Once upon a time, the prospect of baring his throat to Hermione Granger like this would have rankled; would have made him feel ill-at-ease in his own skin, like he’d handed her a knife ready to stab him with. But instead, he drops that confession in her lap and she reciprocates with one of her own, and he doesn’t hate how this feels.

Because she gets it. Of course she gets it.

At her suggestion, though, he cocks his head with absolute blank-faced nonrecognition. “Eye Key what? Is that a cocktail bar or something?”

It really was truly absurd how much the purebloods could get away with not knowing, in their insular little world. You would think that, even with living between the cracks of the Muggle world, they would’ve picked up enough bits and pieces to get by, and yet. It took real, concerted effort over sheer centuries’ worth of bigoted ancestors to leave Draco looking quite so lost at the reference.