Chapter 4
Draco had learned many things in the past few weeks. Oil was not a conspiracy. Shelves did not assemble themselves. And, most importantly, he was still woefully, pathetically unfit for Muggle existence.
Which was exactly why he was now standing next to Hermione on the side of a busy street, staring at a metal contraption she insisted would take them where they needed to go.
“What,” he said, voice flat, “is that?”
“It’s a bus, Malfoy.”
Draco squinted at the hulking, double-decker beast as it rumbled toward them. “That’s not a bus. The Knight Bus is a bus.”
“Yes, well, this one doesn’t swerve through traffic at breakneck speeds and nearly kill pedestrians every three seconds.”
“Sounds boring.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s normal. Which is something you need to learn.”
Draco huffed. “Fine. But I still think we should have taken a cab.”
Hermione sighed. “Do you have cab money?”
Draco frowned. “...Do I need cab money?”
She gave him a long, slow look.
Then the bus pulled up, hissing as the doors swung open.
Draco took one look at the inside—crowded, noisy, filled with people who seemed far too comfortable being that close to strangers—and immediately took a step back.
“No.”
“Draco.”
“Absolutely not.”
Hermione grabbed his arm and hauled him forward before he could make a run for it.
It was an absolute disaster from the moment they stepped on.
First, Draco scoffed at the driver when asked to pay. “You charge people for transportation? How positively barbaric.”
Then, when the bus lurched forward, he was so caught off guard that he nearly face-planted into an elderly woman’s lap.
After regaining his footing (barely), he was forced to cling to a pole as if it were his only lifeline.
And the worst part? Hermione was laughing at him.
“Why is it moving like this?” he hissed, gripping the metal pole so tightly his knuckles turned white. “How does anyone remain upright?”
“They hold on,” she said smugly. “Like you are right now.”
“This is unnatural.”
She smirked. “I could let go of the pole right now and be fine.”
Draco glared at her. “I’d like to see you try.”
Hermione did exactly that, standing perfectly balanced as if she had done this a thousand times before—which, of course, she had.
Draco scowled. “Show-off.”
The bus hit a bump. Draco lost his grip. And in the next two seconds, he was tumbling straight into Hermione.
She yelped as he crashed into her, sending them both stumbling backward until her back hit the window.
There was a long pause.
Draco’s hands were braced against the window on either side of her shoulders. Hermione’s fingers had gripped the front of his coat on instinct.
For one split second, neither of them moved.
Then someone coughed loudly, and Draco nearly flung himself backward.
“Brilliant,” he grumbled, fixing his coat as Hermione covered her face with her hand. “Absolutely brilliant.”
She was still laughing when they finally stumbled off the bus, Draco muttering curses under his breath the entire way.
“I hate public transport,” he declared.
“Well, get used to it,” Hermione said cheerfully. “Because we’re taking it home too.”
Draco groaned, looking like he wanted to collapse on the pavement. “Kill me now, Granger.”
She just patted his shoulder. “Nope. You’ve got a whole life of this ahead of you — or until you get your magic back and get to play with your wand again!”
Draco perked up instantly, smirking. “Granger, if you wanted to talk about me playing with my wand, you could’ve just—”
She clapped a hand over his mouth, her face heating. “Absolutely not.”
His laughter was muffled against her palm, but his eyes were alight with amusement. When she finally released him, he wiggled his brows. “I’m just saying, you—”
"Oh, look!" Hermione cut him off and pointed at the road. "Our stop — come on then!"
Hermione was thankful enough to escape the interaction that as she sauntered away, she didn't care to notice the way Draco's eyes tracked the back pockets of her jeans.
Draco had handled many things in his life—dueling, deception, the utter destruction of his self-image—but nothing had prepared him for this.
The market was loud. Chaotic. Absolutely teeming with Muggles, their arms full of fresh produce, artisan goods, and cups of things Draco was fairly certain he was not meant to drink. The air smelled of fresh bread, spices, and something sizzling on a grill, and the sounds of chattering, laughter, and an old radio somewhere in the distance filled the space.
He hated it.
And yet, Hermione looked so smug about the entire ordeal, which made it significantly worse.
“Alright,” she said, turning to face him with a grin that made him nervous. “I figured this would be a good opportunity for you to practice being a functional member of society.”
Draco scoffed. “I am functional.”
“You tried to pay for coffee with a Gringotts promissory note last week.”
Draco huffed. “It’s money.”
Hermione ignored him, already pulling him into the throng of shoppers. “Come on, let’s get some groceries.”
Draco found himself dodging strollers, stepping around a small child clutching a balloon, and nearly tripping over someone’s very small, very angry dog. He barely caught himself before stumbling directly into a fruit stand.
The vendor, a kindly-looking older woman, smiled at him. “Would you like to try a sample, love?”
Draco straightened his coat and smirked. “Depends. What’s in it for me?”
The woman blinked. “...It’s a free sample.”
Hermione groaned, grabbing his arm and dragging him away before he could flirt with the fruit lady. “Stop that.”
Draco grinned. “What? She liked me.”
“She pitied you.”
“Same thing, really.”
They stopped at a stall selling fresh bread, where Hermione handed Draco a few Muggle notes. “Here. Pay for a loaf.”
Draco looked down at the crumpled bills, then back at the vendor. Slowly, he held out the money with two fingers, like it was diseased. She couldn't blame him, physical notes were disgusting, but also the last time she'd seen him pay with them was the whole smut book interaction. And, well, Hermione now found difficult to not laugh.
The vendor stared at him. “You… you have to hand it to me.”
Draco sighed dramatically and dropped the money into the man’s palm. “You people make things so difficult.”
As the vendor handed over the bread, Draco smirked. “Do you take gold? I have—”
Hermione clapped a hand over his mouth before he could finish that sentence, thanked the vendor, and dragged Draco away.
“You cannot just offer people gold, Draco!” she hissed when he licked her hand and yanked it away.
Draco grinned at her. “Why not?”
“Because it makes you sound insane.”
Draco folded his arms. “I am insane. I’m voluntarily suffering through this.”
“You are learning,” Hermione corrected.
“Same thing.”
The market adventure continued, with Draco asking if he could bribe a cheese vendor for a discount (no), dramatically misinterpreting the concept of a “buy one, get one free” deal, and somehow, somehow, getting pulled into a conversation with an old woman selling handmade scarves who kept calling him dear boy and stroking his arm.
By the time they reached the flower stall, Draco was exasperated and deeply questioning his life choices.
Hermione, however, was in her element.
She was chatting animatedly with the florist, her hands skimming over delicate petals as she picked through bouquets. Draco watched as she wrinkled her nose at something too yellow, then smiled at a bundle of soft pink roses.
He hated the market.
But he… kind of liked this.
Hermione, happy. Relaxed. Not scolding him for once.
Still, he couldn’t let her off too easy.
He leaned in slightly, voice low and teasing. “Buying flowers for me, Granger?”
Hermione scoffed. “Please. I’d get you something tragic, like wilted carnations.”
Draco pressed a hand to his heart. “Cruel.”
Hermione smirked. “Factual.”
She turned back to the flowers, and Draco, with a grin, reached into his coat pocket, fishing out the last of the Muggle money he had brought with him.
A moment later, when Hermione finally turned back, Draco was holding out a single rose.
She blinked at it.
She hadn't even noticed him stepping away to buy it, but there it was—soft pink petals curled at the edges, the stem neatly trimmed, and held between his fingers with that insufferably smug look on his face.
“For you,” he said smoothly, voice dripping with mock charm. “As a token of my undying gratitude.”
A pair of older woman walking by pointed at them and smiled.
Hermione, flustered, opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Oh.
Her fingers twitched before she reached out and took it, turning it over in her hands. It was perfect.
“…You actually paid for this?” she asked, her voice a little softer than she meant it to be.
Draco gasped in mock offense. “Who do you take me for? Some kind of thief?”
She narrowed her eyes, but her grip on the rose tightened just a little. It was stupid. This was Draco Malfoy, king of being difficult, and it was just a single flower. But still—
“It’s… nice,” she admitted, still inspecting the petals like they held some deeper meaning.
Draco tilted his head, watching her reaction with a flicker of something she couldn’t quite place in his expression. Then, as if realizing she wasn’t scolding him, he smirked. “You’re blushing, Granger.”
“I am not,” she said quickly, but she turned slightly away, tucking a curl behind her ear.
He hummed, clearly unconvinced, before suddenly grabbing her wrist and tugging her away from the stall.
“Alright, let’s go before they notice it’s missing.”
Hermione’s head snapped toward him. “Draco—”
Kicking up dust behind them, Draco just grinned and led her back into the crowd.
Hermione ended their market trip as soon as Draco got involved in a one-sided battle with a pigeon.
It all went downhill when Draco locked eyes with the pigeon.
The market had been bustling with energy, the scent of roasting nuts and fresh bread filling the air, laughter and chatter weaving between the vendors’ calls. Hermione had been this close to convincing herself that she could actually enjoy the day—until she turned around and saw Draco standing completely still, staring at a pigeon with the intensity of a man facing his mortal enemy.
“What are you doing?” she asked warily.
Draco didn’t even blink. “It’s challenging me.”
Hermione sighed. “It’s a pigeon.”
“It’s a menace,” Draco corrected, eyes narrowing as the bird took an arrogant little hop forward. “I’ve seen them before, Granger. They’re winged pickpockets. Filthy creatures.”
Hermione pressed a hand to her forehead. “Oh, for—Draco, walk away.”
“I can’t,” he hissed. “Look at it! It’s trying to assert dominance!”
She opened her mouth to tell him how insane he sounded, but before she could, the pigeon made its move.
It flapped its wings once, feathers ruffling dramatically, before launching itself directly at Draco’s feet.
Draco, a grown man, leapt backward with a noise that was entirely too close to a yelp. In his haste, he nearly knocked over a vendor’s fruit stand, flailed wildly to steady himself, and then—because the universe clearly had a sense of humor—his foot caught on an uneven cobblestone, and he went down.
Right on his arse.
“Oh, fantastic,” he grumbled, flat on his back. “This is how I die. Taken out by a feral sky rat.”
The pigeon, now victorious, strutted away with an air of smug satisfaction, pausing only to peck at an abandoned crust of bread as if to mock him further.
Hermione buried her face in her hands. “We’re leaving.”
Draco propped himself up on his elbows, glaring daggers at the retreating pigeon. “Yeah, you’d better walk away, you feathery little bastard! This isn’t over!”
The pigeon did not dignify him with a response, simply continuing its smug little strut as if it had just conquered the entire market square.
Hermione grabbed Draco’s arm and hauled him to his feet, brushing off his coat as he continued his one-sided feud. “Come on, Malfoy.”
Draco didn’t budge. “No. No, I refuse to let it win. Do you see the way it’s mocking me? It’s personal now.”
Hermione let out a sharp breath, shoving him forward. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake. Walk.”
Draco dug his heels in. “I will have vengeance.”
“Draco, we are not waging war on the pigeons.”
“We? We?” He looked at her with an almost betrayed expression. “I see. So you’ve chosen your side.”
“Oh my god,” Hermione groaned, rubbing her temples.
Draco pointed dramatically at the pigeon. “Next time, bird. Next time.”
The pigeon, naturally, remained entirely unbothered.
Hermione sighed, dragging him away by the sleeve before he could escalate the situation further. “You’re absolutely ridiculous.”
Draco dusted himself off, lifting his chin. “I am a warrior, Granger.”
“You just got taken out by a bird.”
“A crafty bird,” he corrected. “An opportunist—a true agent of chaos. I have to respect it, in a way.”
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “Unbelievable.”
As she all but shoved him toward the nearest coffee shop, Draco cast one last, lingering look over his shoulder. “Mark my words,” he muttered under his breath, “this isn’t over.”
They had found a small café tucked between two bustling shops, the kind of place that smelled like cinnamon and fresh bread, with mismatched chairs and old books stacked in corners as if someone had abandoned them mid-read. It was warm and quiet, a sharp contrast to the lively market outside.
Hermione stirred her coffee absentmindedly, watching as Draco made a show of inspecting the tea he’d ordered, swirling it in the cup like it was a fine wine.
“You look ridiculous,” she told him.
Draco arched a brow. “And you look deeply lost in thought, so I’d say we’re even.”
She frowned slightly, glancing down at her coffee. He wasn’t wrong.
She wasn’t quite sure what was wrong with her, exactly. But ever since he’d given her that rose—Merlin, it was just a flower—she had felt… off-kilter.
Draco Malfoy was aggravating, smug, and entirely too pleased with himself. He was also magicless, stubbornly determined to learn how to navigate a world he clearly didn’t understand, and—against all logic—trying.
And he had bought her a flower.
She swallowed hard and took a sip of coffee, as if that would somehow settle the inexplicable warmth curling low in her stomach.
Draco was watching her too closely. That much was clear.
“So,” he said after a moment, setting his tea down and leaning back. “How are you enjoying our little date?”
Hermione choked.
Draco smirked. “That good, huh?”
She glared at him over the rim of her cup. “This is not a date.”
“If you say so,” he said, looking far too pleased with himself. “But I did buy you flowers and coffee. Seems suspiciously like a date.”
Hermione hated that her brain short-circuited for a fraction of a second.
No. No. She was not going to entertain this.
“I paid for my own coffee, Malfoy,” she reminded him primly. “And the flower was clearly some kind of elaborate distraction so you could steal something from that poor vendor.”
“I would never,” Draco said, utterly unconvincing.
Hermione shook her head, exhaling a breathy laugh despite herself.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? That despite every reason not to, she was enjoying this—his dramatics, his ridiculous attempts at charm, his fumbling attempts to integrate into the Muggle world.
She had spent years thinking she hated him. And maybe she had, once.
But now…?
She glanced down at the rose resting beside her coffee.
Now, she wasn’t quite sure what she thought at all.
Hermione wrapped her hands around her cup, letting the warmth seep into her fingers as she watched Draco scowl into his own drink. He was still brooding over his tragic defeat, occasionally glancing out the café window as if expecting the pigeon to appear and mock him further.
She bit her lip, trying—and failing—not to smile. “So,” she said, drawing his attention back to her. “Now that you’ve survived your ordeal, are you actually going to drink your coffee, or just glare at it until it evaporates out of fear?”
Draco scoffed, lifting the cup with a dramatic huff. “This Muggle beverage had better be worth the humiliation I suffered today.” He took a sip and instantly grimaced. “Ugh. It’s bitter.”
Hermione arched a brow. “Did you put sugar in it?”
Draco looked genuinely offended. “Why would I? I assumed it would just taste good.”
She rolled her eyes and slid the sugar jar toward him. “Not everything in life is naturally sweet, Malfoy. Sometimes you have to make the effort.”
He shot her a look. “Was that a dig at my personality?”
Hermione smirked. “I don’t know. Was it?”
Draco muttered something under his breath but begrudgingly spooned some sugar into his cup. He stirred it lazily before taking another sip, pausing as if considering the difference.
“…Better,” he admitted.
Hermione grinned into her own cup before taking a sip. For a moment, they just sat there, a comfortable lull settling between them, the distant hum of café chatter filling the silence.
It felt… nice.
Which was a problem.
Because she was getting comfortable. And that wasn’t supposed to happen.
She hadn’t even meant for any of this to happen—Draco waltzing back into her life, weaseling his way into her space, being all… annoying and oddly charming in that frustrating way of his. She had spent almost two years thinking of him as nothing but a relic of the past, a reminder of things she wanted to forget.
But now… now he was sitting across from her, sugar-stirring dramatics and all, and she wasn’t sure where to place him anymore.
She had expected distance. Bitterness.
Not this. Not him becoming more familiar to her as Draco instead of Malfoy.
Not him looking up suddenly and catching her staring, tilting his head slightly. “What?”
Hermione blinked, her heart giving a tiny, traitorous stutter.
“Nothing,” she said quickly, looking away, focusing on the swirl of foam in her cup.
Draco hummed, unconvinced. But he didn’t push.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair, smirking slightly. “Admit it, Granger. You’re enjoying this.”
She scoffed. “Enjoying what?”
“Spending time with me.” He took another sip of his coffee, smug. “Admit it, you find me delightful.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes. “I find you tolerable at best.”
“Mm. And yet, here we are. Having coffee. Together. Like—what do Muggles call it—oh, right. A date.”
Hermione nearly choked on her drink. “This is not a date.”
Draco’s smirk only deepened. “Tell that to the elderly couple over there who have been smiling at us like we’re the next great love story.”
Hermione flicked her eyes over to the corner of the café—sure enough, there was a sweet-looking old couple watching them fondly, the woman whispering something to her husband before sending them an encouraging little nod.
Oh, Merlin.
Hermione cleared her throat, sitting up straighter. “This is not a date,” she repeated firmly, mostly for her own sake. Hermione shook her head 'no' at the couple who just nodded and smiled at her.
Ugh. They weren't — this wasn't—
Draco just took another leisurely sip of his coffee, still looking insufferably pleased with himself. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Granger.”
"I will hex you."