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Chapter Text

Theo plucked the cigarette from between Draco’s lips, took a drag, laid back onto the pillows, and blew smoke straight up into the air. 

“Christ in heaven,” he breathed, exertion still in his voice. “Must have been good for you, Mister light-a-cigarette-before-handing-your-poor-boy-a-towel.”

Draco took the cigarette back, careful to not ash on the newly purchased finespun cotton sheets, and turned to slide off the bed. Theo watched him with unabashed interest, although they’d just finished, and although the long lines of his back, neck, backside, and thighs were as familiar to him as his own.  Draco caught him looking, and threw him a little quirk of his brow before reaching down to where they had shucked their clothes in a hurry and tossed Theo a scrap of fabric. 

Theo picked it up with his left hand- the one not still coated in the detritus of their coupling. “This is my best cravat, don’t be a louse.”

Draco rolled his eyes, and got up again to grab a square of linen from the washbasin. “Here, you princess.”

Wiping up as best he could, Theo glared at the blonde who was lowering himself back into bed after stubbing out the cigarette into one of the Madeira glasses they’d brought into the bedroom upon retiring. “Your wife is never going to put up with this kind of behaviour.”

Draco snorted, then laughed, throwing one long, pale arm over Theo’s chest and pulling him closer. “I don’t have a wife. I do have a laundress that is very good at getting stains out of cravats, though.”

“You don’t now,” Theo hummed in appreciation as Draco bit the ball of his shoulder. “But you will soon.”

“Do you have to do this?” Draco retorted, biting again. This time, Theo winced. “I’m here. I’m with you. I’ve been here. I’ve been with you. When and if I procure myself a wife, she’s going straight to Wiltshire to stay there with thrice annual conjugal visits. Let’s talk about you, Theo. Why don’t you get a wife?”

“Because a stupid, swotty, absolutely darling boy walked into my lodging room at Eton one fall morning in 1862, and I laid eyes on his smug little face and I couldn’t possibly do anything other than love him for the rest of my life,” Theo rambled. Draco was smiling again, and Theo resisted the urge to push him back down onto the mattress and turn things about. “That and I’m the bastard son of a semi-disgraced earl. More than that, I’m the second bastard son of an actress, and a semi-disgraced earl. Men like me are meant for the church. Or the army, like me. Or maybe both.”

Grey eyes locked blue, and Draco twisted to murmur into the warm, tan shell of Theo’s ear: “I’ll be your wife.”

Theo groaned, “I thought this was supposed to slow down as we got older.”

Draco’s erection against Theo’s hip disagreed. “I’m only six and thirty. A man in his prime.”

“I hope I can keep up with you forever,” sighed Theo into the juncture of Draco’s shoulder and neck. 

Draco closed his eyes, lashes falling onto his cheek, “I’ll keep you forever.”

It had taken Theo a while to become accustomed to Draco’s valet coming in every morning before they were awake, but once he realized that Mr. Goyle was dumber than a bag of hats, it got easier to accept. In fact, it was very nice to wake up in a nicer home than he could afford, and be given a tall glass of water flavored with cucumbers or apple slices or orange peel, depending on the season, and have the fire stoked in the cold months, or the windows opened in the warm ones. 

Not to mention, waking up with Draco was a chief joy in his life. He had meant what he said the night before about how Draco was the only person he’d ever wanted. In what passed for the wee hours of the morning for the pair, Theo had held Draco in his arms as he slept peacefully. His pale-blond hair, which he wore much longer than the fashion dictated, fell over his forehead and down his cheek, soft and slack with sleep. Draco was delicate, beautiful, and rarely did Theo look at him and not feel some amount of stun in his chest. Shorter than Theo by a head, which wasn’t hard as Theo was uncommonly tall, and slighter than him as well, Draco fit perfectly nestled into the crook of his arm. When Theo thought about it, or when he caught a glimpse of the two of them together in a mirror, he thought them very well suited. Draco was as silvery as he was dark, and Theo’s broader shoulders, chest and height complimented Draco’s classically beautiful features. 

The morning was cooler and greyer than Theo hoped for when Goyle came in and roused them. Never once in the four years since Draco had hired him had he made anything more than a blink in Theo’s direction when he found them tangled in the covers, naked as anything, wrapped around each other like a pair of kittens. 

Goyle hefted the heavy velvet curtains open, letting weak sunlight fall in shafts into the room. “Ten o’clock, sir. Post is on the bureau. Would you prefer breakfast here, or in the morning room?”

“Mmm,” Draco mumbled, and pressed his forehead into Theo’s shoulder. “Good morning.”

Theo took charge. “In here, please. A light breakfast for Lord St. Armand, who seemed to over-indulge last night, full for me.”

Goyle left, leaving still-warm from the iron newspapers on the bureau as well as a neat stack of correspondence on a shallow silver tray. 

“You’re bright this morning,” Draco yawned, reaching to his side of the bed for a glass of water, this morning flavored with thin slices of lemon and lime. “And I’ve not over-indulged. I’m simply starting slowly.”

Theo pointed out the now empty bottle of Madeira on his side of the bed with good humor, and got up to retrieve the post. He picked it up, thumbed through it, and picked up the folded paper below it. “You’re in the Daily Prophet again this morning. Let’s see, what have you done now…”

Draco took the stack of letters from Theo, smirking. “Let me guess, Viscount S-A spotted at The Criterion in the company of Captain N, Baronet Z and Lord F and Lord P, followed by a walk to the East India Club where the men disappeared into a cloud of cigar smoke until after two in the morning wherein Viscount S-A and Captain N wandered into the direction of Mayfair, and the others in the direction of Belgravia. The permanent lodging of Captain N are still unknown, gentle reader, and it seems to this author that Captain N will continue to reside with Viscount S-A until the moment that either should seek a wife, though likely after as well. 

Do I have it about right?”

Theo frowned, and pulled on his robe. “Not quite. They only mentioned that you’d a new waistcoat that was very handsome and that mine was quite tattered. You don’t think it’s tattered, do you?”

Draco considered, “It’s not in the best kit. Best have Goyle look at it. He’s got the biggest sausage fingers, but they’re ever so delicate with a needle.”

With that, the door opened again and Goyle brought in the trolley with their breakfasts, along with a new bottle of Madeira and a pot of tea. 

“Right on time, Goyle,” Draco said slowly, pulling the sheets up and over his hips. “Look out Captain Nott’s waistcoat from last night and make the necessary repairs, and give him my dove grey until it’s completed.”

“No, the Prussian blue,” Theo corrected urgently. “The dove grey is a perfect match for your eyes.”

Goyle looked between the blond and the brunet until Draco sighed and waved his hand, “The Prussian blue, Goyle. See to it.”

Theo poured cups of tea for the both of them, and balanced a plate of ham, toast, and hardboiled eggs in the crook of his arm. Draco took the offered tea and plate gratefully, and Theo settled in beside him with his own cuppa and the financial section of the Morning Herald. 

Thus began another morning, like so many mornings, over the past eleven years since they’d both come back to London. After Eton, Draco was off to Cambridge, and Theo a short stint in Her Majesty’s finest 16th The Queen’s Lancers and a two year tour of India. After matriculation with honors in Botany, of all things, Draco joined Theo on a lark as companion to Prince Bertie on his Prince of Wales tour of India from November of 1875 until March of 1876. 

Draco had come to India happy to see his dearest friend from Eton, but left heartbroken and mourning the distance between them, with only a few letters and a lock of Theo’s hair to keep him warm. He still wore the lock of Theo’s dark hair intricately woven into the inside of a locket attached to his pocket watch every day. 

And thus began that morning, like eleven years worth of other mornings, with no inkling that today would be the day that life would irrevocably change. 

Miss- No, Lady- Lady Hermione Granger’s morning could not have been more different. The new title was something to get used to, to be sure. She was as different from the Viscount St. Armand and Captain Nott as she could be. She was as wealthy as the Viscount, but her father’s money was very, very , new. She had grown up as much of an outsider as the Captain, but had the legitimacy that he did not. 

Their constitutions were almost entirely different as well. For starters, she had been up since before six, or around the time that Draco and Theo had collapsed into sleep. She, on the other hand, could barely contain herself to stay asleep for that long. The night before, her dearest acquaintance, Mr. Harry Potter, Lord Black, had found a quiet moment for her at the soiree thrown at Lady McGonogall’s and given her a most delightful gift. 

A new French translation of the young bacteriologist, Jaume Ferran’s, treatise on the inoculation against cholera was exactly the kind of present Lady Hermione hoped for. If only the other young men that called at her father’s house in Grosvenor Square could get that through their thick heads. Or, if Lord Black wasn’t already married she would have given him a second look. Harry had been married for far longer than was fashionable having taken the impoverished not-even-heiress of the Irish Weasley clan to wife directly after his investiture as the first Lord Black for his service to the crown during the Boer War. 

They- Lady Hermione, Lord and Lady Black, and Lady Black’ older brother, Mr. Ronald Weasley- had become fast friends as soon as they’d met, owing to their mutual outsider status: Hermione and Harry as newcomers, and the Weasleys as impoverished second cousins. All it had taken was one interminable evening stuck at a musicale that none of them wanted to be at with absolutely no alcohol save what Mr. Weasley had snuck in in a flask that they divided amongst them and dumped in their glasses of lemonade. The four of them getting accidentally locked in the conservatory for a total of five hours after the alcohol and lemonade did the trick. 

Hermione checked her engagement diary at half past eight in the morning once Abbott, her lady’s maid, had come in with her breakfast. Abbott knew by now that Hermione was usually the only one at home and that it was futile to set out a full breakfast for just her. Lady Hermione’s father was invariably still asleep after a night of cards and cigars at the club, whereas her mother was invariably in Kent, taking the air. Or, staying away from her husband. Hermione thought it was rather the latter. 

The day was rather unremarkable, although the evening was something of a highlight for Hermione. Of course there would be callers for her- likely one of the Blacks or Mr. Weasley- and her three new evening gowns were supposed to be delivered today. But the evening… now that would be a treat. 

“You’re a very clever girl, Lady Granger,” Professor Binns had said to her after witnessing a heated debate between Hermione and the vicar the Sunday before last. “I think you would be an excellent addition to a little salon I hold every third Tuesday. Some big headed men there would love to be used to wipe the floor with your brain.”

Hermione gaped at him, having only ever seen him in passing at the Anglican church she had selected upon moving permanently to London. He was a shrewd sort of man, tall and rangy, with cloudy blue eyes that made him look far older than what she could reasonably guess was around fifty. 

Since then, Hermione had thought of nothing else. And since she thought of nothing else, a plan was formed. All Hermione needed was to ingratiate herself into this salon of open minded, free thinking men and women, and maybe she would make the right contacts to get her where she wanted to be. 

Last year, Cambridge had begun allowing women to take their entrance exam. Among these people, Hermione might find a patron. If she found a patron, or a protector, or a husband that could be both, she might be free. The idea itself was enough to make her eyes water. In America, women had qualified as doctors for years already, and Britain was so far behind. A practical backwater. If she could just get to Cambridge, Hermione had a burning conviction that she could be one of the first female doctors qualified in England. 

But first, she had to have a protector. 

The day passed quickly for Hermione, and once her father was out of the townhouse, she pulled on the plainest dress she owned, pulled a shawl over her hair, and slipped out the back door. Past the stable, and into the alley, she waited until her watch showed 8:15 and slowly made her way to the end and looked for Mr. Weasley’s waiting hansom cab. The lights on it winked from half a block away and she set out quickly for it, before she was seen. 

“Oy, Mione,” Ron whisper-shouted from his seat. “Over here!”

She shushed him as she climbed up into the carriage, “Stop it, Ronald. What if someone hears?”

“You’ll be ruined, and then you’ll have to marry me,” Ronald replied glibly, then called up to the driver. “Portman Square, please.”

The cab lurched, and they set off North through Grosvenor Square. 

“Don’t talk like that,” Hermione said quickly. “You know that isn’t a thing.”

Ronald laughed, the coachlight catching his brilliant auburn hair. “Of course not, Lady Hermione. I’ll just waste away with want of you.”

Hermione shoved him with her shoulder. “Poor Miss Brown will waste away in want of you then. I bet she’ll have a lovely funeral.”

“Ah, Lavender’s a sturdy lass, she’ll do just fine,” he retorted, smiling broadly. “She won’t agree to marry me either, but I know she’ll give up eventually.”

“And I will happily be there on that happy day, supporting you as you support me going to an unfashionable part of town so as to enrich my starving brain,” she assured him. “By the way, thank you for going with me. I would have asked Ginny to come as well, but I take it she’s engaged tonight. Probably it would be better for my reputation if she was here, but that’s just that, I suppose.”

“She’d just stare at the wall all night,” replied Ron. “She’s sweet as anything, my sister, but dumb as anything too.”

“She’s just fine the way she is,” defended Hermione staunchly. “Just because she likes clothes and hats and the like doesn’t mean she’s stupid. I like all of those things too!”

Ron cackled, “Doesn’t look like it in that dress.”

“There’s nothing wrong with this dress,” Hermione looked down at it. “Sure, it’s a bit plain, and a bit… brown, but it’s only a year old.”

He nudged her, “You’ll be taken seriously with a mumsy dress like that. Just need a frilly, lace cap and you’ll look just like my gran.”

She glared back at him, considering shoving him out the side of the cab. “You know this is important to me.”

“Aye, I do,” he sobered. “You’ll not be content until you get what you wish. It’s better for all of us to get out of your way and let you go about it.”

His words didn’t inspire much confidence in Hermione, and by the time they reached Portman Square, she was nearly shaking herself out of her boots. It wasn’t that she thought she was stupid, or dull, but that at that exact moment, she couldn’t quite remember anything sparkling or clever. She checked the note for the address again, and pointed to a narrow, tidy townhouse in the middle of the row. A single torchiere stood beside the door, blazing to mark the home. 

Ron paid the cabbie with the money from Hermione’s reticule, and he helped her down and onto the sidewalk. Up the steps they went, and Ronald drew back on the door knocker and tapped three times. A moment later, it was opened for them and they were drawn inside. 

“Mr. Ronald Weasley and Lady Hermione Granger,” Ronald announced to the butler, and they were admitted past him, and up the stairs. The salon was in full swing at this point by the steady sounds of conversation and music as they ascended. Outside the doorway to the drawing room, he leaned down and patted Hermione’s hand. “Chin up, little one.”

She steeled herself, pushing her shoulders back a bit and tilting her chin up in what would look to an onlooker like an arrogant manner, but Ron knew it was just nerves. He patted her hand in the crook of his elbow again and urged her forward. A group of twenty or so were gathered in a comfortable if not entirely fashionable room, with a fire blazing merrily on one wall and an older woman playing a harp next to it. Hermione recognized her as Mrs. Binns. 

Professor Binns noticed her immediately, and broke away from his conversation to greet her. “Lady Hermione, I’m very pleased you took me up on your offer. Sir, I am Professor Binns, humbly retired, and welcome to my little Salon .”

Ron introduced himself, mentioned that he’d also been at Eton although never one of the Professor’s students, and the Professor asked him what he thought about the recently signed Mediterranean Agreements. Ron gave Hermione a look- he hadn’t thought that his keen political interest would come up at a hoity-toity intellectual gathering, and he was thrilled to explain his position. Two other men wandered over and the discussion became lively very quickly with the Professor arguing that it was critical to curb Russian expansionism into the Balkans, and another man arguing that the agreements did not go far enough and only preserved the status quo of the region. 

Hermione, in fact, knew little to nothing of the Mediterranean Agreements, and tried to keep her face schooled into an expression of neutrality and hoped that neither side would ask her opinion. Spying a table of refreshments, and seeing that Ronald had taken to the conversation like a fish to water, she nodded her excuses and slipped away. 

“Mediterranean Agreements,” she grumbled under her breath, reaching for the punch bowl ladle. “Couldn’t be anything on science, or history, or anthropology… no, ma’am. Politics.”

“They bore me, too,” came a voice in her ear. Hermione jumped, sloshing punch on the table and on the hem of her dress. 

“Damn!” she swore, whirling around to look at the cause of her catastrophe. It was hard to be irritated looking at the man’s stricken, gobsmacked face, and she felt the true ridiculousness of the accident. 

“Christ, I’m sorry,” he said genuinely, his blue, blue eyes wide with shock. “I just heard you and it gave me a laugh and I wanted… Christ, I’m sorry. Here, let me get a cloth for you.”

Hermione looked up, and really had to look up because this man was much, much taller than her, and eyed him. “It’s a very ugly dress anyway.”

Captain Nott didn’t know whether to laugh at her cat-like little face turned up in a lopsided smirk or to die on the spot. He didn’t know what had come over him, truly. He’d just been loitering by the fireplace listening in on various conversations and not really taking part in any of them. This was Draco’s sort of scene anyway, not his, if he could ever convince Draco to come with him it would be. Theo only ever came out of respect for his former teacher and mentor, spent a few hours feeling like an idiot with no original opinions or ideas, and always left before midnight to get home to have a nightcap with Draco before bed. 

“I’m sure it’s not ugly,” is all he could reply, feeling the corners of his own mouth tip up. 

Hermione giggled and reached down to take hold of the hem to look at more closely. It really was just a splash, and the punch wasn’t a dark color, so it might not stain. “My companion told me it was mumsy on the way over here, and I’m inclined to agree with him.”

Theo’s eye followed where Hermione had gestured to another tall, ginger haired fellow still deep in conversation with Professor Binns. He cleared his throat, “Is that Ronald Weasley? Are you engaged to him? Haven’t seen him much around since he got back from New York.”

“Just a friend,” she revealed. “Are you scandalized?”

“I’d be much more scandalized if you had a husband,” Theo tossed back, “considering you just lifted up your dress and showed the room your petticoat.”

She abruptly dropped the hem and it fluttered down again. Reflexively, she slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle another giggle. Heavens, what was she doing here? She’d come to the salon to overwhelm the company with her intellect and she was flirting instead. 

“I don’t think anyone noticed,” continued Theo. “They’re all terribly busy explaining how correct they are.”

Hermione snorted, and dropped her hand. “It’s my first time. It’s not entirely what I had thought.”

“I haven’t seen you before. I’m Captain Theodore Nott,” he replied, nodding a quick bow. “I think I should have introduced myself before I frightened you. Can I pour you a glass of punch? I don’t trust you with my good cravat in the splash zone.”

“Hermione Granger,” she bobbed a perfunctory curtsy. “Lady Hermione, that is. I’m insulted, but will accept the drink.”

“Think how insulted my cravat would be if it got sodden,” Theo said gravely, and picked up the ladle from where it had fallen on the table. He poured a glass, and handed it to her. 

“Thank you, sir,” she said, suddenly feeling a bit shy. “I was hoping this might give me a little liquid courage. I’ve been looking forward to this, and suddenly I don’t know what to say.”

Theo poured himself a glass, and sipped, considering. He thought of all the conversations he’d taken part in in this very room over the years. “What are your subjects? Anything burning in your mind?”

“Like I was muttering,” she reminded him slyly, “I’m interested more in the social sciences, and regular science. Medicine, specifically. More specifically, medicinal plants and their applications.”

“Medicine?” Theo questioned. “I can’t say that I’m particularly knowledgeable about anything other than the blasted taste of quinine for malaria. It’s not my area. Now, I have a friend that would gladly indulge you, although I can’t get him to come to this sort of thing. He thinks he's too clever for things like this.”

“I know the feeling right now,” Hermione mused. “I wish he would have come, unless he’s as clumsy as you are. My dress can’t bear it.”

Theo snorted, nearly spitting out his punch. “If I recall correctly, and I might not because you’re very convincing, you were the one who spilt the punch.”

“Yes, but it was entirely your fault. You were clumsy with your words.”

“Draco’s never clumsy with his words,” Theo revealed. “He says precisely what he means at all times. You’d never meet a more careful speaker.”

Hermione finished her glass of punch. “Opposites attract, then?”

Theo grit his teeth, angry at himself that he had brought up Draco. Every moment of every day, Draco was on his mind. One day, Theo would talk the two of them into the corner and the rumors would start. They’d talked vaguely about what they would do if the rumors swirled, but never had come up with a plan. They probably should have a plan. 

He changed tack, keeping his tone light and airy, “So what are you hanging around here for? Shouldn’t you be at a gathering for other bluestocking lady doctors?”

“Let me know when you meet any lady doctors and I’ll gladly confer with them,” Hermione pined. “It’s been less than a decade since the Edinburgh Seven started receiving their licenses, and there’s less than twenty in the whole of England.”

“What does one have to do to become a lady doctor?” Theo asked, pouring another drink for himself and Hermione. 

Hermione set her shoulders and declared, “First, I will complete a course of study at Cambridge after excelling at the entrance test, and attain a degree in anatomy and physiology. From there, I will find a physician willing to train me in the necessary healing arts. Finally, I will sit the Triple Qualification Examination and become a licensed physician.”

Theo whistled long and low, “That’s quite a lot to be done.”

“And I’m not getting any younger,” Hermione quipped. “I’m seven and twenty and I’ll only be able to put my parents off for so much longer before they force a marriage on me. By my guess, I’m looking at a matter of months before they’re very annoyed with me.”

Drinking deeply, and wondering at the forwardness of this young woman, Theo quirked a brow. “And you believe that there are no men who would take a doctor to wife?”

Boldly, Hermione fired back, “Know any interested parties? I’ll happily have a very long engagement that we can mutually break as soon as I’ve matriculated.”

Theo nearly choked on his punch again, “Well, aren’t you the bold sort?”

“It’s always gotten me what I want,” Hermione shrugged. “That’s how I bullied Weasley into bringing me to this gathering.”

“This gathering that you are not taking advantage of,” Theo pointed out, feeling suddenly like he was enjoying Miss Granger’s company a little too thoroughly. 

Hermione flushed, and Theo noticed. “You’re right, of course. Thank you for the company, and the souvenir on my dress.”

Theo watched her make her way back across the room, and was immediately sorry that he’d scared her off. He regretted what he said as soon as her cheeks and chest had flared scarlet. He hadn’t expected a woman with her skin tone to flush quite so brightly. She wasn’t as milk-pale as other ladies, and he wondered if perhaps she had a bit of Italian, or Spanish heritage. Her hair was a sort of burnished brown-gold, and in light or shadow it straddled between the shades. If he was asked, he would have said it was a bit of a treacle color in the firelight, and not at all like Draco’s, which was like butterscotch. He tried to remember the shade of her eyes exactly- he knew they were dark, but the color escaped him. Theo wanted, suddenly, to find her again and assess. 

At that moment, Hermione turned from where she had found success talking to the group her companion was with, and she smiled. Inexplicably, Theo found his knees just a little weak.

Chapter Text

Waking up in Draco’s townhouse in Mayfair was a lovely gift that Theo had never learned to take for granted. He sometimes felt a little hysterical, every few years, that he lived without a living, and without fortune of his own, and without homestead of his own, and at the complete mercy of his lover. The feeling lessened every time Theo thought of the officers’ quarters he would have to go back to if he decided to be noble and stupid and leave Draco’s home.

It was all lovely apple infused ice water and clean sheets and plush aubusson rugs in their bedroom, and walls covered with brand new wallpaper that they’d chosen from Jeffrey and Co in December. Theo was pleased with it, and surveyed the repeating pattern of dahlias in sweeping grey and mauve, he congratulated himself again. Draco had thought the pea green and white color way was superior, but Theo prevailed, and it did look spectacular above the walnut panelled lowers.

The bed was a monstrous old thing, and incredibly long and wide for the time period. Rumor was that the original occupant, the Bishop of Ely, was well over six feet and nearly as wide. Draco and their very dear friend, the Baronet Zabini, had discovered it in the estate of the Earl of Ely and were told that it was constructed in the time of Henry VII in 1508. The bed itself was a English Oak tester bed with a high, carved headboard, substantial cornice and canopy, and an exquisite footboard with a lovely angel carving. Secretly, Theo thought that the angel was hideous, and that it was hysterical that he regularly committed sodomy in a bed made for a church man.

That morning, in their lovely bed, Draco used a silver knife to open up his correspondence. He was propped up against said carved headboard with a plate of toast and stewed tomatoes balanced precariously on his knee, while Theo drank his second cup of tea and read the paper. They were taking things slow this morning, knowing that the start of the season would mean that their time to lay around in bed would be drastically limited after the opening of the Queen Charlotte Ball this evening. Draco tossed bills from their cobbler, their tailor, and their carriage repair person at Theo, and kept the more interesting notes and invitations from their friends for himself.

At the bottom of the pile, lay a small note with the Winchester seal pressed into the fold. Draco scanned the lines of perfect script. Obviously, his father’s secretary, Rosier, had taken down dictation. No matter who wrote it, though, the message remained the same.

He looked over at Theo, sipping his cup of tea and idly smiling at something silly he’d read in The Prophet. The morning light cut through the gaps in the heavy, velvet curtains, and shafted across Theo’s lap on his side of the bed.

His side of the bed.

Draco’s chest clenched painfully, feeling the fine linen paper crumple in his hand. Although he promised Theo- often in their early years, less often in the middle, and more frequently as of late- that things would not change between them once he was married, he knew they would. They would have to change. It wasn’t as if Draco would truly care about his wife, whomever she turned out to be, but the simple fact that he was required to produce an heir meant that what they had shared for so long would no longer be just theirs.

Draco laid the message and his breakfast plate to the side and rolled over to put his head in Theo’s lap. Wordlessly, Theo put aside his paper and teacup and smiled softly at his love. This would be their last lazy morning for months. Best to indulge while they had the chance.

Draco hooked his fingers onto the edge of the sheets and pulled them down just enough to press his mouth to the sharp spurs of Theo’s hips. Hands restless, he stroked up and down’s Theo’s sides as his mouth moved closer to the base of his cock. Theo stretched, a vertebrae in his back popping, and reached down to pull his robe open.

“Is that the kind of morning you want?” Theo asked softly, twining his fingers into Draco’s soft, soft hair. “Do you want your mouth on me?”

Draco nuzzled his face into the juncture of Theo’s stomach and thigh, nodding his assent. The smell of him always drove him to distraction. Theo sighed, relaxing back into the pillows. He laced his fingers behind his head and closed his eyes. Draco took this for encouragement, and spent the better part of a quarter hour slowly, slowly licking up and down Theo’s shaft until he was hard enough to cut glass.

Theo’s breath was coming in shallow gasps when Draco finally decided to stop teasing and suck at him in earnest. This long, languid workup always brought out the worst of Theo, and Draco was counting on it. Thankfully, Draco had a very weak gag reflex and he loved nothing more than to let Theo push in and out of his mouth while giving those incredibly sexy little moans and grunts.

The message that Draco had gotten from his father needed to be pushed as far from his mind as possible. Every stroke that Theo pushed into his mouth, the burning of his jaw, the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, eased the thoughts further and further from him. With Theo a little less than gently fucking up into his mouth, Draco had no time or space to think about the note.

“Do you like it when I use you?” Theo muttered through gritted teeth. Draco made a little noise around his cock, nodding as much as he could. “You’re such a good boy, letting me fuck your mouth.”

Theo punctuated this statement with a series of deep, choking thrusts before he pushed Draco off of him. Draco gasped deep gulps of air, and wiped at his mouth ineffectually with his arm before Theo lurched up and half-tackled him backwards. Theo’s spit-slick erection slid against Draco’s, making both of them cry out with the sheer sensation of it. Draco reached down between them, palming both.

“I want you,” Theo asserted, his breath hot against Draco’s neck. “I need to be inside you. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You’ve been so good, so sweet, and you’ve sucked me so well… you need to get fucked.”

Draco let his eyes fall shut, nodding his want. Before he could even bob his head a second time, Theo’s slicked hand was reaching for him, pushing oil into his ass, stretching him out. The familiar hot burn satisfied Draco in a way that nothing else ever came close to.

All his life, men like him were mocked, derided, and outright hated. Sodomite. Sinner. But doing this, Draco finally felt powerful, in ways he’d never felt powerful before in his whole life. Getting your ass fucked isn’t something usually associated with feeling powerful, but still, Draco burned for it. This was supposed to be demeaning. It’s what was threatened by stronger, bigger bullies.

This wasn’t that, though. This was pure. This was elemental. This was bliss.

Draco felt Theo’s fingers withdraw, and he braced for the blunt pressure of the other man sliding in.

“Theo,” Draco whisper-shouted, his voice wrung out of his body. Theo didn’t answer except for an intent locking of eyes, blue to grey, as he pushed himself ever so slowly past the tight ring of resistance. Draco writhed and pushed back like a whore against Theo’s cock, willing him inside. “Please, Theo.”

Theo couldn’t ignore a plea like that, and he shifted forward, bracing his hands on Draco’s hips. He sighed, and sunk himself even further into the tight, hot clench of Draco’s ass. Going slow still, he watched every millimeter of his own dick disappearing into the stretched out hole. Draco was breathing hard through his nose, and Theo felt him compulsively tightening in quick spasms around him.

Theo stilled. “Are you alright?”

“You’re so fucking wide,” chuckled Draco. “Jerk me a little while you get in.”

Theo immediately fisted Draco’s erection roughly, and pushed in just a little further before pulling back and gave short, staccato thrusts when he felt Draco relaxing around him. Eventually, the blonde reached up with both arms, and pulled Theo deeper into him.

“That’s it,” Draco sighed, feeling Theo finally hit his depth. He’s not being eloquent. He’s being entirely Draco. Theo smiled and picked up the pace, chasing the curling feeling inside of him. “You’ve got me so ready for you… you look so perfect fucking me, Theo, I could look at you forever.”

Theo wasn’t like Draco– he couldn’t just find the right words to tell Draco how delicious he looked, spread out under him and flushed. He didn’t have the right words to say that watching the muscles in Draco’s chest and neck pulled taut with want was about the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

It wasn’t long enough. It could never be long enough. But Theo hadn’t come for twenty four hours and for him, he had reached the end of his ability to slow down and savor. There was always time for savoring later. Theo took a deep breath, and willed himself to last until after Draco’s climax. When he felt it begin to build, he tensed the muscles in his abdomen and thighs and tried his best to ignore it.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long after he reached down and began jerking Draco off, his hand still coated in oil.

“Theo, god, my love,” Draco panted, the most beautiful strawberry pink flush across his chest. “Please let me come. I can’t hold it.”

Theo grunted, “Go on, then.”

Theo was too close then, and he didn’t think he could hold it back even if he wanted to. Draco was too tight around him, too warm. Draco felt the black out at the edge of his vision, and lurched upward onto his elbows to catch Theo’s mouth in a sloppy, searing kiss. Theo fucked up into his partner sharply, and relished the spasms engulfing him. Draco gave a final groan and emptied, coating Theo’s hand and his own belly in mess.

Primal knowledge that Theo was the one who had taken Draco apart like that ripped through him, and all Theo could do was push even harder.

“God, Draco, I–” Theo fell silent, his head tipped back in a mute scream. His hips stuttered and seized as he worked his way through his own climax.

Their breath came hard and fast, and Draco laughed quietly. He reached up and wiped the sweat from his love’s brow before it dropped down on to him. He pulled Theo down next to him, and felt the exquisite sensitivity of his partner’s cock slip free from his body. Their mouths found each other, and their breath began to even out. Draco’s arm slid around Theo’s shoulders, and pulled himself flush against him, the mess of come on his stomach painting them both.

They kissed for a while, their mouths soft and sated. Draco started to feel sleep prickle at the back of his head, and for a moment, he considered giving in. Theo certainly had given in, his head pillowed on Draco’s arm.

Draco glanced over, knowing exactly where the letter had fallen on the floor by their bed. It struck him again that this was their bed, not his, and felt panic rise in his throat at the prospect of that change.

To my son, the Viscount St Armand,
I will be at Winchester House on the five o’clock train. I require your presence at seven in the evening directly before the Queen Charlotte Ball. We will be discussing the requirements of the Marquisate that you have so far failed to fulfill.
Yours, etc
L. Malfoy, Marquess of Winchester

Draco chose to walk across Mayfair to Winchester House- a looming white limestone residence that could never be called a home. Home was a tall, narrow townhouse with his greenhouse in the back courtyard, with the drawing room with the problem with the plaster in the corner, and Theo.

He knocked on the door at what would one day be his own home, and waited for entrance. After a moment, he was allowed to come into the three story entrance hall with its galleries circling the central space and wide staircase. As a child, he had measured that it would take four lengths of his small body to span across the lowest step.

“Lord Winchester will see you now in the library,” said a footman, well trained to look into the distance.

The distance to the library wasn’t great, but the long, carpeted hallways felt like an absolute eternity. Draco contented himself that the conversation would take place in his favorite room, and he dearly hoped that he would not forever think of this very conversation every time he entered it.

“The Viscount St Armand, my lord,” the footman announced, allowing Draco entrance.

“Sir,” Draco greeted, looking across the rug at his father seated in a cognac colored leather club chair.

His father regarded him over his newspaper with the same cool, unsatisfied look that he always had, but he did snap his it closed in greeting. The Marquess of Winchester was the premier Marquess in the realm- the closest thing you could be to royalty without being a Duke. This tickled Draco, and infuriated his father, who believed that the Malfoy family had been robbed of a god-given right to preeminence.

“Draco,” his father replied. “Do come in.”

He crossed the floor, and sat his attache case on the library table. The table itself was scattered with architectural plans, and at the edge, a particularly fine watercolor sketch of Longford Castle.

“This is lovely,” Draco remarked, picking up the sketch.

Lucius Malfoy, Marquess of Winchester, gave his son a sour look, and Draco replaced the sketch. Draco had known that this day would come. Of course he had hoped that it would have been quite a bit further in the future, but as soon as Draco took in the thin line of his father’s mouth, he knew it was finally the day.

“How old are you, son?” Lucius asked, rising from his seat. Draco waited as the Marquess poured himself a whiskey without offering him any refreshment, which was truly bad form. “Do you believe it might be time to marry and give the Marquisate its heir?”

“How is Mother?” Draco blurted, looking back at the watercolor. “Will she be joining us to open the season?”

“Your mother is as enthusiastic as I to meet the future Marchioness of Winchester. She has brought the Tsarina of Russia tiara with her to town as we are expecting an imminent engagement and marriage.”

“I presume there is a list of eligible future Marchionesses?” Draco asked, moving to his father’s whiskey and selecting a bottle. “I hope you understand this conversation requires a drink.”

The Marquess’ mouth pinched even smaller. “I am not unaware of your proclivities and most of London and Britain are only silent due to station and relationship with the Prince of Wales. Despite the… oddness, I believe you will still be able to find a wife. Proclivities or not.”

Draco poured the whiskey and waited, as he knew the tirade was only beginning. The silence reigned until the first sip that passed his lips.

“Is there any lady, ever, to take your interest? Any?”

Draco fixed his father with the gaze he used to wither lesser men, cool and placid.

“Has there ever been a lady, anyone, other than–”

Cutting his father off quickly, suddenly desperate to keep Theo’s name out of the room, he bit out, “So the list is simply anyone I choose?”

Theo’s name didn’t deserve to be dirtied by his father’s mouth.

“Anyone with suitable, status, reputation, and dowry.”

“Anyone?”

“I have long since given up hope that the future Marchioness of Winchester would be of suitable breeding or family. Your mother requests an English girl, but I have doubts that an English lady would put up with your queerness. Best to focus on the new crop of Americans or Continentals. Perhaps Bertie has a Saxe-Coburg cousin who would turn a blind eye to your behavior.”

Draco sipped his own drink slowly, and insolently. “You confuse me, Father. On one side, I am a most eligible bachelor. On the other, I am a defective deviant that will be lucky to enter into any marriage at all.”

“As long as you are engaged by the end of the summer of 1887, I will bite my tongue and welcome any young lady of suitable birth and reputation. If you are not engaged with the intention to marry no later than December thirty first of 1887, you have a very nice cousin with eleven children with one more on the way,” his father sloshed back his own drink. “Now, is any of this unclear?”

Draco looked at his father and not for the first time he was reminded of what he would look like in twenty five or thirty years. He wondered if he would look so cold. Draco would never hate his son the way the Marquess clearly hated him. They shared the same golden-blond hair with a bit of an unruly widow’s peak, ultra fair skin and wide-set hooded grey eyes. In portraits, a young Lucius could be easily mistaken for Draco. But the similarities stopped at the physical.

In India, the natives had never seen blond hair. Didn’t even have a word for it. Had never seen porcelain skin pink from the sun. Had never seen cool, clear eyes like Draco’s. To them, he looked every inch the colonizer. Arrogant. Aloof. Without compassion. They never got to see his eyes crinkle at the corners with happiness, go soft at night looking at his love, or blow wide with interest at a native plant. The natives saw The Viscount, Theo saw Draco.

Draco wondered if there was, or ever had been, a different side to his father that he had never seen, like the Indians had never seen of him.

Draco set his empty glass down on his father’s desk and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Crystal.”

Hermione could barely lay down for her late-afternoon nap the next day because she simply kept running over and over the conversations she’d had the night before in her head. After she had flirted with Captain Nott, she had managed to have a few other conversations with intelligent, clever people that were thought provoking and stimulating. And she did not flirt with a single other person.

The nap today was essential, though, and she tossed and turned under her coverlet for an hour before finally succumbing. She slept for two hours, which was an entirely acceptable amount of time before the first ball of the season. The next four months would be completely consumed with the whirl and bustle of the London Season. From Mid-April when the Queen Charlotte Ball opened the season, until the heat of July became unbearable, London was chock full of all the best and brightest.

Hermione, the Captain, and the Viscount held this in common: their full time residence in London was not the fashionable choice, but for them, the draw of the bustle of the city was enough to tempt. The Grangers kept their manor house in Kent, where Hermione’s mother resided full time, and the Viscount technically could visit Wiltshire at any time and stay with his parents, but the thought of that was nauseating. The Captain, on the other hand, gave up his bachelor’s quarters a year after returning from India at Draco’s urging and had had no independent lodging for a decade.

Abbott woke Hermione at a quarter to seven in the evening with a tray dinner and a strong cup of coffee, along with a silver server with the afternoon’s post.

“Thank you, Abbott. Could you get me my father’s most recent copy of Debrett’s? And…” Hermione asked absently, scanning a note from Ginny. “could you prepare a flask of gin for me for the evening? Buckingham never has good liquor, and Lady Black will bring the whiskey and I’ll bring the gin.”

Abbott said nothing, choosing instead to stand passively at the edge of Hermione’s bed. Hermione wondered, not for the first time, if Abbott judged her for her less-than-savory habits like drinking gin and reading until half three in the morning.

“Tanqueray, please, Abbott,” mused Hermione, figuring if the maid thought she was debauched, she might as well get the gin she wanted. Abbott left, taking the silver server, in search of her mistress’s favorite flask.

Hermione, having finished looking through her correspondence, reclined back on her pillows and idly picked at the dinner tray. No suitable husbands, beyond Captain Nott, had surfaced at the salon, unfortunately. She had imagined that it would have been full of young, bright minds, with loads of free time and ideals and a perfect battle ground in the marriage war she was attempting to wage.

Abbott returned, and handed off the flask and the book.

“Thank you, Abbott. Please come back at eight,” Hermione instructed and flipped to the back of Debrett’s Peerage, Baronetage, Knightage, and Companionage: 1886. She located “Nott” in the index and quickly flipped through the pages.

Shrewsbury, Earl of
Creation UK 1442, of Waterford, Ireland
Tiberius Antullus Octavius Nott (b. 1811)

Hermione scanned down the list below Tiberius, listing his wives and his children, of which there were many, finally ending with Theodore, and his older brother Alexander, borne to a Miss Agnes Doyle. Nott and Doyle married in 1862 following the death of Tiberius’ wife Nicola only a few months prior, although their two sons were already thirteen and eleven.

Hon. Theodore August Nott b. January 15, 1851
Sometimes Captain in Her Majesty’s finest 16th The Queen’s Lancers, Bombay India 1872-1876, residence: unknown, clubs: East India Club, Batchelors’

She sighed, closing the book again. Not only was he not the eldest son of an Earl, which would be a tremendous catch, he wasn’t even the third or fourth son of an Earl. He was a fifth son of an Earl, and illegitimate, technically. That was a dead end if she’d ever seen one.

He was terribly, terribly handsome though. Hermione sighed again, thinking back. He was very tall, she remembered, probably taller than Ron. He’d been well dressed, if not particularly fashion forward. It was his eyes, though, than Hermione remembered most clearly. Large and dark blue, heavily fringed in dark lashes.

“Well, aren’t you the bold sort?” he had laughed at her.

Yes, Hermione thought, I suppose I am.

“You’re fucked,” said Theo eloquently with half of a sandwich in his mouth. “It’s funny, just night before last, you were offering to marry me and here you are, throwing me over for some new bit of fancy.”

Draco crumbled the last bits of his own sandwich between his fingers, “It isn’t funny. You know it isn’t funny.”

The men were sat in the drawing room having an early supper of sandwiches, raw fruits and vegetables, and a healthy stack of tea cakes. They perched across from each other on sky blue silk covered sofas with their repast between them on the coffee table.

Theo dropped the stalk of rhubarb he was about to dip in honey onto his plate. “Christ, Draco, I know it’s not. But for your continued survival and mine, you’ve got to marry. You know as well as I do that the only way we stay together like we have is for you to pick the right one and move on it.”

“Of course there are ladies of our acquaintance that would do fine, but I’ll be damned if I can think of any of them,” Draco sighed, loosening his tie. He was too warm for this. He felt his breath starting to come quickly. “I don’t– Theo, I don’t know if I can do it. There’s not a single woman I know that I’ve ever felt– you know how I feel about you, Theo. I’ve never felt that– I don’t know what it is. I’m just made this way, and the idea of it simply terrifies me.”

“Draco,” Theo said firmly. “I promise you that you will be fine. It will all be fine.”

Draco finally pulled his tie loose and hurriedly unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. “You don’t know that.”

Leaving his seat across from his love, Theo knelt down on the plush rug. He took Draco’s warm, sweating hands. “I do know that. There’s nothing that we have not taken on and done together, sweetness. Nothing. How many years have we been together?”

“Erm, ten? Twelve? You’re the one that’s good with dates.”

“Eleven and change,” Theo pressed kisses to both of Draco’s hands. “And we have made it through everything. Everything. If the Foreign Secretary can be like us and still married to a swell girl like Hannah de Rothschild, we can figure it out.”

“Rosebery? The Earl of Rosebery? How do you know this and I don’t?” boggled Draco.

Theo kissed Draco’s hands again. “My darling boy, I know everything. It’s what a poor upstart has to do.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Theo looked up earnestly, his eyes impossibly large and round, fringed with fine, delicate dark lashes. “I fully intend for you never to figure that out.”

“You’ll help me find a Countess Rosebery, won’t you?” Draco murmured, tipping his head to rest on the back of the sofa and closing his eyes. The clock ticked. The traffic outside rumbled along. A church bell pealed in the distance.

For a brief, traitorous moment, Captain Nott entertained the image of Hermione Granger’s dark eyes. Putting his own brief attraction to the woman aside, he began to think of Draco. She had said that she was looking for a husband. She’d said it in such plain terms that Theo had almost choked on his drink.

“Well, aren’t you the bold sort?” he’d said, and she very much was.

“How about a bluestocking?” offered Theo. Draco opened his eyes just a hair and pinched his expressive brow. Theo clarified, “I made the acquaintance of a rather forward young lady at Professor Binns’s. Newly ennobled father, the lady wishes to become a physician, but this is clearly in contrast with the parents’ view. She’s not young, but she certainly isn’t on the shelf.”

“She’s rather forward?” asked Draco, interest turning to a frown. “I thought the goal was someone sweet, docile– like a cow– like Hannah de Rothschild.”

Theo tipped his head to one side and thought. “Well, she’s not docile, but she is an heiress and she is in a similar state to the one we find ourselves in.”

“What would I do with a lady doctor wife?” Draco questioned. “I suppose she could keep quite busy.”

Theo began stroking Draco’s hair again, carding his fingers through the fine gold locks. Thank god he kept it longer than fashionable; it was like a drug to Theo. Draco hummed his pleasure.

“If you’d go next month to Professor Binns’, I could make an introduction.”

Draco groaned. “I can’t imagine anything more dull than one of Binns’ get togethers. Do you want me to be so bored I get horrible wrinkles?”

“You’re already getting wrinkles,” Theo jabbed.

“Oh,” Draco gasped, “and just yesterday we were in the prime of our lives.”

“I’m allowed to be contrary, and I love that little pinch between your eyes,” Theo assured him, punctuating with a kiss to Draco’s temple.

Draco sighed. “I’m going to love you until I’m dust.”

“I’m going to love you until we’re just the memory of dust,” Theo replied.

Chapter Text

It was with a new purpose that Hermione walked through the large double doors at Buckingham Palace at just before nine in the evening on the twenty ninth of April. She had loved every Queen Charlotte Ball she’d ever attended, which was this far five of them. She loved the beginning of things- something about the newness of the season beginning. This year held a sense of promise that she hadn’t felt in some time. 

Eyeing the line of young debutants filed halfway around the room, she was thankful that she didn’t have to come face to face with the queen this year. Instead of standing in the interminable line for an hour, she followed Lady Black, Lord Black, and Mr. Weasley straight into the dining hall for refreshments and general mingling. 

At the punch table, Ron offered to pour her a drink. Hermione’s cheeks flared pink and she stammered a thank you. She had purposefully put Captain Nott from her mind— that is, she was trying to put him out of her mind. Debrett’s had listed him as most unsuitable, and she had to remember that. At least most unsuitable for Hermione’s purposes, and her parents’ approval. Although his large, blue eyes did make an appearance every few hours in her mind. 

“Do you have anyone in mind to be introduced to, darling?” asked Lady Black as they made their way to a small side table. Ginny’s deep green gown set off her dark red hair in a way that Hermione could only dream of. She felt rather acceptable in her new shell pink gown, but did not delude herself that she would ever have any of the wild, fierce beauty that Ginny possessed. 

Hermione cast her eye around the lushly appointed room taking in the attendees. The red and gold wallpaper seemed to sparkle as if it was true gold in the candle light. Hermione shuddered to think of the cost of the candles alone tonight. For sure, she would jump every time wax dripped down and onto her as she danced. Three years ago, such a mighty dollop had ruined the front of a brand new ball gown. 

“Do you think Baron Hawley would do?” Hermione bit her lip. “I have heard that he is much occupied with his cattle breeding in the midlands.”

Ginny sighed, “Too late. He’s rumored to be making an engagement to Lila Leslie. He does have a cousin, though, Lord Raby? A widower.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose at her friend, following the redhead’s gaze to beside Baron Hawley. “No offense to those of the ginger predisposition, but I don’t think anyone is supposed to look so… anemic?”

Ginny tapped Hermione on the arm with her closed fan, “Beggers and choosers, darling.”

“Righ, Lord Raby is on the list,” Hermione shrugged, and cast her eye around again. “How about Arthur Leslie? Lila Leslie’s brother? Is he attached? Arthur is the eldest, right?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll find out,” Ginny promised. “You could always marry Ronald if Lavender Brown would get out of the way.”

“We could have a spite engagement. I could keep him around long enough to get into Cambridge and then politely break it off when Miss Brown came around,” Hermione offered. “I worry that I would take too long, though, and he would lose her entirely.”

“You’re a good friend,” said Ginny. “I don’t know that I’d be so altruistic.”

Hermione shrugged again. “I would like to meet the most recalcitrant bachelor in London and woo him. Who do you think is the most? Timothy Cutter? He’s sixty, but no matter. Maybe Lord Lyon-Hatter? I know– I should try to attach to Cecil Rhodes of the DeBeers Mining Company. I do love a good diamond. I wouldn’t mind him being in South Africa all of the time even. I could even marry him, I bet, and he wouldn’t care.”

“That would be the Viscount St. Armand, Draco Malfoy,” Ginny interrupted Hermione’s long ramble. “Harry was at Eton with him, although they were not close. I think they rather disliked one another actually. My father and his father are long time enemies, but my father is such a hot head. He seems alright to me, if rather stand-offish. You haven’t heard it from me, but he’s a bachelor. As in, a bachelor.” 

Hermione huffed a chuckle. “Sounds just about perfect. I’m not squeamish. A stand-offish bachelor is someone with whom I could hold my own rather happily. Who knows, perhaps we could even live quite happily for quite some time.” 

Ginny looked to her right and left quickly scanning the perimeter. Seeing no one nearby, she leaned close to Hermione and guarded her lips with her fan. “Don’t you think there’s something… a little delicious about that idea?”

Hermione fell silent and cocked her head at Ginny. “Something delicious about living with a bachelor? Well, I suppose? Like he’s untarnished?”

Ginny’s hair bounced against her neck as she shook her head violently, a mad glean in her eyes, “What bachelors do with other bachelors.”

Again, Hermione was silent. 

Ginny continued, wicked grin spreading, “I know, I know, you’re not married, but you’re not stupid, Mione. Have you never, not once, thought of men doing together what men and women do?”

It was Hermione’s turn to pop open her fan, this time to hide her slack jaw. “When, exactly, would I have made time to think about this?”

Ginny fixed her with a challenging look, “Around the time that you were thinking about the scenes you’d read in Venus in Furs, probably quite late at night in your bedroom alone.”

“You were the one who gave it to me!” Hermione half-shouted, and Ginny reached out and stomped on her foot, rather unladylike, but no one really thought of Ginny as a lady anyhow. “Alright, fine, perhaps the thought of a few male acquaintances kissing has crossed my mind, but the thought never translated into a marriage situation.”

Ginny started giggling, and hid her face with her fan again. “You should spend more time thinking of it. It’s really quite… stimulating.”

“You’re the worst, Ginny. I don’t know why we’re even friends, or why I’m friends with such a slut,” Hermione replied, rolling her eyes.

“How else do you think I convinced Harry to marry me?” Ginny laughed. “You should try it; it’s awfully rewarding.” 

The two women dissolved into giggles- partially from exactly how true it was, and partially from the bottle of champagne they’d split in the carriage on the way over. Why was it that the best nights always had champagne? Hermione took it as an omen.

“What’s so funny, girls?” Harry said at Hermione’s shoulder, and she jumped back, nearly sloshing his punch.

Hermione glared, “You really should be more careful where you hold your drink, Harry. You almost had a cleaning bill.”

“Mione is looking for the most reluctant bachelor in London. I told her to have you introduce her to Lord St. Armand.” 

Harry pulled a face. “Anyone but him.”

“What’s so bad about him?” Hermione asked, interest immediately piqued. The Viscount St. Armand must be a very interesting sort to command such a reaction from her friend. Harry was frequently put out by people, and usually for the most ridiculous reasons, so Hermione was intrigued. 

“Other than his little, ferrety face, and his stupid father thinking he can buy and sell all of us? Nothing. Oh, and he was very rude to Ron when we all began at Eton and never apologized. Or making my life hell during fencing. I don’t know how he’s still received,” Harry scowled. 

Ron, who had joined the group during Harry’s diatribe, laughed, “Oh, on again about St. Armand, are we? Always thought you had a wee bit of a crush on the fellow.”

Harry shot daggers at his best friend, and if they hadn’t been steps from the Queen herself, Hermione thought that Harry might have decked him. She glanced at Ginny, relieved to see her in stitches at the exchange.

“You must admit,” Ginny sputtered through her laughter, “that if Mione wants the most bachelor of bachelors, the Viscount St. Armand is it.”

Ron clapped Harry on the back, “Cheer up, mate, it’s not as if we could even get him to look away from Theo Nott for half a heartbeat anyway.”

“Captain Nott?” Hermione burst out, this time trailing a tiny spray of punch droplets on the side of her skirt, “You mean Theodore Nott?”

“Oh, right,” nodded Ron. “You met him the other night at Professor Binns’. He’s cheerful enough, but St. Armand is another story.”

“Rather easy on the eyes, don’t you think?Just what we were talking about earlier,” Ginny elbowed her meaningfully, “You know, bachelor."

Hermione resisted the urge to whack Ginny with her fan, but only barely. 

“It’s beyond me how anyone could find St Armand appealing, he’s just so– so– so blond, really, like a milky little–”

Ron, much taller than Harry (but not taller than Captain Nott, Hermione reminded herself), looked down at his friend with what could only be described as a malicious smile, and cut off his rant, “I rather think we should say our hellos to our old school friends, the Viscount and the Captain, don’t you?” 

“You shan't compel me,” Harry staunchly refused, one single second away from crossing his arms and pouting. 

Ron nodded to his friend and sister, “Don’t look now, but they’ve made their appearance. I’ll greet them at the punch table, so get your dance cards ready, girls.”

Hermione made to whirl around, but Ginny caught her wrist before she could. “Don’t stare! They’ll know we’re talking about them.”

With his hand in a talon-like grasp on Harry’s shoulder, Ron congenially, bordering on gleefully, dictated to Harry as he led him away, “Come on now, Nott is a good chap.”

“Well, come on if you want to meet him,” Ginny snickered. “Looks like you’ll get your opportunity.”

The Viscount St. Armand was in a terrible mood. 

Not only had he just been given the marriage ultimatum, but his butler had not stocked any more of his favorite gin and he had been forced into drinking his second favorite. 

As a connoisseur of fine gin, these two things were in almost equal measure. 

No, Boodles was NOT equal to Tanqueray. The fucking horror.

To add insult to injury, Lady Pansy Parkinson had used Theo and Draco as her escape from a particularly amorous suitor the moment they walked into the ballroom at Buckingham. It wasn’t as if Draco didn’t want Pansy’s company; they were friends, and probably, if Draco would admit it, Pansy was his best friend. Certainly the oldest: they’d known each other since they were in the nursery and she had once urinated in the fountain at Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire. She was three to Draco’s six, but he’d never forgotten or forgiven her.

“I didn’t ask for your input, Pans,” Draco grumbled, politely allowing her to take his arm. “I think we’ve quite got this under control.”

Pansy and Theo exchanged a glance. She continued more carefully, “I think Lady Hermione, if what I know of her from our brief exchanges and what others say of her is to be believed, is simply too clever to lie to.”

“But she does have reason to stay quiet, even if she does know,” Theo reminded, taking up Pansy’s other arm. 

“Do you really think Prince Lucifer would truly be accepting of an upstart?” Pansy asked Theo, sotto voce, her large, dark eyes shaded with concern. 

Theo shrugged, “He said anyone of rank, didn’t he, Draco?”

“And the Granger girl is in your sites. Ambitious,” Pansy nodded, patting Draco’s arm. “I think I like it. It couldn’t hurt to have a clever wife in this situation.”

“Clever is what I’m afraid of,” muttered Draco, growing tired of the conversation only moments into it. 

Pansy chuckled, “Well, we can’t all find the two of you in the greenhouse one summer night en flagrante delicto, now can we?” 

“Hush,” Draco hissed. 

Pansy rolled her eyes. “No one can hear me over the music.”

“Look fast,” Theo chuckled from Pansy’s other side. “You’re about to judge the lady’s cleverness for yourself.”

Pansy dropped Draco’s arm, and reached up to pat her glossy, dark hair, as if a strand would dare to be out of order, “Man the gates! Enemy incoming!”

“St. Armand,” Weasley greeted them before his band of stragglers caught up, “Captain Nott.”

“Good to see you,” Theo replied, shaking Weasley’s hand. “I wondered how many of the old bunch would be out tonight. I didn’t get the chance to speak to you at Professor Binns’ and I’ve kicked myself for three days about it.”

Theo’s gaze met Hermione’s briefly before she glanced down and away. Theo noticed the same flush creeping down her chest as he’d seen just a few nights before and chastised himself for flirting with her in the first place when Draco should have been the intended target: both of the flirting from him, and the returned flirting from her. 

“Ronald,” Draco drawled as Harry and his wife joined their group, “Harold.”

To Draco’s great amusement, Potter seemed close to a stroke.

Ginny gently stabbed her husband between the shoulderblades with her fan, and Harry choked out a greeting: “St. Armand, Captain Nott.”

Theo again extended his hand, “Good to see you, Captain Potter. Or should I call you Black now? Honored to see you again. Can I re-introduce you to Lady Pansy Parkinson?”

Pansy bobbed a curtsy to them, and Weasley and Black moved to flank either side of their female companions. 

“Black is acceptable,” Harry grumbled. “A pleasure to see you again, Lady Pansy.”

“It’s lovely to see you again. I very much enjoyed your part in Lady McGonogall’s music recital last week. Who knew that there was life in Mozart still?” Ginny complimented, and Pansy accepted the compliment gracefully. 

“You remember Lady Hermione Granger?” Ronald asked Theo, turning his attention away from the now chattering women. “And my sister, Lady Black?”

Hermione thought that the shorter blond man that had not spoken was surely the Viscount St. Armand. And if he was that Draco, Draco Malfoy, the Viscount St. Armand, he would be the Draco that Captain Nott had mentioned. Draco wasn’t a common name at all, so it could be. It would make sense, she reasoned, that Captain Nott had brought up Draco if they were what Ginny said they were. 

Bachelors. 

Hermione nearly missed her own introduction, so busy she was with her own mental mathematical gymnastics. She dipped her own curtsy and took Captain Nott’s hand first, and the warmth of their hands could be felt between the thin layer of her gloves. Looking up at Captain Nott, she felt him linger just a second longer than perfectly acceptable. Yes, the tremor his blue eyes gave her was still the same. Drat. 

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance again,” Hermione murmured. Theo smiled, his full lips parting to show some of the straightest teeth she’d ever seen. They were so perfect, she felt self conscious of her own slight overbite for a moment. 

“Lord St. Armand, may I introduce you to Lady Hermione Granger? She was delightful company a few nights ago at Professor Binns’ salon,” Theo said to Draco. “The two of you have a considerable amount in common with your shared interest in medicinal herbs and plants.”

St. Armand’s hand was more narrow than Captain Nott’s, but just as firm when he took hers. It was a comfortable touch and lacked the pressure or awkwardness that other men had. Hermione found herself strangely pleased by his touch. 

Draco spoke for the first time, and Hermione was immediately soothed by his voice- low both in pitch and volume, with a pleasant west country accent just peaking in around the edges. 

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Hermione. Captain Nott did mention your interest to me after the salon,” he said, almost smiling. “I do keep an extensive hot house with various medicinal plants.”

“You keep your own? I’m terribly interested in the use of feverfew in the treatment of malaria,” Hermione replied, her dark eyes going wide. “Feverfew, and calendula, which has so many interesting applications.” 

“I’ve had such a problem with my calendula and altenaria leaf spot,” Draco shook his head. “The feverfew is as hearty as it comes, though. I’m in Berkeley Square, should you ever be in the neighborhood.”

Theo cut in, “Perhaps you could continue the discussion on the dance floor? I intend on asking to put my name down for a polka myself. Lady Hermione?”

Hermione smiled at Draco before lifting her wrist and it’s dangling dance card to Theo. Gently, he tugged the card closer and wrote in his name on a polka before handing the pencil over to Draco, who stepped closer to write in his name on a waltz. 

Theo looked down after Draco finished, and saw that he had taken the dance directly after his own. 

“We will find you, Lady Hermione,” assured Draco. “Best not to try to run, no matter what Black says about us.”

“Harry’s an idiot,” Hermione asserted boldly, glancing at him to her left. Harry rolled his eyes. “A lovable idiot, but an idiot none the less.”

Draco quirked an edge of his mouth, and said as they turned to walk away, “See that he doesn’t poison your mind too fully.”

As they walked away, leaving Lady Pansy in rapt conversation with Lady Black, Theo surreptitiously put his hand on the back of Draco’s neck, feeling the soft golden hair at his nape. Theo loved navigating through a crowd with Draco because it was the only time he could touch his love in public without impropriety. 

Hermione, not listening to Harry or Ron, didn’t miss it. Theo’s eyes met hers, and for a brief moment, Hermione thought that she saw… something. It was inscrutable, and left her baffled. 

“Out, now,” Draco hissed in the direction of Theo’s ear, and Theo followed him through the crowd and out a side door into the back corridor. “Awful, just horrible, how in the name of all that is holy am I going to be able to marry someone? I don’t even like anyone. I like you.”

Theo leaned against the wall, looking rather louche. “This is going to sound rather controversial, but I think that went well.”

“In what world did that go well?” Draco whined. “I said two sentences to the lady.”

“Four,” corrected Theo, examining his fingernails and squinting. 

“What?”

“You spoke four sentences. One to acquaint yourselves, twice to complain about a plant, and one to say that Black was a moron.”

“Alright, I said four,” Draco glared. “I tried to be charming, but I felt like an idiot.”

“You were very charming, to the right lady,” Theo reassured him. “And the right lady was Lady Hermione. I think the two of you would be delightful friends. Wouldn’t that be nice? Having friends that aren’t just me and the Bad Lads?”

“The Bad Lads already know all about us,” Draco retorted. “But I can’t marry Zabini or Pucey.”

“I’d scratch their eyes out if they tried,” Theo murmured, just one shade above indecent. “You’re mine.”

Draco rolled his eyes, “I know you would, you heathen.”

Theo looked left and right, and seeing no one, pulled Draco close in a bruising kiss. “No one– not Zabini or Pucey or Lady Fucking Hermione– is getting between us. No one. Understand? You’ve got to marry someone in order for us to stay together, that much is absolutely known. Doesn’t mean you have to love them, or that anything at all will change for us.”

Overwhelmed at their proximity in a very public place, Draco nodded his head sharply. “Do you think Lady Hermione would prefer sapphires or rubies for her engagement ring?”

Theo laughed, a loud, barking laugh, and replied, “I really think she’s more of a diamond kind of girl.”

Lord St. Armand was attractive, Hermione decided. 

Very attractive. 

He was very dissimilar from Captain Nott, the man that until this evening she viewed instantly as the most attractive of her acquaintance. They were so utterly opposite that now she could not choose. Dark and light, broad and angular, open and guarded, lithe and muscled. 

She truly could not decide which she found more attractive: the elegant St Armand, or the more overtly masculine Captain Nott. 

And, as a bonus, she couldn’t forget what Ginny had said about them. She felt her chest flush every time she remembered, which seemed to be often. 

Her first dance was with Ron, followed by a few of the gentlemen that Ginny had suggested: Lord Raby, Arthur Leslie, and Timothy Cutter. All completely reasonable options, aside from Arthur Leslie who seemed far too interested in staring down at her décolletage. 

She danced once with Captain Nott, who was just as charming as before, his bare fingers resting on the exposed skin of her back as he led her around the floor. She danced also with St Armand, who was the better and more graceful dancer. He asked after her parents, after her interests, and with their four minutes together, they talked animatedly about whitefly larvae killing his geraniums. 

“I’ve gathered intelligence,” Ginny whispered to Hermione at the interval. “Lady Pansy also agrees that you and St. Armand are singularly well suited.”

Hermione looked back at her, a little agog, “I don’t even know Lady Pansy.”

“But I know you, and she knows him,” Ginny reasoned. “He’s friends with the Prince of Wales. He’s went to university. He’s the only child of the Marquess of Winchester and thus stands to inherit all of that, and probably more. His mother was an heiress— she’s actually Harry’s godfather’s first cousin.”

“And that makes her related to Harry how?”

“Oh, not at all,” Ginny smiled. “But, St Armand’s mother was a Black, and Harry’s godfather was a Black as well, and they were the cousins.”

“And Harry became Lord Black, and not St Armand?” questioned Hermione. 

Ginny shrugged, “Technically, St Armand is the heir of the house of Black and he has one of those little titles– Baron Black is one of his titles. Harry is Lord Black, but it’s different.”

“Either way, Lady Pansy and you both think that it’s a good match?”

Ginny nodded enthusiastically. “She’s known St Armand since they were in leading strings. Good friends their whole lives. She says he’s an absolute nerd.”

Consideringly, but with much curiosity, Hermione stated, “It seems you both might be right. He spends much time in London, yes? And his seat is in Wiltshire?”

“His father stays in Wiltshire, but keeps a house here. St. Armand keeps his own townhouse in Mayfair,” Ginny replied. “Captain Nott has been his permanent guest since ‘76.”

“Ten years?” Hermione mused. “What makes either of you think he’s interested in changing the state of things after that long?”

Ginny gave a Gallic little shug, “Rumor mill says that the Marquess is growing impatient.”

“Tell Lady Pansy to tell St Armand that I like diamonds,” Hermione retorted mildly, looking across the dance floor spying the Viscount and the Captain slipping back in amongst the fray. They were too far away for Hermione to see clearly, but they were unmistakable– tall and taller, with the Viscount’s shock of platinum blond hair acting as a beacon. 

She really must ask him what treatments he used on it to cause it to shine like that. 

Ginny hadn’t stopped chattering, but Hermione cut in, “I’ll be back. No, no need to accompany me.”

“Wait, Hermione–” she said, but it was swallowed by the sounds of the ballroom around them. Using the Viscount’s hair, shining in the candlelight, as a guide, she made her way across the cavernous room. She caught up with them at the far edge of the dance floor, and planted herself in their way rather elegantly. At least, in her sort of intoxicated state, she thought it was.

“Lady Hermione,” Draco greeted her, looking to Theo.

“I thought it was more customary for the man to seek out the lady when it was time for their dance,” Theo smirked.

Hermione let out a little huff, “Of course it is. I was on my way to the cloak room.”

“Yes, the Buckingham Palace cloak room, splendid destination,” Theo teased back. “We have an explorer on our hands, Draco.”

“You’re both welcome to accompany me, of course,” Hermione replied, with a solid measure of saccharine sweetness. “Who knows what perils may befall me between here and there?”

“You’re rather funny, aren’t you?” Draco asked, offering one arm to her. She took it, and sidling alongside him was rather pleasant. He smelled far better than her other dance partners for the evening, like a blend of bergamot and… was that lime?

She shrugged. “Are you joining us on the trek, Captain?”

Hermione was grateful for Draco’s arm. Theo’s smile buckled her knee and her breath came just a little faster.

“I’ve promised Daphne Greengrass this dance,” he demurred with a bow. “Be safe.”

He turned, and at the last minute glanced back at her, his eyes dark with interest. Hermione froze.

“He does cause that reaction, doesn’t he?” Draco asked mildly. 

Her laugh was lost in the noise of the orchestra as they went past, into the cooler reception room. “Captain Nott is very charming. Of course, you are as well, my lord.”

“I’m pleased we agree, Lady Hermione,” Draco replied, placing his free hand over her’s. “Tell me, who is the chief matchmaker from your court?”

“Lady Black, clearly. She’s made overtures to Lady Pansy already, and they’ve nearly planned our wedding already,” she replied neutrally. “I suppose I aught to ask you if you prefer roses or lilies.”

They reached the cloak room, and Hermione asked for her reticule. 

“As long as you prefer Tanqueray to Boodles gin, I don’t really care what bloody bouquet you have,” answered Draco. 

She grinned, and dropped his arm, opening the bag for him to look in at the flask. “I wouldn’t be caught dead drinking Boodles.”

Draco eyed it appreciatively as she handed it to him. “I take it you’re moving on from champagne?”

“I’m never tired of champagne, but the palace always–”

“--has terrible liquor,” Draco finished for her. “Well met, Lady Hermione.”

It had to be all the champagne, because Hermione’s insides felt like they were made exclusively out of bubbles. She looked up at him, “Take it. You can get it back to me when we have our next dance.”

“I have the next promised to Lady Black,” Draco looked around and unscrewed the cap. “Mostly to piss off Potter.”

He passed the flask off to Hermione after taking a deep swig. 

“Good luck,” Hermione encouraged, handing it back. “She’s going to pepper you with more questions than you’ll even know how to handle.”

“Thank you for the fortification,” he smirked, genuinely, and offered her his arm again. 

She needed his arm for support as much after his smile as for Theo’s. 

She was screwed. 

The ball ended at the usual time, that is to say, just at dawn. The sky was striping mauve-grey, shot with coral and pink, as Draco and Theo stumbled out into the street as part of a steady stream of other guests. 

“I’m getting old,” muttered Draco as they began the trek back to Mayfair. There was no hope of getting a cab as the attendees streamed out, and besides it was only a twenty minute walk back to the townhouse in Mayfair. 

Theo brushed his hand against Draco’s as they walked. The old rhythm between them. Theo had calculated once that it would never be noticed if they brushed fingers once per city block. They’d tested this hypothesis many times, and had settled into the habit. It had to have been nearly a decade ago, and felt as worn into their souls as reaching across the bed for the other in the night. 

“You’re not old,” Theo rejoined, but felt the pain in his feet as well. “Not that old.”

The back of their hands touched, and Theo looked down on Draco’s face. 

Theo spoke again, “How do you think that went? Lady Hermione is delightful, if I might say.”

Draco was silent. Another block passed, and they brushed fingers again at the corner. The paperboys were starting their rounds, and all the lamps had been extinguished. 

“Do you think it went well?” Draco finally asked Theo. “I can’t say.”

Theo considered. “She was a charming dance partner, and conversationalist, if a bit impertinent and… well educated. You spoke with her, I’m sure you came to the same opinion? And you’ve danced with her three times, which is tantamount to a proposal.”

“Was it three?” Draco mused. “Must have been, it’s been a long night.”

“I think- two waltzes and a polka. Or was that two polkas and a waltz?”

“Two waltzes,” Draco replied quickly, “and a galop that I did very poorly. That’s right.”

“You should have taken the polka,” Theo suggested, “or at the very least, a mazurka.”

They crossed another street, and this time it was Draco who reached out for Theo’s hand. 

“You did well,” assured Theo. He took a chance and touched his pinkie finger to Draco’s, ever so briefly. 

“The Marquess will think so, at least begrudgingly.”

“That’s the important part, isn’t it?”

The mood shifted as they neared Berkeley Square. They walked in silence for the remaining distance, each man in their own head attempting to make sense of their current reality.

Jones, their footman cum butler, opened the door at their arrival and the two ascended the two flights of stairs to their bedroom. 

“Shall we move the bedroom, darling?” Draco murmured as Goyle entered the room and began undressing the men. “After nights like tonight, I should really rather our bedroom be on the ground floor.”

The pregnant pause between them was palpable. The room was colder, suddenly, although there was a fire in the grate. There was already another person between them- the ghost of the would be Vicountess St Armand. The only thought on their minds was where would this woman sleep? And would it be Hermione Granger? How long could it really be their room?

It was Theo who broke the silence, his upbeat veneer cracking. 

“It was a good time, tonight, wasn’t it? Got to spend time with the bad lads, got to harass Black a bit. Even the parts with Lady Hermione weren’t bad,” Theo mused. “I truly think she will suit.”

Draco silently allowed Goyle to take their laundry and shoes from the room before launching himself at Theo. When he knocked him back onto the bed, Theo was taken aback by his love’s sudden ferocity. 

“I need you,” Draco choked, and this time their tangle of limbs on the mattress didn’t spell out sex. “I’m sorry, Theo, I just don’t know if I can do it.” 

With Draco’s face pressed into his neck, Theo gripped him tighter, and felt the smaller man’s back shake. “You’re just tired, my love, aren’t you? It was a long night, and a lot going on. A lot of moving pieces. A lot of change.”

“I need you,” Draco whispered this time, his fingers scrambling for purchase on Theo’s back. “I want to live my life here, with you.”

“And you will,” promised Theo. “You will.” 

Theo couldn’t remember the last time Draco had cried. He’d personally cried plenty- going so far as to tear up at the opera when it was a Verdi (always), at the first flowers in the spring (just a month ago), and when he was just so very tired and hungover (last week). But Draco wasn’t so ocularly gifted. 

“We’ll make it work together,” Theo soothed. “We always do. We always have.”

Theo had contradicted Draco earlier, but this morning, he felt every moment of his thirty six years. 

Hermione’s feet were killing her, and her buzz had started wearing off. This was not to be borne. On their way out of the ball room, she snagged a last flute of champagne and downed it as they left Buckingham Palace. 

“A little early in the morning for champers, isn’t it?” Ginny quirked a brow as Hermione shoved the empty flute behind a statue of St. George. 

“Alcohol is a known analgesic,” replied Hermione, who turned to Ron and Harry. “Don’t they give brandy to soldiers who are injured?”

“No, Hermione,” Harry corrected, “that’s cocaine.”

“Or whiskey,” chirped Ron cheerfully. “That’s what I got when I was injured.”

“Well, I don’t have either of those,” she replied, “and my shoes got their first hole in them before one in the morning. The blisters are going to plague me for days.”

Ginny pulled her wrap tighter around her shoulders as they followed the stream of people out into the forecourt of the palace. “I’m going to wear a pair of sturdier shoes next ball. I can’t keep wearing out slippers like this.”

“You’re not looking for a husband, though,” Ron pointed out thoughtfully. “Mione is.”

“Arthur Leslie seemed more than a little interested in you,” Ginny mentioned. “I think he still doesn’t know what your face looks like.”

Hermione couldn’t help herself, “Lord St Armand was, in actuality, a delightful man, Harry. I don’t know how you could dislike him.”

The four waited to the side of the forecourt waiting for Harry’s carriage to come up the queue, and the sky was beginning to turn pink above them. The chill of the evening was not abating, and Hermione shivered. 

Harry scowled. “He’s no better than he was when he was twelve.”

Ron laughed, “You’re going to have to get over that, mate.”

“And why should I?” pouted Harry. 

“Mione liked him,” explained Ron, taking off his evening jacket and wrapping it around Hermione’s goosebump covered shoulders. “She liked him, and they seemed to get on, and for her purposes, he’s the perfect husband.”

Harry wrinkled his nose, “On account of his thing with Nott.”

Ginny chided, “That thing with Nott has been going on for longer than you’ve even known me.”

Their carriage was next in the line, and the four readied themselves to get in and finally sit down. One of Harry’s footmen opened the door for them, and Hermione gratefully took the offered hand to help her inside. She sunk back against the plush upholstery and let her eyes fall shut for a moment as she listened to Ginny berate her husband. 

“Come on, Ginevra,” Harry scoffed, his knees hitting Hermione’s across the carriage as they pulled out. “It’s not the same, and you know it. Ron, back me up.”

Ron, the picture of neutrality, held up both hands. “I always thought St Armand was an alright bloke even if he was a little weird and quiet, and even you like Nott. If you don’t like that two fellows are together the way you and my sister are together, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s not like the opinion of the great Lord Black is going to stop them. I personally think that St Armand is the perfect pick for Mione’s husband.”

“No worries about her plans being derailed,” Ginny pointed out, nudging her husband, who was looking out the window with a stormy expression. “St Armand is busy with his own life, which doesn’t really have to include a wife. He’s not in politics or anything.”

Harry did have to concede this point, and looked back across at Hermione. “Couldn’t you have picked anyone that wasn’t St Armand?”

Hermione snuggled into the warm embrace of Ron’s evening jacket and yawned. “Find me another bachelor who needs a wife the same way I need a husband and we’ll talk.”

“Fat chance that’ll happen,” chuckled Ron. “We might as well pay the Viscount and the Captain a call and get all on the same page?”

Harry shot up straight, “Same page? I don’t want Hermione to even be in the same library as St Armand.”

“Hush, Harry, or you’ll have a heart attack,” Ginny stared her husband down. “That or you’ll give me one.”

“I don’t even get to be part of this conversation?” Hermione asked, whacking Ron’s knee next to her with her own. “I’m just to be sold off?”

“Oops, sorry, bump in the road,” Ron whacked her back. “And no, you don’t. If you’re going to break with etiquette generally, you might as well attempt to start things above board, and that means that negotiations will happen behind closed doors, with glasses of brandy, like civilized men do things.”

Ginny leaned over conspiratorially, “We’ll go out this evening. I can press Lady Pansy into hosting us, I believe. She’s as invested as we.”

“Oh no, not Lady Pansy too,” Harry moaned. “Nothing worse than an old maid– ouch!-- not like you, Hermione. Like a real spinster.”

Hermione rolled her eyes watching Harry rub at his arm where Ginny had viciously pinched her husband, “Not for long anyway.”

Chapter Text

The Viscount and the Captain slept straight through until two in the afternoon and woke up parched and hot. The day was at its peak and unseasonably warm. 

They picked up their conversation almost as if they had never fallen asleep. 

“The father is, of course, the very last step,” Draco muttered, rifling through the post left by Goyle. “He’s a bit much for me.”

“We won’t have to contend with him anyhow,” Theo reminded him. “He keeps to his set, and he’s respectable enough if common. Besides, Lady Hermione will remove herself to Cambridge shortly anyhow and there won’t be any dinners with the in-laws.”

Draco frowned, and poured cups of tea for them both. “She will need lodging, and a companion. I wonder if we might prevail upon Pansy to accompany her.”

Theo laughed, sputtering. “Awful fat chance of that, my dearest love. Pansy will no more likely leave the city than dress in black the rest of her days.”

“Look at this,” Draco changed the subject, and handed Theo the letter he’d just opened. 

“From Weasley?” Theo scanned the note, and read aloud: “My dear Lord St Armand, in acknowledgement of the facts of our meeting last night at the Queen Charlotte Ball, Black and I would invite you and Captain Nott to call on us at Black House this evening. Please kindly send word with your man if you intend on attending. Black will behave himself if you will, and Lady Black and Lady Hermione will be dining with friends until late. Your servant, etc etc, Ronald Weasley.”

“Ugh,” whined Draco. “I suppose we will have to, won’t we?”

Theo dropped the card down onto the bed next to Draco and said with a seemingly bubbly detachment, “I’m more and more convinced that Hermione Granger is the best candidate for your wife.”

“Don’t call her wife,” grumbled Draco. “She can be my consort, or something. Wife is too… it’s not right.”

“I wonder how that will go over with her,” snorted Theo. “Lady Hermione, I don’t like you enough to ask you to be my wife– consort is all I have to offer. How do you feel about concubine? That’s also on the table.”

“If anyone is a concubine, it’s you,” reminded Draco. “Imagine what it would be like if I could marry you, if two blokes could marry one another instead.”

Theo scratched out a reply on a piece of Draco’s stationary and called for Goyle. After the valet had taken the note, he replied to Draco, “What about two ladies? Shouldn’t they be allowed to marry as well?”

“What do I care?” shrugged Draco. “I’m not a lady.”

“I told Weasley to expect us at eight,” Theo changed the subject.

“Little rat,” Draco muttered. “Why did you have to pick one of Potter’s friends?”

“To keep you on your lovely little toes, my dearest, dearest love.”

Draco slumped back in the pillows, the perfect picture of petulance. A huff escaped his lips and he tucked his chin to his chest. “You’re going to have to make it up to me.”

Theo raised a dark brow, and smiled. “In the usual way?”

Draco rolled his dove grey eyes, a perfect match for his waistcoat. “The usual way?”

Putting his knee down on the edge of the bed and making the mattress dip, Theo whispered in Draco’s ear: “Want to come down my throat?”

Draco swallowed heavily, Black forgotten, and nodded. His throat felt heavy and his tongue thick with anticipation. 

Theo nodded back, “And if you’re very good, I’ll even mark you up, so that we go to Black’s with it all there, under your clothes.”

Instead of answering, Draco tossed his head back against the pillow and, with shaking hands, inched the sheets lower on his hips. 

Theo spied the perfect patch of warm, smooth alabaster skin to suck a mark into, right on the ridge of Draco’s hip. He hovered over his love, and felt Draco’s hard cock against his chest as he put his mouth on that impossibly soft stretch. Theo didn’t keep him waiting— he immediately attacked and closed his mouth tight over the spot and sucked fiercely, using his teeth to scrape and pull the purple to the surface. 

Draco nearly wept with the sensation, and his hip was abruptly released only for his cock to be swallowed down. Then, Draco cried out truly. His fingers spasmed in the sheets. He felt a flush creep up his chest. 

Theo noticed, and loved, the strawberries and cream colors that Draco turned when he was aroused. He flushed vividly down his neck and chest in a way that Theo had never seen on anyone else. It wasn’t as though his experience was insignificant, but he’d rarely had the pleasure of more than one night with each bit of fancy that he and Draco had entertained. 

He thought about their exploits through the years and felt himself stiffen beneath him as he applied the full measure of his mouth and jaw on Draco. The thought of Draco– curious, interested Draco– sitting silently at the foot of the bed as Theo railed a pretty, dark haired actress. They’d sent her home and fucked each other until well past dawn. He thought of the tall, gangly bartender named Ernie from the Criterion that they entertained for a night or two every few months. He’d been the most receptive of partners, and Draco and Theo would take turns with his mouth and ass at the same time, the man gagging and begging for more. Ernie would smile at the end of the night and let himself out the back door. 

None of them ever flushed like Draco. 

He thought of the women he’d had in India, the women at ports of call on the way, and the slutty maid that cleaned the officers quarters. Draco knew about each one, listened with intent at all of the stories. It seemed that with every conquest, they only wanted each other more. 

Theo wondered what it would be like when Draco wedded and bedded Hermione. 

Would she flush?

The images came unbidden into his mind. He imagined the golden expense of her body; Draco’s fingers pressing into the smooth, strong flesh of her back. He thought of her in Draco’s lap, his cock pushing up and disappearing inside of her. He thought of her long, caramel colored hair tumbling down her shoulders, obscuring her breasts, just out of his view. 

His cock ached against the sheets, in a similar manner to the ache of his jaw around Draco. He twisted his hips, not once faltering in his strokes, and roughly fisted his erection. Precome wept from the tip freely and Theo swiped his fingers through it. 

He pulled his mouth off of Draco’s cock with a pop and reached for Draco’s mouth instead, and spread the saltiness across his lips. Draco’s tongue darted out, and licked at Theo’s fingers. 

“Good boy,” Theo rasped, eyes rolling back at the feeling of Draco’s tongue on his fingers.

Theo lowered his mouth back onto Draco’s erection again, and resumed. Feeling how close the blond was to climax, he stroked himself faster, twisting his wrist at the completion of every pass over his engorged head. At the feeling of the first spasms of Draco’s climax, Theo uncontrollably came against the sheets and pushed his mouth down to allow Draco to seat himself fully in his throat and pulse for as long as he wished. 

His eyes watering and throat aching, Theo collapsed to the side and allowed Draco to haul him up the bed to nestle against him. 

“That was perfect,” Draco breathed. “You take me so well.”

“I love you,” Theo whispered, suddenly feeling himself choke up. He pushed his forehead into Draco’s neck and inhaled the scent of him. Clean, for all they’d sweat during the warm morning, and smelling of bergamot. 

Draco smiled, his cheek moving against Theo’s hair. “I love you. Of course I love you. Always, Theo.”

“It’s in the papers,” Lord Granger said, dropping them down on the table beside Hermione’s glass of juice. “Three dances with the Viscount St Armand. Lord, Hermione, it’s the first time you’ve had three dances with anyone but Black or Weasley.”

Hermione picked up the paper, and scanned the article. Hmm, how had the Viscount stayed off her bachelor radar for so long? Ginny did come up with the best ideas. 

“Two waltzes and a galop,” Hermione confirmed with a shrug. “He kept apologizing for his poor dancing, but I didn’t see anything wrong with it. I thought he was quite fine.”

“Do you suppose he will call?” 

Hermione considered, and picked up a scone from the platter in the center of the table. “I’m not sure of anything at all right now, Papa, but I can assume.”

She looked her Papa up and down, thinking of what he would say if he knew the truth of it: that she wanted to marry the Viscount so that she could become a doctor, like him.

In his prime, Lord Granger had been a handsome figure straight out of mythology. Hermione had inherited her father’s mother’s darker Greek skin tone, and they shared the same honey-brown eyes. Coming from a comfortable upper middle class background, George Granger had apprenticed young to a naval doctor and was a full physician by the age of 20. Upon his discharge from the Royal Navy in the 1860s, George had become one of Queen Victoria’s most trusted physicians and was given a peerage just five years before. 

When George was not drunk, as he tended to be more and more since his knighthood, Hermione delighted in listening to the stories he told of medicine on the high seas. Pirates featured strongly, as well as harrowing tales of saving the lives of the men he served with. 

“Would be quite a catch, the Viscount,” her Papa mentioned. Hermione studied the article in front of her with intention.  “Your mama would be pleased.”

“Will Mama be joining us at any time for the season?” Hermione asked, looking up from the paper. “If she shan’t, I’ll visit her in Kent in the summer.”

George gave a non-committal grunt, and speared another sausage. He ate it directly from his fork. Hermione thanked God for the finishing school time she’d had. 

“Do you think he’ll call?” He asked again. 

Hermione relented, “I think he’ll call, Papa.”

Floote, their butler, entered the dining room with a stack of letters on a small, silver tray. He gave two to Sir George, and offered the remaining note to Hermione. The small, white envelope was thin, and upon slitting open the top, Hermione found a single sheet of paper, written on in the most immaculate cursive. 

Lady Hermione,

I’m writing to invite you to dine with Lady Black and I this evening. How delighted I was to realize that you and I were practically neighbors. Please make your way to number twenty two Brook Street (a very long walk from 16, so please do tell me if the inconvenience is too great and I shall send a carriage) at half seven this evening, if you can join. Only send word if you’re unable. 

Yours, etc

P Parkinson

Hermione smiled into her hand, and looked up to see her father staring at her. 

“Lady Pansy,” Hermione explained. “She’s invited me to dinner.”

Sir George screwed up his face a bit, “The spinster?”

“The close friend of Lord St Armand,” Hermione could not help but to point out. “She’s very fashionable.”

Sir George considered this, and did not comment. He speared another sausage. Hermione took her leave, and hurried upstairs to change her dress. She rang for Abbott as soon as she was in her room, and began undressing.

“The tan walking gown, please, Abbott. I’ve got to get to Lady Black’s as quick as I can, and you’ll chaperone me,” Hermione said, not looking up from the reticule she was packing full of her copious notes on the prospect of marriage. 

“Shall I call for the carriage, ma’am?” Abbott asked, leaving the room as soon as she’d come into it. 

Hermione shook her head, “Don’t bother. I’ll be there on foot faster than that. Make sure you put on a hat, Abbott. You’ll burn in this sun, as fair as you are.”

Abbott had Hermione dressed– in a rather handsome tan India silk ensemble with rows of black lace down the front and adorning the overskirt– in no time at all. It wasn’t the first time that Hermione had rung for her and required immediate movement. Abbott would have rather stayed back in Grosvenor Square doing the mountain of mending she had to do, but where the lady instructed, she went. The walk to Audley Street, bordering Hyde Park, took less than twenty minutes, and Abbott struggled to keep up with Lady Hermione. 

Lady Hermione was to be allowed into the Black residence at any time of day or night, on orders of the master and mistress of the home, and she exercised the privilege, sending Abbott around to the back to wait in the servant’s hall. She found the couple in their drawing room, Ginny at the piano playing rather terribly, and Harry reclining comfortably, looking half asleep. 

“You’ve gotten better,” Hermione commented, entering the room and nudging Harry’s feet off the sofa. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to keep your feet off the furniture?”

“It’s my own home, and my own sofa,” Harry grumbled. “I just saw you seven hours ago, Hermione, what could you possibly want?”

“Lady Pansy invited us to dinner so that you menfolk could arrange Hermione’s engagement to St Armand,” Ginny quipped, and messed up a chord. “And I haven’t gotten better, Harry is just half deaf.”

“Exactly,” Hermione replied, and laid her reticule on the side table. She pulled out the stack of papers. “I’ve come with my requirements.”

Harry pulled the pillow from behind his head and covered his face with it. He screamed, muffled into the pillow. 

“Brava, Hermione,” Ginny nodded, leaving the piano abruptly. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Hermione laid the pages out, sorting them, “I was thinking I might make a sort of master list, now that I’ve got all my thoughts together. I couldn’t imagine having all this fuss only to find out that I’d have some ghastly widow’s jointure or have to spend my time at some place out in the Marches or somewhere miserable.”

“Not asking for much, are you?” Harry asked, pulling the pillow down. “It would take Windsor Castle to entice me to marry St Armand.”

“Good thing it isn’t you, then,” Hermione retorted. “I’m not asking much, just simply to be cared for as a widow, and to be able to choose my residence. I’ll host, I’ll accompany, I’ll support, I’ll do damn near anything if he will leave me alone long enough to become a doctor.”

“Separate bedrooms will be no problem with him,” commented Harry. “I don’t like him–”

Ginny cut him off, “We’re aware of your boyhood romance, I mean, feud.”

Harry held up his hands, “Pax, wife. I don’t like him, BUT! But, I admit the advantages of the union. He needs a wife, Hermione needs a husband, and there were never two better suited than Hermione and medicine and St Armand and Nott.”

Hermione turned to her friend, suddenly a little overcome with emotion, and she hugged him, her dress nearly suffocating him. 

“That’s enough, Mione,” laughed Ginny. “You’ll kill him in a moment. Now, tell me, is your dowry really fifty thousand pounds?”

Hermione laughed, “That’s such a silly number that people have chosen to talk about. It’s really fifty five, and another twenty when I have my first child, although I don’t think I ever plan on doing that. Papa’s actually managed to keep the fact that I'm the sole heiress out of people’s mouths so that we don’t have to contend with fortune hunters.”

“St Armand won’t care,” Harry replied, picking up one of Hermione’s papers. “He’s doing just fine, and will do even better after he becomes Marquess. You won’t want for anything. He’s supported his wife all these years anyway.”

“That’s comforting,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “I wonder how Nott would appreciate being called his wife, though.”

It was convenient for Theo that many years ago Draco had made him known to be “his man”. Unfortunately, not in the way they both desired, but in the way that Theo was Draco’s man of business. This was borne of two necessities. Firstly, that Draco was absolutely trash at financials and he would run the two of them into debt before 1900 if left to his own devices. Secondly, it allowed Theo to feel as if he contributed to their shared household with his labor, as his own fortunes were rather unfortunate. 

It was especially convenient today because Theo knew that Black and Weasley would want to see Draco’s financials before giving the blessing to their marriage. And while Draco had decided to spend the day putting his head in the ground, so to speak, by whiling the hours away in the greenhouse literally in the dirt, Theo was a man of action in a crisis. 

Was this a crisis? 

Theo stopped a little short and almost caused a man to crash into his back on busy Lombard Street. He supposed it was a bit of a crisis. 

He began walking again, the fat stack of papers in his bag hitting his hip with every step. The other five banker’s boxes of ledgers, receipts, and accounts were on their way to the townhouse, but what Theo had with him were the most important overviews. 

The most annoying errand was yet to come, though visiting their financial manager was no treat. 

“She’s going to expect a ring,” Theo assured Draco earlier that afternoon. “This might be a sham marriage, but she’s an upstanding gentlewoman, and the lack of a ring would embarrass her. As it should. This is a transaction, but you should treat her with respect.”

“You go, then,” Draco shrugged. “I’ll play my part, but it’s your lock of hair in my pocket watch.”

Theo was annoyed with Draco, something that he’d been many, many times over the past eleven years. It was usually very easy to get over his annoyance, but today it was lingering. It felt like resentment, and Theo was not terribly pleased to be feeling it. It had started to creep in when Draco had brought in every single orchid he raised and put them all on the dining room table, exactly where Theo was attempting to write his correspondence to all of the people he needed to see that day. 

Theo couldn’t see the need for twenty three orchids in small pots, seventeen in medium pots, and twelve in quite large ones, and he truly couldn’t see the need to get them all together in some kind of floral family reunion in the dining room on that very specific day. 

The resentment blossomed, to use a hackneyed metaphor, when Theo mentioned that Draco would need to make an appointment with the Marquess to appraise him on the situation with Lady Hermione. Draco accidentally dropped the delicate orchid he was repotting, strewing moss all over the table, and cursed when the bloom snapped from the stem on the floor. 

“Damnit, Theo,” Draco muttered. “I’ve got ages before I have to do that.”

Since Theo was coming up on the back door of the Panton Street premises of Garrard and Company Jewelers, maybe it wasn’t as far off as Draco wanted to make it seem. No, thought Theo to himself, getting more and more angry as he rang the bell, it wouldn’t be long at all and there would be a Viscountess at the Townhouse on Berkeley Square. 

Although he’d gotten good reports about Lady Hermione’s disposition, and personally quite enjoyed the few interactions he’d had with her, Theo found himself positively hating the woman. 

He hated her even more and with the fury of a man replaced when he asked for Mr. Ollivander, whom they had had dealings with in the past, and fully understood that he was here to buy an engagement ring for his love’s new fiancee. Well, fiancee when she accepted, and they had run the gauntlet of Black and Weasley. 

How dare Draco put him through this, while he stayed home and fucked around with his plants. How dare Draco assume that Theo would just happily do these things to facilitate his marriage, the marriage that would irreconcilably take him away? Sod the idea that it was a convenience, that Hermione wanted the marriage for similar reasons to Draco, and sod the idea that nothing would change. 

Everything would change. Everything. 

Theo flushed hotly with anger, colored by humiliation, that he stood with Mr. Ollivander and not Draco. That he was responsible for this errand. That Draco had cared so little about Theo’s feelings on the matter. That everything was going to be different, and wrong, and Draco was not here with him. 

Mr. Ollivander was a mystical looking man of indeterminate old age, his face relatively unchanged from the first time Theo had been to Garrard and Company eleven years ago. He took immense pride in the fact that his business retained a royal patent, and was a discreet and perceptive man. Thankfully, he was discreet, as his perceptiveness told him that Captain Nott was in such a stormy mood, and the news was everywhere that St Armand was seeking a wife. 

Theo told Mr. Ollivander that he was there looking for three diamond rings of quality and size for selection by the lady in question. 

“Her taste is somewhat unknown, although she seems to have decent taste, and a selection would be more appropriate for the occasion,” Theo explained, schooling his face into neutrality. He remembered the expression he put on as Captain Nott, and pressed it into duty again. “Quality and craftsmanship are valued over current trend. My Lord St Armand requests heirloom quality and timelessness.”

Mr. Ollivander offered Theo a whiskey or brandy while he retrieved the set of rings he had selected in advance, and Theo took both. It wouldn’t be such a bad idea to be a little bit ripped as he did this. He downed the generous pour of whiskey in one go, and sipped at the brandy as a chaser. He wasn’t a liquor snob like Draco, who would have looked down his nose at the somewhat inferior alcohol that was offered to Theo. 

Of course he was offered inferior alcohol to what would be offered to Draco. Theo was Theo, and Draco was the heir to the most senior, most prestigious, most elevated Marquisate in the kingdom. 

The two trays set down between Theo and Mr. Ollivander glittered viciously in the sunlight from the window beside them, and for a moment, even Theo in his terrible mood was awed. 

“There are several heirloom pieces here, on the top two rows of this tray,” Mr. Ollivander explained, indicating the various sections. “They are varying in age from the late eighteenth century until around 1840. Very beautiful pieces. The rest are newly crafted, and all but this row here are completely one of a kind. These four are very quality ready-made pieces available in duplication.”

Theo immediately dismissed the ready-made pieces out of hand, still wanting to save Draco’s reputation, and more surprisingly, Lady Hermione’s. How embarrassing would it be for Lady Hermione to meet another with her same ring? One thing to wear a similar gown to an important ball, much worse to have a piece of jewelry she would wear every day. 

Quickly, he began rearranging the trays, ruining all of Mr. Ollivander’s organization. To the right he pushed the bulk of the options, discarding them for their style, size, or quality. Theo wondered where he had learned to spot the highest quality diamonds, and remembered bits and pieces of information given over years from various others like him. The easiest way to spot a superior diamond was by gut feeling. They radiated a warm, brilliant glow seemingly lit from within, and fractured the light by shattering it into a million pieces. 

Theo held back a dozen rings, and pushed the second tray towards Mr. Ollivander. He examined each one, using the jeweler’s loupe offered, silently and closely. A few were discarded on closer examination after Theo looked at them a second time and did not admire their beauty or radiance as highly as the others. He had no specific reason for discarding them, other than he thought the balance, or harmony was somewhat lacking in the design. One was discarded for the heft of the setting, although the diamond was handsome, one eliminated for the tint of the diamond, although the setting was handsome. A further was set aside because conversely, the setting was as gossamer as spider silk and Theo could not imagine that this was a ring suited to someone who intended to use her hands. 

This left three, which was the number that he and Draco had discussed, and he was satisfied with all of them. They were not similar, technically, but all three had a similar energy to them, if that was a possibility. He ran his finger across each of them in turn, and wondered which one Lady Hermione would choose. 

He thought that Draco would choose the largest of the three of them, out of disinterest. He supposed that Hermione would choose the second, which was a row of five round diamonds, low profile, and cut with exacting perfection. Theo liked one ring with two twin stones surrounded by lacy goldwork. The diamonds were not perfect rounds, deviating from his general criteria, but their slightly irregular shapes made them feel ancient, and special. He felt a little bit of kinship with those diamonds. They were warmer than the other selections, almost more like candlelight than ice, and they were further tinted by the rich gold setting. 

Theo caught himself hoping that Hermione would choose the ring with the twin stones. 

The rings would be sent to the townhouse the next morning. Mr. Ollivander assured Theo that they would be able to keep them as long as necessary, and that a courier would remove the unchosen at a mutually convenient time. Theo was reminded yet again of the benefits of being wildly wealthy, and the sting of his own relative poverty did little to ameliorate the annoyance he felt towards Draco. 

Ginny stopped first at 16 Brook Street for a drink with Hermione before they went down the block to number 22. Although it had only been a few hours since they’d seen each other, the banter was quick witted and lively. 

“I’m glad to be getting this out of the way in the first few weeks of the season. This way, I’ll have the ability to slack off on the socializing and stay home and study for the exam,” Hermione explained, finishing her glass of wine. “I think I can get wedded–”

“Wedded and bedded,” inserted Ginny, giggling, and finishing her glass. “Time for another little one before we go?”

“I don’t think so? And bedded? Do you really think so?” Hermione frowned, thinking of St Armand. “I suppose there are ways to do so without the undesirable happening.”

Ginny snorted, and poured just another splash into her glass. “I’ve been married five years without it on the horizon, so if I can as often as I do, then you can too.”

“I think it matters if St Armand really is a bachelor, or if he’s… a part time bachelor?” 

Ginny considered, tipped back her glass, and stood up. “I suppose we can ask Lady Pansy. Isn’t that what all this tonight is about? Fact finding?”

Hermione stood up as well and brushed the crumple out of her gown, “Yes, I think it is. For St Armand and me both.”

Pansy, as she had insisted on doing away with titles, was just inside the foyer of number 22 when Hermione and Ginny were ushered inside. 

“Such an interesting evening, is it not?” Pansy asked, her wide, blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “And such a delight to see you both again, and so soon. Please do come in. They’ve just laid a light supper in the dining room.”

“You’ve been friends with them for a long time?” Hermione asked, putting a sandwich and a bit of salad on her plate. They ate family style, and the warm glow of the gas light illuminated everything in a warm wash of gold, the same color as the sweet, white wine in their glasses. 

Pansy nodded vigorously, “Wills since we were in leading strings, and Theo after they came back to London. A decade or so. They’re some of my closest friends. I could count on them if I was ever friendless. A more faithful pair I’ve never known.”

Hermione looked to Ginny, “I feel that way about her, and Harry and Ron. They made me feel like I belonged when I was new to le beau monde. Never made me feel like I was lesser than, for all my strangeness.”

“Ginny tells me you’re seeking this arrangement so that you might become a physician. How terribly clever of you,” Pansy complimented. 

“Wit,” agreed Ginny, “and determination.”

Pansy chuckled, “You’ll need it. Draco is a darling boy, but just so insufferable at the most inconvenient times. Theo is much more even tempered, and he keeps him in line.”

Quickly, Hermione declared, “I have no intention of coming between them, I promise you. I need and wish to be married and settled, but I have no illusion that I will be anything to the Viscount beyond, hopefully, a friend.”

“Draco wouldn’t ever think of allowing anyone to come between he and Theo. The two of them are the only thing that have ever made me imagine the possibility that love exists,” replied Pansy fervently. “You’ll see. You’ve spent some time with Theo, but you’ll just adore Draco too. To be clear, of course, I would also never allow you to come between them either. I’d be more like to cut out your eyes if you tried.”

Ginny interjected, wary of the fire flashing in Pansy’s eyes and feeling for the world that she’d actually do it, “I know everyone wants to believe in a love match or soul match, and I surely do because I had one, but in this case, I believe the best thing that could happen is for Hermione and the Viscount to be wedded as soon as is prudent and proper and to learn to live their lives in a parallel, but amicable union.”

“Is it parallel or perpendicular?” Pansy asked, holding her fork in the air, rage quelled. “I never had a head for maths.”

“It could be either,” Hermione suggested. “We are both parallel, and run in the same path, and also intersect, right at this point.”

“See,” bragged Ginny, “I told you she was clever.”

They ate companionably, and stayed in the dining room around the table lingering over cups of coffee served out of fine china cups and piping hot. 

“It’s so irritating that we’re just sitting around here, hoping that my representatives,” Hermione grumbled, her voice pitchy with indignation at the final word, “do a good job, well, representing me, and with just a little pat on the head, yes, just stay there little Mione, these big strong men will take care of things. Irritating.”

Pansy raised one elegantly arched black brow, “It’s simply how it is done. The way it has been done for thousands of years. It’s civilized, from a time when women couldn’t even read.”

Ginny snorted, “Bollocks, it is.”

Pansy huffed a laugh, “You’re so coarse.”

“Coarse or not, it is actual bollocks, though,” Hermione complained. 

Over the rim of her coffee cup, Pansy asked, “Well, you’re going to be a doctor and break all of those rules anyway… what are you going to do about this silly rule?”

The problem with sneaking into the music room to sit against the doors leading into the sitting room, is that Ginny had hoped that there would be enough chatter that it would cover the sound of them moving in the hall, and getting into position. 

The silence was deafening. 

As the three women crept up the stairs, shoes in hand, they could barely hear anything at all. Pansy and Ginny were feeling the effects of the wine they’d had, and Hermione hoped that the men were just ripping drunk and couldn’t hear their muffled giggles. 

Inside the sitting room, as Hermione could see through the crack between the double doors, the four men sat across from each other on two mauve silk-covered camel back sofas. Hermione could see the back of Ron and Harry’s heads, and was treated to a prime view of Captain Nott and the Viscount’s faces. Pansy and Ginny sat on the floor on either side of Hermione with ears nearly pressed to the wooden doors. There was a bit of a crush of skirts and heavy breathing from the tightness of whalebone corsets, but they more or less settled in quietly. 

“We will clearly need to negotiate this arrangement with a quick out for divorce,” Ron commented, lighting a cigarette. He opened his case again and offered them to the other men. 

Draco took one, and lit it with one of the matches in the box on the table between them. He considered, and exhaled. “I cannot currently foresee any reason for myself to want to exit the marriage, but will agree that if Lady Hermione wishes to, she should be allowed to retain some significant proportion of her dowry.”

“I was hoping you would be gentlemanly about it,” Harry remarked. “It’s big of you.”

Draco shrugged uncomfortably, and looked to Theo. Hermione watched with great interest. It seemed like so long ago that she had seen Nott put his hand on the back of St Armand's neck in the ballroom, and she knew without a doubt what they shared. 

Theo, with great deliberation, took the burning cigarette from Draco’s hand and took a drag. Harry and Ron looked at each other, and seemed to have a conversation of their own as well. 

Ron cleared his throat, but it was Harry who spoke. “We’re obviously aware of… the delicacy of the idea of marriage, in these circumstances. Hermione truly wishes to have her own sort of private life, and maintain her own household, that is– it is delicate, and we hope to see her sorted and settled and able to– well, maintain privacy and a level of decorum—”

Hermione struggled not to laugh at his ham-fisted attempt to connect meaningfully with his childhood nemesis. She exchanged a glance with Ginny, whose pale and freckled face was nearly purple with contained laughter.

“Sod it,” Ron interjected. “Everyone knows that you two are together, in that way, and that you’re playboys, sort of. I mean, discreet playboys, but same as. Hermione’s a spirited girl, and she might find someone she really cares about after the marriage has done what it needs to do. After she’s a doctor, after you’ve become Marquess, or whatever. There might be a natural conclusion to the relationship.”

“We can agree to that, and to petition the divorce in court as amicable and mutual,” Draco acquiesced. “I can also agree to be somewhat more discreet with my… carrying on. Lady Hermione deserves to live her life without the gossip, or any kind of press attention.”

“Beyond becoming a doctor as the wife of the future premier Marquess of Britain,” Ron pointed out. “It’s not like she’ll be spared any amount of publicity.”

“Wishing to have a profession is odd enough for a woman,” Draco said. “Let alone one of her station.”

Theo quickly cut in, “A wish that both Draco and I will support with every action.”

Ron and Harry looked at each other again, warring with what to say next. Hermione, behind the door, wondered which direction they would go. 

Harry was the one that broke silence, “You and Draco? You really are married, to all intents and purposes.”

Theo bowled over laughing, and after a moment, Draco joined him. 

“God,” chuckled Theo, “the look on your faces. Yes, yes, we’re sodomites, darling boy. Might as well get it out there in the open.”

Harry and Ron boggled for a second, then Ron laughed as well. “I do suppose it is rather ridiculous to try to keep talking around it.”

Harry huffed, puffed up a bit, “I’m just saying that I don’t want Hermione to be the subject of gossip.”

Draco waved his hand, “And how much gossip have you ever heard about us– publicly, that is.”

After a moment, and drinking a bit of his whiskey, Harry admitted, “Absolutely none. Yes, everyone knows, but we all know that Lady Pansy’s of the lady-loving variety too, and no one says anything.”

Hermione jerked her head to the right to see Pansy’s face color brilliantly in the half light. Her mouth had fallen open in a perfectly pink O of surprise. 

“I am not!” she whispered vehemently, standing up suddenly. 

Ginny reached up and jerked her back down, “Don’t care anyway!”

Hermione shushed them both with wide eyes. 

“Sounds kind of hot anyway,” Ginny whispered again, her hand still on Pansy’s sleeve. 

Pansy pulled it away and glared at her, but resumed listening. 

In the drawing room, they hadn’t been heard, thankfully, over their own laughter. Pansy was still flaming red, but remained quiet. 

“The important thing is that Hermione is treated properly, as reflects her dignity, and that she is free to pursue what she wishes,” Ron explained. “That way, you and Nott are free to continue your own lives in the peace and happiness you have enjoyed these past ten years.”

“Eleven years,” Theo corrected. Hermione watched as Draco smiled softly. 

Ron chuckled, “Safe to say there will be no infidelity clause in this one.”

“Sir George will consider himself lucky that the heir to the Marquisate of Winchester wants to marry his daughter and likely barely look over the contract,” Harry offered. “I wish he would take a bigger interest in Mione– they’re so alike in so many ways, and he can’t see it.”

Hermione softened towards Harry in that moment; briefly, and conditionally, provided he make it through the rest of the discussion without throwing a punch. 

Draco scoffed, “I’m only pleased that my own dearest father has no say over my marriage contracts. Benefits to be married later in life.”

“Your financials are in spotless order, St Armand,” Harry grudgingly admitted. “I can find no fault in them, and I’m sure Sir George will not either. Hermione is, however interested in her widow’s jointure, speaking of your advanced age.”

“My advanced age?” Draco raised both brows. “We were at Eton together, Potter.”

“It’s Black,” reminded Harry, with a straight spine.

“What Draco means,” smoothed over Theo with a warning look to Draco and to Harry, “is to say thank you to the compliment, although I am the one who keeps the financials in order, and to agree to talk about Lady Hermione’s widow’s jointure.”

“Of course we will agree to settle the usual one third of my estate to Lady Hermione,” Draco took a deep breath and continued, “and as the Marchioness of Winchester when I hopefully meet my end, all the due rights to her. 

If I were to pass before my father, her jointure would still be substantial enough to keep her in comfort, and her dower house would be Hackwood Park in Hampshire, unless she and my heir decide that she would be more comfortable in the townhouse at Berkeley Square. 

As the Dowager Marchioness, Amport House, also in Hampshire, would act as Dower House, unless she preferred Hackwood or the townhouse my father currently occupies on Grosvenor Square.”

“And the question of your heir,” Ron broached cautiously. “I take it you have a cousin to inherit the Marquisate if Hermione does not have a son?”

Hermione watched as Theo and Draco looked at each other again, and silence reigned. 

“We’ve spoken about the possibility of children, and while it is not our preference to enter into parenthood,” Draco decided to say finally, and with great, slow, care, “it is possible that I could sire a child and that child would inherit. We have spoken of it, either of Lady Hermione’s descent or not.”

Harry bristled at this, “Wait one moment here, just a second ago you were agreeing that you would behave with discretion. Now you’re telling me that you might get a bastard off someone else, and expect Hermione to just, what? Bow and scrape to a bastard?”

Theo’s eyes blew wide, struck by the blow. There was a moment of silence before Draco shot up off of the sofa, his finger pointing angrily at Harry.

“I’m not asking anyone to bow and scrape to anyone, much less Lady Hermione!” Draco raised his voice. “And I’m not even–”

Pansy grabbed Hermione’s arm as Ginny gasped on her other side. Pansy’s manicured nails dug into Hermione’s flesh and she jumped a little, shaking her off. 

“What’s happening?” Ginny whispered, and Pansy stood up to peer through the crack. Comically, Ginny rose to a crouch and looked through between the other two. 

Through the slit in the door, they could see Harry also jump to his feet and shout back, but the words were drowned out by Draco continuing his tirade, “--and furthermore, whether it’s a child of mine or not, the bulk of my estate is going to Captain Nott! If you have a problem with bastards, you’re going to have a hell of a time with that bastard!”

Now it was Harry’s turn to start shouting, although what he said was lost to the women behind the door because Pansy half-yelled, “They’re going to kill each other!”

“Draco,” Theo placated, putting his hands on St Armand's shoulders, “you know he didn’t mean it like that.”

“Harry,” Ron said sharply, knocking himself into Black, “back down, mate, you’ve already made a right mess of yourself.”

Draco’s next words were close to a whisper– a very deadly whisper. 

“Lady Hermione will be well taken care of, but if you expect me to choose an heir just because your delicate sensibilities don’t allow Nott to inherit, I’ll find another bride.”

“Oh god, Harry, you fucking idiot,” Ginny muttered. “You utter fucking idiot.”

“Keep talking like that, Harry, and you’ll be dead long before St Armand because he will have killed you,” Ron warned his friend, who was still breathing hard and seeing red. 

Draco, who had calmed down for the most part, straightened his waistcoat and nodded to Theo, who stepped back. “Now, if you would like to continue, I do have a question concerning the expected timeline for this arrangement.”

Harry, on the other hand, had patently not calmed down, “There is no arrangement. None. I see no way for this to continue. The matter of jointure is not amenable to us, and I thank you for your time this evening.”

“Oh, it’s not?” Ron almost laughed. “Harry–”

Ginny shifted, and whispered, “Not going to happen? Oh you ass…”

For a moment, Hermione couldn’t tell what had happened. One second she was peering through the slit in between the double doors, and the next she was peering under the sofa and could see four pairs of dark leather shoes. The fall she’d taken wasn’t bad, but since both Pansy and Ginny were now on top of her, the wind had been rather knocked out of her. 

“Ow,” Hermione complained as the other two women rolled off of her. 

Ginny staggered to her feet unaided, with her finger wagging in her husband’s face as she lambasted him, “I can’t believe you would do this! This is what’s best for Mione, and it’s what she wants, and who fucking cares about who inherits? Get out! Get out of this room until you can behave decently. Let the adults finish the discussion!”

Ron and Theo helped Pansy to her feet as Ginny continued to yell at Harry until he was out of the room. She shut the door behind him, and sighed deeply. 

“Now,” she continued. “Who is ready to have a drink and finish this conversation? Ron, light me a cigarette, brother dear.

Hermione, who was still on the floor, looked up into Captain Nott's blue eyes. He was smiling, and once again, Hermione felt a little dazzled by it. He offered his hand and bent to help her up. 

Theo kept her hand in his after she was on her feet, itself an ordeal around the froth and expanse of her skirts, petticoat, and stays, and warmly said, “How long were you back there? Did you hear everything? What a nightmare, right?”

By this time, Draco had made his way around to the other side of the sofas and stood next to Theo. “Are you quite alright?”

Hermione assured him that she was, and then looked up a bit shyly at him. Would he be annoyed that she had eavesdropped on this particular conversation? For the second time, she looked from Nott to St Armand and back again, thinking about how ridiculously attractive they both were. St Armand's face was 

Draco cleared his throat, and took her other hand. He leaned in and said very confidentially, “I always wondered why the bride was never allowed at these kinds of discussions. It seems to me that her preferences should be taken into account.”

Her face breaking into a smile, she looked at the two men in front of her, each of her hands clasped in one of theirs, and replied, “I really think that we’re going to be the best of friends.”

Chapter Text

Draco found himself thinking of that statement often over the next several weeks. 

Friends. 

“I really think that we’re going to be the best of friends.”

He’d never been friends with a woman before. Well, aside from Pansy, but that didn’t count. He went out and caroused with his friends: Blaise, Adrian, Marcus, and Terence. He never caroused with Pansy. Did friendship require carousing? 

“We should allow this time to breathe,” Hermione had requested those weeks ago, negotiating. “I would like this arrangement as much as you, but if we truly find we can’t stand one another, there’s no engagement to break off.”

Draco had agreed, readily, and after a few days, they met in Hyde Park for a picnic. Harry did not come with the group, but had sent a note offering his apologies to the Viscount. Draco sent it back and reminded him that it was Theo he needed to apologize to. Shortly thereafter, a bottle of brandy arrived for Theo.

At first, he wondered if he would like to be friends with Lady Hermione. After their first picnic, and then spending time together at a ball given by the Earl of Leicester, he wondered what it would be like to stay friends the rest of their lives. 

They, unfortunately, needed a chaperone in public, although private was another matter. When Ginny, or sometimes Pansy, was around to chaperone, there was an air of great jollyness. They were becoming friends and talking about all manners of things: history, biology, travel, fashion, theatre, astronomy, poetry. They played cards, and other games, and took walks around Hyde Park or Kensington Gardens. 

At that point, he wondered if he was also making friends with Lady Black. They played croquet in the back garden of Hermione’s father’s Brook Street home, and Ginny, as he had been told to call her, was quick to sabotage and cheat. Draco admired this very much, and consented to call her Ginevra.

In private, the Blacks graciously allowed use of their home for courtship purposes, and he occasionally spent the afternoon with Hermione alone in the music room or the drawing room. It was pleasant. They discussed the more scientific topics when they were alone, and Draco sorely wished that he could have her to the town house without an entourage. They agreed that they’d enjoy working in the greenhouse together. 

More frequently, he, Hermione, and Theo would close themself up at the Black’s for long afternoon hours. During those times, Hermione would study for her upcoming entrance exam sitting on one of the sofas with her feet up and a pencil tucked into the bodice of her dress. Theo would take her books from her, sometimes, and quiz her on the material, and Draco had to admit that Hermione was frightfully, frightfully clever. 

“I think you ought to call me Hermione,” she had said one bright afternoon, absently looking out the drawing room window at the Black home. “It’s rather cumbersome to always throw the “Lady” in front of it.”

Draco replied that she should call him by his Christian name as well, and Theo chimed in, “Just don’t ever call me Theodore. I hate it.”

“You introduced yourself as Theodore,” Hermione argued. “What if I always have thought of you as Theodore?”

“It’s the polite thing,” Theo shrugged. “I don’t like it, though.”

“Theo suits,” pronounced Draco. 

“Teddy,” rebutted Hermione. “Teddy, final offer.” 

Draco was finding that Hermione was spirited– of course she was. That was her most defining characteristic. Underneath all that, though, was determination, and a quick wit. 

So, Draco softened towards her. Or, it was without his consent that he softened to her.

One day, two months later in June, Theo and Draco walked back home to the townhouse from the Black’s in silence. Theo took hold of Draco’s arm, gently, but insistently, and dragged him to a bench in the Mount Street Gardens. 

They stayed silent for another few moments before Draco sighed, deeply. “I know there’s a problem with the plaster in the dining room. I know I said I’d get someone to look at it this week because I liked what Zabini did with his plaster. I should have let you figure it out, but I didn’t.”

“Draco,” Theo breathed. “I already sent for Zabini’s plasterer. On Thursday.”

“You’re going to tell me it’s time?” Draco asked, looking around before touching his pinky finger to Theo’s where it rested on the bench. 

Theo nodded, swallowed, nodded again. 

Draco sighed.

Draco sighed again.

“You just going to keep sighing?” Theo asked, pressing his finger back against Draco’s. 

Draco jogged his shoulder against Theo’s, and they laughed. It was subdued, but they laughed. 

“I suppose it is time, yeah?” continued Draco. “I’ll send the note to her father, and inform my father. She’s not such bad company, is she?”

Theo answered quickly, “She’s great company. She’s the perfect pick.”

“You know I don’t want to pick, right?” Draco muttered, looking away. 

Theo knew, with every bit of himself. If the world was not the world they lived in, he and Draco would live happily together for the rest of their lives. But they didn’t live in that world, and although they both dearly wished it, they lived in this one. 

“If it had to be someone, Hermione is…” Theo started, but dropped off. 

Draco looked away into the gardens. 

“I like her, Theo,” he confessed. “She’s good company, she’s nice to us. She’s clever, and she’s a happy girl. You like her, and you probably get on with her better than I do. You’re both so similar. It won’t be a terrible hardship. I feel like it should be a hardship, out of deference to you, but it won’t be.”

Theo looked in the other direction as well, into the street. “I like her too. She’s… a good person. I like her.”

“But you’d agree that we’d be happier without her?” Draco asked, brushing his hand against Theo’s again, desperately wishing they were at home, in their bed, where they could look at each other. 

“Not worth thinking about, darling boy,” Theo reminded him. “We can’t go back now, and if we can’t go back, it’s best to get it done with.”

Draco agreed, and they both sat silently for a while, letting the June sunlight warm them through their clothes although it felt like their hearts were turning to ice. 

“Dear Periwinkle thinks the Viscount will be proposing to you any day now,” Lord Granger declared, handing over the paper to Hermione across the breakfast table. 

Hermione hummed noncommittally, and laid the gossip rag aside without even looking at it. Of course he would be. The note requesting an audience with her father would be there any moment now. She thought of the card she’d received the evening before, tucked neatly in a box on her dressing table. 

Dear Lady Hermione,

Thank you for the pleasure of your company these past eight weeks. You are truly a lovely companion, and I’ve greatly enjoyed the opportunity to know you on this level. 

At this point, Hermione’s hands had started sweating. Was it just her, or did this read like a break up?

You are a special person, and I’m delighted to–

The small notecard ran out of room on the front side, and Hermione had frantically turned it over. When had she become so invested in this match?

–see where this path takes us. Hopefully, you will not keep me waiting long to begin that journey. I will send a request to your father for a meeting, if it is still your desire. 

Yours, etc

     D. Malfoy

Hermione felt her cheeks start to ache with the ferocity of her smile as she read it. He was her ticket in, and she was his way out. 

“Post, sir,” said Floote, startling Hermione from her memory. 

She looked at the tray, and knew that there would be a letter that would change her life entirely on it. She could not take another bite, could not take another sip of her tea. Her hands shook in her lap. 

Sir George’s bushy, dark eyebrows rose steadily as he read line by line.

“Mione, did you know about this?” he choked, reading the note a second time, his brows going even higher. Hermione stayed silent– what could she possibly say? She worried for a moment, but her father apparently didn’t even wish for an answer. “He will call at half past eleven tomorrow morning. Floote, get Cook to put together a good spread for eleven, in case the Viscount is early.”

Floote left the room, and Hermione’s father looked at her with such absolute glee that for a moment, Hermione wanted to believe what her father believed. For a moment, she let herself bask in her father’s joy– yes, Hermione cared for him. Yes, Hermione had suspected this was coming, but was too uncertain of the Viscount’s feelings to say anything. Yes, Hermione was very, very pleased with the possibility. 

For just a little while, Hermione let herself be convinced that she was deeply, madly in love with him. 

Later that night, she was out on the street unfashionably late, but Abbott and a footman were with her, so she felt less exposed. The time itself was a bit odd- half past ten in the evening. It was strange to meet at a time where most were already deep into their evening engagements, but needs must, and the need was for Hermione and St Armand to meet before he asked for blessing from Lord Granger.

Hermione shrugged off the shawl around her shoulders as she walked into the drawing room, entirely unannounced. 

Harry looked up from his brandy and sighed. “Do you even knock anymore? Should I worry that you’ll be standing in the door to my bedroom one morning?”

“Shut up, Harry,” Ginny moaned, standing up to kiss Hermione’s cheek. “It’s almost over. We’re almost at the finish line now, do be a good lad and hush.”

Ron arrived at nearly the same time as Pansy, although Hermione did not know why either of them had come. Theo and Draco entered the room last, after knocking on the door. There were too many people in the room, by far, and they all began to talk at once. The great endeavor was almost over, and spirits were high.

Champagne was popped, and the toasts began. 

“To Mione, the great lady doctor,” toasted Ron. 

“To Theo and Draco, and their happiness,” toasted Pansy, and Harry had the grace to raise his glass with the rest. 

“To my husband,” toasted Hermione, “may he enjoy the peace of being legally wed.”

Draco caught her eye, and his grey eyes sparkled in the candlelight. He smiled, really and truly smiled: “To my wife: may she enjoy the independence now afforded her.”

Theo remembered the real reason for their gathering as Ron popped the cork on the third bottle of the case of champagne that they had brought as a gift. Openly, he wrapped his arm around Draco’s shoulders and leaned down to whisper in his love’s ear. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing something during this little gathering?” Theo murmured, reaching down to pat the box in Draco’s jacket pocket. 

Draco had the grace to flush, although it could have been the champagne. Could they really only get one glass apiece out of the bottles of champagne, or were they just simply very large glasses? He looked around the room at the gathered group, and was surprised to feel not only great affection for Hermione, but also for her friends as well. 

They’d all become his friends, too, entirely without his consent. He even looked at Harry with something bordering on tolerance, and the feeling seemed to be mutual. Harry certainly had no problem drinking his champagne. Ron was pouring Ginny and Harry third glasses of wine, while Pansy and Hermione bantered in the opposite corner of the room. 

Draco decided that it was the wine making him feel affectionate, and made a conscious decision to lean into it. He went up on tiptoe and kissed Theo’s cheek, much to the surprise of the taller man. 

“It’s not like they don’t already know,” mumbled Draco. Theo felt his cheeks grow warm with pleasure. “What are they going to say, ‘oh no, I’ve decided that Hermione shouldn’t marry you because you are clearly in love with Captain Nottley’? Piss off. Now, please excuse me, I’ve got marriage to actually propose.”

Draco squeezed Theo’s hand before taking the bottle of champagne from Ron. He filled his own glass, then Theo’s, and finally, Hermione’s. 

“Hermione, darling, could I have your attention for a moment?” he asked, putting down the empty bottle on the floor. 

Hermione smiled, and took his offered hand. She looked at him expectantly, the corners of her lips turned up.

“Alright, everyone,” started Draco, raising his voice a bit to be heard over the tipsy chatter, “I’ve got something important to ask Hermione.”

She laughed, and sputtered, “You’ve got to be joking, Draco, this is clearly not necess–”

Draco cut her off with a quick shush, “I’m only going to be able to ask a woman to marry me this one time, Hermione, so if you’ll do me the favor of being very quiet while I propose to you, I’d very much appreciate it. Thank you.”

Hermione barked a laugh, nearly spurting champagne. “Only if you’re kneeling.”

Theo and Draco made eye contact across the back of the sofa, and Theo simply raised his dark brows at him. 

“In for a penny, I suppose,” he said, dropping down heavily, but gracefully, onto one knee. Hermione held out her free hand, and Draco took it. “Hermione Granger, I truly hope that you understand the depth of my gratitude. In my hour of need, under great pressure from my great tormentor–”

“Prince Lucifer,” interjected Pansy, clutching her champagne flute to her chest, which was shaking with laughter. “Prince of Darkness.”

“You shut up too, Pans,” Draco pushed on. “Hour of need, greatest tormentor, etcetera, Hermione, you shone like a beacon in the gale. You are roughly woman shaped, roughly of childbearing age, and roughly socially appropriate–”

“Sweet Jesus,” Hermione exclaimed, “you sure do know how to compliment a lady.”

“--and roughly poised to be my greatest friend, my greatest ally, and my greatest partner in crime. That is, after my greatest love, and roughest love–”

Theo choked, “Bit off the rails, aren’t we, Draco?”

Hermione’s dark eyes were bright with tears of mirth and she considered shoving Draco over onto the carpet, but she didn’t want to spill the glass of champagne in his hand. “Enough of the great and the rough.”

Cleaning his throat, Draco continued, “All of that adds up to the logical conclusion that it is time for me to ask you, Hermione, to enter into holy matrimony with me. This is a state that I enter into quite lightly, and expect that you have given the prospect a similar degree of gravitas.”

Looking around, Hermione took immense joy in seeing the candlelight reflect off the smiling, laughing faces of those closest to her. Even Draco’s dear face was lit up beautifully in the perfect light, and the love she had tried to convince herself that she felt for him suddenly did not seem nearly as far away. 

Love was love, and she loved Draco. She loved his perseverance, she loved his tenacity, she loved his surprising silliness, and she loved the trust that he put in her. She loved the confidence that he had in her. 

Love didn’t have to be like Harry and Ginny, or like Theo and Draco. Love could simply be a state of abiding. In the Bible, Jesus asked his apostles to abide in him. She didn’t put much store in religion, or in Jesus aside from the necessity of attending church for appearances sake, but she resonated with a good deal of that book. Jesus asked his apostles to “abide in me”, and asked for their constancy and stability. Hermione loved Draco in the way that she would abide with him, and abide in him. 

Draco was still going on, and Hermione cut him off, “Are you going to ask me or not?”

“I digress,” Draco agreed, kissing the back of Hermione’s hand, still in his grasp. “Lady Hermione Sarah Margaret Josephine Elizabeth Jane Lavinia… Elizabeth Victoria Amelia… Lillian… Alexandra? Yes, and Maybelle–”

“You forgot Mary,” Hermione chided. 

“Of course,” he kissed her hand again. “Mary. I could never forget Mary. Lady Hermione Mary, would you do me the great honor of becoming my lawfully wedding wife? To have and rarely hold? Mostly for richer, hopefully not poorer, and you’ve surely got the whole sickness and health thing covered.”

Draco looked up onto Hermione’s face and her cheeks were flushed bright red and there were sparkling tears in her eyes. She nodded, willing the peals of laughter to stay inside, and when Draco cocked his head at her, expectant, she could not contain them any longer. She finally laughed, uproariously along with their friends, and pulled him up off the ground. She hugged him tightly. 

It was the closest they’d ever been, and Draco found himself… enjoying the contact. She was somehow both taller and smaller than he had noticed, and her chin rested neatly, snugly, on his shoulder, and his arms wrapped entirely around her trim waist. It was a nice feeling. It was interesting, though, and entirely unlike embracing a man. There were lumps, and curves, and usually those lumps and curves did little for Draco, these were Hermione’s lumps and curves, and oh christ, was that an erection?

He looked up and made eye contact with Theo, who was decidedly not smiling genuinely, although he was doing his best. Draco’s erection flagged, to his great relief.

Hermione smacked a very platonic kiss on his cheek, “Well, let me see the ring.” 

“I thought you might like to choose your own? You can choose any of them.”

Her brow furrowed until Draco withdrew the long, slim box and handed it to her. She opened it, saw the row of diamonds, and squealed. Hermione covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide. “Christ’s nails,” she breathed. “Ginny!”

She whirled so quickly that her skirts slapped Draco’s legs as she hurried across the carpet. 

“That one would pull your arm straight off,” Ginny chuckled, pointing at the largest. 

Pansy shrugged, “Worth it.”

Hermione pulled the first out of the velvet and tried it on. It slid down her finger with ease, and promptly fell sideways under its own topheavy weight. “I don’t think so.”

Her hand hovered over an understated band set with a string of matched diamonds. 

“Don’t choose the practical one,” urged Ginny. “How about the two diamond one?”

Hermione liked the look of that one, and held it up to the light. It fractured the candle glow into a thousand flecks, bouncing rainbows and white flashes across her bodice. It was very pretty indeed, and she thought that it was rather like she and Draco. They remained separate, in their own settings, but they lived in harmony quite nicely together. 

She put the first, larger one back, and slid on the two stone ring. It fit well, and she experimentally opened and closed her fist. The ring was striking, and the deep, rich yellow gold complimented her skin tone more than the icy white platinum of the other two rings. 

“I’m very glad he figured out you were a diamond girl,” Ginny laughed, squinting at the stunner on Hermione’s hand. “He did very well.”

Although Theo leaned on his champagne flute more than he had meant to, he enjoyed the impromptu engagement party. He knew at the core that it was better to at least enjoy the woman that he would be sharing Draco with. He didn’t know if he could bear it if she was unkind, or cold. But, Draco would never do that. He wouldn’t ever do that. He didn’t do that. 

And the fact that Hermione’s bare back, covered by her long, riotous hair, featured in his mind in more than one session with himself as he brought himself to completion was absolutely not part of the calculus.

They walked home companionably, in silence, and a little drunk, at a quarter past one in the morning. The streets were mostly empty, and at one stretch, they held hands for an entire block before a fox darted out from the alley, startling them apart. 

“Are you tired?” Theo asked as he unlocked the front door to let themselves in. They had long since allowed their footman, butler, and valet leave to end their day when they went out in the evening, and taken the habit of letting themselves in and out. 

Draco hummed, “Have a drink with me in the garden.”

“In the garden?” Theo asked, following Draco down the stairs into the kitchen. A bottle of good, old Madeira was on the table with a pair of glasses. “I see you planned this. Clever.”

In the garden, small and walled, nestled between the town house and the green house, Draco led Theo under a willow tree, beside the ornamental fish pond they had built together, mainly with their own hands. It had been inspired by the ponds in India that Draco had been enchanted by, and the plants and fish had multiplied in the years that they had tended to it.

“We haven’t spent much time out here this year,” Draco remarked, holding his drink loosely between his knees as they sat side by side on what they both thought of as their bench. “I thought it would be nice to. God knows the next time we will have time.”

Theo took a sip and glanced sideways at Draco, “Are you alright?”

“I asked Hermione to marry me tonight,” he sighed, slumping back against the bench.. “It was rather odd.”

Theo went quiet. What could he possibly say? Instead, he wrapped his arm around Draco and pulled him close. 

Draco went on, “I didn’t propose to her, though. That’s different. That’s special.”

Theo wasn’t sure what Draco meant, and rather assumed it was all the champagne talking. He kissed the top of his platinum head, and closed his eyes.

“Theo,” said Draco quietly.

Theo opened his eyes, and looked down at Draco. He stared right back. “Yes, my love?”

“I’m going to do something, and I want you to be quiet until I’ve finished,” Draco asked, and shrugged off Theo’s arm. He took Theo’s madeira glass from his hands and set it aside. 

Bemused, Theo kissed Draco on the mouth, gently. Draco removed a bit of folded paper from his breast pocket and opened it, giving Theo a small smile. 

“Theo, I love you,” he rushed out, reading aloud. “I love you, and I have loved you every moment of every day and every second of every moment, for the past eleven years. I wake up and reach for you, I fall asleep touching you. You are as a part of me as my own hands, and as critical as my own breath.” 

Draco looked up then, to gauge Theo’s reaction, and he had not anticipated the look of stun on his love’s face. Theo swallowed, willing the lump in his throat to recede. 

“Draco,” he croaked out, fingers itching to touch him.

Draco nodded resolutely, looked down, and continued, his voice both gaining strength and waning and cracking with emotion. “You are the single thing in this world that keeps me tethered to reality, and without your string connecting me to Earth, I might have floated away long ago and completely lost myself in my work, in my plants, in anything that kept me apart from humanity.”

Here, in this moment, Draco meant everything he wasn’t saying. Writing this proposal had come out in a burst of emotion, sitting up in bed beside a sleeping Theo with the full moon as illumination. Words were insufficient, and Draco hoped more than anything that Theo would understand that he meant more, somehow, more than what he was saying.

“You are perseverance when I struggle,” Draco choked, his fingers leaving indents on the paper in his sweating hands, “you are stubbornness when I feel like giving up, you are joy when I fear, and you are the only thing that I look at every day and believe is real. My whole life could be entirely fake, and false, and the sky could turn yellow and the grass turn pink, and I would still know that who and what you are is entirely genuine.”

Draco stopped for a moment again, and slanted a look at Theo. They switched, and this time, it was like Theo would not breathe, and could not. Theo’s eyes were so full of tears, that when blue met grey, and he blinked, a few raced down his cheek completely unchecked. 

For a moment, it seemed like every other soul in London had simply disappeared, had felt the magnitude of what they felt, and had packed up and left. They could not compete with the intensity of what was happening in the garden on Berkeley Square, and so, in unison, simply got up and left town. 

“Theo,” Draco gasped, his last words coming at a sprint as he dropped the paper and wiped at Theo’s cheeks with his thumbs, “would you please do me the honor of being my husband? Under the eyes of no God, under the protection of no law, would you please be my husband and live the rest of your life as mine? Mine, not like ownership, but mine like belonging. Would you please be mine? Theo?”

For maybe the first time of their entire acquaintance, Draco had spoken extensively on a subject and Theo had been entirely silent. Except, this time Theo felt that he could not speak in addition to not being able to breathe. He felt the warmth of the tears on his face, and the coolness of the breeze on them, and there was nothing that he could do– all for fear of breaking the silence of such a profound moment. 

“Theo,” Draco whispered again, this time with a bit more urgency.

“I seem to have forgotten how to speak there for a moment,” Theo croaked, and pulled Draco to him so suddenly, and so crushingly, neither of them could breathe. “Of course I will. Of course. Of course.”

Draco felt himself choking up to the point where he forgot himself for a moment. When they regained themselves, and pulled away, Draco removed his hands from Theo’s grasp. From his coat pocket, he retrieved another tiny leather box. 

“When did you get this?” Theo asked, taking the box in his hands. 

Draco shrugged. “A while ago.”

“Unbelievable,” Theo laughed, and wiped at his face again with his sleeve. “I bought your fiancee’s engagement ring because you couldn’t be bothered and all this time, you’d done this for me.”

“Are you going to open it?” prodded Draco, poking at the box. 

He finally opened it, and held up the contents to the light of the almost full moon. A smooth, well crafted signet ring nestled in velvet. Theo pulled it out to look closer. “What is on it?”

“Winchester coat of arms,” Draco explained. “I thought the three swords was particularly apt, and our motto Aimez Loyaulté was rather perfect for us.”

Theo ran his finger over it. “Love and Loyalty. It’s you, me, and Hermione. Love and Loyalty.”

Draco shrugged, and tugged at his collar, “If you don’t like it, we can get something else. I just–”

Theo silenced him with a kiss. “No, it’s perfect. It’s our life. It’s completely the truth. We’re going to go through all the rest of our lives together, and Hermione is the angel who made it possible. She’s saved us. She’s as much a part of this as either of us. She made it possible. I will always be thankful for Hermione Granger.”

They held each other again, and Theo slipped the ring onto his own ring finger, in complete disregard for tradition and etiquette. 

“For the moment, though,” Theo whispered into Draco’s ear, “I’d like to be thankful for you, and take you upstairs and show you.” 

Draco quirked a brow, “Show me?”

Theo pushed him back on the bench, roughly, and endeavored to at least give a preview. The kiss was deep, bruising almost, and for the twentieth time that night, Draco felt like he couldn’t breathe. They kissed, frantically and feverishly, until Theo made his way down Draco’s chest, and knelt on the grass. He pulled open Draco’s trousers, and a loose button flew off into the flower bed beside them. 

“I need you,” Theo said by way of apology, and pulled Draco free and swallowed him down in one fluid motion. 

“Hell, Theo,” cried Draco, “couldn’t wait another second?”

Muffled by the impediment in his mouth, Theo vigorously disagreed. He shoved his hands into the sides of Draco’s trousers and pushed them free of his hips. His arms tangled in his suspenders under his waistcoat, Draco laughed and then moaned, deep in his throat, and less determinedly tried to pull Theo up. 

“Theo, my love,” Draco groaned, stroking his cheek, hollowed with suction. “You haven’t said yes or no to me yet.”

Theo popped his mouth off of Draco’s prick suddenly and looked up at Draco incredulously, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Draco. Of course, yes. Are you touched?”

Draco took the opportunity to pull Theo back up off his knees, and begin to tug him towards the house. “I think it’s reasonable for me to want to know if you’re accepting me or not.”

Theo shoved Draco against the doorframe, harder than he had intended, “Of course I want to marry you. Of course I want to be your husband. Yes. Yes. Yes. Is that good enough for you? Are you going to let me take you upstairs so we can fuck?”

Draco nodded, the barest nod, before Theo had attached himself to him again, their mouths hard and urgent against each other. They had both skipped their morning shaves that day as Goyle was visiting his sick mother, and the rasp of stubble on stubble made Draco remember the mornings in India, in Theo’s officer’s quarters when they would shave each other. 

Draco pulled away long enough to say, “Hard to believe India was twelve years ago in November.”

Theo looked at Draco in the eye, his hands stilling for a moment, “What makes you think of it?”

Draco shrugged, and kissed at the side of Theo’s neck, “If one of us had been a woman, we would have been married at least ten years by now.”

“We’ll make up for it now,” Theo assured him, kissing Draco’s forehead so, so gently. 

India, thought Theo, is where they had truly learned each other. Truly learned to trust one another. Without trust, all of this was tenuous. Theo remembered looking over his shoulder, checking up on the gossip, waiting for Draco to betray him. Although they’d known each other, been as close as two friends could have been, Theo knew that Draco was the son of a Marquess, and he was the son of less than nobody. It would have been easy to love, and fuck, and discard Theo. 

Clearly not that easy. 

When Theo had finally come back from India, months after Draco returned to London, they tried to make up for the space. They tried to close the space, and little by little, with days spent in the townhouse, silent except for their moans, the soft scratch of nail on skin, and the deep sounds of two bodies desperate to climb into the other as if they would ever forget what it felt like to be together. 

Theo could feel Draco’s body against his now, no space needed. The heat and weight of their chests together felt like the biggest comfort he could never forget. His body remembered the map of Draco’s skin underneath, the way he would shudder when Theo traced the softest line of his thigh, and the deep-throated cry he would make when Theo bit at just the right places. Theo felt Draco’s hand card through his hair as he pressed against the smaller, softer roundness of his body. He could feel their chests rise and fall, and the echoing heartbeat in his ears was a reminder that time was fleeting, but held its own suspended moments if you were present enough. 

He tried to think of how long he could stretch this particular moment, mold it into exactly what he wanted, enough to cause it to linger in his memory to bring out on his worst day.

“Come on now, darling,” Theo pressed his lips to Draco’s. “No more talking.”

He pushed away, and held out his hand to Draco, intent, meaning, and desire in one gesture. Draco took it, and pressed it against the bulge at the front of his trousers. 

“Don’t start that,” Theo hummed, his senses utterly alight. “It won’t last and I want it to last.”

“We can go twice,” Draco laughed, holding Theo’s hand to the spot with mischief in his grey eyes. 

“Bastard,” Theo muttered, and pulled away. He pressed his fingers into Draco’s hips and pushed him back through the kitchen, towards the stairs, his blood hot as his hand roamed everywhere. Draco’s breath was ragged, and by the time it came to go up the stairs, so was Theo’s. 

“I swear, Theo, I will,” Draco gasped, his mouth on Theo’s neck as they attempted the second flight of stairs. “I am going to love you like this forever.”

“I know, darling boy, I know,” Theo soothed, knowing what Draco needed more than words could ever say. 

There was nothing soft about Theo’s approach that night. He pulled Draco’s shirt up and over his head with the minimum amount of button fussing, and made quick work of his trousers, pulling open the placket as he maneuvered them both towards the bed. His own waistcoat, trousers and shirt were off before he hit the mattress next to Draco. 

“Come on.” Theo’s hands dug into Draco’s shoulders as he pushed him down, the give of the soft mattress making them feel like they were sinking into each other. 

He captured Draco’s arms above his head and allowed his full weight to rest on him, kissing with tongues and teeth, all desire and love in a single touch. 

Theo felt Draco’s warm hands wind around his shoulders, down his sides, pulling them closer. The tension reached new heights each time their cocks touched, or even grazed, and it was almost too much for Theo to bear. Draco loved the tease, loved dancing right on the edge and trying to stay there until he couldn’t do anything but give in. 

“Trying to get spanked, darling boy?” Theo chided. 

Draco whined, and wiggled against him. 

The heady sound of the slap of his hand against Draco’s thigh was a discovery that had stayed with Theo for years, and the memory was a frequent replay on lonely nights. Theo ground into the man below him, Draco’s fingers clutching at his shoulders. He watched Draco’s eyes slip closed, with his head back, his lips wet, and felt him lean into the touch. Theo teased his thighs and ass with short, sharp smacks that made Draco writhe. 

Theo knew precisely how to subdue Draco when he wanted, and also knew when to let him lose. 

“Theo…” Draco warned, his eyes blown dark, hinting at the emotion beneath them. A dark desire that they chased on the most difficult of nights, sated only by their hunger to take and be taken in a way that no one else had ever done. 

Or ever could do. 

Theo quickly reached over to the bedside table, disentangling himself from Draco temporarily. A moment to get his wits. 

And the lube. 

Draco had wasted no time turning over, the bend of his leg showing off all of his best parts. The days Theo had spent worshiping his love’s ass were many. Never quite sure which he loved more: spreading the cheeks to tease him with his tongue, or to shut him up with a firm thrust of his cock. 

“No, turn around,” Theo murmured, “I need to see your face.”

Draco languidly stretched as he turned, his cock hard and proud. He reached for Theo, and his fingertips brushed his thighs. 

“Tell me what you want, husband,” Theo’s voice came out strangled at Draco’s touch. He knew, like he always knew, but wanted to hear it from Draco’s lips. 

Draco reached down his sides, and spread himself. Theo sucked in a breath. 

“Tell me,” Theo raised an eyebrow as he positioned himself over Draco’s body. He gently slid an oiled finger in, and the moan this brought from both of them surprised Theo as it was muffled in the heavy drapes, plush rug, and bedsheets. 

Theo repeated his order. Draco caught his eye, already flushed. 

“Please,” he gasped as Theo added a second finger. “Please.”

Theo hummed, working his fingers in tandem. He was so swollen, already. So pillowy and slick, and ready. Already. 

“Please what?”

“Please, Theo,” Draco panted. 

Theo shook his head, and withdrew his fingers. Draco cried out his name over and over until Theo’s hand was back inside of him. 

“Theo– Theo, Please. Please. Darling. My love. Theo– Please–” 

Leaning down to purr in Draco’s ear, Theo asked, “What am I?”

Draco keened, whimpered, whispered, “Husband.”

Theo nodded, sharply crooking his fingers up to stroke his love’s prostate in an unrelenting cadence. 

“I want you, husband, please.”

Theo slotted himself against Draco’s entrance, and entered him achingly slow. He savored the tightness– and the comfort– that was Draco. He felt the tension in Draco’s body, felt the heat radiating from his strawberry flush, and Theo lifted Draco’s knees to his chest. He encircled Draco’s ankles with his fingertips, and he thrust slowly, almost gently. 

Gently if you had never been fucked by Theo. Draco knew he was just holding back. He found a pace, dragging himself in and out, hitting just the right spot inside of Draco, and Theo watched the flush creep down his chest. The sound of their skin against each other was hypnotic and rhythmic, and Theo lost himself– like he had lost himself so many times– in his love, all over again. 

Draco was about to say something, but the snap of Theo’s hips cut him off, his head thrown back as he fisted the sheets. His body rose slightly, making Theo crave him even more, watching himself disappear inside of his love.

He knew neither of them would last long, too much need, and too much emotion.

“Thought about this, so many nights...” Theo admitted as he thrust particularly deep, relishing in the feel of Draco around him. “Wondered what it would be like to live in a world where we–”

“I wanted...so many times…I wanted to ask you. I’ve wanted to ask you for so long,” Draco was panting, his skin hot and red as his pleasure built. Theo never tired of seeing him splayed out, and wanting. 

“Now you have me,” Theo didn’t want to think about anything, just Draco under him, fucking him ruthlessly, letting himself give over to the pure feeling of absolute correctness. 

“Theo, please… God, don’t stop, ever.  Just like that…” Draco babbled, head shifting from side to side, his hands blindly reaching out to touch Theo wherever he could connect as much flesh to bone. 

“It’s alright to let go, darling. Husband,” Theo ground out, sweat-slicked as he felt himself starting to lose control, his thighs shaking as he leaned down, eyes wide open as he took Draco’s mouth in a bruising kiss, urging him on. “I’m going to come inside of you. Make you mine.”

Draco took himself in hand, wrist working the underside of his head. Their eyes locked again, and Draco groped blindly with his free hand to wrap around Theo’s wrist. Their bodies fell into rhythm again, Draco surging forward to meet Theo’s lunge. 

“Please, Draco, please– I want to,” Theo begged, suddenly, their ultimate reversal of roles playing out. “Please.”

Theo’s body shook as Draco smiled at him, and nodded, urging him silently to completion. Theo lost himself, lost everything but Draco in that moment, and pushed through the mounting sensitivity to get Draco to the same place. Theo swatted Draco’s hand away, and took over the stokes as he gently worked his dick in and out of Draco’s leaking hole. 

“It’s alright, my love,” Theo whispered, feeling the strain in Draco’s body. “I’m right here.”

“Yes,” Draco shuddered, his eyes pinching shut. “The–ohhh”

Theo watched Draco release over his hand, coating the shaft and pooling on their bellies. It didn’t ever get old. He never, ever would tire of watching Draco at his completion. Their breath mingled, gasping and warm, from the intensity of the moment. They stared at each other for a beat, eyes wide open, hands still joined, until Theo laid down beside Draco, and pulled him to his chest. 

Their stomachs and chests were now coated, and cooling, but they didn’t care. Theo stared at his ring, the gold bright and glinting in the lamplight. It was… perfect. He told Draco so, in a hushed whisper. They held each other quietly. The street was quiet. The house was quiet. 

Together, they started seeing the possibilities of their life together. It was different– but they could see a way forward again. That had to count for something.

Chapter Text

If only, Draco thought, this first problem would be the biggest problem that he and Hermione would face as a married couple. 

“Of course this won’t be the biggest problem you ever face, but it very well could be,” Theo frowned, listening to Draco tell the story, Draco’s gorgeous fair head resting in his lap. 

“Your mother has decided to keep the Tsarina of Russia tiara in her possession for the time being,” the Marquess revealed from across his desk. 

“No!” Theo gasped. “That’s a cut; even I know that’s a cut. They can’t just… not give her a tiara, it’s absolutely traditional.”

Draco rolled his eyes, directly in front of his father, and did not care. It was all so laughable now, that for the time being, he wondered why he had been so afraid of his father for so long. Oh, right– because of the constant taunting, cruelty, and expectation of perfection for his entire life. That must have been why. 

“Is there a Grand Duchess of Russia tiara that Lady Hermione could use instead? Perhaps the Great Serf of Russia tiara?” asked Draco laconically, leaning against his father’s drinks cabinet in the library. 

“My god, don’t tell me you actually managed to say that to your father? That’s masterful,” Theo laughed, and pulled Draco close, ruffling his hair with great affection. “The Great Serf of Russia, my sweet boy.”

“Perhaps the young lady has a tiara from her family line that she wishes to wear? Your mother’s family has possessed the Tsarina of Russia for four generations and she finds herself loathe to part with it,” his father explained, narrowing his eyes. 

“It does have three fifteen carat emeralds and over a hundred carats of diamonds, oh and all that yummy old gold– I wouldn’t want to give up the old girl either,” Theo commiserated with his not-quite-mother-in-law. 

Draco nodded carefully, considering, “In order to properly insult the young lady, I shall order my valet to fold her a paper crown from the financial section of the Daily Prophet, to remind her of the vast gulf between us. She’ll understand her true inferiority then, I’m sure.”

Almost surprised at his son’s waspishness, the Marquess moved on, his face becoming more magenta by the moment, “You will also need to discuss the matter of your income with my man, at a date that suits you. You will be receiving an increased living upon marriage, so do make sure that Lady Hermione is in check with her spending.”

Theo hummed, and made to remove himself from the bed to get his diary. Draco held him back, bodily, and they spent a long few minutes grappling on the bed, laughing, and forgetting. 

Draco laughed after he consulted his agenda and agreed on a date with his father. “Aren’t you pleased at all that I’ve decided on a wife?”

Theo hummed again, this time with pleasure, as he straddled Draco’s thighs, pinning his wrists to the bed. “For all you’ve decided on a wife…”

“The Lady seems a reasonable sort,” he admitted, and turned shrewd. “I’m sure that her father was well pleased with the elevation. A doctor. Goodness, I didn’t know the Queen ennobled tradesmen.”

Draco bucked up against Theo, trying to shake him off, but Theo encircled his wrists more firmly, and bit down firmly on Draco’s shoulder. Draco keened, lifting his chin in the air, pressing his skull back into the pillow, desperate for more of Theo’s mouth. 

“Oh, it was advantageous for all concerned,” Draco replied glibly. “I get a wife and she gets to be a Marchioness. Nothing to do with my good traits at all.”

The Marquess glared again, but Draco found that it had no effect. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead reached into the cabinet behind him and pulled out an unopened bottle of Scotch Whisky. 

With his hands fisted in the sheets, Draco tried in vain to get Theo to release his wrists. They’d be bruised tomorrow, but he ached to touch him, to feel him, to pull him close and pull him inside. Theo teased, and teased, and whispered his name into the curve of his neck, the hollow of his collarbone, the jut of his hipbone.

“This looks good. Is it good?” He tucked it under his arm, and turned towards the door. “Please let Mother know to expect your invitation shortly. We’re thinking of just heading down to the local public house and getting married there– why spend money on a commoner? She’s just an heiress with a fifty five thousand pound dowry . So, no big deal, right?”

Theo slipped inside of Draco, ready, waiting, and wanting, and set a brutal, punishing pace. Without realizing, Theo released Draco’s wrists, and the hot, instant surge of blood back to his fingers made Draco cry out with the ache of it, and he ghosted his numb fingers down Theo’s back. Theo groaned, loud in Draco’s ear

Without being dismissed, Draco left the library and walked right out of Winchester House before the Marquess could say a single word. 

Draco pulled his knees up, allowing deeper access to Theo, and panted, willing himself to keep from climaxing. 

He regretted it almost immediately, knowing that he now had to tell Hermione that she wouldn’t get the tiara, and also tell her that they now had to wed in a pub. He tucked the bottle at his side, suddenly aware that he was walking down the street with a full bottle of liquor, and kept it to the building side of his body. 

Theo wasn’t having it. He pressed harder, faster, taking Draco apart at the very seams. 

She’d probably think it was a grand idea. Draco snorted at the thought of her in a white dress with a drunk passed out at the table beside her. 

They came apart within moments of one another, Theo hitting his peak moments before Draco. Draco followed with a sharp, intense death, as Theo rode out the last of his deep, devastating peak. They lay, shattered, sweating, and breathing hard. 

“We should talk about your marital problems more often, sweetness,” Theo chuckled, biting Draco’s shoulder again, nearly perfectly over the double crescent purple of the first bite. 

Hermione looked particularly fine the night she met the Marquess in a pale grey evening gown, swagged and festooned with little pink silk flowers. Modestly, she wore only a pair of pearl drop earrings that she confided in Draco were fake. Ha, spendthrift? Hermione? Fifty five thousand pounds in her dowry and she wore fake pearls. 

The Marquess and Marchioness of Winchester were all cool politeness as they greeted Sir George and Lady Hermione in the gallery. The Marquess stiffly guided Hermione down the long room, pointing out the portraits of various ancestors with similar blonde hair and high foreheads. Draco’s mother, fragile looking at the best of times, looked positively diminutive beside Hermione’s hulking father. 

Draco found himself enjoying Sir George’s company, especially after a glass or three of wine. The longer the night went on, the more courses set in front of them, the more enthusiastically Sir George told stories. The only thing that could have made the evening more enjoyable would have been the inclusion of Theo, although, how do you request another invitation for your illicit husband?

On the other hand, the Marquess seemed to close up tighter and tighter by the minute. Draco noticed, and the old feelings of his childhood welled up tight and around his throat. A scrape of a chair on the floor became the sound of his father slamming a door, the sound of a napkin being shaken out became the sound of his father’s belt slipping from it’s place, ready to strike. 

The good wine had helped Draco ignore it for a while, but by the time the cheese course had been served, the Marquess was no longer acknowledging anyone who spoke to him and was electing to stare at the large Gainsborough bucolic at the Eastern end of the dining room. 

“This stilton is particularly good,” Hermione had said to the Marquess, her tone airy but high. 

He continued to contemplate the Gainsborough. 

Hermione raised her brows, but looked down at her plate. 

The room quickly became much too hot for Draco and he tugged at his stiff, white bow tie. Maybe Goyle had used the starch that made his skin itchy again. 

On the Marquess’ other side, Draco’s soon to be father-in-law asked him a question about the upcoming red stag hunting season. 

The Marquess instead looked at the hunting scene. 

Draco realised that he wouldn’t be able to make it through the rest of the meal with this godforsaken tie on. 

He would beat Goyle purple for using that fucking starch again. 

His ears rang. 

And then there was a pressure on his calf. A steady, circular pressure. Draco opened his eyes. He didn’t realise he had closed them. 

Hermione smiled softly at him, and kept the soft, soothing rhythm with her foot on his leg. 

“I wonder if the Lord St. Armand would show me the Tintoretto again after dinner? I have a fondness for the Venetians,” Hermione said into the silence of the dining room. 

Relief threatened to undo him. Tears stung behind his eyes, hot and sharp—and then he looked up just in time to see Hermione locked in an unflinching, silent staring contest with the Marquess. Laughter rose to meet them, wild and breathless, but he held it down and silent.

For a long, long moment, Draco could see the thoughts in his father’s head. Annoyance, then a deeper flicker of something uglier—anger, wounded pride, helpless fury. It crept up his neck like blood rising– and still Hermione eyed him with the same placid, calm expression and continued to rub Draco’s leg with her foot. She didn't flinch. She didn’t blink. She knew exactly how dangerous this was—and did it anyway. Her breathing was even and plain as Lucius turned pink, then red, then purple, until he finally pushed himself back from the table with an aching scratch of wood on marble and left. 

Silence followed. The clink of silverware resumed, carefully, as though nothing had happened at all.

“Please accept my apologies for my father,” Draco was able to say to Hermione’s father. “He does so suffer with gas after eating quail.” 

His mother’s mouth dropped open with astonishment, and gestured for more wine for Sir George. 

Hermione giggled, and Draco smiled, and he could feel his heart beat slowing as he took comfort in the warm amber of her eyes. 

They were going to be married quicker than seemed strictly proper, having elected to marry at the Grangers’ Brook Street home. They would have the breakfast after, of course, for the few people they had invited. Draco had hoped half-heartedly that he could keep Harry and Ron from attending, but Hermione had shaken her head and firmly said that couldn’t be done. Especially if Ginevra was to attend, and Draco had a soft spot for Ginevra. Draco sighed, resigned, and allowed the two morons to be invited.

The morning of the wedding came sooner than either Draco or Hermione imagined it would. The invitations had been sent out weeks before, and Draco, Theo and the bad lads had all gotten their morning coats in ship shape. Hermione asked Ginny and Lady Pansy to stand up with her as bridesmaids, although Draco would have more ushers on his side. The ladies showed up to the Brook Street townhouse at half past eight in the morning and had their hair done by a French coiffeur before squeezing Hermione into her locally-made dress. 

The Marquess’ lips had pinched when Hermione revealed that a London seamstress would be making her dress and not a French couturier. They pinched even further, disappearing into his face, when Hermione’s father had extolled the cost-savings. 

The vicar was set to do the service in the blue and yellow drawing room at Sir George’s Brook Street home at a quarter til ten in the morning. He shook Draco’s hand after greeting the Marquess and Marchioness, and then Sir George and Lady Amelia. Professor Binns, there on invitation with his wife, who was playing the harp, monopolized the father of the bride, as well as holding court for any Eton man there. Theo waited with Blaise, Adrian, Marcus, and Terence, milling about and passing around a lovely silver and horn flask. Harry, Ron and a few others that Draco didn’t know milled around as well, drinking from a dented tin flask. Draco made a note to purchase a decent flask for Ginevra for Christmas. 

Just at ten, Mrs Binns struck up a dignified tune on her harp, a request from Hermione, and Ginny and Pansy came in ahead of the bride in smart slate blue afternoon dresses carrying a handful of pink peonies each. The doors to the drawing room opened again, and Hermione and her father crossed the room towards Draco, standing with Theo in his full morning suit. 

Draco turned immediately and shot Theo a look. Theo raised his eyebrows and offered a small, private smile. Hermione looked… Draco thought he had probably never seen a lovelier woman. Her hair was barely contained; it was a humid day that promised a late afternoon rain storm, and it seemed to be straining at the pins that held it back and away from her face in a lovely caramel colored cloud. It was quite a large puff, but Draco had come to really like the shade of it, and the barely tame nature of it. 

Hermione did not need the Tsarina of Russia tiara with it’s three fifteen carat emeralds. She didn’t need any tiara at all. The sprigs of orange blossom pushed into her curls were crown enough, and emphasised her youth and vitality, although she insisted she was an old maid. Her veil was dense with embroidered flowers, but he could still make out her smile beneath it.

The music came to a gentle end as Hermione and her father ended their walk in front of the fireplace with the mantle strewn with pink roses and peonies, and lush greenery. Sir George placed Hermione’s warm, little hand in Draco’s and lifted his daughter’s veil. He seemed near to tears.

Draco’s jaw ached to drop at the sight of her. She was flushed pink (from the heat of the day? From embarrassment?) and her skin was dewy and stunned him with how soft her cheek appeared. She smiled, eyes downcast and then flicking up to his, long, dark lashes fringing her honey colored eyes. 

But that dress. Dear god, that dress. It pulled her in at the waist, flared gently at the hips, clung to her shoulders, made way for her delicate clavicles, and the graceful length of her unadorned throat. He appreciated and admired the confection of the ivory silk duchess satin dress, but all of it paled beside the utterly distracting rise of her frankly magnificent bust.

The vicar did his service in a short enough time. Still too long for Draco’s taste, but anything over four minutes was bound to bore and annoy him. He did enjoy looking at Hermione as the service went on, and he didn’t even mind holding her hand, or chstely kissing her at the end.

“Is it alright,” Draco whispered to Theo after the ceremony, watching his new wife mingle with their gathered guests, “that I stared at Hermione’s tits the entire service?”

“Fucking hell,” whispered Theo back, glancing over to her as well, “there wasn’t anywhere else worth looking.”

“Hey,” Draco elbowed him, “that’s my wife you’re talking about.”

They had a full breakfast after, to the general enjoyment of the attendees. Hermione’s mother had made the trip, and Draco was intrigued by Lady Amelia, who spent her time beekeeping in Kent. It seemed to be the perfect union:  the classic, upper crust marriage where they were very sorry that they could not see more of each other, but schedules were busy. Harry and Ron obliquely knew The Bad Lads from Eton, although they were not friends, and they were cheerful and congenial enough. The party was rounded off by a few of Hermione’s friends that Draco had not met: Miss Lovegood, a cousin of the Weasleys that Hermione enjoyed, and Neville Longbottom, another Etonian that Draco had to make a double take upon seeing again. 

“Did you see Longbottom?” Draco whispered to Theo over breakfast. “I didn’t recognize him at all.”

Theo glanced at him the way they had glanced at Hermione’s tits earlier, “He’s sure grown up, I wouldn’t mind–”

Draco stomped on Theo’s foot, and Theo barked a laugh just a hair too loudly. 

They left one by one, or in pairs, following the Marquess and Marchioness who only stayed long enough to have a bit of cake and to shake Draco’s hand. Eventually, it was just a handful left aside from the happy couple: Harry and Ginny, Ron, Pansy, Theo, and Hermione’s parents.

“I suppose we should go walk in Hyde Park tomorrow morning? See and be seen and all,” asked Hermione, shifting in her seat to whisper to Draco beside her. 

Draco glared at her, “Early afternoon, darling. I want them all to think I kept you up quite late. For appearances, of course.”

“It’ll be odd being allowed to be alone with you any time,” she mused, and scraped a few crumbs of cake off of her plate with the back of her fork. 

“Theo will be there,” Draco pointed out. 

“Are you going to eat the rest of your slice?” she asked, eyeing his. He pushed it towards her and shook his head. “I’m definitely tainted by that association.”

“That’s the best way to be,” Draco assured her. 

Hermione hummed, and looked down the table at Theo, locked into animated conversation with Pansy. “Will you miss him while we’re on honeymoon?”

“Of course,” Draco replied, and took a long, slow drink of his white wine. “But I’ll be back soon, and you’ll be poking up to Cambridge, and that will be that.”

“Why didn’t he plan to come?” asked Hermione, realizing for the first time that she’d never asked. 

Draco chuckled, “Almost think you’re not looking forward to our time together, wife. ”

Hermione huffed and kicked under the table, catching the leg of Draco’s chair. Point made. “Wouldn’t you have more fun on honeymoon with him? I’m sure it's all architecture and art and sculptures and boring for you.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m a great lover of–”

Draco didn’t have time to respond. Behind him, the door flung open and the Grangers’ butler boomed, “His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.”

Conversation stilled. Everyone more or less stumbled to their feet.

“St Armand!” the Prince called cheerfully as he strode in, clapping Draco on the shoulder and offering a hearty handshake. “My apologies for missing the ceremony itself—I was cornered by a bishop and half a cabinet. But I couldn’t miss the chance to offer my congratulations in person.”

“You’re very kind, sir,” Draco smiled, and lowered his voice slightly. “You’ve just missed my parents.”

“Excellent news,” Bertie said, then added, sotto voce, “You may tell your father I send my most insincere regrets.”

Hermione barely stifled a laugh behind her gloved fingers. The Prince turned toward her, eyes crinkling in delight.

“Lady St. Armand,” he said with a bow.

She swept a low curtsy, graceful and effortless. “Your Royal Highness.”

“And may I greet your parents?”

“Of course. Sir George and Lady Amelia Granger.”

He greeted them with practiced warmth, said all the right things to Lady Amelia, and offered polite nods to the Weasleys and Harry. When he reached Theo, his smile turned sly.

“And the infamous Captain Nott,” he said. “I expected to find you halfway to Cairo by now.”

“I thought I might hang about a bit longer, sir. Just in case this marriage doesn’t take,” Theo replied, bowing.

Bertie laughed. “At least you're honest about it. And speaking of your arrangement—Saint Armand, how do you manage to keep your bride looking so radiant after an entire wedding day?”

“I do very little,” Draco said lightly. “She came radiant.”

Bertie turned to Hermione and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “He’s always been good with speeches. Better with trouble.”

“He’s already a handful,” she agreed.

“I arranged the honeymoon, you know,” Bertie told her. “Figured it was the least I could do for the man who held my cravat while I vomited on my wedding night.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Somehow, he failed to mention that.”

“Bad luck to reveal the destination,” Bertie said quickly, elbowing Draco. “That’s half the fun. You’ve kept it quiet?”

“Only Captain Nott knows,” Hermione said, nodding toward Theo. “And he can be bribed.”

“Not cheaply,” Theo added.

“Naturally,” nodded the Prince. “When you return, the three of you will dine with me. I won’t have this marriage go uncelebrated.”

“We’d be honored,” said Hermione, dipping again into a curtsy.

Bertie’s gaze followed the graceful line of her movement—he wasn’t alone. Both he and Theo looked briefly, unapologetically admiring. Draco noticed.

“God help me, I’ve got to get back to St. James’s—Jubilee preparations. Endless meetings, commemorative tea towels, and some kind of choreographed choir of schoolchildren I’m apparently meant to enjoy. How exactly did you get leave to be absent for this?”

“With luck, sir,” Draco murmured, leading him to the door. “And I believe your mother is a great believer in the institute of marriage.”

Bertie took his hat from Goyle and paused at the threshold. “You’ve married well, St. Armand. Damn you.”

“With luck, sir,” Draco murmured.

The Prince looked back, gaze sharp with something just short of mischief. “It’s not just the luck I envy, you know.”

He flicked a glance to Hermione—poised, radiant, just out of earshot—then back to Draco.

“It’s what you get to take home with you.”

He smiled, rakish and fond, and stepped into the sunlight.

The door shut behind him.

“It really was a lovely wedding, Draco,” Ginny declared, letting him escort her to the door, Harry and Ron trailing behind. “Even if it was totally fake.”

Behind them, on Ron’s arm, Hermione smiled. “I never would’ve gotten here if you hadn’t taken me to Binns’ salon. I suppose this is all your fault.”

“I would’ve married you, you know,” Ron said lightly, but his face was serious.

Hermione squeezed his arm. “I know you would’ve.”

He sighed. “Especially with Lavender eloping to Gretna Green. Didn’t see that one coming.”

“Strike while the iron’s hot,” she said. “Don’t let the next one get away.”

Ron laughed, wide and bright. “First you, then Lavender. I’ve got dreadful timing.”

At the door, Ginny turned suddenly and planted a kiss squarely on Draco’s mouth.

He froze. Blinked. Then pulled back slowly, brows lifting in surprise.

“Jesus Christ, St. Armand,” Harry muttered, scandalized.

“It’s tradition,” Ginny said airily, adjusting her wrap. “A kiss for the groom.”

“On the mouth?” Ron barked a laugh.

Draco raised his brow, and smirked in Ron’s direction. “Would you like one too?”

Hermione gave him a sidelong glance. “Try it and I’ll hex your trousers off.”

“You say that like it’s a threat,” Draco murmured.

“Go home, Gin,” Hermione added louder, smiling. “You’re tipsy and causing trouble.”

“You’re welcome,” Ginny sang, sweeping out into the afternoon sunshine.

“What about me?” drawled Pansy from the doorway, one shoulder leaned lazily against the paneling. Her slate-blue bridesmaid’s dress shimmered in the light, and she made no move to step aside, to the growing irritation of the Grangers’ footman.

Ginny looked poised to do just that—press forward and kiss her—but at the last moment, a laughing Ron body-checked her clean out the door.

“Better luck next time, Pansy,” he called, manhandling his sister into the street. “Congratulations, you three.”

Pansy sighed, watching his broad shoulders disappear down the steps. “I’ll take my leave as well. Congratulations on the nuptials and all.”

She let herself out. The door clicked softly behind her, and for the first time in hours, the house fell quiet.

The three left behind let out a collective breath—relief, exhaustion, something else.

“It’s ridiculous for you to take a cab,” Hermione said, waving off Theo’s concerns as Draco draped her wrap around her shoulders. “We’re not leaving for the honeymoon right away, and I doubt anyone’s lurking out front to tattle.”

Draco’s hands lingered at her shoulders. Theo raised an eyebrow at him, then glanced away.

“You came in the new barouche, and there’s room for all three of us,” she said lightly. “Isn’t that why you caved and bought your own, Draco?”

“She does have a point, my love,” he murmured, fingers pressing in just slightly.

“Am I truly the only one who cares about your reputation?” Theo asked, sighing.

“I’m married,” Hermione replied. “I’ve gotten what I wanted. And I don’t particularly care if le beau monde thinks we’re odd. We are odd. Let them adjust.”

“The Queen sent a gift,” Draco added. “So we have the Imperial stamp of approval.”

“So did Port Colaba,” Theo muttered.

“I got the runs something awful in Port Colaba,” Draco said, wrinkling his nose. “Couldn’t drink anything but gin and tonics for weeks.”

Hermione and Theo exchanged a look.

“Sweetness,” Theo said dryly, “you never drank anything but gin and tonics in those years.”

Draco lifted his chin, mock wounded. “I drank plenty of scotch whiskey too.”

A footman cleared his throat delicately in the hall.

They took the hint. After brief goodbyes to her parents and reassurances from Theo, the three of them stepped out into the bright afternoon and climbed into the gleaming new barouche landau.

The city was warm, but not oppressive. Hermione and Draco sat together under the retractable leather shade while Theo lounged across from them, his eyes closed and face turned towards the light. Behind them, Hermione’s maid followed with the Granger footmen in a wagonette full of useless silver trays and monogrammed linen.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The wheels clattered softly over cobblestones, and somewhere nearby, a group of rowdy students spilled out of a public house. 

Hermione leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “If one more person asked me about the honeymoon, I was going to scream.”

“You could have,” said Theo. “Would’ve cleared the room.”

“And robbed me of every moment of attention,” Draco said with mock offense. “How cruel.”

She reached over without opening her eyes and rested her hand on Draco’s knee. Not possessive—just there. Real.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He didn’t ask for what. He just covered her hand with his own.

Theo opened one eye, observed the exchange, and said nothing. But he smiled—just a little—as the barouche rolled on.

Back at Berkeley Square, Theo slipped away for a nap, and Draco led Hermione to her new chambers on the second floor. She looked around the softly lit space—tasteful, elegant, unmistakably expensive—and nodded her thanks.

“It’s lovely,” she said softly.

Draco reached into his coat and handed her a small velvet box. “From His Royal Highness.”

She sat down at her dressing table and opened the box. She gasped, taking in the diamond and grey teardrop pearl earrings. 

“My god,” she whispered, running a fingertip across the grey luster, shining in every shade of white, pink, lavender, and powder blue where the light hit them, “they’re gorgeous."

“Not nearly as stunning as the way he described you,” Draco murmured, and Hermione flushed. 

“I’m sure his Royal Highness is very kind,” she replied finally, closing the box and setting it on her dressing table. “I’m sure he’s seen many more beautiful ladies.”

“Not nearly as stunning as the way he described you,” Draco said, his voice low.

In the mirror, their eyes met. Hermione flushed, the compliment sinking deeper than she’d like.

“I’m sure His Royal Highness is very kind,” she replied, closing the box and setting it down. “I imagine he’s seen far more beautiful women than me.”

Draco stepped behind her, his reflection a pale figure in the glass. Slowly, he reached forward, his fingers brushing the curve of her ear as he removed one earring, then the other. Her skin prickled at the touch.

“May I?” he asked, already lifting one of the new earrings from the box.

She gave a small nod, eyes still locked on his in the mirror.

He bent slightly, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath as he threaded the pearl into place. She swallowed.

“What did he say?” she asked quietly.

Draco didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes.

“That you were unforgettable,” he said at last. “That he was going to regret ever letting you leave.”

Hermione snorted, and the tension between them broke. Draco smiled back. 

“What did he really say?” she giggled, and touched the earrings. 

Draco moved in front of her, leaning against the dressing table to look at her straight on. He leaned down close to her ear again, and whispered, low and conspiratorial, “That he envied me... and advised I take full advantage of my good fortune.”

Hermione shoved him, laughing. “You’re a terrible marriage of convenience partner.”

“I’m wounded,” he gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “After all we’ve built—this glorious empire of scandal and social climbing.”

She gave him a once-over: the long, lean line of him, insolent mouth, and far-too-confident eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re expecting something more than a lavender marriage.”

“We never quite ruled it out,” he said, brushing a single finger along the ruffle of her bodice. Her skin prickled at the contact.

“Shall I call for your husband?” she murmured, lifting her left hand, the ring glinting as her fingers ghosted over his.

He leaned in, kissed her cheek, then between her brows.

“Spoilsport,” he whispered. “It must be the dress. It’s delicious.”

She huffed a laugh. “It must be.”

He turned to go, pausing in the doorway with a grin far too self satisfied.

“Let me know,” he said, “if you’d ever like me to distract you.”

Then he was gone.

Hermione turned back to the mirror, touched one of the pearls, and—despite her best efforts—smiled.

Chapter Text

Delivered to the Viscount St. Armand on the SS Ceylon on Thursday July the seventh, Porto, Portugal. Stamped London, England

Saturday, July 2nd, 1887

London, England

Dearest Draco, 

You have only been gone one night and I am already going mad with the quiet. I have watered all of your orchids myself, and misted the blossoms. Your favourite big violet one with the little black freckles has bloomed. I’m sorry you missed it. It bloomed overnight. 

I would imagine that you have made it onto the ship by now. I cannot tell you how jealous I am of that voyage. Around the world, like Jules Verne. Much longer than eighty days, but still. I wouldn’t be able to leave in Venice as you and Hermione will do. 

I hope she is a good companion for you. I remind myself hourly that she is a good, and true, woman that will bring, I hope, both of us companionship and friendship for the rest of our lives. She sees you. That alone makes me want to trust her. We are the lucky ones, Draco, the two of us. 

After Venice, I would stay on board and see India again. Some days I wake up in England and it’s so frigid I almost forget the heat of India. It’s very hot now– you left and took all the coolness with you. Without Goyle, the footmen barely make an effort with the infused water in the morning. By the time I woke this morning, most of the ice had already melted. Goyle would never allow such a thing.  

I digress. 

I don’t know what I’ll do with my time without you, except miss you, and mist your orchids, and wait for your letters like a lovesick teenage girl.

Your Faithful, 

T

Delivered to Captain Theodore Nott Saturday, July ninth in the afternoon post. Stamped Porto, Portugal

Sunday, July 3rd, 1887

From the steamship Ceylon, somewhere between Cherbourg and Porto, closer to Cherbourg

My Darling Theo, 

We’ve made it to open water, finally. I’ve written to you about how uncomfortable the train was to Southampton, and the ferry to Cherbourg, and I don’t ever want to talk about the state of the porters at the quay there. We nearly did not get on board the Ceylon. Next time, remind me to only embark in England and England only. The French don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. Inefficient idiots. 

The food has been fairly good on board. The liquor is second to none. I don’t mind bad food if the gin is good. The whiskey is good too. I wasn’t sure what to expect exactly on a ship like this, but it’s comfortable enough. The ship will go on past Venice where we disembark, all the way past Greece, through the Suez, and stop in Bombay for a time. From there, it goes down to Australia, then Hawaii and back around again through the Americas. 

I could not be on board that long. The bed is short, even for me, but the mattress is comfortable. I cannot tell you how much I miss you, and wish to be with you again. 

Hermione says hello and I’ve told her to write. She does not seem to dislike the trip. She reads a lot and gets tan in the sun. I think she enjoys being somewhere no one expects anything of her. I find I’m watching her more than I mean to.

Your affectionate, and loyal,

D Malfoy

Delivered to the Viscountess St. Armand on the SS Ceylon on Thursday July the seventh, Porto, Portugal. Stamped London, England

Saturday, July 2nd, 1887

London, England

Dear Hermione, 

I do hope that the Ceylon is as comfortable as you would like it to be. You don’t strike me, after our brief acquaintance, as one who particularly cares for the comforts or amenities of land. I think you would have been quite at home with Her Majesty’s finest 16th The Queen’s Lancers in Bombay back when I was there. It was as hot as I’m sure it is now coming round the bottom of Spain.  It was all camp beds and mosquito netting and baths once a week. The food was incredible though, once you were used to it. Adventurous eating. 

I hope Draco isn’t giving you fits. Has he stayed out of the sun? He burns like a matchstick if he even looks at the sunshine wrong. He’s a good travelling companion, though, if you keep him intoxicated enough. A bit of sweet wine at breakfast and lunch, and gin in the evening, and he’ll keep you in stitches. I hope you’re getting along, my darling girl. I hope he’s listening to you laugh, and quizzing you on the circulatory system. You were really getting it down the last time we worked on it. 

I hope you’re more than getting along. I hope you’re having a wonderful time. Please spare a thought for poor, sad Uncle Theo in London. I’m bored and contemplating what kind of mischief I’ll get into while Mummy and Daddy are away. No one laughs at my bad jokes here, except Blaise’s head housemaid, and I fear she’s angling for my hand in marriage. I might burn down parliament. 

I’m only kidding. I’d never call you Mummy and Daddy. 

Your devoted friend,

T Nott

Delivered to Captain Theodore Nott Saturday, July ninth in the afternoon post, stamped Porto, Portugal

Sunday, July 3rd, 1887

From the steamship Ceylon, somewhere between Cherbourg and Porto, closer to Cherbourg.

Dear Teddy, 

Draco and I have sat down in our stateroom after lunch and he told me he was writing a letter to you so I decided to do the same. The beginning of the journey was nothing short of harrowing– I was almost crushed by one of Draco’s huge trunks in Cherbourg. He’s had to stow one of his trunks in my bedroom because all of his will not fit in his. I think that’s ridiculous. I like a nice dress, but even I didn’t bring half of what he did. He brought everything, I think, because I noticed yesterday afternoon he was wearing your light grey waistcoat. I hope you don’t miss it too much. He’s very inconsiderate. You should go get a new one made, my treat. 

The ship is lovely, and I hear that I have you to thank for pointing Draco in this direction. I suppose I should thank you for booking it and planning it as well, as I’m sure Draco did not. You may have pointed in this direction, but I doubt he noticed. He’s not unkind to me, but I am well aware that I am not his choice in travelling companion. I suppose that’s an odd sort of feeling. I’m on my honeymoon and my husband is nothing short of courteous and attentive, but at night we go to our separate beds and wake in the morning alone. It’s more like I’m on an extended studying holiday. I plan on spending most days on our small, private promenade deck reading and studying. It’s not a honeymoon, and that suits me. 

Draco walked about the deck this morning in just his shirtsleeves, his hair windblown and untidy, and I found myself looking far longer than necessary. Perhaps it’s just that I’ve spent too many hours with my books and not enough with people. But still—I wonder what you would make of him, in this light, away from England. Not that you haven’t had time away from England with him… I wonder if this was the Draco you met in India. 

I do wish there were some companionship to be had on the ship—someone under seventy, perhaps, and unattached. But that would only distract me further. I think I miss talking to someone who makes me laugh without trying. You always have, without even trying. You’re the only one who knows how to do that—on purpose or otherwise. I like laughing at Harry and Ron and Ginny makes me smile, and I laugh AT Draco as well, but you make me laugh. 

I’m sure I don’t know why I’m writing to you of all people to not-complain about your husband. Only that you know him better than I do, and something about that makes me feel... closer to both of you. I think it’s that he and I are now alone and we rarely have been. The times where I felt I was making progress with him were the times you were there as well. 

I’m rambling. Please send advice. 

All my best, 

Hermione

Delivered to Captain Theodore Nott Saturday, July eleventh in the morning post, stamped Port of Gibraltar, British Overseas Territory

Wednesday, July 6th, 1887

From the steamship Ceylon, somewhere between Porto and Gibraltar, closer to Gibraltar

My Darling Theo,

The journey continues and Hermione and I have found our rhythm. We wake and have breakfast privately, and I take my leave of her around half past nine to walk the upper decks and look out at the scenery passing by. We will pass by Gibraltar soon. The last time I was there, I was so sad I didn’t enjoy the old rock. The only thing that would make me feel better then was your lock of hair in my watch, and I still have it with me every day. I have read two of the books from the ship’s library, and I am dissatisfied with the rest. I will disembark at Gibraltar and attempt to find a bookshop. With any luck it will be half decent. 

We meet with the other passengers for lunch, which is usually some kind of salad and some kind of pate and some fruit. The others are lively and conversational. I’ve made friends with the elderly Lord Cortlandt. I was acquainted before; his seat is in Wiltshire as well. A few days we have played chess before tea, which is enjoyable. He is good at the game. 

Dinner is a nicer meal, but still only five courses. The wine is better now that we have Spanish wine instead of French. I’m off on the French. Hermione sometimes sits with me in the lounge to listen to the orchestra, which is really just three Russian men with violins and a sour looking old lady with a harp. Mostly she keeps to herself. We talk over a drink before bed in our suite, and it’s off to bed for her before eleven o’clock. I stay up a bit later, and a few nights I have returned to the saloon to drink with other passengers, but I have not made any chums. 

Hermione is nice, but quiet. Quieter than at home, though she seems at ease. She’s taken to reading in her robe most mornings on the veranda—barefoot, hair unpinned, flushed from the sun. She looks... well. Well enough to make me forget myself, for a moment at least.

I don’t know why I noticed that. Perhaps it's just that I'm not used to seeing her without books in her lap and shoes on her feet.

I want her to enjoy herself. I keep thinking you’d know what to do—how to get her to laugh again like she did before we left. I don’t like the way the quiet feels when she’s in it.

The nights are still too lonely without you. I think this is the longest we have been apart since India. 

Your Affectionate, And Loyal,

D

Delivered to the Viscountess St. Armand on the SS Ceylon on Thursday July the eleventh, Barcelona, Spain. Stamped London, England

Saturday, July 9th, 1887

London, England

Dear Hermione, 

I do not have long to write. I have wasted my time before the evening post attempting to write to Draco and I’m very sorry for the brevity. It is difficult for me to be brief, but I will try. 

Like I said, I’ve just finished writing to Draco and decided I ought to write to you as well—mostly because I suspect neither of you is going to be the one to say the obvious thing first.

You should probably take him to bed.

He won’t make the first move. He’ll sit around being polite and wistful until one of you dies of frustration or propriety. And I have a sneaking suspicion you’re not quite as indifferent as you pretend to be.

Don’t worry about me. I’m not concerned about the two of you sleeping together. I know where I stand, and frankly, I think it might do him good. You too, if I’m guessing right.

I don’t think you’ll ruin anything by being kind to each other in that way. And I don’t think you need to overthink it, either.

You’ve both earned something sweet. 

Your devoted friend, 

Teddy

Delivered to the Viscount St. Armand on the SS Ceylon on Thursday July the eleventh, Barcelona, Spain. Stamped London, England

Saturday, July 9th, 1887

London, England

Dearest Draco,

I’ve started this letter four times and can’t seem to find a better way to say it, so here it is:

Take Hermione to bed.

You don’t have any reason not to, and I suspect you’ve already thought about it more than once. Stop being noble. Stop overthinking. She’s clever, capable, and very likely as frustrated as you are.

I spent the last two nights with our favourite bartender (you know the one), and later this week I plan to see Jessie Bond in Ruddigore and resume my long tradition of failing to seduce her. So rest assured, I’m not sitting at home pining in virginal silence.

I love you.
I love you.
I love you.

Enjoy the advantages of your highly practical marriage arrangement. You deserve a little pleasure. So does she.

Yours (with ink-stained fingers and no regrets),
Theo

It happened so slowly that Draco barely noticed the change. It also happened with such suddenness that, when he did realise it, it hit him like a gondolier had struck him with his punting pole in Venice.

It probably started in Gibraltar, with Theo’s letter: the proverbial punting pole. Draco had asked what he could do to help Hermione enjoy herself, but Theo’s response hadn’t exactly been what he’d expected.

Still, it had made Draco happy, in a quiet sort of way, to know Theo wasn’t lonely.

He thought about it more and decided, no—it had started before Gibraltar. Maybe somewhere off the coast of Portugal. Maybe earlier. Maybe before their wedding. But for the sake of a tidy narrative, Draco decided things had shifted the night after Marseilles.

That afternoon, the ship had stopped to refuel and take on provisions, and he’d convinced Hermione to leave the deck for a few hours.

“ Grey’s Anatomy will be here this evening when you return,” he said, gesturing toward the stack of books in their stateroom.

She blew a piece of hair off her cheek. “It’s not Grey’s .”

“Come on, then,” Draco coaxed. “I like Marseilles. I think you’ll like it too.”

She’d agreed, reluctantly. They’d walked along the promenade, the city rising up behind it in soft terraces, the dome of a church catching the afternoon sun.

“Did you know Marseilles is the oldest continually inhabited settlement in France?” Draco offered, helping her over a tall curb. “Quite possibly the oldest in Europe.”

Hermione made a humming noise. Not disinterested, but not encouraging either. Draco pressed on.

“Would you like to walk up to the old fort? They’re building a basilica on the ruins. I saw it last in ’78. It would be interesting to see how far along they are.”

She nodded. They bought two bottles of beer and an egg and cress pie wrapped in butcher paper to share along the way.

At the top, he walked her slowly around the structure, describing what had stood there before the renovation began. They didn’t speak much, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. She rested her hand on his arm as they walked—light, absentminded—and Draco didn’t mind it. Not at all. In fact, the longer it stayed, the more he found he liked it.

He couldn’t quite pinpoint what had changed in her. In London, Hermione was clever and open and sometimes prone to tangents. Here, at sea, she was quieter. Composed. Harder to read.

She might have been homesick. Or preoccupied with her entrance exams. She admitted to nerves, though she always had.

She looked healthy. Better than healthy. Her skin was warm from the sun, her curls wild from the salt air, her movements unhurried.

She laughed when he said something clever. She answered when he spoke. She even joined a game of charades with the other passengers the day before. By all accounts, she seemed fine. Content, even.

Still, Draco couldn’t get the dissonance out of his head.

Theo thought she was just… wanting. Had she written that to him? Draco would pay money—real money—to see her letters.

As was custom for the first night of a voyage, Hermione, Draco and the other passengers did not dress for dinner, and they ate simply in the dining room in their afternoon clothes. Hermione was quiet again, but charming to their table. When the ladies retired, she went with them.

Draco, instead of joining the men for brandy and cards, slipped away to the bar. He downed two shots of whiskey for courage, grabbed a bottle of wine, and walked back to their stateroom with the kind of misplaced confidence that came only from drinking alone.

She wasn’t in her bedroom. Or his. Or the bathroom.

He found her standing on the private promenade deck, back to him, framed by the low glow of gaslight and the endless spread of moonlit water.

She didn’t turn, but she heard him.

“Oh. Back so soon?” Hermione asked, voice soft and amused, as though she’d been expecting him.

It was such a simple thing to say, in such a simple moment, but the sight of her knocked something loose in him.

Her pale yellow dress shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Her hair was loose, curling from the sea air. The night air lifted the hem of her skirt just slightly, the whole image glowing with the kind of accidental poetry one rarely saw in real life.

She was lovely. Of course, he’d always known that. She was attractive. Objectively. But here, now—

She was very attractive.

Draco swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

“I’ve had a letter from Theo,” he said. “I thought I’d bring a bottle of wine up and we could read it together.”

She turned from the railing. “How is he?”

Draco shrugged, and shrugged off his jacket before joining her at the rail. “I think he’s a bit lonely but staying active.”

“Should have brought him, I said,” reminded Hermione. “Let this be the first lesson of our marriage. I’m always right.”

They looked out onto the ocean in silence again. 

“You’re right,” Draco admitted. “I think you’d have a better time if he were here.” 

Hermione startled. “Why would you say that?”

Draco took a moment to respond. Hermione had gotten used to his long silences. 

“You and he get along so well. I’ve seen how easily you talk and banter between you. It’s like you get each other. If he had come, I think you would be having a better time.”

The waves lapped gently against the hull as the ship turned slowly out of the bay. Ahead of them: open ocean. Behind them, the lights of Marseilles blinked like the last candles at a party neither of them had stayed long enough to enjoy.

“I’m having a fine time,” Hermione said. “It’s just… we don’t know each other very well. We’ve spent time together, yes, but I wouldn’t say I know you. And you were very clear—you didn’t marry me because I was anything special. You needed a wife, I needed a husband, and we’re managing that arrangement just fine.”

Draco didn’t answer. The wine was warm in his blood, making everything feel a little louder. A little closer. 

“So we shouldn’t try to be friends?” he asked, glancing back at the shrinking coastline. “I thought that was the goal.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Hermione sighed. “Just… give it time. Don’t force it. We’ve got the rest of our lives to get there.”

She paused, then added, quieter, “I know I’m not really your spouse. Not the way Theo is. And I don’t need to be.”

Draco inhaled, sharp and involuntary. Not in pain, but in truth. So completely true. There was nothing bitter in the way she said it. Just honesty, and something else too. Something he couldn’t name, but that landed in his chest like a weight.

He turned toward her fully. The moonlight caught the edge of his profile, all sharp cheekbones and unreadable expression. But for a flicker of a second, he looked remarkable unguarded.”

“I do like you, Hermione,” he said, voice low, a little hoarse. “I think you’re—fuck, I think you’re brilliant. And sharp. And lovely. And I’m not nearly drunk enough to pretend I haven’t noticed that you smell like sunshine and ink and peaches, is that peaches? God, you smell so good– and it’s distracting as hell.”

She stared at him.

Draco closed his eyes for a second, and the wood of the railing wasn’t nearly as grounding as he needed it to be. 

“I didn’t just marry you because it was convenient,” he admitted. “That was part of it. But not the only part. I thought I could… I thought we could be good to each other, or good for each other. Eventually.”

Hermione laughed a little, “Funny hearing you say that. Odd to think of you being unfaithful to Theo with your wife.”

“I’m sure Theo isn’t having any trouble finding companionship while we are away,” Draco smiled wryly. “But that’s neither here nor there.”

Hermione fell silent again, and the sound of the waves against the side of the ship lulled them both into a sort of trance. 

Draco broke the silence again, “Are you unhappy?”

Her brown eyes darted to his, “Why would you say that? I’ve gotten everything I wanted.”

Draco shrugged. “I know. That’s why I’m asking you.” 

“Are you only interested in men?” Hermione blurted, turning suddenly to Draco. “I thought you were, but I’d never asked, and I remember before I fell through the door in Ginny’s drawing room that you said you might impregnate another woman, and make an heir? I’m only asking because I was very, very stupid and although there were many moments I could have asked, I failed to–”

Draco barked out a laugh, startling Hermione into silence. “Which question should I answer first?”

Hermione boggled, and blinked, “I suppose the one about are you only interested in blokes.”

One corner of his mouth quirked. “No, Hermione. I’m not only interested in blokes. Mostly, I’ll admit, but not only.”

“And the impregnation thing?”

“What about it?”

“Do you wish to impregnate a mistress?” Hermione blurted. 

“I don’t have a mistress,” Draco replied. “I have a wife, and if she chooses, in due course, I would not be terribly opposed. I don’t think I’d be much of a father, but you’d be quite enough of a mother for my deficiencies to be glossed over.”

“What if I don’t want to have a child?” 

Draco shrugged, “Then I suppose you wouldn’t have a child. There’s plenty of ways to avoid it. Clearly, Theo and I have managed to not become parents in all this time, although we certainly have tried very hard.”

He noticed, after his blasé explanation which he was quite proud of, that Hermione was breathing quite hard. Her color had come up, he thought, or it was possible she had gotten a bit burnt by the sun. He did think it looked more like a flush, though. 

“Hermione–” he began, and reached for her, fingers brushing the soft underside of her forearm.

She jerked away like he’d sparked static.

Her eyes fluttered shut. “Take another step toward me and I’m not responsible for my actions.”

Draco froze. Her voice was breathy, but not weak. That was it—that was the punting pole. Right to the chest. A crack across the ribs, and suddenly everything felt different: the air, the space between them, the way her voice sank into his spine.

“Hermione,” he said again, stepping closer.

She didn’t open her eyes. Her breathing had gone shallow, her chest rising against the edge of her bodice like it might tear free of her altogether. She looked—overheated. Straining. Glorious.

Draco’s fingers itched. Every instinct he had screamed to undo the buttons, to press his mouth to every freckle she’d gathered in the sun. To help her let go.

He was on the very edge of something that would rewrite the course of his life—and still, he paused.

Hermione had clearly been Worked Up—with capital letters—for the entire day. Frankly, she’d been Worked Up for months.

The truth was a sorry one: she was now legally married to a man she was growing increasingly desirous of, and still had no idea if he was even attracted to her sex.

The truth begat a problem: Draco seemed infuriatingly oblivious to everything. Getting him to even notice her was a full-time effort.

On the first morning of their honeymoon, Hermione had hand-fed him a bite of an excellent lemon scone and let her fingers linger briefly against his bottom lip.

He hadn’t noticed.

Nor had he noticed when, after boarding the Ceylon, her wardrobe began shrinking by the day. First it was her décolletage, then her arms. By the third afternoon, she’d taken to reading on the veranda in little more than her chemise, petticoat, and a light robe.

She had done everything a woman could do to make herself noticed. She flirted, tastefully, with the other passengers. She let Draco take her arm when they walked, and brushed her fingers lightly over his hand.

She had done everything except say it outright.

Apparently he had noticed, though. Sunshine, ink, and peaches? What the hell does that even smell like? Did he know? Or was it just dramatics? Either way, he had actually noticed. 

Draco touched her arm.

Just a touch. He’d been particularly witty a moment earlier, teasing in that specific, maddeningly arousing way of his.

She pulled away, biting down every single thing she wanted to say.

“Take another step toward me and I’m not responsible for my actions,” was what came out.

She shut her eyes and backed away, gripping the rail so tightly her fingertips went numb. The waves were supposed to be calming—but the ship had picked up speed, and now they came faster, sharper, louder. No help at all.

He said her name again.

Everything slowed. Everything sped up.

She opened her eyes to find his hand hovering just above hers on the rail. Her rings, those enormous diamonds, caught the moonlight and flared like searchlights.

It was too much. Damn it, it was just too much.

“It’s too much,” she breathed, just one degree left of a moan. 

He set his hand down on her wrist slowly. It was maddening, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Draco,” she whispered. “I... I'm warning you.”

“What do you think I want?” he asked. “Hermione.”

Still too much. She shut her eyes again, overwhelmed by the slow circle of his fingers against her skin.

“I should ask you—”

Her head tipped sideways of its own accord, drifting toward where their hands met.

“What should you ask?” he murmured—his breath warm, suddenly very close to her ear.

Well. She wasn’t considered brave for nothing.

“Draco, in a very—” she gasped as his mouth brushed the side of her neck, “in a very friendly and entirely not romantic sort of way… would you be interested in being bedfellows?”

“I toss and turn in my sleep,” Draco murmured, kissing the length of her throat. “Theo calls me a bed terrorist.”

Hermione growled low in her throat. “Do you want to be intimately acquainted while we’re on this honeymoon and go back to just friends once we’re home?”

He paused.

She was immediately, viscerally annoyed. That had felt very good. She opened her eyes. Draco was looking at her with calm, unreadable, infuriating eyes.

“You’ll have to be very specific, my dear,” he said. “I’m quite literal.”

“I want you to put your cock inside me,” she said, far too quickly, tilting her head again in hopes he’d resume kissing her neck. “And I’d like to do that many, many times— provided the first is satisfactory to us both— and keep each other occupied until you go home to the man you really love. This is not a proposal.”

Draco chuckled. “I’ve already proposed marriage, so I believe I understand your intention.”

“Temporary,” she confirmed, stepping close until her skirts brushed his legs. “I’m attracted to you. Carnally . And if I don’t get properly laid soon, I am going to lose my mind. I trust you’re up to the task.”

She ran her thigh against his groin, just enough to confirm her hypothesis.

Draco lowered his head and brushed her lips with his. She tasted like sun and salt and something else entirely. He was barely able to pull away.

What was a diversion, after all, on one’s own honeymoon?

“Go to your bedroom and wait for me,” he murmured against her ear, biting the curve lightly. “I’ll be right in.”

Theo woke up in one of Zabini’s guest rooms and looked around with his eyes half closed. 

It wasn’t a bad room. His butler and footmen were just as capable as Draco’s. In some cases, such as with his plasterer, Zabini had the superior staff. They even flavored the ice water with lavender and honey and lemon sometimes as well, which Theo found to be a very welcome change up. He’d be taking that one back to Goyle. 

When Goyle returned, with Draco.

The curtains weren’t nearly as nice as the ones in his bedroom at Draco’s. Funny, how he suddenly felt like it was Draco’s home, and not his. 

The ring on his left hand was warm and heavy under the covers resting on his belly, and he fiddled with it absently. Today, he would probably get a letter or five from Draco and he would feel better. Theo perked up when he got letters from Draco. It was even nice to get another long letter filled with anxiety and horniness from Hermione. He wondered if Draco and Hermione had slept together yet, and whether or not they’d do it again. 

He found himself hard in very quick order. He’d attempted to keep Hermione and her hair and her skin and her eyes out of his mind when he was alone, and since the letter he’d written giving her blessing, he had a much harder time. The image of her sinking down on Draco’s cock plagued him. Plagued Theo even more when he imagined her looking over her shoulder at him as she moved. 

He’d have to go back to the house on Berkeley Square eventually. Eventually. Zabini was happy to have him as guest for a time, and Pucey and Higgs had both offered. He’d stay away from Higgs’ though, and he shuddered thinking of his wife, the former Miss Bulstrode. How Higgs had managed to get her with child a half dozen times was beyond Theo’s imagination. At least Zabini’s wife, Daphne, was a nice, quiet girl about Hermione’s age and there were no little Zabinis running about screaming. 

Theo had been to the accountant, and the investment banker’s office, and he had supervised the plasterer, and checked all the work the maids, cook, and footmen had completed. He visited all of the galleries that he hadn’t been to in a number of years, and saw plays and an opera. He had ordered a new waistcoat, and he had made sure Draco’s wardrobe was ready and in good shape for when he returned.

In two months. 

Theo rolled over and out of the bed. Time to stop wallowing. 

It wasn’t like waking up with Theo. That much was obvious.

But there was something similar. The same reaching out, the same finding. The same quiet tug of pulling someone closer, just to feel less alone.

The warmth was different, though. Draco couldn’t explain it precisely. Theo was a desert: high, dry, and blindingly bright. Hermione, by contrast, was a rainforest: humid, rich, and thick with something he couldn’t name.

They were both warm, of course, alive and human, but Theo’s warmth was blazing, dry, and elemental. Desert heat. Unforgiving sun. It lit Draco up from the inside and left him scorched in the best possible way.

Hermione’s warmth crept in slowly, thick and lush and damp at the edges. She was a rainforest to Theo’s Sahara. Both wild in their own way. Both capable of burning you alive.

That could’ve just been the Mediterranean air, he supposed.

Either way, Draco was glad for the quiet. For the warm, solid weight of her against him. There was a flicker of dread about her waking up, but that was still a long way off.

He breathed in the scent of her hair (floral and sun-warmed, a caramel-coloured cloud around her sleeping face) and watched the shadows shift across her features.

He was in danger of becoming sentimental.

Hermione sighed. Her eyes fluttered open, then drifted shut again.

Draco shifted, bumping up against the edge of the small bed. Much smaller than his at home, but then again, Hermione was much smaller than Theo.

“Don’t stop on my account,” she murmured. “You feel nice there.”

“You look beautiful,” he said quietly, brushing her hair off her cheek.

“Don’t say that again,” she warned, eyes still closed.

“Fine,” he replied. “I’ll just be mean. You’re terrible in bed.”

Hermione arched backward, pressing her hips into the cradle of his lap. “You’re a liar.”

He groaned, hips pushing back. “I’m a liar.”

“A bad one,” she said, reaching behind her to touch his face, scratchy and heavy with stubble.

Draco nipped at her fingers. “You weren’t a virgin last night.”

“Neither were you,” she murmured, trailing her nails along his bottom lip. “I can’t imagine that’s a problem.”

“I don’t care if you’ve had half the gentry between your legs.”

Hermione moaned as his hand slipped between her thighs. “I’m really just interested in this member of the gentry.”

“Do you want me again?” he asked, voice low as his fingers found her. “Does that feel good?”

“Mmm.” Her answer was clouded with sleep and pleasure. “Are you always like this?”

Draco didn’t reply. He continued stroking gently, and slowly. His fingers ghosted up the slick folds of her sex, barely pressing at all.

“Why are you being so gentle?” she whined. “Please?”

He exhaled hard, his breath hot at her ear. “Like I said—not much experience with this kind of equipment. You’ll have to tell me what you like.”

She brought her own hand down to press more firmly over his. “You didn’t have any trouble being rough with me last night.”

“Beginner’s luck,” he murmured, mouthing the back of her neck. “And I was a little drunk.”

“Mmm. The port,” she sighed. “I’ll have to make sure to keep a—ahhh—”

That was better. He’d found the rhythm she liked, her little moans and gasps confirming it. The slickness helped. He dipped his fingers inside, then drew the wetness back up to her clit. She liked that, clearly.

He alternated: slow, firm circles over the hood, then a deeper press inside her.

Draco was, frankly, spellbound.

Theo usually handled this part when they had female company. Draco watched, learned. He’d picked up technique, certainly. And now, applying it? It was… thrilling.

It wasn’t just the mechanics. He liked how Hermione responded. The breathy sounds. The way she arched into him. The way her body built toward climax, slowly and beautifully. He loved how he was using how Theo moved, how Theo fucked, to bring Hermione to climax. 

He found himself a little mesmerized by her clit: how it responded, how it swelled, how very similar it was, in miniature, to something so familiar.

“Just like that,” she panted, using her own fingers to fuck herself so he could focus entirely on her clit. “God, that’s so good. I’m so close.”

This time, he wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t fumbling. He was focused, and it was incredible to feel her build. When she came, it was with a shudder that pulled tight through every part of her body, and Draco felt it– every twitch of her cunt, every pulse under his fingertips.

He felt stupidly triumphant. And desperately hopeful for another round.

As she caught her breath, he traced lazy patterns along the inside of her thighs, relishing the way she twitched and sighed.

“Can we do that most mornings while we’re away?” she asked, petting him idly. “It’s the most perfect wake-up.”

He nuzzled into her hair, still marveling at the softness. “Only if I can fuck you, too.”

She huffed a laugh. “Since you ask so nicely.”

He bit the back of her neck, just a light nip. She giggled and rolled away, and he followed, sliding easily on top of her.

“You want me?” he asked, hair brushing her cheek. She nodded without hesitation, knees falling open.

He was hard, ready, but even so, the sensation of sliding into her took him by surprise. She was welcoming, open in a way that felt completely different from what he was used to.

Not better. Not worse, just something else entirely.

With Theo, there was tension and build, a choreography they’d refined over years. It was never easy, never passive. Theo met him with fire and grit, taking him apart piece by piece, begging for him one moment, breaking him the next.

Draco loved that. Loved the way Theo fucked with his teeth clenched and his jaw set. The way he whispered filth in his ear, shaking with need.

Hermione wasn’t like that, and wasn’t trying to be. She yielded instead of challenged. She let him in like she’d been waiting for it. That was its own kind of magic.

Her cunt was warm, soft, tight, and yielding in a way that still provided just enough friction to make him dizzy.

“You feel so good,” he muttered into her ear, adjusting his grip on her hips as he began to thrust: slow, deep, deliberate.

She shifted slightly beneath him, and the new angle let him push even further. His vision flickered at the edges, his head suddenly heavy.

“Really incredible,” he murmured, picking up speed.

It was semi-miraculous how her body simply took him in, as if it had always been waiting for it. Theo’s body was a dance, a promise of power and patience. Hermione was all softness and slick, a different kind of spell.

She was enjoying it, too. He could feel it in her hands, one tangled in his hair, the other between her thighs.

Her brow furrowed as the flush crept down her neck. Her mouth opened, then closed, like she couldn’t find words.

She came hard, her cunt rippling around him, gripping in perfect pulses. Draco nearly lost it right then. Only barely managing to pull out in time, he wrapped a hand around himself and came with a growl. He meant to aim somewhere useful. But he only half-succeeded. Most of it landed across her belly. Some on the swell of one breast. A fair bit on the pillow.

“Sorry,” he panted, wiping his hand on the sheets. “Let me get you something.”

Hermione rolled her eyes fondly and accepted the towel he brought from the washbasin. She flopped onto her side. “Really is a nice way to wake up, don’t you think?”

Draco smiled lazily. It was. Different from how he woke with Theo—usually tangled in limbs and sweat, one of them already hard and insistent, the other too sated to care.

With Hermione, it was quieter. Slower. Less urgent, more… curious.

Not a replacement. Just a shift.

“I could grow used to it,” he said. “As long as there’s a bath after.”

“Sounds perfect,” Hermione said.

He kissed her forehead. “I’ll send Abbott over to you with the bath. Goyle knows to have mine ready when I wake. Can I bring you breakfast?”

She pointed at the armchair. “No, but I’ll take my robe.”

He handed it to her and watched as she cleaned herself up and pulled it on.

“This is truly what you want?” he asked. “Friends… with sex?”

She scowled. “Yes. Truly. Go have your bath. Do whatever it is men do on a voyage. I need to wee.”

Still naked, Draco laughed and stepped into the parlor, then into his own bedroom, where Goyle—blessedly—was waiting with a hot bath.

Chapter Text

Delivered to Captain Theodore Nott Saturday, July nineteenth in the afternoon post, stamped Monte Carlo, Principality of Monaco
Sunday, July 15th, 1887
From the steamship Ceylon, waiting to dock at Port Hercules, Monaco

My lovely Theo, 

I am writing this very early in the morning. It is technically July the sixteenth, but I don’t want to waste another piece of paper to correct the mistake. It is very early in the morning and I’ve been up most of the night. There’s nothing wrong, I just couldn’t sleep so early. At home, we’re always up so late and I think that’s just how I am. A night person. I think it’s been years since we’ve tried to go to bed before one in the morning. Hermione is a morning person and I think we’ll just have to agree to disagree on that subject. I did have a nap earlier this evening after I put her to bed. 

I didn’t have a chance to write like I meant to when we were in port in Marseilles. You’ll have to forgive me that it’ll be ages between letters. I wrote you one yesterday as well, though, so you’ll have two in this packet. 

I’m not sure why I’m finding it so hard to simply tell you that I took your advice and took Hermione to bed. I didn’t tell you in the letter I wrote yesterday, reasoning that it’ll still come on the same day as this one. I feel a bit cowardly. She approached me, actually. I think you might have encouraged her. If you did, thank you. I do not know if I would have done so. 

It was nice. It has been nice. I enjoy her company more when she has been satisfied. She’s much more lively and wants to spend more time in my company. As I enjoy her company, I take this for a win. She has been respectful of my time, though. She does not attach herself to me during the day. I appreciate this. I would feel smothered if she suddenly wished to be with me at all times. She requests that we only sleep together while we are away and return to friendship only when we return. She does not seem to be forming a romantic attachment to me, so I think this could be possible. I do not mind being a bedfellow of convenience. 

The sun is starting to come up. I intentionally stayed up this late because we are docking in Monaco and I will be spending tomorrow evening enjoying myself with Lord Cortlandt and his son, Thomas Stanley, at the Casino. Mr. Stanley has lately come aboard at Marseilles and will be making the journey the rest of the way with his father. Lady Cortlandt disembarked at same Marseilles and she seemed pleased to leave the ship in favour of her son continuing the voyage.

Please write back and tell me it’s alright—that she and I are alright. I know you already gave your blessing, but I suppose I need to hear it again. From you, now. After.

I took your advice. I wouldn't have, otherwise. I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.

Your pining and faithful, 

Draco

PS, please let me know if the geraniums are happy. I moved them into a more sunny spot before I left and hope they are blooming. 

Delivered to Captain Theodore Nott Saturday, July nineteenth in the afternoon post, stamped Monte Carlo, Principality of Monaco
Sunday, July 15th, 1887
From the steamship Ceylon, Port Hercules, Principality of Monaco

Dear Teddy, 

Thank you for your last letter. The encouragement was needed, and well put to use. I’m not sure what I expected to feel after. Maybe just wanted to hear that you’d still be here. In our corner, writing to us, and you are. That’s the most incredible relief. 

I’m writing this over my breakfast, so that’s what the stain on the upper part of this letter is. It’s just currant jam, not blood, so don’t worry. 

I’m headed into port to discover Monaco today! I’ll try not to buy you too many presents, though I admit it’s hard not to think of you in every shop window. I might have to post a few packages back to London from there. I bought you a silly little ceramic bull in Barcelona, but when Draco put it in one of his overfull trunks, he broke one of the legs off. I think it can be fixed. I’ve made friends with another woman on board. She’s a journalist, which makes Draco wrinkle his nose (you know the way I’m talking about), but she’s good company. I’m going to go with her and see the sights. Goyle is very irritated that Draco has instructed him to accompany us and my maid, but I’ll be back on the ship after dinner so that he can enjoy the more debaucherous parts of the city. I’m rather nice that way. 

Also, once eleven rolls around, I’m mostly asleep. There’s something about the Mediterranean air that just makes me so tired. Or it’s the studying I’m doing all day. I can say that I think I’m ready for the examinations. Or I will be ready. 

Need to get this to post; they’re coming around for mail now. I hope you’re enjoying your time alone. I know I would, but I suspect you’re missing Draco badly. 

Your Friend,

Hermione

Delivered to Captain Theodore Nott Friday, July twenty second in the evening post, stamped Genoa, Italy
Tuesday, July 18th, 1887
From the steamship Ceylon, Genoa, Italy

My Theo, 

It has taken me until today to sleep off the ripping hangover that I acquired Sunday night. Is this old age? I was so sick Monday that Hermione was actually worried until she realised I’d over-indulged. 

I’ve won £30 at Monte Carlo, but it won’t do me much good as I forgot to cash the chips in before I left. I’ve got these stupid clay coins now that don’t do anything. I could maybe sell them. They’re probably just an expensive souvenir though. Hermione was really cross when she found them on the floor where I’d dropped my tailcoat. 

Oh, if you get a letter from Prince Albert of Monaco, it’s because I was introduced to him at dinner with Hermione. I told him you also had a keen interest in oceanography. In my defence, I was already quite intoxicated. Hermione thought it was just about the funniest thing she’d ever heard. 

I haven’t gotten a letter from you. I keep telling myself it’s just the post. Or that you’ve been delightfully distracted by Miss Bond. But if I’m honest, I miss you so badly I’ve reread your last letter twice already.

I love you, husband. I miss you terribly. I’m getting very sad sitting here writing this. Hermione is expecting me to walk into town with her to see the Cathedral of San Lorenzo shortly, so I’ll end this letter. I think Cathedrals are all well and good but all look the same after a while. You would be having a much better time than me. I’m about to be grouchy. You would tease me for being so domesticated, I’m sure.

I’m also worried about my geraniums. If they’re not blooming, or they’re wilting, put them back where they were before. 

All my love, affection, and trust, 

Draco

Delivered to the Viscount St. Armand on the SS Ceylon on Thursday July the twenty first, Rome, Italy. Stamped London, England
Tuesday, July 18th, 1887
London, England

Darling Draco, 

As much as I wish to immediately reassure you on my downright delight at the developments between you and the darling Miss Granger (Lady St. Armand, I apologise), I have bigger and better news to share. 

No, I have not had success with Miss Bond, and I’ve quite gone off of her. There’s a rumour she has syphilis, and I won’t chance that, not even for a rumour and not even for Miss Bond. I have brought up our previous entanglement with that actress, Leonora Braham. She had a role in “Ruddigore” which I saw for a second time this Thursday past. It was a delight to see her again, and she seemed to enthusiastically share the sentiment. She shared it a number of time over the next two days, only leaving when she had to perform. She begged me to send her love to you. I promise that I will pass along the most excellent feeling of mouth to member she bade me give to you in her honour. I evicted her from the Lady of St Honore guest room on Sunday afternoon when she became rather tiresome in her attentions. 

I digress, it is a failing. 

My news is that I did find out some delightful news: while speaking to Miss Bond (before I heard the syphilis rumor) she told me in strict confidentiality that the D’Oyly Theatre Company would be REVIVING HMS PINAFORE THIS COMING AUTUMN AND PIRATES OF PENZANCE IN THE SPRING. I could not be more pleased. I only wish I could persuade you to persuade the Prince of Wales to invite us to his box for the showings. I know I’m uppity and aim higher than my station, but this is GILBERT AND SULLIVAN and they haven’t played here since ‘78. It was one of the first things we did together when I returned from India. It would mean ever so much to me if we could see it in the box. I think I’ll bring it up to Bertie himself at that dinner when you return. I am blatantly guilting you into asking him, if you were confused. 

I am following your journey on an atlas that I am leaving open on the dining room table. When I have my meals (I have returned to Berkeley Square now, no more staying with Zabini), I mark off a little further with a pencil to trace your progress. I suppose that makes me sentimental, but it’s better than dwelling. You have been married for two and a half weeks. Happy Anniversary.

Your most constant,

T

Delivered to Captain Theodore Nott Sunday, July twenty third in the evening post, stamped Rome, Italy
Friday, July 21st, 1887
From the steamship Ceylon, Rome, Italy

Dear Teddy,

Thank you for your last letter. I didn’t know that you were so… well, obsessed with Gilbert and Sullivan Operas. Draco and I read your letters at the same time, and laughed together that they were both filled with your excitement for the subject. 

We are discovering each other, Draco and I. It’s funny, now that we’ve crossed a certain threshold, he’s begun opening up in all sorts of small ways. I think he’s shaped, in part, by you. Or maybe more than in part. There’s something about the way he looks at me sometimes… like he’s waiting for your opinion. I hope you still hold a good opinion of me. 

He has told me a little about his childhood, now, and I think I am beginning to understand him. I want you to know that I’m rather in awe of your relationship. Have you really known each other since you were thirteen years old? He says you were housemates at Eton, and that’s where you both met Harry and Ron. I have found we have a few others in common– Neville Longbottom, who was with Draco at Cambridge is a childhood friend of mine. I think he is beginning to see me as a friend. We were friendly before, and acquainted, but I believe a deep friendship is blossoming. 

I think I’m growing fat on this voyage. There’s little to no exercise to be had, and the food is plentiful. I’m also drinking too much. I’ll be pleased to make it to Lake Como where I have room to walk and move about. I’ve had an itch to ride, which I haven’t done much of since I moved full time to London. I find it very relaxing and it centres my mind. I hope to do quite a lot of riding once I remove to Cambridge. If I do. I hope I do. 

Write to us in Rimini. We have been advised that receiving mail in Corfu would be difficult, but we could post from there with a significant delay in arriving to London. Draco is especially keen to hear your answer to some questions he has about your plans for August. 

Your Friend,

Hermione

Delivered to Captain Theodore Nott Sunday, July twenty third in the evening post, stamped Rome, Italy
Friday, July 21st, 1887
From the steamship Ceylon, Rome, Italy

Dearest Darling,

I wrote to you weeks ago that I was finding a rhythm with Hermione, and that has stayed true. When we are in port, she and I venture in on our own most places instead of staying with the group from the ship. We attempted to stay with them and their guide at the first port of call in Porto, but it was dead boring and we agreed to go on our own from there. Mostly it's to find a cathedral (she seems to have an odd affinity for them) and a town square or plaza and have a coffee and some pastry, or some wine, and chat in the sunshine. It hasn’t rained at all in the time we have been sailing. Hermione is frightfully brown from the sun. You’ll barely recognize her. I have been good and have stayed shaded. I do love the heat, though. 

I will write to Bertie and see if we can prevail upon his kindness. I love you.

We’ve like to ask if you’d consider joining us. Meet us in Milan to continue our trip at Lake Como? It was Hermione’s idea, of course—she said two months was too long to keep me from you. I didn’t say how much I agreed with her. Or that sometimes I wake up beside her and ache for the way your arm fits around my waist. She fears that she is being unfair with taking me away from you for a full two months. She is unfailingly kind, and thinks of others before herself I have noticed. 

Or, she is tiring of my company. 

I don’t think that is the case, though. She has spent a few three of the seven nights since Marseilles in my bed, having been tired out from my “company”. Please do not worry that we have become inseparable bedmates. I truly like Hermione. She is very clever, but she does not use that unkindly. Her words to me have been nothing but kind. She is also very game. I worried that the stunt I pulled in Monaco with Prince Albert would annoy her because she comes off as so serious all the time, but it did not. She is very close friends with Black and Weasley and I think they pull more tricks than we do. Maybe not more than we do when we’re with the bad lads. 

I hope you’ll consider the invitation. I will not say to Hermione that I miss you to the point that even her charming company cannot soothe me. 

All my love,

Draco

Delivered to the Viscount St. Armand on the SS Ceylon on Tuesday August the second, Rimini, Italy. Stamped Cambridge, England
Monday, July 25th, 1887
Gonville Guest House, Cambridge, England

Darling Draco, and Dear Hermione

The week has been terribly busy, and I have enjoyed the letters from both of you. I have been to Cambridge these past few days, and only received your letters from Rome this morning when Jenkins put them on the train for me to receive here. I’m staying at a nice little guest house formerly a senior fellows house for Gonville and Caius College fairly recently made over into an inn. 

I have been upholding my end of the bargain here in mother England by making enquiries for a suitable home in Cambridgeshire. I have found two that will suit, one in Grantchester, the other in Impington. They are both within three miles of Cambridge, and have suitable facilities to allow the keeping of two pair of horses and a carriage. They are similarly priced, but I lean towards the house in Grantchester because the landlord is the father of a Captain Finch-Fletchley that I served with in India. The preference is entirely sentimental. I’ve enclosed a terrible drawing of the front facade of each house so to give an idea of the look. Grantchester is a lovely Bath stone exterior with handsome symmetry. The Impington house is more of a cozy ramble in red brick. The only other reason I would choose Grantchester is the newly added bathroom with a large tub. I would personally enjoy using it if Hermione would invite me. 

Now, to the subject of your last letters. 

As much as it hurts me to say it, I don’t wish to interrupt this time. I’m telling myself that this is good. That it’s noble. That the two of you deepening your connection is what we all agreed to want.

So please, enjoy the time you’ve been afforded. Consider it my gift. I’m taking pride in my restraint. I expect praise.

Regretfully, 

Theo

ANGLO-MEDITERRANEAN TELEGRAPH COMPANY

TO: CPT NOTT

11 BERKELEY SQUARE

MAYFAIR, LONDON, ENGLAND

PURCHASING TICKET LONDON MILAN STOP VENICE SIMPLON ORIENT EXPRESS STOP AUGUST SIXTH 0800 STOP SEE SOON NO ARGUMENTS.

FROM: ST ARMAND

RIMINI, ITALY

“Have you missed him?” asked Hermione, shading her eyes with a gloved hand. The main concourse of the Milan train station was beautiful, but the angle of the sun at ten in the morning in August had clearly not been accounted for.

Draco sniffed, pulling an approximation of a sneer. “Of course I’ve missed him.”

Hermione bumped her shoulder into his arm. “I can tell by the way you’re about to rub a hole in your pocket watch.”

“Or by the way I’ve told you I’ve missed him,” he replied, doggedly refusing to drop his hand. “Really, Hermione. Is that the deductive skill of a Cambridge hopeful?”

“In medicine, not love,” she shot back.

Draco sniffed again. “The love has been adequate.”

“Adequate?”

“Adequate.”

Hermione turned to face him. “You’re a horrible man and I don’t know why I married you.”

“Not quite sure myself,” he said absently, flicking open his watch again. “I think it’s off time.”

Circling him out of boredom, she posited, “It’s because I knew what to do with your alternaria leaf spot.”

“That did help,” he conceded, tapping his watch once more.

“Do stop tapping like that, Draco. You look like your wife is in labour in the next room.”

“How ghastly,” Draco shuddered. “I’d never be in the same building as all that racket.”

“How chivalrous,” Hermione muttered.

Draco peered down the long hall. “It was chivalrous when I retrieved your wrap in Venice. You know, when it blew away in the plaza.”

“I dropped it because you tripped me.”

He sniffed again. “I maintain it was an act of gallantry.”

“To think, when I met you, I thought you couldn’t speak a full sentence,” Hermione said.

“More’s the pity I got comfortable with you,” Draco replied. “Damn. I thought the train might be early.”

“It’s Italy,” Hermione reminded him. A beat later, with a sigh: “Go check the boards again. I’ll wait here.”

She watched his linen-covered back retreat toward the arrivals board. Pretty place, she thought. And what a strange situation to be in. She had slept in and dawdled over breakfast, thinking Draco wouldn’t want company at the station, but at the end of the meal he had stood and offered her his arm.

She had gone.

Twenty hours of train travel was significantly less irritating, Theo thought, when spent in a tufted, silk-wrapped cocoon of civility. In fact, he was somewhat regretful when he stepped off the Simplon-Orient at Milano Centrale. The wine had been excellent, the meals superb, the berths lush—and the company a delight. He had stayed up until four in the morning playing cards with a few younger officers, declining the handsome cavalryman who’d offered to share his bunk.

Theo’s mind had been elsewhere. On Draco. On Hermione.

The train had arrived a bit early, a miracle in Italy, and with time to spare he tipped the porter and wandered into the great concourse. The architecture was a massive overstatement, but he liked the scale of it. It felt more like an opera house than a train station. He was squinting toward a café when he heard a bright—

“Teddy!” Hermione called, one arm raised in greeting. Her ivory lawn dress, striped in pale blue, suited her entirely. Theo felt a traitorous pang as he took her in—sun-browned, light-eyed, glowing.

“Who is this?” he laughed, hands coming to rest on her upper arms. “I know a Lady St. Armand, but this can’t be she. Too golden. Too satisfied.”

“Oh, Teddy,” Hermione laughed, covering one of his hands with her gloved own. “We’ve missed you so much. Truly.”

“And where is we ?” Theo teased, remembering his beloved after a ten-second lapse. “Draco said you’d gone brown. He failed to mention the freckles.”

Hermione took his arm as they turned toward the center of the station. “Hush. It’s not that bad. We weren’t expecting you yet, but Draco insisted we be early. He’s missed you terribly.”

“I’ve asked you twice now—where is he?”

“I left him just now. He was checking the arrivals board. He’ll think I’ve been kidnapped.”

“No one would kidnap you,” Theo replied. “Not worth the ransom.”

Hermione pinched him and he doubled over laughing. When he righted himself, it was to find a pair of familiar grey eyes smiling at him.

“I’ve found you,” Draco said quietly. His smile tilted, drawing a dimple in one cheek. “It’s so good to have you back.”

Theo’s eyes flicked to Draco’s fingers, resting gently on the locket chain of his pocket watch. Draco tapped it twice, then let his hand drop. Theo looked back at his face, aching to hold him. To kiss him. To say everything he hadn’t.

A lump formed in Theo’s throat. He thought guiltily of Hermione’s laugh, of her hand in his. Choking slightly, he said, “It’s been too long. I’m sorry I was such a martyr about coming.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “When aren’t you a martyr?”

“Has he been at the drink already?” Theo asked, nudging Hermione.

She leaned in. “Only the white wine at breakfast you suggested.”

Draco, already turning, gestured for them to follow him. They exited onto a street of muted racket and slow movement.

“I’d like a drink,” Theo said. “Tell me you’ve restocked your travel gin.”

“Your luggage is headed to the hotel?” Hermione asked.

“Of course I have,” Draco muttered.

“Grand Hotel et de Milan is where I told them,” Theo confirmed. “Shall we?”

“It’s not far,” Hermione said. “We thought your legs might need a stretch after the ride.”

“I want a drink, a shave, a hot bath, and maybe a cannoli. In that order.”

“You want several things more than anything,” Hermione observed. She paused to adjust the gauzy wrap around her shoulders, and Draco stepped to her side to assist.

“They all go together,” Theo murmured, watching Draco’s hand press to the translucent lawn of her dress. Damn. There it was. Not jealousy, exactly. Something more complicated.

“I’ll bring you a cannoli in the bath,” Draco said quietly, just for Theo’s ears.

The street noise swelled, and they lapsed into silence as they crossed. In the din, Draco reached out and caught Theo’s hand in a firm grip. It was sudden, sure, and scorching. Theo nearly stopped walking.

For one moment—brief and blinding—the world narrowed to the place where they touched.

Draco released him, and immediately mourned the loss.

Theo didn’t dare look down. Draco had no such compunction. He stared unabashedly at Theo’s profile, lit in bright Milanese morning sun, and felt it—clear and dangerous: I can’t go more than a few days without him. Not again. Never again.

They weren’t fine.

They were a collective mess.

“I thought I’d stay in tonight,” Hermione announced brightly, oblivious to the emotional shrapnel beside her.

“What? Why?” Theo frowned, flexing his tingling hand.

“I thought you and I might find a café,” Draco offered smoothly. “Tomorrow, maybe I can convince you to see Otello with me. Verdi premiered it here, you know. They say the crowd unhooked his horses and pulled his carriage to the hotel portico. Wouldn’t leave until he sang from the balcony.”

“He points at every old man at the hotel and says it’s Verdi,” Hermione added.

“It was Verdi this morning,” Draco muttered.

“I’d still like to see the opera,” Hermione mused.

“Tomorrow,” said Draco. “Goyle can get tickets.”

“What, Bertie hasn’t got a box here?” Theo asked, winking at Hermione.

“No, we’ll sit with the rabble and slum it,” she replied.

Draco bristled. “ You will. I’m sure some duquesa will lend you a tiara.”

“What, you didn’t pack any jewellery?” Theo teased, peering across Draco at her.

They reached the hotel entrance. A footman in red livery held the door.

Hermione breezed in first, guided by Draco’s hand at her back. Theo noticed the touch. There it was—jealousy. Finally. But for whom? Jealous that Draco could touch her? Jealous that she was being touched by Draco? 

“I didn’t even pack it,” she said. “Told Abbott not to. I didn’t think I’d get dragged to the opera.”

“You’re hopeless,” Theo said.

Hermione ignored him and pointed toward the gilded elevator cage. “Would you like to take the steam lift?”

Draco shuddered. “Still no.”

“I’ll ride it with you later,” Theo offered.

“I quite like it,” she smiled. “I’ll take it and leave you now. My suite’s on the third floor, number twelve. I don’t expect to see you until lunch tomorrow.”

Theo stepped forward and kissed her cheek. “You’re a sweet girl.”

Draco followed, murmuring into her hair, “Thank you, Hermione.”

She wagged her eyebrows at them both. “Have fun.”

They laughed. She crossed the lobby without looking back. To the lift attendant, she said, “ Terzo, per favore. ”

The attendant slid the gate shut behind her, and Hermione let her shoulders slump. She rolled her neck from side to side and stretched, already feeling the strange quiet of being alone. It wasn’t like she had any right to feel so… deflated. But still. All the same.

She walked slowly down the corridor, tilting her chin up to look at the ornate ceiling, and wondered whether Theo and Draco were walking more happily above her. Whether they were laughing already. Whether she’d only imagined, for a time, that she belonged.

It was alright.

She would write to Ginny, maybe to Pansy, and the boys. She’d wrap herself in the warm glow of their love instead. She’d order dinner to her room and read something for pleasure, not for school. She’d bathe, maybe eat gelato in the bath, and let Abbott set her hair in rag curls before bed. She’d slip into clean sheets by herself and marvel at the silence.

It was alright.

Just… she’d gotten used to having Draco around most of the time. And this would be the longest stretch without him since they married.

“Married,” she reminded herself, snorting aloud. In quotation marks.

Hermione slid the key into the lock and let herself in. The room she and Draco had shared the night before had been tidied. The bed was neat. As if they hadn’t been in it together. As if nothing had happened between them at all.

As if they’d never been anything.

“Face it, old girl,” she muttered, looking at her reflection in the cheval glass as she removed her straw bonnet. “You’re the other woman.”

The door had barely clicked shut when Theo loomed over Draco—tall, urgent, too familiar to resist. Their mouths collided. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t sweet. But it was immediate. A tangle of breath and hands and teeth, and Draco’s head thunked hard against the wallpaper, but he barely noticed.

Jackets hit the carpet first, followed by a flurry of cravats and waistcoats. Shirts, shoes, trousers—peeled away until skin met skin, and with it, a hot wash of noise neither could help.

“You’re very insistent,” Draco murmured, lips bruised against Theo’s mouth.

“You’ve had someone in your bed every night,” Theo growled, tugging at the placket of Draco’s trousers. “You’d be like me too if you hadn’t.”

They broke apart just long enough to finish undressing, laughing breathlessly.

“You’ve had at least two partners while I was gone,” Draco pointed out. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was three or four. I want you every bit as—”

Theo tackled him bodily onto the bed, cutting him off. The mattress let out a loud groan, the springs protesting. Theo stretched over him, chest to chest, and Draco felt something like reverent terror ripple through him.

“I need to be inside you,” Theo whispered. His eyes were bright, almost glowing in the light. A lock of dark hair flopped over his brow, longer than usual, and Draco felt a rush of guilt—he’d brought their valet on honeymoon. Theo hadn’t had a haircut in over a month.

Contrition hit hard. He surged upward, capturing Theo’s mouth again, knees falling open around his hips. He arched, needy and flushed.

Theo pulled back with a grin. “Didn’t say where. Put me in your mouth?”

Draco sucked in a sharp breath, nodding with his lip caught between his teeth. They shifted fast, Theo propping himself up on pillows, and Draco sliding down to take him in hand. One fluid movement, and Theo gasped.

“Jesus Christ,” he panted. “I’ve missed your mouth.”

“Hope you missed more than my mouth,” Draco murmured, pulling off with a wet pop before taking him in again. He hollowed his cheeks and closed his eyes, letting muscle memory and desire take over.

Theo’s thighs tensed, little tremors betraying how close he was.

“Draco—Draco—stop, I won’t be able to—”

He ignored him, just hummed around him, increasing the pace the way Theo liked. Theo’s neck went taut, jaw clenched, a flush creeping up beneath his cheekbones.

“Last chance—” he gasped, fingers twisting in Draco’s hair.

Draco kept going. And seconds later, warmth spilled into his mouth and Theo let out a low, wrecked moan, his whole body arching with the release.

Draco wiped his mouth with his forearm and crawled back up to rest his cheek on Theo’s chest. His own cock still pressed, heavy and aching, against Theo’s hip. Theo’s chest was slick with sweat. His heartbeat thundered beneath Draco’s ear.

“You’re not finished,” Theo said after a minute, still breathless.

“I can wait,” Draco murmured. “I missed more than just your cock.”

“Crass,” Theo replied, but his laugh was soft. “Married life suits you.”

“Married to you, maybe,” Draco said. “In every way that matters.”

Theo exhaled, one hand finding the smooth skin between Draco’s shoulder blades. “You’re still hard.”

“I won’t die of it,” Draco said. “Hermione told me that was just a myth.”

Theo’s hand stilled—just barely—but Draco felt it. Still, he went on.

“I love you, Theo. You’re every single thing I’ve ever wanted, and you’ll always be the most precious thing in the world to me. It’s always been you. It’ll always be you.”

“I know,” Theo replied lightly, eyes cracking open. He slid his hand lower, cupping the curve of Draco’s arse. “I think I should remind you.”

Draco laughed and kissed his chest. “You’ll fall asleep halfway through. Don’t be heroic.”

Theo’s smile turned sleepy. “Don’t ever go that long without me again.”

Draco shook his head, nuzzling into his throat. “Never again.”

Chapter Text

Draco and Theo disappeared for an hour the next morning after whispering theatrically behind a newspaper over coffee. Hermione ate alone, amused, and also confused, at their antics, and when they returned, Draco set a large velvet box beside her tea tray like it was nothing more than a second scone. Theo, smirking, had kissed the top of her head and said, “ Try not to faint. ”

Inside was a tiara, and a matched set of necklace and earrings, heavy with diamonds and brilliant yellow sapphires. They were the kind of jewels one wore to a coronation, not to breakfast. She hadn’t known what to say. Thank you didn’t feel like enough.

She didn’t ask what it meant, or why they’d chosen it together, or whether it was meant as affection, appeasement, admiration, or something else entirely. She just looked between them, found Draco looking at her too carefully and Theo looking away entirely, and said instead, “I suppose I’ll need something to wear it with.”

They had both looked relieved.

She wore the set three times over the next six weeks. The first was to the opera, where Draco had secured them a box through an Italian Principe , who they’d mistakenly assumed was a provincial noble with too much money and too little charm. In truth, he was Prince Tommaso, cousin to the King of Italy. The three of them liked him quite a lot. Not as much as Prince Albert of Monaco, whom Draco still referred to as our Albert , but Tommaso had good wine and better conversation, which counted for nearly as much.

The second was to a party at the villa next door in Lake Como, a sprawling celebration of the owners’ daughter’s engagement. They danced on the lawn and drank far too much local wine. The third and final appearance was after they returned to London, when they joined Prince Bertie and the Princess of Wales for dinner at Osborne House. Princess Alexandra, “Alex”, had been unexpectedly warm. She insisted Hermione call her by her Christian name, and spent much of the evening at her side, laughing over port while the men slipped off for cigars, brandy, and whatever mischief came next.

Hermione was escorted home by a footman once the others vanished into the night. In the morning, she found Theo grinning and half-undressed in the breakfast room, with the beginnings of a black eye. He refused to say what happened.

Hermione was mostly irritated that she’d never be allowed to stay out late, drink too much, and come home with a black eye of her own. She cursed the limitations of her sex and applied a poultice to Theo’s face with great theatrical flourish.

“How hard is the entrance exam, anyway?” Theo mused as Hermione rubbed the creamy mess into his brow bone.

Draco snorted from across the room. “I studied myself sick for weeks and they were surprised I even showed up. I took it anyway, since I was there, but I don’t know how I did. They admitted me, clearly.”

Hermione’s fingers stilled. Her anger flared.

“Must be nice,” she said tightly. “Like being born a man—and a Viscount—might give you an advantage most people don’t have.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t born a Viscount. That’s a courtesy title of my father’s and—”

“Draco—” Theo tried to cut in.

“That’s what you heard?!” Hermione hissed, fingers still working over Theo’s brow. “That I needed a lesson in poncy titles?”

Draco tried again, “It can be kind of tricky—”

“Oh, is it tricky?” Hermione seethed, rubbing harder now. “Tricky like being born a woman? Tricky like not being able to inherit a title because I’m just an accessory to my father or husband? God forbid I have anything of my own!”

Her hand was pressing hard enough to make Theo wince. He squirmed away. “Hermione, that hurts!”

Her eyes flashed at him next. She thrust the little bowl of cream into his hands—harder than necessary.

“You do it, Nott,” she bit out. “I forgot my place. Wife. Chattel.”

With one last glare at Draco, she stormed out, up the stairs. A door slammed overhead.

Draco looked at Theo, who looked right back at him.

“What was that about?” Draco asked, eyes wide. “Can you—?”

“You acted like a dick,” Theo said flatly, dabbing at his cheekbone. “I’m not surprised she’s mad.”

“I was just answering from my point of view.”

Theo sighed. “She’s already worried enough without you reminding her she has to work twice as hard for half of what you got handed.”

“Cambridge was hard. Academically and emotionally.”

“Yes. And mostly available to men like you.”

“Historically, yes,” said Draco. “Men were the only ones admitted to Cambridge.”

Theo shot him a look. “No, I mean privileged, aristocratic men. Do you think I could’ve made it through?”

Draco stood, moved to the window. “You’re cleverer than I am. You would’ve done better.”

Theo gave a short laugh. “Sure. But with what money would I have paid for the privilege?”

Draco was quiet a moment. “Would you have liked to go?”

“Of course I would’ve,” Theo said. “Damn sight better than being shot at in India. You shouldn’t even have to ask.”

From the window came a sigh. “I’ve cocked it up with her, haven’t I?”

Above them, the thump of books hitting the floor echoed.

“Er, yes,” said Theo, more gently now. “You’ve quite cocked it up. Want me to make myself scarce so you can go make up?”

Draco parted the curtain. “Do you think I should?”

Theo’s chair creaked as he leaned back. “I’ve been on the receiving end of one or a thousand of your clueless, thoughtless, rude statements,” he said dryly. “Personally, I’d like you to suck my cock with no hope of reciprocation when you do. I can’t speak for Hermione, of course. She’s a lot more upset than I’d get. But she’s under the most pressure, and I know what a little prick you can be.”

Draco hummed. “Oral favours.”

“And start with an apology.”

“Do you really have to leave the house?” Draco asked, peering out the window again. One hand toyed with the Madras lace, trembling slightly.

Theo tilted his head. “It’s odd. You know it’s odd. She lives here. I live here. Won’t feel so odd when she’s away.”

Draco rubbed the lace between his fingers, staring across the square. Theo said something else, but he didn’t hear it. A rushing sound in his ears made him worry, briefly, that he was having a stroke. But he was distracted by the thought of the rest of their lives. Of course it was odd. Hermione was his wife. She was supposed to live with him. That had been part of the plan. But the plan—

The plan was supposed to keep Theo safe.

He was failing.

“—it’s not like it’s—” Theo was saying when Draco turned sharply.

“She was supposed to go to Wiltshire,” Draco choked. “I was supposed to marry her and leave her in Wiltshire. That was the plan. I messed it up, Theo. And now I can’t just— I can’t just put her in Wiltshire.”

Theo frowned. “Who said anything about Wiltshire? We’re talking about hosting a cribbage tournament. She can’t go to Wiltshire.”

“I was supposed to marry someone and get rid of them , and now—” Draco’s voice caught. “Now we’re discussing you leaving so I can apologise and give her an apology orgasm. It’s not—Theo, it’s not—”

He stood frozen in front of Theo, one arm half-stretched, cheeks flushed and eyes wide.

Theo didn’t blink. “Take off your cravat, Draco. And your jacket.”

Draco dropped his arm and shut his eyes. He complied, hands jerky, breathing uneven.

“Everything’s fine,” Theo said gently. “I like Hermione. I really do. I like her company. I just— I haven’t been around when it’s her . When I’m not… included.”

Draco looked at him sharply.

“No, no,” Theo waved a hand. “I’m not angling for an invite. I just— I don’t know what to do with myself. What if I hear? What if I mind hearing? What if it… arouses me? It’s complicated.”

He rubbed the side of the bowl absently. “Forget I asked. I don’t need to know. I just—have you two, since we’ve been back together—?”

“Twice,” Draco admitted, sheepish. “You weren’t here. I wouldn’t—I mean, I wouldn’t.”

Theo paused, like he was testing the air. Then he laughed. “It actually doesn’t bother me. I thought it might.”

“Once when you were out with Pucey, once in the greenhouse while you were sleeping off that hangover,” Draco confessed. “Oh—and she went down on me in the Brougham yesterday on the way to church.”

“Church is too much,” Theo groaned, dropping his head into his hand. “Still, I admire your tireless libido.”

Draco glanced over. “You’re really not upset?”

Theo scoffed. “It’s not like I’m a saint, Draco. You know I’m not.”

Draco smiled faintly, then dropped to the carpet and laid his head on Theo’s knee.

“I noticed you were gone a while last night,” he murmured, “and I didn’t see our favourite bartender, either.”

“So I got a blowie from Ernie in the wine room,” Theo said, laying a hand over Draco’s hair. “It’s basically the same as you going upstairs and putting your mouth to use. Fine, I’ll stay. I’ll be in the kitchen, harassing Mrs. Winky.”

“Our cook has a terribly smutty name,” Draco mused, kissing the inside of Theo’s thigh through his trousers. “I’ll come down when Hermione’s placated. Can’t say how long that’ll take. I’ve never had to make up with her before.”

Theo bent and kissed him. “As long as you need—but not too long. I want to swing by Zabini’s during visiting hours. And I want to be here after, so I can tell you what a good job you’ve done.”

Of all the irritating, short-sighted, rude, narcissistic things he could have said, Hermione thought, of all the horrible, mean, malicious, callous, ugly, vile, sour things Draco could have said. Antagonistic is what it was. Completely cluelessly antagonistic. 

“I wasn’t born a Viscount, that’s a courtesy title of my father’s,” Hermione snorted to herself under her breath. “I was only born an awful, poncy swot, which is a courtesy title of no one of nowhere-shire.”

Standing in the middle of her bedroom, she curtsied to her invisible husband. “Your royal pain in the ass highness.” 

Irritated that she’d spent the morning making a stupid bruise cream for her stupid husband’s stupid husband, Hermione took back off her shirtwaist and skirt and slung them over her vanity chair, and wrapped herself in her robe. The corset would have to wait until she wanted company and rang for Abbott. It’s not like she would be going out of her room again today, and with any luck, she could get a tray in her room for dinner. 

It was a nice room, of course. Her stupid husband, or probably her stupid husband’s husband, had made sure of it. It was a nice room, with a nice adjacent boudoir, and nice big windows, and lovely, soft carpets strewn over the dark wood floors. It was a lot harder to be irritated at a stupid misogynistic comment when she looked around at the room. She’d only been in this room on the second floor of the Berkeley Square townhouse for ten days, but when she woke in the night, and it was dark, she could find her way to the bathroom without lighting a candle.

All of this was immaterial, of course, when she remembered it was probably Teddy who had picked out the periwinkle blue paint and spring green upholstery fabric and drapes. 

Why was it that all the nice things that got attributed to Draco ended up being totally orchestrated by Theo?

Irritation renewed, she sucked in a breath and attempted to remove her own corset. It gave way under her fingers and she was gratified that it hadn’t been bound too tightly that morning. Hermione flung it haphazardly onto the floor, missing her mark and causing a bronze vase of ornamental sticks to crash to the floor. She winced at the noisy clatter and bent to pick up the branches and vessel, thankful that it hadn’t been porcelain, and that there had been no water. Hermione continued to stomp around the room, one ornamental stick in her hand, whipping it through the air and enjoying the sensation of movement while angry. 

“Occipital, double parietal,” Hermione recited, swinging the stick, “double temporal, frontal, sphenoid, ethmoid, double nasal, double maxillae, double lacrimal, double palatine and inferior nasal concha, bomer, hyoid, mandible… two each malleus, incus, stapes.” 

She paced up and down the length of the bedroom, through into the boudoir, and back, all the while muttering. 

“Femur, patella, tibia, fibula,” she chanted, moving down the length of the body, “calcaneus, talus, navicular, medial cuneiform, intermediate and lateral cuneiform, cuboid, metatarsals, proximal, intermediate and distal phalanges, only four intermediates.”

She imagined a cross section of a body, “Carotic, subclavian, brachial, ulnar, radial, aortic, renal, superior and inferior mesenteric.”

Even better, she pinched her eyes closed and imagined a cross section of Draco’s body, laid out on the dining room table. It was surrounded by his precious fucking geraniums in her mind’s eye. “Common, internal, and external iliac, femoral, popliteal, anterior and posterior tibial, peroneal.”

Backtracking through the boudoir again, her bare feet leaving a path in the thick rugs, she recited the major arteries of the body a second time, and then a third, imagining an irritated look on Draco’s face as she pointed at each of his arteries. 

Hermione passed in front of the bedroom door just as Draco gently cracked it open, having heard her chanting from the hallway. He stuck his head in and watched her stalk into the boudoir, her eyes mostly closed, waving a stick in front of her. His fingers flexed on the side of the door as he watched her take three looping figure eights around the loveseat and coffee table before heading back around to the bedroom. 

Hitting her stride on her eighth pass through the bedroom, she continued, “The five stages of the cardiac cycle are isovolumic relaxation, ventricular filling, atrial contraction, isovolumic contraction and rapid ventricular ejection.” 

Draco furrowed his brow and tipped backwards out of the way as she made a pass through with her swinging stick. It whistled through the air terribly close to where he was lurking behind the door. 

“The diffusion model of blood gas exchange by Eduard Pflüger states that blood flows f rom the right side of the heart, enters through the vena cava, goes into right atrium, through the mitral valve to the right ventricle,” Hermione stopped short in front of her bed, dropping the stick to her side. “The mitral valve? No, Christ, not that, Hermione. The tricuspid. Idiot. Right tricuspid, left mitral. Right tricuspid, left mitral. Absolute moron. Left mitral.”

Draco cleared his throat, unwilling to allow Hermione to castigate herself further, “Ahem.”

“Fucking hell, Draco!” Hermione jumped, and turned to the sound, her cheeks colouring vividly. “You don’t know how to knock either?”

“In addition to what?”

Hermione nearly screamed. “Everything! You seem utterly clueless about everything!”

Draco straightened in the doorway, pushing it open just a little more. “I see you are still angry with me.”

She felt the pricking at the edges of her lashes, more furious than sad, and wanted to beat the ever loving shit out of Draco with the decorative stick still in her hand. It seemed to be willow, and she would bet good money that the whistle and smack sound would make her feel better, and the resulting pink welt that resulted on his highness’s perfect, pure blooded ass would be very rewarding. 

And unfortunately, hot. 

“I want to beat you black and blue,” she ground out, and hastily shoved the stick back into the vase. “I shan’t, because I’m better brought up than you, but I want to.” 

“Well, I did come up to apologise and offer to perform cunnilingus on you with no expectation of reciprocation,” Draco shrugged and took another step into the room. “I don’t doubt that I deserve the lashing though.”

Hermione sneered. She felt the sneer deep into her chest, and she used it. “What, did Teddy tell you to come up and apologise to me that way?”

Draco shrugged again, and he started feeling like maybe that was all he knew how to do. “I’ll admit that apologising isn’t my strong suit, and I never remember to do it until it’s too late and the thing’s already done.”

“No shit,” she snorted, and pulled her robe tighter around her waist. She left her bare arms wrapped tightly around her own waist, feeling terribly exposed. 

He took a deep breath, held up a pacifying hand, and gently closed the door behind him with his foot. “I’m sorry, Hermione.”

The silence hung between them. 

Draco took another deep breath, and attempted again. “I didn’t understand. I still don’t really understand. I married you because I needed to get married, you needed something, and I liked you. The thing that you needed was the support of a husband to go and become a horrid, bluestocking doctor, and although I don’t know anything about that, or why they all look so terrible and have terrible hair styles and wear bad clothing, I…”

He trailed off, and Hermione glanced at the vase of decorative sticks. 

“Anyhow, I don’t know anything about why you’d want to be a doctor, and I barely understand why it’s so important to you. I know you do, and that should have been enough for me to be more…” he trailed off again, trying to find the right word. “Supportive. I should have been more supportive. Would you like me to go down on you now, and we can make up?”

“Have you considered asking me why I want to be a doctor?” Hermione ignored the last sentence from Draco’s mouth. “Not a lady doctor, but a real doctor?”

“I…” he began. “Could I ring for some tea?”

Hermione stalked over to the tasselled pull by her bedside and pulled it sharply, twice. “Do you even want to know?”

Draco glanced back at her, quickly, before looking down at his hands again. “I do want to know. I’ve been a shit husband to you, Hermione, I know that. I’d like to be a good friend, though.” 

Hermione’s shoulders dropped, losing the invisible burden on her back. “I’m trying to do something that’s harder than anything else I’ve ever done, and it’s all because of… well, it’s all because of Harry. Well, Harry, and Ron, and the whole war, and my father… it was such a mess.” 

Draco answered the door, and asked the footman for tea, and then shut the door again. “Because of the war? In South Africa?”

Hermione nodded, heading into the boudoir to sit. She curled up on one end of the loveseat, and Draco looked to her questioningly before getting her nod to sit down. To Draco, she looked so small suddenly. She wasn’t terribly tall to begin with, but scrunched in on herself, she looked positively miniscule. 

“I grew up in Kent, of course, but my mother is Scottish. She grew up in Fife, and was the eldest of five siblings. My aunt, Zaida, was the youngest, and she married Phillip Anstruther,” Hermione began. “Lieutenant-Colonel Phillip Anstruther. He commanded the Connaught Rangers, and had that terrible battle at the Bronkhorstspruit Stream where nearly all of his men were killed.”

Draco looked stricken at the mention; he had followed the clashes avidly while at Cambridge, and had debated the merit of them viciously with classmates. “I’m terribly sorry, Hermione. Ghastly business.”

“It’s not just that, Draco,” she replied, looking off. “It’s what Harry and Ron saw, and what my father saw, and what so many men see. Probably what Teddy saw. It’s carnage, and death, but even more than that, it’s sickness. More soldiers die from typhus, and dysentery, and pneumonia, and the cold or the heat than they do from bullet wounds or cannon fire. God, malaria alone killed thousands. Just… thousands of needless deaths. And the bark of a random tree, a chinchona tree…that simple plant, could have saved them all.”

Draco nodded, and sat back against the cushions as the footman returned with the tea tray. Without asking, he nodded to her to continue while he made her a cup of tea, black, with a little squeeze of lemon.

“I started learning about the Boer war, and learned all about the conditions of the men, and the natives, and I was hooked,” she gave a small, wan smile. “I was obsessed with finding out why. Why did all that death have to happen? Why did we do what seems like nothing at all about it? Are the lives of our soldiers so worthless that we, the British, the empire on which the sun never sets, could do nothing to stop it?”

Draco handed her the cup, balanced on a delicate saucer, and said nothing. 

“And– and of course, there’s my father,” Hermione’s eyes shone. “My father was a doctor in the navy, and later physician to the Queen. Prince Albert had typhoid, and died, and caused so much pain to the whole family. Typhoid. One day, I want to be part of the solution, so that no wife has to lose her husband so senselessly. All those sailors my father served with– dysentery, of course, and yellow fever, and scurvy, and syphilis–”

Draco choked a bit on his tea, “I’m sorry. I don’t often hear that word out of a lady’s mouth.”

“Must not know many ladies, then,” Hermione retorted tartly. “At least not the good ones. I’d bet Lady Pansy says syphilis.”

“Lady Pansy isn’t a lady,” Draco argued. “But that’s not the point. You were affected by the war and it’s price, and you want to help.”

“It’s important to me,” she replied stiffly. “I know it’s not particularly seemly, but I’ve always wanted to do something with my life. Really do something. Not that having children and being a good wife is bad, or less doing something, I don’t mean that. That’s terribly valuable. I simply… I simply want to hold someone’s life in my hands and make it better.”

Draco snorted, “It’s much more than I’m doing with my life.” 

“You’re doing some,” assured Hermione, sipping her hot tea. “And if you don’t think you’re doing much, look around you. There’s so much you could be doing, if you wanted to. You’re helping me, and hopefully, by extension, you’re helping all of the people I’ll end up helping.”

“I didn’t help today,” replied Draco. “And I feel like a right louse because all you want to do is help people, and I was in a bad mood because I lost at baccarat to Bertie six times over, and I was hungover, and Theo had a black eye– a black eye that you were healing when I was such a git.”

Hermione mused, “What did he do to get that anyhow?”

“A gentleman never tells,” assured Draco, not wanting to admit that he had been riding on Theo’s back all down Pall Mall and they’d collided with Zabini and Pucey in a bit of a mock joust and Pucey’s elbow had gone a bit wild and knocked the daylights out of Theo. 

“Doing something stupid, then,” Hermione snorted. “I’ll let you keep your secrets.”

They sipped their tea in silence for a moment before Draco cleared his throat again, and said, “I do admire you, Hermione. I’ll help you in any way that I can. I know that it’s but a little, but I will do my best to help.”

Hermione primly sipped the last of her cup of tea, and set it aside. “Helping? What were you saying before about unreciprocated oral sex?”

Draco grinned wolfishly, and finished his cup of tea.

Chapter Text

Tuesday afternoon brought Theo, Draco, and Hermione to the sitting room of their suite at the Gonville Guest House. It sat just off Parker’s Piece, with wide windows overlooking the green. Caius College—Hermione’s destination—peaked out over the treeline across the quad.

She stared toward it, drawn and ashen, dressed in a smart white shirtwaist, grey jacket with black trim, and an unembellished skirt. The only levity in her outfit was a small brooch at her throat: a flower carved from pink-red coral. Her lunch sat untouched on the table in front of her.

Theo, having eaten quickly, was thumbing through a magazine and sipping coffee, sneaking glances at Hermione over the top of the page. His bruised cheekbone—though no longer swollen—still held a faint violet hue, giving him what he considered a rakish air. He made a mental note to figure out how to achieve the same effect without blunt force trauma.

Draco, across the table, was dissecting his carrots with surgical precision. Apparently, he had decided that a steady stream of verbal nonsense was the key to Hermione’s nerves.

“The roots behind different languages’ words for carrot are a mess. Total mess,” he said. “Spanish and Portuguese use the Arabic root and say zanahoria , but actual Arabic speakers use the Persian root gazar — jazar , in Arabic.”

He reached into Theo’s pocket for his sharper knife and slit a carrot lengthwise. “English, Gaelic, French, Italian, and Austrian Germans all use variations of carrot , which comes from the Ancient Greek karôton . Germans sometimes use Möhre , a proto-Germanic word, but Dutch prefer wortel , which is wurt —root—and waluz —stick. Very German. Compound everything.”

Theo, barely listening, spooned his remaining carrots onto Draco’s plate.

Draco brightened immediately, inspecting them with reverence. Hermione glanced back, a tight smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

“You’re a Philistine,” Theo sighed, bumping Hermione’s foot with his own. “Isn’t he?”

She shrugged. “He’s your Philistine.”

“Danes and Norwegians use an Old Norse compound: gulerod or gulrot —‘yellow root.’ And Eastern Europe—Romania too, even with their Romance language thing—goes Slavic: morkov , morkva , all from proto-Slavic…”

He held up a cross-section of carrot to the light. “See the translucence? Lovely.”

Hermione nodded vaguely, and whispered to Theo, “Is there anything I can do to stop him?”

Theo shook his head, grim. “He must be allowed to babble until his completion. Or your death. Whichever comes first.”

Draco pressed on. “And the only Romance-language group using the Latin root— pastināca —are the Basques. Pastanaga. Can you believe it? Everyone else—off in their own linguistic wilderness.”

“It truly boggles the mind, Draco,” Theo said solemnly, extending his hand for the knife, which Draco returned, spattered with carrot bits. Theo wiped it clean and folded it back into his pocket. “Your manners are absolutely appalling.”

Draco shrugged. “It’s just us. You both already know I’m appalling.”

“I should look over my calculus notes again,” Hermione said quietly, eyes flicking back to the college spire.

Theo shook his head. “No use in that now. You promised. Besides, you nearly vomited in the coach from all the revising.”

“I won’t get sick now,” she wheedled. “We’re stationary.”

Theo stood abruptly and offered his hand. “Let’s take a walk. Draco can show us his old stomping grounds.”

“I don’t know—” Hermione began, but she let him take her hand.

Draco stood, brushing crumbs from his lap. “It’s a jolly good waste of an hour. Peterhouse College is lovely, and it’s the—”

“—oldest college at Cambridge,” Theo finished in unison, smirking.

Draco mock-glared. “Established in 1284, under Edward the First.”

At the door, they donned hats and gloves. Hermione tucked a few papers into a satchel, which Theo took from her without asking.

“Edward the First, our very homosexual king,” Theo added as they stepped outside. “Poor Piers Gaveston. Poor Isabella. Did you know he kept a camel? Also a lion.”

“Did he have sex with those as well?” Hermione quipped on the stairs. 

Theo looked affronted, then shrugged. “It’s a British monarchy, I would not put it past them.”

They stepped into a crisp, golden afternoon. Draco took her left, Theo her right.

Hermione teased Theo. “What else do you know about Edward the First?”

“Actually,” Draco cut in, “you’re thinking of Edward the Second . Peterhouse opened the year he was born, but it was Edward Longshanks who founded it. Very not gay.”

“So did he like sex with blokes or not?” Hermione frowned, grinning at Theo. “Sounds confusing. Confusing time.”

“Not confusing,” Draco insisted. “The first: not gay. The second: very gay.”

“I’m still confused,” Theo chuckled.

Hermione laughed, linking her arms through theirs, and the two men exchanged a glance. Her laugh echoed across the quad, bright and whole. For a moment, all was right in the kingdom.

At a quarter to two, they rested on a bench outside the gleaming limestone of Caius Hall. The trees along the perimeter were newly planted, their leaves trembling in the breeze. Hermione stared up, breath caught in her throat. She wanted to believe she’d spend many years walking under that archway.

“Would you like me to come in with you?” Draco asked, gently rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand.

“No, of course not,” she said, her voice just a little too high. “Just wish me luck. I’m not sure how long it’ll take, but I’ll be back by seven.”

Theo tipped his hat back, blinking into the sun. “We’ll go find a pastry and check this bench for signs of distress every half hour.”

“Right,” she nodded. “Right. I’ll just go right in. I’m Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age—”

“—Malfoy might get you further,” Draco said, straightening a fold in her skirt. “Better yet: Lady St. Armand.”

She considered. “I’m Hermione Granger, though. Lady St Armand didn’t get this far without Hermione Granger.”

She picked up her satchel from where it rested by Theo’s foot.

Draco kissed her cheekbone, warm and proud. Theo took her gloved hand, traced her palm with his thumb so lightly she nearly doubted it happened. The shiver that traveled up her arm told her it had.

“Very best of luck,” Theo said softly.

Hermione turned back to Draco, whose eyes hadn’t left her. He gave her the smallest nod, just for her.

“Thank you,” she murmured. The corner of her mouth quirked—but didn’t quite become a smile.

She squared her shoulders, turned on her heel, and strode across the flagstones. Her skirt swished behind her like a banner.

Inside, a hand-written sign tacked to a pockmarked cork board instructed candidates to take the first left, second right, third door on the left.

She walked the corridor alone.

The third door on the left loomed ahead.

Literally and metaphorically, she thought. The door to my future.

Theo looked to Draco and shrugged. “Well, what shall we do with our time?”

Draco glanced back at the bench. “I don’t think we should leave at all. I’m terribly nervous for her.”

Theo nudged his elbow. “We won’t be any help to her if we simply sit here all afternoon. Come on, I’ll buy you a bun.”

They walked in silence for a stretch, Draco leading them down Trinity Street toward Bridge Street, where he remembered a coffee shop from his student days. Theo turned over his shoulder twice, looking back at the open doors of Caius Hall before they disappeared from view. Something cramped in his stomach.

Theo couldn’t stop thinking about her.

They turned left toward the river, the wind carrying in a sharper chill. And still, all Theo could see was the tremble on her face as she’d stood to go inside.

Honestly, he’d been having a hard time thinking of anyone but her and Draco for quite some time.

His thoughts drifted—unhelpfully, inexorably—to the previous afternoon, after Draco had gone upstairs to mount the stairs and, presumably, Hermione. He thought about the evenings alone at Berkeley Square while they were away on honeymoon, and his prick in his fist, imagining what they’d been doing behind closed doors.

Embarrassingly, he thought about the villa in Lake Como—the adjoining bedrooms, the shared dressing room. One night, after too much good Chianti, he’d pressed Draco into the pillows and fucked him slowly, deliberately, all the while imagining Hermione on the other side of the door, her ear pressed close, just like during the marriage contract negotiations.

It wasn’t healthy.

But neither, Theo reasoned, was repressing one’s emotions. So he rather thought he was in the right.

Draco pressed ahead with purpose, taking two sharp turns before stopping in front of a narrow storefront. A flower shop. He looked up and down the street.

“Damn,” he muttered. “It’s gone.”

“What’s gone?” Theo asked, realizing he hadn’t paid attention to where they were headed.

“The damned pastry shop,” Draco said, exasperated. “It’s gone.”

“Been gone three years this November,” said a voice from an open window. “Moved down to Market Street.”

Draco shaded his eyes and looked up. “Has it? Thank you. But—are those Royal Crown lavender?”

The woman, neither young nor old, beamed down at him. “Good eye, sir. Grow it myself out near Fulbourn. That, and my own cultivar of English and Portuguese lavender I call Lavella , count of my daughter’s name being Ella. And of course, the usual English and French.”

“The soil’s good in Cambridgeshire for lavender,” Draco said, already stepping inside. “Oh, how lovely—look at the little bracts. Like bunny ears up top.”

“Draco,” Theo called, but he was gone. With a sigh, Theo leaned into a massive pink bloom near the door. It wasn’t an orchid or a geranium—or a rose, which he at least recognized. It was soft, with layers of ragged-edged petals spiraling inward like a whirled pom-pom.

Hermione would like them.

Inside, ignoring Draco’s lively discussion about lavender hybrids, Theo approached a younger shop girl. He asked for six of the large blooms—peonies, she said—and paid in cash. She wrapped them in brown paper and tied them with twine. They looked ridiculous and romantic, and Hermione would absolutely adore them.

He found Draco still mid-discussion, gesturing toward a pot of French lavender.

Theo stepped close, leaned in, and said quietly into Draco’s ear, “I’ll meet you back at the bench.”

Draco turned, eyes flicking to the bouquet in Theo’s arms, then back to him. A faint smile tugged at his mouth.

Theo softened his voice even further. “My love.”

That dimple appeared, deep and quick as a sigh.

“I’ll be along shortly,” Draco murmured.

Hermione couldn’t feel her face—or her hands, really—and she was fairly certain she could diagnose the cause if she could just bring herself to open the damned door.

She was spared the effort when it swung open. A tall, broad man who filled most of the doorframe leaned out.

“Oh, hello,” Hermione stammered. “Is this where one would sign in for the entrance examination?”

The man blinked at her, then turned to glance over his shoulder. Two others—seated behind a long table piled with paper forms—looked up. One of them shrugged. The man stepped aside, letting the door swing shut behind her as he exited without a word.

Hermione stepped into the room, straightening her back.

The man on the right looked the friendlier of the two—young, with oversized spectacles and large, earnest eyes—so she addressed him directly.

“I’m Hermione Granger,” she said, clearly and politely, “and I’ve come for the exam. Is this the place?”

The man on the left gave his colleague a sharp nudge under the table. Still, Right nodded and said quickly, “Yes, of course. This is the place.”

Left stood with a stiffness that made her skin prickle. “I’ll go fetch the dean.”

Right handed her a clipboard and gestured to a seat at the end of the table. Hermione sat, pulled a pencil from her pocket, and began filling out the form in steady strokes.

“Come a long way?” Right asked, watching her with shy curiosity. “I came from Leeds. Only had the one train ticket, so I moved into a hostel until September. Boring town in the summer.”

“Just London,” Hermione replied, eyes fixed on the form. “We’re only here for the test. I can’t abide two train trips in two days, so we’re staying at a guesthouse on the other side of the green.”

“I’m just about to graduate,” he offered brightly. “Double in art history and classics.”

Hermione looked up, surprised. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Twenty, at most.

“And have you enjoyed yourself, Mr…?”

“Oh—Creevey. Just Collin. Collin Creevey.” He smiled, boyish and open. “We haven’t had many… well, many ladies at all. The deans said there might be some. I think you’ll have to—”

The door opened again. Left returned, trailed by a third man in a long black academic robe, mortar board hat in his hands.

“See? Told you, sir,” Left said, actually pointing at her.

Hermione felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She adjusted her posture.

“The secretary’s school is on the other side of town,” said the robed man flatly. “Past All Saints Church. It’s a small, half-timbered building.”

Hermione blinked. “Pardon?”

“The secretary’s school,” he repeated, with the same clipped indifference.

She stood, clipboard in hand. “I’m not here for the secretary’s school,” she said coolly. “I’m here to take the entrance examination.”

He didn’t respond.

Hermione stepped forward and handed him the form. He scanned it, finger tracking each line slowly. Then he looked at her. Then the clipboard. Then her again.

He sighed.

She felt the flush creeping up her neck and willed it to stop. She was a woman with a perfect academic record and the full support of two respectable references. She was not going to cry over a clipboard.

“I believe everything is in order,” she said, evenly. “Could you please direct me to the exam hall?”

The man gave a small, stiff shrug. “We haven’t had any… applicants of your persuasion,” he said. “And the matter of facilities is… complex.”

Hermione blinked. “Facilities,” she repeated, flat. “You mean a chair and a pencil?”

Behind him, the tall man—Cornfoot—snorted.

Selwyn turned his head sharply, silencing him with a look. Then he returned to her with a faint, performative smile.

“I’m sure you understand,” he said.

“I’m sure I don’t ,” she replied, meeting his gaze without blinking.

“I’ll go get the superintendent,” Cornfoot murmured, already backing toward the door.

“Please—” Hermione began.

“It can wait, Mr. Cornfoot,” Selwyn said, his voice cool.

Hermione stepped forward. “I must insist—”

But Cornfoot had already slipped out.

“I would like to speak to the master,” Hermione continued, “and I’d appreciate being properly introduced to the man currently declining to admit me.”

“I’m the Dean of the Physical Sciences here at Caius,” he replied. “Belmy Selwyn.”

“Thank you, Mr. Selwyn,” Hermione said tightly. “I’ll wait here for the superintendent.”

“I’ll have to ask you to leave,” Selwyn said, already turning away. “All admissions are at the discretion of the course dean. And I am declining.”

Hermione’s jaw slackened for half a second before she caught herself.

“I still wish to speak to—”

“I bid you good day,” he interrupted. “Do you require an escort to the door?”

Hermione stared at him for a long moment. Then, with precision, she turned her back.

“I’m quite capable of finding it myself,” she said. She picked up her satchel, adjusted the strap, and nodded once to Creevey.

“Thank you for your time,” she said, steady as stone. “And congratulations on your matriculation.”

And then she walked out.

Her legs carried her steadily down the corridor—far too steady, far too proud. As though nothing had happened at all. As though her hands weren’t shaking inside her gloves. As though her life hadn’t just been reduced to a single phrase— applicants of your persuasion .

Maybe her legs simply hadn’t gotten the message yet.

Maybe they didn’t know that her life had just ended before it even began.

Theo walked slowly along the river, pausing to lean over the bridge for a moment. The trees were fully green, the town half-empty at this hour, and quiet in a way that made his thoughts louder. He glanced down at the flowers in his hand—too large, too pink—and imagined Hermione walking out radiant, triumphant, the very picture of victory. Maybe she wouldn’t even notice them.

He wouldn’t have minded.

He turned down the street in front of the college, letting his mind drift into its now-familiar grooves. Little thoughts. Familiar avenues. Once, he’d believed it was dangerous to think about her this way. Now, he’d simply accepted it.

And she was worth thinking about.

Her face wasn’t delicate, but it couldn’t be called strong in that hard, hatchet-faced way people liked to excuse. It had character . Every feature interesting on its own—and somehow, altogether, more than the sum of them. Straight brows, darker than her hair, which should’ve been too harsh if not for the wide, earnest softness of her eyes. A thin nose with a bump on the bridge that might’ve looked severe if not for the full, high cheeks. A keen chin, balanced by a narrow mouth with pillowy lips. Teeth just a bit too big, somehow redeemed by their extraordinary straightness.

And her hair—God, that hair—an untameable storm. Neither curly nor straight. A mad halo in the humidity. It suited her. Everyone needed a foil, and Hermione’s hair made her more herself .

She was anything but boring.

And Draco—Draco wasn’t boring either. He could have his Draco, and keep his Draco, and have, in a different way, Hermione too. At the very least, he’d never be bored. And boredom was simply not appealing.

He wasn’t looking where he was going, and if he hadn’t turned his head at the sound of a dog barking, Theo might never have seen her.

Hermione was sitting under a tree, half-hidden by the shade.

Theo’s breath caught. He hurried toward her, dropping the bouquet as he dropped to the ground beside her.

“Good Lord, Hermione, what is it?” he asked, trying to catch her eyes. She turned away.

Her shoulders lifted, then dropped heavily. “The dean rejected my application,” she croaked.

“He what ?!” Theo shot upright. “Of all the stupid, misogynistic things—”

Hermione whipped her head toward him. “Yes, of course it’s misogyny. What else could it be? There’s nothing I can do about it.”

Theo exhaled through his nose. “Of course there is—”

He stopped.

Her face was streaked with tears. Shiny lines ran down her cheeks—the same ones he’d just been thinking about a moment ago. Her eyes were rimmed red and glassy.

Theo stared, unmoving. He wanted to gather her into his arms, wanted it so badly it ached—but he didn’t move. Not here. Not in public. Not when she hadn’t asked.

In a voice so small it scraped the air, Hermione said, “I want to go home.”

Theo nodded instantly. “Of course. We might even catch the five o’clock train if we hurry.” He looked toward the river. “Christ—Draco’s still off somewhere. Alright, I’ll take you back to the guesthouse and then I’ll go find him. Does that sound alright?”

Hermione nodded, smoothing her jacket. It wasn’t even wrinkled from sitting on the ground.

“It was horrid, Teddy,” she whispered.

Theo stood and held out both hands. She let him haul her to her feet. He bent to retrieve the flowers and handed them over.

She sniffed them. The brown paper crinkled in her fingers.

“I thought you’d like them—to mark your victory,” Theo said. “I can’t believe they didn’t even let you sit the exam.”

“I can,” Hermione replied, voice calmer but no less bitter. “It was always a risk.”

“I’m proud of you for attempting it,” Theo said simply.

Hermione burst into fresh tears. She hiccupped twice, then got control of herself before they reached the path.

Theo offered her a handkerchief, but she waved him off and dug one from her own pocket. “Mine’s already soaked in tears,” she muttered, wiping her face more forcefully than necessary. “It’s ridiculous to cry over it.”

“I cry over everything,” Theo said confidentially. “Just everything. Only two days ago I—”

“Lady St Armand!” came a voice behind them—sharper, unfamiliar.

They both turned at the sound, but the voice wasn’t Draco, who was striding toward them, lavender in his arms, the smile already fading from his face. 

Behind him stood a robed man, waving his arms at them, nearly tripping over the length of the garment. 

“Lady St Armand,” the robed man called again, catching up. He was out of breath. “Please wait.”

“So you’re telling me that if Lady St. Armand had been known to you, she would have been treated with greater courtesy?” Draco asked, looking across the table in the sitting room of their suite at the Master of Caius College. 

Master Norman Macleod Ferrers was a portly sort of gentlemen of early old age with a thinning head and a luxuriant beard. He smiled, his teeth showing to be not straight and not crooked, in a way meant to ingratiate, to Hermione’s estimation. He had been all prattling small talk as they waited for Draco in front of the college, and kept it up as they walked back to the guest house. Theo carried Hermione’s bag and several bunches of lavender, hanging back with her as the master and Draco chatted. It was really Ferrars chatting, and Draco humming and nodding, but the master held onto the Viscount’s every word when he did speak. 

“It was a grave error on our part to not recognize her name when she arrived, although she did introduce herself with her Christian name,” he replied slowly. “If Lady St. Armand had written before the examinations to let us know of her plans, specifically, other measures would have been taken, such as a private examination room.” 

Hermione, standing by the hearth, was unable to keep back, “What do I need a private room for? Is the university concerned that I might be too distracted by a room full of young, studious men that I would not be able to complete the test? I registered for the exam, like everyone else, and did not require–”

Draco cleared his throat, and looked up at her from his seat, “I think it’s that they thought the men would–”

“Yes, Draco, I know,” Hermione snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Theo, from where he stood with Hermione, gave her a mild look and cut in, “But you would have allowed Lady St. Armand to sit the examination?”

“Of course,” Ferrars said slowly, looking between the three of them. “I’m sure she would have done a fine job.”

“And even if I passed, Dean Selwyn gave me the courtesy of telling me that he would not allow me onto his course at all, ever,” she reminded the room. 

Quickly, the Master reassured, “Dean Selwyn speaks before he thinks quite often.” 

She continued, picking up a bit of speed as well, “And as the college Master, you would have instructed him to admit me, should my examination be successful?”

Hermione could hear the carriage traffic outside the window, and the pealing church bells by the canal. She waited, placid, as Ferrars chose his words carefully. 

Even slower, and more carefully than before, he admitted, “No degree can be conferred upon one of your gender, Lady St. Armand, and that is not in my power as a humble college master. That is up to the university board. But, I would have assured your place on the course.” 

Hermione bit her tongue, wanting so desperately to release the white-hot anger she felt. The humiliation she felt. She even got as far as opening her mouth, before her eyes fell on her husband. Draco studied his fingernails, and twitched his signet ring on his little finger, allowing the room’s silence to broaden. Hermione knew him, and she knew his look of bored indifference was actually calculating. She felt a pull at her chest, and forgot that he had just so irritatingly explained the concept of male preoccupation with women just a few moments ago. 

Finally, he looked up and asked, “So you admit women, but will not matriculate them?”

“Finishing the course should be enough for anything Lady St. Armand should like to do with her goals.” 

Hermione could not physically stop the words this time. “I want to be a doctor. A physician. Will finishing the course be good enough for the licensing board?” 

She looked to Draco, who cocked his head just a little to the side, and they were silent together. 

Ferrars cleared his throat with some difficulty and replied, not looking either of them in the eye, “I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that question.” 

“You’re only here because of my husband, aren’t you? Who I’m married to,” Hermione accused, and she was proud of how even her voice was. She imagined it low and menacing, and was pleased with the effect.  

“Or who your father-in-law is,” muttered Theo so that only she could hear it. 

“You are afforded unique privileges as Lady St. Armand, I do admit,” Ferrars replied, somehow speaking even more slowly than ever before. Hermione wondered where the chatty Ferrars had gone, replaced by this glacial Ferrars. “The future Marchioness of Winchester would be an invaluable jewel in the box of Caius College.” 

At the word jewel, Theo and Draco both turned to look at Hermione, only to see her eyes go wide and a little bit feral. Theo shook his head minutely when he saw Draco open his mouth to speak. He snapped it shut again and went back to examining his signet ring. The wild look in her eyes subsided after the briefest of moments and she took a deep breath, steadying herself, and also to prevent herself from literally burning the brand new college hall down and dancing naked in the smouldering ashes.

“I think I’ve heard enough,” she declared. 

Draco smiled winningly at the Master. “I’m sure that you will hear from Lady St. Armand very soon after we return to London.” 

Ferrars smiled back at Draco, and for a moment, Hermione almost lunged to reach down and strangle the older man. “I’m sure we could arrange a test time now. I could personally proctor the examination tomorrow. Would eleven o’clock suit Lady–”

Hermione cleared her throat, and the Master swivelled his head back to her. She smiled graciously and said, “Thank you for your time. I am sorry you put forth such effort to accommodate me. I am afraid I will have to decline, but thank you for your generosity of spirit.”

The Master actually sputtered, and Theo muffled a laugh behind his hand. 

“I truly do appreciate all of your efforts,” Hermione continued, honey sweet. “I would not want to change the historic face of Caius College with my presence.” 

“Lady St. Armand,” he started. 

Draco cut him off quietly, “My wife has thanked you, sir. I thank you as well.” 

He stood, abruptly cutting off any other possible entreaties. Ferrars stood as well, picking up his hat. 

“Lady St. Armand, if you would reconsider,” he looked to Hermione, who was standing much straighter now. “I am sure that this misunderstanding could be mended with time.” 

“Let Dean Selwyn know that he just cost the college a generous endowment,” Draco said, not unkindly as he ushered the Master to the door. “I was all for Lady St. Armand’s enrollment, but she makes her own decisions. Pity that she was not convinced.”

“It looks like it might rain,” Theo added, opening the door for him obligingly. “Best to return to the college quickly.”

Theo closed the door behind Ferrars before he was truly and properly out of it, and he leaned against it.

Hermione snorted a little bit of a laugh, caught herself, and stifled it, looking to Theo who was grinning like mad. Hermione’s peal of laughter echoed for a moment before Theo and Draco joined her.

“Did you see his face—” laughed Theo.

Hermione rejoined between helpless giggles, “He called me–”

“My god,” Draco wheezed, wrapping his arms around Hermione’s waist and dropping his forehead to her shoulder. “He called you a jewel.”

Theo couldn’t help it, his grin widening. “A jewel? What kind?”

Hermione snorted and leaned back into Theo, who rested his hand on her arm where she held Draco’s shoulder.

“Maybe a paste one. Didn’t he know? Just a little upstart common-born girl?”

“Might be common born,” Draco replied smoothly, sliding his hand up Hermione’s waist, “but most certainly uncommon.”

The look of heat that passed between Hermione and Draco was intoxicating to Theo, and he wondered if he hadn’t been in the room, who would have been stripped naked first.

Hermione’s eyes slid shut, and she let her head fall back against the mantlepiece. Draco darted a look at Theo before bending forward to kiss the long, golden line of Hermione’s jaw. She sighed contentedly, her eyelashes fluttering on her cheek. He kissed down to the collar of her shirt, and gave a tiny nip of teeth in a white flash.

“Christ,” Theo breathed, and was grateful that his involuntary exclamation was covered up by another of Hermione’s giggles.

She batted Draco away and straightened. “I need a drink and to get out of this stupid dress. Theo, would you be a love and pour me a dram?”

Theo turned, abruptly enough to startle Draco, who had his fingers on the spot where he had just kissed Hermione’s neck. They locked eyes for a moment—Draco had seen him. Really seen him. Seen his… everything he had been thinking. Theo hadn’t been thinking. Theo had only… watched. Seen Draco’s mouth brush against her neck, against her pulse. Theo had wanted. That’s what Draco had seen: want .

“Draco, you’ll be a love and undress me? I don’t know where Abbott’s gone to,” she said absently, turning her back to Theo to go into her bedchamber.

Theo’s knees went a bit weak and he almost dropped the decanter of scotch. Draco caught his eye and Theo sighed. 

Hermione crossed the threshold and he replied, keeping his eyes trained on Theo as he called back to her, “Of course, darling.”

Chapter Text

They drank the paltry amount of scotch left in the decanter before their dinner was served in their private parlour. Hermione was laughing and joking with them, to their confusion, and Draco and Theo didn’t want to ruin it, of course, and knew better than to ruin the mood. The footman was less able to keep his eyes to himself than Goyle did every morning when he came in to find Theo and Draco down to their shirts and trousers and barefooted, and Hermione in her chemise and a bed jacket of green Chinese silk printed with cranes in flight and cherry blossoms.

Draco was in such a good mood, despite the events of the day, that he didn’t even dress the footman down, just raised an eyebrow causing the young man to flush prettily.

“I’ll figure it out,” said Hermione, waving her wine glass a little wide over her plate of beef bourguignon. “I’m young, I’m clever, I have a husband and there’s no time limit on when one can become a doctor.”

“Maybe Oxford is admitting,” suggested Theo. “Or even go to Edinburgh. I like Scotland. Do you like Scotland, Draco? I think I remember you telling me about a little kilt that you wore as a child when your parents took you to Balmoral for the day.”

Draco frowned, “I used to go to Balmoral with Leopold.”

Theo gravely raised his wine glass, “To Leopold.”

“To Leopold,” Draco echoed, and they drank deeply. “I did have a nice kilt, though.”

“Who is Leopold?” Hermione asked, lifting one bare foot onto her chair and getting more comfortable. The thought of Draco in a kilt suddenly made her feel a little hot… 

“Prince Leopold,” Theo corrected. “Jolly good chap. Just three years older than us. He asked Pansy to marry him when we were all still kids. He had the bleeding sickness, you know, and passed a few years ago. He was above us at Eton, but Draco was one of his playmates in the nursery.”

“Bertie was frightfully fond of him, too,” Draco remembered. “Leopold had wanted to go to India, too, after his mother said no to Canada, but she said no to that too.”

“He had a smashing moustache. I could never grow one like that,” said Theo wistfully.

“To Prince Leopold’s moustache,” Hermione said gravely, and raised her glass. They clinked goblets and drank again.

The wine was decent, Hermione thought, and the company superlative. After the initial shock of the afternoon had worn off, she found herself even a little glad that Cambridge and she were no longer an item. If she had gone to Cambridge, she would have been away from Draco and Theo. The Weasleys and Harry were wonderful, and she would have hated to leave them as well, but they had their own lives. Ron was on the prowl for a wife again, and Harry and Ginny had their own married-people things to do. With Draco and Theo, though, Hermione felt like she belonged with them, and not just because she was Draco’s wife.

They played a couple hands of cards, drank the rest of the second bottle of wine, and then fell into a heap in front of the fire, talking idly. Theo lay stretched along the sofa, with Draco draped carelessly over his legs as Theo carded his fingers through Draco’s blond hair, glinting gold in the firelight. Hermione perched on a cushion on the floor looking into the fireplace, grateful for the warmth and grateful to talk without looking either of them in the eye.

“Do you think I’ll find a place?” Hermione asked softly, her voice barely louder than the crackle of the fire. “And what if it’s far—truly far. Somewhere like Edinburgh?”

Draco sighed and shifted, sliding one arm around her shoulders. “Then I suppose we’ll learn to like the weather and pretend to enjoy haggis.” He glanced over at Theo. “Aren’t you a bit Scottish?”

“Irish,” Theo said, smiling into the fire. 

“You’d abandon London?” Hermione said, arching a brow. “Haul the entire conservatory north and become Scots by choice?”

Theo waggled his eyebrows at Draco, “I could learn to like kilts if pressed. You don’t wear anything under them, am I correct?”

“What about America?” Hermione said suddenly. “Philadelphia, maybe. They’ve had medical schools for women for years—real ones.”

“What do you say, Draco?” Theo leaned against the hearth, warming to his own nonsense.  “Shall we run off and become American cowboys? Wild west. Matching hats. Dust in your teeth. You on a horse you hate–”

He twirled the poker theatrically.

“--Boots, chaps, revolvers. I’ll grow a moustache—you’ll loathe it. We’ll be dreadful at it, of course. But I’ll buy you a lasso and call you darling in a Southern accent.”

Hermione snorted into her wine, nearly spilling it as she lowered the glass.

“Draco in a cowboy hat,” she said, eyes dancing. “That’s a vision I can’t unsee.”

Draco gave Theo a long, withering look, but his mouth twitched. “If you so much as try a Southern accent, I’ll divorce you both.”

Hermione turned toward them, resting her hand lightly on Draco’s stomach. “Wouldn’t that horrify your father? His heir—just plain old Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. “I’m not getting scolded again for explaining how peerage works.”

Theo tugged lightly at a lock of Draco’s hair. “It’s not in Lucius’s gift,” he said. “He can’t take the title or give it to someone else—not even the queen can. It’d take an act of Parliament, and they’re not about to strip Draco’s peerage just because he married a lady doctor and bought a cowboy hat.”

“He can’t touch the title,” Draco said evenly. “But the estates—the money, the property, everything not entailed—he can leave to whoever he likes. A trust. A charity. Some lesser cousin he thinks more suitable. If I die without an heir, the title still passes—to the next male relative. But the rest?” He gave a small shrug. “Gone with a signature.”

“Right,” Hermione said. “I’ve heard all of this through the drawing room door at Grimmauld Place. Theo gets whatever’s left, I get my widow’s jointure, and if you go and sire a bastard, I suppose we all just duel at dawn.”

Draco flushed, eyes on his wine glass. “I’d just sworn to Black and Weasley that I’d keep your name clean, never make you look ridiculous—and then I went and threatened to put a child on someone else. I honestly don’t know what came over me.”

“What came over you,” Theo said dryly, getting up to poke at the fire, “was the overwhelming urge to pick a fight with Harry bloody Potter. You’ve never been able to resist.”

Theo glanced up the chimney, frowning slightly. Something about the fire wasn't drawing right, but what, he couldn’t say. 

Draco sat up, grabbed the wine bottle, and finished it off into his glass with a flourish. “Harry’s always been an obnoxious idiot,” he muttered, swirling the wine. “He was just a stupid, ugly little brat at Eton, and it seemed like he made a career of putting my nose out of joint.” 

“Harry said you harassed him, not the other way around,” Hermione grinned, and Draco sputtered indignantly.

“As much as I truly want to listen to this again,” Theo frowned, gesturing at the fireplace, “this chimney isn’t drawing correctly. I’ll ring for the footman before we're all covered in soot.”

Hermione stood, touching Draco’s arm lightly. “We’ll continue this conversation in the morning because I’m dying to have it. I’ll just say goodnight.”

Hermione gave Draco a quick kiss on the cheek, her hand lightly squeezing Theo’s shoulder as she stood. Grabbing a candle from the table, she slipped quietly into her room. She washed quickly and settled under the covers, sipping her Madeira and enjoying the muted, familiar sounds drifting through the thin walls. Draco and Theo’s presence nearby was soothing, a gentle reassurance after the day's frustrations.

Still, sleep evaded her, leaving her slightly restless. Perhaps it was the wine or simply the lingering buzz of conversation, but Hermione found herself straining to hear the quiet noises from the other side of the parlour. Theo muttered something indistinct—a frustrated curse—followed by the sharp ring of the bell and the footman’s quiet footsteps. She listened curiously as they discussed the blocked flue, the scrape of metal signaling the removal of the coals, and finally Theo’s tired sigh as he retreated to his and Draco’s bedroom.

The quiet settled again, and Hermione finished her Madeira, feeling not quite ready for the evening to end. Without overthinking it—spurred by curiosity, loneliness, and perhaps the last glass of wine—she tugged on her bed jacket and stepped softly back into the darkened parlour, heading toward their door.

She imagined Draco looking up from the book he was reading as Theo shut the door. Maybe he gave one of his enigmatic little half smiles, not quite a smirk. “Well, that was a day and a half."

Theo sighed, and Hermione imagined him unbuttoning his shirt. “Too eventful. Poor Hermione. Married you, of all people, and still denied at the gate."=

“She’s resilient,” came Draco’s voice, a little muffled. Had they kissed? “She'll bounce back. Wherever she goes, we'll follow—might liven things up."

The bed squeaked and then the bedclothes rustled. "Oh, just like that, then? Might liven things up?" Theo’s voice turned suddenly lower, edged with something dark and vulnerable. "Don't lie to me."

Draco gasped softly—not entirely from pain. "Careful, Theo."

"You're falling in love with her," Theo accused bluntly, his voice carrying an edge Hermione had never heard before.

"That's absurd," Draco shot back, though his voice betrayed uncertainty.

Theo said something too low for Hermione to overhear. 

"Fucker," Draco groaned, voice tight. "Like you're one to talk. I’m not blind—I know how you touch her, how you watch her."

Hermione’s heart lurched violently, panic stealing her breath. Her vision blurred slightly at the edges, dizziness overtaking rational thought. She had to leave—had to move—but her body wouldn't obey.

"Well," Theo sighed heavily, voice tinged with dark humor, "I suppose we're entirely fucked now."

Hermione's panic surged, overtaking every rational thought. She knocked sharply, impulsively, her voice tight with urgency, "Draco? Theo?"

There was a startled rustling, then Draco’s swift, surprised reply: "Yes?"

“Can you put on your pants and let me come in?” she asked. “I could hear you getting started, and while it’s usually very sexy when I hear that, I want company more than I want either of you to get fucked.”

In the sudden silence, Hermione imagined Theo and Draco turning to each other, gobsmacked

“I thought we were very quiet,” Theo whispered to Draco, and there was another rustle of bedclothes. 

Through the door, Hermione replied, “It’s not your strong suit.”

“Christ, Hermione,” Draco laughed. “One moment.” 

On the other side of the door, Hermione covered her heart with her hand as to somehow muffle the pounding she was sure they could hear. She was quite drunk, drunker than she’d thought she was when she got up to eavesdrop, and having caught them out discussing their feelings for her– for her! For little nobody, not-even-a-doctor Hermione Granger. 

“Alright, come on,” Theo said a moment later, and Hermione paused for just a moment before she pushed open the door. Her mouth went dry, fast, at the sight that greeted her.

They lay in bed, draped in each others’ arms, Draco ostensibly nude with the sheets bunched around his waist and Theo in a long-sleeved undershirt pushed up his forearms. Draco’s shoulder sported a bright red O shape, and Hermione could make out the pattern of Theo’s teeth in the mark. She looked at it, looked at them both, and came in. 

“I’m only a little sorry to break that up,” Hermione admitted, sitting down at the foot of their bed. “I could just hear you still up, and I decided I wanted company.”

“You have every right. You’ve had a terrible day Theo replied staunchly as he fiddled with the neckline of his undershirt, and then with the coverlet to make sure that his now-flagging erection was concealed. Of course she had to show up right when he was imagining Hermione sucking Draco off. Again. He really had to stop that. 

Draco narrowed his eyes at her a fraction, studying her face. Hermione studiously kept her face as neutral as she could and hoped that her quick respiration didn’t give her away. He seemed to come to a decision, and replied, “I can’t say I’d want to be alone either.”

She searched their faces, and made her choice. Fluidly, and without asking, she crawled up the length of the bed and pushed herself between them. “The bed’s big enough for three, don’t you think?”

Theo laughed, “You sure aren’t the virginal, chaste girl we were expecting Draco to marry, that’s for sure.”

“You wouldn’t like me otherwise, that’s for sure,” she replied, fluffing the pillows. “I’ve slept with Ginny and Harry before. It was after a party in the middle of winter and we were all a lot more drunk than I am now.” 

Draco twitched the quilt a bit across his lap, “Did Black have an erection when you slept with him? No, I don’t want to know, Christ please don’t tell me.” 

Hermione and Theo laughed, and they settled more comfortably back against the pillows. Theo blew out the candle at the bedside, and in the dark with her head pillowed on Draco’s shoulder, and Theo’s chest on her back, Hermione said in a small, wistful voice, “Will you tell me the story of how you met again?”

Theo’s heart ached. For a long moment, he felt as though he would not ever be able to draw in a full breath again. It took everything he had, every ounce of willpower, to not crush her to his chest. 

Draco huffed a laugh, and in the dark, illuminated by only the moon through the window, Theo could see him press a kiss to the top of Hermione’s head and run his hand down her wild hair. 

“Again?” he asked, and Hermione nodded. 

Feeling like an interloper, but only in the most wonderful way, Theo pressed just a little closer to Hermione’s back and moved his hand to rest carefully on her side, just below her ribs. He could have sworn he felt her breath jump and get stuck in her chest the way his had just a second before.

“In the fall of 1862, when I was eleven years old, I went to Eton. I had begged my father to allow me a private room, but he declined my request,” Draco whispered, his hand making slow passes down the length of Hermione’s hair. Draco’s fingertips ghosted along Theo’s chest as her curls spilled down her back, trapped gently between their bodies. “I was late because the groom’s horse had thrown a shoe and I was tired and annoyed. I was a very annoyed little boy. When I finally arrived at my room, groom and footmen trailing with my trunks and baggage, I realized I'd be completely alone for the first time. But then I saw another little boy sitting calmly at his desk, taller and annoyingly handsome, offering to introduce me to the other boys—and I met the man I would love for my entire life right there.”

Listening to Draco’s story brought little pricks of heat to Theo’s eyes, and he smiled, remembering the same. 

“He offered me some of the sweets his mother had packed him, like some kind of aristocratic confectioner,” Theo murmured, his voice low and soothing. “And we went out and found some other boys for a pick-up game of football and Draco was so particular with his clothes that he played horribly. Turned out he was actually rather good at footie once suitably attired.”

Hermione hummed contentedly, shifting her face against Draco’s shoulder and letting her eyes drift closed as Theo went on. “He was my very best friend, and we bonded immediately over our mutual dislike of Weasley and Potter—or Black, as he's known now. His mother kept us stocked with treats. I'm surprised we didn't get fat, but we spent every waking hour running about causing mayhem, so perhaps it balanced out.”

“Mother even started sending pumpkin tarts every fall because she knew he liked them,” Draco added softly. “Father didn’t entirely approve of Theo’s parentage, but he couldn't stop me.”

Hermione’s breathing had evened out as she neared sleep, a soft smile curving her mouth at that thought.

“And then it repeated,” Theo continued gently. “It was eight years later, and we were both nineteen—”

“You were nineteen,” corrected Draco with gentle humor. “I had just turned twenty.”

Theo chuckled softly. “Right. Eight years later, I was nineteen and stationed in Bombay. Draco walked through my officers’ quarters door again. We shared gin and tonics, talked late into the night, and just as he rose to leave, every gun across India fired simultaneously, marking the Prince’s arrival.”

Hermione hummed, her face going lax with sleepiness. “That’s beautiful.” 

“I kissed him for the first time later that night,” Draco shifted a bit. “I didn’t leave when the guns went off. I had a few more drinks. I tried to leave later, but he had sat down on his bed and I was walking to the door. I touched the door handle, and I couldn’t move. I just went back and kissed him.”

“I’ll never know how you knew to kiss me,” Theo whispered, taking Draco’s hand as it passed down Hermione’s back. “I wasn’t even sure I wanted it until you did it.” 

“I just did,” Draco assured him. “And I’m terribly glad I did.” 

Between them, Hermione slept. 

Hermione remained stubbornly still, eyes closed, half-hoping she could avoid reality by sheer willpower alone. It was warm, and comfortable, although the air was a little crisp with the dawn peeking through the shutters. She lay on her side, her forehead against Draco’s bare shoulder as he slept on his back and her free arm slung over his hip. Behind her was another solid, warm presence and she didn’t have to move her head to see that it was Theo, his nose pressed into her hair and hand splayed across her stomach. She was trapped pleasantly in a tangle she'd willingly placed herself into. 

She sent up a quick prayer of gratitude that Theo was still deeply asleep—and not experiencing any kind of morning arousal. Managing her embarrassment was one thing; managing that conversation before tea was another entirely.

Everything in Hermione urged her to stay—to press closer to Theo, waking him in the most delightful way imaginable, to feel Draco stir beneath her hand. It would be easy and wonderful and terribly complicated. Clarity, however, came swiftly. Complications, no matter how appealing, were best approached after breakfast. Or maybe after a stiff drink. With a quiet breath of resolve, she carefully eased herself from the warmth of the bed.

Draco cracked open one sleepy eye, muttering softly. “Hermione? Come—”

“Shh,” she teased gently, a finger pressed playfully to her lips. “Be good and sleep.”

Draco nodded at her, soft and sleepy, a little annoyed that he didn’t have both brunettes in bed with him, and scooted across the bed to curl intoTheo’s warmth. Hermione smiled slightly, watching them settle comfortably together. She felt a subtle pride—perhaps fortitude—as she set her shoulders, turning resolutely toward the day. It was time to move forward.

The parlour was still quiet and cold, on account of the poorly drawing flue, when Hermione crossed back through a half hour later fully dressed. She laid a note on the table on top of the newspapers Goyle had laid out and left the guesthouse.

Two hours later, Theo finally stirred, blinking into sunlight aimed rudely at his eyes. He reached lazily for Draco, then jolted awake. "Where's Hermione?"

Draco moaned, pressing his face deeper into the pillow. His voice muffled in feathers, he muttered, "She was up ages ago."

"People who willingly wake up early," Theo murmured against Draco's shoulder, "are scientifically proven to be psychopaths."

Draco chuckled, turning his head slightly. "Scientifically?"

"German alienists  don't lie," Theo insisted, tracing idle circles on Draco’s stomach.

“You need to read less of that stuff,” Draco chuckled. “It’ll make you have bad taste in clothing, like Hermione.”

“She looked well enough in that nightgown,” Theo reminded him, and pressed himself against Draco’s backside. “Good enough that I don’t even mind that you had to take your pretty mouth off my prick when she knocked.” 

Draco flushed hotly, and pressed right back. He felt himself grow and harden against his thigh and for a moment, he let Theo kiss the back of his neck and palm the globe of his ass insistently. 

“Pretty mouth?” fished Draco. 

“Almost as pretty as Hermione’s,” Theo muttered into Draco’s spine. 

Draco flushed as Theo pressed closer, the warmth of his palm coaxing a gasp from him. "We should get up," he managed, despite Theo's insistent touch.

"Are you sure?" Theo murmured, voice low and warm, his hand gentle but firm. "You seem tense."

Draco groaned dramatically into the sheets. "Bloody hell, Theo—if Hermione hears this, I'll never live it down." Theo twisted his palm around the underside of Draco’s head, now leaking with the sensation. “Are you sure?”

Draco cried out, although he tried to mute the sound with his pillow. “I don’t have time to re– oh Christ, Theo—we don’t have time for me to reciprocate.”

“You can get me back later, my darling boy,” Theo whispered, keeping up the same insistent rhythm. “I know you’re wound tight. It’s been days, hasn’t it?”

Draco whimpered, and even with Theo he was the tiniest bit ashamed of the noise of pure need. 

“Days,” he confirmed. 

Theo kept up the twisting strokes and began to feel a burn in his left arm from how they were positioned. Theo thought about it for a moment, and decided that he’d deal with the ache later and love the reminder. He pushed on despite the discomfort. 

Draco pushed up into Theo’s hand, his fists clenched in the sheets. He pulled one side clear off the mattress and called out. If Hermione was out there, Theo thought he’d like to give her something to listen to. Maybe she’d even come back in. 

“Please, Theo, please,” he whined, “Let me have your mouth.”

Theo obliged, and shifted over to swallow him down messily. It took only moments more before Draco stuttered his hips into Theo’s mouth and spilled his release. Panting hard, Draco lay back and died a little before leaning over to kiss Theo hard on the lips. 

Draco collapsed back onto the bed, breathless, eyes sparkling as he tugged Theo up into a kiss. "You spoil me," he whispered teasingly. "But I won't complain."

Theo smiled softly into the kiss. "Couldn't very well leave you all wound up, could I? Though admittedly, it got rather unbearable last night—I had to excuse myself briefly to the parlour while you two were asleep."

Draco raised an eyebrow, voice teasing and airy. "Hermione had you that worked up, did she?"

Theo laughed softly, sliding off the bed to pour himself water. "Both of you, honestly. It was—it doesn’t matter what it was."

Draco chuckled, shaking his head as he slipped into his dressing gown. "Let’s find something to distract ourselves, shall we? 

Outside the bedchamber, a cold breakfast spread was laid with a carafe of hot coffee. 

“Breakfast is here and Hermione is not,” frowned Draco, picking up the note. 

“Where is she?” Theo asked, tying his own dressing gown as he came out. Draco handed him the note and he read aloud: “ Dear Draco and Teddy, sorry to leave so suddenly this morning. I took the early train back to London with Abbott and I hope by the time you read this, I am already there and you have slept well. I needed to think, and run an errand, and I could not do all that with company. Thank you for your concern and comfort the past few days as I embarked on, and ultimately failed, my mission. I will see you when you return to London; please send a telegram if it will not be tonight. All my best, Hermione. ”

Theo sighed and tossed the letter down. 

Draco picked it up and looked at it again. “What do you think she’s on about, Mr. Alienist?”

Theo sighed again and picked up a scone. He considered it before biting into it, and chewed thoughtfully. They ate and drank coffee in silence for a bit, the cool of the morning chill enough to be uncomfortable. 

“I think she heard us talk about her last night,” he pronounced, his face slack and sad. “Maybe she was drunk enough to think it adorable, and upon waking, she realised what a hideous, horrible prospect it was.”

Draco blanched, his hand hovering over the handle of his coffee cup. 

“Shit,” he said. 

“Shit,” Theo agreed. 

The train had nearly rocked her to sleep over the blur of the countryside from Cambridge all the way to London. As they entered the city proper, the sky, which had been growing ever darker through the journey, gave up its gorge and began to dump summer rain. Abbott and Hermione pulled into the station at just after one in the afternoon, and Hermione promptly dismissed Abbott, who screwed up her face in a scowl at her mistress’s impropriety. 

Hermione ignored her distaste, as she was wont to do more and more often, now that she was married. It was freeing to be married, and to have a permissive husband. Even more freeing to have an absentee husband. 

She hadn’t planned to come here. Not really. But the train had kept moving, and the rain had started, and suddenly she found herself in a cab with her father’s address on her tongue.

The cab ride through London passed in a blur of puddles and wheel spray. By the time she reached her father's townhouse on Brook Street, the streets were soaked, and her were nerves sharper than ever. The house itself looked the same as always, not that she’d been gone particularly long: proud, polished, and slightly absurd. The kind of house that would win a prize for Best Posture. She used to love that about it.

Up the grey stone steps she went, and one of the Granger footmen opened the door for her just as she reached the top. 

“Thank you, John,” Hermione gave him a little smile, and shook the rain off of her hat. “It sure is dismal out there.” 

She spied a small brown bird of a woman to her left in the front parlor, and she called out to her, handing John her gloves. 

“Miss Hermione! I mean—Lady St Armand!!” Mrs. Wallace’s hands flew to her mouth, eyes warm. “Saints Alive, what a surprise!”

Hermione managed a tired smile for their housekeeper. “I hope I’m not too much of one. Is my father in?”

“Good heavens, you’re soaked through. Come through this instant.” Mrs. Wallace ushered her further into the foyer, taking her damp cloak and shaking her head fondly. “Your father’s in, miss. In the library with an early brandy and a book, same as always.”

Mrs. Wallace fussed. Of course she fussed, but this time Hermione let her, and she watched the woman with new appreciation as she blossomed, being allowed to fuss as she wished. 

“Some things never change,” Hermione replied dryly, looking around. “Is that a new rug?”

“Just delivered,” Mrs. Wallace replied, then glanced at her sideways. “He’ll be pleased to see you, though he won’t say so properly.”

“I won’t hold my breath,” Hermione admitted, biting her lower lip. “But I do need his advice, and no one else’s will substitute.”

The housekeeper that had come with Sir George and Hermione to London from Kent, and had known her since she was a wee thing gave her a quick squeeze to the shoulder. “Tea now or later?”

“In a bit,” Hermione requested. “Could I trouble you for a bit to eat? I slept through the trolley on the train.”

Mrs. Wallace gave her a look that bordered on maternal. “You go on, then. But don’t let him talk circles around you.”

“I never do,” Hermione said, though she always did. 

Mrs. Wallace left her at the door to the library, and Hermione waited for just a moment before she pushed open the door, hating what she was going to be doing in just a moment. The smell of brandy, and pipe smoke, swirled around her, and it was achingly familiar. Sir George was where she expected, in his favorite wingback armchair with the detritus of an alcoholic gentleman around him. 

On the table was a decanter of brandy, a pot of tea in a knitted cozy and a single porcelain cup and saucer. It shocked her to see it—Hermione herself had knitted that tea cozy years ago and sent it home from school to her father. It was worn, ratty with use and tea-stained, but it warmed her and gave her confidence that she hadn’t had a moment before. She hadn’t thought about that cozy in years. Yet there it was, battered and loyal. Just like her father, really. Just like her.

Sir George was swirling a bit of brandy into his cup of tea as she walked in, in a velvet smoking jacket and a tasselled hat that looked faintly ridiculous, but somehow still rakish. Exactly the same mixture of ridiculous and elegant as ever: impeccably dressed, faintly ruddy, and half-pickled. 

“By God, Hermione!” he boomed, rising easily. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Hello, Papa,” she said, leaning forward so he could kiss her cheek. “Sorry to drop in without warning.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, gesturing her to sit. “You’re always welcome, though I confess I thought you’d be off gallivanting about with that new husband of yours.”

Hermione sat across from him in the matching wingback chair, far less used than the other, and the fabric and stuffing was in far better condition. “Draco is otherwise occupied in Cambridge. I had things in London to attend to, so I returned earlier than him.”

“Without him? Trouble in paradise already?” Sir George chuckled, sitting back down and making himself comfortable. 

“No,” she said shortly. “He’s well. I just had some business. We’re not entirely in one another’s pockets.”

He narrowed his eyes at her over the rim of his teacup. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

Hermione stared at him and replied blankly, “No.”

“Well, thank God for that. Nothing worse for a marriage than a child too early. Or at all, really. Are you here for money?”

“Good thing you only had one,” Hermione inhaled sharply. “No, I don’t need money. I came to tell you something.”

Sir George finally paused and listened to her, and set the teacup down, sloshing a bit onto the table. “Well, go on, then.”

She looked at him, really looked at him—this man who had never quite known what to do with her, who liked her best at parties when she could be admired from across the room. “I want to be a doctor.”

He blinked, owlish. “You what?”

“A doctor. A real one. It’s why I married the viscount. So I could pursue it.”

Sir George leaned his head back, then burst into a short, barking laugh. "You’ve always had imagination, Mione. You want to be a doctor now?”

“I’m quite serious,” Hermione replied staunchly, getting ready to go to battle with her father. 

“You married into a marquessate so you could play at medicine?” He got up to refill his teacup. He offered her one with a gesture, which she turned down. “That’s the mad part. You could’ve just married a doctor. At least then you’d be surrounded by the stuff.”

“I didn’t want to marry a doctor,” she insisted, and shifted in her seat. “I want to be one.”

“You’ve never even told me you had an interest,” he peered at her, and looked at the brandy decanter for a moment before sitting back down without it in his tea. 

“I knew you’d think it was absurd.”

He harrumphed and leaned back, sloshing tea on his cuff. “Well, you’re not wrong. It is entirely absurd. What on earth would you do, tend to street urchins? Diagnose coughs in Whitechapel?”

“I’d do the work that was needed,” she said, simply. “And I’d do it well.”

He studied her: listened to her quiet tone, looked at her folded hands, her bitten-red mouth, and the dark circles under her amber eyes. Sir George furrowed his brow, and looked to be attempting to rectify his vision of his daughter and the one he was being shown. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

He studied her for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Then I suppose I’d better take you seriously. St Armand knows?”

“He encouraged it.”

“Does that mean that Captain of his is in on this, too?”

Hermione hesitated, but smiled. “Yes.”

Sir George let out a short laugh. “Well. I’ll be damned. You’ve dragged the viscount and his man into your schemes. Might as well do it properly.” He drained the last of his glass and gestured lazily for the decanter. “Tell me this, then—what sort of doctor will you be?”

“Infectious disease, namely soldiering diseases: malaria, especially, cholera, typhoid, typhus– there are just so many! I’ve been following the work of this one bacteriologist–.”

Sir George shook his head, cutting her off with something akin to pride, “You always were a curious one. I doubt any of us will be able to stop you. You’re quite sure, my dear?”

Hermione blinked at him, “It’s going to be terribly hard, Papa. I was just in Cambridge, at Caius College, and they didn’t even let me sit the entrance exam. I’ve studied for months and months, and I wasn’t even allowed to take it.” 

“And you want my help to find a way?” he peered at her, and continued anyway. “You’re right, it will be hard. I assume you’ve looked to Germany and America? Not Germany, I hope. Your German was atrocious, if I remember. Or worse–”

They said in unison, with a shudder, “ Scotland. ”

A moment passed between them, and Sir George sipped his tea. He seemed to be considering, and lightly said, “If you plan to scandalize the family name, make sure you do it brilliantly. No daughter of mine should be merely adequate.”

Sir George picked up his glass again. “Now drink something before I change my mind.”

Chapter Text

Theo and Draco slid into the private compartment that Goyle had managed to secure for them on the fast train from Cambridge Station to London Liverpool Street Station, which made the journey in fifty minutes instead of the usual hour and a half by skipping stops in Saffron Walden, Harlow, and Ilford. 

Outside the window, steam from the engine coiled around the retreating town and made way for the olive green, slate grey, and brown countryside. The rain veiled the whole thing, casting a sort of white noise that deepened the quiet. The train rocked gently, and the rhythm always seemed to lull Draco to sleep. 

Theo settled on the velvet bench across from Draco and crossed one ankle over the opposite knee. He stared out the window, and didn’t speak. Neither did Draco,  but the air was companionable and familiar. 

Draco, on the opposite bench, sat straight with his arms folded and watched the blurring scenery through the rain-streaked window. “Do you think she’s alright?” he broke the silence once they broke free of Cambridge and the country rolled all around them. 

“Of course,” Theo didn’t look up. “She’s just sorting herself out.”

Draco nodded. That was enough for him. 

Moments later, Theo asked, “Do you think she’s looking for approval? From the greater world, not just us?”

Draco scoffed. “She doesn’t care about it, and doesn’t even want our help, even though she needs it. She just wants access.”

Brief understanding flashed between them. 

They passed a bend in the track, and over a trestle bridge, with the fields rippling out in green and brown at the end of the season. Rain tapped, then drummed louder and louder as it intensified into a storm. Flickers from signal lights they passed illuminated Draco’s face in the dark mid-afternoon. Slowly, his eyes closed, and within minutes, his head rested against the window and he was asleep, his breath deep and soft and even. 

Theo didn’t sleep. Not that he couldn’t; he was a soldier and trained to be able to sleep (or not sleep) whenever he could. Instead, he watched the world go by, and watched Draco sleep, and didn’t really see any of it at all. He thought of what Hermione must have looked like tromping to the train station with Abbott in tow. He imagined that she didn’t look back once, not because she was cold or cruel, but because she was just focused and had already turned inward towards some decision and was going towards it, alone. Not totally alone, of course, and Abbott would complain to Goyle about it later. 

Goyle wouldn’t give a single shit, Theo chuckled to himself. 

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a slim black notebook. The spine was creased, and the corners rounded from use. Almost time to retire this volume. He mused as he flipped past pages filled with cramped notes and half-formed diagrams, and a few of Draco’s rude little cartoons pasted in, until he found a clean space. His pen, kept in the same pocket of his jacket, was a brass and black enamel fountain pen, and perfectly balanced. 

He chewed the side of his thumb nail as he considered. 

Cambridge– ( he wrote ) closed gates. What do we do with minds too big for their century?

Professor Binns– still at the club in Russell Square? Or is it Tavistock? 

Sir George? 

Not charity; course correction

He tapped the pen a few times on the side of the notebook, and then set it down, fingers tracing the grooves left by the nib. He stayed that way for the rest of the short journey, until they pulled into the city, the fog rising low and thick with the receding rainstorm. 

The hiss of the brakes jolted Draco awake, and he blinked a few times before stretching his jaw in a yawn. “Coming to Brook Street or have other business?”

Theo stood, and retrieved his satchel from the overhead rack, slipping his notebook back into his jacket. “I’ll be back later.”

They jostled down the corridor to the platform, the silence of their private carriage suddenly interrupted by the mass of humanity around them. They were definitely back in London. 

“You have that look,” Draco eyed him as they stepped down onto the platform. 

“What look?” asked Theo, distracted as he waved down Goyle. 

“The one where someone ends up surprised, and it isn’t you.”

Theo smiled faintly at Draco and touched their pinky fingers together. “Keep a dinner plate warm for me?”

He turned his collar up against the breeze and the fog, and disappeared into the throng, his boots clicking against the wet stone of the platform. 

Some things are worth doing quietly, Theo thought.

Draco watched him go, then shook his head with a little grin, and made his way to the cab that Goyle had hailed by now. 

The Miranda Club was a crumbling building, with a crumbling clientele that seemed to exist solely for the purpose of cravat-wearing intellectuals to sit around, refusing to join anything with the word "modern" in the description, and congratulate other cravat-wearing intellectuals. The ceilings were high, and ornately plastered in a way that even Zabini's plasterer would be envious of, the fireplaces lit against the damp weather, and the furniture arranged for contemplation more than conversation. It smelled like dust, cigars, and the ghosts of at least three centuries of spilled claret. 

Upstairs, Theo found Professor Binns exactly where he expected: in the corner near the front window, being absorbed by an overstuffed chair that had been worn out fifty years ago. A bottle of port and a half-full glass rested on the table beside him, a recent-looking copy of the American Journal of Philology draped across his lap. 

"Captain Nott," Binns greeted, looking up and giving him a wry half-smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Or is it duty disguised as curiosity again?"

"Pleasure, I assure you," Theo said mildly, sliding into the armchair opposite.

Binns snorted, and gestured to the port. "Flattery, like you joining my monthly salon. That’s usually the precursor to nonsense. Go on, then."

Theo retrieved a glass from the cabinet at the nearest corner, and poured himself a splash. "I wondered if you know of anyone who's pushing the boundaries, shall we say, on medical training. I have... a friend interested in the discipline."

"Your friend ." Binns looked up with an eyebrow up as well, peering over his spectacles. "Miss Granger cum Lady St Armand, I presume?"

"Yes."

"Oh dear, I had wondered when this was coming." He made a face. "I had hoped her interest was straying to botany. Miss Granger—I apologize, Lady St Armand—has a formidable mind, and I’m wondering if her stomach is as strong. I'm not sure if I approve of ladies as physicians, but we can’t keep them out of the lecture halls these days. Next thing you know, they'll be operating on dukes."

"Only if the dukes are lucky," Theo said smoothly.

Binns gave a begrudging chuckle, "Well, she’ll need more than brains and cleverness."

"She has those," Theo assured, sipping what turned out to be a rather good port. "And a bit more, besides."

"If she’s serious, she’ll need teeth," Binns muttered. "Sharp ones."

Theo waited, and politely sipped the good port. 

Binns sighed and set the journal aside. "There’s a woman at St Bart’s that I know. Matron Pomfrey. Knows everything, sees everything, makes most men cry if they blink too slowly. Lives with Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, if that tells you anything."

He raised one eyebrow meaningfully, but didn’t elaborate.

Theo only nodded. "I haven't heard the name."

"She's the dean of the London School of Medicine for Women. Her house is a bastion of unnatural brilliance. Anderson’s the one to impress, but Pomfrey's the one who'll decide whether she gets through the door."

"There's a medical school for women in London?" confirmed Theo, leaning forward towards Binns. 

Binns leaned in as well, his voice growing gravelly. "If she insists on seeing this through, send her to Pomfrey. She eats sharper men for breakfast. Your girl might survive."

Theo sipped his drink, then set it down. "That sounds like an implicit endorsement."

"Tell her not to waste Anderson's time," Binns said, leaning back again and closing his eyes. "She's fierce, not foolish. If Lady St Armand can't keep up, she'll be discarded. And rightly so."

"She can keep up," Theo said quietly.

Binns cracked one eye open and cackled. "Then God help the rest of us."

Theo really didn't like the amount of bustle or movement it required to criss-cross London three times in three hours, and was ready to go home to where it was warm and dry before he even got to his next destination. Theo stepped through the door at St Bart's Hospital with his collar turned up against the renewed drizzle. It smelled exactly like the hospital he'd been admitted to in India when he broke his collarbone: antiseptic, starch, and copper.  His eyes scanned for someone who might resemble a gatekeeper. The front desk was occupied by a distracted-looking young man flipping through a ledger.

"Excuse me," Theo said mildly. "I'm looking for Matron Pomfrey."

The orderly barely glanced up, "Name?"

"Captain Nott. She won’t know it."

The man sighed, stood, and disappeared through a side hallway with a muttered, "Wait here."

He did. The waiting area wasn't much more than a pair of wooden benches on either side of a hallway painted seafoam green with a cracked orange tile floor. Across from him, he listened to a mother soothing her little boy in soft French, cradling his arm. The wall above the woman and son bore notices for lectures, jobs, and vaccinations. Doctors, nursing sisters, and patients crossed the hall quickly, and deeper into the building, a clock chimed four in the afternoon. 

Matron Pomfrey didn't take long, and emerged from the corridor the orderly disappeared down as if summoned. She wore a crisp and starched white apron pinned to her slate grey dress, with her gunmetal colored hair pinned back tightly. She stopped the moment she spied Theo on the bench.

She eyed him, not unkindly. "Are you lost, or just bold?"

Theo removed his hat with a small smile and held out his hand to her. "The latter, I’m afraid."

Pomfrey crossed her arms. "If you’re here to sell me something, don’t. I haven’t the patience."

"I came for information. About training," Theo dropped his hand. 

That seemed to take her aback for a moment, but she recovered quickly. 

"For yourself?"

"No," Theo replied. "For a friend. A woman."

Pomfrey raised an arched grey eyebrow. "Of course. And what does this woman want to do?"

"Practice medicine. Seriously."

"Few do it as a hobby," she replied, dry. "Why come to me?"

"Because I was told you know everyone worth knowing."

"She wants to gain entrance to the women's medical school," Pomfrey said, matter of fact. 

"Yes."

"And you think sending a man to ask on her behalf proves she’s ready?"

Theo met her gaze. "No, it only proves I believe in her enough to spend my day trying to get her a chance. She doesn't even know I'm here."

Pomfrey studied him a moment, then turned. "Come with me."

She led him down a corridor that smelled of carbolic and something sweet, past a nurse instructing a man with a bandaged leg. Pomfrey allowed him to enter into her narrow, windowless office stacked high with ledgers and folders. 

"Dr. Anderson doesn’t do favors," Pomfrey said, shutting the door behind them. "She does assessments. She does tea. And she does not suffer dithering."

"Hermione Granger doesn’t dither," Theo said simply, holding his hands up in surrender. "I promise."

"That’s the girl’s name?"

He nodded, “Hermione Granger. She’s studied relentlessly. She’s obsessed with Jaume de Ferran’s theories on cholera immunity. She’s not here to play dress-up with a stethoscope.”

“So she knows its ugly work,” Pomfrey nodded approvingly. 

Theo mentioned, “Her father was a navy doctor. She’s completely aware.”

“Did she doctor that black eye you’ve got?” Pomfrey inquired, smirking a little. 

Theo puffed up, “She did, and this has only been three days, look at the progress! Hermione is absolutely brilliant. Really, it would be a bigger crime to not meet her.”

Pomfrey considered. “She’ll need to convince Dr. Anderson.”

Pomfrey walked around her battered desk and scribbled something on a notecard with firm, unpretentious penmanship. She passed it across to him.

“You tell your lady to come in person. We don’t open doors for ghosts.”

The card read: Thursday tea, 4 in the afternoon. 6 Chenies Mews.  

"She gets one meeting," Pomfrey said, looking him over. "You get none."

"Understood."

"She'll need more than nerve."

"She has them. And more."

Pomfrey allowed a small sound that might have been a laugh. "If she doesn’t, Dr. Anderson will know in minutes. Either way, we’ll both find out what she’s made of."

Theo found them in Hermione’s bedroom, tangled up in the wreckage of a decadent dinner. A silver tray perched precariously on the mattress, flanked by half-empty champagne coupes, a dish of roasted figs with honey and cream, and the remains of something that looked like duck confit. A pillowcase had been repurposed into a napkin. Draco was propped against the headboard in a silk robe, hair damp and curling from a recent bath, while Hermione lay crosswise over the pillows in a thin white shift and her green-with-cranes bed jacket, her legs draped over his lap, one arm thrown dramatically across her eyes.

"I see I’ve interrupted repose," Theo said dryly, stepping inside without waiting to be invited.

Hermione lowered her arm just enough to peer at him through a narrowed eye. "We’re in mourning."

"Mm. Looks exhausting," Theo replied, tugging at his jacket. He stepped carefully around a discarded linen napkin and perched on the edge of the bed. "How is she?"

Draco didn't shift, only let one hand rest absently on Hermione's shin. "Less furious. Slightly more inclined to eat pastry."

"Progress," Theo murmured.

He let his gaze linger on her—not intrusive, just appreciative. She looked soft in the lamplight, all golden limbs and tousled hair, the tension that had coiled tight around her in Cambridge now seeming to unwind. Her hair spilled across the pillows in a caramel tangle. He was struck with how alarmingly lovely she was. And how, stranger still, that he could look on all that loveliness now any time he wished, without needing to hide it in quick glances. 

It was a quiet kind of miracle, he thought. To be allowed proximity. To see her like this—not just beautiful, but messy and self-possessed and entirely unbothered by his presence. It made him want to do something mad, like hand her the world on a plate, or cry, or hire a string quartet to play for her in bed. 

Instead, he handed her the card. 

"What’s that?" Hermione asked, lifting herself halfway upright. Her bed jacket slipped slightly off one shoulder, and she didn’t bother to fix it.

Theo held it out, waving it at her. "An invitation from Dr. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson."

She took it, brows knitting. Her eyes scanned it once, then again.

"You did this?" she asked, voice soft with disbelief. “You did this… how did you do this?”

"I made the introduction. The rest of the job is yours."

She looked at the card a third time, as if expecting the letters to rearrange themselves into something more plausible. Then she looked back up at him, eyes very wide and very glassy.

"Thank you,” she whispered, putting the card to her chest and swallowing. 

Theo offered only a small shrug. "You were going to get there eventually. I just nudged the fates."

Draco, who had been watching them without interrupting, now raised his glass in Theo’s direction. "You have an irritating habit of knowing the right people."

"I cultivate it deliberately," Theo replied. "It's nearly my only skill."

Hermione laughed, short and bright. She gently placed the card on the nightstand and leaned back against Draco with a sigh. "Let’s ring for another tray. I’m sure you’re hungry, Teddy. If we don’t, I’ll just start crying again."

Draco shuddered, “And I’ve only just gotten her to stop crying.”

They ended up sprawled on the carpet, the three of them in various states of post-dinner decadence, nestled against brocade cushions and wrapped in throw blankets like children at a sleepover. Someone—Draco, probably—had brought a bottle of madeira from the sitting room, and it sat open between them alongside a second tray of food: soft brie and stilton, fresh bread, salted butter, pears soaked in wine.

Hermione produced a deck of playing cards from the drawer of her nightstand, the edges frayed and the backs faded. She began to deal with casual authority.

"We play rummy in this house," she announced. "No arguments."

"I don’t argue," Theo said, accepting his cards. "I sabotage."

"He cheats," Draco clarified.

"Only when necessary."

They played three rounds, during which Theo absolutely did cheat—Hermione caught him twice and let it slide once—and Theo kept a running commentary on everyone's strategy while refusing to tally the score. The fire crackled merrily behind them, and the windows fogged up in the chill of the fall evening. The whole room smelled faintly of wax, wine, and oranges.

Somewhere between hands, Hermione told Theo about her visit to her father. The story unfolded in pieces—a remark here, a wince there—until it formed a whole. Draco supplemented it with details she'd skipped, having already heard it earlier, filling in Sir George’s expressions and mutterings like a footman recounting house gossip.

Theo listened quietly, filing it all away.

"He said I should scandalize the family name brilliantly," Hermione said, staring into her wine glass. "As if that was the only concern."

"It was probably the only one he could articulate," Theo replied, taking her hand. "But he gave his support, didn’t he? In his own crusty, brandy-soaked way."

"He did," she admitted.

Draco lifted a pear slice and fed it to her lazily. She accepted it without breaking eye contact with Theo.

"You’re sure about this?" she asked him.

"About helping you?"

She nodded.

"I was sure when I suggested that Draco marry you, back in April. I was sure when I quizzed you on chemistry. I was sure when I carried all those books for you to the train from Milan to Cherbourg, even though you ended up sleeping the whole way and not reading them. I was sure last week. I was sure before I asked Binns," he said. "I was more sure after."

"You told Binns?" Hermione giggled. 

"He was condescending, theatrical, and entirely useful."

She grinned, and removed her hand from his to deal another hand. "So, the usual."

Theo inclined his head. "He suggested Matron Pomfrey at St. Bart’s. Who, in turn, arranged tea with Dr. Anderson."

Hermione set her wineglass down carefully. "That’s certainly a rabbit warren of a day. You’ve gone through all that, and now it’s up to me to impress them. God."

"No pressure," Theo said, voice gentle. "Just tea."

Somewhere at the end of the fourth game, Hermione yawned audibly and let herself collapse against Draco’s side with a satisfied groan. Her hair tickled his throat, and he draped an arm around her without thinking.

Theo leaned back against the foot of the bed and let his eyes close.

"Stay," Hermione murmured, her voice already blurring with sleep. "There’s plenty of room."

Draco shifted, made space. Theo toed off his shoes and stretched out on the rug beside them, one arm thrown over his eyes.

There was plenty of room. So they stayed.

Draco leaned casually against Hermione’s wardrobe, watching with amusement as she held two nearly identical skirts aloft, eyeing them critically. “The navy,” he advised, lazily indicating with a wave. “It says capable yet modest. Academic, even.”

Theo, reclining languidly on her bed, shook his head without looking up from the list of medical questions he’d compiled. “Absolutely not. She looks far too severe in navy. Like someone’s governess. Go for the olive one, Hermione. You wore it to that awful luncheon at Astoria’s and no one dared speak down to you.”

Hermione huffed softly, switching skirts again. “You’re no help at all. One would think you two had never dressed yourselves for important occasions.”

Draco smiled indulgently. “We usually have people for that.”

Theo snorted and flipped the page in his notes, murmuring softly to himself before abruptly asking, “The most effective treatment for diphtheria?”

Hermione, mid-dress, twisted her arms behind her back to fasten the row of buttons. “Antitoxin administration as early as possible. Strict quarantine. Observation for secondary complications, primarily myocarditis. And tea?”

Draco chuckled, reaching forward to gently assist with the tricky buttons, brushing aside a stubborn curl that had fallen into her face. “Tea?”

“Yes,” Hermione nodded emphatically. “For this visit. Should I bring tea? Or flowers? Or is that presumptuous? What exactly does one bring to a medical tea?”

Theo shook his head firmly. “No flowers. You’ll seem overly sentimental”

Draco adjusted the shoulders of Hermione’s dress, standing back to admire her thoughtfully. “Aren’t you quietly impressive enough on your own?”

She paused, feeling a flush of both warmth and nerves. “It’s Dr. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, Draco. Quietly impressive is my bare minimum.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, glancing upward at her through the faintly purpled shadows of his fading black eye. “Quite right. Symptoms of scarlet fever?”

“Bright red rash, fever, sore throat, headache,” Hermione rattled off, stepping into her olive skirt decisively. “Possible complications: rheumatic fever, kidney inflammation. More common in children, highly contagious. How’s your eye?”

“Improving,” Theo replied airily, unfazed. “My own personal physician saw to it.”

Draco sighed dramatically, passing Hermione a cream-colored blouse with tiny, meticulous pleats at the cuffs. “You’ve created a monster, darling. He now considers every bruise and scrape life-threatening.”

Hermione smiled, fastening the skirt, and slipped into the blouse. “One does appreciate an attentive patient.”

Theo continued, undeterred. “Causes of cholera?”

“Contaminated water, poor sanitation. Vibrio cholerae bacteria,” Hermione recited confidently, pinning her collar into place. “Prevention: clean water sources, sanitation. Which shoes?”

“Boots,” Draco replied without hesitation. “They convey seriousness. And practicality.”

“The heeled ones,” Theo countered. “They communicate confidence. Authority.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, glancing between her two eager fashion consultants. “Or perhaps I should wear one of each and let them judge for themselves.”

“Always the diplomat,” Draco teased fondly, selecting a sturdy pair of stylish boots and placing them firmly before her. “Here. Authority and practicality.”

She slipped them on, adjusting the laces quickly. “You’re certain they’ll quiz me?”

Theo gave her a knowing look, smirking. “They quizzed me, Hermione, and I was only the messenger. You’ll be lucky to escape alive.”

She laughed nervously, smoothing down her skirts, then paused suddenly, eyeing the two men seriously. “Too late to back out now?”

Draco stepped closer, gently squeezing her shoulder. “Far too late, love. Besides, backing out isn’t your style. You’ve battled society matrons, governesses, and Malfoys alike. Two medical women hardly seem daunting by comparison.”

Hermione smiled gratefully, exhaling slowly. “Right.”

Theo grinned warmly, folding his notes and rising from the bed. “Last one, then. Cure for anxiety before tea?”

She hesitated briefly, then smiled brightly. “Friends who meddle, perhaps excessively, in my wardrobe.”

Draco chuckled warmly, adjusting her collar one final time. “Consider yourself thoroughly cured.”

Hermione laughed softly, feeling her nervousness melt into quiet resolve. “In that case, wish me luck.”

“Absolutely not,” Theo replied, folding his arms. “You don’t need it.”

Draco leaned forward, brushing his lips gently against her temple. “Though, perhaps take our well wishes. Just in case.”

Hermione nodded, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Just in case.”

The home at Chenies Mews was at once modest and inviting, tucked neatly between the other terraced brick homes, with a facade smothered in ivy and late blooming roses. Hermione paused before the polished front door, noting the faint aroma of tea and garden herbs drifting warmly from the slightly ajar windows. She caught her breath and felt the gentle warmth of sunlight through the thin haze of nerves that fluttered softly within her stomach. In her hands, tightly grasped, was Theo’s neatly-lettered invitation card.

She glanced down again: Thursday tea, 4 in the afternoon. 6 Chenies Mews.  

She checked her pocket watch—it was precisely two minutes until four. With one final steadying breath, Hermione knocked briskly at the door.

The door swung open almost instantly. Matron Pomfrey stood on the other side, sharply attired in a worn but impeccable brown dress, sleeves rolled up as if she perpetually anticipated a medical emergency, even at tea. Pomfrey regarded Hermione carefully, head slightly tilted, blue eyes narrowed in frank appraisal.

“Well,” Pomfrey said sharply, “Miss Hermione Granger, I presume?”

Hermione offered a polite, practiced smile. “Lady St Armand, but I do prefer my former name. Good afternoon, Matron Pomfrey.”

“Miss Granger it is.” Pomfrey softened slightly, though she maintained her assessing look. “You're prompt, at least. A point in your favor. Dr. Anderson appreciates punctuality almost as much as competence.”

Pomfrey beckoned her forward into the drawing room. “Make yourself comfortable. Tea’s nearly ready.” With brisk efficiency, she disappeared down a hallway, leaving Hermione alone briefly.

The house was charmingly disheveled: papers teetered in neat-but-precarious stacks, pots of wildflowers competed for space on tables already laden with books and well-loved porcelain teacups. Books were everywhere, their spines cracked, pages dog-eared. The walls were adorned not with the fashionable portraits typical of high society but anatomical diagrams and faded sketches of medicinal plants, carefully framed.

A fat grey cat stretched lazily from a battered armchair, giving Hermione a bored glance before continuing its nap.

Pomfrey caught Hermione’s gaze as she came back with the tea tray and smiled faintly, allowing warmth into her usually brisk expression. “That’s Byron. Pay him no mind. He acts indifferent but secretly craves attention.”

“Don’t we all?” came a dry, quiet voice from the hall. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson appeared silently, composed and watchful. Hermione straightened, feeling a fluttering respect in her chest. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson was precisely as formidable as she had imagined, though perhaps with a touch more grace, more warmth than the newspapers allowed her.

Dr. Anderson offered a polite nod, stepping forward to greet Hermione, then gestured toward a cozy corner of the drawing room with a settee and two squashy chairs. “Please, let us sit.”

The Doctor  was tall, imposingly graceful in her movements, and the pale sunlight streaming in behind her turned her golden-blonde hair into something approaching a halo. Sharp wire-rimmed spectacles framed eyes of startling blue clarity, immediately probing and assessing Hermione. She  settled gracefully into a chair, with Hermione across. 

“I’ll play mother,” muttered Pomfrey with a grin at The Doctor and busied herself pouring tea with practiced efficiency.

Without preamble, Dr. Anderson regarded Hermione directly, her expression serious but kind. “So, Miss Granger. Why medicine?”

Hermione steadied herself, glancing momentarily at Pomfrey, whose careful hands stirred sugar into her tea before raising curious eyes to Hermione. Clearing her throat lightly, Hermione began with practiced clarity:

“Because medicine isn’t merely academic to me. It’s practical, compassionate, necessary. I want to help prevent disease—not simply treat it.”

The Doctor’s expression remained inscrutable. “An admirable speech. But what precisely would you like to do?”

“Research and treat infectious diseases—cholera primarily, and malaria. Soldier’s diseases. Preventable illnesses that decimate populations that have little choice but to endure them. Soldiers, street children, the poor.”

“And obstetrics?” Dr. Anderson prompted neutrally. “Paediatrics?”

Hermione hesitated slightly, reluctant but candid. “Those aren’t my areas of passion, precisely. I want to do something more direct—research plant-based medication and treatment, immunity, sanitation, bacteriology—”

The Doctor adjusted her glasses minutely, studying Hermione further. “Obstetrics and Paediatrics is where most women begin—and usually remain.”

Hermione hesitated only briefly. “I wouldn’t turn my back on that population, but I don’t feel called there specifically. My passion lies in epidemiology and prevention.”

Anderson nodded thoughtfully, neither pleased nor disappointed, merely considering. “It’s admirable. Yet you realize, Miss Granger, society won’t simply step aside.”

Hermione met her gaze evenly. “I don’t expect them to. I rather suspect they’ll actively try to stop me.”

Pomfrey smiled faintly, her eyes flickering briefly toward Elizabeth, clearly pleased by the young woman’s candor.

Anderson tilted her head. “You’re quite ambitious.”

“Determined,” Hermione clarified respectfully.

Pomfrey interjected dryly, “That’s clear enough from the way Captain Nott spoke of you. He believes quite thoroughly in your abilities.”

Hermione felt warmth rise to her cheeks. “He tends toward enthusiasm.”

Pomfrey laughed, unexpectedly gentle. “Enthusiasm’s in short supply around here, Miss Granger. Cherish it.”

Anderson smiled faintly. “If you were to gain admission, how would you handle objections from male patients?”

Hermione straightened. “With reason, compassion, and persistence.”

And further, Anderson questioned, “And a man refuses your assistance simply because you’re a woman?”

Hermione's jaw tightened. “I shall assist him anyway. It isn’t like he is in a position to truly refuse.”

Anderson nodded briefly, approval clearly visible. “Poppy?”

Pomfrey handed Hermione a cup of tea and gestured to the sugar and cream. “Tell us, Miss Granger, what do you know about cholera?”

And so, between sips of tea, they tested Hermione’s knowledge. Pomfrey fired questions —symptoms, treatments, complications. Hermione replied clearly, confidently, never hesitating. Anderson interjected, occasionally deepening inquiries, probing into theoretical realms, bacteriology, sanitation.

Hermione recounted, meticulously firing answers back, her informal training: the independent studies of Jaume de Ferran’s cholera theories, the hours in her father’s library, the informal bedside assistance she’d managed whenever Sir George’s friends had injured themselves at polo or in the course of their evening carousing.

“Name the bones in the wrist, please,” Pomfrey barked, stirring sugar into her second cup of tea with military precision.

“Scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform,” Hermione promptly ticked them off on her fingers. “Trapezium, trapezoid, capitate, hamate.”

As the questioning shifted into conversation, the three women settled into a rhythm of mutual discovery. Hermione's initial hesitation faded, replaced with a quiet confidence, buoyed by Anderson’s growing warmth and Matron Pomfrey’s brusque-yet-comforting bluntness. Questions about diseases and treatments gave way naturally to more personal territory, interwoven among the teacups and scattered biscuits.

“And what about smallpox, Miss Granger?” Pomfrey asked, eyeing Hermione over the rim of her tea. “Should vaccination be compulsory?”

Hermione paused thoughtfully, sipping her tea. “It should certainly be encouraged, perhaps even incentivized—but compulsory treatments often breed resentment rather than understanding.”

Dr. Anderson’s eyebrows lifted slightly in approval. “Precisely. You’ll find the general public appreciates explanations more than orders.”

“Though at times,” Pomfrey interjected briskly, “an order is exactly what is required. Especially in hospitals. Nurses haven't the luxury of debate when crises arise.”

Anderson tilted her head, eyes twinkling with suppressed amusement. “Matron Pomfrey believes herself something of a benevolent dictator. I tend more toward persuasion myself.”

“I prefer effective,” Pomfrey said crisply, reaching for a lemon slice. “And it's precisely that firmness of hand that saves lives.”

Hermione watched the exchange, fascinated. 

“May I ask—” Hermione began carefully, glancing between them, “how you both first began working together?”

Pomfrey smiled knowingly. “Dr. Anderson hired me fresh from training. I was, admittedly, quite insufferable—”

“—And brilliant,” Anderson added, smirking gently into her cup. “A rare combination, though not one I'd recommend.”

“Dr. Anderson, however,” Pomfrey continued, ignoring her friend's gentle teasing, “was already quite established, a formidable woman on a crusade. Terribly intimidating at first. I thought she despised me.”

Anderson laughed softly. “I simply had no idea what to make of someone who challenged every one of my protocols.”

Hermione, delighted by the image, leaned forward slightly. “How did you resolve it?”

“We argued,” Pomfrey said matter-of-factly. “Often.”

Dr. Anderson nodded gently. “Indeed, we argued. But I soon realized Poppy argued from compassion, not defiance. I learned to trust her insight—”

“And I learned when to hold my tongue,” Pomfrey interjected wryly, stirring lemon into her tea.

The Doctor gave a faint, elegant laugh. “Rarely, in my experience.”

Hermione chuckled, thoroughly charmed by them both. Her laughter drew Dr. Anderson’s careful gaze, and Hermione could feel the other woman reassessing her—seeing beyond mere knowledge, now taking note of her genuine delight and comfort.

“You mustn't underestimate camaraderie in this field, Hermione,” Anderson said. “You’ll often feel alone, but you never have to remain isolated. Find colleagues you trust and respect.”

Hermione glanced shyly at the older women. “I hope to find it as the two of you have, one day.”

Pomfrey looked approvingly over the rim of her cup. “You flatter us, Miss Granger.”

Anderson met Hermione’s eyes, her own expression warm. “Poppy doesn’t appreciate flattery, but I do.” 

Another hour passed effortlessly, punctuated by laughter and intellectual challenges. Hermione felt herself settling deeply into comfort, the initial anxiety ebbing steadily into warmth. She relished the gentle, intellectual sparring, the rhythm of give-and-take that felt more natural with each passing minute.

When Pomfrey rose briefly to fetch another pot of tea, Dr. Anderson leaned toward Hermione conspiratorially, a hint of a smile at the corner of her lips.

“She likes you, you know,” Dr. Anderson stage-whispered. “Poppy seldom bothers with politeness unless she sees genuine potential.”

Hermione flushed, ducking her head. “I admire her greatly. And you, Doctor.”

Anderson waved her off. “Flattery again. You’ve learned quickly.”

Pomfrey returned, smoothly setting the refreshed teapot down and pouring gracefully. “Are you two plotting against me already?”

Anderson sat back primly, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Certainly. We’re already thick as thieves.”

Pomfrey’s laugh was a gentle, musical sound, one Hermione imagined few others heard. “And here I thought I’d found an ally. Miss Granger, you disappoint me.”

“Not at all,” Hermione replied brightly, daring now to tease back. “I’d say only that Dr. Anderson is quite persuasive.”

Anderson nodded triumphantly. “Precisely my point.”

Pomfrey shook her head, amused and clearly pleased. “Well then, Hermione, perhaps you’re ready to join our ranks after all.”

The Doctor eventually leaned back, satisfied. “You remind me strongly of myself. Idealistic. Tireless.”

Pomfrey snorted, “Stubborn, too, Elizabeth, as I recall.”

Anderson raised an eyebrow. “A necessary quality, Poppy. Miss Granger will require it.”

Hermione smiled, feeling the kinship between the two women, sensing herself included in it. Dr. Anderson stood, stepping across the room to a desk neatly stacked with forms and papers, retrieving a small, slightly battered packet.

“We accept few students,” Anderson explained, handing Hermione the forms. “Your next steps: a small examination, an essay, a recommendation.”

Hermione took them gratefully. “Thank you. Truly.”

Pomfrey shook her head. “You needn’t thank me yet. Admittance is uncertain, and welcome is rarely warm.”

Anderson interjected kindly, “But we do reward tenacity, Miss Granger.”

Hermione thanked them once more before stepping outside, the early evening chill washing over her. She glanced again at the packet, feeling quiet pride and a deep sense of possibility. Behind her, through the partly open door, she heard Pomfrey softly ask:

“Do you think she’ll manage?” Anderson’s lip quirked and she  slipped off her glasses to polish them thoughtfully. “Oh, undoubtedly. And it will be fascinating.”

Pomfrey snorted. “She certainly doesn’t dither.”

Dr. Anderson replaced her glasses, nodding as Hermione disappeared around the corner. “No, indeed,” she murmured. “Not in the slightest.”

“Doesn’t hurt to consider her connection to the Duchess of Argyll,” Pomfrey replied pragmatically. “I know you have been looking for funds for a new operating theatre.” 

“Two birds, Poppy,” Anderson nodded. “One stone.” 

Chapter Text

Berkeley Square, September 1887

Theo rolled another chemise into a long, elegant spiral and placed it beside a stack of white lawn petticoats. He’d never admit it aloud, but he found the process soothing. Meditative. Like shelling peas, or cleaning a gun. Precise, repetitive, quiet enough to not think too much.

Across from him on the rug, Hermione bent over a pile of stockings, sorting wool from silk. Draco was elbow-deep in her trunk again, rearranging the layers. The bed was a wreck—boxes, books, tissue paper in chaos—but the mood was steady and calm in the way things sometimes were right before they ended.

Theo felt like it was ending.

“You’re folding that like a man who’s never seen a drawer before,” Hermione said, not looking up.

Theo, who had just finished rolling her chemises, replied, “I’m rolling it. Rolling preserves the structure of the wool.”

“It’s cotton.”

“Even worse, then,” he replied, his voice glib and high. “Cotton creases if you so much as think about it. I’m preventing future sorrow.”

Draco let out a low sound—something halfway between amusement and irritation. He had lifted the olive skirt again. The same olive skirt he’d packed three times already. He was inspecting the hem now, as though it might have betrayed them.

Theo didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The truth of it was sitting in all three of their bodies. In the way Hermione’s shoulders hunched  a little tighter than usual. In the way Draco kept touching her clothes like they might dissolve when she was gone.

They were losing her. For a while, yes. Not forever. But still—losing.

“You’ve packed the green one three times,” Hermione said. “It’s fine.”

Draco didn’t answer. Just folded it again, precise and slow, and laid it reverently atop the others.

Theo  sat back on his heels and resisted the urge to narrate. This was all starting to feel like theatre. Quiet domestic tragedy. Act One: Packing the Viscountess.

Hermione reached for another set of stockings blouse. Her hands were steady. Her jaw was too steady. Something about the shape of her shoulders was off—too squared, too proud. Defensive. Theo recognized the posture. He watched Draco use it when his father used to say things that stung and pretended they were compliments.

“You know she’s going to repack this after we leave,” Theo said.

“I absolutely will not,” Hermione replied, already lying.

Draco: “I’ll check before we go.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake ,” she muttered, but her voice caught slightly at the end.

That sound did something to Theo. A hairline fracture behind his ribs. He didn’t speak. Just reached for another chemise and began to roll.

He was going to miss her. That wasn’t news. He missed her sometimes even when she was sitting on the sofa beside him, book in hand, toes brushing his calf like it was nothing. He missed her when she was in a room with too many people, not because she wasn’t near him, but because her attention was diffused. 

He held on to the two nights that they had shared a bed. He thought nearly constantly about the softness of her body against his as he slowly came to consciousness. And now she was going to be across the city, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to touch her that way ever again.  Buried in textbooks and scalpels and the good opinion of impossible professors. She’d write, yes. She’d visit when she could. But it wouldn’t be the same. This house, the shape of their days— her shape in their days—would be different. Diminished.

“I hate that you're going,” he said.

Hermione looked up, finally, her amber eyes impossibly huge. “I know.”

“I’ll be supportive tomorrow. I’ll even cry in the drawing room if it helps,” offered Theo. “But tonight—tonight I hate it.”

“I feel like I’m going to be so far away,” she explained. “But it really isn’t that far.”

Theo let himself fall back against the rug, sprawled in his misery. “You can always come back.”

“I know.”

“But you won’t,” he said, covering his eyes with his arm. Not cruelly. Not quite. “Not really. You’ll write letters, and you’ll come home on holidays, and you’ll look beautiful in that stupid violet dress he made you pack. But you’ll be too busy. I know you will, and you can’t stop what you’re doing to come see silly old us. It just won’t ever be this ever again. We’ve had such fun, Hermione.”

There was a beat of silence. Hermione’s breath caught. Draco’s expression softened.

“I’ll miss you both,” she said, and she knew it wasn’t enough. “I–”

“Don’t miss us too much,” Draco murmured, stopping her spiral.

Theo, without opening his eyes: “Miss me slightly more than him, or I’ll take it personally.”

She laughed. Thank God.

Draco went back to fussing over her gloves. Hermione shifted toward the trunk, adjusting the way the afternoon dress lay. Theo watched her from where he lay on the floor and felt a deep, unsettled ache. He was proud of her. Of course he was. She was extraordinary. But there was a part of him, a selfish, childish part, that wanted to make her stay. Just a little longer.

Theo reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out the velvet pouch he’d been holding onto all day.

“Here,” he said, sitting up. “Your going-away present.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Is it jewelry?”

“Better.”

She opened the pouch and immediately laughed. Inside was a brass folding pen knife and a note in Theo’s quick, chaotic hand: In case you need to defend your thesis violently.

She didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then: “Thank you.”

“You’ll be brilliant,” Theo assured her. 

Draco cleared his throat and quietly laid her stethoscope atop the books like he was crowning a queen.

Theo stood and stretched, then wandered over to the window. It was just beginning to go golden outside. Somewhere down the street, a carriage passed. Inside, someone laughed. The kind of laugh that made you think everything in the world was still intact.

“I’m afraid,” Hermione said behind him.

Theo turned.

“I want this,” she said, sitting up straighter. “I really do. But it feels like—like I’m leaving something I haven’t even figured out yet.”

Draco didn’t say anything. Just touched her hand, gently, and held it.

Theo leaned his head against the window frame. “Then maybe the thing will still be here when you get back.”

She smiled faintly. “You two are going to be fine.”

“You say that, like we’re not emotionally volatile creatures held together by sarcasm and snobbery.”

Draco blinked. “Speak for yourself.”

Theo crossed the room and touched the lid of the trunk. It was nearly full now—books, blouses, memories, hope.

She was really going.

He thought of her laugh the night she arrived in their lives. The way her hand fit into his without ceremony. The way she missed her mouth with her toast when she read in bed with her breakfast tray. Her eyes. Her letters. The silk of her hair when it brushed his bare skin accidentally, and the way she never noticed it drove him mad. 

God, her hair drove him mad. 

He thought of Draco kissing her in the garden last week and the way it had made his heart lurch. Not with jealousy, but with something worse. With the knowledge that their lives were growing, diverging, and he was supposed to be glad for it. 

And he was.

And he wasn’t.

For now, they were here. For now, the trunk was closed, and the room was still full of them.

Tonight would hurt. Tomorrow, he would bear it. 

Theo brushed a wrinkle from her coat, just to touch it.

It felt like a rehearsal for grief.

London School of Medicine for Women
Residence Hall
September 23, 1887

The room was exactly what she had expected—drab, utilitarian, and disinterested in its occupant. Hermione stepped over the threshold and surveyed it with the caution of someone inspecting a rented coffin. The bed, predictably narrow. The chair, an afterthought. One window, one lamp, one hook on the back of the door for her coat. No mirror. A narrow, squat heater. Just enough to survive, not enough to grow soft.

It was perfect.

She set her carpet bag down on the trunk down at the foot of the bed and loosened her gloves one finger at a time. The air smelled faintly of polish and lye soap, like someone had scrubbed the place in a hurry. She removed her coat, hung it carefully, and rolled up her sleeves.

Unpacking was an exercise in control. She began with underthings. Draco had ordered dozens of them: fine lawn and cotton, trimmed modestly with lace. Rolled chemises, soft drawers, fresh petticoats stitched to lie smooth beneath her skirts. Next came stockings in merino wool and silk, each pair that Theo had rolled into little bundles. Most were part of a matched set, which was Draco’s doing, naturally. 

Everything new. Everything proper. 

She had protested, of course. He had ignored her, of course.

Blouses followed. Crisp white, pale lavender, dove grey. A darker one for dissection days. She buttoned one halfway up and smoothed the sleeves before hanging it precisely beside its sisters.

Then the skirts. Four total, all ankle-length, all lined. Navy, charcoal, a pinstripe worsted, and the dark olive serge that Draco had sworn brought out the colour in her cheeks. She hadn’t told him that flattery made her uneasy when it came from men who might or might not love her. But she had kept the skirt. It was warm and had deep pockets.

Her boots were polished and sturdy. Her indoor shoes soft and plain. And finally, nestled in the tissue-wrapped parcel at the bottom of the trunk, the afternoon dress. Fine plum wool with satin piping. Entirely inappropriate for the school. Entirely non-negotiable. Draco had insisted she bring it—for Sundays, he’d said, or the rare afternoon she might allow herself to be collected and brought home.

“Even if only for a cup of tea,” he had murmured. “You should always have something beautiful to wear when you leave that place.”

It had been said without irony. Or rather, with the kind of irony Draco used to mask tenderness. She had stopped fighting him somewhere around the discussion of the hats she was to take.

She stowed the dress at the back of the wardrobe, behind the serviceable garments, where it would not be a daily temptation.

Her books came next: Gray’s Anatomy , Quain’s Elements , her father's old surgical manual now softened with thumbed pages and pencilled notes in her own hand. She lined them up in careful order, then added a small stack of blank notebooks, a box of pencils, and the folding brass penknife Theo had given her the night before she left.

The night before she left, Ginny had thrown a party—one of her best. Everyone had come, and everyone had been in an impossibly good mood. There had been champagne that tasted like bottled courage and hope, orange blossoms threaded through the chandeliers, and Pansy had arranged for someone to play violin in the drawing room until he ran out of waltzes and switched to lively folk tunes. Theo had given an absurd toast halfway through the evening—improvised, chaotic, and far too honest—and she had nearly choked on her drink when he referred to her as our mad, brilliant girl with the sharpest mind in Britain and the most intimidating hair in London . Draco had rolled his eyes. Ginny had cried. Even Harry looked a little touched. 

Hermione had thought, stupidly, that she might burst from happiness. The whole evening shimmered. Everyone too fond of each other, too loud, too flushed with wine and affection.

She had kissed Draco on the stairs on the way up to bed, pulling him into the narrow curve where the wall turned, away from sight. His hair had fallen into his eyes and she’d reached up to brush it back just to keep her hands on him. There had been too much heat between them, too much tension for anything slow or soft. She’d dragged him into her room and taken what she wanted—his hands, his mouth, the way he tried not to make a sound when she bit at his shoulder. She’d memorised it. All of it. She’d let herself be loud.

There had been a moment—afterwards, tangled in the sheets, breathless and sore—when she had wondered if Theo would be all right. If it had hurt, Draco going to her bed that last night. But then she had thought, lazily and without guilt, he’ll have you to himself for the next three years , and tucked her face into Draco’s throat and gone to sleep.

She would miss sex. That much was undeniable. She already found herself wondering if she would be the sort of woman who took cabs across the city on weeknights just to fuck her husband and turn around again. Probably. It was hardly the most reckless thing she’d done in pursuit of satisfaction. She doubted Draco would complain.

She had given him back her engagement ring just after breakfast, quiet and deliberate, setting it in his palm with no ceremony. He had looked stricken. He had promised to keep it safe. Neither of them had said aloud that she would not wear it here. Not at school. Here she was just Miss Granger , a student among students. Not the Viscountess St. Armand. Not a wife. Not anyone’s anything.

The last thing she removed from her trunk was the photo. She unwrapped it slowly, already knowing exactly how it would look.

It was a formal portrait taken the week before. Theo in his new blue waistcoat, Draco in his stiffest collar, both trying not to look too much like themselves. She wasn’t in it. She had asked them to take one together, just the two of them, so she could keep it with her. Neither had managed to smile properly. It was, in its own way, perfect.

She looked at it for a long moment, then rewrapped it and slid it into the drawer beneath her gloves and scarf. Close at hand, but private. Not for display. Not here.

She smoothed the bedcover once, twice, then flopped back. The silence held everything, voiceless.

Delivered to the Viscount St Armand in the afternoon post
Berkeley Square, London

Wednesday, October 5, 1887
London, England

Dearest Draco,

By now, Theo has likely run through at least one fresh bout of dramatics concerning my departure, and you are doubtless, with your characteristic patience, calming him with some deft combination of affectionate teasing and a strategically placed glass of brandy.

Am I right?

The residence hall is precisely as spartan as I imagined and twice as charming. No embroidered pillows or elaborate floral arrangements to distract me—nothing but a bed, a lamp, and an unobstructed view of London's finest brick wall. I shall be sure to send along detailed sketches should you and Theo tire of Berkeley Square's oppressive luxury and wish to exchange accommodations temporarily.

In all seriousness, Draco, it suits me well. There’s a quiet kind of satisfaction in knowing each spare inch of the room belongs solely to me, at least for now. This newfound independence, though delightful in theory, is admittedly somewhat daunting in practice. You may recall my frequent proclamations about needing nothing but books and solitude; well, I’ve been here scarcely a week and already miss the trivial disturbances of Theo sighing melodramatically over the infused water in the morning, or you grumbling about the housekeeper’s persistent refusal to dust the orchid leaves to your exacting standards.

Speaking of orchids—please do remember to mist the one you gave me for my bedroom regularly. It seems to have adopted your imperious temperament and will surely wither without constant attention.

I know, rationally, you and Theo are hardly more than twenty-five minutes across the city, yet it feels absurdly distant with the schedule Dr. Anderson has outlined. My timetable leaves scarcely enough hours for sleep, let alone enough to permit frivolous luxuries such as social calls or meals eaten at a reasonable pace. Imagine the scandal if I were discovered loafing, spoon in hand, idling over a leisurely breakfast at your table when I could instead be dutifully memorizing the cranial nerves. The disgrace of it would surely haunt my career.

I’m kidding, of course. Mostly.

Truthfully, Draco, it’s the silence here, in the quieter moments between tasks, that most vividly reminds me of my distance from you both. I imagine you’ve resumed your habits easily enough. This is as it should be—life continuing unabated—but forgive me a small indulgence in self-pity when I confess I rather hoped the household would come entirely undone without me. It would only be fair, after all.

Write soon, if only to tell me something trivial and inconsequential. Tell Theo I demand a full and detailed account of his latest dramatic lamentations. Until then, I remain faithfully yours from across the city,

Hermione

November 1887

The books were heavier than she judged. Hermione adjusted the stack against her chest and tried to nudge open the stairwell door with her elbow, but the angle was wrong, and the weight of the books tipped awkwardly to one side. She swore under her breath and shifted again, resisting the urge to kick the door.

A voice behind her said, calmly, “Would you prefer to drop them or be assisted?”

Hermione turned, startled. A young woman stood just behind her, expression unreadable, arms folded neatly behind her back. She was perhaps her own age, perhaps slightly older—it was hard to tell with how perfectly composed she was. Dark hair braided into a low coil. Impeccably pressed uniform. Studious eyes framed by dark lashes, slightly narrowed in what might have been amusement. Or judgment.

Hermione hesitated. “Assistance, I think.”

The girl stepped forward and relieved her of the top five books in one smooth movement. “You’re going to break your wrist carrying them like that. You need to alternate direction every few volumes or they slide.”

“I’ll note that,” Hermione said, annoyed to find herself a little breathless. “Thank you.”

They moved together down the hall and up the next flight. The girl’s pace was clipped and precise, her grip steady. Hermione found herself watching the way she walked: shoulders back, head high, the books balanced effortlessly against one hip. A person who had been taught how to carry things properly. Not a servant’s training, exactly, but more like a daughter raised with expectations.

She wasn’t English. Not entirely. Her accent was faint but present, vowels rounded, consonants softened. She spoke like someone who had been educated in English but formed elsewhere. India, definitely, though Hermione couldn’t place the region.

They reached the top of the stairs and Hermione moved ahead to open the door to the reading room. It was empty, the window open just a crack to admit the crisp autumn air. She set her books down on the long table and turned.

“I’m Hermione Granger,” she said. “First-year.”

The girl placed her stack down with quiet precision. “Padma Patil. Second-year.”

Second-year. That tracked. There was an ease to her that couldn’t be faked. She moved through the building like someone who had memorised its angles long ago.

Hermione nodded, then waited. Padma didn’t offer anything else. Just the name, nothing more. She was beautiful in the way that made other girls slightly suspicious. She had clear skin, delicate features, and an economy of movement that bordered on elegance.

But she didn’t preen, and she didn’t smile.

Hermione cleared her throat. “Thank you for the help. I didn’t realise how many volumes Anderson would assign in the first few weeks.”

“Dr. Anderson believes in volume by attrition,” Padma said. “If you’re going to drop out, she’d like to know early.”

Hermione almost laughed. “You think some of us will?”

“I think more than some of you will,” Padma replied, still expressionless. “A third, at least.”

There was no cruelty in the statement. Just fact. Hermione didn’t like it, but she respected the certainty.

Padma stepped back from the table, smoothing her skirt. “You’re in Anderson’s small group, then.”

Hermione blinked. “Yes. You?”

“I was last year.” Padma adjusted one of the books ever so slightly, aligning its spine to match the others. “She watches posture. And hands.”

“Hands?”

“She notices if you fidget. It irritates her.”

Hermione blinked again, filing that away. “Thanks for the warning.”

Padma gave a faint nod. Not approval exactly, but something close.

“Are you from London?” Hermione asked.

“My mother is English. My father is from Jaipur. I was raised between Bombay and Kent.”

Hermione smiled. “That must’ve been—”

“Complicated?” Padma offered, dry.

“I was going to say interesting.”

“It was also that.” A beat passed. Then, with a little shrug, she added, “I know how I sound.”

Hermione didn’t know what that meant, exactly. The accent? The posture? The way Padma looked at her without flinching, without softening. She hadn’t yet decided if it was coldness or focus. Possibly both.

Padma tilted her head. “Do you know what kind of doctor you want to be?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Hermione said. “Surgery, maybe. Or infectious disease. I like structure. Systems. Things that move or fail in predictable ways.”

Padma seemed to consider that. “You might be suited to obstetrics. No one expects it to be precise, but it is.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“Yes,” Padma said, and offered nothing more.

Hermione sat, uncertain whether the conversation had ended or merely changed shape. Padma didn’t sit, but began scanning the table for a specific text. She found it, flipped it open, and began marking passages with a narrow lines of a blue crayon

“You’re very prepared,” Hermione said after a moment.

Padma didn’t look up. “I had to be.”

There was weight in that, but Hermione didn’t press. The reading room was silent except for the rustle of paper and the sound of a coal cart rolling past the window. When Padma finally spoke again, her tone was slightly softer.

“You may borrow my copy of Cunningham’s Anatomy if you’d like. I’ve already made the relevant notations.”

“That’s generous.”

“It’s practical.” She glanced up. “You read quickly, don’t you?”

Hermione nodded, unsure whether to feel flattered or exposed.

“I’ve seen you reading while walking between halls. Not ideal, but efficient.”

“Old habit.”

Padma closed her book with a quiet snap. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Granger.”

She turned to leave, then paused, reached back, and gently realigned the stack of books Hermione had placed on the table—straightening the edges so they matched, smoothing the topmost cover with the flat of her palm. She said nothing about it.

And then she left.

Hermione watched the door close behind her. She didn’t know if they were friends. She didn’t know if Padma had friends. But she knew she would see her again. And that, for now, was enough.

Delivered to Miss Hermione Granger
Women’s Medical College of London
Bloomsbury, London
Stamped Berkeley Square, London

Monday, November 21
Berkeley Square, London

Dearest Hermione,

Draco has reorganised the drawing room. Again. I have walked into the ottoman three times this week, which I’m convinced he placed in the centre of the rug like a test of my reflexes. He claims the new layout “encourages conversation,” though between whom remains unclear, as the house is oppressively silent in your absence and the only one talking to me at any length is the housekeeper, who is frankly too sympathetic.

I’ve taken to sitting in your usual chair at the end of the day, the one closest to the lamp with the dimmer wick. It’s the most difficult corner to read in, so of course it was your favourite. I keep finding your hair pins there, tucked into the cushion seams. I think you left them behind like breadcrumbs.

How are you? Are you sleeping? Have you made anyone cry in the lecture hall yet, or are you biding your time?

It is very strange without you. Not unbearable—Draco’s still here, and we haven’t killed each other—but strange. Off-kilter. The house makes better sense when you’re in it. I didn’t realise until now how many small things you kept in order with just your presence. The books are still alphabetised. The coffee is still terrible, and the tea sublime. But nothing feels held together.

I think, perhaps, that I miss you more than I let myself expect. It’s a disorienting sort of thing, missing someone you still see in every corner. I opened the hall cupboard yesterday and smelled the rosewater soap you use, and nearly wrote you a poem. Don’t worry—I resisted.

Draco won’t admit it, but he keeps looking for your handwriting on the post. I caught him sorting through it yesterday morning before Goyle had even finished laying the breakfast tray. He claimed he was “expecting something from his solicitor,” which is the worst lie I’ve ever heard him tell. And I’ve heard him lie about embroidery.

The Prince sent over some abysmal port and a note about hosting a winter salon. Draco is pretending he hasn’t read it. I am pretending not to be disappointed, which is harder than expected. You always managed those things—held court without making it feel like court. Now it’s just two overgrown boys trying to behave in a house that’s much too lovely for either of them.

If you need anything—books, gloves, an embroidered handkerchief to wave dramatically at your professors—I will send it without delay. I am, as always, your most devoted servant and supplier of theatrical accessories.

Write soon, and tell me something unimportant. Tell me about the girls in your hall, or the way the gaslights buzz, or what the anatomy theatre smells like. Tell me what you eat for breakfast and whether you’ve found a good coat hook. I want to picture you precisely.

Yours,

Teddy

Postmarked: November 28th, 1887
Delivered to Viscount St. Armand, Berkeley Square, London

My Dearest,
You will be gratified (though possibly horrified) to know that I have not yet collapsed from exhaustion or committed a crime against any of my professors—though both remain distinct possibilities.

My schedule is best described as “brutal,” though I’m told that’s part of the charm. Monday through Thursday begin with anatomy lectures at seven. Seven. In the morning . There’s no coffee strong enough to make that hour feel real. Practical sessions follow—dissection, diagnostics, or observation. If I never smell formaldehyde again, it will still be too soon.

Afternoons vary: rotations through midwifery, fever management, and infectious disease—though the last is mostly theoretical. They won’t let us near the infectious ward yet. “Until you ladies stop swooning,” as one particularly tiresome professor put it. I informed him that I fainted only once, and it was from hunger , not nerves. That silenced him briefly.

Fridays and Saturdays are reserved for clinics and case notes. Sundays, mercifully, are ours for now, although that will change when we are on the wards primarily. We use them to collapse, mostly. I’ve taken to spending mine with Padma Patil, who has just the right balance of cynicism and sharpness to keep me from turning saintly under pressure.

The other women are a mixed group. Some are brilliant. Some are brittle. Some think I am mad for marrying so young, and others think I am mad for leaving my husband even temporarily. I’m not sure which assumption irritates me more. Wait until they figure out who I married and they’ll be in a real tizzy then.

I’ll be glad for the holidays. I’m plotting how to smuggle my stethoscope into the dining room so I can diagnose the whole table by dessert.

Yours—
Miss Granger, apparently.
( Just Miss Granger. )

End of December 1887

The dean’s voice always grew performative when visitors arrived—slightly louder, vowels lengthened, a forced brightness that grated more than it charmed. Hermione was elbow-deep in case notes when she heard it echoing from the corridor just beyond the surgical prep room.

She barely looked up until she caught the quiet shift in the room’s energy. Her classmates stilled. Dr. Anderson’s hand went oddly rigid around the glass she was rinsing. Someone dropped a scalpel tray—Romilda, she thought—and no one made a joke about it.

The woman who stepped into view was not what Hermione expected. She wasn’t grand, precisely, but commanding . Dressed in grey—fine wool, perfectly cut—she moved like someone accustomed to silence falling when she entered. She wore no lace or satin. No jewelry. Her only ornament was her stunning brown and silver hair pulled high on her head. 

“…the duchess is particularly interested in our retention rates,” the dean said carefully.

The Duchess.

Hermione blinked.

She’d heard whispers from the dormitories—some noblewoman making inquiries about scholarships and advancement, someone with a title and an uncomfortable amount of influence.

“I’ve been told she is your husband’s great-aunt,” Padma murmured later to Hermione, too casually, as they folded surgical linens together. 

Hermione raised an eyebrow. 

Postmarked: December 5, 1887
Delivered to the Viscount St. Armand, Berkeley Square, London
Couriered express from Bloomsbury

Dearest Draco,

Would you like to tell me why no one thought to mention that the Duchess of Argyll is your aunt? Or that she is a medical patron? Or that she has apparently taken a deep and specific interest in my education?

She visited today. No warning, no introduction, just a duchess in full scrutiny-mode appearing in my line of sight while I was washing forceps. The dean became insufferable. The other girls all straightened their backs like they were on parade. I accidentally corrected Dr. Anderson’s Latin in front of her. It went over spectacularly , as you can imagine.

She didn’t speak to me. But she looked.

So. That’s your family, is it?

I suppose it explains a few things. Like the oddly efficient way my scholarship was processed. Or the entire shelf of new surgical texts that appeared in the library.

If you were hoping to keep her a secret, you’ve failed. If you thought I’d be flattered, you’ll have to work harder.

I expect answers. And ideally, wine.

Actually, I expect cunnilingus with no expectation of reciprocation. Naturally.

Faithfully—
Your Miss Granger

( still furious, still proud, still Miss Granger )

13 December 1887

The scent of alcohol and tissue clung to Hermione’s hands long after she began washing them. She had scrubbed twice, thoroughly, with coarse soap and a stiff-bristled brush, but the smell stayed, lodged somewhere between her skin and her memory.

She dropped onto the bench beside Padma in the common room and exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for hours.

“That,” Hermione said, pressing her forehead to the table, “was inhumane.”

Padma didn’t look up from her notebook. “You sound like he was still alive.”

“Don’t joke about that.”

Padma slid a clean handkerchief across the table. “It helps to laugh, you know.”

“I’d rather faint,” she said, but wiped her face with Padma’s lotus scented handkerchief.

“Then at least do it somewhere dramatic. On the dean’s desk, maybe.”

Hermione groaned and turned her face to the side. The scent of lotus lingered in her nose. “He smelled , Padma.”

“They all do.”

“He was a poet . They said he was a poet.”

“Poets have brains too.”

“Then why did his smell like rotting parsnips?”

That made Padma smirk. She flipped to a clean diagram—labeled clearly in ink, with crisp, slanted handwriting—and nudged it toward Hermione.

“Here. You missed a bit when Dr. Barlowe started ranting about the optic chiasm.”

Hermione peeked at it. “You’re far too comfortable cutting into people’s skulls.”

“They’re no longer using them.”

“That does not help.”

Padma’s tone softened. “You don’t have to like it.”

“I don’t like it,” Hermione said, muffled. “I just want to be able to do it without feeling like I’ve swallowed a knife.”

“That’s reasonable,” Padma said. “I only stopped feeling that way a bit ago.”

Hermione lifted her head. “Really?”

“Honestly. You should’ve seen me on my first practical. I spent ten minutes trying to pretend I wasn’t crying, and another five trying not to faint.”

Hermione blinked. “You’re very persuasive when you lie.”

“I’m not lying,” Padma said. “I just cry efficiently.”

They both laughed then, quiet, and sharp-edged, and necessary.

The fire crackled across the room. Outside, sleet streaked the windows. Hermione tugged the diagram closer and tried to absorb it—pons, medulla, cerebellum—but her thoughts kept drifting backward. To the weight of the brain in her hands. To the silence in the room when they opened the skull. To the brief, treacherous flicker of doubt that maybe she wasn’t built for this.

Padma leaned against her shoulder.

“When we’re licensed,” Hermione murmured, “I want a plaque on my wall that says Swallowed a Knife and Kept Going .”

Padma nodded. “I’ll commission it in Latin.”

December 12, 1887
Not posted. Left folded in her desk drawer.

My dearest Theo, my dearest Draco—

I’m writing this by candlelight, long after I should be asleep. The dormitory is quiet in the way only exhausted buildings are—walls steeped in breath and fatigue, the whole place sagging under the weight of too much ambition and too little rest.

I am so tired. And I love it here.

Those things feel like they should be opposites, but they aren’t.

I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in days. I missed lunch twice this week and spent one of those afternoons shaking through a lecture on hemorrhagic fevers while trying to pretend I was merely cold. My hands still ache from the last surgical practical, and I’ve developed a distinct callus where my pencil presses. I am memorizing too much, forgetting too much, running entirely on instinct and tea and the occasional boiled egg.

And still, I feel alive in a way I haven’t before. Not when I was a student the first time, not in libraries, not even in your arms.

It’s not better than you. It’s not instead . But it’s mine. It’s something I chose, and chose it fully, recklessly, without apology. And it is harder than I imagined.

Sometimes I feel like I’m doing well. Other days I walk home certain I’m a fraud. I miss you both constantly. Some days that feels like grief. Some days like hunger. On the worst days, it’s homesickness—for something I already had. For you. For tea at the window. For Theo reading out loud just to make me laugh. For Draco telling me what time it is with that quiet disapproval like I’ve wronged a pocket watch.

But I would not trade this.

Not even the moments when I feel so afraid I can hardly breathe. Not even the moments when I’m standing over someone’s opened skull, trying to remember whether it’s the pons or the midbrain that controls the breath—and hoping no one sees my hands shake.

You should know: Padma has been a gift. Sharp, unflinching, and very possibly the only other person here who doesn’t want to know more about me. She makes me feel normal when everything else feels like performance. I think I love her. I hope you’ll both love her. Or at least be adequately impressed .

I don’t know why I’m writing this now, except that my hands wouldn’t let me sleep until I did. I think I needed you near me, even if only in ink. I think I wanted to tell you that I’m afraid.

But I’m hopeful, too.

And that, I suppose, is what makes this worth it.

Yours—
always, and stubbornly, and in defiance of exhaustion—
Hermione

She folded the letter once, then again. The motion was careful, almost ceremonial, as if pressing it into silence might also still the noise inside her. For a moment, she just held it. The creased parchment in her hand had ink still fresh enough to smudge.

She didn’t address it. Didn’t reach for the envelope. It wasn’t meant for posting, not really. Just a moment she needed to survive, written down to make it real.

Hermione slipped the letter into the drawer beneath her syllabus. The pages rustled softly against the list of everything she was expected to master before Christmas. Three chapters on neural lesions, six on obstetrics, one on surgical hygiene that still made her queasy if she read it too quickly.

She stared at it for a while. Not reading. Just... letting the weight of it sit.

Then, slowly, she leaned forward, cupped her hand around the candle’s flame, and blew it out. The room went dark with a kind of mercy.

Chapter Text

April 1888

The night had been uneventful—until it wasn’t.

Hermione was in the small corner ward, alone with the charts, making a final round before she could head home. The chief resident doctor on duty had taken ill and left halfway through the shift; Dr. Anderson had nodded at Hermione as she departed, saying simply, “You know what to do.”

She had. She always did.

So she’d stayed. Checked on a fever case. Repacked a wound. Sat beside a child with scarlet fever and read aloud for twenty minutes until his breathing evened out.

She had almost made it to the matron’s office to register her charting when the doors slammed open and someone shouted, “Help! Please—she’s—she’s falling—”

They brought the girl in wrapped in a coat, soaked to the knees, her hair wet and plastered to her face. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Her contractions were close and shallow. She wasn’t crying, just panting, the look in her eyes far too old.

“Name?” Hermione asked.

“She wouldn’t say,” replied the man who had helped carry her in. “Found her outside. Said she needed a doctor and then doubled over.”

There was no one else. No family, just Hermione, and the nurse who probably could have delivered this baby in her sleep. Probably had a few times. 

She breathed once, hard. Called for a basin, kit, linens. Sent the porter for laudanum and hot water. Pulled the curtains. Scrubbed her hands.

All right, she told herself, this is what you came for.

The labor was fast. And wrong.

The girl’s pelvis was narrow. The baby’s position was off—shoulders turned slightly, chin not tucked. Hermione checked, checked again, her hands slick and trembling. The girl whimpered but didn’t speak. Her body strained, hips lifting with each contraction, her fists curled into the cot frame.

Hermione swallowed the fear down hard.

She’d assisted with a dozen births. But this was her first one alone.

She heard Padma’s voice in her head, calm and certain: You rotate the shoulder with your left hand, not the right. You follow the line of the sacrum. The baby wants to be born.

Hermione whispered as she worked—half to the girl, half to herself. “It’s all right. You’re doing beautifully. The next part will feel like pressure. Don’t push yet. I know. I know. Just breathe.”

She reached in with careful, unpracticed fingers, repositioned the baby’s shoulder, tilted the chin. One wrong move could have fractured the clavicle—or worse.

The next contraction came hard. The girl screamed then, a ragged sound torn from somewhere deep, and the baby crowned.

Hermione guided her through it, voice low, steady, coaxing. Good. Good. That’s it. One more. Breathe. Push. Now.

The baby came on a wave of fluid and blood at 2:41 a.m. Hermione caught her in both hands, slippery and astonishing and still. For one terrible second she didn’t cry.

Then she did: A furious, indignant wail.

Hermione laughed in a sharp, tearful burst and wrapped the baby in the warmed flannel. “You’re all right,” she whispered. “You’re all right. I’ve got you.”

The mother lay back on the cot, dazed, quiet. Hermione cut the cord, examined the placenta, checked for tearing, bleeding, pulse. The girl’s eyes fluttered open. “Is she—?”

“She’s perfect,” Hermione said, voice hoarse.

“Thank you.”

It was barely audible. Just barely more than breath.

Hermione said nothing in return. Just brushed a damp curl off the girl’s forehead and watched the baby’s tiny fingers flex and curl against her mother’s chest.

Hermione scrubbed her hands for a long time. Longer than necessary. Her arms ached from bracing. Her spine was tight from crouching. Her head buzzed from adrenaline and coffee and the absurd weight of being trusted.

She could’ve gone back to the residence hall. Her bed was there. Her Sunday laundry. Her textbooks and her notes and the same cheap wool blanket that smelled like soap and starch. But the thought of walking into that sterile little room—alone, silent, no one to see what had just happened—was suddenly unbearable.

She stepped into the street and flagged a cab instead. The sky was pale lavender, streaked with rose. The trees were beginning to bud.

Hermione leaned her head against the cab window and let herself feel it: the ache in her legs, the dampness of her sleeves, the ghost weight of the baby in her arms.

The house was still. A single lamp burned low in the entryway, throwing long shadows across the polished floor. The scent of beeswax and lemon oil lingered in the air. She stepped inside like she didn’t quite belong there—like the blood on her sleeves might stain the walls.

She didn’t take off her shoes.

The stairs creaked under her weight. The doorknob to their room was warm from the fire still low in the grate. She eased it open and stood just inside the frame, her chest tightening.

Theo was asleep, face pressed to Draco’s bare shoulder, one leg slung over the tangle of their sheets. Draco lay on his back, mouth slightly parted, his arm curved into the empty space beside him like he’d reached for her in his sleep and found nothing.

Hermione didn’t move for a long time.

She didn’t want to wake them. She didn’t want to speak. She didn’t want to explain what it felt like to hold someone else’s child before they ever drew breath. To hear that first cry crack the room in half.

She just wanted to be touched without being asked anything.

She peeled off her gloves. Her coat. Her dress. Her shoes. Her hairpins. Set them down neatly in a little pile on the chair, fingers stiff from scrubbing. Then she slipped into the bed.

Theo stirred the moment she lay down, his arm curling instinctively around her waist. He didn’t open his eyes, just pulled her close with a sigh so low it might’ve been a word. Draco turned toward her, still half-asleep, and found her hand beneath the blankets. His fingers threaded through hers without hesitation.

No one asked what time it was. No one asked what had happened.

They didn’t have to.

She lay there between them and let her body rest. Her back throbbed. Her legs twitched. Her scalp stung from where she’d tugged her cap off too quickly. She knew there was blood dried into the hem of her skirt and a small ache in her wrist from where she’d braced too hard against the cot.

But none of it pulled her under. Not tonight.

The ache was clean. Earned.

She woke to sunlight on the floorboards and the smell of coffee drifting up from downstairs. Someone was puttering in the sitting room—Theo, probably, judging by the faint hum of a song she didn’t recognize.

Draco’s hand was still in hers.

Her body was stiff with sleep. Her throat was dry. Her temples ached. But the house was warm, and she was not alone, and the light made the bed feel like something solid and ordinary and good.

She turned her head on the pillow. Draco was watching her through half-lidded eyes.

“Happy anniversary,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

Hermione blinked. “Is it?”

He nodded against the pillow. “One year.”

She didn’t say anything. He leaned in anyway, brushed her knuckles with his mouth.

“You know I love you,” he whispered. “Very much.”

Hermione’s voice was hoarse. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Mean it,” he mumbled, already drifting again. “Love you.”

He was asleep before she could answer. She lay there a few more seconds, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Then she turned toward him and pressed her face against his back, curled one arm around his ribs.

“I love you too, Draco,” she whispered into his hair, just loud enough to mean it.

Then she closed her eyes.

Postmarked Venice, Italy: August 14, 1888
Addressed to Miss Hermione Granger, London Medical School for Women, Bloomsbury, London

My dearest Hermione,

You were right about the rain in Venice. It doesn’t fall—it spills , with the drama of an opera and the punctuality of a scandal. It started mid-afternoon and chased me down an alley with such conviction I briefly considered confessing something, just to get it over with.

A gondolier shouted “ brutta fortuna! ” at me as I ran past. I believe this was either a curse or a flirtation. Possibly both.

Venetian politics are about what you’d expect—too many cousins and not enough common sense. The Contessa di Pignatelli has threatened to dissolve her marriage again , this time on the grounds of emotional monotony, which I found both tragic and incredibly specific. No word yet on whether the courts will grant it.

I passed a man today walking a cat on a red silk ribbon. The cat wore shoes. I can’t explain this further because I’m not sure I imagined it. I may have taken too much sun.

The tea is appalling. The wine is excellent. I am, in all respects, still myself.

No reply required, unless you are inclined to lecture me about gondola safety or your continued fondness for not being caught in torrential weather with only a half-collapsed umbrella and a coat that smells of basil.

If you were here, I’d ask you what kind of cat allows itself to be shod. And what kind of person thinks it needs to be.

I hope the hospital is tolerable. Or at the very least, that the coffee is hot and the patients mostly kind.

Yours—
Teddy

Florence, Italy, August 1888

Draco was arguing with a gallery owner about frames.

Theo was lounging in a velvet armchair that had likely belonged to someone murderous and minor in the fifteenth century, drinking something sparkling and pretending to be uninterested.

“It’s pine,” Draco was saying. “You said walnut.”

The gallery owner spread his hands. “Is walnut.”

Draco turned, holding the edge of the frame like it had personally insulted his lineage. “This is not walnut. This is pine with a stain and a bad attitude.”

Theo sipped his drink. “You’re becoming unbearable .”

“I’m correct.”

“You’re correct loudly .”

“You wanted him to show us the Fra Bartolomeo, and he hasn’t. Why? Because he thinks I have no taste.”

“I mean—”

Draco shot him a look.

Theo raised his glass. “To pine.”

Draco sighed. The gallery owner vanished to the back room with a muttered apology and, presumably, the real walnut frame.

They were staying in a borrowed villa just outside the city—a crumbling thing with a courtyard full of citrus trees and tile floors that stayed cool no matter how hot the day got. Theo spent most afternoons sketching on the balcony, surrounded by fruit and pigeons. Draco roamed markets and galleries with all the intensity of a man preparing for a war no one had invited him to fight.

They bought too many things. Paintings. Books. A carved mirror with a crack in the corner that Theo claimed gave it “personality.” An embroidered silk that Draco said Hermione would hate, which meant he had to buy it immediately.

They spoke of her often—but lightly. Casually.

Theo would point out a piece and say, “She’d call that an infected angel.”

Draco would say, “She’d hate this color,” before picking up the swatch anyway.

They wrote, of course. And sent parcels. And promised they weren’t trying to replace every wall in the townhouse. (They absolutely were.)

But in the quiet moments—between drinks, between purchases, between the hot stillness of mid-afternoon and the pleasure of walking through a city that smelled of stone and jasmine—they didn’t talk about her much at all.

Not because they weren’t thinking of her.

But because missing her had already become a fact of their day, like weather.

Theo yawned as the gallery owner returned—this time with the correct frame and a slightly apologetic expression.

Draco took one look at the walnut and smiled.

“Now that,” he said, “is a frame I’d hang in my house.”

“You’re impossible,” Theo muttered, standing. “Come on, then. We’ve got to buy something ridiculous by sundown or I’ll lose my reputation.”

Care Package Sent from Florence to Miss Hermione Granger

Dispatched August 21, 1888
Via private courier, wrapped in tissue and inside a new Louis Vuitton steamer trunk

Contents:

1. A Florentine leather-bound notebook
   
   
   • Monogrammed H.G. in gold foil (Theo’s idea).
     
     
   • Inscribed inside the front cover: For the woman who knows more than everyone and takes notes anyway. —T
     
     
2. Three tins of imported tea
   
   
   • Jasmine, ginger, and “morning fire” (some alarming blend Theo picked based on name alone).
     
     
   • Draco included a hand-written warning: Do not drink the red one before surgery. Or before speaking to the Dean.
     
     
3. A pair of silk stockings
   
   
   • Embroidered at the ankle with a delicate serpent pattern.
     
     
   • “Utterly improper,” Draco wrote. “Wear them under your most serious skirt and think of me.”
     
     
4. A brooch shaped like a tiny anatomical heart
   
   
   • Theo found it in a jeweler’s side drawer and threatened to steal it if it wasn’t sold to him.
     
     
   • “Not romantic,” he wrote. “But beautiful. As are you..”
     
     
5. A small painting of Florence at dusk
   
   
   • Theo commissioned it from a street artist who flirted with both of them.
     
     
   • The note attached: This city is only hideous because you're not here. Otherwise it would bloom entirely.
     
     
6. Two pens (gold nibbed), a bottle of dark blue ink, and far too much Italian parchment
   
   
   • Hermione had once complained her ink blotched during lectures. Draco responded by sourcing ink from Venice that refused to smudge even when screamed at.
     
     
   • Theo added a scribbled: Scream at it anyway. Therapeutic.
     
     
7. A jar of imported almond skin salve
   
   
   • Draco read a passing comment in her last letter about how surgical soap cracked her hands.
     
     
   • No note attached. Just wrapped in tissue. Understood.
     
     
8. A ridiculous fan
   
   
   • Painted with a very dramatic scene from a minor opera they saw together.
     
     
   • Theo folded a note inside: Use this to swat condescending professors, or to make an entrance. Or both.
     
     
9. A bar of honey soap in a carved marble dish
   
   
   • “She needs something that doesn’t smell like the ward,” Draco insisted.
     
     
   • Theo nodded solemnly. “And something not too breakable to throw at us if she’s angry.”
     
     
10. A letter sealed in violet wax
    
    
    • Jointly written, predictably overlong, and tucked into the side flap of the trunk.
      

The trunk arrived on a Thursday .

Hermione opened it alone in her room.

She laughed. Cried. Sniffed the soap and touched the brooch and ran her fingers over the stitched serpents like they’d sent her a secret.

Then she folded their letter in half, tucked it under her pillow, and went to bed with ink on her fingertips and her heart a little steadier.

Letter Enclosed in the Florence Trunk

Sealed in violet wax, labeled in Draco’s hand: "Open when you're alone”

Florence, August 1888
My wife,

If this letter finds you upright, composed, and in possession of your full senses—then clearly you haven’t opened the silk stockings yet.

I would ask if you miss me, but I already know the answer. You must. You have no choice. No one touches you like I do, and certainly no one smells as good while doing it.

Theo keeps pretending he doesn’t notice how often I say your name in my sleep. I’ve taken to whispering it on balconies just to make the pigeons jealous. You should hear what the Venetians are saying. Scandalous. One gondolier thinks you’re a poetess in exile. I haven’t corrected him.

I saw a statue yesterday—early Renaissance, worn at the hips from centuries of adoration. I nearly bought it, just so I could look at something ruined by love and know I was not alone.

You are the best thing I’ve ever wanted. Still. Every morning.

Come home soon, or I shall be forced to learn Italian in earnest, and you know what happens when I attempt verbs.

Dripping (and I do mean dripping ) with love,
Your husband,
D.

P.S. If Theo rolls his eyes at this letter, kindly remind him that he’s only this calm because he hasn’t slept beside your spine in six weeks.

[Second half, in Theo’s handwriting — neat, deliberate, less decorative but deeply intentional.]

You’ve probably read his half already.

I’d apologize, but I won’t. He misses you in a way that’s loud. I miss you in the quiet spaces—before I fall asleep. When I turn to say something and remember you aren’t beside me. When I buy wine and forget you don’t like this one, and then buy it anyway, just to argue about it later.

You haunt this villa in ways that aren’t entirely metaphorical. Your hairpin is still in my coat pocket. There’s a coffee stain on one of Draco’s books that he swears wasn’t his. I don’t have the heart to tell him it was mine. You were reading aloud, I think. I was pretending not to listen.

I don’t know how to explain what your absence feels like without sounding like a lunatic. Or a boy.

You make things better. Not easier— better . Sharper. More bearable. The edges of things feel real with you here.

There’s a line in the book I bought yesterday—bad translation, but the sentiment stuck:
"There are some people whose presence is a kind of architecture—when they’re gone, the walls forget how to hold."

That’s you.

I bet you didn’t know I could speak Latin. 

(That’s all. For now.)

Yours,
Teddy

January 1889

The ballroom at the grand London palace of the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk shimmered.

Not metaphorically. It shimmered —gold and glass and candle light bouncing off sequined masks and champagne flutes, a hundred versions of the same elegance refracted through polished floors. The ceiling rose in painted glory above their heads with cherubs and angels in a blue and pink and violet sky. 

Hermione stood just off the dance floor, masked, gloved, and only slightly overwhelmed. The music swelled. The floor spun. Every woman gleamed with jewels: on their wrists and throat, on their hands, and in their hair.

Padma stood beside her in a borrowed gown, deep sea-green silk with off-the-shoulder sleeves and a neckline that had made Hermione hesitate before fastening the final hook.

“You look beautiful,” Hermione had said in the carriage.

“I look like a woman you’d see once and never forget,” Padma had replied calmly, as if it were simply true.

And she had been right. Pansy hadn’t taken her eyes off her all night.

Every time Hermione glanced across the room—over a burst of laughter, over the tray of citrus-drenched champagne cocktails, over the shoulder of someone titled and tedious—Pansy was watching Padma like she might do something catastrophic or divine.

Theo found Hermione first, near the foot of the grand staircase. He wore navy velvet and an expression of undisguised relief.

“I thought you’d vanished.”

“I was watching everyone dance,” she said, lips curving. “It’s… intricate.”

“Mm. Yes. Nothing says celebration like choreographed courtship.”

“It’s lovely, actually,” she admitted. “A bit surreal. But lovely.”

He tilted his head. “I knew sending you a dress with a proper bodice would turn you sentimental.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t deny it. “You clean up well yourself.”

“And yet no one’s offered me a glass of champagne or a minor dukedom.”

“You’ve only just arrived.”

“Then I suppose I’ll stay,” he said, offering her his arm. “Long enough to be adored.”

She took it without hesitation. She let him kiss her gloved hand, and then her cheek, and then briefly her exposed shoulder. He didn’t seem to notice he'd done it. Or maybe he did. Either way, he didn’t stop touching her once she was within reach.

Draco arrived late, much later than Theo who had come with Blaise and Adrian, and far later than Hermione who had arrived with only Padma. 

Not dramatically late—just late enough that people noticed, and looked twice, and whispered behind their masks. He was already unmasked, naturally, but Hermione and Theo knew it was because he couldn’t stand the feeling on his face. The glittering navy silk of his coat shimmered under the chandeliers with each step, cut close enough to broadcast arrogance and wealth and obsession in equal measure.

Hermione saw him pause in the archway, scanning the crowd. Then, he stilled.

He had found her.

Draco moved through the room with unhurried purpose, parting the crowd without touching a single person, like the suggestion of his presence was enough. A tray of oysters passed. He ignored it. Someone said his name. He didn’t turn.

He had seen her in the violet silk, and now nothing else existed.

She was standing with Theo at the base of the staircase, her hand still resting lightly on Theo’s arm. Laughing at something. Lit by the curve of the wall sconces. Unaware of her own power, which only made it worse.

He looked at her like he might drag her out of this place and ruin her in the gardens just to make the point.

When he arrived, it was with three glasses of champagne and an air of unrepentant hunger.

“Don’t say a word,” he warned Theo as he handed him one of the glasses. “I’m having a moment.”

Theo sipped. “Is it with me?”

Draco turned his head very slightly. “It is not .”

Hermione took her glass delicately, the corner of her mouth twitching.

“You look pleased with yourself,” she said.

“I am,” Draco replied, eyes raking over her. “That dress should be illegal.”

“I rented it.”

“I’m considering buying it and burning it so no one else ever wears it again.”

“Romantic,” she said, amused.

“Possessive,” Theo muttered, but with a smile on his face.

Draco didn’t disagree. He couldn’t look away.

Hermione raised her glass and took a slow sip, watching him over the rim. The moment stretched—silent, breathless, far too rich with meaning for a room full of titled strangers.

Theo sighed. “At what point does this become a scandal?”

“Soon,” Draco growled, “if she keeps wearing that color.”

Again, Theo sighed, “I’ll just take her away for the waltz now, really, Draco, you should have been here on time if you wanted her before her dance card was full.”

Ron spotted her an hour later and claimed a polka. She hadn’t even known he was coming. She kicked herself for not writing more. Ron and Harry both sent such unsatisfying letters that it was easy to skip them. 

He looked good. Sturdy. Handsome in a simple way, pleasantly sun-kissed and well-fed. He was dancing with a tall brunette Hermione vaguely recognized. When he saw Hermione, his whole face lit up.

“You look like a duchess,” he said, hugging her tightly. “One of the intimidating ones.”

“You look like someone who eats breakfast every day.”

“I do. Mum makes me.”

Ginny looked impossibly in love in a yellow gown, and she was definitely pregnant although she had not told anyone yet. Of course, Hermione knew; how could she not know? Harry wore his devotion well. 

Later, she gave a dance to Evan Rosier, the dumbest of the Bad Lads. He took Hermione’s hand for the quadrille and remarked, too loudly, “Ink-stained fingers at a ball? How subversive.”

She laughed. “Only on one hand. The other still holds a scalpel.”

He blinked. Didn’t get it.

Theo, who was in their quartet with Pansy, got it. Smiled behind his glass like he might actually bite someone.

Hermione excused herself, polite but short. Found a moment of quiet in a corridor just off the ballroom. The air was cooler there. Less golden. More real.

She flexed her fingers, looked down at the faint ghost of ink beneath her glove.

Three days ago she had helped deliver a breech birth in a freezing ward with faulty gaslight. The mother had torn badly. Hermione had stitched for nearly an hour, hands cramping, jaw locked.

And now—this. All the feathers and diamonds. Music. Gold-leaf champagne labels. Acquaintances commenting on her hands. No one here knew what her week had been. No one except the two men who had followed her into the quiet without needing to be called.

Draco stood in the doorway, still glittering, and Theo leaned beside him, silent. Neither reached for her. Neither spoke.

It was worse than love, this thing between them. It was need . Familiarity worn into the bone. They looked at her like they'd been starving. She was beginning to understand that this obsession, this terrible and beautiful tether between them, had nothing to do with lust or sex or infatuation. Not even romance.

She asked them to wait for her, but what or who would she be at the end of this?

March 1889

Hermione found Padma in the stairwell, seated two steps from the bottom, elbows on her knees, spine rigid. The light slanted harsh and grey through the frosted glass, casting her in sharp angles. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap. Her satchel sat beside her, closed.

Hermione didn’t speak right away. Just descended the last few steps and sat beside her, letting their shoulders touch. They sat in silence for a long while.

Then Padma said, very quietly, “She’s gone.”

Hermione turned her head. “Who?”

“Katie Bell. She packed her things this morning.”

Hermione felt her stomach twist.

“She didn’t even say goodbye,” Padma added. “I only knew because her roommate was crying in the laundry room.”

“Why?” Hermione asked, though she already knew.

Padma’s lips tightened. “Her father demanded it. He said she’d ‘proven her point.’ That it was time to come home and be reasonable. She wouldn’t do it, and her father… talked to the donor about their bursary.”

Hermione exhaled slowly, trying to keep her voice even. “And the bursary?”

“Revoked. Quietly.”

The air went flat. Hermione stared at the stone landing across from them, fury blooming hot behind her breastbone.

She had seen Katie study through lunch more days than not. Had watched her bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying in dissection when she couldn’t get the saw through the femur and none of the male professors had offered their greater strength. She’d translated Latin passages for classmates who barely knew how to read them, and once lent Hermione her only pencil when Hermione’s snapped mid-lecture.

“She was good,” Padma said. Her voice cracked. “Better than half the men at St. Bart’s.”

Hermione closed her eyes. “She was better than that.”

Padma flinched. “I keep thinking—what if that’s us next?”

Hermione opened her eyes. Her voice came out low and sharp: “It isn’t going to be.”

“How?”

“We fight. With teeth, with ink, with fingernails. Whatever is on hand. Those bad scalpels from dissection 1.”

Padma huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You make it sound romantic.”

“It isn’t.”

They sat in silence again. The hallway hummed with the distant sound of footsteps, a slammed door, a professor clearing his throat somewhere above them. Life going on.

Hermione’s hands curled in her lap.

Padma didn’t come from incredible wealth. She didn’t have generations of men behind her in medicine. She wasn’t even welcome in half the wards she trained in, not only because she was a woman, but because she was Indian. A donor could decide tomorrow she wasn’t worth the investment. A professor could say she was too bold, too messy, too opinionated. She could be gone by Monday.

Katie had been good. And she was gone.

Padma touched her hand, briefly. “You won’t let it happen to us.”

Hermione swallowed, hard. “No,” she said. “I won’t.”

And she meant it—with the same quiet, unshakable conviction as I love you, and I’m not going anywhere, and hold still, I’ve got you.

March 1889

The dining room was quiet except for the occasional click of Draco’s shears and the low rustle of paper as Theo unfolded the letter again. Draco stood near the window, sleeves rolled, pruning one of the white orchids. The leaves had started to yellow. He clipped with surgical precision, like the stem had personally offended him.

“She’s right to be angry,” Theo said, his voice even.

Draco didn’t answer. Snip, snip. 

Theo glanced down at the letter again. Hermione’s handwriting had grown more cramped as it went on—less composed. She hadn’t softened the language. She wasn’t asking for help; Just reporting something that had gutted her.

“Katie Bell’s bursary was pulled. Family pressure, supposedly. But it was financial.”

Still no response.

Draco moved to the next orchid. This one was healthy, brilliant violet petals flaring toward the windowlight. He hesitated, then left it untouched.

“She was one of the best students in her class,” Theo added. “You remember Hermione talked about how she was trying to follow her example in pharmacology.”

“I remember,” Draco said tightly.

“She didn’t tell anyone she was leaving. Just packed and went.”

Draco put the shears down and poured a glass of wine. He couldn’t sit still, and set it aside without taking a drink.

“You think this was personal?” he asked.

“I think this happens all the time,” Theo said, mildly. He examined his fingernails. 

Draco finally turned back to the orchid on the table. “She deserved to stay.”

Theo didn’t move. “She deserved to never have been in that position. ”

Draco tapped his fingers against the edge of the table. “We could pay for her to return.”

“We should.”

“We will,” Draco said. “Quietly.”

Theo nodded once. “Good.”

Draco reached for a fresh sheet of paper, pulled the inkwell toward him. “I’ll write to Aunt Minerva. Ask her to tea. You and I will be there. We’ll offer to double the endowment.”

“Triple,” Theo said. “If you’re serious.”

Draco blinked. “Triple, then.”

“And make it last beyond one term. No more patchwork bursaries held hostage by men who’ve never read a syllabus.”

Draco looked up. “You sound like her.”

“I read the same letter,” Theo said. “And I know what it feels like to have no name worth writing on a door. Padma’s in that school because she’s brilliant—and because she’s tolerated. That’s not the same as being protected.”

Draco’s mouth pressed into a line.

Theo poured him a glass of wine and set it down gently. “You want to help her, Draco? Help all of them. That’s how you make it count.”

Draco nodded slowly. “All right.”

Theo moved back to his seat, settling in with the letter again.

The orchid trimmings sat in a shallow dish on the sideboard—wilted, discarded, some still half-alive and victim of Draco’s mood. Draco didn’t look at them. He kept writing.

Theo let the room be quiet, but inside he was bursting into fireworks. 

Late April 1889

The post came with the afternoon tea cart—wrapped in thick cream paper, addressed in Draco’s perfect penmanship, sealed with violet wax.

Hermione opened it with a scalpel she fished out of her skirt. 

“You shouldn’t keep those in your pockets,” Padma chided, looking up at her over her copy of Adderson’s Pharmacology. 

“Haven’t cut myself yet,” Hermione muttered, pulling out a scrap of paper and a newspaper clipping. She wondered if it was a Gilbert and Sullivan review like Theo had taken to sending her. 

She unfolded the clipping first.

SIGNIFICANT DONATION TO WOMEN’S MEDICAL COLLEGE ANNOUNCED AT PRIVATE LUNCHEON A new endowment for the London School of Medicine for Women was announced yesterday at a luncheon hosted by the Duchess of Argyll. The contribution—described as “substantial and enduring”—will expand scholarship funds, provide anatomical materials, and support clinical training for women unable to fund their own education.

The fund is made possible by Her Grace the Duchess of Argyll, Lady Minerva McGonagall, the Viscount St. Armand, and Captain Theodore Nott.

In her remarks, the Duchess praised the College’s mission and its students’ resilience, stating, “We do not invest in women because we are charitable—we invest because we are sensible. These are the physicians of the future.”

The Viscount and Captain Nott declined comment.

Hermione read it twice.

The second time, her eyes caught on the phrasing. Substantial and enduring. It wasn’t just money, it was protection. Backing. Belief .

She reached for the note tucked beneath the clipping.

One sentence, in Draco’s hand.

For the future you insisted on. —D

That was all.

No flourish. No signature beyond the single letter. No request for praise or thanks. Just the truth, set down plainly. Hermione folded the note carefully, slid it between the pages of her textbook, and pressed it flat.

She didn’t cry, but she did check her watch. Five hours until her next shift. No lectures. No clinics. No pressing academic obligations beyond the growing suspicion that Romilda Vane had stolen her only good pencil.

She closed the textbook, stood, and muttered, “I’ll be back by shift, Padma. Can’t very well let that go unacknowledged.”

She arrived home twenty-five minutes later, tipped the cab driver generously, and let herself in with her own key. The hallway was quiet. Someone had left the windows cracked, and the house smelled faintly of lemons and wood smoke.

Draco was in the study, still in his shirtsleeves, his hair damp at the temples like he’d gone too long without noticing the fire was hot beside him. He looked up as she entered, took one look at her face, and set his book aside with the air of a man preparing to be ruined.

She closed the door behind her.

“Something wrong?” he asked, already sounding pleased.

She took off her gloves. “Yes.”

“Ah.”

She walked to the desk, leaned across it, and dropped the clipping in front of him.

Draco didn’t even glance down. “Too much?”

“No,” she said. “Just right.”

He tilted his head. “You came all this way just to tell me that?”

“No,” Hermione said, already undoing the top button of her coat. “I came to say thank you.”

Draco leaned back slightly in his chair, smiling like a cat.

“I accept,” he said, “with enormous humility.”

“Good,” Hermione replied. “Take your trousers off.”

Draco hesitated, and Hermione’s smile faltered. “I should let you know that the blowjob of gratitude should probably be aimed towards Theo… but since the two of you are still playing pull pigtails on the schoolyard games, I am willing to accept on his behalf and convey my– ohhh–”

London School of Medicine for Women
May 1st, 1889
From the desk of Miss Hermione Granger

Your Grace,

I write only to offer my sincere thanks for your support in reinstating Miss Bell to the course. Her presence has already been felt—by her classmates, by her instructors, and by myself.

I remain grateful for your continued patronage of the College, and for the future your intervention makes possible.

Yours faithfully,
H.G. Malfoy
Second-year student, Clinical Rotation
London School of Medicine for Women

PS, I will be attending the tea you mentioned to Draco in three weeks, please consider this my RSVP. 

Posted from the Hotel Nacional, Havana
May 29th, 1889

My most dangerous girl,

We’re in Havana for three nights, after an exceptionally dull diplomatic dinner in British Honduras wherein Bertie made a speech about tropical forestry, and I attempted to look interested without perspiring. I failed. The man sweats charm; I simply sweat.

Theo is sunburned, of course, and claims it’s a sign of hardiness. I suspect it’s a sign of ignoring my advice and spending too long near naval officers in short sleeves.

Last night, we were taken to an underground music hall by one of Bertie’s attachés. Very improper. Exactly the sort of place where champagne arrives without asking and people only leave once they’ve kissed someone they shouldn’t. I danced with a baroness in a shocking lilac gown who asked after you by name. She said you were “the medical girl with the eyes.” I said yes, and then pretended you’d invented surgery just to make her jealous.

She approves of your career, by the way. Which is more than I can say for the Foreign Office.

Havana itself is—well. It’s everything. Warm salt air and trumpet music through every window, bougainvillea spilling over balconies like silk. Even the moon here seems more indulgent, like it knows we’re far from home and inclined to behave badly.

You’d hate it for how much you’d love it.

Every clever woman I meet reminds me of you, and none of them are half so terrifying. Do hurry and finish conquering England’s medical establishment. I’d like you to come conquer the Americas next.

We’ll be back by late June, in time for Princess Louise’s wedding. I imagine there will be fans and diamonds and endless discussion of embroidery. Save me from it. Go get something made bespoke for you that’s sharp enough to wound someone.

Yours in scandal and science,
D

September 1889

Hermione hadn’t expected anyone and was halfway through reorganizing her notes on infectious meningitis when the knock came—sharp, familiar, and far too confident to be a porter.

She opened the door to find Theo leaning against the frame, sunburned, smug, and carrying a neat white parcel tied with string.

“For you,” he said, holding it out. “You looked tired in your last letter.”

“I didn’t send a photo.”

“Your handwriting was wilted. I assumed the worst.”

She narrowed her eyes but took the box. Inside: two bars of pale lavender soap, the good kind—triple-milled, wrapped in waxed paper—and a pair of fresh gloves in her size.

“You’re absurd,” she muttered, but her mouth twitched.

“You’re welcome.”

He looked vaguely scorched around the collar. Hermione tilted her head. “You’re sunburned.”

“Yes. Neville Longbottom took me riding.”

“Neville?” she questioned. 

“Yes, and do I have some good gossip for you,” He turned on his heel and began walking, as if this explained everything. “Come with me. There’s a new garden café two blocks over. It’s late enough no one will notice if you’re underdressed.”

Hermione glanced down at herself—second-best dress, apron lines at the waist, a chalky smudge on one sleeve. She followed him anyway. They sat beneath a wisteria-covered trellis. The air was thick with bees and afternoon heat. Hermione sipped her iced tea slowly, savoring a rare moment of relaxation. Theo watched her over the rim of his glass with what might’ve been amusement or worry. it was always hard to tell with him.

“I thought Neville was engaged to that widowed countess,” she said finally, urging him along.

“He was. Then he wasn’t. Now he’s having an affair with Blaise’s wife.”

Hermione stopped mid-sip. “Daphne ? ”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Apparently it does to them.”

She blinked at him. “Neville’s in love with her?”

“Tragically.”

“And he thinks Blaise would care?”

“Deeply.”

Hermione let out a slow breath and laughed. “Draco’s going to explode.”

“He’s already twitching. Keeps rearranging the liquor cart every time Neville’s name comes up.”

“I thought he only did that when he was jealous.”

Theo arched an eyebrow.

“Oh,” she said.

“Yes.”

She leaned back in her chair, let the sun warm her face, and sighed. “You do realize I haven’t had a proper day off in three weeks.”

“That’s why I brought soap.”

She laughed. “And gloves?”

“Because you always forget to buy new ones and then pretend it’s a political statement.”

Hermione let her hand drift across the table and took his hand. “I’m glad you came.”

Theo didn’t answer. Just smiled, slow and sun-drowsy.

“I’ll walk you back,” he said after a while. “If I don’t, Draco will assume I threw you into the river.”

“You didn’t even bring me to a river.”

“He doesn’t need the details.”

April 1890

The music was very good, which was irritating.

Theo had expected something grand and vaguely tedious—flawless strings, polite applause, endless sighing from women in brocade. What they got instead was vibrant and strange: a quartet that flirted with tempo, a mezzo-soprano who sang like her heart had broken in the dressing room and she was still deciding whether to make anyone else pay for it.

The hall was candlelit and crowded. The acoustics were excellent. So was the champagne.

Draco looked stunning, of course—something deep charcoal with a slight sheen, a waistcoat that Theo privately thought was unnecessary, and rings he kept removing and replacing depending on how bored he was.

Theo stood beside him, champagne in hand, smiling at the appropriate moments. The Viscount and the Captain: a matched set of minor scandal and major influence. It had taken exactly two years of strategic generosity, shameless money, and Hermione’s name to turn them into beloved patrons of women’s education.

The concert was their latest gesture.

A fundraiser for the scholarship endowment. A demonstration of taste and philanthropy and a long, elegant bow toward the future.

The speeches came after the final piece.

Draco went first—short, polished, charming. He thanked the Duchess, nodded at the headmistress, kissed a countess’s hand for no reason at all.

Then it was Theo’s turn.

He stood at the edge of the small stage, the lights making it hard to see anyone clearly.

But he knew where she was.

Hermione sat in the second row, Padma beside her, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She was wearing a dark blue gown with embroidery that caught the light like fire, and the moment he looked at her, she looked away, smiling deeply. From the row behind, Ginny Potter, heavily pregnant, raised a lush, auburn brow at him. He winked at her. 

He hadn’t wanted to speak. That was Draco’s realm—polished charm, calculated ease, an instinct for how far to push the boundary of propriety without being asked to leave the estate.

But this part had been his idea.

The endowment. The naming. The concert itself. Draco had signed the cheques. Minerva had handled the optics. But Theo had been the one to write letters, meet with the bursars, and argue over how many cadavers a woman needed access to before she was taken seriously.

So now he stood in front of the crowd—wealth and elegance stacked in rows of velvet-covered chairs—and cleared his throat softly.

The room quieted.

“Good evening,” he began. “Thank you all for coming. Thank you for lending your names, and your presence, and—especially tonight—your attention.”

A pause. A lift of the glass in his hand.

“I know it’s customary at these events to speak of progress. Of changing times. Of the bright promise of the future. And that is part of what we’re celebrating tonight.”

He glanced down at his notes. Then set them aside.

“But I think it’s also important to speak of pressure . Of persistence. Of what it means to press forward when the room wasn’t built for you. To keep going when the rules are written in someone else’s handwriting.”

He felt the silence shift slightly—subtle, watchful.

“This fund exists not because of generosity. Not even because of vision. It exists because someone dear to me refused to let the door stay closed. She refused when it was inconvenient. When it was humiliating. When it was dangerous. She refused when others told her no. And she continues to refuse every time she steps into a room and does the work no one expected her to survive.”

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t have to.

“I’ve heard it said that education is a privilege. That to study medicine, to wield science, to understand the body, is a gift.”

A pause. His voice sharpened slightly.

“I disagree.”

He let that sit.

“To know how to heal is not a gift. It is a right. And to deny someone that right because of their name, or their skin, or the way they enter a room, is a loss for all of us.”

A rustle in the audience. A tilt forward.

He smiled, but it didn’t soften the words.

“This endowment will not fix everything. It is not the whole fight. But it is one more weight on the right side of the scale.”

He lifted his glass again.

“To the ones who won’t stop asking. To the ones who keep opening the door. And to the ones who walk through it—and bring others with them.”

He paused. Then added, quieter:

“To the ones who don’t wait for permission.”

The applause was immediate. Polite at first, then fuller, warmer. Hermione, two rows back, did not smile entirely; she looked at him like she wanted to crawl up his body and leave him naked and panting and slightly terrified. 

He avoided her for the next two hours. 

Theo had just handed off his third empty champagne flute and was attempting to locate a door that led somewhere quieter when he heard Ginny’s voice behind him.

“You do know,” she said, “that you basically proposed to her in front of two hundred people.”

Theo turned.

Ginny stood in the shadow of a potted fig tree, one eyebrow raised, one hand resting on the swell of her enormous pregnancy. Her gown was crimson, her hair pinned up with ornamental daggers that Hermione claimed were theatrical but secretly admired.

Theo offered his most neutral expression. “I gave a speech.”

“You gave a sermon, Theo,” she said. “You lit candles for her. You passed the tray. We all said amen.”

He didn’t answer.

Ginny took a sip of her drink, eyes narrowed over the rim. “She looked like she wanted to die. And then cry. And then kiss you.”

“I didn’t say her name.”

“Which was somehow worse.”

Theo took a long, deliberate breath. “It’s complicated.”

Ginny scoffed. “Of course it’s complicated. You’re English.”

He smiled despite himself. “Your sympathy is overwhelming.”

“I’m not here to be sympathetic,” she said. “I’m here to tell you to be careful.”

That cut closer than he expected. “You think I’d hurt her?”

“I think you already love her. And that means you could.”

Theo looked down at his shoes, polished and suddenly unbearable.

“I’m not going to tell her,” he said, low.

Ginny didn’t look surprised. “I know. That’s why I’m telling you. ”

She stepped closer, softer now, and rested a gentle hand on his arm. “She loves you both. You know that, right?”

Theo nodded once.

“And she trusts you. She trusts you to know what to say and what not to say.”

He looked up. Their eyes met.

Ginny gave him a smile that was almost kind. “You did good tonight. It was beautiful.”

Then she downed the rest of her drink, clapped him once on the shoulder, and vanished into the corridor like she hadn’t just gutted him with affection.

Theo stayed where he was, hands in his pockets, staring at the darkened hallway ahead like it might answer back.

Mayfair, April 1890
From the writing desk of Pansy Alexandra Louisa Parkinson

Hermione, darling,

I am writing to ask—very politely, very formally, and not at all in a breathless state of emotional emergency—whether you might be so good as to arrange a proper introduction between myself and Miss Padma Patil.

I realize we have technically met, if one can call standing across a ballroom and exchanging four syllables over champagne “meeting.” I realize this may seem unnecessary, since we did nod at one another last Thursday at the concert. And I do recall one brief interaction at a party two summers ago, which I deeply regret not handling with more—well, anything resembling grace.

But I find myself in need of a second chance.

A first impression, actually.

It’s very difficult to explain, and I know how ridiculous I sound, and please do not tell Theo, because he’ll never let it go. (Draco may be trusted, provided he’s well-fed.)

The point is—Padma Patil is the most exquisite creature I’ve ever seen. She’s extraordinary. Statuesque. And not just lovely—formidable . She has the bearing of someone who could dismantle a man with a well-worded sentence and then recite her notes on cranial nerves without missing a beat.

She terrifies me. In the best possible way.

I’ve had to reapply my lipstick twice trying to write this.

If you could find it in your heart and schedule to arrange something appropriately casual (or highly orchestrated, I don’t care, as long as it happens), I would be terribly grateful. I’ll owe you a favor. Several favors. I’ll finance a lecture hall in your name. I’ll rename my dog “Hermione.”

Yours in affection, admiration, and complete humiliation,
Pansy

P.S. If she already has a suitor, I am willing to die quietly in an alley. Just let me know.

Chapter Text

May 1891

Theo was still adjusting flowers when Draco returned from upstairs looking entirely too self-satisfied.

“I’ve completed my most important contribution,” he announced.

“If you’ve reorganized her medical books again, I’m going to push you down the back stairs.”

Draco ignored him. “I’ve filled her wardrobe.”

Theo blinked. “With… what? Socks?”

“Clothes, obviously.”

“You mean the clothes she left here?”

Draco looked vaguely insulted. “No, Theo. Those are in the cedar chest. These are new clothes. Doctor clothes.” He said it with pride, like he’d personally invented women’s professional attire.

Theo put down the eucalyptus. “You bought her an entirely new wardrobe.”

“Not just bought. Curated.”

Theo walked slowly to the sideboard, poured a drink, and stared into his glass. “Why do I feel like this is going to end in a fashion lecture?”

“She left in 1887,” Draco said, ignoring the jab. “It’s now 1890. That’s six fashion cycles. She was wearing bustled wool and linen calico with practical closures. Practical closures, Theo.”

“She’s a doctor.”

“She’s also a woman,” Draco said. “A woman of social and academic standing who deserves appropriate garments. I had new coats made in charcoal and navy—nothing fussy, very clean tailoring. Skirts she can actually walk in. Blouses that button high but not too high. And three walking suits in case she’s doing field work. Plus two silk gowns for lectures.”

Theo stared at him. “You had lecture gowns made.”

“Silk crepe. They’re understated.”

Theo took a sip. “You’re out of your mind.”

“She deserves to look current.”

“She’s going to murder you.”

“She’s going to thank me,” Draco said, hands on hips. “Eventually.”

Theo set down his glass and strolled toward the stair. “If you’ve put a corset on a mannequin and named it after her, I want advance warning.”

“I would never. She’ll choose her own corsetry. I’m not a tyrant.”

Theo paused. “You’ve included corsetry?”

“Of course I’ve included corsetry. I’m not negligent. ”

Theo pressed both palms to his face and muttered, “I cannot wait to watch this go badly.”

Draco leaned against the stair banister, smug. “I’m an excellent husband.”

Theo arched a brow. “You bought her four entire wardrobes and called it helpful . ”

Draco shrugged. “I like her to feel prepared.”

“You like her to look like a powerfully dressed hurricane.”

“Same thing.”

Draco looked down a tin of biscuits on the side table like it had insulted his lineage. “Why are these here?” he asked, disdainful.

“They’re her favorite,” Theo replied, offhand, twitching a hydrangea. 

“They’re dusty. ”

“They’re shortbread,” Theo said, not looking up from the flowers. “That’s their entire personality.”

Draco set the tin down. “I don’t want the first thing she tastes to be disappointment.”

“She’s not licking the furniture, Draco.”

“Speak for yourself.”

Theo sighed, fluffing a sprig of eucalyptus with more aggression than was strictly necessary. “I’m serious. She’s going to walk in, clock every detail, and know exactly who panicked and who didn’t.”

“We both panicked.”

“I’m trying to minimize the damage, which you are making very easy by completely overhauling her wardrobe.”

They looked around at the front sitting room, which had been entirely rearranged to make space for the office Hermione didn’t know she now owned. The wall between the parlour and a former maid’s bedroom had been knocked out two weeks ago. It was now a study, just large enough for her desk, her books, and the anatomical diagrams Draco had insisted on framing (“It’s chic, if you ignore the intestines”).

Theo had handled the new upholstery. Draco had overseen the library reordering, then promptly undone Theo’s work by re-categorizing everything by aesthetic pleasure rather than topic.

Theo adjusted the hydrangeas again. Draco shifted a copy of Microbes and Men two inches left, then back again.

“I’m not nervous,” Draco said.

Theo snorted.

“I’m not. ”

“You’ve changed shirts three times.”

Draco frowned. “It’s difficult to coordinate for a medical homecoming. I don’t want to look like I’m trying.”

“You are trying.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to look it.”

Theo turned, wiping his hands on a linen cloth. “You know what she’ll notice?”

“The decor?”

“The silence.”

That stopped Draco. Just for a moment.

“She’ll notice how quiet it’s been without her,” Theo said, voice lower now. “No slamming books, no lectures about raw milk, no muttering Latin over toast.”

Draco walked to the sideboard, picked up a cardigan she’d left six months ago, and folded it more carefully than necessary. “It’s been…very clean.”

“It’s been very boring.”

They stood like that for a beat, the room still, golden afternoon light painting the bookshelves in soft lines.

Then Draco cleared his throat. “What are you wearing to dinner?”

Theo looked up. Smirked. “Didn’t you say you didn’t care?”

“I don’t. I just need to know how overdressed I should be compared to you.”

The front door swung open and Dr. Hermione Granger-Malfoy stepped inside, her coat dusty from the ride, hair pinned up in a rush, bag slung over one shoulder and a half-buttoned glove dangling from her pocket.

Before she could drop the bag or even close the door behind her, they were there.

Theo got to her first, skidding slightly on the wood in his socks. “ Doctor Granger-Malfoy, ” he said, voice loud and delighted, wrapping his arms around her in a hug that lifted her off the ground.

She let out a soft laugh and pressed her forehead into his neck.

Draco hovered behind him, practically vibrating with impatience.

“My turn,” he said, and Theo relinquished her only slightly reluctantly.

Draco didn’t lift her. He just pulled her in close and tight and sure. His mouth brushed the top of her head.

“You did it,” he murmured. “You did it.”

She closed her eyes and let herself feel it for one whole breath. The weight of the bag. The ache in her feet. The ringing silence of no more exams. No more rotations. Just this house. This moment. These two.

“I did,” she said. And smiled.

Theo took the bag off her shoulder before she could protest. “You’re never lifting anything again.”

“She doesn’t even have her shoes off,” Draco said.

“She’s also not saying anything about the walls, so either she hasn’t noticed yet or she’s too tired to start yelling.”

Hermione blinked. “The walls?”

Draco beamed. “Come see.”

“No, wait,” Theo said. “The flowers first.”

“I told you we should have done a proper sequence.”

“I told you not to rearrange the wardrobe by sleeve length.”

“You’ll thank me when she sees the corsetry.”

“I’m going to lie down on the stairs,” Hermione said, but she was already laughing, already being pulled gently down the hall by two men who were acting like they’d just discovered gravity and needed her to come see it.

The house smelled like lemon oil and fresh paint. There were new frames on the walls. A pair of new boots by the stairs. A tea tray waiting in the library.

She was exhausted. Entirely. But she had done it. And she was home.

The candles flickered low in the dusk, their wax pooling slowly in the carved brass holders Theo had insisted on pulling from the upstairs linen press for the occasion. He had also insisted, that morning, that the table be set outside, despite the chill still lingering in the late-spring air, because he claimed that dinner tasted better under wisteria, and because Draco had murmured something half-serious about the lantern lighting being flattering to Hermione’s complexion.

And Hermione, who had just finished her last rotation and was still recovering from the final, brutal stretch of her examinations, had not argued. She was too tired to argue. She was too content to care whether her wine glass matched the cutlery, or whether the garden chairs wobbled, or whether the parsley was from the wrong garden box. She was home. And for the first time in months, she was allowed to be still.

The garden was full of things blooming: violets, pale roses, a stubborn rosemary bush that had somehow survived the frost. The air smelled like loam and new grass and the faint sweetness of lemon balm from the bed behind Draco’s chair.

The banter came easily, as it always had, but tonight it was quieter, more lived-in. Less a performance and more a rhythm they had fallen back into without needing to try.

“Theo has started writing correspondence on behalf of the Duchess,” Draco said lazily, swirling his wine. “We suspect she doesn’t know.”

“She signs them,” Theo said, lifting a brow. “That implies consent.”

“She signed one of them,” Draco replied. “The rest go out with her name and stationery.”

“She’s very busy,” Theo said loftily. “I’m helping.”

Hermione, who had just buttered a piece of bread with more force than was strictly necessary, raised an eyebrow. “Is this what you two do while I’m elbows-deep in pelvic emergencies?”

“We also fund clinics,” Draco said smoothly. “And write very elegant donation letters.”

“Attend concerts,” Theo added. “Make speeches. Court scandal. Pay off small political disasters.”

“All in support of the cause,” Draco said, smiling like a man very pleased with himself.

“Oh yes,” Hermione said dryly. “The cause.”

“You’re mocking me,” Draco said, with the kind of delight that could only come from being completely certain he deserved it.

She took a slow sip of wine. “Relentlessly.”

They let her talk after that—really talk, not in the compressed, incomplete way one does through letters or brief visits, but the long unspooling of stories too strange to share with strangers. She told them about the woman who refused to deliver until Hermione returned from tea break; the boy who had presented with something they still hadn’t identified; the student who fainted at the sight of a wound so foul even Padma had gone a bit green.

She told them, quietly, that she knew she would not be hired in infectious disease. That the door to general practice remained closed. That the future she had once envisioned for herself, the fevers, the front lines, the research, had been politely redirected toward women's health, midwifery, and childbed fevers. Important work, of course. Necessary work. But not the work she had dreamed of.

She knew that women’s health and pediatrics was about the only place they could make for her, right now. The fund had set up women’s clinics and maternity homes in several locations in the city, all deeply underserved. She was honored to be a doctor in obstetrics, but still. Still. 

“I’m not angry,” she said, more to the night air than to them. “Or maybe I am. But mostly I’m just... resigned. This is the door that’s open, so I’ll walk through it. And I’ll do it well. But I want it said, once, aloud, that it wasn’t the only door. It was just the only one left unlocked.”

Neither of them spoke right away.

The candles had burned low, the wicks glowing in soft, rhythmic pulses. The garden around them buzzed gently with spring with moths flirting near the lanterns, something rustling in the hedges, the air heavy with the scent of earth and honeysuckle.

Then Theo raised his glass.

“To Dr. Granger-Malfoy,” he said, his voice catching on something so subtle it passed as nothing unless you knew him. “For finishing what most men would have quit in the first term. For surviving it with her spine intact. For walking through the only unlocked door and kicking it hard enough that it won’t close behind her.”

Hermione smiled, startled but steady. “You’re going to make me cry in front of my wine.”

Draco didn’t lift his glass. He just looked at her, the edge of his mouth tilting into something far more vulnerable than a smile.

“We weren’t whole without you,” he said quietly.

Hermione reached for his hand without thinking, and Theo leaned just slightly toward her, as if some part of him couldn’t help it.

The moment held.

Then Hermione exhaled. “I’m cold,” she said. “Someone fetch me a coat or commit to holding me.”

Theo stood immediately. “I’m an excellent coat.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You’re lukewarm at best.”

And just like that, they were laughing again, the tension cracking like a sheet of ice in sunlight.

Draco had made it through most of the evening on sheer adrenaline and affection, but sometime around the cheese course he’d gone glassy-eyed and uncharacteristically soft-spoken. By the time they were clearing the dessert plates, he was draped across the garden bench like a poet halfway through a sonnet and completely aware of the fact that he hadn’t eaten all day.

They put him to bed with very little protest with Hermione pulling off his boots with clinical efficiency, Theo helping him unbutton his waistcoat while Draco muttered something about the inherent cruelty of lace-trimmed cuffs.

Once he was tucked beneath the quilt, all flushed cheeks and heavy limbs, they stood for a moment at the edge of the bed, watching him snore softly, one arm thrown dramatically across his eyes.

“He’ll be appalled in the morning,” Hermione whispered.

Theo smirked. “Only if you tell him.”

“I will.”

“I’m glad you’re home,” Theo said quietly, as Hermione turned to leave his and Draco’s bedroom. 

She smiled, a beat slow. “Me too.”

Later that night, he found her in the library, curled sideways on the settee with a book open but unread in her lap. Her nightgown was thin, and her green bed jacket terribly shabby now. Her hair was loose now, and there was something in her posture that made Theo feel, abruptly and all at once, like he had missed her more than he’d realized. He didn’t know that was possible.

“You didn’t go to bed,” he said quietly, stepping inside.

“Didn’t feel ready.”

He nodded and crossed to the sideboard, pouring her a half-glass of something warm and golden, setting it beside her without asking. She took it with a grateful murmur and let it rest on her knee.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It never had been. But tonight, it felt...brimming. Full of all the things they hadn’t said when they should have, and all the things they still weren’t sure they were allowed to.

Theo sat across from her, elbows on his knees, eyes on her face.

“You’re different,” he observed. 

Hermione looked at him, steady. “I’ve earned it.”

“I know.”

He glanced down at his hands, then back up.

“I worried,” he said, quieter now, “that you wouldn’t come back.”

Her brow furrowed. “You always knew I would.”

“No,” he said. “I knew you’d write. Visit. Let us orbit you. I just didn’t know if you’d ever fully walk back through the door.”

She was still for a long moment. Then, softly: “I always would.”

Theo nodded. There was something thick in his throat then, something like relief or longing or gratitude with too many edges.

He reached out, not quite thinking, and brushed a loose curl from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. His fingers lingered just a moment too long, skimming her jaw, trailing down, hesitating at the space just above her collarbone.

Hermione didn’t move. Her breath caught, barely audible.

Theo pulled his hand back. They looked at each other, eyes locked in the stillness. The moment stretched. Bent. Tilted toward something irreversible.

And then, Hermione smiled. Crooked. Mischievous.

“Do you do this with all the doctors?” she asked, voice too casual, too controlled.

“Only the terrifying ones.”

She stood, slow and fluid, setting her glass down half-full, brushing her skirt smooth with one hand.

“I’m going to bed,” she said.

Theo nodded. “I’ll be here.”

She paused in the doorway, silhouetted in the lamplight.

“I know.”

And then she walked away barefoot, silent, a shadow vanishing into the quiet of the house.

Theo stayed where he was, heart pounding, hands still warm, staring at the space where she’d been, and wondering how long he could keep pretending he didn’t already love her more than he was supposed to.

The office in Soho still smelled faintly of plaster dust and old ledgers with high ceilings, long windows, a practical desk scarred with use, and shelves already overstuffed with pamphlets and correspondence. The furniture was functional, the oil lamps clean and cheap, and the workers who passed through, clerks, fundraisers, volunteers, nodded as they came and went, too busy to bother with courtesies.

This was not the kind of place a duchess typically frequented, but here she was. Minerva McGonagall, Duchess of Argyll, stood in the center of the room, examining the corkboard where Theo had pinned reports on infant mortality, hospital expansion models, and a rather hostile editorial from The Telegraph .

She wore charcoal wool, beautifully tailored. No hat, no jewels. Just her silver hair braided into a crown and a walking stick that clicked softly when she turned. She didn’t need the stick. It was, like most things about her, a controlled illusion (age, infirmity, femininity) deployed with precision.

“I’ve read the quarterly figures,” she said, without turning. “The clinic in Lambeth is already short-staffed. Your midwife there is doing the work of three, Hermione the work of three, and she’s only been on the job for a week.”

Theo glanced at Draco, who gave a noncommittal shrug and leaned against the window frame, arms folded.

“We’re hiring,” Theo said. “Slowly. Hermione’s going between Lambeth, Poplar, and Five Points.”

Minerva turned. There was no question in her face.

“I assumed as much. She’s been in the Prophet twice already, both times without a hat and speaking Latin under her breath.”

Theo cleared his throat with a private smile. “We have been thinking about shifting some funding emphasis to post-training employment. There’s a pipeline problem.”

“I’m aware,” she said dryly. “You think I fund these girls only to see them married off and sterilized by disappointment?”

Draco smiled, slow and fond. “That’s what we love about you, Aunt Min.”

Minerva gave him a look. “Don’t be charming at me. It’s unseemly.”

He bowed slightly. “Yes, Your Grace.”

She turned back to Theo. “What’s your ask?”

Theo handed her a folder. “Six pilot hires. Four midwives, two physicians. All women. All paid at rate. We place them in under-resourced wards, supervise the reporting structure, and use it to argue for more permanent funding. We name the program after you, of course.”

Minerva opened the folder. Her eyes scanned the documents quickly. She didn’t comment on the name.

“You realize what you’re proposing is a formal career track.”

“Yes.”

“You’re aligning my name with something that might fail.”

Theo nodded. “It’s my idea. It’s not like I think you mind the risk.”

Minerva tapped her fingers against the arm of the chair, then looked at Draco. “And you’re not stopping him?”

“I’m funding it,” Draco said, with no small amount of pride.

Minerva leaned back, the edge of a smile ghosting her mouth. “God help me, you might actually be useful.”

There was a beat of silence. Then her voice softened—just slightly.

“She’s going to need protection, you know. Especially now.”

Draco looked down. “She has it.”

“She has you,” Minerva said. “Which is not always the same thing.”

Another pause. Then Minerva stood, collected the folder, and nodded once.

“Send me a final proposal next week. I’ll put the Duchess’s name behind it. But don’t waste her, boys. Don’t squander what she’s earned just because the world still thinks she’s ornamental.”

And with that, she was gone, cane tapping, coat flaring, already halfway through the next decade before the door even shut behind her.

​​The chandeliers dripped with crystal and light. Hundreds of them—prisms suspended in gold cages, casting long, elegant shadows across polished floors and heavy drapery. The ballroom at Argyll House had been transformed for the gala: gilt chairs arranged in neat rows, a stage framed in crimson velvet, lanterns flickering along the walls with the soft precision of starlight. The smell of beeswax and chrysanthemums floated in the air, softened by the scent of evening roses from the arrangements that lined the mirrored tables.

Somewhere beyond the partition, an opera singer was warming her voice—half-hummed scales, gently rising, then falling into a whisper. The notes floated above the guests like smoke.

Hermione stood just inside the entrance to the ballroom, her gloved hands still for once, her spine tall beneath the silk. She hadn’t meant to pause, but the sheer weight of the night had caught her in place: the noise, the movement, the heat of too many voices, the taste of something coming that would not be easily undone.

She was dressed in navy satin with a high collar and a low neck, the kind of gown that was structured enough to be respectable and sloped just daringly enough at the clavicle to invite whispers. The embroidery shimmered only when she moved. Her hair was pinned in something soft but deliberate. She felt, absurdly, like herself.

Which only made it stranger that she was being looked at.

Not the usual half-curious glances she’d learned to endure at events like these—curiosity mixed with condescension—but real attention. Entire clusters of conversation had slowed when she entered. Several heads had turned. She caught her name once in a whisper.

“—Dr. Granger-Malfoy—”

“—did she write that speech the Duchess gave at the university—”

“—look at her—”

Then he appeared.

Draco stepped out from the crowd as if he had simply materialized: sharply dressed in a black cutaway coat with silver buttons, ivory shirtfront pinned with a small sapphire, and a velvet collar that caught the light like midnight. His hair was brushed back, his expression unreadable, save for the way his eyes moved the instant he saw her.

They stopped. Then widened. Then softened. He looked stunned .

And then he smiled, slow and helpless, like a man watching something inevitable draw closer.

“You’ll cause a scandal,” he whispered.

Hermione lifted her chin. “Only if you look at me like that all evening.”

He stepped forward and offered his arm. His gloved hand hovered in the air, patient and sure.

She took it immediately. 

Their eyes met. Something passed between them. Not new. Not unexplored. Just known. A recognition. A confirmation. You and I are no longer just guests in this room. We are the subject.

Together, they stepped into the light, toward the crowd, the whispers, the murmurs of old scandal worn thin by time, and the possibility that this night might matter more than any that came before.

“You know I love you very much, Hermione,” he leaned his head close to her. “Very much.”

She nodded, and smiled. “I do.” 

The room was beginning to fill with the gentle swell of music and conversation blending with the glint of crystal and the rise and fall of laughter echoing off the vaulted ceilings.

Hermione and Draco had only just begun their slow circuit of the room, nodding politely to donors, pausing for short introductions, shaking the right hands—when Theo appeared at her side.

“I’m told I missed a scandal,” he said, drink already in hand, jacket buttoned like a man ready to charm and be charmed.

“You’re late,” Draco said, though not unhappily.

“I was making sure the silent auction didn’t feature stolen art,” Theo replied mildly. “And also I couldn’t find my cravat.”

“You’re not wearing a cravat,” Hermione observed.

“I know. ”

Then the doors opened again.

They turned just in time to see Padma enter looking tall, composed, stunning in deep teal with silver bangles up both arms, her hair swept into a precise twist. Beside her, Pansy glided like a woman who had made a decision and never once regretted it, her dove-grey gown catching the light, eyes already scanning the room for someone to impress or seduce, possibly both.

And just behind them, a woman who made Hermione do a double-take, like she did ever time she saw Parvati and Padma together.

The same eyes. The same cheekbones. The same long, deliberate stride. But brighter. Warmer. Like someone who had spent the last ten years laughing in foreign gardens and collecting lovers on sun-drenched balconies instead of hunched over in surgical wards. 

Parvati wore green silk, embroidered with gold. Her smile was quieter than Padma’s, but more dangerous.

Ron arrived seconds later, a folded note in his hand, coat askew like he’d jogged the last few steps to the ballroom. He spotted Hermione and made for her, half-focused—

—and then he saw Parvati.

And stopped dead.

“Oh,” he said, blinking.

Parvati turned.

Padma, ever efficient, took one step forward and said, “Ron, this is my sister, Parvati.”

Ron stared. “She looks like you.”

“She is me, but different,” Padma said, flatly. 

Parvati smiled. “Charmed.”

Ron looked between them, clearly trying to sort out whether he’d been hexed.

“I—sorry, it’s just—you’re twins?”

“Yes,” Padma said.

“You’re—”

“Parvati.”

“Right.” He shoved the note toward Hermione, eyes still on Parvati. “James has a fever. Ginny says he’s fine. They’re staying home. Love to everyone.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, accepting the note and watching this unfold with deep, private satisfaction.

Parvati offered Ron her hand. “I’ll forgive the stammering if you bring me a glass of wine.”

He lit up. “Yes. Absolutely. Several. I mean—yes.”

Padma sighed. “And there he goes.”

Pansy took her arm. “Your sister is going to destroy him.”

“She’ll be gentle,” Padma said. “Probably.”

Theo murmured, “I’m giving it twenty minutes before someone invites someone else to India.”

Draco just smiled and offered Hermione his arm again.

He murmured, “This evening is getting out of hand.”

Hermione just smiled. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

Theo raised his glass. “One sick infant, two scandals, and three potential seductions. The night is still young.”

The singer hadn’t taken the stage yet, but the air was already starting to shift. Then the room quieted, not all at once, but in waves, as if someone had turned the dial slowly down.

The Duchess had arrived.

She didn’t need to announce herself. She didn’t need to be announced. She simply entered , in a black silk gown that looked like it had been cut from a storm cloud, her silver hair braided in a crown, and a cane that clicked in perfect time with her steps. She didn’t glance around for recognition. She knew it would come.

People stood a little straighter. Murmured greetings as she passed. Someone whispered “the Duchess” like she was mythic.

Minerva nodded only once, to Hermione, as she approached.

“Doctor,” she said, her voice low and dry and distinctly amused. “I see you have survived thus far.”

Hermione smiled, trying not to look like a schoolgirl in front of the entire board of trustees. “I did.”

“The dress is lovely,” Minerva said approvingly. “Smart.”

Then she moved on with no more conversation, no comment to Draco or Theo, just a hand resting briefly on Draco’s arm as she passed.

A moment later, Draco struck the side of his wine glass with a fork and took the stage as the assembled took their seats. “Before we welcome our honored performer, we are pleased to present a few words from Dr. Hermione Granger-Malfoy, co-founder of the Five Points Initiative and one of this evening’s principal honorees.”

The applause came gently. Politely. As if they weren’t yet sure what she’d say.

Hermione took a breath, then stepped onto the stage. The lights made it hard to see. Her dress pulled oddly at the waist. She felt her pulse in her teeth. She did not clear her throat. She did not thank her husband first. She had forgotten. 

“I won’t keep you long,” she began, voice steady. “The music is far more beautiful than anything I might offer.”

Soft laughter that was appreciative, not mocking.

“I’m grateful to be here. And I’m aware that in many ways, I shouldn’t be. I was educated in borrowed halls. I was trained by women who had to fight for their own credibility before they could offer me mine. I passed through doors held open by women who were not always invited to walk through them themselves.”

A pause. No sound but the flick of the candles.

“The Five Points Initiative is not charity. It’s not a favor. It is a correction. And, I hope, a beginning.”

She didn’t smile. She didn’t thank the donors by name. She simply inclined her head and stepped back into the quiet. It took a moment, but when the applause came it was firm, then louder. Not thunderous. But clear.

Theo, seated nearest the stage, was the first to stand.

Minerva’s mouth tilted, just slightly.

In the crowd, Draco’s eyes never left her.

He thought he had never loved her more than in that moment, standing just offstage, her hands still trembling slightly, her shoulders set as if holding back the very force of the night behind them.

He reached for her hand without a word, and she followed.

He led her into one of the private viewing boxes above the ballroom that was dimly lit, velvet curtains drawn. The sound of the room below was a muffled swell of music and the door closed behind them with a soft click.

He turned. Looked at her. And kissed her. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a release. It was a vow. A sealing.

His hand slid to her jaw, steady. His mouth was warm and sure and utterly still for a moment, like he didn’t want to take anything from her—only give something back.

When he pulled away, his voice was low, rough around the edges.

“You dazzled them,” he said. “You undo me.”

She smiled, barely. “That’s dramatic.”

“I mean it.”

“You always do.”

They stood in the hush of velvet and candlelight, the ballroom glittering just beyond the curtain.

Then, quieter now, she asked, “Did you do all this for me?”

He didn’t pause.

“I had to have something to do when you left us.”

She looked at him with eyes steady, unreadable.

He stepped closer.

“I’d burn London to ash for you,” he said, voice low and intense. “If that’s what it took. If that’s what cleared the road. I would set the whole fucking city alight and carry you across the coals.”

Her breath caught.

“You didn’t ask me to,” he went on, voice even quieter now. “That’s what makes it worse. You never asked. You never needed saving. But I wanted you to have something better. I wanted them to listen when you spoke. I wanted them to see you. ”

He stopped, looking down at her.

“I did it all for you.”

The words hung there. Like a match, struck but waiting to fall.

Hermione didn’t speak for a long moment.

Then, finally, deliberately, she reached up and touched his face, her fingers light against his cheekbone and said, with the ghost of a smile, “Well. I hope it was worth the fire.”

The house was dark and quiet by the time they returned.

Theo had stayed behind, managing the last of the donation slips and offering polite farewells with his usual soft diplomacy. Draco barely heard him say it, he’d been too busy looking at her, too busy wanting.

He couldn’t stop touching her. In the carriage, he’d kissed her knuckles, her wrist, the hollow of her collarbone, murmuring things he couldn’t say in front of anyone else. That she was a miracle. That she’d made the room hers. That he’d never wanted her like this. Never needed her like this.

Now, inside the front hall, her wrap had fallen to the floor, and he didn’t pick it up.

He backed her gently into the wall with his hands framing her jaw, his mouth hovering just over hers. He didn’t kiss her, not yet. He just looked at her.

“You were... incandescent,” he said, voice low and thick. “You stood on that stage and I stopped breathing.”

Hermione swallowed. Her hands were already in his hair. He finally kissed her. It was deep. Open. Ravenous. All the polish and composure of the night peeled back, layer by layer, until all that was left was this, his ravenous hunger. His helpless, undeniable want.

They made it to the bedroom in half-steps, half-moan, half-stumble, pulling at buttons and hooks and fastenings between kisses. Her gown fell with a sigh of silk, and his fingers found the clasp of her stays like they’d been waiting years for it.

By the time she was bare to him, Draco was on his knees.

In worship and in desperation

He kissed the inside of her knee like it was sacred. The rise of her thigh like it was territory he’d dreamed of. And then—

Then he buried his mouth between her legs like he’d been starving.

She cried out, fingers tangling in his hair, breath faltering as he devoured her—no hesitation, no teasing. Just his tongue and his mouth and his hands at her hips, holding her still as if this act might anchor him.

The first climax hit her hard enough that her knees gave out.

She gasped, her hand slapping the wall for balance, but it wasn’t enough. She slid gracelessly to the carpet, legs trembling, breath catching on a sob that was mostly laughter, mostly disbelief.

Draco was already following her down, unbuttoning his shirt as he went down. 

“Draco—wait—” she tried, weakly, attempting to push herself up.

He didn’t wait.

He pushed her back with his shoulder, hands already on her thighs, spreading them wide as she scrambled, helplessly, half-crawling toward the mattress.

“I’m not done,” he said, voice low and savage.

And then he was on her again.

His mouth found her with precision and hunger, his fingers working her open, his breath hot against already-slick flesh. She choked on a cry and went rigid, hands clawing at the carved wooden bedpost, her shoulders pressed to the carpet as he dragged her under again.

She shattered, again, mouth open in a silent scream, her legs kicking against the floor as he held her still and kept going . He didn’t stop until her thighs trembled uncontrollably, until her hands had slid down the leg of the bed, until she was nothing but nerves and heat and stunned silence.

Then, finally, he pulled away, only long enough to breathe. She was limp, sweat-slicked, half-melted across the floor and still, when he lifted her, she clung to him.

They stumbled to the bed together, her limbs heavy, his hands everywhere, and she twisted, finally able to move, reaching for the line of his trousers, her mouth already open, intent on giving something back.

“Let me—please—” she gasped, eyes wild with want.

But Draco growled low in his throat and caught her wrists before she could reach him.

“No,” he said, and his voice was terrifying, and so, so hot. 

He pinned her, gently but without room to argue, face down, her cheek pressed into the pillow, arms folded behind her back in his grip. Her breath stuttered out of her as she felt him kneel behind her, spreading her with reverence, with obsession.

Then he buried his face in her ass and licked her there— there —and Hermione made a sound she’d never heard from her own throat before.

She thrashed—helpless, overrun.

Her knees scrambled for purchase, her shoulder digging into the pillow, and her fingers twitched behind her back as he held her steady and devoured her again, this deeper, relentless in his worship.

He got under her, mouth and hands and nose and chin all working on her poor, wrecked, inflamed sex. 

She lost it.

There was no finesse—just noise and shaking and the heat of him beneath her and the rush of blood in her ears and his name torn from her lips like prayer.

He let her fall to the side only when her body collapsed completely, when she sagged against the bed in a trembling, soaked heap, her cheek still buried in the linens, breath ragged, utterly wrecked .

Draco sat back on his heels, looking down at her with something between reverence and ruin.

“You’re the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, voice ragged.

She didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

Her mouth opened. Closed.

And then—finally, hoarsely—

“I think I’m dead.”

Draco laughed, low and breathless. “Not yet, love.”

And then he reached for her again. She didn’t beg, at least not out loud. But something in her body, maybe her ragged breath, the way her hips lifted blindly toward him, the crushed sound in her throat, told him everything he needed to know.

When Draco finally reached for the placket of his trousers, when she heard the pop of the first button, the rustle of fabric, the whisper of him pulling free, her whole body exhaled. And when he threw his shirt off, hurried, frantic, baring his flushed chest and the long stretch of his throat, Hermione could’ve cried with relief.

He knelt between her thighs, trousers still clinging to one leg, eyes wild and reverent, and for a beat, just looked at her. Then he leaned forward, his forearm braced beside her head, and sank into her in one long, devastating stroke.

She gasped. Her mouth opened. Her head tipped back against the sheets. It was too much. Too much and just enough.

He groaned into her skin, his breath catching at her throat. “Fuck, love—”

She couldn’t answer, at least, not with words. But after a moment, after the ache settled into heat, after her limbs remembered themselves, she moved. She lifted her hips. Ground into his. Worked herself onto him, slow and grinding, until he cursed and grabbed at her waist, trying to steady her.

She didn’t want to be steady.

She wanted to burn .

With effort, with a wicked little twist of her hips, she rolled them over, straddling him now, her thighs bracketing his hips, his shirt crushed beneath his back, his trousers still tangled at his thighs.

She rolled her hips again, slower this time, watching his mouth part, his hands come up as if in prayer.

Her hair had come loose in the fall—wild, sweat-damp, clinging to her back. She braced her hands on his chest and began to ride him with quiet, deliberate force, dragging him deeper with every thrust, every press of her pelvis to his.

Draco swore, head rolling back. “You—fuck—you feel like—”

She didn’t let him finish– she leaned forward, her breasts brushing his chest, and kissed him so hard he forgot whatever words had been forming.

Then she whispered against his lips, hoarse and wicked:

“You said you’d burn the city for me.”

“I would,” he groaned, “I would— ”

“Then take me apart with it.”

He let her ride him until he was shaking—until the sight of her flushed and slick and open above him became too much, until her hips began to stutter and her breath caught in that rhythm that meant she was close again.

He had to touch her.

Had to have her.

With a growl, low in his throat, Draco surged upward and wrapped his arms around her back—rolling them, twisting with control so she landed beneath him, gasping into the pillow, her legs parted instinctively, her hands flying to his shoulders.

“Draco—” she tried.

He thrust back into her, hard and deep, and she arched, her mouth falling open in a silent cry.

The stretch made her feel so full. Overwhelming. He filled her completely— again —but now from above, his weight pressing into her, his mouth hot at her throat, his hand anchoring her thigh around his hip.

The pace he set was punishing. Not fast, but deliberate, each thrust a slow grind that pulled a helpless noise from her lungs. She clung to him, nails digging in, breath stammering with every deep slide of his cock.

“I won’t last,” he said, voice rough, wrecked. “Fuck, I can’t—you feel—so fucking good—”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She could only feel it—that stretch, that slick, maddening drag, the pulse of his hips against hers, and the leak of him inside her, that first taste of surrender, hot and thick and so intimate it made her cry out.

Her orgasm hit like lightning.

Fast, brutal, undeniable.

She came with a broken moan, clutching at his back, her thighs trembling around his hips, the pressure of him inside her too much, too good, too real.

Draco tried to hold on.

But the way she clenched around him, the way her body seized and pulsed in time with his own gasping thrusts—

It took him under.

“Fuck—Hermione—” he groaned, low and raw, and then he came with a sharp, shuddering thrust, the pleasure ripping through him like fire, uncontrollable and absolute.

He buried himself to the hilt, his hands curling around her shoulders, his mouth at her jaw as he pulsed inside her, again, again, until the world went quiet.

Chapter Text

Theo let himself into the house with his usual key and didn’t bother turning on a light. There wasn’t anyone left to impress with his punctuality, or the fact that he had closed out the event on time, shook every donor’s hand, made small talk with three minor royals and a Countess from Provence who kept mispronouncing “cholera” like it was a cheese.

He tossed his coat over the newel post. Missed. Left it where it fell.

The hallway smelled faintly of lemons, old wax, and lavender starch—Hermione’s doing, no doubt. One of her upgrades to the housekeeping schedule. Everything had started smelling sweeter once she moved back.

He paused at the base of the stairs and looked up. He didn’t need to check. He wasn’t going to be surprised by anything. The door to her room would be closed. Lights low. Silence inside, except for the kind that comes from being well and truly exhausted and well and truly fucked.

He didn’t blame them. He didn’t. He just hadn’t expected the house to feel this hollow quite so fast. 

The bedroom was even worse. Not in any real, or meaningful way. Everything was where it should have been, except the person who normally made it feel like something more than a very expensive and increasingly historic monument to good taste. 

The wallpaper looked particularly smug tonight. 

It was, admittedly, beautiful. He loved the wallpaper as much as when they had put it up before they ever even heard the name Hermione Granger. The soft grey and mauve dahlias in long, elegant sweeps above the dark walnut panels, a design Theo had insisted on when Draco tried to argue for a pea-green and white alternative that would have looked, in Theo’s view, like a lunatic’s drawing room. But the dahlias had won. As usual. He’d liked them best when they caught the morning light.

But now, in the lamplight, they looked smug. Smug and knowing. He wished that he would have chosen the green. 

The bed was too large. It always had been. Apparently the Bishop of Ely had been built like a wardrobe, whose ghost Theo imagined often watched them from the canopy, disapprovingly, while they did unspeakably filthy things under the gaze of a frankly ghastly carved angel.

It was all stupidly plush. The rugs, the linens, the heavy coverlet in silver thread and washed mauve velvet. The ice water always had something ridiculous in it, whether it be lavender, apple, sometimes a twist of lemon peel, and there were so many pillows Theo had once accused Draco of running a smuggling operation beneath them.

It was, objectively, a beautiful life.

And yet, tonight, Theo stood in the doorway and stared at it all like a man visiting a museum of a love story he was no longer entirely convinced he belonged to.

The truth was, ninety-nine nights out of a hundred, this was where Draco slept. This bed, this room, this wallpaper, this them.

But tonight, Hermione was back and Theo had never once asked what would happen when she stopped being a guest and started being present again. The problem wasn’t that he didn’t want her there. He loved her. Missed her. Had spent years writing letters in a state of faint sexual frustration and actual emotional longing. Had lived through every heartbreak, every exam, every lecture. Had worried over her like a wartime wife and wished her home like a sailor.

And she was home, just not here, and Draco had followed her into her bedroom for which Theo had picked out the paint colors and the upholstery. 

Of course he had followed her; Theo knew what she looked like tonight. Had seen Draco look at her with that expression, all hungry, awe-struck, a little bit wrecked. He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t needed to. It was obvious in the way he stood beside her, not touching but never far, not quite breathing unless she did first.

And Theo (good, supportive, dependable Theo) had made the toast and closed the silent auction and waved them off like someone in a story who doesn’t mind being left behind. Like someone who knew his place. 

“Am I supposed to get used to this again?” he asked the silence. It didn’t answer. He crossed the room slowly, unbuttoning his cuffs with one hand, his shirt falling away with the other, and sat on the edge of the bed with the grace of a man trying not to notice that half his heart was currently behind a door down the hall, likely making contented little noises while his other half moaned into a pillow.

It wasn’t jealousy, or at least, not exactly. Everyone tonight had someone. Ginny wrapped around Harry like she’d never not been in love with him. Pansy and Padma, lingering in doorways like neither of them wanted to be the first to say goodbye. Even Ron looked halfway enchanted with Parvati, though Theo suspected he hadn’t figured out which twin she was yet.

And Theo had Draco. Sort of.

He had Draco’s wardrobe, certainly. Had his seat at the luncheon, his signature on the endowment, and his godforsaken orchids, which had to be misted daily or they died dramatically just to make a point.

But Draco hadn’t looked at anyone tonight but Hermione. Not once. Not when Theo made the toast. Not when Theo smoothed the way with the committee. Not when Theo adjusted his cravat for him before she arrived.

And it wasn’t that Theo was bitter, he was just suddenly very tired. Tired of being the person who knew how the house ran and where everyone’s papers went and which glass Hermione preferred for her red wine and what fabric Draco couldn’t wear because it made his neck blotchy.

He loved them both. Had never stopped, but tonight he felt slightly less like a husband, and slightly more like a valet.

He crossed the room slowly, unbuttoning his cuffs with one hand, his shirt falling away with the other, and sat on the edge of the bed with the grace of a man trying not to notice that half his heart was currently behind a door down the hall, likely making contented little noises while his other half moaned into a pillow.

It wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly.

He didn’t want Draco instead of Hermione. He didn’t want to erase her. He just wanted in .

He wanted the thing they’d had only a few times—the three of them, a tangle of limbs and warmth, Hermione tucked between them, hair wild and legs flung wide, Draco murmuring nonsense into her throat while Theo pressed kisses behind her ear and let himself believe that this was possible. That it was sustainable. That it could last. 

But she was back now. With her degree and her new dresses and her real, terrifying presence. And Theo wasn’t sure whether he’d just become the transitional figure—the person who helped build the house, only to be quietly thanked and ushered into the guest room when it was finally finished.

He flopped into bed fully naked, tugged the duvet over his hips, and stared at the dark canopy overhead for a long moment before rolling over, all the way to Draco’s side. 

Then he muttered, “God, I hope they’re not still at it.”

The angel on the footboard looked disapproving as ever.

“Sod off,” Theo muttered.

Then he closed his eyes and let the stillness wrap around him. It wasn’t awful. It just wasn’t what he wanted.

And that, he suspected, was going to become a very familiar ache.

Hermione woke just before dawn, disoriented by the light on the wrong side of the bed. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was—then she felt the warmth of Draco’s chest against her back, one arm draped lazily around her waist, and remembered. The gala. The speech. The way he’d looked at her afterward like he was already halfway undone.

The room still smelled faintly of candle wax and whatever ridiculously expensive cologne he wore for occasions like this—something with bergamot and black pepper and an undercurrent of too much champagne. 

He looked horrible, even in sleep. Affectionately so. She shifted, trying not to wake him. He groaned softly into her shoulder, muttered something unintelligible, and pulled her closer.

“You’re hungover,” she whispered.

“Violently.”

Hermione smiled.

His voice was raspy, trashed in a way that made her feel more smug than she wanted to admit. She reached down and found one of his hands beneath the blankets, and kissed his knuckles. He made a pleased sound and immediately started drifting back to sleep.

“I’m going to check on Theo,” she murmured, kissing the corner of his jaw.

Draco didn’t answer. Not quite. Just gave the faintest nod and pressed his nose against her collarbone like he didn’t intend to let her leave at all. But she slipped out anyway.

Draco mumbled something that might’ve been “don’t go,” or might’ve been “more toast,” and nuzzled the empty pillow she left behind. 

The hallway creaked faintly beneath her feet.

She didn’t knock on the door of his and Theo’s room, but gently pushed it open, peeking in through the crack. 

Theo was already awake and lying on his back, blanket kicked halfway to the floor, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting across his stomach in a position too perfectly still to be mistaken for sleep. His hair was a mess, and was only a dark smear across the side of his face in the half-dark. 

He didn’t look at her when she entered.

He hadn’t expected her to come. She hadn’t, the last time that Draco had spent the night with her, and he hadn’t wondered about it. There was nothing to wonder. The room had been cold and slightly too quiet, the kind of quiet that made you feel like you were trespassing in your own life, and he’d gone to bed in it because there wasn’t really anywhere else to go.

Hermione sat down on the edge without saying anything. For a while, there wasn’t a need to.

Finally, he said, “You looked like you belonged there. With him.”

Hermione’s hand stilled where it had been absently smoothing the seam of the duvet.

She didn’t argue. She didn’t apologize. Just turned toward him and said, evenly, “Don’t you belong there too?”

Theo didn’t answer, not at first. He looked at her and the frizz of sleep-warmed curls, the faint indentation of her pillow still visible against her cheek, the way the strap of her nightgown slipped down her shoulder.

“We both do,” he said finally.

She nodded.

After a long beat, he added, “I was jealous.”

Her expression didn’t shift.

“Not just of Draco,” he clarified. “Of you.”

She looked at him carefully, fingers still worrying the coverlet. “Of me?”

He nodded, still staring at the ceiling. “Of your clarity. Of your ambition. The way you… move forward. Always forward.”

Hermione was quiet for a long time.

Then she said, “You’re allowed to want more too, you know.”

He didn’t respond. He touched her hand, barely, the softest point of contact across the linen sheets, and Hermione didn’t look at him when it happened, didn’t flinch or overcorrect or draw her hand away with some self-conscious little smile. She let Theo stroke the back of her palm gently, for a long moment. 

Theo watched her from the corner of his eye, the line of her profile illuminated in pale gold from the window behind her, her cheeks still pink from sleep, her hair a riot of flattened curls where she’d clearly spent the night with Draco’s hand in it, and it struck him, quietly, without warning, that if he leaned forward, just slightly, just enough, she would let him kiss her.

And oh, he wanted to. Not to prove anything, or to claim her, or even for the pleasure that her mouth could or would bring him. It was just to feel, for a moment, that he still had that permission, that he still lived in the same shape of the story as the two of them, that this bed was still his and Draco’s and theirs, not something temporary that would be gently redrawn now that she had come back with her degrees and her brilliance and her quiet, devastating sense of certainty.

Hermione exhaled, soft and slow, her gaze still cast downward, and Theo let himself imagine what would happen if he reached for her.

He was just beginning to shift forward, just beginning to lift a hand, when the door to the bedroom burst open in the most casual and unceremonious fashion imaginable, and Draco Malfoy, entirely naked and clearly unbothered by such trivialities as shame or knocking, staggered into the room with all the dignity of a man who had slept approximately four hours, rehydrated poorly, and had absolutely no regrets.

“Draco!” Hermione cried out, jumping back from Theo. “What are you doing?”

He shot them both a lazy smile.

“I can’t stand an empty bed, and I’ve never had much resilience. It’s cold in here,” he announced, with zero conviction, before climbing onto the bed like a languid, hungover jungle cat and sprawling directly across Theo’s chest with a groan.

Theo grunted. “You’re naked.”

Draco pressed his face against Theo’s collarbone with a muffled hum. “That’s because I was asleep.”

Hermione, still seated on the edge of the bed, raised an eyebrow as Draco reached blindly toward her and snagged the edge of her nightgown.

“I was in the middle of a conversation,” Theo said, not entirely unamused.

“So was I,” Draco murmured, eyes closed, arm now wrapped possessively across Theo’s ribs as he blindly fumbled for Hermione’s hand with the other. “Were you two finally about to kiss?”

Hermione’s cheeks burned hot like caught by a match, and Theo cleared his throat, violently. Hermione meant to reach out to hand him the glass of water by the bed, but Draco caught her wrist. He tugged, and without quite realizing how it had happened, Hermione found herself folded down into the bed with them, the three of them tangled in a heap of sheet and warm, shared breath.

She laughed into Draco’s shoulder, the sound sleepy and delighted, and the tension that had curled so tightly between them earlier seemed to melt, just a little, around the edges.

“You’re going to push me off the side,” Theo muttered.

“You’ll live,” Draco said.

“Your feet are cold.”

“That’s just charm.”

There was a knock on the door, and without waiting for an answer, as was his custom, Goyle stepped into the room with a tray of breakfast items balanced with alarming grace, his expression unreadable save for a flicker of amusement that betrayed how little this scene surprised him.

“Good morning,” he said evenly. “Cook sent up soft eggs, toast, and blood orange marmalade. There’s coffee, tea, and brandy.”

“You’re a king among men,” Draco said without opening his eyes.

Goyle ignored him entirely and set the tray on the side table before glancing once at Hermione, who had gone entirely still at the sight of him.

“Lady St Armand,” Goyle said politely.

Hermione pushed herself up slightly, adjusting the neckline of her nightgown. 

“I don’t need a ladies’ maid,” she said, preemptively.

“You need at least two,” Draco muttered into Theo’s neck.

“I don’t.”

“Goyle, make a note,” Draco said, eyes still closed. “We’ll speak to Madame Alderton before the end of the week. The last one I tried to assign you wasn’t made of stern enough stuff.”

“She needed to go back to York to care for her aging mother.”

“So she says.”

“I’ll dress myself,” Hermione said, deadpan.

Draco groaned. “God, you’re exhausting.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Hermione retorted.

Theo rolled onto his side, tugging the sheet up over all three of them with one long arm and half-heartedly pressing his foot into Draco’s calf. 

Draco hummed with pleasure, but turned brutal quickly. “If anyone eats all the marmalade before I get a slice of toast, I will murder you both and blame the working classes.”

There was a pause.

Then, from somewhere under the sheet, Hermione murmured, “We should do this more often.”

And neither of them disagreed.

August 10, 1891

Ginny was already crowning when Hermione and Padma arrived to Audley Street, and she said, as calmly as she could, “Harry, you need to leave the room.”

“I—what? No, I—”

“I need more towels, and I need them five minutes ago.”

Harry blinked. Flushed. Fumbled. And then, blessedly, left.

Padma passed Hermione a clean cloth with practiced ease. They had done this before: twice in the ward, once in a carriage, and now here, and that was just this month. Ginny’s second child was going born in the drawing room, right on the settee where they had watched Theo, Harry, Draco and Ron negotiate Hermione’s marriage contract, because someone had forgotten how quickly second babies come.

Ginny’s breathing had shifted. Short, fast, panting. She cried out, thrashing, as Padma tried to help her remove her afternoon dress. 

“You’re wasting your energy shouting like that, Gin,” Hermione said, already crouched, sleeves rolled above her elbows, hands scrubbed raw.

“It hurts!” Ginny shouted, and resumed panting. 

Padma knelt beside her, quiet, steady, already checking for tearing, reaching for the forceps with cool detachment, if they were needed. “You do know your bedside manner’s terrifying.”

Hermione didn’t look up. “And yet they keep putting babies in my hands.”

Padma smiled.

The next push came hard. Ginny groaned through her teeth, half-sitting, half-clinging to the padded back of the settee, one hand braced against cushions.

Hermione’s voice dropped to a lower register, the one that always seemed to work.

“One more. Not yet—wait. All right, now. Push.”

Ginny did, and the baby came in a single, hard-fought rush. Slippery, vernix-covered, wailing before Hermione had even cleared the cord. Another boy. Strong-lunged. Long fingers. Furious.

Hermione held him up just briefly to say, “You’ve got another son, Ginny,” before bundling him in flannel and bringing him to his mother’s chest.

Ginny sobbed, half-laughing. “Oh, thank Merlin.”

From the hallway: “Is that a good cry or a bad cry?”

“Stay out!” both women shouted at once.

Padma cleaned up quickly, methodically, speaking softly to Ginny as she delivered the placenta. Hermione weighed and checked the baby in near-silence, working with efficiency that felt, in the moment, like a kind of armor.

She was good at this. Undeniably good, but it still didn’t feel like hers.