11

Chapter Eleven

Saturday 22 February 2003: AM

Despite its somewhat barbarous title ('Death before Decaf') the bustling café Draco has brought her to is agreeable, Hermione concludes as she puts down her menu and assimilates the milieu of the well-patronized establishment. The exposed 'caged' lightbulbs, rough-finished brickwork and industrial metal tables and chairs are bang on for the warehouse trend, but the harshness of the look is softened by comfy padded cushions and mismatched receptacles overflowing with greenery.

Draco and their middle-aged server had greeted each other by their Christian names ("Lovely to see you, Bonnie,") before the sprightly waitress had led them to what was apparently Draco's preferred table in the far corner. It boasts a comprehensive vista of the street outside and the clientele within, whilst ensuring relative privacy.

Hermione had chosen the chair with its back to the entrance; she'd belatedly realized at their Italian dinner on Wednesday night that Draco favours sitting with his back to the wall and keeping the entirety of the interior in sight. It is a strategy that she also habitually employs – doubtlessly borne of their personal trauma of the terrors of war, she contemplates dolorously.

Making a concerted effort to dispel her melancholy introspection, Hermione glances at her brunch companion. Draco is occupied with precisely lining up his cutlery and napkin, having taken a lightning-quick look at the single page of breakfast options and nodding favourably. She takes the liberty of canvassing the man without his nacreous grey eyes lasered upon her.

Dressed in a taupe button-down checked twill shirt with a faint black stripe, mocha zip-up merino gilet vest and black chinos, Malfoy looks coolly dashing. Like he just stepped out of the pages of one of the Charles Tyrwhitt menswear mail order catalogues that she used to optimistically seed around her flat, hoping that Ron would take the hint that his wardrobe could benefit from a classy upgrade.

The closest Ron had gotten to perusing the advertisements was when he'd rolled up one to swat a hapless fly, Hermione recollects. Well-loved sports t-shirts, threadbare flannels and holey jeans covered most of Ron's clothing needs... according to Ron, anyway.

Peering covertly at Draco from beneath her lashes, Hermione wonders at Malfoy's curiously thorough adoption of a Muggle lifestyle: he resides in a high-end urban locale, wears quality apparel, patronizes restaurants and cafes, is familiar with historic landmarks and appears to perform his household domestic chores without magical assistance. The man cooked her breakfast without picking up his wand, for heaven's sake.

Unaware that her eyebrows are knitted in mystification, Hermione jounces in her seat as Draco drawls, "Like what you see, Granger?". His lips kick up at the corners as her cheeks pinken.

"Malfoy - why do you live like a Muggle?" Hermione impulsively petitions the sardonic blond.

All traces of indolent diversion vanish as Draco's expression instantly shutters. He tips back his head; his displeased scowl could curdle fresh milk.

"Why do you?" he counters, after an uncomfortably weighted pause.

"I was born to Muggles – as you incontestably comprehend," Hermione answers curtly. "Why are you dodging the question?".

"Why are you pressing the issue?" Draco retaliates.

They are practically spitting out their bristly words now, both leaning forward across the cramped café table, glaring cantankerously at each other.

"Why are you answering a question with another question?" Hermione fires back.

Hands cramped into peeved fists on the tabletop, Draco icily expostulates, "By Merlin's beard, Granger – must you know everything?".

"Have we met?" Hermione parries incredulously.

"Invasive much?"

"Evasive much?"

Neither is aware that their low argumentative assailments have garnered the attention of an enthralled spectator until Bonnie cheerfully breaks in, "My daughter Liza tells me there's a popular name for this sort of thing… what did she call it? 'BURST'?". Bonnie taps her order pencil to her lips in concentration.

"It's 'URST' – an acronym for 'Unresolved Sexual Tension'," Hermione blabs before she can stop herself. "And it's resolved," she grouches under her breath. Not quietly enough, judging by Draco's ireful glance.

"Yes, yes – that's it! You two have it in spades," Bonnie beams, ignoring Hermione's beet-red visage and Draco's dramatically rolling eyes.

"Thank you, Bonnie," Draco smiles tightly. "How is Liza? Is her new job working out?".

Bonnie eagerly seizes on the new topic of conversation and runs with it, chattering animatedly about Liza's sales career aspirations and fancy new company car. "We're right proud of her, that we are, Draco," she preens.

Fascinated by this hitherto unseen convivial aspect of Draco's personality, Hermione is disappointed when Bonnie remembers she's not yet taken their brunch orders.

"You shouldn't have let me prattle on – I do love to sing my children's praises," Bonnie chides with a smile. "What can I get for you, then?"

"Oh – I'd like the Full English, with a large latté, please," Hermione requests.

"You won't be able to finish the meal, Granger – it's massive," Draco loftily declares.

Before Hermione can indignantly defend her appetite, he adds magnanimously, "I'll help you out with it, never fear."

The bold-faced audacity of the man! Hermione fumes silently as Bonnie nods approvingly.

Turning smoothly to Bonnie, Draco politely informs her, "May I have the 'Very Merry Berry Crepe Stack' and a flat white in a mug, please?"

"Of course, Draco dear. Won't be long," Bonnie favours him with a fond pat on the shoulder before hustling back to the kitchen.

Draco flicks a non-existent piece of lint off his sleeve and irritably barks, "Do wipe that silly smirk off your face, Granger. Your mercuriality is positively head-spinning; I've no idea why you're sniggering to yourself now."

Hermione chirpily crows, "Would you be so kind as to repeat your brunch order, Malfoy? Perhaps reciting 'Very Merry Berry' once more will sweeten your sour disposition," and she doesn't make any attempt to stifle her cackling mirth.

Draco suffers through her burbling chuckles in stolid silence; he must have a hell of a poker-face, Hermione gauges. He folds his paper serviette into a double fan origami shape as he waits for her laughter to subside.

The sight of Draco's skilled fingers manipulating the thick tissue into a minor work of art makes something plunk oddly inside Hermione; her jollity fades as she wonders at the myriad strata of the man's persona.

And watching his nimble hands fold and twiddle the paper inevitably evokes the corporeal memory of the finesse of Draco's touch on her eager body. Her thighs squash together as she tries to suppress this constant, smouldering… itch? Craving? Greed? All of the above?

Hermione's face falls as she contemplates the fixed possibility that Draco has brought her to the café to tell her that her absurd eagerness for his sexual tutelage has repulsed him; that his offer is hereby rescinded. She cringes at her ridiculous dismay at the prospect and digs her short nails into her palms beneath the table.

"Well, Granger? Run out of things to razz me about already?" Draco gently teases as he swaps her unshaped serviette for his. His eyes snap to her downcast ones when she doesn't retort.

"Hey, what's wrong?" The actual concern in Malfoy's voice is incontrovertible, which serves only to further baffle her.

Rip off the Band-aid in one swift motion. You are a strong, intelligent woman who isn't afraid of anything. With the exception of heights. Well, falling, to be exact. No - you are most afraid of failing, a nasty inner voice buzzes.

Screw that. Hermione straightens her spine and locates her flagging valour.

"Malfoy, if we're here for you to tell me that you are done with… this thing we're doing… that's fine. You needn't worry that I'll make a public scene," Hermione braves eye contact with Draco as she speaks with a confidence she doesn't feel. "Just say whatever you have to say."

"Just say whatever I have to say," Draco echoes, eyeing her as though she's speaking Xhosa. He scours his hand through his hair, rapidly mussing his suave coiffure. Hermione steels herself to not visibly react to his next words; she bites the inside of her cheeks to stop her telltale face from betraying her disappointment.

Having reached some kind of internal decision, Draco tautly conveys, "Granger… I enjoyed having sex with you and I want to do it on a regular basis." He needlessly shuffles the salt and pepper shakers around, before returning them exactly to their original positions. "Dependent on you feeling the same way, of course," Malfoy adds, the tips of his well-shaped ears reddening.

Why, he's as nervous as I am. The realization of Draco's unanticipated vulnerability is as startling as it is endearing. Forgetting her self-entreaty to Be cool, bitch - Hermione's smile radiates across her face.

She tries to dial it down a notch but is aware that her mouth is still stretched wide as she sedately replies, "Yes – I'd like that too, Malfoy." His answering grin is staggeringly attractive: he looks boyishly handsome as his gunmetal eyes crinkle at the corners and all traces of taciturnity vanish.

They concurrently exhale in relief as they continue to grin fatuously at each other; the moment is breached when Bonnie slides their coffees on the table. Hermione blinks, grateful for the timely interruption, and murmurs her thanks.

She fiddles at her tall, transparent glass as Bonnie remarks approvingly, "There you go, dears. Your meals aren't far away. Draco, you be sure to keep smiling like that at your pretty girlfriend… you do make a lovely couple, and that's no mistake."

Draco's alarmed consternation is writ large upon his pallid face; Hermione covers her snicker with her hand.

"Thank you, Bonnie," Draco grits. "Hermione's not my girlfriend, though."

Bonnie is undaunted. "Oh, partner, significant other, sweetheart, what-have-you… whatever you young people prefer to call it these days. I know a romance when I see it!". Cheerfully ignoring Draco's garbled protests, Bonnie bounces away with a conspiratorial wink.

Hermione laughs unreservedly at Draco's disgruntlement. "Oh, Malfoy – your expression is hysterical!" she gasps jocularly.

"You're not helping – why the deuce didn't you set her straight? Now I'll never hear the bloody end of it," Draco upbraids. "I don't want – or need – a girlfriend," he adds scathingly, rapping his lean fingers against his porcelain coffee mug for emphasis.

"Perhaps you should wait until you're asked," Hermione frigidly ripostes, unfathomably stung by Draco's tempestuous assertion. "I certainly don't need – or want – a boyfriend." She takes a quick sip of her hot latté, grateful for a prop to disguise her trembling hands. They are quivering in anger at Malfoy's arrogant assumptions, of course. No other reason.

"Excellent. We're on the same page." Draco rolls on, oblivious to her nuanced turmoil for once.

"What page is that?" Hermione snips. Her eyes dart around the café like an agitated dragonfly.

"No romantic entanglement – a mutually beneficial, purely sexual liaison. Shall we say… twice a week? I'm unavailable on Friday nights. Do Wednesdays and Saturdays suit you, Granger?" Draco sips appreciatively at his own coffee as he awaits her reply.

A purely sexual liaison. Good. Great. Perfect. "For how long?" Hermione blurts, heart walloping haphazardly at the query.

Draco shrugs indifferently. "Until one of us calls a halt, I suppose. These things usually have a manifest end marker, you know."

No. I don't know. Hermione stills her tongue from repeating the words in her mind. She will borrow a leaf from Malfoy's book and be the very epitome of sophistication and self-assurance during their (solely) carnal dalliance.

"And what of safe sex? Will you be seeing – I mean, will you be engaging in sexual intercourse with other women?" Hermione forces the words through stiff lips. The fact that the image of Draco in another woman's bed leaves her feeling queasy – that's just her conservative upbringing kicking in. She is now a cosmopolitan woman. Best to know the score.

"No." Draco's answer is immediate and uncompromising. "And I won't share your favours with other men – so have the courtesy to sever our arrangement if you develop a tendresse for another," he sharply instructs.

He scornfully elaborates, "Especially if the Weasel comes sniffing back around." Draco's hand roughly grabs the handle of his mug as he drinks again, fierce eyes trained statically on Hermione's flushing face.

"I don't cheat, Malfoy," Hermione hotly defends against his insinuation. "You'll be the first to know when the elusive Prince Charming fits my missing glass slipper and we elope to Paris in the springtime," she apprises him sarcastically.

"Good." Draco's eyes still harbour a febrile gleam; it surprises Hermione that he is aggravated about a moot scenario. He truly detests Ron, she figures.

Hermione opens her mouth to automatically defend Ron's honour but is stymied by the arrival of their food. Just as well – she has vowed to stop reverting to dysfunctional habits and blindly leaping to Ron's defence certainly falls under that shady category.

"Here you are, lovelies, apologies for the wait. The chef gets fussy about the sausages, they have to be perfect – impossible to ruin a banger, if you ask my humble opinion – but she finally decided they were plate-ready and here I am," Bonnie burbles happily.

Blimey… Draco wasn't exaggerating about the monstrous portion. Hermione gulps as Bonnie pushes the gigantic serve of generously buttered toast, and two each of fried eggs, the aforementioned thick pork bangers, and rashers of crispy bacon. Plus grilled tomato and mushrooms and a scoop of saucy baked beans.

Helpless as to where she should begin, Hermione faintly thanks Bonnie and glances at Draco; he is zealously carving into his appealing stack of cream-infused crepes dotted with blueberries, raspberries and strawberries. Obviously enjoying her discomfiture, based on his condescending grin as he loads a combination of berries onto his fork.

Boosted by her long-held vow to never let Draco best her at anything, Hermione dives in, holding her cutlery like weapons as she dissects and spears and chews. The scrumptious, hearty fare is just what she requires; her passionate night with Draco expended a lot of energy, and the rich proteins and carbohydrates are already bolstering her vitality. She begins to slow halfway through her plate, though. Draco offers her the final bite of his crepes, chuckling as she groans feebly and waves it away.

"I did warn you that your eyes were too big for your belly," the impudent scoundrel can't resist teasing. "There's no shame in admitting defeat, Granger," he cajoles, as she grudgingly prods her two-thirds consumed repast across the table to him.

"Oh, I call bollocks, Malfoy," Hermione carps. "When have you ever publicly admitted defeat?".

Draco pretends to give the matter some thought, drawing down his mouth in an exaggerated expression of contemplative admission. "No, you're right – I don't believe I ever have," and he winks as he crunches a strip of bacon between his even white teeth.

Hermione transitorily closes her eyes, her full stomach and mild sleep deprivation lulling her into a genially relaxed state.

"I'll make a deal with you, Granger," Draco's melodious voice interrupts her mild reverie. "The meddlesome questions you launched at me earlier: I'll answer a select few, provided that each answer is rewarded with a kiss," he lazily propounds.

Hermione's eyes flash open, instantaneously suspicious. Draco is the picture of innocence as he exactingly polishes off her brunch. All correct posture and proper table manners. Except for the rapacious gleam in his silvered eyes as they rest upon her, Hermione thinks with a thrilled shiver.

"Just a kiss?" she asks demurely, deliberately moistening her fuller lower lip with her tongue tip.

"Just a kiss for an answer," Draco confirms, licking at his own lips in a way that makes Hermione imagine other uses for his smart mouth. Shifting restlessly in her chair, she recklessly offers her right hand to seal the deal.

"Very well."

Wiping his hands meticulously on his serviette before he slides his palm against hers, Draco keeps their handshake connected as the now-familiar frisson of electricity sparks betwixt their skin.

"Deal." Still holding her hand, he turns it over to sensually rub his thumb across her knuckles.

Hermione masks her chagrin as Draco clarifies, "But not here – I've no wish to fan the flames of Bonnie's die-hard romanticism," he dryly points out. "Are you ready to leave?".

"Yes, thank you." As she's come to appreciate, Draco helps her put on her pea coat and scarf before donning his own; Hermione thinks wistfully that in another lifetime, she would like to compliment his mother on instilling such admirable manners and thoughtfulness. The absurdity of the idea of conversing with Narcissa Malfoy to commend her on her son's punctilious etiquette makes her mouth twist wryly. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, she reminds her goofy imagination.

Draco rests his hands lightly on the lapels of Hermione's coat after her scarf is affixed in place.

"Granger – I plan on making some covert enquiries this week. Regarding the scum who drugged you," he tells her in a low, grave undertone. "I still have a few connections to the scaly underbelly of the wizarding community, and I intend to prise out some answers. Don't drop your guard, alright?".

"No – I won't," Hermione promises, flustered by the depth of intensity in Draco's expression as he stands a few inches from her. "Thank you, Malfoy. I know that… that you most likely saved my life, last week. I appreciate it. More than I can express," she awkwardly divulges. Her umber eyes shine with tribute and gratitude.

"Come now, Granger – don't be getting all 'Gryffindor gooey' on me," Draco chastises, his smile not extending to his eyes as he steps back, gesturing for Hermione to proceed him through the café. "It was nothing."

But it was something, Hermione corrects silently, waving goodbye as Draco pays their bill, endures a rib-crushing hug from Bonnie (slipping a generous tip into her apron pocket, unnoticed) and tolerates the amiable waitress's exuberant exhortation to return soon, and only with Hermione in tow.

It was something special. Just like Draco Malfoy.