Before the war.

Indelicate fingers prodded at the fruit on the table. She squeezed and mushed about the flesh until she found one that was just ripe. Too bad she'd bruised all of them in her clumsy quest for perfection. Licking her thumb, she wiped off some dirt. Then, she brought it to her impeccable teeth and took a squelchy bite, the juice from beneath the wounded skin coating her lips.

It was a morning ritual, of sorts. A black coffee, a plum, and the most recent book.

Most times she took it to-go. Probably to the library. Today she sat with Ron and Harry, crooning over lumpy jumpers and whatever rot Ron had received from the quotidian owl delivery.

It was the Weasel's birthday. How sweet.

Draco glowered from across the hall, taking a bite of his too-sweet porridge.

Why he knew the morning ritual of Hermione Granger, he did not know, and he was quite suddenly angry about it.

Two tablespoons of sugar, a drizzle of honey, a helping of syrup, and an expertly cubed granny smith. Heaped on top of a small bowl of oats.

Her teeth hurt just watching that overprivileged prick concoct his cavity-inducing breakfast. The measurements were careful and precise, but irresponsibly large.

Not to mention his tea might as well be a latte. Had she ever seen anyone take such a large helping of milk? Surely it would go cold.

Her eyes strayed to the stained glass of the cathedral Hogwarts called a dining hall. Who could overindulge their pallet under such a looming threat of terror? Voldemort was probably eating his daily still-beating heart for breakfast, and Draco Malfoy had his pointy nose shoved into a sugar mill.

What infuriated her the most was the quarter bowl of mush he left behind sweeping robes; too used to being cleaned-up after and too desensitised to waste.

After the war.

Her indelicacy was not lost. He almost winced, watching the pert nectarines lined up for disaster. He considered charming legs on them all so they could run. She wasn't even looking at them, too invested in her conversation with Luna.

Merlin, the things he could teach her about the proper treatment of fruit. Perhaps he'd start a club about it specifically for her benefit.

"All your senses are involved, Granger", he imagined holding a peach to her nose, then before her eyes, telling her to notice the subtle colouring; yellow, red, white. "Ripeness has a scent, Granger", "press gently here, Granger…", "go on, take a bite, Granger", and finally, bringing his hand to her lips.

He took a long sip of black tea.

Hermione's eyes strayed back to Malfoy's plate, regarding the lone, buttered piece of toast. Did people here know nothing of nutrition?

Sometimes she forgot she studied at a school of magic. Sometimes she forgot they'd come out of a war alive and returned to the battleground afterwards.

She chewed thoughtfully, turning to Ginny. "Do you think trauma changes preferences of taste?"

Ginny shoved a forkful of bacon into her mouth and shrugged. That was all the answer Hermione needed. Ginny used to be a vegetarian, after all.

Her eyes strayed back to the Slytherin tabletop. The toast was missing a bite-shaped piece. At least oats had fibre and antioxidants. White toast was quite literally the alimentary equivalent of cardboard.

The longer the white toast reigned supreme, the more Hermione wanted to walk right over, snatch it from beneath Malfoy's nose, and chuck it at the wall.

He would be late. Rushing through the dungeons, he wound his tie around the back of his neck. He wasn't sure why he felt such urgency to make breakfast. He'd missed it plenty before.

He wasn't even particularly hungry.

Swift fingers set on knotting green and silver silk as he strode towards the hall.

What would he have? A coffee alone would quash any hunger, but he resigned to the thought of potions. If he wanted to make it through with a clear head, he'd have to eat.

Wooden doors dragged themselves open over uneven stone as he approached, and he paused, eyes flicking from her upheld palm down to the plum in her hand. There was a dent on the top corner.

She hadn't left the hall for breakfast in weeks.

Neither had he.

He finally met her look of brown-eyed scrutiny and brushed past wordlessly. He wondered how advanced her wandless magic was. He wondered if she'd tortured anyone with her hands alone.

He wished that he hadn't. He wished he wasn't even capable.

Granger's footsteps faded, and he heard the doors wearily close themselves.

Her ingredients were clumsily chopped. She never had a penchant for cooking or crafting or anything remotely involving blades. Her parents usually kept them away from her.

Glancing down the table, she watched as Malfoy flicked a finger, sending his cubed valerian root gracefully into the cauldron.

She looked down at her own and found nothing resembling a ninety-degree angle.

A mortar and pestle flew past and landed in his calculatedly outstretched hand. He deposited porcupine quills into it, and, to her surprise, forewent the use of magic to powder them. His shirt was folded to his elbows.

She couldn't see the dark mark inked on his creamy flesh. She realised she never had seen it. She did notice, however, the strength in his wrists and how small the granite looked in his hand.

She tore her eyes away and her fingernails dug into her palm.

Draco Malfoy always got what he wanted, and the snitch was no exception. Gallant potty stuck in the ministry studying law-enforcement certainly had nothing to do with it.

He was high above the pitch, circling with hawk-like concentration. If Hufflepuff got the snitch he'd fucking lose it. Give up entirely. Break his broom. Scream into the abyss.

Maybe this time it wouldn't scream back.

A glint from across the pitch had him hurtling forwards without even a first thought, really. Seeker reflexes persist no matter how existentially submerged one becomes.

Looking up from his expensively gloved fist, he found a shabby, horribly knitted scarf. Bold green and yellow stripes bundled thickly around what he knew was a slender neck.

He found her cheering underneath the mess of hair and wool. For him.

He released the snitch and it fluttered before his eyes, though they were trained on hers. The crowd erupted.

Arithmancy would be held in the astronomy tower at twenty-three hours sharp, announced professor Vector.

The only way that grey bob remained so motionless had to be the result of some particularly strong sticking charm. It hadn't moved a millimetre since the morning.

The new assignment was handed out. Malfoy regarded it under a beam of moonlight and fiddled with his tie. Divination of the stars using arithmancy.

He thought he'd escaped far from Trelawney's clutching grasp and froggy head, but alas, here he was. Surrounded by telescopes and crystal balls and that merlin awful tea.

Worst of all, it was a partnered study. Everyone had paired off. Malfoy looked, and felt, as clearly pissed off as usual.

Vector sent him an unimpressed glare. "Since Malfoy has failed to attract a partner… again."

He stared at her stonily, lounging with infuriating ease over the cushy furniture.

"I will therefore select someon-"

Granger cleared her throat in self-nomination. She met his stare and nodded resolutely.

She fumbled with the telescope again, and his eyes narrowed further. She'd directed him to work on Neptune's calculations, and he'd obliged without a word.

But if she knocked one more component of that delicate instrument he might just scream.

"Granger." His low growl cut through the air and she stiffened slightly. After another quiet, but ear-splitting, scrape of metal on metal she turned her head.

"Malfoy."

"Do you insist on working with the telescope given your…" he chose his words carefully, "chronic inability to control yourself."

She straightened, cracking a knuckle in the process. "Excuse me?"

"Granger, you lack… delicacy." He rolled his neck and stood up, long legs extending wearily. They should really reconsider setting necessary classes at midnight.

Her eyesight met his loosened tie, trailing down his chest and forearms; covered, she noted. Upon finding his hands, she gave up. She'd not forgotten his display of precision from potions.

He continued in a quiet voice, as if he hadn't noticed her stare, "there's a skill to knowing how to use your hands, you realise."

Too tired to argue, she slipped into his still-warm seat and continued the preliminary calculations. His writing was neat with a dramatic slant; she thought her chaotic scrawl tarnished the page.

Quiet tinkering noises emanated from before his back, where his hands were. Straight posture, tailored school wear; there was a slender curve to his lower spine.

He'd finished assembly and began reading the co-ordinates in less time than she'd taken to remove the cap. She rolled her eyes to herself. Trust Malfoy to be fluent in telescope operation.

Wood dug into her arse at breakfast early the following morning. She picked her plum and drank her coffee in silence, serenely taking in the almost empty hall. She didn't get much sleep after arithmancy ended. She awoke before sunrise.

Her lack of sleep would affect the rest of her day. She was left wishing she hadn't come thrice imagining her hands as Malfoy's before leaving bed.

She was far too relaxed.

Author's note!

Long time no see! Hope all is well, welcome to a new work that won't have a plot - my specialty. Popping a note down here to say I made an instagram for my handle littleornaments (the insta is little . ornaments). I'll be posting some artwork I've made for my fics and anything else I think fits the aesthetic.

During this quarantine I can't even say how many docs I've started and binned, but this one prevailed. Hope you enjoy!