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23 October 1993
Draco’s POV
“Where you going?” Goyle asked dumbly, his maw dropping open in bafflement when Draco turned to leave.
He paused, looking over his shoulder, brow cocked. “You honestly believe I’m going to sit in this… this hovel amongst blood traitors and mudbloods just to watch you two drown yourselves in Butterbeer?” he scoffed, “I’m meeting Pansy at Madam Puddifoot’s.”
Crabbe’s brow furrowed. “But-“
“See you two later. Much later, if you get my meaning,” Draco cut in, a smirk lifting his lips.
“Draco, we-“
The Malfoy heir waved off Goyle’s protestation, steering his feet through the heavy The Three Broomsticks crowd of his fellow Hogwarts students and out into the chilly October air. Shivering, he reached up to pull his cap further down to cover his ears and burrowed himself deeper into his peacoat but startled slightly when boisterous chatter suddenly sounded behind him. He sneered at a group of third year Hufflepuff girls as they tried to shove past him into the famous pub, their ruckus gratingly obnoxious.
“Sour puss,” one of the girls commented as they passed, the other three girls shrieking in laughter before the door slammed closed behind them, dampening the noise they made.
Draco sniffed heavily out of his nose and straightened his spine, pulling his shoulders back the way his father taught him. Malfoys are above everyone, Draco, he’d always chant, Shoulders back. Treat them like the plebians they are.
Looking down his nose at the few who dared glance at him, he strolled haughtily through the densely packed street, altogether ignoring Weasley, the Finnegan half-blood (shame that; his pureblood mother was one of the best Chasers for the Tutshill Tornados) that liked to blow up cauldrons in Potions, and that Muggleborn boy Draco could never bother to remember the name of – Thompson? – who gawked like… like plebians at the new Firebolt hanging in the window at Spintwitches Quidditch Supplies.
He huffed in his chest, a passing, uncharitable thought of ‘As if any of them could afford it’ flickered through his mind and he jutted his chin out proudly – the way his father taught him - until that nauseatingly pink building came into view at the end of High Street. His feet solidified to the cobblestone, a swirl of… something unfamiliar flaring in his belly. He was really meeting Pansy Parkinson. He was really going to let her kiss him, like she promised she would. It would be his first kiss, maybe even his first snog, and he was… He swallowed thickly. The something unfamiliar had to be nervousness.
He inhaled heavily through his nose and pushed his feet forward, wrapping his hand around the faded red doorknob and twisted, opening the equally faded pink door, only to be instantly assaulted by more pink. And red. And white. Gilded cherubs hung from the rafters, and he jolted in surprise when one loosed a golden arrow, the tip implanting into the occupied table closest to him. Upon impact, paper hearts exploded from the feathered end of the arrow and rained down over the couple, the girl squealing in delight. He winced at its shrillness, ignoring the way she gushed over paper hearts of all things, and craned his neck, scouring the small shop for a head of sleek black hair-
“Can I help you, dear?” A matronly voice asked.
Draco swallowed again, pulling his eyes from the thick throng of tea drinkers to a plump witch with kind blue eyes and flyaway grey hair tucked under a strikingly pink beret. She wiped her hands on her embroidered apron, a soft smile touching her lips.
“Erm, yes-“ he cleared his throat, pulling his shoulders back, “Yes. I’m meeting someone. A girl-“
“Oh, yes,” the witch’s smile grew, “She’s been waiting for you.”
Draco’s stomach flip flopped as the older witch beckoned him to follow. He stumbled over his feet as he rushed to catch up, steering between tightly packed tables and couples making eyes at one another over a pot of tea and a floating plate of prettily decorated petit fours. The madam stopped unexpectedly, causing Draco to collide with her large bottom; he jerked back quickly, an embarrassed flush rising on his cheeks, his eyes dropping to the floor as he mumbled stuttered apologies.
“It’s quite alright, dear. Here you are,” she cooed. Draco looked up at her from under his lashes, his cheeks still hot with his mortification and she smiled down at him as she stepped to the side, waving toward the table.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, then remembered himself, pulling his shoulders back and dipping his head in thanks. He pulled his cap off his head and began unbutton his coat as he slid into the booth, when a squeak drew his attention.
Pansy did not squeak.
His head popped up, grey eyes rounding when he met a pair of amber colored eyes instead of sage green. He flipped his gaze up, catching on messy, windblown brown curls where there should have been stick straight black locks. His eyes traveled downwards and across freckles dotting sun-kissed skin where there should have been nothing blemishing fair cheeks. His gaze lingered on pink lips parted in surprise, two larger front teeth peeking below the top lip, where he should have been looking at shiny, lip glossed lips, pulled up in a coy smile.
Draco reared back then, taking in the whole face of the girl who sat across from him.
Granger!
He felt something drop in the pit of his stomach and his blood rushed as he scrambled to stand, shoving his cap back on his head. The older witch’s eyes widened in alarm by his sudden frantic movements, but she recovered quickly, her brow then dipping as her features warped in suspicion.
“Is there something the matter?” she asked, her eyes flicking from Draco to Grang- the mudblood.
“I- this is-“ he began, his words sloppy on his tongue as his own eyes met the Gryffindor’s. She was surprised to see him sit at her table, yes. Or was she more shocked? It didn’t really matter, as her surprise-slash-shock began to morph into something else altogether – was it contempt? - but when he glanced briefly at the older witch, it was the disapproving look on the matron’s face that made Draco’s spine straighten and the manners his mother drilled into him from a young age take over.
“No, madam,” he stated, tugging his cap off his head again and shoved it into his coat pocket before unclasping the rest of the buttons. “There’s nothing the matter.”
The matron’s eyes flicked between him and Gran- the mudblood again, then nodded tersely. “I’ll bring a fresh pot of tea and some biscuits.”
“Thank you,” the mudblood whispered, and Draco’s shoulders tensed as he dragged his coat off his arms, hanging it on a hook at the bench’s head. He slid stiffly into the booth, keeping his back ramrod straight, trying to keep as much distance between him and Granger – she’s a mudblood, Draco, call her what she is - as the matron shuffled away.
Silence engulfed them, even as the couples around them giggled and sighed, undisguised smacking noises coming from a darkened corner behind them. Draco swallowed again, lacing his fingers together on the table before the echo of his mother’s voice chided him softly, telling him they should be in his lap. Quickly, he placed his hands in his lap, his eyes studiously cast downwards, finding the lace dollies covering a magenta-colored table cloth quite interesting.
“She’s gone,” came a soft voice across from him. He peered up at her from under his eyelashes, noting her eyes were also downcast, the forefinger of her right hand circling the rim of her floral-patterned teacup. His brow dipped, raising his head to look at her fully.
“Pardon?”
Her finger froze, her eyes snapping up to his. He watched her features flicker between astonishment and confusion, then her lips parted again to say, “Madam Puddifoot. She’s gone. You can escape now.”
Draco was dumbfounded for a moment, watching Granger – his stomach twisted when his father’s harsh ‘She’s a mudblood. Call her what she is,’ reverberated through his mind; the word never felt right on his tongue – watch him, a furious flush rising to her cheeks the longer he stared at her.
He cleared his throat after a long moment, allowing his shoulders to relax only slightly, then dropped his gaze and untwined his fingers, smoothing down a section of the immaculate, wrinkle-free tablecloth. “My mother raised me to be a gentleman-“
She snorted indelicately before the words were even fully out of his mouth, his head whipping up at the sound. His eyes narrowed at her, and she tilted an eyebrow upwards – challenging him – to prove her unspoken doubt wrong. His jaw tightened in response, his shoulders straightening again. He didn’t have to prove anything to her; she was a- a mudblood, below even the Weasleys…
He shifted uncomfortably as the mantra played in his head, his father’s teachings of what it meant to be not just a pureblood (because there was even pureblood filth, like the aforementioned family of gingers), but to be a Malfoy pulsating in his frontal lobe. But the longer he sat there, the longer he simply stared at the bushy haired girl sitting across from him, the more his mother’s stronger lessons of chivalry and respect, especially when it came to the fairer sex, overrode his father’s... lectures.
“My mother raised me to be a gentleman,” he stated again, a floating tray of tea and biscuits catching his attention out of the corner of his eye, “And as such, a gentleman does not leave a lady unaccompanied-“
“I’m a lady now, am I? Not a-“
“-and a gentleman certainly does not leave a lady to tea on her own,” he cut in as the tray settled on the table between them. He shouldn’t have interrupted her, and from the look on Granger’s face, she knew that, too, as it was improper to not hear one’s guest’s opinion in its entirety. But he already struggled with that word in his mind and on his tongue.
He didn’t want to hear it on hers, too.
That realization made the uneasiness in his stomach grow. His father’s post-Flourish-and-Blott’s-Encounter-With-The-Weasleys-and-the-Muggles lesson came roaring back. Image is everything, Draco, he had stated firmly that evening in his study. A tumbler of firewhisky was in his grip as he lounged in an upholstered armchair, nodding to its twin that Draco sat stiffly in, his own tumbler of the amber liquor – like the color of Granger’s eyes, he noted briefly – in his hand, undrunk. Malfoys are powerful. We are power. We are above all, even the Minister. You’ll do well to remember that, son.
She reached out to the teapot, the action drawing him from his ruminations, and his hand shot out, pushing hers out of the way. Curling his fingers around the handle, he poured tea into her cup before pouring for himself and set the pot back on the tray (Spout faces you, my dragon), placing two sugar cubes in his cup followed by a splash of milk, then picked up his spoon, quietly stirring his tea the way his mother taught him. Gently setting his spoon on the saucer, he picked up the cup and tentatively brought it to his lips, hoping to judge the temperature by the amount of steam that billowed from the surface of the liquid. When his eyes flipped up, he had to do a double take.
Granger was positively gawking at him.
He lowered his teacup and cocked an eyebrow at her. “Yes?”
“You poured my tea for me?” It was said as if it was supposed to be a statement but came out as an incredulous question, and it made him shift in his seat again.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Draco’s lips opened, then closed, his eyes scouring her again in thought. Wouldn’t she know why? She sounded upper class in her speech, even if she dressed like… Well, like a Muggle. She was wearing a improperly tight, long-sleeved pink jumper and a knitted, multi-colored scarf hanging from her neck; and while he didn’t know for sure, he could reasonably deduce she was wearing those atrocious trousers they called ‘blue jeans.’ Perhaps she dressed a little more appropriate in her home life? Surely, when she took tea? Then again, based on her reaction, maybe she didn’t take tea as they did in pureblood circles, in full suit and dress?
How odd.
“Because it’s the proper way to serve tea. The gentleman pours for the lady,” he finally answered, watching her lips open to retort before closing them again.
“Okay,” she said after a stilted minute, adding a healthy spill of milk into her cup, making him wince. “Um, thank you.”
“Do you not like tea?”
Her eyes flipped up to him, her movements halting briefly before she set the creamer on the tray and grabbed a biscuit from a plate. “I enjoy tea, yes.”
“Are you sure?” he quipped, finally taking a small taste of his tea. He had to stop himself from groaning when the delicate flavors hit the back of his tongue.
It was delicious.
“Yes,” Granger snipped, swirling her spoon in the cup before loudly clinking it against the rim and laid it on the table. He just… stared at the spoon lying in a puddle of off-white – off-putting - tea, then dragged his gaze back to her, eyes round in disbelief.
How… how uncivilized.
“Or do you just like your milk with a little tea?” he stated with thinly veiled exasperation and reached forward, gripping her spoon between his forefinger and thumb, placing it delicately on her saucer. “You’re positively soaking the linen. Were you raised in a barn, Granger? Merlin…”
“Hampstead, actually,” she retorted, but it sounded… amused?
For the third time in a span of thirty minutes, his head whipped up to looked at her. Was she... smiling at him? She bit on her bottom lip then, obviously forcing the smile from her lips and curled her finger around the cup’s handle, bringing it to her lips to take a demure sip. She shuddered.
“It’s cold now,” she commented, setting the teacup back on its saucer, then let that smile pass over her lips.
His breath caught in his chest. The surprise he felt didn’t course through him because she smiled, it was because she directed that smile at him. He struggled with himself in that moment, trying to figure out if he should acknowledge that she was pretty when she smiled or try to drum up some of the disgust he expected – his father expected - to feel pool in his gut. After all, the Sacred Twenty-Eight had very specific expectations - and tea with a smiling Hermione Granger most certainly went against them.
Then - as her smile grew and she waved her wand, vanishing the ruined tea before looking at him expectedly - he was blindsided by the abrupt realization that Granger had been teasing him. Her eyes flicked at the teapot, then back to him, pulling her shoulders back and lowering her hands into her lap in ideal ladylike manners. Draco swallowed, then reached for the teapot’s handle, twisting it until the spout faced Granger.
And he poured her a cup of tea.
“Thank you,” she said, her already posh accent becoming crisper as she placed a single sugar cube in her cup, followed by a proper splash of milk. Picking up her spoon, she gently swirled the tea before gliding the edge of the spoon quietly against the rim of the teacup and laid it in the saucer.
Perfect etiquette.
Draco’s lips parted to ask the barrage of questions that were on the tip of his tongue but an undignified squawk drew his attention, followed by a stampede of footsteps.
“Young lady, young man, we are full at the moment-“
Draco pulled his eyes away from Granger the same time she pulled hers from her teacup and, at once, they turned their heads toward the ruckus, his heart stuttering in his chest when he met Pansy’s shocked stare. He quickly glanced at Granger, noticing her stiffen as the Weasel bullied himself through the willfully oblivious crowd of snogging teenagers, Madam Puddifoot shuffling behind.
“Draco?” Pansy asked, her voice low and incredulous while the Weasel simultaneously shrieked, “Hermione! What in the bloody hell are you doing here with him?”
“Young man! That language is…”
Draco tuned out Madam Puddifoot’s admonishment, watching out of the corner of his eye as Granger’s lips thinned, the rest of her features warping with irritation, and she huffed a breath through her nose, her lips parting to speak when Pansy cupped his shoulders and situated her body in such a way that she blocked everyone and everything, forcing him to look up into her face.
“What are you doing here with the mudblood?” she whispered. Draco had to bite his tongue – literally – to keep himself from chastising her for using such a word, and shook his head instead, gently pushing her away from him slightly to stand. He licked his lips, his eyes flicking to Granger once more as he drew her attention, her eyes narrowing in question at him, blatantly ignoring Weasley’s incessant one-sided bickering. As he pulled his coat off the hanger, Draco bowed his head at Granger in farewell – Pansy sucking in a sharp, scandalized breath at the movement – then turned on his heel, his fellow Slytherin grasping at the grey fleece wool of his sleeve as he maneuvered through the now-gawking onlookers.
“Draco-“ Pansy puffed as soon as they stepped into the chill. “Draco, wait!”
He gritted his teeth as he shoved his cap over his hair. Stomach twisting with the words he was about to spat, Draco swallowed his guilt and warped his lips into a sneer before turning to face her. “If you had been here when you should have been, I wouldn’t have had to sit with the mudblood!”
The heavy door to Madam Puddifoot’s slammed closed, a, “See? He’s not decent!” following a moment of thick silence. He tore his eyes from Pansy to Granger, his stomach sinking when disappointment flashed across her features.
She sighed and averted her gaze, pulling at the Weasel’s jacket lapels, leading him toward the walking trail to Hogwarts. “Of course, you’re right.”
Draco made sure his facial features exuded superiority, made sure Pansy laughed at the face he made behind Granger’s back, and absolutely made sure to put everything into his very first kiss when Pansy tugged him down the alley between Scrivenshaft’s and Dervish & Banges’ instead of giving in to the heavy feeling of remorse.
After all, purebloods didn’t feel remorse for… for her kind.