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Chapter Text

September, 2004

On record, Hermione Granger was an overworked and underpaid attorney for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, taking mostly cases involving the mistreatment and abuse of magical creatures. Her ten, sometimes twelve hour days started promptly at 7:30 am, her brisk walk across the Ministry atrium in her sensible work heels blissfully quiet before the morning rush of witches and wizards turned the cavernous space into chaos.

Off record, however, was a different story entirely.

Hermione couldn’t exactly pinpoint when her desire for justice began to outweigh her compulsion to follow the rules. Maybe it was when three high-profile Death Eater sympathizers avoided Azkaban due to some antiquated and barbaric loophole. Or maybe it was when the Centaurs fought against some of Fenrir Greyback’s pack in court for their mistreatment of the Centaurs during the war, only for the werewolves to receive a laughable, five-year sentence.

Once the veil was lifted, a disenchanted and discouraged Hermione Granger found herself thirsting for real justice, justice that only she was crafty enough to dole out under the cover of her day job.

— — —

May 2, 1998

The cacophony of battle was more chaotic than Hermione would have imagined. Rogue spells ricocheted off of the walls of the castle, sparks flying in every direction as chunks of stone came crashing to the ground. A thick layer of smoke hung in the air, the shouts of those fighting, the groans of those dying, penetrating her mind.

She, Harry, and Ron sprinted around a less-populated corner, focused on getting to the snake. Suddenly, a body fell from a balcony, and through the haze, Hermione could just make out a hulking form stalk over and begin mauling the fallen.

As the trio got closer, she realized it was Fenrir Greyback, his unnaturally broad shoulders partially covering his victim from view, but Hermione recognized them all the same. It was Lavender Brown.

“No!” Hermione shouted, blasting the werewolf backward with a powerful spell, sending him crashing with a sickening crunch into the wall.

Harry and Ron screamed at her to keep running, pulling her along while dodging errant spells and debris on the floor. Hermione’s blood was singing, thinking of nothing but vengeance for her classmate.

“My wand!” Hermione yelled over the crackle of spells, gesturing back the way they came. “I dropped it somewhere!”

Harry stared at her quizzically, his glasses crooked on his nose. “You what?”

“I dropped my wand,” Hermione shouted again, waving her empty hand frantically. “I’ll catch up with you both,” she nodded at Ron, his freckles dusted with dirt. “Go!” She pushed them both forward by the shoulders, turning to sprint back around the corner.

She slipped her wand from inside her jacket sleeve, now approaching the corridor where Greyback had been knocked unconscious. He was easy to find, still slumped against the wall she had blasted him into.

Before she could really think it through, she sent the nastiest curse she could think of at him. A flaying curse, designed to peel one’s skin and mucous membranes back layer by layer, inch by inch, while keeping the mind conscious. Greyback awoke with a start, grunting in pain as he came to. Hermione watched from a distance as the epidermis sloughed off of his massive body, exposing the next layer of dermis underneath, giving way to the sensitive nerve endings. Greyback began scratching at himself frantically, his head swiveling from side to side as he screamed– an animalistic, painful thing that sounded like it was ripped from his chest. She watched the curse do its job with a detached sort of curiosity, watched as he began to suffocate and choke on the mucous membrane that once lined his trachea, watched the panic grow in his beady eyes as the membranes dissolved there. All of the skin that remained on his body was dark red now, glistening wetly even in the dark.

After a few more minutes, the only thing left of Fenrir Greyback was a pile of bones, as unremarkable as the man who they once belonged to. Hermione grinned.

— — —

September, 1998

After returning to Hogwarts for her eighth year, Hermione was determined to change the way the Ministry worked from the ground up, sitting for and earning record-breaking scores on all seven of her NEWTs. She was able to achieve such feats almost solely because Harry and Ron had both decided not to return to Hogwarts, and rather start Auror training that same fall after the war. Granted, many of her year had also chosen not to return, given the still-raw wounds of what occurred there that May.

No longer tasked with making sure her two best friends didn’t get into trouble, and more importantly, passed their classes, Hermione was unencumbered and for once was able to dedicate the majority of her time to her studies.

The eighth year class consisted of very few aside from Hermione. Padma Patil, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Cho Chang, Anthony Goldstein, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Ernie Macmillan, and Draco Malfoy, were the only other students to return for their final year.

With only nine students, the newly-appointed Headmistress McGonagall proposed that the students share the previously unused eighth-year common room, specifically built with inter-house unity in mind, with a particular emphasis on the only Slytherin eighth year.

To say the first month was a tense affair would be majorly underselling it.

Although Malfoy kept his head down and avoided mealtimes in the Great Hall after his acquittal that summer, he was frequently targeted by younger students, often cursed in the back or hexed from around a corner. Nothing serious enough to warrant a visit to Madam Pomfrey or disciplinary action, but nonetheless bothersome. The other eighth years had an unspoken rule: they wouldn’t come to Malfoy’s aid, but they wouldn’t go out of their way to hurt him, either.

Nonetheless, the common room and subsequent dorms were surprisingly homey. The common room was furnished with a jumble of worn, squashed couches and chairs in warm leather, weathered wooden coffee tables and desks, and even their own tiny, infrequently used kitchenette. There was a massive stone fireplace along one wall, flanked by floor-to-ceiling bookcases overstuffed with ancient books long-forgotten.

Hermione’s favorite place to study was at the desk directly underneath one of the expansive windows overlooking the front lawn. She would sit there for hours, absently brushing the feather of her quill against her bottom lip, as she pored over tome after tome.

A month and a half into term, she was jarred out of her reading by a polite clearing of the throat.

Rubbing at her tired eyes, she looked up to find Draco Malfoy, her mind bracing for the worst. Granted, he had done nothing post-war to indicate that he still held any animosity toward her or other Muggleborns, had in fact publicly denounced the beliefs of his family, but old habits die hard.

Malfoy stood gazing down at her through grey eyes, dark purple shadows stamped like crescent moons underneath. His pale skin glowed in the sunlight streaming from the window, his platinum hair so bright it made Hermione instinctively squint. His thin arms were crossed in front of him, his white Oxford shirt rumpled, both very un-Malfoy like displays of uncertainty, of insecurity.

“Er,” Hermione started, putting down her quill, “is there something you need?” She asked, fighting hard to not cringe at the stilted awkwardness between them. She swallowed.

Malfoy stared at her for another moment before snapping out of his stupor, rummaging around in his shoulder bag for something. Hermione stared at the floor while taking note of the illegal undetectable extension charm on his bag, one of her feet bouncing underneath the desk in nervous anticipation.

A long, slender hand appeared in her line of sight, holding a crisp white envelope, and her dark eyes snapped up to meet his.

The intensity of his expression startled her. His jaw was visibly clenched, a blush painted high on his sharp cheekbones, his shoulders squared and tense. He looked as if a stiff breeze would blow him over.

“Please,” he said quietly, offering her the letter.

Hermione was pleased to note that her hand was only shaking minimally as she reached out to take it. The cardstock was thick and embossed with his initials. Of course the prat would have custom stationary, she thought.

Malfoy breathed an obvious sigh of relief at her acceptance. She was still staring up at him dumbly, unsure of what plane of existence she was in at present. The one in which Malfoy pops up and gives her fancy letters, apparently.

“Is this–” she began, holding up the letter, one brow raised.

Malfoy shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes. He swallowed thickly before meeting her gaze. “Read it when you get the chance,” his voice was nearly a whisper, so at odds with the Malfoy she had known the past seven years.

Dumbfounded, all Hermione could do was nod and clutch the letter tighter to her chest.

Apparently satisfied, Malfoy nodded once at her, before pivoting mechanically to the left and walking quickly to his room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

Bewildered, Hermione stared down at the desk, her textbooks and parchment strewn about in a way that only made sense to her. She attempted to ground herself and return to her Charms essay, but it was no use. The unopened letter sat at the top right corner, taking up at least fifty-percent of Hermione’s brain capacity.

Sighing, she pushed her chair out, the wooden legs making a discordant scraping sound against the stone floor. Hermione haphazardly packed her belongings into her own undetectably extended bag before making a beeline to her own room, making sure to lock and ward the door behind her.

Hermione quickly dropped her bag to the floor at the foot of her bed before practically ripping open the envelope. She unfolded the letter, written with black ink in Malfoy’s narrow and neat scrawl, her name in elegant script at the top of the page.

Hermione Granger,

I’m sorry for my abruptness and the potential shock that this letter brings you, but I feel compelled to say my piece, not that you are in any way obligated to listen to me.

For seven years, I was horrible to you and your friends. I hated you and what you represented. I acted reprehensibly toward you, with so much animosity and vitriol, so consumed by my own anger and close-mindedness. My family had always been cruel, so why should I have been any different? I now understand how twisted that way of thinking was.

I will never deserve, nor will I ever expect, your forgiveness, but I would like to express how sorry I am nonetheless. There is no excuse for my actions, my words, my cowardice, or the hate I spewed at you throughout the years.

I am truly sorry for trying to tear you down at every turn, for making you feel like you were lesser than. You have always been, and will always be, a hundred times greater witch than I am a wizard.

I know that this apology comes too late, that I should have never treated you or anyone else the way that I did. I know that I hurt people, and those wounds run deep. I will spend the rest of my life confronting and correcting my past actions, making amends with whoever I can and understanding that any forgiveness I receive is more than I could have imagined for myself.

Again, I am so sorry for hurting you so often over the years, and I want you to know that I deeply regret it all. I understand if you aren’t inclined to accept my apology, and my expectations on that front are pretty low. I will give you as much distance as this castle and this cursed shared common room allow. I’m sorry.

Sincerely,

Draco Malfoy

At some point during her reading, Hermione had sunk to the plush rug on her knees, her wand resting next to her on the ground. The words grew unfocused on the page, her mind struggling to come up with a tangible train of thought.

After several minutes of rumination, she came to the conclusion that Draco Malfoy, of all people, was apologizing to her in what seemed to be a sincere way. She wouldn’t believe it if the letter wasn’t a heavy weight in her hands.

Her eyes flitted across the page a second time, then a third, looking for any indication that he was mocking her, but drew a blank. She shook her head, curls flying in different directions, as if doing so would clear her mind. Her clammy fingers were leaving damp impressions on the heavy cardstock, and she hastily dropped the letter to the ground, wiping her hands on her uniform skirt.

She splashed cold water on her face in the shared bathroom between her room and Padma’s, staring critically at herself in the mirror.

The war had hollowed her out and it showed: her cheeks were slightly sunken in, her bronze skin was sallow, her brown curls were weighed down. Her once-warm brown eyes were dull, muted. But she had come out on the winning side, and she was determined to set herself to rights while in her final year of school before she began pushing for tangible, bureaucratic change at the Ministry level. Hermione was determined to see justice served by any means necessary.

It would start with Malfoy.

Chapter Text

October, 2004

The rhythmic thrum of bass blasting from tower speakers made Hermione’s ears ring, setting her teeth on edge. The basement-level nightclub in Amsterdam was stuffed to the gills with people jumping up and down to the techno mix blaring overhead, their arms thrown in the air with reckless abandon, their inhibitions lowered for the night.

It was difficult to see her mark under the mix of strobe lights and lasers flashing in various shades of green and blue, but not impossible, for the man towered over the majority of the crowd.

Hermione’s riotous deep brown curls were glamoured into long, pin–straight golden blonde locks, her chestnut eyes turned a muted shade of green, her chin more pointed, her cheeks sharper. The black stilettos she wore lent her an extra few inches of height, which she used to her advantage to weave through the rolling crowd towards the man.

As she approached from behind, she reached out to rest a slim hand on his shoulder, her dark red nails reflecting the lighting in the ceiling.

The man turned, his blue eyes glazed and unfocused as he blinked at her, teetering into her hand and stumbling slightly. If the size of his pupils wasn’t indication enough of his recreational drug use, his loose limbs certainly were.

“And who might you be?” The man asked.

She giggled, smiling up at him coyly. “A friend,” she replied, her voice pitched higher than normal, her consonants softer.

“A friend,” the man repeated, the beginnings of a smirk on his red face. “I can work with that,” he smiled, a predatory thing that made Hermione’s insides curdle.

She swallowed once before nodding at him. “Are you staying nearby?” Her voice sounded foreign to her.

Without a word, the man took her by the arm, shoving past groups of drunk and drugged up college students as the two made their way outside. Hermione clenched her jaw as his massive hand crushed most of her upper arm, resisting the urge to wrench herself free.

The clack of her stilettos echoed off the cobblestone street as he led her further and further from the nightclub, down a maze of dingy alleyways. She could hear his breathing, heavy and labored, and the smell of his overpoweringly masculine cologne was enough to wrinkle her nose. He stumbled slightly, tripping over the uneven ground in the dark and nearly pulling Hermione down with him. He let go of her to right himself, and Hermione acted.

Unsheathing her wand from a thigh holster, she quickly Stunned him in the back, not giving him the chance to react before binding him with an Incarcerous. Casting featherlight and disillusionment charms on him, and another disillusionment on herself, she grabbed onto his arm and Apparated into her private hotel suite.

Dumping his unconscious body on the carpeted floor, she canceled their disillusionments and set to work, conjuring a wooden, high-backed chair. From her beaded bag, she pulled out a pair of wrist and leg restraints, efficiently securing them on the man before hoisting him up off the floor and into the chair. As soon as he was in a seated position, she fastened a thick leather strap around his forehead to the back of the chair.

Satisfied, she Rennervated the man, observing him regaining consciousness from a healthy two meters away.

The combination of drugs and alcohol in his system made his recovery sluggish, and Hermione grew impatient with the impotent way he was blinking at her. Huffing, she sent a stinging jinx at his exposed midsection, causing the man to yelp in pain, his eyes widening as he came to.

“Who the fuck are you?” He growled, his tongue heavy in his mouth, his stare wary.

“I told you,” she said sweetly, “I’m a friend.”

The man began pulling at his restraints to no avail. Hermione loved this part, when the panic and realization set in for them that this wasn’t some kind of game, that they were truly in danger and at her mercy. She couldn’t help but smile a little as his breath came shorter, sweat beading on his temple.

“You fucking bitch,” he sneered at her, the muscles in his neck tense as he tried to free his head from the back of the chair.

Hermione nodded, shrugged. “Maybe so,” she conceded. “Don’t worry, this will all be over soon.”

With that, she began her work.

— — —

October, 1998

Weeks passed before Hermione had the opportunity to make her move. The same day she received the letter, she decided to forgive Malfoy for his mistreatment of her during their younger years. She was a Gryffindor after all, her courage was part of her charm. Tracking him down to let him know she forgave him was one of her top priorities, just under acing her NEWTs.

This was easier said than done, however. Malfoy was practically a ghost, entering and exiting the common room at odd, sporadic hours. He was never in the Great Hall for dinner, or in the library for review sessions.

Hermione quickly grew impatient with Malfoy’s avoidance of her and the other eighth years, wanting to get what was sure to be a very awkward conversation over with as fast as possible.

She had been up particularly late, revising an essay for Defense Against the Dark Arts, when she looked at the clock and realized it was two hours past midnight. Yawning, she leaned back in her favored wooden chair, stretching her arms above her head, listening to her shoulders crack in protest.

Hermione quickly and methodically packed away her study materials, slinging her bag over her shoulder. As she turned the knob to her bedroom door, it occurred to her that Malfoy still wasn’t in his room and would have to enter through the common room at some point. Her heart rate picked up speed as she moved over to sit on one of the dilapidated but cozy couches by the crackling fire. She rested her head against the back, determined to wait him out.

Counting stars on the enchanted ceiling, she was interrupted by the telltale sound of stone giving way to a door for students to step through. Malfoy, she thought, almost manically.

In the dim light, she could just barely make out his tall frame as he quietly entered the room, his messenger bag over one shoulder, his near-white hair reflecting the flames. Clearly expecting the space to be empty, Malfoy hesitated a step before pulling back. His eyes glowed, swirling mercury in the firelight.

“Malfoy,” she greeted from the couch, trying to look casual.

Malfoy slowly stepped further in the room, as if he didn’t want to startle her. He stopped a decorous few meters away from her, his shoulders squared. He was still in his school uniform, though his tie was pulled loose and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. His hair, usually styled so neatly, was disheveled as if he had run his hand through it repeatedly.

“I accept,” she continued on, tapping into that Gryffindor bravery.

He looked at her like she had grown a second head, one perfectly carved brow raised at her.

She cleared her throat. “Your apology,” she gestured toward him. “I accept.” She nodded, mostly to herself.

Malfoy blinked at her for what felt like an age. He was so still for so long that she could have mistaken him for a statue. He didn’t seem to be breathing. The clock on the wall chimed softly, signaling that it was now three in the morning. She didn’t break eye contact, trying to keep her face neutral to hide the fact that her heart was racing.

After another long, tense minute, he finally spoke.

“You forgive me?” His voice sounded pained, as if those three words were physically difficult for him to get out.

“Yes,” she nodded again, toying with the hem of her skirt.

He eyed her skeptically, his jaw set. “Why?”

She scoffed. “What do you mean, why?”

“I mean, I was terrible to you,” he said, shrugging. “You never deserved it, it wasn’t right.” His fists were clenched at his sides, his spine ramrod straight.

Hermione stated, rather obviously, “You wrote me a letter.”

“So I did,” Malfoy agreed, splaying his hands out to his sides. “So what?”

Hermione rolled her eyes at his combativeness. “Do you not want me to forgive you?” She challenged, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “God Malfoy, I don’t have an ulterior motive here.”

It was his turn to scoff. “Not wanting it and not deserving it are two different things entirely,” he ground out, making intense eye contact with a spot somewhere behind her head.

“I can’t be the judge of what you do and do not deserve, Malfoy,” she replied crisply. “What I can do is withhold or grant forgiveness for your actions against me and me alone,” she sniffed. “So, with that said, I forgive you.” She stared at him in defiance.

His fists unclenched as he took measured breaths.

“Fucking Gryffindors,” he muttered.

She barked a laugh at this. “Unlike you Slytherins, we make it a point to not repress our feelings, no matter how painful or uncomfortable confronting them might be,” she lectured.

“I can see that,” he replied drily, glancing at the clock above the fireplace mantel. “Did you wait up for me?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Hermione shook her head, nose upturned. “I was up late studying.” It was only half a lie.

Malfoy eyed her with a healthy dose of skepticism before shrugging.

“I appreciate your honesty and straightforwardness,” Malfoy managed to say diplomatically. The subtext was clearly something along the lines of: fucking Gryffindors.

“I hope you know, I’m not that cruel, carbon copy of my father anymore,” his eyes grew tight around the edges, his mouth pulled down into a frown.

This, she definitely knew. “I know,” she said simply, shrugging her shoulders.

Some of the tension bled out of him at her easy acknowledgement.

“Well,” Malfoy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, “if that’s all?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Hermione nodded, standing up abruptly and smoothing down her skirt. “It’s late,” she added, as if that wasn’t abundantly obvious to the two of them.

Draco cleared his throat, nodding. “Right,” he took a step in the direction of his room. “Er– goodnight,” he mumbled awkwardly, his hand twitching by his side.

Hermione nodded her head mechanically as she turned on a heel and walked so quickly it could perhaps be described as a light jog, down the hall, shutting her bedroom door on an exhale.

— — —

November, 1998

Hermione was startled awake by a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s just me,” Padma said softly from above. “You fell asleep,” the girl gestured to the desk Hermione was slumped over, parchment from one of her study guides crinkling under her cheek.

Hermione blinked rapidly, trying to calm her racing pulse. It was Padma, just Padma.

“Sorry,” Hermione whispered, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Are you alright?” Padma’s almond eyes were wide, concern written all over her face. “You haven’t been sleeping much,” she added.

Fighting a yawn, Hermione waved her off. “I’ve been busy studying,” she gestured to the papers strewn in front of her. “Just a little tired.”

“If you say so,” Padma eyed her skeptically, too smart for Hermione’s own good.

Hermione reached out to take the girl’s hand. “Padma, I’m fine, I promise,” she said imploringly, patting her hand.

Some of the concern on Padma’s face was replaced with fondness. “Alright, Hermione,” she smiled a little. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she squeezed Hermione’s hand before heading in the direction of her room.

Hermione exhaled, relieved that Padma didn’t try to corner her into a difficult conversation. She knew that the Ravenclaw girl wasn’t blind, that she could sometimes hear Hermione screaming in her sleep through their shared wall, when Hermione’s silencing spell faltered.

She groaned, putting her head in her hands at the desk. Too much Dreamless Sleep potion and she would develop a dependency, she knew that. She had to find other ways to cope with the war, with her nightmares, and pulling all nighters was working for her so far. Sort of.

Hermione stood, not bothering to pack up her study materials. She needed to get some air. The clock above the mantel had just chimed two o’clock, and Hermione was wide awake now. She grabbed her cloak from her bedroom before tapping a pattern into the common room entryway stones before quietly stepping through, out into the castle.

Lost in her thoughts, she made her way up to the Astronomy Tower, pulling her cloak tighter around herself as the crisp autumn chill blew through her hair. Dazedly, she sat herself along the ledge, dangling her feet off the side of the tower, resting her hands behind her.

Her mind was screaming at her, replaying the darkest memories from her life during the war: Obliviating her parents, camping on the run in the Forest of Dean, watching Fenrir Greyback maul Lavender Brown, the list went on. But more often than not, the memory at the forefront of her mind was the night she was captured and brought to Malfoy Manor.

Unconsciously, she clutched at her left forearm, where Bellatrix’s cursed blade had carved a slur. The wound itself had physically healed, but its appearance was still grisly, the flesh looking as physically raw as it had on the day it was slashed into her. Occasionally, her nerve endings would light up with phantom pain, leading to a night of tossing and turning in bed, clutching her arm in intangible agony.

Pushing up her sleeve, Hermione stared down at the desecration there, forever preserved in time. She reached out with a finger, tracing the ridges of each letter from start to finish, fascinated at the way that flesh can heal, but the body still remembers.

The sound of a shoe scuffing against stone had her pushing down her sleeve, head whipping around to the entrance of the tower.

Malfoy was in the archway, one foot hovering a little off the ground as if frozen in time.

“Malfoy,” she said, eyeing his rumpled, somewhat bedraggled state.

He cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Granger,” he dipped his chin slightly.

She doesn’t know what compelled her to invite him to sit with her, but she did so anyway. Gryffindor bravery and all that rot.

Malfoy seemed taken aback, eyeing her warily.

“Well?” She asked, staring up at him in defiance.

His mouth pulled into a slight frown as he approached slowly, as if he was trying to not scare her off. He removed his outer cloak, laying it next to her before lowering himself down to the ledge.

Satisfied, Hermione went back to staring at the vast, rolling hills of the Hogwarts grounds, taking measured breaths as the cold wind brought with it whiffs of Malfoy’s cologne, something spiced and clean. Her cheeks were pink and wind-bitten, and she couldn’t help shivering as a particularly strong gust whipped her hair in every direction, some of it flying into Malfoy’s face.

Malfoy chuckled softly next to her, so quietly she almost didn’t catch it.

“What, Malfoy?” She snapped, glanced side-long at him, taking in his gaunt features.

He pursed his lips, displeased. “It’s nothing,” he said, averting his gaze.

“If it’s nothing, then why’d you laugh?” She argued, turning her body toward him.

Malfoy sighed, “Christ, Granger, you really can’t let things go, can you?”

Exasperated, she replied crisply, “I can’t let things go?” She glared at him. “Did I not just recently let a whole seven years of things go, Malfoy?” She was frowning at him now, her arms crossed over her chest.

He groaned, bowing his head. “You know that’s not what I meant, you argumentative witch,” he carded a hand through his hair, nearly iridescent in the moonlight. “I just thought it was funny that your hair has a mind of its own,” he grumbled.

It was Hermione’s turn to purse her lips. “I know you hate it, Malfoy, we’ve been over this. Can we not–”

“I don’t hate it,” he blurted before snapping his jaw shut with an audible clack.

“Er,” Hermione stumbled, a blush adding to the existing colour on her cheeks, “okay?” She scooted away from him a little, turning again so that she was facing the hills.

The pair sat in awkward silence for another few minutes, both of them pointedly not acknowledging the other.

“Why are you here?” She asked suddenly.

Malfoy stiffened. “I’ll go,” he replied, shifting to stand.

“No,” she threw out a hand to stop him, just shy of touching his arm. “I don’t mean here right now, I mean here. At Hogwarts,” she gestured to the castle looming behind them, framed by an inky black sky.

“To finish my education,” he said in a clipped tone, not looking at her.

She nodded, her curls bouncing. “Right but you don’t have to work, right? After Hogwarts?”

She watched as his jaw clenched, unclenched.

“Right,” he confirmed, his silver eyes trained on the horizon.

“So then why–” Hermione asked again.

Malfoy interrupted her, turning his head to look at her fully. His stare was intense, his jaw set. “What else was I supposed to do?” He asked her, his voice uncharacteristically small, his words swallowed by the night. “My father’s locked away for the rest of his sorry life, and my mother is confined to the Manor, a shell of herself. I know you know that,” he glanced at her, and she nodded. “Where else was I supposed to go, if not here?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said slowly, noting the tension rolling off of him. “Don’t the Sacred Twenty-Eight have some sort of taboo on being working class? On going back for the optional eighth year?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to smack herself for the invasive question.

At this, he stared at her with an indiscernible expression. He opened his mouth, closed it again, shaking his head. “The Malfoys are no longer in good social standing, Granger,” he said sardonically. “It doesn’t matter how rich we are, being on the losing side of the war was bad for our reputation. Not that we don’t deserve every single one of the consequences,” he laughed darkly, shutting his eyes as he sat back onto his hands.

Hermione was taken aback by the boy in front of her, so at odds with her childhood enemy. Under the safety of his closed eyes, she studied him curiously, having never seen him this close, this disheveled, before. His white Oxford shirt was untucked from his black trousers, both articles rumpled in a way that she wasn’t used to associating with Malfoy. His emerald tie had been cast aside earlier, and now laid in a small heap to his left on top of his thick cloak. Malfoy’s skin was unusually pale in the moonlight, his hair glowing, the dark circles under his eyes casting shadows. Long, light blond lashes fluttered across the sallow skin of his cheekbones, his full lips downturned in a frown that seemed permanently etched into his face.

Eyes still closed, Malfoy asked, “Why are you up here?”

An awkward pause followed. Hermione glanced furtively at him before focusing on the skyline. “I suppose for the same reasons as you,” she hedged noncommittally.

He scoffed, opening his eyes to look at her from under his lashes. “You’re here to reflect on your utter self-loathing and all-consuming regret for your actions as a stupid, gormless fool?” His resounding laugh was self-deprecating.

She snorted indelicately. “Have you always been such a drama queen?” She couldn’t help but smile a little.

“That isn’t an answer,” he pointed out, raising a brow.

She turned to stare at him, his face coolly neutral. Something in his calm expression distracted her from his line of questioning.

“You’re an Occlumens?” She asked.

Malfoy’s eyes widened infinitesimally, before he schooled his features back into blankness. “Yes.”

Hermione hummed, confirming her suspicion. It made sense for him, she thought. He would need to learn extreme control and compartmentalization over his feelings, his facial expressions, his actions, if he wanted to stand a chance protecting himself from the megalomaniac playing house in his manor for the past year.

“Teach me,” she said suddenly, staring at him imploringly.

He reared back slightly at this. “Excuse me?”

“Teach me,” she repeated, nodding her head.

He looked at her like she had gone barmy. He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off.

“Harry tried to teach me, but he was shite at it,” she explained.

“Not surprising,” Malfoy cut in, smirking.

Hermione just rolled her eyes. “I–” she hesitated, staring at her lap. She took a deep breath before her eyes met his again. “I have nightmares,” she admitted, her voice carried away by the cold Scottish wind. “I’m sure you can guess what most of them are about,” she added bitterly, suddenly transported back to the drawing room floor of Malfoy Manor.

Malfoy hummed in acknowledgement, not really looking at her.

“I want to learn,” she said firmly, though bracing for his rejection. “It’ll be good for your reputation at school, to be seen with me,” she added nonsensically.

Malfoy sighed, slouching a little. “Alright,” he told her.

“Alright?” She parroted, unsure she heard him correctly.

He looked at her, nodded once.

Hermione had to fight the satisfied grin at his easy acquiescence.

— — —

December, 1998

“Are you even trying?” Malfoy jeered at her, sitting on a desk in the Room of Requirement.

Gritting her teeth, Hermione bit out, “No, of course not! Silly me, how could I forget to try and shut you out of my mind?” She glared up at him from her own desk.

Malfoy just laughed at her, and she huffed, blowing errant curls out of her flushed face.

She had been practicing her Occlumency for three hours, her once-pristine school uniform now in a complete state of dishevelment as the Room of Requirement grew warmer and warmer. Her tie had been thrown carelessly to the side, her blazer draped haphazardly over the back of her chair. Her hair had grown to at least three times its usual volume, practically crackling with the intensity of her magic.

“It’s all about compartmentalization, Granger,” he mock-lectured, the desk underneath him creaking as he leaned back. “You have to understand that any half-decent Legilimens will expect you to try and shut them out completely, but that won’t work. You have to call up irrelevant memories to distract them, to guide them away from whatever they’re really looking for,” his tone was measured, cool.

“I know that, Malfoy,” she sniped at him, “It’s hard.”

“You have to empty your mind,” Malfoy drawled, his gaze penetrating. “Organize it in a way that works for you. A bookshelf, perhaps,” he suggested.

“So you’ve said a thousand times,” Hermione growled, “I’ve told you that I’m trying!” Exasperated, she tried to wrangle her hair into a bun, only for it to spring free from its elastic within moments. “God damn it!” She shouted, overcome with the frustration of not being inherently good at something.

“Well,” Malfoy called, grinning, “try harder.”

She wanted to go back to third year and punch him in his stupid, smirking mouth again. Something in her expression gave her away, and he chuckled.

“I know you can do it,” he coaxed. “Shut me out.”

Without further preamble, he was diving into her mind, his presence like an arctic river, frigid and fast, finding the cracks in her mind to flow through. Her teeth were clenched, her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to focus on keeping him out. She envisioned thick, dark green vines climbing up to shut him out, to cut him off before he gained too much ground. She grunted as he pressed harder at the forefront of her mind, the water so cold she had to suppress a shiver. Hermione began to panic as he made more progress, freezing her vines at the root source, rendering her unable to shield herself from him. She began erratically throwing inconsequential memories at him in an effort to distract him long enough for her to regrow. It didn’t work, and there he was, pressing up against her innermost thoughts– her darkest memories, her deepest insecurities.

She gulped in air, panting, as he retreated from her mind on a blisteringly cold gust of wind, a splash of arctic spray ghosting across her face.

“Again,” he commanded coolly, arms crossed across his broad chest.

Before she could fully catch her breath, he was there again, closing in.

Chapter Text

November, 2004

Tucking away her memories on her bookshelf, Hermione sighed, tipping her head back to the bathroom ceiling of her hotel room. This one had gotten messier than she would’ve liked. She could still feel the blood that stained her fingers, her skin now scrubbed raw and red, the blood long since washed down the drain.

Most of the time, she moved quickly, with loving precision for maximum pain. But this man unsettled her, and she was inclined to feel the life drain from his body as he bled out on the tile floor, gasping for breath as the blood filled his lungs.

Scabior, the Snatcher who had caught her, Harry, and Ron in the Forest of Dean, all those years ago. The smell of rot on his breath as he gripped her by the hair, the feeling of his wide palms pawing at her as she dangled a foot off the ground, tears in her eyes as he dragged her through Malfoy Manor. You’ll get what’s coming to you, his gravelly voice whispered in her ear, breath hot on her face.

He had been apprehended by Aurors shortly after the war, serving a four-year sentence for aiding and abetting, a charge that Hermione felt was seriously underselling it. Harry and Ron argued that at least he was caught, unlike many of the other Death Eaters and sympathizers who vanished in the wind as soon as Voldemort was defeated. Hermione was dissatisfied with this consolation.

But no matter, that’s what she was here for.

She caught up to him in a seedy, crowded pub, finding him in a secluded booth in the back, nursing a stout. She slid into the booth next to him, this time Polyjuiced as a Muggle man of average height and build, unremarkable in all of the ways that mattered.

“Do I know you?” Scabior asked, rotating his glass on his coaster.

“You don’t remember me?” Hermione asked, her voice much deeper. It had taken a lot of vocal training to make it sound natural.

“‘Fraid not,” the other man shook his head.

“S’alright,” she replied, “Buy you a drink?” She inclined her head.

Scabior just shrugged, and she got up out of the booth to get the barmaid’s attention.

She drummed her short, stubby fingers against the filthy bartop as she waited for the two stouts. The barmaid plunked them down in front of Hermione’s taller and broader frame, grunting at her before shuffling away to the other end. Hermione left a sickle on the bar, turning slightly to ensure that Scabior was still drowning his sorrows in his first pint.

Satisfied that he wasn’t watching her, she smoothly withdrew a vial of liquid from within her coat sleeve, uncapping it and pouring its contents into one of the two drinks. She whispered a spell to mix the liquid, before capping the empty vial and shoving it back up her sleeve.

Scabior was an enthusiastic drinker, Hermione noted, as he chugged the last dregs of his second drink, foam coating his mouth. She clinked her glass against his, taking a small sip of the dark beer, swishing it back and forth in her mouth before swallowing.

Hermione watched as Scabior’s eyelids began to droop, his limbs growing heavy and awkward in his seat.

“Just how much did you drink?” She fake-chided, shaking her head at him.

He barked a laugh, an ugly, cruel thing. “I’m not as sprightly as I used to be, mate,” he joked.

“Let me get you home,” she offered congenially, moving to stand and offering him a hand.

Scabior took it and Hermione had to fight the urge to wretch at the sensation of his skin on hers, bringing back memories she had tried to bury years ago. In a blink, that particular memory was neatly pushed back into its place on her bookshelf, to be opened and sorted through another time.

The pair of them tottered out of the pub, Scabior leaning heavily on her for support, his legs weak. There was something febrile about his disposition, he looked sickly under the light of the moon, his eyes sunken deep into his face. He disgusted her.

Too out of his wits to question just how Hermione knew where he lived, she led him through the iron gate and up the narrow steps to his shoddy flat, rummaging through his coat pockets for the keys before selecting the correct one. She looped one of his arms around her shoulders, pushing the door open with her foot and wrinkling her nose at the stench.

She cast a nonverbal spell to turn on the lights, repulsed at the sorry state of his flat. Food wrappers and trash were everywhere, the floor coated in a thin layer of an unidentifiable sticky substance, the singular window so thick with grime that barely any light filtered through. A scuttle from somewhere in the corner of the kitchen, followed by a squeak.

Hermione couldn’t help but curl her lip at this sad excuse of a man. She shoved his arm off her shoulder, locking and warding the door. Scabior stumbled, tripping over a beverage can and falling to his knees.

She stared down her long nose at him, sneering. “Do you know who I am?” She asked.

Scabior stared up at her through rheumy, beady eyes, his head tilted to one side. “No,” his voice was slurred, his gaze unfocused as he fought the poison she had given him.

“Hm,” she replied. “You will soon.”

The Polyjuice began wearing off, and all Scabior could do was watch as a melting of the Muggle man’s and her features began, her hair being the first thing to return to normal. She shrunk to her normal height, now swimming in the overcoat and button-up she wore, her long nose growing shorter. After about a minute, the transformation was complete, and she Transfigured the Muggle’s clothes into a black T-shirt and a pair of black pants.

“I’ll ask you again,” she crooned in her own voice, “do you know who I am?”

Scabior peered up at her, blinking through his poison-induced haze. His breaths were coming out ragged, a thin sheen of sweat across his scraggly brow.

“Y–yes,” he stammered, eyes widening slightly as she stood before him.

“Excellent,” she smiled genuinely.

Scabior coughed. “What d’ya want from me?” He eyed her warily, trying to push himself into a standing position to no avail. His body was weak, made weaker by the poison.

“Isn’t it obvious?” She asked, gesturing toward his pathetic, prone body and his derelict flat. Lastly, she gestured to the Muggle handgun strapped to her upper thigh.

His brows drew together in confusion, not recognizing the weapon for what it was.

“You’ll get what’s coming to you,” she said softly, pulling the gun from its holster, disengaging the safety before firing a silenced shot into his right shin.

The man howled in pain, pushed onto his back on the floor, clutching at his leg. Hermione fired again, this time into his left shoulder, watching as blood began to pool on the filthy ground, filthier now. His eyes were closed, his head lolled to one side, spittle at the corners of his mouth.

Pulling out her wand, she Rennervated him, wanting him to stay conscious. He awoke with a groan, struggling to breathe. She knelt on the floor by his head, staring at him in unadulterated disgust. He wailed, trying desperately to get away from her. She planted a boot in the wound on his shoulder, relishing in the way he went tense with pain. She stood, shifting her weight as she ground the thick tread of her boot down into his wound.

“P–please,” he begged frantically, his body shaking. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“What is it that you think I want from you?” Hermione chided. “Your friendship?”

“I’m sorry,” the man pleaded, hot blood trickling from under her boot.

She removed her foot, moving to kneel next to him again. He shook his head over and over, his fingers scrabbling for purchase against the trash-littered floor as he tried to drag himself away from her.

Her heart was pounding in her chest, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Finally, Scabior would get what he deserved. Smiling serenely at his panicked expression, she dug her fingers as deep as they would go into his shoulder wound, causing a fresh spurt of blood to splatter onto the dark floor. He screamed in pain, his back bowing off the ground before slumping back down, his watery eyes rolling back into his head, unconscious. Pausing, she Rennervated him for a second time. Blood and saliva dribbled from his mouth and onto his chin, his breath making a wet, rasping sound as his lungs struggled to inflate. He was muttering nonsense under his breath, interspersed with the occasional moan. His leg was a shattered mess, his shoulder faring even worse as Hermione’s fingers continued to root around in his flesh. Scabior’s head began to bang repeatedly against the floorboards, his mouth open in a silent scream. Hermione withdrew her fingers, twisting them on the exit before wiping them on her shirt.

She stood once more, dusting off her pants before staring down the barrel of her gun at him. He was pathetic– a sick, pitiful, deplorable excuse of a man. She would be glad he was dead. He whimpered weakly, his eyes half-lidded, as she aimed for his heart and fired once.

— — —

Christmas, 1998

“Are you sure, Hermione?” Harry asked in that concerned tone he loved so dearly.

Hermione gave him a flat look, curled up in her favorite armchair at the Burrow. “When have I ever not been sure of myself?” She argued, staring at the Weasley family clock on the wall.

“I dunno, Hermione,” Ron chimed in from his spot on the sofa. “It’s Malfoy,” he raised both brows. “Are you sure he’s changed that much?” He took a swig of his spiced cider.

Hermione shook her head, sighing at the two. “You don’t get it, you haven’t seen what he’s like at school,” she tried to sound casual. “He’s different,” she insisted. “Quieter, more reserved, less pompous.”

Harry hummed. “Right, I mean that’s nice,” he said, carding a hand through his perpetually messy hair. “But he was awful to you for years.” His green eyes were keen, piercing.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Hermione snapped defensively, her hand reflexively covering the scar on her forearm.

Harry and Ron had the grace to look chastened.

“Didn’t you two both receive sincere apologies from him, too?” She pressed further, knowing the answer.

“Well yeah, but–” Ron scratched the back of his neck, looking down at the floor.

“But what?” Hermione sniped, cutting him off. “If you two can determine that his apology was sincere, why can’t I?” She leaned further into the chair, drawing her knees closer to her chest.

Harry and Ron shared a look that said, Well, she has a point.

“We’re just worried about you,” Harry replied, Ron nodding along enthusiastically.

Hermione’s gaze softened at their familial concern. “I know, and I appreciate it, really,” she smiled at both of them. “But I can take care of myself, I can make smart judgements on my own,” she implored.

Sighing, Harry nodded. “Bloody hell, I know you’re smarter than everyone in this house combined,” he chuckled.

— — —

January, 1999

“Granger,” Malfoy’s voice called from further down the hall, in front of the entrance to the Room of Requirement.

“Have a good holiday, Malfoy?” She asked by way of greeting.

Malfoy just shrugged, though Hermione could note that he looked a little less gaunt, a little more well-rested, than he had before winter break.

The door to the room appeared, and he gestured for her to lead the way.

Hermione blinked, dumbfounded at the change in decor the room had given them. In the past few months, the room had appeared as a standard, if not slightly musty classroom, outfitted with creaky wooden desks and chairs that put you at risk of Tetanus if you sat in them wrong, and a lone blackboard against one wall. For the purposes of training Hermione in Occlumency, it did the job without any style or comfort, but nonetheless.

In the new year, however, it seemed that the room believed they required a cozier atmosphere. The desks and chairs were gone, replaced with a pair of dark blue velvet chaise lounges, a glossy, rich mahogany coffee table between them. Candles floated about the space, giving the room a warm glow, and massive stained glass windows reflected the Scottish grey sky outside. The ceiling was enchanted to reflect the weather of the day, fairy lights strung between the wooden beams, hanging in the rafters. Plush, overstuffed pillows were strewn around the floor in a haphazard, nest-like way, and tartan blankets were draped over the backs of both lounges.

“Cozy,” Hermione commented drily, taking another few steps inside.

“Quite,” Malfoy replied, his lips pursed.

She strode over to one of the couches, taking a seat at the edge, hands folded neatly in her lap. She heard Malfoy sigh before he did the same on the opposite couch.

“I’ve been practicing,” she told him. “Not much else to do at the Burrow.”

“The Burrow?” He asked, leaning against the back of the sofa.

“The Weasleys’ home,” she supplied, bouncing her leg up and down. “I stay there over the holidays,” she added, as if that wasn’t already clear.

Malfoy hummed. “Your parents?” He asked, gazing out one of the stained glass windows.

Hermione swallowed thickly before answering. “I Obliviated them, at the start of the war,” she watches as Malfoy’s eyes widen in surprise, but continues on. “I knew that Voldemort would go after them eventually, so I erased their memories of me and sent them to Australia. They’re alive,” she exhales, “They’re happy.”

Hermione allows the book belonging to her parents to open in her mind, flipping through page after page, memory after memory, of her father’s laugh and her mother’s kind eyes, the smell of her father’s Sunday roast, the feeling of her mother’s bear hugs. Sighing wistfully, she closes their book, reshelves it.

She returned to the present to find Malfoy staring at her in mute stupefaction.

“What?” She asked, suddenly insecure.

“You’ve done it,” Malfoy sounded genuinely impressed. “You’ve mastered Occlumency.”

Hermione stared at him uncomprehendingly. “What? How could you possibly know that?”

“Just now,” Malfoy leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You went somewhere, and I tried to get in, but all I saw was a labyrinth of bookshelves– the aisles endless, the stacks reaching toward the infinite ceiling. You’ve truly done it.” There was a small smile on his pale face.

The way he looked at her made Hermione’s breath catch in her throat. Of course, she’s often been on the receiving end of praise, of compliments related to her academic achievements, so it shouldn’t be anything new to her. But coming from Malfoy? Her once-enemy turned sort-of-friend? She hadn’t realized just how much she wanted his approval, not because it necessarily meant more coming from him, but more so because he had front row seats to her previous failed attempts at shutting him out, at clearing her mind, and now she could finally do it. Nobody else had seen her fail like Malfoy had, because she never really had failed before.

A relieved laugh bubbled out of her before she could tamp it down, filling the cozy room with even more warmth. She slapped a hand over her mouth, blushing at her own silliness, her expression of her emotions in front of him. She nervously glanced at Malfoy, expecting him to turn up his nose at her, but he was still looking at her with that same, awestruck expression.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but stopped himself. His full lips were upturned in a smile, the biggest one she had ever seen on him, though that wasn’t saying much. Suddenly, all of those long, stressful nights practicing alone in her room and making no headway, were worth it.

Chapter Text

December, 2004

“Suspected Vigilante Picking off ex-Death Eaters One By One!” Hermione read the headline on The Daily Prophet’s front page, grimacing at the intake photo of a sympathizer who had done a one-year stint in Azkaban two years prior.

Hermione took a seat at her kitchen table, reading the article with urgency.

Over the past year, multiple Death Eaters and Death Eater sympathizers from the Second Wizarding War have gone missing, presumed dead. Though their bodies have never been found, foul play is to be suspected given their high-profile identities and the clean, efficient way that they vanish into thin air. This death is the eighth in a string of murders over the past year, previously thought to be unrelated to one another.

The Ministry of Magic’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement has reason to believe that a highly skilled, organized, and powerful vigilante is bringing down the hammer on these previously convicted Death Eaters and their known associates, following their sentences served in Azkaban.

Head Auror Gawain Robards has reported that the Auror Office currently has no leads or suspects at this time. He, as well as the rest of the DMLE, urges any witch or wizard who may have information on this suspected vigilante to please come forward. It is imperative that this person is caught and prosecuted for their perversion of justice, to the extent of Magical Law.

Hermione’s lip curled at the article, at Skeeter’s blatant vapidity and sorry excuse for journalism. Exhaling heavily, she finished her coffee, casting an Incendio at the newspaper, watching as it disintegrated in her hand.

Although Skeeter reported that Robards and the other Aurors had no leads, she wasn’t stupid enough to believe that was the truth. She would have to ask Harry and Ron for details when she saw them at pub night. Because that kill wasn’t one of hers.

— — —

February 14, 1999

Despite Hermione’s newfound mastery of Occlumency, she continued to practice her mental shields between classes, cramming for NEWTs, and going through the motions of a social life with the other eighth years, numb to it all. She found the discipline and compartmentalization quite soothing, using Occlumency with increasing frequency to shut down her memories. The clack of someone’s heels down a corridor used to make Hermione’s heart ratchet in her chest, the sound similar to Bellatrix Lestrange as she prowled in front of Hermione, lying prone on Malfoy Manor’s drawing room floor. The scent of smoke from a fire used to send Hermione into a downward spiral, remembering the crackle of Fiendfyre as it swallowed the Room of Hidden Things, Vincent Crabbe and all.

Except now, she could shove those memories back into their respective books, shelving them for another time when the wounds weren’t as fresh. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself. Malfoy’s warning in the back of her mind would play anytime she called on her Occlumency for too long.

“Granger, Occlumency is a tool, but it can’t be used as a crutch to run from your problems,” he had drawled one evening during their lessons, lying back on the wooden desk. “Rely on it too much and something’s got to give.”

Hermione scoffed from her chair. “That’s ironic coming from you of all people,” she rolled her eyes as he sat up.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Malfoy looked unimpressed.

“Seriously?” Hermione shook her head in disbelief. “You’re a Slytherin, a repressed one at that,” she added, earning a glare from Malfoy. “I distinctly remember you telling me that in sixth year, you used Occlumency to the point it debilitated you until you pulled back.”

He gave her a flat stare, his grey eyes flickering in the candlelight.

She fidgeted under his intense gaze, unable to ignore the fact that his better eating and sleeping habits were doing him many favors. His crisp, white shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms that she should absolutely not find attractive– the remnants of the Dark Mark on his left arm a grey-blue blotch against his pale skin. He had filled out a little more, his jaw still sharp but less hollow, his shoulders broader, some colour to his cheeks. Malfoy yawned, stretching his arms above his head which caused his shirt to ride up, and Hermione had to yank her gaze away from the toned, lean abdomen she saw there.

Mumbling some excuse about having to study, Hermione quickly left the Room of Requirement, determined to put her feelings about Malfoy in their own book on her shelf.

She was shaken awake by Padma, the girl’s lips pursed in displeasure and concern as she stared down at Hermione.

Before she could make some feeble excuse, Padma silenced her with a pointed glare.

“You aren’t alright,” Padma said matter-of-factly, her tone brooking no argument.

Hermione sighed, wrapping her duvet more securely around herself. She must have been screaming in her sleep. Again.

“You should go see Pomfrey,” Padma told her. “She can give you Dreamless Sleep.”

Hermione fought back a yawn. “I don’t want to grow a dependency. I’m fine,” she tried to sound sincere.

Padma laughed a little. “Fine? You’ve been having nightmares since the beginning of term. We all have our memories from the war. You need help.” The genuine concern in Padma’s voice made Hermione’s heart clench.

Defensively, Hermione mumbled, “I’m working on it.”

Shuffling into a seated position, she put on her slippers, getting out of bed. She glanced at Padma, who was still eyeing her skeptically. “What time is it?” She asked, ignoring Padma’s displeasure.

The other girl sighed, “Just after three.”

“I’m going to go for a walk,” Hermione told her, moving toward the door.

Padma stopped her, a warm hand on her shoulder. “I care about you, we all do.”

Hermione nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I’m fine, I swear it. Please let me through.”

Sighing, Padma stepped to the side, dropping her hand from Hermione’s shoulder. Hermione didn’t look back as she opened the door to her bedroom before stepping out into the dark, empty common room. It was difficult to see, so Hermione shuffled slowly down the hall, having left her wand back in her room.

“Oof,” she mumbled as she ran into something, stumbling backward.

A hand darted out to grab her by the elbow, steadying her.

“Granger?” Malfoy whispered, letting go of her elbow.

Hermione blinked a few times, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

“What are you doing?” She blurted.

“Someone was screaming,” he said. “It woke me up,” he added.

Hermione was grateful for the darkness as she flushed crimson. “Right,” she nodded her head, trying to push past him into the common room.

Malfoy didn’t budge, his taller and broader frame blocking the way. His eyes were the only thing she could clearly make out.

“Malfoy,” Hermione whispered, exasperated, “let me through.”

He hummed contemplatively. “Have you been relying on your Occlumency too much?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not daft,” she hedged.

“You love your non-answers, don’t you?” He taunted, his voice low. “Tell me the truth.”

Her cheeks heated in indignation. “And why should I tell you?” She snapped. “Get out of my way,” she shoved lightly at what she hoped was his shoulder, but he still didn’t move.

His answering laugh made her blood boil.

“Alright,” he said, taking a few steps backward into the common room. “Don’t charge at me like a bull.”

He strode over to one of the sofas, taking a seat as if that’s what he had set out to do in the first place. Hermione noted that he wasn’t wearing pajamas, but rather his signature Oxford and black trousers. So much for being woken up by my screaming, Hermione thought darkly.

Hermione’s jaw clenched, following him out of the hallway. She approached the exit to the common room before remembering that her wand was still in her room. She groaned, unable to leave but unwilling to go back and get her wand, lest Malfoy disturb her more than he already had.

“What?” Malfoy asked as she hovered by the exit.

“Nothing,” Hermione replied, gritting her teeth. She leaned against the wall in what she hoped was a casual way.

“Sit, Granger,” he commanded in that aristocratic, posh tone of his.

She shook her head, her curls a mess atop her head. “Absolutely not. I’m going back to bed.” She pushed off the wall, shuffling back in the direction she came.

“Off to have some more nightmares?” Malfoy crooned from the sofa, his smile a cruel slash of white in the otherwise dark space. “Sweet dreams, then.”

Hermione stopped in her tracks. “Fuck off, Malfoy,” she sneered, the words tumbling out before she could think things through. Her heart was pounding, her teeth set on edge at his needling.

“Don’t blame me,” he held up his hands, shrugging his shoulders. “I warned you what would happen if you leaned on your Occlumency too much for too long,” his tone was calm, clinical almost.

“So what if I do?” Hermione challenged, taking a step in his direction, her fists balled.

Malfoy shrugged again, “We all know how stubborn you can be when your mind is set to doing something. Who am I to tell you that you can’t?” He prodded, smirking at her dark expression.

Hermione had the urge to throttle him, but just barely managed not to. “Goodnight,” she snapped, turning on a heel and storming back down the hallway and into the safety of her bedroom.

She re-cast her silencing charm before falling into bed, waiting for the inevitable tug of her most painful memories at the forefront of her mind to lull her into a fitful sleep.

— — —

January 1, 2005

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!” The entirety of the Three Broomsticks yelled as one, hundreds of pint glasses clinking together, dozens of confetti poppers going off simultaneously. Hermione smiled as she watched Harry and Theo kiss for just a little longer than strictly necessary. Ron guffawed to her left at the sight, his arm slung around her in their shared booth.

“Any New Year's resolutions?” Ron asked her, practically yelling over the din.

Hermione nodded. “I need to push back harder against the Wizengamot on the Centaur case,” she explained, leaning in closer.

Ron reached up to ruffle her hair. “Always so ambitious,” he teased.

“Thank God,” Harry chimed in, “one of us has to be.”

Hermione laughed at this, tipping her head back against the seat.

“What about you, Harry?” She asked. “What do you want to do most this year?”

Theo opened his mouth to reply, but Harry cut him off, sensing his boyfriend’s usual antics. He cut a hard look at Theo, the two of them having a silent conversation.

Harry finally looked away from Theo, clearing his throat. “I have to catch the vigilante,” he told them, his brows furrowed. “As much as I agree with Death Eaters and sympathizers being punished, they already have been to the extent of the law. They don’t deserve to die the way that they do.”

Hermione schooled her face into a neutral expression. “I thought no bodies had ever been found?” She asked. “How do you know they haven’t disappeared on purpose?”

“Hermione’s right,” Ron added. “If I were one of them, I would’ve wanted to drop off the face of the Earth by now,” he chuckled. “Or at least leave Europe.”

Harry seemed to consider this. “I suppose that’s a possibility,” he tilted his head from side to side. “But I don’t think that’s what’s happened here. I mean, if they were smart enough to completely disappear without a trace, wouldn’t they have done so already, before their trials?” He pushed his glasses up onto his nose, leaning back against the seat.

Hermione hummed in acknowledgement. He had a point.

“But you don’t know who could do this?” She asked.

Both Harry and Ron shook their heads.

“Robards is going insane trying to figure it out,” Ron told her. “He’s been pacing around the bullpen like a cornered animal. You’d think he’d be happy that the vigilante is doing his job.” He huffed a laugh. “I mean, I don’t see what’s so bad about wiping Death Eater scum off the map.” He took a healthy sip of his ale. “This guy has to be smart, he’s killed at least eight people in the last year and the Auror Office was none the wiser.”

“I have to agree with Weasley,” Theo said, tipping his glass to him before taking a drink. “I know Mr. Boy-Who-Lived believes in world peace or whatever other drivel,” he teased, splaying an arm over Harry’s chest. “But sometimes, an Azkaban sentence isn’t enough. I mean really, some of them got off way too easily.”

Hermione and Ron nodded, but Harry side-eyed his boyfriend, looking slightly miffed.

“But who are we to go above the law and dole out punishment?” Harry argued.

“Sometimes the law is wrong, Harry,” Hermione argued, thinking of Sirius.

Harry now wore a far-off expression, likely thinking along the same lines as her.

“I guess you’re right,” he conceded, rotating his pint on his coaster.

Hermione polished off her butterbeer, relaxing a little at her friends’ progressive take on the whole matter. She bounced her foot under the table as she listened to the boys talk Quidditch, contemplating just who could have killed the man in the Prophet article.

“Another round?” Harry asked as he stood.

“I’ll go with you, mate,” Ron nodded, scooting out of the booth, leaving Theo and Hermione.

The door to the Three Broomsticks opened, allowing in a gust of winter air. Hermione glanced up from her empty glass at the sudden hush that had fallen over the crowd by the entrance to see a flash of platinum hair. Theo twisted around in his seat to see what the fuss was about, recognizing Malfoy instantly.

“Excuse me,” Theo said to her as he rose from his seat, dipping his chin.

She watched as Theo exited the booth, his broad frame shoving through the dense crowd to get to Malfoy. Although it was too loud to hear what words were exchanged, it was clear from Malfoy’s body language that he was reluctant to listen to Theo. She saw him scowl at his childhood friend, gesturing to the people who were gawking nearby. Theo reached out and grabbed Malfoy by the shoulder before tugging him back toward the booth.

“Hermione, I’m sure you remember Draco,” Theo grinned. “Mind if he sits?”

Hermione’s tongue was heavy in her mouth, her mind a bit sluggish. “Of course,” she eventually said, the two Slytherins staring down at her. “Malfoy,” she nodded.

Malfoy’s lips were pulled into his signature frown. “Granger.” He slid into the booth next to Theo, his back ramrod straight, his shoulders tense.

“It’s been awhile, yes?” Theo directed at Hermione, mirth dancing in his eyes.

She hummed noncommittally, wondering what was taking Harry and Ron so long.

“A few years,” she ground out when she realized Theo was still waiting for an answer.

Malfoy looked just as uncomfortable as she felt, his eyes trained on the table.

“Malfoy tells me you were friends during eighth year?” Theo prodded.

At this, Malfoy’s head snapped up and to the side, now glaring daggers at Theo for his cheek.

“Er–” Hermione began, “I suppose we were.” She folded her hands on the table.

Theo nodded, a smile on his face. “And just–”

“Alright, here we are,” Ron, bless him, appeared with more pints for the table. He cocked his head at the new arrival. “Malfoy,” Ron greeted. “What d’you want to drink?”

Malfoy frowned a little, Theo elbowing him in the ribs. “A Firewhisky,” he replied quietly, mouth pinched.

Ron bobbed his head before heading back in the direction of the bar. Hermione tried to catch his attention, her eyes pleading with him to stay, but he didn’t catch on.

“How have you been?” Hermione blurted at Malfoy, determined to not let Theo get another word in.

He looked startled at her question, his nostrils flaring slightly. “Good, and yourself?” His tone was cool.

“Lovely, thank you,” Hermione replied, doing her best not to down her whole pint in one gulp.

She took in a fortifying breath, calling upon her Occlumency to shield her from the tense and awkward atmosphere. The pub felt suddenly cloistering, and she could feel sweat beginning to pool under her jumper, at the small of her back.

It wasn’t that she and Malfoy had a falling out during their final year at Hogwarts. No, they had parted amicably enough after their NEWTs were over and they began their lives as adult members of Wizarding society. It was more so that she found it increasingly difficult to ignore that he was dreadfully fit, highly intelligent, and extremely competent. That she was attracted to him. So difficult, in fact, that she had tried her hardest to keep a healthy distance from him in the years since Hogwarts. It had worked, mostly due to the fact that she was actively living a double life– attorney by day, assassin by night, and so she had little time to think of such things.

Post-Hogwarts, she had all but thrown herself into her work with the Magical Creatures, doing everything in her power to leave her past behind. She didn’t have the capacity for complications like her attraction to Draco Malfoy. The little free time she did have was spent gathering intel on the subjects of her pet project, planning and scheming alone in her flat with only Crookshanks for company. She wouldn’t have it any other way. She couldn’t have it any other way.

— — —

Late February, 1999

“Hermione, you need to take a break,” Neville pleaded from his seat next to her in the library. “You’ve been at this for eight hours,” his brown eyes were round, imploring.

“Just another hour,” Hermione mumbled mindlessly, not looking up from her study guide as she chewed on her fingernail.

Neville didn’t reply, suddenly grabbing the study guide out from under Hermione’s hand.

She blinked down at the table, then up at her friend as he gripped the parchment. He wore a grim expression, his kind features uncharacteristically stern.

“You need to stop,” Neville commanded quietly. “You haven’t eaten or slept in at least a day. You need to blow off some steam,” he glanced sidelong at her– at her wild curls, her tired eyes, her bitten-down fingernails.

Hermione had to fight from curling her lip at him. She knew he was right, and that Neville of all people didn’t deserve her usual brand of defensive aggression.

“Fine,” she huffed, blowing errant curls out of her face. “I’ll go for a walk.” She pushed her chair back, the wood scraping against the library floor and causing Madam Pince to look up sharply from her desk.

Shaking his head, Neville packed her pilfered study guide and other supplies strewn on the table into her shoulder bag, raising his eyebrows at her. “You’re done for the day,” he told her calmly, seemingly at ease with himself. Confident.

Hermione’s mouth dropped open a little at this different side of Neville, the Neville that had killed Nagini just last year. Her first instinct was to grow indignant, combative at the way he directed her, but she found she couldn’t muster the effort to do so. She merely sight, taking her bag that he held out to her.

“Thanks, Nev,” she told him sincerely.

He smiled boyishly at her, nodding his head once, and watched her go.

She pushed open the heavy oak double doors of the library, muttering to herself about busybody friends and nobody understanding just how serious NEWTs were. Hermione trudged through the empty corridor, the younger students all in their common rooms, as it was now past curfew. McGonagall had given the eighth year students much more freedom, given the fact that most of them were of age. The sconces lighting the way flickered as she passed, dragging her feet.

A mix of emotions that Hermione couldn’t make sense of was burning low in her chest, her frenetic energy elevating her heart rate and making her restless. Not wanting to go back to the common room, she began pacing through the hall.

For some indiscernible reason, she had the intense urge to kick something, to hit someone, or to set something on fire. She was just so frustrated, with herself and with her studies. Without her two best friends by her side, it was easier to get swallowed by the mountain of her workload. With nobody to pull her out of her own mind, she often lost track of time and forgot to perform basic necessary functions such as eating and sleeping. Her days passed in a blur, following the same routine– wake up from a fitful sleep, class, exam prep, more class, more exam prep, nod off for an hour or two, rinse and repeat. She couldn’t actually recall the last time she had a conversation with someone that lasted longer than a few minutes.

Hermione’s breath was coming out ragged, her pacing halted. Her emotions, the ones she had tried so hard to keep buried deep for months, were suddenly bubbling to the surface all at once. Her anger toward the adults in her life that had failed them during the war, her remorse for Obliviating her parents, her grief for the ones she lost, her unadulterated fear as Bellatrix carved a slur into her flesh, cackling with maniacal glee. All of it was swirling in Hermione’s head unbidden, her dense Occlumency shields finally collapsing, the dam bursting.

Before she knew it, she was slumped on the cold floor, sobbing quietly into her knees, shaking with exhaustion. She was just so tired. Time warped and bent as she sat there for what felt like ages, face wet with hot tears, curls sticking to her temples, eyes swollen.

The sound of footsteps coming around the corner had Hermione furiously wiping at her eyes, trying and failing to smooth down her hair as she stood up quickly. She leaned against the wall, staring up at the ceiling as if she was admiring the masonry there.

“Granger,” Malfoy drawled as he got closer, his dragonhide shoes clipping against the floor.

She kept her eyes trained on the ceiling, praying that he wouldn’t notice her bedraggled state. He was the absolute last person she wanted to witness the aftermath of her slight mental breakdown. She fought to control her breathing as he continued his slow approach.

A meter away from her, Malfoy drew back as if startled.

“Have you been crying?” He asked, incredulous.

She huffed. “No, of course not,” the lie sounded weak, even to her.

Malfoy laughed a little. “Always so stubborn.”

“Go away, Malfoy. I don’t want to fight with you right now,” she growled, blinking at the ceiling.

“Who said we were fighting?” He teased, moving to lean against the wall opposite her.

“That’s all we ever do,” Hermione retorted. She really didn’t have the capacity for this right now.

Malfoy shrugged his shoulders, his gaze uncannily observant as he took in her red eyes and puffy face. “Do you know how to duel?” He asked, the non sequitur throwing her off.

“Duel?” Hermione parroted, “Yes. You know that I fought in the war,” she added.

He nodded, his platinum hair flickering in the torchlight. “Right but that was a battle. Have you ever duelled in a controlled environment? Your Dumbledore’s Army doesn’t count,” he added, predicting her response.

Hermione tapped a foot against the floor, contemplating it. No, she supposed she hadn’t participated in a formal duel before. She shook her head, and he seemed unsurprised.

“Care to learn?” He asked.

Something in his tone, a little less confident than usual, caused her to look at him fully for the first time that night. Unsurprisingly but annoyingly, and despite the late hour, he looked like a textbook aristocrat– his hair perfectly styled, his white Oxford starched within an inch of its life. That prat, she thought to herself.

His signature smirk appeared on his smug, pointy face as he observed her too-long silence, the way she was staring at him.

Hermione’s cheeks heated. She opened her mouth to defend herself, but before she could, he spoke.

“You look like you need an outlet for your feelings,” he jerked his head toward her general unkempt state. “And something tells me you aren’t the type to practice meditation.”

She scowled at him. “And pray tell, what exactly is that supposed to mean?” She glared, her magic crackling in her veins, itching to be let out.

Malfoy laughed again, gesturing in her direction as if that was answer enough.

“Come on,” he coaxed, “I know you know that I’m a good teacher,” he raised a blond brow at her.

Hermione swallowed thickly, not deigning to give him the satisfaction of her confirmation. Neville’s voice from earlier echoed in her mind– You need to blow off some steam. Her eyes fluttered shut as she leaned her head back, knowing that her friend was right. Malfoy’s voice from in front of her sounded again.

“Occlumency isn’t enough,” he reminded her for the fiftieth time. “You can’t keep it all in forever,” his silver gaze was trained on her, and she knew he knew she had been in the middle of a breakdown when he had rounded the corner.

“Why do you care anyway?” Hermione bit out.

Malfoy’s face was openly expressive in a way she had never seen before, his emotions there and then gone in a blink. Hermione thought she might have seen concern sketched in the margins of his expression before he shut her out, his own Occlumency taking over.

The air between them was suddenly thick, heavy with the weight of their words left unsaid.

Malfoy cleared his throat and pushed off the wall, breaking the tension momentarily. She eyed him warily as he approached, stopping almost toe-to-toe with her, his body closer to hers than it had ever been. She could smell his spiced, clean scent. He looked down his nose at her, his grey eyes cold, staring at her with an intensity that stole the breath from her lungs. His sharp jaw was clenched, the muscles in it twitching as he teetered on this precipice. Hermione was like a deer in headlights, not moving or breathing, frozen under his gaze.

The sound of the library doors creaking open down the hall startled them both, and Malfoy took a few healthy steps backwards, out of her personal space. He had the decency to look embarrassed.

He cleared his throat, not meeting her eyes. “The offer still stands,” he told her, voice flat and devoid of any emotion.

Before she could muster a reply, he pivoted on a heel and stalked back down the corridor, leaving her in a trail of spice and citrus, confusion written all over her face.

— — —

February, 2005

Hermione’s chest was heaving as she caught her breath, her blood pulsing. She had just narrowly escaped notice after pursuing and subduing her target– a man responsible for but never convicted of crimes against Muggles during the war. Her gut instinct had told her she was being watched, but she pushed the feeling down into the recesses of her mind in order to focus on the man as he weaved through the narrow, crowded streets of Paris.

She had caught up to him on his way into his apartment building, halting him on the porch steps with a hand on his shoulder. Hermione was disguised again, this time as a short and stout woman with dull brown hair– somewhat reminiscent of Dolores Umbridge. She smiled meekly up at him, noting his confused, hostile expression.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she started, her voice shrill. “I seem to have lost my way. Could you point me to the nearest Apparition point?” Her overlarge, watery blue eyes blinked up at him.

The man grunted, turning toward her before pointing in the opposite direction. “S’down that way,” he said gruffly. “Another two blocks.”

Before she could thank him, he turned his back on her to enter the building. Big mistake, she thought as she Stunned him in the back. She caught him to break his fall before lowering him to the ground, casting a quick Disillusionment on him.

“Accio keys,” she muttered, catching the keyring as they flew from his coat pocket and into her hand.

She began walking down the hall, levitating his Disillusioned body behind her. She unlocked the door to his first-floor apartment, waving her wand to deposit him on the entryway floor, before locking and warding the door.

The man had killed at least four Muggles, according to her digging. The unique and brutal manner of his kills– disembowelment, led her to connect the victims to one another. It was only fitting that he met the same, gruesome end.

Hermione rummaged around in her beaded bag for a set of blades. She would do this the Muggle way.

After laying out her supplies, she began working to restrain the man, a powerful sticking charm binding him to the floor, his limbs splayed out in a spread eagle. Satisfied, she Rennervated the man, waiting for him to come to.

His eyelids fluttered, opening to find her standing over him, still disguised.

“What the fuck?” He growled, unable to move his body off the floor.

“Disembowelment, right?” Hermione asked casually, running one fingertip along the largest blade, its silver gleaming in the dim light.

“The fuck are you talking about?” The man asked, getting increasingly more angry, his face turning red and blotchy.

Hermione squatted down to his eye level, still holding the blade by its sleek, black handle. “All those Muggles,” she whispered, noting the way his eyes were darting around frantically, the panic beginning to set in. “You eviscerated them,” her voice was like a promise.

“Look lady,” the man yelled, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!”

Hermione laughed, a cruel sound. “Right, because you weren’t convicted?”

She began running the blade up his inner arm, from wrist to armpit. He tensed, unable to unstick himself from the floor, the veins in his neck standing out against his flushed skin. She dragged the blade across and over his neck, his throat bobbing with the motion, before dragging it down and across his other arm. From there, she began pressing the blade into his diaphragm, not hard enough to break skin but certainly hard enough to hurt.

“Who the fuck are you?” The man was well and truly panicked now, straining every muscle in his body to no avail. “You can’t hurt me! I’ll fucking kill you” He grunted in pain as she began to dig in harder. His eyes were still darting around in his thick skull, looking for a way out.

“I think you’ll soon find out that I can,” Hermione crooned sweetly, her mouth a cruel slash of a smirk.

The man whimpered, gasping in pain as she sliced a horizontal cut across his abdomen, crimson blood pouring from the deep wound. He was still trying to unstick himself from the ground, his muscles twitching with the effort, his face white with pain and shock. Hermione watched as blood continued to pour out, making another long, vertical cut down his middle. He screamed, his eyes rolling back into his head, the blood now pooling underneath his chest. Hermione readjusted her grip on the long knife, plunging it into the middle of his abdomen and twisting the blade once, twice, three times– his screams ringing in her ears, the sweetest melody.

He passed out from the pain shortly after, blood trickling out of deep gashes. Hermione paused, searching through her supplies before finding the vial of Blood Replenishing potion, uncorking it with her teeth before forcefully pouring it down the man’s throat. He choked before swallowing unconsciously, and she Rennervated him. She wanted him to feel every second of it, as she ripped out his abdominal organs with her hands one by one– intestines, liver, stomach.

Once it was done, she cast a flaying curse, the same one she had used on Greyback and the others, waiting for his flesh to dissolve into nothingness. Left with a pile of bones, she cast a localized, adapted version of Fiendfyre that she had tweaked for her needs, watching them smolder to ash in the green flames. She cast the necessary cleaning charms on herself and the man’s apartment, leaving only his keys on the kitchen table before exiting the way she came.

Once she was back out onto the street, she began walking briskly to the Apparition point, the one he had directed her toward in the first place. It was there that she felt like she was being watched again, and she whipped around to find only an empty road. The street was poorly lit, something or someone lingering in the shadows, so she sped up and made it to the Apparition point, Disapparating on the spot and into her hotel lobby.

The lobby was sparsely populated, it being so late at night. As Hermione nodded at the concierge, walking toward the elevator, she stumbled a step. She paused, wondering what had gotten her caught up, before she recognized the scent of spice and citrus. It couldn’t possibly be him, she thought as she resumed her way into the elevator and up into her room. She was just paranoid tonight.

Once safely inside, she was immediately transported back to her eighth year, in the Room of Requirement as she duelled Malfoy with all her strength, no holds barred.

The air was thick, hazy with their magic as they shot and parried spells at one another. The room had transformed into an obstacle course of sorts, with pillars of stone jutting up at odd angles, the hardwood floor replaced by hard-packed dirt, the windows protected by shield charms. There was an electric crackle in the air as they ducked and dodged, flashes of blue and green jetting from their wands as they tried to incapacitate one another.

“Is that all, Granger?” Malfoy shouted from somewhere to her left, likely taking cover behind one of the pillars. “I thought I taught you better than that!” He taunted.

She knew that he was trying to rile her up in order to pinpoint her location in the room, but she wouldn’t take the bait this time. As much as it pained her to admit, he was a good teacher, and duelling was no different.

After her breakdown in the hall, she didn’t see hide nor hair of Malfoy for weeks. She was at her wits end, her emotions a raging, pulsing storm inside her chest, begging to be let out. She was a ticking time bomb. Her pride made it so that she waited until she was practically leaving gouges in the wood of her favorite desk with her quill before seeking him out, stomping down the hallway to bang on his bedroom door.

“What the fuck?” Malfoy growled as he yanked open the door, rubbing at his eyes.

Hermione dropped her fist, poised for another knock. She took in his pajama bottoms, black and sitting low on his trim hips. She swallowed, face heating as she noticed his lack of a shirt. Her eyes were level with his toned chest before they dropped to his abdominals, peppered with near-white Sectumsempra scars.

“Um,” Hermione stammered, ripping her eyes away.

“Granger?” Malfoy asked incredulously, blinking blearily at her in the dark. “What’s wrong?”

“Duel me?” She asked quietly, unable to meet his penetrating stare.

“Now?” Malfoy asked in disbelief, his brows disappearing into his hair, mussed from sleep.

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip, his eyes flitting to her mouth as she shifted from foot to foot. He took in her tense, anxious state, giving her a perfunctory once-over before nodding his head. “Now,” he answered his own question.

Wordlessly, he retreated into his dark, moonlit room, grabbing a shirt and slipping it over his head while Hermione pretended not to watch the way his muscles rippled in the dim light. He bent to put on his shoes, grabbing his wand from his bed. He gestured for her to lead the way, and the pair made their way out of the common room and into the Room of Requirement, walking in complete silence.

Once the door had closed behind them and the candles lit on their own, he rounded on her, crowding her space.

“First rule of duelling,” he said professorially, “never turn your back.” With that, he got her in the back with a rather unsporting stinging jinx.

“Malfoy!” She yelped in indignation, aiming her wand between his eyes.

He just grinned at her, uncharacteristically boyish. His gaze travelled down to the grip she had on her wand, his brow cocking at the sight.

Self-consciously, she drew her hand back, lowering her wand a little.

“What?” She asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“The way you hold your wand,” Malfoy nodded at her, “it’s unusual.”

“Bad unusual?”

Malfoy hummed. “No, but unusual nonetheless. Who taught you that?”

“No one,” Hermione shook her head. “This is how I’ve always held it,” she uncrossed her arms, looking down at her right hand where it was curled around her wand. Toward the base, her thumb and forefinger were wrapped around the top curve, her other three fingers curled around the bottom.

“Most people wrap their four fingers around the bottom side, with just the thumb around the top,” Malfoy supplied. He raised his left arm, showing her the grip. “I’m not one hundred percent certain, but the way that you hold it makes for a more balanced grip, closer to equal force from both sides.” His brow was furrowed as if he was truly contemplating it, his long fingers moving to copy her hold.

“Interesting,” he mused. “Now, back to the principles of duelling,” he had adopted that know-it-all, professorial tone again.

Hermione groaned, knowing she was in for a long night.

Despite the many long nights that followed, Hermione was glad to put her mind to something that wasn’t school-related. Malfoy challenged her at every turn, pushing and poking and prodding at her and her magic until her emotions got the better of her and he won. Every damn time.

Chapter Text

March, 1999

She and Malfoy were sprawled across the stone floor a few meters from one another, chests heaving as they gasped for breath. That had been a particularly gruesome duel, both of them a little worse for wear. Hermione had actually gotten close to winning for the first time since their lessons began, her satisfaction written across her face in the form of a smirk.

She sat up onto her elbows, blowing her curls out of her face.

“Nicely done,” Malfoy told her, still lying flat on the ground. “That last Impedimenta was nasty work,” his tone was laced with exhaustion and approval.

She tried not to preen under his praise, swallowing the satisfaction she felt at his words. “Who taught you how to duel?” She had been meaning to ask since the first night, when he knocked her flat on her ass in five seconds. The way he held himself was a work of art from a clinical standpoint, the textbook definition of an expert duellist.

Malfoy cleared his throat, sitting up, his long legs splayed in front of him. “Bellatrix,” he said flatly.

“Oh,” Hermione murmured, mentally kicking herself for asking in the first place.

“Her methods were unconventional, but they worked,” he shrugged, wiping sweat from his pale brow. His white Oxford was slightly see-through, rumpled and smudged with dirt, some of the buttons missing entirely.

She couldn’t stop herself. “Unconventional how?”

He sighed as if he knew she would ask. “She’d Crucio me if I let her get a hit in,” he told her bluntly. “She’d grip my head in her hands so fiercely that I thought she’d break my jaw, her nails digging into my skin. She liked to feel the effects– the tremors, the muscle spasms, as she cast it.”

Hermione’s mouth was dry, stuffed with cotton, dread sluicing in her veins.

“It was very effective,” his lips were pulled down slightly, a far away look in his eyes.

“Thank you for teaching me,” Hermione told him sincerely, staring down at her lap.

Malfoy stiffened, his back going rigid, his hands clenched into fists. “Don’t ever thank me, Granger,” he said seriously.

She cocked her head to one side. “Why not?”

A cold laugh bubbled out of Malfoy. “Are you daft?” He glared at her. “I know we’ve recently built a tenuous alliance of sorts, but don’t forget that I spent years tormenting you and your friends. I put you in danger when I let the Death Eaters into the castle. I–” he paused, choking on his next words. “I stood and watched you get tortured by my aunt on my drawing room floor, and I didn’t do a single thing to try and stop it.” His voice was frigid, monotone.

Hermione gasped a little. So they were going to talk about this, she thought. She had assumed that he, being of the repressed Slytherin sort, would never address what happened that night with her for as long as he lived.

“Malfoy, you couldn’t have possibly–” Hermione began.

“Don’t, Granger,” he shook his head vehemently. “Don’t make excuses for my cowardice.” His stare was hard, his eyes flinty in the low light.

“Don’t interrupt me!” She argued, pushing to sit on her knees. “You couldn’t have done anything or it would’ve been you on the other end of Bellatrix’s wand,” she swallowed thickly, her stomach roiling at the thought of what Malfoy must’ve endured in his ancestral home. “You didn’t identify us and I know you recognized us, you aren’t a complete idiot,” she pointed at him.

He had gone so pale, so still sitting on the floor that he didn’t look quite real, more corporeal than tangible.

Malfoy’s voice was barely a whisper, “Please don’t.”

But Hermione was never one to back down once she had hit her stride. “You bought us time to get out,” she said matter-of-factly, “If you had identified us when the Snatchers brought us in, Voldemort would’ve been called immediately and we all would’ve been killed.” She called upon her Occlumency to soften the edges of her memories of that night. “You saved us,” she said finally.

She watched as a cruel, disgusted expression tore across Malfoy’s angular face as he opened his mouth to spit, “Don’t you dare tell me that I saved you, Granger.” His sneer contorted his beautiful features into something ugly. “I was a coward then, and I’m still a coward now. Don’t glorify that night, don’t make me into one of your heroes.” His tone was sharp. “All I cared about was myself and my mother. Anything I did, I did for her on the slim chance she would come out of the war unscathed. I did horrible things to ensure that she would be safe.” His head was bowed, his face obscured from view.

Hermione felt sufficiently chastened, knowing that she had pushed him too far– that this was a sensitive subject for the both of them.

“Malfoy, I–” she started.

“Granger, seriously do not say what I think you’re about to say,” he looked at her flatly. “Don’t ever thank me, and definitely don’t ever apologize to me,” he scoffed as though the mere thought disgusted him.

Hermione rolled her eyes at his dramaticism. “I wasn’t about to apologize,” she said slowly. “I was going to tell you that I understand,” she blinked away the memories.

Malfoy glanced sidelong at her. “No offense, Granger, but how could you understand?”

“The lengths you would go to protect the people you love– the ones you truly care about,” she shrugged. “I would do the same if it meant keeping those people safe.”

Slowly, Malfoy shook his head. “I don’t think you understand what I’m implying, Granger. I killed people that were a threat to my mother. I don’t regret it, either.” His eyes were haunted as he got caught up in his memories. “I’m fine on my own, I don’t need your platitudes.”

Hermione just nodded, scooting closer to him on the floor, their knees almost brushing.

“Being fine on your own doesn’t mean you’re fulfilled. It doesn’t mean you have to be alone.” She told him. “And I know,” she said steadily. “I did the same.” She admitted for the first time outloud.

Malfoy’s grey eyes blew wide in his shock, his mouth dropping slightly open. He pulled his head back as if to look at her from a different angle, an angle in which she was a murderer. He shook his head in disbelief, closing his mouth before opening it again. Blinking rapidly, he gawked at her as she sat next to him on the floor– her curls surely a mess, dirt smudged across one cheek, her uniform rumpled.

“It was Greyback,” she blurted, unsure of when she had begun to trust Malfoy to the point of confessing her secrets– the ones even her two best friends didn’t know. “During the final battle,” she added.

Realization dawned on Malfoy’s aristocratic features, his jaw snapping shut again, his face somehow growing even more pale. “That was you?” He asked breathlessly. “I saw it.”

Hermione choked on air at that. “What do you mean, you saw it?”

Malfoy was shaking his head back and forth now. “It was after the Room of Hidden Things,” he narrated, “After you lot got me and Goyle out, I doubled back and found Greyback being eviscerated,” he paused. “That’s not the right word for what was happening to him, flayed maybe? I watched from around a corner, but I never saw you.” He still sounded shocked, but there was definitely something in his tone that indicated he was impressed.

Hermione breathed deeply to gather her thoughts. “Yes, it was me,” she confirmed. “I was Disillusioned. We caught him–” she choked on the next words, “mauling Lavender Brown and I snapped. I Stunned him and then went back for him after convincing Harry and Ron to go ahead without me.”

Malfoy’s eyes were large as they stared at her, wondrous.

“I found him again and the first spell I could think of was a flaying curse. I had never used it before, of course, but I understood the gist of what would happen. I knew that there was no going back once I cast it, but I didn’t hesitate for a second.” She called upon the vengefulness, the rage she felt that day. “I watched as his skin peeled from his body, layer by layer. I watched him suffocate on his own mucous linings. I watched as he became nothing but a sad pile of bones,” her voice was deep, trance-like.

“Granger,” Malfoy said.

“Does that make me a bad person?” She asked him genuinely. “Does killing a deplorable man at the age of seventeen doom me for the rest of my life?”

Malfoy wore a pinched expression.

“The answer is no,” Hermione supplied, staring at him unwaveringly. “I did what I had to do during the war, same as you. So please, for the love of Merlin, stop pretending like you’re beyond redemption. Our friendship is living proof of that concept. It’s insulting that you won’t even consider it as such,” she sniffed haughtily at him.

Malfoy goggled at her, his breathing shallow. She stared at her lap, braced for him to be horrified at her brutal account of killing Greyback, prepared for him to be disgusted with her and scream vitriol at her, for him to tell everyone he knew that Hermione Granger, the Golden Girl, was actually a murderer with a penchant for violence.

But those reactions never came. Instead, Malfoy exhaled slowly through his nose, his body relaxing slightly. She glanced up at him, not sure what she would find in the margins of his expression.

Malfoy was suddenly looking at her like she had hung the moon. She fidgeted under the weight of his stare, not used to the intensity.

“What?” She asked defensively, suddenly insecure. Telling Malfoy something that nobody else knew was certainly going to bite her in the ass later.

Malfoy shook himself out of his stupor, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

“Nothing Granger,” he told her, laughing a little bit. “You’re just the most singular witch I’ve ever met.”

If she wasn’t mistaken, there was fondness in his tone, in the way that he looked at her.

It was exhilarating, and it terrified her.

— — —

March, 2005

It was risky to do in a semi-public space, but Hermione was confident that she could pull it off without a hitch. Disguised as the same blonde woman from her time in Amsterdam, she looped her arms around the man’s shoulders on the dancefloor, swaying her hips to the song playing overhead. She was attending a gala at the French Ministère des Affaires Magiques. Once she had heard that her next target was an invitee, she managed to lightly Confund a wizard on the planning committee into making sure she would be allowed entry at the doors.

The man leaned in, whispering something about taking her home, and she answered with a flirtatious giggle. The man’s hands traveled down the open-back of her midnight blue dress, his hands stopping just shy of the curve of her backside. She had to fight from tensing, her skin crawling at his possessive hold on her.

The song ended, and Hermione tittered that she needed to use the ladies’ room, sliding out from under his arms. The man chuckled, giving her a cheeky wink before he strode off toward the bar. As she turned away, Hermione rolled her eyes. She made sure that the crowd was dense around her before she surreptitiously cast a strong Confundus charm at the man’s retreating back, before she slipped further into the crowd.

Earlier that week, she had managed to plant false information that this man, a Louis-Michel Martin, was an undercover operative for France’s hidden Death Eater terrorist cell. Which, granted, was not far from the truth. During the war, Martin had gone undercover at Beauxbatons in order to recruit new Death Eaters to Voldemort’s cause. In doing so, he was able to grow their numbers significantly while undetected by both the French and British ministries. He was never officially apprehended for his deception, for accusing him of his crimes would look bad on the French ministry– having not caught onto his ruse or protected the students under his purview.

The information Hermione planted would later show authorities that Martin had planned and executed an attack on the ministry gala, detonating strategically-placed explosives throughout the ballroom and surrounding corridors, and finally ending in him blowing himself up once the job was complete. In order for her plan to work, Hermione did plant explosives, though they were engineered to look and sound much more damaging than they actually were, and they were placed in low-trafficked areas to avoid actual injury.

After using the restroom, Hermione made her way back into the grand ballroom– its walls a gilded gold with burgundy brocade drapes, pale marble floor polished within an inch of its life. She found her target by the bar, the Confundus charm making him glassy-eyed, his movements awkward, his limbs simultaneously loose and stiff as he sipped at his drink. She didn’t approach him, not wanting to be seen too close to him during the minutes before the explosions, but rather refreshed the Confundus charm before sinking into the man’s mind from a safe distance.

His Occlumency barriers were paltry, giving way with just a slight push from her expert Legilimency. She rifled through his memories, plunging deeper into his subconscious to find confirmation of his actions during the war. Under the Confundus and her Legilimency, his mind was left open and impressionable. Mind to mind she spoke to him, and it took little convincing for him to agree to cast a self-contained Bombarda on himself once he heard the sound of explosions echo throughout the massive space.

She pulled out his mind on a whisper, there and then gone. She plucked a champagne flute from a floating tray before moving to sit at one of the large, round tables. A couple sat across from her, the pair nodding slightly at her before turning back to their conversation. Hermione twisted her flute around on the rich cream tablecloth, counting her breaths until the explosives detonated.

Charmed to appear much worse, the ballroom was instantly engulfed in grey smoke and sound, the opulent sconces and chandeliers now hazy blobs in the gloom. Hermione startled and ducked for cover under the table, listening to the panicked screams of hundreds of party guests, her breath coming rapidly in her chest. She could hear rapid footsteps of those running for the exits, the sobs and shouts of peoples’ names. Thirty seconds later, another explosion sounded, though it was markedly different from the rest. The Bombarda. All of a sudden, the screams ratcheted higher again as a man became swallowed by his own flames, the smells of burnt flesh tingling the hairs in Hermione’s nose, causing it to wrinkle.

Minutes later and French Aurors were on scene, evacuating terrified gala-goers out of the ballroom and into the night air. Hermione kept her head down, her expression fearful as she was herded out, released onto the sidewalk.

An Auror took her statement, though there was nothing that she had seen that would have been useful to the investigation into what had happened that night. He thanked her for her help and sent her on her way.

Hermione turned on a stiletto heel, Apparating into the lobby of the hotel that she had splurged on for the occasion. She was greeted by the concierge, her black heels clicking against the dark marble floor as she made her way through the well-decorated space. Her blonde hair, still half-up in its elegant chignon, began to unravel in waves down her exposed back. She pressed the button for the private elevator that would lead up to her suite, hesitating when she felt a presence at her back.

Whipping around, she was shocked to find Malfoy, dressed to the nines in what looked to be a Muggle tuxedo.

“It’s you,” he said with a tone of finality.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said in a lilting French accent. “Do I know you?”

Malfoy looked terribly unimpressed. “Granger, I know it’s you,” he said again.

“You must be mistaken,” Hermione told him, stepping inside the elevator. “Goodbye,” she called as she pressed the button to close the doors.

Just as the golden doors were about to shut, a shiny black shoe jammed its way between them, forcing them to open again. Malfoy waited until the doors were fully open before joining her in her private elevator, uninvited.

“Cut the shite, Granger,” Malfoy muttered once they began moving. “That was you at that gala.”

Hermione began to sweat a little, her heartbeat rising at the accusation.

“I don’t know who this Granger is,” she demurred. “Now get out before I call security.”

Malfoy laughed, shrugging his shoulders. “Call them, then,” he told her. “I own this property,” he added with a wink. “I know you’re in there,” he dragged his grey eyes from head to toe, taking note of her honey blonde hair, her formal wear.

Hermione’s mouth dropped open, her cheeks beginning to heat.

The elevator dinged, its doors opening in a quiet hiss as the two were deposited into her private suite on the top floor of the hotel. Again, uninvited, Malfoy trailed out of the elevator after her, making a beeline for one of the dark green sofas in the sitting room.

Hermione, back turned to him, stared up at the ceiling while trying to control her breath. Clearly, he knew that it was her in disguise, but she had plausible deniability going for her for the rest of the night’s events.

She left him in the sitting room, padding into the bedroom to remove her heels and the glamours on her appearance. Back in her own body, she shrugged off the satin dress, replacing it with a plush dressing gown that went down to her knees. Sighing, she trudged back into the sitting room, eyeing Malfoy wearily as she sat on the couch opposite him.

“What are you doing here?” She asked him, tense.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied, “I saw you at the gala just now.”

Hermione shrugged her slim shoulders. “So? I was invited.”

Malfoy chuckled darkly. “Is that so? And what is it that an overworked attorney for the British Ministry has to do with a French fundraising event for a new hospital?”

“Unlike you, Malfoy,” Hermione bit out, “I have a heart that isn’t solely concerned with my own personal gain.” She glared at him.

He removed his suit jacket, draping it over the back of the couch before loosening his black tie. Damn him, she thought, how the fuck did he get his hands on a Muggle tux?

“That may be true,” Malfoy conceded, “but I know that’s not why you were there.” His gaze was penetrating, as if he could see right through her. “Do you want to know what I was doing at a dreadfully boring affair for a Ministry that I have no personal stake in?” He jeered.

Hermione pursed her lips. “I assume it’s because you’ve done something bad enough to be strong-armed into attending a Ministry function and throwing your Galleons at it,” she said drily.

Malfoy’s laugh was bitter as he moved to rest his forearms on his knees, leaning toward Hermione. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I was quite surprised to read Skeeter’s article in the Prophet back in December,” he looked her up and down.

“I don’t read her articles, so I’m not familiar with what you’re referencing,” she retorted hotly, ignoring the way his biceps flexed under his white dress shirt.

“Imagine my surprise when I was credited with seven murders that I did not commit,” he told her, his eyes intense on hers. “Now, I’ll admit to the one that made it onto the front page,” he leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee, ever the picture of casualness. “But those other seven?” He smirked at her. “I wondered who else could be capable of doing such a thing, undetected over and over again. I must admit that I hadn’t even considered you,” his mouth pulled into a slight frown. “But I guess that’s the point, right?” He gave her a knowing look. “You use your day job as a cover, nobody would question the great Hermione Granger’s after hours activities when your day job keeps you so damn busy,” he drawled, noting the way she fidgeted in her seat.

Hermione was gaping like a fish as she gawked at him. She hadn’t seriously spoken to him since Hogwarts, almost six years ago now. Sure, she had seen him around, moreso after Harry and Theo Nott had started dating, their friend groups inevitably mixing. But even so, she had kept her distance, and Malfoy wasn’t really the type to cry about it.

Hermione wasn’t entirely sure why she kept a healthy distance between her and Malfoy– it wasn’t like he had done anything in their last year of school to make her uncomfortable, quite the opposite actually. After all of their animosity as children, she realized that he was her perfect ideal of a NEWT study partner, able to keep up with her vigorous studying regiment with nary a complaint. If that wasn’t surprising enough, she found that he was genuinely a good instructor, first with Occlumency and then with duelling. His magic was malleable, adaptable in a way that spoke to his natural gift for it, and Hermione often found herself in awe at the easy way he maneuvered his power, in complete control. In all her years as a witch, she hadn’t met anybody capable of truly impressing her in the way that Malfoy did. To make matters worse, she found it easier to express herself fully when he was around. Unlike with Harry and Ron and the others, Malfoy’s eyes didn’t widen in concern when she expressed a dark thought or her dreams of getting revenge on those who were undeniably terrible to her. She felt…comfortable with him.

That feeling terrified her, and so she locked it up and hid it away as soon as they had said goodbye on the last day of term. She had avoided him ever since, and he had never reached out to her to find out why. They weren’t really friends after all, their own respective inner circles had no idea that they had grown close during their eighth year.

Now, it was painful and a bit surreal to observe him as if no time had passed, sitting in her hotel suite. The familiar way he drummed his fingers against his thigh, the same cologne he wore in school infiltrating her nose, the graceful planes of his cheekbones as they caught the light. She noted that he was broader and taller than he was at eighteen, his nose and chin less pointy than they had been in his youth. He looked healthy. That time in Hermione’s life– the one in which she had gotten to know Malfoy, seemed like it was both ages ago and like it was just yesterday.

She shook herself out of her reverie, training her eyes back on him.

“How’d you know?” She asked, wordlessly admitting her guilt.

“I know you,” he said simply, earnestly.

Her heart picked up speed, arguing, “No you don’t. We haven’t spoken in years.”

Malfoy just shook his head. “Don’t play dumb, Granger, it doesn’t suit you. I attended the gala with plans to murder Martin, but you got to him first.”

Hermione’s eyes were wide. “But how did you know that it was me? I was disguised.”

Malfoy waved her off. “Because, Granger, I know you. If you think six years apart has changed that, then you’re more obtuse than I originally thought,” his eyes travelled over her face.

“But–” she began to argue.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Your wand grip, Granger,” he said, “I was watching him dance with you before you parted ways. There was something familiar about the way you moved– fluid and light on your feet, but I couldn’t quite place it. Then, I saw you Confund him, and you’re the only one who holds your wand like that. That’s when I knew for sure. I just didn’t know what your plan was.” He laughed lightly. “Nice job though, with the explosives. Crafty.”

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat, wrapping the robe tighter around herself. Part of her was screaming at her to deny, deny, deny. But this was Malfoy, and he was right– he knew her, despite the time that had passed, the distance between them.

“What did you do after Hogwarts?” Hermione asked, trying to steer the conversation in a lighter direction.

Given the unimpressed expression on Malfoy’s face, he saw right through her, but humoured her nonetheless. “Hadn’t you heard? My father died in prison shortly after we graduated, so I became the new plummy Lord Malfoy,” he said with false cheer. “I spent my days resting on my laurels, drinking centuries-aged liquor and shooting partridges.”

“Very funny,” Hermione replied flatly.

Malfoy cleared his throat, shrugging. “I got bored,” he admitted. “I kept up with the arrests and convictions of Death Eaters by the DMLE– they’re shite at convicting them, by the way, please do tell Potter and Weasley that I said that,” he said smugly. “Anyway, what else is a bored, young aristocrat to do?”

Hermione was getting increasingly angry at his feigned casualness. “Malfoy, you kill people because you’re bored?” She scowled.

He waved her off again. “Simply put, but yes. But as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I only kill the bad guys,” he winked again. Hermione didn’t stand a chance. “Someone has been helping me take them out one by one, and I can’t say I wasn’t curious. It was merely a coincidence that you and I happened to go after the same man tonight.” He was grinning at her, clearly satisfied with himself for figuring it out.

Sighing, she replied, “Alright. You’ve said your piece. I trust that we can keep this between us, considering we both have information that could get the other thrown in Azkaban,” she said airily, flapping a hand. “You may go.” She thought that this dismissal was very mature of her, given that he wasn’t invited by her in the first place.

Disregarding her words, unsurprisingly, Malfoy held up a finger. “Oh no, Granger, I don’t think so.” He sighed as if he was inconvenienced by the situation, as if this conversation wasn’t completely his fault in the first place. “Do you realize how much danger you’re putting yourself in? Moonlighting as an assassin?” His voice was hard, clipped.

Her hackles raised at the condescension in his tone. “Don’t be daft, Malfoy. I managed to go a year undetected, until you came in and cocked it all up! If anybody’s in danger, it’s you. I’m a war heroine with a full-time, highly public job as a Ministry attorney. I have no free time to spend hunting down escaped baddies. What possible cover do you have? You aren’t exactly a model citizen.” Her eyebrows were furrowed, her arms crossed over her chest.

Malfoy laughed. “I may have taken the Mark at sixteen, but that was ages ago now,” he waved a hand flippantly. “Plus, I’m filthy rich,” he smirked. “You’d be surprised at how far my Galleons can go, at how they can be used to persuade people to forget or to look the other way.” He carded a hand through his hair. “Besides, there’s a lot of anti-Ministry sentiment going around lately, especially after Skeeter’s article. It’s not like the victims,” his lip curled in distaste at the word, “are upstanding members of society. Most people think they’d be better off dead, anyway,” he finished with a shrug.

“I suppose,” Hermione said, bouncing her foot. “Doesn’t mean you aren’t in danger.”

“Same goes for you,” he retorted, “Like you said, you’re a war heroine. If one of your targets were to get the jump on you, it’d probably start another bloody war.”

Hermione dismissed this line of thinking. “None of those gormless idiots could figure me out before I got to them. I’m not saying that just because I’m smarter than them. I have fail safes in place to ensure I remain undetected and invisible.”

“Fat load of shite that did you tonight,” Malfoy quipped.

“Oh, you don’t count. Plus, you were no closer to figuring out my identity and just happened to stumble upon it by chance and luck. I’m surprised you even remembered the way I hold my wand,” she laughed a little uncomfortably. As if she didn’t remember every little thing about him.

Malfoy sighed. “You’re just as stubborn as I remembered. But fine,” he leaned forward again. “I’ll give you everything I have on known Death Eaters and sympathizers.”

She shook her head vigorously. “I don’t want your help. Clearly, I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”

“All I want is for you to tell me, to give me a heads up, before you go after them,” he tells her. All in all, a reasonable request.

Nonetheless, she bristled. “You’re not my keeper, Malfoy. I don’t need you to keep tabs on me and my whereabouts. I’m fine.”

He waited patiently for her to finish before asking, “Is there anybody looking out for you?”

The question derailed her, completely throwing her off guard.

“O–of course,” she stammered. “Harry and Ron and–”

Malfoy shook his head, holding up a hand to stop her. “I mean really looking out for you. Yes I know Pot and Wheeze care for you, and your other Gryffindor pals do, too. But do you have anybody in your life who has picked up on your little side hobby? Anyone who might’ve noticed just how thin you’re spread?” He raised a brow at her silence. “I didn’t think so.”

“So what, you’re going to be that person?” She asked incredulously.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“No thanks,” she shook her head. “How many times do I have to tell you that I’m fine on my own? Get it through your thick skull, Malfoy.” She glared at him.

“Being fine on your own is not the same as being fulfilled,” he points out. “It doesn’t mean that you have to be alone. Some wise witch once taught me that.”

Hermione gaped at his use of her words from all those years ago, their roles now flipped. She cleared her throat, collecting herself. “Are you saying you want to be my friend?” She laughed a little. “That you want to be there when I tell you how I felt the life bleed out of one of my targets, banged up and bloody on the filthy floor?” Her expression was fierce, cruel.

“You don’t scare me, Granger,” he told her earnestly. “I know you feel the need around your friends to make yourself small, less intense. But I don’t care how disgusted you are with yourself at the brutal things you’ve done, you won’t get that same reaction from me. You’re more than what you can provide for others. You deserve to feel the things you feel. Just let me look out for you.”

He saw her for what she was– nothing more, nothing less. Not asking anything of her, always just waiting for her. There were traces of latent fondness, of genuine concern, sketched into the margins of his expression, his face stern. It left her unmoored.

Before she could dwell on it longer, she said. “Alright.”

Chapter Text

April, 1999

“What are your plans for after the term is over?” Hermione asked, running her hands through the fresh grass, watery sunlight dappling the field.

It was an unseasonably warm spring day, and while taking a walk along the Black Lake, she stumbled upon Malfoy, his back against a large oak, long legs splayed in front of him. Without ceremony, she conjured a red gingham picnic blanket, laying it down next to him and his discarded Slytherin cloak, sitting criss-cross. He grunted at her intrusion, not looking up from his textbook, but didn’t make an indication that she wasn’t welcome. She began pulling books and loose parchment out of her school bag, trying to ignore the way Malfoy looked at her from under pale lashes.

He chuckled, and her eyes darted to him.

“What now?” She asked.

“Does McGonagall know that you have an illegal extension charm on your bookbag? Better yet, does Shacklebolt?” His tone was amused.

“Sod off, Malfoy. It’s harmless.”

Malfoy tutted in mock-disapproval. “If only they could see you now,” he said wistfully. “Hermione Granger– the Golden Girl, turned into a rebellious rule breaker,” he grinned down at his textbook.

“Is that all?” She quipped, unimpressed as she scribbled on a bit of parchment. “I’m trying to study for Transfiguration.”

Malfoy shrugged. “Don’t let me stop you.”

She huffed, rolling her eyes at him.

Minutes passed in comfortable silence before Hermione broke it. “So, your after school plans?”

He hummed, flipping a page in his book with agonizing, deliberate slowness. “Guess.”

Hermione tapped her chin in dramatic contemplation. “What is it that filthy rich Purebloods get up to after finishing school?” She mused aloud. “Insider trading? Fulfilling a betrothal agreement and marrying a pretty, Pureblood witch? Embezzlement? Tax evasion? Bribing the Wizengamot to pass legislation that’ll make you even richer?”

Malfoy snorted. “Cheeky, but yes, ten points to Gryffindor. I’ll be off scaring some poor old sods on the Wizengamot in order to add to my generational wealth while my poor wife plans dinner parties at the Manor,” he drawled sarcastically. “Who could say no to a Malfoy?” He turned up the poshness of his already-posh accent to an insufferable degree.

“Prat,” Hermione muttered under her breath, but there was no real heat behind it.

“What about you?”

She was surprised that he cared to ask. “I don’t know, honestly,” she told him.

“I’m sure you have dozens of offers from just about every department of the Ministry,” he guessed.

Hermione nodded slightly. “That’s what makes it so difficult to choose.” She sighed, leaning back on her palms. “Although I’ll probably take up a position with the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

“At least you have the luxury of choice, Granger,” he pointed out.

She swallowed at the subtext of his words. “Do you ever think about what you would’ve become, if not for the war?” She asked suddenly, unable to help her curiosity.

Malfoy shut his book with a dull thud, his grey eyes piercing into hers, his body language suddenly tense. She immediately wished she could take her words back, rip them out of the now-thick air between them. He studied her, scrutinized her, was a more accurate term. She watched, frozen, as his gaze traveled from her hair– pulled back from her face, to her eyes– wide and unblinking like a deer caught in headlights, to her lips– pulled into a straight line.

His head bowed as he exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Honestly Granger, I never thought about it,” he admitted. “From as early as I can remember, my father dictated my life for me: finish Hogwarts at the top of my class, handle my own investments like my father before me, and his father before him.” He shrugged. “I would’ve done anything to please him when I was young.”

“But you never wanted more for yourself?” Hermione asked, her chest aching at the thought of Malfoy’s childhood, at what it must have been like.

Malfoy stared at her. “My own future, one free of my father’s influence, was a terrible thing to want. I couldn’t allow myself to imagine such things, especially not after Voldemort returned and holed up in my home,” he said bitterly. “‘Malfoys come out on top,’ my father always said. I’m sure you can imagine how he reacted during First Year when I had to tell him that a Muggleborn was beating me in every class.”

Hermione blushed. “I–” she began, but he held up a hand.

“You deserve every ounce of recognition, every top mark,” he told her, anticipating what she was about to say– that she wasn’t trying to intentionally spite him, at least not at first. “Your work ethic puts mine and the rest of our class to shame,” he laughed a little. “At first, I well and truly hated you. You were introduced to magic eleven years after me, and yet you outperformed me at every turn. I loathed you for what you were, and for what you were not.”

All Hermione could do was nod.

“It was during Fifth Year that I realized things were really about to go tits up,” he continued. “Voldemort was well and truly back, and there was no pretending otherwise anymore. It was then that I realized how little blood status really meant. Because really, I was fighting for my life and the life of my parents every day under the Dark Lord’s control, and we were supposed to be the good ones,” he curled his lip. “None of that blood purity shite mattered when he came calling. We were tortured all the same,” he said quietly, sighing. “From then on, I went through the motions– pretended that I still felt better than you and Potter and everyone else, but I didn’t believe in it. Mind you, I still came to that realization far too late, but by that point I had accepted the fact that I probably wasn’t going to come out of the war alive.” His voice had grown distant, his eyes unseeing.

“Malfoy,” she said quietly, resisting the urge to put her hand over his.

“It’s alright, Granger,” he replied. “I think I would have liked to get a Potions Mastery.”

Hermione smiled sadly. “You still could, you know.”

Malfoy shrugged a little, shaking his head. “I don’t think it’s in the cards for me.” He opened his book to where he had left off. “Even with my father in prison for the rest of his life, there are still expectations of a Malfoy heir that I need to fulfil.”

With that, he was reabsorbed into his studies, his white blond hair gleaming in the weak Scottish sunlight.

— — —

April, 2005

Ginny’s disembodied head was poking through Hermione’s living room Floo, eyeing her with a healthy dose of skepticism.

“What have you been up to?” Ginny prodded, her tone disarmingly casual.

Sighing, Hermione knelt by the fireplace. “Nothing, Gin, I’ve been busy with work.”

“Ah, work,” Ginny nodded. “How could I forget?”

“How’s the team?” Hermione asked. Ginny was the newly-appointed captain of the Holyhead Harpies, a role that had the youngest Weasley often physically absent from Hermione’s life.

“Bah,” Ginny waved away the question. “I won’t bore you, but the season’s going well,” she said. “Pansy hasn’t made too much of a fuss, what with the bogs and marshes in Wales. I honestly thought she’d be worse about it, our cottage isn’t exactly the ancestral manor type.”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile at the casual way that Ginny spoke about her girlfriend.

“Speaking of,” Ginny adds, “Pansy tells me that you ran into Malfoy on New Year’s?” Her gaze was cunning. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Gin, what’s there to tell?” Hermione asked, slightly exasperated.

“Oh I don’t know,” Ginny mused, “He’s single, though,” she added unhelpfully.

Hermione ignored the way her stomach flipped. “I don’t see how that’s relevant,” she frowned.

“Come off it, Hermione, he’s right fit!” Ginny was shouting a little now. “You’ve been single for way too long, and you’re always so busy with work!”

“Right, Gin, so how would I have time for a relationship?” Hermione argued.

Ginny tutted at her. “I didn’t say you had to marry the bloke,” she shook her head. “A proper shag or two could do you some good, I think.” Her grin was devilish as she eyed Hermione’s blushing face.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” Hermione said slowly, keeping her voice level. “But Malfoy and I haven’t spoken in years. We weren’t even friends then!” She cried.

Obviously, she was lying on both fronts, but Ginny certainly didn’t have to know that.

“I dunno, Hermione,” Ginny replied, “From what I heard, you and Malfoy definitely got chummy during your last year at Hogwarts. Are you sure you haven’t already jumped him?” She cackled.

“Ginny!” Hermione screeched. “You’re the worst.”

“Oh, lighten up!” Ginny tried to rein in her laughter for Hermione’s sake. “I’m just teasing. But seriously, a blind person could see how attractive that man has become. It’s unfair, honestly. He’s already disgustingly rich, couldn’t he at least have something like male pattern baldness?” She guffawed.

Hermione joined in, laughing at the thought. “Alright yes, he’s handsome,” Hermione rolled her eyes at Ginny’s squeal of delight. “But that doesn’t mean anything to me!” She added with haste. “We were friendly during our last year at school, yes, but I truly haven’t seen him in years. We don’t share any common interests.” Another lie, Hermione thought, thinking of their tenuous alliance.

“Alright, alright,” Ginny conceded. “I have to go, but you’ll come visit won’t you?”

Hermione was poised to shoot down this idea immediately, but Ginny added, “I miss my best friend,” and Hermione was a goner.

“Okay, Gin,” Hermione agreed. “Maybe next month?”

Ginny squealed again, clapping her hands together before blowing air kisses, ending the Floo call.

— — —

May, 2005

As soon as her Portkey arrived in Wales, Hermione regretted her decision to finally visit Ginny. The rain was coming down at an angle, its temperature positively frigid, soaking Hermione to the bone within seconds despite her rain repellant charm. Her boots squelched in the muddy earth, taking more effort to unstick than Hermione would like as she trudged up the small hill.

Alright, so her visit to Wales wasn’t only for Ginny. Based on Malfoy’s research that he had shared with her, a lesser-known Death Eater was living in the area. She would head there first. The rain only got worse as she walked on, her hair sticking to her face in a thick, dark sheet. She was Polyjuiced again, this time as a Muggle woman with short black hair, pale skin, and eyes so dark brown they appeared black. Malfoy’s voice, asking her to give him a head’s up whenever she went after another criminal, rang in the back of her mind. Tough shite, she thought.

She made her way up the slick cobblestone street, sparsely populated with dilapidated cabins that reminded her of the Shrieking Shack. The wind howled through the dense trees, rain pounding against the leaves, the sky a dark, swirling grey.

“What do you think you’re doing?” An all too-familiar voice drawled from her left.

She whipped around, squinting through the rain. “Malfoy,” she growled, her teeth clenched. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Funny, I thought I asked you to give me a heads up anytime you were going on one of your extracurricular activities,” he approached, falling into step beside her. “Or did you forget?”

She stopped, turning to him with a displeased expression. “Go away, you’re only going to make this more difficult for me,” she told him, frustrated. “How did you even know I was here?”

He shrugged, his broad shoulders covered by a thick black overcoat. Even in the rain, he looked perfectly composed, not a single drop on him. She hated him for it.

“I know you,” he repeated. “Plus, I had a feeling you wouldn’t keep your word and tell me before going after one of these scumbags,” he glanced in the direction of the cabin she was making her way towards.

“Ugh,” she groaned in frustration. “I need to do this.”

He smiled at her knowingly. “I’m not here to stop you,” he reassured her, gesturing for her to continue on her merry way. “I merely want to stay close by as you do what you need to do.” He gave her a tight-lipped smile.

Hermione cast a Tempus, noting that she was behind schedule. She didn’t have time to spar with him for the hundredth time. “Fine,” she ground out, spluttering as her chin-length hair got in her mouth. “Just stay out of sight,” she commanded.

She didn’t wait to see if he was following after her, her steps determined and purposeful as she approached the cabin at the end of the road. A single light was on in one of the front rooms, confirming the man’s presence inside.

Her pale knuckles rapped on the door, a confused, scared expression pasted on her face.

“Excuse me?” She asked when the man opened the door a crack. “I’m terribly sorry, but my Portkey dropped me off in the wrong place. Do you have a Floo that I can use to call my friend? They’re expecting me at their house for dinner soon, but this storm won’t let up!” She worried her bottom lip.

The man took in her bedraggled state, black hair plastered to her face, outer robes soaking wet. He nodded once before stepping aside to let her into the cabin, shutting the door against the storm.

“Thank you, sir,” she nodded her head in gratitude.

He led her into his small living room to the Floo, pointing to the pot of Floo powder on the mantel, before shuffling away. She set to work, pulling out her beaded bag to grab her wand, summoning a pouch of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, throwing it into the air before the man could so much as blink.

Under the cover of darkness, Hermione knocked the man unconscious, methodically restraining him against the back of his sofa with practiced ease. She would make this one quick– the last thing she wanted was for Malfoy to barge in, criticizing her technique or something, like he had done in years past.

She vanished the powder with her wand, taking in the man’s thin face and sallow complexion, his head lolled to one side. She Rennervated him, not waiting for him to fully regain consciousness before she shoved her gun under his chin, the cool metal glinting in the storm light.

Unlike the other man she had shot, this man clearly knew what the weapon was, squirming away from it with all his might. She leaned in close, dragging it through his stubble, taking measured breaths.

“Please don’t,” were the man’s last words.

The safety clicked off. She fired a single shot, bits of brain matter and bone spraying in all directions.

It was then that Malfoy entered through the front door as if he owned the place, a jaunty sort of spring in his step. His eyes flitted from her, blood splattered across her face, to the man she had just killed, his face now indecipherable.

She was furious. “What part of ‘stay out of sight’ did you not understand?”

Malfoy’s dragonhide shoes clicked against the floor as he rounded the sofa. He bent at the waist slightly, peering down at the corpse.

“Well, I don’t have to be branded as the ‘Brightest Witch of her Age’ to ascertain that this man can’t see anything,” he drawled sardonically, wrinkling his nose at the gory sight.

“Get out!” Hermione shouted, chest heaving.

Though she had killed before, and though Malfoy obviously knew about it, she didn’t like having witnesses to her particular brand of depravity. It made her squeamish, her body alight with nerves, watching Malfoy keenly observe her handiwork as if it were just another day.

“Clean up,” he told her, and she scoffed.

“Really? I was just going to leave him here,” she snarled.

“I’ll be outside,” he said calmly, ignoring her animosity.

Left alone again, Hermione went through the same routine– flaying curse, Fiendfyre, cleaning spells. Once she was satisfied with the state of the cabin, she exited through the front door. True to his word, Malfoy was taking cover from the storm under a giant tree, his stark white hair sticking out against the gloomy backdrop of the forest.

“All done?” He asked, his tone light and airy, despite what he had just seen.

“What are you doing here?” She asked again, trudging back down the hill in the direction of the town.

“Following you, isn’t that rather obvious?” He replied as he fell into step by her side.

“Well, you can leave now. I did what I came here to do,” she frowned as he continued walking next to her.

“But that’s not all you came to Wales for,” Malfoy prodded. “You’re off to see the Weaslette.”

She stopped, tilting her head up at the sky as if to ask the world, Why me?

“So what? Bugger off, Malfoy.”

Malfoy laughed at her hostility. “It just so happens that I’m here to visit my dear friend, Pansy.”

“Does Pansy know that you’re coming?” Hermione asked, unimpressed with this excuse.

Malfoy shook his head, his strides confident as he picked his way across the muddy terrain. “I’m always welcome in her home,” he smiled boyishly at her.

“Prat,” she muttered.

Malfoy’s taller frame led the way, about a fifteen minute walk, downright miserable in the rain. Hermione clomped behind him slowly, annoyed at the day’s turn of events. She couldn’t wait for Ginny’s inevitable interrogation once she and Malfoy arrived together. How was she going to explain the coincidence of his presence without giving herself away?

The two came upon a brightly lit, modest-sized cottage, situated in the middle of the village. Its exterior was made out of round grey stones, the roof a dark slope, a chimney puffing smoke into the stormy air. There was a well-kept garden out front, a variety of herbs and flowers bursting up the drive.

Hermione envied the quietude that the cottage exemplified.

This quiet was broken by Malfoy’s fist rapping against the dark wooden door. Hermione stood behind him, frowning at his broad back.

Ginny answered the door, clad in a worn jumper and pajama pants. “Malfoy?” She asked, ginger brows disappearing into her fringe.

She peered around him to find Hermione, no longer disguised, but still just as soaked.

“Hermione!” Ginny greeted, stepping out onto the porch to throw her strong arms around her friend. “It’s so good to see you,” she said, pulling back to take in Hermione’s face. “Come in and get out of the rain!” She tugged on Hermione’s hand, eyeing Malfoy. “You too, I guess,” she shrugged. “Pansy!” She called into the house.

Hermione shook Ginny off in the entryway, shucking off her outer layers that were dripping wet. She removed her rain boots, wincing at the chill in her bones, at the way her hair dripped rainwater onto the plush rug.

“Draco?” Pansy rounded the corner, looking like she had just stepped out of a fashion ad in Witch Weekly, clad in a tailored black pantsuit and ballet flats, her onyx hair sleek and pinned away from her angular face. “Granger,” she nodded.

“Pans,” Malfoy greeted his friend warmly, striding forward to envelop her in a hug, chin resting atop her head.

“What are you doing here, darling?” Pansy asked, voice muffled in his chest.

“Granger and I were in the area,” Malfoy told her, winking at Hermione from over Pansy’s head. Ginny was goggling at her, her blue eyes wide as dinner plates.

“Er–” Hermione started, “I ran into him on the way here, actually.” She blushed, fidgeting under the intense weight of Ginny’s stare.

“Right,” Ginny said skeptically. “Well, let’s get you both something to eat, yeah?”

With that, she channeled her inner Molly Weasley, bustling into the kitchen and setting her cooking spells with efficiency. Hermione just sighed, following her friend into the kitchen, Pansy and Malfoy still catching up in the foyer.

At the sound of Hermione’s approaching footsteps, Ginny turned from her place at the stove to give her a flat look.

“Really?” Ginny asked. “You haven’t spoken in years?”

“I can explain,” Hermione raised her hands. “I seriously had no idea he’d be in the area. I swear!” She pleaded with her friend to believe her.

“Mmm,” Ginny stirred a pot on the stove, its delicious aroma making Hermione’s mouth water. “I might not be as smart as you, but I’m not that obtuse.”

“Ginny!” Hermione cried, exasperated. “I– we– we aren’t here together,” she emphasized. “We ran into each other in the village and he insisted he was here to see Pansy,” she whispered with urgency, making sure the other two people were still out of earshot. “I couldn’t exactly convince him to come back later!”

Ginny nodded, her long red hair glinting. “I get it, Hermione,” she soothed. “The point still stands though,” her grin became devilish. “He’s proper fit! I haven’t seen him in person much, but Merlin, I can’t believe he’s single. If I weren’t a lesbian,” she trailed off, slightly wistful.

“You’re the worst,” Hermione groaned, shoving her friend.

“I’m flattered, Ginevra,” Malfoy said from the entryway to the kitchen. “But I don’t think Pansy likes to share,” he playfully nudged at Pansy’s shoulder, her crimson lips pursed.

“Quite right,” Pansy turned up her nose at him, padding further into the kitchen to drape her lithe body like a cat around Ginny’s athletic frame, her manicured fingernails drumming against Ginny’s stomach. “What brings you to Wales?” She asked, directed at Malfoy.

“I had some business to attend to,” Malfoy said cryptically, glancing at Hermione.

She had to fight against the scoff she wanted so desperately to let out.

“Extorting a new victim, Malfoy?” Ginny asked from over her shoulder.

Hermione barked a laugh as he replied, “Something like that.”

“And you just happened to stumble upon Hermione?” Ginny’s tone was deceptively casual as she whipped together a meal, pots and pans whizzing around the cozy kitchen.

Pansy moved from Ginny’s side to pull a bottle of wine, uncorking it with a pop! Hermione moved to grab four wine glasses, grateful for the distraction. She set them on the worktop, letting Pansy pour a generous amount into each glass before grabbing one and taking a healthy sip.

“Please, sit,” Pansy told her, formal in a Pureblood way despite the humble abode, as she gestured toward the oak dining room table.

Hermione did as she was told, Malfoy moving to sit next to her, her body tensing as his cologne washed over her senses.

“I had just finished up and was going to grab a quick bite to eat,” Malfoy lied, “I saw Granger, I’d recognize her curls anywhere, even when soaking wet,” he sent another wink her way, causing her to blush furiously. “She told me she was here to visit, so I figured I’d tag along. Granger didn’t mind,” he smiled slowly at her, his eyes sparkling as he goaded her to contradict him.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, hard, in order to keep her composure. Luckily, Ginny was still occupied with cooking, so she couldn’t see the blush written across her features. Pansy, however, from her seat across the table, looked at her as if she could see right through the lie.

“Thank you for having us,” Hermione directed at Pansy, dipping her chin.

Pansy waved a manicured hand. “Of course,” she said lightly, “You’re both always welcome,” her green eyes flitted to Malfoy. “I wasn’t aware that you two kept in contact after Hogwarts,” she added casually.

“We don’t,” Hermione began to shake her head.

“Rude, Granger,” Malfoy teased from her left, sipping his wine.

“It’s true,” Hermione bit back, glaring at him and his smirk.

Pansy’s grin was positively feline as she watched them fall into their old habit of bickering over the most inconsequential things.

“You know, Hermione,” Pansy interrupted their staring contest, “Draco has kept me apprised of all the legislation you’ve passed since working at the Ministry.”

It was Malfoy’s turn to blush as he scowled at his childhood friend.

“Er– that’s nice,” Hermione tried politely. Malfoy kept up with her day job?

“I thought so, too,” Pansy’s hand was wrapped delicately around the stem of her glass.

“Pansy,” Malfoy’s voice was low in warning.

Hermione’s eyes flitted between the two Slytherins as they had a silent conversation across the table, both sets of eyes intense on one another.

Pansy sighed a little, seemingly having lost their wordless argument.

Before anyone could say anything more, Ginny– bless her, levitated dinner– roast chicken, sauteed vegetables, and soft dinner rolls– over to the dining table, plunking herself down to Pansy’s right with little ceremony.

“Let’s eat,” Ginny said, smiling at Hermione. The glint in her blue eyes promised an interrogation later.

Hermione groaned internally before picking up her fork, digging into the meal laid out before her. She ignored the way that Malfoy ate his food, his manners perfect as he held his cutlery as if he was born to do just that.

She complimented Ginny on her wonderful cooking, Ginny waving her off. Hermione finished her dinner roll, and before she could open her mouth to ask Malfoy to pass the dish for another one, he had deposited one on her plate without so much as a glance at her, his fork clinking against his plate.

Her mouth dropped open before she snapped it shut, staring intently at her plate as Ginny gawked at her from across the table. Pansy just laughed sharply, patting a hand on Ginny’s thigh.

The rest of the dinner passed in somewhat stilted silence, the intermittent conversation mostly shared between the three women, Malfoy surprisingly subdued as they bounced from topic to topic. The four of them drained the first wine bottle, Pansy uncorking a second one without a thought, their tongues loosening with every glass they drank.

“So, Malfoy,” Ginny leered at him from across the table, freckled cheeks flushed from the wine. “Why haven’t you gotten married yet?” She laughed, hiccuping a little.

“Really subtle, Gin,” Hermione grumbled.

Malfoy seemed amused by her question. “Is that an offer, Weaslette?”

Ginny barked a laugh, looping her arm around Pansy’s slim shoulders. “Are you really so desperate, Malfoy?”

Malfoy pretended to contemplate this. “And if I was?” He drawled, smirking at the redhead.

“Then I’d tell you Hermione’s a witch of eligible marrying age,” Ginny replied, a wicked grin splashed across her face.

Hermione choked on her sip of wine, leaning forward over the table as she gasped for breath, her face red as a tomato.

Malfoy laughed to her left. “I don’t know, Ginevra. I don’t think she likes me very much,” his eyes glittered as he looked at Hermione.

“I think she likes you just fine,” Ginny told him sincerely.

He perked up at this. “Has she told you so?”

Before Ginny could reply, Hermione interjected, “I’m right here.”

Ginny flapped a hand in the air. “She’s like that with everybody,” she dismissed.

“Like what?” Hermione ground out between clenched teeth, her cheeks still on fire.

Ginny made a gesture toward Hermione, shrugging her shoulders. “Prickly,” she said.

Hermione bristled, glaring at her best friend. “I swear to God, Ginny,” she growled.

“Darling,” Pansy interrupted, hand on Ginny’s face, “Help me with the dessert?” She glanced meaningfully at the kitchen.

“Of course,” Ginny practically beamed, standing up and dragging Pansy behind her through the kitchen doors, out of sight.

Subtle, Hermione thought darkly.

“So you do like me?” Malfoy asked as soon as the couple had left.

She whipped to face him. “You think this is funny?” She asked, incredulous. “You aren’t even supposed to be here!” She crossed her arms over her chest, huffing.

“Well, if you had kept your word,” Malfoy began, “then I wouldn’t be here,” he pointed out.

Hermione’s eye twitched. “I didn’t ask you to follow me to some tiny Welsh village, Malfoy,” she sneered. “Everything was fine until you showed up!” Her stare was hard, unforgiving.

Malfoy looked completely at ease, sitting at the dining room table in a dark green jumper and black trousers. “In exchange for my information, I simply asked you to keep me informed of your whereabouts whenever you go on your little excursions,” he raised a brow at her. “It’s not my fault that you couldn’t hold up your end of the deal.” He rested an elbow on the table, turning in his seat to stare directly at her. “So, here I am,” he splayed his arms wide.

“In what part of the deal did you tell me you’d follow me everywhere like a dog?” Hermione argued, puffing out her cheeks. She tore her dinner roll into tiny pieces, letting them fall to her empty plate.

“The part in which your life is in danger and you agreed to let me look out for you,” he said earnestly.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’m fine, Malfoy. I don’t need you hovering over my shoulder.”

“That may be so,” Malfoy conceded, thinking about the trail of bodies she’s left in her wake thus far. “But I want you to humor me, anyway.”

“Why should I?”

“Hmm,” he considered, “because I’m the bored Lord of Malfoy Manor with infinite time on my hands? Because I have nothing better to do with my grey morals than watch you rip men twice your size apart?” He had leaned closer to her at some point, his breath ghosting across her face. “Take your pick,” he whispered, staring at her downturned lips.

“You’re the worst,” Hermione retorted, pushing her chair back from the table and standing, trying to put as much distance between them as she could. “I don’t see why you have to insert yourself into my life at every opportunity,” her face was strained.

“You’re the Brightest Witch of Your Age, Granger,” he stood from his seat as well, peering down his nose at her. His quicksilver eyes were rolling with emotions Hermione couldn’t begin to decipher. “You do the math.”

With that, he was striding into the kitchen on a wave of spice and citrus, loudly giving his goodbyes and thanks to the two hostesses. Hermione heard the front door of the cottage click shut, releasing a breath and some of the tension from her shoulders. She mechanically began clearing the table, walking the dishes into the kitchen where Ginny and Pansy stood, both wearing identical smirks.

Hermione just groaned, fighting a blush as she began washing the dishes the Muggle way, grateful for the distraction.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook,” Ginny said by way of a goodbye as the two stood on her front porch, yawning. The two had been up late into the night catching up on their lives. Hermione was lucky that Ginny could tell she wouldn’t get anything out of her at present, the younger girl wisely not bringing up Malfoy. “We’ll be in touch,” she kissed Hermione on both cheeks, waving as she shut the door.

Hermione stared up at the now cloudless night sky, a sea of endless stars above her as she contemplated changing her identity and moving to another country, lest Ginny make good on her promise.

Chapter Text

May 2, 1999

Hermione could hardly believe that a year had passed since the final battle at Hogwarts. The atmosphere in the Great Hall was somber, the students and staff gathered for McGonagall’s speech sitting quietly along their House benches. The first years were too young to have witnessed the atrocities committed on the Hogwarts grounds, in contrast to the seventh and eighth years who wore tense, haunted expressions, remembering too much of what had happened here, just one year ago today.

Headmistress McGonagall stood at the staff dining table, surrounded by the other faculty, resplendent in rich purple robes. She cleared her throat, waiting for the students to quiet down before beginning her address. Her amplified voice rang clear, authoritative, and crisp throughout the Great Hall, holding the attention of the hundreds of students and staff gathered.

“Today marks the one year anniversary of one of the darkest events in Wizarding history,” McGonagall began, her piercing gaze flitting over the crowd. “It was here, on these very grounds, that Voldemort tried and failed to turn the Wizarding World away from the light and into the dark,” she paused as some staff and students winced at her use of Voldemort’s given name. “It was here that many brave witches and wizards stood their ground to defend their school against Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and it was here that many of these courageous souls lost their lives.” McGonagall’s tone was grave, her eyes downcast. “We will never forget the atrocities of the war– the effects that it has had and will continue to have on us as individuals and as a society. There is no undoing the damage that was done, there is no bringing back the lives that were taken from this world too soon.” The headmistress was misty-eyed, her voice thick with emotion. “Nonetheless,” she cleared her throat, “It would be a great disservice to the fallen and to all of you who carry their memories with you to not acknowledge what happened here, to not recognize the immense acts of bravery that you all demonstrated one year ago. As an educator tasked with training the next generation of witches and wizards, I deeply regret not doing more to keep my students protected from Voldemort and his hateful ideologies, his egregious acts of violence upon those he perceived as lesser than. You were all too young to have faced what you were forced to face,” McGonagall did look genuinely regretful, her head bowed.

“Nevertheless, I can confidently say that we are ushering in a new era of peace in this world, an era spearheaded by the determined, unwavering bravery that you all have exemplified. I am proud to be standing here before you all today. I commend and respect your courage, your dedication to creating a better world. We cannot go back in time to undo the actions of Voldemort and his men, but we will never go back to living in terror of him, either. I am honored to stand before you today, and I am proud to call the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry my home. To old friends and new beginnings. Thank you for being here.”

Thunderous applause met the conclusion of Headmistress McGonagall’s speech, many students and staff wiping tears from their eyes at the poignancy of her words. Hermione sat between Neville and Padma at the Gryffindor table, the three of them with their arms around one another, not saying anything to one another but not needing to, either.

A feast appeared along the House tables, a commemoration for the fallen and a celebration of this new, safer world. The mood in the Great Hall transformed after McGonagall’s speech into something lighter, more hopeful. Hermione was glad to bear witness to this change, determined to do more for the Wizarding world when the term was over and she joined the Ministry.

She stayed silent as Neville and Padma began filling up her plate with various breakfast dishes, Neville filling her goblet with pumpkin juice. The snippets of conversation that Hermione could hear were lighthearted, her fellow Gryffindors skirting around the more difficult topics, not wanting to bring the mood down.

Hermione sipped at her pumpkin juice, nibbling on a slice of buttered toast, when the conversation around her died down. She looked up from her place at the table to see Malfoy striding in her direction, looking confident and self-assured as he did so. She froze at the way his eyes were locked on her, Padma nudging her hard in the ribs.

“Ouch,” she mumbled, shooting Padma a hard stare. Padma just shrugged, eyes trained on Malfoy.

“Granger,” Malfoy called when he was in range, “A moment?” He stood, his book bag slung over one shoulder, his outer robes pressed and his hair perfectly styled.

Hermione had half a mind to say no. Had he lost his mind, approaching the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall at breakfast time, when it was the most crowded?

She stared at him openly, her refusal on the tip of her tongue, when Padma elbowed her in the ribs for a second time, causing Hermione to wince, rubbing at the sore spot.

“She’s all yours,” Padma answered for her, her almond eyes looking at Malfoy as if she had never seen him before.

The Ravenclaw girl practically shoved Hermione unceremoniously out of her seat, handing her her school bag with a pointed look that Hermione couldn’t make sense of.

“But I was in the middle of–” Hermione began, pointing down to her unfinished plate.

Padma just shook her head, her thick dark hair buffeting around her face.

Hermione rolled her eyes at the vaulted ceiling before turning toward Malfoy with an unimpressed expression. He smiled beatifically down at her, as if his interruption of her breakfast was a normal occurrence. He inclined his head, then pivoted in the opposite direction, his long strides eating up the distance between the Great Hall and the attached corridor. Hermione, stood frozen for another moment, had to hustle to catch up to him.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” She said at his back as he pushed the heavy doors open.

He didn’t slow down or turn, ignoring her question completely.

“Tell me, or I’m not going any further,” she told him petulantly, stopping her efforts to keep up with his brisk pace.

Malfoy stopped a few meters ahead in the deserted corridor, the students and staff still attending the Remembrance Day feast. She heard him sigh audibly, as if he was exasperated with her. The audacity, she thought darkly to herself.

He faced her, his lips pursed as he debated how much to divulge while still out in the open. “Don’t worry, Granger, it’s nothing bad,” he said cryptically as he pivoted again, continuing down the hall.

Hermione was well and truly annoyed now at his avoidance of her, despite his actions that brought them here in the first place. She jogged to catch up with him, her shoes slapping against the stone floor.

Without thinking, she grabbed him by the shoulder, wrenching him around to face her again. The physical contact sent a jolt through her body, his robes wrinkling in her tight grasp. His eyes were blown wide, his brows furrowed as he stared down at the unwelcome hand on his shoulder.

Quickly, she drew her hand back, folding her arms across her midsection defensively. The last time, the only time, she had remembered purposefully touching him before was in Third Year when she punched him in the face. She tucked away the memory, lest something on her face give her away and provoke him further. Even in their months of practicing Occlumency and duelling, they had been careful not to make physical contact, for reasons unknown to her aside from politeness.

“Not here, Granger,” Malfoy told her, glancing furtively around the hallway.

She fought the urge to stomp her foot at his reticence.

Sensing her frustration, he implored, “Just trust me.” His features were serious, grave in a way she hadn’t seen on him since the war. It was his expression, so vulnerable and small, that made Hermione give in.

She nodded at him, gesturing for him to continue on his crusade through the castle halls. Without another word, she trailed behind him, wondering what in the world had gotten into him this morning. Despite his acquaintance with her, he still kept his emotions hidden from her, playing to his strengths as a Slytherin, much to her own detriment and confusion. During the school year, Malfoy had opened up to her in some ways, but closed himself off in many others, leaving Hermione guessing as to what his motives with her truly were.

Malfoy stopped suddenly at a tapestry, Hermione nearly slamming into his back at his abrupt halt. She teetered forward on her toes, narrowly avoiding bumping into him. He pulled the navy blue fabric out of the way, revealing a large bay window that she didn’t know existed, the space outfitted with plush cushions and pillows.

“What’s this?” She asked, peeking from around his shoulder.

“What’s it look like?” Malfoy quipped, though he didn’t sound genuinely annoyed.

She rolled her eyes, now familiar with his flair for the dramatic, for his standoffishness.

“Fine,” she amended, “Why did you bring me here?” The window overlooked the Black Lake, glittering in the spring sunlight.

Malfoy shuffled his feet in a rare display of nervousness, his left hand wrapped around the strap of his leather school bag. Hermione pretended not to notice his hesitance, eyes focused instead on looking out the window.

After another beat, Malfoy cleared his throat, inhaling softly. “I have something that I wanted to give you.”

She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that.

“Give me?” She parroted, brows furrowing.

Malfoy nodded stiffly, eyes on the floor. “Do you remember back in January, when you mastered Occlumency?” He asked, moving to perch lightly on the edge of the window seat.

Hermione eyed him warily before doing the same, nodding, unsure of where this conversation was going.

“Do you remember what you told me that day, in the Room of Requirement?”

She tried her best to recall, but drew a blank. She shook her head. “Should I?”

Malfoy continued, “No, I suppose not. You mentioned that you Obliviated your parents.”

She exhaled suddenly, fighting against the whirlwind of memories she had of them. “Yes, I remember now,” she said, her voice soft.

Malfoy nodded. “The Manor library has some very rare texts,” he continued.

“I’m not sure that I follow.”

He cleared his throat again, scuffing his shoe against the floor. “Memory charms, as I’m sure you know, are a tricky bit of magic. The caster has to be completely confident in their intent, or the charm won’t work properly,” he explained as if reciting from a textbook.

She nodded dumbly, still confused.

“They are often irreversible, if performed correctly.”

“Right,” Hermione said slowly, her brows creeping toward her hairline.

“I assume you performed them correctly,” he stated.

Hermione grew increasingly confused. “Malfoy, what are you talking about?”

“Sorry,” Malfoy sighed. “I’m shite at this.”

“Shite at what exactly?” Hermione asked, on edge.

Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling. “What I’m trying and miserably failing to articulate is that the library at the Manor has ancient texts on memory charm reversal,” he said in a rush, blinking hard.

The alcove was silent as the two of them sat there, close enough to touch but not crossing that line. Hermione’s mind was whirring as she tried to connect the dots, unsure if she was really understanding what he was telling her.

“Okay,” she said slowly, “I’m happy for you?”

Malfoy wore a pinched expression. “The books,” he gestured to his bag. “They’re yours.” He began pulling them out of his bag, each tome looking older than the previous, all bound in dark, aged leather. “I’ve also written down the contact information for a Healer in America– she’s the leading expert in maladies related to memory and the mind. I’ve briefed her on your parents’ unique situation, and she’s more than willing to take on their case.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open, realization finally dawning.

“I–” she began to refuse, “I can’t accept those. They’re priceless,” she scooted away from him on the seat. “This is too much,” she fought from crying in front of him.

Malfoy just shook his head, thrusting the books at her with determination. “I have no use for them,” he shrugged, as if giving away priceless, fourteenth century texts was part of his everyday routine. “The Healer is a family friend,” he added quickly, slightly panicked.

“Malfoy I–” she fought the emotions that threatened to spill over the walls of her Occlumency.

He held out a pale hand to stop her. “Remember what I said?” His stare was unimpressed. “Don’t ever thank me.”

“But Malfoy, this is a gift without price. You don’t understand how much this means to me. I could get my parents back,” her voice was small, dumbstruck by his display of compassion. For her of all people.

“I assure you, Granger, I do.” Malfoy gave her one of his rare, tight-lipped smiles, glancing at her from underneath his blond lashes. “It’s really the least that I could do. If anybody can figure out how to reverse powerful memory charms, it’s you,” he said sincerely.

Hermione clutched one of the books to her chest, fighting back tears. Malfoy sat silently to her left, his own body language stiff. Before she could second guess herself, she was flinging her arms around Malfoy’s broad shoulders, burying her face into the crook of his neck. He stiffened, exhaling in surprise at her Gryffindor-like display of affection. The two sat there awkwardly on the window seat, her body twisted into his as she cried softly into his shoulder. After a few seconds, the shock wore off and Malfoy wrapped a polite arm around her upper back, patting her once, then twice, his body still tense underneath hers. He didn’t say anything as she sat there and cried, no doubt ruining the crisp cut to his robes.

She drew back after a minute, wiping at her eyes and sniffling a little.

“God, sorry I–” she began to stammer out an apology.

He raised a brow at her, unimpressed. “Need I remind you of the other thing I said, along with ‘Never thank me’?”

Hermione laughed, shaking her head at him. She straightened her uniform, brushing hair out of her face. “No, no, I remember,” she assured him, amused at the distaste in his expression. She had to pause to formulate a way to thank him without explicitly thanking him. “I appreciate the gesture,” she said sincerely, packing her new books into her bag with the utmost care.

Malfoy looked slightly displeased, but his mouth pulled up into a half-smile. “Anything for my star student,” he teased in order to avoid having a heartfelt conversation with her, God forbid.

Hermione tried not to blush, not wanting to give in to the praise. “Prat,” she muttered, but she was fighting back a smile. To new beginnings, indeed, she thought as she practically floated through the rest of her day, a calm smile never leaving her face. For the first time since the war, she truly felt free.

— — —

Late May, 1999

“Hurry up!” Ginny bellowed from the bottom of the rickety stairs at Grimmauld Place, annoyed with Hermione’s fussing.

“Just a second!” Hermione yelled back, standing in front of the floor-length mirror in the spare bedroom. “Remind me why I have to go to this?”

This was Theodore Nott’s eighteenth birthday party, hosted at the infamous and ancient Nott Manor, sat atop a steep cliffside. Earlier in the week, Ginny had written a letter to the Headmistress to ask that Hermione be allowed to leave Hogwarts for the weekend, citing a family emergency. McGonagall had agreed, but Hermione had been more reluctant to leave the castle, fearful of Ginny’s real reasoning.

“Because,” Ginny said, bursting through the bedroom door and causing Hermione to jump backwards, “You need to live a little, loosen up!” Ginny stood, eyeing Hermione appraisingly. The redhead was wearing a satin minidress, so dark green that it was nearly black, so tight that Hermione could make out the ridges of Ginny’s defined abdominals.

“But NEWTs—”

Ginny flapped a hand at her. “Yes, Hermione, I know. NEWTs are fast-approaching and you need to color code your study guides, blah blah,” she said drily. “I haven’t seen you in months!”

Hermione sighed, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth. “I know, Gin, and I feel bad. But is a Slytherin birthday party really your idea of fun? Honestly, how’d you even hear about it?” She fussed with her hair, unrestrained and glossy with an entire bottle of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion.

“I ran into Pansy Parkinson in Madam Malkin’s,” Ginny moved to sit down on the bed, her toned legs accentuated by her black stilettos. “She mentioned Nott’s birthday was coming up, and invited me.” Ginny shrugged, feigning casualness. “I’ve heard that his parties are infamous, but it’s not like we would’ve gone to them back then.”

”Since when are you friends with Pansy Parkinson?” Hermione asked, eyebrows shooting up.

Ginny shrugged again. “She apologized for all of the nastiness shortly after the war. We got a drink once or twice,” at this, her cheeks turned pink. “I honestly think you’d like her. She’s opinionated, witty, and has a dry sense of humor. I mean, you and Malfoy get along now,” She sounded almost defensive.

Hermione sighed, done with her primping in the mirror. She swiveled on her too-tall heels to ask Ginny, “Well?”

Ginny whistled, smirking at her. “If only people knew what you were hiding under those dowdy Hogwarts robes,” she leered from her spot on the bed. “Any particular reason for putting extra effort into your look?” The younger girl raised a brow expectantly.

Hermione swallowed, averting her eyes from Ginny’s knowing stare. “Nope,” she shrugged in what she hoped was a casual way.

Her dark brown hair had been corralled into loose waves that tumbled down her back, ending just above her hips. Her dress, a dark red silk number, cinched her in at the waist and ended shortly thereafter, riding up her thighs when she moved. The sleeves ended just above the elbow, the high neckline at the front in stark contrast to the completely open back. In addition to strong-arming Hermione into wearing a dress that bordered on indecent and into doing her makeup, Ginny had also bullied her into donning her highest, thinnest heels in black patent leather.

“Right,” Ginny moved to stand, grabbing both of their purses from the bedside table. “The night’s not getting any younger!” She slapped Hermione on the shoulder, dragging her along through the door and down the stairs where Harry and Ron stood, both wearing black slacks and button-up shirts.

This entire situation seemed surreal to Hermione: the four Gryffindors dressed up and gathered at Grimmauld to attend a Slytherin house party. She suspected that Ginny and Harry both had different motivations for going, aside from paltry inter-House unity.

“Wow, Hermione,” Ron said genuinely, “You look great,” he smiled at her as she stepped onto the landing.

“Yuck, Ron,” Ginny replied.

Hermione just laughed, shooting a smile at Ron who returned it in kind.

Impatiently, Ginny strode over to the living room Floo, tossing a handful of Floo powder into it before shouting out Nott Manor! Harry and Ron followed quickly thereafter, leaving Hermione standing in the living room alone, vacillating between staying or going. She hadn’t seen Malfoy since the anniversary of the final battle, the both of them busy with studying. She had a feeling that he’d be there tonight, hence Ginny’s teasing about Hermione’s undeniable effort that she had put into her appearance.

Her stomach was in knots as she grasped the jar of Floo powder in one hand, a mess of anxiety and anticipation swirling in her chest. She sighed, knowing Ginny would be back to drag her to the party if she didn’t show up soon.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione tossed the powder, green flames erupting as she did so.

She stumbled out of the fireplace into what appeared to be another realm. Nott Manor was all dark wood and jewel-toned furniture, gothic cathedral windows and vaulted ceilings. House music was blaring from invisible speakers; Hermione had half a mind to ask Nott just how he managed to get Muggle technology to work in an ancestral Wizarding home. What Hermione assumed to be a living room was half-obscured by fog, puffy white clouds and glowing stars floating in the air above their heads. Strobe lights were flashing intermittently in alternating colors, causing Hermione to squint as she stepped further into the crowded room.

Hermione could just make out a massive, fully-equipped bar surrounded by stools in the center of the room, crystal chandeliers hanging low above the black marble. She headed toward it, dodging drunk schoolmates and the occasional settee.

“There you are!” Ginny spotted her from by the bar, reaching out to fish Hermione out of the undulating crowd of bodies. “What took you so long?” Her voice was slightly slurred.

Hermione debated lying before deciding better of it. “I didn’t want to come,” she said honestly, leaning against the dark marble bartop.

Ginny barked a laugh, slapping Harry on the shoulder and causing his glasses to tip forward, precariously balancing on the end of his nose. Ron was nowhere in sight, likely chatting up some pretty witch.

“She’s drunk,” Harry told Hermione, giving her a long-suffering glance.

“No shite,” Hermione laughed, eyeing her friend as she swayed on her stool, Harry moving to her side in case she teetered off of it.

A voice interrupted them. “If it isn’t Hermione Granger,” Blaise Zabini drawled from behind the bar, clad in a crisp white button-down and thin black tie. “Are you all dressed up for me?” He teased.

Hermione turned to face him, watching as he expertly strained a drink into a martini glass, passing it down the bar to a brunette witch.

“Zabini,” Hermione greeted, ignoring his flirtatious overture. “I didn’t know you were a bartender.”

He shrugged, a charming smile flitting across his handsome face. “I’m not, but Theo gets what Theo wants. Speaking of, what are you drinking?” He raised a chiseled brow at her.

“A vodka cranberry would be lovely, thank you,” she dipped her chin.

Zabini nodded, turning his back to her to grab a bottle off the backlit shelf. “How have you been?” He called over his shoulder.

Ginny placed a pale hand on Hermione’s arm, shouting something about going to dance, pulling Harry away from the bar with her. Great.

“Well, and you?” She asked politely, resting her forearms on the bar.

“Lovely, thanks,” Zabini replied smoothly, pouring a generous amount of vodka into a shaker. “Draco tells me that you’ve been busy with school?”

Hermione’s mouth suddenly went dry. “Is he here?” She asked, surreptitiously glancing around the dark room, looking for a flash of white-blond hair but finding none.

Zabini just laughed, deep and rich, before placing her cocktail down in front of her. “He’s somewhere around here,” he told her. “How have you two been getting along?” His teeth flashed white under the strobe lights.

Rather than answer him, she took a long sip of her drink.

“I know he can be a bit of a pest, but is he really that bad?”

Hermione looked at the Slytherin, unimpressed. “Why do you care what I think?” She asked genuinely.

He laughed again, shaking his head. “You’re the Golden Girl,” he tipped his head at her.

Hermione pursed her lip at the nickname. “Where’s Nott?” She shouted as a new song began to play, this one with a thrumming undercurrent of heavy bass.

“Probably with his head in a toilet somewhere,” Zabini shrugged, his shirt stretching with the movement across his broad shoulders. “He tends to get a little too crazy at these things,” Zabini waved a hand in the air. “Are you here with Weasley?” He asked suddenly.

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “What? Ron?” She asked. “No, why?” She gulped at her drink, chewing on an ice cube.

Zabini had a satisfied, cunning glint in his eyes. “No reason,” he shrugged again, leaning toward her across the bar and lowering his intense gaze to her face. His face was so close to hers that she could count his eyelashes individually, his full lips pulled into a smirk. Hermione wasn’t sure what he was doing and why she hadn’t made to put more space between them, but his keen eyes were holding her in a trance. “I just wanted to make sure before–”

“Blaise!” A voice vaulted from over Hermione’s shoulder, snapping her out of her trance. She pivoted and took a step away from the bar, now face to face with Theo Nott, clad in a navy blue button-down and tailored dark grey trousers, his chestnut brown hair mussed atop his head. His eyes were glazed, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal most of his muscled chest.

“Happy birthday, Nott,” Hermione said.

Nott took a step back to look at her in full, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Hermione Granger,” his face broke into a wide smile. “I’m honored,” he sketched a bow, stumbling only a little as he righted himself. “You look beautiful, as always. Please, call me Theo.”

These Slytherins were really laying it on thick, Hermione thought, unamused.

Zabini laughed from behind her, causing Nott to shift his attention off of her. “Oh, right,” Nott said, standing a little straighter. “Draco wants you,” he cleared his throat rather obviously.

Zabini gave Nott a flat look at his inability to be subtle. “Right,” he said slowly. “What does he need me for, exactly?”

Nott just shrugged, moving to lean heavily against the bar next to Hermione. “He said it was urgent.”

The other Slytherin laughed, tipping his head back. “Alright fine, I’ll bite,” he shrugged, moving out from behind the bar. “Hermione,” he drawled, giving her a wink before striding off toward another part of the house.

The fact that Nott hadn’t told Zabini where to find Malfoy wasn’t lost on her.

Nott pushed himself off the bar, walking around to replace Zabini as bartender– though he looked much less composed, while mixing himself a drink. “Are you having fun?” He asked her over his shoulder, sloshing liquid over the rim of his glass.

Hermione nodded automatically, pasting on a small smile. “I like the decorations,” she said lamely, gesturing above them to the stars and clouds. “Are you having fun?”

He nodded. “Where’s Potter?”

“Somewhere dancing with Ginny, probably.”

“Are they–?” He asked, plunking his elbows down on the bar.

Hermione shook her head. “No,” she laughed.

Nott looked confused. “But I thought that they were dating, no?” He listed to one side as if his foundation was uneven.

“They mutually decided against it,” Hermione told him, swirling the ice around in her glass. “But I’m not sure how that’s any of your concern, Nott.” She raised a brow at him.

“Please, call me Theo,” he said again, moving to make her another drink

“Fine,” she swallowed, watching as he set the new glass in front of her.

He gestured for her to take a sip, before beckoning her closer. “The reason that I ask,” he began in a conspiratorial whisper, smelling like cigarettes and expensive scotch, “Is because I have a crush on Harry Potter,” he slapped his hands down on the counter, laughing hard.

Hermione gave the birthday boy an assessing look. Like the other Slytherins, Theo managed to look purposefully– but not sloppily, disheveled in his semi-formal attire. He was clean-shaven with a strong jaw and bright blue eyes, his hair thick and artfully tousled. Honestly, Harry might like him, she thought.

“Any input from the luminary before me?” Theo asked.

Hermione chuckled, sipping at her fruity cocktail. “Knock yourself out, Theo.”

Theo cackled, beaming at her from across the bar before opening his mouth to say something else.

“You are a lush, Hermione Granger. It’s a pity we didn’t get to know each other sooner,” he winked in her direction, pouring them twin shots of vodka.

Hermione began to shake her head.

“It’s my birthday, humor me,” Theo crooned sweetly.

She rolled her eyes at the cheek, but nodded her acceptance. Theo counted down before they both tipped their shots back, Hermione grimacing at the burning sensation that wended its way down her throat.

“Where’s the bathroom?” She asked.

Theo pointed her in the direction of it, asking her to come find him if she saw Potter before he did.

She stumbled down a dark hallway, the music still pounding from the other side of the wall. She was well and properly drunk now, thanks to Theo and Zabini and their heavy-handedness. Hermione tried to recall Theo’s instructions on how to find the bathroom. Was it the third door on the left, or the right?

“Damn it,” Hermione muttered to herself, pushing open the door on the left.

The space was dark, illuminated only by the light of the moon filtering in from the window. The voices inside were raised as the two occupants shouted at each other, not hearing Hermione enter. She stood in the doorway, unmoving as she listened.

“I told you to leave her alone, she barely tolerates me as is,” someone growled.

“Lighten up, I was just flirting for sport,” the other voice said, seemingly bored. “She’s all yours.”

Hermione’s eyes began to adjust, noting that she was in what appeared to be a study, two figures standing by the unlit fireplace against the opposite wall. With a mounting sense of dread, she realized that it was Malfoy and Zabini, clearly arguing about her.

Before she could eavesdrop any further, she slammed the door shut loudly, stepping back out into the hall. Disoriented and panting a little, she took off around the corner, bathroom break be damned.

She found herself back in the main room, swept up by the growing crowd of increasingly-drunk witches and wizards. Hands attached to loose-limbed bodies were grabbing at her in the dark as she shoved her way through the masses, trying to locate Ginny’s fiery hair. Hermione tripped over someone and she murmured out an apology, before finally catching sight of a flash of Ginny’s wild hair as she jumped around.

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief when she found her, squeezing between two wizards.

“Ginny!” She shouted over the rock music.

“Hermione,” Ginny squealed, her eyes glazed over. “You’ve met Pansy,” she gestured to the witch standing still next to her.

Hermione nodded mechanically. “Nice to see you again, Parkinson,” she greeted.

“You as well,” Pansy said amiably, her red-painted lips pulling into a small smile.

Her jet-black hair was cut into a chin-length bob, her pale skin and green eyes glowing under the strobe lights. She was wearing knee-high black boots, and a slinky, metallic black minidress that looked like liquid against her smooth skin.

Ginny draped a freckled arm around Hermione’s shoulders, loudly whispering, “I want to kiss Pansy tonight.” She giggled as she swayed from side to side to the music.

Hermione sighed, unsurprised at Ginny’s complete lack of awareness when sloshed. “That’s great, Ginny. I’m happy for you.”

Pansy side-eyed her, rolling her eyes as if to say can you believe her? But Hermione noted that the other witch was sporting a blush across her sharp cheekbones.

Hermione patted her friend on the shoulder, nodding at Pansy, before plunging back into the crowd. She got spit out next to the bar again, neither Theo nor Zabini in sight. Ron was currently getting up close and personal with a familiar-looking witch at the end of the bar, catching sight of Hermione and shooting her a wink over the other girl’s head.

She really needed to find the bathroom. Determined, she set out in the direction of the corridor again, finding it less crowded than it had been earlier. There were two figures at the end of the hall, standing in front of what appeared to be a marble bust of some self-important Nott ancestor, talking too low for Hermione to hear, their faces close together.

As she wobbled down the hall, she stepped on a crumpled plastic cup, a cracking sound echoing through the hallway, causing the two people at the end to turn toward her. She recognized them both instantly: Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass. Hermione stood frozen to the spot as the two Slytherins stared openly at her.

The younger Greengrass sister was a willowy girl with pin-straight blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a heart-shaped face. She was tall and thin in her pale pink minidress and silver heels, and currently had one small hand on Malfoy’s bicep, leaning into him slightly as she swayed from side to side.

Malfoy, to his credit, was also seemingly frozen in time, not moving to speak. He was dressed in all black, his button-down shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his hair rumpled as if someone had run their hands through it. Hermione awkwardly cleared her throat, nodding jerkily at the pair and ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach, before opening the closest door to her that led, blessedly, into the bathroom.

She shut the door behind her, leaning her head back against it as she heaved in a breath. The lights automatically flickered to life when she entered, their intensity making Hermione’s head spin as she tried and failed to ignore the jealousy that was bubbling in her chest. She didn’t want to think about why she was so angry, seeing a pretty, Pureblood witch on Malfoy’s arm, the two of them hidden in an empty hallway, whispering to one another.

Hermione groaned, moving to the sink to splash cold water on her face. She looked at herself in the mirror, thanking the gods and Ginny that her makeup was still fully intact, her gold eyeshadow shimmering in the overhead lights. She ran her hands through her hair, insolent curls popping up around her hairline. She couldn’t hide in the bathroom forever, but she would damn well try.

She swiveled to rest her back against the marble counter, focusing on regulating her breathing. Hermione knew that it was none of her business who Malfoy dated, knew that the two of them weren’t even really even friends, knew that they definitely weren’t more. So why did she feel as if she had stumbled upon something unspeakably horrible, why did she feel like she wanted to punch something?

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, her head pounding with a mix of too much booze, too-loud music, and too-attractive Slytherin men.

A knock on the bathroom door startled Hermione out of her wallowing. She opened the door, expecting someone who needed to use the restroom, but instead she found Malfoy at the threshold, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else.

She moved to push past him and back into the hall with a tight-lipped smile, but he placed his hand against the doorframe, blocking her exit.

“Granger,” he said lowly, his slate eyes dipping down to her face.

“Malfoy,” she replied cordially. “Did you need to use the–?”

Malfoy shook his head, taking a step forward and causing her to move back into the bathroom. His pale cheeks were flushed, his eyes slightly unfocused, his hair a complete mess atop his head. He smelled inexplicably like himself and like someone else: his typical clove and citrus scent mingled with expensive alcohol and something distinctly floral. Hermione’s face heated as she realized it must be Astoria’s perfume, swallowing thickly.

Malfoy’s eyes followed the bob of her throat, taking another measured step forward, his hair gleaming in the light. He smiled down at her, his features looser and less tense than she had seen before. Despite his obvious inebriation, he held himself together well, Hermione mused. Leave it to Malfoy to still have good decorum when absolutely pissed.

“Granger,” Malfoy said again, something in his tone causing Hermione to inhale shakily.

“I was just leaving,” she blurted nervously, her eyes darting toward the bathroom door as he shut it behind him. Her vision crossed and suddenly she was looking at twin Malfoys, each wearing expressions of distaste.

“You just got here,” he said matter-of-factly.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Do you keep track of all of Theo’s guests?” She quipped.

He scowled. “‘Theo’ is it? I didn’t realize you two had gotten so close,” he said bitterly.

She rolled her eyes at him, suddenly indignant, the alcohol making her more combative. “Come off it, Malfoy,” she couldn’t help but smirk when he visibly deflated at her use of his surname. “What do you want from me?”

Malfoy opened and closed his mouth a few times, seeming to rein in his self control. “I don’t think it would be wise,” he replied after a moment, cryptic.

“I’m wise,” she mumbled, swaying a little.

He moved forward as if he was going to reach out to steady her, but thought better of it, dropping his arm back to his side. Hermione couldn’t help but notice his exposed forearms, the Dark Mark a blurry smudge against the milk-white skin of his inner arm.

“You are,” he nodded sagely, leaning to one side.

“I try very hard,” she rambled nonsensically, “not to make mistakes.” Some part of her subconscious was screaming at her, asking just what the fuck she thought she was doing.

His intense gaze flitted over her face, never straying south of the high neckline of her dress. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to be one.”

“One of what?” She asked, already having lost the plot.

Malfoy cleared his throat and took a step backward toward the door. “One of your mistakes.”

He nodded at her politely, his eyes suddenly void of any and all emotion before he pivoted toward the door, yanking it open and disappearing out into the dark hallway. Hermione was left reeling, alone and cold in a too-large bathroom, an empty pit growing wider in her stomach as she took a deep breath and watched him go.

Chapter Text

Late May, 2005

“God damn it, Malfoy!” She shouted at him as he appeared in her line of sight. “Go away!” Her face heated as he stalked closer in the bustling streets of Hogsmeade.

“Me?” He asked in mock-confusion. “Why, I’m just enjoying a lovely spring day of shopping!” He said with false cheer.

Hermione’s eye twitched. “Malfoy,” she growled, glaring at his serene expression.

“Granger,” he drew out the two syllables in a way that had an unsettling effect on her, nerves alight. He eyed her disguise brazenly, her longer limbs and thinner body seemed to irritate him given his pinched expression, her signature curls exchanged for mousy brown locks.

They stood nearly toe-to-toe under the awning to Florean Fortescue’s Ice-Cream Parlour, the bell above the door jingling intermittently. It was unseasonably warm, and she was already sweating underneath her slate blue cloak, a new addition from Madam Malkin’s.

“What are you doing here?” She asked quietly, trying not to look too hostile, lest they draw attention.

“The same old song and dance,” Malfoy waved her off. “You know what I’m doing here.”

“How are you here?” She asked, rolling her dull blue eyes.

“I know you,” was his reply, the same as the first time he had caught her.

“You’re insufferable,” she ground out, clenching her fists. “Why can’t you leave me alone?” She said louder, more exasperated than ever at his weaseling.

“You know why,” he leaned down into her personal space, his voice low and controlled.

“Hmph,” was all she said, determined to get on with her day.

“Must you be so difficult?” He asked, the question surely rhetorical.

Hermione grumbled. “I’m sure you have better things to do with your time than follow me around Hogsmeade, Malfoy.”

He nodded. “And yet, you make it so that I have to follow you around.”

She scoffed at the nerve. “I don’t make you do anything, you great prat,” she huffed. “You’re just a posh busybody aristocrat with a penchant for bothering very busy, very tired witches!”

Her raised voice garnered a few concerned stares from passersby, one witch covering her young son’s ears as she guided him away.

Malfoy noticed. “Look Granger, you’re scaring the youth,” he tutted.

“Come off it, it’s not as if you give a shite about the youth,” Hermione retorted hotly.

Malfoy tipped his head as if to say, true.

“Will you leave me alone now?” Hermione argued. “I have things to do,” she gestured vaguely to the main thoroughfare.

“I’m sure you do,” Malfoy drawled. “You know where to find me when it’s done,” and with that, he stalked off in the direction of the Three Broomsticks, not bothering to give her a backwards glance.

That fucking prat, she muttered to herself. Running out of time and already behind schedule, thanks to Malfoy’s meddling, Hermione compartmentalized her violent imaginings of the different ways she could kill him, instead focusing on the task at hand: killing another Death Eater that had evaded capture after the war. Though the kills themselves were starting to blur together after over a year of doling out these punishments, Hermione felt no less strongly that they were getting what they deserved.

Successfully shoving all violent thoughts towards Malfoy into the depths of her mind, Hermione acted on her latest plan with efficiency and skill, routinely disposing of the man who had been renting a room above the Hog’s Head to escape notice, hiding in plain sight. It was getting too easy, the men too comfortable and cocky after not being thrown in Azkaban directly following the war. Their guards were down, their inhibitions lowered, their minds open for the taking.

Hermione sighed as she cleaned up after herself, mentally exhausted. She made her way out of the Hog’s Head, disposing of her disguise in the pub’s back alley before winding her way through Hogsmeade, desperate for a drink. As she threw open the door to the Three Broomsticks, she remembered that Malfoy would be inside, waiting for her. She let the door shut, turning on a heel in the opposite direction, not wanting to give Malfoy the satisfaction.

She trudged down the road, grumbling about posh Pureblood busybodies with too much time on their hands, when she heard measured footsteps rapidly approaching. She didn’t have to turn around to know that he was there, falling into step beside her.

“Sod off, Malfoy, I’m not in the mood,” she didn’t look at him as she marched on.

“Are you ever?” Malfoy quipped, walking next to her without a care in the world.

She rolled her eyes so hard she thought they might get stuck in the back of her head.

“Seriously, Granger, why so hostile?” He asked, frowning.

“I told you to go away!” She halted meters away from the Apparition point, pivoting on her heel to sneer at him.

Malfoy looked cool and composed, as always. “And I told you that that wasn’t happening.” His features were calm.

“I don’t understand,” she shouted, exasperated. “Why do you keep following me everywhere? How do you even know where I am?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Granger?” His tone was playful, almost mocking.

Hermione hated not understanding things. She bristled at his condescension, scowling up at him. “Don’t taunt me, Malfoy.”

Malfoy sighed, a long-suffering sound, before reaching a hand out in a placating manner. “Get a drink with me,” he said, holding out his palm but not moving to touch her.

She shook her head, curls bouncing.

“Don’t be stubborn, witch. It’s just one drink.”

She shook her head again, taking a step away from him. “Did you fall and hit your head, Malfoy?” She asked genuinely. “What has gotten into you lately?” She glanced around the Apparition point nervously, afraid that people would stop to gawk at the two of them.

“Ouch, Granger,” Malfoy moved a hand over his heart, wearing a pained expression. “I thought we were better friends than that,” he was pouting, his eyes round.

She rolled her eyes at his theatrics. “Knock it off,” she waved a hand in his direction. “If I go with you, does that mean you’ll leave me alone after?” She asked, hopeful.

“That depends,” Malfoy tilted his head to one side, staring down at her. “Does getting a drink with me mean you’ll speak to me again without shouting?” He grinned.

She huffed a breath. “If I’m shouting at you, it’s only because your behavior warrants that reaction from me,” she told him matter-of-factly. “Maybe if you didn’t act like such a pompous prat, I wouldn’t have to shout at you,” she finished primly, turning her nose up at him.

Malfoy chuckled. “Humor me,” he held out his hand again. “Just one drink.”

There it was again, that latent fondness buried deep in his expression, hidden to everybody but her. It made her heart skip a beat, and before she realized it, she was nodding her head, hesitantly placing her hand in his. His answering grin was soft as he preened under her attention, his Apparition whisking them away as space and time warped around them.

They landed gently in the foyer of The Savoy, the hotel lobby decorated with massive crystal chandeliers, the recognizable black and white checkerboard tile under their feet. Voices vaulted off of the high white ceilings, their conversations inaudible to Hermione’s ears as Malfoy pulled her through the lobby by the hand, stopping to pull out her stool at the hotel’s lavish bar. Before she could sit, he gestured for her to remove her cloak, taking it from her hands and draping it neatly over the back of her chair.

She rolled her eyes at his Pureblood manners, but took the proffered seat nonetheless. Her back was stiff, and she squirmed self-consciously under his assessing gaze, suddenly grateful for the tasteful black trousers and dark green blouse she had donned earlier in the day. He flagged down the bartender, ordering a bottle of white wine for the two of them to share, before turning his attention back on her.

He eyed her appraisingly, an intense expression on his pale face. She tried not to fidget, not wanting him to see how tense he made her.

“What changed?” He asked, looking sidelong at her, his Oxford-clad elbows resting on the bartop.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, watching as the bartender uncorked the wine bottle, letting it breathe before pouring it into two crystal glasses.

Malfoy leaned in a little, his voice quieter. “What made you decide to…” he trailed off, eyebrows raised meaningfully. He drew a long, pale finger across his throat.

She couldn’t help but laugh at the charade. She sighed, thinking back to when it all changed for her. Was it before or after Greyback? She had always had a habit of self-righteousness, of bending the rules when it suited her. She had kept Rita Skeeter in a jar for the better part of a year, and that was well before the war began.

Hermione tapped a finger against her lips, genuinely contemplating his question. “I suppose sometime after my first year at the Ministry,” she explained. “I thought maybe Shacklebolt just needed time to solidify his credibility, to adjust and grow into his role,” she said.

Malfoy nodded, his eyes rapt on her. She wanted to shrink away from his stare, not used to having all of the attention on her. Except that wasn’t entirely true, because she had been used to his full attention at one point, during their final year at Hogwarts.

“But then a year had passed, and then another, and things still hadn’t changed,” she frowned into her wine glass, taking a sip. “Of course, the really terrible ones had been locked up shortly after the war,” she glanced at him nervously at the jab at his father, but Malfoy just shrugged, gesturing for her to continue. “But it was the others, the ones who weren’t as notable and thus fell through the cracks, that really got me heated,” she took another sip, sighing. “So I suppose it wasn’t too long after the initial sentences had been meted out, for me to realize that in order to enact real change, I had to do it on my own.”

Malfoy hummed along, nodding his head. “And none of your friends know about this vengeful streak you have going on?”

Hermione shook her head. “How could I explain it to them?” She asked. “They wouldn’t understand, even if they agreed with what I was doing. No, they can never find out.”

Malfoy took a healthy sip of his wine, tilting his head as he continued to look at her, grey eyes flickering in the light of the chandelier overhead. “Interesting,” was all he said.

“Is it?” Hermione asked, genuinely surprised. She supposed that with the exception of their eighth year, he didn’t really know her in school, didn’t know that she could be ruthless when she felt inclined. Frankly, she was surprised that her friends that did know her couldn’t put two and two together.

Something in her expression must’ve indicated that she was hiding something. Malfoy looked at her curiously. “Something you’d like to share with the class?” He sat back as if to say go ahead.

“It’s nothing really,” Hermione demurred. “If you had known what I was like in school– before the war, you might not be as surprised about what I do now, is all,” she shrugged.

Malfoy looked at her drily. “Did you hit your head, Granger? Of course I knew you in school.”

She waved him off. “I mean really know me. Yes I was a know-it-all bookworm and an overachiever to boot, but I also had my moments,” she huffed.

Malfoy looked unimpressed, skeptical. “Such as?” His signature drawl was out in full force tonight as he poured himself another glass, topping hers off. “You might as well tell me, considering I know your darkest secret,” he cajoled, leaning into her personal space.

Hermione blushed at the proximity, but rolled her eyes all the same. “You really want to know?” She raised her eyebrows at him, toying with him. They had swiveled toward one another in their seats, both of her knees resting between his thighs. She avoided looking at the toned, thick muscles covered by his wool trousers, a dark grey tonight.

Like a fish on a hook, Malfoy nodded earnestly, his grey eyes wide in anticipation of whatever secret she was about to divulge. Doing her best impression of the Malfoy smirk, she leaned in, crooking her finger at him to come closer, their bodies hovering centimeters away from each other on their barstools. He looked to be holding his breath, awaiting her response.

“Well,” she said, her eyes trained on his mouth, his tongue darting out subconsciously to wet his lips. “That’s too bad,” and with that, she drew her knees back in from where they had been bracketed by Malfoy’s own, leaning back into the stool and finishing off her glass, thus breaking the tension between them.

“You’re no fun,” Malfoy pouted, reaching for his own glass and looking distinctly put out.

She laughed from deep in her chest. “If I told you, then we’d be uneven on two counts,” she pointed out. “I know I’m a Gryffindor, but I do have some inclination for self-preservation, Malfoy.”

“You want my secrets, Granger?” He asked softly, smiling at her in that self-satisfied way of his. “All you have to do is ask– not even nicely, but you have to ask.”

Hermione shrugged. “Maybe next time,” she said, sliding off her stool and refastening her cloak around her neck. “Thanks for the drink,” she tipped her head to him, smiling slightly.

Before he could reply, she was off, heels clacking against the checkered tile as she exited The Savoy, feeling surprisingly energized by their back-and-forth conversation. She hadn’t felt that way in almost five years.

— — —

June, 1999

Hermione watched in curiosity as the largest, most regal looking eagle owl she had ever seen swooped into the Great Hall during breakfast, hovering above where Malfoy sat on the end of the Slytherin bench, for once deigning to join the rabble for the morning meal.

Of course, she thought, rolling her eyes, Malfoy would have the poshest, most expensive looking owl known to man. She wondered why he had suddenly decided to participate in shared mealtimes, not being able to recall a single instance that year in which he had done so. The owl deposited its cargo: a large square box wrapped impeccably in emerald green paper, silver ribbon tying it together. Hermione cocked her head to the side as she watched Malfoy conjure an owl treat, feeding it to the bird before gently stroking the feathers atop its head. She had never seen Malfoy look so…normal? Gentle?

“Hermione?” Padma asked from across the table, giving her an inquisitive look.

“Sorry, sorry,” Hermione shook herself out of her reverie, averting her eyes away from the Slytherin table. “You were saying?”

The Ravenclaw raised a thick brow, turning in her seat to follow Hermione’s line of sight. Padma made a humming sound as she turned back to face Hermione, giving her a knowing, unimpressed look.

Padma sipped at her milky tea, glancing between Hermione and her cup, pensive. She set her cup down on the wooden table, leaning forward on her elbows and beckoning for Hermione to come closer.

Hermione did so with a slightly confused expression, both girls making sure that the other students at their table were caught up in their own conversations before speaking.

“You know,” Padma whispered conspiratorially, her face so close to Hermione’s, “You aren’t as subtle as you think you are,” she smirked.

Hermione reared back, her heart kicking into overdrive as she fought down a blush. “What do you mean?” She asked, feigning ignorance.

Again, Padma just looked at her, unimpressed. “I don’t think Gryffindors are known for their subtlety, is all,” she said drily. “Don’t think that I haven’t noticed the way you look at him.”

“Who?”

“Don’t play dumb, Hermione, it doesn’t suit you,” Padma chided, sighing as she took another sip of tea. “I mean, I don’t blame you, he’s gorgeous, but–”

“Padma!” Hermione screeched, drawing attention from the other students nearby. She blushed furiously, ducking her head down as she tried to calm her racing heart. “I do not–”

The Ravenclaw girl polished off her tea before blinking slowly at her. “Hermione, please,” she said flatly, “practically every girl in our year and the one below has had a crush on him at some point. I’d be concerned if you didn’t think he was attractive.”

Hermione’s jaw was snapping open and closed like a fish out of water as she goggled at the usually quiet girl. “I don’t think he’s–” she spluttered, but Padma just silenced her with another knowing look.

“Look, Hermione,” she said slowly, her tone unwavering, “I know that this year hasn’t been easy on any of us,” she pursed her lips, “and I know that you have an inclination for overworking yourself to the point of exhaustion,” she paused to look pointedly at her, as if daring her to argue. Hermione wisely kept her mouth shut. “I think you’ve gotten a better handle on things, though,” she said honestly. “You’re more lively, less frenetic. I think a lot of that has to do with him,” she finished, nudging her head back toward where Malfoy sat, tucking his birthday gift into his school bag. “I think it’s a good thing,” Padma added, nodding.

“Er–” Hermione stammered, looking down at her half-eaten sausage and eggs. “I don’t know what you think it is that we’ve been getting up to, Padma, but I assure you there is nothing going on between me and Malfoy,” she choked on his name, blushing profusely again.

Padma tutted. “I’m not Harry or Ron or Neville,” she pointed out. “I’m not judging you for your friendship with Malfoy, and like I said, he’s beautiful so honestly, I’m a little jealous.” Padma grinned toothily at her, eliciting a quiet laugh from Hermione. “I honestly have no clue what it is that you two do in the middle of the night, but I also couldn’t care less,” Padma shrugged. “Whatever it is, he makes you happy. It would take a blind person not to see that.”

Hermione’s brain was stuck somewhere between mortified and smug at Padma’s thoughtful observations. The logical part of her wanted to deflect and deny, but she knew Padma wouldn’t be fooled by this. The other part of her, the part ruled by her heart, wanted to divulge to her Ravenclaw friend just how much of her mind was occupied by thoughts of Malfoy. But saying it out loud made it real, and that way madness lies.

Hermione did her best to school her expression into something neutral, reserved. She looked Padma in the eyes, clearing her throat before saying simply, “I have to go do something.”

Padma nodded at her as if she anticipated this, shooing Hermione off the bench.

Hermione stood suddenly, grabbing her bookbag and slinging it over her shoulder before attempting to look casual as she strode toward Malfoy’s now-retreating back as he exited the Great Hall.

For weeks leading up to his birthday, she had been debating whether or not to get Malfoy a birthday present. Part of her hesitance was due to the fact that any gift she could give him would pale in comparison to whatever his mother and Slytherin friends got him. Hermione didn’t like feeling inadequate in any aspect of her life, and so she had decided not to get him anything.

But then she remembered the wonderfully thoughtful gift he had given her– the possibility of her parents back in her life, a gift without price. The deliberateness of Malfoy’s perfectly-tailored offering had unmoored Hermione, distracting her from her studies to think solely of him, much to her displeasure. Not enjoying being one-upped, either, Hermione determined to get Malfoy the best gift known to man.

The issue was that Hermione didn’t know where to start. The two hadn’t really known each other until this year, and even then, Malfoy was always so reserved around her, never talking about his hobbies or interests. She had never seen him in a casual setting, had never seen him opening gifts on his birthday or Christmas. What do you gift someone who can afford everything he could ever want and then some? She found herself muttering to herself in her room, pacing back and forth on the plush rug.

“Cufflinks?” She chewed on her lip. “A leatherbound journal? A broom?” Hermione groaned in frustration, throwing up her hands.

This went on for days, Hermione growing increasingly more exasperated as she avoided Malfoy and his uncanny ability for reading her emotions. She’d see a glimpse of platinum hair heading her way on the way to Charms, and she would duck into an alcove or head in the opposite direction, in order to keep her distance.

This charade didn’t work for long, and Malfoy, having grown accustomed to her company, managed to corner her one evening at the bottom of the Astronomy Tower. His birthday was in four days, and Hermione was no closer to deciding on a gift than she had been weeks ago.

“What gives, Granger?” He asked, emerging from behind a suit of armor.

“Are you following me, Malfoy?” She replied, affronted but also a little flattered.

Malfoy looked down at her, expressionless. “Are you avoiding me?”

“Of course not,” Hermione shook her head. “What possible reason would I have to avoid you?”

He shrugged, pushing off the wall to stand closer to her.

She tilted her head up to look at him.

“Did I do something?” He asked honestly, the vulnerability in his tone causing Hermione’s stomach to somersault.

“No,” she replied, hesitating to divulge more.

His lips pulled down into a frown, clearly not believing her. “So then why have you been avoiding me?”

“I haven’t,” she insisted. “I’ve been busy. NEWTs are almost here, you know,” she chewed on her lip guiltily.

Malfoy just blinked at her, his breath releasing in a sigh. “Granger, I thought we were past this,” his voice was strained, his body language tense. She realized she hadn’t seen him like this in a few months.

“‘This’, is nothing,” she gestured between the two of them. “I’m fine, you’re fine, we’re fine. You don’t have to follow me through the castle late at night.”

Sensing that this argument would go nowhere, Malfoy took a step back, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Alright,” he backed down, “I’ll give you space.” He pivoted on a heel, taking measured steps back the way he came, not glancing back at where Hermione stood rooted to the spot, her eyes on the space that he had just occupied.

“Malfoy,” she caught up to him in a lightly-trafficked corridor off the Great Hall, a little out of breath.

He turned around slowly at her voice, eyeing her with a healthy dose of skepticism.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, unable to stop herself.

Malfoy’s expression pinched at her apology. “Don’t–” he started to argue.

She held up a hand, stepping closer to him. “I’ll apologize when my behavior warrants me to do so,” her voice was firm. “I’m not beyond fault. I’ve been avoiding you,” she admitted, Gryffindor battering ram style, scuffing her shoe against the stone floor.

Malfoy looked both relieved and concerned at her admission of guilt. “Why?” His eyes were searching her face for a hint.

“It’s silly,” she told him. “It was truly nothing that you did.”

He looked at her disbelievingly. “Then?”

“Er– happy birthday, Malfoy,” she deflected, giving him a small but genuine smile.

He blinked at her for a few moments, his brows furrowing at the segue. “Thank you,” he said, dipping his chin at her. “I’m not sure I understand what that has to do with why you’ve been avoiding me.”

“Oh, right,” she laughed nervously, pushing a stray curl out of her face. “Well at first, I was debating whether or not to get you a gift. Then, I decided that I did want to get you something, but I had no clue what. I mean, what do you get for someone who has everything?” She rambled, fidgeting with her book bag strap and staring down at the floor. “I’m sure you’re used to getting priceless, rare gifts all the time, so I didn’t want to get you something lame in comparison,” she continued, on a roll. She was seventy percent sure that Malfoy wasn’t currently breathing, enraptured by her trainwreck of her word vomit. “Anyway, I wanted to get you something useful, something practical, you know?” She asked, though she didn’t pause to wait for an answer. “I remembered you had said that in another life– one without the war, you would’ve liked to get a Potions Mastery. So I–” she hesitated, finding the words difficult, suddenly feeling exposed and insecure. “There’s an independent apothecary that I frequent in Diagon Alley,” she cleared her throat, her mouth dry. “They rent out brewing space to highly-skilled potioneers and students that want to earn a Mastery,” she glanced at him for a moment as he stood stock still. “I wrote to the owner about you, and though we haven’t finished our NEWTs yet, he told me he would be willing to take you, if you want.” She sucked in a deep breath, awaiting his response with a trickling sense of dread.

Malfoy just stood there, still as a statue, his chest just barely moving with shallow breaths. His expression was completely blank, his hands tense but not furled at his sides. His eyes were trained on his shoes. Another silent minute went by before Hermione started rocking back and forth on her heels, suddenly convinced that she had just royally messed things up between them.

“Malfoy?” She asked quietly after another minute had passed.

He kept his eyes on the ground for another second, before slowly dragging them up her frame before meeting her gaze. His grey eyes were swirling with emotion, mercurial in the late morning sunlight that filtered through the castle windows. The corridor was empty, suddenly feeling cavernous and far away. They stared at each other for what felt like years, neither of them daring to break eye contact. Hermione bit her bottom lip, Malfoy’s eyes tracking the movement, his throat bobbing.

“Can you say something?” Hermione practically begged.

“Singular.”

“I’m sorry?” Hermione asked, confused.

“You’re the most singular witch I’ve ever met,” he repeated his words from months ago.

Hermione breathed out a little oh, unsure of what to do.

Malfoy stepped closer to her, deliberately pulled to her, almost as if in a trance. His expression had shifted into something different from his usual calculated, detached coolness. His eyes were nearly molten, so bright in the sun that Hermione fought not to squint. His jaw was set, and Hermione couldn’t tell if it was because he was tense or because he was determined. Determined to do what, Hermione hadn’t a clue.

His intense eyes searched her face for some indication of something, his body hovering close to hers, his advancing steps causing her to stumble back against the window, her bag falling off her shoulder and onto the floor with a thud.

“Malfoy?” She exhaled, her brows furrowed in consternation, still unsure of what was going on. “If you don’t want to do a Mastery, it’s fine,” she babbled, “It was just an idea, but you–”

He silenced her with a kiss.

Chapter Text

June, 1999

Her eyes blew wide in shock at the sensation of his lips on hers, one of his pale hands coming up to cup her jaw and tilt her head backward to achieve a better angle, the other looping around her waist smoothly as if he had done that a hundred times before. She stood frozen, her mind fighting to not give into temptation as her body tensed under his fingers.

She had just begun to give in when Malfoy suddenly pulled back, stepping away, releasing his hold on her and jarring her out of her fugue state. He had the sense to look mortified, his pale skin near-white with dread.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, his eyes round and frantic. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking,” he looked like he was on the verge of passing out. “Please, forgive me,” his breathing was shallow as he turned mechanically on a heel before practically sprinting down the corridor, around a corner and out of sight before Hermione could even think about responding.

Hermione unconsciously raised a hand to her lips, leaning against the windowsill in a daze. Her heart was pounding in her chest; the sound of blood rushing through her ears was deafening as she stood frozen in the still-empty corridor, blushing and confused and a little flattered because Draco Malfoy had just kissed her.

She launched into action, tapping into her Gryffindor courage, taking off down the hall after him. To do what, she wasn’t exactly sure, but she wasn’t going to give Malfoy the satisfaction of the last word. She rounded the corner practically at a run, but Malfoy was nowhere to be found, the hallway deserted aside from a few doors that led to empty classrooms. Searching each one, she turned up empty, growing increasingly frustrated at Malfoy’s guerilla tactics. He wouldn’t be able to hide from her forever, though.

— — —

Late June, 1999

Hermione’s final year at Hogwarts was nearly at an end, just a week more before she was launched into the real world. She was in a constant state of nervous anticipation, simultaneously over-eager and underprepared for what she would find within the Ministry.

Much to her displeasure, Malfoy had done a good job avoiding Hermione since his birthday. They had shared nearly every class this year, and yet he was notably absent from all of them, only adding to Hermione’s frustration. Was he really going to jeopardize his NEWTs, all because he kissed her once? The thought made Hermione roll her eyes.

She was sitting on the sofa in the common room, squeezing in a last minute cram session with Neville and Padma, when Padma offhandedly mentioned that she saw Malfoy turning his Potions essay the night prior, when it wasn’t due until the next day.

Hermione perked up, looking up from her textbook. “Potions?” She asked.

Padma nodded, chewing on her bottom lip. “It’s odd,” the girl said, “I’ve been doing some extra work for Slughorn and Pomfrey, mostly brewing Draught of Peace and other pain relief potions,” she explained.

Hermione nodded, knowing that Padma wanted to join the Healer training program at St. Mungo’s.

“Anyways, Malfoy’s been coming in, always on the nights before something is due, and dropping off his assignment.” Padma tapped a finger against her chin. “I wonder why he’s been avoiding attending the actual classes.” Padma gave her a look.

Hermione cleared her throat, fighting down a blush.

Neville glanced sidelong at her. “Maybe he’s been busy studying?” He offered weakly.

Padma just shook her head. “So are the rest of us, Nev, but there’s no reason for him to skip class completely, especially so close to the end of term.” She leaned back in her seat, glancing again at Hermione from where she was busy trying to disappear into her book. “I mean, he’s still getting his work done on time, early even,” she added, “It must be something else.”

“I have to go,” Hermione told them suddenly, standing from the sofa.

She didn’t bother packing away her things, already halfway to the door as Neville and Padma shared a knowing look, waving her off. Hermione had already exhausted her options in her search for him, checking every one of his favored locations: The Room of Requirement, the Astronomy Tower, the Black Lake. She was fed up with his Slytherin penchant for evasion and avoidance, annoyed that she couldn’t fully focus on her fast-approaching NEWTs because she was spending too much time thinking about him.

Hermione tore her way through the castle, determined to put a stop to his nonsense and self-imposed isolation. She stomped her way out of the Great Hall, thinking of only one other place that he could be. The air was crisp and mild as she walked across the lush green grass in the direction of the Quidditch Pitch. She should have thought of it sooner, knowing that he knew how much she abhorred anything broom-related.

She approached the stands, squinting up at the bright blue sky, his silhouette just a tiny speck in the open expanse. She strode out onto the pitch itself, the susurration of the manicured lawn and the slight breeze whooshing in her ears. Hermione stopped in the middle, her head tipped up to the sky as she watched Malfoy fly in lazy, indolent circles hundreds of feet above the earth.

This went on for another few minutes, before he must’ve looked down and spotted her, his flying suddenly turning rougher, somehow, as he hovered in the clouds, gradually circling lower and lower.

“Malfoy!” She yelled up at him. “You can’t avoid me forever!” She fought the urge to stomp her foot at him.

He dropped into a nosedive that made Hermione’s stomach flip, pulling his broom up at the last second before launching back into the sky, cheering as he did so. She growled, her magic crackling in her veins at his indifference.

“Malfoy!” She shouted again as he flew a few meters off the ground, so close she could see his signature smirk.

“There’s spare brooms in the shed, Granger,” he called down to her, sitting back on his haunches.

Damn him, she thought angrily, why did he have to look so good on a broom? He was wearing tight black trousers that showed off his toned thighs and a dark green Henley that showed off his toned arms, both offensive articles of clothing adding to Hermione’s mounting irritation.

“You know I detest flying!” She argued, shielding her eyes from the late June sun.

Malfoy’s laugh echoed around her as he finally touched down on the grass, shouldering his broom with practiced ease.

“It was worth a shot,” he shrugged, grinning boyishly at her as he walked over to her.

“Oh, so now you’re talking to me?” Hermione bit out, huffing a little.

He shrugged again. “I knew you’d find me eventually.”

“That’s not an answer,” she retorted hotly. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks. Seriously Malfoy, do you not care about your education? Why haven’t you been in class?”

He barked a laugh. “We’ve been over this, Granger,” he waved a hand at her before wiping sweat from his brow. “Malfoys don’t really need an education.”

She rolled her eyes. “But you care about yours,” she insisted. “You wouldn’t be trying so hard to get top marks if you weren’t actually interested in learning a thing or two,” she crossed her arms over her chest.

“I suppose,” Malfoy said casually.

Her teeth were set on edge, suddenly enraged at Malfoy’s self control and compartmentalization skills.

He sensed the change in her, taking a step back as if scared. “Look, Granger, I know that you’re mad at me–”

“Mad would be seriously underselling it,” she cut in, shooting him a glare. “You can’t just kiss me and walk away as if nothing happened!” She tamped down the hurt she had felt as his avoidance of her.

“So we’re just jumping straight into it, then?” Malfoy asked, running a hand across his face. “Granger, I’m sorry that I–” he hesitated, “Kissed you,” he looked as if he had just bit into a lemon. “It was a lapse in judgement and I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he grimaced. “I wanted to give you space.”

Hermione shook her head repeatedly. “I don’t understand,” she told him honestly, staring up at him.

He was unfortunately still devastatingly attractive. His hair was windswept and slightly damp, his shirt clung to his broad chest in a way that was just unfair, and his black trousers emphasized the frequency at which he went flying which was often, given the size and definition of his legs. Fucking broom thighs, Hermione thought to herself, bitter and flustered.

“Do you remember what you said at Theo’s party?” Malfoy’s voice snapped her out of her ogling, his expression amused as if he could tell just what had distracted her.

Hermione’s brows furrowed in confusion as she tried to recall that night, her memory foggy. She had woken up with a killer hangover the next morning, notably the only occupant at Grimmauld, and had spent most of the day in bed before Ginny had burst through the door, cackling and bouncing on the balls of her feet as she updated Hermione on her progress with Pansy.

“You’re going to need to be more specific,” Hermione replied drily.

Malfoy sighed. “About trying hard to not make mistakes,” he said quietly.

She nodded slowly, still not understanding. “Right. You know that I hate being bad at things.”

He nodded and blinked at her, waiting for her to catch on. She just stared at him, confused.

Sighing again, Malfoy looked as if he was heading to the guillotine. “I–” he groaned. “You’re going to accomplish a great many things in your life, Granger,” he said confidently. “You already have. There are so many things that come easily to you, and the things that don’t still don’t stand a chance when you want to accomplish them.”

She blushed at his compliment, but stayed silent.

“You’re a war hero, one-third of the Golden Trio, the only one with an actual brain,” he deadpanned. She couldn’t help but laugh and roll her eyes. “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t want to be one of your mistakes,” he winced, exhaling.

“I’m not sure I understand,” she said slowly, her brows furrowing.

Malfoy cleared his throat, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here on the Quidditch Pitch with her. “I’m an ex-Death Eater,” he stated flatly.

“You were never convicted and you took the Mark against your will, but sure,” she replied haughtily.

“You heard me and Blaise,” Malfoy switched gears, confusing Hermione even more.

“What?”

He looked at her pointedly. “In the study, at Theo’s. You heard us talking.” His mouth was downturned, his gaze on the ground

Hermione well and truly blushed, embarrassed at being caught eavesdropping, even though she hadn’t intended to do so. It didn’t help that the subject of their conversation had been her. “I was looking for the bathroom,” she stammered, “I left as soon as I realized that I was intruding,” she defended.

Malfoy nodded, sighing. “I know, Granger,” he told her earnestly. “I’m not mad, I’m embarrassed.”

Whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t that. “Embarrassed?” She cocked her head to one side. “Why?”

He gave her an assessing look. “You heard me telling Blaise to leave you alone,” he explained, his voice serious.

Hermione nodded. “Right. I don’t see the problem with that. He’s a terrible flirt, you know,” she chuckled nervously.

Malfoy rolled his eyes skyward, tipping his head back. When he spoke again, his voice was strained. “Granger, don’t play dumb. What do you think Blaise was hinting at, exactly? Why do you think I would’ve told him and Theo, for that matter, to stay away from you?” He looked at her imploringly.

“I don’t know, Malfoy,” she huffed. “Why can’t you just stop talking in circles?” She was exasperated, at her wit’s end.

“Sweet Merlin,” Malfoy groaned, still not looking at her. “I knew Gryffindors were dense, but honestly, witch, I didn’t expect it to be this difficult,” he gave her a flat look.

“I’m dense?” Hermione asked incredulously, laughing darkly. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks, Malfoy. What exactly were you expecting me to do? I can’t read your mind, especially if you suddenly become Hogwarts’ most absent student! Honestly,” she sputtered, throwing her hands up.

“I don’t want to be one of your mistakes!” Malfoy shouted at her, his chest heaving with the effort.

“I don’t know what that means! How would you be one of my mistakes when you haven’t done anything?” She argued back loudly, balling her fists at her sides to avoid punching him again, like she had in Third Year.

Malfoy groaned again, muttering something under his breath about obtuse, oblivious witches. With his eyes closed, he took a deep breath, making some effort to unclench his jaw and loosen his shoulders. He opened his eyes, looking directly into her own, before telling her with a tone of finality, “I like you, Hermione.”

A breath whooshed out of her at the sound of her given name on his lips. She blinked at him, both of their breaths coming out shallow, their bodies having gravitated so close together during the course of their argument that she could have kissed him, if she had wanted to.

She did want to, and so she did exactly that, reaching up on her toes and grabbing the front of his shirt to pull him down to her height.

A muffled mmph sounded low in Malfoy’s throat as she pressed her lips to his, his body simultaneously tense and pliable under her hands. He tasted like spearmint, and before she knew it, he was kissing her back, pushing closer to her, his hands winding around her back to clutch at her waist under her outer robes. Malfoy kissed her like he did everything else– thoroughly, confidently, and with a preternatural awareness for her preferences, attuned to her likes and dislikes. She hummed as one of his hands wended its way into the curls at the back of her head, gently tugging her backward to give him better access. She ran a hand over his chest, her mind pleasantly blank as his lips traveled away from her mouth and across her jaw, down to the junction where her neck met her shoulder, planting open-mouthed kisses to the soft skin there.

She realized, seemingly at the same time as Malfoy, that the two of them were putting on a significant public display of affection, both of them going rigid as the fear of being caught washed over them, wrenching them away from one another.

Hermione tried to catch her breath, her cheeks on fire as she looked anywhere but at Malfoy. The grass of the Quidditch Pitch was suddenly too vibrant, the sky too bright, the sound of the wind too harsh. Her eyes were wide in mortification, her shoulders hunched and her mouth pressed into a straight line.

Malfoy took multiple steps backwards, as if being in close proximity to her was physically painful. He looked like he had gotten word that Voldemort had risen from the dead, hellbent on starting another war. Malfoy glanced at her, observing her general expression of dread.

“I’m sorry,” he sounded pained. “You deserve better than somebody like me,” he shook his head sadly. “I won’t be the one to tarnish your reputation.”

“Malfoy, I–” Hermione began to protest. That’s not how she viewed him at all.

“Please, Granger,” his eyes were pleading with her. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. It wasn’t right.”

She bristled. “What is that supposed to mean?” Her emotions were swirling in her chest, her Occlumency doing nothing for her at the moment. Jealousy, insecurity, hope, rejection. “Is it because I’m not some Pureblood witch with a betrothal contract already drafted by my parents?” She spat, feeling self-righteous and indignant, remembering the scent of Astoria’s perfume on Malfoy’s clothes.

His expression was wounded as he snapped his jaw shut on a retort, genuine hurt flashing in his grey eyes. She knew she had gone too far, was acting unfairly toward him, hitting him where she knew it would hurt most.

“Malfoy I–” she began to apologize, dread sluicing in her veins.

“Please, don’t,” Malfoy said quietly but firmly, his eyes downcast as he stooped to pick up his broom from where it had fallen in the grass. “Good luck on your NEWTs,” he added coolly, not glancing at her before striding in the opposite direction.

Fuck, she thought, as she watched him go.

— — —

July 1, 1999

Hermione gazed around her empty dorm room, her trunk resting at her feet, the normally-loud common room now quiet. The last few days of school had passed in a dull blur, Hermione going through the motions as she sat for her seven NEWTs, somehow managing to earn top marks on each one, despite the guilt that had been gnawing at her for days.

She had wanted to find Malfoy, to apologize and explain that she hadn’t meant the accusation she had thrown at him, about him wanting a Pureblood witch. She was ashamed that she had fallen back into her old defense mechanism by wielding his insecurities against him. She was supposed to be better than that. Though not at all an excuse, she always felt a step behind Malfoy and his closed-off emotions, always confused at his motives and at her own feelings for him. He unsettled her, challenged and pushed her at every turn to face her feelings rather than run from them, and she was a better person for it, but it also left her feeling unstable, unmoored.

The day prior, she had received a missive from the man who owned the apothecary in Diagon Alley, informing her that Malfoy had just sent a letter, formally declining the offer to study under him and earn a Potions Mastery.

The ache in her chest was excruciating as she stood in the empty eighth-year common room. She needed to tell him…what? That he was clever and brave and more than his past decisions that he was coerced into making at the age of sixteen. That she was a little broken, more than a little lonely, but not so much so that she could ignore that he made her feel alive. That without intending to, she had become accustomed to being in his company, to having him near. No, she couldn’t tell him any of that, especially not after throwing his past mistakes in his face.

So, Hermione lugged her trunk through the empty halls of the castle, down the front steps and toward the crowd gathered to wait for the Hogwarts Express. Unsurprisingly, Malfoy was nowhere in sight, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she trudged up the steps onto the train and into an empty compartment, leaving Hogwarts behind for what would be the last time.

Chapter Text

June, 2005

“Please Hermione?” Harry pleaded with her, the pair sitting at a table in the Ministry cafeteria, grabbing lunch on one of the rare days that their busy schedules aligned. “It would really mean a lot to me if you went,” his green eyes were beseeching.

Hermione took a massive bite of her club sandwich, debating the easiest and most effective way to tell her best friend absolutely not.

Sensing her rejection, Harry blurted, “I’ll do anything!”

She quirked a brow. He must be really desperate if he was willing to offer that to her, sure to regret it down the line. “Harry, the last thing I want to do this Friday is attend another party with the snakes.” Mostly because it was Malfoy’s birthday party. “Since when did you become such good friends with Malfoy, anyway?”

“But Ginny will be there,” he begged, ignoring her question. “When was the last time you got to see her?”

Hermione replied, “Last month,” before taking another bite of her lunch.

Suddenly, Harry’s eyes became keener, more focused on her as she sat across from him. “Right, when you brought Malfoy to dinner at their cottage?” He looked at her expectantly, fighting back a grin.

“For the last time, Harry,” Hermione rolled her eyes, waving a hand in the air, “I ran into him on the way there. He wouldn’t leave me alone, you know how insistent he can be,” she pointed out.

“I don’t know, Hermione,” her friend said, “Ginny said you two seemed pretty cozy,” Harry smirked at her, waggling his dark brows.

She put her half-eaten sandwich back on her plate, sighing into her hands. “Harry, I don’t have time for this conversation. How many times do I have to tell you, Ginny, and everybody else that there is nothing going on between Malfoy and me?” She gave him a hard stare, watching as he slumped in his plastic chair.

“There isn’t?” A familiar voice vaulted over her shoulder. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Theo approached their two-person table with a spring in his step, looking official in the navy blue robes of those employed by the Department of Mysteries.

“Hermione, lovely to see you again,” he leaned down to give her a peck on the cheek.

“You too, Theo,” Hermione smiled at him as he pulled up a chair, taking a sip of Harry’s soda.

He glanced sidelong at her, weighing his words. “Now what’s all this about you and Draco?”

She dropped her head to the table with a thunk as Harry guffawed, munching on a chip. “There is no me and Draco, Theodore,” her voice was muffled by the table. “Harry’s just being a nuisance.”

“Is this about Draco’s birthday party?” Theo asked. “Because if so, I’d also like to beg you to attend,” Theo’s tone was cajoling, persuasive.

“I’ve tried, Theo,” Harry said from her left. “She won’t go.”

Hermione lifted her head from the table, nodding at the couple. “Thank you for understanding, Harry. I really have no interest in going. I barely know Malfoy,” she said smoothly, dusting sandwich crumbs off her pencil skirt. “There’s no reason for me to go.”

Theo nudged Harry, muttering, “I can think of a few reasons,” while giving Hermione the side-eye.

Her lips pursed. “Name one,” she challenged, squaring her shoulders and giving the man a severe look.

He pretended to ponder this for a moment, before replying drily, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because Malfoy wants you to be there? Has specifically asked me to get you to come? It’s his birthday, Hermione. Are you really going to be so cruel to him on his special day?” Theo fluttered his long lashes at her, smiling beatifically.

Harry looked at his boyfriend, patting him on the arm. “I don’t think that tactic works on Hermione,” he stage-whispered. “We have to appeal to her logical side.” With that, he turned his bespectacled gaze on her. “Hermione, please come with us. All of your friends will be there. The Slytherins always throw great parties, you know that! You’re so busy all the time that we barely see you. We miss having you around. Please?” His green eyes were wide as he begged her, going as far as to clasp his hands in front of his chest.

“Harry, enough,” she huffed a laugh at his theatrics. “People are starting to stare,” she added out of the corner of her mouth, glancing around the full cafeteria. “Fine, you busybodies, I’ll go.”

Theo let out a whoop that definitely got peoples’ attention, Hermione cutting him a severe glare. Harry laid a hand on top of hers on the table, smiling genuinely at her. “I’ll send you the details later.”

Hermione sighed in response.

After a gruelling ten-hour day spent poring over mind-numbingly dry case files, briefings, and archive requests, Hermione found herself shopping in Diagon Alley for an outfit to wear on Friday. She kept telling herself that she wanted to impress all of the Slytherins with her wardrobe, not Malfoy specifically, but the excuse sounded thin, even to her own ears.

She popped into Madam Malkin’s, the young shop attendant greeting her with a chipper wave and a hello. Hermione nodded at the girl as she stepped further into the shop, rows and rows of garments surrounding the brightly-lit storefront.

“Is there something you’re looking for in particular?” The shop witch asked, appearing from around a corner.

She looked to be a few years younger than Hermione, something about her friendly face vaguely familiar. Hermione was tempted to tell the girl no, but she was running short on time and could frankly use the help.

She nodded, explaining to her that she was attending a semi-formal birthday party, wanting a dress that was comfortable, yet showed that she had put effort into her look.

“I have just the thing!” The girl chirped, ushering Hermione back toward the dressing rooms and telling her to wait there.

Hermione shed her outer cloak, a plain black thing that she often wore on her longest work days. She stood for a few minutes, listening to the clerk rustle around in the front showroom, before the girl returned with an armful of fabrics in various shades of green.

She couldn’t help but laugh at the irony.

“I think green would look wonderful on you,” the girl explained, observing Hermione’s expression of dread.

Hermione, not wanting to insult the poor girl, just nodded her acquiescence, holding out her hands for the pile of dresses that the girl then dropped unceremoniously into her arms, shoving Hermione into a curtained-off dressing room without another word.

She grumbled to herself, toeing off her heels before tossing the pile of clothes onto the bench.

She organized the pile, realizing that the clerk had a very loose definition of the word comfortable, holding up a bright green dress that had so many cut-outs, Hermione couldn’t even begin to try to put it on correctly. Next in the pile was a hunter green sleeveless dress covered in sequins, the texture so off-putting that Hermione ruled it out instantly. She huffed, blowing curls out of her face as she continued to rifle through the massive pile, tossing reject after reject to the side.

Of course, the one at the very bottom ended up being the one she went with, the shade an exact match for Slytherin green, a fact that was not lost on Hermione. She checked out with the clerk, thanking her for her help in finding a dress so quickly. The girl blushed and smiled, bidding Hermione a nice evening.

Friday came much too rapidly considering her days usually passed with agonizing slowness. Before she knew it, it was five o’clock and Harry was knocking on the door to her office, finding her buried under a mass of paperwork.

“Come on, Hermione,” Harry stepped around a tower of books stacked haphazardly on the floor. “It’s time to go.” He was filled with a nervous sort of energy, one that came out whenever he was up to no good.

Hermione glanced up at him from her cluttered desk, gnawing on the end of her quill. “Just a moment, Harry,” she told him distractedly, going back to her parchment.

“Nope,” Harry strode around the side of her desk, grabbing the back of her chair and pulling it out, pushing Hermione forward until she was forced to stand, lest she fall on her face.

“But Harry,” she groaned as she rolled her stiff neck from side to side.

Harry gave her a quelling look. “No excuses tonight. We’re going to have a great time celebrating the birthday of an old classmate-turned-friend of ours!” His voice was too enthusiastic.

“Speak for yourself, Potter,” she grumbled, shrugging on her coat.

She and Harry walked together up to the Ministry Atrium before parting ways at the Floo, Hermione promising to Apparate to Grimmauld as soon as she was done getting ready in her flat. She tossed a handful of Floo powder in, giving Harry a smile that was bordering on a grimace.

Once in her flat, she dawdled on the couch, avoiding getting ready for as long as possible. She hadn’t seen Malfoy since they got drinks at the Savoy, since she left him alone at the bar after taunting him with promises of her secrets.

You want my secrets, Granger? He had asked, his breath ghosting across her flushed face.

All you have to do is ask.

The honest, quiet way he delivered those words had caught Hermione off-guard, not used to him and the way he could talk his way out of any situation with a charming smile and a barely-there whisper of his sincerity. It had unbalanced her, ratcheting her heartbeat up to a concerning speed, causing her to turn tail as quickly as possible.

She hadn’t gotten him a gift, of course, but she doubted that this was that sort of party. According to Theo, it would be a moderately sized gathering, which to Hermione indicated that it would be annoyingly large and comprised of mainly other Slytherins.

But Harry was right; Ginny would be there and Hermione was excited to see her friend, even if the circumstances were less than ideal.

Sighing, Hermione padded into her bedroom, her outfit draped over her reading chair. She quickly shucked off her no-nonsense Ministry clothes, sliding the silk fabric of the dress up her body. The floor-length gown was a rich emerald green with a slit up the left side, the top held up by thin straps, the neckline plunging. It was another backless number, though ribbons were tied between her shoulder blades. As Hermione appraised herself in the mirror, she had to admit that the shop witch at Madam Malkin’s had done her well.

For years, Hermione had been insecure about her scars, hiding them with clothing or Glamouring them when she couldn’t. Since she started her side project, she realized that she truly didn’t care to hide them anymore. She looked at herself in the mirror, the purple starburst scar that Dolohov had given her in the Department of Mysteries front and center, thanks to the dangerously low neckline.

She didn’t have time to wrangle her hair into any semblance of orderly, so she left her wild curls alone. Her shoe choices were limited, Hermione deciding to go with a pair of strappy silver heels, grabbing a silver beaded bag to match. A quick coat of mascara and mauve lipstick, and Hermione was good to go.

Hermione Flooed to Grimmauld, a grin spreading across her face as she saw Harry dressed in a white Oxford and a burgundy tie, so unlike his typical plain T-shirt and faded jeans.

“Merlin, Hermione,” Harry let out a low whistle. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to impress someone,” he gave her a boyish grin.

“I can’t just look nice for the sake of looking nice?” Hermione replied, stepping up to him to adjust his tie. “Look at you,” she said, smiling fondly.

Harry blushed a little. “Well, I can admit that I’m definitely trying to impress someone.” He raised a thick brow. “The Slytherins don’t play when it comes to dressing up. You should’ve seen Pansy’s face when Theo formally introduced me to her as his boyfriend,” he laughed, running a hand through his perpetually-messy hair. “I thought she was going to kick me out of her house.”

“I wish I had been there to see it,” she told him honestly. “I’m sorry I’ve been so absent lately. Honestly, work has just been taking so much out of me,” she blew out a breath, staring down at her shoes.

Harry nudged her with his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Hermione. You have a seriously heavy workload and almost nobody to help you shoulder it.”

She couldn’t help but think of Malfoy and his offer to look out for her. She swallowed thickly, giving her friend a resigned smile, before gesturing for him to lead the way to the Floo. He insisted that she go through first, giving her the address to Malfoy’s flat in Kensington. She took a deep, fortifying breath before tossing Floo powder into the fireplace, a tug at her navel as she was whisked away from Grimmauld and into the Snake Pit.

The first thing Hermione noticed was the sound of a gramophone, classical jazz filtering out from behind a set of French doors. She dusted Floo powder off of her dress, startling when she heard the crack of Apparition.

“Good evening, miss,” a House Elf wearing what looked to be a tuxedo greeted her, bowing at the waist. “If you’d follow me,” he bowed again, leading her toward the doors at the end of the Floo Parlour.

“Er– just a moment, please,” she told the Elf, “My friend is coming through the Floo shortly.”

The flames roared to life with Harry’s arrival, the Elf turning toward the fireplace to give Harry a familiar greeting.

“Mr. Potter!” He exclaimed, bowing deeply again. He conjured a feather duster before brushing off Harry’s clothes with utmost care. “It is so wonderful that you will be attending Master Draco’s birthday party!” His over-large ears quivered with excitement. “Please, if the both of you would follow me!”

The little Elf took off down the hall at a brisk pace, Harry shooting Hermione a quelling look before the pair took off after him.

“That’s Tippy,” Harry said under his breath. “A tad enthusiastic, but a very nice Elf.”

Hermione pursed her lips, though she wasn’t surprised that Malfoy kept House Elves.

Harry side-eyed her, sensing her disapproval. “They’re free elves, Hermione. Malfoy pays them a generous wage.”

Her brows shot into her hairline at this. She knew that Malfoy wasn’t like most Purebloods, but she had assumed that the welfare of lesser creatures such as House Elves was not something that he would particularly care about. She was annoyed at the pleasant surprise she felt in knowing that he was subverting Pureblood customs on multiple fronts.

“Right,” Hermione said, snapping out of her reverie.

Tippy stopped in front of the French doors, opening them dramatically to reveal a tastefully-decorated living room. Two expansive bay windows overlooked a manicured lawn and dense thicket of trees in the distance; her heels clacked against the dark hardwood floors as she moved further into the room. In the middle of the space was a conversation pit sunken into the floor, that consisted of two large couches in rich brown leather that faced one another, a massive rectangular coffee table between them, a richly-dyed Persian rug underneath. A glittering chandelier floated above the pit, slowly rotating like a mirror ball, sending fractals of light in all directions. The walls were painted a deep indigo, and the room was bursting with plant life: large potted ferns, vines climbing up trellises, magical plants suspended from ceiling planters, and sprays of colorful flowers on each side table. One of the side walls was covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves equipped with a rolling ladder. Hermione wanted nothing more than to explore the collection.

It looked…homey. Hermione couldn’t help the awed expression on her face at the charming, thoughtful way the space was decorated. Tippy the Elf bowed to Harry and Hermione once more before Apparating away with a pop. Some of her former classmates were already deep in conversation on the couches, at the bar, and by the roaring fireplace.

“Jesus, Harry,” Hermione marveled at the enchanted ceiling, currently speckled with stars. “You didn’t tell me Malfoy actually had taste.”

“Ouch, Granger,” a familiar voice drawled from behind her. “It’s my birthday,” Malfoy placed a hand to his chest, a wounded expression on his face.

Hermione had the decency to blush, but didn’t otherwise fall for his theatrics. “Happy birthday, Malfoy,” she told him, smiling slightly. “Your home is lovely.”

“Thank you,” Malfoy said politely.

Malfoy was wearing his usual black trousers and dragonhide shoes, but had apparently been convinced to wear a dark green silk shirt with silver embroidery along the collar, the top two buttons undone. Hermione swallowed as she took in his rolled up sleeves, the stretch of the fabric across his broad shoulders and chest.

She only half-listened as Harry and Malfoy had some sort of friendly argument, still annoyed by the distracting and indecent way Malfoy wore his formalwear.

“Hermione,” Harry called from her left. “Do you want something to drink?”

Distractedly, she replied, “A gin and tonic would be nice, thank you.”

As soon as Harry walked off toward the other end of the room to the full bar set up there, Hermione realized her mistake: she was now alone with Malfoy. She fought the urge to fidget with her dress, suddenly feeling exposed and insecure.

“You look nice, Granger,” Malfoy said softly, his eyes unreadable.

“Er, thanks,” she stammered, blushing. “Are you having a good birthday?”

“Better now, yes,” Malfoy replied cryptically, sipping at his scotch.

Hermione nodded automatically, looking around the room for someone to rescue her. She spotted Neville chatting with Pansy and Ginny at a round table by the bookshelves. “If you’ll excuse me,” she told him, remembering her manners but not waiting for a response.

Ginny wolf-whistled at Hermione’s approach, sitting in a wingback leather chair, Pansy standing above her with a hand on her shoulder. “You look hot!” She pretended to fan herself with a hand.

Hermione waved her off, stepping forward to give Neville a hug.

“Long time no see, Hermione,” he said into her hair. “You look great,” he smiled at her.

“I know Nev, thanks,” she replied. “Pansy,” she nodded her head in greeting.

Pansy’s sharp bob swayed as she nodded in response. “Granger, where did you get that dress?” She was dressed in a pair of tailored black cigarette trousers and a cream silk blouse, looking effortlessly Parisian.

She knew that this was Pansy’s way of giving her a compliment, and thus smiled a little. “Madam Malkin’s, earlier this week. The shop witch helped me pick it out,” she added, staring down at the slit in the leg.

Pansy’s keen eyes were sharp, approval glinting in them.

Harry approached carrying their drinks, passing a glass to Hermione before he greeted the other three. “Who would’ve thought,” he mused, “A bunch of Gryffindors partying with the Slytherins.”

Hermione gave her friend a flat look. “Harry, you’re dating a Slytherin, or have you forgotten? Speaking of, where is Theo?” She looked around the room, the charming brunette nowhere in sight.

Harry waved a hand in the air. “He’s always fashionably late. Something about a special surprise for Malfoy. I don’t want to know what he’s up to,” he laughed, the others joining in.

Theo’s particular brand of mischief was not something to take lightly, and Hermione was now nervous for whatever the man had in store for his best friend’s birthday. She glanced around the room again, noting that Malfoy was standing with Blaise at the bar, swirling the ice in his glass as Blaise leaned in to whisper something in his ear, the pair of them glancing in their general direction.

Hermione took a generous swig of her G&T, moving closer to the dark wood bookshelves lining the walls as the others conversed. She saw a lot of her favorites amongst the stacks: Austen and Thackeray, Dickinson and Wilde, Yeats and Wordsworth. She reached out to graze a finger against the well-worn spine of Pride and Prejudice, marveling at the gold filigree. It didn’t surprise her that Malfoy was well-read, but it angered her a little all the same.

Suddenly, the French doors to the living room burst open, Theo standing in the threshold, dressed immaculately in a deep plum dress shirt and dove grey trousers. “Draco, darling!” He trilled, striding into the room with all eyes on him. “I come bearing gifts,” his tone was sly, his smirk promising mischief.

Malfoy and Zabini began making their way towards Theo, closing in on him like well-practiced bodyguards, but Theo was quicker on his feet, darting between them and out of range of their grabbing hands. Hermione could only watch in anticipation mixed with dread as Theo began digging around in his trouser pocket, grumbling to herself before finding what he was looking for.

With a dramatic flair, he pulled out what looked to be a necklace on a long gold chain, brandishing it with an “Aha!”

“What the fuck?” Malfoy asked, eyeing the jewelry warily.

“It’s a Time Turner, one of mine,” Theo said mischievously, shooting Malfoy a devilish smirk.

Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do you mean, one of yours?” Malfoy asked suspiciously. “Need I remind you that we’re in the presence of multiple Ministry employees?” His voice was dry, flat.

Theo’s grin was bright in contrast to Malfoy’s tense expression. “Whoops,” he replied, shrugging casually.

Theo walked over to Malfoy, unceremoniously placing the device in Malfoy’s hand, leaning in to whisper something before clapping him on the back and laughing at Malfoy’s sour expression, then striding off in the direction of the backlit bar.

“Who wants to do shots?” Theo took up a position behind the bar, addressing the small crowd magnanimously and thus breaking the tension in the otherwise quiet room.

Zabini and Pansy both perked up, meeting him at the bar as Theo began pouring shots from two bottles at once. Harry groaned as he approached warily, Theo leaning across the bar to give him a kiss on the cheek.

“Draco!” Theo waved his arms in the air, shouting at him across the room despite not needing to. “Shots for the birthday boy!”

Malfoy looked as if he was walking to his doom, approaching with caution.

Theo handed out the shots with unrestrained glee, passing them around until every guest had one, Hermione’s attempts to remain unnoticed in the corner having failed.

“On the count of three, everybody,” Theo called. “One, two, three!”

Simultaneously, everyone tipped their glasses back, grimacing and spluttering at the taste of whatever Theo had just served them.

“What the fuck, Theo?” Malfoy wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “What was that?” His cheeks had turned ruddy.

Theo shrugged lazily, picking up the bottle. “It’s troll vodka!” He announced as if this was wonderful news. “Seventy percent ABV!” His words began to slur together, the effects of the booze hitting nearly instantly.

Hermione felt woozy, teetering on her heels as she stood by the bookcases.

“Where the fuck did you get troll vodka?” Pansy asked, sitting on a barstool and looking slightly harried. “And why the fuck would you serve it to everybody?” She was glaring at Theo, who had the grace to look terrified.

Theo put his hands up in defense. “It’s not every day that our darling Draco lets us throw him a birthday party, Pans,” he cajoled, “The occasion calls for an extra bit of fun, don’t y’think?” His voice was lilting, less crisp than usual.

“I hate you,” Pansy muttered under her breath, slumping in her chair and leaning fully into Ginny.

Ginny was faring better than the rest of them, her alcohol tolerance always putting everybody else to shame; but she too looked a little dazed, her eyes slightly unfocused as she bent to kiss the top of Pansy’s head.

Hermione, afraid that she would trip and fall on her arse if she stood for much longer, plunked herself down into one of the wingback chairs by the shelves, content to ride out her drunkenness until she could make an excuse to leave. She sighed, her head spinning as she leaned back in her chair, the voices around her distorting.

Naturally, this being a Slytherin party, leaving became difficult. Very drunk but hiding it very well, Theo and Harry rounded up all of the guests against their will and commanded them to sit in the conversation pit to play a drinking game. Hermione found herself sharing a couch with Neville, Ron, and Zabini, the other couch occupied by Harry, Theo, Pansy, and Ginny. Malfoy sat with unadulterated annoyance at the head of the coffee table, Theo having conjured an opulent gold throne for the birthday boy to sit on.

“King’s Cup!” Harry announced, pushing his glasses further up his nose, having learned about the game from Hermione, who had learned it one summer.

Ron and Ginny had played it before, but the rest of them didn’t, so Harry launched into a long-winded explanation of the rules, Hermione chiming in intermittently. They had kept the rules the same, with the exception of the 4s and 6s which were rooted in sexism, and thus whoever pulled them had to drink.

“Basically, everyone starts with pouring a little bit of their drink into the King’s Cup,” Harry started, gesturing to the gilded, bejeweled goblet that he had Conjured and placed on the coffee table. “We take turns drawing a card from the deck, and depending on what it says, we have to do various challenges or drink,” he held up a deck of playing cards before fanning them out, face-down around the cup. “Whoever pulls a King has to add to the cup and choose a rule for when you take a drink, and whoever gets the fourth King has to drink from the King’s Cup. If I pull a seven, that’s point to heaven, and I can choose to point at someone who I want to drink at any time,” he pointed at Theo. “If I pull a nine, that’s a rhyme, and I’ll say a word and everybody has to go around in a circle to add a word that rhymes, and whoever can’t think of one has to drink.” Harry poured a bit of his lager into the King’s Cup. “Whoever hasn’t played can sit the first few rounds out to get their bearings,” he added.

Everybody nodded, Theo, Zabini, and Pansy particularly enthusiastically. Malfoy, to no one’s surprise, looked suspicious and annoyed.

“I’ll be the officiant,” Harry said. “The starting player will be whoever cursed last,” he shot a grin towards Pansy.

Pansy looked more than happy, one leg crossed over the other as she picked up a card, drawing a nine. “Daisy,” she said.

Ginny, next in the circle, said, “Lazy?”

“Crazy,” Malfoy deadpanned.

“Hazy,” Hermoine blurted.

Ron floundered to her left for a second, before offering weakly, “Paisley?”

“Drink!” Pansy called. “That doesn’t count.”

Ron just rolled his eyes, taking a swig from his bourbon.

Neville went next, drawing a ten. “What’s that one?” He asked Harry.

“Categories. Pick any category and everybody has to go around naming something that fits.”

Neville pondered for a moment before predictably choosing magical plants.

“Venomous Tentacula,” Blaise drawled.

“Devil’s Snare,” Harry wrinkled his nose.

“Gillyweed,” Theo said, giving Harry a pointed look.

“Asphodel,” Pansy said.

Ginny drank from her cocktail glass, the ice rattling.

“You aren’t even going to try?” Ron jeered at his sister.

She stuck her tongue out at him. “I can’t think of anything when troll vodka is in the mix,” Ginny retorted. She had a point.

“My turn,” Malfoy cut in, drawing an eight. He showed it to the group.

Harry laughed, clearing his throat. “Pick a mate, Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s brows furrowed, his cheeks turning pink. “Excuse me, Potter?”

“Pick a drinking buddy. When you drink, they drink, and vice versa,” Hermione piped up.

Malfoy’s expression grew pinched. “Do I have to?”

The rest of the group laughed, causing him to grow more irritated.

“Fine,” he sniffed, “Blaise.”

His partner shrugged, holding up his highball glass in a cheers.

It was Hermione’s turn, drawing the first King, splashing a bit of her G&T into the King’s Cup. “My rule is that you have to moo like a cow every time you take a drink.” Not one of her best, but she was too sloshed to really care.

Ron drew a three, three for me, and thus had to take three sips from his glass after making a pitiful mooing sound.

Neville drew an ace, looking around in confusion.

Harry explained, “That one’s waterfall, meaning we have to drink until the person to our right is done with theirs.” He mooed, tipped his head back and emptying his glass while everyone else followed suit.

“We need refills,” Theo pointed out, smacking Harry in the chest. Everybody made their way back to the bar, pouring themselves new glasses, all of them looking a little worse for wear, the troll vodka making them sluggish.

Once settled back on the sofas, Blaise drew the second King, his grin slow and sensual. “My rule is that everybody has to take off an article of clothing every time they drink.”

There was a chorus of sighs and protests, but Blaise wasn’t having it.

Harry pulled a two, two’s for you, and pointed at Theo, who took two sips of his brandy and removed his wristwatch, mooing enthusiastically.

Theo pulled another two, pointing at Malfoy who knocked back the rest of his drink, removing his tie and giving a pitiful moo before standing to get another refill, Blaise having to do the same..

Once seated again and resigned to his fate, Malfoy pulled a Jack, looking up at Harry expectantly.

“That one’s never have I ever,” Harry supplied. “Everyone puts five fingers up. We go around in a circle, and whoever has to put down all five fingers first has to drink.”

Malfoy sighed, blinking slowly. “Never have I ever driven a car,” he smirked, watching Harry, Ron, and Hermione drop a finger.

“Never have I ever cheated on an exam,” Hermoine grinned, watching as everybody except Malfoy put down a finger.

“Lame,” Ron muttered, earning a smack from her. “Ouch, woman,” he grumbled, rubbing at the sore spot. “Never have I ever kissed a boy.”

Everybody except Pansy, Neville, and Malfoy put a finger down.

Neville hummed for a moment. “Never have I ever had a crush on a Slytherin,” his smile was uncharacteristically sly, and Hermione cursed him silently.

She coughed a little, bound by the honor code of the game to not lie. Slowly, she put a finger down, along with Ginny, Harry, Malfoy, and Pansy.

Ginny screeched, practically launching out of her seat at catching Hermione in the act, pointing an accusatory finger in her face. “I knew it!”

Pansy shushed her, pushing her shoulders backward into the couch. “Darling, not now,” she persuaded the drunk redhead to stand down, bless her.

Hermione was surely the color of a tomato, but luckily, nobody pressed her on it, everybody too drunk to care.

“Never have I ever worked for the Ministry of Magic,” Blaise grinned at Harry, who had to put his fifth and final finger down.

Harry mooed and took off his tie, giving Blaise a dark look over his cup as he drank. He then drew the third King, dumping his drink into the chalice, liquid nearly sloshing over the sides. “From now on, everyone has to confess a secret whenever they drink,” he looked satisfied as he smiled at them.

“Oh fuck’s sake,” Ron complained.

Theo went next, pulling a four, fours for whores, taking a hefty swig while unbuttoning and removing his shirt, mooing loudly. “My secret,” Theo stage-whispered, leaning toward the coffee table, “Is that I had a massive crush on Harry during Sixth Year,” he giggled to himself.

Blaise and Pansy groaned.

“Theo, that wasn’t a secret, mate,” Blaise reached over to pat him on the shoulder.

Theo threw a defensive arm over Harry’s chest. “It was too! I never told anyone.”

“You’re literally dating him right now,” Malfoy deadpanned, leaning forward in his throne.

Theo waved a hand in his direction. “Give me a break, I’m drunk. It’s your turn,” he nodded at Pansy.

They all laughed, rolling their eyes at his antics. Pansy drew another two, pointing at Ginny.

“Unfair,” Ginny nudged her girlfriend, sighing as she mooed and removed her heels, confessing that she had once snuck up to the Boys’ Dormitory to put Scabbers under Ron’s pillow.

“I knew it!” Ron pointed an accusatory finger at his sister.

Ginny ignored him, pulling a six, six for dicks, shrugging as she took another drink and removed her shawl. She swayed a little in her seat, leaning on Pansy.

“One time, I accidentally caught Ernie MacMillan and Millicent Bulstrode shagging in an empty classroom,” she said.

Everybody in the room went silent, goggling at Ginny before breaking out into fits of hysterical giggles, the troll vodka really putting in work.

“There’s no way,” Blaise wiped a tear from his eye. “Our Millie?”

Pansy snorted indelicately, shaking her head in incredulity.

Malfoy pulled the final King, glaring up at Harry as if this was his fault.

“Ha!” Theo cackled, pointing at Malfoy’s very sullen expression. “The birthday boy has to drink the King’s Cup!”

Blaise stood from the sofa, grabbing the chalice before taking a knee in front of Malfoy’s throne, bowing his head as he offered him the goblet. Malfoy looked unimpressed, rolling his eyes at his theatrics, but accepted the cup from him nonetheless.

“Do I really have to do this?” Malfoy asked Harry seriously.

Harry and Hermione both nodded sagely. “It’s the rules, Malfoy.”

Sighing, Malfoy tossed the cup back, swallowing multiple times before slamming it back down on the coffee table. “That’s fucking disgusting,” he sneered, wiping at the corner of his mouth. “You’re the worst,” he directed at Harry.

Harry just laughed, waving him off.

“Holy shite, I’m drunk,” Ginny said to Pansy, leaning in close.

Malfoy was nowhere to be seen, having disappeared as soon as the game was over. She wanted to leave, but it would be rude to do so without at least bidding the host goodbye. She groaned, resigning herself to wait for his return, slumping back against the sofa and closing her eyes.

Some time later, she cracked an eye open at the sensation of someone sitting next to her on the couch.

“Granger,” he said quietly, not wanting to draw attention.

“Hmm?” She asked groggily, her limbs loose and uncooperative as she tried to straighten her posture

He cleared his throat, waiting for her to come to.

She sat up, suddenly aware that the living room was empty, voices echoing out in the hall as the guests prepared to leave.

“Jesus, Malfoy, I’m sorry,” she shook her head. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” She stood rapidly, the motion causing her to lose balance, still properly sloshed.

Malfoy’s hands instinctively shot out to steady her under the elbows. “It’s alright,” he told her. “Don’t worry about it,” he gave her a small smile.

“Did you have a good birthday?” She couldn’t help but ask.

“Yes, very, thank you.”

Hermione would blame her next question on her drunkenness later. “Why didn’t you do the Potions Mastery?”

Her question seemed to catch Malfoy off-guard, his heavy-lidded grey eyes shooting open to stare down at her from where they stood by the couch. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “I told you it wasn’t in the cards for me,” he said neutrally.

“Do you regret it?” She blurted, internally cursing herself for being so loose-lipped when drunk.

Malfoy sighed, his hands still braced under her arms. “Sometimes,” he cocked his head to the side. “But I think I made do without.”

Hermione nodded, her mind pleasantly blank as she started toward the hallway. “Thank you for having me,” she told him. “You never told us your secret,” she added as an afterthought.

His gaze was quizzical, his brows drawn up. “What secret?”

“The game,” she mumbled, gesturing toward the cards piled haphazardly across the coffee table. “Harry’s rule,” she clarified.

He blinked at her. “If I tell you a secret, does that mean you won’t hate me anymore?” He asked, leaning a little closer to her.

He smelled intoxicating, like cinnamon and brandy and citrus, his taller frame suddenly encroaching on her personal space.

“I don’t hate you,” she whispered, staring at the Persian rug under their feet.

“No?” He asked. “Could’ve fooled me.”

She shook her head adamantly. “You irritate me, that’s all,” she admitted, unable to stop the words from coming out. “You always anticipate where I’ll be, showing up at the worst times and inserting yourself into my life,” she complained petulantly. “You’re just so smug, always one step ahead and I don’t know why but I hate it.” She stared up at him defiantly.

He smiled down at her. “You hate that you can’t always be in control, Granger,” his eyes were trained on her lips. “You hate that I know you, probably better than Potter and Weasley do.”

She blushed, shaking her head. “You don’t,” she insisted.

“But I do,” Malfoy took a step so that they were toe-to-toe. “Do you want to know my secret, Granger?”

She licked her lips reflexively, tempted to say no but so desperately wanting to say yes. She nodded.

His stare was intense as he leaned down, his breath ghosting over her face as he whispered, “I wanted to hate you at the end of Eighth Year,” he whispered. “I tried, I really did. I wanted to stay mad at the way you threw my past in my face.”

Hermione inhaled shakily, blinking up at him but unable to move. She’d deserve it if he had hated her after that.

“But I couldn’t,” he said quietly, his brows slightly furrowed. “No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stay away.”

“You did stay away, though,” she pointed out. “We hadn’t spoken in years until recently.” She had no idea why she was arguing the point.

Malfoy chuckled, his eyes still trained on her. “True, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t keep up with what you were doing.”

Hermione recalled Pansy’s comment at dinner, the one about Malfoy keeping up with her legislation, with her work. She recalled Blaise, years ago at another party, mentioning that Malfoy had told him she had been busy at school. Her breath was caught in her chest at the implications that she had refused to see before.

“I don’t know what that means,” she shook her head slowly, taking a small step backward.

“I think you do, Granger,” he frowned down at her. “But you waited for me back in school, to come around to being friends,” his eyes grew distant. “So I can wait for you.”

Her mouth dropped open a little, her mind lagging behind as she tried to process his words. He looked at her expectantly, but something in her expression caused him to deflate.

“Tippy,” Malfoy called, the Elf appearing at his side instantly.

“Yes, Master Draco?” Tippy’s ears twitched.

“Please escort Miss Granger to the Floo Parlour,” Malfoy said, giving Hermione one last nod and a tight-lipped smile before striding in the opposite direction.

Before Hermione could protest, Tippy was taking her by the hand, through the French doors and to the Floo, throwing a handful of powder in for her. Mechanically, with no other choice, Hermione stepped in alone, calling out the address of her flat.

Chapter Text

July, 2005

“Hi Harry, sorry I didn’t hear you knock,” Hermione greeted as she glanced up from the cluttered desk in her office, currently drafting a counter-argument.

“It’s alright,” Harry replied, standing behind one of the two armchairs in front of her desk, drumming his fingers against the back.

She finished her sentence, setting down her quill and looking up at him expectantly. “Did you need something?” She noted the nervous way his eyes darted around the room, the tense energy coming off him in waves. “Is there something wrong?” She asked, her heart dropping into her stomach.

“Er– no,” Harry said slowly, not looking at her directly. “Not really?” He breathed out.

Hermione leaned back in her leather chair, the hinges creaking in protest as she assessed him critically; he was in his normal state of frazzled dishevelment, his wand holster strapped across his white Oxford, his black outer robes long discarded.

She bounced her leg under the desk. “Sit down, Harry, you’re making me nervous.”

He loosed a breath, sitting mechanically across from her.

“Out with it.” She commanded.

Harry winced at her harsh tone, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “Hermione, you can’t freak out, okay?”

Her lips pursed. “You’re freaking me out,” she told him. “What is this about? I haven’t seen you like this in years.” She huffed.

“Alright, fine, but no interrupting me until I’m done, okay? I’m not even supposed to be telling you this,” he frowned.

She nodded her assent, gesturing for him to begin.

Harry took a deep breath, his eyes flitting up to meet hers. “Malfoy’s a suspect in those murders,” he blurted, blinking rapidly. “I don’t think Robards actually has any evidence, but he fits the vigilante profile and Robards needs a scapegoat because he’s under a lot of pressure to catch this guy. I know it’s not Malfoy but Robards has had it out for him for years, even though Malfoy’s done a lot for the department and generally kept his head down,” Harry was nearly scowling now. “He wants to open an investigation into Malfoy,” he shook his head, adjusting his glasses on his nose. “I thought you’d want to know.” He took another deep breath, waiting for her reaction.

Hermione heard everything Harry was saying, but wasn’t able to process the flurry of emotions that she felt at the news. Anger, indignation, horror, guilt, shame, back to anger. She opened and closed her mouth multiple times, not wanting to misdirect her anger at Harry.

She cleared her throat, squaring her shoulders. “What do you mean, he ‘fits the profile’, Harry?”

Harry blinked at her, wincing at the sharpness in her tone. “Well, er–” he scratched the back of his head. “It’s just that this person obviously has it out for ex-Death Eaters,” he explained cautiously. “I know, I know, most of us feel negatively toward them, but not enough to kill.” His expression was mildly concerned, his brows furrowed. “We don’t know much, but what we do know for certain is that this person is highly-skilled at going undetected; they’re thorough and methodical in their kills. They have an intimate knowledge of Death Eaters and sympathizers; they’ve kept track of them once they get released from Azkaban. This indicates that they know a bit about the legal system,” his eyes were downcast, trained on his lap.

“But Harry,” Hermione argued, “A lot of people fit that profile. Do you really think that Robards would immediately jump to Malfoy if he wasn’t an ex-Death Eater with a bad past? Even though Malfoy’s spent years trying to fix his reputation?”

Harry shook his head. “No, I don’t think he’d jump straight to Malfoy if not for that. But that’s the issue; Robards doesn’t actually care who did it, he just wants to blame it on someone to make himself look better,” he scoffed.

Hermione laughed bitterly. “Don’t you just love Ministry bureaucracy and posturing?”

He huffed, smiling a little at her.

“Why did you think that I’d freak out?” Hermione asked casually, ignoring her heart rapidly beating in her chest. She was freaking out, but only internally.

Harry gave her a look, one that said he could see right through her. “I won’t begin to try and understand it, but you two have something going on,” he nodded succinctly, as if this was a fact and not an exaggerated speculation.

“That’s absurd,” Hermione defended. “We aren’t friends.”

He raised a brow at her. “You don’t have to be friends to have something going on, Hermione,” he chided lightly. “There’s been something happening between you two for the past few months,” he tapped a finger against his chin. “Theo said Malfoy’s been extra irritable lately.”

She scoffed. “So your first assumption is that I’m the one irritating him? Thanks, Harry,” she said drily.

Harry fidgeted again under her glare. “No,” he shook his head slowly. “But Theo’s mentioned a few times that you and Malfoy had a falling out at school, something that Malfoy’s pretty closed-lipped about?” His green eyes looked at her expectantly.

She waved him off. “We didn’t have a falling out, Harry. We weren’t even really friends.” She didn’t know why she insisted on keeping up this charade when everybody in her life could clearly see right through it, but she wasn’t going to back down now.

“I heard you,” Harry told her gently, “At Malfoy’s birthday party.”

She looked at her friend quizzically. “What are you talking about?”

Harry’s expression was pinched, hesitant; he cleared his throat. “When everyone was leaving,” he paused to gauge her reaction. “Theo and I were…indisposed in the hallway, and we heard you two having what sounded like a serious conversation.” At her dark look, he quickly clarified, “We couldn’t hear what you were saying, only that it sounded…intense.” He gave her a look as if to say please don’t hurt me.

Hermione just sighed, tipping her head back in her chair. She didn’t have time for this right now, not when she had to begin formulating a plan to keep Malfoy out of Azkaban. Again.

“Look, Harry, I’m very busy today,” she gestured to the parchment and file folders strewn haphazardly across her wooden desk. “I don’t have time to go in circles with you about Malfoy, of all things,” she huffed. “I appreciate you telling me that he’s a suspect, but I’m not sure what I can do about that, aside from believing it isn’t him.”

Harry bobbed his head from side to side. “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he replied cryptically, standing from the guest chair. “I’ll see you for dinner on Friday night? Theo’s making a roast.”

She nodded, smiling as she ushered him out of her office, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

— — —

August, 2005

Her sensible work heels clicked softly as she walked across the Ministry Atrium after lunch. For weeks, she had pondered and planned how to find a way out of this mess with Robards to save Malfoy’s ungrateful, posh arse. Instinctively, she had wanted to charge into the DMLE bullpen, demanding Robards’ head on a stick, but she hadn’t killed over a dozen men by being hasty. After weeks of thinking, she decided on a multi-faceted approach, not only to draw attention away from Malfoy but also away from the vigilante in general. It wouldn’t do if she somehow got caught up in the investigation.

Earlier that week, a case file had come across her desk for review, Draco Lucius Malfoy printed across the top. She leafed through the file, noting that Harry was right and Robards didn’t actually have anything on him, her anger simmering low in her chest. Surreptitiously, she had marked the file under missing critical information, please resubmit, making it so that the DMLE would have to scrap this version and resubmit a more comprehensive file, which would be no easy feat.

The next part of her plan was a little more heavy-handed, a little more risky, but she felt it was necessary; she did nothing by halves. Predictably, Robards contacted her to set up a meeting about the recent DMLE case files that she had flagged for further review, Malfoy’s hidden in a pile of others. She replied in the affirmative, scheduling a meeting for later in the week.

She strode across the bullpen, which was as always a flurry of motion and loud voices, before knocking twice on Robards’ office door.

“Come in,” his gruff voice sounded from inside.

She swung it open, shutting it behind her. “You wanted to see me, Head Auror Robards?” Using his title left a bitter taste in her mouth, but she noticed how he puffed up at her respectful greeting.

“Miss Granger,” he greeted, gesturing for her to take a seat across from him.

His desk was a behemoth of dark wood, the surface almost as cluttered as her own. He sat back in his worn leather chair, his wand holster discarded on top of a stack of papers.

“Tea?” He offered with a tight smile.

“That would be lovely, thank you,” she replied.

He Conjured a tea service, setting the pot to steep, as he leaned forward in his chair. “I’d like to discuss some recent case files that came across your desk.” His watery brown eyes were void of emotion.

“What about them?” She asked, watching as he poured the tea into two porcelain cups.

“Your work is important, quite invaluable to our office,” Robards droned on. “But we have time constraints– deadlines, that we need to meet. If we have to refile a motion with your office, that delays us significantly,” his thin lips were pulled into a slight frown. “I must ask you to reconsider your decision to have us refile.”

Hermione took a sip of her tea, swishing it around on her tongue. “Is there one in particular that you would like to see expedited?” She asked coolly, knowing the answer.

Robards hesitated for a moment. “As a matter of fact, there is. It has to do with the vigilante.” He assessed her reaction critically. “It’s a very important file,” he added.

She kept her face neutral, crossing one stockinged ankle over the other. “I see.”

The Head Auror looked a little uncomfortable under her blank stare. “I’m sure you can understand the importance of bringing this murderer to justice,” he implored.

She fought from rolling her eyes; what about bringing Death Eaters to justice? “Yes, of course, sir.” She nodded. “Forgive me, but are you one hundred percent certain that the murders are connected?”

His thin lips pursed as he considered how much weakness to show her. “We are nearly positive, Miss Granger. Why would all of these known criminals with connections to one another just vanish into thin air?”

Hermione hummed. “Possibly because they’re known criminals in Wizarding Europe,” she supplied politely. “Perhaps they wanted to escape persecution under the weight of public opinion?”

Robards trained his beady eyes on her, looking significantly displeased. “Miss Granger, I highly doubt that these low-level criminals could disappear completely without a trace.”

“Low-level?” Hermione parroted, raising a brow. “They’re convicted Death Eaters.”

Robards waved a meaty hand at her. “Quite right, but they weren’t the ones doing real damage, not like Dolohov, the Lestranges, MacNair, and Malfoy were.”

Hermione cleared her throat. “So, what evidence do you have against the younger Malfoy?” She watched coolly as Robards flushed, his mouth opening and closing.

“Well,” he began, “Malfoy has publicly disavowed his family and his Pureblood beliefs. He has the sort of depraved personality that could be capable of something like this, not to mention that he’s a very skilled Wizard. He earned seven NEWTs, you know.”

“So did I,” Hermione deadpanned, giving Robards an unimpressed look.

“Quite right, quite right,” Robards stammered, looking hot under the collar. “I mean no offense, Miss Granger. I only want to put this killer away for good.”

The irony was not lost on her. “The alleged victims were known for torturing and killing Muggles,” she said.

The man shifted in his seat. “Yes, but–”

Hermione shook her head. “Head Auror Robards, I’m not confident that you have a killer on your hands. Without any bodies, without any evidence pointing to any one person, I’m afraid it would be very difficult for you to make your case. Malfoy has been a model citizen since the war, and none of his behaviors indicate that he would be capable or willing to kill this many people.” Her voice was crisp, unwavering.

Robards’ round face was red and shiny with sweat. “Yes but he’s an ex-Death Eater!” He raised his voice. “He would have knowledge of these men and their whereabouts!”

She blinked at him, silently wondering how the fuck he had made it this far in the Auror department. “Head Auror Robards,” she began slowly, “You have no case. You have no bodies, no evidence, no suspect aside from your own hunch based on personal bias. I cannot sign off on this case unless you have something tangible, something more than just a theory.” Her expression was carefully blank as she took a sip of her tea.

“I had hoped that you would be able to see reason, Miss Granger,” he replied condescendingly. “But it seems that you leave me no choice. You will either sign off on this case file or you will no longer be employed at the Ministry of Magic. I have friends in high places who are more than willing to remove you from your esteemed position as an attorney.” His voice was cold, detached as he sneered at her.

Hermione couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his bravado, his arrogance. “Does blackmail work on all of your employees, Robards?” She asked, leaning back in her chair. “Are you really so insecure that you’d remove anyone who opposed you, even though you’re clearly in the wrong?” She chuckled, incredulous. “Nobody on the Wizengamot with half a brain would look at this case and move to convict.”

Robards gaped at her like a fish, his face bordering on purple. “You have some nerve, girl,” he snarled at her insubordination, standing from his desk. “You’ll never see another case again.”

She smiled sweetly as she stood from her seat, placing her empty teacup on his desk. “Did you know that I Obliviated my parents at seventeen?” She asked slowly. “Memory charms are tricky things, especially if you want to do them right. It took years to get their memories back; the expert Healer had said that I had cast the spell perfectly, especially considering that I had to dismantle seventeen years of memories.” Her voice was lilting, innocent. “The trick is to make it so that the person has no idea their memories are missing. You have to implant false ones to fill the gaps. How easy do you think it'll be for me to remove just one conversation, considering I succeeded at removing thousands from each of my parents?”

Confusion flitted across his puffy face. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Hermione shrugged, straightening her blazer. “You aren’t going to remember the specifics of this conversation,” she said slowly. “You’re going to think that we had a nice chat about some boring, inconsequential files. You’re going to contact Rita Skeeter and have her amend the article to state that the murders aren’t connected, and that you think these men have just run off to America or someplace else.” She grinned at him.

“You’re mad,” he shook his head, watery eyes flitting around the room. “You can’t touch me. I’ll have you flat on your arse before you can blink.” His chest heaved.

“Really?” She cocked her head to one side, eyeing him from across the desk.

He lunged for her, Hermione side-stepping his massive hands with fluid grace. “You bitch,” he twisted toward her again, his bulky body lumbering slowly after her.

She darted out of his grasp, drawing her wand from its thigh holster as they faced off again. “It would be a huge oversight on your part to forget who I am,” she told him sweetly. “Obliviate.” She shot the spell right between his brows, his eyes going blank, his body going slack.

— — —

September, 2005

After her face-off with Robards, Hermione had decided to lie low for a bit. She was certain that her memory charm worked, but didn’t want to draw his attention back to the missing Death Eaters.

She was lounging on her couch in her living room, enjoying a rare quiet evening at home, when Theo’s head popped through her Floo, startling her out of her wits.

“Theo?” She asked, a hand over her fluttering heart.

“He’s mad, Hermione,” Theo said by way of greeting. “I haven’t seen him like this since… I’ve never seen him like this!” His expression looked genuinely fearful.

“Who?” Hermione knelt by the fireplace. “What are you talking about, Teddy?”

“Draco,” Theo blurted.

She looked at him, confused. “What is he mad about? And what does it have to do with me?”

Theo sighed. “I don’t know what you did,” he admitted. “All I know is that Draco’s furious and it’s about you.”

She swallowed thickly, thinking about her time in the Head Auror’s office. “Thank you for letting me know, Theo.” Her voice was measured, calm.

His stare was inquisitive as he looked at her. “Do I want to know?”

“Probably not,” she answered honestly, laughing a little. “Don’t worry about me,” she waved a hand in the air above her head. “I can handle Malfoy.”

“I know that, darling,” Theo gave her a cheeky wink. “Whatever happens, do not tell him that I told you any of this. He’ll actually kill me.” His tone was pleading. “I have to go,” his eyes darted away from the Floo, blowing her a kiss before he ended the call.

Hermione sighed, certain that Malfoy would find her whenever he pleased, at the most inconvenient time for her solely on principle. She wasn’t surprised that he was mad at her, given his severe martyr complex that made him infuriatingly difficult to reason with. All she could do was wait for him to come to her.

— — —

Late September, 2005

“Happy birthday, Hermione!” The group cheered, raising their glasses to her as she blew out the candles.

The string of her Muggle party hat was digging uncomfortably into her chin as she smiled at her friends, assembled at Grimmauld place for the occasion. She was dressed down in a worn Weasley jumper and dark wash jeans.

“Presents!” Theo shouted from where he sat next to Harry. He waved his wand, Conjuring a great many packages, all wrapped in burgundy and gold paper. “One for each year you’ve been alive!” He clarified at her shocked expression.

“Theo, this is too much,” she started, eyeing the twenty-six parcels floating around their heads.

“Nonsense,” Theo said, drumming his hands against his thighs. “The great Hermione Granger deserves to be celebrated on her birthday!” He took a hefty swig from his pint glass.

She sent a helpless look in Harry’s direction, her friend just giving her a sheepish shrug. “I tried to stop him,” he told her.

Hermione sighed, steeling herself for what would certainly be a large display of Theo’s generational wealth, squandered on her. To his credit, the Slytherin was great at gift-giving, attuned to her taste. From him, she received many priceless first editions of her favorite books, a soft cashmere sweater in Gryffindor red, and a new set of dress robes in midnight silk, spattered with twinkling stars.

“Thank you, Theo,” she told him gratefully, her voice muffled in his shoulder as they hugged. “You’ve truly outdone yourself.”

Theo waved her off, but his smile was bright as he regarded her. “Like I said, you deserve to be celebrated. If it weren’t for you, Potter would’ve popped his clogs before the war could even begin,” he guffawed, his face flushed with drink.

Harry elbowed Theo in the ribs. “Thanks, babe,” he deadpanned, giving him a flat look. “Do you really have so little faith in me?” He adopted a mock-wounded expression.

“Yes,” Theo, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Pansy said simultaneously, earning a glare from Harry.

“Can we cut the cake now?” Ron interjected, eyeing the chantilly layers greedily.

After slices were doled out and devoured with haste, conversation ebbed and flowed as Hermione sat on the settee in the living room. She felt content, happy even, as she watched her friends laugh and argue and tease on another.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Theo plunked down next to her on the cushion. “You look like you have something on your mind,” his blue eyes were bright.

Hermione shrugged. “I’m just glad to be here, that's all,” she told him sincerely.

He raised a brow at her. “Maudlin, Granger,” he grinned cheekily, “But I agree wholeheartedly. Has Draco made an appearance recently?” He asked.

She shook her head. “I’m surprised he hasn’t yet, honestly.”

Theo looked at her, his face unreadable. “He’s been busy lately.”

“With what?” Hermione couldn’t help but ask.

“Oh you know, typical boring Sacred Twenty-Eight shite,” he wrinkled his nose. “Something about there being an issue with his inheritance. Some ancient clause that’s been making it difficult for him,” Theo added flippantly. “He’ll handle it.”

Hermione cocked her head to the side. “What sort of clause? Maybe I could help him,” she offered, immediately regretting it.

Theo’s brows shot into his hairline. “You’d want to help him, Hermione?” He looked incredulous, but pleased.

If only Theo knew, she thought to herself. “I could at least help him look over the legal documents,” she shrugged her shoulders, taking a sip from her wine glass. “I’m not sure he’d want my help, though.” She laughed.

“Oh, he definitely would,” Theo’s cheeks dimpled with the force of his smile. “I’ll let him know when I see him next,” he sounded too smug; Hermione was half-tempted to Obliviate the Slytherin before he could do anything.

“Lovely,” she managed to choke out, grimacing.

There was a knock at the front door of Grimmauld, causing Hermione to jump up to answer, rather than continue down this slippery slope with Theo. “I’ll get it!” She called to her friends, who were all too engrossed in their conversations to care.

She opened the door, somehow expecting what she saw.

“Malfoy,” she greeted politely, suddenly embarrassed at her casual clothes and party hat as she stared at him, ever the picture of aristocratic Pureblood.

He wore his customary pinched expression, along with his typical white Oxford, black trousers, and polished dragonhide shoes. He didn’t make a move to enter the house, nor did she invite him in.

“I was in the area,” he offered weakly, rubbing the back of his head with a hand.

She blinked up at him, unused to seeing him hesitate and expecting that he was there to yell at her about meddling in his affairs. “Would you like to come in?” She asked, her features strained with the effort of not goggling at him.

He shook his head, his hair swaying with the motion. “I wanted to give you this,” he told her, reaching a hand into his trouser pocket.

Malfoy held out a small black velvet box, about the size of his palm.

“What is it?” She asked, not making a move to take it from him.

He shook his head again. “Just open it later.” He waved it at her.

She took it from his hands, cradling it to her chest. “Later?” She echoed.

His eyes were downcast. “Alone, preferably.”

She eyed him skeptically, noting the tense lines of his body as he stood on the porch. “Alright,” she conceded. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in? There’s cake.” Perhaps he wouldn’t yell at her, after all.

Malfoy glanced at her, his eyes taking in her sweater and Muggle denims, something in them a little brighter. “Maybe another time,” he replied. “Happy birthday, Granger,” he gave her a rare, soft smile.

Before she could reply in kind, he had Apparated away from Grimmauld with a soft pop.

Hermione leaned back against the front door, trying to control her breathing before she had to go back inside, her hands trembling a little as she clutched the gift. What could he have possibly gotten her? She shrunk it down and put it into the back pocket of her jeans, not wanting to draw attention to it.

After steeling herself, she twisted the doorknob and pasted on a smile, hoping that nobody had noticed her brief absence, but knowing that with this many Slytherins involved, that would most likely not be the case. Sure enough, she was met with expectant stares as she reentered the living room.

“Well?” Ginny called.

“What’d he get you?” Theo chimed in, a devilish grin on his face.

“You two are the worst,” Hermione muttered, blushing. “How’d you even know it was him?”

The pair rolled their eyes, searching Hermione’s person for a gift but finding none.

“You forget that he’s my best friend, dear,” Theo cooed.

“And that I’m your best friend,” Ginny added, giving her a pointed look.

Hermione muttered something about busybodies, bypassing her friends to move up the rickety stairs and into the spare bedroom, locking and warding the door behind her before sitting on the end of the bed. She didn’t know why she was following Malfoy’s instructions for her gift, considering she had practically never followed his instructions before, but he had looked so nervous standing on the doorstep that she felt inclined to heed his word.

She enlarged the box, holding it in her palm with bated breath like she expected something to jump out at her. Summoning all of her Gryffindor courage, she flipped open the lid, gasping at what she saw.

It was a delicate jeweled pendant strung on a fine, white gold chain. A small note was nestled inside the lid of the box, Hermione’s brow furrowing as she read the parchment, written in Malfoy’s neat, fussy scrawl.

Granger,

Given your penchant for finding danger at every turn to the point I’m tempted to think you and Potter are related, and for putting your life on the line whenever you find the time, I figured you could make good use of this. For your edification and inevitable research on the matter, this is the centuries-old Aegis Amulet; coincidentally it is made out of your birthstone, the sapphire. The surrounding legendarium suggests that it provides the wearer with protection against negative forces that may move to hurt them. I would implore you to wear it, and though I know you have a habit of defying my requests whenever possible, I know the logical part of you can see the benefits of wearing this given your line of work.

Happy birthday,

Draco Malfoy

Hermione sat in mute stupefaction for many minutes, clutching the black velvet box as if it was the only thing tethering her to the earth, her eyes trained on the gleaming, diamond-shaped pendant, the facets of the sapphire sparkling in the dim light of the bedroom. Malfoy had truly lost his mind, she thought, giving her priceless jewelry on her birthday like it was nothing. But to someone as rich as him, maybe it was nothing– maybe he gifted priceless artefacts to all of his friends, not just Hermione, who barely considered herself as one of his friends.

There was a knock at the door. She hastily snapped the lid shut and stuffed the box under her jumper, moving to answer.

“Pansy?” She asked.

The Slytherin girl was staring down the bridge of her nose at Hermione, backlit by the warm hallway lights. “Granger,” she stepped into the room.

“I was just about to come downstairs,” Hermione supplied.

Pansy cut her off with a sniff. “What did he give you?” Her voice was sharp; Hermione couldn’t help but feel like she was under investigation of a vicious crime.

“Er–” Hermione hedged, “I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” she tittered nervously. “It’s nothing serious,” her voice warbled as she winced at the lie.

Pansy gave her a flat look as if to say really? “Granger, I like you,” she told her honestly. “Let’s not lie to ourselves.” She held out a hand expectantly.

Hermione shifted her weight from one foot to the other, unable to resist giving in under Pansy’s signature, flaying stare. “It’s a necklace,” she mumbled quietly, not able to meet her keen eyes.

“A necklace,” Pansy repeated. “Was it a Malfoy heirloom?” She raised a sharp brow.

“No, no,” Hermione shook her head, half-manic. “Nothing like that.”

“Then?” Pansy inquired. “You look white as a ghost.”

Hermione cleared her throat, trying to calm herself down, because it was serious. She had only received a gift that priceless once before, when Malfoy had given her the once-unattainable resources to restore her parents’ memories. Her heart clenched as she remembered the elation she had felt, at the way he awkwardly patted her on the back as she cried into his shoulder.

“It’s nothing,” Hermione said weakly, trying to push past the shorter witch into the hallway.

Pansy held up a crimson-painted fingernail. “Granger, need I remind you that I grew up with Draco?”

She shook her head mutely, blinking down at the floor.

“It’s not often that Draco goes out of his way for people that aren’t in his inner circle,” Pansy lectured. “As you know, he keeps his feelings and motivations very close to the vest.”

Hermione nodded mechanically.

“I know that something happened between you two, at school,” she waved a hand in the air. “He wouldn’t tell me about it, of course, but I could tell. What did you do to him?” Her eyes were hard.

Hermione scoffed, suddenly defensive. “What makes you think I did something? He bullied me for years.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Yes, Granger, how could I forget?” She asked sarcastically. “Over the Christmas holidays he was practically floating through the Manor, buoyed by whatever newfound peace he had made. With you.”

Hermione gulped, blushing furiously under the heavy weight of Pansy’s stare. “That was years ago,” she squeaked.

Pansy sighed, plucking an invisible piece of dirt from her black dress. “All I know is that one minute he was on cloud nine. Blaise and Theo actually tackled him once because they thought he was Imperiused, that’s how happy he was.” She shot a glare at her. “The next, he was back to snapping and snarling at us.”

“Why are you so sure that I had something to do with it?” She argued back.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Pansy shook her head, tutting before sighing deeply. “The necklace, Granger,” she wiggled her hand in front of her expectantly. “Let me see it.”

Hermione sighed, reaching under her jumper to pull out the black box. She handed it over with little ceremony, watching nervously as Pansy tested the weight in her palm, flipping the lid up.

“No shite,” Pansy said, her eyes going wide.

“What?” Hermione asked anxiously.

Suddenly, Pansy dropped the box onto the desk, doubling over with her hands on her knees as she cackled, the behavior so uncharacteristic that Hermione had the sudden urge to throw up. This went on for another minute before the girl straightened, wiping at her eyes.

“Fuck, Granger,” Pansy finally choked out in between peals of laughter. “You really have him down bad.”

She blushed crimson, coughing a little. “What do you mean?” Her voice was strangled.

“He’ll kill me,” Pansy just shook her head, refusing to say more but looking extremely smug nonetheless.

Fucking Slytherins, Hermione groaned to herself, they never had a straight answer for anything.

“Well, now that that’s over,” Pansy drawled, gesturing toward the door. “Let’s go back down there before anyone else comes up here looking for the family jewels.” She laughed at her own joke, ignoring Hermione’s glare as she started down the stairs.

— — —

October, 2005

Hermione was elbow-deep in paperwork and case files, sitting behind her desk at the Ministry. This was one of her longer weeks, her workload seemingly never ending as she skipped both lunch and dinner the day before, so exhausted by the end that she Conjured a cot and went to bed in her office. Her colleagues had all left hours earlier, bidding Hermione a goodnight and a please, don’t forget to eat, before they headed for the lifts, Hermione waving them off with a smile.

She had been avoiding going after her next and final target for some time now, at first to give Robards and the DMLE a wide berth, but then because this target wasn’t as low-level as the others, not by a longshot. Amycus Carrow had fled the UK shortly after Voldemort’s defeat, leaving his sister to rot in Azkaban for the rest of her life. For years, Amycus had evaded capture, being sighted in various countries throughout the Americas, often seen but never caught, much to the DMLE’s frustration.

It begrudged Hermione to admit that Malfoy’s information on former Death Eaters was invaluable in finding the Carrow brother, currently hiding out in rural Alaska, of all places. Hermione was eager to get rid of him, but she knew that she’d have to prepare more ahead of time; he was a highly-skilled, brutal dueller.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, the hinges squeaking as she closed her eyes for a moment. She was so tired, bogged down by her heavy workload and the pressure she put on herself to deliver tangible results.

Someone’s knuckles rapped against the door to her office, Hermione rolling her eyes at the inconvenience before calling out, “Come in.”

She expected Malfoy to seek her out at some point, but figured he wouldn’t inconvenience himself enough by coming to the Ministry to do so.

“Granger,” he nodded before taking a seat, uninvited.

“Malfoy,” her reply was clipped, “Can I help you?”

His grey eyes were trained on her throat, the amulet sitting atop her sensible button-down shirt in soft pink cotton lawn. Something pleased and almost possessive flashed in his eyes, there and then gone.

Rather than mention the necklace, Malfoy nodded before saying, “You fucked with Robards.” It wasn’t a question.

She had half a mind to deny it, but knew that like every time before, he’d see right through her. “Yes,” she said simply.

“Why?” He sounded angry.

She shrugged, feigning casual indifference. She picked up her wand, moving to Silence the room, but Malfoy held up a hand.

“Please don’t Silence the room.”

“Why not?” Hermione asked, confused. “I want to yell at you.”

His lips pursed. “I’m sure that you do. But this will be much more difficult if I know that the room is Silenced,” he admitted while not looking at her, his voice strangled.

Sighing, she cancelled the Silencing charm before continuing, “Robards was wrong.”

“Somewhat,” he conceded. “But he was also right.”

She waved a hand in the air. “He was going on a crusade, Malfoy. He didn’t have anything tying you to any of it; he just wanted to see someone go down for it to save his sorry arse.”

“Why did you have to get involved?”

She drummed her fingers against her desk, crossing one leg over the other. “DMLE case files get routed through my office,” she explained. “I flagged his for review, and he didn’t like that.” She smiled, remembering his furious, spluttering face.

“Did he threaten you?” Malfoy’s voice was quiet, a knife’s edge, as he leaned forward in his chair, his eyes intent on hers.

She bristled. “I can handle Robards, Malfoy.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, a clear indication of his irritation. “That’s not what I asked.”

“And what makes you think I should tell you?” She asked, hackles raised, ignoring the way his shirt stretched with the movement.

“Maybe because you’re putting your neck out for me? Without me asking you to?”

“I don’t need your permission, Malfoy” she snarled, hair crackling around her.

Malfoy groaned in frustration. “Must you always be so difficult?” He glared at her. “Is it really such a bad thing for me to express concern for your wellbeing? Christ.”

“I don’t need you looking out for me,” she shook her head, obstinate. “Robards has been handled. He won’t bother you. You’re welcome, by the way. Is that all?” She raised a brow at him expectantly.

He gave her a bleak look. “Granger, please, can you just listen for a moment?” He pleaded.

She sighed, gesturing for him to continue.

“I appreciate your efforts,” he said slowly, his tone cautious. “I know you’re busy with…everything,” he gestured around her overstuffed office. “By the looks of it, you slept here and haven’t been outside in over twenty-four hours,” his grey eyes were sharp. “But I’m also pissed at you,” his breath left him in a whoosh. “You are the most stubborn, headstrong witch I’ve ever met. I can’t believe you’d go after somebody as powerful as Robards without consulting anyone first!” He looked on the verge of ripping out his hair.

She niffed, turning up her nose at him. “I can handle Robards. He’s a small man, really.” She returned his gaze coolly. “As I’ve said before, Malfoy, I don’t need your help. It’s too late for me to back off now, so just accept the help and we’ll call it even. I don’t owe you anything, and you don’t owe me anything, and we can go back to not speaking. Everybody wins.”

Malfoy snorted, giving her an incredulous look. “Is that what you think this is about? Getting even?” He shook his head. “I couldn’t give two shites whether you and I are even,” he practically spat. “That isn’t at all why I approached you back in March.”

“So why did you approach me, then?” She asked obstinately. “I’m sure it wasn’t just for the pleasure of my company,” she added.

His jaw snapped shut, the sound echoing throughout the small room. He suddenly found the ceiling tiles quite interesting.

“Well?” She splayed her arms to the side before crossing them over her chest, leaning back in her chair.

A muscle twitched in his jaw as he assessed her, his eyes noticeably blank as he Occluded.

Hermione huffed a laugh at his prolonged silence. “Now you know how it feels, being helped without having asked for it.” She said snidely.

Malfoy’s lips were pulled into a frown. “Fine,” he said neutrally, standing from his chair. “I won’t bother you again. Have a good rest of your day.” He dipped his chin stiffly at her before striding out of her office without a backward glance.

Once her door was fully shut, Hermione thumped her forehead against her desk, indignation and guilt burning in her chest as she forced herself to calm down, to go back to work.

Chapter Text

November, 2005

The arctic Alaskan wind was bitterly cold as it whipped across Hermione’s cheeks, her face feeling frozen solid. Curse Amycus Carrow and his remote cabin in rural Alaska, and curse high-altitude wind chills in November.

She had done away with a disguise or a ruse, not bothering in the deserted wilderness, more than content to let Amycus see who had come calling. She was trudging deep through the forest, the ground frozen with hard-packed snow, the only consolation was that it wasn’t actively snowing. Daylight was already waning, adding to the bitter chill in Hermione’s bones. Using a modified tracking spell, she was able to detect the direction of Amycus’s cabin, the only man made structure for miles, by tracking his body heat.

She stood a few meters away from the yard, her breath visible in the air in front of her. She started by setting Anti-Apparition wards over the perimeter; nobody in, nobody out. From the satellite photos she found, the cabin was a one-story structure outfitted with the basics: a small living room and kitchenette, a bathroom, and a bedroom; there was only one entrance through the front door. She shucked off her heavy winter coat, folding it and setting it on a gnarled tree stump.

Hermione shivered as she watched the cabin, clad in a black thermal long sleeve and fleece-lined pants, puffing hot air into her hands. She took a minute to ground herself, knowing that unlike her previous kills, this one wouldn’t be easy. True, she had the element of surprise and also still practiced duelling on a regular basis, but Amycus Carrow was an unforgiving, fervent dueller with a cruel streak to boot.

Well, no time like the present, Hermione told herself as she approached the ramshackle porch, her boots silent. Her spell indicated that Carrow was somewhere in the living room, and she took a deep breath before blasting the door open with a powerful Bombarda.

She leapt over the threshold, her wand trained on Amycus as he jumped up from the couch, whirling on her.

“Who the fuck are you?” He snarled, eyeing her warily, hungrily.

Her voice was steady as she replied, “Hermione Granger.”

He sneered at her, his angular face cruel and sallow in the warm light of the cabin. “How did you find me?” He asked, stalling.

“Does it matter?” She shrugged. “I’m here now.”

With that, she sent a leg-locking curse at him, but he managed to twist away at the last second, vaulting over the back of the sofa. He shot a purple curse that sizzled past her to crash into a table lamp, the lamp exploding into dust.

So he wasn’t fucking around, Hermione assessed, at least she’d have fun this time.

Inhaling deeply, she hit him with a jelly-legs jinx, sending him careening face-first into one of the threadbare armchairs in his living room, but he righted himself quickly, sneering at her with a ferocity that would have scared her, if she had been paying more attention.

Alas, she was not, and so she wasn’t scared, just intrigued and itching for a good fight.

He shouted his frustration, aiming a Crucio at her before darting behind the sofa, the Unforgivable just narrowly missing Hermione’s shoulder as she dodged. The risk of the situation set Hermione’s teeth on edge as the two traded lethal spells, neither of them managing to land a solid hit, their breaths growing labored as they ducked and dodged and cast. Carrow wasn’t holding back, a bright green Avada jetting toward her, just barely missing the mark.

She cried out as he hit her with a slicing hex, her left hand reflexively covering the deep gash in her right arm, blood spurting from the wound. She whispered a field-healing patching spell and grimaced at the unpleasant sensation of her skin knitting together slowly. His grin was cocky and self-satisfied, underestimating her tolerance for pain.

“Is that all, girl?” He taunted her, his yellowing teeth on full display.

Men always had the audacity to gloat, Hermione thought, that’s why they made easy targets. She aimed an acid curse at him, hitting him directly in the abdomen, watching as he collapsed to the floor with a shout.

Still bleeding, she walked toward his prone form, approaching with an abundance of caution. Both of his hands were covering his stomach as he groaned in pain; bubbling, liquified flesh spilled through the gaps between his fingers as he gasped for breath on the dusty ground.

“You fucking bitch,” he directed at her as she loomed above him, though with significantly less bravado than he had used before. His skin was waxen, his face ashen as the acid continued eating its way through his chest, burrowing deep in his body, his bones

“You filthy Mudblood whore!” he spat.

His sunken eyes rolled back in his head as she knelt by his side, plunging her wand into his actively-deteriorating chest cavity. She watched in fascination as blood bubbled from between his thin, dry lips, his eyelids fluttering but not opening as he writhed in agony. She watched as he finally stopped struggling, the last of his pathetic life approaching its final end with the energy of a trombone slide.

She sat back on her haunches, eyes trained on the way his body seemingly folded into itself, leaving a scorch mark on the wooden floor, but otherwise no trace.

She was so focused on tracking the acid curse as it worked its way through Amycus Carrow, that she didn’t notice the wound in her arm expanding, bleeding more profusely. Hermione stood, immediately woozy at the sudden movement, bracing a bloodied palm against the wall of the cabin by the front door. She dazedly made her way outside and into the blistering cold. You just have to lift the Anti-Apparition ward, she reassured herself, and then you can go home.

Weakly, Hermione raised her wand, mumbling the incantation to lift the ward, using up the rest of her strength to do so. The gash traveled the entire length of her upper arm now, and she mindlessly watched as crimson blood splattered against the pure white snow, the contrast so bright that she had to close her eyes. Just for a little while, she thought to herself, before collapsing in a heap on the unforgiving ground.

— — —

She was floating through time and space, her body tingling pleasantly as everything warped around her, her mind fuzzy and warm. She felt vague sensations: being poked and prodded, being flipped onto her back, being jostled in somebody’s arms, but her mind couldn’t parse what was happening to her, her magical core too depleted.

Suddenly, an extremely bright pinpoint of light was shining into her eyes, causing her to squint and shy away from the source: somebody’s wand.

“Granger,” a familiar voice called from somewhere very far away. “I need you to open your eyes. Please.” The voice sounded tense, on the verge of panicked.

Hermione tried her best to fulfill this simple request, but found herself too exhausted to do so. Her head lolled, her consciousness just out of reach.

“Granger,” the voice said again, and she could feel hands on her face, gripping it none too gently. “I need you to stay with me.”

Stay with who? She asked herself blearily.

The voice let out a filthy string of curses, her body going slack in their grasp, her subconscious mind pulling her back under the waves.

— — —

“Hermione,” the same voice pierced through her consciousness, though it still sounded very far away. “Fucking Christ!” They suddenly shouted.

She just barely felt a hand on her jaw, coaxing her mouth open before her head was tipped back, the contents of a potion being poured down her throat. Reflexively, she swallowed, her mind still floating. She felt no pain, felt nothing, really, as somebody hovered above her, shouting at her in the recesses of her mind.

She was just so tired. She wanted to rest, only for a little while; her numerous responsibilities, deadlines, and obligations would be there for her when she got back. She sighed contentedly at the warm feeling radiating through her limbs, succumbing once more to the melodic siren call of sleep.

— — —

The first thing Hermione noticed when she fully came to was that she was in a bed that didn’t belong to her. She groaned, cracking open a dry eye, trying and failing to get her vision to focus. She didn’t feel like she was in immediate danger, so at least she had that going for her.

The second thing Hermione noticed was the pain. Her nerves were alight, feeling like they had been scrubbed raw with particular force. She winced, the energy it took to open one eyelid was almost overwhelming.

She focused on breathing deeply, not wanting to panic. What had happened to her? The last thing she remembered was Amycus Carrow bleeding out on the floor of his cabin, his body liquefying before it disappeared into nothingness. She tried to open both eyes, successful this time, and she slowly looked over her surroundings.

It was an unfamiliar bedroom, with hardwood floors and a plush cream rug, the walls painted a calming pale green. Windows lined two of the walls, but it was too dark outside for Hermione to see anything that indicated where she was. The bed was a massive four-poster in deep mahogany, dressed with a fluffy white duvet and soft sheets, pillows piled high at the headboard. She managed to look down at her body, the small movement of her head blinding her momentarily with pain, causing her to gasp at the sensation.

The door to the bedroom swung wide, revealing Malfoy at the threshold, looking frantic.

He startled as if he wasn’t expecting to see her, his skin unusually pale, even for him. He took one hesitant step into the room, shutting the door quietly behind him without taking his eyes off of her. She blinked blearily as he cautiously approached the bed.

They stared at each other in silence. She didn’t know how she had ended up in what looked to be his spare bedroom; he looked like he knew too much.

She swallowed thickly, her mouth dry. “What happened?” She croaked, blinking slowly.

He wordlessly Conjured a glass of water, holding it up to her lips.

She pushed her head back further into the pillows and away from him.

“Granger, don’t be difficult. Just drink.” He insisted from above her, glaring down at her in consternation.

She tried to move her right arm from under the duvet, but instead nearly passed out with the pain, crying out.

Malfoy hissed, setting the glass of water down on the bedside table before grabbing a vial, uncorking it with his teeth before unceremoniously gripping her face, tipping its contents down her sore throat.

She spluttered at the bitter taste of the pain relief potion and the proprietary way he handled her.

He gave her a displeased look before picking up the water glass again, tipping it against her mouth and forcing her to take a few sips.

The water was cool on her tongue, granting her some clarity despite her mortification at being taken care of by Malfoy.

“What happened?” She asked again, her voice less raspy.

Malfoy sighed, his eyes tight around the corners. He pulled up a chair next to the bed. “What do you remember?” His grey eyes had a haunted quality to them that she hadn’t seen in some time.

“I killed Amycus Carrow,” she recalled. “He was hiding in some remote cabin in the woods of Alaska.”

Malfoy nodded. “You duelled him.” His voice was quiet, but serious.

She nodded, her neck and shoulders stiff. “I did. It was an acid curse, in the end, that got him.”

“And what about the curse that got you?” He looked at her intensely, scowling.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she told him honestly. “I don’t remember anything after watching him disintegrate into a puddle of…nothing.”

Malfoy’s nostrils flared. “Right,” he moved to stand, but Hermione made a sound of protest.

“Tell me what happened,” she pleaded, suddenly desperate to fill the gaps in her memory.

He hesitated, the long lines of his body tense. “I can only guess,” he replied. “I found you in the snow,” he cleared his throat, his eyes shuttered. “Don’t ask me how, because we both know the answer,” he gave her a flat look. “You were covered in blood,” he choked on the words, his voice pained.

“I don’t understand,” she said quietly.

“Frankly, me neither,” Malfoy shrugged, sighing heavily. “You shouldn’t have survived.”

“Survived what exactly?” She asked, confused and frustrated at herself for not remembering.

“I think it was a gouging curse, delayed-onset,” he frowned. “Do you remember hurting your arm?” He glanced at her right arm where it lay underneath the bed spread.

It took her a moment, but Hermione nodded. “During the duel, he hit me with…something. I thought it was a slicing hex.”

He nodded as if he expected as much. “During the war, Dolohov came up with some… unique spells to use during battle.” His eyes flitted to her chest, where the starburst scar was etched into her skin. “One of them was like a slicing hex, but worse. Once the wound was cut, it would continue burrowing and expanding until the person died of blood loss.” Malfoy’s face was gaunt, withdrawn.

“Oh,” she offered weakly.

“I had never seen someone survive it,” he continued. “I–” he swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “When I found you, I thought you were–” His eyelids fluttered, blond lashes framing the dark circles underneath.

“Dead?” She interrupted, grimacing at his icy expression.

“Yes.” He nodded, his eyes flickering with emotions. “You should rest.”

He stood from his seat, his hands moving toward the bed like he would adjust the covers, but thought better of it.

“How long?” She asked.

“Four days,” he replied crisply. “Just call for Tippy if you need anything. I’ll be around.” He didn’t look at her before he pivoted, leaving the room quietly.

She awoke the next morning, watery sunlight filtering through the bedroom window. She still felt like she had been trampled by the Knight Bus ten times over, but her head was a little clearer, her mind a little less foggy. She was able to sit up in bed a bit, stretching her neck and shoulders.

She glanced down at her torso, which had been previously covered by the plush duvet. Her eyes widened at the unfamiliar, overly large black t-shirt she was wearing; it had to be one of Malfoy’s. Great.

Before she could call for someone, Tippy appeared at her side, his gigantic eyes wide as saucers, tears brimming at the corners. “Miss Hermione is okay!” The elf said with abject relief.

“Yes, Tippy,” Hermione croaked. “Is Malfoy here?” She began to swing her legs over the side of the bed, wincing a little.

Tippy’s ears twitched. “Master Draco has given me strict instructions to keep you on bed rest,” the elf’s voice trembled. “Miss is not fully recovered yet!”

She ignored the elf, annoyed at Malfoy’s overbearing instructions. She planted her feet on the rug, using her hands to help launch her into a standing position. Her victory was short-lived, however, as she blacked out with the pain, barely registering falling to the floor and Tippy’s urgent cry before he Apparated away.

Twin pops of Apparition echoed, clipped steps approaching her slumped form.

“For fuck’s sake,” Malfoy drawled, exasperated, from somewhere nearby.

With a surprising gentleness, Malfoy’s hands grabbed her under her arms, hoisting her to her feet in one smooth motion. She panted, her face in his chest, unable to summon the energy to move away from him. Before she could protest, he was scooping her up, one arm moving under her knees, the other across her back and looping under her arm.

She squealed indignantly, blushing at the proximity. He strode to the bathroom, depositing her gently onto the rim of the massive clawfoot bathtub before turning on the water, Conjuring lavender-scented oils and setting them on the perimeter.

“Bath,” Malfoy told her confidently. “Then we have to change your bandages,” his eyes flitted to her right arm, wrapped intricately in white gauze.

“We?” She squawked.

“I wasn’t aware you had become ambidextrous,” he quipped.

She sighed, knowing that he was right. She fidgeted with the hem of her t-shirt, not looking at him as he stared down at her, the water thundering behind them.

“I’ll be outside,” Malfoy dipped his chin, flushing a bit as he exited the bathroom, shutting the door behind him quietly.

Hermione, feeling resigned to her fate, stripped slowly, her muscles stiff. She gingerly unwrapped the bandage, letting it fall to the floor, gasping at the still-raw wound. She stepped into the bath, her eyes fluttering shut at the warmth as she lowered herself down gently. Once seated, she leaned her shoulders back against the wall of the tub, her hair floating around her, the tension slowly bleeding out of her body as the steam enveloped the bathroom.

She lost track of time, nodding off for a bit until she heard Malfoy call her name, knocking on the door with some urgency.

“Granger, are you alright?” He asked, his voice muffled.

“Yes, just a moment,” she yawned, standing as swiftly as her battered state would allow, water sloshing.

She stepped out of the tub, drying her hair with a towel and donning a fluffy white robe that had been left on the counter, before opening the bathroom door to reveal Malfoy at the threshold, looking concerned.

“I was calling your name for a few minutes,” he frowned.

“Sorry,” she said genuinely. “I must’ve fallen asleep.”

His nostrils flared, but he otherwise didn’t comment as he stepped into the steam. “Alright. Let me see your arm.” His voice was detached.

She bristled, but knew that being stubborn wouldn’t get her anywhere. Huffing, she rolled up the sleeve of her robe, slowly revealing the pale pink gash, about the length of her wand. The skin was knitting together, but one end had torn open a little when she had fallen, blood trickling slowly out of it.

Malfoy tutted to himself, opening a small black bag and removing what looked to be a vial of Dittany and gauze. He gestured for her to sit again on the rim of the tub, not quite meeting her eyes.

She did as he said, wrapping her free arm around her midsection. Suddenly, the bathroom felt too hot, too small for the two of them. The air was hazy with steam, causing Malfoy’s hair to stick to his forehead, causing hers to puff up like a balloon.

He hovered above her, not moving to sit, holding the supplies awkwardly, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

“I’ll just–” he stammered, blinking down at the floor.

“Go ahead,” she managed to say, her voice cracking only the tiniest bit.

He squared his shoulders before moving to sit next to her on the tub. He uncapped the vial of Dittany, applying it with gentle fingers to the raw skin of her upper arm. She winced at the sting, inhaling sharply, but said nothing. She couldn’t help but watch as his long fingers pressed into her skin, the ghost of a touch, really. Her eyes involuntarily flitted to his face, his mouth set in a determined line, the muscles in his jaw twitching, his eyes laser-focused on her arm. He unraveled the gauze, wrapping it carefully, but tightly, around her upper arm, securing it with a complicated-looking knot. Hermione heard him exhale shakily before he stood, seemingly eager to get away from her.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, moving to stand.

His eyes snapped to hers as he nodded almost imperceptibly. He offered her his arm, a gesture that while necessary for her to get back in bed in one piece, left her blushing furiously.

The pair shuffled out of the bathroom and over toward the plush bed, Hermione fighting not to wince at the pain she still felt shooting through her nerves. Malfoy didn’t comment at the glacial pace she set, only stood stoic as she leaned heavily on him. Once at the side of the bed, Malfoy drew back the coverlet, hoisted her up under the arms again, and set her down on the bed. His face was comically serious as he set about propping up the pillows behind her bed with exacting precision.

“Rest, Granger,” he said quietly.

She had the urge to stick her tongue out at him, but managed to tamp it down. “It’s been days,” she said by way of explanation. “I’m tired of lying around.”

“You’re recovering,” he pointed out. “Not just resting on your laurels.”

She scoffed. “Semantics.” A thought occurred to her, dread sluicing in her veins. “Do my friends know–?”

“Know what? That you nearly died chasing after Amycus Carrow on your ‘Death to Death Eaters!’ crusade?” It was Malfoy’s turn to scoff at her. “Luckily, Pot and Wheeze share one brain cell and thus did not question your sudden trip to the South of France for a case.”

Hermione let out a relieved sigh. “My job at the Ministry?”

He waved a hand. “Taken care of. You had so much paid time off that they were practically crying with joy when you submitted a request.”

“But I–” she began, brows furrowed.

“Yes, well I forged your handwriting. Oh, and your signature.” His lips quirked into a half-smile.

“Malfoy!” She chided. “That’s–”

“Illegal?” He interrupted, looking particularly smug. “You’re on board with murder, but you draw the line at forgery? Please.”

She gaped at the easy way he teased her, as if it was natural for them.

He cleared his throat, blushing as he seemed to come to the same realization. “Stay in bed. Rest, for the love of Merlin. You don’t have to worry about anything else. I have everything taken care of.”

For some unknown reason, she believed him, her eyelids fluttering shut as he left the room.

Shortly after, Tippy came in bearing a tray of hearty stew, crusty bread, and a pain potion. She was suddenly ravenous, devouring the meal with haste before sleep took her once more.

Another two days of bed rest passed in a blur, the regular administering of pain potions blurring the lines of Hermione’s consciousness, the days blending together a little. Her dreams were more like memories, snippets of her duel with Amycus coming back to her in small bursts.

Hermione finally felt like herself a full seven days after her disastrous encounter that had, according to Malfoy, nearly cost Hermione her life. She woke up feeling sprightly, managing to get out of bed without debilitating pain, though her body was stiff and sore from lying still.

She padded into the en suite bathroom, splashing cold water over her face and attempting to wrangle her hair into submission. She looked a little less exhausted than she had before traipsing through northern Alaska, the bed rest doing her some good despite the harrowing circumstances.

Not wanting to bother Tippy as it was currently nighttime, Hermione stepped out from the bedroom for the first time, slowly but steadily walking down the hallway that led into Malfoy’s living room which was empty. She stopped, staring out at the lawn from the massive bay windows, before exiting into the hallway that connected the Floo Parlour.

She pushed open another set of French doors, leading into a massive kitchen. Malfoy was sitting at the black marble island reading a book, looking more casual than she had ever seen him before in black flannel pajama pants and a grey t-shirt.

He startled at the sound of her approach, swiveling on the black barstool.

“What are you doing up?” He asked, irritated.

“I’m fine, Malfoy,” she insisted as she stepped further into the room.

The cabinets were painted a forest green, magical and mundane plants hanging from the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling, a long oak dining table pushed against one wall, more bay windows facing the forest.

He eyed her as if she was on the brink of collapse, meeting her stubborn gaze. He sighed, gesturing for her to sit. He strode over to the stove, setting his cooking spells before taking his seat back at the island.

She blinked at him, suddenly unsure of where to go from here. There was so much she wanted to tell him, but wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to say.

“Thank you,” she started with the easiest thing. “For taking care of me. You saved my life,” she said seriously, watching as his gaze shifted into something standoffish.

“How many times, Granger?” He asked. “Don’t thank me.”

She sighed, expecting his reticence but nonetheless getting annoyed at it. “Malfoy, seriously, cut the shite. We’re both adults here. I can recognize when a thank you is in order.” She huffed.

“Fine,” Malfoy bit out, swallowing.

“And thank you for covering for me, at work and with my–our friends,” she added.

Malfoy looked like he wanted nothing more than to fight with her, but nodded slightly. He stood, moving to the stove to make them both plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, placing them down on the island.

“Breakfast for dinner?” She asked him.

He shrugged. “Seemed like something you’d like.”

The words knocked the breath out of her, because he was right. She had fond memories of her childhood, in which her dad would surprise her with her favorite dinner– breakfast. There was no way Malfoy could’ve known that, but he looked at her like he did.

She nodded, awkwardly tucking into her meal. The two ate in semi-comfortable silence; the only sounds were silverware clinking against their plates, the occasional shaky inhale.

“Was it really that bad?” She asked innocuously after they had finished, the pair moving into the living room to sit by the fire.

“What part?” Malfoy asked.

“All of it,” she shrugged. “I still can’t remember the details of that day.”

Malfoy’s expression grew cold. “Yes, it really was that bad. I wouldn’t exaggerate something like that.”

“I know,” she said sincerely, “It’s just that I feel fine now. I guess I’m just impressed with your healing skills,” she said, aiming for a casual air.

It was clearly the wrong thing to say, if Malfoy’s now-furious expression was any indication. His nostrils flared as he trained his intense gaze on her.

“Granger, you nearly fucking died,” he snarled, his eyes mercurial. “I had to scrub my hands raw to get your blood off of them. When I found you, your pulse was barely there. I truly thought that you were–” he choked, looking green.

“But I’m okay,” she insisted, gesturing to herself.

He shook his head, closing his eyes. “You weren’t when I found you. If I had been any later, you would have died,” he said with unwavering certainty.

“Right,” she said slowly, “But you got there in time.” She grimaced, not entirely sure why she was arguing the point with him. “I’m alright.”

He exploded, launching out of his armchair. “Hermione,” he practically spat her given name. “I held you in my arms as I felt the life draining from you. Do you know what that was like? Do you have any idea how scared I was?” His eyes were wide, his lip curled.

She opened her mouth to interrupt, but he cut her off.

“No, you don’t know!” He laughed bitterly. “All I ever asked from you was to warn me when you were headed on one of your trips,” his voice was barely a whisper. “Instead, you sent me on a wild goose chase multiple times. What would have happened if I hadn’t found you, in fucking Alaska, no less?!” He asked the ceiling. “You’d be fucking dead, don’t you understand? You’d be dead and we’d all be none the wiser and I–” he stopped himself.

Though she completely understood his rightful anger towards her, Hermione did not like being yelled at. “And what, Malfoy?” She stood toe-to-toe with him, glaring up at him obstinately. “What would you have done if I had died?” Frankly, she didn’t want to know, but in for a Knut, in for a Galleon.

He wrenched his simmering gaze from her face, turning away as if he couldn’t bear to look at her, his chest heaving with the effort of keeping himself in control.

“Would you have gone back to ignoring that I existed?” She was unable to stop herself, knowing that she was being unfair again. “Would you have gone to my funeral, pretended that we didn’t hate each other half of the time?” She sneered at his back, watching his shoulders tense even further. “No, you wouldn’t have. Because everything you want from me is on your terms and your terms only! You didn’t care that I didn’t want your help, you didn’t care that I didn’t need you; you just showed up anyway! So please, tell me why you care so much when I never asked you to!” She threw her hands in the air.

He whirled toward her suddenly, causing her to take a step backward. His expression was one of utter, wretched devastation. It took her breath away, the fight suddenly bleeding out of her.

“Because I love you!” He shouted at her, his breathing labored, his eyes smoldering in the firelight.

She blinked dumbly, staring at him in mute stupefaction. The grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticked. He was scowling now, looking like he wished he could retract his statement.

“No you don’t,” she shook her head, her mind racing.

He frowned. “Yes I do,” he told her, “Quite desperately, really.”

She kept shaking her head, her eyes disbelieving on his. “But how? You hate me,” she said with certainty.

Malfoy moved closer, approaching her like she was a cornered wild animal. His eyes were bright, the flames dancing in them as he looked down at her flushed face. His expression was guarded, wounded, fragile, his eyes swirling with pain.

“Hermione,” he said, much quieter this time.

Her breath hitched in her throat, still unable to move under his gaze.

“I couldn’t bear it,” he admitted, his voice a tremulous whisper. “I couldn’t bear losing you,” his tone was grave.

She believed him, somehow.

“But–” she began, confusion flitting across her face.

“Christ,” Malfoy grumbled, deflating a little. “Are you really going to argue with me about this?” He looked genuinely dismayed.

She shook her head slowly, her heart thumping in her chest with his confession. Hermione stood still as he drew in a few deep breaths, squaring his shoulders back.

“So all this time?” She asked, feeling dizzy.

Malfoy nodded grimly.

She assessed him critically, trying to find the lie but coming up empty. “Back in school?” She asked.

He nodded again, his mouth a flat line. “I had always found you fascinating,” he told her, “But of course, I couldn’t like you. It wasn’t until Sixth Year that I really started rejecting Pureblood ideals,” his face was pinched.

“Yes, but–” she started, her head spinning.

He gave her a dark look, her mouth snapping shut. “That year was bad for me, obviously,” he winced at the memory of the Astronomy Tower. “It was made worse because somehow Potter was doing better than me at Potions. You, I expected, but Potter?” Malfoy scoffed. “Anyway, after I got sliced open by him, I really couldn’t have given less of a shite about blood purity or any of that inane drivel. I just wanted to live.” He sighed. “I figured that I could go unnoticed as long as I stayed a coward; I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by being particularly good at war crimes,” he chuckled darkly.

“But then you were captured,” his eyes were distant, his intonation flat as he recalled that night’s events. “I was asked to identify you three. Even with whatever you’d done to Potter’s face, I could tell it was him, especially because you and Weasley were with him.”

“But you didn’t identify us,” Hermione interjected.

He nodded. “I was a coward.”

“But your actions allowed us to escape!” She argued, an echo of a past argument on the same subject in her mind.

“Yes, but I didn’t do anything. I stayed impassive. I was a coward.” His voice was unwavering. “I watched as you were tortured on my drawing room floor. It was then that I realized I couldn’t bear seeing you die,” he choked out, his body shuddering.

“Malfoy,” she whispered, moving a hand to grasp at his arm.

“Don’t, please,” he pleaded quietly. “We got to know each other during our final year and I became a better man for it. I was a coward at the end; I didn’t want to face you after you had basically tossed me out on my arse. Slytherins know when to quit,” he shrugged. “I figured you wanted nothing more to do with me, so I made myself scarce.”

Hermione was shaking her head as he told her his reasoning. “I thought that’s what you wanted!” She cried, her voice thick.

“It was, in a way,” Malfoy admitted. “I missed you when you were hundreds of miles away, off saving the world. I missed you when I’d read a book that I thought you would like, wanting to recommend it to you but not having the guts to reach out. I missed you when we were in the same room, when we were so close that I could count the freckles on your cheeks. I couldn’t stay away from you, no matter how hard I tried.”

She thought back to France, to Malfoy approaching her in her disguise. “Why now?” She asked hesitantly.

“I don’t want to be a coward anymore,” he told her, sounding wrung out. “Once I realized how much danger you were in, I couldn’t sit back and watch you jeopardize your life with nobody else aware that you were doing so. I couldn’t keep pretending that I wasn’t in love with you, even though you didn’t feel the same.” He was frowning, staring off into the night sky.

“But I–”

“It’s alright,” he told her sincerely. “I had been waiting for years to find a way back into your life, and it really was just pure luck that I caught you that night at the Ministère des Affaires Magiques. I’m sorry that I pissed you off by always showing up uninvited, by teasing you to get a reaction, but I don’t regret it, not for a moment. It saved your life.”

“Malfoy,” she tried again. “I know. I don’t regret it either.”

He nodded at her. “You should rest.”

“But I wasn’t done,” she protested. “I still have things I want to say. We’ve gone too long letting sleeping dogs lie, don’t you think some clear communication could do us some good?”

He shrugged, conceding the point and gesturing for her to continue.

She took a step closer to him. “You’re wrong about one thing,” she whispered, gazing up at him from under her lashes.

“And what’s that?” He asked, meeting her stare in challenge, still frowning a little.

She inhaled shakily, summoning her courage. “I love you, too.”

Malfoy reared back as if slapped, his eyes going comically wide. He looked at her, uncertainty and unadulterated hope swirling in his mercurial eyes.

She knew that she would have to do more to prove it to him; his self-loathing and martyr complex making him nearly incapable of accepting affection, especially from her.

Without further preamble and feeling suddenly impatient after all of their back and forth, she reached up, twisting the fabric of his soft t-shirt in both hands, pulling him down to kiss him on his plush, frowning mouth.

Chapter Text

December, 2005

Tippy had forced her to stay in Malfoy’s home for another day after their argument, before she was finally allowed to return to the privacy of her own home.

She spent another two days holed up in her flat doing practically nothing. Her body had fully recovered, but her mind was still reeling from her near-death experience and her heated argument with Malfoy.

He reared back from her after a moment, one of his hands automatically looping around her back.

“Have you lost your mind?” He asked, looking slightly dazed.

She shook her head adamantly. “Only a little bit of my pride since you had to take care of me, but no.” She laughed.

He looked at her in disbelief, his face guarded. “But–”

She groaned, knowing this wouldn’t be easy. “Are you really going to argue with me when I’m actively trying to kiss you?” She raised a brow at him.

He had the decency to blush, his eyes flitting to hers. “No, but you’ve had an especially harrowing few days. I wouldn’t want to take advantage of your heightened emotional state.”

Hermione gave him a flat look. “I thought I was supposed to be the swotty one?” She smiled, watching as he blushed harder. “Are we going to debate the status of my psyche?”

Malfoy slowly shook his head. “No, believe me,” he looked pained. “There is nothing more I want to do right now than snog you senseless.” It was her turn to blush. “But you nearly died less than a week ago, and I want you to rest.” He said seriously. “I want to do this right, Granger,” he was half-smiling, “Let me take you on a date, once you’re ready.”

She had the urge to stomp her foot. “I’m ready now, Malfoy,” she insisted. “We can go on dates later.”

“No,” he replied simply. “Take some time to recover, to think over everything. I don’t want to mess this up now that we’re finally on the same page.” He grinned tentatively at her. “I’ve spent years waiting for you, I can wait a little longer.”

She should have guessed that Malfoy, too, didn’t do anything by halves. Over the next few days, she often woke to an empty house, Malfoy nowhere in sight. She bothered Tippy on more than one occasion, inquiring about Malfoy’s whereabouts, but the elf was tight-lipped. Once she had recovered enough by Malfoy’s standards, the man had sent her home with a perfunctory goodbye, not even a kiss on the cheek for the road.

Hermione supposed that she should be flattered, having the full weight of Malfoy’s attention on her at all times; he wanted to do things the right way, whatever that meant. She also supposed that in being raised as a repressed Pureblood, Malfoy would want to ply her with fancy dates and flowers and whatever else it was that Purebloods gifted their intended, before going any further. Fine, she thought, she wasn’t about to say no to whatever lavish surprises Malfoy had in store for her, but she wanted him to get on with it already. She was a Gryffindor, after all.

Hermione returned to work unceremoniously after nearly two weeks away, her coworkers somewhat lost without her there to guide them, but her office was the same as the day she had left it.

Harry stopped in during lunch on her first day back, his disheveled hair sticking up in multiple directions as he sat across from her.

“How was France?”

“It was nice. Quiet,” she replied, a neutral expression on her face. “It was to do a spot of field research for the Bowtruckles,” she added.

Harry eyed her over his crooked glasses. “You look…different,” he said.

“Do I?” She asked noncommittally.

Her friend hummed. “You look more…grounded?” He cocked his head to the side. “I don’t know.”

She smiled tightly at him. “The views were truly beautiful, Harry,” she lied, “You have to go sometime. I’m sure Theo would love it.”

Harry nodded. “Definitely. I think he mentioned that Malfoy owns a vineyard there.”

She nodded. “Is there something you need?”

He looked at her sidelong, drumming his fingers against his leg. “I have a hunch,” he said cryptically.

“A hunch?” She asked, fighting not to fidget in her seat.

“Mm.” Harry’s green eyes met hers over the desk. “Two weeks ago, I was at Theo’s for dinner with Blaise and Malfoy.”

A sense of dread began creeping up Hermione’s spine, setting her teeth on edge. She kept her face cool as she waited for him to continue.

He cleared his throat. “All of a sudden, Malfoy jumped up from his chair and left without a word. It seemed like it was an emergency.” Harry was doing his best to not look at her.

“I don’t see what this has to do with me,” she said carefully.

“I think you do,” Harry argued. “I know you’ve been hiding something from me, and I know that Malfoy’s somehow involved. You don’t have to tell me now, but I do care about you, Hermione. I want to make sure that you’re alright.” His voice was earnest.

“I know, Harry,” she sighed, rubbing at her tired face. “You’re right, I haven’t been forthcoming about my…relationship with Malfoy,” she coughed. “I really can’t tell you the details, but I’m perfectly fine.”

Harry’s perceptive gaze flitted across her face, his lips downturned. “I trust your judgement, Hermione. But you’ll tell me if something’s wrong, right?”

She reached out to place her hand on top of his. “Of course, Harry. You’d be the first to know if something was the matter.” The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but she wanted so badly to mean it.

Harry nodded, smiling at her a little. “I have to go, work has been…you know. But I”m glad that you’re back from your trip,” he stood, pulling her into a brief hug. “You’ll be at the Burrow for Christmas, yeah?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she said genuinely, giving Harry a small smile.

— — —

December 25, 2005

Hermione was curled up on her favorite squashed, worn armchair in the Burrow’s living room, nursing a hot toddy and watching the youngest of the Weasleys play with their new toys, screeching in delight. She fiddled with the pendant around her neck, a soft smile on her face as she watched her family.

This time of year was always difficult for her. Her parents, though their memories were fully restored after years of intensive therapy sessions, had chosen to stay in Australia, feeling at home there, going as far as to choose to keep their new identities that Hermione had fabricated for them. After their memories returned, they were rightfully upset at Hermione for choosing to erase her own existence from their lives, though they knew it was ultimately to protect them. Harold and Jean Granger understood that their daughter saved their lives, the two of them none the wiser as they jetted off to Australia. Hermione’s relationship with her parents was permanently altered, just like everything else after the war; it was difficult for them to truly grasp how much danger Hermione had been in during her adolescent years, difficult for them to see that she had no choice if she wanted them to survive.

Hermione’s relationship with her parents was strained; she called them on holidays and had visited Australia a handful of times, but their relationship couldn’t go back to that idealistic version from before the war. She had learned to be grateful that they remembered who she was, which she had once thought an impossible feat. She often pretended like it didn’t bother her– like the fact she was the only Granger in her immediate family left didn’t make her feel terribly small, insignificant, alone. She wanted so badly to make an impact on the world, but at the same time, who was she to do so? The only Granger in a sea of surnames that dated back centuries, her name forgettable in time.

So, Hermione spent the winter holidays at the Burrow, in which there was more than enough festive cheer to go around, distracting her from her melancholy.

“Scoot over,” Ginny said over the cacophony of squealing Weasley children, holding a red mug in one hand, a small parcel in the other.

Hermione obliged, making room for Ginny on the loveseat, the two of them clad in this year’s Weasley sweaters.

“How are you?” The redhead asked, taking a sip of what smelled like some very strong eggnog.

“I’m good, Gin,” Hermione smiled at her friend, leaning her head against the girl’s shoulder. “Work has kept me busy. What about you? Where’s Pansy?”

Ginny shook her head. “Her mother made contact for the first time since…” She winced.

“Since you two became official?” Hermione supplied.

“Yes. Pansy was disinherited and burned off the Parkinson tapestry. It’s not like there was any love lost between Pansy and her mother, but I know she was still bothered by it.” Ginny sighed. “Anyways, her mother reached out a few weeks ago, practically begging Pansy to come home for Christmas, to hear her out,” she shrugged. “Families are hard,” she gestured to the chaos around them. “I don’t know if she has it in her to forgive her mom, but it’s an honorable thing to try.”

Hermione nodded her agreement. “Definitely, Gin. I’m glad you two found each other,” she said honestly, the alcohol loosening her tongue a little bit.

“Yeah, me too,” Ginny had a dopey smile on her freckled face. “What’s with you and the Ferret, by the way? Harry told me something about both of you disappearing for two weeks? Seemed to think it wasn’t a coincidence.”

Hermione choked on an inhale, her face turning red. “If I told you it was for work, would you believe me?”

“Hmm,” Ginny tapped a finger against her chin. “Absolutely not. In fact, I’d tell you that you’re full of shite and about as subtle as an erumpent doing ballet.” She said flatly. “You two are acting like a pair of teenage virgins. Merlin’s tits, you need to snog already,” she rolled her eyes, huffing as she took a sip from her mug.

Hermione shrugged, feigning casualness as she emptied her glass.

Ginny stiffened next to her on the armchair. “So you have kissed! I fucking knew it!”

The living room went quiet, dozens of pairs of eyes trained on them.

Hermione was sure that she had never been redder than she was right now, hardly breathing as she looked at her friends and family staring at her with mild intrigue; Harry in particular looked keen.

“Ginny,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “Do something.”

“Carry on, you bunch of busybodies!” Ginny shouted at them.

The cacophony started back up a moment later, but the damage was done– Hermione was never going to get rid of the blush on her cheeks.

“Did you kiss him?” Ginny gripped Hermione’s hands in hers, her blue eyes wide and pleading. “Please tell me you did.”

Hermione glanced around the room to make sure that nobody was listening too closely before she answered with a curt, “Yes.”

Ginny slapped a hand over her mouth, squealing into her palm as her brows rose into her hairline. “No fucking way.”

“Er–”

“Well, was it good?” Ginny was leering at her now. “For your sake, I hope it was, but for his sake, I hope he sucks.”

Hermione laughed a little. “Swear you won’t tell anyone? Not even Pansy?”

“Scout’s honor,” Ginny replied honestly.

“It was, unsurprisingly but annoyingly, the best kiss I’ve ever had,” Hermione sighed wistfully.

Her friend was bouncing in her seat now, her hand clapped over her mouth again. “God, you’d think he’d have some weakness. Honestly, some people just have it all. It’s not fair.”

Hermione nodded her agreement.

“Did you two…?” Ginny’s eyebrows were wiggling, her mouth pulled into a smirk.

“No, no,” Hermione held her hands out placatingly.

“Why the fuck not?” Ginny asked, incredulous. “What the fuck are you waiting for, Hermione? He’s insanely hot.”

Hermione just sighed. “I know, Gin. We aren’t…at that stage. Yet.”

“Yet?” Ginny practically screeched, ignoring Ron’s confused glance in their direction. “As in, there’s potential?”

“Yes?” She replied, a little unsure. “We haven’t really talked, not since my–” she cut herself off.

Ginny raised a brow at her. “Not since your obvious absence coincided with Malfoy’s obvious absence? That neither of you will talk about?”

“Yes?” She said again.

“Are you two dating?” She asked suddenly.

“Er– no,” Hermione said slowly. “It’s complicated. I really can’t tell you.”

“But there’s feelings involved.”

“Maybe? Yes? I don’t know. Yes.” Hermione vacillated.

“Hm.” Ginny gripped Hermione by the shoulders suddenly, her blue eyes boring into hers. “You’ll tell me though, right? When you finally shag him? Seriously, the things I would do to him if I wasn’t a lesbian in a very loving relationship,” Ginny’s eyes had a far-off look in them as she blinked.

“Ginny!” Hermione admonished, blushing.

“Lighten up, Hermione. I’m just teasing,” she nudged her shoulder. “But seriously, you’ll tell me, right?” She cackled.

— — —

January 1, 2006

Hermione awoke in the New Year to a snow-white owl pecking at her bedroom window. She blinked blearily, the clock on her bedside table noting that it was half past six as she swung her legs off the side of the bed.

She opened the window, watching as the owl regarded her with a level of haughtiness she didn’t think possible in a bird.

“Is this for me?” Hermione asked, pointing to the roll of parchment tied to its leg with twine.

The owl blinked its enormous green eyes at her as if to say, obviously.

She made quick work of the string, pulling it loose before grabbing the roll of parchment.

“Owl treat?” She asked, offering one from the jar on her bedside table.

The bird pecked once at her hand, ignoring the treat, before it took off back through the window and into the early morning sky.

The parchment felt heavy in her hand as she unrolled it, sitting on the end of her bed.

Happy New Year, Granger,

Now that enough time has passed since your sojourn in northern Alaska and subsequent ordeal, and now that the bustle of the holiday season has passed, I would like to invite you to escape the London chill with me by accompanying me on a date this Saturday, January 7. The location is a surprise, but all I can say is to dress for warm weather. I will take care of the travel arrangements and itinerary. Expect to arrive back on late Sunday evening.

If you are amenable, please Floo to my home at nine o’clock on Saturday morning; I will be there and we can leave shortly after. If you are not amenable, then don’t show up and I’ll just drop off the face of the earth. I’m joking, but also not really. I hope to see you soon.

Yours,

Draco Malfoy

Hermione rolled her eyes at his dramatics, but was nonetheless flattered and already a little bit floaty at the prospect of going on a multiple-day date with Draco Malfoy, her heart fluttering at the promise of an international vacation to somewhere warm. She didn’t want to set her expectations too high, but boy, could she dream.

She spent the week after returning from the Christmas holidays feeling as if she and everyone else around her were moving through gelatin, everyone a bit lazy coming off of break. She was full of nervous anticipation, excitement, and a teensy bit of apprehension as she waited for the weekend to arrive.

At nine o’clock on the dot on Saturday, Hermione Flooed to Malfoy’s house, dressed unseasonably in a pale yellow summer sundress with puffy capped sleeves and a pair of white sandals, feeling wholly out of her depth.

“Miss Granger!” Tippy greeted, coming forward with a feather duster and brushing Floo powder off of her clothes. “Master Draco is still getting ready, but he should be done shortly! He is so excited to see you, he has been beside himself,” the elf continued happily.

Hermione couldn’t help but giggle at the thought.

“Thank you, Tippy,” she nodded at him, smiling bemusedly.

“Please follow me to the living room,” the elf bowed before taking off down the hall.

Tippy pushed the French doors open, gesturing for Hermione to enter first before he corralled her over to one of the armchairs by the fire.

“I’ll let Master Draco know you’re here!” The elf said brightly, disappearing with a pop!

It wasn’t long before Malfoy came out from the opposite hallway, dressed in a sky blue linen shirt and black trousers, his customary black dragonhide shoes clipping against the hardwood floors.

She fought back a grin at the sight of Malfoy wearing something other than dark green or black. He appeared calm, but there was a sort of tightness around his eyes that spoke to his nerves.

“Granger,” he called as he approached. “You look lovely,” he eyed her dress appraisingly.

She blushed, unable to stop herself. “I never thought I’d see the day,” she teased. “Draco Malfoy, wearing blue!” She held a hand to her chest in mock-affront.

“Say it again,” he said lowly, his eyes pleading, pink dusting across his pale cheeks.

“Say what?” She stood from her seat, smiling as he frowned. “Only if you’re good.”

He laughed a little. “I’ll try to be very, very good then,” he smirked at her, giving her a cheeky wink.

She blushed again, trying and failing to ignore the way his shirt brought out the blue in his grey eyes.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, Malfoy,” she rolled her eyes, her chest warming at his concern. “I had a very competent Healer who nursed me back to health. He was quite the busybody, though.”

“Who is this bloke?” Malfoy asked. “He sounds like a tosser.”

“Oh, definitely,” she agreed.

Malfoy checked his wristwatch. “Are you ready to go?”

She nodded. “Is this fine?” She gestured to her summer attire.

“It’s perfect,” he told her earnestly, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to her cheek, causing her to inhale shakily as his familiar cologne washed over her.

He removed what looked to be a spool of thread from a trouser pocket. At her inquisitive stare, he shrugged, “Theo.” He told her by way of explanation.

Malfoy tapped his wand against the spool, holding one end out to her before pocketing his wand again. She felt the familiar tug of Portkey travel behind her navel, the pair whisked away from his living room in a blink.

Hermione squinted at her new surroundings as they landed, the air much more pleasant than in London. She and Malfoy had appeared at the base of a hill, lush rolling greenery surrounding them, a breeze buffeting her hair around her face. Sunlight dappled through the gaps in the trees, buttery yellow and warm against her skin.

“Where are we?” Hermione asked, turning in a circle.

“Málaga,” Malfoy shrugged casually.

“Spain?!” She practically screeched before slapping a hand over her mouth.

He laughed at her, his face more relaxed. “I wanted to impress you. Is it working?” He raised a brow at her.

“You’re insane,” she said in response. “This is…” she trailed off as she appreciated the sheer amount of green before them.

“Too much?” He supplied, and she nodded. “I disagree. The art of wooing Hermione Granger is no simple feat,” Malfoy smiled, offering his hand.

She took it, an intense blush creeping up her face. “Nobody has ever tried to woo me before,” she admitted.

Malfoy’s grin became more of a smirk as he said, “Then please, allow me the pleasure of being the first– and hopefully last,” he gave her a pointed stare that said lest you forget where this date is headed, “to do so.”

Before she could stammer out a response, completely and thoroughly wooed by his smooth talking, his Apparition whisked them away from the base of the hill.

They appeared in front of what looked to be a villa built into the undulating Andalusian hills out of copper-colored stone, the structure surrounded by jacaranda trees and other plant life Hermione had never seen, the property itself overlooking more rolling fields of vibrant green that stretched as far as the eye could see.

“Is this–?” Hermione’s eyes were wide.

“Haven’t you heard?” Malfoy drawled, turning up the plumminess of his posh accent to an irritating degree. “The Malfoys are rolling in dough,” his mouth quirked up into a half-smirk, his cheek dimpling.

“You’d think with that much gold, you could by yourself some humility,” Hermione teased as he led her up the stone pathway to the front of the house.

“You wound me, Granger,” he put his hand over his heart. “Let me give you a tour.”

The massive wooden front doors pushed open at Malfoy’s hand, folding into the house with a soft hiss. The grand entryway floor was done in pale beige stone, rough to the touch and shot through with golden veins, an ornate crystal chandelier glittering above. The walls were painted sage green and bordered by crown moldings; a wooden spiral staircase wended its way up to a balcony that overlooked the foyer before the upper level split off into two hallways, the banister carved out of the same stone as the floor. Oil paintings in gilded frames covered one of the walls almost in its entirety; sprays of exotic flower arrangements in pots of various sizes covered the space, elaborate sconces lining the walls gave off a warm glow.

Hermione stood frozen, breathless, as she took in the sheer size, the opulence, of the front room; she could only imagine what the rest of the house would be like.

“Do you like what you see?” Malfoy asked from behind her, shooting her a smirk as she look over her shoulder at him.

“I’ve seen better,” she sniffed, giggling as he rolled his eyes.

“Let me show you the library.”

Hermione nearly salivated at the thought, nodding her head readily and taking his proffered hand. He led them down a corridor to the side of the entryway, promising that she’d get to explore the house to her heart’s content at a later time.

“We have a lunch reservation in one hour,” he told her as they walked, their shoes echoing off the stone floor. “I know, I know,” he said at her put-out expression, “The library will be here when we get back, don’t fret.”

“Am I really so predictable?” She asked, blushing.

“Please be reminded of the fact that I’ve been pining after you for years, Granger,” he kissed the back of her hand. “What sort of man would I be if I didn’t know these things about you?” He scoffed as if the mere thought offended him, running the tips of his fingers down her arm as they meandered down the hall.

They came to stop in front of another set of double doors made from rich cherrywood, the threshold framed by two giant monsteras in tan terra cotta pots. Malfoy released her hand, gesturing for her to do the honors.

With bated breath, she pushed on the wrought iron handle, the doors swinging open smoothly on their hinges. She couldn’t help but gape as the lights turned on automatically, illuminating the grandest library she had ever seen. It was at least twice the size of the Hogwarts library, dozens of towering bookcases stuffed full of thousands of books; a wooden staircase led to the second level complete with a wrap-around balcony. Candles were set to float above their heads, their bright flames flickering in the penumbra of the cavernous room. Antique oil lamps sat atop ages-old wooden writing desks, squashed leather armchairs were arranged in the corners of the room and by the multiple stained glass windows along the back, a fire crackled merrily in the hearth set into one wall. The effect was…breathtaking.

“Wow,” she breathed after a minute of observation. “I think if you had wanted to win me over years ago, showing me this would have worked,” she said honestly.

Malfoy raised an unimpressed brow at her. “Should I cancel our plans for the day, then?” He joked, laughing at her enthusiastic nod.

“You know I don’t need…” she trailed off, thinking for the right words. “Grand gestures?”

He nodded in acknowledgement. “You don't need them, true. But you can’t tell me you’ve never fantasized about being well and truly swept off your feet by some poncy aristocrat with just as much attention to detail as you.” He winked at her, nudging her forward.

“You’re unrelenting,” she chided, turning to face him, her breath catching in her chest at the intensity she saw in the margins of his expression.

“Are you wooed yet?” He asked, his brows drawing up expectantly.

“Yes, you great prat. You’ve well and truly ruined me for any other first date; my expectations have been set too high,” she deadpanned. “Stop fishing for compliments, you know you’re unfairly attractive.”

He stepped closer to her, her breath catching at the proximity, at the heated way he stared at her. “I never tire of hearing it, not when it’s from you.” His soft smile was no match for her; she couldn’t help but melt into him, her knees suddenly weak.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked, breaking the heavy silence between them. His expression was a touch uncertain.

She laughed a little, shaking her head at his display of Pureblood manners, all the while looking at her like he wanted nothing more than to eat her alive.

Hermione answered his question with a kiss, leaning up on her toes to grab his collar, pulling him down to connect their mouths. He exhaled a little, his body going taut and loose under her fingers as he kissed her back with a fresh sense of urgency. His broad palms skated across the bare skin of her upper back before settling on the nip of her waist, causing Hermione to shiver as she fisted the fine fabric of his shirt in her hands, his mouth slanting over hers as he kissed her. He slowly walked them to the nearest sofa, the backs of her knees hitting the edge of the couch, and then he was flipping them, his mouth still hot on hers as he sat, pulling her to straddle his lap in one smooth motion, her skirt pooling around their laps.

Hermione’s body was alight with energy– her chest, her skin, her veins singing with the thrill of properly kissing Draco Malfoy in his home library in Spain; it bled into every nerve. His hair was silken under her fingertips as she tugged at it, earning a half-broken groan from his throat as he cradled her face in one hand, tilting it just so. She gasped as his mouth left hers to trail across her jaw and down her neck, his teeth nipping gently at the sensitive skin where her neck met her shoulder. One of her hands traveled across his toned chest, itching to get under his shirt. She hadn’t realized that she was grinding her hips against him until he made a choking sound, his fingertips pressing hard at her waist as his lips stuttered against her skin.

“Hermione,” he panted, staring up at her, the grey of his irises barely visible, swallowed up by black. “The library,” he mumbled nonsensically, his cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink.

“Later,” she whispered distractedly, leaning back in to capture his lips, swallowing the surprised noise he made as she began working at the top button of his shirt.

Her mind was pleasantly blank, humming, as she kissed him hard, making up for so much lost time. His tongue ran along the seam of her lips; the first brush of his against hers was like static, her world suddenly narrowing into nothing but the sensation of his body pressed to hers, her matching his pace, her awareness filled to the brim with him– only him. It was dangerous, the way that he made her feel, but Hermione felt powerful under his hands– reverent but dominant, considerate but confident. It was intoxicating, dizzying, thrilling to touch and be touched by him, her body craving more.

He pulled his head back, his chest flushed and heaving, looking properly debauched with his shirt buttons half-undone, his messy hair giving Harry’s a run for his money.

“Hermione,” he practically begged, his hands looped around her waist as he stared up at her. “Our lunch plans.”

She frowned a little as she caught her breath. “Seriously?” She teased. “Not that I don’t appreciate what you have planned, but is that really your priority right now?” She glanced meaningfully down at where their hips were connected.

He groaned, tipping his head against the back of the leather sofa. “Hermione, I want to do this the right way,” he pleaded. “Please don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”

She sighed, laughing a little. “I never would have guessed that you were so…resolved.”

He shot her a glare as she slid off his lap to sit next to him.

“Believe it or not, Hermione,” she blushed at the sound of her name on his lips. “I’m a patient man.” She noted that his lips were slightly swollen, his cheeks still flushed.

“Alright, alright,” she conceded.

“Lunch first,” he directed. “Library and…” his eyes dipped down to her mouth, “more, later. Up we go,” he stood, grabbing her hand and pulling her up with him.

She smoothed down the wrinkled fabric of her dress, walking over to the mirror above the fireplace to attempt to fix her hair– a lost cause. Malfoy stood next to her, doing up the buttons that she had undone just minutes before, a hint of color still on his pale cheekbones. He ran a hand through his hair, combing through it until it was back to its usual style, not a blond hair out of place. He watched her in the mirror with a bemused expression as she tried to do the same to her own mane, much to no avail.

“You look lovely,” he smiled at her warmly as she fussed in the mirror, his eyes sparkling.

He reached his hand out toward her, turning her palm over in his before moving his hand to cup her jaw. “Ready?”

She nodded, returning his smile, the familiar feel of his magic wrapping around her as he Apparated them from the library.

She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the sunlight as they appeared atop a stone staircase in what looked to be the wizarding quarter of Málaga, a bustling hub of commotion as locals spent the afternoon meandering through the cliffside village. A variety of shops and apartments constructed from tan stone were built into the hills, stacked atop one another like dominoes, steep staircases cutting between them. Winding footpaths led to a smattering of food stalls, smoke wafting up deliciously from them, fairy lights set to floating between the buildings. Witches and wizards peddled their various wares, shouting at passersby from the side of the road, offering artefacts and potions and other magical objects. The town was lovely, bursting with life that made her feel lighter, somehow.

Malfoy led the way up the first flight of stairs, pulling Hermione behind him as they wended their way through the tiered streets of Málaga, Hermione gasping as she stopped at every shop window they passed, marveling at the little bits and bobs on display.

The sun was balmy on their skin, the wind more of a caress than a gust, as they approached a tiny restaurant, built right into the cliffside of the tallest hill, overlooking the sparkling expanse of the Mediterranean Sea. The host bowed deeply to Malfoy, gesturing for the pair to follow him through the small dining room and out onto a private cobblestone terrace with a perfect view of the water, seating them at a small round table decorated with a white tablecloth and a vase of wine-colored roses.

Hermione blushed as Malfoy pulled out her chair for her before taking a seat opposite her, their menus handed to them by the host before he nodded and walked away. The afternoon took on a surreal quality; Malfoy looked annoyingly attractive in blue, his hair swaying slightly in the breeze, his pale features slightly flushed in the Spanish sun as he appraised the menu.

The waiter appeared shortly after, Hermione letting Malfoy order a bottle of wine and food for the two of them, trusting his judgement. The waiter nodded his acknowledgement, returning with the bottle of white wine, uncorking it and setting it on the table.

Malfoy poured them both a glass, clinking his against hers before they took a sip.

“Cheers,” Hermione smiled, “This is truly lovely,” she said, gesturing to their surroundings.

He wore a smug expression, his eyes sparkling in the sun. “It beats the perpetual grey of London, that’s for sure.”

She huffed a laugh. “That’s severely underselling it.” She stared out at the sea, could just hear the crash of waves against the shore far below. “Why Málaga?”

They waited as the waiter deposited a variety of tapas on their table, wishing them a good meal before disappearing back into the restaurant.

“Why do I own property in Málaga, or why did I choose this location for our first date?” He asked, offering her a plate of jamón.

She took it, savoring the cured ham before replying, “Both.”

He hummed, sipping at his wine. “I imagine some Malfoy ancestor wanted a break from the British cold,” he shrugged. “As for why I chose this location for you, well I figured you’d appreciate the history of the city.” He gave her an unrestrained smile, fondness dancing in his eyes.

She nodded enthusiastically. “Their history can be traced back to 700 BCE!” She chattered excitedly between bites of food and sips of wine. “I once read about some of their cathedrals and other notable sites,” she rambled, not noticing the intent way Malfoy looked at her. “Did you know that their first-century Roman theater was only rediscovered last century? It had been buried under centuries of–” she stopped herself. “Sorry, I get carried away easily,” she blushed, suddenly embarrassed.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Granger,” Malfoy said, taking her hand across the table. “You can talk about ancient Spanish architecture all you’d like,” he gave it a squeeze, smiling endearingly at her.

They polished off the bottle of wine and tapas, Malfoy flagging down the waiter to order a plate of pestiños and a dessert wine to pair them with. Their conversation ebbed and flowed naturally, the silences mostly filled by Hermione recounting some obscure bit of history while Malfoy nodded along with rapt attention.

The dessert was delicious, the wine sweet and full-bodied on her tongue; she watched as the sun began its downward trajectory over the Mediterranean, rays reflecting off the waves in jagged lines.

Malfoy settled the tab, pulling out her chair and offering her his arm, which she took with only a slight blush. Made lazy by the delicious food and decadent wine, the pair meandered slowly through the wizarding quarter under the cloudless sky.

Predictably, Hermione found a bookshop tucked away into a less-trafficked corner, pulling Malfoy behind her into it with enthusiasm. The shop was cramped with a low ceiling and narrow aisles, cozy in a way that Flourish and Blotts was not. Hermione spent over an hour perusing the shelves, gasping every so often whenever she found a particularly interesting or rare text, Malfoy transferring them from her arms to his without a word. She was happy browsing, and he was just as happy watching her, insisting that he pay for her seven books and winning the argument that ensued.

Once back out on the street, her books shrunken down to fit in her bag, Malfoy took her by the hand and began pulling her down the nearest staircase, his long strides purposeful and intent. He halted in front of what appeared to be a women’s clothing boutique, its facade made entirely out of glass.

Once inside, a shop witch greeted them warmly, inquiring whether they were shopping for something in particular or just browsing, to which Malfoy replied with, “Whatever she wants, she gets,” nudging his head in her direction. Hermione started to deny this statement, but the witch just gave them a satisfied, serene smile before launching into motion, pulling a number of garments off of various racks throughout the store. The shorter woman shoved the pile into Hermione’s arms, ushering her into the fitting room without letting her get a word in.

Hermione huffed as the curtain shut behind her, listening to the shop witch converse with Malfoy about how lucky he was. She heard Malfoy laugh, agreeing wholeheartedly with her. She began to sort through the pile, finding a variety of sundresses in varying lengths, colors, and patterns– some short sleeved and some long.

She pulled the first one from the pile, shucking off her own dress before trying it on; it was a white midi-dress with butter yellow flowers dotted all over it, the straps tied into fat bows at the shoulders, a slit up the side. She was just about to remove it, but the shop clerk suddenly wrenched the curtain open, gushing at her.

“You look beautiful!” She exclaimed.

Before Hermione could speak, the girl was ushering Malfoy over to her with urgency.

He looked like he had been punched in the gut; his jaw hung open as his eyes stared unblinkingly at her. She blushed under his attention, mumbling something about going to change.

“We’ll take them all,” Malfoy said at once, snapping out of his stupor.

The shop clerk clapped her hands, assuring her that she looked lovely and that everything she wore would suit her just so. Hermione silently disagreed, but knew that putting up a fight would get her nowhere. The clerk insisted that she wear the dress out, shooing Hermione away from the dressing room and gathering up the pile of dresses before making her way back to the front of the room.

“Malfoy, this is…too much,” Hermione whispered as the witch folded the first dress. “There have to be at least ten dresses in that pile.”

Malfoy, unsurprisingly, just shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll look beautiful in all of them,” he gave her a peck on the cheek.

“That’s not the point. There’s no price tags,” she pointed out urgently. Only the really expensive stores didn’t put price tags on their items.

He waved her off with a hand, “Not to worry.” His smile was charming, smug.

Hermione pursed her lips. “I’m worried, Malfoy,” she muttered.

She watched helplessly as Malfoy checked out with the shop witch, the girl bidding them a lovely day as they left, Malfoy weighed down with four garment bags.

It was late afternoon now, the sun continuing its downward path, casting long shadows on the cobblestone streets. They stopped at a beverage cart, Malfoy purchasing glasses of strawberry granizado that they slurped through paper straws, refreshing and tart on their tongues as they perused the market.

They came upon the Mirador de Gibralfaro, the pair pausing to look out at the endless sea, the breeze wending through her hair, causing Malfoy to splutter as it hit him in the face, laughing all the same. Standing behind her at the railing with one arm around her waist, he leaned in to kiss her in the late afternoon sun as if he was born to do it, commanding her full attention with ease.

After their brief rapprochement against the mirador stones, they began their slow walk down to the Roman theater– previously buried and recently unearthed. The structure was impressive especially considering its first-century origin, the amphitheater carved into the natural tan stone. Hermione climbed the steps in wonder, Malfoy trailing behind her with an uncharacteristically dopey smile on his face, unbeknownst to her as she prattled on about the ancient architectural feat.

The sun was beginning to set now, Hermione fighting back a yawn as the exterior lights of the theater switched on.

“Ready to head back?” Malfoy asked, standing a step below her.

She nodded, taking his offered hand, and he led her back the way they came, finding a secluded alley before his Apparition whisked them away.

They landed back in the entryway of the villa, Hermione stumbling slightly into him.

“Steady on,” he gripped her under the elbows. “Are you tired? It’s been a long day.”

She nodded. “It’s been lovely,” she smiled at him. “But yes, I’d love a good lie-down with one of my new books,” she gestured to her bag, yawning again.

Without another word, he took her by the hand and pulled her up the spiral staircase, through a tastefully decorated hallway— recesses containing potted plants and little carved statues spaced throughout, a plush runner under their feet. At the end of the hall was a set of doors flanked by two wall sconces and matching rubber trees.

Malfoy pushed open the door, gesturing for her to enter the primary bedroom. A massive four-poster bed carved from dark wood took up the middle of the room, draped in a white gauzy canopy and dressed in indigo sheets, open windows overlooking the hills bracketing it. To the left was another door that led into the bathroom, to the right, what appeared to be a walk-in closet the size of Hermione’s flat back in London. The hardwood floors were a rich brown, a palatial rug in a deep blue dominating the space around the bed. A pair of comfortable-looking leather armchairs faced a small stone fireplace against one wall, a large mirror above the mantle.

Hermione stepped further into the room, suddenly very aware of the fact that she was on holiday in Spain with Draco Malfoy, a guest in one of his many homes. The air in the room was suddenly stifling, Hermione fighting to control her breathing. She heard him fall into step behind her as she moved to perch on the end of the bed, resisting the urge to flop down into the fluffy pillows.

Because she needed the distraction, she began pulling her new books out of her bag, enlarging them back to their regular size before stacking them on one of the bedside tables. Malfoy seemed to relax as she did so, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt and letting out a contented sigh.

“Did you have a nice time today?” He asked, the uncertainty in his voice making Hermione’s heart clench.

She nodded, effusively praising the food, the wine, the scenery, the history. He gave her a rare, soft smile as he sat next to her, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

“I’m glad,” he told her.

“Leave it to you to plan the most extravagant first date a witch could ask for,” she teased, resting her head on his shoulder.

He tensed slightly at the contact before melting into her touch, giving her thigh a reassuring squeeze. “You’re not just any witch, though,” he reminded her. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I have every intention of sweeping you off of your feet.” His grin was boyish in the low, warm light of the room. “I want you to forget about every first date you’ve ever had until this point,” he joked, but there was something serious in his tone that made her roll her eyes.

“Consider me swept,” she chuckled, nudging him with her shoulder.

His fingers were now tracing small circles over the fabric of her new dress, lazy and indolent in their pace, but nevertheless emptying Hermione’s head of anything more than thoughts of him. She found him almost painful to look at, so captivated by him that she was half-convinced he was part-Veela.

She turned a little to face him, pulling his face to hers and planting a solid kiss against his mouth, leaning closer to press their bodies together. She sighed as one of his hands began stroking broad circles over her spine, the other cupping her jaw with heartbreaking gentleness, both of them humming at the contact. Before she knew it, her shoulders were pressed down onto the plush mattress, her hips falling open to bracket his, as he poured his devotion over her like water, his touch light and teasing as his hand skittered across her side, the other planted next to her head.

She was delirious with want, her desire for him coursing through her with a strength she only thought possible in fiction. They broke apart for air, both of them breathing heavily; she could just barely see the grey of his eyes as he stared down at her, his cheeks flushed.

“Can I?” He gestured to the bows at her shoulders.

“Please do,” she replied quickly, not caring at how eager she sounded, lifting her torso off the bed so that he could undo the ribbons, watching as he blinked down at her, seemingly in awe as she was bared to him, her dress pooled around her waist.

“Fuck,” he muttered, sounding genuinely annoyed, his pupils blown wide.

Suddenly insecure, she tried to cover her chest, but he batted her hand away.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, his lips dipping down to capture hers in a heated kiss that left her breathless again.

His lips traced a hot trail down her neck; he paused to nip at her earlobe, earning a gasp from her, before continuing to chart a path across her décolletage. She buried one hand in the soft strands of hair at his nape, feeling him shudder under her touch, her other hand tracing random patterns into the muscles of his chest, his abdomen.

The feeling of his mouth on her sent heat shooting through her body, starting in her chest and radiating outward. She began squirming under his attention, feeling him smile against her collarbone as he deliberately took his time with her.

“Malfoy,” she whined, dizzy with need, “Stop being so unfair.”

He pressed a kiss just under her jaw. “It’s Malfoy, still, is it?” He whispered across her skin.

“Yes,” she complained, “It’s Malfoy when you’re being rude,” she huffed, tugging at his hair.

He hummed contemplatively, his grey eyes flitting up to hers and then back down again. She gasped as he dipped his head, one of his hands coming up to palm at her breast, his sinful, smart mouth closing around her nipple. She squeezed her eyes shut, making an effort not to moan, not wanting him to win so easily. His tongue flicked across the sensitive peak, and she felt him hum around her skin, setting her nerves alight. Hermione tightened her hand in his hair, pressing up into him a little as she began trying to unbutton his shirt, her hips shifting against him.

He removed his mouth with a soft pop, sitting back and unbuttoning his shirt with deft fingers, Hermione watching greedily, her chest heaving, as the toned flesh of his chest and abs was revealed to her, one button at a time. She sat up, scooting closer to him to push the shirt off his chest before pushing him down onto the bed, straddling his trim hips.

He looked up at her, his eyes glazed and his lips swollen; he looked unreal in the dim light, his near-white hair and grey eyes glowing, the pale skin of his lean torso scattered with white scars.

He was a terrible thing to want.

“Hermione,” he breathed softly, his eyes not straying from her face from where she hovered above him, both hands planted in the pillows.

He reached up, brushing stray curls away from her face with a tenderness that made Hermione’s heart melt, spurring her to act. She leaned into his touch, capturing his mouth with hers, her tongue running along his bottom lip until he opened for her, the two of them groaning at the contact. She ground down against him and he choked on a breath, his hips reflexively chasing hers.

“Fuck,” he murmured.

His head dipped down to her breast, sucking it into his mouth and swirling his tongue around her nipple, prying a soft gasp from her lips. She scraped her nails down his chest, marveling at the taut muscle she felt underneath.

Her body was burning, the unwavering way he touched her sent her blood singing in her veins, her heart pounding in her chest as he licked a hot stripe between her breasts, moving to envelope the other with his mouth, moaning around her flesh as he did so.

“Hermione,” he murmured against her chest, his voice adoring.

Running out of patience– needing more, she sat up, smiling as his mouth chased after her. She scooted down a little bit, her hands going for the silver belt buckle at the front of his trousers, undoing the clasp before sliding it out from the loops.

“Fuck,” he repeated, his eyes closed.

Her hand palmed him through the front of his trousers, her mouth going dry at the size of him. She began undoing the zip, but Malfoy’s hand shot out to stop her in her tracks. He pulled her back down on top of him before rolling them over so that she was underneath, his mouth resuming its path across her chest and then lower.

“Can I?” He removed one hand from her hair to tug at the fabric of her dress which was bunched up around her waist.

“Please,” she nodded, lifting her hips off the bed to help him draw the garment off of her.

She was almost fully bare to him now; the only thing standing in their way was a lacy pink thong with little bows at the sides. He groaned at the sight of her underneath him– panting hard and laid bare amongst cool silk sheets, her hair wild across the pillows.

“Have I told you that you’re beautiful?” He asked, his eyes hot on hers.

She laughed. “Maybe once or twice.”

He gasped, “Only once or twice?”

She nodded, biting back another moan as he nipped playfully at her collarbone, his lips travelling further down her stomach until he reached the waistband of her underwear, sucking a mark into her hip bone, one dexterous hand reaching up to draw lazy circles around her nipple. She let out a shaky exhale as his lips ghosted over her pelvis, just shy of where she needed him, only for him to suck a matching spot into the other hip, his body shaking as he chuckled at the way she tensed in anticipation.

“Malfoy,” she ground out, her body hot all over. “Stop toying with me.”

He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss against her stomach, looking up at her through half-lidded eyes. “I told you, Hermione, I’m a patient man,” his voice had dropped an octave, the low rumble of it sending heat shooting through her center.

She gripped his hair in one fist, groaning as his fingers resumed their path over her nipples, her hips jumping up involuntarily at his ministrations. He was going to drive her to the brink of insanity and then some, she thought woefully.

His free hand began lightly tracing the elastic of her underwear, his featherlight touch sending a shiver up her spine. She held her breath before deflating as his hand continued its back and forth motion, not making the move to pull the offensive garment off of her.

“Malfoy,” she tried again, her voice coming out in a whine. “I need–”

His fingers paused their deft movements, his mercurial stare trained on her face. “What do you need, Hermione?” It was sinful, the way her given name sounded on his lips as he laid on his stomach between her thighs.

She blushed furiously. “Are you really going to make me say it?” She asked petulantly, knowing the answer already.

He hummed, nipping lightly at the skin of her inner thigh, garnering a squeak of surprise from her. His tongue laved over the spot, causing her to melt further into the pillows.

“Have I been good, Hermione?”

Her mind spun, not knowing what he was playing at but not wanting to give him the satisfaction of the answer he already undoubtedly knew. She remained silent and still as his mouth explored the soft skin of her stomach, his hand stroking up and down her sides.

She opened her eyes a smidge, blushing at the way Malfoy was unabashedly staring at her center, the heat in his eyes tangible.

He met her gaze slowly, as if he couldn’t tear his eyes away. “Have I been good?” He asked again, his signature smirk stealing across his face.

“Yes,” she exhaled, “You know you have,” she blinked down at him.

“Then I think I’ve earned a ‘Draco’, don’t you think?”

She rolled her eyes. “If I call you that, will you stop being so mean to me?”

It was his turn to roll his eyes. “It’s called patience, Hermione,” he drawled. “It’s mutually beneficial,” he gestured between the two of them.

“We can be patient another time,” she grumbled. “Please?” She jutted her bottom lip out, not above a little begging here and there.

“Please what?” He asked innocently, still smirking at her.

She sighed. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?” She directed at him, pushing her head back into the pillows with frustration.

She froze as his fingers began pulling at the waistband of her underwear again, this time with a little more pressure. Infuriatingly, but unsurprisingly, he still didn’t make a move to remove them, waiting for the magic word.

She couldn’t take it anymore; patience was not one of her virtues.

“Please, Draco?” She begged. “I need you.”

He practically pounced on her, a low growl rumbling in the back of his throat as he hooked his fingers under the waistband of her thong, dragging it down her legs before tossing it off to the side. His eyes were nearly solid black as he brazenly stared at her, completely naked under him.

“Fuck,” he said succinctly, before he lowered himself back down onto the mattress.

She choked on a sob at the feeling of his tongue on her for the first time, her vision nearly going white with pleasure. One of his broad hands pinned her hips to the bed, his mouth closing around her clit, his satisfied hum sending vibrations through her. Her hand darted out to tangle in his hair, practically pressing his face to her, suddenly not caring at the wanton moans escaping from her mouth. He swirled his tongue around her clit, causing her hips to lift off the bed as he sucked, before he drew his attention downward, licking a stripe through her folds.

“Fuck,” it was her turn to curse now, her body floating through space and time as he lapped at her.

He hummed a self-satisfied sound as he buried his face in her cunt, his eyes closed in unadulterated pleasure as he moved to grip her thigh, pinning it open against the bed. She was practically riding his face, emitting little gasps and choked moans, her chest heaving as she gripped his hair.

“What do you need?” He asked.

“More,” she pleaded, her head thrashing against the pillow.

Suddenly, he reached his hand up toward her face, guiding two fingers into her mouth. She sucked on them fervently, swirling her tongue around the pads of his fingertips while humming until he withdrew them, moving back down toward her core.

She keened as his lips found her clit again, sucking it into his mouth as his fingers circled her entrance lightly.

“Please,” she babbled nonsensically, “I need–”

She choked on a moan as one of his long fingers entered her, listening to him groan as he began to increase the pace. She shook against his mouth as a second finger joined the first, her hips grinding against him in a truly embarrassing display of her desire.

“Fuck,” he muttered against her skin, “You’re so beautiful.”

Her orgasm was just out of reach, her body wound so tight that she felt like she might explode, her chest flushed and heaving.

“Draco, please,” she cried, gripping his hair so tightly that it must’ve hurt.

Her eyes fluttered open to look at him– her legs were bracketing his muscular shoulders, his face was flushed, his eyelids fluttered as he ate at her like a man starved, his hair was completely ruined by her hands. He moaned against her hot flesh, the corded muscle of his arm rippling as he plunged his fingers into her, crooking them so that they rubbed against her front wall, bringing her closer and closer to the edge.

“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbled into her skin, his voice sounding broken, pained. “You’re being so good,” he told her.

She shattered underneath him, releasing a low wail as he continued lapping at her, his fingers slowing but not stopping. Her thighs trembled as they closed around his head, her hips lifting off the bed, his face still buried in her folds. His hand stroked up her sides soothingly, his mouth making obscene sounds against her center as he licked her clean.

She panted, catching her breath, her mind pleasantly blank.

He shifted from between her legs, moving to lie next to her on the bed, the most satisfied smirk painted across his face.

“Good?” He asked, bending to press a soft kiss to her forehead.

“You’re the worst,” she laughed a little, shoving playfully at his shoulder.

She moved to straddle him again, pushing him back against the pillows, this time scooting down his body to fully remove his trousers. He folded an arm behind his head, his eyes intent as he gazed down at her. She swallowed thickly at the size of him, visible through his black boxer briefs.

“Must you always look so smug?” She asked once she had removed his underwear, glancing nervously up at him.

“Me? Smug?” He scoffed.

“Can I–?” She asked, her eyes darting from his face to where his cock rested, thick and hard, against his toned stomach.

He nodded, the lines of his body tense as he watched her. She reached a hand out, fisting his length and giving him an experimental tug, noting the way the veins in his neck popped out at the movement, his eyes fluttering shut. She ran her hand along the soft underside before she moved up to circle the sensitive head, a bead of precum forming, his hips twitching under her.

Hermione leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to his lips, earning a soft groan from him as she continued pumping him, her thumb circling the head on every upstroke. It was clear to her that he was trying to stay very still, the muscles of his thighs and abs tense, his hands balled into fists in the sheets, his breathing shallow, his eyes squeezed shut. His mouth dropped open on an exhaled gasp as she twisted her fist, tightening her grip as she moved up and down in slow, languid strokes.

“Fuck, that’s enough,” he pulled her hand away, panting.

His eyes were dazed and unfocused, his pupils blown wide as he stared up at her in the dim light of the bedroom.

“But I–” she protested, frowning down at him.

“Later,” he said hastily, gripping the base of his cock with one hand. “You’re driving me crazy,” he told her.

“I’m driving you crazy?” She asked, incredulous.

He nodded at her once, sitting up to capture her lips in another searing kiss, one hand in her curls, the other caressing her waist. She moaned as his cock nudged her entrance, wanting nothing more than to sink down onto it.

Malfoy flipped them so that she was on her back, drawing one of her legs over his shoulder, his hands planted on either side of her head.

“Is this alright?” He asked, his brows furrowed as he looked down at her, pressing a kiss to her temple.

She nodded enthusiastically, drawing her hips up to align his cock at her entrance, her hands running up his back and shoulders.

“Please,” she whispered, her mind humming.

Hermione’s eyelids fluttered as Draco pushed in, and in, and in, bottoming out after what felt like an age. His hips flush with hers, his hand gripped at her thigh like it was a lifeline, his entire body shaking with restraint as she adjusted.

“Is this alright?” He asked again, pressing a kiss to her inner knee from where it rested on his shoulder.

She opened her eyes, smiling at him. “Please move,” she said.

His mouth was open as he looked at her, a pained expression on his face.

“You feel–” he choked out, his eyes fluttering shut, “Fucking amazing,” his tone was low, guttural.

“Move, Draco,” she insisted, pressing her heel into his lower back.

He groaned, a broken sound, before pulling out of her and pushing all the way back in. She gasped at the sensation, her eyes rolling back in her head as he did it again, his head dropping to the crook of her neck to whisper sweet nothings in her ear.

“You’re perfect,” he mumbled, his pelvis grinding against her clit, causing her to cry out.

Her head thrashed against the pillow as he drove into her with purposeful, intense strokes, his cock stretching her, her breasts bouncing with the force, one of his hands clutching at her. Her nails were clawing at his back, one hand buried in his hair, pulling him closer to her. He sucked at the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, prying another groan from her lips as he drove her closer and closer to the edge again.

“Please,” she babbled, pulling his head up to slot their mouths together.

Without needing to tell him, he removed a hand from her breast, snaking it between their bodies to rub at her clit with just the right amount of pressure. She choked on a sob as his movements wound her tighter, her back arching off the bed, listening to him curse as she clenched down around him.

“That’s it,” he murmured into the side of her neck, coaxing her higher still. “You’re so beautiful, your cunt feels fucking insane,” he grit out, his jaw clenched.

He drove into her with increasing urgency, his thrusts still steady, but harder now. His chest was flushed pink, a thin sheen of sweat on his pale skin as he fucked her. She bit her lip, unable to control the way she tightened on his cock, causing him to let out a filthy string of curses.

“Fuck, you’re so perfect,” his voice sounded strained. “I could fuck you every day for the rest of our lives, and it still wouldn’t be enough,” he confessed into the supple skin of her breast, his tongue circling it as his fingers mirrored the motion against her clit.

“Draco,” she practically begged, unable to string together a full sentence, her muscles pulled taut, her mind completely void of anything but the feel of his thick cock pressing into her.

“That’s it, love,” he crooned sweetly, “I’ve been dreaming of this for years,” he said, punctuating this statement with a sharp thrust that made her cry out.

She panted, teetering on the edge as he continued whispering filthy things in her ear, his deft fingers still circling her clit in a way that made her incoherent with need.

He growled against her mouth as he kept his pace, the muscles of his back rippling as she scratched at him. “You’re so good for me,” he whispered, his tongue delving into her mouth for a moment. “Better than I could have ever imagined,” he added, swallowing her moans.

If she had possessed more mental faculties at the moment, she would have been impressed with the way he could still form entire sentences.

“I’m yours,” he said desperately into her neck, his teeth scraping along the thin skin there, his hips stuttering slightly as he panted. “I want you to come all over my cock, I want you to say my name, I want you to make me yours,” his tone was wounded as he begged her, desperate as he continued thrusting into her with dizzying force.

Her second orgasm hit her like a freight train, wrenching the breath from her lungs and causing her back to bow off the bed, her cunt clenching on his hard cock as he thrust into her slowly, his fingers still circling her clit. Her mouth was open in a silent scream, her eyes screwed shut, his given name spilling from her lips.

“Fuck, Hermione,” he practically snarled, planting both hands next to her head and driving into her like his life depended on it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered brokenly, punctuating each word with a hard thrust, her cunt still rippling around him. “You feel so good coming all over my cock, I can’t–” his sentence was cut off as he came, bottoming out inside her, his head thrown back in unrestrained pleasure. She clenched around him involuntarily as he finished, causing him to jerk forward again, his body falling half-atop hers, their skin slick with sweat as they laid there, gasping for breath.

He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, pulling out of her with a hiss before collapsing next to her on the bed. She was boneless as he rolled her onto her side, pulling her back against his chest, wrapping an arm snugly across her front, his face nuzzling into her wild hair as he breathed deeply.

She hummed contentedly, feeling fully sated for the first time in…forever?

Before she could fall asleep, so relaxed was she, Malfoy removed his arm from around her waist to sit up, searching for his wand on the bedside table. He Conjured her a glass of water, offering it to her before performing basic cleansing charms on the both of them, shutting off the dim lights. Once satisfied, he laid back down next to her, pulling the duvet over the both of them as he slotted their bodies together once more, tangling their legs together.

“Good?” He mumbled into her hair, causing her to blush.

“Hmm,” she pretended to deliberate. “Passable,” she said casually, as if he didn’t just give her the two most intense orgasms of her life.

He bit playfully at her exposed shoulder. “Minx,” he muttered under his breath.

“You love it,” she teased.

“That I do,” he replied sincerely, his arm squeezing her.

Draco’s large hands rubbed soothingly across her sides and stomach as they lay there in the dark, and Hermione fell asleep quickly, a faint smile on her face as she tumbled into her dreams.

Hermione woke in the early morning, squinting at the light filtering through the bedroom windows, her body deliciously sore. Malfoy was still asleep at her back, one of his arms still draped over her, holding her to him. She tried to shift out from under his grasp, but he made a noise of discontent, pulling her snug against his chest.

“Malfoy,” she whispered, “I need to pee.”

He groaned into her hair. “What time is it?” His arm loosened around her.

She pulled herself up into a seated position, yawning and stretching her arms over her head. “Half past seven,” she told him.

He groaned again, muttering something about it being too early before flipping onto his stomach and burying his head in the pillow.

She shook her head, smiling at him, before she stood from the bed, pulling on one of his t-shirts that he had unpacked from his bag the day before. She padded into the ornate bathroom, rolling her eyes at the unsurprising poshness of it all: cream-colored marble walls with a sage green tiled shower, a massive bathtub carved into the stone floor at the back, mirrors taking up the back wall, and a long vanity counter.

She began fussing with her hair in the mirror before deeming it a lost cause, deciding that a shower was needed to get her hair back to some semblance of normalcy. She began pulling up the hem of her black shirt, pausing as the door swung open to reveal Malfoy.

He stood at the threshold rubbing the sleep from his eyes, completely naked. Hermione’s eyes instinctively dropped to marvel at the chiseled panes of his abdomen in the daylight, biting her lip.

“Don’t look at me like that,” his voice was gravelly from sleep, strained in a way that heated Hermione’s cheeks.

She fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, his eyes tracking the movement.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered, stepping into the bathroom, his eyes boring into hers.

Hermione smiled softly at him. “Sorry for bothering your clothes without your permission, but I–”

His mouth was on hers in an instant, hot and insistent as he tilted her face up toward him. She gasped as his tongue delved into her mouth, his hands cradling her jaw, his body warm to the touch.

“Granger,” he rasped, pressing his forehead to his, “Can I convince you to wear my clothes all the time?”

She gave him a flat look.

“It was worth a shot,” he shrugged his broad shoulders.

Then he was kissing her again, backing her up against the vanity, lifting her by the hips to sit her down on the edge, the hem of her shirt riding up as her hips bracketed his. Malfoy’s broad hands ran up and down her waist, his mouth kissing a fiery path down her neck, sucking a mark into it as she clutched at his bare back, grinding her hips against his, feeling the hard length of his cock against her barely-covered core.

He choked out a low groan, his mouth slanting over hers as he went to remove her shirt, tossing it away. His eyes were half-lidded, his cheeks flushed as he dipped down to lick up the side of one breast, circling his tongue over her nipple and earning another gasp.

“Malfoy,” she stuttered out, her head thrown back against the mirror. “Please.”

“Fuck, Hermione,” he murmured into her flesh, “What do you need?”

“More,” she commanded breathlessly.

He hummed against her sternum, lowering to his knees on the stone floor, his head resting between her parted knees.

“Is this what you need?” His tone was low, cajoling; his stare was unabashed as he blinked up at her.

Her chest was heaving and he had barely even touched her, but she nodded, suddenly desperate and aching for him.

He shot her a smirk before both of his hands came up to spread her knees wider, his heavy-lidded stare trained on her center as he exhaled shakily.

He kissed the inside of one knee, and then the other, murmuring about how perfect she was for him, how beautiful. She whined, her shoulders pressed against the wall as she waited for him to do something, her hips twitching.

Malfoy licked a hot stripe up her inner thigh, causing her to shudder, before she felt his breath ghost over her core, his tongue licking down the opposite thigh.

“Please,” she mumbled, her eyes squeezed shut.

He didn’t toy with her this time; his mouth was on her clit in an instant, sucking a deliciously intense pressure against her as she cried out, the sound echoing around the bathroom. His hands on her thighs were uncompromising, holding her completely open to him as he lapped at her, his mouth making obscene sounds as he did so.

“Fuck,” he groaned into her heated flesh, “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

One of her hands was gripping the vanity counter, the other plunging into his hair, tousled from sleep and still so soft. She opened her eyes and choked out a gasp when he moaned, sending vibrations through her, his own eyes opening as she tensed.

He looked unreal, kneeling between her legs on the bathroom floor, his pale skin gleaming in the light, his hair an absolute mess. He stared up at her through half-lidded eyes, nearly no grey visible in them, as he flicked his tongue against her clit again and again, humming when she cried out his name.

“That’s it,” he coaxed her, running two fingers through her soaking wet folds. “Do you need more?”

She let out a choked sob, her thighs trembling around him as she nodded her head fervently.

He pushed in slowly, her body curling instinctively inward, her eyes rolling back at the sensation. She was burning, hot and tense all over, her body shaking as he continued his ministrations at an unwavering pace, working her higher and higher. She felt herself clamp down around him, Malfoy letting out a curse at the feeling, burying his face deeper in her cunt as he devoured her.

“Draco,” she panted, her fingers in his hair, so close to the edge.

“Yes, love?” He asked against her skin, curling his fingers inside her as he moved one hand up to palm her breast. “You’re being so good,” he murmured.

“Please, I need more,” she was practically sobbing, her body wound so tight she might snap.

He added a third finger and she was there, moaning as he sucked on her clit with an intensity that pushed her over the edge, her vision going white. She screamed, holding his head against her as she rode his face, her hips jerking up to press further against his mouth as she clenched around his fingers.

Her muscles slowly relaxed; she released the iron grip she had on his hair, her thighs falling open from where they had been squeezing his head. He withdrew his fingers, sucking them into his mouth and licking them clean, making her blush.

“Good morning,” he told her cheekily as he stood from his spot on the floor, leaning down to plant a kiss to her temple, her forehead.

Hermione slowly sat up on the countertop, giving him a lazy smile, her limbs loose as his arms came to loop around her waist.

“Good morning,” she hummed. “I was going to take a bath,” she said.

“Don’t let me stop you,” he chuckled.

“Do you want to join?” She asked, her eyes pointedly flicking down to his hard cock, heavy against her stomach.

“Is that even a question?” He asked.

Malfoy wrapped his arms more securely around her waist, her hands locking over his shoulders and her legs wrapping around his back as he walked them over to the inlaid bathtub. At their approach, the tub began to fill with lavender-scented water, just shy of too hot and just the way Hermione liked it.

Still carrying her, he stepped down into the tub, sitting them at a bench carved into one side, her knees straddling his hips. She kissed him, pulling his bottom lip between her teeth and eliciting a soft moan from him. She teased him, grinding down on his cock but not moving to do more, his hands gripping her hips.

She bent to kiss a path down his neck, sucking a bruise into one side, one of his hands moving below the water to palm her arse.

“Fuck,” he muttered lowly as her hips grinded against his. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Will you die a happy man, at least?” She smiled, her fingers dancing across the muscles of his chest.

“An understatement, to say the least,” he replied earnestly.

His eyes went wide and unfocused as she fisted him under the water, aligning his cock with her entrance before sinking down slowly, rising up before repeating the motion. The veins in his neck stood out against his pale skin as he held himself back, his hands on her arse. She continued moving up and down in small increments, relishing at the impossible stretch of him, tossing her head back on a moan.

“Fuck, Hermione,” he pleaded with her, his face, neck, and chest flushed from the steam.

“What do you need, Draco?” She teased him, her voice low.

He leaned forward, capturing her mouth with his and opening to her instantly. One of his hands came up to pull at her nipple, causing her to gasp against his mouth, the other still squeezing her arse.

His hips jerked up as she sank down, his cock buried to the hilt as they both moaned. She planted both of her hands behind his head, on the rim of the tub, before moving up and down with increasing speed, whimpering with every thrust of his thick cock. He leaned forward, capturing a nipple before sucking on it, moaning as he did so. She choked on a sob, one hand gripping the hair at the back of his head as she impaled herself on him.

“Fuck,” they said in unison at a particularly hard thrust.

Suddenly, he was moving them, sitting up from the bench to stand behind her in waist-deep water, keeping her on her knees. She met his eyes in the mirror before wrenching her gaze away; the sight of him behind her, flushed and dripping wet was too intense. She gripped the edge of the tub as he aligned himself with her, thrusting to the hilt in one long stroke that caused her mind to go blank. One of his hands was gripping her hip, the other tangled in her hair, tugging gently.

“You’re so perfect for me,” his hips stuttered. “It feels like your cunt was made for me,” he growled, his torso leaning over her back so that he could nip and suck at the skin at the back of her neck, the water sloshing around them.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she chanted, incoherent with feeling.

“Look at me, Hermione,” he commanded quietly, his strokes long and hard.

She managed to open her eyes, meeting his stare in the mirror. His mouth was dropped open in unrestrained pleasure, his face red with exertion and the heat of the bath, his white blond hair sticking to his temples. His abs rippled, tensing as he drove into her again and again.

“So beautiful,” he muttered into her neck, his hand palming at her breast before dipping between her legs to rub at her clit.

“Oh fuck,” she cried out, her hands scrabbling for purchase at the side of the tub as he thrust deep into her, his fingers swirling.

“Fuck, I feel your cunt tightening around me,” he moaned, soft and broken. “Is this what you need?”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly, not hesitating. “I need you to fuck me,” her eyes rolled back into her head as he continued to do just that.

His pace began to falter as he slammed into her, the pads of his fingers still working at her clit, winding her tighter and tighter. He leaned down, biting at her shoulder, letting out a growl as she clenched down around him, her orgasm building.

“Draco,” she sobbed, “I can’t–” It was too intense, every muscle in her body on fire under his touch.

“I love you,” he said brokenly, his voice muffled by her shoulder as he pounded into her, the water of the tub splashing over the sides.

She shattered with a sharp cry, her back arching as he drove into her, his fingers still on her clit, her hands gripping the side of the bath.

“Fuck me,” he pleaded, his expression tense.

His hands moved to grip her hips as he drove into her, his head thrown back as he moaned, cursing and praising her nonsensically. His hips stuttered as he came, burying his cock deep into her as he collapsed inward, his chest against her back, the both of them gasping for breath.

“Fuck,” he said again, pulling out of her.

She hummed her languid agreement before she turned around, smiling at him, actually intent on bathing now.

Hermione laughed when he asked her if she’d let him wash her hair, but nevertheless acquiesced, giggling as he massaged her scalp with shampoo. If someone had told her even a month ago that Draco Malfoy was going to whisk her away for a Spanish holiday in which he bought her books and washed her hair, she would’ve sent them to St. Mungo’s, stat.

“You know, I had things planned for the day,” he said quietly as he rinsed her hair, tipping her head back. “A museum tour followed by a late lunch.” He frowned a little.

“Are they refundable?” She asked with a smile, her eyes closed as he scratched lightly at her scalp.

He barked a laugh, tugging at a stray curl. “Cheeky.”

“I’m just saying,” she shrugged as he wrapped her in a fluffy white towel, “I don’t think we’re going to make it out of the house.”

He bent to press a kiss against her mouth, walking her back into the primary bedroom. “They don’t call you the Brightest Witch of Her Age for nothing,” he teased, pressing her down against the cool sheets as she rolled her eyes at the nickname, leaning up to kiss him and effectively shutting him up.

Chapter Text

February 14, 2006

“So, how was Spain?” Theo asked, smirking as he approached her table in the Ministry cafeteria.

Hermione coughed, choking on a bite of her sandwich.

“Please, have a seat,” Hermione said sarcastically as he plopped down across from her.

He waved her off. “Draco was dreadfully closed-lipped about it,” he frowned. “I want all of the salacious details from your sojourn across the Mediterranean,” he leaned back in his chair, eyeing her expectantly.

She rolled her eyes at him. “I don’t think you do,” she sniffed, trying not to blush.

“Well?” Theo drummed his fingers against the laminate table. “Did the Slytherin Sex God live up to his name?” His grin was smug as he watched her flush crimson.

“Theo!” She choked out, glancing furtively around the crowded cafeteria. “Must you be so loud?”

He smiled serenely at her, batting his long lashes. “So that’s a yes, then?” He hummed. “Potter owes me fifty Galleons.”

“What?” She squawked, goggling at him. “You two had a bet that he…that I… that we?” She stammered.

He shrugged casually, leaning his elbows on the table. “Merlin, Hermione, you’re as red as a tomato,” he teased. “To answer your disjointed question, no, the bet was about when you two would finally get together. I won.” He smiled cheekily at her, shooting her a wink across the table.

“Busybodies,” Hermione grumbled under her breath, taking another bite of her lunch.

“The two of you were driving all of us mad,” Theo said drily. “We’re all adults here, you know.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that we are all capable of telling somebody how we feel in a mature, grown-up way,” he chided lightly. “With the exception of you and Draco, of course.” He raised a brow.

“Need I remind you of how long it took you to tell Harry that you fancied him?” She quipped. “It must be a Slytherin trait.”

“Pish tosh,” he waved a hand in the air, his nose wrinkled. “He should’ve caught on quicker. We had fucked at least four times before I–”

“No thank you,” she shook her head as she interrupted him, not wanting to think about her childhood best friend in that way. “I get the point.”

He tipped his head back, cackling. “So you’re together, then?” His smile had grown soft, fond as he stared at her.

“Er– I’m not entirely sure,” she admitted, ignoring the small pang in her chest. “Our first date was…lovely,” she said diplomatically, a blush creeping up her cheeks again. “As extravagant as I would’ve expected from him and then some,” she rolled her eyes. “But once we got back, I got swamped with a lot of important pieces of legislation, so I haven’t seen him since,” she bit her lip. “I’m not really sure where we stand, to be honest.”

Theo gave her a critical, unimpressed stare. “Love, he took you to Spain for your first date. He bought you rare books and chose the location because he knew you’d be interested in the city’s history.”

She nodded, giving him a confused look.

“Has he told you he loves you, yet?”

“Oh, yes,” she nodded again, thinking back to their argument in his living room.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Theo held his arms out in front of him.

She shrugged in what she hoped was a casual way. “We’re both busy people, Teddy. We haven’t defined what we are, and that’s alright,” she swallowed thickly around the lie. “I don’t want to pressure him to rush into anything,” she said pragmatically.

Theo groaned dramatically, thumping his forehead against the cafeteria table.

“You two are actually the worst,” his voice was muffled. “You’re perfect for each other, truly.”

She laughed, rolling her eyes. “Stop being so dramatic.”

“What day is today, Hermione?” Theo asked suddenly, his head swinging up from the table to give her a pointed look.

“Er– Valentine’s Day?” She answered slowly.

“Hmm,” he replied cryptically, standing and brushing off his navy blue robes. “I have a meeting. Lovely to see you, as always,” he bent to press a kiss against her cheek.

“You too,” she smiled up at him, “See you this weekend?”

He nodded, pivoting on a heel to float out of the cafeteria.

Hermione polished off her sandwich shortly thereafter, dusting crumbs off her black work trousers before making her way back down to her office.

The hallway on the seventh floor of the Ministry was clogged with people, murmuring and milling about, craning their necks toward the reception area. Hermione exited the rickety lift, doing her best to peek between shoulders and over heads.

“What is this about?” She muttered, irritated at the delay to her work day.

The crisp, clear voice of the attorney’s office secretary, Mandy Brocklehurst, cut through the crowd with exacting precision.

“Has anybody seen Hermione Granger?” She called.

Heads swiveled, at least a dozen pairs of eyes trained on where she stood by the lifts.

“Er– I’m here,” she mumbled weakly, uncertain of what was happening and taking a few steps forward.

Witches and wizards parted to make way for her, Hermione’s heels clicking against the beige tile floors as she approached the reception desk. Her expression changed from curiosity, to confusion, and then to shock at what she saw, at what her fellow coworkers were goggling at from the hall.

Her office door, which was just off the left of the reception area, was open wide, definitely not how she had left it before taking her lunch break. Her jaw dropped at the sight of deep red roses bursting from inside her office, petals fluttering to the floor just outside her door, filling every nook and cranny of the crowded, cramped space.

She stepped toward the door mechanically, blinking rapidly, the sounds of her colleagues whispering to one another fading away into a monotonous hum.

Draco Malfoy was leaning against her desk in a black suit jacket and slacks, facing her with a broad grin, one ankle crossed over the other as he waited for her.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, love,” his smile was bright and warm as he took in her gobsmacked expression, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

With a wave of his hand, he Conjured an absolutely massive bouquet of– you guessed it, more red roses, wrapped in crepe paper and tied with a fat red ribbon, holding it out to her with a flourish.

Her jaw opened and closed as she stood in the doorway, her wide eyes darting from him to the vases of flowers floating above their heads, resting on the floor, taking up every available surface. She swallowed.

She cleared her throat, realizing that she needed to say something.

“Malfoy,” she said politely, trying to keep her voice level. “What is all of this?”

He chuckled, sending her a boyish grin. “It’s for you,” he explained rather obviously.

She shut the door behind them with a moderate amount of difficulty, some of the roses getting in the way, before locking and Silencing the room. She heard the disappointed sighs of her coworkers, no longer able to see or hear what was happening inside.

He pushed off her desk, walking over to her in two short strides and holding out the bouquet once more. “Hermione,” he spoke lowly, his head bent toward her.

She automatically took the flowers from his hands, holding them against her chest, their sweet scent filling the air around them.

His hands free, Malfoy encircled his arms around her waist, stooping to capture her lips with his, groaning at the taste of her. She let out a surprised gasp, the flowers squashed between their bodies as she kissed him back, her head tipping back.

She pulled away, his mouth chasing after hers.

“Seriously, Malfoy, what is this?” She gestured to the petals floating from the ceiling.

“It’s called a romantic gesture, Granger,” he said sardonically.

“But–”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” he interrupted.

“But we aren’t–”

“Together?” He asked, raising a brow. “I respectfully disagree.”

Her mouth opened and closed, her mind suddenly racing. “Are we?” She asked, setting the bouquet down on the desk atop another pile of flowers.

He frowned at her. “Do you not want to be?” His voice was a little uncertain.

“No, no I do,” she stammered, making a fool out of herself. “I just thought that since we didn’t make it official, in Spain,” she trailed off, blushing.

“I think we were a bit preoccupied,” he murmured, leaning in close. “But do not be mistaken,” he kissed her forehead, “I want nothing more than to call you mine, if you’ll let me.”

Hermione didn’t stand a chance; his charming words, his unfairly attractive face, his low, gravelly tone, his heated stare. All she could do was nod, staring up at him.

“Alright?” He asked, cupping her jaw in one hand.

“Alright,” she exhaled shakily, a grin breaking out across her face.

He kissed her, intense but gentle as he cradled her face, his body pressed to hers.

She broke the kiss, feeling lightheaded, intoxicated. “Why all of the…?” She waved her arm in the air.

“I had a feeling that you wouldn’t catch on,” he gave her a smirk. “I figured a grand gesture of my unwavering intention would help.”

She bristled slightly, a little embarrassed. “Well it wasn’t clear!” She huffed, but melted under his touch nonetheless.

His nostrils flared as he looked down at her fondly. “Love, you’re perfect and I’d never ask you to change, but subtlety is not one of your strong suits,” he winced as she playfully punched him in the arm. “Is it really so bad, me giving you a public display of my love for you?” He teased, kissing one cheek and then the other.

She rolled her eyes. “No, but my coworkers are nosy,” she said bitterly. “This is going to be the topic of gossip for the next year. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole Ministry knew by tomorrow.”

Malfoy just shrugged, looking excited by the idea. “Good,” he said simply. “I want everybody to know which lucky wizard has managed to win over your heart,” he looked insufferably smug.

“You’re incorrigible,” she told him fondly, pressing a kiss against his smirking mouth. “I can’t believe you, there must be thousands of roses in here! Honestly,” she tutted, though she was secretly very pleased with the gesture.

“Hermione, love,” he held her against him, his chin resting atop her hair. “I’ve been in love with you for years without you being any the wiser. At the first possible opportunity, I took you to Spain for the weekend.” He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. “I won’t be shy about my love for you, not anymore,” he told her earnestly.

She gaped at him, her heart thumping in her chest as her cheeks heated, swooning.

“Must you always be so romantic? You’re making me blush.” She joked, fluttering her lashes at him.

He looked impossibly smug again. “Always,” he whispered against her lips.

“You’re the worst,” she sighed as his lips carved a path down the column of her throat, pushing her back to sit atop her desk, her hips wrapping around his waist.

“Tell me again,” he murmured.

Malfoy began pressing open-mouthed kisses to her skin, pushing her shoulders down onto the desk, her hair getting tangled in the ruby red petals. He leaned down over her, his mouth hot and insistent, all thoughts of her busy work day suddenly disappearing at the first touch of his fingers over her blouse, her fingers plunged into his hair as she began undoing the buttons on his shirt, her world narrowing to him, only him.

— — —

March, 2006

“I think I’m going to propose,” Harry blurted suddenly, his face tense as he sat across from her and Ron at the Three Broomsticks.

Hermione and Ron wore twin expressions of unrestrained glee.

“That’s awesome,” Ron reached across the table to clap him on the shoulder.

“Harry, that's wonderful!” She patted his arm, smiling widely at her best friend.

Harry visibly relaxed at his friends’ reactions, letting out a breath.

“I just think it’s time, you know?”

She and Ron nodded enthusiastically.

“When?” She asked.

“Next month is our anniversary,” he supplied, “I’m cooking. Probably then.”

She nodded, smiling at the prospect.

“It’ll be just a small ceremony, I think,” Harry explained. “Just our close friends and family.”

Ron clinked his pint glass against Harry’s, then Hermione’s. “We’re happy for you, mate, cheers!”

They drank, ordering another round.

“Will you two be my best…man and woman?” Harry carded a hand through his messy hair, his brows slightly furrowed.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione murmured, her eyes suddenly brimming with tears. “Of course we will!” She reached out to grasp his hand in hers.

Ron clinked his glass against theirs again, drinking deeply.

“Who would’ve thought?” The redhead mused. “Both of you and Ginny, falling in love with Slytherins?” He chuckled.

Hermione opened her mouth to deny this embarrassing statement, but deflated under the weight of her best friends’ stares. “What?” She grumbled at their raised eyebrows.

“Nothing,” Harry shrugged. “I’m just waiting for you to try and pretend you aren’t in love with Malfoy, is all. I had to give Theo fifty Galleons, by the way,” he huffed.

“I– we–” she stammered, taking a sip of her butterbeer.

“Hermione please,” Ron groaned. “Not this again.”

“Not what again, Ronald?” She gave him a cutting glare.

He winced. “Look, I love you, you know that.” He gave her a sympathetic pat on the hand. “I respect you wholeheartedly.”

She rolled her eyes. “Spit it out, Ron.”

“It was just always obvious, you know?” He shrugged his shoulders. “You and Malfoy always had tension. Yes, it started as genuine animosity but from what I heard of your last year at Hogwarts, you two became actual friends,” Ron raised a brow at her in challenge.

“I suppose,” she said diplomatically, folding her arms across her chest.

“We’re happy for you, Hermione,” he said honestly, nudging her with his shoulder. “Even if Malfoy can be a right prat, I think he’s good for you,” he finished in a rare display of insightfulness.

She gaped at her best friend for a moment.

“Wow Ron,” Harry said, awestruck. “Very profound.”

Ron rolled his eyes across the table. “What?” He asked defensively. “I can’t give my opinion on my best friends’ love lives?”

Hermione just smiled, resting her head on his shoulder, letting the din of the Three Broomsticks wash over her as they talked about Harry’s impending nuptials, laughing and bickering and teasing each other late into the night.

A week later, Hermione was sitting at her desk, elbow-deep in a backlog of legislation and trying not to think about Malfoy, when a thick white envelope materialized in front of her on top of her parchment, smudging the still-wet ink she had just put down.

“Damn it,” she muttered, picking up the envelope and frowning at the blurry words.

She opened the envelope with a little more force than was strictly necessary, recognizing the elegant scrawl of Pansy Parkinson’s handwriting across the center. A note written on thick, cream-colored paper tumbled from the envelope.

Granger,

Hope you’re doing well. Wanted to write to you to let you know that Theo knows Potter is planning to propose. Something about Potter, “acting like Voldemort’s decaying corpse” had appeared any time Theo entered the room. Fucking Gryffindors. Anyways, please tell Potter to get on with it so that he can be put out of his own misery. Ginny and I are planning to host a surprise engagement party at our cottage after he works up the infamous Gryffindor courage to pop the question. Draco has already confirmed your attendance together– about time, by the way. Anyways, I just wanted to let you know. See you soon.

Regards, Pansy Parkinson

Hermione laughed at the note, completely unsurprised that Harry was not hiding his anxiety well, but glad that Theo was on board nonetheless. It wasn’t that she expected Theo to not want to marry Harry, but Pansy’s confirmation made Hermione’s heart flutter with excited anticipation and unbridled happiness for the couple.

— — —

April, 2006

“Surprise!” They all shouted in unison as they popped out from behind various furniture in Ginny and Pansy’s living room, Hermione laughing at the bewildered expression on Harry’s face as the overhead lights flickered on.

She, along with many of their classmates from Hogwarts, were crowded at the cottage in Wales to celebrate their friends’ engagement, their relationship credited for really melding their respective friend groups into one hodge podge of previous-enemies-turned-loved-ones.

Rather than say a few words, Theo just grabbed Harry by the collar of his dress shirt to plant a kiss across his fiancé’s mouth, Harry stiffening for a moment before eagerly, if not a little too eagerly, kissed him back, a chorus of hollers and jeers sounding across the living room.

“Let’s drink!” Theo called, pumping one fist in the air.

Without further ado, drinks were dispensed by Pansy and Blaise, the group clinking their glasses together in a cheers, laughter and banter filling the room with warmth.

“Hermione,” George slung one long arm across her shoulders as she stood by the fireplace, “Want to try one of our new chocolates?” He dug in his pants pocket for a foil-wrapped sweet.

“Absolutely not,” she shook her head vehemently. “Anything that you and Fred have cooked up for your shop is nothing that I want to fall victim to,” she grimaced at the memory of mistaking a Puking Pastille for a regular fruit snack. “Who do you take me for?” She asked in mock-affront.

Fred meandered over, draping his arm over her where his twin’s laid atop her shoulders. “George, I reckon Hermione’s a lost cause,” he frowned. “Too smart for this lot,” he gestured to the small crowd milling about. “Have we tried ickle Ronniekins yet?”

“Great idea, Fred,” George slapped his brother’s shoulder, stuffing the sweet back in his pocket. “Anyways love, we’ve heard you’ve been busy.” He waggled a ginger eyebrow at her.

She rolled her eyes. “I have yes,” she nodded, watching both sets of blue eyes light up at her easy admittance. “Drafting legislation and prepping for cases takes a lot out of a witch, you know,” she smirked at them, raising an eyebrow.

The pair both visibly deflated, waving her off.

“Who would have thought,” Fred mused on her left. “These Slytherins aren’t so bad after all, huh George?”

George shook his head. “Not at all, Fred.”

Hermione sipped at her G&T, a soft smile across her face as she listened to the twins plot against their youngest, unsuspecting brother across the room from them before they took off in his direction.

Another redhead replaced the twins at Hermione’s side, Ginny looking particularly lovely in a deep green gown, clutching her Firewhisky. By the flush to her cheeks, she looked to be a few drinks ahead of everyone else.

“Hermione,” she cooed, planting a wet kiss against her cheek. “How have you been? It’s been so long.”

“I’ve been good,” Hermione said earnestly, “I’m so happy for Harry.”

Ginny nodded her agreement. “Me too, honestly. If it weren’t for them, I probably wouldn’t have hit it off with Pansy nearly as well as I did,” she huffed a laugh. “Hey, remember Theo’s birthday party way back when?”

Hermione took a sip of her drink. “I’m not sure,” she hedged.

Ginny rolled her eyes at her. “Come off it, you wore that delicious dress to impress Malfoy,” she jutted her chin in his direction.

“So? You and Harry were both wearing your Sunday best to impress your Slytherins,” Hermione shot back.

Her friend’s eyes went wide, her brow raised. “So you admit it then? That you were dressing up for the Ferret?” She cackled.

“Yes, fine,” Hermione replied drily, knowing that the charade was now up that she and Malfoy were together.

Ginny let out a low whistle. “I never thought I’d see the day, truly.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” she waved a pale hand in the air. “It’s just that you were about as blind as I was when I was still dating Harry,” she guffawed again, slapping her leg. “I mean, he’s totally the type that a lesbian who doesn’t know she’s lesbian yet would fall for– nonthreatening, slightly silly, always a little frazzled. But denying how I really felt made me waste so much time, you know?” Her voice sounded introspective.

Hermione hummed noncommittally. “I understand, Gin,” she said. “I’m happy that you and Pansy got around to it.”

“Shite, me too,” Ginny whistled again.

Fred and George’s uproarious laughter interrupted them from across the room; Ron looked a sickly shade of green as he doubled over, his brothers slapping him on the back before hauling him out into the kitchen.

“What now?” Ginny groaned, a long-suffering sound.

She shrugged. “They’ve been wanting to test this new chocolate on unsuspecting victims. I suppose Ron is the first on their list.”

“Of course he is,” Ginny laughed. “Why isn’t Malfoy over here with you? I thought he’d be attached to you like a leech once you started being nice to him.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s…new,” she said. “I don’t want to jump into anything, you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” Ginny replied, giving her an unimpressed look. “Not only because Pansy and I started dating almost immediately after being reintroduced after the war, but also because you and Malfoy have been building up to this for years! You just admitted that you were trying to impress him at Theo’s birthday party which was…” Ginny paused, doing the math. “Seven years ago!”

Hermione choked as she sipped at her drink, not deigning to comment.

“Christ,” Ginny muttered, mostly to herself. “It’s truly a miracle that you finally got your head out of your ass.”

“Ginny!” Hermione shouted, blushing. “You’re acting as if this was completely one-sided on my part!” She swallowed. “Not to mention, we weren’t in contact for at least five of those seven years,” she added with a huff and a glare in her friend’s direction.

She gave Hermione a flat look. “It was.” Her tone was dry, flat.

Hermione’s brows knitted together in confusion. “Nonsense. How could you possibly know that?”

Ginny sighed. “I feel like we’ve had multiple versions of this conversation over the years, but fine.” She set her empty glass on the fireplace mantel before grabbing Hermione’s shoulders in both hands. “Malfoy was noticeably into you at Hogwarts. Yes, yes, I know I wasn’t there,” she rolled her eyes as Hermione opened her mouth to say just that. “But once we started dating, Pansy would let things slip here and there. Did he really never give you any indication that he liked you, or was that just your willful ignorance?” She shook her.

Hermione fumbled to find an adequate response. “He never told me!” She said defensively.

“Right, but did he ever show you?”

Hermione clenched her jaw, already knowing the answer, her pride getting in the way of admitting it outloud to her friend. “Maybe once or twice,” she conceded, thinking of the books he gifted her, the drunken conversation in Theo’s bathroom.

Ginny just laughed fondly at her. “My point exactly. I truly never pegged the Ferret for a patient man, you know? He grew up so snobby and spoiled, you’d think that he’d get mad when he didn’t get his way immediately,” she shrugged.

“Right,” Hermione nodded slightly.

“How was Spain?” Ginny asked, switching gears.

“Wonderful,” Hermione’s voice was slightly strangled as she fought down a blush.

“You’re no fun,” Ginny stuck her tongue out at her.

George’s slurred voice shouted as he reentered the room, “Anybody here down for a pickup Quidditch match in the backyard?”

A chorus of yeses sounded, Ginny perking up at the idea.

The crowd made their way to the yard, spilling out onto the stone patio that overlooked a verdant green field. Somehow, Fred and George had managed to procure a handful of brooms, two Beater’s bats, and a Quaffle. Hermione groaned, knowing that she would be relegated to sitting on her arse for an hour while the Weasleys trash-talked each other, hovering twenty feet off the ground.

“Who’s in?” Fred called, raising a broom in his fist, framed by the light of the setting sun.

Predictably, Ron and Harry jumped at the idea, Harry shooting his fiancé a semi-apologetic look as he jogged over to the twins. Ginny too jumped up to join them, along with Malfoy and Blaise.

“We need one more for a four-versus-four,” George called.

Hermione planted herself at one of the wicker patio chairs alongside Pansy, Neville, and Luna, the four of them determined to ignore the proceedings.

She leaned back in the cushioned chair, resting her eyes for a moment when she heard someone clear their throat from above her.

Malfoy stood there, looking completely at ease in a pair of dark trousers and a white linen shirt. “Granger,” he practically purred, earning an eye roll from her.

“What do you want?” She asked, half-teasing.

“Ouch,” Neville murmured under his breath, Luna and Pansy laughing lightly.

“We need another person,” he gestured up to where Fred and George were circling each other on their brooms.

“Absolutely not,” Hermione shook her head vigorously. “Have you gone mad?”

Malfoy gave her a wink. “Come on, Granger, for me? You can ride my broom,” he chuckled at his innuendo, ignoring the glare that she shot his way.

Luna piped up, “You should do it, Hermione,” she encouraged dreamily. “Your auras are quite compatible.”

“Thanks, Luna,” she bit out, knowing the Ravenclaw meant no harm whatsoever. “But I think I’ll pass. I prefer to stay earthbound at all times.” She sniffed.

Pansy snorted, smirking.

“I won’t let you fall,” Malfoy cajoled, extending a hand out to her.

“That isn’t the point,” she snapped, but there was no real heat behind it.

“Humor me,” he asked, a little softer, a fond smile on his face. “It’ll be quick.”

Neville nudged Hermione with his shoulder. “Why not, Hermione? Flying isn't so bad when you’re with someone who knows what they’re doing,” he gestured to Malfoy where he stood in front of her chair.

Hermione’s eye twitched; since when had all of her friends become Malfoy fanatics?

“Fine,” she huffed, pointedly ignoring Malfoy’s hand and standing.

His smile was one of unrestrained glee, his eyes glittering in the sunlight.

“If I fall, I’m killing you when you’d least expect it,” she muttered as he took her arm, striding across the field to where two brooms lay in the grass.

“Darling, I always expect you to kill me,” he teased, giving her another wink.

“Prat,” she rolled her eyes.

Malfoy set the broom to hovering at about waist height, gesturing for Hermione to climb on the front end. She stood, vacillating between reneging and just sucking it up, deciding that she wouldn’t live it down if she didn’t at least try. Leave it to Malfoy to somehow convince her to get her on a broom, she thought to herself bitterly.

She tentatively swung one leg over the side, gripping the wooden handle in one hand. The broom jerked forward, causing Hermione to jolt and make an undignified squeaking sound, a blush creeping up her cheeks.

“It’s alright,” he said lowly, holding onto the back.

She huffed, her leg touching down on the other side, not looking back at him as he got on behind her.

“Ready?” He asked.

She gulped, nodded once, and then he was kicking off the ground with strong legs, his chest pressed to her back, his hands alternating their grip with hers on the broom shaft.

“Hermione!” Ron called as he flew in lazy circles, sounding incredulous. “What’d Malfoy have to bribe you with to get you flying?” He laughed.

She rolled her eyes as Malfoy replied, “Nothing special Weasley, she just likes me.”

Ron laughed again, agreeing as Hermione’s temper simmered low in her gut.

George called out some vague rules about the match that Hermione barely listened to, her body hyper-aware of where Malfoy sat behind her, his larger body covering hers, his strong thighs framing her hips.

She heard Malfoy splutter as a chunk of her hair hit him in the mouth. He deserves it, she thought, for somehow convincing me to get on a broom.

“Hermione, relax,” Malfoy soothed from behind her, his voice low in her ear. “We aren’t going to fall.”

“I know that,” she gritted out between clenched teeth.

“So what’s the matter?” He rested his chin on her shoulder as they gained height.

Hermione chanced a look down, her stomach clenching at the distance that separated her and the ground. “It truly doesn’t bother you?” She asked, averting her eyes from the earth. “Being up so high?”

Malfoy’s head shook against her shoulder. “I love it,” he answered honestly. “It’s a freeing feeling, flying through the clouds at breakneck speed.” The low rumble of his chest as he spoke was terribly distracting.

“Lovely,” she choked out, her heart hammering in her chest.

George blew a whistle from somewhere above them, Malfoy steering the broom into what must be a more advantageous position.

“Just so you know, there’s no way I can steer this thing,” she told him.

“Of course not,” Malfoy shook his head. “Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride,” he practically whispered in her ear, nipping at her earlobe and sending a shiver up her spine before he took off, a scream ripping from Hermione’s lungs at the sudden movement.

Hermione’s eyes were shut for the majority of the match as she clutched at the broom with all her strength. She and Malfoy were working with George and Ginny, while facing off against Harry, Fred, Blaise, and Ron. The Weasley siblings trash talked each other constantly, shouting out insults to one another that would have indicated the game had much higher stakes. Malfoy and Ginny called out to each other in Quidditch jargon Hermione didn’t understand, coordinating their swift movements across the makeshift pitch. The spring wind whipped at her face, blowing her hair into Malfoy who spluttered intermittently, his body warm against her back. She barely noticed when Ginny scored, the youngest sibling jeering at the other team with the practiced ease of a professional player.

This sort of torture– Malfoy’s warm body caging her against the broom, combined with her awareness that there was nothing but thirty feet of air separating her from her doom, was the sort Hermione wouldn’t wish upon her mortal enemy. She prayed to any god that would answer for this to be over quickly, as Malfoy leaned forward against her to gather more speed, catching the Quaffle and passing it smoothly to George. She wasn’t sure what was making her more anxious, the height and speed of the broom or Malfoy’s infuriatingly attractive broom thighs as he steered them around.

It was a wonder Hermione could get off the broom once the match was over, her muscles stiff from how hard she held onto it, her eyes squeezed shut until the moment she felt grass under her feet.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Malfoy called to her, swinging himself off the broom.

Without hesitation, he grabbed her at the waist, hoisting her off before setting her down softly in the grass, an indignant squeak escaping her lips as he did so.

“No,” she said neutrally, not wanting to show him how…affected she had been at his deft flying, the confident way in which he commanded the broom.

“No?” He laughed, his shoulders shaking. “Does that mean I can take you up some other time? Not for Quidditch,” he said at her pursed lips. “For fun.”

She wanted to outright deny him, but he looked so boyish, so hopeful as he stood on the lawn, the broom hoisted over his shoulder. The memory of him doing the same on the Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch as they argued flashed across her mind, regret panging in her chest.

“Maybe,” she conceded. “You’re a good flyer.”

He grabbed her hand as they made to sit at the patio table, pressing a kiss against her knuckles.

She thought about Ginny’s words from earlier, about wasted time.

“Malfoy, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say,” she started, her voice quiet.

She could hear laughter coming from inside the house.

“Hmm?” He asked, preoccupied with playing with her fingertips.

“It’s just something that Ginny said, earlier,” she replied, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I treated you poorly at the end of our last year at Hogwarts,” she said in a rush.

Malfoy cocked his head to one side as he observed her across the table. “I’m sorry?”

She took a deep breath. “I treated you poorly. On the Quidditch Pitch.”

His eyes were soft as he looked at her. “That was years ago.”

She pursed her lips. “You didn’t deserve it, though,” she shook her head. “I was scared. I wasn’t ready for a relationship in general.”

Malfoy’s mouth quirked up in a grin. “So you did like me?” He leaned down to press a kiss against her mouth.

Hermione drew away, huffing at him. “Be serious, Malfoy! I’m trying to apologize.” She rolled her eyes as he winked at her. “I know that I hurt you, flinging your Pureblood upbringing in your face like that,” her cheeks warmed. “We had become friends; I had accepted your apology for your past actions, and then I used them against you when I got scared. It wasn’t fair to you at all.”

“Hermione,” he said, his eyes a little tight around the corners. “I wouldn’t be sitting here with you if I hadn’t forgiven you a long time ago. I can’t say with certainty that I was ready for a relationship back then, either,” he shrugged casually.

She accepted this with a slight nod. “I’m sorry that it took me so long to…” she trailed off, not knowing what she was trying to say.

“Admit to yourself that you found me devilishly handsome?” His smirk was on in full force.

“Malfoy,” she grumbled half-heartedly against his lips as he kissed her. “I’m sorry that I was too scared to see what you were trying to tell me back then. I shouldn’t have avoided you for all those years,” she sighed. “I kept telling myself that I was reading too far into your behavior, that you were just being nice.” She huffed a laugh. “You should have heard the conversations Ginny and I had about you, the mental gymnastics that I had to do to convince myself and my friends that I wasn’t growing fond of you.”

“It’s alright, Granger,” he cooed, laughing, “You came around eventually.”

“When did this start for you?” She blurted.

Malfoy looked slightly taken aback by her question, but just shrugged again in response. “Do you really want to know?”

She nodded, chewing on her bottom lip.

“The night in the Room of Requirement, when you managed to shut me out of your mind for the first time,” his voice was steady.

She blinked, not expecting that answer. “Seriously?”

He nodded, smiling at her. “You were shite at Occlumency in the beginning,” he laughed when she smacked his shoulder. “It’s true! I knew you would be too stubborn to want to learn something from me.”

“But I asked you to teach me,” she argued.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you were ready to actually learn from me,” he shook his head fondly. “Plus it’s not like you had another Occlumency expert on retainer to teach you if I said no,” he raised a brow.

“Fine,” she conceded. “Continue.”

He chuckled at her clipped tone. “As I’ve said before, you’re the most stubborn witch I’ve ever met; at first, I delighted in tearing down your flimsy barriers and diving into your mind with little effort. I was finally better than you at something and you knew it too, which only made you more angry. I was having fun for the first time since…” he waved his hand in the air.

She swallowed, nodding her understanding.

“Whether you and I wanted to or not, me teaching you Occlumency brought us closer together. I didn’t have to rifle through your memories to know that you were hurting after the war. You tried to hide it but it was plain to see. Why else would you have sought me out?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She asked, confused.

“I wasn’t popular that year. You didn’t care about my reputation, or my past once I had apologized.”

“So what?”

“So you didn’t care about your own reputation enough to care about mine. That year, you were alone– no Potter or Weasley to pester you about homework. Nobody was there to make sure you were alright,” he said quietly.

Hermione felt a pang in her chest at the accuracy of his words, surprised that he had been observant enough to notice, even back when they weren’t close.

“You wanted to learn Occlumency, from me no less, to distract you from everything going on in your own head,” he said succinctly. “I also needed the distraction.”

She nodded.

“Obviously, I had always found it entertaining to provoke you,” he winced as she punched him in the arm. “It was made more entertaining by the fact that you were trying so hard to be good at Occlumency, and it was clear to the both of us that you weren’t naturally adept at it.”

She pursed her lips, sniffing. “I learned, though.”

“You did,” he nodded. “It was when you had mastered it that I realized I was in deep shite. There was no way I couldn’t like you, after that.”

“But why?” She asked, bewildered. “You must’ve known that I would’ve done it, eventually.”

“Yes,” he said, “I, along with the rest of us, have always known that you were brilliant– that you were leagues and leagues beyond whatever I could accomplish myself.” He laughed as she bristled at the praise. “It’s a good thing.” He took her hand, lacing their fingers together on top of the stone table. “Conceptually, I had known how smart you were in school, obviously having to witness it nearly every waking minute for years,” he smirked at her. “But it wasn’t until I experienced it firsthand that I realized how truly special you were.” He admitted casually. “At that point, I considered myself lucky to merely just be near you. I still had no clue why you were so adamant about us being friends, but I knew that I’d do anything in my power to keep you near.”

She sucked in a breath at his words. “I had no idea,” she said honestly.

“I know, Granger,” he smiled at her. “I was trying to be subtle about it, to be fair. I didn’t want to scare you away by being brash,” he added.

“I scared myself away, honestly.”

Malfoy shook his head. “We were different people then. Yes, we had become friends against seemingly all odds. Even though I had feelings for you, I couldn’t bring myself to ruin what we had by expressing them fully,” he sighed, leaning back in his seat. “We both needed…time,” he said finally.

She agreed, nodding. “Do you remember Theo’s birthday that year?”

He laughed. “How could I forget? You were wearing that dress and I nearly combusted on the spot when I saw you.”

She blushed prettily at his easy admittance, the setting sun casting a warm glow across her cheeks. “I was mortified when I stumbled upon you and Astoria Greengrass in the hallway.”

“I could tell. It was the most awkward fifteen seconds of my life.”

“You’re a prat,” she huffed.

“Of course,” he agreed, “But I know you were jealous, anyway.”

“I was not!” She exclaimed, suddenly defensive of her actions from nearly seven years ago.

“Really?” He asked, leaning in close to her.

She glared at him in defiance. “Not at all,” she said in a level tone.

“Fine,” he said flippantly, “But I was definitely jealous.”

“Of what?” She asked, incredulous.

“Of Zabini,” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I saw him talking to you at the bar, flirting with you, so I had Theo tell him that I needed him for something, just so that he’d stop talking to you.”

“I knew it!” She shouted. “I was drunk at that point so I never knew for certain, but I knew it! You’re the worst.”

His eyes sparkled in the dying daylight, his lips creeping up into a slow smile.

“You love it,” he said lowly.

She couldn’t admit to it verbally, but her subsequent kiss was answer enough, Malfoy’s self-satisfied grin never leaving his face as he kissed her back in earnest, the fairy lights strung above the patio twinkling in the sky at dusk.

Chapter Text

September, 2006

“Start from the beginning,” Ginny sat cross-legged on Hermione’s living room sofa, sipping a glass of red wine. “I think I deserve to know after all this time.”

Hermione pressed back against the armchair. “Must you?”

“I must,” Ginny nodded.

“Can’t I just admit that I was being willingly oblivious?”

“Hmm,” the redhead pretended to ponder for a moment. “No. I want details. I’ve been deprived for far too long.”

Hermione groaned, tipping her head back against the couch cushion.

“I don’t see what it matters, we’re officially together now.”

Ginny shook her head. “Don’t care, Hermione, though I’m obviously happy for you. I want to know everything that happened at Hogwarts.” She hummed, frowning a little. “I’m sad that I started with the Harpies early instead of going back for my final year.”

“Don’t be dramatic, you love Quidditch.”

“Yes,” she conceded, “But I also would’ve loved seeing you and Malfoy dance around each other all term. Second-hand accounts can only satisfy me for so long, you know.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do, Gin?” Hermione asked in a futile attempt to get her friend off of her back.

“No.”

“Ugh.”

“Come on! You’ve been so secretive about it for all these years. You’re seriously expecting me to forget about it now that you’re finally dating the bloke? Absolutely not.” Ginny took another sip of her wine, Hermione doing the same to delay the inevitable.

Sighing and rolling her eyes, Hermione launched into a detailed story about her final year at Hogwarts– from Malfoy teaching her Occlumency and duelling, to their late night conversations, to Malfoy’s gift toward the end of term, to their conversation in the bathroom at Theo’s, to Hermione’s gift to him for his birthday, and finally to their argument on the Quidditch Pitch.

Ginny sat still for a full minute, blinking at Hermione.

“Merlin, Hermione,” she finally said in awe, “You’re dumber than I thought!” She sounded genuinely surprised.

“Thanks, Ginny,” Hermione replied drily, finishing off her glass.

Ginny just waved her off. “You never mentioned any of that before!” Her eyes were wide. “I can’t believe he’s the reason you got your parents back.”

“Me either,” she admitted.

“And you gifted him a Potions Mastery?”

She shook her head. “Just the offer. He didn’t take it though, in the end.” She fought back a wince at the memory.

Ginny hummed. “I suppose that after your fight, he didn’t want anything that would remind him of you.”

“Fair,” Hermione admitted.

“So how did you two become friends again? Recently.”

Hermione cleared her throat. “It was a coincidence, really.”

The redhead just stared expectantly at her. “Right, just like it was a coincidence that you ran into each other in town before you came to dinner at our place?”

Hermione laughed weakly. “Yes?”

“Right,” she said flatly. “That dinner was so much fun for me, by the way.”

“Yes, I’m sure it was,” Hermione regarded her friend with a dark look.

“What did he say to you before he took off?”

She sighed. “I’m surprised you managed to wait this long before asking me.”

“Does that mean you’ll tell me? Since I’ve been so patient?” She fluttered her lashes.

“I was frustrated with him for following me to dinner. He had been showing up uninvited to bother me a few times before that. I think I asked him why he kept inserting himself into my life.”

“And? What was his reasoning?”

Hermione swallowed thickly at the words that seemed cryptic at the time, but now seemed glaringly obvious. She drummed her fingers against her thigh as she said, “Something along the lines of ‘You’re the Brightest Witch of Your Age, you do the math’?”

Ginny let out a loud peal of laughter, folding over on the couch as she did so. “Oh, that’s good.” She wiped a tear from her eye.

Hermione rolled her eyes at her, huffing. “I’m glad you find this entertaining.”

Her friend shoved playfully at her shoulder. “I do, thank you. That dinner was a fucking year ago, Hermione.”

“Yes, so?”

“So he’s been practically begging for your attention for at least that long. It’s frankly a miracle you noticed.”

Hermione bristled. “I’m busy, Gin! I can’t be a mind reader on top of all of my other responsibilities,” the excuse sounded weak to her own ears, Ginny’s flat look corroborating this.

“Fine, he was obvious to everybody but you, but fine. So how did you finally catch on?”

This was where things got difficult; she couldn’t just tell Ginny how she had almost died going after Amycus Carrow or how Malfoy had found her and nursed her back to health. She trusted her friend wholeheartedly, but the less people that knew, the better.

“We argued,” Hermione replied honestly, “You know that I provoke people when I get especially defensive,” she winced as Ginny nodded solemnly. “I was being unfair toward him– asking him why he cared about me so much, and he just shouted it at me.”

“Shouted what out, exactly?” Ginny was practically vibrating with excitement on the couch.

“You know,” Hermione gave her friend a significant look.

Ginny slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her high-pitched squeal. “No,” she said, scandalized.

“Yes,” Hermione pressed her head back against the cushions. “It was hard to ignore after that.”

“And that’s when he invited you to Spain?”

“Er– sort of. He told me that he wanted to take me on a date, do things properly, you know?” She smiled a little at the memory. “I thought it was ridiculous, I mean, we had spent so much time dancing around each other, and now that we were finally on the same page, he wanted to slow down?”

Ginny barked a laugh. “Typical Ferret with his Pureblood manners and everything. Couldn’t he have at least shagged you first?”

“Ginny!” Hermione’s voice was strangled as she blushed furiously.

“What?” She asked coolly. “We’re all adults here.”

“Yes but–”

“But what? Are you telling me you didn’t just want to shag him immediately after his confession?”

She had a point. “That’s neither here nor there,” Hermione hedged. “Anyways, he waited until New Years to officially ask me on a date. That’s when we went to Málaga.”

Ginny let out a low whistle. “Not that I expect anything less than over the top from Malfoy, but he really outdid himself with that.”

Hermione nodded. “I didn’t know what to expect, honestly. He owns a villa in the Andalusian hills.”

“I’m going to nod and pretend that I know what those are,” Ginny said. “He must’ve been trying really hard to win you over, then. Not that I blame him.”

“I suppose,” Hermione said diplomatically. “His home was lovely– tastefully decorated, a huge library. I’d never seen anything like it,” her voice was slightly wistful.

Ginny waved her off. “So what’d you do?”

“We had lunch on a private terrace overlooking the Mediterranean Sea,” Hermione recalled. “It was beautiful.”

“And then?” Ginny sat forward with rapt attention, her elbows resting on her thighs.

“We went shopping. I found this lovely little bookshop; he insisted he buy me all of the books I wanted.”

“Of course.”

“Then we went to this boutique. Again, he insisted on buying me everything that the shop witch had pulled for me to try on,” she rolled her eyes fondly.

“Merlin,” Ginny muttered, shaking her head. “And then?” Her tone was expectant.

“We walked around for hours, visiting a mirador and the old Roman Theater. Did you know that–?”

“Christ, you’re impossible,” Ginny cut her off, glaring. “I’m sure that was all fine and good and totally right up your alley. I want to know about what happened after all of the exploring of the town.” She gave Hermione a meaningful look.

“Oh,” Hermione said softly, blushing again.

“Yes, oh,” Ginny rolled her eyes. “You can be right dense sometimes.”

“You asked me what we did!” Hermione shouted defensively. “I was telling you.”

“Please just tell me if it was good.” Her eyes were large and pleading.

Hermione, exasperated, replied, “Of course it was. Annoyingly so, really.”

Ginny guffawed, smacking her knee. “God, it really is just so unfair.”

“What’s unfair?”

“He has everything: the looks, the money, the brains,” she sighed, “Is there anything that he isn’t good at?”

Hermione laughed. “I won’t tell him you said that. Merlin knows his ego doesn’t need to be any bigger than it already is.”

“Smart,” Ginny nodded. “Switching gears, I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

“Is everything alright?” She asked, suddenly concerned.

“Yes, yes,” Ginny waved a hand. “Pansy and I are thinking of moving back to London, that's all.”

Hermione blinked in surprise. “Really? What about the Harpies?”

“I’m kind of over it, to be honest,” she shrugged. “It’s been a great seven years, but I think I’d maybe like to try having a day job. I was offered a Quidditch reporting position, actually.”

“That’s great, Gin!” Hermione beamed. “I’m happy for you either way. I’d of course love to have you close, but I understand that it’s a difficult decision.”

Ginny gave Hermione’s arm a warm squeeze. “Thanks. I know that Pansy misses being here, though she does truly enjoy the cottage. She isn’t trying to sway me in any one direction, but I think she’d be happier here.”

Hermione nodded. “Would you be happier here, do you think?”

Her friend smiled softly. “I think so. I never thought that playing professional Quidditch would be my entire life, you know? Plus, I’m happy if Pansy’s happy,” she said genuinely.

Hermione smiled warmly at her friend. “Well, that’s settled then, yeah?”

“I guess so,” Ginny grinned. “It’ll be a few more months, I think. But honestly I felt like I was missing out on so much by not being close by. I mean, look at you! Dating Malfoy and having unfairly good sex!”

“Ginny,” Hermione groaned.

“Only teasing,” Ginny laughed again. “But seriously, I miss my friends and my family. I think it’s time. Plus the bogs in Wales are disgusting.”

Hermione laughed along with her friend, warmth spreading through her chest at the prospect of having her back.

— — —

June, 2006

Hermione had always prided herself on having a solid sense of self; she had always known who she was and what she wanted from life. She always considered all possible outcomes, accounted for any and all external factors that could affect her life. When Hermione had first started her side project over three years ago, she had never imagined what her last kill would be like; she hadn’t thought she would ever be satisfied enough to stop. In a way, she still wasn’t satisfied, but her life had changed so drastically over the last few years that she figured she should quit while she was ahead.

What had changed so drastically, exactly? A factor she hadn’t accounted for, a significant oversight on her part: Draco Malfoy.

“Not that I don’t love how passionate you are,” Draco drawled from where he lounged on his bed. “But do you really have to keep doing this?”

This being her string of murders.

“Don’t be an idiot, Malfoy,” she mumbled as she pulled on her shirt.

He sighed, a long-suffering sound, as he watched her. “There will always be another one, you know,” his voice was uncharacteristically somber.

“I know,” she replied earnestly. “I can’t get to them all, but that doesn’t mean I won’t try.”

“Need I remind you that you almost died last time?” He pointed out bitterly, his expression pinched.

She huffed. “How could I forget?”

“I understand your need to see justice, Hermione. Really, I do,” he said at her skeptical look. “I’d never outright ask you to stop.”

“But?”

“But,” he paused, taking a deep breath. “You know there will always be another bad person out there who deserves more punishment than what they received,” his eyelids fluttered closed as he rested against the headboard. “At what point do you move on?”

His question destabilized her; she blinked at him, not knowing the answer.

“At what point do you accept that you can’t kill them all? That the world will keep spinning even without them in it? Even without you in it?” He pressed, his voice gentle.

Hermione sat at the side of bed, relaxing slightly as Malfoy’s hand began tracing patterns along her spine.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly.

“You’ve been doing this on your own for years,” he told her, “You’re not alone anymore.”

“I know that,” she said quietly. “I don’t want you to get involved. It’s too risky.”

He laughed. “Do you hear yourself?”

“What?” She asked defensively.

“It’s too risky for me to get involved, but you doing it alone is completely fine?” He scoffed. “It’s risky with or without me, Hermione, you just don’t value yourself enough to care.”

The weight of his words hit her hard, burrowing deep into her chest. “But I–”

He cut her off. “You’ve done enough,” he said calmly, matter-of-factly, his hand reaching up to tangle in her hair. “There will always be more to do. Let somebody else handle it.”

“I can’t just sit back and watch, Malfoy,” she argued.

“No, but you’ve done a lot more than that up until now. It isn’t sustainable.”

She thought back to the last few years as she sat on the bed: the long nights and early mornings spent planning on top of her daily responsibilities at the Ministry, sacrificing her free time for an invisible cause, drifting from her personal relationships, ignoring the ever-present hole in her chest where her parents should be.

“Think about it,” he said, shrugging his shoulders before pulling her by the arm, positioning her to lean back against his bare chest..

Hermione had thought about it, perhaps more than was strictly necessary given the logic of Malfoy’s reasoning. She couldn’t keep living this double life of sorts, couldn’t keep lying to her friends and to herself that she wasn’t tired, wasn’t running off of anger and fumes. The charade could only be kept up for so long; the secret would eventually be let out if she wasn’t careful. She knew she had to stop at some point before too much of her was ripped away.

— — —

So, naturally, she found herself in northern Bulgaria, in a town called Ruse, carrying out what would be her thirteenth and final kill. This time, however, she didn’t start off alone.

“Is there some kind of catch?” Malfoy asked from beside her as they walked arm and arm down the street, the midday sun beating down on them.

“What do you mean?” She asked somewhat distractedly.

“I don’t know,” he side-eyed her, “It’s just that usually you put up more of a fight when I ask to come with you.”

She waved him off, stopping in front of a cafe. “Don’t make me say it.”

Malfoy’s grin grew wider as he appraised her. “Please do. It’s almost my birthday, you know.”

She rolled her eyes. “How could I possibly forget? You remind me approximately six times an hour.” She laughed as he bent to press a kiss against her mouth.

“Please, Hermione?” His tone was pleading, his eyes round as saucers, his brows furrowed, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout.

She huffed a sigh. “You’re incorrigible,” she said fondly. “You were right. Is that what you want to hear?”

He kissed her again, longer this time. “About?” He pushed.

She rolled her eyes again. “Everything,” she sighed. “This will be my last.” She gave him a pointed look.

His face brightened at the news. “Truly?” His brows were raised.

She nodded. “You’re right,” she said again, though a little begrudgingly. “It was time.”

Malfoy was clearly trying not to react too enthusiastically, lest she decide that continuing to spite him was a more enticing idea. His lips twitched up into the barest sense of a smile, but his eyes were sparkling, delighted as he looked at her face.

“Did I ever tell you how brilliant you were?” He asked, tracing patterns on the back of her hand.

“Yes, you great prat,” she huffed a laugh. “Now hurry up. I have things to do.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mock-saluted, following after her as she tugged him by the arm down the street.

The man she was after was residing in one of the city’s most famous hotels, situated right on the Danube River that separated the country from Romania. Once again, Malfoy’s provided intelligence had been useful in tracking him down, a man by the name of Pyotr Aleksiev who had participated in the Battle of Hogwarts but had evaded capture ever since.

“Wait outside,” she commanded Malfoy outside the grand entrance to the hotel. “This is non-negotiable.”

He put his hands up in a placating manner. “I’ll be here. If you aren’t back in one hour, I’m coming in.” His tone brooked no argument.

“Fine,” she hmphed.

“Fine,” he rolled his eyes.

She took a step toward the doors, but Malfoy drew her back with a tug on her arm.

“What? We’re wasting ti–”

He bent to kiss her, his hand tilting her head back and tangling in her curls. Her hand reflexively came up to clutch at his shirt collar, her body humming at the contact as he kissed her fervently, like he’d never get another chance to do so.

She pulled back after a minute, her chest heaving a little as she caught her breath.

“What was that?” She asked, slightly stunned.

“For luck,” he grinned cheekily, but his eyes were dark, full of concern. “Off you go,” he made a shooing motion, swallowing thickly as he did so. “I’ll be outside.”

She nodded dumbly, mechanically pivoting on a heel to enter the hotel.

Once inside, she flashed a room key at the concierge before making her way into the gold elevator, pressing the button for the top floor. She took measured breaths as the elevator shot skyward, rocking back on her heels.

The elevator dinged, the doors opening into a deserted hallway done in rich green walls and dark, plush carpet. Two doors stood at opposite ends of the hallway, one leading into a staff supply closet, the other leading to the executive suite. She quickly unlocked the door to the closet, removing her outer coat to reveal a hotel staff uniform, starched and pressed. She fastened a metal name tag to her shirt, Transfiguring her hair into a chin-length black bob.

She knocked on the door, exhaling through her nose. Movement from inside indicated Aleksiev wasn’t alone, a factor that Hermione had anticipated and thus planned for. The man opened the door, appearing shorter than Hermione had expected him to, giving her a curious look.

“Sir,” she nodded her head at him. “A man is on the phone with the front desk, he insists that his wife is here.” She cleared her throat meaningfully.

Aleksiev gave her another look. She stared at the wall behind his head, trying her best to look meek and regretful.

“What’s this?” A blonde woman appeared from somewhere in the front room, wrapped in a black silk robe. She draped an arm around Aleksiev’s bare chest, tilting her head at Hermione’s intrusion.

“Does Andrei know?” Aleksiev asked, his dark brown eyes intense on his partner.

She blanched white at the sound of her husband’s name, shaking her head vehemently.

“No, of course not,” she said nervously.

“This worker says that he’s on the phone downstairs, demanding to talk to his wife.”

The woman stammered, goggling at Hermione. “Truly?”

“Er–” Hermione sounded hesitant, “I’m afraid so. He said that you left a travel receipt on your bedside table.” She winced at Aleksiev’s increasingly sour expression.

He growled, shoving the woman’s arm off of him.

“Pyotr,” she pleaded. “Let me talk to him. I can convince him to forget about all of this.”

He sneered down at her. “Get out of my sight.”

She moved to say more, but thought better of it, scurrying back into the suite to gather her things. Hermione stood awkwardly outside, telling Aleksiev that she had orders to guide the woman down to the lobby. He shrugged, his shoulders tense as he padded back into the room, sitting heavily on the black sofa.

The woman re-emerged after a few minutes, sporting fresh tears and a tan suitcase. Hermione gestured silently for the woman to enter the hall, listening to the door shut behind them. She guided her into the elevator, hitting the woman with an Obliviate.

“You won’t remember this. You will forget about Pyotr Aleksiev and any of his associates. You will go to the concierge and check out of the executive suite. You will then forget about staying in this hotel. You will go home to your husband where your life will be normal.”

The blonde woman nodded her head automatically, her pupils unfocused as she stared at the elevator doors. Hermione released the spell just as the elevators opened into the opulent lobby. The woman bid Hermione a good day before stepping out.

She pressed the button for the top floor again, repeating the steps until she appeared in front of Aleksiev’s door once more. She knocked.

“Fuck off, Ana,” his voice called from inside.

She knocked again, more insistently this time.

“What the fuck do you–?” He wrenched the door open.

Hermione slammed into him, catching him off guard and causing him to stumble back into the room. She whirled, shutting the door behind her and locking it quickly.

“What the fuck?” He asked, staring at her warily.

Before he could speak again, Hermione pointed her wand between his eyes, staring down at him.

“Pyotr Aleksiev?”

“Who are you?” His eyes were now darting around the room, looking for a way out.

She kept her wand trained on him, taking a few steps toward him. He shrunk back, away from her, placing the couch between her and himself. She shot a limb-locking curse at him, causing him to fall back stiffly against the carpeted floor.

“I didn’t think it was possible,” he murmured, sounding vaguely mystified.

Hermione stood over him, watching his reaction; he seemed resigned to his fate, his breathing was slow, his eyes heavy, a thin sheen of sweat across his brow.

She needed to be quick; Malfoy was waiting for her and he’d tear the building apart if she wasn’t back in time. Secretly, she was a bit relieved at this, she was tired of dragging things out longer than necessary, just so she’d feel like she truly made an effort.

She tilted her head from one side to the other, watching as he watched her from the floor, before hitting him square in the chest with a curse that stopped his heart in his chest. She heard him gasp out a final puff of air, before his body grew limp, even under the limb-lock. She made haste in getting rid of his body, in tidying up the room.

On her way out, she darted back into the supply closet to put on her coat, cancelling the disguise on her hair before stepping back into the elevator.

Once outside, she began walking down the way she had come, Malfoy practically jumping out of an alley.

“Jesus,” she muttered under her breath, giving him an unimpressed glare.

“Are you alright?” He asked, his eyes skimming over her for any sign of injury, ignoring her fear.

“Yes, you busybody,” she grabbed onto his arm, towing him down the road.

“Are you sure?” He pressed insistently.

“Yes,” she rolled her eyes at him. “We’re going to be late to lunch with Charlie if you don’t hurry up.

Malfoy’s grip tightened on her elbow as they ducked into another alleyway, Apparating away with a pop.

The Romanian Dragon Sanctuary was a formidable expanse of rolling green hills, massive craggy rocks jutting out at odd angles, low stone buildings and huts for the workers, and of course, dragons.

Hermione stood gaping as they arrived atop the tallest hill, the valley below them a flurry of activity as tamers ran around shouting at each other, hauling ropes and other equipment between the manmade structures.

“Hermione!” Charlie’s voice sounded from further down the hill as he waved both arms at her.

She turned, peering down at him, his ginger hair just a speck against a sea of green.

“Charlie!” She began picking her way down the slope, Malfoy just a step behind her. “It’s so good to see you,” she said into his chest as they embraced. “It’s been so long!”

His chuckle was a warm and familiar sound. “I know, I know. Mum’s gone spare about me not visiting enough.”

She pulled away from him, smiling sheepishly. “I won’t add to your guilt, then. But it is truly good to see you,” she gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“And who’s this?” Charlie asked, his blue eyes amused as he looked at where Malfoy stood behind her, slightly off to the side. “It’s nice to see you again, Malfoy,” he dipped his chin.

“You as well. Thank you for having me,” Malfoy replied cordially, his back stiff.

Hermione twitched at the awkward atmosphere. “Charlie, Malfoy and I are…”

“Dating?” The redhead supplied, giving her a wink. “I know. Ron visited last month.”

She blinked. “Really? What did he say?”

Malfoy huffed.

“We didn’t talk in depth,” Charlie said, “He said that he thought you were really happy though. And that the Ferret,” his eyes flitted to Malfoy, “Had grown into a decent man.” He shrugged.

Hermione laughed, her head tipping back to the cloudless sky. “A shining endorsement.”

“Quite,” Charlie said, grinning. “Are you two hungry?”

“Starving, actually,” Hermione nodded.

Charlie led the way to the dining hall, a large, long structure made out of grey-washed stones. The building was full of noise, a few dozen of Charlie’s coworkers milling about– standing in line for food, sitting at the long benches while having lively conversations. It was boisterously loud, the low wooden ceilings and warm overhead lights giving the room a homey feel. Charlie led the pair of them to grab trays and get in line before they found an unoccupied table in the corner.

The meal was surprisingly good– hearty chuck roast in a red wine sauce, creamy mashed potatoes, a mixed greens salad. Hermione sat next to Malfoy on the wooden bench, Charlie sitting across from her as he regaled her with what life was like at the sanctuary.

“We recently got an Antipodean Opaleye,” Charlie said excitedly. “She’s surprisingly gentle. We can go visit her after we’re done.”

“Those are extremely rare, no?” Hermione asked, intrigued.

Charlie nodded, swallowing a bite of food. “Very. This is the first time I’ve seen one in person.”

Hermione nodded excitedly, savoring the food.

“I have to ask,” Charlie said after a minute of silence. “How did you two…come about?” He looked sheepish. “Not that I’m not happy for you,” he added quickly, pushing back his long hair.

Hermione laughed at Malfoy’s pinched expression. His glance conveyed that he wanted her to answer.

“Well, er–” she began, stumbling a little bit. “We knew each other during school, of course,” she fidgeted with her fork. “We became…close during our final year. There were so few eighth years, you know, right after the war.” She blushed, hoping that neither of them would take notice. Based on Malfoy’s smug expression and Charlie’s raised brows, her hope was dashed.

Charlie nodded, staring between them curiously.

“We lost contact for a while,” Hermione continued. “We started talking again early last year,” she furtively glanced at Malfoy, who sat rigid and silent by her side.

“Interesting,” Charlie mused, frowning slightly. “I suppose it’s not such an outlandish thing, not with Ginny and Harry dating Slytherins now and all,” he waved a hand. “What is it that you do now, Malfoy?” He asked politely.

Malfoy inhaled slightly. “I handle my estate’s investments, mostly,” he said. “I won’t bore you with the details,” he smiled slightly at the redhead. “I also help Hermione with a sort of…side project that she’s been working on for a few years now.” His grin grew wider, more sly.

Hermione stomped on his foot under the table, smiling as she watched him wince. “Er– yes,” she cut in, “I’ve been working on a particularly tricky bit of legislation for the creatures,” she said easily. “Very comprehensive,” she added nervously, shooting a glare at Malfoy who dutifully ignored her.

“That’s great, Hermione. I’m glad you have someone to help you with your workload,” Charlie said genuinely, shooting her a smile. “Merlin knows how busy you get with your work when you’re on a mission to do something. It’s good that you have someone competent working with you.”

Hermione fought from rolling her eyes. Competent is not how she’d describe Malfoy’s forced presence in her life the last few years.

“Quite right,” Malfoy sniffed, nodding as he patted her on the leg, finishing his food.

“Ready to see the Opaleye?” Charlie asked, standing from the table and clapping once.

Hermione nodded, sending one last glare at Malfoy for his cheek, before following Charlie out of the loud dining hall and across the valley. Her body relaxed as they hiked across the field, the grass calf-high and swaying in the summer breeze, the sounds of birds chirping in the distance. Malfoy reached for her hand, twining their fingers together as they walked behind Charlie.

“Has mum begun hinting at wanting more grandkids?” Charlie asked over his shoulder.

Hermione laughed, nodding her assent. “Whenever I visit the Burrow,” she confirmed. “Now that Percy is with Alicia Spinnet, Molly’s hellbent on it.”

Charlie sighed, a long-suffering sound. “I’m sorry you have to listen to her whinge about it,” he said lightly. “At least she’s given up on trying to persuade you, too.”

Malfoy tensed at her side, his eyes going wide for a moment before shuttering.

“She meant well, but Ron and I weren’t ever going to last,” Hermione said easily, giving Malfoy’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “We weren’t even really dating to begin with, everyone just thought that we would get there eventually, once things had settled.”

Charlie nodded, turning to help Hermione over a particularly steep ridge. “She’s idealistic, I’ll give her that. But I agree, you two weren’t right for each other,” he smiled at Malfoy as he climbed up behind them.

She heard Malfoy scoff, but otherwise say nothing, as they continued down into another, smaller valley.

“She’s just around here,” Charlie informed them, gesturing below. “Say Hermione, when’s the last time you saw a dragon?”

“At Gringotts during the war,” Hermione replied automatically, thinking of when she broke into Bellatrix’s vault.

Malfoy’s brows raised. “Why were you down there?”

“Er–” she hesitated, blushing.

“Hermione broke into your mad aunt’s vault,” Charlie supplied, grinning. “Broke out on the back of a dragon.”

“Charlie!” She squeaked.

“What? It’s true,” he said.

She cleared her throat, glancing surreptitiously at Malfoy.

“You’re insane,” he finally said, eyeing her with an awestruck look. “Dragons are fine, but brooms aren’t?”

She blushed.

“She is insane,” Charlie agreed.

“It’s not as crazy as it sounds,” she attempted to smooth over the situation. “The dragon also wanted to escape, so really, we were just taking advantage of that.” She shot him a look. “Also, it was a matter of life and death, I didn’t have time to think about how high up we’d be.”

Malfoy shook his head in disbelief, a small smile on his face. “Singular.”

She fought a smile, swallowing thickly.

“She’s here,” Charlie said suddenly, staring down the slope.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as she stood slightly behind him, following his gaze. She had never seen a dragon so beautiful; its massive scales glowed moon-white, iridescent in the summer sun, its multicolored eyes trained on the three of them as they approached slowly, its wings folded inward, so pale that they were nearly translucent in the light. It cocked its head as it watched them descend the hill, a guttural noise coming from its throat.

“Does she have a name?” Hermione asked quietly, unblinking as she stared at the magnificent creature.

“No,” Charlie shook his head. “We’ve just been calling her Opal.”

The dragon-tamer approached with a calm sort of confidence, holding out a hand toward the dragon. She bent her large head, her sinuous neck rippling with the movement as her snout nosed at Charlie’s outstretched hand. Hermione couldn’t help but feel small, insignificant, as she watched them interact.

“Beautiful,” Hermione said on a gentle exhale, squinting against the brightness of the dragon’s scales.

“Yes,” Malfoy agreed, but his eyes were trained on her.

“You can come closer,” Charlie called from a few meters away, beckoning them with his free hand as the other patted the dragon’s snout. “Opaleyes aren’t known to be aggressive like most other breeds are.” At their approach, Hermione tentatively reached a hand out toward the dragon, watching as it eyed her curiously. Her scales were surprisingly soft and smooth, cold to the touch as Hermione ran her hand down the length of her massive head.

Malfoy stood about a meter behind her, not reaching a hand out.

“Come on, Malfoy,” she teased good-naturedly, “Are you scared?”

He scoffed, sounding posh as ever. “No,” he told her, “I’d just prefer to observe from a nice distance.”

Charlie barked a laugh. “It’s not so bad, Malfoy,” he said. “I was definitely hesitant when I started here.”

“Really?” Hermione asked, surprised. “Why would you want to work here if you were already scared?”

He shrugged. “I needed to be somewhere peaceful after the war. The Burrow is anything but.”

She nodded. “True.”

“Have you been?” Charlie directed at Malfoy, still petting the dragon’s nose.

Malfoy shook his head, taking another step in their direction.

“I’m not sure he’s ready for that many Weasleys in one place,” Charlie teased.

“I wholeheartedly agree with you,” Malfoy said.

Hermione pivoted away from the dragon, holding out her hand. “Please?” She asked.

Malfoy rolled his eyes but gave in to her easily, letting her position his arm so that the Opaleye could sniff him.

The dragon moved suddenly, causing everyone to take a quick step backwards. Her mouth opened slightly, emitting a sound that could only be described as a purr as she pushed her snout into Malfoy’s awaiting hand with enthusiasm. Malfoy, to his credit, looked slightly stupefied, dazedly watching as she pushed against his hand.

“What the fuck?” He asked incredulously, though he made no move to back away.

Charlie laughed, a full-bodied sound, as he watched the two of them. “She likes you.”

A faint blush painted Malfoy’s pale cheeks as he blinked up at the creature. “Oh.”

Charlie nodded. “They say that dragons are a good judge of character.”

Hermione hummed, trying and failing to hide her amusement. “She looks kind of like you, Malfoy.”

Malfoy scoffed. “Come off it, Granger,” he side-eyed her.

“I’m serious!” She giggled. “You’re both pale; you appear a bit standoffish at first glance but in reality, you’re soft.”

“I resent that statement deeply,” Malfoy muttered, his blush deepening as Charlie guffawed by his side.

She patted Malfoy on the shoulder, leaning her head against him. “It’s a good thing.”

“I agree, mate,” Charlie added. “I doubt either of you would be here if it wasn’t.”

Malfoy’s tense muscles relaxed slightly as he exhaled, the Opaleye still nuzzling his hand. “Fucking Gryffindors.”

The two Gryffindors laughed deeply, Charlie giving the dragon one last firm pat on the nose before he guided them back toward the main area of the sanctuary.

“That was splendid,” Hermione told Charlie, effusive in her praise. “Thank you for allowing us to come see the sanctuary. I think it’s just what I needed.”

Charlie hugged her, patting her hair. “You’re both welcome anytime,” he said as they pulled away. “If you see Mum before I do, tell her I miss her, yeah? And that I’ll visit soon?”

“I’m not sure I want to be the messenger,” Hermione joked, but nodded.

“Malfoy, it was nice seeing you,” Charlie turned toward him, his hand outstretched.

Malfoy took it, the two of them shaking firmly. “Thank you for having us,” he said, a little more warmly than when they had first arrived. “I had a nice time.”

“Not that Hermione needs minding, but take care of her, yeah?” Charlie waggled his brows, ignoring the way Hermione glared at him.

“Of course,” Malfoy said seriously.

Hermione gave Charlie one last smile before pulling Malfoy up the hill to the Apparition point.

“Did you have a good time?” She asked casually, huffing a little with exertion.

“Of course,” Malfoy said smoothly. “Any time spent with you is a good time,” he grasped her hand, pausing her trek up the hill to plant a kiss against her mouth.

She laughed lightly, the wind blowing her hair in all directions. “Even if you had to spend time with a Weasley?”

He rolled his eyes. “Charlie and that cursebreaker, Bill, are the most tolerable Weasleys in my opinion. If it weren’t for the red hair, I wouldn’t think they were a part of that family.” He sniffed.

She laughed, pushing at his chest. “You’re a prat,” she said.

He hummed. “Ready to go?”

She nodded, allowing his Apparition to whisk her away, back to London.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16

September, 2006

“Are you sure you don’t want to do anything?” Ginny asked from across the table at the Leaky Cauldron.

“I’m sure, Ginny,” Hermione said for what felt like the hundredth time. “The last thing I want is a big party,” she added.

“I know that you’re upset about losing that Centaur bill, but honestly, it was rigged. It’s not your fault that the Wizengamot are a bunch of old, half-decayed men with one foot in the grave. I think a celebration is just what you need!” She chirped brightly, slamming her hands on the sticky table.

Hermione sighed. “I appreciate it, Gin, really. I’ve accepted that I can’t win them all.”

“So, does that mean you’ll let us throw a party?” Ginny’s eyes were wide as she pleaded with her friend. “Theo’s been bored with wedding planning, I think he’d love to think about literally anything else.”

She eyed her friend skeptically, knowing that if she didn’t say yes, the redhead and the rest of their friends would just do it anyway.

“Fine,” Hermioned said. “Nothing crazy though, okay? Maybe something at your place? Or Theo’s?”

Her friend nodded distractedly. “I’m surprised Malfoy hasn’t convinced you yet. Remember his Valentine’s gift for you?” Ginny guffawed. “I would’ve jumped him right then and there.”

“How could I forget?” Hermione asked flatly, smiling a little at the memory and fighting a blush.

“He’s obviously the lucky one between the two of you, but he knows how to give a damn good gift,” Ginny whistled lowly, swigging from her butterbeer.

Hermione sipped at her pint. “I suppose,” she conceded.

“Have you spoken with your parents at all?” Ginny asked kindly.

Hermione nodded. “I spoke to my mum over the phone yesterday. They’re doing well; it’s getting hot where they live. I might go to visit them at the very end of the month.”

“That’s nice,” Ginny said genuinely. “And they’re still…?” She trailed off.

“Not wanting to leave the fake lives I created for them?” Hermione supplied, sighing. “They’re stubborn. I understand completely. But it does get…lonely to think about how much their lives have changed because of me.” She admitted quietly as Ginny patted her hand atop the table. “I guess it’s ironic that my biggest fear is to be forgotten, my name to the wind, when I quite literally helped facilitate exactly that.”

Ginny scoffed. “You saved your parents’ lives, Hermione,” her tone was low, urgent. “There’s no question about what would’ve happened to them if you hadn’t done what you did.”

“I know, Gin.”

“Just because they don’t share your last name anymore doesn’t mean they’re any less your parents.”

Hermione sighed, nodding. “I know, I do.” Ginny squeezed her hand. “It’s just difficult; sometimes I forget how much our relationship has changed and then it hits me all at once– that they aren’t really Grangers anymore.” She frowned slightly.

Ginny’s eyes were warm as they regarded her. “They’ll always be your parents. You remember how hard they fought to get their memories back, almost as hard as you fought to get back to them.” She shook her head. “I still can’t believe Malfoy helped you with that back then. Before you two were even–”

“I know,” Hermione commiserated. “I wasn’t expecting it at all.”

“What do you think he’ll get you this year?” Ginny asked speculatively. “A diamond tiara? A new wardrobe? A giant treasure chest?”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “What is he, a pirate?”

Her friend shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe. God, I’d love to see the contents of his vaults. Can you imagine?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, thinking of Bellatrix’s at Gringotts. “Yes, unfortunately.” She sighed. “You know that I don’t need any of that stuff, Gin.” She played with the necklace at her throat. “Even this was too much,” she held the pendant up to the light, watching as it sparkled on its thin chain.

Ginny shook her head. “I still can’t believe he gave you that,” she let out a breath.

“Me either,” she replied honestly, letting the amulet fall back to her chest.

“How is he going to top an ancient protective amulet?”

Hermione shrugged. “It’s not a competition. I’m happy with whatever any of you get me,” she smiled.

“I know, I know,” Ginny waved her off. “But think of the possibilities! He’s definitely competing against himself, even if you don’t care what he gets you. I can’t wait to see it, whatever it is.” Her grin was bright.

— — —

Late September, 2006

“Happy birthday,” Malfoy said as she opened her office door, showing up unannounced.

“Malfoy,” she blinked in surprise, motioning for him to enter.

“I know it’s not until tomorrow,” he told her. “But I wanted to stop by and give you this,” he waved a hand, a fat bouquet of deep red roses appearing, tied with a black velvet bow.

She smiled, taking the giant bouquet from him. “Thank you,” she said softly against his lips, her eyes fluttering shut.

“Anything for my Golden Girl,” he smirked at her, planting a kiss on each cheek. “Obviously, your real gift will come tomorrow. But I wanted to give you this as a precursor, a promise of more.” He straightened the collar of his white Oxford.

“You’re the worst,” she shook her head, fighting back a grin. “You don’t need to do any of this, you know. You’ve already won me over.”

He hummed, cradling her jaw in one hand. “I wholeheartedly disagree.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead before stepping back. “I’ll never stop trying to impress you, especially because I’ve already won you over.” He smirked down at her, self-satisfied. “I have to go, I have a meeting to get to. I’ll see you tomorrow at Pansy’s?” His brows were raised.

Hermione nodded, holding the flowers up to her face and taking a deep breath. “Thank you again.”

He turned back from where he stood in the doorway, giving her a cheeky wink and a genuine, soft smile. “Of course. I’ll see you.”

With that, he pulled the door closed behind him, leaving Hermione to sit back at her desk, distracted and giddy for the rest of the long work day.

— — —

Hermione grinned widely as she appeared in Ginny and Pansy’s living room, her friends wearing Muggle party hats and blowing paper party horns, both of which had become a tradition on Hermione’s birthday.

The cottage living room had been decked out in Muggle birthday decorations; a colorful banner hung against the back wall, charmed to dispense glitter at random intervals, the letters spelling out Hermione’s name flashing in the warm light. Golden balloons floated and bobbed, hitting guests when they least expected it; crepe paper streamers in red and gold hung from the ceiling; a wooden table draped in a red plastic tablecloth was covered in an assortment of finger foods.

She was immediately pulled into a revolving door of hugs from her friends– Harry, then Ginny, then Ron, and then after that, she lost track.

“Thank you, really,” she directed at Ginny and Pansy. “You’ve all truly outdone yourselves.” She tugged at one of the streamers hanging nearby.

“What about me?” Theo asked, a hand to his chest in mock-affront. “I was the one who decorated!”

Pansy waved him off. “Don’t listen to him, Granger. He mostly just sat on the sofa while sneaking food as if we wouldn’t notice.”

Theo scoffed, but did nothing to deny this statement.

Hermione rolled her eyes fondly, giving Theo a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“Thanks, Teddy. As always, I’m sure you were a great help.”

“Quite right, Granger,” he smiled congenially, giving her a light kiss on the cheek. “Oh, we almost forgot! Your accessories.”

With a dramatic wave of his hand, a black fabric sash with gold lettering that said “Birthday Girl” and a gold plastic tiara materialized; Theo placed the former over her shoulders, adjusting it over her black dress, and the latter atop her unruly curls. He gave her a pat on the head.

Malfoy walked up to her, wearing his typical black slacks and starched white Oxford, a thin black tie completing his signature look.

“You look lovely,” he said quietly once he was in range, his eyes dancing amusedly over her birthday ensemble.

The long sleeves of her dress were thin and gauzy, the skirt’s hem was short but flowy over her thighs, the sweetheart neckline dipping just a little, the scar from Dolohov’s curse just barely on display. Her heels were also black, thin straps winding up her ankles.

“Thank you,” she replied shyly, blushing at the rapturous look on Malfoy’s face.

He bent to kiss her gently, both of his hands cupping her jaw, his thumb running along it absently.

“Eugh,” Ginny and Ron said in unison, sticking their tongues out.

Against her lips, Malfoy muttered, “Fucking Weasleys.”

“Let’s do cake first, then presents,” Ginny said from her side, ignoring Malfoy’s comment.

Hermione nodded, knowing that she realistically had no say in the matter. She gave Malfoy a semi-apologetic look as she pulled away from his hands.

Ginny bustled into the kitchen, disappearing for a moment before reemerging with a frankly ostentatious three-tiered cake, done in golden frosting with dark red piping trim. Two white candles stuck out of the top in the shape of the numbers two and seven.

The redhead set it on the snacks table, lighting the candles with a wave of her hand. In unison, her friends all began singing a terribly off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday”, which made Hermione giggle.

She blew out the candles, her eyes fluttering closed on instinct as she made her wish.

Paper plates with fat slices of vanilla buttercream cake were passed around in addition to flutes of sparkling champagne; Hermione made to sit on a green velvet settee, Malfoy taking the armchair behind her, his long legs outstretched on either side of her.

She tensed as he leaned forward so that his chest brushed her back, his cake plate hovering somewhere by her head.

“Do you like the cake?” He asked, and though the question itself was innocent, the indecent way he drawled in her ear was decidedly not.

She suppressed a shiver as she managed a quiet, “Yes.”

“I’m glad,” he said lightly, pulling back from her.

His fingertips began tracing swirling patterns into her exposed upper back, her body suddenly on high alert.

“What are you doing?” She asked out of the side of her mouth, not looking back at him.

“What do you mean?” He asked nonchalantly.

“Quit teasing,” she grumbled.

He chuckled, a low sound that made Hermione’s blood sing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She huffed, determined to ignore him and focus on literally anything else.

Ron and Ginny were bickering about Quidditch on the sofa across from them, their arms gesticulating wildly as their faces got progressively more red. Theo was cackling maniacally at Harry’s bewildered expression, Theo having just smeared cake all over his glasses, Harry retaliating automatically by smashing his plate into Theo’s waiting face.

“Christ,” Malfoy muttered, sounding incredulous. “Are they always that rowdy?” He jerked his chin toward their respective best friends.

“Unfortunately, I think this is pretty tame. Remember that time at your birthday party?”

Malfoy huffed a laugh. “When we played that drinking game? How could I forget my first and hopefully last time drinking troll vodka? I woke up with a raging hangover the next day.”

“Same,” Hermione laughed, hiccuping a little.

Once Theo and Harry had returned from the bathroom, the pair now free of cake face but looking slightly more disheveled than before they had disappeared for half an hour, it was time for presents.

“Mine last,” Malfoy whispered in her ear, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

She nodded mutely.

Theo, of course, demanded that his presents be opened first, the others not bothering to argue against him.

Without further ado, he unceremoniously shoved three lumpy, somewhat squashed packages into Hermione’s open arms; the wrapping paper was dark green with silver snakes, charmed to slither around.

“Funny,” she commented drily, raising a brow at her friend.

“I thought so, too,” he smiled. “Now that you and Draco finally got over whatever it was that kept you from confessing your undying love to one another,” he rolled his eyes; Hermione bristled as her friends laughed.

Hermione sighed, pushing Theo’s insolence out of her mind before refocusing on the presents in front of her. She received a lovely set of hair pins in yellow gold, decorated with delicate white flowers, a priceless first edition of Hogwarts: A History, and most confusingly, an inventory ledger bound in dark leather.

“What’s this?” She asked, holding it up.

“You’ll see,” Theo replied cryptically, his blue eyes sparkling with mirth.

Hermione shrugged, moving to open the rest of her gifts. From Harry, she received an expensive set of self-inking, smudge-proof quills; from Ron, two tickets to the museum to an exhibit she had been dying to see. Ginny’s grin was wide, half-manic as she placed a red gift bag in Hermione’s lap, tissue paper bursting out of it.

“Should I be scared?” Hermione asked, giving her friend a knowing look.

Ginny shrugged. “This is for you too, Ferret,” she nodded her chin at Malfoy. “Just open it.”

So, Hermione opened it, her jaw dropping to the floor at the very flimsy, very tiny lingerie set currently pinched between her fingers– in Slytherin green, of course. She stuffed the see-through bra, skimpy thong, and salacious garter belt back into the gift bag while blushing furiously, but not before the rest of the guests saw.

“Ginny!” She squeaked, her face beet red.

Ginny cackled, her head tipping back. “You should’ve seen your face!”

Hermione was fuming, already beginning to formulate ways she could get her revenge.

“I quite like it,” Malfoy chimed in amiably from his place behind her.

The redhead guffawed. Hermione’s eye twitched. She cleared her throat loudly, placing the bag on the ground by her feet before moving onto other, better things.

Malfoy got progressively more tense behind her as she opened gift after gift until there were none left but his own. She saw the muscle in his thigh flex, one foot bouncing on the hardwood floor.

“Well?” Theo asked his friend expectantly.

Malfoy stood from where he sat behind her, moving around to face her from where he knelt on the floor. He waved a hand, a crisp white envelope appearing in his grasp. He looked suddenly unsure, hesitant to hand it to her.

“I’m sure I’ll love it,” she reassured him quietly, her eyes not leaving his.

He nodded slightly, offering it to her.

The assembled crowd waited with bated breath as she slid her thumbnail under the wax seal, breaking it open and lifting a folded piece of thick parchment out of the envelope. She unfolded it carefully, her heart pounding in nervous anticipation. She read the heading, her brows knitting in confusion, before continuing to read the next short paragraphs until she got to the end.

Her mouth opened on a small gasp, her eyes flitting across the page, turning it over to see if there was something she was missing.

She sat, swallowing thickly and blinking rapidly at the page, the words in black ink blurring across her vision. She felt her fingers clench around the parchment, a slight crumpling sound the only thing audible in the room.

“What is it?!” Ginny practically screamed, apparently fed up with waiting.

“Er–” Hermione stammered, still blinking. “It’s– I don’t know.” Theo’s ledger suddenly made sense.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Theo asked, incredulous. “Can I?”

She offered the parchment to him wordlessly. Theo read it outloud for the group.

Dear Ms. Hermione Jean Granger,

It is with great pleasure that I write to you to tell you that the ownership of Granger’s Books (nee. Flourish and Blotts), located in Diagon Alley, has transferred to your estate in your name. I truly cannot think of another witch or wizard more passionate about books and the knowledge they hold than you. I am honored to pass on the ownership to you, and on your birthday, no less!

My solicitor will get in contact with yours shortly to handle the business side of things, but do not fret– it will be handled and you do not have to lift a finger. The name change of the shop will go into effect at your behest.

Yours truly,

Cornelius Dagworth

The room was silent for another moment before it burst with excited exclamations and cheers. Hermione sat stiff as a board as her friends jumped up and down, Ron and Blaise clapping Malfoy on the back.

Malfoy stared unwaveringly at her face, his own brows knitted together in concern for her. She inhaled and exhaled slowly, watching as Malfoy’s expression morphed into that of genuine uncertainty, of guardedness. That simply wouldn’t do.

She surged forward at once, gripping his perfect, pointy, pale face in her hands, planting a sloppy kiss against his pouty mouth. The cheers of her friends were drowned out and muffled as she swallowed his sound of surprise, slanting their mouths together, his hands coming up to grip either side of her waist.

She pulled away, exhaling shakily. “You’re insane,” she told him, shaking her head. “I can’t believe it.”

“Do you like it?” He asked, sounding nervous but ultimately pleased.

She shoved at his shoulders. “Of course I like it, you prat! I love it.” She felt like she might cry, her eyes suddenly burning.

He grinned, his cheeks dimpling. “You can change the name to whatever you want, I just thought that Granger’s–” he rambled nervously.

She cut him off with another kiss; she couldn’t help herself. For so long, she had been consumed by the somewhat-irrational fear that she’d be forgotten upon her death, that her name wouldn’t make a lasting impression on Wizarding society despite her best efforts. Of course, she had never voiced this fear outloud, but of course Malfoy had known anyway, just as he had known it was her in disguise all of those months ago. Just as he had always known her.

“It’s perfect,” she said against his lips. “I love you.”

He smiled, blushing a little. “I love you too, Granger.”

“I can’t believe it,” Ginny interrupted, bursting through their bubble. “You’ve truly outdone yourself this time, Ferret,” she sounded genuinely impressed as she patted his shoulder.

“Thank you, Ginevra,” he replied politely, though his eyes never left Hermione’s.

“Seriously, well done,” Harry chimed in. “Makes the rest of our gifts look positively lame in comparison.”

“Of course not, Harry!” Hermione protested instantly. “I love everything that you got me. Truly.”

“I know, I know,” her bespectacled friend said. “But how can we compete with that? Malfoy bought you a fucking bookstore. Merlin, I knew you were rich,” he nodded at Malfoy, “But this is just…insane.”

Malfoy laughed. “A small price to pay for her happiness,” he replied, patting Hermione’s thigh, making her blush profusely.

Ginny cooed, clasping her hands in front of her as she pretended to swoon.

“Rich and selfless?” Ginny asked incredulously. “I truly never would have guessed that those things went hand in hand.”

Malfoy scoffed. “You wound me, Weasley.”

She guffawed, her fingers tracing idle circles on Pansy’s waist.

“You should have seen him, Granger,” Theo piped up from the couch. “He was positively beside himself with anxiety. ‘Do you think she’ll like it, Theo?’ ‘Is it too much, do you think?’ Merlin, I wanted to put him out of his misery.”

Malfoy shot his friend a dark look, “That’s enough, Theo.”

Theo just laughed, used to Malfoy’s surly dramatics. “I’m happy for you, truly.”

Hermione smiled at Theo and the rest of her friends, her heart still beating quickly in her chest at the whirlwind of emotions she had felt. She was struck with a sudden surge of fondness for them all; as hodge-podge as they were, they were her family.

Several hours later, Hermione managed to stumble through her Floo, still pleasantly drunk. She remembered at the last second to step out of the way of the fireplace, Malfoy following right behind her, before she flicked on the living room lights.

“Oof,” she said as she stumbled a little further into the room.

“You alright?” He asked, dusting off his trousers.

She hummed, toeing off her heels and tossing them in the vague direction of the couch.

“I can’t believe you,” she mumbled.

He stepped up to her, his hands moving to rest on her hips. “Did I tell you that you look absolutely beautiful tonight?” His smile was soft.

“Maybe once or twice,” she laughed against his lips. “I can’t believe you. Or Ginny.” She huffed, rolling her eyes.

“Hey!” Malfoy said, drawing his face back. “Don’t lump me in with the Weaslette. But speaking of her gift,” he trailed off, his eyes darting to the pile of packages that he had dragged through the Floo.

She laughed again. “You’re the worst,” she pushed at his chest. “Did you help her plan it?” She raised a brow.

“Of course not,” he scoffed, “But for reasons completely unrelated to her gift, she has risen a lot higher on my Tolerable Weasleys totem pole,” he smirked down at her, pushing her back toward the bedroom.

Hermione just rolled her eyes again, smiling as they made their way down the hall, his hands skating up her ribs and across her back as he pressed his mouth against her neck.

Once inside her bedroom, he dropped any pretense and was on her in an instant, his kisses down her throat feverish. She gasped as he nipped at the thin skin there, tilting her head back further as they stumbled towards the bed, her table lamp the only source of light in the dark room.

Her knees hit the bed frame as she fell back onto it, pulling him down on top of her, his mouth never leaving her skin as she moved up to rest her head against the pillows.

“Beautiful,” he mumbled into the side of her neck, his hips slotted between hers.

“Thank you,” she whispered, capturing his lips with hers. “I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday.” She smiled up at him; his eyes glowed in the dim light. “I still can’t believe it,” she shook her head incredulously. “A whole bookstore.”

He pulled back to look at her face, his expression fond. “A lucky guess,” he joked, leaning down to kiss the tip of her nose, her arms looped over his neck.

“But–” Hermione protested, still wrapping her head around it all. “How did you know that I’d–?”

“That you’d what?” He gave her an unimpressed look. “Enjoy being given the ownership of your favorite bookstore?” He huffed. “I know I can be a bit dense sometimes, but nobody could miss the way you covet Flourish and Blotts.”

“I know,” she started, running a hand through his hair. “I mean the…” she glanced at the ceiling, “Name change.” She swallowed, her voice suddenly stuck in her throat.

“Oh,” he said thoughtfully, pressing soft kisses against her forehead. “Lucky guess?”

She chuckled, trailing her hands down his back. “Off?” She asked.

He shifted off of her a bit, sitting back on his heels as he deftly undid the buttons on his shirt, shrugging it off his shoulders and tossing it to the side. Hermione couldn’t help but reach a hand out to trace the defined muscles of his abdomen, his skin tensing under her featherlight touch.

“Oh,” she said, sitting up. “I almost forgot.”

She nudged him fully off of her, her legs swinging over the side of the bed before she stood, padding to the bedroom door.

Malfoy made a little sound of protest as she reached for the handle, his brows furrowed comically.

“Relax, you prat,” she smiled at him. “I’ll be right back.”

Shutting the door behind her, she padded back into the living room and rummaged through the pile of gifts until she found Ginny’s red gift bag. She made quick work of removing her dress, then proceeded to get very confused about how to put the garments on, straps and scraps of lace that they were.

Finally, she managed to get each limb through the correct opening; not wanting to overthink it further, she practically ran through the hallway.

“Close your eyes,” she called through the door.

She heard Malfoy groan from inside. “Really, Granger?” He drawled, his voice muffled.

“Yes, really,” she huffed. “Are they closed?”

“Yes.”

She took a deep breath and opened the door, shutting it quickly behind her. She stepped up to the bed, trying her best not to fidget with the garter belt at her waist.

“Open them,” she said quietly.

He did so, his eyes blinking a few times before widening as he shifted up onto his elbows to look at her fully. He stared, unblinking and brazen as he took her in, a tinge of pink coloring his pale cheeks, his mouth slightly open.

“Well?” She asked, suddenly nervous.

His hands darted out toward her, pulling her down onto the bed on top of him. His mouth was hot against hers as he kissed her in earnest, one hand tangling in her hair, the other stroking the soft skin of her hip.

“Beautiful,” he murmured against her lips. “God, I could die just like this,” he sighed dreamily, his head falling back against the pillows as he gazed up at her through half-lidded eyes.

“Don’t be dramatic,” she giggled, crossing her arms where she sat against his hips. “Nobody’s dying.”

“I think I might be,” he said seriously, tugging on one of the straps of her bra. “Do you know what you look like right now?” He laughed. “Fucking incredible.”

She pretended to be unaffected by the open, honest way he adored her, but found herself fighting back a blush. She leaned down over him, kissing the side of his jaw as his hands skated up her back, making her shiver.

“Take it off of me?” She murmured against his pale skin, her body humming as he tensed underneath her.

“I’d be a fool to say no to that,” he laughed, drawing her into another heated kiss that left her breathless. “Come here,” he said, gripping her hips and pulling them up toward his face.

She squeaked in surprise, her knees shuffling up the bed, her hands reaching out to grab the headboard.

“What are you doing?” She asked, giving him a dubious look from where she sat against his chest.

He squeezed her hips, giving her a meaningful look.

“Oh,” she said softly, her face flushed.

He continued pulling at her until she was centered above his face, her thighs shaking as she held herself off of him. He glanced up at her, shooting her a cheeky wink, before he began pressing soft kisses against the skin of her inner thigh, causing her to gasp. One of his hands gripped the flesh of her upper thigh, the other pressing lightly against her clit, eliciting another choked gasp from her.

Her entire body was flushed, hot and tense under his touch as he teased her, her knuckles white from where they gripped the headboard. His mouth ghosted over her core, there and then gone, and she had to bite back another groan.

“Malfoy,” she gritted out, “Please.”

“Please what?” He asked, nipping at her inner thigh.

“You know what,” she argued, swirling her hips.

His grip on her leg grew tighter at the motion, his eyelids fluttering. “Tell me anyway?” He asked.

“It’s my birthday,” she whined.

Malfoy huffed a laugh, his fingertips pressing into her skin. “I suppose you’re right,” he said easily, his eyes closed, and she sighed with relief. “You’ve been so good,” he whispered against her core.

She fought back a groan as his fingers began pulling the lace to the side, gasping in surprise as he ripped right through the underwear.

“Malfoy!” She half-shrieked.

He waved her off, “I’ll repair them later, Granger.” His voice was low.

The first touch of his tongue against her clit caused every stray thought to eddy out of her head, her nerves alight. She moaned into her arm as he licked at her, her thighs clenched on either side of her head. Hermione gripped his hair in her hand, muffling her gasps as he lapped at her, his own groans vibrating through her entire body.

“Fuck,” he mumbled into her skin. “You’re perfect.”

She tossed her head back on an embarrassingly loud moan, her hips swiveling against his mouth as he sucked on her clit, working her higher and higher. Hermione inhaled shakily as she felt his finger enter her, her hips stuttering at the pressure.

“Oh fuck,” she choked out, her teeth biting into the skin of her bicep as she involuntarily ground down onto him.

“Yeah?” He asked, his hands gripping her hips to keep her pinned against him. “You’re so beautiful,” his voice was soft, his breath hot against her sensitive skin.

He flicked his tongue against her again as his finger pumped into her, and she shattered above him, her thighs suffocating as they clenched against his head. She let out a broken moan as her entire body tensed, before she collapsed against the headboard, panting.

Malfoy squeezed her legs, humming contentedly as she rode out her orgasm, his hair wild and sticking up in all directions.

She sighed happily, scooting down before laying her head against his chest, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, her leg swung over his hip.

He planted a kiss against her cheek, his fingers tracing light patterns across her upper arm, his bare skin flushed.

“You look good in green,” he said, smiling down at her.

“Prat,” she huffed. “Ginny’s going to be pissed.” He waved a hand. “The Weaslette is smart. She knew what she was doing, giving you this,” he plucked at her bra strap.

She rolled her eyes, her hand trailing down to his belt buckle to undo it. Malfoy sat up, allowing her to pull it through the loops before tossing it on the floor.

“Trousers,” she said, tugging at them.

He stood almost comically fast, undoing the button and shucking them off, kicking them to the side. Hermione eyed his toned body greedily, the way his boxer briefs sat low on his hips, the hard planes of his chest and abdomen gleaming in the low light.

“On or off?” He asked, smiling at her.

She sat up, unclasping the bra and tossing it off the side of the bed before shimmying out of the garter belt; the only thing left now were the sheer green thigh highs.

“You too,” she nodded at his boxer briefs.

He knelt back on the bed, his mouth trailing kisses up her stomach to her breasts, one hand coming up to circle her nipple, humming against her skin as her legs circled his hips.

She ground against his hard cock, gasping at the heavy weight of it against her sensitive flesh, her hands buried in his soft hair.

“Please,” she mouthed at the skin of his shoulder. “I need you.”

Malfoy let out a broken moan at her words, his head dropping to her shoulder.

“Hermione,” his voice was almost pained as he kissed her neck. “Don’t say things like that.”

She laughed, her hands running across his broad back. “Please, Draco.”

He growled at the sound of his name from her mouth, capturing her lips in a searing kiss, his hand cradling her jaw.

“Fuck,” he said, sounding slightly frantic. “How?”

She pushed lightly at his shoulder, waiting for him to sit back on his knees before she flipped over onto her stomach, arching her back and hearing him gasp.

“Fuck,” he groaned, one hand palming her arse. “You’re perfect.”

She wiggled her hips impatiently. “Please,” she said into the pillows.

She felt him shift behind her, his cock bumping against her entrance as he planted his knees on either side of her hips. He leaned down to kiss her shoulder, then her cheek from where it lay against the pillow; then he was pushing in, her gasp muffled at the feeling of him filling her.

She pushed back against him until he bottomed out, the two of them gasping. His hands were gripping her hips, fingertips flexing against her as she adjusted to him.

“Move,” she ground out, impatient.

He withdrew, then snapped his hips forward, causing her to cry out. Malfoy groaned again, thrusting into her in long, hard strokes.

Hermione’s fingertips gripped at the bedsheets, her hair wild as he drove into her, her moans growing increasingly loud as he fucked her.

“Fuck,” he growled above her, one hand moving to grip the hair at the back of her head, pulling her up toward him. She pushed up onto her elbows, tilting her head back, and he bent to kiss her, still thrusting into her as he swallowed her moans.

“Draco,” she practically sobbed, her eyes rolling back into her head, her nails digging into the sheets.

She cried out as she felt his fingers against her clit, his other hand still in her hair. She bit her lip so hard that she tasted blood, trying and failing to muffle the sounds she was making as he fucked her into the mattress, her entire body shifting forward with each thrust. She felt herself winding tighter and tighter as he whispered against her ear, his pace never faltering as he swirled his fingers against her clit.

“Fuck,” she cried, “Draco, please,” she babbled.

“Hermione,” he groaned against her shoulder, his hips stuttering.

Her entire body was tense, her back arched against him as he continued fucking her.

“Fuck,” he said, his thrusts coming faster now. “I can feel your cunt clenching on my cock,” he threw his head back on a particularly deep thrust. “Please, come for me.”

She tensed around him as she came, shouting his name as her head fell back down onto the pillows, her arms giving out. He continued driving into her, his fingers still on her clit as she shook around him before she collapsed fully onto the bed. He pressed kisses against her shoulders, murmuring praise into her skin as she came down.

“Good?” He asked, his hips flush against her arse.

“Mmm,” she agreed, pressing back against him, urging him to move. “More.”

He nipped at her neck, groaning. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered, “But I’ll die the happiest man on fucking Earth,” his voice was pained as he ground against her arse.

“Stop teasing,” she said.

He huffed a laugh; she felt him smirk against her shoulder.

“Fine,” he said, inhaling deeply behind her, her body tense in anticipation. “Put your hands on the headboard, Hermione,” he told her firmly, his low voice causing her to involuntarily shudder.

Her mouth was suddenly dry at the commanding tone, her body warm, but she did as he said.

“Good girl,” he said, his hands moving to grip her by the hips.

She cried out as he thrust into her, his hips slamming against her as he groaned, her body falling forward. Hermione could only grip the headboard tighter as he fucked her hard and fast, his cock hitting deep inside her on each thrust.

“Hermione,” he whimpered, “I can’t believe how lucky I am,” he punctuated this statement with an especially hard thrust.

“Please,” she managed to groan out, thrusting her hips back on him. “Fuck me.”

“Oh fuck,” he choked out, his pace faltering as she met him in the middle. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” his grip on her was ironclad as he drove into her, the headboard knocking audibly against the wall as he tumbled over the edge.

He shouted as he came, his cock buried deep inside her, his hands squeezing her hips. After several moments, he collapsed against her, pulling them both down onto the bed, their chests heaving.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head as she laid against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Her hand traced lazy circles across his pecs, humming absently as they laid there in contented silence.

“Did you have a good birthday?” He asked after a moment, his voice still breathy.

She laughed, fingers drumming against his skin. “I’d think so, wouldn’t you?” She asked, sighing happily. “A very posh man bought me a bookstore and named it after me, and then fucked me senseless in my own bed.”

“Cheeky,” he practically nuzzled against her hand as she wove her fingers into his hair.

“You love it,” she teased, tilting her head up to place a soft kiss against his lips.

He hummed, the low sound rumbling in his chest. “I do,” he said earnestly, “I’ll love you forever, if you’d let me.”

She blinked up at him, at the raw honesty of his words. “I don’t let you do anything,” she chided gently.

He rolled his eyes. “My point exactly.”

He laughed as she smacked his chest, his arm squeezing her shoulders.

“I’m only teasing,” he said at her pout.

She huffed, her brows drawn down in mock consternation.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he drawled, “But you practically have me on a leash, Granger.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t be absurd,” she said, giggling as he nipped at her earlobe.

He sighed, sitting up to pull the sheets over them. “I’m serious,” he said as he settled back against the pillows. “I’d do anything you’d ask of me,” he told her.

She blushed, wanting to brush off his words, but knowing that he was telling the truth, prone to dramatics as he was.

“Anything?” She asked quietly, glancing at him.

“Anything,” he nodded, staring at her in open adoration.

She smiled, pressing a kiss against his lips, his mouth chasing hers when she pulled away. “I can’t ask you for forever,” she grinned as he rolled his eyes in disagreement. “But let’s start with now.”