am quite worried that my keenness might frighten her off.”
“Not possible,” Hermione shook her head, her eyes catching their reflection in the long mirror. They looked good together. It was strange; she’d never seen herself look like a person in love before. Love? Who said anything about love? She took a deep breath and tried to shush her brain, but her catastrophising internal whine had picked up speed. He just wants sex. You’re an easy target. You’re going to get hurt. He’s hurt you before; he’ll do it again. He doesn’t l-
“Hermione.” His voice sounded almost distant, even though it came from directly behind her left ear. She didn’t respond. She just frowned at her reflection. “Tell me what you’re thinking?”
“It’s stupid.” She smiled and shook her head, trying to bring herself back into the present, into his arms. He used to hate you.
“Nothing you think is stupid, it might be wrong, but never stupid.” His lips found her neck, and he kissed along her pulse point “Nothing you could say to me would make me like you any less, Granger,” he hummed against her skin.
“I- I catastrophise.” Hermione blurted, “That’s what the mind healer calls it. I-I call it making contingencies.” Her breath stuttered as he moved his hands slowly from her waist, palming his way down her covered thighs.
“Makes sense. I do the same thing sometimes.” He moved his lips to her jaw, pressing more light kisses to her flushing skin. “When the worst always happens, one prepares for the worst.”
She nodded, then, with a small voice, added, “I don’t want the worst to happen, any more.”
“I won’t let it.” His fingertips caught under the hem of her work skirt. He didn’t pull it up; he just lingered, letting the pads of his fingers roam her thighs as his lips pressed a reassuring kiss to her cheek. “Tell me, sweetheart. Say it all out loud, let me ease your anxiety.” Hermione’s only response was to chew on her lip, “I told you I was going to be straightforward with you, didn’t I?” Another kiss, another nod. “Give me the same, Hermione, it’s only fair,” and then he smirked, like he knew he’d stuck the landing, like he knew her need for a fair game would trump her anxiety. How had he learned her so well in 3-hour weekly increments?
“Is this just about sex?” Hermione finally asked, turning her neck and pressing her cheek to his chest, her chin tilted back to better see his face. Not that you’re very good at reading expressions.
“No.” He answered her seriously, his eyes affixed to hers. “Is this because I brought you straight to my bedroom? I knew I was being too keen!” He rolled his eyes at himself.
“I think I’d probably have thought that, no matter the location,” Hermione said honestly after a few seconds of reflective silence, before turning back to stare at the reflective surface.
“I’m not going to lie to you, Hermione,” he caught her eye in the mirror as he continued with his endeavor to drag the fabric of her work skirt up her legs. “I am ridiculously enthusiastic about the idea of making love to you- being inside you from various angles.” He grinned at her reflection, and Hermione couldn’t suppress the little laugh his words elicited, “but, only after three dates, in accordance with the award-winning ‘witch weekly: Is he husband material?’ segment.” Hermione’s giggle grew as he continued to bare her upper thighs to the room at large. “I’m obviously still going to try to make you scream my name as I snog you into my mattress. And I’ll probably cajole you into staying the night, too, so that I can wake up next to you and confirm I wasn’t actually hit by that Avada earlier today- because this feels like heaven.” Hermione’s laughter softened as she watched him watching her, his fingers dancing dangerously close to the hem of her panties. “But beyond the sex, Granger, I want to fall asleep on the sofa with you, and argue about books, and take you away for romantic weekends, and- fuck, Hermione, I want everything.” She stilled in his arms “Too keen?” She could see the worry cross his brow.
“No. I’m just processing.” Her shoulders slackened, heartened and eased by his devotion, she decided to reveal more of her anxieties: “So I’m not just an easy target?”
“Given it took me 13 months to kiss you, no, Hermione, I’d say not,” he grumbled, and then, as though to mark his point, he smashed his lips against hers, kissing her with a feverish need that had her knees weak. His fingers, which were now on her bare hips, her skirt now nothing more than a belt, pressed gently, forcing her bum back to rest against his pelvis. She could feel, more clearly now, how much he wanted her. “What else?” he traced a finger over the gusset of her panties, and Hermione’s breath shuddered.
“Don’t-” Hermione faltered; what she was about to say was almost an accusation, a warning. “Don’t hurt me, okay?” she finally said and watched the reflection of his face for any sign of defensiveness, or perhaps outrage.
“I won’t, love.” Draco kissed her cheek with reverence. “I won’t ever hurt you again.” He cupped her pulsing core in his hand and held her, waiting for her eyes to meet his again in the mirror. “I know what I was, and what I did-” he breathed and she watched his nostrils flare “When I look back, the moments when I hurt you are the moments I regret the most. I hate that I ever made you feel bad, love.” he nudged her jaw with his nose forcing her to tilt her head and give him better access to her tender neck “let me make you feel good, let me show you how much I’ve changed.”
“You don’t hate me any more.” Hermione gasped, his fingers pressing harder into the soaked cotton between her legs. It wasn’t really a question; it was more a confirmation.
“Never did, baby,” he groaned as he took her earlobe between his teeth and nipped, “never could,” he hummed, “I hated myself, but never you.” Hermione could hear what sounded like desperation in his voice, like he was on the verge of whimpering. Like he was a man who’d waited more than a year for her to see him. And now, now he was all she could see.
All the tight little bows of anxiety she’d knotted around her synapses loosened; he wasn’t going to hurt her. He liked her. He wanted her. He’d said so and she trusted him, so she had to believe him. She let out a long, shaky breath, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, baby, now, do I have permission to go underneath the panties? Either way, I’m going to make you cum” he grinned at her reflection, with devilment in his eyes.
The fabric of the semi-fancy knickers had been bothering Hermione all day; if she had her druthers, she’d wear nothing under her skirts- or better yet, she’d wear lounge pants to work- alas, neither was an option. The point was, Hermione Granger was always eager to get out of her pants, and Draco seemed just as eager to get into them, so she didn’t bother to answer him. Instead, she flicked her wrist, muttered some arcane words of her own devising, and removed the scallop-edged knickers to her home laundry basket. Draco’s grin widened. “That’s a nifty little bit of magic, sweetheart.”
“It’s my own spell. The first thing I do when I get home is de-underwear, the labels and the frills they annoy me all day,” she explained, “I’m not some sort of sex-mad witch who’s always magicking her knickers off for blokes.” Hermione clarified, just in case that was the impression he was getting. Which would make sense; she had just exposed herself to him with very little preamble.
“I don’t know why, but the idea of you being so desperate to get your pants off, you had to come up with a spell- fuck. It’s very hot, love,” he chuckled as he finally dipped his finger between her folds, a hiss falling from his clenched teeth. Hermione couldn’t look away from the mirror, from his face, his fingers, her skirt pulled up over her belly.
“You’re wet,” he commented with a pleased smirk as he peered at his fingers over her shoulder.
“Well, I am very fond of a high ceiling.” Hermione chuckled at her own joke. The thing she’d almost forgotten as she spiralled in his townhouse was that for the last year and four weeks, she and Draco Malfoy had been having fun. Joking. Making each other laugh. And when she remembered that, and heard his deep, reverberating laugh, the last of her nervousness evaporated.
“My funny little witch,” he chuckled into her shoulder, as his fingers swirled around the cluster of very needy nerves between her legs, and Hermione felt the warmth of possession wrap around her; it was comforting, like a weighted blanket. She was his funny, odd, weirdo.
“yours.” Hermione agreed, watching with hawklike eyes in the mirror to see his response. It was immediate. Dark eyes were on her, his arm tightened around her middle as he bucked into her rear.
“Say that again, love?” he begged and ordered in one sentence.
“Yours,” she said louder. Draco’s fingers slipped into her. Two, pressed close together, hooking inside like he was trying to tug her towards their reflection. His palm smothered her clit as he moved the fingers inside of her. She felt full and hot, then she felt something new, something Ron had missed entirely while too focused on his own feelings, a part of herself she didn’t even know existed. “FUCK!” she bleeted, as her neck jacked back and her legs turned to toffee.
“There?” Draco asked, lips against her ear as he continued to play her like an instrument he’d invented.
“Wha- ah- yes.” Hermione couldn’t form a coherent thought, never mind a sentence; her neck was straining back while his shoulder buffered her head and prevented her spine from snapping entirely. He thrust his fingers gently, but it felt like he was hitting some sort of atomic switch within her, over and over and over. She turned her head against his shoulder to look up at him again, only to find his dark eyes already on her.
“Is your brain nice and quiet now, love?” He panted, looking almost as undone as Hermione, as he craned over her shoulder to press his nose to her cheek.
Hermione could only nod, because yes, that’s exactly what he’d done. All this time, her off switch, her mute button, had been hidden inside her.
“Good girl,” he cooed before crashing his lips into hers and kissing the very soul from her body. She came with a cry directly into his parted lips, and liquid gushed from between her legs, soaking her thighs.
“Fuck.” Draco groaned against her mouth, his fingers still inside her. “Well, that was the best thing I’ve ever done,” he pecked her lips, pulling his fingers out slowly from her still pulsing core. Hermione’s flabber had been gasted. Her life had slipped away, then slammed back into her body, and finally she understood why the French were the way they were. She’d died a tiny death.
“Sorry for the mess.” She finally managed to speak as she let her eyes trail from the little puddle at her feet to their reflection again, only to witness Draco Malfoy doing something so sinful and filthy it almost made her cum all over again. He was licking her mess from his fingers, diligently and intently. His eyes met hers.
“That’s never something you need to say sorry for,” he pointed down, “It was brilliant. Let me clean you up,” he hummed, and lifted her bodily, carrying her to the bed.
And then he did just that, he cleaned her with a cloth, he changed her into one of his big t-shirts, he swatted her hands away from his trousers when she offered to return the favour.
“It wasn’t a favour, and I finished in my pants like a seventeen-year-old when you started making garbled noises, love.” he kissed her forehead, then slipped into bed beside her and held her close to his chest. “I’m so glad you came, Granger,” he grumbled into her ear.
“To the house, or, you know- just then?” she asked, genuinely curious about the answer.
Draco laughed and squeezed her tighter, “Both.”
“Me too.” Hermione nodded her agreement and snuggled into him.
fffff
As she click-clacked through the ministry with her shoulders thrown back and a bounce to her step, passers-by noted something new about Hermione Granger. A lightness, a springiness, a secret smile that tickled her lips.
She pushed open the door to the Auror bullpen and cast her eyes across the hubbub. She had cracked a code for Robbards and had been told to hand it to him in person, and so that’s what she was doing. Nothing else. There was nothing different about her baby-blue work blouse, or the navy knee-length pencil skirt, or the sensible heels on her feet, and yet, the eyes of the Aurors snagged on her. She didn’t notice, but then again, she never did.
“Here’s the cypher from the egg smugglers, sir. It took twenty minutes; it’s not very advanced.” She smiled serenely, having no idea the old man had stared at the scrap of paper for a week before shipping it to her. Robbards didn’t scold her; he was rather fond of the odd girl and grateful for her brain.
“Excellent work, Granger,” he nodded and left. Hermione, at this point, would usually have done the same. Maybe she’d have cast a secret glance at her Friday friend, maybe. Today was different. She pulled the sugar quill she’d been saving for her break from her pocket and eyed Harry, who was watching her with something like suspicion in his eyes.
“You alright, curly?” he asked, pushing his specs up his crooked nose.
“Fine, Harry. How are you?” Hermione asked with a half grin as she popped the quill into her mouth and finally, finally turned her eyes to the blonde auror who’d been holding his breath since she walked in. He exhaled, his big frame slumping in his chair, and gave her the most sheepish of smiles, as though he wasn’t the man who’d spent an hour soliloquising about her tits the night before.
“Have a good weekend, Draco?” she asked, her grin growing. The bullpen fell silent as men of varying heights and builds snapped their necks round to look, as if something monumental had just occurred.
“B-Brilliant.” Draco stuttered, his eyes fixed on the confectionery sliding against her lips.
“b-b-brilliant.” Harry Potter sniggered and nudged Grent, the seven-foot one-eyed half-giant who led the anti-dark-wizard team.
Hermione’s stomach did a little flip as she watched him blush. He’d told her this would happen; he’d told her that finally talking to her at work would be a sweet torture for him.
“That’s nice.” She gave him a final grin as she headed back toward the exit, her attempt at flirting successful. All you did was ask him about his weekend and suck a bit of sugar!
“Hermione!” The sound of a scraping chair and Draco’s voice stopped her. He jogged to where she stood, waiting, wondering what he intended to do.
“Yeah?” she looked up at him, quill dangling from her lips.
“I missed you,” he muttered.
“You saw me last night.” Hermione chuckled, but Draco Malfoy looked very serious indeed. He raised his fingers, pinching the quill from between her lips.
The aurors gasped and fell into a tense silence.
“That was too long ago,” Draco muttered before lowering his head and pressing the sweetest of kisses against her strawberry-stained lips.
“WHO HAD THIRTEEN MONTHS?” Grent roared as the bullpen erupted into a chaotic explosion of cheers and groans.
“ME!” Robbards almost squealed. Hermione turned her head in time to see the portly head of the department barrel out of his office and grab a bag of coins from the killer auror.
“They all knew you fancied me?” She turned her wide eyes up to Draco, lips parted in surprise.
“Yeah, baby, everyone knew,” he sighed fondly, cupping her cheeks in his big hands. "Why do you think none of them would make eye contact with you? They knew you were mine, even if you didn’t.” He laughed quietly.
“Harry! Why didn’t you tell me!” Hermione almost screamed at the scar-headed man who was handing galleons to his boss.
“I had 50 on two years and a week! I was protecting my investment.” Her so-called friend chuckled over the hubbub. “Besides, you always told me you prefer to work things out on your own.”
“Come over tonight, love.” Draco pulled her attention away from the oafs in his office. “I’ll make you pasta, and we can pick a restaurant for our first proper date.”
“When is this date?” She hummed, leaning into him, feeling very safe and protected.
“Any day but Friday, love,” he smirked, “I have a standing appointment.”
Hermione pecked his lips, ignoring the woops from the grown men yonder, and nodded. “Not a Friday.”