An Inconvenience

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/34600720.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Millicent Bulstrode/Theodore Nott,
Gregory Goyle/Pansy Parkinson
Character: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Millicent Bulstrode, Gregory Goyle,
Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter, Cho Chang, Alicia Spinnet,
Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson
Additional Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Protect Theodore Nott, Weasleys Live Forever,
Tasteful Praise Kink, Draco Malfoy Has a Large Cock, Mildly Dubious
Consent, Marriage Law AU, Marriage of Convenience, Ron Weasley
Bashing, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Past Astoria
Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Voyeurism, Masturbation,
Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Improper Use of Malfoy
Cane
Language: English
Collections: Old_phone_tbr_2021Katie, WIPS to check up on, dramione fics i <3,
Heartfelt_Dramione, Faves101, Dramione GOATS,
MyLoveOfDramione, ultimate dramione rereads, dramione complete
read, Inventive Dramione, Best Dramione, dramione i'll read soon,
Dramione fics I would die for, Books I want to read, god tier fics i swear
to god, all-time greatest Dramione ❤️ These, The
, Alysoun Has Read
Bank of Dramione, Good Potterhead Shit, Kat’s Never-ending
Dramione TBR, Vivvy’s hp must reads, BIS Dramione, Dramione to Die
For, Lions Among Men, musichappens' fandom library , BumblesFavs,
Dramione_Favs, FavRo Stories, Dramione
Stats: Published: 2021-10-19 Completed: 2022-06-05 Words: 121,433
Chapters: 32/32

An Inconvenience
by thebrightcity

Summary

Two years after the Battle of Hogwarts, the Ministry of Magic invokes an old Marriage Act
to improve relations between Muggle-borns and pure-bloods.

Or; I made a joke on TikTok about writing a Dramione Marriage Law AU and here we are.

Beta/Project Manager: sirxusly

Please do not add this work to Goodreads.

 Chapter One
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione Granger sighs and drops that morning's edition of the Daily Prophet on her desk. She'd
read the headline and nothing more, but the effects of the news are already bringing on a headache
that she is sure will last through the day.

"I cannot believe they are actually invoking the Marriage Act," huffs Millicent Bulstrode, sinking
into the chair at the desk across from her. "Of all the outlandish ideas to help repair relations after
the war, they landed on this one. It’s absurd"

Hermione looks up in surprise. Millicent Bulstrode hadn't said more than ten words to her since
they'd started in the Ministry's Junior Rotational Program last year, and now she'd just tripled that
count before Hermione had even taken her first sip of coffee. She resists the urge to lift a hand to
pat her own wild curls that she'd pinned up into a knot that morning. Millicent, as usual, wears her
glossy dark hair in a sophisticated French twist.

"It would be nice if they'd just ask, you know?" Hermione scowls. "They could ask the Muggle-
borns what they'd like to be done about all the harms committed against them. But no, instead
they’ve just decided that what we'd all really like is to be set up with our own pure-blood spouses."

"I mean, they spent over two years trying to come up with something, and this is their best effort?
It's pathetic." Millicent takes another delicate sip from her teacup, and Hermione notes that her red
lipstick doesn't even leave a mark.

Alicia Spinnet slides into the desk next to Millicent with a cup of steaming coffee. "Have you seen
the paper?" she hisses. "It's absurd! Hermione, I’m sure that Harry will fight tooth and nail to make
sure you don't get mixed up in this business."

"He already has," Hermione shrugs, opening her desk drawer. She has a pile of paperwork to
complete, and while the official announcement in the paper was frustrating, it had come as no
surprise. "Harry had a good hint that it was going to pass a few weeks back, so I'm not terribly
shocked anyway."

"There will be hell to pay if they try to force you into some awful marriage with a soulless
Slytherin. No offense, Millicent."

Millicent rolls her eyes and takes a sip of tea before replying. "Of course not."

A squawking cloud of paper cranes flutters by, and two of them drop down onto Hermione and
Millicent's desks. Hermione pulls back the folds of the paper to read that she is being summoned to
her supervisor's office.

"You too?" she asks Millicent, who nods in response.

"I wish Pinter would stop doing that," Alicia grimaces. "I'm sure he's exceptionally proud of his
son's Charm -ing tricks, but gods, it's distracting."

"He said it encourages creativity in the office." Millicent’s emphasis underscores her doubts
surrounding Pinter’s claim.
“It encourages headaches,” sighs Hermione. “I suppose we ought to go see what he wants this
time.”

An Excerpt from Weird Wizarding Laws and Their Unexpected Consequences by Agatha Braggot,
as Referenced in the Daily Prophet on Wednesday, 13 September 2000.

The Wizards’ Council passed the Marriage Act of 1514 to address some rising concerns over the
effects of inbreeding within the Wizarding community. The law allowed the Council to mandate
marriages between pure-bloods and half-bloods or Muggle-borns. Many historians documented
that the Marriage Act was largely used to diffuse bloodlines in misguided attempts at revenge or
punishment.

Over time, proponents of the Marriage Act observed that while the marriage of a pure-blood to a
half-blood or Muggle-born did cause some short-term damage to the pure-blood family's reputation
and social standing amongst other pure-bloods, there was no marked decrease in magical potential
in children conceived of such arrangements, and in fact, often cited reports that the resulting
progeny seemed to live much longer, healthier lives than the average pure-blood.

The Ministry of Magic adopted the law in 1707 upon its formation, but it was invoked infrequently
beyond the 18th century. The last known use of the Marriage Act was in 1902 when Miriam
Derbin of the then-renowned Derbin pure-bloods requested that the Ministry arrange her marriage
to Scott Kissinger, a Muggle-born, because her parents would not approve of the match. This
historian notes that Alomir Kissinger, great uncle to Scott, made a generous donation to the
Ministry shortly after Miriam Derbin's request was enforced.

Hermione had stayed just a hair later at work than she'd intended, so she arrives nearly thirty
minutes late to Harry and Ginny's flat for wine night. Their living room normally overflows on a
Wednesday evening, and tonight is no exception. She scans the room for friendly faces and some
space to squeeze in. Alicia and Cho are snuggled together on the loveseat, and Ron sits across from
them, so Hermione slips over, waving to a few acquaintances on the way, and collapses on the
couch next to Ron.

"Pour me the biggest glass of Viognier you can," she groans. "I've had a hellish day."

Ron grimaces and reaches for the bottle and a glass. "I'm sorry about the announcement,
Hermione. Harry was really hoping it would blow over."

"We all knew it wouldn't, but I'm talking about my job, Ron. John Pinter has me drowning in
paperwork, and he refuses to give me the time of day whenever I've tried to present my
suggestions for process improvements."

"Well, you just started in the rotational a year ago, and you’ve barely had two weeks with the
Budgetary Affairs committee," he shrugs, handing her a very full pour. "You're going to have to
play the game and all that. Wait for your turn."
"But Pinter is being ridiculous . He just assigned Millicent Bulstrode and me to a worthless
research project on the misuse of finances in the Muggle Relations department. Their budget is
already absolute shit, but he’s certain they’ve been lying about their expenditures, and he’s
relentlessly determined to be the one to prove it."

"She's not wrong, you know," Alicia chimes in. "Pinter's an absolute arse. He gives all the
interesting assignments to his nephew. Sniveling little thing."

The conversation devolves into a spirited debate about the best synonyms for brown-nosing
bootlickers and other nasty names to call Pinter and his nephew. Cho wins with a surprisingly crass
phrase that Hermione doesn’t think bears repeating ever, and thankfully, the topic of the Marriage
Act doesn’t come back up in her circle for the rest of the evening, although at several points she
thinks she hears soft whispers of it floating through the air around her.

A few hours and several shared bottles later, Hermione buzzes with a pleasant warmth. Most of the
party has drifted back to their own homes, but Harry and Ginny are still swapping Quidditch stories
with a handful of Ginny’s Harpies teammates, so Ron and Hermione retreat to the kitchen with
some of the abandoned glassware so that the Potters will have one less thing to tend to in the
morning.

Ron hands Hermione another wine glass to dry. "I'm sure you're sick of people asking you about
today’s headline."

"I think everyone knows better than to bring it up to me," she shrugs, polishing the glass to a shine.

"Sorry," he grimaces. "Am I being a beast to bring it up now?"

Hermione smiles and bumps his arm with her shoulder. "I don't mind so much with you. Harry and
I have already talked about it at length, anyway."

"What does he think?"

"He thinks it's a ridiculous idea, of course."

Ron hands her another glass. "Yes, but what about for you? What does this mean for you?"

"Harry said he will do what he can to make sure I'm not in the early assignments. Honestly, and I
hate to say it, I think I could rely on my...," she grimaces at the word, "... reputation and cause a
stink if I was assigned before I felt ready."

"We could get engaged."

The kitchen falls silent. Hermione suddenly can’t hear anything beyond the ringing in her ears, and
she is sure she's misunderstood.

"Engaged?" she echoes, turning to him. Ron stares at the running water, ears redding, then faces
her with a hard determination.

"Engaged," he repeats firmly.

Hermione feels tired. Weary. Most of all, dumbfounded. "But Ron, we broke up. Over a year ago."

"Yes, but we're both older now, and more mature."

Hermione opens her mouth to protest, but Ron ploughs ahead. "I'm not suggesting that we date
again, only that we get engaged. You know, just to make sure you're not forced into anything with
someone you don't know. Someone who doesn't understand you."

"Understand me?" she sputters. Understand her? As Ron had understood her wanting to wait to
have children, wanting to focus on her career? "We have already discussed why it won't work
between us." She folds the towel in her shaking hands, making to move past him, out of the
kitchen, out of this ridiculous conversation.

"Romantically, you mean." Ron holds up his hands in earnest, blocking her from the door, pleading
with her to hear him out. Against her better judgement, she pauses with a sigh. "But this wouldn't
be a romantic arrangement, of course."

Hermione narrows her eyes and crosses her arms. "What do you mean?"

"I was... I was wrong before, 'Mione," he admits with wide, warm eyes. "I shouldn't have insisted
on you doing things my way. I was a right arse, and I don't blame you for any of it. But I see that
now, and I want you to have all of those things."

"I do have those things, Ron. Even you must see that I go to work every day." The slight barb is
unbecoming, she'd admit, but the suggestion that Ron would now allow her such liberties as a
career rankles her.

"That's not what I mean," he grumbles. "I mean that I won't get in the way. We're just friends now,
aren't we?"

"Yes," she grits out. "We are."

"So I'm suggesting this as your friend, as someone who loves you for who you are. I'm not asking
for romance or sex or any of that. I'm just saying that we work well together, don't we?"

"As friends, yes, Ron, but - "

"And you're banking it all on Harry sussing something out or you throwing around your weight
with the Ministry, but you and I both know they're not for us in the long run," Ron insists. "They
could stick you with someone awful, someone who wouldn't care about what you want, who
wouldn't give you the room you need to be you."

"They're not going to assign me to anyone, Ron." Her voice is thin and hoarse.

"You can't know that for sure. They could take it all away, everything you've worked for. But if
we're engaged...," he trails off with a pleading look. "You'd be invincible, Hermione."

He's right, something whispers in her ear.

The general consensus, from what she's gathered over the weeks with Harry and at the office, is
that the Ministry does not currently plan to arrange marriages on a large scale. Instead they will be
rolling out the decrees to only a handful of couples at a time, and - for now, at least - anyone has
the right to petition the Ministry to be excused from an arrangement. The trick to it is that a
petitioner must have been engaged to another before the decree is issued and must be wedded
within eighteen months.

The Ministry had never once looked after them during the War. Would anything be different now,
or would she once again become a pawn instead of a player in some larger scheme? She is the
Ministry’s Golden Girl now, but how long will it take for the winds to change direction?
How long into their “marriage” will it take before Ron’s expectations change direction?

She is too drunk for this conversation.

"I need to think about it," she finally says.

Ron steps in next to her and kisses her hair with a squeeze to her shoulders. She wants to lean into
it like she used to long ago, but instead she feels the urge to squirm away.

Over his shoulder, she eyes a copy of the paper in Harry's rubbish bin. The headline she is now
very familiar with has been folded over, but she can spot an announcement on the back of the page:

GREENGRASS TO WED MALFOY HEIR.

Draco Malfoy lays down his copy of the paper with a satisfied smirk and pulls off his thick-framed
glasses. He isn’t entirely sorry to see the announcement overshadowed by the Marriage Act
business, but he is sure Astoria will be livid. He prefers that the Prophet and its readership stay out
of his business altogether, but she’s always been one for the spotlight, and she hates to share.

A knock sounds at the door of his study and he sighs, anticipating her anger, but instead the door
opens to reveal Gregory Goyle, a grim expression on his face.

Draco sucks in a breath and leans forward. "Have you seen Daphne, then?"

Goyle shakes his head. "Adrian's going to be a problem," he states, leaning his wide body against
the doorframe.

"Not for long," Draco clips with a cold fury.

"Will Astoria forgive you for meddling in her sister's marriage?"

"She'll understand, one day. Come in, and close the door behind you."

One Week Later

Two quite unexpected things happen on Friday.

First, Millicent Bulstrode extends an invitation for Hermione to join her for tea on Saturday
morning, ostensibly so that they can get to know each other better as they dive into Pinton's pet
project. Hermione agrees with some hesitation, but Millicent’s hopefully smile helps put her at
ease.

Then, later that evening, Hermione accepts Ron's proposal over a bottle of wine and a bowl of
curry. It takes some effort on her part to convince him to wait until Sunday Supper to make the
announcement to the Weasleys and Potters, but Ron eventually agrees, enticed by the prospect of a
larger celebration with most of his family present. For Hermione’s part, she hopes that Ginny won’t
hex her too badly in front of Molly once she explains the nature of the arrangement. She promises
Ron that she’ll send an owl to Australia to tell her parents the news, but she doesn’t say when she’ll
send it.

Eighteen months is a long time to be engaged. Anything can happen in eighteen months, and her
parents don’t read the Prophet so much now that their memories have returned.

She allows him to kiss her chastely on the cheek before she Floos back to her own flat to eat a full
bag of crisps in front of the fireplace.

When she arrives at Millicent's door the following morning, she feels rather rough about the edges,
but Millicent greets her with a set of black and white cats weaving around her ankles and whisks
her through to a pleasantly arranged sitting room. Hermione is positive that the black cat is giving
her a funny, knowing look, but surely that is just her imagination.

She briefly lifts a hand to touch the spot on her head where a pointy ear once sprouted, then
shudders.

They sit down across from each other with the tea service on a low table between them, and the
cats settle on some artfully arranged plush velvet cushions. Hermione can’t help but notice that
Millicent eyes the engagement ring on her finger with a mix of confusion and longing.

"That's very lovely." She is all tact. "I don't think I noticed it yesterday. Something new?"

Hermione takes a deep breath and steels herself. She’d known this moment would come when she
slipped the ring back on her finger that morning. That was the intent, after all, for people to know.
And this classmate who she’d barely known at school outside of bullying and - well - is a perfect
test case. An ideal trial run. "I suppose it's new. Or old, rather. Really neither, actually. It's from
Ron."

Millicent politely coughs, which is as good of a reaction as she could have hoped for. "Ron
Weasley?"

"Yes. We're engaged, I suppose." She winces and takes a long sip of tea, one which she regrets
immediately as it scalds her mouth.

"I hadn’t realized you and Ron had gotten back together. It’s so nice when friendships develop that
way."

"Oh, we haven't. Not really." Hermione chokes out, trying not to cough at the burning pain in the
back of her throat.

Millicent raises an eyebrow. "But you're engaged...?"

"Platonically," she says, her voice strained and hoarse.

"Platonically... engaged." Millicent's expression speaks all the words on the tip of her tongue.

"It's because of all this Marriage Act business, you see. If Ron and I are engaged, then the Ministry
won't pair me with anyone else."

"My understanding," Millicent begins, setting down her own cup gently, "was that you must get
married within a year and a half."
"Yes, well." Hermione waves a hand. "I'm sure it will all work out. Ron and I have been excellent
friends for a very long time, you see."

"That makes complete sense." Millicent stands up from the sofa, smooths the invisible wrinkles in
her skirt, and walks over to a small liquor cabinet in the corner. "You sound a bit hoarse. Would
you like some Ogden's in your tea? I find it helps soothe my throat."

"Yes, that would be lovely." Hermione holds out her cup, and Millicent pours her a generous
serving before topping it off with some more hot tea.

"I'm a little scratchy myself." They both take long sips that are more firewhisky than English
Breakfast. Hermione chokes a bit at the burn in her throat, but Millicent remains perfectly
composed.

"It's a bit silly that he gave me a ring, don't you think?" Hermione finally says, staring down at her
own hand.

"It's very odd, I'd say. Would you like another?"

"Yes." Hermione drains what remains and offers her cup to Millicent. "He's probably right, though.
I ought to wear it so that it's more believable that we're together."

"You wouldn't want the Ministry to figure out that you're not actually going to get married."

"We... might actually get married." Hermione feels her voice going a bit high, but with the taste of
Ogden's on her tongue, she finds that she doesn’t particularly care.

"You're going to marry him?" Millicent gasps. "I thought you said it was platonic!"

"It is platonic!" Hermione cries, sinking into the cushions. "People have platonic marriages all the
time, I'm sure."

"I don't really think that's true." Millicent's face is flushed now too, and she leans forward in
earnest. "Don't you think it'd be so much nicer if you married someone you loved?"

Hermione sniffs into her cup. "I'm not sure. I hadn't really thought about getting married yet."

"Have you talked to his sister about it yet?" Millicent asks hesitantly. "I thought you two were
close."

"Ginny? Oh, no," she groans. "I can't tell if she'll be elated or furious or even disappointed, and I'm
not sure which would be worse. We’re telling her tomorrow with the rest of the family."

"That sounds complicated." Millicent passes her a plate of pastries.

"I'm afraid it is." She bites into a blueberry scone, and Millicent does the same, carefully watching
her as she chews.

"I'm sorry about all the business at school," Millicent finally blurts. Oh. They were doing that,
then. "I was rather awful to you."

"It was years ago." Hermione promises, "Water under the bridge."

She shakes her head. "No, please do listen to my apology. My therapist - I've been seeing a
therapist since school ended, you see - I'm trying to be more sincere in my friendships and to own
up to my previous behavior issues."
"Oh. Okay, then."

"I was a terrible bully," she continues. "I felt so out of place as a half-blood in Slytherin. Well, I'm
sure you know how a lot of them could be. And I was so awkward and... big, too. But then they'd
be nice to me sometimes when I was mean to you or Potter or the other Gryffindors, so I did a lot
of that to make myself feel better, but now I see - that is, I figured out that I didn't respect myself
for all the reasons that they did."

Merlin. Hermione steels herself with a deep breath. Best to get it over with.

"I stole a hair off your cloak in second year for a Polyjuice Potion so we could sneak into the
Slytherin Common Room to prove that Malfoy was the Heir of Slytherin but it was your cat's hair
and so I accidentally turned into your cat."

Oh dear.

Millicent's jaw drops open.

Hermione clutches her fingers in her lap. "I'm very sorry," she whispers.

"Oh my god," Millicent breathes.

"It was very wrong of us to do that."

"Oh my god." Millicent's face breaks into a mirthful grin, and she begins to cackle. "Checkers. I
can't breathe."

"Checkers?" Hermione repeats faintly.

"Checkers was my cat," she wheezes, clutching her stomach. "She was an absolute disaster. I can't
believe - Checkers - "

"You're not mad?"

"Oh gods, I used to be so scared of you, but you were Checkers!"

Hermione cracks a smile.

"Only part Checkers!" she insists, suddenly set on by giggles, but Millicent doesn't stop laughing.
"The transition didn't exactly... take."

"Part Checkers."

Hermione laughs along with her.

A loud bang and a flash of light shocks them out of their laughter. Smoke billows from the
fireplace, and a grim Theo Nott steps into the room. He barely acknowledges Hermione's presence
before turning to Millicent.

"Daphne," he hisses. Millicent's face drains of color, and she springs up from the couch.

"Is she okay?"

Theo shakes his head. "It's Adrian and Draco."

Millicent presses her hand to her mouth.

 Hermione stands up as well. "I should go." The firewhisky turns over in her stomach, but
something is happening here, something she isn’t meant to see.

Theo looks at her with irritation in his eyes. "Yes, I think that's a good idea."

"I'm so sorry, Hermione. I'll send you an owl later," Millicent promises, showing her toward the
door. "Thank you for coming."

As Hermione steps over the threshold, she reaches back to grasp Millicent's hand. "Thank you,
really. I hope everything is okay."

Millicent only sighs and shakes her head, briefly squeezing Hermione's hand in her own before she
releases her and shuts the door.

Through the small window, Hermione watches as Theo places a gentle hand on the small of
Millicent’s back, guiding her into the fireplace. They Floo, she supposes, to Malfoy Manor.

Chapter End Notes

WELCOME.

Posting schedule is tentatively set for Tuesdays, but that may switch to Wednesdays,
particularly if I don't get my act together with my other WIP.

I hope you enjoyed this first installment!! Leave all those kudos and comments below.
<3<3
 Chapter Two
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

He had expected the encounter to turn sour, but not this quickly, and certainly not with such
violence. Draco relishes it so much that it frightens him a little. Adrenaline courses through his
veins as he flings another hex at Pucey.

His heart whispers that maybe he should slow down, maybe they can talk through it. Maybe Pucey
will agree to leave. Daphne and Ben would be kept safe, of course, out of the news. His wand is
poised to end it and stop Pucey for good, but he hesitates.

Mistake.

Pucey’s face twists in delight, and he points his wand at Draco. "Traitor!"

With a grand whirl, he spits a string of words that Draco doesn't recognize. Draco hastily tries to
conjure a shield against it, but a beam of light bursts through his attempt, bouncing in all
directions.

With an angry flash, the light envelopes them both, and agony follows. He hears his own scream,
and Pucey’s hoarse yell intermingles with it. A sharp pain cracks through his skin down to his
bones.

You’re a fool.

The world goes black.

Molly Weasley's expression of pure delight turns Hermione's stomach, but not as much as the
horrified confusion painted across Ginny's face. Harry, on the other hand, looks like he'd very
much like to leave the room and never return.

Hermione feels quite the same way.

"Oh, how lovely!" Mrs. Weasley claps her hands together. She leaps from her seat and pulls
Hermione into a stifling hug that leaves her quite breathless. Ron is next, and he grumbles as he’s
squeezed into his mother’s chest. "We have so much decor left from Harry and Ginny's wedding,
you know. Of course, I imagine you'll want to be married here, at the Burrow. Have you decided
on a date yet? Perhaps just before Christmas? It's short notice, you know, but I'm up for the
challenge.”

Ron opens his mouth to reply.

"We haven't discussed a date yet," Hermione hastily cuts in. "There's really no rush."

"A winter wedding sounds good, though, don't you think?" Ron says, turning to her.

"Winter is... a lovely time of the year," she chokes out.

Mrs. Weasley beams.

"But perhaps next winter! That way we can have everything just how we like it."

"You've always been very particular, my girl," Mr. Weasley chuckles. "I really admire that about
you."

Hermione decides to accept that as a compliment today. "That's so kind of you, Mr. Weasley."

"This is so unexpected," Ginny grits out with a forced smile and danger in her eyes. "I'd love to
hear all the details of how on earth this happened."

Harry looks very nervous to be sitting between his wife and his best friend turned brother-in-law.

Ron glares at her. "I'm sure Hermione would love to tell you all about it."

"Oh!" Mrs. Weasley gasps. "We ought to have a little engagement celebration, don't you think?"

"What about - " Ron begins.

"Let's look at schedules for next month," Hermione interrupts again. "That is - I'm rather busy with
work at the moment. And I'd like to tell my parents first. In person, if I can."

She very much would not like to tell her parents, ever.

"Next month." Mrs. Weasley doesn't disguise her disappointment. "Very well, then."

Ginny catches her alone in the kitchen at her first opportunity.

"Have you gone quite mad? Is this real?"

"The Marriage Act is very real, Ginny," sighs Hermione, stacking the clean plates. "Ron and I... the
marriage won't be a true marriage, I think."

"You think," Ginny deadpans. "Are you entirely sure what you're doing? Does Ron know that you
don't love him?"

"Yes, Ron knows, of course. And we'll be fine, I'm sure. We get along quite well. I do love him,
after all, just not perhaps in the way that some people imagine a wife loving her husband."

"Do you want to marry someone you don't love in the same way that a wife loves her husband?"
Ginny's voice crackles with frustration.

"Maybe!" Hermione tosses the dish towel on the counter. "I don't know what you want me to say. I
don't want to marry a stranger. And who knows? 18 months is a long time, so perhaps this whole
Marriage Act business will blow over and we won't actually have to get married."

Ginny shakes her head with a heavy sigh. "’Til death parts us’ is quite a lot to wager on ‘perhaps,’
Hermione. If this is what you've decided, then I suppose I'll support you, but I hope you know I
think it's a foolish plan."
Hermione stares down into the sink, swallowing her tears as Ginny slips back to the rest of the
party. Once her racing heart and stinging eyes are firmly under control, she pastes on a smile and
rejoins everyone on the lawn.

When she finally retreats to her flat later that evening, Hermione finds that she does not feel
supported in the least.

Hermione had promised Ron that she would submit their completed exemption paperwork to the
Department of Unification on Monday since the office is located just two floors down from her
desk, but when she arrives at the Ministry, she realizes that she's left one of the forms at home. She
considers Floo-ing back to her flat to grab the missing form, but she has a meeting with Pinter and
Millicent later that morning that requires some preparation.

No matter, she shrugs. I'll get it tomorrow.

Tuesday flies by, it really does, and she simply doesn't have time to go downstairs. Her schedule is
fully packed. When Hermione hears murmurs that Penelope Clearwater had received a letter the
night before, she promises herself that she'll go tomorrow. I will most definitely, without a doubt,
turn in the paperwork tomorrow.

"Have you gone quite mad?" Theodore Nott rages, pacing the length of Draco’s study. Behind him,
Greg sighs and stares down into his swirling glass of Ogden's finest.

Draco Malfoy rolls his eyes and does his best to affect boredom to shield against Theo's screaming.

"There's going to be an investigation , Draco," he seethes. "I've done what I can to keep things out
of the papers for the time being, but I can't hold them off forever. You’d be lucky if this stays
under wraps through the weekend."

Draco pushes back from his desk and up from his chair. His leg trembles a little from a burning
blend of pain and repressed anger as he stalks over to the liquor cabinet. The break in his thigh had
not been clean, and the healer said it may take some time for the sharp pain to fade.

He'd do it again, though. A thousand times over.

"You need to tell them what really happened," Theo insists as Draco fills up a glass with
Firewhisky. "You have the proof."

Draco glimpses his face in the mirror and brusquely turns away.

It's grotesque. Thick, angry red lines snake up his neck to his jaw, constant reminders that beneath
his sweater, the scars twist over his left shoulder down to his torso where they blend into his
Sectumsempra marks. No matter what side he chooses in this seemingly never-ending conflict, he's
left scarred.
At least he can feel good about his decisions this time, even if they had taken more from him than
he'd intended to give.

"No," he clips, throwing back the amber contents of the glass. "The evidence stays between us.
Daphne and Ben will not be tarnished by something they had no part in."

"Does Astoria know?" Greg asks.

The burning overwhelms him, and Draco pitches the empty glass at the wall. Theo flinches at the
shattering.

"No. She doesn't want to listen, much less marry me," Draco growls. "She’s really proved her
eternal devotion, hasn’t she?"

"Oh, pull the other one, Draco. You weren't exactly in love," shrugs Greg, returning to his own
intact glass.

"Hey, I was willing to do what needed to be done, even if Astoria is unwilling to see that."

"And what about now?"

"Now I look forward to leading the private life I always wanted." Draco props himself against the
wall to take some of the pressure off his leg.

"In Azkaban?" seethes Theo. "You realize that's where this leads, don't you?"

"Do you think they'll give me my own cell?" Draco ponders, touching a long, trim finger to his
chin. "I'd hate to interrupt dear old Dad's solitude."

"I'm glad you think this is some kind of fucking joke." Theo narrows his eyes. "Use your Galleons
if you won't use your brain. Hire solicitors. Play guilty at home if you're so eager to punish
yourself, but don't let them put you in Azkaban."

Draco sneers at him but doesn't respond. There's no point, really, not when Theo is in this mood.

"I'm serious," he growls. "If you don't do it, I will."

Draco ignores him to grab another glass. Greg holds out his own for a refill as well, and the easy
scene finally sends Theo over the edge.

Theo whirls on Greg. "Are you going to sit there like a fucking plonker until the Ministry comes
knocking? Say something to him!"

Greg sighs and sets his glass down. "I already spoke to Hawkworth."

Theo tilts his head in question, and Draco rolls his eyes as he hobbles to his desk. Standing hurts
too much, even when he leans against the wall. He'd been out for two days while they mended and
magicked him back together, and he still feels weak and easily tired.

"And?" prompts Theo.

"And he's agreed that the Wizengamot won't charge Draco with murder. There will be no trial."

A muscle loosens in his chest. "How much did that cost you?" Draco leans back and twirls a quill
around his fingers.
"A fucking lot of money, and I also gave them my word that you'd be the new poster boy for the
Ministry’s Marriage Act matchmaking project - without complaint."

Theo freezes.

No, No. NO. Draco carefully places the quill back on his desk, then presses his hands onto the
wood and leans forward, steel eyes sparking at his friend.

"You. Did. What?"

Greg shrugs, and Draco thinks he spots a satisfied gleam in his smug look. "I thought you might
prefer the warmth of a woman to the cold cells of Azkaban."

"How dare you interfere in my affairs?"

It is not a question.

"I have always interfered in your affairs, Draco," Goyle shrugs. "I'm just doing it on my own terms
now."

"I am not marrying anyone ."

"I will drag you to the altar with my bare hands if that's what it takes," threatens Theo.

"I'd like to see you try."

Greg chuckles, and Theo rolls his eyes.

On Wednesday, as promised, Hermione brings in the full set of exemption paperwork for
submission. She really intends to run down to the hastily-constructed Department of Unifications
unit during her lunch break, but Pinter whisks her and Millicent off to a bunker in the outskirts of
London to review endless file cabinets of budget documentation from the last century. When she
returns to her desk, tired and dusty, the clock reads seven. All the offices at the Ministry had closed
long ago, and with a sigh, Hermione locks the paperwork in her desk for submission tomorrow. She
hadn't intended to let this go so late into the week, but it's no matter.

One more day can't hurt.

She's rather late to Wine Night already, and she says a small prayer that Ron won't ask her about
the paperwork when she arrives. If he knows that it's been three whole days since she'd promised to
submit their exemption, she'll never hear the end of it.

When Hermione steps through the Floo, the living room is empty except for the Potters, Ron,
Alicia, and Cho. Alicia and Cho are seated next to each other on the couch. Cho looks confused,
and Alicia looks horrified by the paper in her hands.

They hardly look up as she steps out of the fireplace. The room is completely silent.

"What is it?" she asks, walking into the room. "What's happened?"

"The Marriage Act," Cho says flatly. "Alicia's been... the Ministry has assigned her."
"To whom?"

"Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

Hermione frowns. "I thought Malfoy was engaged to the younger Greengrass girl. I saw it in the
Prophet two weeks ago." She'd barely noted the headline in their trash bin, but it had most certainly
been there.

"They broke it off on Monday, evidently," Ginny sighs.

"That was brief," mutters Ron with an unimpressed sneer. "Wonder what finally pushed her over
the edge."

"I can't marry Malfoy," Alicia gasps, looking up from the paper. "I don't even like men."

"I don't think the Ministry is particularly concerned about your preferences, Alicia!" Cho's shrill
voice rings through the flat. She wrings her hands together and rises from the couch to pace around
the room.

"We'll fix this somehow," Harry reassures. "I'm sure I can talk to someone."

"What if you tell them you're already engaged to Cho?" Ginny offers.

"You have to be engaged before you receive the assignment," Ron counters.

"They could just say that they're engaged already."

Cho and Alicia exchange an unreadable gaze.

"You can't just say it's already happened. You have to submit the exemption paperwork ahead of
time," Ron argues back. "I already looked into all of this."

Paperwork. Please don't ask about the paperwork.

"We'll submit a petition. Surely we're not the only ones," Cho insists, drawing back to Alicia's side
to take her hand. "We'll figure this out."

Hermione stares across the room at Ron. Until that moment, she hadn't realized how desperately
she’s craved an excuse to get out of marrying him. An excuse more substantial than I simply don't
want to. That might work for Ginny and Harry, but it wouldn't work for Molly Weasley or the
Prophet or her managers at the Ministry or for the general Wizarding public of Great Britain... or
for Ron.

But a marriage of convenience, one to help her friends out of a sticky situation? That's no fault of
her own. It's rather generous, even.

It’s an excuse she can use .

So she grabs at it.

"I'll do it," she blurts.

"We can submit our own petition," Alicia says tactfully, "but your support would be really
helpful."

"No," Hermione says, straightening in her seat. "I'll marry him. Malfoy."
The silence is deafening.

"But - but we're engaged," Ron sputters.

Hermione twists her hands in her lap, Ron’s ring a heavy weight upon her finger even as she begins
to slide it off. "We're not really in love, though."

Ginny winces. Next to her, Harry neatly finishes off his glass and rises, mumbling something about
needing something stronger before striding swiftly from the room.

He’d clearly learned his lesson on Saturday, Hermione supposes.

"Well, I'm sure it's not as easy as just swapping one name for another," Ron insists. "You can't just
waltz in and insist that you're Malfoy's bride, especially since you already submitted our
paperwork."

Shit.

"I... I haven't submitted the paperwork."

Ron mottles red with fury.

"And you can swap, actually," Hermione rushes on. "Both parties have to agree to the change, but
it is permitted."

"You must be joking. You didn't submit the paperwork?"

"Hermione, are you sure about this?" Ginny steps in.

"Not particularly, no. But Malfoy can't be so bad. I'm sure he'll agree to living separate lives and all
that. It will merely be an inconvenience, that's all."

"An inconvenience," snorts Ron.

Alicia envelops Hermione in a bear hug. "Thank you," she murmurs in her ear.

"You had better propose within the next week," Hermione whispers.

"Promise."

"We'll go to Malfoy's tomorrow, then, to discuss the change," Hermione says, pulling away. "Meet
at my flat around six?"

"Six is perfect."

“Hermione, really - “ Ron begins, following her as she strides back to the Floo.

“I hardly think this merits more discussion, Ron.” Her voice is thin and high. If I can only make it
to the fireplace -

“You’re mad, Hermione. Malfoy, of all people? Instead of me?” He steps in front of her, blocking
her from the fireplace, but she neatly steps around him and scoops a handful of Floo Powder.

“I can see that you’re upset, but now nothing has to change between us, and that’s really for the
best, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think, actually - “

She sets Ron’s ring on the mantle and steps back into the Floo.

“We can talk about it more later, Ron.” Then she’s gone in an instant, back to the safety and
privacy of her own flat as his “But Hermione - “ echoes through the Floo.

Hermione closes her Floo for the night, just in case Ron decides this simply cannot wait until later.
She falls asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow, and her chest feels lighter for the first time in
two weeks.

Theo walks through the Floo to the sight of Malfoy burning a piece of paper over his desk.

"Please tell me that's not what I think it is." Theo marches over to Draco and snatches the paper up,
blowing at the flames. "Alicia Spinnet? Are you serious?"

"I'm not going to marry her, you know."

"I don't think you have much of a choice!"

"Oh, it's very easy to choose not to marry someone." Draco sinks back into his chair. "You just
don't show up at the altar.”

"You will go to Azkaban if you don't go through with this. Are you listening to me? Azkaban,
Draco. I know your family has long had the Ministry by the pocketbook, but that time has come to
an end. If you don't do this, they won't have to ask for your money anymore. They will take your
money, they will take your home, and you will rot in prison."

"If they're so convinced that I deserve to rot, then why shouldn't I?" he fires back. "I don't know
that I disagree entirely, and I won't spend the rest of my life trying to prove otherwise to them or to
myself. I even look the part now." Draco waves a hand at the scarring on his face.

Theo's jaw tenses, and he steps threateningly toward Draco. "We've all put our lives on the line for
each other over the past few years, and I won't have you throwing it away for your misguided self-
pity or wounded vanity. At the very least, have some respect for Greg shelling out his time and
money to get you out of this."

"He can afford it," Draco growls.

"None of us have unlimited favors, and I would much appreciate it if you tried to be less of an ass.
Marry the Spinnet girl. You hardly know her, so just let her alone and both of you will be very
merry and the Ministry will stay out of your precious pockets - and mine."

Theo begins to turn away, but then seems to rethink something. "And, while you're at it, do
something useful with your time besides mope about the Manor. It makes me ill."

An owl swoops through the open window and drops another letter on Draco's desk. They both stare
at it for a beat before Draco lifts it from the desk and breaks the wax seal.

"It's from Spinnet. She says she's arriving at 6:15 tomorrow and expects me to be here to receive
her."
Theo snorts. "Best of luck, mate. Try not to fuck this up."

Theo steps through the Floo to Millicent's flat.

"It's awfully late for you to be paying me a visit, Theo," she sighs from her couch, pulling her silk
dressing gown tighter around her waist. "Should I put on some tea?"

"Something stronger, if you don't mind." He collapses on the chair across from her. "I've just come
from Draco's."

"Gods. How is he?" She glides over to the cabinet to pull out a bottle of Scotch and pours an inch
into two small crystal glasses.

"Getting married to Alicia Spinnet, if you can believe it," Theo says, taking a glass from her.

Millicent's eyes widen. "You're joking."

"I am not. He received the letter from the Ministry today."

"Spinnet must be gutted. You know she's dating Cho Chang?" She sinks back into the couch. "How
horrid."

"I certainly hope Spinnet can sort something out. Draco's hands are tied, unfortunately, with all this
business with Pucey."

"I'm sure Potter and Hermione will help her." Millicent shakes her head and stares into the
fireplace. She crosses her legs, and her dressing gown falls open a bit, revealing a glimpse of her
round, golden thigh. She doesn't notice Theo's gaze flicker down to her bared skin.

He clears his throat and shifts uneasily in his seat.

"Why was Granger here on Saturday, anyway? Are you two chummy now?"

Millicent runs her thumb over the lip of her glass. "I'm not sure. I'm trying to fix things where I
can. I think it went well enough."

"I'm sure you're doing a bang-up job, Millie." He tosses back the rest of the Scotch and sets the
glass down on her table. "Well, I'd best be off."

"But you just got here!" She suddenly feels uncertain, and she pulls the dressing gown back over
her leg.

"As you said, bit late for a visit."

Theo disappears into the Floo, and Millicent huffs down at her glass as Gretel curls around her
ankles.

"Well, that was rude." She takes another sip of Scotch to quell the unexpected discomfort in her
heart and between her thighs.
Chapter End Notes

Look this is a Dramione fic BUT but but Millicent and Theo are making me feel some
kind of way?? Leave your thoughts below.

THANK YOU FOR READING AND COMMENTING AND KUDO-ING y'all are
really out here validating my whole existence and it's amazing.

Also, don't forget to drop some love for my wonderful beta sirxusly who patiently
edits like 7k words of fanfic for me every week. Thank you for making me sound so
much smarter and cooler than I really am.
 Chapter Three
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione brushes a ball of dust from the corner of her sleeve and crinkles her nose at the musty
smell hanging in the air of the cramped storage room. She and Millicent are surrounded by stacks
of old parchment that Pinter has demanded they review.

"I'm so looking forward to finishing out this Budgetary round," Millicent sighs.

"You don't think you'll sign up to be a Budgie next month?" Hermione lifts a few inches of
parchment from the tallest stack and sets it on their cart.

Millicent snorts. The snorting is a new thing, Hermione has noticed. Millicent only lets them sneak
out when she finds a thought particularly amusing, and Hermione gets a particular satisfaction out
of causing her normally buttoned-up new friend to make such an undignified sound.

"One of Pinter's Budgies? Please. I've always been good with numbers, but I think I'd rather swim
the Channel with a Grindylow than join his team."

"But they have a swell Christmas party, haven't you heard?" Hermione grins.

"Gods, spend time with Pinter outside of work?" Millicent gags. "Happy Christmas, indeed."

A beat passes, and Millicent sneezes politely at another dust bunny as she records another log.

They fall quiet as they work through Pinter’s requested files. The rustle of parchment normally
soothes Hermione, but the shuffling feels loud in their small room, especially as she tries to
consider the various ways she can initiate a line of questioning.

She starts by clearing her throat. Casually.

"So," Hermione begins, staring down at a crumbling sheet of parchment. "What kind of man has
Draco Malfoy turned out to be?"

Subtle, Hermione.

Millicent freezes next to her, and Hermione hears her audibly swallow. She seems to consider her
answer carefully.

"You may hear things about him, but he's not who he was when we were younger. He's... he can be
a challenging man, but he's good, regardless of what people may say." Millicent’s voice is tight. "I
suppose what I'm trying to say is that he's not one to perform for anyone, not even if it's for his own
benefit."

Hermione nods and picks up a new sheet of parchment, even though she hasn't read more than
three words of the sheet she just laid down.

"That's good to know," she murmurs.

There's a click as Millicent sets down her quill.

"I'm sorry to hear about Alicia Spinnet," she sighs. "It's awful that the Ministry is forcing this
marriage business on anyone."

She already knows.

"Erm. Alicia isn't going to marry Malfoy."

"But Theo said... " Millicent trails off with a frown.

Merlin .

"You see, Alicia and I discussed it, and we - that is, it’s gotten rather complicated on her end, and
on my end, as well, so…” she trails off.

Millicent stares at her in open confusion. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

This could not be more painful. Hermione exhales sharply. Just say it.

“I'm going to marry him instead."

Millicent's pouty lips part to form a perfect "O" of shock.

Gods. Perhaps she hadn’t understood. Louder this time. “I’m going to -”

“Yes , I heard you,” comes Millicent’s faint response.

"Alicia wants to marry Cho Chang, you see," Hermione continues with a cringe. I wonder if I
should have said that. “Please don’t repeat that, though, not until they announce it.”

"You're going to marry Draco ." Millicent seems hardly to believe the words coming out of her
own mouth. “You, Hermione Granger, are going to marry Draco Malfoy?”

"It sounds a little ridiculous when you say it like that," Hermione smiles nervously.

Millicent's expression makes it clear that she does think it’s rather ridiculous, then her eyes flash
down to Hermione's empty ring finger. "You've already told Ron, then?"

"I have." Hermione grimaces at the memory. "He was there when I discussed it with Alicia."

"And he... supports your decision?" Millicent's brows raise.

"Not in so many words, exactly." Hermione flips over to the next sheet of parchment.

"What words did he use, exactly?"

“Well… none, really? Not that I heard, anyway.”

Hermione looks up to see Millicent regarding her with disbelief, and she sinks into the one rickety
chair in the room with a groan.

"Oh, alright, I chickened out and Flooed home before he could get a word in, then locked my grate
for good measure. He's livid, of course." she admits. "Frankly, I'm trying to put off the
conversation with him for as long as possible." I’ll be lucky to make it to the weekend.

"Why is it..." Millicent tilts her head and purses her lips. "Certainly don't feel as though you need to
answer this, but why is it that you and Ron didn't work out?"

Hermione laughs humorlessly. "You saw us at Hogwarts, didn't you?"

"He didn't seem to be particularly kind to you then."

"Ron had his moments," Hermione admits. They had fond memories together, of course. "But
romantically, we struggled to treat each other well. Neither of us were good communicators, but
whenever I upset him, which seemed to be all the time, he would intentionally flirt with other girls
to get back at me. I thought we'd sorted out the communication issue, but then Eighth Year came
and went..."

"And it turned out that communication wasn't the only issue?" Millicent suggests.

Hermione nods, opening and closing her mouth a few times to try to stitch together the words she
hadn’t been able to say to Harry or Ginny.

Millicent quietly waits for her to piece it together.

"It was just… well, you know the Weasleys. Ron wanted a big family, just like his, and to start it
right away. And I… we’re still so young, and I was already interested in other pursuits, and then
whenever he felt slighted that I was more preoccupied with my career than our relationship, there
was always some... barb, or retaliation. Some snide comment or small action to hurt me in return."

"Other women, still?"

Hermione shrugs and looks away to a dark corner of the room. "Probably not. At least, I hope not.
I’d like to… I don’t want to think of him in that way. But he... he was not shy to admit that he had
opportunities. A tall, handsome war hero and all that." She hopes Millicent won't note the lightness
infused into her voice.

"I see." Millicent’s tone makes it clear that she did not, in fact, see.

The moment hangs uncomfortably heavy between them.

“Anyway, we… I broke things off. And after a bit, we went back to… friendship, I suppose. Until
this whole Marriage Act business came along. And now, here I am, sorting through dusty files and
marrying my childhood bully.”

Millicent picks up the next stack of parchment. "Have you ever spoken to Draco?"

"Unless you count trading insults, then no, not exactly," Hermione sighs, rising from the chair.

"What if you find that you two don't get on? Isn't this awfully rushed?"

"We don't need to get on, Millicent. That's the whole idea." Hermione pulls her curls back with a
hair tie and enters two more lines into their log. "I'm sure Malfoy will want even less to do with me
than I do with him. He won't have any expectations of me or our marriage, which is perfect. He's
not going to have any illusions about us falling in love or having children or any of that business.
It's exactly what I need."

Millicent looks down at the full cart, then back up at her friend with wide and uncertain eyes.

"What if you fall in love?"

"With Malfoy? I'm certainly not going to fall in love with Malfoy," Hermione laughs. "The idea is
ridiculous."

"Oh, no." Millicent smiles softly, but then her expression turns almost sad. "With anyone,
Hermione. What if you fall in love with someone else?"

What if. A lifetime of what ifs, none of them solid enough possibilities to base any decisions on.

"I suppose I’ll have to face that if or when it comes." Hermione gathers her things into her bag and
pushes open the door, grateful for the bit of light and fresh air that seeps in from the hall. "What
about you? Aren't you worried about being matched with someone?"

"I'm not a pure-blood," Millicent says crisply, "so I'm quite safe."

They stand on each side of the cart. Millicent casts a stabilizing spell over the piles of parchment
they've collected, and with a wave of Hermione's wand, the cart rolls into the hallway and creaks
toward the elevators.

At 6:17 that evening, Draco Malfoy checks his watch. Late. Gods, this will never do . He huffs and
pulls his glasses off his face, presses his fingertips to his forehead. The potions his Healers had
prescribed help with the painful tightness of the skin across his torso, slowly knitting the cuts into
scars, but they also make him feel lethargic and irritable.

The Floo roars to life, and Alicia Spinnet steps through. From the little he knows of Spinnet from
Hogwarts, he's not entirely surprised that she's now four entire minutes late.

What does surprise him is that Hermione fucking Granger steps through the Floo right after
Spinnet.

"What's this, Spinnet?" he drawls, setting his glasses back on his nose. "Attempting to use the
Golden Girl's clout to get yourself out of this mess? It won't work, I'm afraid. The Ministry is
determined to see me wed."

Spinnet rolls her eyes at him, but Granger ignores his words in favor of scrutinizing him, and Draco
finds the experience entirely unsettling. He feels her gaze pause over the scars on his jaw. He wants
to snap at her to remember her manners, but he knows it will do no good. Granger had never cared
for the expectations of polite society, and he doubts she gives a flying fig about them now that she
has the whole of the Wizarding World groveling at her feet. Disgusting .

"Why don't we sit down for some tea?" Granger suggests, clasping her hands together.
Presumptuous bint.

"Or something stronger, perhaps?" Spinnet quips, looking with interest toward Draco's liquor
cabinet.

He nods with approval and heads to the cabinet, walking slowly to disguise his limp. At least she
has some sense about her. "Maybe we'll make a good go of it after all."

Spinnet snorts in disbelief, but she shows no qualms about accepting a pour of firewhisky from his
rather expensive collection. Granger takes a pour from him as well, but she only sniffs it
suspiciously, swirling it about the glass. It’s not until Spinnet throws back nearly half the glass in
one swallow and survives that Granger decides that it passes muster and sips it delicately herself.

Draco settles back into his chair and surveys the women expectantly. Granger bounces her knee
anxiously, looking sideways at Spinnet, who is busy regarding the room and fluffing the pillow
behind her back. Draco waits as long as he can stand.

"Well?" he prompts.

"Right." Spinnet refocuses her attention on Draco. "Here's the long and short of it. I don't want to
marry you."

"I don't particularly want to marry anyone, but it seems we don't have much of a choice," Draco
shrugs. "I'm sure we can come to some kind of arrangement that works for both of us."

"No, no, that won't do, Malfoy," Spinnet chuckles. "The arrangement that works for me is one
where we do not marry because I am already in love with someone else."

"I don't mind about your girlfriend, if that's what you mean." Draco finishes his glass and reaches
for more. "I don't plan on keeping one myself, but I certainly have no intention of interfering with
your affairs."

"You cretin." Spinnet's voice turns to a low growl, and she leans forward. It makes him more
nervous than he'd care to admit, and he decides to forego the next glass for the time being. Best to
keep his wits about him.

"Cho Chang will not be relegated to the role of a shameful mistress," she continues. "I am in love
with her, and she will be my wife or nothing at all. I'm not going to shack up with you while I have
a perfectly legitimate, loving relationship of my own, Ministry decree be damned!"

Damnit. Azkaban looms in Draco's peripheral vision, and his grip tightens on his empty glass. He'd
never considered the fact that Spinnet would refuse the engagement. It’s only been a few days
since Greg handed him a surefire way to avoid a lifetime of imprisonment, and Draco finds he’s
already rather loath to give up his freedom. What exactly were the terms of Greg's agreement with
Hawkworth?

"I expect you've come with some sort of solution then?" he grits out. Something clever , he hopes.

"Yes, I have." Alicia sits back and folds her arms with a satisfied smirk. It makes Draco's stomach
turn, and he senses that he's about to hear something very unpleasant. “Or rather, we have.”

“We?” What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Granger leans forward and crosses her ankles. "I've agreed to marry you."

A ringing starts in Draco's ears, and he barks out a laugh. His hearing must have gone with the
incident. Surely -

Granger frowns at him, and a small wrinkle forms on her forehead.

Oh. Oh, no.

"Gods, you're not serious, are you?" He looks between Granger and Spinnet incredulously. "You
must be joking. Someone put you up to this? I'm not going to marry Granger."

"This is obviously not a joke, Malfoy." Granger sounds particularly cross with him, which is
nothing new. "Alicia wants to marry her girlfriend. I do not presently care who I marry, and
chances are good that the Ministry will pick for me if I don't."
"What, Weasel isn’t to snuff?" That seems to irritate her further. Excellent. "He always looked like
he'd be a bore in bed, anyway. I could never put my finger on it, but something about the way none
of his clothes fit, perhaps. It was a little off, don't you think? You can't trust a bloke who can't
dress himself. Could blame it on the state of the family, but the other Weasley boys never seemed
quite as embarrassing."

Granger fidgets with her empty ring finger in a way that makes him wonder if there had been an
offer she didn't take, or possibly one she'd hoped for that didn't come. "Ron and I parted ways a
while ago."

Marriage to Granger would be anything but convenient. Draco's engagement to Astoria hadn't made
much of a splash in the Prophet, but an alliance between The Golden Granger Girl of Gryffindor
and Draco the Disgraced Death Eater would be front page news. Gods, they'd be watched like
hawks . Furthermore, he'd never remotely cared for Granger.

Draco leans back and surveys Hermione Granger. Her clothes, presumably from work, are rather
drab and brown against her skin. Her mousy brown hair is wild and curly, just as it had been at
Hogwarts, but at least she's mastered the method of pinning it up to stay out of her face. Some
improvement. Her countenance is pleasant enough, even if it is rather pinched at the moment. The
ruffles on her blouse hide anything of interest on her chest, but her legs are long and could
certainly be enjoyable in the proper circumstances. In fact, if she were to wrap them around his
hips, he wouldn't -

Pain shoots up his leg as he shifts in his chair, and it's a bothersome reminder that there will be no
wrapping of legs around hips ever. Not with Granger and not with anyone else.

But anything is better than Azkaban. Most anything, that is.

"And the Ministry will agree to this... rearrangement?" Draco asks.

Granger nods. "I've already reviewed the legislation. It's permitted, as long as you agree to the
change in bride."

"I have some conditions." He leans back, tenting his fingers together. A marriage to Granger could
be bearable under the right circumstances.

"As do I," she bristles. Naturally. Gods, she hasn't changed a bit.

His first and most important demand. "You will not live at Malfoy Manor."

"I have no wish to live in or be near Malfoy Manor, as I’m sure you can imagine,” Granger retorts,
and her biting tone rubs uncomfortably at Draco’s lingering guilt over the events of a few years
past. “Thankfully there’s no reason for me to be here. My business is in London at the Ministry,
where I will continue to work as long as I see fit. I'm not sure what the wifely expectations are in
pure-blood society, but I have no interest in fulfilling them."

"I've quite given up any inclination toward the pure-blood society of Britain, so I assure you that
any skills you have in that area will not be required." Draco's certain that she does not have any of
the skills his parents would have required in a bride - the necessary skills that Astoria had - but it's
of no matter anymore.

Granger raises her pert little nose in the air. "I am not going to sleep with you."

Draco snorts and finally pours himself that second glass. "I should hope not. I'm happy to forego
all that business."
"I have no expectations of your faithfulness in this union, but I would ask that you alert me if you
do begin a serious liaison. I'd rather not be caught off guard by the press." Draco doesn't for one
minute consider telling Granger that there will be no liaisons, not ever, especially when her stern
expression is so damned laughable.

"Please, feel no obligation to alert me to any of your dalliances," he responds, leaning back in his
chair. "I'd rather not lose my supper."

Granger's face reddens, and her scowl is worth the jab. Draco feels quite good about it.

"Have it your way, then," she growls. Spinnet rolls her eyes at him. Her powers of observation are
clearly beyond Granger's, but she resorts to silent censure to suggest that Draco not push Granger’s
buttons with such finesse.

But in all fairness, there is more to discuss with Granger before agreeing to meet her at the altar,
and pestering her probably doesn't serve his purposes. Draco schools his smirk into an intimidating
sneer to impress upon her the serious nature of his next demand.

"Speaking of the press, you are never to say anything about me or my family to the papers."

Granger meets his eyes with an even gaze. "Naturally. I'm sure you're aware that I don't harbor any
friendly feelings for the Prophet."

A pleasing shade of amber.

"I'd ask that you do the same for me and mine," she continues. "I understand that I do exist in the
public eye to some degree, but I prefer to minimize that as much as possible."

"I'm glad we see eye-to-eye on something."

"Wonderful," Spinnet sighs in relief, setting her glass down. "Is that all, then?"

"What happened with your engagement to Astoria Greengrass?" Granger asks.

Draco stills and clenches his jaw. Careful, now.

"I'd suggest you keep your nose out of my personal affairs," he snarls. "Isn't that what we've agreed
on?"

She only straightens her back. "If I'm to be your new fiancée, I think I have a right to know what
happened to the last one you failed to wed."

"Astoria and I agreed that we did not suit as well as we'd initially thought, and I will not discuss
this any further." Granger's eyes flick to his scars, and he considers how much he'd like to hex that
curious look right off her face.

"Fine," she responds. "Anything else you'd like to discuss?"

Draco opens his mouth to say no, and please get out of my home, but something terrible strikes his
fancy. Before he can consider that it's possibly not a good idea, the words fall out of his mouth, and
he can't take them back.

"Christmas Eve supper."

Granger tilts her head at him. "What about it?"

Might as well double down. Draco isn't sure if it's a strange grab for the control in an entirely out of
control situation, or if he just enjoys rankling Granger more than he remembers.

"You'll come here for Christmas Eve to dine with me. We’ll call it a Malfoy family tradition."

Spinnet looks at him as though he's lost his mind, but Draco focuses on the bewilderment across
Granger's face. What fun. Her mouth opens in a perfect little pout, and he notes that her lips are
pink and full before she starts speaking in protest.

"But I spend Christmas morning with my parents," she insists.

"Then spend Christmas morning with them," he shrugs. "You don't need to stay the night here. It's
just dinner, Granger. You have explained the Floo network to them, haven't you?"

Granger splutters. "Of course they know about the Floo."

"So it's not a problem."

"Fine," she grits out. "Christmas Eve supper. Is that all?"

"Yes, I'm quite satisfied." Draco smirks and pulls his calendar from his pocket. "Today's Thursday,
yes? What do you think about Monday?"

"Monday?" Granger once again looks dumbfounded. Isn't she supposed to be the quick one?
Disappointing.

"Keep up, Granger." Draco raps his knuckles on the hard wood of the chair arm. "For a wedding.
I'll clear my calendar just for you. I trust you can handle the paperwork?"

Her face reddens at the mention of paperwork.

"Monday," Granger repeats. "Yes, I can handle the paperwork. I'll send you an owl with the time."

"Thank you," Spinnet breathes, grasping Granger's hand. "I owe you. If Cho and I can ever do
anything, please - "

Granger shakes her head and squeezes back. "I know."

Draco rolls his eyes. "No thanks for me, Spinnet? We were engaged for a full twenty-four hours. I
thought you'd be more upset to part ways."

Spinnet shoots him a withering stare. "Always a pleasure, Malfoy, but I'm happy to be parting as
friends instead of spouses." She stands, and Granger follows suit.

"I’ll wait with bated breath for your owl, Mrs. Malfoy ." Draco raises his glass in a mockery of a
toast.

Granger doesn't react to his final gesture. She only looks him over in that same curious way she did
when she first walked out of the Floo and into his living room. Her sharp, discerning gaze seems to
take a slow account of his body, his posture, his lean, and she bites into her lower lip as she drags
her eyes back up to his.

Draco wants to shift under her examination, but he won't give her the satisfaction of knowing her
stare sets him on edge. Spinnet stands by the Floor, expectantly waiting for her. Granger makes no
move in her direction. She only tilts her head at him. Gods only know what she sees.
 A moment of silence passes, and Draco thinks he may scream. I'm going to finally lose it, and of
course it's Granger's fault.

"I'll see you on Monday, Malfoy," she finally says, stepping toward the Floo.

"I'm looking forward to it!" Draco yells at the flash of green smoke, even though he is most
certainly not looking forward to marrying Hermione Granger in four days' time.

Chapter End Notes

OMG cheers to the happy couple, y'all.

Thank you so much for the response to this story!! It's really nice to write a fun rom-
com while my other WIP is like at the *height* of angst.

xoxo see you next week

 Chapter Four
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco hadn't invited him over, but Theo had popped in anyway once he was fairly confident that
Alicia Spinnet would be gone. Five or six drinks later, he stands in front of the Floo, a little
uncertain on his feet.

"Hermione fucking Granger," he repeats to himself, still clinging to the half-full glass that Draco
had poured him. "I can't believe it."

It's a split second decision when he throws the powder into the fireplace to call out Millicent's flat
instead of his own.

"Hullo?" Theo calls into the empty living room. The lamps are all on, so he knows she's home.
Gods, where is she? Smells a bit like chocolate, too. He steps into the room and peers toward her
bedroom.

"What on earth are you doing here?"

Theo whirls around and stumbles a bit. Millicent appears in the doorway to the kitchen with a
steaming cup of tea and a plate with three cookies. Her dark, silky hair cascades over her shoulders,
and he steps toward her, wondering how it smells when it's down like that, wondering if she'll
brush it in front of him. It's awfully late, isn't it? Don't girls brush their hair before they go to bed?
Hundred strokes, or something like that?

Strokes. He's suddenly tight in his trousers.

"Can I have one of those?" he asks, nodding at the plate.

Millicent scowls at him but nods. "You can have one, you little niffler. If you want more, get them
from the kitchen yourself."

She sinks into the couch and sets the plate on the low table. Theo snatches a warm cookie off the
top of the stack and settles into the chair next to her.

"You'll never guess where I've come from," he states before stuffing the treat into his mouth.

Millicent wrinkles her nose. "You certainly smell like a pub."

"No, I don't." Theo leans forward, trying to heighten the anticipation. "I was at Draco's."

"Ah, yes, Malfoy Manor." She taps one finger against her jaw in mocking wonder. "I think I've
seen you there before."

Theo rolls his eyes at her. "He's not marrying Spinnet after all."

"No. He's marrying Hermione Granger."

"What!" Theo smacks his glass on her table. "How did you already know?"

"Hermione told me this morning," she shrugs, delicately biting into a cookie. A crumb clings to her
lower lip. Theo considers reaching over to brush it away with his thumb, but her pink tongue darts
out to catch it before it falls into her lap.

Bollocks.

"She told you - " Theo rises from the chair, taking his glass with him, and paces over to the
fireplace to lean against the mantle. "You mean you've known all day and you didn't say anything
to me?" He strategically positions himself so that the chair blocks the lower half of his body from
her view.

Her mouth quirks up into a little smile. "It wasn't quite official when we spoke. Draco didn't know
about the change in plans, and I thought I'd better not tell you, notorious gossip that you are, until
they'd had it out."

"I wouldn't have said anything!" Theo protests in earnest.

"Yes, you would have!" Her laugh chimes through the warm room. "I know you. You can't keep a
good secret to yourself."

He snatches the pillow off the chair in front of him and pitches it at her, but she bats it to the
ground with no effort, laughing all the way. Gods, it puts a stupid grin on his face.

"Is that all you came here for, then? To tell me the gossip I already knew?" she asks, crossing her
legs. She's wearing that green dressing gown again, but it doesn't part this time to reward him with
a glimpse of bare leg, no matter how hard he stares at it.

Maybe if -

"That, and to see how you are, of course. I haven't heard from you in a while," he says easily,
downing the rest of his firewhisky. "Do you mind if I refill?"

"Of course." Millicent waves her hand toward the cabinet. "I saw you on Sunday, though, at the
gallery for Greg's showing. It's only been four days."

"Has it? Seems longer." His hand shakes as he pours himself another.

It's not ridiculous. It's not, really, and he may as well put it out there, see what she thinks.

"Are you okay, Theo?" She sounds concerned.

A little sauced, perhaps, but perfectly fine.

"I'm fine." Theo crosses back over to the mantle. Keep it casual, mate. "I've been thinking,
though."

"Hmm?"

Another sip of firewhisky. Light and easy.

"I ought to find a wife myself." Theo keeps his eyes training on the flames in her fireplace. "Make
sure the Ministry doesn't make a crock of it."

"Oh? And who are you going to marry?" Her tone is even and controlled.

Light and easy. Theo looks up at her, poised perfectly on the couch. Her deep, brown eyes are
unreadable.
"You and I could make a go of it, Millie. We'd fare much better than Malfoy and Granger will,
don't you think?"

She breaks with his gaze and laughs coolly. "Hermione seemed confident they could come to a
mutually beneficial arrangement."

This isn't what he'd imagined. Not that he'd imagined it much, that is, and now he wonders if he
should have played it out in his head.

"I'd much rather marry you than some stranger," he tries again.

"Is that your proposal, then?" Millicent sets her teacup down on the table with a clatter. Gods.

"What, do you want me down on my knee?" Because if that's what it ta-

Her expression is cold and distant. "The answer is no," she clips.

His crooked smile barely holds as he squeezes his glass in his hand. "You aren't really going to
leave me to the wolves, are you? Is my face not pretty enough for you?"

"Stop it, Theodore." She rises from the couch and glides toward the cabinet.

"Theodore?" he scoffs. "Come off it, Millie."

She slams a glass on the counter and whirls on him. It's the first time she's ever truly terrified him,
but even as he's determined to hold his ground, because it's not ridiculous of him to ask, he takes a
slight step back.

Theo watches Millicent gather her composure. Her full lips purse then soften, and her shoulders
relax, but her jaw remains set and firm.

"I'm going to marry when I'm in love and when that person loves me," she says, annunciating
every word. "Not a moment sooner. Not even for you."

Not. For. You.

Cold embarrassment washes over his body.

"Very sorry for asking, then." He doesn't look her in the eye as he turns toward the Floo and steps
through to his own flat where he promptly chucks the crystal glass, still half full of firewhisky,
against the wall. It shatters into a million unsatisfying pieces.

Behind him, Millicent returns to the couch and carefully sinks into it, staring intently at the amber
liquid swirling in front of her.

She buries her face in her hands and bursts into tears.

When Millicent shows up on Friday morning with a morose expression on her face, Hermione
suggests a small get-together at her flat on Saturday. A little hen night could be fun, after all. She
agrees, and Hermione sends a quick owl to each Ginny and Padma to see if they’ll be able to stop
by as well.
She stares at a third piece of parchment for nearly six minutes before she presses the tip of her quill
to it and scratches out another invitation to a different Weasley for half past nine in the morning.
Best to get on with it, really.

Ron doesn’t respond to her owl, but he does pop through the Floo five minutes after the appointed
time, which is about what she’d expected.

“Good of you to reach out,” he drawls, striding over to the couch. His countenance is all easiness
and ambivalence, but his shoulders are drawn tight and angry.

Hermione wonders if this had been a good idea after all, meeting at her flat, in her space.

"I'm glad you came," she replies evenly. If she can remain calm and collected, perhaps this won't
devolve into something that will completely ruin their friendship.

"Are you?" Ron surveys her with a curled lip.

Hermione nods firmly. "I am. Of course."

He snorts.

Gods, Ron.

"Tea?" Hermione offers. "I put on the kettle."

"Tea works." He picks at a hangnail in silence.

The whistle of the kettle thankfully pulls Hermione into the kitchen for a quick steeling of her
nerves before she ventures back into the kitchen with an apologetic smile on her face. Ron watches
as she pours the steaming water into two cups and hands one of them over to him.

Hermione settles into the chair next to Ron and clutches her mug, a bastion of steady warmth for
the unpleasantness that is sure to follow. She opens her mouth a few times to start, but the words
get stuck, even though she'd rehearsed them repeatedly the night before.

"I'm so sorry," she finally says, looking up at him.

He tilts his head at her, but it doesn't feel kind. "For what?"

"For how I... handled things on Wednesday. For how quickly I changed the plan."

"But you're not sorry for breaking our engagement."

And that's the truth of it, cut down to the bone.

She's not sorry.

Hermione tries again. "I'm sorry, Ron, I re-"

"You're sorry, but you're not sorry for breaking our engagement," he repeats.

She stares down into the cup in her hands, letting the steam wash over her face.

"I don't think we would have been happy together. Not as husband and wife, not pretending for our
family and friends."
"And you think you'll be happier with Draco Malfoy?"

"No, but he and I won't have to pretend!" she protests, setting down her cup. "We won't have a
thing to do with each other!"

"So you'd rather be alone for the rest of your life than stuck with me, that's it?"

"That's not what I mean, Ron. You and I are friends, and we can still be friends without this absurd
marriage business."

"Friends! I'm trying to be your friend, Hermione! I'm trying to love you as a friend, and I would
never let my friend marry scum like Malfoy."

"He's not scum," comes her pitiful defense.

Ron leans forward and grabs her hands in his.

"You don't have to do this, Hermione. Alicia and Cho can find another way."

"Stop it, please. I've already decided."

His thumbs rub against the back of her hands. "I just want what's best for you."

No.

"You want what you think is best for me." She tugs her hands away. "It's not the same."

"I'm trying to help you be happy!"

"You're not happy, Ron!"

His face reddens. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Gods, stop, stop -

"You've been milling around with no purpose since the war ended, Ron. You made it what, three
months back at Hogwarts before that bored you? Another two at home, to figure things out?
You've skipped from one thing to the next and nothing holds your interest. How long before you
lose interest in me next? How am I supposed to marry you?"

"And what am I supposed to be? Like you?" he seethes. "Fucking miserable, worked to the bone
over some job you don't even need?"

"Being tired is not the same as being miserable! My job is hard, but it doesn't make me unhappy! I
want to be something besides the media’s ‘Golden Girl.’ We nearly died saving this world, and
now I want to do some good in it. Make it better than it is so that a war like ours never happens
again."

"Do some good? You really think trudging along the ol’ Ministry path is going to change
anything? Make the world better?"

"Yes, if not now, then someday! It's a start, Ron, one that I'm building for myself!"

"C’mon, Hermione. You're naive if you think you'll ever amount to anything sorting through files
at the Ministry . We'll always be the ‘Golden Trio’ to them. You're throwing away the name you've
already earned for yourself!"
"I'm not satisfied with reaching the height of my achievements as an eighteen year-old, Ron, even if
you are," Hermione snaps.

Ron goes silent.

He clenches his jaw as though he's holding back something truly awful, and he shakes his head.

"I see," he clips, rising from the couch.

Fuck.

"Ron, I'm not trying to - "

"You're never going to be happy," he snaps. "You'll never be good enough for yourself, so I
certainly can't be."

She can't think of anything to say to that. The protests she yearns to throw up die in her mouth
because what if it's true? What if he's right? What if I never -

"Come to the Burrow tomorrow for Sunday dinner. We have to tell my parents."

Hermione pales.

"I don't -"

"It's the least you can do, Hermione. They deserve to hear it from you, too."

Gods.

"Okay, then," she whispers faintly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He disappears through the Floo with one last disappointed scoff.

Padma and Millicent have long gone, and Ginny and Hermione sit on the floor in front of her
couch, nibbling on the last bites of pad see ew and sipping on the last dredges of a bottle of Malbec.

Hermione stares down at her empty ring finger, and over at the modest band on Ginny's.

"Any marriage advice for your dear old friend?" she asks, resting her head on Ginny's shoulder as
they stare into the fire.

"May his love for you not depend on your loveliness."

"I don't think Draco Malfoy loves me."

Ginny laughs. "Fine. May your love for yourself not depend on your loveliness."

"Much better."

"I hope supper tomorrow isn't completely horrid for you."

"Oh, I think there's no avoiding that."

Ron is waiting for her as she steps through the Floo at the Burrow.

"Heard you had a lovely little hen-do last night."

"I had three girls over, Ron."

"You're acting like it's a real wedding," he scoffs.

"It is a real wedding," she hisses back. "And a real marriage. It's very real, and it may be the only
one I ever get, so excuse me for wanting to enjoy the tiniest sliver of fanfare."

"You're delu-"

"Hermione!" trills Molly as she rushes in from the kitchen, arms spread wide. "It's so good to see
you! Come in, come in, Ginny and Harry and Arthur are already at the table."

Molly envelops the two of them in a painfully tight hug, and Hermione can feel Ron itching to
squirm away from her.

"Stop it, Mum," he grumbles.

"Oh, get in there, Ron, you're looking too thin already for a proper husband!" She shoos them into
the dining room, where Harry is caught with a mouthful of a buttery roll, clearly fulfilling Molly's
idea of a properly filled out husband.

Arthur beams at her. "Hermione, good of you to join us!"

"Hello," Ginny says with a nervous smile that matches the one on Hermione's face. "Ready to eat?"

"Good afternoon." Hermione's voice sounds shrill in her head. "Yes, this looks - I'm ready."

The table is stuffed to the brim with steaming plates of meat and vegetables and breads, but
Hermione's stomach turns as she sinks into the chair next to Ron. He's as stiff as a board beside her.
Normally, he's the first to pile food onto his plate, but Ron doesn't even look at his favorite, the
stuffed mushrooms, until Ginny pointedly offers him some.

"Is something the matter, Ron?" Molly frowns. "You're not eating nearly as much as you normally
do."

Ron shrugs. "I'm fine." He pops a mushroom into his mouth. The very picture of ennui.

Molly's eyes dart to the barely touched chicken dumplings on Hermione's plate and then up to
Hermione's face. She nearly shrinks into her seat, and Harry audibly gulps across from her.

"Hermione?" Molly asks, setting down her fork. "Are you well?"

"I - "

She's not sure she can do it. She looks from Ginny to Harry - help - because Ron is clearly beyond
the bounds of her reach as he smacks on another mushroom.
Harry's face is permanently stuck in a horrified grimace, and Ginny glares daggers at Ron.

Arthur pauses mid-bite and tilts his head at Hermione.

"Um - " she tries again.

"Hermione has made an important decision," Ron announces, reaching for a turnip pasty.

Merlin. So much for them breaking the news together. He's just here to watch her burn.

"Alicia Spinnet got matched with Draco Malfoy for the, erm, the Marriage Act business,"
Hermione begins.

Molly shakes her head with a sorrowful sigh. "What a state we've come to. And how sad for her
little girlfriend!"

"That's the thing, you see. Alicia and Cho are very in love, and it didn't seem right to just... do
nothing."

"It’s very thoughtful of you to try to help, dear," Arthur says agreeably, tucking back into his meal.

"What is it, exactly, that you all will be able to do?" Molly asks, looking among them. "I wouldn’t
think your influence would hold much weight over this new law."

Harry makes to rise from the table. "Does anyone want more - "

"Sit down," Ginny hisses, grabbing his arm in a steel grip.

Hermione clears her throat. "The law allows for a change in the - that is, if all parties agree -
someone, in theory, could take the place of one of the spouses."

Molly stares back at her. "You found someone to agree to marry the Malfoy boy?"

"I - "

"She's going to marry him," Ron says, crossing his arms. "Isn't that right, Hermione?"

Hermione presses her eyes closed. Helpful to the very end.

"But you're engaged already," Molly splutters, looking from Ron to Hermione.

Ron smiles ruefully. "She's broken our engagement."

Arthur's jaw drops, and Molly's fork clatters as it falls to her plate.

"You see, Ron and I, um, we're not really in love," Hermione rushes. How quickly can the damage
be undone? "We only got engaged to - "

Oh. Oh, dear. It doesn't sound very good, now, saying that -

"To avoid Hermione getting paired off to someone miserable," Ron finishes. "I had a feeling that
there was a chance it could go really badly for her, you see."

"You lied to us?" Molly gasps. Her face starts to turn red with anger. "Not in - you mean to tell me
you're not getting married?"

Ron folds his arms. "Oh, Hermione's getting married. On Monday, in fact."
"Mum, Hermione's doing a really kind thing for - " Ginny tries.

"Not now, Ginevra," grits Molly. "Hermione Granger, do you mean to tell me that you are
deliberately choosing to marry Draco Malfoy instead of my son, and your best friend, Ron?"

"Yes, ma'am," she squeaks out. "I'm very so-"

Molly holds up a hand to silence her.

"I'm glad this is ending all very good and well for Alicia," she spits out. "Ronald, what do you have
to say about this?"

Ron saws at a bit of roast on his plate, slathering it in gravy as he answers. "Hermione's made it
clear that it’s her choice, isn't it? I'm just here to support her."

Ginny sinks her face into her hand with an exasperated sigh.

Hermione notes that somehow in the chaos, without drawing notice, Harry has disappeared from
Ginny’s side. Perhaps he brought his Invisibility Cloak to supper.

"I'm, erm, very sorry to hear it," Arthur says uncertainly.

Hermione briskly nods in thanks. She's too afraid to eke out another word in the face of Molly
Weasley's wrath.

So is everyone else, it seems. The remainder of supper is a silent affair, with the exception of Ron's
enthusiastic chewing. He seems rather pleased with the turn of events and bears his mother's
displeasure quite well now that the bulk of it is directed toward Hermione. You coward.

Arthur is in the middle of reaching for another roll when Molly, still glowering, stands and
snatches the basket out from under his hand along with the pasty platter.

"Time to clean up," she announces. "Hermione, bring that tray to the kitchen."

Oh, dear. Ginny stands too. "I can - "

"Sit down," Molly barks. Ginny sinks back into her seat and shoots Hermione an apologetic look. I
tried , she mouths.

Thank you , Hermione mouths back, picking up the heavy wooden tray and following Molly to the
kitchen.

Molly already stands in front of the sink. Bubbles and steam float out of the soapy water as she
dunks in pots and pans and dishes.

"Set it down there," she commands. Hermione rushes to obey.

"What else can I- "

"Dry this." Molly thrusts a dripping pan and a towel into her hands. Hermione dries off the pan as
quickly as she can and sets it on the counter before another heavy dish is shoved at her.

A few minutes pass with only the noise of Molly's furious scrubbing. As the dishes begin to
dwindle, Hermione steels herself. Surely, after the aggression she'd shown some of her favorite
platters, Molly can't still be so furious.
 "I know this is not what you wanted," Hermione says in a low voice.

Molly turns off the water and places both hands on the counter, finally pausing for a moment.

Hermione holds her breath.

"You must be afraid to marry someone who you do not know to be kind," Molly finally says,
taking the towel from Hermione to dry her own hands.

"He's not as bad as he once was, I think. Someone I trust has vouched for him, and either way,
we've already agreed to not spend much time in each other's company."

Molly nods.

"Monday, then?"

"Monday," Hermione confirms.

"Perhaps I could make a small cake for after."

Something in Hermione's chest tightens.

"That would be lovely, Molly," she whispers.

"Very well." Molly clears her throat. "Will your parents be there?"

"No. They prefer not to travel by Floo, you see, and it seemed silly for them to come all this way
for - well, it's not a true marriage of the heart, you see."

"Arthur and I... we'd be happy to stand in."

"Thank you, Molly. I'd like that very much."

On Sunday, after dinner, she sends two letters. One to her parents, informing them of the situation
in the vaguest of terms with plentiful reassurance that it’s really nothing of importance, and another
to Malfoy to let him know that the change in brides has been approved, and that she's secured them
an appointment for six o’clock in the afternoon at the Ministry.

She pauses for a moment before pressing her quill back to the paper.

Molly Weasley has promised to make a cake for the occasion. I understand there's a small
reception room near the Union Office. If you like, you and your guests are welcome to join us there
after the ceremony.

Sincerely,
Hermione Granger

Chapter End Notes

Chapter End Notes

I know this is a Dramione fic but

CRYING OVER MILLIE AND THEO

Bet you thought you were getting a wedding this week, didn't you? So did I. Welcome
to the jungle, y'all, where my outlines mean nothing and the chapter count slowly
rises. Anyway, drop your kudos and comments below. <3
 Chapter Five
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"I'm supposed to bring a witness, I think," Draco says, staring down into the crackling fire.

Married. The word sets him on edge, but he reminds himself that he'll only see Granger once a year
after tomorrow, and who knows if she'll even stick to that? The Ministry has, with extensive
interference from Theo, effectively quieted the details of Draco's involvement in Adrian Pucey's
death, but the secrecy won't last forever, and even if Wizengamot declines to charge him with
murder, the public certainly won't hesitate to brand him a traitor once again.

Pucey. The name makes even the finest firewhisky turn to sour ash in his mouth. His smug grin,
his schmoozing turns of phrase, his quiet but thorough manipulation of the Greengrass family and
their acquaintances–

Granger surely bought into it just like the rest of them. The Golden Girl, dining with Pucey's
murderer? Married or not, it won't do.

"I can be there," Greg says, looking at Theo expectantly.

Theo scowls into his cup. "I'm not much in the wedding mood, thanks."

"Suit yourself," Draco sighs. Theo's mood is darker than usual tonight, but Draco's up to his ears in
his own problems and doesn't care much for drawing out whatever is eating away at his friend, not
when he's getting married to Hermione fucking Granger in less than a day's time.

He's not surprised that Astoria even now refuses to speak to him, but he hadn't expected Daphne to
freeze him out as well. They'd discussed this, damnit. She had known the kind of man she'd
married, even if it had taken a few months for her to see the truth. After all, it had been Daphne
who had slipped into Pucey's desk drawers to find the papers that were the proof Draco had needed
to act.

Is it so hard for her to believe that Draco had kept his word to the end? That it hadn't been him to
cast that final, idiotic spell?

"Theo," Greg growls. "Surely you can muster – "

"Did you hear that Pansy and Blaise are getting married?" interrupts Theo, abruptly rising from his
chair.

Draco grimaces and casts a covert eye at Greg.

Greg takes up a lot of room in his chair by the fire, and the flickering light catches the stubble and
scarring on his face. His jaw tightens and his brown eyes go nearly black, but he doesn't say
anything, and Theo looks positively unashamed.

Poor form, Theo.

"Whatever for?" Draco asks carefully, smoothly, as though Greg's dark presence isn't threatening to
take over the whole room.
Theo shrugs. "I believe her exact words were, "Well, fuck that. I'm certainly not marrying Colin
Creevey.""

Greg lets out a sharp, barking laugh. "She's awfully quick to throw in with Blaise."

"Neither of them want to marry. Seems reasonable. They can both go on fucking whatever blokes
they like and laughing about it over a bottle of champagne."

"It's bloody idiotic," Greg snaps.

"Something the matter, Greg?" Theo teases. "I thought you didn't care for Pansy. Did she give poor
remarks on your showing last week?"

"Theo, don't be a dick," Draco groans. "Pansy wasn't even there."

Greg slams his glass on the wooden table in an uncharacteristic show of anger that causes both
Draco and Theo to flinch. " Both of you are bloody idiots. I'm sick of this." He snatches his coat
from the hook by the door and turns back to them one last time.

"And I'm not coming to your stupid fucking wedding," Greg growls before slamming the door
behind him.

Draco turns to Theo. "You didn't have to be an ass about it."

"I'll send him an owl," Theo grumbles with some embarrassment. "Just after another glass."

The rain pours down in sheets on Monday morning, and even though Hermione takes care to hold a
strong shield charm over her head to cast off the rain, the mist works its way through into her hair,
sending her curls into unmanageable frizz that she tried to wrest into a gold hair clasp that she,
perhaps foolishly, had bought that weekend for her wedding... or ceremony, or something. She isn't
sure what to call it.

Is rain supposed to be good or bad luck on your wedding day? Hermione tries to recall the Muggle
lore to no avail and tugs her thick cardigan tighter around her body to chase off the chill of the wet
air.

"Morning," she breathes as she slides in across from Millicent who, as usually, has every bit of her
dark hair in place, and a lovely pink silk scarf tied around her coif. "You're awfully early, aren't
you?"

"I woke up early, so thought I might as well come in," she shrugs, scratching away on some
parchment.

"Alicia's not in yet?"

"I haven't seen her."

Millicent seems to be pressing down awfully hard on her parchment, and Hermione wonders if the
tip of her quill may soon snap. Whatever had happened to foul her mood on Friday clearly is not
yet resolved.
An impulse strikes her. Hermione leans forward and lowers her voice. "Can I ask a favor of you?"

Millicent pauses her quill just over the parchment and lifts her tired, curious eyes. "What is it?"

"Ginny and her parents are coming to the... ceremony this afternoon, but I thought it might be nice
to have you there as well."

Harry had pleaded off the occasion with a promise to take Ron out to the pub to watch a Quidditch
match. Best to keep him occupied for the night.

"Me?" Millicent exclaims, eyes wide.

Hermione nods. "You're really the only one who knows both of us."

"I suppose you're right..." She seems unconvinced.

"Please?" Hermione tries again in earnest. "It's just half an hour, if even that. Molly Weasley's
making a cake, and Ginny is bringing Prosecco."

Millicent looks down at her desk and fiddles with her scarf. "I expect Draco will have a friend or
two there."

Hermione shrugs. "I'm not sure. He didn't respond to my owl. We're supposed to have witnesses,
but…"

"The court will provide one if he doesn't," Millicent finishes.

Surely Malfoy wouldn't come alone.

"He's – well, you're friends with him, aren't you? Don't several of you from our year spend time
together?" Hermione doesn't exactly mix with that set in a social capacity, but the gossip in the
Prophet tends to group them together, so she can only assume that they are, in fact, friendly, even
when the reporters aren't watching.

"Yes," Millicent sighs. "I'm closer with Theo and Pansy, really, but I see Draco often enough."

Hermione reaches across the desk to grasp one of Millicent's hands in her own.

"Please come, won't you? I'd love for you to be there."

Millicent hesitates, then nods. "Yes, I'll come."

Draco stares at the rain pelting against his window. He should have been up hours ago, really, not
because it's his wedding day – fuck – but because it's nearly eleven o'clock and he's not much of
one for sleeping in.

Not that he has much to do, that is.

Today, though, a deep ache in his hip stretches down into his leg, and any attempt at movement
leaves him sweating with effort. Draco reaches over to the bedside table, clamoring for the tub of
salve he's supposed to regularly rub on his cursed wounds to help with healing and to ease the pain.
He is not , it turns out, one for following strict instructions. He's neglected the leg for two days,
and now he's paying the price.

You dumb fuck.

Draco sighs as the salve absorbs into his skin. The relief is instant but not complete. The ghost of
an ache lingers, and when he swings his legs out of bed and onto the floor in an attempt to stand,
his body rebels. His left leg is determined not to hold any weight.

Gods. A string of expletives run through his mind.

Draco glares at the cane propped in the corner. It's a beautiful piece, really - the gleaming silver
snake head looks like it may twist alive. Greg had carved it for him and forged the head himself,
but Draco decidedly does not need a cane. Perhaps it had helped some that first day out of St.
Mungo's, but he is fine now.

Not going to use it, no. I don't need it. Leg just needs a stretch. A warm up.

He tries to stand again, and his leg quickly gives under his weight as a sharp pain shoots through
his very bone.

Draco fists the sheets under him with a furious growl.

Count to ten. This is fine. Must be the rain.

"Accio cane."

Millicent and Hermione are waiting by the lifts across from the Department of Unifications when
the Weasleys burst through the door.

"That's what you're wearing?" Ginny huffs at the same time as Molly unconvincingly declares,
"You look lovely, darling!"

Arthur winces behind them, holding the cake in his arms.

"It's just my work clothes," Hermione responds, looking down at her attire. The forecast had called
for rain, after all, so she'd pulled on her warmest cardigan that morning.

"Sometimes - here - just a bit of a color helps - " Molly bustles over and pinches her cheeks to lend
the appearance of blush. Hermione thinks to grumble that she did have makeup on already, but she
decides that it's best not to interfere.

"Perhaps if you removed the cardigan?" Millicent suggests. "That's a lovely blouse underneath. I
think I've seen you wear it before."

Hermione looks down at the simple cream shirt she'd purchased several summers back with her
mum. "Yes, I've had it for ages."

"You have a good eye for this," Ginny tells Millicent with a keen smile as Hermione hands Molly
her cardigan.
Millicent blushes slightly. "I like clothes," she shrugs.

Ginny refocuses her attention on Hermione and pulls a small box out of her bag. "I brought these
for you."

Hermione takes the box from her and cracks the lip open to see a familiar pair of teardrop diamond
earrings. Affectionate warmth washes through her.

"Harry gave them to me for our wedding, and I-" Ginny's explanation is muffled as Hermione
envelops her in a tight embrace.

"Yes, I recognize them. Thank you, Ginny, really."

Ginny hugs her back, then pulls away and clears her throat. "Just for today, Granger, then I want
them back."

Hermione nods and begins trading out her small gold hoops for the sparkling diamonds.

"What about my scarf around your neck?" Millicent offers, tugging it out of her hair. "In blue,
perhaps. What do you think, Mrs. Weasley?"

"Yes, blue would look lovely with her complexion!"

In a blink, Millicent charms the scarf to a deep blue and ties it in an effortless knot around
Hermione's neck.

Just as Molly leans in past her to straighten the scarf, the lift doors ding behind them, and
Hermione turns around to see Draco Malfoy and Gregory Goyle standing in the hall.

Malfoy leans on a tall cane, although Hermione can tell that he's trying very hard to pretend that he
doesn't need it. His eyes narrow as he registers the gaggle in the hall and she's suddenly
embarrassed that she has so many guests and he has... Goyle. And half of Millicent, in a way.

Hermione sees him notice Millicent standing next to Molly. "What are you doing here?" he scoffs.

Millicent rolls her eyes."Lovely to see you, too, Draco. Hermione invited me."

"Hello, Millicent," Goyle says politely.

"Hello, Greg."

The following silence is terrible. Malfoy shakes his head and examines something under his
fingernail. Most assuredly not dirt.

"Hello, Malfoy," Hermione tries.

The door bangs open, and Hermione jumps. A very tall woman with bright blonde hair steps out.

"Malfoy and Granger!" she barks, looking around the small crowd outside her door.

"You're up, dear," Molly whispers in her ear, nudging her along. Arthur pats her on the back, which
she doesn't find entirely comforting.

Hermione takes a deep, calming breath and steps forward. "I'm Hermione Granger, Your
Worship."
The judge nods and checks a box on her clipboard. "I'm Judge Ermitage, and..." She looks around
the hall and spots Malfoy in the rear. "And you must be Mr. Malfoy."

He gives her a curt nod. "Present."

"Come on, then. Let's get this over with," Judge Ermitage sighs.

The party trails into after her. Ginny veers to the right to sit in the first row of chairs, but Molly
snags her arm.

"No, Ginny, the bride's party sits on the left!" The Weasleys shift over to the left, and Millicent
pauses in the middle, cringing.

"I'll sit with Greg," she says, sinking in a chair next to him on the right side of the aisle.

The room feels a bit more balanced.

Judge Ermitage settles in behind her stand and waves forward Hermione and Draco.

"Your papers all seem to be in order," she drawls, shuffling through sheets of parchment. "Did you
prepare your own vows?"

"No," Malfoy responds vehemently.

"Very well," Judge Ermitage nods. "Please step forward and sign here." She holds out the
Certificate of Unification with their names spelled out in a curly script, and a line below where the
Judge impatiently taps her official-looking quill.

Hermione suddenly feels sweaty and... not exactly well.

It's just a piece of paper. Not a real marriage.

Just an announcement in The Prophet. It's only Christmas Eve Dinner.

Sign it.

Just a matter of convenience.

Malfoy is warm next to her, and he smells pleasantly clean. He steps forward first, snatching the
quill from Judge Ermitage and quickly scrawling his signature on the dotted line. There's the barest
hint of sheen on his forehead, and Hermione wonders if he's nervous or in pain, because his grip on
his cane is frighteningly tight. Perhaps some mix of the two , Hermione muses.

She starts a bit when he turns back to look at her expectantly, offering her the quill with a raised
eyebrow.

It's only Christmas Eve Dinner.

"Thank you," Hermione murmurs, taking the quill from him. She presses the tip to the parchment,
wills her hand to steady, and signs it.

She steps back.

"Repeat after me, please." Judge Ermitage clears her throat. "With this ring, I give you my
promise."
Hermione digs in her pocket to pull out the slim gold band she'd picked up on Saturday.

“With this ring, I give you my promise."

"From this day forward, you shall not walk alone."

Malfoy's voice rings deep next to her.

"From this day forward, you shall not walk alone."

She stumbles over the word alone.

"May my heart be your shelter, and my arms be your home.”

This is it.

"May my heart be your shelter, and my arms be your home.”

“Please exchange the rings,” Judge Ermitage says.

Hermione holds out her hand for Malfoy to slide on the ring, and he shoves it unceremoniously
onto her finger.

The ring looks like it should be heavy, but it feels delicate on her hand, complimenting her fine
bone structure. The round diamond glitters up at her from its gold setting as though it’s brought the
sun in from outside on this gloomy day.

It’s lighter, more brilliant, than the ruby Ron had given her.

Malfoy holds his hand out expectantly, and she grabs it to hold it steady - to hold herself steady - as
she slides on the slight gold band. She’d expected soft hands, but there’s a hardness to them, and
she glances up at him in surprise. His eyes are, in turn, intently focused on the new addition to his
finger, as though he had not expected the ring to fit so well.

“I now present you to the court as husband and wife,” announces Judge Ermitage without looking
up.

Molly claps behind them, but Ginny grabs her hands and hushes her.

"You may kiss," the Judge drawls, scratching her signature onto the final line.

Hermione turns back to Malfoy with every intention of offering him her cheek, but instead, his
forearm weighs down on her shoulder and he wraps a warm hand around the back of her neck.

He's leaning on me.

Malfoy catches her lips in a searing kiss. She barely registers how plush and soft his mouth is
against hers, and then just as she considers leaning into him to see exactly what this is, he pulls
away from her and steps back unsteadily.

Hermione looks up at him. She's not short, but she hadn't realized how much taller he is.

He seems angry, and he avoids her questioning gaze.

"Would the witnesses please step forward to sign?" Judge Ermitage sighs.
Ginny and Goyle join them at the front of the room, leaning over the podium to add their
signatures to the paper, and then it's done.

Done. Married.

"Very well then." Judge Ermitage shuffles their certificate to the bottom of her stack. "I believe you
have the reception room for thirty minutes or so. It's just over there to the left."

Hermione had always imagined a bit of cheering at the close of her wedding, but everyone's smiles
feel stiff and nervous, and Malfoy still won't look at her.

Not that he needs to, though, because it's not a real marriage.

Draco's mood further darkens at the CONGRATULATIONS scrawled across a banner on the back
wall, and he finds he's even more so not in the mood for the piece of cake that Molly Weasley
shoves at him. She's all smiles for Granger, of course, but she looks at him like she smells
something foul.

She thinks he's not good enough for her precious Granger.

That he's not good enough - he'd like to remind her that being a Malfoy used to mean something
not too long ago, and she'd best remember that, even if he's only narrowly escaped Azkaban and
has thick, red scars curving up over his jaw and a fucking ache in his leg that burns so badly he
may scream -

What a fucking joke this is.

The younger Weasel girl pops open a bottle of Prosecco - not even a good one - and starts pouring
the shimmering liquid into flutes. Granger accepts one from her with a wide, forced grin, and
glances at him.

No. Absolutely not.

Draco turns toward the exit, but Greg blocks his path with a menacing glare.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Greg hisses in his ear. "You're being an ass."

"The rain is making my leg hurt," he grits back.

"Everyone else is at least trying. Go get a drink, it'll make you more bearable for the rest of us."

"I'm not drinking that slog, and the only person trying is Granger. The rest of them look like they
want to slit my throat."

It's like she hears her name from across the room. Granger grabs two flutes from the table and
walks toward them.

"I swear to Merlin, Draco, if I - "

Draco shakes his head furiously. "Shut up."

"I thought you might like a drink." Granger offers the flutes to them, but only Greg takes his. "Is
everything okay?"

Her diamond earrings flatter her long neck, and Draco lets his gaze linger on her skin for an instant
before he looks back at her.

"I'm afraid I must go," he responds coolly. Greg makes a noise of displeasure that he ignores, and
Granger's pretty little brow furrows.

"Work, or... something?" she questions.

"No."

Granger looks between him and Greg with her lips just barely parted in confusion.

"Oh. Of course." She looks down at the flute in her hand, then glances behind her. Millicent and
the Weasleys quickly pretend to be in deep discussion, but she's already felt their curious eyes on
them.

Granger turns back to him with a sickly bright pep. "I'll walk you out then."

Draco opens his mouth to decline - he doesn't want whatever brave show of support she's trying to
put on in front of the others - but Greg's disapproving presence looms beside him, and Millicent
glares at him from across the room.

"How kind," he drawls, and she takes his free arm in a firm grip even though he hasn't offered it.

"I'm sorry about Molly," Granger murmurs as they exit into the hall. "She's rather enthusiastic
about weddings."

Not as enthusiastic about the groom, though. Draco jams the button on the lift and stares straight at
the door, willing it to open.

"It's fine," he grits out. How is this damned thing so slow? "I'm sure you all will have a lovely
time."

Granger lets go of his arm. "I'm sorry you can't stay."

She fiddles with the scarf around her neck. Draco's tempted to yank it off to make her stop
fidgeting, or possibly to kiss her again, because her lips had felt very nice under his, but instead he
presses the button again in earnest.

"I'm exceedingly busy."

"What is it that you do, exactly?" she asks.

Nothing.

"Lots. You wouldn't understand."

The cursed door finally opens. Thank Merlin. He turns to Granger.

"That's my ride, I'm afraid," he quips, pasting on a wicked grin as he steps back into the lift. "See
you on Christmas Eve, darling.”

“Goodbye.” She lifts a hesitant hand in parting, but Draco doesn’t return the gesture.
He doesn't even look at her stumped expression as the doors close and he's whisked away.

Draco finds Theo slouched in a chair with no dignity and two glasses of Ogden's Finest when he
storms into his office.

"Get out of my chair," Draco growls, but Theo ignores him, taking another sip of whisky.

"How was the wedding?" he asks lazily.

"Isn't it a bit early for you to be drinking alone?" Draco snatches a glass and sinks into the loveseat,
sighing at the relief in his leg.

"Isn't it a bit early to have left your own wedding?"

"It’s not a real wedding," Draco growls.

Theo scoffs, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. A beat passes.

"So who all was there?" Theo asks with an affected casualness.

"Granger had a small army of supporters, as usual. Millicent was there, too."

Granger, always with her gaggle of fans. Forever beloved. How lucky she must feel, to be married
to the esteemed Malfoy heir, scarred and besmirched beyond repair.

At least he isn't completely banished from society. Well, not yet.

"Odd that she's getting in tight with the Gryffindors, don't you think?" Theo's voice is sharp at the
edges.

Draco rolls his eyes. "Not as odd as my marrying one of them, mate."

"I suppose so," he grumbles before throwing back the rest of his glass.

They both stare into the fireplace.

"So, you're still going to call her Granger?" Theo asks.

"Yes."

"You didn't stay for cake?"

"No."

Theo stretches his legs and rises from his chair, setting his empty glass on Draco's desk.

"Don't like cake these days?"

Draco glares at him. " They don't like me , and I've already gotten the third degree from Greg about
it, so kindly fuck off."

Theo looks at him thoughtfully. "You should take up Potions. You were always good at that," he
 says as he saunters to the door. "It'll make you less irritable."

"Stop trying to find me an occupation!" Draco snarls after him.

"Think of it as a hobby!" Theo yells back from the hall.

Draco rolls his eyes and leans back into his chair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

Potions.

As a hobby.

Ginny smacks down the Saturday paper next to Hermione's steaming cup of tea. Her first instinct
is to sigh in exasperation and look away as she had all week once the Prophet had caught wind of
her marriage to Draco Malfoy.

But the panic in Ginny’s voice draws her attention to the page.

"I thought you said he'd changed."

ANOTHER MALFOY MURDERER? INSIDER LEAKS HEIR’S INVOLVEMENT IN PUCEY

DEATH!

Hermione grips her spoon so tightly that her knuckles turn white. She stares at the headline for
another beat before glancing at the diamond ring on her left hand.

What have I done?

In his nightmares, Draco sees Pucey’s face again, twisting in grotesque delight.

“Traitor!” he sneers at him, before the light from his wand envelops them both.

In the dim morning light, Draco imagines the public’s outrage. Daphne’s. Astoria’s. Granger’s.

“Murderer!” they sneer at him, a dark cloud of accusers storming behind them.

Draco is neither of these.

A pit forms in his stomach as he looks down at the headline.

No one will believe me.

Chapter End Notes

You know what is awesome about writing fanfiction? You can bring Colin Creevey
back to life whenever you feel like it! Anyway, happy wedding szn.
 Chapter Six
Chapter Notes

TW: Sexually explicit content, voyeurism, implied alcohol abuse

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Theo paces back and forth in Draco's study.

"You're going to wear a hole in my rug," Draco drawls, throwing back his fifth glass of firewhisky.

"Oh, well, my sincerest apologies for upsetting you, Your Highness," sneers Theo.

"Gods, you're such a pain in my arse."

Theo whirls on him. "Me, a pain in your arse? I can’t - Would it really have killed you to show a
little remorse on the stand, Draco?"

Draco holds up a finger. "First of all, I'm not remorseful in the least, and you fucking well know
why." He raises another finger. "Second, those fuckers are more worried about their credibility
with the public than actually, I don't know, solving a crime. They've pegged me for it, they’re
never going to believe otherwise, so who cares about the truth? And third -"

A third finger goes up, and Theo and Draco stare at each other for a beat before Draco shrugs,
reaching for the whisky decanter. "I don't remember what the third one was."

Theo rolls his eyes just as Greg steps through the door.

Draco slouches further into his chair, ignoring his friend's arrival, but Theo stands at attention with
desperation in his eyes.

"Well?" he prompts.

Greg sighs and shakes his head. "One year was the best Hawkworth could do."

Draco's eyes glaze over as he stares down into the swirling amber. The potions equipment he'd
ordered would arrive next week. Maybe he can arrange for Greg to receive it. Or should he just
cancel the shipment?

"That's bullshit," seethes Theo. "He's a Malfoy, for fuck's sake! What happened to the deal?"

Draco chokes out a dry laugh. "The bigger they are, the harder they fall."

"That was before the papers found out." Greg shrugs off his coat. "Hawkworth had to give them
something."

"I'd say one year isn't bad for killing a man," Draco says. "Give Hawkworth my regards, Greg. He's
done a fine job."

"You're unbearable," Theo grits, slamming down his own glass. "I'm not going to sit here and
watch you drink yourself to death."
Draco raises an eyebrow and meets him with an even gaze. "At least I'd avoid Azkaban. Isn't that
what you want?"

Theo's jaw tightens, and he storms out of the room.

Greg snatches the glass right out of Draco's hand. "Stop it," he snaps, towering over his friend. "I
haven't hit anyone in years, but I'm awfully tempted right now."

"Go, then, if my face offends you so much."

"I wouldn't give you that satisfaction." Greg sits in the chair across from Draco. "Bogby!"

A house-elf pops into the room. "Yes, Mr. Goyle?"

"Coffee for this lout, please."

"Don't listen to him, Bogby."

"Coffee."

"Yes, Mr. Goyle."

"Don't you - "

Bogby disappears with a crack.

"Fuck you," growls Draco.

"Oh, shut it."

For the first time in weeks, Theo pops through the Floo at Millicent's flat. She's reclined on her
couch with a book and a cup of tea, but she straightens in alarm when she sees the look on his face.

"What is it?" Millicent asks. "Have they decided on a sentence?"

Her voice sounds like honey, and Theo realizes just how much he has missed hearing it.

"We fucked up. We should have made him - " His voice catches in his throat, and he shakes his
head.

"How long?" she whispers.

"A year. An entire fucking year, Millie," Theo chokes. She's on her feet in an instant, and he
crosses the room to wrap her in his arms. She's upset, obviously, because this news - it's terrible
news - she's probably crying against his shoulder this very moment - and they sink down onto the
couch, only his head is tucked against her shoulder, and his chest shakes. "He doesn't even care,
you should have seen his face, he - "

Theo's voice breaks off, and Millicent presses soothing kisses to his hair. He wants to tilt his face
up and snatch her lips with his own, to kiss her back, to make this all go away, to give himself one
good thing, but he remembers her rejection just before he lifts his chin.
Not for you.

And he doesn't think he can bear hearing it again, so instead, he clings to her soft, welcoming form
and breathes in her perfume, her skin, her hair, all of her - until another whoosh from the fireplace
interrupts their embrace.

In the wee hours of the morning, once he's plied Draco with sufficient coffee and buns, Greg stands
uncertainly at his Floo. His hands itch to do something, despite the late hour, and he doesn't want to
go home to stare at a book he won't ever finish.

The gallery. It'll be closed and empty at this hour, but Pansy had given him a key to the studio
room in the back of the building so that he could use the space for working or storing some of his
larger pieces. Greg can whittle away at a few projects - alone - before his eyes begin to droop, and
then he'll return to his ancestral home for a few hours of sleep.

Alone is the main thought in his head as he Floos to the gallery and turns his key in the door to the
studio room, so he's fully astonished when he pushes through to find Pansy in a state of complete
undress, draped across what he's fairly sure is her great-aunt's prized chaise lounge, with her
fingers twirling light circles around her glistening, pink folds.

Blaise stands a few feet away from her, carefully observing her motions while he dabs richly
colored oil paint onto a large canvas.

"What the fuck, Pansy!" Greg steps back, averting his eyes. "What in the bloody hell are you doing
here?"

"Hello to you too," Blaise chirps as he adds a rosy blush to the cheekbone of the Pansy on his
canvas. Gods, he shouldn't be looking there either.

"Me?" Pansy's voice is sensual and heady, and it’s clear she hasn’t stopped what he’d walked in
on. It sends blood rushing down to his cock, and Greg grits his teeth against the temptation to run
his eyes over her lithe body. "This is my gallery. Of course I'm here." Here comes out like a lusty
breath, and just when Greg doesn't think he could get any harder, her breath hitches into the
smallest moan.

"We're working on a piece," Blaise adds.

Greg's eyes, inexplicably, are beyond his mind's chant of don't look, don't look, and he meets
Pansy's teasing, hot gaze. "Finger fucking yourself isn't art ," he growls. Her dark eyes narrow and
she shrugs, tilting her head back.

"Suit yourself," she sighs. "I think I'll look quite nice hung up on my wall."

"She is art, Greg," Blaise intones, deepening a shadow in her hip with his brush.

He knows that. He’s known for ages. She is art personified, pure perfection from the gods, down to
the delicate freckles across the bridge of her nose and her pert tits - one of which she's now
fondling - don't look -

"If you're already here, you may as well help."

Greg's eyes snap back to Pansy’s. "What?"

"I could use another set of hands. Or a tongue, maybe..." she trails off with a raised eyebrow.

He should say no, even though he’s sure he can smell her arousal, and it beckons him closer. He
ought to run, really, take off as fast as he possibly can, because he hates how he feels around her.
Too large, too fumbling, too stupid, when she’s so small and deliberate and knowing with her
clever eyes and sharp tongue. He wills himself to take the first step away. One step, and then he's
sure the spell will be broken.

Just one step.

Merlin, he can hear how wet she is from all the way across the room. What he wouldn't give to use
his tongue on her, to taste her - don't look, don't look, just one step.

"I'm not touching you, Pansy." He barely believes the words that fall from his mouth.

She pouts. She pouts.

Gods help him.

"Please?" Pansy's voice is cloyingly sweet, teasing, apologetic, and bratty, and her legs spread even
wider as she uses her slim fingers to part her folds. "I think we'd make beautiful art together,
Gregory."

Fuck.

He takes that first step, but it's in the wrong direction. He's moving toward her, not away, but as he
leans over her to capture one rosy, peaked nipple in his mouth and slides one thick finger into her
dripping pussy to the chorus of their moans, he can't help but agree with her.

Beautiful art.

An owl flies through the window and drops a scrap of parchment in front of Hermione. Ginny,
Harry, and Ron wait with bated breath as she scans Kingsley's handwriting.

It's difficult when her hand is shaking so badly.

"Well?" Ron prompts.

Guilty.

"Reckless endangerment due to negligent use of magic, leading to death." What's the usual
sentence for that, anyway? She mentally files through the cases she'd peeked at in her free time.
How does a year compare? It seems on the light side - they'd been generous, at least, in that way,
but -

"At least it's not manslaughter," sighs Harry.

Ginny elbows her husband.

"A year in Azkaban," Hermione finishes, letting the parchment fall to the table.

"It'll be all over the papers tomorrow," Ron reminds her.

"No one gives a fuck about the papers, Ron," Ginny snaps. "Hermione, I'm sure the Ministry will
allow for a divorce in this case."

"Divorce?" Hermione looks up at Ginny. "We've hardly been married a month."

"Well, I hardly think it's going to improve from here," snorts Ron. "They'll let you off, no
question."

"I don't think - " Hermione clears her throat. She hadn't thought, really, not at all. "I mean, we don't
know all the details."

Ginny reaches out and takes her hand. "They found him guilty," she says gently.

Hermione snatches her hand back. "Yes, but we all know that the Wizengamot isn't exactly fair,
right? They make mistakes all the time."

"That's true," Harry winces, "but - "

"That was before, Hermione." Ron rolls his eyes. "It's not like that anymore."

Hermione's jaw drops open. "It's nearly all the same people, Ron."

Ginny glares at her brother. "That's not the point," she grits, folding her arms. "Hermione, if
anything about this isn't fair, it's that Malfoy isn't going to Azkaban for longer. Pucey had testified
against Malfoy’s father and all number of Death Eaters. Malfoy had the motive and the means and
he was there when it happened."

"I'm just not sure we know everything there is to know," Hermione insists, hot tears gathering
behind her eyes.

"Don't stay with him, Hermione," Ginny says pleadingly. "Even if he didn't cast that spell, it's
damn well his fault."

"I'm not - I'm not deciding anything today. There's no point." Hermione pushes back from the table.
"I'm going to go home now, I think. Thank you for waiting with me."

"Hermione - " Ginny starts, but Hermione doesn't let her finish as she rushes to the Floo.

She doesn't go home, though, because home doesn't have any answers, so Hermione Floos to the
one person who just might be able to give her something.

Hermione steps through the fireplace only to see Millicent and Theodore Nott in an embrace on the
couch, and Nott looks up at her arrival with red-rimmed eyes.

"Granger?"

Hermione steps back. "Oh. Oh. Should I...?"

"Hermione," Millicent murmurs, slipping away from Nott. "Did you hear, then?"

Hermione steels herself. "Tell me the truth."

Millicent and Nott exchange a look.

"Please," she chokes out. "Please tell me. Did he - ?"

"He didn't do it, Granger," Nott says, surveying her with curiosity from his place on the couch.

She nods. You're fine. He didn't do it, which you had already suspected, and he's not a murderer,
you haven't married a murderer, so there's not need to -

A sob escapes from her throat, and she presses a hand over her mouth to trap the rest of it inside.
Millicent is up in a flash, pulling her across the room to sit on the couch next to Nott.

"I'll make some tea." Millicent slips a handkerchief into her hand and then disappears to the
kitchen.

Hermione wipes away an errant tear. "I'm sorry I'm so - " She gestures to her face. "I'm not usually
so weepy."

Nott nods. "It's nice that you care."

"I hardly know him, though. It's ridiculous."

"Marriage makes people do odd things, I think."

Hermione clutches the handkerchief in her lap. "How is he?"

Nott snorts. "Being a prat, as usual."

"Of course," she smiles weakly.

Nott leans forward and props his elbows on his knees. With a heavy sigh that sets Hermione on
edge, he closes his eyes. "He's not doing well, Granger. Not well at all."

The first year of their marriage, Hermione and Draco do not celebrate the Malfoy Family Tradition
of Christmas Eve Dinner because Malfoy has ten months left in Azkaban. She considers arranging
a visit, but Theo tells her that Malfoy won't even see him or Goyle, so she decides that it's probably
not worth the paperwork. After all, she’s incredibly busy with her job in the Department of
International Magical Cooperation - she and Millicent are working on a very important commerce
deal with Germany - and she really can’t afford any distractions.

On Christmas day, her parents ask hesitatingly about her marriage. They'd seen the headlines, after
all. Hermione tells them that Malfoy's sentencing doesn't bother her too much.

"I don't have much to do with him, anyhow," she shrugs. "Everyone knows the marriage is a sham,
so it really doesn't affect me."

And for the most part, it doesn’t.

The second year of their marriage, Theo and Millicent and Ginny each tell her that it's not a very
good idea, but Hermione does it anyway, because it's what they'd agreed on.

She's almost surprised when she's able to walk through the Floo at Malfoy Manor. The entrance
hall is cold and austere, and her shoes click on the polished stone floor. The air is so quiet and still
that Hermione feels like she ought to hold her breath to keep from disturbing whatever is asleep, or
worse, laying in wait for her.

The pop of a house-elf sends her jumping several inches off the ground.

"Who are you?" the little elf asks, looking up at her suspiciously.

"I'm Hermione Granger."

The house-elf raises an eyebrow.

"What's your name?" she tries.

"I'm Bogby, miss."

"Hello, Bogby." Hermione straightens her back. "I'm here for Christmas Eve dinner."

Bogby's reply is definite and straight to the point. "Mr. Malfoy did not say to expect a guest for
dinner."

"Oh." Hermione hesitates, biting her lip. "Is Malfoy at home, then?"

"Yes, he is." Bogby makes no move to fetch said Malfoy. He only tilts his head at Hermione,
which sets her considerably ill at ease.

"Would you mind requesting his presence in the dining room?"

"Yes, miss." The instant Bogby pops out of sight, Hermione realizes that she does not, in fact,
herself have any idea where the dining room is, and she is suddenly nervous that the house-elf will
leave her stranded in the hall.

A few minutes of nervous shifting pass, and Bogby returns. "This way, miss."

Hermione scrambles after him, taking care to keep her eyes directly in front of her. No need to look
at any passing doors - best to avoid any unpleasant memories.

Bogby leads her into a large hall with a grand, but notably empty, table in the middle of the room.

"Here you are, miss," and he pops away, leaving Hermione to choose her seat toward one end of
the table.

Just like the hallway where she’d arrived, the dining room is dark and cold. Heavy drapes cover
the windows, and although the room is large, it has the effect of making her feel like there’s not
enough air to breathe. The austere portraits lining the walls don’t help either - every one of the
esteemed, ancient Malfoys hanging on the walls make clear their displeasure at seeing a stranger in
their midst. Hermione tightens her jaw and pretends she cannot understand their rude mutterings
about her in their native French.

Ten slow minutes pass before Draco Malfoy saunters through the door, wrapped in a green
dressing gown, clutching that same polished cane, and smelling rather like whisky.

His limp is noticeably worse than the last time she’d seen him - on our wedding day , Hermione
realizes with a start - but the cold, damp conditions in Azkaban probably set back his body’s
healing process.

"What are you doing here?" he growls as a strand of ratty hair falls over his face. Hermione cringes
inwardly at his gaunt, greasy appearance. Malfoy looks more like Professor Snape than his own
father, even if the sneer on his face is completely unchanged from their days at Hogwarts.

Hermione clings to that familiarity and straightens in her chair. "It's Christmas Eve."

Malfoy stares back at her with an empty look on his face.

"Malfoy Family Tradition?" Hermione reminds him.

He snorts. "All of the Malfoys are either dead or in jail."

"You're here," Hermione bristles, "and while you look and smell otherwise, you seem to be quite
alive and unconfined."

Malfoy rolls his eyes as he clumsily slides into a seat at the opposite end of the table. "How did you
even get in?"

"I'm married to you. Wives normally are granted access to the Floo."

"I don't remember doing that," he mutters, dragging a finger over the surface of the table.

"Well, you did." Hermione pauses. "Or else, the manor did."

Malfoy inspects his finger. "No dust," he says appreciatively before snapping his eyes back up to
her. "What do you want, then, Granger?"

"Dinner," she replies, raising her chin defiantly.

"Gods," he groans, leaning back in his chair. "And you're not leaving without it, I'm sure?"

"No, I am not."

"You sound like Goyle."

It is the first time anyone has ever said that to Hermione. The comparison does not bother her as
much as it once would have.

"Bogby!" Malfoy barks. The house elf pops in next to him.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?"

"It's Christmas Eve. Apparently I have dinner plans."

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy, I see."

"Did you know I also apparently have a wife?" He spits out the word like it offends him, glaring
across the long table at Hermione.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy." Bogby looks like he's enjoying this exchange at least a little.
"Would you bring us dinner?"

"I'm afraid the kitchen is not stocked for a proper Christmas Eve meal, Mr. Malfoy."

"That's completely fine, Bogby," Malfoy smiles, or at least dons what Hermione supposes, under
some definitions, is considered a smile, although she finds it to be unusually feral and unhappy. "I
could not give a flying fuck about what I eat tonight. Just bring whatever you have lying around
the kitchens."

Malfoy downs the rest of the liquid in his glass and sets it on the table.

“And bring another Ogden’s, please.”

Hermione has trouble controlling her expression, and a quiet sniff of disapproval escapes her.
Malfoy catches the sound and looks at her with irritation.

“What?” he scoffs. “I said please.”

Draco taps his long fingers on the table and stares down Hermione Granger.

What the fuck does she mean by showing up for Christmas Eve Dinner?

He wonders if Theo or Greg somehow put her up to it. Some pity scheme, most likely. Gods. Or
has someone in the Ministry sent her to spy, to make sure he's good and well and punished and
thoroughly miserable, even now that he's out of that hellhole they call Azkaban?

That is, if she still works for the Ministry.

Of course she does, he snorts to himself. Granger frowns at him from across the table. He doesn't
read the papers anymore, but he'd bet all his Galleons that she's in them all the time. Height of her
career , he imagines. Well on her way to becoming Minister of Magic . There are probably all kinds
of photos of her on the arm of some charming bloke she can walk all over. Not that horrid Weasel -
Granger's too smart for that, although she did marry me, so hard to say - but perhaps Dean
Thomas or some other holier-than-thou Gryffindor with a jawline befitting a politician's spouse.

Granger looks a wreck, though, like she hasn't been sleeping a wink, so perhaps not. She ought to
rest more, Draco muses. Not good for the nervous system.

She still has nice legs, though.

Bogby returns ten minutes later with toasted ham and cheese sandwiches and a holiday pudding
that Draco is fairly certain comes from a popular shop in London.

Draco and Granger say very little to each other, and she's much more polite than he is with her
small bites and delicate sips. He almost finds her mouth attractive from across the table. Gods, he's
been cooped up for too long.

He lets his spoon clatter loudly to the table as soon as he swallows the last bit of pudding. Granger
flinches a bit at the sound, and he does nothing to hide the satisfied expression from his face.

"Happy Christmas, then." Draco rises from his chair and drops his napkin on his plate. "See you
 next year, Mrs. Malfoy."

Draco does not look back at Granger as he saunters out of the room, and he can only assume that
she found her way out of his house when he reemerges the following morning, very hungover, and
does not find her still seated in the dining room.

“Happy Christmas, Mr. Malfoy,” says Bogby as he sets down a stack of buttered toast and a cup of
tea.

Draco reaches for the decanter of brandy. “Happy Christmas to you too, Bogby.”

Chapter End Notes

SO glad Pansy finally made it to the party.

xoxo please leave all your comments/kudos, I'll be extra grateful for them in this
THANKSGIVING SZN.
 Chapter Seven
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Theo struggles against the door, but with some assistance from Greg, they manage to shut it and
click the lock, and Draco is trapped in his workroom with the unboxed potions kit. "If you want a
drink so badly," Theo screams, stepping back, "then fucking make one yourself!"

Draco's roar is unintelligible through the thick wooden door and his furious temper, but it's so loud
that both Theo and Greg wince and step back.

"I don't feel great about this, to be perfectly honest," Greg admits.

"I switched out some of the labels on the crates," Theo shrugs. "He'll start reading them once he
gets bored enough, and then he'll be so angry that they've shipped volatile ingredients in the same
package that he'll tear them all apart and have it organized by morning."

"By which time, he'll have forgotten all about how angry he ought to be with us," finishes Greg
slowly.

Theo grins. "And he'll remember how much more bearable he is when he's sober and occupied."

Hermione forgets that it's the week of her birthday until two days before, when Millicent asks
when she'd like to celebrate.

"Celebrate what?" Hermione asks blankly. "My anniversary was two weeks ago."

"Your birthday," Millicent reminds her. "On Thursday, isn't it? Pansy asked me about going to a
show with her on Friday, but I wasn't sure which day you'd want to do something."

"Oh, no." Hermione dismisses her with a wave of the hand. "I don't need to celebrate. We've got
this business to sort out with Pinter's team, anyway."

Millicent sighs. "I really thought we'd seen the last of him when we escaped the Budgies."

"He likes to meddle wherever he can, it seems," Hermione grumbles.

"How about we go for drinks after work?"

"Hmm?"

"On Thursday. For your birthday."

"Millicent, you really don't need to do anything," Hermione insists.

"Nonsense," Millicent grins, bumping her shoulder. "You ought to be celebrated."

"Hermione Granger!"

Oh no. Hermione winces, as does Millicent next to her.

Pinter.

He appears at the end of their table, flushed and beaming.

"I thought I recognized that mane!" Pinter booms. "What luck to run into you at the pub with the
whole gang."

Harry and Ginny look at Hermione in confusion and horror. Ron, for some reason, has a dopey
smile on his face.

There's no escaping it.

"Hello, Mr. Pinter," Hermione intones. "It's good to see you."

"Out... celebrating something?" Pinter rocks back and forth on his feet, looking at her expectantly.

"It's Hermione's birthday," Millicent informs him.

Pinter makes a big show of bumping his palm to his forehead. "Of course! How could I forget?
Happy birthday to you, Miss Granger."

"Thank you, sir."

Maybe he'll leave.

Pinter flashes his gaze to Harry then grins conspiratorially down at Hermione.

"Let me tell you what. I normally don't do this, but for my favorite assistant - "

Trainee.

" - the next round is on me." Pinter digs into his pocket, and Ron and Harry whoop in appreciation.

A sharp look from Ginny quickly staunches Harry's enthusiasm.

"Oh no, that's really not necessary, Mr. Pinter," Hermione pleads.

"Nonsense, of course! What is everyone having, then?"

The introductions can no longer be avoided. Pinter enthusiastically shakes hands with Harry, pats
Ginny on the back, and gasps when he notices Ron's Chudley Cannons jersey.

"You're a Cannons man too?" Ron exclaims.

"A Cannons man?" Pinter roars with laughter. "My younger brother is an investor in the team!"

Ron's eyes go wide. "No bloody way."

"The investment hasn't quite paid off for him, mind you, but what does that matter when quidditch
is really about pride? About loyalty?" Pinter puffs out his chest.
"Exactly!" Ron exclaims.

Hermione thinks she might throw up a bit.

Pinter leans in. "Let me tell you what. I could get you some great tickets, if you like. Have my
nephew Francis show you around, introduce you to some of the players. You're a bit of a hero
yourself, aren't you?" He nudges Ron with a chuckle. "The boys will be thrilled to meet you."

Ron's face turns bright red. "Are you serious? Meet - meet the team?"

"Anything for a friend of Hermione here!" Pinter stands up and claps Ron on the back, and Ron
watches in awe as Pinter goes to get their drinks from the bar.

Much to everyone's displeasure, Ron doesn't stop talking about it for weeks.

On their second Christmas Eve Dinner, Draco Malfoy is ready for her.

Bogby escorts Granger from the Floo to the dining room where Draco is already waiting at the
table in his dining jacket, cane propped neatly at his side.

"You're late," he clips, folding that day's edition of the Prophet. Granger looks perplexed, then
perhaps a bit offended.

"I'm only - what are you wearing?"

"Dinner clothes," Draco responds stiffly. He makes a point of surveying her own sweater and
trousers. "Don't worry, I didn't expect you to... dress for the occasion."

"You wore a dressing gown last year."

Draco shrugs. "I wasn't feeling well that evening."

Granger huffs and marches over to her seat. This year, the table is filled to the brim with all the
delicacies that the Malfoy vault at Gringotts allows for, and Draco anticipates that Granger will be
shocked by at least three of the dishes.

"Well, you do look much better tonight," she sighs, unfolding the napkin in her lap. "I see you've
foregone the decanter?"

"Just one glass for me tonight." Draco raises his wine in a toast. "To another delightful year of
marriage?"

Granger reluctantly raises her own glass in response. He can see that she's trying very hard not to
roll her eyes, and it brings him even more joy than the fig pudding that Bogby has prepared for
dessert.

After a few tentative bites - Draco has to admire her bravery - Granger nods to the paper he'd set on
the table. "Anything interesting in today's bulletin?"

"Just the usual holiday drivel. Who's at what party with whom, and how generous Skeeter's
favorite pets have been with their donations."
Granger's nose wrinkles at the mention of Skeeter, as though she's smelled something foul. Draco
doesn’t disagree.

Draco chews on a bit of charred turnip and schools his voice into a casual tone. "I did see last
month that the German negotiations are going well for us. I'm glad someone is paying attention to
the tariffs on resource imports, even though it's probably far too late to recover the costs from the
last decade."

Granger's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Yes, I - how did you know I'm working on that project?"

"Millicent must have mentioned something to Theo," Draco shrugs. "I follow the papers, of
course."

He cuts off another bit of salted pheasant, privately enjoying Granger's confusion.

Hermione tilts her head at Malfoy. She'd known that the German negotiations had been mentioned
in the business section over the course of the last few months, but the Department of International
Magical Cooperation rarely provides the level of excitement that the Prophet prefers to market in,
so the articles are typically short and sparse and more to fill space than to inform a reader about the
actual activities of their governing body.

"Of course you follow the papers," she says slowly as she stares at him across the table. "I only,
well, I didn't know you cared about the DIMC."

"Care about the DIMC," scoffs Malfoy. "I don't care about the DIMC. I do care when the
department fucks up their trade negotiations and causes a spike in the price of armadillo bile."

"I'm not on the Americas team," Hermione huffs as Malfoy starts digging around in his pocket.
"Why do you care about armadillo bile anyway?"

He pulls out a small sheet of parchment. "If you must know, I dabble in potion-making."

"Really?" Hermione had never thought she'd see the day - a Malfoy, working an actual job. She
leans forward with interest. "Through whom do you distribute?"

"I don't distribute," Malfoy snaps. "I exclusively work on passion projects with a select, private
clientele. I certainly don't have the time or inclination to be filling orders for The Apothecary, if
that's your meaning."

What a little prick. "I'm not being critical, Malfoy, I was just asking about what it is you do all
day."

"Anyway, I took some notes for you on the Germany case." With a wave of his hand, Malfoy sends
the small bit of parchment floating over to Hermione's plate.

"Notes?" She unrolls the paper to reveal a lengthy analysis of the current progress on the case.
Gods, he hasn't just gotten this from the papers. He's been quizzing Millicent.

"Suggestions, if you like," he shrugs, cutting off another bit of pheasant. "You're welcome to owl if
you have any questions, but I'm sure you'll understand my findings. You're bright enough."
"Bright enough - " Hermione sputters. "Malfoy, I'm not going to let you use me to weasel your way
into influencing Ministry policy!"

Malfoy folds his arms on the table and looks at her like she’s a small child throwing a fit. "If you
want to look like an idiot when all this is said and done, that's fine by me. I'll keep my insights to
myself from now on."

"Your insight? I've been working on this since I started at the DIMC."

"I own a flat in London near the German embassy. Several of their ambassadors used to dine with
my family, so yes, I have some insight into their ways. I know networking isn't really your style,
but it does pay off."

"You used to dine with the ambassador?"

"The last three or so, yes." Malfoy pops a bacon-wrapped dirigible plum into his mouth and chews
thoughtfully. "Actually, you’re welcome to use the flat, if you like. I believe it's been kept up, so it
should be suitable if you have any late nights at the embassy, or if you need an appropriate space
for hosting the current ambassador. Bogby can provide you with a list of his favorite meals."

Hermione takes a brief moment to stare at this strangely helpful version of Malfoy. He's still
wrapped in rudeness and sarcasm, but truthfully she loathes the journey back to her flat on nights
where she has late meetings at the German offices, and the Ambassador is notoriously difficult to
appease. If she can ply him with promises of fine wine... she and Millicent just may have a shot at
getting their way.

And Hermione will be able to sleep just a bit more.

"That... that would be very useful, Malfoy. Thank you."

He waves a hand dismissively. "It's nothing."

Malfoy's flat in London is beautiful.

Hermione perches on the rich leather couch in the living room and looks out over the city lights
through the tall windows. She shifts with a sigh and pulls the bit of parchment Malfoy had given
her at Christmas out of her pocket.

The bloody idiot had been right. It took just one gift basket with the Ambassador's favorite wine,
furnished by Bogby, for him to sing Hermione's praises. The Germans had caved on two critical
points in their negotiations within days.

Hermione smiles down at Malfoy's notes and shakes her head before she kicks off her shoes and
lays back on the couch.

She really ought to just Floo home. They'd stayed late at the Embassy, but it's not so late that
Hermione needs to stay at Malfoy's flat.

The beds, though, are so comfortable. Hermione particularly loves the bed in the dark blue room
that she's come to think of as her own. The flat has very little in the way of personal effects from
the Malfoy family, so she hardly remembers that it's not really hers until she reaches for a cup that
boasts of their family crest or spots a small portrait of a very young Draco Malfoy.

"It's technically my flat too, sort of," Hermione tells herself. "I don't need to feel guilty for using it."

Quite right.

And the lights through the window are so lovely. They twinkle at her as she dozes off, and when
she wakes several hours later to trudge off to her room, her neck isn't even sore from the couch.

That spring, an owl flies through the open window of Draco's office and drops a folded up bit of
parchment on his desk. Draco takes off his glasses and leans back in his chair to read the
handwriting across the front.

He hasn't seen it often, but it's familiar enough.

"Granger," he snorts. "What on earth does she want?"

Hello,

Thank you again for the use of your London flat, and please thank Bogby for his wine list. The
Ambassador asked me to tell you hello.

I've spent quite a few nights this year already at the flat. I prefer to walk to the offices for the fresh
air, but I have to Floo from my current flat if I'm running late or if the weather is poor, and it looks
as though I'll be on the project for a while, particularly since I've been able to manage the
Ambassador so well.

Yes, thanks to his expert advice. Draco laments that he'll have to wait eight more months to say I
told you so. And to tell her to look out for her run-on sentences. Merlin. She writes like she talks -
all in one long breath.

Draco shakes his head and continues to read.

It seems nonsensical for me to pay rent on a flat I don't really need. My lease is coming up next
month, and I was wondering if you would mind terribly if I let go of the place and moved into the
Malfoy flat?

I hope all is well with your potions endeavors.

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger

Draco reaches across the stacks of requests that really do require his urgent attention for a fresh bit
of parchment.

Granger,

Do what you like with the flat. It doesn't affect me in the least.
Draco's quill hovers over the parchment. He's slightly - ever so slightly - curious about the progress
with the negotiations. The Prophet, naturally, is worthless, and Millicent had given Theo a proper
scolding for passing along information about the DIMC. From what he’s gathered, Draco suspects
that Granger had taken a fair amount of his suggestions, and he wants to know exactly how it all
played out, and...

Never mind that.

Draco hastily folds up the parchment and holds it out to the owl, but snatches it back to scribble
something across the front.

Hermione Malfoy

Oh, she'll love that.

On their fourth Christmas Eve of marriage, Granger arrives with a chocolate cake. It's not the
traditional pudding that Draco is used to, but he likes it nonetheless.

Perhaps even more than the pudding.

Not that he'll ever admit such a thing to Granger.

"How is your potions business going?" she asks, pushing around the pickled herring on her plate.

"It's fine. I've been working on some original brews, and they've been tremendously successful, just
as I expected," Draco clips. "Now, about the Germany case. What happened with the Erkling
management? I can't figure out how you convinced the Minister to agree to it."

Granger leans forward and tells him all about it.

She's dressed nicer this year, he notes. She looks much healthier, too. There's a nice color to her
cheeks, and her breasts look fuller and rounder.

Granger is rather pretty, actually, when she's talking about something she likes.

It rains on the day of Mr. Parkinson's funeral. Bogby sets out Draco's long overcoat, spelled with
anti-rain charms to cast off the dampness of the day.

Draco arrives at the ceremony just before it begins to avoid any fanfare. He hasn't been out, really,
not since he returned home from Azkaban. A funeral feels like the right time to reappear. He'll be
among friends, and the occasion is solemn, so no one will criticize him for not smiling as much as
he ought to. With that scowl, they'd say, he just proves he's a killer. But you're not supposed to
smile at funerals, so this is perfect.

"Hullo," he murmurs, sliding in next to Theo and Greg. "Where's Millicent?"

"Up front with the family," Theo whispers.

Draco nods. "How's Pansy doing?"

"Not well," says Theo with a grimace. "She seems a bit drunk."

"A bit," scoffs Greg. "She's embarrassing her mum."

"Can't say she doesn't deserve it," Theo mutters, crossing his arms. "She's been a real cunt to
Pansy."

"Don't call her a cunt, you idiot," Draco hisses. "Her husband's just died."

Theo gives him a dismissive snort. "No one liked him anyway, least of all her."

Greg leans over and glares at them. "Both of you. Shut up."

The ceremony is brief, though not as brief as Draco may have liked, and before long they're
shuffling through a long line of mourners to pay their respects to the deceased and his family.
Draco bumps shoulders with a few of his clients, and he's not surprised that only two of them nod
in greeting.

He's freshly back in society. It will take time for them to warm up to him, but in a year, they'll all
be scrambling for his public notice once again.

Greg hadn't lied - Pansy's cheeks are flushed, and she embraces them each in hugs that are rather
too warm for a funeral. Draco catches her whispering something in Greg's ear, and he considers
saying something to her about it later. Pansy has always taken a twisted delight in egging him on,
but it feels almost cruel sometimes, especially when she must see how Greg looks at her when he
thinks no one is watching.

Draco moves on to Pansy's mother and goes to hug her, but she rushes to clasp his hands and draw
him close.

"Draco," she croons. "I'm so pleased you could make it."

"Of course, Mrs. Parkinson. I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Yes, well, we've all had a very... difficult few years."

She doesn't let go of Draco's hands.

"Yes, Mrs. Parkinson, we have."

She tugs him closer and leans in like she's about to tell him a secret.

"Draco dear, I appreciate you being here to pay your respects, I really do." She squeezes his hands
tightly. "You must understand, though, the optics, we really can't afford to have - well, it doesn't
help Pansy to be associating with you."

Draco freezes, and Mrs. Parkinson continues.

"It would be best if you didn't attend the reception, I think, but of course I'd love to call on you at
the Manor as soon as - "

Draco yanks her closer and leans into her ear.

"You're a fucking bitch."

He wrenches his hands away from Mrs. Parkinson and stalks out of the cemetery, taking no care to
avoid the muddy puddles that splash onto his overcoat.

Draco realizes now that he had been wrong, and he curses his stupidity.

There’s never going to be a return. Not for him.

"Where is Draco going?" Millicent asks Theo, tucking her hand into the crook of his offered
elbow.

"I have no idea," he sighs, enjoying the warmth of her body close to his. "But he looks bloody
furious."

"So does Blaise." Millicent points at their other friend - Pansy's husband, in an odd twist of fate -
angrily scolding Pansy in the sidelines before he too storms off into the blustery day.

"She's being an idiot," Greg growls, kicking a clump of mud off his leather shoe. "This is a fucking
mess."

"Maybe no one will notice," offers Millicent.

Theo smiles down at her. "Maybe."

Her brow wrinkles. "Gods, maybe not. Her Uncle Dorian is headed her way. I need to - "

"I've got it," Greg interrupts, rushing to intercept Pansy's handsy relative.

It takes a fair amount of time to distract Uncle Dorian and to keep him out Pansy's path of
destruction. By the time Greg has ensured that Uncle Dorian understands he really ought to take his
leave if he'd like to keep all his fingers, there's an issue with the flower arrangement, so he helps
Mrs. Parkinson move around some of the planters to her liking.

Not that Greg thinks she deserves an ounce of his assistance or sympathy. She's been a right bitch
to Pansy, and Mrs. Parkinson has made it very clear on a number of occasions that she wishes he
wouldn't come around so often.

Greg doesn't know why he stays.

As the guests dwindle, Pansy saunters up to him.

"Meet me upstairs?" she purrs, dragging a manicured finger down his chest.

Greg grabs her wrist in a tight hold. "It's your father's funeral," he hisses.

Her pretty little face turns ugly with bitterness. "Well, he can go fuck himself." Pansy snatches back
her arm. "He didn't care about me for 25 years, so I'm certainly not going to waste a perfectly good
day on him."

"Pansy - "
"If you're going to be a bore, Gregory, then feel free to leave. Otherwise..." she trails off. "Well,
you know where my room is."

Greg shakes his head as she struts off, but not even an hour later, his hands have a bruising grip on
Pansy's slim hips, and he's thrusting up into her at a punishing pace as she cries out, her cunt
contracting around him as she fights through her second orgasm of the afternoon.

He tries to ignore the large painting on Pansy's wall. She's nude, legs spread wide on a chaise
lounge, clutching a man's thick head of hair between her thighs with her head thrown back in
ecstasy.

They look damn good hung up on the wall.

Malfoy slaps the paper down next to a glass of firewhisky when Hermione walks into the dining
room.

"I suppose you've seen the announcement, then?" she says, breezing over to her usual seat.

He throws back the contents of his glass. "The Ministry can go fuck themselves."

At their last two Christmas Eve dinners, Malfoy had dressed with an air of sophistication, like he'd
wanted to remind Hermione how out of place she is at Malfoy Manor.

As though she could ever forget.

His hair had been trimmed. Not as short as he'd worn it at Hogwarts, but neat still. Not mussed
about his face like it is now. His clothes aren't quite the dressing gown he'd worn to their first
dinner, but it's certainly not up to his usual standard.

She wonders if he is really so upset by the news.

"I often share your sentiments regarding the Ministry," Hermione sighs, "but I think this is
manageable."

MARRIAGE ACT INEFFECTIVE? MINISTRY ADDS NEW REQUIREMENTS!

The Ministry of Magic implemented the Marriage Act to encourage relations between Muggle-
borns and pure-bloods, but insiders say that the Ministry has been disappointed by the results of
their initiative as several couples have elected to live apart. This reporter is pleased to announce
that the Ministry has been quick to correct their error and will now implement a minimum
mandatory cohabitation period of three months per calendar year in an effort to promote happy
marriages and the continued integration of the Muggle-born community.

Malfoy scoffs, slamming his empty glass down on the article. "Of course, I'm sure you've thought
all the way through it. Got your big plan together, Granger?"

Back to being a prick, then.

"I really don't have the time or patience to manage your attitude, Malfoy," she snaps. "I'm
incredibly busy at the moment - "
 "Oh, she's busy, is she?" he jeers. "How good of you to grace us with your presence this evening,
your majesty."

"Good god." Hermione rolls her eyes. "As I was saying, I'm really needed in the offices through the
end of the first quarter, and if I'm going to be here for Christmas Eve anyway, I thought I'd just
come early next year. Unless you have other plans for the fall?"

"No plans at all."

Hermione winces as Malfoy refills his glass and takes another sip.

"If anything changes, you can just send an owl."

"Do whatever the fuck you want to do, Granger. I'll be here." Malfoy stands up with his glass and
grabs the decanter, taking it off the table as he strolls toward the door.

"Perhaps you ought to leave that behind," Hermione grits.

Malfoy turns full around. "And perhaps you should be less of a shrew."

Hermione purses her lips in silence.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Malfoy."

He raises his glass in a mocking toast and continues on out of the room, leaving Hermione to the
table full of food.

"Three months is nothing," Hermione tells herself as she stares at the stuffed hen in front of her.
"Just an inconvenience.”

Chapter End Notes

GUYSSS thank you all so much for your support on this story! I wrote this while I was
a teensy bit tipsy, so also thank you very much to my lovely beta sirxusly for keeping
me reasonable and grammatically correct.

Drop those kudos/comments/theories below - I love love love to know what y'all are
thinking as we go on this journey together. :)
 Chapter Eight
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

It's a brutally wet and chilly February night, and Hermione is very late.

"You were supposed to be here an hour ago!" Millicent cries as Hermione pops through the Floo.
"Where on earth have you been?"

"I'm so sorry," Hermione apologizes breathlessly. "There was an issue with the calculations on
page three, and Godwin needed me to - "

"Godwin?" Millicent frowns. "Why is Godwin asking you to make edits on three? She should be
working with her own team, not pulling you in. Where was Minturn?"

Hermione shrugs and drops her bag on the floor as she sinks into an armchair. "You know that
Minturn isn't good with numbers. I'm just trying to be a team player."

"You can't play on everyone's team, or you'll run yourself into the ground," Millicent scolds her.
“Also, you’ve got ink on your chin.”

"I'm fine," Hermione insists, wiping off her face with her sweater before she pulls a bottle of
Malbec out of her bag. "Now, what are we pairing this with tonight?"

Millicent levels her with a sharp stare, then rolls her eyes. "Pecorino and bolognese. I hope you're
ready to eat, because I'm absolutely famished."

"Starving," Hermione reassures her, jumping up from her chair. "How was your class today?"

Millicent, in a strangely appropriate turn of events, had taken up boxing of all things. Some might
consider her too soft for the sport upon first glance, but Hermione knew better - she'd been victim
to Millicent's rough-and-tumble headlocks in the past. Upon the recommendation of her therapist,
Millicent had enrolled in a class at a small gymnasium nearby and, to no one's surprise, she'd risen
to the top. Hermione personally thought that Millicent had been quite the natural based on her
form in fifth year, and while Millicent dresses now in draping silk blouses and elegant skirts, on
more than one occasion Hermione has spotted her replacing heavy boxes of magical artifacts on
high shelves with uncanny and impressive ease.

"Class was fine," Millicent replies airily. She removes the stasis charm from the dining table and
focuses intently on uncorking the wine.

Hermione snatches the bottle out of her hands. "Fine? Fine? Was your Prince there again?"

Millicent lunges to take back the bottle, but Hermione holds it out of her reach.

"Gods, Hermione, he's barely a prince," she scowls, taking her seat at the table.

"Barely a prince is still a prince, Millie."

Prince Leopold is tall and handsome and doesn't actually rule anything, but he's quite wealthy and
titled and lives in a modest castle in the south of Austria. In Hermione's opinion, he seems to have
taken a fancy to Millicent, his occasional boxing partner at the gym. In Millie’s opinion, Prince
Leopold needs to work on his upper cut and Hermione needs to work on shutting up,
thankyouverymuch .

"Let's discuss this actual prince instead, shall we?" Millicent holds up a paperback book with a
dashing prince and swooning heroine on the cover. The wind pushes back the prince's rust-brown
hair (as well as his open shirt) and the women's breasts threaten to spill out of her dress.

It's a true bodice-ripper.

Hermione pulls a different book out of her bag and rests it on the table with a sigh.

Then, she goes back in for two more.

"Three since last week?" Millicent laughs with raised eyebrows. "You're quite busy."

"The two by Clarence were awful, so I really just rushed through them. The Adkins, though?"

"Isn't she so good?" Millicent's eyes glow. "Gods, I loved the bit in the library where they - "

"Merlin," Hermione groans. "I thought I would die reading that!"

"Oh, don't be such a prude," laughs Millicent. "It's good for the imagination."

“But terrible for the books!”

Theo steps through the Floo just as Hermione sinks into the armchair in the living room.
Millicent's already curled up on the couch with her feet tucked under her.

"Good evening, ladies." Theo grabs the bottle of wine - they're onto a Pinot Noir now, it seems -
and makes a show of examining it. "Leave any for me?"

"A little," Hermione giggles.

"Get another from the cabinet, won't you?" Millicent grins, her cheeks flushed with color. "We're
in a generous mood tonight."

"My lucky day," Theo drawls. "I don't suppose there's any bolognese left, is there?"

Millicent leans her head back on the couch and waves him toward the kitchen. "It's on the counter.
Help yourself."

"What, you're not going to serve me in the dining room?" Theo nudges her foot with his. "Chop,
chop, Millie."

Hermione scoffs in protest - mutters something about feminism and kitchens - but Millicent pouts
up at him.

"I'm sore, Theo. I can't possibly get up."

"Oh, my poor, invalid friend. However will you possibly go on?"

Millicent points at her half-empty crystal glass. "It would help tremendously if you filled me up."
Theo goes beet red, and the breath simply leaves his lungs. Did she really just -

"Me too!" cries Hermione.

"Of course," he croaks. "More wine."

That was all she'd meant, of course. More wine.

Unfortunately, Millicent's choice vocabulary sends blood rushing unpleasantly south. Theo
normally congratulates himself on impeccable control these days. She'd said she wasn't interested,
and Theo intended to respect that. He keeps his hands off her lush body at all times, and while his
eyes can't help but roam, Theo doesn't sink to lingering. He's a gentleman, for Merlin's sake.

For the most part.

The point is, there is no need for him to needlessly pick apart Millie's little slip of the tongue.

Her tongue.

Gods, the things he'd like to -

"It's just wine, man," Theo mutters to himself, grabbing another bottle from the cabinet. "Pull
yourself together."

Draco stares into the fire.

He's passed many nights this way, lately, letting the flames dance before his eyes until his face
starts to burn. It's bitterly cold outside, and while the stone walls do an exemplary job of keeping
the manor warm and dry, the whipping winter wind still howls. Draco could weave any number of
enchantments into the wards to dampen the sound, but it suits his dark mood, so he lets the wind
scream on.

Bogby pops into the room.

"Good evening, Mr. Malfoy."

"Hello, Bogby. All's well in the kitchen?"

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco nods, but Bogby continues to stand in the doorway, so Draco shifts in his chair to look at
him.

"Well? What is it?"

"Mrs. Daphne Pucey and Mr. Benedict Pucey have come to call, sir."

The wind shrieks, and Draco feels his hands begin to shake. He grips the arms of his chair to steady
himself.

"They're here, you said?" he asks, turning back to the fire.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy."

"Show them in, I suppose."

Draco hasn't seen Daphne and Benedict since that day four years ago - three and a half, really, but
it's felt like an eternity. He wonders how tall Ben is now. He'd seemed like he'd be tall, but it's hard
to tell with toddlers, and Draco hasn't had much experience with children either way.

Ben will be six now. Six years since Daphne had passed tiny Benedict Pucey, swaddled in blue
linen, to Astoria, who'd looked rather unimpressed at the two-week-old bundle in her arms and
quickly shifted it onto Draco. He still remembers the feeling of that small, warm creature nestled
against his chest, blinking up at him with dark eyes and a small smile.

Astoria had told him that he was mistaken because babies don't smile that young, but Draco knew
better.

Ben probably doesn't remember Draco. Toddlers don't really have a long memory, do they? Three-
and-a-half years is a long time.

Soft footsteps appear outside his office door, and Draco stands from his chair, rolling back his
shoulders.

Daphne is thinner than he remembers, and Benedict certainly is taller.

But not as tall as Draco had imagined, and rather bashful. Ben stands close to his mother's skirts,
nearly hiding in them, clinging to his mother's hand.

He's afraid, but Draco can see a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

"Can you say hello to your Uncle Draco, darling?" Daphne nudges Ben forward.

Uncle Draco.

Ben lets go of Daphne's hand and takes a solemn step forward, clasping his hands together behind
his back.

"Hello," Ben murmurs in his small voice.

Draco crouches down, propping his elbows on his knees to keep his balance. His stiff knee burns at
the stretch, and his eyes are strangely hot.

"Hello, Benedict," he rasps. "Do you remember me?"

Ben nods his head, and Draco swallows back a sob.

"You used to tell me stories before bed."

Daphne steps forward and rests her hand on his head. "Your Uncle Draco had lots of good stories,
didn't he?"

Ben looks up at her and shrugs.

Draco clears his throat and stands. "Would you like to sit, then? I can have Bogby bring us some
tea."

"Tea would be lovely." Daphne floats past him and settles into the other chair. Her blonde hair is
neatly brushed back, not a strand out of place. She doesn't look at Draco as she helps Ben into her
lap and carefully arranges him on her knee.

The fire crackles in the fireplace, and Draco mutters a few words to muffle the sound of the wind
through the walls. Bogby pops in and serves the tea in silence. The china hardly clinks - Bogby's
quite good at his job - and then he leaves them.

"Can I have a cake, mum?" Ben asks, looking back at Daphne.

"Just one," she murmurs. "You can eat it on the settee there."

Ben slides off her lap and begins his survey of the available sweets as Daphne reaches for her cup
of steaming tea.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Daphne stares into the swirling leaves for a moment before she sets her cup down again.

"I'm sorry it’s taken us so long to visit." Her voice wavers. "Astoria couldn't understand why I'd
want to see you, and it was impossible to explain to my parents without... telling them more."

"I'm not so sure they would have understood even if you had told them," Draco says.

"No," Daphne winces. "I don't think they would have entirely disagreed with Adrian."

Ben plucks a strawberry cake piled high with frosting off the tray and bites into it happily as he
climbs onto the settee, his legs swinging away.

"He asks about you," she says.

"I'm surprised he remembers me."

Daphne takes another sip of tea. "I remind him, sometimes. I think that helps."

Draco looks at her in shock. "You talk to him about me?"

"He lost a lot that day. I didn't want him to lose more than he had to."

Something gets stuck in Draco's throat. He nods and stares furiously into the fire, willing it away.
Adrian had loved his son, adored him in his own way, and Benedict had worshipped him in return.
Uncle Draco had been a suitable substitute for the occasional bedtime story and willing playmate at
stodgy family functions, but Ben came alive when his father appeared on the scene.

And Draco had taken that away from him.

A small hand tugs on his sleeve.

"Uncle Draco," Ben whispers, his dark brown eyes wide and hopeful. "Can I have another sweet?"

"You'd better ask your mum," Draco says tightly, sneaking a look at Daphne. The set of her mouth
may look stern to come, but she's hiding a smile.

Ben turns to Daphne. "One more, Mum, please?"

"One more, but that's all," she acquiesces.

Ben snatches a chocolate tart from the tray and looks at his mother for a beat before sidling back to
Draco and crawling onto his lap to nibble at the tart.

Draco's heart tightens painfully.

"You're a bit old to sit in your Uncle Draco's lap, aren't you?" he says gruffly, tugging the child
against his chest.

"Maybe when I'm seven," Ben shrugs.

Draco and Daphne sit in silence, watching the fire and the boy until the flames have died down and
Ben's eyes have drifted shut.

"Will you tell him when he's old enough to understand?" Draco murmurs.

"Yes."

"I just don't want him to think - " Draco stumbles over his words, but he steels himself. He must
power through because this dim, quiet night may be the only time he can say what he means to say.
"I want him to know that I'd never take his father away from him, not like that, not without a
reason, and I'm trying - I want him to have his own life without a father who - like mine - "

"I promise."

Draco closes his eyes and presses his lips to the tuft of brown hair.

"I should have listened to you and Theo," Daphne chokes out. "I shouldn't have married him."

"It's okay, Daph." Draco clings to the small boy in his arms. "It's okay now."

When Daphne finally leaves with Ben still asleep in her arms, Draco brushes some imaginary soot
off his trousers and makes the long walk across the manor to his potions room.

There's a long list of orders he's been ignoring, but perhaps it's time to begin again.

"Has it really only been four months?" Millicent asks, fiddling with the lace overlay on her form-
fitting black dress.

Hermione slides in her second earring. "Just nearly. She's due the second week of January."

"Gods, a tiny Potter," Millicent sighs. "How are the Harpies carrying on without Ginny?"

"Her coach isn't terribly pleased with the timing of it, but Ginny's determined to return for the
second half of the season," Hermione shrugs. "Ron, of course, has volunteered himself to run some
drills with her in the meantime."

"He's really taking this coaching business to heart, isn't he?" Millicent says carefully.

Hermione wrinkles her nose. "I can't believe Francis Pinter convinced his father to hire him."

"I'm sure the Cannons are grateful for the publicity."

"I suppose so." Hermione shakes out her curls. "Ready?"

"Ready as ever."

Hermione's breath is tight in her chest as she and Millicent walk into Pansy Parkinson's birthday
party. She and Pansy have become casual friends after she'd attended a few Sunday events at
Pansy's gallery with Millicent, but in all honesty, Hermione isn't quite sure yet if Pansy actually
likes her or if she only tolerates Hermione for Millicent's sake.

There's also the matter of Pansy's good friend Draco Malfoy, who is nowhere to be seen as
Hermione scans the large crowd. Their last Christmas Eve had not gone well, exactly, and
Hermione can't help but fear that he'll be irritated to find her infiltrating other aspects of his life.
Pansy's certainly his friend first, and Hermione feels uneasy at the prospect of surprising Draco
with her attendance.

Hermione had briefly thought of owling him - she really should have, now that she thinks about it -
but they haven't spoken since Christmas Eve.

Hermione doesn't notice Millicent looking at her with some concern as Theo approaches them.

"Finally," he mutters. "You know I've spent the last half hour talking to Seamus Finnegan's second
cousin?"

Millicent ignores his complaint. "Is Draco coming?" she asks casually, refusing to look at
Hermione's warning expression. "I haven't seen him in weeks."

"No," Theo clips. "He's still mad at Pansy about something. Fuck if I know."

"I hope everything is alright," Hermione tries.

"Oh, I assure you Draco's perfectly fine," scoffs Theo. "He's probably got his nose too deep in his
little Potions project to pay any attention to his friends."

"Don't be a nag about it," Millicent scolds him. "You were the one who encouraged him to get into
brewing again."

"Yes, so he could make me that wit-sharpening potion!" Theo protests. "And now he's saying I
have to get on the waitlist like everyone else. It's bloody ridiculous."

"He has a waitlist now?" Hermione asks.

"Apparently," huffs Theo. "Gods, I need another drink. Champagne for you two?"

"Yes, please," Millicent replies. Theo struts off toward the refreshments area, and Hermione spots
Pansy, dressed to the nines in a slinky, plunging green dress, throwing back a glass of something
bright pink as she walks over to Goyle and an unfamiliar young woman.

"Who's that?" Hermione asks, motioning toward them.

"Finnegan's second cousin Carolyn," Millicent laughs. "She's not as bad as Theo made her out to
be. Perhaps a bit too sweet for her own good, but some days I prefer that to the alternative."
They watch as Carolyn Finnegan smiles up at Goyle and briefly rests a hand on his elbow just as
Pansy appears on his other side. Pansy flashes a sharp grin at Carolyn.

"Oh, no," Millicent whispers.

Something feral snaps out of Pansy's mouth, and Carolyn pales. Her hand drops from Goyle's arm,
and he glares down at Pansy.

"Should we - " Hermione hesitates. She hates to get in the line of fire, and Pansy looks quite ready
to explode.

"Quickly, now." Millicent beelines for Pansy as Carolyn rushes off toward the house. Goyle grabs
Pansy's elbow and hisses something in her ear before he stalks away after Carolyn.

Hermione notes the blended look of red fury and bright embarrassment on Pansy's scowling face.

" Pansy. What did you say to her?" Millicent hisses as Hermione trots up behind her.

Pansy whirls around. "That slag was - well, you saw what she was doing, Millie."

Hermione keeps her mouth zipped shut. It’s not worth risking her neck.

"They were only talking," Millicent says, rolling her eyes. "Did you really have to eviscerate her?"

Pansy sputters. "She only likes him because he's... he's obviously very well-known for his art. He's
extremely successful and it's embarrassing for her to chase after him like that, riding his coattails."

"She wasn't riding anything!" Millicent protests.

"She was too, " Pansy snaps. "I won't have a galleon grabber at my birthday party. It's horrifying."

"Gods, Pansy, I don't think he's quite famous yet," Millicent says, easing her tone with a hint of
soothing pity that Pansy blasts right through.

"You're not exactly in the art scene," Pansy scoffs. "You wouldn't understand."

Millicent shoots an exasperated look to Hermione. "I'm sure I wouldn't."

Pansy's jaw tightens.

"I need to go manage Blaise," she growls. "He's clearly sloshed."

Hermione watches Pansy storm off toward her husband, who seems to be doing remarkably well.
She turns back to Millicent.

"Are she and Goyle still...?"

"Yes. They keep going on like it's a secret, which makes it ten times worse, especially when
everyone knows," Millicent sighs.

"Everyone knows what?" Theo asks, handing crystal flutes of champagne to Hermione and
Millicent.

"Pansy and Greg."

Theo shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. "He'll get over it eventually. She's obviously not interested."
 Millicent stares at him in confusion. "Theo, they're sleeping together."

He chokes on his drink. "Come again?"

"Greg and Pansy are sleeping together." Millicent frowns. "Are you really telling me that you didn't
know?"

"Since when?" He coughs again, and Hermione pats his back.

"For the last year or so, at least!"

"A year?!"

Millicent slaps Theo's arm. "Greg is supposed to be your best friend!" she hisses. "Where do you
think he goes on Sundays after the gallery?"

"I thought he just - " Theo rubs a hand over his face. "I thought he was just doing Greg-things, you
know. He's very... tall and mysterious. I don't ask too many questions."

"Merlin."

"Are you quite sure?"

"Yes!" Millicent exclaims.

"Gods," Theo groans. "Draco told her last year to stop being such a tease."

"Well, she certainly stopped teasing him, I suppose," Hermione quips.

"You knew too?" Theo gasps.

"Well, they aren't exactly private about it," Hermione says apologetically.

"She's married, for gods’ sake."

"Yes, to Blaise!"

"All of you have lost your damned minds," Theo growls. "There's something to be said for loyalty,
for - for fidelity, and - "

"Don't you think you're being a bit dramatic about it?" Millicent interrupts. "She and Blaise have
an understanding, after all."

"I am being perfectly reasonable," Theo huffs before throwing back the rest of his champagne.
"I'm going to get more."

He glowers as he struts away.

"Why is he so upset?" Hermione asks.

"Merlin knows," Millicent replies, finishing the rest of her glass as well before setting it on a
passing tray. "I'm so sick of his moods. Come on, let's see what kind of cake Pansy got this year."

Chapter End Notes

I am still crying/laughing at Theo. Also, I do not want children, but what I DO WANT
is a tiny Benedict Pucey to sit on my lap and quietly eat chocolate cake.

LOOK. The facts are these. I am v tired. My beta is v tired. We're old, and our bones
are not as good as they used to be. There's going to be a BRIEF sabbatical bc ya girl
needs to sleep and catch up a bit on writing.

We're talking 1-2 weeks tops. I'll keep you updated on my TikTok. Remember when
we had to wait two years for a new season of Game of Thrones? This is much less
time than that, AND as a bonus, I promise not to kill Daenerys Targaryen and also will
make sure that the ending of this fic doesn't ruin it for everyone.

In the meantime, you'll still get the final chapter of How Fair the Vine on Sunday
12/12, so plz just read that 80 times while you're waiting on an update here.
 Chapter Nine
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Theo settles into the chair opposite Greg and Draco. Greg's large frame dwarfs the couch, and he
gazes forlornly into the fire. Draco's spectacles slowly drift down his nose as he examines a
potions recipe that he can't quite seem to get right.

"Well, you're a fun lot," Theo huffs.

Draco doesn't even look up at him. "Go to the theater if you're in need of entertainment."

"Why are you working so late?" Theo asks, leaning forward to peer at the formulas scratched onto
the parchment.

Draco narrows his eyes and snatches the papers back. "It's not work."

"It's his hobby," Greg finishes, taking another sip of his drink as the fire crackles. "Haven't you
been listening?"

"If you do it for money, it's a job." Theo rolls his eyes. "No need to be so missish about it."

"I'm not being missish," snaps Draco. "You're being an idiot."

"Fine, it's a hobby. Gods."

Silence falls over the room again, and Theo's knee bounces away as he glances between his friends.
Draco and Greg have never been the most excellent conversationalists, but tonight seems
particularly stilted, or else maybe Theo is especially in need of an outlet.

Perhaps he should have gone for a hard fly on his broom instead of showing up at the Manor.

He would have gone to Millicent's, but she wouldn't be in tonight.

Theo's stomach tightens unpleasantly.

"So..." he begins.

Draco flips his papers over and folds his arms. "What?"

"Are you ready for your missus to make her grand entrance?" Theo asks. "Hermione's coming next
week, right?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Draco growls. "I told Bogby what he needs to know to arrange everything,
but I'm sure she'll find a way to stick her nose into my business during the gods-forsaken three
months she'll be here."

Theo shrugs. "Three months isn't so - "

"Three months is really absurd, you know," Draco scoffs, rising from the couch to pace the room.
Greg wordlessly hands him his cane. "Even properly married people can't stand to live together for
three months. My parents certainly didn’t. It’s not decent. I mean, there's no privacy - "
"You're not even sharing a room," Greg points out.

Draco glares daggers at him. "We're sharing a house, Greg. It's still terrible."

Theo tries to hide his grin. "A manor, really."

"I don't know why I even allow you two in here," says Draco with a sneer. "You think she's going
to stay in her rooms like a proper houseguest? No, take my word for it, Granger will be sneaking
around my halls, tracking my every move so she can write me up at her precious Ministry."

Greg raises an eyebrow. "You're not brewing anything illegal are you?"

"Well... not technically. But that's not the point."

"Look, I've spent a decent amount of time with Hermione, and I think she's actually quite nice.
Funny, even," Theo sighs. "She's not nearly as irritating as she was in school."

"Millicent probably makes her bearable," Draco glowers, settling back onto the couch.

"How is Millie, anyway?" Greg asks, swirling his drink. "Missed her last week at the gallery?"

"Missed her?" Theo raises an eyebrow. "You and Pansy both missed her, somehow, even though
she only arrived thirty minutes late. I wonder how that must have happened."

Greg's cheeks turn pink and he mumbles something under his breath.

"Hmm." Theo folds his arms. "Millicent, actually, is on a date tonight with that wanker from her
gym."

Draco picks up his potion recipe and hums with approval as he scans the parchment. "The Austrian
prince? Good for her."

"Good for her," Theo snorts. "I'm not entirely sure about that. Don't you think it's awfully strange
that a prince would be here, in England, instead of running his fucking country?"

"I don't think he's that kind of prince, Theo," says Greg before he drains his glass.

"How many kinds of princes are there?"

"My understanding is it's more of a title than a description of responsibilities," Draco explains. "It
makes perfect sense for him to take a season or two to see another part of the world."

"Not true, actually, because it doesn't make any sense," Theo snaps. "So you're wrong."

Greg snorts, and the room falls silent again. Theo finds he doesn't mind it so much this time.

Don't know why I spend my evenings with these fucking wankers.

Sunday, October 9, 2005

Sweat pours off Harry and Hermione as they drag a third heavy trunk to the Floo in the living room
of the Malfoy's London flat. Ginny points her wand lazily at the trunk to lighten the burden, but its
bulk is too large and unwieldy to fully levitate off the ground, so it scrapes and bumps along the
floor before coming to a dead stop next to two other trunks.

"I don't know how we're going to get the books," Hermione pants. "These are awfully heavy."

"These aren't the books?" Harry huffs, bent over his knees. "Are you telling me there are no books
in these trunks?"

"No, Harry, these are my clothes and my work notes and - "

"Gods."

"I'd love to help," Ginny shrugs, patting her swollen belly. "But you know. The baby."

"Lucky you," Harry grits. "I fucking hate moving."

"I really owe you one," Hermione says apologetically.

"Yeah, well, you can pay me back by getting your bloody husband to help you move into his
manor next time," growls Harry, heaving the first chest into the Floo. "I'm already taken."

Hermione had owled Malfoy to let him know that he could expect her at half past two that Sunday,
and she'd also informed him that she should be available for dinner if he had no other plans. Days
turned into weeks, and Malfoy hadn't responded. His silence isn't entirely unexpected after the way
they'd left things on Christmas Eve last year - scowling, taciturn, and unreasonable. Even still, it
rankles her.

Godric, it's not as though it's Hermione's fault that the Ministry had made another asinine mandate
to improve - she scoffs internally - the climate of feeling toward Muggle-borns. Malfoy had nothing
at all to say to her proposed schedule from October 9th to January 14th. Hermione had slotted in
five additional days to account for occasional nights away in case she had to work late or for
Ginny's baby shower or Christmas with her parents. It had taken six unanswered owls to convince
Malfoy to open up a Floo connection to the Ministry so that Hermione could continue her very
important work with the Department of International Magical Cooperation. He’d never even had
the decency to confirm that the Floo had been activated. Hermione had only found out when the
approval letter from the Ministry had arrived on her desk one Thursday morning in August.

No matter, though. No matter if he insists on being an absolute prick. Hermione squares her
shoulders as she steps into the Floo, resolved as ever that while Malfoy may be unwilling or unable
to be a reasonable wizard, she won't allow his foul moods to affect her professional or personal
plans for the winter.

She's above that sort of nonsense.

The unpleasant rush of the Floo whisks Hermione out of sight as Harry and Ginny call their
farewells from her living room, and Hermione is neatly deposited into the fireplace at Malfoy
Manor.

Hermione's shoes click on the slate floor as she steps out of the Floo. The noise echoes around the
empty hall of the Manor, and it seems dark for mid-afternoon, even if the fall sun is starting to turn
weak with the threat of winter. Hermione looks up and down the hall. She isn't sure, exactly, if
she'd expected Malfoy to be there to greet her. He hadn't been waiting for her the last night, but he
had been the two years before, so -

She purses her lips and shakes her head. The hall feels even emptier than it normally does on
Christmas Eve, even with her neat row of trunks stacked against the wall.

Rather lucky, Hermione thinks, that her things have successfully landed through the Floo without
bursting open. Just as she takes a step toward them, she's interrupted by a loud, startling pop that
pulls a small "Eek!" from between her lips.

"Good afternoon, miss," Bogby says, greeting her with a nod.

"Oh." Hermione clasps her hands behind her back. "Hello, Bogby."

He looks pointedly at her trunks. "I trust your journey was comfortable, miss?"

"Yes. I, erm, I had help with the trunks."

"Of course." Bogby snaps his fingers, and the trunks disappear with another loud pop. It's
decidedly faster than whatever she and Harry had been trying to do, and Hermione finds herself
wondering if Bogby might be able to help her move her things back to her flat in January.

Hermione clears her throat and laughs nervously. "Thank you, Bogby. I'm afraid I may have
overpacked. I don't really care for using the Floo, you see, and - "

"Perhaps Miss would care to see her rooms now?" Bogby asks, turning on his heel to begin down
the hall.

"Oh. Of course."

Hermione follows after him. Bogby's short legs are surprisingly quick, and Hermione has to walk
at a bit of a pace to keep up, all the while tracking the turns and doors and staircases that lead to her
private space for the next three months. It would be easy for anyone to get turned around in this
maze of a manor, but Hermione prides herself on a rather uncanny sense of direction.

Orientation and mental maps were very useful skills to develop when one was trying to make it to
class on time in a castle of moving staircases.

Bogby stops short at a nondescript heavy door and presses his bony hand to wood. Delicate
carvings bloom over the oak, and Hermione can't help but smile in delight at the fine artwork.

The door swings open to reveal a dark green room with a crackling fireplace, a plush rose settee
with a matching chair, a large oak desk, and a tall bookcase. The shelves are scattered with small
stacks of beautifully lettered books and a few office essentials of much higher quality than what
she'd brought. The set of quills that catch Hermione’s attention, for example, are from a very high-
end retailer in Diagon Alley that she's never dreamed of affording for daily use, and yet here's a
whole handful of them. Hermione wonders if there's any chance of suggesting that they stock the
London flat with the same quills.

"Bogby, this is lovely. Perfect," Hermione gushes, replacing the quills on the shelf. There's plenty
of room for her to fill in her own books, to make this her space, even as she finds an intense
curiosity about the books that Malfoy had already placed in the room. "Please tell Malfoy that I
appreciate his attention to detail. He's done a wonderful job."
Bogby raises an eyebrow. "Mr. Malfoy left the arrangements of the room up to me, miss."

Hermione winces. "Of course, yes. Thank you very much, Bogby."

Because Malfoy provides the Galleons, of course, and Bogby does the work. Bogby is the expert at
the arrangements, crafting every meal at the table and every corner of the room to perfection.
Malfoy, on the other hand, doesn't see fit to exercise his talents or his intellect. It's a disappointing
waste.

And it's none of her business.

"Shall I fetch you for dinner at seven o’clock, miss? These hallways can be... challenging to anyone
not familiar with them."

"Oh, no thank you, Bogby." Hermione shakes her head. "I can find my way."

Bogby gives a small hum that borders on approval. "Very well, miss. Mr. Malfoy asked me to
inform you that the West wing is strictly off limits, so please take care to limit your exploration."

Off limits . Hermione's ears perk up.

"What's in the West wing?"

"The rules are in place for everyone's safety, miss," Bogby replies firmly.

Hermione bites her tongue. "Yes, I see."

Safety. She wonders what sort of dark artifacts the Malfoys have hidden away from the Ministry's
watchful eye.

Bogby nods. "Your toilette is to the right, and your bedchamber is to the left. Please call if you
require my assistance for any reason."

"Thank you, Bogby."

He's gone with another pop, and the first thing Hermione does is throw back the thick drapes of the
sitting room.

"Much better," she sighs.

The wood-paneled walls of her bedroom are hung with large, gold-framed landscape paintings.
Just like the sitting room, it's dark and nearly dreary until Hermione pulls open the drapes. The sun
beams in across the four poster bed, complete with a dark green comforter that she sinks into for a
brief, pleasurable moment before returning to the task at hand: unpacking.

Once Hermione has everything unpacked and rearranged to her liking, she settles into the desk - her
desk now - and starts filing through some of the work papers she'd brought home for the weekend.
She hardly notices the setting sun since the candles, it seems, are charmed to flicker awake as the
room darkens.

The chime of the clock shakes Hermione out of her focus, and she counts its rings.

"Seven," she murmurs to herself, lightly touching her wrist even though she hasn't worn a watch in
ages. Hermione reluctantly lays her papers down. Dinner . It's a Sunday night, so Malfoy may not
even be home. Millicent is with Theo and Pansy at the gallery tonight. Perhaps he'd joined them as
well, and she'll be left to dine in solitude.
If she's going to dine alone, she may as well bring a friend with her.

Hermione plucks an old favorite off the bookshelf and tucks it under her arm.

Draco's cane clicks against the slate floor as he walks toward the dining room.

Discretion is, of course, of utmost importance and you will be compensated accordingly.

"You fucking wanker," Draco snorts, pushing his glasses up his nose. He's tempted to crumple the
parchment and toss it out the window. Salazar, the audacity of this man to owl him for assistance
after turning up his nose at Parkinson's funeral as though Draco had smelled of shit. Not just for
any kind of assistance - Mr. Quintman wants help pleasing his wife. Based on his note, Draco is
quite certain that he's going about it entirely the wrong way. An additional two minutes isn't going
to help a man who seems unwilling to use his fucking mouth. Gods, his poor wife. Draco ought to
make a potion for her as well - courtesy of the house, of course.

While the letter had at first set him in a foul mood, the idea of taking the useless bugger's money
lifts his spirits, and Draco feels positively gleeful at the thought of holding on to this delightful
piece of information for use sometime in the future.

Draco's stomach rumbles as the clock chimes through the hall. Eight o'clock. He's taking supper
just a bit later than usual, and just as he walks into the dining room, Draco stops short in the
doorway.

There's a woman at his table.

A Granger-shaped woman.

Ah, yes. Sunday, October 9th. Granger's self-appointed date of arrival. She's already got her nose
shoved into a book that she's propped up against a heavy candelabra, and her dark curls seem to
float up and away from her head.

Granger hasn't come from the Ministry, has she ? It's a Sunday, after all, but she's dressed like she
has. Her shirt is primly buttoned up to the collar, and she's got a bit of ink on the soft skin just
below her ear, like she's - yes, there she goes again, reaching a hand around to rub at the back of her
neck. Sore and strained, probably from hunching over books like she is right now.

What's she reading so intently, after all? Draco squints through his glasses, but he can't make out
the title.

Draco sets his jaw and takes a brief evaluation of his knee. The joint has loosened up over the past
few months. Regular physical therapy and religious potion-taking does have a positive effect, he'd
found, so Draco props his cane behind a statue and slowly saunters into the room, minding his leg
best he can, and rustling his letters to announce his arrival.

She doesn't look up.

Nothing ever changes.

"Here already?" Draco drawls, sliding into his seat at the other end of the table.
Hermione's face jerks up, and she snaps her book shut, letting it fall to the table before he can catch
the title.

"Yes," she responds tersely, folding her hands into her lap. "I sent you an owl."

Draco shrugs and pulls his napkin into his lap. "Hmm. Must have missed it."

Granger purses her lips. "Bogby seemed to know to expect me."

Bogby appears as if on cue to wave in a short glass of Ogden's and a steaming plate of meat and
potatoes for dinner.

"Bogby, you've really got to stop reading my mail," Draco tells him. "Some of it is of an extremely
personal nature. For my eyes only, and all that, you see. Wouldn’t want any ladies to be offended."

The house elf rolls his eyes and pops away.

Bogby will probably punish him with lukewarm water for his tea in the morning, but it's entirely
worth the scowl on Granger's face.

"Really, Malfoy," she huffs.

Draco lifts his glass to her before taking a small sip. "Don't worry, Granger darling, we’re only in
touch through the post."

Granger's eyes narrow, and she pointedly looks at his glass as he sets it back on the table.

"And here I thought you'd given up the bottle," she sniffs.

Why you little -

He'll kill Theo. That son of a bitch had been talking about him to Granger, gossiping over tea with
Millicent about his private affairs. It's one drink, for fuck’s sake. He's not moaning his sorrows into
a fucking bottle.

Draco's grip on the glass tightens nearly to the point of shattering, but he'd never waste good
whisky on the likes of Hermione fucking Granger.

"Just three months minus a day left, right?" he sneers, resisting the temptation to drain the rest of
the amber liquid. "You've gotten ink all over your neck, by the way. Might want to have a care."

Granger flushes and claps her hand to her neck to wipe away the smudge. Serves her right for
thinking she can waltz into his home and say whatever she likes to his face. Just like everyone else,
looking in from their self-righteous, high and mighty perches in London, trying to tell Draco
Malfoy that he ought to be ashamed. That he ought to rub his own nose in the dirt until they've
decided he's good and punished.

"I invited Millicent over for dinner on Thursday," Granger announces.

"Well, I can't be at dinner on Thursday," Draco snaps, shoving a roasted potato into his mouth.

"I didn't invite you," she grits out. "We are permitted to use the dining room in your absence, I
hope."

"All yours, darling." Draco stares pointedly at her empty plate. "If you're done, you can leave. No
need to hang about on my account."
 Granger gathers her book - he still can't make out the title - and stalks out of the room in a huff.

Ginny pulls Hermione close as Harry leaves them to get another round.

"I'm really begging you, Hermione," she pleads over the noisy din. "Please don't make me go
alone."

"You know I hate Quidditch!" Hermione protests.

Ginny scowls into her soda water. "Well, I hate Francis Pinter, and Ron honestly isn't too far
behind at the moment."

"Can't Harry get you out of it?"

"That bloody idiot got me into it! He told Ron that I wouldn't let him go without me, but now Ron's
saying he can get us extra tickets."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Privileges of being the Assistant Defensive Tactical Coach, I presume."

"Gods, it's like my whole family has forgotten that I actually play the game," Ginny growls. "You
know Ron's only ever been to three of my matches?"

"Fucking hell, Ron," they chime together.

"The gist of it is Harry won't go without me, and I'm not going to go without you, so it seems that
we're all going to have to chin up and bear it out together," Ginny insists.

Hermione sighs. "How bad is Pinter's nephew, really?"

"Not quite the social climber his uncle is, but he's..." Ginny wrinkles her little freckled nose,
"earnestly good, perfectly benevolent, eager to use his little connections to help you out of any
scrape, and it's an absolute nightmare."

"Maybe I should have married him instead," Hermione laughs.

Chapter End Notes

My Christmas break is over. AN INCONVENIENCE IS BACK BABY, and our little

idiots have finally moved in together. Can't wait to see what happens.

<3 <3
 Chapter Ten
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Granger's laugh, low and pleasant, mingles with Millicent's as they drift from the sitting room to
the dining room.

Draco faces the door of his office for a moment, leaning toward the sound, then he scowls and
turns back to slump into the chair at his desk. He really ought to review the stack of letters on his
desk. Some correspondence details the specific needs of various wealthy wizards and witches
around Great Britain and beyond. Other letters provide sorry excuses for why his regularly
scheduled shipment of dragon-scorched newt knuckles is now three weeks late.

Bloody idiots. Another supplier has reached out for his business. Draco considers himself to be a
loyal customer and he's loath to abandon Keets & Cousins, but this is the third delay, and at some
point...

The fireplace roars, and Theo steps through the Floo.

"Hello," Theo says brusquely, brushing the soot from his ruffled hair.

"One of my favorite things about you is that you never wait for an invitation," drawls Draco,
picking up his quill to respond to the first request for a non-drowsy calming draught.

"You're very welcome." Theo sinks into the chair by the fireplace with a heavy sigh and narrows
his eyes at the door. Gods, Draco sighs to himself. He thinks he'd like some friends who don't pop
in on a whim to sulk in silence.

"Well?" Draco prompts. "What is it?"

"Oh." Theo straightens in his chair. "It's probably nothing, but there's been another anonymous
donation to the OMA."

The OMA, or Organized Muggle-born Alliance, is a rather loud and boisterous group that regularly
petitions the Ministry for changes in policies that would, in their opinion, positively affect the
Muggle-born community. Some of their requests bewilder Draco, and he briefly wonders what
Granger makes of the OMA and their incessant screaming.

"Have you cross-checked the accounts?"

"No, they just told me today."

Draco leans back in his seat. "So if it's probably nothing, and you've done nothing about it, why are
you here?"

"Friendship." Theo rises from the chair and paces across the room. "Aren't you hungry? I'm
hungry."

"I don't normally eat this early. Besides, Granger has dinner plans with Millicent tonight."

"Millie? What a coincidence," Theo grins. "Let's go eat with them."

Draco splutters. "Absolutely not! I told Granger I was busy."

"Well, I've just cleared your schedule."

Draco drops his glasses onto his desk and grumbles under his breath as he trails behind his friend
to the dining room.

Draco examines Granger from across the table. She's laughing at a joke Theo's just made while
winking at her - incorrigible flirt - and she's a bit flushed about the cheeks. Two full glasses of
wine, and she's on her third. The drink seems to have warmed her up enough to overlook the short
glass of whisky he's nursed for the past hour. The small little line between her brows has smoothed
out too, and she doesn't look quite so irritated with the world at large. The pretty color of her blush
has spread down her neck, and Granger's even allowed two buttons on her blouse to come undone.
Draco catches a glimpse of a skin under the stiff cotton collar, and he shifts in his seat, picking at
the chestnut pudding still on his plate.

Gods . Two more buttons and he might even have a chance at seeing Granger's cleavage. Draco
gags at the thought, but he sneaks a glance at her chest anyway out of curiosity. It's irritatingly
difficult to see if there's anything there, but -

"Draco?"

Draco flashes his eyes to Theo rather too quickly and stiffens in his chair. "What?"

"I asked what you are reading these days. We've crashed the ladies' book club, so we may as well
contribute." Theo's eyes twinkle knowingly, and Draco swears he could hit him in that moment.

"I hardly have time for reading," Draco grits. "I'm very busy with my brewing."

Theo scoffs. "Don't lie to me. I've seen that stack in your office."

"You like to read?" Granger leans forward a bit with a curious look on her face.

"Of course I read. " Draco snatches his glass and takes a large swallow of his whisky.

"Have you finished that series on Tannis and the Dragons of Bosnik?" Theo asks innocently.

"I only read those to fall asleep," growls Draco, clenching his jaw. "You're the one who keeps
going on about them."

"Me and The Prophet!" Theo protests. "Top seller."

Mass market junk.

"Harry really likes those," Granger offers in earnest. "I read the first one, and I thought it was rather
clever."

Draco sneers at her. "I didn't know Potter could read."

She rolls her eyes and sinks back in her chair.

"Merlin, you're so defensive, Draco," Theo complains, leaning back. He slides his eyes over to
Millicent, and a smile creeps over his face. "Haven't you noticed what your sweet little wife is
reading?"

Sweet little wife.

Granger's gasp is audible, and her face turns bright red as she slaps her hand over the book.
Millicent laughs harder as Theo lunges toward her and makes a show of snatching the small
paperback book next to her wine.

"Theo, don't you dare!" Granger cries out. Draco imagines that she'd be clutching her pearls if she
had any.

What is she so shy about?

Draco's curiosity is piqued indeed. He narrows his eyes at the book in Theo's hand, trying to make
out the cover. He'd left his glasses in the study like an idiot.

There's a man on the cover with no shirt.

"Oh, don't let him bully you," Millicent insists, reaching over to grasp her friend's hand in a kind
show of solidarity. "We have nothing to be embarrassed about."

"You're not even a little embarrassed?" taunts Theo. "Gods, I don't even know what some of these
words mean - "

Millicent's response is low and soft and smiling. "I would take care that no woman hears you admit
that, Theodore Nott."

For once, Theo is speechless and splutters back at Millicent. "That's not what - the vocabulary - "

"If you don't know what something is called, you can always ask us," she says slyly. Granger
groans and buries her face in her hands.

Now that Theo is frozen in place, Draco can make out the curly-haired brunette woman next to the
man. Her dress is nearly falling off, and her breasts seem to spill over her bright red corset.

He can't help but think she looks a little like Granger.

Pretty enough. For most men. But naturally, not really his type, of course. Draco has never really
cared for women with wild, curly hair or curved hips or… or ink smudges or sticks up their arses.

His lip curls. "Is that a romance novel?"

Millicent smiles at him. "It is a romance , Draco. Thank you for asking. Hermione and I decided
we ought to read something for fun so that the DIMC doesn't take over all our conversations."

"And many of them are surprisingly well written," Granger adds hastily. She's embarrassed.

"Where are your glasses, mate?" Theo asks.

Draco ignores him and turns to Granger. "I'm surprised you care for that sort of thing. Isn't it a bit
beneath you?"

"Don't be a beast, Draco," Millicent scolds.

I'm not a beast.

"It's not beneath me," Granger huffs bravely, squaring her shoulders. "This book was very - I really
enjoyed it, and I'm not going to apologize to you for doing whatever I please in my very limited free
time."

Draco can't help himself.

"And how did it please you?" he growls.

Gods , she freezes in her seat like a wide-eyed doe, and Draco swears he can see her throat click as
she swallows. Granger's breath shakes as she exhales.

"I enjoyed it," she repeats hoarsely.

Draco is strangely hungry for the specifics. He wants to reach across the table and grip her curls in
his fist and demand that she say word for word what parts she likes best and if they had made that
square of visible skin on her chest flush as bright as it is now -

He smothers that thought.

"I must confess I'm rather shocked, Granger," Draco sneers, swirling around his whiskey. "I always
thought you had better... taste in literature ."

Granger's eyes narrow.

"There is nothing wrong with my taste," she grits.

"Those books are full of smut," he fires back.

Her fists visibly clench on the table. "I didn't know you were such a prude."

"Don't be frightened off by a little sex, mate," Theo laughs nervously, still thumbing through
Millicent's book.

"See?" Millicent giggles. "Theo's perfectly fine with it."

Theo clears his throat. "Well, dinner is done. I suppose we'll leave you ladies to your little book
club. Nightcap, Draco?"

Theo's bouncing knee sets Draco on edge, and he nearly snaps before Theo opens his mouth to
interrupt the tense silence in Draco's office.

"You don't think we ought to be worried about them reading those books, do you?"

"Why should we be worried?" Draco scoffs.

"I mean, I only saw a little, but... " Theo swallows. "It was very, uh, specific."

"Specific?" Draco echoes.

"A lot of details, really."

"We're not sleeping with them, are we?" growls Draco, refilling his whisky. "Why the fuck should
it matter to us?"

"It shouldn't. It doesn't, of course." Theo's voice cracks just the smallest bit.

They sit in silence for fifteen more minutes, wondering exactly what it means each time another
feminine laugh floats out of the dining room.

"Malfoy?"

He looks up at her from the far end of the table and Hermione confirms that it is Malfoy himself,
alive and well, clutching today's issue of The Prophet with a stony, grim tightness to his jaw.

"Hello, Granger," Malfoy clips. "Surprised to see me?"

Hermione hasn't seen him in two weeks. Two weeks since their odd little conversation over
chestnut pudding where Malfoy's eyes had gone hot and dark and he'd asked her how her book
pleased her. Gods, how she'd squirmed in her bed that night. Her dreams had been some strange
blend of the very same book - a large, shirtless man in tight breeches pressing into her from behind
- and Malfoy himself repeating the words that Theo ( fucking Theo) had said. Sweet little wife.

A shiver runs down her spine, but Hermione shakes it off. The man sitting in front of her isn't some
dream, some fantasy from a novel, but her actual husband, who seems to prefer to ignore her
entirely.

"I am surprised, yes," Hermione says slowly, making her way to her usual seat. "You usually don't
make an appearance for meals."

"Well, I can never imagine what I would say to you, but luckily for me, the paper gave me some
ideas."

Malfoy slaps the morning edition on the table with emphasis.

Hermione scowls at him and folds her arms. "If I've done something to offend you, just say so."

"I'm not offended in the least, Granger." His sneer suggests otherwise. "I just was under the
impression that you were some kind of genius, but you've gone and made an asinine deal with the
Argentinians that will cause the price of Granian hair to skyrocket, and I'm a little embarrassed that
everyone knows you're my wife."

"Give me that," Hermione grits, summoning the paper with her wand. The price of Granian hair...
honestly... "Do you have a personal interest in Granian hair?"

She flips through the paper until she reaches the article on the recent trade negotiations.

"It's an important ingredient in many potions, which you would know if you knew anything at all,"
Malfoy huffs.

"And I'll have you know that I got an O in Potions," Hermione snaps. "Can't you just use Abraxan
hair?"

"Just use - " Malfoy scoffs. "No, I can't just use Abraxan hair."
Ah ha. Hermione folds the paper and narrows her eyes at Malfoy. "Well, I'm afraid that you'll just
have to live with the price increase. The Granian population in Argentina is suffering due to a heat
wave that damaged the food in their natural habitat, so we agreed to an additional fee to help cover
the costs of a new preserve."

"Bleeding heart," Malfoy mutters as he cuts into his pork chop with considerable vigor.

"You're lucky that I have a so-called 'bleeding heart' and a perspective that goes beyond your next
financial quarter. If the population were to continue its decline, Granian hair would triple in price
by 2008." Hermione sets her fork back on the table. "And, before you start bringing every little
international trade incident to me for complaint, please remember that I'm not exclusively
responsible for all the decision-making in the DIMC. I'm an associate on a team that works on
these agreements."

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. "Only an associate? Haven't you been working there for a few years
now?"

Hermione reddens with anger and... embarrassment. "I'm up for a promotion at the end of the year,
thank you very much. It's perfectly normal to be an associate at this point in my career."

"If you say so," Malfoy grins devilishly.

"Millicent is an associate too!"

"Yes, but you're the Golden Girl, Granger. I thought they'd propel you straight to the top."

A sour taste lands in Hermione's mouth, and she flinches at the moniker.

"I've worked hard to get my job at the DIMC," she replies stiffly. "No one is handing me anything,
and I'll continue to earn every promotion I'm offered."

Malfoy leans back in his chair and studies her. His sharp gaze sets Hermione on edge, and she
shifts in her seat. Her cheeks redden even further, but she refuses to back down or look away, so
she tightens her jaw and raises her chin.

"What's the goal, then?" Malfoy finally asks, returning to his plate.

Hermione blinks at him. "The goal?"

"If you're so determined to make your own way in the world, where is it you're trying to go?
Minister of Magic, I presume?"

Malfoy's question feels so genuine and empty of teasing or malice that Hermione's caught off
guard. It's also a question that she hasn't answered for anyone but herself in quite a while.

"Well, I'm on the Trade and Regulation team now," Hermione says. "I'd really like to move to the
Rights for Creatures and Beings team at some point."

"You can't just ask for a transfer?"

Hermione shakes her head. "No, not exactly. You can put in a request, but it's a rather competitive
team, and they'll only move you if you really excel in your current role."

"And are you excelling?"

"I - " Hermione pauses and shrugs. "I think so, yes."
Malfoy snorts - in approval, she thinks - and nods his head. "Good."

They finish the meal in silence, and when Hermione gets home from work at a reasonable hour two
days later, Malfoy is nowhere to be seen.

Hermione and Millicent are bent over a large table in the back of a dimly lit conference room,
surrounded by stacks of parchment, takeaway curry, and two half-empty bottles of wine. They'd
had every intention of leaving the Ministry promptly at five, but a last minute change in mood from
the French ambassador has them rewriting two weeks’ worth of agreements in a matter of hours.
Once it had become clear that they would not be escaping to Millicent's flat to discuss their latest
read, Millicent had slyly suggested that they at least enjoy the wine while they work.

"Merlin, it's nearly ten o'clock," Millicent groans, checking her watch. "Are you finished? I don't
think I can go on another minute."

Hermione tries to wipe a bit of ink off her wrist, but only succeeds in smudging it around. "Just
about," she mutters. Two more lines, and she'll have a very reasonable amount to finish off the next
morning after a few hours of sleep.

Millicent starts stacking up her papers. "What do you say we finish off at least one of these bottles?
I need to unwind before I try to sleep."

"Let's take them over to my flat," Hermione suggests, glancing over her notes. "I could use another
glass myself, but I think I'll make myself sick if I try to Floo back to the Manor tonight."

"You and my sister are the only two people I know who get motion sickness from using a Floo,"
Millicent sighs.

"It's just bad after I've had a few drinks or if I'm especially tired," shrugs Hermione. "Let's call it a
night, shall we?"

Hermione drifts into a deep sleep after a few rounds of tossing and turning in her old bed at the
London flat. She'd left behind a few necessities, so it will be easy in the morning to freshen up and
return to her desk to finish the updates to the agreements.

Her dreams start with her desperately trying to convince the French ambassador that she does, in
fact, speak French, but the ambassador is speaking to her in Portuguese, which she clearly does not
know. They bicker back and forth until Hermione is nearly at the point of tears, but then warm
arms embrace her from behind and pull her away from the ambassador's pinched, angry face.

Hermione struggles against the embrace, but the mystery man's grip on her is tight.

"Why are you crying?" His voice is low and gravelly in her ear. His hands wander over her body,
one gripping her hip to pull her arse against him, the other rubbing soothing circles on her neck.
"I don't speak any Portuguese," she whispers, giving into the ministrations.

"You don't need to speak Portuguese." He presses his generous erection into her and tugs on her
earlobe with his teeth. The scene reminds Hermione of something, perhaps a book about an older
brother's best friend who comes to her rescue, but this doesn't feel like a dream. What are dreams,
anyway? Hermione lets that thread float away, and she bends her neck back to capture his mouth
with hers. Their clothes are gone, suddenly, and she's soaking between her thighs. He kneads her
breasts as she arches against him, all breathy and panting. They're in a remote cabin now, nestled
together for heat against the cold elements, and he's telling her how beautiful and perfect she is and
how well she speaks Portuguese.

Hermione is terribly embarrassed that he doesn't know - she doesn't speak a word of it - she opens
her mouth to tell him the truth, but he circles her clit with his fingers, and she gasps with pleasure.

"Granger." His voice is low and sultry.

He hilts himself into her with one solid thrust. Hermione cries out at the stretch.

This time, when he growls her name, it sounds strangely familiar. Like Malfoy's voice. It nearly
tips Hermione over the edge as he grinds against her.

"Granger."

Three in the fucking morning. Draco paces back and forth in his office, tapping his cane on the
floor. His knee aches from being on his feet all day, and he really ought to rest and prop up his leg,
but he'd already tried sitting still for ten minutes and it hadn't worked.

It's not totally unusual for Granger to return to the Manor at odd hours. She seems to work late
often enough that she misses dinner. Bogby gives him a report on her comings and goings - not that
he'd asked for that, of course, but Draco supposes it's wise of him to stay abreast of her activities.

And tonight, Granger hasn't come home at all. At least that's what Bogby had told Draco four
hours ago.

Draco tugs on the tie of his dressing gown. Does she have a date? Fully possible, although Merlin
knows where she'd have met a man when she spends all her time at the office or camping out in
Millicent's flat or following around the Potters. The papers never report anything about her dating
life. Has Granger found a way around The Prophet's ever watchful eye, or does she simply have no
dating life to speak of?

Ten past three. What if she's injured herself? Granger could very well be dead in some alleyway
right now. Something tightens unpleasantly in his gut. Gods, if The Golden Girl dies on his
watch... Draco shudders.

He checks the clock over the mantle and makes up his mind.

He'll go find her himself. Just a quick check to make sure nothing is amiss. He'll Floo to the
London flat and just walk around the area a bit to make sure Granger's not in any trouble. Perfectly
reasonable. If he doesn't find her, then he can say that he tried and then go to bed and sleep
peacefully.
Something whispers in the back of Draco's mind that he certainly won't sleep peacefully, not a
wink, until he's confirmed that she's alive somewhere and not dead and not on a date with some
Ministry wanker, but he ignores that train of thought and steps through the Floo to the London flat.

Someone is here. The fireplace is still warm and there are dishes in the sink.

Panic floods his veins. There's a helpless whimpering coming from the bedroom.

Something is wrong

I have to help.

Draco casts off his cane, draws his wand, and bursts through the bedroom door. Granger's alone -
thank Merlin - writhing around in the bed, clearly in the middle of some nightmare from the sound
of her crying out. Gods, she’s in distress. Her flimsy chemise is stretched and nearly falling off her
shoulder, but Draco takes care to keep his eyes away from the expanse of flushed skin as he moves
quickly across the room and grabs her bare shoulders.

Her skin is so soft.

Focus.

"Granger," he barks, trying to shake her awake.

Her eyes fly open, pupils blown wide, and Granger lets out the most unholy shriek.

"What the fuck, Malfoy?" She kicks at him, landing a solid hit against Draco's abdomen. He
doubles over with a gasp. Fucking hell. Strong legs.

"You didn't come home," Draco croaks. "And you were having a nightmare."

"It wasn't a - " Granger stops short and scowls at him, clutching the blankets up to her neck to
cover any hint of her breasts. "What in Godric's name are you doing in my room?!"

Thankless shrew.

"Your room?" Now that the air has re-entered his body, Draco's initial panic turns to crossness, and
he glares down at her. "Your room is at the Manor!"

"It's not any of your damned business where I sleep! What, are you following me now?" Granger
hisses.

"Don't flatter yourself," Draco scoffs. "Sorry for noticing that the only other person who lives at
my house was missing."

"I wasn't missing. I was working late, and I decided to sleep here."

Draco folds his arms. "Well, you don't usually do that."

Granger narrows her eyes at him. "Get. Out. Of my flat."

"You're not at least going to thank me for waking you from your nightmare?"

She pitches a pillow at him. "Leave!"

Draco knocks the pillow to the ground and stalks back to the Floo, slamming the bedroom door
 behind him.

"This is my flat, you know!" he bellows, not waiting to hear Granger’s full screech before stepping
back through to his office.

Draco snatches the whiskey decanter out of the cabinet. He’s sorely tempted to take a swig right
from the bottle, but - self control - he pours a shaking inch and takes a long sip.

“Not a nightmare, she says.” He paces the room. “Then what in the bloody hell was it, Granger?”

Her small whimper echoes in Draco’s mind, and the blood drains from his face as realization
dawns.

Holy shit.

It’s difficult to ignore where the blood is draining to.

Holy fucking shit.

Chapter End Notes

Happy New Year, y'all! Millicent and Hermione are, obviously, on smutty booktok.
Or whatever the wizarding equivalent is.

It's dropped below freezing where I live, so I will spending the next 48 hours hiding
under my comfortable with a warm beverage, also enjoying all the fun smutty
books/fanfics I can get my grubby little paws on.

xoxo and if anyone tries to ask you about New Years resolutions, just tell them that
you don't believe in putting limitations on your own self-improvement journey.
 Chapter Eleven
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The Cannons game is loud and flashing bright, and Hermione finds it very difficult to have a
conversation with Ginny over the roaring crowd, even in their posh box seats courtesy of Francis
Pinter's father. The players whizz by uncomfortably close for Hermione's taste, and they send
flirtatious winks toward Hermione, Ginny, Harry, and everyone else sitting in the boxes.

"I thought you said the ambassador didn't like you," Ginny says, leaning into Hermione's ear as the
Magpies score another goal against the Cannons.

"No, he used to dislike me, but we get along quite well now," Hermione corrects. "I got some
pointers from Malfoy."

Ginny wrinkles her nose and looks at Hermione with some concern. "Malfoy? I didn't know you
two talk shop."

"It came up on Christmas Eve a while ago." Hermione shrugs and fiddles with a loose thread on
her sweater sleeve.

"You're still not seeing much of him at... around home?"

Four days have passed since Malfoy had appeared at her bed in the dead of night to shake her
awake from vivid, sensual dreams. Hermione had prayed to any god who might listen that he hadn't
recognized her whimpers for anything other than a nightmare. She'd nearly corrected him - stupid
woman. And it had been Malfoy's voice, Malfoy's presence, at that last moment in her dream,
nearly pushing her over the edge toward -

Probably just a blurring of fantasy and reality. No need to read into it. Let Malfoy think it was a
nightmare, and leave it at that.

"Not much, no," she laughs uneasily. "Hardly even ships in the night."

"That's handy. God, look how mad Ron is." Ginny nods down at her brother. "Serves him right. I
told him that formation was no good against the Magpies."

Francis Pinter slides in on the other side of Hermione with a heavy sigh, dragging a hand through
his thick black hair. "Not looking too good, is it?"

"You have a rough season ahead of you, Pinter," Ginny grins ferally.

Franci s chuckles good-naturedly. "It'd be rougher if you were on the pitch, Ginny."

Ginny leans around Hermione. "The Harpies will destroy the Cannons either way."

"You have to admit, though, it'll be a little more competitive!" Francis winks at her, and Hermione
winces at the glare that crosses Ginny's face.

"Thank you again for the seats," Hermione interrupts, resting a staying hand on Ginny's knee. "It's
really quite, um, exciting to see the game so... closely."
A Cannons chaser nearly crashes into the column in front of them, and Hermione squeaks with
alarm.

Ginny sighs and turns to mutter something in Harry's ear.

"Oh, I'm always happy to have any friend of Ron's stop by. Dad's always got a few tickets lying
around." Francis swings an arm over the back of Hermione's chair and turns to face her instead of
the game. "I'm actually really pleased that you came tonight."

"Oh?" Hermione responds politely, trying to inch away.

"Yes," Francis continues in earnest. "You see, my godfather is a member of the Wizengamot. He
and I talk a good deal about all the boring political stuff - I'm rather interested in how it all comes
together - and he's been approached by a Muggle-born advocate group on some upcoming policy
proposals. I'm really concerned about his, well, negative reaction to their conversations."

Hermione frowns. "What group has approached him? There are a number of - "

The Magpies score again, and the crowd's roar is deafening, drowning out Hermione's attempt at a
response.

Francis' expression turns horrified. "Oh, gods, I really shouldn't be bombarding you with this,
should I? We're at a quidditch match, for Merlin's sake, and this is the worst possible
atmosphere..." He motions to the screaming crowd.

"Not a great time, no," Hermione responds with a pinched smile.

Francis rummages in his pocket and produces a small card. "Look, I've met a few of the members
myself. Capital fellows, I think, and I've invited them to a bit of a gathering at my home next
month. Perhaps I could introduce you there and get your perspective!"

Hermione examines the card with a sigh, but Francis Pinter's face is so... bright, and it can't hurt for
her to meet some other Muggle-borns who may be interested in affecting Ministry policy.

"Sounds lovely," she says with a reluctant nod.

Draco scans the notes from his last three formulas. The color isn't coming out exactly as he'd
hoped, and the liquid bubbles up in an unsatisfying way... rather too thin, Draco thinks as he stalks
down the hall toward the dining room. Bogby will be irritated that he's eating much later than
normal tonight, but since the incident with Granger, Draco has really thrown himself into potion-
making.

It's the one thing that seems to give him some distraction from the thought of her whimpering in
her bed, flushed and -

Stop it.

Draco had allowed himself precisely one gratuitous wank the following night just to take the edge
off. He's a man of great self control, after all. It's been over five years since things went badly and
Astoria had thrown Draco over with no hesitation. Yes, her main objection to their marriage had
been related to his involvement with Pucey's death, but Draco hadn't missed the way she'd flinched
at the gruesome scarring that stretched up his neck and jaw.

Azkaban had been a further exercise in removing himself from the touch of a woman.

Five years is a long time, but not in the grand scheme of things, and Draco manages it perfectly
well. The wanting abates after constant denial, and even when Draco takes things into his own
hand, he's careful that his fantasies involve nameless, faceless women.

Until that night.

Gods, he'd come so hard.

Draco's chest tightens at the memory.

"Enough." He shakes his head. The potion. Back to the potion. Perhaps he can try using Abraxan
hair for now instead of Granian hair, just to see if it works. Draco nods to himself as he turns the
corner, only to smack straight into another body.

"Omphf."

"Gods, I - "

Draco instinctively puts his hands on the slim shoulders before him to keep her from toppling over.

Granger. The candlelight of the hall casts a warm glow over her face as she looks up at him in
surprise, and his mouth goes dry.

She lets out a little gasp. "Malfoy, I - "

Her eyes flick down to his mouth. Draco tightens his hold on her shoulders.

Granger blinks up at him.

Granger.

No no no no -

Draco snatches his hands away just as Granger leaps back.

"I'm so sorry." Her voice is thin and breathy, and she reaches behind her back to fiddle with a curl.

Draco wants to steal that curl for himself, but he fists his hands instead.

"Watch where you're going, Granger," he snaps, weakly trying to infuse some venom into his
words. It comes off hoarse and gruff and altogether unintimidating.

Fuck.

"I said I was sorry," Granger replies crossly, folding her arms over her chest.

"Yes, well," Draco stammers. "Apology not forgiven."

"Excuse me?"

"You know what I mean," he hisses, storming past her to the dining room.
Theo smiles at Millicent's twinkling laugh as she sinks into the couch and sets down a tray with a
variety of bottles. From where he stands, leaning on the mantle, it looks like several varieties of gin
and two rather expensive bottles of Prosecco. Millicent's dark hair is twisted into some classic-
looking updo with a slightly curled lock peeking out just behind her ear, and he wonders if she'll
swat at his hand if he tries to tuck it away, or even just twist it around his finger.

"Oh, I've been wanting to try this one!" Hermione cries, reaching out to examine an ornately
painted bottle of gin. "I can't believe he got you a bottle."

Theo shifts, but he takes care to keep his scowl to himself. "I can't believe he got you eight bottles,"
he grumbles. Fucking prince. Tactless to be flaunting his wealth like this. No good breeding,
honestly, no class, to be throwing around money in such a manner.

Millicent flashes her brown eyes at him in warning. "It was just a favor for going to that state
dinner with him."

"Awfully nice for a favor, don't you think?" Theo shrugs.

Millicent purses her lips, and he feels momentarily rather guilty for causing the frustration on her
face.

Hermione reaches across from her chair and grabs Millicent's hand. "An awfully nice favor for an
awfully nice date. I'd say it's well deserved, wouldn't you?"

Gods, what a saint. Theo would have never guessed that the snarky little Gryffindor princess could
be so adept at smoothly navigating thin tempers. Part of him hopes she'll figure out a way to
manage Draco's tempers with a more... gentle approach than he and Greg normally use, but
Hermione never brings Draco up in conversation, and Draco had nearly bitten Greg's head off last
time he'd suggested inviting her to dine together. Privately, Theo had commented to Greg that he
thought they'd best just get it over with and fuck, but Greg had glared at him and called him a
barbarian.

Rather callous. If Greg had been at that book club dinner the other week, he'd think the exact same
thing.

Theo raises his glass to them. "To our sweet Millie, who deserves the world, even if she won't let
us give it to her."

His pretty little speech is rewarded with a satisfying blush and smile on Millicent's face. "Gods,"
she laughs. "You two are impossible. Come here and help me drink this."

"Shall I get the Prosecco?" Theo offers, pushing off the mantle.

"No, no, I like popping the cork," Millicent insists, reaching for a towel to do the honors.

It takes considerable effort for Theo to ignore the euphemism. Perfectly normal thing for anyone to
say.

"Which of these should we start with?" Hermione asks, picking up a green and yellow bottle.
"I'll try that one." Theo reaches for a glass. "Millie, what do you want?"

"I'll do the purple with - " she breaks into a hiss as the cork pops off. "Gods, I think it's my
shoulder again."

"From boxing?" Hermione replies with a frown. "Should we get you to a healer?"

Theo pulls the Prosecco out of Millie's hands and gives it over to Hermione to pour.

"No, I just need to rest it a bit," Millicent insists.

"I don't know why you go on with this business," Theo grumbles, moving behind her to lightly rest
his hands on her shoulders. "Here, let me help."

Millicent leans back into him with an obedient huff. "If you insist."

Theo begins massaging through the knot on her neck. Her golden skin is warm and soft to the
touch, and a beautiful blush spreads across her chest. Theo shifts behind her as she reaches for the
cocktail that Hermione has prepared, pulling away ever so slightly so that Millicent won't notice
the growing hardness in his trousers as she sighs under his hands.

"How was the dinner, though? A few of the ambassadors we work with said the food was
abominable," Hermione asks.

"Oh, it was," Millicent laughs. "The poor pheasant tasted like he'd been roasted for fifteen hours
instead of three, and the peas were pure mush."

"I'm sure the prince was used to finer fare," Theo says.

"More edible fare, certainly. We were both still starving at the end, so I took him to that chip shop
around the corner."

Theo snorts. "Chips for a prince?"

"You don't need to keep pointing out his title, Theo," Millicent replies evenly. "We're all very
aware."

"That's a great little shop," Hermione continues.

It is a great little shop. Theo knows it's a great shop because he took Millie there three years ago.

"He hadn't seen many of the city sights, so we did a bit of a walking tour with him and two of his
friends. It's so funny what you don't appreciate when you get used to something."

What did they do after the walking tour? The city is beautiful at night, all twinkling in the crisp fall
air. Millie may have gotten cold, what with the unusually chilly weather in London. Had the prince
offered her his cloak? Walked her back to her flat, perhaps?

Millicent and Hermione keep talking, but Theo is trapped in his own nightmare.

If the prince had walked Millicent back to her flat, she'd have invited him up for a drink. She
always does that whenever Theo walks her home. Ever the polite hostess. She and the prince might
have sat on this very couch. He might have leaned over for a kiss. Would Millie let the prince kiss
her? Or, gods, even worse - had she kissed him? Had they -

"Ouch!" Millicent yelps. "Gods, Theo, that hurt!"

"Sorry, sorry!" Theo lifts his hands from her shoulders. Fucking idiot. "Let me - I'll get you some
ice." He scrambles off to the kitchen.

It's none of his business what Millicent does with anyone inside her own gods damned flat. Theo
grabs a handful of ice from the freezer and stuffs it into a towel. Another female voice floats in
from the living room, and he casts an anti-moisture charm on the towel to keep the ice from
dripping on Millie’s blouse.

"Theo!" the voice calls out.

Pansy.

"Be right there, darling!"

Theo returns to the living room to Pansy, perched on the arm of Hermione's chair, with his glass in
her hand.

"Surprise," she winks, finishing off Theo's cocktail. "Have you missed me?"

Theo shoves the ice pack into Millicent's hand. "I see you pretty regularly."

"Rude," Pansy sniffs.

"I'm afraid I have to run," says Theo, grabbing his cloak.

"Where to?" Millicent frowns, sitting up. "You just got here!"

"I just got here," Pansy scowls.

Theo blurts the first thing that comes to mind. "I have dinner. With Greg."

"No, you don't," Pansy retorts.

"Yes, I do," grits Theo. "How would you know, anyway?"

Pansy cheeks turn pink, and she glares at him.

Millicent stands, holding the ice pack to her neck. "Theo, are you sure - "

"Keep icing that for a bit," Theo calls over his shoulder as he steps into the Floo. "Don't want you
to miss out on any boxing."

It's a bit of a cruel shot, he'll admit, but it's not as though Millicent will have any idea what he's
talking about.

Hermione jerks awake, breathing heavily.

She'd been dreaming again. Lusty, vivid dreams that seem silly now that she's awake, but the itch
remains between her thighs, and the sheets are damp from her tossing and turning.

It had been... not him, necessarily, but some blonde. It could have been any blonde man, really, any
tall blonde with a strict, gruff voice and wide hands that spread over her arse to yank her hips
against -

"Stop it," Hermione hisses to herself. "Just... stop it."

She pushes back the covers and sits up in bed. The night air is cool against her hot skin, but the feel
of the silk sheets in her fists and against her bare thighs is still too... it's too much.

A walk will help, Hermione muses, reaching for her thick wrapper to pull over her chemise. That's
all she needs. Just a walk to cool off and settle down and help her forget about that dream and
those books that have wormed their way into her subconscious.

Hermione slides on her slippers and trudges out of her rooms. Between work and friends and other
social obligations, she hasn't had time to explore Malfoy Manor. Bogby has all but forbidden her
from exploring the West wing of the castle, so she turns down an unknown corridor toward the
north side of the extensive home.

The tapestries and panelling in her bedroom guard her from the whistling winds of an unusually
chilly fall, but a damp draft lingers in the hall, and Hermione pulls her wrapper tighter around her
shoulders. She feels like the heroine in their book for next week, wandering the British moors in
search of her lost lover even though she's being held captive by his dark and brooding and rather
handsome older brother.

A large set of heavy double doors loom at the end of the hall. The doors swing open easily with a
tug on the handle, and Hermione steps into the dark room.

A few candles cast a dim light into the darkness. Hermione's eyes take a moment to adjust, and as
the doors click shut behind her, she makes out two large bookshelves, a reading table scattered
with thick volumes, and several cozy armchairs.

Hermione lets out a small gasp of pleasure. The Manor has a library.

She should have known the Malfoys would have a library. So many of the old, great houses around
Great Britain do, but as Hermione steps closer to examine some of the titles on the shelf, another
row of candles burns to life.

More shelves.

The rest of the library beyond fades into a dark abyss, but Hermione imagines that it must go on
forever. Or at least for a very long way. Hermione ducks into the first row of books and runs her
fingers lightly over the spines, inhaling the old parchment and leather binding. She pulls a pretty
book off the shelf and examines it. The language on the cover is unfamiliar, but the gold-leafed
paper glimmers in the candlelight, and Hermione smiles at the effect. She tucks the book under her
arm, pulls down two others, and settles into one of the armchairs near the front of the room.

Hermione opens the book and flips through a few pages. She can't make out the language -
Portuguese, perhaps - but the small illustrations of 18th century couples dancing or whispering
charm her, so she continues on. I wonder if I can find a translation charm, she muses.

The turn of the next page reveals a fully colored - moving - sketch of a man, breeches around his
ankles, pushing his thick member into a woman bent over a settee.

Her corset is tugged down, and Hermione can just make out the rosy pink of her nipples, but her
eye is drawn to where the two join. The woman grips her skirts with one hand, hiking them over
her hips, and she pushes back on her knees to take the man's cock. His hands are tight on her waist,
and he's staring down at where he's sliding into her, his jaw clenched with the effort. The artist has
somehow captured the damp sheen of pleasure on their skin, and Hermione's own skin suddenly
feels too tight and too hot, and she squeezes her thighs together as her breath grows heavy.

The door to the library swings open, and Malfoy stalks in, looking rather furious, with his fly
undone and his hand around his very hard cock.

Enormous, actually. Gods, it’s absurdly large, and it’s absurd that Malfoy of all people would
surprise her in the library in the middle of the night with that between his legs. Hermione nearly
whimpers at the thought of it stretching her out, of him poised behind her just like the couple in the
drawing.

"Fucking Abraxan hair," he mutters, propping his cane against a chair. "Stupid fucking potion."
Malfoy uses one hand to push through the books on the table, all the while tugging on his erection
that’s now blocked by the furniture.

Hermione squeaks and slams the book shut.

Malfoy looks up at her in surprise. "What in the fuck are you doing in here?"

"Reading! And your excuse?" Hermione motions at his crotch, trying to keep her eyes on Malfoy's
face, eyes, hair, shoulders, anywhere other than his hand on his -

"I'm trying to fix a potions issue," Malfoy grits in frustration. "So if you could please leave, I'd
really like to attend to this painful situation."

"Painful?" Hermione's voice wavers. Helpful. Be helpful! This doesn’t need to be weird. This can
be perfectly fine.

"Yes, Granger, painful, so if you could please - "

Her mind races. "Was something wrong with the brewing? What exactly were you trying to brew?"
Granian hair… could have been an Extimulo potion.

Malfoy's jaw tenses and he nearly groans. "Obviously something went wrong. I'm working through
it, so if you kindly leave me alone, I will fix it myself."

"Maybe if you walk me through it, I can help," Hermione offers, tucking her book under her seat.
Focus on helping. Forget about the picture, about him taking you -

"It's a potion to help a man last longer during during sex," Malfoy snaps. "I used the fucking
Abraxan hair instead of the Granian hair, like you suggested, and it exploded right all over my
trousers, and the potion is specially formulated to be long-lasting while you're in someone else,
which I am currently not.”

Malfoy slams his hand on the table. His ruffled blonde hair stands on end, and he's breathing
heavily, glaring down at her. “So unless you have some bright idea in that bushy head of yours, I'd
suggest you leave so I can find an antidote in one of these books."

Hermione's mouth goes dry, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips.

Malfoy's eyes flicker down to her mouth. She watches him swallow, and his hand seems to tighten
over his cock. Gods, it's been ages since she's been with someone, and it can't hurt to offer, right?
They're both here, aren't they?

"I could..." Hermione begins. Gods. She clears her throat. "That is, I could, erm, help."
 Bent over the very armchair she sits in, just scratching the itch brought on by all these ridiculous
books, finally getting some relief, and he's in pain too -

"Help?" Malfoy echoes.

"I mean, if you need to be in someone else..." Hermione trails off.

Malfoy's expression turns dark and hungry, and his voice goes hoarse. "Are you - are you offering
to let me fuck you?" His body is taught, and the flickering candlelight sharpens the tense set of his
scarred jaw. Malfoy looks as though he's ready to pounce. As though he will devour her with his
mouth as he does with his eyes.

"I suppose so," Hermione whispers, not daring to squirm in her seat. "If you think it will help."

They both need it after all, don't they?

Malfoy gives her a sharp nod. "Come here, Mrs. Malfoy, if you want to help so badly."

Chapter End Notes

wow TENSION.

A few notes below -

1. I'm on TikTok if you want to come say hello! It's mostly me making jokes about my
stories. @thebrightcity
2. My birthday is my second favorite holiday after Christmas, and it's THIS FRIDAY.
You have five days to tell me what an amazing 31 yr old I'm going to be. Plan
accordingly.
2b. If any of you are about to say "wow how embarrassing to be 30 and still writing
Harry Potter fanfiction" TRUST ME this is not the most embarrassing thing I have
done.
3. Y'all are the best, have an AMAZING week, see you next Sunday.
 Chapter Twelve
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione grips her wrapper and slowly stands from the armchair. Malfoy's eyes run over her body,
though she knows he can’t see anything through the thick material. His gaze is dark and hungry and
there's an edge of craving there, as though it's her in particular that he's -

That's ridiculous, though. Malfoy has made it clear from the first day of their engagement that he
isn't interested in her like that.

He steps out from behind the table, and Hermione can see his hard cock fully on display. Malfoy
fists the base tightly and slowly runs his hand over the length of it. His breath shakes as he exhales,
and Hermione squeezes her thighs together as she takes in his size.

He looks magnificent.

It's not fair, it's not right, that her husband of five years has that in his trousers, and tonight is her
first time seeing it, and she's not even sure if this will logistically work, and yet gods, she's
desperate to try.

Just this once, of course, because Malfoy has bungled his potion, and Hermione has clearly
bungled her hormones or something, and she really ought to maybe take Ginny's advice and go on
some casual dates, or perhaps tell Millicent that they simply cannot go on reading those books. But
for now, it's really an emergency - for Malfoy, of course, because Hermione is perfectly able to
manage herself - and just once can't hurt, right?

"I might need you to..." she trails off.

Malfoy swallows, and his voice is hoarse. "As slowly as you need, Granger. No rush."

"Slowly," Hermione replies, taking her first step toward him. "Wonderful. That should be fine."

Another step, and another, until she's at the table facing Malfoy. It takes some effort to release her
death grip on the thick flannel of her robe. Her palms are still damp, but there's only one way
forward, so Hermione steels herself and tugs on the ties to loosen the bow holding her modesty
together. The ends dangle uselessly at her side, and the front of the wrapper parts to reveal her thin
cotton chemise that hangs down to the middle of her thighs.

"That's enough, I think," Malfoy chokes out.

Oh. Hermione bites the inside of her lip and pauses.

Malfoy snatches her waist and yanks her against him. Hermione gasps as his fingers dig into her
waist and his mouth moulds over hers. His kiss had been soft at the wedding, but he's hard and
insistent now, and every bit as searing.

Taking.

Hermione leans forward on her toes to snake her hands up to his shoulders. Deliciously broad and
strong. She can feel every electrifying point where Malfoy presses into her body, especially the
hard length against her hip. The rough fabric of her chemise scrapes against her nipples. As much
as the sensation sends shocks straight between her thighs, Hermione craves skin, Malfoy's skin,
and as he nips at her lower lip, she slips a hand under his collar to push open his loose shirt. He’s
always seemed so cold, but now Malfoy is hot to the touch.

His sudden grip on her wrist is iron and bruising.

"Shirt stays on," Malfoy hisses, trapping Hermione's arm at her side. "Understood?"

The darkness in his voice does something strange to her stomach.

"Understood," Hermione murmurs against Malfoy's lips.

Malfoy pins her against the edge of the table with his hips, and his other hand weaves into her hair
to grip her curls, arching her neck back. Hermione inhales sharply as his mouth attaches itself to a
sensitive spot under her ear.

"Malfoy - "

His teeth scrape against her skin, and he pulls back slightly.

"Nox."

The room plunges into darkness.

With the lights gone, Hermione's senses heighten. She could feel all of Malfoy before, but now she
can smell the spice of his soap, hear his ragged breath against her ear.

Malfoy flips her around with no notice. Hermione's knee knocks into the leg of the table, and she
hisses loudly, briefly forgetting about the erection now pressed against her arse.

Not the sort of bruise she'd hoped for, really.

"Oh - sorry," he winces behind her.

"I'm fine," Hermione reassures him. "Keep going, keep - "

Malfoy rolls his hips against her arse, and he lets go of her waist to finally pull her robe off her
shoulders. The flannel sinks to the ground between them, and as he kicks it off to the side, there's
another clatter, and a low curse slips from Malfoy's mouth.

Hermione cranes her head back. "What was - "

"Nothing, Granger. It's nothing." Malfoy reaches down to rest his fingers on the bare skin of her
knee. The air in the room is cold, and without her robe, goosebumps rise all over her skin, and
Hermione shivers.

Malfoy stops. "Are you cold? I can get your robe back - "

"No. No," Hermione insists, pushing back against him. Flannel robes are not sexy. "Just keep
going, I'll warm up."

His fingertips are hot where they trail over her leg, and after a moment more of hesitation, Malfoy
continues to drag them up, lifting the hem of her chemise as he goes. His other hand finally releases
her wrist, and he slips it up her chemise too, reaching along the curve of her stomach and waist
until his thumb brushes the underside of her breast.
Just a bit more. "Please," she whimpers.

Malfoy's breath catches, and Hermione pushes back against him. It's a desperate, pleading move,
but she is desperate for more, for him to move along. She feels like she'd been edged all afternoon,
and now's not the time for patience.

When Hermione had told Malfoy to go slowly, she'd meant as he slid into her. Not in getting to her
-

One wide hand slides up to cup her breast, and the other dips between her thighs, dragging through
the length of her folds.

"You're wet," he marvels.

"Yes," Hermione groans as Malfoy's fingers work over her clit. "I am."

"Have you been reading your smutty little books in my library, Granger?" he growls, pinching her
nipple.

Hermione gasps in pleasure as he draws little circles on her. "No, I wasn't, I promise."

"Liar." His hips snap against her. "I can feel you. Gods, I can smell you. Don't lie to me."

"I don't lie," Hermione insists, tilting her head back against his shoulder. Malfoy latches onto her
neck again and slides a finger into her swollen passage. Hermione's back arches at the intrusion,
and she cries out again.

Perfect, perfect, just grind your palm -

Malfoy withdraws his fingers and goes back to playing with her clit. She nearly protests, but he
catches her mouth with hers and presses harder, and - it's not how she would have done it, it's not
what she would have asked for, but it's just this once, so why bother, and it will work, especially
when she's so close-

"Come on, Granger," Malfoy grits. "Come for me so I can fuck you."

Hermione screws up her face and concentrates on the feeling of Malfoy's fingers against her. How
good it feels to be touched. The thrill that they hardly know each other, hardly like each other, but
she's getting off on him, and he's using her body in this dark library, getting ready to fuck her right
against the table where anyone could see, just because he can't keep his hands off -

Her pussy clenches against nothing - empty - Hermione lets out a moan of relief that at least the
edge is gone, even if she barely petered over it, because Malfoy will be in her soon, and the next
one will be better with something inside of her.

Malfoy rucks up the bottom of her chemise over hips and pushes her further over the table,
notching the thick head of his cock against her entrance. "Gods, you make the prettiest little noises
when you come," he murmurs. "Are you ready for me?"

"Yes, please, Malfoy, just - " Hermione breathes. Her body already feels loose and languid and
ready, already thrumming from the prelude, prepared for the main act. "Please."
Draco presses his cock against Granger's entrance. She's hot and wet - gods she's wet - and part of
him is convinced he could finish right now against her pert arse. Not that he hasn't come close
several times already. When she'd opened her robe to show him the outline of her body underneath
that flimsy nightdress, he’d wanted to shove her right back into the chair and lick her legs exactly
where her thighs curved inward to touch, where they met to keep her pussy warm for him to dive
right into her -

Patience.

He’d thrown off the lights, partly so she wouldn’t see his scars up close, but also so he wouldn’t
lose control of his own desire at the sight of a little bare skin. And then when she'd cried out during
her orgasm. Draco wanted to capture that sweet, intoxicating whimper with his mouth next time.

Next time.

He'd never imagined an actual first time with Granger, much less a next time. The idea of it feels
dangerous. Feels like something a man could get lost in, burying his face in her curls and breathing
in the scent of her while he slides his cock through her wet folds.

One at a time.

Draco grips Granger's hip with one hand and uses the other to guide his head into her. Gods, she's a
tight fit - snug and warm and formed like she's made for him. He wants to do this a thousand times
in a single moment. To watch himself slide into her. To watch her face as he slides into place. To
feel that glorious pleasure shake his knees as he -

Granger winces underneath him.

Draco's body screams faster, faster, but he steels himself and rubs small circles on her hip with his
thumb. "Slower? Or... no?"

Please don’t say “no.”

Granger pushes herself up a little from the table and grabs the hand that rests on her hip, dragging it
forward to cup her breast.

"I think it will help if you touch me," she murmurs, lacing her fingers with his to pinch at her
nipples. "And maybe if you kiss me, too."

Draco's jaw drops in perfect agony as Granger shifts back against him, taking his cock a little
deeper. Her whimper hints at pleasure now instead of pain, or some satisfying mix of the two -
next time - no, no next time, just this time - and her grip on him sets off something wild. Draco
takes the hand that isn't busy on Granger's breast and grabs her curls so he can kiss her again.

Gods, who would have guessed that Granger would have such a lush, perfect little mouth? That her
tongue, so adept at trading barbs over dinner, would tangle with his so well?

Granger moans into his mouth, and Draco feels her body relax.

Paradise.

He surges forward, taking her to the hilt. Granger's hips rise to meet him, and Draco pushes her
chemise up further to feel more, more of her skin. She’s not cold anymore, but hot to the touch,
burning for him. He's tempted to stay seated in her for a moment, but gods, his cock aches for
release, yearns to feel Granger flutter around him, so he pulls back and thrusts again, letting the
pleasure build at the base of his spine. Draco wants to flip Granger over, see her face - see her tits
bounce -

Draco sinks into Granger again. Incredible. She's mewing under him - she's ready - faster, she
moans, or he thinks she moans - he may have said it - or they both did, and he starts pumping into
her. She’s certainly gasping beneath him now, taking his cock between her legs so well, finally
giving in to whatever this thing is between them. Made for him, made for him - Granger’s never
going to look at another man again without thinking of him behind her like this. Draco surges
forward, relishing in the squeeze of Granger’s pussy, and -

No. No, no, not yet, not -

He tries to scramble back, to catch himself, to keep from careening over the edge after a mere
fifteen fucking seconds.

Think of anything. A shriveled, ugly, anything other than this, other than Granger's perfect
bouncing tits -

“Fuck, Granger, fuck me - “

It escapes him. After five years of denial and three weeks of edging around his apparently lusty
appreciation for Granger's form, Draco's orgasm rips through his body without abandon, and the
groan of mixed ecstasy and mortification spills from his lips against Granger's mouth, and she sighs
in response and wriggles her hips against his.

He halfheartedly thrusts again - maybe he's still hard enough - but a book falls off the table, and
Draco can feel the very moment that Granger realizes he has already finished in her.

She stills underneath him. Her mouth stops moving against his, and she pulls back just a hair.

Granger’s hand slides between her legs to where Draco is still seated inside her. "Um, that's okay, I
can - "

"Oh, let me - " Draco reaches around to help her because even if he apparently can't use his fucking
dick, at least he can put his hand toward a good cause, but his fingers tangle in the bunched up
fabric of her stupid chemise.

Granger firmly pushes his hand away. "That's okay, actually. I already came earlier. Thank you."

Thank you. Exactly what he'd hoped to hear. Draco slowly pulls out with a hiss and mutters a
Scourgify to remove the evidence of his shame from between Granger's legs. Now that his
adrenaline is rapidly fading, the ache in his knee grows to a sharp pain from the overexertion, and
his cane is several meters away, knocked to the ground in his scrambling.

Granger snaps her fingers. Several candles flicker to life.

She pushes up from the table, and her chemise falls back down around her thighs. Granger turns
around to face him. Her hair is wild, and her cheeks are flushed with embarrassment. Maybe a little
bit of pleasure, Draco hopes, but mostly embarrassment in the silence of the library.

"You're better now, I hope?" Granger glances pointedly at his softening cock.

A clock ticks somewhere, marking every blasted second of his mortification.

Draco clears his throat and tucks himself back into his trousers. "All better."
His cock is, indeed, healed from the potion spill earlier, but Draco thinks he may prefer the eternal
hard-on from hell to his current state of utter and complete mortification in front of Hermione
Granger, Golden Girl - gods, his fucking wife - who has now witnessed the worst performance of
his entire lifetime.

What, does he explain to her that it's been five fucking years since he's dipped his wick into a
woman?

Granger takes a deep breath and stares back at him for a moment before snatching her robe off the
ground.

"Well, I should get to sleep, I suppose." She clutches the thick flannel to her body like a shield.

"Yes," Draco replies, shifting his weight more and more to his good leg. "Good idea."

Then, with a sharp nod, Granger shuffles out of the library.

Draco stares down at the table where they'd just... he can't even say it. He can't put a name to
whatever briefly wonderful and then horrifyingly terrible thing has just happened.

One thing is for certain.

The endurance potion most decidedly does not work.

Greg can smell her perfume as he steps through the front door of his flat. He lives just a few blocks
away from the gallery - in the fashionable part of London, of course - and it's a nice evening for a
stroll home, even though the sun had set hours ago.

He'd stayed at the gallery late. Later than he should have, working on a piece that, if he were
honest with himself, was already finished.

The clock in the entry chimes away. A quarter til midnight.

Greg stands in the living room and looks toward the empty kitchen, then down the hall to his
bedroom.

Pansy hadn't come to the gallery tonight. Not that she comes by every night, of course. She's hired
several lovely witches and wizards to manage the visitors who pass through to look at the art and
artists in turn to see what the fashionable, lovely, and ever so cunning Pansy Parkinson has
declared to be in vogue.

It feels intentional that she's come here instead of where she knew he'd be. It feels like a play, and
it makes Greg clench his jaw and turn toward the kitchen. He hasn't eaten anything since a spot of
curry at lunch, so he pulls open the ice box and stares inside. All that he sees are leftovers from last
week and some sad-looking vegetables, so Greg grabs a hunk of bread off the counter and tears it
in two, slathering butter on both ragged halves and picking at it until the clock chimes midnight.

He still smells her perfume.

Greg brushes the crumbs into the bin and makes his way down the hall. A faint light flickers under
the door. With a shake of his head and a terse sigh, Greg twists the handle and pushes through.
The door knocks against a pair of tall glittering gold heels.

Pansy's splayed across his bed on her stomach, propped on her elbows, with a flute of champagne
in her hand. Her green dress rides up her hips.

She narrows her eyes at him.

"Where'd you get that drink?" Greg asks gruffly, closing the door behind him.

Pansy ignores his question, swirling her glass. "You didn't bring me anything to eat, Gregory? You
spent such a long time in the kitchen."

Greg leans back against the door and observes her. Pansy's eyebrow is artfully cocked, and the
corner of her lip is turned up in a small smirk that's intended to tease and tear down and seduce all
at once. She has a special way, Greg thinks, of making you feel like you're the only person in the
whole world just before she makes you feel like a complete stranger.

Pansy hadn't really said she'd be at the gallery tonight. She'd implied it, certainly, with a trailing
finger along his thigh at a party two nights ago, but she hadn't made any promises. And here she is
now, lying on his bed, Pansy in repose, looking at Greg like he ought to be flattered, thankful even,
that she's given him any thought at all. That she's gone through the trouble of stepping through his
Floo among the multitudes in London.

Greg would be angry about it if he hadn't caught the thin tremor lurking in her voice. Pansy talks so
much, and he's an excellent listener, and his years of practice listening have paid off, because now
he can really hear her.

Something has shaken the nearly unshakable Pansy Parkinson.

"I'm tired, Pansy," he sighs, walking toward the bed. "It's late."

Pansy scowls at him and throws back the rest of her bubbling champagne.

"It wouldn't be so late if you hadn't been fucking around god knows where," she snaps, grabbing
the shawl draped next to her and scrambling off the bed. "Gods, you such a bore."

Her voice cracks, just barely, on gods .

Greg steps in front of her, blocking her path to the door. "I was at the gallery."

Pansy shoves at his broad chest. "I'm not wasting my time here if - "

Greg snatches Pansy's waist and tosses her back on the bed. Her face goes red with shock and fury.
"How dare you - "

He pushes her knees apart.

The words die on Pansy's lips as Greg slowly kneels at the edge of the bed, maintaining eye contact
as he rubs small circles on her inner thighs. Soft, silky skin, perfect for tasting. He's still a bit
hungry, after all.

"I wouldn't want you to waste your time." With a sharp tug, Greg yanks Pansy's hips forward, and
she nearly squeals as he breathes hot air between her thighs.

Greg takes his time, kissing, nipping, licking, before he pushes aside her knickers to taste her. Long
and slow, until she reaches down to pull at his dark curls and make demands that he's only too
 happy to meet.

Once Pansy finally collapses against his mouth, Greg shucks his trousers - he really had been too
tired - and crawls up the bed to lie next to her. Pansy murmurs something about leaving in just a
moment, but when Greg pulls the covers over her, she nestles closer to him and tucks her head
against his chest.

Spending the night - Greg and Pansy have done all sorts of things over the past two years, but
never this. Never sleeping next to each other.

Pansy hums as Greg ruffles his fingers through her cropped black hair and closes his eyes.

“What happened, Pans?” he murmurs, breathing in her perfume.

Pansy doesn’t answer.

Greg presses a soft kiss to her forehead and trails his fingers down her back.

Silly of her parents to have named her after something with roots. She should have been named
after something with wings.

Chapter End Notes

hehe

IDK if this is the spice you wanted, but it's the spice you've received. See you next
Sunday!

As requested, author notes will now contain things I've done that are more
embarrassing than writing fan fiction in my 30s. Horse girl? Forget it. I told my entire
first grade class that I could breath underwater just like fish because I had gills. Don't
know why I thought that would be a cool brag, did not make new friends that year.
#fishgirl

P.S. SUCK IT HEATHER THIS IS CHAPTER TWELVE. WAY EARLIER THAN

NINETEEN. *insert middle finger emoji*
 Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione wakes with a jolt to a bird warbling outside her window. Funnily enough, it's the first
time she's heard signs of life from the Malfoy gardens.

She shifts experimentally in her bed and immediately sighs at the soreness between her thighs. Just
from the size of him... what a delicious stretch he had been, no matter how... briefly it had lasted.

No. No, stop it.

Secondhand embarrassment floods back. Gods, what a disaster. She's gone and slept with Malfoy.
She's slept with him, even after she'd told him that she wouldn't. And it hadn't even been good.
Well, it had been briefly good, right after it had been fine and right before it had gone really not
well at all.

Get out of bed. Too much thinking happens in the quiet privacy of a bedroom. She'll spin herself in
circles. Better to put this away for now and sort it out when she's had time to review all of the facts
regarding her brief interlude with Draco Malfoy. For now, Hermione is determined to just get up,
get dressed, and get the day started.

Oh gods. The day. Lunch at the Burrow.

She was supposed to have met Ginny and Harry at the Burrow ten minutes ago. Ginny's picked up
an interest in cooking, and Molly had promised to show Ginny how to make her famous pot roast
and potato dinner. Harry and Hermione are to be Ginny's test subjects.

Hermione swings her legs out from the covers and notes the large, purple bruise on her knee. If
only Malfoy had let the lights stay on. No matter. She scrambles out of bed and pulls a sweater and
a pair of jeans - no, better something soft - a skirt from the wardrobe. After a splash of water on her
face and a quick (but thorough, of course) brushing of her teeth, Hermione takes a deep breath and
pushes open the door of her rooms into the silent hall, expecting to encounter...

No one.

Thank Merlin. Hermione picks up a brisk walk to the Floo, looking over her shoulder every few
meters to make sure that the master of the manor isn't out and about. With a toss of powder and a
flash of green, she steps through and the familiar grip twists around her gut until she's spat out
again into the kitchen of the Burrow.

Molly immediately welcomes her with a tight embrace.

"Hermione dear! Just in time for some biscuits."

The Burrow smells warm and garlicky and like home. Within moments, Hermione is neatly seated
with a small plate and a cup of tea that she clutches like an anchor at sea. Next to her, Harry tinkers
with several bits and pieces of wood that he assures them will eventually form the interior of the
large dollhouse he's working on as a gift for the upcoming addition to the Potter family. Molly and
Ginny are back at the stove wearing matching aprons that Molly has sewed together for precisely
this occasion.
"What will you do with the dollhouse if it's a boy?" Molly asks as she sticks a fork in a cooking
potato to test its doneness.

Harry chuckles. "Nope, it's a girl, I'm sure of it! I can just feel it, you know? I'm good at sensing
these sorts of things." He leans toward Hermione conspiratorially and taps the scar on his forehead.
"Call it intuition."

“Arthur swore by that same intuition for all six of our pregnancies,” Molly comments, shaking her
head. “We had boy after boy after boy.”

“And see? He was right about Ginny!” Harry replies triumphantly.

"Well, I think it's a boy," says Ginny.

"Then it's a boy who will really love - " Harry pauses to paste two dowels together. " - really love
this amazing dollhouse."

Molly wipes her hand on a dish towel. "Now, what are you lot taking to Francis Pinter's party on
Friday? I'm happy to whip up some tarts, or perhaps a tin of biscuits?"

"No, Mum," Ginny groans. "Thank you, but I don't think this is the sort of thing where we bring
baked goods. The Pinters have a fully staffed kitchen."

"I'll have you know that Francis loves my tarts." Molly puts her hands on her hips. "You're taking
something, aren't you? I can't have my own daughter showing up empty-handed to a party.
Hermione, dear, what are you taking?"

"Me?" Hermione coughs. "Oh, a bottle of wine, I suppose."

"Harry's picked out a bottle of wine, too," Ginny jumps in. "See, Mum? We've all been trained very
well."

Harry grins at Hermione. "I haven't picked out a bottle of wine," he whispers.

"I heard that, Harry Potter!" Molly calls out, waggling a finger at him before she turns back to the
pot on the stove, shaking her head. "As though I can't hear what goes on in my own home."

A wicked grin crosses Harry's face and he opens his mouth.

"Don't you dare," Hermione hisses under her breath. "She doesn't need to know about where you
two conceived. I wish that I didn’t know! "

"Well, I hope all of you properly thank Francis for including you," Molly continues. "He's been
such a dear friend to Ron these past months, especially now that Harry and Ginny are so busy
getting ready for the baby. You know Francis absolutely insisted that his father let Ron start
coaching on a trial basis? And look where he is now! Mr. Pinter was quite impressed with our Ron
when he had a chance to shine."

"The Cannons are faring much better this season," Harry agrees, returning to his project. "They
changed a good amount of their lineup, and it looks like Ron's drills have really helped with their
agility on the pitch."

"Do you think the roast is almost done, Mum?" Ginny peers into the large pot with a frown. "It's
been going for hours."
"Oh, not quite, I think. It's not gone fully soft yet. You'll know it's done when it really comes
apart."

The biscuit in Hermione's hand snaps in half.

"You want to let it go for a really long time, especially with such a big piece of meat," Molly
continues, handing Ginny the wooden spoon. "There, give it a feel for yourself."

"Hmm. Definitely not ready," Ginny agrees.

Molly turns back to the potatoes. "If you rush it, it's simply not going to work. Now, the
preparation up front is just as important, making sure you've added enough spice and given
everything a good massage and really gotten your fingers in there. But you have to let it all come
together under the heat."

Hermione chokes on her tea.

Harry frowns at her. "Are you all right, Hermione?"

"Fine," she replies hoarsely. "I'm fine."

"See, the extended time on the heat is what allows everything to tenderize," Molly explains. "The
meat has time to do it's thing, and you'll end up with a really lovely explosion - "

Hermione firmly sets down her cup.

" - of flavors. It's honestly better to let it go too long than not long enough. If you cut it short..."

She snaps her fingers, and Hermione nearly jumps clear off her seat. Harry tilts his head at her
thoughtfully.

"No explosion," Molly finishes. "Now let's move on with the potatoes. Now here, it's important to
be gentle with how you handle the mashing. You certainly don't want to be aggressive, or you're
going to be left with a white mess and - "

Hermione abruptly pushes back from the table. The chair scrapes across the floor, and everyone
stops to look at her.

"I think I'm going to go for a walk," she states. Ginny nods at her, and Hermione turns on her heel
and pushes out the back door into the garden.

The cool fall air hits Hermione's hot face as she strides toward a bed of waving wildflowers that are
still hanging on until the next freeze.

The door slams behind her, and Hermione whips around to see Harry chasing after her.

"I'm fine, Harry," she insists. "I was just a bit warm."

"You." Harry jabs a finger in her face. "You slept with somebody. I know that was a weird amount
of sex metaphors for making a pot roast, but the look on your face in there - you slept with
someone."

The blood drains from Hermione's face. "I - I - "

Harry narrows his eyes at her for a moment, then he gasps. "You fucked Draco Malfoy."
Hermione's mouth opens and closes stupidly, like a fish out of water only she's drowning in panic,
and she can't think of a way to deny it without flat lying to him. And he'll know if she lies.

"You did." Harry covers his mouth with his hand and runs his fingers through his messy black hair.
"Oh gods, you did. That was a wild guess, but your face - "

"Yes, Harry, I did," Hermione snaps.

Harry grabs her shoulders. "How in the fuck did that happen?"

"It was last night, okay?" Hermione swats his hands away. "We were just - we were in the same
place at the same time and it was late and he and I were both... well, it was late, you know?"

"I honestly have no idea what that means." Harry begins pacing back and forth. "Ron's going to
lose his shit, you know. Not to mention Ginny."

Harry pales and turns back to Hermione, wide-eyed with panic. "Oh gods, Ginny will kill Malfoy.
She'll kill him and then my wife will be in jail and my baby will be in jail and I think Ginny might
be too good at it, Hermione, and - "

No. No, no no. She can already see the horror in Ginny's eyes, the accusation in Ron's, and
Millicent's utter confusion. Alicia would look at her with pity and wonder if Hermione really had
wanted to marry Malfoy from the start. Theo would…

Well, Theo would laugh his arse off and never let them forget about it.

Hermione grabs his shoulders and shakes him. "You can't tell Ginny, Harry," she grits. "Or Ron, or
anyone, alright? No one needs to know."

"You're damned right, I can't tell anyone," Harry scoffs, backing away with his hands raised. "I
can't tell anyone because I don't know anything about this. Never heard about it, not a word. You
and Malfoy ever touching is information that I do not know."

"Exactly," Hermione nods. "Neither of us knows anything because there's nothing to know."

Harry breathes out a sigh of relief. "Good."

"Yes. Good."

A bird chirps in the distance.

Harry clears his throat.

"You know, we used to, uh, have a bit of a silly bet among the lads back at school," he begins.
"How big would you say Malfoy is?"

Hermione turns bright red.

"Harry," she pleads.

"Just like bigger than average, maybe? Or not? Because there was a rumor - "

Hermione buries her face in her hands. " Merlin, Harry."

"Yes, yes, you're right," Harry nods gruffly. "Totally inappropriate. I don't know anything."
Hermione shakes her head at him, and he taps his foot expectantly.

"Fine," she growls. "Yes, he's bigger than average."

"Fucking knew it."

"I'm going back inside, Harry," sighs Hermione. "And not a word to anyone, remember?"

Harry nods gleefully. "My lips are sealed."

Draco rocks his cane from hand to hand, mentally running through basic potion reactions as the
silver snake head glints in the firelight.

He’s feeling particularly fidgety this evening. Draco’s knee is still sore from - the other night - and
the more he tries to shove the memory into a black box, the more he’s hit with unexpected
recollections of the shape of Granger’s hips under his hands or the feel of her curls between his
fingers or the spark in her eye when she defends her work.

It’s an unmitigated disaster, and Draco thanks the gods that Theo and Greg had arrived minutes ago
to distract him with some new development on the OMA front.

"Well," sighs Theo, sinking into the chair across from Greg. "I got an owl from Meyers. He said
they're all going to a function at Bennett Pinter's home a week from this Saturday, and he thinks we
ought to snoop around."

"Bennett Pinter?" Greg turns over a wooden mind melter puzzle in his hand, trying to get the
pieces to interlock. "Isn't he one of the Cannons owners?"

"Yes. Piss poor investment, if you ask me," Draco scoffs.

Greg shrugs. "They're doing better this season. Certainly not headed for the cup, but maybe in a
few years."

"Why is Meyers suspicious of Bennett Pinter?" Draco asks.

"Pinter's a long time friend of Caldwell Ingram. He made Ingram godfather to his son, Francis,
actually. Ingram has been in quiet but strong opposition to any pro Muggle-born legislation over
the past few decades. He doesn't say much publicly - it's all hush money and talks behind closed
doors - but enough for Meyers to be a little suspicious that Ingram's best friend is suddenly open to
hosting the OMA at his home."

"Maybe Bennett Pinter isn't quite the arse that Ingram is," Greg suggests. "Isn't it more likely that
Pinter's just seen things for what they are over the years? People can change. We changed."

"Yes, but I'm not still inviting Hestia Carrow over for dinner," scowls Theo. "Pinter is still too cozy
with Ingram for my comfort. And Meyers was right about Pucey, so if he has a bad sense about
things, I'm inclined to at least look into his suspicions."

Draco sighs and swirls his glass of whisky. "Say what you will, but the man certainly has a keen
instinct. How does he propose we go about snooping? I can't imagine Bennett Pinter would send
any of us an invitation."
Theo shakes his head. "It's the son, Francis, who's hosting. I don't think I've had the pleasure, but
Hermione is probably invited."

Draco's head snaps up.

"She what?"

Theo shrugs. "She and Pinter are friendly, aren't they?"

"No, they're not," Draco retorts.

"They were photographed together in the Prophet." Theo rummages through a stack of untouched
papers and tosses one at him from a few weeks ago. "I thought you tracked your wife's every
movement through the paper."

"I certainly do not."

Draco slaps the paper onto his desk and flips open to the Who Knows Whom pages.

And there it is - a flashing photo of Potter and his wife sitting next to Hermione Granger and an
unfamiliar man, identified by the caption as Francis Pinter. His grin is wide and congenial, and he's
got one arm casually tossed over Draco's wife's shoulder . Pinter leans into her like they're old
friends in the middle of an enthusiastic discussion. Granger looks nearly surprised by the presence
of the camera, and her expression is a little irritated, as though the photographer is interrupting a
private conversation.

Draco's jaw tightens. Francis Pinter - who is he, anyway? What has he done? Family full of
Ministry paper pushers and a father involved in a failing Quidditch team? Hardly notable. Pinter is
perhaps handsome in a traditional sense, but certainly nothing interesting to look at.

"Well?" Greg prompts, interrupting Draco's tight analysis of the stranger on the page. "I'd say she
knows him."

"They must not be very close. I've never heard her say his name." Draco tosses the paper into the
bin.

"She's sitting in his box," Theo points out.

Draco narrows his eyes at Theo. "Granger would have mentioned Francis Pinter if she were friends
with Francis Pinter. She's always going on about their little Golden crew whenever she opens her
mouth."

"Fine, they must not know each other well," Greg groans, stretching out his legs. "Will you at least
ask Granger about him? Maybe she knows something useful from their very brief interaction while
sitting in his family's fucking box."

"I will ask," growls Draco. "But even if Granger is for some reason invited, she's certainly not
going to allow me to tag along, so I suggest we make other plans to get into Pinter's house."

Theo takes a swallow of whisky. "Hermione doesn't care for your company after you've been so
kind and companionable all these years? I'm floored."

"I have done nothing wrong. She is abominable."

It's a lie. Granger is irritating clever and bright and surprisingly thoughtful, and she had been soft
and pliant and warm underneath him, and she'd smelled of roses and rain, and her curls drive him to
madness, and he wants to tear open her frumpy little jumpers and latch on to -

Theo scoffs. "Oh, I would never accuse you of being anything less than pleasant, Draco."

"Can we focus, please?" Greg barks. "How are we going to get into this damned party?"

Theo rolls his eyes. "I'll figure out a way in."

"And what makes you think you can just waltz in?" Draco asks.

"I'm not going to waltz in. First of all, I'm easily the most pleasant of the three of us. Secondly,
since I haven't burned every bridge I've ever laid eyes on, I can probably finagle an invitation
through Millie or Hermione or even Ginny Potter."

"Ginny Potter is going to bring you along?" Draco huffs. "Unbelievable."

"I was at a dinner with her last week, and she thinks I'm funny," Theo snaps. "So you can fuck right
off."

"So Theo will get into the party," Greg continues. "Will you be able to sneak away to do some
reconnaissance?"

Theo grimaces. "Probably not. It sounds like it will be a rather small affair, but I can ask questions
and keep an eye on the group while one of you pokes around."

"Draco, then," Greg nods.

"Why me?" Draco protests.

Greg looks at him with a raised brow. "Because I've got at least 15 centimeters and four stone on
you. I'm not quite built for sneaking."

"I have a cane."

"You also have an excuse if you get caught," Theo points out.

Draco folds his arms and leans back. "And what on earth would that be?"

Theo smirks at his friend. "That you're a jealous husband looking for his wife."

"Hmm," Greg grunts in approval. "That's not a bad idea."

Draco turns to him, bewildered. " How is that not a bad idea? No one would ever believe that I
would be jealous of - over Granger - "

Theo laughs and waves his hand. "You'll be fine. Now, we'll need to get one of those coins set up
so I can let you know if someone has left the party."

"I can take care of that." Greg jots that down on a bit of parchment.

"We've just got to get you in with no one noticing," Theo continues, rising from his seat to pace the
room. "I can probably create a distraction with Francis Pinter just in case there are some wards up.
How long do you think you need? The less time, the better."

"I can disarm the wards for a few minutes to get Draco across the boundary," Greg volunteers.
 "How long do they need to be down? Two minutes?"

Theo shakes his head. "Two minutes is nothing. I don't think it'll get the job done. We'll need more
time."

Draco presses down the embarrassment creeping up his neck and passes his half-full glass between
his hands. "Two minutes is plenty of time."

"It's not ideal," Theo scoffs. " Maybe two minutes will work if we've done sufficient preparation,
but we're going at this in the dark."

"Not ideal," Goyle concedes. "Three minutes? I think I can stretch it out."

"That extra minute makes a big difference," Theo agrees. "You wouldn't think so, but more time
could take this from a miserable failure to a success."

Draco chokes on his drink.

Theo reaches over and pats Draco on the back. "What do you think, mate? Can you finish the job in
three minutes?"

"Not a problem," Draco replies hoarsely before finishing the rest of his whisky.

Chapter End Notes

Who is your favorite friend in this chapter because I CANNOT DECIDE. I hope you
enjoyed this early chapter this week!! I am on vacation and couldn’t be bothered to
wait until later to take care of posting.

Also, let’s all heap extra praise and love on my beta sirxusly for doing amazing things
to my rough drafts every week and keeping me on schedule so that I don’t run myself
into the ground.

More embarrassing stories:

I vomited profusely on my college’s most historic building (also the oldest academic
building in continuous use in the United States, #sorryamerica) with a wolf t-shirt on
and a quesadilla in one hand.
 Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Ginny sends an owl on Wednesday afternoon that wine night at the Potters is canceled. She keeps
feeling a twinge in her back - nothing to worry about , she's sure, but Harry doesn't believe her - so
they're off to see their Healer for a bit of a check-up to make sure she and the baby are doing well.

Hermione stares down at the pile of papers on her desk. No matter. She has plenty of work to do
here, after all, and now she won't have to rush home to freshen up before rushing right back out the
door.

There's been a good deal of rushing at home for the past few days. Hermione imagines that the less
time she spends in the halls of the Manor, the slimmer her chances are of bumping into Malfoy.
When she steps through the Floo in the evenings, she hurries to her room before racing to dinner,
where she eats in a rush and then dashes back to her room for the night. Hermione's itching to
return to the Manor's library to explore the shelves, but - well, the embarrassing memory is too
sharp for now, and clearly that's a space Malfoy frequents, so perhaps better to avoid it altogether
until the passage of time softens her mortification.

When Hermione walks through the Floo that Wednesday evening, she checks her watch. It's a few
minutes after seven. The numbers whirr in her head. She's fairly certain that Malfoy sneaks into the
dining room after she's done, normally around eight or a bit later. If she hopes to avoid him, she
ought to head to the dining room now.

With a sigh, Hermione turns on her heel and steals through the hall toward the dining room. The
scent of a delicious dinner already wafts toward her. She didn't realize how hungry she'd become,
and she eagerly pushes through the double doors only to find that the dining table is already
occupied.

Malfoy sits in his usual seat. Daphne Pucey, nee Greengrass, sits on one side of him, and a small,
dark-haired boy of no more than six sits on Malfoy’s other side. Daphne is in the middle of a bite.
Malfoy is bent over toward the child to listen to whatever's being carefully whispered into his ear.
Daphne and Malfoy look up at Hermione in clear shock as she stands in the doorway.

The boy, probably Daphne's son, turns around in his chair to see who has interrupted their dinner.

"Hello," he says with a dimpled smile. "Who are you?"

Notwithstanding the apparent surprise on their faces, the scene before Hermione hints at an
intimacy, a coziness, that she hasn't seen before. The fire in the fireplace seems to crackle with
cheer, and the Puceys sit close to Malfoy. Close enough to touch and smile and share. Not like
when she sits at the opposite end of the table on the few occasions she and Malfoy dine together.

"Well..." She swallows. "I'm Hermione Granger."

Daphne Pucey jumps in. "Ms. Granger is a friend of your Uncle Draco, dear."

"I'm so sorry for interrupting," Hermione apologizes. "I wasn't expecting - that is, I didn't realize
there was company."

Daphne nods at her sharply.

She's very pretty, and she's dressed smartly for dinner in a cleanly tailored blouse.

"You have ink on your face," the little boy says. "Do you want my napkin?"

Hermione looks down to the offered white linen and lifts her hand to her cheek. Always covered in
ink. She looks at Malfoy.

His knuckles are white as he grips his silverware, and he stares down at his plate before slowly
lifting his knife to slice off another delicate bite of tenderloin.

"Bogby will send dinner to your rooms," he grits out. "We've already started, as you can see."

"Yes, of course." Hermione backs out of the room. "I'm so sorry."

Only a few minutes after Daphne and Benedict have disappeared through the Floo, Draco finds
himself standing in front of Granger's door.

It's beautifully carved, just like his own.

Draco takes a deep breath and steels his jaw before firmly rapping on the door. There's a brief
silence, and then a scuffling on the other side. Light footsteps as she walks toward him. He stands
tall.

The door opens, and Granger looks up at him warily.

"I'm sorry about interrupting dinner," she begins, tightening the rope on her wrapper. It's the same
wrapper from the other night, and it makes him want to reach out and touch her soft curls, but -

There is more at stake . This is more serious than... than fumbling around in the dark library. Draco
hardens his gaze, and he can see Granger shrink back every so slightly.

"You will not share with anyone that Daphne and her son dined here," he growls.

Granger meets his stare head on and straightens her back. "Do they come often?"

Not often enough. How much should she know? How much can he trust her with?

"Some Wednesdays."

Granger nods. "I'm normally with the Potters on Wednesdays."

"You are."

"They had to cancel tonight, so I came back here."

"I noticed."

Granger nods again and bites at her plush lower lip. Draco feels himself drawn in, and he wants to
lean down and steal that lip away between his teeth, to push her back into her rooms where he's not
allowed, but he still hasn't heard the promise from her mouth, and his need for it starts to feel
desperate.
"I can make other plans on Wednesdays if they cancel again," she continues. "If you - "

Draco reaches out and grips her elbow. Her mouth snaps shut.

"Granger," Draco growls. "I need you to promise me that you won't say anything about the Puceys
being here. It would make Daphne's life more difficult than it already is."

Her parents would shut her out. Astoria would care about as much as she does now, which is not at
all, and Benedict - Ben - he'd be cast out too. Just as Draco had been cast out. Cast out of drawing
rooms, out of meetings, out of parties, out of funerals, out of holidays and laughter and family.

Granger's soft brown eyes search his face, seeming to consider something. Whatever it is, it elicits
a light blush across her cheeks.

"Are you and Daphne... together?" she asks.

His grip tightens. "Promise me, Granger."

"Yes, of course," she breathes. "I promise. Not a word."

Draco narrows his eyes at her, parsing through every expression to look for a lie, but her face is all
earnestness and honesty, and he believes her. Relief floods his body, and he steps back, releasing
Granger's arm.

"Daphne and I are old friends. We're not together."

Granger frowns at him. "But Adrian Pucey - "

"What happened with Pucey is none of your concern," he snaps, cracking his cane against the stone
floor.

She pulls back from the door, shying away from his looming presence, and Draco suddenly
reminds himself of his father, all sharp words and shame, and he tries to gather back his
composure.

"Pucey deserved what happened to him, Granger. I'm not looking for absolution from you or
anyone else. I know who I am and what I've done," Draco grits out.

And he believes every word of it. Pucey had put his entire family on the line for a twisted dream of
the future, and maybe Draco had burned up his whole life to stop it, but he would have done it no
other way. He should be walking around this castle now with no cane, with two perfectly
functioning legs, ready to go fuck his tall, blonde wife after putting their sweet babies to bed, not
chasing down promises from Hermione Granger.

Granger, who looks at him half afraid, half curious, and too brave for her own good.

"Of course," she murmurs solemnly.

Draco's gaze drops down to her lips, and he can hardly tear his eyes away. He thinks he can almost
smell her soap again, and the pearlescent moonlight from her windows calls him in toward her. Let
me try again, let me show you -

It won't do, it won't do.

Draco turns his back on her and stalks down the hall.
He's gotten his promise, after all.

"How much later are you going to be here?" Millicent asks, slipping her purse over her shoulder. "I
feel awful leaving you, but I ought to go clean up before dinner."

Hermione waves her hand. "Oh, just a bit longer. Serena asked me to file these next week, but
we've got that business with the trade block and I'd rather not do both at once."

A knock sounds on the open door of their office, and Hermione finally looks up from her desk.

"Francis?" she says incredulously.

You don't work here.

Francis Pinter himself stands grinning at their door.

"I'm so glad I caught you," he says jovially, stepping into the office. "I was just visiting my uncle
and I thought I'd swing by to say hello."

Hermione stands and wipes her ink-stained hands on her black skirt. "Have you met Millicent
Bulstrode? She and I were at Hogwarts together."

"Briefly, at the Potters a few weeks ago, I believe," Millicent says politely, holding out her hand.
Francis grabs it and shakes it enthusiastically.

"Yes, of course! Pleasure to see you again, Millicent. You know, I'm glad to have run into you too!
What a funny coincidence." Francis leans against the wall.

"Is it?" Millicent asks with confusion, and Hermione privately agrees. This is their office, after all.

"Yes!" Francis continues. "I'm not sure if Hermione has mentioned it, but I'm hosting a get-together
at my house next Saturday evening. I've been meaning to ask you to attend, but I hadn't yet thought
through tracking you down. I'd love for you to join us if you're free."

"Oh - " Millicent looks briefly at Hermione, who shrugs. "Thank you. Yes, I believe I should be
able to attend."

"Excellent," Francis beams. "And if you're welcome to bring a plus one, if you'd like. I heard you
may have a particular prince in mind."

He winks at Millicent.

"That's very kind," she murmurs, carefully disguising any hint of irritation at his familiarity. "I
really must be going, but I appreciate the invitation, Francis."

"Dinner already?" Hermione asks her through clenched teeth. Her eyes bore into Millicent's with
meaning. Are you really leaving me alone with him?

Millicent sends her a teasing grin. "Theo likes to eat early. Can't be helped, I'm afraid."

And just like that, she's gone, and only Francis remains.
"You're still coming next weekend, yes?" he asks.

Hermione folds her hands over her papers. "Yes."

Francis nods, then looks down at his slightly scuffed shoes. "This is a little awkward, but I wanted
to ask you something."

"What is it?"

Francis looks back up at Hermione and purses his lips. "Is your husband coming as well, by any
chance?"

Her first instinct is confusion. "My - "

Oh. Her husband. Her husband, Draco Malfoy, who is certainly not the darling of the current
wizarding society.

"I hadn't mentioned it to him, actually," Hermione says uneasily.

Some relief passes over Francis' face. "Do you mind if I sit?"

"Go ahead." Hermione motions to the guest chairs, and Francis slides into one of them.

"I understand from Ron that you and your husband, well, you aren't especially close, so I wasn't
sure if..." He trails off.

Hermione purses her lips. Controlling her tongue has always been hard work, and this moment is
no exception. Ronald Weasley, who has hardly strung together two polite sentences to her over the
last several years, gossiping about her personal life to a complete stranger? Assuming that he,
above anyone else, has special knowledge of her private life?

"Ronald is not privy to the details of my marriage, actually," she clips.

Francis winces. "I apologize. That was rude of me."

Control.

"No, I'm sorry," she replies tersely, even if she doesn't quite mean the apology. "I'm afraid Ron and
I don't always see eye to eye. I shouldn't have snapped."

"Not at all," Francis grins. "You have every right to snap when I'm being a nosy little grubber."

Hermione gives him a small smile in return.

"The thing is, I never knew Adrian Pucey, not really," Francis continues. "But I really respected his
work, and it was sad to lose him and the legacy he could have made."

Her reply is automatic, and she wants to kick herself for it. "Malfoy didn't kill Adrian Pucey."

Francis tilts his head at her. "Have you spoken to him about that night?"

Pucey deserved what happened to him, Draco had told her. Hermione shifts in her seat.

"Well, no, but... the Wizengamot tried him and found him to be innocent."

Francis shakes his head. "No, they found him to be guilty of manslaughter."
"Manslaughter isn't murder."

They stare at each other for a moment, and Hermione swears that something bitter and angry
crosses Francis’ face before he shrugs and breaks back into a winsome smile.

"I'm sorry, I'm being an absolute beast. Of course you are more familiar with your husband's
situation than I am. I only wanted to talk to you about it because there will likely be some reporters
there from the Prophet, and I thought you might like a warning in case that affected Malfoy's
decision to accompany you."

"Why should he be bothered by reporters?" Hermione asks.

Francis rises from his chair slowly, as though he's taking a moment to carefully consider his next
words.

"I don't want you to be bothered by reporters," he finally says. "I really do want us to be friends,
Hermione, and I wouldn't let a friend walk into that without a warning."

It feels like a peace offering of sorts.

"Thank you," she replies.

"Very good, then," Francis says, checking his pockets for his things. "I'll leave you to it, then."

Hermione thinks for a moment as he walks toward the door.

"Francis."

He pauses in the doorway and looks back at her.

"I was never under the impression that Malfoy was included in your invitation," Hermione tells
him.

Francis sighs and nods. "I don't particularly like your husband, Hermione. I don't think many do,
and I'm sure you see how many doors are closed to him. But you are a remarkable witch, and I
don't think you'll ever have to worry about being left off lists because of who you were forced to
marry."

Hermione scoffs. "I don't worry about lists."

Francis gives her a wry grin.

"That's probably why you're so remarkable, Hermione Granger."

True to her word, Hermione only stays at the Ministry for another hour after Francis Pinter leaves
her. She's just sat down at the dinner table at the Manor when the double doors swing open with a
bang, and Malfoy saunters in.

"Hello, Granger." Malfoy sits down opposite Hermione. "Started without me?"

He shakes out the napkin with unnecessary flair. Bogby appears in an instant.
"Is Mr. Malfoy dining early tonight?" Bogby asks without a glance at Hermione, whose plate is
already filled with steaming food.

"Yes, Bogby, I am. Would you bring me whatever Granger is eating?"

"Of course, Mr. Malfoy."

Bogby leaves with a characteristically loud pop that Hermione still isn't quite accustomed to.

"What are you having, Granger?" Malfoy asks, leaning forward on his elbows.

"Baked chicken and potatoes," Hermione replies faintly.

What on earth is he doing?

"Excellent." Just as Malfoy clips off the word, his plate appears before him, and he wastes no time
cleanly slicing open a potato and placing half of it in his mouth.

Hermione continues to stare. Malfoy had tupped her in the library on Saturday to their mutual
horror, then he'd nearly bitten her head off twice on Wednesday, even though part of her had
briefly wondered if he'd been about to kiss her, and now he's eating potatoes across from her as
though this is what they do every night.

Like a... like a normal married couple.

Malfoy pauses with a bit of chicken halfway to his mouth and motions to Hermione's untouched
plate. "Your meal will get cold, you know."

"Oh. Yes, of course." Hermione peels her eyes away from Malfoy and looks down at her food.

"How is work going, then?" Malfoy asks.

"Work is fine," Hermione replies cautiously, taking a bite of chicken. "Just the usual."

"I take it that means you're continuing to blow them out of the water. Any plans this weekend?"

"Not really, no," Hermione answers. "I'm going to see a show with Alicia Spinnet on Saturday
afternoon, but that's all."

"Spinnet," Malfoy hums. "Nice girl. I nearly married her, you know."

Hermione rolls her eyes.

Malfoy continues. "Are you going to the Cannons game on Sunday? I heard Weasel's mucking up
their defense, but I suppose it's good of you to keep supporting your old friend. He must appreciate
seeing your face in the stands."

She stiffens. He's seen the papers, then, and the scattered pictures of her with Ron and Harry and
Ginny. The photographs make them look easy and friendly somehow, even though Ron seems to
studiously avoid any conversation with her.

"I may," Hermione replies, reaching for her wine. "I'm not sure yet."

"Hmm." Malfoy swirls his whisky and tilts his head at her. "And next weekend? Any plans?"

Hermione's hand pauses in the air, then she takes a slow sip from the goblet.
I'm sure you see how many doors are closed to him.

It feels cruel to bring up Francis Pinter's party now when Malfoy has been so pointedly excluded.
It's not as though he'll angle for an invitation, but... something about it makes her uneasy, and the
smallest bit of shame creeps in for accepting Francis' offer when Malfoy has been shut out.
Hermione dons a casual expression and shrugs.

"No," she tells him. "Nothing, really. Probably just seeing Ginny and Harry."

"On Saturday, I presume? Good day to spend with friends." Malfoy nearly sounds like he's
mocking her.

"Yes." Hermione nods, fidgeting in her seat. "On Saturday."

"How pleasant."

"How pleasant," Draco drawls, leaning back in his chair.

Dirty little liar .

Of course Granger has been invited to Francis Pinter's party, and Draco would bet all the rare roses
in the Malfoy gardens that she's not just seeing Harry and Ginny Potter on Saturday. She'll be at
that party without a doubt, working the room and clinking champagne flutes with her Ministry
friends, letting Francis fucking Pinter throw his arm around her shoulders like they're old friends.

"What's Daphne Pucey's son called?" Granger asks.

Her question catches him off guard.

"Benedict," Draco replies automatically. "He's six. Loves brooms."

The corners of Granger's lips quirk up into a small smile as she picks at her meal.

"Of course," she says. "You seem rather fond of one another."

Draco regards warily. Benedict Pucey is tender ground, and he doesn't want her to see it, to tread
on it, so he keeps his answer short and light.

"I suppose," he shrugs, returning to his food.

"Do you think you'll ever want children?"

The question is so impossible that Draco nearly barks out a pained laugh, but he swallows it down
and shrugs once more.

"I'm not planning on children," he replies.

Granger nods and looks thoughtfully at her glass of wine. "I think I'd like to be a mother one day.
Who knows, though."

Draco can't help but stare at her while she's not looking back and imagine Granger with a little
more plumpness to her face, a certain heaviness in her breasts, and a definitely roundness to her
stomach.

There's a stir in his groin - not totally unexpected - but Draco is slightly alarmed by the small seed
he feels taking root in his heart.

"Hello, ladies," Theo grins as he brushes the dust from the Floo off his sweater. "What are we
reading tonight?"

"No reading, only talking," Hermione tells him, tucking her bare feet underneath her on the couch.
"Where did you come from?"

"Oh, just home. I got bored and thought I'd see what Millie here was up to."

That's his excuse, at least. Well, it's always his excuse to visit with Millicent - eternally bored,
good-for-nothing heir and all that - but this time, Theo is aiming to gain an invitation to Francis
Pinter's soiree.

Millicent motions toward the decanter on the table. "Do you want some wine? It's from - "

"Let me guess," Theo interrupts, moving instead toward the liquor cabinet. "It's from the prince?"

Millicent's reply is steely, and she sounds more like Draco than herself. "It's from Pansy, actually.
She ordered an extra case on her trip last week."

Theo winces and ducks down to peruse the options in the cabinet. He'd rather like to try the wine,
but he's made his own bed and to turn back now would be too revealing. "Oh. Well. I'm sure it's
delightful, but it's whisky for me tonight."

"Suit yourself," Hermione says. "More for us."

Theo turns around with his selected bottle and a wide grin. "See how generous I am? Leaving the
good stuff for you two."

Millicent shakes her head at him, but an exasperated smile sneaks onto her face.

Theo feels warm all over as he sinks into the chair next to her. There's an instinct in him to reach
over and grab her hand, to squeeze it tight to tell her that he's happy to be near her, to hear her voice
after, what, two days?

Silly .

He stifles it.

"What are your plans for the weekend, then?" Theo asks, looking between them. "Anything fun?"

"Francis Pinter is having a party at his home on Saturday," Hermione sighs. "It's supposed to be
some intimate affair with a hundred of his closest friends and important acquaintances. He's trying
to get me to talk to some of his friends from the OMA."

Ahh. So Francis does know the OMA.

"You're both going then?" Theo looks expectantly at Millicent.

"Yes," she clips. "Probably not for long."

"Oh, don't be a drag, Millie," Theo grins. "What if I go with you? We'll bring something extra for
the punch and make a good time of it."

"You weren't invited," Millicent replies evenly, focusing on the glass in front of her. "It would be
rude."

Theo forces his expression to stay light. "Surely Francis Pinter won't begrudge you a plus one?"

Both of the women are silent, and Hermione shifts uneasily in her seat before Millie looks up at
him.

"I've already asked Leo to go with me," she states, waving a hand as though this is casual
information. As though it's a normal, everyday occurrence for her to bring Prince Leopold with her
to a party before even mentioning it to Theo. "I told him I'd go to a political event with him that
afternoon, so it makes sense for him to just continue on with me to Pinter's party."

"A political event," he repeats.

"Yes. Leo's curious to meet Francis, anyway. He said his name comes up in the news now and
then," Millicent continues.

"And you can't possibly shove him off for one night? Tell him I begged you." Theo’s voice twists
into a sneer.

Millicent crosses her ankles and sets down her glass. "No, Theo. I already spoke to him about it.
I'm not going to shove him off just because you've got some bent on coming to this party."

"I don't mind if you come with me," Hermione interjects nervously. "I haven't - "

"No, Hermione, don't," Millicent interrupts. "Why do you want to go to this party so badly, Theo?"

He can't stay seated for a moment longer. Theo laughs and stands to walk to the window. The city
is beautiful at night. Bright and shiny and cold. It's the perfect antidote to the ugly, angry beast
stirring in his gut.

"What, the prince doesn't want me around?" he growls. "I didn't realize your dates were becoming
so serious."

"They're not dates," Millicent replies firmly. "It helps Leo's image to have someone on his arm at
these things, and we're friends, so he asks me to go with him occasionally."

Theo throws back the rest of his drink. "Well I can't understand why he keeps dragging you into it.
Aren't there actual princesses he should be calling on?"

Millicent stiffens.

Hermione jumps in. "I think Millicent makes a wonderful companion, and it probably helps a lot
that Leo can take someone he knows well and is comfortable being around."

“Really, Hermione? Leo?” Theo scoffs. “I didn’t know you were in on it.”

"Why do you insist on hating him, Theo?" Millicent snaps. "You've never even met the man."
"I don't want to meet him," Theo barks back.

Her face is flushed and resolute. "Why not?"

Because - because -

"It's pointless, isn't it?" Theo huffs. "He's going to go away sooner or later back to Austria, and
we'll never see him again, so why bother? Gods above, Millie, it's not as though you're going to
marry the man."

Millicent's jaw tightens, and her shoulders square. "No? And why not, Theo? Is it so difficult for
you to imagine him wanting me?"

Because you're mine.

Because you’re supposed to marry me.

Theo knows he should be afraid, but he barrels on anyway, letting the inertia carry him forward.

"He's a fucking prince, Millie," Theo snaps. "He's not - "

Millicent stands, cutting off his words. She's cold and hard and angry , angrier than he's ever seen
her. Her dark eyes, normally warm and inviting, cut through him like an icy blade.

Theo steps back.

"I want you to leave," Millicent says.

Fuck. Theo runs his fingers through his hair in frustration.

"Come off it, Millie, I’m just saying - "

"Stop it," she hisses, unmoving. "If Draco or Greg ever spoke to me like that, you wouldn't let them
leave this room with their kneecaps intact. I don't know where you get off thinking it's fine for you
to say those things. It's not, and you're damned lucky that I'm not in a fighting mood tonight."

"Millie," he tries again.

"Get. Out," Millicent grits. "And don't you dare show your face on Saturday."

Theo looks at her for a beat, then he schools his expression into something cool and neutral.
Something unaffected and uncaring. With a curt nod, he turns and steps back through the Floo.

Hermione sits in astonished silence as Theo disappears. Millicent covers her mouth with her hand,
and then a sob wrenches out of her throat as she sinks back into her chair.

Hermione leaps off the couch and wraps her arms around her friend. "He shouldn't have said those
things, Millie. I'm so sorry."

"I don't know how to turn it off," Millicent cries, tucking her head against Hermione's shoulder. "I
don't know how to make it stop."
 "I know," Hermione murmurs into her hair. "I know."

Chapter End Notes

HAPPY SUNDAY hope this gave you the hurt you were seeking, blessings to you all.
I for one am loving that Millie snapped back at Theo for being a total ass.

Embarrassing story of the week: There’s like a 40% chance that I accidentally
snapchatted a topless picture of myself (tits covered, but no shirt) to my brother when I
was 23/24. Not a super high percentage but HIGHER THAN YOU WANT IT TO BE
FOR THIS SITUATION.
 Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"Why does it look like that?" Theo hisses, leaning over Greg's shoulder.

Draco rolls his eyes and leans back against a tree.

"Get off of me," Greg growls as his knife slips again over the block of wood. The runes that Draco
needs to cross the boundary at Bennett Pinter's home aren't quite right, so last minute adjustments
are in order, but Theo keeps pestering Greg instead of keeping an eye on the arriving guests. "I
thought you were supposed to be charming. Easily the most pleasant of us, you said."

"You'd certainly be a lot more helpful inside," Draco huffs. "What happened to your invitation
again? Slipped through your fingers?"

"Shut up," Theo snaps. "At least my wife didn't lie to me about being here. Maybe if you'd minded
your manners a little better, I wouldn't have needed my own invitation."

"I don't perform well at parties," grits Draco.

He certainly doesn't perform well with invitations, at least. His owls stay busy with requests for
potions, but requests for dinner seem to somehow get lost in the post.

But Draco would never say such things to Theo and Greg, even if he suspects they've noticed.

"Keep your eyes on the guests, if you possibly can," Greg instructs Theo as he puts the finishing
touches on the block of wood. "After the next large party arrives, I'll freeze the wards."

Theo and Draco watch silently as Greg mutters some spells under his breath. The wind whistles
through the trees around them. Draco tugs his jumper tighter around his shoulders, then flexes out
his leg. The cold air makes it stiff. Should have worn a cloak.

"She's here," Theo sighs, leaning back against a rough tree trunk. "With that wanker."

"Granger?" Draco asks.

"No, it's - well, yes, Hermione too. They're all here. Her and Millie and the Potters and - is that
Weasley next to the Prince?"

"The fucking Weasel is with them?" Draco peers into the distance.

"What does it matter if Ron Weasley is here?" Greg groans. "You don't have to talk to him."

Draco sniffs. "He's an arse, and I don't like him, and I don't like that he's here. That's all."

" That's all, of course," Greg scoffs. "You're a fucking arse too, you know, and you have..."

He trails off, and Theo and Draco stare at him expectantly.

"Yep," Greg nods. "Three minutes to get into Pinter's house."

Draco scowls at him and takes off around the perimeter of the garden.
Within fifteen minutes, Hermione regrets accepting Francis' invitation.

Of course, he's all charm and delight on their arrival, greeting their party with firm handshakes and
glasses of wine. He admires Ginny's glowing skin and congratulates Harry on his upcoming
fatherhood. He whispers something in Millicent's ear that Hermione can't quite make out, then
gushes over Prince Leo, who laughs generously and pats Francis on the back. Ron, of course,
receives an affectionate embrace as though he and Francis have known each other their entire lives,
and Francis stage-whispers that Ron has the prettiest witch in the room on his arm.

Hermione steps decidedly away from Ron's side.

"I'm so glad you're here," Francis tells Hermione warmly as he squeezes her hand. "I've got to go
greet the others, but the OMA is here, and I haven't forgotten that I need to make introductions!"

Hermione forces a grin onto her face. "Lovely. Thank you."

"Shall we get some snacks?" Ginny whispers, taking Hermione's arm and steering her toward the
back of the room. "I have a feeling we may both need sustenance to make it through this night."

Hermione looks over her shoulder. Millicent has her hand tucked into the crook of Leo's elbow,
and she smiles sympathetically at Hermione as Ginny pulls her through the crowd. A black-haired
woman jostles her and greets her cheerily by name, but Hermione doesn't recognize her face, and
the room starts to feel overly warm and crowded.

The dull roar of the party drifts down the corridor as Draco tries the handle to Pinter's office.
Locked, of course. No matter. He props his cane against the doorframe and half-listens to the
garble to see if he can make out any voices in particular as he mutters charms under his breath.

Granger's probably in there, making her rounds with the Golden Trio. Does Francis Pinter have his
arm slung about her shoulders like he did at the Cannons game? Or perhaps she's tucked up next to
Weasel, laughing at his stupid jokes even though she's far too clever to actually think he's funny.
Draco imagines that she's donned a silky blouse for the occasion, like the one she'd worn on their
wedding day. Granger will look soft to the touch, and her warm skin will visibly flush from wine or
embarrassment or laughter, and some bloke standing next to her will yearn to press his lips to the
curve of her shoulder to taste -

The door cracks open beneath his wand, much to Draco's surprise, interrupting his runaway
thoughts.

"Took you long enough. What's going on?" Theo's disembodied huff sounds from next to Draco's
ear. He'd placed a modified Sonorous charm on Draco's glasses for ease of communication, but
Draco sorely wishes he could work in silence.

"I'm in the office," Draco replies, ignoring Theo's criticism as he steps into the empty room.
Pinter's study is fairly organized. The desk seems to be a bit of a mess, but the bookshelves appear
to be quite in order.

"Did you have any issues with the boundaries?" Greg asks.

Draco shakes his head even though they can't see him. "Didn't feel a thing." There had been no
ghostly tugging, no cold warning, no odd sensations of tripping over an invisible wire. Of course,
it's not as though this is their first time sneaking around in the dark.

"Did you get a look at the party?" Theo's voice is laced with bitterness. "It certainly seems to be
quite the smash."

"I'm not here to watch the party," Draco says, making his way over to the desk. "I'm trying not to
be seen, remember?"

"Whatever," Theo grumbles.

Silence, finally.

Stacks of paper litter the desk. For as much as Pinter keeps his bookshelves in tip top shape, his
desk is abysmal, and Draco wonders how he manages to get anything done on time. A black
leather-bound diary sits to one side.

"What do you have to say?" he mutters, flipping open the cover.

"What's that?" Greg asks.

"Nothing."

Draco pulls his glasses off his face and shoves them into his pocket. He's had quite enough of the
fucking peanut gallery.

Several loose sheets of parchment that have been shoved into the diary flutter out, and Draco
snatches them off the desk. Pinter's family crest is embossed across the top, and the paper is full of
some accounting business. Draco examines the crest for a moment. Some sort of small fanged
mammal wears a crown and holds a scepter in front of a large tower. Tacky.

Draco replaces the parchment and flips through the diary in search of any questionable notes or
meetings, but everything seems in order for an unoriginal wizard with too much time and money.
Draco snaps the diary shut and replaces it on the corner of the desk.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he kneels down onto the carpet, taking care not to put too much weight on
his bad leg. One by one, he tugs on the drawer handles. It's no surprise that they're all locked, but
the wards on Pinter's house aren't terribly complicated and Draco doesn't expect that the protection
charms on the drawers will be much trickier.

He hopes, though, that one of the drawers will be an unexpected challenge.

That's when Draco will know that he's stumbled upon something of interest.

He pulls out his wand and taps on the first drawer to check for wards on the lock. Nothing. It pops
open with a softly whispered Alohomora. A few sickles rattle inside against several bottles of ink
and a stack of uncut quills.

As Draco moves on to the next drawer, a small sound in the hall catches his ear.

Footsteps.
Shit.

Jan Evanswood, Secretary of Communications for the Organized Muggle-born Alliance, pulls
Hermione into a deep embrace just as soon as Francis completes the introductions. Hermione fights
to urge to flinch at the familiarity. The crowded room already seems to press in on all sides. Instead
of pulling away, Hermione counts down from five.

"Hermione Granger, as I live and breathe," chuckles Evanswood, releasing her. "Francis here has
been talking about you for ages. I'm so pleased we're finally able to meet!"

"It's a pleasure to meet you as well," Hermione replies cautiously for fear that Evanswood may
squeeze her again if she shows any trace of affection. "Francis thinks very highly of your
organization."

"I'm Carl Collins," says the man next to Evanswood as he sticks out his hand. "Secretary of
Membership. I've been hoping I can convince you to swing by the OMA one of these days."

"Oh...," Hermione trails off.

"Hermione’s in high demand, Collins," laughs Francis, slinging his arm around Hermione's
shoulder. She feels her face go red at the display.

"I'm sure Ms. Granger has a lot on her plate," sighs a dark-haired, morose man behind Evanswood.

"Hermione, this is Linden Donnelly," Francis says. "The president of the OMA himself. Capital
fellow. Incredible mind."

Donnelly bares his teeth into a grin that Hermione can feel he doesn't mean. "You're too generous,
Pinter."

"Never!" booms Francis, patting Donnelly's shoulder. "Now, I'll let you lot solve all the world's
problems. Don't forget to credit me for introducing you!"

Then Francis is off to entertain another gaggle of witches and wizards, leaving Hermione alone
with Evanswood, Collins, and Donnelly.

"Well," Hermione says, turning to Evanswood. "What is the OMA working on now? I read some
things in the Prophet, of course, but I don't quite trust them to report the full story."

Donnelly snorts in agreement.

Collins waves a hand. "Oh, fuck the Prophet. It's not their approval we're looking for anyhow."

"It would be easier to have public opinion on our side," Evanswood admits, "but I believe we can
still make a tremendous amount of progress working with our Ministry connections, especially
through the Wizengamot. Several of them are starting to see things from our perspective, I
believe."

"That'll be the day," Donnelly grumbles in disbelief. Evanswood rolls her eyes at him and then
turns her attention back to Hermione.
"Right now, we're working on a program for Muggle-born children before they start at Hogwarts.
How was your time adjusting?"

"It was rather difficult, at first," Hermione admits. "I threw myself into reading and studying about
the wizarding world, and that helped a good deal, but there was so much that still came as a
shock."

Evanswood nods. "Exactly! And many Muggle-born children don't have the same drive to learn as
I'm sure you did, or else their parents may not be able to afford the materials."

"And some families are wary, or completely unsupportive," adds Collins.

"So what is your recommendation?" Hermione asks. "Perhaps an orientation of sorts before the
term begins?"

"Oh, no." Evanswood shakes her head. "We're looking at something much grander. Imagine this -
a summer program, starting at age eight, where Muggle-born children live with a Wizarding family
for the whole summer to get integrated into Wizarding society! They'll be able to learn the basics
of our world firsthand, and the Muggle families will have time to adjust to the idea of their children
being wizards before they're shipped off to Hogwarts for the entire year. Isn't it brilliant?"

"Oh," Hermione says faintly, looking at Evanswood's wide, proud smile. "Don't you think that's a
long time to be away from home at such a young age?"

Evanswood's face drops infinitesimally. "It would only be two months."

Two months. Hermione yearns for her parents just thinking of it. At age eight, when she still
crawled into their bed some mornings, embarrassed about being shaken over a bad dream? At nine,
when she'd had her first crush on a boy two blocks over with curly, dark hair and a gap-toothed
smile, and they'd spent all summer chasing one another around the pool?

"I suppose that's not very long," Hermione admits. "So many Muggle families vacation together
over the summer, though, and I - well, I have rather fond memories of playing with the other
children in my neighborhood. I think I would mourn the loss of those relationships."

Collins and Evanswood stare at her.

"You'd play with the children in the Wizarding families," Collins responds impatiently.

"Yes, of course." Hermione shifts, tapping a nervous finger against her glass. "I only mean that a
Muggle childhood is different from a Wizarding childhood. Not in a good or bad way, exactly, but
a Muggle childhood is something worth experiencing."

"Of course," Evanswood snips. "It's only for the summer, though."

Hermione gives her a polite smile. Evanswood, it seems, is unmoving in her stance.

"Only the summer," Hermione echoes.

"I'm rather parched, I think," Collins sighs. "Excuse me."

Evanswood nods in agreement. "I could use another glass as well."

Hermione holds back a frustrated sigh as Evanswood and Collins walk away. Their proposal isn't
terrible, of course, but integrating Muggle-born children into Wizarding society isn't really a
solution to the larger injustices at work, and -

"I don't really care for it myself," Donnelly growls, taking another sip of his drink. "Bloody pure-
bloods will be whispering all sorts of nonsense beliefs into their little ears. Better to let their
parents do the raising, thank-you-very-much."

"Perhaps a lighter program would be more ideal," Hermione says diplomatically.

Donnelly shrugs. "So what do you think of this Pinter fellow? He talks like you're in his pocket."

"He's very kind to invite us all," Hermione replies tactfully, clasping her hands behind her back.
"I'm glad he's taking an interest in Muggle-born matters."

"Yes," Donnelly snorts. "Very kind indeed to parade us all around his little circus."

Hermione tilts her head and frowns. "You doubt his intentions?"

"I don't trust it, that's all." Donnelly shakes his head thoughtfully. "I'm still trying to work out how
he's trying to use me and the OMA to his benefit."

"I suppose it gives him some... moral credibility to be seen supporting you," offers Hermione.

"Is he supporting, though?" he asks Hermione with a discerning look. "Or is he simply providing
us with petit fours and canapés a few nights a season?"

Hermione hesitates before she answers. In his pocket. Is she? Are Harry and Ginny and Millicent
and the Prince in Francis' pocket as well? Ron most certainly is. "I'm not quite sure."

Donnelly purses his lips before taking a long sip of wine. The silence hangs heavily between them,
and Hermione suddenly feels even more uncomfortable about accepting Francis' invitation.

The ringing of crystal breaks through the din of the party. Francis stands at the front of the room
with two sparkling flutes of champagne, one of which he passes to Ron, who lingers a little ways
behind him.

Francis taps his wand to his throat.

"Thank you all for coming tonight! It's always a pleasure to see your charming faces," Francis
booms, his voice amplified by the charm. "Has the wine been to everyone's satisfaction?

There's a faint cheer of approval from the crowd.

"Very good, very good," he laughs. "I originally planned to have all of you here just for a fun
evening, but my father recently told me some wonderful news, and I absolutely badgered him until
he generously agreed to let me be the one to share it with you all. I expect you'll see it in the papers
tomorrow anyhow, but I couldn't pass up a bit of fanfare."

Francis pauses and surveys the crowd with a wide grin.

"Come on up here, Weasley," he says, waving Ron over.

Ron joins him with a flushed look of pride, and Francis throws his arm over Ron's shoulders before
raising his flute to the crowd.

"Everyone raise a glass for Ron Weasley, the Cannons' new lead defensive strategist!"
The room breaks into a roar.

Hermione turns to Donnelly to ask what exactly a lead defensive strategist does, but he's
disappeared from her side.

"The Cannons are eternally grateful for Weasley's sharp mind and clever strategies. Must be all
that chess, eh?" Francis elbows Ron good-naturedly. "But he's been an integral part of the team for
a long time now, and I'm thrilled to see him taking over our defense. But enough from me, let's
hear a few words from the man himself!"

Ron and Francis tip their flutes together, then Ron turns to the crowd.

"Merlin, I bloody love the - " Ron pauses with a wince. "Am I allowed to say that?"

Scattered cheers and laughter bubble up around the room.

Ron shrugs, quite pleased with himself. "Sorry, I s'pose. But I'd always loved the Cannons, and
this is the best job a bloke could ask for. I never thought I'd get to spend all day on the pitch -
wasn't entirely sure I'd live past school, of course."

They love it. They love him. Hermione feels small by comparison, clutching her lukewarm glass of
wine. Someone pries it out of her fingers and replaces it with an ice cold flute of champagne.

Ron continues with his speech. "A good friend said to me years and years ago that I seemed bored
and aimless after Hogwarts. I was furious, of course, but she was right, you know."

Hermione tenses, and a thin ringing starts in her ears.

"I just don't think I realized it until Francis here saw something in me - whatever talent or skill it
was that she - well, of course you all must guess it's Hermione - saw in me too."

Ron gives her a small wave, and the entire room turns to look at her.

The blood drains from her face, and she can only stare back at him in shock.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you then, 'Mione," Ron says more softly now. "You were right to push me. I
couldn't have done this - wanted this - without you."

Someone near Hermione sighs longingly.

"Shame she had to marry a Malfoy," someone else whispers.

Oh god oh god oh god.

"To Hermione Granger!" Francis calls out, raising his glass.

"To Hermione Granger!" Ron agrees cheerfully.

Hermione raises her glass back and tries to swallow the heavy dread in her throat.

As soon as the party's attention turns back to Ron and Francis, Hermione slips out of the room and
makes her way down an empty corridor where she hopes no one will follow. All the doors are shut
and locked tight, but toward the end of the corridor, she spots one door that is just barely cracked
open. Hermione pushes on it, and she's granted entrance to what looks like Francis' father's office.

She steps through the door and pulls it shut behind her with a sigh, cutting off the noise from the
party.

Peace.

The room is lined with shelves full of books and small trinkets. Hermione wanders around the
perimeter, dragging her finger across the spines. The titles are largely unfamiliar, but she pulls one
off the shelf to examine its contents.

Its pages are blank.

Hermione rolls her eyes and replaces the book. She'd heard of wizards stocking their offices and
libraries with fake books to lend themselves a studious appearance, and she can't help but loathe
the practice.

Gods, she never should have come to this blasted party. She could kill Ron for that stupid speech.
He ought to have apologized ages ago, but he should have said something to her in private. Not in
front of a crowd of strangers. Not playing their friendship out for everyone to see.

It'll be in the Prophet tomorrow, surely. Hermione can see the headlines now.

RIFT RECONCILED BETWEEN OLD LOVERS - PERHAPS A SECOND CHANCE FOR THE
CANNONS COACH AND THE GOLDEN GIRL?

"This is a nightmare," she mutters to herself, turning away from the blank books to examine the
desk. The rest of Bennett Pinter's office seems in order, but the desk is scattered with loose
parchment and a large, black diary.

Hermione flips open the cover of the diary. She's not curious, exactly, but at least it's a book with
writing in it. A few pages at the front have lists of accounts with corresponding numbers, but
Hermione can't make heads nor tails of it at a glance.

Just before Hermione closes the diary, she notices something odd. The embossed crest at the head
of the paper is Francis' uncle's crest, one that Mr. Pinter had once bragged about creating with his
wife. They'd merged together symbols from both their families in the new design. The outcome
looks rather tasteless in Hermione's opinion, and it's not nearly as sharp as the letterhead that
Francis used for his party invitation.

"Mr. Pinter must have left his diary here," Hermione surmises, letting the book fall closed.

A loud laugh booms from the hall.

Francis.

The next voice that cuts through the silence belongs to Evanswood.

Hermione glances around the room in panic. Gods, she can't manage talking to them right now.
Could she duck behind the long, thick curtains? No, there's too great a chance of discovery, and
she'd rather not explain why she's hiding in Francis’ father's office.

Trapped. Hermione backs up to the wall, pressing her back against a closet door. Francis' voice
grows louder, and Hermione watches the knob of the office door turn. Perhaps she can simply melt
away -

The closet door behind her clicks open, and a strong arm drags her inside the closet and yanks her
against a broad, strong chest.

Hermione prepares to scream, but a wide hand covers her mouth. She jabs her elbow into the man's
gut, and his omph is drowned out by Francis' enthusiastic prattling as they walk into the office.
Hermione whips out her wand in an instant and digs the tip into the man's throat - or at least where
she thinks this throat might be - and whispers "Lumos."

She blinks at the familiar face looming over her. Surely there's been some mistake. Her eyes must
be playing tricks.

Malfoy.

His firm hand grips her wrist, forcing her wand down to her side.

"Get that thing away from my face," he hisses.

Hermione casts a quieting charm around the small, dusty closet. The only thing she can imagine
worse than Francis and Evanswood finding her in Bennett Pinter's office is them finding her in a
closet in said office, chest to chest with her husband.

She yanks her hand out of Draco's grip and points the wand back at his scowling mug.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Hermione grits.

"What are you doing here?" Malfoy retaliates.

"I was invited!” replies Hermione, incredulous. What is she doing here, indeed.

Malfoy glares down at her. "Well, you certainly didn't say you'd be attending."

"What," Hermione scoffs. "I'm supposed to report to you now?"

"I don't care where you go, as long as you stay out of my way," Malfoy snaps hotly.

"I'd be happy to stay out of your way if you'd tell me what parties you're planning to sneak into!"

"What I do with my weekends is none of your business."

Hermione huffs at Malfoy. "I am your wife, and it's a party that I am invited to."

Malfoy bares his teeth at her and grabs her waist, pulling her against him even more than is strictly
necessary in the small space. "You are barely my wife."

"Barely?" Hermione feels particularly wicked and angry. "Because we barely consummated, is that
it?" She takes great pleasure in the shade of red that overcomes Malfoy's face. His hands tighten
around her as though he has the faint thought that he might like to break her in half. She'd like to
see him try.

"You lied to me," Malfoy growls, leaning over her. "You said you were going to the Potter's flat."

"I lied." A harsh laugh bubbles past Hermione's lips, and her already delicate patience snaps. "I
lied?" She digs her wand into Malfoy's throat again, and he visibly swallows. "You must be
 fucking joking, Malfoy. I lied? You don't tell me anything about what happened with Adrian
Pucey. You throw me some half excuse about what Daphne Pucey and her son were doing in our
dining room – "

"My dining – "

Hermione digs her wand in further, and Malfoy wisely bites his tongue. "Our dining room, you
imbecile, because you married me, so it's ours now. I have done my best to be kind and
understanding because Millicent has made all sorts of excuses for you and how difficult your life
has been and how you're really a lovely person, underneath it all . I have ignored your moods and
entertained your ridiculous complaints about my job performance and tried to keep to myself, but
you barge in rudely on every occasion to antagonize me and insult me and I have had enough."

She pauses to catch her breath, and Malfoy's gaze briefly flickers down to her lips. His hands slide
down just barely onto her hips, and he leans down as though he's going to capture her mouth.
Hermione feels suddenly flustered and distracted and she hates that he does this to her, that the
mere friction of his shirt against her clothed breasts sends something spiraling down to her core, so
she dodges his lips and gives him a swift kick in his good shin.

"Stop doing that!" she insists shrilly, pressing her thighs together as Malfoy clutches his leg.

"Stop what?" Malfoy croaks. "I can't believe you fucking kicked me!"

"Oh please, I aimed for your good leg! And stop looking at me like - like that."

"I'm looking at you normally!"

"Gods, never mind that," Hermione groans. "What are you doing at Francis' home?"

"It's none of your business, Granger."

She scowls and smacks Malfoy's shoulder. "Tell me the truth for once, you absolute leech of a
human."

"Stop shoving - fine. Theo. It was Theo's idea."

"Merlin save me from bloody foolish men." Hermione narrows her eyes at him. "Let me guess.
He's here too, isn't he?"

Malfoy shrugs, rolling out his shoulders. "He's outside with Greg."

"Greg too?" she hisses. "I'm going to hex every single one of you fools. What on earth were you
thinking, sneaking in here?"

"We had a plan," Malfoy snaps. "Just go back to your silly little party, and we'll be out of your hair,
okay?

Hermione folds her arms and scoffs in disbelief. "Absolutely not. You and I are leaving together,
and the three of you bumbling buffoons can explain to me exactly what it is you're up to."

Chapter End Notes

Posting early because I liked a comment I got this morning. Everyone say thanks to
Bliss14 for making me laugh and putting me in a silly goofy mood.

Embarrassing story for the week: I dated a guy for four years who did not like me. I
dated a guy for two years who I did not like.
 Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The fire in the fireplace roars a bit too strong, but there's no denying that the uncomfortable heat
beneath their collars comes from Granger's look of fiery disdain.

Granger sits perched in all her glory on Draco's desk with a ramrod straight back. The dim light of
Draco's reading lamp sharpens the fine bones in Granger's face and darkens her narrowed eyes that
take turns surveying each of the men before her. Theo slumps in his seat, looking furiously
ashamed of himself. Greg returns Granger's sharp gaze with a casual curiosity. Draco bitterly notes
that Greg doesn't seem entirely perturbed by the interruption in their evening plans.

In fact, Draco suspects that there's a small curve at the edge of his typically taciturn mouth. He
thinks it's funny.

Greg folds his arms over his wide chest and leans back in the chair.

Oh, he absolutely thinks this is funny.

Granger's furious. That much, at least, Draco had noted in her swift kick to his good shin. Her dark
brown curls had escaped their neat placement back in Pinter’s closet while she'd cursed at him, but
Granger somehow had found time to tuck them back into place on their journey back to Malfoy
Manor. Draco swears her silky blouse has one more button undone, though, and her flowy skirt
nearly rides up her thigh where her legs are crossed.

She looks nearly untidy.

In other circumstances, Draco would allow himself to linger on that bit of soft skin, but he's
brimming with anger.

He's angry that he wants to look at her. So angry that his hand is sore from gripping his cane. So
angry that his jaw hurts from clenching it so tightly. Embarrassed, too, and perhaps even a bit
jealous. Jealous that Hermione Granger, Golden Girl, had been brushing elbows with people who
used to stumble over themselves for his acquaintance. Jealous that fucking Pinter and Weasel had
been able to flirt with her, dance with her, charm her with laughter and society. Embarrassed that
she'd thrown his performance in his face. Embarrassed that he'd been so caught up in her pure fury
that he'd wanted - tried - to kiss her, and she'd pushed him away.

But mostly, angry that every time he thinks he's taken a step forward in the last five years, he finds
himself two steps back.

Draco flexes his fingers on his cane and watches Granger scowl at them from on high.

A log in the fire pops, and Theo flinches at the noise.

"Well," Granger growls. "Which one of you would like to begin?"

Greg looks at Theo first, but Theo avoids his gaze in favor of the fireplace. Draco knows he's next,
so he steels himself and meets Greg with a recalcitrant stare.

Greg shakes his head at Draco, lets out an exasperated huff, then turns to Granger. "There is a
possibility that the Pinters are involved to some degree in a plot against the Organized Muggle-
born Alliance."

"What kind of plot?" Granger asks.

Always trying to solve the mystery.

A thought - an epiphany - snags his attention.

Now there’s an idea.

Draco watches her face. Her eyes are widened slightly in surprise, and the color in her cheeks is
blushing high. It's not the same blotchy blush of embarrassment or red blush of lust he’s seen on
her face before. She's rosy pink with the thrill of curiosity.

It's beautiful on her, and he digs his fingernails into his palm.

"We're not sure of the exact nature," Greg continues. "Theo is friends with the President of the
OMA, and he's expressed suspicions about the family. He asked Theo to see what he could learn
without sounding any alarms prematurely."

Granger turns to Theo. "Linden Donnelly consulted you?"

"You know who Donnelly is?" Theo looks up from the fire in surprise.

"Of course she knows who Donnelly is," snaps Draco. "In case it's escaped your notice, Granger is
a rather prominent Muggle-born herself and also not an idiot."

She reads the papers, for Salazar's sake.

"Fucking Merlin, it was just a question," Theo growls.

Granger shoots Draco a look of reproof. "Yes, I know who Donnelly is. I actually met him at the
party tonight. Did he know you would be canvassing?"

"Donnelly was at the party?" Theo asks, sitting up in his chair.

"I'll take that as a no," scoffs Granger. "Several members of the OMA were present. But please,
continue. What are Donnelly's suspicions?"

"Donnelly and his treasurer, Duncan Meyers, have some concerns about sabotage to the OMA. We
were..." Greg shoots Draco a questioning look.

Adrian Pucey.

Draco just barely shakes his head, signaling that Greg should keep quiet on that topic. He feels
Granger note the silent exchange.

She catches everything, that one.

Observant. Attentive to detail.

Draco knows he’ll have to tell her eventually - soon - but he wants to hold on to the story until his
temper has abated. He needs to be in control, to know he won’t lash out at Granger for not
believing him or for calling him a fool.
She doesn’t owe him faith, after all, or respect. He hasn’t earned that.

Greg continues. "We were involved with stopping another attempt a while back, so Donnelly
reached out to us again when Meyers raised some concerns. They've been receiving some…
significant, anonymous donations, and we're trying to determine who the benefactor is and what
their motivations may be."

"An anonymous benefactor seems harmless," Granger points out. "Why all the concern?"

"It's very important to Meyers that the OMA stay above board. He doesn't want any money coming
in from unethical sources, and he's exceedingly paranoid after all these years," Greg explains.

"And where do the Pinters come in?"

It's a weak connection, in all fairness, and Granger is right to question it. Draco leans forward in
his chair and pulls his glasses out of his pocket. Granger's eyes flash his way as he slides them on,
but her attention quickly returns to Greg.

Excellent focus.

Greg shrugs. "Meyers doesn't like Francis Pinter's interest in the OMA. It seems to have come on
rather suddenly, and the Pinters have too many family connections who haven't exactly renounced
prior allegiances to Voldemort or his ideals."

"We don't have any solid leads on Pinter, but the party seemed like a good time to do some
surveillance and see if we could find anything of interest," Theo finally pipes in.

"So that's why you were so eager for Millicent to invite you," Hermione muses.

Seeks to understand motivation.

Theo stiffens. A dark shadow casts over his face. "It would have been helpful to have someone else
inside. I could have warned Draco that you had snuck away, for example."

"Lucky for me that you missed out on that opportunity," Hermione snaps. "You should have just
told us what you were up to. You didn't need to try to weasel your way into the event."

Theo stands from his chair and crosses over to the mantle. He plucks off a small, iron statuette and
passes it between his hands. "I don't want Millie involved. It's a dangerous business."

Granger laughs. "Are you being serious? Millicent pummeled half of Hogwarts as a fourth year.
She takes boxing lessons three times a week. Millicent could knock out ten men before any of you
could cobble together a basic defensive spell. I think you're far better off worrying about yourself
than about Millicent. A dangerous business indeed. It would be less dangerous if you’d simply
asked us for help."

Appropriately assesses the abilities of an ally or an opponent.

Laughs in the face of danger . How very Gryffindor of her.

Draco wants to hear her laugh. Not this sharp, sarcastic bark or the small giggles at Theo's quips,
but a full and heady laugh from her gut like he hears when she's with Millicent. He thinks that he
could make her laugh, perhaps, given time.

"I said I don't want her involved," Theo growls, setting down the statuette with more force than
strictly necessary.

Granger snorts. "I'm not saying Millicent needs to be involved. She wouldn't insist on being a part
of your ridiculous plan, but she would have at least let you come along with the rest of us if you
had been less of an idiot about it.”

Theo's jaw drops. "I was not an idiot."

"Yes, you most certainly were, and don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about. I
hope you have an excellent apology planned because you're going to need to do better than those
pathetic flowers yesterday."

"I didn't send flowers!" Theo shouts.

"Oh?" Granger responds lightly. "My mistake. The flowers must have been from Prince Leo."

The innocent tilt of Granger's head is masterful. Theo's face turns nearly purple with rage, and he
splutters nonsense.

Assists with conflict management.

Puts colleagues in their places when they're being arses.

Draco makes his decision at that moment.

Greg continues, trying to break up whatever standoff Granger and Theo have entered. "The point is
-"

Draco leans forward and interrupts. "Are you going to help us, Granger?"

The room falls silent, and they all look at Draco in astonishment. Draco is a little proud of catching
even Greg unawares, but he keeps his gaze trained on Granger.

"What?" Theo and Greg say in unison.

"You want my help?" Granger asks as though she's unsure what he just said.

"Draco, you can't be serious," Theo protests.

Draco shrugs, still looking at Granger. Listen to me. "I'm perfectly serious."

"It's too dangerous!” Theo grits. “If we're responsible for getting the Golden Girl killed - "

"Don't call me that," Granger hisses, bouncing off the desk and stalking towards Theo. "And too
dangerous? Who do you think you are to tell me what is too dangerous? Perhaps you’ve forgotten
exactly who I am and what I’ve done, including but not limited to nearly bleeding out on the floor
of this fucking manor. I am extremely comfortable with dangerous business, Theodore Nott, and I
daresay I can solve this mystery and any other much faster than you lot."

"What makes you think you can suss it out so quickly?" Theo replies hotly.

Greg groans. "Please don't respond to that. He's been in a pissy mood all week."

"I have not - "

"I'll answer it," Draco drawls. "Granger has a sharp mind. She's an excellent problem solver and
communicator, as evidenced by her work with the DIMC. She has reasonable cause to spend time
around the OMA as well as the Pinters, so she wouldn't raise suspicion where our presence might.
She knows her way around dark magic and breaking into places she's not supposed to be."

Granger blushes a pretty color at that last bit. Pride, he thinks. Draco tucks the memory away for
later.

"Not to mention," he continues, "Granger was a fucking Budgie for two months, so she knows a
thing or two about tracking Galleons. When was the last time you balanced your accounts, Theo?"

Theo scowls. "I have someone who manages that sort of thing."

"Exactly," Draco says. "So what will it be, Granger?"

Granger stares at each of them unflinchingly. Draco watches her weigh what they've told her,
which is not everything, but is enough, he thinks, to convince her.

"You're not going to make him beg, are you?" Theo huffs.

Draco grits his teeth and decidedly ignores the image that Theo’s words conjure.

"Fine," Granger snaps. "What are your next steps?"

"We haven't made any," Greg replies. "I'm afraid you interrupted our latest plan of action. Unless
you two learned something?"

Draco shakes his head. "I didn't see anything out of the ordinary."

"Let me see what you have so far," Granger says, making her way back to the desk. "Perhaps fresh
eyes will be helpful."

They look at her blankly.

"What we have?" Greg echoes.

"Yes," Granger replies impatiently, ticking off a list on her fingers. "Ledgers, notes, collected
evidence, maps, lists of persons involved, so on and so forth."

Theo blinks at her, baffled. "We don't have anything like that. We've only just begun."

"You're conducting an investigation and you don't have any files?" Granger tsks at the men. "Gods,
nothing ever changes. I'm going to need something to review before we move forward."

Theo shifts uneasily. "I suppose I could fetch my correspondence from Donnelly and Meyers."

"You'd better!" Granger barks. "I expect to see everything you have on this desk tomorrow before
breakfast."

She raps the surface of the desk with her knuckles, and Theo flinches again. Awfully on edge.

Greg stands from his chair. "We have a good bit of work to do, then."

"Yes, you do. I am exceedingly tired from today's events, so I look forward to reviewing everything
tomorrow," Granger says. "And remember, before breakfast. I’ll need to review before we discuss
everything at dinner."
"Dinner? Tomorrow?" Theo asks just before he steps into the Floo.

"Don't be ridiculous. That's hardly enough time for me to organize whatever you scrounge
together," Granger says, flouncing out of the room. "Monday should do just fine. We might as well
solve this sooner rather than later, hadn't we?"

The door shuts behind her with a final click. Theo groans and steps through the fireplace to gather
what he has, and Draco and Greg are left standing in the silent room.

Greg turns toward Draco with a raised eyebrow. "That was a very pretty speech you made for
Hermione."

"I just stated the obvious," Draco scowls, yanking a sheet of parchment out of his desk to begin the
requested lists. "She's very smart, you know."

The mystery makes her adrenaline rush.

Hermione paces the floor of her sitting room for several minutes before calling up Bogby for some
sandwiches. Her fingers twitch to write down every time she's run into Francis at the Ministry. Are
there any articles about the OMA in the Prophet in recent months? She makes a note to go through
the archives when they open Monday to see what she can find. Hermione's mind races through
different avenues of possibility as she shakes down her carefully pinned updo from the night, and
she twists her curls into a messy plait to keep it all mostly out of her face as she washes the day off
her face.

She gets a glimpse of her expression in the mirror as she cleans up for bed, and there's an edge - a
drive - in her eyes that she hadn't realized she'd missed.

Hermione thinks she looks more like herself than she has in years.

The clock chimes the late hour, and Hermione turns off the sink. Her pulse is still racing. Her body
screams to do something, but there's nothing to be done at this time of the night. A cup of tea will
help, she surmises, and perhaps a book. Hermione wanders back into the sitting room and curls up
into a chair next to the fire, tucking her feet under herself. She pours out a bit of tea, and just as
soon as the novel's heroine finds herself locked in a castle with a dark beast, a determined presence
knocks at her door three times.

Hermione carefully shuts her book and stares at her door.

It's late.

Surely too late for him to come to her rooms, right?

Hermione stands from her chair and makes her way over to the door, pulling her wrapper tight up to
her neck. She twists the handle, and the door swings open.

He takes up the entire frame, and his shirt is unbuttoned rather low, in Hermione's opinion, and she
thinks his eyes briefly flicker to where she clutches her wrapper together.

"We still have some unfinished business," Malfoy says before he brushes past her.
Hermione holds in a small whimper and squeezes her thighs together. "Hello."

Malfoy ignores her question and snatches the bottle of whisky off the bar cart along with two
glasses. "Would you like one?" he offers gruffly, raising the glasses to her.

His hand nearly wraps around the entire glass. Hermione swallows.

"Yes. Yes, whisky is fine." She doesn't particularly care for whisky, but her throat isn't working
quite properly.

Malfoy's hands tremble just slightly as he pours out an inch for each of them before he motions to
the chairs by the fire. Hermione wonders if it's another one of his old injuries, or if he’s under the
influence of whatever late-night spell seems to be affecting her as well. Malfoy's grey eyes are even
and controlled behind his glasses, and he stands tall even with his cane at his side as he waits for
her to take a seat.

She must be imagining things.

Hermione takes the glass from Malfoy and sits close to the fire, primly crossing her ankles under
the chair.

"I believe I owe you another explanation," Malfoy says. "Pucey was on your list of demands, yes?"

Oh.

Hermione tries to shake off whatever mood has overcome her and clears her throat before
responding.

"Yes. I'd like to know how I'm to defend my husband when he's accused of murder."

Malfoy looks down into his glass. "I'd rather you not defend me too much, but I suppose you ought
to know the truth of it, if it matters to you."

"It does matter."

Malfoy's gaze on her is piercing. It reminds Hermione of the other night when he'd come to her
room to discuss Daphne Pucey and her son. Malfoy searches for something in her face, and he
seems to find it, because he nods with resignation and a sigh.

"Adrian had been good friends with us all, you see."

"Us all?" Hermione echoes.

Malfoy lets out a small laugh. "Us Slytherins, I suppose. A good number of us grew up together.
He and Daphne especially had been close, and as we got older, it became clear that he was serious
about her. We all thought they were ridiculous for getting engaged so young, but I suppose it made
sense at the same time."

"A lot of people were doing the same thing." Ginny and Harry hadn't been the only ones to rush to
the altar.

"After school, Adrian started acting strange. We'd all been through a lot, naturally, and Adrian
made a big show out of proving he'd changed, yet he'd make odd comments now and then,
especially if something made him particularly angry. I mean, you probably saw the papers. He was
involved in all kinds of work to support Muggle-born interests. He and Donnelly became friends.
That's how Theo met Donnelly, actually."

"Through Adrian?"

"Yes. Theo happened upon them at a party through a girl who invited him along. He said that
Adrian had seemed irritated to see Theo there, and he was quite reluctant to introduce him to
Donnelly. Theo thought it was weird, but he and Donnelly hit it off pretty well, so he didn't pay it
any attention. Adrian had always been a little jealous of Theo at Hogwarts, so Theo imagined that
Adrian was upset at having to share another friend."

"But it wasn't just jealousy," Hermione murmurs.

"No." Malfoy stands from his chair and paces over to the mantle. "Daphne came to me one day
with a letter she'd come across. A creditor calling in their dues, apparently. She asked Adrian about
it, even suggested they postpone the wedding so he wouldn't be in any more difficulty, but he
assured her that it was a simple mistake and he'd have his father take care of it.”

“Daphne was worried, though, so she asked if I could look into it and perhaps help him if he really
was in a bad way. His father had always been careless with their finances. He'd contributed a great
deal to Voldemort, so it wouldn't be surprising if the Puceys were having difficulties, and of course
I'd be willing to help if there were a problem. We all would. Especially because Daphne found out
she was pregnant around that time, and their parents wanted them to push up the wedding before
she started showing."

Willing to help. It's a theme that Hermione keeps noticing. Malfoy swirls the remaining liquid in
his glass then downs it before he continues.

"So I looked into it, mostly for Daphne, but also for Adrian. There were... substantial debts. I told
Daphne to wait to marry him. Not because of the money, of course, but because he'd lied to her
about it. She insisted on going through with it. Daph really loved him, you know, and she said he
was just ashamed, and they'd work it out eventually. I approached one of the larger creditors
myself to see if I could privately come to an arrangement without Adrian knowing, but they told
me the debt had already been resolved."

"Where did he get the money?" Hermione asks.

A crooked smile forms on Malfoy's face, and he runs his hand over his jaw. "Never found out who
it was, but we did figure out what it was for. Someone had convinced him to kill Kingsley
Shacklebolt and frame Linden Donnelly for it."

Kill Kingsley.

Hermione's blood turns cold.

"You didn't report him to the Ministry?"

"My best friend's husband? With her new little baby? Never." Malfoy chokes out a laugh. "No,
Theo and Greg and I decided we could talk to him. For Merlin's sake, it was Adrian Pucey, you
know? A right arse, but weren't we all? I wanted us to be wrong, so we kept gathering evidence to
make sure of it. Daphne even agreed to help because she was so certain that Adrian wouldn't - "

Malfoy shakes his head.

"I thought we could talk some sense into him, and he'd realize what a fool he was being. We had
the money if he needed it, after all. I thought that if I showed him I had proof, I could stop him.
But it didn't stop him. It turns out it was about more than money."

"It was about Muggle-borns."

"Yes, it was. There was a small ring of us who helped the Order toward the end of the war. Adrian
hadn't been a part of it, but I always imagined he'd been too afraid. I didn't blame him, exactly. We
were still children then."

"Yes." Hermione looks at her hands, clutching the glass of whisky. "We were."

"He was so angry," Malfoy continues. "I didn't think a person could be that angry. I thought he'd
been my friend, but it turns out I hadn't really known him for a long time. When push came to
shove, I wasn't going to let that old friendship ruin lives. End lives, you know."

"So you killed him?" Hermione asks.

"I didn't, actually. Adrian was the one to cast the spell, and something went wrong with it. Dug his
own grave, I'm afraid, and left me half in mine."

Hermione studies Malfoy, tall and solemn with the warm glow of the fire flickering over his
scarred jaw. "You're not half in the grave."

He seems incredibly alive.

Malfoy looks up at her. "It felt like I was."

"Why didn't you say what really happened?"

"To what end? Adrian was dead, and we didn't know who he'd been plotting with."

"People think you killed a good man, but you didn't," Hermione insists. "You stopped a bad man."

"What happens to Daphne and Benedict, then, if Adrian is the bad man?" Malfoy argues. "Cast out,
just like I've been. No, it's far better this way. Daphne can raise her son however she likes, and one
day she'll explain it all to Ben, but he'll never have to live with the shadow of what his father did.
I'll be the bad man just to give him that life."

"Is that why Astoria left?" Hermione asks carefully. "She didn't want the shadow?"

"Astoria felt that I had acted too rashly." Malfoy's voice is bitter. "She suggested that had I kept my
nose out of Adrian's business and let him do a good job of it, we'd have far less to worry about."

Hermione winces. "That must have been difficult."

"I was not in love with her, Granger. I was only disappointed that I had a mistakenly high opinion
of people I'd considered friends."

"You weren't mistaken about all of them."

Malfoy nods. "Greg did his best to keep me out of Azkaban. Didn't work, of course, but at least it
was a brief stay."

"What did he do, exactly?" Hermione asks. "I always wondered."

"Money, naturally. And he agreed that I would willingly participate in the Marriage Act program."
 "And that's where I came in," she laughs drily.

Malfoy looks down at her, and a look of regret passes over his face. "I'm sorry if this has caused
you any difficulty."

"Not really," Hermione says. "It was news for a bit, of course, but no one seems to think about it
these days."

"I figured you'd be okay," Malfoy replies with a wry smile. "You're too bright. The shadows can’t
touch you."

The way Malfoy looks at her makes her feel bright in that moment. Warm, right down to her core.

Malfoy tears his eyes away and clears his throat. "It's late. I'm sorry for keeping you up."

"No, it's fine," Hermione rushes, standing from her chair. Her half empty cup sits on the side table.
"Thank you for telling me."

"Of course. Goodnight." Malfoy strides across the room to the door. Hermione trails behind him,
quite unsure what she's doing, but perhaps he ought to stay for another drink, or -

Malfoy spins around and nearly knocks into her.

"This is your glass." It's empty, still in his hand. Malfoy holds it out to her. Hermione stares down
at it for a moment, and then looks back up at him.

It's just a drink. Perhaps we can talk more, get to know one another better.

"Malfoy," she begins, fiddling with the tie on her wrapper. "Would you like to - "

"Yes."

The glass shatters as Malfoy drops it. Before a gasp can escape Hermione's throat, Malfoy's hands
wrap around her waist and yank her against him, and he catches her mouth in a brutal, searing kiss.

Chapter End Notes

NOW YOU KNOW.

For those of you who have been watching that chapter count go up... I will not be
apologizing. If you've been with me a while, you know that I have no control over
these things. The story happens to ME and I just deliver it to you.

Also, guys I love all your comments and I know I am super behind in replying to them
because I am currently fixated on gardening. Maybe one day I'll be caught up? No
promises. Y'all are the greatest though and I get so many giggles out of reading your
thoughts and reactions.

Embarrassing story of the week: I've been in a few weddings over the years and there
were two specific bridesmaid dresses that honestly made me feel like the bride didn't
actually like me because why would you do that to a friend??? Mortifying AF that I
was *professionally photographed* in those getups.
 Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

"Would you like to - "

“Yes.”

Granger’s invitation is all the encouragement Draco needs. He hardly registers the glass shattering
on the floor because he’s kissing her again.

Merlin, she feels just like he'd remembered, and Draco nearly groans against her mouth. Her lips
are soft and yielding, and she parts for him with a slight gasp. She tastes like Granger - perfect,
clean, spiced with a touch of spearmint. Draco grips the gentle curve of her waist, pinning her
firmly against him. He wants to crush her to him, to twine his fingers through her curls and twist
her head to the side so he can mark her neck. He's driven to possess her, or to let her possess him.
Either or both will do. The room feels a little upside down and he can't tell which way is up when
Granger's fists tighten on his shirt and drag him down closer to her.

It's a subtle movement, a quiet encouragement where she’s otherwise collected. How is Granger so
in control? How does she kiss him back like that, primly and politely, only her clenched fingers
hinting that she might want this too?

Draco probably seems crazed in turn. His hands grasp at her body, dancing around like he's
fevered. He wants to feel her all at once but has no idea where to linger - her full arse, the width of
her hips, her curls, her thighs, her fingers, her neck. Every bit of her demands his attention. He cups
Granger's fine jaw in his hands, relishing in the silkiness of her skin as he drags his thumbs over her
cheeks and weaves his fingers into her hair.

Granger sighs in response. A soft, little slip of a sound, but Draco swallows it anyway, hungry for
whatever she'll give him. Her hands finally loosen their grip on his shirt, and she slides them up
around his neck. Her fingers are light and cool over his skin. Gods, he's burning up. He'd thought
he may never touch Granger again, and here she is now, letting him back her up against the desk.
Draco pushes her wrapper back from her hips so he can run his hand up her thigh. Granger whines
as Draco rolls his hips against hers, letting her feel his growing erection. Her fingernails dig into
his skin, and Draco finally groans at the sharp pain. He cups her arse through the thin cotton of her
nightdress. He should tear it to pieces - rip it and the wrapper off her - he's too desperate to bother
with undressing. He lifts her up onto the desk with ease, and Granger's knees fall apart. Draco
yanks her to the edge of the desk, pressing his length to her core.

"Feel that?" he hisses, grinding against Granger. See what you do to me? See how I'm desperate for
you? He needs to show her the other night was a fluke, an accident, and he can play her body like a
fucking violin if she'll let him. He can make her feel so good. He can make her sing like no one
else can, he's sure of it, if only she'll let him.

Granger whimpers, and Draco nearly comes undone. He moves her back on the desk - gods, he
wants to fuck her right here, make her see - but several somethings clatter as he sweeps his arm
over the desk, and there's a sound of glass hitting the ground and rolling.

Granger tries to pull away. "That's my ink," she protests against Draco's mouth.
"I'll buy you new ink," Draco growls, nipping at her lower lip. I'll buy you thousands of bottles, the
finest you could ask for, anything you want, just let me show you -

Granger sees reason - thank Merlin - and, after a pause, tightens her legs around Draco's waist. She
flexes her thighs, pressing herself against him, and drags her fingernails down his back. Yes, that's
my girl, touch me back, take what you want.

Draco slides his hand up to her still-clothed breast and runs his thumb over her pert nipple. She
arches against him with another small noise. Gods, he needs her naked. He needs to feel her under
him. Draco starts to guide her back, but a slight twinge in his knee reminds him that his leg may
not hold up. Don't disappoint her again. A bed, he needs a bed, needs to fuck her into a mattress -

"Bed," he gasps. "Let me take you to bed."

Granger's body freezes under his hands. Her lips stop moving against his. Dread fills his lungs.
Wrong. She's angry, she's scared, she doesn't want a bed, she only wants me over a chair or a desk
- Draco pulls back. He should search her face, see if he can read her thoughts in her eyes, but he
can't look at her. Can't bear the thought of her horrified expression. He stares at the light freckles
on her cheek instead.

"If you'd rather not, I can - "

"Yes," Granger interrupts, dragging his mouth back down to hers. "Bed, bed is good."

Oh, thank the gods.

Draco steps back and pulls Granger with him, letting her feet slide to the ground. He keeps her
waist tight against him, keeping their bodies as flush as he can. If this had been six years ago, he'd
have fucked her on the desk, or else he'd have carried her to her bed, legs wrapped around his hips,
or maybe he'd have taken her against a wall.

But six years ago, he hadn't really known Hermione Granger. He hadn't known how she blushes
and bites and thinks and laughs and smiles, and Draco thinks that he prefers this version of events.
He may not be able to fuck her against a wall, but at least he knows how she sounds.

Draco's not sure if he's pushing Granger back into her room or if she's dragging him, but the door
swings open and they're stumbling back into the warm glow from her fireplace. Gods, it smells
even more like her in here.

The bed. The bed. Granger's legs hit it first, and Draco pushes her back onto the mattress, and he
steps back to gaze down at her. Granger's lovely brown eyes are blown wide with lust. Gods, her
cheeks are blushing red, and the blush spreads down her neck to her chest, just like he'd hoped. Her
wrapper has fallen mostly open, and the swell of her breasts rises and falls with each deep breath
she takes. Her hair is as wild as her eyes, and her lips are bruised and swollen. All from him.

Draco can't look away.

Granger's conducting her own examination, and though Draco's still completely clothed, he itches
to shy away from her, to somehow hide himself. Her sharp gaze drifts from his obvious erection,
over his torso, up to his face. Her gaze locks with his, and she exhales.

Granger lets her knees slowly fall apart.

He's a dead man.

Draco feels like he's moving through quicksand as he raises his hands to the buttons on his shirt.
It's a momentous effort to keep his hands from shaking - steady now - as he unbuttons one, then
another.

Granger's eyes edge into hunger, and she openly stares where his shirt begins to part.

Oh. He remembers.

"Nox," Draco murmurs.

The room goes pitch black.

Draco feels a little disoriented in an unfamiliar room, but Granger lets out a small gasp at the
sudden darkness, and he steps forward toward the noise, letting his hands land on Granger's knees.
Draco slides his fingers up her thighs, gently, slowly, until he reaches the hem of her nightdress.

Thin cotton, barely there. He could tear in half, he could, but he pushes it up instead, letting her
wrapper part and fall to the side. He trails up her legs and lets his hands span her hips, tugging her
closer to the edge of the bed. Gods, how he wants to see her once he's taken it all off, but he'll settle
for her naked underneath him. Granger's stupid little sash stops his progress, though, so Draco
reaches for the tie. He tugs on the sash, but it doesn't budge.

Draco pulls again to no avail. It seems like the tie only tightens.

Granger sits up. "Here, let me - "

"I've got it," Draco insists, brushing her hands away. He follows the tail of the sash up the knot and
picks at it. Gods, he can't get his fingers under it. What the fuck has she done with it, charmed the
bloody thing?

"A little tight, don't you think?" he grits.

Draco can fucking hear the irritation in Granger’s voice. "I usually untie it before I turn the light
out."

He snorts in response because she’s bloody funny when she doesn’t mean to be, and he shouldn’t
laugh because the quip comes at his expense, but Draco finds he doesn’t care. He only wants to tell
her that she makes him laugh, but he doesn’t.

Thank the gods the knot finally loosens. Draco yanks the sash apart and drags her forward again.
Kiss her, make her forget. He cups her face and slants his lips over hers. Granger responds in turn,
wrapping her arms around his torso as Draco pushes the wrapper back off her shoulders. She
shimmies out of the sleeves, and the thin straps of her nightdress fall down too. Draco shoves the
fabric down - gods, he wants to touch her breasts, feel their weight in his hands. The dress bunches
at her waist.

"Mmph - " Granger grabs his wrists. "Over my head. Lift it over my head."

"Oh. Yes." Smart . Granger lifts her arms, and Draco yanks the dress up, and then it's gone, off
Granger, tossed to some corner of the room. Granger's hands fist in his shirt again, and then she's
the one working the buttons, pulling apart his shirt. Draco's pulse races - she wants him, she wants
to touch, she feels it too -

Granger's hand runs over the bumpy, scarred flesh on the left side of Draco's torso, and he flinches.
Hard.
No, no, no, not there, don't touch, don't look -

Her hand stops, and Draco tightens his hold on her hips in an iron grip.

"Not there," he snaps.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs against his lips. Her voice is soft and soothing and gentle. "Not there."

Gods, he's fucking shaking - fuck - Granger brushes her hands over his, and he loosens his hold.
She curls one hand around his hip and pulls him closer, nipping at his lip, coaxing his mouth open
again. Her other hand comes up to cup his face - the unscarred side of his jaw - and she presses her
forehead to his.

"Okay?" Granger whispers.

Of course. Or of course not. He can't decide. Can't think about it. Not now. Draco moves his
attention to her neck, kissing and sucking down the long column as he eases her back into the bed.
If he can kiss her, worship her breasts, she'll forget about his slip in composure. She'll only
remember the pleasure.

Granger lets Draco lower her down, and his mouth moves to her chest. Gods, how he wants to see
her, see those rosy tits that he's been dreaming about. He captures a nipple in his mouth and runs
the flat of his tongue over her.

"Why do you turn the lights out?" Granger asks, gasping as she arches into his mouth.

"Pucey left some nasty scars," Draco responds, kissing down her stomach.

"I'm sure they’re not so bad."

Draco runs his tongue through her folds then surges back up to her ear.

"Trust me," he says so viciously that it bears no argument. He thrust two fingers into her, and she
cries out, thank Merlin, and throws an arm over her head. Granger writhes underneath him, and her
small noises are more desperate now. Draco presses the heel of his palm to her clit - this is what
she'd liked, right? But his cock is nearly in pain. He's hard and starved for her, for all the softness
and edges and curls and cries. Draco pulls back just enough to yank open his trousers and let his
cock spring free.

Granger's moan as he slides into her is a treasure.

Draco closes his eyes in the dark and imagines that her mouth is wide open like his at the tight
squeeze. He wishes he could watch his cock disappear between her thighs, watch it drive into her -
gods, careful, can't spill too soon - fuck, she's beautiful . Draco can't see her, but he can feel her
sweet little cunt, feel her skin, feel the muscles shifting underneath, smell her hair or perfume or
whatever the fuck, hear the honey of her voice - he just knows. He just knows.

He pulls back and thrusts into her again, bottoming out, hips snug against her. Granger’s cunt
squeezes around him so tightly that his mind nearly goes blank. Has it ever been this good? Has he
ever felt so much like he’d die if he didn’t get more?

"Touch me," she gasps. "Please, Malfoy."

Draco obeys. His hand slides between them, searching for her clit. He runs his thumb over it,
circling it softly, trying to coax another cry from her throat.
Gods, his fucking leg twinges again - need to take her on the bed, need to show her how I can
make her feel. Another thrust, and Draco pulls out and flips Granger over, pushing her further onto
the mattress. She tilts her hips for him, and he drives into her and leans forward to brace himself on
the bed.

Draco's hand lands in a mess of curls, and Granger yelps in pain.

"Fucking Merlin - sorry - " Draco tries to shift his hand, but there's only more hair, so he shoves as
much as he can out of the way and lands on his forearm.

"A light might help, you know," she grits out. "If you don't want me to see you, you could always
tie a scarf over my eyes."

Tie a scarf -

Draco's cock jumps at the thought, and he bites down on his lip so hard he thinks it might bleed.

Granger blindfolded, tied up underneath him, crying out for release while he runs his tongue
through her folds for hours - his vision blurs into something darker, things he's sure Granger would
never let him do - and he groans before driving into her again.

"Next time," he gasps. "Find a little green scarf for you."

"Next time," she agrees. “But make it red.”

Draco chuckles, low and deep. “Whatever you want.”

"Next time," Hermione promises.

The words spill out of her mouth before she can consider their weight. She'd be more alarmed if
she weren't so busy arching her back so he can drive himself into her. Next time sounds like a
promise, a pledge, and this is probably a mistake, probably something they shouldn't be doing.
Gods, he feels so good, but this is a dangerous game. She shouldn't have let him come into her
room, her bed - it's too close - and then his cock hits her just right, and her moan echoes through
the room. How does he feel so good inside her? Why hadn't it been this good with anyone else?
Does it mean something?

Don't be ridiculous.

It's just sex.

Malfoy's hand drifts down to her clit again, teasing her as he rocks into her. There’s no pinching
this time at his size. He’s stretched her out, and she’s made room for him, and gods, she’s so wet.

People have good sex all the time. Anyone can be good at it. It doesn't mean anything.

He bites down on her shoulder. Fuck.

Besides, it had been so markedly bad last time - this could just be a fluke -

Malfoy's fucking her like he means it, though. Like he's trying to prove something. He's nearly
violent, and gods, does it do something to her core. His long fingers weave into her hair, yanking
her head to the side. He nips at her shoulder, her neck, her lower lip, soothing them all with kisses.

Just a fluke, probably. She'll be back at the London flat before too long anyway, and they've just
got to solve this thing with the OMA, and then she won't see him until next year -

Malfoy slides two fingers over her clit, pressing down at just the right angle.

Fuck.

Is it a fluke? Is it a fluke when she feels like she’ll burn up if he doesn’t push her over the edge?

"Let me feel you come around me, Granger," he growls into her ear. "Tell me how to make you
scream."

"That again," Hermione gasps, arching against him. "Straight over it, no circles, just on top."

Malfoy presses against her again, but it's too fast and not hard enough, and she doesn't know how to
describe the right angle. Hermione shifts her hips and tries to push back against his hand to chase it
herself, but she can't quite get it, and he's starting to shake with effort. His breathing deepens like
last time just before he’d -

Hermione screws her eyes shut. If only he'd pin her hands over her head - if only they were in her
office at the Ministry, and she had to be quiet. If only his hand was covering her mouth, muffling
every whimper she couldn't hold back. Hermione bites her lip, pretending that they're there, and
he's fucking her right to the edge with an unlocked door that anyone could burst through, and -

"Sing for me, Granger, let me hear you," Draco hisses.

Gods - she can't - she can't make a sound -

"Come for me," he whispers.

Hermione opens her mouth in a silent cry as she tips over the edge.

Sweet relief. Her body goes limp.

"Gods, Granger, that sound - fuck me - "

Malfoy groans and flexes his hips against her, and he shakes as he comes.

She's barely made a sound.

Draco's head begins to clear after emptying himself into her, and that's all he can think. Barely a
sound. How? How does she whine and cry and moan up until the end, and then finish silently? He'd
felt her tighten around him - she'd come, he knew she'd come but...

He's missing something. He must be missing what she wants, because if he'd done it right, Granger
would have screamed. She would have fucking screamed his name, but she hadn't screamed at all.

Draco slides out of her.

 Granger sighs and shifts in the dark. What the fuck is she doing? He wants to reach out and touch
her, to make sure she's still there near him. He wants to sit with her, twist her hair around his finger,
kiss her more, kiss her all night but -

"We've collected everything we had," Draco says. "It's on the desk in the study."

Granger's voice is all astonishment. "That didn't take you very long."

The double entendre sits there like a poisoned cup.

Draco hesitates before he responds. "We didn't have much."

"Well." Granger clears her throat. "No matter. I'll have a look in the morning."

"Very good."

"Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight."

Draco feels around for the door in the dark and knocks into something with his knee. He swears.

"Sorry," she apologizes from the bed.

"Not your fault," Draco grits back before firmly closing the door behind him.

The fire in Granger's sitting room still burns, and Draco surveys the scene. Her glass of whisky sits
nearly untouched on the small table, and her book lays carelessly beside it.

Draco strides across the room and flips through the pages.

"Fuck me," he swears under his breath. He pitches the book onto the couch and rubs his forehead.

He's fucked.

In what world would Granger want him, fucking it all up, rutting into her like a mindless teenager
at his first go when she's got books full of rugged Scots who can take her up against the wall, or in
the woods, or for hours on end in any number of positions beyond his meager imagination.

Gods, Granger probably wishes she'd taken that book to bed instead. Would have shown her a
fucking better time.

Would have made her really scream.

Draco stalks towards the door, but as soon as his hand touches the knob, he spins on his heel and
marches back over to the couch. He snatches up the book and tucks it under his arm.

Granger will be busy researching tomorrow, Draco reasons to himself. Perhaps he ought to stay
busy as well.

Chapter End Notes

Posting because Deanna made me.

Embarrassing story of the week: I'm supposed to be skiing today but I FELL ON MY
BUTT on a bit of ice in the parking lot. 15 people stopped to see if I was okay. It was
a big bruise to my ego, but not as big as the bruise that seems to be forming on my
behind. Currently back at the house sitting on a million pillows and enjoying Ritz
crackers paired with a lovely gin soda.
 Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione takes care to calm her fluttering stomach and check the glamour that covers the red
marks on her neck before she steps through the Floo at Millicent's flat. The living room is empty
and quiet, and there's no sign of life outside of two champagne glasses on the table, one with a red
lipstick imprint on the rim. Someone, apparently, hasn't yet found time to clean up from the night
before.

"It's nearly nine thirty," Hermione grumbles at the pillows on the sofa. "Honestly."

She hoists the stack of parchment into the room with her and peers into the kitchen. The kettle isn't
even hot. Hermione shakes her head and strides down the hall to Millicent's bedroom and pushes
through the door.

Millicent pulls her duvet off her face and lifts her head to see who her intruder is before sinking
back under the covers with a groan.

"Good, you're awake." Hermione hops onto the bed and sets down the stack of parchment.

"Barely," Millicent croaks. "What are you doing here so early?"

Hermione tugs the duvet off Millicent's face. "It's half past nine!"

"Yes, on a Sunday! Far too early for visitors."

"I'm not a visitor. I'm your friend."

"What if I had company?" Millicent moans, finally sitting up. A small, unhappy mewl sounds from
a lump next to her, and Hansel the black cat pokes his face out to see what the commotion is before
diving back under the covers. "Leo could have been in here, you know."

Hermione raises an eyebrow. "I'm sure he would be if you'd invited him, but I'm also sure that you
didn't invite him."

Millicent scowls at her and arranges a mountain of pillows behind her back.

No turning back now.

"Several things happened last night that I need to discuss with you," Hermione says, leaning
forward.

Millicent quirks an eyebrow. "Are you going to explain where you ran off to after Ron's speech?"

Embarrassment floods back. "Gods, I'd forgotten about that," Hermione gasps. "You don't think
anyone noticed that I left, did they?"

"I think a lot of people noticed. Thank Merlin that Ron didn't disappear too, or else you'd have
quite the headline on your hands. The popular narrative seems to be that you love him terribly but
think he deserves better than a sometimes lover married to his mortal enemy. It's quite tragic."

Gods. Hermione bites at a hangnail. This can't have come at a worse time. Perhaps she ought to
pay Rita Skeeter a friendly visit and remind her of the tenuous nature of their détente.

"Ron and Malfoy are hardly mortal enemies," she huffs. "So what if they had a few skirmishes
back at school? Ridiculous."

Millicent sighs deeply and reaches out to place a perfectly manicured finger on Hermione's nose.

"Before you say another word," Millicent whispers, "please go put on some coffee and call
downstairs for some pastries. Perhaps some pain au chocolat."

"Are you ill?" Hermione frowns, swatting away her finger.

Millicent closes her eyes. "I was overserved."

Millicent stares down with horrified astonishment at the spread of parchment over her bed. "You're
telling me that Draco snuck into Francis' party with just this to go on?"

"It was foolish," Hermione agrees. "I've done my best to pull out the main players and get things
into order. You should have seen the state of what they delivered to me this morning - it was a
travesty, truly - but at least we've got a clear plan forward now."

Millicent looks up at Hermione. "A clear plan?"

Hermione picks up a sheet of parchment with a list of deposits and hands it to Millicent. "How do
you feel about revisiting our Budgie friends?"

Millicent scans the sheet. "I thought I'd rather swallow slugs than ever go back to the Budgetary
offices, but you may have snagged my interest."

"Excellent. I'll find a reason to arrange a meeting with Pinter later this week."

"I've never been so excited to go to the office on a Monday," Millicent laughs, taking another sip of
her coffee.

Hermione gathers the parchment scattered over the bed into a neat stack and gazes down at the top
sheet, weighing whether or not she should continue with the musings that threaten to burst forward
from her mind.

She decides to push forward. Gently.

"You know," Hermione begins slowly. "Theo told me that he didn't want you to get caught up in
this business. He worried that it was too dangerous."

Millicent doesn't look up at her, focusing instead on her cup. Her jaw tightens. "If he's so
concerned about my safety, I'm sure he can find the time to tell me himself."

"I suppose you two haven't spoken since Tuesday?"

"In the five days since he was astonishingly rude to me?" Millicent's laugh is short and bitter. "No,
we have not spoken."
Gretel appears from nowhere and jumps onto the bed, sweeping her snowy white tail over the
duvet before settling into Millicent’s lap.

Hermione nods. "You must see he's upset over Leo, Millie. I think he doesn't know how to talk to
you about these things."

"Theo does nothing but talk," Millicent scoffs. "If he can't find the words, it's because he doesn't
have them. I know you think he's jealous, but that's not it."

"That could be it. It's not an excuse, not in the least, but it would explain why - "

"Please don't," Millicent interrupts. She smiles at Hermione, but her eyes shine with tears, and guilt
weighs heavy in Hermione’s stomach. "Please. What he's feeling is defensiveness, Hermione. Not
love. He cares for me like a sister and that's why he doesn't want me in harm's way or on Leo's
arm."

Hermione nods. "I'm sorry."

Millicent reaches across the bed to grab her hand, and Gretel meows in protest. "I know. Thank
you. I'm not angry with you. I just don't think it helps to discuss hypotheticals that aren't likely to
come true."

"My lips are sealed." Hermione squeezes Millicent's hand. "You won't hear another word from me
on the matter."

"Thank you." Millicent leans back and strokes the cat in her lap. She purrs with approval.

Hermione looks down at the torn bits of scone on her plate and drags a finger through the crumbs.
"There's something else I need to discuss with you."

"What is it?"

Hermione purses her lips. She ought to say it out loud - that's part of the reason she came to
Millicent's flat at this hour. Saying it out loud may make the whole thing less. If it's not a secret, it
doesn't really matter. If she shares it, the burden is halved. A secret shared with friends is light and
easy.

But some things are secret for a reason.

Millicent's face twists into disappointment. "Oh, please tell me you didn't actually run off because
of Ron. I know you two have a complicated history, but you've told me so many terrible things
about him over the years that I'm not sure I can ever recover."

"Oh, it's not so bad as that," Hermione rushes.

"Thank Merlin," Millicent laughs.

Hermione hesitates. "It might be as bad, actually, now that I think about it."

Millicent drops her scone and leans forward. "What's happened?"

"Well." Hermione picks at a thread in the duvet. Best get it over with. "Malfoy and I have slept
together."

Millicent's lips part in shock.

"Twice," Hermione adds. "Two times, actually."

"You slept with Draco?" she whispers.

"Yes."

Millicent blinks.

Hermione's throat tightens, and she shrinks back on herself. "Have I made a terrible mistake?"

"No!" Millicent reassures her, snapping out of whatever fugue state she'd gone to. "Not at all, that's
not what I meant. I just thought you didn't like him. He's never been very kind to you, that is. You
never really seem to talk about him."

"You're right. You're absolutely right. I just... I enjoy our conversations, and there's something
about..."

Millicent waits expectantly.

"Well, he's very good looking, obviously," Hermione grumbles.

Millicent smiles. "Does that mean you're thinking of staying at the Manor after the holidays are
over?"

"Oh, no, I don't think it's anything like that," Hermione flushes. "I'm not even sure it will happen
again."

"Do you want it to happen again?" Millicent asks.

Hermione climbs out of bed and starts sorting the papers to be refiled back at the Manor.

"No. Maybe. I'm not sure." Gods, find your words. "It hasn't exactly been... breathtaking. But it
seems like it should be - or could be, perhaps. Something about the way he looks at me makes it
seem like it should be incredible. And when he touches me, it is really quite unlike anything else."

"Hmm." Millicent's small hum speaks volumes.

"But then when it actually happens..." Hermione crinkles her nose. "I fizzle."

"Perhaps you're still getting to know one another," Millicent suggests.

Hermione shrugs. "I'm not sure. Ron and I knew each other very well, and that didn't seem to make
much of a difference."

"Well, you and Draco will have plenty of time to get to know one another better, especially now
that you're involved in this business with the OMA."

"The OMA project is strictly professional," Hermione tells her. "I'm sure we won't have any time
for romance."

"I think you ought to see it through," Millicent says with a smile. "Think of how perfect it would be
to fall in love with someone you're already married to."

Hermione snorts. "It would be an inconvenience, actually. An enormous inconvenience."

Draco jumps nearly out of his chair when Theo bursts into his office, but Greg only sighs and rolls
his eyes.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Theo says rather loudly as he stalks over to the liquor cabinet and
pulls out a small, golden bottle.

Draco shakes his head in protest. "Not that one, that's an expensive bottle from - "

"You know who I just saw in the hall, Draco?" Theo turns around. "Guess. Please guess. Greg, you
can go next if he gets it wrong."

"Bogby? Granger?" Draco shrugs. "I don't think anyone else is here."

Theo laughs. "Granger? She's still Granger, is she? Greg, you want some of this? Sounds like it's
good stuff."

"Stop pouring out my good - "

"Get to the point, Theo," Greg sighs. "What is it you want to tell us?"

Theo narrows his eyes at Draco. A mild panic sinks into his stomach. There's no way for him to
know. It must be something else - had he switched around the wine in the cellar?

"Me?" Theo snorts. "I don't have anything to tell you two. However, I would love for someone in
this room to tell me how it's possible that, in the last twenty four hours, Hermione Granger has
somehow acquired two new love marks on her neck?"

Oh no. Blood drains out of his face.

Greg, ever composed and always in control, chokes on his drink.

"Hermione?" he rasps.

"Still Granger, apparently, don't forget that."

Greg ignores Theo. "Did you really sleep with her, Draco?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Draco snaps. "She's my wife, after all."

"She's going back to London in less than two months, isn't she?"

The ugly reminder twists his stomach, but Draco schools his face into nonchalance and shrugs.
"What of it? At least I'll have my home back to myself."

Greg gives him a cutting look. "I don't believe you mean that, Draco."

He doesn't. Of course he doesn't. Of course he can't bear the thought of being alone in this fucking
manor for nine months until Granger dances back through with her ridiculous curls and ink-
smudged jumpers and laughter and cleverness.

"Of course he doesn't mean it," Theo exclaims. " She has a sharp mind. She's very smart, you
know. Gods, only you would get hard talking about what a fucking genius your girlfriend is."
"She's my wife!"

"Barely," Theo mutters.

Draco narrows his eyes at Theo. "Fully my wife."

"She's not your wife just because you fucked her!" Greg exclaims, sinking his head into his hands.

"I think the marriage certificate suggests otherwise," Draco snaps.

"You know, you should ask her to dinner," Theo suggests. "Maybe you can take her to a show. I
think Granger likes the theater. I can ask - "

Theo's mouth snaps shut, and his face goes a little grey.

"Oh, yes, you're the authority on women. I forgot." Draco folds his arms and leans back in his
chair. "Tell us, how are things going with Millie? Gone back to grovel yet?"

Greg groans. "Have either of you considered not being arses to the women you're interested in?"

Draco falls silent, and Theo takes a sip of the extremely expensive whisky in his glass.

"I'm working on it," Draco finally says.

A clock chimes in the hall, and Greg checks his watch.

"Fuck," he curses. "I have to go."

"Late for an appointment with your lover?" Theo huffs.

"Yes. I am." Greg throws back the rest of his drink.

"We know it's Pansy," Theo snaps.

Draco chokes on his drink. "Pansy?"

"I know you know it's Pansy," Greg growls. "It's been what, three years? We haven't exactly been
subtle the whole time."

Draco turns to Theo. "Pansy?" he gasps.

"You didn't know?" Theo asks, sinking into a chair. "I thought Hermione would have told you?"

Draco's ears ring.

"Granger knows? You fucking told her and not me?"

Theo rolls his eyes. "No, she was the one to tell me. Clear as day once she pointed it out. Honestly,
I felt a bit stupid after."

"Gods." Draco drops his head into his hands.

The Floo flares to life, and Pansy Parkinson herself steps through and narrows her eyes at Greg.

"Well, this is a fun little party." She crosses her arms. "Where was my invitation?"

"I was just headed out, actually," growls Greg, standing from his seat. "Why don't we – "
"No, no, Gregory," Pansy says, dancing just out of his reach to grab the bottle next to Theo. "This
looks much more fun than whatever plans you have. You wouldn't be running late to them
otherwise, would you?"

Draco holds out a hand. "Not that - "

Pansy takes a swallow straight from the bottle.

"At least use a glass," he says, slumping back in his chair.

"What's wrong with you two?" Pansy asks as she looks between Theo and Draco.

"Nothing," Theo says, folding his arms. "We're having a nice night in."

Pansy snorts. "Is this about Millie or Hermione? I can't tell which one of you looks more morose."

"Pansy," Greg pleads. "Let's just go."

“Theo fucked up something with Millicent, even if he won’t say what it was,” huffs Draco.

"Draco fucked Hermione!" Theo cries.

Greg groans and collapses back into his chair. "Not this again."

Draco shoots Theo a glare. "You're a fucking snitch."

"Good for you," Pansy says with a shrug. "You've put it off long enough."

"Good for Draco, but was it good for Hermione?" Theo asks, leaning forward. "I’d be a bit more
pleasant to be around if I were proud of a job well done, if it were me."

Draco whips his glasses off. "I'm not discussing my sex life."

Pansy winces. "That bad? What went wrong?"

Draco feels his face turning red. "Nothing went wrong!"

"Gods, it's not a reflection on your manhood if you don't last, Draco," Pansy says loftily. She runs a
slow hand over Greg's shoulder as if to indicate that her comment has no bearing whatsoever on
his performance.

"It happens to a lot of people," Theo adds. "Not me, of course."

"Oh, shut up, Theo. I've heard everything Susan Bones has to say about you."

Theo gasps. "I was sixteen!"

Pansy arches her eyebrow. "And then you were twenty."

Theo glares at her. "I’d been overserved."

"I'm sure." Pansy drops herself into Greg's lap, and he curls a possessive hand around her hip.
Draco eyes the motion and wonders how exactly he’d missed this development. "Well, Draco, what
was it? Why couldn't you get the Golden Girl off?"

"Don't call her that," Draco snaps. "She doesn't like it. And I did get her off, thank you very much."
Pansy gives him a look of pity and understanding.

Draco cracks first.

"I... I think I got her off," Draco says uncertainly, looking from Theo to Pansy.

"Tell us exactly what happened," Theo says eagerly.

Pansy audibly gags. "Please do not tell us what happened."

"We can help!" Theo protests.

"Theo, kindly leave this to the professionals. Perhaps you could take notes." Pansy leans into Greg,
draping her arms around his neck. "What exactly seems to be the issue, my dear friend?"

They all look at Draco expectantly.

"I don't fucking know!" The words explode from Draco's mouth. It's a disaster, but everything
pours forth, and there's no slowing down. "The first time, yes. I didn't last very long, okay? It had
been awhile and -- well, I'll admit to it. But last night, my endurance was fine -- good! But the
whole thing was so fucking awkward, and Granger went nearly dead silent when I got inside of her.
I swear to Merlin I felt her finish, but I can't tell what she fucking wants me to do to make it better."

"Did she say what felt good?" Pansy asks.

"Oh, I know what she fucking wants," Draco growls. "I just can't do it because I'm not a fucking
Scottish highlander lord built like a fucking giant."

Pansy closes her eyes and shakes her head. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I told you we should have left," Greg grumbles against Pansy's shoulder.

Draco yanks the book Granger had been reading out of his drawer and slams it on the desk.

"I'm in a fucking competition with these books of hers!" he scowls. "Granger has been salivating
over these since she moved in and I -- I can't live up to this fucking nonsense."

Pansy rolls her eyes. "Why does it have to be a competition?"

"Because - because this shit isn't reasonable!" he exclaims. "It doesn't work like this in real life."

"It doesn't need to be a competition if you're on the same team," she says meaningfully, glancing at
Greg. His eyes darken, and his hand tightens on Pansy’s hip, pulling her flush against him.

"The same team?" Theo echoes. “Do you mean like the Harpies? Because Ginny Potter swears
that’s only forty percent true at most.”

"Gods, I have to do everything for you. Give me that." Pansy squirms away from Greg's grip and
strides across the room. She snatches the book out of Draco's hand and starts flipping through it.

"What are you looking for?" Theo leans over.

"Here." Pansy jabs a finger at the page and shows it to Draco. "Read this."

Draco narrows his eyes. "'Does this feel good, Charlotte?' growls Alexander as he drives his cock
into her cunt. 'Do you like when I fuck you with your husband watching across the room?'
 Charlotte gasps out 'Deeper,' and arches against him with a whine. Alexander tilts his hips and
obliges, keeping the same steady rhythm but driving himself deeper with every thrust. Charlotte - "

"Enough," Pansy interrupts. "Now do you see?"

Draco stares at her. "Granger likes voyeurism?"

He isn't sure how he feels about it, but if that's what she wants, then -

Pansy smacks his shoulder with the book. "No, you imbecile."

"She might," Theo protests.”You don’t know.”

Pansy looks to Greg with incredulity. He closes his eyes and sighs heavily. “The point is that he
listens to her, you idiot.”

Draco and Theo look positively Bludgered.

Pansy huffs. "He's asking. Alexander asks Charlotte if she's enjoying the sex, and she gives him an
instruction, and he follows it, and - well, you can keep reading later. You need to ask Hermione
what she likes, and then do that. But don't tell me what that is." Pansy narrows her eyes at Draco. "I
don't need the sordid details of your affair with your wife putting me off my meals."

"Let me see that." Theo reaches across the desk for the book, but Draco pulls it back.

"Wait your turn, you little fucker."

"Gods," Pansy sighs. "You two are hopeless."

She grabs Greg's hand and the two of them step through the Floo, but Draco is too busy flipping
through the pages with fresh eyes to say goodbye.

Greg's voice is low and raspy in her ear, and his hard cock grinds into her arse as they stumble into
the back room of her gallery.

"And what would your books teach me, Pansy?"

Pansy pushes her hips back against his.

"I've always appreciated the Scottish, you know," she whispers, reaching around to feel his length.
"They’re very good at tying knots."

Greg curses behind her and uses one hand to trap her delicate wrists in an iron grip.

"I'll show you all about knots, you wee filthy lass."

Chapter End Notes

A little Gransy (Panoyle? TBD) for your Sunday.

Embarrassing story for the week: When I was sixteen years old and just starting to
drive myself to school, I got pulled over by a COP ON A HORSE #texasthings for
having an expired registration. I didn't know about having to register my car every
year (my bad) but the horror of having a guy on a horse knock on my window will live
in my memory forever.
 Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione inhales deeply and slowly releases her breath through pursed lips.

Chin up, Granger.

She pastes a smile onto her face and knocks on the door.

"Hermione Granger!" Mr. Pinter croons as he throws open the door to his office. "As I live and
breathe. Let me tell you, I was so delighted to receive your owl on Monday. So delighted. I went
home for dinner and told my wife that my dear old intern Hermione Granger wanted to meet over
tea, and the missus refused to believe a word until I showed her the damned letter myself. She
absolutely insists that you come over for dinner sometime - our daughter is such an admirer.
Important for the little ones to have ladies such as yourself to look up to, isn't that right?"

"Dinner sounds delightful," Hermione replies. Her jaw is beginning to hurt, but she maintains the
grin. "I brought some scones from the bakery just down the street. Cherry is your favorite, if I
recall correctly?"

Mr. Pinter slaps her on the back jovially. "What a fine memory you have! Yes, I've always had a
bit of a taste for a good cherry."

Hermione slides past him into the office and sets the basket on his desk. "Thank you so much for
agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Pinter."

"Oh, please, call me John," he says, poking his head out the door to snap at his secretary. "Tea
cart!"

"We're working on a case over at the DIMC with those vipertooth sanctuaries in Peru, and I just
knew I needed to pick your mind on best practices for maintaining accounts and setting budgets."

The secretary - Julian, Hermione thinks - rolls the tea cart into the room with a rather sour look
that Mr. Pinter doesn't seem to notice.

"Of course, of course!" Mr. Pinter trills. "How can I help? I'm completely at your service."

"Well - "

A knock on the door interrupts them.

"Hello, Mr. Pinter," Alicia Spinnet says. "I have those reports you asked for."

John Pinter frowns, clearly irritated that his meeting with the Golden Girl has been infringed upon.

"Ms. Spinnet," he replies tersely. "Those aren't due until the end of the week."

Alicia shrugs cheerfully. "I thought I'd work ahead! You're always telling us to show some
initiative, and I thought - "

"Please, leave them on the desk. Thank you."

Alicia cuts Hermione a look as she brushes by.

"John!" Hermione says, glancing wildly about the room.

Mr. Pinter turns to her. "Yes?"

"That picture on the wall." Hermione points at a photograph of Mr. Pinter enthusiastically shaking
hands with the former Croatian Minister of Magic. "Is that the president of Bosnia?"

"Oh, no, my dear!" Mr. Pinter cries, ushering her over to the photograph. "That is my good friend
Mr. Luka Gundulic. He retired a few years ago..."

Hermione only half listens to Mr. Pinter as Alicia sets the reports on the desk and quietly swipes a
key out of the drawer. Without a word, she winks at Hermione and slips out of the office.

From the corner of her eye, Hermione watches as Alicia grabs Millicent's elbow and leads her out
of the Budgetary offices.

"You know, I'd be happy to introduce you sometime. Minister Gundulic is an excellent connection
and I imagine he'd be able to help you out a great deal at the DIMC," Mr. Pinter says, looking
expectantly at Hermione.

Her smile this time isn't quite as forced.

"That sounds lovely," Hermione croons. "Now, shall we pour the tea?"

Hermione drops the final stack of parchment on the desk, and Malfoy stares at the papers piled
around his office.

"You got all this today?" he asks in surprise.

"I sat with Mr. Pinter for nearly two hours while Alicia and Millicent copied these. Everything
came at quite a cost to my sanity and patience, I assure you." Hermione settles into Malfoy's desk
chair with a sigh and pulls down the first stack.

"I'll take your word for it," Malfoy snorts, laying out his own stack on the low table in front of the
fire. "Alicia Spinnet. You trust her to help?"

Hermione shrugs. "She was best friends with Fred and George in school. She's excellent with
sneaking and thrives on outsmarting her superiors."

"You trust her to keep a secret, though?"

Hermione looks up at Malfoy. He watches her cautiously, wrestling with something that he nearly
hides in his expression.

"I do," she replies. "Alicia would never share something serious like that."

"I wasn't sure how good of friends you were after..." Malfoy trails off and looks down at the
accounts in front of him.
"We're still friends," Hermione replies firmly. "But that's not why I trust her. It's in her character.
She would never betray anyone."

Malfoy tightens his grip on the quill in his hand. "She let you marry me in her place."

"I volunteered," Hermione says. "She didn't ask me to do anything that I didn't choose for myself."

Malfoy nods curtly.

Something urges Hermione to explain herself. She purses her lips and taps her quill against the
parchment before speaking again. "I don't think I ever told you that Ron Weasley and I were
engaged before I agreed to marry you."

Malfoy meets her eyes, and she can't quite tell what he's thinking. Shock and confusion war across
his face, and perhaps some guilt flits through as well.

He clears his throat. "You and Weasley, hmm? I can't say I'm entirely surprised."

"It did seem to make sense at the time." Hermione looks down at the accounts in front of her, but
she hardly sees the numbers. Why had it made sense? Why had she agreed to such a clearly
ridiculous proposition?

"Alicia must really be a great friend for you to give up Weasley in her honor." Malfoy's jaw is
tight, and he gets up to walk toward the liquor cabinet. "Care for a drink? I'm parched."

"I'm okay, thank you," Hermione replies, watching him pour out an inch with a steady hand.

"Suit yourself," Malfoy shrugs. He brings the bottle back with him to his seat by the fire and sets it
on the table with a solid thunk.

"I didn't exactly give up Ron for Alicia's sake," Hermione continues. "I'd agreed to his proposal
because of the Marriage Act. We weren't in love or anything like that, you see - we weren’t even
dating at the time. But I think - "

She struggles to form the words.

"Truthfully, I couldn't bear to go through with marrying him, but I didn't know how to take it back
once I'd agreed. And then… well, I was there when Alicia received the letter from the Ministry,
and I suppose it felt like… a sign, maybe. A chance for freedom."

Malfoy chokes out a dry laugh. "What a delightful outlook you had for our marriage. Freedom."

"I've felt more free married to you than I ever would have with Ron."

It's true. Malfoy, even at his worst, has never tried to control her. Never used her for his own ends.
Never paraded her around or thrown her name out to the press. He's been rude and taciturn and
angry, but he's also been... well, he's been not those things, too. Kind and funny, asking her
questions about work, treating her like she's smart and clever and like she's herself. Hermione
Granger. Not the Golden Girl.

Hermione opens her mouth to say something else - she's not entirely sure what - but there’s an odd,
quickly vanishing desperation in Malfoy’s eye that catches her off guard, and she realizes she must
have missed something while she was lost in her own thoughts.

Malfoy abruptly speaks before she can wonder any further. "What is it I should be looking for in all
these budgets?"

Back to business, then.

"Through his role as the OMA’s treasurer, Duncan Meyers had access to the first part of the
account that’s making the contributions. The first two numbers of an account indicate the type of
ownership - individual, corporate, or public - and this one seems to be a public account. It's a bit of
a shot in the dark, but I thought that the Ministry budgets may be a good place to start fishing for
anything suspicious. These are the budget records for the last few years for the larger departments.
We're having some trouble getting our hands on the smaller departments since Pinter stores them in
an offsite location, but for now, just look through the accounts for anything that seems off or
unusual."

"Like a small party allowance for the Budgetary?" he replies drily, flipping over a page.

"Exactly. Or a large budget for something you know to be inexpensive."

"Granian hair?"

His tone is irritable and bitter. Gods, not this again. Hermione goes to scowl at him, but she spots a
smile lurking around the corner of his mouth, and the fire reveals a twinkling light in his grey eyes.

He's teasing her.

Hermione shakes her head. "I hear the price went up this year."

"Apparently it was for a good reason," Malfoy shrugs, flipping through the next page of accounts.

"Apparently," Hermione echoes.

Malfoy smiles to himself. He smiles, and it looks like he tries to wrestle it back, but it sits there on
his face anyway, and Hermione ducks her head down to focus on the budgets in front of her.

"How long are you expecting all this to take?" Malfoy asks.

"A week or two, I’d wager," Hermione says. "Millicent is working on a set as well, and Greg and
Theo are trying to track the account that originated the donations. Ideally we'll meet somewhere in
the middle, but I'm sure it won't be so easy."

"Is Pansy helping? She's rather good at convincing people to tell her things they're not supposed to
reveal."

Hermione laughs. "I'm sure she is, even if Greg won't admit it outright."

They fall silent, and the only noise is the crackling fire. Soft snow falls outside, muting any sounds
besides the faint whisper of the wind. Hermione runs her finger down another budget list - this one
is from the Department of Improper Use of Magic - but nothing seems to be out of order. Hermione
wonders if perhaps she ought to see what she can learn about typical budgeting practices for each
department. Would she even notice if something small was missing?

A steady thrumming distracts her, and Hermione looks up to see Malfoy bouncing his knee, staring
intently at the pages in front of him. The smile has fallen off his face, and it’s replaced by a
concentrated frown. His tongue darts out to lick his finger, and he flips over the sheet of parchment.

He must be focused on the work at hand.

Unlike her.

Hermione bites her lip and returns to the account in front of her.

The thrumming goes silent, and Malfoy clears his throat, grabbing Hermione’s attention once
again. She looks up at him. Malfoy sits perfectly still with his quill poised in midair. His grey eyes
are honest.

"I'm sorry that I’ve been cruel to you," he says, his voice low and solemn. "It was wrong of me to
make you feel like you didn't belong."

"Are you apologizing for how you treated me at Hogwarts or for how you’ve treated me here?"
Hermione asks. She's not sure where the question comes from. She thinks she knows that he means
both.

Malfoy grimaces, and he rests his quill carefully on the table as though he’s putting down a sword
against his better judgment. “I’m afraid I’ve treated you rather unfairly since I first met you. I was
worse than an arse at school, and you bore the consequences of it. I - I like to think I’m a better
man now. Still an arse, I think, but a better man, even if I’ve done a poor job of treating you as
you’d probably like to be treated. As you deserve to be treated.”

A better man.

“It does sometimes seem that you are not still the boy I knew in school,” Hermione says carefully,
likewise laying her quill on the desk. “I appreciate the lack of name-calling, and I do - I see
something new in you, I think. Something changed. However, I think…”

Hermione pauses to examine the ink smudges on her fingernails, and Malfoy seems to lean forward
in his chair.

“I think I often feel unwelcome in your home, and it’s not a particularly pleasant feeling,” she says.

Malfoy's mouth quirks into a wry smile. "Our home, you mean? You married me, after all."

He looks rather sad, Hermione thinks. She wants to sweep it away. Hermione wants to run her
fingers over the crease in his brow, but she's not sure how to touch him yet, so she finds words
instead.

"I suppose there are some advantages in marrying for material gain," she teases.

Malfoy's deep laugh echoes around the room, warming it from the inside out. His gaze is gentle on
hers, and he shakes his head. "You can take me for all I'm worth, Granger."

They smile at each other for a fluttering moment.

“Thank you for apologizing, Draco,” Hermione murmurs. “I really appreciate it.”

Malfoy’s wide grin softens into something small and sincere and earnest, then he bows his head
over the budgets on the table. Hermione lowers her head as well, but her eyes linger on him.

He has a nice laugh, and little dimples form on his cheeks when he smiles.

She chuckles to herself. Ridiculous.

Malfoy taps his quill against the table. "You know," he begins, "this room is a bit crowded with all
this parchment. Perhaps we should move to the library tomorrow and spread out a bit more."
Hermione blushes. Embarrassment floods her cheeks with red as the memory of their last encounter
in the library flashes across her mind. Spread out. Gods, she must stop reading those books. She'd
misplaced her current favorite during her... late night with Malfoy, and it's probably for the best.

"Of course," she chokes. "Makes perfect sense."

Hermione ducks her head back down to the budgets and misses the way Malfoy’s gaze lingers on
her flushed cheeks.

Millicent takes a sip of tea before reaching for the next stack of parchment, and she nearly chokes
when the Floo flares to life and Theo's head appears in the fireplace.

"Is it alright if I come through?" he asks.

It's the first time Theo has ever asked for permission to enter Millicent's flat, and she hates that she
knows this. She hates that she's intimately familiar with his comings and goings and how he's been
gone for so long and how strange it feels for him to ask permission when he's always just Flooed in
with a sunshine smile.

Millicent keeps her tone light and unaffected. "You may."

Theo disappears, and then he steps through with a grim smile. He holds out the bottle of wine in his
hand. It's a Montepulciano - one of her favorites - and the bottle is from a Tuscan vineyard they'd
visited with her step-mother and Pansy several years ago. Millicent had thought he'd kiss her there
one night under the bright moon as they walked through the vines, but he'd done nothing, and
they'd returned to England the following day.

"I picked this up for you," Theo says.

"You can add it to the wine rack."

Snippy. Millicent looks back down at the accounts in front of her. Stop it. You don't care,
remember?

Theo nods curtly and strides over to the wine cabinet. He carefully places the bottle on the rack.
Millicent thinks his hands may be shaking, but she can't quite tell.

"Hermione mentioned that you were working through some of the accounts from the Budgetary,"
Theo says, returning to the fireplace to lean against the mantle.

"Did you come to tell me to fuck off?" Her tone stays neutral even if the words are meant to
wound. "I heard that it's too dangerous for me to be involved."

"No. I - I wouldn't presume to tell you what's best for you."

Millicent cuts him a scathing look. "That's a new development."

Theo opens his mouth to protest, but he stops and stares down at his shoelaces. "I suppose I
deserve that," he mutters.

Millicent purses her lips and returns to her work. Her hands are shaking now, so she flips over the
sheet of parchment and clasps them tightly in her lap. The clock ticks next to the fireplace, and she
feels Theo staring at her, evaluating the set of her shoulders and the tilt of her chin.

"I thought I could help you with the budgets, if you'd like," he finally says.

"I thought you were supposed to be helping Greg track down the donor accounts."

"Yes, but the banks are closed, and - apparently I'm not so personable these days." Theo shakes his
head and looks out the window then back at her. "I'm sorry, Millie, okay? I'm sorry." Desperation
edges his voice. "I don't know why I acted like that. I suppose I'm just not quite used to the idea of
you with someone else."

"Well, you're going to have to get used to it," Millicent snaps, fisting her hands even tighter. He has
to get used to it, because she'll lose her mind if he keeps reacting like this. Every sour word or look
is a crumb of false hope that it's Theo who really wants her, Theo who finally wants to speak up
after all these years, but it's hopeless. Fucking hopeless, but the dream drowns her, and she has to
let it go.

He has to stop. He can't keep acting like he's on the verge of something. It's too much to bear.

Theo pales. "It's official, then? You and the prince?"

"No," Millicent replies hastily. How does she explain? "No, Leo and I are not together, but Theo,
eventually there will be someone."

She hates those words. She doesn't want there to be someone else, but there must be.

"I know," Theo replies. "I know there will be someone."

Millicent blinks away hot tears. She's thankful that Theo still stares down at his feet and not at her.
He looks properly miserable, and even that turns her stomach.

It feels like the end of something.

"Well." Millicent forces out a laugh. "Now that that's all behind us, are you going to help with
these budgets or not?"

Theo looks up at her.

"I love you," he tells her.

Gods, no, no. He doesn't know what he's saying, he doesn't understand what it means -

"I love you too, of course," she chokes out with a pained grin. "You're my dearest friend."

"No, Millie." Theo steps toward her. "I love you. I'm in love with you."

Everything around her freezes except for Theo. He moves toward her slowly, cautiously, and the
fire in his eyes flickers with uncertainty.

"I love you. As a man loves a woman, I love you," he insists.

He keeps saying it. He keeps saying it, but this can't be real, he must be -

"Theo - "
 He stops by the fireplace and shakes his head. “I know you care about the prince, and I know you
haven't wanted to hear me out and that you said no to me before, but I need you to know that I don't
want there to be someone else. I have loved you for a very long time."

Everything Millicent tries to say dies on her lips from utter shock, and she can only stare at
Theodore Nott, standing across from her. He doesn’t lean on the mantle as he so often does but
instead stands tall and earnest and handsomely ruffled, gazing down at Millicent with a desperate
gleam in his eye.

“I know you never make any decisions lightly, and I don’t - I won’t beg you for a response now, or
at all, so I’ll go. I have to see Greg about something tonight in any case. But I can come back
tomorrow to help with the accounts, if you’d like?”

Millicent nods, her eyes stinging.

Theo’s jaw tightens, and he looks out the window over the city. “If you don’t want to talk about
what I’ve said, I won’t bring it up again. I just needed you to know.” He turns to face the fireplace.
“And if you don’t want me to come by tomorrow, send an owl, I suppose,” he chokes out. “I’ll
respect your wishes.”

Send an owl for what? Nothing he says makes any sense. Millie opens her mouth to speak, to say…
something, anything, so many things, but the words escape her. Instead, the Floo roars to life, and
Theo disappears in a haze of green smoke.

The living room is suddenly empty and quiet with only the heavy thudding of her heart to fill the
silence. Millicent flinches in surprise when Gretel jumps up beside her on the couch and stares up
at her expectantly.

“I - I - “

Gretel sniffs disapprovingly and bounds off the couch before Millicent can find the words.

Millicent releases an unsteady breath.

“Merlin. Shit.”

She stands up, strides to the fireplace, and exits through the Floo.

Chapter End Notes

I love a LOVE CONFESSION. I wonder where Millie is off to?

Embarrassing story of the week: The amount of Ralph Lauren Polo I wore AT A
TIME in high school was mortifying and honestly a red flag.
 Chapter Twenty
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione looks up when footsteps sound through the hall. The clock reads about half past six.

"Probably Theo and Greg back from the Ministry," Draco mutters, still bent over the budgets. They
haven't moved their papers to the library yet; Malfoy - Draco - had suggested that they reorganize
everything before they moved up to keep things from getting fussed around in the transition.

The door swings open, and Ginny Potter waltzes into the office with a very pregnant belly.

"That was too easy," Ginny says loftily.

Hermione's lips part in shock. "Ginny? How - "

Ginny collapses into the empty chair by the fireplace and props her feet on the stool. "How indeed,
Hermione. How is it that Theodore Nott reached me before you did?"

"I - "

Theo and Greg trail through the door, and Theo catches Hermione's eye and shrugs. His hair is
more mussed than usual, and dark circles line his eyes. His shoulders look heavy, as though he
hasn't slept in days.

"I asked Ginny for some help," Theo says.

"Pansy wasn't as... beneficial as we thought she might be," adds Greg with a wince.

Pansy strolls in next, twirling her wand. "I distracted the teller sitting next to Ginny's target. I feel
quite good about my contribution."

Greg shoots her a reproachful look, but Hermione notes the heat that lies beneath.

"I thought we were keeping this to a small group," Draco scowls, leaning back in his chair.

"It takes a village to solve a fucking mystery apparently," says Greg. He strolls over to the liquor
cabinet and begins pouring himself an inch.

"Apparently so," Ginny snaps. "Or at least it takes a few women with their heads screwed on tight
and not a bunch of fumbling idiots."

"What happened with the account?" asks Hermione impatiently. "Did you learn anything?"

"Oh, yes. Turns out they'll tell anything to a world-famous Quidditch player who's trying to suss
out which kind soul made a generous donation on behalf of her unborn child." Ginny reaches into
her purse, pulls out a slip of paper, and hands it to Draco. "Be a dear and give this to Hermione,
won't you?"

Draco rolls his eyes and snatches the paper out of her hands. "You're sure it had nothing to do with
your husband's reputation?"

"Quite sure, thank you very much."

Hermione's fingers brush Draco's as he hands her the note, but she avoids his gaze and looks to
Ginny instead. "I hope Harry isn't too upset about you getting roped into this business."

Ginny snorts.

"Potter can go fuck himself," Pansy says, folding her arms.

"Exactly," Ginny agrees emphatically, nodding at Pansy. "You know he went to die without so
much as telling me goodbye? I'll send him right back to that fucking forest if he dares tell me
where I can and cannot get involved."

"Did you explain to him what we’re all doing?" Hermione asks. "I haven't said a word about any of
this."

Ginny shrugs. "He knows there's some intrigue. He said he preferred that we leave him out of it
until death and dismemberment become more immediate concerns. Said something about ‘having
solved enough mysteries for a damned lifetime.’"

Pansy nods with approval. "Good for him."

Hermione sighs and unseals the folded parchment.

"It's the name of the account," Ginny says rather smugly as Hermione reads the slip. "Bit of a
surprise, if I'm honest."

"I thought we agreed not to look!" Theo gasps.

Ginny rolls her eyes. "Gods, you're a terrible Slytherin."

Hermione hardly hears their exchange as she rereads the name, and her mouth opens in surprise for
the second time that night.

"Well?" Draco prompts, fixing his gaze on Hermione. "Who is it?"

Greg and Theo lean forward as well, and Hermione clears her throat before looking up at a roomful
of inquisitive eyes.

"It appears that I have a letter to send."

As she reaches for a quill - the lovely, perfectly balanced quills that Draco keeps stocked on his
desk - the door to the office bursts open, and Hermione nearly jumps out of her seat.

"Oh," Millicent says simply, looking around the room with her hand still on the knob. "Everyone's
here."

She's here. Theo's body screams at him to move toward her. His bones rattle with it - she's here
she's here she's here - but his chest weighs heavy, holding him in place in fear that a shake of her
head or a lip curled in pity will gut him and leave him bleeding out on the floor.

"Oh." The word leaves her like a breath, and Millicent freezes in the doorway with her hand still on
the knob. "Everyone's here."
Theo's back stiffens in an effort to stay still. Perhaps if he keeps his jaw locked tightly, he won't let
anything else slip out. Millie's brown eyes meet his. Unreadable, as always, maybe even more so
than usual . He wants to snatch back everything he'd said to her last night in his surge of courage
and foolishness, but it's too late.

It's all been laid bare.

For the best, he tries to convince himself. For the best, even if she tears me to pieces.

"Did you already finish reviewing the budgets?" asks Hermione.

Millicent ignores Hermione and keeps her dark gaze trained on Theo, pinning him in place. "You
weren't at your house," she murmurs.

Everyone's heads swivel back toward him. The intensity makes him want to shrink back even
further. Is he supposed to have been at home? He desperately wishes he had been, if that's where
Millie had wanted him to be.

"No, I wasn't," Theo replies. "I was at the Ministry." His hands are shaking. Fuck. You're fine. In
control.

Millicent nods. Her voice is low and firm. "I need to speak with you, please."

The blood drains from Theo's face. I need to speak with you. It sounds like a death sentence to his
ears, and Theo briefly wonders if he can refuse - make a run for it, even - but it's useless and
shameful and he'd made Millicent hear his piece, so now he has to hear hers as well.

Theo gives her a sharp nod and slowly walks out of the room, feeling quite like he’s marching to
his doom. The urge to run hasn't completely faded, but he wrestles it back as he stalks past
Millicent. He pretends like he can't smell her perfume, like his pulse doesn't race when her skirt
brushes against his trousers.

Far too soon, the office door clips shut behind him, and they're in the hall alone. Theo squeezes his
eyes shut and takes a deep breath before turning around to face her.

"I was planning to stop by in an hour or so to help with the budgets," he tells her. "As promised."

"You left," Millicent hisses. "You left before I could say anything."

Theo opens his mouth to scream back that she'd stared at him like he'd grown two more heads and
like she'd never seen him before a day in her life and how was he supposed to just stand there and
wait while she decided how to shred him to pieces? Wait for her to scoff in horror or gently,
sweetly murmur that she just doesn't see him that way, poor thing?

But screaming is not an option for grown men who are in control of their emotions, so Theo grits
his teeth. "You clearly needed time to process."

"You could have given me a moment to think before storming out!"

"I didn't storm out! I exited in an exceedingly calm manner," Theo protests. "Besides, it's not as
though you came running after me."

"I had to go see - " Millicent shuts her mouth mid-sentence, and her face turns nearly white.

Theo wonders if he's about to vomit all over the polished marble floors in the hall.
"Did you go to Leo?" he asks.

Millicent purses her lips.

She did. Gods, she did. He's going to be sick.

"I'm not talking to you about this here," she grits out. "You know they're all at the door listening,
don't you?"

It doesn't matter. The fight goes out of his bones. He doesn't care if they all know what a fool he is,
but sweet Millie won't let him sink further than he already has. A dry laugh escapes his throat, and
he trains his gaze on some stupid painting behind Millicent.

He can't look at her anymore lest he drown in fear and grief.

"Your place or mine?" Theo quips.

"Theo."

Her voice is soft, and she's moving toward him, and he can't bear it.

"Yours? Perfect. I'll see you there."

Theo spins around on his heel and blindly strides down the hall. His legs are longer than
Millicent's, but only just, and gods, why is she so fast? Stupid fucking boxing. Stupid fucking
boxing that turns Millicent’s cheeks red and makes her skin glow with sweat and puts a fierce look
in her eye that makes him hard and throws her in the path of stupid fucking princes. Theo throws a
handful of powder into the Floo and steps through to Millicent's flat. Better hers than his. This
way, it'll be over soon, and he can leave and hide in the dark safety of his own home for six weeks.
Plenty of time to stitch his chest back together.

In the meantime, a glass will do.

Millicent steps through just after him, but Theo is already beelining for the liquor cabinet.

"Do you want anything?" he asks, pouring himself an inch. His hands still shake, no matter how
hard he tries to settle them.

"Theo, are you serious?" she huffs. "You're having a fucking drink?"

Theo throws back the drink, stares down at the empty glass, and schools his face into something he
hopes resembles cool composure before he turns to face Millicent.

"Did you go see your Prince after I left?"

"Yes, I did. Now if you'll just - "

It's too much to bear. Theo's hand tightens around the glass and he swears he feels it crack.

"Just tell me no, Millie!" he explodes. "Please, if you don't feel the same way, put aside whatever
pretty speech you have prepared and just fucking tell me that you're not interested. I'll leave, and
I'm sure it'll be awkward for a bit, but I'll get over it - " No, he won't. " - and everything will be
fine. But please - please, don't make me sit here and listen to you try to make me feel better when -
"

"Theodore Nott!" Millicent cries out, stomping her foot. "Would you stop talking for once in your
life?"

Gods, she's glorious when she's angry. Her cheeks flush red, and her eyes are bright with life.

"I went to see Leo to tell him that I couldn't be his escort anymore," she continues, moving toward
Theo.

Theo frowns. "But - "

"Don't interrupt me," Millicent hisses with narrowed eyes. "As I've told you a hundred times, I'm
not interested in Leo, but it's clearly causing confusion between you and me, and I don't want that."

Theo's chest tightens, and he's fairly certain he can't breathe. Millicent stands close enough that she
has to tilt her head a bit to look up at him. Her eyes flicker over his face, and Theo feels like he's
laid bare in front of her.

It's terrifying.

Millicent raises a hand, slowly, and rests her fingertips on his jaw like she's making sure it's really
him. Merlin, he's shaking so badly, what an embarrassment -

"I have loved you since before I knew what love was," she whispers.

Everything stops.

Theo blinks at her, certain he's misheard or misunderstood. This can't be real. It's not possible.

His voice wavers. "Are you laughing at me?"

"I love you," she replies in earnest, cupping his jaw. With the other hand, she takes the glass of
firewhisky from him and sets it down on a table. "I have loved you for a very long time."

"But you wouldn't marry me," Theo chokes out, placing his hand over hers, weaving his fingers in
between her fingers.

"You were drunk!" she cries. "And you were proposing some marriage of convenience, and I
couldn't - not when I knew how I felt about you."

"Millie." Theo thinks he might sob with sweet relief, but he doesn't want Millicent to see him cry,
even though she certainly has a time or two over the years, so instead he closes the space between
them, pressing his forehead to hers and dragging her hand to his mouth to capture her fingers in a
kiss.

It's not enough. Will it ever be enough? Millicent lets out a shaky breath and it echoes through his
bones and he can't possibly be this afraid to kiss her. He's never been afraid to kiss anyone in his
life, but what if he messes it up and she hates it and -

Millicent's other hand brushes through his hair, and she presses her lips to his.

Oh. Oh.

Theo curls a hand around her waist, and his fingers spread over her back. She's so warm, so soft to
the touch, and he can touch her now. She's letting him touch her like this, letting him pull her lush
body against his.

And Millicent seems to like it, he thinks. She slants her mouth and her small, pink tongue that he's
spent so many nights dreaming about flicks across his lower lip, and a small plea of Theo escapes
her.

Theo's trousers tighten, and whatever beast living quietly in his chest tears its way out of him with
a low, involuntary moan.

"Fuck, Millie," he growls against her mouth, gathering her against him, nudging her toward the
wall. Millicent yanks at Theo's collar, dragging him closer, closer, and her palms cover his
shoulders, then her fingers slip under his collar to dance over his skin, and Theo feels himself
growing even harder. He grinds against her, and he's muttering gods, gods, gods, and his hands are
scrambling to push up her skirt, grasping at her thighs, her hips, her waist. His fingers weave
through her hair. Theo pulls apart her careful style and she whimpers against his mouth and he
groans and cranes her head back.

"Merlin, we're such idiots," he gasps, kissing down her neck.

"I think we'll be okay," Millicent murmurs. "Shall we go to my room, though?"

Theo pulls at her blouse and nips at the plush skin on her shoulder. "Yes. Perfect. Gods, you're so
perfect."

They stumble down the hall, laughing and touching and kissing and knocking everything over,
much to the vocal displeasure of Hansel and Gretel.

The cats know very well that they will not be sleeping in bed with Millicent that night.

"Millie. Millie. Gods."

Theo can't stop saying her name. It seems like it means something different now as it rolls off his
tongue. It's a song. It's music. It's I love you, I love you, over and over and she says it back every
time she moans his name as his mouth moves down her body, reverently kissing every part of her
that he'd thought was not for him.

But when he slides his fingers through her folds, she's so fucking wet and it’s -

"For you," Millie gasps, arching next to him. "Theo, for you, I love - "

He can't bear to hear it again. He wants to hear it for the rest of his life, every moment, but he
needs to kiss her more, so Theo surges forward and swallows her words with his mouth.

Millie. She tastes even better than he'd dreamed all these years. She sounds even better than in all
his fantasies, pulling his cock to her imaginary moans. This time, Theo can feel the shudder that
accompanies her groan as he buries himself into Millie, his Millie, who takes every bit of his length
and tightens her legs around him, urging him on. Gods, his strong, perfect Millie. Millie who feels
like enough under his hands as he grabs at every curve. Her wide thighs, her round arse, the way
her hips shake as he drives into her -

"Theo, please," she cries out, clutching at his back. "Please - "

"Show me," Theo gasps. He's close, he's close, he needs to show her - "Gods, show me. I want to
feel you, Millie, I need you - "

Theo's hand slides down to where they're joined, and Millie's delicate fingers follow him, showing
him how to tease her, ply her, and then she's throwing her head back in a loud cry and his lips latch
on to her neck, then his teeth, and a hoarse yell escapes him as Millie clamps down around him and
he can't hold back a second longer and his own pleasure bursts forth in a golden haze.

"Millie. Millie."

"Theo," she sighs against his cheek. Her hand lightly brushes the nape of his neck, teasing over the
small, curled hairs there. He flexes his hips against her once more, loath to let it - this first time,
this epiphany - come to an end. Millie tightens around him again, and a small whimper escapes her.
"Theo."

Still in a daze, Theo rolls to Millicent’s side and blindly reaches for her, pulling her snugly to him.

"I love you," he murmurs in her hair.

Millicent presses her face against his neck. "You'll stay, won't you?"

The flutter of her lips over his pulse makes him shudder. "However long you like, Millie darling."

"Stay with me." Millicent's voice is soft and low and tired.

"I'm going to propose to you again very soon," Theo whispers, running his hand down her back to
the curve of her arse. So fucking soft. Forever is all he can see.

Her gentle laugh tickles his ear. "I look forward to it very much."

The stacks of parchment seem to have doubled or even tripled in size now that Draco, with the help
of Greg and Bogby, had transitioned everything from the office to the library. Hermione had
ineffectively suppressed her wince when she saw Draco had moved the budgets without consulting
her. The system she'd set up was quite specific, but as Hermione surveys the project around her, she
finds that not a single piece of parchment is out of order.

He's paid attention.

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

"You've certainly been busy today," Hermione says to Draco. He sits on a low, stiff couch that's
more suitable for taking tea than enjoying a book or analyzing budgets. Draco uncrosses his legs
and stretches his back. His chest juts out, emphasizing his width, and Hermione averts her eyes.

"Take a look at this," he says, waving her over. "The Department of Mysteries has a line item for an
administrative fee."

Hermione frowns. "I thought we couldn't get their budgets. Alicia said Pinter kept them stored
offsite."

"Greg knows the head of the department. Odd little fellow, but he keeps his own copies of the
department's budget reports. He apparently doesn't trust the Ministry."
"Understandable," Hermione snorts, sitting down in one of the cozier armchairs next to Draco. The
chair is softer than it looks, and she sinks down farther than is strictly comfortable.

"He agreed to give Greg a copy," Draco continues. "I thought that may speed things along while
Alicia and Millicent hunt down the other offsite budgets."

"I haven't noticed an administrative fee in the other budgets," wonders Hermione.

"Neither have I," Draco agrees. "It's a small amount - barely a percentage of their overall budget -
but it does seem odd that the other departments wouldn't have a similar item listed."

Hermione leans over the parchment and squints her eyes at the line in question. "It says it was paid
to the Ministry. Perhaps Greg could ask the department head about it."

"I'll have him take care of it."

Draco's voice has dropped an octave, and when Hermione looks up, she realizes how close she is to
him. She can see each of his ashy blonde eyelashes and the dark freckles in his grey eyes.

Hermione clears her throat and backs away. "Good. Very good. I'm sure he'll figure it out."

"Oh," Draco says, digging around the papers on the table. "This came for you in the post today."
He hands her a thick white envelope with her name scrawled across the front in an ornate hand.

Hermione takes it and flips it over, noting the wax seal on the back with a "W" stamped neatly
inside. "It's for Fred and Angelina's wedding, I think. Ginny mentioned I'd be getting something
soon."

"I thought they were already married."

"No, they didn't have much interest in the paperwork. They've lived together for a long time,
though," Hermione murmurs, breaking open the seal. "Fred promised his mum that they'd make it
legal once kids were involved and they've just announced that Angelina is expecting."

"And Mrs. Weasley is in charge of planning, I assume?" Draco nods at the glitter that floats out of
the envelope and swirls in a twinkling cloud over Hermione's head before falling into her curls and
onto the ground. "That doesn't look like Johnson's work."

Hermione laughs. "No, it's not quite Angelina's taste. Part of the deal is that Molly has to arrange
everything but the dress and the music. Angelina said she'd rather not be bothered with the details
of it all."

"Sounds like it'll be quite the affair. You can always trust the Weasleys for an eventful night."
Draco slides his glasses back on and picks up the next stack of budgets. His tone has turned a little
sour, and Hermione feels herself bristle.

"Molly loves her children very much," she replies, sliding into a hard chair at the table where
they'd -

Gods. No matter.

"She's an excellent hostess," Hermione continues, shaking off the distraction, "She'll throw a
lovely, bright, too-loud celebration for Fred and Angelina, and she won't embarrass them any more
than your average happy mother."
Draco looks up at her. "Is that what your mother is like?"

The question catches her off guard.

"I - she - " Hermione hesitates. "We have a good relationship. She loves differently than Molly
does, but she loves all the same."

"Hmm." Draco turns back to his work. Hermione stares at him for a moment, unsure of what just
passed.

The room falls silent except for the scratching of quills against parchment, but as the sun fades
through the windows, the numbers become increasingly hard to make out. Hermione leans back in
her chair with a sigh and gazes around the library. This is the first time since that night she's had a
chance to look around the room.

The collection of books impresses even Hermione. The room is filled to the brim with neat rows of
leather-bound, gilded volumes. The long rows of shelves extend back to another anterior room that
seems to be likewise well-stocked, and Hermione imagines she could spend months browsing all
that the library has to offer.

But the room is so dim. The low light lends itself to a soothing ambience, but there are no bright
lamps to help make out words late at night. The books smell old and rich, and Bogby makes a
wonderful effort against any collecting dust, but they look untouched and unloved. The furniture is
beautiful, but the chairs are either too stiff and itchy or too soft to curl up in. It's not a place to learn
or discover or run away to another world. It's a room built for show.

The lost potential strikes her as rather sad.

"Do you like it?" Draco asks suddenly.

"Hmm?" Hermione twists her head back to him. Had she spoken her thoughts aloud?

"The library," Draco says. "Do you like it?"

Hermione searches the room again, reaching for something polite. "It's very large," she finally
replies. "Your family has an impressive collection."

Draco straightens and cranes his head to look around the room. He takes it in as though he's seeing
it for the first time, and his jaw tightens before he turns back to her.

"You should change it," he says.

Hermione's eyes widen. "What do you mean?"

"Just... change it." Draco avoids her eyes and waves a hand to the room. "However you like. It can
be your room."

"I can't just commandeer the Malfoy Library," she splutters. "Your family would roll over in their
graves."

The portraits on the wall seem to agree.

"Technically, you're a Malfoy, too. Or a Granger-Malfoy, sort of," he mutters. "And they're dead,
so fuck them."

"I'll only live here three months of the year," Hermione protests. "You should redo the room
 yourself if you don't like it."

"You could use the library anytime, though," Draco says. "You should use it even if you're not
living here. It's yours, if you'd like it."

Hermione opens her mouth to protest again, but there's something desperate in his gaze that gives
her pause. She purses her lips and looks around the room.

"It's a bit cold," she says slowly. "Perhaps some different chairs may make the room more cozy."

"New chairs." Draco nods. "You can bill them to the estate."

"Thank you," Hermione says.

"Of course." Draco taps his quill against the low table in front of him. New tables, too. "I thought
having a space of your own might make you feel more welcome here."

Something warm wraps around her chest, and Hermione smiles. "It does."

"The room is hideous, anyway," Draco says gruffly. "You'll do a nice job sprucing it up."

Draco returns to the papers before him, making a small note in the margin, and Hermione sits back
to watch him for a long moment. His words from the other night seem to hang in the air - a better
man - and a decision snaps into place.

Hermione clears her throat. “Would you like to accompany me to Fred and Angelina’s wedding?”
she asks, clasping her hands in her lap. “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind my bringing a guest.”

Draco gapes up at her from his budgets like a fish out of water, and Hermione stifles a small smile
as he composes himself. Doubt and fear flicker across his face, and he searches her eyes for
something - sincerity, perhaps. He must find it, because his stiff shoulders relax marginally and a
soft expression plays on his lips.

“A wedding might be nice,” Draco says. “Thank you.”

Hermione smiles and nods. “Very well then.”

She finds her wand and charms up a warm ball of light to brighten the room, and they return to
their budgets, each grinning softly to themselves. A moment passes quietly, and then -

“Is this because I gave you a library?”

“Oh, stop it.”

Chapter End Notes

I'm extremely late to an appointment (it's church) so no embarrassing stories today,

only THANKS to all of you for being the best readers!! I'm sorry that I am terrible at
getting back to comments. I'm working on becoming a better, more organizing person,
but honestly who knows what will happen.

Also, if you enjoyed that last little cute scene where Hermione invites Draco to the
wedding, please thank sirxusly, my incredible talented, patient, and delightful beta,
because she basically wrote that and I thought it was so adorable that I shifted around
some other parts of the story to make room for it.
 Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

A wedding. What does one wear to a wedding? Do his dress robes still fit? Are dress robes too
much for a family affair at the Weasley's little Burrow? The necktie doesn’t seem to knot quite like
he remembers it should, so Draco undoes it and begins again.

The door to Draco's room swings open, and Theo barges in with a wide grin on his face. "There
you are!"

Draco scowls at him. "What's got you in a good mood?"

"Today is a beautiful day!" Theo collapses into a chair, disregarding the three dress shirts
underneath him that Bogby will surely have to press again. "And Millie and I are in love."

"She agreed to go on a date with you?" Draco straightens his tie in the mirror and frowns at his
reflection. Still looks funny.

"No, no - she loves me. Told me herself," Theo chuckles. "Did I ever tell you that I proposed to
her? She turned me down flat. Apparently it was a bit more complicated than that, and she loves
me, and I'm going to go look over the rings in the family vault."

Draco turns to him with a raised brow. "Rings already? You've only just told each other how you
feel."

Theo leans forward in the chair and shakes his head. "We could have been married for nearly five
years now, mate, if I hadn't fucked it up so badly. Five years with Millicent as my wife. Can you
imagine? No, I'm not going to wait any longer."

"You're not going to propose today, are you?" Draco asks, tearing off the necktie. Damned thing
won't knot right.

"No, don't be ridiculous," Theo scoffs. "I have to plan this thing properly. Millie deserves a big to-
do, you know? I think she'd like flowers and perhaps a string quartet and - why are you in dress
robes anyway?"

Draco sighs and turns away from the mirror. "You remember Angelina Johnson?"

"Yes. She's been dating Fred Weasley all these years, hasn't she?"

"They're getting married in a few weeks."

Theo blinks at him. "So?"

So. Draco schools his tone into something casual and airy.

"Hermione's invited me to the wedding," he tells Theo, brushing some invisible dirt off the fabric.

"Oh ho! Dating your wife now, Draco? Revolutionary,” Theo teases. “And you’re picking out your
outfit already?"

"I'm just making sure it still fits," Draco grits.

Theo eyes Draco. "It has been a while, hasn't it? A few years at least since you’ve had those on."

"Probably." Draco shrugs off the cloak. "I haven't kept track."

"Of course." Theo tugs one of the shirts out from under him. "Try this one."

"It looks the same as all the others," Draco growls, yanking at the collar.

"The cut on this one is more in style," Theo protests. "It's what Pansy told me to put on for some
dinner last month."

Draco eyes him for a moment, then he snatches the shirt out of Theo's hand. "I'll try it later."

"I like the navy cloak," Theo adds.

"I don't wear navy. I wear black."

"I bet Hermione likes navy."

"Did you just come here to pester me?"

Theo reclines again and grabs a book - one of those books - off Draco's nightstand. "Ever get
around to reading these novels?"

“Yes," Draco mutters, avoiding eye contact.

"Learn anything?" Theo flips through its pages.

"Very enlightening."

Theo leans forward with a twinkle of interest. "Used them yet?"

Draco yanks him out of the chair and shoves him toward the door. "Get out of my room, Theo."

"Nothing wrong with a little role play, mate!"

Draco throws a necktie at him as he slips out the door.

Draco barely notices the cold lumps of creamed spinach on his plate. He doesn’t normally eat
dessert after dinner, but Hermione does, and he's too busy enjoying her enjoyment of her remaining
butterscotch pudding.

That evening's Prophet lays unread next to his plate.

Hermione, on the other hand, is fully engrossed in whatever work she's brought home from the
office. One hand furiously jots down notes in the margins of a roll of parchment while her other
hand stays busy dragging her spoon through the last remnants on her plate before her little pink
tongue darts out to lick away the rich pudding.

Draco wants to kiss away the crease between her brow, wipe the ink smudge off her cheek, force
down that damnable spoon, and give her something else to lick.
Merlin.

Hermione rests the quill on the table and looks up at him as if she's done absolutely nothing to
seduce him over a roast chicken.

"I think I'm finished," she announces, pulling her napkin out of her lap and plopping it on the table.
"Tell Bogby he did an excellent job if you see him."

Don't leave. A small panic sets in, but he doesn't know how to tell her that he'd like to talk to her
more, perhaps touch her curls, or listen to her laugh at a stupid joke. Stay.

"Where are you going?" Draco blurts out as she stands.

"Nowhere," she replies, wrinkling her brow. "Just to the library. I thought I'd do some light
reading."

"Oh." Gods, he sounds like an idiot every time he opens his mouth. "Very good, then."

Hermione glances down at the parchment in front of her and bites her lip before looking back up at
him. "You're welcome to join me, if you'd like."

Draco grunts in response. Is that a yes or a no? It's most certainly a not right now, not until his
trousers have settled. Hermione cocks her head at him.

"Perhaps later," he says, looking back down at the paper on the table. If he can pretend that he's
very interested in the headline, she won't suspect a thing.

As soon as Hermione closes the dining room door behind her, Draco pushes back the paper and
scowls.

Gods, what had Pansy said? Ask her. Ask her what she likes, and do that. How does he ask, though?

"Excuse me, good evening, Hermione," Draco mutters under his breath, pushing around two rogue
peas. "How would you like me to shag you? Kindly forget about the last two fuck-ups, I promise
I’ve been practic – "

A pop interrupts his soliloquy, and Draco flinches. Bogby stands before him with a cross look on
his face.

"What?" Draco snaps, folding his arms.

"Are you quite finished?" Bogby sniffs.

Draco huffs. "I don't know what you mean."

Bogby raises an eyebrow. "Your dinner is cold, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco stares down at his plate. Fuck.

"Oh. Yes. I'm finished. Thank you."

Bogby reaches up to the table and takes Draco's dishes.

Draco clears his throat. "Perhaps I'll have some of the butterscotch pudding as well, if you please."

"We're out, Mr. Malfoy," Bogby sniffs.

"You didn't make enough for two?"

"Completely out, Mr. Malfoy," the house elf shrugs. "So sorry."

With another pop, Bogby disappears, and the room is empty again. Draco pauses for a moment to
wrestle with himself then abruptly pushes back from the table and stands.

He stares down the door to the hall, then he falters and sinks back into his chair. The clock chimes
as Draco pulls the Prophet back in front of him. He squeezes his eyes shut and inhales a deep
breath.

"Fuck it," he hisses, tucking the paper under his arm and striding toward the door before he can
change his mind again.

Ask her what she likes.

Hermione adjusts the pillow behind her back before flipping the next page in her book. The ticking
of the clock is entirely too loud, and Hermione wonders if she should have been clearer in her
invitation for Draco to come sit in the library with her. Or did he not wish to join? It feels
impossible to tell when he's interested in her and how he's interested in her - does he want to talk
about work or marriage? Sex or mysteries? Hermione shakes her head and doubles down her focus
on the book before her.

She'd purchased this romance novel several weeks ago, but between work and this business with
Francis Pinter, Hermione has just now settled in with it. The heroine and her love interest are
hiding in a balcony together, spying on a suspicious and potentially dangerous man wandering the
area just in front of the stage to look for something. They haven't kissed yet, but they've come
close so many times, and while the heroine knows she ought to be focusing on what the man below
is looking for, she can't help but feel the pressure of the tall, golden-haired duke at her back,
trapping her against the railing as he hisses in his ear how angry he is at her for embarrassing him
earlier in front of his sister, and his hand snakes around her waist, pulling her arse flush against him
as he demands that she -

The door to the library swings open, and Hermione clutches the book to her chest.

"Hello," Draco clips, striding into the room. His hair is out of place for once, and there's a hint of
blush on his cheeks that Hermione thinks she's never seen before.

"Hello," she replies. Her own voice sounds husky in her ears, and she lightly clears her throat.
"Have you decided to read this evening?"

Draco takes in the couch that she's reclined on. "New furniture? I'm impressed that you were able
to get new pieces ordered so quickly."

"Oh, no, these aren't new." Hermione sits up a bit. "These two are from the London flat. I always
enjoyed them and I thought they'd fit this room nicely, so I had them brought over."

Draco nods but doesn't sit on the couch opposite her. Instead, he paces across the room. His
fingertips, long and neatly tapered, tap over the head of his cane and something about the motion
has Hermione squirming in her seat.
"You like the couches, then?" Draco asks, stopping next to one of the bookshelves.

Hermione cranes her head over to look at him. "I... yes? That's why I brought them here."

Draco nods and grunts. "Good. Good."

"Do you like them?" Hermione asks. Perhaps he's upset that she's rearranging. It's supposed to be
her library after all, though, and what does it matter if she pulled something from the London flat?
It's not as though he ever goes there.

"Yes. Good couches," Draco mutters. His eyes zero in on the book in her hands. "And the book?
You like that book?"

Her grip tightens on the pages, and she resists the urge to move her fingers over the cover and title.

"Yes. I do."

Draco runs his thumb over the head of the snake on his cane, pressing down firmly on the very top.

"What do you like about the book?" he asks.

Hermione swallows and forces her eyes back up to his. "There's a lot to like," she begins. "The
heroine is clever and not at all helpless, and her love interest is tall and blo - well - "

Tall and blonde and surly and desperately hungry for her body. Is Draco hungry for her? She could
go on about the book. The plot is concise and sensible, and the author writes beautiful prose, and
the heroine goes after what she wants.

Hermione works her jaw. What does she want?

"The love scenes," Hermione blurts out. "The author writes very good love scenes."

"I agree," murmurs Draco. His grip tightens on his cane, and his whole body goes taught as though
he’s ready to spring.

Ready to catch her.

"What?" she chokes.

"I read that one last week," he replies matter-of-factly. "I thought the love scenes were well done."

“You read this?” Hermione asks, barely understanding what he’s just told her.

Draco nods. “I wanted to know what you liked.”

What she likes.

Hermione bites the inside of her lip as she studies Draco. His gaze is intent, and he stands before
her incredibly still.

Is she still the kind of woman who goes after what she wants? Merlin, she wishes she had a stiff
drink to turn to for a shock of bravery, but she pulls from her own gut instead and prays it won't fail
her.

"Did you like what we did in my room last week?" she whispers.
Draco's eyes darken, and he steps toward her. She's tempted to shrink back or whimper. He's tall,
gods he's tall, and the width of him casts a shadow over her in the dim light of the library.

"I did."

Hermione nods, carefully maintaining eye contact. Her heart pounds like she’s standing at the edge
of a cliff, like she's clutching the railing on a sliding staircase. "I did too."

"Do you want to do it again?" His voice is nearly hoarse.

Yes. Inexplicably, yes, even though the sparks didn’t turn into the fire Hermione had expected last
time. Yes, even though Draco had been awkward and uncomfortable and nearly wrong with
everything he’d done to her body. Yes, because somehow even still, Hermione’s core squeezes tight
at the thought of him, and she can’t help but feel in her bones that there’s some undiscovered thing
between them that explains why his lingering gaze and brushing touches turn her skin hot.

"I do," Hermione whispers.

Draco steps forward and bumps his cane into her legs, nudging her knees apart. The whimper
escapes her this time, and a shot of arousal twists in her abdomen.

"Did you like the part in the book when he knelt in front of her?" Draco asks. His eyes trail down
her chest to where her thighs meet, and he steps in between her legs.

It feels like a different approach than their first times together. Draco isn't in a rush to possess, but
Hermione feels possessed nonetheless. The suspense of him touching her with that cane but not
touching her feels like a dangerous rope dragging her forward to the edge of something terrifying
and wicked and... delicious.

Be brave.

Hermione steels herself.

"I liked the part where he told her what to do," she whispers.

Draco's eyes go nearly black, and they dart back up to her face.

"Take your sweater off," he says.

Hermione obeys. Her body feels like it's trapped in molasses, and she moves slowly, peeling the
sweater over her head. Draco's eyes drift down her chest. Each breath weighs heavy in her chest,
and Hermione thinks this may be the first time he's actually seen her without a shirt on, and she
feels the sudden urge to cross her arms over her breasts and her stomach.

"Lights off?" she murmurs.

Much to her surprise, Draco shakes his head and trails a finger down her sternum.

"Lights stay on this time," he growls. "I want to see your body. All of it."

His jaw is tight, and Hermione wonders if this is a difficult trade for him. Him seeing her body for
her seeing his.

"Lights on, then," she murmurs.

Draco nods as if reassuring himself that this is the decision he's made.
His next command is gruff. "Trousers off."

Hermione slides them over her hips and down her legs, watching him drink in every inch of skin as
she's left in her simple knickers that already feel sticky against her skin.

Draco nudges her knees further apart with his cane, and his eyes lock in on the crux of her thighs.
"You're already wet," he breathes. There's a sense of marvel in his voice, a sense of wonder that
Hermione is aroused by this, and there's some reassurance in it for her. Hermione lets out an inch
of the air she'd been holding. She doesn't, perhaps, need to be so brave around him.

He wants her too.

Draco tilts his cane forward slowly, and the silver snake bumps her clit.

Gods. She can feel the cold, smooth metal through the cotton, and a hiss escapes her lips as her
head falls back.

"Does that feel good, Hermione?" Draco rasps.

"Yes," she gasps, her back arching ever so slightly. "Yes, it does."

He presses the snake against her, letting the pressure work over her clit. It slips down toward the
indent of her entrance, and Hermione moans at the friction and the pressure. Part of her imagines
that snake coming to life and slithering into her, and she wants to buck her hips up into it, but she
holds as still as she can. Gods.

Something about this is different.

"Do you want to touch yourself?" he asks.

Something about Draco is different.

"Yes."

Or maybe it's her. Maybe she's different.

"Where do you want to touch yourself?" he asks. "Show me."

Hermione tugs down one strap of her bra, and then the other, fully exposing her breasts. She lets
out a shaky exhale and lets one hand drift up to pinch at a nipple. She tentatively slides her other
hand - gods, she's never done this before, shown anyone - down toward the front of her knickers,
but Draco lifts his cane and blocks her movement with the snake.

"I want to see," he drawls. His voice gets darker every time he talks, and it sends a thrill through
Hermione. "I can't see if you're wearing that little scrap."

Hermione nods and lifts her hips again to slide the knickers off, and then her bra falls away too,
and she's naked in front of him.

On display.

Draco presses the silver head of the snake against her again. The contrast of cold against her hot
skin leaves her gasping, and Hermione swears the snake’s emerald eyes twinkle at her, daring her
to admit her own pleasure in this particular torture. Her fingers move over her clit, alternating with
the twisting pressure of the snake, and Draco's eyes trace every pattern of her fingers like he's
committing it to memory. The metal, slick with her arousal, keeps slipping, and her own fingers
seem out of her control. It's building in her, and another moan escapes Hermione's throat. She
closes her eyes and arches her back. So close - so close -

The cane clatters to the floor, yanking Hermione away from the edge and back to Draco, who
slowly kneels in front of her.

He presses a kiss to her thigh.

"Do you like this?" Draco murmurs, kissing her again, sucking at the soft skin.

She can't help herself. Hermione twists her fingers into his blonde hair and tugs him closer to her
cunt.

"Yes, yes."

He licks a stripe over her, and then he mimics the motion of her fingers over his clit with his
tongue, and Hermione cries out.

"Do you like this?" he asks again, pushing her harder, sliding his fingers into her.

"Please - just like - "

"You're so wet," he praises her. "You taste like a fucking dream, Hermione."

"Please - "

"Fingers or cock?" he growls.

Hermione can't understand him and moans again, writing under his attention.

Draco pulls his mouth away from her, and she cries out in protest. "Do you want to come on my
fingers or my cock, Hermione?"

"Cock," she gasps, tugging him forward.

He pushes her back onto the couch and surges forward, covering her mouth with his as he fumbles
with his trousers. He tastes like her, and Hermione arches against his knuckles as he drinks her in,
whimpering at the sensation. Draco draws back, hikes up her leg, and poises his thick head at her
entrance.

"Do you like this, Hermione?" he asks, dragging himself through her folds.

"Yes."

Draco stretches her out as he pushes forward, and she hisses at the pressure even as he's only
halfway in, rocking back and forth. They both stare down at the crux of her thighs where his thick
cock disappears into her. Draco presses her knees wider and runs a thumb over her clit and sinks in
another inch.

"How does it feel?" he whispers, looking up at her. "Does this feel good for you?"

Hermione fists her hands in the blanket underneath her. "I need you to move," she begs. "Hard."

Draco falls forward, propping his weight on the pillow behind her, and he begins to fuck . Gods, he
drives into her, and it's good, it is , but it's not quite enough .
"Tell me how to make you scream," Draco hisses in Hermione's ear. “Please, I need you to tell
me.”

Shivers run down her spine, and she involuntarily twitches her hips against his. Draco sinks in
further with every stroke, and then -

Hermione's eyes fly open.

Like that. Oh gods, like that.

"Touch me," she pleads. "Exactly, just like that, just touch me like before, please."

Draco's hand slips between them again and he plays her perfectly.

"Do you like when I touch you like this?" he grits as he ruts into her. Hermione feels like she needs
to squirm away. The building sensation is too much, it's too fast, but his hips pin her down with
each thrust, and the rush nearly throws her over the edge. She turns her head to the side, trying to
burrow into the cushions so they'll bury her scream, because she's going to scream soon, any
moment, and she can't -

Draco's hand weaves into her curls, and he yanks her head back to him, pressing his forehead
against hers.

"No," he hisses. "No hiding, not here. You have to tell me if it's really as good for you as it is for
me."

Oh.

"Is it good for you?" she gasps. Her hands clutch at his torso, slipping under his shirt, even though
she knows it's forbidden, but she can't help it, needs to touch, needs to feel. “Tell me how, talk to
me.”

Draco nips at her jar. "You feel so fucking good, Hermione, your tight little cunt squeezing around
me, I want to hold you down and fuck you like this for hours, fuck you like you're mine - "

Her fingernails dig into his skin.

Her leg hooks around his hip.

Hermione tips over the edge, and she cries out his name with nothing to hide in, no way to pretend
like it's just good sex, and anyone can have good sex, and it doesn't mean anything, because her
body has never shattered like this, and Draco buries his face against her neck and follows her with
a hoarse roar, emptying himself into her with a violent thrust, pulling at her hair, hissing all kinds
of promises she's sure he doesn’t really mean, but for now she can't seem to be close enough to
him, and she wants to tear his shirt off and touch his skin and do this all over again, feeling
everything, in every room in this godforsaken manor, and she wants him to bury himself in her over
and over until she's had enough.

Hermione knows she'll never have enough.

Three months of the year will never -

Oh, gods.

She loosens her grip on his back and lets her hands slide down to his hips. Draco releases her hair,
 but he presses another kiss to her neck and pushes himself into her again, making them both hiss
with the aftershocks of pleasure.

Hermione turns her head and captures Draco’s lips in a long, slow kiss. She can still taste herself in
his mouth, still feel his length between her legs, and his wide chest is warm and heavy, blanketing
her as the sharp pleasure fades into a humming contentment.

It is, simply put, the most amazing sex she has ever had.

Chapter End Notes

No spicy cliffhangers! Is this what personal growth looks like?

Hope y'all are having the best Sunday ever. Thankyousomuch for all your kind
comments. It's wonderful to have people to scream about these idiots with.
 Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco doesn't often head down to the dining room for breakfast. Most mornings, Bogby delivers a
tray to him in bed, or to his potions room on days when he's risen early to dabble in a new brew.
Ever since his mother passed away, eating breakfast in the dining room has seemed too terribly
quiet and cold. Dinner alone is bearable, but breakfast alone... well, it's lonely.

Today, however, Draco's buttered toast has turned cold and he's on his second cup of tea when
Hermione finally appears.

"Oh," she says, stopping short in the doorway. "Hello."

Draco straightens in his chair. "Good morning."

Hermione's cheeks flush, and she tugs a bit at her jumper. Somehow, she already has ink stains on
her fingertips, and Draco wonders if she makes a habit of sending letters or researching before
getting ready for work. She's tamed her hair some since he last tangled his fingers in it, and Draco
yearns to grab at her curls again and muss them up so that everyone will know - so they'll see that
he's made his mark on her, that she's his. Hermione Granger is a Malfoy.

Granger-Malfoy.

Whatever the fuck they are.

Fuck.

Hermione strides across the room to her chair, and Bogby sets her steaming plate before her, piled
high with toast and eggs and sausage.

"Thank you," she murmurs, smiling down at him.

"You're welcome, Miss," Bogby replies solemnly. "You need to replenish yourself."

Hermione blanches.

Bogby raises an eyebrow. "The interviews are today, yes?"

"Oh." Her voice is hoarse. "Yes. Of course."

"Interviews?" Draco leans forward. "What interviews?"

"It's nothing, really," Hermione reassures him, still avoiding eye contact as she reaches for the jam.
"We have a raise and promotion cycle coming up, so they're conducting candidate interviews over
the course of the week. Mine is today."

Draco nods. "I'm sure you'll do very well. The Ministry seems to love you."

A sour wrinkle creases Hermione's forehead, and Draco immediately knows that he's said
something wrong, but she only purses her lips and pours a bit of cream into her cup.

"Are you anxious at all?" he ventures, buttering another slice of cold toast.
"I've thoroughly prepared," Hermione clips. "I've spent plenty of time researching the roles, and
I've objectively analyzed my own performance over the past year."

Draco can't quite place what he's said wrong, so he bites his tongue and leans back in his chair.

He'd meant to use breakfast to impress her somehow, to make her feel special, to make her enjoy
breakfasting at the Manor and specifically with him so that when the time comes, she might decide
that she prefers these types of breakfasts to eating alone in the London flat.

So that Hermione might choose to stay.

Draco adds some sugar into his tea even though it's already terribly sweet. Should he ask her to the
opera? The Malfoy box is excellent, even if it's been gathering dust for years. He tries to imagine
sitting in the box next to her as the music swells around them. His leg would press against hers,
and he could throw his arm over the back of her chair, and then she might lean into him when -

Draco's chest tightens with panic because, even in the brief fantasy, he can feel the eyes of the
crowd watching them. Watching him instead of the scene on stage.

Murderer , they'd whisper, staring up at him. Death Eater. Touching what isn't his. Tainting it.
Tainting her.

Draco's spoon clatters against the table, and Hermione looks up at him curiously.

No opera. No opera. A book signing? Authors are coming through Diagon Alley all the time.
Perhaps Draco could take Hermione to a bookstore to meet an author she likes, and then they could
go to dinner after, and -

Panic rises again. The stares. The waitstaff avoiding their table and the other patrons slowly
slipping out of the restaurant.

No dinner. Perhaps just the bookstore. She likes the food at the Manor anyhow, doesn't she?

"Are you well?" Hermione asks, tilting her head at him. "You look pale."

"I'm fine. Perfectly fine." Draco clears his throat. "Actually, I was wondering if - "

A loud hoot interrupts him, and a coal black owl soars through the open window behind Draco and
across the dining table to Hermione to both of their astonishment.

The owl hoots insistently at Hermione, offering her its leg, and she rushes to untie the scrap of
parchment.

"Who is it from?" Draco asks. "Is it about the OMA?"

"Yes. It's from Kingsley Shacklebolt," Hermione mutters as she scans the page.

Draco frowns. "Why is he owling you about the OMA?"

Hermione drops the slip and looks up at him with a glimmer in her eye. "It was his name on the
account donating to the OMA. Kingsley had told me many years ago that he doesn't donate to any
political organizations because of his role as Minister of Magic, so I was immediately suspicious. I
wrote to him to confirm that he had not wavered in his principles, and he just replied to tell me that
while he occasionally shares a cigar with their president, he does not and will not ever consider
making a financial contribution to their organization."
"It's some kind of setup, someone’s trying to frame the Minister…" Draco murmurs.

“So it would seem,” Hermione nods, handing over the letter. “But for what, exactly?
Misappropriation of funds?”

Draco scans it, grim, then meets Hermione’s eyes. “Or they’re planning something worse.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, contemplating. There’s something we’re missing here .
Draco opens his mouth to ask for her thoughts and -

The clock chimes in the hall.

"Gods, I'm going to be late for work," Hermione exclaims, dropping her napkin on the table. "Let
everyone know to come by tomorrow night, won't you? There's much to discuss."

She's through the door nearly before Draco can tell her goodbye, and he's alone again with his cold
toast and undrinkable tea.

Draco pushes his plate away and slumps in his seat.

"A book signing is a good idea," he mutters to himself. "She'll like that, I think."

Greg checks his watch outside of the Department of Mysteries. Theo and Millicent should have
been here five minutes ago, but they both seem to be running especially late these days. He ought
to have lied to them about the time, told them ten minutes earlier, then maybe they'd show up when
he actually needs them.

The door swings open, and Theo comes barreling through, Millicent not far behind. Theo has a
stupid grin on his face, and Millicent is proper as ever, but she still pats at her hair as they
approach Greg. He suppresses the urge to roll his eyes.

"Where's Pansy?" Theo asks, looking around as though he expects her to appear out of thin air. "I
thought she was coming along for this bit."

Theo's question reawakens the anxious prickling in his blood that Greg has tried to suppress all
morning ever since he received Pansy's last minute missive.

"She's with her mother for the day," Greg replies. "Shopping in Paris, I think."

Millicent winces. "Oh, dear. That sounds risky."

Greg wants to snap that of course it's risky, but what was he supposed to do, tag along and loom
over Mrs. Parkinson with every sharp word she delivers to Pansy? His stomach is in knots, and he
ought to be at the gallery or in his flat or wherever Pansy may storm in, burning with rage and pain
, insistent that nothing is wrong, but seeking something more than pleasure in his arms, whether or
not she'll admit that's what she does.

But Greg can tell. He can tell, because he knows Pansy. He's spent years studying her, first from
afar and then from intensely close, so close that he memorizes the freckles on Pansy's eyelids, the
sound of Pansy's sigh when he plays with her short hair, the way Pansy's fingernails scrape down
his back when she comes apart around his cock, and the dreamy hope in Pansy's eye when she
gazes upon a new piece of art that makes her whisper lovely, beautiful under her breath.

"Her mother is certainly a piece of work," Theo snorts, shaking Greg back to the present situation.

"Pansy can handle herself," Greg says firmly. His tone doesn't betray the unsettled dread in his gut,
but there's nothing to be done, and they have a head of department to meet with regarding some
very important financial matters.

Once everyone has gathered in the library, Theo beelines for the couch and makes to sit down on
it.

Hermione can't help but glance at Draco, who watches Theo with a pained expression.

Merlin.

Hermione hopes to the gods that her own face isn't blushing pink, and she turns to the rest of the
room. Ginny, Alicia, and Greg are seated at the table in front of her, and Draco stands on the
opposite side, leaning against a stately pillar, cane in hand. The snake's emerald eyes wink at her,
and Hermione swears she can feel the ghost of its pressure between her legs.

I want to fuck you like you're mine -

She nearly misses the glass Millicent hands to her before taking a seat next to Theo.

Focus. Hermione shakes her head and swallows a small sip of the fortified wine.

"I got confirmation from Minister Shacklebolt that the account isn't his," she announces. "We still
don't know who it belongs to, but whoever it is must be trying to implicate him in some scheme."

"I'm not totally surprised," Ginny admits with a sigh. "Kingsley always keeps things above board."

Alicia leans forward. "How do we figure out who actually owns the account, then? Should we
stake out Gringotts?"

"Let's... save that discussion for later," Hermione replies warily. "Did you all learn anything about
the administrative fee in the Department of Mysteries?"

"Dansher told us that the administrative fee was implemented around seven years ago," Goyle says.
"Every department is supposed to owl their fee to Budgetary fifteen days before the end of the
quarter."

"But we haven't seen an administrative fee on any of the accounts we pulled from the Budgetary,"
Alicia says. "How is it possible that every single department is submitting this fee if there's no
evidence of it on the accounts?"

Theo shrugs. "Dansher just said that they received an owl alerting them of the new process. It was
just after the end of the war, so it made sense at the time that the Ministry needed to make up for
some of the lost coffers."

Something snags in Hermione's mind, and her heart starts to race. "What was the percentage
Dansher told you?"
"Around one percent, I think," Millicent says.

Hermione reaches over Alicia to snatch a piece of parchment. "The exact percentage. Did he tell
you exactly what it is?"

"One point oh two," Greg responds, sitting up straight. "Why?"

She pulls down the quill stuck in her curls and starts scribbling. "What was the budget for the
DMLE last quarter?"

Draco moves first, sitting down at the table to shuffle through stacks of parchment. "DMLE,
DMLE... where is the damned thing?"

"Here is it," Ginny says, handing over the sheet.

Hermione jots it down. "And the DIMC? And Games and Sports? Just give me everything from
last quarter, everything we have from the Budgetary files."

Papers fly around her, and the numbers flow from her quill onto the page, smattering ink along the
way.

One point oh two percent.

Of course.

Of course.

"What is it?" Draco asks.

Hermione looks up at his intent gaze.

"You've figured something out," he murmurs. There's a shift in his grey eyes to something proud
and heated that warms her core.

"It was all in the diary," Hermione tells Draco. "I saw it in the diary."

"What diary?" Alicia asks, looking between them. "What are you talking about?"

Hermione snaps her focus back to the rest of the room who wait with bated breath.

"There was a diary on the desk in Francis Pinter's office. I only glanced at it when I was there for
his party, but I remember the numbers on the top page."

She stares at the sheet in front of her to make sure, and she is.

"These were the numbers. It was a list of the administrative fees from each department last
quarter."

"I always knew Francis Pinter was a fucking snake," Ginny scowls. "You mean he's the one behind
this?"

"Or his father?" Millicent suggests. She stands from the couch and walks over to look at the
evidence before them, and Theo follows her.

Hermione shakes her head. "No. It's neither of them. It wasn't the standard Pinter crest embossed
on the front. It was the crest that John Pinter created with his wife after they married."
"John Pinter's book?" Alicia gasps. "You're fucking with me. John Pinter loves following the
rules."

"He must love money even more," Greg drawls with a sour note in his voice.

"That's why the accounts from the Budgetary don't show the administrative fee," Millicent says.
"Pinter must be doing something to remove the line item once he receives them."

Ginny crosses her arms and leans back in her chair. "Damn it all. I really wanted it to be Francis."

Greg points at another sheet of paper. "The dates, too. Look at the dates. The donations going to
the OMA aren't for quite the same amount as what's being taken in the administrative fees, but
they're being sent once a quarter within a week of the fee collection."

Theo snatches the paper for closer inspection. "Our lad Johnny isn't skimming too much off the
top, but I suppose he's had seven years to build up his personal funds."

"Why now, though?" Hermione wonders aloud. "Why is he using the funds now to leave this
strange trail to Kingsley?"

"Someone else must be making a move," Draco says slowly. "There must be a plan to discredit the
Minister, which means that someone is trying to make space for a new Minister. Themselves, or
one of their choosing."

Hermione's gut tightens. The war had ended not so long ago, and the memories of it still echo
painfully through her bones. She feels Draco's attention on her and pulls her chin up to meet his
gaze. The words he uttered this morning hang between them again.

Or they’re planning something worse.

"Do you think someone is trying to kill Kingsley?" she asks.

"It may just be a ploy to pressure him out of office," Draco tells her in a low voice as though it's
just them in the room. His jaw is set with determination, and Hermione feels a strange urge to draw
close to his side, to feel some of his warmth before forging ahead. "Regardless, their plan won't
work, though."

"Not when we're so terribly clever," Theo adds with a cheeky grin. "What do you say, Spinnet? Is
there enough here to put a stop to things?"

"This is not nearly enough," Alicia replies. She rubs her chin thoughtfully. "But it does give me
several ideas of where to look around the Budgetary."

Draco pushes back his chair and stands as Theo leans forward on the table.

"We still need to figure out who is coordinating with Pinter," Theo says. "Greg and I can start
there. We have plenty of connections on the Wizengamot."

Greg raises an eyebrow. "We do?"

Hermione tracks Draco as he slowly makes his way around the table, paying careful attention to
the parchment scattered over it.

"Hawkworth likes me just as well as you," Theo scowls.

Draco stops behind Hermione, and she feels the gentle pressure of his hip at her shoulder as he
 leans into her. She could tilt her head just so and brush her cheek against his hand where it rests on
the back of the chair.

It makes Hermione feel just the tiniest bit stronger, and she thinks about John Pinter's open
invitation to have her over to his home for dinner.

"I'll tell Minister Shacklebolt to be on guard," she says. "There's still much to learn."

Chapter End Notes

Hello hello hello. I'm keeping the chapter count steady for now because I have *high
hopes* for myself, but it may creep up one more time before we mark this sucker
complete.

I did not include an embarrassing story last week because I was in a rush to post before
my flight took off, but don't fret, HERE YOU GO. I once introduced my best friend to
a newer group of friends, and one of the guys commented that I was a really chill
person and she literally snorted water out of her nose, and that's how those friends
found out that I am not, in fact, very chill at all.
 Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

After slipping away from the meeting at Malfoy Manor, Greg can't find any trace of Pansy at the
gallery. She's not at his flat either, so it's with a deep sense of dread that Greg steels himself to step
through to Floo to Pansy's London flat.

A jolly tune from the 1950s blares over Pansy's vintage muggle record player, and Greg finds
Pansy herself in the living room, glaring down at the dark, wooden floor.

Which is covered in smashed crystal and a spreading puddle of what Greg suspects is champagne.

Greg moves toward her. She'll step in the glass if she's not careful. "Pansy - "

Pansy whirls on him, and her right foot lands just at the edge of the glittering mess. She sucks in a
sharp hiss of pain.

"Fuck," she mutters. "Fuck!"

Greg snatches a handkerchief out of his pocket and strides toward her. "Are you bleeding, Pans?
Let me - "

Pansy flinches away from him. "Gods, I'm fine, okay?"

The flinch hurts worse than a shove would have, and Greg rears back anyway in surprise, raising
his hands in the air in a show of retreat. "You don't look like you're fine."

"It's just a little blood," she snaps back, snatching the scrap of fabric out of his hand and pressing it
to her foot. A bit of red seeps into the white linen, and Greg tries to tamp down his urge to move
toward her again, to lift her into his arms and set her down on the couch, to whisper a few words
under his breath to draw out the shards of glass.

He bites down on his tongue for a beat until it subsides. "Why is there glass on the floor?"

"Because I dropped a fucking glass, Gregory." Pansy does the spell herself to remove the bit stuck
in her foot, then stomps off toward the bar cart to fill another glass.

Greg watches in silence.

Pansy's hands tremble as she pours another heavy dose of champagne, and when she turns to Greg
with narrowed eyes, Greg's stomach drops.

"What, you want one too?" Pansy offers lightly. "I didn't think you liked champagne. How about a
whisky instead?"

She picks up a low tumbler, but Greg shakes his head. "What's wrong?" he asks.

Pansy barks out a laugh and sets down the glass with a heavy thud. "Nothing's wrong. Merlin,
you're such a drag. Have a drink or just go."

"Pour me an inch, if you insist," Greg responds. Pansy nods triumphantly and splashes some amber
liquid into the glass.
"Thank the gods," she trills, striding across the room. "Someone who appreciates fine whisky."

Pansy thrusts the glass in Greg's hand and continues on across the room to the window, propping
herself on the ledge. She's the picture of poise, except her foot bounces in the air, and she finishes
half her champagne in one long sip.

"How was your mother?" Greg ventures, swirling his whisky, never lifting it to his lips.

Pansy's mouth tightens before she flashes him a brilliant smile. "An absolute delight, as always."

"Really.” Greg leans back into the wall with a raised brow.

"Quite," Pansy replies with a toss of her hair. "She told me she's getting married again, actually.
What a lark!"

Greg freezes.

"Married, can you imagine?" Pansy continues, tossing one hand into the air. "A lovely whirlwind
romance with some man forty years her senior."

"Is it someone you know?"

"Thank Merlin, no," she laughs. "Never heard of him in my life. He has a gorgeous estate on the
coast of Greece, though, so she'll be off in a few weeks for the wedding."

"Your mother is moving to Greece?" Greg can't quite reconcile Pansy's dour, pinched mother with
sunny beaches.

"Greece," Pansy repeats more loudly. "Greece, can you fucking believe it?"

"I don't - "

"She's decided to auction off my father's ancestral home as well, so that's one more thing taken
care of." Pansy downs the rest of her champagne.

"I thought you didn't like the manor," Greg says. She'd always complained about it. The rooms
were too stuffy and the art was unoriginal and unforgivably German. The view didn't inspire her,
and it seemed to always rain on them in particular.

"What?" Pansy asks as she turns the music up.

"I thought you didn't like the manor!"

"It's a piece of shit, of course." Pansy pushes off the window and makes her way back toward the
bar cart. "I don't know how she'll get rid of it, but get rid of it she shall. Some other idiot will be
perfectly eager to move in and take over our rooms and our furniture and - "

Greg snags her arm as she whips by, but she yanks it away.

"You would think that my own mother might have talked to me about selling the house that my
father and his father before him and so on grew up in, but you know what she said to me?"

"What did she say to you?"

Pansy pours more champagne into her glass and takes another long swig before answering. "We
don't need it anymore, darling, she said. We don't need to be Parkinsons anymore. Not as though
the name is good for much these days, anyway. Tossing it right off! The legendary Parkinson
legacy, tossed aside for a Grecian geezer and his galleons. Can you imagine?"

Her harsh laugh grates at him.

"Our parents were complicated people," Greg says, setting his glass, untouched, on the table beside
him. Pansy eyes it.

"Are you not drinking after all?"

"Why do you ask?” Greg folds his arms. “Are you insisting on it?"

Pansy's grip tightens on her flute, and Greg briefly wonders if it'll shatter in her hands.

"I'm not insisting on anything," she grits. "I didn't even invite you here, but here you are, so I've
offered you a drink."

"I came to see you because I was worried!" Greg exclaims. It’s been ages since he’s put a fist
through something, and the wall looks awfully tempting in this moment. If only he could slam his
knuckles into it, to make her understand how much he means what he’s saying - but that’s what the
wood is for. That’s what the carving and whittling and polishing is for. That’s what he’d learned -
his hands are to create, never to break. Not to destroy, only to build, only to find beauty.

Greg consciously relaxes his fists before continuing "You spent all day with your mother, and I
show up here to you with red eyes and broken glass all over the floor and you won't just tell me
what's wrong!"

"What's wrong is I'm a Parkinson," Pansy snaps. "She says we don’t need to be Parkinsons
anymore, but I'm a fucking Parkinson, and it's my fucking manor too, and she can't just prance off
to Greece and pretend like none of it was real because I am still here. She wants to erase
everything? I'd like to see her try to fucking erase me."

Gods.

"Pansy," Greg says, stepping toward her. "Turn the music off. Come on."

She steps back. "Stop it, okay? I don't know what you're even doing here."

"I'm trying to talk to you!"

"Gods, just leave!" Pansy shrieks. "You're not my family. You're not my fucking boyfriend. Take
notice I married Blaise, not you."

Greg flinches and steps back. He hopes he doesn't imagine the flash of regret that passes over
Pansy's face, but whatever it is disappears, and he's left staring at Pansy, who's fashioned a cruel
sneer on her mouth and looks at him with furious disdain.

"Do you want me to get Blaise?" he asks.

"I don’t need Blaise,” Pansy hisses. “I want you to leave.”

Okay. Okay.

Greg turns back toward the mantle, but the music is still too loud, and she always says so much and
he feels in his gut that perhaps the problem is that he doesn't say enough, so Greg pauses with a
handful of Floo powder and turns back to the room. He pulls out his wand to stop the record
player, and the silence catches Pansy off guard.

"I know you're not ever going to marry me," Greg says. "I know you don't want that, and it doesn’t
bother me. Not if that’s what makes you happy. But don't say that you're not my family. You and I
both know that’s not true."

Pansy doesn't respond, so Greg shakes his head and steps through the Floo in a flash of green and
misses her face crumpling as he disappears. Pansy sinks into the couch and lets another crystal
flute slip through her fingers, It shatters on the floor like the last, and she buries her face in a pillow
as the sobs wrack through her body.

A moment later, the Floo flares to life again, and Pansy lifts her tear-streaked face to see Millicent
standing before her.

"Oh, Pansy," Millicent sighs, settling next to her on the couch. "Come here."

Pansy leans into Millicent, letting her wrap her arms around her as she cries into her shoulder.

"What is it, Pans?"

"She's leaving, Millie," Pansy cries. "And I've made a mess of it."

She's made a mess of everything.

The new Illumination Charm candles light up the table in the library quite nicely, and Draco even
lets Hermione send two floating over his way as he opens the Daily Prophet. He'd shot them a few
dubious glances at first, but after a few minutes, Hermione smiles to see him forget that they're
even there, and he no longer squints through his glasses as he flips the page.

Hermione turns back to her own work, brought home from the office, and adjusts in her seat. The
chairs she'd ordered arrived only yesterday, and they're finally at the proper height for working at
the large table in the library. The chill of late November can still be felt through the walls, though,
and Hermione taps her quill on the parchment, wondering if it would be better to keep some
blankets in the library or find some tapestries for the walls. Perhaps she and Draco could take a
look at the warming charms in the room together and find a way to strengthen them, or at least
tighten them up to prevent the damp from creeping in.

She makes another note in the margins of the case before her, then she sneaks a look at Draco. His
bad leg is propped up on a low footstool, and he's foregone his normal black sweater for a dark
navy blue that hangs nicely on his shoulders.

His jaw twitches just a bit, and Hermione senses that something in the paper has caught his
interest. He leans forward just slightly, tilts his head, and -

"They've posted the new Ministry positions in the paper," Draco says, looking up at her. "I didn't
realize you'd already been told."

Hermione shrugs. "There was nothing terribly surprising."

"You don't seem pleased," Draco frowns, setting down the paper. "I thought you'd be more
pleased."

It's Hermione's turn to tilt her head at him in confusion.

"I just...," she trails off. "I suppose I'm pleased that I've been made manager with Millicent. It's just
that we were expecting it, so I haven't thought too much of it. I have lots of ideas on how to
improve our team’s efficiency, of course, and we'll implement some new standards across the
board. Melvin Pentworth was transferred to Creatures and Beings, so he's finally out of our hair,
although he's left us with - "

Draco pulls his glasses off, and Hermione stops mid-sentence. Mid-thought, really, as her mind
seems to forget what she'd been about to say about Melvin Pentworth's horrible systems of
organization as Draco works his jaw and looks at her with ferocious glint in his eye.

"I hope you know this is utter bollocks," Draco grits. "They're a bunch of fools."

Hermione blinks at him. "What?"

Draco shakes his head and reaches for a quill. "Would you like me to have Greg step in? I'm sure
he can get this sorted out. Hand me some parchment, will you?"

"Have Greg step in?" Hermione echoes.

"Never mind, I'll get it myself," Draco growls, waving his wand at a stack of parchment. The top
few sheets fly toward him in a flurry.

Hermione sets down her quill. "Draco, what are you talking about, having Greg step in? What has
he to do with anything?"

Draco looks up at her from his furious scratching. "I don't have much influence in the Ministry
these days, but Greg does. He can get to the bottom of whatever nepotism or sexism or bullshit it
was that put Melvin fucking Pentworth on the Creatures and Beings team instead of you."

"It's not nepotism," insists Hermione. Gods, what is he on about?

"It's not nepotism?" Draco scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous Hermione. How on earth
would he get the transfer over you?"

"I didn't apply," Hermione says.

Draco halts his quill.

A chilly silence falls over the room.

"You didn't apply for the transfer?" Draco asks in disbelief. "You said you wanted to be on that
team."

"I do, but I'm waiting my turn. Normally they only grant team transfers to managers or above. I've
just now been promoted, so I'll wait until next year to request the transfer."

Draco looks like he can’t quite decide whether he’ll implode or explode. Hermione leans back in
her seat as he leans forward, narrowing his steely eyes.

"But you're you," Draco hisses. "You're not just some new associate off the streets of Diagon
Alley. What do you mean you didn't apply?"
Hermione bristles.

"I can't just barrel through to the top because of my name," she snaps, folding her arms. "I have to
earn this on my own merit, just like everyone else. Don't you think it's a bit rich to accuse
Pentworth of nepotism and then insist that I ought to have used my own reputation to get what I
want?"

"You - are you - your name." Draco splutters. "Gods, Hermione, have you compared your records
with Pentworth's? He may have a year of tenure on you, but you've had nearly as many cases as
he's had."

She knows. But it's not her turn yet for the transfer request. Another year, surely, and then she can
begin the process, just like everyone else in the department.

"Yes, but he's had more experience still, and - "

"And look at the case list!" Draco exclaims. "So what if Pentworth has a few more on you? You've
taken on twice as many cases that are related to creatures and beings. Pentworth's been all over the
place. He's shown no initiative in specializing in any particular team to even merit a transfer. He
has agreed to shit deals on at least a third of his cases, and - "

Hermione goes to interrupt, to ask how could Draco possibly know Pentworth's case list, but Draco
holds up a hand and continues.

"And I mean shit deals, Hermione. Not in the sense of that Granian hair business I was moaning
about, but truly shit deals that ended with our Ministry looking the fool and you having to
occasionally clean up behind him. Don't sit there and tell me that you didn't apply because of some
bureaucratic bollocks. I don't care if your name is Hermione Granger, Golden Girl, or Janet Whosit
from Wingdington. Anyone with a fucking brain can look at the papers and see that you're more
qualified than this piece of shit idiot Pentworth, names be damned."

"How do you know what cases I've worked on?" Hermione asks.

Draco's face has turned red from his ranting, and his blonde hair drifts over his forehead. His
cheeks turn even brighter at her question.

"The papers, of course," he breathes. "They put that sort of thing in the Ministry Business section."

"No one reads the Ministry Business section," exclaims Hermione. It's dry and boring and full of
seemingly unimportant details. The Prophet sends a stodgy old man to all the hearings to record,
nearly word for word, the discussions and the final agreements. His notes go directly into print,
and the long paragraphs are painful even for Hermione. The big and flashy stories, boasting of the
Ministry's notable success and hand-shaking with foreign dignitaries and celebrities, are featured
on the front page or praised in the editorials.

"Well, they should," Draco fires back. "Lots to learn there."

Hermione's chest tightens at the stern set of his face, and something stirs just under her breast. The
sensation is heavy and twisting and overly warm and wrings through her entire body. It’s
altogether unpleasant and overpowering.

At the same time, though, it is an undeniably good feeling, even if she all at once wants to shake it
off and bottle it up forever.

Hermione’s breath catches in her throat, but she swallows and sets down her quill.
"Why do you follow my cases?" she asks.

Why would any of this possibly matter to you?

Draco turns his head to the fireplace and runs a shaking hand over the back of his neck. His fingers
brush over the fine hairs there, and Hermione clenches her teeth to suppress the urge to stand and
make her way over to him, to replace his fingers with hers and study the feel of him.

Hermione now knows Draco Malfoy better than she ever expected to, but she can't help but feel
that she hasn't studied him nearly enough.

"What you do is important work," Draco finally says, turning back to her. "Trade and Regulation
has an enormous long term impact on our economy."

"Why do you follow my cases?"

Her cases for nearly the last five years.

"You're my wife," Draco replies tersely. "Of course I follow your cases. I ought to know what my
own wife is up to, shouldn't I?"

"You could always ask, you know," Hermione says.

Draco huffs. "Well, you're not always around to ask, so I read the papers."

"I'm here now, and I don't mind... I appreciate your interest in my work."

The light of the Illumination Charm candles flicker in Draco's eyes as he stares back at her - or is it
something else entirely? Hermione's breath catches again, and she wants to sit next to him, to tuck
her feet underneath a blanket - make sure to order blankets - and talk about how ridiculous
Pentworth's latest proposal was and how the German ambassador told her the most outrageous
story the other day, and did Draco know that the German ambassador whispered to Hermione that
she's his favorite to work with, even though he's sure she's always pulling the wool over his eyes,
because she always brings the best wine and his favorite mushroom tarts?

Draco had been the one to tell her about the German ambassador's dinner preferences, after all.

"Next year." Draco raps his knuckles on the low table before him and picks the paper back up,
shaking it out. "Next time, you're applying for the transfer. No more of this damned waiting your
turn nonsense."

"Next time, I'll apply," Hermione agrees.

Draco nods and ducks his head into the paper, cheeks pink.

Hermione can't help the wide smile that spreads over her face. The room feels warm all over, and
she decides that they won't need the tapestries to keep out the chill. She looks down at the case in
front of her and makes a few more notes, but as the minutes tick by, she finds it harder and harder
to concentrate. Draco hasn't flipped another page and Hermione wonders if he's lost in thought as
well.

"The Potters are having another wine night next week," Hermione says, interrupting the
comfortable silence. "Ginny mentioned that Ron is bringing Francis along, so it may be a good
opportunity to gently quiz him about his uncle."
 Draco flips the page but doesn't look up at her. "I hope you all will be cautious about it. Don't want
him to run back to his uncle with tales of his overly curious friends."

"You could come, if you like."

That catches his attention. Draco's eyes stop moving over the page, and his shoulders tense. The set
of his jaw is grim.

Hermione feels she's said the wrong thing but can't quite place what it is. "If you'd rather not, I'm
sure we can handle it. I just thought - "

"I'll come," Draco says, turning to her with burning bright eyes. "I can -- I’d like to -- come."

Hermione nods. "Good. I'll let Ginny know."

Draco's expression stays stern as he returns to his paper, but that same wide smile creeps back on to
Hermione's face, and she ducks her head down, scribbling another note into the margins of her
case.

Chapter End Notes

An early chapter for you this week! hope y’all enjoy reading
this one as much as I enjoyed writing it.

This week’s embarrassing story is brought to you by my day *yesterday* when I skied
for two hours and then went to the bathroom and realized the crotch seam of my
(brand new) pants had split. And yes, I did ski for the rest of the day, even though the
leggings I wore underneath my pants were absolutely see through. SRY NOT SRY.
 Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione and Draco stand next to one another in silence, staring at the fireplace.

"What bottle of wine did you select?" Hermione asks, looking at Draco. He glances down at the
bottle in his hand.

"Barbaresco," he replies in a gruff tone. "It should suit, I'd think."

Hermione takes a moment to survey Draco. His back is rather stiff, and there's a tightness to his
jaw that makes her uneasy. His cane is propped against a bust down the hall. Hermione feels its
unsettling absence. It's not that Draco uses the cane all the time. He certainly doesn't seem to need
it to move about, but it's never far away in case of a draft or a twinge, and Hermione itches to tell
him that he ought to bring it along. No one will think anything of it.

Hermione very much so wants to grab his hand, but that feels coddling, in a way, and she decides
against it.

Mostly.

"Here," Hermione says. She pulls the bottle out of Draco's hand and tucks it under her arm. "I'll
carry that. Lend me your arm for the Floo?"

Draco turns his grim stare down to her. "Still don't care for the Floo?"

"Never have," Hermione shrugs.

Draco's face softens, and he offers her his elbow. Hermione curves her hand around his arm and
tucks herself into Draco's side before he tosses the powder into the fireplace.

With a green flash and a step that feels determined on both their parts, Hermione finds herself
standing in the bustling living room of Harry and Ginny's flat, still clutching Draco's arm.

A sea of unfamiliar faces turn to see who has arrived. Hermione tells herself that she imagines the
brief lull in conversation, but she allows a safe space between her and Draco as she peers over the
curious onlookers to lock eyes with Ginny in the back of the room.

Ginny breaks into a wide grin and waves them over. Ginny's gaze slides over to Draco and her
smile shifts into something that borders on ferocious, but she maintains it nonetheless. Harry's back
faces them, but he turns around to see who his wife is greeting. Hermione watches him pale at the
sight of Draco, and Harry shoots her a warning look.

"Did you tell them to expect me?" Draco asks under his breath.

"Of course," Hermione replies. "Well, I told Ginny, at least."

Draco's arm stiffens under Hermione's hand. Her stomach slowly twists, but she pastes on a smile
and waves anyway.

"Let's go say hello. I'd rather avoid the niceties with the rest." Hermione says, pulling Draco
forward. She could relinquish her hold on his arm - make it seem less like they'd arrived together -
but he suddenly seems like the only solid thing in the room, and Hermione reassures herself that it's
just as much for his comfort as it is for hers that she keeps her hand firmly wrapped around his
elbow.

Draco follows her lead in silence. The crowd parts before them with ease, and Hermione ignores
some of the pinched looks and surprised whispers that float up as they make their way to the back
of the room. A raised eyebrow or two isn't insurmountable. It's nothing at all, she tells herself. She
sneaks a glance at Draco. His eyes are fixed forward, and his jaw is still stiff and stern as they
approach the Potters.

Ginny grasps Hermione's free elbow first and leans in. "Hello, there." After pressing a quick kiss to
Hermione's cheek, Ginny turns to Draco with a wicked smile. "Malfoy."

Draco gives her a curt nod. "Thank you for the invitation."

"Don't thank me," Ginny replies smoothly. "Thank Hermione."

Gods. Hermione's warning look is pointedly ignored, and Ginny bumps her husband with her hip,
smiling all the while.

"Malfoy." Harry sticks out his hand with an unnatural enthusiasm. "Good to see you again."

Draco stares down at the offering for a beat before clasping Harry's hand in a brief shake. "You as
well."

"It's been a while, I suppose," Harry chuckles nervously. "What's it been, five years or so?"

Hermione winces at the reference to their ill-fated wedding ceremony. Draco had seemed so angry
and uncaring, and she'd been sure she knew everything about him until that burning kiss in front of
the judge had caught her off guard. How strange that day had been - strange in their union, and yet
strange in how natural Draco's ring had felt on her finger.

The ring sits in a box in her dresser drawer at the London flat. Hermione had looked at it
periodically that second year of their marriage, even tried it on a few times to see if it still fit, and it
always did look right on her hand.

Hermione absentmindedly touches her thumb to her empty ring finger.

"Probably about five years, yes," Draco replies. His tone is even and smooth, but his arm is still
tense under Hermione's hand. Hermione realizes that she's still holding on to Draco, and she
catches Ginny's pointed look at the contact. Hermione drops her arm back down to her side.

"You're looking well," Harry continues. He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his
heels. "Married life is agreeing with you, eh? I'm sure Hermione takes good care of you."

Hermione nearly chokes on air, and Harry turns red with horror. Ginny looks up at her husband
with an incredulous frown.

Draco's reply is hoarse. "I... suppose so."

"Well, then," Harry replies. "Excellent. That's... you know, I think I see Neville, I'll just..." He trails
off into a mumble and promptly disappears into the crowd to both Hermione and Ginny’s
amusement.
Ginny clears her throat. "Not one of his better escapes. I’d give it a four out of ten."

"Three. Neville’s gone to Luxembourg for that Herbology conference, remember? He’s not even
here tonight,” Hermione reminds Ginny.

Draco slips the bottle of wine out from under Hermione's arm and places a hand on the small of her
back. His thumb traces a soft arc over her spine. "Would you like a glass?"

His murmur is low and pleasant in her ear, and his touch eases her slightly. It's tempting to lean
into Draco and feel his warmth, to try to tease out a smile or a flush of approval and forget the
room around them.

"Yes, please," Hermione replies, settling instead for a soft smile.

Draco nods and slips away toward the bar area. Hermione lets her gaze linger on him for a beat
before she turns back to Ginny.

Ginny raises an eyebrow at Hermione. "You two have become awfully familiar with one another."

Hermione shifts her weight and fiddles with the cuff on her blouse. "I suppose we've spent a lot of
time working together on the OMA business."

"Really?" Ginny folds her arms. "Because that little touch didn't quite indicate a professional
relationship."

Hermione blushes and shoots a look in Draco's direction. A few people keep their distance as they
mill around him. Some expressions are merely curious, but others vary from disdain to fury.
Hermione's sure that Draco must feel their stares boring into his back, but he remains stoic and
intently focused on uncorking the Barbaresco.

She ought to be there next to him.

Hermione nearly makes up her mind to move toward him, but Millicent appears by Draco's side
with a warm smile and an empty glass.

"Well?" Ginny prompts.

Hermione's attention snaps back to her friend. "I don't - "

Ginny snorts. "Oh, yes, you most certainly do."

"I - " Hermione purses her lips and glances around to see if anyone is paying them any attention.

Ginny leans in and lowers her voice. "I swear to Merlin, it's just me."

Hermione sighs and nods. "It's more than just the OMA."

“I can’t believe it took you this long to tell me,” Ginny snaps.

“What?” Hermione grabs her arm and drags her closer. “Did Harry say something?”

“Of course he did! He looked like he had a Fizzing Whizzbee stuck in his throat for nearly three
days before I finally convinced him to let it slip.”

Hermione closes her eyes in silent horror. “Gods, Ginny, I’m so sorry. I should have told you.“
Ginny clasps her hand in a tight squeeze. “Hermione, look at me. I’m not angry with you.”

“I should have told you,” Hermione whispers, blinking at her friend. “I wanted to, but it just sort of
happened, and then with work and this OMA business and when I did see you, Molly was going on
and on about the proper handling of meat and I just… I didn’t quite know what to say.“

“Meat? What on earth - we’re going to circle back on that, but Hermione, I’m not angry with you. I
only want to understand if…” Ginny tilts her head in concern. "Are you sure this is what you
want?"

"No, not - I'm not sure," Hermione admits. "We've been together a few times, and I think - well, I
have..."

"You have feelings for him," Ginny finishes.

Is that what it is?

Hermione nods and straightens her back. "Yes, I do."

Ginny leans closer. "And does he have feelings for you?"

Hermione thinks of the flicker in Draco's eyes the other night, and she feels the ghost of his hand
on the back of her head, tangled in her hair, pressing her forehead against his as he'd driven into her
on the couch.

The way he'd looked at her when he told her that she should change the library. Like he might be
hoping to see her in that very library a little more often.

"I think he might," Hermione replies.

Ginny steps back and examines her. Her face softens, and she nods. "Well, then. Is he a good man
after all?"

"He is a good man."

Ginny shakes her head. "The business with Pucey, though. Is that really...?"

Hermione catches sight of Draco silently clinging to two glasses as Millicent and Theo fill their
own. His eyes dart around the room, assessing the crowd with a tense jaw.

"He's a good man, Ginny," Hermione repeats firmly, eyes still on Draco. "I'm sure of it."

Ginny follows her gaze and they're both silent for a moment. Theo claps a hand on Draco's
shoulder and murmurs something in his ear. Draco turns back to him and Millicent, and his
shoulders ease just slightly.

"I like that for you," Ginny announces. "It's a rather nice fuck-you to them all."

"That's not what I meant!" Hermione protests.

"I think you did, even if you won't say it," Ginny grins, prodding her rib. "But how long has this
been going on, really? How many times have you two - "

Hermione spots Millicent weaving through the crowd toward them with Theo and Draco trailing
behind, and she pinches Ginny's arm. "Hush."
Ginny pinches her right back. “How many times?”

"Three times," Hermione hisses.

Ginny pouts. "Ugh. I hate it when Harry figures things out before I do. You know, he was the first
to guess about George and Luna? Just said it matter of fact one morning as though we'd all noticed
it too."

A commotion breaks out at the front of the room as the Floo flares to life. Hermione peers over the
crowd, but she can't make out who has arrived for a moment with all the swarming. A cheer rings
out for the Cannons, and Hermione's stomach drops. A familiar ruffle of red hair bobs above the
rest.

Ron looks quite pleased with himself.

"Gods," Ginny mutters under her breath. "He gets worse every day."

"What's the plan for Monday?" someone calls out. "Going to out-feint the Falcons?"

"You can bet on it!" Ron grins good-naturedly.

Francis Pinter's laugh booms above the din, although Hermione can't quite spot him. "Give the
man some space!"

Ron spots Hermione and Ginny and waves a hand in greeting, but his hand drops just as soon as
Draco steps back into Hermione's orbit.

"Here's your glass," he murmurs.

Hermione watches as Ron's face instantly darkens. His whole posture changes, and the grin briefly
twists into a bitter scowl. Hermione sucks in her breath at the transformation and tears her focus
back to Draco, plucking the glass from his hand.

"Thank you," she replies, taking a long sip of the earthy red wine.

Ron seems to be avoiding her, and while Hermione wishes Francis would do the same, she's sure
that he's only making his way through the crowd at an easy pace, saving her for last.

Millicent eyes Hermione as she drowns her third glass of wine. "Shall we get another glass? Or
perhaps a bite from the cheese tray."

Ginny perks up from whatever joke Theo is murmuring to her and Harry. "Oh, yes! The cheese
tray is delicious."

Hermione notes that even as Theo leans in toward their other friends, his fingers play in the folds of
Millicent's skirt, always holding a pleat of silk between his thumb and forefinger.

"Oh, no, I'm fine," Hermione insists. "I can get it myself." Draco's fingers brush against hers as she
steps away, and the warmth of it feels even better than the wine. She looks back at him with a soft
smile.
The edge of his mouth quirks up.

Hermione slips by the cheese tray first and pops a small bit of pecorino into her mouth before
making her way back to the bar. The Barbaresco is long gone, but there are plenty of options before
her. She scans the labels carefully, looking for another tannic red to fill her glass, but as she reaches
for the bottle of Montepulciano, another hand reaches over her shoulder and beats her to it.

"Can I do the honors?" Ron says with a wry grin. Hermione steps back to put some space between
them.

"Of course," she replies with a tight smile, holding out her glass. "How are you?"

Ron takes the glass from her hand and tips the bottle over it. "I'm doing pretty well. I've been busy
with the Cannons and all that seems to be coming with it."

"Good for you." Hermione reaches for her glass, and Ron lets her take it with no protest.

"How about you?" he asks, rocking back on his heels. "Work is good?"

"Work is going well, thank you," Hermione says. Ron's broad shoulders block her from the rest of
the room. She tries to peer around him to see how Draco is getting on, but the crowd seems to have
shifted. Millicent and Theo have wandered over to a more private corner, and Hermione can't catch
where Draco and Ginny might be standing.

Ron lifts a hesitant hand to Hermione's shoulder and gently squeezes her there.

"I've missed you," he says, letting his hand fall back to his side. "I thought we may get a chance to
talk at Francis' party but...'' Ron trails off and shrugs.

Hermione reddens and looks down at her glass. "It was a busy night."

Busy, indeed. She'd been yanked into a closet with Draco, screamed at him while his gaze lingered
on her mouth, and then writhed against him later that night while he'd fucked her in her own bed.

Gods.

"Seems like this is a busy night too." Ron lets out a dry laugh as he cranes his neck back toward the
room. His movement allows Hermione to glimpse Draco standing with Alicia and Ginny. "Lots of
unexpected company."

Hermione flashes her eyes at Ron.

"Hardly unexpected, given that I invited him," she says in a low voice.

Ron tightens his jaw and runs a shaky hand through his hair. "You don't have to do that, you know.
No one expects you to play along with the Ministry on this Marriage Act thing."

Hermione bristles. "I haven't been playing along, Ron. That's not what this is."

Behind Ron's elbow, Hermione can see Francis approach Alicia and Ginny with a jovial laugh. He
pats Draco on the back like they're old friends.

Ron steps toward her in earnest, blocking her view again. He wraps his hands around her upper
arms like he wants to shake her from a long slumber. "You're the Golden Girl, Hermione," he
pleads. "You shouldn't be trapped like this. Let me help you."
Hermione's mouth parts in shock and anger. Don't call me that. She's not trapped. Don't say that
ridiculous name. Ron had been the one to try to trap -

"Hello, you two," Ginny interrupts, placing a firm hand on Ron's shoulder, Harry by her side. Even
though she stands a good foot shorter, Ron obeys the pressure of her hand and steps away from
Hermione.

"How about another glass?" Harry asks. "Or some cheese?" He thrusts a plate between Ron and
Hermione.

"I'm fine, thank you," Hermione replies stiffly.

"I'm really pleased that Draco was able to come tonight. We've missed him the last few weeks,"
Ginny says, plucking a piece of cheese off the plate.

Hermione blinks at her.

"Have you?" Ron huffs.

Ginny sneers at him. "We have. And we're looking forward to seeing him at the wedding."

Ron blanches.

"Mum said she received your reply card," Ginny continues, addressing Hermione. "She's really
looking forward to seeing you and Draco there."

Hermione hardly hears Ginny as she searches the crowd, and she completely misses the pained
regret on Ron's face as he looks down at her.

Alicia Spinnet is perfectly pleasant. Draco has no qualms at all about talking with her. Or, rather,
listening to her talk, but Francis Pinter's arrival makes him want to break his impeccable control
and hex something across the room.

Ideally, the fucking Weasel, who is currently blocking his view of Hermione.

His wife. Not Weasel's.

Ginny Weasley had noticed their interaction moments after Draco saw Weasel approach. She'd
been quick to make her excuses to Pinter and Alicia and, with a quick touch to Draco’s elbow and a
subtle shake of her head, began waddling her away across their very crowded flat. Draco itches to
follow after her, but he's not entirely sure where his place is in whatever storm brews by the bar.

As much as he hates it, it's probably best for him to stay away. At least until the Weasel has been
removed.

Draco's irritation increases when Cho Chang slides up next to Spinnet and murmurs something into
her ear. Their fingers interlace, and Chang steps back with a wide smile, pulling Spinnet away from
their circle. Spinnet looks back over her shoulder at Draco and Pinter with a small shrug.

"We're needed elsewhere!" she croons before they disappear into the crowd.
Fuck.

Draco turns to Pinter to make his excuses - perhaps he can see where Millicent and Theo have
gotten to - but Francis seems to have other plans that include conversation.

"Has Hermione invited you to the Cannons game next week?" he asks, cutting Draco off from his
most efficient exit. "It should be a good one. We're up against the Falcons."

Draco is sure Pinter knows very well that he won't be in attendance. "Oh, no. I don't take much of
an interest in Quidditch these days," he replies tersely, looking over Pinter's shoulder.

"How funny," Pinter hums. "I thought Ron had mentioned that you were a bit of an ingenue on the
Slytherin team back in your school days."

"Merely a boyhood interest, I assure you," Draco grits out. Merlin, where is everyone?

"You should have kept up with it," Pinter continues. "They say team sports help keep boys out of
trouble."

Draco snaps his attention back to Pinter. His vision goes red at the edges, but he cools himself into
a hard grey.

"Is that so?" Draco drawls, edging closer. "Perhaps that's true at a young age, but as an adult, I've
rather found my virtue better sharpened by avoiding egotistical adrenaline junkies and self-
important hanger-ons who think they matter because someone more famous paid them a little
attention."

“To each their own,” Pinter shrugs, but his eye betrays a furious glint. "It was thoughtful of
Hermione to include you tonight. She says you don't get out much.”

Draco finds it very difficult to believe that Hermione has willingly given up personal details to this
little shit, but he plays along anyway. "I'm finding most company to be more and more enjoyable
these days."

"Is that so?" Pinter bares his teeth. "Well then, I look forward to bumping into you soon." He steps
back and makes to walk away as though he's quite finished with their conversation.

"At the Burrow, week after next, I think," Draco calls after him.

The expression on Pinter's face as he slowly turns around gives Draco a deep sense of satisfaction.
"Pardon?"

"For the wedding," Draco smiles. "I'm sure you were invited as well?"

"Of course," Pinter says, circling back. "I'm rather close with the Weasleys, as you must know."

"So I've heard," Draco replies.

Pinter's face relaxes into a warm, pitying smile. "Let me give you a word of advice, between
friends."

Draco cocks his head. "We're not friends, Pinter."

"Fair enough," Pinter shrugs. "Man to man, then. In honor of our mutual interests."

Draco shakes his head. He and Francis Pinter share no mutual interests, except for his interest in
Draco’s wife. "And what would you like to say?"

Pinter briefly presses his hand to Draco's arm. "Don't go to the wedding with her."

Draco stiffens. "I don't see how it's any of your business where I go."

"Look, Malfoy, the Weasleys didn't take kindly to the whole business with Hermione breaking it
off with Ron. They've repaired things since then - really lovely family, they truly care about her -
but it won't look right for you to show up to a family event on her arm. A bit of a slap in the face, if
you ask me, and there's no good reason to bring up an uncomfortable situation."

"Hermione wouldn't have invited me if she had concerns," Draco growls. She wouldn't, would she?

Pinter smiles and shakes his head. "She's trying to pay you a kindness. You ought to pay it back."

"I don't know what you could possibly mean," snaps Draco.

"Why cause a fuss that will last months over one night?" Pinter laughs. "I'm sure it's good fun for
you to get out of the house, but this is Hermione's real life. She'll be gone in a month anyway, and
you don't want your shadow following her around."

Draco steps closer. "She married me, Pinter. I'm afraid my shadow is here to stay."

Pinter raises an eyebrow. "Married? You must be joking. Yes, there's this business with the Act,
but surely you're not expecting Hermione to visit you throughout the year."

Draco's jaw tightens.

Here now, she'd told him last week. Hermione lives with him now, and he doesn't expect her to
stay come January, but visit - surely she'll visit. Not for him, perhaps, but for the library. The
London flat is an easy Floo jump away. She may even stop in for dinner on occasion to talk about
work or to let him touch her cheek or kneel between her thighs and -

Pinter's face twists in an expression of horror and pity. "Oh. Malfoy, you must be reasonable."

"Stay the fuck out of my marriage, Pinter," Draco hisses.

Pinter raises his hands in defeat. "Believe me, I would like to, but you must be honest with yourself,
Malfoy. Everyone feels quite sorry for her right now, but someone will eventually step up to the
plate and sweep her away from all this."

Draco narrows his eyes. "And you think you're that person?"

"Oh, no," Pinter laughs. "No, I have no such ambitions. Hermione is far too great a woman to take
notice of me. But... " Pinter looks sideways toward the rest of the room, stepping back to reveal the
scene to Draco. A room full of people, men, smiling and laughing, shaking hands, making friends.
They talk freely and joyfully.

Not one of them has looked in Draco's direction without a hint of malice in their eye.

Pinter continues. "There are people here who are better suited for helping Hermione rise to her full
potential."

"She doesn't need anyone to help her rise," Draco insists.

"No, she doesn't," Pinter agrees. "I'll give you that. But she doesn't need anyone to help her fall,
 either."

Draco doesn't have an answer for that. Is that what his presence is doing to Hermione, dragging
her down?

Pinter pats him on the back. "Enjoy it, I suppose, but you ought to be ready to step aside. Best to let
her shine, don't you think?"

Draco snarls at him. "Fuck off, Pinter."

Pinter only laughs and walks away. Draco watches him cross the room towards Hermione and the
Potters and the Weasel, who barks out a loud greeting, drawing attention around the room.
Hermione spots Draco and smiles. She murmurs something quietly to Ginny, and slips away
towards him.

Eyes in the crowd follow her as she crosses the room.

Murderer. That's what they all say about him, isn't it? It hadn't seemed to matter when it was just
him. He can bear the sneers and the turned backs, but it’s more than that now. Draco can feel it in
the room. Whispers about him, yes, but some of the whispers veer in her direction. Raised
eyebrows and doubting gazes. What could she be thinking, bringing him along? Didn’t she care
that he’d killed a good man?

The weight of their judgments settles heavily in his chest.

Hermione smiles as she reaches his side. “There you are.”

Draco swallows back his anxiety, stowing it for later. “Here I am.”

She nudges him gently with her elbow, grin turning a bit wicked. “I think I saw Millie and Theo
sneak away towards the kitchen. Want to track them down?”

Best to let her shine, don’t you think?

In this moment, it’s hard to imagine that even his shadow could tarnish such brightness.

Draco gestures grandly towards the kitchen door. “Lead the way.”

He does his level best to ignore the whispers that follow them.

Chapter End Notes

everything is going to be fine

Embarrassing story of the week: I still cannot reliably tell you which way is left and
which way is right. Google says that this is a real disorder but I have not confirmed
that information.
 Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Loud laughter fills the air as Theo and Millicent stumble through the Floo at her flat. Theo’s arms
lock around her waist and he nuzzles her neck.

“Hush,” Millicent giggles. “You’re too loud!”

"For who?" he chuckles. "No one else lives here."

"The neighbors," she protests.

"They ought to know," Theo replies wickedly, sliding his hand under her skirt, "how good I make
you feel."

"All they're hearing now is your loud snorting. Gods, is that noise new?"

"You little wench - "

Millicent twists away from him with a loud shriek that surely will wake the elderly woman next
door and be the cause of a raised eyebrow in the morning, but they've both had enough wine not to
care, and Theo stumbles after Millicent down the hallway to her room. They tumble into bed
together, laughing and tearing off each other's clothes, and Theo's mouth is between her thighs in
no time at all. He's talking and laughing too much to be terribly effective, but it's enough to prepare
her, and soon she drags him up over her. Theo kisses her hard on the mouth before sliding into her.

He hikes up her leg as she arches under him with a cry. "I want to see more of you," he growls.

"You're on top of me," she replies breathlessly, scratching her perfectly pink nails down his back.
"Difficult to see from - "

"The mirror," Theo gasps on his next drive. "Please, in front of the mirror?"

Millicent wriggles under him and pinches his side. "The mirror? You're vain, Theo Nott."

"Am not," he insists. "I'll be looking at you, Millie, your beautiful breasts, while I make love to
you."

She rolls them over and continues the pace herself. "You like my breasts?"

Theo reverently cups them in his hands and answers her with the utmost sincerity. "I love them.
Love you, Millie."

She leans over and kisses him. "Good answer."

Theo turns them over again, and with some maneuvering and lots of kisses peppered over necks
and shoulders and aforementioned beautiful breasts, Theo repositions them in front of Millicent's
floor-length mirror. He weaves his fingers into Millie’s hair and pulls her back flush against his
chest, driving into her from behind. His other hand finds her clit and he enjoys every moment of
watching her face and breasts flush red in the mirror as she comes undone round his cock with a
cry. He empties himself into her with a stuttered groan and a fleeting thought of soon - soon she'll
wear my ring and carry our baby and -
Theo flexes his hips into her one last time and tucks his head against Millie’s neck as he wraps his
arms around her.

Millicent drops her head back against his shoulder and whispers his name under her breath, and
he’s never heard anything so perfect in his entire life, except perhaps for the first time she told him
that she loved him.

For me.

The back room of the gallery is overwhelmed with mangled blocks and wood shavings, and Greg
stands, furious, in the middle of it, glaring down at the iron gouge in his hand.

"Fuck," he curses, flinging it across the room. "Fucking - "

He needs to create something big . Something the size of him that screams as loudly as he wants to
scream, but he’s been at this for days and nothing is right , so he grabs a small chunk of wood
ruthlessly cut off from a larger block and narrows his eyes at it.

"Do something," he hisses.

It does not move.

"Tell me something," he pleads. "Say something."

It speaks.

Hermione stays tucked into Draco's side for a moment longer than necessary as they step through
the Floo back into Malfoy Manor. His arm is firm and secure around her waist, and she hardly feels
the unpleasant twist of the Floo magic, even after several glasses of wine.

The carpet muffles their initial footsteps into the still, dark hallway. Draco's fingers ghost over
Hermione's hip as he drops his arm and steps away from her.

"It's late," he murmurs, glancing at the clock on the mantle.

It's a quarter past eleven, and although Hermione knows that she ought to go straight to bed to be
rested for work in the morning, she doesn't feel the least bit tired.

They walk side-by-side down the hall, and as they approach the door, Hermione turns to Draco.
"Thank you for coming with me tonight."

Draco's jaw tightens and he nods. “You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t look at her as he pushes the door open and motions for her to continue first.

Hermione stops and frowns at him. “Is everything alright?”

Draco looks down at her for the first time since they returned to the manor. His gaze is raw with
want, and the heat of it pins Hermione in place. Her breath catches in her throat as his eyes search
her face. He raises a hand to her cheek and captures one of her curls around his finger.

He finally breaks the silence with a hoarse whisper. "You're so lovely."

Hermione opens her mouth to protest, to say she's always smudged with ink, or to tell him that he's
lovely too, or thank you, but Draco trails his hand over her arm, down to her waist and tugs her
forward. He guides her around, crowding her against the wall. His forehead drops down near hers,
and Hermione can hardly breathe.

Draco touches her cheek, searches her eyes but reveals nothing in turn, and then kisses her.

Hermione leans into the kiss, eager to part her lips at the tease of his tongue, to taste him again
after what feels like ages. Everything feels so slow and her skin itches to race forward, to feel it all
at once, but Draco seems intent on touching her bit by bit, making her feel the pressure of each
fingertip as he traces slow, languid lines around her waist, up and down her back, around her neck
and into her scalp, always urging her closer. His palms slide down to cup her arse, and he yanks her
against him.

Gods, she can feel him growing hard against her already. A small whimper slips from her mouth
into his, and Hermione shifts against him in a silent plea for more, more. Draco nips at her lip in a
small reprimand, but one of his hands weaves through her hair and grips her curls, tugging her head
to the side. His mouth leaves hers and she nearly protests, but he immediately latches on to her jaw
and then her neck, down to where it meets her shoulders. His hips buck into her and he growls
against her skin as though it's her fault - he wants slow but he can't - not when he surely can feel
how hot she is through her thin cotton underwear -

Draco sucks at her flesh - hard - hard enough to leave a mark, she's sure - and Hermione moans into
the silence of the hall.

"Come to my room," Draco rasps against her throat. His hips hitch against her again, and his grip
on her hair and her waist tightens. "Stay with me tonight."

His words are not a demand but a plea, and his hold on her feels more desperate than controlling.

Hermione tugs his head back up to her and kisses him. "Yes," she murmurs, their lips brushing as
she makes her own promises. "Your room."

She hardly tracks their slow journey through the halls of the manor. Draco leads her, but somehow
his hands are always on her waist, her hips, her hair, and he's always looking back at her as though
she might not actually be there. In some dark corners, he tugs her to him and kisses her long and
hard, and she thinks they may not make it to his rooms.

Rooms she's never seen.

But in the middle of a kiss, they seem to arrive, and Draco pushes open a door and pulls her
through.

Hermione opens her eyes to take in her surroundings. A moment passes while her eyes adjust to the
dim light, and the view feels nearly unexpected. His room is sparsely decorated. There are no
portraits on the wall, only a modestly sized painting of a storm on a mountain lake. His furniture is
dark and ornately carved just like everything else in Malfoy Manor, and the only things out are a
small stack of books on the windowsill next to a reading chair and a candle and tin of salve on his
bedside table.

The bed is large, but it feels somehow small in the emptiness of the room. It's covered in a dark
green quilt that doesn't quite match the bright emerald of his Hogwarts house. The color reminds
her instead of a forest of lush fir trees and the light, piney scent that she often associates with
Draco. Not a cologne, necessarily, but who he is - it's something like that.

Hermione feels Draco studying her, and she refocuses on him in the room. In his room.

"Is this okay?" he murmurs, stepping back from her toward the bed. She can't tell if it's a retreat or
an invitation, but his gaze is just as heated as it had been in the library.

Hermione swallows and nods, suddenly nervous. "Yes. Yes, of course."

"Come here." Draco's command is low and gruff. Hermione steps forward and he raises his hands
to his shirt and, with a deep breath, slowly begins to unbutton.

With the first two undone, Hermione can make out the angry red scars, and she freezes.

"You don't have to do that if it makes you uncomfortable," she whispers.

Draco gives her a small shrug. "You might as well see all of me." A shadow of doubt flickers
across his face, and he pauses. "If it frightens you, I don't - "

"No," Hermione interrupts. She moves forward until she's close enough to place her hands where
the open collar meets his chest, and she pushes the shirt back. "No, I'm not afraid of you."

Draco leans forward and presses his lips to hers for a brief moment before he continues with his
slow undressing. Hermione lets the shirt part before her, but he's the one to finally shrug it off his
shoulders and let it fall to the bed behind him.

The scarring that reaches up Draco's neck is nothing compared to the thick scars that rope across
his torso and disappear into his trousers. Each angry, red lash has a thin black seam where the flesh
has fought to stitch back together. Its appearance reeks of dark magic, and Hermione hesitantly
rests her fingertips where the ugly gash crosses his heart.

"Does it still hurt?" she asks.

Draco wraps her hand in his and flattens it to his chest so she can feel his heart, solid and strong,
beating underneath. "Not so badly. Not anymore."

Hermione sways into him, and Draco presses his forehead to hers. She waits for him to kiss her,
but his lips land first on her nose, then her forehead and each of her eyelids before he kisses her
cheek and the corner of her mouth. Even then, there's another lingering moment before his lips
brush hers. The pace is slow and heady, but it gives her time to explore him, bared to her for the
first time. She can feel the strained control of his hard muscles as he pulls her waist to him and
spreads his fingers over the small of her back. She runs her fingers over every line and every dip,
gently learning his body by touch while he coaxes her mouth open.

He pushes back her jumper and she helps him shrug it off. His hands work down the buttons on the
back of her dress, one by one, until the dress hangs loose on her shoulders. Draco cups Hermione's
face, deepens the kiss, then drags his hands down her neck and shoulders, pushing the fabric aside
until it slips off and pools around her ankles.

Draco curves his hands around her hips, dragging her toward him as he sits back onto the bed,
parting his legs for her to stand between them. His mouth drifts down her neck to her breasts, and
he presses slow, open mouthed kisses over her before he reaches to unhook her bra, letting it fall to
the floor with everything else.

"You're so lovely," Draco murmurs, and Hermione gasps as he captures her in his mouth, sucking
at her breast and swirling his tongue around her puckered nipple. His hands come around to cup
her, and he lavishes each breast with his lips and his tongue and wandering fingers that knead and
pinch and soothe and twist.

"Gods, Draco," Hermione moans. She runs her fingers through his silky hair, down his shoulders -
Merlin, how she wants to kiss his broad, lovely shoulders - and pitches forward, dragging one of
her knees over his thigh to rest next to his hip so she can settle down onto his lap.

She needs to feel him between her legs. She needs something as solid and strong as his heart had
felt.

It's not the same as in the hall, though, or any time before that, because Hermione can finally touch
all of him. Draco's mouth captures hers again, and his hands cup her arse, lifting her fully onto his
lap. Now, she can drag her hands down his back and feel the heat building between them as her
breasts brush his chest. She can feel the way his arms flex as he pulls her closer and closer so that
every inch of skin is touching, and she yearns to touch every part of him that has been hidden from
her for so long.

She shifts her hips again over the hard line of his cock then reaches down to stroke his length.

Draco falls back with a groan, pulling her with him.

"Hermione - "

Hermione fumbles with his belt, nearly tearing it apart in her eagerness, but he grabs her hands.
"Slow down."

A pathetic little whine slips past her lips. Slow down. She can't possibly slow down, not when her
body feels like it's on fire, burning hotter and hotter with every touch and kiss.

Draco pulls her hand down to his cock again and cups her hand around him. "Do you feel how
much I want you?" he hisses, dragging her hand up his length.

The backs of his fingers brush her clit, and it's all she can do not to writhe and relieve the building
pressure.

Draco guides her hand to the button of his trousers. "Let me show you how badly I need you."

He makes slow work of the button and then the zipper, and Hermione swears that each brush of his
knuckles against her core is intentionally teasing, but she bites back her moan and sits back, taking
the opportunity to stare down at Draco.

Gods, he's magnificent. His body is leaner than she'd supposed at their wedding, but she thinks she
prefers that on his tall frame. He's beautiful in his angles, and she trails a hand over his bare chest.
To finally feel him, to touch him after all this time - she'd never expected how badly she needed
him, too.

Hermione reaches out to steady herself on Draco's shoulder, then pitches forward onto her knees to
let him push his trousers down over his hips. He shifts under her, struggling to kick off the rest of
his clothing, and then his eyes close and a hiss of pain escapes through clenched teeth.
"What? What is it?"

"Fucking knee," Draco mutters. His face darkens.

Hermione climbs off him. "Here, let me."

She kisses her way down his chest, over his hip bones, doing her very best to ignore his jutting
cock as she tugs his trousers off and tosses them behind her. She stands back up and hooks her
thumbs in her own knickers. Draco's eyes follow her movement as she slides them off as well,
discarding them next to the rest of their clothes.

"Come here," Draco says hoarsely, reaching for her.

Hermione obeys him, following as he shifts fully onto the bed, propping himself back against the
pillows. His hand clasps hers and tugs her forward. This time, when she straddles him and leans
down to kiss him, there's nothing separating them, and though she's done this dozens of times
before with other lovers, Hermione has never felt quite as near someone as she does in this
moment.

Draco groans into her mouth, and his hands slide down her bare back, cupping her arse and
pressing her against his hard cock. Hermione wriggles her knees further apart and tilts her hips so
that his length slides through her slick folds.

"Does this feel good for you?" Draco murmurs against her lips.

Hermione brushes her fingers through his hair. "Yes. Yes, please - "

Draco guides her forward so that his cock notches at her entrance, and then he pushes her hips
back, and Hermione sinks down onto his length with a moan of relief. His hips twitch against hers,
slow pulses up until they're flush, and Hermione feels her walls flutter around him. He always feels
like so much inside of her, stretching her wide and pressing into her from every angle, but gods, it
feels so good and so right and she clings to his arms and sits back on him, always trying to take
more. Draco's jaw drops and his head falls back, but his eyes never leave hers, and he thrusts up
into her with a deep groan. His hands slip up her waist and cup her breasts. He runs his thumbs over
her nipples, and she arches her back at the sensation.

"You're so beautiful."

Hermione jerks against his next thrust. "I - "

She can't tell what words had been about to slip past her lips. Draco tightens his hands around her
hips and hilts himself into her again, and everything turns into a plea as she rides him. His grip is
insistent, but he lets her set the pace, chasing her own pleasure as he coaxes her on with soft praises
and reverent touches that set her skin on fire.

Her hips stutter as she approaches her orgasm, and just before she tips over, Draco growls and flips
them so that his body pushes her down into the mattress, and he takes the upper hand of control,
driving into her as he runs light fingers over her most sensitive areas, murmuring something hard
and insistent over her every bit of her, and she feels sure that he must feel for her what she feels for
him. She feels it in the way he groans her name, whispers it in small prayers with each hard thrust.
His hands wander over her body, and it's beautiful and Hermione sobs as she falls apart underneath
him, clinging to his back, wrapping her legs around his hips.

Something in Draco changes after she finishes. It's as though something between them has closed
but also opened wider, and Draco's pace slows. He kisses her again, thoroughly, and his touch
 drifts over her body like he's memorizing her, keeping her for later. Each caress soothes her, lulls
her into a warm bliss, and Hermione sighs under his ministrations, leaning into every brush of his
hands and his lips. His cock strokes into her slowly - not quite teasing, but as though he wants it to
last as long as possible for both of them. As though he's relishing every time he fully seats himself
in her, every drag of her walls against his length.

Hermione cards her hands through his hair as the pressure between her thighs begins to rise again.
"Draco," she murmurs against his lips. "Draco, please - "

Draco delves into her mouth, exploring her with his tongue. His slow thrusts grow erratic and he
groans in desperation. The gentle touches turn tight and punishing as though he's pinning her in
place, making her feel it as deeply as he must feel it, as though this is more important than anything
that has ever happened. Draco curls a hand around the back of her head and latches onto the crook
of her neck, and she can hardly understand what language he speaks against her skin, but it's all
pleading and begging, and her fingers dig into the muscles of his back as she throws her head back
and comes around him again, his name pouring out of her mouth.

"Gods, Hermione," Draco groans. "Gods, I - Hermione - "

His grip tightens almost painfully around her. He flexes his hips into her and cries out against her
neck and drives into her through his own release, even deeper than he had been before, and he
holds onto her through it all as though she's the only thing keeping him in place.

Hermione can't stop touching him as their breath slows, murmuring her own sweet words in his ear
as he shifts off her and tugs her to his side. He silences her again with a long, lingering kiss, and
Hermione has a fleeting impression that he won't let her say everything that's bursting in her chest,
but she's so tired, so sated, that it's not worth dwelling on, and she lets him gather her to his chest
and kiss her forehead and run his fingers through her hair until she drifts away into a deep sleep.

Chapter End Notes

I have *once again* fallen behind at responding to comments but I read every single
one of them and y'all always make me laugh and also I cannot emphasize enough how
important constant affirmation and approval are for my happiness in this life.

Embarrassing story: I can't believe it took me this long to get to it, but THE
FANFICTION I WROTE WHEN I WAS LIKE FOURTEEN y'all it was so bad.
 Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

They fall back into her bed, wine drunk and fully spent, catching their breath as Millie tugs the
covers over her legs. Theo's eyes flutter closed as he inhales the light scent of Millicent's perfume.
He wraps his arm tighter around her waist, pulling her back a little closer to his chest. Their legs
tangle together underneath the sheets, and Millicent hums with contentment. Theo feels the sound
vibrate against him.

For you.

"Are you warm enough?" he murmurs, pressing his lips to Millie's bare shoulder. Her feet feel a
little cold against his. "I could warm you up again if you'd like."

He could not warm her up again in the next five minutes if his life depended on it, and Millicent
cranes her head back to shoot him a teasing glare. "I think you've warmed me plenty tonight, don't
you?"

Theo nips at her ear in retaliation. "What if I'm cold? You ought to be more thoughtful."

Her eyes turn a shade darker, and her mouth curves into a sly smile. "I'm incredibly thoughtful
when it comes to keeping you warm, Theodore Nott."

A deep laugh escapes his chest, and Theo loosens his hold to let Millicent shift around to face him.
"Are you sure you're not cold? Your feet feel like ice."

Millicent shrugs and runs her fingers down his arm, snatching his hand in hers and tugging it up
between them. "They'll be fine," she promises, peppering kisses across his knuckles. "They'll warm
up eventually."

Her lips feel like butterflies dancing across his skin. A rush of goosebumps seizes him, and Theo
leans forward to press a kiss to Millicent's forehead.

For me.

A small wrinkle forms between her eyebrows, and Theo studies it for a moment before kissing it.

"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs. Tell me your worries, tell me everything. No more
secrets.

Millie runs a thumb over his knuckles. "When did you first start to fall in love with me?"

Oh.

When did Theo fall in love? When had he realized that she glowed to him in a way no one else ever
did? He'd hardly noticed it happening until it was all he could see.

Theo thinks it must have been planted in him from the moment he met her. A slowly growing vine
had crept up from the ground he stood on when they first shook hands. Millicent Bulstrode had
looked angry and pinched and had barely spoken a word, but he remembered thinking she had
pretty eyes, if one was interested in that sort of thing, and eight-year-old Theodore Nott was most
certainly not interested in the eyes of young witches.

Obviously.

Over the years as their parents met for tea or stiff dinners, she'd let slip a funny little aside from the
corner of her mouth, and Theo started to wonder if she wasn't twice as clever as Draco or Blaise or
Greg, even if she only said a quarter as much and kept her hands in tight little fists, ready to strike,
or more often slip away. For a girl who was a head taller than everyone and nearly as broad as
Greg, Millicent Bulstrode was remarkably good at slipping away. Theo could only assume that
Millicent found it easier to breathe away from the critical eye of her shrewd mother who was
always tugging at Millicent's clothes and pinching her thighs and hissing in her ear. Theo hated it
when his mum tried to fix his collar or wipe dirt off his cheek, so he naturally sympathized with
Millicent's plight. Mothers could be terribly bothersome.

Her habit of disappearing frustrated Theo so much because she was often the most entertaining part
of these dull family functions, and he felt particularly deprived when he couldn't tell her his own
carefully crafted observations about the silly conversations among the adults. Sometimes Millicent
would snigger at his jokes, and he'd flush with pride and tell the next one a little louder.

The unfortunate fact of the matter was that no one was as interesting as Millicent.

Theo became good at following her with his eyes, and he got in the habit of leaning toward her in a
crowd because he was certain that being near her was the surest way to avoid the dull and often
dark atmosphere that tended to prevail more and more at his home. Millicent was a pleasantly
bright light that made everything just a little more fun, and she didn't seem to mind so much that he
trailed along next to her now and then. She probably thought he too was quite clever, and it helped
that Millicent's frankly terrible mother didn't pay her so much attention when Theo gallantly played
interference.

But as they got closer to going off to school, Millicent Bulstrode started slipping away less, and
instead she became louder and angrier. At first, Theo had been privately thrilled that they'd been
sorted into the same house. He knew deep down that they were made of the same stuff.

Their first year had been a grand adventure. Millicent didn't seem to care for school as much as
Theo did, but he didn't entirely blame her. The other students could be arses, but he knew his Millie
had tough skin, and they'd all learn in time how smart she was and how well she understood the
world around them. So what if she growled back at them a bit in the meantime? They deserved it.
Draco thought her behavior was unseemly, but Draco thought everything was unseemly, and Theo
thought Draco was incredibly boring.

Theo expected that his classmates would change as they got older, but somehow, his Millie was the
one to quickly become someone else entirely. He shrank back as her tight fists started to fly, urged
on by their fellow Slytherin housemates. He shrank back from Draco and Greg, who laughed at her
little quips, now just as mean as they were clever.

He imagined a thousand things to whisper to her to make her smile instead of sneer, but she now
rolled her eyes at him whenever he approached, and the easy camaraderie they'd once shared faded
away. She didn’t say anything to him when his mother was one day gone, and he likewise stayed
silent when her mother died as well.

Theo never stopped watching, though, and he never stopped listening. There was one day in the
quiet halls in their seventh year that he remembered in particular. All of Hogwarts was quiet these
days, and the Slytherins had gotten even quieter - Draco, in particular - and Theo had slipped out of
their Common Room in hopes of escaping the dark, dank air that constantly threatened to drown
him.

He turns a corner, and Millicent is standing there with her back pressed up against the wall.

"Millie?" he says. Her eyes fly open and he notices in the candlelight that her cheeks are streaked
with tears.

Millie.

He hasn’t called her that in years, but the nickname slips out of his mouth as though he'd used it
every day, and it takes them both by surprise.

Her dark eyes stay wide with panic, and Theo remembers that first time they met and how he'd
thought her eyes were so pretty.

"What are you doing out of bed?" he asks, even though she's likely to ask him the same question,
and he doesn't think he has an answer.

She shakes her head and swipes at her cheek.

Theo waits.

She always says the cleverest things in the quiet.

"I couldn't - I can't breathe down there," she chokes out. "I think I've made a terrible mistake. I
think I've really messed up, Theo, and I don't know... I think I've been wrong, but I can't..."

Her breath comes quicker and shorter, and she steps back as though she's going to disappear once
again, but Theo's next to her in an instant, hand on her back, coaxing her to tell him, promising her
that she's safe, that he knows, and he understands, that there's a way out for them, that she can be
someone entirely different if only she wants to be.

That the wanting is a good place to start.

She buries her head in Theo's neck and cries.

It's the first time he's ever been as tall as she is.

She goes quiet again for the rest of the year. She's even better now at slipping away, but her clever
lines are few and far between.

Her words don't cut anymore, though.

She still uses her fists when her great-uncle tries to snatch a fourth-year Ravenclaw at the Battle of
Hogwarts.

Theo and Millicent see a lot of each other again when it's all over. Draco and Greg and Blaise and
Pansy and Daphne too, all worse for wear, all slowly trying to understand. Millicent's father and
stepmother help. Theo likes the new Mrs. Bulstrode better than the old Mrs. Bulstrode. This one
tends more toward hugging than pinching, and she listens when they talk instead of hissing at them
to be quiet and you don't understand.

Millicent's father whispers tearfully one night that he's glad to have his girl back, and his wife of
three years nods and grabs his hand and tells him that he did good. He raised a good one. The good
ones don't always seem good in the middle, but they're the ones who learn and change and
remember.

Theo looks at Millicent. His Millie.

A good one.

He likes that about her.

That's the first time Theo ever notices the vines that had taken root when he and Millicent
Bulstrode shook hands many, many years ago. They'd crept from his feet, up his legs, into his
stomach. It takes another year or so before they reach his heart.

"When we went with your step-mother and Pansy to Tuscany. I had suspected it, felt it for a while,
but I think that's when I knew," he tells Millie. His voice shakes a little at the confession. "Walking
through the vineyard that one night. You'd just made a joke about one of the wine labels, then you
looked at me and smiled. I could see the moon in your eyes, and I knew I was in love with you."

Millie releases his hand, cards her fingers into his hair, and pulls Theo to her.

"I love you," she whispers against his lips. It's better than a kiss. "I love you."

Theo captures her mouth in his and pulls her on top of him.

"My sweet Millie," he murmurs, trailing his hands down her back. "I love you too."

Hermione stirs awake to movement next to her, and the pale sun barely shines through a small
crack in the curtains. She rolls over and sees Draco sitting on the edge of the bed, already dressed
in black joggers and pulling a sweater over his head. He's straightened his hair from her efforts to
muss it up the night before, and seeing him so neat and dressed after last night's nakedness feels
strange.

"Good morning," she murmurs, looking around the room for a clock. "Did I sleep in?"

Draco turns back to her. "No, I got up early to go work on a potion," he says. "I didn't mean to
wake you."

Hermione shrugs and tugs the covers up over her chest as she sits up. "I should get ready for work
anyway. Can you hand me my dress?"

Draco stands from the bed and makes his way around to her, picking up their discarded clothes
piece by piece. He presents the dress to her, but before she can tug it over her head, he leans
forward and presses an impulsive kiss to the top of her head. His hand tangles in her hair and they
sit in the silent embrace for a moment before Draco steps back.

"I don't think I'll be able to go to the wedding at the Weasley's, I'm afraid," Draco says.

Hermione frowns in confusion, but he ignores her look and pulls a hanger from his wardrobe.
"Whatever do you mean?" she asks, pulling the dress down. "Just last week you agreed to go. Did
something come up with your potions?"

"No, nothing like that." Draco takes his time arranging the shoulders of last night's shirt on the
hanger. "It looks odd for me to attend, though."

Hermione's stomach sinks. "Is this about last night? I thought it went well."

Draco shakes his head and smiles back at her. There's a sharp edge to his look. "Hermione. Be
serious."

"I am serious," she insists, climbing out of bed. "Did someone say something to you?"

"They didn't have to," Draco replies. "I appreciate your invitation, and perhaps the occasional wine
night is fine, but it's out of the question for me to accompany you to a wedding. It's a risk to your
reputation."

"I don't care what other people think!" Hermione snaps.

Draco closes the wardrobe with more force than is necessary and turns on his heel to face her. "I
do."

Hermione steps back in shock.

"I have stayed in this godforsaken manor for years, Hermione, because I do care about the
whispers. I do not like being called a murderer. It's all well and brave of you to ignore what they
say behind your back, but when they get angry or drunk or just fancy a bit of sport, they say it to
my face."

"They wouldn't dare." Hermione's voice wavers on the declaration because she's fairly certain that
it's not true. "They wouldn't say anything to you if I were with you."

"You're foolish if you think they'll spite me and leave you out of it."

Hermione wants to stomp her foot in protest, but she only shakes her head in silence and crosses her
arms. She suddenly feels very small.

“I can handle whatever they say about us,” Hermione insists.

Draco stills, his eyes severe. “I would never ask that of you.”

He crosses the room and yanks the door open, but at the threshold, Draco pauses and looks back at
her.

"Do you like it here?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

Draco’s jaw ticks. "Living here at the Manor."

"I..." Hermione worries her frustrated sigh will escape into a sob, but she bites her lip and shrugs
her shoulders to shake off the swelling tears. "Yes. I do."

His hand tightens on the door.

“I would keep you trapped here if I could. I would be selfish with you,” Draco whispers. Her eyes
widen in shock at his declaration. “But you can’t stay here, and I can’t go out there, and no good
can come from lying to ourselves about that.”

He shuts the door behind him.

It feels like goodbye.

When Hermione arrives at her desk a few minutes later than usual, Millicent looks up at her in
surprise and shoves that morning’s copy of the Prophet under her desk. Hermione catches a
glimpse of the headline in question and shakes her head.

QUESTIONABLE COMPANY AT POTTER PARTY

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Hermione mutters, dropping her briefcase onto her desk with an
unsatisfying thwack.

“Don’t even bother reading it,” Millicent insists in a soft murmur. “The Prophet is absolute
rubbish.”

“What did they say about him?” snaps Hermione.

“It’s not him,” Alicia says. She holds two cups of coffee in her hands and offers one to Hermione.
“It’s about you.”

Grim realization sinks through her bones, and Hermione stares down at her perfectly organized
desk. They wouldn’t dare, she’d thought.

What a little fool she is.

Alicia tugs on the scarf around Millicent’s neck. “You’ve got a little something on your shoulder
there.”

Millicent swats Alicia’s hand away. “Stop that.”

Pansy pauses outside the door to the workroom of her gallery. Her hand rests on the knob, but her
heart races in her chest, and she inhales a deep breath before punching out the exhale and twisting
the knob.

The room is normally scattered with wood chips or paint brushes, but today it's perfectly clean.
The floors gleam, and Greg stands hovering over a table at the back of the room with a wand, not a
whittling knife, in his hand, muttering over some small creation that Pansy can't make out.

She clears her throat, and Greg looks up at her in surprise.

"Hello," says Pansy.

Greg straightens and wipes his hands on a nearby cloth. "I didn't expect you to come in today."

"I haven't been by in a few, I suppose." Pansy twists her hands behind her back. "Blaise is irritated
with me for missing his favorite's show on Sunday.”
 "It was underwhelming," Greg shrugs. "You didn't miss much."

Pansy tears her hands apart and motions at the table in front of Greg. "What are you working on?"

Greg looks down at the wooden object as though he'd forgotten it was there, and then he plucks it
from the table with a shrug and slips it into his satchel. "It's just an idea. I'm trying to incorporate
charms into some carvings, but I'm still bollocks at enchantments, as you may recall."

Pansy cracks a smile. "I remember."

Greg smiles back at her, and a slow moment passes. His expression softens as he gazes at her, and
Pansy summons up a new kind of courage that she's fairly certain no one has ever expected from
her.

"I'm sorry about the other day," she blurts out with a jarring step toward Greg. "I didn't mean to get
so angry at you."

Greg nods and rests his fingertips on the table. Pansy's skin itches as she watches him consider his
next words. "I think you were already angry when I arrived, based on the shattered crystal on your
floor, and I don't think you were really angry at me."

Pansy cringes. "I suppose you're right on both fronts. I was cruel to you, though, and that was
inexcusable. I hope - the things I said - "

Gods, why is it so hard to get the words out?

"I hope you know I don't really feel that way about you," she finishes.

"Yes, I know," Greg replies in a gruff tone. His eyes flash at her in earnest. "And I think you know
how I feel about you."

Pansy's bravery fails her, and tears sting at her eyes. She shrugs. "I suppose so."

Greg watches her with a careful gaze. "You never have to tell me anything that you're not ready to
share."

"I'm still terribly angry at my mother, if that's what you're asking," she replies with a cheeky grin.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Pansy shakes her head. "Not particularly, but we're having lunch next week, and I think I'd like to
talk to you after that, if you don't mind."

A smile ghosts over Greg's face. "I don't mind."

Chapter End Notes

Am I crying? Am I crying??? Are you? Am I?

Thank you to everyone for reading and supporting! I know that chapter count keeps
creeping up, but I really do think we’ll be done at 29, so plan accordingly. I so
appreciate all your comments here and on my dumb videos!

I’m currently trapped in the backseat of a car and the driver is blasting country music
so loudly that I can’t hear myself think so no embarrassing story for y’all, but please
send me all your thoughts and prayers and let’s all keep our fingers crossed that this
torture ends soon.
 Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione had always thought of John Pinter as a schemer, but she'd always imagined that his
ambitions tended more toward social climbing than vault filling. During her brief stint as a Budgie,
he'd shown himself to be eternally amiable, adopting the popular take in all things, and offering up
small favors, albeit in a less offensive manner than his nephew.

But it had been John Pinter's diary sitting on the desk in his own brother's office. It had been John
Pinter's calculations of small slivers skimmed off the top of the Ministry budget to fill his own
coffers. Each little number is burned into Hermione's mind.

Hermione's fist hovers just over John Pinter's door at the Ministry.

Was it his idea to go after Kingsley Shacklebolt and the OMA as well, or did someone else put him
up to it?

She decides against knocking and breezes into Pinter's office.

"Good morning, John," Hermione says with a wide grin, helping herself to a cup of tea from the
service cart.

"Hermione Granger!" John Pinter gasps. He rushes to push back his chair and lean over his desk to
clasp her outstretched hand. "What a surprise! Wonderful to see you, as always."

"I was just passing through to say hello to Alicia Spinnet, and I thought I'd pop in." Hermione tilts
her head and dons a teasing expression as she stirs in a spot of cream. "I've been waiting on your
dinner invitation, you know. I'll be at a wedding this weekend, but - "

"Oh, of course!" Pinter croons. "The Weasley boy is marrying his long time love, isn't he? Francis
told me all about it. Should be a lovely night for you young people, dancing the night away and
such."

Hermione smiles. "I'm very much so looking forward to it."

That, at least, is not a lie. She adds a cube of sugar to her cup and stirs that as well.

Pinter winks at her and raises an eyebrow. "And you'll be on a Weasley's arm as well before too
long, I hear?"

Hermione's body goes taut, but she takes care not to recoil at the suggestion, and gently sets the
spoon back on the cart.

"I'm a married woman, John," she laughs coolly, taking a small sip of tea. "Ron and I are merely
old friends."

"Ah, well." Pinter shrugs jovially. He shoots a small glance at her empty ring finger. "Perhaps I'm
just a romantic at heart. What's an old man to think with all these rumors floating around? Can't
make heads nor tails of it all, I'm afraid."
The smile on her face feels tight, and she fights the urge to tuck her left hand behind her back. It's
none of John Pinter's business what is or isn't on her finger, and how dare he suggest that -

"The week after the wedding, then?" Hermione asks. "I'm free most nights except Wednesdays. I'd
just love to meet your family."

"Yes, of course! Of course," agrees Pinter. "I'll talk to the missus and get it all planned out. You
can expect an owl from me before too long!"

Hermione nods and drowns the rest of her tea. She places it back on the service cart with a careful
clink. "I'm really looking forward to it."

The December sun had set hours ago, but Draco stays in his study. The glass of firewhisky rotates
slowly in his hand, and he considers the flavor of it swirling in his mouth, trying to pull out some
smokiness or sweet cedar to interest him, but it's flat on his tongue and bitter in his throat.

He and Hermione had spent the last few nights at dinner in relative silence, and last night, she
hadn't come to the table. Waiting had been unbearable, and he couldn't stomach the thought of
doing it again, sitting so on edge that it hurts while listening for the rush of the Floo.

Tonight, he'd taken the coward's way out and had Bogby bring a tray of roast duck to his desk.

Draco sets the snifter next to a stack of orders and slides on his glasses. He sorts them into neat
piles based on the request and, in some circumstances, the requestor. He still finds great
satisfaction in sending a letter of decline to certain members of wizarding society.

A small knock sounds on the door to Draco's office, and Hermione pokes her head through.

Her hair looks a bit frizzled, but the fire washes her face in a golden glow that warms Draco's core,
and he itches to pull her into his chair and bury his face into her neck. Gods, he can smell the
memory of her, his hands on her -

"You can come in," Draco says, sitting up in his chair.

"Hello." Hermione steps through the door only to lean on the doorframe just inside. "I didn't know
if you might have company this evening."

"Greg is stopping by in a bit. He said he had some news from the OMA."

Hermione nods. "That's good." She looks at the fireplace as though she expects Greg to step
through that very moment, and Draco takes the moment to break his own excuses and stare at her
unabashedly.

He loves her, of course. At least, he's quite sure that's what this is, this strange pull from the side of
his rib to hers. Yes, that's what it is, even though he'd rather not pin the word to the building
pressure in his chest. Gods, if only he could pin her to the desk and kiss her neck and her stomach
and her thighs and listen to her voice and make her promise to never leave me, never leave me,
never leave me -

Hermione turns back to Draco, and he blinks away his yearning. "I stopped in to see John Pinter
today," she says. "He said he'd send me a dinner invitation later this week."

"You ought to take someone with you." Draco picks up the stack of orders again, avoiding her
gaze. "Ginny would flatter him, and she's a good fighter if something goes wrong."

The door shuts with a firm click, and Draco looks up at Hermione.

"Is it going to be like this between us?" she asks under her breath as though someone in the hallway
may overhear.

It has to be. But her eyes are wide and sad and her jaw is determined and Draco's body doesn't care
so he pushes back his chair to stand and pull her into his arms because one more night can't hurt
any worse, but before he can even rise, the fireplace burns bright green, and Greg steps through
and tosses his coat on the chair.

"Hello. Do you mind if I - " Greg stops short when he spots Hermione in the corner. "Hello,
Hermione. Draco, do you mind if I borrow your library for a bit tonight? I'm looking for a
particular book on charms."

Draco leans back into his chair and takes a swallow of firewhisky. "It's Hermione's library."

Greg blinks at him.

"Yes," sighs Hermione. "Of course, you’re welcome to use the library."

"Thank you," Greg drawls, glancing between them.

Draco purses his mouth. "You said you had something to report, Greg?"

"I got an owl from our friends at the OMA today. They have a hearing in front of the Wizengamot
in two weeks."

"Really?" Hermione asks. She crosses over to a chair by the fire - far from Draco - and sits.
"Whatever about?"

Greg shrugs. "There's some disagreement over the available avenues for a Muggle to bring legal
action against a wizard. Donnelly doesn't have high hopes for much forward movement, but they'll
all be there nonetheless."

"Is there anything Donnelly wants from us?" Draco asks.

"Theo and I will go to lend our support. Donnelly seems to think that our presence may lend some
credibility with the moderate members."

"I could go too, if you like," Hermione offers.

Greg nods. "You could both come."

"No," Draco snaps.

They both turn to look at him, and Draco tightens his grip on the papers before him. "No," he
repeats. "I would only be a distraction."

The room falls silent, and Draco feels Hermione's eyes bore into him.

"Any news with John Pinter?" Greg asks.

"I saw him today," Hermione says. "He promised an invitation for dinner next week."

"Very good." Greg makes his way over to the bar cart and reaches for the firewhisky. Draco thinks
to warn him that the bottle is no good, but he's not sure if it's him or the bottle who's to blame.
"Want some, Hermione?"

Hermione shakes her head and frowns into the fire. "No, thank you. I think I feel a bit of a
headache coming on."

"Shall I call Bogby for some water?" Draco asks.

"No, that won't be necessary," Hermione says. "I'm sure I only need sleep. It's just..." She trails off
into a sigh and rises from her chair. "Why do you think John Pinter has an interest in bringing
down Kingsley Shacklebolt? Was there ever any particular involvement between them?"

Greg shrugs and looks at Draco. "Not that I know of."

Draco pulls off his glasses and sets them on the desk. "I'm sure he doesn't need a reason besides
Shacklebolt being in charge. When something goes wrong, men like that would rather be mad at
anyone but themselves."

"Perhaps," Hermione murmurs thoughtfully. "I'll wish you two goodnight, then."

On her way out, Hermione takes the briefest of pauses next to Draco before continuing on, and the
door shuts quietly behind her. He'd expected his shoulders to relax once she was out of the room,
but Draco feels as taut as ever.

Greg sinks into the chair that Hermione had abandoned. "Are you going to invite her to stay past
January?"

"Of course not," Draco grits. "Hermione will go back to the London flat as planned."

"London is nice in the spring." Greg rests his glass on his knee and tilts his head at Draco. "Are
you really going to be content spending the rest of your life in this manor with just your potions and
your pride?"

No.

Draco stands and shuffles the stacks of parchment into their respective drawers. He takes care to
keep his hands and his voice steady. "I made a decision about my life a long time ago."

Greg leans forward in earnest. "Things can change, don't you think? As I recall, you had decided
against a wife after Pucey, but now you and Hermione- "

Draco slams a drawer shut and straightens. "I'd rather not discuss my wife, if it's all the same to
you."

He's sure that talking about her will only sharpen the disappointment.

"Whatever you like." Greg sits back in retreat and swirls the amber liquid in his glass. He surveys
Draco with a knowing gaze, and Draco finishes off the dregs of his firewhisky. "Want another?"

"I'm fine," Draco says. "Stuff is rubbish anyway."

"Rubbish," Greg agrees. "I could go for a port, though, and some jazz. What do you think?"
Draco presses his fingers to his forehead for a brief respite. "As long as you stop with the fucking
questions."

Greg snorts. "Naturally. There's to be no talking during jazz."

Pansy tangles her hands in Greg's hair, wrapping her fingers in his curls as they catch their breath
on the studio’s chaise. Greg's face is still buried in her neck, and she holds him there as his lips
move over her sensitive skin. Her pulse has slowed, but Pansy likes Greg under her with her thighs
spread wide across his hips, and relishing the feel of it now feels somehow different than it had
before.

Pansy gives his hair one last tug and climbs off Greg's lap. She lifts her silk wrapper off the chaise
and slides it on, pulling the strings tight, which seems silly since Greg and Blaise are the only two
with access to the back studio and they've both seen her naked, albeit under very different
circumstances. Greg's fingers stretch out to graze the skin just at the hem of her wrapper, and he
smiles up at her.

"It's very difficult to get work done with you here," he murmurs in a thick voice.

Pansy slides out of reach and flashes a smirk at him over her shoulder. "Are you suggesting that I
stay away from the studio while you're here?"

"Not at all," Greg growls. His eyes trail down her body. "Perhaps if you were here more often, I'd
get used to you and could ignore you."

"That's a terrible idea. You've never ignored me in your life, Gregory Goyle." Pansy feels his eyes
follow her as she ambles around the room, surveying Greg's current projects. Pansy spies a small
box wrapped in simple, brown paper. She plucks it off the shelf and examines it. "What's this?"

Greg tugs a blanket over his hips and sits up straighter. "It's for you, actually. I just finished it the
other day, but I wasn't sure when to expect you."

"Can I open it now?" Pansy grins. "Or is it for a special occasion?"

Greg shrugs, but the pink tinge on his cheeks betrays him. "Open it now, if you'd like."

Pansy perches on a nearby stool and slowly crosses her legs with a meaningful look at Greg before
she tugs on the bow. The string falls away, and the paper comes off easily and -

Her stomach sinks.

It's a fucking pansy.

Of all the uninspired, unoriginally offensive drivel in the whole world, she'd never expected it from
Greg. Gregory Goyle, who she thought saw her, understood her. But the stupid pansy sits in its
wrapping like he's the worst kind of stranger, and she's never felt so utterly disappointed.

"A flower?" Pansy's voice is hard, and she plucks the offending trinket out of the parchment. "I
thought - "

At her touch, the petals unfurl and fold back, and the stem twists, and then the pansy disappears
entirely, and a wren sits in her hand instead, fluffing its delicate feathers.

A small gasp of delight escapes her lips.

The wren looks up at her and chirps.

Oh.

"Greg," Pansy breathes. "How did you do this?"

"Took me a few days to get the charm right," Greg murmurs.

The wren flits around her head and pecks at her earlobe, then settles on her shoulder, nuzzling her
neck. Greg watches with a smile.

"It's a bird. I thought you'd made me a stupid flower, and I can't tell you how sick I am of getting
pansies, but a bird - "

"I always thought you rather reminded me of a bird."

The wren trills out another song and leaps to the top of her head.

"A noisy little thing like this?" Pansy laughs.

Greg reddens. "I had trouble with the charm. I didn't mean to make it so talkative."

"I love it," she grins. The bird flutters down to Pansy's other shoulder and ruffles its wings in her
hair.

Greg stands and wraps the blanket around his waist. "There's an incantation to turn it back into the
flower - I wrote it down somewhere. Takes a few tries. Could just be me, though. I'm bollocks at -
"

" - charms," they say together.

Pansy smiles at him, and she thinks she might cry, so she decides to say it because she doesn't want
him to remember her crying when she tells him.

"I love you," she says.

Greg steps toward her hesitantly. "Pansy, you don't - "

"No," Pansy laughs. "I love you. I am so sorry I hadn't told you, but you have cared for me more
and longer and better than anyone else has, and you don't try to make me anyone I'm not, and I love
you so much."

She doesn't know how they reach each other, only that her head is buried in Greg's chest and his
arms are wrapped around her and lifting her off the floor and the wren is chirping with no small
amount of irritation, even though their laughter fills the large room, and Greg keeps saying how
much he loves her too, and she's never felt so at home with anyone, and -

Oh. What a marvelous thought.

Pansy pulls back, solidly kisses Greg, and then offers him her best idea yet.

"I'm going to buy Parkinson Manor from my mother," Pansy says breathlessly, kissing him once
more.

"What?" Greg mumbles against her lips. "Parkinson Manor?"

"Will you come live there with me?" she asks as she wraps her arms around Greg's neck. "She'll
hate it, and you and I can make it all our own, and we’ll hang our salacious art on all the walls, and
we'll be impossibly happy."

She can feel his wide smile against hers.

"Sounds like home," Greg says.

Hermione checks the clock on the mantle. It's nearly ten in the morning, almost time for her to
appear at the Burrow. She'd promised Molly that she'd help arrange everything for their guests, and
she'd promised Ginny that she'd help keep her sane during the preparations. Her purse hangs heavy
by her side. As usual, it contains more than meets the eye.

"Leaving so early?"

Hermione turns in surprise to see Draco standing at the entrance to the hall. He stands tall with the
slightest lean onto his cane, and his hair has been neatly brushed back, even though he's wearing a
plush, black wrapper that makes her want to curl up next to him in bed instead of braving the
crowd.

He looks frustratingly handsome for a man in loungewear who has been studiously avoiding her
for over a week.

"I said I'd lend a hand," Hermione says. "Weddings are an all day affair, you know."

The corner of Draco's mouth quirks into a wry smile, and he makes his way down the hall toward
her. "Some of them, yes."

"What will you do tonight?" Hermione asks. "Is Theo coming by?"

Draco shakes his head. "No, he and Millicent have plans. I'll brew some potions and sit with a book
or the paper, I expect."

Hermione hesitates, then she takes a halting step forward. "If you change your mind - "

"No." Draco cuts her off with a soft but firm response, and his jaw tenses. Hermione aches to press
her hand to it, but she fears he'll shy away from her touch like he's avoided her eyes, so she stays in
place. "Thank you, but no."

Hermione tightens her grip on her purse and raises her chin. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Draco frowns. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes," Hermione says. "I'll stay the night at the Burrow since it will be late."

"But - " Draco moves toward her and lifts a hand to her cheek, but he stops himself before his
fingers graze her skin and instead tucks an errant curl behind her ear.
Hermione closes her eyes and leans into the touch.

She can feel him before her now, warm and familiar, and she's desperate to sway into him, to close
whatever distance bloomed between them after the Potters, but pop breaks through the heady
silence, and Draco jerks back.

"Hello, Ms. Granger," Bogby says. "A letter has arrived for you."

"Thank you, Bogby." Hermione snatches the letter out of the house-elf's hand and glances at the
handwriting on the front. "It must be from John Pinter."

Bogby disappears with another pop, and Hermione and Draco are left alone again.

The clock chimes ten.

Hermione stuffs the letter into her bag. "I'll read it later."

Draco nods and steps back. "Enjoy your night. I'll see you tomorrow."

The morning at the Burrow flies by with bustling activity, and once Hermione is fairly certain that
she's fixed all the sticking charms haphazardly laid by Alicia and convinced the gnomes to leave
the garden for the rest of the evening, she returns to the kitchen.

"Hermione!" Molly trills. "Thank Merlin for your help! There's so much to be done with the hair
and dresses still. Ginny, show Hermione to your old room. If you two could just - "

Ginny snatches Hermione's elbow with alarming speed for a woman in her eighth month of
pregnancy and steers her up the stairs. "Gods, it's a terror here."

Hermione winces. "That bad already?"

"Mum's got some ambitious plans for my hair," Ginny huffs, pulling the door shut behind her. "I
can barely sit still for five minutes even without someone poking my head, and I think Katie might
strangle Mum if she asks her to add even one more pin to anyone's hair."

"What can I do to help?" Hermione asks.

"Take a few minutes to settle in and get dressed," Ginny instructs her. "Once you're done, I expect
you down in Angelina's room to run interference."

Hermione nods. "On my honor."

Ginny sighs in relief and slips back out the door.

Hermione pulls open her purse and hangs her dress over the mirror. The wrinkles fall out with a
quick wave of her wand, and she says a small prayer as she shimmies into the dress that Katie Bell
will know what to do with her curly mass of hair. A pair of sensible heels come out of her bag next.
Hermione slides those on and rummages for her jewelry pouch. Her hand brushes John Pinter's
letter, and she pulls that out as well and sets it on Ginny's old bed.

She slides in one diamond earring after the other.

 Hermione reaches back into her purse for a small, black box that she normally kept in her dresser
drawer at the London flat. She opens it slowly, and the diamond glitters in the winter sunlight.

Her wedding ring.

Hermione slides it onto her ring finger.

She's married, after all, isn't she?

Hermione takes John Pinter's letter and breaks the wax seal. She scans the contents - all very much
expected, of course. The missus is thrilled to have you... looking forward to your presence... we
have room for a guest if you'd like to bring any old friends along... we'll serve dinner around 7
o'clock, but feel free to come as early as...

Hermione freezes and rereads the letter.

"Shit," she hisses, dropping the letter on the bed. "Shit, shit, shit."

She scrambles in her bag for a scrap of parchment and a quill, and she scribbles off a quick note.
With a tap of her wand and a whispered spell, the writing vanishes.

"Hermione, dear?" Molly calls up the stairs. "Are you ready for Katie to do your hair?"

"Yes!" Hermione stuffs her things back into her purse. "I'll be right down!"

She checks the dress for wrinkles one last time before slipping out of Ginny Potter's childhood
bedroom.

Chapter End Notes

You get an early update because I have to drive down to see family for my dad's
birthday. Wow I bet he would be SO PROUD IF ONLY HE KNEW.

Embarrassing story: I got my hair dyed dark brown in high school because I have blue
eyes and I just wanted to look like Alexis Bledel. Instead I looked like a wasting
Victorian woman with some unprocessed trauma. Thank god we didn't have social
media to the extent that it exists today so most of the photos are lost to someone's
Canon Powershot!!! xoxo
 Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione stands on her tiptoes and glances around the crowd gathered at the Burrow. A lively jig
floats through the air, and everyone laughs and greets one another like old friends. The tray of
custard cupped in her hands tilts as she weaves through the bodies, but Hermione safely lands the
desserts on a table, and several guests swarm around her to pluck up a tiny treat.

"Molly's really outdone herself," Dean Thomas’ father says with a mouthful of custard. "Positively
delicious."

"I'll tell her you said so," Hermione replies before slipping away.

Someone snags her elbow, and she turns to see Ron presenting her with a bubbling flute of
champagne.

"Thought you might be thirsty." Ron's wide grin takes up most of his slightly flushed face, and his
hand lingers on her skin. "Care for a drink?"

Over Ron's shoulder, Hermione spots Mr. Thomas looking on with interest, so she takes the flute
and indulges in a tiny sip. "Thank you, Ron." She makes to move past him, but he steps in her path
again.

"Toast?" Ron raises his own glass. "To a beautiful couple, a beautiful wedding, and a beautiful
future."

It's uncharacteristically poetic of him, but Hermione has little time to suss out his behavior. She
glances over her shoulder and taps her foot. "Yes, to a beautiful wedding and all that." Ron clinks
his glass to hers and squeezes her free hand. "I really must - "

"Don't we both look sharp!" He postures a bit, showing off the cut of his jacket, which even
Hermione can admit is rather flattering. "Save me a dance later?"

Hermione nods impatiently. "Of course. Now if you'll just..." She slips past him and makes her
way through the rows of chairs, shaking a few hands en route before she reaches into her pocket
for a small slip of parchment.

"Hermione!" Ginny waves her over from a few meters away. Hermione hesitates before moving
toward her and accepts the table cloth that Ginny tosses over her arm.

"Can you take that to the kitchen?" Ginny hisses. "Teddy spilled some pumpkin juice on it, and
Mum will have a fit if she sees the stain, but I'm hoping she may not notice if it's out of sight."

Hermione stares at her. "You think your mother won't notice an entire tablecloth missing?"

Ginny shoos her away. "We're on borrowed time, Granger! Stash it!"

Hermione tucks the cloth under her arm and weaves back toward the tables that are slowly filling
up.

"Francis!" Hermione waves her hand. "How nice to see you!"

Francis Pinter rises from his seat and offers Hermione his hand. "You look positively lovely,
Hermione." He squeezes a bit too hard on the shake, and Hermione pulls back as Francis motions
to the older man sitting next to him. “You must allow me to introduce you to my father, Mr.
Bennett Pinter.”

The elder Pinter stands as well and grasps her hand with no hesitation. “Francis has told me so
much about you, Ms. Granger. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Hermione grins. “The pleasure is all mine. Your brother speaks so highly of you.”

“Mr. Pinter!”

Hermione looks over her shoulder, and Ron’s rushing over, still flushed, still with a rather silly grin
on his face.

He’s out of breath as he approaches them. “I see you’ve finally met the man upstairs, Hermione.
Mr. Pinter, how are you, sir?”

Bennett Pinter pulls Ron into a quick embrace and claps him on the back. “Lovely to see you, my
boy! Fantastic day for a wedding, isn’t it?”

“I’d say so,” Ron chuckles. “Can I get you anything? Another drink?”

“No, no, we’re all taken care of,” Francis insists. “Come, sit with us for a minute, the both of you.”

Hermione sinks down in the chair next to Francis and Ron sits across from her.

“I must confess,” Hermione begins, “I sought you out for my own purposes. Could I trouble you
three with a small puzzle?”

Francis winks at her. "Anything for a friend, Hermione."

“We Pinters love a challenge!” his father booms. “Give us your worst, my dear.”

Hermione pulls out the parchment from her pocket and places it on the table. "Millicent and I have
been squabbling over this silly little logic problem from The Prophet, and I thought I'd ask for your
opinion. If I remember correctly, Francis, you’ve a deft hand with these sorts of puzzles, isn’t that
right? And I must assume the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree."

Francis jostles her shoulder good-naturedly and takes the parchment. "You flatter me, really. I don't
have a quill on me, so - "

"Here you are." Hermione pulls one out of thin air. "I'm quite determined, I assure you."

Francis laughs and takes the offered quill between his slim fingers.

“Let’s have a look at this together, son.” Bennett Pinter reaches for the puzzle, but Hermione
blocks him with another quill.

“No, Mr. Pinter,” she teases. “You must solve it on your own! How else will I know if we reach a
consensus?”

“I’ll give it a go too, Hermione,” Ron says, holding out his hand.

Gods.
Hermione produces a quill for him as well and gives it to him with a smile. “I look forward to
seeing your thoughts.”

Francis and his father don the same thoughtful expression, and they ponder the problem for a
moment before scribbling down a few numbers. Hermione sees Ginny waving at her again, but she
ignores the summons and turns her attention back to Francis and his father.

"This is rather tricky," Francis hums, "but I think I've got it." He circles a number on the parchment
and offers the page back to Hermione. "What do you think of that?"

Bennett Pinter slides her his solution as well. “Did we get the same answer?”

“Here’s mine as well,” Ron says. “I didn’t think it was too difficult.”

Hermione beams at them and pockets the parchments after a quick examination. "Exemplary work,
you three. I believe we’re all in accordance."

"Tell Millicent she ought to brush up!" Francis chuckles. "I'd have expected her to solve that one
easily."

"I think she must have switched something up," Hermione tells him as she rises. She carefully
ignores the unsteady way that Ron leaps to his feet as well. "You'll have to excuse me, though. I
believe Ginny is looking for me. It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Pinter."

Hermione slips through the crowd once more and reaches Ginny's side.

"Why were you talking with Francis and his father?" Ginny asks with a scowl in their general
direction.

"Just something related to the OMA," Hermione shrugs. "What can I do?"

Ginny nods at the tablecloth still on her arm. "Take that to the kitchen, and then I need you to find
Charlie and tell him to run interference on Ron. He's in a bloody good mood and it's irritating me to
no end."

Hermione looks back and spots Ron now with his arms around Oliver Wood and Lavender Brown.
From the look on Lavender's face, whatever joke Ron is telling isn't terribly funny, but Oliver
seems to be enjoying it tremendously. "What's he doing?"

"Hamming it up like this is his coming of age party," Ginny mutters. "He's sloshed already,
somehow, though I think it's more an abundance of ego than of champagne. He nearly bumped the
cake, you know."

"Merlin," Hermione sighs. "I'll let Charlie know."

The music starts playing noticeably louder, and the guests begin filing to their seats.

Ginny grabs Hermione's left hand and pulls it up toward her. She looks up at Hermione with wide
eyes and a small smile. "You're wearing his ring."

Hermione swallows and nods. "I am. I thought - "

"Teddy, be careful with your cup!" Molly's scolding voice echoes over the noise of the crowd.
"You'll spill on yourself."

"Go," hisses Ginny, releasing her hold.

Hermione slips away once more toward the kitchen to stash the incriminating tablecloth before
Molly notices.

Draco nearly shoots out of his chair when the Floo in his office flares to life and Alicia Spinnet
sticks her head through.

"Hello?" she calls into the room. "Anyone home?"

Draco slaps his paper onto his desk and scowls. "Aren't you supposed to be at a wedding,
Spinnet?"

"I'm only a few minutes late, and Cho is in Italy for the weekend, so it’s not as though anyone will
notice." Alicia heaves a sigh and steps through without asking permission. She's clearly dressed for
the celebration at the Burrow, but she carries a stack of parchment under one arm. "I finally found
the last of the Budgetary files this afternoon and I thought I'd drop them off. You know John Pinter
never fucking leaves his office?"

"Is this really urgent?" Draco grits.

Alicia eyes the decanter on his desk. "What, am I interrupting your plans for the evening?"

Draco narrows his eyes. "Just hand over the parchment. I'll make sure Hermione sees it tomorrow."

"Pour me an inch?" Alicia pouts. "I hate showing up to a wedding dry."

She clearly is in no rush to get to the Burrow. Draco waves his hand to the tumblers. "Take your
pick."

"John Pinter's brother is one lucky scoundrel," Alicia huffs as she drops the stack onto a table. She
plucks a glass from the shelf and sidles over to Draco to help herself to a bit of firewhisky. "I wish
my siblings would go through such lengths to keep me in comfort."

Draco raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Alicia chuckles and takes a small swallow. "Well, I'm sure John's giving them some of the money."

"Their family owns a Quidditch team," Draco snorts. "How badly could they possibly be
struggling?"

"Come on, the Cannons?" Alicia shakes her head. "Shit investment. They've been pouring money
into that for years, and they're not even a wealthy family. Surely they'd have emptied the coffers by
now without the extra help."

Draco raises his glass. "To siblings."

Alicia tilts her glass to his. "To siblings."

They both take a long sip, and Alicia sets hers empty on the desk. "I think you'd be much improved
if you'd had a sibling, you know."

"Please get out of my office."

Hermione sways to the music and watches as Ginny tugs Harry onto the dance floor for another
round. She's remarkably agile for being eight months pregnant. Hermione imagines that years of
Quidditch practice has only bolstered Ginny's natural athleticism. Harry, on the other hand, seems
to have retained nothing from his time on the pitch at Hogwarts, but he follows his wife around the
floor obediently, and his eyes shine with admiration every time she spins.

Hermione checks her watch and notes the time. A bit of loud laughter breaks through the air, and
Hermione spots Ron shaking hands with someone she's never met as he makes his way toward her.
She has the briefest thought of slipping away, but he catches her eye, and there's no escaping
without making a scene. Charlie seems to be particularly engrossed in a conversation with Lee
Jordan across the tent, so there's no hope of interference from that quarter.

Ron smoothes his necktie and grins on his approach.

"Hello," Hermione says, making room as he slides in next to her to survey the dance floor.

"Hello," Ron replies. He bumps her shoulder in a small show of affection. "Harry and Gin look like
they're having a nice time."

Hermione smiles at them. "She's good at getting him out of his shell, isn't she?"

Ron shrugs. "I thought it was a nice ceremony, didn't you?"

"Lovely. Angelina looks beautiful."

A beat passes. Hermione opens her mouth to make her excuses, but Ron clears his throat and turns
to her. "I thought I'd come collect my dance, if you're still up for it."

"Oh, I - " Hermione stumbles over excuses in her mind, but Ron holds out his hand in earnest. And
- what's the worst that can happen ? Ron's cheeks are less flushed than earlier, so the champagne
seems to have run its course.

Ron tilts his head at her. "For old times' sake." His grin, warm and amiable, immediately reminds
Hermione of a much younger Ron who at Hogwarts would occasionally wait up for her in the
Common Room. A Ron who even once vomited slugs for several hours after defending her against
- well, best not think on that too much .

Hermione takes his hand and smiles up at him. "For old times' sake."

Ron sweeps her on to the dance floor, and Hermione hardly gets her feet under her as he wraps one
arm around her back. The music is slow and heady, and they sway along to the tune.

"I meant to tell you earlier that you look lovely tonight," Ron says. Gods, he's so much taller than
she is. Hermione peels her eyes off the buttons on the front of his jacket and looks up at him.

"You look rather dashing yourself." She takes the opportunity to nudge Ron a bit to the left, and
she can spot Francis dancing across the way with a disgruntled Katie Bell.

Ron pulls Hermione closer to avoid bumping the couple behind her. "I've been hoping we could
talk a bit, you and me."
Katie's made excuses, and now Francis steps back into the crowd of onlookers.

Hermione lifts her gaze back to Ron. "Hmm?"

Ron's grin softens into a gentle smile, and Hermione notes that they're standing awfully close. "I
meant what I said at Francis' party," Ron says in a low voice. "I've learned so much about myself
in the last five years, and I wouldn't be half the man I am today if it weren't for you."

Half the man - Hermione blinks at him. "I'm sorry?"

"I've changed, Hermione." Ron's grip on her hand becomes insistent. "I was such an arse to you,
and I never should have proposed to you like I did. I didn't understand what you were looking for.
But I do now. I see it now."

Hermione furrows her brow. "Are you apologizing to me, Ron?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Hermione. I should have been more respectful of your wishes."

Hermione studies Ron's face.

"Thank you," she replies slowly. "That's very thoughtful of you."

Ron grimaces and shakes his head. "I'm only sorry I didn't step up earlier."

"Step up?" Hermione echoes. "Step up to what?"

Ron's face darkens, and he edges her away from the crowd. "I saw what he was like with you the
other week at Harry's. He keeps an eye on you as though you're his possession, and now he's got
you wearing his ring like some sort of brand. It's not right, Hermione."

Hermione flushes. "Are you talking about Draco?"

"You can leave him," Ron murmurs. His thumb traces her spine, and Hermione tries to jerk back,
but Ron's hold on her doesn't let up. "Don't spend another minute there. I'll find a way out for you.
Just come with me."

"I'm not leaving Draco," Hermione splutters.

"The Ministry can't touch you!" Ron insists. "I won't let them. I'll have Francis talk to his
godfather. There's no lack of good will on your side. No one will blame you."

"I don't care what the Ministry thinks of my marriage," Hermione hisses. They're at the back of the
dance floor now, away from the crowd and prying ears, and she successfully wrenches herself out
of Ron's arms. "You're not listening to me, Ron. I won’t run away with you."

Confusion runs over Ron's face. "Does Malfoy have something over you? I swear to Merlin,
whatever it is, we can figure it out."

Hermione stomps her foot. "There is no we! I am living at Malfoy Manor because I want to live at
Malfoy Manor, and I will remain married to Draco because I wish to be so."

Ron reaches for her. "Hermione, I'm offering you a way out. Just take my hand."

Hermione stares at his open palm and folds her arms. "I am not looking for a way out."

Ron blinks at her, and a wave of disbelief crashes over his face. He scoffs, rubbing his hand over
his jaw, and steps back. His eyes scrape over her, and he laughs to himself as though he's just
thought of the most absurd thing.

"You fancy yourself in love with that beast, do you?"

Hermione raises her chin in defiance. "He is not a beast."

Ron shakes his head. "You're mad," he hisses.

"I assure you, I am quite sane."

"He's a murderer," Ron steps toward her, and his eyes, suddenly dark and narrow, pierce through
Hermione. "He fucking killed Pucey."

Wrong.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Hermione insists. "You know as well as I do that the
Prophet is - "

"It's not just the Prophet, Hermione!" Ron explodes. "It's the Wizengamot! Fucking everyone
knows it! Have you completely lost the plot? You and I both saw what kind of person he was in
school."

Hermione jabs her finger into Ron's chest. "He's not the person he was in school anymore, and
that's the same Wizengamot that put away Sirius Black. You just want to be angry at someone,
Ron, and you don't think about anything besides your petty little rivalries."

Ron grabs her wrist and presses her hand to his chest. "You've let him brainwash you. I know you,
Hermione, and you'd never care for someone like Malfoy. Francis warned me that Malfoy would
try to use you for his own - "

Hermione wrenches her arm away. "And why do you trust Francis so much? Have you ever
considered that it's him using you for his own advantage?"

Ron growls. "I never should have let you go through with that fucking wedding."

"Let me? Let me? " Hermione chokes. "How dare you suggest that you have any kind of say over
who I marry? I can promise you that I have absolutely no regrets in regards to my wedding, and I
would never for one instant consider changing my decision. I would marry Draco a thousand times
over. He doesn't have me trapped at the Manor, and he would never treat me like a possession or
someone to be managed, which is more than I can say for you. He respects me and my career and
he cares about me, and I lo- "

Hermione stops herself short.

Oh, Godric.

Ron is flushed with anger. "He's done something to you," he grits. "I can tell."

"Excuse me," Hermione breathes. "I believe I require some fresh air."

Hermione turns on her heel and strides off into the night.
Draco flips the paper over and scans down the next page.

The Prophet is such shit.

The Market and Money section, at least, provides some hints at what supplies may be going up or
down in cost. Unfortunately, the Saturday edition skimps on the business in favor of the parties, so
the section is rather slim, and he's through it within a matter of minutes

Draco checks the clock on the mantle. The wedding is probably well under way by now. He lets
his imagination carry him there for a moment - how lovely Hermione must look in her dress?
Whom might she be dancing with, if she's dancing at all?

Of course she's dancing . She's lovely and smart and clever, and her skin is like silk to the touch .
Someone probably has her in his arms now, and Draco burns to tear her away from those arms and
the whole party and keep her here where he, only he can touch her, but -

It's useless .

I love him, she'd nearly said. I love him.

Does she?

Hermione’s ears ring as she tries to steady her pulse.

Hermione finds herself in Molly's back garden. Normally lush in the spring, today, in the dead of
winter, there's only a bit of scruffy grass on the ground beneath a few benches and a black beetle
that crawls up a crumbling brick wall. The warming charms are relegated to the wedding area, so
the night air is chilly on Hermione's hot skin.

Does she?

In a month's time, she's supposed to move back to the London flat. Gods, how she loves that flat. It
had become her own over the years, and she'd been strangely disappointed to leave in October to
spend three months at the foreboding Malfoy Manor.

Now, the idea of moving back to the London flat seems... quiet. Lonely, even, although Hermione
had enjoyed living without roommates.

Hermione purses her lips and shakes her head. Not the time . She taps the face of her watch and
closes her eyes for a moment, letting the breeze wash over her and cleanse her mind of tumultuous
thoughts.

Her respite is brief. From a few meters away, someone clears their throat.

Hermione opens her eyes and squints into the darkness.

"I thought you might get cold out here."

 It's useless . Draco rubs his eyes under his glasses and looks back down at the paper.

A picture catches his attention halfway down.

Francis fucking Pinter.

He's at the wedding with Hermione.

In the picture, some older man in Wizengamot robes has his arm around Francis, and they both
look at the cameras with wide grins. Draco skims the short article that accompanies the photo.

He reads it again more closely, squinting at the paper, then lets it drop to his desk.

"Shit," he curses, scrambling for his wand. "Shit, shit, shit."

"I thought you might get cold out here."

Francis Pinter emerges from the shadows with a smile and her shawl in his hands. The noise of the
party sounds far away.

"Thank you," Hermione says. "I suppose it's a bit chilly without the charms."

Francis strolls over and drapes the shawl over Hermione's shoulders. "There you are. Do you mind
if I join you?"

Hermione sighs, then motions to the bench across from her. "Please. Sit."

Chapter End Notes

Omg so many revelations!!!

Embarrassing story: I know I already mentioned the bridesmaid dress thing but I have
to wear an especially heinous one this coming weekend and I’d like to reiterate how
unhappy I am about it.
 Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione tugs the shawl around her shoulders as Francis sits down on the bench across from her.
He crosses one leg over the other, propping his ankle on her knee, and surveys Hermione with a
sigh and a smile.

"I saw you and Ron dancing. I take it that didn't go well?"

Hermione rolls her eyes and slumps back with a huff. She counts to three, playing with the fringe at
the end of her shawl, then raises her gaze to Francis.

"I don't know what to do," she murmurs. "I'm afraid I've made a mess of things."

Francis' voice is gentle and soft. "Why do you say that?"

"You wouldn't understand," Hermione replies tersely. "Ron and I - well, as I said, you wouldn't
understand."

"Whatever was said, I'm sure Ron will forgive you, just like you'd forgive him," Francis reassures
her. "Old friends do that sort of thing, don't they?"

Hermione shakes her head in exasperation. “I’m not seeking his forgiveness. I’m - “ She stops
abruptly and ducks her head. “I shouldn’t be discussing this with you.”

“Why not?” Francis shrugs. “We’re friends, aren’t we, Hermione?”

“Are we?” Hermione asks with a cocked eyebrow.

Francis leans forward. “We ought to be. I think you and I could understand each other exceedingly
well.”

Hermione lets out a hollow laugh. “Understand each other? What could you possibly understand
about me?”

“I’ve been watching you, Hermione Granger,” Francis tells her. “You float through the world,
managing everything and everyone with ease, but I suspect that there is something beneath the
surface that scares even you.”

“If you think I float by with ease, you are sorely mistaken,” Hermione snaps.

“And why is that?” Francis challenges, his voice fierce and protective. “Why is it that the Golden
Girl, our savior, can’t have what she’d like?”

Hermione narrows her eyes. “I am perfectly content with my lot.”

Francis bares his teeth. “No, you’re not. Tell me the truth, Hermione. Why can’t you take what you
want?”

“Because I am crushed on all sides!” Hermione exclaims. The anger rolls off her shoulders. “Every
day at work, I suffer under the authority of men who know less about their field of expertise than
the average Fourth Year. I have to play this insufferable game of wait your turn in the hopes that
one day, perhaps, I’ll be able to make the decisions these imbeciles are too afraid to confront,” she
snarls. “In a moment of utter stupidity, I thought marrying Malfoy would free me from Ron, but I
was wrong. Ron imagines himself as my savior, but he only offers me escape through a prison of
his own expectations.”

Francis leans back with a satisfied smirk. “There we have it.”

“Are you quite pleased?” Hermione huffs, crossing her arms.

“I am. The first step to getting what you want is admitting that you want it.”

“I’ve admitted nothing.”

“You want to be free of Malfoy without having to depend on Ron. You want to have power in your
position at the Ministry,” Francis says. “Your ambitions are nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m hardly ashamed, but I am a reasonable woman,” Hermione grits. “I know when something is
unachievable, and I’m not so foolish as to waste my efforts on the impossible.”

“Why should it be impossible?”

“Because I have already tried,” Hermione snaps. "The Marriage Act is law , and Malfoy was their
main target. They would never let me just walk away. You've surely heard the rumors - “
Hermione chokes up. “The reality is worse than the rumors, Francis. What happened with Pucey -
I'm not afraid for myself, but my friends and my family would never be safe with this beast on the
loose. I can’t walk away from this. It’s my fight now."

Francis sighs. "Hermione. The balance of power in the Ministry is always... changing. Something
may turn up sooner than you'd expect."

"Impossible," Hermione chokes out. "The very same members of the Wizengamot who enforced
the Marriage Act are very unlikely to pardon my case when it was Malfoy whom they'd hoped to
bring down in the first place."

Francis grabs her hand. "Those members are fools," he hisses. "They're fools to think they can
control us like they have, and they're not going to last much longer, Hermione."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asks.

"I’m telling you that you and I are more alike than you think. We’re both sick of waiting on foolish
men to see what must be done. So why wait when we can take what should rightfully be ours? I
can't say anything more, but give it two weeks, and you'll see."

"Two weeks?" Hermione echoes.

"Let me help you," Francis says. "I have influence where it matters. Stick with me, and I'll make
sure you're out of this mess by the time the snowdrops bloom."

Hermione smiles at Francis and squeezes his hand back. "Thank you," she murmurs. "I shouldn't
have judged you so harshly. I thought you were some fool latching on to Ron, but I can see that I
was wrong."

Francis gives her a reassuring smile. "You're a clever witch, Hermione. Let’s not take no for an
answer anymore."

Hermione tilts her head thoughtfully, keeping a firm grip on his hand. "So tell me, then, do you
keep the rest of the money for yourself, or is someone else taking a cut? Surely there must be
someone else if the Wizengamot is involved."

Francis blinks at her. "Excuse me?"

Draco bursts through the Floo at the Burrow. The house is littered with wedding decorations and
small desserts, but it's empty save for a mussy, blue-haired boy of 7 or 8 who has at least two petit
fours stuffed into his mouth and three more in his little fists.

"Where is Hermione Granger?" Draco demands.

The boy shrugs his shoulders and points an icing-covered fist toward the door. "Outside, prolly."

Outside. Outside in the middle of what sounds like a loud, lively, crowded wedding of Weasleys
and all their best friends. Draco swallows and fights the urge to slink back to the safe quiet of his
own home.

Anything for her. Anything to make her safe .

"Thank you," Draco mutters to the child before he pushes his way into the large front garden.
Someone standing near the door looks at him curiously then mutters something in another
partygoer's ear.

He can't think about that right now.

Draco frantically scans the faces in the crowd, hoping beyond hope for a flash of curly brown hair
or something - anything - but it's too packed, and he can't make out Hermione or Francis Pinter, and
his chest tightens.

There's nothing else to be done.

Draco surges into the crowd with abandon, scanning face after face as he pushes past partygoers.
He feels the recognition on their faces as they fall silent with horror, but he has no time to stop and
offer apologies. Where are they, where the fuck are -

Finally .

Ginny and Harry Potter are locked in a romantic embrace. Draco lunges toward them across two
bodies and grabs Ginny's arm, yanking her away from Harry.

“Ginny! Where is she?” Draco snaps. “Where is Hermione?”

Ginny frowns in confusion. "Draco? What are you doing here?"

The murmurs of disbelief grow around them, and some anonymous voice mutters, "Shouldn't be
grabbing her like that." Harry steps up to try to shield them from view, but they're surrounded on all
sides, and Draco feels like he's going to scream if the whispers don't stop. Murderer, murderer, you
killed him, you -
"Please," Draco chokes out, his voice is hoarse. "You must have some idea. Where is she?"

Harry sets his hand on Draco’s arm. “I think I saw her slipping toward the back of the house. She
probably just needed some fresh air.”

“How long has she - ” Nevermind. Draco shakes off Harry’s arm and stalks in the direction Harry
had pointed, hoping to Merlin that Hermione hadn't yet gotten too brave.

Hermione’s smile broadens at Francis' sudden discomfort. "You see, at first, I suspected your
Uncle John. I'd found him to be largely unpleasant and bigoted while working under him at the
Budgetary, and then I found that diary on your desk. The paper inside has his crest stamped on it,
and there were all sorts of interesting numbers in the diary. Numbers that matched up with a
mysterious administrative fee that no one in the Budgetary department seemed to know about,
because the fee, oddly enough, does not appear on their records."

"Are you accusing my uncle of something?" Francis snatches his hand back and frowns at
Hermione.

"No. Of course not." Hermione tilts her head. "I'm accusing you."

Francis splutters. "Whatever it is you're suggesting, I'm afraid you're terribly mistaken."

Hermione shrugs and pulls out the dinner invitation that John Pinter had sent her just that morning.
"No, I am not. You see, I received this note from your uncle earlier." She offers the parchment to
Francis. "Do you see how the four forms a small triangle and the seven has that small hatch? It's
not at all like the fours and sevens from the diary."

"After examining your uncle's note, I felt fairly certain I could rule him out, but that left you and
your father both as suspects. Both of you have access to your uncle's crest, and the diary was at
your home, after all." Two more slips of parchment emerge from her pocket. "Fortunately for me,
you two were in attendance tonight and most willing to play along with my little game."

Francis doesn't take the offered evidence, but Hermione presents the two remaining parchments
nonetheless. "As you can see, you each write your numbers quite differently, and yours are a
perfect match for the numbers in the diary. It was clever of you to swipe the letterhead from your
uncle's office, I must say. It's probably quite easy for you to send letters if anyone is late or short
with their payment."

"Hermione - "

"Still," Hermione interrupts, leaning back on the bench. "I can't quite figure out how you fudge the
accounts once they arrive at the Budgetary. Is the parchment itself charmed, or did you do
something with the file drawers?"

Francis purses his lips.

"Oh, does someone else do that part for you?" Hermione sighs in disappointment. "I'd hoped it was
something more interesting than that, but I suppose having someone on the inside is more easily
done."
The wedding party sounds so much farther away than it really is, and the night wind rustles the
grass behind Hermione. Francis folds his arms and leans back on the bench, considering her. His
eternally congenial expression wavers, then his mouth twists into a sneer. "Charms on the
doorframes. Once the parchment goes through the door, the lines on the accounts rearrange
themselves."

Hermione nods, satisfied. "That's very clever, Francis. Did you come up with that yourself?"

"I did," he snaps.

"Do you need the money, or is it just a bit of fun for you?"

Francis shrugs. "You can't blame a man for pocketing a few galleons to maintain appearances."

Hermione snorts. "'A few galleons,' Francis? You're wise to take a small portion to avoid notice,
but let's be honest with ourselves, shall we? It's more than just 'a few galleons.' I thought your
family had money, though. Isn't a Quidditch team plenty to live on?"

"We may come from respectable money, but Father is not nearly as sharp with numbers as Uncle
John and I are." Francis gives her a bared grin. "The Cannons were an unwise investment seven
years ago, and they've only been sinking us further until I stepped in and snared a coach who could
at least help sell tickets, even if he’s a dolt."

"Ah, there’s your interest in Ronald explained. I suppose I’m glad to hear he isn’t wrapped up this
any further than the Cannons. And I suppose I can understand the lure of gold," Hermione
acquiesces. "You're not the first man to fall to a spot of greed. I do wonder why you haven't been
keeping all the money recently, though."

Francis shrugs. "It's none of your business what I do with my spare change."

Hermione leans forward. "Oh come now, Francis. What's Kingsley Shacklebolt done to you?"

Francis starts.

"I have no qualms with Shacklebolt," he replies firmly.

"Then why does some of your cut keep ending up in the OMA's bank account with the Minister's
name linked to it?"

"I don't know anything about that."

"I think you do. Does it have something to do with the OMA's hearing at the Wizengamot in two
weeks? I believe you said I ought to expect a shift in power."

Francis' eyes narrow at Hermione, and the edge that appears in his sly grin sends a warning to her
gut. She wants to swallow and escape the garden, but she's still seated at leisure on the bench, and
maintaining calm is of the utmost importance.

"And which side of the shift would you like to be on, Hermione?" Francis murmurs. "You could
stand with me, be freed of Malfoy, free of Ron. Have your own little Muggleborn seat on the new
Wizengamot, even. Or..."

Francis slowly pulls his wand from his pocket. "Or you can be a little fool."

Hermione rests her hand on her leg and feels the form of her wand in its pocket. "I want you to
know that I never liked you, Francis. Before I ever suspected that you were a thief and a coward, I
thought you were shameless sycophant with particularly irritating manners. I have no intention of
ever being on your side, especially once the whole of the Wizarding World knows how close you
came to accomplishing your horrid little plan."

"Who's going to believe you, Hermione?" Francis laughs. "You've been living under the roof of a
known Death Eater and murderer these past two months. You married him, for Merlin's sake. He's
been telling you all sorts of strange things, hasn't he? You must be so confused." Francis tuts and
shakes his head. "Poor thing."

"Draco is not a murderer, and I think you'll find I'm very rarely confused." Hermione pulls out her
wand and stands. "I do wish you'd tell me who came up with the bit about the OMA and the
Wizengamot, though. It feels too messy for your dainty hands."

"'Draco,' is it now? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had feelings for that monster."

Francis closes the space between them. He digs the tip of his wand into Hermione's throat and
leans in to her ear. Something small and buzzing lands on Hermione's hair, but she buries the urge
to swat at it.

Stay still.

"Half of the Wizengamot will be gone, slashed to pieces by an OMA attack during the hearing,"
Francis hisses in her ear. "And Shacklebolt will be to blame. What kind of Minister supports a
suspected terrorist organization?"

"It's not your idea." Hermione's whisper is hoarse from the pressure on her throat. "Who's actually
behind it?"

"You're a nosy little bitch," Francis replies. "I wonder if I should tell them that you attacked me, or
if I should just turn you mad."

Hermione stomps on Francis' foot as hard as she can, and he hobbles back with a string of loud
curses.

"Stupefy!" Hermione cries out. Francis dodges her spell. Damn it all.

"Bombarda!" he screams back, spittle escaping his mouth. The beam of light catches the side of her
calf but largely hits the topiary behind her, sending smoldering twigs and leaves all over.

"Harry!" Hermione screams. "Ginny!"

"Come on, Granger," Francis seethes, raising his wand again as Hermione scrambles behind the
bench. "We're having a nice, private chat. I hope you don't mind my little Silencing Charm. I'd hate
for anyone else to butt in."

Hermione pales. Shit.

"Expecto - "

An invisible cord weaves itself around her neck, choking off her words into nothing.

Francis tsks at Hermione. "I thought you came to play, Hermione. You should have expected to
play hard."
He pulls his wand back to cast. Hermione grips her wand, ready to throw up a counterspell. She'd
been adequate at defensive work at school, hadn't she?

"Confr-"

"EXPULSO!"

Blue light explodes from her right, and Francis flies back against a short wall in the garden.

Hermione turns to see Draco approach, wand drawn. His blonde hair is mussed and spills over his
forehead, and his eyes flash with anger Hermione has never before seen.

"Get the fuck away from my wife, Pinter," Draco spits.

Draco's body feels strangely alive with purpose, and he sneers as the little shit pushes himself off
the ground.

"Malfoy," Pinter grits. "What an unexpected surprise."

Before he's even properly back on his feet, Pinter throws another curse at Draco. He deflects it, but
Hermione still isn't protected, and -

"It's him!" Hermione yells, dodging another beam of light. "It was Francis' diary with the
accounts!" Pinter's spell blasts a large rock behind Draco, and he winces as the shrapnel and dust
rains down on him.

"Yes!" Draco screams as he tries to send a spell over Hermione's block. "I can tell by the way he's
attacking us!"

"I will ruin both of you if that's what it takes, but I'd rather not." Francis' next spell twists around
Draco's ankle and pulls him to the ground. He lands with a thud on his fucking knee. "What do you
say to being a widow, Hermione?"

Merlin, it hurts, it hurts. The pain shoots up into his hip, and Draco rolls onto his back, hissing in
agony. Get up, get up, get her away, get her somewhere safe.

"Draco!" Hermione cries out. She's running toward him - foolish - and he sends out a blind shield
charm, hoping it blocks whatever Pinter shoots their way in time for her to go.

"Go get Potter, Hermione!" Draco commands, struggling onto his side. Potter will know what to
do. He always knows what to do. Manages to live through every damn thing - his hands scrape the
ground, and he tries to get his good leg under him to push up.

But Hermione doesn't dash off into the darkness for a savior.

Terrible listener.

She's at Draco's side in an instant, wand drawn at Pinter, blocking Draco from his view.

"I'll kill you, I swear," she hisses.

She's gone feral. Draco tries to push up.

"You seem like an awful pain in the ass, Granger," Francis spits. "Perhaps I shouldn't recommend
you to Ron after all."

"How did you know that it was Francis behind it all, Draco?" Hermione says with a taunting edge.
"Was it as obvious to you as it was to me?"

Draco gets his good leg steady and makes a slow attempt to stand. Obvious? "It was the article in
the Prophet," he replies. "Said Francis Pinter briefly worked for his uncle at the Budgetary seven
years ago. That was around the same time the fees started. After about a year, his godfather got
him a better position elsewhere."

Francis visibly pales over Hermione's shoulder.

"Godfather?" Hermione echoes.

"Caldwell Ingram," Draco grits out through the pain. "He's an old rival of Kingsley Shacklebolt and
a notorious blood supremacist whose only daughter married Linden Donnelly, the president of the
OMA."

"That's the connection to the OMA!" Hermione gasps.

Draco frowns at her. "I thought you - "

"Is it all true, Francis?" Hermione asks. "Are you another pawn in your godfather's pocket?"

"He's taking back the Ministry for those of us who deserve it!" Francis shrieks. He casts another
spell at Hermione, but she blocks it deftly - good girl - although it knocks her back against Draco,
now fully risen.

"Don't be a fucking idiot, Pinter," Draco hisses. He curls a hand around Hermione's hip and pulls
her closer to him. "You're not the only one Ingram took under his wing. He'll throw you to the dogs
if this doesn't go to his plan."

Pinter laughs. He laughs. "I can handle myself better than Adrian Pucey, Malfoy."

Hermione's body goes taut. Draco raises his wand over her shoulder and points it directly at Pinter.
"Adrian was Ingram's great nephew, Hermione. This isn't his first time trying to clean house."

"No one will ever believe you," Francis scoffs. "My godfather and I are respected members of
Wizarding society. You come from a family of Death Eaters, Malfoy."

"I am not my family," Draco grits.

"You've trapped their Golden Girl in your clutches and Confounded her mind," Francis taunts. "I'll
say you came for me first when I was trying to comfort her. I'll say you went wild. Like some sort
of beast."

Hermione raises her wand.

"He is not a beast."

Draco watches Francis start to cast, and the scene plays before him in slow motion. He grabs
Hermione's elbow and yanks her back, turning his body best he can to shield her while he throws a
blasting curse directly at Pinter.
Whatever Pinter has cast slams into Draco's spell, and a flash of bright light blinds Draco and sends
him and Hermione flying back.

He clings to Hermione, tucking her tight against him with both arms. He can block her from the
spell. He can save her. She'll be fine if -

Draco curves around Hermione's body as they land with a thud several meters back. The light
fades, and the garden is filled with silence. Draco opens his eyes and looks to where Pinter should
be.

He's slumped on the ground, unconscious.

Hermione.

"No, no, no," Draco mutters, releasing her body onto the ground. He kneels over her and feels her
ribs with tender fingers. Nothing broken. Draco frantically pats up her body. Strong arms, both
firmly attached. Proud shoulders, perfectly wide, with nothing twisted out of place. No blood
visible on her soft, freckled skin, and her curls are a mess and a little singed, but it's all there, and
she's breathing, however faint, but she's so still.

Draco chokes back a panicked sob.

"Please don't - " He pulls up to his chest and buries his face in her neck, feeling her pulse under his
lips. "Please, Hermione."

A small gasp of air brushes his temple. Draco pulls back to look at her face.

Hermione's eyes flutter open.

"Are you okay?" Draco hardly trusts his voice as he runs his fingers over her forehead, her cheek.
"Are you harmed?"

Hermione presses her hand over his hand and weaves their fingers together. "I'm fine, I promise,"
she murmurs with a smile. "Just a bit shaken."

That's when he sees the glittering diamond on her finger.

Draco swallows as he stares at it. How could he have missed it before? Had he been so intent in
ignoring that finger in particular?

"Hermione," he whispers, curling her hand toward him. "Why are you wearing this?"

"I married you," Hermione says. "I thought I'd remind everyone of that."

It can't - he can't -

Draco presses his forehead to Hermione's and releases a shaky breath. She reaches up her hand to
cradle his jaw. Her touch is soft but insistent as she tilts his mouth toward her. He lets his lips rest
on her cheek for an instant, then just next to her eyes and another moment on her nose and her jaw,
of course, and then Hermione drags his mouth her hers, and she's warm and soft and pliant in his
arms, and Draco pulls her against his chest and she wraps her arms around his neck, and gods , he
cannot believe that she's alive and kissing him, letting him taste her mouth and touch her waist and
tangle his fingers in her hair, and it seems so right that Weasleys' fireworks explode overhead from
the wedding and Draco promises himself that, somehow, he will convince Hermione Granger to
really be his wife, and stay in his house and his bed and they'll have fireworks every night.
 A pitiful groan sounds from a few meters away.

"What should we do with Pinter?" Draco murmurs against Hermione's mouth.

"I'll get Tonks," Hermione says, running her fingers through his hair. "She can manage bringing
him in."

Draco pulls back with a frown. "We don't have enough proof, though, and he's hardly going to
confess again."

"I already took care of that." Hermione nips at his lower lip, and he's in no shape to protest.

"But how did - "

"I wrote to the beetle," she murmurs against his lips. "I'll explain it later."

Draco has no idea what she could possibly mean, but he finds his curiosity ebbing as his wife - his
wife, wearing his ring - pulls back and smiles at him like he hung the moon just for her.

She has stars in her eyes.

"Come with me to find Tonks," Hermione whispers. "Then let's go home."

Draco casts a binding spell over Francis' body as he starts to sit up from the rubble.

"Home sounds wonderful," Draco replies, tucking an errant curl behind Hermione's ear.

Home.

A strange and permanent hope blooms in his chest for the first time in over five years.

Chapter End Notes

I hope this answered a lot of your questions :) :) :)

Embarrassing story of the week is more recent - on my ski trip last weekend, I
miserably failed at a box jump and now have some nasty looking bruises on my knees.
The whole world knows my shame.
 Chapter Thirty
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Malfoy Manor is dark and silent when Hermione and Draco step through the Floo and into the
entryway. Draco's arm stays wrapped tight around her middle, pulling her into his side even after
it's not quite necessary, and she likewise burrows against him for warmth and to lend some support
to his weight since his knee doesn't entirely seem up to the task.

Draco's other arm comes to wrap around Hermione, and he gathers her against his chest. His lips
press against her hair, and his hands run over her body. His fingers trace her skin, carefully
exploring her ridges and dips through her slightly tattered dress.

"Nothing is broken," Hermione murmurs, resting her cheek against his chest. She feels more than
hears his low huff of disagreement.

Draco skates his thumb over her tender shoulder. "You're bruised here, and you flinched when I
touched your hip."

"And your knee?" Hermione questions. "You couldn't walk on your own when we went to fetch
Tonks."

"I'll be fine."

Hermione pulls back and looks up at Draco with a slight frown. "You'll have Bogby help you with
it, won't you?"

Draco shrugs. "I know how to manage it myself. I've been doing it for years."

"Please," she whispers, lacing her fingers in his. "Have him take a look, at least."

Draco searches her face before answering. "I will."

Hermione clears her throat and drops her hold on him. "I ought to write Minister Shacklebolt about
tonight's events. I'm sure we'll have an official debrief later, but he should have the short version as
soon as possible."

Draco's mouth twists into a wry grin. "It's always business with you, isn't it?"

"I don't like to let things sit," Hermione replies with a blush.

"Don't stay up too late?"

"I won't," she promises.

"See you in the morning, then," Draco says gruffly. He steps back and motions toward the hall
entry, but just as Hermione moves past him, Draco pulls her to him once again even more tightly
than before, so tightly that Hermione thinks he must be worried she'll disappear before his eyes, so
she leans up on her toes, wraps her arms around his neck, and brushes her lips against his. Draco
cups her face, and his breath comes out shaky as he runs his thumb over her cheekbone.

"I'll see you in the morning," he murmurs before releasing her to walk back to her room alone.
DASTARDLY DESIGN THWARTED AT WEASLEY WEDDING

Thanks to the clever thinking of the famous Hermione Granger, a nefarious scheme was foiled on
Saturday night at the Burrow, home to the Weasley family. Magical Britain's favorite Golden Girl
confronted the culprit, Francis Pinter, who is accused of stealing thousands of Galleons over the
last seven years from the coffers of the Ministry of Magic.

Francis Pinter, the only son of Bennett Pinter, co-owner of the Chudley Cannons (currently ranked
last in the League for the eighteenth season in a row), was apprehended and is being held in
custody pending trial. Ministry officials announced that Pinter has also confessed to Caldwell
Ingram's role in a larger plot that involved committing treasonous violence against members of the
Wizengamot in a bid to gain seats for political sympathizers and undermine Minister Shacklebolt's
authority. Ingram, a long-time traditionalist voice in the Wizengamot, was taken into custody this
morning and remains unavailable for comment.

Our bushy-haired heroine confronted Pinter late on Saturday evening, following the wedding of
Alfred Weasley to Angelica Johannsen (see page nine of the Wedded and Bedded section for
exclusive pictures of the shotgun marriage). The Prophet, of course, had a source on the grounds of
the wedding who witnessed the shocking confrontation between Francis Pinter and Hermione
Granger. Ms. Granger kept a cool head even as Mr. Pinter turned to violence and villainy, but was
nearly overwhelmed.

Luckily for her and all of us, Draco Malfoy, husband to Hermione Granger, appeared on the scene
in the nick of time in a dashing navy suit to defend his wife's honor and person. Mr. Malfoy made
every effort to reason with Pinter, but our villain was beyond saving and repeatedly threatened the
lives and wellbeing of Ms. Granger along with her friends and family. Thanks to Mr. Malfoy's
bravery and natural athleticism, he was able to deftly handle the situation and relieve his wife's
obvious distress. Following their harrowing fight, Pinter was taken into custody by Auror Nymeria
Lupin, friend of Mrs. Granger-Malfoy and fellow guest at the wedding, who was apparently too
busy partying to subdue the suspect herself.

Our source noted that Mr. Malfoy showed considerable tenderness toward Mrs. Malfoy-Granger
following the confrontation, and she in turn thanked him with deep affection that one could only
feel for a wizard of incredible character and physique. After the unpleasant scene with Pinter, the
handsome couple returned to the wedding party and danced the night away while enjoying a glass
of London's Finest Chammery Champagne, which is now available for purchase at select retailers
in Diagon Alley.

Draco Malfoy's name was made prominent in the news several years ago due to an unfortunate
incident with a former schoolmate. A source close to the relevant proceedings was able to reassure
The Daily Prophet that the rumors regarding said incident were quite blown out of proportion and
that Mr. Malfoy was poorly represented on all sides but accepted a sentence out of compassion for
his childhood friend, Daphne Pucey nee Greengrass. Mr. Malfoy now keeps close company with
his wife's friends, Mr. and Mrs. Harry Potter, and has a reputation of strength and fairness among
those in his elite social circle.

The Daily Prophet has reached out to the Granger-Malfoys for comment but has not received a
reply.
Hermione smacks the paper down on the coffee table with a scowl. "I was hardly in distress, and
we didn't even stay at the wedding! This is nonsense. And the champagne - she'd better be sending
us a cut of that check."

Draco peers at her over his own copy of The Daily Prophet, hiding a smile at her fury over the
numerous exaggerations and, dare he say, inaccuracies in the article. "And I was not wearing a
navy suit. Clearly a smear job."

"Give me a quill," Hermione demands, rising from her seat and stalking over to his desk. Draco
watches her approach with grand ideas of diverting her attention from the article. "I need to send
her an owl with my corrections. If we don't address this now, then she'll - "

Theo bursts through the door with a giant grin on his face. Millicent steps through behind him with
a terribly apologetic look on her face.

"What have we here?" Theo booms, striding across the room to Draco. "Wizard of the week, Draco
Malfoy!"

Draco grins and leans back in his chair. "You'll have to remind me whether or not you're in my elite
social circle."

"I'm so sorry," Millicent murmurs, sitting down by the fire. "Theo has been asking to come by for
two hours. He was very excited about the article."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "I'm very happy that Skeeter was able to help us land an arrest, but this
whole piece is ridiculous. It makes me sound like - "

Alicia stumbles through the door next, looking rather worse for wear.

"Gods," she groans, slumping into the chair in front of the fire. "I'm never drinking with a Weasley
again."

"Overindulged a little?" Draco asks. Hermione perches on the edge of his desk with a sigh, and
while Draco would normally never permit anyone to take such liberties, this particular angle allows
him to enjoy the view of Hermione's arse.

"George was pestering me about something or other, so I had a bit more than usual to drink, and
before I knew it, I'd had so much to drink that I agreed to a bit of a contest with Charlie," Alicia
explains.

Hermione winces. "Not your wisest move, I'm afraid. Charlie's known for having a hollow leg."

"He made a big show out of being in his thirties and that he 'hardly drinks anymore,'" Alicia
scowls. "I fell for it like an ickle firstie. Woke up on top of Molly's kitchen table, cuddled under a
tablecloth with a giant juice stain. Atrocious."

Theo tsks at her. "Amateur hour. I'd expect nothing less from a Gryffindor."

Alicia shoots him a withering stare.

"Shall we call Bogby for some coffee?" Millicent offers.

"Oh, he's already brought in a fresh pot," Hermione says, waving to the cart in the corner. "I've
been up for hours."

There's a firm knock on the office door, and Draco cranes his neck back to see Greg standing there,
covered in a thin layer of sweat. A tuft of dust hangs off his curls, and he swipes a hand over his
forehead.

"What is it?" Greg asks, looking among them. "I just got Theo's owl."

Alicia wrinkles her nose. "You're dirty. I can smell you from here."

Greg shrugs. "I'm helping Pansy pack away things she doesn't want to keep at the Manor. Her
mother evidently kept a good deal in storage."

At age fifteen, Draco would have never in a million years believed anyone who told him that Pansy
Parkinson and Gregory Goyle would move in to Parkinson Manor together as lovers.

"Why doesn't she leave it in storage if she doesn't want it?" Draco asks.

"Pansy's first instinct was to burn it all - "

Hermione squeaks in horror.

" - but I convinced her to ship it off to an antiquarian," Greg finishes. "Now I'm paying the price."

"Did you see the article, though?" Theo asks, tapping his foot impatiently.

Greg shrugs. "No?"

"That's fine." Theo slings the satchel off his shoulder and pulls out at least eight copies of the
Sunday Edition of The Daily Prophet. "Draco Malfoy is a hero again."

Theo shoves a copy in Greg's face, but Alicia declines the one he tries to hand her. "Already caught
up, thank you. I came here for the inside scoop on how she got him."

"How they got him," Theo corrects.

"Whatever," Alicia mutters under her breath.

"Got who? Pinter?" Greg asks, flipping the page. "How on earth did that happen so quickly?"

"You really must read the news," Theo scolds Greg.

Millicent rolls her eyes. "Theo, you only saw that because I handed it to you."

"Well?" Alicia turns to Hermione. "How did it end, then?"

Draco leans forward. "She figured it out at the wedding and confronted the bastard."

"Where did you come in?" Millicent asks. "I thought you'd... decided against attending."

"He figured it out around the same time," Hermione explains, shooting a small smile at him. "He
arrived just as things were starting to get ugly."

"In a navy suit?" Theo winks.

Draco scoffs. "In joggers and a sweater, and no, we did not stay for champagne after."
"Oh." Millicent's face falls. "That part sounded lovely."

"Tonks took Francis Pinter away, and they were able to get a full confession out of him. Paired
with the evidence we collected over the past month or so, it was enough to arrest Caldwell Ingram
as well," Hermione says.

Alicia harrumphs from her spot on the chair. "Incredible. I can't believe you swung all that in just a
few hours."

"Yes," Draco says, gazing at the curls falling out of Hermione's pinned up hair. "Incredible."

Hermione hops off Draco's desk after Theo and Millicent have finally left and begins gathering the
Prophets strewn about the room.

"I think Theo may get a copy framed for his study," she laughs, glancing once more at the article
before tossing the whole stack onto the rest of Draco's discarded papers.

Draco closes the door to the office and turns around, slowly approaching her with a rather serious
look on his face, and Hermione pauses in front of his desk.

"Does the article really bother you?" he asks as he leans his hip against the desk next to her. He
seems to still be favoring his knee, but he'd brushed it off earlier when Hermione asked about it.
She had, however, received confirmation from Bogby when he'd brought the coffee by that Bogby
himself was closely monitoring the situation.

Hermione turns to face him. "A little," she admits softly. "I don't like it when she lies."

Draco crosses his arms and looks down at his shoes for a moment. "Which of her lies upset you?"

Hermione considers his question for a moment. It's all of the lies, always. The way Skeeter and all
of the world looking in seems to bring her up or tear her down to serve the whim of the day. The
way the article took something so terrifying and serious and turned it - and her - into a sidecar
circus act.

But that's not his question, she thinks.

Hermione tugs on Draco's crossed arms until he lets them fall to his side, then she inches into his
space and looks up at him. "The bit about Chammery champagne," she murmurs with a smile.
"Molly Weasley would never purchase such an overpriced bottle."

Draco's eyes warm, and he turns ever so slowly, cornering her against the desk. "I liked the part
where she said you were clever. I thought that was good."

"I am very clever, but I thought she was right to call you brave."

Draco presses his forehead to hers, and his voice comes out in a hoarse whisper. "I miss you."

"I miss you too."

"Can I touch you?"

"Yes. Please."

Draco kisses her softly, slowly, and his lips gently part hers as she wraps her arms around his neck.
Hermione decides she quite likes him wearing his hair a little longer as it feels like cornsilk
between her fingers. Draco's hands circle her waist, pulling her flush against him as his hips pin
hers against the desk.

His thumb, just his thumb, slips under the hem of her sweater to stroke the skin above her joggers,
and Hermione sighs into his mouth just before nipping at his lip.

Draco's hands tighten on her waist, and the slow exploration turns urgent and bruising.

It doesn't take long for Draco to nip back on her lip, her jaw, her neck, and then Hermione finds
herself flipped over with her wrists pinned against the desk. Draco's pushed her joggers down to her
knees, and Hermione and Draco both groan as he slides into her from behind.

The stretch doesn't even sting.

Hermione gasps as Draco thrusts into her. His arms cage her in on either side, and she's utterly
surrounded by him, safe and wanted and clever and nearly high with pleasure.

Draco drags one hand down to cup her breast, pinching at the nipple, then he drifts down between
her legs to run his fingers over the crux of her thighs. Hermione arches against him.

"Stay with me tonight," Draco hisses in her ear. It's a demand.

Hermione feels her walls flutter around him. "Just tonight?" she gasps as he works her.

There's a brief pause in Draco's pace, and then his hips flex against her, and he lets out a shaky
breath. "No. Not just tonight."

Hermione cranes her head back, and he kisses her.

"I'll stay," she murmurs against his lips.

Theo rushes into Millicent's dining room, tugging at the scarf around his neck.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," he huffs, bending over her to plant a kiss square on her mouth. "Got held
up, you know."

Millicent's warm smile, aimed up at him, does more to fight off the December chill than any
burning fire could. "Where were you, anyway?"

"You can't ask questions like that this close to Christmas, you little minx," Theo winks, sliding into
the chair next to her. He didn't like to sit clear at the other end of the table from Millie. It makes it
too difficult to touch her arm or grab her hand or run his fingers up her thigh when the dessert on
the table didn't satisfy.

She shoots him a stern glare that he's sure she hardly means. "Speaking of Christmas," Millicent
says, "I received the invitation for Pansy’s Christmas Gala, hosted this year at Parkinson Manor,
which I still cannot quite fathom. You're going, I presume?"
Oh, he is.

"She’s remaking all her parents' traditions and dragging us along for the ride. But yes, I’m going."
Theo can't help himself, and he runs the backs of his knuckles over Millie's arm as she cuts into her
shepherd's pie. "I figured we could go together."

Millicent shrugs. "I told Dad and Carolyn that I'd go with them, but I'm sure they won't mind you
joining us."

"I'd think they're quite used to me following you around," Theo grins.

Millicent's eye glimmers, and she murmurs a wicked little aside about all the places she'd like Theo
to follow her, and Theo tugs her arm closer with a mocking gasp before capturing her mouth in a
kiss.

Usually, Millicent's lips moving against his erase every other thought from his mind, but he can't
help dwelling on the small black box in the pocket of his coat hanging by her door, and the
brilliant emerald ring that sits nestled inside it, freshly pulled from the Nott family vaults.

Happy Christmas , indeed.

After Bogby has brought out the last course for dinner, a steaming tray of bread pudding, Draco
clears his throat in an effort to dislodge whatever nerves may be stuck there to hinder his voice.

"Christmas is next week, you know," he says lightly before taking a small bite.

Hermione looks up at him, a forkful of pudding poised just outside her mouth. "Yes. Bogby's done
an excellent job with the decorations."

The dining room and the rest of the manor is full of swags of greenery and red ribbon that Draco
had requested from Bogby, as well as some tinsel that had not been on Draco's list, but the effect is
rather charming and festive. Two nights ago, Draco had wandered down the hall at dusk just as the
candles illuminated, glittering off the gold and silver and red glass, and he'd decided that it was
lovely enough for guests, perhaps, to enjoy.

"Yes, he chose well," Draco says.

"He hasn't done it in the past, has he?" Hermione wonders aloud. "I wonder what struck his fancy
this year."

Now or never.

"I was thinking that your parents may like to join us for Christmas Eve dinner," Draco suggests.
"Family tradition and all that, and they've never seen the Manor."

He watches Hermione closely as her face shutters and she sets down her fork.

"I don't think that will work for this year," she says gently. "They don't care for the Floo, you see,
and it's probably too late for them to make travel arrangements.

Draco's smile is tight with disappointment. "Of course. I should have considered that."
 Hermione chases around a blueberry with her fork for a silent moment. "I suppose... well, it would
be a shame to waste Bogby's efforts, but - "

"But?" Draco prompts.

Hermione shrugs, and her cheeks flush. "Perhaps we could have Christmas Eve dinner at my
parents' house."

"Yes," Draco stammers out. "That would be fine. Bogby wouldn't mind a bit about the decorations.
I'll stare at them all day on Christmas so he knows how much I appreciate them."

"Or you could stay with us for Christmas. If you wanted to, that is. I don't know what your normal
traditions are, but we do a tree and presents and that sort of thing," Hermione rambles on. "My
mother can be a bit overbearing with houseguests, but she makes a lovely Bûche de Noël, and
sometimes my father and I make gingerbread houses, which is a silly little Muggle craft, but it can
be rather fun."

Draco's heart soars, and he tries to dampen the wide smile on his face because it's too eager, but he
doesn't have much luck with it. "That would be very nice, as long as it doesn’t inconvenience your
parents."

Hermione shakes her head, and Draco is sure that her smile must match his. "Oh, no. It’s not an
inconvenience at all."

Chapter End Notes

omg SO CUTE. K and I were seriously tempted to end this whole tale here but we
agreed that doing so would be *not in good taste* soooo you get two more chapters.

Embarrassing story of the week: The initial outline of this fic was 16 chapters and here
we are at... 32. Also embarrassing - how much more I care about Millie and Theo than
ANYTHING ELSE THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED.
 Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Much to Harry Potter's horror, his wife, Ginevra Molly Weasley, heavy with child and nearly a
fortnight away from giving birth to their daughter ("or son!" Ginny keeps reminding him, wrong as
she is), insists on throwing a New Year's Eve party at their flat in London.

"But you - " Harry motions to her round belly emphatically. "Hermione, please say something to
her."

Hermione knows better than to interfere and pretends like she hasn't heard her friend's cry for help.

Ginny rolls her eyes and sighs heavily. "Yes, Harry, I'm quite pregnant. We've all noticed. That's
why it's better for us to host. I won't have to go anywhere. Really, it's much easier this way."

"We should be asleep by ten," Harry chokes out, ruffling his fingers through his messy mop of
black hair. "This is insanity."

"You're welcome to go to bed whenever you like," Ginny huffs. "I'm planning to enjoy every
minute of my final childless holiday."

Draco scowls as a stack of letters pop into existence on a tray in the library. Hermione peers up
from her scribbling to watch him flip through the post. He studies the contents of each letter for an
instant, and one by one, he carelessly discards them into the low table in front of him.

"Aren't you going to accept any of those invitations?" Hermione asks, holding back a grin.

Draco looks up at her with a deadpan expression. "Where should I start?" He runs his fingers over
the pile before him and plucks out one letter. "Marian Drummond, who used to invite my family to
his Magpies box twice a year since before I was born? He didn't respond to my request for a
character reference at my trial."

He tosses the letter to the ground and plucks up another one.

"Carolyn Mellard wants to know if I'll be free for dinner Sunday next because she'd love to
introduce me to her daughter, even though she strangely disinvited me from that same daughter's
coming out ball five years ago."

Hermione bristles at the nerve.

"Lars Tromley," he drawls, "wishes to meet about an investment opportunity with my potions, but
when I previously inquired about distributing in his shop, my letters went completely unanswered."

"I didn't know you'd ever considered distributing." Hermione leans forward on her elbow. "You
should burn his letter, though."

Draco's smile is warm and affectionate. Hermione briefly considers leaving her packing list for
Christmas in Australia to curl up next to him on the sofa, but they're supposed to Floo first thing in
the morning, so she decides against it, if only for the moment.

"Consider it all ash," Draco says. He leans back and rubs his jaw for a moment before taking a sip
of whiskey. "I don't know that I ever really considered distribution seriously. I think... I'd not
expected everything with Pucey to go quite the way it did, but as it played out, I'd convinced
myself that I didn't care at all what all these people thought of me."

Draco motions to the pile on the table, and Hermione nods in understanding.

"I'd spent years scoffing at how ridiculous and meaningless all this society nonsense was, and I
believed I was quite above that sort of thing, but when it was taken away, I found myself...
scrambling to get it back," Draco finishes with a grimace. "I couldn't even explain to you why. I
hated it, but I wanted it nonetheless, and then hated myself all the more for the wanting. I thought
the potions might be an acceptable avenue back in, but even that door was shut to me."

"And do you still want it now?" Hermione asks in a low voice.

Draco studies her for a moment. "There's a temptation there," he admits. "I suppose old habits die
hard. But I know myself better now, and there are other things I want more that I don't think that
life - those people - would encourage."

Hermione persists. "Like what?"

A smile ghosts over Draco's face as he gazes at his wife. "Goodness, rather than the appearance of
it, among other things."

Hermione had slipped a sleeping potion to help her adjust to their five days in Australia, but Draco
can't abide them - nasty, and he'd overly relied on them in the months following Azkaban - so he
lays awake next to Hermione, turning through his thoughts and more than occasionally playing
with one of her curls as he muses on whether or not Hermione knows that she talks with her hands
exactly as her father does, animating every story with emphatic motions that nearly distract from
the matter at hand.

The number of days they have back at the Manor ticks in his head.

She's worn her ring every day since the Burrow. Draco wonders every morning if this will be the
day she tires of it or remembers that it's not necessarily or decides it doesn't suit or simply forgets.
But day after day, Hermione slides it back on her finger. Draco had held his breath that morning as
they'd walked to the Floo, certain that she'd slip it into her pocket to avoid any questions from her
parents, but she'd kept it on, oblivious to Draco's concerns as she reminded him to maintain the
illusion that Rita Skeeter had over-exaggerated even more than she had in truth, and that Hermione
had been in no mortal danger whatsoever the previous week.

Draco itches to wrap his arm around Hermione and roll her over and kiss her awake and talk to her
and fuck and laugh and touch, but her breathing rolls deep and heavy, so he resists the temptation
and instead looks to her nightstand where her ring sits on a small jewelry tray.

It shines somehow even in the dark room, and Draco finds he can hardly look away.
He stares at it for another half hour at least before the sounds of Hermione's dreamy sighs lull him
to sleep.

Theo pushes open the door, and he and Millicent spill out onto the terrace, leaving behind the
raucous roar of Pansy's Christmas celebration. Millicent's breath evaporates into a puff of smoke,
and she looks up at him with a smile.

"It's freezing, Theo," she laughs, tucking her arm in his.

Theo tugs her closer to his side and encourages her further away from the hurrahs and toasts.

"I'll keep you warm," he murmurs in Millicent's ear. "Let's look at the stars for a little."

"Are you trying to seduce me while my father is just inside?"

Theo gasps in mock astonishment as he weaves his arms around her and backs her into the railing
that overlooks the gardens. "I would never dishonor your good name, Miss Bulstrode."

Millicent looks at him with a wicked glint in her eye. The skirts of her gown brush against his dress
trousers, and Theo takes several long moments to dishonor her good name, even though even he
can only get so dishonorable on a terrace in December. The cold night air doesn't always suit for
illicit activities with the woman one intends to marry, but Millicent's gown has an unusually high
slit that he's been eyeing all evening, so it's worth taking a moment to explore the hint of warm,
soft thigh.

Breathless, Theo pulls away from Millicent's perfectly flushed lips. Her dark, velvety eyes warm
him to his core despite the icy breeze, but he resists the temptation to lower his head again and
instead nods over her shoulder at the garden below.

"Pansy's made some improvements," he says, shifting Millicent around in his arms so she can take
in the view as well.

Pansy's mother had over-pruned the garden within an inch of its life when she'd been the mistress
of Parkinson Manor. She'd fancied a more Mediterranean aesthetic that was indeed impressive, but
the bougainvillea and olive trees didn't quite compliment the traditional English architecture of the
home, and Pansy had torn it all up within three days of taking possession.

A pleased gasp escapes Millicent, and she leans forward over the bannister. "What's she done with
it? It looks like spring down there."

"Perhaps it's a little Christmas enchantment." Theo nuzzles her ear, taking in the sweet smell of her
perfume and the silky feel of her hair against his cheek. "Shall we go look for ourselves?"

Millicent cranes her head back to look at him, and she very generously lets Theo kiss her again
before speaking. "Should we wander too far from the party?"

Theo trails his hands over her arms and laces their fingers together. "Come on, Millie, what's
happening inside that's so fun?"

"You used to get me in trouble when we were younger, convincing me to sneak off like that."
"You minx," Theo pouts. "It was always your idea to sneak away."

Millicent smiles and pecks his lips briefly. "You were very susceptible to my influence."

"Let's run off again, then, for old times sake," Theo says, urging her toward the long staircase.

Millicent slips out of his arms and backs away from him with a teasing sway to her hips. She raises
an eyebrow before turning toward the stairs, and Theo can't help but trail after her with a wide grin
as she lifts the hem of her gown and takes the steps two by two as they descend into the garden.

Theo lingers back just a bit as Millicent floats through the entrance to the walled garden. She
walks through with a delighted gasp, and her fur stole slips off her bare shoulders.

"It's warm," Millicent calls back to him. She spins around, and her gown billows out, filling the
garden with green taffeta. "Theo, come here, she's put a warming charm on it!"

"I'm coming!" Theo laughs and reaches into his pocket, fiddling with the band inside. "Merlin, you
look like a goddess, Millie."

"Roses everywhere," Millicent exclaims, breathless. "It smells like Heaven."

Theo steps through the entrance as well. The warmth embraces him as well as the heady scent of
blooming roses, and he pulls out the ring.

Millicent turns around to face him. "Theo, what are you - "

She sees the ring and stops. Theo steps forward slowly. Gods, he's never been more sure of
anything in his whole life.

"I want to marry you, Millie," he whispers. "I really want to marry you."

Millicent blinks down at the offered ring and then looks up at him. Her wide eyes glisten with a
million diamonds, and Theo smiles at her.

His Millie.

"Are you sure?" she asks, moving toward him unsteadily, as though she can't quite believe it's not a
dream. "It's only been a few weeks."

Theo lets her approach slowly, then he closes the distance, and they sway into one another.

"Waiting is for other people," Theo promises Millicent, pressing his forehead to hers. "It's not for
us. I've known for a long time, anyhow, and I thought I was waiting for you to catch up, but it turns
out we're both daft, and we've already wasted so much time, and I don't want to waste anymore."

"You shouldn't call someone daft when you're proposing to them," Millicent murmurs.

"That's an excellent point," Theo admits, lifting a hand to Millicent's jaw. "I'm sorry. You're not
daft. I'm only tired of not being with you every day."

Millicent nods and tears prick her eyes. "I'm tired of it, too."

Theo swallows. "I love you," he says, brushing his thumb over her cheek. "I love you so much, my
sweet Millie."

"I think - " Millicent places a hand on Theo's chest. "I think we should get married."
Theo chokes out the happiest laugh of his life. "I think so, too."

Millicent takes the ring from Theo and slips it onto her finger.

"If you don't like that one, you can come to the vault and pick out something else, or we can get
something entirely new if - "

Millicent pushes up on her toes and kisses him into silence, reassuring Theo that his chosen ring
surpasses expectations, and after repeated promises that Pansy placed a Notice-Me-Not charm on
the entire garden and locked the doors behind them, Millicent allows Theo to take full advantage
of the warm conditions and the slit in her gown, and they spend the next hour in the garden by
themselves, enjoying one another as well as a bottle of champagne that Theo had secreted away for
them several days prior.

Theo always knew she'd come around eventually.

Millicent pinches his arm when he tells her as much, and they laugh about it until the champagne
runs out.

Ginny gets her way, and New Year's Eve at the Potter's flat is no quiet affair. Hermione and
Seamus Finnegan had arrived early to help Harry hang the decorations while Ginny provided
expert guidance from her throne (a very comfortable chair with a footstool). The end result is
streamers hanging off nearly every surface with subpar sticking charms that Hermione repairs
behind Seamus' back. A jolly amount of tinsel clings to every light fixture, and balloons float
around the room without a care as Ginny beams at Harry with pleasure and assures him that no one
will even think of leaving before one in the morning.

Harry turns slightly green at the idea of houseguests after midnight.

Draco arrives fashionably late with Millicent and Theo and Daphne. Something about Daphne's
presence still sets Hermione's nerves aflight. She's so polished and refined, and her gleaming edges
stand out in the cozy, colorfully loud flat, packed with noise and friends and strangers.

Ginny had heeded none of Harry's suggestions of a small, private guest list.

Hermione catches Draco's eye over the crowd forming around him. It strikes her how much has
changed since the last time they'd visited just a few weeks ago. No one would get within a meter of
Draco then, and now they flock to his side, shaking his hand and patting his back, and at least two
lovely witches rest their fingers on his arm.

Draco's mouth quirks into a tight smile, and Hermione steps in their direction hesitantly, unsure of
how to navigate the melee, unsure if her instinct to lay claim is true. Theo, of course, wastes no
time stepping into his role as bodyguard, and he swiftly bustles Draco off to the back of the room
where Harry mingles with Alicia and Cho while he's not slipping off to Ginny's side to make sure
she has plenty of sparkling cider and pillows.

Millicent has no qualms putting her elbows to use, and she quickly makes her way to Hermione,
much to Hermione's release. They clasp hands, and Hermione takes a moment to admire her ring
once more before they slip off to help themselves to more champagne.
"Where are Pansy and Greg?" Hermione asks as they settle into a corner.

"Pansy wanted to holiday in Switzerland, so Greg's taken her to Switzerland," Millicent says.

Hermione sighs longingly. "Sounds lovely, to be honest."

"Let's go this summer, then," Millicent insists. "I think I could use a few days by a blue lake with a
stack of books."

"A bottle of wine with each meal."

"Chocolate for breakfast."

Hermione laughs. "You've convinced me, Millicent."

"Oh!" Millicent gasps. "I completely forgot. Sally Meinlett is coming to Diagon Alley in February
for a talk at Périgord's Papier. Did you see the bulletin?"

"They're already scheduling for February?" Hermione frowns. "But that's - "

Oh. It's just around the corner, isn't it? Tomorrow is the first of January, and on January 14th, she'll
pack up her things and return to her London flat.

Something suddenly lodges in Hermione's throat, and she glances over to where Draco stands, arms
crossed over his chest, deep in conversation with Theo and Daphne.

The night barrels on, though, and as the time creeps toward twelve o'clock, the energy in the room
turns to static. A chant rises to welcome the new year, and as the crowd counts down from ten,
Draco edges toward Hermione just as she drifts in his direction. They both feel invisible to the
room and the rest of the world, even though they're not, and they meet in an imagined shadow as
the clock chimes midnight.

"Happy new year," Draco murmurs, curling his fingers around Hermione's waist.

Hermione rests a hand on his chest. "Happy new year."

They kiss, and once again, fireworks explode in the distance.

Hermione can only think of how many days they have left.

"Ginny's Healer is saying that the 10th is probably still accurate for her due date, so I'll plan to stay
with her and Harry a few nights that week," Hermione muses aloud as she flips the page in her
diary. Between being gone at Christmas and the necessary recovery from New Years at the
Potter’s, she’s hardly reviewed her schedule for the next few weeks, and Hermione hates nothing
more than going into a Monday unprepared.

Draco shifts on the couch. "You'll be back in London by then anyway, won't you?"

"No, I - " Hermione looks down at her calendar and blinks. "I'm not going back until the 14th, I
think."
"That's more than the required 90 days."

"I added in additional days to allow me to be away for Christmas and the wedding and - "

She hadn't spent them away, though, had she? She'd come home with Draco after the wedding, and
Draco had gone with her to Australia.

"Plans changed a bit, didn't they?" Draco says.

"I hadn't realized." Hermione's quill hovers over the parchment.

She hadn't realized.

The Ministry requirement is 90 days of cohabitation with your assigned spouse. October 9th to
January 14th was exactly 97 days. Hermione had accounted for being away two nights at
Christmas, one night for the wedding, two nights for Ginny's birth, and possibly two more nights
for working late hours, just in case.

However, since October 9th, Hermione has one spent one night away from Draco Malfoy. She'd
come home with him after the wedding. He'd come with her to Australia for Christmas.

Home.

Home is the London flat, Hermione tells herself. That's been her home for three years, and she likes
it. She does. It's so nice to have dinners with a book as her only company, and everything is put
away just the way she likes it, and she can come back to silence after wine night at the Potter's, and
oh gods, gods, tears prick her eyes, and she hates it.

"You don't have to," Draco says hoarsely.

The London flat is lovely. The view of the city lights at night are so, so lovely, and she couldn't ask
for a better location.

Hermione swipes at the corner of her eye and looks up at Draco's tight smile. "What's that?"

"You don't have to move back," Draco repeats, folding down his paper. "You could stay."

"Live here?" Hermione echoes.

Draco nods and sets the paper on the table before him. "The Floo is already open to the Ministry,
so there wouldn't be any issue with work. You could still keep the London flat, of course, in case
you ever wanted to use it. If you'd prefer, you could even return to - "

He briefly stumbles over the words. "- um, to your room here. If you'd like more space. You're
nearly done with the library, so you may well be here to use it. I don't know how much time I'd
spend here in your absence anyway, and it's a shame for it to go to waste after you went through so
much trouble. You could change any of the other rooms too if you want. It's perfectly fine with me,
and..." Draco sucks in a breath.

"I want you to stay," he chokes out. "I suppose it's a bit selfish, but I feel - I feel - I can't bear the
thought of you being gone for nine months. I like talking to you at dinner, and after dinner, about
books and your work and everything that you do because you care about all of it so much, and your
eyes light up, and I've never seen anything like it."

Hermione thinks of Draco in the library nearly yelling her own credentials at her when he’d learned
that she hadn’t applied for the transfer. You’re you, he’d said. Her. Not the Golden Girl, but her,
and hearing Draco say it had sent that heavy and overly warm sensation twisting up through her
chest, and now it wrings at her heart, demanding to be recognized.

"I've hated living here for the past five years," Draco continues. "It was like a mausoleum - cold
and lifeless and entirely without air. You- You being here - you make this place feel alive again.
Make me feel alive again. I was so angry when you first arrived because I thought I'd neatly sorted
you out and that you'd be stuck up and self-righteous, but you're so funny and warm and clever. I
never expected you to be you, and I keep wanting to be near you."

But Hermione knows she’s not funny. She's never been funny, not in the loud, boisterous manner of
Theo or the sly, clever jokes of Millicent, or the way Ginny thinks of the most ridiculous things to
say, but then, Draco does always seem to be laughing with her, and he makes her laugh, even
though he's decidedly not funny either, but together, it feels like joy bubbles up.

"I've never wanted so badly to make someone happy. And I think I could be good at it. I think I
could make you happy."

Happy. Happy. Her ears ring. Draco kissing her in her rooms. Handing her budget sheets as they
raced toward an inevitable end with Francis Pinter. Every time he tells her she’s so lovely, even
when she doesn’t feel lovely at all. The way he smiles as though they share a secret. Draco and her
mother in earnest agreement over Christmas dinner that Pentworth has truly bungled his latest
assignment and that Hermione would have handled the whole affair entirely differently if only she
had applied for the position .

The way he’d offered up a library.

Goodness and bravery.

Happy.

"All that to say- " Draco swallows. "Please don't go."

It dawns on her exactly what that tight feeling in her ribs must be.

"I think I'm in love with you," Hermione whispers.

Relief courses through her veins. Oh, to put it the right name to it, to say the words aloud, to call it
what it is. Love. I love you.

Draco's eyes widen in surprise. "Oh."

"I've been trying so hard to reconcile myself to the idea of going back to London, but I can't bear
the thought," Hermione rasps. "I keep telling myself that it's absurd for me to feel so- so attached
to this place, but it's you I feel so attached to, which is just as ridiculous because I've only really
known you a short while, but you do make me impossibly happy, and every time anything
happens, all I want to do is tell you about it. I don't want to go back to London because you won't
be there. I don't want to sleep in my rooms because you won't be there. I think you've somehow
become a part of me, and I a part of you, and my chest might tear apart if I go, so I'd much rather
stay if it's all the same to you, and if you change your mind later, I'm certain we can manage
because we're both quite grown up, and - "

"I won't change my mind," Draco interrupts, rising from the couch.

Hermione shakes her head insistently, and her hands tremble where they twist in her lap. "You
 might, because this is all so new, and your situation has completely changed."

"I won't," Draco repeats as he approaches her. "I'm in love with you, too, so I won't change my
mind."

He reaches down to pull Hermione from her seat, and she lets him wrap his arms around her and
press his forehead to hers.

Oh, the spice of his soap cocoons her, and Hermione raises a hand to Draco’s cheek. Lovely, lovely.
His jaw is strong under her fingers, and she relishes the richness of being able to touch him without
hesitation because Draco loves her.

“So you’re staying, then?” he murmurs, tracing soft lines all over her back. Hermione shivers and
sways into him. A small laugh bubbles past Hermione's lips, and she kisses her husband's mouth.

“I’m staying,” she tells him. Her fingers sweep down to his neck and the fine hairs there, and she
tugs him closer. “I’m staying with you.”

“Gods, you must be a dream.” Draco’s breath is hot on her jaw, and he backs her into the table,
taking his time kissing down the column of her neck to her shoulder. “You’re the loveliest thing
I’ve ever seen.”

“What about when I’m not lovely?” Hermione asks, half-teasing, as she tugs at his sweater. “When
I’m rude and tired and smudged with ink?”

“I’ll love you all the same,” Draco promises.

They linger in the library for the next hour as soft kisses heat to burning touches, and they finally
stretch out on the couch, legs still tangled, and Hermione wonders if she’ll ever be able to keep her
fingers from trailing over his bare skin.

Draco tugs on one of her curls. “You’ve done good work on the library, you know. I think it’s my
new favorite room.”

Hermione stretches her neck up to kiss him. "I'm going to redo the dining room next."

Draco smiles and kisses her back. "I think that's an excellent idea, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Granger-Malfoy.”

"Yes, dear."

Chapter End Notes

I spent several hours this week ruminating on what love is and what it feels like to be
in love so this chapter comes to you from a place of CRISIS and this is both your
author’s note and my embarrassing story of the week.

Also, my plan right now is to do a little live on TikTok next week when the final
chapter is posted to chat about this story and honestly whatever else y’all have
questions about so plz follow me (thebrightcity) if you’re interested in joining!

OH and endless thanks to Mandy who found Millicent’s dress for her proposal. Theo
and I appreciate your assistance. He was particularly excited about the high slit.
 Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Around four in the afternoon on Tuesday, January 10th, 2006, Ginny gives birth to James Sirius
Potter, and Molly Weasley promptly owls birth announcements to everyone she's ever liked as well
as a number of people whom she has never cared for but did want to turn green with envy.

On January 11th, Hermione joins Ginny and Harry and tiny baby James at their flat to help with
changing and holding and singing and cooking and taking Molly on long walks to distract her from
her newest grandson.

The days pass in an exhausted blur of blissful couch cuddles and half-joking arguments over nappy
duty. On the fourth day, when the clock reads half past five, there's a faint whoosh. Sounds like the
Floo. Somewhere in Hermione's subconscious, she's faintly aware that the room is more full than it
had been a moment ago, but her eyelids are quite heavy, and the blanket tugged over her is thick
and warm, and she decides it's better not to move. Don't want to disturb James, after all.

Ginny lifts her head from where she's splayed on the couch to see who the intruders are. Her eyes
are half-closed, and it takes her a moment to register who exactly who among those with Floo
access to her home match the blurry shapes standing before her fireplace.

"Hullo," chirps Harry from the floor. "James is very excited to meet all of you. We're just playing
dolls at the moment."

Hermione forces herself to stir and crack one bleary eye open against the loud protest of her body.

"Don't you all look like a cozy bunch?"

A familiar laugh trickles pleasantly through the room, and she shifts up on the couch to see
Millicent kneeling on the floor next to Harry to peer into James' face.

"Oh, I didn't realize the time," Hermione mutters mostly to herself. She cranes her head back to see
Draco, Theo, and Greg lingering near the fireplace.

The corner of Draco's mouth quirks up into his strange, wry smile as their eyes connect across the
room. It's strange, meeting again after four days apart. Something in Hermione's stomach twists
into a shy knot. What is this small reunion to him? She'd hardly slept more than four hours together
over the last few days, but she'd still acutely felt his absence - had he felt that same tug at his side
without her next to him?

Hermione gathers the blanket into her chest as she stands, and the rest of the party follows
Millicent's lead to introduce themselves to the newest Potter, but Draco veers away to Hermione's
side. His hand curves around her waist as Theo assures Harry that James looks just like him.
Hermione leans into Draco - her husband - and his light touch skates over her back. She closes her
eyes, tempted to slip back into dreams as she nestles into his side, and Draco presses a kiss to her
hair, just behind her ear.

"Missed you," he murmurs under his breath, his thumb caressing her skin just above the waist of
her joggers.

Hermione leans into him unsteadily and catches his lips in a light kiss. Neither of them notice
Ginny noticing and smiling to herself.

"You've done a nice job with the construction," Greg states as he inspects the joints of the
dollhouse. "The dovetail can be difficult to get right."

"Oh, he loves it," Harry gushes, waving a miniature crib before James' blinking face. "A regular
man of the house."

Theo gasps. "He's smiling! Look at his little mouth."

"I told you he'd love the dollhouse," Harry tells Ginny. "See? James is smiling."

"You did a lovely job, dear." Ginny's yawn turns into a soft, adoring smile. "James is very lucky to
have you."

Harry beams at her. Theo picks up a tiny black chair to wave in front of James, and he and Harry
both rave over James' unblinking appreciation of the show.

"Not sure that he's smiling," Draco whispers into Hermione's ear.

Hermione looks up at him with a tired grin. "No, children don't smile until six weeks or so. I think
his lip is just a bit dry."

"Draco, go introduce yourself to James," Ginny says. "He'll be extremely offended otherwise."

Draco's touch lingers on Hermione's hip, but he pulls away and kneels down next to Harry and
Theo, resting his good knee on the ground for some stability. Draco and James look at each other
rather seriously for a moment, then James blinks sleepily and his little mouth parts just slightly in a
hint of a yawn.

"Don't think he's impressed, Draco," teases Theo.

"Must be time to sleep again," Draco muses aloud. His face doesn't lose its stern set, but he reaches
out a hand and rests his fingertips on James' brow, feeling the fine hairs there as he studies the
child's face for a moment.

"Looks like me, doesn't he?" Harry says in earnest. "But with Ginny's chin, I think."

"Most certainly takes after his father," Draco agrees, standing up. He shoves his hands in his
pockets and backs away with a curious flush to his cheeks.

"Fred and Angelina have decided to rescue a kitten, in addition to having their first baby," Ginny
sighs, stretching out on the sofa after they've put James down to sleep. "They're mad. I can't
imagine taking care of another living thing right now."

"Oh, but cats are lovely!" Millicent protests. "It will be a nice companion for their daughter. What
kind of cat is it?"

"I'm not sure, but he looks like a redder version of Crookshanks with a few little white boxes on his
chest," Ginny says. "They've decided to call him Checkers."
Hermione chokes on her tea, and Millicent laughs loudly.

"Wasn't your old cat named Checkers?" Theo asks Millicent.

"Yes," Millicent gasps just after an unsophisticated snort.

Greg looks between Hermione and Millicent. "What is it, then?"

"Um - " Hermione looks to Harry, but his brow furrows in confusion. "In second year..."

Harry's face goes white. "Gods."

"I made a Polyjuice Potion to transform into Millicent for a few hours, but I accidentally got some
of her cat's - Checkers - hair instead of Millicent's, you see, so I unfortunately became Checkers."

"Part Checkers," Millicent wheezes.

Theo's jaw drops.

"Why were you pretending to be Millicent?" Greg asks.

"Well, it was second year, and -" Hermione darts her gaze to Draco, sitting next to her. "See, Harry
was convinced that Draco was the Heir of Slytherin, so we were trying to sneak into your Common
Room to see if you'd confirm it."

"We?" Greg echoes.

Draco shrugs. "I wasn't particularly close to Millicent then. You should have transformed into - "

" - Crabbe and Goyle," Harry finishes. "Yes."

Greg's eyes narrow at Harry. "You mean - you… and Weasley?"

"I'm very sorry," Harry whispers in horror.

"Me?"

"Yes."

"But… how? What - when?"

"Um… over Christmas? D'you maybe remember waking up in a closet with Crabbe? I'm really so
very sorry."

Greg, dumbfounded, looks more like his twelve year old self than he has in years. "All this time, it
was you. Gods. I couldn't look Vince in the eyes for weeks."

"And it was all for naught," Ginny laughs. "You spent all that time following around Malfoy when
I wanted you to be following me. Gods, you were so obsessed with him."

Harry flushes bright red. "I was not obsessed. I was trying to solve a mystery!"

Hermione snorts. "It's a bit uncanny how often 'solving a mystery' resulted in you pacing our
Common Room, saying 'I'm telling you, Hermione, Malfoy is up to something!'"

Theo chuckles and pats Harry on the back. "Don't worry, mate. Draco was the same."
"What?" Draco splutters, stiffening next to Hermione. "I most certainly was not."

"You were!" Theo insists. "You were always going on about how Harry Potter got away with
everything and Harry Potter wasn't half as smart as everyone gave him credit for and Harry Potter
only passed his classes because of his swotty, bushy-haired friend."

Draco tightens his arm around Hermione's waist and looks down at her with a furrowed brow.

"I'm sure you meant it as a compliment," she murmurs with a teasing blush.

"I certainly did not," Draco replies drily, but he tugs her closer anyway and finds that warm sliver
of skin beneath her sweater.

Hermione hadn't planned to return to Malfoy Manor for another day or two, but when Ginny
catches Draco's pleading eye over Hermione's shoulder as they're preparing to leave, she nods in
agreement and quickly assures Hermione that all is well and in hand with James, so she may as
well go with the rest of them and come back in a few days once Molly needs a thorough distraction.

"Oh, are you quite sure?" Hermione had protested. "I'm happy to help, really."

"No, no, we're fine." Ginny had urged them all toward the fireplace. "We need some time as a
family anyway."

Draco mouthed his thanks just before they stepped through the green smoke, and he'd wasted no
time ushering Hermione to a bath and then to bed. His bed. Their bed.

When Hermione finally stirs awake after a few hours, Draco pulls her into his arms and kisses the
top of her head.

"Four days is an awfully long time for you to be away," he says. Draco's hands run over the length
of her bare arms, and their busy touch betrays whatever false composure he's instilled into his
voice.

Hermione smiles up at him and kisses what's nearest, which is his shoulder, still wrapped in a
sweater. "Did you lie down with me this whole time? It's far too early for bed."

Draco shrugs. "I had a book."

He had hardly read two pages for how often he distracted himself with the woman lying next to
him.

"What are you reading?" Hermione asks, leaning over to look at his bedside table.

"Nothing important," Draco assures her, pressing a kiss to her neck as he tries to ease her back
down.

Hermione gasps. "Tannis and the Dragons of Bosnik!"

"I read them to fall asleep," Draco growls, flipping her onto her back. Hermione's hair scatters wild
over the pillows, and her face is an open book of delight.
"Harry's favorite series," she croons. "You gave me the impression you didn't care for them. Did he
convince you to give them another chance?"

Draco nips at her shoulder in chastisement. "Potter has good taste in books."

"You should know," Hermione laughs. "You're finally in his elite social circle. How does it feel
after all these years?"

"You know very well that Skeeter woman is full of shite." Draco pins Hermione's wrists over her
head and presses his hips against hers. "Potter and I are hardly friends."

Hermione hesitates, and doubt flickers across her expression. "Draco - "

He ducks his head against her ear and whispers low and heady. "Do you think you could introduce
me to him?"

Hermione shrieks as Draco licks a long line up her neck. "I swear to Merlin." She wriggles
desperately underneath him in an attempt to take control, but Draco resists.

"Is Potter as tall as they say he is?" he asks. "I bet he smells like - "

Hermione's wild bucking gets the best of him, and she has Draco on his back in an instant, and she
looks like a goddess hovering over him.

What a prize to look up at her like this with his hands around her hips.

His wife.

Hermione's breath catches in her throat. The sound of it stirs something in him, and his eyes turn
dark and wicked.

"You're going to have to try harder than that, Granger," Draco drawls. "You should know by now
that I'm very athletic."

His hands slide down to the waistband of her knickers, and in an instant, she's on her back again.

Approximately Thirteen Months Later

A large mansion in the English countryside had once been owned by a wealthy and eccentric
collector of antiquities, but his great-grandson had sold the home and its surrounding grounds to
the gardener who had been the only one to live there for the last twenty years. The artifacts piled
high inside were promptly carted off to a variety of museums, but the gardener settled into an
ornate room toward the back of the house and let his steward do what he liked with the rest of it to
earn a steady income for the house. On this particular evening in late February, a soft layer of snow
blankets the ground. The downy flakes float down at a lazy but steady cadence, and the piles that
gather in the gentle breeze muffle the sounds of revelry coming from inside the mansion's grand
ballroom and spilling out into the carefully maintained gardens behind the house.

Millicent loves gardens, and when Hermione had gone with her in Theo's stead to look at this
garden located at Foxhall Abbey several hundred kilometers north of London, she'd clasped her
hands to her chest and smiled wide with delight.
On that particular visit, the grounds had been flush with the expectation of warm spring sun. Now,
with the soft swirls of wintery flakes fluttering outside, a giddy, grinning Theo spins his lush
goddess of a bride around the dance floor. Millicent’s gown is reminiscent of that bright, budding
day, and it catches and flows over her curves, giving the impression that she’ll call forth the flora
and fauna herself once she’s finished kissing her new husband.

At the edge of the crush of dancing and laughter and swelling music, Draco tugs Hermione to his
chest in the guise of keeping her warm while they linger by an open window.

The gardener had insisted they keep the windows open to chase away stuffiness, and the breeze
does admittedly feel fresh on the back of Draco's neck as Hermione leans up into him, swaying,
and plants a soft kiss on his mouth.

"You're a lovely dancer," she murmurs against his lips. Draco kisses her back, and she tastes rich
and heady like the Barolo she'd been sipping.

"Dance lessons in the summers," he tells her, running his fingers down the bit of her silky gown,
lingering where the material slips away to skin on the small of her back. "I knew I'd eventually
have to impress a swotty Gryffindor."

He'd been a better dancer when both of his knees were in their prime, but Hermione doesn't seem to
mind watching the bustle with him, waiting until a slower melody arrives to spin slow circles
around the dance floor.

"Gods, lend us the window," Pansy huffs, wiping the delicate sheen of sweat off her brow as she
approaches with some speed. "It's hotter than Hades in here."

Draco and Hermione step to the side, and Pansy nearly sticks her whole head out the window,
gulping in deep breaths of fresh air.

Greg ambles up after her, pink-cheeked and grinning from just enough whisky. Theo had been
good enough to order several fine barrels for the festivities, and Greg has no intention of allowing
it to go to waste. Even now, he carries two perfectly balanced glasses in his large hands, and thrusts
one at Draco. "Here you are. Enjoying yourselves?"

Draco scoffs. "I think I'd enjoy it more if Pansy's mother hadn't tried to apologize three more times
over the course of dinner.

Pansy draws her head back inside with a groan. "Gods, I told her to behave."

"A shame Greece didn't pan out after all," Greg mutters.

The scandal of Mrs. Parkinson's now ex-husband has been the talk of the society pages for weeks.
The heir apparent had been apparently overeager in his descriptions of his wealth, and to nobody's
surprise, Mrs. Parkinson simply could not abide life without a deep well of Galleons to draw on.
She returned to London hopeful that the whole affair would be soon forgotten, but it seems her ex-
lover will not be denied. So far, the Greek chap has made no less than four very public declarations
of his continued interest, most recently infiltrating Pansy's second Christmas celebration where he
charmed the plates and silverware to sing and dance for her forgiveness.

According to Pansy, the caterers needed to replace several of their teacups, which continued to tap
dance on their saucers for several weeks.

To add to Mrs. Parkinson's distress, Draco has so far ignored her repeated invitations and overtures
of renewed acquaintance. His cold shoulder has not gone unnoticed by The Daily Prophet, which
published two wildly inaccurate articles of their history and falling out. After the last, Draco
anonymously sent Rita Skeeter a bottle of Chammery Champagne, to Hermione's chagrin.

"She's not staying with you, is she?" Hermione asks.

Greg throws a protective arm over Pansy's shoulders. "Certainly not."

"She's living on the mercy of Daphne's mother for the time being," Pansy explains, resting a
delicate hand on Greg's chest. "You couldn't get me to sit through dinner with those two shrews for
all the Galleons in Gringotts."

Greg drowns the rest of his glass and places his hand over Pansy's. "Let's go outside, Pans. Too
stuffy in here"

His voice has a low timbre as his grip tightens in her wrist, and Pansy raises one wicked eyebrow.
"An excellent idea. I'm terribly warm."

They slip away, and Draco smiles to himself as Hermione politely averts her gaze to the dancing
throngs before them.

"It's an absolute pleasure to finally meet you," Ginny grins, shaking Prince Leopold's hand. "I'm
going to ask you a thousand questions about the Cannons new defensive line and hope you've had
enough champagne to forget that I'm your competition."

Leo laughs and leans back in his chair. "I have very little to share! I only bought the team on a
whim. I've left the work of it entirely up to the coaching staff."

The brand new coaching staff.

Harry cuts a wary glance to Hermione as James squirms in his arms, eager to be let down, and she
leans into him. "Have you heard from Ron since he left?" she asks quietly.

He jerks his head down in affirmation. "He said Wood's putting him through the ringer, but I think
he's not half bad at coaching now that he has some actual training, and the change of scenery seems
to be doing him some good."

"Canada's very far," Hermione hums. Draco is silent next to her, but Hermione can feel the light
pressure of his tight attention on their conversation.

Harry shrugs. "No one there knows his name. He thought Wood might talk him up a bit, but
apparently instead he told everyone about him vomiting slugs in second year, so..."

Oh dear.

"Hello, there."

Five heads (James is busy trying to yank off Harry's tie) turn to watch Daphne and Benedict Pucey
approach. Hermione smiles at Daphne, and while Daphne is all poise and polish as usual, nearly
doll-like in her perfection, Daphne's smile doesn't reach her eyes like it does when she and
Benedict occasionally dine with them at Malfoy Manor.
Daphne continues in her soft lilt, nodding at the child in Harry's arms. "My son was hoping to
introduce himself."

Harry's eyes widen and he drops down with great delight, setting James on his little legs. Benedict
lets go of Daphne's hand and steps forward to peer curiously into James' face. Harry lowers his
voice, and the three of them make their quiet introductions and begin a serious but private
conversation that no one else can make out over the din of the wedding festivities.

Daphne looks at the rest of their group. "I'm so sorry for interrupting. Ben doesn't know any of the
other children."

"Not at all," Leo says in earnest, stepping neatly to his feet before her.

"Daphne, this is Prince Leopold," Hermione says. "You may remember Millicent talking about
him from their boxing class."

"Yes, I remember," Daphne nods, offering her hand. "Daphne Pucey. It's very kind of you to come
all the way from Austria for Millicent and Theo."

"I recently moved to London, actually, so it was no trouble at all." Leo's cheeks tinge pink. "That
is, I would have come from Austria either way. Millicent was so kind to me when I was here for
my last visit, and it's been really wonderful to meet all her friends. All of you are very lovely."

Harry stands up suddenly and turns to Daphne with a boy clinging to each of his hands. "Is it okay
if we go to the dessert table for cake? Benedict says it's worth a taste."

"Of course," she says. "Not too much, though."

Benedict tugs on Harry's hand and they're off in an instant.

Ginny casts a grin at Daphne. "I'll make sure Harry enforces a reasonable cake limit."

As Ginny disappears after Harry and the boys, Leo places a gentle hand on the back of Daphne's
elbow. "Would you care for another glass of champagne? I'm in need of a refill myself."

Daphne looks down at the empty flute in her hand and back up at him. "Oh, I suppose another
wouldn't hurt."

Leo offers her his arm. "Walk with me? I believe the tray is just by the terrace."

Daphne hesitates just briefly before slipping her delicate hand into the crook of Leo's elbow, and
Hermione catches the moment that Daphne's smile lights her eyes as they walk away.

Draco slips an arm around Hermione's waist and tugs her closer to his side, pressing his lips against
her hair. His physical shows of affection increase whenever they're left alone or at least not in a
circle of friends, and Hermione takes the opportunity to kiss the fine line of his jaw.

His eyes are notably trained on Ginny and Harry at play with James and Benedict.

"They make a sweet picture of a family, don't they?" Hermione asks as the music turns to a slow,
romantic tune.

"They do." Draco drags his gaze to her. "Dance with me?"

Hermione takes his other hand, and they sway to music at the periphery of the dance floor. The
light breeze from the open windows teases at Hermione's curls, and Draco looks down at her
thoughtfully.

"What?" Hermione asks with a wide grin.

"You told me once that you wanted a family, didn't you?" Draco briefly glances over her shoulder,
and Hermione can't tell if he's looking for something or avoiding her gaze.

"I did," she replies.

Draco hums, tightens his hold on her waist, and spins her around in time to the music.

GRANGER-MALFOY'S MEDDLING QUASHES MARRIAGE ACT

On Thursday, the Ministry of Magic officially repealed the Marriage Act of 1514 after substantial
efforts from Hermione Granger-Malfoy and the Ordered Muggle-born Association. Invoked in
September of 2000 for the first time in over 90 years, the Marriage Act sought to rehabilitate the
deep rifts caused between pure-bloods and half-bloods or Muggle-borns in the wake of You-
Know-Who's war.

Several successful unions emerged from the Ministry's invocation of this ancient law, most notably
including the famed Golden Girl's own union with Draco Malfoy. Malfoy rose to prominence last
year when he, in a daring act of bravery, saved his wife as she confronted convicted embezzler and
treasonist Francis Pinter of a nefarious plot against Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt and the
Opinionated Muggle-born Alliance.

Granger-Malfoy was recently promoted to Director of the Rights for Creatures and Beings team in
the DIMC. The previous director, Melvin Pentworth, was summarily dismissed from his position
after a particularly embarrassing encounter with a Swedish plimpy infestation that angered
merpeople across Europe. This reporter dearly hopes that Granger-Malfoy continues to be as
successful in her professional life as she has been in her personal life. Granger-Malfoy and her
dashing husband were recently spotted dining at Carlotti's with their close, intimate friends, Harry
and Ginny Potter. Unfortunately, neither couple made themselves available for comment, despite
repeated requests from The Daily Prophet.

In accordance with the demands of the Organized Muggle-born Attachment, the Ministry of Magic
will allow couples disaffected by the Marriage Act of 1514 to apply for divorce. Those who submit
their paperwork within eight months will not be required to pay the standard filing fee.

Draco sets down the paper next to his tea. "My, aren't you a clever witch, Mrs. Granger-Malfoy?"

The morning light in the newly finished dining room shines upon the table, and Hermione beams at
him over her plate of buttered toast. "Thank you very much. I wish they'd said more about the
OMA's other requests, but it's still a rather nice article."

"What do you think of staying at the London flat this weekend?" Draco asks, changing the subject.
"Theo said that he and Millicent have tickets to the symphony that they're not planning on using."
 "That sounds like a suitable reward for a very clever witch."

"Very clever?" Draco raises an eyebrow. "I don't think that's what I said."

"Well, you would have if you'd known about the contract I just got the German ambassador to
sign," Hermione insists. She continues on to recount exactly what had occurred over the last few
days and Draco leans forward in interest. Normally, these conversations capture his full attention,
because Hermione will inevitably ask his opinion, and then they debate about it for an hour or so
until Bogby firmly asks them to leave the dining room so he can clean up.

Tonight, however, Draco's mind lingers upstairs in the small bag he'd already started packing for
their London weekend. There's a small box inside, and it holds a ring that Draco knows is more to
Hermione's taste than the one he'd given her over six years ago.

He's not quite sure about the mechanics of asking someone to stay married, but he's very willing to
find out how it works.

Chapter End Notes

How is this FINISHED?? I am in shock.

Thank you thank you a million times to everyone who commented, left kudos, sent me
nice messages, sympathized with my embarrassing stories, and generally encouraged
me as I wrote this story. EXTRA thanks to K for being, once again, the most amazing
beta a girl could ask for and for making me look smart and funny and sexy on a
weekly basis.

Re: future projects - I'm planning on slowing down a bit over the summer, but I do
have a few things planned. At the very latest, you'll be hearing from me in mid July. :)

If you want to stay in touch, either subscribe here or find me on TikTok (thebrightcity)
or Twitter (@thebrightcity_). I am not super active on Twitter, but I'll try to include
any writing news there. I *am* still planning on going live this afternoon to chat about
the story or writing or whatever - check TikTok for details.

THANKS Y'ALL.

Works inspired by this one

Please drop by the archive and comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!