Remain Nameless

Chapter 20

He was going to fuck this up. Inviting Granger over had been a horrible, rash, and stupendously moronic idea. Draco wasn't remotely emotionally prepared for the reality of inviting this woman into his home. Although, he did at least have the foresight to order the elves to remain either in their quarters or somewhere out of sight for the evening, as he wasn't quite sure how to broach that topic just yet with Hermione. Poor Crick most likely thought his master was going round the bend, but he merely fixed Draco with an indifferent stare before blinking once and agreeing to inform Watson there would be no need to cook.

This obviously meant he needed to figure out how to provide a meal without the aid of elves. As soon as his work day ended he placed a Floo call to a French restaurant in London that had catered some of his mother's galas in the past, and after throwing his surname and a whole lot of gold around, was able to arrange for delivery of a veritable feast at precisely 6:30 that evening.

Having no clue which kind of dishes she preferred, he'd opted for the sensible choice of one of every dish listed on the menu. Pragmatism at its finest. The long table in the dining room groaned under the weight of dozens of French delicacies, as Draco cast a strong stasis charm across everything.

He'd changed out of his robes for the evening and that had been a whole episode of angst as he dithered over how to dress. He felt completely out of sorts, and realized this was the first time he'd entertained a date entirely on his own at home. Former dates with pureblood women took place in social settings or planned outings or parties that were sure to be photographed for the society pages, which meant dress robes. Same thing goes for dinner with his mother.

Maybe just the suit, like he'd worn for their dinner in Muggle London? But even that felt too stuffy for a dinner in with a friend. A more than friend? Fuck.

In the end, he decided on a white dress shirt sans tie and smart black trousers. It was definitely an outfit that would have wrinkled his mother's nose at being far too casual for dinner, but he had a suspicion Hermione would not care.

And now he had 30 minutes of panicking before Hermione arrived. He paced the length of the downstairs traveling parlor in front of the large fireplace. Should he be seated casually in one of the armchairs when she arrived? Perhaps doing his best Lucius impression with a glass of brandy in one hand, and a novel in the other? He'd be the perfect picture of refined wealth and lord of the manor. Draco mentally snorted, thinking that reminding Hermione of his father was probably the last thing he wanted to do given the (pun intended) bad blood there.

With two minutes to go, he finally settled on leaning against the door frame to the parlor, arms casually crossed in front of his chest, exuding nonchalance. He held that pose for two full minutes. When the flames lit green right at the stroke of 7, Draco tried not to jump, though his heart had leapt into his throat.

Hermione stepped gracefully out from the fireplace, ducking slightly to avoid hitting her head on the mantel, and cast a quick Tergeo on herself. Instantly, the stray soot was banished from her dress and hair. She was a vision in a flowing, bright marigold dress that fell to mid-calf. The wide straps left plenty of shoulder on display and a darker hue of silk ribbon under the bodice accentuated her small waist. A golden spring flower personified.

She cast her eyes anxiously around the parlor before she finally spotted Draco in the doorway. "Welcome," he greeted her, unfurling himself from the doorway to approach her.

"Hello," she smiled and tucked a strand of hair that had already escaped her low ponytail behind her ear.

He stopped several feet in front of her, a safe distance. "That's a lovely dress," he murmured sincerely and earned another nervous smile.