3

Trigger warning: this chapter contains an allusion to an attempted sexual assault.

Chapter Three

Sunday 16 February 2003: PM

Draco is relieved to apply himself to the mundane chore of preparing coffee, toast, and scrambled eggs; he automatically gathers and arranges the necessary ingredients and implements, setting them precisely on the dark granite benchtop kitchen island before thoroughly washing and drying his hands. He keeps his ears sharply attuned to the faint sounds of Granger moving about in the bathroom above him. His mentality is overwhelmed with unanswered questions and muddled emotions. An odd sense of cheerfulness pervades, which Draco dismisses as reaction to a variance in his otherwise mundane existence.

Draco measures exact spoonfuls of rich coffee grounds into the plunger as the kettle begins to whistle. He reminds himself to stay cool and controlled, regardless of Granger's uncanny ability to jab at his sore spots. He pauses in the act of retrieving crockery as he recalls the moment upstairs when Granger had realized she was wearing his shirt and immediately feared that he'd molested her unconscious person – it had stung him deeply.

It's not the first time people have believed you capable of rape and murder, he cynically reminds himself. Best to remember that you can never outrun your past. Draco pushes the unhappy truth from his mind and sets a single place setting on the other side of the rectangular island.

Sliding the creamy eggs onto a dish beside hot buttered toast, Draco hears Hermione's light footsteps descending the staircase. She rounds the open kitchen door and stops abruptly, eyes wide as she glances around the large kitchen/dining space. Her abundant hair has been fashioned into a loose side plait and tied off with a scrap of black ribbon, matching her low-heeled shoes. Her claret gown hugs her slender figure faithfully, yet decorously.

Draco catches a quick impression of something small and dark in Hermione's left hand before she balls it into her fist. He ignores the gesture, centring the breakfast plate between the cutlery setting and waving loftily at the half-pulled out white wooden stool behind it.

"Please, be seated," Draco invites.

Hermione swiftly stuffs the concealed item into the pocket of her burgundy dress and complies, climbing carefully onto the high-backed stool. She emits a tiny squeak as Draco smoothly pushes the chair closer to the island. He gets a fleeting whiff of the fragrance of his toiletries on her skin and hair and quickly retreats to the kitchen sink, leaning languidly against it and crossing his arms to face the brunette witch. Cool and controlled, he repeats silently.

Hermione's curious gaze is roaming the kitchen, flicking between her plateful of food, Draco, and the corners of the room with growing befuddlement.

Draco lifts an eyebrow. "Is there a problem, Granger?"

Hermione picks up her fork, twiddling the utensil nervously as she stares down at the piping hot eggs and toast.

"No… I was just wondering… where is your house elf?" she tentatively asks.

Ah. Of course. Draco decides to have a little fun with her.

"Securely confined to the cupboard beneath the sink, of course," he deadpans, shifting his hip to tap on its door. Draco runs his tongue slowly over his teeth to mask his grin, as Hermione frowns.

He mustn't be entirely successful in hiding his mirth, as her forehead smooths and she retorts, "I suppose you think you're funny, Malfoy?".

"Not at all, Granger. I know I'm funny."

Hermione huffs and mutters, "Smart-arse," as Draco properly liberates his grin. She frowns at him, unamused.

"Look, I was simply wondering how you got this food here so fast." Taking a mouthful of her breakfast, her grumpy expression is swiftly replaced by pleasure as she chews and swallows. Her involuntary moan of enjoyment has Draco shifting uneasily, his eyes drawn to her sweetly curved mouth.

"These eggs are delicious!" Hermione exclaims, scooping another large bite of eggs and loading it precariously onto a piece of toast; she neatly transfers it all to her mouth without spilling a morsel.

"Mmm – the trick is a dash of full cream," Draco informs her smugly. "And let it almost set before folding in, rather than whipping it into pieces in the pan."

Hermione almost drops her next forkful, managing to bobble it back onto her plate before she stares at him, astonished. "You made these? With – magic?"

"With a frypan and eggs, Granger. I don't have a house elf. Or staff of any kind." Draco awards himself a mental point as he glories in the witch's puzzlement. Oh, this is fun. He strolls to the end of the island, steadily gripping the French press and slowly depressing the plunger.

"May I pour you a coffee?" he politely queries.

The vivid aroma of hot java has Hermione nodding assent.

"Yes, please," she sedately replies. She resumes eating her eggs, sneaking contemplative looks at Draco (that he pretends to ignore) as he pours the coffee into two simple white mugs. Draco pushes one toward Hermione, as well a teaspoon, one sugar cube, and a small jug of milk.

"Thank you, Malfoy," and she wastes no time doctoring her brew before lifting the mug to her rose pink lips – stop looking at her damn mouth – and making that blissful moan again. Draco busies himself by sipping his own drink and carrying the near-empty French press to the double sink. He sets down the mug and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows as he begins running hot water for the dishes.

Reaching into the 'house elf' cupboard for the detergent, Draco stills as Hermione asks, "How did you know I prefer coffee? With one sugar, and milk?".

Keeping his back to her, Draco shrugs carelessly.

"I didn't," he counters. "I was raised to treat guests with proper hospitality. And I prefer coffee, so I made coffee," he finishes. It's certainly not because I took note of every food and beverage you consumed in the Hogwarts dining hall for six years, he adds in his head. Let it go, you stubborn witch.

"Hmm," and she falls blessedly silent. It won't last, of course. He can almost hear her canny brain ticking.

Draco empties the plunger of used grounds, washes and rinses it and leaves it to dry on the rack. He turns from the sink to discover Hermione staring at him intently. Bracing himself for another round of tenacious questioning, he is relieved when she merely inclines her head to her mostly cleared plate.

"Thank you very much; I'm afraid I couldn't quite finish it all. It was exactly what I needed," Hermione acknowledges. Draco nods, reaching for the dish across the island; he casually uses her discarded fork to scoop up and eat the last few pieces of food. Hermione gasps at the sight.

"You just used my fork. The fork I just had in my mouth," she whispers, seemingly unable to look away as Draco swallows the final bite and slides the plate and cutlery into the hot dishwater.

"Sorry – that is considered rude, isn't it?" Draco admits with an offhand shrug. "I thought it less uncouth than using my fingers."

"No – you used my fork. After I'd used it." Hermione is growing increasingly agitated. "Me. A Mudblood."

The ugly epithet falls between them like a dropped wineglass, shattering their unspoken temporary truce.

Draco whips back to the island and grips the granite edge furiously, knuckles strained white.

"Don't ever use that abominable word again." He is glacial, jaw rigid, emotions roiling beneath his cold, bitter tone. Regret, shame, and self-loathing twist his intestines into knots. Draco is grateful when his overlong fringe of platinum hair falls in a messy curtain across his eyes; he can't bear to see the contempt on Granger's face right now. Even though he undoubtedly deserves it.

"You called me a Mudblood almost every week at Hogwarts, since Second Year. Sometimes daily. Your Aunt Bellatrix" – her voice hitches slightly – "carved it into my arm as a permanent reminder of my wretched inferiority. I own that fucking word now, Malfoy. I earned it in blood and tears." Hermione's declaration is tremulous but composed. There is a steel core of strength to her speech that leaves no doubt as to her assignation to Gryffindor; she is a lion down to her bones.

Draco raises his head, prepared now for Hermione's righteous indignation. He is jarred to recognize compassion in her whisky eyes.

"I did get your letter, you know," she tells him quietly. Closing her eyes, she recites:

"'Miss Granger" – it's Ms., by the way – "I apologize for repeatedly wronging you. I regret my prejudice and cruelty caused you harm. There is no exoneration for my actions. Signed, Draco Lucius Malfoy.'"

Hermione opens her eyes and smiles wryly. "Twenty-seven words on a piece of parchment that I analyzed, dissected, reconstructed and obsessed over for weeks. I drafted and rejected a dozen replies. Snuck into the Ministry's Records Room and secretly copied down your address – I had some wild ideas about confronting you face-to-face to hash it all out… I suppose that's how I knew where to come last night." She pauses, lowering her dark lashes and biting her lower lip.

"But you didn't reply," Draco mutters. His fingers haven't relinquished their death grip on the benchtop edge.

"No," Hermione admits. "I finally decided that whatever your reasons for writing to me, your letter was designed to deter a response. And I never heard from you again – which proved my hypothesis."

Draco unwillingly recalls the long nights spent scratching out version after version of the apology letter. He'd discarded over two dozen attempts before dashing down the simplest and most phlegmatic message he could devise, and owled it to Granger before he could change his mind. Not that he will divulge that information; explaining the motivation behind writing the fucking thing would invariably invoke pity, judgement and disgust. Nope. Not going there.

He realizes that Granger's regard has shifted to his bare left forearm – he'd forgotten to roll down his sleeve after washing the dishes, and his abhorrent Dark Mark is clearly exposed. Draco violently jerks down the cuff and buttons it rapidly.

"Granger – do you remember what happened to you last night?" he challenges before the clever witch can start up about the wretched demon tattoo. Hermione looks irked by Draco's blunt change of subject, but lets it go unchallenged.

"The last clear memory I have of the evening is walking into a crowded pub," she slowly says. "I think I was meeting a date." Hermione drums her right hand on the polished granite and blows a stray chestnut strand out of her eyes as she looks up, remembering.

"I've recently joined a Muggle internet dating site – it's like – do you know what an introduction agency is? Is that a thing for purebloods?" Hermione's neck begins flushing and she wriggles uncomfortably on the stool, obviously embarrassed by her admission.

"Not unless you count interfering relatives," Draco replies dryly, thinking of his mother's ceaseless and unappreciated match-matching attempts. He motions impatiently. "Skip the explanation, I've heard of dating websites."

"Right. Well." Hermione is non-plussed but continues. "I've had a few matches with Muggle men and been on a couple of dates. And last night I was supposed to meet one of them… an accountant called… Christopher Atkinson?". She hesitates. "At least, I think that's correct. Is there a pub around here?"

"Yes, at the other end of the street and around the corner," Draco confirms, tunnelling his hand absentmindedly through his blond locks as he mentally processes the scenario.

"Does it have a silly name? Something about a mule?" Hermione is chewing on her lip again, perturbed.

"Its official title is The Three-Legged Pony, but it's known as The Wonky Donkey," Draco nods. He finds himself sharing a chuckle with Granger at the ridiculous moniker; it's not especially comical, but it helps break the lingering tension in the room from their earlier intense discussion. She still has a sweet laugh… the thought pops unbidden into his head.

Hermione sighs and rubs frustratedly at the bridge of her nose. "I can't remember anything beyond walking through the pub door," she complains. "I can only assume that this Christopher Atkinson spiked a roofie into my drink – but I'm careful about never leaving my drinks unattended. I don't understand how that could have happened."

Draco opens his mouth to ask – again – what a roofie is, but Hermione is quicker.

"A roofie is slang for Rohypnol. It's a powerful Muggle drug that produces sedative-hypnotic effects, such as muscle relaxation and amnesia. It's called a 'date rape' drug for that reason. Slip it in a woman's drink, hustle her out of a public place and she won't be able to fight a sexual assault or remember it happening."

Her mouth twists and trembles as she whispers, "If I hadn't made it here – somehow – I probably would have been kidnapped and raped… used…" Hermione's voice breaks on the last word and she wraps her arms around her torso, shivering.

"Hey, you're alright, you're safe -" Before he realizes his own intent, Draco moves around the kitchen island to place a gentle hand on Hermione's hunched back, carefully patting her shoulder. The frightened witch is shaking, fine tremors transferring to Draco's soothing hand.

"You're safe now, Granger," he repeats. He invokes his strongest Occlumency skills to block the pure fury raging through his veins as he witnesses one of the bravest women in the world shaking like a leaf from delayed shock and fear.

The situation carries unpleasant echoes of the helplessness and cowardice he felt on that terrible night in Malfoy Manor. Draco strenuously reminds himself that spinelessly watching his deranged aunt torture and disfigure Granger on the parlour floor is a horror and mistake of his past, not his present. This is a chance to make amends for his sins - although to a much lesser extent. I won't turn away this time, Draco vows silently.

Perhaps a minute ticks by before Hermione comes back to herself, blinking away the unshed tears in her eyes and straightening in her chair; Draco's hand falls away and he awkwardly tucks it into his pocket. He feels peculiarly nervous, as though he's crossed an impalpable line.

Clearing his throat, Draco queries sharply, "This 'Christopher Atkinson' maggot – you're certain he's a Muggle?"

Hermione nods, swiveling her hips to better face him as she fiddles with the end of her long plait.

"I've no reason to think otherwise, Malfoy," she quietly replies. Her voice is edged with fatigue; she is visibly wilting, shoulders drooping. Stubborn little bint needs to rest and recuperate, Draco thinks exasperatedly. He shouldn't have ignored his primary instinct to take her straight to St Mungo's – consequences be damned.

Still, Draco gentles his tone as he tells Hermione, "Have you considered the possibility that your 'date' was a part of a complex trap? That this 'Muggle' is a wizard in disguise?". He watches her intently as her clever brain jumps ahead almost immediately.

"What aren't you telling me, Malfoy?" Hermione demands, honey-brown eyes flashing indignantly. "I deserve to know!"

"Don't boss me, Granger," Draco warns. "I'm not one of your Golden Trio underlings to order about," he growls. Salazar - give me strength! He shoves his rising temper into another Occlumency lockbox. For a wonder, Hermione stays silent. Her lips press into a thin line of displeasure.

"As I was beginning to tell you, before you rudely interrupted –" Draco ignores Hermione's scornful huff – "I collected a sample of your vomit and tested it this morning. It did contain Muggle drug compounds… as well as minute traces of Ashwinder egg, valerian sprigs, rose thorns, mistletoe berries and Lethe River water," he finishes sombrely.

"Oh, shit," Hermione gasps, wringing her delicate hands in agitation. Shocked comprehension, anger, and fear ripple across her expressive visage as Hermione ruminates, "Ingredients commonly found in Lust, Sleeping, and Forgetfulness potions… combined with a Muggle roofie… highly experimental, illegal, and incredibly dangerous – " she trails off in distress.

"Exactly," Draco grimly concurs. He fights the odd compulsion to physically comfort the miserable witch, choosing instead to trigger her legendary fighting spirit.

"This is too much for you to handle alone, Granger," Draco arrogantly intones, straightening to his full height and deliberately looking down his nose at her. "We need to contact the Ministry and hand it over to them. Now." One, two, three… he ticks off the seconds in his head.

"Don't boss me, Malfoy," Hermione growls. Draco suppresses his gratified smirk. Predictable Gryffindors.

"There is no way I'm taking this to the Ministry. Not with paltry scraps of information and missing memories. I just need some time to investigate and figure out it all out. I can handle this myself," Hermione insists.

"Which of us are you trying to convince?" Draco quips sardonically. "You're not infallible, Granger. Set aside your precious bloody pride for a moment and accept my ungracious assistance, for Merlin's sake. You dragged me into this shambles – you're stuck with me now." Before Hermione can rally for another round of fuming righteousness, Draco carefully clasps her elbow and guides her to stand.

"Look at you, witch – you're fading fast. You need to go home, take a few days off work, and recover from your physical and emotional trauma. We'll revisit our discussion later in the week." Draco is surprised that Hermione remains passive in his light hold. She must be feeling quite depleted.

"I'd offer my Floo for transport, but I'm not confident you're well enough to get home in one piece. And you're certainly not fit to Apparate by yourself. What's a landmark close to your home?" he prompts.

A few moments of hesitation; Draco steels himself for Hermione's inevitable arguments and vocalized distrust. Neither eventuate.

"I don't suppose you've ever been to Foots Cray Meadows?" Hermione inquires quietly. "I live a few streets away from the south western corner."

Draco nods, remembering his long solitary rambles through London's Muggle parks and historical sites. He snaps his fingers as it comes to him.

"All Saints Church is beside Foots Cray Meadows, yes? I know it. Does that suit?" and Hermione nods wonderingly. Her chocolate brown eyes search Draco's face keenly; he resists the inclination to squirm beneath her steadfast scrutiny.

"Thank you, Malfoy," she murmurs, holding his skittish gaze. Draco opens and closes his mouth pointlessly a few times – I must look like a right daft tosser, brilliant – before seizing on a distraction.

"This is for you," he pulls a small plasticky rectangular box and a stoppered glass tube from his trouser pocket and slides them into her left palm, closing her fingers around the items. "The vial contains Wiggenweld Potion. It's safe, I made it earlier."

Draco looks uncomfortable as he adds, "And a sealed box of paracetamol – I completely understand that you may wish to avoid any potion you haven't personally brewed."

Hermione grips the tokens a little tighter, exhaling shakily before stuffing them in her pocket. The tiny dark object that she'd stowed in there as she'd entered the kitchen falls to the floor; Draco bends to retrieve it before she can stop him. It is soft, brown, and springy and looks weirdly familiar…

"Granger – is this a clump of your hair?" Draco asks, astonished.

Hermione tries to snatch it out of his grasp; his superior height and reach easily evade her efforts, the hairball dangling above their heads like a grotesque mistletoe.

"Give it back, Malfoy – it's mine!" she scrabbles fruitlessly after it as Draco begins to chortle.

"You're barmy, you know that, right?" he teases.

Hermione ceases her ineffectual clumsy leaping and glares daggers at him.

"I used your fancy silver hairbrush in the bathroom, alright? But I thought - Malfoy will lose his tiny little mind if I don't clean it out… and then I smelled fresh coffee and forgot I was still holding it. Happy now? You supercilious git," she mutters.

Draco is still chuckling as he relents, handing her back the fuzzy cluster. Hermione shoves it roughly back into her pocket, mutely seething. His attention drawn to Hermione's clothing, Draco holds up his left index finger to wait, as a pertinent thought suddenly comes to his mind; he darts quickly to the foyer.

He returns wearing the matching navy jacket to his trousers and holds out his urbane black pea coat, bundling Hermione into the oversized garment and nimbly fastening each large ebony button before she has a chance to protest.

"Come on, Granger. Let's get you home before you hex me into next week. Ready?"

They reach for each other's forearms simultaneously and hold tight, as Draco Apparates them both to the ancient medieval Saxon church with a faint pop.