Chapter 9: The Farmers Market Encounter
The Kasmian Night-bloom on Hermione’s windowsill pulsed a steady, contented crimson. It had been doing that more often since she’d sent the crane. The silent, parchment-based dissection of Draco Malfoy’s poetic attempts had become a bizarre weekend ritual. His verses, apparated over on thick, expensive paper, were indeed awful—full of strained metaphors about ‘alabaster barriers’ and ‘gilded captivity’. Her critiques, sent back on simple Ministry memo sheets, were surgical.‘Alabaster is brittle and cold.Try granite if you’re going for imposing. Also, captivity isn’t gilded, it’s just captivity. See: historical context.’
She hadn’t expected a reply to her last note, the one asking for genre clarification. He’d sent back two words: ‘Tragicomic. Mostly tragic.’
By Saturday morning, the air in her flat felt charged, every rustle of parchment a potential message. She needed out. The sun was shining, and the weekly magical farmers market in the square below was in full swing. She twisted her hair into a loose knot, pulled on a simple linen dress, and escaped.The market was a riot of life and color. Baskets of Blubbering Bulbs hiccupped mournfully next to trays of Self-Peeling Sugar Snap Peas. The air smelled of damp earth, frying dough, and the peculiar ozone tang of fresh charms. She wandered, letting the noise wash over her: the haggle of a witch over a crate of dozing Mandrakes, the cheerful whistle of a vendor selling Butterbeer fudge. She stopped at a stall of singing sunflowers, their broad faces harmonizing in a discordant but cheerful chorus about solar glory.She felt the presence before she saw him. A shift in the atmosphere, a cooling of the sun on her skin.She looked up.
He was there, a woven basket hooked over one arm, heaped with strange, luminescent mushrooms and bundles of vivid herbs. He wore dark trousers and a grey linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair was bright in the dappled light, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat before the familiar smirk settled into place.
“Granger.” His voice was a low counterpoint to the market’s din.“Judging produce? I’d have thought you’d be at home, drafting a forty-page treatise on the improper use of iambic pentameter.”
Hermione’s heart did a foolish, jumping thing against her ribs.She forced her expression into one of mild annoyance.“Malfoy. Procuring ingredients for something nefarious?A potion to restore one’s pompous arrogance, perhaps? I hear the market rate for that is quite high.”
He ignored the jab, his grey eyes scanning her face. “You look… outdoorsy.”
“And you look like you’re about to drop your very expensive-looking glowing fungi.” She nodded at his basket.“Ghoul’s Lament mushrooms. Nasty to harvest. I’m surprised you didn’t send an elf.”
“I don’t have elves anymore,” he said, and the statement was flat, factual.“And I enjoy the harvesting. It’s quiet.No one talks back.” His gaze flickered to her. “Usually.”
A stallholder passed by, bumping Draco’s elbow. He shifted, stepping closer to her to avoid the crowd. The scent of him cut through the market smells: clean linen, frost, and something earthy like bergamot.It was disconcertingly pleasant.
“So,” he said, looking down at the singing sunflowers. “‘What kind of poetry?’ was your deep, probing question.I’d have thought my oeuvre spoke for itself. Dreadful, bordering on illiterate.”
“I was curious about your influences,” she said, turning to examine a display of Ever-Blooming Lavender, feigning intense interest. “The melodrama has a distinct, uh, 19th-century Asylum-period flair.”
He barked a laugh, a short, surprised sound.“You’ve been reading The Mad Magician’s Lament. Theo left a copy in my loo.”
“And you took notes, apparently.”
He was silent for a moment.The sunflower next to her began a particularly shrill verse.He winced. “This is auditory assault. Worse than Nott’s laughter.”
The callback to Daphne’s intelligence was deliberate.She saw him register it, a faint tightening around his eyes. So he knew his cousin had been a spy.Interesting.“You could leave,” Hermione pointed out.
“I could.” He didn’t move.“But then I’d miss the thrilling conclusion of your produce evaluation. Does the lavender meet your exacting standards?”
She finally looked at him fully. The sunlight caught in his lashes, turned his irses to quicksilver. He was watching her with that same focused intensity she remembered from the rain, but now it was laced with a reluctant amusement. The tension between them wasn’t the old, hateful kind. It was a live wire, humming with something else entirely.“It’s adequate,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended.
A vendor called out, advertising iced Cauldron-Cold Brew. Draco’s eyes drifted toward the cart, then back to her.The smirk softened into something more tentative, almost awkward. The basket of mushrooms hung between them like a peculiar shield.
“That actually sounds tolerable,” he said, gesturing with his chin toward the drink cart. “And you’ve clearly been driven to madness by the sunflowers.On me.As a cease-fire.Or a white flag. I haven’t decided.”
Every sensible part of Hermione screamed to refuse. To walk away, to maintain the high ground of her window, the safety of parchment. But the memory of Daphne’s words—he doesn’t know how to do this—echoed in her mind.He was trying. In his stilted, infuriating way, he was trying.And the day was warm. And the brew did sound cold.And she was tired of the dance being purely metaphorical.
She met his gaze.Saw the barely-concealed surprise when she didn’t immediately scoff.
“Alright,” she said.The single word hung in the air.His fingers tightened on the handle of his basket. A flicker of something like panic crossed his face before he mastered it, nodding once.“Right. Okay.Um. That cart, then.” He turned, starting to move through the crowd, then seemed to remember she was there.He glanced back, an uncharacteristic hesitation in his posture.
Hermione found herself fighting a smile. She fell into step beside him, not too close, the bustle of the market swirling around them. The sunflowers faded into a distant warble behind them, replaced by the clatter of cups and the hiss of a pouring charm. The wire between them still hummed, but the current had changed, charging the sunny air with a new and terrifying potential.