5

Wednesday 19 February: PM

Fumbling with the simple rectangular silver cufflink, Draco swears pithily as it falls to the carpeted floor, twice tumbling before coming to rest against his polished black dragon leather shoe. He impatiently crouches to pick it up, closing his hand around the offending accessory before lithely rising.

Draco stills as he slowly opens his palm, frowning down at the cufflink. Why is he edgy? He's felt off-kilter ever since Granger erupted into his life and shattered his hard-fought tranquility. A walking, talking brunette Bombarda Maxima, he cynically reflects. And yet here he is, readying to meet with the exasperating witch. At my own suggestion, Draco derides himself.

He'd owled Hermione on Monday afternoon: imagining her likely aggravation at his uncompromising brusque epistle makes him snicker.

'Ms. Granger -

We need to talk.

Meet me at La Stalla restaurant on the High Street, Foots Cray.

Wednesday, 6PM sharp.

D.L.M.'

Oh, how he would've enjoyed seeing the vexation on Granger's face as she read it… She probably was unable to resist childishly stamping her little foot. The thought cheers Draco considerably and he easily locks the errant cufflink into place, automatically tugging the sleeves of his obsidian silk shirt into position and minutely straightening his similarly hued tie.

Before he Apparates to Foots Cray, Draco dons his midnight blue suit jacket and slips his wallet into the pocket of his matching trousers. He nimbly descends the stairs two at a time, recalling Granger's equally terse reply.

'Mr. Malfoy –

Make it 6.30PM.

You're paying for dinner.

H.J.G.'

Plucking his black scarf off the hallway rack, Draco catches sight of his reflection in the nearby filigree mirror; his attire is impeccable - of course - but he is perturbed by the cretinous grin stretching across his visage and immediately resets his face into his usual inscrutable mask. There. Much improved. He'd prefer to maintain his reputation as a debonair popinjay than look like a simpering village idiot.

The sun has almost set when Draco arrives at the Meadows a few moments later. Tilting his wrist, Draco checks his watch: it's just gone 6.00PM. He has plenty of time to reach the restaurant and the brisk walk will help to keep him warm. He tucks his hands into his pockets and sets off in the correct direction.

Twenty minutes later, Draco is seated at the best booth in La Stalla, having glibly charmed the flustered young waitress into leading him to the cosy spot at the back of the small inside dining area. The trattoria's appearance hasn't altered since his last visit; the establishment looks a little tired and dated, but the exquisite authentic Italian menu is well worth overlooking the slight shabbiness. At this early hour, only a dozen other diners are scattered throughout the restaurant. The quiet hum of their conversations is broken by an occasional shouted order in Italian spilling through the kitchen door as the waitstaff come and go.

The ornate oversized clock on the wall beside the entrance shows 6.30PM exactly as Hermione appears through the glass door. Draco rises to his feet as Granger strides inside: she warmly responds to the greeting of the same young server who led him to the booth. The waitress immediately cuts her eyes to Draco and says something that makes Hermione blush faintly, before directing her to their table.

The handful of seconds it takes Hermione to walk to him gives Draco just enough time to appraise the witch's presentation and condition: he is satisfied to discern that she appears robust, healthy and determined. Intent on taking me down a peg or two, Draco guesses with surreptitious amusement. The dogged Gryffindor gleam in her eye is a dead giveaway.

Draco maintains unbroken eye contact as Hermione approaches; her chocolate eyes sparkle as her shoulders resolutely straighten in response to his challenging gaze. He nods in silent greeting as he smoothly helps her out of her oversized onyx greatcoat (my pea coat, he amends), swiftly folding it and sliding it beside her as she sits down in the opposite arm of the booth. She places her over-full satchel atop the garment.

Granger is stylishly dressed in professional Muggle business attire: a hunter green knee-length pencil skirt and matching blazer in a subtle embossed herringbone pattern. The nipped-in waist of the jacket accentuates the gentle flare of her hips and narrow midriff, while the scalloped lace trim on the opaque silky black camisole she wears beneath the jacket draws the eye to the creamy flesh below her fine collarbones. Hermione's riotous chestnut curls are pulled off her face and into a half up-do with sturdy combs. Draco's regard is drawn to Hermione's raspberry-tinted mouth as she swipes the tip of her pink tongue across her bottom lip.

Swallowing convulsively, Draco belatedly realizes he is still standing upright when Hermione jibes, "Do you plan to eat on your feet tonight, Malfoy? Or is this a new intimidation tactic you're trying on for size?". Her tone is dryly acerbic, but Draco hears the unmistakable buzz of excitation layering her words.

Why, Granger delights in our verbal stoushes just as much as I do, he suddenly realizes. The epiphany allows him to swiftly recover his composure; Draco deliberately tracks his slate-coloured eyes back over Hermione's svelte form, bestowing her with his slowest, raunchiest smile. He is immediately gratified when the pulse in the hollow of Hermione's throat jumps erratically and the tips of her little ears flush red.

Draco calmly regains his seat, ignoring Hermione's taunt to ask a question of his own.

"What did the waitress say to you to make you blush, Granger?" he abruptly probes. He picks up his water glass and imbibes a leisurely sip, eyes trained unblinkingly on Granger's mobile features.

Hermione tosses her hair back off her shoulder with an irritated flip of her hand.

"She told me I was very lucky to have such a handsome boyfriend, if you must know," Hermione replies witheringly. "Another fair maiden fallen victim to your pretty face, apparently," she scoffs. Her eyes widen at her inadvertent admission and she rushes to pick up her menu.

"What's good here, Malfoy? I'm starving," and Draco lets loose a rich chuckle at her clumsy attempt to change the subject. Fine. He'll let that go. For now.

Without bothering to consult the bill of fare, Draco advises, "Everything. I'm having the garlic and ricotta calzone, chicken saltimbocca and tiramisu."

Flipping through the menu pages, Hermione groans a little. "Oh, yum! I love Italian food, it's so moreish. Mmm, let me see…" her voice trails off as she becomes engrossed in her selections.

Granger's enthusiasm bleeds into everything, Draco muses as he watches Hermione tuck a stray burnished curl behind the shell of her left ear. She nods once and shuts her menu with a decisive snap, smiling guilelessly at him.

"Right. I've made my choices," Hermione announces firmly. Their waitress has been hovering nearby, fascinated by their little adversarial tableau; she eagerly advances with her pencil and notepad at the ready, as Hermione slides her menu to the side.

"May I take your orders?" the girl asks politely. Draco nods and gestures to Hermione to begin.

"I'd like the Caprese salad for entrée and the mushroom risotto, please," Hermione recites.

"No dessert?" Draco murmurs. Hermione shakes her head, tawny curls bouncing.

"No. I might have a coffee though."

"And for you, sir?" their waitress continues, scribbling adeptly.

Repeating his earlier selections, Draco pauses to beckon the girl a little closer. He whispers a final request in her ear, smirking as he looks up at Hermione's displeased expression.

Their waitress beams at him. "Certainly, sir. And can I bring either of you a beverage? We have a lovely Lambrusco for tonight's wine special."

Draco's smile slips a little, but he answers easily, "Just water for me, thank you." Hermione concurs and the young woman casts a final admiring glance at Draco before hurrying back to the kitchen. Expecting her to launch into castigating him for apparently flirting with the waitress, Draco is surprised when Hermione only huffs disapprovingly and stacks her hands atop each other on the table, lips pursed thinly.

"Tell me why you – I'm not going to say invited, that implies choice – ordered me to meet you tonight," Hermione tersely challenges.

Ah, Gryffindors… ever unwillingly to beat around the bush. Draco shakes his head in mock disappointment.

"Skipping the niceties of polite conversation, eh Granger?" he tut-tuts.

A dangerous light fires in Hermione's amber eyes; she begins to rise from her padded seat as she hisses back, "Listen, Malfoy – I've had a long day at the Ministry, I'm beyond ravenous, and I possess absolutely no patience for whatever game you're playing, so kindly –"

Hermione's rant suspends as Draco reaches across to lightly wrap his lean fingers around her wrist.

"Granger. Stop. Sit down, please." She stands still, looking down at his ivory skin half-obscuring her darker olive tones, and chews at her voluptuous lower lip.

Draco drags his eyes away from the captivating mannerism, risking a featherlight stroke of his index finger along Hermione's delicate pisiform bone. She shivers at the touch but doesn't shy away.

"Please," he repeats softly, his eyes silvery orbs of solemn intensity. "I promise not to tease you again."

For a pendulous moment, Draco is certain that he's pushed Hermione too far; finally, she resolutely juts her chin. Their hands break contact simultaneously as she lowers back onto the booth seat and they both exhale as the tension disperses.

"Have you remembered anything else about Saturday night yet?" Draco asks quietly. He isn't surprised when Hermione shakes her head in negation.

"Not a thing," and her frustration is evident.

"Right. I had an idea about how you could access those memories. But it requires a leap of trust on your part," Draco carefully informs her.

"Trust… in you?" Hermione promptly clarifies, raising her head to study Draco keenly. Her acute scrutiny brings a warm bloom to his alabaster neck, which Draco wills to recede. Her eyes are like fucking lasers sometimes, he thinks irritably. Which is an ironic observation, given his next words.

"Yes. I propose to attempt Legilimency to unlock your trapped recollections. With your full consent and trust," Draco replies dispassionately. "There's no guarantee that it will work – but we don't have much else to go on."

Granger slumps against the back of the booth, clearly nonplussed.

"You're a Legilimens." It's not a question. "That's not a skill taught in the classrooms of Hogwarts, Malfoy." An odd expression flits across her face as she continues to study him intently. Is it criticism? Judgement? Respect? Draco can't decide.

"You of all people should know that war taught us things we had no business knowing," he adroitly deflects. He doesn't care for Granger to throw more stones down that dark well; this isn't about him, anyway.

Their entrées arrive, the rich smells of Italian cheese and herbs permeating their booth in seconds. Thank Merlin. Draco almost sighs in relief and applies himself to serving Granger a slice of calzone.

Hermione tries to wave away the fragrant stuffed bread. "No – that's your dish. Thank you," but her pert nose practically twitches as Draco brings the serve closer to her plate.

"You're worried about having garlic breath," Draco guesses. "Well, now I insist upon you trying some, Granger. I refuse to be alone in garlicky dishonour," he smiles. Hermione's mouth curves into a frank grin and she pushes her plate closer. She picks up the slice and takes an ostentatiously large bite, chewing in delight. Draco follows suit, enjoying her uninhibited pleasure in the food.

Hermione copies Draco's tactic and presses half her Caprese salad onto his plate; the fresh tomatoes, mozzarella and drizzled virgin olive oil are just as tasty as the calzone. The pair focus on doing justice to their meal, expressing appreciative comments about same and engaging in a desultory conversation about Draco's travel experiences in Italy.

The Legilimency proposition isn't referred to again until their ubiquitous server clears the entrées and provides a fresh carafe of water.

Hermione rests her hands in her lap and looks apprehensively at Draco. She opens and closes her mouth twice before asking hesitantly, "Does it – does it always hurt? The Legilimency probe, I mean." Her dark eyes are dulled by remembered pain and terror. Draco clenches his jaw as he understands why. Bellatrix Lestrange.

"No. Knowing Bellatrix, she probed your psyche as viciously as possible." Cool and controlled – the mantra is difficult to hold on to at present as Draco witnesses Hermione trembling across the table.

He clears his throat and continues his explanation.

"A skilled Legilimens will enter your mind gently and respectfully. You shouldn't feel anything more than a… light caress. The faintest sensation of another consciousness within your own."

Shrugging resignedly, Draco finishes, "Of course, having the full consent of the subject makes an enormous difference to the process. And I would stop if (and when) I sensed the slightest discomfort on your part." This was a harebrained idea, he berates himself. Granger isn't ready.

He is poised to withdraw his ill-considered offer when Hermione vehemently blurts, "I'll do it."

"You were about to tell me to forget about it, weren't you?" the plucky witch accuses him. "I saw your face – you think I'm too soft, too weak to handle it." Hermione is incandescent with fierce valour: she appears ready to slay a dragon with her butter knife, should one be foolish enough to accost her.

"Granger, I believe you could rule the world - if you were so inclined," Draco candidly reveals. "You're brilliant, driven, powerful… Loyal and principled. Harry Potter was damned fortunate to have you by his side." As for the Weasel – he was always punching well above his weight, he reflects sourly but silently. Draco uncomfortably realizes he's already said too much; Hermione appears positively gobsmacked at his unexpected plaudits.

Their mains arrive: Draco vows to give the young waitress the biggest tip of her life in appreciation of her impeccable timing. Hermione continues to gape at Draco as he apportions a healthy serve of the chicken saltimbocca onto her plate and helps himself to some of her mushroom risotto without consultation. She presses her lips together firmly but the tiny upward curves at the corners of her mouth suggest she is amused by his audacious persistence in sharing their meals.

"When can we begin?" Hermione asks neutrally once she has made a decent dent in the delicious food on her plate.

Draco fastidiously dabs his napkin to his mouth before he answers, "As soon as possible would be best. Are you free tomorrow night?".

Hermione nods. "Yes. My place or yours?" Her face turns scarlet at her unintentional misuse of the hackneyed phrase, whilst Draco narrowly avoids choking on his bite of prosciutto-wrapped herbed chicken.

"That's – I didn't mean – not like that, obviously –" Hermione is fluttering her hands above in the table in frustrated panic as Draco takes a much-needed gulp of water. Remembering his promise, he is mindful not to succumb to the temptation to tweak her over the faux pas.

"Your choice, Granger," Draco replies coolly, projecting indifference as he gracefully flicks a hand through his platinum mane. "Owl me in the morning."

"Yes. Right. I will. Owl you. Tomorrow," Hermione's uncustomarily flustered staccato delivery is rather adorable, Draco decides. I'm enjoying this dinner far too much; he thinks with a frown. Lost in their own thoughts, they finish their mains in silence.

It isn't until the tiramisu arrives – sliced in half, along with two share plates and dessert forks that the waitress sets down with a flourish – that Hermione addresses Draco again.

"This is what you were asking her, earlier," she states. "You weren't chatting her up." She twirls the small fork in her hand, staring at him thoughtfully. Her head tips to one side and a russet curl brushes delicately against the elegant curve of her throat, before she impatiently pushes it back into place.

Draco murmurs indolently, "You will persevere in thinking the worst of me, Granger. I don't come on to random women while I'm dining with another. I'm not crass." He helps himself to the luscious liqueur dessert, savouring the flavours of coffee and cream. Hermione takes the hint and tastes her own serving, moaning a little in appreciation. Draco watches from lowered lashes as she slowly draws out the fork from between her lips, before eagerly partaking of more tiramisu. She should save that sexy little moan for bedroom sport, Draco decides crossly, shuffling slightly on his seat. His earlier jittery mood has returned twofold.

They both refuse coffees; as soon as the bill arrives, Draco rises and holds out the black pea coat for Hermione to don, before guiding her to exit the booth before him. He swiftly pays for their meal and folds two £50 notes into their astonished waitress's hand, thanking her for her excellent service with his most charming smile. He is quietly amused by the envious look she shoots Hermione as they leave.

The silent walk to Hermione's flat takes no more than fifteen minutes; they are both striding swiftly as the chilled night air nips at their exposed faces. Draco stands back at the front door as Hermione digs through her ebony leather work satchel for her keys.

Unspoken tension between them is crackling in the air; perhaps that is why Hermione fumbles with sliding the key into the lock.

"Here, let me," Draco says impatiently, plucking the keys from her palm before sliding his larger hand around Hermione's waist as he gently nudges her out of the way. He regrets his impulsive action as the gesture presses Hermione flush against his side. He can feel her rib cage hitch as she draws a shaky breath, and the warmth of her hip burns against his upper thigh.

Granger's scent of rose geranium, vanilla and bergamot wraps around him like a cloak. Draco almost shouts in relief when her bloody door finally unlocks, and Hermione skitters away from him to grasp the handle.

Turning her shoulder, she quickly utters, "Thank you for dinner, Malfoy. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Draco echoes stupidly, his smoky eyes still trained on her flushed face. The door is almost closed when Hermione suddenly swings it open again.

"I almost forgot – your coat!" She begins to wriggle her arms free.

"Keep it – it's yours now," Draco says harshly. "I have to leave." He spares an agitated glance up and down the darkened street before turning on his heel and Disapparating with a low crack.