Chapter 15: The Risotto Gambit
The kitchen was not what she’d expected. It was still cavernous, still lined with dark marble and towering cabinets, but it felt lived-in. A single, modern stove glowed with blue flame, and a pot of risotto bubbled softly. The scent was of lemon, parsley, and toasted rice, overwhelming the older, fainter ghosts of roasted meat and old wine. The grand table bore a single placemat, a cutting board with a half-chopped shallot, and an open bottle of white wine.
“I thought you’d have house-elves,” Hermione said, her voice echoing slightly in the vast space. She accepted the wine glass he offered. Their fingers brushed. A jolt, clean and sharp, went straight up her arm. She took a quick sip to hide her reaction.
“I do. They’re terrified of me.” He said it lightly, turning back to the stove. “Or rather, they’re terrified of doing it wrong. I asked for a simple mise en place last week and Topsy nearly dissolved into tears over the proper julienne of a carrot. It’s easier to just send them away when I’m cooking. For me and for them.”
Hermione wandered towards the long table, her fingers trailing over the cool, scarred oak. She could imagine the ghosts of revels past here, Death Eaters clinking goblets. Now, it held a sippy cup decorated with miniature Snitches.
“Scorpius is asleep?” she asked.
“Finally. The negotiation process would put any goblin treaty to shame. Three stories, two glasses of water, one promise that ‘Auntie Pansy’ would take him to see the new Romanian Longhorn next weekend.” He stirred the risotto with a slow, circular motion. “He asked about you, you know. After Italy.”
She paused, the wine glass halfway to her lips. “Did he?”
“Mm. Wanted to know if the very nice witch who helped with his Abraxan model was coming for dinner. I told him perhaps, if she was brave enough to face my cooking.”
“And is she?”
“She’s here, isn’t she?” He glanced over his shoulder, a faint, challenging smile on his lips. “Despite a known emergency involving an Entrail-Expelling Curse. I’m honored.”
So he’d sensed the Floo disturbance. Of course he had. “Parenting is a series of managed crises. You know that.”
“I do.” He turned fully now, leaning back against the counter, the wooden spoon still in his hand. “Was Weasley there?”
The question was too casual. It hung in the air between them, sharp as the knife on the board. She met his gaze. “He was. He brought Hugo the notes he’d forgotten.”
Draco nodded slowly, his grey eyes reading every micro-expression on her face. “He doesn’t approve.”
“It’s not his place to approve,” she said, a little too quickly.
“No. But it’s his place to care.” He pushed off from the counter and went back to stirring. “I can’t blame him. If our situations were reversed… I’d probably hex my counterpart into next week.”
The admission surprised her. It was visceral, protective. “He offered a warning, not a hex.”
“Same sentiment, different packaging.” He lifted a spoonful of the creamy rice, blew on it, and offered it to her. “Tell me if it needs salt.”
The gesture was so domestic, so intimate, it stole her breath. She stepped forward, closing the distance. He held the spoon steady. She leaned in, her lips closing over the silver. The risotto was perfect—rich, al dente, fragrant with parmesan and white wine. His eyes watched her, unwavering, from mere inches away.
“It’s excellent,” she murmured, pulling back. Her heart was hammering.
He tasted from the same spoon, his eyes holding hers. “Passable.” He turned to add a pinch of salt. “So. A warning. Let me guess. The past isn’t past. People like me don’t change. He’s a wounded animal, Granger, be careful of his teeth.”
She couldn’t help a small, sharp laugh. “You’ve given this some thought.”
“Every day for the last decade.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but it carried a profound weight. He moved the pot off the flame. “Shall we eat?”
They didn’t use the grand table. He led her to a small, round breakfast nook tucked into a bay window overlooking the moonlit topiary. It was intimate, the glass reflecting their images back at them—a witch in tweed, a wizard in a jumper, a world away from the portraits of scowling ancestors doubtless lining other halls.
The risotto was followed by a simple salad, then a pear poached in red wine. The conversation wandered—teaching, Ministry incompetence, the tyranny of Hogwarts’ board of governors. It was easy. Surprisingly, terrifyingly easy. They disagreed about the use of Veritaserum in administrative hearings, debated the merits of 14th-century versus 16th-century charm theory, and laughed when she confessed to still using a self-inking quill because she couldn’t trust charmed parchment.
“Some habits,” he said, swirling the last of his wine, “are too hard to break.”
The silence that followed was different. It was full of the things they weren’t saying. The war. The divorce. Astoria. The green silk currently making her feel like a live wire pressed against the stiff tweed.
“Why did you ask me here, Draco?” The question left her before she could stop it. It was quiet, stripped of all professor-like composure.
He put his glass down. He looked at his hands, then out at the dark gardens. “Because when you stood in my office, covered in Floo soot and righteous anger about that damned book, you were the most alive person I’d seen in years. Including myself.” He looked back at her. “And because I’m tired of eating at this table alone.”
The raw honesty was a physical thing. It pressed against the careful walls she’d built.
“I’m not…” She stopped, searching for the words. “I’m not an adventure. Or a rebellion. I’m a divorced mother of two with a curriculum to revise and a cat that vomits on my rugs.”
A genuine smile touched his eyes. “Crookshanks still kicking, then? I’m impressed.”
“He’s a menace.”
“I like menaces.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “And for what it’s worth, I’m not looking for an adventure or a rebellion. I’ve had both. They’re overrated and exhausting.” He paused. “I’m looking for a conversation that doesn’t end at ‘goodnight, Father.’ I’m looking for someone who doesn’t look at my Dark Mark and see only what’s underneath it, but also doesn’t pretend it isn’t there.”
She traced the rim of her glass. “It’s there.”
“I know.”
“And so is mine,” she said, finally looking up. “All of mine. The scars, the memories, the… the everything. The divorce. The failed marriage. The routines.”
“I like routines,” he said softly. “I like knowing what comes next.”
“You don’t know what comes next here.”
“No. But I’d like to.”
He stood then, collecting their plates. She stood too, automatically helping. Their hands brushed again over the dishes, a quieter shock this time. They worked in silence, stacking plates by the sink. A simple, non-magical cleansing charm would do it, but he simply ran the tap, rolling up his sleeves.
The water steamed. She saw the faint, silvery lines of his forearm as he washed a plate—not the Mark, but other, finer scars. His own battles. She had a sudden, nearly overwhelming urge to reach out and trace one.
Instead, she picked up a tea towel. “You wash. I’ll dry.”
He handed her a clean plate. Their communication was wordless, a rhythm established. Plate, dry, stack. Wine glass, dry, set aside. The silence was profound, but not heavy. It was a space. A possibility.
He washed the last spoon, the risotto pot. She dried it, feeling the lingering warmth from the stove. He pulled the plug. The water drained with a low, gurgling sound. He turned, leaning back against the sink, facing her. They were close. The only sound was the drip of the tap and the distant groan of the ancient manor settling around them.
He looked at her mouth. Then back to her eyes.
“Hermione,” he said. It was just her name. But in his voice, it was a question, a confession, and a plea all at once.
She didn’t move. The secret silk screamed against her skin.
A small, sleepy voice cut through the silence from the doorway. “Papa?”
They jumped apart as if shocked. Scorpius stood there, a tiny figure in dragon-patterned pajamas, rubbing his eyes with one fist and clutching a stuffed troll with the other.
Draco’s face softened instantly, all tension erased by paternal concern. “Scorpius? What’s wrong, dragon?”
“Thirsty,” the boy mumbled, his eyes—so like his father’s—darting curiously to Hermione. A flicker of recognition. “Hello.”
“Hello, Scorpius,” Hermione said, her voice strangely thick. She felt caught, exposed, even though nothing had happened.
“I’ll get you water,” Draco said, moving towards a cabinet. “Then back to bed.”
Scorpius padded into the kitchen, his small feet silent on the stone. He stopped next to Hermione, looking up at her. “You’re Hugo’s mum.”
“I am.”
“He draws good dragons,” Scorpius stated solemnly. “Better than me.”
“I’ll tell him you said so.”
Draco handed his son a cup of water. Scorpius drank deeply, then held out the troll. “Toby needs water too.”
With infinite patience, Draco pretended to pour water into the troll’s felt mouth. The domesticity of the scene was a bucket of cold, beautiful reality. This was his life. A son, a stuffed troll, midnight thirst.
Scorpius, appeased, allowed himself to be led from the kitchen. At the doorway, Draco looked back over his shoulder, his expression an unreadable mix of apology and regret. “I’ll just be a moment.”
She nodded, holding the damp tea towel like a lifeline.
Alone, she let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. The moment was gone, shattered by the simple, innocent needs of a child. The burning tension of seconds ago had cooled into something else—something more complicated, more real.
She looked out the dark window, seeing her own reflection superimposed on the twisted topiary shapes. A woman in a tweed dress, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide. A woman standing in the kitchen of her oldest enemy, drying his dishes, waiting for him to come back.
And she knew, with a certainty that was both thrilling and devastating, that she would wait.