Chapter 1: The Floo Call Confrontation
The sunlight was a personal attack.
It stabbed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Pansy’s flat, a relentless, golden blade aimed directly at Draco Malfoy’s left temple. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the damage was done. The inside of his skull felt like a raw, over-beaten egg.
“You look,” Pansy’s voice cut through the thrumming silence, “like a Kneazle that’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. A particularly unattractive hedge.”
Draco didn’t open his eyes. “Your concern is noted. Now evaporate.”
The clink of porcelain, the smooth slide of silk—he could hear her moving around the room. The air was thick, humid, smelling of damp earth and jasmine from the jungle of plants she cultivated. A fern brushed against his forearm. He flinched.
“I’m serious. What did you even drink last night? I saw you whispering passionately to a potted Fanged Geranium at one point.”
“I was confiding in it. It was a better listener than Zabini.” Draco finally cracked one eye open. The world was a blur of vibrant green and sharp, modern furniture. Pansy was perched on the arm of a chair, a cup of tea held delicately in her hands, already dressed in sleek black robes. She looked fresh. She looked awake. It was obscene.
He pushed himself up on the velvet chaise, a wave of nausea rolling through him. He’d crashed here after the party, unable to face the Floo. His mouth tasted like ash and poor decisions. “Is there coffee?”
“House-elf’s bringing it.” She took a slow sip, watching him over the rim. “So. The Greek island trip. I’ve finalized the guest list.”
“Let me guess. You, me, Blaise, Theo, Greg. A week of sun, saltwater, and Theo inevitably trying to brew something illegal in the villa’s kitchen. Lovely.” He rubbed his temples, willing the coffee to appear.
“Almost.” Pansy set her cup down with a definitive click. “I’ve invited Granger.”
The words hung in the fragrant air. For a second, the only sound was the distant hum of London traffic ten floors below. Draco stared at her.
Then he choked. It was a dry, hacking sound. “You’ve what?”
“Invited Hermione Granger. You remember her. Busy hair. Preposterous intellect. Saves things for a living. Rather famously punched you in the face once.”
“I’m aware of who she is,” he spat, the hangover momentarily scorched away by a rush of pure, undiluted panic. “Why in the name of Merlin’s saggy left—”
“Language. And because she’s my friend. And she’s been buried in research for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures for eighteen months straight. She needs a holiday. I’m providing one.”
“She’ll hate it. She’ll hate us. We’ll hate her. It’s a mutual hatred ecosystem, Pansy. Why disturb it?” He stood up too quickly, the room tilting. A small, ancient house-elf popped into existence, offering a steaming mug. Draco snatched it, burning his tongue on the first gulp.
Pansy just smiled, a slow, wicked curve of her lips. “Will she, though? She comes to my book club. She laughs at Blaise’s terrible jokes. She helped Gregory with his business taxes. She only hates you, Draco. And even that’s debatable these days. It’s more of a… vigorous ambivalence.”
He couldn’t look at her. He turned to the window, the Thames a blinding ribbon of reflected light. Granger. On a remote island. With him. For a week. The idea was simultaneously terrifying and electrifying. He saw it instantly—her hair, a chaotic cloud against the blue sky; her skin, taking on a light golden tan; that focused frown she got when deciphering a local menu or the patterns of the tide. He’d watch her read by the pool, the silence between them stretching, punctuated only by the turn of a page. He’d have to talk to her.Properly. Without the shield of a crowded pub or the safe, historical weight of Ministry functions.
“She’ll say no,” he said, more to himself than to Pansy. “She’s busy. She’s important. She’s probably got a prior commitment to save a colony of endangered Hippogriffs or rewrite goblin law.”
“She already said yes.”
The floor felt unsteady. “When?”
“This morning. Owled back straight away. ‘Sounds delightful, Pansy. Thank you for thinking of me.’” Pansy’s impression was spot-on, all brisk efficiency and warmth. She stood, smoothing her robes. “So. Pack your swim trunks. And maybe a personality that’s slightly less ‘wounded bat.’ The villa has five bedrooms. I’ve put you in the one next to hers. The walls are, unfortunately, quite thick. But one must have faith.”
He was going to be sick. “Change it.”
“No.”
“Pansy, I am begging you. As a friend. Change the rooms. Put me in the broom cupboard. Put me on the beach.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” She picked up a glossy magazine, already dismissing him. “You’ve been moaning for years about how nothing is interesting. How everything is grey. Well.” She glanced up, her eyes sharp and knowing. “Here comes the brightest witch of our age, on a silver platter of sunshine and ouzo. Do try not to bore her to death.”
The panic crystallized into something colder, harder. This was a disaster. A magnificent, sun-drenched, once-in-a-lifetime disaster. He’d have to talk to her. Really talk. Not trade barbs, not make sarcastic comments about Ministry policy, but actually ask her about her life, her work, what she thought about things that didn’t involve legislation or ancient runes. He’d have to watch her in a swimsuit and maintain casual conversation while his brain short-circuited. He’d have to survive her proximity for seven days without confessing something utterly damning, something he’d only ever admitted to a bottle of Ogden’s and a very discreet, long-suffering house-elf.
“She’s going to ruin my peace,” he muttered, a last, feeble defense.
“Darling,” Pansy sighed, not looking up from her magazine. “You haven’t had a moment’s peace since the day you first laid eyes on her in Madam Malkin’s. This is just finally giving the internal screaming a scenic backdrop.”
He had no retort. Because she was right. The hum in his veins wasn’t just hangover anxiety anymore. It was a terrified, eager thrill.
The green Floo flames erupted in the fireplace.
Both of them turned. A head appeared, suspended in the emerald light—a familiar, chaotic bundle of curls, bright eyes slightly squinted.
“Pansy? Your owl said to come by for the portkey details—” Hermione Granger’s voice stopped as she saw him. Her expression shifted, the open ease solidifying into something more careful, more guarded. “Oh. Malfoy. Hello.”
He was painfully aware of his rumpled clothes, his probably-pallid complexion, the coffee mug held like a shield in his hand. The sunlight suddenly felt like a spotlight.
“Granger,” he said, and his voice didn’t crack. It was flat. Cool. A miracle. “I hear you’re inflicting yourself on our holiday.”
One of her brows lifted. “Inflicting? I was invited. Quite warmly, in fact.”
“A momentary lapse in judgment on Parkinson’s part, I’m sure.”
Pansy rolled her eyes. “Play nicely, children. Hermione, come through. Draco was just leaving.”
He was. He needed air. He needed a vial of Sober-Up and a time machine. He needed to not be standing in this sun-drenched room with Hermione Granger’s disembodied head studying him with that infuriating, intelligent curiosity.
“Right,” he said, setting the mug down with a thud. He strode toward the fireplace, grabbing a handful of powder from the urn. He paused, just for a second, looking from Pansy’s smug face to Hermione’s flickering, fire-lit one.
“See you on the island, Granger,” he said, and his tone was all sharp edges, a perfect disguise for the frantic, hopeful leap in his chest. “Try not to pack any humanitarian crises. It’s a vacation, not a field mission.”
He threw down the powder. “Malfoy Manor!”
As the world spun into a vortex of green, her reply, dry and unamused, followed him through the flames.
“I’ll pack whatever I like, Malfoy.”