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Chapter Text

It was not often that Hermione Granger wished she were someone else. 

That is not to say that it had never happened. In fact, there were quite a few times throughout her adolescence in which she could recall the overwhelming desire to be anyone but.

But a Muggleborn, when others called her dirty. But the Brightest Witch of Her Age, when she bore the fate of the Wizarding World before the age of eighteen. But an orphan, by her own hand. 

But assigned to the relocation and subsequent preservation of the Jobberknoll. 

Hermione dipped her quill in the fast-dwindling vat of ink on her desk, scratching out yet another line of the proposed bill before her. It wasn’t that she didn’t care for the Jobberknolls. The species’ survival was quite pertinent to the success of one of her own various personal projects. 

No, it was the issue of who she was assigned to work the case with. 

Whilst the Department for the Rights and Care of Magical Creatures (title amended as a result of Hermione’s first passed statute) usually liaised solely within the Ministry, this particular bill had required a specialized eye. One which could not be found within their green-tiled walls it seemed, but the ranks of an external alchemy lab.

And of course, Gethsemane Prickle’s disposition for the ‘E’ in E.M.L. Potions Co. meant there was only one other potions haus the Department Head trusted: Malfoy Industries. 

Frowning, Hermione flipped to the next page of the relocation addendum, grip tightening at the sight of even more aggravatingly elegant scrawl marring the margins. 

The Caledonian Forest? Really, Granger? They’ll drown before they’re able to molt. 

She hated the way he looped the first ‘G’ of her surname, with an extra curl at the top, like a calligraphic manifestation of his taunting drawl. If she closed her eyes, she could picture him staring at her over the top of her cubicle with that unimpressed pinch of his brows, almost hear his huffs of dissatisfaction. 

Except, wait—those she wasn’t imagining.

Although the irritated yelps echoing down the department corridor belonged to a different blonde Slytherin, one Hermione tolerated with much more fondness. At least, usually. 

Daphne Greengrass emerged already scowling, typically neat golden locks pinned up haphazardly, work robes a decidedly depressing grey (a concerning indication for the fashion forward witch).

“I’m going to die.” Daphne’s words were punctuated by the slam of her briefcase on her desk. 

“We all will one day, Daph.” The reply came from their other Beasts co-worker, Anthony Goldstein, who didn’t even lift his head from his own pile of paperwork. 

“Well, I’m going to imminently. Tonight, in fact! Air your grievances now, otherwise you’ll have to weep them over my grave come morning.” 

Hermione shook her head. “Why is it that you think we should already be drafting your eulogy?” 

“Because,” Daphne cried, gripping the back of her chair as if she were about to launch it into the wall, “I have a blind date. Another one. That makes eight this month alone! And it’s only the fifteenth!” 

It was no secret that the Greengrass's, along with a majority of the remaining pardoned Pureblood families, were eager to arrange the most advantageous matches for their offspring after the war.

Some were surprisingly successful, like that of Daphne’s younger sister Astoria and one of the Fawley boys. Others, not so much, as demonstrated by the distraught eldest. 

“If you didn’t wish to go, then why did you agree?” Hermione asked, setting her quill aside. 

Daphne’s gaze had the effect of a slicing hex, sharp and stinging. “Have you met my parents, Hermione? I’d sooner ride stark-naked on the back of a Hippogriff than tell my mother to stop her scheming.” 

“Didn’t need that visual, Daph,” Anthony grimaced. 

“Then go on the date,” said Hermione. 

“You don’t understand!” Daphne collapsed into her chair, forearms flung over her face. “She signed me up for an anonymous Pureblood pairing system! The men I’ve been matched with so far…they’re horrific!” 

“They can’t be that bad. What about those ‘Pureblood manners’ that lot are always preaching about?” said Anthony. 

“Nonexistent, apparently! The last one wouldn’t take his eyes off my left tit the entire night. Not once!” 

“Again with the unnecessary mental images.” 

“I can’t go!” 

“Then don’t.” 

“Balding, Anthony! One of them was balding!” 

“About twenty-five percent of those assigned male at birth begin showing signs of hair loss before the age of twenty-one,” Hermione interjected. “So, really, your odds are never quite good in that regard.” 

Daphne let out a growl-like noise. “You try sitting through one of those dinners without a single thrown hex! Last time, I had to leave my wand at home just so I wasn’t tempted!” 

“Well, luckily for me I don’t have parents to try and pawn me off,” said Hermione, an attempt at self-deprecation that would normally have swayed the Slytherin girl, but only earned her a huff this time. 

“Your Obliviate still as sharp?” 

“Daph!” Anthony admonished, but Hermione just let out a light laugh.

If it had been anyone else, she’d have made Rita’s week in a jar seem like child’s play. But her and Daphne’s friendship had been accumulated over weary, sleep-deprived all nighters and an oddly refreshing level of honesty that came with late hours and newfound common enemies (the Pest Advisory Board in particular).

Perhaps it was because they hadn’t known each other but in passing during the war. Each a vague figment who knew just enough to commiserate but not enough to worry about burdening with post-traumatic breakdowns. 

“I’m not sure what you’d like us to say, Daph.” Hermione gave her a tight lipped, helpless smile. “Aside from sending someone in your place, the only viable solution is to either grin and bear it, or stick it to the man. Or, mother, I suppose.” 

In hindsight, Hermione should have known giving Daphne Greengrass any sort of idea was like giving fluxweed to a kneazle—certain to result in distressing levels of mischief.

And still, the words escaped her seconds too late. She watched with growing trepidation as they settled, as Daphne’s eyes widened.

Hermione raised a hand, like she could physically stop the impending spiral.

“That’s it! Oh, it’s perfect!” Daphne leapt from her seat, rounding the desk and pulling a still-sitting Hermione into an uncomfortable and impractical sort of hug-like thing. “Brightest Witch of Our Age, I should’ve known! Brilliant, just brilliant!” 

“Um, you’re welcome?” Hermione spoke the question into Daphne’s stomach, neck aching from the painful squeeze. 

“I mean, truly, how have I never thought of it before? I know you didn’t come prepared, but we can swing by Pansy’s. I’ll buy, of course!” Daphne held her even tighter, and Hermione suppressed a wheeze. 

“Asphyxiating here, Daph.” 

Daphne let go, hands instead clasping before her heart the way a child might their first time in Honeydukes. 

Able to breathe once again, Hermione managed to choke out her confusion. “What do you mean, I’m not prepared?” 

Daphne gave her a once over. “Well, you certainly can’t wear that.” 

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Hermione glanced down at her black suit trousers and silk magenta blouse.

Robes weren’t mandatory on Fridays, and it was one of her favorite work tops. It had been an ineffectual attempt to make her not totally dread the long day of slugging through Malfoy’s invidious comments.

But by the way Daphne was looking at her, it appeared she may as well have wrapped herself in rubbish. 

“As much as I adore your little corporate Muggle-y cosplay, a Pureblooded man would possibly burst a blood vessel if you showed up in that.” Daphne’s smile grew suspicious, “Although, perhaps  that’s what we want…”

Hermione was lost. She threw a desperate look at Anthony, who only shook his head. 

“What are you on about?”

“You’ll go on my date tonight, instead of me!” 

If Hermione had been drinking something, she would’ve spat it all over the addendum. Drowned it like the Caledonian Forest in the spring. 

“No,” she said. 

Daphne frowned. “You can’t say no.” 

“I just did.” 

“But Herm—”

“No. No way, Daph.”

“Please? Prettiest of pretty pleases?” 

“It’s not happening.” 

“I’ll bring you coffee every morning until the end of time.” 

“I don’t even drink coffee—”

“Sit next to Robards at the next all-staff! Stop stealing your disgusting but weirdly addicting granola bars! Buy you a library!” 

“They are not disgusting!” 

“Hermione you have to!” Daphne threw herself at Hermione’s feet, clutching at her hands. “You owe me! I saved you from that horrible dinner with Craig from Misinformation last month!” 

Whilst Hermione had gone on that date willingly, it had been no more enjoyable than any of Daphne’s blind ones.

To be fair, the wizard’s tactic of cornering her after their weekly department meeting in front of all their colleagues hadn’t produced the most comfortable environment in which to present an objection. Daphne’s faux emergency patronus had cut the unpleasant evening blessedly short. 

“It wouldn’t work.” Hermione tried to switch angles. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m rather recognizable. My face is on a Chocolate Frog card. They’d know it was me before I even sat down.” 

Daphne deflated at the very logical excuse, and Hermione at the dodged near-disaster. That is, until her friend looked back up at her. 

“Whatever you’re thinking, forget it.”

But Daphne only rose to her feet, hands folded behind her back, a picture of mock-innocence. 

“If I do recall, you are acquainted particularly well with a certain potion in which its purpose is to become someone else.” 

“You’re kidding.” Hermione’s statement was met only with silence from the Slytherin. “I’m not Polyjuicing myself to get you out of a date, Daph!”

“Hmm,” Daphne hummed. “I wonder what Kingsley would say if he found out a second year was brewing vats of it in a bathroom?” 

“I hardly think that was my most notable infraction.” Hermione crossed her arms. “I broke a dragon out of Gringotts, for Godric’s sake!” 

“Hermione!” Daphne stamped her foot like a petulant toddler. 

“I think you should do it.” 

Both girls’ heads whipped toward their colleague. 

Anthony shrugged. “I have a headache, and this back and forth of yours isn’t helping.”

Two sets of eyes turned on Hermione. Daphne’s pleading and hopeful, Anthony’s tired and pained. Hermione closed her own, tilting her head to the ceiling. 

Bloody insane. A horrible, terrible, foolish idea. Absolutely nothing good can come of it. 

“It takes months to brew,” she tried one last time. But it was a weak attempt, and Daphne knew it.

“Good thing you have that secret little lab in your basement with a big fat chest of it.” 

Hermione really should never find herself drunk in Daphne’s presence after pub night again, lest she apparently spill all her secrets. What would she give up next, the location of the Elder wand? 

The potions lab in the basement of her townhome had started as a storeroom, something which felt like a necessity after spending months on the run with little-to-no supplies. It was like a shelving unit security blanket, all the essentials readily at hand.

Hermione’s preparedness had always been a defining factor, and it’d only increased since the end of the war. Helped keep the occasional bought of panic at bay. 

She looked at her friend’s growing triumphant smirk. Sighed. Sent a silent prayer to the forces that be that she wouldn’t come to regret this. 

“Fine.” 

“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!” Daphne practically tackled her. Hermione pat her back awkwardly in return. “I’ll owl Pansy right away! You’re a savior, Hermione Granger!” 

Hermione didn’t have a chance to speak before Daphne dashed back down the corridor, parchment and quill in hand. 

“What’s the worse that could happen?”

Anthony gave Hermione a side-long look. “I don’t think you want me to answer that.” 

She loosed an exasperated breath, sinking further into her chair. 

Well, she thought bitterly, looks like you got your wish. 

Chapter Text

The only thing more dangerous than one Slytherin was two. Especially if both of them were stubborn and had an unhealthy attachment to their own opinions. 

“The yellow will wash her out!” 

“The black is too widow-in-mourning!” 

“It’s classy and mature,” Pansy argued, chin tilted, blunt bob brushing her jaw. 

Daphne scoffed. “It’s depressing.” 

“Says the one dressed in grey robes!” 

“I was having an off morning!”

“Then what do you suppose I put her in? She’s going to dinner at Le Pieux Mensonge, Daph, not lunch at the Leaky!” 

Daphne gasped, clutching the sunshine-colored dress to her chest. “As if I’d ever put her in an Evolette McKenna for the Leaky!” 

“Do you have that in green?” 

Both girls halted mid-rebuttal. 

“What you’re failing to take into account is that she won’t be looking like herself,” Luna continued, drifting in through the backroom door and settling on the plush, midnight blue settee next to Hermione. She held up a small vial between her fingers, a handful of hairs trapped inside. “Although, I don’t suppose anyone looks much like anything if they aren’t being seen.” 

“Yes, I think so…” Pansy said, ignoring her girlfriend’s whimsical remark to rifle through one of the various clothing racks she’d pulled over to the tailoring bay of the boutique.

The storefront had been the result of Pansy’s inheritance, a sizable plot taking up prime real-estate on the main strip of Diagon Alley, right across from the still-boarded up windows of Florean Fortescue’s Ice-Cream Parlour.

The dark wood floors and elegant architectural lines lent the space a cozy yet elevated air. Frequented mostly by the upper echelons, it should’ve been the perfect place to find a Pureblood-pleasing outfit for that evening.

If Pansy and Daphne ever agreed. 

Pansy seemed to find the alternatively colored dress, pulling it from a mass of fabric.

“Here!” Her black heels clicked across the floor, brandishing it before the group. She turned to Luna. “Love, which client did you pick?” 

“Margaux Garnier.”

“Black hair, bangs, from Paris?”

Luna nodded.

“Thoughts, Daph?” said Pansy.  

Daphne fiddled the rolled hem, smile stretching across her face. “It’s perfect!” She looked at Hermione. “What do you think?” 

Hermione frowned. “Oh, I get a say in this? How kind of you.” 

Daphne didn’t heed the sarcastic remark, raising her brows. 

“It’s beautiful, ok?” Hermione conceded. And it truly was. Layers of emerald silk that would fall just between her knees and ankles, thin straps, a low back, but a straight neckline to keep it sexy rather than scandalous. “But I’m still not sure using hair collected from one of your client’s garments is a good idea. Shouldn’t I be going as you?” 

“It doesn’t matter who shows up for the date, as long as someone does. We're anonymous numbers prior to meeting. Besides, your goal is to make him never want to see you again. I certainly don’t want whatever it is you come up with to reflect poorly on me.” 

“Right, because this whole thing wasn’t your idea or anything.” 

“Technically,” Daphne pointed at her, “it was yours.” 

“How much time do we have?” Pansy interrupted. 

Daphne cast a quick Tempus. “Just over an hour.” 

“Come on, Granger! Let’s get you changed.” Pansy opened the curtain to the dressing room, hanging the garment on the rack inside. “And Margaux lives in France full-time, so you shouldn’t have a problem with any unexpected duplicates.” 

“What a relief,” Hermione grumbled, digging around in her bag for the flask she’d swiped from her lab before arriving at the boutique.

It was pink and glittery, a gag gift from her mom for her birthday several years prior. Even with the obnoxious heart shaped bottle and scrawl of “Love Potion” across the front, it was still one of Hermione’s favorite things she’d ever received.

An attempt by her parents to acknowledge the piece of their daughter they’d never fully understand, put supported endlessly—even if it would be the thing to eventually tear their family apart. 

Hermione stood, shaking off the sentimentality and squaring her shoulders. Maybe being someone else for the evening wouldn’t be so bad. 

“Here you are,” Luna said, handing over the vial of hair. 

“Thank you, Luna.” 

Covered by the privacy curtain, Hermione let out one last fortifying breath before slipping out of her work clothes. The winning dress felt buttery against her skin, no doubt a thread count higher than the amount of galleons in her vault.

She hated that she didn’t hate it. It fit her well, pulling in appropriately at the waist and flowing over her fuller hips.

Hermione watched it shimmer in the mirror, her reflection’s head tilted to match. 

She’d plaited her hair that morning, curls still as riotous as ever they took much too long to tame when on a tight deadline. It would be strange to see herself without it, wiped away like she didn’t exist. Again. 

May as well get this over with.

Hermione popped the top on the flask, grimacing at the foul odor of the potion inside. Trying not to breathe through her nose, she uncorked the vial next, extracting one of the shorter strands of hair.

She only needed the Polyjuice to last through the evening. Wouldn’t want to show up to work in the morning with a different face on. 

Before she could second guess herself, Hermione dropped the hair inside. It hissed upon contact with the gelatinous sludge, wisps of steam escaping through the round opening.

She waited a few moments to make sure it fully dissolved, then pinched her nose, sent herself a sarcastic cheers! in the mirror, and chugged. 

Her stomach revolted, trying to send the potion back up the way it came. But she kept it down, reminded herself it would be a drastic waste of ingredients just to spew it all over Pansy’s dressing room. Not to mention the tongue lashing she’d get from said witch should she ruin the antique rug. 

Had it really tasted so awful the last time? She’d assumed the nausea had been a result of nerves when moving Harry to the safe house, but it seemed that was not the sole cause.

And the first time, well, she didn’t like to think about that. 

The queasiness began to subside, instead replaced by an uncomfortable prickling beneath her skin. She watched her reflection begin to shift, the warm brown of her own hair deepening to an inky black, smooth bangs extending to just above her brow.

The freckles on her arms erased like stray pencil marks, eyes shifting to an earthy green. Her height and figure remained rather similar, except for the scars.

The cursed word extending from her elbow to her wrist vanished, and the line that stretched up her sternum—from Dolohov in the Department of Mysteries—could no longer be seen peaking out between her breasts. 

The person that now looked at her was decidedly stunning. Sharp chin and high cheekbones, pin-straight locks cascading down her back in a shiny sheet.

It wasn’t that Hermione thought her normal appearance was staggeringly bad, she knew she wouldn’t be classified as a troll in any regard, but the woman who’s face she now wore was the kind of beauty that turned heads. Had you wondering what lucky star she’d struck a deal with to be gifted such a striking combination of features. 

A clatter at Hermione's feet broke her self-observation. 

“I hope Margaux’s toes aren’t as wonky as yours,” came Pansy’s muffled voice. 

Hermione rolled her eyes, stooping to pick up the simple black heels.

“My toes are perfectly adequate, thank you,” she called back, undoing the tiny buckles and sliding them on.

Once fastened, she straightened to her full height again—or, Margaux’s, she supposed—and grasped the curtain. 

A collective gasp greeted her. Daphne had taken up Hermione’s vacant seat, Pansy propped on the rounded arm beside Luna, fingers playing with her girlfriend’s hair. 

“So?” Hermione prompted. 

“You look great, Granger,” said Pansy. “Good call on the green, love.” She kissed the top of Luna’s head. 

“Thank you. Although I think you’d look even better as yourself, Hermione.”

“I appreciate that, Luna,” Hermione smiled weakly. 

Daphne scrunched her nose. “This is rather freaky. Hearing your voice come out of that mouth.” 

“She’s right,” Pansy agreed. “That swotty tongue of yours will give you away in an instant.”

If everything in the store didn’t cost so much, Hermione would’ve snagged the nearest purse with the intent to hit Pansy with it 

“Try deepening it a bit,” Daphne said. “Like you smoke a pack a day and have sex regularly.”

Purse number two would’ve been flying in quick succession. 

“You say that as if I don’t have sex regularly,” said Hermione, hands on her hips.

 Daphne, Pansy, and Luna stared at her, unmoved. 

“Ok, so it’s been a while. But really, a year is not that long!”

“Of course not,” said Luna. “So long as you’re bringing yourself to orgasm regularly. Are you?”

Hermione flushed at the question. “I—what—I mean—”

“I’m sure Granger gets her rocks off plenty, love,” said Pansy. “How about an accent?”

“Oh, yes!” Daphne clapped. “You said your French is decent. ” 

“Decent for a five year old," said Hermione.

“That didn’t sound very French to me,” Daphne chided. “Embrace your inner Margaux.” 

"Fine." Hermione cleared her throat. “Bonjour, ravi de vous rencontrer. How are you zis evening?” 

The room fell silent for a moment, a blanketed quiet only brought on by dementors.

And then Pansy burst out laughing. 

“Please, never attempt that again,” she wheezed, doubled over. 

Daphne’s shoulders also shook, though she did her best to hide her smile. Even Luna pressed a hand to her lips. 

“Sorry! Some of us didn’t have fancy foreign tutors since we were infants!” Hermione exclaimed. 

“No worries,” Daphne stood, coming over to place a hand on Hermione’s shoulders, still choking back chuckles of her own. “Stick to English and you’ll be fine! Just try to keep the pitchy-ness to a minimum. Its your tell when you’re frustrated.” 

“It is not—!” Hermione swallowed her response at the sound of her own words. Perhaps she could get a little shrill at times, but it was only because she was passionate!

“Let’s think of your alias,” said Daphne. “Something bold, but simple. Easy to remember.” 

“What about Endora?” offered Luna. “Quite a lovely name.” 

“Sylvia?” Pansy said, laughter finally subsiding.  

“Does she look like a Sylvia to you, Pans?” Daphne scolded. “No, and that name is lovely Luna, but it doesn’t feel right.” 

“Fauna,” said Hermione.

Her mothers maiden name. One she’d always said she missed despite loving Hermione’s father so.

“Fauna Fortescue.” Luna spoke this time, eyes wistful as she stared out toward the front window. 

“But that makes it seem like she’s related to Florean,” said Daphne, brow furrowed. 

“Precisely,” said Luna. “Poor Mr. Florean, no longer with us.” 

The man had gone missing at the height of the war, his shop left unlocked and unattended. When the unfortunate news that he’d been captured and killed by Voldemort’s followers finally surfaced, the parlour was boarded up and without a known will or family member that wished to lay claim, remained vacant since. 

“It would lend me a decent backstory,” said Hermione. “I could claim I’m from elsewhere, returning only now to sell the parlour.” 

“Yes! That’s it!” Daphne was bouncing again. Hermione had the urge to spell her feet to the floor. “The Fortescue’s are Purebloods but have lived abroad since the first Wizarding War. You’ll be his long lost niece, come to sweep up shop and snag yourself a husband while you’re at it!” 

“Speaking of husband snagging, you need to get going,” said Pansy, pulling one of the bags Hermione had been contemplating hitting her with from a nearby shelf. 

“Really?” Hermione eyed the silver clutch.

“Are you questioning my fashion sense, Granger?” Pansy forced the purse into her hands. 

“It’s silver.” 

“I don’t see the problem.” 

Hermione gave herself a once over. “You’ve turned me into Slytherin Barbie.” 

“Not sure who Barnaby is, but while those may be my house colors, they are also just complementary.” It was Pansy’s turn to grip her by the shoulders, beginning to push her toward the door. “Don’t discriminate because you hate snakes!” 

“Wait, my flask!” 

Luna retrieved it from the dressing room, along with Hermione’s purple shoulder bag and wand. Hermione Transfigured the flask and bag to fit inside the clutch, tucking her wand into the bodice of the dress. 

“All set then?” Daphne asked once Hermione was stood on the shop’s front stoop. 

She nodded. “As I’ll ever be, I suppose.” 

“Who knows, maybe he’ll have hair this time!” 

“Lucky me.” 

“The reservation is under ‘Erasmus’—don’t look at me like that! It’s the one the anonymous pairing people chose so we wouldn’t know who we were meeting.” Daphne squeezed Hermione’s hand once. “Now go, before you’re late!” 

Hermione surveyed the group of girls huddled in the doorway—Pansy throwing her a cheeky wink, Luna smiling serenely as per usual, and Daphne giving her an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Hermione closed her eyes, exhaled, and Apparated before she lost the nerve. 

—

It was unpleasantly cold when Hermione landed outside the designated restaurant. Diagon Alley hadn’t been sweltering by any means, but the compact row of buildings had kept the wind at bay.

Now, stood in the open, the late evening breeze skated down her bare arms in chilling sweeps. 

Le Pieux Mensonge was a well-known, upscale establishment in the heart of Wizarding London. Though Hermione had never been herself, she’d heard about it’s impeccable menu and impossible availabilities.

The fact that Daphne’s—or rather her date, had managed to get them a table was impressive, if not a bit showboat-y.

But Hermione supposed that if she were going to have to suffer through pretending to be Florean Fortescue’s distant relative for the entirety of the evening, she may as well enjoy some fancy food whilst doing so. 

The interior of the restaurant certainly lived up to it’s lavish reputation, vaulted ceilings and classic pillars reminiscent of it’s French inspiration. Hermione tried not to cringe outwardly as she gave the name for the reservation to the hostess, letting the finely-dressed witch lead her to a table for two toward the back.

Set with gold-gilded china and a floating tea candle, with a stunning view of the street alight in the evening dusk outside, the entire ensemble was incredibly romantic.

That is, it would be. Under completely different circumstances. 

Much to her relief, her date had yet to arrive, and so Hermione settled herself in the seat which would have her back to the wall. Call it an unshakeable habit from the war, but it allowed her to study the street for her potential dinner partner. 

As the minutes passed, Hermione found herself unable to stop fidgeting with the napkin in her lap, growing increasingly more nervous.

She’d glanced at the clock fixed above the bar an unseemly amount for it having been less than five minutes since her arrival. 

What was she doing here? How had she let Daphne talk her into such a thing? Maybe she still had time to escape. 

But all hopes of making a last minute run for it were squashed upon the polite waiter’s inquiry of whether or not she’d like to order a drink or wait for the rest of her party.

Hermione meant to decline—it would be rude not to—yet her shaking hands steered her toward impoliteness. She was meant to get Daphne kicked out of the pairing program anyway.

May as well get a head start. 

“Yes, that would be lovely, actually. What is your wine selection?” 

The waiter began to list off the extensive collection and was just reaching the reds when a voice interrupted him. 

“Pardon me, I believe this is my table.” 

Hermione’s spine stiffened, her gaze still locked on the waiter, now stepping aside with a soft apology. 

Someone had Confunded her, surely. That, or she’d accidentally Apparated into an alternate dimension.

There was absolutely no way.

No way that voice belonged to who she thought it did. 

Yet as she turned toward the man sinking into the seat across from hers, she knew there was no mistaking it. 

Daphne Greengrass, I’m going to make a jar the least of your worries. 

Because there was only one person in the entirety of the Wizarding World that Hermione Granger would never be caught dead on a date with. 

“I apologize for my tardiness. I got a bit caught up at work.” The man before her stuck out his hand, silver signet ring glinting in the candlelight. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance. I’m Draco Malfoy.” 

Chapter Text

Success was supposed to bring about many things.

Money, most famously. A title, depending on the context. Stability, if one wasn’t already unreasonably rich. Respect, if achieved honestly. 

And yet despite Draco Malfoy being objectively very, very successful, it seemed that love was not one of those many things.  

“No.” Draco slashed at another line of ridiculous, near illegible markings on the piles of parchment spread across his desk. 

“She insisted on your attendance.” Draco’s assistant clutched his file-folder like a vice. “I’m not to take ‘no’ for an answer.” 

“Tell her I can’t,” said Draco, quill scratching away without pause. “My schedule is full for the foreseeable future.” 

“Perhaps just an hour or so would satisfy her?” 

“If you think that would satisfy her, then you don’t know my mother.” 

“It was only a suggestion…a potential compromise!” 

“Narcissa Malfoy doesn’t compromise.”  

“The reservation is for Le Pieux Mensonge,” his assistant continued, as if such a thing would sway him. “I heard their food is brilliant. And, you never know, you could end up having a lovely time. You spend so much time in the office, and I know you like your work, but even I don’t spend so much time in my garden—and I love my Mimbletonia almost as much as I love my grandmum—but it couldn’t hurt for you to see the sun every once in awhile. That’s not to say I think your complexion is unsuitable, I only meant—”

“Longbottom!” Draco cut off the man before he dug himself a hole he couldn’t crawl out of.

Whilst Neville had grown on him in the years of their working together, the Gryffindor’s tendency to ramble was something Draco wasn’t sure he’d ever be fully acclimated to. 

Originally hired on solely as an Herbology consultant, Neville had been an incredibly profitable acquisition, particularly in the early days of Malfoy Industries when Draco was still trying to shake the post-war whispers of ‘Death-Eater’ that clung to his coattails.

Neville’s knowledge of plants had fit well into the work they did at the potions haus, a piece of the puzzle that aided in the rapid growth of the business’s reputation for especially potent products. 

But it had been evident in the first few months of his employment that Neville couldn’t seem to keep to one thing.

After a constant barrage of “I owled your mother back for you, Malfoy. And I also straightened up the ingredients cupboard. And cleaned out the cauldrons. And did you want me to stop by Diagon to see if they’ve finally got the new shipment of seven-centimeter vials?” Draco had tacked on an extra few thousand galleons to Neville’s salary and dubbed him Malfoy Industries’s general manager and his own personal assistant. 

“Is it not evident that I am terribly busy trying to ready things for the meeting next Friday? I am not going to waste my evening dining with whatever vapid witch my mother has surely selected for pointless small talk over even smaller, pointless canapés.” 

Even bickering over whether or not he would attend a blind date he hadn’t consented to in the first place was a waste of time Draco could not afford.

The damned relocation addendum was nearly as long as the bill itself—unnecessarily so, thanks to a certain aggravating, bushy-haired, Beasts employee—and was supposed to be finished by the end of the following week for the Wizengamot’s reviewal. 

I doubt the Jobberknolls care whether or not it’s a ‘safe community’, Granger. They’re birds. Their brains are no bigger than a Snitch. 

Draco punctuated his sentence with so much force the tip of his quill pierced straight through the parchment. But when he glanced up at Neville for the first time since he’d entered Draco’s office, he set the quill aside. 

“Please tell me why you look as though you’ve just witnessed Moaning Myrtle sucking off Nearly Headless Nick in the Prefect’s bath?” Draco asked. 

Neville grimaced, retrieving something from the pockets of his file-folder.

It was Draco’s turn to frown then, eyes falling closed in a painful wince.

For his assistant now held a distinctive red envelope. 

“Don’t suppose I can just Incendio it?” 

“She gave me five others,” said Neville. 

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering to himself. “Always two steps ahead, aren’t you mother?”

He extended his hand, letting Neville place the Howler into his upturned palm. 

May as well get this over with. 

Draco broke the wax seal, bracing himself.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy!” The paper lips spoke sternly in Narcissa’s sharp, commanding tone. “Do you have any idea the lengths I have had to go to to get you into this pairing program? The amount of afternoon teas I have hosted, garden parties I have attended as of late? I spent the entirety of last week’s embroidery circle listening to Priscilla Prewett gab on about the impending arrival of her fifth grandson. And here I am, sure to be six feet under before my son dares to stray from his work long enough to get his prick up and into a woman!” 

It was entirely plausible that Draco’s cheeks were coloring a shade deeper than the Howler itself. 

“I do not care what you claim to have on your agenda. You will attend this dinner, Draco. And I will know if you do not. I’ve given Mr. Longbottom explicit permission to spell you there himself, if need be. I expect to hear how it went at Sunday dinner. Don’t be late.”  

With his mother’s demands ringing in the air, the Howler finally silenced, shredding itself to pieces. Draco watched the bits of parchment cascade to the carpeted office floor, jaw flexing. 

Why must his mother insist on inserting herself into this aspect of his life? He’d effectively managed to reclaim the Malfoy name after his father’s imprisonment, built a stable and still growing potions empire, and was on the way toward potential experimental history.

Yet without a witch on his arm, Narcissa refused to believe he was happy. 

But he was. He had his work. His flat. His freedom.

He knew he was exceedingly lucky to be walking around without an Azkaban sentence hanging over his head, let alone uninhibited use of a wand. That the rest of the Wizarding World could have easily shunned him for the rest of eternity, could have never given him a second chance.

What more was he allowed to wish for before it became contumelious?

“Malfoy?” 

“Yes, Longbottom?”

“May I offer an observation?” 

Draco sighed. “I suppose you will either way.” 

“If you want your mum to stop pestering you, why don’t you do what she wants?” Neville shrugged, as if the answer were as simple as that. 

“It seems I have no choice.”

“I don’t mean just the date,” Neville corrected. “Why don’t you get married?” 

Draco didn’t feel like airing his laundry list of reasons why love wasn’t meant for him to Longbottom of all people, so he settled on his go-to answer instead. “Because there is no one I wish to marry.” 

“But what if you make your mum think there is?” 

“Pardon?”

“Surely she won’t keep trying to set you up if she thinks you’re seeing someone seriously.” 

The idea wasn’t completely unfounded, Draco had to admit. But it would still involve a level of socialization and time away from work that he couldn’t justify. 

“Just go tonight,” Neville continued. “See if the witch is someone you could date casually and then talk up to your mum to make it seem like you’re more interested than you are.” 

Draco watched him run a hand over his short-shorn hair, tug at the sleeves of his midnight blue Malfoy Industries lab-safe robes. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to help me, Longbottom, or save yourself from receiving a Howler of your own.” 

Neville gave a sheepish smile. “One of the extra five is addressed to me. I’d prefer not to have a reason to open it.” 

“Understandable,” said Draco. He glanced down at the pages littering his desk. It was unlikely he’d be able to focus much on anything now anyway.

Besides, if he had to read yet another line of Granger’s absurd suggestions his head might explode.

“I’ll go. But only because I could really use a drink.” 

With a flick of his wand, the addendum re-ordered itself into a neat stack.

Draco stood, tugging his outer robes from the hook fashioned to the side of one of the many bookcases lining his office walls. The deep wood, dim light, and smell of ink and leather had created somewhat of a safe space, a place in which the only thing he had to focus on was potions. Where the other, less than pleasant voices that often frequented his thoughts finally quieted. 

“Here.” Draco handed the addendum to Neville. “Deliver this to the Ministry and then you can skive off. Get an early start on your evening.”

The bill was too weighty for even Draco’s broad-winged eagle owl to bear. He could hear Granger’s pitched cry of animal abuse should he dare try to attach it to Athena’s leg.

“Will do, Malfoy!” said Neville, smiling. Probably because he wasn’t going to be subjected to a paper tongue-lashing. “Good luck on your date! Who knows, perhaps you’ll really fall in love!” 

This time, Draco couldn’t withhold his scoff. “Without the use of Amortentia? I doubt it.” 

Draco didn’t wait to hear Neville’s response, stepping into the Floo and vanishing in a flash of green flames. 

—

“Honestly, the idea isn’t half bad.” 

Draco swallowed another swig of Firewhiskey, glaring at the wizard leaning against the bar next to him. 

“I didn’t hire him to be an idiot, Nott.” 

“No, you get that from me for free,” said Theo, nudging Draco’s elbow with his own. “But seriously, mate, he makes a good point. The sooner you get serious the sooner you can stop getting narked by Narcissa.”

“Says London’s regular sleaze himself,” Draco huffed. 

“Hey!” Theo raised his hands in acquiesce. “It’s not my fault daddy dearest can’t attempt to set me up from beyond the grave.” 

“I don’t think even the Dementor’s Kiss could prevent my mother from meddling.” Draco had the strong urge to smash his forehead into the Leaky’s bartop.

He’d Floo’d from his office to his flat to change into something more appropriate for the likes of Le Pieux Mensonge, but the subsequent silence had left too much time for stewing over the many reasons why this was a bad idea, and so he’d owled Theo, requesting his friend’s presence for some pre-date drinks. 

Luckily, Theodore Nott was incredibly amenable to anything that involved Draco’s impending misery, and had answered with an enthusiastic, and annoyingly presumptuous ‘Why of course, but only if I’ll get to be your best man!’

“At the very least, perhaps you’ll get a decent shag out of it.” Theo shrugged, flicking a stray curl from his forehead with a red-painted fingertip, the collection of his many rings clinking against his glass as he took another sip of his own drink. 

“And you would know so much about shagging a woman?” Draco countered. 

“Whilst it may not be the team for which I bat, bird or bloke, a blind date usually goes one of two ways.” Theo ticked off each on his fingers. “One; they’re so hideous you can’t stomach sitting across from them and need to make use of some emergency Puking Pastilles, or two; they’re decently attractive and down for a quick tumble.” 

“What, no falling in love at first sight?” 

Theo settled a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “I may be a romantic, darling, but I’m also a realist. You and your Occulumency walls of steel would rather take a Crucio straight to the bollocks than open up to someone you just met.” 

As much as Draco wanted to sock Theo for such a comment, he knew his friend’s observation wasn’t entirely unfounded.

But in his experience, those he let in usually let him down. Or fed him straight to a snake-nosed sociopath at the age of sixteen. 

“Think I still have time to make an escape?” Draco asked, diverting the conversation away from his apparent lack of emotional vulnerability. 

“You aren’t even there yet, mate!” Theo laughed. “No one’s going to Imperius you into it. Although, from what you said it seems like Narcissa gave Longbottom the go ahead.” He slid a few galleons to the wizard behind the bar with a wink. “Besides, what’s the worse that can happen?” 

The crooked clock on the far wall chimed the hour, meaning that if Draco didn’t head out soon he’d be not just fashionably late but inappropriately so. And as much as he was dreading the evening ahead, he did still have an image to uphold. 

“I’ve learned that nothing good ever comes from that question.” Draco swallowed the remainder of his Firewhiskey and stood, paying for his own drink sans wink. 

“Just remember, your dick goes in her—”

Theo’s words were cut off with a wandless Silencio. 

“Goodbye, Nott.” 

Draco’s friend gave him a soundless wave as he exited the Leaky.

With a crack of Apparition, he found himself outside under the scalloped awning of Le Pieux Mensonge.

It was evident even through the front window that the place was already packed, witches and wizards chatting over cheese boards and wine.

Draco subconsciously scanned those visible for a particularly lonely witch, though it was impossible to tell from his poor vantage point. 

Using it as a chance to stall, Draco took his jotter from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, re-reading the name Neville had sent over as the one used for the reservation. 

Erasmus. 

Draco scoffed. Of course the pathetic pairing system would choose a name that meant 'desire'.

The only desires Draco had were to get through the evening ahead, hope his mother had selective amnesia and forgot she expected him Sunday, and finish the relocation addendum and never work with Granger on another project again lest he wish to subject himself to an eternity of decoding her horrible handwriting. 

Determined to get this entire ordeal over with, Draco took one last fortifying breath, checked that his hair hadn’t been too disturbed by the late winter wind, and stepped inside. 

Chapter Text

Though Hermione was no more familiar with Pureblood manners than Ronald Weasley was with the proper pronunciation of Leviosa, she was pretty sure gaping slack-jawed at the man in front of her was far from what would be considered an appropriate first impression.

And yet it seemed Fauna Fortescue’s formal introduction would begin as such: speechless. 

“I—but—erm—” The half-words came out choked, tripping over her tongue.

Malfoy’s hand was still held aloft in mid-air, long, pale fingers steady and not at all shaking uncontrollably like Hermione’s own, trapped in her lap.

It was only when the tip of his pinky twitched, like that was all the displeasure he was allowed to express, that she made herself reach for it. 

“Fauna Fortescue,” she finally managed, giving his hand a firm shake. Malfoy glanced at their touching palms curiously, and Hermione realized that she was probably gripping him much too tight for a dainty, polite, Pureblood ice-cream empire heir. “Pleasure.” 

“Fortescue as in Florean?” Malfoy asked, seeming to let the initial odd exchange slide. 

Hermione nodded. “Yes, the very same.” 

“What is your relation?” 

She didn’t like the way that Malfoy was looking at her—studying, rather. Like he could smell the Polyjuice on her skin as if it were perfume. 

“Niece,” said Hermione, clearing her throat when it came out a bit pitched.

“I wasn’t aware Mr. Fortescue had any living relatives, seeing as the storefront is still unchanged since the war.” 

“Yes, well, you know. Bad memories and all that.” 

Malfoy’s eyes hardened. “Indeed.” 

The stilted silence that followed was so awkward Hermione nearly hugged the waiter when he arrived with her wine.

When he turned to take Malfoy’s drink order, she used her date’s momentary distraction to collect herself. Which really meant chugging half her glass in one go, accompanied by a brief mental montage of throttling Daphne.

I’m on a bloody date with Draco Malfoy. 

Except, she wasn’t. Not really.

Fauna was. And Fauna was supposed to be utterly unbearable. 

The reminder that it was all an act was clarifying, a spot of fortitude amidst the shock clouding her thoughts. Much like her schoolwork back at Hogwarts, having a clear and defined goal made the task itself easier to manage. She just had to take the right steps to produce the results she needed.

She’d punched the man for Merlin’s sake. She could handle him for an hour. 

In fact, she’d have him running for the hills. 

At the sound of Malfoy’s perfectly accented, dismissive Merci, Hermione straightened, trying to suppress the suspicious smirk that threatened to tilt her lips. 

“So!” She chirped brightly, though paying mind to keep her voice rougher like Daphne and Pansy had suggested. “What do you do for work, Mal-Draco?” She coughed to cover the slip, his given name strange on her tongue. 

Malfoy leaned back in his chair, one elbow propped on the curved arm in a show of what was clearly practiced nonchalance.

But the pose was effective. The stretch of his tailored navy suit jacket did unfair things to the shape of his arms, fit firmly to his biceps and flared just enough at the cuffs, fastened with what were surely custom silver links. His white undershirt and lack of tie were surprisingly casual compared to the professional potions robes she usually saw him in whenever he made an appearance at the Ministry.

Even his platinum hair looked less stark in the candlelight, a selective strand falling effortlessly across his forehead. 

Despite their torrid history, Hermione could admit that whilst Draco Malfoy was many things—aggravating, argumentative, a right pain in the arse—unattractive was not one of them. 

Malfoy eyed her with a slight frown, likely in disbelief that anyone had never heard of Malfoy Industries before. 

“I own a potions haus and laboratory,” he said with a shrug, like being a CEO was no different than the average day job. “We specialize in standard potion production and privately funded experimental testing.” 

“Oh, that does sound rather familiar!” Hermione leaned Margaux’s pointy chin into her hand. “I’ve heard the potions market is particularly profitable these days.” 

“It is quite lucrative, yes.” 

“How much, exactly?” Her question was purposefully blunt, bordering on brash. 

“I’m sorry?” Malfoy’s brows pinched in that way Hermione had come to know meant he was annoyed. She swallowed a victorious smile. 

Step One: Invasive Inquiries. 

“How much do you make?” She accompanied her reiteration with a flutter of her lashes.

Her strategy was rather simple; she’d been on enough dates to know what things men were often put off by—though in her case, it was usually her tendency to drift toward conversational topics that weren’t of interest to those who didn’t consider a weekend reading research reports one well spent. 

“I don’t know that this is appropriate dinner conversation,” said Malfoy.  

“It’s just that, if we’re going to be together, I need to know that my…lifestyle, can be supported.” 

“Right…” he drawled. 

“So?” Hermione pushed. 

“I assure you, my vaults are at no risk of running out anytime soon. Even before I began my business, my finances were of no concern. Privileges of being an heir.”

Malfoy’s statement would’ve been snobby if Hermione didn’t know he was simply stating facts. The man was disgustingly rich. There really was no roundabout way to say it. 

“Good,” said Hermione. “I don’t want Violetta to get lonely.” 

“Violetta?”

Hermione held up the silver clutch Pansy had given her. “Violetta! My baby!” 

Step Two: Materialistic Mania. 

She placed an obnoxious kiss to the metallic leather. “She gets nightmares if she’s in the closet alone for too long.” Hermione said in a stage whisper, petting the bag like it were Crookshanks.

The urge to laugh was overpowering. If it were anyone but Malfoy, she may even feel a bit bad about the freak show she was about to subject him to.

But perhaps it was well-deserved revenge for the years of misery she’d endured at Malfoy’s own amusement. It was her turn to watch him squirm. 

“Naturally,” said Malfoy. “It’s why I always make sure to store my shoes in pairs. Wouldn’t want to separate such lovely couples.”  

It took a moment for Hermione to register what he’d said. She’d expected something more along the lines of “You’re barmy”.

But it sounded like…like Malfoy had made a joke.

In all the times they’d crossed paths since the war, whether at work or miscellaneous reparations functions, the most pleasant response she’d ever gotten from him was a “Looks passable, Granger.” Mostly it was sarcastic barbs and exasperated exclamations. 

Fine, thought Hermione. He did live with a madman, after all. Not surprising he’s not so easily swayed by crazy. Guess I’ll need to step it up. 

“Do you live in London?” Malfoy asked, taking the proffered taste of red wine from the returned waiter.

He swirled it around once, sniffed it, and swallowed the single swig. A throaty hum of approval had his glass filled to the top. 

Hermione tore her gaze from the soft stain forming on his bottom lip. She shook her head. “Yes. I moved here recently.” 

“Where from?”  

“Well, I’ve been quite flighty in the years since graduating from university. You know how it is,” Hermione lied. “But these eggs won’t be fresh for fertilizing much longer.” 

“You’re looking to settle down then?” Malfoy seemed nonplussed by her indelicate language. 

“Oh, definitely,” said Hermione. “I was thinking seven.” 

“Seven children?” 

“I know, it seems like a low number.” Hermione sighed wistfully. “But like I said, I’m racing the biological clock here.” She tilted her head. “Why, is that a problem?” 

Malfoy, to her troubled surprise, chuckled. “No, not at all actually. In fact, I think my mother would love you.” 

“Oh.” Her retort came out flat, caught off guard by his odd acceptance. 

“What is it that you do then?” Malfoy carried on unbothered. “With that many kids I think it’d be rather hard to keep up with work as well.” 

“You can’t expect someone with cuticles as delicate as these to—” She shuddered, Margaux’s clean, manicured hands held out in front of her, “—work.” 

“Of course not. Preposterous, really.” 

Hermione couldn’t tell if he was kidding. She pressed on. “I want to get married. As soon as possible. If this goes well, I might be dragging you by that tie to the Ministry before the night’s out.” The statement was meant to be obtrusive, but Malfoy didn’t so much as blink.

No, to Hermione’s confounded horror, he began to laugh. A deep, full-chested, not-entirely-unpleasant laugh. 

“You’re funny, Fauna.” Malfoy tipped his glass to her in a salute, taking a slow sip through his smile. “I like it.”

Hermione couldn’t help the way her nose scrunched at the unforeseen compliment, despite the action being decidedly undignified. There was no way he was actually enjoying this. 

Yet in all their years of knowing one another, she’d never seen him so…amused. And it wasn’t even at the expense of another person.

Although, perhaps her dignity was taking a bit of a beating. 

Unsure what to say in response, Hermione did the only thing she could think of to step things up a notch. Under the guise of crossing her legs, she jerked her knee violently into the underside of the table.

With a touch of wandless magic and a lot of overdramatic shrieking, she sent the contents of both their glasses careening into Malfoy’s white-clothed chest. 

“Merlin!” She cried, fingers flying to her cheeks. “I’m such a dolt!” Before Malfoy had a chance to reach for his wand, Hermione stood from her seat, napkin brandished in her hand. She knelt before him, right on the floor in the middle of the restaurant, and began dabbing at his shirt. 

“I’m sooooo sorry, Drakey!” She tried not to gag at the nickname leaving her lips. “Let me get it for you! Sit still!” 

Malfoy attempted to dodge her pats, seizing hold of her wrist.

Hermione swallowed at the pressure of his fingers. She didn’t think he was going to hurt her. It was just she hadn’t really thought Step Three: Cause a Scene through, and now she was knelt before him in a dress, looking up at his not hideous face, with her palm splayed on his not-so-soft pectorals. 

“I’ve got it.” 

Was it just her, or was his voice a touch hoarse? 

You’re Polyjuiced to look like a Pureblood princess. She scolded herself. Of course he doesn’t mind the idea of you on your knees—

“There,” Malfoy’s declaration interrupted her miniature spiral. “All gone.”

Hermione blinked at his now spotless attire. 

“You didn’t use your wand.” It sounded stupid even to her own ears, but she couldn’t stop her astonishment from escaping.

In theory, she’d known he was often not far behind her in class rankings, but the effortless display was equal parts impressive and vexatious. 

“I was prone to getting in a few scraps myself as a child,” said Malfoy. “And when the ever-pristine Narcissa Malfoy is your mother, well…let’s just say you pick up a few useful tricks over the years.” 

Who was this polite, not entirely un-charming creature?

Was this her boggart now? A terrifyingly unrancorous Draco Malfoy?

Realizing he still held her wrist, Hermione tugged it back against her chest, scrambling to her feet in a manner that was very much lacking the grace of a supposed Pureblood. 

This was becoming ridiculous. She was acting like an absolute lunatic! He should have high-tailed it out of there ages ago!

Hermione struggled not to outwardly frown. 

Very well. If Malfoy wasn’t to be deterred by vault-digging, personified purses, shot-gun weddings, or clumsy cop-a-feels, then there was only one thing to be done. 

Step Four: Overly Emotional. 

Willing herself to channel the same level of acting she’d employed during her deception of Umbridge and her depiction of Bellatrix, Hermione sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth. Let her bottom lip quiver, just so. Pushed a whimper from her lungs.

When the first tear fell and she watched Malfoy’s gaze track it’s path down her cheek, she knew she had him. 

“Y-you don’t l-like m-m-me!” Hermione wailed.

Even through her blurred vision, she could see the alarm overtaking Malfoy’s expression. His widened eyes and clenched fists. 

“What—”

“You think I’m u-u-ugly!” 

The entirety of the establishment had quieted, turning to look at the cause of the commotion. 

“You don’t w-want to h-have sex w-with me!” 

“I never said that! I—” 

“I’m not g-good enough f-for you, is t-that i-it?” Hermione gave herself over to the theatrical sobs, shoulders shaking, snot flowing. 

“Fauna!” Malfoy stood, taking her by the shoulders. “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you.” He stared at her, a startling sincerity to his words. “I don’t think you’re ugly.” 

“Y-you don’t?” Hermione knew her surprise was unfounded considering the face he was looking at wasn’t her own, but the sentiment struck some long-suppressed cord in her.

How many times had he told her—Hermione—just the opposite during their school days? Made fun of her hair or her teeth?

Would he say the same thing if he knew who truly stood before him? 

“No,” Malfoy was speaking again. “I promise. Now, why don’t we sit? We still have yet to order.” 

Godric, what was it going to take to get this man to break? 

“No.” Hermione straightened, swiping at the residual wetness beneath her eyes. “Take me home.”

“Of course,” Malfoy assured. “Where do you live?” 

“I mean take me home.”

“I—but—”

Finally, she’d rendered him speechless! It was about time! And in the nick of it too. This was the last card she had, her deck dwindled to a solitary play. 

“Ok.”

Make that a fold. 

“What?” The yelp left her in a dangerously Hermione-sounding manner. 

“I said ok.” Malfoy reached into his suit jacket, retrieving a handful of galleons and placing them on their table. “You comfortable with side-along?” 

Hermione could do nothing but gawk at Malfoy’s retreating back as he began to make his way toward the front of the restaurant.

Only when he was about half-way there and realized she wasn’t following did he stop and turn, eyebrow quirked. 

Oh. Oh. That little prat.

He was trying to call her bluff.

Whether he knew she’d been pursuing sabotage all evening or had only keyed into the pretense of her most recent presumptuous proposition was unclear. 

But if there was one thing Hermione Granger had learned about herself over the years—from saving Hippogriffs to hunting Horcruxes—it was that she didn’t give up.

If Malfoy wanted to have a battle of wills, so be it. 

Snagging her clutch from her seat, Hermione strode after him, chin raised. 

She’d nearly reached him when a sudden tug on her arm stopped her. 

“Toi!” A woman stepped into her path, blocking her view of Malfoy, talon-like nails biting into the skin of Hermione’s forearm where the raised Mudblood usually lay. “Comment oses-tu!”

“Pardon?” 

“N'agissez pas tout innocent maintenant! Je n'arrive pas à croire que tu montrerais ton visage ici, espèce de sale petite garce!” The woman’s words were venomous, and even though Hermione’s French was quite rudimentary, she could tell whatever was being said was far from diplomatic. 

“I’m sorry I—”

“Vous avez eu une liaison avec mon mari!” 

Malfoy approached from behind the spitting witch, reading the confusion on Hermione’s face.

“You had an affair with her husband?” 

“What? Of course not, I would never—!” But Hermione’s defense was cut off by the woman’s brandishing of a photograph.

It looked like it’d been taken by a private detective, the edges obscured by a bush. Yet in frame, and stuck in a continuous magical loop shoving her tongue down an older man’s throat, was Margaux Garnier. 

This cannot be happening. 

“It’s not what it looks like,” Hermione begged.

The woman paused her shouting of what were almost certainly expletives, but the brief relief didn’t last long.

Before anyone thought to throw a Protego, she raised her hand and struck Hermione clean across the face. 

Hermione’s head whipped to the side, palm coming up to clutch her stinging cheek. Jaw popping, she gaped at the fuming woman now being held back by multiple other guests.

It was only at the sound of a sharp Stupefy that she collapsed. The hostess and some other staff members levitated her out of the main dining hall, insisting to Hermione they would call the DMLE to collect the woman. That their meal was on the house, and the next one too should she wish to come again. 

The shock of the cold air on her burning face was the first indication that they were no longer inside. Somehow, Malfoy had maneuvered the two of them out of the chaos and onto the street.

Hermione brought her hand away from her face, noting the spot of blood on her fingertips.

The woman’s wedding ring must’ve cut her. 

“Want to explain what that was all about?” Malfoy’s arms were crossed, eyes narrowed. 

Hermione opened her mouth to denounce all of the woman’s claims, swear she’d never, ever do something so disrespectful and immoral.

Except perhaps this was her last hand. 

“No wonder he said he was sick of his wife,” she huffed a laugh. “She seems like a headache.”

“So, you did sleep with her husband?” 

“Oh, Drakey!” Hermione poked his bicep playfully. “I sleep with a lot of people. You can hardly expect me to keep track!” 

“A lot, you say?”

“Tons, actually. In fact,” Hermione adopted an expression of faux worry, eyes wide, “I should probably get out of here. Wouldn’t want any other accidental run-ins.”

“But I thought you—” 

“I had such a lovely time tonight. We should do this again!” She leaned up on her tiptoes, kissing the air on either side of Malfoy’s cheeks like she’d seen Daphne’s mother do once before at a Ministry function. “Owl me, yeah?” 

“Wait! Fauna!” Malfoy gripped her arms, keeping her trapped against him and inhibiting her escape attempt. 

“Yes?” Hermione bit out through gritted teeth. What else could Malfoy possibly have to say to her? 

“Will you marry me?”

Chapter Text

It wasn’t often that Draco Malfoy was presented with the opportunity to be humbled.

And yet, within a single evening he’d been grounded so thoroughly he may as well have been buried beneath it.

The headstone would read as so: Here lies the ego of Draco Lucius Malfoy, he who survived the attentions of the Dark Lord but met his end at the hands of a woman. 

If Draco was going to be taken out by a questionably sane witch, he’d always expected it’d be due to suffocation of the sexual variety, not a devastating blow to his pride on the streets of Wizarding London. 

He resisted the urge to kick his entryway table as he stalked through his darkened flat, Fauna Fortescue’s laughter echoing in his ears. Draco didn’t even bother with a Lumos, heading straight for his home office. 

“Nott!” 

It took Theo’s head less than ten seconds to appear in the fireplace. “You called?” 

“If you step through right now I’ll give you the 1942 vintage from the vault.” 

The words worked like an Accio, summoning Theo through the Floo without a fight. Still dressed in the same clothes Draco had left him in at the Leaky, Theo brushed the residual soot from his shoulders with a smile. 

“How can I be of service?” 

Draco took a seat in one of the two arranged arm chairs, gesturing for Theo to take the other. “I need your…perspective, on something.” 

Theo crossed his long legs, hands steepled beneath his chin. “Mmm,” he hummed. “And does this have to do with the date you’re supposed to currently be on?”

“Oh, I went on it, alright,” said Draco on an exasperated laugh. “I thought things were going well, but it seems I misjudged the situation.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed at his friend’s statement. “Okay…well, was she monstrous?”

Draco sank further into the soft leather, closing his eyes. “No,” he sighed. “She was rather fit. Long black hair, bangs, on the shorter side.”

“So, Pansy’s evil twin?” 

“More like long lost cousin. She’s related to the Fortescue’s.” 

“Really?” Theo’s voice pitched in surprise. “I haven’t heard anything of them since years before the war. What’s she doing back in town now?” 

“Said she’s here to settle down and get married. And I’m assuming sell that shop that’s still sitting in Diagon.” 

“Right. So she’s fit and from a decent family. This seems alright so far.” 

“It was,” said Draco. The evening had been much more enjoyable than he’d originally assumed. When he’d first sat down, the witch had seemed a bit stunned to see him, but it wasn’t the first time he’d rendered a woman speechless. The seven years since the war had eased the ache of his family’s past actions but not erased them, thus evoking a range of reactions to his presence. 

But Fauna had recovered quickly, and, as he’d told Theo, was rather attractive. Draco’s pessimism had eased a bit, and he’d relaxed into their conversation.

In the beginning it had been a tad difficult to parse out whether her invasive questions and over-enthusiasm for her attire were the result of a reprehensible personality or nerves.

But upon Fauna’s insinuation that she’d like to skip the entire dinner in favor of frequenting Draco’s flat, her objective had become rather obvious. 

Draco had to give it to her, it had been a stellar performance. Though he still wasn’t sure whether or not the whole incident with the other woman’s husband had been authentic or an elaborate scheme.

Either way, the dedication was impressive. 

“I thought you said things were going well!” Theo interrupted Draco’s summarizing of events. 

“They were.” Draco insisted. “She was perfect.” 

“The social climbing, shopaholic home-wrecker was perfect?”

“Yes. Who better to help get my mother off my arse?” 

Theo’s frown softened with understanding. “Ah, I see where you’re going with this.”

“Exactly,” continued Draco. “Imagine my mother’s face if I brought Fauna home. She’d remove me from the program herself if she realized those were the kinds of witches enrolled.” 

“You sure she wouldn’t just make you go on another date?” 

Draco shook his head. “Not if I made her think I was serious about the relationship like Longbottom suggested. I’d insist on dating Fauna. Make mother beg me to break up with her. Then, use her dislike as leverage to let me go about my love life as I choose from then on.” 

“A fair plan. But then why am I here?” 

“Because,” Draco grimaced. “She doesn’t want to be with me.” 

“How do you know?” asked Theo. 

“She laughed.” 

Theo barked one of his own then, slapping the arm of the chair. “Oh, I would’ve paid an obscene amount of galleons to see that!” 

“Fuck off.” Draco spat, wishing the flames would leap from the fireplace and devour him whole. “I asked you here for your advice, not judgement.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” said Theo, swallowing a snort. “Alright, why don’t you tell me exactly what happened, then, and I’ll see if I can tell what went wrong.” 

Frowning, Draco cleared his throat. “We were standing outside the restaurant after the unfortunate encounter and I could tell she was going to try to make run for it so I stopped her before she could…” Draco hesitated, but Theo gestured for him to go on. “And then I asked her to marry me.” 

The silence that followed was so complete Draco was half-worried he’d stunned Theo into a fugue state. Seconds, no—minutes passed, and still his friend did not make a sound. 

Draco’s left leg began to bounce.

“Well?” he finally broke. “Say something.”

“You,” Theo croaked, burying his face in his palms, “are a bloody idiot! You asked her to marry you? What in Godric’s name made you think that was a good idea?” 

“It’s what she said she wanted!” Draco tried to defend himself. “I figured I’d just skip ahead and sweeten the deal. Besides, I don’t actually intend to marry her.” 

“First of all, while yes, many Pureblood women still seem to hold the idea of marriage in high regards, I doubt many of them care so much as to say yes to marrying a man they just met.” Theo said slowly, like he were explaining it to a child. “Second, did you tell her you wanted the engagement to be fake?” 

“I didn’t get the chance,” said Draco, gaze fixed on the fire. “When I asked, she just started laughing and then Apparated before I could explain further.” 

“I’m not surprised,” Theo said. 

“I’m supposed to visit my mother at the Manor Sunday for dinner. I was planning on bringing Fauna, but now…” Draco trailed off, letting the implication of a horrendous, passive aggressive evening hang in the air. 

“The way I see it, you either go alone and face the consequences, or convince Fauna to be your fake fiancé.” Theo shrugged. 

“I’m supposed to do that how?” 

“Owl the pairing service saying you’d like to send her a gift following your date, then ask her to meet you again to explain.” 

“And if she refuses to meet me?” 

“Bribe her. There’s one thing you aren’t lacking, mate, and it’s money. Use it.” 

Draco contemplated the suggestion. “I suppose there are worse odds.” 

“If you really think Fauna could be the one to help you loosen Narcissa’s metaphorical noose, then I say there's nothing to lose.” Theo stood then, stretching his arms above his head with a dramatized yawn. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I left an indecent bartender unattended in my manor and would very much like to get back to—”

“Go.” Draco cut him off, not wanting to hear whatever torrid thing lay on the tip of his friend’s tongue. 

“Such an uncouth dismissal for someone who is trying to help you,” gasped Theo, hand pressed to his heart in faux offense. 

“I hope the Floo scorches your arse on the way out.” 

Theo gave him a parting, vulgar gesture.

Once his friend had gone, Draco slid further down in his seat, letting the heat of the residual fire wrap around him like a blanket.

He knew he should probably make his way to bed, the hours of overtime he’d been putting in to get the addendum in order seeming to finally be catching up with him in addition to the hectic events of the evening. Knew he should owl the pairing service like Theo suggested.

But the crackling pop of the smoldering logs was lulling and Draco found his eyes shutting on their own accord. 

Fauna's parting peels sung him a phantom lullaby until he surrendered fully to sleep.  

Chapter Text

Hermione liked to think she was not quick to anger. Irritation, maybe. Stubbornness, definitely.

But true, unadulterated anger? Not likely. 

Hence why the minute she stepped through Daphne’s Floo, the other witch should’ve been very, very afraid.

Because Hermione was fuming.  

“Daphne Eloise Greengrass, you are dead!” 

Her words echoed throughout the spacious flat, the sleek, modern decor amplifying Hermione’s threat.

The sitting room she’d entered into was vacant, but the lights were still on, the open-concept kitchen filled with the distinct sound of a soon-to-be-squealing kettle. 

“Sorry, what was that?” came Daphne’s distant voice, the soft pad of feet growing closer.

The witch emerged from the hallway, hair pinned up in rollers, navy silk pajama set drowning her slight frame, skin swathed in a mud-mask of some sort. 

“I suggest you duck.” That was the only warning Hermione allowed before sending the hex straight at her friend’s confused face. 

Daphne threw herself onto the nearest arm chair in the nick of time, the hairless hex just missing her precious blonde locks. 

“What the fuck, Hermione!” 

“You,” Hermione growled, advancing with her wand still raised. “You better hope your family chooses a comfortable casket because I am going to kill you!”

She lunged, but Daphne leapt to her feet, darting to the opposite side of the room. The white sectional and sturdy glass coffee table stood between them, but that didn’t deter Hermione from sending all seven throw pillows hurtling at the yelping Slytherin. 

“Stop it! Why—!” Daphne let out a grunt as one of the cushions hit her square in the stomach. “Why are you so pissed?”

“Because,” hissed Hermione, gripping her wand so tight the carved vines dug into her palm. “Do you want to know who I just went on a date with?”

“I’m guessing it wasn’t Lorcan d’Eath,” Daphne squeaked, hands raised to protect her face.

“No,” said Hermione. “It was Draco Malfoy!” 

Daphne’s lips parted in surprise, and then a shout, as Hermione’s tickling hex struck home. 

“H-H-Hermione!” Daphne choked out through half-laughter, pitching over at the waist. “P-please! I didn’t-t-t know!” 

“I don’t care! Do you have any idea the kind of evening I had to endure?” 

“I’m s-s-sorry! W-w-what h-hap-happened?” 

Hermione muttered the counter-spell, letting Daphne’s hiccuping giggles subside. Still, she stayed standing, glaring at the eldest Greengrass.

She crossed her arms, noting the slow return of her freckles, the jagged lines of her scar resurfacing.  

“Luna was right, you look even better in that dress as yourself,” said a hoarse Daphne. 

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Greengrass.” 

“Well, then don’t ever dye your hair. The black curls make you look like a less mental version of Bellatrix.” 

Hermione could feel the bangs shrinking up her forehead, retreating back into her usual wild hairline. The weight of her familiar mass of hair replacing the light sleekness of Margaux’s. 

“I don’t think you’re in the position to be insulting me right now, either,” said Hermione. “Sit.” 

Daphne had the foresight to look nervous. “Do you promise not to hex me again?” 

“Ever? No. Now? Fine. I promise.” 

Keeping her eyes on Hermione like she were a rabid animal, Daphne scooted her way around the sofa, making sure she didn’t turn her back on the witch still holding her wand.

Hermione would’ve laughed if she weren’t so riled. While the immediate intensity of her outrage had eased a bit with the vengeful wandwork, it hadn’t dissipated entirely. 

Hermione took the loveseat diagonal from Daphne.

“So,” Daphne hedged, blue eyes big and round. “Draco was the one I was paired with?” 

“Yes, it seems so,” said Hermione. 

“But, I know Draco. He’s usually rather charming, or at the very least polite. You two don’t have the best history, but it’s not like he knew who he was really there with.” 

“Oh, Malfoy was perfectly cordial.” 

“Then…what’s the problem?” 

“That was the problem,” Hermione grumbled. “The point of this entire scheme of yours—”

“Yours, really,” Daphne coughed.

Hermione’s wand hand twitched, and Daphne sank back further into the sofa. 

“This entire scheme was meant to get you out of the pairing program,” continued Hermione. “And yet, despite employing every trick in the book to get him to turn tail, do you know what he did, Daphne?”

Daphne swallowed, presumably at the use of her full name rather than Hermione’s more friendly, favored shortening of it. “Offered to pick up the bill?” 

“He asked me to marry him!” Returned fully to her normal self and no longer in the presence of one said date, Hermione didn’t suppress the way her words up-ticked an octave at the end of her exclamation. 

“What did you say?” 

“Did you want me to say yes?” Hermione exclaimed. “I said no, of course! Or, I suppose I just sort of laughed and Apparated out of there as fast as I could.” 

“I didn’t know he was looking to get married,” Daphne said, hugging one of the throw pillows Hermione had used as cannon fodder. “Last I heard, Blaise had set him up with one of the Zabini cousins, but it seems it must’ve never gotten off the ground if he’s proposing to witches after only an hour.”

“You think he was serious?” 

“In my experience, the Malfoy’s rarely say things they don’t mean.” Daphne shrugged. 

“But, that’s absurd!” Hermione’s exclamation was further punctuated by the shriek of the finally boiling kettle. “I acted beyond aberrant!” 

“I hate to say it, but if he’s been on as many pairing program dates as I have, the likelihood whatever you did even made the top contenders of crazy is unlikely.” Standing, Daphne reached for her wand on the mantle. “Would you like a cuppa?” 

Hermione nodded despite doubting the tea’s calming effects considering the current maelstrom occurring inside her head.

Daphne brought her a delicate saucer and steaming cup, a far cry from Hermione’s own cupboard of chipped mugs accumulated over years of teetering off her too-crowded desk. The scent of lemon and ginger made an effort to soothe her as she took a sip, tilting her head back to rest on the back of the sofa. 

“What exactly did you do?” 

With a resigned breath, Hermione regaled Daphne with the evenings events, throwing an especially scathing glare at the Slytherin girl when she arrived at the home-wrecking havoc.  

“It would’ve been nice to know the person I was impersonating was involved in an affair.”

“That’s a Parkinson problem,” said Daphne, having no qualms about throwing their other friend in front of the Bludger. She Vanished her own now-empty cup. “But don’t worry, it seems to me like it went brilliantly!” 

Hermione raised a brow. “Did you forget the part where Malfoy nearly got down on one knee?” 

“Please.” Daphne waved her off. “Draco may have endured the dramatics, but I can assure you he’d never attempt continued pursuit of a witch who rejected him. You may as well have hit him with a Bombarda for the effect your outright objection had on his ever-fragile amour-propre.” 

“I suppose he does have a rather delicate ego,” Hermione picked at her returned short, not perfectly pruned cuticles. “But you think it’ll be enough to get you kicked out of the program?” 

“One word to Narcissa Malfoy at Sunday dinner and we’ll be banned before you can say bowtruckle.” 

Daphne had a point. The Malfoy matriarch certainly would’t stand for her son being matched with a materialistic, man-eating maniac.

The infrequent but not unpleasant encounters Hermione had had with Narcissa since the war had only further proven the witch’s love for her son. Always preening over his accomplishments in the potions world, a few of the front page Prophet features surely bargained for over society brunches. 

“Don’t worry,” Daphne continued, coming to sit next to Hermione, no longer fearing a wayward hex. “I expect we’ll be receiving an owl from the program in no time.” 

Sinking further into the plush sofa cushions, Hermione exhaled an exhausted breath.

“I sure hope so.” 

—

Since that fated letter had landed on her doorstep just after her twelfth birthday, it had been hard for Hermione to forget she was a witch. And yet certain non-magical habits of her childhood remained, despite there being things for which magic was particularly more handy.

Carrying six stacks of parchment, three empty take-out cups filled with tepid tea, and numerous inkwells, all within the confines of her rather short arms, would’ve been drastically easier if she’d implemented a simple spell or two.

But it seemed in her distorted, sleep-deprived state she’d opted to do things the Muggle way.

Another department worker skirted her stumbling form, pressing themselves against the corridor wall to avoid bumping her any more off balance. Hermione tried to mumble a muffled ‘thank you’ through the quill held between her teeth. 

Running late to her afternoon meeting with the International Magical Office of Law hadn’t been a planned happenstance, but she’d lost track of time going over Malfoy’s latest round of edits to the addendum and by the time the office assistant had reminded her of the appointment she’d been elbows deep in an angry essay about why, yes, Malfoy a safe community for the Jobberknolls is essential as they’re co-dependent creatures who thrive in throngs of at least fifteen other members of their species. 

Hermione grimaced at the taste of ink on her tongue at another spoken ‘sorry’ to a group of Magizoologists ducking out of her way. She turned the last corner, the fourth floor lift bay in sight over the top of her perilous stacks.

If the lift was empty, she might have a moment to extract her wand and implement a more practical way of transporting her many materials. 

Bracing herself for the remaining stretch, Hermione began the trek across the green-tiled floor. But she’d only made it a few paces when a hand closed around her elbow, jerking her off her feet. 

The door to the vacant conference room slammed shut behind her and her assailant.

Hermione dropped her load in favor of going for her wand, the vine-wood held aloft in less than a second. Her heart beat in her throat, a fear she hadn’t felt in years stiffening her limbs. 

Who would attempt to attack her in the Ministry? 

“Hermione, what have you done?” 

At the sound of the familiar voice Hermione’s terror eased, loosening her shoulders, replaced instead by ire.

“Daphne!” she scolded. “Don’t do that! I thought you were an attacker of some kind.”

“Oh, I just might be!” Daphne cried. Whilst her tidy hair and red robes were more of the norm today, the flushed cheeks and wild eyes were not. “What did you do?”

“Besides ruin my entire organization system because you scared the wits out of me?” 

Daphne pulled a crisp envelope from the folds of her robes, as well as a sizable black-velvet box. “No. What did you do that he sent this!” 

Hermione took the proffered letter, an unfortunate realization settling in at the sight of the Malfoy crest stamped into the broken wax seal. She tugged it open, unfolding the parchment tucked inside. 

Miss Fortescue,

I first and foremost wish to apologize for the way in which we parted ways last night. I seek to assure you that I am not usually so maladroit in regards to my romantic pursuits. It is only that your presence, in combination with your undeniable beauty, seemed to strike me into a presumptuous state. My intention was not to offend, and if it is not too much of an imposition, I ask that you allow me to explain in person. 

I have made a reservation for two at the Flying Pixie this evening at seven o’clock. 

I hope to see you then.  

Sincerely,

Draco Lucius Malfoy 

PS: Please accept the accompanying gift as both an additional apology, as well as an idea of what other pieces I may acquire should you so desire one to fit your finger instead. 

Not daring a glance at Daphne, Hermione unclasped the small gold latch on the box, fearing she already knew what lay inside.

Sure enough, resting on a raised cushion and glittering, sat a decadent bracelet of alternating emeralds and diamonds. 

“Fuck.” 

“Fuck indeed,” said Daphne, hands on her hips. 

“You said the rejection would be enough!” said Hermione, snapping the lid closed and hiding the brilliant tennis bracelet from sight. 

“I thought it would be! But apparently Draco has either started seeing a mind healer, or he’s so desperate to get his dick wet he wasn’t deterred!” Daphne took back the envelope and box, tucking them back into her robes. “What do we do?” 

“We?” Hermione scoffed. “Daph, I did my part. This is all you.”

“Hermione—!” 

“I already let you talk me into this nonsense once.” Hermione gave her friend a pointed look, the one she usually reserved for Harry and Ron in their youth. “You have to tell him the truth.” 

“You want me to tell him he was on a date with a Polyjuiced Hermione Granger?” 

“I want you to tell him that it was supposed to be you, but you made your friend go in your stead. I already have to deal with Malfoy enough as is working on this addendum, I don’t need another reason for our relationship to be strained.” 

“But what if I—”

“No.”

“Maybe I could—”

“No.”

“Would you just—”

“Daphne! Tell. Him. The. Truth.” Hermione flicked her wand at the mass of spilled papers, letting them re-stack themselves neatly in her arms. “And perhaps your mother, while you’re at it.” 

With all her belongings collected again, she made for the door. 

“Fine!” Daphne conceded, calling after her. “I’ll tell Draco. But not my mother! I’d prefer to wake up tomorrow!” 

Hermione didn’t acknowledge her friends dramatic parting words, hurrying toward the lifts, now even later than she’d already been.

Sometimes she wondered how she’d ever allowed the Slytherin girl to worm her way into her life so much so that she’d let herself be pulled into schemes rivaled only by her, Ron, and Harry’s antics back in the day. 

The lift arrived with a chirp and Hermione slipped inside, punching the button for level five. With a stomach-clenching clang, the lift shot backwards, beginning it’s jerky descent down to the next floor.

Though technically the two departments were only a single level apart, the magical lift never abided by typical numerical rules, an inconvenience Hermione found especially aggravating as it came to an abrupt stop, the golden grate sliding open to the atrium on level eight. 

To her even greater inconvenience and aggravation, was the man stepping inside. 

“What is that nest of hair good for if not to store things, Granger?” Malfoy asked, eyeing her full hands. 

“Contrary to popular belief, Malfoy, I do not have an undetectable extension charm between my ears.” Hermione scowled. 

Unlike the night before, Malfoy was once again dressed in his potion haus robes, though they were just as impeccably tailored as the suit had been. He leaned against the back wall of the lift beside her, not bothering to grip one of the handles hanging from the ceiling. 

“You sure? Then where do you store all the swottiness?” 

“Up my arse,” Hermione grumbled under her breath. 

“Right next to the stick?” Malfoy quipped.

“Funny.” The press of Hermione’s lips was tight and sarcastic. “What are you even doing here?”

“Hm, well if you’re referring to the ontological property of being then I suppose it’s only proper to cite the Eleatic principle as the—”

 “I meant at the Ministry!” Hermione fixed her gaze on the lift buttons so as not to roll her eyes. “We aren’t meant to have another meeting with Gethsemane until after the Wizengamot review.” 

“How presumptuous of you to assume that I’m here to see you, Granger.” Malfoy crossed his arms. “Pickering summoned me. DMLE raided an estate yesterday. I’m here to pick up evidence.”

“Shouldn’t the Department of Mysteries be handling that?” 

“It seems they determined the need for an expert opinion on the matter.”

 “Vindictus is here?” said Hermione, voice tinged with feigned shock at the idea of the long-dead potioneer making an appearance. 

“Who’s trying to be funny now?” said Malfoy. “And where are you rushing off to with all of that?”

Hermione shifted her stance further into the far wall, a poor attempt at shielding her somewhat secretive stacks from Malfoy. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have an appointment with the Law Office. Or, I did ten minutes ago. I’m a bit behind schedule.” 

“The magnum opus?” Malfoy jerked his chin at her files. 

“One of them.” If her arms weren’t full, Hermione might have shrugged in an effort to appear nonchalant.

It was true that the Jobberknoll addendum was essential in regards to one of her more important private endeavors. The bird’s feathers were known for their potent properties in regards to potions—hence Malfoy’s unfortunate involvement—but what such potions were what were of interest to Hermione. 

Memory potions. 

However, Malfoy remained unaware of her personal attachments to their current co-project as well as her unofficial on-going efforts to reverse what she’d done to her parents.

And she’d very much like to keep it that way. 

“I didn’t realize one could have multiple magnum opuses, but then again, the rules never did seem to apply to you.” 

Hermione wasn’t sure whether Malfoy’s retort was meant to be a passive comment or a pointed jab.

Her nose scrunched in displeasure. How was it that not even twelve hours ago they had been at dinner, in which Malfoy had not only behaved as a perfect gentleman and gone a record of forty minutes without insulting her in some manner or other, but had proposed to her. 

Will you marry me?

Hermione’s cheeks warmed at the memory. Whilst the idea of marrying Malfoy was absolutely appalling, hearing those words from any man would jar a woman. Just as the lift physically did. 

She stumbled, wincing as some of the files scraped at the exposed scar on her forearm. Whilst fully healed, the raised skin was still rather sensitive to abrasion of any kind. It was why she favored her soft silk work blouses. 

“What happened to you?” Malfoy voiced. 

“You were there, Malfoy." Hermione threw him a bewildered look. "Psychopathic auntie dearest? Scary knife?” 

“I meant your face,” said Malfoy, frowning. Presumably at her candor mention of his most unpleasant relative. 

“If you’re referring to my teeth, Madam Pomfrey fixed them ages ago.”

“Granger,” Draco barked, apparently not putting up with her density. He touched a long, slender finger to his cheek. “The laceration.” 

“Oh.” Hermione’s stomach roiled with realization.

The injury she’d obtained at the literal hands of the woman from the previous night. She’d completely forgotten about it. Should’ve put a salve on it, or makeup at the very least.

But she’d returned from Daphne’s flat exhausted, barely managing to slip out of her dress and drag herself to bed. 

Malfoy stared at her expectantly. Frozen and unsure what might sound even somewhat believable, she coughed out a quiet charm. “What do you mean?” 

“Did you just cast a wandless glamour?” asked Malfoy, brow raised. 

“What? No!” Hermione winced at the sound of her denial. 

“Granger…”

“You’re seeing things, Malfoy.”

“Right. I just imagined a wound on your face.”

“Maybe you’re hallucinating. Have you been sleeping? Perhaps you shouldn’t be out so late.” Hermione’s words bordered on rambling, an effort to push the conversation away from her eerily coincidental injury. 

“And how would you know how late I’ve been out?” asked Malfoy. 

Hermione winced. She hadn’t meant to say that. But her head was heavy and muddled and Malfoy was looking at her in that same way he had Fauna, like reading her cover to cover wasn’t enough. Like he wanted to scribble observations in her margins, fill in the gaps he didn’t understand.

But by Godric, it seemed as though divine timing was on her side as the familiar chime of the lift shifted both their attention. They’d arrived at level five. 

Not one to look a gifted Thestral in the mouth, Hermione took the presented opportunity and bolted. 

“This is me!” she called over her shoulder, voice strained. “I’ll have the addendum back over to you with my next round of edits by end of day.” 

Hermione didn’t wait for Malfoy’s acknowledgement, letting the grate rattle closed behind her. She didn’t breathe easy again until she was safely down the corridor, around the corner, and out of sight. 

Pausing outside the Law Offices, Hermione allowed herself a brief moment to regain her bearings, scolding herself for the graceless exit.

Never mind it. She tried to reassure herself. Daphne is going to meet with Malfoy and all will be sorted.

Besides, she had more pressing matters to worry about. Namely convincing the Statute committee that the reversal of an Obliviate on Muggles was not in fact, considered a violation as they simply couldn’t remember what they already knew. 

Slapping on her most diplomatic, I-helped-saved-your-arses-from-immenent-destruction-and-you’d-be-wise-not-to-forget-it, smile, Hermione reminded herself of the reason she put up with the late nights and lack of socialization and laboring away at addendums. 

The war may have been over, but she still had a family to save. 

Chapter Text

Could one be categorized as a cat lady if their chosen, albeit still fuzzy, companion was not technically a cat?

Hermione ran an absent hand down Crookshanks exposed belly, the kneazle emitting a satisfied rumble. Despite the years, her familiar was as spry and inclined to sass as ever. He’d nearly scaled her leg when she’d arrived home, only ten minutes past her usual arrival time of 6pm, howling like he would starve with each passing minute. 

“A dramatic one, aren’t we?” Hermione cooed softly, scratching under Crooks chin. He blinked lazily, tail thumping in content. 

Whilst eating leftover takeaway from cardboard cartons and reading over the latest apothecarium accounts wasn’t what most would consider a rousing Friday night, it was becoming a routine occurrence for Hermione.

Sometimes, if the day had been slow and she’d retained a bit more energy, she’d brew a batch or two of back up potions, replenishing any of her dwindling stores.

But after her meeting with the Statute committee, all Hermione could muster was a casual perusal of the potency periodicals between bites of bulgogi. 

She’d taken to checking the public records collected each year from apothecaries on ingredient advancements and updates, searching for something that might inspire a more solid solution.

Anything that could possibly help in her experimental efforts to restore her parents memories.  

But after only a few pages the words began to blur, and so Hermione had set the sheets of parchment aside in favor of snuggling her favorite feline. 

The analog clock squeezed onto her overflowing bookshelves had barely struck seven when the hearth suddenly roared, smoldering embers shooting tall. The flames curled around the shape of a name, an indication that someone was trying to Floo call. 

Hermione sighed, giving Crookshanks another pat. “Speaking of dramatic ones.” 

She tugged her wand from were she’d stuck it through her lazy bun, releasing the wards.

“I lied.” Daphne’s disembodied head blurted the minute her face materialized. 

“You mean you didn’t walk in on Professor Flitwick and Professor Sprout going at it in greenhouse seven during fourth year?” 

“No, not about that!” said Daphne. Even through the Floo Hermione could see her shudder. “But thanks for that lovely reminder.”

“My pleasure,” said Hermione, coming to sit before the hearth. “What is it then, that you’re referring to?”

“The blind date.” Daphne squinted. “You see, I wasn’t entirely honest about my reasons for not wanting to go.”

Hermione drew her focus from Crooks re-seating himself in her lap, brow quirked. 

“My mother did put me in the pairing program against my will!” blurted Daphne. “And the men I was matched with were truly as awful as I said. But…”

“But?” prompted Hermione.

“ButIalsocouldn’tgobecauseI’mactuallyseeingsomeoneandIreallylikehimandifhefoundoutthatIwasgoingonblinddateswithotherpeoplehe’dleavemeandIreallydon’twanthimtobecauseIthinkIwanttomarryhimisthatinsane?Ohwhocareshessowonderfuland—”

“Whoa, whoa! Breathe, Daph!”

“Sorry.” Daphne did as instructed, inhaling sharply. “First time admitting it out loud.” 

“So, you’re seeing someone?” asked Hermione. “Seriously?”

Daphne nodded.

“I’m assuming he’s not someone your mother would approve of?”

“Well, he is a Pureblood! But no, I don’t think he’s what my mother had in mind for me.”

Hermione twirled Crooks’s tail around her fingers absently. “Mhm. Does he treat you well?”

“Yes,” Daphne’s voice softened. Hermione could’ve sworn the flames making up her cheeks deepened in color. “He’s sweet, and funny, and so smart, Hermione! Just like you! I swear he can go on about the most obscure thing, but unlike your rants, I don’t find myself tuning out at all!”  

Ignoring the sly dig in favor of Daphne’s obvious elation, Hermione smiled at her friend. “Well, I think thats wonderful, Daph. And if he makes you happy, then that’s what matters. I can see why you wouldn’t want to mess things up with him.”

“I’m so glad you said that,” said Daphne on a relieved sigh. “Because I need you to transform into Fauna again and come meet Draco.” 

 “What?” Hermione’s shriek startled both Daphne and Crookshanks, the latter letting out an aggravated hiss. 

“I know we agreed that I’d tell Draco the truth, and I will! I swear on my magic! But when I got to the Flying Pixie, he was at the bar. I tried to leave but he saw me before I could. Now he knows I’m here, and if he sees me with Draco, I’m worried he’ll think the worst and—”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” said Hermione. “But surely there’s a better way to go about this?” 

“Please! Just one more time! I’ll even go over to Draco’s flat directly tomorrow and tell him everything!” Daphne begged, lower lip jutting out. 

“Why don’t neither of us go and we stand him up?” 

“Not possible. My mother knows.” 

“How does your mother know?” 

“Because I may have told her I had a second date tonight and therefore couldn’t attend the Pure, Polite, and Proper: How to be the Ideal Pureblood Housewife seminar she tried to cart me off to?” 

“While that is a rather fair reason,” Hermione lamented, “it doesn’t change the fact that I’d rather repot a Mandrake without earmuffs than sit through another dinner with Malfoy.”

“Hermione, please!” Daphne wailed. “I know you can’t see my knees but I’m on them, imploring you to find it in the kindness of that golden, Gryffindor heart to help me from screwing it up with my soulmate!” 

It was the sincerity in Daphne’s voice that made Hermione waver. Throughout the progression of their professional to personal friendship, she’d never heard Daphne sound so earnest as she did just then.  

“If I do this—”

“You’re the best! Thank you so—”

“I didn’t agree to anything yet!” Hermione interrupted, crossing her arms.

“Oh. You want me to sit here and pretend like I don’t know you’re going to give in on one condition?” Daphne’s fiery mouth mocked. “The condition being that I owe you and will owl you tomorrow as soon as I get back from telling Draco the truth?” 

Hermione pursed her lips. Sometimes she hated how well Daphne knew her. “Fine. But you owe me Greengrass! And if that owl arrives any later then 8pm, I’m telling your mother.” 

“Deal!” said Daphne. “I’ll leave the Floo open so you can come right through.” 

“Where even are you calling from?” Hermione scooted Crooks back onto the carpeted floor, standing and starting toward the kitchen where she’d left the silver clutch the night before. 

“Upstairs room at the Flying Pixie. Blaise used to bartend here before running off to Romania with the older Weasley. He let me crash on the break sofa once and I made a copy of the spare key.” 

“Does Blaise know that?” 

“Of course, he’s the one that told me I could stay.”

“I’m talking about the key,” said Hermione, returning to the fireplace, glittery pink flask of Polyjuice in hand. “Or is breaking and entering yet another misdemeanor under your belt?” 

“Says the one who broke into Bellatrix’s vault!” 

“The two of us,” Hermione grabbed a fistful of Floo powder from the painted jar on her mantle. “An Auror’s worst nightmare.”  

“Add in Red and we’re a right riot,” said Daphne. “I’d say Pans too, but the whole being-in-love thing has made her soft.” 

“Well, it’s good Ginny’s too heavily pregnant for scheming, then. Don’t know if I could handle both of your bad ideas at once.” Hermione jerked her head to the side, indicating for Daphne to move. “Now, scoot. I’m coming through.”

She tossed the Floo powder in once Daphne’s head disappeared. “I’ll be back later, Crooks!” she called, stepping into the cool green flames. 

Hermione arrived in the spacious break room Daphne had described, complete with the spare, slightly lopsided sofa, some shelves of extra stock, and the overwhelming scent of Mrs. Skowers All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover. 

Daphne perched on one of the large wooden chests labeled Goblin-Made Gillywater, still sporting her red work robes and holding the black velvet box Malfoy had sent earlier that day.

She made to say something, but Hermione spoke before she could. “Wait! Let me change first.” 

Hermione popped the top of her flask, grimacing at the putrid smelling potion. She supposed the awful flavor made sense, now that she knew the kind of woman Margaux Garnier was. Her essence that of someone well acquainted with infidelity. 

Resisting the urge to plug her nose like a fourth year drinking Firewhisky for the first time, Hermione threw back a solid swig. The transformation occurred in the same manner as the night before, sleek hair and sharpened features returning in wave of uncomfortable tingles. 

“It’s already weird enough seeing someone else’s face and knowing it’s really you, but watching it happen is just plain freaky,” said Daphne, looking pained.

“Yeah?” Hermione coughed, trying to rid the foul taste from her mouth. “Try being the one to drink it!” 

“I’ll leave that to the seasoned professional.” Daphne hopped down from the crate. She handed the jewelry box to Hermione, eyeing her over. “Is that really—”

“Ah! Not a word about my outfit,” Hermione held a finger out like a disgruntled professor. “You interrupted my very peaceful, cozy evening. You get what you get.” 

“But your shoes have ears…”

Whilst her yoga pants, Harry’s old Falmouth Falcons t-shirt, and grey slouchy cardigan were not overly offensive (perhaps a bit Muggle if anything), Hermione had admittedly forgotten about her choice of footwear. 

“Yes, well,” she said, hands on her hips, “Lets just hope bunny slippers aren’t one of Malfoy’s kinks.” 

“Right,” Daphne drawled, tearing her gaze from the fluffy, yet comfortable, monstrosities. “Seriously though,” she took Hermione’s free hand in her own. “Thank you for doing this.” 

“Do I at least get to know who the mystery man we’re going through all this trouble for is?”  

Daphne’s cheeks pinkened, and it wasn’t a trick of the flames this time. “Not yet? It’s just, I don’t want to jinx it...maybe if...or perhaps when—”

 “You really like him, don’t you?” 

“Yeah,” Daphne’s face went as red as her robes. “Yeah, I do.” 

“Alright,” Hermione straightened, tucking the flask and her identifiable wand into the back waistband of her pants where they’d be covered by her cardigan. “Let’s get this show on the road. I still have a pile of periodicals to get through.”

“You were working?” said Daphne. “On a Friday?” 

Hermione shrugged, heading for the door that would lead her downstairs to the main bar. 

“Maybe it’s you my mother should be exhausting her match making attempts on.” 

“Between working with Malfoy and going on blind dates with Malfoy, I’ve had little time for my personal projects.” 

“Perhaps finding a cure for your perpetual loneliness should be one of those projects!” 

“Cat,” said Hermione, slipping into the hallway. “Meet cauldron.” 

Daphne’s raised middle finger was the last thing she saw before she shut the door behind her. 

—

The main dining area was packed, high top tables and low booths filled to the brim. Hermione had never been to the Flying Pixie before, most often frequenting the Leaky on the few occasions she did manage to leave her flat. Whilst serving similar purposes, it wasn’t hard to tell that the type of crowds each establishment drew were what differentiated them.

The Leaky Cauldron attracted the every day wizard. A perfect place to catch up with mates, engage in the many trivia nights, or for a late night nip on the way home from the club.

The Flying Pixie, on the other hand, had a much swankier aura. A set of self-playing instruments hovered on the inset stage, a rather sensual string of jazz notes filling the space. Low lighting via what looked like vintage gas lamps, deep red upholstery, and dark stained wood furnishings made the entire space feel the way a glass of good red wine tasted.

Full bodied but soft on your tongue—alluring. 

Though the dress code wasn’t as upscale as Le Pieux Mensonge demanded, Hermione’s attire certainly turned heads, her descent down the spiral stair case attracting the attention of nearby patrons. 

She ignored them in favor of searching the crowd, spotting Malfoy’s distinct blonde in one of the far booths.

Determined to make this as quick and painless as possible, Hermione started off in his direction. 

She’d simply reiterate that she was not interested in him, especially not marrying him, and return the jewelry. In and out. 

Passing the bar, Hermione almost stumbled at the sight of Neville Longbottom, leaning casually in a crisp two-piece suit, sipping on what appeared to be a martini.

She almost reached for him, meant to say hello and ask how he’d been as it’d been a month or two since they’d last crossed paths, except the freckle-less skin of her hands had her remembering she wasn’t exactly herself at the moment. 

Hand retracting to her side, Hermione put her head down and pushed her way through the rest of the crowd.

She stopped just beside Malfoy’s table where he sat running an absent finger along the rim of his whiskey glass, watching it’s progression. He’d changed out his potion haus robes for a pair of nice black slacks and a crisp white button down.

Hermione cleared her throat, making sure to alter her voice. “You requested my presence?”

Malfoy looked up from his drink, brow furrowed at her appearance. Much like Daphne, his gaze traversed her form, snagging on her footwear. 

“Are those rabbits?” He asked, pointing a slender finger at her feet.

“Bunnies,” said Hermione. “But my attire is unimportant. You asked me to meet you here, and I’m here. Tell me whatever it is you wanted to say so I can get back to doing literally anything but this.” 

“Wow,” drawled Malfoy. “And here I was, thinking perhaps your laugh last night was the result of nerves and not because I truly buggered up so bad you want nothing to do with me. But alas, it appears the latter is more accurate.” 

“You proposed,” Hermione deadpanned. 

“I did.” Malfoy nodded, like he’d asked for a cup of sugar, or directions to the nearest owlery. 

“You asked me to marry you.” 

“That typically is what a proposal consists of.” He gestured to the bench across from him. “Sit. Order whatever you like, on me.” 

“I’d hope so,” huffed Hermione. Ignoring his request, she remained standing, instead placing the jewelry box on the table with a distinct thump! “Here’s this back, by the way.” 

“It was a gift.” 

“An incredibly expensive, inappropriate one.” 

Malfoy shook his head. “I don’t see how gifting my future fiancé a bracelet is inappropriate, although I’ll concede that it was rather pricey.”

“I didn’t say yes!” Hermione slammed her palm down in objection. 

“You didn’t say no.”

“You know, when most men ask a woman to marry them and get laughed at, they take the hint and accept defeat.”

“I’m not most men,” said Malfoy, settling back, arms folded to mimic Hermione’s own stance. 

“No, you most certainly are not,” Hermione grumbled. “Regardless, I won’t accept it. So, return it, donate it, give it to another witch! I don’t care!” 

“Look, Fauna. Like I said yesterday, money is no object for me, it really isn’t—”

“Well, it’s not for me either! I’m a Pureblood heiress too, or did you forget? I don’t need you sending me trinkets as an attempt to bribe me into being your bride!” 

“Of the ice cream empire, I remember.” Malfoy nudged the box back toward her. “If you’ll just listen for a moment, I have a proposal for you.”

“Another one?” 

“My apologies,” Malfoy coughed. Or, was that a laugh he was choking back? “Poor choice of words. But truly, I—”

“I didn’t even want to go on the date!” Hermione interrupted.

“Really? I had no idea.”

“I have zero interest in whatever sort of marriage contract shite you’re surely about to pitch. I did this as a favor. And the only reason I’m here again tonight is to return this,” she shoved the box so hard Malfoy had to catch it before it flew off the opposite side, “and reiterate the fact that I do not wish to marry you. Not for all the tennis bracelets in the world.” 

“I wasn’t going to suggest—”

“You want me to tell you no? Fine. No. N-O. Not happening.” 

“If you could just—”

“Well,” Hermione clapped. “Now that we’ve got this little misunderstanding cleared up, I have plans I need to get to. Don’t want to be late.”

“Fauna—”

“Goodbye, Malfoy!” 

“Where could you possibly be going dressed like that?” Malfoy’s shout was lost amongst the crowd, Hermione taking the opportunity to make her escape. 

It wasn’t until she was through the Floo and back in her flat that she let out her repressed yelp of frustration. 

“He’s mental!” She ranted, pacing the length of her kitchen. Crookshanks tilted his head, watching her mini-breakdown from where he sat on the counter. “I admittedly don’t know much about Pureblood culture aside from what Daph has told me, but by Godric, Crooks there’s no way he wants to marry a woman he just met! Is there?” 

Crookshanks’ only response was a whiny mewl. His tail curled around the bottle of wine she’d meant to have a glass of earlier. 

“Good idea.” Hermione gave him a pat, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and giving herself a heavy pour. She made for the freezer next, watching Margaux-her’s distorted face in the stainless steel reflection.

Tub of cold cookie dough and alcohol in hand, she retreated to the comfort of her couch once again. 

She held her wine in a mock toast, bumping it against Crooks’ nose. 

“Cheers, Crooks,” she sighed, bringing the glass to her lips. “To never going on another date with Draco Malfoy ever again.” 

Chapter Text

Hermione never wanted kids. 

Okay, perhaps never was a rather extreme take. But truly, if anyone else ever had to endure the role of being James and Albus Potter’s godmother, she was sure they’d find themselves agreeing. 

“Please, Aunt ‘Mione,” James tugged at the sleeve of Hermione’s jumper. “You always do it best.” 

“Meeno, do it!” chorused a babbling Albus, porridge dribbling down his chin. 

“I’m sorry, James,” Hermione winced, pain lancing through her temples. “This weather’s given me a headache. I don’t think I’m up for play pretend right now.” 

“But if you won’t be Amata then Uncle Ron’ll have to be, and he always drinks the water before we can find Sir Luckless!” whined James.

“Maybe this time he’ll manage not to,” said Hermione, with what she hoped was an earnest smile.

The Fountain of Fair Fortune was a go-to game amongst the Potter children, one that involved fake posh accents, sticks for wands, and way too much movement for Hermione’s current state.

“You said that last time!” 

“Boys, leave Hermione alone,” their mother scolded, emerging from the kitchen. Ginny placed the refilled pitcher of pumpkin juice in the center of the long dining table. “She’s got a hangover.”

“Is that what Dad had after Uncle Percy’s wedding?” asked James. 

“Hey!” Hermione exclaimed. 

“Are you really going to deny it?” Ginny gave her a disbelieving look, settling into the seat next to Albus’s highchair with a sigh. It seemed like her bump had doubled in size in the two weeks since Hermione had last seen her. “You’re wearing your hangover shirt.”

Hermione glanced down at the knit image of a Niffler, lower lip jutting out. “This is not my ‘hangover shirt’.” 

“Hermione, I’ve only seen you drunk three times in my entire life.” Ginny ticked each off on her freckled fingers. “Right after you and Ron finally ended things, the Ministry Christmas Gala of ’03, and the pub that one night Cormac wouldn’t stop trying to tell you about his sizeable wand. And every time, you’ve worn that shirt the next day.”

“Have I really?” 

Ginny laughed. “Yes.” She wiped Albus’s chin with one hand, the other waving her wand at the stack of flapjacks on James’s plate, setting the utensils to cut them for her son. “Now, are you going to tell me what caused you to drink your weight in wine before Ron and Harry return, or would you like to wait until we’re all present?” 

“No!” said Hermione. “Waiting is certainly not necessary.” 

“I thought so,” said Ginny, a knowing smile tilting her lips. “Spill.”

The red-headed witch had been nearly confined to the grounds of Grimauld the last month, the pregnancy taking an unexpected toll on her this go around. To say she was always starved for gossip would be an understatement, Hermione’s jotter constantly buzzing with requests for information. 

“I’m not even sure where to begin.” Hermione let her head fall into her hands, basking in the momentary darkness the pressure of her palms provided. 

“That bad? And I wasn’t even involved…”

“Oh, don’t worry. Daphne has been more than making up for your absence of bad ideas.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my ideas!” Ginny argued. “They simply are not always encouraged by the general public. But that doesn’t make them bad. It makes them fun.”

“Well, I can assure you, what Daph’s roped me into is far from fun.” Hermione picked at the lone muffin on her plate, not sure she wanted to test the strength of her stomach yet. 

“And what would that be?” 

“Dating Draco Malfoy.” 

Ginny dropped the spoon of porridge she’d been holding, the crash and subsequent flinging of soggy oats sending Albus into a fit of giggles. 

“You’re dating Draco Malfoy?” shrieked Ginny.

“Technically, I’m not,” amended Hermione. “Fauna Fortescue is.”

“I know I have pregnancy brain at the moment, but even if I didn’t, that sentence wouldn’t have made any sense.”

With an aggrieved sigh, Hermione gave Ginny as succinct of an overview as she could manage whilst still catering to the smaller ears present. 

“Hmm,” said Ginny when she’d finished. “Do you think it’s unethical to shag him while you’re wearing someone else’s skin?” 

“Ginevra Molly Potter, what the actual fuck?” 

“Aunt ‘Mione can’t say that, it’s a bad word!” James scolded his godmother. 

“I’m sorry, James,” Hermione apologized. “Your mother just asked me the most absurd, disturbing question I’ve ever heard.”

“Perhaps my phrasing was a bit indelicate, but the inquiry still stands.” Ginny shrugged, reaching for a cinnamon bun. 

“Of course it's unethical!” said Hermione. “And nauseating to even think about.”

“Oh, please,” said Ginny. “I may be married and heavily pregnant, but if I wasn’t, I’d climb that man like a tree.”

“Ginny!” 

“I like climbing trees!” interjected James. “Can we go outside after breakfast, Mum?” 

“Sure, darling,” Ginny reached over to ruffle his hair. “And you know I’m right, Hermione. Draco Malfoy is bloody fit.” 

“I didn’t say he wasn’t attractive,” Hermione grumbled, giving her muffin another poke. She’d conceded as much the other night at dinner. “But there are plenty of other things that make him an unsuitable partner.”

“From what I’ve heard, his sizable wand isn’t one of them.” Ginny smirked. 

Hermione tipped her head back, staring up at the ceiling. “Morgana give me strength.” 

“I don’t see what the problem is. Isn’t Daph telling him the truth today, anyway?” 

“Yes,” Hermione returned her gaze to her plate. When James’ tiny hand appeared, inching toward one of the stranded blueberries, she passed it to him willingly. 

“Then none of it matters, anyway,” said Ginny, licking stray sugar from her fingers. 

“Except for the fact that I have to keep working with him on this blasted addendum.” 

“Right, but at least you don’t have to pretend to like Drakey when you’re yelling at him about the Joobyknots.”

“Jobberknolls,” corrected Hermione, ignoring Ginny’s jab at the nickname. “But how can I possibly look him in the face after he proposed to me. Twice!”

“But it wasn’t—”

“Really me, I know. But it was so weird, Gin! You should’ve seen him! He was acting…nice. And kind of charming.”

“Did it ever occur to you that Draco Malfoy actually is nice and kind of charming?” 

Hermione scoffed. “And conceited.”

“And hot.”

“And a prat.”

“A hot prat.”

“And he thinks he knows everything.”

“Wow, good thing I don’t know anyone else like that.”

“But he would’ve never behaved that way if he’d know it was really me!” Hermione rubbed at the center of her forehead, the pounding in her head worsening. “And he certainly wouldn’t have proposed!”

“No, he probably wouldn’t have,” agreed Ginny. She reached for Hermione’s hand, balled into a fist atop the table. “The bottom line is, you no longer have to worry about him in any capacity other than the few correspondences needed to finish your work project. So stop worrying. And stop letting your cat convince you to drink an entire bottle of wine by yourself.”

Hermione allowed a small smile to grace her lips, reaching for her goblet of water.

“Thanks, Gin,” she said on an exhale. “If I’ve learned anything from this whole ordeal, it’s that I definitely do not want to get married anytime soon.”

“Should’ve told me that before I bought the ring,” came a voice from the doorway. 

“We’ve been over this, Ron,” Hermione groaned. “Just because you never listened to me, doesn’t mean I never told you.” 

“She’s right,” said Harry, squeezing past his brother-in-law. “You really are an awful listener.”

“Dad!” shouted James, launching himself into Harry’s arms. His father caught him effortlessly, Auror robes a stark contrast against James’s flannel pyjamas. 

“Besides,” said Hermione. “I don’t think your fiancé would want you talking about buying other women rings.” She took a bite of her muffin then, appetite beginning to return. “Where is Parvati, by the way?” 

“Mungo’s. Millicent called out sick so she had to cover,” said Ron, taking up a seat across the table.

The two had met again as adults when Parvati had been assigned as Ginny’s midwife during her first pregnancy. Hermione wasn’t quite sure how the Patil twin had managed to fall for Ron somewhere between his “Bloody hell!” at the amount of literal blood present on his newborn nephew, and his subsequent loss of consciousness, but love worked in strange ways she supposed. 

“Sorry it took us so long,” said Harry, leaning down to kiss his wife with James now perched on his back. “Robards needed to corroborate some information from the raid yesterday.” 

“No worries, Mum put the food under a stasis charm so it should still be hot,” said Ginny. 

Molly Weasley as a mother was one thing, but as a grandmother? Hermione suspected the matriarch had entered her final form of ultimate caretaker, especially with her daughters rockier go of it as of late. Their weekly brunches were often catered with enough courses from Molly’s kitchen to feed a herd of Hippogriffs. 

“Oh, she made cinnamon buns!” Ron grinned, reaching for the platter of sweet rolls only to have his hand batted away by his sister.

“Those are off limits!” Ginny pulled the plate toward herself.

“Come on, Gin, there’s plenty to go around!” 

“They’re the only breakfast food that doesn’t make me want to gag, whereas you’ll eat anything put in front of you so long as it doesn’t move. And even then!” 

“Let her have them Ron,” said Harry. “For all of our sakes.” 

Ginny swat her husband on the arm, but he only returned her violent gesture with another kiss to her forehead. 

“Fine,” Ron grumbled, scooping himself a serving of black pudding instead. “But the minute you pop that one out, they’re fair game.” He punctuated his sentence with a jab of his fork in the direction of Ginny’s rounded belly. 

“Don’t aim your fork at her like that!” Ginny hissed, folding a protective arm across her abdomen.

“Her!” Hermione exclaimed. “You’re having a girl?” 

Ginny smiled, taking her husbands hand as he settled into the seat beside her, sending James back to his chair. “Yes. Sorry, I meant to tell you, but we got a bit sidetracked.” The wink she sent Hermione was anything but subtle.

“What was that about?” asked Harry, the ever observant Auror. 

“Nothing!” Hermione insisted. “So, do you have any ideas as to what you’ll name her?” 

Diversion tactic successful, Harry grinned, sparing a glance at Ginny. “I think we’ve decided on Lily.” 

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione’s chest swelled at the look on her best friend’s face.

After everything they’d been through, he out of all of them, deserved this the most. A family.

Hermione tried not to think about her own, or lack thereof, instead making an effort to focus fully on Harry’s hard-earned happiness. “I’m sure she’ll be just as bright and stunning as your Mum was.” 

“She’s certainly already taking after his side of the family,” Ginny groaned, jolting. “Active little thing, always nailing me right in the ribs like she’s snatching at the Snitch.” 

“Speaking of,” said Ron through a mouthful of sausage. “Parvati wanted me to tell you that a few drops of a Calming Draught in your tea before bed might help settle her down a bit so you can sleep.”

“Lovely,” said Ginny. “Merlin knows I haven’t slept more than a few hours a night in months.”

“How’s the wedding planning going by the way?” Hermione asked.

“Seems to be alright,” Ron shrugged. “P’s Mum and siblings have been handling most of it. You know her, not big on the where and when, just the who.” 

“Are you referring to you or the guests?” laughed Hermione. 

“Both,” said Ron, taking a sip of his pumpkin juice with a smile. “Which, we got your RSVP ‘Mione, and P said it’s alright if you need to amend it last minute.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hermione’s amusement fell. 

“Just that, if you do end up finding someone you want to take, we’re willing to keep the extra seat open at your table even though you claimed to not need it.” 

“I don’t need it,” said Hermione, crossing her arms. “Hence why I checked the box indicating such.” 

“Why not?” voiced Harry, now bouncing a highchair free Albus on his knee. “You don’t think there’s a chance you’ll be seeing someone in three months time?”

“Technically she’s—”

“She,” Hermione cut a smirking Ginny off, “Is perfectly content attending without a date. Besides, even if I did begin seeing someone between now and then, I doubt I’d feel comfortable enough to bring them to my ex-boyfriends wedding so soon into seeing each other.”  

“Just saying,” said Ron. “It wouldn’t be so bad for you to get out of that office every once in awhile.”

“You are looking rather peaky,” added Harry. 

Hermione pressed a palm to her cheek. “I am not!”

“Yes you are!” piped James. 

“While I won’t argue that Hermione should get out more, I think her pallid hue is probably due to the hangover.”

“You’re hungover?” Harry’s eyes widened behind his rounded frames. “What drove you to drink so much?” 

“It’s a long story. Not worth getting into.” Hermione attempted to wave him off. “Besides, I’m feeling much better after some of Molly’s cooking.” 

“You’ve barely touched your food.” Harry pointed at the half-eaten portions before her. 

“Yes, well it’s hard to do much eating with all this chatting, isn’t it?” 

“We could sit in silence if you like,” said Harry. “Though I’ll warn you we don’t get much of it around here these days.” 

The table fell quiet for a moment, as if actually attempting the suggestion, only for James’s small voice to split the scene. 

“Is it time to go outside yet, Mum?” 

“So long as you’ve finished,” said Ginny. 

“Yay!” James leapt from his seat, rounding the table to tug on Ron’s uniform robes this time. “C’mon Uncle Ron, you’re Amata!” 

“Alright.” Ron stood with a sigh, snagging a piece of back bacon for the road. “But I don’t want the crooked stick wand this time. Brings up bad memories.”

Both Hermione and Harry stifled matching laughs at the memory of Ron’s backfired spell in second year, a set of slug-themed merchandise still making its way into his pile of birthday presents every year no matter how much time had passed. Some things were just too good to let go of. 

Ron let his nephew lead him from the dining room with a parting wave at his sister and friends. 

“I can’t believe he’s getting married this summer,” chuckled Harry.

“I don’t think any of us can,” said Hermione. “But, I suppose I should get going as well. I’m expecting a letter any moment now, and I want to be home to receive it.” 

Ginny gave her a knowing look, but Hermione redirected her before she could say anything.

“It’s from the private funding committee,” she said, standing herself. “About the grant I applied for.” 

“For your research regarding your parents memories?” asked Harry.

Hermione nodded. “Because it’s not Ministry related, I can’t pull from my work stipend. I sent a request to the national research board two months ago and received word that I should be hearing back sometime today.” 

“Look at you, saving the world even in your spare time!” Ginny stood as well, giving Hermione a hug as best she could with her belly in the way. 

“I don’t know about saving the world,” Hermione laughed, returning the embrace. 

“I mean, we did it once,” said Harry, enveloping her as well. “Who’s to say you won’t do it again.” 

“I’m afraid I’ll need more than a book of children’s tales this time.”

“Well, you’re sure to get it,” said Ginny, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze. “I mean, who would deny Hermione Granger the funds she needs to save the world?”

—

Apparently, the Scamander Scholarship Board would. 

Hermione scowled at the scripted scroll in her hands. 

To One Miss H.J. Granger,

It is with our deepest regrets we must inform you that the Scamander Scholarship Board is unable to aid your request for additional funding at this time. We appreciate your interest in bettering the magical community and hope that you will continue your efforts in—

She couldn’t bear to read anymore of the flippant, impersonal apology. What a load of bollocks! They couldn’t even send her a personalized rejection notice? 

Her application had been more than thorough, including a document summarizing all of her research on the subject to date and her plans going forward for further exploration.

Not to mention her letter of recommendation from Luna’s old friend Rolf, who’s shared last name with the organization apparently held zero merit whatsoever. 

There had to be some kind of mistake. Hermione needed these funds.

She’d already dipped into her personal savings as much as possible without throwing herself into an insecure financial state. Her rewards from her part in the war long ago eaten up by the demands of her research into memory recovery, funding trips to distant, ancient libraries and failed experiments. 

This private fund had been her last hope. Without it, she’d either have to ask someone she knew for a personal loan (absolutely not happening), or halt her progress until she could reapply again in six months time.

Neither were favorable options.

Hermione set the scroll aside, bringing her forehead to her desktop. She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the way they stung, rubbing an absent hand against her chest where her heart seemed to ache. 

How long are you going to keep at it? Harry had once asked her. It’d been a few years after the war, after a hopeful looking lead came up short, when Hermione struggled to leave her flat for weeks.

They’d sat in her sitting room, side by side, and Hermione had told him with all the strength and vigor in her heart, As long as it takes to bring them home. 

But it’d been four more long years of dead ends since, with Hermione no closer to figuring out how to restore them than the day the Healer’s had told her recovery didn’t seem likely.

Impossible.

Impossible hadn’t seemed so daunting then. She’d help defeat the darkest wizard in history, amongst other feats. Surely reversing a lousy spell would be a walk in the park?

If only she’d known how wrong she’d been. 

She couldn’t help but wonder if her answer to Harry’s question had changed. Was there a point at which it made more sense to stop the search? Would it be easier to grieve them in the same way others had to with the dead? A tragic causality of a war none of them should have had to fight? Would it hurt less to give up hope, or would the grief simply warp itself into guilt? 

Hermione sat up then, spine straightening until she looked down her nose at the rejection notice.

Summoning all the stubbornness she knew had ultimately swayed the Sorting Hat all those years ago to send her to Gryffindor rather than Ravenclaw, she Incendio’d it. 

She wasn’t sure how, but she’d find the money. Even if she had to pick up weekend shifts at Flourish and Blotts, or attend more charity galas, or personally write to every donor in her rolodex. 

Hermione Granger did not give up. 

Reignited, she reached for a fresh sheath of parchment, intending to draft a new budget that might allow for some additional allocations, only to be stopped by a tap at the window.

She slid the latch, letting in the silver-winged owl. 

“Hello there, have something for me?” She took the letter from its talons, exchanging it for a handful of treats. The owl gave a soft hoot of appreciation before flitting back into the early afternoon. 

Hermione undid the wax seal, the emerald Greengrass crest an implication of what the envelope held. 

To Miss Hermione Jean Granger,

It is with terrible sorrow I must report that on this fine Saturday, the 26 ^th of May, 2007,  the pride of Daphne Eloise Greengrass has unfortunately perished. It is presumed to be followed shortly by her spirit, as her mother is sure to have her head in quick succession. 

I offer my condolences. Miss Greengrass was a beautiful, brilliant woman, with impeccable style and an incredible arse. She will be dearly missed by all who had the privilege to know her. 

Rolling her eyes at the penned dramatics, Hermione flipped the letter over.

Draco knows (almost) everything. If you don’t hear from me by Monday, check my mother’s basement for a body bag. 

See you at work (hopefully),

Daphne

Hermione smiled at her friend’s note. At least there was some good news to be received.

Fauna Fortescue could finally be laid to rest. 

Chapter Text

In hindsight, Draco should’ve known that taking the advice of Theodore Nott could only result in two potential outcomes: imprisonment, or complete and utter humiliation. 

And although he was currently steeping like an herbal tea in the second, Draco couldn’t help the surge of hope at the distinct sound of a beak tapping against the window. 

He stood from the chair in his home study, joints cracking with misuse. He’d returned to his flat the night before after being jilted by Fauna yet again, and remained in a wound state since, sleeping for only a handful of fitful hours.

His mother would be expecting him in less than twenty-four of those, and his initial plans for fending her off seemed to have officially fallen through.

Unless, whatever awaited him in the post stated otherwise. 

The window opened without so much as a creak, allowing a silver-winged owl to glide inside and settle on the second perch alongside Draco’s own. He took the proffered message from its mouth, turning the envelope over to see the shine of an emerald wax seal. 

He frowned, vaguely recognizing it as that of the Greengrass family. The disappointment in his chest felt inconsequential, quenched instead by curiosity as he removed the note from within.

Draco,

It has come to my attention that you have recently attempted the romantic pursuit of Fauna Fortescue, and have hence been unsuccessful. 

If you wish to know why, meet me at Rosa Lee Teabag at 11.

Daphne Greengrass

Draco ground his teeth. How in Godric’s name did Daphne know about his failure to falsely court Fauna? If Theo had gone about and run his mouth, Draco would ensure that next time his friend didn’t have a tongue to wag. 

Although, it was possible Theo hadn’t been the one to inform Daphne.

The Pureblood circle remained rather small, and whilst Draco knew Daphne was usually spotted with the savior sorts these days, what with her working alongside Granger, it wouldn’t be strange for the elder Greengrass to retain relationships with those in the same company as her family’s. 

Could it be that Fauna had gone to Daphne about him? And if so, what had been the nature of their conversation?

Based on the prior evening, it was most probable that she’d raged about his insistent proposal. But if it wasn’t…if there were even a chance that he didn’t have to turn up to his mother’s alone…

Draco snatched a blank piece of parchment from his desk, penning a reply.

Daphne, 

I’m not sure how it is you acquired such knowledge, but nonetheless, I’ll admit I’m intrigued.

11 at Rosa Lee’s. 

DLM

—

The afternoon air felt like it needed to be wrung like a rag, wet to the touch, beads of sweat lining Draco’s neck with each stride he took down Diagon Alley. Though it might be sunny now, he couldn’t help but to think a storm brewed around the corner. 

The rose-colored storefront of the tea shop stood sandwiched between the owlery and a Quality Quidditch Supply, the press of soft petals between sturdy stones, its curved bay windows looking out over the street. 

Draco’s entrance was accompanied by the jingle of a bell strung above the doorway, no subtle arrival to be had. The stout woman at the front counter waved him further in.

“Hello there, can I help you with anything, dear?”

“He’s with me Angie.” Daphne appeared at the elder witches side, looking much the same as she had a few months prior at their most recent snakes night. Fashionable robes, neat hair, though she did appear a bit put out, tension lining her shoulders.  

“Daphne,” said Draco, inclining his head. 

“Hello Draco. Good to see you.” Her smile was stiff, the kind he often gave to his mother’s petulant friends whenever he had the unfortunate pleasure of joining them in conversation. “I have seats for us toward the back.”

Daphne gestured over toward the communal bench, the only other occupant an elderly wizard in a peculiar hat perched on the far end. 

Draco followed her through the quiet parlour, most witches and wizards tending to take their tea in the afternoon rather than the morning, though a few stragglers remained.

Unable to pull her chair for her as it would involve upending the man on the other side, Draco settled across from Daphne and instead offered the first pour as his show of manners.

“Oh, I’m alright, already got mine fixed up.” Daphne raised her obviously full cup, taking a sip as if to prove her statement.

She seemed nervous, a state Draco didn’t associate with the usually outgoing Greengrass. He remembered her bouncing off the castle walls back in the day, assumed the tendency had stuck the few times he’d seen her at the Ministry careening down corridors in an eerily Granger-like fashion.

Yet her now poised countenance suggested a discomfort that appeared quite unnatural. 

In the odd silence that followed her statement, Draco began to assemble his own brew, scooping up a couple sugar cubes and share of honey. He tasted the herbal blend, adding a third sugar cube when it rang bitter.

With a final stir, he set the delicate silver spoon to the side. 

“Need I remind you that you were the one to ask me here?” he questioned. “You implied the exchange of information, and I’m not sure about you, but I personally find it difficult to do so when one’s mouth remains shut.” 

Daphne’s posture stiffened, the corners of her lips dipping with indignation. “I’d think you’d be more polite to someone who knows why the woman you wish to marry is rejecting you.” Daphne replaced her cup on the saucer with an ill-mannered rattle. “Aside from the obvious.”

“The obvious?” Draco asked, brow quirked.

“Yes, the obvious.” Daphne crossed her arms. “That tie clashes horribly with your hair. Honestly, I’m surprised Narcissa let you keep such a thing.” 

Draco smoothed a hand down the mustard fabric. “I’ll have you know it was a gift from my cousin Teddy. I’m meant to stop by later and always make an effort to wear it.” 

“You see Teddy?”

“Yes,” said Draco. “Mother and Andromeda have made amends in recent years. We usually gather monthly at their place, though today I make the trek alone.” 

“Narcissa Malfoy in Suffolk? Now that’s a sight.”

“Indeed. The first time she turned around before we’d even reached the front door. Took her three tries before she made it past the threshold.” Draco folded his hands atop the table. “Now, why don’t you stop attempting to steer us off topic and get to the point, Daph.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Daphne blinked in faux bewilderment.

“Daphne.”

“Can’t a girl just wish to catch up with an old friend?” 

“If this is how it’s going to be, then I’ll just be go—”

“Fine!” Daphne huffed. “But,” she pointed a finger at him. “You have to promise you won’t get angry with me. Or with Fauna.” 

Angry? Draco’s ego may be bruised and thus willing to accept a reasonable explanation from an old friend, but he didn’t think himself the type to get angry at a woman for rejecting him.

If she truly didn’t wish to partake in his proposal, he wouldn’t pressure her any further. 

“I’m serious, Draco.” 

“You need an Unbreakable Vow?” He remarked.

“No.” Daphne scowled. “Just, say you’ll listen to the full story before saying anything?” 

Draco relented with an exaggerated sigh. “I promise.” 

“Okay,” said Daphne. “Good. Great. I guess I’ll get into it then.”

When she didn’t speak yet again, Draco kicked her beneath the table.

“Ow! What the hell, Draco!”

“You weren’t saying anything.” Draco shrugged. “What’s hell?” 

“Muggle phrase Hermione always uses,” said Daphne, waving it off. “But that’s besides the point.”

“Look, Daph, if the real reason you asked me here was because you were jealous—”

“That’s not why—”

“Then I’m sorry, I don’t see it working out.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“You’re a great friend, even if we haven’t been so close the last few years. But I don’t see you that way.”

“I would actually rather eat slugs than—”

“It’s alright if you’re upset by the idea of me with someone else but—”

“I don’t want to date you, you big-headed plonker!” Daphne shrieked. “That’s why I sent Fauna instead!” 

Her exclamation pierced the serenity of the tea shop like an exploding snap. The man at the far end of their bench startled so much so his hat fled his head, it’s decorative wings taking shock-induced flight.

“What do you mean you sent Fauna instead?” Draco’s voice came out steady in a way he didn’t quite feel.

Riling Daphne up until she forgot herself and said what she meant was an old tactic he’d perfected on her golden counterpart. He figured if she’d been spending so much time with Granger lately that she’d managed to pick up Muggle euphemisms than surely he could employ his go-to gambit to achieve similar results.

But her answer had not been what he unexpected. 

Daphne let out a groan into her upturned palms before steepling them beneath her chin. “As you well know, our parents are trying to get us to tie the knot with any willing Pureblood available, hence the pairing program. And though I’m not sure about your experience with these arranged dates thus far, mine has been mortifying. I’m talking Marcus Flint behind the Quidditch pitch in fourth year mortifying.” 

Draco grimaced at the mention of Daphne’s first foray. It’d taken him, Pansy, and Blaise an entire week to get her to show face in the Great Hall again after what was now only ever referred to as ‘The Fiasco’. 

“So you understand why when my mother informed me I had a date yet again last Thursday, I was greatly averse to going.” Daphne swallowed a gulp of tea like it were Firewhisky before continuing. “I didn’t plan on deceiving you, honestly! And neither did Fauna! In fact, it took an awful lot of convincing to get her to go in my place—though she was really the one to suggest it first—and if I had known you were the one that was going to show up I would’ve gone. Really! And we could’ve at least had a nice chat. Caught up and all that. But I wasn’t willing to risk another disaster. I mean, it’s been horrible, Draco! You wouldn’t believe—”

Draco raised a hand. “While it’s utterly devastating we didn’t get to whinge about our mommy issues over wine and questionable caviar, I’m rather stuck on the fact that I apparently proposed to your friend that wasn’t even supposed to be there in the first place?” 

“Precisely.” 

Draco wished they weren’t seated on a bench, if only so he could sink into the support of a chair. No wonder Fauna had been so adamant about her refusal the night before. Why she’d attempted the entire bint bit at dinner. 

“Why are you telling me this now?” Draco pressed an index finger to his temple. “Why have her show up again last night instead of coming clean then?” 

Daphne’s complexion seemed to pale further at the question. “Well, that was the original plan. But, uh, something came up and I could no longer make it. I told Fauna if she did this for me just one more time I’d never ask it of her again, and I’d tell you the truth today. Hence the tea.” 

“I see,” said Draco. He wasn’t pleased that he’d been played a fool, but he didn’t entirely blame Daphne. If he found his mother’s meddling bothersome, he knew Daphne’s must be much, much worse.

The only reason he hadn’t found himself bound to her since birth was by the stroke of rare luck that Lucius had wanted to keep their arrangement options open. 

As for what Draco did now... 

Fauna may not have been the one that was supposed to be there, but she was still the one he needed.

While a good friend, Draco’s mother would be unfortunately thrilled if he brought Daphne home. Besides, Narcissa had known her since nappies, so a drastic dislikable personality switch would be out of the question. 

“How is it that you know Fauna, anyway?” Draco asked. “I wasn’t aware you kept up with the Pureblood circles abroad.” 

“Oh,” said Daphne. “Um, right. I don’t. Well, I didn’t. That is, until I met Fauna.” 

“What?” Had Draco struck his head on the doorframe earlier, or was Daphne making no sense? 

“Flatmates!” She blurted then. “We’re flatmates!”

“You mean your job and inheritance are unable to cover rent?” Draco found that hard to believe.  “Where do you live? Inside a solid gold cauldron?” 

“The shop! She needed somewhere to stay in town while she fixes up the shop to sell it.” Daphne nodded rather vigorously. “Right, and I’m so generous I offered up my place. I have a spare room. She lives in it. There. In my spare room.” 

“ Okay …” Draco eyed the babbling blonde before him. “So you’re flatmates.”

“Yes.” 

“And, would you say you’re friends?” 

“I highly doubt I could’ve convinced her to stand in for me on a blind date if we weren’t.” Daphne chuckled, though there was a shaky edge to it. 

“I don’t know Greengrass, you drive a hard bargain,” Draco joked in an attempt to quell whatever strange energy had befallen her. 

“She’s my friend,” said Daphne. “And, yes, she may have owed me, but still! She’s got a big heart. Too big really.” 

“That’s good, then,” said Draco. “Because I have a question for you.”

“It doesn’t involve a ring, does it?” 

“No, Daph.” 

“Ok, continue then.”

“Do you think that Fauna would be willing to date me—”

“I feel as though you already know the answer to this—”

“Let me finish.” Draco chided. “Do you think Fauna would be willing to date me for money?”

“Money?” Daphne’s eyes almost doubled in size. 

Draco nodded. 

“You want to pay her to date you?”

“It wouldn’t be real,” Draco explained further. “Almost like what she did for you, but with monetary compensation. Similarly, my mother has been on my case about not settling down and I certainly do not wish to be subjected to more blind dates either. If she thinks I’ve found a witch I’m serious about, she’ll let up.”

“You want to hire Fauna to fake date you so that Narcissa will stop her scheming?” Daphne summarized. 

“Precisely,” said Draco, repeating her earlier statement. “Though fiancé would be preferred.”

Draco didn’t usually make it a habit to get laughed at by witches, but apparently he was beginning to acquire a knack for it as Daphne erupted into shoulder-shaking peals. She choked on the occasional snort, palm striking the table and rattling their cups. 

“I’m sorry!” She wheezed between chortles. “It’s just…Fauna is the absolute last person that would take money in exchange for dating someone! Especially you!”

Draco frowned. “You’re certain?”

Daphne managed to nod through her bodily giggles. 

“Well, I’d like for you to still present the option to her,” Draco said. “I tried to tell her last night, but she wouldn’t let me get a word in before storming off. I’ll admit my previous inquiry might have made her a bit hesitant to hear me out, but I’d prefer if she makes the decision herself, knowing the full extent of my offer.”

Daphne drank a spot of tea, swallowing the remainder of her laughter. “You want me to pitch your little proposal to Fauna myself and see what she says?” 

“I don’t know that she won’t just Incendio any letter I send. It seems like she trusts you and your opinion enough to stand in for you.”

“Why Fauna?”

Why Fauna, indeed. Draco wasn’t sure he could entirely explain it himself.

Other than the witch’s obvious ability to play at being unbearable, there was an underlying current of assuredness that made her appear strong despite her best attempts to come across meek.

Like she would face down a dragon whilst somehow still claiming to fear their fire. 

“Because,” Draco settled on the indisputable answer. “After that chaotic scene the other night, it’s clear she’s a brilliant actress. I’ll need someone with talent enough to fool Narcissa Malfoy.”

Daphne hummed in agreement. “I suppose if she can fool one Black, she can fool another.”

“Pardon?” Draco’s brows creased. 

“I’ll do it!” Daphne cried, the man’s returned hat retreating once again at the suddenness of her yelp. “Because I feel bad for swindling you. I’ll talk to her.”

For the sake of his own sanity, Draco decided to ignore her odd reaction and take her word for what it was.

Another chance.

“Thank you, Daph.” 

“So,” she continued casually. “How’s work going?” 

Draco exhaled. “It’s going.”

“You’re driving Hermione up the wall from what I’ve heard.” Daphne smirked at him over the rim of her cup. 

“Well, that makes two of us.” 

“I can’t believe after all these years you two still haven’t found a way to get along.”

“She’s just so…” How did one describe Granger? 

“ Smart? Compelling? Good?” Daphne quirked a brow at him. 

“Yes,” Draco conceded. “But also annoying, petulant, and stubborn. Have you ever tried to negotiate with Granger?”

“If you consider fighting over what kind of takeaway to order for lunch.”

“Try it over something she’s truly passionate about. Then perhaps you’ll see what it is I have to endure.” Draco took a sip of cold-turned tea with a grimace. “I don’t know what’s got her wand in such a knot this go around. We’ve collaborated before, and while it wasn’t ever smooth sailing, this is a new level. I can’t make a single suggestion without receiving a laundry list of counter arguments back within the hour.” 

Daphne shrugged, though Draco suspected the act wasn’t so nonchalant as she wanted it to seem. “Maybe she has a personal attachment to this case.”

“To Jobberknolls? I doubt it.” 

“You never know,” said Daphne. “Hermione and I may not be assigned on the same projects these days, but she’s one of my best friends. If she’s worked up about something, it’s usually for good reason.” 

“Her good reason is going to give me an ulcer at twenty-seven.” 

“For people who argue so much, you’re uncomfortably alike.”

“Really? What could Granger and I possibly have in common?” 

“You’re both ambitious,” Daphne pointed out. “Hard working. Intelligent. Diligent. Other ‘gents, I’m sure. Loyal. Relentless…” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Easy, there, Sorting Hat. So we share a few traits? That doesn’t mean we’re compatible partners.” 

“I don’t know, I heard hate sex is incredible.” 

Draco’s knee hit the underside of the table. Hard. 

“Your face!” Daphne cackled. “Relax! I’m teasing. Although, both of you certainly could use the lay.” 

“That’s not what I meant, but thank you, for your unsolicited opinions on my sex life.” 

“You’re welcome,” Daphne smiled, fishing around her pockets and placing a stack of galleons on the table. 

“Ironic considering at snakes night you said it’d been, what was it? Decades since you’d seen a decent d—”

“Things change,” Daphne stood, smoothing a hand over her robes. “Let’s just say I’m not so deprived these days.”

Draco couldn’t hide his surprise. “Who?”

“Like I’d tell you!” 

“Not telling me will only make me that much more curious,” said Draco.

“Then I suppose you’ll have to make room in your schedule for wondering,” said Daphne over her shoulder. 

“Hey!” Draco called after her, causing her to halt with a huff. 

“What?”

“If Fauna agrees to hear me out herself, have her meet me at Obertelli’s at lunch on Monday.” 

“Yes, yes, alright,” Daphne grumbled. “Can I go now?” 

“In a hurry to see your mystery man?” 

“Fuck off!” Daphne singsonged, weaving her way out of the shop without a single glance back. 

Draco chuckled to himself, draining the dregs from his cup.

Though he didn’t usually find himself inclined toward divination, he couldn’t help but glance at the remaining tea leaves huddled at the bottom.

The small specs were clumped in what appeared to be the shape of a cat, curved tail above its tiny head and all. 

Odd. From what he could remember, the particular symbol represented deceit. 

Perhaps it was picking up on Daphnes turn about?

Either way, he didn’t place much stakes in the guessing games of readings. Maybe it wasn’t even a cat he was seeing at all. 

Whatever it was, he hoped it brought him luck for facing Sunday dinner solo. 

He was going to need it. 

Chapter Text

“That’s the fifth grape you’ve made explode in the last ten minutes,” said Anthony, half-eaten sandwich held midway to his mouth. “What gives?” 

Hermione groaned, flicking her wand at the fruit juice spattered across the front of her white blouse. Had she known she’d be unable to control her anger and subsequent accidental magic, she wouldn’t have brought such volatile berries. 

Most of her Monday morning had been spent hunkered over the addendum once again, except now it was impossible not to feel the added pressure of her waning funds as she worked.

She’d written to every donor she could think of who might be able to back her research, and of the few that had returned her unconventional weekend correspondence, it seemed that not a single one had been able to find a sickle to spare. 

“Sorry,” Hermione set the pre-packaged fruit medley down, pushing it away and out of combustable range. “I suppose I’m unintentionally taking my frustrations out on my lunch.” 

“I’m probably going to regret asking,” Anthony sighed through a mouthful of bacon and lettuce, “but does this have anything to do with that date Daphne had you go on?”

“You better not be talking shite Goldstein!” came said Slytherin’s distant voice from down the corridor. A moment later Daphne’s head appeared around the corner. 

“No, actually,” said Hermione. “It’s not about the date. It’s about my private research.” 

“The reason you’re stuck with Malfoy and the addendum?” asked Anthony. 

“Oh!” Daphne clapped despite the stack of files from the archives she levitated near her hip. “The Scamander Scholarship! They were supposed to get back to you this weekend, weren’t they?” 

Hermione winced. “They got back to me alright.”

“No!” gasped Daphne, slamming the parchment onto her desktop.

“Unfortunately.”

“Those gormless arseholes! You’re joking!”

“I wish I was.” One of the remaining grapes gave a jolt at Hermione’s sigh of exasperation, though it managed to stay whole this time. 

“They’ve lost the plot!” Daphne paced the empty space between their desks. “Absolute mingebags!” 

“What in Merlin’s name are you two on about?” said Anthony.

“I applied for an external funding scholarship, but it turns out they don’t have enough to allocate toward my research.” Hermione palmed her forehead, the dull ache she’d awoken with growing stronger with each hour that passed. “Which means I either need to find a personal donor, or put the entire project on hold until I can apply again.”

“What about your—”

“I’ve already sent letters to other potential backers,” Hermione interrupted Daphne’s train of thought. “No takers.”

“What is their problem?” Daphne scowled. “You’re trying to change the Wizarding World here! Or did they forget who saved their arses not even ten years ago?” 

“Ginny said the same thing. But it appears the savior card only works for so long before it starts to decline,” said Hermione with a shrug she hoped appeared nonchalant. 

“How much funding are we talking?” Anthony leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Hermione, pointing a stern finger at both of her colleagues. “And the answer is no. I’m not taking money from either of you. So forget it.”

Anthony rolled his eyes. “You act like we both don’t have trusts. But fine, if you won’t accept help from your friends, then who is going to foot the bill?”  

“Preferably someone I won’t feel guilty taking money from should all my experimenting be for naught,” Hermione said. “Daph?” 

The blonde had gone eerily silent, her pacing having come to a halt. She blinked thrice, a slow smile beginning to stretch her cheeks.  

“Are you hungry?” 

Hermione and Anthony exchanged confused looks. 

“I mean, not really—”

“Well, I’m starving! “ Daphne chirped. “And seeing as Anthony’s already eaten,” she gestured to the decimated BLT wrappings, “Why don’t you and I go to Obertelli’s for lunch? On me!” 

“I don’t know,” said Hermione, eyeing her messy desk. “I should probably get back to the adde—”

“Your written foreplay with Draco can wait until after I’ve had some chips,” said Daphne, grabbing Hermione’s jacket from it’s hook and tossing it at her. Hermione yelped, the pile of grey wool striking her square in the face. 

“Watch where you throw things!” She scolded, but stood nonetheless. Perhaps a quick break would do some good. Help regain her focus. “And please, don’t ever mention Malfoy and foreplay in the same sentence again.” 

“You should know better than to ask Daphne not to be crass,” said Anthony, clearing his desk. 

Daphne grinned, grabbing her briefcase. “It’s true. I’m only ten percent less likely to mention bollocks at an inopportune time than Red.” She prodded Hermione’s back, urging her toward the hall. “Now come on, don’t want to be late!” 

“We can’t be late to a lunch you just decided we were going to,” grumbled Hermione, shuffling out of their office. 

“Don’t forget your bag!” Daphne remarked over her shoulder.

Hermione snatched the purple beaded satchel from beneath her desk. “I thought you were paying!” She followed an oddly jubilant Daphne toward the lifts. 

“Yes, but you know what they say…” Was she skipping? “Constant vigilance!” 

—

“I’m not sure why you insisted on Obertelli’s when the Leaky is much closer,” Hermione huffed, watching Daphne prod at her pork pies with a fork.

For someone who had claimed she was starving, she sure wasn’t in a hurry to eat. 

“Because the Leaky would’ve been packed.” Daphne took a bite of the pastry, immediately washing it down with a swig of water. 

“You don’t even like pork pies!” said Hermione.

Daphne was right that Obertelli’s was much less crowded than the restaurants in Diagon, the traditional English eating house on Charring Cross a Muggle establishment not often frequented during the day—or ever, really. But it was quiet and a good place to gossip without any extendable ears around. 

“I do too!” Daphne took another bite with a poor attempt to hide her grimace. “Why haven’t you ordered something?” 

“Why haven’t you told me the real reason you wanted to go to lunch?” Hermione countered. “Has something happened between you and the man you were seeing?”

“No, no,” Daphne shook her head, relenting and returning her fork to the table. “We’re fine.”

“Then why is it you’ve dragged me out of office?”

“You needed a break!” 

Hermione remained stoic at her friend’s false reasoning. 

“Okay, okay! I think I have a solution to your funding problem.” 

“I already said I won’t take any money from you or Anthony.”

“I know!” Daphne leaned forward. “That’s not it, I promise.” 

“And I will not sell inappropriate photos of my feet either,” said Hermione, tucking her toes like one of the Creevy brothers might pop out from under a neighboring table with a flash bulb. 

“No piggy porn!” Daphne gave her a faux salute. “Got it! Now, do you trust me?” 

“Honestly? I—”

“Hermione.” Daphne deadpanned. 

“Yes,” Hermione relented.

Despite her jesting, Daphne had become one of the few people Hermione would trust with some of the most personal aspects of her life—the situation with her parents being one of them. Through every failed experiment, every visit to Australia, every discouraging report from professional Healers, Daphne had been there right alongside Ginny and Harry and Ron, pint of ice cream in hand. 

Daphne knew how much this meant to her. Hermione had to believe she wouldn’t suggest something she didn’t think could actually work. 

“What is this brilliant solution of yours, then?” asked Hermione. 

“It should be arriving in,” Daphne glanced at the small, solid gold watch adorning her wrist, “Approximately two minutes. Which means you better down some of that Polyjuice, and fast!”

“Polyjuice? Daph what—?”

“Draco is going to be here shortly to meet Fauna, so if you don’t wish to explain to him that you are her and she is you, then I suggest you start chugging.” 

“Why would I—?”

“You need money, yes?”

“I—well—” Hermione stuttered.

“Draco Malfoy has enough to pay for your research ten times over. He has a proposal for you—Fauna—”

“So he said.” Hermione frowned, crossing her arms. 

 “Just hear him out. And if you don’t want to do it then you don’t have to. But I think it’s worth considering.”

“I don’t know, Daph.”

“Hermione,” Daphne reached for her hands. “Think about what this could mean for your family. If all that stands in the way of bringing them home is putting up with the prat for awhile longer, then it seems like an awful waste not to give it a shot.” 

For as much as Daphne was dramatic, she could be equally persuasive. 

How long are you going to keep at it?  

As long as it takes . 

Did that include whatever as well? 

Hermione set her jaw and reached for her bag, summoning the flask from it’s depths with a wandless Accio.

Yes. Whatever it takes.

Daphne beamed triumphantly, following up with her own Disillusionment Charm to distract from the transformation about to take place. 

The potion tasted as bitter and vile as the other night, Margaux’s real countenance not having had a miraculous moral upswing, and Hermione was glad she’d only need a single swig to get through a lunch meeting. 

She resisted a full body shudder at the feeling of her skin stretching, avoided looking at the warping reflection in the window they sat next to. When the last brush of bangs extended past her brow bone, Daphne lifted her charm, startling the waitress who’d been approaching with a bottle of sparkling water.

“Oh!” The young girl exclaimed, a puzzled twist to her smile as she tried to reconcile Hermione’s new appearance with her memory. “Were you—can I—do you want—um?”

“I’ve got to run,” said Daphne, ignoring the waitress’s confusion and placing the paper napkin from her lap on top of her picked at pies. “You can just put my meal on their tab.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” said the wide-eyed waitress, attempting not to stare at Hermione. 

“You said lunch was on you!” Hermione argued. 

“That was before I could make Draco shell out.” Daphne smiled, beginning to turn toward the door.

“Wait! My shirt!” Hermione looked down at the ruffled sleeves. “I wore this exact top in my last meeting with Malfoy.”

“I’d usually say men don’t know the difference between chiffon and taffeta, but unfortunately, thanks to Narcissa, Draco does have a rather keen eye for quality,” Daphne griped. “Here,” she shucked off her own outer layers. “Wear these and give me your coat instead.”

Hermione took the proffered plum vest and capelet, handing over her grey peacoat.

“Merlin, Hermione! What is this, alpaca wool? You couldn’t have gone with at least a half decent camel-blend?” complained Daphne, sliding her bared arms into Hermione’s jacket sleeves. 

“I got it on sale,” said Hermione, slipping into Daphne’s unarguably softer garments.

They shielded her identifiable blouse from view, but were a bit brighter than Hermione would ever deign to choose for herself. 

Daphne shivered like the feel of anything but silk on her skin was physically repulsive. “I’ll let it slide, but only because I know you’re pinching hounds right now.”

“It’s pounds,” corrected Hermione. 

“Whatev—shit!” Daphne yelped mid-dismissal, focus fixed on the street outside. “He’s here! If I’m in the archives when you get back, send me a memo and I’ll come up! Good luck!” 

Hermione didn’t even have time to respond with a sarcastic thank you before Daphne darted for the door.

The chime of the bell chased itself in circles, echoing Daphne’s exit when Malfoy stepped inside a few moments later, outfitted in his work robes. 

His confident strides stuttered at the sight of Hermione—Fauna—sitting there, though he recovered without much fanfare, settling in across from her at the rickety two-seater. 

“Miss Fortescue,” Malfoy greeted. 

Ah, so they were back to formal precursors. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” Hermione said, trying not to tug at the capelets fine hemming. 

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” said Malfoy. “I assure you I will not disrespect your time this afternoon.” 

Hermione didn’t have to fake her haughty snort of skepticism. She hoped the sound seemed more dignified coming from Fauna.

“Daphne said I should give you a chance, though I’m not sure why you have her confidence.”

Malfoy breathed a laugh. “It is not easily won, that’s for certain. But even with us drifting apart in our later years of school, Daphne and I grew up together. I dare say she’s known me the longest of anyone aside from my parents.” 

“Is that supposed to be a testament to your character?” Hermione raised Fauna’s perfectly arched brows. 

“If you’d like it to be,” said Malfoy. “Though seeing as you live with her, I think that’s up to your own discretion.” 

Live with her? Daphne had certainly failed to mention that little addition.

“Right, flatmates and all,” Hermione played into the falsification, though not knowing the intricacy of the web Daphne had woven, decided diversion was preferred “Well, I haven’t got all day. What’s this about then?” 

“The shop?” asked Malfoy.

“Pardon?” 

“Are you fixing up the shop? I figured you were just going to sell it, but considering you said you were busy…and Daphne mentioned something about it.”

“I—I haven’t decided yet.” said Hermione, hoping the flippancy over her fake family’s property wasn’t too farfetched. “It’s quite an undertaking,

“Indeed,” Malfoy seemed to take it in stride. “An expensive one, as well.” 

“Yes, it is,” Hermione hedged, not sure what that had to do with anything. 

“Well, should that be the route you choose to go, I might be able to provide some assistance.” Malfoy’s hands came to rest on the table between them, long, pale fingers neatly entwined. “I have a proposition for you. And before I tell you what it is, I’d like to say that if you deny me—earnestly—I will cease my pursuit. I don’t wish to be a burden to you, Miss Fortescue.” 

Though she had sincere doubts that his proposition would be enticing in any regards, Hermione couldn’t help but to appreciate his insistence for consent, regardless of whatever his motivations may be. “

Very well,” she said. “Let’s hear it.”

“I wish for you to be my fake fiancé in exchange for monetary compensation.” 

Hermione had the instant urge to throw herself into dramatic denial, adding a faux gag for good measure, despite the part she knew she was supposed to play. She restrained herself just barely, but couldn’t help the reflexive scrunch of her nose at the outlandish suggestion.

What reason could Malfoy possibly have for wanting to fake date Fauna? Was he not looking to find a good, polite Pureblood wife with whom to produce prim, perfect little heirs? 

Hermione tried to school her expression into one of neutral contemplation, but by the way Malfoy studied her she didn’t think she was doing a great job of it. 

“You want to pay me to date you?” Hermione reiterated, though she heard him perfectly well the first time. 

“Yes,” said Malfoy, unwavering in his assuredness despite her reaction. “Much like Daphne, my mother has been insisting I settle down for years now, and it seems she’s taken it into her own hands to sign me up for the same pairing program. I’m aware you’re unfamiliar with the extent of Malfoy Industries, Miss Fortescue, but I say so humbly, I am an incredibly busy man. And whilst one day I would like to take up familial roots and a wife, I do not have the time nor energy to do so at this moment.” 

“I believe that if my mother assumes I am seeing a witch seriously she will loosen the reigns a bit,” continued Malfoy. “But to get her to drop them permanently, until I state otherwise, I need you . Particularly your acting skills.” 

“Acting?” 

“That little charade at Le Pieux Mensonge , while unbearable, is the exact kind of thing that would have my mother begging me to withdraw from the program. Potentially swear off all Pureblood women for the foreseeable future.”

Hermione couldn’t smother her question. “You wish to marry someone who isn’t a Pureblood?” 

Malfoy shrugged. “The lineage of the witch I choose to spend the rest of my life with is irrelevant, so long as it is my choice. ” 

A respectable, reasonable answer, that shouldn’t have been so shocking. It wasn’t that Hermione assumed Malfoy held onto his supremacist beliefs after the war. His path to redemption had been rather public and appeared genuine. She certainly wouldn’t have agreed to work with him in any capacity otherwise. 

But still, to hear Malfoy say such things aloud was… unharmonious with the version of him she’d been most familiar with throughout her childhood.

Polyjuice aside, at what point had they become strangers on opposite sides of a table rather than antagonistic phantoms from each other’s pasts? 

“If I wish to trick my mother, I can’t just ask anyone. I need someone who is capable of holding her own,” said Malfoy, filling her silence. 

“Fool Narcissa Malfoy?” Hermione shook her head, sleek hair sliding across her shoulders. “Are you mad?” 

“Perhaps a bit,” Malfoy didn’t deny the absurdity of the situation. “But I’m also rather desperate.” 

Now that was something Hermione never thought she’d hear the Malfoy Heir admit to. 

“And you’d…pay me?” 

Malfoy nodded. “We’d have a contract drawn up, stating exactly what our fake relationship would entail and the specifics of your compensation.” 

A horrible idea. Another on the list of many in which Hermione had taken part in in the last week.

She should’ve reached her yearly quota for terrible, disastrous, very, very bad ideas. And yet…

“What would I have to do?” She raised Fauna’s sharp chin as she would her own when challenging the Wizengamot.

“I was thinking we’d agree on a set amount of dates and public outings, in which we’d attempt to enjoy each other’s company,” said Malfoy. “Or at least so much as to make it believable for any observers. You’d have to meet my mother, of course, upon whom we’d enact similar methods to the ones you used last week.” 

“You want me to tell your mother I don’t think you’re sexually attracted to me?” Hermione mocked. 

“I want you to throw propriety to the wind,” insisted Malfoy. “I’ll admit my mothers feathers are hard to ruffle. This won’t necessarily be the easiest task, but I guarantee I will make it worth your while, should you agree to help me.” 

Daphne was right. The amount Hermione needed for her research would barely make a denti in the Malfoy family vaults.

But could she really do it? Deceive not only Narcissa, but Malfoy as well? 

“I think you’re severely overestimating my acting abilities,” said Hermione. 

“I don’t know, I think the patrons of Le Pieux Mensonge would argue otherwise,” said Malfoy. “And I’d have to agree. Coupled with the impressive dressing down you gave me this weekend, I’d say you stand a rather decent chance.” 

Hermione couldn’t focus with him staring her down like that, slate grey eyes sharp as the stone of their namesake. She shut her own, reaching for a semblance of solace in which to weigh her options. 

But even as she tallied up the pros and cons, made her comparative mental arguments, contrasted the multitude of consequences, she knew the decision had been made the moment she popped the top on the Polyjuice. 

Whatever it takes.

“How much are we talking?” 

Malfoy’s cutting attention softened, a triumphant smirk tilting his lips. “Does that mean you’ll do it?” 

“Negotiations first,” said Hermione, crossing her arms, the absence of her scar a still jarring side effect. 

“Fair enough,” said Malfoy. “You’re an adept businesswoman, Miss Fortescue.”

“And that’s shocking to you?” Hermione scoffed. “Don’t think a woman could possibly understand the complexities of arbitration?” 

“You put words in my mouth,” Malfoy glowered. “Some of my closest friends are incredibly brilliant women. Daphne being one of them. I work alongside the brightest witch of our generation.”

Hermione tried not to startle at the odd almost compliment. 

“So no, it is not your intelligence that strikes me, Miss Fortescue,” continued Malfoy, “but your privilege in acquiring such a mind despite the path most Pureblood women are herded toward like mindless cattle by overbearing mothers.” 

“I see,” murmured Hermione.

“Now, as for the compensation, I reckon it should cover your time, effort, and any additional unforeseen costs,” said Malfoy. “Based on my mother’s propensity for skepticism, seven dates, introductions included, shall suffice.” 

“That seems…sensible,” said Hermione, though the idea of such constant accompaniment in addition to their cross collaboration outside of this arrangement made her unsettled.

Not that Malfoy knew he was to endure such extensive time in her presence. 

“I’ll contact those I know at the Prophet to ensure ample press,” Malfoy noted. “So long as that’s alright with you?” 

“Fine,” Hermione nodded, fingers picking at the cheap pleather upholstery she sat upon. “Then, considering the aforementioned components, I’d like to request 60,000 galleons for my services.”  

“You’re sure?” Malfoy questioned. 

“Yes, I’m sure!” Hermione bit back. “You want to use me as personified Puking Pastilles! I deserve to be compensated accordingly.”

“I’m not arguing that,” said Malfoy. “It’s just—”

“You’re the one that said money was not a concern, were you not?”

“I was,” Malfoy huffed.

“Then 60,000 is my price.” Hermione caught herself before the heel of her shoe could strike the floor in indignation. 

“You’re positive?” 

Hermione’s answering glare had Malfoy raising his hands in acquiesce. 

“Right then,” he said. “60,000 it is.” Malfoy stood from the table then. “As I’m sure we both have other business to attend to, I figure it’s time to take my leave.”

He placed a handful of bills on the table, more than their tab was worth, as if to further prove his point. 

“Yes, me as well,” said Hermione, also standing. 

“Thank you for agreeing to assist me, Miss Fortescue,” said Malfoy. “I’ll have my legal team draft a contract this evening. Are you available Thursday?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Great. I’d like to review it together in person, and so long as all looks well, begin preparations.” 

“Preparations?” 

“I’m not familiar with the intricacies of your previous relationships, but I find that they usually require knowledge of one another,” said Malfoy with a sarcastic lilt. 

“Oh, well, yes,” Hermione hummed. 

“Brilliant,” Malfoy took up her right hand, which hung loose at her side. In the span of a single blink he brushed his lips across her freckle-free knuckles before beginning for the door.

He paused just inside the entrance, throwing one last out-of-place smile at her.

“For future reference, I really do think it is in your best interest to learn how to let someone finish their thought. I was going to give you 150,000.” He gave her a mocking salute. “Pleasure doing business, Miss Fortescue.” 

Malfoy was gone before the hex could leave Hermione’s lips.

Chapter Text

More Potente Memory Potion 

Alihosty

Powdered sage 

Peppermint 

Eel eyes

Lethe river water (preferred over Standard Potioning Wat—

Hermione swore, her quill catching on the parchment and smearing the remainder of the sentence.

She attempted to dab at the blotches with a spare sheet, though it only served to leave both pages sticky instead.

Rather than continue to create a mess of her desk, she spelled a new roll from the fresh pile stacked by the door, the wooden crate delivered to the office every morning like milk jars. 

Picking up where she left off, Hermione fought to remember the lesson they’d received in fourth year from Professor Snape on the Forgetfulness Potion.

So far she’d only been able to recall the Lethe river water, and something about mistletoe, though the berries would most certainly react with the alihosty and therefore did not make a feasible option for the potential ingredient list. 

It seemed rather unfair that the thing which seemed the most promising solution to restoring her parents memories would also be the singular subject—aside from Divination—at which Hermione did not always excel. 

Charms and spell work had always suited her far better, and thus had been the first thing she’d attempted after the war. Yet none of her modified Obliviate ’s did the trick.

She’d been able to pull random bits back to the forefront, but her childhood hamster’s name and the color of her old bedroom walls did not her parents memories make. 

Galanthus Nivalis

A plant used to treat Alzheimer’s in Muggle medicine—it would be a wise addition. She’d have to ensure the water was tepid enough to not wilt it upon submersion. 

Jobberknoll feather - freshly molted

Hermione ignored the insistent twist of her empty stomach in favor of drafting her hypotheses. Daphne and Anthony had attempted to get her to accompany them to the canteen, but she’d waved them off with a dazed ‘tomorrow’.

Now that she had the promise of prospective funds from her deal with Malfoy, for the first time in what felt like ages she could think and experiment freely without the limit of a condensed budget. 

If she could just figure out how to enhance the original Memory Potion whilst siphoning off certain ingredients from her theoretical reverse-Forgetfulness Potion…and perhaps with a half dose of Baruffio’s Brain Elixir for added clarity…

“Granger, I do hope you know that’s a real quill and not one made of sugar.” 

Hermione startled, jolting the feather away from where it absently caressed her lower lip. 

Malfoy leaned cross-armed in the doorway, a manila file folder dangling from his fingertips, Malfoy Industries robes pressed and sharp in the lantern light. They were richer in colour when not under the fluorescents of Obertelli’s, lending a softer contrast to his near-white hair. 

“Habit,” Hermione mumbled, thrown by Malfoy’s unexpected entrance.

It’d been exactly twenty-four hours since they’d last seen each other, and yet Malfoy probably assumed it’d been closer to a week, their last foray being in the lift rather than at lunch the day before. 

“Yes, well, if the reason you’re so passionate about this addendum is simply because you wish for more writing implements to snack on, then I must inform you they sell them aplenty at Honeydukes,” said Malfoy, long-limbed strides eating up the space between them until he stood alongside her desk.

He placed the folder before her. “We need to go over the fifth clause again prior to the Wizengamot reviewal.”

“I suppose that would be wise,” said Hermione, ignoring his slight and sliding the list of ingredients beneath other stray documents and out of sight. 

Malfoy snagged Anthony’s vacant chair, pulling it up to the front of her desk. 

“Oh,” said Hermione, watching as he crossed one ankle over the top of his opposite knee. “You meant now ?” 

“Were you doing something more important?” Malfoy eyed the scrolls of parchment. 

Yes! She wanted to snip. But she couldn’t, not without him sticking his annoyingly pointy yet perfectly sloped nose into it. 

Hermione flipped the folder open in answer instead, sifting through the seemingly endless addendum until she reached their newest additional clauses. 

“Malfoy, what is this?” She frowned, pointing to his elegant scrawl in the margins of Clause E that had most certainly not been there when she’d last sent the addendum over to him.

“Edits,” he said, snatching one of her spare quills from the glass vase she kept them stored in, twirling it between slender fingers. 

“But we agreed that Jobberknolls were to be moved to a class XXXX rather than a XX,” said Hermione.

“Agreed?” Malfoy scoffed. “More like you demanded.” 

“If you had an issue, you should’ve spoken up earlier, rather than a few days prior to the reviewal.” Hermione snatched her quill back from him with a wandless Accio . “It’s imperative that this initiative passes. We shouldn’t be making major changes at this point, only minor improvements and corrections.”

“I don’t think the classification constitutes as a major change,” said Malfoy, tugging at his robe sleeves now that she’d confiscated his fixation. “It’s a single line, Granger.”

“A single, definitive line,” Hermione countered. “The classification could entirely undermine our argument.”

“How so?” 

“A class XXXX grants endangerment status, furthering our points in Clause B insisting upon sanctuary-level habitats. If we were to keep them at a class XX, then that would imply they’re in a state of potential domestication and no longer qualified for external assistance from preserves.” 

“But if we keep them as a class XX then they remain independent agents, meaning we won’t have to jump through as many hoops when writing up the collections section later on. Class XXXX would automatically place them under the International Beings Protection Act of 1945, making the approved ingredient collecting season only once a quarter rather than at will of their natural molting. Which means—”

“Ten trunks worth of feathers would be going to waste each month, yes, yes, I get it,” Hermione grumbled.

She hated it when he made sense. 

“Is it so appalling to think I’d have a half decent idea, Granger?” Malfoy leaned forward in the chair, forehead creased. 

“Very much so,” said Hermione, dipping her quill in a fresh inkwell and adding a line beneath Malfoy’s suggestions. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Editing your edits.” Hermione spun the addendum to face him. 

“ An elevation to a classification of XXXX shall be implemented until specimen have reached standard population levels as previously recorded in yearly census, at which point, should the numbers remain stable for a period of eighteen months, classification shall decrease to XX until otherwise noted,” read Malfoy. 

“A compromise,” said Hermione. “You are familiar with the concept?” 

“Yes, Granger,” Malfoy bit, pushing the parchment back toward her. “If anyone wouldn’t know the meaning of the word, it’d be you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You are notoriously stubborn.”

“I am not!”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” Malfoy shrugged. 

“Well it isn’t often a good—” Hermione began with a huff, only to be cut off by a shout coming from the corridor. 

“Hermione!” came Daphne’s distinct shriek. “Hermione! You’ll never guess what was delivered to the flat this morning!”

“Daphne!” Hermione called, an urgent warning to her tone. “We have company!”

 “I mean, for as much as Draco can be a right git, he sure has good taste in—” Daphne halted in the doorway, swallowing the remainder of her sentence at the sight of Malfoy perched in the chair between their desks. 

“Oh, do go on,” Malfoy twisted over his shoulder to glare at the newcomer. “You always did give the most earnest compliments, Daph.” 

Hermione made a frenetic, dramatized gesture at Daphne behind his back, miming to hide the letter held between her friends fingertips. 

“Draco!” Daphne squeaked. “What a lovely surprise!” She slid the envelope between the folds of her robes. “I was just saying you’ve got wonderful taste in…” Her eyes leapt for a suitable answer, settling on his feet. “Shoes! You’ve got wonderful taste in shoes. Are those dragon hide? Ironbelly by the looks of it, no?” 

“I wore these to Goyle’s wedding,” said Malfoy. “Where—if I remember correctly—you said they made me look like a ponce.”

Malfoy leveled his fellow Slytherin with a look Hermione hoped she never found herself on the other end of. 

“Did I?” said Daphne, tilting her head. “Are you sure I didn’t say prince? You do have rather small ears.” 

“Daph!” Hermione interrupted. “Was there something you needed?” 

“Oh, nothing important really,” Daphne shook her head, taking a step backward. “In fact, it was so entirely irrelevant I think I’ll just go!” 

“I’m sure Anthony could use your help…” trailed Hermione, attempting to offer a way out.

“Don’t leave on my account,” said Malfoy. 

“In Misuse, yes!” exclaimed Daphne, ignoring Malfoy. “I’ll head there now!” 

“You can show her.” 

“What—”

“The letter,” said Malfoy. “You’re an insufferable gossip. Runs in the Greengrass line. You were about to yammer on about the parcel I had delivered for your flatmate.”

“The what? ” Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth in the wake of her accidental outburst, like she might push it back down her throat. 

“Well, if Draco doesn’t mind,” Daphne beamed, scuttling fully into the shared office space. “He sent this.” She handed the correspondence over. “As well as an obscenely large bouquet of weird flowers. I mean honestly, you couldn’t have gone with something that would leave at least some surface area on my kitchen table?”

“They were gloxinia and no, I could not have. My fiancée deserves only the grandest of gestures.” 

Hermione choked.  It was odd to here him say it so casually. Even weirder that it was technically her he was engaged to.

Or, falsely so. 

“Engaged?” Hermione managed to splutter, attempting to sound shocked, though she hoped her very real hacking made the performance rather believable. 

“Yes,” said Daphne, smiling much too wide for the present situation. “Didn’t you hear? Draco’s engaged to my flatmate. Asked her just yesterday.”

Damned Slytherin was a getting a riot out of this mess. 

“Ah,” said Hermione after a sip of tepid tea to clear her throat. “That’s… nice .” 

“You’ve met Fauna?” asked Malfoy, brow quirked. 

“Oh, I’ve had the pleasure of making her acquaintance a few too many times,” Hermione said through a sharp smile. 

“Don’t get on then?” 

“I didn’t say that.”

“You may as well have,” said Malfoy. “Your nose did that thing.” 

Hermione resisted the urge to cover the aforementioned appendage. “What thing?”

“It wrinkles. Just there.” Malfoy pointed to the center of his own, right between his eyes. “When you dislike something.”

“It does not!” 

“Yes it does,” piped Daphne. “But that’s besides the point.” She placed her hands on her hips. “If you don’t wish to here my dramatic reading of your letter, Draco, I advise you vacate the premises promptly.” 

“You wish for me to leave,” muttered Malfoy. “Not like I was here first. Trying to do my job, nonetheless.” He stood despite his protestations. “I suppose we’ve resolved Clause E, though, Granger. Compromised, as you call it.”

“Yes, it seems we’re in agreement. For now.” 

Malfoy shook his head. “Ulcer,” she thought he hissed, but couldn’t be sure, as he was already striding for the door. 

“Don’t you want the addendum, Malfoy?” Hermione called at his retreating back.

“I’m sure you’ll find something else wrong with it soon enough.”

He disappeared through the doorway without a second glance. 

The present silence persisted until the sound of his very much ponce-y shoes faded entirely. 

“Open it!” Daphne squealed, taking up the chair Draco had vacated. 

Hermione eyed the letter, drew a finger across the raised ridges of the Malfoy crest stamped into the perfect circle of silver wax.

“You almost blew it, Daph,” said Hermione. “If I’m going to do this, no one else can know. Ginny, Pansy, Luna, and Anthony are already four too many, but we can’t help that now.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Daphne deflated. “I’ll be more careful, I swear it. I just got so excited, and Draco almost never comes to the Ministry mid-week, only Mondays or Fridays, usually. I didn’t think he’d be here, especially not in our office.” 

“Well, let’s just hope his disregard for poor acting extends to you too,” said Hermione. She slid her thumb through the seal, extracting a piece of folded parchment. “Would you really like to read it, or was that just a ploy?”

“A ploy, though I do think my posh accent is pretty spot on.” Daphne straightened, crossed her legs in the same manner Malfoy had. “Granger, how un-lovely to see you here,” Daphne mocked. 

Hermione chuckled. “Certainly better than my French.” 

“Alright, enough chatter!” said Daphne. “It’s took an immense amount of self-restraint not to rip into that thing the moment it arrived through the window.” 

“Fine.” Hermione cleared her throat, then began to recite from the familiar looped lettering. 

Fauna,

I hope you don’t mind my addressing you so informally. If we are to be wed, it seems only proper to speak of each other with some familiarity, does it not?

I wanted to express my gratitude for your accepting my proposal, as I don’t think I was as enthusiastic with my thanks yesterday as I’d have liked to be. 

Thank you, Fauna. Earnestly. You have no idea the kind of service your presence provides. 

I’d like to invite you to my office this Thursday evening at Malfoy Industries to review the contract as discussed. I know you’re probably quite busy with the shop, so do let me know if a different day or time would work better.

With fondness,

Draco Lucius Malfoy

While not overly affectionate, Malfoy’s words still struck a sharp contrast to the harsh commentary he often slashed into the addendum.

The ones before her read gentle, dare she say endearing.

It was an odd sight, the way he twisted the bottom of the F’s not in a dissimilar manner to the way he printed the top curl of her G’s. 

“A contract?” said Daphne, peering at he upside-down script. “I thought you said you agreed on seven dates for 60,000 galleons already?”

“We did,” said Hermione, tucking the note back into it’s envelope. “But there are other things we’ll need to go over. Boundaries and stuff.”

“Boundaries?”

“Yes. Where we draw the line so as not to mix up this charade of a relationship for the real thing. Though Merlin knows Nifflers would fly before I ever fell for Malfoy.”

“I don’t know, Hermione,” Daphne hummed. “From what Anthony says, it seems like those little buggers evolve a bit more each day.”

“Well, until one sprouts wings, I’ll consider myself safe from the woes and throes,” said Hermione.

She reached for her quill, starting up a fresh reply. 

Draco,

I seek to remind you we are not actually to be married, though I concede your point of familiarity for presenting a convincing charade. 

Thursday is fine for me. 

Regards,

Fauna Fortescue

“Could you grab me a book from the shelves over there, Daph?” asked Hermione, casting a quick-dry charm on the ink. 

Daphne nodded, plucking a selection from their small joint history section. Hermione took it from her, turning to the inside cover where a hand much steadier than hers had written Property of the Ministry of Magic .

After a moment of studying the strokes, Hermione tapped her wand against her own note. The letters wiggled, stretching and dipping into a new font until it looked like Hermione hadn’t written a single one of the words. 

“There,” she said, smoothing out any spell-induced wrinkles. “That’ll do. You don’t happen to have one of your family stamps, do you?” 

“Let me see,” said Daphne, beginning to dig around her desk. “Ah, yes. Here you are.” 

“Thank you.” Hermione took the vat of pre-melted standard red wax, sealing the missive with the Greengrass insignia. “He’ll just assume I borrowed yours, since apparently we live together.”

Hermione turned her aggravated attentions on her friend, who at least had to courtesy to look sheepish.

“Did I not mention that?” Daphne grimaced. 

“No,” ground Hermione. “You’re lucky I’m quick on my feet.” 

“Brightest Witch and all that!” said Daphne, taking the proffered letter. “I’ll drop this off in the owlery on the way down to the archives.” 

“Make sure Henriette takes it,” said Hermione, referencing Daphne’s tawny owl. “Don’t want Malfoy recognizing one of the Ministry birds.”

“Will do.” Daphne pat her pocket. “Do you think you’re ready for Friday?”

Hermione sighed. “I hope so. From what I can discern there’s no outward objection to the bill from any know members. It’s rather low profile compared to some of my other initiatives. Holds no importance to the majority of the seats.”

“But it’s not of no importance to you,” said Daphne softly. “Don’t let Draco distract you from what really matters.”

“Do you mean with these ridiculous dates or his irritating written dialogue?” 

“Take your pick,” Daphne smiled. “In all honesty, I think you’d find him to be a rather useful companion beyond the Joobyknooties.”

“Jobberknolls. And I’m not denying his intelligence, I’m denying our ability to work together effectively,” said Hermione. 

“Didn’t he say you two managed to compromise?”

“After he completely marked up the margins without consulting me first.”  

“I’m just saying, the man owns a potion haus, Hermione. For someone attempting to invent a new one , he’s not a bad ally to have,” said Daphne.

“Please,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “A Ministry assigned case is one thing, but Malfoy would never deign to help me with a personal project. And certainly not in his free time.”

“Technically, he’s already doing that,” pointed Daphne. 

“Yes, but he doesn’t know it’s me. He thinks he’s helping some poor little Pureblood heiress fund the fixing up of her deceased uncle’s shop.” Hermione retrieved her ingredients list now that it was just the two of them. “Not to mention he also benefits from that arrangement.” 

“He’s not an entirely unfeeling being, you know.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t care,” said Hermione with a shake of her head. “I’m saying he doesn’t care about me.”

Daphne opened her mouth to rebuttal, but Hermione stopped her with a raised hand. 

“I really do need to get back to work, Daph,” she said, casting a meaningful glance at the piles of paperwork. “Perhaps a drink after the hearing Friday?” 

“Alright,” Daphne consented. “But you better not wear those bunny shoes this time.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Suppose it’s back to the bowels for me, then.” Daphne spun on her heel, shoulders slumped in resignation of her return to the Ministry archives.

“Still no luck finding those old bowtruckle boundary laws?” 

“Not a wiff of them. I even asked the hag for help.”

“Mrs. Biddlecome is not a hag!” Hermione scolded. 

“And I’m not a witch,” said Daphne. “You can’t argue she’s a rather testy thing.”

“Yes, well, she’s got the entire history of Wizarding Britain stored in her brain,” said Hermione. 

“Except for bowtruckle boundary laws, apparently.”

“Try looking under ‘M’, between the years 1949 and 1972. Perhaps it’s more closely related to map expansion.” 

“Thank you!” Daphne called over her shoulder. She paused just before turning the corner. “Oh, and Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“It’s okay to ask for help. You might not have your parents at the moment, but you’re most certainly not alone.” 

Chapter Text

Though the addendum was not the first required collaboration between the Ministry and Malfoy Industries, Hermione had never found reason for visiting the critically acclaimed laboratories.

At least, until now. 

The front facade of the building on the corner of Diagon and Horizont Alley was as imposing as it’s owner.

Sleek, black painted bricks, arched but shuttered windows, and a pristine, painted sign in the shape of a vial which hung over the inset double doorway. The entwined M and I winked down at her from above, swinging in the soft evening breeze.

A cloudless sunset cast the entire thing in an unearthly glow. Hermione was inclined to call it beautiful, similar to the way a storm brought forth equal parts awe and apprehension. 

She shivered despite the pearl-colored trench she’d borrowed from Daphne for the occasion. Whilst Hermione didn’t consider herself unfashionable by any means (at least, not in terms of Muggle trends), she couldn’t deny the Pureblood palette was beyond her current closet’s abilities. 

Margaux-her’s manicured fingers reached for the wide handle, and Hermione wondered briefly if Malfoy would eventually become suspicious when the lacquer never changed nor chipped. 

She followed the length of a carpeted runner down a narrow corridor, emerging into grand foyer that must be magically enlarged, as the buildings height could not account for the breadth of the ceiling otherwise.

It smelled not unpleasant for a place within which any numerous potent potions were brewing, like lemongrass and her mother’s old biscuit tin—a stale sort of sweetness that rang metallic on too deep an inhale. 

Hermione strode past the pair of curved benches in favor of approaching the polished front desk, the same logo from the outdoor sign embedded underfoot in various shades of marble. 

“Hello there,” she said, drawing the attention of the seated secretary. 

“Hi, yes, hello!” stammered the young man, blinking up at her.

He wore the paler blue robes of an apprentice, a name tag inscribed with Eddie pinned below the standard insignia. 

“I’m here for a meeting with Mr. Malfoy.” 

“Oh,” said Eddie. “Mr. Malfoy isn’t taking visitors at the moment.”

“I have a prior appointment,” Hermione pressed. “He’s expecting me.” 

“But, Mr. Malfoy explicitly stated he was not to be disturbed this afternoon.” Eddie’s voice was sure, though Hermione could see that he wrung his hands in his lap. “Perhaps you could reschedule.”

Hermione had to remind herself the poor boy was just doing his job so as not to reach for her wand. “I will not reschedule as I have not received communication from Mr. Malfoy that our meeting has been otherwise cancelled.”

“I could take a message,” Eddie offered, reaching for a scroll of parchment. 

Summoning all her pretend Pureblood pretentiousness, Hermione attempted to reason with him. “I will not be leaving these premises until I have spoken with Mr. Malfoy.”

Eddie startled. “I—I understand your frustration, ma’am, but—”

“Draco is my fiancé and if you do not let me see him this minute I will hex you six ways to Sunday!” The declaration rang in the empty lobby, echoing off the clean tiled walls.

Fiancé. Fiancé. Fiancé. 

Eddie appeared entirely gobsmacked, mouth agape. 

“Miss Fortescue?” 

Hermione nearly sighed in relief at the sound of Neville’s voice. He materialized through a doorway she was sure hadn’t been there a moment ago, tie askew beneath his robes, a small cauldron in hand. 

“Yes!” she said a bit too Hermione-like. Re-tempering her vocal chords she tried again. “Yes. That’s me.” 

“Ah!” Neville hurried over. “I’m so sorry, Miss Fortescue. I was meant to greet you but got a bit sidetracked.” He tilted the cauldron as if in explanation. “I’ll take her from here, Eddie.”

Hermione followed him back toward the wall from which he’d emerged, resisting the urge to part ways with Eddie via a passive ‘I told you so’.

Neville pressed the tip of his wand to the seemingly blank wall, only for the paneling to ripple and warp until it revealed an opening. 

“This way,” said Neville,  stepping through the makeshift entrance. “My sincerest apologies again. We’re brewing a massive lot of Blood-Replenishing potion for Mungo’s and one of the cauldron’s ran a leak. Lost the entire batch, I’m afraid.”

“No worries,” said Hermione, trailing Neville about the back bends and turns of the building.

They passed an array of doors—some simply locked, some heavily warded—all labeled with plaques of varying degrees warning passerby of what might be stored or stirred up inside.

She must’ve been studying them too closely as Neville alighted at her attention. 

“Are you into potion making?” he asked. “If we had more time I’m sure Draco would insist on giving you a full tour. Perhaps if you finish up early you can have a look about.”

Though Hermione doubted Malfoy would ever dare stoop to the title of tour guide, she placated Neville’s consideration. “I would very much enjoy that.” 

“We have fourteen main potions labs in this building alone, as well as an additional five in our French headquarters, though the brewing capacity of those are a quarter of what we can produce in-house here in London.” 

Hermione hummed in what she hoped was a mildly disinterested manner, trying to suppress her true awe at the facilities. Fauna wasn’t meant to be a major swot, and thus she needed to remember to temper her reactions. 

“There are three full climate-controlled storage chambers for the final brews, and nineteen for ingredients, if you include the greenhouses,” Neville continued on. “We produce upwards of 5,000 vials per week of public apothecary orders alone, let alone our private fills—” 

It wasn’t until they reached a door which declared Private Laboratories of Head Potions Master that Neville ceased his prattling. 

“Here we are!” He opened the lab the same way he did the wall in the foyer, only with an added array of ward-detangling.

After a minute of struggling and a few breathy utterances, they were granted entrance. 

Upon first glance, it appeared a relatively standard lab.

Two benches with four cauldrons—one lit and bubbling, the others cold and empty—shelves of neatly organized ingredients, dried herbs hung in bunches.

But as they moved through the space toward what Hermione assumed was Malfoy’s office at the back, closer inspection of the collection of wares foretold a very different story. 

Solid silver stirring rods rather than plated, lined up next to the lit cauldron, a total of seven in varying lengths.

A quartz mortar and pestle, known for not only producing the finest grinds, but for needing to be replaced every six weeks due to the wear of the soft stone.

The makings of a sink on the far wall, a tap for each type of potioning water.

Draco Malfoy had effectively crafted the most exquisite potions lab Hermione had ever seen.

Acting like it was nothing more than a display at Madam Malkin’s physically pained her. The taste of blood filling her mouth from biting her tongue so hard. 

Used to the excess of extravagant materials, Neville breezed by without a second glance. 

“Malfoy?” He called through the closed office door. 

“I’m busy, Longbottom,” came the short, cold refrain. 

“I have Miss Fortescue here to see you.” 

Neville’s declaration was met with the sound of muffled latches. Hermione couldn’t be sure, but it seemed Malfoy Industries had implemented a locking mechanism similar to that used in Gringotts.

Perhaps a bit excessive, she thought. But impressive all the same. 

When the door swung open it revealed Malfoy not stood behind it in greeting, but sat at a neat, sturdy desk, a flask of semi-luminescent liquid perched before him and glowing faintly in the dim light.

It cast a patronus-like blush across his pale cheeks, the cool blue reflected in the smart spectacles perched on his nose. He didn’t so much as glance at Hermione and Neville upon their entrance, focus remaining on the ominous substance. 

“One moment,” he grunted, quill scribbling away though his eyes never strayed. 

The rest of the office, while well-organized and minimally decorated, held nothing of unusual note.

Not a single personal affect to be found, only an array of office and potions supplies, a book collection rival to Hermione’s own, and Malfoy himself, who then cast what appeared to be stasis charm around his mystery ampoule and undimmed the lights in a single wandless wave. 

“There we are.” Malfoy did stand then, gesturing them further inside. “Thank you, Longbottom, for retrieving her. I would’ve done so myself, except as you can see I was admittedly distracted.” 

“Is that molten antimony?” Hermione started, sparked on by the sudden recollection. 

Malfoy’s brows jumped. “Indeed it is Miss Fortescue. I didn’t know you were so adept at potions?” 

Hermione tried not to grimace at her folly. “Oh, I’m not.” Both Malfoy and Neville gave her disbelieving looks. “I mean, it was only a guess! I think I must’ve just remembered it from my school years or something…” 

“Well, so long as your familiarity is not because you intend to add it to your ingredients list,” said Malfoy. 

“Pardon me?” Hermione squeaked. How in Merlin’s name did he know about her list?

“Your ice cream?” Malfoy continued. “My apologies. It was meant to be a joke.”

“Oh!” Thank the Gods! “No! That’s funny!” She wanted to swallow the forced laugh as soon as it left her lips. “It’s my fault for misunderstanding. I’m afraid it’s been a long week.”

“Right,” Malfoy seemed to brush it off. He motioned to the open leather seat. “Please, sit. We have much to discuss.” 

Hermione did as directed, though instead of Neville taking up the other one next to her, he instead set the cauldron aside and procured a thick document from the satchel slung at his hip.

Malfoy pulled an identical packet from his desk drawer, reseating himself across from her. 

“This here is the contract I’ve drawn up outlining the specifics of our deal,” he said. “I believe it to be a relatively standard agreement. The first few pages outline that which we’ve already verbally agreed to. Seven dates—though I’ve added a clause which states they must occur within a fourth month period of each other, if that’s alright?”

Following along, Hermione hummed. “Yes, sounds sensible.” 

“Good. The 60,000 galleons,” Malfoy gave her a cheeky smirk at that, and Hermione purposefully avoided noting the way it added to the not unattractive professor-chic thing he had going on with the glasses.

“The press clause, the parent meeting clause,” Malfoy continued to go through the list. “Now, the next part is new, if you’d like to review it for a moment and then discuss anything you may have questions on.” 

Hermione nodded and began skimming the text. It seemed standard. If a date was missed or canceled it would be rescheduled at the earliest convenience.

Meeting Narcissa would require a minimum of seven days' notice, as the matriarch would apparently need considerable heads up so that she could appropriately formulate the menu—Malfoy’s words, not hers. 

She was nearly ready to sign on the dotted line when a final note at the end of the last page made Hermione pause. 

“What’s this?” she asked, pointing at the fine print. 

“It’s to ensure infallibility, is all,” said Malfoy. 

“It says, Should Party B be unable to fulfill the responsibilities as outlined in this contract, they will be expected to forfeit the agreed upon salary with a 1000% interest for each remaining month within a year of the aforementioned breach.”

Hermione hoped Margaux’s sharp features captured her incredulity. 

“Correct.”

“With 1000% interest, if the contract was breached in the first month that means I’d owe nearly one billion galleons!” 

“Yes, you would.”

“I know that may not seem like much to you but I assure you my vault has never once held anything close to that amount.”

“I don’t care if it’s you or your family who pays it,” said Malfoy. “Ideally the contract won’t be breached and this entire back and forth will be irrelevant anyway.” 

“There’s no way I’m signing this!” exclaimed Hermione. “1000% is ridiculous.” 

“Do you know what is not ridiculous Miss Fortescue?” Malfoy folded his hands, leaning back in a way that juxtaposed the serious tone he implored. “My reputation.”

“You can’t be serious—”

“On the contrary, I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.” Malfoy’s gaze seemed even sharper than normal, like the glasses magnified it’s intensity tenfold. “I’m sure you’re familiar with my family’s associations during the war—despite your stint abroad—lest you live under a rock and have refused all forms of news media in the last decade. It is no secret that the Malfoy name has not always been so synonymous with good faith, and in the shedding of my ignorance I have worked incredibly hard to change that.”

“This is not to say that myself and my family were not granted an excess of understanding,” Malfoy continued. “Particularly from a select few who I believe have strong reasoning for wishing us barred from the Wizarding World entirely.”

Hermione’s left hand tensed as if her scar might suddenly reappear at the mere adjacent reference. 

“Regardless, I have grown. My mother has grown. And though I can never make up for all of the harm my family has caused, I have attempted to build something here at Malfoy Industries that at least may be able to help in the aftermath. It took awhile for anyone to trust our products. I still believe without certain additions to our staff we never would’ve made it onto a single shelf,” at this, Malfoy shot a glance at Neville, who still stood silently but smiling softly off to the side. “So yes, Miss Fortescue. I am incredibly serious. The last thing I, this company, or my mother needs is the press calling into question our sincerity. And whilst my personal life may not seem like it should reflect on our business, it inevitably will.”

“Therefore, you can agree to the terms as listed, or find someone else to fund your shop. I have expressed my desire to enter this deal with you, as I feel you present the most promise in pulling it off, but make no mistake that I can and will look elsewhere should you choose to walk away.” 

Malfoy’s impassioned speech hung suspended in the stillness of the office.

Though Hermione doubted a number of things about the man before her, his redemption was not one of them. They may have never sat down and had a proper chat about their messy history, but Hermione had always felt actions spoke louder than words.

The building she sat in was proof enough. 

Never in a million years could she afford that contract fee.

So it seemed she would just have to ensure she didn’t break it. 

“Very well,” Hermione said, holding her hand out for Malfoy’s discarded quill. 

He handed it over, and Hermione swore he seemed to visibly relax with each scratch across the parchment.

It felt odd to sign her alias’s name, and she tried to take extra notice to curl her A’s the opposite way lest Malfoy’s hours of staring at her handwriting on the addendum make him much to familiar with her script.

“Wonderful,” said Malfoy. “May I suggest we move to the next portion of our negotiations?”

Hermione nodded. “What’s next?” 

“Expectations,” Malfoy accepted a blank piece of parchment from Neville. “I figured this should be something discussed actively with one another based on our individual boundaries. It didn’t feel appropriate to draw up a contract prior, but rather produce one together.”

“I appreciate that,” said Hermione. And she did. Why was it this Malfoy seemed so much less argumentative an entitled than the one she worked with as herself? Was a new face an family really all it took for him to treat her so different? “Might I propose two different categories for this section?”

“Of course,” said Malfoy, sliding the paper toward her. “Feel free to write them down.” 

“I suggest we sort our boundaries by type: physical and emotional.” Hermione documented each heading. “I’m comfortable with a fair amount of physical contact,” she spoke as she wrote. “Hand-holding, hugs, polite but intimate touches above the waist.”

“Polite but intimate?” asked Malfoy, leaning forward. 

“Yes, you know,” Hermione shrugged, avoiding looking at his hands sprawled face down on the desk. Had they always been so large? “An arm around the shoulder, a guiding caress to the lower back, those sorts.”

“I see,” said Malfoy. When he didn’t speak for a moment, Hermione looked to him. “Go on,” he urged. 

She cleared her throat. “Right. Obviously, sex is off the table. I understand—logically—the need for the occasional kiss or so, but I ask that we limit it to being in the presence of the press or your mother.” 

“Alright,” he agreed. 

“As for emotional, I think similar rules apply. Limiting contact to the necessities of scheduling and previously planned outings. Certainly no spending the night.” 

“You wouldn’t wish to anyway,” said Malfoy.

“I’m sorry?” Hermione stalled, thrown by his statement. 

“You wouldn’t wish to spend the night anyway,” Malfoy elaborated. “I’m told I’m a terrible blanket hog.” 

The chuckle Hermione expelled was oddly genuine. “Well, I’m told I talk in my sleep.” She underlined the notation a few times for added measure. “No sleep overs.” 

“And no falling in love.” 

Hermione scoffed. “Do you fancy being laughed at again?” 

“It’s not so ridiculous to think you could be charmed by me," Malfoy shrugged. 

“Yes." Hermione deadpanned. "It is.”

“I don’t know, sometimes in the heat of a moment, it may not be so easy to remember that we’re just…" He leaned further into the desk, attentions steady on her, "Pretending.”

The lamplight did do wonders to his pale countenance, softening the sharpness of his features to something less cutting and more inviting. Alluring. And those Gods damned glasses...

“Anyway," Hermione cleared her throat. "I think that covers most of it. Though if it’s alright with you I’d prefer to leave this portion of the contract open to amendments.”

Malfoy retracted back to his side, reeling in the bedroom eyes. “Fine by me.” 

“Great,” Hermione signed the bottom, passing it back over so that Malfoy could do the same. 

He added his own flourish, then let Neville take the completed contract and replace it with yet another leaflet. “Here.”

“ Draco Lucius Malfoy: A Brief History,” read Hermione. “What is this?”

“As I mentioned at our previous meeting, it is rather common that couples know things about one another,” said Malfoy. “This is everything you’ll need to memorize prior to our first date.” 

“You want me to memorize this?” Hermione weighed the parchment in one hand like one might an apple. “You’re kidding!” 

“My mother is no easy target, Fauna. I’m only trying to help you—us—succeed.” Malfoy tapped the desktop with a single finger. “Or would you rather begin withdrawing your one billion galleons now?” 

Hermione grimaced. “Fine.”

She skimmed the first few pages, most of which she already knew having grown up with the man, though took care to make it seem like she were paying closer attention. It wasn’t until the eighth page she stumbled upon something she couldn’t help commenting on.

“Your best friend growing up was named Tippy? Really?” 

Malfoy’s expression softened into a smile. “Yes. One my family’s long-time staff members. You’ll most likely meet her when you come to the Manor.” 

The Manor. Hermione suppressed a shudder. How had she not considered that meeting his mother would involve returning to the ancestral home? 

“Lovely,” Hermione forced out, returning to her brief perusal of the document. 

“Whilst my mother will be most suspicious of you,” said Malfoy. “I think it’s still a necessary precaution that I acquire some knowledge of your past as well.” 

“Oh, um—yes?”

 “You can send over a brief summary via owl by Sunday if that’s enough time?”

“Sure,” said Hermione, though she sounded much calmer than she felt. “Though, wouldn’t it be more helpful to establish a story together first?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, how we met, what I was wearing the first time you saw me, that kind of thing?” 

“What you were wearing?” Malfoy’s brows knit beneath the bridge of his spectacles. “Why would that matter?”

“Because you’re supposed to be so madly in love with me that we’re getting married!” Hermione chided. “It’s the kind of thing you’d be expected to remember!” 

“She’s right,” chimed Neville. “You ought to agree upon the falsified timeline of your coupling first and foremost.”

Malfoy sighed. “Alright then, I suppose we can stick relatively close to the truth. That we met as a result of you covering for Daphne on a blind date.”

“Perfect,” Neville grinned. “Makes it seem like fate.”

Hermione had to prevent an instinctual eye roll. “Easy enough. You were infatuated with me from then on, going so far as to chase me out into the street when I got cold feet.” 

“I was so overcome by you in that green silk dress ,” Malfoy raised a single brow. “I knew I couldn’t let you get away. I asked you to marry me on the spot.”

“To which I refused, but let you take me out again for lunch a few days later.”

“Where I proposed a second time, unable to hold back.”

“And I said yes.”

“You said yes.”

Draco studied her for a moment, like he was just now realizing how absurd the entire situation was, that she’d actually agreed to such an asinine scheme. 

“Should I put in a request with Gringotts to pull a ring from the vaults then?” asked Neville, breaking up the odd stupor. 

“That’s alright,” said Hermione. “I can just borrow something from Daphne.” 

“Yes, Longbottom, if you’d please,” said Malfoy, ignoring her. 

“It’s really fine—”

“My mother would recognize anything not familial from a hundred meters away,” Malfoy insisted. “You can wear something of Daphne’s for our first date next week if you’d like, as all we need is something big and shiny for the Prophet photos. But when you step foot in the Manor, it will be a Malfoy ring on your finger.” 

“Your mother seems awfully detail oriented,” commented Hermione.

“Nothing slips past Narcissa Malfoy,” said Malfoy. “I’ve learned that the hard way.”

“No sneaking out to parties then?” 

“No, though not for lack of trying,” Malfoy chuckled. “It seems your parents are much less hands-on.”

“Oh,” Hermione started. “Um—”

“What with your return to London and all,” finished Malfoy.

“Right! Right. My Pureblood parents. Overseas,” squeaked Hermione, boring a hole into the desk. “We’re not that close these days, really,” she managed to cover. “So it wasn’t much of a faff.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that. I know how isolating it can be to not feel like you have that kind of familial support.” Malfoy’s sincerity was jarring. 

Hermione forced a close-lipped smile. “It’s fine.“

Seeming to sense she didn’t wish to get any further into it, Malfoy straightened. “Great, well, unfortunately I do have work to return to. Longbottom will escort you out.”

Still not sure if she could speak without her voice cracking Hermione nodded, making to stand. 

“I’ll reach out in regards to a day, location, and time for our first outing,” said Malfoy. “Thank you again for agreeing to this, Fauna.” He lifted his hand between them.

Smothering her hesitation, Hermione grasped it with her own, giving it a firm shake.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Malfoy,” she said, echoing his parting words from last time. 

He granted her a half-scoff, half-laugh, resettling behind his desk. 

“Miss Fortescue,” said Neville, gesturing toward the door. 

Hermione followed his direction, exiting Malfoy’s office and beginning the winding descent back through the building. 

They passed bustling apprentices and tired potioneer’s, each entirely unaware of the miracle which just occurred. 

Fauna Fortescue had officially been resurrected. 

Chapter Text

Hermione wondered if there were adverse side effects to drinking Polyjuice too often. Had Barty Crouch Jr. endured such itching as well, or was the agitation across the expanse of her forearms simply a result of her nerves?

She shifted her weight again, attempting to ease her already aching ankles from the height of her heels.

It wasn’t often she went for such stilted footwear, but she liked the added centimeters it gave her smaller frame, particularly when strolling across the floor of the Wizengamot.

It let her look the members in the eye, mentally marking who’s attention she held, and who’s she needed to work to regain.

The hallway outside of courtroom ten steadily grew more cramped as seat holders and prospectives alike joined the existent crowd.

Hermione had received her reassurances and break a leg’s from Daphne and Anthony back in their office, but with each jostle and jolt from stray elbows she wished more and more those not directly involved in the proceedings were at least allowed to view them.

The moral support would be quite welcomed.

“You should wear those shoes more often Granger. Much easier to find you in a crowd this way.” Malfoy’s voice came from behind her.

He sported an admittedly stunning set of formal robes, the emerald linen sharp against his pale features.

Hermione’s own amethyst colored ensemble felt oddly compatible, the pair an unintentional matching set of jewel tones.

“What, no comment about how my hair might work just as well?” Hermione remarked. “Losing your touch, there, Malfoy.”

“Hardly,” Malfoy scoffed. “What’s the fun in always going for the low-hanging fruit?”

Hermione’s wand hand clenched reflexively. “Glad to know where exactly my appearance ranks in the insult hierarchy.”

“Like you don’t have a host of your own locked and loaded,” said Malfoy. “Don’t hold yourself back, Granger.” He placed a hand over his heart, voice softening with mockery. “I can take it.” 

“I don’t have time for a rude roundabout with you right now,” Hermione growled. “Some of us are actually invested in the passing of this bill.”

“Who said I wasn’t?”

Hermione didn’t deign to give him a response, choosing instead to provide him a view of her shoulder as she twisted to take account of the most recent arrivals.

“Godric,” she swore. “Is that Renee Yaxley? I thought she wasn’t going to be on the panel today!”

“Seems her poorly disguised business trip to the French Riviera fell through,” said Malfoy.

“Damn it all, she’s had it out for me ever since my Elf Reform Act,” Hermione bit the edge of her thumb. “It’s not my fault none of them wished to stay on with her for employment! Perhaps if she hadn’t treated them so brutally there wouldn’t have been any bad blood.”

“Relax, Granger,” Malfoy drawled. “She has stock in Malfoy Industries. She’ll vote in favor if she thinks it’ll put more sickles in her socks.”

“Great, so the fate of our bill lies within whether Renee gets richer?”

“Stop purposefully being obtuse, Granger,” Malfoy quipped. “Stupidity doesn’t suit you.”

Hermione startled. Puffed a breath. “I just—I really need this to work out.”

“Didn’t know you had such a soft spot for the Jobberknolls.”

“It’s not the Jobberknolls themselves, necessarily. It’s what else their preservation could lead to. You’re a Potions Master. Just think about all the potential a steady supply of their feathers could be?”

“I suppose,” Malfoy conceded. “But unfortunately, I don’t think anyone else in that room has such an optimistic outlook.”

“Not helping.” Hermione groaned.

“The addendum is solid,” said Malfoy, form tall and strong and aggravatingly steady before her. And if they have anything they want us to change, then we’ll change it. This isn’t an end all be all, Granger.”

Hermione frowned. She couldn’t well explain to Malfoy why it was truly so essential this bill passed, and quickly at that.

“You think anyone will give us trouble?” Hermione diverted instead.

“If anything, it’d be minor grievances. Easily fixable with a tweaked clause or two,” said Malfoy.

“Right, because more back and forth is exactly what we need.” 

“You act as if the endless edits are one sided.” 

“It’s not my fault you’re incapable of having compassion for the creatures!”

“If I lacked compassion I wouldn’t be working on this in the first place.”

“You’re no better than Renee,” Hermione huffed. “Only concerned about the impact it could have on your vaults.”

Malfoy’s easy eyes narrowed. “Do you know how much this Gods damned addendum is costing me, Granger?” 

“Perhaps you should use cheaper ink, then,” Hermione shrugged.

“Time, Granger,” Malfoy spit. “Hours of arguing with you over pointless lines. Weeks of trying to read your awful handwriting.”

“I’m so sorry something that could have a massive impact on the magical community is taking up all of your precious time, Malfoy,” Hermione mused.

“Did you ever think about what it is I do with that time?” Malfoy’s stance seemed to have gone from steadfast to splenetic.

And yet, for some reason, Hermione couldn’t help but to push. “Drink vintage whiskey and stare at yourself in the mirror?” 

“For someone who prides herself on being so progressive, you sure hold on to a lot of primary school stereotypes.” Malfoy took a step away. “It’s not like I could possibly be putting my hard-earned potions mastery to use and attempting to do some right by the Wizarding World for once. No, Granger. Those precious spare minutes you speak of aren’t going to anything impactful at all.” 

He turned from her fully then, long strides making for the opposite end of the corridor.

And in the wake of his unexpected openness, Hermione knew the instant wave of regret too well as it descended, crashing at her feet in a pool of projection. 

“Wait, Malfoy–” she called after him. The last thing they needed was to have it out in the hallway prior to something they were meant to be a team on. “I didn’t mean–!” 

“Miss Granger.” A tall, elderly Wizard impeded her path, grey Wizengamot robes wrinkled and slightly askew.

“Mr. Kinsbottom,” Hermione cleared her throat, though her attention remained pinned over his shoulder where Malfoy had disappeared. “Hello.”

“I hate to pull your focus ahead of such a hearing, but I just had to ask,” said Mr. Kinsbottom, “Do you happen to know if Magical Creatures would be interested in putting forth a few interns for a new program we’re attempting implement…”

Hermione attempted to be diplomatic as she dissuaded the enthusiastic elder, the remaining minutes before the reviewal dwindling with each denial. But her focus was split between the pleading man before her and the one just beyond.

She’d initially been surprised by Malfoy’s openness with Fauna during their previous encounters, but now, she wasn’t so sure it was the vulnerability itself, but the delivery. He held a stern patience for Fauna, something businesslike and assured.

But with her, Hermione, it was something less controlled. Less expected.

Hermione’s wand vibrated, indicating the turning of the hour.

“I apologize, sir,” she interjected, cutting Mr. Kinsbottom off mid-ramble. “But I really must be going.”

The crowded hall had dissipated to only the two Aurors standing guard on either side of the courtroom doors, and one other person standing patiently a few paces from them.

“Oh, my!” said Mr. Kinsbottom. “I didn’t mean to keep you! Good luck, Miss Granger. Please do let me know about—”

“Yes, yes, will do,” Hermione hurried him along. “See you around, Mr. Kinsbottom.”

The wizard took his time shuffling inside, but when he finally crossed the threshold, the two Aurors’ shut the doors behind them, allowing for the house to begin pre-preceding.

Hermione inhaled, tried her best to swallow her pride, and spoke into the now stilted silence.

“I’m sorry, Malfoy.” Even as she said the words, she couldn’t seem to look at him. “I shouldn’t have assumed your motives in regards to the addendum. We all have reasons of our own for doing what we do, none of which we’re required to disclose. Some which are too personal to.”

Though her gaze remained trained on her feet, Hermione swore she could feel his on her then.

“It’s fine, Granger.” His voice was deeper than hers, less pinched with nerves, and it echoed against the walls in a strangely accepting way. “It’s not the first time you’ve attempted to bite my head off, and I’m sure it won’t be your last.”

“That’s no excuse for—”

“For you using me as a metaphorical punching bag?”

Hermione did turn to him then. Took in the quirk of his brow, the roll of his eyes.

“I can hardly blame you,” he shrugged. “I’m no stranger to it myself.”

Unsure what to say, Hermione returned her attention to the door before them.

The minutes passed in not entirely uncomfortable quiet, until one of the Auror’s remerged from the courtroom.

“They’re ready for you,” he gestured inside.

Malfoy took a step forward, straightened the collar of his robes.

Hermione had clutched the tapered sleeve before she could stop herself.

“I really am sorry, Malfoy,” she murmured.

Malfoy looked down at her. At her hand on his arm.

“I know,” he said. He gave her something eerily close to a smile. “Now, let’s go. Before someone sees and mistakes us for friends.”

—

“I told you she had it out for me!” Hermione stomped down the corridor, footsteps hurried with fury.

“And I told you she’d still vote in favor,” said Malfoy, long legs keeping time despite Hermione’s fevered pace. “Which she did.”

“After interrogating me within an inch of my life!” Hermione hit the lift button with enough force to send it through the wall. “Thank you so much for the help, by the way!”

“I didn’t see how the questions she was asking were relevant to my involvement.”

“You could have backed me up at the very least!”

“When would you have liked me to do that, Granger?” Malfoy arched a brow. “During the singular moment you paused to breathe?”

“Billings too!” Hermione ignored the quip, stepping through the grate. “What was his problem? I didn’t know he was capable of forming his own opinions!”

“I’ll admit I didn’t see that one coming,” said Malfoy, coming to lean against the far wall beside her.

“I swear to Merlin, it’s like I’m the only one who cares enough to actually want to invoke change around here!”

“Have you ever considered that maybe the reason the majority of the lazy sods don’t seem to care is because you do too much?”

“Excuse me?” Hermione turned on him, hair surely several feet in frantic diameter by now.

“I meant they expect you to do all the caring for them,” Malfoy elaborated. “You saved the entire Wizarding World at eighteen. I think they expect you to just keep on saving it.”

“Well,” Hermione huffed. “That’s just ridiculous!” She folded her arms, leaning into the wall for support. She felt drained, like the reviewal had absorbed any energy she’d arrived with.

“It is,” conceded Malfoy. “But perhaps you should think about changing your approach accordingly. “You can’t appeal to empathy they don’t have, Granger. So start appealing to what they do.”

“You mean like greed?”

“Whatever it is that will get you the results you want.”

“Spoken like a true Slytherin,” said Hermione. “I’m not blackmailing anyone, Malfoy, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

Malfoy shrugged. “I wasn’t, but I can’t say it’s not an effective tool to have in ones arsenal. Don’t act like you’re entirely unfamiliar with the concept yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Did you or did you not keep a grown woman in a jar?”

“That was entirely different!” Hermione exclaimed. “She was an unregistered animagus using her abilities to illegally spy on people!”

“Right, because kidnapping is so law-abiding,” said Malfoy.

“Look, it’s no secret that I’ve had my fair share of unauthorized incidents. But I was a child and I was—as you put it—saving the world. Or at least trying to. You can’t blame me for my methods.”

“No, I suppose I can’t.” Though she didn’t face him, Hermione could hear the soft clang of his familial signet rings brushing against each other. “We all did things we aren’t proud of for the sake of those we love.”

The bright ding! of the lifts arrival split the suddenly somber scene, and Hermione clambered inside. She stuck a foot out, expecting Malfoy to follow, only he remained on the other side of the gilded gate.

“You first,” he said, as if in explanation.

“What?” Hermione shook her head.

“Now that they’ve accepted the revisions, I can only imagine the speed at which the wheels are spinning somewhere in there.” He gestured to her forehead.

“I thought my hair was low-hanging fruit?” 

“I’m giving you dibs on the first draft of the next clause, Granger,” Malfoy crossed his arms, ignoring her. “Take it or leave it.”

Hermione frowned. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Malfoy shrugged. “I just so happen to have a tighter schedule the next week and figured you’d like the head start.”

Hermione eyed him, watched for a twitch of a finger or some other tell to insinuate some sort of trick. But after a moment of studying him, it seemed there was none.

“Fine,” Hermione huffed. “But no making major changes this go around without consulting me!”

The grate slid closed then, a clanging punctuation to her demand.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Granger.” Malfoy’s smirk glinted through the gold lattice. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

—

It wasn’t that Hermione didn’t want to see her friends and thus usually had a laundry list of excuses at the ready as to why she couldn’t attend weekly pub nights.

It was more so the crowds and the noise and the fact that every minute spent smiling at whatever antics the others got up to under the influence could be better enjoyed with a book in hand, or attempting to make headway on her parents memory restoration.

There were only so many hours in a day, and between the addendum and the preparation for the impending blind dates it felt like the entire endeavor had decelerated drastically.

Not that she’d been speeding along so effortlessly prior.

Besides, she didn’t like beer, and the wine selection at The Leaky was dismal at best. A waste of both grapes and galleons.

But she’d promised Daphne she’d turn up, and so she continued to dodge drunk strangers on her way back from the bar, pumpkin juice held aloft to avoid spilling.

She settled back into her seat at the high top with minimal casualties.

“All three! It was brilliant,” Daphne finished, rolling her straw cheekily around the rim of her cocktail, the deep blue liquid a perfect match to her flirty dress.

“Are you ever going to tell us who this supposed sex god is?” asked Pansy, lips curling around her own martini glass.

“Who he is isn’t important,” said Daphne. “It’s what he can do with his tongue that is.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, but Luna smiled, twin braids sparkling with twisted-in stones. “I personally am not inclined to the temptations of men, but I imagine that is a rather important trait to make up for their many societal failures.”

“Are you insinuating pussy eating is a reparation for the patriarchy?” Daphne laughed.

“Oh, it could never make up for it,” said Luna, blinking like such an idea were absurd. “But it’s certainly a good start.”

“A fair point,” conceded Daphne. “Besides, who cares about my love life when Hermione is set to go on a date with Witch Weekly’s most eligible bachelor next week?”

“What?” Hermione startled at the sound of her name. She’d checked out of the conversation the minute the word tongue had escaped Daphne’s mouth.

“You. Draco. Date. Tuesday.”

“Keep your voice down!”  Hermione hushed, muttering a wandless Muffliato. “Lest you wish to blow this operation before it’s even begun! And Malfoy hasn’t even confirmed the details.”

Maybe he’d finally realized how ridiculous the entire scheme was and was sending an owl with an envelope full of their shredded contract. The thought was equal parts welcome and not. Hermione needed the money, yes, but was selling herself out really the way to go about it?

“You can’t get cold feet now,” insisted Daphne. “Your expected at Coffee & Quills next week for lunch.” Daphne slid a prim, pressed envelope from her bag, pushing it across the small table top. “Arrived this morning.”

“You didn’t think to inform me sooner?” Hermione took the folded parchment, fingertips ghosting the Malfoy crest.

“And give you something else to worry about ahead of the reviewal? Of I course I wasn’t going to show you earlier.”

“Good call,” said Pansy. “She would’ve had brains leaking from her ears.”

Hermione ignored her friends’ teasing in favor of looking over the letter.

Fauna,

Please arrive at Coffee & Quill at noon on Monday. I have ensured a Prophet photographer will be present for the duration of our outing.

See you then.

Draco Lucius Malfoy

Hermione resisted the urge to ball the letter in her fist.

It was perfectly cordial and what they had agreed upon, but after her long day—week, really—the idea of parading around under Polyjuice with Malfoy was far from appealing.

She went to re-stuff the correspondence, but Pansy snatched it from her hands, leaning so that Luna could read along as well.

“The Prophet photographer is smart,” Pansy hummed. “Thought it better not be Ernest. Awful with the angles. He always gets my bad side.”

“You don’t have a bad side,” said Luna. “And neither does Hermione.”

“I won’t be myself anyway, remember?” said Hermione, taking a sip of her now room-temperature juice. “What are we even supposed to do for an hour? The only times I’ve ever spoken to Malfoy have been for work, and I certainly can’t talk about that!”

“Just make small talk.” Daphne shrugged. “Or talk about other things. Whatever you would converse about if it were a normal date.”

Hermione’s lips thinned. Small talk had never been her strong suit. Leading rooms full of people, giving informational lectures—now that she could do. But the idiosyncrasies of life?

It wasn’t that she didn’t like connecting with others, it was just that usually the things which she found interesting weren’t often popular conversational topics.

Understanding her—knowing her—was work to others. Most people skimmed her surface, siphoning off the golden glow she reflected and passing over the murky depths.

How many times had Harry and Ron attempted to sway her toward their hobbies and passions without ever attempting to understand her own? But she hated Quidditch—even Viktor had tried to sway her in their brief coupling—and they hated books.

“Draco’s rather smart,” said Luna then. “I think you’d make quite the match intellectually.”

“As loathe as I am to admit to his not unimpressive mind, she’s right,” agreed Daphne. “Even then, it’s not a real date. You don’t actually have to like each other.”

“Thank Godric for that,” Hermione muttered into her glass. “Did I mention he’s assigned me bloody homework! Wants an autobiography featuring all things Fauna by Sunday!”

“I’m surprised you didn’t drop your panties at the mere mention of marking up parchment.”

“I’m not that easy, Greengrass.” Hermione scowled.

“I don’t know, Granger,” Pansy hummed. “You didn’t see your face when Yuri Von Blisch made an appearance at the annual Remembrance Gala last year.”

“He brought a first edition of Spell Casting in the Age of Rapport’s Law,” argued Hermione. “Signed! And he was going to loan it to me too, until someone,” she threw a pointed glare at Daphne, “spilled their champagne down the front of my dress and I had to leave before it could turn see-through and I flashed the Minister.”

“An honest accident,” Daphne shrugged, tapping an elongated nail against her glass.

“Ah, yes. How to blue-ball Granger 101,” mused Pansy. “Bar her from books.”

“That man was a bonafide tease.” Hermione attempted to sound disgruntled, though she couldn’t help the corners of her lips from lifting. “Regardless, I have enough on my plate with the addendum, the last thing I want to be doing is drafting deceits for my date.”

“Isn’t that what we all do anyway?” said Luna. “Present an alternative version of ourselves for others consumption due to conditioned conformity to societal norms and the fear of potential negative perception?”

The three girls blinked in struck tandem. Within her regular whimsy, it wasn’t entirely uncommon for Luna to exude exceptional wisdom.

And Hermione had to admit she made a valid point.

Who didn’t put on a bit of a show—at least at first—when meeting someone new? Particularly a potential romantic partner?

“Or, you could always tell the truth.” Luna smiled softly, thumbs toying with a stray string on the end of her crocheted sleeves. “I find honesty is oftentimes the most honorable option.”

“I think it’s a bit late for that, love,” said Pansy, covering Luna’s hand with her own and giving it a squeeze. “You know Malfoy the best of all of us, Daph. What do you think we should add to Fauna’s backstory?”

“We?” Hermione raised a brow.

“This became a team effort the moment you stepped into my store, Granger,” Pansy signaled for the nearby waitress, requesting another round. “Besides, I’d say seven heads are better than one.”

“This is why you shouldn’t skip arithmancy to shag in the Quidditch supply shed,” said Daphne. “There’s only four of us, Pans.”

“Me, you, Luna, Red, and Granger,” said Pansy, pointing to each in turn, except for the absent Ginny. “Granger’s easily counts for three alone.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, though Luna and Daphne both nodded with agreeable ah!’s, as though they’d missed the obvious.

“So,” Pansy continued, her words directed toward Daphne. “What do we think? I’m sure we could Transfigure Margaux some more titillating tits if you think it’d help.”

“We aren’t trying to convince him to propose to me for real!” said Hermione.

“No, but you said it yourself, he has no hesitation replacing you should you not fit his needs.” Pansy drummed a thoughtful rhythm against her cupped cheek. “It’s best we understand what he likes versus dislikes, so that we can craft a story which makes you tolerable to experience alone whilst on outings, but then come across as an absolute nutter to Narcissa.”

“Draco is unfortunately rather level-headed,” piped Daphne. “He’s nearly as hard to rattle as Narcissa. But, not impossibly so. In my experience, temper is where they tend to differ. He with a much shorter fuse.”

“As demonstrated on our first date,” added Hermione. “He’s quite accustomed to crazy,”

“Well, what are things he looks for in a partner then?” asked Pansy. “Let’s start with the pleasantries before moving on to the improper.”

“Hmm,” Daphne swirled the straw of her new drink, replaced with a round of thanks from the table. “Someone smart, definitely. He always used to whinge about Millie’s “lack of a functioning frontal cortex””, Daphne gestured the indicative air quotes, “during their brief stint in the beginning of Sixth Year.

“I’d argue clever as well,” she continued. “They’d need to be able to hold their own in a conversation. He can be quite quick-witted when he wants to be, though you didn’t hear it from me. Strong—mentally so. It’s no secret anyone interested in him would have to have a certain disregard for the unruly rumors destined to circle. Someone patient, as he’s annoyingly guarded. Someone family oriented as well, obviously, as he’s going through all of this just to spare his mother’s fretting.”

“I think he’s more so trying to spare himself,” scoffed Hermione.

“Smart, clever, strong, patient, and family oriented,” recited Pansy, ticking each off on her fingers. Only when she reached number five, she paused. Frowned.

“Daph,” said Pansy. “I think you just described Granger.”

“Huh,” said Daphne, though the small smile she gave over the rim of her glass was exceptionally suspicious. “I suppose I did.”

“Malfoy and I are far from compatible,” said Hermione, leaning back into the leather seat. “You should’ve seen us in the hallway before the reviewal today! We couldn’t go ten minutes without jumping down each other’s throats.” Hermione raised a hand to halt Daphne before she could even start. “Not like that!”

Daphne held both arms aloft in a show of mock innocence. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Right,” Hermione ground flatly. “And I’m secretly in love with Cormac McLaggen.”

“Different stitches for different witches,” said Daphne.

“I think this means it should be rather easy for you, Hermione,” interjected Luna. “Simply be yourself when it’s only the two of you.”

“But he’d surely realize—”

“Not the defensive, frazzled, work-a-holic version of you he always gets when he arrives unannounced to the office. The one we all know,” said Daphne. “And love!” She added upon Hermione’s glare.

Hermione crossed her arms. “And that would be?”

“The one who could go on about random policies and programmes for hours,” Daphne nudged her shoulder. “Who spends more time with her cat than she does with us.”

“I do not—!”

“The one who watches the same five Muggle films over and over because she hates branching out almost as much as she hates black tea,” Daphne pressed on, ignoring Hermione’s protest. “The one who didn’t think twice about pretending to be someone else for the benefit of her best friend and her family.”

“I thought about it at least three times,” Hermione grumbled.

“My point is,” said Daphne, “that perhaps if you gave it a chance, without your past prejudice in the way, you’d find that Draco makes a half-decent friend.”

“You’re the one who called him a prat just the other day!” said Hermione.

“Oh, he undoubtedly is a massive one,” Daphne nodded. “But that’s not all he is. Just like The Brightest Witch of Our Age isn’t all you are.”

“Are you trying to help me pull off this heist or give him my hand?”

“Why don’t you just get through next Tuesday?” Pansy cut in, red-painted lips peeled back in a diffusive, neutral pinch. “And we’ll take it from there.”

The table fell to a contemplative silence, awaiting the only answer that mattered.

After a moment, Hermione deflated, shoulders slumping forward as she reached for her mug, draining it to the dregs. “Fine. Tell me what I should know about the Fortescue’s.”

Daphne clapped. “Apparently, Florean’s great uncle Fortunatus was known for having an abnormally large di—”

The table erupted in an array of exclamations, Pansy eventually steering the conversation in a more appropriate direction, though not without scolding Hermione who reached for a spare napkin with which to take notes.

“We aren’t actually in school,” Pansy snatched the flimsy paper away. “Now, let’s start with those in the family who you’ll be expected to know…”

Chapter Text

“It’s too much.”

“It’s just enough.”

“This jumper is itchy.”

“It’s cashmere.”

“And the cream-coloured trousers? They’re practically begging to be spilled on!”

“Good thing you have a magical stick capable of Vanishing such things with a simple swish.”

“Don’t even get me started on the heels! Utterly impractical for such an outing! What were Daphne and Pansy thinking?”

Ginny’s fiery head heaved a sigh, scattering ashes across Hermione’s tiled hearth.

“You look great, Hermione,” she huffed. “I swear on Harry’s signed Basil Horton Bludger! Now, would you quit pacing before you fall through the floor and give your neighbors a right fright?”

“What if I trip?” Hermione ignored her friends request, continuing her looping path across the expanse of her sitting room. “It’ll be plastered on the front page of The Prophet before the date is done!”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Malfoy’s New Mistress Goes Arse Over Tits in Mortifying Mishap,” said Hermione, the words a nasally imitation of Rita Skeeter paired with a panicked pitch. “What will the matriarch make of his newest mistake?”

“That’s actually a rather clever headline—”

“I can’t believe I agreed to this!” Hermione cried. “How could you let me agree to this?”

“For me to have been able to stop you, you know you would’ve had to tell me before you said yes, right?”

“Of all the idiotic, impractical, ill-advised—”

“Hermione!” Ginny’s reprimand came so sharply it caused the fire to spark about her mouth.

Hermione halted mid-step, facing the Floo with a frown.

She’d nipped home after her morning meetings to prepare, preferring to transform into Fauna at home rather than risk it in the loo at the Ministry.

“You’re going to be fine,” said Ginny, calm but firm, like she were soothing James or Albus after they’d fallen and skinned a knee. “It’s just coffee.”

“Right,” Hermione scoffed, coming to perch on the arm of her sofa nearest the fireplace. “Just coffee! With Malfoy!”

“Have you been Imperius’d in the last seven to ten days?” asked Ginny, brows furrowed in licking  flames.

“I highly doubt I’d be able to tell you if that were the case.” Hermione crossed her arms, the stiff fabric of her borrowed blue trench crinkling with the effort.

“Well, then assuming the answer is no,” said Ginny, “I’m not sure why you’re so put out by the matter considering you’re the one who agreed to the deal in the first place.”

“But Daphne was the one—”

“I don’t care what Daphne did,” Ginny’s head swayed across the lit logs in what seemed like a shake. “You’re the one who walked into those labs and signed on the dotted line. So either grow a pair and Apparate already, or stand him up and forfeit your left kidney.”

Hermione studied the toe of her nude patent pumps with heated cheeks, resisting the urge to scuff them across the hardwood.

“Tough love,” she grumbled, chastised.

“It comes with the torn perineum,” Ginny smiled. “The package deal of parenthood.”

“How lovely.”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds.” Hermione could imagine Ginny’s nonchalant shrug. “I, for one, have found absolutely no issue receiving just as much pleasure during penetrative sex despite the scar tissue. And you know Harry is rather well-endowed so—”

“Gin!” whined Hermione. “I will do anything to stop you from continuing that sentence.”

Ginny beamed, triumphant in her tactic. “Wonderful! Then grab that atrocious beaded bag and be gone with you. You have a date to make!”

“It’s just—is this really the right answer?”

Hermione twisted Daphne’s ring around her finger, the Greengrass’ graduation gift embedded with a decently sized diamond that caught the firelight with each spin.

It felt strange on Hermione’s hand. Heavy.

“Selling myself out for a shot at something I haven’t been able to solve for the better part of seven years?” Hermione voiced the fear which had continued to fester further over the weekend.

Ginny’s enflamed face flickered into an expression of understanding.

“I’m not sure,” she conceded. “But I know for certain that if you don’t walk out that door, you’ll only delay finding out.”

Hermione let her eyes fall closed. Stilled her hands.

“Right,” she stood, straightening the cuffs of her coat. “I suppose it’s time to make my first appearance as the faux future Mrs. Malfoy.”

“That’s the spirit!” said Ginny. “I’d tell you to picture Malfoy in his underwear, but I think that’s more likely to make you horny than help.”

“Or unable to keep my coffee down,” Hermione grunted, hoping her friend mistook the hue of her reddening neck for a trick of the flames.

“It’s a good thing you favor tea then,” Ginny countered. “I fear Albus will be down for his nap by the time you wrap up, so I won’t be able to answer the Floo. But you best send me an owl after! This whole ordeal is far more entertaining than any of those dramas Harry’s queued up for me on the telly.”

“Well, you’re sure to read all about it in tomorrow’s paper,” said Hermione, double checking that her flask was full and tucked snugly inside her coat.

“Why wait for a pinhead reporter’s version of events when I can get it straight from the source?” Ginny’s grin glinted against the embers.

“Considering the circumstances,” said Hermione, her own lips upturned. “I’m anything but reliable.”

Protestation extinguished up the chimney, Hermione doused the fire with a well-aimed Auguamenti before her friend could rebuttal.

Ginny would surely stew in fear of not receiving the full tale for the remainder of the afternoon.

A well-deserved worry, in Hermione’s opinion, for making her imminent misery up to be a source of entertainment.

Intent on not impeding the inevitable any further, Hermione made for the front of her flat.

Knowing she’d lose her nerve if she so much as glanced in the entryway mirror, Hermione bypassed the worn credenza, a decided determination to her stride.

Despite the teasing, Ginny was right. It was just coffee.

And if she was going to go down swinging, she’d be damned before she let it be due to a date with Draco Malfoy.

—

Though there was an Apparation point only a few paces from the front of the quaint cafe, Hermione appeared on the lanes purposefully parallel to the main strip of Diagon, allowing for a much needed moment to gather herself.

Tucked beneath the awning of a Magical Menagerie, she fisted the fabric of her coat—a custom fit Pansy had pulled from a new collection—and tried to steady her breathing beneath the cover of the chorusing animals.

She exhaled in time with a piercing squall, the snowy owl perched in the window putting voice to Hermione’s inner turmoil.

She would’ve stood there all day—at the edge of the mid-morning mist, on the precipice of no return—had her wand not chimed the hour, indicating she best get a move on lest she be late.

“Punctuality,” Pansy had added to Daphne’s list of attributes the other night, a carefully crafted catalogue of characteristics the falsified Fauna would aim to embody. “Of importance to most Purebloods. It’s a good tactic to help lull Narcissa into a false sense of security before you flip the switch to unseemly.”

Rolling her shoulders and forcing as pleasant an expression as she could manage, Hermione stepped out onto the slippery cobblestones.

She rounded the corner at what she hoped was a smooth, confident cadence, making across toward where the unmistakable beacon of blonde leaned against a lamppost.

It was unfair, really, how he was able to cut such a figure in a stance which in any other circumstance would’ve appeared entirely benign.

Would anyone else be propped against a pole, it’d come across as lazy. Unsure. But the crisp cut of Malfoy’s own clearly custom outer robes struck an elegant, lean line.

They bisected the breadth of his shoulders, giving the impression that it was not he who needed the support, but the architecture itself.

From the tips of his still ponce-y shoes to the top of his pristinely primped hair, Malfoy was never not put together.

And yet, there was something about the way he appeared before her then that rang different.

Perhaps it was the mist, the palpable condensation warping the shape of things as he met her at the edge of the pavement.

“Fauna,” he said, the alias gliding off his tongue like the start of a song, low but strong. “Good to see you again. You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Hermione managed. “And you look, er, very…” She struggled to voice her observations of his not unattractive appearance. “…tall.”

“That’s not to say that the last time we met you looked short!” She tried to amend. Merlin, not even a minute in and she was already losing her mind!

But it seemed Malfoy found her blustering of little note, his response carrying the distinct undertones of amusement.

“Might I suggest we go inside?”

Hermione nodded, not trusting herself to speak again so soon.

Instead she strode up the short path toward the cafe, trying to hide her slight wobble on the slick stone. No longer facing him, she allowed herself a frazzled exhale.

Whatever it takes.

She repeated the mental mantra until she reached the door, gripping the handle like it might ground her.

Only, as she glanced up, catching Fauna’s solitary reflection in the glass, she realized she’d not been followed.

Hermione peered over her shoulder, taking in Malfoy’s oddly patient expression as he remained standing on the curb, one arm held slightly out and bent at his side.

For a moment, Hermione wanted to shout at him, like she might if they were at the Ministry and he was holding up the lift.

“Lost control of your limbs, Malfoy?” she’d call, undoubtedly receiving a peeved eye roll in return.

But his contrasting calm countenance had her remembering herself, or rather, her other self, and she realized then that he was waiting.

For her. To escort her.

Resisting the urge to wince outwardly at Fauna’s faux pas, Hermione squared her shoulders and retraced her steps in an ill-manner-induced retreat of shame, cursing Daphne for not including a brief etiquette overview in their preparations.

At this rate, Hermione might as well invent a new hex meant specifically for use on the eldest Greengrass whenever she failed to mention a critical bit of information.

“Hungry?” Malfoy’s amused drawl greeted her at the edge of the pavement upon her return.

“Not particularly, no,” Hermione grumbled.

In fact, she doubted she could stomach anything other than air at the moment, her nerves knotted beneath her sternum.

“You seemed in quite the hurry, is all,” said Malfoy, a smug tilt to his smile.

If Hermione weren’t wearing someone else’s face, she would’ve scowled.

Or socked him square in that stupid smirk like she had some years ago.

She imagined it’d feel just as good the second time around.

Unfortunately, Malfoy and Fiancee’s First Outing Ends in Fisticuffs was not the type of headlines they were trying for, and so Hermione looped her right elbow through his aloft left—perhaps a bit forcefully, but old habits die hard—and allowed Malfoy to lead them inside.

One of the more popular establishments on the alley, Coffee & Quills never failed to produce a bustling, crowded counter at peak hours.

Though breakfast tended to be the busiest—their pre-work crew one Hermione often avoided for fear of being trampled by caffeine fiends—lunch still drew a decent lot, the majority of the tables spoken for as they stepped up to the back of the fairly long queue.

Malfoy settled them to a stop, arm flexing.

Hermione made to retract her own.

“What are you doing?” Malfoy asked, glaring at where she tugged at their interlocked elbows.

“Trying to retrieve my arm,” said Hermione, wiggling in his grip.

Malfoy’s hold tightened. “What for?”

Hermione cut him an incredulous look, pulling harder. “So that I might use it. Why else?”

“Use the other one.”

“Excuse me?” Hermione had to sequester the pinched pitch her voice edged toward.

“I hardly see the reason why you should require this specific arm when you have what I’m assuming is a perfectly adequate one attached to your other side.” Malfoy shrugged, and instead of releasing her, slid his hand down her forearm until their palms pressed together.

As if sensing her impending argument, he spoke before she could. “Can I not hold the hand of my betrothed?”

Hermione swallowed her confutation.

As Ginny had annoyingly iterated, she’d been the one to enter a contract with him. One in which she’d rashly agreed to sensible physical contact.

She couldn’t very well expect for them to pull off a convincing charade if they stood half a meter apart the entirety of their time together.

Besides, she supposed it could be worse.

Malfoy’s hand was firm and polite in its intent, fingers long and slightly callused against the smooth skin of Margaux’s.

And though her alter ego’s were a bit too bony, causing their joint hold to fit like a shoe just a half size too small, Hermione had had much more unpleasant, sweatier hand holding situations.

And yet just as she was coming to terms with the not-entirely atrocious idea of holding hands with Draco Malfoy, he had to be a prat about it.

“Or is it that you’d rather I hold you closer?”

He let go of her hand then, only to use his own to tug her against his side, curving it along the stretch of her lower back until he’d looped her successfully by the waist.

“That is definitely not what I meant!” Hermione exclaimed, nose wrinkling at the uncomfortable contact.

She shuffled stiffly alongside him as the queue moved forward.

“Is this not a bit excessive?” She hissed under her breath. “No one’s even paying attention to us!”

“How would you know—”

“Malfoy!”

The clear call cut through the cafe chatter, Hermione and her date both stilling at the sound.

She must have misheard, certainly. Must have fallen on the way in and hit her head.

Yes, she had to be hallucinating.

There was simply no way out of everyone to ever happen to stumble upon them it could possibly be…

“Potter.”

Malfoy said the familiar surname in a tone much more neutral than that of their school days, an even slip of each syllable rather than the biting end which had often accompanied their various verbal sparring in the past.

Harry emerged from throng near the front counter, maroon uniform robes somewhat creased, a tray of steaming paper cups levitating over his shoulder.

“What brings you around at here at this hour?” asked Malfoy. “Shouldn’t you be off saving babies from rising snaked-nosed baddies?”

Despite the sarcastic edge to Malfoy’s inquiry, Harry huffed a laugh. “Technically, I’m on surveillance at the moment. Just popped in to grab some pick-me-up’s for the team.”

He shook the additional white pastry bags, each marked with a name across the front flap.

“What’s it this time?”

“Been some vampire sightings in South Kensington,” said Harry. “Wouldn’t be worth investigating, really, if there hadn’t been a substantial increase in bite victims turning up to Mungo’s in the days after.” He scratched at his five o-clock shadow with a stray thumb. “But that’s not why I wanted to speak with you, actually. It has to do with—”

Hermione stood beside them, struck silent by the ease with which they conversed.

She knew, of course, that Harry and Malfoy had carved a civil acquaintance out of their bitter beginnings, the latter having been called in to assist on potions-related Auror cases a fair few times over the years.

And while Ron had not partook in the same anti-antagonistic path, Harry had never been one to hold a grudge.

Even still, the pair of ex-enemies talking shop in the lunch line was a jarring image.

“But you know Hermione...” said Harry. 

“Pardon?” Hermione jolted, her slip only registering when both men quieted, turning to her with matching furrowed brows.

“Oh,” said Malfoy, clearing his throat. “Right. My apologies. Potter, this is Fauna Fortescue. My fiancee.”

Harry stuck out his hand and Hermione took it warily, keeping the shake as dainty and un-Hermione-like as possible.

“Harry Potter,” said Harry, as if it weren’t already clear who he was despite the Auror badge and unmistakable scar still adorning the slope of his temple. “Nice to meet you.”

He seemed to assess her from behind his rounded frames, the exhaustion beneath his eyes evident in the surrounding purple bruises—though they remained keen on her.

It made Hermione want to snatch a nearby water glass to check her reflection. Make sure she hadn’t started sprouting unruly curls in the time they’d been waiting to order.

Her friend’s attention seemed to linger on the ring adorning her left hand, and Hermione had to fight not to shove it into her coat pocket and out of sight.

“Fauna,” she blurted, hoping to pull his focus.

“When did this happen?” Harry questioned. “Last I heard, Neville said Narcissa was still hounding you to settle down.”

Malfoy’s lips tightened. “Longbottom’s loud mouth aside,” he grunted, “we have yet to announce it publicly. We sought to enjoy our engagement privately for a spell first. Right, darling?” 

Malfoy gave Hermione’s side a slight squeeze.

She suppressed her yelp, at both the action and the unexpected nickname, smiling through barred teeth.

“Yes!” She chirped, paying extra attention to the tone in Harry’s presence. “If I could just keep him all to myself, I would!” She looped her arm around Malfoy’s back in return, sure if she hadn’t been sporting Margaux’s stature that she wouldn’t have even made it half-way across its breadth.

“But alas,” she sighed in what she hoped seemed a wistful manner rather than petulant, “what would Witch Weekly do without their most eligible bachelor? Or, I suppose, not so eligible anymore!”

“You said your last name was Fortescue?” said Harry, ignoring her airy attempt at humor. “Like Florean?”

“Yes, she’s his niece,” supplied Malfoy. “She’s returned from abroad to clean up the abandoned shop in his absence.”

“Right,” echoed Harry, though he had that look about him. The same one with which he used to watch the Maurader’s Map, trying to make sense of something that didn’t seem quite right. “So you went to Ilvermorny then?”

“Class of ’98,” Hermione nodded, grateful this particular portion of her backstory had been hammered out at the pub. “Proud Thunderbird.”

Harry frowned. “I’m surprised your accent isn’t more American after all those years.”

Hermione swallowed. “My mother was, er, adamant that I remain tied to our roots.”

“I see,” said Harry. “And she’s still there?”

“My mother?”

Harry nodded.

“Oh, um, yes,” Hermione stuttered beneath his intense stare. “She remained there.”

“Where?” Harry pressed.

Hermione was going to punch him. “What do you mean?”

“Where in America? I’ve only ever been for the occasional assignment, but I’m quite familiar with the major cities.”

“New York,” said Hermione, confident in her delivery of the pre-prepared answer.

“Which part, exactly?”

“I’m not sure that matters—”

“It’s just, I could’ve sworn Florean once mentioned he had family in New Hampshire, not New York.”

Damn Daphne and her faulty Fortescue family knowledge.

“I really don’t think—” Hermione floundered, not sure how in Godric’s name Harry knew such a thing.

“You said you’re fixing up the shop, too?” Harry poked further. “I thought the estate borough had seized the assets for lack of a final will and testament?”

“Well—”

“And didn’t the Ministry state—”

“No need for the interrogation, Potter,”  Malfoy interrupted, cutting off the far too inquisitive Auror. Hermione withheld a breath of relief at the interjection. “I assure you, Narcissa has that more than covered.”

Hermione winced. A short lived reprieve then, but at least she could revisit her conjured history between now and their meeting with the matriarch.

“I’m sure she does.” Harry smiled, sufficiently sidetracked. “Well, I should get going. Warming charms never really do the trick.” He gestured to the pastries. “Just, remember what I said, Malfoy. Go easy on her.”

“She doesn’t need me to go easy on her, Potter,” said Malfoy. “And she’d hex you for implying so.”

“I know.” Harry’s forehead wrinkled, his glasses slipping slightly. “But I also know Hermione can be a bit hard-headed when it comes to these things. She’s stubborn. I mean, really, really stubborn. It’s a bit counterproductive, sometimes, how much she can—Ow!”

Hermione faked a gasp, removing the heel of her stiletto from between Harry’s toes. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see your foot there!”

“It’s alright,” he choked out, shifting his weight to his uninjured foot.

“I’m horribly clumsy,” crooned Hermione, laying her free hand across her heart in feigned dismay. “Drakey here can attest as much, can’t you, love?”

Malfoy flinched at the nickname, though to his credit smothered it with a convincingly endearing smile. “Indeed. This one managed to spill an entire vintage red right down the front of my dress shirt on our first date.”

“Oops?” Hermione tittered, twirling a strand of silky hair.

“Looks like we’re next,” Malfoy remarked, the queue having dwindled during their discussion. “And you should probably get some ice on that.” He looked pointedly at Harry’s feet.

“Right,” said Harry, squinting. “I guess I’ll see you around, Malfoy. Fauna.” With a parting nod, Harry gave the pair a last odd look before departing.

Hermione felt little guilt as he limped away, coffees trailing him out the door.

“I apologize.” Malfoy’s voice pulled Hermione’s attention back from her deservingly-wounded friend. “I didn’t mean to get caught up with business related chat.”

“No worries,” said Hermione, going for nonchalance. “Isn’t that the entire point of this excursion anyway? To run into people? Be seen?”

Though, preferably, next time it wouldn’t be by an overly observant Auror who knew her too well.

“Fair point,” said Malfoy. He stepped them up to the counter. “What would you like?”

“Te-coffee!” Hermione coughed to cover her mistake.

“You sure?” Malfoy asked, not missing her misstep.

“Of course,” Hermione persisted. She eyed the menu board, the nuances of bean bitterness lost to her.

Though she was sure many would argue the fact, Hermione had never found coffee to be of much use when working to better the world. Rather, it served only to give her the shakes and a poor nights sleep, comparable to her year on the run during the war.

“A latte,” she settled on, hoping the milk might make it more palatable. “Please.”

Malfoy placed their orders, adding an envious herbal tea for himself, and they retrieved their beverages after a surprisingly brief wait.

Setting their drinks on a the single free table towards the front, Malfoy pulled one of the chairs for her before taking the other for himself.

“Thank you,” Hermione offered, accepting the seat.

They were positioned perfectly in the window, lending them a view of the damp street outside and surely putting them on show like a pair of dolls in a storefront display.

Hermione wondered idly how many galleons it’d taken to convince the owners to keep the prime spot free of other patrons until their arrival.

Malfoy settled in across from her, removing the lid from his tea and allowing the steam to unfurl freely. It danced between them, a filmy haze of honey and chamomile.

“So,” Malfoy spoke first. “How’s the shop coming along?”

Hermione tapped a nail against the side of her own cup, the cardboard absorbing the sharp sound. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?” 

“Try to make conversation.”

“Would you rather we sit here in silence?”

Hermione shrugged. “I’m only trying to make this easier for the both of us.”

“And are you going to maintain this constant muteness during the entirety of our dinner with my mother?”

“Of course not,” Hermione huffed.

“Then should we not get used to conversing now?” said Malfoy. “While the document you sent over was insightful, it cannot conjure the chemistry we’ll need to excuse in order to fool not only my family but the general public as well.”

Hermione took a sip of her drink as a means of delaying her response, only to find that the milk did not in fact help to hide the bitterness. She swallowed stiffly.

“Not to your liking?” Malfoy nodded at the cup which she clutched.

“No, no, it’s fine,” said Hermione. “Just a tad too hot still.”

“Really?”

“Mhmm.” Hermione made a show of blowing through the small split in the lid, as if she were truly attempting to cool the disgusting creation. “Alright then,” she attempted to divert the conversation away from her dislike. “If you wish to talk why don’t you start? How is your work coming along?”

“Fine,” Malfoy shrugged, nonplussed by her reversal. “We’re looking to potentially expand to a third full haus in Romania in the next eight months or so.”

“An expensive endeavor.”

“I thought we’ve been over the fact that money is of no concern to me?”

“How could I forget?” Hermione mocked. “You bilked me out of an extra ninety-thousand galleons.”

“I did not bilk you,” argued Malfoy. “We did business.”

“Right, well,” Hermione tampered an eye roll. “Was two massive headquarters not enough?”

“They’ve served their purpose for fulfilling private and public orders so far,” said Malfoy, brushing at a stray strand of pale hair which encroached on the expanse of his forehead. “But as we look to expand our research facilities, I admit I’m hesitant about continuing to employ outsourced ingredients. The Romania property would serve not only as a full lab, but as a production-level greenhouse. Meaning we have closer control over what’s going into the potions.“

“I see.” Hermione had to admit it was a smart move. Especially if development was to be his new focus.

Knowing if an ingredient reacted incorrectly due to the compound itself rather than outside altering variables could be crucial to a successful new brew.

It was something she’d considered in regards to her own private research a handful of times, though her previous budget had eliminated the idea of ever using anything other than what she could get from her local apothecary.

Perhaps now that she had a bit more coin to her name she could inquire after a personal plot within Neville’s home house…

“I’m sure it’s similar for you as well,” said Malfoy.

It took Hermione a moment to understand to what he was referring to.

“Ah!” She squeaked. “With the ice cream! Yes, I-I suppose so.” Not wanting to give him an in to ask about the specifics she followed up her unsteady statement with another question. “What’s preventing you from expanding sooner?”

“We’re still waiting to hear back about the proper permits,” Malfoy confessed, relaxing into his chair. “Not to mention I’m caught up on this addendum in partnership with the Ministry for the foreseeable future.”

Hermione hoped her “Oh?” sounded passive enough.

“It’s meant to regulate the Jobberknoll population,” explained Malfoy, as if she hadn’t spent months working on the very thing. “And seeing as their feathers are a rather pertinent potions ingredient, it appears my input was necessary.”

“Sounds important,” Hermione offered.

“I suppose,” Malfoy shrugged. “My co-editor certainly seems to think so.”

“Jobberknoll feathers are in a variety of truth serums, aren’t they?” Hermione tried to ignore the round-about mention of herself. “I can imagine why the Ministry might want a steady supply.”

“Memory potions as well,” said Malfoy. “Though some potioneers would argue they’d make no difference.”

Hermione scoffed.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Hermione waved him off, not realizing she’d let her indignation slip.

Only Malfoy crossed his arms, not speaking until she did.

“It’s just, without the Jobberknoll feather, you essentially have a basic stimulant. The proteins found in their root follicles are what reacts with the alihotsy to signal the temporal lobe to recall particular information.”

“Eel eyes also have the same protein compound,” said Malfoy.

“Yes, but in much smaller quantities and with minor varying structures. You’d need twice as many to get close to what even one feather can provide,” said Hermione. “Not to mention, they’re much more ethical to collect.”

“I don’t disagree.” Malfoy took another patient sip of tea. “Though, I happen to think the weakest link is the peppermint.”

“Really? But it’s one of the most neutral agents available on the market.”

“Perhaps too neutral,” said Malfoy. “Depending on the potions intent, that is. The average Memory Potion is meant only to recall recent information, forgoing the emotional ties in favor of the factual. If one wanted to utilize a potion to not simply recall information for an exam but to remember a specific moment with their loved one, then peppermint would be too much of a guiding force. It’d bypass the necessary emotional triggers.”

“If someone wanted to relive a moment with their loved one, why not just use a pensive?”

Hermione had had her own unsuccessful run with the magical instruments, though she found herself wanting to know Malfoy’s thoughts on the matter.

“Reliving and remembering are not the same thing,” said Malfoy. His mouth twisted, turning inquisitive. “You know an awful lot about potions for someone without a mastery under their belt.”

Hermione retreated with a breathy laugh. “It was a favored subject of mine in school, is all.”

“I thought you wrote your favorite subject was Divination?”

Daphne had gotten quite the laugh at writing in Hermione’s most detested lesson as Fauna’s most enjoyed, but Hermione was certainly not laughing now.

Scrambling for any semblance of a sensible explanation, she avoided Malfoy’s gaze, hoping he wouldn’t see the sudden panic seeping across Fauna’s features.

But as she directed her attention past his shoulder, she couldn’t help the furrow which formed between her primped brows.

Just behind them and a few tables over sat an older man, a large burlap sack occupying the other chair at his table, a copy of the Prophet held upright as if he were reading it.

Except, he couldn’t possibly be making sense of anything, seeing as there were two holes cut in the front page, allowing for a set of eyes to peek through the paper.

They were framed by a pair of chunky tortoise shell glasses, though it appeared they sported no lenses.

When he realized she’d spotted him, he startled, dropping the paper and making to duck beneath the table.

“Fauna?” Malfoy called.

“Draco.” His given name fell from her in a hurried whisper. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but I think someone’s been watching us. Just over there.” She jerked her chin in said direction. “Honestly, he’s doing a rather poor job at hiding it.”

Malfoy followed her indication, a hand going to the fold of his robes where he must have stashed his wand.

It fell back to his side with a sigh at the sight of the suspicious culprit.

“Merlins sake,” Malfoy groaned. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s Ernest. He’s meant to be writing our piece for The Prophet.”

Hermione relaxed at the notion that the strange man wasn’t a threat. Though with the way he snuck a macaron and continued to munch on it beneath the table as if he were hidden by a non-existent tablecloth should’ve been enough of an indicator.

“Not the wittiest wand in the woodshop, is he?” Hermione couldn’t help the small snort which accompanied her words.

“He’s the only one not in my mother’s pocket.” Malfoy shook his head. “I specifically asked him to be subtle.”

“I’m not sure he knows the meaning of the word.”

They both watched Ernest snag the trouser leg of a passing waitstaff, tugging until they bent to listen to his request.

“I’ll see what I can do about finding another reporter for next time,” said Malfoy. He pushed back from their own table then. “I think we’ve successfully stirred the cauldron for now. I have an early afternoon meeting to attend to shortly.”

“Sure.” Hermione stood, taking up his arm again without argument.

They exited the cafe to a more populous stretch of pavement, witches and wizards alike on their way back from their lunch breaks.

It was hard to miss how some seemed to stall at the sight of the two of them meandering toward the nearby Apparition point.

Malfoy remained quiet for the duration of their brief promenade, seeming entirely unbothered by the audience they attracted.

When they reached the corner, he paused, turning to face her fully.

“Before I forget,” he said, reaching into the breast pocket of his robes and retrieving a small, black velvet-dressed box.

He popped the lid unceremoniously, revealing a ring worthy of royalty.

The diamond alone could’ve been mistaken for the centermost jewel of a coronation crown, the weight with which it rest in the dainty gold band an impressive spot of spellwork. An array of tiny, inset stones curved around the outside in a deep sea-blue halo.

“Are those—”

“Sapphires,” said Malfoy. “You mentioned in your document you were born in September. Though you failed to note the exact date.”

“The nineteenth,” Hermione supplied before she could think much of it.

Malfoy removed the ring from its cushioned setting. “That must be a bother.”

“What?”

“Sharing a birthday with the Brightest Witch of Our Age.” Malfoy reached for where Daphne’s ring resided, meaning to replace it. “I imagine it’d be hard to overshadow.”

Hermione didn’t offer her hand, instead holding it against her chest out of grasp.

It had occurred to her then that perhaps a Pureblood family heirloom would not be outfitted for the finger of a Muggleborn. Godric knew what kind of cruel curses past generations had instilled on their artifacts to prevent unwanted pairings.

“Um, are you sure that it’s…safe?” She hedged.

Malfoy frowned. “Yes. Everything in our vaults has been evaluated by Ministry-ranked Cursebreakers. It was a stipulation of our remaining out of Azkaban.”

“Sorry,” Hermione removed Daphne’s ring herself, slipping it into her own coat so that she might return it later. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“It’s alright,” Malfoy cut off her apology. “I’m used to it.”

It was Hermione’s turn to frown, though it twisted into a tense line as Malfoy took her left hand in both of his without further preamble, lining the new ring up with her fourth finger.

He slid it on with ease, the band slipping over Margaux’s slim knuckles. Similarly to their interlocked limbs earlier, it felt a bit off, like it’d been made for someone specific and altered to fit another.

Malfoy studied their hands with an odd expression, thumb absently running along the edge of the smooth metal loop.

“It looks good,” he said, voice low. 

Hermione imagined they made quite the image, standing on the street in Diagon, heads ducked together as they gazed openly at the obvious engagement ring.

“It’s beautiful,” she conceded.

He was doing it again. Watching her in that way which made her feel like he could see straight through the sleek hair and fake face.

Unable to take the intensity of his attentions, Hermione averted her own eyes back down to their hands.

Even the sight of the ring proved too much, and so she focused instead on the stretch of her wrist peaking out from the cuffs of her coat.

The no longer flawless, very much scarred skin of her wrist.

Hermione tore herself from Malfoy, stumbling backward with the effort of shielding the rapidly returning raised lettering.

Yet in her haste to hide the damning evidence of her true self, she overstepped, stiletto sliding across the stone.

The ground came to meet her in slow motion, her flailing hands doing nothing to help regain her balance as she tripped.

The words for a wandless cushioning charm escaping her, Hermione braced herself for the impending impact.

Only, it never came.

With an impressive amount of dexterity, Malfoy caught her around the waist, executing a ballroom-worthy dip.

He hauled her into a perfect diagonal, chest just brushing hers with his quickened breaths.

Hermione had somehow managed to grip the collar of his robes mid-tumble, the soft material fisted on either side of his heart, locking them in an accidentally picturesque embrace.

“Careful,” Malfoy breathed, their foreheads a hairsbreadth from touching. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t fall for me.”

Voice locked with waining panic for almost being found out, Hermione could only gape up at him like a gulping plimpy.

Until the flash of a nearby bulb had them both wincing.

“Now that’s definitely making the front page!” Ernest lowered his camera, the beat up metal lens making a concerning clicking noise. He lent them an obnoxious wink before scuttling away in the direction of the Prophet offices.

Malfoy righted them both with ease, settling Hermione back on her feet and straightening his own robes.

“Well,” he said. “I suppose that counts as a success.”

Hermione wobbled, still a bit unsteady. If her scar was making a reappearance, then other more obvious elements would soon follow.

“I need to get back to the shop,” she supplied hastily, taking a step back.

Malfoy nodded. “I’ll owl you in regard to our next outing?”   

“Great. Fantastic.” Hermione gave him a shaky smile, edging further away. “See you then.”

But before she could make a break for it, Malfoy closed in, leaning down until they were cheek to cheek. His lips caressed the top arch of her temple, light in pressure yet somehow searing in presence, before he pulled back.

“Goodbye, darling.”

He stalked over to the Apparition point, offering only his own, much more successful wink before disappearing with a punctuating crack!

Hermione sagged against the nearest lamppost, blinking bewildered in the wake of the last hours events. It felt like a lifetime since she’d left the office this morning.

Merlin, the sheer stress was sure to shave off several years of her life by the end of this entire endeavor.

But she’d done it. She’d managed to successfully deceive Malfoy for the duration of their date.

One down.

Six more to go.

Chapter Text

Draco did not consider himself one to be easily frightened. A past fraught with enough nightmare-worthy incidents that the average spook often failed to startle him. 

And yet, when he woke to the sight of two large, watery eyes watching him over the side of his bed, he admittedly let out a sharp rasp, heart lurching.

Draco sat up in a frantic tangle of sheets, lunging for his wand on the side table. A nonverbal Lumos lit the room, illuminating the perceived threat. 

A tangle of yarn atop leathery skin manifested in the candlelight, tiny hands resting on the mattress where Draco’s head had just been. 

“Fucks sake, Tippy!” He scolded, voice clogged with hastily shed sleep. “What have I said about showing up to my flat unannounced? I could’ve hurt you.” 

“I’s sorry, Mister Draco,” said Tippy, the elf’s ears twitching beneath the petals of her hat. The crocheted daisy matched the same motif print on her day dress, its pale blue continued in the glittery jelly sandals adorned on small toes. “Tippy didn’t intend to frighten. Only wake.” 

Draco pressed both palms to his eyes, tiredness clinging to his lashes. “And you sought to do so before my alarm because?” 

Tippy remained silent for a moment. When she spoke, it came out hesitant. Bracing.

“Mister Draco cannot get angry with Tippy. Tippy is only doing what I’s told.” 

Why was it that everyone kept assuming him quick to anger? Aggravation, perhaps. But anger?

Lowering his hands with a frown, Draco turned toward Tippy.

Tippy, who stood not on the dark wooden floor at the edge of his sensible low-rise bedframe, but instead atop an ornate woven rug, barely able to see over the vaulted four-poster. 

“Tippy,” Draco hedged, an exasperated sigh crawling its way up through his chest. “Did my mother make you Apparate me to the Manor while I was asleep?” 

“Yes,” Tippy squeaked, fiddling with a stray piece of yarn near her chin. “Tippy told Missus Mummy no at first, Mister Draco! I’s really did! But she is going for the red envelopes, and I’s thought this would be better.” 

“Merlin, mother,” muttered Draco, tugging at the ends of his hair. “Did she happen to tell you why it is she wanted me dragged here against my will before dawn?” 

Tippy shook her head. “I’s delivered the mail to her door at half-six as usual and then not ten minutes later Missus Mummy is storming onto the kitchen patio where Tippy is harvesting basil for breakfast tartlets shouting about hers ‘sodding sneak of a son’.” 

Draco let out an audible groan, flopping back down onto his childhood bed.

The Prophet had arrived.

And he had a likely guess as to what adorned the front page. 

“That was fast,” he mumbled into his forearms. 

“I’s sorry, Mister Draco,” said Tippy. “Missus Mummy told Tippy I’s to ‘haul him by his bollocks’ if I has to.” 

“It’s alright, Tippy,” said Draco, though he remained facing the ceiling. “She’s not an easy woman to say no to.” 

A silence befell them both at the undeniable statement.

Draco found himself inclined to simply re-surrender to sleep and ignore his mother’s demands.

Tippy poked his shoulder when he did not stir. 

“Mister Draco?”

“Yes?”

“Missus Mummy is waiting. I’s meant to escort you to the tea parlor.” 

Rousing himself despite an immense lack of will, Draco swung his legs out from under the thick, quilted emerald comforter.

“I’ll be there momentarily. If I’m about to be eviscerated so early in the day, I’d prefer it if I were not wearing flannel when I make my untimely demise.” 

“I’s brought Mister Draco’s work robes for him,” said Tippy, pointing to the far armoire on which a fresh set hung. “I’s figured you’s be heading straight to the office afterwards.”

“Thank you. I do intend to,” said Draco. “So long as I’m still standing.” 

Tippy quit the room so that he could change, leaving Draco to stew in the precursor of his mother’s wrath alone.

He slipped from his sleepwear into the familiar satin-lined lab attire, taking a painful pace in his fastening of the front closures. 

A quick dip into the washroom to get his hair in order and diffuse some of the darkness marring the pale skin of his under eyes, and then he too was on his way through the marble-tiled halls of the Manor. 

Tippy met him at the edge of the east wing, falling into step beside him, though the elf had to take twice as many for every one of Draco’s miffed strides. 

The walls were as they’d always been, save a few blank spaces where tapestries deemed too diffused with dark magic had been confiscated by the Ministry in the wake of the war.

It’d been a little over a week since Draco’s last appearance at dinner, in which Narcissa had continued to not-so-subtly nark on his perpetual solitude.

The back and forth had managed nothing but to further his resolution that fake dating Fauna was the only way to quell his mother’s inquests. 

Upon signing their mutual contract, Draco had understood, in theory, that this moment would come.

The one in which he’d have to convince Naricssa Malfoy, the woman who’d looked the Dark Lord in the face and lied, that despite his previous aversion to the subject matter, he’d managed to fall in love and propose to a witch all within a week. 

But as he and Tippy came to a stop outside the tea parlor doors, he realized, for the first time since they’d started the whole charade, that he was having second thoughts. 

“How mad was she?”

“She is asking that I’s set the tray with the spare china,” said Tippy, her mouth twitching with the mark of a grimace. 

Draco winced. The spare china was labeled as such for the simple fact that it would not be missed if broken.

Or lobbed at some unlucky wrath-bringer’s head.

Lovingly, of course—but lobbed all the same. 

Draco took hold of the handle, his other hand reaching toward Tippy until their knuckles touched in a bump, index fingers entwining in a promise of strength established long ago. 

Fortified by the silent exchange, Draco left his friend behind in the hall and entered the parlor. 

Brighter than his bedroom, the sizeable room swallowed the brimming sunrise, a bayed floor-to-ceiling window curving around a delicate table and set of chairs.

Both seats remained empty, though a full tea service sat perched on the white lace linen tablecloth. 

Limned in the pinkened hues of the morning, Draco’s mother stood beside the baby grand piano tucked against the opposite wall.

Her back remained to him even as he entered, her face unreadable in the instruments glossy black reflection. 

He made it all the way to the edge of the area rug before he was addressed. 

“Draco.” 

Draco paused in his path toward the window. “Mother.” 

Narcissa deigned to face him then, pivoting with unearthly grace on the heel of her house slippers.

Though the odd hour it may have been, her hair lay flat and pinlike down the length of her back, silky blonde sheaths that ended midway to her shoulder blades.

Her robes were equally as neat, steamed swaths of midnight blue not entirely dissimilar to Draco’s own. 

While most might be drawn to the matriarch’s left hand for the sizeable jewels she herself wore, Draco’s attentions fell not to his mother’s wedding bands but to the parchment which she held stiffly between tight fingers.

It didn’t take an Auror to identify the leaflet as the tell-tale pages of The Prophet. 

“I see you’ve got the paper already,” said Draco.

If they were going to have it out, he might as well get the spell started. 

Narcissa’s gaze remained steadfast on him, nonblinking as she barked a sharp, “Sit.” 

Knowing better than to argue, Draco did as she bade, descending into his designated seat on the right side of the table.

His mother follow him in measured steps, propping herself on the edge of the other seat. 

She rest the paper a touch too gentle in her lap, smoothing out a stray bent corner with a calm stroke. 

Deciding he’d done enough prompting, Draco went about preparing a tea. 

For a moment, the only sound which persisted was that of the clinking ceramics.

He picked up the small silver stirring spoon, but Narcissa’s words stalled him mid sugar-scoop. 

“I wish Voldemort had killed me.”

To others, the serious statement might’ve been a means for concern.

Yet Draco knew his mother well enough to recognize her words for what they were.

Dramatic. 

“Is that so?” He hummed instead, continuing to dissolve the sweetener in the steaming liquid with gentle swirls. 

“Indeed,” said Narcissa. “Perhaps if he had, I would’ve been spared the horrific heart attack at the hands of this morning’s Prophet.” 

“You seem in working condition to me, mother.” 

“Physically, I have recovered,” quipped Narcissa. “But the emotional turmoil which I have henceforth endured is not so easily overcome.” 

“Turmoil, you say?” 

“How else would one categorize the revelation that their only son, who has withstood his brilliant mother’s many attempts at seeing him happily married, not only made her for a fool but went behind her back and picked the most atrocious ring in all the vaults to propose with?” 

Narcissa’s volume grew steadily with each word, though her outward demeanor remained rather neutral.

Draco held the tea toward his mother, offering her the prepared cup. “The ring is what you have a problem with?” 

“I read the article,” Narcissa sniffed, ignoring the proffered peace offering in favor of handing him the paper instead. “Have you?” 

“Considering I was snatched from my bed before I had the chance to, no. No, I haven’t.” 

Narcissa remained stoic, and so Draco took it as the suggestion it was. He flattened The Prophet before him, taking in the emboldened headline. 

Malfoy Sweeps Fortescue Heir Off Her Feet in Swoon-Worthy Save 

What seemed like a normal misty Monday in Wizarding London quickly became the set for a stage-ready romance. Customers of long-loved Coffee & Quills were privy to the first public outing of two of the Pureblood circle’s most eligible.

The redeemed Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy family fortune and founder of Malfoy Industries was spotted hand-in-hand with recently returned Fauna Fortescue, heir to the Fortescue family ice cream empire, on what appeared to be a mid-day date. 

According to witness accounts, the couple spent the duration of their lunch hour canoodling over coffee and sharing lingering looks evident even to the passerby outside the quaint cafe. 

“They seemed infatuated with one another,” claims a fellow customer, who asked to remain anonymous. They state that Malfoy appeared “the perfect gentlemen”, paying for their drinks, holding doors, and executing a perfect dip when his sweetheart slipped on the slick cobblestones. 

See image below. 

But perhaps the most shocking element of the entire excursion came when the notorious bachelor was caught admiring the dazzling diamond on his lady’s left hand! 

Sources at Gringotts say it was pulled directly from the family vaults but a week prior to their parade about town. 

The Malfoy family’s climb back up the social ladder after Lucius Malfoy’s sentencing and subsequent release has proven an impressive feat, but still they have remained quite private in the wake of the war. 

While the newly engaged couple are only now showing face, we can’t help but to wonder how long they’ve been falling in love behind closed doors? 

As stated, a photograph accompanied the piece.

Draco had to give Ernest some credit. He’d captured a near perfect loop of Fauna’s slip, the way Draco had drawn her to him in what appeared a romantic haste.

“So?” Narcissa’s simple question pierced the parlor. 

“So?” echoed Draco, pushing the paper back toward her. 

“ So do you care to detail how it is you’ve managed to flee my house weekly for fear of falling in love only to return now with a fiancée? And a Fortescue, at that!”

tongue might’ve cut glass for the edge with which she whipped her words at him. 

“I thought you quite enjoyed being proven right, Mother?” said Draco, taking a drag of tea for himself. 

“One does not need to be proven right if they always are,” said Narcissa. She snatched The Prophet back, surveying the dancing dip on the cover. “Are you going to inform me how this came to be, or shall I request for Tippy to retrieve the Verita Serum ?” 

“First abduction, now drugging?” Draco tsked. “Are you aiming for a cell in Azkaban?” 

“Draco!” Narcissa hissed, jabbing the headline with a pointed finger, calm pretense abandoned. “You will explain. Now.” 

Draco sighed. Set the teacup down.

“You’ll be pleased to know it was your doing,” he said, finding that at least for this he had no reason to lie. “We met at the blind date you made Longbottom force me to attend.” 

“I did not force,” Narcissa interrupted. “I applied purposeful pressure.” 

Ignoring her, Draco continued his retelling. “As it turns out, Daphne Greengrass was meant to be my designated date for the evening.” He held up his hand, pausing his mother’s lips from parting again. “Evidently, Daphne did not turn up. Instead, she managed to convince her new flatmate to make an appearance in her stead.” 

“Miss Fortescue?”

“Indeed. Fauna and I had an…unexpectedly entertaining meal. Turns out I was so taken I ended up proposing before the evening was through.”

Narcissa leveled him with a sharp look. “Rather improper of you.”

“So Theo iterated as well,” said Draco. “As you might expect, Fauna did not accept. The first time, at least. It took a few tries, but as it stands, we are now officially engaged.” 

“I see,” said Narcissa. “And what made you inclined to ask this woman to marry you after only a single evening?” 

“She is decidedly beautiful,” said Draco, starting out with the truer points. “A good listener. Loyal to those she cares for.”

“Congratulations, dear.” Narcissa’s mouth flattened. “You’ve acquired yourself a dog.”

“Mother.” 

She waved a dismissive hand. “Go on.” 

“I’ll spare my betrothed any more of your canine comparisons.” Draco paused. “Though we may have just met, I feel as if I’ve known Fauna for years.” 

Narcissa seemed to catch the honesty in his tone, the line of her jaw softening.

Surprising to Draco himself, the sentiments he spoke rang true.

Fauna was beautiful, in a standard, proper sort of way. A bit too tidy for his inherent taste, but certainly one that could be acquired over time. 

And she’d proven her personality did not align so much with her straight-edged outline. The spark which lit her alight the few times they’d sparred had been emboldening.

A flare of feeling matched, wit for wit. Not unlike when he went toe to toe with Granger over the addendum. 

Fauna’s loyalty to Daphne was clear, and presumably her family if she were taking on the repair of the shop. Despite her earlier nerves, she’d relaxed into a near friendly state for the majority of their date, taking him by surprise with her display of potions knowledge. 

Perhaps there were some things that didn’t line up. Potter’s poking had certainly raised a few flags.

But if there were anyone familiar with the act of burying parts of their past, it was Draco.

And Fauna’s personal graveyard of misdoings was not his to dig up. 

“I’m not sure I can explain it entirely myself,” Draco continued, trying not to choke on his next words. “But I cannot deny my heart.” 

A bit overkill, maybe, but better to drive the point home, he supposed. 

Narcissa studied him a moment, still as the statues in the halls of Hogwarts. 

“Did you fail to mention this to your father as well?” she asked. “Or am I the only one to be deprived of such pertinent information?” 

Draco folded one leg across the other, attempting a posture of ease. “No, father does not know. I don’t imagine The Prophet is a daily read in the Hoia Forest.” 

“Well, then,” Narcissa stirred, reaching for the teapot. “I‘ll be sure to send him a copy along with my weekly letter.” 

“How are the dragons?” 

“Fine, so it seems,” said Narcissa on a sigh. “Why he’s chosen to remain in Romania, though, is still beyond my comprehension.” 

“I figure after three years in Azkaban, the fresh air has proven too good to give up.” 

“The Ministry confirmed he completed his labor service at the rescue facilities months ago,” Narcissa scowled into her tea. “Yet he continues on. Without compensation, might I add!” 

“You must admit, mother,” said Draco. “It’s done him good.” 

The patriarch had been nigh unrecognizable when he’d turned up the Christmas past, fresh off his sentencing, sporting a set of heavy duty hiking boots and singed dungarees. 

It’d been an interesting festive season. One in which the Malfoy’s had come to re-know the strange, lighter Lucius who’d appeared on their doorstep.

While still a man of few words, the shift came mostly in the dampening of his demeanor. Though the work had hardened his hands, it’d softened his heart.

Enough so that not only had he chosen to continue servicing the dragon care clinic, but Draco swore he’d heard him remark not impolitely on the eldest Weasley’s skill with a wily Swedish Short-Snout. 

“Yes, well, I’m afraid he’ll have to forgo the wilds for a few hours so that he might be present for the meeting.”

“The meeting?”

“Your fiancée,” said Narcissa. “Miss Fortescue? You didn’t think we’d simply give our seal of approval without ever shaking hands with the woman, did you?” 

“No,” said Draco honestly. “I figured you’d like to make her acquaintance sometime soon.”

“The Sunday after next.” Narcissa summoned a scroll of parchment and quill set from the standing desk off to the side. “As we’ll need time for the request to reach your father.” 

“I’ll be sure our calendars are cleared.” 

“Do you happen to know of Fauna’s mother’s whereabouts?” Narcissa halted her addressing. “I admittedly didn’t realize Florencia had a daughter until I read the article. But then again, we’ve heard naught from the entire lot since they fled forty years back.” 

“I believe Fauna mentioned something of New York,” said Draco. “But I doubt an owl would be capable of making it across the Atlantic and back in time for them to join us for dinner.” 

“An invitation never insults, Draco,” Narcissa chided. “You’d do good to remember that.” 

Draco’s eyes rolled on their own accord.

“Yes, mother.” He stood then, rolling his shoulders. “If you’re quite finished with your kidnapping now, I do, in fact, have a career to attend to.” 

“It is not too late to receive a saucer to the solar plexus, dear.”

Contradictory to her threatening words, Narcissa placed her cup with a polite plink!  

Draco swiped a scone for the road, making toward the door.

“Only a coward would strike a wizard when his back is turned,” he called. 

“Draco!” 

Draco paused just inside the frame, twisting with an exasperated huff.

“What, mother?” 

Narcissa’s own mouth softened at the edges, curving into the contours of her cheekbones. 

“Happy Birthday.” 

Chapter Text

Hermione was suffocating.

Not metaphorically—which would’ve been unfortunately normal and not of much note for the often frazzled witch—but in the true sense of the word. Hermione couldn’t breathe.

She fought to inhale, swatting at the mass which had managed to block her airways at some point during the night. It gave its own startled cry, bouncing at the end of her bed with a hiss.

“Don’t give me that,” Hermione griped, glaring at her equally aggravated kneazle through a haze of bed-tousled curls. “You had your tail halfway down my esophagus.”

Crookshanks gave her an unbothered blink, said appendage twitching in sweeping blurs of orange across the floral comforter. A vacant yawn parted his maw, as if rousing his owner was of the utmost inconvenience.

“I agree,” Hermione grumbled, sinking back into her pillow with a pointed sigh. She burrowed further beneath her nest of blankets, shielding her sensitive eyes from the abrupt awakening.

Though her attempt to sneak in a touch more sleep only managed to provoke a purposeful pounce from her living alarm clock, Crooks’ front paws striking her square in the stomach.

“Alright, alright!” Hermione sat up, relinquishing herself to the cool air ghosting through her cracked bedroom window. “I’m up!”

She scowled down at the kneazle sprawling atop her still-warm sheets, gooseflesh tickling her bare arms.

She meant to scoop him from his stolen spot and return him to the floor, only as she stooped to reclaim her space, a distinct scroll of parchment pulled her focus to the opposite side of the bed.

Crookshanks mewled, body twisting in an exaggerated stretch as if to nudge the paper closer.

“Surely not,” Hermione breathed, reaching across the flexing feline. The Prophet unfurled between her frantic fingers, bold print and unmissable photograph on full display. 

Fauna and Malfoy’s accidental embrace took up a fair portion of the front page, an admittedly impressive looking dip worthy of a romance novel dust jacket. 

“Well,” she huffed, skimming the accompanying article.  “They certainly didn’t waste any time, did they?” 

It seemed the sun hadn’t even set before they’d sent the story to print, a turn-around reserved for only the most gripping gossip.

Apparently, they could hardly wait to share the stirring scene if the paper was arriving before Hermione could wake. 

Her morning routine usually consisted of swiping a copy from the Ministry stands, its delivery scheduled past her typical departure from the flat. 

“I see Ernest was eager to earn his keep.” Hermione thumbed through the otherwise uneventful reports. “Early Erumpent and all that, I suppose.” 

Crookshanks let out a disgruntled whine, nose bumping the edge of the paper. 

“What?” Hermione frowned, reaching out to give him a pat. Crooks dodged her hand, a concerning aversion, opting instead to leap from the edge of the bed to the adjacent windowsill. 

It was only then, as Crookshanks wove himself through the parted curtain, that Hermione registered the strength of the abrasive sunlight which had abused her eyes only moments before. 

“Shit!” She yelled, lunging for her wand on the side table. “Why didn’t you wake me sooner?” 

Crooks gave an argumentative hiss, as if to insist that he’d tried, slinking from the room in Hermione’s haste to get dressed. 

In the entirety of her career post Hogwarts, Hermione could count the amount of times she’d overslept on one hand. With zero fingers. 

Yet a quick Tempus claimed that record no longer remained clean, the glowing numbers indicating over an hour past her usual rousing. 

“Merlin’s tits!” Hermione hissed, dashing for her wardrobe.

Style was not of the essence, and so she selected the first skirt and blouse set her fingers skimmed, swiping the pair of heels still laying by the door where she’d kicked them off the day before. 

“A little urgency would’ve been appreciated.” Hermione bypassed Crooks’ statuesque surveying of her hurried progression through the flat, snatching that which she’d need for the office as she came across it. 

Her parade of tardiness came to a halt on her hearth. Though she didn’t care for this particular issue of The Prophet for obvious reasons, Hermione found herself stuffing it into the outer pocket of her satchel anyway. 

Habit, she supposed. 

“Stay off the counter!” She commanded with a stern twist to her mouth, Crookshanks now sprawled across the chaise nearest the fireplace. “You’re on thin ice.” 

Not willing to waste another moment, Hermione stepped through the Floo without a second to spare. 

The work day was in full swing when she emerged in the bustling Ministry lobby. She made for the lifts with purpose, dodging odd glances and raised hands.

She’d already lost an hour of her morning, the last thing she needed was to be sidetracked by some inquiry or other. 

When the lift finally arrived on the correct floor, she darted past a calling Creevey brother, throwing a half-arsed apology over her shoulder as she hurried down the corridor toward the Magical Creatures office, already reaching for the addendum she was meant to be revising. 

“I know what you’re going to say, Daph,” Hermione called through the quill feathers clamped between her teeth, hands otherwise occupied with sifting through her worn leather saddle bag. “And no, I was not getting shagged into my mattress, or fucked in the shower, or whatever other sordid excuse you think I should have for being delayed to the office after a date!” 

“I can assure you, Granger, that was definitely not what I was going to say.” 

Hermione’s hurried momentum proved too much when paired with her surprise at the sound of the wrong blonde Slytherin’s voice. She found herself bound for collision before she’d even made it fully around the corner, shoes skidding on the slick marble floor.

The entire endeavor was oddly reminiscent of the near-tumble she’d taken the day prior under Polyjuice. A desperate flailing of limbs, splayed fingers seeking purchase to keep her from hitting the hard stone. 

And in a further deluge of deja vu, a firm, steady hand grasped her own just before her heels could come fully out from under her. 

Though it seemed Malfoy had a better hold this time around, fingers slotting easily into place, the press of their intertwined knuckles an obliging lock. Flesh and bone fit together like forged metal, stronger when fused, palm to palm. 

Malfoy hauled her upright with ease, his other hand coming to catch her by the shoulder before she could careen the opposite direction into his chest.

“Those shoes should come with a warning.”

“I—pardon?”

“You aren’t the first witch I’ve seen nearly hit the floor in them.” Malfoy glanced at her heels. “Popular, are they?”

“Oh,” Hermione peeked down at the patent pumps she’d borrowed from Pansy. The exact same pair she’d worn on their date the day before. As Fauna.

Bollocks! She’d been in such a hurry she hadn’t thought about her footwear. And she certainly hadn’t thought about potentially running into Malfoy so early at the Ministry.

“Yes!” Hermione exclaimed, the word a hurtled diversion. “Yes! So popular. Nearly everyone has a pair!”

“Really?” Malfoy hummed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s never nothing,” Hermione sidestepped him, Malfoy’s hand releasing her on steadier feet. “Not with you.”

“I thought you were meant to be an optimist?” said Malfoy, pivoting to follow her further into the shared office space.

“I am optimistic,” said Hermione, ignoring Anthony’s questioning look as she set her things atop her desk. “In fact I’m rather optimistic that one day, hopefully not too far in the future, we’ll be done with this blasted addendum and I will no longer have to deal with the likes of you.”

“And to think, I thought we were civil.” Malfoy flicked a finger at Daphne’s chair, legs scraping across the floor until it settled in it’s commandeered spot between their workspaces. “So, who pissed in your teapot this morning?”

Hermione huffed, ink pots rattling as she replaced them with fresh wells, refusing to look at him lest she lose control of her steadily thinning patience. “Can’t a witch wake up on the wrong side of the bed every now and then?”

Malfoy hummed. “Could’ve sworn yours didn’t have one.”

“And you would know as much about my bed?”

“Is that an invitation?”

Hermione startled at the insinuation, nearly sending her stacks of stationary to the floor.

“Come now, Granger,” said Malfoy. “I too would be equally as irritable if I hadn’t.”

“Hadn’t what?” Hermione bit, setting her things back to rights. She was replacing the last scroll when the innuendo registered. “Malfoy!”

He tugged the addendum from the edge of her desk, flipping to the latest line of edits. “I wasn’t the one declaring my celibacy to the entire office.”

“I didn’t say I was celibate!”

“You might as well be,” chimed a voice from the doorway.

“Daphne!”

“What? Is your sex life not what we were discussing here?” said Daphne, sweeping into the office in a swirl of soft blue robes. “Sorry, I’m a bit late to the conversation.”

Hermione collapsed into her chair. “And that is entirely the problem, isn’t it?”

“Are my eyes deceiving me or is that the very man I just saw on the front page of The Prophet sitting in stolen property?” Daphne pointed an accusatory finger at her childhood friend.

“Attached to this poor excuse of upholstery?” Malfoy glared at the peeling arms as if they’d personally offended him.

“Only when these heels are already cutting off the circulation to my toes,” said Daphne, stilettos making a pointed appearance beneath her skirts.

“Ah, another perilous pair,” said Malfoy. Hermione tucked her own further beneath her desk.

“Up!” Daphne demanded, nudging Malfoy’s foot. “Before I call Skeeter and say I have a new story for her.”

“I hardly think you can top today’s news,” said Anthony. “And that’s saying a lot when it comes to you.”

“I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment,” Daphne smiled, wresting the chair from a disgruntled Malfoy who stood with a sigh. “Besides, I wouldn’t dare try to overtake Draco’s debut with his dear fiancee.”

“I’d be scared to see you try,” said Anthony.

“Don’t give her any ideas,” said Hermione. “Lest you wish to be reaping the consequences forever.”

“You sound rather bitter there, Granger,” remarked Malfoy.

“It’s just the piss in my tea, is all,” scowled Hermione.

“Who’s taking the piss?” piped Daphne.

“Granger’s pissed,” said Malfoy.

“At half-past ten?”

“At me.”

“Isn’t she always?”

“Good Godric!” Hermione interrupted with a resounding smack! to her desk. “You!” She waved a hand at Daphne’s chair, catching the girl by the back of the knees. “And you!” She Transfigured the shared book stand into an identical one for Malfoy. “Sit, and for Merlins-sake shut up!”

Daphne pouted, pulling herself up to her own pile of papers which had never once seen the inside of a filing cabinet. “Definitely pissed.”

Hermione ignored Daphne if only for her own sanity, instead turning her brittle attentions to the other annoying blonde now resettled beside her with the addendum. “Your reason for showing up unannounced to my office this morning, Malfoy?”

“I hardly call arriving promptly for our previously scheduled meeting unannounced,” said Malfoy. “Shall I start over?” He made to stand again. “Goldstein, if you’d do the honors? Master Potioneer Draco Lucius Malfoy, Chief Executive Officer of Malfoy Industries, Winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Wizard--”

Hermione grabbed him by the forearm before he could take a single step, dragging him back into his seat. “One day,” she breathed through grit teeth. “I’m going to break your nose so hard you’ll have no hope of ever resetting it.”

Malfoy shrugged. “I heard witches like a man with scars.”

“Of those, we have enough already.” The words left her in an irritated grunt, though their levity snagged more than initially anticipated. A thread of their shared past long ago stitched up, woven with written apologies and tucked away into a drawer they didn’t care to open often, if ever.

Hermione cleared her throat, attempting to rid the room of the unintentional tension. “Right. Our meeting.” She pulled a fresh piece of parchment and quill before her. “Where would you like to start?”

Malfoy returned to thumbing through the addendum, though he never stopped on one page for long, scanning the months of work they’d amassed. “The proposed trip to the relocation site with the Conservancy representative next month.”

“Oh,” said Hermione. “That’s taken care of.”

Malfoy paused his pointless perusal, frowning. “How so?”

“I spoke with Friedrich via the Floo last week. We settled on the weekend of July 6^th.”

“You didn’t think to inform me of this?”

“Why would I?” Hermione scratched the date across the top of her paper. “It’s not like you’re going.”

“The entire point of the trip is to convince the Conservancy to place protections on the allotted land should the addendum pass and to leverage the agreement in our argument,” said Malfoy.

“Do you think me daft?” said Hermione. “I know perfectly well what the objective of the excursion is.”

“You must be,” countered Malfoy. “Considering we never decided on where the excursion would be.”

Hermione bit her tongue. Malfoy’s gaze narrowed on her sealed lips, brows pinching.

“Where did you tell Friedrich the excursion will be?”

“It’s all done,” Hermione began, bracing herself. “I’ve gone and booked the Portkey, so no need to enter a request there.”

“Granger…”

“Honestly, I don’t know why you’re so concerned you’ve expressed zero interest in attending.”

“Granger.”

“And Friedrich seemed very pleased with the decision when I informed him,” Hermione enthused. “Said he’d always wanted to visit!”

“Granger.” Malfoy’s forceful punctation brought her to pause. “Where is it?”

Hermione winced. “The Caledonian Forest.” The words raced from her on a single breath. “But really, Malfoy! I’m convinced it’s the most beneficial location!”

Malfoy sighed into his steepled palms. “We’ve been over this. The bloody birds—”

“Will be fine! They thrive on densely vegetative environments, and the extra rainfall keeps the forest floor full year round. There’s minimal natural predators, and a steady magical beasts population so they’re certain to not stand out. The grounds are protected by the Muggle environmental protection agency as well, which means no risk of development—”

“But—”

“And,” Hermione continued, not yet allowing him to rebuke her. “It’s only a two-Floo trip from Hogsmeade if we can get the nearby hostel to allow access to certified ingredient collectors, which means—”

“If.” Malfoy emphasized. “Which you intend to negotiate how?”

“Well—”

“What is it you mean to offer them in exchange for keeping the Floo open?” Malfoy interupted this time. “Galleons the Ministry doesn’t have? Promises we can’t make?”

“Why should they have to gain anything?” Hermione argued. “It’s for the greater good—”

“How many times must I say it?” Malfoy stated. “Not everyone is as good as you are.”

Hermione swallowed her objection. She had been called good many times.

By her professors. Good job, Miss Granger.

By her friends. You’re too good for him, Hermione.

By her parents. Too good for the sake of your own.

But there was something in the way Malfoy said it then. Not a passable praise for another Outstanding, or a pride-boosting pep talk post break-up, or a weary prediction. He said it like a prophecy—a certainty.

“Regardless,” Hermione barreled on, “the Portkey order’s been placed. If you wish to change the destination badly enough to argue with me over it, then you’ll have no troubles relaying your request to Roberta in Transportation.”

Malfoy scrubbed a hand across the bottom of his jaw as if he were trying to prevent it from hinging into a scowl. “Of course not,” he grunted. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to oblige.”

Hermione was quite sure Roberta and the concept of a pleasant attitude had never once been acquainted, hence the suggestion, but if Malfoy wished to try his luck with the ever-cranky witch then who was she to deny his impending dressing down?

“Not to offend, Malfoy,” said Anthony from across the room, “But I’m rather sure Roberta is Bellatrix reincarnated.”

“Well, then it will be quite the nostalgic encounter, won’t it?” said Malfoy.

“Better you than me.” Apparently, Hermione had a particular knack for shoving her own foot in her mouth this morning. She blamed it on absorbing Margaux’s countenance on an increasingly regular basis.

Luckily, Daphne spoke on her heels, sweeping it under the horribly dusty office rug as if it’d never been. “Speaking of encounters, might we bring up the major moment gracing the front page of today’s paper?”

Or perhaps not so luckily.

“You know some of us are actually trying to work here?” said Hermione, words catching on the sharp edges of her ire.

“Very well then,” said Daphne, pushing back from her desk. “Then let us go not work.”

“We’re in the middle of a meeting,” Hermione pressed.

“One which would be much more enjoyable over a plate of chips, don’t you think?” Daphne nudged Anthony.

“If it means you’ll leave me to finish this request in peace, then yes, a brilliant plan!” said Anthony.

“It’s not even noon!” Hermione protested. She turned her refusal to Malfoy, sure he’d say the same.

“Getting food in you can only do us good, Granger,” said Malfoy, standing as well. He shrunk the addendum, tucking it into the linings of his robes.

“He’s right,” grinned Daphne, already at the door. “You do tend to get rather hangry.”

“I do not—!”

“The grapes?” Anthony added, rather unhelpfully.

“That was entirely unrelated!”

“Hurry along now,” said Daphne. “We’re celebrating, after all!”

“You’re voluntary entry into the Janus Thickey Ward?” Hermione grumbled, footfalls heavy as she followed after the much taller Slytherins.

“No,” Daphne laughed. She hooked an arm around Malfoy’s, shaking him until he really did scowl. “Didn’t you know? It’s someone’s birthday.”

—

In hindsight, Hermione was finding lunch not nearly as unfavorable as she’d initially anticipated. Indeed, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d struggled so hard not to laugh.

Her hand twitched against her sternum, a physical attempt at stopping her diaphragm from expelling the peals which ached to escape.

Daphne, on the other hand, was doing nothing to conceal her joy, a wide grin splitting her cheeks  as she sang.

“Happy Birthday to you!” The canteen chorused in varying keys, rhythm lost to the vaulted ceilings. “Happy Birthday dear Draco! Happy Birthday to you!”

If the man hadn’t been pardoned, one would’ve thought he was currently plotting Daphne’s demise. Honestly, with the razor-like way with which he glared at the girl to his left, Hermione had half the mind to think he was doing just that.

But even with his the vengeful stare, it was simply impossible to take Malfoy seriously in that hat.

Secured at his chin with thin elastic, the pink sparkly cone peaked out from between white-blonde strands. It matched the candle flickering atop the solitary cupcake Daphne had procured, along with the festive attire, from the pastry kitchen under the guise of going back for an extra sugar packet for her tea.

The small crowd of colleagues had gone quiet, applause fading as they dispersed. Daphne pushed the vanilla sweet further beneath Malfoy’s nose.

“Go on,” she encouraged. “Make a wish.”

“I wish I’d never been born,” Malfoy griped, arms crossed high across his chest.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to take that one up with Narcissa,” said Daphne. “Now, try that again!”

Malfoy glared at the eldest Greengrass, and with a wave of his hand Vanished the sputtering flame, along with the atrocious birthday hat.

Daphne pouted, pulling the dismissed treat toward herself instead. “Honestly, you could pretend on rare occasion that you aren’t so opposed to general merriment.”

“I don’t know that most consider being ambushed agreeable,” said Malfoy. He yanked his paper cup of what smelled like chamomile closer.

“It was a surprise, not an ambush,” Daphne chastised.

“I’m not so sure there’s a difference,” said Hermione, chewing on a slightly-stale chip. “At least when you’re involved.”

“Besides!” exclaimed Daphne, ignoring Hermione to instead thrust an accusatory forkful of frosting at Malfoy. “You’re one to talk about ambushes Mr. I-Proposed-To-My-Fiancee-On-The-First-Date!”

Malfoy quirked a brow over the top of his tea.

Hermione struggled to swallow.

“It worked out in my favor, did it not?” said Malfoy.

“How could I forget, with you two falling all over each other on the front page,” Daphne sniffed, though she didn’t seem nearly as miffed as her statement suggested. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what?”

“If it weren’t for me you and Fauna would’ve never met.”

“Ah, yes, thank Godric you decided to stand me up,” Malfoy mused, pale fingers dancing across the tabletop.

“I wasn’t standing you up,” said Daphne. “I was standing up the unidentified, likely horrible blind date. Hermione here can attest to my utter distress ahead of the evening.”

Startled by the mention of her name, Hermione dropped her current crisp back into the paper-lined basket. “Oh,” she stuttered. “Right. Very distressed.”

“So,” Daphne pressed. “How does it feel?”

“Being the unintentional cause of your anguish?” Asked Malfoy.

“Being engaged!” Daphne licked at the metal tines. “I’m sure Narcissa had a lot to say.”

“She was thrilled,” said Malfoy. “Could hardly wait to discuss it.”

Though he spoke with a hint of exasperation, it didn’t seem his answer was untrue. Hermione supposed it made sense. From what Malfoy had told Fauna, Narcissa had been keen for some time to set him up with a perfect Pureblood witch. And by all means, she had no reason to believe Fauna wasn’t one. At least, not yet.

“Your mother didn’t know you were proposing?” Hermione managed to inquire, attempting to maintain her facade of being uninformed.

“It was a rather…in the moment declaration,” said Malfoy.

“It seems your first outing was well received,” said Daphne.

Malfoy shrugged.

“What?” Daphne huffed. “You don’t care that everyone and their pygmy puff’s are whispering about the witch you’ve snagged?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Daph--” Hermione attempted to interject, not liking the turn this conversation was taking. It was increasingly uncomfortable to be discussed as if she weren’t in the room, even if not all parties were aware of such.

“The opinions of people who do not know me nor my betrothed matter to me as much as McGongall’s detentions deterred us from playing Quidditch after dark,” said Malfoy. “That is to say; not at all.”

“Fine,” said Daphne, abandoning the picked-over dessert. “When do you suppose you’ll see her next?”

“Why? So you’ll know when you and your mysterious suitor might have the flat free?” Malfoy quipped.

Daphne’s cheeks reddened despite her confident tone. “I hardly need to wait for my flat to be free when he has a perfectly solitary one of his own.”

“To answer your question, I plan to inquire if Fauna might be available this weekend,” said Malfoy. 

“So soon?” Hermione’s question drew identical strange looks from her companions. “I only meant,” she attempted to backpedal, “aren’t there rules and what not?”

“Rules?” echoed Malfoy.

“You know,” Hermione mumbled. “For propriety when, er—”

“Courting?” Malfoy chuckled, draining his drink. “And what would you know about that, Granger?”

Their earlier words nipped at her heels. Hermione had to stop herself from blurting the circular rebuttal. Is that an invitation?

“Courtship hasn’t been so much a thing since the war,” supplied Daphne. “Most Pureblood families are too keen to see their kids married to care about the art of showing intent.”

“And your intent with this upcoming outing?” Hermione made herself ask.

Malfoy smiled then, a grin reminiscent of when he’d boasted about the brooms his father had bought or the sweets his mom sent to school.

“We’re going to do what Malfoy’s do best,” he said. “We’re going shopping.”

Chapter Text

“This seems awfully redundant.” Hermione frowned, Fauna’s red-painted lips dipping identically in their three-way reflection. 

“Yes, well, Draco is not one known for giving enough notice,” said Pansy, the pin held between her teeth splitting the syllables. “Stop fidgeting or I’ll poke you on purpose.” 

Hermione attempted to remain still atop the small pedestal as Pansy finished stitching.

The borrowed mauve blouse was a bit big, hence the last minute tailoring, but they’d needed to find something suitable which wasn’t already on display.

Malfoy may be otherwise ignorant to their deceits thus far, but if Fauna showed up to their private shopping excursion at Pansy’s sporting something directly off her own rack even he was sure to notice. 

“You shouldn’t have agreed to this in the first place,” said Hermione, watching Pansy work around her. 

“Would you rather he have taken you to some other upscale establishment where they’re sure to ask you numerous questions you don’t know the answer to?” Pansy shot her a look over her shoulder, piercing the silky fabric as she spoke. “Say, Fauna, what size waist are you? Shoe? What about height? We’ll want to ensure nothing drags.” 

Hermione sighed, going to tug at her curls only to find the overly-sleek strands instead. She let her hands fall back to her sides. 

“Does no one these days simply try on trousers until they find a pair that fits?” 

“I do,” offered Luna from where she’d set up behind the front counter, knitting needles clacking idly next to her head whilst she perused a copy of The Quibbler. “One can never be too careful about taking up stray nargles.” 

“A controlled environment is what you need,” continued Pansy, stepping back to assess her stitching. “Besides,” she came around Hermione’s front. “We already have Margaux’s measurements.” 

“I suppose it could be worse,” Hermione conceded. “Daphne could be here.” 

“I heard that!” As if Summoned by the sound of her name, Daphne appeared in multiples, pink floral dress flouncing in the trifold mirror. “And normally I’d be offended, but honestly, I haven’t got the time.” 

“After your escapades at lunch the other day, I should seal your lips with a permanent sticking charm.”

Hermione accepted Pansy’s hand, stepping down onto the plush carpet of the tailoring bay. 

“I’m sorry to say though some have tried, none have succeeded,” said Daphne. She leaned into her reflection, patting at the gloss across her lips as if to further emphasize their ability to wreak havoc.

“Anyway, there’s no need to get your knickers in a twist. I’m only dropping in to pick up an order. And to let you know I spotted Draco on the way. He’s just left the labs.” 

“Merlin, that man is aggravatingly punctual!” Hermione hissed, snatching her shoes from the side table Pansy’d laid them out upon.

Sensible, unrecognizable, most-certainly-hopefully-better-be untrippable, ballet flats—they fit Fauna’s feet like a glove. 

“Where are you off to in a custom Emma Vane at this hour?” asked Pansy, eyeing Daphne’s fluffed hem.

Whilst pretty, it was indeed a bit much for a Saturday morning. 

“Brunch,” said Daphne, skipping over to Luna who passed her a parcel wrapped in plain brown parchment. “With my mother.” 

Pansy leaned a hip against the countertop.

“And the matching waist coat?” She jerked her chin at the packaged item.  

Daphne’s ears brightened to the shade of fairy floss. “For my father?” 

She attempted to sidestep the disbelieving shop owner, but Pansy yanked her by the ribbon secured at her back. 

“Your father wouldn’t go near a lilac, let alone a cerise.” 

“Fine!” Daphne relented. “I’m not going to brunch with my mother. But I am going to entertain a mother between the meals of breakfast and lunch.” 

“Wow,” said Pansy, releasing her. “Meeting his mum. That’s quite a serious step.” 

“It’s not all that,” said Daphne, pressing the package closer to her chest.

Though she clung to her usual air of nonchalance, Hermione noted the way her friend’s eyelashes fluttered like she might take flight at the mere mention of her mystery man. 

“I remember when Pansy met father,” said Luna, dimples fondly creasing her cheeks. “He still wears the kerchief you brought him.” 

Pansy gave her girlfriend a loving peck, joining her behind the counter. “The paisley suits him, as it suits you.” 

“Might you be disgustingly in love elsewhere?” said Daphne, feigning displeasure at the display of affection. 

“You’re in my shop, Greengrass,” said Pansy.

“Of which I was trying to vacate before being rudely detained.” Daphne inched closer to the front, teasing eyes trained on Pansy lest she haul her back again. 

“Leave while you can,” Pansy remarked, shooing Daphne with a sharp look. “You too, Granger. He’ll want to accompany you inside.” 

Hermione obediently trailed Daphne to the door, double checking her sleeves left nothing to be discovered even with the Polyjuice’s polishing effects on her forearm. 

She paused just inside, Daphne slipping out onto the street ahead of her. “Pans?”

Pansy glanced up from the ream of fabric she’d begun to re-roll, wand twirling in an instructive loop. “Hm?” 

“Thank you,” said Hermione, words thick with sincerity. “For helping. I know this must all seem rather ridiculous—”

“Very much so.” 

“And that you have plenty of other clients you could be seeing rather than assisting in this absurd charade.”

“A few,” Pansy shrugged, moving onto the next cylinder of chiffon. “But if it makes you feel any better, this happens to benefit me just as well.” She extracted a pair of gleaming silver scissors from the depths of a random drawer. “Now I don’t have to faff about with some overbearing Pureblood mother-daughter duo who refuse to agree on anything, and instead get to enjoy an afternoon with my closest friends as they embark on a fake date which is sure to not only end in a rather robust sale—if Draco is indeed still the son his mother raised him to be—but also much more entertaining.”

Hermione’s earnestness evaporated with a sarcastic scowl.

“Of course,” she said. “How could I forget my existence is nothing but a source of entertainment for others?” 

“You know what they say about the aging mind!” Pansy’s words chased her onto the cobblestones.

Hermione emerged into the Saturday morning sunshine, flats noticeably more stable underfoot.

Though it was still the early days of summer, the alley absorbed the soft rays snaking through the partly-clouded sky, creating a pervasive heat that hung in the air like a naturally occurring warming charm. 

To Hermione’s surprise, Daphne still stood like a blooming peony a few paces from the Apparition point, lingering despite the distinct lack of a queue. The warm weather kept the lunch goers longer than usual, leaving the road discernibly desolate. 

“Don’t you have a not-brunch to make?” 

Daphne startled at the sound of Hermione’s voice behind her. “Oh, yes! Right. I-I’m going.” 

Hermione raised one of Fauna’s primly plucked brows, coming to stand beside her faux flatmate. “Before the day is out?” 

Daphne clutched at her parcel, smile tight. “Before supper, certainly.” 

“Daph,” said Hermione. “She’s going to love you.” 

“You can’t know that.” Daphne shook her head, early optimism buried beneath a sudden barrage of nerves.

She spoke her next words quietly, like the shop’s storm shutters were at risk of becoming sentient and reporting her worries to future passerby.

“My family—while they weren’t nearly as wrong-sided during the war as some, they weren’t entirely good either. But he is. He’s so, so good, Hermione. And I can’t help but to feel like one day he’s going to realize that I’m not good enough. Not for someone like him.”

Daphne’s hurried flush had eddied to a colorless hue.

She reminded Hermione of a porcelain doll, dressed in her frills, waiting to see if she’d be plucked from the shelf.

If one day she wouldn’t be, and those who once held her close would leave her behind. 

“I’m going to tell you something, Daphne Greengrass, and you best listen close,” said Hermione, taking her friend by the shoulders. “You are not the sum of your family’s mistakes. They have absolutely no merit on who you are today, who you’ve chosen to be every day for the last seven years. Which is undoubtedly, incontestably good.” 

Daphne smothered a sniffle within the waistcoat’s wrappings, conceding a weak nod.

Though she had yet to regain her usual rouge, she appeared steadier, steeled by the conviction in Hermione’s reassurance. 

“Thank you, Her-Fauna!”

The switch was a sudden, jolting adjustment.

Hermione meant to question the hasty correction, only to be silenced by the weight of a hand sliding across the expanse of her lower back. 

“I hope I’m not interrupting?” 

Hermione couldn’t help but to stiffen at the abrupt touch, not used to being caressed so casually, let alone by—

“Draco,” said Daphne. “Not at all. Just a bit of chat between flatmates.” 

Malfoy stepped fully into Hermione’s periphery, arm remaining attached just above her hip bone. In accordance with the weather, he too had forgone an overcoat and robes, outfitted instead in a pair of pressed slate slacks and a matching suit jacket.

On anyone else the ensemble might have read a bit dull, but the cool tones complimented those mimicked in his complexion, instead lending to the illusion that he’d been crafted of marble, an aesthetically pleasing blend of whites and greys. 

“I apologize for being unable to escort you,” said Malfoy. “There was an emergency at the lab this morning.” 

“Is everything alright?” asked Hermione, tone dropping into Fauna’s huskier lilt. “We can postpone if you need to take care of things.”

Malfoy’s fingers tapped a knowing rhythm against her ribcage.

“How generous of you,” he hummed. “But that won’t be necessary. My assistant has the day off and the apprentice meant to switch the cauldrons in his stead seems unable to tell the difference between cast iron and standard pewter. While messy and inconvenient, it was nothing a few Scourgifies couldn’t fix.” 

Poor escape attempt thwarted, Hermione frowned. “Aren’t apprentices required to have completed at least two terms of their potions mastery programme?“

“Yes.”

“Then shouldn’t they have—“

“Yes,” Malfoy sighed. “But unfortunately I made an agreement with a colleague. Accepting his nephew as an apprentice was my regrettable end of the bargain. It is now abundantly clear why no other potion haus would take him.” 

“I think it’s lovely you’re acquiring some philanthropic work,” piped Daphne. “Godric knows your reputation can only benefit.” 

“Fauna, did you hear something?” Malfoy glanced around the deserted street. “Sounded like an unwanted opinion.” 

“Oh, shove it,” said Daphne. “I’m only teasing.” 

“And hopefully, leaving.” 

Daphne huffed, but finally took the last few steps to the Apparition point.

“Have her home by midnight,” she said. “Or morning. Honestly, you both could use the—“

“Alright!” Hermione interrupted. “Enjoy your not-brunch, Daph.” 

“Farewell, lovebirds,” Daphne waved, mood decidedly improved.

She began to spin on the spot, halting halfway.

“I almost forgot! Draco,” Daphne smiled, innocent as a baby mandrake right before it opens its mouth to scream. “She looks exceptional in red.” 

With a crack! Daphne vanished, her parting words hanging in the growing humidity. 

“I’m sorry,” Hermione found herself apologizing. “I don’t know why she’s so keen to make things even more uncomfortable.” 

“I reckon we ought to be thankful she uses such powers for petty quips,” said Malfoy, tugging the two of them back across the lane toward Pansy’s. “I’m afraid to wonder what she might do with it otherwise.” 

“Well,” said Hermione. “Let us hope we never find out.”

They slipped through the shop entrance still linked, Malfoy holding the door and allowing her to pass through before reattaching his palm to her person. 

Not adorned with anything as undignified as a bell, Pansy’s instead announced their arrival with a spattering of periwinkle sparks, ignited by the triggering of her wards.

They circled the counterfeit couple, weaving their way through the maze of clothes and toward the back of the shop where they alerted the owner to the not-so-new comers. 

Pansy emerged looking exactly the same as she had minutes before, black hair shiny and sharp, deep violet jumpsuit cutting off at the ankles and extending into a capelet which caressed her shoulders, a pleasing mixture of magical and Muggle silhouettes. 

 “What have we here?” said Pansy, hands finding her hips. “The it couple of the hour.” 

“Pansy,” said Malfoy. “Thank you for having us on such short notice.” 

“Any well-to-do business woman would be foolish to deny the opportunity to dress such a fawned after pair of fiancés.” Pansy held out a prim hand, vacant of any needle thin scars in spite of her occupation. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Fortescue.” 

“Fauna, please,” said Hermione, accepting the exchange.

She bit the inside of her cheek, finding it harder than she’d anticipated to keep a straight face. 

When Harry had stumbled upon their first fake date, the appearance had been so jarring Hermione had had no choice but to let adrenaline lead her lies, guiding them out of dangerously vigilant waters with as much grace as she could bear to muster. 

But this planned pretense disarmed her in an entirely different way.

Though she should have been buoyed by the fact she now had someone on her side of deception not as hellbent on destruction as Daphne, it was oddly intimidating, a butterfly at risk of being pinned to a board beneath the attentions of two of her former childhood bullies. 

“Fauna,” echoed Pansy. “It’s lovely to have you here. While I admit Draco has been rather tight lipped, I’ve heard nothing but good things from Daphne.” Pansy gestured to the cushioned chaise. “Why don’t you both have a seat, and we can get started.” 

Malfoy relinquished Hermione to the velvet lounge, sinking into the seat beside her. 

“Would either of you like a spot of tea?” asked Pansy, back to them whilst she rifled through the shelves of a sideboard.

As if by extension charm, she extracted a fully set tray, complete with a tiered display of finger sandwiches and sweets. She set it with quiet ease on the small table before them. 

“Chamomile, please,” accepted Malfoy. “And a latte for you, darling?” 

It took Hermione a noticeable moment to remember the darling he referenced was, in fact, her and not some other spectral being she hadn’t seen upon their entry. 

“Oh, um…” She didn’t fancy trying to choke down the bitter drink again, especially in the company of such expensive garments.

The last and most unladylike thing she needed was to spat the spoiled tasting concoction all over a one-of-a-kind skirt. 

“I’m sorry to say a client yesterday cleared us clean out,” said Pansy, a well-timed intervention. “But I can scrounge up a bottle of Ogden’s if you’re interested in something that packs more of a punch.” 

“No, no,” Hermione declined, angling to sound demure, “tea is fine. Green, if you have it.” 

“You’re sure?” Pansy asked, though she sifted through the vessel of various tea bags. “You might regret it after an hour or so of shopping with this one.” 

“I don’t know what you’re on about, Parkinson,” said Malfoy, reaching for the bowl of sugar cubes.

He offered them first to Hermione, taking three for himself when she passed. 

“Is that so?” said Pansy. “How could you possibly forget the first time we met?” 

“Godric, not this again,” Malfoy grumbled. 

“Has he told you how we came to know one another, Fauna?” Pansy asked.

Hermione shook her head, realizing she’d never considered that they’d met under circumstances outside of Hogwarts, though with their family lineage it didn’t come as total surprise. 

“Let me regale you with a tale of time long past,” crooned Pansy, leaving them to finish off their own teas and beginning to collect odds and ends she’d need for the fitting. “In which a sweet young witch was subjected to three hours of standing in Madam Malkin’s as one white-haired hellion of a wizard refused every single set of robes in the catalog.” 

“It was not every single set,” argued Malfoy.

“It was too!” said Pansy. “They ended up having to order you a custom from Chatres.” 

“Custom robes? For school?” Hermione interjected.

Frugal as she may be, she doubted even Purebloods splurged on things their kids were sure to turn to tatters by the end of term.

“Of course.” Pansy produced a bound leather book, setting it beside the tea tray. “Draco turned down all of the pre-made fits, and Narcissa would rather drop an extra hundred galleons than see her son striding into Hogwarts stark naked.” 

“They were that bad?” 

Malfoy drank through his scowl, swallowing before presenting his self-defense.

“The collars all sat wrong,” he said. “I could hardly be expected to focus in class if I were preoccupied with ill fitting attire.” 

“You could hardly be expected to focus regardless of what you wore,” countered Pansy. 

“Didn’t stop me from ranking second in our year,” said Malfoy. 

“One of Morgana’s greatest mysteries. Perhaps if you’d paid more attention you would’ve managed to outdo Granger.”

Hermione was grateful she wasn’t holding her tea, lest she be unable to resist the urge to toss the liquid in Pansy’s face. 

“I doubt Rowena Ravenclaw herself could’ve outdone Granger,” said Malfoy. “But my adolescent aversion to subpar apparel aside, might we continue on with the intended purpose of this visit?” 

“Very well.” Pansy tapped a talon-like nail against the cover of the book she’d brought over. “This is the complete catalog for the spring/summer season. Peruse at your leisure, and let me know which pieces you’d like me to pull.” 

Malfoy drew the album closer so that it rest between them. The Parkinson Atelier logo winked up at them from the front cover, silver embossing stamped into the rich black hide.

Inside, each page featured a photo of a witch modeling various couture items. She struck a few poses, showing off the garments from multiple angles before the image looped again. 

The clothes were undeniably stunning, the styling striking and bold, Pansy’s mark clear across every ensemble. Though admittedly not well-versed when it came to this particular art form, Hermione knew that Pansy was incredibly talented.

She’d headlined Wizarding London Fashion Week just four months after opening her doors, the designs displayed in the catalog even more elevated after years of honing her craft. 

“We’ll take a look at these,” said Malfoy, long fingers splayed throughout the pages to hold his place. 

Hermione blinked, having barely been able to process the assortment of form-fitting trousers and stylish blouses. Not that her opinion would have mattered much regardless, trends outside standard trainers and work-wear beyond her regular notice.

In fact, it was probably best Malfoy and Pansy took the lead, less of an opportunity for her to receive a questioning look when she wasn’t familiar with the proper Pureblood terminology.

Descriptions boasting words like cravats and culottes might as well have been written in Mermish. 

“Let me go grab them from the back,” said Pansy, disappearing through the shelves of shoes to the left of the tailoring bay. 

The silence which followed her exit wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, but Hermione found herself eager to fill it anyway, like if she didn’t grab hold of the reigns there would be no telling which direction the next sentence spoken would go. 

So, Fauna, it seems Potter was right. The estate borough did seize the Fortescue assets. Care to tell me how you happened to acquire them? 

Should we inform your mother of our impending marriage?

Shall I inquire after my dimwitted apprentice’s availabilities to take up a position at your shop instead? 

Or perhaps a blunt, Show me your birth certificate. 

The possibilities were far to open-ended, and so Hermione spoke before any such hypothetical inquisition could arise.

“So, you and Pansy have been friends for quite some time.” 

Not so much a question but a statement, the implication for further elaboration evident. 

Malfoy shifted, arm crawling across the back of the chaise behind her head. 

“Almost seventeen years,” he said. “Though sometimes I’m sure I saw her in my nightmares long before that.” 

“From what she said it seemed like you were the terror.” 

“I like to think we got each other into equal amounts of trouble.” 

“I would’ve guessed Daphne to be the most meddlesome.” 

“Oh, she was,” Malfoy chuckled. “Still is.” 

“Without fail,” agreed Hermione, an amused smile tugging at Fauna’s cheeks. 

“Her Slytherin sorting was a shock at first,” said Malfoy. “I’m sure she’s mentioned her mother was a Ravenclaw, and she was expected to be the same. Wasn’t long until we figured out why she’d ended up amongst the snakes.” 

“Considering the maturity which she exudes now, I fear what she was like as a teen,” said Hermione. 

“You mean lack thereof?” 

“She seems to be taking this new relationship of hers quite seriously,” Hermione offered. 

“Do you know who it is?” asked Malfoy. 

Hermione shook her head. “Won’t say.” 

Malfoy’s attention narrowed to the tea balanced on his knee, like he might find the answer in it’s wet leaves. 

“I bet Granger knows.” 

Swallowing an immediate denial, Hermione let her disagreement come slowly, as if she too were contemplating the possibility.

“I don’t think so.”

“Those two are close as twin cauldrons,” said Malfoy. “And I highly doubt Daphne could hide anything from her.” 

“You’d be surprised,” Hermione scoffed. Realizing a moment too late how bitter she’d sounded, she sputtered an amendment. “I mean, I live with her. If anyone were to have figured it out by now, it would’ve been me.” 

“Fair point,” conceded Malfoy. “Speaking of friends, how’s it been being so far away from yours?” 

Hermione sipped her tea, stalling. “It’s difficult,” she finally managed. “Being away from them.” 

Malfoy nodded but remained silent, clearly not taking the short refrain for a real answer. 

“It’s…harder than I ever thought it would be,” she continued, a strange thread of honesty stitched into her words. “When I first made the decision to leave, I thought I was making the right choice. That even if it ended up being the wrong one, I could fix it.” 

The shop’s signature scent of freshly ironed linen and wood polish warped, beginning to smell instead of the hedges which had lined the sides of her childhood home, the sweet notes of hot cocoa on Christmas as she sank into the sofa.

“But I’m finding the harder I try to hold on, the more vast the space between us.”

Hermione hoped her voice didn’t sound as tight as her throat felt. 

 Malfoy studied her, a vague crease to his forehead. “When was the last time you saw them?”

“Seven months ago,” said Hermione. The truth. She’d spent the holiday season in a seaside motel a town over from their new residence in Wye River. “They didn’t even recognize me.” 

“People change,” said Malfoy. “To the point they can feel like strangers.” 

Strangers, indeed. 

“Yes, well,” she breathed. “Safe to say we aren’t quite as close as we once were.” 

“Do you miss them?” 

The question was delicately posed, neither demanding nor nonchalant. An offering. Out or in. 

Hermione exhaled. “Every day.” 

The residual quiet carried a somber weight, an unexpected vulnerability taking root.

If she’d been of solid enough mind, Hermione might have acknowledged the admittedly persuasive pantomime.

The angle of their knees beneath the tea table, the slim space between their shoulders, the soft circles Malfoy had at some point began to paint across the expanse of her shoulders, the strokes suffusing a soothing heat she couldn’t find the strength to shake. 

Though Hermione had been single for a significant amount of time—and happily so, she’d argue—it evaded even her, the fortitude to deny such a yearning.

To turn from open arms when all you wished was to be held close. 

And yet, as Pansy returned, garment bags slung over her back, Hermione was reminded that this was not the time, nor the place. 

Certainly not the person.  

She stood from the chaise in a hasty ascent, sleek curtain of hair coming in hand to hide her burning face. 

“Now,” Pansy was saying, “we’ll start with this one.” She passed the first pick to Hermione, hanging the others on a nearby rack. “Come, you can change in here.” 

Hermione ducked inside the changing room, Pansy following behind and securing the curtain.

Out of sight, Hermione released a rattling sigh, sucking in a few deep breaths. 

“Alright there?” Pansy whispered, unzipping the garment bag, eyes equal parts concerned and calculating.

Hermione nodded. “Fine. Just…fine.” She accepted the two piece set, the muted sage silk top cool against her flushed skin. 

Pansy gave an evasive hum, though said nothing else, letting Hermione change out of their constructed ensemble from earlier and into the new selection.

It paired well with Margaux’s fair tones. The trim calf-length skirt and vest top read a tad more professional, but the sling-backs Pansy provided brought the outfit back around to something more suitable for the streets. 

“It’s lovely,” said Hermione. 

“It is,” said Pansy, though she tapped a contemplative rhythm against her cheek. “Almost too lovely.”

“Is such a thing possible?” 

“You’re twenty-seven.” Pansy tugged at the sleeves, manipulating the stiff fabric. “Old enough to not be dressing like a matron.” 

“This is matronly?” 

“It’s…tame.”

“What’s wrong with tame?” 

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” said Pansy. “Only that wild is much more fun.” 

Hermione beheld herself in the mirror, the soft lights further thinning Fauna’s lips. It admittedly wouldn’t be her top contender either, but this wasn’t about her, was it?

This was about Fauna. And the image she needed to portray to both Malfoy and his mother.

“Well, let’s see what your fiancé thinks.”

Pansy slipped out ahead of her, prefacing the reveal with a rundown of each element. When she concluded her short spiel, she cued Hermione.

“Fauna!” 

Stepping out from behind the curtain, Hermione came to a stop beside Pansy, letting the witch present her like a proud first year. 

“You’ll see the detail in the pattern work here,” Pansy pointed out, turning Hermione like a top to display all the individual areas of note. “And though the length is fine, we can adjust to something above the knee if that so interests you.”

Hermione wouldn’t mind something a bit shorter, though she had no real opinion. It’s not as if she were going to be wearing these clothes herself.

They were simply a costume, a tiara to take on and off.

A princess with, a pauper without. 

Malfoy sat indecipherably stoic, legs crossed at the knee and ankle, arm still stretched along the back of the lounge.

He dragged a slow path up and down the length of her a few times, though his appraisal remained almost insultingly clinical, like he were assessing a shipment of potions ingredients for spoils. 

“It can be dressed up or down,” continued Pansy. “Or swapped for trousers—”

“No.” Malfoy displayed a contrasting expression of neutrality to his stern verdict. 

“Not a problem,” Pansy’s smile was sharp around the edges. “We have plenty of other options.” 

A bit thrown but not deterred, Pansy swapped the sage set for a navy sundress.

Much less refined, it brushed the floor in starchy pleats, though not so casual as to be found amongst farmer’s market stalls but rather at a brunch in the south of Spain. 

Hermione emerged free from the tidier constraints of the first fit, strappy sandals sliding across the area rug. 

Malfoy ran yet another unimpressed perusal across her form. 

Attempting to lighten the pressure of his gaze, Hermione gave a spin, arms held out to her sides. 

“I like this one,” she offered, hoping it might break his stupor. 

To her surprise, it did, though the result was a repetitive, flat, “No.” 

This time, Pansy did nothing to smother the sharp glare she shot in Malfoy’s direction, snatching Hermione by the wrist and dragging her back into the dressing room. 

It appeared selections three through nine were equally unsuitable, each receiving a blunt rejection from the judgmental potions master. 

“It’s bloody Madam Malkin’s all over again,” Pansy hissed, buttoning up the final option. She slid the pearlescent beads into place up the length of Hermione’s spine. “Needs everything to be exactly as he envisions it.” 

Tired and a tad sweaty from peeling herself in and out of clothes for the last hour, Hermione grumbled her agreement.

The white brocade dress she now wore had looked unpleasantly hot on the hanger, but Hermione found it to be surprisingly lightweight, hugging Margaux’s frame in the right places.

It dipped to a tasteful spot on her sternum and flared just so at the knees. The  color of clotted cream, it was both elegant and enticing. 

“If he says no to this one, I’m going to seriously begin questioning his sanity,” muttered Pansy, jostling Hermione out onto the floor. 

Malfoy glanced up from pouring himself another cup of tea, abandoning the pot to stand abruptly.

His attention remained pinned to Hermione as she spun, the same slow circle she’d taken each time.

When she’d made two full rotations she eased to a stop, awaiting the inevitable disapproval. 

“Good.” 

It was said in the same tone, boarding on boredom—and yet, a win was a win. 

Pansy released an audible sigh. “Thank Godric,” she socked Malfoy in the shoulder. “I was this close to clobbering you upside the head.” 

“Careful, Parkinson,” said Malfoy. “We still have yet to pay.” 

“Then let’s check you out before I bar you from ever entering my shop again,” said Pansy. “Fauna, you can change and meet us up at the front counter.” 

Hermione did as instructed, redressing and joining the pair a moment later.

Pansy took lucky number ten from her, wand setting the garment to wrap itself as she punched at the register. 

“Your total will be one thousand and twenty galleons, including the shoes,” reported Pansy. “Would you like to pay change, or place a vault transfer?” 

“Vault transfer is fine,” said Malfoy, signing along the dotted line of the order slip. 

Pansy grinned, retrieving the self-packaged parcel and presenting it to Hermione.

“Wonderful! Here you are.” She passed the bag over. “I recommend steaming after each wear, to help maintain the fabric’s integrity.” 

Hermione eyed the unwieldy tote, already contemplating how she was going to Apparate with such a thing.

If Malfoy weren’t standing right next to her, she’d insist on leaving it at the shop along with the rest of her borrowed wardrobe.

“Thank you,” she said. “But, is there any way I could have this delivered? I’m just not sure I want to risk it getting damaged on the trip home.” 

“Oh,” said Pansy. “Just use my Floo!” 

“I could have my assistant deliver it to you,” offered Malfoy. 

“Your assistant has the day off,” said Hermione. “The Floo sounds fine, thank you, Pansy.” 

“My pleasure.” Pansy waved her off. “Anything for Draco’s fiancé.”

The wink she shot Hermione was Weasley reminiscent, luckily going unnoticed by the man beside her. 

“This is quite the purchase for every day attire,” Pansy prodded. “Any special plans for it?” 

Seeing as the excursion had been Malfoy’s doing, she cast her inquiry in his direction. 

“Yes,” said Malfoy, sliding the order form back over to Pansy. “Dinner.”

“Ah. How romantic.” 

“With my mother.” 

Hermione barely choked down a shocked gasp. She gripped the countertop, exceedingly grateful they’d forgone the heels today. 

The disbelieving, Dinner with who? was half-way up her throat when a sudden shower of sparks shot past.

It brushed the tops of their heads, twisting in a mesmerizing loop before sputtering out. 

“Sorry,” said Pansy. “I forgot I had a resizing scheduled. They must be a bit early.” 

A swirl of deep green robes appeared before Pansy could move to meet them. 

Upon first glance, it was easy to mistake the Greengrass girls.

Both round and youthful in face, pixie-like noses and heights nearly identical save a few spare centimeters. But the defining difference, personalities aside, rest in the hue of their hairs.

While Daphne’s shimmered liked sand in the sun, the same as her mother’s, Astoria’s shined like obsidian, a starless sky inherited from their father. 

It was the one who bore a constellation free night which approached now, tendrils pinned up in a tidy twist, jeweled clips to hold back stray fringe.

She moved with the gentleness of a patient stream, floating over to join them. 

“Astoria!” greeted Pansy, stepping out to embrace the newcomer. 

“Hello, Pansy,” said Astoria, returning the gesture. “I apologize for arriving ahead of schedule. I was in the area running errands, and I found them accomplished much more efficiently than I initially anticipated.” 

“No worries,” said Pansy. “We’re just finishing up here.” 

Astoria gave Malfoy a polite nod. “Draco. Nice to see you.”

“You as well, Astoria,” said Malfoy. 

“Fauna Fortescue,” said Hermione, by way of introduction. 

“Lovely to make your acquaintance,” said Astoria, extending a hand. 

Hermione tried not to grimace as she shook it.

She’d only met the younger Greengrass a few times in passing, the sister’s by no means enemies, yet not close either.

Astoria’s traversing of the traditional Pureblood path had unintentionally othered Daphne even further, the accidental construction of a bridge that while laid with the right foundations, was quite the journey to cross. 

“You two aren’t already acquainted?” asked Malfoy. 

“I recognize her from the paper,” hedged Astoria, just shy of a placing stare. “But I don’t reckon we’ve met before.” 

“I figured Daphne would’ve introduced you to her flatmate by now,” said Malfoy, casting an odd look at Hermione. 

“Flatmate?” Astoria frowned. “Daphne doesn’t have a flatmate.” 

“It’s new,” insisted Hermione. “Very new! Only been a few weeks, really.” 

“Oh.” 

“She just moved back to London,” aided Pansy. “Daph’s letting her crash in the guest suite until she finds a place of her own.” 

“I see,” said Astoria. Though not yet a mother, she had the cadence of the classic phrase down, a disbelieving lilt to the last letters. “It’s just, I was at the flat last week and Daph didn’t mention anything about it.” 

“I’m sure it just slipped her mind.” Hermione smiled through the lie, hoping Margaux’s veneers might blind Astoria to the bluff. 

“Right...” Astoria’s expression tightened, like she were plucking memories from a pear tree, the fruit she wanted just of reach. “What about all of your things?”

“Pardon?” 

“Your belongings,” Astoria elaborated. “The spare room was empty. I’m sure you didn’t leave all of your clothes and such behind?” 

“No, no,” Hermione insisted. “I, er, used an extension charm. On my trunk. Under the bed.” 

“Mhm.” Astoria seemed to accept the answer, though Hermione could tell the wheels were still spinning.

She needed to pull the brake, before this entire operation ended in a fiery heap at their feet. 

“Why don’t we get started on those alterations we discussed last week,” said Pansy, a savior in seamstresses clothing.

She looped her arm through Astoria’s, prepared to drag the girl away.

“Yes, I should be going, anyway,” said Malfoy. “You sure you’re alright with the Floo?”

“Of course.” Hermione nodded absently, still stewing over Astoria’s skepticism. 

Perhaps if she were less distracted, she would’ve seen it coming.

Would’ve registered the fast dwindling space between them, the slide of a hand across the back of her neck tugging at the silky strands to cant her head up.

To tilt it back. To pull her in.

Would’ve managed to throw herself into the fireplace, or maybe brace herself at the very least. 

Perhaps if she were less distracted, Hermione might have been prepared when Draco Malfoy kissed her. 

It was unexpected in more ways than the one—a chaste pass of lips, a barely there brush. In the time that it took her to blink, he was already stepping back. 

Hermione wasn’t sure what she’d thought kissing Malfoy would be like—not that she’d ever envisioned it happening before—but she was quite certain this hasty collision wasn’t it. 

Malfoy always seemed to have no trouble taking his time, wading through the world not like it revolved around him, but like it might halt its rotation if only he asked. 

So the swiftness with which he disengaged from the intimate exchange was startling. 

Hermione figured he’d have no qualms about snogging a pretty Pureblood, fake relationship aside.

Maybe it was the presence of a snickering Pansy, of a still overtly suspicious Astoria, which had him pulling away in record time. 

“I’ll owl you about dinner,” he murmured, withdrawing fully. He gave a perfectly polite nod to the other two witches in turn. “Goodbye, Pansy. Astoria.” 

With seemingly nothing more to say, Malfoy strode from the shop, leaving a stunned Hermione Granger in his wake. 

Pansy skirted her stagnant form, singing a taunting refrain. 

“Oh, yes,” she sang. “Far more entertaining.” 

Chapter Text

Despite her track record for getting involved in that which was undeniably dangerous, there were few times in Hermione’s life she’d felt true fear. 

When she’d been buried beneath the rubble of the girls bathroom at the mercy of a rogue mountain troll.

When she’d locked eyes with the basilisks reflection, wondering if she would come to haunt a lonely stall too. 

When she’d been struck in the Department of Mysteries, her torso torn from hip to sternum. 

When she’d raised her wand, aiming for the back of her parents' heads and wondered if they’d ever forgive her. 

When she’d lain on the floor of the manor she stood before now, hoping Death would find her swiftly. 

Though many years it had been, Hermione considered her current sentiments not so dissimilar. At least if she were dead, she wouldn’t have to endure this dreaded dinner. 

Overall, the estate seemed both changed and not. It’s grandeur still striking, sprawling across an obscene amount of acres, the hum of ancient wards so strong it filled the otherwise quiet of the countryside. 

And yet the iron gates were no longer rusted, soldered 'M' gleaming in the late evening, the hedges properly pruned and sporting small white buds. 

Where once the windows had been shuttered, hiding the darkness that haunted its halls, now they splayed outward, welcoming in the soft sunset. 

Hermione wondered if the house had truly shed it’s shrouded past, or if it clung to the walls like a curse, a sense of foreboding following you from room to room. 

A gentle breeze skated up her bared legs, urging her forward beyond the invisible boundary and up the front path.

As mentioned in Malfoy’s most recent letter detailing the logistics, the family ring allowed for her to step through the stretch of wards with little fuss, bypassing the gate in small even strides.

Hermione had argued against the Floo in her response, claiming fear of dirtying the newly purchased cream dress with stray soot, though her reproach stemmed more so from the worry the fireplace would sense her Muggleborn blood and spat her out in the dungeons instead of the dining room. 

The trek from the base of the drive to the front steps felt far longer than two-hundred meters, gravel crunching underfoot, displacing the perfectly raked lines with each step.

Though the imprints of her kitten heels were far preferable to the gouging marks made by her struggling form as she was dragged by Snatchers to the door. 

It seemed the unpleasant trip down memory lane would endure throughout the evening, and so Hermione quickened her pace, eager to hasten the inevitable. 

She reached the expansive stoop, and with an allotted single breath to steel herself, extended a hand to knock. It was only as the dark double panel split down the middle that Hermione had half a mind to consider the last time she and Malfoy were face to face.

Quite literally, at that. 

The shock had taken until well past when she’d left Pansy’s to subside, the rest of her day spent trying to disect his reasoning behind kissing her. 

Wouldn’t it have made much more sense to do so on their coffee date, where half of Wizarding London might bear witness? Why enact such a display in the confines of Pansy’s with nought but two stricken witches and stacks of shoes to bear witness? 

Sure, Astoria had posed some concerning suspicions, but her line of questioning hadn’t been nearly as provocative as Harry’s. Certainly the intimate pageantry would’ve been better suited to the latter occasion? 

The door eased open, exposing the expansive foyer beyond, and for a brief, panicked moment, Hermione wondered if she’d be greeted with a similarly forward gesture. They were meant to be proving the illegitimate legitimacy of their relationship to Narcissa after all.

Yet in an almost odder turn of events, the open doorway appeared empty, not a single Malfoy in sight.

At least, not of the human variety. 

“Mister Draco says you was going to be late.” A small elf blinked up at Hermione, the top of her petite head level with Hermione’s knees.

Balanced atop the elf’s downturned ears sat a straw hat, the brim folded in a neat crease. A darling denim jacket engulfed her narrow shoulders, layered over a dainty day dress. The ensemble ended in a pair of wellies in the same pure pink. 

“Oh!” Hermione startled. “I—I suppose perhaps I should’ve been.”

Somewhere in the haze of nerves returning to the location of her many nightmares had induced, she’d entirely forgotten she was meant to intentionally un-impress.

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s alright, Miss,” said the elf. “I is to escort you to the parlor.”

She stepped aside, allowing Hermione to enter, before shutting the door behind them both. Hermione winced at the thud of the thick wood, effectively sealing them inside. 

She redirected the sudden uptick of her heart rate, using the rattled energy to pose a question instead.

“The parlor?” Hermione asked, trailing the elf through the marbled hall. 

The walls were surprisingly full considering the Ministry’s confiscations of many of the Malfoy’s artifacts—an endeavor which had graced many a front pages immediately post war.

Now, rather than be plastered with old sneering portraits and eerie sculptures of relatives past, the stretches of wallpaper were instead adorned with an admittedly stunning array of art. Landscapes and exquisite abstracts framed in polished gold. 

The elf straightened one such piece as she passed, righting the rendered coastal view.

“Yes. Tippy is originally meaning to bring you's to dinner right away, but Mister Draco and Missus Mummy is currently arguing in there and I’s thinking that’s a rather rude way to greet a guest.” Tippy took a sharp left, then came to a stop, pushing through into said parlor. 

“Tippy.” Hermione echoed. The name felt familiar on her tongue. Realization nipped at her heels. Malfoy’s self-proclaimed childhood friend. “You’re Tippy?” 

“Yes, Miss,” said Tippy, flicking a tiny wrist at the curtains.

The breezy material obediently tucked itself aside, allowing for the elf to part the glass panes behind them and let in the cool evening air.

She gave Hermione a concerned look over her shoulder. “Is everything alright, Miss?” 

Hermione had failed to cross the threshold, hovering in the hallway like a ghost.

“Right. Yes.” She shook her head, following Tippy into the room. 

Quaint, considering the size of the estate, though no less ostentatious in its adornments. A beautiful tea table and set of twin chairs, arranged before the bay window. More procured art and a statement side board.

Not to mention the breathtaking baby grand piano, the impending sunset greeting the ivory keys with a vague wash of purple. With perfectly polished pedals and cushioned bench, it was considerably more well-kept than the chipped out-of-tune version tucked into the upper rooms at Grimmauld. 

“Would Miss like to sit?” asked Tippy, fluffing the pillow perched on one of the chairs. 

Hermione eyed the stagnant seating, skin itching at the thought of sitting still.

Though the decor may be more welcoming, the distant shouting that of mother and son rather than Dark Lord, the strange pocket of peace found in the parlor could not erase the knowledge of where it resided. The urge to run a taunting tug at her sternum. 

“I’ll stand,” Hermione insisted. “If that’s alright?” She tapped an anxious rhythm against the handle of the bag Pansy had send along as a pre-dinner present. “It’s only, I imagine I’ll be sitting for quite some time during dinner. I’d like to stretch my legs whilst I have the chance.” 

Tippy gave an unbothered nod, taking up the tray and instead bringing it to her, set with a fresh cup of tea and plate of assorted biscuits. 

Not wishing to sound ruder still after already refusing to sit, Hermione took a biscuit, cradling it in her palm. Tippy seemed pleased enough, even with the declined drink, placing the offerings back on the side board. 

Appetite a far off feeling in the face of the evening ahead, despite the meal it included, Hermione’s stomach knit itself tighter as she brought the light sweet to her lips. She covered her mouth in feigned politeness, the actions true purpose to hide her grimace. 

It wasn’t that the biscuit was terrible—in fact, it was quite good. Unsurprising, considering the standards of the family whose house she currently occupied—but the dry crumbs still managed to flare the vague nausea which had followed her like a sickly phantom all day. 

“Miss?” The words came into focus slowly, as did Tippy’s wide eyes. “Is Miss Hermione sure she’s okay?” 

The equally considerate yet alarming inquiry had the Miss Hermione in question struggling to swallow, any answer she might have given morphing into an incredibly unattractive bout of hacking. 

Spurred by the sudden outburst, Tippy scurried to where she’d abandoned the tea set, wellies squealing with her precise pivot, re-presenting a full cup to the still choking witch. 

Hermione took the cup with grateful haste this time, allowing the warm liquid to soothe the scratchy shock from her esophagus. 

When she’d finally managed to alleviate her airways enough to speak, she did so in a wobbly whisper. 

“Tippy, how do you know I’m…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it, even with the lack of portraits. Hermione wouldn’t put it past the walls of the manor to relay such information to its Mistress. 

Tippy’s ears twitched, like she wasn’t quite understanding.

“That is…” Hermione tried again, voice rough. “I’m not exactly looking like…myself.” 

“Miss Hermione has been to the manor before,” said Tippy. “I is recognizing the magical signature.” 

Of course. Prior to being freed, elves had been bound to the households they served. Despite Tippy’s obvious independence she had at one point been as entangled with the manor’s wards as the first Malfoy to cast them. 

“Would Miss Hermione like more tea?” Tippy peered at her drained cup. 

Hermione winced at the sound of her own name, a seemingly common fear when inside these hallowed halls it seemed. She shook her head. 

“No. Thank you. But, Tippy? Would it be okay if you refrained from referring to me as…” She lowered her voice. “Hermione.” 

Tippy tilted her head, ears pitching to one side. “Is this part of Mister Draco’s prank on Missus Mummy?” 

Hermione had to temper her outward surprise at Tippy’s knowledge of the ruse. 

“I—er, yes,” said Hermione. “I’m meant to be called Fauna.” 

A frown tugged at the corner of Tippy’s mouth, but the elf relented all the same. “Okay.” She took Hermione’s empty cup, Vanishing it with a sharp snap!  

Letting loose a brisque exhale, Hermione allowed herself to drift further into the parlor. She slowed beside the piano bench, surveying the pearly expanse of keys. Interspersed by their inky counterparts, she couldn’t help but reach out, a low resonant E flat filling the silence. 

“If you could also not tell, um, Mister Draco, about me being…well, me, I’d really appreciate it.” 

Tippy followed Hermione’s progress to the piano, right wellie tapping a contemplative refrain against the rug. The question she voiced next was an unexpected deviance.

“Does Miss know how to play?” 

Hermione glanced at the instrument between them.

“Yes,” she hedged. “My mother taught me.”

The words didn’t catch on her tongue as they usually did. 

Tippy appeared to come to a decision of some sort, a prim nod preceding her words.

“Tippy won’t say anything,” the elf agreed. Hermione meant to thank her, but was hushed by an eerily Malfoy-like look. “If Miss teaches Tippy piano.” 

Caught off guard by the request, Hermione’s wandering fingers slipped, an unpleasant clash of keys echoing her surprise. 

“I’m not sure I’m the best teacher,” she said, sentiment supported by the memory of a frustrated Ron at her side as he struggled to keep time, any possible melody lost to his hurried strikes. 

“Even if Miss isn’t a good teacher,” said Tippy, pulling herself up onto the bench. She smoothed the skirt of her dress so it covered her knobby knees. “Tippy is an excellent student.” 

Ever so humble. Just like Malfoy.

The two’s friendship was seeming less jarring by the minute. 

Regardless of her personal stakes in the matter, Hermione knew it would’ve been near impossible to deny Tippy. What with the way her hopeful, watery eyes awaited Hermione’s response. 

“Very well,” said Hermione, coming around to sit beside Tippy.

She aligned her feet at the pedals, testing their tension with a few experimental taps. 

Far from touching the floor, Tippy’s legs swung back and forth, an anticipatory metronome. 

“Are you familiar with reading scores?” Hermione asked, though the music rest was vacant of any scribed symphonies. 

“I is never allowed before,” said Tippy. “But young Mister Draco is sharing his lesson notes with Tippy. I’s can read the music.” 

“What about now that you’re…employed?” 

“Missus Mummy doesn’t know how, and Mister Draco is saying he’s much too busy to teach.” 

“Hmm.” Hermione hummed, withholding any further queries. Instead, she settled her hand on the beginning notes of a piece she knew with a certainty that came only from years of repetition. “I suppose today’s as good a day as any to start, then.” 

Hermione coaxed the first chords forth, letting their soft but bright chorus fill the space. Not wanting to overwhelm, she played only the first few measures, encouraging Tippy to mimic her movements up a few octaves.

Though the genetically restrained expanse of Tippy’s tiny fingers added a layer of complication to the elf’s execution, she hadn’t lied when she’d claimed to be an excellent student. Tippy took to the lines with impressive ease, eventually settling in closer to Hermione’s side so she could play in the correct key. 

Hermione took up the lower line, deep tones lifting Tippy’s higher register. 

Despite Hermione’s experience with piano lessons extending only to her nine year old self and a notoriously impatient Ron, she was fascinated by Tippy’s leisure.

Most, when faced with an unfamiliar task, would scramble for some semblance of control, clinging to what they picked up quickly and shying away from that which they did not. 

But the elf beside her allowed mistakes with a natural serenity, simply restarting after the occasional slip up. Tippy didn’t rush, proceeding steady and slow until she grew comfortable with the phrase before her. Only then would she nod, indicating that Hermione could move on to showing her the next. 

The pair fell into a quiet pattern, letting their joint music absorb the passing minutes. The unexpected outlet of having something else to focus on other than her real reasons for being at the manor took the cloak of tension from Hermione’s shoulders, temporarily hanging it on the harmonies which escaped the comforting instrument. 

She’d have to redress later, but just then, she let the moment be as it was.

Enjoyable. 

They’d made it through the piece twice in full before the quiet following the coda truly registered.

The accompanying clearing of a throat further drawing the conclusion Hermione was already hurtling towards. 

The distant arguing had ceased. Which meant…

“I see you’ve finally managed to coherence someone into reaching the pedals for you.” Malfoy leaned against the doorframe, arms tucked against his chest in a vision of casual observance.

He was intriguingly devoid of formal robes—considering the supposed weight of the occasion—dressed in a simple two-piece navy suit. 

Tippy slid from the bench, wellies thumping at the impact of her descent. 

“Is you’s done being impolite?” Tippy copied his stance, expression pinched in obvious irritation. 

Malfoy sighed, pushing to his full height.

“Yes,” he said. “For now.” 

Hermione remained seated, engrossed in the relaxed way in which Malfoy and Tippy conversed. It was to be expected, considering Malfoy’s inclusions of the elf in his briefing. Childhood best friend.

But still, to witness the tangible leisure of their relationship was another thing entirely. 

Hermione wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Malfoy so…unrestrained. Even stuck in a stiff and starched suit, awaiting the impending foolery of his mother, he too seemed to shed his own cloak of metaphorical tension.

At least, until he turned his attentions to her. 

“Fauna,” said Malfoy, a greeting she couldn’t quite decipher. Neither displeased nor particularly enthused, it somehow still evaded being entirely neutral. 

Though standing would be the appropriate response to Malfoy’s entrance, Hermione stayed glued to the low bench, her observation of the odd pair taking precedence. She opted instead for a well-mannered nod. 

“Draco.” 

The strangeness of his first name on her tongue had ebbed a bit, their first two dates providing a gradual familiarization of the more intimate syllables. 

Malfoy tore his studious gaze from her, refocusing on the elf now before him with her arms crossed. 

“If you’d excuse us, Tippy, Miss Fortescue and I have some matters to discuss prior to the start of dinner.” 

Tippy huffed a snort more adorable than she probably intended, but acquiesced all the same, starting toward the door.

True to her word, the elf didn’t correct Malfoy’s use of Hermione’s false name. But before fully circumventing his tall form, Tippy paused, extending a hand. Her other found her hip in a pose concerningly reminiscent of one Molly Weasley. 

Though neither spoke, Malfoy accepted the proffered gesture, letting their knuckles bump with the addition of their entwined index fingers. 

Tippy had already exited by the time the exchange began to take comprehensive shape.

A handshake.

Draco Malfoy had a secret handshake with his house elf. 

Had someone told Hermione of Hogwarts she’d one day witness such a thing, she’d have immediately expected Imperius. Not that she didn’t think Malfoy of present capable of such relations.

Only that the ease with which he accepted it, the level of comfortability they exuded…it implied something long term.

Enduring. 

It wasn’t just that Hermione was finding she hardly knew the man Draco Malfoy was now, but that perhaps she hadn’t truly known the man he was then either. 

But mulling over the revealed complexities of Malfoy’s character could wait.

Now, her focus needed to remain solely on the task of tricking Narcissa. 

“I apologize for being unable to greet you myself,” said Malfoy. “I was a bit…preoccupied.” 

“So I heard,” said Hermione. 

Malfoy’s mouth tightened. “Further testament for the need of your presence this evening.”

“Arguing over me already?” Hermione prodded. “Seems promising.” 

“Oh, it had nothing to do with you and everything to do with me,” said Malfoy. “Apparently, I didn’t give enough notice as to your dietary preferences.” 

“A week isn’t enough time?” 

“For my mother?” Malfoy scoffed. “Four would be pushing it.” 

Hermione shook her head. “But The Prophet piece didn’t even go out until two weeks ago.” 

“Exactly.” Malfoy laced his hands together behind his back. “The fact that she requested a meeting so soon speaks to her eagerness to vet you.” 

“So I should expect an interrogation, then?” Hermione hoped her voice didn’t sound as tight as it felt.

Merlin, for someone who’d fibbed plenty in her adolescence, she was struggling with her current straying from the straight and narrow. 

“Nothing so obvious as that,” denied Malfoy. “She’ll prod with a subtle hand at first, then strike when she feels she’ll have the best chance of startling you into the answer she’s looking for.” 

“Ah,” said Hermione. “So that’s where you get it from.” 

Malfoy shot a sarcastic huff over his shoulder, meandering toward the window which overlooked the Manor grounds. “I suppose it is. Though I can’t say I recall ever enacting such tact with you in our brief acquaintance.” 

Hermione did her best to hide a wince. It was true. Malfoy had been mostly cordial with Fauna. Except for—

“Our contract negotiations?” She covered. “I’d say that was a similar level of scheming.” 

“I gave you ample opportunity—“

“You did not!” Hermione interrupted, tempering her instinctive pitch. 

Malfoy waved her off. “It’s of no importance now.” He returned to watching the waning light. “Regardless, you should implement a similar approach with my mother.” 

“What?” Hermione finally stood, unable to see him over the large instrument. 

“Start the evening with proper etiquette,” he explained. “Then slowly descend into a more discourteous attitude as it progresses.” 

“You expect me to what? Ask her to pass the salad then say we’d always wanted to shag on such a large table?” 

“Presumptuous of you to assume I don’t have an equally sturdy table to shag upon,” said Malfoy, turning at the sound of her approaching footsteps. “My mother isn’t daft. She’d notice if you were immediately untoward.” 

“Fine,” Hermione feigned exasperation. “No outright innuendos.” She leaned against the sill opposite him, the arched panel framing them like a warped stain glass image. “What would you suggest then, for appropriately inappropriate remarks?” 

“Personally, I’d start with the actionable. Hold the wine glass by the base rather than the stem. No napkin on your lap. Elbows on the table. Things she’d notice but which don’t warrant direct addressing.” 

“Easy enough,” said Hermione. “Then I can move on to sexually propositioning you in exchange for the salt?” 

“Eager to imagine having sex with me?” Malfoy was no longer looking out the window, but at her, eyes creased with a suggestive smirk. 

“I’m not the one who had to hire a fake fiancee because I couldn’t find a real one,” countered Hermione. 

“The ability to obtain a wife and the desire to have one are two very different things,” said Malfoy. 

Hermione studied him, cast in the dimming silhouette of the sunset, and couldn’t stop from wondering aloud, “Do you not wish to get married?” 

Though Malfoy’s suit allowed little stretch for shrugging, his shifting to lean against the wall told a similar story of nonchalance. 

“At the moment, it is not something I desire. But then again, I’m still getting used to the idea of being allowed such things.” 

Struck by the unexpected vulnerability of his statement, Hermione only managed a vacant hum, letting the common truth settle in the space between them.

Seven years it may have been, but that didn’t mean she’d ever stopped looking over her shoulder. Dreading the return of a reality she’d barely survived the first time, she sometimes woke with the overwhelming fear that she’d fallen asleep in the Forest of Dean. That the last near decade had never happened, and she’d be back to hunting Horcruxes and trying to keep Harry and Ron and the entire rest of the bloody world alive. 

Wanting things—a career, a cure for her parents, a companion other than her cat—was something that often still felt forbidden.

As if by desiring more, she’d somehow be deemed unworthy of what she already had. 

“But,” Malfoy interrupted her mental commiserating, “I don’t care for saying never. If I did, I wouldn’t be standing here.” 

Here. In this home once haunted by the darkest wizard to ever live, now free from the shackles of his tortured soul.

Here. Consultant to the Ministry and owner of one of the most respected potion haus’ in the industry, despite his torrid history.

Here. With Hermione Granger, helping him.

Even if he didn’t know it. 

Shedding the weighty shroud which had blanketed the conversation, Hermione steered them in the more pertinent direction of getting on with it. 

“So,” she maneuvered. “No sex talk until the second course. Anything else I should be prepared for?” 

Accepting the proffered pivot, Malfoy began to lead the way back to the hall. “I don’t know that anyone can ever be prepared to meet Narcissa Malfoy.” 

Hermione surpressed a scowl behind his retreating back. “How comforting.” 

Tippy met them at the threshold. “Missus Mummy is ready for you.”  She’d changed out of her wellies and swapped her denim jacket for a soft cream cardigan. 

“Thank you, Tippy,” said Malfoy. He gestured for her to lead the way. “Please.” 

Their small trio started down the corridor toward what Hermione assumed was the dining room. Malfoy fell into synchronized step with the much smaller elf, an endearing shortening of his strides so as not to surpass her.

Hermione remained a few paces behind the pair, grateful for the brief moment of solitude to collect herself. 

She took account of the works of unfamiliar artists as they walked, idly guessing at the amount of galleons it had cost to redecorate the entire estate.

The manor itself was as much of a maze as the one made of pruned hedges on the acres beyond, a winding path of seemingly infinite rights and lefts. She ought to leave a trail of breadcrumbs. 

Yet for all the unfamiliar, there remained one room Hermione could recall with vivid detail. One which she was sure not even an Obliviate could erase. 

The solitary door shouldn’t have stood out amongst the many identical others, all fit with matching brass fixtures. But Hermione would never forget the scrape of her knees across its threshold.

The bite of her broken nails grasping at dirty floorboards bloodied from her struggles.

Was it still there? At one with the wood she was once tortured upon? Or had it been eradicated with an easy Scourgify, banished with as little though as was lent to her life? 

Did the ceiling still host a mosaic of green tiles, two-hundred and thirty-four, counted in brief moments of clarity between Cruciatus’? Or had they come crashing down with the chandelier that had single handedly saved them all but Dobby from a grim death at the Dark Lord's door? 

Did she even want to know? 

The sudden press of a hand at her shoulder had Hermione jumping where she’d unintentionally stopped.

“Is everything all right?” Malfoy studied her with stern eyes, grip light but steady. 

Hermione swallowed, words a loose collection of letters in her constricted throat. 

“Yes,” she croaked, tearing her gaze from the room she’d come to an accidental halt before. “Sorry. I—“ Excuses jostled for use, each more unconvincing than the last. “Daphne’s mentioned… he lived here. I guess it just sort of, er, registered.” 

The chosen explanation was poor at best, but she hoped the validity of her abrupt fear might lend to the image of a frightened Fauna with her delicate Pureblood sensibilities. 

Malfoy didn’t seem moved by the mention of his family’s old house guest, instead providing a simple, solitary nod of acknowledgement. Neither did he offer any pointless platitudes, guiding her with a notably gentle touch toward where Tippy patiently waited further down the corridor. 

The elf gave her a knowing blink, a silent recognition of the horrors they’d both endured in this very house at the hands of those who’d thought them inferior beings. 

The quiet solidarity set Hermione’s limbs back in motion, bringing her the rest of the way to the dining room. 

Tilly excused herself to inform Narcissa of their arrival, leaving Hermione and Malfoy to idle just outside. 

Alone. 

Before she could brace for anything more intimate, Malfoy extended a hand.

Palm up, he waited. 

With but a moment of brief hesitation, Hermione accepted it, lacing them together. 

Margaux’s elongated fingers were not ideal for a well-aligned embrace, yet Malfoy gave a slight squeeze all the same, suspiciously well-timed with the opening of the looming double doors. 

The room revealed itself in parting increments, growing more impressive with each sliver. When they were finally able to view it in its entirety, the complete picture brought with it a sense of sudden smallness. 

The opulence was overbearing. 

Three identical chandeliers were the blatant centerpieces, flickering candles perched on the arms of gleaming gold. Had they not been suspended high above, they’d be easily two heads taller than Hermione, even under the leg-lengthening Polyjuice. 

Flanked by six arched windows down each side, they let in the last vestiges of daylight. Sconces drew attention to interspersed tapestries, fine thread woven into painstakingly intricate scenes. 

But all were rendered obsolete when pinned against the grandeur of the long table. Legs carved in detail worthy of devotion to deities, they supported a slab of wood that looked like it’d once been part of an ancient oak, now stained a near-inky tone. 

Matching chairs were carefully tucked underneath, each mirroring a place setting of stunning white and gold china, arranged as if they were to be dining with the entirety of Wiltshire. 

The entire spectacle culminated in that which made the sensation of smallness even more pronounced. 

Narcissa Malfoy stood silhouetted against the ostentatious backdrop like the focal point of a fresco. Elegant even in utter stillness, the skirts of her prim sage-colored robes smooth as polished stone. Hair twisted in a tight chignon of moonlight hues, deep emeralds dangling from each ear. 

She wore an expertly neutral expression, one often seen on the face of her offspring.

Narcissa’s sole discernible reaction to the reveal of the two of them, hand clasped, was a single, sharp blink. Like the shutter of a camera, taking in each detail with alarming efficiency. 

“Mother.” Malfoy was the first to speak, bringing them to a stop just short of the silent woman to place a kiss on each of her cheeks. He slipped his palm to rest instead on Hermione’s lower back, pushing her forward. “May I formally introduce you to my fiancée, Fauna Fortescue.” 

Hermione inclined her head to the older witch, resisting the odd urge to do something ridiculous like curtsy. She sensed such a greeting would be as unwelcome as an attempt at Malfoy’s more familiar one, Pureblood customs be damned. 

Yet in an act shocking in its lack of sensibilities, Narcissa Malfoy stepped forward, and hugged her. 

Hermione’s first thought, frazzled and fleeting in the wake of the unexpected gesture, was that Narcissa smelled the way spring felt.

A cool warmth, a touch of fresh earth, a blooming sweetness. 

Pleasant.

Dare she call it, welcoming. 

The second thought, chasing the end of the first like a cat and mouse, tearing through it with a scrape of depressing claws, was that she hadn’t felt a mother’s embrace in some time. 

Molly had taken to greeting her with an exhausted wave over the heads of her rowdy grandchildren the last few times Hermione had managed to make it round to the Burrow.

And Ginny’s attempts over her protruding stomach didn’t quite count. 

Narcissa’s hands pressed evenly between Margaux’s shoulder blades, chin residing shy of her hairline. Evidently Malfoy’s height was a genetically inherited reward. 

The matriarch did not speak until she’d retracted to a respectable distance once again, the only noise permeating the moment that of her delicate, near inaudible sniff. 

Whether it was one of approval or disgust, Hermione did not know. 

“Miss Fortescue.” If Narcissa smelled like spring, she sounded like autumn, crisp vowels crackling like leaves, a tad dry. “How lovely to finally make your acquaintance.

Finally was accompanied by a scathing look in Malfoy’s direction. 

“Please,” said Hermione, slowly, to prevent the prickling nerves from shaking her words. “Fauna is fine.” She attempted a demure smile. “We are to be family soon, after all.” 

“It seems so,” said Narcissa, surprisingly devoid of sarcasm. She gestured to the table behind her. “Shall we sit?” Though delivered like a question, it was clearly not a request. 

Hermione and Malfoy complied with no argument, Malfoy leading them around the far side of the table.

As he had on each occasion before, he pulled her chair, waiting until Hermione was sat before taking the one beside her. 

Narcissa thanked Tippy, who did the same, settling into her seat directly across from them.

The arrangement was forebodingly reminiscent of being called into McGongall’s office, the all-seeing witch prepared to withdraw information to questions she’d long known the answers to.

The goblets at each setting filled themselves with chilled water, condensation coating the rims. Tippy Vanished with a snap, presumably to retrieve the beginnings of their meal. 

“So,” said Narcissa, having laid her napkin neatly across her lap, “how is your mother, Fauna? I’m sad to say it’s been far too long since I’ve had the privilege of speaking with her. Is she still living in…what’s that little town Isabelle Zabini mentioned?” 

“Syracuse,” supplied Hermione. “Yes. She’s still there. Quite content to remain.”

A rare truth, earned through Pansy’s eavesdropping on a pair of customers who’d been rather intrigued by the witch featured on Malfoy’s arm in The Prophet. 

“I must admit, I was not aware Florencia had any children. Do you have any siblings?” 

Hermione shook her head, taking care to leave her napkin in its place beside her plate even as Malfoy began to unroll his. 

“No. Just me.” 

“She didn’t wish for an heir?” 

“Mother,” Malfoy reprimanded. “Fauna is the heir.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Narcissa chided. “It is perfectly acceptable for a woman to be heir these days. I only meant it’s strange Florencia would’ve stopped trying to conceive given the context of—when was your birthday, dear?” 

“Er, September 19, 1979?” stuttered Hermione, thrown by the endearment. 

“Exactly,” said Narcissa. “In the throes of the first Wizarding War it was indeed rare to cease trying for a male descendant.” 

“The Greengrasses seemed quite content with their two girls. Pansy’s parents as well,” said Malfoy. His arm hooked across the back of Hermione’s chair in a convincing show of defense. 

“I assure you, it wasn’t for lack of trying.” 

“You might try not to offend my fiancee before the first course has even begun.” 

“I do not wish to offend anyone, Draco,” said Narcissa. “And I do apologize if I’ve done so. It is only that I wish to know not only the woman that is to be your wife, but the one who is to be your mother-in-law.” 

“You’ve not offended,” insisted Hermione, leading with flattery. “A smart mother should like to know her soon-to-be daughter’s family, to ensure respectability. As for your inquiry, though I can’t be certain as my mother and I never discussed such topics explicitly in the past, I imagine things were a bit more…relaxed, in America.” 

“Indeed.” 

Hermione didn’t miss the way Narcissa’s attention snagged on the still untouched napkin.

Whether Narcissa found it an offense worth remarking on they’d never know, as Tippy returned then, a collection of trays floating behind her. 

Without prompting, she levitated the pre-portioned dishes to their correct settings. Four, despite there only being three of them. 

But perhaps Tippy would be joining. It wasn’t a far-fetched thought considering the notable kinship between her and Malfoy. 

Said elf cleared her throat, hands threaded in front of her.

“Tippy presents, for your first course, a rendition of Gérald Passedat’s caravanne. Paired by Missus with a 1981 Valiosa Brut Rosada from Seigneurie de Peyrat’s elven-run vineyards.” Another petite snap! of her fingers and the wine glasses filled, bubbles threading the golden-pink liquid. “Tippy hopes you’s enjoy!” 

Finished with her announcement, Tippy retreated once again, taking the empty trays with her and leaving the remaining seat curiously vacant. 

The presented food was beautiful, the likes of that which Hermione had seen only on rare trips abroad when she took care to indulge. 

With a synchronicity reserved for those joined as mother and child, Narcissa and Malfoy reached for their wine. Each raised it to eye level, swirling the brut with gentle sways. A polite intake of the aroma, followed by a delicate sip. 

Deciding it was best to precede with Malfoy’s instructions of ineloquent etiquette by playing a round of reverse Simon Says, Hermione made a show of sloshing the alcohol around her glass.

Gripping it by the base as previously discussed, she skipped the smelling portion and went straight to gulping a good quarter of the generous pour. 

Zesty and bright with a slightly sweet aftertaste—decidedly one of the best wines Hermione had ever had. 

“You chose this, Lady Malfoy?” asked Hermione, punctuating the Pureblood-exclusive title with an obnoxious smack of her lips. “It’s brilliant!” 

“Narcissa, if you please,” said the older witch, brows pinched. “Yes. I did. It felt appropriate for the occasion, adjacent to a more classical champagne as the entirety of these circumstances is rather…contemporary.” 

Unsure if she was referring to Malfoy picking his own bride rather than accepting an arranged marriage or the matter of their hastened engagement, Hermione refrained from any response aside from taking another indelicate sip. 

“Mother is quite the established sommelier,” said Malfoy, signet ring clinking against his own glass. 

“Really?” Hermione didn’t have to feign her surprise. “For how long?” 

“Six years now,” said Narcissa. 

“What made you want to partake in such a path?” Genuine curiosity carried on Hermione’s question. “That is, I can’t imagine having much time, what with all the upkeep of the manor and things.” 

“I suppose I thought it’d be a waste, not to put my taste for excellency to good use.” Narcissa’s words held a notable weight despite her polite smile.

She watched the pair of them over the rim of her wine like she were inspecting a new bottle. Calculating the time spent aging, the blend of favors, the hands who’d crafted it—all to determine whether or not it’d be deemed worthy enough to stock in her coveted cellars. 

The slight didn’t go unnoticed, Malfoy’s hand dipping down for a momentary caress of Hermione’s left shoulder. 

“If you were the one to curate the redecoration of the manor then I must say, I doubt your impeccable taste was ever wasted,” said Hermione. 

“Thank you.” Narcissa took up her fork. “Now, enough about me. This evening is about the two of you. About your love.” 

“Did you not get your fill from The Prophet ?” said Malfoy, picking at his own plate. 

“Most mothers do not dream of reading about their only child’s engagement in the gossip rags, Draco,” said Narcissa, mouth tight. “Pardon me for wishing to hear the endearing tale from him myself.” 

She punctuated the request with a tine straight through a select bite of caviar. 

Admittedly amused to hear Malfoy’s floundering rendition of their first encounter, Hermione turned to him expectantly.

Only, he was already looking at her. 

No.

No way he was going to try to pawn this off. 

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, a very un-Fauna-like growl crawling up the back of her throat as his arm slipped fully around to jostle her with faux affection.

“Go on, love,” he grinned. “I know how you love telling it.” 

“Darling,” Hermione bit through grit teeth. “Your mother said she’d like to hear it from you. Not me.” 

She gave what she hoped looked like a loving pat to his leg. In reality, she let Margaux’s sharpened nails dig into the flesh of Malfoy’s thigh. 

“I insist,” said Malfoy, with not so much as a wince. “She’s already heard the mundane bits from me.”

He gave her hand on his leg a condescending pat. 

“Very well.” Hermione said, just shy of a hiss. She forced her focus back to Narcissa, Malfoy’s smirk searing the side of her face. 

She wanted to pluck out every single one of those aggravatingly perfect teeth so he could never employ such an irritating expression ever again. Perhaps replace them with elongated versions reminiscent of the ones he’d once teased her about. 

Hermione smiled, the first honest one of the evening.

“Your son offered to pay me to be his fiancee.” 

Her words a Petrificus Totalus in their own right, Malfoy stilled beside her. His arm tensed across her upper back. 

Narcissa, for her credit, did not balk.

Maybe dowries weren’t so recently out of date as Hermione thought, though the matriarch did quirk an intrigued brow. 

Malfoy shifted as if he were about to say something, but Hermione beat him to it. He’d wanted her to tell the story? 

She would. 

“It’s true,” she reiterated. “Got down on one knee right there on the street and said, ‘There is nothing I desire more than for you to be my wife. Whatever you want, it is yours. So long as I might be, too.’” 

It was beyond an exaggeration, descending fully into improv, but Narcissa’s expression softened around her next bite, surprisingly accepting of her son’s willingness to dirty his suit trousers on the dusty cobblestones for the sake of a woman’s hand.  

“To which I said, ‘Even 60,000 galleons?’” Hermione leaned into Malfoy’s side, nuzzling her head beneath his chin like Crookshanks wanting to be pet. “And guess what he said?” 

Though Margaux’s eyes were naturally more almond in shape, Hermione did her best to mimic a mooning roundness. “He said, ‘I would’ve given you 150,000 if you’d asked.’” 

Malfoy made a strangled sound, like he’d gotten stuck halfway between a laugh and a scoff. 

Narcissa was the one to fill the space with a follow up. “I understand you said no, at first?” 

“Correct,” said Hermione. “I mean, he thought I could be bought for 150,000 galleons? It was honestly insulting.” A not-so-subtly prodding finger against her ribcage had her tacking on a, “That’s hardly enough money.” 

“Which reminds me, Mother,” said Malfoy, “we’ve decided to forgo the pre-nuptial contracts. We see no need for them.” 

Impressively impassive when faced with Fauna’s shoddy etiquette thus far, it was Malfoy’s declaration which brought Narcissa’s delicate progression through her caravanne to a halt. She set her utensils down with intense precision, soundless as they rejoined the table setting. 

“See no need for them?” She echoed flatly. “Have you lost only your eyesight, or your mind as well?” 

Hermione muffled her amusement with a large bite of her own dish. 

Narcissa Malfoy was many things, but slow to wit was not one of them. 

“Both remain in perfect condition, I assure you.” Malfoy accompanied his statement with a blatant, leering perusal of Fauna’s figure.

Hermione tried not to squirm.

It wasn’t as though he were looking at her. 

Narcissa did not frown so outright, but her lips dipped in discernible displeasure. 

“For someone so keen to spend all his recent waking hours working on legal legislation, one would think the importance of such documentation would be evident.” 

“Perhaps that is exactly why I don’t wish to burden our love with such cold, pragmatic jargon.” 

Cold and pragmatic.

Hermione mentally refuted the accusation. Her additions to the addendum were to the point. Structured.

They didn’t leave room for loopholes, unlike the laws that had come before. Ones that Malfoy’s family and Voldemort’s followers had used to seize control of a crumbling infrastructure. 

Frustratingly unable to argue her points aloud, Hermione had to settle for an embarrassing doe-eyed agreement. 

“Truly, Narcissa,” said Hermione. “There’s no need to worry. Besides, aren’t the Malfoy’s known for circumventing the rules every now and then?” 

The jab at the family’s reputation was well-aimed, lathered in a syrupy sweet tone as a means of disguise. 

But Narcissa had taken tea with far too many society socialites to rise to the bait, a patient hum her unbothered response. 

It appeared it would take more than a little honey to trick her tastebuds. 

“Anyway,” Hermione pressed on, “tell her about how you were finally able to get me to say yes, darling.” She gave Malfoy’s bicep a squeeze, the muscle twitching beneath her fingertips. 

He took a drag of wine, swiping a thumb across his bottom lip before speaking. “I tricked her into meeting me for lunch.” 

“After attempting to corner me at the club,” she added.

Not exactly how one might describe the Flying Pixie but the amended adjective was better suited to their objectives. 

“Another ego-crushing encounter at your hands, love,” said Malfoy. They’d somehow come to find themselves pressed against each other throughout their tussle over who’d do the storytelling, Hermione’s bum half on his seat, sides congealed. “But you said yes. In the end.” 

“I said yes.” 

Through the haze of deja vu,  Hermione noted that other than the few hasty seconds in which their mouths had touched the week prior, the two of them had never been so close. 

Side by side during meetings, sure.

Across the table at lunch, occasionally. 

Arm in arm on a fake date, more frequently than she cared to acknowledge. 

But this, this…melding. This was different.

Margaux’s boney elbows didn’t quite settle between them properly, jutting out to avoid jabbing him in the kidney. Malfoy’s torso was a tad too short, making their hips collide painfully if either so much as shifted. 

And yet despite all the ways they didn’t fit physically, there remained an unshakable awareness of the others presence. 

It appeared as if Narcissa had something to say, but was cut off by the creaking of the dining room doors.

Anticipating Tippy’s arrival with their entrees, Hermione struggled to hide her confusion at Narcissa’s immediate scowl. 

“You’re late.” 

The flat statement was met with a low, hoarse, “My apologies.” 

Had she not turned around, Hermione surmised she’d never have known that Lucius Malfoy stood behind her.

His voice came like a weak wind, blowing with none of the force of his past self-righteous gusto. It parted on ragged inhales, bracing as if each word brought with it the bite of an arctic night. 

Hermione had heard the chill of Azkaban never truly left you.

She heard it now, in the father of her falsely betrothed. 

But what had cut at his bones did not seem to have done the same to his exterior. 

Just as tall and imposing in stature but softened by an aura Hermione could only describe as settled.

Not quite peaceful. He stood too upright, chin too high, posture a product of Pureblood teachings not even years in a cell could eliminate. 

His face had become less severe, smooth skin attributed to emotionless expressions now creased with the beginnings of smile lines. A healthy color to the tops of his cheeks and brow bone—the kind earned from hours spent in the sun. 

Not to mention the obvious opposition of his attire. Gone were the dramatic dark robes, replaced by—Merlin! Was that flannel?—beneath a pair of denim dungarees. They smoked slightly along one strap. 

Lucius swat at the smoldering fabric, extinguishing the last glowing embers before they could catch the end of his French braid alight. 

“You couldn’t escape those fire-breathing beasts in time for the first course?” snapped Narcissa, standing to meet her husband. 

The additional place setting made sense now. 

“The infant ironbelly is teething,” said Lucius, stooping to kiss her cheek. “The newest trainer was deemed the perfect chew toy.” 

Narcissa wasn’t amused.

“Yes. How unfortunate for him.” Concern for the gnawed at newbie nowhere to be found. “Well, take a seat.” She pushed him further into the room. “Tippy!” 

The elf appeared in the doorway Lucius had just vacated. 

“We’re ready for you.” 

“Yes, Missus!” 

The second round of trays emerged on cue.

Malfoy stood as his father approached. Both changed, but detached in a way that spoke of wariness, each not certain who the other had become. 

“Father,” Malfoy greeted stiffly. Hermione stood to join him. “My fiancee, Fauna Fortescue.” 

In a strange twist of fate, Hermione found she wasn’t afraid.

If anything, Narcissa had instilled more weariness via her particular non-answers and over-observant looks. 

This new version of Lucius gave the impression that he had nothing to hide. If he were holding on to any of his prejudices, well, Hermione had a feeling she was about to find out. 

Lucius nodded once. “Miss Fortescue.” 

And then he took his seat. 

No sneers. No side-long looks at his son. 

He simply tucked himself beneath the table, placed the napkin on his lap, and waited patiently for Tippy to set his plate before him. 

Not yet familiar with the family language which appeared to take shape solely in silence, Hermione glanced at Malfoy for some sort of indication as to how to proceed. 

Malfoy met her befuddled stare with a dip of his own chin, returning to his chair as well. Hermione did the same, feeling rather dizzy at the minutiae of it all. 

The three redeemed Malfoy’s, their house elf, and Hermione Granger.

Having dinner. 

How in Godric’s name had they gotten here? 

Tippy deposited the main dishes, assuming her same position at the head. “The entree Tippy has prepared is a cassoviet, paired with a 1927 Malbec from the same vineyard as the brut.” She gave a polite curtsy, taking her leave once again at the conclusion of her explanation. 

“Tippy prepared all of the food this evening, then?” Hermione did not intend to sound so surprised, but she couldn’t help the uptick at the end of her question. 

“Along with a few of our other kitchen staff,” confirmed Narcissa, spoon slicing daintily into her soup. 

“They make all your meals?” 

“Most,” said Narcissa. “Unless she’s required at the restaurant.” 

“Restaurant?” 

“Tippy is the head chef at Le Pieux Mesonge,” said Malfoy. 

So that’s how he’d been able to secure a reservation. Hermione should’ve known he’d had an inside connection. 

“She studied at the Augusta Escoffier School of Culinary Arts,” added Narcissa. “Did you partake in any additional schooling in preparation for taking over your family’s business?” 

Narcissa had done her research. That, or Malfoy had supplied her with a brief summary of Fauna’s background which had been left out of the papers. 

“No,” said Hermione. “But I was always rather keen on potions in school. They say cooking is not so dissimilar.” 

And when she took a bite of her own stew, she swore indeed that it was not so different from magic. Tippy’s talents were beyond comprehension, a delicate array of flavors that when combined became otherworldly. 

She barely had to pretend to slurp more down, wanting to inhale whatever sorcery the elf had implored over the soup pot. 

“And you’re finding the restoration relatively straightforward?” 

“I wouldn’t say straightforward, exactly,” said Hermione. She wasn’t sure anything in her life ever had been. “But it’s coming along. Slowly.” 

“Harry mentioned something about the Ministry seizing the property,” said Narcissa. “I hope that didn’t hinder any progress.” 

Damn him! When on earth had Harry and Narcissa managed to exchange words in the last week? They weren’t scheduled for another bi-monthly lunch until July. 

Unfortunately, Malfoy was no help either, waiting as expectantly as his parents for her answer. This, after all, wasn’t meant to be part of their collective lie. 

“Oh, you know,” Hermione tried. “Nothing a few thousand galleons couldn’t fix.” 

A bland response, but it was all she could offer. Desperate to change the subject, Hermione spit out the first question which came to mind. 

“You said the ironbelly was teething. Have you tried a Glacius charm on its gums?” 

Lucius’s head snapped up from his steady attentions on the stew.

For a moment, Hermione expected him to ignore her and go back to eating.

But then he set down his spoon. 

“We have. It has not been effective.” 

Few words, but ones she could work with. 

“Perhaps with a modified Lenio? Something which aims to combine the two.” 

Lucius seemed to consider it. “I am not sure he’d let us close enough for effective casting.” 

“A light sedative in his food then, just enough to relax him and allow for you to cast the spell,” said Hermione, mind already mulling over possible solutions. 

“Picky eater. Would have to be something unobtrusive.”

“Valerian. Finely ground?”

“Plausible.”

“Mixed with his morning meal, it should set in an hour or so after and allow for a small team to subdue him enough to enact the correct charms.” 

“But he’s already taking pure calendula for a series of exposed lacerations received prior to his rescue. Which would—“

“Cancel out the Valerian. Good point.” Hermione frowned. “What about an altered Calming Draught? Increase the ratio of lavender to glumbumble?” 

“I’d keep the glumbumble but up the skullcap leaves. Too volatile otherwise.”

Hermione nodded. Evidently, Malfoy’s dab hand at potions was also inherited along with his height. 

Speaking of her fiance, he was looking at her as if she’d Transfigured into a dragon right there at the table. 

She had half a mind to check her back for wings. 

Not sure how she could possibly explain that display of knowledge, she did the only thing she could possibly think of daring enough to distract. 

“Are the Malfoy’s rather fertile?” 

It was a wild stroke of luck that no one was presently chewing, free to choke only on air rather than their food. 

“I—well,” Narcissa started. Paused. “That is, may I ask how this is relevant?” 

Hermione shrugged, placing both elbows on the table as she leaned forward. “It’s just, we’ve been trying for a while now and haven’t had much luck.” 

“A while? Have you not only known each other for a few weeks?” 

“Oh, Cissy,” Hermione barked a high laugh. “You shouldn’t be surprised. I’m sure you know first hand what can be accomplished in a short amount of time when you’re bedding a Malfoy man.” 

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed at the uninvited nickname. 

Malfoy smothered a grin under the guise of wiping his mouth with his napkin. 

Lucius returned to eating. 

“So you’re actively attempting to conceive?” 

“Of course. We’ve already decided on seven.”

“Seven children?”  

“You wanted a grandchild, did you not, Mother?” asked Malfoy.

He dragged a lazy path up the side of Hermione’s arm, a move which was most likely meant to further emphasize the fact that she’d essentially just announced they couldn’t stop shagging but which felt oddly like a form of silent approval.

This—the charade—it was working. 

“Yes,” said Narcissa tightly. “I do. I suppose it’s good to be…earnest in your efforts—.” She paused to thank Tippy, who’d begun to clear their plates. “As it stands, I became pregnant with Draco after two months of trying. I’d expect you’d experience a similar time frame so long as your family has no history of infertility.” 

“Oh, that’s wonderful to hear!” Hermione wrapped an arm around Malfoy’s neck, tugging his head closer. “We ought to try again before we leave, darling. You still have rooms here, don’t you?” She wound a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck. “Not that we need one.” 

“Dessert!” exclaimed Narcissa. “Tippy!” 

Tippy arrived with a quartet of pastries. “Lemon meringue tartlets,” she said, torching each top with a flick of her wrist. “With a graham base and candied peel garnish.” 

Attempting to guide the conversation to a less improper topic, Narcissa chimed in.

“I figured you’d be sick of ice cream, Fauna. Thought something baked might be more appreciated.” 

“How kind of you, Cissy!” Hermione laid a hand across her heart. “It has been a bit redundant.” 

“I’m glad,” said Narcissa. “Have your parents expressed interest in returning once the shop is finished? If not to stay, then at least to visit?” 

If all went well, Hermione’s parents real would indeed be making a return to London.

But Fauna’s certainly couldn’t say the same. 

“No,” said Hermione through a mouthful of tartlet. She could feel flecks of meringue clinging to her upper lip. “They don’t ever plan on coming back.” 

“Well, they will for the wedding, I’m sure,” insisted Narcissa. 

Hermione shook her head, crumbs scattering down the front of her dress. “I doubt it.” 

Malfoy reached across in an abrupt move, the pad of his thumb sweeping across the dessert lining her mouth.

She tilted her head instinctually, letting him see that he didn’t miss a spot by following the same path with her tongue a moment later. 

“All good?” Her voice sounded breathier than she’d intended. 

Malfoy hummed, gaze lingering on her face for a moment just shy of too long. He turned back toward his parents.

Then brought the same finger to his own lips, licking at the bits of sugar he’d stolen from hers.  

Hermione could confidently say she’d never considered hands to be particularly arousing body parts. Unlike Ginny, who’d waxed poetic about Harry’s talented digits one too many times with someone who considered him a brother. 

But now, watching Malfoy run the callused skin between his teeth, she realized what her friend had meant. 

He was still a prat. 

A big prat. 

A hot prat , Ginny’s voice taunted. 

Goodness, she was spending far too much time as Margaux lately. Perhaps the double dose she’d taken prior to arriving at the manor was getting to her head.

The rest of the table had sufficiently enjoyed their small desserts as well, polished off plates indicating the nearing close of the evening. 

“Shall we move to the parlor for a spot of tea?” asked Narcissa. By her monotonous intonation, the offer was more a formality than anything. “Perhaps we can discuss your engagement party?” 

Malfoy gave his refusal first. “I’m afraid we’ll have to decline. I have an early morning meeting I must be prompt for.” 

“As do I,” added Hermione. “You know, flavors don’t taste themselves. Much less pleasurable.” 

“Of course,” said Narcissa, smile strained. She stood, prodding Lucius to do the same. 

Malfoy and Hermione followed suit.

“You both must come again soon,” said Narcissa. “We have a wedding to plan, after all.” 

“Yes, Mother,” said Malfoy, accepting her embrace. “Do try to owl me this time, rather than requesting Tippy execute a kidnapping.” 

“Do try not to announce another engagement in the papers, dear, and I won’t have to.” Narcissa pat him on the cheek once. 

Lucius waited behind her, following up with a gruff, “Son.” 

“Father.” 

“Miss Fortescue.” 

“Mr. Malfoy,” said Hermione. “I do hope the ironbelly begins to feel better soon.” 

Lucius nodded once. Narcissa stepped forward, forgoing a hug this time and taking Hermione’s left hand in both of hers. 

“It was so lovely to meet you, Fauna,” said Narcissa, an impressive amount of forced sincerity. “Let me know if your parents change their mind about the wedding.”

“I will, thank you, Cissy,” said Hermione, squeezing Narcissa’s knuckles a touch too hard. 

“I’ll admit I had my reservations, but you two seem quite taken with each other.” The witch glanced between the pair. “I look forward to our next meeting.” 

Hermione tried her best not to sound confused at the strange acceptance. “Me as well.” 

The women separated, Malfoy taking up Hermione’s now free arm and looping it with his own. 

“Thank you for dinner,” he said. 

The two of them had started for the door when Narcissa’s voice rang out in a last minute note. 

“Oh, and Fauna…”

“Yes?” 

Narcissa watched them in their retreat, an observant set to her mouth. “If you ever wish to replace that,” she pointed at Hermione’s left hand, where the Malfoy family ring nestled gaudily bright in the candlelight, “with something more…substantive, know that I’m more than happy to extend my expertise.” 

Unclear if she meant the ring itself or the man attached to its implications, Hermione could only smile. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Malfoy ushered her toward the hall, throwing his parents a final goodbye. 

They’d nearly crossed the threshold when, in an act of what Hermione would insist was pure strategy and or temporary insanity should anyone ask, she loosened her grip on his arm, allowing her to reach back and—before she lost the nerve—give Malfoy’s bum a notable, vengeful pinch. 

She tried not to think of the owner of such undeniably well-muscled flesh, sculpted no doubt from hours of recreational Quidditch. 

Malfoy’s steps managed not to falter, though his arm tightened perceptibly against hers. 

When they’d finally exited, the door shut with a solid finality behind them, Hermione took a large step back.

She wiped her damp palms down the front of her dress, sagging against the wall.

The cloak of tension she’d shed earlier now thrust at her feet with a new layer of exhaustion stitched in. 

Malfoy mirrored her, relaxing into the opposite wall and closing his eyes. 

The silence which followed was a welcomed reprieve from the bracing conversation held over the last hour.

Though they’d gotten through with few to no hiccups in the grand scheme of things, it had been much harder to sway Narcissa toward dismay than she’d originally anticipated.

Malfoy hadn’t been kidding when he’d said his mother was not so easily put off. Either from sheer strong will, or desperation to see her only son married. 

“So?” Hermione broke their self-induced Muffliato after a few minutes.

“So?” Malfoy parroted, eyes still shut. 

“How do you think it went?” 

Malfoy cracked a singular lid. “Decently well.” 

“Which means?”

“It means,” Malfoy sighed, straightening. “That she’s skeptical, but sufficiently convinced we’re sleeping together at the very least.” 

“So a success?” asked Hermione. 

“It is,” said Malfoy. He ran through his previously neat hair, mussing the pale strands. “Better she thinks I’m in it to get laid than the alternative.”

“The alternative being…”

“Paying someone to be my fake fiancée.” He gave her a pointed glare. 

“Don’t look at me like that!” Hermione admonished. “You’re the one who tried to throw me under the Knight Bus with the whole ‘No, you tell it, darling!’ bit!”

“I had to see how you’d hold up,” said Malfoy. “Forgive me for wanting to be sure I’d get my money’s worth.” 

“And did you?” Hermione crossed her arms. 

It took him a moment to answer, gaze intriguingly intent.

“I did.” 

The sconces lining the corridor limned Malfoy in a warm haze, drawing forth the less rigid features which weren’t always so noticeable beneath the stark Ministry shades. A sharp nose countered by a softer brow bone. Cut jaw eased by a rounded cupids bow. 

Hermione couldn’t help but wonder what he saw in her—in Fauna—bending beneath the same filter. Did Margaux’s hair seem less harsh a shade? Her cheeks not so hollowed? 

She almost asked, but Tippy stole the potential from her with a polite interruption. 

“I is to walk Miss Fortescue out,” said the elf. 

Malfoy’s mouth twitched, the etchings of that same infuriating smirk. “A sex chaperone, how considerate.” 

Hermione couldn’t help her own amusement. “Seems we were plenty convincing.” 

“For now,” Malfoy conceded.

Not in the presence of suspicious friends or family, he had no reason to enact such intimate goodbyes. Malfoy settled on a dignified nod not unlike his father’s.

“I’ll owl you about our next outing.”

Hermione returned the gesture. 

“Goodnight, Fauna.”

“Goodnight, Draco.” 

The stretching shadows of night swallowed him within a few strides, the manor Vanishing him without need for a spell. 

“Come along, Miss,” said Tippy. “You’s should be going before its too late to Apparate.” 

Indeed, Hermione’s fatigue grew with each step toward the foyer.

Tippy brought her all the way to the grand gates, a request from Narcissa no doubt. As if her and Malfoy would manage to jump each other’s bones between the front stoop and the foot of the drive. 

“I hope Miss Hermione enjoyed the meal.”

Tired, and admittedly relieved to hear her own name after so many hours, Hermione didn’t argue with the direct address. 

“It was exquisite, Tippy,” she complimented. “Truly.” 

The elf’s ears ruffled in delight. “Good,” she tugged at her cardigan. “Tippy is glad she is able to help you’s make new memories here. Happy ones.” 

A soft summer breeze nipped at their skin. Hermione’s eyes stung. 

“Thank you, Tippy.” She reached out. The elf accepted her hand, grasping it in her own much smaller one. “It was an absolute pleasure to meet you. Officially.”

Tippy beamed. “I’s hope Miss Hermione might come again soon. As herself, next time?” 

Hermione shrugged, hair shrinking up to her shoulders as the Polyjuice began to wane. 

“Maybe,” she said, stepping through to the gravel street beyond the gates. “Make sure to keep practicing that piano.” 

With an enthusiastic promise to do just that, Tippy returned to the house, leaving Hermione alone. 

She took in the looming manor, the grounds she’d once thought would be her grave, and exhaled.

The significance of her survival had so often been chalked up to the tipping point of the war. An essential step to victory. A necessity. 

But as she stared at the place which had tested her strength beyond anything she’d ever experienced before, which had scarred her skin with slur she’d never be rid of no matter how many years passed, she couldn’t help but feel as though perhaps she’d survived solely for this. 

To look at a past of hatred and bigotry and bare witness to its reshaping. Softening. 

Changing. 

To see the proof that light—love—was always worth it. 

When Hermione Apparated from Malfoy manor, this time, she didn’t fear what would come next. 

Chapter Text

Through all of her late night study sessions in school, her exhausting legislative trials at the Ministry, even that one week-long stint watching her godson’s while Harry and Ginny took a much needed trip to anywhere but their nappy-filled home—Hermione had not once wavered in her hatred of coffee. 

The allure of artificial energy had yet to sway her, bitter beans a turn-off no reward could ever conquer.

Which meant she must be losing her mind, staring at the Ministry’s canteen cafe board, unsure what to order for the first time in the entirety of her employment. 

Surely absorbing Margaux’s tastes wasn’t actually possible? 

The queue moved forward, a few customers still ahead of her lending her more time to waffle, though the longer she stared at the suspended menu the more the small, tiled letters blurred. 

Despite the prior evening not being nearly as re-traumatizing as she’d expected, it appeared her subconscious failed to agree. Hermione had turned in for the night anticipating a peaceful, emotionally exhausted slumber, only to be dealt a hand of numerous nightmares which persisted well into the early morning. 

A restless forty-five minutes was all she’d managed to fit in before Crookshanks began his alarm duties.

Promptly this time, at least. 

Perhaps an iced green tea? A touch of caffeine to address the bags beneath her eyes, cold to combat the humidity which clung to everything—including her hair, despite an array of liberally cast smoothing charms. 

“You look awful.” 

The disembodied voice echoed the self-demeaning thought, settling in at her side. 

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione sighed. “It’s not every day a witch gets to hear how dreadfully hideous she is.” 

Harry winced in her peripheral, glasses sliding up his nose. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he amended. “Just that you seem…run down.” 

“That would be because I am,” said Hermione, shuffling forward. 

“Up late working on your, er, personal project?” 

She swallowed a scoff at his lack of subtlety, a trait he never did quite grow out of.

“Something like that,” she huffed, turning to face him fully.

Despite her own depressing appearance, Harry seemed thoroughly well-rested. Properly pressed Auror robes—courtesy of Molly, no doubt—a healthy flush to his cheeks. 

“I see your weekend was indeed more relaxing than mine.” 

“James and Albus were at Bill and Fleur’s,” said Harry. “Gin and I had a much needed break. I don’t imagine we’ll get another one once the baby’s here. At least not until all three are off to Hogwarts.” 

“Perhaps Lily will be a tranquil addition,” said Hermione. 

“Or she’ll be just like her mother and manage to summon even more chaos.” 

“Or that.” Hermione smiled. “You’re excited, though?” 

Harry returned her grin tenfold. “Very.” 

“Next!” The witch at the counter called. 

They moved up to the front, Hermione following through on her green tea whilst Harry requested a latte and pastry. 

“You cut the line,” she pointed out, jutting a finger at the queue behind them. 

“There are an awful lot of unpleasant things which have come from being “The Chosen One”.” He handed a stack of galleons over to the barista, covering Hermione’s cuppa despite a weak protest. He was lucky she was too tired to argue wholeheartedly. “I intend to fully appreciate the few which aren’t so terrible.” 

And he should. There was no denying he’d earned it. 

“So, what’s on the agenda today?” asked Harry as they retreated toward the atrium, orders in hand. “More Jollynuts?” 

“Jobberknolls,” said Hermione. “And yes, I’m reviewing a particular clause ahead of our meeting with the conservancy in a few weeks.” 

“How’s the Malfoy thing?” 

It took Hermione a stuttering second to realize he was referring to their professional collaboration.

“As expected,” she recovered. “He’s petulant. Aggravating. Obnoxiously narcissistic. But, not incompetent.” 

“High praise,” chuckled Harry. 

“All things considered,” Hermione shrugged. “Where are you off to then? More surveillance?” 

“Luckily, no. A debriefing on a petty vandalism—Gin wasn’t supposed to tell you that!” 

Hermione blamed her exhausted brain for the slip. Merlin, this web of lies grew more tangled by the moment. 

“Roberta in Transport mentioned it when I was there last week,” she lied, hoping Harry would, like most Ministry employees, rather face down a cohort of dementors than spend a single second conversing with the cranky secretary. 

“Right, well,” said Harry, “I didn’t wish to worry you before your Wizengamot hearing, but it was nothing major. As for the meeting, we’ll just be sifting through some paperwork that still needs sorting.” 

They’d reached the lifts, the main lobby relatively empty in the middle of the lunch hour.

“Speaking of which, are you maybe—“

“Read your own paperwork, Harry Potter,” said Hermione, glaring at him over the top of her tea. “I’ve done enough of your homework to warrant a second degree from Hogwarts. I don’t care for an Auror badge.” 

“You sure?” He adjusted his own. “They’re rather flashy.” 

“Tempting, but no.” Hermione sidestepped him, shuffling into the awaiting lift. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have my own addendum to address.” 

Harry gave her an earnest wave, grates sliding closed over the gesture. He stooped down, peering through one of the many diamond-shaped holes. 

“Do try to get some sleep tonight, Hermione. Please?” 

“I’ll try.” 

Her false promise was punctuated by a dramatic clang, whisked away into the depths of the Ministry. 

She leaned into the wall, the passing floors a dizzying blur. 

She’d successfully avoided the need for potions to circumvent her lack of sleep thus far—and though the noisy lift was beginning to give her a headache and she wasn’t quite sure how she’d manage to get through seventy-five pages of materials before the end of day—she’d prefer to keep it that way. Her Polyjuice dosages were becoming far too frequent as it was. 

The lift spit her out on the fourth floor like a toddler to broccoli—a violent, unnecessary expulsion, the sound of its retreat a painful refrain. 

Yet as she approached the joint office space, the cacophonous clatter refused to cease.

Instead of weary metal grates held together by shoddy decades-old magic, the creaks and groans morphed into the distinct sound of Daphne’s distress.

“How am I meant to work in these conditions?” Her elongated whine filtered from the far end of the corridor.

“You hardly work in normal conditions. I can’t fathom your productivity is taking a notable hit,” came Anthony’s tight reply. 

“Watch it, Goldstein!” exclaimed Daphne, thrusting an accusatory finger at the wizard across from her. “I am incredibly productive!” 

Hermione breached the threshold cautiously, a wave of heat greeting her before either of her co-workers could. 

“Hermione!” Daphne pounced, nearly leaping from her seat before thinking better of it, sweat lining her brow despite being sat. “Tell Anthony I’m an impeccable employee.” 

“What happened in here?” Hermione ignored her, setting her things on her desk.

She was especially grateful for the chilled drink, it’s pearly condensation soothing the skin of her palms, the rest of her becoming stickier by the second. Her choice of navy pantsuit had been an oversight, the fabric growing heavy beneath the oppressive temperature. 

“Mysteries had an accident this morning. Fucked the regulation charms on all the even floors,” said Daphne. She rifled through her messy desk for a stray file, fanning herself with the parchment packet. 

“Have they said when it will be fixed by?” Hermione took a seat, the leather of her desk chair uncomfortably warm. 

“Last I heard they had a handful of Junior Cursebreakers attempting to get things under control,” said Anthony. 

“Great,” Hermione huffed. “So the end of the day? If we’re lucky.” 

“That’s assuming they don’t inadvertently plunge us into a tundra instead,” grumbled Anthony. 

An unfortunately plausible outcome, considering the last time the Junior Cursebreakers were assigned a clean up case, six of them had ended up at St. Mungo’s. 

“You see what I mean?” said Daphne, peeling off her loose-fitting blouse to reveal a silky camisole beneath, robes already abandoned to the cloak rack in the corner. “We can’t possibly be meant to conduct work as usual when we’re at risk of natural disaster.” 

“Whatever happened down here, I doubt it was natural,” said Anthony. “And for the love of Merlin, would you stop stripping in the middle of the office?” 

“I am not stripping.” Daphne crossed her arms. “Unless you’d like to start shoving knuts down my knickers?” 

Anthony snatched one of the paper clips on his desk, Transfiguring the pliant metal into a poor imitation of a sickle before sending it sailing straight at Daphne’s head. 

The witch ducked, makeshift coin hitting the wall behind her with a pitiful ping!  

“You missed,” she taunted. Hermione half expected Daphne to stick her tongue out. 

“Keep your clothes on, Greengrass,” said Anthony. “If you want to get starkers so bad, why don’t you call up the twit who couldn’t take his eyes off your tits?” 

“Or your mystery man,” said Hermione. 

“Who?”

“Hermione!” 

Hermione stabbed at the dwindling ice in her cup with the flimsy paper straw.

“What?” She shrugged. “You’re allowed to make my life difficult but I can’t do the same?” 

“That’s different!” 

“You’re right. What you’ve done is way worse.” 

Daphne slapped the file down. “I didn’t make you do anything. You signed the contract on your own!” 

“After being manipulated into it!” 

“You need the money!”

“I had to go to the Manor!” 

The silence rendering statement fled her in a forceful rush, words held together by a fast-thinning thread of patience. 

Daphne swallowed her next sentence like a shot of firewhisky, a grimace following it down. In a tactical pivot, she pursed her lips, waving a hand over her shoulder. 

“Get out, Goldstein.” 

Anthony frowned, but surprisingly didn’t argue, reaching for the scroll he’d been scratching at. 

“You don’t have to leave, Anthony,” said Hermione, straightening to hide the strain of her voice . “We should all be getting to work anyway.” 

“Give us fifteen,” said Daphne. 

“It’s really not—“

“I need to drop by the archives to pick up a trial transcript,” Anthony interjected. “And their floor is still operating at a normal temperature.” 

“But—“

He was out the door before she could further insist otherwise. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Hermione pushed her sleeves up to her elbows, stiff with sweat. “Anthony knows. About the Manor and Malfoy.” 

“How was dinner?” Daphne forwent an apology for the dismissal of their colleague, blunt question aimed right for the heart of Hermione’s persisting irritation. 

Hermione closed her eyes, letting out a sharp sigh. “It was…fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes, fine.” 

“Then why don’t you seem fine?” 

“Just tired, is all,” said Hermione.

She reached for her bag, intending to retrieve the addendum and truly make at least a little progress. To her dismay, Daphne had the foresight to summon the entire satchel with an annoyingly quick Accio!

“Tell me what happened,” Daphne pressed. 

“I don’t have time for this, Daph,” Hermione argued. 

“Oh, you’re making time! Tell me.” Daphne clutched the bag closer to her chest, the patchwork leather an unfortunate hostage. 

“Nothing happened. We had dinner, I pretended to be his imperfect Pureblood fiance, then I went home. That’s it.” 

Daphne quirked a brow—translation, and? 

“I met Tippy,” Hermione offered. “She was incredibly lovely.” 

At this, Daphne smiled. “She is. Makes the most impeccable summer berry tart, too. What else?” 

Hermione sank further into her seat, neck cradled by the rounded back, succumbing to her friend’s stubbornness. 

“It honestly was fine.” She could admit the evening had been surprisingly contained. Not a single curse thrown—an impressive front on all sides. “Malfoy and I met briefly in the parlor beforehand to discuss strategy. Narcissa was shockingly polite despite our best attempts to spur her into behaving otherwise. Lucius seemed entirely unfazed.” 

“The close quarters with dementors and dragons does seem to have made him quite unflappable these days,” conceded Daphne. 

“We discussed it,” said Hermione.

“His stay in Azkaban?”

“No. The dragons.” 

“You and Lucius Malfoy?” 

“One of the Ironbellies at the sanctuary is teething. I offered a few minor suggestions.” 

Daphne blinked. “And he took them?” 

“He considered them,” Hermione confirmed. 

“Huh.” Daphne sank further into her own seat, shaking her head.

“What?” 

“Just surprised the concession didn’t kill him.” 

“It was rather shocking,” Hermione fiddled with an abandoned quill. “Though Narcissa hugging me came close second.” 

“She hugged you?” Daphne shot up, chair squealing in protest. 

Hermione nodded. 

“Bollocks!” Daphne swore. “She knows.” 

“Knows?” 

“That you two are faking.”

“Oh,” said Hermione. “Yes. I figured.” 

“She suspects something is off at the very least,” said Daphne. “Narcissa didn’t even hug me last I saw her.” 

“Malfoy disagrees.” 

“Well, he’s daft!” 

“Said she surely thought we were shagging.” Hermione thumbed at fleck of dried ink. “She did send Tippy to walk me out.” 

“I suppose it’s possible,” Daphne puffed, throwing herself back down. “Did he snog you again in front of her?” 

“No, thank Mer— again?” Hermione had taken great care to withhold the entire jarring experience from the needling likes of the eldest Greengrass. 

Daphne didn’t balk at her surprise. “Astoria came round asking all kinds of questions about why my supposed roommate was supposedly engaged to Draco because she’d supposedly seen you two snogging at Pansy’s.” 

“Questions? What kind of questions?” 

“Nothing so concerning,” Daphne reassured. “Mostly about my withholding information. Why I had a roommate? Why didn’t I tell her I had a roommate? Does mother know I have a roommate? Etcetera, etcetera.” 

Hermione pressed a finger to her temple. “If we can hardly convince Astoria of our fake relationship, how’re we ever going to effectively fool Narcissa?” 

Daphne reached over, relinquishing her bag in favor of a sardonic pat on the knee. “Nothing a little exhibitionism can’t fix.” 

“Daphne!” 

“What? A witch can’t deny that which she’s seen with her own eyes.” She bat said lashes in jest.

“That’s his mother!” 

“So you’d do it if it were someone else watching?” 

Hermione groaned, slinging a forearm across her face. “Sometimes I swear you’re worse than Ginny.” 

“A distinction I do not take lightly,” said Daphne. “Now, back to the snogging. How did it happen? How was it? Was he any good?” 

“Shouldn’t you know?” 

Malfoy’s prowess was not unknown amongst the Hogwarts student body, implied fraternization with numerous eligible witches within his house a rumor circulated on the regular. 

Daphne shook her head. “Godric, no! I left that to Pans and Millie. Knowing a man since nappies does away with any possible allure.” 

“Then why do you care to interrogate me about it?” 

“Because it’s far more enjoyable than drafting the erumpent reclassification documents I’m meant to be doing right now.” 

“Anthony’s right about you.” Hermione scowled. 

“Yes, well, what can I say?” said Daphne. “I’m easily distracted.” 

“You’re indolent, is what you are,” said Hermione, though she only half-meant it.

Daphne could be rather lackadaisical when it came to busy work, but then again, who truly wanted to sift through first level clauses and legal clutter? Even Hermione found such tasks particularly tedious.

When given cases worth note, Daphne undeniably devoted herself holy to the cause. They’d barely seen her at all during the flobberworm extinction crisis of  ‘o4, had to employ an additional security wizard to stay with her overnight in the archives after she’d fallen asleep there a few too many times—a feat usually reserved for Hermione alone. 

Yes, Daphne Greengrass might be fainéant on occasion, but there was no denying she cared. 

“Quit procrastinating,” Daphne nudged Hermione with a heel-clad toe. “Or I’ll go ask Draco myself.” 

Annoying as she might be, as it turned out, Daphne was also one of Hermione’s best friends. And what were best friends for if not to gossip about snogs with? 

“It was…fast?” Hermione offered. 

“Fast?” 

“Well, it all happened rather unexpectedly. He kind of just…did it.” 

“Okay,” Daphne frowned. “But was it good?” 

“It was—“

“If you say ‘fine’ I’ll hex you.” 

Hermione retracted the singular adjective. “I don’t know, Daph, I was a bit preoccupied trying to convince him I was someone else entirely!” 

“So it was fine because you were Fauna,” said Daphne. “But what if you weren’t?” 

“Weren’t?” 

“What if you weren’t Fauna, and he’d kissed you?” Daphne pulled her hair back, securing the sweat-slick strands with her wand. Hermione was inclined to do the same. 

“He wouldn’t have kissed me if I wasn’t Fauna,” she reasoned, looping her heavy curls into a knot at the base of her neck. 

“Objectively,” Daphne huffed. “Did you enjoy it?” 

“I—well—“ She hadn’t really thought about it. 

Objectively, she’d endured worse kisses in her lifetime. A rather wet snog with a one night stand at a Muggle pub still brought about random chills on the off chance her mind saw fit to remember it. 

Objectively, Malfoy had been gentlemanly in comparison. In general, really. No untoward grabs at her arse or over-the-top tugging at her blouse. 

Objectively, he’d maintained a pleasant pace and pressure. Held her firmly but not fearfully tight. 

And perhaps—objectively, of course—his mouth had been quite soft. Pliant but sure. Enjoyable. 

Apparently Daphne had reached the same conclusion.

“You liked it!” She shrieked, pointing that same accusatory finger. “You liked snogging Draco!” 

“I did not!” Hermione countered, slapping Daphne’s hand from the air. “It just wasn’t awful, is all.” 

“Merlin’s tits, wait until I tell Red about this!” Daphne grinned.

“You will do no such thing,” said Hermione. “It was nothing, Daph. An agreed upon clause in our contract, in fact.” 

“It makes sense, really,” continued Daphne, not at all listening. “Was there tongue?” 

For a moment, Hermione thought the strained, elicited gasp had come from her. Only it was followed by a frantic apology from the direction of the door.

“Pardon me,” Neville croaked, a hand pressed over the periwinkle patterned tie at the base of his throat. “I don’t mean to intrude.” 

“No, please Neville,” said Hermione, waving him in like the lifeboat he was, rescuing her from the throes of an unrelenting harbor. “Intrude away. I insist.” 

“Longbottom, what a lovely surprise!” said Daphne. “How’re things over at Malfoy Industries?” 

“Quite well, thank you,” said Neville, thumb scratching at his jaw. “We just finished re-potting the newest shipment of puffapod. They seem to be taking to the improved fertilizer, which is a good sign.” 

“What brings you by, Neville?” Hermione asked, standing to give the fellow Gryffindor a hug, the greeting one she’d had to forgo the last few times she’d seen him as Fauna. 

“I’m actually here for you.” Neville attempted what one might call a smile, though it looked rather like he’d smelled something particularly sour. 

“Me?” Hermione stepped back. 

“Draco requested your presence at Malfoy Industries.” 

“And he couldn’t have sent an owl?” 

Neville tugged at his tie again. “He asked that I fetch you directly, for fear of you ignoring any written summons.” 

Hermione might have protested, except he was probably right. Especially after her restless night. 

“Did he tell you why he wishes to meet so urgently?” 

“Just that it was imperative you come as soon as possible,” said Neville, losing the battle with his fidgeting fingers and folding them behind his back instead.

Hermione’s mouth tasted suddenly bitter, as if the Polyjuice were imprinted on her tongue.

There was no way Malfoy knew? Was there?

She’d been exceedingly careful about her dosing at dinner, not wishing to risk another arm exposure. 

Had Tippy told Malfoy after all? In all fairness, could Hermione truly expect an elf raised by the Malfoy’s to accept a simple piano lesson as payment enough for keeping her secret? 

Panic growing like an accelerated Engorgio , Hermione shot Daphne an alarmed look, to which the ever-unhelpful witch simply shrugged. 

“Well,” Hermione sighed, stooping to recollect her things. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out.” 

“At the very least, the labs regulation charms are functioning as normal,” said Neville, a vague but true silver lining to the situation. 

“Oh, can I come?” Daphne started toward her own robes. 

“No!” Hermione exclaimed. “You will remain here where you should actually work for once and, more importantly, be unable to cause any further trouble.” 

“Trouble,” Daphne scoffed. “I’m only trying not to sweat to death.” 

“Good thing you’re meant to be in the archives corroborating those encounter accounts from Westminster.” 

“My own friend, wishes me to perish at the hands of a heat stroke,” Daphne grumbled. “Fine.” She slid past Neville’s towering frame still in the doorway. “Do enjoy your day with Draco. Though we both know that shouldn’t be a problem for you.” 

Daphne disappeared down the corridor before Hermione could take inspiration from Anthony and hurl something at her retreating head. 

“I do apologize for interrupting your day, Hermione,” said Neville as they made their way to the communal Floos. “I know you’re rather busy.”

“Aren’t we all?” Hermione acquiesced. There was no need to give Neville a hard time about the absurd and disruptive demands of his irritating boss. Don’t Cruccio the carrier pigeon and all that. “You truly don’t know why he wishes to see me so suddenly?” 

Neville reached for a pinch of Floo powder. “He came in late with his house elf, looking like he hadn’t slept a lick. Sent her straight to his office then told me to come and get you.” 

Hermione might as well have downed an entire package of puking pastilles for the rate with which her stomach dropped.

But before she could voice an unnamed illness or other urgent excuse for why she could never face Malfoy ever again, Neville tossed the powder into the waiting fireplace, igniting the hearth in a brilliant green blaze. 

“This will take you right through.” 

So she’d have absolutely no time to prepare for the forthcoming confrontation. Wonderful.

Maybe the Floo would take pity and Vanish her to an alternate universe where she weren’t about to obliterate the few remaining shreds of her dignity?

But alas, they welcomed her into their nigh unnoticeable heat, spatting her out unceremoniously exactly where intended. 

Malfoy’s office remained unchanged from the previous visit, all intact with its impressive brewing instruments and books and bespeckled potioneer sat behind his broad desk. 

Though this time, rather than tinkering with ominous glowing liquids, he had his neck bent over a large text. It was a hefty tomb, age-worn leather flaking at the corners and the top of the spine.

Tippy did not appear to be present upon first glance, and Neville too had failed to follow. Upon explicit instruction, Hermione assumed. 

They were to go at this alone, then. Very well. 

Malfoy, too engrossed in the words before him, made no acknowledgement of her stumbling entrance. Even with a cautious clearing of her throat, it took him exactly ninety-three more seconds before he deigned to lift his head. 

“Granger.” 

The two syllables emerged even-keeled, no signs of immediate vexation. The cadence of her surname on his tongue a familiar and neutral approximation of a greeting. 

“Malfoy.” Hermione returned, a careful reciprocation. 

“Didn’t give Longbottom too much grief did you?” Malfoy remained split-focused on the page, the hand which wasn’t reserved for turning beckoning her further in. 

“Why waste any on him when I could save it all for you?” said Hermione, easing to a seat in the chair across from him, though she refused to tuck herself beneath the wooden lip lest she need the added space to make a run for it.  

“How generous of you,” said Malfoy. “Though I most implore you to withhold any for now.” He reached for a quill, Hermione taking the occupation of his wand hand as a good sign. “I’ve recently made a discovery I wish to discuss with you.” 

Then again, he always was a dab hand at wandless magic. 

“Oh,” Hermione squeaked. 

“Last night, at dinner,” Malfoy elaborated. “I would’ve disclosed my findings sooner, only I needed to be sure of their validity first.” He underlined a brief passage with a series of definitive, harsh strokes. 

Hermione wished she could sit on her hands to still their shaking. “And now you’re sure?” 

Godric, this was sure to be one of the most humiliating moments in all of history, surpassing even the accidental cat incident in second year. 

“I wouldn’t have asked you here if I wasn’t,” said Malfoy. “I had Tippy confirm as well.”

Truly, a tail hadn’t been so bad, when you thought about it. 

“Look, Malfoy…” 

“I know it might sound a bit farfetched at first,” Malfoy pressed on. “I couldn’t quite believe it myself. But I’m certain this will change things for us in a way that is necessary to review in person.” 

“I can explain—“ If she just got ahead of things, perhaps she might be able to lessen the initial blow. At least save him from taking it straight to the Prophet for the next morning’s edition. 

“I wouldn’t ordinarily think to combine it with glumbumble, but with the correct ratio of armadillo bile, it could work.” 

“I was all out of options, you see, and I—“ Hermione’s shrill words stuttered. “Wait, what?” 

Malfoy stopped his scribbling, casting her a displeased look over the pile of pages.

“For someone so brilliant, you really are a piss-poor listener.” He stemmed her emerging rebuttal with a raised hand. “My fiancée mentioned something about glumbumble yesterday and it got me thinking.”

Reeling from the reality of her unrevealed identity, Hermione managed only a choked noise of what she hoped came out sounding like intrigue. 

“Jobberknoll feathers are only known to have been used in truth serums and minor memory potions in the past, all which implore mostly neutral ingredients. Therefore, they’ve never warranted explicit protection as the Ministry doesn’t view them as particularly volatile. But what if that’s because they haven’t been combined with the right reactant yet?” 

“What are you saying?” Hermione rasped the somewhat-coherent question. 

Malfoy sighed as if she were the most exasperating of conversationalists. Which, honestly, she probably was at the moment. 

“I’m saying, Granger,” Malfoy drawled. “That we’ve been unable to argue that the Jobberknolls fall under the rulings outlined in the Controlled Collection of Volatile Substances Act of 1973 since they’ve yet to pose a substantive threat as individual ingredients. But we haven’t considered if they’d do so as part of the proper compound.” 

Mind finally managing to comprehend Malfoy’s train of thought, Hermione straightened in her seat. 

“You have a theory.” 

Malfoy nodded. “Tippy—my friend, that is—keeps a garden at the Manor. It’s mostly ingredients meant for consumption, but I’ve convinced her to add a few, shall we say, less common cultivations over the years. There are a few I’d like to try first.” 

“You intend to test them?” said Hermione. “Here?” 

“Of course,” said Malfoy. “The Wizengamot will want concrete proof of their volatility in order to qualify.” 

“And if they do…” 

Something akin to hope brushed the base of Hermione’s spine. The first butterfly seen in spring after a long, barren stretch of winter. 

“Then they’ll have no choice but to pass the addendum,” said Malfoy. “Unless they wish to answer to the public as to why they refuse to place sanctions on a potentially dangerous ingredient.” 

“We’ll win.” The words emerged in breathless disbelief. Hermione half wished she could snatch them from the air and hold them in her hands, if only for proof they existed at all. 

“We’ll win,” Malfoy echoed. 

They’d win. They’d win, and the addendum could finally be set aside. No more legislative back and forth. No more fighting Ministry figureheads. No more fearing the eradication of an essential part of bringing her parents home. 

It was true, tangible potential for progress. 

And Malfoy meant to provide the argument-altering evidence himself.

She’d known he dabbled in research and development, but the extent of which he’d need to experiment was no light load. 

For someone looking to invent a new one, he’s not a bad ally to have. 

Daphne’s trill reminder nudged her next words forward. 

“Let me help.” 

Malfoy passed a delicate finger over the edge of his quills feathers. “With the research?” 

“I’m quite skilled at potions,” said Hermione, bracing herself for a defense. “And you can’t deny this will take a considerable amount of time and effort. I don’t intend to get stuck with all the boring stuff while you get to sit in your funhouse factory here and blow things up all day.” 

“We do not blow things up all day,” said Malfoy. Though the suspiciously loud bang! which echoed from the laboratories beyond certainly didn’t do his claim any favors. “I don’t need your help, Granger.” 

“I don’t care what you think you do or do not need, Malfoy.” Hermione crossed her arms. “We’re a team. I’ve a right to be involved.” 

“Feel free to be involved from your cozy desk at the Ministry, then,” said Malfoy. 

“I’m not running your logbooks, you prat!” 

“Too many hands in one cauldron just gets messy. It would only slow us down.” 

“I’ll have you know I’ve already accumulated extensive research on the molecular structure of the Jobberknoll feather and it’s recorded history of usage in modern day potioneering,” Hermione countered. “I happen to think that would rather speed things up, don’t you?” 

“Why in Merlin’s name would you know that?” Malfoy asked. 

“It doesn’t matter why,” said Hermione, certainly not willing to go into detail. “Only that I do, and that it is an undeniable advantage.” 

“It is in fact very deniable, as I’m doing so presently,” said Malfoy. 

“Why don’t you want my help?” 

Malfoy refused to answer, turning back to his notes as a means of clear dismissal. 

Hermione scoffed. “I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty, Malfoy.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you aren’t,” Malfoy retorted. “You certainly look the part today.” He gave her haggard appearance a pointed once over. “That date you were telling Daphne about finally cross the finish line?” 

If it were any other day—one in which Hermione’s head did not balance on precariously exhausted shoulders—she might have simply let the crude comment slide. Fired back one of her own stinging sentences, a well-aimed barb she’d know would land. 

Unfortunately for Malfoy and their previously established routine of being absolute pains in each other’s arses, it was not one of those days. 

Hermione stood abruptly. Through a tempered calm bordering on calamity, she addressed a startled Malfoy.

“You know what the best part of this whole little development is?” She hissed, prodded by the snake until she became one herself. “No longer having to deal with the likes of you.” 

“Granger—“

But Hermione didn’t stick around to hear whatever ill-willed remark he chose to spout next, an impolite slam of his office door punctuating her exit. 

Like an unrelenting phantom of acrimony fueled by her past, her sour disposition followed her out of Malfoy Industries.

It failed to relent even at an increased distance, equally as potent when she finally pushed through the front door to her flat some time later. 

Crookshanks accepted her commandeering him for cuddles with minimal fuss despite his usual guiding desire for food, sensing his witch's distress. Her familiar’s soft rumbling purr slowly aiding in the de-escalation of her heart rate until she surrendered to the sofa cushions with a sigh. 

Calling out for the rest of the day was unavoidable. Evidently, being exposed to others in her current state was good for neither her nor the world at large.

Coiled like an exploding snap since the minute she’d awoken, Hermione could admit her fiery exit at Malfoy Industries might have been circumvented had she given any effort to employing an effective coping skill.

But sometimes, doing so felt like denying herself the right to feel. 

Angry. At Bellatrix, recurrently.

Overstimulated. By Daphne, frequently.

Frustrated. With Malfoy, always. 

All valid. Exacerbated by poor sleep and missing her parents, yes.

But felt all the same.

Still, lashing out was something she tried not to do. Delayed guilt blurred the edges of her already hazy vision, enough so that she summoned a self-inking quill and parchment to begin penning an array of abashed apologies. 

She’d made it through Harry’s quick promise to catch up soon, Daphne’s assurance that she’d be present at the next pub night, and Neville’s gratitude for his always steadying presence, before reaching the last sheath of paper. 

Biting both cheek and pride, Hermione scribbled an approximation of acceptance and thanks for Malfoy’s sharing of information. And perhaps another proposal for assistance. 

She was looping the last ‘G’ of her surname when Daphne’s owl arrived. 

It’s silver wings sliced through the serenity of her flat in a similar fashion to its owner often did, delivering a sealed envelope with a squall before making an equally brash exit. 

Though it was a Greengrass bird which bore the correspondence, the waxy imprint was that of another Pureblood house.

Hermione fought the urge to pretend she’d never received it, the Malfoy crest impressed in crisp emerald ridges. 

She extracted a suspiciously thick cut of card stock, silvery filigree darning its beveled edges.

With each centimeter revealed came with it a dawning horror. The written words entirely unnecessary for comprehension, clean calligraphy outlined across the prim rectangle in a familiar standardization.

Lord and Lady Malfoy request the honor of your presence at the celebration of betrothal of their son

Draco Lucius Malfoy 

to

Fauna Fortescue 

Tuesday, June 26, 2007 

to take place at Black Hall, Bordeaux, France at six o’clock.

Personal Portkeys to be provided. 

An engagement party. 

Narcissa did not seek to waste any time, it seemed. 

And to think, she’d spent nearly an hour with Malfoy just now and he hadn’t once thought to warn her about his mothers plans for—well, she supposed he couldn’t have warned her.

But still. He’d appeared concerningly composed for someone whose mother had gone on and put together an engagement party without their permission.

The absolute gall of both mother and son, to go about their lives making decisions without so much as consulting anyone else in matters which pertained to them.

It was appalling! Incredibly discourteous. Entirely self-centered!

The corners of the forsaken invitation began to wilt with little thought, metallic detailing alighting in hungry flames.

When it finally shriveled into nothing but a pile of ash in her palm, Hermione snatched her half-written apology to Malfoy and Incendio ’d that too. 

Sometimes, it’s better to bury your feelings. Compress them into something that can be returned to at a later date with a level head. 

And other times, it’s best to let them burn. 

Chapter Text

“Hermione Jean Granger!” 

Startled, Hermione’s quill skid in a stuttering jolt across her parchment. 

“Daphne!” She chastised. “That was a fresh sheet!”

“I don’t care if it was the Minister’s marriage license!” said Daphne, stepping fully out of the Floo. “You’re late!” 

“Watch your step! I just hoovered in here, I don’t need you tracking ash all over.” 

“Do you have wrackspurts in your ears?” cried Daphne, storming over—sooty shoes and all—to snatch the stack of papers out from under Hermione’s nose. “You. Are. Late.” 

“My hearing was perfectly fine,” said Hermione. “Perhaps not anymore.” 

“Get up!” Daphne shrieked, forcefully shoving her arms beneath each of Hermione’s in an attempt to wrench her from the cocoon of blankets and pillows she’d strewn about the floor in somewhat of a study station.

Her coffee table had slowly become overrun with books, inkwells, parchment, and even her laptop, pulled from the recesses of her closet as a desperate research aid. 

Malfoy might have said he didn’t want her help, but when had Hermione ever listened to him? 

Despite his petty claims and general attempts at remaining anomic, Hermione knew they could only benefit from having more minds put to the task. Personal stakes aside, she found herself motivated by the familiar urge to simply prove Draco Malfoy wrong. 

“Daphne!” Hermione writhed in her friend’s surprisingly strong grip. “You’re going to dislocate my shoulder if you don’t stop it!” 

Taking the request for release quite literally, Daphne dropped Hermione with all the fragility lent to a first year’s school trunks—that is, absolutely none.

Clearly too riled to care about the witch at her feet now rubbing at a certainly bruised tailbone, Daphne huffed, patting at the array of perfect curls caressing the curve of her neck. 

“I can’t believe you’re working at a time like this!” She gestured to the mess amongst which they stood. “Your own engagement party and you’re sitting around sifting through half the Ministry’s archives when you should be getting dressed!” 

“I still have two hours before I’m meant to meet Malfoy,” said Hermione, forgoing standing up in favor of inching back toward her abandoned inkwell. “How long do you think it takes to do-up a zip?” 

“Hermione…” Daphne hedged through a tight smile. “What time do you think it is?” 

“Should be about two-thirty, I’d say?” She plunged a hand into the mountain of written mayhem, meaning to retrieve her wand. “I set an alarm charm for four.” 

Daphne’s answering sigh could’ve rivaled one of Molly Weasely’s, an exasperated expression that could be triggered only by equal parts exhaustion and unfortunate expectation. 

“Merlin, Hermione, it’s well past four! It’s five thirty!” 

No assistance necessary this time, Hermione leapt from her makeshift nest. 

“Oh, bollocks!” She yelped, careening into the kitchen where the fixed analog clock adjacent to the stovetop confirmed the half-hour past.

In a panicked pivot, she yanked open her potions drawer, swiping three vials of Polyjuice. One for now, one for later, and one just in case she found herself in need of a spare. Couldn’t be too careful, what with the added element of international travel. 

In an increasingly familiar show of one-handed dexterity, Hermione popped the cork on the first vial, downing the ever-inside-curdling concoction with a violent flinch. But spewing the contents of her stomach was not in the cards according to the miscalculated schedule, and so she simply forced an exhale and hoped Daphne’s incescent scolding would do as a distraction from the sudden nausea. 

“Ought to make you actually move in,” Daphne was ranting, rummaging through Hermione’s wardrobe. “Good Godric!” She flung a pair of trousers over her shoulder. “Where are your dress robes?” 

Had they the luxury of time, Hermione might have indulged the urge to poke fun at her friend’s lack of observation skills. But as previously established, they were beyond fashionably late. 

Hermione Summoned the garment bag hanging on the door beside Daphne’s head. 

“How is it that even behind schedule you somehow manage to be two steps ahead of me?” Daphne pouted, switching efforts to Hermione’s limited line-up of cosmetics instead. 

“Your Pureblood primary school didn’t teach you that Muggleborns have a few spare feet?” Hermione sat before the shoddy vanity her and her mother had swiped from an estate sale. The peeling wood had seen much better days, but parting with it would be undoubtedly more taxing than the repeated repair charms. “You know we can’t grow them back as easily.” 

“You Muggleborns certainly don’t lack any cheek, either,” countered Daphne, tugging Fauna’s silky sheets of hair into the beginnings of an updo. 

“Now that is an acquired trait,” said Hermione, simultaneously lathering her lashes in mascara for the sake of efficiency. “I blame it on the company I keep.” 

“Red is an awful influence,” Daphne hummed, the edges of her mouth creasing in the mirror. She Transfigured a set of Hermione’s plain hair pins into a collection of pearl adorned clips, fastening them around the back of her head. 

Even with the pressure of time, Daphne worked with a practiced gentleness, like a botanist tending to flora at will despite the impending threat of frost. 

Hermione reached for a stray lipstick tube, only to have it immediately swat from her hand. 

“Too rosey,” said Daphne, swapping it for another. “Go with something a bit more neutral.” 

Accepting the replacement, Hermione swiped the formula on as evenly as she could manage without disrupting Daphne’s careful pinning. An adept team as a result of shared work projects past, the two witches primped in tandem until Fauna appeared relatively finished. 

Teetering on a pair of ivory heels she’d been unable to talk Pansy out of despite her tumultuous track record, Hermione and Daphne each gathered up their individual portkeys. 

The near identical twists of metal did not, evidentially, take the form of their namesake, crafted instead into dainty lapel pins. Delivered in matching velvet-lined boxes, they differed only in the inlaid adornments.

The one addressed to Daphne bore a square-cut emerald, its rich green a shade or so off from the traditional Slytherin skew. Hermione’s cradled a single pearl, twin to those twined into her hair. 

“Quite an elaborate means of transportation,” noted Hermione, resisting the temptation to run a finger along the finely crafted beveled edge. 

“You expected any less of the Malfoy’s?” said Daphne. “It’s their only son’s engagement party. I’d be surprised if there weren’t a life sized ice sculpture of your Prophet page waiting for us in the foyer.” 

“No operatic retelling of our love story by Celestine Warbeck?” 

“Not before dessert, at least.” Daphne’s answer came in a concerningly serious monotone. “Ready?” 

Knowing her honest ‘no’ would be worth no more than Anthony’s conjured silver sickle, Hermione settled on a tight nod. 

Daphne had nearly brushed her designated pin when Hermione let out a sudden yelp, causing her friend to drop the entire box with a startled clatter. 

“Merlin! What was that for?” Daphne called at Hermione’s retreating form. 

“My bag!” Hermione elaborated, dashing out of the sitting room to snag her purple satchel full of spare potions. “I almost forgot it.” 

Daphne eyed the faded lump of fabric. “Perhaps you should have.” 

Clutching the worn bag to her chest, Hermione snatched the discarded port key from the ground, passing it back to Daphne. 

“It may not be much of a looker, but it’s magically extended,” said Hermione. “Sorry I prefer function over beauty.” 

Sliding the wand from the sleeve of her sage-colored robes, Daphne transformed the tattered material into a sensible ivory clutch with an easy wave. “Why not both?” 

Hermione tucked the new rendition beneath her arm, giving a final spin. “Well?” 

“Looking fit for a fake engagement party, I’d say!” said Daphne. “Shall we?” 

“I suppose.” 

Daphne gave her a mocking salute. “See you on the other side.”

—

Fortunately, Hermione did not reappear face to face with a frozen Fauna. She did, however, enter upon an equally discomforting image. 

Arriving instead in a sizeable receiving room, a collection of arm chairs circled an unexpectedly rustic wooden table whose weathered stature withheld the weight of one groom-to-be.

Malfoy had propped himself on the edge, elbows perched on each knee, those dastardly glasses aloft on his nose. Why he’d forgone the assortment of perfectly acceptable seating options, Hermione couldn’t say. 

She must’ve been staring for longer than she realized, Malfoy suddenly stood just a stride or so away with a crease between his brows. 

“All right?” He asked, shaking out the sleeves of his tidy black robes so they lay flat again. 

“Oh, yes!” Hermione tried not to mimic his movements, conscious of portkey travel’s disheveling tendencies. “You just weren’t the audience I was expecting.” 

“Sorry to disappoint,” said Malfoy. 

“I assumed to arrive already at a fully underway soirée,” said Hermione. “But this is much preferred, truly.” 

“Though some might argue we should indeed be greeting our guests, my mother always has favored a more notable entrance.” 

Hermione peered at the tips of her toes peaking out from beneath her robes. “No grand staircase, I hope?” 

Malfoy took in her chancy choice of footwear. “Now that’s far too gauche. I assure, you’ll need only descend an appropriate amount of stairs this evening.” 

“I’m sure Ernest will mourn the potential for another front page-worthy pose,” said Hermione, fiddling with the clasp on her newly Transfigured clutch. 

“Considering the amount required to buy his absence from this entire event, I doubt he’ll be too bereaved.” Though delivered with no indicating inflection, Malfoy’s flat expression inspired a clear notion of annoyance. 

“You had to pay him to sit this one out?” 

“I fear we created a monster,” said Malfoy. “Took to fame like a moth to flame. But regardless of the inflated fees, we couldn’t risk him being in the same room as the reporters in my mother’s pockets.” 

So Narcissa’s personal cohort of Prophet employees would be present. How unfavorably foreboding. 

“Speaking of your mother,” Hermione’s voice quieted, as if the witch were waiting outside, ear to wood. “How shall we handle, er, this?” She gestured between the two of them. 

“Is there a reason you’re whispering?” 

“We’re in your mother’s ancestral home.” If she’d thought the walls at Malfoy Manor could talk, these would surely not spare any details. “Or would you like to be outed by a prying portrait?” 

“It’s far too drafty in here to house anything so valuable,” said Malfoy, pointedly surveying their surroundings. Which were, indeed, rather unadorned. Still a carefully curated balance of cottage and aristocracy, to be sure, but admittedly void of any oil covered canvas. “But to answer your question, tonight, we dote.” 

“Pardon?” 

“My mother has witnessed a moderate level of our supposed affections.” Malfoy adjusted the pin at his lapel, a fraternal twin to Daphne’s, fit with an array of diamonds to add more ornamentation than necessary. “We ought to raise the stakes.” 

“You want us to pretend like we’re—“

“In love?” said Malfoy. “Yes.” He withdrew something from his pocket. “Resolutely—ardently, so.” 

“But she’s meant to hate me, is she not?” 

“What better way than to act as if you’ve doused me in a dozen bottles of Amortentia?” 

“So we make your mother think I drugged you?” Hermione attempted to cross her arms as best she could over the layers of her formal robes. 

“Well, she certainly can’t have me marrying a criminal so soon after our own record’s been expunged.” 

It could’ve come out in poor taste, but Malfoy’s quip retained an air of acceptance, reigning in the otherwise line-toeing truth. 

Smothering the semblance of a smile, Hermione sighed. “Fine. Then I suggest we get going. I’m going to need more than a few drinks before I’m able to make effective googly eyes.” 

“I foresee us both needing quite a bit of liquid lubricant this evening,” said Malfoy, offering his arm. Out of dedication to their agreed upon plan or plain courtesy, it was hard to say. “What are googly eyes?” 

It was a good thing they’d linked elbows, lest Hermione’s surprised stumble send her flying despite the even flooring. 

“Muggle invention,” she supplied vaguely. “Where is everyone? I left with Daphne but we evidently did not arrive together.” 

“In the garden,” said Malfoy, statement supported by a wash of green filling the frosted panes of a pair of windows. 

They came to a stop at the top of a reasonable two step vestibule, Malfoy pulling something from within his robes. 

“You’re meant to wear this,” he said, uncurling articulate fingers to reveal an elevated version of Hermione’s own portkey pin. Like his, it featured a halo of petite diamonds, a sizeable pearl fixed in the center. “Couldn’t risk damaging it with the necessary spell work.” 

Though perfectly capable of affixing it to her own collar, Malfoy had already punctured the ivory fabric before Hermione could suggest otherwise. She supposed Purebloods would be used to assisted dressing, what with their slow to age fashions, and so she withheld an instinctual rebuke. If only to save face for Fauna. 

Certainly not because her hands were shaking. 

“There,” he said, refolding the fabric so it lay flat. “Now we match.” 

Though there was plenty of room for the both of them beneath the stone archway, they remained close, a peculiar air of conviviality preventing the usual proclivity for immediate separation. 

Until they were nearly sent sprawling on the stones. 

“Oh, dear!” came a wheezing Scottish lilt. “My apologies.” 

Malfoy released Hermione’s robes in favor of steadying the elder wizard who’d barreled through the door before them. His spectacles, which bore a stacked set of six lenses rather than the standard two, slid precariously toward the end of his thin nose. Hermione halted their descent with a wandless wave. 

“Thank ya,” said the wizard, once again set to rights.  “Grandkids’ve been saying me eyes is goin’.”

Going seemed generous. Long gone was far more probable. 

“Not to worry, Mr. Wigghens,” said Malfoy. “It’s our fault for stuffing up the doorway.” 

Whether by sound of distinctive drawl or finally switching his spectacles to the proper farsighted setting, Mr. Wigghens grimace melted into a pleased grin. 

“Blimey! Mr. Malfoy! I hardly recognized ya. Have ye got a clipping recently?”

Malfoy ghosted a palm across the side of his head. “A touch off the sides.” 

“I knew it!” Mr. Wigghens snapped his fingers. “118, but still smart as a tack I tell ya! If not a bit slow on the stairs.” He winked with an ease that suggested a charmful youth. 

“You’re looking plenty spry to me, Athol.” 

“Always with the flattery, your family,” chuckled Mr. Wigghens. “Now, seeing as you’re the man of the hour, then this must be…”

“Fauna Fortescue. Pleasure to meet you, sir.” 

“None of that.” Mr. Wigghens bypassed her proffered hand, going for a petit peck on each cheek. “Athol is just fine! Or Attie, if ye prefer, as ye mum used to say.” 

“My mother?” Hermione croaked. 

“Until she was a wee lass,” Mr. Wigghens confirmed. “Had trouble with her H’s for a time.” 

“You know each other?” 

“Well, I knew ye grandmum. Called on me quite a bit to watch Florencia back when I lived in Blackpool and she was still working at the local bank.” 

“And you, er, keep in touch?” 

“Admittedly, I haven’t heard much of ye family in the last twenty or so years,” said Mr. Wigghens, a balm to Hermione’s growing panic. “Once Flora passed, ye mum withdrew quite dramatically from society. I must say, of the many rumors which surrounded her departure, I didn’t think that of her impending motherhood would be the reigning truth.” 

Hermione indulged in a brief and surely never to be repeated prayer of thanks to the Pureblood tenacity for hearsay. 

“Indeed, she doesn’t speak much on her time here,” said Hermione, hoping to dismay further dismantling of her faux family history. 

“Yes, I wouldn’t imagine so,” Mr. Wigghens sighed. “Nevertheless, it’s good to see the face of a Fortescue around these parts again! What with Florean’s unfortunate circumstances, there’s been a considerable lack of edible confectionery lately. I was starting to consider retiring from these social calls altogether. But alas, it seems I must keep up appearances for some time yet.” 

“I do hope you’ll continue to show face, Athol,” said Malfoy. “Who else is so skilled at spiking the gillywater?” 

“Why, I’m not sure what ye speak of, Mr. Malfoy!” said Mr. Wigghens with another exaggerated wink. He turned to Hermione then. “I must say, I'm surprised ye didn’t inherit more of your mother’s features. The hair, at the very least. Always eye catching, that auburn.” 

“My father’s genes were quite strong, it seems,” said Hermione. 

“Yes, yes, evidently so,” said Mr. Wigghens. “I hope ye’ll pardon my impropriety, but do ye happen to know who that is?”

“Pardon?” 

“Your father,” Mr. Wigghens dropped to a whisper. “There’s been a bit of speculation over the years, ye see. My galleons have always been on Wulfric Hornsby.” 

“Oh, well—“ Hermione stuttered, her lack of knowledge for once authentic to both turns of character. But in a rare happenstance that Narcissa Malfoy’s presence should be happily received, the evening’s contrived herself appeared in a swirl of pale blue robes. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Athol!” Narcissa intercepted. “No witch worth her salt could’ve come from the likes of Wulfric Hornsby.” She took up Malfoy’s arm, giving the appendage an affectionate pat. “Now, you’ll have to excuse the lovely couple, for they have quite the extensive list of guests to greet.” 

“Of course, of course!” cried Mr. Wigghens. “I didn’t mean to monopolize them so. It was wonderful to see ye, Mr. Malfoy. Welcome home, Miss Fortescue.” 

Mr. Wigghen’s sidestepped their small huddle, disappearing inside the way they’d came. 

“Thank you, mother,” said Malfoy. “We appreciate your timely interference.” 

“Oh, darling,” said Narcissa. “I wouldn’t thank me just yet.” 

With a suspiciously self-satisfied smile, Narcissa began to drag her son and soon-to-be daughter-in-law across the garden with worrisome purpose. 

Free of the cumbersome doorway, Hermione observed the makings of the Black family botanics. Impressive in size and species, the lush flora bordered prettily paved pathways and crept around a centered water structure, glowing gardenias bobbing in the evening breeze. 

Delicate paper lanterns glided a fair height above the heads of the gathered guests, soft light mimicking the fast fading sunset. 

Loathe as Hermione was to admit merit to any of Narcissa Malfoy’s present schemes, she couldn’t help but to acknowledge the well-curated beauty before her. 

It was strange to think that if Mr. Wigghens’ parting sentiments were to ring true, were the engagement sincere, that Black Hall, and all the subsequent Malfoy properties, would thereupon be considered her home.

Merlin, but to imagine such a thing! She wasn’t sure how anyone might feel comfort amidst a collection of so many frivolous rooms. 

A home, in her personal experience, was comprised not of proportions nor possessions, but of its predilection to promote its inhabitants peace. A concept Hermione wasn’t sure the ancestral estates had ever been acquainted with. That is, at least not until more recent years. 

But, she supposed, those seeking sanctuary might find it even in the most unlikely places. A sizeable library, perhaps, or a kindhearted house elf. The gardens throughout which they traipsed behind Narcissa, inclined to tranquility when otherwise less occupied. In their present state of overflow, however, they were sufficiently overwhelming. 

Openly curious eyes tracked their course to the opposite side of the low hedgerows, whispers stirred with each step. 

A group tittered back and forth beneath a blooming arbor, not bothering to subdue their obvious intrigue. One of the gathered witches let out a tinkling laugh, covering her mouth to quiet the delicate scale. 

Hermione gasped. 

“What?” inquired Malfoy, having managed to extricate himself from his mother’s grip to proceed alongside his fiancée instead. 

“That’s Celestina Warbeck,” hissed Hermione. 

“A fan, are you?” 

“Not particularly.” Hermione averted her gaze, hoping to go unnoticed by the singer. “Daphne mentioned something about a ballad before we left. One pertaining to our love story.” 

The suggestion managed to invoke a grimace from Malfoy as well. “Morgana, I should hope not.” 

“You’re sure your mother hasn’t secretly requested a private show?” 

“I think we’re safe,” said Malfoy. “I suspect we would’ve been already serenaded if that were the case.” 

“If you’re certain,” grumbled Hermione, not daring a backward glance as they outpaced Celestina and her entourage. 

“I don’t reckon even my mother would stoop to levels of such mortification.” 

“Not a Warbler, either?” 

Malfoy winced at the identifier. “Never willingly, though Tippy has tried in vain to right this supposed fault of mine many a times.” 

Amused at the idea of Tippy and Malfoy sprawled before a gramophone, the elf guiding him through disc after disc, Hermione couldn’t help but to prod.

“Is there a style of music you do prefer, then?” 

“I tend to favor more classical sentiments. Orchestral scores and things of the like. Jazz.” He hesitated. “Piano.” 

Hermione hoped the tips of her exposed ears weren’t as noticeably hot as they felt. “Interesting.”

“A man can’t enjoy some Offenbach?”

“I’d never denote the excellency of the Symphony Fantastique,” said Hermione. “I just didn’t expect you to have an ear for the bellatristic.” 

“Oh?” said Malfoy. “What did you expect me to say? The Hobgoblins?” 

“Maybe.” Hermione shrugged, dodging a self-serving tray of finger sandwiches. 

“How awfully prosaic of you, Miss Fortescue.” 

Hermione might have disputed such accusation, yet once again Narcissa managed to intervene on the premise of a new acquaintance. 

“Madame Ogden, if I may, there’s someone I’d like you to meet…”

And so began their tour of civilities, thrown into a sea of seemingly never-ending pleasantries.

It was only when, some insurmountable introductions later, Malfoy extricated his hand from hers to greet a one Sir Smethwyck, that Hermione realized he’d been holding it at all. 

—

“I’m not sure I’m capable of returning my face to its natural state,” remarked Hermione, fixed smile reflected in the fountain's steady stream. 

Malfoy too seemed of a similar condition, rubbing a hand along the edge of his jaw. They’d successfully made it through the near entirety of Narcissa’s high society rolodex, accepting round after round of stranger's congratulations. 

Finally, after a particularly sweaty set of handshakes from some second cousin or other, was Malfoy able to convince his mother of their needing a moment for refreshment. 

Standing near enough with their backs to the rest of the assembled party in hopes of appearing otherwise occupied with private words of affection, Hermione and Malfoy took their reprieve. 

“You mean to say you don’t always look so empty-headed?” said Malfoy. 

Hermione’s reply came in the form of a silent scowl. 

“Ah, see!” He pointed. “Not so stuck after all.” 

Against better rationale, Hermione indulged in a genuine huff of amusement. The laugh scraped uncomfortably across her vocal chords, sore from so many how-do-you-do’s. 

Malfoy, taking notice of the strained act, offered, “Shall I fetch something to drink?” 

Hermione nodded. “Please,” she said. “Firewhisky on the rocks, if they have it.” 

It was Malfoy’s turn to give way to humor, chuckling in his retreat toward the bar erected before the delicate gazebo. 

No sooner had he left did yet another Malfoy family member take his place, though Hermione much preferred the replacement. 

“Tippy!” 

“Good evening, Miss! You is looking lovely!” 

“So are you,” insisted Hermione, admiring the elf’s petite satin slip dress and kitten heels, a delicate shawl draped over her small shoulders, matching sage leaves arranged across her forehead in a dainty crown. She looked a rightful mage of the land on which they stood. 

“Thank you, Miss,” said Tippy, ears twitching at the compliment. “I is wearing your pin as well!” She pointed at the pair of port keys along the strap of her dress—one a pearl, the other emerald. 

As inferred from their social circuit, the guests were to wear their gifted brooch in significance of their relation to the evening’s honorees. There were decidedly few pearl-lined lapels, most associating with the side of the groom. 

But indeed, Tippy bore both proudly, glinting against her frail collarbone. 

“How very kind of you, Tippy,” said Hermione, earnest in her gratitude. The wonders a friendly face could do for the spirits!

“I is trying to get Miffy to wear one too, but he’s is being stubborn.” 

Said elf, decked in a matching corduroy pantsuit and bowler hat—emerald in question tacked to its brim—harumphed in indignant reply. 

“But don’t worry, Tippy is wearing him’s down!” 

“Yes, well, I appreciate the effort,” said Hermione. “Say, you haven’t heard of Narcissa planning any sort of surprise, have you?” 

Tippy shook her head. “No. Missus Mummy is wanting to keep things simple. She is saying we are to save the surprise for the actual big day.” 

“Good,” said Hermione, equally terrified and comforted by the prospect of such surprise, which should never come to fruition as prevented by the ingenuine circumstances. “How’re things at Le Pieux Mensonge?” 

If she were expected to engage in small talk, best keep hold of the singular being whom she didn’t have to so entirely pretend with. Daphne, for all her meddlesome tendencies and present whereabouts unknown, forfeiting the only other ownership of such a title. 

"Mensonge is busy,” said Tippy. “I is curating the new autumn menu for next season.”

“Oh, I love autumnal cuisine!” 

“Miss should come by sometime and sample some of Tippy’s recipes. How does Miss feel about winter squash?” 

“Quite favorably,” smiled Hermione. “I’d be honored to try whatever you create, Tippy. It’s sure to be brilliant.” 

A common opinion, it seemed, as per the echo which preceded Hermione’s own praise. 

“Tippy, darling, what unseemly favors must I employ to get you to finally relinquish this tart recipe to Hopsy?” 

The other source of approbation appeared in the form of a tall, tousled wizard. Considering the crowd, he cut a distinct figure, what with the fitted dress robes trimmed in leather-like piping, assortment of rings announcing his presence with each tip of his wine glass like a bell-adorned collar.

He parted their tête-à-tête with a determination worthy of its dessert-minded objective. 

“Tippy cannot give Hopsy Tippy’s secret recipe, he is butchering a simple biscuit!” exclaimed Tippy. “Besides, how else can I’s convince Mister Theo to visit?”

“Oh, you know I’d still come ‘round,” said Theodore Nott, for Hermione recognized him now. “Eventually.” 

“Ever since Mister Draco is moving out, Mister Theo is never visiting the Manor,” Tippy frowned. “If Tippy is needing to use tarts as leverage, I’s will.” 

“Speaking of that which is sweet, might you be one such ice cream heiress?” 

Hermione nodded, offering her hand. “Fauna Fortescue. Pleasure to meet you.” 

“Ah, so it is the famed fiancée!” Theo forewent the formal greeting in favor of a thorough hug. “What an honor! You know, I’m rather insulted Draco didn’t introduce us sooner.” 

“Yes, well, this has all come together rather quickly,” offered Hermione, unsure as to the closeness of the two and thus what would be assumed a reasonable amount of offense. 

“Has it?” 

“Pardon?”

“From what I’ve heard, it took quite a bit of convincing to earn your agreement in this whole arrangement.” 

It seemed that Malfoy had taken the liberty to confide their charade to his friend. Hermione could only hope Theo Nott’s character was that which was worthy of upholding the secrecy of their bargain. 

“Is that so?” 

“In fact,” said Theo, “I think you owe me. He never would’ve pulled his head out of his own arse if it weren’t for my intervention.” 

“Tippy is also pulling Mister Draco’s head from odd places,” chimed Tippy. “He is always getting stuck in the banister as a boy.” 

“Indeed, Tippy.” Theo patted the elf on the shoulder. “And so the student became the master.”

“I’m sorry,” interjected Hermione. “I’m lost as to what your involvement is here.” 

“Draco turned up to mine after your first date whinging about how you’d refused him. I so gallantly informed the tosser that no respectable witch would ever accept such a pitiful proposal. At least, not without a prenup.” Theo winked. “All that to say, you’re welcome for the tennis bracelet.” 

“So that was your doing?” Hermione frowned. 

“What? Should we have gone with the earrings?” said Theo. 

“I’d have preferred none of the above.”

“I see!” Theo pinched his chin like he was examining a rare artifact. “You take your coercion in cash only.” 

Hermione shrugged. “As you said, a respectable witch knows her worth. A girl has much more use for a sum of galleons than a string of gemstones.” 

“Do you now? Color me intrigued.” 

“Well I certainly can’t pay the ice cream parlour rent in diamond jewelry can I?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Mr. Oakwad has quite the eye for finery.”

“Mr. Oakwad is wearing a bathrobe to a Ministry dinner,” said Tippy. 

“That was one time,” argued Theo. “Besides, did you see his watch?” 

“No. I is too busy trying not to see his bum!” 

“What are you on about over here?” Daphne appeared beside Tippy, slightly out of both sorts and breath. “Quite rude of you lot to leave me to the wolves.” She threw a glance over her shoulder at a collection of elder witches. 

“It certainly does look like you’ve been romping about in the woods,” said Theo, tugging at one of Daphne’s misplaced ringlets only to receive a swat to the hand. “Besides, I promise we weren’t having too much fun. I was just getting to know your flatmate here.” 

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about Nott,” said Daphne. “I don’t need you scaring away such a good tenant.” 

“Where have you been, Daph?” asked Hermione. “I haven’t seen you since you left the flat.” 

“Here and there,” said Daphne, waving a hand. “Dodging my mother’s friends and ambushing anyone who looks like they might provide me with alcohol. Oh, look!” She plucked a champagne flute off a passing tray. “Divine timing!” 

A second glass appeared in Hermione’s peripheral, though its delivery came with yet another addition to their group. 

“Ah,” said Malfoy, shouldering in beside Daphne. “I thought the air felt a bit thinner.” 

“Bugger off!” said Daphne. “We were keeping your fiancee comfortable in your absence.” 

“She’s not a chaise cushion,” said Malfoy, taking a swig from his own tumbler once he’d relinquished the one intended for Hermione. 

“No, no,” said Daphne. “I do suppose that’s the man’s job.” 

“Daph!” scolded Hermione. 

“Indeed!” said Theo. 

“Merlin,” huffed Malfoy.

“I does not wish to know,” insisted Tippy. 

“Am I interrupting?” said Neville. He approached the ever-growing huddle, flushed skin stark against his smartly fit umber dress robes. 

“Please, Longbottom,” said Malfoy, clapping his assistant on the shoulder. “You’ll be doing us all quite the favor if you are.” 

“Okay.” Neville attempted a smile. Cleared his throat. “Well, it’s just, you see…” 

“Haven’t been hit with a tongue-tie jinx, have you, mate?” said Theo. 

“Shove it, Nott!” said Daphne.

Neville ignored them both, attention focused solely on the more important pair. “Your mother wants you at the gazebo. It seems as though she intends to initiate a toast.” 

“Of course she does,” Malfoy sighed. “Thank you, Longbottom. We’ll be over shortly.” 

Neville nodded, exhaling a hasty goodbye before darting back into the crowd– hopefully far from the matriarch lest he be tasked with carrying any more messages. 

“Poor bloke looked terrified,” said Theo.

“You’d be much the same if Narcissa threatened to bust both your bollocks,” defended Daphne. 

“Tippy will’s go and check on Mister Neville,” said Tippy, excusing herself to follow the shaken assistant. 

“Speaking of Gryffindor’s, I’ve yet to see your morally superior shadow, Daph,” said Malfoy.

“If you’re referring to Hermione, she’s not here.” 

“Too preoccupied keeping Potter in line?” 

“That hasn’t been Hermione’s job since school. Not that it should’ve been in the first place,” said Daphne. “I’m sure you’ll be ever so pleased to know she was unable to attend due to her research.” Their pre-prepared excuse sounded effectively natural. “Something about Joobyflops and volatile substances?”

The latter half, though, was an un-agreed upon surprise. Hermione, had she been better at it, might have attempted Occulumency in an effort to conceal the sudden urge to swear. 

Malfoy, on the other hand, freely indulged in such an impulse. 

“That insufferable swot!” he hissed. “Couldn’t possibly relinquish even the slightest bit of control! Has to have her massive head in the middle of everything!” 

Indignant with the inability to counter such claims, a nonverbal stinging hex struck Malfoy between the shoulders with a force capable only in part to his caster’s close proximity. 

Hermione touched the spot she’d just stung, smothering her self-satisfaction.

“Oh, dear! Are you alright?” She patted Malfoy’s sore spine. “We ought to hurry before we upset your mother any further.” Hermione inclined her head to each of their remaining companions. “A shame we should have to cut this conversation short.”

Sarcasm behind her sentiments barely concealed, Theo countered with an equally cheeky, “And I thought we were having such a lovely time!” 

“Go on, then,” said Daphne, sensing her friend’s displeasure. “Before our wedding invitations show up in red envelopes instead of white.” 

The summoned couple broke off from the meddlesome half of their party, moving with purpose across the garden in hopes that they might escape being accosted too much on the way. 

“My apologies, if Theo said anything to offend,” said Malfoy. “He can be rather loose-lipped.” 

“Aren’t we all after a bit of libation?” offered Hermione. 

“You assume he needs anything more than his own inherent impishness.” 

“A notion I’m quite familiar with. You forget I live with the wizarding world’s most notable gossip.” 

“There may be one more notable yet…” 

They came to a stop beneath the implied persons, who stood proudly atop the set of stairs leading up to the gazebo, shimmering spirits in hand. 

Narcissa acknowledged their arrival with little more than a gesture to place themselves before her, obviously not enthused by their delay. 

Hermione and Malfoy obliged, the latter slipping a hand to the small of Hermione’s back. With an eloquent Sonorous, Narcissa’s smooth, crisp tone carried across the grounds. 

“If I may have your attention for a moment,” she began. “I’d like to say a few words.” 

The surrounding chatter ceased with impressive swiftness. 

“It is not every day we are so fortunate to gather for such a joyous occasion. One whose only purpose is to celebrate the importance and sacredness of true, pure, unencumbered love.” 

Perhaps Celestina Warbeck was the least of their worries. Narcissa Malfoy seemed quite the adept lyricist herself. 

“There is little else in this life that can provoke, protect, and emancipate the soul in so complete a manner. To be so lucky as to find such an altering connection is by no means a miracle–it is magic.” 

Hermione stiffened at the weight behind Narcissa’s words. Someone nearby sniffled. 

“And so each of you has chosen the other. It is my sincerest wish that it is a choice which will bring you nothing but prosperity. I propose a toast?” A sea of crystal goblets were promptly held aloft. “To Draco and Fauna!” 

“To Draco and Fauna!” 

The chorus was followed by the collective clinking of china. 

Malfoy turned to Hermione, his drink extended toward her. Perplexed, but submitting to the strange Pureblood tradition, she reached to take the proffered beverage, only for Malfoy to retract it.

“What, I’m not allowed to drink without your explicit permission?” 

“No,” said Malfoy, reaching for her wrist. “You’re not allowed to drink by your own hand.” 

“Oh.” 

Hermione let him guide her glass to his lips, doing the same with his. The cool glass felt good against the warmth of her mouth. In tandem, they tipped their cups, allowing the other to take a sip. 

Malfoy seemed to enjoy the soft champagne, a contented hum reverberating through Hermione’s hand and up her arm. 

As for her own recompense, she narrowly avoided watering the nearest rosebush with it.

“Fucks sake!” Hermione suppressed a gag. “What the bloody hell was that?” 

“Troll-made distilled vodka,” said Malfoy, an insufferable smirk smoothing out his usual stern composure. 

“You absolute prat!” Though not aimed at his nose, Hermione lunged in an attack not dissimilar to that of years past, punching him hard in the shoulder. “You knew I’d have to drink it! You set me up!” 

“You’re the one who requested straight liquor,” said Malfoy. “I was only indulging the wishes of my dear fiancee.” 

“Really?” said Hermione. “Than you’ll have no trouble succumbing to my most earnest desire for you to stand perfectly still whilst I throttle you!” 

A flurry of jabs followed suit, though each grew more half-hearted than the last, until they were all entirely good-humored. 

“We haven’t even made it to the altar and you’re already abusing my affection for you,” teased Malfoy, dodging her weak fists. “Mother!” he called. “How can you just stand by, so unfeeling in your regard for the safety of your son!” 

Narcissa, spirits surprisingly roused despite their arguably improper display, smiled. “I’m sorry to say it seems as though you rather deserve it, Draco.” 

Spurred on by the blessing of her presumed mother-in-law, Hermione continued on in her assailant ways, until a sudden burst of red sparks managed to bring the quarreling couple to an abrupt ceasefire, aim interrupted by a shower of sparkling hearts. 

“But, Tippy said there were no big surprises,” said Hermione. “I should think fireworks would fall under such a category.” 

Malfoy, who moments before had been eerily close to what sounded like earnest laughter, grew concerningly quiet. Even beneath the warm lantern light, the oncoming of instant pallor was evident. 

“What?” urged Hermione. “Pleae don’t tell me this is the start of Celestina’s opening number.” 

A buzz had in fact begun from the back of the garden, building with each line of bushes it brushed by, until the echoing chant which had drained Malfoy’s countenance could be clearly heard. 

“Snog! Snog! Snog! Snog!” 

Hermione’s stomach sank, more red sparks bursting forth from somewhere amidst the crowd.

The source, after a minute of searching, revealed himself to be the unsurprisingly and unfortunately smug Theodore Nott. He waved at them from a bench beside the fountain, casting yet another stream at the sight of Hermione’s pointed scowl. 

“Still sure your chaos-causing hippogriff is bigger than mine?” said Malfoy, moving closer. 

Hermione swallowed. “I’ll admit he’s looking rather large at the moment.” 

“Try sharing a room with him.” Malfoy’s voice dropped with each diminishing step. “Close your eyes.” 

Why Hermione so readily obeyed the soft-spoken command, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps under the pretense of scrounging up some semblance of fortitude in the face of such a scenario.

At least their previous intimate entanglement she hadn’t seen coming, alleviating the anxiety of anticipation. 

Now, she reached for the lapels of Malfoy’s robes with prickling fingertips, the fine fabric smooth against her splayed palms. Had they disrupted a score of lacewing flies during their scuffle, or was the buzzing just in her head? 

Regardless of the source, all sound ceased as Malfoy’s mouth met hers. A self-preservation tactic for her sanity or something else, Hermione accepted the sudden quiet with something akin to relief. The whistling onlookers and whooping meddler receded, allowing for a strange sort of clarity to take discomfort’s place. 

Initially startled by her cooperation, Malfoy eased into the exchange with a practised surety, The path of his hands down the length of her back. The skillful dip so different from the one which had graced the Prophet’s front page, though by no means any less of a crowd pleaser, based on the surrounding rise in raucous shouts. 

Fragrant lilies and the bite of liquor enveloped their embrace, holding them still, suspended, until a particularly shocking cheer of encouragement brought them teetering back.

Malfoy’s winded pants scattered stray hairs across her temples with a shiver. 

They’d done it. And from the surrounding applause and Narcissa’s knowing gaze, they’d done it well.

Without the addition of so pure a surprise to diffuse the senses, Hermione found herself retroactively conceding to Daphne’s demand for details. 

It’d been unexpectedly gentle, though with a commendable lack of hesitation. Despite Margaux’s thinner frame which created an initial fit which might not suffer from an improved alignment, Malfoy countered the fault well, supporting her weight as best he could without receiving a bony limb to the sternum. 

The added ambiance of the hazy gardens and imbibed guests improved upon the otherwise solemnity of an empty clothing store. 

There Still standing, staring at Malfoy’s parted mouth, did Hermione come to the terrible conclusion that Daphne had been right. 

Draco Malfoy had kissed her. And she’d like it. 

The revelatory rumination thus pried a pitiable excuse from her constricted chest, a hurried plea to relieve herself inducing a successful parting. 

Hermione wove her way through the dense cloud of increasingly drunk guests, making a beeline for the back of the house. 

But the dreaded door already responsible for one near-collision that night decided to instigate yet another close call. 

“Sorry!” Hermione stammered. 

“It is I who should apologize, Miss Fortescue,” assured Lucius Malfoy. “It would’ve been prudent of me to watch where I was going considering our current company.” A distinctive splash indicated the wet fate of an overzealous party-goer. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” said Hermione, trying to recover some propriety. “How is it we’ve yet to see you this evening?” 

“I’ve only just arrived,” said Lucius, the smell of singed fiber trailing his admittance with truth. “Has Narcissa said anything?” 

“About your absence?” asked Hermione. “No, I don’t believe so.” 

“Good,” said Lucius, clearing his throat. “That’ll be for the best.”

Hermionie observed the grown man’s darting eyes. She’d dare say he would’ve checked over his shoulder had he not just come that way. As it turned out, Lucius Malfoy was as scared of Narcissa as the rest of them. By Hermione’s estimate, rightly so. 

“If it helps,” said Hermione, “I’ll be sure to mention an earlier sighting of your entrance should she ask after it.” 

“Thank you, Miss Fortescue. For your discretion as well as your advice. The Ironbelly has seen a drastic improvement.” 

Hermione shared in the great news. “I’m glad to hear it!” 

“The recent batch of Healers have all been from the French academy. Rather too by-the-book. I don’t imagine they’ll see much success in their careers with so little regard for innovation.” 

To hear the reformed traditionalist admit to such an altered opinion was odd. Charred denims or no, the man had once been the near-highest perpetrator of distinctly opposing rhetoric. 

“You might consider,” continued Lucius, “should you ever find yourself in the position to sell the parlous, of taking up in a more…rewarding field.” 

Had a likewise comment been made in the past, there could’ve been no mistake as to its demeaning purpose. At present, however, it almost seemed like Lucius was rather offering her a job.

And not for displeasure with her line of work in relation to the reputation of his son, either, but in the assured disappointment of a wasted intelligence. 

Not sure whether to thank him for the round about compliment, or decline the implied offer, Hermione settled on circumventing the indecision entirely by simply dismissing herself.

“Pardon me, Mr. Malfoy, but I really should be getting on.”

“Right,” said Lucius. “As should I. Perhaps find the bar before my wife does me.” 

After much less aimless wandering than she expected, Hermione finally acquired refuge in the loo. The small powder room provided the perfect pocket of solitude needed to gather oneself.

Even through the antique mirror’s weathered splotches, Hermione could tell Margaux’s complexion reflected agitation the same way a storm arrives on an otherwise clear day, sudden dark spots blotting out the apples of her cheeks, cosmetics rendered obsolete to a flustered countenance. 

Her hair, too, appeared quite wind-whipped, Daphne’s delicate work pulling apart at the seams. Closer inspection revealed a fair few loose tendrils which were beginning to look suspiciously less sleek. 

Pulling her clutch from where she’d stashed its shrunken form in the folds of her robes, Hermione fished her flask from its extensive depths. 

Stomach no more steeled from her recent swig of troll vodka, she swallowed her second dose of Polyjuice with a good deal of deep breathing and, admittedly, a few dry heaves. 

Fighting through the sludge-induced nausea, she began to shoddily re-pin her updo. 

Hermione had tackled no more than a single strand when the door burst inward, causing her to stumble into the powder room’s inconveniently close commode. It was with even greater distress that she understood the intruder to be the very person with whom she should particularly prefer to avoid being alone with. 

“Fauna, dear!” exclaimed Narcissa. “I’m so sorry to have startled you! The door was unlocked, so I assumed the room to be vacant.” 

“It’s my fault,” said Hermione, articulation poor through the pearl pin still held between her teeth. “I was in a bit of a hurry.” 

Narcissa sniffed, taking in her frazzled appearance–something Hermione, whilst embarrassed on behalf of her personal pride, found quite suited Fauna’s lack thereof. 

But Narcissa, instead of retreating in a fit of offended delicacies, continued her record of surprising character by holding out her hand. 

Hermione blinked, both of her own the only things keeping her up-do, well, up. 

“You look like you might benefit from some assistance,” said Narcissa. 

At the encouragingly sincere-sounding offer, Hermione released her hair in temporary relief, for she was inclined to believe the acceptance of Narcissa’s help would not come without its own trials. 

Narcissa retrieved the stray pearl pins with an additional Scourgify, delicacies not entirely unscathed.  

“Some witches prefer to use a beauty charm or town to hasten the process,” said Narcissa, reflection appearing behind Hermione’s. 

Fearful her instinctual regard for doing things the Muggle way exposed an inconsistency, she thought to excuse the act to heightened spirits and shaky hands, but found it all unnecessary, as Naricssa continued. 

“There are few things which cannot be accomplished quite as well with magic. The fine art of a chignon is one of them.” 

“Really?” said Hermione. “All the girls in my year used charms. Though I can’t say I personally have ever had a knack for them.” 

“Yes,” Narcissa began, rearranging inky locks as she talked. “It seems you’re much more adept at potions.” 

Hermione hoped her flinch was believably triggered by the prodding and pulling at her head rather than Narcissa’s choice words. 

“What makes you say that?” Hermione croaked, avoiding the inquisitive eyes watching her in the mirror. 

“My husband surely benefited from your knowledge at dinner.” 

“Right.” Hermione forced herself not to deflate with the de-esclation of her adrenaline. 

“Ilvermorny seems to have provided a fine education,” remarked Narcissa. “I considered sending Draco there, you know.” 

At this bit of surprising news, Hermione couldn’t help but to watch the aforementioned’s mother as she reflected. “It was right before the summer of his sixth year. Things, as I’m sure you’ve heard, were taking quite the unpleasant turn. I first suggest we all remove somewhere abroad–I always did favor France to England anway–and the further away we could get, I figured, the better.” 

Narcissa’s work remained steady during her recitation, neither voice nor nimble fingers wavering. 

“When it became clear that we may not be obliged to all flee together, I resolved to send Draco on his own. Evidently, I was not so successful in my attempts.” 

“From what it sounds like, you were indeed successful in your chief object–if I may be so presumptuous in its being his survival.” 

“So I have,” Narcissa complied. “At what cost, now, that is the question.” 

Not sure what to say, Hermione remained quiet, allowing the contemplative silence to do the urging.

“I cannot suppose he would’ve been as afflicted there as he was here.” Narcissa shook her head. 

“You know,” Hermione hedged. “My mum used to always say, “There’s no use wishing for the sun to shine on a rainy day which has already passed. It is much more productive to wish instead for fine weather today. And perhaps tomorrow, if we’re lucky.”” 

Narcissa indulged a small smile. “Your mother sounds very wise.” 

Hermione reciprocated the expression. “The wisest.”

A few moments of reticent pinning passed before Narcissa again addressed her. 

“Are you enjoying the party?”

“It’s beautiful,” Hermione answered honestly. 

“I’m glad you think so. I don’t pretend not to know Draco is upset at my springing this on you both, but I’ve found that to take my son by surprise is one of the only ways I’m able to get him out of that forsaken office.” 

“A bit of a heads up would’ve been appreciated.”

“‘Yes,” said Narcissa, gaze dropping to Hermione’s left hand. “It would have.” 

Effectively reprimanded, Hermione retreated.

“I know I sometimes appear rather overbearing,” said Narcissa. “My son might say controlling. My husband, fastidious. I, however, like to think I simply care. Merlin forbid!” She sighed. “The fact that we, this family, are able to stand here today, together, is the work of a kindness we are hardly deserving of. The forgiveness we have henceforth been shown, specifically by a select few, a wonder. There are no amount of amends which might make up for the actions in our past. But, as your mother may commonly attest, I sincerely wish that we may prove our lament through those in our future.”

Narcissa angled Hermione’s head gently, replacing the final few hairs. “I don’t say all of this for pity or palliation. I say it because I hope you understand that the only thing I want is for my son to be happy. Whatever that may look like. With whoever he may choose. Do you understand?” 

“Yes.” Indeed, she did. More than anything, did Hermione comprehend the unfettered desire for her loved one’s happiness. In this, it appeared, they had a common goal. 

“Good,” said Narcissa,  giving her shoulders a light squeeze before stepping back to survey her work. “There we are. Much better.” 

The repair looked beyond even the perfection of the initial styling, Narcissa’s skill clearly beyond even Daphne’s practised hand. 

“It’s brilliant!” said Hermione. 

“If Daphne is inclined to allow the slight, I should endeavor to request the opportunity to assist with your hair on the real day.” 

Pliant heart so recently filled with fervid sentiments and the ever-present ache of missing her own mother, Hermione relinquished the ability to deny such a request. 

“I’m sure she’ll be unable to deny you anything. Especially once she sees the wonders you’ve worked on what was already deemed passable.” 

“Lovely!” said Narcissa, leading the way back through the house. “I already have a few ideas!” She took up Hermione’s arm, tugging her along. “As stunning as this sleek style is, have you ever considered adding some more texture to liven it up a little? Perhaps a bit of a curl?” 

–

Numerous suggested hairstyles later, the pair of witches were once again reunited with their respective son and soon-to-be husband.

“I do hope you aren’t returning from an arduous tour of the Black family accommodations," said Malfoy, meeting them at the threshold of the garden. 

“I’m afraid that will have to wait for some other time, dear,” said Narcissa, passing off her temporary charge. “Now, I should go find your father. I’d rather like to ask him his reasons for being so late.” 

The hostess thus left them in search of Lucius. 

“Is everything alright?” asked Malfou once his mother was out of earshot. 

“Yes,” supplied Hermione. “We just ran into each other in the washroom.” 

“Merlin,” sighed Malfoy. “She didn’t attempt to make you try on wedding robes or anything equally uncouth did she?” 

“No,” said Hermione. “She was perfectly affable.” 

Malfoy crossed his arms. “No cake samples? Linen swathes?”

“She helped re-pin my hair. That’s all.” 

“She’s up to something.” 

“How do you suppose that?” 

“After all this,” Malfoy gestured to the party behind him, “You truly believe her appearing in the loo at the same time as you was a coincidence?” 

“It was rather perfectly coordinated.” Hermione frowned. Had she missed something? Some scheming undercurrent to the conversation was too overwhelmed to perceive?”

“Let’s get out of here.” Malfoy interrupted her reassessing, taking hold of her wrist and starting back into the house. “Before she procures an ordained wizard and reveals she managed to manipulate you into agreeing to get married today.” 

“Would she really?” Hermione mumbled, attempting to keep up with his longer strides. 

“Anything is possible when it comes to my mother,” said Malfoy, running his free hand roughly through his hair. 

“Draco,” said Hermione, hoping he’d slow his pace to one which wouldn’t result in her face meeting the floor. “The party’s not supposed to be over for another hour.” 

“Exactly.” Despite his agitated air, Malfoy decreased the speed of his steps, releasing Hermione to follow at her leisure. “I think it’s rather expected for the couple to sneak off before the rest of their guests, is it not?” 

They came upon the same parlour Hermione had initially arrived in. Malfoy effectively shut them inside, sealing off the distant noise of merrymaking. 

“Do you really wish to stay and make small talk with Mr. Wigghens for four more hours?” said Malfoy, turning to face her. 

“But–” 

“It’ll be four. At least.” 

Not particularly inclined to be put to trial by the eager elders, nor remain alone with Malfoy for longer than necessary–a fact of their current predicament becoming increasingly impossible to ignore–Hermione submitted. 

“Fine,” she began, reaching for her pearl portkey. “If you insist.” 

“You won’t be needing that,” said Malfoy, pointing to the collar of her robes. 

“You can’t mean to Apparate?” said Hermione. 

“This night hasn’t been so horrible as to perpetuate the desire to splinch myself on purpose.” Malfoy reached instead for his own lapel. “Now, if my mother decided to throw a surprise rehearsal dinner, that might be worth parting with a spare appendage to get out of.” 

“So you expect us to leave, how, exactly?” 

Hermione silently hoped the ex-Quidditch seeker wasn’t about to pull a broom from behind his back. Was a fear of heights deemed proper or inappropriate for a Pureblood witch? 

“Via portkey,” said Malfoy. “Just not yours.” He took a step closer. “My mother so kindly informed me earlier we’d be making our return trip with mine. Her reasoning I’m afraid cannot repeat in good taste.” 

“Good Godric,” grumbled Hermione. 

“Her attention to detail is considerable.” 

“I’d be surprised if she hasn’t named our future children already.’ 

“Would you like to go ask? I’m sure my father would be grateful for the distraction.” 

“I’m sure he’ll do just fine without us,” insisted Hermione, reluctantly meeting Malfoy halfway. 

“Really?” he prodded. “Because it’s no trouble at all. In fact, I swear I saw Celestina by the fountain not too long ago practicing her scales. Almost as if she were warming up…” 

“You don’t say?” 

“Mr. Wigghens, poor bloke, is probably still puzzling over your parentage. You don’t want to put him out of his misery before we leave?” 

“He could use the mental exercise.” Hermione glared up at Malfoy’s teasing grin. 

“And Theo! He’s certain to have heart-shaped sparks shooting out of his arse–” 

Not willing to let him finish that thought, Hermione snatched Malfoy’s hand in hers, thrusting their joint palms against his chest. 

They were gone before Narcissa, or anyone else, could think to look for them. 

–

The two reappeared back on English soil, though the vintage rug beneath their feet would never be considered a viable comparison. Their arrival was no less sudden than their departure, both Hermione and Malfoy stumbling upon impact.

A decidedly pointy armchair met the base of Hermione’s spine with a painful jab. Malfoy, too, could be heard somewhere to her left cursing an ill-placed side-table–nevermind the fact it was his flat and therefore his furniture. 

“There’s no way you can possibly find that ,” Hermione threw an accusatory glance at her assailant, “comfortable!” 

“I don’t,” said Malfoy, shaking out a stubbed toe. “That’s Theo’s chair.” 

Hermione allowed for a few points in the chairs favor, seeing as the troublesome schoolmate ought to experience a share of the discomforts which he was intent on pursuing for others. 

“You couldn’t have set the destination as somewhere a bit softer?” Hermione limped away from the offending furniture. 

“What?” drawled Malfoy. “Like my bed?” 

“Or the sofa, you twat!” 

“Wow, and here I was going to offer you tea for your troubles tonight.” 

Peeved, but admittedly parched, Hermione spat her usual order, “Chamomile. One teaspoon of honey. No sugar.” 

Despite her demand, Malfoy didn’t retaliate as expected. He blinked, a strange stall to his usual quick-wit, recovering only after a firm shake of his head, taking off toward what she presumed to be the kitchen without further comment. 

Far too tired to guess at the complexities of Malfoy’s ever-changing mood, Hermione followed. 

By the time she arrived in the well-lit, modern space, the kettle was near-whistling. 

Malfoy leaned against the wide wood-top island, watching the water boil. Having no inclination to interrupt the pensive atmosphere, Hermione joined him across the counter, sifting through her robes for her clutch. Once returned to its normal size, she hoisted it onto the table to retrieve her travel-sized vial of bruise paste. 

“Care for some?” she offered, holding out the green medicinal compote. 

“No, thank you,” said Malfoy. “I don’t foresee my foot falling off anytime soon.” 

“Merlin forbid you ease your own suffering,” scoffed Hermione. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

Hermione snorted, fatigued spirits allowing for a slip of the pretend Pureblood politeness. Shirking one arm from its sleeve, she reached around to apply the soothing cream to her own injury, conveniently corresponding with the water’s completion, Malfoy taking the excuse to turn his back to her state of semi-undress.

He spelled the proper measurements into a set of plain ceramic mugs, finding the scene safe, Hermione returning her medicine to its rightful place amongst her stash of belongings. She accepted the drink, inhaling the pleasant scent of sweet honey and herbs. 

They slipped into an agreeable silence, the quiet of Malfoy’s flat more than welcome after the previous hours of unrelenting chatter. On some other occasion, under some other circumstances, Hermione might’ve inquired after a Prophet copy to peruse, weariness pulling her into one of the vacant barstools whilst Malfoy puttered about. But the tentative camaraderie henceforth established that evening did not yet warrant such disregard for the enmity which still existed between them outside of the deceitful constraints of their contract. 

So they stood on opposite sides of Malfoy’s kitchen, each steeping in their respective retrospections. 

“Your mother really loves you.” 

“I know.” 

Hermione hadn’t realized she’d spoken the musing aloud until Malfoy's earnest reply. 

“You’re lucky.” She traced the handle of her cup.

Malfoy nodded into his. “I know.” 

Sensing the need for a pivot, Hermione redirected, “Rumor has it you were quite devastated when I first rejected you.” 

“I wouldn’t say devastated,” huffed Malfoy. “Mildly discontent, at most.” 

“Don’t be so prideful,” said Hermione. “A woman can’t deny the allure of a man who pines.” 

Sinking onto a forearm, Malfoy raised a brow. “So you’re attracted to desperation?” 

“Who said anything about me?” countered Hermione. “Besides, pining is not desperate. It shows intent. Longing.” 

“On the contrary,” said Malfoy, sliding his drained drink aside. “I rather think it shows a lack of ardor.” 

“How so?”

“You don’t think one in the throes of love should be so teaming with it they cannot help but to confess?” 

“Only one who has no fear of renunciation,” said Hermione. “A feat, I dare say few can attest to.”

“Really?” 

“Do you?”

“Fear renunciation?” 

Hermione nodded. 

Malfoy tilted his head. “We wouldn’t be here if I did, now would we?”

Wishing she hadn’t polished off her own tea for lack of an excuse to turn away, Hermione searched for something other than Malfoy’s penetrating attention to settle on herself. But the warm relaxant was working in tandem with the earlier alcohol in an effort to tranquilize deniability, making it hard to refute the rising heat sparked by his comment. 

Malfoy seemed aggravatingly unmoved, retaining his steady observance whilst she did her best not to squirm. His word in business could more or less been relied upon, or so she had reluctantly begun to learn–albeit begrudgingly and not without recurring doubt. 

But this? This strange, unhurried character who appeared only before her alter ego? What worth could she place in his words? Was this the man beneath the composed potion master mask, or had he simply swapped one for another?

Hermione’s addled mind attempted to translate the befuddling shift. 

Was it some coy parlay? An effort to expand upon their current feigned dalliance? Did he simply enjoy being bothersome? 

Or, maybe…No. It wasn’t possible. Hermione refused to even entertain the idea. 

It would be a ridiculous, completely unfounded, beyond absurd interpretation. 

That is, there was no way Malfoy actually… fancied Fauna. For real. 

Was there? 

Fuck. Did he? 

Hermione stood abruptly, nearly throwing herself from the stool. Malfoy followed her movements with concern enough to remove him from his seat as well, moving toward her with a hand outstretched.

“Is everything alright?” 

“Of course!” Hermione squeaked, backing toward the living room. “I just…realized I ought to be home. Daphne should be back soon, and I wouldn’t want to worry her!” 

“I doubt Daphne would notice–hey, Fauna!” 

Not waiting around for his attempt at rationale, Hermione escaped to the sitting room, searching the mantle for Floo powder before he could try any more charms.

“I really should be going!” Hermione called, frantically combing through the assortment of decorative vessels and photos. “I mean, aren’t you exhausted?” 

“Fauna, is everything alright?” Malfoy emerged from the kitchen, confusion turning his mouth. 

“Fine, fine!” At last, the distinctive grey granules revealed themselves, stashed away inside a spare candle holder. Hermione stole a handful before finally turning again to face him. “Tell your mother thank you for a lovely night. Your real fiancee would’ve loved it, I’m sure. Goodbye, Malfoy.” 

If he had any parting words, they were washed away in a haze of smoke and flames–taking Hermione and her pounding heart with them. 

Chapter Text

The pulsing ultraviolet vials arranged atop Draco’s desk could mean only one of two things: either they were highly disregulated and were about to expel the questionable potion violently across his office, potentially maiming, burning, or disfiguring him permanently.

Or, he was hungover. 

The familiar dull ache behind his eyes and dry tongue had trailed him throughout the morning, refusing to diminish despite numerous attempts at hydration. A pain potion might’ve been attempted, had he not been so stubborn. 

His refusal to amend his current ailments stemmed solely from the fact that he’d not consumed enough alcohol to be hungover.

No, the bothersome pressure between his temples resulted instead from a distinct lack of sleep, the previous night spent tossing and turning in a tumultuous train of thought. 

Fauna’s abrupt exit—which really, he ought to be growing used to—had been the main occupant of said spiral. Not necessarily the manner in which she’d left, but more so what had preceded it. 

Draco was not inclined to associate the word pleasant with any occasion spent amongst his mother’s society friends. And yet, the unwelcome engagement party had been dangerously near such a description. 

As it turned out, Fauna could be quite decent company when not trying to purposefully turn him or his family off.

Evidently intelligent, though intent on stifling it. Perfectly polite, to those other than himself. Quick witted, when she so chose. A bit high-strung, when he prodded. 

And of course, not all that awful to look at. She was certainly more than adequate at the more intimate aspects of their contract—

Draco shook his head, standing as he did so. Merlin, he’d never finish the ingredient extraction with his mind so muddled.

He resigned to needing a Pepper Up if he wanted to make any more headway, shuffling over to his personal potion stores. 

The web of wards fell away with a casual wave, small wooden cabinet revealing its contents arranged in neat rows.

A continuous grid of bottles and phials and flasks, stacked alphabetically—at least, until the abrupt gap of wearying space between a stash of Occulus Potion and Quadpot Solution. 

“Bollocks,” Draco hissed, shutting the cupboard with such force that the unhelpful collection rattled concerningly inside its confines. 

Inclined to take it as a sign to fuel the stand-off with his own self-will, Draco successfully—though unproductively—passed another quarter of an hour before storming from his office in an agitated stupor to the Industry-wide stores. 

Refusing still to dip into perfectly good stock for such trivial matters, Draco instead sought out the trunks of misprinted potions.

Whilst alchemically correct, labeling or other varying errors rendered a decent assortment unsellable, repurposed instead for experiments and personal use. 

The multitude made for an unfortunately vast array of disorganized vials, haphazardly stored in one monogamous mass.

Crouching down, Draco began sifting through the varied selection. His desperate search seeming to yield nothing useful except for drawing forth a string of frustrated expletives. 

Which was how Neville found him some time later, knee-deep and verbally sparing with the inanimate medicinals. 

“Everything all right?” 

Unaware of his acquired company, Draco flinched, another colorful stream of swears falling from his lips. 

“Merlin, Longbottom!” He snapped. 

“You’re rather jumpy,” said Neville. 

“What an astute observation.” 

Neville’s cheeks reddened at his boss’s brusque sarcasm. He cleared his throat.

“Can I be of any assistance?” 

“Unless you’re secretly a Seer and can tell me why there isn’t a single spare bottle of Pepper Up in this blasted pile, then no.” 

Neville frowned, slipping his wand from his work robes. He cast a side-long glance at Draco, turning to the trunk in question.

“Accio Pepper Up.” 

In a chorus of gentle clinking, an ink-stained bottle shot through the mountain of glass. Neville caught it in his free hand.

Wordlessly, he passed it to Draco. 

Draco accepted the potion in equal, mortified silence. 

Neville had the courtesy to pretend to observe of the the scattered bottles whilst Draco stood from his stooped stance and swallowed the sky-blue liquid. 

It greeted his throat in a wash of cool, instant relief, the throbbing at his temples subsiding to a dull ache.

He Vanished the empty vial, straightened the collar of his robes, and addressed his assistant once again at eye-level. 

“Thank you,” said Draco, resisting the urge to Occulude the past twenty minutes into mental oblivion. “I’m afraid I didn’t get much sleep last night.” 

“Oh,” said Neville. “But you left the party early?” 

“I might as well have stayed until the entirety of the Whethersby clan wound arse up in the fountain.” 

Neville didn’t reply, growing unsettlingly quiet. Draco frowned.

“What?” 

“It’s just…you and Fauna left together.” 

“She is my fiancee,” said Draco, the usual lie strangely abrasive on his tongue. “And my mother didn’t give us much of an option regardless.” 

Neville nodded. Still he didn’t speak, as if absorbing the confirmation of their mutual departure. 

“Good Godric, what?” 

“Did you…” Neville started, then stopped. “Did you and Fauna…you know…?” 

It took a moment for the insinuation to settle. 

“Are you asking if I fucked my fake fiancee, Longbottom?” 

“You said you hardly slept,” defended Neville. “And you look…”

“I look like what?” challenged Draco.

Foresighted enough to remark no further on his boss’s current appearance, Neville redirected.

“It’s not so preposterous of an assumption. You two seemed to be enjoying yourselves enough throughout the evening.” 

“Because we were meant to look miserable at our own engagement party?” 

“It’s alright if you don’t mind her company, Malfoy,” said Neville. “You’re allowed to be friends.” 

Friends. Were they friends? 

Fauna was flighty. Stubborn. And he suspected rather smart, despite her attempts at concealing it.

She seemed well-matched in regard to his own intellect. Could put up with a healthy bit of banter.

Should they have crossed paths outside of their peculiar situation, if she were just Daphne’s flatmate, perhaps they would’ve made a decent acquaintanceship. 

But under present circumstances…

How could he explain it? The strange immediacy of their false intimacy?

That despite sharing written rundowns of their entire lives, most of the time Draco felt as if he hardly knew her at all.

And yet, there was something familiar in their interactions. Like a song heard once long ago, a humming refrain that refuses to materialize into more. Lyrics on the tip of his tongue. 

It was that. That itching, incessant sense of knowing without knowing, that kept him up at night. 

“I know,” he said, a morose contradiction. “Although I’d argue I’m not the one most reluctant to aspire to such a status.” 

Neville shrugged. “Even so, it’s not worth losing sleep over.” 

“That’s not why I—“

“I should be off to the greenhouse,” Neville interrupted. “Ludwigia is about to bloom in the next twenty minutes.” 

“It really isn’t—“ Draco tried, deserted before he could finish. 

He scowled at his assistant’s retreating back before stalking in the opposite direction. 

He’d dallied long enough. 

The Pepper Up honed his distraction into a semblance of renewed focus, mind malleable enough to implement some strategic Occluding.

Draco was already half-way through his mental to-do list for making up his mornings missed tasks when he arrived back at his office—only to find it already occupied. 

A large spotted grey owl perched atop his desk, petite beak pecking at the luminous beakers he’d left behind. 

“Bugger off,” shooed Draco, swiping the susceptible potions from harms way. “Because ‘bloody brainless bird’ wouldn’t be an embarrassing cause of death.” 

Though all prior assessments had yet to reveal any combustible components, caution was always recommended for insurance sake. 

The meddling creature gave a ruffled squawk, paying no mind to the many files as it trampled across the desk toward Draco. It thrust its right foot rather demandingly in his direction. 

The scroll of parchment attached to the miscreant lacked an identifying seal, a curiosity which suppressed Draco’s annoyance in favor of intrigue.

He unrolled the messy note with a wave, levitating it before him. 

Malfoy,

Do you happen to know the scalding point of the laboratory’s standard pewter cauldron? 

Thanks.

HJG 

Draco scoffed at the audacious demand for information. He wondered if Madam Pince still heard Granger’s grating inquisitivity in her dreams. 

He nudged the owl aside to retrieve a scrap of parchment and quill. 

Granger,

Unless my phonics are failing me, your previous request reads rather ill-mannered. Others might deny you a respectable response on such grounds alone. 

But, seeing as you’re willing to put such a blatantly false assumption on paper, I find it necessary to set the record straight in equal permanence.

Malfoy Industries utilizes only exceptional pewter cauldrons with a synthetic fluoropolymer coating which can tolerate up to 3,000 degrees C. 

That is to say, our cauldrons do not have a scalding point. At all. 

Should Potion Masters Monthly or any other relative publication ask, do feel free to relay such accolades. 

DLM

Unlike that which he received, Draco sealed his answer with a pool of dark green wax before tucking a sickle into the bird’s fare bag and sending it back on its way.

He started to re-establish his worktop, attempting to arrange everything as it was prior to the feathered intrusion.

His efforts didn’t last long. The same owl returned not ten minutes later, another unsealed scroll in its mouth. 

Malfoy,

I’d apologize for my abrupt address, except for the fact that I’m quite certain you’ve only ever addressed me with the utmost impetuousness and therefore it’s only right I return the favor.

Regarding the synthetically coated cauldron, I have to admit I was previously ignorant to its existence. I owled Cecilia Cerwiden and she’d determined 1,000 degrees was the absolute max of a pewter (even taking into account the older, double-lined Russian models—I asked).

As for your free press, I’ll have you know the last reporter to ask me for comment was rewarded with an extended stay in a jam jar. I’m not so sure the Periodicals editor deserves such punishment, but indeed, I’m far more adept at damage control than prevention. 

Regards,

HJG

If she could’ve seen him, Draco would’ve rolled his eyes. He settled for an inscribed conveyance instead. 

Granger,

I’m discouraged to find that someone as straight-laced as you should engage in such a petty practice as keeping score. But, for your grudges sake, let us call it even. 

You, nor Cecilia Cerwiden, will have heard of the synthetically coated cauldron before because I invented it. It’s implementation has occurred only within the last several months since the patent went through. 

It’s non-parthogenetic existence aside, you have yet to inform me why exactly you’re wondering after Malfoy Industries instrumental abilities? 

DLM

PS: Perhaps you can feed the Periodical editor to your mangey owl so it stops attempting to swallow my personal stores. 

Malfoy,

If you think a single slightly surly letter makes us evenly matched in animosity, I’m afraid you’re sorely mistaken. 

In the name of true malevolence, I should ignore the revelation of your ingenuity. But, because I’m determined to prove the illegitimacy of my supposed grudge, I’ll admit that I’m impressed. 

The scalding point is, in fact, consequential for both of us as it pertains to the potential volatility classification we discussed last week.

Best,

HJG

Ps: The “mangey” bird isn’t mine. It’s the Ministry’s, so you’d do well not to poison it.

Granger,

Having skimmed your self-denying tangent, I have comprehended only the essential aspects, and accept the compliment. I do hope it didn’t hurt too much. 

It appears your string of inquiring correspondence has henceforth been rendered obsolete, as I recall clearly stating that I did not require your help.

You’d do well to remain where you’re actually wanted. 

DLM

Ps: It seems to have accidentally ingested my last sprig of hellebore. Whatever shall I do. 

Malfoy, 

I’m not surprised your selective hearing has translated to text. If you recall, I clearly stated that I would not be your book keeper. I will be helping as this is as much my project as it is yours. 

Now, if you could take your ego-inflated head out of your arse and accept some well-intentioned assistance, I’ll gladly share that I have a theory. 

When would be a good time to stop by Malfoy Industries to discuss? 

Cheers,

HJG

Ps: Hellebore has to be kept below room temperature, but nice try. 

Draco had the urge to simply write Never. But Granger was argumentative. A one word response would only light her up like an Incendio. 

So he went with a tactic he knew would prove effective. Ignoring her. 

A lovely fifteen minutes progressed with a significant lack of rude letters, and Draco deemed his alternative strategy a success. 

He could almost hear her frustrated shouts all the way from the Ministry.

“Malfoy!”

Or from across the room.

Draco glowered at the suddenly lit coals. 

“What are you doing in my Floo, Granger?”

The witch’s abundance of hazy curls took up half the hearth.

“You didn’t answer me!” 

“So you commandeered my fireplace?”

“I hardly think your underused coals mind the disturbance.” 

“But I do.”

“Good.”

“You know,” said Draco, “ I used to think the Ministry was  too easy on me after the war. But I understand now. They were just playing the long game.” He crossed his arms. “Their real punishment was sticking me with a petulant know-it -all who can’t keep her nose out of other people’s chimneys.”

“Wallow over me some other time,” said Granger. “I found something.” 

“A sense of propriety?”

“No, you prat. Spiky bush.”

“Your self grooming preferences are none of my—“

Granger’s fiery cheeks flared an even deeper red. “You’re lucky Daphne doesn’t have her fireplace fully connected, Malfoy, or I’d step through there and—“

“Easy Granger, I’m at work. You should’ve owled in advance if you wanted to Floo Fuck.”

Fire-Granger closed her eyes. He thought she said something about a ‘happy place’. 

“For my own sanity, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that..” 

“Oh, you’re breaking up? How sad.” Draco made as if to sever the connection. “Bye Granger!”

“Draco Malfoy, don’t you dare hang up on me!”

Pleased the frustrated pitch in her voice was just as satisfying even through the grate, Draco relented.

“Fine. You have fifteen seconds to explain why you decided to disturb my otherwise peaceful afternoon.” 

She didn’t waste any time. “Spiky bush has ocimene as a secondary metabolite, which is a volatile terpene”

“I know what ocimene is,” said Draco. 

“But it’s—“

“Basic phytochemistry?”

“Well, yes. But how do you know that?”

“My mastery was a dual degree with the Sorbonne.”

“Oh.”

For a second, Draco thought the connection really had dropped. 

“Seven seconds,” he prompted.”

“Right.” Granger’s head bobbed. “I  initially thought it wouldn’t be enough to trigger the Jobberknoll feather’s crude proteins, but this book I found at Daph’s had this fascinating section on the flexibility of plant phenolic acids by Beaumont Marjoribanks who I know has had his controversies but I honestly don’t see a problem with—“

“Three seconds.”

“I think we can strip the ocimene and fuse it with the crude proteins to create a transient compound.”

“We?”

“What progress have you made?” Granger’s tone sparked with the flames. 

To Draco’s dismay, the answer was not much. He’d been rather preoccupied with the whole engagement party charade to spend much time researching in recent days. 

“Let’s say, hypothetically,” he sighed, “that this hypothesis is not entirely rubbish. How do you suppose you’d strip the ocimene?”

“We’d boil it out,” said Granger, as if it were obvious. 

“The cauldron inquiry. “

“Exactly. Spiky bush is hearty and rather heat resistant. Id estimate upwards of 2600 degrees to get it to a point where we could manually extract.”

“Manually or magically?”

“I’m not sure yet. What do you think?”

“Manually is more laborious but safer. Magically is efficient but less precise. A combination of both would be ideal, though I’m not sure something like it has ever been attempted.” He paused. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“I’m not.”

“You are. That’s the same face you made before you broke my nose back in third year,” said Draco, pointing at the undeniable stretch of her mouth. “Like you’re out for blood.”

“Last I checked I haven’t sprout fangs, Malfoy.” 

“No, but you’ve always had teeth.”

Granger’s lips ensconced her smile, hiding it from view. “What does your schedule look like for the rest of the week?” 

“I don’t know, ask Longbottom.” 

“Malfoy.”

If he were able to see the rest of her, he would bet five-hundred galleons she had her hands on her hips. 

“I might have a brief window Thursday afternoon in which I’m possibly, not entirely occupied.” 

“Great!” Her countenance brightened, causing the fire to crackle. “I’ll see you then.”

“Wait—“

“Tell Neville to bill me for 20 kilos of Spiky Bush.”

“Grang—“

“And make sure you scour at least 3 standards ahead of my arrival. We’ll want to get started right away.”

“I don’t need your help—“

“I’ll bring Daph’s book for reference in case we need it”. 

“We aren’t doing—“

“Thanks, Malfoy!”

Draco stared at the vacant, hissing coals.

The blasted brainiac just couldn’t help but insert herself, could she? 

It wasn’t that Draco was in denial about Granger’s competency when it came to potions. She, as she’d so joyfully pointed out previously, had come second in their year even with Severus’s disinclination toward Gryffindors. 

And, while their work on the addendum had proved she was wont to overthink, it inevitably did produce an occasionally valid theory. 

He could admit that Granger was bright. Impressively so. But that didn’t mean he wanted her poking her head around his lab. 

Malfoy Industries was the first thing that Draco had truly built. Even with the weight of his name serving as a ball-and-chain, he’d still managed to create something—despite doubts and dreary reviews—which had proven useful. Helpful. Good. 

And he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that if Hermione Granger, the very concept in human form, were to step inside, she’d throw his attempt at turning his life around into perspective. 

Because what were a few years of selling potions to a lifetime of fighting for what was right? 

Perhaps he’d instruct the apprentice on duty to bar her entrance.

Although, knowing Granger, she’d probably just  pop out of a bloody cauldron like it were the damned Vanishing Cabinet.