Chapter 8: The Unexpected Guest
Hermione had placed the note from Draco on her bookshelf, propped against a volume of Advanced Transfiguration Theory. It served as a bizarre bookmark, a stark contrast to the dry text. She tried to focus on her own report for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but the words blurred. The memory of the rain, the silk, the way his silhouette had frozen—it played on a loop behind her eyes.
She heard it again: laughter. Warm, feminine, unselfconscious laughter, drifting from his open window across the alley.It was followed by the low, indistinct murmur of his voice. A different laugh than last time.Higher.Less throaty.She scowled at her parchment. Focus, Granger.It was none of her business.He had a life. A loud, laughter-filled, frequently amorous life.She stabbed her quill into the inkpot with more force than necessary.
A knock at her door startled her.She wasn’t expecting anyone. Ron was on auror patrol, Harry was up to his ears in newborn baby chaos with Ginny. She stood, smoothing her jumper, and approached the door. Through the peephole, she saw a blur of blonde hair and a sharp, expectant face.Her stomach lurched.It was her. The woman from his kitchen. Up close, she was even more striking, with cool blue eyes and a smile that seemed to know secrets.Hermione opened the door a crack. “Yes?”
“Hello,” the blonde said, her voice crisp and amused.She held up a bottle of wine. A very good, very expensive-looking red.“I’m Daphne Greengrass.Draco’s cousin. He’s been absolutely insufferable all week, moping about and composing dreadful poetry in his head. I thought I’d come meet the witch who’s managed to short-circuit his usually oversized ego.”
Hermione’s mouth fell open.She wasn’t a girlfriend. She was a cousin.The relief that flooded her was immediately followed by a spike of panic. Poetry? “I—what?”
“May I come in?” Daphne didn’t wait for an answer. She simply pushed the door wider with a confident hand and swept past Hermione, her heels clicking on the hardwood.She smelled like night-blooming jasmine and old money. “Lovely flat.Very you.Light. Serious.” Her eyes landed on the crowded bookshelf, the note from Draco stark against the dark bindings. “And apparently, hosting incriminating evidence.”
“It’s not—” Hermione began, flustered, closing the door.
Daphne was already in the kitchen, summoning two crystal glasses from a cupboard with a casual flick of her wand.“Oh, don’t try to be coy, Granger. It doesn’t suit you.We all saw you at school. You’re many things, but subtle wasn’t one of them.” She expertly uncorked the wine. “Though I must say, this new brand of psychological warfare you’ve pioneered is impressively nuanced.Driving him mad without a single hex. I applaud it.”
Hermione leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. “It started with enchanted glitter. And a ruined cauldron.”
“I heard.” Daphne poured the wine, a deep ruby cascade.“He was furious. And, though he’d never admit it, deeply impressed.He loves a competent adversary.” She handed Hermione a glass. “He’s had too many… sycophants.Not enough challenges.”
Hermione took the glass, her mind racing. This was an intelligence mission.She could either play defense or go on the offensive. She opted for the latter.“So he sends his cousin to scout the enemy camp? Gather intel?”
Daphne laughed, a bright, genuine sound.“Merlin, no. He has no idea I’m here.He’d curse me into next week if he knew. This is purely for my own amusement.And, perhaps, a bit of familial pity.The man is a wreck. He stares out that window like a tragic hero in a bad play. It’s embarrassing to witness.”
A warm thrill shot through Hermione.She sipped the wine.It was exquisite. “He doesn’t seem like a wreck from over there. Seems quite… sociable.”
“Ah.” Daphne’s smile turned knowing.“The laughter.That was me and Theo Nott. We were going over investment portfolios. Draco was mostly sulking in the corner, complaining about the ‘auditory assault of our joy’.His words, not mine.” She wandered into the living room, surveying the space. Her gaze fell on the windowsill, on the empty mead glass and the solitary, softly pulsing flower. “Interesting decor. Is that a Kasmian Night-bloom?”
“I don’t know what it is,” Hermione admitted, following her.“He sent it.After the glitter. As a peace offering, or a biological puzzle. I haven’t decided.”
Daphne leaned close to the flower, her expression turning analytical.“It’s a Kasmian. Extremely rare.They respond to magical emotion.They pulse like that when they sense… intensity. Attraction, usually.Or profound irritation.” She glanced at Hermione. “Yours seems to be putting on quite a light show.”
Hermione felt her cheeks heat. She took a larger gulp of wine.“Look,” Daphne said, turning and leaning against the sill. “I’ll be blunt.The history is ugly.The past is a minefield. I’m not here to whitewash any of it.But the man over there now? He’s spent the last seven years trying to be someone different. It’s a tedious process, mostly involving ridiculous amounts of money and some genuinely innovative potions work.But he’s trying.” She swirled her wine. “And then you moved in. With your brilliant mind and your righteous anger and your absolutely lethal cardigans. And you looked at him not with fear, or pity, or even hatred—but with annoyance.As if he were a particularly persistent gnat. I think it was the first time he felt… seen.Just as a person. A deeply irritating person, but a person nonetheless.”
Hermione was silent.The rain had started again, a soft patter against the glass.
“He doesn’t know how to do this,” Daphne continued, her voice softer.“Normalcy.Connection. It’s all transactions and temporary alliances for him. What you’re doing… this weird dance of notes and flowers and silk robes in the rain… it’s baffling him. And he’s a man who hates being baffled.”
“What do you suggest I do?” Hermione heard herself ask.
“Oh, I’m not suggesting anything.” Daphne finished her wine and set the glass down with a decisive click.“I’m just providing context.The next move is yours. You could ignore him forever.You could throw the flower out the window. You could, I don’t know, actually talk to him.” She smirked. “Or you could continue this exquisite torture. It’s been fantastic theatre from the cheap seats, I must say.”
Daphne moved towards the door.“Thank you for the wine,” Hermione said, somewhat dazed.
“My pleasure.” Daphne paused with her hand on the knob. “One last piece of unsolicited intelligence.The poetry?It’s truly awful. All ‘alas’ and ‘thwarted gaze’. You’re doing a public service by keeping it locked in his head.” She winked and was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of jasmine and a quiet flat humming with new possibilities.
Hermione stood in the silence.She looked at the note on the shelf. She looked at the glowing flower.She looked across the alley, where his windows were now dark.He was a wreck. Because of her.A slow, deep, profoundly satisfied smile spread across her face. She walked to her desk, picked up a fresh sheet of parchment, and reached for her quill. She didn’t write poetry.She wrote a single, clear, direct question.
She charmed the parchment into a simple crane and sent it winging through the damp evening air. It landed on his windowsill, folded and waiting.
Inside, just three words:
‘What kind of poetry?’