Chapter 29: Coffee and Croissants
The basil plant on her nightstand was thriving. Its pert green leaves seemed to watch her, a silent, living reminder of the rain, the collapsed soufflé, the warmth of a knee against hers on the sofa. For seven days, it was just a plant. On the eighth morning, Hermione found herself staring at it while chewing her toast, an idea coiling in her mind like steam.
She didn’t want to Floo-call. That felt too intimate, too direct. An owl was better. Impersonal. Civilised.
She wrote the note three times. The first was too formal (‘Malfoy, I discovered an establishment that may meet your exacting standards…’). The second was too brief (‘Café on Elderflower Lane. Noon.’). The third, she simply wrote: Pain au chocolat here is almost as good as the Roman carbonara was. Eleven. If you’re free. She included the address, tied it to her barn owl’s leg, and sent it off before she could reconsider.
His reply came within the hour. A single line, precise and sharp. I’ll be the judge of that. Eleven.
The café was tucked between a bookbinder’s and an apothecary, its front window misty with condensation. The bell above the door chimed with a soft, clear note as she entered, and the scent enveloped her: rich butter, dark chocolate, freshly ground coffee. It was quiet, just a few patrons murmuring in velvet-upholstered booths.
He was already there. He’d chosen a corner table, back to the wall, facing the door. Alpha behaviour, her brain supplied unhelpfully. He stood as she approached, a gesture of pureblood habit she’d seen a thousand times, but now it felt different. It felt for her.
“You’re late,” he said, but there was no bite. He was looking at her, really looking, taking in her cream-coloured jumper, the loose twist of her hair.
“I’m exactly on time. You’re early.”
“Efficiency is a virtue, Granger. Sit. I ordered you tea. They do a monstrous thing with bergamot here I thought you’d hate, so I got the English Breakfast.”
She slid into the booth opposite him, the velvet sighing under her. “Presumptuous.”
“Accurate,” he corrected, pushing the cup towards her. His fingers didn’t brush hers.
For a while, they just… were. They drank their tea. He’d already procured a pain au chocolat for each of them. She watched as he dissected his with a knife and fork, examining the layers.
“Acceptable lamination,” he pronounced. “The chocolate couverture is decent. Not exceptional.”
“You’re impossible to please.”
“I have standards. Unlike some people who think a soggy biscuit from the Ministry canteen constitutes a pastry.”
She took a bite of hers. It was perfect—flaky, buttery, the dark chocolate just shy of bitter. She couldn’t stop a small, pleased sound from escaping her throat.
His eyes snapped to hers, grey and intent. “That good?”
“It’s adequate,” she said, mimicking his tone, and saw his lip twitch.
The conversation unspooled from there, effortless and surprisingly light. They debated the structural integrity of a cannoli versus an éclair. He told a story about an Italian potioneer who used sfogliatella dough as a potion-thickening agent, with disastrous, fragrant results. She recounted the time Perkins in Magical Maintenance tried to ‘streamline’ the filing system and caused all the folders to develop a fear of drawers.
They talked for over an hour. Two hours. Their cups were refilled. The low murmur of the café was a private dome around them. It was easy. It was shockingly, disarmingly normal. No shattered soufflés, no confessional nightmares in the rain. Just talk. And the constant, humming awareness of the space between their hands on the table.
When the last crumbs were gone and the tea had gone cold, he paid the bill despite her protest. “You found the place. My obligation.”
Outside, the late morning sun was weak but bright, glinting off the damp cobblestones. They stood on the curb, the quiet of the side street stretching around them. The comfortable bubble of the café popped, leaving the raw air of what happened now.
“I should…” she started, gesturing vaguely towards the Apparition point.
“Right.”
He didn’t move. Neither did she. The space between them felt charged, thinner than it had inside.
He took a half-step closer. The clean, sharp scent of him cut through the pastry-sweet air. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. There was a question there, and a certainty.
He didn’t ask. He simply dipped his head.
The kiss was soft. A press of his lips against hers, warm and firm and lingering. It wasn’t a demand. It was a test, a confirmation. Her eyes fluttered closed. It felt natural, as if they'd done it a hundred times. The world narrowed to the point of contact, the slight scratch of his stubble, the warmth of his breath.
A smile broke unbidden across her mouth, curving against his.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his voice a low murmur that vibrated through her. “Same time next week?”
She opened her eyes. His were close, watchful, the grey lit with something fierce and tender. She nodded, not trusting her voice.
He stepped back, the distance feeling suddenly vast. He gave her a slow, final look, then turned and walked down the lane, his stride long and assured. He didn’t look back.
Hermione lifted her fingers to her lips. They tingled. She could still taste the dark chocolate, and him, and the promise.
The bell on the café door chimed again as another customer entered, breaking the spell. She turned and walked in the opposite direction, the ghost of his kiss imprinting itself on her every step.