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Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

Unfortunately for him, his next move was terrifying.

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

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

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

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

Not to mention, he trusted no one else.

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

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

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

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

And in some ways, he thought he had.

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m still sitting right here!”

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What was even the point?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hermione Granger?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

“Pot meet kettle,” Hermione bristled back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I’m fine, Gin. Ready to go?”

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

Blaise and Theo replied in kind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hermione arched an eyebrow at that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed. “Pushback?”

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For about five seconds, no one said a word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck had just happened?

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

Hermione nodded. “You and me both.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it dawned on her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hermione nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

A coward. Always a coward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived Twice?

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

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

I definitely need therapy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her entire body stiffened, her heart pounding. Announcement?

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

Why is he staring at me so intently?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

I think I just hallucinated.

Hermione slowly blinked once. Twice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then she stood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing funny at all.

Chapter Text

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

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

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

“Have a seat,” he invited.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better?”

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

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

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

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

“Again, have you lost your mind?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But her next words surprised him.

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

“A timeline?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Twice a week.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Without meeting his eyes, she nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, fuck.

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

Draco paused. “What about children?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry swallowed hard and didn’t respond.

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

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

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

“Again,” Ginny emphasized.

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

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

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

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

It was her professional smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hermione’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

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

And there she is, the Pansy I was expecting.

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

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

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

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

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

“February,” Draco answered elusively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Draco hates cucumber sandwiches,” Theo interrupted.

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

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

“How did you ask, Malfoy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guess this is my new role now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Father,” Draco muttered warningly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ENGLISH, MALFOY!” Harry roared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe it should have occurred to me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Malfoy?” he asked uncertainly.

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

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

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

“Let me,” she whispered, “please.”

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

“Of course, darling.”

Chapter Text

August 28, 1991

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

June 5, 1985

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mother,” he said formally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She glanced down.

They were still holding hands.

I wasn’t expecting that either.

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taking another sip of her tea, Narcissa nodded. “Oh, yes! Just three months from now. She and Draco have agreed on Sunday, August the 24^th. It will be a lovely, though hot, summer wedding. I suppose having the ceremony in the late morning will help. The rose garden will look just wonderful at that time of year.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can’t believe I’m marrying Malfoy.

She swallowed hard.

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

I can’t believe my mother’s not here.

Chapter Text

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

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

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

Because that is all it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He did it out of concern for you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But an eventual marriage to Ron could be.

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

I must have misheard her.

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

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

Draco stared at her. What the fuck?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s the date with?”

There was a long pause.

It was too long.

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry? Why?”

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

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

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

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

Granger pursed her lips. “As my friend?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gods, she looks radiant under this light.

What the fuck? Granger looks radiant?

Well, that’s a new thought.

And Ronald fucking Weasley is going to get to –

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

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

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

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

“It was my mistake.”

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

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

“Door’s open!” she called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But is he really? Still?

Even the thought sounded weak.

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded. “I’ll let her know.”

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

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

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

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

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

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

She noticed him bite the inside of his cheek, repressing a laugh. His eyes moved up, from her bare feet, tracing the round curve of her hip, before suddenly he raised them to her face.

The fury she saw in them caught her off guard, the light smile that had been playing on her lips vanishing, suddenly defensive.

“This entire date is completely fucking stupid. You know that right?” he snarled through clenched teeth.

She gaped at him. “What are you talking about?”

“What if he wants to get back together with you? What if at the end of this date, Ronald decides he wants you back? Does he get what he wants?” Draco demanded furiously, his eyes intent on her face.

“I don’t... I don’t know, Malfoy, that hasn’t happened yet so I –”

“We had a deal, Granger!” he shouted, incensed, “We had a deal that we would get married even though we hate each other! I scratch your back, you scratch mine! We signed a contract! You’re going to back out of this less than four weeks in because that red weasel has come crawling back into your life after six months away! I bet he was fucking anything and everything that moved! I saw the papers, same as you! Why are you wasting your time with this absolute prick, Granger?! You can do so much better than the mess he’s offering you!”

The scathing words came pouring out of him, leaving Hermione completely blindsided, but somehow feeling the sting of humiliation as his words soaked into her brain.

“How dare you?” she said quietly. “You don’t know the first thing –”

“Has this happened before?” Draco interjected icily, “Were you two together since the war ended? Were you together this whole time, all ten years, and only just now broke up this past January?”

Hermione glared at him, crossing her arms. “We had been together since the war,” she finally admitted coldly, her eyes narrowed at him, daring him to insult her for her next words, “but we’ve been on again, off again the entire time. This past January was just the last time.”

Draco stared at her, unseeing, the outrage on his face infused by her words. “Salazar, Granger! Are you serious?! How many times in the last ten years have the two of you broken up only to come back together again?” he whispered.

Defiantly, she responded. “Probably once a year, every year. For different reasons every time.”

Again, as if he were a broken robot, his mouth opened and closed several times, his eyes wide with shock. “Once a year? Granger – I – what the – what in the actual fuck are you doing?! You ridiculous, stupid, fucking –”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion on my personal life or my relationship with Ronald!” she shouted back, her own outrage mounting at the audacity he had to pass judgment on her, “It’s none of your business! Our contract is clear! We are not friends, we are merely business associates for the next three years! And that’s because I fucking hate you!”

“Oh, you hate me do you? I think you hate yourself! Going back to a selfish fucking prick who treats you like you’re nothing, after everything the two of you have been through! You don’t owe him anything Granger, he owes you! He and Potter both owe you everything, and here you are, giving more of yourself to this arrogant –”

“Are you calling Ronald Weasley arrogant?! Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?!”

“Stop giving him so many goddamn chances! He keeps fumbling you! He keeps losing you and instead of letting him learn his lesson, you keep going back, rewarding him for his heinous, deplorable behavior!” Draco bellowed, the flush in his cheeks spreading to his neck, traveling to the few inches of skin that were visible below the top two open buttons of his white button-down shirt.

“You don’t know anything,” Hermione scowled, “You talk about Ron fumbling me, what about you fumbling Astoria? Or does that not matter because you didn’t love her?” She scoffed as his face paled. “You don’t even know what love is. You love who Narcissa and Lucius tell you to love. You love who you’re ordered to love. You’ve never loved anyone the way Ron and I love each other.” She waved him away with both hands, in disgust, as if she were finished with him.

The moment she finished speaking, she regretted her words. As her hands motioned him away in midair, Draco grabbed her wrists, hauling her forward until her chest met his.

He gazed down at her, a violent rage brewing in his eyes, transferring his grip on her wrists to one hand before reaching up with the other to grip her chin.

“Don’t,” he seethed, “don’t you ever dismiss me like that again. Don’t you ever speak to me about Astoria. Or about love. You didn’t know me then, you didn’t know the situation then. And you certainly don’t fucking know me now. And I don’t fucking know you either except for what you volunteer to share, and you volunteered the information that Weasley is a fucking moron for chewing you up and spitting you out so many times you can’t even count them. Over ten years. And the only other thing I do know is that I couldn’t possibly hate you more than I do in this very fucking moment.”

They stood intimately close, their bodies pressed together, their noses touching. She stared back into his eyes insolently, refusing to cower, refusing to show fear, feeling the warm huff of his angry breaths against her chin as he panted in rage.

She felt her own breath turn ragged as she stared up at him.

It became obvious before it happened. The thought had barely begun to form in her brain when it happened.

Releasing her wrists, releasing her chin, and with a gasping near growl, Draco roughly wrapped his left arm around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer, until her hips crashed against his, his other hand violently reaching up behind her into her mass of elbow length dark curls, fisting them at the nape of her neck, dragging her forward until his teeth caught her bottom lip.

“This bloody dress, and these fucking infernal lips, painted them red for Weasley, constantly biting them when that brain of yours thinks, it drives me fucking mad,” he murmured intoxicatingly as she winced at the sting, yet melted at the small buzz of desire that pooled low and warm in her stomach with a quiet sharp inhale, “I hate them, and I hate when you bite them, it’s infuriating, make me want to bite them myself,” he kept mumbling, nearly incoherent with longing, “make me want to leave them swollen and bruised, so you think about me every time you run your little pink tongue over them,” he murmured under his breath, his breathing heavy and ragged. His own tongue came out and painstakingly slowly licked across her lips, setting every nerve ending in her body on fire.

The moment the tiny whimper escaped her throat, he froze. Frenzied, pulling her in even closer with a final shuddering moan, his fist in her curls yanked back until her neck bent and she was exactly where he wanted her. His lips parted, his breaths short and quick, as his eyes stared, transfixed, at her mouth.

“Just remember I hate you,” she panted, her eyes narrowing.
His eyes briefly rose to hers. “Not nearly as much as I hate you.”

His gaze flew back to her lips. He bent just a few inches lower and closed the gap, his mouth finally meeting hers in an achingly savage, bruising kiss.

Chapter Text

The inside of his closed eyelids exploded in color almost instantly the moment he brutally pushed his lips against hers.

At first, the black had simply shimmered with small white dots, miniscule stars. But those only lasted a few seconds as everything inside Draco turned molten; those small, white stars quickly gave way to a warm haze of yellows, oranges as bright as a sunset, reds as fiery and bright as this gods forsaken dress his hands were running over.

He hated this dress. She looked like a fucking goddess in it, and he hated that he thought so, hated that the very thought had crossed his mind as soon as he’d walked through her front door. More than that, he hated that Granger had actually put it on to wear for the Weasel. For the actual Weasel.

As the torrid colors kept swirling behind his eyelids, he focused on the sensations against his fingers: the despised dress, smooth and soft, clinging like snakeskin against Granger’s body; he didn’t know what he thought she’d feel like, but the blatant curve of her hip was not what he’d anticipated. Just like her hair, still fisted in his other hand at the nape of her neck. He hadn’t known what to expect, but the softness of her mass of curls, the thickness of it, the heat it caused to radiate from the skin at the back of her neck, the rigidity of it that allowed him to grip tight and pull back: they were all sensations his fingertips hadn’t expected, and every one of them was dizzyingly overwhelming.

And if Draco Malfoy hated anything, it was being caught off-guard. Ill-prepared. And feeling Granger like this nearly knocked the breath out of his lungs because he realized then, as his lips continued to move furiously against hers, that all this time, since they had reconnected months ago, he had actually been thinking of who she had been ten, fifteen years ago, when she had been just a girl, all lines and planes, with bushy hair and buck teeth who he’d barely glanced at unless it was to cast a sneer or to try and intimidate.

But the person beneath his fingertips was a woman, all soft with gloriously curved edges. And the gods damned dress made sure his brain, his eyes, and his fingers would never forget it.

I’ll never forget it again. He tightened his grip on both the rounded swerve of her hip and yanked harder on her hair, forcing her head back even further. She let out a small hiss against his mouth; he licked at her lips hungrily in response.

Good. Make you remember I still hate you. You and this bloody dress.

Except that as the thought crossed his mind, his body, on autopilot, proceeded to do what it wanted to do. As soon as he’d licked across her smudged, swollen, bright red lips, his moved south of their own accord down to the expanse of her exposed throat. He dragged his teeth down her skin, from top to bottom, from right to left across her neck, leaving no space uncovered with thin red marks, his tongue darting out every so often to taste the vague saltiness of her. He felt Granger shiver beneath his fingers, felt her exhale slowly with a small high-pitched moan in the back of her throat, and it took all of his self-control to not sink his teeth into her neck like a fucking vampire to suck her life’s blood into his mouth, just to prove he could. He pressed his nose into her skin right below her ear and inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of her into his very lungs: Vanilla. Books. Rain. So fucking good. He inhaled again before wrenching away, letting his tongue drag across the delicate line of her jaw from the bottom of her left earlobe all the way across to the bottom of her right. Once there, he licked along the shell of her ear achingly slowly until she let out the exact same tiny little high-pitched moan for a second time, making his trousers become uncomfortably tighter.

Another thing he hated. It turned him rabid, that sound of hers, and he hated it. He hated how he could feel himself lose control, how he could feel himself weaken with vulnerability all because of that one tiny sound. And before he could process what he was doing, he’d reached low, splaying his big, pale, long-fingered hands across her arse cheeks, lifting her up against himself. When her legs wound around his waist, his brain seemed to short-circuit, unable to compute that not only was she not fighting this, not only was she letting him do this, but she seemed to actually want to do this too. The very thought made the blood in his veins run hotter, faster, his magic vibrating through his very skin.

Without a second thought, Draco swung around with her backside in his hands, her torso pressed against his through the flimsy gods forsaken hated dress, her arms around his neck, her gaze on his, the warm honey and amber flames in her dark eyes practically setting him on fire from the inside out, and slammed her up against the back of the door. She gasped. He sneered at her and for good measure, slammed her up against the door a second time just to prove he could, just because she was letting him.

Draco buried his face against her neck again, finding her pulse point, paying it special attention: first nuzzling his nose against it, then slowly licking it, feeling the faint flutter beat across his tongue, before he dragged his teeth across it, nipping lightly right over the center. His mind still hazy with the various shades of fire, Granger suddenly clawed the back of his neck with her nails in a severe, smooth, abruptly merciless drag.

His head immediately bent back with a furious wince, a loud hissing sound emitting from between his clenched teeth. He opened his eyes and looked down at her, his lips curled, a near growl ripping from his throat in fury before she met his gaze with her own of equal outrage, her skin flushed, panting, her chest heaving.

“Are you going to do this or what, Malfoy?” she challenged insolently, not dropping her gaze of contempt, her tone insistent, unwavering, yet breathy. “I bet you can’t.”

“You bet I can’t?”

Granger let a low laugh fall from her lips, her hands traveling down boldly to his belt buckle, her gaze holding steady on his. He narrowed his eyes at her, his hands reaching down and forward, pushing the hem of her red dress up her thighs to her hips before he squeezed them, the flesh making his mouth water.

She’s not wearing knickers.

His mind reeled as the realization dawned on him:

The thought both turned him on even more than he thought he could physically be and pissed him off more than he thought Granger ever had the capability to do: because it meant she had planned it, was purposely going to go on her date with the Weasel with nothing on underneath, because she clearly was anticipating fucking him.

And she hadn’t anticipated seeing Draco.

She hadn’t anticipated this, hadn't been planning this part.

This hadn’t been meant for him.

Gods, I hate you.

“Gods, I fucking loathe you,” he spat at her bitterly, “look at you, wearing no under garments beneath this little nothing red dress, what a gift for Weasley.”

But as he spoke, Granger’s hands worked quickly, yanking and tossing his black belt out of his trousers, her hands expertly unbuttoning and unzipping at the front of them. Draco’s breath caught in his throat, watching her every move, his hands frozen in mid-squeeze at her thighs.

Is she actually going to –

And then she did: she reached down into the waistband of his trousers and his boxer briefs, her hand fearlessly gripping his hard cock in her hand, pulling it free to stroke it several times with a ragged breath, her eyes watching her own movements along his long, hard shaft, the head smooth, pink, and leaking, aching with want. She slowly licked her lips, his attention captivated by the tip of her tongue as it left a wet trail across her lips, swollen from his savage kisses. Her thumb brushed delicately over the tip, lightly spreading the precum across his overheated skin, a shiver running down his spine as his hips uncontrollably fucked forward into her moving hand with a deep, low, drawn-out groan, greedily wanting more.

Draco’s head had immediately sunk forward until his forehead touched hers, his breathing ragged, his eyes closed. “Fuck.... fucking Salazar’s balls, Granger....”

“I fucking loathe you, too, you fucking serpent,” she gritted between her teeth.

His eyes opened at her words, half-lidded, watching her face, feeling her hand still wrapped around him, still stroking achingly slowly.

He licked his lips, feeling the remnants of his self-control begin to give way.

“Yes?” he finally managed to ask, squeezing out the question through his clenched jaw.

Granger said nothing, her own eyes observing his expression, clearly getting more turned on by the second watching his arousal mount, watching him be forced to cede power. Cede power to her, to his old, hated enemy. It made her inexplicably wetter.

“I may despise you, but I still need to hear the word ‘yes’ from these red lips, Granger,” he grunted, pushing her body harder with his own up against the door to bring his hand up from her arse, harshly pressing and running his thumb across her plump bottom lip. His forehead still leaning against hers, he brought his own mouth closer, again taking her lip between his teeth, biting down hard. Simultaneously, he moved his hand down from her face, not dropping her gaze, running his fingers up her thigh, following the warm heat of her center until his fingers struck gold and found the deliciously wet mess between her legs. With a groan he didn’t bother trying to stifle, he quickly pushed two fingers into her. He kept them torturously still, frustration soaring for them both, but it brought him deep satisfaction as she tried to wiggle around him, failing to provide herself any friction as he purposefully kept her nearly immobile with his own weight.

Granger’s head had sank back against the door, her lips parted in a deep sigh. “Move,” she ordered.

“I don’t do a thing until I hear the word ‘yes,’ witch.”

“Gods, yes.”

With a second groan, Draco painstakingly slowly moved his fingers in and out of her, getting a feel for her as little sighs escaped her mouth.

Gods, so tight and wet...and this fucking witch was going to let Weasley...

At the very thought, a furious snarl ripped out of him, and he picked up the pace, expertly curling his fingers deep against her front wall. Her sighs turned into whines, her grip loosening around his hard, weeping cock as she lost her ability to concentrate.

“That’s enough,” he barked, removing his fingers with no warning. Her eyes flew open, indignant, her face contorting into an angry sneer. He smirked before he brought up his two fingers, making sure she watched as he carefully licked and sucked them clean.

“You taste like sin, Granger. You taste like everything I want, and nothing I should have. And I hate it,” he murmured fiercely.

Before she could respond, Draco took a hold of his cock at the base, gave it a few hard strokes, and without warning, sheathed himself deep inside of her until he was buried to the hilt. They both simultaneously released a cry of relief.

Gripping her thighs mercilessly hard, Draco bypassed any and all facades of pretending this would be tender love-making: he pounded into her no holds barred. He was ruthless, letting her slickness coat him, using it to slide in and out of her easily, making sure his pubic bone hit hard against her own with every drive into her.

“I want you to feel me in the morning,” he seethed at her.

“I might feel you in the morning, but you’ll be dreaming of this tonight,” she flung back, pulling him in closer by the neck, her lips at his ear, “all alone in your bed at home, dreaming about me and how my cunt felt around you. Knowing how much I loathe you.”

At her words, his thrusts became brutal. With every smack of his body into hers, her back flew up the door several inches. He was unrelenting with his near violent slams into her, and Granger, for her part, seemed to be relishing in it. Draco watched, wide-eyed, as her fingers came down between them, squeezing her clit between her pointer and middle finger, stroking up and down slowly, then faster.

It was the hottest thing he had ever seen.

“Fuck, Granger,” he groaned. Within a minute, her fingers started circling, pressing into her spot faster, harder, her breathing picking up, her chest heaving deeper. Draco felt her entire body tense and knew she was about to shatter.

Taking his cue, he picked up the pace, matching the movement of his hips to the rhythm of her fingers. He kept his eyes glued to her face, wanting to watch her as she fell over the edge. Her cheeks flushed, a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead, her long curls hanging down her back against the door, her head tilting farther back, her lips opening in preparation to cry out.

“Come for me,” he heard himself plead, an ache of yearning in his gasping voice, “Gods, come for me, witch. I want to see you fall apart in my hands.”

Never once looking away from her, his eyes drank her in as a shiver ran through her body and she let go. He felt the heat that enveloped him pulse and squeeze rhythmically around his cock deliciously for several seconds, felt the sudden added slickness, felt her ankles lock around his waist, her fingers run through his hair, yanking back as she breathed out a subtle cry, the muscles in her face loosening with a deep sigh of sated relief.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his forehead leaning against hers, throwing caution to the wind once she became boneless in his arms, chasing his own release desperately, wanting nothing more than to empty himself into her body, wrapped and adorned in this red fucking dress meant for another man but that Draco had gotten to first. Keeping his eyes on her face, trailing them down to every inch of naked skin he could see, his thrusts stuttered as he lost control and gave in, his hips pushing deeper of their own accord erratically, losing their rhythm. With a deep, guttural groan, and a few final short, quick pistoning pushes, he came violently, spilling himself deep inside of her.

His body continued to drive in and out of her, achingly slowly, as he relished the feel of their mutual release: Sloppy. Noisy. Wet. Warm. Every push caused a tiny little aftershock of pleasurable heat in his belly. From the look on her face, still back against the door with her eyes closed, her lips parted in a tiny o shape, Granger seemed to enjoy it just as much.

After a minute, her eyes finally opened, meeting his. They stared at each for several seconds in silence, Draco still buried within her as deeply as he could be for as long as he could be before he started softening.

“I still hate you,” she murmured.

He nodded. “I still hate you more.”

He paused.

“Are you still going out with Weasley tonight?” he quietly demanded, doing a poor job of hiding both his grimace and his resentment.

“Well, our contract says –”

“I’m not talking about the contract,” he snapped, glowering at her, pushing his body tightly against hers, “I’m talking about the fact that I just fucked you against your door, that I ripped your dress up around your knicker-less body and had my way with you. I’m talking about the fact that my come is currently leaking out of you. I’m talking about the fact that I can see bruises in the shape of my fingerprints on your thighs. It might be slightly inappropriate to go on a date with another man in this particular situation, don’t you think?”

Granger stared at him impassively. Finally, she nodded her agreement.

Satisfied with her answer, Draco set her down on the feet, discreetly casting a scourgify on them both, then an efficient contraception charm as Granger carefully pulled her dress back into place.

They stared at one another for several seconds. Draco swallowed hard, not dropping her gaze before he spoke in a soft whisper, the words floating between them uncertainly.

“I think we should add an amendment to our contract.”

She eyed him questioningly, her eyebrows furrowing before she nodded. “How about you put the kettle on while I floo-call Ronald before he comes over here?” She pointed down a corridor to the right. “The kitchen’s that way.”

Draco nodded, briefly watching Granger walk away towards the fireplace in the living room before turning on his heel and heading where she’d pointed.

A few minutes later, Granger entered the kitchen and found Draco sitting at the kitchen table, the kettle heating up for their tea. Tentatively, she sat across from him.

“So,” she began quietly, feeling irrationally defensive, likely because the man she’d just let fuck her practically into the drywall wanted to change something in the contract they’d just signed nearly a month ago. There were so many red flags in the thought alone that it made her anxious. She nervously waited for him to proceed.

He nodded, immediately taking the lead. “Right. I’d like to propose an amendment.” He paused. “I’d like to propose we add a loyalty amendment.”

Granger’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “You mean a fidelity clause.”

“Potato, puh-tah-toe.”

“Are you mad?” she asked quietly. “We agreed that we would be allowed to date with certain rules in place. There is no requirement of love and no requirement of loyalty or fidelity mentioned anywhere in our contract, Draco.”

His face turned red with anger. “There should be one in there. Not about love,” he added, rolling his eyes dismissively with a wave of his hand as Granger grimaced, “but about loyalty.”

“Why?” she demanded, crossing her arms.

He waited a beat, keeping a steady hold of her face with his gaze alone.

“Because I just fucked you. Irreverently. Unrelentingly,” he whispered. His tone, the heat in his gaze caused a sharp inhale within her. “And that has to count for something. I want to do it again. Even if I hate you, even if you hate me. This shouldn’t be a one-time thing.”

“But what does that have to do –”

“A loyalty clause makes reasonable, logical sense. If we are agreeing that we might explore a sexual relationship, we have to eliminate risks to ourselves and to each other,” Draco explained unflinchingly, “and that includes diseases. It includes making sure if an unplanned pregnancy happens, there’s no question of paternity. It eliminates the potential gossip from the media if they were to catch wind of a potential private relationship outside of our marriage no matter how hard we may try to keep it secret. Plus,” he scoffed, “it’s just sex. We can be adults about this without the fear of getting too close and falling in love. Because, as we’ve already stated oh so many times, I can’t stand you and you detest the very air I breathe.”

She hated every stupid word that came out of his mouth. Because he was right. Logically he was right. After what she’d just experienced up against the back of her front door, she was in silent agreement: they should do that again. And it was okay that she could admit it, that he could admit it. They were both willing adults.

She licked her lips, eyes trained on his before she slowly nodded. “Alright. But the amendment doesn’t last the 3-year length of the contract. It only lasts, let’s say, three months. That way if we decide to not continue doing this past a certain point, the amendment expires and we’re free to date other people at that point. If we want to continue extending it in three month increments, we can. Do you agree to that?”

For a split second, she thought she saw triumph in the haze of his grey eyes, but just as quickly as she’d seen it, it vanished. He nodded once, firmly, heeding her words.

She couldn’t figure out why it made her uneasy, as if she was about to walk into quicksand and never be able to pull herself out again.

Ginny’s words from a few months ago came back to her then, the words she had said about Draco and Astoria’s failed engagement from years ago.

“Does marriage contract say love match to you?”

No. It didn’t. It most certainly didn’t. Love wouldn't bloom from a business marriage born on paper.

And Hermione would make sure it stayed that way.

After all, if he was willing, and she was willing, and they were consenting participants who acknowledged they could keep it casual with no love or real, everlasting commitment, what could possibly go wrong?

Chapter Text

As Hermione slipped into her black, low-kitten heels near her front door, she was keenly aware of Draco’s eyes raking over her body in her figure-hugging “muggle jeans” as he called them and fitted navy blouse. Ever since their tryst against the back of her front door a week ago, things hadn’t been awkward, necessarily, but tense.

Tense because neither one of them had initiated it again. Hadn’t brought it up again, too nervous to touch the subject in case the other regretted it, and neither one could handle knowing such a thing. They even ignored the topic the immediate evening after, when Hermione had been invited to Draco’s belated 29^th birthday dinner at the Manor with his parents. They’d acted like the loving engaged couple that they absolutely were not, and put on an act for both Lucius, who kept casting them expressions of disgruntled acceptance, and Narcissa, who was clearly holding back gleeful squeals.

Two days later, they’d signed Draco’s requested fidelity clause and then continued to dance around the topic, pretending it didn’t exist at their two required weekly dates... and the three voluntary dates they had casually gone on spontaneously after work. “For wedding planning,” Draco had insisted, to which Hermione had firmly nodded. “Yes, we need to buckle down and plan it.”

Except nothing had been planned in relation to the wedding during any of the dates at all. In fact, the word “wedding” hadn’t even crossed their lips. And really, they both knew Narcissa had the entire thing covered. After all, Hermione reminded herself, this wasn’t her real wedding; this wasn’t her forever marriage. What do I care if someone else plans a party I don’t care about?

Instead, they had occupied their time together ranting about various aspects of work; Harry; and their plans for the weekend, using each other as a sounding board while the other listened and nodded, sipping wine (Black Dragon, of course) and commiserating, validating one another’s frustrations. Draco had griped about the Ministry still ignoring his attempts at opening lines of communication even though they’d announced their betrothal a month ago. Hermione had sighed about the donations for HOPE promised during their engagement announcement trickling in too slowly to make much of a dent, likely because the organizations were waiting to make a charitable donation as part of a wedding gift towards the grand event for which they were all expecting invitations.

 Even Draco’s own financial coverage for three years’ worth of expenses didn’t begin until after they were legally married, as per their contract. Hermione didn’t bring it up, but she couldn’t help feeling resentfully bitter that Draco was already benefitting from being seen out in public with her even though their wedding wasn’t for another two and a half months; she was seeing no benefit until the wedding band was on her finger. Secretly, she hoped the Ministry wouldn’t entertain doing business with him until after that point just to keep things more balanced and level between them, though she’d never say it to his face. It just didn’t seem fair any other way. Draco’s benefit was conceptual, all about perception; it was about changing his persona, which he was well on his way towards rectifying. But Hermione’s incentive was physical and tangible in the form of money, and the money wouldn’t clear until her end of the bargain was met.

Then they’d ranted about Harry. Hermione had lamented that she and Harry hadn’t spoken in three weeks since his screaming match with Draco. She’d seen Ginny plenty of times, had gone to lunch with her, but neither one of them had brought up Harry. Hermione knew it was because Ginny didn’t want to step on any toes in either direction, and Hermione couldn’t blame her. Draco, for his part, couldn’t care less that he hadn’t seen or spoken to Potter: there had never been love lost between them, and as far as Draco was concerned, the animosity would always be there, hiding just below the surface even if they put on fake masks of politeness to keep Hermione placated in the future.

And finally, they’d discussed their weekend plans because they’d be seeing both Harry and Ginny, which made Draco dread those plans even more than he already was.

And those plans were now today’s plans, to Draco’s chagrin.

As nervous as Draco was about it, it was something he wanted to do, knew it was the right thing to do, no matter how much Lucius had sneered over it, no matter how neutral Narcissa had tried to keep her face when he’d brought it up at the Manor dinner table two nights ago. Draco could read his mother like an open book, and he immediately recognized her occlumency walls slamming up to protect herself as soon as he’d cautiously mentioned Andromeda’s name. The action alone meant she didn’t know how to feel about it or maybe felt about it in a way that made her ashamed. But that was Narcissa’s issue, not his own.

As Draco reached for Granger’s hand to step into the floo together, he noticed the tiny grey scops owl soaring towards her kitchen window and pointed at it.

“You’ve got a visitor,” he noted.

Granger squinted until it dawned on her. “It’s Pigwidgeon,” she sighed, heading into the kitchen to open the window.

Draco’s eyes widened. “Pigwidgeon? Surely you don’t mean Weaselbee has had the same bloody owl all these years later?”

Granger nodded faintly. “Pig’s thirteen or fourteen years old and still as mischievous as ever.” The minute owl glided right onto her counter, shaking like a leaf, holding out his leg with a note clutched in his tiny talon. She lovingly rubbed her pointer down his head.

“Aw, Piggy,” she murmured affectionately, opening the jar of treats she kept by the window for any flying mail carriers, reaching in to hand him a tiny, small piece of biscuit. She tore into the note from Ron, read it quickly, then placed it in her sink where she cast an Incendio, watching it turn to ash in seconds.

Draco watched her incredulously before clearing his throat. “I take it things aren’t going well between you and the Weasel.” Try as he might, he couldn’t keep the pleased tone out of his voice.

Granger shot him a withering look. “Like you care.”

“Believe it or not, I do.”

She sighed, watching as Pig flew back out the window. “He was angry after I canceled our date last week with no explanation. And I’ve left every message he’s sent since unanswered. I just...” she looked at the floor with another sigh before raising her eyes to his. “I’m trying to avoid a confrontation. It’s coming, I can feel it.”

“Don’t let that prick walk all over you or make you feel guilty,” Draco said roughly, placing a firm hand tentatively beneath her chin, causing a little charge of electricity to run up both of their spines at the unexpected contact, “he wasn’t giving you anything that served you. Our arrangement will work out much more in your favor than letting that oaf walk all over you for another year only to end it for yet another benign reason.”

“Enough,” Granger declared in a low voice, subtly raising her hand to his, nonchalantly removing it from her face, casually intertwining her fingers with his with a tiny shiver, looking away from the grey pools that were slowly unraveling her with their earnestness, “let’s go. They’re waiting for us.”

Draco turned his head to hide the tiny smile that graced his flushed face as his fingers gripped hers, walking them towards the fireplace in Granger’s living room. They stepped in together as he reached for a handful of floo powder, flinging it down resolutely. “Tonks residence,” he called out, a slight tremor of nerves in his voice as they disappeared in a flash of green.

A few moments later, Draco found himself maneuvering out of a brick fireplace in a home he’d never imagined stepping foot in. He guardedly glanced around the small living room, comfortably decorated with a striped blue and white sofa and loveseat set and two armchairs, an oval mahogany coffee table centered between them. The room had a large window facing a countryside lane, the sun streaming in providing an air of warmth and welcome. He glanced behind himself and blanched at the fireplace: the mantle was covered in framed magical photos of Nymphadora and Remus, and their son, Teddy, at various ages. Draco’s stomach dropped at the sight: lives of which he could have (should have?) been a part but never got the chance to be.

Another decision made on my behalf. Another choice taken from me.

And then the boy walked in, a wide smile on his face as he wrapped his arms around Granger in a bear hug.

“Teddy!” she exclaimed, “it’s been such a long time! I swear you’ve doubled in height over the last few months!”

Draco couldn’t help but stare at his ten-year-old cousin as he spoke animatedly for several seconds with Granger: all he could see was his own face around the same age, but instead of the platinum hair that had adorned the top of his own head, Teddy had a mop of brown curls like his parents. Where Draco’s eyes were the fabled Malfoy grey, Teddy’s were crystal blue. But that was where the differences ended to Draco’s shock.

“Teddy,” Granger said quietly with a smile, “I’d like you to meet your cousin, Dr—”

“Draco,” Teddy finished instantly, a wide grin on his face, holding out his hand, “I’m glad I finally get to meet you. I’m going to Hogwarts in a couple of months. Hoping to eventually make my house Quidditch team! Maybe I inherited the same Seeker genes you did.”

I like this kid.

The moment Draco’s hand made contact with Teddy’s, his eyes widened, watching as Teddy’s hair changed from longish, unkempt brown waves to a short sleek platinum cut like his own, his sky-blue eyes melting into a stormy grey. The instant the changes were made, Draco was so caught off guard, his jaw slack, that he barely heard Granger’s gasp next to him.

“It’s like looking at you 18 years ago!” she exclaimed, “it’s uncanny!”

Teddy grinned. “I’ve left you so speechless, you’ve forgotten your perfect pureblood manners, Cousin.”

In spite of himself, Draco smirked. “It’s nice to meet you, you cheeky little prat. I wonder where you got that quality from," he replied with a wink, "I certainly was never a prat after all." He ignored Granger's obvious throat clearing. "I hadn’t realized you were a Metamorphmagus.”

Teddy nodded. “I got that from my Mum.”

Draco’s eyes flew to one of the framed photos of Tonks on the mantle, her hair a vivid purple as she laughed, throwing her head back, before the loop restarted.

Right. I knew that.

His heart nearly stopped when Bellatrix walked into the room.

Instinctually, Draco took in a deep breath, stepping back, away from her, his heart in his throat, as it quickly dawned on him that something was off – her eyes. Slowly, a bubble of relief sank into his very being as the realization meandered through him, even as he felt Granger’s hand gently grab his elbow.

“Are you alright?” she murmured worriedly, her eyes flying between Draco’s pallid face and his aunt’s, who was regarding him just as wide-eyed.

He composed himself before nodding. “Aunt,” he finally squeezed out, “I apologize for my reaction. I –” he hesitated, before swallowing hard, waiting for his heart to stop beating so hard.  

Andromeda carefully offered a small, friendly smile. “You see Bella,” she noted understandably, “a lot of people do.”

The similarities were uncanny. Everything from her long, nearly black curls, now streaked white with the passing of time, to her heart shaped face; from the small, delicate structure of her facial features, down to her petite frame – there was no question that she and Bellatrix had been sisters. But the second Andromeda’s mouth opened and she spoke, Draco sensed the softer edges of her personality, a gentleness that Bellatrix had lacked. There was no mania hidden in her smile. There was no diabolical intention or ulterior motive behind the light in her eyes. In fact, though she favored Bellatrix’s coloring, Draco felt a comforting warmth spread down his body when he recognized bits of his own mother in her expression and mannerisms.

“I’d offer you a hug,” she said quietly, “but I don’t want to spook you. I understand the need for baby steps.”

Instantly, Draco shook his head. “No baby steps needed.”

Her smile widening, Andromeda stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his torso. Definitely more like Mother. He enveloped her in the exact same manner he’d hug his mother, his breath catching in his throat at the natural way his body folded around hers, the way it reflexively knew she was safe, knew he was safe to embrace her with the same sincerity he embraced Narcissa without thinking about it.

He couldn’t stop his own smile from taking over his face. Andromeda pulled back slightly, moving her palms to his cheeks, gazing up at him.

“You are exactly like I pictured you’d be,” she remarked tearfully with a small laugh, “your father’s coloring, of course, and his brusqueness right here,” she lightly ran a finger down between his eyebrows, “from sneering so much, I presume. Oh, but Cissa,” she continued softly, “she’s in your eyes. Grey, as I envisioned, but she’s there. She’s all over your face.”

Inexplicably, Draco felt a lump forming in his throat as he nodded stiffly. “She’s in your face too,” he choked out, thrown off by his own body’s reaction to meeting a woman he’d never known and yet felt like he’d always known. Should have always known.

As the sound of the floo activated behind them, Draco glanced beside him at Granger. She was watching him with his Aunt, not hiding her own tearful reaction.

“You don’t know how long she’s been wanting to meet you,” she whispered with a small smile, “and it just makes me happy for her. For you. For the three of you.”

Draco’s warm mood was suddenly dampened as he heard the voices behind him.

“Mione.”

He and Granger both turned to see Harry standing next to Ginny who was holding James, greeting Andromeda and Teddy.

Right. I’d momentarily forgotten the Prick Who Lived Twice would be here.

Draco grimaced briefly, ignoring Harry entirely, turning to Ginny. “Ginevra.”

“Boss,” she responded with a smile, “glad to see you two could make it for tea.”

A half hour later, Draco found himself sitting around his Aunt Andromeda’s dining room table, covered in a white lace tablecloth, beautifully set with cornflower blue porcelain teacups and saucers with a delicate floral pattern. A matching teapot sat in the middle of the table. Biscuits, scones, and tea sandwiches were beautifully laid out on silver tiered trays. He listened to the conversation going on around him as Potter, Ginevra, and Granger all discussed their work, choosing not to participate much, trying to stay out of any forced conversation with his adversary who sat directly across the table from him, eyeing him suspiciously every few minutes.

Draco realized he was zoned out, mindlessly drinking his tea, when a familiar name caught his attention.

“ – not sure what Ron was thinking,” Potter was saying quietly. Draco looked to his right towards Granger and realized her face was constricted with irritation. Immediately, he felt his hackles rise in her defense, turning his attention back to Potter with narrowed eyes.

Since when do I even care so much about this shit?

“I can tell you that Mione deserves better than anything my idiot brother has to offer her,” Ginny responded haughtily to her husband with a roll of her eyes.

Draco found himself nodding in her direction approvingly. “Always knew I hired you for a reason, Weasl – Pott – Ginevra,” he doubly corrected himself, casting a smirk at Potter.

“Big surprise. Malfoy doesn’t like Ron coming around Hermione,” Potter muttered, reaching for a tea sandwich.

“Of course not. Would you like one of your wife’s toxic exes to come hound her, looking for attention? Sniffing around her?” Draco snapped. And when he does, she doesn’t even wear knickers because of what she’s anticipating?

He was vaguely aware of Granger’s hand lightly touching his thigh beneath the table in warning.

“Ron’s hardly toxic,” Potter snapped back, “he and Mione have a history that you –”

“A history of emotional and mental abuse. A history of cheating. A history of breaking up so he could fuck around with a clear conscience. A history of having a fear of commitment,” Draco rattled off in a bored tone, “take your pick, Potter. Which history best fits your narrative?”

“The fact is, regardless of what happened in their past, Ron – and frankly, all of us – expected him and Mione to end up together, and that was part of the reason that this entire thing between the two of you was so –” Potter began but was cut off by his wife.

“You’ve told me yourself you don’t approve of my brother’s treatment of Hermione,” Ginny said quietly, “you’re only doing this to have an excuse to argue with Malfoy. You don’t believe a word that you’re saying right now. Cut it out.”

“Frankly, you’re both humiliating yourselves,” Granger spoke up loudly, “we’re all guests in Andromeda’s home. We’re here to have tea and spend time with her and with Teddy and this is just an embarr—”

“Why don’t we change the subject,” Andromeda said gracefully, “no need to bring up controversial topics. Draco, Hermione, how is the wedding planning going? Is everything coming together?”

Draco nodded politely. “Yes, Aunt. Though, my mother has really taken the reins. Event planning is her specialty.”

Andromeda nodded with a wistful smile. “Yes, I do remember Cissa always being quite the party planner. I’m sure it’ll be a beautiful soiree with her at the helm.”

“I hope you’ll be in attendance,” Draco cautiously remarked, keeping his eyes trained on his Aunt, “both you and Teddy. I know it might be contentious at first, being at the Manor, seeing my father, but I think it might be a good first step in the right direction between you and my mother.”

Andromeda carefully cut into her scone in silence, deep in thought. After several seconds, she finally spoke. “I think Teddy and I would love to come,” she began pensively, “but I think I’d have to speak to Cissa on my own first. Your lovely wedding cannot be the first time she and I see each other and discuss all that’s happened. Gods forbid your father implodes with anger and we cause a scene in his own home during your ceremony. The guilt would eat me alive. No, we’d have to settle our differences beforehand.”

Draco nodded. “Of course, Aunt. As you wish. Whatever would make you the most comfortable.”

Across the table, Potter scoffed. Ginny notably whacked him in the stomach with the back of her hand.

Draco whipped his head in his direction, eyes narrowed. “Something to say, Potter?”

“Like Lucius Malfoy would be willing to let the past stay in the past,” he viciously took a bite of a tea sandwich, choosing to ignore his wife’s threatening glare, “the way he practically bit my head off during your ‘engagement announcement,’” he finished, physically air quoting at the phrase, insinuating sarcasm.

Granger opened her mouth to retaliate but Draco got there first.

“You deserved it,” he bit back icily, “considering the temper tantrum you threw.”

“Pardon me for showing concern for my childhood friend,” Potter argued harshly, “who was demonstrating poor choices in the moment.”

“Poor choices?” Draco emphasized, “Are you calling me a poor choice?”

“If the shoe fits, obviously.”

“That’s quite enough!” Andromeda exclaimed, aghast. “I am shocked at both of you. Harry, in all the years I’ve known you, I have never seen you speak with such disrespect and lack of decorum. And Draco, I may only just be getting to know you and making up for our lack of time together, but I do know how you were raised because I was raised the same way, and I am certain if your mother saw you displaying yourself this way, she’d be horrified.” She took a deep breath as both Draco and Potter’s eyes dropped to the table in shame. “Now, I have known that there has always been some hostility between the two of you, but aren’t you both a little old to be dwelling on things that happened when you were children?”

“Hardly,” Potter snipped, an immediate guilty look coming over his face, “I apologize, Andromeda. The... hostility you’re witnessing between Draco and me may be based on childhood grievances, but Draco is also upset with me for not telling him about the death of someone who meant a lot to him years ago. I’m upset with both him and Mione for not telling me that they’ve apparently been dating for months in secret. And frankly, I’m also upset with him because during our last... discussion... he spoke poorly about someone I admire.”

“First of all, I don’t respect you enough to grant you permission to make me upset,” Draco spit scathingly, “so don’t give yourself so much credit, or flatter yourself. You might be a savior to everyone else in the wizarding world, but you’re nothing to me. Second of all, if by someone you admire, you’re referring to Shacklebolt, then that’s the most pathetically asinine yet predictable thing you could have –”

“Don’t speak that way about Kingsley Shacklebolt! He’s Minister for – “

“Boot licker,” Draco murmured casually, sipping his tea lightly with as much perfected physical etiquette and gentility as his pureblood manners allowed, with a pinky in the air to emphasize his class over Potter.

“Draco,” Granger intoned warningly. Draco shrugged in her direction.

“Kingsley is –” Potter began, incensed.

“ – not who he presents himself to be,” Draco finished calmly, “as I’ve explained to you. The man has always prided himself in giving second chances, in offering leniency, but he has never once shown me the courtesy that he brags about.”

“Like I explained to you, Malfoy,” Potter harshly replied through gritted teeth, “I’m sure there’s been a misunderstanding. There is no way Kingsley would purposely set out to blacklist your name from doing business with the Ministry, nor would he try to tarnish your name any more than you, yourself, have already done. I simply don’t believe it. I refuse.”

“I don’t care if you don’t believe it,” Draco spat, “You not believing something doesn’t make it false. You not believing something doesn’t make it a lie.”

“I declare a truce between the two of you,” Andromeda loudly concluded, “And I hereby put an end to this conversation.”

Draco hesitated briefly before nodding in Andromeda’s direction. “As you wish, Aunt.”

“I do, however, owe Draco an apology,” Potter admitted quietly, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Draco arched an eyebrow in his direction.

What the fuck?

“About Dobby,” Potter explained, meeting Draco’s gaze, “I’m ashamed that it never occurred to me to tell you. That I never put two and two together and realized you would have grown up with him and that therefore you would have wanted to know about his death. For that, I apologize, Malfoy.”

Completely blindsided, Draco stared at Potter for several long beats before he dropped his eyes to his teacup, nodding once in acknowledgment of his words.

A long silence fell over the table as everyone continued to drink their tea and take small bites of food contemplatively, an air of stiff unease hanging heavily, the only noise the sounds of Teddy playing with James in the backyard.

The rest of the afternoon went on without issue. Draco definitively made it an exaggerated point to ignore Potter as much as possible. It simply went without saying that they’d be tolerating each other moving forward and nothing more, and even that was mostly for Granger’s and Ginevra’s sakes. Draco had accepted long time ago that he and Potter would never see eye to eye. He was over it. He simply didn’t care.

Before Draco and Hermione stepped back through the fireplace into the floo network, Potter embraced her tightly.

“I still don’t quite believe what’s going on,” Draco heard him murmur in her ear, “but if you’re telling me this is something that I have to accept, then as your friend, I will,” he continued, “I trust you and when you do things, you have a good reason. And your reasons are allowed to be private.” He pulled back, keeping his hands on Granger’s shoulders. “I love you, Mione. I’m on your side.”

“And Ron?” Granger challenged quietly, “Are you on his side when it comes to the train wreck that our relationship has always been?”

Potter’s emerald eyes searched her own uncomfortably. “I won’t take sides. Your relationship and what it has morphed into is none of my business.”

Granger’s face dropped before her head shook in disappointment. “I see. You have no problem calling me out when you think I’ve done or chosen wrong. But if Ron does the same, you don’t choose sides. I’m curious if Ronald will ever do anything heinous enough for you to denounce his behavior. Clearly hurting me isn’t offensive enough to you. If I married Ronald and he cheated on me, would you still refuse to take sides?”

Internally, Draco grinned like a Cheshire cat. Good for you, Granger.

Potter’s eyes dropped guiltily to the floor before he met his wife’s gaze, who had spent most of the afternoon glaring at him with pursed lips, her eyes in slits. Clearly, she’d chosen a side. And clearly, she was going to rip into him when they got home.

With a sigh, Granger reached for Draco’s hand, stepping into the fireplace. “Let’s just go,” she whispered, “I can’t wait for an answer I know will just end up hurting me.”

Seconds later, when they’d landed back in Granger’s living room, Draco’s eyes fixed immediately on her downcast expression.

Something clenched in his chest, but he brushed it aside quickly, pushing it down until he couldn’t feel it anymore. Because it’s nothing. Gazing at Granger’s frowning lips, he did the only thing he knew how to do to get her mind off of what had happened.

“I don’t know why you’re still friends with that prick.”

Granger’s eyes narrowed as she raised them to his. “What?”

Draco shrugged. “For being the Brightest Witch of Her Age, you keep letting Potter make you feel badly about yourself. Same as the Weasel. You let them have too much.”

He could see her bristling. A thrill ran up his spine.

“I let them have too much?”

“Too much of yourself. Going back to Weaselbee an unprecedented number of times over ten years. Letting Potter’s opinion of you matter more than it should. Why does it matter that he doesn’t understand our engagement? Why do you care if he tends to side with Weaselbee? He’s just showing his true colors. Just seems like you should know better. Cut them both loose,” Draco replied nonchalantly, feeling the waves of anger radiating from her as he took a seat on her burgundy sofa.

Granger stood in front of him, her legs slightly spread in a defensive stance, her right hip jutting out, her hands on her hips, her hair practically crackling with the magic that vibrated from her very pores as she seethed. “How dare you judge me?! How dare you judge them?! You don’t even know them!”

Draco leaned back against the backrest of the sofa, his black trousered legs spread wide before him on the floor, gazing down at his perfectly manicured fingernails before carefully dusting off his light grey button-down shirt. He calmly gazed up at her, her lovely face pink with fury, her chest heaving in anger. “I don’t need to know them,” he responded, his tone calculated, “I don’t want to know them. I know enough about them through you. I don’t like how they treat you, therefore I don’t like them.”

“Well, I don’t like you!” Granger shouted, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

“I know. I don’t like you either,” Draco reminded her quietly, “but I have to withstand your abominable explosions, like this one, for the next three years, and you have to put up with my opinionated judgments, so buckle up while we try and make the most of it. I will tell you when I think you’re being treated poorly. And I hope you’ll continue to tell me when you think I’m being a pompous, arrogant prick. You seem to enjoy doing that.”

He leaned forward then, his elbows on his knees, his face inches from her abdomen. Slowly, he let his eyes fall from her face down her navy blouse to the small bit of skin peeking between the hem of her top and the waistband of her gods forsaken muggle jeans that hugged her hips like a juicy pear. His mouth watered at the thought of biting first her left hip, then her right, and before he knew what he was doing, he carefully raised his fingers and nimbly undid her jeans’ button and zipper.

“What do you think you’re --?!” she cried.

“Shut up, witch,” he ordered in a whisper, not even raising his eyes, keeping his focus on the task in front of him. She stilled at his quiet tone, a sharp inhale escaping her lips as she watched his movement with bated breath. He folded down the open flaps of her jeans, carefully shimmying them down past the curve of her hips before pressing his face against the soft skin below her belly button, inhaling the scent of her. Vanilla...books... rain, he sighed.

His hands grasped her hips firmly, keeping her in place, as his tongue gently peeked out, licking across her abdomen achingly slowly. His fingertips heated with the warmth of her skin seeping into his very veins, lighting his blood on fire. He felt her breath hitch, the feel of it pulsing down the length of her body, echoing into his mouth still pressed against her skin.

And then she let out that tiny, high-pitched sigh that had driven him out of his mind just a week ago. It was too much: the sound of her, the smell of her, the feel of her, the taste of her, the look of her golden skin against his face, it all overwhelmed his senses to the point of mindless chaos. With a sharp exhale, he raised his heated gaze to meet hers.

She was biting the corner of her lip. Of course.

And that was all it took.

They worked as a team: his hands wrenched her jeans down her legs and she stepped out of them, kicking them out of the way. The instant he dragged her back to his face by her hips, the scent of her arousal assaulted him; he felt his heartrate pick up and he groaned, sliding his fingers up the inside of her thighs. The moment they came in contact with the satin of her black knickers, he suddenly found himself nearly breathless with want.

Not tilting his head back, he simply lifted his eyes towards her face.

“Yes?” he whispered, the note of question in his voice, waiting for her consent.

Having learned her lesson the first time, she quickly nodded. “Yes.”

The moment the word breathed past her lips, his fingers slipped below the soft material, finding them soaked through. With another groan, he leaned his forehead against the soft, smooth curve of her waist, pushing in first one, then two fingers into her wet heat, watching, mesmerized, as his fingers rhythmically disappeared inside of her, stroking in and out, watching the glossy silk of her coating his fingers. Before long, he was panting against her, his lips parted as he grappled to inhale more oxygen, still finding it wasn’t enough.

For fuck’s sake.

“Granger,” he gritted out, too wound up to look at what he was sure was her flushed face surrounded by her long curls, knowing if he chanced a glance at her he might cave completely and throw her down to the floor, “I’m ...” he trailed off, closing his eyes, trying to collect himself, trying to catch his breath.

Suddenly, Granger threaded her fingers through his blonde hair and yanked back, forcing him to look up at her.

She saw it in his eyes: everything he didn’t want her to see, everything he didn’t want anyone to see, his occlumency walls down too far during their moment of intimacy for him to block his honesty. Unable to move his head back down, he slowly closed his eyelids in the gentlest way possible to protect himself.

No, he seemed to say, words unnecessary. No.

She understood loud and clear.

Something clenched in her chest, but she brushed it aside quickly, pushing it down until she couldn’t feel it anymore. Because it’s nothing. Gazing at his closed eyes, blocking her from his truth, from his vulnerability, she did the only thing she knew how to do to throw him off, to throw herself off.

“I still fucking hate you, Malfoy,” she murmured quietly, her voice venomous at the sight of him closing himself off to her, ignoring the hurt that pumped into her blood. He doesn’t have the power to hurt me. Because I don’t care about him. And this doesn’t matter. It’s nothing.

She noticed the clench in his jaw as he nodded. “I still hate you more.”

With those words, he tore her knickers off of her, propped her left leg on the sofa cushion next to where he was seated, and angled her hips upwards, his mouth savagely biting each of her hips before descending between her legs with a deep sigh of desire. Her fingers pulled tighter on his locks of hair, her head tilting back, her eyes closing, her lips parting, as Malfoy let the flat expanse of his tongue drag across her throbbing folds, slowly savoring the feel of her, the taste of her, the scent of her. He repeated the motion over and over before letting his tongue dip into her, a third near guttural groan ripping through his chest, vibrating across her cunt deliciously.

“Christ,” she muttered, the muggle swear word escaping her mouth without a thought. His tongue moved up to gently lick against her clit, covering it head on, giving her something to rock against which she did immediately. Her fingers gripped his hair tightly, the sting shooting a shudder down his body, keeping him steady as she used his mouth for friction.

“Can you breathe?” she whispered, her head still tilted up towards the ceiling.

“Shut up, witch,” he muttered, “if I die, I die.”

He pressed his tongue against her more insistently before swirling around the small bundle of nerves in slow circles, pushing his fingers back into her, his other hand reaching into his trousers to find and grip his own hard, leaking cock.

He was a legitimate, needy mess: he fucked himself into his hand with the same speed he fucked into her with his long fingers, with the same rhythm he swirled and pressed against her clit, sliding from the sofa to his knees between Granger’s legs, giving himself more space. The wet, messy noises escaping his mouth paired with the sensations at his fingertips, mixed with the sweet, velvety taste of her in his mouth was sending him reeling towards release. She was intoxicating.

“Fuck, Granger,” he moaned against her folds, “Merlin, please... please come. I need to see it. I need to taste it on my mouth. Fuck, please.”

She looked down, chest heaving, panting as if she was in heat. The moment she registered that he was getting himself off to pressing his mouth between her legs, that it turned him on so much, that she turned him on so much, it almost undid her.

“Sit back,” she breathed. He obeyed with no questions, retaking his seat on the sofa his legs spread, still in his black trousers, still fisting himself, his head back against the sofa, his eyes half-lidded watching her. In one motion, too overcome with lust to care, she tore her navy blouse right off, several buttons clinking on the wooden floor around them. Draco’s eyes widened, his pupils blown wide and dark with an insatiable craving, his own hands immediately tearing open his own grey button down, wanting to feel her skin against his own.

“Fucking hell,” he whimpered as she shed her bra, straddling his lap, lowering herself onto him quickly. The moment his cock penetrated into her, he let out a long, low hiss of pleasure, his hands finding the flesh of her hips as he immediately began thrusting up into her with abandon. Her hands reached up, grasping his face, bringing her mouth down to his, tasting herself on his tongue as she frantically rolled her hips down against his.

It didn’t take long, the two of them already wound too tight. Within a few minutes, Granger dropped her hands to his shoulders, squeezing them, holding on as tightly as she could as she threw her head back, her orgasm tearing through her body almost violently as she drew in a deep gasp through her parted lips, before letting out a shriek as the peaks of ecstasy crashed over her in pulsing waves down her spine, down her body into her belly, down through her veins to the tips of her toes.

“Gods, yes,” he choked hoarsely, gripping her hips even tighter as Granger went limp against him. He frantically thrusted up into her and with a few desperate strokes, his movements lost their rhythm as he stuttered into her, coming harder than he thought he ever had in his life. The pleasure rolled through him in rivulets, his hips still pushing into her in a slow staccato, as he endlessly released himself into her.

Occlumency walls up or not, Draco reached his hands into her thick curls at the back of her neck and pulled hard to his right until he could control the angle of her head tilt, until he could see her face gazing back at him, her lips still parted as she breathed through her mouth, coming down from her high.

Unable to look away from the sight before him, he fiercely brought her mouth down to his own again, letting his lips brutally move against hers, his tongue languidly pushing its way into her mouth, laying claim to her.

Mine.

“I loathe you,” he growled into her mouth, his eyes closing, still gasping for breath.

She nodded, her sweaty forehead leaning against his. “Me too.”

“Good.”

Chapter Text

“Just come with us.”

Two weeks later, Hermione stood beside Ginny’s office desk at Black Dragon Wines uncertainly. Ginny got up, pushing in her office chair, grinning at Hermione. “I think you’ll have fun. We’re only going to Bella Notte. Come have some wine, eat something. Unwind a bit.”

“Yeah, Granger,” Blaise added with a smile, folding his beige rain trench coat over his forearm, “the rest of the snake pit needs to get to know you a bit better.”

“I’ll say,” Pansy smirked, carefully using a lint roller on her all black summer dress, hanging her matching purse on her shoulder, “we need to get better acquainted with the soon to be Lady Malfoy.”

Hermione blushed. “I’ll hardly be Lady Malfoy, Narcissa happens to hold that title and I’m perfectly fine with –”

Pansy waved her hand in the air dismissively, refreshing her bright red lipstick. “Once you get knocked up, Narcissa and Lucius will hightail it out of the Manor leaving you and Draco their titles.”

Internally, Hermione grimaced at the thought of both carrying a Malfoy spawn and coming into a pompous, sanctimonious title representing old magic, old money, and grandeur she didn’t care to ever inherit. “Good to know,” she finally murmured.

“What’s good to know?”

Draco came sauntering up behind her, his eyes quickly taking inventory of his employees and friends surrounding his fiancée, bedecked in a lilac sun dress, his hand sliding around her waist for good measure. Just in case they’re watching.

Which they were. For extra insurance, he added a soft kiss to the top of her curly mane.
Just to really nail the role, of course.

Before Hermione could respond, Theo beat her to it from the front desk where he stood expectantly with Astoria. “Good to know what all Hermione comes into the moment she finds herself carrying the Malfoy heir. Pansy was just informing her.”

Beside her, Hermione felt Draco sharply inhale. She cleared her throat, her cheeks reddening all over again. “Really, I’ll leave you all to go to dinner, you don’t need me there –”

Draco rolled his eyes with a scoff, quickly recovering. “You don’t need an invitation to come to dinner with us. Wherever I go, you’re always welcome.”

“This has nothing to do with you, Malfoy,” Pansy snapped quickly, absently putting her lipstick back in her purse, “in fact, I’m pretty certain if you weren’t coming, we’d still insist Granger tag along.” She winked at Hermione, looping her arm with her own, propelling her and Ginny forward as they walked through the foyer to the lift, leaving Draco to walk with Blaise.

A half hour later, Hermione found herself ordering a cocktail with Pansy and Astoria, Ginny ordering a virgin equivalent with her hand on her softly curved pregnant belly. Hermione quickly felt the beginnings of a slight buzz, answering the serpents’ questions unabashedly, so much so that Draco’s hand squeezed her thigh under the table gently to reel her in a bit. He turned his head slightly into her ear. “Be careful,” he whispered in a low tone, “you’re becoming slightly uninhibited.”

“So?” she asked, lowering her own voice discretely to match his.

“So I’m concerned you’re going to give away the actual nature of our relationship,” Draco murmured.

“Which part of our relationship are you nervous about exposing?” she whispered back, her eyes meeting his, “the contractual part? Or the hate sex part?”

She noted the heat that rose in his grey irises and cheeks, noted the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. “Neither of those should come out, darling,” he gritted sarcastically, “just be careful. We’re a team in this, or so I thought,” he finally exhaled, dropping her gaze, turning back to the table.

The snakes, of course, had been watching carefully, politely not saying anything but taking note of their facial expressions, exchanging bemused glances.

As their food was brought out, the table continued with their light-hearted conversation. Ginny whipped out a cell phone and Hermione gaped.

“Is that an iPhone 3G?!” she gasped, “I didn’t know you had one of those!”

Ginny blushed and rolled her eyes. “It’s new. When Harry found out I was pregnant again, he wanted me to be able to contact him quickly in case I needed anything or wanted to touch base. We each have one. Although I’m realizing he’s using his own to touch base more with me than I am with him,” she finished ruefully, sending a quick text to her husband, “I’m just letting him know what time I think I’ll be home.”

“I still have my old Nokia,” Hermione said with a laugh.

Draco arched an eyebrow at her, pursing his lips in distaste. “That will be rectified tomorrow.”

Hermione arched her own eyebrow back. “Rectified? It’s not a problem. It gets the job done. I can call and text and that’s all I need.”

The snakes looked at each other and smirked as they all turned their eyes to Draco for his predictable reaction. Sure enough, he scoffed with a wave of his hand.

“You’re joining the age of the smartphone. I’m upgrading your cell phone tomorrow, Granger. No question about it. I won’t have my fiancée walking around London with a Nokia. In fact, it only makes sense I add you to my plan.” He nodded to himself, as if to solidify his idea.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Be careful, Malfoy,” she retorted with self-righteous indignation, “your Sacred Twenty-Eight is showing.”

Draco’s face contorted in a sneer, but before he could hurl a response at her, a loud voice interrupted their dinner.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

All eyes flew up at the exclamation. Hermione vaguely noticed, in her tipsy daze, that Draco’s hand had moved defensively to her elbow when their mutual gaze landed on Ron, standing before their table, blue eyes blazing in anger, his tall frame taut, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Seeing him there sobered her rapidly; her eyes quickly ran around the table, noting Blaise and Theo bristling, their own bodies straightening, hackles raised. Pansy sat back, casually crossing one knee over the other, eyebrow raised in Ron’s direction, a bored expression of judgment setting across her face. Astoria sat in bewildered amusement, her mouth dropping open at the loud confrontation before them.

Ginny, however, was fuming. “Ron. What are you doing?” she murmured in a hushed tone, her own eyes running around the restaurant, taking note of the attention he had garnered, immediately going into protection mode for her colleagues and friends with only slight concern for her brother’s public image, not wanting him to tarnish either.

“Me?! You want to know what I’m doing?! I want to know what she’s doing!” Ron roared, pointing a jabbing finger in Hermione’s direction.

Hermione’s eyebrows rose in shock. She could feel the anger in Malfoy rising beside her, could feel his entire body coiling as if he was about to strike like a viper. She quickly placed a placating hand on his sleeve before she turned her attention back to Ron.

“This isn’t the time or the place,” she said quietly, trying to use a soothing tone.

“Yeah?! Then when is the time or the place?! You’ve been ignoring me for the last two weeks! I send Pig to you every other day with notes that you don’t respond to!” Ron fumed, his gaze flying angrily between Hermione and Draco. “I thought you said you would end this circus you have going on with him!”

A gasp rose around the restaurant, the other patrons beginning to whisper behind their hands. Draco began to violently shake, his own hands clenching into fists so tight his knuckles turned white, his face turning red with a mix of outrage and embarrassment at being publicly chided before his eyes quickly flew to Hermione’s as if searching for confirmation of Ron’s words.

She took that as her cue. She furiously stood, aware this was the exact kind of drama that Draco didn’t want, the kind that had the potential to make him into a villain all over again, the kind he was trying to avoid. Ginny stood alongside her, already yanking Ron away by his sleeve. Hermione could feel Draco rising with her, could see Blaise and Theo joining, looks of determination on their faces.

She quickly turned and shook her head at all three. “I’ve got this. Let me deal with him.”

Draco took a step closer to her, her back against the wall, his face close to hers for privacy. “You were going to end this with me?” he whispered accusingly, his face contorting into one of anger and confusion, “is he telling the truth?”

Hermione sighed. “This was before that date he and I were going to go on. Before you and I...” her voice trailed off, her cheeks reddening, “... before we’d signed the fidelity clause,” she covered herself, brushing aside the memory of them up against the back of her front door, “I told him I’d think about it. That’s all. Let me take care of this. If I let you come with me, or worse, if I let you and your lackeys come with me, it’ll make him more volatile than he already is. Please. Give me a chance.” Her dark eyes searched his pleadingly. “I’ll signal to you if I need help.”

His jaw clenched, he finally nodded his agreement. Motioning to Blaise and Theo, they all sat down. Pansy and Astoria eyed Hermione.

“Don’t let him embarrass you,” Pansy murmured calculatingly, her face coolly controlled, expertly maintaining a look of posh reservation, “Hold your own. Don’t let anyone in this restaurant see he’s unnerved you.” Astoria nodded back, a similar look on her own face. “Everyone is watching to see how you handle this,” she continued, “don’t show them anything private. Don’t show them any emotion.”

Hermione, her own public professionalism in place, nodded as she quickly sauntered to the empty banquet room where Ginny had pulled Ron. The moment she opened the door, she heard their shouting voices.

Ron lunged at her, taking her completely by surprise as his hands tightened around her upper arms. From the corner of her eye, Hermione noticed Ginny texting on her phone. Realizing she was texting Harry, she couldn’t help but internally sigh in relief as she turned her attention back to Ron, who was glaring at her angrily, his face only inches from hers.

“What the hell is going on?!” he shouted, “Why did you cancel our date so last minute two weeks ago?! Why haven’t you been responding to my notes?! Why are you ignoring me?!”

“Ronald,” Hermione replied quietly, a note of warning in her soft tone, “if you don’t take your hands off of me, I will scream so loudly that Malfoy, Blaise, and Theo will all be in here within seconds. I doubt you’d even live to see how the papers would cover the incident.”

Seething, his mouth casting heavy, hot breaths across her face, Ron finally released her. “Answer me,” he responded dangerously.

“I canceled our date because I realized we have no business dating each other any longer,” she began, “and I didn’t respond to your messages for the same reason. Our relationship has run its course, Ronald. I no longer wish to continue with it, or with you.”

Ron gaped at her. “You no longer wish to continue with me?!”

Hermione shook her head defiantly. “Our relationship no longer serves me,” she declared boldly, confidently, borrowing the words Draco had said to her weeks ago, “in fact, I’m not sure it ever did. We had something innocent and loving in the beginning, years and years ago, but it hasn’t been that way for quite some time. It’s toxic. And I no longer want any part of it.”

Ron continued to stare at her incredulously. “We belong together, Hermione!”

She shook her head. “We don’t. I have something else I want to explore now.”
Even if it’s for only three years. Even if it’s all for show. Even if it’s just on paper.

“Malfoy’s manipulating you!” Ron snapped, “he’s got you brainwashed into thinking this way when it’s not true, Hermione! None of that is –”

“Is everything alright in here, Miss?”

Hermione’s eyes flew to the door where the maitre’d stood with several busboys, eyeing her nervously, their gazes flying between Ron’s aggression and her placating stance. “Are you in need of assistance?”

“I’m so sorry for the disruption,” Ginny said quietly, “my brother and my friend just need a moment of privacy. I apologize for any dramatics that may have bothered your other guests.”

The maître ‘d looked at Hermione, unconvinced, but finally nodded. “Please resolve the matter quickly. Otherwise we’ll have to ask you to leave the premises and go elsewhere.”

“Of course. I do apologize, we’re almost through here,” Hermione acquiesced.

The moment the door closed again, Ron grabbed her by the arms for a second time. With a sharp inhale, Hermione was vaguely aware of Ginny cautiously opening the door, but lost focus as she trained her narrowed eyes back on the wizard screaming in her face. “This isn’t you talking!” he continued to berate viciously, “this is that pompous blonde prick convincing you that we don’t belong! This is that fucking prat talking! This is that fucking Death Eater –”

As if on cue, as if summoned from the darkest depths of hell with a look on his face Hermione had never seen before, Draco moved swiftly: with one hand, he had Ron by the throat, slammed up against a wall, his other hand holding his wand, lit up green, aimed over his heart, a gritted snarl of delirious rage crossing his normally refined features. Blaise and Theo flanked him on either side, their own wands raised, Blaise’s aimed at Ron’s head, Theo’s aimed at his groin.

“Give me one good reason,” Draco whispered through his teeth, so tightly clenched Hermione was sure she could hear them beginning to crack, “Just one good reason why I shouldn’t squeeze your heart until it explodes in your fucking ribcage.”

Ron grimaced, a look of fear crossing his eyes as he tried to remain defiant. “This was a private, personal conversation between me and –”

“My fiancée,” Draco finished, still dangerously whispering, “my witch. Mine. MINE. There is no such thing as a private conversation between anyone and my witch if they lay hands on her.”

“You don’t understand –”

“Oh, I understand,” Draco continued ominously, his hand tightening on Ron’s throat, hard enough for Ron’s eyes to widen and bulge as he struggled for breath, “I understand you fucking blew it. Multiple times over ten years. Like the fucking loser weasel you’ve always been. Playing your stupid fucking mind games. And now you’ve lost and I’ve won.”

Draco swallowed hard before continuing. “This will be the last time you are ever in a room alone with her. Do you hear me?” His hand squeezed tighter and Ron’s eyes widened farther. “Do I make myself clear, Weaselbee?! Because if you ever so much as look at her wrong, if you so much as breathe close enough for her to smell your rancid breath, I will end you. I will lie you beneath me, where you’ve always been, and crush your fucking skull with my heel.”

The moment Ron nodded, shaking with tremors, the door opened and Harry walked in. And then everything happened in slow motion.

Draco didn’t move, knowing his friends had him covered. Harry’s eyes widened in angry defiance, his wand falling to his palm from his sleeve holster, but Theo had immediately faced Harry in a dueling position, their wands coming up to each other’s faces in less than three seconds. Blaise didn’t move, still backing up Draco. Ginny and Hermione’s eyes flew between Theo and Harry before Ginny gingerly stepped next to Harry, her hand on his wand arm, gently putting pressure on it.

“Ron started this,” she murmured soothingly to him, trying desperately to defuse the situation.

“Really?” Harry responded angrily, “because all I see are three fucking serpents against my best friend.”

“Your best friend had Hermione grabbed by the arms and was screaming in her face,” Ginny continued calmly, “and Malfoy defended her. You would have done the same if it were me in the same situation, love.”

Harry’s shocked gaze flew to Hermione. “Is that true?”

“Of course it’s fucking true,” Draco erupted furiously from where he still had Ron at his mercy, “do you think I’d have the Robin to your Batman in a death grip for fun?”

“Yes, it’s true,” Hermione admitted softly, “he confronted me here. I was here with Ginny and Draco and the rest of Black Dragon Wines for dinner.”

Draco loosened his grip around Ron’s throat by a smidge. “Explain what happened. Explain it to your hero, explain it to Saint Potter,” he ordered belligerently.

Ron immediately took several deep breaths before looking at Harry. “I was here, having dinner with a couple of the blokes from the joke shop when I saw Mione and Ginny with the snakes,” he admitted, chest heaving as he continue to suck in oxygen, “she’s telling the truth.”

Harry finally lowered his wand, keeping his eyes trained on Theo whose eyes narrowed before dropping his own wand at his side.

“Malfoy,” Harry said quietly, a hint of a plea in his voice, “let me take Ron home please.”

“Why should I?!” Draco shouted, keeping his eyes on the redhead in front of him, “Your priority has never been protecting Granger! Your priority has always been this prick! I put Granger first and this is what she deserves! Someone who cares about her, defends her, reminds her and this fucking weasel that she merits someone who can take care of her! Not someone who treats her like the dirt beneath their shoes! How dare he touch her?! How dare he raise his voice to her?!” Draco finally turned his enraged face to Harry. “Are you finally ready to tell him he was wrong?! Or do I continue with my lesson?!”

Harry nodded, clenching his jaw. “Yes, alright? Yes. He was wrong.”

His hands shaking, his gaze going back to Ron, Draco finally lowered his wand. But before he removed his hand from his throat, he held him in place, reared back, and punched him with all his strength across the face, taking a page from the witch standing behind him who had already broken his own nose twice in his life in the same manner.

The room erupted. Ron slid to the floor with a groan, pouring blood from his broken nose and his mouth, spitting out multiple teeth. Instinctively, knowing the ins and outs of their friendship after a lifetime of brotherhood, Blaise and Theo immediately turned to face Harry in defense of Draco, their wands up before Harry even had time to do more than gasp in horror. Ginny made to run to Ron, then seemed to think better of it when Harry’s hands flew up to show he was no threat, that he wasn’t about to defend Ron, that he wasn’t going for his wand.

Hermione, meanwhile, had eyes for no one but Draco. No one had ever defended her quite so fiercely. On the one hand, she’d never really needed anyone’s staunch defense. She was a strong, powerful witch on her own. But seeing someone do it anyway, someone she never imagined defending her when he had so often been the one to offend her, to hurt her, as a teenager – she realized then that she had wanted someone, anyone, to have her back loyally. To always side with her, no questions asked, the way Blaise and Theo simply moved if Draco gave the slightest inclination he needed backup. Someone who valued loyalty almost to their own detriment. She hadn’t realized how much she wanted it until she watched Draco embody it. As much as Harry loved her, he’d never bothered. Just as he’d never bothered to side with her when her relationship with Ron had fallen apart so many times; just as he had never quite given her credit when it was due during the war.

Draco saw her. Really saw her. And he was supposed to be her enemy.

What did that say about Harry then? About Ron? Hermione didn’t know how to sit with that.

But her eyes never moved from Draco, even as he turned and came to her with something she hadn’t seen in years: the familiar Draco Malfoy stride, that haughty strut with which he would confidently swagger down the Hogwarts corridors, the one that commanded attention, his only telling trait the few times she’d seen him in his Death Eater garb. Her breath caught in her throat as she recognized it, as he reached for her before he seemed to remember what they really were, not what they were simply presenting to the world, and his arms dropped to his sides. She watched the flurry of emotions cross his face, as he seemed to finally settle for gripping her hand, his thumb gently rubbing over her knuckles, like he had in the gazebo when she’d helped alleviate his panic attack weeks ago.

She realized he couldn’t bring himself to ask the question, that he kept his eyes on her hand, afraid that she was about to berate him, that she was about to tell him he had overreacted, that Ron hadn’t deserved it. She could see them: his occlumency walls, going up, preparing himself to go on the defensive.

“I’m alright,” she quietly answered his unasked question. “Thank you,” she added in a whisper. His eyes rose to hers in surprise, his face visibly relaxing before he finally nodded faintly.

Harry helped Ron stand, his bloodied face in a daze as he held several teeth in his hand. “I’m taking him to St. Mungo’s,” he said quietly, looking from Draco to Blaise and Theo, “don’t worry. I’ll tell them he got into a fight but not with who.”

“And why should we believe you?” Blaise snapped.

“I’ll go too,” Ginny responded firmly, putting a hand on Blaise’s arm before joining Harry and Ron. “We’ll have to walk or take a car. He can’t floo or apparate in this condition.”

“Take our car, Potter.”

All eyes flew up to the door where Pansy and Astoria stood defensively, arms crossed, eyebrows arched, observing the scene before them.

“I can only guess what the fuck happened here,” Pansy spat in disgust.

Astoria placed a light hand on Pansy’s shoulder. “We have a driver, Potter. Have him take you to St. Mungo’s. Just ask him to bring the car back to Nott Manor after he drops you off. Neither Theo nor I drank too much, we can apparate home.” Her eyes met Theo’s, who let out an irritated sigh, his eyes briefly going to Draco.

“Fine,” he finally responded with a wave of his hand. “Don’t get blood all over my backseat, Weasley.”

Ginny approached Hermione and Draco. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “I hope this was enough of a wakeup call for him.”

“Don’t apologize,” Hermione responded quickly. “None of this was your fault. You’ve always stood by my side and I know that.”

Ginny’s eyes traveled to Draco. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Boss.” She hesitated before continuing, “Thank you. For coming so quickly when I motioned to you... for defending Hermione without fail.”

Draco nodded. “See you tomorrow, Ginevra.”

The moment Harry and Ginny helped Ron out a back door, where the rest of the restaurant patrons wouldn’t see them, Pansy and Astoria stepped to Hermione.

“Come on,” Pansy said with a mischievous grin and an arched eyebrow, “I’d say you deserve something fun. Let Astoria and I take you some place I guarantee you’ve never been before, but that I think you’ll love.”

Hermione’s eyebrows raised. “Oh yeah? And where would that be?”

Pansy smirked. “Do you trust me, Granger?”

“No. Can’t say I do.” Hermione grinned at her. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Fair enough. But it’s a surprise.”

Finally, Hermione nodded, a curious smile at her lips. As Pansy and Astoria waited by the same back door that Harry, Ginny, and Ron had left through, Draco turned to Hermione, his hands on her shoulders.

“Did he hurt you?”

She could see it in his eyes again: the emotion. The concern. The worry.

She shook her head. “I’m fine. His hands hurt my arms a bit, but I’m fine.”

Draco carefully dropped his gaze to her upper arms before he gently lifted her sleeves, one at a time. His eyes narrowed when they fell on the small bruises in the shape of fingerprints on her olive skin.

He exhaled roughly. “I should have fucking killed him when I had the chance.”

She carefully lowered his hands. “I’m fine.” Her eyes slid over to Pansy and Astoria before coming back to his face.

Slowly, he nodded, his arms dropping at his sides. Just as he was about to step away his gaze returned to her, questioningly. Throwing caution to the wind, he lowered his face to hers, gently brushing their lips together.

Surprised, she gazed up at him as warmth pooled in her core.

“What was that for?” she whispered. “I thought you hated me.”

His eyes searched hers. “I do. And I know you do, too. I just felt like it, Granger,” he whispered back, “I just felt like it. Hate and all.”

Chapter Text

“Have you two completely lost the plot?!”

Hermione gaped at the building where Pansy and Astoria had brought her: a muggle tattoo shop in the heart of London. The summer sun was setting, and she turned to glare at the two female serpents in the dying light.

“I thought you said you were bringing me to some place you thought I’d love. What on Earth gave you the idea that I would love a tattoo parlor? Do I look like someone who has secret tattoos?” she continued incredulously.

“Do I?” Pansy retorted with a smirk. “Does Astoria?”

Hermione blinked in confusion. “No...”

Pansy met Astoria’s eyes before both witches turned back to Hermione. “Come into the parlor and we’ll show you. Then let us explain. And then decide for yourself,” Pansy offered coaxingly, her hand already on the door handle.

Reluctantly, Hermione followed Astoria and Pansy into the shop, looking around curiously. It seemed clean enough, with its tile floors, and various tattoo art pieces decorating the walls. There were six individual artist stations, four of which were occupied with clients getting work done, the buzzing of the needles loud and constant as background noise.

Hermione sat primly on a deep red leather sofa by the door, eyeing Pansy and Astoria nervously. “Alright,” she finally blurted out expectantly, “show me.”

Without a second thought, Pansy lifted the left side of the hem of her black summer dress. Hermione’s eyes widened: there, winding around Pansy’s entire upper left thigh, making its way up her left hip was a black and green coiled serpent, snaking beneath the soft material of her black satin knickers, mouth open at her hip bone, fangs protruding. Pansy’s eyes met hers before she grinned, lowering her dress.

“Surprised, Granger?”

“I have the same one, but on the opposite side,” Astoria murmured with a quiet chuckle, lifting the hem of her own pink sun dress on her right side, showing Hermione her matching, reflective tattoo of the same serpent slithering up her right thigh, coiling beneath her own lacy knickers, emerging near her right hip bone.

“We did it after the war,” she explained in a hushed voice, her eyes briefly meeting Pansy’s before looking back seriously at Hermione, “we’d all become villains. Pariahs. And we just wanted to reclaim our own self-worth without forgetting who we are. And we think you could use the same infusion of power.”

In the next breath, Pansy grabbed Hermione’s left wrist and turned it, baring her forearm with the familiar white scar tissue, the one Hermione pretended to ignore, pretended she didn’t see, pretended the rest of the world didn’t see even as she could feel strangers’ eyes wandering down to it. “This needs to go,” Pansy declared with a critical arch of her perfectly shaped eyebrow, “you didn’t deserve it then, and you don’t deserve it now. It should never disgrace your line of vision again. You shouldn’t be carrying around a memorial to Bellatrix Lestrange, of all people,” she added with disgust. “And now that you’ve seemingly got rid of Ronald Weasley for good, it’s time you embrace who you have the power to become, Granger.  You’ll gain power when you become a Malfoy; it’s only natural. But you have your own power, power that belongs solely to you. You’ve always had it, you’ve just forgotten. Pick something to cover this heinous abomination, something that reminds you of who you were, who you are, and who you’re destined to become. We’re women, Granger,” she continued softly, her eyes boring into Hermione’s, “we’re witches. We’re magic incarnate. Don’t you forget it again.”

Hermione held Pansy’s gaze for several seconds, letting her words sink in, her eyes going down to the viciously, indelicately carved ‘mudblood’ scar, the ugly slur never forgotten, forever marring her skin.

Pansy sank down beside her on the sofa, still holding her wrist. “We’ll get something with you. Just don’t choose something... distasteful.” She narrowed her eyes. “And no beavers. Or lions.”

“Beavers?” Hermione asked, confusion clouding her face, her eyebrows furrowed. “The lion reference, I understand. But why in Godric’s name would I get a beaver?”

Pansy’s own eyebrows creased in the same confusion. “I thought you had an affinity for beavers?”

“Are you referring to the buck teeth I used to have when I was 11?” Hermione bristled, “because let me tell you Pansy Parkinson –”

Pansy rolled her eyes, quickly placing a single, perfectly manicured finger over Hermione’s mouth. “Relax, Granger. I wasn’t talking about your unfortunate dental reality from our preadolescent days. Salazar. Isn’t your patronus a beaver? Or a rodent of some sort?”

Hermione exhaled in relief before giggling. “It’s an otter.”

“Ah, same thing, no? No otters either, then.”

Hermione let out a small laugh. “I’m a bit buzzed, but not completely plastered.” Finally, she nodded, her gaze flying between Pansy and Astoria. “A rune.”

Astoria grinned. “Should have guessed. Of course. Always a swot.”

An hour and a half later, Hermione held out her forearm next to Astoria’s and Pansy’s as their muggle tattoo artist snapped a picture for them. They’d each gotten an ancient rune: Pansy’s was Eihwaz, a backwards Z tilted on an angle, representing strength and the banishment of evil. Astoria had gotten Ehwaz, what looked like a capital M, the symbol for magical protection.

Hermione’s was slightly more personalized. She stared at it, her fingers gently following the lines of the black Ansuz rune beneath the protective adhesive covering. It closely resembled a tilted capital F and symbolized wisdom, knowledge, and reason, things she valued most in herself, the bits of herself that had always remained the same. Constant. The long, vertical line on the left was wide enough to cover the slur entirely, but for good measure, Hermione had had the tattoo artist add a fine green, leafy vine of bright blue morning glories, her birth flower, along its entire length.

This, she thought to herself triumphantly, fingers tracing the trumpet-like petals of the flowers, this is all me.

She stared at it for a long time, never having had this feeling of overcoming, of prevailing. She’d always simply sat with and accepted the hand she’d been dealt, had decided long ago that her scar was permanent, that the pain which had been inflicted on her at 18 was just something she’d always carry. And yet, in less than an hour of sitting for the tattoo, she emerged with a new outlook, realizing again the power she held within herself, the power she had always held within herself. She’d simply lost her way from being under Ron’s constant hot and cold thumb; from losing her parents; from feeling like Harry’s second favorite; from feeling like a failure at running Beacon of HOPE; from hardly recognizing the woman she’d become. But having the confident, tactical thinking of the Slytherin women with her had actually brought her own Gryffindor bravery roaring forward, as if their two opposing Houses brought out the best of their qualities in each other.

And maybe that was the point of the different Houses all along.

She cast discreet, furtive glances at the women beside her, and with clarity, Hermione knew that this experience had bound them together. And why shouldn’t it? She and Ginny with Pansy and Astoria could be a powerhouse of loyal friendship, complementing one another perfectly in ways that would help each of them grow individually. She could see it. She could absolutely see it.

And then there’s Draco.

 A warm shiver went down her spine at the vivid memory of his staunch, violent defense of her earlier at the restaurant. How could it be that someone who hated her, someone she hated back, had thrown caution to the wind just for her sake? Hadn’t asked questions, not even afterward. Hadn’t confirmed with her first, hadn’t even questioned Ron before taking a side. Had simply walked in at Ginny’s beckoning, assessed the situation in less than five seconds, had arrived at the correct conclusion and flown right to protect, immediately stifling the person who had put her in danger. And not only had he done it, but he had also seemed to believe he was entitled to do it, relished it even.

As if it was a birthright.

Mine, he had said. Not once, but twice. Mine. MINE. He had roared the word at Ron, had threatened Ron’s very life, had an Avada ready, sparking green at the tip of his wand like a raving lunatic pointing at Ron’s heart. Like a Death Eater. Wouldn’t have even hesitated if Ron’s sister hadn’t been present, Hermione was willing to bet.

And she had enjoyed watching it. Had enjoyed watching Ron be put in his place, had enjoyed watching him crumble to pieces, had enjoyed watching him reap the consequences of his own actions, something that neither she nor Harry had ever enforced. And Draco had done it in mere seconds. In my name.

She’d been shocked, at first, before the shock had slowly worn off only to be replaced with a warmth that had heated to a smolder the moment Draco’s fist had connected with Ron’s face. Finally. Finally, someone was putting her first. Finally, someone was showing her, not just telling her that she wasn’t alone.

Suddenly Hermione felt lighter as the realization dawned on her. And maybe it was just the alcohol talking, but still – what a relief it was to know, on some level, that she didn’t have to carry everything alone, that she didn’t need to feel crushed by trying to hold up everything by herself. And it was the least likely people to make her see it: the pair of women before her, and the man in Wiltshire who maybe hated her, but inherently saw her worth and her value when everyone else had seemingly forgotten it – even Hermione herself. She gazed back down at her new tattoo, lost in thought.

Meanwhile, across town, Harry tiredly closed the door behind himself and Ginny as they walked down the sterile, white corridor of St. Mungo’s, leaving Ron to rest overnight in his room.

“I’m surprised Skele-Grow will work on his teeth,” Ginny said quietly as they continued to walk towards the lifts.

Harry nodded tiredly, a hand running through his unkempt hair. “I’m glad no one asked too many questions after I told them he’d gotten into a fight. I wouldn’t have been able to think that quickly on my feet.”

“Who would want to question the famous Harry Potter?” Ginny smirked, looping her elbow through his before her face dropped, “I would have helped you come up with something without bringing in Malfoy’s name.” She sighed. “I can’t believe the mess Ron created at Bella Notte. I’ve never seen Malfoy that angry.”

Before Harry could respond, someone walking by in the opposite direction accidentally elbowed his free arm. Harry turned around quickly, an apology already on his lips when he came face to face with the Minister for Magic. Kingsley, for his part, had also turned, wearing an irritated expression which rapidly vanished and broke out into a smile as he recognized Harry.

“Kings!” Harry exclaimed, immediately taking Kingsley’s extended hand before being pulled into a one armed embrace. “It’s been quite some time! What finds you here so late?”

“Good to see you, Potter,” Kingsley replied, his smile widening, “Sheila just gave birth to our first child.” He motioned ruefully to the two cups of coffee floating beside him, following him down the corridor, “And we’re both ready to fall over from exhaustion of course.”

“Congratulations!” Harry and Ginny both exclaimed.

“I heard through the grapevine you merit your own congratulations,” Kingsley continued, motioning to Ginny, her hand flying immediately to her own curved belly with a blush.

“It’s still early, but we’re excited that James will have a sibling. What about you, Kings, what did Sheila have?” Ginny asked excitedly.

“We’ve a daughter, Sarah,” Kingsley responded, unable to keep the elation off of his face, “it means ‘princess’, of course. Sheila thought it was appropriate what with my name being Kingsley,” he added with a good-natured laugh. “Why are you two here at this hour?”

“Oh,” Harry said, waving his hand in exasperation, “Ron got into a fight at a restaurant. We brought him in to be healed. He’ll be able to go home in the morning.”

“A fight? Is he alright?” Kingsley’s face dropped into one of concern, “Do you think he’d appreciate a visit from me? Lift his spirits a bit?”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt. He happened to run into Hermione with her new fiancé, and –” Harry began before Kingsley interrupted with a knowing nod.

“You mean Draco Malfoy.”

Harry nodded. “Right. Still getting used to it, forgetting it’s widely known news at this point,” he muttered with a roll of his eyes.

Kingsley shook his own head, arching an eyebrow. “I still can’t believe it. I don’t understand what made her arrive at such a decision, to tie her life to someone like that.”

Harry carefully schooled his face into a neutral one. “Someone like that?”

“Of course,” Kinglsey continued, reaching for one of the floating paper cups, taking a small sip of the scalding coffee, “someone with a dark history like Malfoy’s. She’s the Brightest Witch of Her Age, but this decision seems hasty and not well thought out at all, in my opinion. Although, what do I know?” he shrugged, “I just mind my own business and let people carry on.”

Harry nodded his complacency, before licking his lips and continuing. “For me, it was more about not being aware of their secret relationship over the course of three months. I concede I initially was concerned about Malfoy’s loyalty and honesty on behalf of Hermione but surely Malfoy’s dark history isn’t such a wildly contemplated consideration anymore.”

Kingsley barked out a laugh. “Of course it is! No matter what he does, that’s all people will see when they look at him: a Death Eater. Same as Lucius. It’s all I see.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Is it? You don’t think he’s reformed himself? Earned some sort of redemption? Atoned for what he did as a child? More importantly, what he didn’t do?”

Kingsley let out another tired laugh. “He took the Mark. A tiger doesn’t change its stripes, Potter. A Malfoy will always be a Malfoy. As far as I’m concerned, he and Lucius both deserved to rot in prison. An apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, after all. In Draco’s case, it probably would have been a good preventative measure. Who knows what he’ll do in the future. He could be a ticking time bomb.”

Harry stared at Kingsley in shock. “Do you truly believe that? You never said any of this when I defended him at his trial.”

“Of course not. I wasn’t about to try and influence your decision. It wasn’t my place. You were the war hero. Neither was it my place to try and influence the Wizengamot. But it’s absolutely my place to deny Malfoy anything that would make his life easier post-war.”

“Like what?”

Kinglsey rolled his eyes melodramatically. “He’s been trying for months to get the Ministry as a client for his pompous, overpriced wine, Black Dragon, I think.” He shook his head. “I won’t be complacent in letting him come back into society as if he deserves it. Let him work for it the way everyone else does.”

“I think that’s what he’s been trying to do, Kings,” Harry replied quietly, “he’s been doing it for over ten years, he was quite successful over on the continent.”

Kingsley shrugged. “Not my concern. The continent didn’t see the war the way we did. We were ground zero. They barely felt a ripple. Don’t get me wrong: both sides had their supporters from the continent, but they didn’t feel it like we did. They didn’t see what we saw. If Voldemort had won, though, his power and influence would have absolutely expanded over there. We saved them, if you ask me.” He shrugged again, a shake of his head, “So if they can forgive Malfoy and let bygones be bygones, he can go back to France for all I care. Not like he struggled in his chateau,” he added sarcastically, taking another sip of coffee.

Harry raised an eyebrow, his jaw clenching before he lowered his voice in disapproval. “I have to say, Kings, I’m shocked you not only think and feel this way, but that you’re actively giving Malfoy a hard time, that you’re overtly trying to block him from being successful through nothing but his own hard work and dedication. This doesn’t sound like you. You’ve always been one to give people a chance. Don’t you think Draco Malfoy has earned the right to another chance?”

Kingsley looked away, evidently realizing he was not going to find solidarity with Harry in this particular topic. “This isn’t the time for this conversation. It’s rather inappropriate,” he added, checking his watch as if he was suddenly concerned with the time. “I’ll be heading back to Sheila now. It was nice to see you, Harry, Ginny. I’ll stop by before Ron is released in the morning to say hello, let him air out his Malfoy grievances. I bet he’s with me on that,” he added jokingly with a wink, lifting his coffees in farewell before sauntering off in the opposite direction of the lifts.

Harry stood frozen in the corridor, watching Kingsley walk away.

Malfoy had been telling the truth.

“I told you,” Ginny whispered quietly.

Clenching his jaw, Harry exhaled a deep sigh, rubbing his palm down his face. “I guess I just didn’t want to believe it.” He gazed at Ginny for several seconds.

“Can you floo home from Nott Manor after dropping off their car, love? I’d like to check on Hermione... maybe have a quick chat with Malfoy,” he added quietly with another deep sigh.

Ginny nodded, pulling him forward to plant a small kiss on his lips. “And this is why I married you, Harry Potter.” She shook her head. “Go do what you have to do, fix what you have to fix. I’ll see you at home.”

With a nod and a bemused smirk, Harry unhooked his arm from his wife, watching her until she walked into a lift, disappearing with a wave of her hand as the door closed. Harry turned on his heel, heading straight from the hospital’s front doors out into the street to the apparition point.

Wanting to put off seeing and talking to Malfoy for as long as possible, Harry apparated to Hermione’s townhouse in Hampstead only to find, to his chagrin, Malfoy himself sitting on her front stoop.

“What are you doing here, Potter? Unless you’re here to tell Granger that your chummy wingman unfortun – actually, scratch that – fortunately died from his well-deserved injuries, I didn’t think I’d be running into you again in the same night,” Malfoy bitterly spat, his chin in his hand.

With a roll of his eyes, Harry sat beside Draco on the stoop. “I just wanted to make sure Hermione was alright after what happened at the restaurant. Why are you out here? You’re engaged to her; you aren’t allowed to floo directly into her house?”

Draco cast him a withering look of disgust. “I wouldn’t floo directly into anyone’s home if they weren’t there, engaged to them or not, it’s an invasion of privacy. I have manners, you know. Decorum. I guess I can’t say the same for you, Potter.” He glanced away, leaning back on his palms, gazing up at the sky. “I just wanted to make sure Pansy and Astoria didn’t haze her and leave her abandoned somewhere.” He scoffed again, “Abandoned with her worthless fucking Nokia. Lot of good that will do her.”

Harry’s concern flew to astronomical proportions. “What? You think they would do that? You think they –”

“Sense the sarcasm, Potter.”

Harry relented with a sigh and a nod. He waited several minutes in the still silence of the night, an awkward lull between them.

“Actually, Malfoy, if I’m being honest, I was also going to stop by the Manor. But I wanted to avoid it as long as possible. I...” he trailed off, clearing his throat as Draco turned his head to his left, just slightly, to train his piercing eyes on Potter, an eyebrow raised in cynicism.

“If you mention Weasley, so help me Merlin –”

Harry quickly shook his head. “No, it’s not about him. It’s not about what happened tonight. I... I ran into Kingsley at the hospital, and we had a brief chat.”

Draco said nothing, his face contorting into his custom sneer as he waited for Potter to continue.

“His wife had a baby tonight,” Harry continued, “and then –”

“I’ll be sure to owl him and his wife some of my best wine as a congratulations,” Draco muttered under his breath sarcastically.

“It wouldn’t help, even if you did,” Harry murmured, dropping his eyes to his hands.

“Wouldn’t help with what?”

“It wouldn’t help you get the Ministry as a client.”

Draco rolled his eyes again. “I know that,” he gritted, “I’m not actually sending that moralistic, holier-than-thou prick with a superiority complex a gods damn thing.” He paused, digesting Harry’s words before he finally nodded in understanding, then shaking his head in bewildered amusement.

“I see,” he hissed, “you finally believe me. Shacklebolt showed his true colors, said some shit about me and you realized you fell for his façade hook, line, and sinker. Pathetic.”

Harry turned to look at him. “He pretty much confirmed that he’s purposely freezing you out of doing business with the Ministry. Said you could go back to France and keep doing business with the continent if they love you so much.”

Even though Potter wasn’t telling him anything new, his words stung deep inside. Hearing confirmation of what he had suspected, what he had known, if he was honest with himself, made his heart twist, but he worked to maintain his face emotionless as he kept his gaze on the night sky.

It makes no sense to show Potter all my cards.

He scoffed. “Go back to France. I could, I suppose. And I’d be happy. Life is peaceful in France.”

No one’s afraid of me in France.

Intimidated, yes. By his wealth, his status, his high class, the way he carried himself, the way he walked, the way he dressed, the way his face couldn’t be read, the way nothing seemingly bothered him. But afraid? Like he might snap and kill someone? No. He commanded more respect than that in France and the rest of the continent.

“You’d take Hermione with you,” Potter murmured quietly. It wasn’t a question.

Draco’s eyes widened in surprise, the realization of Potter’s words descending into his stomach like an anchor. “I... I suppose I could,” he finally squeezed out, the idea both terrifying him and fascinating him simultaneously. He shook his head. “She wouldn’t go, Potter. She’s got Beacon of HOPE.”

“She could run that easily from anywhere.”

“Are you trying to convince me to go back to France? I’m not giving up that easily. It took me ten years to attain what I earned in France. I’ve been here, what? Six, seven months?” he bristled at the thought, “I’m not going to fade away like some fucking failure. England is my gods damned home. Moreso than France. I’m not letting some supreme tosser like Kingsley Shacklebolt chase me away.” He relented, eyes going back up to the sky. “He won’t be Minister forever. I’ll bide my time. I’ll earn it the way I’m meant to earn it, even if I have to wait for his successor.”

Harry nodded, a small smile on his face. “I bet you will, Malfoy. I’m sure of it.”

Draco rolled his eyes in disgust. “Oh, fuck off, Saint Potter.”

A loud bark of laughter erupted from Harry, making Draco jump. Harry shook his head in amusement as he stood from the stoop. “No matter what, some things never change. And I, for one, enjoy the fact that everything you say to me is exactly what I expect it to be, Malfoy.”

Draco’s eyebrow lifted, swallowing down the small smile that threatened his composed demeanor.

As Draco continued to sit on the stoop, Harry stood before him. “I’d like to show you something tomorrow, if you’ve got time.”

“You’d like to show me something?”

Harry nodded, his eyes dropping to the ground, his shoe scuffing at the concrete stoop. “I think it’s important.”

“What the fuck is it?” Draco asked, a note of panicked disgust in his voice.

Harry couldn’t help but smirk at his reaction. “Always a prat. Just... it won’t take long. An hour, maybe less. I could meet you at the Manor’s apparition point in the morning. Say, ten o’clock, yeah?”

Intrigued, Draco finally nodded.

With his own nod, Harry took out his wand, preparing to disapparate. “Tell Hermione I’ll come check in tomorrow. Oh... bring a sock with you in the morning, Malfoy. A spare one. One you won’t mind leaving behind.”

Before Draco could react, Harry vanished with a crack.

A few minutes later, Granger appeared before him, a look of pleased surprise dawning on her face at the sight of him.

It made him uneasy. He’d shown her too much earlier in the restaurant. He’d always tried to maintain a sense of calculated, controlled emotion in public to maintain their ruse, but when he had seen Weasley gripping her so tightly, screaming in her face, something inside of Draco had snapped. The angry, natural reaction to defend what was his had come screaming to the forefront, the dragon inside of him preparing to breathe fire in her name, and it had left him reeling in the aftermath once she had left the restaurant with Pansy and Astoria.

She’d seen too much. Seen what he himself hadn’t seen building until it had come exploding out of him in fierce protection.

And Draco didn’t bare anything that was normally buried deep inside. Not to anyone.

And now he had to do the work to rein it back in. To protect himself. To protect her. Because this wasn’t real, and Draco wasn’t going to allow himself to forget it. He couldn’t mix up the truth with their hoax. He wouldn’t allow himself to think any of it was becoming real.

I won’t allow the lines to blur. This is business. She’s just business.

Before he could say a word, Granger held out her forearm. “Look,” she said quietly.

Beneath the moonlight and the shining stars, Draco took two steps forward, grasped her wrist, eyeing the tattoo carefully, his eyes widening in recognition of the rune, his long fingers reverently tracing one of the blue morning glories. She saw him trying to make sense of them and she answered without being prompted.

“Morning glories,” she murmured into the night air between them, “they’re my birth flower. And the rune is –”

“Ansuz,” he whispered, “wisdom.” He nodded, his eyes rising to meet hers. “I wouldn’t have expected any different.”

Sensing the electricity that tremored where his fingers held her arm, he carefully let go and took a step back. Rein it in, Malfoy.

“That’s where they took you? Pansy and Astoria?”

She nodded. She looked like she wanted to say more, but he could see the slight confusion in her eyes at his coldness, could see her putting up her own walls. Good. Because none of this is real.

“You covered the scar,” he murmured.

She nodded a second time, her gaze holding his. “It was a long time coming. I just hadn’t known it until Pansy and Astoria leant me some of their Slytherin cunning and ambition to want to be the best version of myself, I guess.”

She swallowed hard. “Why are you here, Malfoy?”

He shrugged, opened his mouth to say the words he’d planned to say. Words he’d crafted to hurt, to put some comfortable distance between them. But the moment he looked up at her, standing there beneath the moonlight, he swallowed them down.

Always been a coward.

“I just wanted to make sure you were alright,” he finished lamely, “you were shaken up when you left.”

Do it. Say it. You were going to say it, you fucking coward!

“Were you always so weak? Did you always let Weasley walk all over you like that?” he spit, letting the venom drip from his tongue.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “What?”

“I just would have never believed it if I hadn’t witnessed it with my own two eyes, is all. The Brightest Witch, the war heroine, letting that second rate excuse for a wizard, excuse for a man, treat you that way.” He let his eyes roll in distaste, let his face curl up into a sneer. “I thought you were better than that, but I suppose I was wrong.”

Granger bristled and stomped, infuriated, past him, her arm slamming into his own as she climbed the stoop to her front door.

“I don’t know why I expected something different when I saw you sitting here,” she furiously threw at him, whirling around to face him, “I don’t know why I thought something changed at the restaurant.”

“Oh yeah?” Draco scoffed, “what did you think changed, Granger? We’ve made ourselves, our feelings, and our intentions very clear from the beginning.”

“You’re absolutely right. We have. It was my mistake to think for a fraction of a moment that something had shifted. I may have let Ron walk all over me for too long, but I certainly won’t give you the satisfaction of allowing the same behavior, so you can fuck right off and go home,” she snarled.

Draco mockingly put his hand up by his heart. “You let Weasley hurt you repeatedly, but you know your worth when it comes to me, the former Death Eater. Shocking.”

“This has nothing to do with your past. The difference is I loved Ron, once upon a time ago. So, I let him take advantage. I showed him my vulnerability because I loved him. I gave him the upper hand because I loved him. But you?” Her voice lowered to a malicious whisper. “I’ve always hated you.”

As her words doused over him like ice water, hurting more than he would ever allow himself to admit or show, Granger opened her front door, slamming it shut behind her.

Good girl, he thought, closing his eyes briefly at the sting. You’ve never been a coward, Granger.