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As a long black car rolled up the main drive of Lakeside Country Club, a small grey one pulled away from the back entrance.
The first car was a treasured classic, and inside rode the Granger family, vacationing in southern England at Mrs. Granger’s brother-in-law’s country club. They’d rented a cabin for two weeks, and convinced their only daughter, Hermione, to leave her magical world behind for the stay- she didn’t have so much as a wand on her.
The small grey car was old, but not that old, and ill-kept. The mileage ran high and the damage higher. The plates were a glamour, and someone was probably grateful the insurance money payed more for the theft than the vehicle was actually worth. The only passenger had learned to drive it on an old road in Wiltshire, and the number of times he’d cast ‘reparo’ on it before he felt confident enough to take it out in front of muggle eyes was appalling. What was more appalling was that Draco Malfoy drove.
Hermione unloaded her luggage manually, like every other time she’d been here. Considering the last time that was, she hadn’t even known that other options existed, it wasn’t such a big deal, and certainly not worth the effort of wandless magic. She moved two small suitcases into the smaller bedroom, before opening one and retrieving a novel. Wizarding novels were comparable to muggle ones, but harder to come by- why write a story in words if an enchantment can play it out before your very eyes? That being said, she’d long read all the good ones, and with her informational reading taking priority when she could be seen with a book that had moving photos and sometimes more, her stack of muggle novels dubbed ‘to read’ was astronomical, and ever-growing. She would have no shortage in the two weeks away from wizarding life.
Taking the novel, the twenty year old witch called out to her parents that they would be able to find her on the green, and jogged off. Technically, they wouldn’t, but her favorite nook had a perfect view, and if they went looking for her, she’d see them.
Draco pulled the car into the lot of the nearby grocery store, and made his way inside. He was out of milk, cereal, coffee, and ramen. So basically everything. He could normally get some scraps from the kitchen once a day or so, but really, he lived on the four basics. Dancing didn’t exactly pay well; he was lucky it came with a room. It was one skill he had that could be sold in the muggle world without any paperwork, and he didn’t have much a chance finding work in the wizarding world- while he was acquitted of his crimes, his parents were both serving life sentences in Azkaban, and most citizens were quick to avoid any ties to Voldemort. With his looks and demeanor, there was no blending in, and he was flashing neon sign that read ‘Ex-DeathEater.’ Life, while modest, was peaceful in the muggle world.
He nodded at the checker, picked up the bag of his goods, and got back in his car. His wallet was rather light this week, and he thought of the potions brewing back in his room. He sold them as homeopathic remedies a few towns over, at the Monday morning flea market, to get a bit of cash. Cautious, he only produced ones that had perfectly explainable side effects, such as Blemish Blitzer, or Calming Draught. As lucrative as it may be, the risk of Pepper-up Potion causing smoke to come out of patients ears wouldn’t be worth it.
As he made his way up the back drive towards the staff cabins, he noticed a dash of red in the trees above the green- probably a guest, climbing one, he groused, and vowed to go back as soon as the milk made its way into his fridge. Merlin forbid someone find his bench.
Hermione picked her way to the bench in the trees carefully, mindful of the sticks and small holes that lined the ground up here. She didn’t want to trip; as out of character as it was, she liked the red sundress her mother had lain on her bed early this morning, and it wouldn’t do to tear it or stain the cotton blend. She brushed off the old metal bench before sitting down; it was always covered in debris when she came back to it, as if no-one else knew it was here. Logically, she knew her uncle must, as he’d been the one to show it to her as a child, saying he found it the week prior, and chose to leave it there for her to curl up and read on. Settling in, she cracked her book open and gave it her full attention, tuning out the sounds around her.
As Draco made his way from his loft-like room and into the trees towards his bench, he slid his wand up his shirt-sleeve. Something had been feeling odd all day, and he’d never seen someone at his bench in the four months he’d worked here. It would be best to arrive prepared. He climbed the small hill quickly, and spotted a head of brown curly hair. He paused; he’d only ever known one person who had hair like that, and they’d never exactly gotten on. With a shrug, he moved on. This was the muggle world, and quite a distance from Diagon Alley. The chances of a witch here, even a muggle-born like Hermione, were slim.
Reaching the bench, he marched directly in front of the woman, spinning to face her. And froze. Slim chances be damned, he knew that hair, that face, that position, that ‘reading a book, go away Draco’ vibe. Hermione Granger was curled up on his bench, reading a book like it was a daily routine. He cleared his throat.
Her head shot up, hand flew to her hip, where he assumed her wand was. She blinked twice, and then relaxed.
“Malfoy. Thank god its only you.” She turned back to her book for a few seconds before her head shot up again. “Malfoy! What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in years; you’re a missing person. I’m glad you’re alive! Ron thought you were laying in a ditch somewhere nothing more than a corpse! Come sit, what are you doing here?”
Hermione swung her feet to the ground and patted the space beside herself, and bit her lip. Draco suspected she meant to hush her ramblings.
He shuffled from foot to foot for a minute before dropping to take the seat. “How’d you find this bench? It’s mine.”
“Wrong. It’s actually mine. My uncle owns the club; he intended to tear it out, but left it here for me to read on when we came.”
Draco huffed, and shot her a look, but said no more.
“What are you doing here, Draco?” It was the third time Hermione asked him, and really, she didn’t expect a response.
“I dance.” He huffed again, clearly put out that he even needed to respond. Hermione nodded gently; she knew that trained dancers were paid to show off on the dance floor, and to give shows every weekend. When she looked up to ask about it, Draco had vanished. With a shrug, she pulled her legs up on the bench again, and flipped her book open.
She couldn’t stop thinking about him all day - the last year at Hogwarts, after the war, she’d come to accept that his actions were, while not excusable, understandable given circumstance. It helped that he’d stopped faking it, becoming the quiet, brilliant, bookish person those who knew him claimed he always had been. Shockingly, they had begun to get along; taking solace in being the only pair at school who really knew what had gone down during the war.
Harry and Ron, like most their involved classmates, had forgone repeating their 7th year in favor of taking an assortment of Ministry positions. Nearly every student who’d fought had been offered fast-track routes to becoming what it was they wanted to do - the Ministry felt bad for letting it go long enough that teenagers had to fight their battle for them. Or, they felt bad enough to pre-emptively placate the impromptu soldiers.
That left Hermione the only student who’d fought in her year coming back to Hogwarts- until the courts mandated that part of Draco’s penalty was to finish his education. It was deemed that due to the blackmail, threats, stress of freaking living with the Dark Lord, combined with his youth, Azkaban was far too harsh, even for a period of months. Instead, he was put up at the castle on strict probation, fined a heavy amount, and lost both his parents to the prison. It left him a different person, and they were the only two on campus that had experienced the war first-hand, let alone to such a degree. Their truce of sorts simply made sense.
When her parents gathered her to join them for dinner in the hall, she intentionally chose a table that bordered the dance floor. He showed up as their desert course arrived, dressed in slacks, a white shirt, and suspenders, moving as if his feet weren’t touching the ground, like he’d found a spell to fly. She almost wondered if he’d found a spell that gave him the ability to dance. He wouldn’t’ve needed to, she reasoned. He may not be much now, but he’d been raised an aristocrat, and even wizards waltzed.
The waltz was the simplest dance in his repertoire, and that was quickly made clear. He fell back to it when dancing with patrons, sure- and managed to make it look far more sophisticated than it really was- but when he spun his female counterpart into his arms, they danced the Tango, the Rumba, even the Mambo. The young witch found herself bouncing in her seat, the urge to get on the floor and move driving her toes taping, her fingers playing a phantom piano. Even her hips were wiggling without her consent. Watching the pair filled her with a pounding energy.
Her uncle was hoovering next to their table, talking to her father, but paused when he noticed her fidgeting. “Would you like to dance, Hermione? One of my staff, Ricky, is quite skilled- I’m sure he’ll be able to show you the ropes.”
Figuring Draco had called himself ‘Rickey’ when he applied, she nodded. Her uncle turned, but rather than motion to her former schoolmate, he gestured for a waiter to come over. He was a handsome man, sure, but his olive skin and jet-black hair was a long shot from what she thought she had been agreeing to. She schooled her face into a standard blank expression, and stood when the man arrived.
“Ricky, this is my niece, Hermione. Do you think you could teach her to dance?”
Ricky nodded, offering Hermione his hand, and a line she supposed was meant to be charming. It really wasn’t.
Once they got on the floor, and he began to explain the steps of the waltz, she let her famed glare loose. “I am quite capable, thank you. We were taught most basic ballroom dances at school.” He gulped, and nodded.
“Some school, then.” She blinked at him, refusing to encourage his conversation, and they spent the number in stiff silence. Near the end, Ricky bumped backwards into Draco, and, despite it clearly being the former’s fault, he practically snarled at the blonde.
“Oi, watch your step, you prat!”
Draco sneered back, but ultimately ignored him. “Hello, Hermione. Still taking on charity dances, I see? Have a nice evening.”
Ricky was frozen in a look of horror. “You know Draco? Also, who’s that git to talk about charity?!”
The dance was over, and the witch turned to leave the floor, praying her partner wouldn’t follow. Heap of good that did.
“How do you know him? And frankly, you’re of higher class than he, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I do mind, and you’re wrong, anyways. We went to boarding school together; I would know.” The table was deserted when she reached it; her parents presumably on the dance floor, but it was still set with their dessert, so she dropped into her seat and glared at the boy across from her.
Aforementioned boy seemed incapable of reigning in his surprise every time she spoke. One might think he didn’t know women had voices, Hermione mused. Thankfully, before any more incredulity could escape his mouth, a sweaty and panting Draco collapsed into the seat next to her, immediately resting his forehead on the table’s edge. Both Hermione and Ricky froze, blinking at him. She was half of mind to believe he’d apparated into the chair, but there was no cracking noise, and even he would know better than to do that in front of muggles. Draco groaned, and rolled his head to face Hermione.
“Though I suppose congratulations are in order, seeing as you’ve clearly regained your senses and left that weasel you called Ron.”
She couldn’t help it; the entire situation was too odd. Hermione broke down laughing- loud, full bodied laughs. Ricky blinked some more, and managed to close his jaw. Draco grinned. It made him look slightly deranged and exceedingly beautiful, and it took Hermione by such surprise, her laughing faded into soft giggles.
“He wanted to get married and have kids the moment we graduated; every time I spoke of getting my nursing degree he got this look like I was from outer space.”
Draco lifted his head minutely to nod. “If thats what it took, at least you saw it sooner rather than later. You’re too good for being a Weasley’s brood mare, Hermione. We may not have gotten along in school, but you know what they say about you.”
She smiled shyly. “Thanks. I did pass the nursing program in ½ the standard time…” They fell silent, and when Hermione glance up, Ricky had left. “Healing certificate, really. I’ve also discovered a cure for Lycanthropy. And a few other things.”
“Named it after Lupin, I’d wager.” His eyes twinkled as he teased her. Had they always done that?
“‘Lupin’s draught’, yes.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes before Draco stood, yanking her to her feet along with him. “Lets dance. Do you know the Mambo?”
Hermione fixed him with a look, and he laughed. “Of course you do. You’re a pretty high-class muggle.”
He pulled her close, and they spun around the floor. When the number came to an end, they were both breathing hard and sweaty, but grinning. The band paused for a few seconds, before queuing up a waltz.
“One more?”
Hermione nodded.
It was a more gentle dance; perfect for cooling down. By the time the band finished, there were only a four other couples on the dance floor, and all the tables were empty. The band began packing up, and Hermione knew her parents were long gone; probably fast asleep. Considering her habit of waking up with the sun, they’d never know she even came back to the cabin.
If I do go back, she thought. Draco didn’t look like he was prepared to call it a night anytime soon, and with the way the fairy lights were shining on his hair, framed against the dark sky through the windows- Hermione’s thoughts were taking a turn far from her normal conservative views.
Draco’s manner took a turn for the awkward as he led them outside, leaving Hermione with the responsibility of making a move.
“Do you have your own cabin, or do you share with other staff?”
With a look of faint surprise, he replied, “My own.. it’s separate from the staff area, and no so much a cabin as a large tree house. It’s a short walk from my… our bench.”
“Show me? I don’t feel like going to bed quite yet.” The witch had a sly smile on her face.
As Draco led her towards his loft, he spoke softly, lowering his voice and pitch, both to accommodate sleeping staff and because he knew it would affect her. “Or maybe it’s just your own bed that lacks appeal?”
She chuckled, and while she didn’t respond, she reached through the darkness to snag his hand, intertwining their fingers as they walked. “Maybe.”