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Chapter Text

Draco pensively stood on the pristine stone white terrace of his ancestral chateau in the Loire Valley of France, gazing out at his luscious property, a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in his hand. His stormy grey eyes flitted over the physical embodiment of everything he had accomplished in the last ten years: the renovation and modernization of his family’s 12th century verifiable castle; the revitalization of the 100+ acres including the two fully working vineyards. He had brought them back from nothing, now producing the most expensive, highly sought-after wines from the Touraine region: his baby, the Sauvignon Blanc; the Chardonnay; the Pinot Noir; and the Cabernet Sauvignon. Each one necessary for different dishes, different events, different clientele; each one making his revitalized family business more lucrative than ever before. And it had all been his doing, his hard work, his ambition.

His face was on every niche wine magazine in Europe. He rarely gave personal interviews, shying away from questions regarding his past in England. He boldly would move the questions along unless they revolved around his wines, his vineyards, his business. The Malfoy family? No. Malfoy Manor? Next. The Second Wizarding War? Absolutely not. The Former Dark Lord? Hell no. Death Eaters? Fuck no. Harry Potter or any of his golden friends? Fuck right off. Women? The classic Malfoy sneer would suffice. He knew why they asked: he was young, rich, attractive, brooding, and still single. But women were the furthest thing from his mind.

This place had become his saving grace. He was able to focus entirely on revamping himself, his family name, his dark history. He was able to infuse all that late teenage angst, all the fear, all the doubt, all the hesitancy into something productive, something that brought him immense pride because he had done it all himself, by himself. His parents had stayed behind at the Manor, and though he had originally tried to convince them to come stay at Chateau Beauserpent in Tours with him, they had declined.

Draco smirked, remembering the conversation. Lucius had had no faith in his son bringing the chateau back from the dead. The damn place had needed a lot of work. Not to mention, Narcissa was accustomed to living a certain way and the chateau, at the time, would not have met her standards. But still, Draco was determined to see it through. And here he stood, ten years later, arrogantly proud of all he’d accomplished, ready for his next move.

Unfortunately for him, his next move was terrifying.

Leaving his sprawling, successful vineyards in the capable hands of his property manager, Jean-Luc, Draco was heading home. After ten years of avoiding the Manor, avoiding London, avoiding England like the plague, he was cautiously, tentatively setting his feet back on his homeland. He was anxious as fuck. He’d seen his parents, of course, who regularly came to visit him and stay at the chateau when they needed to escape the suffocating fog of still being social pariahs thanks to their roles in the war. He’d seen his friends periodically: Blaise, Theo, Astoria, and Pansy had all come to stay with him multiple times each year when they needed a break from their own lives. But aside from them, he’d seen no one else. His parents would occasionally forward him copies of the Daily Prophet when any former classmates from Hogwarts were mentioned, but more often than not, he tossed them right in the fire without a glance. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to get sucked back into that world if he could avoid it.

And here he was, going right back to the heart of it. But it was the right move. Vins Dragonnoir (Black Dragon Wines) was ready to expand, and Draco was determined to see it through. He already sold and distributed his wines all over Europe: his wines were present at every gala, every ball, every high-end event. Now he needed to bring it to the UK, and the best place to do that from was London.

His plan was simple. He’d already engaged his mother, who had in turn involved real estate extraordinaire, Daphne Greengrass. Together, they had found Black Dragon Wines the perfect business space in the heart of the city. Draco had jumped without even seeing the property, trusting in his mother’s judgement and his memories of the refined, elegant girl Daphne had been over ten years ago at school. Somehow, he was sure the space would radiate those same qualities if she had found it.

As soon as he landed in London, he’d reach out to his friends. He wanted no one else but them involved in this endeavor. He wanted no one else to work for him but them. They’d never steer him wrong; they’d be honest with him; they’d want him to succeed, naturally; they'd knock him down a peg or two when he needed it; and they’d be hellbent and determined to make Black Dragon Wines profitable in the UK too, if not for his vaults, for their own.

Not to mention, he trusted no one else.

After everything that had happened ten years ago, after his arrest, Lucius’ arrest, Narcissa’s arrest, after their individual trials, Draco didn’t care if he never saw any of the people who had sat in that courtroom again. He’d watched Harry Potter defend his mother so angelically, tugging on everyone’s heartstrings, that all Narcissa had gotten was a sentence of house arrest for one year. Lucius, on the other hand, had gotten five years in Azkaban. Draco could still hear the gasps of shock and outrage at what most had considered a lenient sentence; the memory still made him bitterly uneasy. His father was a complete tosser, there was no question. He had had his arse handed back to him by Tom Riddle seventeen different ways in the last year of the war alone; he had been emasculated, had lost his wand, had been slapped, had lost his home when the Manor had become Death Eater headquarters, had lost his son when Draco had been forced to take the Dark Mark. Had Tom Riddle not had Narcissa’s sister, Bellatrix, hell, he might’ve even attempted to take Narcissa for himself, too. Draco grimaced at the thought.

But what Draco understood about Lucius was what no one else understood: Lucius didn’t give a shit who was in power. Lucius would always choose whichever side would keep his vaults full of gold, his Manor full of old magic and dark ancestral artifacts, his wife elegantly dressed and coiffed, his son well-educated, his descendants equally wealthy. Whichever side benefitted his pockets was the winning side.

What was most shocking of all though, Draco remembered vividly, his hand absently swirling the wine in his glass, was when the entire Golden Trio had come to his trial and fought for his freedom. He had never hated them more than in that moment: fucking Harry Potter, fucking Weaselbee, fucking Granger, taking him on like some pity case, like some charity. He didn’t fucking need any of them. He had sneered maliciously at each one of them, looking them dead in the eyes as they spoke on his behalf. He’d never asked them to do such a thing, never wanted them to do such a thing. Saint Potter, coming to the damn rescue again, spouting off all the wonderful things he’d done to save them, protect them, when Potter had known damn well that he’d only done those things for self-preservation out of fear. Because he'd been a coward, not a hero. And yet, their words had been bought, and Draco had been absolved and released.

The day after he went home a free 18 year old, he’d left for France on a self-imposed exile, so bitterly disgusted with the Ministry, with the war, with Tom Riddle, with his father, with Potter, with Weaselbee, with Granger, with himself, that he was sure he’d never set foot in England again. Maybe he’d find his true self, the person he was without his parents' puppet strings, in France. Maybe he'd find who he was meant to be if he walked the same corridors, the same land as his French ancestors.

And in some ways, he thought he had.

And because he was confident in who he had become, who he had found deep within himself, and what he had done to bring life and luxury back to Chateau Beauserpent, Draco Malfoy was stepping back onto English soil a new man. Still an arrogant, sneering prick of a man, but determined to leave behind the spineless, terrified, cowardly boy in his past where he belonged.

Chapter Text

“All I’m saying is you need to consider it,” Lucius said primly from his seat at the head of the dining room table.

To Lucius’ right, Draco clenched his teeth in frustration. He could barely believe this shit, though really, he should have expected it. He’d been back home at Malfoy Manor for all of half a day when his parents had already brought up the topic of marriage.

“Father, I’m not not considering marriage,” Draco said patiently, “it’s just not on the horizon right now. I’m entirely focused on making Black Dragon Wines a luxury name in the UK. I’m not thinking about finding a woman at the moment –”

“Well, you should always be looking for a woman,” Lucius interrupted pompously, taking a bite of his salmon. “Even if it’s just for occasional... companionship,” he continued lightly.

Draco smirked. “I don’t have to look for that. They find me,” he replied smugly, meeting his father’s wink with his own.

Narcissa, sitting to Lucius’ left across from Draco, stared between the two of them in disgust. “Do you two even see me sitting here? How brazen of you. At least wait until you’re sitting in the study sharing a bottle of fire whiskey before cackling over women like a couple of knobs. I’d rather not be present for such discussions, both as your wife,” she glared at Lucius, “and your mother,” she threw at Draco, her eyebrow arched commandingly.

“Of course, darling. I apologize. It was very insensitive of me to allude to our son’s ... hobbies outside of work,” Lucius said soothingly, gently rubbing Narcissa’s hand with his own, his eyes meeting Draco’s with another wink.  

“Regardless, your father is right about one thing,” Narcissa continued seriously, her eyes going back to Draco. “Marriage would be most beneficial for you right now. And before you start blathering on about how you don’t want us to find you a wife, let me assure you we are well past that point. You’ll be 30 in a year and a half. You’re a highly successful businessman. We think you’re fully capable of finding someone on your own. It’s just... we know you’ll have a...” Narcissa carefully chose her words, “...a difficult time maneuvering yourself in the wizarding world, Draco.”

Draco bit the inside of his cheek. “Why is that, Mother?”

Narcissa met Lucius’ eyes briefly. “Because you know people are very distrustful of us still, even over ten years later, and –”

“Well, rightly so, no?” Draco interrupted quietly, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

Narcissa took a deep, calming breath before pushing on. “Deserved or not, your father and I are used to it. All of it: the looks, the stares, being treated like we have the plague. Until they need money, of course,” she continued with a roll of her eyes, “whenever anyone needs funding for a charity, or needs an event planned, or a fundraiser headed up, suddenly we become the top contenders. But I digress.” She took another breath. “We’re used to it. And we’ll continue to pay for our sins to society. But you, Draco, you didn’t do –”

“Don’t say I didn’t do anything,” Draco harshly interrupted a second time, “I know all about what I did, what I’m guilty of and I –”

“I wasn’t going to say you didn’t do anything,” Narcissa interjected forcefully, “if you’d have let me finish, I was going to say you didn’t do anything to the level that your father did. But you are our son. His son and heir. And you will unfairly continue to pay for his sins as well as your own, and probably for mine, for the rest of your life. No one will care to listen to the hows and the whys. And my point, Draco, is that you should expect to be treated as we’ve been treated. And I think you’ll have a hard time making deals with the clients you want. Maybe not all. But a lot of them.”

Draco continued eating his dinner, his eyes on his food, his mother’s words rolling around in his head. Finally, he nodded, seeing Narcissa’s point. “Yes. You’re probably right. And I would be lying if I said the same hadn’t already occurred to me.” He raised his eyes to hers. “But I must try. Eventually, I’ll wear them down. If I maintain the type of person I am, consistently, they’ll come around. I have to believe that.”

Lucius contemplatively watched his son eat for a few moments before speaking. “This is why I had brought up marriage,” he began quietly, “because depending on the wife you choose, it could have a positive impact on your public persona. And ours.”

Draco’s eyebrows furrowed, waiting for his father to continue.

“I think if you chose a woman who was well liked and well received in the wizarding world, it would help soften how you’ll be perceived,” Lucius firmly declared. “Gone are the days of focusing solely on pureblooded, wealthy ladies. Few of them would give your image the uplift it needs in order to be successful here. And though I am a proponent of upholding tradition, I am a bigger proponent of our family being elevated back to where it deserves to be – to where you deserve to be.” Lucius’ eyes dropped to the table in resignation. “I don’t want you to bear the brunt of my...” he paused, “...my decisions. And the right woman can alleviate some of that for you.”

Draco’s eyes never left his father’s face. He had to work diligently to not let his mouth quirk up into a sneer. He swallowed down his mounting bitter resentment; it no longer served a purpose. He deeply sighed, his tongue wetting his lips in thought.

“You... you’re not wrong,” Draco finally huffed quietly. “Yes. Having a wife, especially one who was accepted and well liked would certainly have a positive effect on my own reception being back and doing business in London.”

His eyes flitted between his parents. “I’m not against the idea. And if I happen to meet a woman who I think could have that effect, and I happen to be attracted to her, then....” he trailed off, “then I’ll contemplate it, can you both agree with that? I just cannot make it my priority. But if it happens, it happens, and I’m open to it. I refuse to go hunting for women. I have never had to and I won’t start now.”

“Well,” Lucius began in a devious tone, a wide grin on his face, “of course not. You are my son, after all. But at least if you go hunting for women, don’t go into it looking for a wife. Just go into it looking for a good time.”

“Like I said, Father,” Draco grinned back, “they find me.”

“I’m still sitting right here!”

Chapter Text

“Are you fucking serious right now, Malfoy?!”

Pansy, Theo, and Blaise were all standing before Draco in the new office business space for Black Dragon Wines staring at him, dumbfounded.

“You’re aware we’re all employed? You want us to quit our well-paying jobs and come work for you?” Pansy continued incredulously. With widened blue eyes, she glanced around the office space set at the top floor of the 15-story building, the circular room with an open-concept design enhanced by the full 360 degree wall of windows with four different glass doors leading to the stone balcony. The full views of the city were spectacular.

“Yes,” Draco said confidently, “I trust all of you implicitly, number one. And number two, you all have skills which will benefit Black Dragon Wines. Blaise, I need you as a solicitor. I need you to be constantly on top of the alcohol laws, both for importing from France, and for serving. Anything legal, it’s yours. Pans, I want you in charge of marketing. You have public relations experience; you can nail this.”

He turned to Theo. “Nott, I want you to oversee research and sales. I want you to scout possible places that would be a good fit to sell and serve the wine and then pitch it to them. It’s important that whoever carries my brand is in the right market for us. Black Dragon is only associated with high-end luxury events in continental Europe; I have the same vision for the UK.”

“Count me in,” Blaise said enthusiastically without a second thought, shaking Draco’s hand before pulling him in for a tight one-armed hug, “everything you touch turns to gold. I’m not missing the ride. Or the payout,” he added, his dark eyes twinkling.

Theo ran a hand through his long brown curls anxiously, his blue eyes cautiously meeting Draco’s before he nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’m in. You better pay us well. We have lifestyles to maintain, you know,” he added with a smirk.

The three of them turned expectantly to Pansy, who glared at them, her arms tightly crossed at her chest. Finally, she sighed in defeat.

“Fine. But only because you’re all forcing me, since let’s face it, there is no way the three of you would be able to do this without me. I’ll obviously be saving your arses multiple times a week, and I expect to be compensated for it, Malfoy,” she added with a sly grin. Dropping her chagrined façade, she squealed and made a beeline for the stone balcony, yanking open one of the glass doors, racing out to lean her elbows along the handrail, gazing admiringly at London before her.

A few minutes later, Draco, Blaise, and Theo joined her, Draco holding a bottle of his sauvignon blanc and four wine glasses, handing one each to his lifelong friends, pouring them a celebratory drink.

“To Black Dragon Wines,” he said, lifting his glass.

“To friends,” Theo added with a wink, “especially the ones willing to potentially fuck up their own lives for your monetary success.”

“To taking chances with you three prats,” Pansy grinned.

“And to money,” Blaise said definitively, “because money makes the world go round, my fellow serpents.”

With a clink, they all took a sip, admiring the view.

“I need a business manager,” Draco announced, the sunset illuminating his platinum hair to a near glowing white, “any one of you know someone? Someone who can handle books but also run the office?”

The corner of Pansy’s lips lifted. “I absolutely do.”

*************************************************************************************

From her desk, Ginny Potter eyed Draco through the glass door to his office and snickered. She found it ironic and ridiculously funny that he had the only private, enclosed office in the otherwise completely open floorplan, but his walls and door were all glass.

What was even the point?

Regardless, she’d been working for Black Dragon Wines as the business and office manager for about a month now and was content. She loved that she was down the street from Harry at the Ministry where he was Head Auror. She loved that her favorite coffee shop was on the ground floor of this very building. She loved working with Pansy, and was becoming much more comfortable around Blaise and Theo.

As for Malfoy? She could handle him, but he was so damn difficult to read. The man wore a permanent Resting Sneer Face and was seemingly always in a bad mood. She kept her distance most of the time, letting him be, but from what she could tell, he had built this business from the ground up and was having a hard time adjusting to life back in the UK.

His past followed him like a shadow. Ginny had seen it firsthand every time they all left together at the end of the workday: the way people practically dove out of Malfoy’s way in the street. The way no one met his eyes if they could help it. The way they would shrink back if he came to a stop near them. It was exhausting for her to witness such overreactions; she could only imagine how draining it was for him to be on the receiving end. But, he stoically gritted his teeth and pushed on.

Ginny had made the poor decision to encourage him to try smiling once. He’d stared at her, unblinkingly, emotionless, for so long that she’d wondered if he had momentarily lost his processing abilities. Then she wondered if she hadn’t actually spoken the words out loud and only thought she had. But then Pansy had elbowed her pointedly, and Malfoy’s expression took up the sneer again.

“I’ll try that, Weaselette,” he’d sarcastically scoffed with a roll of his eyes, “I’m sure that’s the answer.”

They had landed some good accounts. Ginny had been pleasantly surprised when Draco had been open to working with muggle businesses. Theo had managed to lock in several luxury hotels in London and was in talks with another couple in Glasgow and Dublin. What Draco wanted, though, what they all knew Draco desperately wanted was to link up with the Ministry of Magic. If the Ministry carried and served Black Dragon Wines at their events – their meetings, their balls, their galas, their fundraisers, their parties – it would be the biggest client they could hope to score. And, it would lead to other opportunities with luxury businesses in the wizarding world.

But the moment the Ministry had realized that Draco Malfoy was at the helm of Black Dragon Wines, all lines of communication had shut off. It had crushed him, even though he hid it well. Ginny could tell he had worked hard to try and erase the Draco Malfoy from ten years ago, and she could see the effect of being rejected without even being given a chance in his eyes. It made her quite sad, actually; she’d never dreamed, back when Malfoy had been the youngest Death Eater, that she would come to work for him over ten years later, would even maybe – dare she say? – like him just a bit. If anyone deserved the chance to be redeemed and given an opportunity, it was the ferret.

He didn’t give up though. He encouraged Theo to continue trying to open the lines of communication back up with the Ministry. Theo had owled some people only to never hear back; he’d found the emails of several Ministry employees and had reached out that way too. So far, it had proved to be dead end after dead end. Ginny uncomfortably waited for the day Malfoy would ask her to talk to Harry; she hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Harry hadn’t exactly been thrilled to hear Malfoy would be her boss, and the two hadn’t even seen each other, let alone made an attempt to thaw their mutual freeze of one another. Ginny really didn’t want to be placed in the middle, nor did she want to try and have her husband put in a good word for her company at his job, but thankfully, Malfoy hadn’t asked and Ginny was not about to volunteer.

Chapter Text

For it being such a lovely late April afternoon, Hermione was having a rough fucking day.

She’d been late for work at HOPE because she’d actually run out of floo powder. How does that even happen? She was Hermione fucking Granger, Brightest Witch of Her Age, and she’d run out of floo powder in her complete haste and lack of organization both of which had become a problem in the last year or so. She then had to apparate into Wizarding London first before discretely walking the few blocks into muggle London where her office was located.

And of course, her favorite coffee shop had run out of her preferred flavored syrup (cinnamon), so she’d had to settle for vanilla, which would have been fine in her latte except that when she had turned around to speed walk out, she’d smacked right into a tall, slender blonde bloke who obviously gave zero fucks about his surroundings or had an eyesight problem. Likely both. As she’d furiously wiped at her sky-blue cardigan with a wad of napkins, now wearing half of her latte, her dark eyes indignantly flew up in irritation to the perpetrator, then quickly widened into saucers in shocked, horrified recognition.

A pair of furious grey eyes rose to hers. “For fuck’s sake, Granger!”

For just a split second after his voice met her ears, Hermione was briefly transported back in time to the feel of her 14 year-old fist meeting his nose. As quickly as the memory had resurfaced, it vanished, and her stomach immediately sank as she came face to face with her childhood adversary, someone she hadn’t even thought about in the last decade. But then her temper flared at both his angry, accusatory expression and his tone, as if this entire thing had been her fault when he had obviously run into her. Clearly, he was still as unpleasant as ever.

She had been so caught off-guard at seeing Draco Malfoy again, of all people, that she had stood there in slack-jawed silence, watching as his face turned pink. Before she could pull herself together and assemble some sort of cohesive, defensive response, Hermione watched his eyes quickly take a scan of the customers around them. Noticing that they had the attention of several people, Draco pursed his lips and schooled his face back into hard lines, antagonism written all over his sharp features.  With one last cold, sneering look of distaste aimed at her, he’d walked right out of the coffee shop and disappeared. Ever so thoughtful, Hermione thought to herself in complete aggravation, guess it’s true what they say about leopards and their bloody spots. Hermione then had to stand there, an insincere look of patience on her face as she waited for the young, flustered barista to make her a fresh latte that Hermione, of course, would have to pay for even though it had been Malfoy who had crashed into her.

To make matters worse, her receptionist had called out sick. This should normally be vexing, but in actuality, Hermione having to answer her own phone wasn’t much of an issue since HOPE’s phones rarely rang anymore. And of course, this in and of itself was problematic for a floundering nonprofit organization.

Hermione sat at her desk, gently rubbing her temples. Beacon of HOPE had been her dream the moment the war had ended, and she’d had some time to think. After going back to Hogwarts for the optional 8^th year, Hermione had started the nonprofit organization that benefited both magical and muggle children who had suffered in the war, especially those who had lost a parent. Sitting there now at her desk, her fingers lightly tracing the logo Beacon of HOPE: Healing, Opportunity, Potential, Education, she sighed deeply. What had been a successful nonprofit within the first year of its inception had begun to flounder in the last two. She couldn’t understand it. It seemed like people had either forgotten about the war or had chosen to simply ignore its youngest survivors. Hermione could barely afford her receptionist. Her fundraising coordinator had gone from full time to part time, and Hermione couldn’t even warrant a reason to keep Amanda around at all seeing as how she couldn’t even remember the last time HOPE had had a successful fundraiser. The fact of the matter was that Hermione’s beloved organization was mere months away from going bankrupt and she had no idea how to stop the crash course her train was on. She’d barely slept in the last year, overcome with stress and worry not only for herself and the two girls she worked with, but for the children themselves across the UK who still were dealing with the effects of a war that had ended ten years ago.

Hermione felt enormous responsibility for kids like Teddy Lupin, now ten years old, one of the survivors of the war that she saw on a regular basis because of how close he remained to his godfather, Harry. Every time she saw Teddy’s grin, she felt a deep desire to do more. Though Teddy had enough love and support, both emotionally and financially, to get what he needed, there were many children all over the United Kingdom who weren’t as lucky. And Hermione wanted to save them all.

But the stress of running the organization on her own had taken its toll on her. She should have been better prepared. She should have hired more people from the beginning; she should have had staff working for her all over the UK and not just in her London office. The truth of the matter was that Hermione rarely liked depending on anyone other than herself; in her mind, she was the only person who would do things right, who would do things the way she envisioned them. In the end, she would be the one cleaning up other people’s messes, fixing their mistakes, she was sure of it. It was the repeated pattern of her life, what she’d always done: she was fully aware that without her, Harry would have died in their first year at Hogwarts, and she had come through and saved him and Ron so many times over the years she couldn’t even count them. And they’d barely acknowledged it – maybe because Hermione had always projected an air of confidence and they assumed she hadn’t need acknowledgement. But dammit, she had needed it. Looking back, she supposed she had taken on such a role in their friendship as a way of proving herself as a muggleborn in the wizarding world. That trait had become so ingrained in her that to this day she often found herself preferring to do everything herself simply because she was still trying to prove a point. But that stubborn streak to try and do the whole thing on her own was ultimately what was leading to HOPE’s downfall; she could see that now.

By the time she’d remembered the giant stain on her favorite cardigan, half the day had gone by. Dejectedly, Hermione attempted a purgo cleaning spell, but after waiting so long, only about half of the splotch came out. As if this day, this week, this month, this year, could get any worse, she thought to herself.

At the end of the workday, Hermione walked several blocks back to the coffee shop. Instead of going in, she continued through the lobby and took the lift to the top floor. She was supposed to meet Ginny at an Italian restaurant for dinner, but Hermione was dying to see Ginny’s new office space; supposedly the views were quite impressive. Aside from knowing it was a wine business she knew nothing else about it.

The moment she stepped out of the lift and walked through the small, modern foyer into the waiting area by the reception desk, Hermione’s mouth dropped open. Ginny hadn’t exaggerated: the views were breathtaking, and Hermione could see as much even from where she stood without needing to set foot out onto the balcony.

“Hermione Granger?”

Hermione turned towards the awestruck voice coming from reception. She recognized the pretty, petite blonde sitting at the desk but couldn’t think of her name; she had definitely attended Hogwarts at the same time but was a few years younger.

“I’m so sorry, have we met? You look so familiar,” Hermione apologetically greeted the blonde, trying to sound friendly.

“Not formally, no, but I just was not expecting to see the Golden Girl herself walk through those doors! I’m Astoria Greengrass. Well, Astoria Nott now. I was three years behind you at Hogwarts.”

Nott? Hmm. Wonder what happened there. Hermione had heard through the grapevine that Astoria had been set to marry Malfoy. She supposed that after his trial and subsequent drop from the face of the Earth that perhaps that engagement had fallen apart, but it really was none of her business. Nor did she care.

“Right, Astoria! It’s so nice to see you again,” Hermione said cordially, eyeing Astoria’s beautifully tailored sleeveless knee-length black dress, her shiny blonde hair in a delicate chignon at the nape of her neck, her face perfectly made up. Suddenly self-conscious of her coffee stained six-year-old cardigan from the GAP, her unruly long dark curls in its haphazard bun, and her unconcealed eyebags, Hermione crossed her arms almost defensively. “I was looking for Ginny Potter actually –”

“I’m right over here, bitch,” Ginny called with a grin, “it’s an open concept office, you can see everyone if you look around.”

Hermione turned toward Ginny’s smiling face sitting at her desk twenty feet away, then looked around: for the second time that day, her eyes widened in stunned recognition. Theo Nott – Astoria’s husband, Hermione thought to herself – was gazing at her with an arched eyebrow, expressionless. Blaise Zabini, someone she hadn’t seen since she saved his arse from the burning Room of Requirement over ten years ago, was staring at her neutrally. And of all people – Pansy Parkinson.

Where Theo and Blaise watched her impassively, nodding to her cautiously in greeting, Pansy’s expression was one of amusement. Her perfectly groomed eyebrows raised in slight surprise, her lips curling into a smirk as her clear blue eyes, framed by a black fringe, raked over Hermione’s entire person from head to toe.

“Well, well, well,” Pansy called in a sing-song voice, “there’s a person I never thought I’d see again. Need some wine, Granger? You’re in the right place. You look...” her eyes traveled judgmentally, pointedly, a second time over Hermione, “... well. You know how you look.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, approaching Ginny’s desk. “You didn’t tell me you worked in a snake pit,” she muttered accusingly.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” Ginny defensively whispered back, “we were supposed to meet at Bella Notte, remember?”

Suddenly too tired to deal with seeing this many people from her past, some who had been hostile to her then, Hermione sighed. “You’re right. I’ll wait for you down in the coffee shop.  I’ve just had an awful day and wanted to leave the office. I’ll go get another latte and –”

As Hermione turned, she found herself smacking into the same dipshit she’d smacked into just that morning.

Malfoy’s eyes angrily met hers for a second time. “Again?” he seethed.

Chapter Text

“Like I was aiming to run headfirst into you for a second time today,” Hermione spat back, her eyes narrowing.

Draco gritted his teeth. When he’d run into Hermione Granger – quite literally – this morning, he’d been lividly dumbstruck into temporary silence. The only person he had been dreading coming face to face with more than Granger was the Chosen One himself. He had hoped and prayed that hiring Potter’s wife wasn’t going to bring him round the office; so far, Draco’s prayers had been consistently answered. That is, until now, when Potter’s female sidekick showed up unannounced.

He should’ve made his prayers more... inclusive.

“Still insufferable ten years later, I see,” Draco sneered down at her.

“Pot meet kettle,” Hermione bristled back.

“Would you two give it a rest, for Godric’s sake?” Ginny snickered with a roll of her eyes, standing and pushing in her desk chair. “Let it go. Both of you. Enough time has passed. Neither of you is the same person you were back then.”

“Yes well, some of us are more capable of personal growth than others,” Hermione said nonchalantly, eyeing her fingernails.

Draco scowled down at her. “Unclench, Granger. Don’t worry, you’re still the best at everything, I’m sure.” He glanced pointedly down at her ruined cardigan. “Except cleaning spells.”

His words stung more than they should have, unbeknownst to him, as he sauntered past her to his private office. She was the best at everything, except where it counted. Except where those needed her most to be the best.

“So chivalrous,” Hermione called after his retreating back, “next time, dig down deep to find those impeccable pureblood manners, apologize, and replace my coffee that you knocked into me. You fucking prat.”

Draco turned to face her, still walking backwards towards his office, his arms spread wide in his all black suit. “Oh no, Granger. You think I’m a prat. Whatever shall I do? However shall I sleep?” he replied sarcastically with a taunting grin before turning on his heel.

As he closed his office door, Draco sat behind his large black walnut desk, idly straightening his cufflinks, his eyes casually rising back up to gaze at Granger through the glass. On autopilot, his face contorted into a sneer, almost as if his subconscious was trying to call forth the abhorrence he used to feel upon seeing her riotous curls flouncing down the corridors during their years at Hogwarts. But, to his uncomfortable surprise, he felt nothing. No revulsion. No loathing. He just saw a girl he used to know looking frightfully weighed down by whatever life had thrown at her. Not that he cared.

As he covertly continued to regard her through his glass walls, he was surprised that the one thing he could recall about Granger was the exact soft, dark color of her eyes. Not from seeing them just now, or this morning; but from the many times he had seen them as a child. It was a bit disconcerting how that, he could remember easily, as if the memory wasn’t as out of reach as he’d assumed it would be: they were the same shade as the black treacle toffee he used to make and eat with his mother as a child. They were the same warm tone as the hot cocoa he used to drink after spending the day playing in the snow. It was... comforting. And the very fact that Granger’s eyes were comforting was also incredibly unsettling. Because everything else about her was vexing. Exasperating. To make it worse, seeing her now reminded him of her defending him in court all those years ago. The thought made him irrationally angry.

Meanwhile, Hermione wrinkled her nose in disdain as Malfoy closed his door and sat at his desk, the sudden infuriating need to chase him down, push him against the wall, and sucker punch him right in his pompous fucking nose for the second time in her life coursing through her veins. She pushed a stray curl behind her ear, her face flushing at the unbidden thought that had flashed through her mind briefly: his stupid blonde hair was still stupidly perfect. He’d grown it out a bit, let it hang into his eyes, and of course her brain had automatically pictured her fingers running through it. She was completely horrified at her subconscious’s lack of control. Although, she supposed she couldn’t blame herself entirely for such an unwarranted, outrageous thought: she wasn’t completely blind. Malfoy was maddeningly, ludicrously attractive. But Hermione appeased herself with the thought that it was entirely canceled out by his combative, pretentious personality.

“Are you still present?” Ginny murmured, lightly touching Hermione’s shoulder. She shook herself out of the daze she had slipped into, righting her composure.

“Yes, I’m fine, Gin. Ready to go?”

Ginny nodded, pulling her purse up to her shoulder, freeing her thick ginger locks over her white blouse. She smoothed her navy blue pencil skirt down before leading the way out of the office. “See you tomorrow, all!” she called over her shoulder as Hermione followed at her heels.

Blaise and Theo replied in kind.

“Later, Weasley. Do stop by again, Granger. We owe you a drink, after all,” Pansy blurted haughtily in response, “since by the looks of you, you obviously need one.”

Hermione turned to give a curt, snarky rebuttal when her eyes met Draco’s where he sat all the way at the other end of the large workspace within the glass enclosure of his private office. Whatever words had been formulating on her lips died away as she and Draco stared at one another apathetically.

Hermione was broken out of her reverie as Pansy loudly snickered, her eyes narrowed at Hermione bemusedly, her sharp black chin length bob shining nearly blue in the setting sun.

“Something else to say?” she challenged, a hint of confrontation in her tone.

Hermione contorted her face into one of contempt. “You sure like to hear yourself talk. I don’t recall saying a word to you at all this entire time,” she spat back, “and yet you continue to address me with unnecessary hostility.”

Behind her, Ginny reached forward to grip her by her ruined cardigan and gently haul her out the door with a placating smile aimed at Pansy and a small wave at Astoria.  Pansy, for her part, had turned red, but was seemingly regarding Hermione with pleasant surprise, an amused smile on her face.

“Come on, witch, before you get us both hexed,” Ginny muttered.

*******************************************************************************

The moment the waiter at Bella Notte walked away with their dinner orders, Hermione leaned forward towards Ginny.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Draco Malfoy is your new boss? And that you’re essentially working in the Slytherin common room?” she asked accusingly.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Listen, I had a hard enough time convincing Harry that this employment situation would work out alright. He had his doubts about Malfoy, not so much the rest of them because they were easy enough to run background checks on.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow at that.

“You know Harry. He won’t hesitate to check up on anyone. Pansy’s made quite a name for herself in Public Relations. That’s how I became friendly with her, she did PR for the Harpies years back when I still played. Then she did PR for a few luxury brands of clothing. She can be cold and calculating, but she’s also incredibly funny. And loyal, when you’ve earned it,” Ginny continued.

Hermione took a sip of her wine, waiting for Ginny to continue.

Ginny looked at Hermione with a small smile. “Blaise is quite the successful solicitor. He’d worked for the same firm since he finished his studies and joined Black Dragon when I did. Theo has been putting his amiable, enthusiastic personality to use in sales for years now.”

Hermione nearly choked on her wine. “Amiable and enthusiastic? He didn’t say a word to me.”

“Well, it’s not like you were overly warm and friendly either,” Ginny pointed out, “and can you even blame him? Or Blaise? Or even Pansy? I think it natural that they all went on the defensive a bit.”

“Pansy was not defensive. Pansy barely skirted around the jugular,” Hermione grimaced, taking another sip. “Regardless, how successful can Black Dragon become if your idea of an enthusiastic salesman is Theo Nott? He was always so reserved.”

Ginny pursed her lips, watching Hermione sip her wine. “That pinot you’re drinking is Black Dragon,” she said quietly. “Bella Notte was one of our first clients that Theo locked down.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise, her eyes going to the dark red liquid in her glass. “Color me impressed,” she murmured with a sigh. “Alright, I’m sorry. I’ve had a shit day. I’m not trying to judge your coworkers. They all sound like they’ve come a long way since the war. And if you get along and you’re happy, then who am I to tell you otherwise.” Her eyes met Ginny’s again. “But leaving out the fact that Malfoy’s your boss?”

Ginny nodded. “I’ll give you that one. Like I said, Harry was able to do background checks on all the rest of them, but Malfoy’s been a bit of a question mark. All I’ve gathered from talking to the serpents is that he has spent all these years out in his family’s chateau in France starting this wine business. He’s got two vineyards out there. And he came back to expand his clientele into the UK.”

“I was surprised Astoria married Theo. Wasn’t she supposed to marry Malfoy?” Hermione asked, clearly fishing for the tea.

Ginny nodded again. “Yeah, apparently after Malfoy’s trial, he ran off to France without telling anyone except his parents. The Greengrasses already had one foot out of the marriage contract between him and Astoria because of Malfoy’s prosecution and how vilified he’d become.” She sipped her wine. “They didn’t want him dragging Astoria down with him. The moment he left the country without a word to Astoria, they called off the whole thing. Astoria married Theo a year later.”

“Malfoy didn’t care,” Hermione stated, sipping her wine thoughtfully. It wasn’t a question.

Ginny paused. “I don’t think so. Does ‘marriage contract’ say ‘love match’ to you?” She shrugged. “He doesn’t have any ill will about it. He hired her, after all. And Theo is still one of his best friends.”

Hermione sat with the gossip for a minute, letting it process through her mind. As she swirled her wine gently, she tried to piece together the puzzle that Draco Malfoy’s life had become. “So, he only just got back to England then,” she asserted quietly, her eyes on the wine.

Ginny nodded. “I think only a couple of months ago. February, maybe. He’s been entirely focused on Black Dragon Wines even though he’s gotten pushback.”

Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed. “Pushback?”

“People are intimidated of his past. They panic,” Ginny admitted quietly, “I’ve seen it firsthand. They move out of his way as if he were a viper waiting to strike. They’re terrified of him. His father deserves it, in my opinion, but the ferret?” Ginny shrugged. “He’s harmless.”  Then she paused. “Well, maybe not harmless. At the end of the day, he’s still a serpent. He can sting. And in fairness, he’s only been back on my radar for a month. Regardless, you’d think after all this time, people would just let him blend in a bit.”

“Blend in?” Hermione let out a small huff of amusement. “Have you seen him?”

Ginny’s lips curled up deviously, her eyes sparkling. “Ah, so you noticed.”

Hermione let out a laugh. “I’m not blind.” She shook her head. “Draco Malfoy was never one to blend in anywhere.”

Ginny guffawed back. “No, I suppose not.”

Chapter Text

“So, what’s good at this place?” Harry asked Hermione as they walked into the coffee shop two weeks later.

“I really like their lattes. And they have amazing blueberry scones,” she replied mischievously with a grin.

“You and your blueberry scones,” Harry chided, his green eyes wandering up to the posted menu as they both got in line to order.

It was packed. The morning rush of people stood eagerly awaiting their caffeine fixes split into three different queues to order. Once Harry and Hermione had placed their orders, they moved to the left to join the small crowd waiting at the pickup counter.

As Hermione returned her wallet to her crossbody bag, she came face to face with the book she had promised to lend Ginny but had forgotten to give her this morning as the three of them had walked from the apparition point to the coffee shop.

“Damn,” Hermione muttered, pulling her well-loved copy of Pride and Prejudice out of her purse, “I meant to give this to Ginny before she went up to her office.” She sighed. “I’ll have to bring it to her before heading to work or I’ll forget to give it to her later.”

Harry eyed the book curiously. “Gin wants to read Pride and Prejudice?” he asked, a hint of surprise in his tone.

Hermione nodded. “She’s been wanting to read more muggle literature and she’s been devouring everything I’ve recommended to her. Surely, you’ve noticed she’s been reading more,” she pointed out, arching an eyebrow at Harry, who flushed at her reaction.

“Well of course I noticed,” he replied defensively, reaching forward for his americano and cranberry muffin, dutifully continuing to wait with his friend for her own purchase, “I just hadn’t really paid attention to the titles, I guess.”

Hermione turned sideways to teasingly respond to Harry, her left hand holding the book going in an upward swirled motion as she opened her mouth to speak when it happened a third time.

Her book, clutched in her hand, still up in a natural motion of expression, squarely hit Draco Malfoy on the nose at the same moment he turned away from the counter holding his coffee. Completely startled, he instinctively leaned his neck back, away from the book in midair as his body continued moving forward with momentum.

And of course, in a humorless act of fate, his coffee landed on her light pink sleeve, on her black skirt, down his own black trench coat, and splattered on Harry’s black dress loafers.

The three of them stood there in shock as the entirety of the coffee shop turned to look at the commotion, frozen at the sight before them: Harry Potter himself, the Boy Who Lived Twice, standing with the Golden Girl, and the youngest Death Eater of all time, all now wearing differing amounts of hot coffee.

For about five seconds, no one said a word.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Hermione finally snapped, quickly looking over her book, initially relieved to find it unscathed before quickly reverting to fury as she gazed down at her entire outfit.

Draco narrowed his eyes at her, menacingly stepping closer. “It was the least you merited after nearly slamming my brain out of my skull with that encyclopedia you’re wielding around like a bloody weapon.”

Harry’s arm immediately moved across Hermione’s torso, pushing her back away from Draco’s imposing form, his own eyes narrowing dangerously. “Easy, Malfoy. It was clearly an accident.”

At that moment, Draco’s eyes snapped to Harry, fully seeing him for the first time. The two former rivals glared at one another for several seconds as the whole of the coffee shop seemed to hold its breath. Draco visibly paled, his eyes quickly taking in the reactions of the other customers, who all gaped at him fearfully. The sight both broke his heart and enraged him further. He angrily tossed his now nearly empty coffee cup in the rubbish bin before he steamrolled through the patrons, many of whom anxiously jumped out of his way, carefully avoiding making eye contact. The moment he made it out the side door to the building’s lobby, he took a deep stabilizing breath, trying to calm his racing heart.

He was still a villain. If he’d had any doubt, he’d just proved it. So much for improving his image.

Hermione quickly sauntered after him, her black low kitten heels clicking confidently across the marble floor, still furious.

“Malfoy!” she shouted indignantly, hoping Harry’s notoriety would be enough to keep the nosy busybodies in the coffee shop, asking for his picture and autograph. She assumed it was as Harry didn’t come chasing after her.

At her voice, Draco whirled around, his own face still contorted in anger. “Are you following me now, Granger? It wasn’t bad enough you just nearly broke my nose again in a coffee shop during rush hour?”

“Nearly broke your nose?!” Hermione retorted incredulously, “it’s a paperback book, for Godric’s sake! The only thing I nearly broke was your pride!”

“What do you know about pride?!” Draco countered venomously, stepping nearly nose to nose to her, “Do you think you’ll actually purgo the coffee stains out of your ensemble today, Granger? Or has your magic weakened so much that you’re utterly incapable now of completing the most basic spells? I expected more from you,” he sneered at her contemptuously, “Brightest Witch and all that.”

“Some things take higher priority than clothing, Malfoy,” Hermione threw back at him, refusing to drop his gaze defiantly, “I have other things to worry about than coffee stains. People who actually fucking depend on me. Sometimes my personal stuff goes by the wayside including my clothes.”

Draco’s eyes raked over her with a grimace. “Yeah, no kidding. If your magic is so feeble now, maybe consider springing for dry cleaning,” he continued, a smirk curling on his lips, clearly trying to rile her up.

“We don’t all bleed money, Malfoy,” Hermione spat back with scorn, turning her own face into a sneer eerily familiar to his own. “I can change my clothes and take off my stains, though.” Her eyes moved pointedly, cruelly, down to his left forearm, his Dark Mark covered beneath his trench coat and black suit. “Can you say the same about yours?”

She knew it was a low blow. It was confirmed by the hurt fury that encompassed Draco’s entire face. Shaking with rage, he stood tall and turned his back on her, sauntering toward the lifts with an old arrogant swagger Hermione hadn’t seen in over a decade, his open trench coat billowing out around him like a cape. She hurried after him, diving into the lift at the same time.

As soon as the doors closed, he let the lift rise several floors before slamming on the stop button. Then he turned on her like a predator eyeing his prey, shaking with fury.

“Do you assume that I don’t know what you think about me?! What everyone out on the street thinks about me?! I see their expressions every day, Granger! Nearly every person in that coffee shop wanted to dive on top of Saint Potter and the Golden Girl to protect the war heroes from the former Death Eater! Every person in there was willing to put their lives on the line to protect the Chosen One and his sidekick, as if he’s really some savior incarnate and not just some fucking kid who got the shit end of a deal when he was an infant!” he shouted within the small confines of the lift, his face twisted with condescension.

“You know, at some point, you’re going to have to start accepting the fact that people’s opinions of you are independent of Harry,” Hermione taunted him with open hostility, “when are you going to let go of the childhood resentment and jealousy and grow the fuck up, Malfoy?”

He launched himself forward, taking three big steps until he crowded Hermione’s space, her back instantly pressing against the corner as Malfoy stood nose to nose with her yet again, trembling with aggression, his palms pressed flat on the walls on either side of her head.

“I loathe you,” he muttered dangerously through clenched teeth.

Hermione smirked in his face. “The feeling’s mutual. Like it always has been.”

It was at that moment that Draco became increasingly aware of the heaving breaths Granger was exhaling through her mouth; they fanned gently across his neck with warmth. He became even more aware of the fact that her pink lips, slightly parted as she panted from the adrenaline rush of their tense stand-off, were less than an inch from his own. He cautiously let his eyes focus on the deep comforting darkness of hers, the unexpected hint of amber swirling within the depths of onyx more captivating than he anticipated.

Hermione instantly felt the mood change as she watched his stormy grey eyes take in each line of her face curiously, beginning with her mouth. They traced the delicate line of her jaw, the slope of her nose. They followed the curve of her cheek bones, focused on her thick black lashes. The cold grey pools seemed to rear back, like cresting waves, as they took in the warm mystery of her own; she could swear she saw the exact moment those grey waves majestically crashed into her, nearly pulling her under, trying to drown her beneath the tension of their confrontation.

The moment Malfoy’s tongue came out to briefly lick his lips as he gazed down at hers, her eyes narrowed, her mouth opening.

“You,” she murmured quietly, “repulse me.”

And with those words, she indignantly, defensively, and forcefully placed her palms flat on his chest, shoving him back as hard as she could, his back hitting the opposite wall of the lift.

His face went from shock, to ire, to resentment, and finally to amused resignation. He leaned his head against the wall and let out a bark of laughter before his eyes met hers with animosity.

“One day,” he snarled maliciously, “I’m going to marry the hell out of you, Granger.”

“Oh, rea—” Hermione began sarcastically, ready to fling back an insult, before processing his words, their tone, and being caught off-guard. “Wait. What?”

Draco nodded affirmatively, straightening his clothes, letting his wand fall from his sleeve into his palm, casting a purgo on his stained trench coat before hitting her clothes with the same spell.

“Can’t let my future wife walk around looking like... well, like that,” Malfoy spat with revulsion. “We Malfoys have an image to uphold, after all. That’ll include you.”

“What the hell are you on about, Malfoy?” Hermione demanded, the disgust practically leaking from her voice all over the lift floor.

“You heard me. I’m going to marry the hell out of you,” he stated factually. He pointed his wand at her loosely, jeeringly. “It will be my greatest revenge. I’m going to marry you for power. For clout. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” With a definitive, self-assured nod, he jabbed his finger back on the lift button and it started its ascent to the 15^th floor.

“The fuck you are!” Hermione exclaimed in horrified bewilderment, slapping his wand away with distaste, “Are you that delusional?!”

Draco nodded at her firmly with a wink. “You’ll see.”

“You’ve just completely lost the plot,” Hermione muttered, crossing her arms defensively, waiting for the lift doors to open. “Completely barmy.”

As soon as the lift opened on the top floor, Draco stepped to the door. Hermione didn’t move. He placed one foot in the foyer outside of Black Dragon Wines and left the other in the lift, preventing it from going back down. “You coming or what?”

Hermione, so off-put by their entire conversation in the lift, shook her head. “Tell Ginny that I’ll give her the book she was supposed to borrow another time. I have to go to work. I didn’t realize robbing you of both your dignity and your sanity would take me so long.”

Draco shrugged as if he hadn’t heard her last biting words. “Suit yourself. See you around, wife,” he called over his shoulder with an infuriating chuckle as he sauntered out of the lift.

Hermione stared after his retreating figure at a complete loss for words.

What the fuck had just happened?

Chapter Text

The moment Hermione steadied herself after apparating, she tugged down the hem of her mauve knee length A-line dress, straightening the darker floral lace overlay. She quickly righted the delicate lace sleeves, smoothing the lace trim along the scooped neckline. She looked around with a sigh. She stood at the apparition point outside the gates of Malfoy Manor, eyeing the imposing estate warily. She hadn’t set foot here in over ten years. The grounds were still beautiful with the lush rose garden in bloom peeking out towards the back left of the Manor, the hedged path beautifully manicured, lined with white willows. The lake glittered against the early afternoon sun, a family of swans waddling nearby. The Malfoys’ infamous three albino peacocks rested peacefully nestled together near the water’s edge.

The entire scene was so tranquil and serene that for a moment Hermione forgot she had experienced some of the worst trauma of her life here. Her eyes flew up to the mansion. Well, at least within those walls.

Two weeks had passed since Malfoy’s completely daft assertion in the lift. She’d since seen him often in the coffee shop and the few times she’d gone directly up to Black Dragon to see Ginny. They’d remained civil, and he hadn’t brought up his ludicrous claim again to Hermione’s relief. Clearly, he had just been trying to provoke her, and it had worked.

At that moment, the apparition point came to life as Harry and Ginny, holding 2-year-old James in her arms, apparated into view. After hugs and greetings, with James diving into his Aunt Mione’s arms, Ginny took the opportunity to straighten her teal sundress as the three friends all gazed up at the Manor.

“If you had told me I’d ever be back here again, I would have thought you’d gone mad,” Harry muttered as Ginny reached over to smooth down the collar of his light grey suit jacket.

Hermione nodded. “You and me both.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, the black wrought iron gates opened inward before them. They meandered down the path to the front doors, taking in the views around them.

“Say what you want, but this is a beautiful property,” Ginny remarked, her eyes wide as she took in their surroundings, having never been to Malfoy Manor before. “And we’re here to have a good time. We’re going to be gracious, polite guests because this is a work thing for me, not purely social.”

“You think Lucius and Narcissa will be here?” Harry asked quietly, a small grimace crossing his face.

Hermione paused before responding. “I think it’s a safe assumption.”

“Regardless,” Ginny said loudly, “we’re not here visiting the Malfoys. We’re here to celebrate Black Dragon Wines’ initial three months of success. The company’s had a lot of growth quickly, and it’s completely fair of Malfoy to throw a casual, informal luncheon and invite us to celebrate for an afternoon.”

“I assume besides us, Blaise, Pansy, Theo, and Astoria will be here,” Hermione continued quietly. “Anyone else you think we’d know?”

“I know Malfoy invited a lot of high-profile clients,” Ginny responded, “owners, CEOs, CFOs, people who took a chance on him and signed contracts to carry the wine, and some others that he’s hoping will come around after networking with us. He’s trying to continue establishing a positive business image. This all has to do with winning over the Ministry. So, let’s play nice, smile, drink some champagne, eat what will probably be pretentious food, and try to enjoy the afternoon as best we can, yeah?”

Before they reached the double front doors, they opened. Hermione’s eyes widened as she took in Narcissa Malfoy. Ever the pristine hostess, she wore soft grey robes with lace appliques near her shoulders. Her dark hair streaked platinum blonde was pulled back in a French twist.

Harry, always having had a soft spot for Narcissa after she’d arguably changed the course of the war by saving his life in the Forbidden Forest all those years ago, stepped forward offering his hand. “Lady Malfoy,” he said formally, “it’s nice to see you again.”

Without missing a beat, Narcissa extended her own hand to grasp his. “Mr. Potter,” she said politely, “it certainly is a pleasure. It’s been a long time, yes?” Her eyes moved to Ginny, standing beside him. “Mrs. Potter. I don’t believe we’ve ever been properly introduced.”

“Ginevra, or Ginny, please, Lady Malfoy,” Ginny responded warmly, holding out her own hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. This is our son, James,” she continued, motioning to the black-haired little boy in Hermione’s arms.

“Isn’t he darling,” Narcissa cooed with a smile, lightly running a finger down his chubby toddler leg. “Hello, sweetheart.”

Narcissa’s blue eyes came to rest on Hermione. For a split second, Hermione thought she saw apprehension in their depths, but it vanished before she could be sure. Ginny quickly reached for James, freeing Hermione’s hands.

“Lady Malfoy,” Hermione said assertively, hesitating for a moment before extending her hand, the fleeting thought that Narcissa might refuse physical contact with a mudblood crossing her mind.

Narcissa reached forward almost too fast, too eagerly, the flickering thought that Hermione might be expecting her to refuse physical contact because of blood status crossing her own mind. She wanted to make it abundantly clear that that was not the case.

“Miss Granger,” Narcissa said hesitantly, graciously, “it’s been a long time.”

The memory of 18-year-old Hermione Granger lying flat on her back, ear piercing screams erupting from her mouth as Bellatrix crawled over her, carving into her arm with a dagger came unbidden. Narcissa quickly brushed it aside, biting the inside of her lip, motioning into the Manor behind her.

“Please, won’t you all come in? Everyone is gathering in the sitting room just down past the kitchens on the right,” she cordially informed them.

As Harry and Ginny led the way, Narcissa fell into step next to Hermione. She watched as Hermione’s eyes widened, taking in the Manor before her as they walked down the corridor together.

A hopeful, pleased smile crossed Narcissa’s face. “You’ve noticed the changes, then.”

“It’s... it’s completely different,” Hermione exhaled in both surprise and relief, her shoulders visibly relaxing, “so much lighter, brighter. Not how I remember it at –” she blushed, “I apologize, Lady Malfoy, that came out wrong.”

Narcissa laughed. “Not at all. I also remember what it used to look like. Cold. Austere. Intimidating. After the war, I made it my mission to completely change our home. I wanted no remnants of the...” she struggled to fill in the blank, “the... darkness that used to inhabit these walls. I...” she trailed off, seeming to brace herself, lightly putting a hand on Hermione’s elbow as they stood outside of the sitting room. She watched Harry and Ginny cross the threshold, joining the rest of the crowd, before continuing. “I also wanted to tell you that the...” she cleared her throat, “the... drawing room no longer exists.”

Hermione stiffened at the mention of the drawing room. Suddenly she could feel the sting of the dagger against her skin, smell Bellatrix’s rotting breath blowing across her cheek as she whispered malicious filth into her ear, hear the shrieks that had torn out of her throat.

She shook herself away from the memory, her eyes carefully meeting Narcissa’s. “It... no longer exists?” she whispered in confusion, a shiver going down her back.

“I had it quite literally removed from the floorplan of the Manor,” Narcissa responded, “it was gutted, down to the dirt below. The walls, the floors, everything was removed. If...” she cleared her throat, “if you’re open to seeing what I did with the space, I’d be honored to show you.”

Hermione’s gaze flew back up to the ceiling, her eyes raking down the walls again before she nodded slowly. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t anxious,” she began, “but yes. I think I should see it. Yes, I’d like to see it.”

I’d like to face my fear, she added silently to herself, maybe it’ll help me move on.

Hermione guardedly walked side by side with Narcissa down the wide corridor lined with beautiful tall windows, all open to let in the fresh May breeze, the white sheer curtains billowing out into their path. Their heels clicked down the white marble floors all the way to the end before Narcissa motioned to the farthest left corner of the hall towards a closed set of beautiful French doors.

The drawing room had been in this exact spot, and had also had French doors, but they had been solid ebony wood. The French doors before them now were pine with crystal knobs, rounded arches, and beautiful beveled glass panels. The sunshine poured into the corridor, proving without a doubt that the drawing room was a thing of the past.

“You see, on the outside of the Manor, past where the walls of the drawing room stood, extending out towards the left and back is the rose garden,” Narcissa explained. “The rose garden has always been a refuge for me. I’ve spent countless hours there over the years, seeking solace. A connection to nature. Peace. Tranquility. And beyond the rose garden are the formal gardens themselves.

“When I got rid of the drawing room, Lucius was still in Azkaban,” she continued in her dignified tone, “and Draco was in France. I was alone here, you see. So, I wanted a continuation of the same regenerative spirit found in the rose garden since this space would back into it. I wanted them to blend. Cohesion, I suppose. I decided to turn the former drawing room into a space that would strengthen the soul. Soothe. And then I had hoped it would do the same for anyone else who walked through its archway.” Narcissa motioned to the French doors. “I’ll give you a few minutes to explore on your own.”

Hermione swallowed hard and nodded before crossing the last several feet, opening the French doors, taking a deep breath, and stepping out.

She found herself outside on a curved stone walking path bordered on both sides by the same manicured hedges that lined the front of the Manor. Holding her breath, she followed the path as it rounded to the right and came to a majestic pine octagonal gazebo, at least forty feet wide. The entire structure was covered, inside and outside, with vines and roses.

Stepping into the enormous gazebo through the arched opening, she could see an identical opening on the other side leading directly into Narcissa’s prized rose garden. Crossing the gazebo to gaze out at the rose garden, Hermione saw them blooming in all different colors: different shades of reds, whites, yellows, purples, and oranges.

Hermione turned to face the gazebo again, finding cushioned benches lining each of the eight sides. She carefully sat on one, idly reaching out to one of the perfect pink roses growing in the sun.

And then it dawned on her.

Every rose growing in and around the gazebo was an English pink rose. And not just any pink rose: every single one was a Gentle Hermione English pink rose. She would recognize them anywhere. Her parents had made sure of that.

She hadn’t thought of her parents in a while. The memories came hurtling back: her parents buying her a bouquet of Gentle Hermiones for her birthday every year. Her father planting her a Gentle Hermione rose bush just outside her bedroom window so that their smooth scent would waft in and lightly make its way through the house. And now, when Hermione visited her parents’ grave each year on the anniversary of their deaths, on their birthdays, and on their wedding anniversary, she always left a Gentle Hermione on their headstone.

Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up and found Narcissa looking down at her apprehensively before she hesitantly sat beside her.

“Are you familiar with these roses?” she asked softly, carefully, trying to get a read on Hermione’s reaction.

Hermione nodded, her fingers going back up to the perfect Gentle Hermione rose, sniffling, a single tear making its way down her cheek.

“Why?” she whispered, overcome with emotion, not looking at Narcissa as she discretely wiped the tear away.

There was a pause before Narcissa responded. “Because I never wanted to forget the moment I realized things had gone too far.” She paused again. “Maybe I’m a naïve, ignorant woman to not have realized it before then. But seeing the helplessness and defeat on my 17-year-old son’s face as he was forced to watch his classmate be...” her voice caught in her throat, “be... hurt... in our home, in his home... a girl he’d seen nearly every day for six years...” Narcissa shook her head, her eyes on her fingers in her lap. “Hurt by my own sister, no less... and coming face to face with the fact that you, dear, were also just a child... the shame was unbearable.”

She touched a rose next to the one in Hermione’s palm. “Gentle Hermiones are lovely and delicate but resilient. They grow insistently, damn near invasively,” she added with a small laugh, motioning to the complete overtaking of the gazebo by the pink blooms. “But in their insistence to bloom and overwhelm, there is a beauty in witnessing them grow wild and free. It’s as if they’re trying to prove a point. ‘I am here,’ they seem to say, ‘I am unstoppable.’ Don’t you think?”

Hermione nodded.

“In that way, they are much like you,” Narcissa admitted quietly. “And I didn’t want to forget. I didn’t want to let myself forget, or let Lucius and Draco forget if and when they came back to the Manor. I didn’t want us slipping back into old beliefs.” She looked down at her fingers again. “It’s easy to deny the harm you inflict on others when you don’t sit with their humanity and face it.”

Completely overcome with emotion, Hermione was rendered speechless. It took several minutes of silence, her fingers lovingly stroking the Gentle Hermione in her palm, before she spoke.

She finally replied quietly. “You are not who I thought you were, Lady Malfoy. Not at all.”

There was a long pause. “Is that a good thing, Miss Granger?” Narcissa asked uncertainly.

Hermione smiled at the rose in her hand. “Yes. It’s quite remarkable.”

Chapter Text

Draco’s eyes shot up in surprise as he caught sight of Granger walking into the sitting room with his mother beside her. They were both smiling and chatting as they made their way to one of the many floating trays of champagne, suspended in midair by magic. They each took a flute, clinked them together, and took a small sip before Narcissa tugged Hermione over to the enormous center table tiered with hors d’oeuvres. Draco curiously watched them select a small plate of canapes, then meander over to one of the small gold tables with matching chairs set up around the sofas to encourage conversation among guests. As his eyes flickered between Narcissa and Granger, seeing them together triggered the memory of Granger being tortured in the former drawing room to come crashing back, forever ingrained in astonishing detail in his subconscious.

He could still see it as if it was happening right in front of him, as if he was 17 again. He could still remember the exact automatic movement of his body as he had quickly, instinctively taken a step closer to Granger on the floor, meeting his father’s eyes as Lucius shook his head at Draco hastily. Draco could still remember going stock still in deference to his father’s silent instruction, his gaze going in terror first to Granger’s face, her mouth open in screaming agony as blood had seeped beneath her outstretched arm, to then going to Narcissa’s face, her own mouth open in horror as her eyes flickered back and forth between Draco and Granger, unmoving, rooted to where she stood. Draco could still remember the exact thoughts that had pounded into his mind at that moment, his eyes pleadingly on his mother, simultaneously speaking internally to himself and to her: Do something! Mother, help me! HELP HER! Stop this! I have to stop this! Oh Gods, I can’t stop this...

A coward. Always a coward.

He was so wrapped up in the past that the sudden hand on his shoulder made him shudder and cringe back in fear, his eyes looking up half expecting to see his Aunt Bellatrix even though she’d been dead for a decade.  

“Everything ok, Malfoy?” Draco’s head spun towards the conversation he had been having just moments ago with the wizard owners of two luxury hotels in downtown London. Draco immediately focused back on the task at hand, briskly shaking the memories of the past out of his head, chastising himself. Concentrate, Malfoy. Not the time for distractions.

Draco’s hadn’t been the only pair of eyes curiously following Narcissa and Hermione. Harry was watching with bated breath, his body taut, almost as if he were ready to attack should Hermione let out the smallest sign of distress. Ginny lightly whacked him across his abdomen.

“Would you give it a rest?” she hissed in irritation, “she looks fine. She’s smiling and carrying on a conversation.”

“Yes, I can see that. But where did they go? And why? What if Hermione is only smiling and conversing with Narcissa because she’s been Confunded?” he gasped then, clutching Ginny’s wrist, “Or Imperio’ed?!”

Ginny rolled her eyes in complete exasperation. “You’re overthinking this. Let it go. Focus on your son, please. Frankly, having to chase a two-year-old on my own while you sip wine and stare at Hermione as if you’re waiting for her explode or drop dead is beginning to irritate the shit out of me, so pull yourself together.”

At his wife’s words, Harry’s shoulders slumped. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

As Harry and Ginny both turned towards their son, a third pair of eyes continued to watch Narcissa and Hermione.

He had known this would happen. As soon as Draco had casually mentioned inviting Miss Granger, he had anticipated it. In fact, he had predicted this very thing happening just this morning while he was getting ready, donning his soft grey semi formal day robes that matched his wife’s ensemble. Lucius took a sip from his champagne flute, imperceptibly shaking his head with an amused smirk on his face.

He'd had a feeling Narcissa would want to show Hermione the gazebo. Narcissa had been on a path of self-reflection ever since the war ended. Lucius, on the other hand...

He sighed. He supposed he was on a similar path. But while Narcissa had been sprinting down her path for ten years now, Lucius was ambling along, sometimes dragging his feet, sometimes stopping to smell the roses. His years in Azkaban had let a hard bitterness wrap around him like a protective shield; he didn’t have the resoluteness for redemption that Narcissa had. He wasn’t as dedicated to it. Sometimes he felt that the only reason he was even on the path at all was out of love and devotion to his wife. Because if Lucius Malfoy was anything, it was devoted to Narcissa Malfoy. His entire being was built around being her husband and companion. Losing her, even on an emotional level, was not an option.  Letting her outrun him on this journey of emotional healing was not an option. He wanted to be where she was, the cost, the discomfort be damned. Narcissa was his, and he refused to let anything come between them. So, if this was what Narcissa needed, he would follow suit because where she went, Lucius went. If she jumped, Lucius would jump. But, he also logically knew that so long as his motivation for atonement was a selfish one, he would never fully, never quite catch up to her. He would always be several steps behind her. Being aware of this fact was frustrating, but he just couldn’t surpass where he was yet.

Perhaps I need therapy, he thought in slight disgusted amusement, like muggles do.

Regardless, looking at Miss Granger now, Lucius felt no rancor. Not really, anyway. He’d resented her years and years ago, even when she was a 12-year-old, for the same reason Draco had: because she was a powerful witch, an intelligent witch, and she wielded her power and her intelligence with more ferocity than any other wizard or witch he’d ever met even though she was muggleborn. She had gone against everything Lucius had ever been taught about blood status and its correlation to magical ability and skill, even as a child. Lucius knew that an emotionally stable person would simply admire these traits, but Lucius had begrudged them in her. And as a result, his son had learned the same behavior.

But though Lucius felt no enmity towards Miss Granger, he wasn’t comfortable enough to approach and join her friendly conversation with his wife. He didn’t know if he ever would be. And not because he felt superior to her; it was quite the opposite. He didn’t want to frighten the poor young woman, and he could only assume that if he did approach, she would be uncomfortable. Uneasy. He had been witness to one of her most traumatizing moments and he hadn’t done anything to stop it. Worse, he’d silently discouraged his son from interfering out of fear that Bellatrix would turn the dagger on Draco. So, in this present moment, watching Miss Granger amiably chat with his wife, he chose to keep his distance.

His eyes scanned the room and met the eyes of the only other person present he would also not be approaching under any circumstances.

The Weasley girl, his wife, Lucius could be civil with. Cordial, even.

But Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived Twice?

Holding Potter’s gaze, Lucius felt his familiar sneer building on his face. Recognizing the muscle movement around his mouth quirking up, he immediately contorted it back into a look of indifference. His opinion on Harry Potter was messy. Cluttered. He supposed if he was forced into an interaction with Potter, he could be civil. Polite. If Malfoys, and purebloods in general, knew how to do anything, they knew how to feign politeness even when it wasn’t deserved.

Feign politeness even when it’s not deserved. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he was surprised, unsure why he would subconsciously decide Potter didn’t deserve politeness. After all, what had he done other than survive against all odds? Lucius internally winced and let out a sigh, frustrated with himself, frustrated with his line of thinking.

I definitely need therapy.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Blaise mingled amongst the business guests with Theo, both in well-tailored navy suits. As a team, they worked well together, and Blaise could tell they had impressed quite a few people in the room. His eyes came to rest on Hermione.

He elbowed Theo. “Why do you suppose Malfoy invited Granger?” he asked in a low, curious voice as they both reached for another champagne flute.

Theo shrugged. “Beats me. Probably because they’ve been running into each other a lot. She’s always coming up to the office waiting for Ginevra to finish working so they can leave together.” Theo looked at Blaise in interested suspicion. “Why do you ask? Do you suspect something?”

Blaise smirked, then shrugged back. “Do you suspect something?”

Theo’s eyes widened in surprise, his eyes flicking from Granger to Draco and back. “You think he has a thing for her?”

Blaise paused pensively. “I’m not sure,” he finally answered honestly, “Instinctively, I want to say no. If any two people could be less into each other, it would be those two. But then again...” his voice trailed off, “Malfoy can be hard to decipher. Sometimes I don’t think he even knows how he feels about some things until he’s devoured or destroyed them.”

Theo seemed to consider this. “Even if he did have some sort of deeply embedded thing for her, there’s no way the Golden Girl would entertain that idea. That would be dead in the water before he’d even have a chance to say something.”

He paused then, an amused smirk on his face. “Maybe he did it to make Harry more comfortable.” Theo’s eyes met Blaise’s and he chuckled, “Because you know Potter wouldn’t be hanging out with us right now, or with any of these business people. He’d have no one but his wife to socialize with.”

Blaise grinned back, “If that’s the case, then Draco missed the mark. Potter still has no one to socialize with because Narcissa is manipulating all of Hermione’s time and attention.”

Theo turned to watch the unlikely pair break out into soft laughter. He lifted his eyebrows in bewilderment. “There’s a sight I’d never thought I’d see.”

“What sight is that?” Pansy interrupted, meandering over to the two of them, her haltered black sun dress skimming her knees, a small slit up her left thigh. Astoria, in a white and blue floral tea length dress sidled up next to Theo, his arm immediately coming around her waist. Daphne joined on her sister’s other side wearing smart navy trousers and a white blouse. Their eyes followed Theo’s line of vision to Hermione and Narcissa.

Daphne smirked, carefully running a hand down her thick straight blonde hair. “Funny how time changes people.”

“For the better, I say,” Astoria murmured to the group with a nod of approval in Narcissa’s direction, “Narcissa was an intimidating ice queen. It’s nice to see her animated with a little more warmth.”

“She’s still an intimidating ice queen,” Pansy murmured with an admiring look, “she didn’t unlearn it. She just has better control of it.” She shook her head, popping an apricot and goat cheese canape into her mouth. “Trust me. I still wouldn’t want to cross Narcissa Malfoy.” The group of them all nodded emphatically in agreement.

“She can still chew you up and spit you out,” Daphne confirmed with a knowing smirk, “I saw her ability alive and well when I was taking her around to all the available office properties back in January.”

Before any of them could respond, Blaise’s attention was caught by platinum blonde hair sauntering confidently through the guests. He turned his head and watched as Draco stood next to the baby grand piano at the front of the room, straightening the collar of his white button-down shirt, his dark grey suit jacket forgotten, slung over the back of a chair yet still maintaining a look of casual professionalism, before loudly clearing his throat to capture everyone’s attention. Within seconds every eye was fixed on him as the conversations died down.

“I abhor using the Sonorus, so you’ll all just have to make do with my regularly volumed voice if that’s alright,” Draco began with a carefully calculated, charismatic grin.

Hermione’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Draco look or sound so warm and affable, even if it was all for show. She arched an eyebrow in cynicism, seemingly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I wanted to take the time to formally thank everyone present today,” Draco began sincerely, “You all took time out of your frightfully busy lives to spend a couple of hours here at the Manor to help Black Dragon Wines, also known as Vins Dragonnoir abroad, celebrate the success we’ve built in such a short amount of time. I thank you for that.”

As if on cue, Theo and Blaise both began to clap. Everyone else caught on quickly and joined in the applause.

“There are also quite a few of you present simply to learn more about us – about the company, the team, myself, and who we are. Before the afternoon is over, I hope to answer any questions you may have. I am an open book as are my friends and colleagues,” Draco continued. “We’ve got Blaise Zabini, our solicitor, here to answer any of your legal inquiries; Pansy Parkinson is our PR stuntwoman, and it’s because of her that you’ve all seen the exquisite and sophisticated advertisements around the city; Theo Nott is our sales powerhouse, anyone interested in doing business with us can go right to him; and Ginevra Potter, our business and office manager, without whom we’d be broke and quill-less with no idea how to work our muggle computer contraptions.”

Amused smiles and quiet chuckles drifted around the room and another polite round of applause went up in honor of the Black Dragon Wines team.

Hermione rolled her eyes with a smirk next to Narcissa. Malfoy really was an effortlessly eloquent public speaker, apparently able to commandingly address a crowd with no preparation. She would never be able to deliver such a speech without 73 index cards to shuffle through, she thought to herself, taking a small sip of her champagne.

“What no one knows is that there is another reason I wanted to have you all here at Malfoy Manor – at my childhood home with my closest friends and my parents.” Draco cleared his throat. Then, those storm grey eyes of his rose as if he were searching. When they landed on her, he smirked.

The look on his face made Hermione freeze, suddenly unnerved at his expression. What is going on?

“I am happy you’re all here to be present when I make a very important announcement,” Draco drawled languidly, purposely drawing out the moment, his eyes still fixed on Hermione.

Her entire body stiffened, her heart pounding. Announcement?

As her gaze held Draco’s, a cold terror swept over her. Whatever was about to happen involved her, and not only was she not prepared, she also had absolutely no clue what Draco could be alluding to while he stared at her.

Why is he staring at me so intently?

Draco took a steadying breath. The room was silent. Every guest was on pins and needles, reading the tone of the atmosphere. They all knew something big was about to drop. Harry and Ginny looked from Draco to Hermione and back, Harry’s body taut again, ready to go on the defensive even as Ginny held tight to his sleeve with one hand, ready to hold him back, the other hand gripping James’ tiny elbow to keep him wrangled as Draco spoke.

The snakes watched Draco, keeping their faces professionally neutral, unsure where their friend and boss was going with this speech. They outwardly remained impassive, knowing that if they looked perplexed or blindsided it would be bad for business. Theo and Blaise exchanged a quiet, brief glance of unease.

Lucius and Narcissa’s eyes met across the room, communicating panic in silence with aloof and stoic expressions. Neither one of them knew what their son was doing, nor what was about to fall out of his mouth. Regardless, as they looked at one another, they both knew one thing for certain: the moment Draco shared his announcement, they would immediately express enthusiasm for it, no matter what it was. It was imperative they present themselves as a united front; they could tear into Draco later in privacy if the announcement warranted it.

Draco’s eyes had yet to drop Granger’s. He raised his champagne flute.

“I’d like you all to please raise your drinks in a toast...” Draco shot her a grin, a challenge hidden behind it. 

“...to my future bride and future wife, Ms. Granger.”

Chapter Text

I think I just hallucinated.

Hermione slowly blinked once. Twice.

As if in a daze, an illogically calm daze, she suddenly became hyper aware of every eye in the room turning towards her with different reactions. She noticed the strangers’ reactions first: the ones who didn’t know her, didn’t know Malfoy, didn’t know anyone else in the room personally, the businessmen, the ones who felt privileged to bear witness to such an important moment in a place as regal as Malfoy Manor. They all turned to look at her with big, genuine grins of enthusiasm on their faces, their glasses of champagne raised in her direction, several of them calling out their congratulations and well wishes. Because, of course, none of them would guess that this entire declaration was a calculated act of aggression; because such an announcement would logically only be made after a serious, private betrothal between two people who had been in a loving relationship, and none of these strangers would have any reason to think she and Malfoy hadn’t been in one after such a confident proclamation.

I could fuck up the entire future of Black Dragon Wines right now, Hermione vaguely thought to herself in the back of her mind, in the part of her that wanted to throw his life into a tailspin the way he had just done to hers with no warning. But the daze she was in kept her silent, her eyes categorically going around the room to the rest of the guests present, methodically observing their expressions.

Then she noticed the Slytherins’ reactions. Blaise, Theo, Pansy, Daphne, and Astoria stood stock-still near Malfoy, their eyes sliding over in her direction, their bodies not moving. Their eyes slightly widened at Malfoy’s words, but they simply watched her, observed her, slowly raising their champagne glasses, cautious warning aimed at her written on their faces.

They’re waiting for my reaction before reacting themselves. If she reacted poorly, they would jump to defend Malfoy and maintain the image of Black Dragon; she would be further pushed under the bus because they all would protect Malfoy as his childhood friends no matter how much they respected Hermione. She wanted to scream at them, berate them for their twisted loyalty over simply doing the right thing, but doing the right thing was the lesser priority over protecting their lifelong friend and boss. Then, in her continued daze, Hermione relented, a wave of understanding for the serpents washing over her. As much as she took offense, she wasn’t surprised: she’d do the same for Harry. She would have done the same for Ron, years ago, at least. This wasn’t their fault; the fault was squarely on Malfoy’s shoulders.

Hermione zoned in on Harry and Ginny next, who both looked completely dumbfounded. Harry’s face was quickly turning red. She couldn’t tell if it was outrage on her behalf; senseless embarrassment at not being told privately before this ridiculous ‘announcement’, which would mean he thought it to be true and that Hermione would have kept such a thing from him; or if he was beginning to panic at the idea that he would have to do something drastic to distract the room full of people in order to give Hermione an opportunity to run away.

She felt Narcissa’s gaze from right next to her, looking at her wide eyed, with – dare she think? – a slight hint of hope, trying to remain dignified, waiting for confirmation before allowing herself to react.

Lucius’ eyes were boring into her from across the room. She quickly glanced at him, his body still as a statue, his face impassive, his champagne glass neither up in the air nor down by his waist, but somewhere in between, waiting for her to either deny or confirm Draco’s surprise declaration.

The shocking part, Hermione thought to herself, still in a stupor, was that no one was laughing. No one was scoffing. They were simply waiting. For her. Waiting for her to say something.

Does no one really see the absurdity? Does everyone actually think such a thing is possible, even Harry? As if this could have been going on in secret, only now coming to light?

In the few seconds it took Hermione to process the mixed reactions from everyone in the room, she felt the floor drop out from beneath her, her heart beginning to beat faster, her breathing beginning to pick up speed. She turned her eyes back to the front of the room, staring blankly at Draco, who was carefully watching her, a vindictive smirk on his face. I told you so, he seemed to be saying, I dare you to have a meltdown in front of all these people.

Of course she couldn’t. There were two reporters there covering this casual business event for the wizarding media: one from the Daily Prophet, likely looking to spend more time and energy covering Draco and Black Dragon Wines; and one from Witch Weekly, likely looking to cover it more from a society, gossip angle. And here Draco was, feeding the fire. Hermione had a persona to uphold, one she’d upheld since she was a teenager. She was no fool; if she threw a tantrum, it would appear on the front page of both newspapers the very next day, maybe even today’s evening edition. And to make matters worse, any prayer she’d have of saving HOPE would be out the window if she composed herself like a mad lunatic.

Feeling as though she was having an out-of-body experience, one where she was internally screaming at Malfoy for inviting her here to humiliate her in a very calculated move, but also one where she’d been accustomed to schooling her face into impassivity after years in the limelight, Hermione found herself standing slowly, gracefully. She carefully set her champagne glass down on the table behind her, raising her eyes to Malfoy, who was still looking at her with a challenge on his face.

She smiled demurely at everyone in the room. “My goodness,” she said lightly, “I was not expecting that announcement to be made this afternoon,” she continued with a soft, professional smile – the kind she would give media outlets at official events, very purposefully not denying or accepting the statement Malfoy had made. “If you’ll excuse me for one moment, I just need to catch my breath.” With another dainty smile at the crowd, Hermione walked calmly across the sitting room out into the corridor, aware how loudly her heels echoed on the marble floors, sure they would all hear if she started sprinting in panic. She took deep, calming breaths as she continued walking all the way down to the end of the corridor towards the double French doors leading out to the gazebo and the rose garden.

Meanwhile, Draco hadn’t dropped his own amused smirk as he glanced around at everyone with a chuckle. “Poor thing, I couldn’t help myself. I suppose she likely wanted to make the announcement together. To my fiancée!” he toasted, holding up his champagne flute. Around the room, everyone held up their own flutes. “Here, here!” they called.

The Slytherins and the Potters seemed strangely caught between two worlds: fully believing this was some kind of joke, maybe even a misunderstanding of some sort, and fully believing that Draco had truly lost all semblance of reality. Before either group could reach him, Lucius was already beside him, a dignified, hard smile on his face, his hand tugging Draco’s elbow insistently. In a matter of seconds, Narcissa was on his other side, turning to face the crowd with a gracious smile.

“Please, make yourselves at home. There is plenty of food and wine. Lucius and I would just like a moment of congratulatory privacy with our son after this most auspicious news.” Following Lucius and Draco out the door into the corridor, Narcissa cast a quick glance at the Slytherin girls, arching an eyebrow and motioning quickly to the room. Immediately understanding their temporary hostess placements, Daphne, Astoria, and Pansy took off to mingle with guests in different parts of the room.

Lucius and Narcissa said nothing to Draco until they turned left out of the sitting room, walked down the corridor and then turned left again into the large kitchen. Once there, Lucius turned abruptly towards his son, his grey robes whipping around him.

“What,” he began tersely, “was that, Draco?”

“Before you say a word,” Narcissa interrupted, a look of dangerous warning on her face, “let me remind you that Miss Granger is a real person with real feelings. So, when you answer your father, if I feel your response is unsatisfactory, unpleasant, rude, or cruel towards us, towards anyone in that room, and/or especially towards Hermione Granger, there will be hell to pay. Don’t toy with us, with her, or your close friends, Draco,” Narcissa finished quietly.

Draco looked back and forth between his parents, a look of exasperated annoyance on his face. “Would you two please relax?”

Lucius arched an eyebrow, his mouth quirking up at the corner in a disgusted sneer. “Relax? Did you just tell your mother and me to relax? You’re about to lose everything you’ve worked for since you got back to England. Miss Granger is arguably as beloved as Harry Potter himself. You are running a risk that could cost you everything. What’s the angle here? I do not believe for a second you have been in some clandestine relationship with her behind everyone’s backs. Explain. Now. I asked you a question, and I expect an answer. What was that?”

Draco sighed. “Before I talk to either one of you, I have to talk to Granger. I need to go find her.”

“What are you playing at here, Draco?” Narcissa murmured, her eyes searching her son’s for an explanation.

“I just... need to go find her,” Draco answered lamely, I need to find her before she freaks out and disapparates. “After I find her, I promise you’ll get answers.”

Narcissa’s eyes continued to search his for several seconds more, trying to find the truth. Finally with a small sigh, she stepped aside, letting Draco walk out of the kitchen to try and find Granger before she ran away without talking to him.

Draco quickly made his way down the corridor, having a feeling he knew where Granger had gone. If he had to make a guess, he’d assume his mother had shown her the gazebo with the pink roses... the Hermione roses... before the two of them had walked into the luncheon like a couple of hens with a secret between them. And if that was the case, it was his best option to try there first. He hadn’t heard an apparition crack, so she hadn’t run out the front door looking to escape; he also hadn’t heard the whoosh of the floo network in the foyer’s fireplace. Therefore, she had to still be here somewhere, and he would start with the gazebo. It made sense; the roses and the gardens and the lake, all the soothing elements he would think might attract her, were on the other side of the Manor, opposite the sitting room. If she was planning on having a meltdown, it would be where no one would see or hear her.

The moment he rounded the outdoor stone walkway, facing the gazebo, he saw her. A small sigh of relief escaped his lungs as he approached cautiously, slowly climbing the steps through the arched opening, his eyes on her as she sat on one of the cushioned benches, a Gentle Hermione in her palm. He stood roughly twenty feet from her, not daring to step closer, treating her like a skittish animal. He kept his hands loose and open at his sides, just in case she thought he posed a threat. His eyes stayed trained on her, zeroing in on the smallest movement: her teeth chewing on the corner of her bottom lip, as if she was thinking hard. She was probably thinking about what to say, maybe thinking about what he could have possibly been thinking, perhaps considering what his angle was. In any case, her lip between her teeth was unbearably evocative, and he stood completely transfixed.

Her right hand slowly made its way up to her hair, and as she found a thick curly tendril to absently twirl around her finger, Draco’s eyes followed, fixating on the next tiny habit. He realized in all the times he’d seen her over the last several weeks, she’d always had her tousled mane up in some sort of bun with her wand holding it in place, or plaited back away from her face. This was the first time her dark tresses were down and loose, cascading to her elbows, longer than he’d ever seen them. His breath hitched, stunned at the softening effect it had on her. Paired with her lacy mauve dress, and those deep, dark eyes, Draco was caught off-guard at Granger’s femininity being suddenly front and center. She actually, to his further surprise and dawning realization, was quite pretty. He just hadn’t really taken a good look at her. He was certainly looking now, drinking in the sight of her.

And then she stood.

Without a word, she walked quickly, intensely, through the gazebo, through the rose garden, into the formal gardens near the lake. Unsure what she was doing, or where she was going – is she about to start running and make a break for the apparition point at the front of the Manor? – Draco quickly followed, reaching for her elbow. “Granger, wait. I –”

She whirled around then, hair flying, so suddenly and abruptly that Draco smacked right into her. He quickly straightened at the same moment she shoved him back. Hard.

“How dare you?!” she shouted, her face turning indignantly red quickly. “What were you possibly thinking?! What made you say such a thing?! I demand an explanation!” With each question, she shoved him again, causing him to stumble back, not waiting for him to right himself before doing it again and again, menacingly walking towards him, every shove moving them farther away from the gardens.

Though Granger was fully entitled to react the way she was, and rightfully so, Draco found himself irrationally bristling in defense at her outraged tone, at her repeated angry pushes against his chest. He responded heatedly.

“I told you weeks ago, remember?” he glowered, his tone low, intimidating, authoritative, taunting, stepping close to her. “Didn’t I tell you in that lift? I wasn’t joking when I said it. ‘I’m going to marry the hell out of you, Granger.’ Remember? I meant it. It’ll be my greatest revenge and my biggest reward. I told you I’d follow through. Check,” he said with a smirk at her, his fingers moving an imaginary chess piece in the air between them, goading her, egging her on, enjoying this maybe a bit too much. “Your move, my Queen.”

Before she could stifle her mounting rage at his words, she reared back, her hand clenching tightly into a fist before she launched it forward in savage vengeance, the punch connecting with his nose, an echo of the exact motion done against the back of a tree fifteen years ago when they had both been just thirteen years old. And just like back then, it had been in answer to some of Malfoy’s taunting choice words.

With a seething shriek, Hermione then shoved Malfoy back as hard as she could. It sent him reeling down the slight drop outside the formal gardens, his body gaining momentum as he stumbled backwards, his hands flinging back away from where they clutched at his nose, his arms flying out, looking for something to brace against, finding nothing until – as Hermione watched with a widening triumphant grin – he landed right in the lake, disappearing beneath the water with a look of shock on his face. To add to the moment, the ridiculous cacophony of honking, trumpeting, and screeching in offended horror from the swans and the peacocks directed at Malfoy’s head when it rose from the water were enough to make Hermione howl in laughter at the utter pretentiousness of it all.

But as hysterical as the situation at hand was, Hermione’s uproarious laughter slowly died on her lips as Malfoy rose furiously from the water, his face contorted in anger, his white button-down shirt clinging to his torso, his soaked platinum blonde hair slicked back until he shook his head, disheveling it enough so that random pieces fell in his eyes.

He sauntered over to Hermione slowly in his fury until he stood barely an inch from her face. Baring his perfectly straight, clenched white teeth at her, he spoke dangerously low. “Follow me to my study so we can figure this out, appropriately, Granger.”

“Hold still,” she responded just as low, her eyes narrowed, her wand pointing at his obviously broken nose, “it seems like your violent, soon-to-be wife gave you what you deserved. Again. Might want to start watching your mouth. You never seem to learn. Episkey,” she spat out with an unnecessarily abrupt flick of her wand, his fractured bone visibly mending with the same motion. Malfoy inhaled sharply with a groan in pain, his eyes flinching briefly before opening to meet hers with outrage. Without a word, he stomped past her, incensed.

As she walked a few steps behind him, her eyes took in his dripping clothing, his skin visible beneath his soaked white shirt in the sunlight: traveling across his broad shoulders, down the length of the lean, defined muscles in his back. And suddenly there was nothing funny.

Nothing funny at all.

Chapter Text

Granger followed several paces behind Draco into his study. The moment they crossed the threshold, he closed the door and proceeded to begin unbuttoning his soaking wet shirt, water dripping all over the floor.

Granger eyed him suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

He rolled his eyes before reaching for the holster around his right arm, removing the wand from inside his sleeve. He held it up for her to see with an arched eyebrow, showing no nefarious intentions, before aiming it at himself, murmuring the quick dry spell. Not bothering with his hair, he sat behind his desk idly, motioning to the chair before him.

“Have a seat,” he invited.  

He saw the hesitation in her eyes, but after a few seconds, she sat primly, her hands folded before her on the edge of his desk.

“So, I think we shou—” he began, but she held up a palm to stop him.

“If you’re about to start a serious conversation with me – and you should because I fucking deserve one after your audacity, Malfoy – you need to put yourself back together,” she said firmly, pointedly looking down and eyeing his bare chest peeking through his open shirt.

Draco smirked, leaning back comfortably in his chair, letting his shirt open further, his hands clasped behind his head. “See something you like?” he taunted, “Too uncomfortable with the male form?”

Granger had no reaction, keeping her face impassive as she stared back at him, waiting for him to do as she asked.

“If you truly want to discuss whatever the hell you’ve been going on about the last few weeks, and about what you just did in the sitting room, you have ten seconds to prove it to me by treating this entire situation, and me, with the respect it and I both merit,” she clarified seriously, “otherwise, I will absolutely walk out this door and out of the Manor. Because I know there's no way you pulled a stunt like that with no reason or thought behind it, not at a business event. You wouldn't risk losing everything you've worked for just to mortify me, however much you despise me. This is your one and only chance before I walk. I’d like an explanation, Malfoy.”

Draco’s smirk slowly fell as she continued speaking. With a sigh of irritation, he sat up and promptly buttoned his shirt, straightening the collar for a final touch, running his hand absently through his still wet platinum locks, his eyes trained on her.

“Better?”

“Much. Now, start talking,” Granger responded, shifting in her seat until she sat ramrod straight against the back of the chair, her hands now folded in her lap, her eyes on his.

He nodded. “I meant what I said,” he began slowly, holding her gaze, “I have full intentions of marrying you. When I said it in the lift, I said it in anger, to spite you, but the moment the words left my mouth, I realized the truth in them.”

“Have you lost your mind? You realize you don’t assert such a thing or demand such a thing from a woman. You don’t declare it as if your words alone make it true, as if my own wishes and what I want don’t matter. And you certainly don’t weaponize it! You fucking ask a woman. And by you, I don’t mean you personally because as we’ve already clarified, we loathe each other.”

“Just hear me out. Let me finish,” Draco replied, a hint of a plea in his voice, not dropping her gaze. “I think a marriage would be beneficial for both of us.”

“Again, have you lost your mind?”

“And again, let me finish,” he said through gritted teeth, “Merlin, Granger, you don’t have to say something after each sentence. You’re already proving to be the bane of my existence, which means you’re practically my wife anyway,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “As I was saying, a marriage would benefit us both. You must have gathered by now that the Ministry won’t have anything to do with me.”

He waited, as if he were sure she would have a snarky comeback or a quip, but she said nothing, keeping her gaze trained on his.

“They won’t touch Black Dragon Wines with a ten foot pole, and the truth of the matter is that I need them as a client,” Draco sighed, hating having to show Granger any vulnerability, hating giving her ammunition that she could throw in his face, “I’ve got plenty of muggle clients, and several in the wizarding world, but the truth of the matter is –”

“Having the Ministry in your portfolio, carrying your wine at their events, would make them your most profitable client,” Granger finished his sentence with a nod, “they’d bring you the most money, and they’d likely encourage more business within the wizarding world.”

Draco nodded tersely. “Yes. Black Dragon can do fine without the Ministry. By all standards, I could even say we’d do well without them. But with them...” his voice trailed off. “In any event, they won’t talk to us because of me, because of my history, ultimately because of my last name. They know how wizarding society still views me and my family, and Shacklebolt won’t come near me. But you?” he pointed at Granger, “They love you.”

He saw her putting the pieces together in her head, realization dawning across her face. “You think being married to me would encourage a change of heart towards you.”

Draco nodded again. “Among both: society, and at the Ministry. If Shacklebolt and the wizarding community as a whole see that the Golden Girl herself, a beloved heroine figure of the war, best friend to Potter, saw beyond my past enough to fall in love with me and marry me, it would soften their image of me, open up doors. It would change everything.”

Granger’s eyebrows shot up before her eyes narrowed, her lips pursing. “Fall in love with you?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Most people wouldn’t assume a marriage is done simply out of convenience; they would assume there was love involved. You and I would know better,” he added quickly with a wave of his hand, as if insinuating that love blossoming between them was a horrid impossibility, “but we would need everyone else to think it was done for the right reasons... love. The fairy tale. People love a good fairy tale.”

Granger seemed to digest this for several seconds. “You said it would be beneficial for both of us. I see what it would do for you. What’s in it for me? Because so far, it seems like I would be doing you a favor, and frankly, I don’t owe you a thing. Nor would I be inclined to do this for you out of the goodness of my heart. I abhor you.”

“Money,” he responded simply, keeping his eyes on her, watching her reaction.

“You would pay me? Like being your wife would be a job? I’m not for sale, Malfoy!” Granger nearly shouted, incensed at his implication.

Again, Draco rolled his eyes “Not for you. For Beacon of HOPE.”

Granger’s eyes widened, her head thrown back a bit as if he’d just launched a rocket at her. “I didn’t realize you even knew about my company,” she said quietly.

He shook his head. “I didn’t. The truth of it is, you don’t advertise it enough. You need a better business manager. I had no idea you had a nonprofit. But I overheard the Weaselette mention something in passing to Pansy at the office, so I looked into it. Beacon of HOPE. You’re about to go under, Granger. And I know that letting people down is not an option for you, especially the vulnerable, like children. War victims.”

“Survivors,” Granger corrected immediately, “We don’t call them victims. They’re survivors.”

The correction rendered him speechless, caught off guard. Such a simple distinguishment, and yet it changed his entire outlook on who these children were. Clever, he thought, before he nodded. “Right then. Survivors.”

They stared at each other for another moment. “So, you’d, what? Donate money to Beacon of HOPE?” Granger encouraged, turning the conversation back to the matter at hand.

Draco nodded. “I would give you enough money to fund it for three years. The whole thing. Hiring more staff, paying all of your salaries, giving money to sustain whatever services you provide these children – from what I gather, you pay for any medical and educational needs they have.”

Granger nodded. “Including therapies for them and their families. And yes, educational needs. We pay for their Hogwarts school supplies every year. For muggle children, we either pay for private school tuition, or we give them a stipend. Anything to make their lives easier, we try to help with. All over the UK.”

“I’d cover all of it. Any expenses. Three years,” Draco confirmed.

“Black Dragon can afford such a thing? After only three months?” Granger asked doubtfully.

Draco rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Of course not. But you’re not marrying a company. You’re not marrying Black Dragon Wines; you’re marrying Draco Malfoy. And Draco Malfoy can afford such a thing, and he would gladly do so for his lovely, supportive wife.”

Granger licked her lips as Draco watched it all come together in her head. He knew that her little sacrificial Gryffindor self was measuring the benefit of being miserably married to her childhood rival but being able to help an innumerable number of children. Always one to worry about the greater good like Potter, Draco thought to himself snidely. He knew she wouldn’t be able to say no.

But her next words surprised him.

“I want it on paper,” she asserted confidently, “I want a fully written contract to protect me and protect you. I want a timeline. I want expectations.”

“A timeline?”

“Yes,” she declared, “this won’t be a forever marriage. Like you said, this isn’t for love. This is for convenience, but at some point, I think we both might want to try to find personal happiness and love elsewhere. I want an exit point. I want a countdown to when this entire thing will be over and behind me. What is the minimal amount of time you’d think we’d need for both of us to reach the maximum benefit from this agreement before we can divorce?”

Draco’s eyebrows rose. Impressive, he thought to himself, would never have thought she could be this prepared on the spot. Should’ve anticipated it, the swot.

He pondered her question. “Three years. Minimum.”

She didn’t react. “And what expectations would we have? Are we living together?”

“Gods, no,” he responded immediately, shaking his head profusely, “there’s no need for that. We can continue to live our lives separately.”

Granger nodded thoughtfully. “So, we’d be married in name only. How would we give off the impression that we’re actually husband and wife?”

“We should be seen together at events. Galas, balls, what have you,” he replied, his fingers steepling together as he sat back in his chair, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling in thought, “and we should make an effort to go out in public casually. Dates and such.”

Granger raised an eyebrow, disbelief on her face. “You want to date me.”

 Draco rolled his eyes. “Well, no. Let’s make this clear: I don’t want to date you. But part of being married and appearing as if we genuinely care for one another is to make this as believable as necessary.”

Granger bit the corner of her lip pensively, just as she had when Draco had found her sitting in the gazebo, and again, he caught himself watching the gentle action of her lip between her teeth. His breath hitched as he made a concerted effort to look down at his fingers, his eyes coming back up to that infernal lip every few seconds, unable to keep his resolve to stop. fucking. looking. at. it.

“Twice a week.”

Draco’s gaze shot up from his fingers to her face as she spoke. “Sorry?”

“Twice a week. We go on a date twice a week. A lunch or coffee date maybe, and one dinner date,” Granger declared, “does that work for you?”

Draco nodded. “And it must be somewhere in a wizarding village or wizarding London, not some muggle town. We have to be seen, ideally by a reporter. And you have to look presentable in case a paparazzo takes a picture,” he threw in, narrowing his eyes, “no clothes with coffee stains, Granger.”

“Then don’t knock into me. We won’t have any problems if you look where you’re going, Malfoy,” she retorted snidely.

They glared at one another for several seconds before Draco rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say. Anything else in this contract?”

She shook her head. “I guess not. I must say, it’ll be such a relief to know Beacon of HOPE will continue,” she sighed deeply, her gaze going down to her fingers briefly, “at least I can keep my salary.”

Draco furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “What are you talking about, keeping your salary? What do you do with your salary now if you don’t keep it?”
But as the words left his mouth, he answered the question in his head, the puzzle pieces connecting. Incredulously, he stared at her, his mouth dropping open. “Have you been putting your entire salary back into the organization?”

Without meeting his eyes, she nodded.

“Have you gone mad?” he asked, a note of anger in his voice, “You have to stop with this Gryffindor shit, Granger! It’s to your own detriment! I understand you’ll always fight for the greater good and you’ll always put everyone else ahead of yourself,” he said with a wave of his hand and a roll of his eyes, a note of frustration in his tone, “but you have to have some sense of survival! You’re working for free, do you realize that?! You have to have more self-worth than that! You don’t let anyone care for you, and you don’t take care of yourself!”

“This isn’t about the greater good, Malfoy, and it’s not about working!” Granger nearly shouted back in defense, her arms crossing across her chest, “this isn’t my job, this is my life! This is something I’m passionate about, something I’ve done for ten years! These children aren’t my job to me, they’re what matters! I see myself in them, and you don’t understand that. The war was personal for me. If Harry had died and Voldemort had won, I would either be considered part of the lowest of the lowest class, or a slave, or dead.” She inhaled deeply before continuing. “And for the record, I’m surviving just fine. I live off of the stipend that I get from my Order of Merlin First Class. I inherited my childhood home after my parents died, I don’t have a mortgage or pay rent. I’m doing alright. I’m not destitute.”

Draco stared at her, his face hardening. “I hadn’t realized your parents died.” I hadn’t realized you were alone.

Granger stared back in confusion. “You knew. How can you look me in the face and tell me you didn’t know?”

Taken aback, Draco continued to stare at her, completely bewildered. “Why would I have known? I haven’t been keeping up with your life. I’ve lived out of the country for the last ten years.”

“My parents were killed by Death Eaters,” Granger murmured, dropping her gaze back to her lap, “right before the Battle of Hogwarts. I guess...” she inhaled sharply, “I guess I just assumed you knew, given... well, everything...” her voice trailed off.

Draco swallowed hard as her words washed over him. Horror and shame, his two old friends, built up in his chest until it ached. How hadn’t he known? Worse, who had done it? Maybe I don’t want to know. He quickly schooled the pained expression off of his face, morphing it into one of neutrality. “I’m sorry,” he whispered gruffly.

“It was a long time ago,” she responded, her eyes still cast down.

Completely at a loss, completely ill at ease sitting with his own feelings about his actions and involvement in the war, he found himself desperate to change the topic, and he did so with no finesse whatsoever.

“If you’ve been living off of your Order of Merlin stipend,” he began, infusing his words with contempt, “you should have been spending your time at this luncheon today networking with all those people, all the guests. Do you know who they are? They’re business owners, people who would have the means and the ability to donate money to Beacon of HOPE. You should have been making the rounds, being smart, not socializing with my mother,” he scoffed, watching her reaction carefully, desperately wanting to wipe the sadness and gravity from her face even if only to replace it with anger. Anger, he could handle. Anger, he was familiar with, found himself falling back on it instead of dealing with emotions that he had no clue what to do with. Anger, he understood.

But when she looked up at him, there was neither sadness nor anger, simply understanding. “You’re right. That would have been the smart thing to do. But I wasn’t thinking straight. I was unbearably anxious to be back here after so long. Your mother actually helped with that.”

Well, fuck.

“What about you, Malfoy?” Granger asked, straightening up again, her tone mercifully going back to business. “Anything else you want to add to this written agreement?”

Draco paused. “What about children?”

Granger’s eyes widened in shock. “Children? What about children?”

“I don’t know. It seems like something logical that one of us should bring up. Should we include having a child in this contract?”

She continued to stare at him, mouth agape. “Have you lost the plot? First of all, reproducing insinuates we’d....” her face reddened, “...that we’d sleep together, and that is not happening. And second of all, we’re not bringing a child into a loveless marriage built on convenience. We just said we’ll be ending this entire thing in three years! Why would we put a child through such a thing?”

Draco shrugged. “I was just thinking about the betrothal contracts my parents had written for me throughout my childhood and I was trying to remember some of the points. Having a child was always included. Every single marital negotiation my parents arranged for me, regardless of the witch to whom I was being contractually betrothed, had a clause about having one child in order to ensure an heir.”

Granger rolled her eyes in disgust. “Well, that was because those contracts were meant to forever handcuff two people to one another, uniting two bigot pureblood families trying to carry on one bigoted bloodline,” she spat, “and our marriage will be neither forever, nor will it meet your family’s blood standards. So, including a clause to assure the continuation of a bloodline I have no interest in advancing does not suit me nor does it benefit me.”

“Tell me how you really feel, Granger,” Draco muttered sarcastically, “it’s not like I’d be fulfilling a dream of mine by reproducing with you either. It just seemed like a logical thing to bring up when discussing a marri—”

“Plus, like I said, we’d have to sleep together,” Granger interrupted, “and that will absolutely, unequivocally never happen. We should put that in the contract. No expectations of physical contact or affection whatsoever.”

“I’m not a complete dick,” Draco erupted scathingly, “do you think so low of me as to assume that I would not only want but expect some sort of physical relationship with you?” Because I wouldn’t. I really wouldn’t, he assured himself. “I don’t need you for that.”

“Well, I don’t need you for that either,” she flung back evenly, her arms crossing at her chest again defensively, “we should maintain this as an open marriage. We should be free to date and have intimate relations with anyone we deem fit.”

“Time out,” Draco interrupted, bristling, “I won’t have my wife waltzing around town on another man’s arm. People will see you and it will be embarrassing and make us both look bad. No dating.”

“Are you serious? No dating? That’s ridiculous! We’re both adults, we both will want to fill that void of loneliness that everyone has until the right person comes along,” Granger responded, bewildered by his declaration.

He shook his head. “I don’t have a void of loneliness. I am perfectly content. Though, I suppose you have a small point. We have... needs.” He sighed. “Fine. We can have an open marriage, but it must be discrete. No going out into public on dates with other people in the wizarding world. Muggle towns only, and during off peak hours is best.”

Considering his words, realizing how much she needed this to save her jeopardized organization, she knew the sacrifices would be worth it. Draco could see it written all over her face. This was happening.

“What do you say, Granger? Do we have a deal?”  

Without hesitating, she nodded with a smirk, his own mouth turning up into a triumphant grin.

“Yeah, Malfoy. I think we have a deal.”

Chapter Text

Harry sat in a gold chair in the sitting room, his foot bouncing nervously, his arms crossed at his chest, his eyes glued to the doorway, waiting for Hermione to make her way back from wherever it was she went after Malfoy’s completely asinine announcement. Ginny eyed him cautiously, James in her lap, sitting beside him at one of the gold tables, a small plate of hors d’oeuvres before them, untouched.

“I’m sure there’s an explanation for this entire thing,” she said quietly, her eyes roaming the room, always coming back to the Slytherins, her colleagues, none of whom looked terribly bothered.

“Don’t you think it’s suspicious that Lucius and Narcissa left with Draco forty-five minutes ago but came back alone two minutes later? Where did Malfoy go? And where is Hermione?” Harry muttered under his breath, “I should have done something as soon as the words left Malfoy’s mouth. I should have jumped up and... I don’t know... hexed him for talking so nonchalantly about Hermione. Making light of something that would be serious if it were true. Obviously, it’s not true.”

Ginny eyed her husband. “You’re not sure, are you?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Harry scoffed, “it’s not true. Malfoy’s lost his mind. Simple as that.”

“Yeah?” Ginny asked quietly, “then why didn’t you hex him?”

Harry swallowed hard and didn’t respond.

Ginny took in his silence and nodded carefully. “You’re afraid that somehow, it’s true. That maybe you missed something this big in Hermione’s life.”

He still didn’t respond, his jaw visibly clenching, his foot bouncing harder on the floor.

“I just...” Harry’s voice faded, his gaze finally moving to his wife, “ever since she and Ron broke up six months ago...”

“Again,” Ginny emphasized.

Harry nodded, “Yes. Ever since they broke up again six months ago... I don’t know. Every time they break up, I feel put in the middle. And I find myself prioritizing Ron over Hermione. Maybe because she’s always been so self-sufficient. She never seems to need support with anything, whereas Ron?” Harry shook his head. “Ron is always one step away from falling apart. He seems to need me more and Hermione... she never seems to need anyone. With anything. She only depends on herself and keeps things close to the chest.” He sighed deeply. “What if she’s been seeing Malfoy and I had no idea? Never suspected anything? They still seemed to hate each other, what with all the...” he struggled to find the words, “... the coffee mishaps.”

“Maybe that was all for show? To throw people off?” Ginny suggested quietly, “I never picked up on anything and I see her more often than you do. And I see Malfoy every day at work. I was none the wiser.”

Before Harry could respond, their attention was drawn to the doorway. The whole room went silent as Malfoy and Hermione walked in together, smiles on both of their faces, to Harry’s confusion. And even more confusing? His gaze zeroed in on Hermione’s hand, lightly tucked into Malfoy’s elbow.

Harry’s eyes widened, it suddenly dawning on him that maybe, just maybe, this whole thing really was real. But then his eyes narrowed, staring at her smile.

It was her professional smile.

Harry had known Hermione long enough to know when she was being sincere; when she was protecting herself and her personal life by fixing her face into an acceptable expression for the media. Merlin knew how many times Harry, Hermione, and Ron had posed for the media together over the years. And the smile on Hermione’s face at this very moment, on Malfoy’s arm, was the exact calculated smile she would offer the media.

It was not the genuine smile from their personal pictures and photographs. It was not the carefree, uninhibited smile that would bloom with her friends and loved ones.

A wave of irrational anger and protectiveness for Hermione rose in Harry’s chest. He would keep it together for now, but when the moment allowed, he would unleash on Malfoy, and Hermione herself if necessary. Someone is telling me the truth about whatever the fuck this deception is.

Keenly aware of her best friend’s suspiciously angry gaze in her direction, Hermione carefully looked everywhere but at Harry as she stood next to Malfoy by the baby grand piano at the front of the room. When he patted her hand on his arm gently, Hermione’s eyes flicked up to Malfoy, who was looking down at her with a small, encouraging smile. Holding his gaze for just an extra beat to give the impression of intimacy – Hermione was nothing if not thorough – she turned and faced the crowd of people, feeling a light blush creeping across her cheeks.

A literal blushing bride. Couldn’t have timed my body’s own reaction better if I tried.

“Thank you so much for all of your well wishes,” Hermione began, smiling at everyone, the flashes from the reporters for the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly nearly blinding her, but she kept her face composed and poised, “I had no idea that Draco was going to share our exciting news today, and was simply caught off-guard. He should have told me he couldn’t hold it in anymore,” she added lightly with a delicate laugh, gently elbowing Malfoy in the side as if this behavior on his part was something she should have expected; Malfoy’s shrug and sheepish face simply added to the overall impression of an overly excited, head over heels in love groom. A quiet laugh rose around the room. Hermione’s eyes briefly landed on Harry: there was no amusement, no emotion on his face as he regarded them both.

Her eyes flicked away, her smile widening. “Secret’s out, I guess! We’re hoping to have a short engagement and be married soon. Thank you for celebrating with us!”

She and Malfoy each picked up a champagne flute from a floating tray and raised them high as cheers and applause erupted around the room.

“The ring! Show the ring!” Several people chanted from their seats, flutes raising in echoes from every corner.

Hermione and Malfoy looked at each other with grins before Malfoy let out a laugh. “No ring yet,” he clarified, “truth be told, when I proposed, I was so eager to finally ask her to be my wife that I hadn’t bought a ring. I was impetuous and spontaneous, and the words for my grandest wish just slipped out. It works better this way, I think, now the lady can come with me and choose her own. Whatever her heart desires of course,” he concluded, looking down at her with another small smile, his hand lightly caressing hers still on his arm.

Well, damn. He’s good. If I didn’t know any better, I’d actually think he was enamored with me.

“Very romantic!” Astoria called encouragingly from the corner table where the Slytherins had gathered, all with raised champagne flutes, cheery smirks on their faces.

Meanwhile, Narcissa and Lucius stood frozen in bewilderment, but hiding their shock well. Gathering his wits, Lucius quickly cleared his throat.

 “A toast!” he called out. The room went quiet as every eye went to Lucius Malfoy, who kept his own eyes trained on his son. “As Draco’s father, I would like to propose a toast to my only son and his intelligent and... ambitious fiancée, Miss Hermione Granger,” he began, inclining his head towards Hermione, Narcissa at his side, who beamed at them both while simultaneously pinching Lucius’ hand to keep him in check, “Draco, my dear boy, I suppose I should commend you for your astonishing ability to... defy expectations.” He paused for dramatic effect, a slight air of disdain in his tone, his eyes slightly narrowing at Draco, who held his gaze unblinkingly. “And Hermione, if nothing else, your relentless... perseverance should be admired. Though I suspect such a quality will be necessary to endure a lifetime with my son.” He gave a tight, forced smile. “Narcissa and I are overjoyed,” he emphasized, his cold gaze going to the reporters, who were taking notes and still snapping pictures, “over Draco’s impending nuptials to the Brightest Witch of Her Age.”

Lucius and Narcissa raised their champagne flutes. The entire room lifted theirs, yet again, in unison. “To Draco and Hermione,” Lucius finished, “love is many things—irrational, defiant, perhaps even redemptive. And as is evident today – unconventional. Let’s hope, for your sake, Draco, that it is also patient. Very patient." Beside him, Narcissa’s heel carefully and inconspicuously stepped onto his foot, her smile still on her face, as the rest of the guests either chose to ignore Lucius’ double entendres or were too ignorant to catch them. Cheers went up around the room as both Draco and Hermione kept their smiles plastered on their faces, Draco’s hand casually snaking around Hermione’s waist, pulling her in tighter beside him. We’re in this together, the action seemed to say.

“Just ignore him,” he whispered in her ear, turning his face from the crowd, dropping a tiny kiss on her head, “I’ve got you.”

And for a split second, she forgot who he was; for a split second, she almost dropped her guard and believed him.
Almost. But not quite.

The two of them spent the next hour making the rounds around the room together, with Malfoy taking the opportunity to bring up Beacon of HOPE to every single business owner they spoke with; he sang Hermione’s praises as its leader, and brought up in detail all the organization had done for the child survivors of the war. Every person expressed surprise that such an organization existed at all, and then followed up with interest in donating a percentage of their profits to such a worthwhile cause.

But no one could hide their surprise more than Hermione, who was looking at Draco through a new, though suspicious and wary, lens. They had only just agreed on their marriage contract, and already she was catching herself having trouble separating the contractual Malfoy, who owed her what he promised, from the real Malfoy. Or were they one and the same? How can the line already be blurring? Does he actually care about HOPE? Me? Because if he wanted me to change my perception of him, showing an interest in and complimenting HOPE would be the way to do it... She shook the contradicting thoughts out of her head, trying to focus on the task at hand instead.  

The moment she and Draco sat down with the serpents, Astoria beamed at her.

“I am so excited for you two!” she said brightly.

“Welcome to the inner circle, Granger,” Blaise said to her with a grin, raising his goblet of Black Dragon chardonnay, having exchanged his champagne, “it’s greener and a little meaner, but I promise the water’s fine.”

“I don’t know about meaner,” Pansy spoke up, a smirk on her face, “Granger here can hold her own. She might just be on our level. I think she’ll fit in quite nicely...”

Hermione’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“... once we fix her wardrobe,” Pansy finished, raising a perfectly groomed eyebrow, her gaze traveling down Hermione’s mauve, lacy dress.

And there she is, the Pansy I was expecting.

Hermione couldn’t help but let out a laugh. Pansy’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, and she grinned. “Although I will say this is the prettiest thing I’ve seen you wear,” she conceded, “I might just grow to like you yet, Granger.”

“I’m Daphne, Astoria’s sister,” the tall, beautiful blonde next to Hermione spoke up, eyeing her neutrally. Clearly, Daphne was still unsure what to make of the entire situation and she kept her judgments for another day, waiting to see how things would unravel.

Theo’s eyes swept from Granger to Draco, who was busy eating from a plate of canapes at the center of the table. “So,” he began, “when did you two start dating?”

Draco nearly choked but quickly took the goblet in Blaise’s hand and brought it to his lips. He looked quickly at Granger to see if he could read her, but she sat impassively, relaxed in her seat, leaning back, sipping her own goblet of wine.

Alright then. Guess I’m writing the greatest love story ever told without her input.

“February,” Draco answered elusively.

“How did it come about? You only just got back to the country in January,” Theo pressed innocently.

“We ran into each other. At Flourish and Blott’s,” Draco responded casually, not meeting Hermione’s eye, “it’s her favorite shop. She was enthralled reading a book right there in the aisle, not paying attention to anyone around her, and I accidentally bumped into her,” he shrugged, “one thing led to another. I paid for her book and then we went down the street for coffee. The rest is history.”

Granger stared at him, completely caught off guard. Draco could feel a blush starting to form on his cheeks, and he quickly took another gulp of chardonnay from Blaise’s goblet. Theo, for his part, was looking from Draco to Granger, as if trying to arrive at some conclusion. “And you just... fell in love, then? Over the course of three months? To the point where you want to marry her?”

Draco gathered his bearings, nodding nonchalantly, his occlumency walls up high and securely in place. “Exactly right, Nott.”

“How did he propose?” Astoria asked Granger excitedly, “I’ve never taken Draco to be the exceptionally romantic type, but it sounds like he must have been in the moment if he couldn’t help but propose even without a ring!”

Granger quickly looked at Draco, who carefully kept his eyes on the canapes. I’ve already answered one question, now it’s your turn, swot.

“Oh, well,” Hermione began, her mind racing, trying to come up with something romantic, believable, and plausible for someone as arrogant as Draco Malfoy to have pulled off, “it was actually a couple of weeks ago. Draco invited me to the Manor because the cherry blossoms had just bloomed in the formal gardens,” she began slowly, her eyes going from Slytherin to Slytherin: each and every one was hanging on her every word, even Draco. She had to bite back a laugh. “They were lovely, as you all know, you’ve all seen them countless times, I’m sure. And Draco had a picnic set up for us beneath the biggest one, with a blanket and everything.”

“He did not,” Pansy said incredulously, “Draco Malfoy? Set up a picnic to eat on the ground?”

Hermione nodded. “Oh yes, he did. And as we were finishing our cucumber sandwiches –”

“Draco hates cucumber sandwiches,” Theo interrupted.

Hermione nodded, immediately going with the flow and improvising. “Yes. He does. But he knows they’re my favorite, so he made them anyway. And as we were finishing them, a gust of wind came by and knocked hundreds of cherry blossom petals all over us. It was quite picturesque, actually. And at that moment, something came over Draco and he just –”

“She looked so lovely with the petals all over her, that I couldn’t help myself,” Draco finished, “I had to ask her then and there. Completely unprepared, unrehearsed.”

“How did you ask, Malfoy?”

All eyes went up to find Harry listening to the conversation, an unnervingly calm look on his face.

Draco’s eyes narrowed at Harry, but he didn’t drop his gaze. “I kept it simple. I just said, ‘Marry me, Granger.’”

“How dubious, to command the woman you ‘supposedly’ love to marry you instead of asking, and then to only address her by her surname,” Harry responded, a tone of sarcastic disbelief in his voice, “although it sounds like something you would do, of course.”

Every Slytherin narrowed their eyes at Harry; Hermione could see the physical manifestation of their resentment towards him, of their defense of Draco. But before she could say anything to try and diffuse the tension that had fallen over their table, Draco’s gaze circled the room, realizing that Narcissa had planted herself by the door, ever the gracious hostess, to genially thank all the guests for coming, many of whom were on their way out.

Draco stood quickly, adjusting his shirt. “We’ll continue this after I’ve bade all my business guests farewell,” he muttered under his breath as he began walking towards Narcissa. Suddenly he came to a halt, seemed to think better of it, then walked back to the table, extending his hand out to Hermione. “Will you join me?”

Lifting her eyebrows in surprise, Hermione nodded, taking his hand. “Of course.”

Guess this is my new role now.

Half an hour later, once all the business owners had left and Hermione had thanked each and every one profusely for coming and for their interest in Beacon of HOPE, the only ones remaining in the sitting room were Lucius and Narcissa, Harry and Ginny with James, Draco and Hermione, and the Slytherins.

“Can I speak to you in private, Hermione?” Harry asked quietly, approaching Hermione where she still stood at the door with Draco and Narcissa. Before Hermione could answer, Draco narrowed his eyes. “I think whatever you have to say to my fiancée can be said in front of me as well.”

Gritting his teeth and not acknowledging Draco, Harry stared intently at Hermione. “Is this all for real?” he softly asked, a pleading note in his voice, “is this some kind of a joke? A set up? Or is this really happening?”

Hermione took a deep breath. “This is really happening, Harry.”

“You didn’t tell me? Or Ginny? I don’t even mean about the engagement, Mione, I mean about him at all. The dating? Somehow the fact that you’ve been seeing Draco Malfoy escaped your mind for the last three months? Not just seeing him, but falling in love so fast you’re willing to marry him after 90 days together? Or maybe you didn’t deem it important enough to tell us? To tell me?” he finished accusingly, the hurt tone in his voice putting a crack in Hermione’s heart.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell either one of you,” she began, “but I wasn’t sure where you stood when it came to Draco after the war, and I didn’t want any of this getting back to Ron,” she concluded. If this entire secret relationship had been real, Ron and his involvement would have been a very real concern; Hermione didn’t want Ron tangled up in her personal life any longer. “I just didn’t anticipate it getting so serious so quickly.”

“You said Malfoy proposed to you a couple of weeks ago,” Harry threw at her angrily, “if that’s true, you could have told me then! I think I would have deserved that as your best and oldest childhood friend, Hermione! Not finding out when the top business owners in the wizarding world are also finding out! Not when the media’s finding out at the same time!”

“You’re right,” Hermione said meekly, thinking quickly on her feet, “but since there was no ring yet, I thought we’d keep announcements for the future until I had a ring to show off. I knew it would sound completely unhinged –”

“It does,” Harry nodded emphatically, his face turning red with anger, “the entire thing sounds made up and completely unhinged. I don’t even know what to do with this, Hermione!”

“Mr. Potter,” came Lucius’ cold, quiet voice from behind Harry. “I suppose I should thank you for not having this complete meltdown while our business guests were here. As it is, I don’t recall anyone, my son and Miss Granger included, asking for opinions on their personal announcement. Do I detect a shadow of envy, perhaps?”

“Father,” Draco muttered warningly.

Harry blanched. “Envy? Are you asking if I’m jealous? Of what, exactly, Lord Malfoy?”

“Perhaps that Miss Granger has chosen someone so exceptional, in every sense of the word, as her partner.” Lucius’ eyes raked over Harry. “Is mediocrity still as rewarding as ever, Potter?”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open as Harry’s face turned crimson. Narcissa gasped. “Lucius!” she admonished, her own face blushing as she rushed to Harry, “Mr. Potter, I’m so deeply sor—”

“I think we should go, Harry,” Ginny’s voice came definitively from behind Lucius. “This isn’t the time. We can talk to Hermione later on our own.”

Harry’s entire body was shaking. “No,” he squeezed out through clenched teeth, “I want to talk to Malfoy. Alone.”

Ginny and Hermione’s eyes met. “Love, I don’t think –”

Draco stepped closer to Harry, not dropping his menacing gaze, keeping his own expression calm and collected as he towered over him. “I’ll talk to you alone. We can use the parlor.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “The parlor. Of course. Whatever else would a parlor be used for? Some kind of grandiose duel, I suppose. Right behind you.”

Ginny, Hermione, Lucius, Narcissa, Blaise, and Theo all made to follow, each one intent on defending one of the men leading the way to the parlor if necessary.

“No,” Draco called over his shoulder, causing the stampede of people to halt in its tracks. “This is between me and Potter. And frankly it’s about goddamn time.”

As soon as Draco and Harry walked down the corridor towards the front doors of the Manor and turned right into the large parlor, closing the door behind them, they faced each other.

“I want to know what’s going on,” Harry said quietly, venom in his voice, his entire body vibrating with anger. “I don’t buy this secret relationship for a second.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Potter,” Draco spat back, “Granger herself explained it to you.”

“There’s more to this whole thing than what you two are sharing!” Harry shouted, immediately losing his cool. “I don’t know how you can expect me to sit back and not say anything! To not question anything! Hermione has no one, Malfoy, she has no one to defend her! Me and Ginny, we’re her family! She’s an only child and her parents are dead! Although, I’m sure you knew that already,” he spat cruelly, “you might have even been there for all I know! Maybe even participated!”

“How dare you,” Draco intoned in a low, quiet voice, “I was not there! I didn’t even know until recently that she’d lost her parents! Do you honestly think I would hurt her?!”

“You had no problem hurting her years ago, what’s to stop you from doing it now?! I don’t even know you, Malfoy!” Harry’s voice sliced the air, echoing through the vast room around them, “and I don’t care to know you! I didn’t know who you were 15 years ago except that you were some arrogant fucking snob! I don’t know who you are today, I don’t know how the war changed you, if it even changed you! All I knew 10 years ago was that you were some scared kid with no way out of the web you weaved yourself into, and all I know now is that you’re up to something and using my best friend as collateral and I won’t stand by and let you do anything to her!”

“Do anything to her?! Have you even met Granger?! She’s the most formidable witch on the fucking planet, Potter! You’re so self-righteous, you think you’ve got everyone figured out, but you don’t know a gods damned thing! I’m not out to hurt your friend, you stupid fucking lion!” Draco clapped back, his entire body coiled with the need to lash out and strike.

The reckless, impulsive belligerence in both of them reared its ugly head, and as if on cue, both wizards had their wands falling from the holsters around their arms beneath their sleeves to their palms, immediately pointing at one another, trembling with resentful animosity.

“Yeah, well, pardon me if I don’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth,” Harry scoffed, “because you’ve been a lying piece of shit since I met you!”

“If I’m such a lying piece of shit, why did you defend me?!” Draco exploded, his chest heaving in fury, his wand arm in mid air vibrating with the violence he was ready to unleash.

Harry looked momentarily taken aback. “What are you talki—”

“In court!” Draco shouted, “Ten years ago, after the war! My trial! Why in Salazar’s name did you defend me?! You and the Weasel and Granger, the three of you defended me up and down! You knew I didn’t deserve to be defended! You knew why I did what I did!”

As Draco continued to shout, his face turned redder, the outrage coursing through him, having pent it up all these years with no outlet. But how could he miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime to let Potter have it when he was standing right there? The tip of his wand lit up red as he fought back the desire to hex the man, the ‘hero’, before him.

Harry stared at Draco, his eyes traveling to the tip of his lit up wand, then back up to his face, his mouth agape. “You—you’re angry that we defended you? You’re angry that we helped you keep your freedom?! How ungrateful can you be, you son of a bitch?!”

“Grateful?! You three fucking clowns think I should be grateful?!” Draco whirled in a full circle maniacally, his arms out on either side, raising his voice to the highest decibel, “everyone hear that?! Saint Potter thinks I should get on my knees and worship him for letting me avoid prison! Worship him like everyone else in the gods damned world!” his stance quickly went back to a dueling position, his wand aimed at Harry’s face.

Harry visibly bristled, his anger reaching new heights, his own wand righting itself, pointing at Draco’s head. “Excuse us for trying to do the right thing! Excuse us for trying to help your sorry –”

“I didn’t want your help! I didn’t need your help!”

“Didn’t need our help?! You would have gone to Azkaban! Is that what you wanted?! You wanted to go to Azkaban?!” Harry shouted back.

“YES!” Draco roared, “YES! If that’s what I deserved, then yes!”

“You didn’t deserve that! You defended us! You could have identified us and you didn’t, you could have called Voldemort when Bellatrix told you to and you didn’t, you could have killed me in the Room of Requirement and you didn’t, you could –”

“I did those things out of fear, you ignorant fucking fool!” Draco maliciously snarled, “I didn’t do those things to save you or Weasley or Granger! I didn’t care what happened to you! I did those things because I was fucking terrified!” his voice caught in his throat, and for a split second, Draco thought he was about to sob, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through. “I did those things to save myself! Because if I had identified you and you managed to get away – like you did!— or worse, if I’d identified you and it wasn’t you, it would have been a death sentence for me and my family!” His wand tip emitted sparks as his rage expanded through his body.

Harry and Draco stared at each other, jaws slack, chests heaving, eyebrows furrowed in loathing. Finally, Harry spoke, and sensing the impending destruction that their wands were itching to cause, he lowered his voice substantially.

“It doesn’t matter why you did what you did,” he said evenly, “It doesn’t mat—”

“It matters,” Draco interrupted, “it fucking matters. You...” he swallowed hard, his face twisting into a sneer, “you pulled on the Wizengamot’s pity. You made them feel sorry for me. And that’s why I was set free. I didn’t want their pity, and I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. I wanted to reap the effects of what I had done. And you robbed me of that. The three of you. The three of you robbed me of that. Instead of letting me pay for what I’d done, you gave me what everyone in my life has always given me: an excuse. I just wanted to stand on my own two gods damned feet for once in my life, Potter.” As he held his wand, the light quietly dimmed, but he kept it trained right where he wanted it.

Harry continued to stare at him. “You’re standing on your own two feet now, aren’t you? You’ve earned your redemption, haven’t you?”

“How can I earn a true redemption if you robbed me of the chance? Why do you think no one at the Ministry will do business with me? Why do you think wizarding society is still terrified of me? Because all of them know that your testimony was bull shit. If they had believed you, if they had truly believed the words the three of you had spoken, your belief that my actions had been sincere would have transcended across the board. It didn’t.” He took another deep breath. “And now when people look at me, they don’t see me as someone whose earned their redemption. They see me as someone who got lucky and was excused. They justify my current treatment with the fact that they feel that I was exempt from my punishment ten years ago.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Harry replied flippantly, scorn dripping from his voice. “You hate the fact that the three of us saved you. If the Ministry won’t do business with you, that’s on you. And even then, they would have told you why they went with another company instead of yours. That’s the proper way to do things.”

Draco’s sneer turned into derisive, bitter laughter. “Cet imbécile croit vraiment à ses propres conneries!” he said, almost to himself hysterically, incensed, unaware his brain had switched to French as the words poured out of him. “C'est incroyable! Tu ne crois qu'à leur innocence! Tu es trop aveugle pour voir leur côtés sombres!”

“ENGLISH, MALFOY!” Harry roared.

And this time, their pointed wands both emitted red lights and sparks, Draco’s intermittently switching from red to green, his blurred lines between light and dark much harder to control than Harry’s.

Flipping his multilingual switch again, Draco roared back, “I SAID YOU ACTUALLY BELIEVE YOUR OWN BULLSHIT! I said it’s unbelievable that you only acknowledge your friends’ innocence! You’re too gullible to see their dark sides! You think they can do no wrong! You always have faith in the people around you, don’t you, Potter? You always give them the benefit of the doubt! Your old mate Kingsley would never do anything questionable!” he shouted sarcastically, “He would never further blacken my name more than I or my father have already done! He would never refuse business with me, would never further the fear my name causes in wizarding society, would never stir the pot!”

“No,” Harry responded confidently, “he wouldn’t. Kingsley would never hold a prejudice against you if you were found innocent. And you were found innocent! So, whatever you think is happening is a misunderstanding.” He scoffed again. “You don’t know Kingsley like I do. And that’s because I know what a friend is. I don’t change my colors as often as I change my shirt like you do.”

Draco stared at Harry in confusion. “What the hell are you going on about?”

“Are those ‘friends’ of yours in the sitting room your actual friends?” Harry asked, a judgmental tone in his voice, “Weren’t the Death Eaters your friends? And before them, I remember when Crabbe and Goyle were your friends. When Dobby was still alive, he talked about you as a boy which leads me to think you were friendly with him as a child. But loyalties seem to change for you, Malfoy, which is why I don’t want you anywhere near Hermione! Because maybe the day will come where you’ll have had enough of her and your loyalty will change again!”

“Crabbe and—” Draco began with a snide guffaw, before his face suddenly changed, going from red to quickly turning pale. “What did you say?”

“I said, your loyalties change, you fickle prat, and I don’t want –”

“No,” Draco shook his head, “before that. What you said before that.”

Harry paused. “I said that when Dobby was still alive, he talked about when you were a boy, which clearly showed you were friendly with him. At least he seemed to think you were.”

Draco stared at Harry, his face difficult to read, a combination of anguish and shock, desperately trying to school his expression into its typical hard lines and Malfoy stoicism. “What do you mean, when Dobby was still alive?”

Harry’s face laced with confusion, his eyebrows furrowing as he watched Draco’s reaction. Unsure how to answer a question he thought was somehow common knowledge, he said nothing for several seconds.

Finally, Harry spoke carefully, observing Draco’s face with caution. “Dobby died ten years ago.”

It was then that it dawned on Harry: Draco had no idea what had happened to his former house elf, to what had sounded like his former early childhood friend. And why would he know? How would he have known? None of us went out of our way to tell him. It never even occurred to me to tell him. Seeing Draco’s blank face now, guilt seeped into Harry’s consciousness.

Maybe it should have occurred to me.

Harry and his friends had protected Dobby, had never told anyone about his death, had kept his bitter, painful end as a quiet memory that none of them liked to revisit.

Harry rubbed his hand down his face, slowly lowering his wand, the aggression dissipating quickly from the room. He spoke quietly in a monotone. “The day we were here, at Malfoy Manor, and Dobby disapparated with me, Ron, and Hermione to save us, Bellatrix threw a dagger at us. The same one she used on Hermione’s arm. It came with us, traveled with us while we disapparated.”

Draco said nothing, his face still carefully controlled, watching Harry with no expression in silence, the arm clutching his wand falling to his side as he listened, the hostility zapped from his body.

Harry continued. “When we landed near a cottage on the coast that belongs to the Weasleys, we realized that Bellatrix’s dagger had become embedded in Dobby’s stomach.”

A tiny sound left Draco’s throat, his eyes closing briefly before he turned his gaze to the floor.

“I buried him there,” Harry finished, completely caught off guard by Malfoy’s reaction, not having foreseen this at all, unable to predict what direction this conversation would go in.

After several seconds of silence, Harry heard the change in Draco’s breathing: it had become faster, shallower, labored.

“Malfoy?” he asked uncertainly.

“If you’ll excuse me, Potter,” Draco murmured, “I have something I need to take care of.” With those words, Draco stormed to the parlor door and wrenched it open.

As soon as he’d opened it, Hermione and Ginny took steps back from where they’d been listening in the corridor. Without meeting their eyes, not even seeing them, Draco stumbled down the hall as quickly as he could until he threw himself through the French double doors to the gazebo.

Narcissa, having been standing with Lucius and the Slytherins by the door to the sitting room, made to quickly follow her son, but Hermione was faster and gently reached for her elbow to stop her.

“Let me,” she whispered, “please.”

Her eyes meeting Hermione’s, Narcissa bit her lip, hesitating. Her gaze traveled to the double doors as she fought her instincts, fought her maternal desire to support her son.

“Of course, darling.”

Chapter Text

August 28, 1991

“What I’m saying to you, Draco,” Lucius said icily, setting down his solid gold knife and fork carefully on the white fine bone dish before him, the gold trim glinting in the light of the candelabra in the formal dining room, “Is that you must do what you can to figure out what kind of... boy... Harry Potter is when you arrive at Hogwarts in a few days.”

To Lucius’ right at the solid mahogany table, eleven-year-old Draco eyed him back skeptically. “I don’t understand, Father. What kind of boy – ?”

Lucius sighed, exasperated. “It is unclear to us what his... priorities... and views will be as he gets older. Wizens. Matures. He has not been raised in the wizarding world,” he added with a scoff before taking a sip of elf-made wine from his intricately engraved gold goblet, “he has been hidden away somewhere with muggles, so already that does not bode well for us. He must have been raised with certain beliefs that we will likely not find...” he looked to his left, meeting Narcissa’s eyes, “... savory.” She nodded in Draco’s direction.

“Do you hear your father? It is in our interest to know what kind of person Harry Potter is,” she stressed to Draco again as Dobby worked his way around the table, refilling their goblets. “He is clearly a great wizard. Or has the potential to be. Only a great wizard could have defeated the Dark Lord as a mere infant. It would be in our benefit to be in a great wizard’s favor while his future is uncertain.”

Lucius hissed at her under his breath. “We do not know for certain that the Dark Lord has been defeated.” He turned his gaze back to Draco. “But we must go into this with the assumption that Mr. Potter will have power. And so,” he continued, with an arch of his eyebrow at his young son, “you will want to try to get into his good graces. Just in case. We do not want to align ourselves with the wrong side. It is too early to predict. Anything can still change.”

Draco’s eyes flitted back and forth between his parents, still not fully understanding. What he did understand was that his father required his commitment and loyalty, and he nodded affirmatively. “Yes, Father. Of course. I will do my best.” In the background, Dobby watched the three of them with no expression, fading into the corner.

**********************************************************************************

Hermione quietly exited through the pine double French doors and closed them gently behind her, looking around in the sunlight. She followed the stone path and silently approached the gazebo. The top of Draco’s platinum head was peeking out above the overgrowth of the Gentle Hermione roses growing in vines and weaves around the intricate wood carvings. Unsure what to expect when she rounded the corner of the archway, she ascended the steps cautiously, the corner of her lip nervously caught between her teeth.

She looked to her left and observed Draco leaning against the railing, his arms spread wide on either side of him, his hands grasping the wooden edges, crushing several roses in his fists, his head bent over the side. Hermione could hear his breaths from where she stood, and her anxiety skyrocketed as she listened to the concerning sound: shallow, quick, loud gasps being sucked in through his mouth. He was struggling, hyperventilating, intermittent sobs forcefully emitted from his throat as he simultaneously tried to desperately take in more oxygen.

He was having a panic attack. Hermione could tell in the span of about two seconds; she was very familiar with them herself. She approached cautiously, unsure if she should touch him; they weren’t there, they didn’t know each other well enough, but she knew that when she panicked, sometimes a comforting hand was one of the soothing techniques that worked.

Thinking better of it, she stood about five feet away. “Mal—” she began, then instantly changed her mind; using his surname sounded wrong, impersonal, in a moment when he was so distraught. “Draco,” she murmured softly, “what do you need?”

He didn’t respond and ignored her, continuing to flounder as he tried to suck in mouthfuls of air, but failing.

Hermione carefully leaned against the railing to his left on her arms, her hands clasped before her, keeping her face neutrally facing the ground, knowing he’d feel vulnerable in this particular state, likely embarrassed for her to see him struggling so badly.  

“Remember that time,” she began quietly, “in Care of Magical Creatures that Buckbeak kicked you in the elbow?”

Draco continued to struggle but turned his head an inch to cast his eyes in her direction, his breathing still ragged, not responding.

“You were so pathetic,” she continued in a low tone, “remember? ‘He’s killed me! He’s killed me!’” She kept her eyes forward and down, but let a small smile grace her lips.

After several seconds and several attempts at deeper breaths, Draco let out a pained scoff. “That gods damned bloody chicken did try to kill me,” he rasped.

Hermione’s smile grew wider as her eyes slid guardedly to her right, meeting his. When she took in his face, she heart squeezed at what she saw: his skin pale, drained of color; a wave of panic creased into his features that he was desperately trying to school into indifference; his blonde tendrils falling into his pained, glassy eyes; his lips parted as he continued to take in big gulps of air.

She shook her head minutely. “Could be,” she agreed, “but you would have deserved it. You ignored the rules that Hagrid repeated about 16 times.”

“Oh, did he?” Draco sarcastically jeered in a low tone under his breath, his breathing still shallow, “that oaf had no busin—”

“You liked the textbook. The Monster Book of Monsters, remember?” she interrupted, refusing to be goaded into an argument when he clearly needed the opposite, “I thought it was interesting, having to run a finger down its spine to get it to calm down.” As she spoke, she noticed his breaths getting slightly deeper, but she didn’t react.

After several seconds he nodded with a sneer. “Yes, I suppose the book was a clever touch,” he conceded. She watched as he tried to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth. “Third year,” he continued with a nod, “that was the year you broke my nose,” he smirked slightly, “the first time, that is. The second time being earlier today.”

She smirked back, lightly letting her right shoulder smack into his left. “You deserved it both times. The elbow kick from Buckbeak, too.”

Draco let out a breathy bark of laughter before he nodded once. “I suppose I might have.”

They stood in comfortable silence in their same assumed positions as Draco caught his breath, slowly regulating back to its normal pattern. After about a minute, she spoke.

“What happened?”

Draco said nothing, his eyes on the ground before him.

“You don’t have to tell me, I suppose,” she said quietly, “though I did hear everything, so I have an idea. I just figured I’d give you a chance to voice it yourself.”

Her eyes slid over to observe him again; she noticed the clench in his jaw and again, he said nothing.

“You didn’t know,” Hermione acknowledged softly, “about Dobby.” She paused, trying to collect her thoughts. “It really should have occurred to one of the three of us, I suppose. That day... that period of time, in general, was so muddled... hazy... frantic... I don’ t think any of us had the brain capacity we needed for certain things. Logically, we knew Dobby used to belong to your family, but I don’t think we ever really connected the dots in realizing you likely grew up with him... didn’t you?” she finished delicately.

After several minutes, Draco finally responded rigidly. “Yes.”

************************************************************************************

June 5, 1985

“The party today was splendid, Master Draco,” Dobby said excitedly, wandering around Draco’s opulent bedroom, picking up his toys with magic and floating them through the air into his toy box.

“It was alright,” Draco responded, “the cake that Mother had Lola make was the best part! It had fresh strawberries!”

“Dobby will be sure and tell Lola when Dobby goes down to the kitchens, Master Draco,” Dobby assured him, “Lola will be delighted!” He came over and carefully helped Draco button his green pajama top before combing his hair back the way Narcissa liked, the picture-perfect little boy heading to sleep.

“Dobby dares say Master Draco will have a good time with those birds Master Lucius purchased for him,” Dobby continued genially.

Draco made a disgusted face. “Those peacocks are dreadful. They chased me halfway around the lake! On my birthday! And everyone saw! Pansy laughed at me!” he added, his cheeks coloring.

Dobby hid a smile. “Dobby does remember a certain little wizard chasing them first... Dobby believes Dobby overheard Master Draco say something about trying to ride one... perhaps in hopes of impressing the young Miss Parkinson?”

Draco’s blush deepened. “It was just a thought,” he muttered, “besides, I really wanted books. Not birds. Do you suppose Father misheard me?”

Dobby paused. “Dobby almost forgot!” he exclaimed, “Master Lucius gave Dobby a gift to hold for Master Draco’s birthday! Dobby was supposed to give it to Master Draco early this morning!” He snapped his fingers. Instantly, on Draco’s solid dark wood nightstand, a pile of three beautifully bound books in leather and gold trim appeared.

Draco’s eyes widened as he grabbed them and carefully read the titles. “Elven Tales and ...” Draco’s small lips carefully tried to sound out the word, “My-ths?”

“Myths, Master Draco. Myths,” Dobby clarified.

Draco perked up with a grin. “Wow!” he muttered excitedly, placing the book on his bed and reading the title of the second. “Wizarding Lore and Magical Stories,” he enunciated carefully, his face again breaking out into a smile before he turned his attention to the third book. “Mer... Mermaids?”

“Yes,” Dobby murmured, “Mermaids, Centaurs, and Beasts: The History of Magic.”

“These are so much better than those peacocks!” Draco exclaimed with a giggle, “I wonder how Father forgot to mention them when I opened my gifts!”

“Master Lucius was so busy all day with the party and the guests. Master Lucius asked Dobby to remember days ago, but Dobby must have forgotten with all the things Dobby had to take care of. Dobby is sorry, young Master Draco,” Dobby said carefully.

“It’s alright, I won’t tell Father you forgot. I’m sure –”

At that moment, Narcissa came into Draco’s room. Immediately, the newly minted 5-year-old stood up straight with his shoulders back.

“Mother,” he said formally.

Narcissa smiled at him ruefully, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Draco,” she said softly, “don’t you look handsome, all ready for bed. Here, let Mother tuck you in with your favorite dragon.”

Draco immediately hopped into his enormous four poster bed, pulling up the Slytherin green velvet covers around himself and his green dragon, Icarus.

After several minutes of Draco and Narcissa happily discussing his party, he looked at his mother seriously. “Will you please thank Father for my gift?” He said sleepily as his mother’s hand threaded lovingly through his baby fine white blonde hair.

“I certainly will, darling,” she whispered, “he’ll be so glad you like the peacocks.”

Draco shook his head, his eyelids closing. “The books.”

Narcissa furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. “The books? What boo—”

Her eye caught the small pile of beautiful books on Draco’s nightstand. As she curiously looked through them, Dobby stepped forward from the corner, where he usually faded into the background when either the Master or Mistress of the Manor entered any room he was in.

“Dobby was holding those books for Master Draco,” he said timidly, “Dobby could not remember who had gifted them to him. Dobby had thought it was Master Lucius, but perhaps Dobby was mistaken. There were so many guests and gifts. Someone must have handed them to Dobby upon entering and Dobby forgot to add them to the pile.”

Narcissa’s icy blue eyes regarded Dobby impassively, staring at him in silence for several seconds before she turned to her young son, who was half asleep but listening.

“It’s a shame. I won’t know who to send a thank you card to,” she told him softly.

“Dobby will remember next time,” Dobby spoke up quietly before fading back into the corner.

Narcissa turned and looked at him again, a small smile playing on her lips. “Yes. I should hope so, Dobby.”

***********************************************************************

Hermione listened without interrupting, her face turned toward Draco, her eyes soft with wistful sadness. “That’s a lovely memory, Draco.”

Draco nodded, his face hard, not looking at her. “That’s the first of many memories I have of Dobby doing nice things for me, but letting my parents take the credit. I didn’t know at the time, but as I got older, I realized what he was doing.” He shook his head. “I never...” he cleared his throat, clenching and unclenching his jaw several times. “I never thanked him for any of it. At the time, I just thought he was doing his job.” He shook his head again. “He wasn’t. He did those things because he cared for me.”

Draco looked up at the summer sky, bright blue, with thick, fluffy white clouds before the words seemed to pour out of him. “Dobby was my first friend,” he explained tonelessly, “he’s in every memory I can remember from my earliest years. My mother raised me, of course, but Dobby was always there with me. Helping. Fixing. Giving. Talking. Watching. Protecting. Playing. We would play tag running through the hedge maze and he would always cheat, the bastard,” he said with a watery laugh, “he would use magic, appear and disappear in other places. Or he’d suddenly make the hedges move. He always thought that was funny.” He sniffled. “He would take me into the apple orchard and float down a Granny Smith to me whenever I wanted. He would watch me swim, and would cast a charm so I could lie flat on my back on top of the water.” He turned his eyes back down to the ground. “I never protected him back,” he admitted gruffly, “I saw how my father treated him. I never said anything. I assumed it was normal.”

Hermione finally spoke. “A part of you was probably also terrified.”

Draco sat with her words for several seconds. “Yes,” he responded latently, “Yes, I probably was.” He leaned his forehead on his right palm. “When Potter set him free, he just never came back,” he chuckled sadly, “I don’t blame him. He just stayed in the kitchens at Hogwarts. But I...” he swallowed hard and took a breath, “I wish he had come back to say goodbye. I realize that’s stupid. I was days away from turning 13. That was the first birthday in my memory where Dobby wasn’t present,” he admitted softly.

Hermione bit her lip, watching Draco’s face express emotions she had no idea he was even capable of feeling, let alone showing. Something inside her began to hurt.

“You know,” he added with a small laugh, “every week, I’d wake up in my dorm and I’d have a new book waiting for me, right on the small nightstand. It took me ages to realize it was Dobby leaving them for me. He never visited me at Hogwarts,” he said, his eyes finally meeting Hermione’s with a cold steel in them, “but it’s probably better that way. I was morphing into a little shit, just like my father. I probably would have treated him horribly, even though he didn’t deserve it.”

Draco finally stood up straight, his fingers caressing a Gentle Hermione rose. “Still,” he whispered, “I wish I had known when and how he’d died.” Again, he clenched his teeth. “Just something else I could have stopped if I wasn’t such a fucking coward.”

Hermione immediately shook her head. “No, that’s not tr—”

“It is,” Draco snapped at her, “It is true. I was full of cowardice that day. Refused to identify you lot. Refused to call the Dark Lord. Refused to help you when Bellatrix was carving into you like a fucking animal. Because I was scared for myself and my parents. But if I had been able to wrestle the dagger from Bellatrix, the three of you and Dobby would have gotten away and –”

“You’re a fool if you think you could have done that without any consequences,” Hermione spat back harshly, “Bellatrix was a sadistic, ruthless, lunatic. There’s no way you believe you could have done any of those things without her retaliating even if you were her nephew.”

“My mother would have never let her hurt me,” Draco argued definitively, “She would have killed her with her bare hands if she had tried to hurt me.”

“Bellatrix would have known that and would have simply told Voldemort, and your mother would not have been able to stop her, though knowing Narcissa, she would have tried even if it would have cost her her life,” Hermione declared, “so you can just stop with the shame.”

Draco let out a bitter laugh. “Just because you said so, Granger,” he replied sarcastically, “Just because you said so, I’ll just stop with the shame.”

As they continued to stand there in silence, Hermione took a deep breath and wrapped her right hand around his left. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, keeping her eyes on the ground before them, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. “I’m sorry about your friend. And I’m sorry neither Harry, nor Ron, nor I had the thought to tell you. I’m sorry we didn’t connect the dots.”

Draco’s hand stayed limply in hers. After he sat with her words for a minute, his thumb gently ran over her knuckles. Hermione watched the movement, knowing he wouldn’t respond, but also knowing no words were needed.

As they turned away to descend from the gazebo, she glanced up at him. “Do you respond well to touch when they happen?”

Draco’s eyebrows furrowed as he turned to look at her. “When they happen?” he repeated, a question in his voice.

Hermione nodded. “The panic attacks. I recognized it. I...” she cleared her throat, suddenly self-conscious. “I get them too sometimes. Some people don’t like to be touched during them. I do.”

Draco stared at her for a few seconds as they walked back towards the French double doors. “Yes,” he finally muttered. “Yes, touch helps.”

She nodded, not meeting his eyes. “I’ll remember that next time.”

They walked back into the Manor with a settled understanding between them that Hermione had never expected when they’d come to terms over their marriage contract earlier in the afternoon.

She glanced down.

They were still holding hands.

I wasn’t expecting that either.

Chapter Text

Narcissa sat primly on the soft cushioned beige armchair in her dark green silk sundress, her dark tresses pulled back by the platinum streaks on the side, tightly held in place with silver hair combs intricately glimmering with emeralds, her legs elegantly crossed at the ankles. She held a white teacup in one hand, the matching saucer in the other, her pinky delicately up as she sipped slowly, eyeing the woman across from her in the other cushioned armchair.

Molly Weasley sat ram rod straight directly in the opposite armchair, dressed in a linen floral buttoned up dress and a soft yellow cardigan, her own legs crossed at the ankles. Her shoulder length auburn hair, streaked with grey, hung loose. She eyed Narcissa warily, her own teacup and saucer sitting next to her on the small wooden side table. Ginny, in a navy sundress, sat next to her mother. The sight of the three pureblood women, each trained similarly in etiquette customs but so evidently different in every other way, would have been almost amusing if it wasn’t so startling.

A former blood supremacist and two blood traitors, Ginny thought to herself ironically, coming together to support a muggleborn who is now equally important to all of them. Who would have thought.

Finally, no longer able to ignore the pureblood manners she had been raised with, Molly cleared her throat. “Lady Malfoy, I –”

“Before we do this,” Narcissa interrupted quietly with a small, awkward smile, “I just want to make clear that I don’t harbor any negative feelings towards you, Mrs. Weasley. Not that I should. But I just didn’t want you to think that I did. My sister –”

“Deserved it,” Molly finished for her, her eyes narrowing, “she deserved it.”

Ten years had passed, but the emotions surrounding Bellatrix still ran high.

Narcissa swallowed hard, another small smile gracing her face, though colder, harder. She nodded once. “Yes. She did. Had anyone threatened my child, sister or not, I would have done the same.”

Molly nodded in agreement, satisfied. Silence fell over them again.

Ginny sighed. “Really, we’re going to have to do better than this for Hermione.”

“You’re right, dear,” Molly agreed, turning towards Narcissa again. “So, Lady Malfoy, Hermione says you’ve all chosen the date?”

Taking another sip of her tea, Narcissa nodded. “Oh, yes! Just three months from now. She and Draco have agreed on Sunday, August the 23rd. It will be a lovely, though hot, summer wedding. I suppose having the ceremony in the late morning will help. The rose garden will look just wonderful at that time of year.”

Molly nodded then sighed. “I do wish they had considered marrying at the Burrow like the rest of my children. Bill, Percy, George, and Ginny were all married there. We would have loved to host Hermione’s wedding at home too.”

Narcissa eyed the redheaded witch curiously. “Yes. I’m sure that would have been lovely.” She could still hear Lucius’ roar of disgust when she had told him that Molly had offered Hermione and Draco the Burrow as a wedding venue.

“In that hovel?!” he had shouted, “My son?! My heir?! In a field of weeds?! In a cloth tent with plastic silverware and plastic champagne flutes?! Dancing their first dance on the ground?! In the dirt?!”

Luckily, neither Draco nor Hermione had needed much convincing and agreed almost instantly that though the offer from the Weasleys had been kind, it also made both of them slightly uncomfortable. In fact, it had been the first thing they’d agreed on during their first official lunch date after their engagement announcement. It had gone beautifully: they’d met at a café in Diagon Alley, and a reporter had spotted them, taking pictures which appeared in the evening edition of the Daily Prophet. They’d both been pleased with the exposure, Draco especially so.

“As lovely as that would have been, Mrs. Weasley, it probably would have been better suited if Hermione had ended up marrying your youngest son,” Narcissa declared quietly, a bite in her voice. Ginny raised an eyebrow, immediately detecting an air of possessiveness. And here I thought the dragon trait was a Malfoy one, she thought to herself with an inner smirk, when it looks like it may have come from the Black side.

Molly gave Narcissa a tight smile. “Yes, I suppose you’re right, Lady Malfoy.” She regarded her with an air of calm. “You are certainly lucky to be gaining such a wonderful daughter in law. I had so been looking forward to having Hermione become my daughter officially, had my son not –”

“Had your son not been a complete twat repeatedly over the last ten years,” Ginny interrupted snidely, taking a sip of her tea.

Molly cast Ginny a sidelong glance through narrow eyes before finally nodding once in agreement. “I suppose you’re right.”

Narcissa raised her eyebrows, her eyes flitting between the two women in amusement, before nodding her head once in Ginny’s direction, her defensive air dissipating. “Yes. We consider ourselves very lucky. Hermione is more than we could have hoped for in a daughter in law.”

“Hermione is the best,” Ginny replied factually, “And Malfoys always covet the best, don’t they?”

Narcissa arched a single eyebrow at Ginny as Molly simultaneously lightly whacked her in the thigh. “Why yes, Mrs. Potter,” Narcissa icily acknowledged, “I suppose that would be true.”

Before any of them could say anything else, Hermione came walking out, a small blush on her cheeks as she stepped up onto the platform in front of the three of them, mirrors on all sides of her. She stood up straight, brushing the wrinkles down on the first wedding dress she had ever tried on in her life.

Molly and Ginny both gasped, grins on their faces. Narcissa’s smile, though more controlled, was no less emotional. “Darling,” she said quietly, “you are a vision.”

“You look beautiful, Hermione,” Molly choked, already grabbing a tissue, “like a true princess.”

Hermione looked at herself from every angle, feeling as if she was in an alternate universe. How had she found herself here at this high-end bridal salon when just three or four weeks ago, she and Malfoy had spilled coffee on one another too many times to count? When just a week ago, they had signed their marriage contract and had their first real and honest conversation in the gazebo?

“It’s lovely,” Hermione admitted quietly, “but this cut just doesn’t feel like me. It’s incredibly... poofy. I feel like a cupcake.”

Ginny looked at the ballgown, her head tilted sideways and nodded in agreement. “You’re entirely right,” she said definitively, “it’s too much dress. You don’t need all that.”

Molly pursed her lips wistfully. “Whatever you think is best, dear. If you’re not comfortable, then it’s not for you.”

“Yes, Mrs. Weasley is correct,” Narcissa asserted, her thumb and forefinger poised under her chin in thought, “it must feel like your dress. This isn’t it.”

Hermione nodded. “Besides, when Draco and I met for dinner a couple of nights ago, he and I both agreed on our wedding attire. He thought a big dress like this would swallow me whole and I agree. The focus should be on me, not the dress.”

“How did that dinner go?” Ginny asked curiously.

Hermione shrugged, still turning and looking at herself from different angles. “Lots of fanfare. Lots of staring. More pictures. We’re still a novelty. At least the coverage of us has been positive thus far. Not that we care about other people’s opinions,” she clarified. Although we do. Or this will all be for naught.

“Ever since that first article came out immediately after we announced our engagement, the attention has been nonstop. I can’t believe it was front page news. And such a horrid headline: Beauty and the Beast – our Golden Girl falls in love with Former Bad Boy.” Hermione shook her head. “People have no shame I suppose.”

Narcissa nodded in agreement. “Unfortunately, being part of our family or having ties to our family garners a lot of attention, mostly unwanted. Even before the war. The paparazzi have always followed us and taken pictures. But you can really turn it to your advantage. Any time you’re approached and asked questions, weave in your nonprofit, darling. They’ll print your quotes and your hard work for the organization will bring it more attention.”

Hermione eyed Narcissa seriously, heeding her words. “You’re absolutely right. That is what I’ll do. It’s a good strategy.”

With one more look of displeasure at the dress and an assured nod at the three of them, Hermione turned on her heel and disappeared back into the changing room with the bridal consultant.

The three women continued to drink their tea quietly. “How are your children, Mrs. Weasley?” Narcissa asked politely, “I believe you have many grandchildren?”

“Oh yes!” Molly exclaimed jovially, patting Ginny’s shoulder, “Ginny here is expecting our ninth grandchild!”

“My goodness,” Narcissa replied longingly, “how wonderful! Congratulations, Mrs. Potter, I hadn’t known the news!”

“We only just told people this week,” Ginny clarified, “it’s still quite early.”

“Still, it is very exciting. Your siblings must all be thrilled, being such a close family. Do all your children have their own families now, Mrs. Weasley?” Narcissa inquired conversationally, taking a sip of her tea.

“All but Charlie, our second eldest son, and Ron,” Molly responded with a sigh and a roll of her eyes, “of course Charlie lives with his partner in Romania, and if Ron had pulled himself together years ago and married Hermione it might have been a different story.”

“Yes, quite,” Narcissa remarked, her eyebrow rising again, an air of sophisticated judgment in her look, “afraid of commitment, is he?”

Before Molly could respond, Ginny interjected. “This last time they broke up in January? Yes. The time before that last summer? He wanted to ‘find himself’. I don’t know what he actually ended up finding other than a two-week fling with some hot little blonde at a beach house in Spain. A year before that? He went backpacking through the continent and wanted to be free to do whatever and whomever he wanted,” she said bitingly, frustration in her eyes, “the time before that, he’d had a one-night stand with another woman. The time before that, Hermione wasn’t ready for marriage and he flipped out and said he would find a woman who was on the same page he was. It’s a cycle for my brother, Lady Malfoy. He doesn’t know what he wants. He’s not loyal. He’s not faithful. He’s a question mark. His entire life is undecided. It’s quite pathetic.”

As Narcissa stared at Ginny wide-eyed, Molly glared at her. “That’s quite enough, you know. You don’t need to air out your brother’s dirty laundry.”

“Oh please, Mum! Ron airs out his own dirty laundry! He calls the Daily Prophet himself to give them exclusives that they report as ‘rumours’ for the money,” Ginny disgustedly responded to her mother, “Hermione can do much better. And so far, it seems like she has. Though I reserve the right to change my judgement as time goes on,” she clarified with a nod at Narcissa, who pursed her lips in approval and nodded back.

At that moment, Hermione came back out wearing a monstrosity covered in tulle and so much gauze that Narcissa yelped in horror as Ginny guffawed that she resembled a mummy. Molly simply shook her head firmly and waved her right back to the changing room. With a giggle and a nod, Hermione turned around, muttering, “Thank Merlin.”

“Lady Malfoy,” Ginny began, a cautious tone to her voice, “I wanted to... let you know something. And also get your opinion on something that involves your family.”

Narcissa raised her eyebrows in surprise and nodded. “Of course, Mrs. Potter.”

“Ginny, please. Or Ginevra,” Ginny responded automatically.

“Well then, I extend the same informality: Narcissa, please.”

Ginny smiled, then nodded in acquiescence. Molly watched the exchange. “Well, of course. Please, call me Molly. Hermione isn’t our daughter by blood, but she is our daughter by heart. We consider her one of our own, and therefore, we will obviously accept Draco into our fold as well. Therefore, Mrs. Weasley simply won’t do.”

Narcissa let out a controlled soft laugh. “Yes. Both of you, please, Narcissa. None of this Lady Malfoy business if our children are marrying.” Her eyes went back to Ginny. “Please, Ginevra. Go on with what you wanted to tell me.”

Ginny nodded timidly. “There is no way to say this, so I’ll just blurt it out rather bluntly. Harry and I, we visit Andromeda and Teddy once a month for tea. Hermione also often comes when she can. Harry and I visited them a couple of days after Malfoy—I’m sorry, after Draco and Hermione announced their engagement and I told Andromeda about it. She... she wanted me to extend an invitation to Draco and Hermione to come by in a week, again, for tea.” Ginny bit her lip, watching Narcissa’s reaction, "Harry and I are to accompany them to help aleve any possible discomfort." She seemed to ponder this for a moment. "Although Draco isn't exactly fond of Harry given what happened last week... and I think he only puts up with me because I work for him, so I'm not sure if our presence will aleve anything, really," she concluded with a small laugh.

Narcissa, for her part, had grown up learning how to hide her emotions, and the skill served her well in that moment. She regarded Ginny impassively. “I see,” she finally responded.

No one spoke for several seconds. “Is there a reason you wanted to tell me this, Ginevra?” Narcissa finally asked.

“Well... I just didn’t know how deeply the lines were drawn between you and Andromeda, and how you would feel about her invitation for Draco to come,” she finished lamely, her face coloring a bit.

Again, Narcissa said nothing for a moment. “Draco is a grown man,” she replied evenly, “and if Draco decides that visiting his Aunt and her grandson would be to his benefit, then I would not stand in the way of that.”

Ginny cleared her throat. “She... Andromeda, that is... also wanted me to make it clear that you are always welcome to join at any time and need no invitation.”

Narcissa seemed taken aback by Ginny’s words. Her eyes lowered to the floor briefly, her throat working noticeably as she swallowed hard a few times, her body language still frozen in the same position she’d been in since they’d arrived at the salon.

“That’s...” she stuttered, then cleared her throat, “I don’t know about that. Lucius...” she trailed off before sighing. “I don’t know, Ginevra.”

Ginny nodded. “Of course. I wasn’t looking for a response. I just wanted to put it out into the universe is all. Let you think on it if you wanted. I just...” she hesitated, “I don’t want to overstep, but I know that if I was estranged from one of my siblings, I’d –”

“Ginny,” Molly muttered harshly, “stay out of it.”

“No, no. Please,” Narcissa said lightly, “let the child speak.”

Ginny sighed, her eyes going from Molly to Narcissa uncertainly. “Please don’t think ill of me speaking out of turn. I just know that if I was estranged from one of my siblings, it would eat away at me. As much as I may not like some of their decisions, they’re still my family. And I think that enough time has gone by, and you seem like a woman on a different path now, Lady Mal — that is, Narcissa – and I just... I just wanted to tell you," she finished lamely, her voice trailing off.

Narcissa’s face remained emotionless. She reached for her tea again. “Why do you and your husband see my sister so much, Ginevra?” she asked curiously.

“Harry is Teddy’s godfather,” Ginny responded carefully, “he is heavily involved in Teddy’s life. We all love him very much. Hermione too. I think she takes inspiration from him and applies it to her work at Beacon of HOPE.”

Narcissa nodded, seemingly lost in thought as Hermione stepped out in another dress, oblivious to the conversation between the three women before her.

She stepped up to the platform and looked in the mirror, her brows furrowing as she turned in every direction. Narcissa, Molly, and Ginny watched without reacting.

“Well?” Hermione asked hopefully, “what do you think?”

Before they could respond, she sighed and answered her own question. “It’s awfully plain. It has nothing – no details. No lace. No sparkle. Nothing that catches the eye. I like simplicity, but I feel like a farmer’s hand.”

Narcissa nodded with a relieved smile, glad Hermione had arrived at this conclusion herself. “Yes. That’s exactly it. You look like a milk maid.”

Hermione looked at her in horror and immediately stepped off the platform. “No other reactions are necessary!” she called over her shoulder, the consultant following quickly.

Narcissa, Molly, and Ginny all looked at each other and snickered. “There’s nothing wrong with a simple, plain dress of course,” Narcissa clarified, “a simple dress can always be accentuated with the right jewelry.”

Molly nodded. “Yes, of course. But Hermione has never been one to like ostentatious jewelry.”

Narcissa let out a small, ironic laugh. “How funny,” she quipped quietly, “that a woman who dislikes ostentatious jewelry will soon become the owner of one of the biggest, most valuable collections of jewelry, both modern and ancestral, in all of Europe. She will have access to all our family jewels in the Malfoy and Black family vaults at Gringotts in mere months.”

Ginny grimaced. “I’d be surprised if Hermione ever even sees it, to be honest.”

Narcissa pursed her lips in seeming disappointment. “Perhaps occasionally, then, for events. Galas, and such.”

Five minutes later as Ginny was telling Narcissa about the latest thing little James had learned to say (‘catch the snitch, Da-da!’), Hermione stepped out slowly and stood before the three women silently.

Their eyes immediately traveled over to her, and they all held their breath, watching her every move as she carefully stood on the platform. She turned to the left. Turned to the right. Turned to the back, looking over her shoulder. Carefully swished the train around herself. Her fingers ran over the intricate lace details.

“I think,” she whispered, “this is my dress.”

As if on cue, Narcissa and Molly both instantly raised both hands to their faces, emotionally covering their mouths.

“Darling,” Narcissa murmured, “you look stunning. Classic. Exquisite.”

“So beautiful, my girl,” Molly cried, tears already falling down her cheeks as she reached for another tissue.

Ginny grinned at Hermione with a nod. “This is it. Definitely.”

Hermione stared at herself in the elegant mermaid silhouette, her fingers traveling over the lace, following the v-neck neckline, gently caressing the delicate short-sleeves. The back had an illusion mesh top with beautifully detailed buttons. The bodice hugged and accentuated her figure perfectly, eventually trumpeting and flaring out at the bottom into the dramatic train.

The bridal consultant helped Hermione work her dark curls into a chic chignon at the nape of her neck where she then secured a cathedral length veil with a hair comb shimmering with pearls. Holding the veil out on either side, she turned to look in the mirror for the full effect. She, Narcissa, Molly, and Ginny all gasped.

“Oh, my word!” Molly exclaimed, completely overcome.

“If this isn’t the look, I’ll eat my purse,” Narcissa declared firmly.

“Godric, Hermione! You are a fucki—sorry, you’re a vision!” Ginny shouted.

Hermione stared and stared at herself in the mirror for a long moment, tears filling her eyes.

I can’t believe this is the dress I’ll be wearing when I get married.

I can’t believe I’m marrying Malfoy.

She swallowed hard.

Her eyes traveled to the women before her, her tears suddenly making her heart ache.

I can’t believe my mother’s not here.

Chapter Text

“I just don’t see why any of this is your concern.”

Hermione carefully wound her long dark curls into a French twist at the back of her head, skewering through it with her wand as she continued to sift through her closet, looking for something to wear on her dinner date with Malfoy in an hour. Since finding her wedding dress two weeks ago with Narcissa, Molly, and Ginny, Hermione and Draco had been on three dates each week, even though only two were required by their marriage contract: one afternoon coffee date, and one dinner date. The extra dinner dates had been on a whim after work. The last spontaneous dinner date had been two nights ago and the two of them had had a good time laughing at the paparazzo who had cleverly hidden behind a bush near the outdoor café; they had taken turns posing with ridiculously overt, corny, lovey-dovey expressions, then taken bets on which would end up in the evening edition of the Daily Prophet. Draco had won when on their way to the apparition point they spotted the Prophet, already on the newsstands, the front page showcasing them sitting at the café, leaning intimately toward each other, Hermione’s foot under Draco’s trouser leg near his ankle, Draco’s head turned sideways nuzzling her neck, Hermione’s eyes closed, a look of rapture on her face. They had covered their faces, laughing uproariously as they bade each other good night and disapparated back to their own homes.

It had felt good. And she was looking forward to tonight’s dinner date even if it was just a contractual obligation.

Because that is all it was.

 Hermione grinned in spite of herself as she continued to rifle through her closet as the voice behind her scoffed.

“You don’t see how any of this is my concern?!”

Hermione jumped at the bark, distracted from her thoughts as she rolled her eyes, pawing through her dresses.

“You don’t think this merited a discussion? An owl at least? Some kind of warning?!” Ron furiously snarled behind her, his arms crossed at his chest defensively.

“I don’t owe you anything, Ronald. Last time I checked, you didn’t give me any warning when the Prophet published pictures of you with every bint you snogged in the Mediterranean.” She removed a pale pink sundress and held it up against herself in front of the full length mirror outside her closet.

In indignant fury, Ron snatched the dress from her, tossing it onto the bed beside them as they stood in her bedroom. “Can you focus here for one second before you start trying on clothes for this farce of a date? For this farce of a date with a former fucking Death Eater, Hermione?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, crossing her own arms, jutting out her right hip, a fierce look of outrage forming on her face as she opened her mouth to unleash exactly what she thought of Ron overstepping his boundaries, but before she could respond, he interrupted with a plea.

“Please. Please don’t go through with this engagement, with this wedding, with this marriage. I don’t buy it, Mione. There’s something off about this entire thing. Ginny’s on board, but Harry also thinks something’s off and you’re not telling us what it is. You’re hiding something and you don’t need to do this. Please.”

“After what Harry did at our engagement announcement three weeks ago, he has no leg to stand on,” Hermione spat bitterly, “it was heinous. Completely uncalled for, and completely –”

“He did it out of concern for you!”

“It doesn’t matter. Ginny suggested to him that they go home and have me come by later to talk, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He pulled Draco into the parlor and let 15 years of hatred come spewing out of him, Ronald. In Draco’s own home! With both of his parents present!” Hermione fumed.

“From how Harry tells it, Draco didn’t hesitate and tore into him just as deeply.” He snickered. “It also sounded like Harry delivered some bitter news to the prick. And that’s a good thing, as far as I’m concerned. That wanker’s had it coming for years. Anything to knock him down several notches is a good thing.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Harry feels awful. He’s guilt-ridden about Draco not knowing about Dobby –”

“I don’t care, Mione. I don’t give a shit about Draco Malfoy. I care about you. When we broke up in January, do you honestly mean to tell me that you thought it would be permanent? We’ve always been on again off again. I always assumed one day we’d be on again.”

Hermione sighed deeply. She took a few seconds to think over Ron’s words as she bit her lip. “No,” she finally admitted quietly, “No, when we broke up in January I didn’t think it would be permanent. I also figured we’d find our way back together at some point in the future.”

“Exactly. Because you and I both know that we’re meant to be, Hermione. We’re star-crossed. You fit perfectly into my life, into my family. Like puzzle pieces. We love each other no matter what.” Ron spoke with such conviction that Hermione momentarily let his sweet words sink into her skin, so familiar, so comfortable, so secure. His words would always be there, always ready to weave themselves back into her life even when she hadn’t been thinking about him, always ready to catch her.

“So, you’ll break off this entire betrothal thing with Malfoy?”

The truth was, if Beacon of HOPE wasn’t on the line, she would. She’d put Ron first and break it off. But then again, if Beacon of HOPE hadn’t been on the line to begin with, she would never have agreed to marry her childhood rival. She wouldn’t be in this position. She certainly wouldn’t have volunteered to be sacrificial enough to marry Malfoy simply for his own personal gain with no benefit for herself.  

She swallowed hard. “Let me think about it, alright?”

“Go on a date with me. How about in three days? Tuesday night after work? I can pick you up at HOPE and we can head into Diagon Alley,” Ron suggested lightly, running a finger down her arm.

She shivered beneath his touch, her body still primed for it, still responding to the heat of his skin as it always had since they were teenagers. She gazed at Ron’s face, his blue eyes clear and earnest as ever, his lips parted beneath his red beard, still just as affected by the act of putting his hands on her as she was.

There was still something there. He wasn’t wrong.

Finally, she nodded. “Fine. One date. But not in Diagon Alley. Somewhere in muggle London.” She looked away, her eyes going back to the soft pink sundress on her bed. As she reached for it, she couldn’t explain the wave of guilt that washed over her. It was nonsensical, really. She and Draco had agreed they could date other people as long as it was in a muggle part of town. She was keeping her end of the deal, and she had to keep her options open. After all, her marriage to Draco wasn’t forever.

But an eventual marriage to Ron could be.

*******************************************************************************

I must have misheard her.

Across the small table for two in the corner of Bella Notte, Draco raised his eyes to look at Hermione, who was taking a bite of her lasagna. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

She swallowed her food, then took a sip of wine. “I said I have a date on Tuesday night. For dinner. I imagine we’ll stick to muggle London. Easier to hide in plain sight that way, I think,” she finished casually, as if she hadn’t just shared something that completely short circuited his brain.

Draco stared at her. What the fuck?

“What do you mean, you have a date?” He kept his voice calm and low, knowing several people had been eyeing them with interest since they’d walked in a half hour earlier. In fact, he was pretty certain the paparazzi had already been called and were staked out near the front door outside of the restaurant.

Hermione raised her eyebrows at him. “I mean exactly what I said, I have a date.”

Draco’s tongue came out to wet his lips, his eyes glued to Hermione’s face, who gazed back at him in apparent confusion. “What’s the problem, Malfoy?” she asked tersely.

“The problem is that I thought we had an agreement, Granger,” he replied through clenched teeth.

“We do have an agreement, which is why I clarified that I’m abiding by your request. The request that I signed my name to in our contract which was that any dating not be in the wizarding world.” She leaned back in her seat, crossing her legs at the knee, her elbow leaning up on the chair, eyeing him curiously. “What’s the problem?” she asked quietly. “I’m getting some sort of weird vibe from you.”

Draco clenched and unclenched his jaw several times. What is the problem? There’s no problem.

His eyes flew to the curve of her thigh, highlighted beneath the taut seams of the sundress pressed around her crossed legs.

He blinked several times to clear his head, biting his inner cheek, casting his eyes down to the white linen tablecloth on the table between them.

“There’s no problem,” he finally replied, controlling his voice into a calm monotone, taking a bite of his chicken marsala. He chewed several times, excessively, as he thought over her words, keeping his eyes on the food on his plate, biding his time as he tried to figure out why his brain couldn’t seem to swallow down the idea of Granger going on a date, choking on it instead.

Without looking up, doing his best to keep the conversation light and non-confrontational, he posed his next question.

“Who’s the date with?”

There was a long pause.

It was too long.

He finally raised his eyes to her face. “Granger?”

She cleared her throat, taking a sip from her water glass before she seemed to steel herself, looking him in the eye. “It’s with Ronald.”

There were several seconds where Draco simply looked at her blankly as if still waiting for her to respond. His brain stalled as it tried to compute. After staring at her unblinkingly, he finally gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. “Well, that tracks.”

The words were sarcastic. Bitter. They held a note of disgust in them.

“Why?” he asked, after two long minutes of silently chewing. This chicken tastes like fucking sawdust.

“Sorry? Why?”

“Yes. Why? I’m curious. I want to know why you’d agree to go on a date with Weasley after all this time. You told me your relationship ended in January.” As he said the words, Draco made an extra effort to relax his muscles, realizing his entire body had involuntarily tensed at the mention of Weaselbee’s name.

Hermione bristled. “I don’t see why my reasoning is any of your business.”

“Really? You don’t –” Draco bit back before immediately schooling back his expression, expertly used to performing in public. His public image had been benefitting from all the time he’d been spending being seen with Granger and he wasn’t about to ruin it getting pissed off over some plebeian as inconsequential as Ronald fucking Weasley. And really, he had nothing to be pissed off about. Because this wasn’t a problem. Because he and Granger weren’t actually going to be a forever thing. This was business. Business.

He cleared his throat carefully, sipping his wine before placing his elbows on the table, clasping his fingers together. “I’m just concerned,” he finally wrestled out of his mouth, the words short. Tense. Bitten. “I’m concerned as your... friend.”

Granger pursed her lips. “As my friend?”

He glared at her. “I didn’t fumble my words, did I?”

“You don’t need to be concerned.” She sighed and shook her head, still casually leaning back in her chair, her right hand going up to push a curl behind her ear, her lip making its way between her teeth.

Draco tracked both movements, to his own consternation, fixating first on the shiny curl hanging down her decolletage then focusing on that godforsaken lip that she liked to chew so much before bringing his narrowed eyes back up to hers.

“Yes. Our relationship ended in January. But there was an understanding that when we were each in a better position to be together, we’d give it a try again,” Granger murmured, keeping her eyes trained on his. “We’re just going to dinner. See what happens.”

See what happens. Draco knew exactly what would happen, what always happens when exes with a history of leaving things open-ended weasel their way back on a date: they fuck. They find solace in familiarity and they fucking fuck.

With that thought, he found his eyes slowly lowering from Granger’s eyes down to her blasted gods damned lip, still in her mouth; lower still to follow the line of her jaw; even lower to the delicate line of her throat where he could barely make out the slight flutter of her pulse point; lower to the soft curve of her breasts just at the top of the round neckline of her pretty pink sundress.

Gods, she looks radiant under this light.

What the fuck? Granger looks radiant?

Well, that’s a new thought.

And Ronald fucking Weasley is going to get to –

His gaze flew back up to Granger’s face when she cleared her throat. She’d been watching the tracking of his eyes, her eyebrow arched, a hint of amusement on her lips. His own cheeks flushed.

Draco let her words hang in the air without reacting, swallowing hard. He kept his face neutral, impassive. Finally, he nodded. “I suppose that decision would be for you two to make.”

His intense gaze held under the dim lighting of the Italian restaurant, the small votive candle sitting between them on the table casting the flame’s orange reflection deep within his grey irises. They were positively liquid silver. “I suppose I had assumed that any dating would come later. After the public aspect of our relationship had been established. Perhaps after the wedding. Once things had settled.” His words were soft. Controlled. Always controlled. As if they were tied together by a string to make sure they wouldn’t fall apart into a messy soup of gibberish that would be impossible to take back. Held together by something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“We never said –” she began, but he cut her off.

“It was my mistake.”

***************************************************************************

There was a knock on her front door as Hermione was about to slip her shoes on Tuesday night. She’d left it unlocked. Quickly facing the small mirror in the front hall, she fluffed her long loose curls over to the right side of her head.

“Door’s open!” she called.

Keeping her eyes on the mirror, she started applying lipstick, the bright red stain matching the tight, short, haltered dress wrapped around her body like a second skin. “I thought we said 7:00? It’s only 6:30,” she carefully enunciated, watching the red lipstick glide across her bottom lip.

There was a sharp inhale behind her. That’s not Ron.

Her eyes flew up in the mirror to look at the reflection behind her.

Malfoy. In his standard black trousers and white button down, sleeves folded to the elbows. Staring, fixated, as her fingers momentarily stopped moving in shock. She carefully blotted her lips together, then turned to face him slowly, not missing the look on his face for one second as he drank her in from head to toe.

She immediately felt a blush rise up her chest, spreading to her cheeks, completely caught off guard, standing barefoot less than fifteen feet from her fiancé.

My enemy, she corrected herself, he’s my enemy.

But is he really? Still?

Even the thought sounded weak.

“What are you doing here?” she finally asked, clearing her throat.

Malfoy was still trying to collect himself, averting his eyes, then bringing them back to a different spot on her body every few seconds. He kept opening and closing his mouth as if trying to speak, then catching sight of her and forgetting his words every time. Caught in a time loop. It would be hilarious if it didn’t make her feel dizzy with... with what?

“I –” he croaked. He briefly closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before opening them, meeting her gaze full on, being completely intentional with keeping his attention on her face. “I... forgot about your date,” he said lamely, holding up a small box, “my mother wanted me to bring you these. They’re wedding invitation samples. She wants to send them out within the week and wants your opinion on them. I’ll just leave the box here and you can look at them when you have time. Then owl her. Or you know... you can just stop by the Manor and see her... whatever works for you... whatever’s easiest.”

He was rambling. He knew he was rambling, she knew he was rambling. Finally, he stopped talking, placing the small cardboard box on the wooden entryway table.

She nodded carefully, suddenly feeling completely exposed in front of him in this dress. “I’ll... I’ll do that. I’ll get back to her tomorrow,” she said quietly.

He nodded. “I’ll let her know.”

They stood staring at one another for several seconds before Hermione finally cleared her throat. “I better finish getting ready...” her voice trailed off, the insinuation that his time was up clear in her tone.

“Right,” he said hurriedly, “sorry. Right. I’ll just –” he walked towards the front door, Hermione on his heels to close and lock it behind him. He turned quickly towards her without warning, and she ran into him as he began speaking.

“Coffee tomorr—fuck, sorry, I shouldn’t have turned so –” he stammered, his cheeks reddening.

“Godric, Malfoy, I practically ran into you –”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“It would be the first time running into you without coffee,” she quipped, a tiny smile playing on her bright red lips.

She noticed him bite the inside of his cheek, repressing a laugh. His eyes moved up, from her bare feet, tracing the round curve of her hip, before suddenly he raised them to her face.

The fury she saw in them caught her off guard, the light smile that had been playing on her lips vanishing, suddenly defensive.

“This entire date is completely fucking stupid. You know that right?” he snarled through clenched teeth.

She gaped at him. “What are you talking about?”

“What if he wants to get back together with you? What if at the end of this date, Ronald decides he wants you back? Does he get what he wants?” Draco demanded furiously, his eyes intent on her face.

“I don’t... I don’t know, Malfoy, that hasn’t happened yet so I –”

“We had a deal, Granger!” he shouted, incensed, “We had a deal that we would get married even though we hate each other! I scratch your back, you scratch mine! We signed a contract! You’re going to back out of this less than four weeks in because that red weasel has come crawling back into your life after six months away! I bet he was fucking anything and everything that moved! I saw the papers, same as you! Why are you wasting your time with this absolute prick, Granger?! You can do so much better than the mess he’s offering you!”

The scathing words came pouring out of him, leaving Hermione completely blindsided, but somehow feeling the sting of humiliation as his words soaked into her brain.

“How dare you?” she said quietly. “You don’t know the first thing –”

“Has this happened before?” Draco interjected icily, “Were you two together since the war ended? Were you together this whole time, all ten years, and only just now broke up this past January?”

Hermione glared at him, crossing her arms. “We had been together since the war,” she finally admitted coldly, her eyes narrowed at him, daring him to insult her for her next words, “but we’ve been on again, off again the entire time. This past January was just the last time.”

Draco stared at her, unseeing, the outrage on his face infused by her words. “Salazar, Granger! Are you serious?! How many times in the last ten years have the two of you broken up only to come back together again?” he whispered.

Defiantly, she responded. “Probably once a year, every year. For different reasons every time.”

Again, as if he were a broken robot, his mouth opened and closed several times, his eyes wide with shock. “Once a year? Granger – I – what the – what in the actual fuck are you doing?! You ridiculous, stupid, fucking –”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion on my personal life or my relationship with Ronald!” she shouted back, her own outrage mounting at the audacity he had to pass judgment on her, “It’s none of your business! Our contract is clear! We are not friends, we are merely business associates for the next three years! And that’s because I fucking hate you!”

“Oh, you hate me do you? I think you hate yourself! Going back to a selfish fucking prick who treats you like you’re nothing, after everything the two of you have been through! You don’t owe him anything Granger, he owes you! He and Potter both owe you everything, and here you are, giving more of yourself to this arrogant –”

“Are you calling Ronald Weasley arrogant?! Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?!”

“Stop giving him so many goddamn chances! He keeps fumbling you! He keeps losing you and instead of letting him learn his lesson, you keep going back, rewarding him for his heinous, deplorable behavior!” Draco bellowed, the flush in his cheeks spreading to his neck, traveling to the few inches of skin that were visible below the top two open buttons of his white button-down shirt.

“You don’t know anything,” Hermione scowled, “You talk about Ron fumbling me, what about you fumbling Astoria? Or does that not matter because you didn’t love her?” She scoffed as his face paled. “You don’t even know what love is. You love who Narcissa and Lucius tell you to love. You love who you’re ordered to love. You’ve never loved anyone the way Ron and I love each other.” She waved him away with both hands, in disgust, as if she were finished with him.

The moment she finished speaking, she regretted her words. As her hands motioned him away in midair, Draco grabbed her wrists, hauling her forward until her chest met his.

He gazed down at her, a violent rage brewing in his eyes, transferring his grip on her wrists to one hand before reaching up with the other to grip her chin.

“Don’t,” he seethed, “don’t you ever dismiss me like that again. Don’t you ever speak to me about Astoria. Or about love. You didn’t know me then, you didn’t know the situation then. And you certainly don’t fucking know me now. And I don’t fucking know you either except for what you volunteer to share, and you volunteered the information that Weasley is a fucking moron for chewing you up and spitting you out so many times you can’t even count them. Over ten years. And the only other thing I do know is that I couldn’t possibly hate you more than I do in this very fucking moment.”

They stood intimately close, their bodies pressed together, their noses touching. She stared back into his eyes insolently, refusing to cower, refusing to show fear, feeling the warm huff of his angry breaths against her chin as he panted in rage.

She felt her own breath turn ragged as she stared up at him.

It became obvious before it happened. The thought had barely begun to form in her brain when it happened.

Releasing her wrists, releasing her chin, and with a gasping near growl, Draco roughly wrapped his left arm around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer, until her hips crashed against his, his other hand violently reaching up behind her into her mass of elbow length dark curls, fisting them at the nape of her neck, dragging her forward until his teeth caught her bottom lip.

“This bloody dress, and these fucking infernal lips, painted them red for Weasley, constantly biting them when that brain of yours thinks, it drives me fucking mad,” he murmured intoxicatingly as she winced at the sting, yet melted at the small buzz of desire that pooled low and warm in her stomach with a quiet sharp inhale, “I hate them, and I hate when you bite them, it’s infuriating, make me want to bite them myself,” he kept mumbling, nearly incoherent with longing, “make me want to leave them swollen and bruised, so you think about me every time you run your little pink tongue over them,” he murmured under his breath, his breathing heavy and ragged. His own tongue came out and painstakingly slowly licked across her lips, setting every nerve ending in her body on fire.

The moment the tiny whimper escaped her throat, he froze. Frenzied, pulling her in even closer with a final shuddering moan, his fist in her curls yanked back until her neck bent and she was exactly where he wanted her. His lips parted, his breaths short and quick, as his eyes stared, transfixed, at her mouth.

“Just remember I hate you,” she panted, her eyes narrowing.
His eyes briefly rose to hers. “Not nearly as much as I hate you.”

His gaze flew back to her lips. He bent just a few inches lower and closed the gap, his mouth finally meeting hers in an achingly savage, bruising kiss.

Chapter Text

The inside of his closed eyelids exploded in color almost instantly the moment he brutally pushed his lips against hers.

At first, the black had simply shimmered with small white dots, miniscule stars. But those only lasted a few seconds as everything inside Draco turned molten; those small, white stars quickly gave way to a warm haze of yellows, oranges as bright as a sunset, reds as fiery and bright as this gods forsaken dress his hands were running over.

He hated this dress. She looked like a fucking goddess in it, and he hated that he thought so, hated that the very thought had crossed his mind as soon as he’d walked through her front door. More than that, he hated that Granger had actually put it on to wear for the Weasel. For the actual Weasel.

As the torrid colors kept swirling behind his eyelids, he focused on the sensations against his fingers: the despised dress, smooth and soft, clinging like snakeskin against Granger’s body; he didn’t know what he thought she’d feel like, but the blatant curve of her hip was not what he’d anticipated. Just like her hair, still fisted in his other hand at the nape of her neck. He hadn’t known what to expect, but the softness of her mass of curls, the thickness of it, the heat it caused to radiate from the skin at the back of her neck, the rigidity of it that allowed him to grip tight and pull back: they were all sensations his fingertips hadn’t expected, and every one of them was dizzyingly overwhelming.

And if Draco Malfoy hated anything, it was being caught off-guard. Ill-prepared. And feeling Granger like this nearly knocked the breath out of his lungs because he realized then, as his lips continued to move furiously against hers, that all this time, since they had reconnected months ago, he had actually been thinking of who she had been ten, fifteen years ago, when she had been just a girl, all lines and planes, with bushy hair and buck teeth who he’d barely glanced at unless it was to cast a sneer or to try and intimidate.

But the person beneath his fingertips was a woman, all soft with gloriously curved edges. And the gods damned dress made sure his brain, his eyes, and his fingers would never forget it.

I’ll never forget it again. He tightened his grip on both the rounded swerve of her hip and yanked harder on her hair, forcing her head back even further. She let out a small hiss against his mouth; he licked at her lips hungrily in response.

Good. Make you remember I still hate you. You and this bloody dress.

Except that as the thought crossed his mind, his body, on autopilot, proceeded to do what it wanted to do. As soon as he’d licked across her smudged, swollen, bright red lips, his own moved south of their own accord down to the expanse of her exposed throat. He dragged his teeth down her skin, from top to bottom, from right to left across her neck, leaving no space uncovered with thin red marks, his tongue darting out every so often to taste the vague saltiness of her. He felt Granger shiver beneath his fingers, felt her exhale slowly with a small high-pitched moan in the back of her throat, and it took all of his self-control to not sink his teeth into her neck like a fucking vampire to suck her life’s blood into his mouth, just to prove he could. He pressed his nose into her skin right below her ear and inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of her into his very lungs: Vanilla. Books. Rain. So fucking good. He inhaled again before wrenching away, letting his tongue drag across the delicate line of her jaw from the bottom of her left earlobe all the way across to the bottom of her right. Once there, he licked along the shell of her ear achingly slowly until she let out the exact same tiny little high-pitched moan for a second time, making his trousers become uncomfortably tighter.

Another thing he hated. It turned him rabid, that sound of hers, and he hated it. He hated how he could feel himself lose control, how he could feel himself weaken with vulnerability all because of that one tiny sound. And before he could process what he was doing, he’d reached low, splaying his big, pale, long-fingered hands across her arse cheeks, lifting her up against himself. When her legs wound around his waist, his brain seemed to short-circuit, unable to compute that not only was she not fighting this, not only was she letting him do this, but she seemed to actually want to do this too. The very thought made the blood in his veins run hotter, faster, his magic vibrating through his very skin.

Without a second thought, Draco swung around with her backside in his hands, her torso pressed against his through the flimsy gods forsaken hated dress, her arms around his neck, her gaze on his, the warm honey and amber flames in her dark eyes practically setting him on fire from the inside out, and slammed her up against the back of the door. She gasped. He sneered at her and for good measure, slammed her up against the door a second time just to prove he could, just because she was letting him.

Draco buried his face against her neck again, finding her pulse point, paying it special attention: first nuzzling his nose against it, then slowly licking it, feeling the faint flutter beat across his tongue, before he dragged his teeth across it, nipping lightly right over the center. His mind still hazy with the various shades of fire, Granger suddenly clawed the back of his neck with her nails in a severe, smooth, abruptly merciless drag.

His head immediately bent back with a furious wince, a loud hissing sound emitting from between his clenched teeth. He opened his eyes and looked down at her, his lips curled, a near growl ripping from his throat in fury before she met his gaze with her own of equal outrage, her skin flushed, panting, her chest heaving.

“Are you going to do this or what, Malfoy?” she challenged insolently, not dropping her gaze of contempt, her tone insistent, unwavering, yet breathy. “I bet you can’t.”

“You bet I can’t?”

Granger let a low laugh fall from her lips, her hands traveling down boldly to his belt buckle, her gaze holding steady on his. He narrowed his eyes at her, his hands reaching down and forward, pushing the hem of her red dress up her thighs to her hips before he squeezed them, the flesh making his mouth water.

She’s not wearing knickers.

His mind reeled as the realization dawned on him:

The thought both turned him on even more than he thought he could physically be and pissed him off more than he thought Granger ever had the capability to do: because it meant she had planned it, was purposely going to go on her date with the Weasel with nothing on underneath, because she clearly was anticipating fucking him.

And she hadn’t anticipated seeing Draco.

She hadn’t anticipated this, hadn't been planning this part.

This hadn’t been meant for him.

Gods, I hate you.

“Gods, I fucking loathe you,” he spat at her bitterly, “look at you, wearing no under garments beneath this little nothing red dress, what a gift for Weasley.”

But as he spoke, Granger’s hands worked quickly, yanking and tossing his black belt out of his trousers, her hands expertly unbuttoning and unzipping at the front of them. Draco’s breath caught in his throat, watching her every move, his hands frozen in mid-squeeze at her thighs.

Is she actually going to –

And then she did: she reached down into the waistband of his trousers and his boxer briefs, her hand fearlessly gripping his hard cock in her hand, pulling it free to stroke it several times with a ragged breath, her eyes watching her own movements along his long, hard shaft, the head smooth, pink, and leaking, aching with want. She slowly licked her lips, his attention captivated by the tip of her tongue as it left a wet trail across her lips, swollen from his savage kisses. Her thumb brushed delicately over the tip, lightly spreading the precum across his overheated skin, a shiver running down his spine as his hips uncontrollably fucked forward into her moving hand with a deep, low, drawn-out groan, greedily wanting more.

Draco’s head had immediately sunk forward until his forehead touched hers, his breathing ragged, his eyes closed. “Fuck.... fucking Salazar’s balls, Granger....”

“I fucking loathe you, too, you fucking serpent,” she gritted between her teeth.

His eyes opened at her words, half-lidded, watching her face, feeling her hand still wrapped around him, still stroking achingly slowly.

He licked his lips, feeling the remnants of his self-control begin to give way.

“Yes?” he finally managed to ask, squeezing out the question through his clenched jaw.

Granger said nothing, her own eyes observing his expression, clearly getting more turned on by the second watching his arousal mount, watching him be forced to cede power. Cede power to her, to his old, hated enemy. It made her inexplicably wetter.

“I may despise you, but I still need to hear the word ‘yes’ from these red lips, Granger,” he grunted, pushing her body harder with his own up against the door to bring his hand up from her arse, harshly pressing and running his thumb across her plump bottom lip. His forehead still leaning against hers, he brought his own mouth closer, again taking her lip between his teeth, biting down hard. Simultaneously, he moved his hand down from her face, not dropping her gaze, running his fingers up her thigh, following the warm heat of her center until his fingers struck gold and found the deliciously wet mess between her legs. With a groan he didn’t bother trying to stifle, he quickly pushed two fingers into her. He kept them torturously still, frustration soaring for them both, but it brought him deep satisfaction as she tried to wiggle around him, failing to provide herself any friction as he purposefully kept her nearly immobile with his own weight.

Granger’s head had sank back against the door, her lips parted in a deep sigh. “Move,” she ordered.

“I don’t do a thing until I hear the word ‘yes,’ witch.”

“Gods, yes.”

With a second groan, Draco painstakingly slowly moved his fingers in and out of her, getting a feel for her as little sighs escaped her mouth.

Gods, so tight and wet...and this fucking witch was going to let Weasley...

At the very thought, a furious snarl ripped out of him, and he picked up the pace, expertly curling his fingers deep against her front wall. Her sighs turned into whines, her grip loosening around his hard, weeping cock as she lost her ability to concentrate.

“That’s enough,” he barked, removing his fingers with no warning. Her eyes flew open, indignant, her face contorting into an angry sneer. He smirked before he brought up his two fingers, making sure she watched as he carefully licked and sucked them clean.

“You taste like sin, Granger. You taste like everything I want, and nothing I should have. And I hate it,” he murmured fiercely.

Before she could respond, Draco took a hold of his cock at the base, gave it a few hard strokes, and without warning, sheathed himself deep inside of her until he was buried to the hilt. They both simultaneously released a cry of relief.

Gripping her thighs mercilessly hard, Draco bypassed any and all facades of pretending this would be tender love-making: he pounded into her no holds barred. He was ruthless, letting her slickness coat him, using it to slide in and out of her easily, making sure his pubic bone hit hard against her own with every drive into her.

“I want you to feel me in the morning,” he seethed at her.

“I might feel you in the morning, but you’ll be dreaming of this tonight,” she flung back, pulling him in closer by the neck, her lips at his ear, “all alone in your bed at home, dreaming about me and how my cunt felt around you. Knowing how much I loathe you.”

At her words, his thrusts became brutal. With every smack of his body into hers, her back flew up the door several inches. He was unrelenting with his near violent slams into her, and Granger, for her part, seemed to be relishing in it. Draco watched, wide-eyed, as her fingers came down between them, squeezing her clit between her pointer and middle finger, stroking up and down slowly, then faster.

It was the hottest thing he had ever seen.

“Fuck, Granger,” he groaned. Within a minute, her fingers started circling, pressing into her spot faster, harder, her breathing picking up, her chest heaving deeper. Draco felt her entire body tense and knew she was about to shatter.

Taking his cue, he picked up the pace, matching the movement of his hips to the rhythm of her fingers. He kept his eyes glued to her face, wanting to watch her as she fell over the edge. Her cheeks flushed, a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead, her long curls hanging down her back against the door, her head tilting farther back, her lips opening in preparation to cry out.

“Come for me,” he heard himself plead, an ache of yearning in his gasping voice, “Gods, come for me, witch. I want to see you fall apart in my hands.”

Never once looking away from her, his eyes drank her in as a shiver ran through her body and she let go. He felt the heat that enveloped him pulse and squeeze rhythmically around his cock deliciously for several seconds, felt the sudden added slickness, felt her ankles lock around his waist, her fingers run through his hair, yanking back as she breathed out a subtle cry, the muscles in her face loosening with a deep sigh of sated relief.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his forehead leaning against hers, throwing caution to the wind once she became boneless in his arms, chasing his own release desperately, wanting nothing more than to empty himself into her body, wrapped and adorned in this red fucking dress meant for another man but that Draco had gotten to first. Keeping his eyes on her face, trailing them down to every inch of naked skin he could see, his thrusts stuttered as he lost control and gave in, his hips pushing deeper of their own accord erratically, losing their rhythm. With a deep, guttural groan, and a few final short, quick pistoning pushes, he came violently, spilling himself deep inside of her.

His body continued to drive in and out of her, achingly slowly, as he relished the feel of their mutual release: Sloppy. Noisy. Wet. Warm. Every push caused a tiny little aftershock of pleasurable heat in his belly. From the look on her face, still back against the door with her eyes closed, her lips parted in a tiny o shape, Granger seemed to enjoy it just as much.

After a minute, her eyes finally opened, meeting his. They stared at each for several seconds in silence, Draco still buried within her as deeply as he could be for as long as he could be before he started softening.

“I still hate you,” she murmured.

He nodded. “I still hate you more.”

He paused.

“Are you still going out with Weasley tonight?” he quietly demanded, doing a poor job of hiding both his grimace and his resentment.

“Well, our contract says –”

“I’m not talking about the contract,” he snapped, glowering at her, pushing his body tightly against hers, “I’m talking about the fact that I just fucked you against your door, that I ripped your dress up around your knicker-less body and had my way with you. I’m talking about the fact that my come is currently leaking out of you. I’m talking about the fact that I can see bruises in the shape of my fingerprints on your thighs. It might be slightly inappropriate to go on a date with another man in this particular situation, don’t you think?”

Granger stared at him impassively. Finally, she nodded her agreement.

Satisfied with her answer, Draco set her down on the feet, discreetly casting a scourgify on them both, then an efficient contraception charm as Granger carefully pulled her dress back into place.

They stared at one another for several seconds. Draco swallowed hard, not dropping her gaze before he spoke in a soft whisper, the words floating between them uncertainly.

“I think we should add an amendment to our contract.”

She eyed him questioningly, her eyebrows furrowing before she nodded. “How about you put the kettle on while I floo-call Ronald before he comes over here?” She pointed down a corridor to the right. “The kitchen’s that way.”

Draco nodded, briefly watching Granger walk away towards the fireplace in the living room before turning on his heel and heading where she’d pointed.

A few minutes later, Granger entered the kitchen and found Draco sitting at the kitchen table, the kettle heating up for their tea. Tentatively, she sat across from him.

“So,” she began quietly, feeling irrationally defensive, likely because the man she’d just let fuck her practically into the drywall wanted to change something in the contract they’d just signed nearly a month ago. There were so many red flags in the thought alone that it made her anxious. She nervously waited for him to proceed.

He nodded, immediately taking the lead. “Right. I’d like to propose an amendment.” He paused. “I’d like to propose we add a loyalty amendment.”

Granger’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “You mean a fidelity clause.”

“Potato, puh-tah-toe.”

“Are you mad?” she asked quietly. “We agreed that we would be allowed to date with certain rules in place. There is no requirement of love and no requirement of loyalty or fidelity mentioned anywhere in our contract, Draco.”

His face turned red with anger. “There should be one in there. Not about love,” he added, rolling his eyes dismissively with a wave of his hand as Granger grimaced, “but about loyalty.”

“Why?” she demanded, crossing her arms.

He waited a beat, keeping a steady hold of her face with his gaze alone.

“Because I just fucked you. Irreverently. Unrelentingly,” he whispered. His tone, the heat in his gaze caused a sharp inhale within her. “And that has to count for something. I want to do it again. Even if I hate you, even if you hate me. This shouldn’t be a one-time thing.”

“But what does that have to do –”

“A loyalty clause makes reasonable, logical sense. If we are agreeing that we might explore a sexual relationship, we have to eliminate risks to ourselves and to each other,” Draco explained unflinchingly, “and that includes diseases. It includes making sure if an unplanned pregnancy happens, there’s no question of paternity. It eliminates the potential gossip from the media if they were to catch wind of a potential private relationship outside of our marriage no matter how hard we may try to keep it secret. Plus,” he scoffed, “it’s just sex. We can be adults about this without the fear of getting too close and falling in love. Because, as we’ve already stated oh so many times, I can’t stand you and you detest the very air I breathe.”

She hated every stupid word that came out of his mouth. Because he was right. Logically he was right. After what she’d just experienced up against the back of her front door, she was in silent agreement: they should do that again. And it was okay that she could admit it, that he could admit it. They were both willing adults.

She licked her lips, eyes trained on his before she slowly nodded. “Alright. But the amendment doesn’t last the 3-year length of the contract. It only lasts, let’s say, three months. That way if we decide to not continue doing this past a certain point, the amendment expires and we’re free to date other people at that point. If we want to continue extending it in three month increments, we can. Do you agree to that?”

For a split second, she thought she saw triumph in the haze of his grey eyes, but just as quickly as she’d seen it, it vanished. He nodded once, firmly, heeding her words.

She couldn’t figure out why it made her uneasy, as if she was about to walk into quicksand and never be able to pull herself out again.

Ginny’s words from a few months ago came back to her then, the words she had said about Draco and Astoria’s failed engagement from years ago.

“Does marriage contract say love match to you?”

No. It didn’t. It most certainly didn’t. Love wouldn't bloom from a business marriage born on paper.

And Hermione would make sure it stayed that way.

After all, if he was willing, and she was willing, and they were consenting participants who acknowledged they could keep it casual with no love or real, everlasting commitment, what could possibly go wrong?

Chapter Text

As Hermione slipped into her black, low-kitten heels near her front door, she was keenly aware of Draco’s eyes raking over her body in her figure-hugging “muggle jeans” as he called them and fitted navy blouse. Ever since their tryst against the back of her front door a week ago, things hadn’t been awkward, necessarily, but tense.

Tense because neither one of them had initiated it again. Hadn’t brought it up again, too nervous to touch the subject in case the other regretted it, and neither one could handle knowing such a thing. They even ignored the topic the immediate evening after, when Hermione had been invited to Draco’s belated 29^th birthday dinner at the Manor with his parents. They’d acted like the loving engaged couple that they absolutely were not, and put on an act for both Lucius, who kept casting them expressions of disgruntled acceptance, and Narcissa, who was clearly holding back gleeful squeals.

Two days later, they’d signed Draco’s requested fidelity clause and then continued to dance around the topic, pretending it didn’t exist at their two required weekly dates... and the three voluntary dates they had casually gone on spontaneously after work. “For wedding planning,” Draco had insisted, to which Hermione had firmly nodded. “Yes, we need to buckle down and plan it.”

Except nothing had been planned in relation to the wedding during any of the dates at all. In fact, the word “wedding” hadn’t even crossed their lips. And really, they both knew Narcissa had the entire thing covered. After all, Hermione reminded herself, this wasn’t her real wedding; this wasn’t her forever marriage. What do I care if someone else plans a party I don’t care about?

Instead, they had occupied their time together ranting about various aspects of work; Harry; and their plans for the weekend, using each other as a sounding board while the other listened and nodded, sipping wine (Black Dragon, of course) and commiserating, validating one another’s frustrations. Draco had griped about the Ministry still ignoring his attempts at opening lines of communication even though they’d announced their betrothal a month ago. Hermione had sighed about the donations for HOPE promised during their engagement announcement trickling in too slowly to make much of a dent, likely because the organizations were waiting to make a charitable donation as part of a wedding gift towards the grand event for which they were all expecting invitations.

 Even Draco’s own financial coverage for three years’ worth of expenses didn’t begin until after they were legally married, as per their contract. Hermione didn’t bring it up, but she couldn’t help feeling resentfully bitter that Draco was already benefitting from being seen out in public with her even though their wedding wasn’t for another two and a half months; she was seeing no benefit until the wedding band was on her finger. Secretly, she hoped the Ministry wouldn’t entertain doing business with him until after that point just to keep things more balanced and level between them, though she’d never say it to his face. It just didn’t seem fair any other way. Draco’s benefit was conceptual, all about perception; it was about changing his persona, which he was well on his way towards rectifying. But Hermione’s incentive was physical and tangible in the form of money, and the money wouldn’t clear until her end of the bargain was met.

Then they’d ranted about Harry. Hermione had lamented that she and Harry hadn’t spoken in three weeks since his screaming match with Draco. She’d seen Ginny plenty of times, had gone to lunch with her, but neither one of them had brought up Harry. Hermione knew it was because Ginny didn’t want to step on any toes in either direction, and Hermione couldn’t blame her. Draco, for his part, couldn’t care less that he hadn’t seen or spoken to Potter: there had never been love lost between them, and as far as Draco was concerned, the animosity would always be there, hiding just below the surface even if they put on fake masks of politeness to keep Hermione placated in the future.

And finally, they’d discussed their weekend plans because they’d be seeing both Harry and Ginny, which made Draco dread those plans even more than he already was.

And those plans were now today’s plans, to Draco’s chagrin.

As nervous as Draco was about it, it was something he wanted to do, knew it was the right thing to do, no matter how much Lucius had sneered over it, no matter how neutral Narcissa had tried to keep her face when he’d brought it up at the Manor dinner table two nights ago. Draco could read his mother like an open book, and he immediately recognized her occlumency walls slamming up to protect herself as soon as he’d cautiously mentioned Andromeda’s name. The action alone meant she didn’t know how to feel about it or maybe felt about it in a way that made her ashamed. But that was Narcissa’s issue, not his own.

As Draco reached for Granger’s hand to step into the floo together, he noticed the tiny grey scops owl soaring towards her kitchen window and pointed at it.

“You’ve got a visitor,” he noted.

Granger squinted until it dawned on her. “It’s Pigwidgeon,” she sighed, heading into the kitchen to open the window.

Draco’s eyes widened. “Pigwidgeon? Surely you don’t mean Weaselbee has had the same bloody owl all these years later?”

Granger nodded faintly. “Pig’s thirteen or fourteen years old and still as mischievous as ever.” The minute owl glided right onto her counter, shaking like a leaf, holding out his leg with a note clutched in his tiny talon. She lovingly rubbed her pointer down his head.

“Aw, Piggy,” she murmured affectionately, opening the jar of treats she kept by the window for any flying mail carriers, reaching in to hand him a tiny, small piece of biscuit. She tore into the note from Ron, read it quickly, then placed it in her sink where she cast an Incendio, watching it turn to ash in seconds.

Draco watched her incredulously before clearing his throat. “I take it things aren’t going well between you and the Weasel.” Try as he might, he couldn’t keep the pleased tone out of his voice.

Granger shot him a withering look. “Like you care.”

“Believe it or not, I do.”

She sighed, watching as Pig flew back out the window. “He was angry after I canceled our date last week with no explanation. And I’ve left every message he’s sent since unanswered. I just...” she looked at the floor with another sigh before raising her eyes to his. “I’m trying to avoid a confrontation. It’s coming, I can feel it.”

“Don’t let that prick walk all over you or make you feel guilty,” Draco said roughly, placing a firm hand tentatively beneath her chin, causing a little charge of electricity to run up both of their spines at the unexpected contact, “he wasn’t giving you anything that served you. Our arrangement will work out much more in your favor than letting that oaf walk all over you for another year only to end it for yet another benign reason.”

“Enough,” Granger declared in a low voice, subtly raising her hand to his, nonchalantly removing it from her face, casually intertwining her fingers with his with a tiny shiver, looking away from the grey pools that were slowly unraveling her with their earnestness, “let’s go. They’re waiting for us.”

Draco turned his head to hide the tiny smile that graced his flushed face as his fingers gripped hers, walking them towards the fireplace in Granger’s living room. They stepped in together as he reached for a handful of floo powder, flinging it down resolutely. “Tonks residence,” he called out, a slight tremor of nerves in his voice as they disappeared in a flash of green.

A few moments later, Draco found himself maneuvering out of a brick fireplace in a home he’d never imagined stepping foot in. He guardedly glanced around the small living room, comfortably decorated with a striped blue and white sofa and loveseat set and two armchairs, an oval mahogany coffee table centered between them. The room had a large window facing a countryside lane, the sun streaming in providing an air of warmth and welcome. He glanced behind himself and blanched at the fireplace: the mantle was covered in framed magical photos of Nymphadora and Remus, and their son, Teddy, at various ages. Draco’s stomach dropped at the sight: lives of which he could have (should have?) been a part but never got the chance to be.

Another decision made on my behalf. Another choice taken from me.

And then the boy walked in, a wide smile on his face as he wrapped his arms around Granger in a bear hug.

“Teddy!” she exclaimed, “it’s been such a long time! I swear you’ve doubled in height over the last few months!”

Draco couldn’t help but stare at his ten-year-old cousin as he spoke animatedly for several seconds with Granger: all he could see was his own face around the same age, but instead of the platinum hair that had adorned the top of his own head, Teddy had a mop of brown curls like his parents. Where Draco’s eyes were the fabled Malfoy grey, Teddy’s were crystal blue. But that was where the differences ended to Draco’s shock.

“Teddy,” Granger said quietly with a smile, “I’d like you to meet your cousin, Dr—”

“Draco,” Teddy finished instantly, a wide grin on his face, holding out his hand, “I’m glad I finally get to meet you. I’m going to Hogwarts in a couple of months. Hoping to eventually make my house Quidditch team! Maybe I inherited the same Seeker genes you did.”

I like this kid.

The moment Draco’s hand made contact with Teddy’s, his eyes widened, watching as Teddy’s hair changed from longish, unkempt brown waves to a short sleek platinum cut like his own, his sky-blue eyes melting into a stormy grey. The instant the changes were made, Draco was so caught off guard, his jaw slack, that he barely heard Granger’s gasp next to him.

“It’s like looking at you 18 years ago!” she exclaimed, “it’s uncanny!”

Teddy grinned. “I’ve left you so speechless, you’ve forgotten your perfect pureblood manners, Cousin.”

In spite of himself, Draco smirked. “It’s nice to meet you, you cheeky little prat. I wonder where you got that quality from," he replied with a wink, "I certainly was never a prat after all." He ignored Granger's obvious throat clearing. "I hadn’t realized you were a Metamorphmagus.”

Teddy nodded. “I got that from my Mum.”

Draco’s eyes flew to one of the framed photos of Tonks on the mantle, her hair a vivid purple as she laughed, throwing her head back, before the loop restarted.

Right. I knew that.

His heart nearly stopped when Bellatrix walked into the room.

Instinctually, Draco took in a deep breath, stepping back, away from her, his heart in his throat, as it quickly dawned on him that something was off – her eyes. Slowly, a bubble of relief sank into his very being as the realization meandered through him, even as he felt Granger’s hand gently grab his elbow.

“Are you alright?” she murmured worriedly, her eyes flying between Draco’s pallid face and his aunt’s, who was regarding him just as wide-eyed.

He composed himself before nodding. “Aunt,” he finally squeezed out, “I apologize for my reaction. I –” he hesitated, before swallowing hard, waiting for his heart to stop beating so hard.  

Andromeda carefully offered a small, friendly smile. “You see Bella,” she noted understandably, “a lot of people do.”

The similarities were uncanny. Everything from her long, nearly black curls, now streaked white with the passing of time, to her heart shaped face; from the small, delicate structure of her facial features, down to her petite frame – there was no question that she and Bellatrix had been sisters. But the second Andromeda’s mouth opened and she spoke, Draco sensed the softer edges of her personality, a gentleness that Bellatrix had lacked. There was no mania hidden in her smile. There was no diabolical intention or ulterior motive behind the light in her eyes. In fact, though she favored Bellatrix’s coloring, Draco felt a comforting warmth spread down his body when he recognized bits of his own mother in her expression and mannerisms.

“I’d offer you a hug,” she said quietly, “but I don’t want to spook you. I understand the need for baby steps.”

Instantly, Draco shook his head. “No baby steps needed.”

Her smile widening, Andromeda stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his torso. Definitely more like Mother. He enveloped her in the exact same manner he’d hug his mother, his breath catching in his throat at the natural way his body folded around hers, the way it reflexively knew she was safe, knew he was safe to embrace her with the same sincerity he embraced Narcissa without thinking about it.

He couldn’t stop his own smile from taking over his face. Andromeda pulled back slightly, moving her palms to his cheeks, gazing up at him.

“You are exactly like I pictured you’d be,” she remarked tearfully with a small laugh, “your father’s coloring, of course, and his brusqueness right here,” she lightly ran a finger down between his eyebrows, “from sneering so much, I presume. Oh, but Cissa,” she continued softly, “she’s in your eyes. Grey, as I envisioned, but she’s there. She’s all over your face.”

Inexplicably, Draco felt a lump forming in his throat as he nodded stiffly. “She’s in your face too,” he choked out, thrown off by his own body’s reaction to meeting a woman he’d never known and yet felt like he’d always known. Should have always known.

As the sound of the floo activated behind them, Draco glanced beside him at Granger. She was watching him with his Aunt, not hiding her own tearful reaction.

“You don’t know how long she’s been wanting to meet you,” she whispered with a small smile, “and it just makes me happy for her. For you. For the three of you.”

Draco’s warm mood was suddenly dampened as he heard the voices behind him.

“Mione.”

He and Granger both turned to see Harry standing next to Ginny who was holding James, greeting Andromeda and Teddy.

Right. I’d momentarily forgotten the Prick Who Lived Twice would be here.

Draco grimaced briefly, ignoring Harry entirely, turning to Ginny. “Ginevra.”

“Boss,” she responded with a smile, “glad to see you two could make it for tea.”

A half hour later, Draco found himself sitting around his Aunt Andromeda’s dining room table, covered in a white lace tablecloth, beautifully set with cornflower blue porcelain teacups and saucers with a delicate floral pattern. A matching teapot sat in the middle of the table. Biscuits, scones, and tea sandwiches were beautifully laid out on silver tiered trays. He listened to the conversation going on around him as Potter, Ginevra, and Granger all discussed their work, choosing not to participate much, trying to stay out of any forced conversation with his adversary who sat directly across the table from him, eyeing him suspiciously every few minutes.

Draco realized he was zoned out, mindlessly drinking his tea, when a familiar name caught his attention.

“ – not sure what Ron was thinking,” Potter was saying quietly. Draco looked to his right towards Granger and realized her face was constricted with irritation. Immediately, he felt his hackles rise in her defense, turning his attention back to Potter with narrowed eyes.

Since when do I even care so much about this shit?

“I can tell you that Mione deserves better than anything my idiot brother has to offer her,” Ginny responded haughtily to her husband with a roll of her eyes.

Draco found himself nodding in her direction approvingly. “Always knew I hired you for a reason, Weasl – Pott – Ginevra,” he doubly corrected himself, casting a smirk at Potter.

“Big surprise. Malfoy doesn’t like Ron coming around Hermione,” Potter muttered, reaching for a tea sandwich.

“Of course not. Would you like one of your wife’s toxic exes to come hound her, looking for attention? Sniffing around her?” Draco snapped. And when he does, she doesn’t even wear knickers because of what she’s anticipating?

He was vaguely aware of Granger’s hand lightly touching his thigh beneath the table in warning.

“Ron’s hardly toxic,” Potter snapped back, “he and Mione have a history that you –”

“A history of emotional and mental abuse. A history of cheating. A history of breaking up so he could fuck around with a clear conscience. A history of having a fear of commitment,” Draco rattled off in a bored tone, “take your pick, Potter. Which history best fits your narrative?”

“The fact is, regardless of what happened in their past, Ron – and frankly, all of us – expected him and Mione to end up together, and that was part of the reason that this entire thing between the two of you was so –” Potter began but was cut off by his wife.

“You’ve told me yourself you don’t approve of my brother’s treatment of Hermione,” Ginny said quietly, “you’re only doing this to have an excuse to argue with Malfoy. You don’t believe a word that you’re saying right now. Cut it out.”

“Frankly, you’re both humiliating yourselves,” Granger spoke up loudly, “we’re all guests in Andromeda’s home. We’re here to have tea and spend time with her and with Teddy and this is just an embarr—”

“Why don’t we change the subject,” Andromeda said gracefully, “no need to bring up controversial topics. Draco, Hermione, how is the wedding planning going? Is everything coming together?”

Draco nodded politely. “Yes, Aunt. Though, my mother has really taken the reins. Event planning is her specialty.”

Andromeda nodded with a wistful smile. “Yes, I do remember Cissa always being quite the party planner. I’m sure it’ll be a beautiful soiree with her at the helm.”

“I hope you’ll be in attendance,” Draco cautiously remarked, keeping his eyes trained on his Aunt, “both you and Teddy. I know it might be contentious at first, being at the Manor, seeing my father, but I think it might be a good first step in the right direction between you and my mother.”

Andromeda carefully cut into her scone in silence, deep in thought. After several seconds, she finally spoke. “I think Teddy and I would love to come,” she began pensively, “but I think I’d have to speak to Cissa on my own first. Your lovely wedding cannot be the first time she and I see each other and discuss all that’s happened. Gods forbid your father implodes with anger and we cause a scene in his own home during your ceremony. The guilt would eat me alive. No, we’d have to settle our differences beforehand.”

Draco nodded. “Of course, Aunt. As you wish. Whatever would make you the most comfortable.”

Across the table, Potter scoffed. Ginny notably whacked him in the stomach with the back of her hand.

Draco whipped his head in his direction, eyes narrowed. “Something to say, Potter?”

“Like Lucius Malfoy would be willing to let the past stay in the past,” he viciously took a bite of a tea sandwich, choosing to ignore his wife’s threatening glare, “the way he practically bit my head off during your ‘engagement announcement,’” he finished, physically air quoting at the phrase, insinuating sarcasm.

Granger opened her mouth to retaliate but Draco got there first.

“You deserved it,” he bit back icily, “considering the temper tantrum you threw.”

“Pardon me for showing concern for my childhood friend,” Potter argued harshly, “who was demonstrating poor choices in the moment.”

“Poor choices?” Draco emphasized, “Are you calling me a poor choice?”

“If the shoe fits, obviously.”

“That’s quite enough!” Andromeda exclaimed, aghast. “I am shocked at both of you. Harry, in all the years I’ve known you, I have never seen you speak with such disrespect and lack of decorum. And Draco, I may only just be getting to know you and making up for our lack of time together, but I do know how you were raised because I was raised the same way, and I am certain if your mother saw you displaying yourself this way, she’d be horrified.” She took a deep breath as both Draco and Potter’s eyes dropped to the table in shame. “Now, I have known that there has always been some hostility between the two of you, but aren’t you both a little old to be dwelling on things that happened when you were children?”

“Hardly,” Potter snipped, an immediate guilty look coming over his face, “I apologize, Andromeda. The... hostility you’re witnessing between Draco and me may be based on childhood grievances, but Draco is also upset with me for not telling him about the death of someone who meant a lot to him years ago. I’m upset with both him and Mione for not telling me that they’ve apparently been dating for months in secret. And frankly, I’m also upset with him because during our last... discussion... he spoke poorly about someone I admire.”

“First of all, I don’t respect you enough to grant you permission to make me upset,” Draco spit scathingly, “so don’t give yourself so much credit, or flatter yourself. You might be a savior to everyone else in the wizarding world, but you’re nothing to me. Second of all, if by someone you admire, you’re referring to Shacklebolt, then that’s the most pathetically asinine yet predictable thing you could have –”

“Don’t speak that way about Kingsley Shacklebolt! He’s Minister for – “

“Boot licker,” Draco murmured casually, sipping his tea lightly with as much perfected physical etiquette and gentility as his pureblood manners allowed, with a pinky in the air to emphasize his class over Potter.

“Draco,” Granger intoned warningly. Draco shrugged in her direction.

“Kingsley is –” Potter began, incensed.

“ – not who he presents himself to be,” Draco finished calmly, “as I’ve explained to you. The man has always prided himself in giving second chances, in offering leniency, but he has never once shown me the courtesy that he brags about.”

“Like I explained to you, Malfoy,” Potter harshly replied through gritted teeth, “I’m sure there’s been a misunderstanding. There is no way Kingsley would purposely set out to blacklist your name from doing business with the Ministry, nor would he try to tarnish your name any more than you, yourself, have already done. I simply don’t believe it. I refuse.”

“I don’t care if you don’t believe it,” Draco spat, “You not believing something doesn’t make it false. You not believing something doesn’t make it a lie.”

“I declare a truce between the two of you,” Andromeda loudly concluded, “And I hereby put an end to this conversation.”

Draco hesitated briefly before nodding in Andromeda’s direction. “As you wish, Aunt.”

“I do, however, owe Draco an apology,” Potter admitted quietly, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Draco arched an eyebrow in his direction.

What the fuck?

“About Dobby,” Potter explained, meeting Draco’s gaze, “I’m ashamed that it never occurred to me to tell you. That I never put two and two together and realized you would have grown up with him and that therefore you would have wanted to know about his death. For that, I apologize, Malfoy.”

Completely blindsided, Draco stared at Potter for several long beats before he dropped his eyes to his teacup, nodding once in acknowledgment of his words.

A long silence fell over the table as everyone continued to drink their tea and take small bites of food contemplatively, an air of stiff unease hanging heavily, the only noise the sounds of Teddy playing with James in the backyard.

The rest of the afternoon went on without issue. Draco definitively made it an exaggerated point to ignore Potter as much as possible. It simply went without saying that they’d be tolerating each other moving forward and nothing more, and even that was mostly for Granger’s and Ginevra’s sakes. Draco had accepted long time ago that he and Potter would never see eye to eye. He was over it. He simply didn’t care.

Before Draco and Hermione stepped back through the fireplace into the floo network, Potter embraced her tightly.

“I still don’t quite believe what’s going on,” Draco heard him murmur in her ear, “but if you’re telling me this is something that I have to accept, then as your friend, I will,” he continued, “I trust you and when you do things, you have a good reason. And your reasons are allowed to be private.” He pulled back, keeping his hands on Granger’s shoulders. “I love you, Mione. I’m on your side.”

“And Ron?” Granger challenged quietly, “Are you on his side when it comes to the train wreck that our relationship has always been?”

Potter’s emerald eyes searched her own uncomfortably. “I won’t take sides. Your relationship and what it has morphed into is none of my business.”

Granger’s face dropped before her head shook in disappointment. “I see. You have no problem calling me out when you think I’ve done or chosen wrong. But if Ron does the same, you don’t choose sides. I’m curious if Ronald will ever do anything heinous enough for you to denounce his behavior. Clearly hurting me isn’t offensive enough to you. If I married Ronald and he cheated on me, would you still refuse to take sides?”

Internally, Draco grinned like a Cheshire cat. Good for you, Granger.

Potter’s eyes dropped guiltily to the floor before he met his wife’s gaze, who had spent most of the afternoon glaring at him with pursed lips, her eyes in slits. Clearly, she’d chosen a side. And clearly, she was going to rip into him when they got home.

With a sigh, Granger reached for Draco’s hand, stepping into the fireplace. “Let’s just go,” she whispered, “I can’t wait for an answer I know will just end up hurting me.”

Seconds later, when they’d landed back in Granger’s living room, Draco’s eyes fixed immediately on her downcast expression.

Something clenched in his chest, but he brushed it aside quickly, pushing it down until he couldn’t feel it anymore. Because it’s nothing. Gazing at Granger’s frowning lips, he did the only thing he knew how to do to get her mind off of what had happened.

“I don’t know why you’re still friends with that prick.”

Granger’s eyes narrowed as she raised them to his. “What?”

Draco shrugged. “For being the Brightest Witch of Her Age, you keep letting Potter make you feel badly about yourself. Same as the Weasel. You let them have too much.”

He could see her bristling. A thrill ran up his spine.

“I let them have too much?”

“Too much of yourself. Going back to Weaselbee an unprecedented number of times over ten years. Letting Potter’s opinion of you matter more than it should. Why does it matter that he doesn’t understand our engagement? Why do you care if he tends to side with Weaselbee? He’s just showing his true colors. Just seems like you should know better. Cut them both loose,” Draco replied nonchalantly, feeling the waves of anger radiating from her as he took a seat on her burgundy sofa.

Granger stood in front of him, her legs slightly spread in a defensive stance, her right hip jutting out, her hands on her hips, her hair practically crackling with the magic that vibrated from her very pores as she seethed. “How dare you judge me?! How dare you judge them?! You don’t even know them!”

Draco leaned back against the backrest of the sofa, his black trousered legs spread wide before him on the floor, gazing down at his perfectly manicured fingernails before carefully dusting off his light grey button-down shirt. He calmly gazed up at her, her lovely face pink with fury, her chest heaving in anger. “I don’t need to know them,” he responded, his tone calculated, “I don’t want to know them. I know enough about them through you. I don’t like how they treat you, therefore I don’t like them.”

“Well, I don’t like you!” Granger shouted, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

“I know. I don’t like you either,” Draco reminded her quietly, “but I have to withstand your abominable explosions, like this one, for the next three years, and you have to put up with my opinionated judgments, so buckle up while we try and make the most of it. I will tell you when I think you’re being treated poorly. And I hope you’ll continue to tell me when you think I’m being a pompous, arrogant prick. You seem to enjoy doing that.”

He leaned forward then, his elbows on his knees, his face inches from her abdomen. Slowly, he let his eyes fall from her face down her navy blouse to the small bit of skin peeking between the hem of her top and the waistband of her gods forsaken muggle jeans that hugged her hips like a juicy pear. His mouth watered at the thought of biting first her left hip, then her right, and before he knew what he was doing, he carefully raised his fingers and nimbly undid her jeans’ button and zipper.

“What do you think you’re --?!” she cried.

“Shut up, witch,” he ordered in a whisper, not even raising his eyes, keeping his focus on the task in front of him. She stilled at his quiet tone, a sharp inhale escaping her lips as she watched his movement with bated breath. He folded down the open flaps of her jeans, carefully shimmying them down past the curve of her hips before pressing his face against the soft skin below her belly button, inhaling the scent of her. Vanilla...books... rain, he sighed.

His hands grasped her hips firmly, keeping her in place, as his tongue gently peeked out, licking across her abdomen achingly slowly. His fingertips heated with the warmth of her skin seeping into his very veins, lighting his blood on fire. He felt her breath hitch, the feel of it pulsing down the length of her body, echoing into his mouth still pressed against her skin.

And then she let out that tiny, high-pitched sigh that had driven him out of his mind just a week ago. It was too much: the sound of her, the smell of her, the feel of her, the taste of her, the look of her golden skin against his face, it all overwhelmed his senses to the point of mindless chaos. With a sharp exhale, he raised his heated gaze to meet hers.

She was biting the corner of her lip. Of course.

And that was all it took.

They worked as a team: his hands wrenched her jeans down her legs and she stepped out of them, kicking them out of the way. The instant he dragged her back to his face by her hips, the scent of her arousal assaulted him; he felt his heartrate pick up and he groaned, sliding his fingers up the inside of her thighs. The moment they came in contact with the satin of her black knickers, he suddenly found himself nearly breathless with want.

Not tilting his head back, he simply lifted his eyes towards her face.

“Yes?” he whispered, the note of question in his voice, waiting for her consent.

Having learned her lesson the first time, she quickly nodded. “Yes.”

The moment the word breathed past her lips, his fingers slipped below the soft material, finding them soaked through. With another groan, he leaned his forehead against the soft, smooth curve of her waist, pushing in first one, then two fingers into her wet heat, watching, mesmerized, as his fingers rhythmically disappeared inside of her, stroking in and out, watching the glossy silk of her coating his fingers. Before long, he was panting against her, his lips parted as he grappled to inhale more oxygen, still finding it wasn’t enough.

For fuck’s sake.

“Granger,” he gritted out, too wound up to look at what he was sure was her flushed face surrounded by her long curls, knowing if he chanced a glance at her he might cave completely and throw her down to the floor, “I’m ...” he trailed off, closing his eyes, trying to collect himself, trying to catch his breath.

Suddenly, Granger threaded her fingers through his blonde hair and yanked back, forcing him to look up at her.

She saw it in his eyes: everything he didn’t want her to see, everything he didn’t want anyone to see, his occlumency walls down too far during their moment of intimacy for him to block his honesty. Unable to move his head back down, he slowly closed his eyelids in the gentlest way possible to protect himself.

No, he seemed to say, words unnecessary. No.

She understood loud and clear.

Something clenched in her chest, but she brushed it aside quickly, pushing it down until she couldn’t feel it anymore. Because it’s nothing. Gazing at his closed eyes, blocking her from his truth, from his vulnerability, she did the only thing she knew how to do to throw him off, to throw herself off.

“I still fucking hate you, Malfoy,” she murmured quietly, her voice venomous at the sight of him closing himself off to her, ignoring the hurt that pumped into her blood. He doesn’t have the power to hurt me. Because I don’t care about him. And this doesn’t matter. It’s nothing.

She noticed the clench in his jaw as he nodded. “I still hate you more.”

With those words, he tore her knickers off of her, propped her left leg on the sofa cushion next to where he was seated, and angled her hips upwards, his mouth savagely biting each of her hips before descending between her legs with a deep sigh of desire. Her fingers pulled tighter on his locks of hair, her head tilting back, her eyes closing, her lips parting, as Malfoy let the flat expanse of his tongue drag across her throbbing folds, slowly savoring the feel of her, the taste of her, the scent of her. He repeated the motion over and over before letting his tongue dip into her, a third near guttural groan ripping through his chest, vibrating across her cunt deliciously.

“Christ,” she muttered, the muggle swear word escaping her mouth without a thought. His tongue moved up to gently lick against her clit, covering it head on, giving her something to rock against which she did immediately. Her fingers gripped his hair tightly, the sting shooting a shudder down his body, keeping him steady as she used his mouth for friction.

“Can you breathe?” she whispered, her head still tilted up towards the ceiling.

“Shut up, witch,” he muttered, “if I die, I die.”

He pressed his tongue against her more insistently before swirling around the small bundle of nerves in slow circles, pushing his fingers back into her, his other hand reaching into his trousers to find and grip his own hard, leaking cock.

He was a legitimate, needy mess: he fucked himself into his hand with the same speed he fucked into her with his long fingers, with the same rhythm he swirled and pressed against her clit, sliding from the sofa to his knees between Granger’s legs, giving himself more space. The wet, messy noises escaping his mouth paired with the sensations at his fingertips, mixed with the sweet, velvety taste of her in his mouth was sending him reeling towards release. She was intoxicating.

“Fuck, Granger,” he moaned against her folds, “Merlin, please... please come. I need to see it. I need to taste it on my mouth. Fuck, please.”

She looked down, chest heaving, panting as if she was in heat. The moment she registered that he was getting himself off to pressing his mouth between her legs, that it turned him on so much, that she turned him on so much, it almost undid her.

“Sit back,” she breathed. He obeyed with no questions, retaking his seat on the sofa his legs spread, still in his black trousers, still fisting himself, his head back against the sofa, his eyes half-lidded watching her. In one motion, too overcome with lust to care, she tore her navy blouse right off, several buttons clinking on the wooden floor around them. Draco’s eyes widened, his pupils blown wide and dark with an insatiable craving, his own hands immediately tearing open his own grey button down, wanting to feel her skin against his own.

“Fucking hell,” he whimpered as she shed her bra, straddling his lap, lowering herself onto him quickly. The moment his cock penetrated into her, he let out a long, low hiss of pleasure, his hands finding the flesh of her hips as he immediately began thrusting up into her with abandon. Her hands reached up, grasping his face, bringing her mouth down to his, tasting herself on his tongue as she frantically rolled her hips down against his.

It didn’t take long, the two of them already wound too tight. Within a few minutes, Granger dropped her hands to his shoulders, squeezing them, holding on as tightly as she could as she threw her head back, her orgasm tearing through her body almost violently as she drew in a deep gasp through her parted lips, before letting out a shriek as the peaks of ecstasy crashed over her in pulsing waves down her spine, down her body into her belly, down through her veins to the tips of her toes.

“Gods, yes,” he choked hoarsely, gripping her hips even tighter as Granger went limp against him. He frantically thrusted up into her and with a few desperate strokes, his movements lost their rhythm as he stuttered into her, coming harder than he thought he ever had in his life. The pleasure rolled through him in rivulets, his hips still pushing into her in a slow staccato, as he endlessly released himself into her.

Occlumency walls up or not, Draco reached his hands into her thick curls at the back of her neck and pulled hard to his right until he could control the angle of her head tilt, until he could see her face gazing back at him, her lips still parted as she breathed through her mouth, coming down from her high.

Unable to look away from the sight before him, he fiercely brought her mouth down to his own again, letting his lips brutally move against hers, his tongue languidly pushing its way into her mouth, laying claim to her.

Mine.

“I loathe you,” he growled into her mouth, his eyes closing, still gasping for breath.

She nodded, her sweaty forehead leaning against his. “Me too.”

“Good.”

Chapter Text

“Just come with us.”

Two weeks later, Hermione stood beside Ginny’s office desk at Black Dragon Wines uncertainly. Ginny got up, pushing in her office chair, grinning at Hermione. “I think you’ll have fun. We’re only going to Bella Notte. Come have some wine, eat something. Unwind a bit.”

“Yeah, Granger,” Blaise added with a smile, folding his beige rain trench coat over his forearm, “the rest of the snake pit needs to get to know you a bit better.”

“I’ll say,” Pansy smirked, carefully using a lint roller on her all black summer dress, hanging her matching purse on her shoulder, “we need to get better acquainted with the soon to be Lady Malfoy.”

Hermione blushed. “I’ll hardly be Lady Malfoy, Narcissa happens to hold that title and I’m perfectly fine with –”

Pansy waved her hand in the air dismissively, refreshing her bright red lipstick. “Once you get knocked up, Narcissa and Lucius will hightail it out of the Manor leaving you and Draco their titles.”

Internally, Hermione grimaced at the thought of both carrying a Malfoy spawn and coming into a pompous, sanctimonious title representing old magic, old money, and grandeur she didn’t care to ever inherit. “Good to know,” she finally murmured.

“What’s good to know?”

Draco came sauntering up behind her, his eyes quickly taking inventory of his employees and friends surrounding his fiancée, bedecked in a lilac sun dress, his hand sliding around her waist for good measure. Just in case they’re watching.

Which they were. For extra insurance, he added a soft kiss to the top of her curly mane.
Just to really nail the role, of course.

Before Hermione could respond, Theo beat her to it from the front desk where he stood expectantly with Astoria. “Good to know what all Hermione comes into the moment she finds herself carrying the Malfoy heir. Pansy was just informing her.”

Beside her, Hermione felt Draco sharply inhale. She cleared her throat, her cheeks reddening all over again. “Really, I’ll leave you all to go to dinner, you don’t need me there –”

Draco rolled his eyes with a scoff, quickly recovering. “You don’t need an invitation to come to dinner with us. Wherever I go, you’re always welcome.”

“This has nothing to do with you, Malfoy,” Pansy snapped quickly, absently putting her lipstick back in her purse, “in fact, I’m pretty certain if you weren’t coming, we’d still insist Granger tag along.” She winked at Hermione, looping her arm with her own, propelling her and Ginny forward as they walked through the foyer to the lift, leaving Draco to walk with Blaise.

A half hour later, Hermione found herself ordering a cocktail with Pansy and Astoria, Ginny ordering a virgin equivalent with her hand on her softly curved pregnant belly. Hermione quickly felt the beginnings of a slight buzz, answering the serpents’ questions unabashedly, so much so that Draco’s hand squeezed her thigh under the table gently to reel her in a bit. He turned his head slightly into her ear. “Be careful,” he whispered in a low tone, “you’re becoming slightly uninhibited.”

“So?” she asked, lowering her own voice discretely to match his.

“So I’m concerned you’re going to give away the actual nature of our relationship,” Draco murmured.

“Which part of our relationship are you nervous about exposing?” she whispered back, her eyes meeting his, “the contractual part? Or the hate sex part?”

She noted the heat that rose in his grey irises and cheeks, noted the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. “Neither of those should come out, darling,” he gritted sarcastically, “just be careful. We’re a team in this, or so I thought,” he finally exhaled, dropping her gaze, turning back to the table.

The snakes, of course, had been watching carefully, politely not saying anything but taking note of their facial expressions, exchanging bemused glances.

As their food was brought out, the table continued with their light-hearted conversation. Ginny whipped out a mobile phone and Hermione gaped.

“Is that an iPhone 3G?!” she gasped, “I didn’t know you had one of those!”

Ginny blushed and rolled her eyes. “It’s new. When Harry found out I was pregnant again, he wanted me to be able to contact him quickly in case I needed anything or wanted to touch base. We each have one. Although I’m realizing he’s using his own to touch base more with me than I am with him,” she finished ruefully, sending a quick text to her husband, “I’m just letting him know what time I think I’ll be home.”

“I still have my old Nokia,” Hermione said with a laugh.

Draco arched an eyebrow at her, pursing his lips in distaste. “That will be rectified tomorrow.”

Hermione arched her own eyebrow back. “Rectified? It’s not a problem. It gets the job done. I can call and text and that’s all I need.”

The snakes looked at each other and smirked as they all turned their eyes to Draco for his predictable reaction. Sure enough, he scoffed with a wave of his hand.

“You’re joining the age of the smartphone. I’m upgrading your mobile tomorrow, Granger. No question about it. I won’t have my fiancée walking around London with a Nokia. In fact, it only makes sense I add you to my plan.” He nodded to himself, as if to solidify his idea.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Be careful, Malfoy,” she retorted with self-righteous indignation, “your Sacred Twenty-Eight is showing.”

Draco’s face contorted in a sneer, but before he could hurl a response at her, a loud voice interrupted their dinner.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

All eyes flew up at the exclamation. Hermione vaguely noticed, in her tipsy daze, that Draco’s hand had moved defensively to her elbow when their mutual gaze landed on Ron, standing before their table, blue eyes blazing in anger, his tall frame taut, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Seeing him there sobered her rapidly; her eyes quickly ran around the table, noting Blaise and Theo bristling, their own bodies straightening, hackles raised. Pansy sat back, casually crossing one knee over the other, eyebrow raised in Ron’s direction, a bored expression of judgment setting across her face. Astoria sat in bewildered amusement, her mouth dropping open at the loud confrontation before them.

Ginny, however, was fuming. “Ron. What are you doing?” she murmured in a hushed tone, her own eyes running around the restaurant, taking note of the attention he had garnered, immediately going into protection mode for her colleagues and friends with only slight concern for her brother’s public image, not wanting him to tarnish either.

“Me?! You want to know what I’m doing?! I want to know what she’s doing!” Ron roared, pointing a jabbing finger in Hermione’s direction.

Hermione’s eyebrows rose in shock. She could feel the anger in Malfoy rising beside her, could feel his entire body coiling as if he was about to strike like a viper. She quickly placed a placating hand on his sleeve before she turned her attention back to Ron.

“This isn’t the time or the place,” she said quietly, trying to use a soothing tone.

“Yeah?! Then when is the time or the place?! You’ve been ignoring me for the last two weeks! I send Pig to you every other day with notes that you don’t respond to!” Ron fumed, his gaze flying angrily between Hermione and Draco. “I thought you said you would end this circus you have going on with him!”

A gasp rose around the restaurant, the other patrons beginning to whisper behind their hands. Draco began to violently shake, his own hands clenching into fists so tight his knuckles turned white, his face turning red with a mix of outrage and embarrassment at being publicly chided before his eyes quickly flew to Hermione’s as if searching for confirmation of Ron’s words.

She took that as her cue. She furiously stood, aware this was the exact kind of drama that Draco didn’t want, the kind that had the potential to make him into a villain all over again, the kind he was trying to avoid. Ginny stood alongside her, already yanking Ron away by his sleeve. Hermione could feel Draco rising with her, could see Blaise and Theo joining, looks of determination on their faces.

She quickly turned and shook her head at all three. “I’ve got this. Let me deal with him.”

Draco took a step closer to her, her back against the wall, his face close to hers for privacy. “You were going to end this with me?” he whispered accusingly, his face contorting into one of anger and confusion, “is he telling the truth?”

Hermione sighed. “This was before that date he and I were going to go on. Before you and I...” her voice trailed off, her cheeks reddening, “... before we’d signed the fidelity clause,” she covered herself, brushing aside the memory of them up against the back of her front door, “I told him I’d think about it. That’s all. Let me take care of this. If I let you come with me, or worse, if I let you and your lackeys come with me, it’ll make him more volatile than he already is. Please. Give me a chance.” Her dark eyes searched his pleadingly. “I’ll signal to you if I need help.”

His jaw clenched, he finally nodded his agreement. Motioning to Blaise and Theo, they all sat down. Pansy and Astoria eyed Hermione.

“Don’t let him embarrass you,” Pansy murmured calculatingly, her face coolly controlled, expertly maintaining a look of posh reservation, “Hold your own. Don’t let anyone in this restaurant see he’s unnerved you.” Astoria nodded back, a similar look on her own face. “Everyone is watching to see how you handle this,” she continued, “don’t show them anything private. Don’t show them any emotion.”

Hermione, her own public professionalism in place, nodded as she quickly sauntered to the empty banquet room where Ginny had pulled Ron. The moment she opened the door, she heard their shouting voices.

Ron lunged at her, taking her completely by surprise as his hands tightened around her upper arms. From the corner of her eye, Hermione noticed Ginny texting on her mobile. Realizing she was texting Harry, she couldn’t help but internally sigh in relief as she turned her attention back to Ron, who was glaring at her angrily, his face only inches from hers.

“What the hell is going on?!” he shouted, “Why did you cancel our date so last minute two weeks ago?! Why haven’t you been responding to my notes?! Why are you ignoring me?!”

“Ronald,” Hermione replied quietly, a note of warning in her soft tone, “if you don’t take your hands off of me, I will scream so loudly that Malfoy, Blaise, and Theo will all be in here within seconds. I doubt you’d even live to see how the papers would cover the incident.”

Seething, his mouth casting heavy, hot breaths across her face, Ron finally released her. “Answer me,” he responded dangerously.

“I canceled our date because I realized we have no business dating each other any longer,” she began, “and I didn’t respond to your messages for the same reason. Our relationship has run its course, Ronald. I no longer wish to continue with it, or with you.”

Ron gaped at her. “You no longer wish to continue with me?!”

Hermione shook her head defiantly. “Our relationship no longer serves me,” she declared boldly, confidently, borrowing the words Draco had said to her weeks ago, “in fact, I’m not sure it ever did. We had something innocent and loving in the beginning, years and years ago, but it hasn’t been that way for quite some time. It’s toxic. And I no longer want any part of it.”

Ron continued to stare at her incredulously. “We belong together, Hermione!”

She shook her head. “We don’t. I have something else I want to explore now.”
Even if it’s for only three years. Even if it’s all for show. Even if it’s just on paper.

“Malfoy’s manipulating you!” Ron snapped, “he’s got you brainwashed into thinking this way when it’s not true, Hermione! None of that is –”

“Is everything alright in here, Miss?”

Hermione’s eyes flew to the door where the maitre’d stood with several busboys, eyeing her nervously, their gazes flying between Ron’s aggression and her placating stance. “Are you in need of assistance?”

“I’m so sorry for the disruption,” Ginny said quietly, “my brother and my friend just need a moment of privacy. I apologize for any dramatics that may have bothered your other guests.”

The maître ‘d looked at Hermione, unconvinced, but finally nodded. “Please resolve the matter quickly. Otherwise we’ll have to ask you to leave the premises and go elsewhere.”

“Of course. I do apologize, we’re almost through here,” Hermione acquiesced.

The moment the door closed again, Ron grabbed her by the arms for a second time. With a sharp inhale, Hermione was vaguely aware of Ginny cautiously opening the door, but lost focus as she trained her narrowed eyes back on the wizard screaming in her face. “This isn’t you talking!” he continued to berate viciously, “this is that pompous blonde prick convincing you that we don’t belong! This is that fucking prat talking! This is that fucking Death Eater –”

As if on cue, as if summoned from the darkest depths of hell with a look on his face Hermione had never seen before, Draco moved swiftly: with one hand, he had Ron by the throat, slammed up against a wall, his other hand holding his wand, lit up green, aimed over his heart, a gritted snarl of delirious rage crossing his normally refined features. Blaise and Theo flanked him on either side, their own wands raised, Blaise’s aimed at Ron’s head, Theo’s aimed at his groin.

“Give me one good reason,” Draco whispered through his teeth, so tightly clenched Hermione was sure she could hear them beginning to crack, “Just one good reason why I shouldn’t squeeze your heart until it explodes in your fucking ribcage.”

Ron grimaced, a look of fear crossing his eyes as he tried to remain defiant. “This was a private, personal conversation between me and –”

“My fiancée,” Draco finished, still dangerously whispering, “my witch. Mine. MINE. There is no such thing as a private conversation between anyone and my witch if they lay hands on her.”

“You don’t understand –”

“Oh, I understand,” Draco continued ominously, his hand tightening on Ron’s throat, hard enough for Ron’s eyes to widen and bulge as he struggled for breath, “I understand you fucking blew it. Multiple times over ten years. Like the fucking loser weasel you’ve always been. Playing your stupid fucking mind games. And now you’ve lost and I’ve won.”

Draco swallowed hard before continuing. “This will be the last time you are ever in a room alone with her. Do you hear me?” His hand squeezed tighter and Ron’s eyes widened farther. “Do I make myself clear, Weaselbee?! Because if you ever so much as look at her wrong, if you so much as breathe close enough for her to smell your rancid breath, I will end you. I will lie you beneath me, where you’ve always been, and crush your fucking skull with my heel.”

The moment Ron nodded, shaking with tremors, the door opened and Harry walked in. And then everything happened in slow motion.

Draco didn’t move, knowing his friends had him covered. Harry’s eyes widened in angry defiance, his wand falling to his palm from his sleeve holster, but Theo had immediately faced Harry in a dueling position, their wands coming up to each other’s faces in less than three seconds. Blaise didn’t move, still backing up Draco. Ginny and Hermione’s eyes flew between Theo and Harry before Ginny gingerly stepped next to Harry, her hand on his wand arm, gently putting pressure on it.

“Ron started this,” she murmured soothingly to him, trying desperately to defuse the situation.

“Really?” Harry responded angrily, “because all I see are three fucking serpents against my best friend.”

“Your best friend had Hermione grabbed by the arms and was screaming in her face,” Ginny continued calmly, “and Malfoy defended her. You would have done the same if it were me in the same situation, love.”

Harry’s shocked gaze flew to Hermione. “Is that true?”

“Of course it’s fucking true,” Draco erupted furiously from where he still had Ron at his mercy, “do you think I’d have the Robin to your Batman in a death grip for fun?”

“Yes, it’s true,” Hermione admitted softly, “he confronted me here. I was here with Ginny and Draco and the rest of Black Dragon Wines for dinner.”

Draco loosened his grip around Ron’s throat by a smidge. “Explain what happened. Explain it to your hero, explain it to Saint Potter,” he ordered belligerently.

Ron immediately took several deep breaths before looking at Harry. “I was here, having dinner with a couple of the blokes from the joke shop when I saw Mione and Ginny with the snakes,” he admitted, chest heaving as he continue to suck in oxygen, “she’s telling the truth.”

Harry finally lowered his wand, keeping his eyes trained on Theo whose eyes narrowed before dropping his own wand at his side.

“Malfoy,” Harry said quietly, a hint of a plea in his voice, “let me take Ron home please.”

“Why should I?!” Draco shouted, keeping his eyes on the redhead in front of him, “Your priority has never been protecting Granger! Your priority has always been this prick! I put Granger first and this is what she deserves! Someone who cares about her, defends her, reminds her and this fucking weasel that she merits someone who can take care of her! Not someone who treats her like the dirt beneath their shoes! How dare he touch her?! How dare he raise his voice to her?!” Draco finally turned his enraged face to Harry. “Are you finally ready to tell him he was wrong?! Or do I continue with my lesson?!”

Harry nodded, clenching his jaw. “Yes, alright? Yes. He was wrong.”

His hands shaking, his gaze going back to Ron, Draco finally lowered his wand. But before he removed his hand from his throat, he held him in place, reared back, and punched him with all his strength across the face, taking a page from the witch standing behind him who had already broken his own nose twice in his life in the same manner.

The room erupted. Ron slid to the floor with a groan, pouring blood from his broken nose and his mouth, spitting out multiple teeth. Instinctively, knowing the ins and outs of their friendship after a lifetime of brotherhood, Blaise and Theo immediately turned to face Harry in defense of Draco, their wands up before Harry even had time to do more than gasp in horror. Ginny made to run to Ron, then seemed to think better of it when Harry’s hands flew up to show he was no threat, that he wasn’t about to defend Ron, that he wasn’t going for his wand.

Hermione, meanwhile, had eyes for no one but Draco. No one had ever defended her quite so fiercely. On the one hand, she’d never really needed anyone’s staunch defense. She was a strong, powerful witch on her own. But seeing someone do it anyway, someone she never imagined defending her when he had so often been the one to offend her, to hurt her, as a teenager – she realized then that she had wanted someone, anyone, to have her back loyally. To always side with her, no questions asked, the way Blaise and Theo simply moved if Draco gave the slightest inclination he needed backup. Someone who valued loyalty almost to their own detriment. She hadn’t realized how much she wanted it until she watched Draco embody it. As much as Harry loved her, he’d never bothered. Just as he’d never bothered to side with her when her relationship with Ron had fallen apart so many times; just as he had never quite given her credit when it was due during the war.

Draco saw her. Really saw her. And he was supposed to be her enemy.

What did that say about Harry then? About Ron? Hermione didn’t know how to sit with that.

But her eyes never moved from Draco, even as he turned and came to her with something she hadn’t seen in years: the familiar Draco Malfoy stride, that haughty strut with which he would confidently swagger down the Hogwarts corridors, the one that commanded attention, his only telling trait the few times she’d seen him in his Death Eater garb. Her breath caught in her throat as she recognized it, as he reached for her before he seemed to remember what they really were, not what they were simply presenting to the world, and his arms dropped to his sides. She watched the flurry of emotions cross his face, as he seemed to finally settle for gripping her hand, his thumb gently rubbing over her knuckles, like he had in the gazebo when she’d helped alleviate his panic attack weeks ago.

She realized he couldn’t bring himself to ask the question, that he kept his eyes on her hand, afraid that she was about to berate him, that she was about to tell him he had overreacted, that Ron hadn’t deserved it. She could see them: his occlumency walls, going up, preparing himself to go on the defensive.

“I’m alright,” she quietly answered his unasked question. “Thank you,” she added in a whisper. His eyes rose to hers in surprise, his face visibly relaxing before he finally nodded faintly.

Harry helped Ron stand, his bloodied face in a daze as he held several teeth in his hand. “I’m taking him to St. Mungo’s,” he said quietly, looking from Draco to Blaise and Theo, “don’t worry. I’ll tell them he got into a fight but not with who.”

“And why should we believe you?” Blaise snapped.

“I’ll go too,” Ginny responded firmly, putting a hand on Blaise’s arm before joining Harry and Ron. “We’ll have to walk or take a car. He can’t floo or apparate in this condition.”

“Take our car, Potter.”

All eyes flew up to the door where Pansy and Astoria stood defensively, arms crossed, eyebrows arched, observing the scene before them.

“I can only guess what the fuck happened here,” Pansy spat in disgust.

Astoria placed a light hand on Pansy’s shoulder. “We have a driver, Potter. Have him take you to St. Mungo’s. Just ask him to bring the car back to Nott Manor after he drops you off. Neither Theo nor I drank too much, we can apparate home.” Her eyes met Theo’s, who let out an irritated sigh, his eyes briefly going to Draco.

“Fine,” he finally responded with a wave of his hand. “Don’t get blood all over my backseat, Weasley.”

Ginny approached Hermione and Draco. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “I hope this was enough of a wakeup call for him.”

“Don’t apologize,” Hermione responded quickly. “None of this was your fault. You’ve always stood by my side and I know that.”

Ginny’s eyes traveled to Draco. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Boss.” She hesitated before continuing, “Thank you. For coming so quickly when I motioned to you... for defending Hermione without fail.”

Draco nodded. “See you tomorrow, Ginevra.”

The moment Harry and Ginny helped Ron out a back door, where the rest of the restaurant patrons wouldn’t see them, Pansy and Astoria stepped to Hermione.

“Come on,” Pansy said with a mischievous grin and an arched eyebrow, “I’d say you deserve something fun. Let Astoria and I take you some place I guarantee you’ve never been before, but that I think you’ll love.”

Hermione’s eyebrows raised. “Oh yeah? And where would that be?”

Pansy smirked. “Do you trust me, Granger?”

“No. Can’t say I do.” Hermione grinned at her. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Fair enough. But it’s a surprise.”

Finally, Hermione nodded, a curious smile at her lips. As Pansy and Astoria waited by the same back door that Harry, Ginny, and Ron had left through, Draco turned to Hermione, his hands on her shoulders.

“Did he hurt you?”

She could see it in his eyes again: the emotion. The concern. The worry.

She shook her head. “I’m fine. His hands hurt my arms a bit, but I’m fine.”

Draco carefully dropped his gaze to her upper arms before he gently lifted her sleeves, one at a time. His eyes narrowed when they fell on the small bruises in the shape of fingerprints on her olive skin.

He exhaled roughly. “I should have fucking killed him when I had the chance.”

She carefully lowered his hands. “I’m fine.” Her eyes slid over to Pansy and Astoria before coming back to his face.

Slowly, he nodded, his arms dropping at his sides. Just as he was about to step away his gaze returned to her, questioningly. Throwing caution to the wind, he lowered his face to hers, gently brushing their lips together.

Surprised, she gazed up at him as warmth pooled in her core.

“What was that for?” she whispered. “I thought you hated me.”

His eyes searched hers. “I do. And I know you do, too. I just felt like it, Granger,” he whispered back, “I just felt like it. Hate and all.”

Chapter Text

“Have you two completely lost the plot?!”

Hermione gaped at the building where Pansy and Astoria had brought her: a muggle tattoo shop in the heart of London. The summer sun was setting, and she turned to glare at the two female serpents in the dying light.

“I thought you said you were bringing me to some place you thought I’d love. What on Earth gave you the idea that I would love a tattoo parlor? Do I look like someone who has secret tattoos?” she continued incredulously.

“Do I?” Pansy retorted with a smirk. “Does Astoria?”

Hermione blinked in confusion. “No...”

Pansy met Astoria’s eyes before both witches turned back to Hermione. “Come into the parlor and we’ll show you. Then let us explain. And then decide for yourself,” Pansy offered coaxingly, her hand already on the door handle.

Reluctantly, Hermione followed Astoria and Pansy into the shop, looking around curiously. It seemed clean enough, with its tile floors, and various tattoo art pieces decorating the walls. There were six individual artist stations, four of which were occupied with clients getting work done, the buzzing of the needles loud and constant as background noise.

Hermione sat primly on a deep red leather sofa by the door, eyeing Pansy and Astoria nervously. “Alright,” she finally blurted out expectantly, “show me.”

Without a second thought, Pansy lifted the left side of the hem of her black summer dress. Hermione’s eyes widened: there, winding around Pansy’s entire upper left thigh, making its way up her left hip was a black and green coiled serpent, snaking beneath the soft material of her black satin knickers, mouth open at her hip bone, fangs protruding. Pansy’s eyes met hers before she grinned, lowering her dress.

“Surprised, Granger?”

“I have the same one, but on the opposite side,” Astoria murmured with a quiet chuckle, lifting the hem of her own pink sun dress on her right side, showing Hermione her matching, reflective tattoo of the same serpent slithering up her right thigh, coiling beneath her own lacy knickers, emerging near her right hip bone.

“We did it after the war,” she explained in a hushed voice, her eyes briefly meeting Pansy’s before looking back seriously at Hermione, “we’d all become villains. Pariahs. And we just wanted to reclaim our own self-worth without forgetting who we are. And we think you could use the same infusion of power.”

In the next breath, Pansy grabbed Hermione’s left wrist and turned it, baring her forearm with the familiar white scar tissue, the one Hermione pretended to ignore, pretended she didn’t see, pretended the rest of the world didn’t see even as she could feel strangers’ eyes wandering down to it. “This needs to go,” Pansy declared with a critical arch of her perfectly shaped eyebrow, “you didn’t deserve it then, and you don’t deserve it now. It should never disgrace your line of vision again. You shouldn’t be carrying around a memorial to Bellatrix Lestrange, of all people,” she added with disgust. “And now that you’ve seemingly gotten rid of Ronald Weasley for good, it’s time you embrace who you have the power to become, Granger.  You’ll gain power when you become a Malfoy; it’s only natural given the status that comes with the name. But you have your own power, power that belongs solely to you. You’ve always had it, you’ve just forgotten. Pick something to cover this heinous abomination, something that reminds you of who you were, who you are, and who you’re destined to become. We’re women, Granger,” she continued softly, her eyes boring into Hermione’s, “we’re witches. We’re magic incarnate. Don’t you forget it again.”

Hermione held Pansy’s gaze for several seconds, letting her words sink in, her eyes going down to the viciously, indelicately carved ‘mudblood’ scar, the ugly slur never forgotten, forever marring her skin.

Pansy sank down beside her on the sofa, still holding her wrist. “We’ll get something with you. Just don’t choose something... distasteful.” She narrowed her eyes. “And no beavers. Or lions.”

“Beavers?” Hermione asked, confusion clouding her face, her eyebrows furrowed. “The lion reference, I understand. But why in Godric’s name would I get a beaver?”

Pansy’s own eyebrows creased in the same confusion. “I thought you had an affinity for beavers?”

“Are you referring to the buck teeth I used to have when I was 11?” Hermione bristled, “because let me tell you Pansy Parkinson –”

Pansy rolled her eyes, quickly placing a single, perfectly manicured finger over Hermione’s mouth. “Relax, Granger. I wasn’t talking about your unfortunate dental reality from our preadolescent days. Salazar. Isn’t your patronus a beaver? Or a rodent of some sort?”

Hermione exhaled in relief before giggling. “It’s an otter.”

“Ah, same thing, no? No otters either, then.”

Hermione let out a small laugh. “I’m a bit buzzed, but not completely plastered.” Finally, she nodded, her gaze flying between Pansy and Astoria. “A rune.”

Astoria grinned. “Should have guessed. Of course. Always a swot.”

An hour and a half later, Hermione held out her forearm next to Astoria’s and Pansy’s as their muggle tattoo artist snapped a picture for them. They’d each gotten an ancient rune: Pansy’s was Eihwaz, a backwards Z tilted on an angle, representing strength and the banishment of evil. Astoria had gotten Ehwaz, what looked like a capital M, the symbol for magical protection.

Hermione’s was slightly more personalized. She stared at it, her fingers gently following the lines of the black Ansuz rune beneath the protective adhesive covering. It closely resembled a tilted capital F and symbolized wisdom, knowledge, and reason, things she valued most in herself, the bits of herself that had always remained the same. Constant. The long, vertical line on the left was wide enough to cover the slur entirely, but for good measure, Hermione had had the tattoo artist add a fine green, leafy vine of bright blue morning glories, her birth flower, along its entire length.

This, she thought to herself triumphantly, fingers tracing the trumpet-like petals of the flowers, this is all me.

She stared at it for a long time, never having had this feeling of overcoming, of prevailing. She’d always simply sat with and accepted the hand she’d been dealt, had decided long ago that her scar was permanent, that the pain which had been inflicted on her at 18 was just something she’d always carry. And yet, in less than an hour of sitting for the tattoo, she emerged with a new outlook, realizing again the power she held within herself, the power she had always held within herself. She’d simply lost her way from being under Ron’s constant hot and cold thumb; from losing her parents; from feeling like Harry’s second favorite; from feeling like a failure at running Beacon of HOPE; from hardly recognizing the woman she’d become. But having the confident, tactical thinking of the Slytherin women with her had actually brought her own Gryffindor bravery roaring forward, as if their two opposing Houses brought out the best of their qualities in each other.

And maybe that was the point of the different Houses all along.

She cast discreet, furtive glances at the women beside her, and with clarity, Hermione knew that this experience had bound them together. And why shouldn’t it? She and Ginny with Pansy and Astoria could be a powerhouse of loyal friendship, complementing one another perfectly in ways that would help each of them grow individually. She could see it. She could absolutely see it.

And then there’s Draco.

 A warm shiver went down her spine at the vivid memory of his staunch, violent defense of her earlier at the restaurant. How could it be that someone who hated her, someone she hated back, had thrown caution to the wind just for her sake? Hadn’t asked questions, not even afterward. Hadn’t confirmed with her first, hadn’t even questioned Ron before taking a side. Had simply walked in at Ginny’s beckoning, assessed the situation in less than five seconds, had arrived at the correct conclusion and flown right to protect, immediately stifling the person who had put her in danger. And not only had he done it, but he had also seemed to believe he was entitled to do it, relished it even.

As if it was a birthright.

Mine, he had said. Not once, but twice. Mine. MINE. He had roared the word at Ron, had threatened Ron’s very life, had an Avada ready, sparking green at the tip of his wand like a raving lunatic pointing at Ron’s heart. Like a Death Eater. Wouldn’t have even hesitated if Ron’s sister hadn’t been present, Hermione was willing to bet.

And she had enjoyed watching it. Had enjoyed watching Ron be put in his place, had enjoyed watching him crumble to pieces, had enjoyed watching him reap the consequences of his own actions, something that neither she nor Harry had ever enforced. And Draco had done it in mere seconds. In my name.

She’d been shocked, at first, before the shock had slowly worn off only to be replaced with a warmth that had heated to a smolder the moment Draco’s fist had connected with Ron’s face. Finally. Finally, someone was putting her first. Finally, someone was showing her, not just telling her that she wasn’t alone.

Suddenly Hermione felt lighter as the realization dawned on her. And maybe it was just the alcohol talking, but still – what a relief it was to know, on some level, that she didn’t have to carry everything alone, that she didn’t need to feel crushed by trying to hold up everything by herself. And it was the least likely people to make her see it: the pair of women before her, and the man in Wiltshire who maybe hated her, but inherently saw her worth and her value when everyone else had seemingly forgotten it – even Hermione herself. She gazed back down at her new tattoo, lost in thought.

Meanwhile, across town, Harry tiredly closed the door behind himself and Ginny as they walked down the sterile, white corridor of St. Mungo’s, leaving Ron to rest overnight in his room.

“I’m surprised Skele-Grow will work on his teeth,” Ginny said quietly as they continued to walk towards the lifts.

Harry nodded tiredly, a hand running through his unkempt hair. “I’m glad no one asked too many questions after I told them he’d gotten into a fight. I wouldn’t have been able to think that quickly on my feet.”

“Who would want to question the famous Harry Potter?” Ginny smirked, looping her elbow through his before her face dropped, “I would have helped you come up with something without bringing in Malfoy’s name.” She sighed. “I can’t believe the mess Ron created at Bella Notte. I’ve never seen Malfoy that angry.”

Before Harry could respond, someone walking by in the opposite direction accidentally elbowed his free arm. Harry turned around quickly, an apology already on his lips when he came face to face with the Minister for Magic. Kingsley, for his part, had also turned, wearing an irritated expression which rapidly vanished and broke out into a smile as he recognized Harry.

“Kings!” Harry exclaimed, immediately taking Kingsley’s extended hand before being pulled into a one armed embrace. “It’s been quite some time! What finds you here so late?”

“Good to see you, Potter,” Kingsley replied, his smile widening, “Sheila just gave birth to our first child.” He motioned ruefully to the two cups of coffee floating beside him, following him down the corridor, “And we’re both ready to fall over from exhaustion of course.”

“Congratulations!” Harry and Ginny both exclaimed.

“I heard through the grapevine you merit your own congratulations,” Kingsley continued, motioning to Ginny, her hand flying immediately to her own curved belly with a blush.

“It’s still early, but we’re excited that James will have a sibling. What about you, Kings, what did Sheila have?” Ginny asked excitedly.

“We’ve a daughter, Sarah,” Kingsley responded, unable to keep the elation off of his face, “it means ‘princess’, of course. Sheila thought it was appropriate what with my name being Kingsley,” he added with a good-natured laugh. “Why are you two here at this hour?”

“Oh,” Harry said, waving his hand in exasperation, “Ron got into a fight at a restaurant. We brought him in to be healed. He’ll be able to go home in the morning.”

“A fight? Is he alright?” Kingsley’s face dropped into one of concern, “Do you think he’d appreciate a visit from me? Lift his spirits a bit?”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt. He happened to run into Hermione with her new fiancé, and –” Harry began before Kingsley interrupted with a knowing nod.

“You mean Draco Malfoy.”

Harry nodded. “Right. Still getting used to it, forgetting it’s widely known news at this point,” he muttered with a roll of his eyes.

Kingsley shook his own head, arching an eyebrow. “I still can’t believe it. I don’t understand what made her arrive at such a decision, to tie her life to someone like that.”

Harry carefully schooled his face into a neutral one. “Someone like that?”

“Of course,” Kinglsey continued, reaching for one of the floating paper cups, taking a small sip of the scalding coffee, “someone with a dark history like Malfoy’s. She’s the Brightest Witch of Her Age, but this decision seems hasty and not well thought out at all, in my opinion. Although, what do I know?” he shrugged, “I just mind my own business and let people carry on.”

Harry nodded his complacency, before licking his lips and continuing. “For me, it was more about not being aware of their secret relationship over the course of three months. I concede I initially was concerned about Malfoy’s loyalty and honesty on behalf of Hermione but surely Malfoy’s dark history isn’t such a wildly contemplated consideration anymore.”

Kingsley barked out a laugh. “Of course it is! No matter what he does, that’s all people will see when they look at him: a Death Eater. Same as Lucius. It’s all I see.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Is it? You don’t think he’s reformed himself? Earned some sort of redemption? Atoned for what he did as a child? More importantly, what he didn’t do?”

Kingsley let out another tired laugh. “He took the Mark. A tiger doesn’t change its stripes, Potter. A Malfoy will always be a Malfoy. As far as I’m concerned, he and Lucius both deserved to rot in prison. An apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, after all. In Draco’s case, it probably would have been a good preventative measure. Who knows what he’ll do in the future. He could be a ticking time bomb.”

Harry stared at Kingsley in shock. “Do you truly believe that? You never said any of this when I defended him at his trial.”

“Of course not. I wasn’t about to try and influence your decision. It wasn’t my place. You were the war hero. Neither was it my place to try and influence the Wizengamot. But it’s absolutely my place to deny Malfoy anything that would make his life easier post-war.”

“Like what?”

Kinglsey rolled his eyes melodramatically. “He’s been trying for months to get the Ministry as a client for his pompous, overpriced wine, Black Dragon, I think.” He shook his head. “I won’t be complacent in letting him come back into society as if he deserves it. Let him work for it the way everyone else does.”

“I think that’s what he’s been trying to do, Kings,” Harry replied quietly, “he’s been doing it for over ten years, he was quite successful over on the continent.”

Kingsley shrugged. “Not my concern. The continent didn’t see the war the way we did. We were ground zero. They barely felt a ripple. Don’t get me wrong: both sides had their supporters from the continent, but they didn’t feel it like we did. They didn’t see what we saw. If Voldemort had won, though, his power and influence would have absolutely expanded over there. We saved them, if you ask me.” He shrugged again, a shake of his head, “So if they can forgive Malfoy and let bygones be bygones, he can go back to France for all I care. Not like he struggled in his chateau,” he added sarcastically, taking another sip of coffee.

Harry raised an eyebrow, his jaw clenching before he lowered his voice in disapproval. “I have to say, Kings, I’m shocked you not only think and feel this way, but that you’re actively giving Malfoy a hard time, that you’re overtly trying to block him from being successful through nothing but his own hard work and dedication. This doesn’t sound like you. You’ve always been one to give people a chance. Don’t you think Draco Malfoy has earned the right to another chance?”

Kingsley looked away, evidently realizing he was not going to find solidarity with Harry in this particular topic. “This isn’t the time for this conversation. It’s rather inappropriate,” he added, checking his watch as if he was suddenly concerned with the time. “I’ll be heading back to Sheila now. It was nice to see you, Harry, Ginny. I’ll stop by before Ron is released in the morning to say hello, let him air out his Malfoy grievances. I bet he’s with me on that,” he added jokingly with a wink, lifting his coffees in farewell before sauntering off in the opposite direction of the lifts.

Harry stood frozen in the corridor, watching Kingsley walk away.

Malfoy had been telling the truth.

“I told you,” Ginny whispered quietly.

Clenching his jaw, Harry exhaled a deep sigh, rubbing his palm down his face. “I guess I just didn’t want to believe it.” He gazed at Ginny for several seconds.

“Can you floo home from Nott Manor after dropping off their car, love? I’d like to check on Hermione... maybe have a quick chat with Malfoy,” he added quietly with another deep sigh.

Ginny nodded, pulling him forward to plant a small kiss on his lips. “And this is why I married you, Harry Potter.” She shook her head. “Go do what you have to do, fix what you have to fix. I’ll see you at home.”

With a nod and a bemused smirk, Harry unhooked his arm from his wife, watching her until she walked into a lift, disappearing with a wave of her hand as the door closed. Harry turned on his heel, heading straight from the hospital’s front doors out into the street to the apparition point.

Wanting to put off seeing and talking to Malfoy for as long as possible, Harry apparated to Hermione’s townhouse in Hampstead only to find, to his chagrin, Malfoy himself sitting on her front stoop.

“What are you doing here, Potter? Unless you’re here to tell Granger that your chummy wingman unfortun – actually, scratch that – fortunately died from his well-deserved injuries, I didn’t think I’d be running into you again in the same night,” Malfoy bitterly spat, his chin in his hand.

With a roll of his eyes, Harry sat beside Draco on the stoop. “I just wanted to make sure Hermione was alright after what happened at the restaurant. Why are you out here? You’re engaged to her; you aren’t allowed to floo directly into her house?”

Draco cast him a withering look of disgust. “I wouldn’t floo directly into anyone’s home if they weren’t there, engaged to them or not, it’s an invasion of privacy. I have manners, you know. Decorum. I guess I can’t say the same for you, Potter.” He glanced away, leaning back on his palms, gazing up at the sky. “I just wanted to make sure Pansy and Astoria didn’t haze her and leave her abandoned somewhere.” He scoffed again, “Abandoned with her worthless fucking Nokia. Lot of good that will do her.”

Harry’s concern flew to astronomical proportions. “What? You think they would do that? You think they –”

“Sense the sarcasm, Potter.”

Harry relented with a sigh and a nod. He waited several minutes in the still silence of the night, an awkward lull between them.

“Actually, Malfoy, if I’m being honest, I was also going to stop by the Manor. But I wanted to avoid it as long as possible. I...” he trailed off, clearing his throat as Draco turned his head to his left, just slightly, to train his piercing eyes on Potter, an eyebrow raised in cynicism.

“If you mention Weasley, so help me Merlin –”

Harry quickly shook his head. “No, it’s not about him. It’s not about what happened tonight. I... I ran into Kingsley at the hospital, and we had a brief chat.”

Draco said nothing, his face contorting into his custom sneer as he waited for Potter to continue.

“His wife had a baby tonight,” Harry continued, “and then –”

“I’ll be sure to owl him and his wife some of my best wine as a congratulations,” Draco muttered under his breath sarcastically.

“It wouldn’t help, even if you did,” Harry murmured, dropping his eyes to his hands.

“Wouldn’t help with what?”

“It wouldn’t help you get the Ministry as a client.”

Draco rolled his eyes again. “I know that,” he gritted, “I’m not actually sending that moralistic, holier-than-thou prick with a superiority complex a gods damn thing.” He paused, digesting Harry’s words before he finally nodded in understanding, then shaking his head in bewildered amusement.

“I see,” he hissed, “you finally believe me. Shacklebolt showed his true colors, said some shit about me and you realized you fell for his façade hook, line, and sinker. Pathetic.”

Harry turned to look at him. “He pretty much confirmed that he’s purposely freezing you out of doing business with the Ministry. Said you could go back to France and keep doing business with the continent if they love you so much.”

Even though Potter wasn’t telling him anything new, his words stung deep inside. Hearing confirmation of what he had suspected, what he had known, if he was honest with himself, made his heart twist, but he worked to maintain his face emotionless as he kept his gaze on the night sky.

It makes no sense to show Potter all my cards.

He scoffed. “Go back to France. I could, I suppose. And I’d be happy. Life is peaceful in France.”

No one’s afraid of me in France.

Intimidated, yes. By his wealth, his status, his high class, the way he carried himself, the way he walked, the way he dressed, the way his face couldn’t be read, the way nothing seemingly bothered him. But afraid? Like he might snap and kill someone? No. He commanded more respect than that in France and the rest of the continent.

“You’d take Hermione with you,” Potter murmured quietly. It wasn’t a question.

Draco’s eyes widened in surprise, the realization of Potter’s words descending into his stomach like an anchor. “I... I suppose I could,” he finally squeezed out, the idea both terrifying him and fascinating him simultaneously. He shook his head. “She wouldn’t go, Potter. She’s got Beacon of HOPE.”

“She could run that easily from anywhere.”

“Are you trying to convince me to go back to France? I’m not giving up that easily. It took me ten years to attain what I earned in France. I’ve been here, what? Six, seven months?” he bristled at the thought, “I’m not going to fade away like some fucking failure. England is my gods damned home. Moreso than France. I’m not letting some supreme tosser like Kingsley Shacklebolt chase me away.” He relented, eyes going back up to the sky. “He won’t be Minister forever. I’ll bide my time. I’ll earn it the way I’m meant to earn it, even if I have to wait for his successor.”

Harry nodded, a small smile on his face. “I bet you will, Malfoy. I’m sure of it.”

Draco rolled his eyes in disgust. “Oh, fuck off, Saint Potter.”

A loud bark of laughter erupted from Harry, making Draco jump. Harry shook his head in amusement as he stood from the stoop. “No matter what, some things never change. And I, for one, enjoy the fact that everything you say to me is exactly what I expect it to be, Malfoy.”

Draco’s eyebrow lifted, swallowing down the small smile that threatened his composed demeanor.

As Draco continued to sit on the stoop, Harry stood before him. “I’d like to show you something tomorrow, if you’ve got time.”

“You’d like to show me something?”

Harry nodded, his eyes dropping to the ground, his shoe scuffing at the concrete stoop. “I think it’s important.”

“What the fuck is it?” Draco asked, a note of panicked disgust in his voice.

Harry couldn’t help but smirk at his reaction. “Always a prat. Just... it won’t take long. An hour, maybe less. I could meet you at the Manor’s apparition point in the morning. Say, ten o’clock, yeah?”

Intrigued, Draco finally nodded.

With his own nod, Harry took out his wand, preparing to disapparate. “Tell Hermione I’ll come check in tomorrow. Oh... bring a sock with you in the morning, Malfoy. A spare one. One you won’t mind leaving behind.”

Before Draco could react, Harry vanished with a crack.

A few minutes later, Granger appeared before him, a look of pleased surprise dawning on her face at the sight of him.

It made him uneasy. He’d shown her too much earlier in the restaurant. He’d always tried to maintain a sense of calculated, controlled emotion in public to maintain their ruse, but when he had seen Weasley gripping her so tightly, screaming in her face, something inside of Draco had snapped. The angry, natural reaction to defend what was his had come screaming to the forefront, the dragon inside of him preparing to breathe fire in her name, and it had left him reeling in the aftermath once she had left the restaurant with Pansy and Astoria.

She’d seen too much. Seen what he himself hadn’t seen building until it had come exploding out of him in fierce protection.

And Draco didn’t bare anything that was normally buried deep inside. Not to anyone.

And now he had to do the work to rein it back in. To protect himself. To protect her. Because this wasn’t real, and Draco wasn’t going to allow himself to forget it. He couldn’t mix up the truth with their hoax. He wouldn’t allow himself to think any of it was becoming real.

I won’t allow the lines to blur. This is business. She’s just business.

Before he could say a word, Granger held out her forearm. “Look,” she said quietly.

Beneath the moonlight and the shining stars, Draco took two steps forward, grasped her wrist, eyeing the tattoo carefully, his eyes widening in recognition of the rune, his long fingers reverently tracing one of the blue morning glories. She saw him trying to make sense of them and she answered without being prompted.

“Morning glories,” she murmured into the night air between them, “they’re my birth flower. And the rune is –”

“Ansuz,” he whispered, “wisdom.” He nodded, his eyes rising to meet hers. “I wouldn’t have expected any different.”

Sensing the electricity that tremored where his fingers held her arm, he carefully let go and took a step back. Rein it in, Malfoy.

“That’s where they took you? Pansy and Astoria?”

She nodded. She looked like she wanted to say more, but he could see the slight confusion in her eyes at his coldness, could see her putting up her own walls. Good. Because none of this is real.

“You covered the scar,” he murmured.

She nodded a second time, her gaze holding his. “It was a long time coming. I just hadn’t known it until Pansy and Astoria leant me some of their Slytherin cunning and ambition to want to be the best version of myself, I guess.”

She swallowed hard. “Why are you here, Malfoy?”

He shrugged, opened his mouth to say the words he’d planned to say. Words he’d crafted to hurt, to put some comfortable distance between them. But the moment he looked up at her, standing there beneath the moonlight, he swallowed them down.

Always been a coward.

“I just wanted to make sure you were alright,” he finished lamely, “you were shaken up when you left.”

Do it. Say it. You were going to say it, you fucking coward!

“Were you always so weak? Did you always let Weasley walk all over you like that?” he spit, letting the venom drip from his tongue.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “What?”

“I just would have never believed it if I hadn’t witnessed it with my own two eyes, is all. The Brightest Witch, the war heroine, letting that second rate excuse for a wizard, excuse for a man, treat you that way.” He let his eyes roll in distaste, let his face curl up into a sneer. “I thought you were better than that, but I suppose I was wrong.”

Granger bristled and stomped past him, infuriated, her arm slamming into his own as she climbed the stoop to her front door.

“I don’t know why I expected something different when I saw you sitting here,” she furiously threw at him, whirling around to face him, “I don’t know why I thought something changed at the restaurant.”

“Oh yeah?” Draco scoffed, “what did you think changed, Granger? We’ve made ourselves, our feelings, and our intentions very clear from the beginning.”

“You’re absolutely right. We have. It was my mistake to think for a fraction of a moment that something had shifted. I may have let Ron walk all over me for too long, but I certainly won’t give you the satisfaction of allowing the same behavior, so you can fuck right off and go home,” she snarled.

Draco mockingly put his hand up by his heart. “You let Weasley hurt you repeatedly, but you know your worth when it comes to me, the former Death Eater. Shocking.”

“This has nothing to do with your past. The difference is I loved Ron, once upon a time ago. So, I let him take advantage. I showed him my vulnerability because I loved him. I gave him the upper hand because I loved him. But you?” Her voice lowered to a malicious whisper. “I’ve always hated you.”

As her words doused over him like ice water, hurting more than he would ever allow himself to admit or show, Granger opened her front door, slamming it shut behind her.

Good girl, he thought, closing his eyes briefly at the sting. You’ve never been a coward, Granger.

Chapter Text

Draco looked around the sandy coast, steadying himself after apparating, his eyes blinking in the bright morning sun as he took in the ocean view before him.

“Welcome to Shell Cottage,” Potter said beside him, his voice nearly disappearing in the strong wind. Draco turned a full 180 degrees, his gaze landing on the small, nondescript beach cottage. Unsure why he was brought here, he narrowed his eyes at Potter.

“Shell Cottage?” he asked suspiciously.

Potter nodded. “This is the cottage that belongs to the Weasleys. It used to belong to an aunt of theirs, I believe. Then it was used as a safe house during both wizarding wars before it finally became Bill and Fleur Weasley’s home once they were married. This –” his voice caught, his eyes carefully avoiding Draco as he cleared his throat. “This was where Dobby apparated with me, Hermione, and Ron that day. From the Manor...” his voice trailed off, not needing to say more.

Beside him, Draco swallowed hard, his face draining of color a bit, his hand moving absently to pat the dark green socks he’d hastily shoved in his pocket before leaving the Manor earlier. It all clicked. The socks were for Dobby.

He should have put it together, really. He wasn’t an imbecile. But Granger had apparated back to her townhouse so quickly the night before that he’d all but forgotten what Potter had said to him. And then he’d spent the rest of the night lying in bed, obsessing over his handling of the situation with Granger that his trip with Potter had completely slipped from his mind until one of the house elves, Lola, had cracked into his room that morning to tell him that Potter was waiting aimlessly by the apparition point.

Draco had groaned and asked Lola to invite Potter in and offer him coffee, which he graciously accepted while Draco hurriedly threw some clothes on, combed his hair, groomed his face, and preened in front of a mirror for several minutes before he’d dashed out the door only to rush back in a few seconds later when Potter’s words about the sock had come careening into his brain. Not thinking over why, he’d simply grabbed his favorite pair of socks from his sock drawer.

He’d quickly made his way to the kitchen where he was relieved to find that Lola had already poured him some coffee into a Slytherin green stainless steel tumbler that he could take with him. He noticed Potter smirking at him, an indirect insult at being taken care of like a child, but Draco said nothing and ignored him, swallowing down the biting comment already rising on his tongue with considerable self-restraint; it really wasn’t in Potter’s best interest to engage with him within the first half hour of Draco being chaotically woken up, and certainly not until he’d downed at least half of the coffee in his hand, which he did by the time they’d hit the double front doors of the Manor, heading back out to the apparition point just outside of the gates.

They’d said nothing as they walked side by side. Once they stood in the shimmery magic of the apparition point, Potter had simply held out his arm and said, “Ready?”

Draco had taken another swift sip of coffee, eyed Potter’s arm with a small sneer, snapped the lid of the tumbler closed for the quick trip, grasped Potter’s sleeve between two fingertips as if the cheaply made scarlett cotton material might burn through his skin, and closed his eyes once Potter’d disapparated them away.

“You’ve brought me to see Dobby,” Draco spit out accusingly. He could feel the quickening beat of his heart, his nerves shooting through the roof.

Potter nodded still not looking at him.

“Don’t you think maybe you should have asked first?” Draco demanded, a note of irritation in his tone as he tried to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Maybe I’m not ready for this. Maybe I don’t want to broadcast my grief in front of the likes of you.” He tried desperately hard to calm his breathing. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, do not have a panic attack in front of Potter. Don’t you dare, Malfoy. I won’t allow this. I won’t.

Potter shook his head. “I won’t be going with you. I’ll head into the cottage, visit a bit with Bill and Fleur. You take your time.” He pointed to the left, to the top of a grassy sand dune. “His grave is up there. You’ll see the headstone. You can take as little or as long as you want. I promise I won’t come up. I’ll stay down here.” He gently reached for Draco’s coffee tumbler, plucking it from his hand. Draco barely noticed as he stared, wide-eyed, at the sand dune.

The pain in Draco’s chest was increasing. He briefly closed his eyes, taking in slow, deep breaths. When he opened them, Potter’s retreating figure towards the cottage was almost enough to make Draco want to call him back, to beg him to not let him go up there alone, to tell him he was afraid he’d pass out before he could make it up there, to tell him he didn’t think he was ready for this, but his pride quickly stood in his way as he stared, stock still, at Potter’s back as he headed around to the front door of the cottage.

Draco slowly turned toward the dune and licked his lips, continuing to take deep breaths. Steeling himself, he made the decision to not think about where he was going and simply walk. He elegantly removed his black shoes – Potter should have told me where we were going so I could have dressed appropriately, he fumed internally – and his black dress socks, tucking each one into its matching shoe. Grumbling to himself about Potter’s lack of preparation, he put one foot in front of the other, keeping his gaze on the sand beneath his feet as he began to climb, carefully keeping his thoughts trained on anything but the destination. On anything but Dobby.

His plan worked except that he distracted himself so well, he didn’t look up until he rounded a small curve to the left and found himself suddenly facing the edge of an oval, dark grey headstone. Completely caught off guard at how quickly the sight had crossed his line of vision, Draco instantly froze, his heart hammering in his chest, his breath immediately catching before becoming labored again. He carefully sat down immediately where he stood, not wanting to get closer. Afraid to get closer. Afraid to read the inscription. Afraid to stand in his bare feet over Dobby’s grave where his bones were buried, as if he’d be desecrating Dobby’s peace by doing so. As if Dobby would be disgusted to know Draco was there, that Dobby would roll over in his grave while he stood on the sand above. Afraid that he would feel Dobby’s rancor vibrate from the ground through his bare feet, up into his veins where it would disperse to every cell of his body and he just couldn’t handle the thought as old blurry memories of Dobby reading bedtime stories to him when he was little came screaming forth in his mind. He suddenly felt like he might be sick.

I am not going to fucking vomit over a grave. Pull yourself together, Malfoy.

Draco sat there on the sand, his legs curved at the knees with his elbows balanced on top, his fingers gripping his hair, for a considerable amount of time trying to gather his bearings, simply taking deep, steadying breaths. Every couple of minutes, his eyes wandered over to the headstone before taking in the scene around him.

There’s nothing to be afraid of. There’s nothing here. Just the ocean. Just peace. Just quiet. You’re fine. You’re fine. Dobby’s fine.

Dobby’s dead. Not fine.

Draco’s thoughts went in the same circular direction repeatedly until finally he could think them without gasping for oxygen. He needed to attempt the words out loud.

“Dobby’s dead,” he whispered, his eyes on the sand. He licked his lips slowly, raising his gaze to the headstone. “Dobby’s dead.” He took a deep breath.

“You’re dead, Dobby. You’re dead and you’re buried right there, ten feet from me.”

He took a deep, shaky breath. “You’re dead and you didn’t have to be. You’re dead because of me.” He rolled his eyes, already hearing Dobby’s response in his head. “Yes, I know it was Bella.” He thumped an open palm to his chest, his eyes angrily filling with tears. “But it’s because I was a coward. Because I could have reacted and taken the fucking dagger from her and saved you and Granger both. Saved your life, saved her pain.”

He could hear Granger’s answer to this exact argument, the one she’d given in the gazebo, but he brushed it aside, silencing her indignant voice replaying in his head, not wanting to think logically about the likelihood of his family being punished, likely even killed, if he’d done such a thing. He didn’t care that there was truth and sensibility in Granger’s words. He cared that his pain was also reasonable and real, that it was also sensible, that it was his own personal truth. He cared that he couldn’t make the pain go away unless he ignored it, and even then, it didn’t disappear; it just lingered around, waiting to be acknowledged.

And suddenly Draco found himself sobbing incoherently. Sitting in the same exact spot, his fingers still grasping his blonde locks, twisting so tightly he could feel the sting on his scalp, his face falling downwards, his tears running down his face landing in his black trousered lap, his sobs wrenched from the depths of his aching heart, from the same place where he stored his secrets, where he stored his shame, where he hid his self-loathing, where he hid his self-disgust. The secret vault of guilt, of regret, of dishonor, of disgrace ripped open the moment the first sob tore from his throat.

He spent several minutes in the same position, in too much agony to move, afraid he’d set off another chain reaction that would result in losing his ability to breathe, and now that his nose was running it would be even more catastrophic. He finally composed himself enough to look up at the weathered headstone again, breathing deeply through his mouth, letting the ocean breeze dry the tears from his face until all he felt were the dry tracks lining his skin. He sniffled several times impassively, loosening the hold he had on his hair, relieving the tight ache he hadn’t even realized had taken ahold at the roots.

I wish she was here.

The thought of Granger came unbidden and took him by surprise.

Do I really wish she was here? He pondered the thought. Yes. And no.

Because no way would he want her to see him like this. But also, she had been the only one that had had any sort of semblance of understanding when she’d witnessed his escalating panic attack in the gazebo. And she hadn’t been unnerved, hadn’t turned around to get Narcissa or one of the Slytherins to handle him. She hadn’t even considered it. She’d stayed. She’d distracted him.

She’d held his hand.

“I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing, Dobby,” he admitted in a whisper, his eyes red, still sniffling, his voice hoarse with emotion. “The only thing that makes sense in my life is business. Money. Anything that works as a transaction, I can understand.” He sniffled again and took a long pause. “Anything where I get something in return for giving something is all that makes sense. Anything outside of that... anything that isn’t contractual...” his voice trailed off.

Keeping his eyes glued to the headstone, Draco slowly stood, the breeze blowing his untucked black button down against his torso. He took deep, shaky breaths as he cautiously walked around to the front of the grave, careful not to look down at it until he gingerly sank to his knees before it.

Then he raised his eyes.

Here lies Dobby, a free elf.

Draco stared at the words for a long time, processing each segment of the sentence.

 “Here lies Dobby.” Beneath this very sand were the bones of his first friend. If Draco closed his eyes, he could almost feel Dobby’s very essence blowing across his skin, across his hair, cooling and soothing against his left forearm, forever marred by the Mark; As if Dobby was seeing it for the first time, as if he was saddened by it, as if he would heal it and make it disappear if he were still alive and still had his incomparable, omnipotent magic.

“Here lies Dobby.” After all these years, wondering where he had been, what had happened to him, if he had been there the night of the Battle of the Hogwarts fighting alongside Kreacher and the other Hogwarts house elves, Draco finally had his answer. He could still remember the terror he felt running through the school corridors, running through the courtyard, the thought that he’d run into the army of house elves nibbling at the back of his mind, knowing he’d never hurt any of them but wondering if they’d believe the same about him.

Wondering if Dobby would have looked at Draco with recognition. With an ounce of affection. With pity, like everyone else. With hatred? Wondering what he would have believed about Draco if they’d actually run into one another that night, what his initial gut reaction would have been with emotions running high, with lives on the line... maybe all Dobby would have seen was the son of his cruel once master, Lucius Malfoy; his former child charge grown into nothing but a worthless shadow, a meritless echo of his father. If he would have bothered to protect him from the other house elves if they had seen his Mark and tried to hurt him. Or maybe... “Would you have beat them to it? Would you have hexed me on sight, Dobby?” Draco whispered bitterly, his voice barely audible over the wind. “I would have deserved it.”

All that worrying for nothing. I’ll never know what you would have done that night. Because you were already dead.

Draco’s eyes moved to the next part of the epitaph. “A free elf. With no thanks to me,” Draco scoffed, shaking his head, “another thing to attribute to the great Saint Potter, I suppose, giving you your freedom even though it’s my fault you barely had time to enjoy it.” He sniffled, shaking his head at himself. “And the truth is, Dobby, if given the chance, I don’t even know if I ever would have freed you,” he admitted with shame, “I don’t know if the thought would have even occurred to me. You were so ingrained in my life as a child that I barely saw you as a separate entity. Granting you something like freedom that would have taken you away from me would never have been a consideration.”

Because anything that’s mine, I make sure stays mine. Even to its own detriment.
Because I’m selfish.
Because apparently the only way I can overcome my innate cowardice is if my self-interest is being leveraged against me.

He let out a loud, ironic laugh.

“That’s the kind of prick I am, Dobby. I can’t save anyone. I’m completely useless when it comes to doing the right thing, when it comes to choosing the right side. But if it’s something that will work in my own favor, somehow, I find courage. Because I’m self-serving.”

Draco shook his head in disgust at himself, at the realization that he was far greedier, far more selfish than he had ever acknowledged.

A free elf.

“I’m glad you got to experience it,” he whispered, his hand tentatively coming up, floating in midair for several seconds before finally lowering to the edge of the hard, rough headstone, as if Draco could grasp Dobby’s small, knobby shoulder instead. “I’m glad Potter was able to give you that even if at the time it hurt me and made me angry.” He shook his head. “In hindsight, I wasn’t angry with Potter... I was angry with you because I thought surely you would have come find me to say goodbye.” He sniffled again. “But you never did. Not even privately at Hogwarts. And I’ll never know why. Was it because you thought it would be too hard to say goodbye? I’d like to think it was,” he admitted quietly, lowering his head, “and not because you thought I was a terrible child morphing into a terrible man... not because you didn’t want to have anything to do with me...”

Draco lowered his voice further, voicing his deepest fear.

“... and not because you never actually cared for me... not because I was just your job... a job you hated and didn’t want anymore...”

He kneeled there for several minutes in silence, his eyes skimming the words repeatedly. Once he’d significantly calmed, he gazed around at his surroundings, noting how the sun seemed to hit this particular spot: the sand beneath his knees felt warm, even through his trousers. He gently raked through the surprisingly soft sand around the headstone, taking a handful and experimentally letting it slip silkily through his long fingers.  He took in the distance to the ocean: far enough so the tide wouldn’t rise to the grave, but close enough for the melodic crashing waves to gently soothe like a lullaby. Draco’s eyes rose to the sky, watching a few seagulls dive together into the sea for fish, another meander down the coast in search of food. The salty wind blew through his hair, lifting and caressing, as if the very spirit of the house elf stood beside him, assuring him he was there, that he was alright, that he had died for a cause that had mattered, protecting people who had done the work to make a difference.

As if he could hear Dobby himself, Draco nodded in understanding and said no more. He gently traced a fingertip down each letter on the headstone before he reached into his pocket and removed his favorite pair of Slytherin green socks. He haphazardly dug a small hole before the headstone with his hand and carefully rolled one of the socks into itself. He delicately placed it in the hole, covering it with sand.

He stood, tall and slender against the sun, his shadow darkening the headstone as he kept his eyes trained down. With a deep, slow sigh and one lone final tear tracking down his cheek, Draco reached forward and draped the other sock over the headstone.

“Thank you,” he whispered sincerely. He waited a few beats before continuing.
“Sois libre, mon ami... Be free, my friend,” he mouthed almost silently, the words so softspoken they were instantly snatched into the breeze, rising up as a peace offering to the tiny house elf. Draco carefully made his way back down the dune, his black shoes in one hand, his heart significantly lighter. He didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Hermione carefully stirred her tea later that same morning. She was completely exhausted, having tossed and turned the entire night before, playing and replaying the angry standoff with Draco from last night in her head. The entire thing had left her so confused, feeling as if she were swimming underwater: just when she thought her head was about to break the surface, he’d pushed her back under without letting her catch a breath.

She sighed deeply, running a hand through her long, loose curls as she walked out to her living room with the teacup in hand when her fireplace came to life, green flames erupting within. Not expecting anyone, Hermione glanced up in surprise as she placed her tea on the coffee table when Molly Weasley stepped out, carefully dusting herself off.

“Molly?” she asked, caught off guard, yanking down the black tank top she usually slept in, trying to pull it down over the waistband of her black cotton shorts. It wasn’t like Molly to show up anywhere unannounced. “Is everything alright?” Her concern immediately grew that something had happened to someone in the family.

Molly grimly looked up at Hermione, still standing before the fireplace, not moving to embrace her, no smile on her face. Hermione waited uneasily, unsure what to make of Molly’s lack of affection.

“No, dear,” she responded quietly. Hermione’s heart plummeted as she registered the tone of Molly’s voice. “Everything is most certainly not alright.”

Hermione’s mind began racing a mile a minute. “Is it Arthur? Is he hurt? One of the children? What can I do? How can I –”

Molly held up her palm and Hermione abruptly stopped talking. “The family is fine,” Molly clarified, clearly frustrated as she gathered her bearings. “I am here because I want to know what happened to Ronald last night. Why no one told me he ended up at the hospital because of Draco Malfoy until this morning when he was discharged and showed up at the Burrow.”

Hermione nearly reeled back, feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of her. “I... I.. I’m not sure why –”

“I’ve always tried to remain supportive of you,” Molly continued, plowing right over Hermione’s spluttering words, “I’ve accepted you as a member of our family. I had hoped to add you as my daughter, you know that, but when you told us of your engagement to Draco, I accepted it and supported you in your decision. I have stepped in and taken on a maternal role in your life because I always assumed I would, and it was second nature to do so. But I cannot fathom, and cannot accept, how you let Draco treat Ronald last night. And I’d like an explanation.”

Hermione gaped at Molly from across the small living room, her body beginning to shake as her mind raced with conflicting thoughts.

Please don’t...

It wasn’t my fault...

Ginny was there too...

Ron attacked and embarrassed me first...

I should have done more to protect him...

I should have stopped Draco....

It’s just no one has ever... put me first...

Please don’t be angry...

I can’t lose you too, Molly...

But she couldn’t seem to find her voice as she stared at Molly, her eyes suddenly filling with tears, feeling as if she was being reprimanded and thrown under the bus. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the indignant, defensive witch inside of her was railing at the fact that Ron had clearly only told his mother half of the story, had clearly made himself out to be a victim, had made Draco out to be the attacker and instigator, and that Hermione had witnessed it and simply stood by and watched.

She stood mute, motionless, as the only mother she had left looked at her with disappointment. Frustration.

Disillusionment.

It was the disillusionment all over Molly’s face that broke Hermione’s heart, the realization that Molly had expected more from her, had expected her to be a better friend to Ron, had expected her to continue putting Ron on a pedestal over everyone else, even over Draco who was her fiancé. But the disillusionment went beyond what had happened last night.

She’d expected me to marry Ron one day. They all I did. We all I did. Even I did.

“Hermione?” Molly demanded, her hands clenching at her sides. “Anything at all to say?”

Hermione’s mouth opened and closed repeatedly as she tried to explain her side, but all she could muster was silence. She hated feeling this way. Hated feeling like she had failed one of the only people she felt still remained on her side, one of the only people she felt was still family, still accepted her as part of the family, especially as and even though she was no longer in a romantic relationship with Ron.

“I cannot believe that after over 17 years of devoted friendship, of facing a war together, of loving each other as adults for over ten years, even if it was painful and spread out over questionable periods of commitment and musings for the future, that you would have stood by and let someone – anyone, but especially Draco! – hurt him like he was hurt last night, to the point where he had to spend the night in the hospital!” Molly exclaimed, the hurt in her voice evident and crushing.

Hermione let out a sob, the guilt coursing through her veins like venom, irreparably leaving behind a stain through her every cell.

“I see you have no defense then,” Molly accused quietly.

Hermione shook her head, her throat covered in sawdust, her emotions too high to even think straight. Why hadn’t she defended Ron? Why did she let Draco get so violent?

I was so caught up in being someone’s priority that I reveled in it.

With a deep sigh, Molly turned away, taking a handful of floo powder and stepping into the fireplace. She cast one more sorrowful look in Hermione’s direction.

“I expected more from you,” she whispered, regret in her voice as she floo’ed away.

Hermione’s heart shattered, her hand flying to cover her mouth as another sob tore out of her throat.

What have I done?

Had she been so enamored at the mere idea of being defended so chivalrously that she’d lost all sense of reality? All sense of what was important?

Hermione quickly wiped the tears from her face as she felt her breathing rapidly quicken, her heart suddenly feeling as if it had to beat that much harder to pump enough blood into her body. She knew immediately she was having an impending panic attack. She sat down in the very spot where she stood on the hardwood floor, her legs curved up, her arms wrapping around her knees, trying desperately to inhale as deeply as she could, but it wasn’t enough; it never was. She felt herself gasping uncontrollably, trying to take in enough oxygen.

Her brain was swimming with the same repeated images: the disappointment on Molly’s face. I expected more from you. Draco’s fist connecting with Ron’s face. The blood that had poured from his nose. The teeth he’d spat out. I expected more from you. Draco’s thumb rubbing over her knuckles reassuringly. Ron’s anger as he screamed at her in the restaurant. Molly’s fists clenching. I expected more from you. Ron’s steel grip on her upper arms as he shook her. The disillusionment on Molly’s face. Draco slamming Ron against the wall by the throat. I expected more from you.

I expected more from me, too.

Hermione didn’t know how long she sat on the floor, her forehead falling on her arms, still wrapped around her knees, still trying desperately to breathe slower, breathe deeper, but failing. She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t think clearly.

I have no one.

I am alone. Maybe I always have been.

As if on cue, through her heaving puffs of air, she thought she heard the floo activate again.

“Mione?”

Harry.

Harry was calling her name as he moved through her house, hadn’t looked down at the floor in the living room.

“Granger? What are you -?”

Draco.

There was a pause as Draco took in the sight before him, his heart somehow both simultaneously sinking in his chest and leaping into his throat. He could hear her gasping breaths, could recognize the struggling, desperate noise as her lungs tried and failed to suck in more oxygen. He carefully made his way over to her, gingerly folding his tall body to sit cross legged beside her, his eyes trained on her, fighting to keep himself cool and collected.

He thought for a moment before he spoke.

“Do you remember,” he began quietly, “the year Madame Pince removed the copies of Hogwarts: A History from the Hogwarts library?”

Granger’s trembling form stopped rocking. “Yes,” she gasped quietly, “second year.”

“Do you remember why?” he pressed. He could see the slight nodding of her head against her knees.

“Because... too many students... were interested... in reading it... because the... chamber of secrets... had been opened...” she mumbled between her quick breaths.

Draco heard a sudden sharp gasp and his eyes shot up, focusing on Potter in the doorway to the living room, wide-eyed, making to move quickly to Granger. Draco immediately held up his hand. Potter stayed in place, his eyes flying between the two figures on the floor, unsure what to do: he wanted to ignore Draco’s command, wanted to go to his friend, sure he knew what was best for her. But taking in Draco’s calm demeanor, he relented and watched like a hawk from a distance, his body tensed and poised to lunge forward if Draco fucked this up.

“Right,” Draco murmured to Granger, “there was also a rare first edition in one of the library annexes, did you know?”

Granger turned her face to look at him then, taking in his placidity, letting it wash over her like a wave of comfort, her head still on her knees as she nodded. “It was read-only,” she mumbled, “you couldn’t... borrow it...” she took in a deep breath urgently, “the original... handwritten manuscript... was also there... but you could only... read it by appointment... otherwise you could... only see it from... a distance...”

Draco gave her a small amused smirk and nodded, his hand coming up to gently rub her back. You really already know everything, swot. “Yes. Did you ever get to read that one?”

Granger nodded again, closing her eyes, still focused on her breathing. “It was... beautiful...the cover was... so ornate...”

“Tell me some of your favorite facts that you learned from it,” Draco encouraged her quietly, “something about the Great Hall ceiling, I remember you saying?”

Granger nodded again, her deep velvety eyes focusing on his. “It was... bewitched... to look like... the night sky...”

Draco nodded once. “What else?”

“Muggles... can’t see Hogwarts... they only see... a dilapidated ruin... with a sign that says... ‘Danger... Do Not Enter...” she wheezed, inhaling sharply.

“... ‘Unsafe,’” Draco finished for her, his hand moving up to her hair, tenderly raking through her curls.

She nodded again, taking a few more calming breaths, trying to recall more facts to recite, Draco’s distraction doing its job as he intended. “Electronic devices... don’t work on the grounds,” she continued, her voice taking on the know-it-all tone Draco had come to know from years of sharing classes with her. Stifling a small smile, he watched her breathing carefully as she continued, “Boys aren’t allowed... in the girl dorms... the stairs turn... into slides...” she paused, seeming to think, wracking her memory, “and in 1796... during the Triwizard Tournament... a cockatrice went on a rampage... and the Heads of all three... participating schools were hurt.”

“1792,” Draco corrected delicately. “The Triwizard Tournament of 1792.”

Granger raised her head in surprise. “You’re right. How did you know that? Did you... you read Hogwarts: A History?”

“Never mind that. What’s a cockatrice, Granger?” Draco continued soothingly.

She raised her eyebrows. “Why ask... any of this if... you’ve read the book?”

Draco dropped his eyes to the floor and waited several beats in silence before responding. “For the same reason you brought up Hagrid’s bloody chicken who tried to kill me when you found me in the gazebo all those weeks ago,” he finally admitted, the tenderness in his voice hitting her somewhere in the deepest part of her heart.

He reached for her hand, tentatively rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. “Touch helps when they happen, yes?” he confirmed in a hushed tone, echoing her same posed question from his own panic attack she had born witness to on the very first day they’d agreed to this marriage of convenience.

Her eyes traced his thumb movement, her heart skipping a beat at the familiar action, her breath hitching for a different reason, one she couldn’t quite name and yet felt in her bones. “Yes,” she whispered, raising her gaze to meet his, finding it already trained on her face.

“A cockatrice,” she murmured, “is a destructive mythological creature. It resembles a two-legged dragon, with a lizard’s tail, and a rooster’s head.”

Her breath had regulated, but their eyes continued to hold each other’s stare. “How many times have you read it? Hogwarts: A History?”

Draco held his breath, his eyes still searching hers, refusing to break the trance, refusing to be the one to cut the tension between them when for fuck’s sake, it felt so good. “Multiple times,” he admitted carefully.

He’d often followed the lines of her face with his eyes in weeks past, as if familiarizing himself with them, but before he knew what he was doing, Draco’s hand raised, his fingertips lightly tracing the delicate outline of her face with the faintest touch, his brain already wired to recognize the direction and angle of the curves before his fingers even moved.

I’ve already memorized her shape. Her face, her hands... her body... she's already burned into me like a brand.

“What happened, Mione?”

Draco’s teeth gritted, ready to lash out at the thought that Potter’s voice had just nearly snapped the string connecting him so intimately to Granger, but it didn’t. She’d barely even registered Potter’s presence, her eyes closing with a small sigh of seeming relief as Draco’s fingers continued their path around her face. “Molly,” was all she said.

Potter’s eyes briefly met Draco’s in mirrored confusion before Draco dropped his own back to Granger, his pointer making its way carefully down the slope of her nose. “Molly? Weasley?” Draco questioned, a note of perplexity in his tone, “what happened with Molly?”

Both Potter and Draco took note of Granger swallowing hard before answering, a tinge of anguish in her voice. “Ron was discharged this morning... he went to the Burrow. Told Molly what happened. She came here and demanded to know why I didn’t defend Ron from Draco, why I let Draco hurt him so badly, why I didn’t show Ron any loyalty,” her voice broke on the last word, and she bit her lip to keep down the sob that rose in her throat, her eyes still closed.

Except that both Potter and Draco recognized it. Draco’s hand on her face immediately froze. “She asked you why you let me do what I did?”

Potter stared at Hermione, wide-eyed, incredulous. “Molly said that to you? Molly Weasley?”

It was several seconds before Granger sniffled, obviously trying desperately hard to keep her composure poised, tugging at the frayed edges of her emotions, wanting to hold them in place. “I want my mother,” she whispered, the heartbreak and grief so raw, so poignant and sharp in her voice, the threat of tears so loud and so real, that Draco lunged forward without a thought and pulled her into his lap wordlessly, allowing her to bury her face into his neck, his hand snaking through her hair comfortingly.

When he raised his eyes to Harry’s, the fury was real, and Harry understood: Draco wasn’t speaking, not because he had nothing to say, but because he had too much to say; he wanted to rage, he wanted to break, he wanted to destroy, he wanted to hurt, he wanted to lash out, he wanted to tear apart the world because she was hurting. And it was in that moment that Harry knew he was done fighting this... this... thing between Draco and Hermione. Whatever it was, whatever the reasons for it, whatever the story was behind it all, Harry would relent and leave it alone. It was none of his business, Hermione was a grown woman, and Harry knew she would be safe and cared for in a way he couldn’t provide for her. It felt like a weight off of his own shoulders, having never felt like he was doing an adequate job as her friend, realizing that while he could have always done more, he saw and accepted that Draco would always do more. Somehow, he was sure of it. And Hermione deserved someone who would do that for her.

She deserves someone to love her like that.

“Granger,” Draco murmured in her ear, “why don’t you get in a warm bath for a bit? Potter and I have to go take care of something.”

“Take care of what?” she asked quietly, “I don’t want you going to the Burrow and getting involved. It’ll only make it worse.”

“The Weasleys are your family, yes?” Draco responded, his voice low and calm, a caress, “your only family. I won’t sit back and let that fall apart because someone is telling half-truths and victimizing himself. I don’t care if they don’t like me; I’m used to not being liked. Molly bloody Weasley could despise me for all time, and I’ll get on perfectly fine with my life. But I won’t sit back and let you lose the only people you have left until I’m satisfied that they have all the information, and you and I and even Potter know Weaselbee did not give Mummy all the information.”

Granger had stilled in his arms as he spoke, the low, calming timbre of his voice vibrating through her cheek into her body like a healing balm. Draco could feel the exhaustion in her: not just the day’s exhaustion, but years’ worth of exhaustion, wrought from carefully balancing multiple trays on her own, fervently trying to hold on to everything all at once without dropping anything, without failing anyone. Always having something to prove. And he understood in that moment that she was letting go, letting him carry some of her burdens, and doing so without fear, without apprehension. She was trusting him to care for her.

It made his heart ache, wishing down to the marrow of his very bones that he deserved her trust, that he deserved her willingness to depend on him, on someone other than herself; but he couldn’t help the tiny voice in the back of his head, reminding him that this was temporary. This was a contract.

We are a business. She is a business.

And he decided then and there, in that moment, with Granger wrapped around him, that while all of that was true, he would vow to be what she needed him to be for the three years he had agreed to be her husband. He wouldn’t hold back his desire to maintain her, to guard her and care for her. It felt like the least he could do after all these years. Maybe it would help him atone for all he’d done, all he hadn’t done. And if anything, if he treated her well, he could teach her what she did deserve, she could learn what she should expect in the future, that she should expect nothing less than the best when she found the lucky bastard who would become her forever.

Because he certainly could never deserve her, would never become her forever. And he was steady in his acceptance of that.

He carefully stood from the floor, placing her down delicately as if she were made of glass, his fingers on her chin gently raising her face to his. “It’ll only be a few minutes. I’ll come back. If you want me to of course,” he added hastily.

She nodded quickly.

“Good,” he smirked lightly, his fingers still on her chin, “because when I get back, we’re binning your preposterous excuse for a mobile phone like I promised you yesterday. No Nokias for the Golden Girl on my watch. You’ll be calling and texting assertively and elegantly on an iPhone 3G by this afternoon.”

His eyes caught the movement of her mouth, stifling a grin. “Fine,” she accepted in a dignified tone, “only if you insist.”

“Oh, I most certainly do.” He hesitantly let go of her chin before he tentatively, silkily ran the back of his hand down her cheek, watching a shiver make its way down her body, the heat in his blood rising in response, before he dropped his hand completely. With a final gaze up at him, an unreadable look in her endlessly dark eyes, Granger walked to the restroom. He heard the bathtub begin to fill a few seconds later.

The moment he heard the rush of water, he snapped his eyes to Potter. “The Burrow. Are you coming?” he demanded gruffly, the displeasure in his very being abundantly clear.

“I’ll go, but only if you want me to,” Potter responded, an air of deference in his tone to Draco’s surprise, “I think you could handle it on your own, but I am willing to come along and back you up if you’d like.”

“There are very few places on Earth I enjoy going to less than the Burrow,” Draco aggressively retorted with distaste, “and believe me when I say, there are also very few people on Earth I enjoy spending time with less than you. But I acknowledge that your presence might be beneficial since you are a bloody King Midas in the eyes of Molly Weasley, so yes, I’d like you to be there when I inform her that her youngest son is an absolute fucking wanker.”

Rolling his eyes, Potter reached for the floo powder as they both stepped into the fireplace. “Why, yes, Malfoy, I’d be happy to accompany you. Thank you for asking me so nicely. The Burrow!” he confidently declared, flinging down the powder before Draco could respond with a snide remark.

The moment they landed, Draco charged out of the Weasley fireplace, only momentarily looking around the messy abode down his straight, aristocratic nose, a look of disdain crossing his features before Potter grabbed his sleeve. “You can’t just waltz into someone else’s house without announcing yourself, Malfoy. Aside from the fact that it’s rude as hell, you’re not exactly beloved here. Molly!” he called.

The moment Molly responded, Draco followed the sound of her voice into the kitchen, standing tall and dignified with his hands behind his back. “You’re on,” Potter whispered, standing several feet behind him.

Molly turned, a smile on her face. Draco watched as it slowly fell, her eyes going from Draco to Harry and back, the seriousness of the situation dawning on her. “Draco,” she said politely, “what brings you here today?”

“Mrs. Weasley,” he replied confidently, “I think you know why I’m here. Imagine my surprise when I arrived at Granger’s house a bit ago and found her having a debilitating panic attack, sitting, rocking back and forth on the floor of her living room, only to come and find out it was because of a visit from you just a few moments before.”

Molly’s face paled. “A panic attack?”

Draco plowed on, his face impassive. “Mrs. Weasley, I understand you don’t like me. Very few people do. And even less people understand why Granger chose to be with me. That shouldn’t matter. However, I can tell you exactly why she chose not to be with your youngest son, and it has nothing to do with me. Your son has been stringing her along for ten years, and if you search down deep within yourself, you know it to be true. He has promised her endless happily ever afters since he was a teenager and has delivered on none of them. He has left her numerous times to ‘find himself’ only to 'find himself' photographed in compromising positions with other witches. She has turned a blind eye to all of his shortcomings and has continued to lower her self-worth to accommodate him. He has never elevated her, never supported her unless it suited his own ambitions.”

Draco paused, letting his words seep into Molly’s consciousness, watching her face flush with both indignation and embarrassment as his words rang true.

“I understand your desire and your innate need to protect your son. My mother has the same for me. I have witnessed it firsthand. But at some point, you must also cease ignoring his bad decisions. I did what I did to your son last night because he put his hands on Granger in a way I found to be inappropriate. He walked into a restaurant and proceeded to raise his voice at her in agitation, and when he managed to get her alone in a private space, he gripped and shook her by the upper arms so tightly that he left finger-shaped purple bruises on her skin. I walked in during that moment at the beckoning of your own daughter, Ginevra, and yes, I reacted in Granger's defense. I held your son by his throat and threatened his life, and before I released him, I knocked several teeth out.” Again, Draco paused, letting his matter of fact words sink in, watching the defensive anger cross Molly’s face.

“I did what I did in defense of a woman who has no one to defend her even though she has considered herself a part of this family since she was a schoolgirl, and especially since losing her parents. I did what I did in her name the same way you did what you did in your son’s name. But frankly, Mrs. Weasley, I find your actions this morning to have been unfair. You have told Granger multiple times she is a daughter to you, and she has believed that to be true and has been grateful to feel a sense of belonging. Hell, she had you go wedding dress shopping with her. But with your confrontation, you have let her know she is second tier to your biological children. And that may be a natural line to draw, but you must be aware that it hurt her deeply, because she finds herself feeling alone and alienated again through no fault of her own but through the fault of your son who has once again victimized himself at her cost.”

The more Draco spoke, the more deflated and paler Molly became, her entire being seemingly shrinking in on herself. And at that moment, there was a slight movement in the shadowed corner in the corridor: Draco’s trained Death Eater gaze immediately flew up, zeroing in and resting on the Weasel, lurking and listening with an unreadable expression on his face.

Draco sneered in his direction. “No worries, Weaselbee,” he spat, “I’m only here to set the record straight with Mummy since you oh so thoughtfully left out some key details as to why you spent the night sucking down Skele-Gro like it was chocolate milk at St. Mungo’s.” He arched an eyebrow. “I suspect all your teeth have grown back. Your nose looks to be in order.” His gaze landed back on Molly. “However, the damage done to Granger is invisible. I’ll do all I can, but I think she’ll need more support besides mine to mend it. Please...” his breath caught, his own sudden emotion surprising him, “please don’t abandon her.” Draco paused, swallowing hard, his eyes briefly dropping to the floor to collect himself. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Weasley.”

Draco turned on his heel, having said all he needed to say, absently fretting with the cuffs of his black long-sleeved button-down shirt as he walked back to the fireplace. It was then that he noticed Arthur standing in the doorway to one of bedrooms. He nodded once in Draco’s direction, who reciprocated before taking a handful of floo powder. As he moved to step into the fireplace, he felt a hand on his elbow.

“Thank you,” Potter blurted with no hesitation, his eyes earnest, “thank you for jumping to Hermione’s defense so quickly. Thank you for protecting her. Thank you for putting her first, and for doing what the rest of us never did, but should have been doing. You’re...” his voice trailed off for a moment, “you’re a better man than I thought you were, Malfoy. A better man than I have ever given you credit for.”

He held out his hand.

For a shocking moment, Draco looked down at Potter’s extended hand and was transported to that first night at Hogwarts, standing on the stone steps near the Great Hall. He remembered his 11-year-old self, extending his own hand in tentative friendship to a highly scrutinous 11-year-old Potter with narrowed eyes. He could still recall the sting of rejection as Potter declined the handshake.

But today, Draco found himself reaching out, grasping Potter’s hand in his own, the vivid memory of placing a sock on Dobby’s headstone that morning swimming to the forefront of his mind. The image, coupled with the Chosen One’s unexpected admiration and sincere gratitude had Draco suddenly reeling with another growing lump in his throat. It caught him completely by surprise, unable to swallow it down no matter how hard he worked, preventing him from responding, and he simply nodded in acknowledgment of Potter’s words, trying desperately to keep his face stoic.

Moments later, Draco found himself appearing in an explosion of green flames back in Granger’s house. The moment he stepped out of her fireplace, he placed both hands on the mantle, leaning his torso forward until his forehead touched the wood piece, trying to catch his breath and stifle the emotion that had risen within his chest. Slowly, he inhaled and exhaled deeply, composing himself, gathering his bearings, before he walked towards the bathroom and knocked on the door.

“Granger?” he called gently, “I’m back.”

“Come in,” she responded.

His eyes widening in surprise, he cautiously opened the door, his eyes immediately going to Granger’s form in the bathtub. He exhaled in both relief and disappointment to find her completely submerged in bubbles, her head balanced on a folded towel at the edge of the bathtub, her long dark curls in a tall, messy, damp bun on top of her head. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t rein in the small smile that crossed his face.

“How did it go?” she asked timidly.

“Fine,” he responded, “I told Molly how it was. I told her the truth. Your ex was there, listening and eavesdropping like the weasel he is,” he added scornfully.

Granger sighed. “Molly was only doing what felt right and natural to her.”

Draco bristled. “Stop defending people when they hurt you,” he fiercely commanded.

“It’s true, Draco.”

“What about you?!” Draco erupted defiantly, “who the hell is supposed to defend you?! You defend everyone else, you always have – every friend you’ve had has reaped the benefit of having you on their side. But what about you? Who is supposed to defend you while you defend everyone else and let yourself fall short?! Me, that’s who! It feels right and natural to me, so that’s what I’ll do. I’ll defend you; I’ll take care of you. So don’t ask me not to, and don’t expect me to sit back and let people walk all over you, like you always do. You’re infuriating! And that’s a big reason why I can’t stand you! I told you in the beginning that I would call out when people mistreat you or take advantage of you. And that’s what I’m doing. That’s part of our deal. I will continue to see it through.”

Draco took heaving breaths, his eyes locked on Granger’s. Neither one spoke for several minutes. Finally, Granger nodded; he recognized the emotion in her eyes, realized she was too overcome to speak, just as he had been moments ago shaking Potter’s hand. He found himself staring at her face, wanting nothing more than to let her hair down, run his hands through it, hold her face in his hands, and –

The thought terrified him. He swallowed hard, dropping his gaze, his mind reeling. He reached for the door, launching himself out into the corridor before he did something stupid.

“Draco?”

Fuck.

Refusing to turn around, his hand on the doorknob, his other hand gripping the doorframe, he cautiously turned his head to the side.

“Could my new iPhone be black?” she asked quietly. “I don’t like white. It’s too pure. Too angelic. I bet everyone would expect it from me.”

At her words, Draco turned slowly, his eyes meeting hers again.

“Of course. Whatever you want. I thought the same. Black suits you,” he murmured, with a gentle smile, "and it's classic," he added teasingly, the gentleness giving way to arrogance, motioning down to his all-black outfit. “I’ll wait in the living room.”

He gingerly closed the bathroom door behind him, leaning his forehead against it subtly so as not to be detected, quietly taking a deep, shaky breath, trying again to compose himself, to get his emotions under control before he completely lost it.

Anything you want, Granger.

Chapter Text

Two weeks had passed since Granger’s panic attack; since Draco had bought her a new non-pure, non-angelic, black iPhone 3G; since Molly Weasley had begun sending apology notes with Pigwidgeon every two or three days; since Draco had made the silent solemn vow to himself to be what Granger needed him to be for the next three years while still maintaining the cold, distant air of a contractual marriage.

But fuck, if it wasn’t getting harder.

Because while Draco Malfoy had always been a coward, his strength was that he’d always been a man of his word, always believed in loyalty even if it didn’t appear that way to other people looking in. Loyalty had been ingrained in his very being for as long as he could remember, watching Lucius be devoted to Narcissa his entire life. If he had known anything growing up, it was that when he married, whether it be for love or through an arranged marriage predetermined by his parents, Draco had always known he would be devoted to his wife, whoever she would be. And even if he didn’t grow to love her, he would try his best and fake it if necessary. Fake it till you make it.

What he hadn’t counted on was needing to keep his emotions in check. What he hadn’t counted on was not wanting to develop feelings for his wife-to-be, that he would actively be trying to fight it; what he hadn’t foreseen was his marriage having a timeline, an end date. And because he hadn’t foreseen such a thing, he couldn’t prepare for it, couldn’t properly train himself to keep certain things separate. He’d always assumed, even as a child and adolescent, that his marriage would be contractual and not one he chose. He’d always assumed Lucius and Narcissa would have chosen the girl, chosen her family, and that they’d all benefit politically and monetarily. But even if all that had happened, he’d always known he would stay married to his wife and really, the best he could have hoped for in that situation was that feelings would blossom; maybe not love, but something close. And Draco would have tried to encourage it by being the ever-devoted Malfoy husband, trying to make feelings bloom by believing them into existence, by believing them into truth.

Until Granger.

His parents hadn’t chosen her; he had.

For the social benefit of course.

And the revenge. The power and the clout, like I said to her in the lift.

His parents hadn’t written the contract; he had. His parents hadn’t included a fidelity clause; he had. In fact, he'd insisted on it. And why had he insisted on it?

Because I had just fucked her and the thought of her fucking Weasley afterward made me want to vomit.

But I shouldn’t care. Except that I did. I do.

What the fuck was I even thinking?

His parents hadn’t added an expiration date and they never would have; he had. And yet, knowing all of that, he still felt as if he was justified in promising himself that he would care for her the way she should be cared for because never in his existence did he ever think he would witness the Golden Girl herself be so entirely alone. So harmfully selfless with no sense of self preservation. He’d never imagined that she would try to care for everyone around her while neglecting herself. And it pissed him off. As for why it pissed him off, he wasn’t ready to delve into; he had a feeling if he thought about it too long or too hard, he would uncover a realization that he just wasn’t prepared to unearth, and so he ignored it. He told himself he would feel this way about anyone who he thought needed support, but when had he ever been an empath? When had he ever cared about anyone to the point where he would be making secret vows to guard and protect their well-being?

Fucking never, that’s when.

And even if he wouldn’t explore why he made the vow, why it made him angry that she neglected herself to her own detriment and expense, he knew he would never break it. He would protect her and care for her. And he would do it so well that she’d never second guess what she deserved again. She’d be married to him for three years, and if Draco played the card of a good husband right, she would realize the type of man she deserved, and then be able to walk away from their brief union looking for someone who could provide her with what he had, if not more.

Because I’ll be damned if after she’s married to me for three years she goes back to that fucking weasel.

And so now, Draco found himself desperately trying and mostly failing to keep some semblance of distance between himself and his future bride, just six weeks before their wedding, in mid-July, as they both walked confidently down the streets of muggle London.

Because if I don’t keep some distance, the inevitable end will be that much harder. This is just a temporary lesson I’m providing for her. And money of course. And I’ll climb the ranks of society. And that’s it. We’ll let go and move on.

His eyes slid to his right, observing her in the summer heat: her long dark tresses pinned up in a high, curly bun; her olive skin, bare in a white tank top and a long, flowy, white, floral skirt, her feet in white wedges; black sunglasses adorning her face adding a sophisticated effect, and a white purse slung on her shoulder. She looked so effortlessly put together that Draco wondered when that transition had even happened, remembering the girl with the coffee-stained cardigan from several months back.

She was also adorable back then though.

Wait, what? No, she wasn’t.

Ok, yes, she was.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Pull yourself together, Malfoy.

His eyes still on Granger, Draco kept smacking his left shoulder into people seeming to not even be aware of his own body movement, not aware that he wasn’t walking in a straight line, that he kept sliding over. And with every grunt from a passerby unfortunate enough to come crashing into him, Granger would raise her eyebrows in his direction.

“Alright there, Malfoy?” she asked, hiding a smirk as Draco stumbled into a teenager on a skateboard, sending the poor young bloke flying into a light pole.

“People need to watch where they’re going,” was all he grumbled.

“I’m more apt to think you need to watch where you’re going,” she teased lightly, “I’ve come face to face with your inability to keep your eyes forward and your body straight firsthand, remember? All those coffee crashes were your fault.”

Draco shot her a withering glance. “You couldn’t be more incorrect, Granger,” he scoffed, “you keep insisting that you were the victim in those instances, but really, you’re rewriting history. And you’re doing it so often, you actually believe your bull,” he finished with a satisfied smirk, “you’re gaslighting yourself. And you’re trying to gaslight me, but it won’t work.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Hardly. But I’ll let you think whatever you want if it helps you feel better about your status as a klutz.”

He rolled his eyes back. “Where are we going anyway? I feel like we’ve been walking an hour since we apparated into London.”

“It’s been ten minutes,” she pointed out exasperatedly, “and we’re almost there. Just one more block.”

After another couple of minutes walking, Hermione finally opened her arms wide in front of the storefront. “Here we are!”

Draco’s eyes widened. “What – Granger – a tattoo shop? Again? What for? You just got a tattoo a few weeks ago, you want another one? This is what you brought me here for?”

Hermione rolled her eyes a second time. “No, serpent. I brought you here for the same reason that Pansy and Astoria brought me: to give you your power back. To reclaim your identity the way you want. To let go of the past and embrace who you are and who you want to be.”

Draco stared at her blankly before he let his face curl up into a sneer. “You sound like a Hallmark card. Or a fortune cookie. And I can’t decide which is worse. And I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“We’re here for you, half-wit,” Hermione clarified exasperatedly. She reached forward and grasped his left wrist, motioning to his covered forearm. “Wouldn’t it be nice to not feel like you have to wear long sleeves in the dead of summer?”

Draco blanched, pulling his arm away. “No, actually,” he murmured, his eyes holding hers, not a hint of amusement in them. He solemnly straightened his light grey collar, absentmindedly fixing his cufflinks. “There’s something to be said for looking polished, Granger.”

She sighed, casting a long look into the tattoo parlor before facing him again. “I really think this could be transformative for you. Like it was for me. I didn’t even realize how much I was hiding, how much of myself I was holding back all because of the scar I’ve had to bear. Yours might not be a typical scar, but it is a scar; it’s a stain, and you didn’t deserve it and –”

“How the fuck do you know what I deserved back then?” Draco hurled angrily at her, “You didn’t even know me back then, don’t start trying to act like you did. Don’t start trying to go back in time and rewrite history with this too. I don’t need you to be a metaphorical savior for me, Granger.”

She stepped back as if she’d been struck. “I wasn’t trying to be a savior for you,” she clarified quietly, not wanting to make a scene in the middle of the afternoon on a Sunday, “I was trying to encourage you to save yourself. You ultimately are the one making the decision whether to do it or not, Draco,” she added sincerely, “I just brought you here and I’m encouraging you to think about it. I’m encouraging you to change your narrative about yourself.”

Draco shook his head slowly, the fury evident in the rising red of his cheeks. “You can’t even let me just care for you without having to outdo me, can you? Just worry about yourself, Granger. That’s who I want you to worry about for once: yourself. Not me. Not Potter. Not Weaselbee or any of the other weasels. Not your coworkers. Not every fucking child in the United Kingdom. You. I want you to think about yourself. I think about myself all the time, I put myself first all the time, and therefore I know who I am, I know what I deserve, and I don’t need to be saved.”

“I don’t need to be saved either, you prick!” Granger retorted, incensed, her arms crossing defensively over her chest, “And I disagree. You think you know me so well because I’m too selfless. I’ll grant you that. After everything that happened in months passed leading up to what happened a couple of weeks ago, yes, alright? Being selfless has ended up costing me a lot. Pansy and Astoria also made that clear. But let’s get one thing straight.” She stepped forward, coming face to face with Draco, his breath hitching when she lifted her sunglasses to her head, his eyes meeting hers. “I don’t think you need to be saved. I don’t think you need to be reminded of who you are: you’re on a quest to remind the wizarding world of that and you’re doing just fine, after all. But I do think you believe your future is set in stone because of your past; it’s not. You can change it for the better.”

She grabbed his left wrist again. “Cover this fucking thing, Malfoy,” she whispered fervently, “it’s not you. It never was you. You didn’t want it. You keep it as a punishment. I think you’ve punished yourself enough.”

His eyes searched hers, his mind reeling.

And here I thought I had your number when it turns out you had mine, too, Granger.

He pursed his lips before he finally nodded once, his eyes dropping hers before he opened the door to the tattoo parlor. When she squealed excitedly behind him, he couldn’t help the small smirk of amusement that formed on his lips.

He pored over the designs on the walls; looked through books full of tattoos, full of sketches and outlines.

“Do you have an opinion?” he asked her curiously as he flipped through page after page of tattoo designs, his face wrinkled in distaste at all of them.

“No. This is your thing, you have to choose. But it should be all black with enough shading to cover the whole Mark, that way it blends in completely and will be a thing of the past,” she suggested firmly.

The male tattoo artist approached them. “What’s it going to be?” he asked.

Draco clenched his jaw, slamming the book closed. “I don’t like any of these,” he declared haughtily, “I want something unique.”

That tattoo artist nodded. “We’re not too busy today. Why don’t you help me design something and I’ll tell you if it’s doable?”

Draco nodded, looking at Hermione pointedly with an arched eyebrow.

Smothering a grin and nodding in his direction, she edged away towards the door. “I’ll go next door to the coffee shop and come back in a half hour or so.”

She did exactly that. Thirty minutes later, Hermione wandered back into the tattoo parlor finding Draco already in the seat... shirtless. Caught completely off-guard, she openly gaped at his broad shoulders; the smooth planes of his bare chest; the lean, toned abdomen.

“Like what you see Granger?” he insinuated slyly. “You’re not even trying to hide your ogling.”

“Give me a break, Malfoy,” she huffed back, eyes narrowing, “I was just shocked at how much paler you look under these bright lights is all. You should hit the tanning salon next.”

He narrowed his eyes back at her with a sniff and looked away, down at his arm as the tattoo artist continued to work.

Hermione inched closer until she could see the outline of the planned design on Draco’s skin, her eyes widening. “Draco, that’s... that’s a huge tattoo.”

He nodded appreciatively. “I know.”

“He’ll be here most of the day,” the tattoo artist told her, not looking up as he continued working, “if I were you, I’d go find something better to do than sit around and watch this.”

She walked around the both of them, her eyes following the design up Draco’s left arm, around the back of his shoulder where it curved back to the front. “Wow,” she whispered, “that’s going to be one hell of a dragon.”

He grinned. “You’re damn right it is.”

Hermione watched silently for several minutes, keeping an eye on Draco’s face as the tattoo artist worked near his wrist. He remained stone-faced, impassive.

“Will you be okay if I leave for the day and return later near closing time?” she asked him quietly, lightly putting a hand on the cold skin of his free shoulder.

His eyes flew up to her face in surprise. When he saw the concern in the deep, comforting, espresso of her eyes, he looked away quickly, swallowing hard. “Of course, Granger. I’ll be fine.”

“It might get painful,” she murmured timidly.

“What if it does?” he scoffed lightly, waving a hand dismissively at her words, training his gaze on the tattoo. “What would your being here do to alleviate it?”

“Nothing, I suppose,” she admitted quietly, “but you’d know I was here. And sometimes that’s enough.”

Keeping his face turned away from hers, he closed his eyes briefly, scrambling to hang onto anything that would keep him from falling off of the precipice he found himself inching closer and closer to each day. What the precipice was, he didn’t know. But he did know falling hurt.

“I’ll be fine,” he responded gruffly, taking a deep breath to steel himself before he turned to her once more, “in fact, I spoke to my mother earlier today. She was going to invite us over for lunch, but I didn’t commit to anything because I didn’t know how long this planned outing of yours was going to take. If you showed up at the Manor for a bit, I bet she’d be thrilled to see you.”

Hermione nodded, thinking over his suggestion. “That’s not a bad idea,” she finally concurred, “I’d like to see your mother.”

She wouldn’t admit it to Draco, but she desperately craved a mother figure. She couldn’t bring herself to respond to Molly’s apologetic notes with anything but cold, curt replies; she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to move past knowing that Molly had considered her a second-rate daughter even if she couldn’t admit it. And she’d always care for her, always love her; she knew Molly would always reciprocate the sentiment. But what had happened with Ron at Bella Notte was the nail in the coffin on any future with him even after her marriage to Draco dissolved. She’d never again entertain the thought of being with Ron, and therefore, distancing herself a bit from Molly was probably for the best.

Though it hurt. It hurt to lose her parents, it hurt to lose her friends during the war, it hurt to lose Ron, it hurt to lose Molly. But she had to find the strength to build a new support system with the people already around her, the people who bothered to form a protective barrier around her. Harry and Ginny were still predominantly featured, but behind them were Pansy and Astoria, who Hermione had gotten together with several times since they’d gotten their rune tattoos. She never thought she would have befriended the snakes, but she found that they empowered her more than any of her friends from the past ever did.

And she’d be lying, or at least in denial, if she didn’t admit that front and center of that protective barrier was Draco. She didn’t know how it made her feel to admit such a thing, but she recognized the warmth that enveloped her chest and sank all the way down to her core when he did something particularly dependable; when he said something particularly defensive in her name; when the image of his hand around Ron’s throat, slamming him up against the wall creeped into her mind.

That, in itself, was enough.

But if she could have another mother figure, she knew she would jump on it. And maybe Narcissa could be that for her. She wasn’t sure how she’d bring up such a topic, how she could tell the woman that if she was willing to develop a close relationship with her, she’d also be willing. More than willing. Narcissa wasn’t perfect: her past was far from it, and she’d witnessed one of the worst moments of Hermione’s life when she’d been barely 18. But she’d certainly come a long way, and there was a poignancy in that, something to be admired.

Draco nodded, clearly pleased. “Good. She’ll be delighted to see you.” He cleared his throat. “If you wanted to come back after you’re done with her, you could,” his face flushed again, his eyes not meeting hers, “just to check in. Just to see how much time is left...?” he voice trailed up at the end, as if he was posing a question, but attempting to seem nonchalant. 

Was that a teeny bit of hope I detect?

Hermione felt a small smile lift the corners of her mouth just slightly. She reached forward, grasping Draco’s free hand, giving it a squeeze. “I’ll do that.”

He whipped his face to hers. She could see it: the defensiveness. The readiness to bark something mean at her, to keep her at a distance. Before he had a chance to open his mouth, she squeezed his hand again. “I want to,” she whispered, “I want to see the progress of this dragon even if you'll still have a while to go. And I’ll bring you a book from the Manor library, if you’d like. That way if you’re not done you can have a distraction. You know, something familiar to lose yourself in.”

His expression relented, but he didn’t speak as his gaze held hers for several beats before he turned back to his tattoo. “Hug my mother for me, yeah?”

She let go of his hand. “Of course.”

Before she stepped back out to the street, she looked back at him, her breath catching as their eyes locked; he’d been watching her. She gave him a small wave and an encouraging smile before leaving, unsure if the heat she felt came from the blistering summer sun... or something else.

Fifteen minutes later, she found herself landing directly in the fireplace in the main foyer of Malfoy Manor. She dusted herself off as Lola’s tiny frame appeared before her in a curtsy, extending her pretty pink dress out on either side. “Mistress Granger,” her high voice said politely, “shall Lola inform Mistress Narcissa that you are here?”

Hermione sighed. “Yes, please, Lola. But as I’ve said in the past, there’s no need for formalities or curtsies with me –”

“Yes, and as Lola has said in the past, Lola is a free elf with moneys. Lola is here because this is her home and the Malfoys are her family. If you’ll excuse me, Mistress Granger, Lola will tell Mistress Narcissa of your presence. Mistress Narcissa will be most delighted and be here shortly,” Lola insisted, disappearing with a crack.

With a roll of her eyes and a small sigh, Hermione dawdled by the fireplace, wondering if she should simply go find Narcissa herself; after all, Hermione was marrying her son, and she didn’t think Narcissa would care if Hermione walked through the Manor herself. Before she could ponder it too long, Narcissa’s elegant form, wrapped in a sky blue sun dress and matching heels came striding down the hall, a wide smile on her face, her hands extending towards Hermione’s as soon as she was close enough.  

Hermione couldn’t help but smile the moment Narcissa’s hands enveloped her own. “I’m so happy to see you darling,” Narcissa beamed, “Draco seemed uncommitted to lunch with me, but I am thrilled that you have come.”

“I hadn’t even known about it,” Hermione admitted, “but Draco had some business he needed to tend to last minute and he had mentioned your lunch invitation, so I decided to come on my own. I hope that’s all right,” she added timidly.

“It’s more than alright,” Narcissa said with a laugh, “frankly, I had extended the invitation to Draco but I have been looking for ways for you and me to spend more quality time together. This is a lovely surprise. Come, we’ll have lunch in the dining room and catch up a bit, yes?”

Over a traditional Sunday roast lunch consisting of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, vegetables, and horseradish sauce, Hermione found herself talking nonstop about the stress of her work, about the lack of donations coming through from the engagement announcement back in May.

“Darling, have you spoken to Draco about this?” Narcissa asked, wide-eyed, “surely, if he knew, he would front Beacon of HOPE some funds. You are to be his wife next month, and he has always been generous with those he loves.”

Hermione blushed. How can I tell her that her son doesn’t actually love me? How can I tell her this is a business transaction? How can I tell her there’s no point in me bringing up anything when I won’t see a cent until I say those marriage vows?

Instead, she shook her head. “No,” she admitted quietly, “I haven’t spoken to Draco about it.”

“Well, why ever not, dear?”

Flustered, Hermione struggled for a way to respond. “I... I just...” she sighed, “I don’t want Draco to think I’m in this for the money. Because I’m not.”

Because I am. Or... I was. I mean, I am. I am.

“And,” she continued, “part of it is my pride. I just... I’ve managed to keep it afloat on my own for years, and I hate the idea of turning to my wealthy fiancé.”

Narcissa nodded, taking a small sip of wine. “Well, your fiancé’s family is also wealthy,” she pointed out crisply, “and I shall give you funds. Immediately. Today.”

Hermione stared at her, choking on her own wine with several hard coughs before gathering her bearings to respond. “What?! No, no, no, please. Narcissa, that’s not why I’m here, that’s not why I came, and I couldn’t stand for you to think such a thing about me, I—”

Narcissa waved her hand dismissively, much in the way Draco had at the tattoo parlor; the similarity in the movement took Hermione’s breath away for a split second before Narcissa spoke. “Nonsense,” she responded lightly, “I never thought that was why you came. And if it had been, I wouldn’t care.” She reached forward, grasping Hermione’s hand in both of her own. “You are to be my daughter in a few weeks’ time. And our family has been fortunate enough to never want for a thing. That extends to you now.” She seemed to ponder for all of five seconds before she continued, “I’ll fund you through to the end of the year, yes? Through December. Once you’re married to Draco, I’m sure the rest of the promised donations will come through, as wedding gifts if nothing else.”

“Through – through December?” Hermione squeaked, “I can’t accept. That is much too much money, Narcissa, I couldn’t poss –”

“Darling,” Narcissa responded, arching an eyebrow at her, “even if you were to reject it, I would simply send an anonymous donation tomorrow morning at my earliest convenience and you wouldn’t be able to turn it down because you’d have nowhere to send the money back. Enough. You’re accepting the money. Before you walk out of here, I will speak to our financial advisor and have him deal with transferring the gold from our vault at Gringotts to HOPE. And that’s that. No more arguments.”

After their hearty lunch, Narcissa and Hermione walked to the library where Hermione happily took a collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s works for Draco, something his mother mentioned he read often. They then took a stroll from the gazebo of Gentle Hermione roses through the archway to the traditional rose garden, back farther still to the formal gardens, a comfortable, leisurely chat settling between them. They rounded the property, coming around to the other side to walk around the lake, taking in the views as Narcissa shared stories about Draco chasing the three albino peacocks as a little boy only to be chased back several times growing up as Hermione laughed.

“There’s no love lost between Draco and those birds,” Narcissa said with a smile, “even to this day, there seems to be a mutual agreement that they stay away from him and he stays away from them whenever possible.”

As they strolled relaxedly to the apparition point past the front gates, Narcissa suddenly turned to Hermione, placing her hands on her shoulders.

“I didn’t want to bring up what happened with Molly because you didn’t mention it yourself,” Narcissa told her in a regal, yet soft tone. Noticing how Hermione swallowed hard, trying to keep her emotions in check, Narcissa continued, “I won’t speak ill of your chosen family. I think sometimes emotions run high and we speak too quickly, too impulsively. And from the bit I’ve learned about Molly since the engagement, I have to believe that that is what happened. She jumped in defense of her son. It doesn’t make what she did ok, Hermione,” she continued, her hands lovingly brushing down Hermione’s arms, “and I would never ask you to forgive and forget. Only you can decide who deserves such a gift. I only encourage you to remember that you’ve always cared for the Weasleys as they’ve always cared for you. And if you feel you no longer have a place with them, that is entirely your decision. But you will always have a place here with us.”

Hermione sucked in a deep breath, the emotion clear as her eyes brimmed with tears.

“Lucius and I consider ourselves very fortunate to be gaining you as a daughter next month,” she continued, “and I will be whatever you want me to be. If you’d rather I be an aloof, distant mother-in-law, I will do that. If you’d rather I be a warm, friendly mother-in-law who keeps her distance, I will do that. If you need another maternal figure, I will be that. But no matter what kind of relationship you’d like with me, and no matter what kind of relationship you’d like with Molly going forward, let me remind you of one thing: it’s not a bad thing to know your worth. It’s not a bad thing to tastefully remind people that it’s a privilege to have you in their lives. We always hope people will realize it on their own, but if they don’t, you can certainly prompt them to remember.”

Narcissa embraced her, and Hermione found herself wrapping her arms around her tightly, feeling a new sense of belonging that she never would have expected standing on the grounds of the Malfoy estate with a woman who couldn’t have thought less of her just over ten years ago. And yet, somehow, the past didn’t matter, because the woman standing before her now was not the same woman from the past just as Hermione was no longer the same girl whose arm had been carved into. They had both changed and evolved with a new understanding between them.

Hermione squeezed Narcissa’s hand a final time before turning towards the apparition point to head back to muggle London. Before she could turn and disapparate, Narcissa spoke up again.

“One more thing, darling. You’re to become a Malfoy. Infuse yourself with the knowledge that you deserve more than you’ve been allowing for yourself. The woman you’ve been for several years has always accepted less. But you’ve been outgrowing that woman, and you certainly will outgrow her by the time you marry my son. That version of you kept you alive since you were a girl; that version of you did the best she could by putting herself last and putting everyone else first. But now? Demand more. Become the woman who demands more because she deserves it. It’s a beautiful thing, darling. Embrace her.”

Hermione felt a warmth blooming in her chest as she gazed at Narcissa.

“You are still not who I thought you were, Lady Malfoy,” she murmured quietly, a smile on her face as she echoed the words she’d said months back. “And it’s still quite remarkable.”

Chapter Text

“That simply won’t do.”

Draco tore his eyes away from Granger, sitting across from him to his mother’s left in the formal dining room. Lucius sat at the head of the table, holding a gold goblet filled with Black Dragon wine in his hand conversationally, regarding Granger seriously, definitively shaking his head. With his cleanly pressed dark green dress robes and his long thick blonde hair tied back with a matching green ribbon, Lucius was still the picture-perfect walking example of traditional wizard pomp with an air of vanity.  

“I sincerely hope you won’t let them get away with such a thing,” he scoffed, taking a sip of his wine, his eyebrow lifting judgmentally in Granger’s direction.

Draco’s eyes flitted to Granger admiringly as she took Lucius’ expression in stride and sipped from her own gold goblet. “I know, Lord Malfoy,” she responded earnestly in agreement, “I definitely can’t let them get away with it. It’s so hard to manage things in other areas of Britain while I only have the one office here in London. This issue with this particular hospital in Scotland is just too much. It’s been happening for years, but it’s become a daily occurrence for the surviving children and families of the area there.”

As Lucius swallowed his sip of wine, he waved his hand in the air. “Please, no Lord anything,” he admonished quickly with a slight eye roll, “Lucius. I do hope we’re on a first-name basis at this point. But as I was saying, do they not know that these children need their services? They cannot keep denying these children repeatedly and requiring a handwritten letter from you to override their decision, especially if you’ve already rendered them payment,” he continued, a hint of frustrated disgust in his tone, rhetorically griping with a shake of his head, “You must prioritize opening offices all over Britain. It is simply too much work for one person. You are human, after all. And that way, this can be the Scottish office’s problem, and you can oversee simply what happens in England.”

Draco met Narcissa’s eyes in amusement. Narcissa let a small smirk cross her face as she took a bite of her beef bourguignon, her own gaze traveling from her husband to Granger and back. Clearly, both mother and son found such an amiable conversation between an infamous former Death Eater and the Golden Girl intriguingly entertaining because, really, who could have ever predicted such a thing? Draco gave a small, bewildered shake of his head, staying silent as he watched the conversation unfold.

“Well, I’d still oversee what happens everywhere, not just in England,” Granger responded self-assuredly, “but yes, I would only touch base with the new offices. Maybe travel to each one once a month or so just to make sure everything is in order.”

Lucius nodded approvingly. “Yes. As you should. You still should remain at the helm. Don’t let anyone try to take the reins fully. Only give the impression you relinquish power while you still maintain it. Let them manage locally. Like we did with the colonies.”

“The colonies?” Granger said with a laugh, “You mean the States?”

“Tomato, toe-mah-toe.” She and Lucius both snickered good-naturedly.

Draco’s eyes widened gazing between the two of them.

What kind of twisted fucking twilight zone am I in tonight? My father and Granger laughing together?

The exchange between Lucius and Granger only made the softening he had been feeling in his heart over the last several weeks slacken even further. As he continued to eat his meal, his eyes traveled over Granger’s form in her seat at the mahogany table: her simple scoop-necked, knee length black dress, her cheeks faintly flushed with the mild effects of the wine in her goblet, her lips rosy and pink, her long dark curls cascading around her shoulders, glinting in the light of the gold candelabras and diamond chandeliers, the fine, graceful bone structure of her very hands – it all was suddenly too much, it all suddenly hit him too hard and all at once.

It was in that moment, he knew. He was fucked.

When Narcissa nonchalantly commented that her wine goblet was empty, Hermione’s dark eyes went to Draco as he stood, without pretense, without a second thought, heading for the wine bottle that Lola had left on the sideboard at the start of the meal. Her breath caught as he relaxedly brought the bottle around the dining table and poured his mother more wine, taking the time to refill Hermione’s own and Lucius’ before taking his seat again.

It was such a simple action. Such a basic behavior. A typical thing for anyone to do, a completely normal thing.

Anyone but a Malfoy, that is.

But the thing that struck Hermione even more was the lack of reaction from both of Draco’s parents. In fact, they’d both thanked him. She was sure that even just ten years ago, Draco would have never risen from his seat to perform what would have been deemed servants’ work. House elf work. And certainly, if he had, his parents, particularly Lucius, would have bellowed at him in horror to sit back down and summon Lola to come serve them.

And in watching such a simple interaction, Hermione was struck with the idea that the Malfoys really had changed. She had already known Narcissa had a healthy amount of self-awareness about her own journey towards redeeming herself, but Lucius had remained a bit of a question mark; Narcissa had insisted that her husband was different, and while Hermione had seen small sparks of his change, occasionally he would still make a face, or say something snide that made it clear he wasn’t quite as sincere as Narcissa was. At least, maybe not all the time.

But it was then, when neither Lucius nor Narcissa even blinked in Draco’s direction as he poured them wine, when the act was seemingly a non-event for the three of them, as it would have been in her own home with her own parents, that Hermione realized the change was real. Not only was it real, it was so real that it had become innate to the three of them, so real that she could see herself, shockingly, fitting in with them; maybe not seamlessly, not yet, but even that could happen over time, particularly with Lucius. Maybe even within the three year time constraints of her upcoming marriage to Draco.

And as she watched Draco round the table and take his seat again in his all-black ensemble, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his silver rings glinting, his new dragon tattoo partially visible, climbing his left arm, it hit her.

She knew. She was fucked.

An hour later, she and Draco walked around the lake on the Malfoy estate beneath the stars. She found herself nervously eyeing him beside her, found herself hyper aware of the rolling flutters in her belly. Pull it together. It’s just Malfoy. It’s just Draco. The enemy.

But even as the words crossed her mind, they were half-hearted. There was no fire in them. Draco hadn’t been her enemy, not for a long time.

I hate him.

Except I don’t.

Half-hearted. Untrue. Convincing no one, not even herself.

“Was there something you wanted to talk about?” she asked him quietly, the humid heat of the early August night around them. She glanced at him again, her breath catching. Had he always looked like this in the moonlight? As if he had been created, formed, and grown from the moon’s very essence? Everything about him radiated luminosity. His black button down shirt, matching trousers, and matching dress shoes only made the contrast that much starker. All the black blended in with the night around them, except his very self: his skin, so fair it glowed like alabaster; his eyes as light grey as a cloudy winter sky absorbed the moonlight reflected in the water, melting into molten silver; his perfectly tousled light hair so platinum it shone nearly as white as the moon and stars themselves.

Everything about him was celestial.

Hermione momentarily forgot to breathe.

“I...” Draco responded quietly, walking with his arms behind his back. He desperately wracked his brain. Think of something. Something to keep her here a little while longer.

“The wedding,” he stammered, keeping his eyes on the ground before him, “the wedding is three weeks from today.”

Granger nodded slowly. “Yes. What about it?”

Oh. Right.

“I...” again, Draco wracked his brain. Bloody hell.

I know nothing about this wedding, let alone enough to engage with her or anyone else about anything surrounding it.

He made the fatal mistake of looking at her.

She is so fucking beautiful.

The thought caught him off-guard even though he had thought it the moment she’d walked through the gates of the Manor that evening. He had brushed it away before it even finished formulating in his brain, too afraid to let it grab hold of him. Too afraid that once he thought it, he would never be able to un-think it.

He stopped in his tracks, his gaze remaining on her face, illuminated radiantly beneath the moon.

Following his lead, she stopped, hooking a stray curl behind her ear, meeting his gaze expectantly.

Her teeth caught the corner of her bottom lip.

His eyes tracked the movement as his very insides burned to cinders, burned to ash at the visual of that gods damned lip.

He didn’t allow himself the time to think it over. He didn’t allow himself the time to process his options for his next move. He didn’t allow himself the time to contemplate what he should or shouldn’t do: he knew that if he did, he would stop himself from doing what he did next.

And he didn’t want to stop himself.

He wanted to just fucking do it.

He took a step closer to her, licking his own lips. Watching her dark eyes move to his mouth. Those dark eyes that had been ingrained in the deepest recesses of his memory since he’d been just a boy, the memory only coming to him as he had watched her months ago from the safe distance of his private office at Black Dragon Wines.

Maybe that was the first clue. Because why would the exact shade of Granger’s eyes stick with him since his childhood? Why did such a thing matter?

Maybe it didn’t.

But again, he wasn’t going to stop and overthink.

He took another step, closing the distance between them. The memory of that first smoldering kiss when Draco had accidentally shown up at her door before her planned date with Weasley weeks ago reared back and slammed into him like a tidal wave. All their encounters had been the same: hot, yes. But bruising. Violent. Incandescent. Explosive. Infused with years of old hatred and resentment, even.

But this time, the beat of his heart pounded in his ears, so loud he was certain Granger could hear it. His eyes watched her reaction, mesmerized, as his right hand tentatively came up and cupped her cheek, his long fingers curling around her ear, his fingertips grazing the silk of her hair. His gaze moved over her face delicately, as if being in his line of sight was enough to endanger her, enough to pose a threat to her, because maybe it was. Maybe for someone like him, with his past, to touch someone like her so intimately, so tenderly, it would ultimately lead to her destruction. It certainly made sense to him in the moment, but he stifled the thought as his gaze traveled. He started with her cheekbones before descending to her jawline, drinking in every line of her face, every tiny freckle, every eyelash, before he then raised his eyes to find hers staring at him, wide-eyed.

But she didn’t move. She didn’t back up. She didn’t hit him. She didn’t shove him away.

His left arm hooked around her waist, gently pulling her towards him until they stood flush against one another.

His eyes dropped to her lips, half-parted, feeling her warm breath fanning across his skin. He licked his lips again.

“Yes?” he whispered, the word so soft the summer breeze nearly snatched it away.

Always. He’d always ask first. He had to be certain she was sure in these moments when he knew she was way out of his league. Always.

He felt her inhale. Saw her nearly imperceptible nod.

“Yes.”

“Thank Gods,” he murmured with a soft exhale.

He slowly lowered his face, letting his nose brush against hers, letting his lips faintly touch hers, the breath of a mere whisper, carefully moving his hand from her face into and through that mane of thick curls before settling along the side of her neck, savoring every millisecond that was this moment before he finally applied the gentlest pressure with his mouth onto hers for just a few moments, just long enough to feel his blood heat.

He pulled back a hair’s breadth, his heart beating louder, faster than he thought possible, his breathing louder, faster than he thought possible. Refusing to think yet again, working only off of the ache that swam through his veins at the loss of her mouth, he brought his lips back down to hers. When her arms wound around his neck, pulling him even tighter against her, he was gone.

He fell over the cliff.

He’d been approaching it for a long time, he’d known. He’d been so careful, tried so hard to avoid the edge, but as time had gone on, he was only vaguely aware that he had been getting closer, dangerously closer, afraid because he knew falling hurt. It was a basic lesson that even toddlers learned quickly.

But as he fell, the exhilarating adrenaline made him question if maybe he hadn’t already been falling for a long time, maybe had been in that initial dive over the edge where he just floated for a split second, and only had now begun the weightless free fall.

I am so fucking in love with you.

The only thing left to do was hit the bottom.

And that’s when Draco realized in the back of his mind that the fall wasn’t the frightening part: the fall was exhilarating. The fall gave him a rush: a rush of hope, a rush of joy. The fall was beautiful; it gave him the false sense of flying.

It was the landing that was terrifying. It was the landing that could hurt. And the landing was completely out of his control, completely beyond his capability to maneuver it in his favor. The landing depended entirely on the other person.

On her.

On Granger.

He couldn’t catch himself, after all.

He threw caution to the wind and gave into it. There was nothing he could do at that point. It was done. His lips were already on hers, the realization had already dawned on him, and there was no turning back, no going back. He’d already thought the words, already acknowledged them. He had to own them. They were his words, even if they were only in his head, even if he only thought them silently.

I’m so fucking in love with you.

As the words crossed his mind again, he sank deeper into the kiss. He let his lips move across hers  as if she were made of glass; he used his hand, still gripping the side of her neck, to gently caress the skin below her ear; he used his other hand to draw small circles against the soft material of her dress at her waist; he pulled her as into himself as he possibly could, willing her to feel how she made his heart stutter, willing her to feel how she robbed him of breath, willing her to feel the heat he was sure was radiating from his very being.

Hermione had had the breath knocked out of her lungs the moment his mouth had touched hers. It had almost felt surreal, and yet, it felt like the most natural thing to have happened. The moment the thought came, she let it steep into her mind.

So, this is what it should feel like...

to kiss someone I’m in love with.

And as her lips danced against his beneath the moon, repeatedly giving and taking, applying pressure, then receiving pressure, it slowly dawned on her in the back of her mind that Draco had given her more in the few short months they’d been “fake” together than Ron had given her over the span of ten years. He’d reminded her of what she was worth, of what she deserved; he’d reminded her of her own assertiveness, of her own ambition, of her own refusal to be anything less than the best. And he expected her best; he wouldn’t expect less from her and it made her want to push herself even harder. And he reminded her that she was worth defending, that she was worth being someone’s priority, that even if she put herself last, she still deserved having someone put her first. Which he did.
And Draco didn’t even love her.

And it was that very thought that made her realize the truth in front of her. Draco had been swept up in the moment, that much was obvious. He’d looked at her beneath the moon, beneath the stars, and had been rendered speechless, taking her in his arms under the glamor and romance of nighttime magic. Night was seductive, enchanting. Night made promises that couldn’t be kept with the sunrise.

Like their marriage would be.

Their marriage would be a promise made in the night, a promise broken with the dawn three years later.

Night is all we have.

Because he doesn’t love me.

She had to say the words.

She needed to make this count.

She allowed herself the rapture of being pulled closer, of being enveloped by his body heat. She allowed the tip of her tongue to peek out, to lightly lick the seam of his lips. She felt the small shock flow through his veins at the touch before his lips parted, granting her permission; she parted her own in answer, his tongue pressed deliciously into her mouth, as hers reached into his, gently letting the wet heat feel as if it was being pressed into her very bones, feeling desire radiating down her body, exploding somewhere low in her belly.

I’m so in love with you.

The moment she thought the words, the moment they were emblazoned across her consciousness, she knew them to be true.

And, in a heart-stopping realization at the same exact second, she knew it was over.

Because the realizations went hand in hand. 

Their lips separated just an inch. Hermione kept her eyes closed as they both panted, the delirious, heavy breathing of her mouth against his only matched by his own desperately frantic breaths.

She kept her eyes closed because she couldn’t look him in the eyes as she said it for fear of seeing the breaking her own heart in the reflective pools of steel.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, choking on the words, her very body fighting it, her very mouth not wanting to speak them into the air, into reality.
“I’m so sorry, Draco. I can’t do this anymore.”

Draco stilled in her arms, his heart frozen.

A crash landing, then.

Chapter Text

I should’ve known.

As he gazed down at Granger, her eyes still closed as she said the words, he closed his own in defeat.

I should’ve known.

The ache was real, but he stoically kept his face impassive, unyielding. Just as he’d been trained to do as a boy, just as his father had taught him.

Never let them see a weakness.

Granger couldn’t know she was his weakness.

As her eyes stayed shut, he slowly and undetectably slid up his walls of occlumency, sealing his emotions within his own consciousness. He would let her say what she needed to say, let her do what she needed to do without influence, without seeing the emotion in his eyes.

Because she was finally doing something for herself for once. She was finally making a decision with her own best interest in mind. And even if it hurt him, how could he possibly stand in the way of that? How could he say anything that gave her pause, say anything that caused her to doubt herself? He couldn’t. It was the one thing he’d wanted for her because he knew she would never get validation from anyone else. She’d surrounded herself with good-for-nothing Gryffindors who took and took and took from her, and gave her nothing in return. He was giving her the ability to validate herself and it was exactly what she needed.

But the ache was real.

He reminded himself of the one fact he had known his entire life:

I was not meant to have a marriage for love.

It had simply not been his fate. He had always known a marriage would happen for him the way it had happened for every male ancestor before him: on paper. With rules. With amendments. He thought he was avoiding that same fate by choosing his wife himself. No, he hadn’t envisioned himself falling in love with Granger in a million years, but if he was honest with himself, he’d thought faking it until maybe it was a close reality was a possibility because she was someone he’d known, someone who’d known him even at his worst. But even then, love – at least, reciprocated love, sincere love – was not in his cards.

And I was a fool for hoping otherwise, even for just a few minutes.

Her eyes opened and met his, her gaze almost disarming his occlumency walls but he held on tight. He was not taking this away from her. He wouldn’t.

She took a deep, shaky breath. “I think we need to end this.”

He waited for her to continue, his eyes following the sweep of her curls over her shoulders briefly, his hand around her waist not relinquishing his grip, the hand at her neck lightly turning into a supportive caress.

You can do this, Granger.

This would be the first and last time, then.

The first time he held her with love instead of lustful hatred would be the last time. He gritted his teeth, fighting back the urge to hold on tighter and simply waited, his resolve actively working to keep his breathing calm and steady.

“I think we’re getting swept up in what’s around us,” she continued quietly, “the moon, the stars, the night... I’m afraid to do this, Draco. I –” she paused, furrowing her eyebrows as she sought the words, her cheeks flushing, “— if I were to develop real feelings for you, it would be the worst thing that could happen because we have a contract. A contract with an end date three years from now. I can’t...” her voice trailed off, her gaze going first to the ground then slowly back up to his face, “I can’t get so caught up in something that’ll blow up in my face.” She shook her head slowly. “I’ve lost too many people that I’ve loved... my Mum, my Dad. So many friends during the war... Ron... the Weasleys to a certain extent... I thought I could handle a marriage of convenience, but that was because I hated you. If I hated you, the end would be bearable. A relief, even. But if I don’t hate you anymore, and we find ourselves under...” she motioned around exasperatedly, “ ... under... environmental enchantments ... I can’t do it.”

He stayed impassive but played the last card in his hand he was willing to play.

“Even if it costs you Beacon of HOPE?”

She stilled at his words, contemplating. “I never thought I’d say this,” she murmured, before nodding. “Yes. Even if it costs me HOPE. I’ve put HOPE above everything for years. Since its inception. Above even myself. You know that. And I can’t anymore. If I don’t put myself and my well-being first, I won’t be any good to HOPE or to any other endeavor I want to pursue.”

She shook her head definitively. Firmly. “Me. I have to put me first.”

There it was.

As he stood there, he briefly closed his eyes, inhaling slowly. He found his memory transporting him back to the moment he had sat at Dobby’s grave, when he had tearfully admitted that he was glad Potter had freed the tiny house elf, glad that Potter had given him a taste of something Draco himself would likely never have given him. His thoughts from that day echoed in his mind:

Because anything that’s mine, I make sure stays mine.
Even to its own detriment.
Because I’m selfish.
Because apparently the only way I can overcome my innate cowardice is if my self-interest is being leveraged against me.  

“That’s the kind of prick I am, Dobby. I can’t save anyone. I’m completely useless when it comes to doing the right thing, when it comes to choosing the right side. But if it’s something that will work in my own favor, somehow, I find courage. Because I’m self-serving.”

Draco opened his eyes. He wouldn’t do that to her. He wouldn’t let himself.

I won’t take this away from you. Because you’re mine.

What you’ve found for yourself is more important than anything I could ever give you.

And I have never and will never deserve the brilliance that is you.

I’m letting you go. Because you’re mine.

Granger let out a sad, quiet laugh. “I guess this isn’t the best time to become a whole new person, is it?” she murmured, a note of sadness in her tone.

Draco shook his head fervently. “You aren’t becoming someone new. You’re remembering who you were. Who you are. Who you’ve always been.” He reached up, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “And what you deserve.”

And you deserve more. So much more. So much better.

She exhaled deeply. “I’m sorry. I know you’re angry –”

“I’m not.”

“You must be, the wedding is only three weeks away –”

He waved his hand. “I’ll deal with it. Or my mother will.”

She raised her eyes back up to his. “Do you hate me?”

He held her gaze, answering quietly, unable to find the venom to make it believable. “I’ve always hated you. Remember?” His hand dropped from her hair, coming down to her arm, caressing it with the palm of his hand. “You’re right,” he scoffed lightly, “a lot of this is just... glamour. Just a glamour set by the night. You’re doing the right thing, Granger. This way we can move on with our heads firmly in place. I wouldn’t want you to think you’re feeling something for me when you don’t. It’s just an illusion.”

More. Take it further. Don’t make it harder for her. Make it easier. Make it easier for her to say goodbye. Make it easier for her to walk away without looking back.

He set his jaw, narrowed his eyes, forced the sneer. “Though you’re not my favorite person, I wouldn’t want you to hurt at the end of the contract. I should’ve known you couldn’t handle it, of course.”

She swallowed hard, her eyes searching his, staying silent for several beats. And try as he might, gods dammit, try as he might to wrench his eyes away from hers he couldn’t.

Because I’m a selfish prick, as always. And if these are the last moments I get with her, how can I look away? How can I –

“Let me spend the night.”

He blinked. Blinked again.

What?

He kept his face emotionless, sure he misheard her.

But her hands, still at the back of his neck, lightly stroked his skin beneath the collar at the back of his shirt. Their placement had been forgotten until Draco felt the light tugging of her fingers on the hair at the nape of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine.

She leaned her forehead against his. “Let me spend the night,” she repeated.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a request. It was a demand.

Draco’s mouth went dry, his brain nearly short-circuiting. He felt his determination to make it easier for her backsliding.

Gods, everything he wanted was contradictory.

He wanted to throw her to the ground and take her right there. He wanted to yell at her, furious, that she shouldn’t want such a thing. He wanted to grab her and hold her and kiss her until he stole all of the breath from her lungs. He wanted to berate her, to tell her she was being stupid, to tell her she deserved better. He wanted to throw her over his shoulder and lock her up in the Manor, tie her to his bed and never let her out. He wanted to yell at her that he had feelings too, dammit, even if he didn’t want to show them, even if he didn’t want to hold out his cards to her in vulnerability because then she wouldn’t go through with what she needed to do. And doing this, spending the night with him, would go against what she needed to do.

Before he could open his mouth and spit out some vitriol to convince her it would be a careless mistake, she spoke.

“It’s just sex, remember?” she quoted in a whisper, bringing her lips less than in inch from his, “wasn’t that what you said when we added the fidelity clause? We can be adults about this without the fear of getting too close and falling in love.”  Her warm breath skimming his mouth was intoxicating, was making him question everything he was desperately trying to hold onto, everything he was trying do for her. “Because,” she continued, “you can’t stand me and I detest the very air you breathe. Right? Isn’t that what you said that day?”

Draco licked his lips. “Right,” he wheezed.

“Let me spend the night.” Her lips grazed his infinitesimally as she spoke.

His mind went blank, every argument out the window. He nodded, too afraid to speak; too afraid his voice would be nothing but a croak; too afraid the words that came out would betray what he really wanted; too afraid he’d revert back to the coward that was always inside him; too afraid the coward would say something harsh and scornful to push her away when gods dammit he wanted this, needed this, just one night. And then he could say goodbye and let her go.

I am so fucking in love with you.

“Yes?” she asked delicately.

He scoffed, a deep, low laugh escaping his mouth.

“I may despise you, but I still need to hear the word ‘yes’ from these lips, Malfoy,” she murmured teasingly, an echo of the words he’d said to her when he’d had her pushed up against her front door.

Before she had time to catch her breath, he’d pulled her forward by the neck, yanking her by the grip in her hair, angling her mouth perfectly beneath his. “Yes,” he hissed before he fiercely crushed her mouth with his own, nearly gritting his teeth at the mere thought of the pain he was about to put himself through, but deciding instantly it  would be worth it if he had just one chance to hold her and love her when she was his and he was hers without a contract binding them.

One night. He would hoard her to himself for one night.

One night with the woman I’m in love with, to make and savor the memory like the greedy bastard I am for the rest of my life. Then I’ll let her go. I’ll let her move on. I’ll let her find her forever.

Hermione found herself standing in Draco’s bedroom in the Manor a few minutes later after he’d led her down the corridor silently. She’d seen his room before, but had never taken the time to truly look around, had never spent the night. Her eyes took in the luxurious surroundings, dark wood furniture, the supple, plush furnishings in creams and greens – Slytherin green, she thought with a wry smile. They stood illuminated by the moonlight shining through the open double French doors leading out to the white stone terrace, the warm summer breeze perfumed with roses from the garden permeating the air around her.

As her eyes went back to Draco, watching her from across the room, almost as if he were waiting for her to change her mind, she steeled her resolve to not drop her gaze.

I’m so in love with you.

She needed this. Needed to have one night with someone she loved even if he didn’t love her back. He would hold her like he did, she knew that. He would give the illusion that he loved her, still enraptured by the glamour of the moon and the sky and the romance of a summer night.

I’ll hold onto the memory of this night for the rest of my life. Then I’ll let him go. I’ll let him move on. I’ll let him find his forever.

She watched him light the enormous fireplace. Watched him cast the cooling charm so the fire wouldn’t heat the room. Watched him step closer to her. Watched him as his hands tentatively reached towards her, watched as her own hands met his, their fingers intertwining.

It was different. There was no smoldering hatred, no combustible dislike. There was no ire in his eyes. There was no fury, no jealousy, no ulterior motive. It was simple. It was easy.

Her fingers meandered slowly down the line of buttons on his shirt. He shouldered it to the floor, watching as her eyes admired the dance of the firelight across his fair skin, his sectumsempra scars crisscrossing the porcelain landscape notably whiter, slashing from his collarbone down to the V of his hips. Having never paid the scars much attention, Hermione reached out her hands, letting her fingers trace the lines delicately. I see you, her touch seemed to say, I see you.

He watched her, drinking in her face, letting her touch what she wanted, letting her see what she wanted. He slowly stepped around her, gently gathered her long dark hair in his hands, moving it over her left shoulder, his fingers finding the zipper of her black dress, slowly inching it down her back. Once it stopped at her tailbone, she felt his hands smooth the material open, carefully unveiling her shoulders. She heard his breath hitch, making her heart leap, as his long fingers caressed the smooth, bare skin of her back before his lips left a line of small, slow kisses across each shoulder. She let the dress pool at her feet, closing her eyes, relishing the feel of his mouth on her skin, leaning her head back against his shoulder, letting his arms come around her, letting his fingers flatten against the soft plane of her stomach, letting them lightly skim the waistband of her black lace knickers.

If she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was memorizing her. Memorizing the feel of every inch of her, memorizing every dip, every curve, as if he were afraid he’d forget; as if he were making a memory he wanted to remember after tonight. His lips found the side of her neck, his hands traveling back to her shoulders then dragging slowly down her arms, circling her slim wrists, before he carefully turned her to face him.

“In case I never told you,” he breathed against her mouth, “you are so beautiful.” He took a deep breath and continued softly, “you are easily the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

She blushed furiously. “Surely with all the women –”

He silenced her with his finger pressed to her lips. Silenced her with the panting breaths against her cheek. Silenced her with the look of desire etched on every line of his face. “There is no one who holds a candle to you, Granger. In any capacity.”

She swallowed once, biting her lip. Saw his eyes fall to watch for a brief moment before he groaned, tenderly pulling her lip out of her teeth.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he whispered, holding her lip between his fingers, gently licking across it before letting go, letting his mouth cover hers in a kiss that set her every nerve on fire. In a flurry of slow actions, too engrossed in each other to even register what their hands were doing, her bra and knickers ended up disappearing somewhere on the floor; his black trousers and boxers met the same fate.

The fury wasn’t there. The restless rage that had consumed them in times past wasn’t there. The desire built on mutual loathing wasn’t there.

It feels...

Draco’s hands enveloped her, spread across her midback, tilting her backwards, her body conforming to his, so his lips could skim the hollow of her throat.

It feels like...

His hands gripped the bottom of her curls, gently pulling her back even further, letting his tongue trail across her collar bones, sliding down further to her sternum.

It feels like...

His lips brushed the top curve of her left breast, nipping, licking, before tantalizingly moving to the right, repeating his ministrations.

Adoration.

Her body pliably curved into his, her arms circling around his shoulders, pulling him down closer against her skin, determined to sear the feel of him into her body, into her very being. Every touch of his mouth seemed to leave an imprint of his lips on her skin, branding her, marking her, ruining her for any other man who may ever have her in the future. His very hands, his very fingers slowly wound their touch into her bones, sank and streamed into her blood, running down into her limbs. His very essence consumed her.

She would carry this night in her muscle memory, in every cell.

There would not be a part of her that didn’t feel as if it belonged to Draco Malfoy.

I’m so in love with you.

“Please,” she whispered, panting, her eyes closed, her head tilted as far as it could go with his large hands still supporting her back.

He froze against her. She heard his breath pick up, heard his breath get louder.

“Please,” she repeated desperately.

His hands, unmoving across her back, tightened their path, winding around her body, his forearms encompassing her torso, lifting her, pulling her up against him. Instinctively, her legs went around his waist, her hands gripping his shoulders, her face gazing down at his. Her curls surrounded them on either side, a dark cocoon, her forehead bent down to his as he walked with her in his arms the several feet to his enormous, sumptuous four poster bed.

Draco kissed his way down Granger’s body, handling every part of her as if she were glass. He started with her face, kissing her forehead, each cheek, her chin, her nose, before landing on her mouth. He moved slowly, too slowly for his own liking, but he was determined to make this something neither one of them would forget. He covered the entire line of her jaw with tiny, delicate pecks, following the column of her throat, down her sternum. He refused to be hurried, refused to be rushed through any of this: by the time the night was through, he would have a fully detailed image of her emblazoned in his memory.

He covered her abdomen with more kisses, licked his way across her belly button, breathing heavily, becoming overcome on too many fronts to process: overcome with the woman before him, spread out like a fucking feast for him to devour; overcome with the beloved body under him that his own ached to push into, ached to possess, ached to cover, ached to covet; overcome with emotion at the knowledge that he wouldn’t have anything with her after this night; overcome with emotion at the acceptance that he was protecting her from himself by agreeing to let her go without a fight.

His lips found her left hip, where he licked and sucked and nipped until he left a small love bite. Pleased with himself, he crossed over to her right hip and did the same, delivering another possessive mark bruised into her with his mouth. He lifted up on his forearms, admiring his work across the width of her, a wave of greed engulfing him.

Mine. No matter who you choose after me. Mine.

Only after his lips had worked their way down each luscious thigh, down and around the curve of each knee, rounding each calf, and peppered their way across each foot did he finally kneel between her legs. Gasping for air, their eyes met.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured gruffly, “whatever you want. I’ll do it.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “You,” she breathed back, “just you.”

“Tell me how you want me, Granger.”

Her cheeks pinkened.

Merlin, Salazar, Circe, fuck me. He closed his eyes briefly and breathed deeply, trying to rein in the frantic uptick of his heartbeat at the mere sight of her blush.

“I want you,” she uttered almost inaudibly, “buried inside me.”

Her words; her mane of curls spread across his pillows; her olive skin glowing gold by the fire, yet damp with the summer humidity, with her sweat, with her want; the smell of her arousal wafting up into his nostrils, sealing his devotion to her – he felt himself crumbling, felt any protective inhibition he had left fall, felt even his occlumency walls igniting and burning to ash.

And he didn’t give a fuck.

He grabbed her hips, pulling her forward and down against his kneeling body, the heat and wetness of her core brushing up against his rock hard length. The feel of it was enough to set his entire body aflame. Not dropping her gaze, keeping his eyes locked on her, wanting to watch every bloody second of her reaction, he pumped himself two or three times before he brought his cock down to her slit, pushing back and forth between her slick folds, watching her mouth fall open. He let the tip brush repeatedly across her clit, relishing the way her head tilted back against the pillows, her body pushing more insistently against his own.

“Eyes on me,” he commanded quietly, “I want to see you.”

I want to remember the look on your face when I do this.

Sure he was about to erupt and melt into lava at the sheer way she was looking at him, he slowly pushed into her, inch by torturous inch, watching as her breath dropped, watching as she deeply sighed the moment he was fully seated within her, watching as her eyes headily sank, half-lidded.

There were no words spoken. Draco took his time, rocking into her achingly slowly from his kneeling position, watching himself disappear into her, watching his cock pull out, glistening, before pushing back into her, engraving every single moment he could into the recesses of his mind.

She felt too far away. Her skin was flush and shiny, the curly tendrils around her face clinging to her neck, and yet he couldn’t relieve the dull ache that she was bare, out for the world to see, out for the air to cool her entirely too much. Feeling the sudden urge to protect her from everything, to cover her entire body with his own, he followed his instinct, carefully letting his body sink above hers, encompassing her with his own heat. The way she gasped was enough to let him know she felt the same: overwhelmed with their sudden proximity. The way she pulled his face down to hers and pressed her mouth against his nearly shredded his heart.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

“Hold me,” she murmured against his mouth. Tears sprang to his closed eyes, collecting along his eyelashes. He nodded mutely, following her request, too enraptured with the overflowing sentiment in his heart to respond with words, simply wrapping both arms around her back, bringing them up to clutch at the back of her shoulders, pressing her tighter against himself.

Then he sank his face into the side of her neck. He feigned lust, pretended he was doing it to place kisses there, which he did. But he did it so she wouldn’t see when the silent tears fell from his eyelashes. He didn’t want her to see his heart break.

He made love to her the only way he knew how. He obeyed her every request, wanted to give her everything. “Harder,” she’d plead, and he would acquiesce. “Faster,” she’d beg, and he would pick up the pace. “Deeper,” she’d gasp, and he’d lift her thigh around his hip to achieve her desire for more.

When her soft, heaving breaths against his cheek picked up and he felt her entire body tense, he knew she was close, knew she was about to fall apart.

“Let go,” he hushed against her ear, “I’ll catch you. I’ll always catch you.”

When her eyes closed in rapture, riding the fine line of ecstasy, he caressed her cheek, then firmly held her chin in place. “Open your eyes,” he ordered quietly, “Show me.”

He watched her descent into euphoria, drank in the sight of her brown eyes dilating  further with lust, reveled in the exhilarating image before him, watching his witch fall apart in his hands, in his arms, in his bed as he continued to grind into her, each push and each pull into her body encouraging her to ride the waves of pleasure that much longer, hold on that much tighter. He held her gaze, keeping his occlumency walls at bay as he gave one final thrust before he let go, emptying everything he had deep inside her body. He leaned his forehead against hers, still clutching her to him like his most coveted craving when he felt her arms encircle him tightly.

“I’ll catch you, too,” she whispered, bringing one hand up, running her fingers through his sweaty hair in such a loving, intimate gesture that it took every ounce of willpower in his body not to sob.

“I see you, Draco,” she continued in a hushed voice, their bodies still recovering. “I see you.”

The agony that encased him was enough to disarm him completely. But he gritted his teeth and nodded almost imperceptibly. “I know you do, Granger.”

They spent the entire night much in the same way. Their bodies met and loved; they’d whisper one or two intrinsically vulnerable thoughts, riding the line between telling too much and not telling enough with their limited time. He loved her beneath him; let her love him on top; loved her on their sides with her thigh gripping his hip, his body pressed into hers like a flower crumbling between pages of a book, trying desperately to keep his composure, saw her bite her lip looking as if she was trying to do the same, convinced he’d seen her own eyes glisten, but not wanting to ask, not wanting to push, too afraid of what she’d say.

When she finally dozed off, her eyes closed, Draco lay behind her, his arm wrapped around her waist, his face buried in her curls, inhaling the aroma that her hair had always seemed  to radiate: Vanilla. Roses. Jasmine.

Draco sat up, gazing down at her sleeping profile, then bent his head and kissed each individual freckle on her shoulder gently, not wanting to wake her.

He brought his lips to her ear and ever so cautiously, ever so softly, he whispered his truth, hoping that on some level of her consciousness, she’d know.

“Je t’aime... je t’aime, ma chérie.”

As Draco lowered his head to the pillow, closing his eyes, lulling himself to sleep with the scent of her, he didn’t see her eyes open, didn’t see them fill with tears. He was none the wiser when her heart ripped in two, convinced he was simply mesmerized by what they’d just shared, hypnotized by the fire, by the nighttime magic, believing in her heart that he could never mean the words he’d just uttered.

When the sun rose, she carefully lifted the bed sheet that was tucked around her waist and sat up gingerly. She turned her head to the side, her heart aching as she watched Draco’s sleeping face.

I need to do this.

I need to go.

She repeated the mantra to herself as she quickly and quietly got dressed. She bit her lip, anxiously looking around for her black heels before she remembered they’d both left their shoes in his walk-in closet.

She carefully opened the closet door, spotting her heels tucked neatly against the wall. As Hermione carefully stepped into them, her gaze fell to the clothes hanging right in front of her. Shocked recognition fell across her face.

There, still wrapped in a muggle dry cleaners plastic bag, was her favorite sky-blue cardigan. The one that her coffee had spilled on all those months ago when Draco had first smacked into her at the coffee shop. The one that she had forgotten to cast a cleaning spell on until the day had been nearly over and by then it had been too late for magic to remove the hideous stain.

He had taken it, she realized, her eyes awash with tears. He had taken it from her house one of the numerous times he had been there and had it dry cleaned for her.

Why?

Maybe he....

No. He felt guilty. Both for seemingly ruining my favorite cardigan and for then chastising my cleaning skills.

And if anything steeled her resolve that she was doing the right thing, it was seeing the cardigan. She had to go. Had to leave, had to dissolve everything before she got more hurt than she already was.

Because Draco Malfoy didn’t love her. Of that, she was certain, no matter what pretty French words he had murmured in her ear. He’d been caught up in a moment, and she couldn’t allow herself three years of fake happiness only to then have the rug yanked out from under her.

Only it wouldn’t even be yanked out. She’d already know it was coming.

And that’s why this was it.

If Draco had done anything, if he had drilled anything in her head, it was that she had to put herself first. And that’s what she was doing.

She approached the bed silently, her heart pounding. She refused to give herself time for an appropriate goodbye; she wouldn’t be able to give him one without falling apart, didn’t want to make him uncomfortable when he realized how deeply in love with him she’d actually fallen.

She watched the steady rising and falling of his chest, cautiously lowered her face to his, and as light as a feather, ghosted a kiss across his early morning stubble.

A few minutes later, she found herself at the apparition point just outside Malfoy Manor’s gates. Casting one last look towards the enormous mansion that held the family she had envisioned herself becoming a part of, the family who had surprisingly accepted her much faster than she had ever anticipated, Hermione allowed herself to say the words just once.

“I love you, Draco.”

Then she turned on the spot and disapparated with a crack, protecting herself from as much hurt and pain as she could by avoiding seeing Draco one last time.

Unbeknownst to her, an hour later when Draco roused from sleep to find himself alone and cold in his bed, the hurt and pain she’d avoided for herself engulfed his entire being, a piece of his heart gone with the woman who’d left without saying goodbye.

Chapter Text

Three days had passed.

Draco sat sequestered in his private office at Black Dragon Wines feeling the eyes of his friends and employees burning into his very skin.

Why the fuck did I decide having glass walls and a glass door was so chic, so posh? A right pain in my arse.

He kept his own gaze either down at his desk, on his muggle computer, or out the window. He refused to look up at any of them.

None of them knew. Well, he wasn’t sure about the Weaselette. It was entirely possible that Granger had told Harry and Ginevra what had happened, but Draco wasn’t about to saunter over and demand to be privy to what she knew.

And everything hurt.

Everything fucking hurts.

He kept up a calm, cool façade. It appeared effortless, but he was fully aware that at least his fellow Slytherins knew him better than that. They also knew to leave him be, though their looks of concern were not lost on him.

He hadn’t told Lucius and Narcissa yet either. He hadn’t breathed a word to anyone. In truth, he had no idea what to say. He supposed it was better to be aloof and treat it as a non-event; then maybe everyone around him would fall in line and treat it the same way. He knew eventually the media would become aware, and that would be a fiasco, he was sure. But eventually it would blow over if he didn’t fan the flames.

Draco was self-aware enough, now as an adult, to know that one of his coping methods had always been avoidance. If he ignored a problem long enough, maybe it would simply cease to exist. Or maybe it would solve itself. Maybe people would forget about it without him actually having to face anything. Or anyone.

At the core of everything, though... he was terrified of telling anyone because he knew he would find himself dangerously close to breaking down if he had to speak the words out loud. He knew he’d have to eventually do it, and starting with his friends would be easier than his parents, or at least, he hoped it would be.

He wasn’t ready for the whys. Answering the whys meant he’d have to actually face the whys himself. He couldn’t very well say he let her go because he loved her. He couldn’t say that he wouldn’t keep her trapped in a contractual marriage even though it went against his every natural instinct to squirrel her away for himself and only himself. He couldn’t tell any of them that he knew, deep down in his bones, that he didn’t deserve her and never would no matter how much he redeemed his public image. He couldn’t articulate that he had finally seen the familiar light of courage coming back to life in Granger’s eyes: her stupid, insufferable Gryffindor courage roaring back where it belonged; that she was finally remembering what her value was, and that marrying him would stand in the way of that because in reality, she merited more than a temporary contractual marriage.

Maybe the key was to keep the whole thing private and simple by telling everyone that they’d gotten cold feet and couldn’t pull the trigger on an arranged marriage with an end date.

He’d rather defer to Granger. He’d rather handle this however she wanted. In fact, it would be the gentlemanly thing to do: to ask Granger for her opinion, to ask her if there was a way she’d rather they deal with this, or if there was a story she’d prefer they spin together, but he hadn’t seen or spoken to her since that night. And he couldn’t reach out to her. He just couldn’t. Not after the way she’d left him. She’d made herself clear in the way she’d left without a word.

Perfectly fucking clear.

His eyes, resolutely staring out the window, unfocused as the memory of waking up Monday morning without Granger beside him came screaming back. How he’d reached his arm out, his hand expecting to find itself curved around her waist, ready to pull himself closer against her back, prepared to bury his face in her wild morning curls and inhale that intoxicating vanilla, roses, and jasmine combination all before even opening his eyes, knowing in the back of his mind that they would be saying goodbye and parting for the last time. He had planned on kissing her senseless, he had planned on ingraining her sleepy morning presence into his mind so he could replay it as a favorite memory whenever he wanted.

He hadn’t expected to feel empty bedsheets.

He hadn’t expected to feel his heart plummet in his chest when he opened his eyes and found nothing but the imprint of her form, the outline of her head on his pillow.

The shock had given way to such unbearable pain that Draco had lain there dumbstruck for a full minute before the weight of her loss finally settled itself into his being, becoming a permanent, invisible scar that he’d been carrying around within himself ever since.

He’d gotten up robotically, went through the motions of getting ready for work. He had gotten in the shower and promptly fell apart when he had the sentimental thought that he was washing her away: her scent, her touch, her kiss, the way her body had molded into his – it would all be washed away in the shower.

And he would have nothing left.

That had been two mornings ago. He hadn’t reached out to Granger, and she hadn’t reached out to him. She hadn’t come to Black Dragon to meet Ginevra for dinner plans, and certainly hadn’t come by for the first of their two required weekly public dates for their marriage contract.

She’d meant it. She’d meant what she said. She really was putting herself first.

And he was overflowing with pride for her, so gods damned proud of the fact that she’d meant it.

She really was the strongest, fiercest witch he’d ever known.

As Draco finally got up from his desk, draping his suit jacket over the crook of his elbow, and stepping out of his office holding his black leather briefcase, he was met with Blaise, Theo, and Pansy all lined up near the foyer. His stomach dropped as he took in their faces: Blaise and Theo both had their hands in their pockets, eyeing him seriously. Pansy had her arms crossed defensively, her lips pursed.

Draco’s eyes scanned the office, registering that the Weaselette was still at her desk, her eyes resolutely training down at her hands in her lap, and that Astoria was nervously standing with her chair pushed in at the front desk, waiting for Theo.

Gritting his teeth, Draco strode confidently to the front of the office, his occlumency walls firmly in place before he came to a stop in front of his friends.

“Something you lot need?” he asked.

Blaise cleared his throat. “We want to know if you’re alright, mate.”

Draco zeroed in on Blaise, piercing him with his gaze. “Why wouldn’t I be alright... mate?”

Blaise held up his hands, showing he wasn’t on the offensive, was simply showing concern. He licked his lips pensively. “You tell us.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Bullshit,” Pansy muttered, narrowing her eyes at him. “You haven’t said a word to any of us this week and it’s Wednesday. Nothing even work-related. You sign off on whatever paperwork we bring to you, you grunt when we speak to you, and you look a right mess,” she added disdainfully.

Draco looked down at himself. “I resent that. I look like I always do. Presentable. Put-together. Polished. Dare I say, pristine, even.”

“I don’t mean your clothing,” Pansy clarified, her voice dropping low and quiet. “I mean your face. Your eyes. What is going on, Draco?”

Draco blinked several times at his friends before casting a glance to his left at Ginevra, who still sat motionless in the same position she was in when he’d approached. Finally, he sighed.

“Granger and I broke up,” he murmured casually with as much dignity as he could muster, standing tall, looking at each person individually, daring them to say something.

The reactions were swift.

Blaise’s eyes went wide. Pansy’s mouth dropped open in confusion and then horror. Astoria covered her own gaping mouth with her hand. Draco refused to turn and look at Ginevra for her reaction, afraid by what he might find there, unsure how he’d feel if he could tell that she already knew. Unsure how he’d feel if he could tell that she didn’t already know. Unsure if he wanted Granger to be telling people or not because of what it insinuated: he could make the case in either direction that she was both having an easier time with this entire thing than he was and having a harder time with this entire thing than he was, and he wasn’t ready for that mindfuck. He would never know anyway.

Only Theo remained nonplussed.

“Why?” he asked cautiously.

Ah, there it was. The first ‘why.’

Draco swallowed hard, deciding to go with the safest explanation. “I’m only saying this once and then I never want to speak of it again.” He immediately looked at Pansy with narrowed eyes. “I don’t care if you want more details. I won’t be providing more than what I’m about to say. Do you all understand and agree?”

The three nodded. Pansy added a scoff to her single, resentful nod.

“Granger and I never had a relationship,” he admitted flippantly, feeling the barriers of self-preservation inch their way up around his heart, “I essentially tricked her into agreeing to marry me. I forced her hand, so to speak, during that brunch at the Manor months ago. I offered her a marriage contract. I would pay for three years of Beacon of HOPE’s expenses to save it from bankruptcy if she agreed to marry me. I was using her public persona as a war hero and the beloved Golden Girl to try and fix my own image in the hopes of getting the Ministry to sign with us as a client.”

“Bullshit,” Pansy declared a second time before he’d barely finished his explanation. “You loved that girl, and she loved you. I don’t know the reason for this break up, and I don’t know why you’d make up this completely asinine –”

As Pansy spoke, Draco calmly placed his briefcase on Ginevra’s desk, still not looking at her, opened it, rustled through some papers and quills, then pulled up a rolled parchment, handing it to Pansy.

“That’s the marriage contract,” he confirmed dully, watching her go silent, her eyes widening as she unrolled it and read the document before her. Blaise and Theo peeked over her shoulder for a few seconds before Draco snatched it away. “Suffice it to say you three snakes do not need to know every detail, but now you’ve had a glimpse and that’s enough.”

“What – How – When –” Blaise stammered, before Draco silenced him with a glare.

“Like I said,” he whispered ominously, “I’m not offering more details. I’m not going into it more than that. The entire thing, the whole relationship was fake and strategic. We simply decided it wasn’t a good idea anymore. It felt like maybe we were in over our heads the longer we kept it up. And frankly, every person in this room knows that Granger deserves a hell of a lot better than an arranged, contractual marriage. Especially to someone like me.”

“Someone... like... you...?” Blaise repeatedly carefully, his words ending with a high pitched inflection to his voice as if he was asking a question, asking for clarification. Asking what he’d meant by that. As if it was a completely absurd thing to say, a completely absurd thing to believe.

But Draco didn’t owe any of them anything, and certainly not a deep dive into his private, ongoing, persistent battle with self-loathing. No. That was his own journey.

He ignored Blaise’s question, placed the parchment back in his briefcase, closed it definitively, absent-mindedly fixed his cufflinks before looking back at his friends who were still bewilderedly looking at him as if they’d never seen him before.

“You fell in love with her,” Theo muttered softly, keeping his face neutral, “and it went against your plan.”

Feeling the lump in his throat forming dangerously quickly and having no physical way around the three of them as they’d blocked the entire entryway, Draco pushed harshly between Theo and Blaise, keeping his steps confident, determinedly adding a bit of his old snobby saunter to his gait. This doesn’t hurt, his walk seemed to say, nothing hurts me.

“Yeah, right,” he scoffed over his shoulder, pushing open the door to the stairwell for the first time in all the months he’d worked at Black Dragon Wines, beginning the long trek down the stairs. He’d rather walk all 15 flights alone than have to ride in the lift with those three, possibly four, maybe all five, idiots who would all want to offer him an ear, or a meal, or demand clarification, or ask about his feelings, or some other shit that he knew he would rudely reject.

Because he also knew that none of those things would bring him comfort.

Because none of those things would bring him her.

The moment Draco had disappeared down the stairwell, Ginny had finally looked up, as if by keeping her eyes down she was offering Draco some sort of privacy with his friends while she sat there trying to blend into the wall. Ultimately, though they were friendly, and though she was his employee, her loyalty lay with Hermione no matter how much she may like Draco as a person, and they both knew that.

Ginny’s gaze flitted from Pansy to Astoria.

“You two are aware we’re heading to Hermione’s house immediately, yeah?” she asked quietly.

“It’s like we share one mind, Red,” Pansy proclaimed with a smirk, leading the way as both Ginny and Astoria followed quickly at her heels.

“You three should stay out of it,” Theo called out in warning, “Draco specifically said –”

“Draco specifically said to not speak to him about it. And we’re not,” Astoria called back to her husband resolutely, her black heels clicking on the tiled floor.

“I don’t think any of us should get inv—” Blaise began before Ginny waved him off without a backwards glance as the three witches confidently strode into the lift.

Fifteen minutes later, they’d floo’ed directly into Hermione’s living room from the floo network at the Ministry just a short walk from Black Dragon. As each witch stepped cautiously out of the fireplace, dusting herself off, she was met with the sight of Hermione sitting with her knees up on her sofa in pajama bottoms and a black cotton t-shirt, clutching a teacup, her hair up in a massive, frizzy bun held in place with her wand, her eyes wide as she took in the three of them essentially forcing their way into her home.

The surprising part was the unexpected presence of the black-haired, spectacled wizard with a faded lightning bolt scar branded into his forehead. He glanced up at the three witches in amusement, sitting next to Hermione holding his own cup of tea in his hands.

“What are you doing here, Potter?” Ginny demanded. “You’re supposed to be at work.”

“I was at work, Potter,” Harry responded calmly, “I left on time, for once. An hour ago. And Hermione had asked me to come over so I came.”

“This is all lovely,” Pansy proclaimed loudly, “and I’m sure the Potter duo can have a catch-up when we’re through. But I want to know what the hell is going on.” Her gaze immediately went to Hermione, taking in her appearance. “You look like hell. I don’t imagine you went to work looking like that.”

Hermione sat silently for several seconds, staring at her three friends before her. “No,” she finally admitted quietly, “I haven’t been to work at all this week, actually.”

I haven’t had the motivation to do a thing.

I barely have the motivation to breathe.

Everything fucking hurts.

“You never miss work,” Pansy haughtily pointed out, “is it because you’re heartbroken? It is, isn’t it?”

Hermione closed her eyes briefly before opening them again, leveling Pansy with a cool stare. “I’m just very tired, Pans, alright?”

“No!” Pansy asserted angrily, “it’s not alright! We’ve all become so close over the last several months and you lied to us! Draco showed us the contract!”

It registered with Ginny that Harry had no reaction to Pansy’s words. “You knew they broke up,” she murmured accusingly, realization dawning across her face, “and you knew about the contract. None of this is new to you. She told you, but didn’t tell me? Us?”

Harry shook his head. “I only just found out today, alright? Don’t come for me like I hid something from you. Mione just told me within the last hour.”

Hermione sighed deeply, rubbing her hand across her forehead. At least Draco and I seem to be on the same page about the reasons for this breakup, she thought bitterly before she looked up at her friends, or at least the story we’re spinning.

“I know it’s difficult for you to understand,” she stated, a tone of defeat sinking into her words, “but the contract Draco and I signed had nothing to do with any of you. It was part of the agreement that no one know it existed. I know none of you would ever consider such a thing – “ she rethought her words, eyeing both Pansy and Astoria, “well, actually, I suppose you two are familiar with marriage contracts but –”

“You’re damn right we are,” Pansy responded coldly, “and the very fact that you went into one willingly means you have no idea what they even mean.”

“You’re wrong,” Hermione snapped back defensively, “the fact that you don’t see why I did what I did means you’ve never been in a position where you felt you owed something to everyone around you even if it killed you to try and meet their expectations. It means you’ve never had the stress of having multiple people depend on you. That’s all I am, Pansy. I’m a doormat where people leave their needs and their wants and I’m expected to do what I can to meet them. That’s been my identity since I was a child.  I was willing to do anything to save HOPE. Anything. Being married to Draco for three years would have been worth it. Especially as he and I got to know each other. It would have been easy.”

Easy if I hadn’t fallen in love with him like a fucking idiot.

“If it would have been easy, then why call it off?” Astoria pointed out gently.

Hermione swallowed hard. “Because being in a contractual marriage is easy when you don’t care about each other, when you don’t like each other. Because at its base, it’s a punishment. And the more you grow to care for someone, the less you want to punish them. The less you want to hurt them. I feel that way about Draco, but I also feel that way about myself.” She shook her head, her eyes casting back down to her teacup. “I started caring more about myself than I have in years. Draco made me see that I was worth it. And I wasn’t going to punish myself or hurt myself by going through with a convenient marriage just to benefit my job.”

Especially when seeing it through means also seeing it end.

Better to end it now then end it years from now when there’s more to lose.

Pansy’s hackles seemed to soften then. Astoria’s hard lines of accusation on her face slowly disappeared into an expression of sad concern. It was Ginny’s face that stayed impassive.

“You won’t convince me that you didn’t love him,” she stated matter-of-factly.

Hermione shook her head. “I didn—”

“I’ve known you the longest,” Ginny went on, her eyes traveling from Harry back to Hermione, “me and Harry both. You were in love with Malfoy. Maybe you weren’t honest with yourself. Maybe you’re still not being honest with yourself. But you haven’t missed three days of work because you’re tired, Hermione,” she finished quietly.

Oh, I’m plenty honest with myself.

I’m just desperately trying to not crumble. Again.

The vivid memory of crumbling the moment she’d crossed the threshold of her house after disapparating from Malfoy Manor last Monday morning came crashing into her consciousness. How she’d collapsed on the floor in a pathetic heap, awash in tears. How she’d sat there with her head down on her knees and staved off a looming panic attack by herself. How badly she had wanted to turn around, wrap herself in Draco’s embrace in his bed, and let him softly talk her through it to distract her.

She hadn’t, of course. She’d managed to eventually doze off, right there on the floor, before her front door, her heart an aching, broken mess, her tears drying on her cheeks in tracks she swore she could still feel days later no matter how many times she washed her face.

Maybe she’d always feel them.

Hermione kept her gaze down, blinking back the tears that had suddenly blurred her vision. “You’re wrong,” she whispered in response to Ginny’s confident claim, “I’m sad, but I’m sad because I had envisioned the wedding, and the life, and the –”

“You loved him. And he loved you. That much is obvious,” Pansy scoffed, “you won’t convince me otherwise.”

“Me neither,” Astoria agreed as Ginny nodded, concurring.

“Nor me,” Harry conceded.

Hermione chanced a glance up at Harry before reverting back to her tea, adding a light sneer. “You too?”

“Well, for one,” Harry began with an amused smile, “you just made a face at me that I have only seen Narcissa Malfoy execute with such precision.” He took her hand in his, gazing at her with such sincerity laced in his voice that she refused to look back up at him, sure the tears would fall if she did.

“I saw him with you,” Harry continued carefully, “at the restaurant with Ron. I saw him with you, here, during your panic attack. I saw him with you when it counted most.” He shook his head. “You love him and he loves you. I think there’s more going on than we know about, and I won’t press you on it. It’s your life, Mione. But...” he lightly gripped her fingers, “I think you’ll come to regret this. I do.”

At those words, Hermione stood up, placing her teacup on the coffee table. “That will never happen,” she assured him dismissively, “this was the right decision. It wouldn’t have been fair for either one of us. Draco and I both deserve more. We deserve love, and together we...” she cleared her throat, “together we didn’t have love. We had some sort of twisted companionship. Dare I say, some sort of friendship, possibly. But love? It’s a preposterous notion. We never could have such a thing given our history. We just had you all convinced, which was the idea.”

She finally glanced up at the four of them. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to take a bath. Could you kindly see yourselves out? I’d like some privacy.”

Pansy still eyed Hermione as if she could see right through her. “We’ll apparate home from the front of the house,” she told her, “go shower. You could definitely use it. Wash that reprehensible ball of fluff on top of your head for Salazar’s sake.”

With a nod, Hermione quickly walked to the bathroom, her head held high to give the impression of strength, knowing the moment the door closed behind her in privacy, the tears would fall.

Like they’d been falling seemingly endlessly for the last three days.

The second Pansy, Astoria, Ginny, and Harry stepped outside, closing the front door behind them, Pansy sauntered confidently to the edge of Hermione’s property. “Let’s go,” she called firmly, holding out her arms, “you can side-along apparate with me.”

“Where are we going? I thought we were all going home,” Harry questioned, confused.

Pansy shook her head, her black bob shiny in the evening sun. “We’re paying the Malfoys a visit. I’d like to get their thoughts on this. Because if I know one thing, Narcissa Malfoy isn’t going to lie down and just let this happen without an opinion. And we shouldn’t either.”

Astoria immediately took a hold of Pansy’s left arm, but Harry grabbed Ginny’s wrist. “We’re going home,” he told her firmly, “we’re not getting involved with Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy,” he began with a grimace, remembering the words about mediocrity Lucius had scathingly spat at him during the brunch months back, “not to mention James is waiting for us, and you’re nearly 20 weeks pregnant and I want you home resting. It’s August and bloody boiling out, love.” Ginny gave him a disheartened, exasperated look through narrowed eyes, but acquiesced.

“One of you better owl me when you’re done at the Manor,” she insistently demanded, pointing a firm finger at both Pansy and Astoria, “because I won’t be left out.”

Once Ginny and Harry had disapparated, Pansy gripped Astoria’s hand and spun on the spot, landing at the apparition point in front of the Manor’s front gates with a loud crack.

The black wrought iron opened for them a few seconds later, and Pansy all but strutted down the front pathway determinedly in her bright red sundress.

The moment she and Astoria were within a few feet of the massive double front doors, they opened inwardly. Lucius stood before them, perplexed, regarding them cooly with an arched eyebrow.

“Miss Parkinson, Lady Nott,” he formally greeted them, clad in dark green robes, his hair tied back with a matching green ribbon, “to what do we owe this pleasure?”

Pansy inclined her head. “Lord Malfoy, we were hoping to speak with you and your wife. It will only take a moment of your time.”

“Is this necessary?” he asked, clearly attempting to mitigate his irritation, “We only just sat down in the dining room for dinner. Would you care to join us?”

Pansy and Astoria glanced at one another before Astoria spoke, smoothing down her black pencil skirt, assertively pulling down the hem of her fitted matching blouse. “No thank you, Lord Malfoy,” she responded politely, “it really will only take a moment.”

Lucius sighed, clearly put out, but stepped aside to allow them in. “Follow me to the dining room, Narcissa and Draco are both already seated.”

Fuck. Draco’s here, Pansy momentarily panicked before relaxing with a small sneer gracing her face, it’s better that way. It’ll serve him right when his parents unleash on him, she thought gleefully as she followed in Lucius’ wake down the corridor.

The moment she and Astoria walked into the dining room, they noticed Narcissa’s look of surprise and Draco’s look of abject horror.

“Pansy? Astoria?” Narcissa asked gently, “are you joining us?”

“No, Lady Malfoy,” Pansy responded quickly, “we only wanted to talk to you and your husband – quickly, of course, so as not to take up all of your time, especially as you’re about to dine.”

“Parkinson,” Draco hissed through gritted teeth warningly, “don’t. you. dare.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Pansy snarled in his direction, “you should have told them three days ago. Your mother’s been planning this day for months now, at least have the courtesy to –”

Draco stood up, facing his friend menacingly. “You have no right to come here unannounced and try to stir up –”

“I’m not trying to stir up anything! I’m simply –”

“You most certainly are here to stick your pointed little nose where it doesn’t belong because none of this is your gods damned business!” Draco thundered furiously, “This has nothing to do with you! With either of you!” he added, his gaze moving momentarily to Astoria’s flushed face.

“That’s enough,” Lucius quietly spoke from his seat, leaning back in his chair, his hands leisurely placed on either armrest, watching the performance before him with distaste. Draco and Pansy were instantly silenced by his low tone. “Draco, I don’ t know where you learned to behave this way,” he continued, “especially towards women. Especially towards two women, one of whom you’ve known your entire life. That was an abominable display of emotion that has no place at this table.”

Draco turned redder with every word, keeping his eyes trained on the porcelain dishes before him, slightly hunched over, his hands gripping the edge of the table. He chanced a glance up only to find his mother staring at him wide-eyed and he instantly felt worse.

“Lord Malfoy,” Pansy began, “Draco is behaving like a heathen because he and Hermione Granger have broken up.”

Narcissa gasped. Lucius’ expression immediately changed to shock.

“Is this true?” Narcissa whispered, paling rapidly. “It isn’t. It can’t be.”

Lucius sat up straight, staring at his son, waiting for an explanation.

Finally, Draco nodded, not meeting anyone’s eyes as he threw himself back into his chair, enraged.

“What... what in Salazar’s name happened?” Lucius demanded.

“It was fake,” Draco blurted tonelessly, not bothering to sugar coat anything. “Granger and I had a marriage contract. We decided on it spontaneously during that Black Dragon brunch we had here at the Manor at the very beginning of May. I convinced her to do it for money,” he sighed, closing his eyes, “I told her I’d pay for Beacon of HOPE’s expenses for three years if she married me so that I could benefit from her public image. We agreed to stay married for three years and then end it after reaping the benefits.”

He finally, timidly, looked up at his parents. The crushing disappointment on both of their faces ripped his heart open all over again. Granger was the daughter neither one of them had realized they wanted, and Draco knew they were feeling her loss.

Just as he was. Poignantly, with his entire being.

Narcissa shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t believe you. She... she wasn’t acting with you. Nor with me, nor your father. She...” suddenly overcome with emotion, Narcissa covered her mouth with her linen napkin. “She was a part of our family, Draco, she was to be your wife. I ... I don’t believe you.”

“Lola,” Draco called tiredly. When the house elf appeared, immediately sinking into a curtsy, Draco faced her. “Could you please bring the pensieve from my father’s study?” he asked quietly.

Lola happily bobbed her head and disappeared down the corridor. A few minutes later, she walked back in with the pensieve floating behind her, the large, white, stone bowl spinning slowly in midair. She placed it in the middle of the dining room table with another curtsy before disapparating.

Without a word, Draco closed his eyes and extracted a memory with his wand from his temple, placing the long silver tendril into the bowl, carefully swirling it.

He looked up at his parents. “Please.” He sat back in his seat, having given up on any hope of this being easy.

The second Lucius and Narcissa sank their faces into the memory, Draco turned to Pansy. “You’ve made a mistake by doing this,” Draco murmured threateningly.

“No,” Pansy countered, narrowing her eyes, “you and Granger made a mistake. We all know it. Eventually, you’ll see it too.”

Draco’s entire body seemed to momentarily collapse on itself, catching Pansy offguard. Astoria stepped forward hesitantly, a hand extended in concern, letting it land on his shoulder.

“Draco,” she whispered, the hint of pity in her voice seeming to undo him from the inside out. He closed his eyes, refusing to look up at her, afraid to see kindness written on her face, and he didn’t want kindness. He was angry, he was heartbroken, he hated himself for not being the man Granger needed from the beginning, for not being deserving of her. And letting a wave of kindness wash over him would be too much. It would feel like salt on the wound.

“It’s ok to be upset. It's only natural. You didn't realize how much she'd meant to you until after she was gone,” Astoria continued to whisper.

Draco shook his head wordlessly. Astoria’s cliched statement was wrong: he knew how much she’d meant to him. He wasn’t a bloody fool. That wasn’t the issue.

How could he be upset about losing something he never even had? How could he be upset about losing something he shouldn’t have gotten close to, shouldn’t have come to cherish in the first place because he didn’t deserve her, had known from the very beginning he couldn’t keep her? He should’ve known better. Should’ve handled the entire thing better.

Lucius and Narcissa came back gasping from the memory Draco had shown them. They both stood staring at him in fury.

“How dare you do what you did to that young woman!” Narcissa shouted at him, not bothering to try to keep the emotion out of her voice. Her usual cold but polite demeanor, usually a prerequisite when guests were present, was nowhere to be seen as she seethed before her son, who couldn’t even look at her as he slouched low in his seat, his hand covering his eyes like a visor, his elbow balanced on an armrest letting her words fall over him like rain.

“I told you that day to not be cruel to her!” she continued to berate him, her anger, her disappointment blowing over her thin frame like a thunderstorm, “I told you there would hell to pay if I found out that you were cruel to her, and what you showed me was completely unacceptable!”

“Frankly, I’m surprised she healed you so quickly after breaking your nose -- again,” Lucius erupted, staring at his son in disgust, “I’m shocked she let you come up for air after she pushed you into the lake.” He shook his head incredulously. “That girl has more grace and dignity than I’ve ever seen. I cannot believe you let her get away.”

Narcissa took a deep calming breath. “This ended three days ago, did it not? Why didn’t you tell us? Why are we only finding this out today?”

“Because it hurts!” Draco finally snapped, hearing the crack in his voice, keeping his watery eyes down, “alright?! because it hurts, Mother!”

“Then reach out and tell her that!” Narcissa pleaded, “there’s no need for this to cont—”

Draco adamantly shook his head, ignoring Pansy and Astoria, knowing they were witnessing his unraveling but plowing on, speaking only to his mother.

“No. I won’t do that. She finally decided something for herself, finally put herself first, and you want me to stomp all over that and put myself first? Like I always do, like I’ve always done? No. I won’t take this choice away from her. She knows she deserves better than me, and I agree. We both know it. Let her escape, let her get away from me while she still can. Let her find someone worthy of her.” His tortured eyes briefly went to his mother’s before he cast them back down. “Because you and I both know I’ll never be worthy of her.”

“You love her,” Narcissa declared firmly, “and she loves you. And she belongs with you. She belongs with us. We’re her family, Draco, I told her as much. I told her I’d be whatever –”

“Mother,” Draco whispered, still not looking at anyone, standing from his seat, keeping his head bent. “I honestly cannot handle this at the moment,” he continued, “I swear I’m not trying to be rude, but I’m hanging on by a thread.” He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry to both you and Father that I’ve let you down yet again. At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do after the many, many conversations the three of us had about me marrying a woman who was beloved in wizarding society in order to have a positive impact on my own image. On our family’s image. And she was also getting what she needed. It seemed like a win-win. Failproof. But as she and I got to know each other, we couldn’t do it. We couldn’t put each other through a contractual marriage. Not just for convenience. Because in the end, it wouldn’t have been convenient for either one of us. It would have been callous.”

Lucius’ eyes met his wife’s before going back to his son’s face, still inclined toward the floor. “You put a date on it,” he said quietly. “and that was your most grievous mistake. You don’t put an end date on a contractual marriage. You leave it open ended so that feelings can work themselves out, and you’re free to develop with them. You let them shape you and your relationship.”

Draco shook his head. “She deserves more,” he stated simply.

“You loved her,” Narcissa stated persistently, refusing to back down, her words so soft almost no one caught them. “You loved her.”

Draco swallowed hard, keeping his head down, making his way to the corridor.

“So did you,” he replied in a whisper before he walked out.

For a full minute no one said anything.

“Well,” Lucius said conversationally, eyeing the three women before him. “We’re certainly not sitting by idly and letting this continue, are we?”

“The hell we are,” Pansy declared. “That’s why we came. I knew that you and the Lady Malfoy would want to get involved, just as we do, and fix this because this is, by far, the dumbest and poorest decision Hermione and Draco have ever made in their lives.” She rolled her eyes. “And while I imagine that it's a first for Hermione, I've known Draco a long time and he's made plenty of horrid decisions, so it's quite impactful that this one is so particularly unhinged.”

Narcissa’s gaze flew up to Pansy and Astoria then, a calculating smirk on her face. She nodded and sat regally in her dining chair, demurely crossing her ankles, motioning for the younger witches to sit opposite her before folding her hands delicately.

“Sit, eat, ladies,” she stated formally, a gleam in her eye, “and share your thoughts with me.”

Chapter Text

Draco walked side by side with Blaise out of one of the twenty stone fireplaces into the enormous tiled Ministry Atrium. The stares they garnered would have been laugh-worthy if they weren’t so ridiculously overblown, and frankly, Draco was through trying to rehabilitate his public image. It didn’t matter what he did or how he behaved: his reputation followed him everywhere and was too widespread. There was nothing he could do at this point except continue being who he was. If people feared him, then so be it. He would just have to accept it.

The headlines over the past three weeks hadn’t helped.

Snakes and Smarts! Granger Gives Malfoy the Boot!

Slytherin’ into the Single Life: Granger Drops the Ferret!

Hermione Dumps the Brooding Bad Boy!

The improvement to Draco’s public persona simply from associating with Granger, from being not only accepted by her but being perceived as loved by her vanished the morning the headlines were published. Draco’s fall from grace was sudden, swift, and a blunt blow: not only had people begun to think maybe he wasn’t as bad as they thought he was, but now that Granger had dumped him, it only gave credence to their original belief that his entire attempt at redemption had been fake, otherwise why would Granger have suddenly called of their fairy tale wedding?

It was a tough, harsh pill to swallow. But Draco couldn’t say he was altogether surprised.

And so, this morning, as he straightened his black suit jacket and the collar of his white shirt, as Blaise dusted the ash off of his own navy ensemble and they walked towards the lifts, Draco didn’t cower. He met every person head on, meeting everyone’s eyes. If they stared, he stared back.

He was done trying to give off the impression he was someone else.

He was Draco fucking Malfoy, and if people wanted to think of him as the “brooding bad boy” Death Eater that the Daily Prophet was still spinning him to be 11 years after the war, then so be it, no matter how cringeworthy it was.

As he and Blaise entered one of the gold lifts, the people who had walked on before them hastily walked back out. Draco leaned against the back wall, crossing his ankles, and let out a loud bark of laughter as Blaise stared incredulously at the crowd of people before them, who were choosing to wait for another lift rather than ride with them.

“Are you lot serious right now?” he called disbelievingly.

“Not worth it, mate,” Draco told him in a low tone with a shake of his head, “this is reality. At least we get privacy, and we don’t have to stop four times on the way up to the Minister’s office.”

As the lift moved, Blaise eyed Draco with his hands in his pockets. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Draco nodded. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“Maybe. But you realize in calling him out this way, odds are, Black Dragon will never win the Ministry as a client.”

He wordlessly nodded again.

“It’s your call, as boss, of course,” Blaise said quietly.

“It’s not about me.”

“No, it’s not about you,” Blaise muttered, his eyes moving to the floor, “but it is about Hermione.”

Draco nodded for a third time. “Yes. And it’s the right thing to do. My moral compass might point me towards grey most of the time, but this? There’s no question, Blaise. I’m doing the right thing this time because she deserves it.”

As the lift came to a stop and they walked down the sumptuously carpeted corridor to the Minister’s office, Blaise spoke softly under his breath. “This appointment with Shacklebolt is scheduled with just me. He’s not expecting you. You know once you walk in with me, the shit’s going to hit the fan.”

“Maybe,” he agreed discretely, “but that tosser won’t meet with me no matter how many times I’ve tried to make an appointment. He’s either not in or has no appointments available. I knew he wouldn’t meet with me about this either. Funny, the only way even you got an appointment was by threatening legal action as a solicitor.” Draco shook his head in disgust, “And that’s because you’re Black Dragon’s solicitor and he knows it.”

As Blaise and Draco opened the glass door and crossed the threshold to the reception desk, the Minister’s private secretary’s eyes widened the moment she saw Draco with Blaise.

“Mr. Zabini?” she asked nervously.

“Yes,” Blaise responded politely, offering his hand with a perfect smile. Draco rolled his eyes. Ever the fucking flirt. “I have a meeting with the Minister first thing this morning.”

The young, pretty secretary gave him a shy smile back, shaking his hand demurely. “Of course.” Her eyes flew to Draco who stood silently and motionlessly, not bothering with introductions. “I don’t believe the Minister expected anyone else.”

Blaise turned the charm on even thicker, keeping the smile on his face. “I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” he assured her, “the Minister and I have never had animosity between us.”

The secretary licked her lips nervously, adjusting her fitted white blouse. “Of course. Why don’t you and...” her voice trailed off, eyes nervously going back to Draco, “... and your friend wait in our seating area?”

“Actually,” another woman spoke up from an office behind her. She stepped out in a black pant suit, her blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun, small eyeglasses perched on her nose, “why don’t you have our two guests wait in that separate empty office down the hall, Marguerite?” she suggested quietly, her eyes on Draco. There was no warmth, no smile, no greeting. “That way we can ensure everyone is comfortable. The seating area is so public.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. For fuck’s sake.

He and Blaise waited in silence in the comfortable empty office. Not even three minutes later, Marguerite, the nervous secretary, anxiously came back.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Zabini,” she timidly began, wringing her hands, “but the Minister seems to be unavailable.”

Draco visibly bristled. Blaise put a hand on his arm, keeping his gaze on the young woman standing before him fretfully. “How can that be? I have an appointment. I didn’t just come here on a whim.”

She nodded profusely. “I understand, Mr. Zabini, believe me, and the Minister feels terrible for having wasted your time,” she continued hesitantly, “but it seems he accidentally double-booked himself. I’m so sorry.”

“Double-booked?” Draco seethed. “How is that possible? Don’t you handle his appointments?”

Marguerite visibly paled, before blushing furiously, her eyes flitting nervously to Draco before going back to Blaise beseechingly. “Yes, but –”

“So, it’s your fault,” Draco continued hotly, “you double-booked him. Are you saying this whole thing is entirely your fault, Marguerite? Are you saying the Minister is allowing you to take the fall for his discomfort? Because,” he plowed on, his eyes boring into Marguerite’s shaking form, “let’s be honest with ourselves. You didn’t mess up anything. You didn’t double-book anything. The Minister is uncomfortable at the prospect of meeting with me, isn’t he, dear, sweet Marguerite?”

The secretary swallowed hard and shook her head profusely. “No, no. I can assure you that I –”

Draco stood abruptly, straightening his cufflinks. “I don’t believe you, Marguerite,” he declared nonchalantly, “I don’t believe you at all. So, you’ll forgive me for what I’m about to do. I will explain to the Minister that you tried to stop me and Mr. Zabini, but that I forced my way into his office.”

He sauntered out, allowing his old arrogant strut to come to the forefront, not meeting anyone’s gaze as he walked directly across reception. The woman with the bun and the eyeglasses, clearly Marguerite’s supervisor, let out a faint squawk of protest, rising from her desk quickly to trail behind Draco and Blaise. Draco abruptly stopped, turning to her, giving her the coldest, cruelest sneer he could muster.

Lucius would be fucking proud.

“Is there a problem?” Blaise asked her tonelessly. Draco noted how her throat worked as she swallowed hard before she shook her head, dropping her gaze to the floor.

With a smirk, Draco turned back around, swaggering past empty conference rooms, and continued all the way to the back corner office. The wanker hadn’t even bothered to close his door, wasn’t even busy or on the phone, for Merlin’s sake.

Kingsley Shacklebolt sat with his gods damned legs up on his enormous desk, the Daily Prophet open on his lap, a cup of coffee in his hand.

Without missing a beat, Draco and Blaise walked in. Kingsley immediately sat up, mouth agape. “What are you – ?” he began, before Blaise and Draco elegantly sat in the two plush, navy seats before the Minister’s desk. Using his wand, Blaise slammed the door behind them.

“I had a meeting scheduled with you Minister,” Blaise began with a polite smile, “but it seems that Marguerite mistakenly believed she had double-booked you for this morning. Can you believe that? She seems so competent, I knew she must have been incorrect.”

“And she was, wasn’t she, Minister?” Draco remarked, narrowing his eyes, “Seeing as how no one was in here with you, and no one was waiting in the seating area. Although,” he looked at Blaise in mock thoughtfulness, “I do suppose the other party could have been made to wait in an empty office instead, like we were. For comfort,” he emphasized before they both turned to look back at Kingsley.

Kingsley stared at the two of them, not amused. Brusquely, he closed the paper, adjusted his position to one of professionalism, folded his hands on his desk, and eyed them both. “My meeting was with Blaise Zabini,” he began quietly, his voice low with a touch of warning in it, “and therefore the only person speaking during this meeting will be Blaise Zabini.”

“Actually, no,” Blaise clarified calmly, “I will be adding closing remarks if necessary, but I am generously donating my time with you to my friend, Mr. Malfoy, here.”

The Minister shook his head. “I have no business with Mr. Malfoy nor with his wine company, and therefore have –”

“This isn’t about me, or Black Dragon Wines,” Draco loudly interrupted, keeping his voice neutral. “This is about Beacon of HOPE.”

Kingsley reared back, caught off-guard. “About what? What the hell is that?”

“Funny, you have no idea? Are you sure? Maybe if you wrack your brain, it’ll come back to you,” Draco insisted through clenched teeth, “because I have a hard time believing you’re not heavily involved in absolutely everything revolving around the Golden Trio.”

Kingsley’s eyes widened. “I have no idea what this Beacon business is, Malfoy. Now if you’d kindly –”

“Beacon of HOPE is Hermione Granger’s nonprofit organization,” Draco persisted, as if the Minister hadn’t spoken, “it benefits all the child survivors of the war in the entire United Kingdom.” He arched an eyebrow. “Sound familiar?”

Kingsley stared at him blankly for several seconds before nodding. “Now that you mention it, yes. It’s just been a while since I’ve heard it mentioned.” His eyebrows furrowed. “And the last I heard, you and Ms. Granger were no longer together, so why are you here rambling to me about her nonprofit?”

“The current status of my relationship with Ms. Granger is none of your concern, nor does it impact why I’m here,” Draco declared calmly, “I am here solely to demand that the Ministry do more for Beacon of HOPE.”

Kingsley’s confusion deepened. “Why would the Ministry get involved with a private organization, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Beacon of HOPE is hardly a private organization,” Draco bit out, “it’s a charity, Minister, and as you’re aware, public charities are financially supported by the general public and by the government. And therefore, I demand to know why the Ministry of Magic has never once, in the nearly eleven years that Beacon of HOPE has existed, given any sort of financial support to Ms. Granger’s organization which serves a noble purpose in both our world and in the muggle world.”

Kingsley looked dumbfounded before he shook his head. “That cannot be. If Ms. Granger went through the proper channels to register her organization with the Charity Commission, then –”

“The Charity Commission,” Blaise interrupted smoothly, “is a muggle entity. It serves no purpose nor is it recognized in our world. Secondly, Ms. Granger’s organization is not a muggle one. Furthermore, the entire reason it exists is because of a war fought in the wizarding world. And still, there are many muggle child survivors who benefit from her work. It seems to me, from a legal standpoint, that the Ministry of Magic should have been financially supporting Beacon of HOPE from its very inception. And not only that, but given Ms. Granger’s status in our world, it seems to me that someone from within the Ministry itself should have been assisting her in establishing her organization, and double checking that she was getting the necessary funding.”

Kingsley stared from Draco to Blaise for several seconds before he finally nodded. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted grudgingly, “something more should have been done. Although, when involving any political organizations, the Ministry cannot fund – ”

“This is hardly a political organization,” Draco spat, trying to keep the angry tremor out of his voice, “this is an organization born from political failures, born from a political mess. It benefits all children regardless of their families’ political affiliations. The Order of the Phoenix’s children, Death Eater children, magical children whose parents have no affiliation with either, muggle children, they all suffered in this war, Minister. There is nothing political about supporting all of them.”

Kingsley continued to eye them both before sighing. “I see your point, Mr. Malfoy, and I agree. Is there something going on with Hermione’s organization? Is that why you two are here?”

“As of this moment, because of a rather large private donation,” Blaise began, putting a hand on Draco’s arm to keep him from responding, “Beacon of HOPE’s immediate short-term future is secure. But for the past one to two years, Hermione Granger’s nonprofit was knocking on the door to bankruptcy which is a travesty. Had the Ministry been involved, it would have never been put in such a position.”

And she would never have been put in the position to feel as if agreeing to a contractual marriage of convenience with her wealthy, pompous childhood enemy was her only recourse, Draco thought to himself bitterly. All of this could have been avoided if she didn’t desperately need the one thing I have. Money.

 Kingsley visibly flinched at Blaise’s words. “I understand, Mr. Zabini, and I am... disheartened to hear how Hermione’s organization has been faring. Truly, the Ministry could have done more. Possibly hosted fundraisers, encouraged the public to make donations, possibly made it a fixture in every issue of the Daily Prophet, even. Hindsight is 20/20, I suppose. However, if it is now above water, I’m not sure what you’re hoping to gain from meeting with me this –”

“Oh, you’re going to pay,” Draco gritted through his teeth with a sneer, “you owe it to her, and you owe it to every child in the United Kingdom who benefits from HOPE, and you’re going to pay. Big. Huge.”

Kingsley nodded. “I will absolutely do whatever is necessary to make sure this oversight is rectified immediately. I will get Beacon of HOPE registered wherever it needs to be to make sure that going forward, it receives funding from the Ministry. No question.”

Draco smirked and shook his head. “You’re misunderstanding me, Minister. While, yes, you will absolutely be fixing your mistake, I mean this in no uncertain terms: this is a nearly 11-year-old oversight. And Beacon of HOPE should have been receiving funding for all 11 years. And not only will you make sure it gets what it needs moving forward, you’re going to make an enormous donation from the Ministry totaling 11 years’ worth of back payments.”

There was silence for several seconds before Kingsley let out a loud, unsettling laugh that grated the very blood in Draco’s veins. He narrowed his eyes and waited for the Minister to pull himself together.

“I apologize for laughing so uproariously, Mr. Malfoy,” Kingsley asserted, gazing at Draco with a hint of malice, “but you have a lot of nerve to make such a preposterous demand of me. For one, if Hermione Granger wants to pursue a lawsuit of some kind, she should be sitting before me, not you, as it’s her organization. For another, there is no legal footing for such a thing. Mr. Zabini here can tell you as much.”

“Ms. Granger would never be here demanding anything, you and I both know that,” Draco whispered, “because she likes to depend on only herself to her own detriment. But if she wanted to, I’m pretty certain she could get a same-day appointment with you, couldn’t she, Minister? Unlike me.”

Kingsley clenched his jaw, glaring at Draco defiantly without responding.

“I’m not here demanding the money legally,” Draco continued, not moving, keeping his body relaxed and poised in his seat, his voice still a mere whisper, his eyes locked on the Minister, “I am here demanding it because if you don’t comply, I will go to the Daily Prophet office directly from here and not only let them know about such a grievous error done to our female war heroine, but I will also inform them that the other two-thirds of the Golden Trio, who happen to be men, have benefitted enormously after the war from the Ministry while you’ve been at its helm.”

Kingsley’s face hardened. “Are you threatening me, Malfoy?”

“I will point out,” Draco proceeded to whisper, “that Harry Potter was made Head Auror merely three years after the war when he was just 21 years old. Such a thing is unheard of as most Head Aurors work in the field for 10 years or more before even being considered. Now,” he held up his hand as Kingsley began a rebuttal, “it’s innocent enough, on its own. You could make an argument that he deserved it after defeating the Dark Lord not once but twice. But see the problem is, Kings,” Draco leaned forward, “that two years after the war, when Beacon of HOPE had already existed for a full year, Ron Weasley became co-owner of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes with his brother, George. And the Ministry became a private investor in their company. Not a charity. A private company. And investors, Minister, get their money back with profits and interest.”

Draco made a blatant show of eyeing his fingernails innocently. “Now, I don’t know what the Ministry has been doing with the money it makes from the Weasel’s company. It could be nothing. In fact, it’s probably nothing. You don’t seem like a nefarious person, Minister. And I could certainly have Mr. Zabini here figure it out. But I suspect the public outcry that would come at the fact that the Ministry bent over backwards to support Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, the male two-thirds of the Golden Trio, and left the female one-third, Hermione Granger, out to dry for years upon years would cause enough damage without even needing to find where the money went.”

He finally raised his eyes to a horrified Kingsley. “They might even call for you to step-down, Kings. So, I’d pick your next words very, very carefully.”

The Minister’s wide eyes moved from Draco to Blaise, as if to gauge how serious his intentions were, but Blaise gazed back at him serenely.

Kingsley turned a furious face to Draco. “Hermione Granger has more class than this. She wouldn’t dream of behaving this way. Weren’t you trying to revitalize your image, Mr. Malfoy? Hasn’t that been something you’ve been trying to do here in England since you came back at the beginning of the year? I see now there was no sincerity in that desire.”

This time, Draco allowed himself to laugh hysterically, obnoxiously. “Ms. Granger may be above behaving this way, but you and I both know I’m not. And I find it ludicrous that you seem to feel entitled to demand some sort of loyalty from me when you have not once even had the courtesy to meet with me in the nearly nine months since I’ve been back. I called. I wrote. I emailed. I had my employees do the same, and one of them is a Weasley, Harry Potter’s own wife. And still, you refused. Every single time. Wouldn’t meet with me, not to speak to me, not to judge my character, not to get a reading on all I did in France, not to meet the adult Draco Malfoy and see if he was someone worth doing business with. No, you refused, based on who I was and what I did when I was 16 years old.” He grimaced at the Minister in disgust, then bristled. “16 fucking years old!”

“Draco,” Blaise murmured warningly, placing a hand on his arm again.

“I’m fine, Blaise,” Draco assured him, not dropping Kingsley’s gaze. “And so, Minister, I don’t appreciate you questioning my sincerity in wanting to change my image. You don’t know me. But I’ve always known who I am – the good and the bad. The light and dark. And part of being who I am means doing absolutely anything for the people I love. Good things and bad things. Light things and dark things. You had pity for me for all those years ago, and you acquiesced to Potter’s request that I go free after he testified for me, but you did that as a favor to him. It had nothing to do with me. But this? This you will do for me. You will do as I ask. You will make a donation to Beacon of HOPE within the next two days totaling what has been owed to them – to her – for the last 11 years. Because make no mistake, I will burn this entire Ministry to the ground for that woman, so me sitting here blackmailing you is nothing. I didn’t even need to break a sweat to do it. And dragging your name through the mud to ensure your downfall is just the cherry on top. Then maybe you’ll get a taste of what muggles call karma, Minister Shacklebolt,” he finished acidly, raising a single eyebrow so reminiscent of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy that Kingsley visibly swallowed.

After several beats, Kingsley’s eyes traveled from Draco to Blaise multiple times before finally nodding. “You have my word, Mr. Malfoy,” he stated firmly. “I will make it my personal business to make sure Beacon of HOPE gets the money from the Ministry it has been entitled to receive for the last 11 years. Moving forward, it will continue to receive funds, and we will make a concerted effort to promote its work within the Wizarding World.”

“Good. I will be confirming that the transaction was complete with Ms. Granger,” Blaise responded cordially, extending his hand out to the Minister. Kingsley eyed it for a split second before reaching forward and grasping it in his own. Draco stood, buttoning his suit jacket and turning towards the office door.

“Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco turned back to face Kingsley who was also now standing, eyeing him appraisingly. The Minister held out his hand.

Draco’s eyes dropped to the hand before him. He seemed to weigh his options before he extended his own hand and firmly shook.

“I respect a man who defends what’s important to him,” Kingsley began, before continuing in a calculating tone, “I understand your wedding to Hermione was supposed to have been yesterday,” he acknowledged, an edge of spite in his tone, “I am sure it hasn’t been easy. I hope in time the slight lessens.”

Fucking tosser.

“I don’t want her to know I was here.”

The words left Draco’s mouth before he could stop them, but he said nothing to take them back. He held the Minister’s gaze, wanting his word.

Kingsley briefly raised his eyebrows in surprise but nodded. “As you wish, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco held his head high and nodded back without saying a word, keeping his expression stoic and impassive, hiding the ache that sank into his heart. With a final nod, he turned and walked out of the office with Blaise following closely behind.

Once they hit the pavement outside, Blaise put a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “You alright, mate? That was a low-blow disguised as concern.”

“I’m no fucking fool,” Draco muttered, “and I’m fine. Granger will get what she’s always deserved and that’s what matters.”

Unbeknownst to Draco, three days later Hermione came stomping into Kingsley’s office, her hair crackling with ferocious, indignant magic, her cheeks flushed red.

Marguerite was right behind her, flustered.

“Minister! I’m so sorry, but Ms. Granger just bypassed reception and –” she explained breathlessly before Kingsley held up a hand.

“It’s fine, Marguerite. Have a seat, Hermione. What can I do for you?”

Hermione watched Marguerite gently close the door behind her before she whipped back around to Kingsley. “I want to know about the absolutely massive donation that came into Beacon of HOPE yesterday from the Ministry. What in the world was that, Kingsley?! Have you lost the plot?! Have you gone daft?! It was so enormous, it was nearly offensive!”

“It was simply what was owed to your charity, Ms. Granger. That’s all,” he explained calmly.

“What do you mean, what was owed to it?!” she nearly screeched, “I demand an explanation! I demand to know how you arrived at that conclusion, and how you arrived at that preposterous final figure!”

“It was eloquently pointed out to the Ministry that Beacon of HOPE should have been receiving funds from us for the last 11 years. To make it right, I decided to send enough money totaling what should have been paid over the past 11 years,” Kingsley responded smoothly in his low voice, trying to get her to lower her volume.

It only worked minutely. “Why in the world would you do that?! And how did you realize it?”

The Minister waved his hand dismissively. “Someone with good intentions pointed it out and they were right. Morally, this is the correct thing to do. Your organization will never find itself in that position again, Hermione, I swear to you. We will become an active participant in everything you do. In fact, I’m going to assign a small team of two or three people in our business department to work solely with you. They’ll make sure the Ministry does everything possible to bring Beacon of HOPE to the forefront – fundraisers, galas, you name it. It should have been done from the beginning, and I was too blind, too wrapped up in other things to realize it.”

Hermione studied Kingsley’s face for several seconds. “Who was it? Who pointed out that the Ministry hadn’t been funding HOPE?”

Kingsley shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters, Kings,” Hermione murmured quietly, her heart sinking, “it matters a lot.”

“It doesn’t matter because they wanted to remain anonymous. And I’ll leave it at that,” Kingsley said firmly.

Before Hermione could respond, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Kingsley called.

Marguerite opened the door and held up a folder. “An owl came by and dropped this off. It’s from Ginny Potter over at Black Dragon Wines. She’s responding to the owl you sent over this morning.”

Kingsley reached for the folder. “Thank you, Marguerite.”

Hermione felt all the blood rush from her face as the secretary left and closed the door behind her. She watched as Kingsley opened the black folder and briefly glanced over its contents, taking the time to try and compose herself.

When the Minister looked back up at her, she met his gaze. “Are you considering doing business with Black Dragon?”

He nodded nonchalantly, closing the folder and placing it down on the side of his desk. “Yes. I sent an owl over to Ginevra Potter this morning asking for a pitch. I wanted to see their numbers since February, what their projections were, how they’re doing over on the continent. The basic things before I decide. I’ll have to review it with the business and legal departments, but it seems promising from the quick scan I just took.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “Why?”

“Why?” Kingsley repeated, a look of confusion on his face.

“Yes. Why?” Hermione finally took a seat, regally sitting back, eyeing him suspiciously. “Why now? Draco had been trying to meet with you about doing business with the Ministry since practically the second he landed on English soil back in January. And you refused to meet with him, you refused to give him a chance. Repeatedly. We all knew it: the entire team over at Black Dragon. The Malfoys. Me. Harry. The Weasleys. We all knew. So why now? What did he do that made you rethink your decision to blacklist him?”

Kingsley’s face hardened the more she spoke. “I hardly blacklisted him, Hermione.”

“Really? What do you call it when you blatantly speak ill about someone, both in private and in public, to the point where you have a negative impact on how other people view them? To the point where they’re avoided?” she retorted snidely, arching a single eyebrow.

Kingsley’s eyes widened at the small facial expression. Seems like some of that cocky Malfoy demeanor rubbed off you, Golden Girl, he thought with a small, amused smirk. Finally, he nodded. “You’re right. I did do that. Sometimes on purpose, but not always. I should have behaved in a more professional manner, especially in public. As for why now, it just seems like he carries himself well. He’s handled this break up with you alright, he hasn’t given any interviews, hasn’t made any public statements other than the joint one you both released a few weeks ago.”

Right. The formal statement that Draco had owled to her for her approval after a week of silence between them, the note coming late in the evening explaining that the Malfoys had been given a heads up about the next morning’s Daily Prophet article reporting the news about their breakup.

She’d memorized every word, bitterly carved it into her heart.

After careful reflection, we have decided to go our separate ways. We remain thankful for the time we spent together and have nothing but mutual respect for one another. We are simply taking different paths. Please know this decision was made with deepest care for one another. We carry no regrets, only gratitude. We ask for privacy at this time.

The word ‘love’ hadn’t been mentioned once. Not that she’d necessarily expected it to be, but it still made her heart squeeze painfully to know he’d written the words down for the public, knowing how much ‘people love a good fairy tale,’ like he’d told her months ago when they’d settled on the terms of their marriage contract. And yet, he hadn’t used the word ‘love’. He’d stopped pushing the fake fairy tale narrative. And why shouldn’t he?

“Hermione?” Kingsley asked gently, bringing her out of her brief daze.

“Excuse me, Kingsley,” she recovered quickly, flustered, “I don’t know where my mind went for a moment. Well,” she cleared both her head and her throat, “whatever your reasons are for considering working with Black Dragon, it would be a good move for the Ministry. Their clients all seem satisfied, and the wine is spectacular. You really have nothing to lose.”

Kingsley waved his hand. “I know I’m not taking a chance on the product. I’m sure the product is top tier otherwise it wouldn’t be doing so well on the continent. And the team over there work hard and work well together. I’d be taking a chance on Draco Malfoy, and that’s what makes me hesitate.”

“Don’t,” Hermione insisted firmly, shaking her head, “don’t hesitate. Draco is dedicated to his company. He has been for over ten years, Kings. It’s his pride and joy, the one thing he put all his time and effort into and built on his own without input from anyone. He won’t let it fail. He won’t fail you.”

Kingsley eyed her pensively. “You still say all that, still sing his praises after calling off your wedding?”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “We didn’t call off our wedding because of his career,” she said quietly, “I’ve never questioned his work ethic, or his ambition. He’s brilliant, and he works hard. We split up for personal reasons, not professional or ethical ones. I wouldn’t recommend you work with him if I didn’t believe in him.”

“You’re still in love with him,” Kingsley boldly asserted. “Does he know?”

“There’s nothing to know, nothing to tell,” she declared flippantly, “I’m just telling you that you won’t regret working with him.”

Kingsley studied her hard expression for a beat longer before nodding. “Once I go over this folder with the business department, I think we’ll start with a one-year trial: carry his wines at all our events and galas and such. Fundraisers we host. And after a year, we’ll see how we feel about making it more permanent.”

A small smile crossed Hermione’s lips, picturing Draco’s reaction to the news that he’d landed the Ministry as a client.

She’d love to see his face.

He’s going to flip out. He’ll have gotten it on his own, even when the public’s perception of him is so precarious. Kingsley seemed decided before I got here. They’ll probably celebrate at the Manor.

She could picture it: Lucius and Narcissa thrilled for their son, toasting him at the dining room table, champagne flutes in their hands.

Her heart clenched wistfully. She knew she didn’t belong with the Malfoys anymore, but she’d be lying if she didn’t admit to missing them. Even Lucius. The man could argue with her about the color of the sky, but if she made a sound argument, he’d give her credit and encourage her to defend herself to the death. And Narcissa... Gods, she missed Narcissa.

And Draco... missing him was stifling. Overpowering. The sheer force that came with recognizing and acknowledging his absence was thick, unforgiving, all-encompassing. It took over her whole being, the lack of him a physical block she could feel; as if he belonged beside her, and the empty space in his place was a constant reminder that she was alone. If she focused on it too much, it rendered her completely useless. And so, she brushed it aside when she felt the shadow taking over her being.

I’m lonely.

And I’m alone.

She stood abruptly, not wanting to sit with those feelings for longer than she had to. “I’m sorry I barged in here, Minister,” she blurted out sheepishly.

Kingsley looked up at her sudden movement in surprise, quickly rising to his own feet, coming around to the other side of his desk. “You don’t need an appointment to see me, Hermione,” he quietly intoned in his rich, warm voice, “you’re always welcome to stop by. Even if it’s to yell at me or make demands.”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Golden Girl,” he concluded teasingly.

She rolled her eyes with a smirk, stepping to the door. “Take care, Minister.”

Overwhelmed with the emotions she hadn’t been expecting to feel, Hermione stepped out onto the street and walked into the coffee shop next door, her newest preferred coffee spot to replace the one in the lobby of the building where Draco worked. This one was more convenient anyway, being right next to the apparition point.

After she placed her latte order, she sat at a small two-person table near the pickup counter. When the barista called her name, she pushed her seat back to stand, but a hand landed on her shoulder.

“I’ve got it, Mione.”

She looked up and met Ron’s familiar eyes as he smiled down at her. In shock, she watched him walk to the counter to pickup her coffee. He promptly sat across from her, placing her drink in front of her, keeping his familiar grin on his face.

It would be so easy.

She gazed anxiously into his clear, blue eyes, the same ones she’d come to know since she was 11 years old.

So goddamn easy to fall back into the routine we’ve always had.

But I deserve better.

“How have you been?” he asked her quietly.

She shrugged, taking a sip of her latte. “I’ve been better.”

He nodded. “I heard about you and Malfoy. I wish I could say I’m sorry, but it wouldn’t be the truth. I’m fucking relieved. That was a mistake if I ever saw one. Surely you know that by now.”

Hermione bristled but she didn’t respond, taking another sip of her coffee.

“I’m glad you woke up,” Ron continued, “although, I do have to say, I’m not terribly surprised you called it off. That seems to be your pattern.”

She froze, her eyes blinking up at him. “My pattern?”

He grinned at her. “You always get cold feet, I think. How many times did you break up with me over the last ten years? Even though you knew we had a good thing? Sure, sometimes I did the breaking up, but nine times out of ten, it was you. Even back in school, you called things off with Krum and McLaggen. When you start getting close to someone, when you realize you might get hurt, you let go. You cut them loose.” He made a cutting motion with his fingers, then smirked snidely. “It’s the typical Hermione pattern. Surely, you’re aware of it.”

Red hot fury coursed through Hermione’s veins. “How dare you make such an assertion about me?” she whispered, enraged. “If you think I broke up with you to protect myself, you’re right, and I did it because your pattern was to constantly make selfish choices that would always hurt me! And you didn’t even care! You did them anyway! Because you were always looking out for yourself, you never put me first. And that’s not why Draco and I ended things. You’ll never understand because none of your relationships ever meant anything to you.”

“Never meant anything to me?!” Ron’s voice rose. “I wanted to marry you Hermione. You were it for me.”

She shook her head determinedly. “No. If that were even remotely true, you would never have put me through all the heartache I suffered over the last decade. My relationship with Draco surpassed everything I ever had with you even though he and I were only together for such a short time. The differences between the type of man you are and the type of man Draco is and what you each value in your relationships is so stark that it should embarrass you.”

As Ron turned beet red, Hermione angrily took her coffee, pushed her seat back gratingly loudly, and stomped out of the coffee shop, heading straight for the apparition point when she felt his hand grip her elbow, whirling her around to look at his scarlet face.

“I hope being with Malfoy taught you a lesson,” he seethed through gritted teeth, “I hope he taught you that you could never be with some stuck-up, arrogant, pompous, nose-in-the-air little fucking pureblood rich boy and fit in with him and his family. This bitchy version of you today is all his influence.”

In a fluid move, Hermione had her wand beneath Ron’s chin. His eyes widened as he let go of her elbow.

“You’re damn right it is,” she whispered menacingly, “he influenced me in the best way possible. And you’re right again: he was my biggest, greatest lesson. And I’ll always be your biggest, greatest loss.”

Hermione cautiously moved her wand, tucking it away in her purse. “Don’t you ever touch me again, or next time, I won’t show you as much restraint or pity. Because we both know I wield my magic a hell of a lot better than you wield yours.”

She took several steps back, watching him to make sure he didn’t follow. His eyes tracked her movement, narrowing with resentment.

“The best lesson Draco taught me was to pull a card from your deck: to put myself first. And the best way to put myself first is to finally say goodbye to you, Ronald Weasley. Permanently. I never want to see you again.”

With the confidence infused into her that could only come from being loved by the Malfoys, and with a vision of Draco’s grey eyes dancing with amusement accompanying his proudest smirk, Hermione disapparated with a loud, powerful crack.

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe we pulled it off. I can’t believe they’ll finally see each other tonight.”

Pansy, Astoria, and Narcissa all turned to look at Ginny, who shook her head as she continued.

“Even getting them in the same room has been impossible! After all these weeks, all because –"

“Because they’re equally brilliant and can see through everything,” Narcissa admitted with a demure grin, “until tonight, of course.”

It had been the perfect plan. After Black Dragon had finally landed the Ministry of Magic as a probationary client for one year and rectified their past mistake with Beacon of HOPE just three weeks ago, everything had started clicking.

Following several failed attempts to get Draco and Hermione together seemingly “accidentally” at different moments, the perfect opportunity had presented itself: Narcissa and Ginny had met with the Minister, where Narcissa had coyly convinced him to hold the first Ministry-backed fundraiser gala to benefit HOPE. It would be the perfect event, she’d pointed out, to debut the Ministry as Black Dragon’s latest wine carrier. And when Ginny had pretended to realize it would be held the night before Hermione’s 30^th birthday, the Minister had eagerly jumped at the prospect of positive media attention. And Narcissa, known for her stylish and impeccable event planning, had primly told the Minister that she and the other ladies at Black Dragon Wines would love to plan the entire occasion. Kingsley had nearly keeled over at the idea of even more media attention, knowing how much publicity Narcissa Malfoy’s events usually garnered.

Which brought them here, over six weeks since Draco and Hermione had broken up. Narcissa stood, poised and refined, in the beautifully decorated ballroom at the Ministry, scrutinizing each final detail. She’d gone with the theme ‘Midnight and Gold’: everything was sumptuously bedecked in black, navy, and charcoal with matte, brushed, and mirrored gold finishes. The tables were draped in navy and black satin, the table settings all gold. Black taper candles in clusters of gold holders and candelabras sat atop each as centerpieces. The name cards and menus were all foil-stamped with gold accents. Gold chandeliers with sapphire and crystal drops were magically suspended over each table, casting a warm, gilded glow. A velvet lounge near the bar sat in the back left corner in dark hues with gold trim. The dance floor had a celestial gold-inlaid design involving intricately woven stars and constellations. An orchestra was seated and ready to play in the front right corner. The ‘Wishing Wall,’ set up for easy donations, sat along the back right corner.

The centerpiece of the meticulously adorned ballroom was the curved double staircase, sweeping outwards in symmetrical arcs. Each step had gleaming gold inlays and was bordered with delicate filigree. The handrails were supported with beautifully detailed balusters that resembled gilded vines twirling upwards.

Pansy had held the reins for the food and drinks, insisting the bar offer signature drinks including the Velvet Eclipse with a gold dust rim and the Stardust Martini with edible glitter. The desserts planned for the later part of the evening would be adorned with gold dust. The hors d’oeuvres during the cocktail hour would be served on floating gold trays with midnight-colored napkins.

Astoria and Ginny had done careful sleuthing, involving their colleagues and husbands, to get Draco and Hermione to the event itself. Hermione had been easy: Ginny and Harry had excitedly told her that the Ministry wanted to host its first gala for HOPE and simultaneously celebrate her 30^th birthday. Of course, they hadn’t said a word about Draco attending, about Black Dragon Wines being served, nor about Narcissa planning the entire night. For her part, Hermione had been over the moon at the idea. Meanwhile, when Draco had come in for work that morning, Astoria had casually told him from the reception desk that the Minister himself had called to inform them they’d be debuting Black Dragon Wines at a fundraiser gala in mid-September, and that everyone in the office had been invited and encouraged to attend. Draco had rolled his eyes, but a small half smirk had lifted the corner of his lips, preening at the thought of finally being featured during a fancy Ministry event.

After one final critical gaze around the ballroom, Narcissa turned on her heel, walking back through the gilded entry arch draped in midnight blue, standing poised in a receiving line with Ginny, Astoria and Pansy.

“Lady Malfoy, your robes are just exquisite,” Astoria voiced admiringly, eyeing Narcissa’s dark grey robes, delicately adorned with small silver outlines of moons and stars, her hair swept up and off her neck in a smooth French twist. She glanced down, lightly tracing one of the star shapes and gave Astoria a smile.

“Thank you, Lady Nott,” she replied, her gaze traveling down to the other ladies’ ensembles. “I appreciate you all doing as I asked and dressing in one of the dark base colors – we’re sure Hermione will be in gold?”

Ginny nodded emphatically. “I didn’t even give her another option. I told her everything would be themed golden and that as the guest of honor she had to come absolutely resplendent in gold.”

“Good,” Narcissa responded approvingly, “We want her to stand out. Make sure Draco’s eyes immediately go to her the moment she walks in."

At that moment, Lucius walked out of one of the lifts, his robes a matching set to Narcissa’s, his long blonde hair tied back with a grey ribbon.

“All’s well,” he said confidently, swiftly picking up his wife’s hand to deposit a light kiss on her knuckles, “I’ve just been at Nott Manor. The gentlemen will be flooing into the Atrium. Theo and Blaise have both promised to encourage Draco to keep moving through the sea of journalists covering the event. Potter himself said he would be happy to shove Draco away if he dared stop to answer any questions,” he added witheringly with a slight eye roll. “Believe me, while I appreciate Potter’s involvement, he seemed a bit too eager at the prospect of pushing our son however many times is necessary to prevent him from speaking to reporters.”

Ginny smirked. “I promise you, Lord Malfoy,” she serenely commented, as Lucius’ eyes turned to her, “the only reason my husband would do such a thing is to keep Draco from finding out that tonight is about Hermione. Undoubtedly one of those jounalists will ask for his opinion about Beacon of HOPE or its success.”

Narcissa reached up, lovingly brushing across Lucius’ broad shoulders, straightening the lines of his robes. “Mrs. Potter is right,” she reminded him with an arched eyebrow, “you and I both know that if Draco had been aware that tonight would benefit HOPE and that it was to celebrate Hermione’s birthday, he would have stayed far away to avoid seeing her. At least the media circus is being forced to stay in the Atrium. Besides,” she continued, squeezing his hands, “when has your son ever stopped and voluntarily spoken to the media?”

Lucius wryly smiled. “You have a point, my dear.”  He glanced at the women before him with an approving nod at their elegant ensembles. “You all look lovely. I will leave you to it, then.” He placed a delicate kiss on Narcissa’s forehead before taking several steps back away from his wife, not wanting to take attention from her or the girls who were hosting as he waited to escort Narcissa into the ballroom. Other guests began to arrive in the lifts.

As the four witches quickly straightened, smoothing their robes and dresses one more time, plastering welcoming smiles to their faces, one of the floos down in the Atrium lit up with the arrival of Blaise and Draco, who quickly wiped any excess ash off of their outfits. Once they stepped out of the fireplace, they were quickly followed by Harry and Theo. Their plan to distract the media had worked to a degree.

The moment Draco’s black dragon hide shoes had made contact with the Atrium floor, the photographers began incessantly snapping his photo. Blaise’s ears picked up that many reporters were calling out questions involving Hermione, but there were so many of them that it all became an unintelligible cacophony of sound; however, when Harry had arrived just seconds later, the wolves descended upon him, forever destined to be the media’s favorite darling. To appease the photographers, the four men, all in black tuxedos with white button-down shirts, posed together and let the media take as many pictures as they wanted for a full 20 seconds before they steered themselves to the lifts. Theo and Blaise’s eyes met with relief that no one had asked Draco anything about the gala honoring both Hermione and Beacon of HOPE during that small frame of time.

Once in the lift, Draco cast Harry a discrete sidelong glance. It had been Ginevra who had asked Theo at work if it would be alright for Harry to get ready with the rest of them at his Manor and travel to the Ministry together. Not having a say as to who was welcomed into Nott Manor, Draco had held his tongue but couldn’t help the eye roll that had crossed his face. Once Theo had agreed, it had been Draco who sarcastically pointed out that at least the paparazzi would be focused on Potter instead of himself upon their arrival at the Ministry. Theo and Ginevra had looked at each other with pleasant surprises on their faces and had nodded in agreement.

As if something had worked in their favor that Draco couldn’t piece together.

Once Potter had arrived at Nott Manor, Draco found himself vaguely hoping he wouldn’t bring up Granger, which he didn’t.

It was Draco who found himself opening his mouth and asking about her before he could stop himself.

He’d quietly approached Harry in the sitting room as he stood, drinking fire whiskey, and asked how Granger was doing, how HOPE was faring now that it had the financial backing of the Ministry. Harry hadn’t reacted, which Draco appreciated, and told him that HOPE now had established offices in Glasgow, Cardiff, and Belfast.

“She’s traveling a lot, then,” Draco remarked quietly, sipping from his own drink, wistfully wishing he had had the privilege of hearing Granger excitedly tell him about the expansion of HOPE over dinner. He could see it now: the elated expression on her face, the way her eyes would have sparkled under the restaurant lighting. But here he was, listening to a secondhand account of how the woman he was hopelessly pining after was living her life. Without him.

Harry shook his head. “Not yet. The offices are taking until October to fully establish themselves and get everything up and running smoothly. Then Hermione will start going to each one, just to touch base, every four to six weeks or so. Of course, they’ll be able to reach her via owls and emails if they need her or if there’s some sort of emergency,” he continued, running a hand through his mop of black hair, grinning at Draco, “but I, for one, am relieved that the daily goings-on in Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland will fall to other offices with small teams, and not Hermione herself. Let her run the English office and keep London as HOPE’s headquarters. She deserves it. She’s worked too hard over the years.”

“Too hard and too sacrificially,” Draco added bitterly. Harry had eyed him curiously before nodding in agreement.

“Yes,” he’d said with a nod, “always too sacrificially.”

Now standing in the lift beside Potter, his eyes scrutinizing every unruly hair on his unkempt head, Draco found himself... indifferent at his presence.

Which is a huge fucking improvement considering I wanted to break his fucking neck every time anyone even mentioned him.

He wasn’t angry anymore, he realized with mild, yet relieved, surprise. He understood why Potter had done what he did at the trial years ago, even if he didn’t agree and wish he hadn’t intervened. He could even understand how everything involving Dobby had happened, how with the chaos that came with the end of the war, Potter had had other things to worry about and never realized Draco would want to know about Dobby’s death. Moreover, when Potter had brought him to Dobby’s grave, an insurmountable mountain of healing had happened that Draco hadn’t even realized he needed. But it was the shaking of hands at the Burrow nearly three months ago, when Potter had silently supported him as he spoke to Molly, that had somehow brought them full circle. It was the gratitude and respect in the handshake that left Draco feeling the remaining animosity slowly evaporate from where he had carried it deep in his veins, as if it had been etched into his very DNA.

Indifference. Indifference he could work with.

Who knows. Maybe one day I’ll even tolerate him.

Draco watched Potter again shake his fingers through his untamable hair, unable to keep a judgmental sneer of disdain off of his face.

Begrudgingly tolerate him.

As the men strode confidently out of the lift to join the line waiting to greet Narcissa and the ladies from Black Dragon, Astoria’s eyes met with Theo’s. Theo nodded in her direction, letting her know all was still going according to plan, that Draco had seemingly no idea Hermione would be there. Astoria casually leaned over first to Ginny then to Pansy, turning her head to whisper in each witch’s ear. Pansy discretely nodded, turning her own head to pass the message to Narcissa who gave her a calculated, sly grin.

Theo and Harry unobtrusively stood several feet behind their wives, waiting with Lucius to escort their witches into the ballroom after the receiving line came to a stop. Blaise and Draco, both dateless, would head directly into the ballroom after greeting their colleagues and Narcissa, who had straightened Draco’s bowtie and patted his cheek lovingly.

“As handsome as ever, my son,” she’d murmured, loud enough for only him to hear. He’d given her a small, endearing smile.

“As regal as ever, Mother,” he’d responded just as quietly, placing his hands on her shoulders and lightly kissing her cheek before walking towards the ballroom with Blaise.

“Draco?” she called.

He turned quickly.

“Have fun tonight,” she encouraged him, “be happy.”

He’d nodded at her before sauntering through the gold arch, nearly toppling into Blaise, who was standing frozen in place, eyes wide as he took in his surroundings.

“This is incredible. Your mother did this?” he asked, the shocked surprise written all over his face.

Draco slapped his shoulder with a grin. “Are you surprised? You’ve been to plenty of Narcissa Malfoy’s projects. They’re always stylish, and always over the top.” His own eyes traveled through the room, taking in every tiny detail that Narcissa had meticulously chosen before nodding in understanding. “Though it seems she really outdid herself, doesn’t it?”

He paused, his brow furrowing. “I wonder what’s so special about the charity that this fundraiser is benefitting,” he wondered out loud, “what about it made my mother go all out like this.”

That seemed to bring Blaise down to earth as he realized he quickly needed to change the subject before Draco started digging. “I’m sure it’s more because...” he reached for two glasses of wine from the floating tray beside them, handing one to Draco with a devious grin, “because this drink, right here? This is ours. This is Black Dragon. And by the end of the night, every person in this room will be buzzed off of our wine, and they’ll all know it’s ours. And you know what that means.”

Draco’s own grin spread. “It means more business. It means money. Cheers, mate.”

The ballroom quickly filled with guests, all dazzling in their themed robes and gowns. The orchestra played light music as Blaise, Theo, Astoria, Pansy, Ginny, Harry, and Draco all sat comfortably in the lounge area, trying the signature drinks, eating different canapes and hors d’oeuvres that kept floating by on gold trays.

Draco’s eyes wandered around the ballroom. “There are quite a few people here from school,” he casually commented, noting Neville Longbottom with his wife, Hannah, making the rounds; Seamus Finnegan talking animatedly with Dean Thomas over at the bar; Marcus Flint with his wife, Millicent, seated at a table with Greg Goyle and his date... Daphne?

Draco’s eyes shot up. “Is Daphne on Goyle’s arm tonight?”

Astoria grinned and nodded. “Isn’t it wild? Remember how he was so infatuated with her back at school and she wouldn’t give him the time of day? I guess he finally tried hard enough. They’ve been dating for the last month or so. Daph is hesitant to put a label on it, but...” her voice trailed off as the group took in Goyle’s besotted face, “... I think Gregory would have proposed on their very first date if my sister had insinuated she’d accept.”

“Probably would have married her that same night, too,” Blaise added with a low laugh, “Good for them.”

“What a fine-looking group of people you lot make!”

All eyes went up to find Headmistress McGonagall smiling at them, donning deep plum velvet robes, her fully silver long hair handsomely pulled back and up in a high bun.

They all immediately stood, grins wide, as Potter stepped forward and embraced their former Charms professor. “Headmistress! It’s so good to see you!”

“It’s wonderful to see all of you,” she responded happily, “and such a mixed bag of lions and serpents, getting along so famously. It makes my ancient heart sing,” she added with a light laugh, placing her hand over her chest.

Pansy smirked good naturedly. “Only sometimes, Headmistress,” she teased, “though most of us do work together.”

“Yes, I’d heard! Mr. Malfoy’s wine company,” the Headmistress excitedly continued, her eyes falling on Draco, “after such success in France, I was so delighted to hear you’d be bringing your product back home.” She held up a glass, “And it is sinfully smooth, I’ll have you know.”

Draco politely took the praise, reining in his natural tendency to want to gloat. “I appreciate that, Headmistress,” he expressed gratefully, “It’s a gift to know that a woman of such refined taste appreciates our wine.”

The Headmistress batted a hand in his direction with a small smirk. “Don’t flatter me too much, Mr. Malfoy.” Her eyes moved through the group, as if looking for someone. “Is Miss Granger elsewhere? I was so hoping to congratulate her on her big night!”

The group went silent, except for Draco, who seemed to sharply inhale at the same moment his heart stopped.

Ginny immediately jumped in, taking the Headmistress by the arm. “I’m not sure about that, Headmistress,” she replied flawlessly without batting an eyelash, steering her away, talking lightly in her ear.

Draco’s eyes flew to each person in their group. Waiting. Demanding. Furious. Terrified.

What the fuck is going on? Is this a fucking set up?

No one moved. Every set of eyes was on the floor as they continued to sip their drinks.

“Is anyone going to say anything?” Draco asked in a low voice, his heart going from zero to 100 in a matter of seconds. He was sure it was going to beat right out of his chest as his gaze wandered, wide-eyed, looking for her amongst the crowd.

“About what?” Pansy asked nonchalantly.

Draco rounded on her, eyes narrowed. “You know exactly about what.”

It dawned on him then.

“The charity,” he contended quietly, “It’s Beacon of HOPE isn’t it? That’s what this whole thing is. It’s a big deal because it’s the Ministry’s first time hosting a fundraiser for it. That’s it, isn’t it? I’m right. And none of you lot thought it necessary to tell me.”

“No,” Pansy snapped, “we didn’t tell you. Because we knew you wouldn’t want to come. And really, we all had to be here even if we didn’t want to be here to support Hermione; we also had to come and show our faces for Black Dragon. It’s a big night for us, too.”

“How dare you withhold that tidbit from me,” Draco gritted at her, “I had every right to know if I’d be running into someone I have a recent past with.”

“I saw you,” Pansy responded heatedly, her eyes flashing, “I was there, in case you forgot. Astoria and I were both there to witness when you had a near meltdown in front of your parents just a few days after you and Hermione had broken up. I saw you. You all but blatantly admitted you loved her. You didn’t deny it when your mother insisted. And we all know she loves you. And this entire thing is just –”

“It’s none of your business!” Draco nearly shouted, his face reddening, turning to look at all of them, “none of this is your business! It has nothing to do with love!” he spat out, his heart in his throat the longer he contemplated the fact that there was a good chance he’d see Granger the longer he stood there, “it has everything to do with being honest with myself, everything to do with her realizing what she wants, who she is, putting herself first, and putting everyone else fuck-all last for the first time in her life!”

Astoria sighed. “We’re sorry,” she softly remarked, “we weren’t trying to dupe you. We just thought –”

“You just thought you could meddle and manipulate like you snakes always do,” Draco interjected venomously, “thinking you know what’s best for everyone even though Granger and I made this decision together.”

“No, you didn’t,” Potter declared, “you didn’t. Hermione broke it off. You accepted.”

Draco sneered at him in disgust. “And what should I have done? If a woman graciously wants to remove herself from a relationship with you, what would the proper response have been? Should I have begged, Potter?”

“Did you want to break up?” he threw back.

In frustration, Draco slammed his wine glass down on the lounge table. “It doesn’t matter what I wanted! Are you all daft? If one person in a relationship wants out, the other accepts. That’s how it works. It only takes one unhappy person to render a relationship over.”

“Did Hermione say she was unhappy?” Pansy questioned with an arched eyebrow, “I’m willing to bet every piece of gold in this ballroom that those words never crossed her lips.”

“She –” Draco’s voice cut off as he again looked around the ballroom, taking in all the décor, the intricate details that his mother had put so much effort into choosing. His gaze landed on Blaise. “That’s why she outdid herself,” he muttered, putting the pieces together, “my mother was involved in this, too, wasn’t she?” He shook his head in exasperation. “I should’ve fucking known.”

“Should’ve known what?”

Lucius and Narcissa joined the group with inquisitive, polite smiles.

 “Everything alright over here?” Lucius continued.

Draco eyed his parents accusingly. “No. Everything is not alright. I have only just discovered that every person sitting here – including you both – set me up to see Granger tonight. Every single one of you tricked me into coming, leaving out tiny details that would –”

Lucius’ face contorted into stony stoicism. “Pull yourself together,” he snapped.

Draco immediately went silent, standing straighter, his chin lifting, his own face matching Lucius’ with hard lines and impassivity. Still, even at 29 years old, his body would automatically react and obey an order from his father.

Lucius nodded once in approval. “That’s better. Stop with these ridiculous outbursts. You were taught how to comport yourself, especially in public, and this is neither the time nor the place for a temper tantrum. There are too many eyes here, and yes, while the night is in honor of Miss Granger and all the work she’s put into HOPE, it is also a big night for Black Dragon and it is only appropriate that you be here as well. It would behoove you to figure out a way to be in a large, shared space with her as she is a beloved member in the wizarding world, and your wine is set to become a staple at every wizarding world occasion. You will undoubtedly be expected to see each other from time to time. I thought that much would be obvious, but clearly, you need to be reminded both of where you are and who you are. Both the location and your heritage merit more integrity.”

Lucius’ biting words hit Draco square where it hurt most: his heart and his pride.

He swallowed hard before he met his mother’s sympathetic gaze. “Does she know?” he asked her softly. “Does Granger know you and Father are here? Does she –” he cleared his throat, “does she know I’m here?”

Narcissa shook her head. “No,” she whispered back, her hand on his arm, “no, I was afraid if she knew we’d all be here that she would be uncomfortable and not want to attend even though this is in her honor.”

“If you think she’d be uncomfortable with us here, Mother,” he murmured sadly, “then we shouldn’t be here. Not me, not you, not Father. Why would you want to make her uncomfortable on a night meant to celebrate her success?”

Narcissa sighed. “We’re her family.” There was no question in her statement, no room for argument, no space for Draco to interject and tell her she was holding on to something that could never be.

He couldn’t stand there any longer, couldn’t act as if he wasn’t about to fall over from the anxiety of knowing he’d be seeing Granger if he stayed, knowing he had to leave to preserve his sanity, to protect himself from having to admit things he never wanted to think about again; or worse, see things he didn’t want to see again. Like her eyes. And her hair. And her smile.

And if he were honest with himself, he’d admit he wanted to see those things desperately. Wanted to watch the joy dance in her eyes as she accepted the guests’ well wishes and praise for HOPE; wanted to watch her curls shine in the golden hue of the candelabras; wanted to bask in the contagiousness of her smile when it lit up her face.

And then the panic took over him.

I can’t handle it.

I can’t handle it.

I can’t see her.

I can’t.

Lightly patting his mother’s hand on his arm, placing a kiss on her forehead, his eyes met hers as the realization hit her.

“You’re leaving,” she noted, the disappointment clear in her tone.

He nodded minutely. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

He faced his friends. “I’ll see you all on Monday. Enjoy yourselves.”

The dismayed, defeated looks on Pansy, Astoria, Blaise, and Theo’s faces made a twinge of guilt manifest in his stomach, but he determinedly spun around and began walking towards the gold arch.

After taking several steps towards his exit, Draco felt a hand on his elbow. He turned to look at Potter, walking beside him.

“I’ll walk down to the Atrium with you.”

“Really? You want to take another picture with me for the bloodhounds?” Draco scoffed.

Potter made an exasperated face. “Fair point,” he remarked with light amusement. He took his elbow again standing near the front of the ballroom, casually leaning against the gold pillar supporting the bottom of the double staircase, roughly thirty feet from the arch.

“Are you sure about this, Malfoy?” he asked quietly, “I really think you –”

“I can’t stay,” Draco responded, adjusting his cufflinks.

“She’s in love with you.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “She’s not, and –"

Potter nodded, holding his gaze. “She is. And before you ask, no, she hasn’t expressly told me, much in the same way you haven’t told any of your friends how you feel either. And yet they all know, they’re all sure that you’re in love with her.”

“Well, you’d be wrong about that, and at least proving you wrong about something still brings me immense joy, I can tell you, Potter,” Draco drawled, lifting an eyebrow, “surely Pansy told Ginevra who told you that I made a mess of things in front of my parents – to my father’s disgust, actually, and he reacted much in the way he did just a few minutes ago at my uncouth display of emotion, but I digress. Surely, you’ve already been informed that I made an insinuation during dinner several weeks back –”

“If you don’t take the time to clear the air with Hermione, you will always wonder what if,” Potter intensely asserted, gripping Draco’s elbow tighter, “you will spend the rest of your life wondering if things would have been different if you had been honest with her, if you had asked her to be honest with you. And not just listen to her lip service about not wanting to trap you in a contractual marriage, about her not wanting to keep you under some illusion of fake romance when you both know there was nothing fake about it.”

Draco swallowed hard, his eyes glued to Potter’s face.

There was nothing fake about it.

“What’s the worst she could say?” Potter continued, “that she doesn’t love you? You already believe that anyway. So, either she’ll confirm it, and you can move on knowing the full truth, or ...” Potter raised his eyebrows, “or you’ll get everything you ever wanted.”

Draco sucked in a deep breath at Potter’s words, his heart beginning to hammer in his chest.

Everything I ever wanted.

Suddenly, Potter’s eyes went up to his right, his mouth dropping open into shock before breaking out into a toothy grin.

Draco followed his line of vision, up the double staircase. His breath caught in his throat, his entire body forgetting how to engage itself in the natural process of breathing.

Oh, Merlin, help me.

There she was. Granger stood at the top of the left staircase, her hand on the railing, like a vision illuminated in gold, every inch of her sparkling like she’d bathed in starlight and been told to break hearts. Her curls were pinned high, shiny and dark, gold glitter woven through like a crown atop her head. Her dress...

Gods, that dress.

Her sleeveless, v neck, mermaid silhouetted dress hugged every curve of her body, every inch gleaming, covered in gold sequins, with a sweeping train. She glinted and twinkled with every step, as if the dress was aware of the attention it was garnering and the damage it was causing to Draco’s self-control.

She was a goddess descending. Every carefully measured step brought her closer and closer, her eyes raking across the vast crowd before her, every eye turned to her in admiration. The smile that graced her face was exactly how Draco envisioned it, exactly how he remembered it, joyful and sincere. The closer she got, the more details Draco could see: the nearly imperceptible shimmer of her olive skin, the faint gold dusting across her eyelids and her cheeks. Her eyes, her beautiful eyes the soothing color of earth kissed by the rain, met his when she stood on the third step from the bottom.

She came to a stand-still, gazing down at him in surprise, her eyes drinking him in from head to toe. Draco’s heart stopped, watching her. Watching her observe him, feeling a familiar heat rise beneath her gaze.

She licked her lips. Bit the bottom one at the corner, dragging it between her teeth.

Salazar. Still. Always.

“Hello, Draco.”

He swallowed hard, his mouth dry.

“Hello, Granger.”

Forever.

Chapter Text

“I didn’t realize you’d be here.”

He had actual sawdust in his throat.

No words were coming to him. Not one.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His brain was computing, but his body was not following the synapses.

Acutely aware that both Granger and Potter were staring at him, Draco licked his lips and tried again.

Words. Say words, Malfoy.

Nothing.

Any. Fucking. Words. Will. Do.

“Yeah, all of Black Dragon is here,” Harry jumped in smoothly, eyeing Draco with furrowed eyebrows before grinning at Hermione, “tonight’s the first event that the Ministry is serving their wine.”

Her eyes lit up, and his heart stuttered in his chest. Because of course, she’d be thrilled on his behalf.

Well, not his behalf, obviously. Because they weren’t together anymore. But on Black Dragon’s behalf. Ginny’s behalf, and Pansy’s behalf. Astoria’s even. But his? Definitely not his.

Maybe mine?

“That’s wonderful, Draco,” she said enthusiastically, “you must be so thrilled! Finally, after all this time.”

He nodded, completely overwhelmed with his body’s betrayal simply from seeing her. He was always cool. Calm. Fucking collected. He’d been trained his entire gods damned life to be a respectable pureblood with impeccable manners including speaking and making eye contact, for Merlin’s sake, and here he stood like a bumbling fucking prat making an idiot of himself standing before the literal Golden Girl – Hermione Granger dripping gold from her skin, from her dress, from her hair, from her very presence – and he wanted to sink into the floor.

How was he failing so grandiosely?

“If you’ll excuse me, Granger. Potter,” he managed to squeeze from his mouth before he turned on his heel and walked back to the snakes.

And of course, they’d all been watching.

His parents included.

And they all looked giddy beyond belief.

“Stop it,” he muttered with annoyance, immediately bypassing them all and heading directly to the bar.

Theo slowly made his way over, joining him, eyeing him curiously. “Well? It seems you decided to stay, then?”

Draco ignored him, taking a sip of his fire whiskey, turning to face the crowd, his eyes searching for her. Her dress made her easy to spot, and there she was, on Potter’s arm, making the rounds, greeting people, making small talk, laughing.

Like a goddess.

He groaned. If he’d had any sense of decorum, he could have offered her his arm.

What a fucking missed opportunity.

He could have been the polite ex-fake-fiancé with no ill will, no hard feelings, completely over her, and completely mature enough to guide her to all her adoring guests, basking in the glow of –

“You are so besotted with her,” Theo commented with a loud laugh.

Draco’s gaze moved to his friend, and he immediately reddened, realizing Theo had been watching him. “What are you on about?” he accused haughtily, feigning ignorance.

“In love with her. You. Arse over tit.”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“Not denying it?” Theo asked, lifting an eyebrow, sipping his own fire whiskey.

“What’s the point in denying it? All you snakes already know what happened weeks ago. I’m sure Astoria told you the minute she got home from the Manor that night.”

“Then what the fuck are you doing still standing here? You have to be honest with her, mate,” Theo continued, aghast, “You’ve always had way more confidence than this. You’re not a shrinking violet, Malfoy. Not by any means.”

Draco gritted his teeth in frustration. “She broke up with me. Remember? She doesn’t want me.”

“When has a woman not wanting you ever stopped you from pursuing her?” Theo teased lightly with a smirk.

“This time it’s different.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because this time, the woman in question deserves better. This time, all I wanted for her was to remember the strong, courageous girl she’d always been,” Draco admitted quietly, eyes on his glass resting on the bar, “and when she chose to walk away from me, she did it with that strength and bravery. And I can’t stand in the way of that.”

“That’s bullshit. That’s not what’s different this time. What’s different this time is that you’re in love with her and you stand to get hurt.”

“I’ve already been hurt.”

“Again, because you’re in love with her. If you think about it, you’ve always done things backwards. In the past, you’ve always pursued everything you’ve ever wanted. It doesn’t matter what it was related to: business, school, women. And no matter how many times you were told no, you’d still manage to win them over. Shacklebolt’s the perfect example. But Granger?” Theo shook his head, taking another sip, “She’s the one woman you should continue to fight for because you’re so in love with her. Don’t you see the irony? But you won’t, because you’re willing to sacrifice your own desires for her because you want what’s best for her.”

“Right and I’m not what’s best for her!” Draco shouted in frustration.

“Why are you deciding that for her?!” Theo shouted back, “You’re all about letting her make her own decisions, aren’t you? Except this one! Why are you taking away her decision when it comes to this? To you? Why do you think you know better than her? This is the most arrogant thing you’ve ever done, and you’re punishing yourself! Let her decide if you deserve to be punished. Let her decide if she wants you. You think she already decided, but she didn’t have all the information. All the information includes knowing how you feel about her, otherwise, it’s an uninformed decision. And being the swot she is, you and I both know she can’t stand uninformed decisions.” Theo slid his empty glass back towards the bartender.

Draco stared at Theo, eyes wide, as realization dawned on him.

Fuck. He’s right. Fuck.

He groaned, running his hands through his hair, pulling it taut at the roots in aggravation.

“What the fuck do I do then?” he murmured, his forehead coming to rest on the bar, “I can’t tell her everything here. This is her night. It’s in HOPE’s honor. Am I really about to make it about me?”

“You’re going to go over to her. You’re going to ask her to dance. You’re going to flirt with her. You’re going to bring her over to our table and have a great time. And near the end of a wonderful, glamorous night, you’re going to pull her aside somewhere private and you’re going to tell her the truth.” Draco opened his mouth, a rebuttal poised and ready, but Theo shook his head.

“You’re going to do it exuding the disgustingly pretentious, self-important arrogance that only comes from all the Malfoy pureblood inbreeding, passed down from generation to generation of white-haired male snobs,” Theo continued with a smirk, “And that very snobbish confidence is what’s going to help you put up your occlumency walls if she says she doesn’t feel the same. Which you’re already anticipating is what she’ll do. And if that is what she does, you will hide your hurt, and you’ll be proud of her. And then you’ll let her go,” he finished quietly. “And the rest of us will stop pushing this.”

Draco eyes wistfully followed Granger around the ballroom, taking in every small movement, every smile, every sip of champagne as she hung onto Potter’s arm. “You sound like Potter. He said more or less the same.”

“Ah, well. Potter’s brilliant. The Chosen One, Bloke Who Lived, all that shite,” Theo scoffed with a grin. “Now be a gentleman and go ask her to dance,” he insisted, giving Draco a small push forward as the orchestra began playing the familiar first notes of Bitter Sweet Symphony on the strings. “It’s only fitting that the lady of the evening be the first on the dance floor after all, and who better to lead her in a proper waltz than a prat who’s been taking dance lessons since he was three years old?” He wrinkled his nose. “Ask her before Potter does, you know he’ll just step on her feet.”

(1)

Taking a deep breath, Draco nodded. Straightening his tuxedo jacket, he made his way through the lounge across the ballroom to where Granger stood with Potter and the Weaselette, speaking to Headmistress McGonagall. Swallowing the pit of nerves in his stomach and silencing the voice in the back of his head telling him to turn right the fuck around before he made a fool of himself, he stepped up beside Potter and Ginevra, his eyes on Granger.

“Pardon me for the intrusion, Potters. Granger, Headmistress,” he smoothly interrupted, “but I was hoping to lead the lady of honor in the first dance of the night.”

He extended his hand out to her, willing his arm not to shake.

Gods, please say yes.

Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Oh, how lovely,” the Headmistress commented delightedly.

“Indeed,” Harry remarked, a pleased smile on his face. Before she could answer, feeling the panic rise within her chest, she registered that Harry had carefully plucked her hand from his arm, and was about to transfer it to Draco’s, “it sounds like a nice time, Mione, don’t you think?”

Is he being serious?

“I...I think –” Hermione began.

Which was all Harry apparently needed to convince himself her answer was a resounding, furtive ‘yes,’ as he forcefully placed her palm into Draco’s waiting hand.

The familiar, smooth warmth of his hand made a shiver go down her spine. She swallowed hard, aware that Draco had felt the tremble through their touching skin.

“Have fun, kids,” Harry jovially stated with a wide grin, immediately taking Headmistress McGonagall on one arm, Ginny on the other, leading them both towards their group in the back.

“Shall we, Granger?” Draco asked quietly.

She licked her lips, finally raising her eyes to his.

Gods, he looks so delicious in that tux.

She nodded simply, her fingers gripping his.

Draco led her to the enchanted dance floor, holding her gaze, holding her hand.

Holding her heart.

Hermione was aware of the entire ballroom turning to watch as Draco stepped onto the dance floor, carefully tugging her hand to pull her in a wide circle towards himself where his other hand naturally found her waist, hers automatically finding his shoulder. The hand clasping hers changed positions as he expertly intertwined their fingers in midair.

Without a word, Hermione held her breath as Draco began leading her in a waltz around the dance floor as the orchestra continued to play the familiar haunting notes of Bitter Sweet Symphony. She couldn’t help the smile that began to bloom across her face as he spun with her elegantly, smoothly on beat. Somehow, the melody fit them. Somehow, she could see the bittersweet history between them as if it was being projected on the wall behind them: she could see his scowl when she was 11, being sorted into Gryffindor. She could hear him calling her a mudblood at 12. At 13. At 14. She could see the fear and shock on his face when she’d broken his nose behind the tree. Could see his stupid sneer when he’d blown through the wall to the Room of Requirement with Umbridge and the rest of the Inquisitorial Squad when they were 15. She could see him at 16: thin, pale, tired, scared. She could see his dejected, conflicted face at 17, walking towards his parents across the courtyard during the Battle of Hogwarts. Could see his angry, red face as he sat through his trial, listening to Harry, Ron, and Hermione defend him.

Could see him morphed into a full-fledged man, the changes subtle but distinct: still tall, still thin, solid, defined, and broad-shouldered, staring at her in shocked fury as her coffee spilled on them both.

Could see him shouting at her in the elevator. Could hear his loud indignant bark of laughter when he’d declared the line that had changed the course of both of their lives.

“One day, I’m going to marry the hell out of you, Granger.”

And with those words, full of hatred and spite, had been born a promise: a promise of revenge, a promise to take, a promise of selfishness, a promise of dominance.

But none of it had come to fruition. Because the more time they’d spent together, the more those scornful promises splintered and broke until they’d disintegrated into nothing.

But from their ashes, new promises had been tentatively taking root in Hermione until she could deny their existences no longer the night they’d walked around the lake on the Malfoy estate, with the light from the stars twinkling down on them.

And even now, in this moment, being led effortlessly in spins and twirls, dancing amongst more stars, this time gold enchanted to sparkle, emblazoned and etched on the dance floor beneath their feet, her eyes never once left the molten silver in his beneath the warm light of the chandeliers. Hermione didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Because even though it had been nearly 7 weeks since she’d left him asleep without a final goodbye, the truth still sang through her veins to the tune of the song carrying them around the dance floor.

I am so in love with you.

As the song ended on a crescendo, Draco skillfully spun her so that she landed pressed flush against him, their hands still clasped in midair; his other hand gripping her waist against his own, hers landing against the front of his shoulder, their faces nearly nose to nose.

(/1)

All she was aware of in that moment was his warm breath mixing with hers, his eyes moving carefully down to her mouth before coming back up to her eyes.

He feels it, too.

As the thunderous applause from everyone in the ballroom steadily rose in volume around them, the truth crashed into her. A tiny spark of fearful hope lit in her chest: maybe he didn’t love her, but maybe the possibility was there.

Draco hesitantly let go of her waist, taking several steps back to stand beside her, extending his arm while still gripping her fingers, motioning to her with his free hand, encouraging the crowd to cheer for her.

Oh, Merlin.

She blushed furiously and shook her head with a laugh as they all clapped, the snakes in the back obnoxiously loud with their cheering. She and Draco then stepped to the side, and both clapped in the direction of the orchestra, who was standing in thanks.

Before she could say a word to Draco, Kingsley’s voice, amplified with a sonorus charm, called her forward to officially begin the gala as the cocktail hour had come to a close. Casting a glance at Draco, she reluctantly let go of his hand and stepped forward.

“Granger?”

She turned her head back in his direction.

“Could I have the next dance, too?”

A smile broke out on her face. “It might be a terrible song.”

He shook his head almost imperceptibly. “I don’t care.”

Gods, he looked beautiful, still out of breath from their waltz, pale blonde hair falling into his eyes, lips parted, eyes shining and hopeful. She could devour him whole right there.

“Sure,” she agreed with a nod, biting the corner of her lip, fully cognizant of his gaze immediately going to the small action.

 She turned around, allowing Kingsley to cast a sonorus on her.

“Good evening, everyone,” she began, “I can’t begin to express to you all the honor I feel to have Beacon of HOPE be highlighted and featured in such a way by the Ministry for Magic. It is a dream come true to have this many people not only wanting to celebrate its existence but wanting to help it succeed. And to do it in such a fabulous way – with dancing, and food, and drinks, and an orchestra – is almost too much. The children we serve will reap the benefits of any and all donations you’ve made in the past, the ones you may make this evening, and any you may choose to make in the future. This organization is a large part of my heart, and I thank you all for your attendance here tonight. Everyone, please, enjoy yourselves. I hope to see every one of you on the dance floor.”

As the Minister cast a finite to end the sonorus charm, the room erupted in applause again. Hermione turned to find Draco standing behind her, his hands behind his back. She noticed that the orchestra was standing, making their way to several tables on the side.

“They’re done playing?” she asked disappointedly, hoping to have been able to dance with him again.

“They’re eating dinner first, before the rest of us,” Draco explained quietly, reaching for two glasses of water from a floating tray, “that way they can continue to play the rest of the night. While they eat, there’s a magical deejay who’ll play music.” He pointed to the man walking towards the orchestra corner. They watched as he quickly vanished their chairs and music stands, then used a spell to make deejay equipment appear.

Hermione’s eyes widened. Draco grinned at her expression. “Impressed? It’s a pretty standard practice at these types of events. My mother plans them all the time, and it’s a move she executes often. It keeps people moving without a lull during the evening.”

She took a sip of her water. “I should find out who planned this whole thing, actually. I need to thank them.”

Draco’s face fell a bit. She curiously noted the faint pink in his cheeks.

“It was my mother, actually,” he murmured, not meeting her eyes.

She stared at him in shock. “Narcissa planned this? I thought –” her voice caught, a lump in her throat, “I thought the Ministry employed their own event planners.”

He nodded, his eyes still carefully trained away from hers. “When my mother found out about it, she insisted on it. Pansy, Ginny, and Astoria helped. But my mother was at the helm.”

Hermione could feel her lip quiver and resolutely clenched her jaw. “Why?”

Draco sighed, finally meeting her gaze, a hint of apology in his voice as he responded. “For the same reason she and my father are here tonight: they consider you family.”

Her breath hitched at his words. Family.

Her eyes rose, searching the room. Within a few seconds, she could see them standing all the way in the corner lounge, Narcissa’s hand tucked through Lucius’ elbow, both looking at her: Lucius, stoically nodding in her direction with a half-smirk, Narcissa fondly smiling.

Draco carefully reached forward and plucked the glass of water from her hand, then turned her chin towards him. She could barely see him, his face blurry through her tears.

“You promised me the next dance, Granger,” he whispered softly, lightly pressing his pointed finger beneath her lash line, forcing the few tears to slip onto his skin, wiping them away, “so you’re going to cease this infernal display of emotion, take my hand, and follow me back to the dance floor.”

She laughed before she nodded.

“Yes, alright. You prick.”

He grinned and winked, taking her hand in his, leading her out to the center of the dance floor as the deejay cued up the chosen song. Several other people joined them this time, including Harry and Ginny, and Theo and Astoria, both of whom were gleefully beaming at Draco and Hermione.

(2)

Then Always by Bon Jovi began to play, a song that had been released and made popular the year of the Triwizard Tournament and the Yule Ball. Draco had a vague memory of dancing to the song with Pansy, not paying much attention to the lyrics, but somehow, having Granger in his arms made him hyper aware of the melancholic chords being blasted across the ballroom. He carefully wound his arms around the beautiful witch before him, resplendently shining in the candlelight as the song began.

“This Romeo is bleeding,
But you can’t see his blood...”

Granger wound her arms around his neck, gazing up at him in such a way that his breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering in his chest.

Circe, you are so beautiful.

“It's been raining since you left me,
Now I'm drowning in the flood.
You see, I've always been a fighter,
But without you, I give up...”

His skin prickled into gooseflesh beneath his tuxedo, being caught off-guard at the lyrics siphoning into his conscience. His grip around Granger’s waist tightened, bringing her closer unconsciously as the dramatic chorus kicked in.

“And I will love you, baby, always.
And I'll be there, forever and a day, always.
I'll be there 'til the stars don't shine,
'Til the heavens burst, and the words don't rhyme,
And I know when I die, you'll be on my mind,
And I'll love you, always.”

Something was happening deep inside Draco’s chest. Something about the heartbreak in the voice singing about loving someone forever; something about the sheer want in their tone; something about the desperation in the long-held notes; something about the resignation in the last words of the chorus: they all made something fracture in Draco’s heart.

There’s no getting out of this.

He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, as he held her gaze with his own, their arms wrapped around one another, barely swaying to the dramatically aching song, there would never be anyone else. There would never be someone who lit his heart aflame through lyrics to a fucking muggle song.

She’s it.

I will never outgrow this. I will never move on to someone else.

Realizing the permanence of it made Draco’s heart sink.

Because if she rejects me... what happens then?

Would he actually look for another woman? Maybe down the line, in the future. Maybe when it wouldn’t hurt as much. But not for love.

Never for love.

Because this love had crashed into him as hot coffee. It had pushed its way against him, forced its way into his cold heart to thaw it, had nestled itself into his chest as if it belonged there, grown from something that under every normal circumstance should not have morphed and changed and bloomed into love.

“Well, there ain't no luck,
In these loaded dice,
But baby, if you give me just one more try,
We can pack up our old dreams
And our old lives,
We'll find a place where the sun still shines...”

This love had come to him as bushy hair and buck teeth at 11. It had shoved and pulled and hated with old, ugly insults falling from his lips at 12. It had kicked and screamed and punched at his face in indignance, and it had forced him to acknowledge that he’d deserved it not just once, but twice. This love had swum in deep, dark waters, waiting to be rescued by another boy, had danced with other boys. It had lain dormant as he’d cheered, as he'd flown and leaped on his broom, as he'd danced with other girls. This love had been brave and fought, had been sneered at and chased. It had answered questions, it had studied, it had observed him as he'd simultaneously observed it too many times to count under the dim lights of the shared library space late at night.

This love had watched him, had seen him at his lowest, at his worst, at his ugliest. This love had seen him attempt to inflict pain, fail to inflict pain, succeed in inflicting pain. It had seen his fear, it had seen his cowardice. This love was threatening, and it was concern. It was worry and it was pity. It had hated and infuriated and irritated, it had morphed from anger and dislike and resentment. This love had berated him, jeered him, had loathed and repulsed, and Gods above, I swear on everything I have and own in this world, I would die for this agonizingly maddening woman in all her goddamn golden glory.

“I'll be there 'til the stars don't shine,
'Til the heavens burst, and the words don't rhyme
I know when I die, you'll be on my mind
And I'll love you, always
Always, always...”

As the final guitar riff wept its way through his heart, Draco stopped swaying, staring down at Granger, his hands reaching up to tenderly cup her face.

(/2)

“I need to talk to you,” he whispered urgently, “it can’t wait. It needs to be now. In private. Please say yes. Please.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She nodded.

“Of course.”

With the hopeful eyes of their friends and his parents on them both, Draco gripped her hand in his, gently pulling her off the dance floor, across the ballroom, and under the gold entry arch at the door, disappearing from view.

His heart pounded in his chest.

Please. Please love me back.

Chapter Text

The moment Draco pulled her out of the ballroom through the gold arch to the expansive, desolate, echoing corridor within the confines of the Ministry, she knew they couldn’t speak privately just standing there. Anyone could happen upon them, and Hermione could feel in her bones this conversation was going to be an important one.

“The gala is in the ballroom occasionally used for weddings, so there’s an adjacent preparation suite,” Hermione said in a low, anxious voice, gently pulling back on his hand to keep him still, bringing his focus to her. “I put on my dress and had my hair and make-up done there, then I went through a connecting door and came down the staircase to the ballroom. We could go and speak there, if you’d like?”

Draco nodded immediately. “Lead the way then.”

She walked quickly down the corridor and up a flight of stairs to the left. As soon as they reached the plush carpeted landing, they came face to face with a set of double doors. Hermione promptly pushed them open. They found themselves in the small but sumptuously decorated bridal suite, all in creams and rich browns, complete with a comfortable lounge, a dressing room, a bathroom including a vanity, and a small, white stone balcony.

“We could sit on the sofa in the lounge and talk?” she suggested timidly. She could feel her nerves mounting, her stomach in knots.

Gods, I want to be honest. I want to tell him everything. Do I dare?

But as she eyed him, she could feel her Gryffindor courage waning. What if he wanted to talk about something completely unrelated? What if he just wanted to talk to her about the fallout from their breakup? Or about the media attention? Or his parents, or their friends? Suddenly, her mind was going 80 miles an hour, thinking about the possible things Draco might want to talk about. She zoned out, her brain spiraling completely out of control to the point that she hadn’t heard him respond to her.

Godric, get a grip, Granger.

She blinked several times, immediately refocusing on his face. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“I said, how about the balcony? It’s a nice night.”

She nodded, swallowing hard. “The balcony. Yes, alright.”

When she turned to face him out on the balcony, she froze.

Shit.

The memory of their walk around the lake at the Manor the last night they spent together floated into her mind as she watched the night sky play across his features. Draco, named after the constellation, was literal starlight before her: all his light, airy, celestial elegance on full display, illuminated beneath the silver moonbeams and the small white pockets of stars glittering above them. He looked like he belonged with them, like he should be posed with them, high above her, so that she could admire him every night for the rest of her life.

Her mouth went dry, the knots in her stomach tying themselves tighter.

How can I begin to tell him everything, how can I take a risk when he looks like that?

“I...” Draco cleared his throat, his hands grasping the white stone hand railing as he internally berated himself.

Do it. Do it. Say it.

He closed his eyes briefly to gather his wits and took a deep breath before slowly opening them to look at her, raking over her from her gold shoes up to her crown of curls laced with gold.

Theo’s words echoed in his head.

“You’re all about letting her make her own decisions, aren’t you? Except this one! Why are you taking away her decision when it comes to this? To you?”

“I need to... share some things with you, Granger,” he finally said quietly, “and some of those things might be hard to hear. Some of them might scare you, or make you angry. But I need to be honest with you and tell you –” his voice caught as he searched her face desperately, “—tell you all of them. Confessions. So many gods damned things that I should have told you from the beginning so you can understand how I ended up where I am now.”

She took a few seconds to absorb his words, eyeing him curiously.

“Where are you now, then, Draco?”

He paused, biting the inside of his cheek.

Get there slowly.

“For me to explain where I am now, I have to tell you what got me here. And I have to tell you honestly.”

He swallowed and took a deep breath.

“When I came back to England, I had hoped that I would be able to avoid ever seeing Potter, Weasley, and you. I was angry with the three of you – aside from the fact that I loathed you all, the anger that I carried from my trial after the war was this... this...” he pursed his lips, struggling to explain, “this incessant weight. And I carried it in my stomach, and on my shoulders. And I realized, after all the coffee dramatics, that the anger came from feeling inferior. I...” he paused again, choosing his words carefully, “...I always thought I was better than the three of you. When we were kids, you know? Of course you know, you were there, you remember how I was, you remember I was a petulant, pompous little prick who looked down his nose at you.”

Draco frustratedly ran his fingers through his hair, trying to rein in his tangent. “I acted that way to mask how inferior I felt to you. Specifically, you. Potter, too, sometimes. Never Weasley, of course,” he added quickly, dismissively, with a roll of his eyes, “but you threw me for a loop because you upended everything I had been taught about muggleborns. I was supposed to be better than you. Demonstrably better than you at magic. So, I acted how I acted. I acted like I was the best because deep down, I felt like I was the worst.” His eyes dropped to the balcony stone floor, a far-off look in them as he remembered who he’d been all those years ago, “I wanted to throw you off the scent, so to speak. And I hated you. I hated you for planting a seed of doubt in my mind, for making me question if maybe, just maybe, what I’d been taught my whole life had been wrong.”

He looked back up at her resignedly. “So, at my trial, when the three of you defended me, I was a mess inside. I already felt guilt. Shame. Embarrassed. For all the shit I’d done as a Death Eater. Forced or not, it didn’t matter. I knew that I deserved punishment. And it felt like the three of you were making a mockery of the truth. Of my truth. That you were putting on a grand show to save me, to embarrass me further in front of the entire world. That the three of you pitied me. And gods, did that infuriate me. It infuriated me and made my guilt, my shame, my humiliation sky-rocket. And then I started hating myself, and I resented the fuck out of the three of you for making me feel that way. For making me feel like a charity case for the Golden Trio. A charity case for the self-righteous kid who rejected my handshake in first year; for the sanctimonious girl who broke my nose in third year. For the little shit Weasel who would have ammunition against me for the rest of my life – because he had a hand in ‘saving’ me. I felt like an obligation to you, I –”

“You were not an obligation to me!” Granger interrupted heatedly, “I am listening to everything you have to say with an open mind, but I was not obligated to do a damn thing. I didn’t defend you because I was trying to mock you. I didn’t defend you because I wanted to embarrass you, or because I was trying to demonstrate to the world that Draco Malfoy needed to be saved by his enemies. I despised you, and I did it anyway because it was the right thing to do.”

Draco nodded fervently, lightly tracking a finger down her bare arm, a subtle touch of comfort and reassurance. “I know you thought that. But the trial was a big reason why, even when I said what I said in the lift, months ago, about marrying the hell out of you... the trial was a big reason why I spit it at you like a weapon. Like a threat. Because even after so many years had passed, I still felt inferior. And I felt like I had to get back at you for it. Like I had to get control over it. Using you for power, using your superiority to fix my own image seemed like a good way to do that, and in my head I justified it because I would be giving you money that you urgently needed for HOPE. And I still felt... I still knew that I didn’t deserve you, Granger.”

The moment the words left his lips, she remembered. Vividly, in detail. The intimate, passionate moment against the back of her front door. The words he’d muttered angrily at her as they had violently used their bodies in lustful hatred.

“‘You taste like sin, Granger. You taste like everything I want, and nothing I should have. And I hate it,’” she said quietly out loud, taking in the way his face fell a bit hearing her quote his own words back to him as he remembered the same moment in time.

“Yeah,” he muttered, “I didn’t deserve you, and I knew it. That’s what I meant. And I hated you for being everything. For being better. For being good. For being what I desperately wanted and knew I couldn’t have because you were too good for me. I had you on paper. I had you in a contract. Trapped. But deep down, I knew I would never be worthy of you. And gods it made me angry and spiteful and resentful. And it made me hate myself more than I already did. Because it wasn’t your fault you were so good... but it was entirely my fault that I wasn’t good enough.”

Granger was watching him intently with the saddest expression he’d ever seen. She took a step closer, reaching for his hands, lightly letting their fingers thread together. His breath hitched at the slight contact.

“Is this where you are, then?” she asked quietly, “You feel how you felt then? Unworthy? That you hate me?”

Draco quickly shook his head. “There’s another confession I have to tell you.”

She waited patiently, her eyes glued to his face, not wanting to miss the tiniest expression, the faintest nuance.

“When I showed up at your house that day,” he murmured, biting the inside of his lip with nerves, “the day you had the date with the Weasel, and I forgot about it and stopped over with the wedding invitations from my mother...?” his voice trailed off, his cheeks flushing.

Granger nodded encouragingly. “Yes, of course. It would be hard to forget that day, all things considered.”

Draco snickered, then slowly nodded in seeming defeat. “I... I hadn’t forgotten about your date,” he finally admitted in a whisper.

Her eyebrows furrowed. “You hadn’t?”

His eyes smoldered into hers. “I came to stop you. In any way I could.”

The words were so soft, the summer breeze nearly stole them and blew them away.

Hermione felt her heart begin to race, her mind reeling.

Stop me.

He wanted to stop me.

He didn’t want me to go on that date.

Even back then.

Everything. I was everything?

Oh gods.

“You came to stop me?” she murmured in disbelief.

He nodded, then hurried with his explanation. “I wasn’t anticipating what happened between us at all. I hadn’t expected to stop you that way. I...,” he searched for the words, getting flustered, “I wasn’t being honest with myself yet. Or with you. I had myself fully convinced of all the lies and fibs I was reciting in my own head... because... because I was terrified to admit to myself what was happening in my heart.”

Hermione’s breath hitched. “What was happening in your heart, Draco?”

His gaze held hers. “You already know.”

They stared at each other for several beats, too afraid to move. Too afraid to speak. Too afraid to break the spell.

“I have some confessions too,” she finally admitted softly.

Draco’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You do?”

She took a deep breath, wet her lips, and looked directly at him.

“I heard you. When I spent the night with you at the Manor.”

A look of confusion crossed Draco’s face. “You heard me...?”

“Je t’aime,” she whispered timidly. She watched Draco’s face pale. “I heard you say ‘Je t’aime, ma cherie.’”

He stared at her, blinking several times. “You... you heard me. You heard me. You heard me say it.” He repeated the fact, his brain computing what it meant. His entire body seemed to sag with loss. “You heard me say those words, and you still left. You... you still left me.”

I was right. There’s no way she feels the same. She wouldn’t have left if she did.

He felt the air whoosh out of his lungs as all the fight left his entire being. He steeled himself, prepared himself to allow her the respect to continue, to say what she wanted to say even though everything inside began to ache.

Her palm made its way to his cheek in a caress. “I didn’t think it was real. I thought you were wrapped up in what we had just done, wrapped up in the idea of romance, wrapped up in the enchantments of nighttime. I didn’t want you to wake up one morning and feel like you had been duped into thinking you loved me, that you’d realized you’d fallen in love with the idea of love, not me. And then I’d end up hurt – either after three years, or earlier if it fell apart before the time was up on the marriage contract. Because honestly, there could have been a number of reasons, between our hate and hostility, for it to fall apart.” She exhaled heavily. “You know I’m right. And the moment I convinced myself that you only said those words because you were swept up in the moment, I knew I had to go. Because I wasn’t.” She took another deep, steadying breath. “I wasn’t caught up in the moment. I was fully present. And I knew if I stayed, if I let myself believe the lie that you were fully present and that you’d meant the words, I knew I was only giving myself permission to get hurt down the line.”

Draco closed his eyes briefly, unintentionally pressing his cheek further into her soft touch, feeling a shiver make its way down his body.

Gods, please don’t stop touching me.

“I was fully present, Granger,” he whispered, opening his eyes, looking at her with such longing that it nearly made her heart stop, “I wasn’t caught up in anything fake. It was all real. It was all real to me.”

She stood in silence, allowing his words to wash over her, allowing them to take root. Allowing them to take on meaning.

“Why didn’t you give me back my cardigan?” she asked softly.

Draco’s eyes widened in surprise. “How did you know about that?”

“I saw it. When I was getting ready to leave that morning, I found it in your closet when I went to get my shoes. It was still in the muggle dry cleaning bag.”

“Why didn’t you just take it with you?”

The stillness of the summer night sat around them, between them, before them, as they gazed only at each other, locked in a small, warm bubble of truth and insinuations, both still dancing around the words they felt brewing.

“Why didn’t you give it back?” she repeated in a whisper. “To this day? You could have sent it back to me if you didn’t want to see me.”

Draco sighed, still holding her gaze.

Tell her.

Tell her now.

“I didn’t give it back because it was comforting still having a piece of you. You had said it was your favorite cardigan...” he sighed again, reaching up to take her palm from his face, lightly holding it in his hand, tracing his thumb over her knuckles, “and because you had said it was your favorite, I selfishly kept it thinking it could make me feel closer to you... that I could keep a piece of you.”

He felt himself unraveling, felt himself about to fall apart, could feel how much was on the line with this conversation. But he pressed on, refusing to give in to the coward that was bracing himself in his subconscious.

“I wanted the cardigan because you’re always here... inside my head. And I hate it. I hate it... I hate it. I hate that you’re a constant presence in my head.”

He said the words with no malice as she absorbed them, took them; as she repeated them in her head, maneuvered them, tried to manipulate them to fit what she desperately wanted to hear.

“It’s torture. It’s torture to have you in my head. Because I know I’ll never deserve you. I’ll never be good enough.”

She bristled. “You’re so insistent in that belief. Who says you’re not good enough?”

“Me,” he spat harshly. “I say I’m not good enough.”

She pursed her lips, stepping closer to him, her fingers lightly squeezing his. “Stop being an arrogant wanker. Stop arriving at these conclusions all on your own. Only I get to choose who’s good enough for me and who isn’t, not you. You don’t get to take away my choice and make it for me. Especially you, because I would think you’d remember that the same was done to you, and surely you remember how it feels. Like a violation. You either respect and value my decisions and my choices, or you don't."

"Of course I do! All I've wanted for you is to own your choices, to find your strength and decide things with yourself in mind!" he insisted, a note of hopeless anguish in his voice.

"Except this one," she pointed out, "You respect my choices except the one where I choose you."

“I want to protect you, Granger, even if it’s from myself. What if you come to regret it, what if your decision is wrong, what if it’s a mistake –”

“Then let me make my own mistakes,” she interjected, her voice hard, with no room for argument.

His hands flew up, gently holding her face as if she were fragile, as if he were afraid to break her.

“If I let you choose me, you’d choose me out of pity,” he admitted desperately, the heartbreak leaking in his tone, “especially now. Especially now that you know how unworthy I feel. I don’t want you to want me out of pity. I want to earn it. I want you to want me for me, not for any other reason. I don’t want to keep feeling like I felt at my trial, Granger, I –”

“Stop it,” she interrupted again, “I don’t pity you. And that’s the last time I ever want to hear you say such a thing.”

He clenched his jaw, still delicately holding her face, his eyes searching hers for a lie but finding nothing except her honest truth laid bare.

He sighed deeply before he continued. “I don’t want to keep feeling like you’re trying to save me. I don’t want you to save me, or rescue me like you did back then, like you rescue everyone. Like Potter. Like the Weasel. I want to be your equal. And sometimes,” his voice dropped, moving his lips to hover over hers with such a hunger that it snatched the air from her lungs, “sometimes, I’d like to do the saving, too. I know you don’t like depending on other people, but dammit, I want you to depend on me. So that maybe, just maybe, I can feel worthy of you. Like I’m earning you. You can do it alone, you can do everything alone, I know that, but I want you to depend on me anyway.”

She gazed up at him through half-lidded eyes, fervently afraid to break the intimate, quiet stillness they found themselves trapped in, as if under a spell, as even more words of truth came bubbling to the surface.

“You’re right, I can do it alone. I always have. I –” she confirmed softly, cutting herself off, closing her eyes briefly, licking her lips, searching for the words. “I’ve had to fix things... things people never realized were broken. I’ve had to put them back together. Fixing their mistakes. Sometimes, everything around me would feel... so quiet. A deafening silence that only I could hear. No one else heard it, no one else acknowledged it even if I were to stand in it and scream because no one seemed to ever hear me. People always say I’m strong, like I chose to be that way, like it wasn’t something I was forced to become. I had to learn to be strong because no one else would show up for me. So yes,” she said confidently, gazing up at him, “yes, I can do it alone. I know how to survive, and I can do it on my own. I just wish I didn’t always have to.”

Draco brought his face impossibly closer, so close he held his breath, felt her hold her own breath, felt the air between them crackle with electricity, with an unspoken promise building between them he wanted to believe in more than anything.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time. Not with me. You’re allowed to fall apart every once in a while. Whenever you need. Whenever you want. I’ll always catch you.”

It was the simplest of vows. A simple, determined vow. Promising everything that she wanted, or nothing at all – whichever she preferred.

I’ll always catch you. Spoken breathlessly, weeks ago, their bodies wrapped around each other as her heart had ached, as he’d begged her to let go and show him her truth.

Already under his spell, his whisper brought her down further:
“Let me catch you, Hermione.”

So pure. So softspoken.

As if he was asking, begging, for the honor that no one ever wanted.

Her heart nearly stopped as the words registered.

Hermione.

He moved his lips imperceptibly closer to hers, stopping briefly to move his thumb from her jaw and drag it across her bottom lip.

“Yes?” he whispered, a pleading question for permission.

She licked her lips, brain swimming, breathing ragged. “Yes.”

The echo of her name in his low, quiet voice was all she could hear as he gently pushed his lips against hers.

Hermione.

Over and over, it repeated in her head, as if her brain was searching for a counterpart, trying to match it to any and every memory she ever had of him, any one that existed, carefully moving through each one that had been created between now and their childhood,  searching for a memory where he had said her first name, as if to confirm this wasn’t the first time she’d heard it come out of his mouth.

But there was none.

Her lips tentatively moved against his in response, a familiar, warm shiver shooting down her spine.

This is where my mouth belongs.

He pulled back just a hair’s breadth, his silver eyes gazing into hers, his own brain combing through his cache in overdrive, looking for those eyes, those endless pools of dark comfort in every image, every memory he ever had of her: every swotty, know-it-all memory; every memory of her hand shooting up into the air; every memory of her snark, of  her sass, of her anger; every memory of her hurt and her pain, seeing that darkness swimming in tears; every memory of care and infuriating compassion; every memory of her ire, of her revulsion, of her hatred and disgust; every memory of those eyes dilating even darker with lust and desire, sure he would fall into them and drown; every memory where he had seen the spark of the Unspoken, had recognized the fire of the Unsaid as a reflection of what he felt was showing in his own gaze, those memories he had buried in the deepest, darkest depths of his consciousness and had simply told himself he was wrong. Because she could never feel what he felt, and therefore he couldn’t be seeing what he so achingly wanted to be seeing. He’d accepted that he’d been wrong.

Except he hadn’t been wrong.

The reality, the verity of it crashed into him.

I wasn’t wrong.

It really had been there, reflected back at him.

“I love you, Hermione.”

The words fell from his lips as if he had been born to say them. There was no awkwardness in their shape in his mouth, there was no discomfort in what they meant, in what they held. They were exactly what they were supposed to be: made of his breath, of his voice, of his craving, of his yearning, of his want; repurposed from the loathing he’d felt for her, changed and morphed from the resentment he’d always harbored for her, as if he’d always known the possibility was there. As if crossing the line from hatred to love was one swift push in the opposite direction.

Because he’d put so much effort into being her enemy that falling in love with her had been the easiest, scariest, most intimidating, most exhilarating fall of his life.

“Why me?” she breathed, searching his eyes in the darkness of the night, the stars shining white magic within their recesses.

His rueful head shaking at her question was nearly imperceptible.

“You’re insufferable,” he breathed back, grasping her head between his hands, his eyes roving her entire face with a smile, “It could never be anyone else while you live and breathe. Because as long as you exist,” he insistently whispered, “it has to be you.”

Please. Please love me back.

She took ahold of his tuxedo lapels, dragging him forward until their noses rubbed together delicately.

“I’m so in love with you, Draco Malfoy,” she murmured.

His heart stopped.

“Thank the Gods,” he murmured.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

It was the only word that soared through Draco’s mind as he shed the last vestiges of hesitancy, as he threw away whatever remained of his restraint, as he wrapped his arms around her, in her beautiful gold dress, pulled her flush against himself, and crushed his mouth to hers. She was warmth, and light, and iridescence, and gold, and laughter, and salvation and heat and want and gods it was like kissing the sun.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

“So. In love. With you,” he responded deliriously between soft, heated kisses, hardly daring to believe he hadn’t just made up the last 30 seconds, “So gods damned in love with you. Only you. It could only be you. Merlin, it could only be you.”

“I swear,” he continued, staring into her eyes fiercely, determined, “I swear I will earn you. I will be worthy of you one day. It will be my life’s purpose. Not money. Not power. You. Someday, I’ll deserve you and everything you are.”

Tears sprang to Hermione’s eyes as she let out a soft laugh, her fingers raking through his hair to grip it at the nape of his neck. “You stupid, stubborn prick,” she scoffed with a grin and a sniffle, “let me be the one to decide who deserves me and who doesn’t. You already are worthy.”

He shook his head. “I want to be better. For you. I will spend my life becoming better.”

“We can all always be better, Draco,” she admonished quietly, lightly kissing his lips again, “no one is perfect. I won’t have you trying to make penance for a past you had years before me, and certainly not for mistakes you made as an imperfect child. We are all imperfect. I will never worry nor ever ask you about anything you did back then. And I will always defend you against anyone who says otherwise, the same way you’ve defended me so effortlessly,” her breath caught, her voice breaking, “against Ron. And Molly. I know you’ll always defend me. I will do the same. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Draco swallowed hard, his emotions rising like a tide, watching the ferocious determination crest in her gaze. She meant it.

Salazar, she means every gods damned word.

Every word to a promise he’d never known he’d always needed from someone. A promise to be seen. To be accepted. No matter what he’d done. To be cherished enough.

To be loved enough.

“I love you here. Today. This Draco standing before me,” she avowed.

“I want to be a better man. For me. So I can feel deserving of you,” he responded with a quiet determination, “that’s all. So I can prove to myself that I always had it in me.”

“That you always had what in you?”

“That I always had it in me to be better, even when I was a child. That if I had dedicated myself to it even back then, I could have made Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, fall in love with me,” he teased lightly, kissing the tip of her nose, “I want to prove that the possibility was impossible only because I was raised an abhorrent, ignorant pureblood child. I made her hate me, but if I had been a determined, stronger, better version of myself, I could have made her love me. And I can do that by proving I am capable of change as an adult, the change I should’ve but didn’t make as a child.”

She grinned up at him with a smirk and shook her head. “I won’t stop you from this lofty goal of yours but know that I probably would have still hated you, Malfoy. Godric, you’re even arrogant in your objectives. It’s quite the paradox to carry such self-loathing but also be so egotistical.”

Draco tilted his head back and let out a thunderclap of laughter, his eyes sparkling with mirth as they met hers. “You presumptuous, smug witch. Gods, I love you. The line between love and hate is a thin one, and sometimes it’s called self-deception.”

“Pshh,” she quipped, “maybe within the last couple of months, I’ll agree that we were just deceiving ourselves. But when we were children, I just wanted to make sense of you.”

He nodded, his lips reverently tracing her face in delicate kisses. “I wanted to make sense of you too, you swotty, infuriating, little know-it-all.”

He rubbed his nose lightly against hers.

“I’d like to dance with you again,” he whispered.

A small smile curved at her lips. “I’d like to dance all my dances with you.”

For fuck’s sake, you are the most perfect being to ever exist.

He held her hand as they walked back into the bridal lounge, making their way towards the door that would open to the staircase in the ballroom.

He glanced at her beneath the lounge’s dim lighting.

I will deserve you one day. Until then, I will spend my life being whatever you need me to be.

“Ready?” he asked her, one hand on the door, the other gripping hers.

She smiled radiantly. “Ready.”

The moment they stood together at the top of the stairs, all eyes in the ballroom flew to them. As Draco slowly descended the grand, gold staircase two steps ahead of Granger, he kept his admiring, infatuated gaze trained on her, making sure she didn’t trip. The moment her feet landed on the enchanted floor beside him, Draco’s hand possessively went around her waist in a declaration that none of the snakes nor his parents missed from across the room. He swept her forward onto the crowded dance floor as they waited for the deejay to cue up the next song.

The lights dimmed as another familiar ballad from their adolescence began to play. The slow, melodic tune began on the piano. Draco immediately gripped Hermione’s fingers in his own, drawing her close. When her nose almost touched his, he wrapped his free arm around her waist, pressing her hand grasped in his against his heart.

(1)

She gently lay her head against his shoulder, breathing contentedly, peacefully, for what felt like the first time in a long time.

Oh, why you look so sad?
Tears are in your eyes
Come on and come to me now

Don't be ashamed to cry
Let me see you through
'Cause I've seen the dark side too...

Draco felt a light, squeezing pressure from Granger’s fingers in his against his chest as the words washed over him, holding her as close as possible, feeling her heartbeat against his own.

When the night falls on you
You don't know what to do...

Draco’s breath hitched when he heard her start softly singing in his ear:
Nothing you confess
Could make me love you less...

I'll stand by you
I'll stand by you
Won't let nobody hurt you
I'll stand by you

Too overcome with the clear message that Granger was trying to convey, Draco could do nothing but try to catch his breath before the second verse started.

“You don’t have to,” he murmured softly against her ear.

Her smile was gentle. Loving. Accepting. Beneath the enchanted stars, her sparkling dress glimmered in his hands like liquid gold.

“I see you, Draco,” she whispered, “remember? I see you.”

Merlin.

His throat began closing, as if his heart was too big, too loud, too fast to stay pounding in his chest and was trying to force its way out of his body.

In all his time together with Granger, he’d never expected to fall in love with her; certainly never expected to have that love reciprocated in any way because of his past, their past, everything they’d said and done to one another. And he absolutely never thought he’d feel...

Acceptance.

She accepted him as he was; as he’d been. She wasn’t going to try and gloss over who he’d been years ago, like people seemed to prefer. She wasn’t going to rewrite their childhood history. She was leaning into it. Leaning into their past. Leaning into his past. With all its ugliness, all its pain. She was simply seeing it, seeing him, for all it was, all he was, flaws, mistakes and all.

And she was accepting it. Loving him as he was today.

If she thinks I’m good enough for her...

... then maybe one day, I’ll think so, too.

He placed a small kiss on her curls, inhaling the familiar scent woven through the strands: Vanilla. Roses. Jasmine.
Home.

He bent his head low, remembering the soft familiar melody of the song, and began humming along, his breath on her neck.

So, if you're mad, get mad
Don't hold it all inside,
Come on and talk to me now
And hey, what’ve you got to hide?
I get angry too
Well, I'm a lot like you...

“I see you, too,” he hushed in her ear.

She raised her head the smallest fraction, her velvety darkness meeting his slate coolness. Sunlight meeting a cloudy sky.

“You’ve always seen me better than anyone else,” she assured him softly, her free hand lightly raking her nails across the back of his neck. “You’ve always had a clear image of me, always knew what to expect from me.”

Their lips barely met. Barely touched. A simple brush across the other. The lightest, simplest acknowledgment of past resentment and mocking; of vilifying and reviling; of seeing and being seen; of changing and accepting; of captivating and protecting; of loving and being loved, as one whole person with a past enamored by another whole person with their own past.

When you're standing at the crossroads
Don't know which path to choose
Let me come along
'Cause even if you're wrong...
I'll stand by you
I'll stand by you
Won't let nobody hurt you
I'll stand by you

Before Draco could even stop the words, they spilled out of his mouth, a hopeful vow in them.

“This is it for me. Tell me this is it for you, too, Hermione.”

As the music swelled around them, Hermione brought both palms to his cheeks, pulling his face gently down to hers.

“This is it for me,” she promised quietly against his half-parted lips, “but we’re doing it right this time. No contracts. No rules. Just our own words. Words that we choose; words that become promises we keep because we want to keep them.”

Too overwhelmed and overcome at the change in direction of the evening, of his very life, Draco stopped dancing, his heart feeling like it might explode from the amount of adoration that was coursing through his veins. Without a word, he wrapped his arms tightly around her torso, his hands reaching up to support her smooth, warm upper back before he pressed her body, from knee to chest, against his own. He bent his head low, adoringly kissing across her collarbone, up the graceful curve of her neck, stopping at her pulse point to worship the force of life pumping within her, the life keeping her here with him on this earth, keeping her within the same realm where he existed. His lips continued their journey up, stopping below her ear before moving across her jawline, finally slotting his mouth over hers, not caring for once in his life about public perception.

Let them see. Let them all see.

The moment their lips parted, foreheads still pressed together, breaths headily floating across each other’s overheated skin, Hermione heard someone clear their throat.

Not wanting to lose any contact with Draco, she pressed herself tighter into his arms, only turning her head slightly until she met Harry and Ginny’s comically jubilant faces as they danced just feet away. She couldn’t help bursting into muffled giggles as her eyes landed on their exaggeratedly open mouths, wide eyes, and big thumbs up. Draco snorted and rolled his eyes in disgruntled amusement.

Still swaying, he turned them both until they faced the back of the ballroom.

Blaise and Theo were standing on the bar to get his attention, both fists in the air, mouths open in a silent roar of victory. Pansy and Astoria were giddily standing by the lounge sofas, hands covering their mouths in glee.

And if there had ever been a picture of the word ‘opposites,’ Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy would have been it.

Lucius stood tall, back straight, hands behind his back, regally regarding their public display of affection with a small sneer of disdain. When his eyes met Draco’s, he nodded.

Good for you, his acknowledgement seemed to say, but your lack of decorum and second offensive emotional display of the night is quite distasteful. I am both disgusted and thrilled.

Narcissa, on the other hand, had elation written across her face. Her grin could not be wider, breaking every public rule on manners Draco had ever learned. From where they stood, Hermione could make out her tears, causing her own eyes to mist. And when Narcissa pointed at Hermione, then placed her palm gently over her heart in a small gesture of affirmation, a few of the tears in Hermione’s eyes slowly tracked down her cheeks.

I get them back, too.

The rest of the night was a whirlwind. She danced with Draco until her feet ached. She sat with their friends, laughing as if no time had passed. She talked animatedly with Lucius and Narcissa, who both looked so delighted and so exuberant that Draco was sure that this very moment would be the highlight of his life: watching his parents, who had become so different from who they’d been a decade ago, love and dote on a woman he’d known his whole life, but had only become lucky enough to love in the here and now. And he got to keep her.

There really couldn’t have been anything better; nothing that made him happier or feel more complete.

Until Hermione leaned over near the end of the night and breathily whispered in his ear, her voice low and pleading, “Take me home, Draco.”

His breath caught in his throat. His brain promptly blew a fuse.

He leaned towards her, his shivering breath a warm kiss of a promise in her own ear.

“Let’s go, baby.”

Chapter Text

It was a flurry of furious flashes. Images. Sounds. Tastes. Smells. Touches.

When he’d pushed her up against the wall beside his bedroom doorway in the dark, warm corridor of the Manor, he’d taken her wrists in his grip, lifting them, pressing her hands on either side of her head against the stone wall, intertwining their fingers tightly.

*****

Flash. The same tightening of his fingers around hers when the gold doors of the lift had opened at the Ministry. The confident, reassuring looks they exchanged, the onslaught of shocked paparazzi descending upon them as they smoothly exited the lift, the shocked gasps, the loud questions demanding answers as they both kept their faces neutral, their eyes cast down, walking side by side, their hands still clutching one another, taking solace in the touch, knowing the message they were sending in the gesture alone was a loud one as they calmly made their way to the fireplaces in the Atrium.

*****

Gripping her fingers against the wall, he stepped impossibly closer, pressing his body against hers, slotting his thigh between her legs, the soft whisper of her gown against his trousered leg a smooth, soft beckoning. He leaned his forehead against hers, feeling her warm breath fanning across his neck, the heat of it quickening his pulse, his own exhales gently blowing across her mouth, inadvertently causing her tongue to peek out to run across it with beaded moisture. His eyes focused on the small movement, zeroing in on her parted lips, glistening beneath the moonlight shining in through the sheer curtains covering the large corridor windows.

*****

Flash. The glistening of her gold dress. Her dress had gone haywire beneath the flashes of the cameras in the Atrium. The shimmering, the sparkling had caught Draco’s eye, trained on the floor, and his gaze quickly rose to the photographers, his face contorting into a sneer of possessiveness. He pulled her against his side, wrapping an arm protectively around her waist, feeling the rough sparkles of her gown against his palm as his fingers tightened.

“Stay close to me,” he’d murmured in her ear. She’d nodded, molding her warm body against his own as they continued to fight their way through the sea of media, inching closer and closer to the fireplaces, ignoring the shouted questions and comments being hurled at them in the hope of provoking a reaction the vultures hoped to capture on camera. Ever the professionals, the Golden Girl and the former Death Eater gave them nothing, keeping themselves poised and aloof.

***** 

His mouth hovered over hers as he felt the desire between them mount to nearly unbearable heights, but still he resisted. His lips moved slightly left to her ear, gently placing a delicate kiss right below, moving slowly across her jawline to the other side before they moved down her neck to her pulse point. He felt her breath hitch, felt the small sigh exhale from her as he simply touched his lips against the thrumming beat of her heart pulsing through her skin, letting it drum persistently against his mouth. Leaving her hands pressed against the wall by her head, he lowered his own to follow the lines of her silhouette until they reached her hips, his hands curving over them appreciatively, rounding their way back and forth across the arcing slope of her backside, his right hand instinctively palming an appreciative handful of mouth-watering flesh.

*****

Flash. “Do you trust me?” he’d whispered in her ear when they were barely making progress across the Atrium.

She’d nodded. “Of course.”

“We’ll end up splashed across every paper if I do this, but at least I think the message will be clear and we won’t have to answer anything,” he’d warned quietly, a smirk slowly forming on his mouth.

Granger’s own mischievous smile had curled up when she nodded.

Draco stopped abruptly, scooped her up in his arms, flinging her over his shoulder, his hand possessively gripping the flesh of her rounded arse as she gasped in surprise. As he expected, the photographers were shocked into near silence for several seconds, and they momentarily forgot to move with him; Draco took full advantage of their stillness and sauntered past, his arrogant swagger in full effect. It took all of four seconds for the cameras to start lighting up photos even faster than before, the expansive Atrium now a verifiable tunnel of constant white light as the photographers snapped multiple pictures every half second, but this time, Draco had a clear path to the first fireplace. He turned sideways as he stepped in, his hand still gripping her bum.

“Smile, Granger,” he called over his shoulder. She was laughing so hard, the encouragement wasn’t even necessary. He struck his own pose, an amused, arrogant sneer on his face, making sure the cameras got a shot with both of their faces before he flung down a handful of floo powder, calling, “Malfoy Manor!”

*****

Feeling the red-hot heat mounting between them, his brain barely capable of forming words, he grabbed her hand, pulling her into his bedroom.

*****

Flash. The moment they’d arrived in the main foyer of the Manor and he’d set her down on her feet, he’d grabbed her hand and they’d begun running. She’d nearly squealed in exuberance, the Manor silvery-white in the late night, the corridors illuminated only by the slight moonbeams and the small rays of sparkling stars peeking through the sheers. He’d turned his head, infatuated with the vision before him, as Granger had grabbed hold of her gold gown to lift it up, kicking off her shoes, leaving them forgotten on the stone floor of the corridor as they flew down the hall toward his room, his hand gripping hers. Her eyes had met his and they had laughed uproariously until they were breathless as Draco’s ancestral portraits, mounted along the walls, shouted in indignation about the lascivious and undignified ruin, the complete and absolute downfall of their young, handsome, pureblood descendant, running like a miscreant, like an unmarried heathen, with a strumpet down the corridor of their elegant home.

*****

And then the flashes of sensations stopped as they both lay in the here and now, their gala clothes strewn on the floor. The nine million hair pins that had been holding up Hermione’s regal crown of shiny, gold-weaved curls had come exploding out of her tresses after Draco had cast an impatient spell. The moment the hair pins dotted the floor, his hands had woven themselves in the thick mane that had cascaded down her back with such a deep sigh of want that Hermione’s own desire had skyrocketed.

There was no hesitation. There were no words. There was only a deep ache to make up for nearly two months apart, a feral need to fill the hole that had grown in Hermione’s heart, that had blackened and taken shape in Draco’s very being at the loss of her. The moment he thrusted himself into Hermione’s pulsing wet heat, all she saw were the white sparks of electricity behind her eyelids as her eyes rolled back and a small, high-pitched cry escaped her mouth, her body immediately arching itself up into his.

“Oh, fuck, Hermione,” he moaned, low, begging into her ear. He said it like a prayer, like a supplication, like he’d worship her if she only asked. She nearly shattered right then and there, the pleading tone that dripped over her name like hot wax, the feeling of being completely filled by his hard cock smoothing against her own slickness, the heat of his bare skin against her fingers, the salty taste of the sheen of sweat that had broken out down his neck as she pressed her mouth to it, the sound of his panting, the sheer overwhelming feeling of his body pressing down against hers: it was all nearly too much to handle at once. With too many sensations to process, she became a needy mess, nearly drowning in all that was Draco Malfoy, her body reacting of its own accord, immediately seeking friction, immediately grinding itself up against him as his hands moved over her as if she were the finest spun silk.

Draco’s brain nearly collapsed as she rocked herself against him; he stilled atop her, his arms encircling her back, his hands coming up to her shoulders to keep himself steady, his head tilting back in sheer ecstasy as he bathed in the warm, wet slide of her cunt against his cock.

“Go on,” he encouraged her breathlessly, his eyes closed, “Gods, use me, Hermione, gods, please. Fuck, take me, take everything, just fucking use me.”

His left hand moved higher, gripping a fistful of hair at the back of her neck; his right hand moved down, holding her waist in place as she continued to writhe beneath him, her hips moving in even, rhythmic circles as she lifted herself up, down, up, down.

“Oh Merlin,” he breathed, barely conscious of speaking, his brain a foggy mess as she continued to move her slickness up and down his length however it suited her, however it pleased her. It took every ounce of self-control to not slam her down and fuck her right into the bed, but he held back, savouring every rock, every grind, letting her take and take. The lit fire of lust in his lower stomach quickly roused into burning flames as he heard the tiny, strained, whimpers that were leaving her mouth.

Draco looked down at her, the glorious woman beneath him, his eyes following the lines of every curve, taking in the powerful image of her being held down by the strength of his own body, yet using hers to control him, to keep him still, completely whipped, at her mercy. A sharp hiss left his mouth at the sight. Her dark hair was spread out across his pillows, her mouth open, her eyes half-lidded as they met his gaze, her skin glowing with the essence of night as she continued to squirm and grind against him.

“I love you,” she breathed hoarsely, the words impassioned, the sight of her completely wanton and debauched such a sinful, nearly impossible contradiction to the sweetness of her words that a sharp, deep growl emitted from his own throat, a possessive, irreverent need to take her and keep her shooting through his very veins as his arms wound tightly around her arched body and he rolled, leaving her on top. He sat up, refusing to be parted from her, refusing to have her heart anywhere but pounding against his own chest, his mouth pressed into her neck, biting, licking any expanse of skin his lips could reach.

“I love you more,” he panted, “Gods, I love you, do whatever you want to me, Hermione, let me watch you, let me watch you fall apart on me, please,” he implored her. At his words, her hands gripped his shoulders, a breathy groan leaving her mouth as her head went back, grinding against him at the pace she wanted, at the angle she needed, hitting every spot deep inside that would have her trembling within minutes.

He leaned back against the headboard, his eyes glued to her form, bathed in the faint glow coming in through the double French doors, her skin alight, flush with heat and desire. His hands reached forward as he panted, lightly letting his fingertips follow the curve of her from her slim shoulders, down the soft, delicate rounding of her breasts, his thumbs circling the hardened tips of her nipples before traveling down, gently following the lines of her waist down to the width of her hips. He grasped them in his hands, his eyes rising back up every inch of her until they reached her face, the sight nearly ripping the breath out of his mouth.

This. I need this. Right here. This vision. This image. This witch. My witch. For the rest of my goddamn life. Oh fuck, this right here.

The soft sounds coming out of her mouth were becoming permanently etched into Draco’s mind, permanently fused into the nerves of every organ, permanently being sung and woven into his very skin to the point where he knew he’d be able to call them to mind whenever he wanted; those tiny noises and those high-pitched whines would become the symphony of all his nights to come, he would make sure of it. He would spend his life, no matter where they were, night after night, buried between Granger’s legs with any part of him she wanted: his fingers, his mouth, his tongue, his cock, anything she asked for, he’d give her, determined to wrench those very sounds from her pleasure-wracked body, leaving her breathless and sated as she deserved to be.

Sitting back up, he wrapped his arms around her back, bringing his mouth to her collarbone, dragging open mouthed kisses across her, laving at the hollow of her throat as she continued to ride him as she pleased. He was a mess, so far gone within the recesses of wanting to satisfy her, of wanting to see her take control of her own desire, that he was devoid of what even his own body wanted. He dragged his tongue down to her breast, covering the entirety of the curve with kisses before laying the flat of his tongue against her nipple, dragging it upwards. The shiver that went up her body made an aching groan escape his mouth as he repeated the motion, her hips stuttering against his as a needy little sigh erupted from her lips, her hands leaving his shoulders to run through his hair, tugging at it from the roots. His mouth peppered kisses across her chest to the other side, taking the opposite nipple into his mouth, flicking at it with his tongue, lightly sucking until she was nothing but a plethora of sweet little cries, burning themselves into his ears.

“Going to come.” He heard her strained, quiet words and his own hips bucked up at the declaration, his hands gripping her hips, as he willed his body to stop and let her do it her way. He leaned back again, his head on the headboard, his eyes glued to her face.

“Let go, baby,” he whispered, “Come for me, Hermione.”

At the sound of her name, tinged with the drawl of the boy he had been years ago, replete with the tone of command that his voice held now as a man, filled with the want that she knew only she could bring out in him, she fell apart, her entire body tensing as her cunt spasmed and convulsed around his throbbing cock, her thighs trembling on either side of his hips, the longest tendrils of her curly hair sticking to her midback, her eyes closed in rapture, her lips parted in a husky, low, wail, as the waves of her orgasm shot through her in rivulets from the very nerves of her skin down through the tips of her toes, rolling down her body incandescently. It was only as she was coming down from the highest peaks that she became vaguely aware that Draco had been prolonging them by gently, languidly rolling his hips up into hers.

As soon as he was sure her body had calmed, had spent itself, a fierce growl ripped through his chest. He sat up, his arms gripping around her, and he rolled them back over, pinning her wrists above her head on the pillow with one hand, staring down at her with so much heat and lust that a second wave of pleasure ran across her skin. His other hand found its way to the back of her thigh, lifting it up high against his hip, allowing him to sink even further into her than he had already been. A gasp left her mouth as he pounded into her, slamming his hips against her own, a slew of swears and unintelligible words tearing out of his mouth against the skin of her neck.

“So fucking beautiful, so fucking mine, coming all over my cock, all hot and wet, making me go fucking mad, just want to fuck you into this mattress, fill you up with everything, with me, going to come so fucking hard, so mine, you’re so mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, so fucking mine, Hermione, oh gods, Hermione you’re mine, Hermione --”

And with those words ringing in her ears, Draco dissolved, his hips slamming into hers one last time before he erupted deep inside of her with a near feral snarl, followed by a drawn-out groan.

They lay there, catching their breath for several minutes, her fingers lightly stroking the sweaty skin of his back, his head resting against her shoulder, leaving small, gentle kisses along the crook of her neck, listening to her heartbeat.

“I love you.”

The words left his mouth without a thought; something he’d never had. For the first time in his life, Draco felt safe enough to say those words lying on top of a woman in their most vulnerable, intimate state, without needing to worry about what they might change, what they might affect; without needing to consider if he actually meant them, without wondering if she was worth it, because, fuck, Hermione Granger would always, always be worth it.

She smiled.

“I love you more.”

He smirked against her neck.

“That’s impossible,” he murmured smugly. “You couldn’t possibly.”

She grinned and rolled her eyes in the darkness.

“You’re an insufferable prat.”

“You’re an exasperating swot.”

They both let out quiet shakes of laughter as Draco lifted his head, his lips meeting hers in a smooth, deep, languid kiss, their thoughts running together into one shared, quiet, heady thought:

Forever.

***** 

“Luckily, Lola was able to pop over to my house and bring me back something suitable to wear this morning that wasn’t skintight or covered in shimmering gold glitter,” Hermione said with a light laugh to Narcissa the next morning as she and the three Malfoys sat in the dining room having brunch.

Lucius took a sip of his tea, nodding his head in approval in her direction. “You do look quite lovely this morning, Miss Granger,” he opined cordially, “that deep blue is very becoming on you.”

Draco’s gaze went down Hermione’s form in the blue sundress, her hair loose in tousled curls around her elbows, her cheeks pink, a seemingly permanent smile etched onto her face. He couldn’t help but grin at the sight of her.

Gods, I love her.

“It’s the perfect dress for the birthday girl,” he agreed, the hand holding hers on the table gently pressing her palm to his mouth for a light kiss, “The perfect dress for the cradle robber.”

Her mouth dropped open in mock offense. “The cradle robber?! I’ll have you know I’m only 8.5 months older than you, Draco Malfoy. That hardly makes me a cougar. We were still in the same year in school.”

Draco shrugged, winking at Lucius, who gave them both a good-natured smirk in amusement. “I don’t know, Granger, all I know is today you’re 30 and I’m still 29.”

“We must do something later to celebrate,” Narcissa suggested excitedly, taking a bite of toast, “a special dinner perhaps.”

Hermione sipped her tea, shaking her head lightly. “Please don’t go to the trouble. The gala you planned last night was just perfect, and it was partially to celebrate my birthday. I really don’t need anything more. I had my family and my friends, and this young cub here to keep me company,” she said teasingly, rubbing a circle on the back of Draco’s hand.

She and Draco spent the late September afternoon outside on the Manor grounds. They roamed around the apple orchard, stopping to snack on the Granny Smiths. They wandered through the hedge maze, leisurely walked around the lake, stopping to lie down on the plush green lawn around the water’s edge to sunbathe, lightly talking about all that had happened in the nearly two months that they had spent apart. They rose to meander through the trees that bordered the estate, strolled into the greenhouses to take a peek at Narcissa’s plants and greenery, before finally making their way to the rose garden.

“They’re just lovely,” Hermione admired in a murmur, her hands reaching out to individual roses at different points around the garden. “Your mother takes such wonderful care of them.”

Draco nodded, watching her expression as she took in the expansive beauty of Narcissa’s prized roses. “Yes. She’s always found joy in caring for them, nurturing them, watching them grow and thrive. You know, she does it all the muggle way: she gets gardening tools and gloves, and gets down in the soil to do everything herself.”

Hermione turned to gaze at him in surprise. “I love that.”

Draco proudly smiled at her, “She’s always done it that way. Since I was a boy, I have memories of her insisting on getting her hands dirty to care for them like a ‘proper green witch,’ she used to say to my father. He constantly tried to convince her to use magic,” he added ruefully, “he always had a look of distaste, but eventually he stopped and let her be. She used to have me help her when I was small, you know. I had my own pair of muggle gardening gloves.”

As the sun began to set, they made their way slowly up into the gazebo through the arched opening. Immediately upon being surrounded by her namesake pink Gentle Hermione English roses, a small sigh of calm and relaxation went through Hermione’s body.

“This place just makes me feel...” she paused, trying to come up with the perfect word.

“Safe?” Draco suggested.

She nodded slowly, “Well yes, but... it makes me feel like I belong here. I know I don’t live here, and I know I went through something horrible here but...” her voice trailed off, her fingers coming to lightly stroke a particularly full pink rose, “something about these being chosen by your mother, being chosen with me in mind... like my parents choosing my name for the flower. Like coming full circle: my mother chose my name for the flower, your mother chose the flower for me. Does that make sense? It probably sounds silly,” Hermione finished quietly, blushing, “I wasn’t trying to insinuate I should live here or anything,” she continued hurriedly, too nervous and embarrassed to turn and look at Draco, “I guess I just meant that –”

“Hermione.”

His tone was quiet. Soothing. Assuring. Gentle.

As gentle as the Gentle Hermiones themselves.

She turned, flustered, realizing she’d said something that probably gave the impression that she wanted to move into the Manor even though they’d only gotten back together last night, and Gods, that’s just fucking mortifying because of course that would be –

Draco was on his knee.

Once her consciousness had registered what he was doing, her mouth dropped open in shock, her eyes wide, taking in the image of him, wanting to sear the picture of him into her mind: on one knee in his pristine black trousers, his white button-down shirt creased from where they had lounged on the grass by the lake, his sleeves folded to his elbows, the tendons and muscles of his forearms bare for her to see, his black dragon tattoo crawling up under the top of his sleeve, his hair falling perfectly across his eyes, both his hands folded over his knee as if supplication.

Then she drank in his face.

That face of his that had always been beautiful. That face that she had seen scowl and sneer an infinite number of times since he’d been 11. That face that had contorted with dislike and abhorrence; the very face that had been pained and sullen at the start of the war; the face that had been angry and ashamed; the face that had slowly become ridged, defined, sharpened; the face that had pushed towards her ten years later in the lift, crumpled with disdain and antipathy; the face that had over time become one of concern; of care; of desire; of worry; of protection; of defense; of adoration; of pleading; of love.

And in this moment, his always beautiful face gazed up at her with nothing but an honest plea in the faint dove-feather grey of his eyes, the softest pencil-drawn grey looking at her as if she held the world in her hands.

“Hermione,” he said quietly, “After what feels like a lifetime of mistakes, a lifetime of bad choices, a lifetime of being on the wrong side; after hiding in dark corners and going down lost roads, I realize I was being led here. After taking wrong turn after wrong turn, I realize that I was on my way to you. I was on my way home.”

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath, a lump quickly forming in her throat.

“If you give me the honor of becoming my wife,” he continued, swallowing hard, “I promise I will spend my life trying to make myself worthy of being called your husband, though it might take me till my dying breath.”

He reached into his pocket and removed a small black box. He carefully opened it, turning it to face her. Speechless, she took in the pear shaped, deep blue sapphire halo ring, outlined in diamonds set in an eternity band.

“You know, you’ve ruined me, Granger,” he whispered, a snide smirk on his face as he took in her emotional expression, “there’s no one else who I could stand this much, I’ll have you know, no one else who could stand me this much. So, before I change my mind...” he scoffed quietly.

His face fell into soft lines, his eyes swimming with pure hope. “Marry me, Hermione.”

She pursed her lips, amusement written in the flush of her cheeks; joy written in the tears gathered in her eyes.

“Look at you, asking me to tolerate a lifetime of your dramatics,” she murmured, biting her lip, unable to keep her grin at bay, “but as insufferable as you are, I suppose if I must spend my days correcting someone, it may as well be you.”

Draco’s face broke out into a wide grin. “Is that a yes, witch?”

“Of course it’s a yes, you prat!”

Draco leaped to his feet before pulling her into his arms, wrapping her in a tight embrace as they each dissolved into elated laughs. He pulled back long enough to cup her face in his hands, pressing a deep, chaste kiss against her mouth, his thumbs caressing across her cheeks lovingly.

He pulled the ring from the box, took her left hand, and slid it onto her ring finger, the magic in the ring immediately fitting it to her size.

“This ring,” he whispered against her skin, “is from the Malfoy vault at Gringotts. It’s been part of the jewelry collection for generations. It’s a sapphire: your birthstone, birthday girl. I chose it for you months ago. After we broke up, I couldn’t bring myself to take it back to Gringotts. It’s been sitting in my nightstand ever since.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “It’s from the Malfoy vault? Are you sure it’s alright for me to wear? There’s no dark magic? I’m muggleborn, Draco, sometimes old pieces and heirlooms like this have dark magic imbued in them to prevent people like me from ...” she whispered, hesitantly.

He shook his head fervently. “Months ago, after we signed the marriage contract, I went to Gringotts and had the Malfoy and Black vaults completely cleared of any hexes or dark magic. I wanted to make them both safe for you to come and go as you please.”

She gaped at him. “You did this back then?”

Draco nodded. “Of course. You were going to be my wife. Besides,” he added, his voice lowering, a gentle breath in her ear, “there’s something... intriguing about the idea of seeing you, my gorgeous, brilliant, muggleborn witch, shimmering in nothing but Malfoy and Black jewelry: precious metals and gems never intended for someone like you to wear, wearing them anyway in fucking protest. I want to cover you in them like a queen, Hermione, like a fucking goddess, as a big, defiant middle finger to all my ignorant, moronic, hateful ancestors. I hope they roll over in their graves at the mere splendor of you, glittering in their jewels.”

Hemione let out a loud, euphoric laugh, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Now that is something I can absolutely get on board with. I do love putting old trolls in their place, especially symbolically.”

Minutes later, they walked hand in hand into the sitting room where Lucius was casually smoking a pipe, reading the Daily Prophet, while Narcissa sat with her legs curled beneath her on the sofa, reading a book. They both looked up and smiled at Draco and Hermione.

“Ah, I’m glad you’re here,” Lucius smirked with an arch of his eyebrow, flipping the Daily Prophet to show them the front page, “thought you’d like to see the mania that has ensued in the Wizarding World because of you two.”

He held up the paper. There, in full color, was Draco with Hermione flung over his shoulder, his palm gripping a handful of her backside before giving it a light smack in her gold gown, a mocking sneer on his face, Hermione’s shocked face erupting into hysterical laughter before the magical loop started over.

“Mania has ensued?” Hermione asked, raising her eyebrows in mock surprise, grinning at the photo.

“Oh yes,” Narcissa commented, “everyone is on high alert, waiting to see when and where they can spot and snap the next photo of you two. They’re calling it Golden Serpent Watch.”

Draco’s mouth dropped open as Hermione burst into giggles.

That’s when Narcissa’s eyes went to Hermione’s left hand on Draco’s arm.

She froze. “Oh Gods,” she whispered, eyes wide, immediately filling with tears, “What is that? Oh, please don’t joke with me. Please. My heart can’t take it. Is this real?”

Hermione bit her lip. “How do we feel about making that front page shot the first picture in a wedding album?”

Draco met her shining eyes with his own before he looked at his parents with a grin.

“Mother, how do you feel about planning another wedding?”

Chapter Text

Hermione stared at the dress hanging on the back of the closet door, incredulous, not expecting the vision before her.

“Where did you... how did you...?” her voice quietly trailed off, gaze transfixed on the gown she’d only ever seen in pictures.

“I saw your parents’ wedding photograph on the mantle in your house a few weeks back when I came by to show you the invitation samples,” Narcissa admitted excitedly, watching Hermione’s face, trying to decipher how she felt about it. “Then I secretly sent Lola while you were working. She searched your attic tirelessly to see if she could find the dress among your parents’ possessions that you keep there, and she did. She restored it to its former glory in no time at all using elf magic.”

Narcissa’s eyes flew from Hermione’s unreadable expression to the dress and back. Slowly, her excitement began to fade, becoming rapidly replaced with stress, realizing maybe she had overstepped.

“Darling, it’s not an obligation to wear it,” she timidly assured Hermione, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, “The bridal gown you chose with me and the Weasley ladies back in May is also pressed and ready, hanging in the closet. Would you prefer I get that one for you? It is stunning. If you’d rather wear a more modern dress, it’s perfect. It’s ultimately your choice, you cannot go wrong with –”

Hermione shook her head, turning her head to meet Narcissa’s eyes. “I’m just caught off-guard, is all,” she choked, voice hoarse with emotion, “I never even considered my mother’s dress a possibility. I guess I’ve been without her and without him so long, I just...” she brought her hand up, covering her eyes, suddenly overcome.

Narcissa’s entire face fell as she wrapped her arms around Hermione’s shoulders. “Hush now, I’m so sorry, my darling. I shall immediately get the dress we bought and I’ll have Lola bring this one back to your attic. It’s no trouble at all, I don’t want to cause you any heartache on your wedding day –”

Hermione let out a soft laugh. “Heartache, yes, but in the best way.” Her gaze went back to her mother’s dress. “It’s perfect. I would’ve never thought... my parents were married in the late 1970s, and I suppose I always thought it would be outdated. But seeing it restored like this, with these sleeves? It’s perfect for an October wedding. The dress we bought last spring was right for a late August ceremony, but now that I have this before me, I couldn’t possibly consider wearing the sleeveless dress.”

Narcissa’s hand gently ran down the bell sleeves with a delighted grin that matched Hermione’s. “Vintage is always classy and so charming, and I think your mother would be proud to see you get married in her dress. This lacework is just...exquisite,” she let out an admiring sigh, fingering the v-neck neckline delicately, “... it’s perfection. You’ll be perfection in it.”

When Hermione turned and faced the mirror wearing her mother’s dress, she stared at her reflection for several long beats. Narcissa held her breath, pressing her lips together, waiting for the final verdict.

Hermione’s palms ran down the contours of her figure in the bohemian, intricately laced gown. The a-line silhouette set off her soft curves beautifully. It was airy, dreamy, ethereal, draping around her on the floor like a cloud. On first glance, she would have never chosen it. But as she stood there, the bell sleeves comfortingly brushing the skin on the back of her hand like a whisper, it felt like her mother’s caress.

And in that moment, Hermione had never felt more like herself, had never felt more like her mother’s daughter.

“I can’t believe my mother’s here,” she murmured to herself, her eyes shining with happy tears, “I can feel her.”

“...and your father,” Narcissa whispered. She turned, reaching for the small bouquet of pink Gentle Hermione English roses that lay balanced on the nightstand in the guest room at the Manor where she was helping Hermione prepare and ready herself for the ceremony.

Hermione gazed down at the roses in her hand in confusion. “My father? Aren’t these from the gazebo like we discussed?”

Narcissa gave her a sad, wistful smile, her hand coming up to lovingly brush back Hermione’s long dark curls from her shoulder. “I got these from the Gentle Hermione rose bush you mentioned,” she revealed quietly, “the one at your house, the one you told me your father planted outside your bedroom window years ago when you were a little girl so that you would always be surrounded by the fragrance. I thought having a little piece of him would be important, too. They can both be with you as you walk down the aisle.”

After several seconds of silence, Hermione raised her teary eyes to Narcissa, a familiar, overwhelming, emotional shiver working its way down her body. Her throat worked to swallow the lump that had risen until she was finally able to speak. 

“You consistently surprise me... you are still not who I thought you were, Lady Malfoy,” she choked out, her voice finally breaking, the tears spilling over before she reached for her soon-to-be mother-in-law. Narcissa immediately reciprocated, embracing Hermione, fiercely hugging her, her hand soothingly rubbing her hair, quietly comforting her.

“You will always be Robert and Helena Granger’s daughter,” she assured Hermione, tightening her hold, “but from this day forward, I am so proud and so thrilled to call you mine and Lucius’ daughter, too. I will always be whatever you need me to be, I will always be in your corner, I will always be on your side. Even over Draco,” she added with a roll of her eyes as Hermione let out a loud, teary laugh, her chin on her shoulder, “Merlin knows he’ll need to be put in his place often,” Narcissa continued with her own snicker.

*****  

“You ready, Mione?”

Harry gazed at her with a grin an hour later as they stood near the hedge maze just outside the formal gardens.

“I think so,” she responded timidly, patting her hair in place, “How do I look?”

Harry tilted his head to the side, his green eyes tracking her from the top of her head to her white lace, kitten heel, pointed toe slingback pumps  before pursing his lips, a soft, nostalgic look on his face.

“Absolutely gorgeous,” he murmured, “the most beautiful I’ve ever seen you, topping even the Yule Ball.”

“I feel like I’m missing something,” she fretted, casting a glance down at herself, her fingers flying up to her ears, feeling the pear-shaped sapphire drop earrings that Draco gifted her as a wedding trinket to match her engagement ring.

Harry’s gaze went up to the elegant, smooth chignon at the back of her neck, several loose curly tendrils blowing in the autumn breeze.

“I’ve got it,” he told her, reaching for a Gentle Hermione rose from her bouquet, carefully balancing it behind her ear. He nodded, confident in his decision. “That’s it. You’re perfect.”

At that moment, Narcissa came around the corner holding what looked like a mass of soft, ivory, mesh material. Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Is everything alright?” she asked anxiously, listening to the quiet sounds of distant conversation among the guests seated in the rose garden.

Narcissa nodded, her cheeks pinkening, eyes going from Harry to Hermione. “This is probably silly,” she conceded, “but I just wanted to offer... well... this...”

She carefully held up the material in her hands, using her wand to cast a spell to float it high in the air: the cathedral length, simple tulle veil unfurled like a cloak, lovely and airy in the setting sun.

Hermione gaped at it, speechless, as Narcissa plunged on hurriedly, afraid Hermione might reject it outright.

“It’s mine,” she explained quickly, her words running together, giving away her nerves, “And my own dress was also from the 70s, made of lace. It was more modest, of course, being from a traditional pureblood family, my parents would never have allowed anything else, and of course they gravitated to the saying ‘more is more’ which is why this is so long and extravagant,” Narcissa finally took a breath, biting her lip nervously, “I just thought I would offer it. It’s the same shade as your mother’s gown. And I thought... well, I thought maybe you’d like a piece of your new family too. But, as I said earlier, darling, there is no obligation. I would never force you. My own feelings will not be hurt if you choose to continue with no veil. The simplicity of the lacy, vintage dress is just lovely and if that’s what you’d like go with, I completely understand.”

Hermione shook her head, eyes glistening again. “You are just as infuriating as your son,” she declared with a soft laugh, “constantly finding me to make me an overemotional blubbering mess.”

Narcissa’s cheeks colored further as she sheepishly raised her eyebrows in response. “I suppose he had to have gotten it from somewhere.”

She sniffled. “I’d be honored to wear your veil, Lady Malfoy.”

“Oh, for Salazar’s sake, Hermione,” Narcissa beamed, quickly dabbing beneath her own eyes with a handkerchief before leaning forward and hastily wiping beneath Hermione’s, “you’re going to ruin your eye makeup. And enough with ‘Lady Malfoy,’” she chided, as she slid the veil’s comb into the top of the chignon at the base of Hermione’s neck, coming around to put both her hands on the bride’s shoulders, “considering the title will become yours soon enough. I think we’re well in first name territory at this point,” she tittered with a grin.

Harry quickly and diligently worked to spread the cathedral veil out behind Hermione on the ground before sighing softly in admiration at the sight before him.

“Is everyone here?” Hermione asked Narcissa anxiously, “I can hear voices, but I wasn’t sure if we were waiting for anyone.”

“Absolutely everyone is here,” Narcissa assured her, “all your friends from school, your professors. All the Weasleys on their best behavior, Mr. Potter here making sure of it. Your coworkers. We’re ready.” Her gaze went around the hedge maze into the formal gardens before casting a glance into the far off rose garden. “And we timed it perfectly. The golden hour will make for beautiful photographs”

She kissed each of Hermione’s cheeks and gave her one last encouraging smile. “I will have them begin the music and I shall wait for you with the others.”

She beamed at Harry before crossing through the formal gardens, disappearing from their view.

“This veil is perfect for the long walk through the formal gardens and through the rose garden. It’ll look spectacular trailing down the steps of the gazebo,” Harry concluded appreciatively before raising his eyes to Hermione.

“Ready, Mione?”

She took a deep, calming breath before placing her hand on Harry’s extended arm.

They stepped around the hedge maze and walked through the formal gardens, making their way towards the adjacent rose garden, the voices getting louder as they inched their way closer to the ceremony.

“I don’t know how to thank you for agreeing to walk me down the aisle,” Hermione murmured, “I thought about walking on my own, but...” she swallowed down the emotion bubbling in her throat.

Harry shook his head, turning to look at her. “You’re my sister. You didn’t even have to ask. I would have arrogantly assumed this is what I would have been doing anyway. I’ve earned it, don’t you think?”

She dissolved into giggles as they waited, hidden from view around the corner from the rose garden near the top of the silk, white aisle draped across the ground, leading towards her groom.

“I still can’t believe she managed to pull this together in a month,” Hermione whispered as the guests grew silent. Her heart pounded in her chest, waiting for the music to start.

“Can’t you?” Harry chided quietly, “She’s Narcissa Malfoy. She probably could’ve planned it in a day if you’d asked her. At Disney World. Or Buckingham Palace.”

When the string quartet began playing the traditional Canon in D, Harry and Hermione looked at each other and nodded before they stepped out into the view of the standing guests. All eyes went to Hermione, her olive skin lit into golden perfection beneath the setting sun, radiant and luminous, carrying the spirits of her parents, who’d loved her and shaped her in her past, who carried her forward into her future on the soft autumn breeze.

She met smiling face after smiling face walking through the rose garden, but it was when she saw Draco waiting for her at the gazebo’s arched opening, in his trademark pressed black suit, white shirt, and black tie, surrounded en masse by the Gentle Hermiones, white-blonde hair endearingly falling into his eyes, just like she loved, staring at her adoringly as if she hung the sun itself that she nearly lost it. Their eyes met and she couldn’t help the gleeful laugh that escaped her mouth, her eyes filling with tears yet again as she leaned into Harry for the rest of their walk to the gazebo.

How surreal is this?

Through her tears she climbed the steps of the gazebo, eyes still locked on Draco’s, and for just a split second, for just a moment, as if through a trick of the sunlight in the half hour before the sunset, she saw him: mid-laugh, exactly how he’d looked when he was 13. He was gone a moment later, replaced with the man she was marrying, but there was a dull, rueful, joyful ache in her heart as her smile widened.

As Harry took her bouquet and placed Granger’s hand in Draco’s, he saw no one but her.

His heart felt as if it might burst from his chest as he stared at the woman before him, the woman who, for a split second as she stepped towards him, was the little swot from his childhood with her trademark proud smile after answering a question correctly. And in that moment, a thick bubble of overwhelming emotion overtook his chest as he remembered the girl she’d been, now standing before him as the woman he’d chosen for life – right hook, and all.

Percy Weasley, their Ministry officiant, began to speak.

“We are gathered here today for something I think most of us never saw coming,” he bellowed, raising his eyebrows jovially, as the guests all broke out into soft laughter. Draco’s eyes met Granger’s, a smirk forming on his lips as she giggled, their gazes wandering out to the crowd before them, most people nodding profusely in amused agreement with Percy.

“It’s not altogether rare for a marriage to occur between two Hogwarts houses, of course,” Percy continued, “but I think many of us remember the tempestuous rapport that existed between these two people standing before us: a genuine dislike, if you will. A healthy disdain from lion to serpent, serpent to lion. And yet here we are, with them standing facing each other, ready to commit, besotted with one another. And somehow, it makes sense.

It makes sense that after a decade of change and evolution, these two imperfect people found something they’d been missing in one another. Likely, an adversary, of course,” he continued to more chuckling, “but also, a friend.” Percy motioned to Granger who took a deep breath, her eyes on Draco.

“Draco, you came back into my life like a thunderstorm,” she began, eyes shining at him so brightly, he thought his heart might stop as he felt a lump form in his throat, “Reckless. Loud. Angry. Causing chaos, spilling coffee,” she added, raising her eyebrows as his lips quirked up into a smile, “and impossible to ignore. And yet somehow amid all the chaos, you left peace in your wake. You were always my lesson in forgiveness, but you became my lesson in courage, my lesson in remembering who I was and who I am. In the last ten years, you successfully dreamed and persevered and dared to become more than your past. And now together, we can write a future we never expected.”

Draco felt his breathing quickening with emotion as Granger’s words slowly sank into his understanding. An acknowledgment of their past, of his past, of her own past; never ignoring it, never pretending it never was, but simply honoring it for the building block it had become.

He could not love her more fiercely than he did at that moment, the woman who had always seen him: as a boy, as a teenager, as a man, with all his flaws and all his strengths, always having a clear, full picture of who he was. He would never stop worshipping the woman who had seen him with all his faults on full display, always, and was choosing him anyway.

You are everything, Hermione Granger.

“I promise to challenge your arrogance when it shows,” she continued, grinning at the small sneer that rose on his face, “and to treasure your vulnerability when you share it. I will walk with you through every joy and every shadow, every argument and every moment of laughter. You are not my fairy tale – you are my truth. And I choose you. I choose you today and always.”

Percy nodded at Draco, who stared at his bride, completely enchanted by every facet of her. He couldn’t help himself as his hand came up, lightly stroking down her cheek before grasping her fingers tightly with his own.

“Hermione,” he murmured intimately low, noting the shiver that traveled down her body at the tone, a tremor of want shooting through him as he gazed at her unabashedly, “I think together we prove that love is not bound by logic, nor expectation, nor lineage. Because by all three counts, we should not be standing here today.

“But you continue to shatter illusions, as you’ve always done. Since I was a boy, you’ve always broken every mold I held true, and then you built me back up, piece by stubborn piece. I fell in love with you unpreparedly, blindly, irrevocably, without even a hint of grace or poise, crashing at your feet.

“I promise to always challenge you to be the swotty witch I know you are, the best our society has to offer, the best version of yourself. I promise to protect your books, and to never interrupt you while you tell me about them – unless it’s urgent, or I’m hungry.

“You are my strongest ally and my fiercest opponent, and the love I never dared to hope for, the love I never thought was in my future. And today, I swear to love you with everything I am – and with everything I’m still becoming.”

She had eyes only for him, her heart in her throat, threatening to prevent absolutely any oxygen from hitting her lungs at all: and in that moment, staring up at his silver eyes, she wouldn’t have even cared.

She didn’t hear anything Percy said, and she couldn’t have cared less. When it came time to exchange rings, Teddy stood from his seat in the front row where he sat next to Andromeda, who sat clutching Narcissa’s hand beside her. He stepped forward, handing Draco the eternity band that matched Hermione’s sapphire engagement ring, and handed Hermione Draco’s simple platinum band. It was Draco’s unforeseen emotional reaction to the short phrases he was asked to repeat as he slipped the ring onto her finger that hit Hermione so hard, she could scarcely catch her breath.

“Hermione,” he’d murmured softly, her first name, though engraved on his heart, still an unfamiliar lilt in his voice, his teary eyes glued to hers, “with this ring, I thee wed. With my body, I thee worship. And all my worldly goods with thee I share.”

It took her several long seconds to compose herself enough before she could reciprocate the gesture with the same words.

“It’s fine, I’m really fine, I can do it, I’m going to do it!” she’d insisted loudly, as Draco and the guests both laughed good-naturedly, sniffles heard throughout the crowd.

And suddenly, they were at the end. As if she had plugged her consciousness back in, rings on their fingers, through the incessantly loud beating of her heart, Hermione heard Draco begin to speak in that same, low intrinsically familiar tone that left her trembling.

“I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, take you, Hermione Jean Granger, as my wedded wife: to have and to hold, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do us part.”

With the solemnity of the moment bearing down on her, and with her love for Draco etched into every crack of her voice, Hermione repeated her vows with aching certainty that this would be the only man she ever said them to no matter how long or short their life together was.

The moment she’d finished, she felt a calm slip over her. She was peaceful, assured, relaxed, her commitment to Draco sealed. All there was left to do was kiss and take their first steps toward the future.

“By the power vested in me through the British Ministry of Magic, the governing body of the magical community of Great Britain, I hereby pronounce you husband and wife.”

Percy paused for dramatic effect as a cheer rose up through the crowd, loud applause and whistles erupting from the right front row where Harry, Ginny, Blaise, Theo, Astoria, and Pansy all sat together.

“Draco,” Percy said with a dignified grin, “you may now kiss your bride.”

Draco stepped closer, his body flush with Hermione’s. Her breath caught as his hands slowly came up in a loving caress, cupping her face on either side of her jaw, his lips an inch from hers.

“My bride,” he whispered, placing a delicate kiss on her left cheek, “my witch,” he murmured, placing an even softer kiss on her right cheek.

“My wife,” he heatedly breathed in his low, intimate growl, setting Hermione’s nerves on fire, heat pooling low in her belly, her breath labored through parted lips. He drank in the sight of her in her wedding dress and veil as he held her face his hands, the soft yellows and oranges of the sunset glowing gold on her skin, her dark eyes melting into familiar pools of dark chocolate. Always comforting, since as far back as he could remember. He carefully ran his thumb possessively over her bottom, plump lip, sharply catching his breath at the sensation. He lowered his head closer to hers, inhaling deeply, savoring the moment: the perfume from the Gentle Hermiones around them in the gazebo, and his favorite scent, always soothingly emanating from her hair: Vanilla. Roses. Jasmine.

He heard the tiny, soft breath leave through her mouth and he couldn’t hold back anymore, angling her face perfectly below his, slanting his mouth over hers tenderly, reverently, oblivious to the crescendo of applause and cheers that rose up even louder over the guests, focused on infusing his touch with the promise of forever.

When their lips parted, Hermione’s senses slowly came back, one by one. Her hands gently gripped Draco’s suit jacket sleeves. She parted her eyelashes, taking in the sight of her new husband, his pale blonde hair absorbing the gold from the sunset, shining like the first night star at dusk, lighting the path for the rising moon. She languidly inhaled, breathing in Draco’s familiar scent: Leather. Green apples. Parchment. His cologne. She found herself inching closer, wanting to run her nose against his neck.

Her hearing slowly crested over her, as if someone had begun turning the volume up. She became aware that their guests had stood in their honor, their applause and cheers loud and hilariously obnoxious.

Percy’s voice boomed over the noise.

“Ladies and gentleman, I present to you for the first time as husband and wife: Draco and Hermione Malfoy!”

Grinning at each other, Draco tucked Hermione’s hand onto his arm.

“Ready, Mrs. Malfoy?”

She smiled at him one more time, nodding her head confidently before turning to face all the people she loved with an expression of sheer joy.

“I’ve been ready! Let’s do this!” she exclaimed jubilantly as Draco threw his head back and laughed, their guests excitedly throwing pink Gentle Hermione petals amidst the loud chaos. The petals landed everywhere: on them, over them, across the aisle, a veritable shower of soft pink silk bathing them in the golden twilight of the evening.

And in that pink sea of good fortune, of hope, of dreams to lead them out and carry them forward, Draco and Hermione stepped down from the gazebo and took their first steps together into their forever.

Chapter Text

Draco pensively stood on the pristine stone white terrace of his ancestral chateau in the Loire Valley of France, gazing out at his luscious property, a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in his hand. His stormy grey eyes flitted over the physical embodiment of everything he had accomplished in the last fourteen years: the renovation and modernization of his family’s 12th century verifiable castle; the revitalization of the 100+ acres including the two fully working vineyards. It had all been his doing, his hard work, his ambition.

And none of it compared to what he had accomplished over the last three years with the woman who stood beside him, their greatest accomplishment in her arms. Two-year-old Cassieopeia lifted her white-blonde curly head from Hermione’s shoulder and turned to look at Draco, her arms lifting in his direction.

Immediately, he brought his daughter into his embrace. “Viens ici, ma petite chérie,” he murmured in her ear, lightly kissing her wild mane of light curls, his hand caressing her back lovingly in her Sesame Street footy pajamas.

“Cassie wanted to say good night,” Granger murmured, leaning her chin on Draco’s shoulder, tenderly running her hand down her daughter’s downy plump cheek.

“Good night, little star,” he whispered in Cassie’s ear, her head already nestled deep in his chest, her eyes heavy with sleep. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

She nodded in response, a barely audible, “ ‘night Da-da,” escaping her lips as Draco delicately passed her back into Hermione’s waiting arms. His eyes met hers, and he licked his lips, arching an eyebrow. She bit the corner of her lip in response, languidly laughing as a small growl predictably erupted from his throat.

Ten minutes later, his wife was snuggling up beside him on the terrace again, his arm curled protectively around her, his palm soothingly stroking the round curve of her belly.

“How’s my son doing tonight? Is he being polite? Minding his manners? Not beating up his mother too much?” Draco asked her quietly, his lips kissing her temple gently.

She smiled. “Your son is in the mood to dance. He says today is our third wedding anniversary, and we have a tradition to uphold.”

Draco smirked. “Ah, is that what he said? He isn’t wrong. We do come to the Chateau for our wedding anniversary weekend every year, and we do dance to our wedding song on the terrace at sunset.”

“Yes, well, Scorpius is quite brilliant, you know, for being unborn.”

“Well, yes, of course, that goes without saying,” Draco scoffed, “we are his parents.”

“Touché, Lord Malfoy.”

Draco carefully put down his wine, wrapping his wife in an embrace. “May I have the honor of this dance, Lady Malfoy?”

She grinned up at him. “You never have to ask. Like I told you years ago, I want to dance all my dances with you.”

(1)

As Draco cast the spell for their wedding song to begin playing around them, Hermione broke out into a grin at the familiar opening notes of Iris. Without another word, he placed his hand on her waist at the same moment hers went up to his shoulder, their free hands meeting in mid-air, their bodies automatically in sync, finding one another, merging together as Draco began to expertly lead them in a slow intimate waltz around the terrace, his forehead leaning down towards hers.

“And I’d give up forever to touch you,
'Cause I know that you feel me somehow,
you’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be,
and I don’t want to go home right now...”

And as they did every year, they both found themselves humming in each other’s ear, their eyes half-closing, not needing to watch their steps, not needing to look anywhere but at one another, already keenly aware that they moved in a way that came naturally on a terrace that was their second home to a song that had permanently etched itself into their hearts; every note, every lyric, every instrument engraved and seared into their memory.

“And all I can taste is this moment,
And all I can breathe is your life,
And sooner or later it’s over,
I just don’t want to miss you tonight...”

Hermione let go, allowed herself to close her eyes completely, basking in the warmth of Draco’s arms, his hands keeping her steady, keeping her moving, guiding her to follow him effortlessly simply because he could lead her effortlessly, the twilight casting a multitude of colors behind her eyelids. She could smell his very being inches away from her, her hand on his shoulder gently making it’s away up his neck to the hair at the nape, stroking and caressing, lightly pulling. His steps never faltered, because if Draco Malfoy valued anything, it was the tradition of waltzing with his wife to their wedding song on the terrace of their French home.

“And I don’t want the world to see me,
‘Cause I don’t think that they’d understand,
When everything’s made to be broken,
I just want you to know who I am...”

And just like every year, they breathed the same words into the air between them.

“You’re the only one who sees me, wife.”

She smiled at the familiar words. “I’ll always see you, always know you, husband.”

As their song came to an end, Draco altered his embrace, wrapping his arms around her expanding waist, lovingly stroking her belly.

She leaned up, lightly kissing his lips. “I take it you don’t want to dissolve our marriage? Three years was the original expiration date, if you recall.”

Draco let out a loud bark of laughter, shaking his head. “Never. I will never, ever let you go.” He rubbed his nose tenderly against hers. “Happy anniversary, ma chérie.”

“Happy anniversary, my love.”

As they gazed back out at the estate, his thoughts wandered to all they had seen; all they had done; all they had created together. It felt like so much, yet so little; it felt like nothing, and yet felt like everything. Their children were everything, and Draco knew they were everything because she was everything. He was just the lucky one in the middle who got to witness it, who got to live his life wrapped around Cassie’s finger, wrapped around Hermione’s finger, and, soon enough, he was sure, wrapped around Scorpius’ finger. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d found his true self, who he was meant to be, walking the same corridors, the same land as his French ancestors, as he had set out to do nearly 14 years ago.

In some ways, he thought he had.

And because he was confident in who he had become, who he had found deep within himself, with his daughter asleep in her bedroom, his palm feeling his son’s ferocious kicks in his wife’s womb, his arm wrapped around the woman who he still strived tirelessly to make himself worthy of, Draco Malfoy was a new man. Still an arrogant, sneering prick of a man, but who now remembered the terrified, cowardly boy from his past with less hostility and more compassion.

Because that boy had taken those very first steps to change, had done the work to become the man he was today, and the man he was today had Hermione Malfoy.

He was right where he belonged. He was home.