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At too early o’clock on Saturday morning, when she ought to be sleeping in, especially given the late night she’d had prior, Hermione wakes up to a clattering and a shout from her living room.
“Fucking – why the fuck – Granger!”
Hermione buries her pounding head under the pillows and hopes very much that the man swearing in her living room is just some terrible dream. A nightmare.
“Why the fuck do you have a screen in front of your fireplace, you lunatic-“
The voice is getting louder and distinctly more Malfoyish. Hermione groans into the pillows and wills herself to wake up. And bites the end of her tongue for good measure.
Her tongue hurts. Hermione starts just as her bedroom door slams open and Crookshanks catapults off the bed with a hiss.
“Did you see this?” Something is thrown towards her – tossed onto her back. “Don’t bite me, Crookshanks, you little shit.”
Hermione considers just staying under the pillow. With another groan she shifts and peeks her head out.
Draco Malfoy – looking rumpled and decidedly unMalfoyish in a pair of black joggers and a hoodie – is, well, the only word she can think of is dancing – with Crookshanks. In her bedroom. At – she glances to the clock just to confirm it and groans even louder – half seven.
“Why are you here?” Hermione grumbles as she fetches the newspaper he’d thrown at her. A copy of the Daily Prophet, and she rubs her eyes as she scans it for whatever’s caused his sudden appearance. “How did you even get here?”
“Made a lucky guess throwing in a handful of Floo powder.” Draco dodges Crookshank’s swiping claw and darts towards the end of her bed. “Did you know about this?”
“Malfoy, considering you barged into my bedroom and we haven’t spoken since the trial three years ago, why don’t you let me read?” Hermione snaps.
“It’s page six,” Draco says, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning towards her. “Read faster.”
“Bite him, darling,” Hermione murmurs, and Crookshanks leaps onto the bed and Draco jumps off it.
Page six has a detailed listing of the marriage law the Ministry has just passed. Hermione skims it – all too familiar with the legal jargon – and tries to determine the precise cause of Draco’s early-morning ire. On page seven – not six – is the list of pairings. In the middle – nestled above Pansy Parkinson and Justin Finch-Fletchley – are Hermione and Draco’s names listed together.
“I didn’t realise they were printing it so early.” Hermione sets the paper down and looks up at Draco, still avoiding Crookshanks by half-standing in her armchair, and wonders if he’s aware of how utterly ridiculous he looks. “What about it?”
“What – are you mad?” Draco leaps down from the armchair and storms towards her – towering over her with narrowed eyes. “We have to get married.”
“Yes, Draco.” Hermione rolls her eyes. “And?”
He gapes at her – fishlike – and Hermione takes the moment of peace to run her fingers through her hair and smooth it into a neater bun. She wants to go back to sleep, but she’s already awake now. Mostly. She covers her mouth as she yawns.
“Can’t you – you work at the Ministry, don’t you? Why don’t you repeal it?” Draco paces away from her and shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets, looking petulant and a little too much like the teenage boy she remembers.
“Wow, Draco. I’ll get right on that.” Hermione throws back the covers and gets out of bed. “Because I have so much sway at the Ministry.”
“You’re friends with Potter.” Draco follows her down the hall as Hermione pads to the kitchen. “Surely you can do something.”
“Trust me,” Hermione grumbles as she sets the kettle on, “I pulled enough strings as it was.”
“What do you mean, strings?” Draco is watching her – respectfully keeping his eyes on her face, she notices, even though she’s only wearing an old shirt of Ron’s that barely skims the tops of her thighs – his brows furrowed. He looks exhausted – as though he’s hardly slept for a week. Or a month.
“Do you think I was going to let myself get married off to just anyone?” Hermione raises her eyebrow at him before getting out a clean mug. Two mugs, since she’s feeling generous. “I used up all my favours just to get you as my soon-to-be-husband.”
“What?” Draco sounds as though she’s choking him. “Are you – you’re mad.”
“Sugar? Milk?” She asks over her shoulder as she dunks the tea bags into the mugs.
“What? Oh, just one. And a dash.” Draco slumps his way towards the kitchen table and then buries his head in his hands. His hair spills out – long – against the table’s surface, and Hermione almost feels a little sorry for him.
She’s had months to get used to the idea. He’s only had minutes.
Crookshanks jumps onto the counter next to her and yowls for his breakfast. Hermione gives him a gentle pat and gets his breakfast ready in between making two mugs of tea.
“There you go, darling.” She gives him a kiss on his furry little forehead before setting his bowl down by the fridge. He ignores her – his tail sweeping back and forth – annoyed with Draco’s presence in his kitchen, most likely.
She sets the mugs on the table as she sits across from Draco. He lifts his head to stare at her. “You knew about this?”
“Yes.” Hermione blows on her tea and takes a cautious sip. “Of course I did.”
“And you – you wanted us to be matched?” He wraps his hands around the mug but doesn’t take his eyes away from her face.
“You were one of the best options,” Hermione points out. “I couldn’t repeal the law, Draco. So I did what I could.”
He rubs at his eyes and then takes a sip of tea. “You hate me.” He says it quietly, looking towards the window, towards Crookshanks eating his breakfast. “I don’t understand.”
“I hate you a lot less than some of the other purebloods on the list.” Hermione shrugs. “You can always file a complaint with the Ministry-“
“Absolutely not.” Draco’s gaze snaps back to her. “Not if this is what you want.” He sips at his tea and the tension leaves his shoulders.
Hermione eyes him. She’d expected a fight – more of a fight. Not this suspiciously quiet acceptance. “That’s it? You’ll just marry a mudblood without complaining?”
He flinches at mudblood and drops his gaze. “I don’t care about that,” he mutters.
“Your family will.” Hermione leans forward. “And don’t think I won’t hex your father-“
“He won’t care.” Draco shifts in his seat and looks out the window again. “Much as I loathe to admit it, Granger, you’re probably the best I’ll get.”
“You can’t call me that if we’re getting married.” Hermione finishes her tea and props her elbows on the table, resting her chin in her interlinked fingers.
“What?” He looks back at her and she sees a faint blush creep across his cheeks. “Oh, sod off, Hermione.”
She’d expected him to stumble over the name, but it rolls easily off his tongue. As though he’s used to saying it. Hermione leans forward and narrows her eyes at him.
“What?” Draco blinks. “Why are you staring?”
“Why do you look so tired?” Hermione leans back with a frown. He looks exhausted – there’s faint stubble ghosting across his jaw, glittering in the early morning light – the bruises under his eyes as dark as the hoodie he’s wearing.
“I’ve been researching curses for the last – what day is it?” He glances around – presumably for a calendar – and then shrugs. “Three weeks?”
“What for?” Hermione can’t help being idly curious. After the trial – cleared of all charges, even though he shouldn’t have been – Draco had effectively vanished. Or maybe she’d just never given him any thought until the draft for the marriage law had started to circulate around the Ministry.
“They’re part of the Healer exam.” Draco shifts in his seat. “I’ve been training in France – I didn’t think St Mungo’s would want me – to be a Healer.”
Hermione blinks at him. “You have?” She hadn’t expected him to turn towards healing – but she supposes it makes a sort of karmic sense.
“Don’t look so shocked, Grang- Hermione.” He rolls his eyes. “Did you expect me to just mope around the Manor?”
“You do have a miserable personality,” Hermione mutters before she can stop herself.
Draco looks at her and then smiles – a genuine smile that spreads like a sunrise across his face, transforming him from that prick Draco Malfoy to that handsome prick Draco Malfoy in a sudden instant. “You know, Hermione,” he says, and his eyes are sort of twinkling, “I was worried it’d be terrible being married to you.”
“That’s awfully rude of you.” Hermione raises her eyebrow at him. “I’m brilliant.”
“Should I pilfer the family jewels and get you a ring? Make it official?” He’s leaning on his arm, looking relaxed and almost pleased, and Hermione’s heart skips a beat. “I’m sure my mother would love to help out with the wedding.”
Hermione makes a face. “She’s going to make it a huge thing, isn’t she?”
“Oh, absolutely.” Draco hesitates for a moment and then reaches out to pat Hermione’s hand. “You’ll get used to it.”
“Just like we’ll get used to each other, I presume.” Hermione tilts her head slightly and considers him. “You’re really okay with this?”
“Yeah.” Draco nods decisively – as though he’s made up his mind and he’s not interested in changing it. “I was more worried about your reaction. I didn’t know you were the mastermind behind my fate.”
“Huh.” Hermione rubs at her eyes. “You’ve changed.”
Draco shrugs. “Considering who I used to be, isn’t that a good thing?” He looks behind her – at the clock – and then swears softly. “I’ll be late. I have to get to work.” He gets up from the table and heads towards the living room.
“It’s Saturday,” Hermione points out as she follows him. “You work weekends?”
“While I’m studying, yes.” He smiles over his shoulder at her. “And if you’re at the Ministry I’m presuming you don’t. It’ll be perfect – we’ll never see each other.” The smile shifts into a grin – he's teasing her.
“Just how I like my husbands,” Hermione mutters under her breath. “Rich and never around.”
He turns to look at her. “Husbands? How many are you planning to have?”
“Depends.” She grins at him. “I’d make a lovely widow.”
Draco laughs and Hermione sort of hates that his laugh is so pleasant and delightful because she’s going to want to hear it more often. “We have to get married first. Can I come back after I’ve finished work? Around six?”
She nods and they linger for a moment – awkward – in front of her fireplace. He’d knocked over the screen – scattered soot everywhere – and she’ll have to clean it up after he leaves. She sort of wants to hug him – a handshake is too impersonal – but they’re supposed to hate each other.
“Sorry.” Hermione shakes her head and points to the Floo powder. “The powder’s there.”
“Then I’ll see you later.” Draco gives her an unsure smile before stepping up to the fireplace. “Sorry for barging in. And waking you up.”
“I’ll figure out some way for you to make it up to me,” Hermione mutters. “Have a good day at work.”
Draco waves before pulling out his wand and lighting the fire – the address he speaks is in French – and then he’s just gone in a flare of green.
“Well,” Hermione says to Crookshanks, who’d followed them. “That went better than expected.”
Crookshanks meows at her and then leaps onto the sofa, curling up as though he’s going to take a nap.
Which seems like an excellent idea. Hermione ignores the mess and makes her way back to her bedroom, flopping down into the still-warm blankets. She nuzzles into her pillow with a sigh, feeling warm and sleepy and-
Her phone rings. With another sigh Hermione reaches out a hand and gropes for the receiver. “Hello?” She grumbles, wondering which of her friends is enough of an arse to call her so early.
“You’re marrying Draco Malfoy?” Ginny’s voice shrieks down the line.
“I mean, not today I’m not.” Hermione shifts in her bed as she cradles the phone to her ear. “But eventually, yes.”
“And you’re okay with that?” Ginny sounds flabbergasted.
“Yeah, Ginny.” Hermione closes her eyes and smiles faintly. “I’m okay with it.”
She wouldn’t have worked so hard to make it happen if she wasn’t, but Ginny doesn’t need to know that.