The day passed in a blur of giddy, distracted energy. Hermione's mind, usually a fortress of focus, was a pleasant ruin. She found herself staring blankly at a report on imported Peruvian Vipertooth eggs, a small, foolish smile playing on her lips. Her assistant had to ask her twice about the filing schedule.
Cassian. His name was a constant, happy refrain in her thoughts. The memory of his hand in hers, the warmth of his forehead against hers, the look in his eyes—it was all she could think about.
At half-past six, a different kind of panic set in. What did one wear for a… for a date with Cassian Thorne? It wasn't dinner at the Burrow. It wasn't a Ministry function. It was something entirely new. After a minor crisis in front of her wardrobe, she settled on a simple, emerald green sweater and dark trousers. Practical, but with a touch of colour. She left her hair down, a concession to the occasion.
At precisely seven o'clock, the Floo in her sitting room flared to life. Her heart performed a frantic somersault. She smoothed her sweater, took a deep breath, and walked out of her bedroom.
He was stepping out of the fireplace, brushing a stray bit of ash from his shoulder. He wasn't in robes or his work jumper. He wore a dark, well-fitting jacket over a grey shirt, and his hair was… slightly less unruly than usual. The effort, the sheer normality of it, made her breath catch.
He looked up, and his eyes found hers. The same intensity was there, but it was softer now, warmer. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face.
"You look…" He seemed to search for a word, his gaze appreciative. "…elegant."
"Thank you," she said, her cheeks warming. "You look… very nice."
He gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. "I made an effort." He gestured towards the Floo. "Shall we? I thought we could avoid the crowds."
She nodded, her curiosity piqued. He hadn't told her where they were going. He simply held out a small pouch of Floo powder.
"After you."
She took a pinch. "Where are we going?"
"The Leaky Cauldron," he said, a hint of a smirk returning. "For old time's sake."
She laughed, a real, happy sound, and stepped into the flames. "The Leaky Cauldron!"
She stumbled out into the familiar, noisy pub. It was just as bustling as ever, but tonight, it felt different. It felt like their place. He stepped out behind her, his hand coming to rest lightly on the small of her back to guide her through the crowd. The touch was possessive, casual, and it sent a thrill through her.
He led her not to the main pub, but through a back door she'd never noticed, up a narrow flight of stairs. At the top was a small, private dining room. A single table was set for two near a crackling fire, a bottle of wine already breathing beside it.
"Oh," she said, surprised and touched. "This is… this is lovely."
"I thought we could use a little quiet," he said, pulling out her chair for her.
The meal was simple but excellent. The conversation, however, was the real feast. Without the pressure of the Vault hanging over them, they talked freely. He told her about his first, disastrous attempt at a Patronus Charm, which had produced a wisp of smoke that smelled of burnt toast. She confessed her secret love for ridiculous Witch Weekly romance novels, which made him chuckle.
"I pegged you as more of a 'Theoretical Applications of Advanced Arithmancy' type," he teased, refilling her wine glass.
"I have layers, Thorne," she retorted, smiling.
"I'm beginning to see that," he said, his smile softening. "And I very much look forward to uncovering all of them."
The air between them grew warmer, charged with a new, delicious tension. The professional respect was still there, a solid foundation, but it was now layered with a growing, magnetic attraction.
Over dessert, he grew slightly more serious. "The thing I wanted to show you," he began. "At the Department of Mysteries… I've been cross-referencing the emotional resonance from the Vault with every known record of powerful, sentient magical beings. I think I've found a potential match."
Hermione leaned forward, her professional interest instantly snagged. "What is it?"
"It's just a theory. A fragment, really. But if I'm right, the being sealed in that Vault wasn't a wizard. It was something… older. Something that predates human magic as we know it." He looked into the fire, his eyes distant. "Its grief isn't just for a person. It's for an entire world that was lost."
The revelation was staggering. It changed the entire scope of their discovery. But as she looked at him, at the focused passion in his eyes as he shared his work with her, she realized something else. This was part of it. This sharing of minds, this mutual obsession with a mystery, was woven into the very fabric of whatever was growing between them.
"Tell me," she said softly.
And he did. They talked for another hour, their heads close together, the remains of their dessert forgotten. It was the perfect blend of everything they were—colleagues, intellectuals, and now, something more.
Later, he walked her back to her flat through the cool London night. They walked slowly, their hands brushing, then finally linking together.
At her door, he turned to face her. The streetlamp cast a soft glow on his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his cheeks, the quiet intensity in his eyes.
"I had a really good time tonight, Hermione."
"So did I," she whispered.
He lifted his hand and gently tucked a stray curl behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek. "May I kiss you?"
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She nodded, her voice lost.
He leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. When she didn't, he closed the final distance. His lips were soft and warm, moving against hers with a tenderness that belied his usual intensity. It wasn't a demanding kiss; it was a question, a promise, a beginning.
When they finally parted, they were both breathless. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he murmured.
"Tomorrow," she agreed, her voice husky.
He pressed one last, soft kiss to her forehead before turning and walking away, disappearing into the night with his hands in his pockets.
Hermione leaned back against her door, a slow, dazed smile spreading across her face. The first date was over. And it had been, without a doubt, the most intellectually stimulating, emotionally resonant, and utterly perfect date of her entire life.