Chapter Text
Movement 1: A Dance
Galas. The absolute bane of Draco’s existence.
Every weekend his mother insisted they attend some charity ball or other, gracing the wizarding public in their finest robes. Redemption sought and literally bought; they now only donated to what Draco bitterly thought of as “Potter-positive causes.”
St. Mungo’s, particularly the Janus Thickey Ward; the rebuilding of Hogwarts, and absolutely anything with the word “Muggleborn” in the title that wasn’t coupled with something derogatory.
Lucius wasn’t getting out of Azkaban any time soon, which meant Malfoy public niceties required Draco to preen and smile about every ballroom in England and sometimes abroad. He had to make peace with former foes, pen (mostly genuine) apology statements for his adolescent conduct, and stay far away from anything political (no problem there, Draco could give a fuck about the Ministry).
All this rebranding and reputation polishing fed Narcissa’s aims as well. His mother was practically chomping at the betrothal bit, thrusting Draco out in front of every eligible woman imaginable, keen to host a Malfoy wedding extravaganza at the earliest possible time.
Mother probably had a point there. Their world did love a spectacle. It would be the crowning jewel in Narcissa’s carefully crafted redemption narrative.
Draco loved his mother, he did, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t bemoan his lot in life every now and then.
Take for instance his current reality: lingering over cheap alcohol at a corner table in Hogwarts Great Hall. Though honoring Severus Snape was technically why they all gathered here tonight, the real reason stood some fifty feet away, awkwardly making small talk with a gaggle of admirers.
Harry Potter had insisted on this celebration. And when Harry Potter insisted on things these days, the public actually listened to the sod.
Hogwarts had been rebuilt over the span of a few years, and not only rebuilt, but expanded. There was now an entire wing in the dungeons for Potions. And tonight, the official dedication and opening of the Severus Snape Potions Wing called for a massive celebration of bureaucrats, professors current and former, and all manner of Hogwarts alumni.
“You should greet him. Potter,” Narcissa instructed under her breath. Draco shrugged and downed overly dry champagne.
“If I know Potter, he’ll come to us.”
While Draco felt he would be proven correct, he also didn’t feel like enduring Potter’s entourage. Said entourage was made up of mostly Weasleys, so, no thank you.
Narcissa let the matter drop and scanned the room, no doubt looking for the closest pureblood socialite to foist upon Draco.
But Draco watched Potter. Or rather, Potter plus his two familiar sidekicks.
One looked less familiar these days.
When was the last time he’d seen Granger? A few years, maybe?
Draco watched as Potter gestured in their direction, towards where he sat with Narcissa. Granger nodded while Weasley frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. It wasn’t difficult even from a distance to figure out Potter’s plan and which of his friends supported it.
Potter approached their table, a cautiously friendly smile on his face and a fetching witch at his side. She wasn’t on his arm, nor had Draco seen her on Weasley’s. Intriguing.
“Hello Mrs. Malfoy, Draco,” Potter said genially. “Thanks for coming tonight. I think Snape—er—Professor Snape would have appreciated you being here.”
Draco couldn’t help the derisive response as he shook Potter’s hand and the predicted flashbulbs went off. “Snape would have hated this.”
Narcissa clucked her tongue at Draco’s brutal honesty. “Thank you Mr. Potter. I believe Severus would have been touched by the gesture.”
Potter laughed nervously. “Actually, I might have to agree with Draco here.” He shrugged. “But I figured it was sort of a way to honor his memory.”
Potter awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck until Granger coughed and gave him a significant look. “Oh right, I also wanted to thank you for all the money. I mean the donation. Couldn’t have been built without you.”
Granger rolled her eyes at Potter’s crass phrasing.
“I also wanted to thank you, Mrs. Malfoy,” chimed in Granger. “Your generous contribution to the Creatures United fund was much appreciated.”
“You are most welcome Miss Granger.”
“Which initiative?” Both Narcissa and Granger raised eyebrows in Draco’s direction.
“The Creatures United fund,” repeated Narcissa. “I briefed you on it before the gala, Draco, in case we crossed paths with Miss Granger this evening.”
Draco had no idea if that was true or not. It sounded likely.
“Ah yes,” lied Draco smoothly. “Apologies Granger, our family donates to so many worthy causes. It’s difficult to keep them all straight.”
“This one’s unique,” she clipped. “I’m establishing a private advocacy organization for house-elves and other intelligent beings not recognized as such by our current Ministry.”
“Bit lofty, don’t you think?”
Narcissa sucked in a breath, as Granger levelled Draco with a cold stare. “The difficulty of doing something good for this world has hardly stopped me before.”
She let the implication hang, awkward and heavy, with no care for propriety or nosy eyes and ears. When it appeared Draco had no adequate reply to the ugly truth in her subtext, Granger put the entire conversation out of its misery.
“Anyway, Mrs. Malfoy. Your support is appreciated. Draco, a pleasure as always,” she said wryly and glided away.
Narcissa rounded on him the second they were out of earshot.
“Why in Merlin’s name were you so rude to that girl?”
“Seriously Mother? Did you really just ask me that?”
“Draco, with the political and social climate being what it is these days, I expect you to either adapt or stay home being a layabout per usual.”
“First, I wasn’t rude; I offered her a harsh but honest truth. Second, if I was rude, it’s because she’s annoyingly self-righteous, not because of her blood, which by the way, was an inherited viewpoint.”
“Mind your tongue.”
“Third, you neglected to tell me all about this newly formed alliance. Since when are we donating to Granger-approved causes?”
“Draco, I took out an entire page of the Daily Prophet detailing our donation. Your father supports this measure on the family’s behalf.”
“Ah. Well.”
Narcissa lapsed into silence while Draco observed Granger from across the room. He looked long enough to note the different versions of herself she carried. The carefree, rapidly chattering Granger when with Potter and his wife. The solemn, deferential Granger when conversing with McGonagall. The professional, smooth Ministry worker when shaking hands with colleagues and foreign dignitaries. And perhaps the most amusing version: the scowling, itching-to-reach-for-her wand Granger when forced to interact with any press or photographers.
“You could ask her to dance, you know. To atone for your rudeness,” came his mother’s prim voice.
“Hmm? Who?”
“Miss Granger. You’ve been staring at her for quite some time.”
“One, I have not, and two, they’ve yet to play anything remotely worth dancing to yet.”
The second part was at least true. The amateur orchestra hired for the evening could barely string together a simple suite, not that it stopped Granger.
Draco watched her twirl about with far too many red-headed men: the Weasley patriarch, the dragon-taming one, and the still-living twin. The twin spun her fast, dipped her low, then roughly yanked her to standing once more, entirely off-beat. Given Granger’s frosty attitude earlier, Draco assumed she’d frown and scold the man, but she only threw her head back and laughed.
“They’re going to play a waltz,” Narcissa announced as she resumed her seat. Draco hadn’t even noticed her absence.
“And? Would you like another drink?”
Narcissa tutted. “No, thank you.”
Draco shook his head and sauntered to the bar at the exact time as Granger, flushed from dancing.
He hadn’t planned on speaking with her again, but as he approached, her head snapped in his direction, eyes cool and challenging. Guard up. It was too intriguing an opportunity for Draco to pass up.
“Granger, apologies for my less than courteous behavior earlier.”
“Yes well, expectations met I suppose,” she said curtly and turned away.
Thought she knew him, did she?
“Could I trouble you for a dance?”
She whirled around, fabric and loose curls swirling with her. Draco steeled himself for an offended refusal when instead she let out a loud laugh.
“Sure Malfoy.”
Draco deliberately avoided his mother’s gaze as he led Granger into the midst of the dance floor just as his mother’s prophesized (read: ordered, possibly at wand-point) waltz began.
Draco bowed low, biting back an exasperated sigh as the first few notes rang out.
Merlin, Mother, be more interfering.
Anticipating a round of stepped-on toes and tripping over their robes if she refused to let him lead, Draco schooled his features when Granger showed him up in yet another subject. After a few silent minutes spent swallowing his insulting incredulity, he couldn’t help but pay her some deserved respect.
“You dance very well,” he remarked.
“Thank you. You seem surprised.”
“Not at all,” he lied and turned them expertly, gathering her just a bit closer. “I’d probably be more surprised to find an area in which you didn’t excel.”
“My, my, two compliments from Draco Malfoy in such a short span of time. I suppose there are still some shocking experiences left for me in life.”
Draco bit back a third compliment to inform his charming dance partner that she was also an excellent wit.
“No one’s going to hex me are they? For touching you?”
She laughed again. “Was that your way of asking about Ron? No. And Merlin, what a stupidly chauvinist thing to say.”
“Relax Granger.”
“I’m very relaxed.”
“Even in my arms? We’ve not seen one another in quite some time, nor had much to discuss.”
“I’m dancing with an attractive man at a gala; it’s hardly so dramatic as to excite my nerves.”
“I feel as if the press photos of us will speculate otherwise.”
She snorted. “Good.”
“Sure about that? Our picture will be splashed everywhere with the most fantastical headlines about our coming betrothal.”
“Oh, that’d be such a nice change actually.”
“From?”
“All the dreadfully boring speculation about whether I’m getting back together with Ron, or when I’ll run for Minister, or which books I’d recommend for single witches.”
“I see. So wild gossip involving me sounds like a bit of fun to you?”
“Of course, don’t you think?” she enthused. “The whole ‘opposites attract, post-war healing’ angle. The Malfoy heir and the Muggleborn heroine. People would eat it up for how ridiculous it is.”
“‘The Scion and the Saint’... wait, which Ministry Department are you? They could spin something from that. ”
“Magical Creatures.”
“And you’re running that—ah—fund.”
“In my spare time, it’s a bit rough and ready at the moment. Hoping to get it off the ground full-time. Eventually.”
“A tale of romance would probably get your little project some publicity.”
“It’d get your mother off your back.”
“What do you know of it?” He couldn’t help the reflexive sneer, waiting for insults to fly, but Granger kept things light.
“Please, she practically shoved you in my direction.”
“She’s lost her subtle touch it seems.”
“Well, subtle or not, she’s achieved her aim of having her very eligible son seen with an equally eligible and well-regarded woman. Congratulations on the forthcoming good press.”
“That’s not why I asked you to dance, though I can admit it’s not a bad outcome.”
Draco’s eyes bored into hers as she looked up at him almost expectantly.
“Something you’d like to share?” he asked. “You’re staring, you know.”
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
“You have quite a penetrating glare.” She dropped his hands and stepped back, the song and subsequently their dance, at an end. “I was only wondering if that type of thorough penetration bled into… other avenues.”
What the fuck?
“Send me an owl, if you’d like,” she gave a dainty half-curtsy and swanned back to her table.
Draco could only stare at the back of Granger’s retreating form. Did she just come on to him in a ridiculously brazen fashion?
“Could knock you over with a feather,” remarked a deep, amused voice at his side. Draco turned to find the Weasley twin (Fred? No, George? The alive one, whatever), throwing him a sly grin.
“Careful Malfoy,” the twin advised and took a sip of his drink. “Our Hermione doesn’t do anything by half.”
True to his cheeky comment during their dance, the Prophet’s article, headlined “The Heir and the Heroine,” dedicated several hundred words speculating about their “blossoming romance.”
Narcissa wanted Draco to send an owl to Granger the instant the Daily Prophet hit their dining room table.
Draco waited two days.
Granger,
I suppose you were right (a statement I’m sure you hear often, whether it be true or not). The articles accompanying our pictures were rather sensational.
Care to fan the flames further?
-DM
Malfoy,
What did you have in mind?
-HJG
Movement 2: A Show
Narcissa’s machinations blasted apart any calculated ambivalence Draco might have planned. At the mention of yet another party invitation accompanied by a personal letter from the host’s (recently of marrying age) daughter, Draco dialed up the intensity of his perceived attachment to Granger.
Narcissa’s disappointment at his refusal to attend another gala vanished when he informed her of his alternate plans.
Draco knew how to lay it on thick. He’d had years of practice flattering professors and charming the heads of pureblood families. He applied this expertise with perfect precision the moment he met Granger in Diagon Alley.
A brush of his lips to her knuckles. Guiding her down the block and into the restaurant with his large hand on the small of her back. All in full view of several photographers. They’d agreed on the trendiest restaurant in London specifically for this purpose.
Granger played her part well, with a shy smile and demure posture. She didn’t drop the coquettish act until their flustered waiter left them in peace, scuttling off to grab the expensive wine Draco ordered.
“I think I gave that poor man a stroke,” she said with a reluctant chuckle.
“Well you are quite well-known.”
“I’m hardly intimidating.”
“You are to those of lesser intellect.”
“Not you then?”
“Only when you’re cross and I’ve insulted you. I’ve never told anyone about that slap, you know.”
“God, I’d had the worst day and you tipped me right over the edge.”
“Apologies, etc.”
She frowned at his flippant offering. “Well, deserved or not—”
“It was.”
“It was not the most sensible action.”
“You’re still the most sensible person I’ve ever met, Granger.”
She blew out a frustrated breath. “People always assume that. It's tiring.”
“You are, though, there’s no denying that.”
“Sure, but the people saying sensible mean it as ‘boring.’ ‘Sensible Hermione Granger’ always behaving prudently, so mature her favorite dinner time conversation is the plight of the economy.”
“Has someone said that about you? It sounds… well not inaccurate.”
“Yes, from a profile piece a few months ago. I was described as ‘happiest with some good nonfiction and a cup of herbal tea.’”
“Did they confuse you with a 90-year old?”
“Ron and Harry wrote a song from the quotes about my love of libraries and timetables.”
“If I tell you I don’t have a five-year plan, is our evening over?”
She laughed and shook her head. A genuine sound, not one put on for show.
He’d expected her to become intolerable as the evening progressed. To make him want to crawl out of his skin. Despite Draco’s tempered expectations, dinner sped by in a haze of delicious wine and even more delectable company.
Granger leaned forward after their plates had been cleared, resting her chin in her hand.
“You should lean in too,” she muttered. “The entire restaurant has been staring throughout the whole meal.”
“I’m sure the waiter delivered breathless updates to the kitchen staff.”
“And you should look down the front of my dress.”
“Pardon?”
Granger didn’t tell him again, but instead smiled coyly. He almost jumped out of his seat when he felt a heeled foot rubbing up the side of his leg.
“That your foot?” he asked.
“You’d better hope so, otherwise it’s some pervert in an Invisibility Cloak.”
“Tell Potter to knock it off then.”
Another genuine laugh. “I’ll stop if you’re uncomfortable, but that witch across the way literally just clutched her pearls.”
Draco was in no way uncomfortable, just perhaps feeling some tightness in his trousers.
“You did rescue me from another tiresome gala tonight, by the way. Mother will no doubt tell every guest exactly why I’m absent.”
“She seems very involved in your personal life.”
Draco shrugged. “I’m all she has. For now.”
“But you don’t want to court any of these women she throws at you.”
“Absolutely not.”
Granger sat back and gave him an appraising stare over her wine.
“Good for you,” she toasted him, draining her glass.
Draco took care of their tab, silencing any protests on her end with a raised eyebrow and a decisive pile of gold on the table.
“What’s next in the storyline?” he asked as he pulled out her chair and assisted her to standing. “Do I escort you home like a proper gentleman?”
“Obviously, even though I could apparate myself into my bed if I wanted.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“Not tonight. But they don’t know that.” She tilted her head out the restaurant window. They had a sizeable audience for their exit.
He offered his arm and they only made it a short way down the street before Granger squeezed his elbow.
“Stay still,” she whispered. Sliding around to his front, she ran her hands up his suit and anchored her grip on his tie.
He couldn’t help it, the way his eyes fluttered closed in the anticipatory reflex of an impending first kiss. But instead of soft lips, Draco felt her grip tighten and then a suffocating, body-wide squeeze.
She’d apparated them onto the front stoop of a brick townhome.
“I’ve got excellent wards, we’re free from prying eyes now.”
He opened his to find her face still close.
“Indeed. We’re quite alone now.”
Granger released a shaky laugh and stepped back. “I had fun tonight.”
“And is the fun over?”
She considered him for a moment, face betraying nothing. Then she slipped inside and left him outside with only a cryptic reply.
“I suppose we’ll see what tomorrow’s paper has to say.”
Movement 3: An Arrangement
For the first morning in months, breakfast table conversation did not involve any upcoming media appearances, party invitations, or the scholastic accomplishments of a recent Beauxbatons graduate who (quelle surprise) happened to be in London this weekend.
“This has progressed rapidly,” Narcissa remarked, smoothing out a picture of Granger standing on her tiptoes and moving her mouth towards Draco’s.
Gods, that fucking millimeter of space would haunt him for a few days yet.
“Should I expect her to accompany us to the Bulgarian Minister’s ball this weekend?”
The lie tumbled out before Draco could think it through.
“Actually Mother, I believe we’ll be dining out that day and our reservation conflicts with the ball.”
We’ll. No way to walk that back now.
“Hmm,” his mother pursed her lips. “Well I suppose it is proper to have a few casual outings before committing to such a formal debut.”
Shit, he’d have to owl Granger sooner than planned. He’d thought to perhaps let her write first this time, gauge her interest in his company.
Granger,
Please see enclosed photograph and accompanying headline. I’d say our night out was a rousing success. I don’t suppose you’d be available this coming Saturday for a similarly staged evening?
-DM
Malfoy,
Not bad. But did you see the zoomed in photos in Witch Weekly? I included a copy. I about laughed myself to death over those comments from ‘a qualified body language analyst.’ Apparently the precise curl of my fingers gripping your tie means I’m especially fertile. Congratulations to us and our predetermined offspring.
How do you feel about ice cream?
-HJG
Draco enjoyed most desserts, but he’d never seen any person enjoy an ice cream cone like Hermione Granger.
“Oh my God,” she moaned for the fifth time, her tongue taking another tortuously long lick from base to tip of her precariously perched three scoops. They were catching stares from other tables and passersby.
She’d insisted on an outdoor table and apparently had no care for the obscene noises she made while indulging in a mint chocolate chip tower.
There was licking. Slurping. Sucking. Lip smacking. And then the aforementioned moaning when she’d gotten a good bit of chocolate in her mouth.
“You seem to, uh, really enjoy that,” Draco remarked.
“Well yes, obviously. But if you hadn’t noticed there’s at least three photographers camped out across the street documenting our every move.”
“Ah. So you’re not actually experiencing sexual release despite your expressions to the contrary?”
She snorted. “Don’t get me wrong, this is quite good. But my partners need to put in a bit more work to earn that.”
Fucking hell.
He could have thrown back something pithy and overtly sexual, but it seemed any time he sought to escalate things with Granger she one-upped him. The way things were going this evening, he’d need to Glamour the front of his trousers before he stood up.
Instead, Draco cast a practiced glare at the group of photographers, feigning offense at being caught out in public with his date.
“Malfoy?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m dripping.”
Draco nearly dropped his cone.
“Sorry?”
“My ice cream. It’s dripping down my hand.”
He caught the mischievous glint in her eye. Leaning over the table, he closed his fingers around her wrist and tugged it towards him.
“Let me help you with that.”
It took three languorous licks from her wrist to her palm to clean her off. He pressed a kiss to her pulse point. An unnecessary punctuation, perhaps, but something tender to sell the scene.
Had that hitch in her breath been real?
“Mmm, not bad. Mine’s better though. Here.” He released her wrist and held his cone up to her lips.
Draco should have known this wouldn’t end well for him or his trousers. The fucking siren of witch practically took a whole scoop in her open mouth and ended with a flicking flourish with the tip of her tongue.
“Hmm. Blueberry ice cream was an odd choice.”
“But it’s such a fun color. And you should see your face right now.”
Draco produced a handkerchief and swiped the side of her lips and chin.
“That’s going to be on a loop in the papers tomorrow,” she whispered.
“Guaranteed,” agreed Draco before casting a non-verbal Glamour on his trousers.
Granger’s sneaky last minute apparition occurred after stroking down his arm, intertwining their fingers, and leaning her face up.
“Alone again,” Draco observed when they appeared on her stoop.
“So we are,” she agreed without moving away. “After a second date at that.”
“Not a real date though.”
She dropped his hand. “True.”
She then dropped both her eyes and her carefree façade. Pushing her hair off her shoulders, bossy Granger reappeared. “I think we should establish some ground rules. Should we wish to continue.”
“And what exactly is it that we’re continuing?”
“A simple arrangement between… allies.”
“Allies? Granger I’ve just licked ice cream off your hand, surely that promotes me to friend?”
Draco pushed his luck and toyed with a curl. She stiffened but didn’t protest.
“Then let’s establish some friendly terms. I don’t sleep with men I’m not dating.”
“I see. And is there a reason we’re not dating? We’ve already convinced most of the public we’re doing just that.”
“Please. This is just a silly ploy for you to earn some goodwill.”
“And you’re not using me? Hoping to get some political and financial clout behind your advocacy, aren’t you?”
“Fine, so we can agree this is a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“And a sexless one, apparently.”
She glared. There was the Hermione Granger he remembered. Though instead of inspiring irritation, he felt something else stirring. How powerful were non-verbal Glamours?
“As if you’re actually interested.”
Not only was Draco extremely interested, it was really testing the strength of his Charms work.
“You don’t sleep with men you’re not dating, fair enough,” he deflected. “I don’t bed women until they ask me.”
“Figures you’d make them beg for it.”
“Curious choice of words. I merely said ‘ask’ but I can’t deny the prospect of you begging is rather enticing.”
“Not if I get you to beg first.”
A challenge then. So be it.
Draco played with another curl, choosing to ignore her cocky grin. “This has the potential to get quite messy, you understand. Feelings and all.”
“I didn’t know you possessed any. But I agree. Which is why I’d prefer to leave sex out of this.”
“All right then,” Draco nodded and let the curl slip away. “Our terms stand as thus: this isn’t real, and no sex until you admit how badly you want me.”
“Agreed. With the exception that I’ll have you break first.”
For the third time since their reintroduction, Granger raised up on her toes and brought their mouths within inches of each other. And for the third time, his instincts (hopeful and lust-shaded) forced his eyes to close and his heart to hammer.
And she never kissed him.
“A shame,” she whispered. “How you always let your pride limit you.”
She pulled away and opened her door.
“Good night, Malfoy.”
Fuck.
No.
Fine, he’d name her the victor tonight. But the second she caved he’d have her flat on her back, on her knees, on all fours, wherever he wanted her. However she’d let him. Until then, this was nothing an immediate wank couldn’t resolve.
Malfoy,
I think I won this round, they censored the picture of me licking your cone. And I don’t think there’s any way to top the headline of ‘Will War Heroine Hermione Granger Suck Draco Malfoy’s Fortune Dry?’
I’ve declined any and all interview requests regarding our ‘relationship.’ Can I trust you to do the same?
-HJG
Granger,
Did you see this one? It seems I’m being quite the considerate partner, taking my pregnant witch out for her cravings.
And of course, though I bear no responsibility for any Quidditch scoreboard ads my mother purchases.
-DM
Oh you wouldn’t believe the Howler I got from Ron for that one. What about this one? How does your mother feel about the term ‘half-blood heir?’
-HJG
My mother is quite scandalized, though not disapproving. Perhaps we make our next outing a bit more formal? What about that gala for centaur lands?
Tell Weasley to shove it.
-DM
I was planning to attend anyway, so I suppose it would make sense to go together. Muggle black tie, please.
Not that I needed your prompting, but I obviously told Ronald where he could stick his unsolicited opinion. I’ll deny the pregnancy rumor in a few days, let him suffer a little longer.
Am I upsetting legions of your prospective brides?
-HJG
Yes, I can hear the collective feminine sobs cried into silk pillows from all around the globe.
Wear something green for me?
-DM
Movement 4: A Challenge
As Draco could not reveal his arrangement to Narcissa without incurring her wrath, he decided another outlet should hear his confession.
“Explain this to me again?” asked Theo, swirling his third gin and tonic around the glass.
Draco looked up from tying his bow tie.
“What is it you don’t understand?”
“You’re… engaged in some sort of faux relationship scheme with Hermione Granger?”
“Yes.”
“To boost her advocacy projects, your image, and temporarily appease Narcissa?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re actually blatantly attracted to one another?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Yet you aren’t pursuing an actual relationship?”
“She won’t shag me unless we’re dating.”
“So date her? Is this a problem unique to heterosexuals? Why all the needless complication?”
“She said it wasn’t real and that she could make me beg first.”
“Ah, I see now. This is a problem unique to you and your specific brand of idiocy.”
Draco scowled and admired his bespoke suit in the mirror. “She’ll cave first. Guaranteed.”
Theo snorted. “Well for as long as you’re acquainted with her, can you ask for an in with the dragon-taming Weasley? I have no issue with shamelessness.”
“Clearly,” Draco said as Theo propped his bare feet on the ottoman and topped off his gin.
Granger looked stunning, truly.
But she also looked wrong.
“Granger,” Draco murmured as he kissed her hand. Over her shoulder, Draco noticed almost every head in the room turned in their direction. For the love of Merlin, some old biddie even dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
He tucked her arm in his to the sound of several wistful sighs from the crowd.
Merlin, how hard-up were these people for entertainment? Draco and his mother had behaved like upstanding citizens for years, donated thousands of Galleons, yet apparently it only took a bit of romantic fluff with Granger and he could consider himself fully redeemed.
A bar so low he’d barely need to raise his feet to clear it.
And while he’d label this whole farce enjoyable thus far, he had thought Granger would pull her weight.
“Are you colorblind by any chance?” he muttered through a doting smile.
“No.”
“Your dress is red.”
“Correct.”
“I requested green.”
She smiled sweetly but with a Crucio in her gaze. “I must have missed the part in our agreement where I gave you permission to dictate what I wear.”
“It was a simple request I’d hoped you would oblige.”
“You’re being childish.”
“I think it would be a flattering color on you.”
“Are you going to let this go and dance with me or not?”
He danced with her. Then he stuck by her side while she exercised more patience than any human could possibly possess. An abundance of grace while she advocated for the centaur charity and pitched her own fledgling organization to people with small minds but big pockets.
Yes, centaurs are capable of speech and reasoning.
No, they don’t want to murder all magic folk.
Yes it’s illegal to hunt them.
She has no idea if all of them are as attractive as Firenze.
Yes she knew of groups willing to work with the Ministry. She’d been initiating these talks for years now.
No, it’s not appropriate to ask to ride one.
Yes she really is still friends with Harry Potter.
Draco learned quickly when she’d need more champagne, or when he’d need to relieve her of a glass should her conversational gestures become too emphatic. No one asked him to weigh in, but he did bask in compliments on his attire and ability to woo a witch like Granger.
He could get used to life as arm candy. A charming, attractive prop with no further effort required.
Eyes and camera lenses never left them. Though Granger bore insipid ignorance nobly, her replies got shorter, her smiles tighter, cheeks redder, and hair frizzier. She would crack soon.
“Fascinating though this conversation is about Auror Potter’s preferred style of eyewear, if you’ll excuse us, I’m going to steal Miss Granger away for a turn about the dance floor,” Draco intervened.
It took her two waltzes to calm down enough to speak again.
“Thank you,” she exhaled. “I might resent the rescue, but it was probably for the best. Cursing donors is generally frowned upon. I appreciate your assistance.”
“I agree; I’ve done plenty for you tonight. I wore this suit for you.”
“Yes, you’re such a martyr.”
“By the way, you do realize your little fund can be abbreviated to C.U.N.T?”
He spun her, delighting in her incensed face.
“It most certainly can not! Creatures United would be CU.”
“I don’t know Granger, you don’t have a good history with naming causes. Or with wearing the proper, requested shade of gown.”
“You’re such a prat, I am wearing green.”
“This dress is very much red.”
“You said to wear something green,” she put her lips next to his ear. “You didn’t say it had to be my dress.”
“Gods you’re bold tonight. How much champagne have you had?”
“It’s nothing to do with drinks.”
In his periphery he noted one reporter snapping away. A faux flirtation to make him blush for the cameras, perhaps?
“Then would it be bold of me to say I’d love to see your knickers?”
“It’s a matching set.”
Fucking well played, Granger.
“And it wouldn’t be breaking any rules if I were to just look, would it?”
“I don’t believe so, no.”
Ah. Fuck. Just, fuck.
It appeared they could put the public performance to bed for the night, moving on to their private game. Draco led her to the departing Floos, advancing until he had her caged against a stone wall.
Instead of teasing him, Granger slid a finger under her dress strap, holding it aside.
“See? Green.”
From his vantage point, he saw an emerald silk bra strap meet a lacy cup.
“And I was right. An excellent color on you. I’d love to see more.”
“Unfortunately, we have an audience,” she canted her head down the hall.
Draco threw the slobbering press an offended, icy look.
“So a chaste goodnight peck instead?” he suggested.
“A bit more than that. You should do the hair tucking thing first.”
“The what?”
“Tuck one of my curls behind my ear as you lean down.”
Draco steadied a hand at her waist. Then he performed his task to the letter: securing a soft lock behind her ear just as she whispered, “This can’t look like a first kiss.”
“Meaning?”
“Don’t hold back.”
As if he could.
First kisses, in his experience, generally occurred under natural, charming circumstances. The conclusion of a dinner date, post-promenade through a garden, in a horse-drawn carriage, etc. A bit of hesitation from both parties, light nerves and quivering breaths before lips brushed to satisfy curiosity and assess chemistry.
Instead, Draco kissed Granger as if he’d done this countless times before. With intent and confidence. He cupped her jaw with one hand, a minor possessive display. He slanted his lips over hers like he already knew their taste and wasn’t worried about this new experience ruining him for all other women.
When would Draco learn? As if this witch wouldn’t parry his play. She met his bravado head on, clutching the back of his head and slipping her tongue past his lips, destroying his resolve not to groan into her open mouth.
If she ever suckled on his bottom lip like that again, he’d hike up her skirts and fuck her against the nearest wall, audience or no. But that would require him to concede.
When she pulled back, he dipped his head to follow, but she turned away, looking down the hall.
“Have they gone?” she asked.
“Hmm?”
Her neck looked in need of his mouth.
“The press. They’ve gone now.”
“Oh. Yes, it appears so.”
His lips would be very good to the tops of her breasts.
“Great. Well, good night Malfoy.”
She slipped out of his grasp and Draco watched her leave. A swirl of green flames and red fabric, ruination in her wake.
Good morning,
Theo says you looked lovely in red. And speaking of red (he made me write that verbatim) any chance you’d put in a good word for him with Charlie Weasley?
For the record, Theo is correct. You did look lovely in your not-green dress.
-D
Good morning,
Thank you (pass that along to Theo as well.) I’ve sent Charlie an owl just now.
Your tux very much suited you. Pun not intended, but tell Theo he’s welcome to the joke, seems like his sort of humor from your stories about him.
-H
He’ll use it in every upcoming social situation and with nary a credit to your name.
There’s a cocktail lounge opening this weekend. It’s a Muggleborn-owned business. Fancy another night on the town? You can wear any color you like.
-D
How generous of you. I actually have plans this weekend. But I wouldn’t mind company if you’re willing? I’ll take you out after if you behave, I promise.
-H
“Do all children have that much energy so early in the morning? Bloody gremlins.”
Draco discreetly Scourgified his clothing. Based on Granger’s frown, she must have heard him.
“They like visitors that aren’t healers or Ministry personnel. Can you blame them?”
“You said it was just reading to them.”
“Yes, but it would be rude to cut out the second the story ends.”
Draco scowled but held his tongue. Not only had he accompanied Granger to the Amelia Bones Home for Children this Saturday morning, but been made to read aloud to a gaggle of urchins.
Grabby, hyperactive, sticky-fingered children all very fascinated by his hair and who giggled idiotically when they successfully heckled him into making proper train sound effects during the reading.
Draco would personally see to it that any and every book featuring the Hogwarts Express was removed from circulation by the day’s end.
It had given Granger a laugh at least. She’d laughed and smiled a lot that morning, despite the genuinely depressing setting.
The children looked healthy and well-cared for, but not all looked whole. Children missing limbs. Children with cursed scars or burns marring their skin. And even one child no older than eight with a scar pattern Draco unfortunately recognized. He saw it every time he removed his own shirt.
That sobering thought snowballed into another one. “There were a lot more than I expected.”
“Our generation isn’t the only one to suffer in the war,” she said lightly. “Those children either lost parents to Voldemort and his ilk or they’re children of followers now locked away for life. They can’t be adopted by Muggles. That’s a law.”
“Seems like an unnecessary obstruction. Limits their chances, doesn’t it?”
She stopped walking. “Exactly.”
She chewed her lip, seeming to consider whether Draco was worthy of her next words.
“I’ve actually been working with Dean Thomas and his mum and a few other Muggleborns’ parents to address this. Beyond the blatant anti-Muggle sentiment, it’s a practicality and population issue. There just aren’t enough magical couples seeking adoptions.”
“You turned out just fine, Muggle parents and all. Don’t know how the Ministry can hold that line when someone like you exists.”
Draco both saw and heard the sharp inhale.
Too serious. Too… real.
He coughed and hastily moved on. “The imps really like you. Why don’t you let people see those moments?”
She scowled. “Those children aren’t press props. My donations are a matter of public record and I’m officially affiliated with them. My involvement is freely available information, should people care to read.”
“Bold of you to assume the general public cares to read up on something before forming an opinion. Pictures sell papers, you know that.”
“The press is welcome to photograph me at the Janus Thickey ward next weekend, but as that’s not as sexy as a gala, I doubt anyone will hear about it.”
“Merlin Granger, when do you sleep?”
“Caffeine helps.” She gestured at their destination.
Draco balked as she led him inside. “I’m sorry, but this is ridiculous. Why on earth would I patronize a coffee shop when I have elves?”
“Because you’re broadening your horizons thanks to me, you snob. I make you more relatable,” she deadpanned. “Speaking of, you’ve done me a favor this morning, so time to help you out. Unfortunately there were no cameras around to capture your fake wedding with Eloise.”
“There’s nothing more irritating than a crying, snot-nosed, child. You try telling a six-year-old you can’t get married instantaneously.”
“She spotted you as a sucker a mile off,” snickered Granger.
“Weren’t you supposed to be helping me?”
She led them to a table beside the window. In full view of the street and its current inhabitants: a reporter with a Quick-Quotes Quill and shameless stare.
“Yes, so at this point in our ‘romance,’” she used air-quotes and Draco hated it, “we’ve done mostly high-society events or lavish dinners.”
“Your point?”
“We need to make you more ‘accessible.’”
Draco was very accessible to one witch in particular. Should she care to beg.
“And we do that by visiting cafes for shite coffee?”
“Sit back in your chair,” she instructed. “And roll up your sleeves. Slowly.”
He’d need to remove his cufflinks, but fine. He did as she bade, grateful at least that his inner left arm faced away from the window.
What he’d describe as a hungry stare at his forearms suddenly flipped to regret.
“Sorry, I forgot. I—”
“It’s fine,” he clipped, resting his arm on the table, Dark Mark facing down. With his right hand, he reached for hers resting just beside her cup. He brushed over her fingers gently and she flipped her hand up. He trailed a light touch along the pads of her fingers and then stroked from her palm to her wrist.
She never said a word, transfixed by their hands and his repetitive motion.
Not real.
He had to break the reverie. “Could I offer a personal comment without you taking offense?”
“Depends, is it offensive?”
“It’s not about your hair, if that’s what has you worried.”
“I know a lot of hexes, Malfoy.”
He smirked. “You’re much more… laid back than you used to be.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Well at the risk of being hexed, you’re not so uptight. You’re frighteningly busy and still an annoying overachiever, but you seem much more… at ease.”
“Let’s call it a perspective shift. I survived a lot of awful, impossible things. I’ve earned my enjoyment. I’m allowed to care about Muggleborn rights and creature rights and have coffee dates with handsome men. My Ministry career needn’t define me.”
“I see. So I’m here to show everyone you know how to have fun.”
She trapped his wandering fingers in place and simply held them.
“Haven’t you been reading our press coverage? Apparently I’m more ‘approachable’ and ‘feminine’ now. It’s generated an absurd uptick in donations to CU. As much as it makes me want to scream into the void, this strategy is working.”
“All for the creatures then, is it?”
He hoped he kept his bitterness at bay. Because he shouldn’t feel bitter. They’d agreed to something not real.
“And for you to avoid marriage,” she countered.
“True. You’re making my mother very happy.”
“Yes, she’s become quite the enthusiastic correspondent with me.”
“She’s writing to you? About what?”
“You mostly. I’ve got your baby photos, a list of your dietary preferences, and I’ve heard about a wedding tiara no less than five times.”
“The tiara is hideous, I regret to inform you.”
“A pity. She’s begun sending me donor contacts as well. I hope she’s not too put out when our arrangement ends.”
He couldn’t help the disappointed sigh, traitorous and too reflexive by half. He offered a partial truth for its origin.
“I don’t know how to tell her I don’t want to be like her. Like them. My parents committed to certain… ideals way too young.”
“Marrying young is the least objectionable thing about your parents.”
She gave his hand an apologetic squeeze then let go, sitting back in her chair.
Draco twisted his signet ring around his finger. “You’re buying me some time.”
“For what?”
“For nothing,” he said with a shrug. “That’s the point. I don’t want to do or be anything. I’m rich.”
“That’s not sustainable.”
“It really is, have you seen my vaults?”
“I’m aware of your obscene net worth; the Prophet mentions it every other sentence. I meant you’ll grow bored after a while, won’t you?”
“If boredom is the worst thing I have coming for me, I welcome it.”
“You truly don’t feel a pull towards any vocation?”
“Granger, I spent my entire overly-structured childhood being molded into the perfect heir. Told to be a proper pureblood. Told to be a follower, then an assassin, then a foot soldier, and I will play dutiful son for a bit longer. But then I’d like to be left the hell alone.”
She opened her mouth to argue but he cut her off.
“You’ve earned your enjoyment, I’ve earned my choices. So if I choose to drink the day away with Theo, or loll about the Manor’s library or snog a gorgeous woman in my infinite spare time, what does it matter? I’m choosing to be happy.”
Her eyes lit up and burned, but not with scorn. She exuded the sparkling, revelatory brightness found in a properly-cast Lumos Maxima.
“And of those happy choices you’ve laid out… which would you choose for the remainder of your day?”
He chose correctly, he thought, with Granger pressed against her front door, arching into him.
Draco had no idea who leaned in first. But it didn’t matter; they pushed lies against each other’s lips; stuffed half-truths down their throats; played pretend restraint.
Draco, for his part, had confessions pouring out of him.
His hands said everything she’d want to know if she cared to ask. Honesty couldn’t be helped when he knew how those curls felt, when his fingers skated up her ribs and around to her back, pulling her closer, falling faster, and wondering if the landing would be a fatal crash or a soft dismount.
Her touches, eager and wandering, said all the things he wanted to hear aloud. But they’d apparently agreed to not speaking for a good bit of time, preferring to fill mouths with tongues instead of words.
When breathing became necessary, Draco moved his attentions to her neck.
“You could come in if you like,” she murmured, sounding winded. “Unless you think you’ll be too tempted?”
“Very risky, bringing me inside.” He punctuated his warning with a nip to her ear.
“It’s just kissing. Too exciting for you?”
He’d show her exciting.
Being a gentleman, he let her set the pace. Granger’s pace was pushing him against a wall and running her hands all over his chest. He allowed her the liberties with his person, but the hair-pulling and scalp-raking were a bridge too far.
Draco retaliated by lifting her up and positioning her on the hall table.
She kissed him through the entire maneuver, but then she tipped her hand. Legs bracketing his, Granger fused their lower halves together. The bold little witch moaned and writhed against him. She’d gotten him impressively hard impressively fast, did she not think he’d press right back into her?
“This isn’t against any rules?” he chuckled darkly.
“Mmm, not unless you have something to request?”
“Not a chance, Granger.”
“Then let’s move to the couch, it’s more comfortable.”
Granger’s definition of comfortable was shoving him down and straddling his lap. Was this also her definition of “just kissing”?
If so, he’d like to demand recompense from every previous snogging partner he’d ever had. No woman had ever tasted him so relentlessly. Passion like she meant it. Meant everything. Meant to have him stay.
He showed his hand too. When she ground her hips down, he thrust his up.
“Feel that?” He mumbled a boast into her collarbone. “That’s everything I could be giving you.”
She grabbed his face away from where he’d happily been counting freckles with his tongue.
“Take it out then,” she whispered along his jaw. “Give me a mental picture for after you leave.”
Bluff called.
He dutifully unzipped his fly, doing exactly as she ordered. She met Draco’s audacious answer to her scandalous command with wide eyes and a pretty, parted mouth. The longer she stared down at his cock, erect and weeping between them, the more inflated his already gigantic ego became.
“Worried it won’t fit?” he asked smugly.
She snapped her mouth shut. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Stakes raised.
She unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it aside. His brain could only now think in single phrases:
Black lace.
Granger’s tits.
See-through cups.
Perfect tits.
And then summarized it all into one earth-shattering sentence: Granger’s perfect tits encased in a sheer, black lace bra inches from his face.
“Not too exciting for you I hope?” She taunted, haughtiness as obvious as her nipples. “Wouldn’t want the fun to be over before it even begins.”
“Oh I can last Granger, trust me.”
She dragged a finger up his thigh, up his chest, then pressed it against his lips.
“I bet you won’t last ten seconds when you apparate away. Unless there’s a certain request you have for me?”
No, he could outlast her. He’d resist.
When he stayed silent despite his cock making litigious plans against his willpower, she stood and unclasped her bra. It fell away.
Hand folded.
Draco indulged in thirty seconds of staring before he muttered, “fuck,” and apparated to his bedroom.
He had an owl at his window not a half hour later.
“You were right. I was worried.”
He sent her an earned reply.
“You were right. Eight seconds.”