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Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy was excellent at his job. 

He hoped that one day, this would be the only thing that came to mind when people thought of him.

The Malfoys had come out of the war far less damaged than expected, though the same could not quite be said for Draco. He sometimes felt like a lake, frozen over in the black of a deep winter. If there had ever been any movement or glimmer of life in the depths of his soul, it had since been rendered distant and untouchable by thick layers of ice.

He had spent too much of his teen years navigating blurred lines (inching more and more towards the wrong side of said line with each passing decision). Now that the war was over, Malfoy wanted only the clean rigidity of transactionally straightforward loyalties.

He worked in private security. He was paid to keep his client safe, and he never had to break the law.

And it was nice to protect things from destruction, for a change.

Although the papers and general public could make no sense of the once-flashy and still-wealthy Malfoy suddenly taking on a job more adjacent to menial labor than aristocracy, it would have been easy to comprehend for anyone who understood him.

But there was no one who did.

And it was precisely this unattachment—and his frigid dedication to forgetting the past—that were the driving factors for Malfoy’s urge to leave as soon as the Ministry trials were over.

His parents had been eager to return to normalcy. Their Gringotts accounts had been unfrozen, the keys to the family estate returned to them.

But within hours of the verdict—before the papers had even printed the results of the trial—Malfoy was gone.

Disgraced in his home country, friendless and interested in keeping it that way, Malfoy left for Bulgaria.

-

His first client was a wealthy businessman.

The job lasted nearly a year—two kidnappings foiled, a home attack neutralized—before the man decided to move to Britain to oversee a new venture.

Malfoy declined the opportunity to relocate. He was quite happy here in Bulgaria, where there were no old memories and he could live with the emotionless detachment he hoped to retain until he died.

The new year brought with it a new client.

By this time, Malfoy had developed a reputation. He did good work, after all. Plus, his presence offered a sort of glamorously dark edge that his public-facing clients enjoyed. Tall and silent and hard-eyed—the mascot of unflinching security. 

The just-visible curl of his Dark Mark poking out from under a starched sleeve didn’t hurt, either. This is a man who isn’t afraid of a little dirty work.

But his marketable appearance turned out to be a double-edged sword, which Malfoy realized when an aging aristocrat hired him to watch over his twenty year old daughter. He learned later that she had selected him out of a catalog, like a little girl picking her next pony. 

Still, no matter. He had work to do.

Malfoy took the job seriously. The house was large—sixty-five windows and twelve bedrooms. A staff of twenty in the summer and thirteen in the winter. But the job did not make it to the winter, because Malfoy had been too focused on surveillance to notice when the girl started taking on a decidedly unprofessional interest in her new body guard. 

When she crawled into his bed one June night, Malfoy nearly attacked her by mistake. He came close to experiencing his first emotion in a year (panic) and resigned abruptly the next day, leaving his client baffled and the silly girl heartbroken.

Malfoy was a physical man, in general—proficient in and fond of combat, exercise, and flying. But intimacy had been taken off the menu. Even had it not violated Malfoy’s professional ethics, he would have had no interest in the trust fund ingénue. It was a no to people, as far as he was concerned—a no to vulnerability and examination and the inevitable request to open himself up so they could discuss all the broken workings within.

Much easier to live here, on the surface. Where things were clean and cold and easy to understand.

The waitlist opened again. 

And on a cold Sunday morning, Malfoy received an owl bearing an envelope stamped with the insignia of the Bulgarian National Quidditch team. 

Professional athletes were not an entirely uncommon client type, though the oddly vague language of the letter did draw Malfoy’s curiosity.

Seeking to retain private personal security services; complete discretion required. Full time availability necessary. On-premise accommodations. 

Malfoy brushed past the description, seeking the most relevant portion of the letter. 

Location: Bulgaria. No travel needed.

Malfoy wrote back. By the end of the day, his few bags were packed and he started his new job.

-

The client, as it turned out, was Viktor Krum.

“Death threats,” Krum grunted without any particular sense of fear or emotion. He shrugged his thick shoulders. “You know. Is natural, ven the World Cup approaches.”

Nice to see he was as brief-spoken as ever. Malfoy appreciated that in a person. 

They walked the grounds of Viktor’s estate, which was aggressively modern while somehow also being overgrown, with a rather uncared-for look. Like the gardener had quit six months ago and Krum had never noticed.

Malfoy kicked a desiccated branch out of his way, then eyed the towering stone walls.

“Good coverage,” he said. His breath came out in a puff of mist in the cold air. He tapped his wand against the stone slabs. “No magical reinforcing?”

Krum shrugged.

“We’re going to need to change that. Alright—let’s go along the back perimeter again. How many doors are there along the East side? Other than the servant’s entrance?”

Over the course of an afternoon, Malfoy familiarized himself with the shape and structure of Krum’s defenses. And somehow—despite an eagle-eyed attention to exits and entries, to the heights of walls and the vantage points of windows—it took him embarrassingly long to realize Krum did not live alone.

The famous Quidditch player had not deigned to fill out the number of people in his household, so Malfoy had assumed it to be one.

He had assumed incorrectly.

Malfoy stood at the cold, cracked marble front steps and considered the expansive dead lawns. Nowhere to hide for an attacker, but also no coverage for the house.

He heard the door behind him open.

“Have you considered guard dogs?” Malfoy asked, eyeing the open space.

“We had some, for a bit,” a woman’s voice said.

Malfoy whirled to face her—he didn’t like not knowing who was near him. 

It was Hermione Granger.

The shock of seeing a familiar face was like a cold plunge.

Her curly hair was smoother than he remembered, and her face more wan. She seemed mildly surprised to see him.

Malfoy had worked so hard to separate himself from any memories of the war, of Hogwarts. It was not pleasant, finding an unexpected reminder of Britain here.

Trying to regain composure, he broke eye contact. He looked down instead, and in doing so saw the flash of the huge diamond that rested on Hermione’s slim fourth finger.

“Sorry,” he said, directing his gaze back out over the lawns. “I—ah—didn’t realize there was anyone else here. Krum didn’t mention he was married.”

“Oh. Yes. Well—engaged. He’s on a Floo with the team manager right now. Should I get him…?”

“No—no, that’s fine. I spoke with him already. Just doing my security walkthrough.”

“Alright.”

Malfoy was aware that his cheeks were slightly warm; he was embarrassed by Hermione’s presence. His last memory of her was at the trials, and it was blurred with shame and adrenaline. He remembered the focused magnanimity of her expression at the Wizengamot, as she testified that Malfoy served an important role in shielding Harry. 

A girl who had hardly known him—other than the bad parts. Showing mercy.

“Well,” he said. “If you have any concerns about the safety of the house, let me know.”

“Yes, alright—thanks.”

They stood together in awkward silence. Hermione appeared to be waiting for someone. She lifted her wrist to check her watch, which was gold and jangled softly against a stack of bracelets. 

She seemed very different from how she’d been in school.

She looked oddly listless. Pale. There were shadows under her eyes and the thin coat of red lipstick she wore, while striking, only served to make her skin look more pallid by comparison.

Hermione had always been a sweet girl, and even now there was something unexpectedly vulnerable about the way she carried herself. This effect was somehow magnified by the incongruously lavish clothes she wore. Gold jewelry, an oversized velvet coat, little burgundy heels. 

Her dark eyes were still her own. Earnest and a little sad. None of the finery had yet managed to knock that out of her.

“Does he have you living in the cottage on the grounds?” Hermione asked finally. She seemed accustomed to making dutiful conversation. 

“One of the guest rooms downstairs.”

“Oh. Great. I hope it’s comfortable enough. If you need anything just let Ivan know. He’s the house manager…”

There was the sound of a motor pulling up just then, and Malfoy turned to see a shiny black car roll up to the steps with a crunch of gravel under rubber.

The window in the back rolled down, revealing a coiffed blonde wearing large sapphire earrings.

“Hello,” the blonde woman said. Her earrings swung a little, catching the gray winter light. “All ready to go? Who’s that?”

“Viktor’s new security man,” Hermione said, trotting down the steps.

The driver of the car held open the door opposite the blonde’s, and Hermione got in.

“Hold on,” Malfoy said, striding up to the window. He leaned low to talk to her, hand on the roof of the car. “Where are you going?”

“The dinner,” the blonde said, as though there was only one. 

“What? No. Hermione—I mean, Miss Granger—you need to tell me where you’re going.”

Hermione looked up at him in mild surprise. 

“Why?” she asked with a small frown.

“I’m the new security detail,” Malfoy said. He felt oddly off-kilter. “And—I need to know the names of anyone who will come to visit you or take you away from the property.”

“I’m Tasha,” the blonde woman supplied politely. 

She offered him a gracefully limp hand, which he took briefly only because there didn’t seem to be another option.

“Tasha is the Bulgarian Minister’s wife,” Hermione said.

Tasha looked not a day older than twenty-five, which would put her at about half the Minister’s age. The ring on her left hand held a diamond nearly as big as Hermione’s.

“Right,” Malfoy said. “Well. Tasha is going to need to give advance warning next time, alright? I’m going to get the address for your dinner from Krum. Next time I’ll need it at least a day in advance.”

“Oh, Viktor won’t have the address,” Hermione said, sounding confused even by the thought of this prospect. “Look, we’re running late—I’ll remember to get you the address next time I go out.”

Tasha’s driver, indifferent to Malfoy’s security protocols, was already starting the car. It moved out from under his hand and Malfoy had to step back. His palm had left a print on the otherwise liquid-like expanse of gleaming black paint—no doubt it would be carefully cleaned off by tomorrow morning. 

The thought of Hermione going out into the world all dressed up, looking fragile and tired with her jangling bracelets, with no one but Tasha-the-Bulgarian-Minister’s-wife knowing her whereabouts, elicited a visceral negative reaction in Malfoy.

“Why wouldn’t Krum have the address?” he called, pacing alongside as the car started to pull away. “Hold on—when will you be back?”

“He’s too busy to care where I go,” Hermione said, tipping her face slightly so she could continue speaking to him. She had to raise her voice a little over the engine and the gravel and the clicking opening sound of the wrought iron gate but seemed otherwise indifferent to her circumstance. “I think I’ll be back tonight.”

“You think?”

But she was already gone. Leaving Malfoy with an unaccountable sense of frustration, and the looming realization that this job might turn out to be more complicated than he’d expected.

Chapter Text

My recommendations are on the last four pages,” Malfoy said to Krum the next morning. “If you have no objections, I’ll start implementing them.”

Krum accepted the security report and flipped through the papers. He was already in his red and black Quidditch kit, on his way to the pitch for morning practice. In his free hand was a gleaming new Firebolt. The latest model had been released only a week prior, but already Krum’s showed signs of wear. Malfoy recalled the Daily Prophet sports column in which it had been breathlessly reported that the celebrated Bulgarian Seeker ran through six new Firebolts every season. 

Malfoy looked around as Krum reviewed the documents. 

The grounds were slightly more welcoming in the morning. Birds chirped—a mourning dove made its warbling call. The sky was a startling contrast of cold cobalt blue with streaks of slate white, the celestial uniform of late fall in the Bulgarian mountains. 

“Budget for external enforcements no problem,” Krum grunted. “Dogs—not sure. Ve had some, but not easy to arrange for their care.”

“Understood,” Malfoy said, returning his gaze to Krum.

“The rest is fine,” Krum said finally, handing it back. “No problems.”

He shouldered his broom and made to continue to the pitch, but Malfoy lifted the papers to his chest, stopping him.

“Your fiancée doesn’t seem concerned enough about security,” Malfoy said. “I need her to take protocol seriously.”

Krum seemed surprised. Like Hermione’s quiet docility was a given.

“She is giving you trouble?” 

“Not yet. But I can tell she has an active social life. And she left last night without giving me an address. I just need her to follow procedure from now on.”

“She does as she pleases,” Krum said. He made a little fluttering hand gesture, like a bird in flight. “Comes and goes. I don’t like to stop her.”

“She doesn’t need to be confined to the house. I just need her to follow protocol.”

But a courier arrived just then, bearing a leather bag with the team logo on it—the playbook for the upcoming match. Krum lifted a gloved hand to him, his attention wandering from the conversation. 

“Okay,” Krum said to Malfoy, making his way to the uniformed courier. “I vill talk to Hermione about it. Or you, if you see her first.”

He walked away.

-

Noon came and went and Hermione still did not return. 

Malfoy, pacing the grounds and finishing setting up all his security charms, was increasingly irritated by her absence. It felt like a gaping failure in his first day, that half the household was gone without him knowing where.

What was she doing, out all night? And why didn’t Krum care? 

If she had been anyone else, beautiful and engaged to an inattentive man, Malfoy knew what his first guess would be.

But Hermione had been so—good, back at Hogwarts. She’d always seemed to him like a representation of all the highest qualities of a Gryffindor. The ones he’d somehow known or been told were out of reach for him as a Slytherin. Virtuous, just, brave.

Surely she couldn’t have grown into the kind of woman who had an affair?

Malfoy made it a point to never speculate on the private lives of his clients; doing so would be crossing the personal-professional line that he worked so hard to keep stark and unviolated. But something about this time was different. Maybe it was because he and Hermione were not strangers.

Hours later—after he’d shed his uniform and donned exercise clothes to run laps around the property perimeter—the thought still nagged at him.

Scowling, Malfoy drew his focus back to the cold air, to the ground under his feet and the pounding rhythm of his run. He picked up the pace until his breath came in white bursts in the cold air, then picked up the pace some more. 

Faster and faster, until finally there was no room in his head for anything but trying to breathe.

~

He was on his eighth lap when the long, glossy car from the previous night rolled up the front driveway.

The driver came out to open the back door, and Hermione climbed out.

Malfoy came to a stop, breathing hard, watching her. His exhalations came out in white mist in the chilly air.

There was a barely perceptible frown on her face, and she was in different clothes than she’d been in the night before—brown tweed trousers and a purple jumper. Wherever it was that she’d stayed overnight, she seemed to have a wardrobe there.

This made Malfoy think of a pied-à-terre in the city, or perhaps a room at her friend Tasha’s house. Both much more comforting options than the passion-fueled and illicit liaison at a luxury hotel he’d been imagining. 

The thought cheered him, a little.

“Good evening,” Malfoy called, lifting a hand, still breathing heavily.

Hermione looked up.

”Oh,” she said. “Hello.”

Her tone was distant and polite, without any trace of defensiveness or guilt. She didn’t seem to think that Malfoy would have anything to say about her extended absence.

He wiped his face with his shirt and jogged the brief rest of the way towards her.

“Do you have a minute?” he asked. “I need to go over security protocol with you.”

”Sure. But you already told me yesterday," she said. “Remember?”

”Yes. But I’m not sure you understood.”

Hermione reached back into the car for some bags; she seemed to have just gone shopping.

“You don't need to worry about me," she said with a laugh. "I don’t go anywhere dangerous, or anything.”

Her tone—faraway, lifeless—irked him. This was not the Hermione he remembered. The one he used to watch when she came into the library, wondering how it was possible for her to have stayed up all night breaking who knew what rules with Potter and Weasley and still get up at the crack of dawn to study for exams.

“With all due respect,” Malfoy said. “I’ll be the one determining what to worry about.”

Her movements faltered.

She shot a glance at him—confused, annoyed. Unaccustomed to being paid attention to.

“I hardly think I need a babysitter,” she said. “Anyway, didn’t Viktor hire you to protect the house?”

“He hired me to protect the household. That’s two people: him and you.”

Hermione’s listlessness was finally gone. She was actually looking at him now. Not like he was just background staff, but like she was registering him as something unusual.

“Listen,” she said, lifting her bags. “Oh—shoot—“

In her agitation, one of the shopping bags dropped to the floor. Tissue paper and the edge of a new jumper spilled onto the gravel.

Malfoy was already kneeling to pick it up for her. He reached up to take the other bags, too.

”I can get these,” he said curtly. “Into the house?”

”…Thank you.” 

They walked together up the sweeping white steps. 

“Listen,” Hermione started saying again. Her strides were shorter than his and she was in heeled boots. Malfoy slowed. “I assume you’re trying to make a good impression on Viktor, since you just started. But you don’t need to put on this dog and pony show—I promise you he’s not worried about my whereabouts. Better stick to your duties around the house and leave me out of it.”

Malfoy stopped. Jaw tight, he turned to look at her.

“You misunderstand my role here,” he said.

Hermione’s eyes flashed with irritation, in the way of a girl who had never been accused of misunderstanding anything. But Malfoy had no qualms about being the first.

“I don’t care about making a good impression on Krum,” he said evenly. “And I don’t care about making a good impression on you. I’m here for one reason: to do my job. I take my work extremely seriously, Miss Granger. So when I tell you I need something—it’s not for show and it’s not optional. Do you understand me?”

Hermione stared at him.

“I can’t believe you just spoke to me like that,” she said. Color bloomed on her face. “I’m—I’m your employer.”

“Then you should be thrilled with the extent of my dedication to your safety,” Malfoy snapped. “A mediocre security professional would bend to your whims. That’s not me. I make the rules, and you get to go to bed in one piece each night.”

There was nothing left to say, as far as he was concerned. Malfoy turned and continued his way up the steps, his pulse kicking in his ears. 

He reached the door first.

“After you,” he said stiffly, holding it open. “Watch your heels.”

Still looking disbelieving, Hermione nonetheless sniffed and stepped over the threshold.

“I’ll take those bags back," she said. "I'm going downstairs."

“They’re heavy,” Malfoy said. “I’ll bring them.”

Hermione looked displeased but made no argument. She stood with her spine straight, carefully maximizing distance between herself and him, as they took a gleaming silver lift down from the foyer to the lower floor.

“Well,” she said after a moment. “Since you made such a fuss over security protocol. Would you like to tell me the rules?”

"There will be no more excursions like last night,” Malfoy said. “From now on, I need to know everything ahead of time."

“Rather strict.”

"Yes,” he said. “That I am."

She shifted her weight.

"Alright. What sort of things do you need to know ahead of time?"

"When you plan to leave the house, where you’re going, when you'll return. The names of any visitors.”

“Okay,” she said. “Who, what, when, where, why.”

The silver doors opened with a whoosh and they stepped out.

“Not why,” Malfoy corrected. His voice echoed slightly in the tall, silent hall. “Your reasons are your business. Not relevant to me.”

Something about this remark made Hermione falter. Malfoy nearly ran into her. 

“Funny,” she said after a moment. She kept her gaze fixed down at the ground now, focusing on each forward step. A curl of hair fell over her dark eyes. “You sound just like Viktor.”

Malfoy felt a twist of unhappiness in his chest about being compared to Hermione's neglectful fiancé. He didn't want to examine this emotion. Instead, he forced his attention away and out the tall windows of the estate. It was dark outside. He recited in his head the defensive spells he’d cast on the walls this morning. 

A moment later, Hermione came to a stop outside a set of white double doors.

“This is my study,” she said. “You can just put the bags anywhere.”

She'd called it a study but it was more of a crafts room. There was a half-finished puzzle on the table, a fuzzy quilt on one of the chairs and an open book propped up with a basket of yarn.

“Here is fine,” Hermione repeated, a little impatiently. She shifted the quilt off the chair so Malfoy could rest the bags there. “Thank you for bringing them in.”

He could tell she wanted him to leave. This was a room Hermione had clearly curated for her comfort. And Malfoy—curt, cold, unfriendly—didn’t fit in.

He set the bags on the chair, then hesitated. He glanced at her.

She looked small and alone in this big room, with her multitudinous shopping bags and her dark eyes.

“Listen,” he heard himself say. His hand twitched at his side and he straightened a book on the table to give it something to do. “Come to think of it. Maybe you should tell me the why."

His voice sounded stiff and cold even to his own ears.

“What do you mean?”

“Why you go places. I decided that I do need to know."

She stiffened.

"You don't need to do that," she said. "Don't feel sorry for me."

"I'm not. As I told you before—my concern is your safety. So do as I ask, please."

Hermione's cheeks turned slightly pink. She fiddled with a puzzle piece.

"Alright," she said. "If you need to know."

Malfoy nodded, then left.

He was walking out and down the hall by the time he realized he was shaking. Very faint tremors, as though his body knew before his mind did, that he had just undergone some great strain. 

Malfoy shook his head. He walked faster, willing himself back to steadiness.

-

Over the course of his first week, Malfoy learned Hermione spent most of her hours in her study and almost no time at all with Krum.

Given that Malfoy’s role was to keep a close eye on the high-traffic parts of the house, he added Hermione’s study to his daily patrol and walked the windowed downstairs hall twice a day. 

The doors to her study remained closed at first, but on Thursday evening she left them open. Malfoy slowed down, curious in spite of himself. 

Hermione was sitting at the table with the puzzle. It was more finished than it had been the last time he was here; the image showed a herd of Hippogriffs. 

She looked up and met his eyes. Malfoy, who had not intended to be caught looking into the room, tensed up at once.

“Hello,” she said. She set the piece down. “How are you?”

”Fine. Can I help you with something?”

“I—wanted to tell you I have an excursion coming up," she said. "You told me to let you know."

Malfoy was surprised at her now-willing cooperation. It sent a pleasurable thrum through his brain, that she was following his rules so well.

“Very good," he said. He stood in the doorway. “Go on, then.”

Hermione sat up straighter. Malfoy was reminded of her back in classes at Hogwarts, glowing under the approving words of a professor.

“I’m going to a bar in Burgas," she said. "In English it’s called the Black Fox.”

"That’s fine," he said. "And when will you go?”

“Saturday evening. I'll, um. Probably be back around midnight."

Two days from now, for approximately five hours. Malfoy mentally logged it all. 

"Excellent," he said. "Thank you for telling me. Is there anything else?"

There was. He needed to know who would be there, and why she was going. He waited to see if she would remember.

"I'm seeing Tasha, and her new friend Aleksei," Hermione said promptly. "Because—I've been bored. I thought it would be nice to see people."

Malfoy smiled.

"Well done," he said. 

Hermione blinked quickly and looked away, her cheeks slightly pink.

Malfoy checked his watch, then cast a glance back down the hall. He had another hour on his patrol.

“If that's all, I'll continue my shift," he said. "I hope you have fun on Saturday."

He started leaving. He was almost out the door when Hermione spoke again.

"Actually," she said quickly. “Now that I think of it. Maybe I won't be back by midnight."

"Alright," Malfoy said, turning to look at her. "What time then?"

Hermione was watching him with an odd look on her face—inquisitive, assessing. Like she was trying to see how he would respond, if she applied pressure in different ways.

”I don’t know," she said.

Malfoy gave her a long look. 

"You know I need a time," he said. "At least a range."

“I don’t have a range.” She examined her nails. "I think I’ll just get back when I get back, if that’s fine."

Surely she knew it wasn't fine. 

Malfoy considered her. The pleasing thrum that her cooperation had elicited in him had twisted, changing shape now into a knot of frustration. An itch, just out of his reach.

Malfoy's hand flexed convulsively at his side, and Hermione's eyes flicked to the movement.

“Are you angry at me?” she asked.

"No.” He cleared his throat. “Just disappointed. I thought we had an understanding."

She seemed oddly emboldened by his displeasure. She shrugged, her brown eyes not leaving his.

For the first time in his career, Malfoy felt his professionalism flicker. 

He didn't know what it was about this situation that made him feel so—taut. Agitated. But he knew he ought to leave now, before he let his composure slip. 

“Very well," he said. "If you—really don't know when you'll be back on Saturday, I'll just prepare sentry wards for the entire night."

He nodded at her and turned to go.

"Wait," Hermione said. 

“What?” he snapped.

It came out more coldly than he’d meant it to. 

Hermione's brown eyes widened in surprise. 

Sorry, he wanted to say. I'm sorry.

But he quelled the impulse.

“What?” he repeated instead. Calmly but firmly.

”Nothing,” she said after a moment. Her voice was flat.

Malfoy left, regret twisting with the frustration lodged in his chest.

Later, after he’d finished his rounds and showered, he sat on his bed with damp hair and thought of the interaction again.

He thought of the flash of curiosity in her eyes, and the set of her mouth.

He thought of the hope (had he imagined it?) in her expression when she asked are you angry with me?

He steered his thoughts away. Malfoy recited security spells until he fell asleep.

-

Just after one in the morning, he was woken by the security charm in his room loudly buzzing, alerting him to movement along the perimeter of the house. He checked the wards; Hermione’s magical signature was departing.

Swearing under his breath, he tugged a shirt on and ran upstairs, out to the sweeping front steps. 

A long, dark car was departing with a growling screech of tires on gravel. From the lowered windows Malfoy heard the sounds of multiple people—chattering, tipsily giggling, play-arguing. From the sounds of it, the group included two women and two men. 

The windows had evidently been only briefly lowered, perhaps so someone could call out to a waiting Hermione. But the air was cold and the glass slid up now, re-enclosing the inhabitants in their bubble of tipsy fun.

Malfoy watched the car leave in disbelief.

She’d told him her excursion was in two days. To change her plans without notice? After everything this afternoon—

Tension coiled, hot and unreasonable, in his chest. 

Malfoy turned to re-enter the house, jaw working. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding. What reason would Hermione have for goading him like this? Maybe it was in his head—

He froze in his tracks. There was a scrap of peach-colored parchment on the door, attached with a fixing spell. It stood out against the stone and iron like a bright coin against dark pavement.

He tore it off and read it by the light of his wand.

In looping cursive handwriting, in still-wet ink that caught the dancing light from the torches on either side of the entry: 

Got bored earlier than expected. 

Going out, don’t know when I’ll be back. Maybe you ought to loosen up.

At the bottom of the paper—in lieu of Hermione's name or signature—there was a pink-purple lipsticked kiss. Smeared, as though left on last-minute impulse before she stuck the note to the door.

Malfoy stared down at it.

Shock and anger warred for dominance in his chest.

The sheer insolence of it. The disrespect. 

But he couldn't stop staring at it. Each soft, curved letter of the cursive seemed to mock him. The color and shape of the lipstick kiss—

He realized after a moment he wasn’t breathing.

Exhaling sharply, Malfoy crumpled the note in his fist.

Chapter Text

Malfoy returned to his room with agitation buzzing—unwelcome and unignorable—in his chest. 

Professional procedure told him to go to bed. Hermione had violated established rules, and it wasn’t his responsibility. Especially this early on in his tenure. The appropriate thing to do would be to discuss this incident with Krum tomorrow.

But the logical half of his mind was fighting a losing battle. He unfolded Hermione’s note once more. Surely he had imagined the flippant words? The kiss mark?

But no, it was there. And the sight of it again ignited a pulse of frustration in him. 

Insolent. Ostentatiously difficult.

Spoiled.

With an almost convulsive flare of energy, Malfoy sat up. He exhaled through his nose, rubbing his forehead.

Then, he put his uniform on. He washed his face and, unsmiling, checked his hair in the mirror. Preparing to return to his work.

A few minutes later and he was pacing the front of the house, his breath as thick and white as steam in the air before him. His hands were in gloves, but when he checked his watch the cold air was like a bite against the skin of his wrist. Half an hour, then an hour outside. Waiting for the car to return.

When the cold became impossible to ignore, Malfoy went inside. He made his way downstairs to Hermione's study and—jaw ticking—took a seat at her table, looking down at a charmed map of the house's security wards in his hands.

And finally, just after three in the morning, a red dot labeled Hermione Granger blipped into view on the map.

Malfoy sat forward, looking down at the map with narrowed eyes.

Her dot swept quickly down the semi-circular drive—presumably brought in by a car—then moved slowly up the front steps and through the main door. She ambled in through the door, dawdling by the credenza. Her dot wavered a bit, as though looking around. It made its way to the wall of the foyer on which a large gilt mirror hung.

Staring at the parchment, Malfoy tried to imagine what the flesh-and-blood version of Hermione was doing. He pictured her leaning close to the mirror—she'd had a long night out, surely her eyes would be bleary and her makeup smudged. He pictured her checking her lipstick, holding a finger to the corner of her lips. The exact shade of which he was now too familiar.

Malfoy shifted in his chair. Her note was in his robes pocket; he would throw it away later.

He waited for her dot to make its way to the lift.

He was certain she would come down to the study. Something in Malfoy’s gut told him that she must know he would be here waiting for her. Must know he was displeased with her, ready with a lecture, ready to give her the reaction she so evidently wanted.

Well, that was fine. He could tell Hermione the rules again. Malfoy was a professional, after all. So what if she wanted to be a bit messy? So what if she returned late with her breath smelling like champagne?

If she needed to be reminded of his expectations, he could do that for her.

The rules were cold and stony. She would fit into their mold even if Malfoy had to pour her into them. 

Hermione’s dot left the mirror and wandered in a swaying little circle through the foyer, as though searching for something.

Finally, it slowed to a halt. It stood in the center of the entryway.

Unmoving, alone. Small.

Malfoy stared at her.

For a moment, a strange intimacy seemed to bloom between them. Her aloneness felt like a paper and ink counterpart to his own. 

But then the dot slowly began moving again. With torpor, with reluctance. Through the doors of the room labeled Master Bedroom. Where a dot labeled Viktor Krum slumbered already in bed.

Malfoy put the paper away before he could witness the two dots join.

His mouth tasted bitter, and he felt dazed and stupid.

It suddenly became clear that he had been reckless, coming down to her study like this. His temper was high, he had made a misjudgment. That was all.

Malfoy returned to his bedroom. He undressed and got in bed. 

But it was a long time before he managed to fall asleep.

~

On most days, Hermione woke to an empty bed. 

Quidditch practice started early in the mornings, so Viktor was often showered, kitted and out of the room an hour or more before Hermione stirred. This was especially true on mornings after Hermione had returned late after a night out. 

She was usually a heavy sleeper, but today, Viktor’s silent movements rising out of bed were enough to rouse her.

Hermione blinked and rolled to her side, squinting against the pale-bright glow of early morning from the window. She sat up. Her mouth still tasted faintly of champagne.

Viktor cast a glance her way, seemingly mildly surprised that she was awake. But he said nothing, and only continued silently getting dressed.

“Good morning,” Hermione said. 

“Good morning.”

Hermione drew her knees to her chin and tugged the blankets a little tighter around herself, watching Viktor put his gloves on.  

She considered asking him if he might want to do something together after practice. Go out for lunch. Do some shopping. 

But it felt sort of stupid. After all, they weren’t together like that. And probably he’d rather spend the time talking to his team.

She looked away, picking absently at her cuticle.

“Have a good practice,” she said to Viktor as he left.

He looked back at her from the doorway. 

A rare smile from him—his surly features softened slightly. He was fond of her, Hermione knew, even if they weren’t in love.

“Thank you,” he said. His accent was always a little thicker, when he expressed affection. “Have a good day.”

She rested her cheek on her pajama-trousered knee, listening to his heavy footsteps trudge away.

-

Hermione had always thought of herself as someone who handled solitude quite well. She’d been bookish and studious her whole life, after all. But moving to Bulgaria had been a much more isolating experience than she’d predicted.

Back in school, it had been easy to keep herself occupied. There were always exams to prepare for, or papers to write. Good marks to chase, the admiring words of her professors to preen under.

But without school or work, Hermione found herself oddly rudderless. 

There were still things to do, of course.

She went to the shops to find first editions of Bulgarian novels to collect. She annotated volumes of medieval poetry, and translated rare spellbooks that had no English printings.

She’d gotten rather crafty, too, in her time at Viktor’s estate. She learned new styles of embroidery—she picked up knitting and crochet and even went down the rabbit hole of dyeing her own threads. Coreopsis flowers for bright sunny yellow dyes, beetroot for the earthy reds…

So Hermione was not bored, per se. But there was a difference between being occupied and being really engaged, wasn't there?

She felt, sometimes, rather empty.

Hermione looked out of the corner of her eye at her vanity table, upon which rested a thin stack of unopened letters from Harry. Every two months or so, he managed to muster up the dutiful interest to send her a note full of polite inquiries. She’d stopped reading them. It had never been the same, really, after she’d broken up with Ron. And she couldn’t shake the feeling Harry would never forgive her for splitting up the trio that had been his found family for so long, even though he would certainly never admit to it.

She looked away from the letters. She reminded herself that the entire point of coming to Bulgaria had been to get away from everything, to get away from everyone.

Hermione forced herself to get out of bed. There was one new thing to look forward to, at least.

Malfoy was sure to be annoyed with her.

~

Hermione was having porridge by the big windows that overlooked the Quidditch pitch when he finally strode past, doing his morning rounds.

She watched his passing silhouette out of the corner of her eye. For a moment it seemed like he wouldn’t pause to acknowledge her, and Hermione’s stomach twisted with surprise and disappointment. 

But then he came to a stop.

Hermione pretended not to notice. She focused on her porridge—on the warm, creamy scent, on the kiss of the steam—as the slow, heavy strides of Malfoy's boots closed the distance between them. He stood at the head of the table, watching her.

She looked up at him with an expression of innocent curiosity, but faltered when she saw the look on his face.

Malfoy’s grey eyes were much colder and harder than she’d expected.

Hermione fiddled with her spoon. Brown sugar was half-melted in the center of her porridge in a little treacle-like lump, and she swirled it nervously. 

He looked at her for a long, quiet moment. As though giving her the opportunity to defend herself. 

When she said nothing, the line of muscle in his jaw tightened.

“So,” Malfoy said.

“Yes?”

“You changed your plans."

"Oh, right. Yes."

"What are you doing?” he asked softly. “Why are you goading me?"

His voice remained forcibly even. But his fingers twitched at his sides. There was a thin crack in his veneer, a flare of emotion in his cold eyes that intrigued her. He was so tightly buttoned-up. Drawing a reaction out of him was pleasing.

“I’m not,” she said, trying to sound mildly insulted. “Why would I goad you? Not everything I do is your business.”

“How could it not be my business that you go out unannounced in the middle of the night?” he asked. “I’m the man hired to find you if you don’t come home.”

”Well. You didn't do a very good job, then, did you?"

Malfoy's stare was like a physical sensation. She looked down at her porridge, avoiding his eyes. Her palms were starting to sweat.

”You are behaving like a child,” he said. “Angry because I don't want to be your friend."

"Why would I need you?" she snapped, stung. "I have plenty of friends already."

"Oh, yes. I saw them in the car last night."

There was thinly veiled judgment in his tone. Hermione knew he was thinking of the socialite-flavored blandness of the one friend of hers he’d already met.

“Good,” she said stiffly. “Isn’t that your job? To watch?”

To her surprise, a flush appeared on his pale cheeks. She hadn't expected to have the power to embarrass him.

“I’m not your boss,” Malfoy finally said. “Nor your fiancé, nor your father—“

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Hermione demanded. Her cheeks were warm now, too.

“I’m not in charge of you, Hermione.”

“Miss Granger,” she corrected with a snarl.

Malfoy looked furious with himself.

“Miss Granger,” he snapped. “I’m not in charge of you, Miss Granger. So I don’t care if you're desperate for attention, just don’t get in the way of my job.”

Hermione recoiled, and was instantly humiliated by her visible response. 

She stood, pushing back from the table and making her teacup and glass of juice rattle. 

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll give my social calendar to the house manager. You can get the information from him. That way I never have to get in the way at all.”

She left the room, hating herself and him.

~

Hermione was still embarrassed and miserable hours later, locked in her study. She’d finished her Hippogriff puzzle and had moved on to one that depicted the exterior of Hogwarts. The Hippogriff puzzle had been two thousand pieces, and the Hogwarts one was five thousand. 

She sullenly wondered if she would soon need a one million piece puzzle to keep her occupied.

She kept the door to her study tightly closed. She felt her resentment towards Malfoy like a lump in her throat.

Many things had changed since her school days. Hermione was more self-possessed and poised and experienced, now. But the truth was, in so many ways she still felt like her eleven year old self on the inside. Crying in the bathroom because a redheaded boy had said: No wonder she doesn't have any friends.

So yes. Her study door was closed.

At just after three in the afternoon, she heard Malfoy's boots on the wood floors of the hall outside. He was doing his afternoon patrol. She frowned and leaned closer to the table, trying to focus on organizing all the puzzle pieces with cobblestone textures on them.

His footsteps grew slower and closer. Until finally, they came to a silent pause right outside her door.

There was a brief moment of hesitation, then Malfoy knocked.

“What?” she called.

“Can I come in?” came his voice. His already-low voice was muffled and deep through the thick wooden door.

“Why?”

“I want to apologize.”

Hermione exhaled through her nose. She put a puzzle piece in its correct spot and picked up a new one.

“It’s not necessary,” she said loudly. “You can go.”

Malfoy didn’t answer. But she didn’t hear his footsteps depart. He stayed there, just outside.

“I’m—sorry for hurting your feelings,” he finally said. “That was wrong of me.”

Hermione's mouth twisted.

She said nothing.

“I shouldn’t have been so harsh," Malfoy said, when it became clear she wasn't answering. "I didn’t mean to be. Please forgive me.”

His tone was soft. Clumsily gentle. He didn’t seem accustomed to or comfortable with speaking like this, and Hermione appreciated that he was clearly bending over backwards to be sweeter with her. 

“Well,” she finally said. “I guess I’m sorry for making your job harder.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m glad you can own to it.”

This sent a flare of petty irritation through her. 

“I’m not accepting your apology, though,” she said. 

There was a brief silence that Hermione imagined was also pettily irritated.

“May I ask why?” he said stiffly.

“Write it down for me,” she said. “Nicely. On a card. And then we’ll see.”

“Fine," he snapped.

Hermione was surprised and pleased by his acquiescence to her rather childish demand.

“I look forward to reading it,” she sniffed, returning to her puzzle.

Chapter Text

The following day was spent primarily trying to figure out what he was supposed to put in this card that would both be kind enough for Hermione to accept his apology while also not crossing any lines.

Of course, the line had already been patently violated by her note and its lipstick signature. But it was better not to think about that and instead remember that it was his role to reel things back into orderliness.

He checked his things—in his spartan room, with its one razor-sharp made bed and its one large trunk that held his belongings—and found that he owned no cards. Unsurprising.

He had his personal stationery though, with the Malfoy family letterhead at the top—used for business matters relating to the estate back home—and figured that would probably be fine.

In the morning, he sat at his desk and wrote:

Dear Miss Granger,

I apologize for my ill-considered remarks and am sorry for distressing you. Please accept my apologies.

There was a lot of white space below his words—but there wasn’t really anything else to say, was there?

Malfoy hesitated before signing the note. But, having been raised with old-blood manners, he knew there were really only a select few options for how an employee could sign a letter in these circumstances.

Yours faithfully,

Draco Malfoy

He slipped the letter into its matching envelope and stood, assessing it on his desk.

Finally, Malfoy sighed and ran a hand through his hair. 

He showered and brushed his teeth, then dressed for the day.

~

Mornings were broken into three parts. The first thing Malfoy did every day was walk the grounds and house and check that all the security measures were humming and undisturbed. If there were footprints anywhere, or a window that had been fiddled with, this was when Malfoy would find them.

Hypothetically only. It had never happened, because his stringent, methodical security gave no intruder the chance to get within a hundred paces of any house he’d ever protected.

After that, he coordinated with the house manager and Krum’s Quidditch team manager to confirm if any more threats had been sent in, either to the home or to team headquarters.

Over the past three months, there had been six threats received. Four of them seemed to be from one sender, and two were from another, based on the differences in how the threats were communicated. Sender one always used neatly typed messages on plain white paper. They were short and to the point, and placed carefully in nondescript but tidy letter envelopes. Sender two had a very different style. Photos of Krum from the papers, mangled and torn up, stuffed into a hodge podge of envelopes that seemed to indicate they were either popping into shops at random to pick up envelopes when the need arose, or that the envelopes had previously been used for other purposes.

Typical protocol in these cases was to track down the sender via the owl they used. No one had done this yet, because Malfoy was the first professional hired to handle the situation. So he was patiently waiting for a new threat to arrive.

There were no letters today. Malfoy moved onto the third part of his morning: general patrol. This would go until noon, at which time he would have lunch and do some physical training before his afternoon patrol. 

Malfoy had the letter in the pocket of his robes.

And, in the later half of the morning, he saw Hermione.

She was on the terrace, and she and Krum were talking. Malfoy watched them for a moment, though he felt like he shouldn’t. They seemed to be in the middle of a personal conversation.

Hermione looked a little agitated. She said something to Krum and Krum shook his head impatiently.

She was in the middle of saying something else when, with hardly any warning, he simply walked away from her. He lifted an exasperated hand—his expression not unkind but just weary. Hermione didn’t look surprised by this outcome—though a miserable scowl still settled on her delicate features. She watched Krum walk away, her throat working.

Malfoy watched this through a large window. His eyes were fixed on Hermione’s face, on the hurt and the thinly veiled barrage of emotions moving through her.

She seemed to sense this observation, somehow. Her eyes slid away from Krum’s retreating back and found Malfoy’s, watching her.

The automatic instinct was to look away—giving employers their privacy. But Malfoy remained looking at her. She was standing out there in a blue dress—a casual one, boxy and maybe for sleep. It was very cold. She must have run out after Krum. 

After a moment, Malfoy walked down the corridor and out the tall glass doors and onto the terrace. 

He stood ten paces away from her, surveilling the grounds. It was overgrown with trees on this side of the house. A mix of black evergreens and some patches of oaks or elms that wore almost startlingly bright orange or yellow leaves now. It was November.

“You should get inside,” he said. He kept his eyes out on the grounds. “You’re shivering.”

“I’m fine.”

“If you go inside, I’ll give you your card.”

He looked over at her in time to see her face light up.

–

Malfoy had already been starting to worry about the odd, not-quite-professional friendship that was blooming between himself and his employer’s fiancée. He'd thus far been doing a fairly good job of forcing himself not to think about it too hard, but still it lurked at the corner of his mind.

So when he finished his evening run that night and went inside only to find Krum storming his way, he had a fairly good idea why he might be upset.

Had he found the apology letter?

Or maybe he’d found the lipsticked note?

An apology and resignation were ready in Malfoy’s mouth before Krum reached him, but then Krum said:

“There you are. Can you go sit vith Hermione? I am late to the Minister’s dinner—she knows I have to go—she says she vants company and that you vill talk to her—”

Before Malfoy could say yes or no, Krum was already storming past him. Running at a half-jog to the burgundy car (how many cars did they have?) idling with a refined purr on the gravel.

The car was gone before Malfoy was inside the house.

Malfoy grabbed a towel and a bottle of water before walking—his breathing still not quite even, from the sprints at the end of his run—down the stairs and to Hermione’s study.

She was sitting there, two cups of tea waiting.

Malfoy stood in the doorway and just took in the scene for a moment, amused in spite of himself. Finally, he walked in and sat on the other side of her table.

“Demanding sort of girl, aren’t you?” he asked, taking a drink from his water bottle.

“I was only asking Viktor to spend time with me,” she said irritably. “Is it my fault to want to sit with my fiancé in the evenings?”

“I’m not your fiancé.”

She turned slightly pink but otherwise did an admirable job of being indifferent.

“I know that,” she said. “But you’re the only one in the house who talks to me. So. Do you want the tea or not?”

Malfoy took the tea.

“He seems surprisingly blasé about another man entertaining his wife.”

“I’m not his wife,” was Hermione’s retort.

“You know what I mean.”

She fidgeted with her knitting. She seemed to be making some kind of tiny jumper, and Malfoy instantly thought of S.P.E.W.

He had to fight back a smile.

“Viktor and I have an unconventional relationship,” she finally said, not meeting Malfoy’s eyes. 

Malfoy stilled. He assessed her expression.

“Oh, relax,” she snapped, not looking at him. “I don’t mean we’re looking for a third, or anything. Good lord. I just want some company.”

Malfoy couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Good,” he said, sitting back. There was a cramp in his leg from running and he absently pressed his palm into the muscle. “Did you like the card, by the way?"

“I was just going to bring that up,” she said, turning to pull the letter from her tote bag. “This isn’t a card, first of all.”

“I know," he said apologetically. "But I didn’t have any cards. I can pick some up on my next day off.”

“Do you anticipate having to write more sorry notes?”

He smiled.

“No. But better to be safe than sorry.”

That earned him a little smile from her, and he was pleased. She had looked so sad when he came in, and earlier on the terrace. It was nice to see her happy.

“Well—in any case,” Hermione said, handing him the letter. “It’s not very creative. Or pretty.”

“I suppose I’m not really either of those things.”

She shot him an annoyed look and he smiled again.

“What’s wrong with your leg?” she asked, her eye moving to his thigh. He was still massaging it.

“Nothing. Cramp, from running.”

“You run every day?”

“Yes.”

“What other exercises do you do?”

“Weights. A few times a week.”

“Where? At the gym here?”

“Yes. It’s part of my contract. I need exercise facilities.”

She had resumed knitting as she spoke to him. Her features were relaxed, her cheeks glowing slightly in the light of the fireplace. She looked at peace, and Malfoy was surprised to find he was extremely at ease as well. He liked being here—she had done a good job, setting up this study to be so comforting.

“I have some stationery supplies,” she said, her needles clicking. “Could you decorate the card more, please?”

-

The currency of her happiness was clearly time.

With each passing minute that Malfoy sat at her table, Hermione seemed to warm to him more. He supposed he didn’t blame her, neglected in this big house as she was.

“Here’s some more rubber stamps,” she said, adding them to the growing pile of stationery at Malfoy’s elbow. “And—I’ve got this folder of stickers you can use, too.”

“I’m not going to use stickers.”

“They’re cute. At least look at them.”

He shook his head, amused.

Her smile flickered. 

“Please?” she asked quietly.

Malfoy met her eyes. They were warm brown, and fixed on him with an expression of sweet pleading that he was sure she knew she was wielding. Even so, his cheeks grew warm.

“Fine,” he said, clearing his throat. “Give me the folder.”

Hermione smiled—wide with delight—and handed it over.

The folder of stickers was neat and orderly. It was clear that Hermione’s proclivity for severe organization was none the dampened for being applied to hobbies now instead of academics. 

Malfoy thumbed through the folder, looking at the many color-coded tabs and organizational dividers.

There were stickers shaped like mountains, and small cartoon birds, and puffy clouds in various states of weather. 

“You were right,” he said. “These are cute.”

"I got them to write letters to Teddy Lupin," she said. "He just turned four."

"That's sweet."

He chose a sheet of green lizards.

“You should use more than that,” Hermione said.

“Alright,” he said. “How many?”

“At least five,” she said. “In two colors.”

“That’s a lot, don’t you think?”

“You could use the practice in being a little more colorful.”

Malfoy snorted. But he flipped again through the folder.

“You like flowers, right?” he asked.

“I do!” she said, leaning forward eagerly to watch him examine the stickers. “How did you know that?”

“They’re everywhere in here."

He placed four daisies in a little arch over: Dear Miss Granger.

She made a little delighted sound. 

Malfoy chose a sheet of green lizard stickers and put one next to his own signature, at the bottom of the page.

“Very nice,” she said. “Much better than before.”

Malfoy handed her the letter and stood. 

“Wait—where are you going?” she asked.

“I have to do the end-of-day security inspection.” He checked his watch. “It’s almost midnight.”

Hermione glanced at the clock on the wall.

There was a brief silence, and Malfoy wondered if they were both thinking about Krum. Still out of the house at midnight.

“Okay,” she said finally. “Um. Can you sit with me again tomorrow?”

Puppy dog eyes again. She was good at them, and shameless too.

“Only if you promise not to run off without telling me again,” he said. “I didn’t like that, last time.”

“Not even the note?” she wheedled.

Malfoy felt his cheeks warm again. 

“Not even the note,” he said. “Rules are important to me. Don't make trouble."

She agreed, though he had a feeling she did so just to ensure his company again the next day. Now that Malfoy knew Krum didn’t particularly care whether his security hire spent evenings with his fiancée, he felt more comfortable giving Hermione someone to talk to.

It was raining outside, and by the time Malfoy finished his walkthrough he was soaked. He was cold and wet and when he went to his room for the night.

His eye immediately went to the crumpled note on his desk. Hermione’s note—the one he’d promised himself he would throw away. 

It sat, innocently unobtrusive, next to some of his books. Folded neatly now. 

Malfoy wiped some rainwater off his face and fought back the image of her wide eyes—please?—in his mind. He blinked quickly.

Finally, he walked over to the desk and picked up the note. The lipstick mark was still bright and clear. Purple-pink and lovely.

It looked rounded and soft, next to the firm line of his thumb.

Malfoy chewed his cheek, then threw the note in the bin.

He took a shower and went to bed reciting security spells under his breath.

Chapter Text

The following day, Krum called Malfoy onto the Quidditch pitch.

It was early in the morning—cold and wet—and the floor of the pitch was reduced to mud in the storm. 

Malfoy had the opportunity to watch the final moments of a truly impressive Wronski Feint through dark sheets of rain before Krum spotted him. He directed his Firebolt over and dismounted, rain dripping from his dark hair onto his face.

The rest of the team continued practice. It seemed the Bulgarians practiced at least six days a week and in any state of weather.

“Malfoy,” Krum said. He spoke loudly, over the lulling roar of rain. “Over here.”

Malfoy followed him to a little covered awning under which the team had set their gear.

Krum sat and offered Malfoy a cigarette, which Malfoy declined.

“You smoke during the season?” Malfoy asked, amused.

“I cannot. But I miss it.”

Malfoy snorted.

“You are doing good vork so far,” Krum was still breathing hard, and took a long swig of water. “Team manager says your security reports are very thorough.”

“Ah. Thank you.”

“Next Friday there is event at the Minister’s house.”

Krum reached for his bag—he rifled in it until he found a thick, cream-colored envelope. He handed it to Malfoy, the paper damp in spots from his wet gloves.

“I’ll need to check out the venue,” Malfoy said.

“Very good. You can reach out to the liaison to arrange a visit ahead of time.”

“I will.” Malfoy tucked the envelope into his robes. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” Krum said, stretching his neck. “I vant to apologize for my fiancée. Thank you for entertaining her. I know it is not in the job description.”

He stood and clasped Malfoy on the back before walking back onto the pitch, his broom over one shoulder.

Malfoy looked after the retreating Quidditch player, frowning.

He didn’t particularly like the fact that Krum clearly considered time spent with Hermione as some sort of tedious obligation.

At the same time… 

Well. 

Malfoy enjoyed spending time with Hermione. And, as far as he could tell, Hermione liked it when Malfoy spent time with her, too. So perhaps—selfishly—Krum’s laissez-faire attitude wasn’t the worst thing in the world. 

Malfoy turned his attention back to the invitation, which was a much clearer thing to focus on at the moment than any of these other thoughts.

~

The Bulgarian Minister’s estate was massive, but luckily the event itself would be constrained to only three areas. The South gardens, the ballroom, and the gallery. 

After an afternoon walking the venue along with a handful of other security officials from other high-profile guests, Malfoy became familiar with both the layout of the grounds and the timeline of the evening.

The party would start with champagne and passed hors d’oeuvres in the gardens, followed by a perusal of the offerings of the evening’s silent auction (the proceeds would go to a fashionable charity—this year, it was endangered sea creatures that were trendy). Afterwards, dinner and bidding would be held in the ballroom.

“If you and Hermione remain together all evening,” Malfoy told Krum the next day. “Then I can do the job alone. If you intend to wander separately, we will need to bring on another guard to support.”

“Ve usually wander separately,” Krum said. “Saying hello to different people. Except for dinner. Ve will sit together at dinner.”

“That’s fine. I can reach out to my contacts and see if we can bring someone on for the evening. Or we can use the list the Minister provided, for his in-house team.”

“Use the Minister’s list,” Krum said. “You can assign his guard to me. You stay vith Hermione.”

This suited Malfoy just fine, though he didn’t let any emotion show on his face.

That evening, when Hermione asked if he could work on a puzzle with her in her study, Malfoy considered whether or not to bring it up. It felt odd to mention it, considering he was off duty at the moment. He wanted to keep a clear line between what he said while there as her guard versus there as her—friend? Crafts buddy?

“What are you thinking about?” Hermione asked. “You’re so quiet.”

”I’m always quiet.”

”Well, yes. But you’ve got a look on your face, too.”

Malfoy had been tasked with putting all the edge pieces in one pile. He looked up at her with a small smile.

“Work,” he said. “That’s all.”

“What about it?”

“The gala on Friday.”

“Ooh, you’re coming?” Hermione asked, looking delighted. “Oh, wonderful. It won’t be such a bore, then.”

“I feel like you overestimate how entertaining I am.”

“Not at all. Look how much fun we’re having even right now.”

He laughed and slid an assembled line of five pieces to her side of the table.

“Oh, well done,” she said brightly.

Malfoy watched her carefully attach the new segment to the puzzle.

“You two are very plugged into the Ministry,” he said. 

“We’re working on it,” she said. “Krum wants to get into politics, after Quidditch.”

This was surprising news.

“Oh. That’s—exciting.”

“Yes, well. The Minister is not personally a fan of professional athletes in government. So. We’ve been trying to ingratiate ourselves.”

“That’s unexpected. I would have assumed they would love the celebrity attached to him.”

“They’re a bit old-fashioned. The Minister prefers to recruit serious people. From universities or private industry. Consultants, professors… Not Quidditch players.”

Malfoy watched her.

Hermione was a very serious person. She’d written papers after Hogwarts, and done a short stint at the Ministry as a consultant, and was a war heroine to boot.

“It’s good he’s with you, then,” Malfoy finally said. “I’m sure it gives him more—credibility.”

Hermione looked up at him. Their eyes met and neither said anything. 

It was unusual, to just look someone in the eyes without speaking. But Malfoy found to his surprise that he was very comfortable doing so with her.

“It’s an arrangement,” she said quietly. Malfoy’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell anyone. I’m supposed to keep it a secret.”

”What do you mean?”

”Viktor and me,” she whispered. She lifted her left hand, indicating her engagement ring. “It’s an arrangement.”

“You two aren’t—” He cleared his throat. “Actually together?” 

“No. But the Minister is a big believer in marriage. So we need to keep up appearances until Viktor is a shoo-in.”

Malfoy stared at her.

Hermione finally broke eye contact and looked back down at the puzzle pieces in front of her, her face red. 

Questions ran with alarming intensity through Malfoy’s mind.

So, is it romantic at all?

Do you sleep together?

Does that mean you’re allowed to—?

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked. His voice was hoarse.

“Maybe it’s relevant for security,” she said lightly.

He blinked quickly and looked away from her, back down to the puzzle. 

A growing prickle of unease made its home in his chest. There had always been a sense of safety in the fact that Hermione was engaged. It put a clear boundary on their interactions. Without that boundary, Malfoy was forced to grapple with a large number of considerations that he’d rather not think about. 

He tensed and untensed his jaw, very aware that his discomfort had nothing to do with security.

“Is that alright?” Hermione asked.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” he asked, not looking at her.

They remained in silence, and this time it was not so comfortable.

~

Malfoy kept his distance from Hermione for the rest of the week. He could tell she was hurt by it, but he didn’t know what else to do. 

In the cold light of what he now knew about Hermione and Krum, Malfoy could no longer deny that he was attracted to her. Not just her physical loveliness, which would have been more easily ignored (he had been celibate for over two years now, and was used to quelling his desire), but something more—difficult to wrap his head around. Something hot and twisted that made its home low in his stomach. 

He enjoyed being a figure of authority in her life. He enjoyed setting rules.

And when she wriggled under the weight of them? When she rebelled and reacted and pouted, it made him want to—

Malfoy took to pacing the grounds more often, even during his free hours. He stood in the cold rain, he watched his hot breath dissipate into the winter air. His thoughts were like curling flames, shameful and impossible to keep still. 

Why did he like it? What was wrong with him? Why did he like the sight of her squirming—why did it make him think of holding her down until she promised to be good once more—

His breath caught, thick and knotted, in his throat. He hated himself.

Yes—he kept his distance from Hermione for the rest of the week, and he determined the best course of action would be to keep that distance for the rest of the time he worked here.

~

On Friday afternoon, Malfoy perused Krum’s garage to determine which vehicle would be best suited for the excursion.

Krum owned four cars. Malfoy, no stranger to expensive collections, appreciated the man’s taste.

A large-bodied black utility vehicle was the only car that met Malfoy’s extensive security specifications. He spent an hour casting charms on the windows and doors before beginning work on fortifying the tires and the roof.

The driver was Krum’s usual, and when Malfoy outlined the specialized charms he’d added to the steering column and dashboard, he said nothing, only nodded. Wordless and Bulgarian—he reminded Malfoy of Krum. 

They were set to depart at six. Malfoy was waiting, seated in the far back, when Hermione and Krum appeared.

They were holding hands, though it seemed—with Malfoy’s new understanding of their relationship—more a symbolic gesture than anything romantic.

Malfoy watched in silence as Krum helped Hermione into the car. 

She was in a burgundy red dress today. Little sparkling crystals lined the neckline and hem. 

They flashed and winked as Hermione found her seat. 

She spotted Malfoy and gave him a small smile, which he didn’t return. He only nodded and looked out the window.

She settled herself into the seat in front of him. There were swinging red gems in the large clip securing her curls, and Malfoy briefly followed their movement with his eyes.

“Evening,” Krum said to Malfoy, climbing in to sit next to Hermione.

“Evening. In by half past six, out by half past ten. Is that right?” Malfoy asked, checking his watch.

“Yes,” Krum said. “Should not be too late.”

“Mr. Malfoy is strict, isn’t he?” Hermione asked Krum, beaming.

But Krum only shrugged. He seemed distracted. Hermione’s smile faltered, then faded.

The drive to the gala was silent, but for the gentle clicking sounds of the red crystal beads swinging softly in Hermione’s hair. 

When the car came to a stop, ready to deposit Krum and Hermione at the entrance of the Minister’s lavishly decked out historical castle, Malfoy stopped the driver from getting out to open the doors.

“I’ll do it,” he said to the driver. “You stay in here, please.”

Malfoy exited the vehicle and glanced around before opening the door for Hermione and Krum.

“Take the car around back,” Malfoy said to the driver through the window. “Stay with the vehicle.”

The driver grunted in acknowledgment.

Krum and Hermione stepped out of the car, and the waiting photographers pressed in to take pictures. Malfoy remained discreetly to the side, quietly assessing each photographer for possible threats.

The Minister’s security team was waiting, and one of the tall, silent men made their way over to take his place at Krum’s side. Malfoy shook hands with him before returning to Hermione. 

Finally, Krum and Hermione began making their way into the estate. An outrageously oversized floral arch had been erected—half-suspended by subtle levitation charms—to extend out beyond the doorway to reach up into the sky. Glass baubles hung from it, spinning lazily in the yellow-glazed light. 

Malfoy wondered at the size of donations that an event like this must need to draw, to net positive after the extravagant venue and decorations.

Hermione was dawdling behind Krum to speak to one of the photographers. Krum let go of her hand easily and moved ahead without her, lifting his hand in greeting to someone he recognized.

“—ethically sourced rubies,” Hermione was saying politely to the photographer. “From Petronov’s latest collection. Viktor and I like to support local designers whenever we can—“

Malfoy moved closer to her, one eye on Krum’s retreating back.

“Alright,” Malfoy said quietly, touching her elbow. “Time to go inside.”

To his surprise, she just nodded and let him lead her into the building.

He glanced down at her. Her expression was relaxed and pleased. 

“Well-behaved today,” he said quietly. “A nice surprise.”

“You were nice to me earlier. I thought I’d try to make your job easy tonight.”

“No after parties? Now is the time to tell me, you know.”

“Not tonight. I’ll be running right on home.”

“Good.”

They caught up with Krum at the bar. 

“There’s going to be a silent auction,” Hermione said to Krum. “Isn’t that fun?”

Krum smiled at her. He examined the tray of jewelry along the walls of the gallery, encased behind armored glass.

“You vant anything?” 

Hermione did a happy wiggle, though Krum didn’t seem to notice. He was looking over the heads of the crowd again, and he spotted some fellow Quidditch players. 

“That little silver duck is terribly cute,” Hermione said. “It’s for a good cause…”

Malfoy looked at the duck. It seemed to be some kind of paperweight. It really was rather cute.

Krum wasn’t paying attention—his teammates had waved him over and he lifted his hand.

“I need to go speak to Boris,” he said, touching Hermione’s back. “You said it was a necklace you liked? You can get it. Use my account.”

“Sure,” she said after a moment. “Yes. Alright.” 

Krum gave Hermione a brief, chaste kiss on the cheek and then left. The Minister’s assigned security guard followed, leaving Malfoy and Hermione alone.

Hermione remained standing with her spine straight, looking into the tray of jewelry. She blinked quickly.

Malfoy watched her. 

She looked distracted, and when a tipsy group came by to look at the jewelry she didn’t move quickly enough. Malfoy stepped in and gripped the forearm of a particularly unsteady drunk man before he bowled into Hermione.

“Watch it,” Malfoy said calmly.

When the drunk gave a woozy salute and wandered off, Malfoy turned back to Hermione. 

“Let’s get you to your table,” he said quietly to her. He held an arm out ahead of them, clearing the path. “Come on.”

He kept a hand near the small of her back as they walked, and when she slowed on occasion, his fingertips touched her hip. Her body was warm, through the thin gauzy fabric of the dress she wore. The heat seemed to leave a searing imprint on Malfoy's skin.

Hermione was silent as they went to her seat. Malfoy pulled out her chair and she gave him a grateful smile. Krum’s chair, next to her, was noticeably empty.

“Hey, come sit with me,” she said. “Viktor will be out in the lounge all night with his team. He always does that.”

“I’m supposed to be standing,” Malfoy said. “It’s not good for photos, if there’s a guard seated at the table with the celebrities.”

“No one’s taking photos, not with Krum out there.”

He hesitated.

“Please?” she asked, looking up at him.

Malfoy sat.

A waiter passed by and deposited glasses and a bottle of red. Hermione poured herself some and sipped at it, watching a small crowd form across the room, around the Bulgarian Minister’s table.

Tasha was there, sitting next to her much older husband, looking bored and dejected. When Hermione waved, Tasha gave an automatic answering wiggle of her gloved fingers.

“Are you looking forward to the auction?” Malfoy asked, because Hermione had seemed most cheerful earlier, when looking at the silver duck.

“Yes, actually.” She smiled. “I, um. Well, I love this designer. She does animal designs? I told Viktor before…”

There was a brief silence, and Malfoy wondered if Hermione was also remembering the carelessness of Krum’s earlier departure. 

“He promised, in the beginning,” Hermione finally said. “That he’d be good to me. Even though—well, you know. He knew I was lonely. That was my condition for moving here—that he not just leave me alone all the time…”

Malfoy watched her, not knowing what to say. Her eyes were bright. She fiddled with her beaded clutch.

“But he’s not a sentimental guy,” she finally said. “And, well. You know.”

“Right. I’m sure he’s—very busy.”

“Yes.”

“Ladies and gentlemen! Witches and wizards! Our silent auction is about to begin. If I could please have everyone find your seats—we have some truly remarkable items available tonight, and all for a very good cause…”

Malfoy stood, straightening his robes. It had been more acceptable to sit in the casual, pre-event drinks stage of things, but now there were suited auction attendants circulating the room and confirming the occupant of each seat.

“Mrs. Krum,” one said, nodding at Hermione. 

“Miss Granger,” she corrected dully.

“Of course.” The man clocked the empty seat next to her. “And will Mr. Krum be…?”

“I’m here,” Krum said, appearing suddenly from the crowd. He sat beside Hermione and gave her a kiss on the cheek. 

Malfoy circled slowly behind the table, keeping a practiced eye on the crowd. The Minister’s guard was doing the same.

There was a little flash of reflected light as the jewelry display cases were carried into the room. 

Malfoy thought of the little silver duck. He imagined putting it in Hermione’s palm, imagined the bright delight that would shine in her brown eyes…

“Did you see the Minister?” Krum asked Hermione. His voice was low. 

“Yes. I waved at Tasha. We can probably go talk to them after,” Hermione said without excitement.

“Very good. Vould you try to arrange a private audience?”

“Fine.”

Krum assessed Hermione.

“You are angry vith me?” he asked.

Malfoy tried to pretend he wasn’t listening. He continued observing the room—the chandelier now dimming, the stage lit up, and the first item for auction presented carefully with white gloves to the audience—all the while paying close attention to his employers’ conversation.

“No,” Hermione whispered to Krum. “Just—if we’re going to be here, you could at least pretend to spend time with me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Malfoy saw Krum look around. Worried someone was listening in. 

Malfoy made a show of assessing the crowd around them, pretending he heard nothing.

“If you are unhappy, ve should talk more later,” Krum said in his low voice.

Hermione didn’t answer. It was in a decidedly frosty silence that the couple watched the proceedings of the auction.

The silver duck came and went for auction, eventually going to the low bid of a man who appeared to be bidding on all the silver items, perhaps for a personal collection. 

Hermione said nothing about it, and Krum had clearly not paid enough attention to recall her earlier interest. Malfoy followed the duck with his eyes as it was whisked away, off stage.

The auction ended. The amuse bouches for dinner were brought out.

Malfoy cast quick, efficient detection spells on Krum and Hermione’s food before the waiters were permitted to place the dishes on their table.

Just as the main courses were being delivered, Malfoy saw the Bulgarian Minister stand from his table. 

The old man—grizzled, silver-haired—checked his cufflinks and tie before walking over. His own security team followed three paces behind and came to a stop when the Minister did, standing off to the side.

The Minister shook hands with Krum and dropped a polite air kiss to Hermione’s cheek.

Malfoy watched the proceedings with a professional eye, sharp-eyed but silent.

“My wife is saying you are helping her a great deal vith her studies,” the Minister said to Hermione. He patted her hand. “You have my thanks.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure. I always support the pursuit of higher education. And Tasha has become a dear friend…”

“You’ve got a good one here, Krum,” the Minister said in a jovial tone, patting Krum on the back. 

“I got lucky,” Krum said, smiling. He lifted Hermione’s hand to his mouth and kissed it. 

“Come have a scotch,” the Minister said. “I’ve got a good bottle behind the bar saved.”

Krum stood at once.

“I’ll be back later,” he said to Hermione, leaning down to kiss her on the mouth. 

Hermione’s slim hand lifted to rest against Krum’s jaw as he kissed her. Malfoy looked away.

And then Krum and the Minister were leaving.

“Malfoy,” Hermione said, tipping her head back to look up at him.

“Yes?” he asked quietly.

“Will you have a drink with me, please?”

He laughed a little.

“No. I can’t drink on the job.”

“I don’t like it when you say no to me.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that,” he said.

”You could take me back to the house. And we could drink there?”

The red crystals in her hair swung down the nape of her neck. He fought the urge to run his finger down one of the glittering beaded strands. 

”I—don’t think so, Miss Granger.”

”Fine,” she said, sounding wounded. She looked away, and the red crystals clicked. “Maybe I’ll wait until you fall asleep to sneak out with Tasha.”

Malfoy’s spine stiffened. He assessed her. 

She was wearing that same pink-purple lipstick, he realized. He imagined her pressing her lips to the note she’d left him.

”You know I don’t like that,” he said softly.

“She’s made some friends with some banking men,” Hermione said innocently, looking at her nails. “One of them is quite friendly. I’m sure he wouldn’t say no if I asked him to have a drink with me…”

The room had disappeared into the blurry background. All that existed was Hermione sitting before him. 

Her backless dress. The liquid curve of her spine. 

“Are you trying to make me jealous?” Malfoy asked quietly. 

She shifted in her seat. The tips of her ears were pink.

”Of course not,” she said, not looking at him. “I just wish you’d be less stuffy.”

”You need someone who tells you no,” Malfoy said, his eyes fixed on the exposed nape of her neck. “A little structure."

She squirmed, and the fabric of her tight dress caught on her hips. She tugged at it nervously. Malfoy watched this, his mouth dry.

"Careful," he said, looking away. "You'll ruin the line of it."

"Strict," she muttered, sounding aggrieved.

"You're begging for a little strictness," he said. He cleared his throat. "Sit pretty, Miss Granger. Looks like they're bringing out dessert."